Oops, I did it again. At this point you guys expect it, don't you? Sorry I'm college student with a very short attention span, and I go in and out of phases of actually liking Harry Potter enough to write for it. Fantastic Beasts peaked my interest of the Wizarding World once more and it is Christmas Break, so maybe I'll crank out a few chapters!

So, without further ado, I don't own Harry Potter. Enjoy my AU though!

Chapter 2: The Boy Who Lived

It was standard procedure to collect any blood found at crime scenes—domestic or foreign with cooperation—to be tested. In this case, there hadn't been much blood found at the scene of the trap, the fighting had been brief and unexpected on one side. Never the less, identification of the prisoners was also standard procedure.

Blood had been drawn while the prisoners were still unconscious, when the medics on stand-by were given permission to tend to the wounded. The team members were surprised, but pleased at the results of the first four. They had been expecting minor members of the rebel insurgency, but to find instead that four big names of the Rebellion—including Sirius Black and Alastor Moody—had been captured at last was sure to bring glory to all on the mission. Not to mention heightened safety from future terrorist attacks by the Rebellion's infamous front-runners.

That is, if the fifth rebel wasn't such a conundrum.

The boy was young, fifteen at the very oldest, and probably born within the confines of the Rebellion. Therefore, his blood shouldn't have been on Ministry records, and yet it was. Per Ministry records, this boy was Hadrian Thomas Salazar Gaunt.

Lord Voldemort's dead son.

They retested the boy several times, and yet the result remained constant. Not only that, the boy looked eerily like their Lord. The dark hair and fair skin were too common to be incriminating. No, it was the eyes that did it, startlingly bright green like the killing curse, and the head medic was old enough to recall the one picture that had ever been released of the Dark Lord's son, after his death. He remembered green eyes like that on the tiny, pale face of two-year-old Hadrian Gaunt. Not like his father in color, for the Dark Lord's eyes had been a rather unremarkable brown before they'd been an intense dark red, but in some other indescribable way that just was.

This boy was somehow, impossibly, Hadrian Gaunt.

And the Dark Lord had already been informed.

Fury overwrote reason for longer than Voldemort would have liked to admit. The incompetent fools had obviously blundered something, and yet they had the simple-minded audacity to summon him—urgently—to tell him that they had found his long dead offspring.

He had watched them once again test a vial of blood taken from the rebel boy in the holding cell far below ground . . . and seen the result for himself.

Further angered at their incompetency, he tested it himself . . . and received the same result.

What was Dumbledore playing at? How had he charmed some rebel scum to show up as Hadrian on Ministry records? He had to have a mole, a spy somewhere in the Department of Magical Registration that had tampered with the records pertaining to his son.

So, he went down to the cells to interrogate the prisoners and just how they had managed it . . . and saw him.

He had known that the boy would have looked like him had he lived to be grown, and the Rebel boy was nearly a replica of Tom Riddle. With startling green eyes.

There were subtle differences, hints of his mother in the set of his eyes and his nose, the slight curl to his hair.

This boy was what Voldemort would have imagined Hadrian to look like, had he ever taken the time.

He ignored the boy for the moment, taking some pleasure in goading the others. He did ask who the boy was, knowing he would get no honest answer, and Black tensed as he snapped an answer.

Black was a horrid liar, and though the boy had a passing resemblance to the Blacks, he certainly wasn't one himself. He'd thought the boy timid, but his mind was open and the thought that floated to the front of it was surprising.

. . . meet his eyes . . . legilimens . . .

It seemed the boy was merely more intelligent than he'd first assumed.

His attention was drawn fully to the boy when he threw himself in front of Black, and surprisingly, didn't duck from his gaze again.

He met it. The boy glared at him.

It was amusing—though impertinent—when he could practically smell his fear.

"What is your name boy?" The words were carefully blank, so as not to show amusement.

The boy still met his eyes as he bit out a single word.

"Harry."

Harry . . .

He allowed just a touch of amusement to surface. He tipped his head in mock greeting. His heart may have speed, for just that moment.

"Pleasure to meet you, Harry. I am Lord Voldemort."

And perhaps . . . I will be sure.

He turned and left the cell.

Harry was dragged from the cell screaming, but a firm shake and a box to the ear pulled him from his momentary panic. He went calmly from then on, and the two Aurors seemed to relax, and though their grips did not, they weren't bruising as they'd been when pulling him from the cell.

He tried to look around for a possible escape route, but another box to the ear and a firm, "Ain't nothing to see kid," forced him to keep his head turned forward. He looked from the corners of his eyes, but the man hadn't been lying, the hallway was long, white, and without doors on either side.

They turned suddenly and Harry, thinking he'd be knocked into the wall, instinctively tried to pull his arms from their grasp to catch himself. They held fast to him and he fell through the wall, one Auror following, one not.

They were in a completely different room now, on what seemed to be a different floor, or even a different building.

Harry was so surprised by it that he didn't even struggle when he was pushed into one of the two chairs in the room, on either side of an ancient looking wooden table. Shifting in his seat showed that the chair had a sticking chair on it, rather than the chains he'd been expecting.

