Petunia knew, from the moment she set eyes on Harry Potter, that he was just as unnatural as her sister.

There was nothing obvious outwardly of course – just as it was with Lily – but she was certain of it all the same. Harry was going to grow up to be just as strange, just as abnormal as the rest of those freaks, with their potions and robes and broomsticks and- and magic. And he was going to infect her house with his strangeness, was going to destroy the perfect normal life that she had so painstakingly created for herself, was going to ruin everything without remorse and how dare he.

Her glare flickered between the boy and the letter in her hand, before settling on the infant. There was nothing she could do about Dumbledore and his request that she raise the boy, not when the man hid behind his flowery words and thinly veiled threats. They were enough to instil a fear of disobeying him, well aware of what freaks were capable of, especially ones like him. Her fear only made her angrier at the old codger's interference in her life, at being forced to take in the spawn of her dead sister who had been foolish enough to get herself killed in the first place. Any lingering sadness over the news was stamped out by her disapproval. Petunia would never do something as dangerous as get involved in a war. She had more sense than that.

No, she couldn't refuse Dumbledore, even if she longed to throw the boy straight out of her house before he had a chance to taint it. But by no means did that imply that she would take him in happily. The idea of showering him with the same love her Dudley needed was aberrant to her, and a disgusted scowl marred her thin face at the thought.

A shifting of the blanket lying on the table brought her out of her thoughts. The infant struggled with the folds of cloth for a moment before he emerged, chubby fists pushing the blanket away so that he could peer out at his surroundings. Big green eyes were set in a pale face marred only by the scar on his forehead, and in their surveillance they quickly caught sight of the blonde woman watching him.

Petunia gasped as a lance of old pain and anger tore through her at the sight of those eyes. Pretty green eyes, just like Lily. Perfect Lily who was always so much better than her, who was beautiful and smart and talented, whilst Petunia was not. She closed her eyes and turned away. No, she'd gotten away from that Petunia, the one who had lived unhappily in her sister's shadow for so long. She'd made her own life here, was finally happy. She couldn't…she couldn't go back to that, to seeing those eyes every day. She couldn't deal with the guilt that came with such twisted hatred, the self-loathing of never being good enough when compared to Lily. She just couldn't.

She bit her lip and glanced out the window. It was still dark, a few hours before dawn; she'd woken up and been unable to go back to sleep, so had decided to start her day early whilst Vernon and Dudley still slept. The infant on her doorstep would've gone unnoticed if she hadn't decided to put the bins out, and had almost tripped over the blanketed infant. She'd barely contained her shriek of surprise, instead quickly overcoming her shock and bringing the baby inside, lest the neighbours catch sight of him. Thankfully it was so early, and as far as she could tell no one else was awake yet.

And if no one was awake…well, no one would have to know Harry Potter had ever darkened her doorstep with his unnatural presence.

Petunia reluctantly lifted the child and rested him against her hip with as loose a hold as was possible. Thankfully the baby remained still, sleepily watching her. Eyes casting furtive glances around her she snatched the keys from the mantelpiece and unlocked the door. A quick look around revealed no spying neighbours, but she didn't let herself relax just yet. There were still so many ways that this could go wrong; oh, she couldn't bare it if someone saw her and started spreading rumours. She'd worked hard for her reputation, for her normal life, and she wasn't going to lose it just because – just because Lily decided to get herself blown up!

The baby was settled on the passenger seat before she placed the key in the ignition, wincing at the sound of the engine starting up. It wasn't too loud due to the good quality of the car, but to her paranoid ears it was as loud as a gunshot and just as conspicuous. She waited anxiously for the fluttering curtains and flickering of lights, but Privet Drive remained indifferent to her panic and actions, its occupants asleep so early in the day. A shaky sigh of relief escaped her before she quickly reversed out of the drive and set off down the road.

The orphanage was quite far away – she didn't want any possibility of a connection between her family and the Potter child – and she only knew of it because of some scandal that had been pulled a couple of years back there; one of the teenagers who lived there going on a killing spree or something of the sort. She'd tittered with the neighbours over it, belly round with her own child, before they went on to discuss the awful state of Mrs. Jones' front garden. The orphanage in question was one of the few left in the UK, since the majority had been closed over the last few decades in favour of the growing foster care system. Petunia didn't particularly care what happened to boy, just as long as she no longer had to deal with him.

