Details/Notes: I had thoughts about fleshing this out into a longer, more detailed story (with chapters and everything!) and I still might if I ever find the time for it. As it is, this will remain a one-shot fic, following that old plot twist of, "What if Voldemort didn't kill Harry Potter that fateful Halloween night?" I hope you enjoy reading, and that the premise becomes clear in the end. I'm rather fond of this piece. As always, reviews of any kind are appreciated, and see my author bio for a detailed disclaimer.

Eternal Providence:

What in me is dark
Illumine, what is low raise and support,
That to the height of this great argument
I may assert eternal Providence,
And justify the ways of God to men.

Paradise Lost, book i, line 22.

In the air high above them, storm clouds were brewing, and a thick, desperate, invasive moisture had crept into the skin of the small group collected in the grassy meadow. It was a spring storm, a healing one, but the earth still shook with fear as the first lightning strike ripped its way through the atmosphere.

"Do you wish to turn back, young sir?" one of the men assembled asked with uncertainty laced in his voice, still only drawing a small percentage of his ward's notice.

He wasn't given an answer for several minutes, as the boy – he could be no more than ten years of age, and was probably younger, despite the frightening maturity about him, and the pale touch to his skin – swayed on his feet, staring up at the lightning storm.

He was dressed as the rest of them were, in the black, all-encompassing robes of their uniform; he wore it with seeming dispassion, though the men would rather die than speak that thought consciously.

Finally, he said, "I haven't seen the surface in ten weeks. No, I do not wish to turn back."

He had the voice of a child, no matter what any of them thought he might really be. It made some of them shiver, though the original speaker was brave enough, or perhaps simply assured enough, to hold his own against the boy.

"It is folly to stay in a place so unprotected."

He was granted an emotionless smile for his effort, and that did make him shiver. "Our master is stronger than any storm, as am I."

In the dreary half-light of the darkened clouds, the small boy watched the sky above him as the men around him shook with fear. Perhaps one day he would be broken enough by his master to feel the terror they did when confronted with the whispered mention of him.

Part of him wished he could have that now.

To be able to stare at the rage of the heavens, and quail.

He had no name that he was aware of, though he did know from a combination of logic and tenacity, that he had once had parents who had been murdered, perhaps even by one of the men now guarding him, and that his date of birth was the thirty-first of July.

He was eight years old.

His handful of facts was small now, smaller than his body and the magic within it, but in the years to come that would change. He would force it to, even if the fates denied him. His master was a cruel man, cruel to everyone and everything, but through him he had learned much about the manipulation of even nature's highest powers.

In the sky above him lightning raged, and the lightning reflected on him. It crashed down around them, making the air tingle with whatever energy it held.

He silenced the men when their nervousness once again rose up in protest of their location: "Do you fear the storm? Why? Do you not have the power of apparation?"

Looking at them each in turn, he sighed. "Take me to another place then, I have an hour yet."

"As you wish," the spokesperson said with visible relief, "To the next glen over, young sir. Away from the heart of the storm."

He smiled coldly. "I am the heart of the storm, Yaxley."

In the kitchen of number twelve Grimmauld Place the atmosphere was just as dreary as the storm clouds, and the air just as electrified; a meeting of men was taking place, and as was normal in such situations, many fights were breaking out.

A rather young man in the terms of wizardry was pressing his forefinger and thumb to his creased brow in one corner of the room. He was only halfway through his report, and already he was sniped at and fought over, everything from his loyalties to his hair called into question.

Dumbledore was in an equal state of mind at the head of the long table, though he was unable to show it. His wrinkled fingers laced together on the rough wood, he waited for the arguments to dim.

"I don't care how sorry he says he is! This is ridiculous! This is Snape!" Sirius Black, still dressed in his auror robes, shouted in loud, commanding tones, gaining support from a third or so of the peanut gallery. "Sorry doesn't bring back Bartholomew Abbot!"

"Sirius, please calm down," the voice of reason came to light. Remus Lupin's voice was soft and somewhat drifting, but Dumbledore himself was the only one more likely to silence a room with a handful of words. "We both know Severus can't be expected to warn for every attack."

"Since when is he Severus to you?" Black snapped accusingly, nevertheless falling back into his seat.

