Author's Notes: In this Alternate Universe, Voldemort took over the magical world during the First War, and Harry grows up under his regime. There is no Boy-Who-Lived and no prophecy in this version, but Harry will be special in other ways. Also, this is a very dark story.

AND YES, THERE WILL BE HARRY/DRACO SLASH AND PRE-SLASH. Heaps of it. Mountains of it. Don't say I didn't warn you...

Now that we've gotten all that out of the way, thanks for reading!

PROLOGUE

HIS WORLD

o

A hundred newspapers have been hastily tacked onto the walls, all of them yellowed and smudged after years of neglect.

But that doesn't matter. They show exactly what they need to.

January 3rd, 1979. THE DARK LORD, CAPABLE OF ABSORBING MAGIC? Beneath the headline is a picture of a dozen Muggle-borns trembling and sobbing, freshly turned into Squibs.

June 10th, 1980. HANGINGS IN HOGSMEADE. Two men named Remus Lupin and James Potter swing from the rafters, their expressions of defeat and exhaustion clearly visible in the image, burned on their faces even in death.

July 31st, 1980. There is no headline for this picture of a red-faced and bawling newborn. Tacked next to it is the birth certificate of a boy named Harry James Potter. It does nothing to brighten the room.

September 2nd, 1980. BATTLE OF HOGWARTS LOST. The castle burns bright with flames. A triumphant skull and serpent hovers in the sky, washing the bodies littering the ground with eerie green light.

September 10th, 1980. DUMBLEDORE'S FUNERAL DRAWS THOUSANDS OF MOURNERS. A white casket sinks into the ground. Countless figures in black robes stand around it, their heads bowed.

April 1st, 1981. THE MINISTRY HAS FALLEN. The highlight of this picture is a statue made of black stone, a statue of a witch and wizard sitting on an intricate throne of naked Muggles. Engraved at the statue's feet are the words MAGIC IS MIGHT. The Ministry in which the statue sits has been rebuilt from the ground up. The old Ministry currently lies crushed beneath a thousand feet of dirt.

April 2nd, 1981. BRITAIN SURRENDERS. There is no picture for this particular headline. There is no need for one.

After April 1981, the images and words blur together, and the new Daily Prophet makes it clear where it stands. Its articles all convey the same message now.

MUDBLOODS TO APPEAR BEFORE COURT.

THE DARK LORD TO REDEFINE EDUCATION, APPOINTS NEW HOGWARTS PROFESSORS.

BLOOD DOMINION ESTABLISHED.

The countless pictures tell a bleak story, and no recent pages have been tacked onto the wall, as if the person putting them up no longer sees any point. The story of the most powerful Dark wizard of all time has already been told to death, after all. There is nothing left to tell. In fact, there is nothing left at all.

This is Voldemort's world now.

CHAPTER ONE

THE BOY WITH NO SCAR

o

THE DARK LORD CONQUERS FRANCE was the headline ten years later. Beneath it was a picture of the former Eiffel Tower, cleaved clean in half and surrounded by dancing flames.

Eleven-year-old Harry Potter traced the edges of the photo with his finger, his breath catching. Serpents and chimaeras rose from the fire, dwarfing the Eiffel Tower in size and might. Fiendfyre? Harry had read about it, in one of the books Snape had given him—

His mother dropped the plate she was holding, and Harry winced at the sound of shattering glass. Putting the paper away, he turned to face her.

Lily stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen among shards of porcelain. Her blank eyes stared off into the distance, focusing on nothing in particular. Then she raised her spidery hands to tear at her own face.

Dread pulsed sluggishly through Harry's veins.

"Mum?" he tried, hopping off his stool and approaching her like he would a sleeping dragon. "Mum, let's go. Stop that—stop!" He clasped her hands in his to prevent her from ripping her skin off and led her away from the dangerous shards.

She bent her head down and went with him obediently, letting out gasps as jagged as the pieces of plate on the ground. Her hair was lank and greasy, gray-streaked. Harry supposed she must have been pretty a long time ago. He had seen the pictures of his parents—his father had died a month before Harry was born—and they had both been glorious in their prime.