She parked the car around the corner from the orphanage and hurried along the footpath, ducking her head and letting her hair swing forwards to hide her face. The dark stone building looking like a rather dreary place to grow up, its tall fence foreboding, curtained windows like so many eyes staring down at her and judging. There was a flower bed at the edges of the grass, a path splitting its middle, the variety of flowers giving the orphanage some semblance of brightness even if she sniffed at the lack of order to it. Hands jittery with anxiousness she quickly made her way up the couple of steps to the small porch and left the child outside the front door, spinning on her heel and just about running back to her car in fear of being spotted by any early risers. Any guilt was firmly pushed aside in favour of a vindictive sort of relief.

For the second time that night Harry Potter was left on a cold doorstep, completely unaware that his existence was being celebrated by an entire society of people. These people, however, were equally unaware as to what little Harry Potter would grow up to be. Unaware that most of Harry Potter had died that night, whilst more of the man known as Lord Voldemort had lived than a manic ghost. Unaware that the Horcrux in the boy's scar leeched into the infant's mind without the protections Petunia would've unknowingly created through their shared blood, Harry Potter's soul torn apart and melded to the sliver of Tom Riddle's Horcrux until there was none of the innocent child left.

By the time they knew, it was far too late.

"Back again, Harry?"

The dark-haired five-year-old shrugged, pale face apathetic. Marie sighed and leafed through the report on her desk. It detailed the reasoning behind Harry's latest adoptive parents' decision to give him up, and its near identicalness to previous reports had her frustrated.

It was always the same with Harry. He was a cute kid, so it wasn't difficult to get him adopted in the first place. The trouble was with keeping him adopted. Strange things happen around Harry, they'd say, casting nervous glances at the small boy. When she asked them to elaborate they'd talk about floating toys, windows exploding when he was upset, even a bully being knocked down the stairs by no discernable force. It was a load of tosh, in Marie's opinion; did they even listen to themselves? What they were describing was impossible! Never mind blaming it on a poor kid. She would've advised the police to check them for narcotics if this didn't happen with every single family that adopted the Potter boy.

She shook her head a looked down at the file containing all the information she had on Harry Potter. He'd arrived at the orphanage when he was barely over a year old with naught but a blanket and a strange letter. It'd horrified her that someone would be so callous as to leave an infant out in the November cold, but there was nothing anyone could do about it with that person long gone. Thankfully the boy had been no worse for wear from the ordeal, though Marie and the other caretakers had been worried by how quiet he was in comparison to the other infants they had in their care. Still, there was nothing physically wrong with him, and with no claim being made he'd become a ward of the state. The letter crinkled inside the basket along with the child was the only clue as to his identity, and it was a dubious one at best with the writer's obvious insanity. When she read it she thought the infant might've been born to some sort of cult, what with the talk of magic and sacrifices, and she'd choked on a laugh when the writer mentioned a "Dark Wizard". Honestly, the only useful information the babbling contained was the name of the infant and his mother, though searches for a Lily Potter had turned up no results, and neither had searches for the unnamed sister of Lily Potter that the letter seemed to be addressed to. An Albus Dumbledore – what a ridiculous name, maybe it was a pseudonym – didn't turn up anywhere either.

Even though there was no way magic could possibly be involved, as both the letter and the adopters claimed, Marie did have to admit that there was something odd about Harry. She herself had never been witness to the "strange things" that occurred around the boy, but it'd happened far too many times for it to be coincidence. Rather than letting her imagination get away with her Marie thought Harry must've been pulling some sort of prank on his adoptive parents, so in recent years she'd advised them to give some sort of a punishment when they rang up in a panic. She hadn't meant anything harsh of course, just a week without TV or the like – but when he'd returned to the orphanage with suspicious bruises she'd kept silent on the matter and simply accepted the boy back during future adoptions.

She found it harder to look Harry in the eye after that, but she never prevented any adoptions outright. It wasn't healthy for a child to grow up in an orphanage, where any love and attention was sparse at best, and she was worried about the effects it was having on Harry. He was always a quiet child, but as he grew older and was abandoned time and time again she could almost see how he closed himself off from others, see the isolation he was creating. It didn't help that the other children would often tease him because of his small size and intelligence – the boy spent more time reading books than he did anything else, and she sometimes wondered if he preferred their company over people – whilst Harry mostly ignored their taunts. It rarely escalated to physical bullying, and after Aaron Taylor had somehow broken his arm after a conflict between the two it was rare that any of the children dared. The fear only further ostracised Harry, but he didn't seem to care.

Sometimes…sometimes she thought maybe they were right. Maybe there was something wrong with little Harry Potter, something just a little bit strange. But then she'd shake her head and scold her overactive imagination, and return to reality.