Lupin responded with a tired sigh and a shake of his head; a personal matter that would no doubt be dealt with behind closed doors.

"Perhaps now that the dogs have ceased their yapping I may continue?" It wasn't a question, and the silken sarcasm was met with many glares.

"Severus, please," Dumbledore finally spoke.

The man spared him a glare of his own, but collected himself quickly. Continuing, "Despite the recent attacks on aurors and their families, the Dark Lord does not seem invested in beginning all-out war, as some of us remember from ten years ago.

"He is, however, speaking with increasing interest, of the ministry. I believe he plans to take over entirely within the next decade."

His statement was met with many shocked gasps, and some moans of terror and exhaustion. It was not news anyone in the Order of the Phoenix wanted to hear. The Dark Lord was doing enough damage without overt infiltration of the ministry.

"Do you have any specific information?" came the first question from Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"I cannot name names without compromising my own position within the ranks." Snape's brow wrinkled, whether expressing worry over the Dark Lord's suspicion, or anger at himself for not having the answers, none of them could be sure. "I advise you to watch any new employees in the departments of Law Enforcement, International Cooperation, and Creature Regulation, as well as the Minister's personal staff."

"No matter how stringent we make our hiring policies they'll still slip through the cracks," Black sighed in apparent frustration, his animosity towards the information source forgotten in the heat of the moment. "Ten years more of that and the place will be overrun."

"He's right," the young Kingsley agreed soon after, "We can't just keep hobbling along on one foot like cripples. There has to be something we can do to head him off."

This statement was met with a very vocal agreement, voices overlapping each other in eagerness to win the war once and for all. Snape, who had the privilege of seeing the other side up close and personal for much of his life, thought at this point he was the only one with a true understanding of just how impossible a clean victory was going to be.

As the voices rose to a thunder, one train of the thought emerged from the others. "Neville Longbottom," Margaret Trench exclaimed, "Is he still safe?"

Dumbledore straightened, becoming prominent in the minds of his followers. "Yes he is, Maggie. He is still under the Fidelius Charm, and according to his parents' is coming along well in his studies.

"He is still a boy, however. Shy, prone to uncertainty, and with no scope of the true danger he lives under," Dumbledore seemed to age as he spoke, "I truly wish it does not come to the path of which you speak."

Black and Lupin's eyes had fallen shut, both mourning the passing of their friends.

"James and Lily Potter were betrayed and killed in Voldemort's pursuit of the prophecy, and young Harry's body was never even found," Dumbledore's own eyes fluttered closed. "His fate remains a mystery to this day. Neville should be granted as much childhood as is possible before he is called upon to make the decision to fight against this evil."

"Will he attend Hogwarts then, if he is so unsafe?"

At this, Dumbledore brightened marginally. "I expect all of us to work very hard indeed in the hope that he might, dear boy. We have held Voldemort at bay for this long."

Soon the meeting had disbursed, Black and Lupin slipping upstairs to talk around the issues that had come up in the meeting before they returned to their respective homes elsewhere.

Severus Snape, who had given the longest report of the meeting, left on the right hand of Albus Dumbledore, whispering to him as they passed beyond the house's wards, "I don't know if I have another ten years in me, the Dark Lord's suspicions grow with every piece of leaked information."

Dumbledore grew silent for the final time that night, saying only, "I will not lose you as well, dear boy."

"You are too kind for your standing, Headmaster."

In the dark caverns of Voldemort's underground palace the Death Eaters stood waiting in rings of black fabric, gently swaying with every suppressed shiver, the air alive with whisperings.

Voldemort himself stood in the centre of the rings, his robes elaborate swirls of black and silver, his wand clutched in the long fingers of his right hand. He was still a handsome man, despite how the horcruxes twisted that beauty into something sickly and fiendish. He could still inspire the sort of fanatical loyalty the creators of muggle cults would be envious of.

The torture he punished them with only served to temper any thoughts of betrayal that might lurk in the recesses of their minds. It was the only way to deal with men like Lucius.

Lucius might have been a Dark Lord himself. He started out in a more favourable role for the position than Voldemort did, truly. He had the money, the charisma, the willingness to do anything, break any law, to achieve his goals.

What he lacked was the initiative to do so.

Voldemort made a name for himself – literally, even – because he had that initiative. He looked at the world, and saw not a fixed reality to live and love in, but a ball of clay to be sculpted into his image using whatever means it took.

