The Son of a Dark Lord

Summary: Harry Potter isn't really Harry Potter. Neither is he the Boy-Who-Lived, and is therefore thrown away as trash. When he turns sixteen, glamours unwraps his true self and he leaves the Light to find his real family. Slash, HP/DM.

Pairing/s: Harry/Draco in future chapters.

Warnings: Rather extreme Light-bashing, Father!Voldemort, 'nice' Death Eaters, James and Lily Potter alive, Harry Potter not being really Harry Potter and so on.

Disclaimers: I don't own Harry Potter.


Wow, I didn't expect that many reviews for a first chapter. Well, I'm glad you enjoyed it.

Now, enjoy this (admittedly) short chapter!


Chapter Two

Lily was nervous as they Apparated back. Dumbledore was there with them. He wanted to go through with the plans as quickly as possible and was going to plot with James a bit more. Mattie did not know, and could not know what they planned. It might even make a child like him turn away, and Dumbledore would not have it. Lily felt sickened by it all, and took great measurements not to show it.

"Mum, I want ice-cream," Mattie whined.

"You have to wait until after dinner," she soothed.

"But I want it now!"

"No Mattie," she said sternly. "After dinner."

He pouted but knew better than to argue with her when she said no in that tone. James kissed her cheek and said:

"Why deny him, love? It's summer!"

"Yeah," Mattie said. He then seemed to realize the date as they began to open the door. He continued, somewhat reluctantly, "Maybe Harry can have some ice-cream as well."

Her heart began to pound as she opened the door. Please don't be in the house Harry, she begged. Please, don't be here. She replied nonetheless:

"That was very nice of you, Mattie. I'm sure he would love some ice-cream." She was fairly sure ice-cream made Harry gag, but of course no one bothered to lay that detail in mind.

"And no gift do we have," James muttered. "Why can't he ever tell us what he wants?"

"Oh, I'm sure he'll be happy even if-"

They all noticed as Lily stopped. She stared at the stairs, suddenly still, as if she had been frozen.

"What is it?" James said and moved to look. His eyes widened.

Blood stained the stairs and led out, or in, from the house. The back-door was open and seemed to have been at least over night. The wind made it sway back and forth slowly, the hinges creaking. James and Dumbledore ran up the stairs, Lily following. Mattie stood frozen and stared at the blood.

The door to Harry's room was open and the blood came from within. Lily hoped Harry had done it himself. He had to have done it; she had told him to make it look real, to make it look like he had been taken.

She was the first to reach the door, having pushed both of them aside. She looked inside and had to grab the doorframe to not fall backwards. Dumbledore and James looked inside from behind her.

The room was a mess. Books, parchments and quills laid scattered on the floor. The covers were on the floor as well and the mattress was cut. Blood stained the sheets, part of the wall and leading out from the room. A scorched mark on one of the walls told them of a misfired spell.

Harry isn't here. Harry's gone. He escaped, he made it, he escaped he made it he escaped oh I can't hold it together. Those thoughts went over and over again in her head, making it spin. Despite knowing he had done all this himself, despite knowing she had told him to do it she could not stop it; Lily fainted.


Drago, formerly known as Harry Potter, looked around the Leaky Cauldron tiredly. He had not found a better name than that and kept himself to it. Not that many had asked his name; only Tom the barkeeper who wondered his age and a worried witch who had seen him stumble. He was tired, not weak! He hated being called weak.

He stirred his tea and closed his eyes. It was soon dinnertime; the Potters must be home by know. He had to get away from London as soon as he could but for now he retreated to the room he had rented by Tom, tea in hand. He fell down onto the bed after having finished his tea and fell asleep instantly.


Voldemort, the Dark Lord of the century, was having the most bizarre dream he could ever remember. He didn't dream much, but mostly his dreams were pretty much uneventful. But this one wasn't. And it was bizarre to him. First of all, it included himself. He never dreamed about himself. Secondly, he was happy. While he admitted being content at times, Voldemort was not a happy person. Thirdly, he was fooling around with his son. A son he had considered dead the last fifteen years.

Yes, Voldemort had had a son. A child with frosty blue eyes, raven hair and pale skin. A child who had not judged him but stretched its arms up at him with a smile. A child who cried when Voldemort was not there, a child the Light took from him.

He hated them. Hated them so much. When he finally thought he could have a family, despite it was only his son who would be a family, they had to take that thought from him. He hated it; this feeling of hopelessness. As he saw the blood in the house, he had screamed. The loyal Death Eater woman he had given permission to watch his child was dead, having tried to fight back, to save his child, and his precious child was gone.

He had screamed. He had raged. He had wept. He had lain defenceless within the arms of his most loyal Death Eater, Lucius Malfoy, and wept. Lucius' wife had sat beside the two and wept with him. She was the child's godmother. Lucius the godfather. And now their godson was gone. His child was gone.

Voldemort wondered what had happened to make him have this dream. His child ran before him, a young man already. He turned around, frosty blue eyes sparkling. A smile stretched out on those lips, and his child called on him, urged him on. His son was impatient, much like Voldemort himself, and wanted him to hurry up.

The Dark Lord found himself doing that, and tried to remind himself it was a dream. If so, it was a very pleasant dream a small voice reminded in his head.

He chased his son around until they both fell down, exhausted. His child turned to him; Voldemort could not even remember his name. He had to look it up; Narcissa would probably have some papers about it.

"Father," he said. Voldemort listened. "You have to find me."

"Find you?" Voldemort asked. "You are right here."

"You have to find me," the teen repeated and sat up. "Before they kill me."

Voldemort blinked; this was more than bizarre.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his heart beating fast.

"I'm not dead yet," his child said and tilted his head to the side. "Find me."

"How am I supposed to find you?" the Dark Lord asked desperately. Yes, desperately. He blamed parent instincts on that.

"I am where the other Tom is," the teen said and Voldemort woke up.


Maybe his clue didn't make sense, but who cares? I don't!

Chapter three: Will Voldemort find his son again?

Until later,