Author's Notes: IMPORTANT! READ THIS FIRST!

Hello. I will not normally write long author's notes, or indeed any author's note at all if it is not strictly necessary. However, as this is the first chapter, I do feel that there are some things it would be worthwhile to know.

Firstly: I will be posting all author's notes from now on my profile page, when the chapter is posted. The author's notes for one chapter will be replaced when the following chapter is written.

Secondly: I will reply to all reviews, so long as they are not anonymous. If you are an anonymous reviewer and you wish a reply, please state so in your review and I will reply in the next chapter's author's notes.

Thirdly: Flames will be rejected. Constructive criticism will make me ecstatic. If you notice any grammar errors, tell me. Please. Requests for the storyline will be taken into account. Beta offers make me very happy, but I am picky about my betas, so please don't be offended if I refuse.

Fourthly: Updates will follow the strict pattern of whenever-I-feel-like-it.

Warnings: Psychological deterioration, abuse, neglect.

This fanfiction is dedicated lovingly to my cat, Leo, and my dog, Gracie.

Shadow Child
Mitry

Prologue:

"I'm Tom. Who are you?"

October 31, 1981: Godric's Hollow

The fresh corpses of Lily and James Potter lay limp on the ground. The Dark Lord Voldemort barely glanced at them in disdain before making his way to the crib where their one-year-old son, Harry, had been stowed in Lily Potter's frantic rush to escape.

The little toddler peeped his head over the side of the crib. His hair was black and mussed like his father's. His eyes, wide, innocent, and confused, were the same emerald green shade as his mother's. He wore blue footie pajamas decorated with a teddy bear pattern to match. His chubby hands fisted the blanket hung over the side of the crib for support as the man strode towards him.

Voldemort almost smiled as the infant's eyes filled with fear.

He would destroy this weak creature, and the prophecy would never come to pass. So simple.

Reveling in the power he held, he lifted one hand, the hand that loosely grasped the long yew wand, and pointed it at the boy's forehead. The boy whimpered pitifully, and Voldemort laughed cruelly.

"Avada Kedavra!"

There was a blinding flash of green light and a searing pain; the boy began to wail- he was very frightened, and his parents were not coming to him- and then the pain in the man's chest became more intense, burning away his breath. Voldemort let out an inhuman scream as his soul was torn from him, rending his very being, his very consciousness before his eyes.

Perhaps if his soul had been whole, he could have resisted the pull.

But his soul was long since mutilated, and only sheer force of will held it together. With the agony spreading, the will faltered for a single moment, and then dropped.

The remnant of the soul was absorbed into the infant, and Voldemort knew no more.

The boy cried himself to sleep.

Inside an empty train station, a young boy materialized, sprawled on the floor.

"What the..." he muttered, looking around. "Where the hell am I?"

He brushed himself off and stood, cracking his neck to release some of the tension. He was about eleven years old, and he wore a set of rich black robes lined in green. He studied the massive area around him.

It looked like a train station, but there were no trains. There were tracks and station numbers, even ticket booths and exit signs, but there was not a soul in sight. It looked as though all the humans had just vanished off of the face of the earth, leaving everything eerily clean.

That was another thing: the place was spotless. All polished marble, no trace of litter or scuffs or even fingerprints. It was untouched, untainted, perfection. The air was sweet and the sun was shining in from windows high up.

"Hello?" he called out. "Is anyone here?"

The answer came in the form of a sudden cry. The boy turned to see an oddly familiar infant perched on a polished wooden bench. The memory remained just out of reach, even as he searched his recall.

Try as he might to remember, the infant was a mystery.

Curious, he approached the bench. The boy had black hair and green eyes that looked at him questioningly.

"I'm Tom," the older boy offered. "Who are you?"

The baby smiled, and repeated, "Tom," pointing at the older boy.

"Yes," agreed Tom.

The infant nodded sagely, repeating it in a singsong voice that went something along the lines of, "Tom-Tom-Tommy-Tom-Tom, Tommy-Dommy, Tom..."

