In the Arms of an Angel
by Aurinko
Summary: No child can survive without love. Tom Riddle grew up to become Lord Voldemort. Just how much did Lily Potter sacrifice to save her son?
Chapter One: The Blackest Night
Moonlight illuminated the shadowy silhouette of a broken woman who had once been beautiful. Her utterly heartbroken cries were terrifying to hear, wrenched from a chest stricken by grief.
She was grateful for the stinging tears that clouded her vision; she could not bear to see. She wanted to scream out her rage and grief and despair and horror to the skies, to rail against Fate, to make them feel as she felt…she could not bear to feel anymore. Her entire existence was one infinite cycle of pain. She wanted nothing more than to simply cease—
A soft whimper silenced her instantly, stilling her half-born scream. She glanced down involuntarily and her heart shattered into a thousand pieces; sharp, icy shards that stung, cut and burned. There before her was a dark-haired little boy, no more than three or four years old, curled tightly into a ball, tears leaking from his eyes as he wept in his sleep.
She was instantly consumed by an agony so painful that death by a thousand cuts would have been pleasure, by a raging fury powerful enough to ignite Vesuvius and demolish Pompeii a thousand times over. Above and beyond all that, however, reigned that one terrible emotion that had brought—and kept—her here in Hell.
Bending her head, she managed to fit inside the dark little space, even as her heart spilled its lifeblood onto the floor. With the utmost tenderness, the woman gathered up the child and held him to her. Delicate hands gently straightened the tense, tangled limbs. She felt as if her heart must burst; nothing could withstand this kind of emotion for so long. Her throat ached from silent screams; her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from crying. Still, she rocked him back and forth gently, patting his back soothingly. He snuggled closer to her unconsciously, his little hand clutching a fistful of her robes.
She tried to sing him an old lullaby from her childhood, but was so choked by her tears that she stopped after only a few lines. She brushed back his unruly hair with a small, sad smile and pressed a feather-light kiss to his forehead. Deep in a peaceful slumber, the boy did not stir.
In her mind, she wrapped him in her love, a protective shield against the hatred she knew he would face the next day. Deliberately closing her eyes, she savored his sleep-heavy warmth; his mere presence was a salve for her soul.
The sight of him broke her heart; the feel of him in her arms repaired it. So it was, and so it would be again, night after night in a parade of never-ending darkness. Time had lost all meaning for her.
The night passed in a heartbeat. She held him to her desperately, even as his heat became unbearable to her. It was not long, however, before he began to slip from her grasp and she was forced to give him up. Again.
She laid him down on that pitiful excuse for a mattress quietly, covering him as best she could with the small, thread-bare blanket. She brushed her fingers across his cheek one last time and pressed a small kiss to his forehead. Her lips were blistered by the time she pulled away and her fingertips badly burned, but it was nothing in comparison to the pain in her heart.
Drawing back, she felt that old anger flare up again: pure, unadulterated hatred so virulent that she literally trembled with it. Perhaps in reaction to the loss of her touch—or to the powerful fury emanating from her slight form—the child stirred, agitated. She froze and watched fearfully as he twitched about fitfully but thankfully did not wake. She sighed deeply and finally let her anger run from her like water, forsaking even her deep-seated hatred of her sister for him. Always, anything: for him.
She stepped out of the cupboard and stood shakily, staring down at him. Dawn was breaking on the eastern horizon.
"I love you so much," she whispered to the sleeping child. "Until tomorrow night, my—" she broke off, choking down the sob that threatened to escape. She could bear this no longer!
She needed him here, needed his support, his faith, and his love. He would have done anything to have spared her this; to have spared them this. He had tried…and he had failed. For the first time in longer than she cared to remember, she was alone. She felt a sharp pang of angry resentment, and hated herself for it.
Love hurt.
Sunlight had begun to stream through the curtains. Her voice lingered long after her form had faded. "I love you!"
Minutes later, young Harry Potter's emerald green eyes opened slowly and he blinked in confusion. It had been a lovely dream, and for a single, solitary moment, for one wonderful second, he had thought…
"BOY!" came his uncle's shout from upstairs. "GET UP!"
Little Harry scrubbed away his tears with a dirty sleeve. He had thought wrong.
A/N: The product of one late night and one odd thought. My first attempt at angst has a happy ending anyway (can't help it). Review, please! I will post the rest if anyone has the desire to read it.