Harry Potter and the Dark Lord

Jessi L.W. ([Soul Guardian])


Chapter One: Voldemort's Return

A light mist hung over the houses of Privet Drive. It was past midnight and everyone was fast asleep. Everyone that is, except a seventeen year old boy, who lived at Number Four Privet Drive and was staring out of his second story bedroom window into the cold night as if in a trance. This would seem strange to some; in fact, to the people that lived in the surrounding neighborhoods he was looked upon as an unruly and strange boy. In actuality, he was as normal as any boy could be.
As any boy who was a wizard could be, that is.
 Harry was intently staring out into the hazy mist, lost in thought, when he heard the familiar flap of wings. He blinked for the first time in a long time and looked up to see Hedwig, his beloved snowy owl, come into view. His heart lifted a bit in spite of his depressing mood. Hedwig had been so loyal to him. Even when he treated her like dirt, she always forgave him and returned to him. The last few summers she’d even brought along a letter from Harry’s friends, Ron, Hermione, Hagrid, or Dumbledore. She’d once brought Harry letters from his godfather, Sirius, under the alias of Snuffles to aid in his escape from the wizard prison Azkaban and the deatheaters that guarded the desolate island, but no more. Sirius Black died three years ago at the hands of his cousin Belletrix Lestrang. It was also unlikely that Harry would ever again receive a letter from Dumbledore. As he thought about Dumbledore’s death, his hatred toward Snape grew fiercely, because it was Snape who killed Dumbledore using the Advada Kedevara curse at the end of term last year. Harry turned aside to let Hedwig have a clear shot into his room. She landed on his bed and ruffled her feathers. Harry went over and petted her. She cooed and nipped his finger affectionately. Harry turned his attention back to the misty streets outside his window. He raked his hand through his untidy jet black hair. No matter how many times his Aunt Patunia had tried to get rid of the hair, somehow it had always grown back to the way it was the very next morning.
He’d heard far too often that he looked exactly like his father, James Potter. Except for eyes; he had his mother’s eyes. She had bright, brilliant green eyes. He was slightly built, but Mrs. Weasley, Ron’s mum, would say he was just under fed. He was tall, but not as tall as Ron. Harry also wore his cousin, Dudley’s, old clothes which were several sizes too big because Dudley was huge. He wasn’t just huge, he was mean, too. Last summer, Harry had followed Dudley and his gang around at night and seen them beating little kids up just for fun. Dudley was in boxing, the sport that Uncle Vernon called “the manly sport”. Harry figured he could set little Diddykins to try fighting the Whomping Willow and see how it felt to be beat to a pulp. Maybe he’d set Uncle Vernon to it, too. Maybe then, he wouldn’t think of it as such a grand sport. But that wouldn’t be right.
Harry had been staring out into the night for so long, that when a figure suddenly appeared he gasped and jumped back, making Hedwig hoot indignantly. Harry turned to her and then back to the street. The figure stood at the corner, stone still. Harry could feel his gaze. He suddenly felt the familiar pain where his scar was and knew exactly who the figure was. Harry had been haunted by this familiar pain and figure for the past two years.
But it was impossible! He couldn't be here, not now! No one knew where he, Harry, lived, except his friends, the ministry, and the guards who kept watch on him during the summer before his fifth year!
The figure began to come closer, slowly walking down the street, his cape bellowing out from behind him. As he walked by them, each of the lamp posts down the street would suddenly go out. The air became cold and icy, like the familiar air of the Dementors. Impossible.
Harry gripped his wand so hard his knuckles began to turn white. He looked over at Hedwig to see that she was ruffled and alert. Harry looked back outside to see that the figure was now standing in front of Number 4; the Dursley's house. His heart stopped, his palms were white and sweaty, his head seared with pain, but he never faultered. He kept eye contact on the figure, prepared to use his wand. Suddenly, the figure looked up and locked onto Harry with his eyes. Harry, unable to look away, began to scream as a fresh wave of pain washed over him. He knew this was it, this was the end of everything. He had never even raised his wand in defense. Now, he would die and no witch, wizard, or muggle would be able to defeat him.
And as he began to feel his life leave him, Harry heard the harsh, evil laughter of the Dark Lord himself...Voldemort.
"I have won. It was so easy! Harry Potter is no longer 'the boy who lived'!"

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