After depositing his mother in one of the chairs, he went back to the broken plate, trying to determine the best way to get rid of the mess.

He snuck a look at his mother, biting his lip. She seemed preoccupied. Her little choked gasps had turned into full-fledged sobs by now, but he would go to comfort her in a second.

First, he had to clean up a bit. She wouldn't notice. Probably. If she did, he was dead.

Harry closed his eyes and concentrated. Magic rushed through him like wind through a tube, sending sparks flying across his skin and heating up the air around him. He flicked his wrist, and every single piece of the plate disappeared. He took a deep breath, allowing himself a small smile. Using his magic exhilarated him. He could use it all day and never get tired.

But Lily had noticed.

In a split second she was upon him, scrabbling at his arms with her ragged nails. "Don't you dare, Harry! Don't you dare use that unnatural, obscene magic in my house. It's magic like the Dark Lord's, and I can't breathe when you use it. But you won't stop doing it, no matter how many times I beg you to stop!"

Harry stumbled backwards, covering his face and trying to escape her outstretched claws. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I just—I didn't want to cut myself cleaning it up—"

Lily grabbed him by the hair, and he stopped talking.

He knew what was coming. He'd gone through it a hundred times, every time he had dared to use his wandless magic in front of her.

She slapped him—hard. He tore himself away from her, and Lily collapsed to the floor, sobbing harder than ever, as if the slap had hurt her more than it had hurt him.

Playing the victim, is she? screamed a voice in Harry's head.

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry. Please, please don't use that magic. Oh, it smells so awful in here when you do that. Please believe me. Harry, I don't want to hurt you. Don't do it. Please don't do it. It's not natural. It's wrong, wrong, wrong, it's exactly like his…" Lily rocked back and forth, cradling her head in her arms.

Harry dabbed at his smarting cheek, shaking violently, more with rage than fear. His magic didn't stink. He had never smelled anything. He turned his head away so she couldn't see the hard expression on his face.

He knew his mother's instability was the effect of countless horrifying memories and Dark curses and years of torture from the First War. He knew it wasn't her fault.

But it didn't change how much he hated her.

He so desperately wanted to leave this house and never see Lily again. He'd been counting down the days until he could go to Hogwarts, no matter what Lily said about it being the most hellish place on earth after the Dark Lord took it over. Any place, even Hogwarts, would be better than being here, with his mother, having to clean up her messes and then getting yelled at for it.

Harry took a moment to dream of going to Diagon Alley to get his school supplies, then soured. Snape was supposed to visit today and take them there, but of course Lily was in no state to go right now.

"What will people at Hogwarts say, if they see you using your magic?" said Lily unexpectedly, jolting Harry out of his thoughts. He stared at her, and she held his gaze.

"The professors there are the eyes and ears of the Dark Lord. They'll watch you, and when they find out about how you can use wandless magic so unnaturally, so filthily, they'll think you're a threat. They'll come for you at night, Harry, so you'd better keep it a secret." She started laughing, and it was a wild, brittle sort of laugh. "They'll come for you, like they came for your father and Remus, and strip you of your flesh, and keep you alive while they do it, just like they did to them—"

At that moment, green flames burst to life in the fireplace. Snape stepped out of it, his black robes swirling behind him. His eyes lingered on Harry's red cheek and Lily's tear-stained face.

"Go upstairs, boy," said Snape curtly, not wasting a minute. It wasn't the first time he'd walked into Lily and Harry fighting, and everyone was quite used to the routine by now. "Your presence only aggravates her further. Why can you not do what she asks? Is your mother's well-being worth less than showing off your magic?"

"You know she has no reason to hate my magic," Harry spat out, stung by Snape's tone.

He wasn't sure why he was so hurt in the first place. He'd hoped for years that Snape would take Harry's side over Lily's, but the world was more likely to end. Snape looked at Lily like she was the sun, and looked at Harry like he was something on the bottom of a shoe.

"She is your mother," Snape said, helping Lily to her feet while Harry retreated to the bottom of the stairs. "And you will listen to her orders, no matter what her reasons for those orders are."

