Prologue

The moment Voldemort realized that he would lose the war was anti-climatic at best. It didn't happen as Aurors flooded his fortress. It didn't happen when he heard news that a raiding party of his best Deatheaters was being sent to Azkaban—again. Nor did it happen in the midst of some chaotic battle, as he turned to see Potter screaming the killing curse. Not that these things actually happened, of course, but if one thought about when the evil Dark Lord would finally admit defeat and agree to let Muggles run amok, these sort of scenarios would be all that made sense.

However, truth and reality never make sense. The moment Voldemort realized that he had no hope of winning came just before he fell asleep on a calm Thursday night. He'd had a relatively peaceful day, reading up on Grindelwald and other Dark Lords of the past. He speculated the reasons for their failure, and wondered how he might guard himself against similar circumstances. He hadn't admitted his impending surrender yet; he was only planning how to protect himself against any future threats. But as he lay in bed, his thoughts flitting over the texts, he drew the conclusion that he'd made a mistake.

He'd wasted time and several talented followers to kill Dumbledore. True, Dumbledore was the mascot of the Light side, and to lose him was a blow to his enemy. But it had taken two years to plan, a dozen dead followers to execute, and the blow had only hindered his enemy a few months. Voldemort had thought that after Dumbledore was gone, all he had to do was secure the towns and recruit more people (either willing or by force). But Voldemort hadn't been able to secure any towns for very long, not even the smallest ones. Clearly, Dumbledore wasn't the crippling blow to the Light that he was looking for. So what was?

And that was when Voldemort realized with dead certainty that he would not win the war. How could he win the war if he wasn't even sure what he should be attacking? Not the Ministry; it was already as useless and ineffective as ever. Not Harry Potter; the boy would be crucial soon, but at the moment the boy ranked as only a nuisance. So what then? In the following weeks, he pondered this and developed an insanely dangerous, almost suicidal plan. He didn't like to act rashly or risk his life needlessly, but the plan was all he had.

Chapter 1 — The Transformation

If Ronald Weasley wanted a career in Quidditch, he was going to need a lot of practice. So Ron began flying his rickety old Cleansweep everyday. It couldn't go as fast or ride as smoothly as Harry's Firebolt, but it was all he had for now. He performed loops, dives, and all kinds of broom acrobatics. He couldn't show up Harry, but he was getting better and more confident. Sometimes he would spend five hours nonstop in the air practicing his moves.

Ironically, Ron's dedication would never get him on a professional Quidditch team. But it would allow Bellatrix to Stupefy him from behind a tree, watch as he fell from the sky like a dead bird, and deliver him to her lord. After some fun torture, naturally. After all, she had about a six or even eight hour time window before his family noticed him missing.

Voldemort still couldn't get over how easy the first part of his plan had been. If it only his plans to kill the Potter spawn went as smoothly as this!

“Excellent job, Bellatrix. I will put Snape under your command on your next mission. Hopefully he will learn about success from you,” Voldemort praised.

“Th-Thank you, mi'lord,” Bellatrix said, as she kissed the hems of her lord's robes before all but running from the room. She was going to be ranked above Snape! She couldn't wait to rub it in his face! She trembled with so much pleasure, that she didn't wonder why the delivery of one ugly, freckled boy yielded such unusually high praise and reward—the exact effect Voldemort had counted on.

With Bellatrix gone, Voldemort turned to the hog-tied Weasley boy on the floor.

“Stop your dreadful wailing, boy!” Voldemort growled as he advanced on the whimpering youth. “I swear, Gryffindors these days don't have half the courage they used too. Silly Dumbledore's coddling...” Voldemort pulled a dagger from his robes as knelt next to the child. As he did, he realized he should have silenced the boy first.

“P-Pl-Please don't! Don't kill me! I-I can...” he began to plead.

Curious, Voldemort leaned over him, held the sides of his head, and whispered in his ear, “You can what, little Ronald? Kill for me? Spy for me? What is your life worth too you? ...Would you tell me where Potter is, if I returned you to your little hovel?”

“I—Ye—N-no. NONONONONO!” Ron screamed frantically.

Voldemort laughed. He could torture and manipulate the boy until he gave up Potter's location. Then he could leave the boy in a cell to rot, letting him believe that he had killed his best friend when actually Voldemort knew all along exactly where Harry Potter was; he simply couldn't break the wards. If only he had more time with the Weasley!

Voldemort could not resist having a little more fun.

“Why not, Ron? What is so special about him? Why is Harry Potter's life more valuable than Ronald Weasley's life? Is it because he has more money than you? Because he has more talent than you? Gets better grades? Wins more awards? Makes the front page of Daily Prophet? Is it because your own parents pay more attention to him than you, their son? Tell me.”

Voldemort pulled away from his ear to look the Weasley in the eyes. The boy didn't answer right away.