The Auror retreated to a seemingly random spot of the wall, facing forward and acting as if Harry didn't exist.

He decided not to draw attention—and therefore ire—to himself, for the moment.

It was some indiscernible amount of time later (the room was larger and cleaner, but still had no windows or clocks) that a voice spoke.

"Thank you Auror Clearwater, that will be all for the moment."

Harry only just kept himself from jumping out of his skin at the unfortunately familiar voice. Harry still tensed at the fact that he was now alone in a room with Lord Voldemort.

He couldn't turn enough to see the man, though he knew that Voldemort was directly behind him and not very far away.

Their breathing was the only sound in the room for a moment, Harry's struggling under tight control and the Dark Lord's deceptively calm.

"You are quite the conundrum, Harry."

Harry twitched as words were finally spoken, but dared to not answer.

There was a huff of hair, vaguely amused, and footsteps.

A hand on the back of his neck.

Harry flinched and jerked away as well as he could, he still couldn't see the monster terrorizing him.

"Don't touch me!"

The Dark Lord merely chuckled, and emerged into his field of vision.

"Now there is the fire I saw in holding cells, I thought the Auror's may have beaten it out of you . . . I would've had to punish them."

Harry's curiosity got the best of him, for a moment, "Why?"

Something gleamed in the man's eyes, and he looked quite pleased for a moment before answering, "Because I ordered them not to touch you."

Harry swallowed another question on Why the hell would you do that? and let his eyes fall to his lap.

"I've a deal to discuss with you." This stark statement was delivered as the Dark Lord walked around the desk and with a swish of his wand (Harry flinched) the plain, uncomfortable wooden chair became a regal but much more comfortable looking chair. Voldemort sat with a flourish, his eyes had not once left Harry.

Harry's mouth was dry, and he couldn't keep the angry confusion from his voice as he snapped, "What?"

"A deal, Child."

Harry bristled at the name, and the subject of discussion.

"If you think I'd ever make a deal with you—"

"I think you will, if you want to save the rebel scum you call friends." The insult rolled off the man's tongue, and he smirked at the fury Harry no longer cared to hide.

Before Harry could speak, Voldemort continued.

"The common punishment for anyone suspected of joining the terrorist group you call a Rebellion is Azkaban." He silenced Harry with a raised wand and a silencing spell, which received a glare, "I am sure you do not see it this way, the way you were raised, but planned attacks against British citizens on British soil is terrorism." He ignored the thought that floated rather clearly to the fore-front of the boy's mind, and what would you call what you do, and continued.

"However, your . . . companions are known members of Dumbledore's Rebellion, and have been charged with several counts of murder amongst other things. The penalty for that would be the Dementor's Kiss."

Harry felt the blood leave his face. He felt cold.

"Judging your reaction, you know exactly what that would entail. I am giving you a chance to . . . lessen their sentence. I will wipe all reports of yesterday's events clean. Five no-name Rebels were found, five were systematically done away with. In all reality, your rebel friends will be moved to a secure prison facility where I can ensure you of their health. No Azkaban, no Dementors. All I ask in return is that you obey me."

He let the silencing charm drop, and Harry spoke immediately.

"I won't betray the Rebellion, I won't tell you anything."

Voldemort, surprisingly, chuckled. "I am not asking you for that Child. All I ask that you not resist what I have in store for you."

Harry thought before speaking, this time.

"And what is it you want from me? How can I possibly be more important than the end of four prominent Rebels?"

"As to your first question, that is for me to know, and to tell you when I feel you are . . . more prepared, to hear what I have to say. Rest assured, you will not be harmed as long as you behave. As to your second question, the first answers that."

"What do you want from me?" Harry asked again, fearing the answer but needing to know.

"I want you to remain in Britain as my ward." The Dark Lord answered simply, one eyebrow slightly raised.

Fear took over for a moment, and the word was out before he could stop it.

"NO!"

The Dark Lord's Expression cooled, and the room was filled with chokingly dark, raw magic.

"Make no mistake Harry, you will remain in Wizarding Britain either way. It is merely your choice as to whether you want to be comfortable or locked away somewhere. And on whether you would like to save the other rebels."

Harry was silent, though he knew he had no real choice.

"If I agree to . . . be your ward, how will I know you haven't had them Kissed?"

Voldemort's expression was victorious as he leaned forward and murmured,

"Well you'll just have to trust your Guardian, won't you?"

So there you go! Chapter 2, much much darker than the original. I made the decision to keep Sirius and the others prisoner rather than letting them go, it was too out of character and really kind of stupid. Plus this way, Voldemort has something much more solid to hang over Harry's head to make him behave.

Obviously Voldemort isn't as cuddly in this version, which is more accurate, I think, so it will make the relationship between him and Harry much more complicated. Don't worry, they'll get there.

I actually had a really good time writing this chapter, so maybe I'll try to crank out another chapter in the next few days? Reviewing really helps, seriously guys I'm more likely to update if you show some interest!

BTW Voldemort was talking to Harry in Parseltongue when he first came into the interrogation room, to see if Harry really is his son.

-Ginny