Link : https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6792771/1/Dark-as-Night
WC : 193k+
Plot : After Lily's death, her elder son was sent to live with the Dursleys. Abused for six years, Harry was rescued and adopted by Voldemort. He grows into his powers as the Dark Lord's heir at Durmstrang and, eventually, Hogwarts. Before the end, Harry has to face his biological family once more as the heir to the Dark Lord. Dark!Harry (adopted)Father!Voldemort
Chapter 1
This is my first foray into the world of Harry Potter. After reading so many enjoyable dark!Harry fanfictions, I just had to write my own version. And yes, I have a feeling this might end up being a clichéd Harry-is-adopted-by-the-Dark-Lord ficlet, but I could not resist. In my opinion, there needs to be more of these fics, I absolutely enjoy reading them, no matter how similar they are.
For a more detailed summary, please visit my profile.
Pairings: I've had loads of reviewers asking about pairings, so as much as I loathe to put spoilers, this is my concession...Romance is not the main focus of the story. Any mentions of it is likely to be unromantic. Harry may date a few candidates before he finds the right girl, ending with Harry/Daphne. There will be no Harry/Draco, Harry/Voldemort or Harry/any male. Other characters may engage in both slash and het relationships. Voldemort is not likely to engage in any kind of romantic relationship, neither is Severus Snape.
Edited for language mistakes on 7/1/2015.
Chapter One: Death
Midnight. An overcast sky and the smell of moisture lingering in the night air heralded the arrival of a storm that promised to be both loud and destructive. It was strange really, how nature worked. What had been a quiet night thus far, interrupted occasionally by the caws of crows, would soon give way to a powerful rainstorm.
In the living room of a small cottage at the magical village of Godric's Hallow, an auburn-haired, green-eyed young woman in her early twenties was waddling after a toddler. "Harry dear, stop. You shouldn't play with Daddy's wand, Harry..." Said toddler in question was gurgling happily and crawling around the carpeted floor of the living room, with a wooden wand emitting small sparks grasped tightly in one hand.
A small chuckle came from a man sprawled over the cushions on the couch. With his messy black hair, wire-rimmed glasses and lazy pose, James Potter did not in fact resemble the powerful Auror that he was. Indeed, he looked like any normal family man, enjoying time with his family, laughing at said family's antics. "James Potter!" The woman, his wife of three years, yelled in an uncharacteristic shrill voice. "How could you leave a pregnant woman to do all the work? Come here this instance or you'll be sleeping on the couch till little Martin is born!"
When crossed, Lily Evans Potter could be quite formidable. James' eyes widened in consternation as he gaped, "Two months? Mercy, Lils! I'm coming, I'm coming." He raised his hand in mock surrender.
As he moved to get up from the couch however, a loud warble soon filled the entire house with its noise. Dread filled James Potter as his brain deciphered that it was the alarm, which had been set to go off if anyone not on the Potters' guest list appeared within the grounds of their house. It was a sound which James had prayed never to hear in his entire life. When his brain had finally caught up with the fact that the most evil man in Wizarding Britain and/or his followers was coming for his family, James' protective instincts arose and he shouted, "Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off..."
Even as Lily scoped up the baby and ran upstairs, the heavily warded wooden door to their cottage exploded into shards. A tall man clad in black, with a bald head, serpentine features and blood-red eyes entered the room. James shivered as his overwhelming presence filled and chilled the room, as his suffocating aura flared out oppressively.
"Hold me off?" Voldemort's laugh was high and chilly. "Do you think you are capable of that, fool?" Gryffindor bravery coming into play, James Potter somehow found a well of courage in him to enable him snarl, "Of course!" He reached for his wand, ready to aim a curse at the dark lord, when suddenly, he realized that he had no wand. In the ensuing panic heralding the dark lord's arrival, he had not retrieved his wand from his son's grasp before Lily had carried him upstairs.
Voldemort's snake-like features were of absolute disdain as he sneered, "Worthless fool. Fighting without a wand? Stupid, stupid boy." Deeming the man unworthy of spending too much time on, with a flick of his wand, he sent James Potter flying out of the way, crashing against the wall before falling to the ground unconscious. "I'll deal with you later..."