But now as not the time for daydreaming. "You'll be going to a foster home this time, Harry," Marie said, shuffling the papers back into a recognisable pile. "To a Mr. Graham. He's fostering several other boys too, with the youngest a year younger than you and the oldest just hitting his teens. I'm sure you'll make…well, I'm sure you'll all get along at least."

Harry nodded in acceptance and left the room without another word. Marie sighed again and regretted not being able to drink on the job.

Initially he cannot think.

His mind, always his greatest weapon, is shredded and disorganised by an event he can barely remember. His memories come in flashes that cripple his young body, which aches and burns for no discernable reason, and his magic thrashes as his core twists and changes to become compatible with his nature. There is no release from this pain, this incomprehension of what is happening to him.

He is neither Tom Riddle nor Harry Potter, merely a child. He cannot understand what is happening, cannot deal with the turmoil that clouds his thoughts and stretches his emotions. So instead he reads, finds haven in the words and the worlds they create, in the logic and the fantasy that occupy his shattered mind.

Other people rarely impact his world or words, his fractured mind, and as he grows he learns how to keep them away. Images and thoughts would flicker, and he would make them hurt as his control grew. He can find no regret within himself for their pain, no, rather he revels in it as his mind pieces itself together, as his mentality grows and changes from child to what he was before.

Slowly, ever so achingly slowly, he regains himself. His memories organise themselves, his magic surges and develops and heals the scars of his soul, and he can think.

And Tom Riddle begins to plan.

Michael bit down harshly on his lip and tried desperately not to make a sound. The bad man said he'd kill anyone who made a noise, and Michael really, really didn't want to die.

He'd tried to get away earlier, when the bad man had first woken them and forced them into the living room. It was the middle of the night and he'd been fast asleep, like the other boys, so it'd taken a few moments for him to register what was happening. By then some of the kids had started crying – except for that Harry, one of the newer boys, but he never really did anything anyway except read – and the older ones were trying to be brave and strong like the heroes in stories. But in stories they never talked about the sheer terror that made his hands shake and breath come in short gasps, or how he shook with the urge to run away.

But he tried anyway (because the heroes always push past their fear, right?), tried to use his special powers. See, Michael wasn't like all the other boys. Michael could, if he tried hard enough, teleport. It'd been a complete accident the first time he did it – he'd just been so hungry, and even with the lights off he could see the delicious chocolate cake through the glass window, and then suddenly he was right next to it – but after that time he'd practised and practised until he could do it whenever he wanted. He usually got to where he was aiming for too.

This time though, this time he couldn't do it. He felt something shudder through him, sending shivers through his entire body and made his vision go blurry for a few seconds, legs collapsing beneath him. The bad man had looked at him then, looked at him and smiled a horrible, gleeful smile that was somehow worse than anything Mr. Bennett had ever done. No starvings or knocks around the head compared to what that smile promised.

He hadn't said anything though, despite obviously knowing what Michael had tried to do. Instead the bad man made them kneel down on the living room floor, binding their hands to their feet with duct tape so that they couldn't run away. One of the teenagers had tried to fight back, but – Michael felt sick at the memory. No one protested after that. Some of the little ones were still crying, but they were quiet now, gasping muffled sobs and panicked breaths. Michael bit his lip and tried to ignore the prickling at the edges of his eyes.

The bad man prowled around them in a way that made Michael think of the big cats he'd seen on Animal Planet when Mr. Bennett had left the TV on accidentally before going to bed. The show was about lions or something, and a pack of them were stalking a herd of oblivious buffalo. The lions had hidden in the tall grass, circling the herd, getting closer and closer until-

"My, my. You're such well-behaved boys, aren't you?" The voice was both smooth and sharp, like each word was carefully tasted before it left his mouth, cruel amusement clear in his dark tone. Michael jumped but didn't turn around to where he could hear the man taking slow steps behind them, frozen before this predator. "I must admit I was expecting a little resistance, but I suppose we can't have it all."

"W-why are you doing this?" One of the boys asked shakily. No, no! Don't talk, don't draw attention to yourself! Michael thought, eyes drifting unwillingly to the broken body thrown carelessly into the corner. Bile rose in his throat and he hurriedly looked away.

"Ahhh," the man sighed, and a shiver ran down the young boy's back. Thud. Thud. Thud. Each slow, teasing step felt foreboding, a build-up that twisted Michael's guts and made his eyes widen in panic. "They always ask that. 'Why are you doing this?'" His voice took on a mocking lilt and a higher pitch.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

"'Why are you hurting me?'"

Thud. Thud. Thud.

"'Why are you killing me?'"

Thud.