He turned his back on Harry, his full attention on Lily now. He murmured soothing words to her as he led her into the parlor, the harsh lines of his face softening. Lily rested her head on his shoulder, taking deep breaths.

Harry watched their entwined figures for a moment, not sure what the expression on his own face was, then climbed up to the stairs as quietly as he could.

Snape had never liked him, Harry knew that much. But unlike Lily, Snape had never hurt him, and he was the only one who could calm Lily down during one of her episodes, which was why he visited the little hut in Godric's Hollow at least once a week. And even though he was a Death Eater, he had been the one who had convinced the Dark Lord to leave both Harry and Lily alone after the war was won.

Snape even brought Harry books sometimes, books on the Dark Arts that were filled with information on fascinating curses, little presents that made it clear he acknowledged Harry's existence. Then again, he hadn't ever been the sort of father figure that Harry had always fantasized about, and he would never become that figure. He tolerated Harry only because of Lily, something Harry had painfully realized after years of failed attempts to earn Snape's affection.

Harry stumbled into his room and slammed the door shut behind him. He caught a glimpse of his reflection—and his glowing red cheek—in the vanity mirror and felt his rage stutter back to life, more potent than ever.

He hadn't ever used his wandless magic against his mother. Sometimes he wanted to, especially on days like today. He could hurt her back, avenge all the slaps, the hair-pulling, the screaming.

But she was so fragile, so broken, that Harry could not raise a hand against her. Hurting her would've been like kicking a yapping, biting little dog. He would have been pleased with himself for about five seconds, and then he would have felt like a monster.

And perhaps he still held onto that little sliver of hope that her sanity would return and she would finally be a real mother to him. She would look upon his powerful magic with glowing pride, not disgust and terror, and would praise him for standing still and taking all her slaps and screams without ever striking back.

She would owe me, thought Harry with a small smile.

Harry was rudely interrupted from his reading Dark Curses for the Body and Mind, one of Snape's oldest presents, an hour later when someone knocked on his door. It was probably Snape, since Lily would've just barged in. "Come in," said Harry, closing the book and looking up expectantly as the door swung open.

Snape stood there, looking rather worn. He gave a curt nod toward the book in Harry's hand, but did not mention it. "Your mother is well now. We will be leaving for Diagon Alley in fifteen minutes time. See that you are ready and waiting downstairs with your booklist."

He moved to close the door again and leave Harry alone to change, but Harry stopped him with a snarl. "I don't suppose you'll ever tell me, sir. Why's she like this? Tell me what happened to her. Tell me who did it to her."

Snape stilled and turned slowly, fixing Harry with a look as cold as frost. "You ask me this again?" he said, in a dangerous sort of voice. "Your mother has been through many trials. You, a mere child who cannot comprehend even the slightest of what she has suffered, are not old enough to know the details."

"Not old enough?" hissed Harry, getting to his feet. "I'm not 'old enough'? You're never here, sir, so you have no idea what I've had to do. I fix everything Mum breaks when she's throwing things, I clean the house, sometimes I even cook, and you won't even tell me why she's like this? I deserve to know, and you just—you wish I wasn't here, don't you, so Mum could love you without me there to mess up your perfect imagined family?"

"I have no responsibility to speak of this with you," Snape breathed through gritted teeth.

He moved to close the door, but Harry didn't want to give him the satisfaction. He flicked his hand, slamming the door shut wandlessly, not really caring if Lily "smelled" his magic from downstairs. Maybe on his deathbed, Snape would tell him, but by then, Harry would be far, far away from this miserable place.

When Harry was dressed, he walked down the stairs, unfolding his booklist as he went. Lily was wearing pale pink robes, but otherwise she looked as if she'd put as much effort into her appearance as Snape had. Then again, with his messy hair, crumpled shirt, and pallid face, Harry wasn't any more appealing.

We make such an attractive family picture, he thought with a sneer as Snape guided Lily into the fireplace with little fanfare, shouting "Diagon Alley!" Harry followed, and soon he was stepping out of the fireplace and into the Leaky Cauldron, hurrying to keep up with Snape and Lily.

