Author's Note:Harry is in Seventh year. This is compliant to a lot of things, and noncompliant to others. It is a Tom Riddle(Voldemort)/Harry story. This is basically a prologue. Have fun!
Disclaimer:If it were mine, would Voldemort be dead?
Warning: Language. Violence. Slash. Non-slash.
He didn't hate Voldemort. He didn't hate Pettigrew or any of the Malfoys. He didn't hate the Lestranges or the Dursleys. He didn't like them, but he didn't hate them. Then again, he didn't like very many people. He liked Hermione, Luna, Dobby, Neville, Lupin, and Sirius. He liked Professor McGonagall and Hagrid too. He would probably like Dumbledore if he couldn't see through the man's manipulations. It wasn't that he hated the man, he just didn't like him. Then there were people that he didn't like, and didn't not like. Professor Snape was an example of that. Harry Potter was actually, all in all, indifferent.
Of course, he probably should hate Voldemort, if not for what he's been doing to Harry ever since he started attending Hogwarts than for killing his parents, but he didn't. Voldemort did bad things, but Harry didn't know Voldemort, not personally. He had never sat down and had a heart to heart with the man, and he wouldn't judge him until he had. Sure, the man killed his parents, but how could Harry know for sure if his parents didn't deserve it? Every wizard would say that they were good people, but every muggle would say that the Dursleys were good people as well, and they beat Harry on a daily basis. In Harry's mind, it all boiled down to your personal morals on the subject. If you thought that muggles weren't worth the scum on your boots then you obviously won't find a problem with killing them. That doesn't make you heartless. After all, Lucius Malfoy loves Draco and Narcissa, and he doesn't have a problem with murdering muggles.
Harry supposed that he wasn't really cut out for the job of "Gryffindor Golden Boy." He didn't have a sense of justice. Sure, he would interfere if Ron was getting murdered right in front of him, but he would also interfere if the same was happening to a Deatheater. Often he thought that someone else should have been the Boy-Who-Lived, but he wouldn't wish his fate on anyone. A lot of times, he wished that the Sorting Hat would have put him in Slytherin, that Ron hadn't interrupted him before he had gotten a chance to shake Draco's hand, that he could have sat down and talked to Voldemort any of the three times that they had personally met; he wished for a lot of things, and got none of them. Really though, when he had first met Voldemort in First year, down in that chamber, he wished that the man hadn't been too bent on manipulating him to listen. He wished that when he met Tom, Voldemort's Horcrux, in Second year the man wouldn't have been too bent on killing him to hear what Harry had to say. He wished that just last year, at the tournament when Voldemort had stepped out of the cauldron looking like his breathtaking twenty-three years old self, the man would have stepped over to him and asked him his thoughts on the war. He didn't, of course, but it still would have been nice. In two weeks, Harry would start his Seventh year, and everyone – with the exception of Hermione – would ask him how he planned to defeat Voldemort. He wouldn't give them an answer because, well, he didn't. While Voldemort's plans were a little extreme, at least he wouldn't have people living under the false pretenses of being safe.
"Boy! Get out here and cook breakfast!" There was his cue: the shrill voice of his Aunt Petunia. Slowly, Harry eased his lithe body out of the much too small cupboard under the stairs. After a week without any signs of the Order returning, they put Harry back in his "rightful place." Harry had expected such a move, and complied without complaint. After all, as soon as he turns eighteen, he could be out of the house. Sure, he was a legal adult by wizard terms, but no muggle would rent out an apartment to him. Besides, the wards would be up until his eighteenth birthday, and the wizarding world would freak out if their Savior went missing.
The eggs and toast were finished in record time, cooked as perfectly as humanly possible. Harry's Uncle Vernon still found fault.
"These are undercooked! Are you trying to kill me, boy! I bet you are! That would make you and your little freak friends happy, wouldn't it!" His face began to turn a strange shade of red, and would no doubt be an ugly purple by the time he was through with Harry, but Harry didn't really care. Hurting Harry was a game that had gotten very old, very quickly in Harry's mind. Instead of focusing on his impending doom, Harry chose to examine his uncle. He was an extremely large man, with sandy blonde hair that would have looked good on anyone else covering his head. And on his face lay the same color hair, bushy and straw-like, falling over his lips much like a walrus. Vernon's fleshy face finally reached that ugly purple which Harry had described, and the man moved forward, clumsily, awkwardly, as if his feet had no wish to support him, but would if they must. Out of the corner of his intelligent emerald eyes, Harry watched Dudley Dursley enter the kitchen, grinning like a child at the circus. His body had fell into his father's end of the gene pool, making him large like a whale, blonde hair falling into his eyes, making him look "cool." At least, that's what Dudley said. It would take about seven seconds for his Uncle to reach him, and while this would normally be a good time to run, Harry saw no need for it.
His Aunt Petunia was going to throw a party that night, and wouldn't want blood on her floor. Vernon would only get one hit in, two if he was quick enough. Then Harry would be banished to his cupboard without food for the rest of the day, which was fine with him. He still had some candy left over from his birthday, and while he wasn't really one for sweets, it was food. As Harry predicted, Petunia came in after the first jaw-bruising smack, telling them that she didn't want blood on her floor. And, as Harry predicted, he was sent to his cupboard for the rest of the day without food. He sent a smile to Hedwig's empty cage – she always stayed with Hagrid during the summer – and leaned back. He was going to be in there for quite a while; might as well get comfortable. Swiftly, Harry fell into a peaceful slumber, watching the world happen through Voldemort's eyes.