Tom pointed at himself. "I'm Tom." He pointed at the toddler. "What's your name?"

The toddler's eyes crinkled with mischief, and he chirped, "Tom."

Tom suddenly felt a very strong urge to hit something. "Not my name, your name, idiot."

The toddler laughed.

Tom nodded. "Excuse me," he said, "But I have a very strong urge to hit my head on that wall over there. You don't mind? Lovely." He proceeded to do just that, slamming his forehead onto the brick quite violently several times in a row. When he returned, he had rather a larger headache than before and several large red marks on his head that looked rather painful.

The toddler went into giggle-hysterics.

Tom rolled his eyes and shoved the baby off of the bench. To his mild surprise, it didn't seem to notice at all.

He sighed, laid down on the bench, and let his thoughts scatter.

November 1, 1981: Privet Drive

Privet Drive was silent and dark. What could be seen through the inky blackness of the night told little of the people who lived there: uniform hedges, cropped to perfection. Identical lawns. A few tall, dark lampposts. Dark windows. All the houses a light shade of beige and white, a variety of garden flowers, and a garage painted white.

Two figures stood in the darkness. One was tall, thin, and bearded, wearing a purple robe and high-heeled boots. His hair was silver in the night, and his eyes twinkled blue through half-moon spectacles. The other was slightly shorter; it was a stern-looking woman in black robes. She wore spectacles, too, and a large witch's hat covered her black hair, which was pulled back in a bun.

Their whispers subsided as a bright light shone in the sky, and a buzzing noise swelled to a roar. A headlight pierced the inky black night and then a motorcycle crashed to the ground, missing the Dursleys' begonias by about half a centimeter.

Rubeus Hagrid dismounted carefully, a bundle of blankets tucked in his vast, muscular arms. The man was enormous, but he held his little bundle with the precision and delicacy of a neurosurgeon.

"Hagrid," said the tall, bearded man, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the Hagrid, cradling the bundle so that it was out of the wind. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir - house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where-?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well - give him here, Hagrid - we'd better get this over with." Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.

"Could I - could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

The baby stirred, and his brow furrowed. He gurgled a little in his sleep, but did not wake.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it - Lily an' James dead - an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles -"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two.

For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

Hagrid nodded, wiping his eyes. Professor McGonagall held his elbow comfortingly as he stepped back astride the motorbike. The bike let out a roar and took off down the driveway to the sound of some muffled sobs. The other two stood looking off over the horizon until Hagrid was out of sight.

With a sigh, Professor McGonagall nodded farewell. "I suppose you'll keep an eye on him, anyway. Goodbye, Headmaster."

"Goodnight, Minerva."

She took a couple of quick steps and morphed into a cat with spectacle-like markings around the eyes. Looking as stately as ever, she disappeared into the night at a graceful lope, leaving Albus Dumbledore alone at the doorstep of Number 4, Privet Drive.

The old man sighed, looking down at the infant with a hint of sadness in his bright blue eyes. On sudden impulse, he knelt down and smoothed the boy's hair back out of his eyes and tucked the blankets a little neater.

The boy stirred, and Dumbledore stilled, hoping not to wake him.

Then Harry wrinkled his nose and murmured in his sleep, wiggling a little and stretching out one small arm to clutch the letter. He snuggled back in the warm blankets then, shrinking from the cold November night air, but not before blinking blearily at the old man.

And Albus Dumbledore froze in shock.

Because for a moment, he could have sworn...

Harry's eyes, Harry's beautiful green eyes that were so like Lily's...

Had flashed crimson.

The child blinked again, sleepily, and Albus felt relief wash through him. Harry's eyes were green again, and showed no trace of any malice, or indeed, anything other than half-asleep blankness. He had imagined it, that was all. He was too tense, too paranoid. After so many years of battling Voldemort, it was hard to believe that the monster was really gone, and he had imagined it.

Albus smiled, and leaned down to kiss the boy on his forehead. Then he stood, and with a swish of his cloak, disappeared.

Harry slept on.

End Prologue