Hooded figures with wrinkled, strained faces shrank away as Snape crossed the tavern. A few whispered, but most fell utterly silent. The tiny bald barman gave a little squeak and lowered his head deferentially as Snape passed, then widened his eyes when he saw Harry trotting behind them, as if he couldn't believe Snape would ever be seen with such a young child.

Harry looked around, wishing his head could turn in all directions, completely entranced by the dirty pub. Then again, it didn't take much to impress Harry. He rarely left the house in Godric's Hollow, and he'd never been to Diagon Alley before.

They stopped walking in a chilly courtyard outside the pub, and Harry watched eagerly as Snape tapped his wand on the bricks, which folded and slid out of place to reveal a great archway. And beyond the archway was a dark, desolate road. Harry craned his head to look around his mother's side to see better, and found his stomach sinking in disappointment. Lily had spoken of Diagon Alley as a bustling, grand place, but she must have been mistaken.

"Hurry," snapped Snape, waving a hand impatiently at Harry, who started and followed the adults under the arch.

Shuttered, narrow stores lined the edge of the street, their curtains drawn tight. A few rats skittered over the cobblestone ground, their squeals loud in the silence. Hushed groups of wizards and witches hurried past, few with children, most hooded.

"Your booklist, boy," said Snape, holding out a hand.

Harry gave it to him without comment, biting his lip. Would they be able to find everything here? Diagon Alley didn't look like it had a lot of places to shop, but Harry supposed it did, or Snape wouldn't have wasted their time in bringing them here. He was a professor at Hogwarts, so he would know where to get the items on the booklist.

"Hmm." Snape shuffled through the letter with pursed lips. "We will go to Knockturn Alley when we finish getting your wand. Stay close to your mother and me at all times. Do not wander out of the alley. I will not repeat myself."

Harry nodded, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Where else would he go? Out into London? Half the city was abandoned now, ever since the Dark Lord set Fiendfyre on it several years ago. According the news this morning, Paris would probably go the same way, and Germany's Berlin had long fallen.

Snape had mentioned, conversationally, to Lily a few weeks back that Italy and Spain were next, though the Dark Lord was particularly hungry for the United States, a great behemoth of a country that was finally preparing to send aid after a decade of waiting and watching the chaos unfold in horrified, fearful silence. Lily had laughed madly and said it was all too late, and that there wasn't any Ministry of Magic left to accept any aid.

After a few minutes of tense silence, they arrived at a dingy store with its name written in peeling paint. Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C. "In," said Snape, but Harry was already pushing open the door, bouncing on the soles of his feet.

No, Harry did not especially think he needed a wand, but it would help him look normal, and there were quite a lot of spells he was itching to try. He could barely contain his excitement as he slammed his hand down on the bell on the countertop, calling the wizened old man sorting through the boxes at the back of the store to the front counter.

He looked very tired, and very pale, and his eyes were huge and glassy. Harry wondered how the wands could be of good quality when the man who made them was so…empty.

Ollivander shuddered a bit when he caught sight of Snape, but controlled himself at once. "Your son, sir?" whispered Ollivander in a feeble sort of voice, bowing deeply, every limb in his body shaking as he did so.

"Go, boy," said Snape, ignoring Ollivander's question. Harry stepped forward and cleared his throat.

"Yes, yes," said Ollivander distractedly, gesturing for Harry to come with him into the back of the store. Harry looked to Snape for permission, and followed Ollivander after Snape gave him a nod.

"Now that I look at you," murmured Ollivander, turning to Harry with a narrow box in his hand, "I realize you look much like James Potter. Am I correct in assuming that you are his son, not Master Snape's?"

Harry wasn't too sure what to say to that, so he said nothing at all and just stared at the box as Ollivander opened it and handed the wand inside to Harry.

"Eleven inches, walnut, with a dual core of basilisk heartstring and mermaid scale. The element is water."

Harry waved it, but nothing happened. Ollivander took the wand back at once, muttering. "Your mother's wand was willow, swishy, good for Charms—well, they called it Charms back then."