“...I—I...You're tricking me...I know you are...I won't—won't l-let you trick me...I won't, I won't...” the boy trailed off.

With great discipline, Voldemort brought their delightful little game to an end. Holding his knife high, he brought it down upon Weasley's head.

“AAAAAAAAAA!”

“Shut up!” Voldemort snarled as he stopped the knife a second before it touched the Weasley's forehead.

'I could carve his face like a Halloween pumpkin,' Voldemort thought absently as he roughly grabbed a fistful of the Weasley's hair and viciously began to saw at it.

“Ooowww! OW! Stop! Stop! Stop! W—what are you doing?! Please, stop!”

“Silencio!” Voldemort growled, finished with his game and fed up with the boy's inane babble.

Painful tears flowed down the boy's agonized face as his mouth formed silent pleas of mercy. Voldemort paid no more attention to his pain than he would a tree, as he cruelly hacked at the whelp's hair. When he'd gotten most of it, he scooped it up and carried it to a large, simmering cauldron and stirred the locks into the liquid. For a small vial of Polyjuice Potion, a single hair would be more than adequate. But for a cauldron as large as this, much more DNA was needed for the potion to work.

Voldemort eyed the potion critically. It looked the right shade, yet at the same time it looked slightly off. Well, he couldn't take any chances. He went back to the Weasley, hauled him up by the arm, and slung him over the cauldron. Ronald's face was mere millimeters from the potion's surface.

Briefly, Voldemort wondered if it was possible to use an entire person for DNA. Would the boy melt and dissolve like the hairs? He reminded himself that this was not the time for potion experiments, though he made a note to find out someday.

Ronald didn't have much hair left, so Voldemort made a deep horizontal slice across the boy's wrist and held it over the cauldron. Still holding the boy's wrist, he stirred the blood into the potion and admired how the red color swirled as he contemplated Weasley's fate. Should he let the boy bleed to death?

'Best to be safe' Voldemort decided as he muttered a healing charm. 'I may need to make more of the Polyjuice Potion.'

Now the potion looked ready. Voldemort tossed the boy to the floor and called a house elf.

“Feed him more than the others,” Voldemort commanded the house elf as it scooped up the boy to apparate him to the dungeons. “I'll need him in fairly good condition if I'm to make more of this.”

“Yes, master,” the house elf bowed before disappearing with the Weasley.

Voldemort checked his clock. He still had two hours before his five hour deadline, and it would probably take several hours after that for the Weasleys to notice one of their numerous offspring missing. This was absolutely way too easy.

Strolling to a table against the wall, Voldemort picked up a small vial strung on a chord. He cast a spell so that the vial would always be filled with whatever was in the cauldron. Then he slipped it over his head and tucked it beneath his robes.

Holding his wand next to Weasley's wand, he wondered which he should take. Knowing that Polyjuice Potion only changed a person's physical appearance, not their magical signature, he chose to take his own wand. He didn't think anyone would notice the difference, but cast an illusion charm on it anyway to make it look like a lighter wood that matched Weasley's wand.

As an afterthought, he cast every locking and sealing charm on the room that could possibly exist. Not that he thought any of his Deatheaters had the courage to explore their master's private quarters, but it didn't hurt to be safe.

Finally, Voldemort tipped back the vial, swallowing the Polyjuice Potion. A surprising queasiness seized him, and he doubled over clutching his stomach. Muscle and fat were growing where once there was nothing but bone and skin. His scalp itched as thick red hair sprouted from his previously bald head. And his face! A horrible feeling came over him as his snake-like features shrunk, stretched, and protruded to form the face of a 17 year old Weasley boy.

When it was over, Voldemort picked himself up and carefully made his way to the mirror. For years he'd drifted as a ghost and then a freakish humanoid-reptilian creature. Yet there he was, looking at himself with brown eyes. Young brown eyes no less.

Fascinated, Voldemort let his clothing fall and stared at the naked body in the mirror. He flexed and twisted. He ran his fingertips along his chest and arms, marveling at the hair that grew there; he'd forgotten about that. He opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, half surprised to see that it wasn't dry and forked. He felt...warm...and human.

His gaze traveled downward to examine his sex. It wasn't as hideous as the sex of his own pale body, but he dared not let his fingers stray to explore that part of his new form. He'd long ago stopped partaking in carnal pleasures, even before his disastrous meeting with the Potter baby.

Voldemort spent an hour almost-cautiously exploring his image in the mirror. It was time for Weasley to return home and join his family for dinner. Closing his eyes, Voldemort took a moment more to prepare himself mentally. He had read every one of Ronald Weasley's memories, from the moment he'd met Potter to the moment Bellatrix stupefied him. He hoped his acting skills from his younger days could still be summoned after decades and decades of non use.

He would find out, he supposed. He easily transfigured his robes to look like what the Weasley boy was wearing when he arrived. With one final glance in the mirror, he apparated to the field next to the Burrow.