Ignoring the unconscious Auror, Voldemort glided up the stairs to confront the woman, intent on his target. Cackling slightly in anticipation, he blasted open the lightly warded door of the room with a negligent flick of his wand.
Lily watched with fear and dread in her stomach as the nursery room's door was blasted open. Before the dark lord's entrance, she had raised her wand, determined not to go down without a fight. However, his very presence sapped her of all her formidable courage. Fear, thick enough to suffocate, drown, and bury one alive, stripped her of the will to fight. Fear, not for her own safety, but for that of her precious baby boy, Harry, and, to a lesser extent, the son inside her womb that she had never met.
"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!" Lily cried out. She would throw away her pride if she had to, she would beg, she would do anything, anything at all, as long as this monster spared her precious baby boy. The love of a mother for her child is strong indeed, as Lily Evans Potter would prove that night.
"Stand aside you silly girl … stand aside now." Voldemort all but hissed at Lily, idly toying with his wand. Even through her fear, Lily could not help but feel a brief flash of amazement - was the most evil and sadistic Dark Lord of the ages actually giving her a chance to live? Yet Lily never once thought of accepting, not when she knew that the dark lord's target was her baby, her most beloved son. Even though she had the life of another son inside her womb, somehow, somewhat, it was different. This overwhelming love that she felt for her Harry surpassed that which she felt for her unborn son whom she had never seen before. Given a choice like that, even if she could have saved little Martin by taking the Dark Lord's offer...
Martin, please forgive me..."Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead..." Lily was desperate now, all but throwing herself between the Dark Lord and her son's crib, sobbing, pleading, begging. Anything, anything at all, to get the monster to spare her son.
"Move aside, girl!" Voldemort all but snarled at the woman, annoying little Mudblood that she was, in front of him. Even as the woman begun to tremble, she shook her head frantically. Voldemort was beginning to get annoyed. Very well, if the woman would not move, he would just have to get rid of her. After all, he had indeed given her the chance to step aside, which, Mudblood idiot that she was, she refused to take...
He raised his wand, aiming it in her direction. Heedless of her subsequent cries, which was only increasing in volume – "Not Harry! Please … have mercy … have mercy… " – a flash of purple light shot out from his wand and the woman slowly suffocated to death. "Pathetic," Voldemort sneered. At least he would not have to listen to her irritating whines any longer.
He turned his attention to the small child lying in the crib, who was looking up at him with wide green, emerald eyes that were the colour of the killing curse. The child had been strangely quiescent throughout the entire confrontation, not emitting even a single squeak when his mother had fell to the floor. Stupid child...Voldemort thought with sardonic amusement. It did not even know that its end was approaching. This was the child prophesized to have the power to vanquish him? This little thing did not look like it could vanquish anyone at the moment.
"Avada Kedavra!" Voldemort aimed the killing curse at the child just before the mother took her last breath on the floor beside the crib. Expecting the child to die in a flash of green light, Voldemort never in a million years would have expected what he saw. The Killing Curse reached the child, then most of it rebounded off some kind of transparent shield. While the remaining components of the killing curse was absorbed by said shield, the weakened form of the curse headed straight at Voldemort, who was unable to dodge it, but was just in time to activate the darkest of his protection runes.
Pain. Absolute agony filled Voldemort as he felt his soul fracture into many tiny bits as it tried to leave his body. Luckily for Voldemort, the protective runes were able to keep most of his soul inside his body, although a small piece did escape...not that Voldemort was too bothered by the fact at that moment. Severely weakened, his soul having only the most tenuous of grasps on his corporeal body, Voldemort gathered all his strength before activating his last resort, his failsafe: a portkey designed to transport him to a safe hideout.
Voldemort left behind a crying baby with a raw, angry, jagged scar on his forehead and the dead body of his pregnant mother.
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore sighed mournfully as he stared at a tin of his beloved lemon drops. Everything, everything had gone wrong. It had been two weeks since the death of Lily Evans Potter, two weeks since Voldemort had been vanquished by young Harry, and everything was still topsy-turvy.
