Screams.
That was the first sound I ever heard from my new parents — not laughter, not love. Screams and the crackle of green light bursting through the walls.
Death Eaters.
In my crib, I lay helpless, too small to move, too new to this world to even lift my head. Yet my mind raced — adult consciousness trapped in an infant's form.
They fought bravely, my parents. My father's shields glittered emerald, and my mother's spells burned with fiery precision. But there were too many robed figures, too much killing intent. A sickening thud. A final gasp.
And then… silence.
Don't cry, I ordered myself. If they think you're dangerous… or useless… they will end you.
The door creaked again. Coldness filled the air like a storm. Every Death Eater bowed low.
Lord Voldemort stepped into the room.
He tread over the bodies of my parents without a glance, his snake-like features illuminated by moonlight. When his red eyes fell upon me, something strange flickered in them — curiosity? Recognition?
He lifted me gently.
"…A Black," he murmured. "And… Slytherin's blood."
Of course. In this era, the Black family still served him loyally. My lineage placed me as his cousin — however distant. I didn't scream. I didn't resist. I only stared up at him, studying the monster destined to become my… caretaker?
He observed me thoughtfully, and in that moment, I saw calculation — but also something disturbingly close to affection.
With a snap of his fingers, a glamour shimmered across his form — the serpentine visage melted away, revealing the sharp, handsome young lord he once was.
"So tiny," he whispered. "Yet full of potential."
He wrapped me in his black cloak and carried me away as his followers torched the house behind us.
I was not placed in an orphanage.
I was placed in Voldemort's private manor.
Potions slipped into every bottle I was fed. Warm arms held me, yes — but magic was always in the milk: loyalty potions, obedience runes, mind-softening enchantments.
They wanted a weapon.
They wanted me.
And yet… I did not feel hatred. I knew the future. I knew what would come. Voldemort would rise, and Voldemort would fall, undone by a prophecy and a baby with a lightning scar.
Unless… I changed the script.
Help Voldemort win.Save myself a lifetime of war.Rule the wizarding world beside the most powerful sorcerer alive.
But—
There was still a small voice, buried deep beneath the power and ambition.
I wasn't an evil person before.Was I?
Pureblood dominance was reprehensible… mostly. But there was truth hidden in arrogance: ancient families did produce stronger magic, deeper reserves, richer blood. And I was crafted to be perfect. The strongest talent set in history. The pinnacle of Slytherin ambition.
I was born for greatness.
Why should I deny destiny?
The Dark Lord approached my crib one night, eyes glowing with victory. His robes smelled of smoke and death.
"The wizarding world is about to change," he whispered to me. "A prophecy has surfaced. And I will destroy the child who would oppose me."
Harry Potter.
The name echoed through me like thunder.
So it begins.
I couldn't speak — but my gaze was unwavering. Voldemort smiled.
"You will grow strong, little one. Stronger than anyone. And one day… you will stand at my right hand."
He placed his wand against my tiny forehead — a mark of blessing, not curse — and I felt something ancient coil within me. Power. Darkness. Purpose.
I would shape the future.
Whether the world liked it or not.