The boy who had spoken shrieked and there was the sound of something ripping and then drip drip drip and Michael couldn't look, couldn't bear to see what the bad man had done, because why was it so quiet the screams had stopped why why why?

The bad man stepped into view, right in front of Michael. He couldn't look the man in the eyes, those cold knowing eyes, so his gaze settled upon the man's lips as they stretched into a wide, teeth-baring grin. It looked innocent and joyful, like Max when he tried chocolate for the first time, or James when he got the swing to go really high, and it was so wrong that this man could smile like that. "Because it's fun."

He hummed and started to pace, slowly and deliberate as his hands went behind his back, like Mr. Spencer sometimes did when he was teaching. "It's a hobby of mine, you could say. The muggle world is so dull, I have to find a way to entertain myself somehow. Why not hunt down the little boys and girls who get to go off and learn magic when I couldn't?"

Oh God, Michael thought with wide eyes. He's here for me.

"It's why I became a teacher, you know," the man continued thoughtfully. "What better way is there to find the mudbloods than work in their schools? And inbetween that I've got plenty of prey to keep me entertained. It took far more work than I expected, I admit, but I'm nothing if not stubborn once I've committed myself to a cause. Mother always said it was both a virtue and a fault of mine. That was when she still spoke to me, of course. Before she cast me out when I didn't get my Hogwarts letter, forcing me to create a new life in the muggle world. She was such a lovely woman before her unfortunate accident, wouldn't you agree?"

The boys stayed silent, fear holding their tongues, even the young ones. The bad man chuckled. "See, this is one of my favourite things about my little hobby. I feel like I can talk about anything I want, because none of you will live to tell about it!" He stopped and spread his arms out wide, a manic grin on his tan face. "There's no need for lies or deception, not here. How many humans can say they have ever been completely honest? Everyone lies, even little white ones to protect themselves. But I don't need to lie. I can tell you everything about me, every little dirty secret and horrible thing I've ever done until you know me better than you know yourself. Has anyone ever been that honest with you? Hmm?"

"So you believe murder brings you the closeness you never received due to your lack of magic. It creates the bonds you long for, but are too paranoid to maintain, leading to the end result of killing those you experience these bonds with in order to satisfy this need. Interesting."

For a moment Michael had no idea where that voice had come from, disbelief radiating through him when he realised it was one of the captive boys. He turned his head and stared.

Harry Potter was examining the bad man without a hint of fear in his expression, just a sort of judging amusement in his green eyes. Michael had never heard Harry speak before, and he'd definitely never expected such a refined voice from a kid his age, never mind the words he'd used.

Then Michael quickly looked back at the bad man, expecting him to attack Harry for speaking out. But instead he was watching the young boy, head cocked to the side like a curious puppy. "Hmm? What do you mean?"

Harry sighed, though the corner of his mouth turned up in a languid smirk. "You enjoy killing. You find pleasure in hurting others. When you were a child you started with animals, because you were curious. Then you found it fun. And one day, you wondered what it would be like to do it to a human. But you were also lonely, so you talked with them first. You decided to be completely honest, completely yourself, because you were tired of your façade of normality. They were scared, and you were too because you knew they would tell people, and that would get you into trouble. So you killed them, and you enjoyed it. Going after mudbloods is merely a bonus. Otherwise you would've only taken the child who could do magic, and ignored the rest." Each word was stated with a cool, clinical detachment, but there was a strange undertone to it; like Harry was enjoying it.

The bad man stared at him for several moments, and even in the darkness Michael could see the slackness of his jaw. Then he laughed, great guffaws that folded his body at the waist. Michael shivered.

He finally straightened, eyes fixed on Harry as he cooed, "Oh, I like you."

Harry merely slowly blinked back, like some sort of prince who was graciously allowing them to bask in his presence. "You are marginally more interesting than the fools I usually deal with. Sadism is a rather common trait, but I do appreciate the theatricality. I would prefer that my murder has at least a little build-up."

"Murder?" The bad man gasped, like it was some horrible crime. He dropped down onto his knees in front of Harry, and Michael could now see that his hair was a dark blond from this close. His hand reached up almost reverently to trace the pale boy's cheek, blue eyes riveted on the unflinching child. "Why ever would I do that? Such a smart boy; I could never extinguish those watchful eyes of yours. You see the truth, don't you? My truth, and you don't look away."

Harry seemed to consider him for a few moments, like he was weighing the man's worth in his mind. Michael had never noticed before, but something seemed different about the Potter boy . Even though he'd been tied up like the rest of them, his posture was confident and poised in a way that drew the eye, like there was some sort of aura around him that made you pay attention. He didn't look at all helpless or frightened, and for a strange moment Michael wished those intense green eyes were looking at him instead.