While it had been very fortunate that young Harry had survived, the incident at Godric Hollows had left far-reaching and unfortunate repercussions behind. Peter Pettigrew, a man whom he had known since that man had been a boy, had been found to be a traitor and an informant; he was to be led to Azkaban today, Sirius Black, another man he had once known as a young boy, was to be awarded an Order of Merlin, First Class for his heroic confrontation and subsequent capture of Pettigrew, and James Potter...well, James Potter, despite having been healed from his wounds within a day, was basically a wreck.
After Lily's death, James had seen fit to drink himself into a drunken stupor nightly. Even the survival of his two sons (yes two, for the Healers had arrived in time to extract the seven-month old magical baby, who had been able to survive that few extra minutes after his mother's death thanks to the protection by the combined magics of him and his mother, from his mother's womb) did nothing to quail James' despair. Indeed, the presence of young Harry could even be said to have an inflammatory presence on James. It seemed that James had, in his inconsolable grief, irrationally blamed Harry, partly, for the death of his mother. From what Dumbledore could gather, James felt that it was Harry's playing with his wand which had resulted in him not having a wand during his confrontation with Voldemort. In addition, it was quite clear that Lily had died protecting Harry – yet another fact for James to blame on his firstborn. He had avoided young Harry like a plague since his wife's untimely death, according to Minerva, the situation was made worse by the fact that young Harry had Lily's eyes.
Albus Dumbledore heaved another sigh. If things kept up as it was, he would have to make alternate arrangements for young Harry. In James' current state of mind, he could not be expected to take care of both little Martin and young Harry at the same time. Perhaps...yes, perhaps young Harry could be entrusted to relatives? But James was an only child...in a flash of inspiration, Albus found the answer. He knew that Lily Potter had a sister, a woman by the name of Petunia. Ah, that sweet little girl! She had written to him years ago, pleading desperately to be allowed into Hogwarts. Alas! She had shown not even the slightest hint of magical ability, so he had regretfully rejected her request. But surely, surely her attitude towards magic would have remained unchanged? Albus beamed to himself. Yes, that was a problem solved. Harry could be placed with his aunt for a period of time, until things had calmed down considerably. And Lily's protection, Lily's sacrifice would ensure that young Harry was protected while he was with his relative. After all, it would not do to have the boy-who-lived, as they were calling him now, in danger from anyone who might be still loyal to Voldemort.
And the prophecy...Albus had no doubt that Voldemort would one day return. He had no delusions that what had happened two weeks prior was more than what it was; an interlude of peace for the wizarding world, bought most expensively with Lily's sacrifice and young Harry's destiny. Well, all he could do was to ensure that, when the time came for the prophecy to be fulfilled, young Harry would be more than ready to assume his role as the vanquisher of the dark lord.
As plans were made and discarded in one Albus Dumbledore's, Headmaster of Hogwarts, mind, somewhere, somehow, the wheels of fate begun to turn.
Chapter 2
A thin, scrawny and malnourished boy dozed fitfully in the dead quiet of the night. Jet-black hair that was as dark as the midnight sky topped his head, a thin fringe of which covered his forehead, hiding the red lightning bolt scar which marred an otherwise smooth and fair skin. Baggy clothes, most little more than rags, hung on said boy's thin frame, giving him the air of a skeleton wrapped in layers of skin.
The boy rolled over slightly before seeming to wake with a small start. Huge emerald green eyes, shielded by long, thick eyelashes, fluttered open, although it was doubtful that any hint of the colour could be seen in the deep darkness of the room. Or more precisely, of the cupboard. For this was the boy's bedroom, as it had been for many years now: the cupboard-under-the-stairs.
The boy lazily blinked his eyes as he wondered about what had prompted his early awakening. After all, his biological clock was usually pretty accurate - it had to be since his aunt expected him, a boy who was six-going-on-seven, to wake up on his own…ah, that was it! A rush of excitement filled him, leaving him slightly breathless in its wake. Tomorrow is July 31st! My birthday!
