This story is bad.

That's it.

This story is so bad, I've completely re-written it. Yep.

The rewrite is complete, it's 100% finished with an epilogue and fanart. I think someone even made a playlist. That's how good the rewrite is.

Shadowed Malice is bad. I wrote this when I was 12. That was almost a decade ago.

I know! I read your comments! I don't like this story either!

[The re-write is on my profile page titled Antithesis. It is available on AO3 under the same name and same username. AO3 allows links directly to art and external media]



'Wshhhh!' the wind rustled through the trees as the air turned cold with midnight's powers. The town of Godric's Hollow seemed to flinch in silence as an unwanted appearance appeared on the cobblestone streets. The shadows themselves seemed to curve upwards at the man, craving an embrace. But yet, he moved forward, not a single noise falling as he departed from that spot. He stopped, looking from under his hood at a single manor at the end of an old fashion street. The old iron fence showed slight signs of rust, only showing further how old this home was. The gates groaned in protest as they were forced open, or perhaps they were moaning in the fact that they were betraying their masters? Their landlords? IT didn't matter at this time, for he would be gone in mere moments.

The two adults that took ownership of this manor were gone, celebrating a Halloween party that their friends threw. One 'friend' had actually set up the date, knowing to stall the owners, so they would forget two small things for the single night.

The fact they had two small children in the house, with a merely muggleborn witch for a caretaker.

A twisted smile curved on his face as a shrill alarm pierced the night, a renegade to his silent demeanour. The ward crumbled with a casual flick, causing the caretaker to gulp, as she observed from the window. The windows and door exploded with a grotesque explosion. Causing the witch's arms to tremble, as she held her own weapon to her horrified eye-level.

"Please! Hold Mercy!" She sobbed, begging even, but the man held none. His lips twitched slightly, and the woman dropped dead, eyes glassy and mouth open in another plea. He casually stepped over the chilling corpse, walking up the steps to his main goal, the two children.

The door was brutally thrown open, lighting up the room with green light as the walls collected a fine coat of cinder. Two cribs, each on opposite walls of the room. Innocently resting under little twinkling mobile, this displayed special Quidditch equipment. The closest crib held a chubby child with chocolate brown hair, he was curled in a tiny ball, pressing his body to a stuffed dragon he held in his arms.

The other crib held the total opposite. A fairly slim child with raven black hair, slightly messy but not overly. He rested like the dead, arms crossed over his heart while his legs were firmly set in place, next to one another.

Piercing emerald eyes stared at him through the dark.

He was silent, watching the man's movement without a single sound. It was unnerving, and it frightened the man beyond words. The names of the children were carved into the headboard of each crib. The chubby brown boy's held a slight bulky font as if they tried to reflect the lettering in his style.

Skylar Potter.

The other was held in a slight twist, every letter curved in a strange font that resembled the man's very own writing. He spared a glance, for knowledge would help him in the long run, no matter how far the distance.

Harold (Harry) Potter

The man let a small smile grace his normally unreadable face. He lifted his wand but hesitated as if deciding who to strike down first.

The green eyes unnerved him, so he pressed the bone-white wood to the child's forehead. To his shock, the child seemed to lower his head, letting the wood touch his head almost invitingly. And still, he was silent. His eyes watched the man's Crimson ones, watching and calculating, waiting.

"Harry Potter." The man mused, his voice causing Skylar Potter to frown in his sleep. Harry blinked slowly as if daring the man to continue on.

"The last to be a Horcrux, enjoy death, child."

He mused, and with a strange blink once again. The child slowly closed his eyes, awaiting death and not fighting it.

If it wasn't for the fact, that this child had to die, the man would respect Harry Potter, for showing no fear, even as a child.

"Avada Kadavra!" The man hissed, watching in slight satisfaction as the green beam, matching the child's eye, seemed into the infant's skull. The man could almost feel the cold talons of death as the infant's heart was attacked. And for all Harry knew, he fought back, he lunged at the talons of death and sent it shrieking, sent it away.

But the man never knew this. He forced the power of death to grab part of his soul, and rip it from his heart. Not realizing that the child had indeed fought him off. The dark magic attacked, and travelled to poor Harry, causing him to cry out in pain, before death turned his talons onto the man himself, clawing his soul from his body.

The dark magic held within the child's body was too much, and with a pain-filled screech, a powerful backlash swept up the home, causing all to fall to rubble. The ceiling collapsed, walls burst, and the metal hinges melted. Nails and wood flew, giving a deep cut over the heart of Skylar Potter, painfully waking him up from his dreams, and giving him anguish over the wound.

Harry Potter groaned, collapsing backwards in severe weakness. A tiny thin paper cut of a wound was placed just below the child's hairline. In the shape of a lightning bolt, to remain unseen under the messy oil black hair familiar to all Potters. His eyes fluttered closed, missing the fleeing of the weakened mass killer. The darkest wizard of this time. Blood and ash were in the center of the floor, a black cloak rested in the center as thoughts raced through the dark man's mind. The Dark Lord's mind.

'The child survived the Killing curse.'