Ollivander paused. Harry stared.

"The wands as I made them before were nice. Simple, but powerful. Not as powerful as dual cores, you know, and with no element, but they did well, they did very well...of course, the Dark Lord's orders must be honored. With these new wand designs, students at Hogwarts now are much more powerful than previous generations. But how much power is really necessary?"

He trailed off with a sigh, evidently done talking to himself, and handed Harry another wand.

"Twelve-and-a-quarter inches, cherry, with a dual core of thestral hair and dragon heartstring. The element is air. Good for those with an inclination for Transfiguration."

This time, the several boxes toppled out of the shelves, and Ollivander chuckled. "Temperamental, temperamental. You are quite different from your parents, I surmise."

Harry wished Ollivander was back with Snape so that he wouldn't dare make such out of place, unsettling comments. Ollivander handed him wand after wand, chattering all the while, and Harry grew steadily more irritated as the pile of rejected wands grew high.

"Are you sure," said Harry in a nasty voice, "that these are real wands?"

"Yes, yes, yes indeed," said Ollivander, positively beaming and not insulted in the slightest. "You are a tricky customer. I haven't been so entertained in years!"

Harry gritted his teeth and hoped that this torture would be over soon. No doubt Snape and Lily were getting impatient, and he didn't want to have to deal with a scolding for something that wasn't his fault.

At last, Ollivander handed Harry a wand that completely arrested him. Harry's breath caught as he admired its smooth, pure red surface. "Eleven-and-a-quarter inches, padauk wood, with dual cores of lethifold tooth and acromantula fang. Its element is shadow. A very rare element indeed, I say. Energy, time, and shadow are the three rarer elements, you know."

Harry ignored what Ollivander was saying completely and gave the wand a wave. Dark sparks erupted out of the end, showering Ollivander and making him sneeze. Warmth rushed through Harry like a desert wind, and the ends of his fingers and toes began tingling. He grinned despite the uncomfortable prickling sensation all over his body.

"Ah," said Ollivander, nodding wisely, "I thought so. If any element fit you, Mr. Potter, it would be shadow."

Harry thought Ollivander was just pretending to know anything about him, considering that he had spent half an hour handing him wands with elements other than shadow, but he was so eager to leave the store that he decided not to challenge the point.

When he emerged from the back of the store, Snape glared at him, as if it was Harry's fault this excursion had taken forever. Harry opened the box to peek at his wand again, his heart pounding, as Snape turned to Ollivander to haggle galleons at the counter.

"Your robes, then," said Snape once they were back outside on the dimly lit street. "Madam Malkin's, I believe, was closed down last year, so everything else on your supplies list we'll find in Knockturn Alley."

Harry shuffled his feet, suddenly realizing how uncharacteristic it was for Snape to be putting this much effort into shopping for Harry's school supplies. It made him uncomfortable. He didn't want to be indebted to anyone, least of all Severus Snape, who had never been the father he'd wanted. Even though he sometimes acted like one in small fits and bursts like this.

Snape took them into a side alley, and down a winding, narrow road. Soon they emerged onto a completely differently street, one that took Harry's breath away. This was Knockturn Alley, and it was glorious. There were stalls selling gaping, shriveled heads; stores whose windows displayed stuffed monsters of the most terrifying variety, jaws wide and eyes glassy; a little street-cart smelling of rubber, manned by a short, pudgy, pockmarked woman who waved a giant lollipop in Harry's face as he walked past.

It was loud here, loud and bustling, packed full of Dark wizards wearing equally dark robes, and Harry could hear swear words he had never known of intermixed with their laughter. Knockturn Alley was so much livelier, so much more real than Diagon Alley, and Harry could not keep from turning his head, dazzled by every single thing on the street.

Snape was watching Harry, looking faintly amused at his reaction. Harry quickly plastered a blank expression on his face. He was quite sure he made a very stupid picture, swiveling his head around with a wide open mouth. Even then, Harry couldn't restrain himself from going up to every shop's window and perusing the items on display—at least until Snape snapped at him to get a move on and stop holding them all back.