For the briefest of moments, Harry James Potter was happy and excited, just like any normal boy his age. Then, he deflated when he realized that no one was going to care about his birthday. Not Aunt Petunia, not Uncle Vernon, not his bully-of-a-cousin Dudley. He doubted that he would receive even one present. Not even from his Daddy, James Potter, whom he knew was alive, but had, for some reason, abandoned him to the care of his relatives. Harry knew James Potter was alive because he had heard Aunt Petunia mumbling about the unfairness of it all; about why she should be forced to care for the freak when even his own freakish father refused to do so.
Harry wondered about ot too, sometimes, with bitterness and no little anger. Was he that horrible a son? He knew that he had a younger brother, Martin, whom James seemed to have no problem taking care of. Only him, it was only him that no one wanted. Why did no one wanted him? Not his relatives, not his Daddy, and perhaps not even his Mummy, who had died early in his childhood. Why it was so, Harry had no idea. The Dursleys forbid questions; in fact, they hated it. If Harry asked even a single question about his parents, a cuff to the head was the least of his worries. Harry shuddered once more at the thought of Uncle Vernon's fists.
Sighing softly, he decided not to waste his time thinking about what he could not change, but instead, resolved to grab as much sleep as he could.
The next morning, he was woken by the shrieks of Aunt Petunia. "Boy! Get down here, boy, and make breakfast!" Oh no, no, no... Harry's first thoughts when he startled awake was of dismay and dread. He had overslept, and hence, had not prepared breakfast for the Dursleys.
Rushing out of his cupboard with all the not inconsiderable haste that he could muster, he appeared in the kitchen soon after Aunt Petunia's cry, hoping against hope that his uncle was not yet awake… Only to find Uncle Vernon glaring at him furiously.
"Boy, I have to leave for an important meeting in ten minutes and what do I find? No breakfast!" With a furious bellow, Uncle Vernon strolled to where Harry was standing, frozen to the spot, and backhanded him across the face. Distantly, Harry felt himself fall to the ground with the force of the blow. Once he was on the ground, he lay there quiescent, as Uncle Vernon aimed a few well-placed kicks at his ribs. Stay quiet, stay quiet…Harry chanted frantically in his head. He had learnt that keeping quiet was the best method when it came to dealing with Uncle Vernon's blows. Soon, Uncle Vernon would grow bored with his lack of response and he would leave Harry in peace. Sometimes, in a bout of wishful thinking, Harry would hope for someone to rescue him, to save him from his relatives, but that wish never came true. Someday though…but in the meantime, Harry hoped that his uncle would stop soon…
Sure enough, after a few more kicks, Uncle Vernon gave a grunt of irritation and left the dining room, presumably to get ready for his important meeting. Harry breathed a sigh of relief at that, giving thanks to the heavens that Uncle Vernon had been in a hurry today…he recalled an occasion a few months ago, when he had angered his uncle on a Sunday, and had not managed to hold his cries back…that night, Harry had gone to bed with two black-eyes, a sprained arm and multiple bruises on his body. Luckily for Harry, for the Dursleys would never have brought him to see a doctor, his body had healed the damage caused by the next day.
As it would this time around. Harry always had the ability to heal at a faster rate than normal. It came with all the other freakish powers that he displayed from time to time, Harry supposed. Such as the ability to turn his teacher's wig blue, the ability to grow out his hair if he so wished, the ability to blend into the shadows such that no one noticed him or to jump onto the school's roof if he concentrated hard enough, and, his most treasured ability: that of speaking to snakes.
Harry had discovered the last ability one morning when he had been sent to weed the garden. He had stared in shock and some fear at the small little black snake curled up in the grass, before the snake had spoken. 'Stupid humansss…disturbing my sleep.'
For a moment, Harry had wondered if he was going crazy, to the extent of hearing voices from snakes, but his lips had already formed an automatic response before he could do anything. 'Sorry…'The little black snake had stared at Harry for a moment before replying, 'You can speak…interesting, human child…' And that had been the start of the tentative friendship between human and snake…
Late afternoon. Harry stumbled to the rock in the garden where the little black snake could usually be found, hoping to catch a glimpse of his reptilian friend. All day long, Aunt Petunia had kept him busy with chores, supposedly as punishment for Harry's mistake of waking up late, althought Harry did not really see the difference between his punishment detail and his usual chores, since he usually had to do them anyway…It was just his luck, really, that he had to endure a beating and do chores even though it was his birthday...