In that way, he was much like god.

His followers clung to him because they saw him as such. He was, to them, the highest being on Earth, and they were willing to do anything he asked of them.

The only problem was their tendency to fail miserably at their tasks.

"Did you not have orders to kill not only the mudblood auror, but his child as well? The girl is practically a baby, Seamark, and a mudblood herself."

His ego was fed as the ranks of his Death Eaters shifted and murmured with heightened intensity, some daring to smirk and giggle. He silenced them with a motion of his hand, waiting for the man at his feet to cease his stuttering, and offer as explanation.

"I'm sorry, milord. Sh-she had a p-portkey. I hit her w-with a cutting curse b-but she survived."

He was truly a miserable excuse for a Death Eater.

Voldemort tightened his fingers around his wand, summoning the necessary hate and sadism for the curse, and intoning carelessly, "Crucio."

Seamark's screams pierced the dimly lit room. The Death Eaters fed off of them, some swelling with excitement, while others quailed in fear.

He ended the curse after forty seconds of watching the man roll and convulse. Any longer and he would be even more useless than he already was.

"I do not tolerate failure," he addressed all of them with these words, almost hissing them in his residual anger.

He sent a banishing charm at Seamark, watching as the man slammed into the far wall, and lay unconscious. "Moray," he waved a hand at the other man, indicating that it would be his job to deal with him after the meeting ended.

"Yes, milord," came the man's quick reply.

Voldemort let the silence settle over his followers, and then waited until it hardened, begging to be shattered, and doing so. "Perhaps one of you, my dear friends would care to explain why, after seven years of searching, we do not know the identity of the Longbottom's secret keeper?"

No one wanted to answer, of course. Each of them knew with certainty that to answer was to be cursed, but if the silence dragged on long enough...

It was a balance he played with in each of their meetings.

"Bellatrix," he finally spoke, in a twisted parody of affection, "I believe it was your husband first charged with the task."

"Yes, master," the woman proclaimed passionately, despite the hanging threat of punishment. He wondered with her, if it were more of a reward, the taste of her beloved master's wand.

"Tell me then, how goes his search?"

"He is faithful to you, master. Dumbledore mocks him at every turn, but he –" she was cut off by her own screams, as Voldemort cast a spell that caused three capillaries in her left hand to burst.

"I do not care for the Headmaster, Bellatrix," he snapped, his voice suddenly acidic and deadly.

"Y-yes, master," she gasped for breath, "Rodolphus now believes that my cousin, Sirius Black, holds the Longbottom's secret."

Her voice had risen to almost a shriek with the combination of pain and excitement. Voldemort's eyes did not so much as widen, but he was shocked by the proposal. Whether the deceptions of his followers to save themselves from further torture, or true belief, it deserved looking into.

If he killed the man in the process, so be it.

However, Sirius Black was not only an excellent auror and one of Dumbledore's most famous and starred followers, the man was jaded. Voldemort's own fault for destroying the man's blood brother, James Potter, and his mudblood wife, but now the man's heart and mind had been sharpened.

He would not be so easily manipulated as he was before. If the Dark Lord truly planned on bringing him down, it would require thought.

"My loyal servants," he paused for effect, "It seems as though the Lestranges' are worthy of my praise tonight. They have brought me information that will bring about the fall of the Order of the Phoenix."

His followers murmured and shifted with excitement, and perhaps a measure of trepidation, at the exaggerated words. It was important to placate them.

This information may prove to be less an exaggeration than usual, though.

"Return to your families, and do not dare to speak of our dealings this night. I know each of you by name, and I can find even the deepest secrets you carry."

He did not wait for them to exalt his name, and beg to kiss the ground beneath his feet. Not this night when he had much to think on, and several waiting problems in other areas of the base.

His followers parted like the Rea Sea as he passed through them to the doors, which sprung open with a casual hand wave.

The silence of the corridor was as much of a shock as always.

His short rant over the Longbottom child had brought the prophecy to the forefront of his mind for the first time in some months. Since, as it happened, the last time he was face to face with the Potter child.

He should have taken the other one when he had the chance, as things were working out so much better than expected with the one he did have. He was inclined to think, as it were, that he had made the correct choice, and that it was the Potter that would have been his downfall.