Then the black-haired boy smiled, and it was all Michael could do to keep from falling over as he involuntarily leaned closer. Somehow he didn't feel as scared as he had earlier, probably because the bad man was just as captivated as the rest of the boys. Harry grasped the bad man's chin, turning his face like he was inspecting him, eyes roving over his features. "You're a Yaxley, aren't you?" The blond stiffened but made no move to pull away, though he opened his mouth. "Don't ask me how I know, because I won't tell you."

The man, Yaxley if Harry was right, narrowed his eyes a little but didn't argue. Instead he focussed on Harry's loose hands just as Michael's did, and the puppy-liked curiosity returned. "You got free," Yaxley murmured. "So many surprises, but where's the party?" He suddenly seemed to remember the other children, and glanced excitedly from them to Harry. "Do you want to play too?" he asked Harry eagerly.

The green-eyed boy let go of Yaxley and shook his head – he was standing too, and Michael couldn't remember if he'd ever been kneeling. Somehow he just couldn't imagine it. "I presume Mr. Bennett is still alive?" Yaxley nodded, beaming when a pleased expression crossed the boy's face. "Then I'll let you have your fun whilst I…deal with him. Then we burn this place and you'll take me to wherever you are living."

"Yes, little watcher!" Yaxley said enthusiastically, and Michael blinked at the strangeness of a grown man happily receiving orders from a seven-year-old. Then what they were saying registered and he paled rapidly as Harry made his way towards the door.

"No no no, you can't!" he yelled, half-sobbing the words. Relief swelled in him when he caught Harry's attention and the boy turned to face Michael curiously. "You can't let him kill us, please!"

"Why not?" Harry asked simply, sounding almost bored. "What do I have to gain from saving you?"

And Michael realised that he meant him specifically, and in his panic quickly cast aside any guilt at betraying the other boys. "I-I can use m-magic, right?" he said and winced, before continuing desperately, "I'll do anything, please!" Michael really, really didn't want to die, the sheer terror causing his body to quake whilst his eyes remained fixated on the apathetic green orbs of the other boy.

"Anything, hm?" Harry said, and Michael felt hope flare in him even as Harry's lips turned upwards into a dark smirk. "Will you give your life to me, to do with what I will, when I will it?"

"Y-yes!" Michael cried, not even hesitating.

Harry stalked closer, a feline grace in his movements that made Yaxley's earlier intimidation pale in comparison. He leant over the bound boy, lips close to Michael's ear as he whispered, "Then kill for me."

"W-what?" Michael stuttered, yelping when the duct tape was ripped from his skin. He jumped up to his feet, wincing at the pins and needles that pained his legs. But he didn't dare look away from Harry's too bright eyes.

"Kill for me, and prove your worth," the smaller boy said simply. He looked at the eagerly watching Yaxley and said, "If he doesn't kill at least one of the boys, you can do whatever you want to him." Harry walked once more to the doorway, never looking back despite the final statement he tossed over his shoulder. His words echoed in Michael's mind.

"Don't disappoint me."

Michael turned to the other boys, allowing the tears to stream freely down his face as he tried not to look at their fearful eyes. Yaxley gleefully handed him something, and he swallowed thickly when he saw the shining meat cleaver. His fingers slowly, reluctantly wrapped around the handle, and he didn't think he'd ever held anything heavier in his life.

But Harry was offering him a chance to live, a way out of this hopeless situation when he'd been so sure of his death, and he had no choice. No one cared about him anyway, so it wouldn't matter what he did, and Harry at least acknowledged him. He'd lived in foster homes his whole life, and had never been close to anyone really, not in the way families were supposed to be. No one wanted him, but…Harry might. What was the point of dying here, when Harry was giving him the chance to live? He couldn't disappoint Harry. It became a mantra in his head, blocking out any other thought. I can't disappoint Harry.

They pleaded with him.

I can't disappoint Harry.

They screamed.

I can't disappoint Harry.

Blood, thick red blood spilled over his hands and drenched his pyjamas.

I can't disappoint Harry.

Finally, there was silence.

I can't disappoint Harry.

He managed to focus on green eyes, on the small smile the curved pink lips, on the faint approval, and something in him twisted.

I can't disappoint Harry.

Looking back on his life with an untainted viewpoint, Tom could pick out the exact point his descent into madness began; the creation of his first Horcrux.