'Greetings speaker…Happy Hatch-day…' The little black snake slithered up Harry's arm, causing Harry to giggle slightly. How strange! For his first and only birthday greeting to come from a little black snake of all things… 'Thank you…' Harry whispered back in delight. He proceeded to have a small conversation with the snake, interested in learning about all the adventures that the snake had had in Aunt Petunia's gardens. And that of their many neighbours'...Harry was unaware of the fact that, at this very moment, there were a pair of eyes watching him.
Eyes that were crimson in colour, reminiscent of the colour of fresh blood. Eyes that belonged to a person whom many feared, whom many thought was a monster. Eyes that had an owner whom many agreed, by consensus, was the darkest Dark Lord of modern times. The eyes belonged to the Dark Lord Voldemort. Voldemort's eyes were narrowed in contemplation at the sight of the Potter brat speaking Parseltongue. To say that Voldemort was astonished would be a complete understatement. The Potter family line had never shown any signs of Parselmouths before, and as far as he knew, he was the last wizard alive who possessed that rare ability. Strange indeed. Yet, it perked his scholarly curiosity.
All day long, Voldemort had watched silently, with growing interest, as the Potter brat had gone about his daily life. From the beatings delivered by the fat Muggle to the chores assigned by the horsy-looking one, the Dark Lord had observed, surprised, as the boy who had caused his downfall almost six years prior had been treated like a...a House-elf, for want of a better word. And there had been no sight of his father all day. Voldemort knew for a certainty that the man was still alive. Why then, was he not doting on the boy like a proud Pureblood parent? Voldemort wondered at the treatment of the boy.
For six years, Voldemort had bidded his time. He had waited in his safe-house, gathering magic to him slowly, until he had enough at his disposal to perform the dark and dangerous rituals meant to return him to his full strength. He had not contacted any of his followers, not even the supposedly most loyal ones, for he had been wary that they might try to take the opportunity to dispose of him. No, Voldemort had not trusted any of his followers not to give in to temptation. It was after all, what Voldemort himself, would have done had he been in their position. Having only recovered his full magical strength recently, Voldemort had then set about catching up with the current affairs of the Wizarding World, wondering what the Light side had been doing all these time.
It had mostly been as he expected. Some of his followers had been thrown into jail in Azkaban, some had pleaded being under the influence of the Imperious curse, while others had faded away into obscurity. He had noted, with sardonic amusement, that Peter Pettigrew, sneaky rat that he was, had somehow managed to escape from Azkaban. He had no doubt that Wormtail was not dead, no, the rat was far too cowardly to die that easily. Perhaps he would call him back soon, if only so that he would have someone to cast the Cruciatus on when he was irritated.
Voldemort had been pleased when he found out that Bellatrix Lestrange and her husband Rodolphus was not amongst the ones currently incarcerated at Azkaban. Apparently, Bellatrix's loyalty had not blinded her; she had had enough sense of self-preservation to run, and was currently in hiding. Dear Bella, always so eager to please…maybe he should call her back instead…
Thus far, Voldemort had not called any of his old followers back, despite having regained his full strength. For he had wanted to do one thing alone first: dispose of the so-called Boy-who-lived. Voldemort wished to have it known, beyond all doubts, that he was much more powerful than the brat, and that the prophecy was wrong. A show of might, of power, to cow the world once more. Yet ,imagine his surprise when he had found out that little Harry Potter seemed to have vanish off the face of the Earth. He was not staying with his father, who apparently had a new family, having remarried some bint. He had been slightly bemused at the fact that the little Mudblood's second son had survived, and even wondered if he ought to have used the killing curse on the Mudblood instead of the slower suffocation curse. But the Potters had not been his main focus, so he had not done anything to them. Instead, he had focused his efforts on finding where little Harry Potter resided.