Past tense, as now the boy was no more inclined to stab him in the back than Lucius Malfoy. He would only do it, in other words, if Voldemort kept him out of sight for too long.

He had always been careful never to make that mistake.

The boy's room was simple, as these things went. He had given him the space generously, and left him in the care of the elves. It wasn't until several years ago that his visits became more personalised.

It had surprised him how well versed the boy turned out to be in the customs that were expected of him.

Now he found the boy sitting in the centre of his bed, with a book of curses (Spectacular Schemes by Septimus Prince) held open with one hand trailing down the fine print.

"Terbous."

He watched as, under the power of the compulsion charm, the boy closed the book and slid onto the floor, resting on his knees. He only bowed his head after Voldemort lifted the curse.

"Master, I am graced by your presence," he said in his young tenor, his eyes resting reverently on the hem of the Dark Lord's robes.

Voldemort stepped closer, drawing his left hand under the boy's chin, and pulling him up. The boy rose to his feet, staring vaguely into Voldemort's eyes.

"Yes, my young servant. You went out today?" He searched the boy for any lie, but he need not fear. The young thing's mind was practically a tomb.

He wondered with disinterest whether that was a side effect of his surroundings, or if the boy was learning to shield himself. He wasn't lying yet, but if it were the latter, there may soon be a problem.

"I did. Yaxley, Fortin, and Travers accompanied me, as always." His eyes slid unfocused. "There was a lightning storm on the fields."

"Did you receive permission to bring that book here?"

"I believed it to fall under the realm of my discretion," he paused, the conclusion present in his mind mere seconds after Voldemort accused him, "I was wrong to."

In the boy's eyes he could see no emotion, but swirling in his mind was a growing sense of eventuality.

No fear. Perhaps it had been expunged through sheer exposure.

"Laedomn." He flicked his wand, and the boy sucked in his breath as his head snapped backward from the force of the curse.

When he raised it again, there was a red mark beginning to bruise his cheekbone.

"You may keep the book," was Voldemort's concession, as he left the room, and boy who was no longer quite a prisoner, behind.

In the four hours and twenty seven minutes that passed since his master came to him, the mark on his cheek had darkened from light red to a faint violet, and area was ever-so-slightly swollen. He considered it a grand victory to still have the book.

His master's mood seemed to constantly move and flow, like the tidal waters of the oceans he had read about in atlases and encyclopaedias. While there may be a pattern that could be applied to it, he did not know what it was. He could do nothing more than stand passively, replying only when needed, as his master talked to him, cursed him, or ran his fingers through his hair in seeming affection.

He wasn't stupid enough, however, to mistaken those rare actions for true affection. A cruel man is most cruel when he pretends to love you.

He still felt energised from witnessing the storm. It was an act of luck that he was unused to in his present situation, and even the fear of the men he was accompanied by wasn't enough to tarnish the memory of it within his mind.

Below him, in whatever cavern resided there, he could here the faint sounds of screams.

He might have been asleep if it weren't for them, and the memory of the thunder shaking the very Earth itself. He had seen power then, power beyond what his master held, and what he himself would someday hold.

Even if his words at the time may have seemed to speak the contrary.

His master might be stronger than any storm, but the lightning itself held the power of raw, heedless destruction. Even his master did not destroy people or things so indiscriminately.

It excited him to know that his master was not the entirety of the universe, as it often seemed to him trapped in his room or the appropriate sections of the library, with only his books and thoughts and the screams of the other inhabitants for company.

He thought that somewhere in his mind there was a fuzzy memory of something that wasn't this, but when he called it out he was greeted only with green light, red hair, and terror he could not remember feeling since whenever that incident occurred.

Not even it his nightmares did he feel fear.

What was the point, he decided, when his life was already forfeit to his master? To feel fear over pain, death, or abandonment would be to live constantly with the emotion. Others might be able to live in such a manner, but not him.

His eyes fluttered once, twice.

The throbbing in his cheek seemed to flow in time with the beat of his heart, and the screams of the true prisoners.

He would serve his master one day, as the others in the black robes did. The ones below him would merely die when their screams gave out.

End.

End Notes: Thank you, everyone, for reading. Please review, let me know what you think. Give me inspiration to maybe write more from this universe at some point or another. Ta.