He awoke hours later to the sounds of an ongoing party, a smile on his face. A horrible as it sounded, Harry enjoyed watching Voldemort work. He enjoyed feeling Voldemort's darkened magic flowing through him, enjoyed watching people bow to the forever twenty-three man's will without hesitation. At first, the visions had hurt. Hell, coming within a ten-foot radius of Voldemort had hurt, but then he stopped fighting their connection, stopped trying to break free of it, and he was fine. Harry wasn't sure whether or not it was a good thing that he had respect, even if only a little bit, for the man, but there was nothing much he could do about it. Oh well, it wasn't as if Voldemort wanted to do anything but to kill him. The smile gets softer as he thought of what could happen if they all just sat down and talked. If Dumbledore and Fudge would sit down and seriously converse with Voldemort, then maybe something could be worked out. Perhaps he and Voldemort could finally become friends, and there would be no light or dark, only magic. But maybe Voldemort was as bad as everyone made him out to be, taking lives for the sheer pleasure of it; no reasoning, no mercy. Actually, no truly good leader shows mercy, but a level head is needed. Harry would never follow someone without a level head. It's one of the reasons he would never follow Dumbledore, no matter what. The same goes for Fudge, and possibly Voldemort. Harry didn't know Voldemort, so he couldn't say, but he would like to. He would like to hear what Voldemort, what Tom Marvolo Riddle, had to say. Until then, he would sit quietly in his cupboard, waiting for the opportune moment to sneak out, away to the orphanage down the street where he often volunteered.
Hearing his stomach grumble, Harry pulled a chocolate frog out from underneath the floorboards, savoring the sweet flavor. It sounded as if the party was in full swing, which meant that it was probably around five o'clock. Five o'clock, the perfect time to visit Cane's Orphanage for the Underprivileged. Quietly, he slipped out of his entirely-too-small "room" and rushed to the door, his worn-out shoes barely making a sound against the hardwood floors. His sparkling green eyes glanced at the clock before slipping out the door, confirming the time being only a few minutes after five. Warm August air brushed his face, blowing his soft ebony hair around lightly. His short 5'9 stature allowed him to move quickly, jogging to stretch his legs. It took mere minutes to reach the orphanage where Harry's best friend lived: Joshua Everett. Joshua's the sweetest four-year old on the face of the earth. Oh, and he's a wizard. Harry planned to adopt him as soon as he turned eighteen. The boy had big grey eyes, fluffy ebony locks, and the most adorable smile. It was a smile which shone brightly as the small child ran out to greet Harry, throwing his small arms around the elder's neck.
"Harry!" It had taken months to get the normally shy child to talk to him, but he eventually had. And, eventually, they grew close enough that they really did feel like father and son.
"Hello, Joshua." Harry's soft voice echoed throughout the air, getting the other children glance over at them. Sure, Harry would have to leave for Hogwarts in two weeks time, but after that he would be free to take Joshua away with him, to wherever he would go. Well, if he lived long enough he would. Maybe Voldemort would kill him first. If that happened, Harry's only regret would be that Joshua would be stuck in the God-awful muggle orphanage. The other children picked on him, making him feel like something beneath them, like a freak. He was working that out though. Hermione would turn eighteen just twelve days after him and would hopefully agree to adopt Joshua if he couldn't. Plus, he trusted who Hermione was currently – since second year – crushing on. This year, she would put her plan of wooing him into action. Picking Joshua up with only a little protest from his malnourished body, Harry grinned. Professor Snape wouldn't stand a chance.
"So what are you doing here today, Harry? I thought you weren't supposed to come back 'til Tuesday…" His words slurred lightly from the simple fact that he was so young, but were mostly correct. That was another thing about Joshua: he was extremely intelligent.
"I figured I'd drop by for a surprise visit, you know, since we only have two weeks left together. Do you mind?" Harry sometimes came off as a crowd pleaser, but that wasn't so. All he wanted was to make his friends, the few he had, happy. Was that so wrong?
"Nu-uh!" Joshua's response was that of a four-year old, and Harry was only happy that he had come along in time to stop any bad feelings from hatching. No child deserved to be unhappy when they could have done nothing to stop it. As the day wore on, slowly fading into the night, Harry put Joshua to bed. He didn't think much of the time, forgetting that he was supposed to be locked up in the cupboard at the moment, and took his time walking home. Harry supposed that was his first mistake.
"There he is, Mum! Out there!" Dudley's obnoxious voice echoed throughout the streets, half of his large body sticking out of Number 4 Privet Drive's window as he pointed at Harry. Well didn't that just suck? Once more, Harry didn't think much of it. If they beat him into unconsciousness then he wouldn't be able to clean up their mess, and that just wouldn't work. So Harry walked up to his relatives' house at a slow, steady pace, knowing that he would most likely gain a broken bone or two and quite a few bruises which he would have to heal as soon as everyone else went to sleep. He could feel his wand – which was currently holstered to his thigh – pulsing at the prospect of doing magic, and smiled, perhaps for the final time that night. One day his dream would come true. One day there would be no dark, no light, only magic. One day it would happen, but as his Uncle Vernon lifted Harry up by the collar of his too-big shirt, spitting angry words, Harry knew that one day was not this day. For this day, everything would be separated and bias. This day, there would be light, there would be dark, and there would be muggles. Harry didn't fit into any of those categories. He never would. This night, much like every other night, everything Harry had predicted came true, right down to his smile disappearing for the rest of the night.
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