The night was silent when I arrived. Godric's Hollow. A place reeking of history, of old magic layered into the soil itself. I stood upon the cobblestoned path, my cloak whispering in the cold October wind, and beside me scurried the rat. Peter Pettigrew—my most pitiful servant.
He quivered, as always, the stench of fear clinging to him like sweat. He gestured down the lane with his stubby hand.
"There, my lord," he whispered, voice squeaking. "That one—the cottage with the lamp burning. The Potters' home."
I barely gave him a glance. I did not need the rodent to tell me; I could feel it. Wards wrapped about the little house like a gossamer veil, invisible to mortal eyes, but they bent around me as though bowing to their master. Foolish charms. Dumbledore's protections were riddled with flaws, always reliant on sentiment. Sentiment was weak.
"Stay here," I commanded, my voice cold, final.
Peter flinched as if struck. "Y-yes, my lord. Of course, my lord."
He would wait. He would not dare do otherwise.
I stepped forward. The wards parted before me like mist. With a flick of my wand, I sent a spell hurtling at the door.
"Bombarda!"
The door exploded inward, wood splintering, iron hinges shrieking as the pieces clattered across the floor. Smoke curled from the blasted frame. I entered, and there he was—James Potter.
He stood in the hallway, wand already raised, hair wild, hazel eyes burning with desperate resolve. The Heir of Potter, though stripped of his title by his father's disdain. A disappointment of a man by bloodline standards. And yet—there was strength in him, the kind that sentiment sometimes forged.
"Voldemort," he spat, as though the name were poison.
I gave him the courtesy of a bow of my head, the old Pureblood ritual still lingering in my memory. "Heir Potter. You stand between me and the child. Yield him to me."
His grip tightened on his wand. "Over my dead body."
I smiled. "That can be arranged."
The duel began.
"Expelliarmus!" he shouted, wand lashing forward.
I swept my wand upward. "Protego!" The disarming spell shattered against my shield in a burst of sparks.
I retaliated immediately. "Confringo!"
The hallway wall erupted where James had stood a moment before. He had thrown himself aside, landing in a crouch. Clever. Faster than I expected.
"Stupefy!" he roared.
"Protego Maxima." The red jet slammed into my shield, rippling it but failing to break it.
He countered again, relentless, a barrage of spells flying from his wand. "Flipendo! Incarcerous! Expulso!"
I moved like smoke, and cut precise arcs. His ropes disintegrated before reaching me. His blasting curse seared the floor at my heels. Sparks hissed in the air, painting the little cottage with deadly light.
"Impressive," I murmured, sidestepping another spell. "You've trained well, Potter. But skill without vision is wasted."
"Vision?!" he snarled. "Your vision is death and slavery!"
I answered with a flick of my wrist. "Crucio!"
He barely rolled aside in time, the curse striking the wall where paint bubbled and peeled. He scrambled to his feet, face pale, sweat dripping down his brow. His chest heaved with every breath. Yet he still stood. Still defied me.
Enough.
"Expelliarmus!" My voice cracked like a whip. His wand flew from his grasp, spinning end over end.
"Petrificus Totalus."
His body snapped rigidly. He toppled like a statue, crashing onto the floorboards with a hollow thud.
"Stupefy."
A crimson flash washed over him. He lay motionless now, unconscious, his defiance extinguished but not destroyed.
I exhaled slowly. Relief stirred in me, strange and unwelcome. I had not killed him. Somehow, in this rare moment of control, I had stayed my hand. A flicker of Tom Riddle remained in me still.
I turned away from the fallen Potter and ascended the staircase, each creak of the old wood echoing in the silence. The air grew heavy with tension, as though the house itself held its breath.
At the top of the stairs, a door. A faint glow leaked through its crack.
I entered.
The nursery was small, simple. Toys scattered across the rug. A crib by the window, its white paint gleaming in the lamplight. And there—Lily Potter.
She stood before the crib, fiery hair cascading around her face, green eyes blazing with fury and fear. She held no wand in hand, though I saw the glimmer of it on the table beside her. She had chosen to shield her child with her body. Foolish. Noble. Both.
"Lily," I said softly. The name tasted strange on my tongue. "Step aside."
She shook her head, jaw set. "Not Harry. Please—not Harry."
"The child is marked by prophecy," I told her, voice like ice. "He must die."
Her hand twitched toward the wand. I acted before she could.
"Expelliarmus. Petrificus Totalus. Stupefy."
Her wand flew away. Her body stiffened, collapsing to the floor, unconscious. She fell gracefully, almost peacefully, her hair splayed across the rug like fire.
I stood before the crib.
The boy lay within, small and fragile, wide green eyes gazing at me in innocent confusion. No fear. No understanding.
I lifted my wand.
"Forgive me," I whispered. "This is beyond my choice."
The voice rose in my head then, hissing, urging, demanding. Kill him. Kill the boy. Destiny is yours, seize it, destroy him—
I fought for breath, sweat beading at my temple. Control slipped like sand between my fingers.
I raised my wand higher.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Green light blazed. It struck the child's forehead—
—and rebounded.
The room exploded in light and thunder. I felt agony tear through me as though my very soul were ripped apart. A searing pain burned my chest, my skull, my very essence.
And then—
Time froze.
The light hung in the air like shattered glass suspended. Lily's body lay mid-fall, James downstairs caught in silence. Even the crying of the child halted.
And she was there.
A woman of impossible beauty, silver-white hair tumbling like a river of moonlight. She wore robes woven with stars, a wide-brimmed witch's hat atop her head. Power radiated from her, vast and endless, suffocating in its enormity. I knew, with a certainty that made my heart seize, that she could erase me with a thought.
She smiled, eyes alight with amusement.
"Hello, my dear descendant," she said, her voice a melody that echoed across eternity. "I think it is time I intervene… before the world is destroyed by that old fool."
My throat tightened. Words deserted me. My knees almost buckled under the weight of her presence.
If Dumbledore was the sun that I could never seem to reach... This woman was a damn Supernova.
And I—Lord Voldemort, Tom Marvolo Riddle, the Dark Lord feared by thousands—was nothing more than a child before her.