Almost disappointed to be entering a store and leaving the street, Harry stepped into Twilfitt and Tattings after Snape and his mother, his eyes lingering on a particularly impressive set of black robes with a hood fashioned after the head of a bat. A willowy woman with a withered old face approached Snape. "Master Snape, how nice to see you, how nice… Master Malfoy is here as well, how lovely…" She bowed deeply, still muttering.

Harry was getting very bored of this bowing-to-Snape business, and he entertained himself by looking around the store.

Almost at once, he spotted a man with long white-blond hair and angled features browsing a set of navy blue robes, a beautiful and equally blond woman at his side. The man looked up, his eyes sliding completely over Harry as if he didn't exist. He gave Snape a tight nod before gliding over to him.

Harry stared and wished he could listen to their conversation, but the employee who had greeted Snape at the entrance of the shop pulled Harry to the back, still muttering under her breath.

He stepped up onto one of the stools lining the back wall of the shop, next to a boy with pale blond hair, who was also getting measured. Harry watched him, noting that the boy had similar features to the older man who was currently talking to Snape. His nose was just as pointy, and so was his chin, but his cheekbones were soft, and his eyes were gray and big. When he turned his head slightly, revealing a very noble profile, Harry saw he had long but barely visible eyelashes.

"So, who are you?" drawled the boy, finally noticing Harry.

"Harry." Harry turned his eyes downwards, cheeks heating up rapidly, hoping that the boy hadn't caught him staring. The seamstress witch shuffled to the side to measure the length of his arms with magical measuring tape.

"Oh?" The boy raised an eyebrow. "Common sort of name, isn't that? My name is Draco. Draco Malfoy." He paused, a slight smirk on his face, as if expecting Harry to be amazed by this for some reason.

Harry scowled. "Whatever." He looked back at his shoes, teeth clenched. Draco's voice grated on his nerves.

"So that's Professor Snape, apparently, Potions Master at Hogwarts," continued Draco, still smirking as if this entire conversation was amusing on some deeper level that Harry couldn't possibly hope to understand. "You came with him, didn't you? How do you know him?"

"He's my mother's… friend," said Harry shortly, holding his arm out so that the seamstress could measure it.

Draco's eyes lit up with recognition. "Oh, so you're the Potter boy, aren't you? Father mentioned you and your mother a few times. Apparently, she's Snape's Mudblood pet. He keeps her around for entertainment"—Draco paused, curling his lip—"though I can't see why he would bother. She's not very pretty. Guess the Professor has low standards."

"You shut up about my mother, Malfoy," snarled Harry, turning to face Draco, breathing heavily. The seamstress let out a squawk of indignation as he shuffled his feet, messing up her measurements. "You don't know anything—anything about her, or their relationship."

Unimpressed, Draco stepped down from the stool. His seamstress had finished working on him. "So sorry," he sneered. "Didn't mean to insult your half-blood sensibilities."

Harry glared after Draco, who made his way to where the adults were standing, moving so smoothly that he seemed to be gliding. Harry could see more of Draco's father in him now. When he finally reached his parents, Draco's mother put a hand on his hair and simpered at him, and Harry felt his insides squirm. Lily never looked at him like that.

He fidgeted, straining to hear what they were all saying, impatient for the witch to finish working on his clothes. A minute or so later, she gave a conceding little huff. "Young master, I'm done measuring you. Wait up by the front while I assemble—"

But Harry was already hopping off the stool and making his way to the front as fast as he could, hoping that his gait wasn't jerky like it usually was. He noticed Draco watching him, one corner of his lips upturned, clearly judging him. Harry wished he could imitate the other boy's gliding walk, but he doubted he'd look anywhere near as graceful doing it even he could. At least Harry was taller. That had to count for something.

"Ah, Severus," Harry heard Mr. Malfoy say as he approached, "I'd hoped that you would have dropped the Mudblood deadweight by now."

Harry clenched his fists, stepping into place beside his mother, keeping his back straight. He couldn't believe that Mr. Malfoy was talking about Lily like this, right in front of her face. Fuming, Harry waited for Snape to defend her.