How arrogant he had been, to ignore the warnings what little information he could find on the subject foretold. The splintering of one's soul could not possibly go within some negative effect, but in his eagerness for immortality he hadn't been troubled by such possibilities. He saw only the benefit of the Horcrux, of an eternal life, where the only sacrifice required was the menial act of murder. It had seemed so simple, and now with the benefit of hindsight he could see that it was too simple, too easy to gain such a prize as immortality to not expect dire consequences.

Initially he had only planned to create one Horcrux, as having more than one did not give increased immortality or the like. He used an ordinary object, a diary, because who would expect such a thing to in fact contain the Darkest of magic? It would be simple to hide such an object away from those who may seek to destroy it, to convince them that Lord Voldemort would only use the most grandiose of hosts as Horcruxes, and so the actual Horcrux would never be at risk.

However, after creating the Horcrux it had just seemed to make so much sense to make more. There was no logic or reasoning behind it, but he could see no other option. Seven, he'd thought, he'd create seven Horcruxes; the most powerful magical number. And no object would be worthy of him except the most rare treasures, or rather those he managed to collect.

Tom sneered in disgust at his past self. He could see now how his thoughts had clouded, pervaded by madness that twisted the rational being he once was. Of course, he wasn't under the delusion that he had ever been normal, but he could at least claim to have had a stable hold on reality, which had eroded with each Horcrux. Honestly, how was torturing his followers supposed to inspire loyalty? Tom was nothing if not charismatic; there was no need for such harsh punishments over the most minor of discretions. He was surprised that so few had betrayed him with behaviour like that, and though he supposed the notion of control through fear bared some merit, it was not a long-term solution. Fear did not make people want to follow you, to rally under your cause and give their lives in its name so that your goals may be achieved. Fear may work temporarily, but it would also stir up rebellion. Tom knew that, could rationalise and find fault in so many of his actions up to and during the war, and so he loathed the incapacitated man he had once been, the irrational ghost of Lord Voldemort whom he had been separated from.

It was simple in many ways, to acknowledge that they – himself and Voldemort – were now separate beings. His anger at his foolishness and distain for his actions made the transaction more bearable as his shard of soul had melded with the young one of Harry Potter, since he accepted his host more readily and did not seek to return. Not that the process was in any way easy – he had never known pain so intimately as he had the first few years of this new life, as the body and mind he now inhabited was destroyed and remade to suit him, magic alternatively lashing at his presence and binding itself to him – but it was one that fascinated him. He had briefly considered the idea of anchoring a Horcrux to a living body, dismissing it due to the mortality and fragility of all organisms. It may be almost impossible to destroy a Horcrux, but the same could not be said for man. In his ponderings he had never come close to understanding how a piece of foreign soul could influence another being, how the very essence of what Harry Potter was had been shattered and remade to acclimatise Tom. His own piece of soul – such a tiny piece, barely a sliver of what he had been before his first Horcrux – was now whole, the destruction of Harry Potter its price, one he did not regret.

Another chance at life was one he would take gladly, and fully planned on taking advantage of. Harry Potter would be famous in the magical community, worshiped as the boy who had destroyed Lord Voldemort. With that came political status, one muggle-raised Harry could never be expected to know how to use. The boy's familial status would be very convenient, what with the Potter's wealth having but one heir to its fortune. If memory served correct he also had a claim on the Black vaults by both blood and his godfather – he had done his research before hunting down the Potter's, such information was hardly a top-priority secret. Perhaps he could convince Sirius Black to make him his heir to prevent any contention from the Malfoys (and wouldn't that be interesting; had Lucius remained loyal to him, or claimed he was under the Imperius Curse like Tom expected him to? He'd never accused Lucius of being a brave man).

It had taken a number of years for him to be fully aware again, well into his second childhood and the joys that came with it. Honestly he was quite glad he was not conscious for most of it, as he was sure someone would get curious about the sheer amount of dead muggles. The dispassionate treatment of life at an orphanage and stints with adoptive parents who quickly got rid of him when he displayed accidental magic – and it truly was accidental; he did not surface fully until he was around seven-years-old – did not endear him to muggles, though he did acknowledge the impressive technological and scientific advances that had been made in the many years since he was young and actually interested in muggles beyond killing them. He planned to use this information to refine his magical theories – research into DNA and the implications of it could certainly turn pureblood supremacy on its head if used the right way, not that he believed it in the first place. How could he when he, a half-blood, was far more powerful than the so called pure of blood? Tom had initially used it as a method of quickly gathering wizards and witches to his cause, the connections of pureblood society deemed incredibly useful to him when he was still at Hogwarts. At least, that was until he had started his fear campaign.