Imagine his stunned astonishment when he finally found that Harry Potter was living with his Muggle relatives. Apparently, the old fool Dumbledore had thought that the blood wards enabled by his mudblood mother's sacrifice would protect him from Voldemort as long as the boy was living with her only living relative. Well, there was a simple way around blood wards, and Voldemort was going to prove that now.
Making his form visible to the boy and the boy only, Voldemort idly considered if a glamour would work better for his purposes before dismissing it. Voldemort was not ashamed of his appearance, he would be damned if he changed it for the brat. Strolling up to the gates of the garden, he waited for the boy to notice him.
'Harry Potter.' Voldemort watched as the boy looked up at him suspiciously. A small flash of anger vibrated through his body at the sight of the vivid mark on the boy's face. No matter what, the boy was a magical child; no mere Muggle should be allowed to touch him. The fools…What were they thinking, placing a magical child, whose father was still alive and well, with a Muggle family? Voldemort felt hatred and disgust well up inside of him, directed at the Light in general and Albus Dumbledore in particular.
'How do you know my name?' The boy asked, his stance one of a person ready for flight. Interesting. The brat apparently had a healthy sense of self-preservation, even at this young age. So unlike his foolish Gryffindor parents. Although Voldemort was quite surprised that the boy had not run off already, given how frightening he must have looked to a child brought up by Muggles. 'I know your name, child, because I am a wizard. As are you.' The boy's emerald green eyes widened into large orbs as he processed that bit of information, his head tilting to one side in a thoughtful manner. Any other boy might have denied it, or asked for proof, instead, the boy nodded slowly, before replying, 'That explains the things that I can do then…wait, you can speak the special language too!'
Voldemort allowed a hint of a smile to grace his lips…err, where his lips would have been if he had some. 'Indeed. It is called Parseltongue, this language we speak. It is a special language indeed. Even amongst wizards, few can speak it.' A smile blossomed on the child's face at that. 'So I'm special then? Mr. Wizard, are you here to rescue me?'
Voldemort's serpentine face twitched slightly at that. The boy had just handed him an opening on a silver platter. 'Yes, child, I am. And I am called Lord Voldemort.' He added the last slightly irritably, not wishing to be called Mr. Wizard ever again. 'But to do that, I need some of your blood.' He conjured up a silver dagger and a silver bowl carefully, ensuring that Ministry detectors would not detect it, before he passed the items to the brat over the fence, waiting to see what the boy would do.
The boy scrunched his face up thoughtfully before peering at Voldemort with his brilliant green eyes. Then, having made up his mind, he cut open his left palm with the dagger. It was not a prick, not even a shallow cut. Instead, the boy all but cut his palm open with a long, deep stroke before bleeding into the silver bowl. Voldemort was once again struck by surprise. No stranger to pain then, this one. And quite intelligent and brave too. Against his will, he could not help but feel a sense of kinship with the boy.
Taking the offered silver bowl back from the boy, he banished the dagger before pointing his wand at the bowl, murmuring a few words under his breath and tracing bloody runes with the boy's blood on the outside of the bowl. Then, when the ritual was complete, he drank the rest of the blood in the bowl before banishing the bowl too. As the boy's blood assimilated with his own inside his body, he felt the blood wards around the house and the boy become receptive to him. He smiled in satisfaction; the blood wards would no longer protect the boy from him.
Glancing at the boy, Voldemort was surprised to see a look of intrigue and fascination on the boy's face, instead of the disgust and fear he had expected. Truly, the boy was a marvel indeed. In a split second, he had made up his mind. No, he wouldn't kill Harry Potter today. What he would do with him, he had not yet decided, but he would take the boy with him for the time being. For Lord Voldemort, was, before he had become a Dark Lord, a scholar. And the scholar in him found that he would quite like to unravel the mystery that was Harry Potter.
Opening the garden gate with a flick of his wand, Voldemort entered before leading the boy outside the garden gently. "Hold on to me tightly, child, I am going to apparate us out of here." To the boy's vigorous nodding and eyes filled with gratitude, Voldemort vanished from Privet Drive with one Harry Potter in tow.