But Snape merely inclined his head. "One takes small pleasures where one must, Lucius," he said, voice smooth as butter. "Surely you understand?"

Harry stiffened, unable to believe his ears. He snuck a peek at his mother, and saw that she was tight-lipped, her gaze flitting everywhere but at Lucius Malfoy, her head bent down. She looked more aware and sane than Harry had ever seen her, and more terrified.

"Ah, but we may agree to disagree on what those small pleasures could be," said Lucius.

Harry saw Snape's eye twitch, slightly, imperceptibly.

Lucius did not notice it, having finally registered Harry's presence. He gazed down, looking even more amused than before, if that were even possible. "Potter's boy?" he chuckled. "You'll be attending Hogwarts this year, I presume?"

Harry didn't want to nod, didn't want to acknowledge this horrible man's existence, but Snape gave him a sharp nudge, and he had no choice. "Yes, sir."

"Get along with him at school, Draco," said Lucius. "You have plenty of friends. I'm sure young Mr. Potter here doesn't. Remember what I told you about being gracious to those less fortunate than you, my son."

"I remember, Father," said Draco, giving Harry a smile that didn't look like a smile at all.

Harry wanted to say something, anything. Something scathing, something so insulting that it would wipe the mask of calm superiority and arrogance right off all three of the Malfoys' faces. Instead he stared at his shoes, seething. He had never felt a hatred so deep, so vile, as this one. He hated this perfect little blond family and that perfect little Pureblood boy, and the sheer injustice of it all made him want to scream.

Two hours later, Harry's fury had simmered down.

They'd bade goodbye to the Malfoys and bought everything else on Harry's list of supplies, except for the books. Now they were in the Serpent's Spine, a vast, multi-storied bookstore half aboveground and half underground. A good amount of the books were Dark Arts books, and Harry had slipped away from his mother and Snape upstairs and barricaded himself in a tiny room lined with bookshelves on the second lower level. Now his head was currently buried in a thick tome detailing the Dark Lord's rise.

The Dark Lord brought cursed, flesh-eating rain down upon Muggle villages on the Sussex coast, decimating their population.

Harry flipped through the pages feverishly, hands shaking, more fascinated than he had ever been. He couldn't believe Lily and Snape hadn't told him about any of this, though he'd gathered enough clues from their conversations to put together a basic picture. But this book—this book had everything. It was written reverentially, as if the author had been shivering in awe as he wrote it, and portrayed the Dark Lord as a god.

But then, he was a god.

The Dark Lord cursed his chosen name, Lord Voldemort, and any who dares to speak the name out loud will burn from the inside out.

Finally, Harry reached the section in the book he was looking for. The fall of the Ministry of Magic and Hogwarts. The more he read, the faster his heart beat. Part of him was terrified. The other part of him was inspired that just one person had managed this, all this chaos.

For seven days and seven nights, the Dark Lord meditated, immersed in the darkest of rituals. He emerged from the cold silence with the ability to suck magic from the world.

In the year 1980, the Dark Lord marched into Hogwarts, shattering the ancient wards that had kept the castle protected for thousands of years, and drank Albus Dumbledore's magic until the hero of the light turned to ash. All the students and professors who fought alongside their Headmaster were rewarded first by having their magic drained, then their lives taken. Their screams were reportedly heard on live radio.

In the year 1981, on a warm Tuesday morning in April, the Dark Lord rose into the sky above the Ministry of Magic. He swallowed the magical shields surrounding the Ministry, yanked the base from out underneath it so that it collapsed deeper into the earth, and sucked the magic from every single wizard caught in the rubble. That day, a good portion of the wizarding population in Britain became Squibs.

That same day, Britain surrendered, and Lord Voldemort took his throne as the most powerful wizard in the world, and those who wished to have a part in his new age took the Dark Mark.

"There you are."

Harry hastily put the book away and turned to face Snape, who had just entered the room. "We will be leaving now."

"All right," said Harry, a bit breathless, running a hand through his hair. "Um, sir?"

Snape stared, an ugly scowl flooding his features.

"Thank you, sir. For protecting us from the Dark Lord."