He would need to gather followers once more, though this time he was set on ensuring loyalty over obedience. His status as Harry Potter would allow him some advantage in this no doubt, but it would also make it difficult to find allies in the Dark. He was the destroyer of the Dark Lord – ironic as it may sound – and he would have many enemies. Many of those who had followed Voldemort would be useful to him, but it would be difficult to convince them to change their allegiance.

He didn't doubt that one day he would confront Voldemort – as he referred to the man he'd once been – and they would be forced to fight. Tom had never been the sort to share, not even with himself as the situation was. Perhaps those who were most loyal to him as Voldemort would be told the truth of Harry Potter's existence in order to convince them, but that would only be extended to those who he knew wouldn't dare speak of it without his authorisation, and even then he would only give the barest details. For the others he supposed he would have to present himself as an improvement on the master they once had, as a stronger and more intelligent man to follow. He was not adverse to using neutral and even Light wizards if necessary, but he rather preferred his inner circle, as it were, to be aware of his own Dark inclinations. A revolution would hardly be peaceful, after all.

The two he had recruited quite by accident rose to mind, and he smirked. Michael Corner and Adrian Yaxley. Michael was a half-blood, as he'd managed to discover, born to a muggle woman who had died in childbirth after the magical father died in the war. It had been for pure amusement that he'd given the boy the option to save himself, a curiosity to see how far an innocent child could fall in his desire to live. The complete obedience hereafter was a pleasant surprise; Tom was not fond of children, and would have gladly killed Michael if he annoyed him, but the brunet was determined to "not disappoint Harry" as he'd once muttered. Tom was quite sure he'd traumatised him, but didn't particularly care. A follower was a follower, and he was rather lacking in those. Perhaps he would prove useful one day; only time could tell.

Adrian Yaxley was a peculiar case. Born the Yaxley heir to one of Tom's own followers, he'd been familiar with his face and had recognised him immediately. The man was a squib, and though his parents held out hope that he'd reveal some hidden magical talent, when his Hogwarts letter did not arrive they wasted no time in attempting to get rid of the embarrassment that was their son. From there he'd built a life in the muggle world, too ashamed to live as a squib surrounded by magic, and had begun his career as a serial killer. A rather successful one too, as Adrian had yet to be caught, and due to his use of muggle materials the Aurors never suspected anything. His odd brand of insanity likely only made him more difficult to find. One moment he was an aristocrat, the heir of the most Noble and Ancient House of Yaxley, the next a sadistic murderer who's only interest was his next kill.

Tom could predict and control his behaviour to some extent, but he was fully aware that it was only due to the man's odd fixation on his "little watcher" that Yaxley hadn't tried to kill him along with the rest of the boys. An odd stroke of luck, that, but one he would gladly take advantage of. He didn't doubt his ability to kill Adrian if he'd needed to – his magical core may still be developing due to his body's age, but it was still far stronger than any other child, and he'd mastered his control over his magic just as he'd done when he was actually a child – however he much preferred the way things had worked out. He no longer had to live with muggles and so was free to practise his magic as he wished. It went undetected due to the wandless nature of it, as the Ministry relied on the Trace in wands in order to discern whether any underage magic took place.

Adrian had adopted both Tom and Michael soon after the murder of their foster family. The two boys had been the only survivors, claiming that they had been knocked out and forgotten early in the massacre, and did not know what the attacker looked like. Not the most succinct of excuses, but here the appearance of young innocent children was a great benefit. Who would think that two traumatised children would ever lie about such a thing? Michael's traumatised state helped to lend them some credibility, and the adults quickly accepted Michael's latching on to Tom as a way to deal with everything that had happened. Tom had always been a talented liar, so his performance of the confused and frightened child was very effective, if he did say so himself. Adrian waited a couple of months, as instructed, before filing to adopt the two, and with his stable background as a well-paid teacher the orphanage was only too happy to see the back of them.

Frustrating as it was Tom knew that he would not be able to do anything of much effect before he entered Hogwarts. He could access Diagon Alley and other such magical places if he wished, but very few would listen to such a young child. There were spells to change one's appearance, but the type of people he wished to meet would be able to detect such disguises, and would not be pleased should they discover Harry Potter. Besides, there was no immediate rush; he could take his time in making connections and gathering resource, taking care to watch each step in order to prevent any mistakes. He had managed to learn (through Adrian, who still knew some magical people who kept him updated, and were willing to gather information for him for a price) that Voldemort had ended up in a forest in Albania, reduced to a impotent spirit. He wouldn't offer much of a challenge for a long while yet; there were very few ways to create a physical body that could contain the power Voldemort once held, so even then he would be weak for a time.

