Hey everyone! Yes, I know that I already have another story up, but this one wouldn't leave my mind, it just had to be written. I hope you enjoy it.
Title: Love is for the Blind
Series: I don't think so.
Warnings: Major character death, slash (male/male pairing)
Pairings: Tom Riddle/ Harry Potter, others. . . possibly.
Summary: A fight with Draco sends Harry 50 years in the past, but there's just one problem with traveling back so far before your birth. How will Harry deal with it all when he can't even recall who he is?
I have heard my enemies say that I know nothing of love. Those fools are wrong. I knew it, once. I felt it, once. I even let it consume me, once, though not to the point that I forgot my goals. We were to rule together, side by side, equal in power. He was to be the only one I would ever do that for. We were to live together, forever, once we had taken over; once we ruled them all. All that was to happen, once, but he left. I watched him leave. He didn't walk out the door, or apparate, or portkey, no, he simply disappeared, never to be seen again.
I saw him again, but not for a long while. I never did know where he went, what had happened to him over the years. At times I nearly died with my longing, but I shoved it away and moved on. He was gone, dead (or so I told myself, despite the proof to the contrary), and I had to complete our dream on my own. Nobody else would take his place, though; nobody else deserved it. They weren't powerful enough, pretty enough, they were not him.
He was gone.
I was never to see him again.
I soon forgot about him . . . or so I told myself.
Then I saw him, some fifteen years ago. I walked into that retched house, and there he was. Only, it wasn't him, the eyes were wrong, so I simply killed him, sparing him the torture he was to have, because he looked like the one I had once loved. The mudblood was next, then her child. I didn't kill either right away. The mudblood had his eyes. Those brilliant green eyes, pleading with me, begging me. He never begged. She would have lived, if she had moved, if she had stepped out of the way of the child. She didn't have to die; she had his eyes. Nobody with eyes like those should have to die, but she did not move. So she died.
The child too had her, his eyes, those eyes did not belong to a mudblood. I did not kill him right away, because the child fascinated me. Even as I killed his mother, he did not cry. Even as I pointed my wand at him, he did not cry. He simply stared at me with those eyes, wide, questioning, innocent. I could feel the power radiating from the child, and knew he had to go. So I killed him, or I tried. And so was born The-Boy-Who-Lived.
I hated him, tried to kill him on several occasions. Then, his fourth year, when I was given back my body, I made a surprising discovery.
The boy's scar. I had only ever seen one other like it. On Him. At first, I refused to believe it. Potter was not the same one. He couldn't be. They were too different, and he was here, not there. But that doubt, the small thought that he could be, was what made me let him escape. My followers do not know this, but I had a clear shot at him, as the phantom's surrounded me. I could see him clearly, but that small doubt had me hold my wand. There were better things to do than kill him, if he was. . .
Research told me it was possible. He could be. There were so many similarities. There were many. They had the same eyes, and the same build. They moved the same, a predators walk, some would say. Smooth and graceful, deadly, precise; I loved watching him walk. I had long ago memorized it. Their eyes held the same gleam when they were feeling defiant, and they both held the same potential. Except, my love had begun to tap into it, with my guiding, of course. The only difference was the hair, Potter's was too short.
That changed when we met at the ministry. It had grown. It was him, I knew it. The power radiating from him was intoxicating, and hauntingly familiar, just as it was from him. They were so similar, they had to be the same. So I let him live, because, he had to go back, and when he returned (as I now knew he would) he would come to me willingly. He had promised as much.
We would rule together, we said. Side by side, as equals. Together we would be unstoppable, he promised. And I knew he would keep his promise, he was just as passionate about it at the end as I was; as I still am. He would return to me. My Jeramiah would be mine once more, and there would be nothing that could stop us. Nothing would be able to stand in our way; not even that Muggle-loving old fool that seems so fond of him.
At first I thought it would be James. The boy was so similar to Jeramiah in looks, but the eyes were different, and he had no scar. And he didn't leave during the school year. It was startling, though, to see his son grow into the exact replica.
I knew, eventually, that the boy was from the future. We now know that all the symptoms pointed that way. He had no memory, and they hadn't been obliviated. Traveling before your time is the only way to to erase ones memories so completely, though we did not know it then. Though, he remembered, things, upon occasion. A name would be said, or he would be shown something, and his eyes would glaze momentarily, as if remembering something. It was an interesting sight, but he never remembered anything. He never seemed to be able to reach far enough back to grasp it.
Jeramiah did not know, none of us did at the time, but that did not stop us from trying to help him. When no one came forward to 'claim' him as theirs we assumed he had no family, so we treated him as any of the other orphans we teach. And he grew closer to Tom. I tried to stop it, I knew, even then, what Tom was, and I knew he would corrupt the child, but I never could do anything to separate them.
Tom was devastated when Jeramiah vanished. It happened right in front of him, too, or so I have heard. One moment, he was there, the next, he was gone. He came to me once to demand answers to his disappearance. I told him I did not know, but by then I had begun to research, and had begun to get answers to Jeramiah's strange case. It had happened before, and every time, they had left, to return. I told Tom I did not know where Jeramiah had went, but let him think I suspected that he was dead. He went into a rage, much like the one young Harry had at the end of last year, and could not be consoled. He was angry for days, and I do not believe he ever grieved. I often heard of him researching things on the dead, necromancy, but he never attempted anything, to my knowledge. Not that it would have worked; Jeramiah was not dead, just shoved forward, back to where he belonged.
It was not until after Harry's fourth year that I truely knew it to be him. I kept telling myself it couldn't be him. Sure, he looked like him, but the hair was the wrong length, and Jeramiah had a scar on his left arm. A scar that Harry got after his run in with Tom in the graveyard. There was no denying it after that. Harry Potter was Jeramiah Kenley.
I did not tell him, because there was nothing for it. He would go back, whether I told him about it or not, and he would not remember anything. But he would return, of that I knew. The fact that Jeramiah disappeared tells me that much. I could only hope that Harry could be saved when that happened.
It will be sometime this year, if we got the age right. If not, it will be next year. But it will be soon, and Harry will go back. I can only hope that when he returns, he is more Harry, than Jeramiah. Or we may have another Dark Lord to deal with. One can only hope.
"Albus!" Minerva exclaims as she runs into my office.
"What is it, Minerva?" I ask.
"Harry Potter has vanished."
So it has begun.
I glance down at my follower. It is Lucius. His movements are always graceful.
"What do you bring me?"
"My son tells me that Potter has disappeared. The school is frantically trying to search for him. Only that muggle-loving fool is not worried."
"He wouldn't be," I murmur, "This news pleases me, Lucius."
"Would you like me to try to find where he has gone, my lord?"
"You would not be able to find him, Lucius," I answer with a dismissive wave of my hand. "He is somewhere not even you can reach, but, when he returns, we will not have to worry about him. He will be mine."
Alright, here's the prologue for Love is for the Blind. Personally, I liked Voldemort's portion of this much better than Dumbledore's. It just seemed to flow better to me. It was easier to write as well. (shrug) anyway.
Feel free to tell me what you think. The poll is currently up and waiting for people to vote.
Allanasha Ke Kiri