Until the Hogwarts letter arrived Tome would continue as he had been; learning as much as possible about the muggle world and its advances, about how they could be of use to him and the threat they posed. The odds were not in the magical communities favour should the muggles strike first, what with their nuclear bombs and biological weapons of war. Bullets would pierce a simple Shield Charm, a Muggle-Repelling Charm had only a limited range – muggles had satellites; it seemed that if a war were ever to truly begin between magical and muggle, it would end in their mutual destruction. Wizards were more dangerous on a physical level with their magic and its versatility, but they were also lax in any sort of militaristic training, with a mere hundred Aurors to their name. The muggles on the other hand had perfected the art of war, their armies ready and waiting should magic be discovered. It was a rather humbling notion, and despite his hatred Tom could acknowledge muggles presented a very real danger. The vast majority of wizards looked down on the muggles as harmless and ignorant, content in their blinkers and backwards ways that so pervaded the magical community of Britain.

Many of the other magical communities in other countries were far more prepared to deal with such a threat – the German wizards had always had close control over the muggle government, whilst the Egyptians often worked together in many matters – but fear could drive the muggles to unimaginable means. Tom wanted to change the magical community; he didn't want it destroyed due to exposure. Perhaps he should look into a closer alliance with other countries – possibly even the muggle populations, as much as it galled him. It was something to keep him entertained until his return to Hogwarts, at the very least, which he was very much looking forward to. It would be quite interesting to see Dumbledore's reaction to Harry Potter living with the son of one of Lord Voldemort's followers.

A/N: So here's my latest story! I'm enjoying writing this, so whilst I might not update straight away I won't give up on the story entirely. Reviews and constructive criticism really do help, as it reminds me to keep writing a story and often provides the motivation to do so, whilst constructive criticism allows me to improve my writing. So, please go ahead and review!

Just a few points I wanted to mention that I think you guys might be interested in. The reason the Horcrux and Harry 'melded' was because Petunia left Harry at an orphanage (I did some research and yes there were still some orphanages in the 1980s). This meant that the love protection thing never formed, so Harry wasn't protected from the Horcrux which then overpowered Harry's soul. Basically what happened was Harry's soul got ripped apart to supplement Tom's, since his soul was like 1/64th of his original soul. All the soul stuff is a bit messy and hard to explain, especially since I personally don't believe in souls and it's really hard to create a scientific theory to use in a story about magic. But hey, I'll try my best.

Anyway Harry or Tom or whatever basically lives his first few years in a kind of haze, where his memories aren't concrete and he's very disconnected from the world. The Horcrux melding thing also results in some physical changes as his magic is altered, so Harry looks a bit more like Tom (young Tom, not snake face). Why? Wizards live longer, age slower, don't catch muggle diseases, and a plethora of other differences, which means their bodies are fundamentally different from muggles. This must be due to magic (muggleborns don't seem to be the exception, though you could argue that purebloods may live longer due to their 'breeding' and natural selection and all that, but I'm sticking to this for now). So, when Harry's magic changes to suit Tom's (everyone's magic must be different due to the whole wand chooses the wizard thing) it changes how his body develops, resulting in a physical likeness.

Ah, what else? Oh, Michael Corner is indeed a canon character, though of course his backstory is all mine. Originally Michael was just an oc who I was going to kill off in this chapter, but then Tom wanted some minions so here you go. The kid is seriously traumatised, and is almost as messed up as Adrian in terms of sanity because of what Tom forced him to do. I couldn't explain Adrian's crazy if I tried, though he is mine. He was supposed to be just a muggle serial killer at first, but then I changed this story from a scary!genius!Harry to a Tom!Harry and it sounded interesting. Adrian is totally irrational and most of his decisions and actions won't make sense, even I don't really unless I tilt my head a bit and squint.

My characterisation of Tom isn't going to be a carbon copy of Voldemort. He's a sadistic, psychopathic little genius with a vain streak and a love of power, but he isn't a melodramatic lunatic as Voldemort often comes across. He's more analytical and logical, and also realises that you can't just terrify everyone in the entire magical community into submission; they have to want to follow you for any sort of long-standing reign. Since we only get glimpses of young!Voldemort I'm just assuming a lot here, so let me know how you think I'm doing; I'd really appreciate it.

Sorry for the long-ass author's note, that's about it. Oh, I have no idea what I'm doing with pairings – might not even bother with one, or just put in hints and one-sidedness – so feel free to suggest ones. Any input or queries are welcome!