Halloween had always amused Tom Riddle, a fleeting smile flickering as he relished the chaos and darkness that suited his cold, calculating mind.
Masks. Illusions. Children pretending to be monsters while monsters walked freely among them. There was a poetry to it, a symmetry that appealed to his sense of order. Tonight, that poetry would be perfected.
Godric's Hollow lay quiet beneath a fractured autumn moon, unaware of the darkness lurking within, as villagers drifted in their false sense of safety, unaware of the evil approaching.
None of it mattered.
Tom arrived without sound, reality folding inward as he stepped out of nothingness at the edge of the lane. His boots touched cobblestone, and the world did not notice. He stood tall, black robes settling around him like a living shadow, the silver clasp at his throat catching moonlight for a brief, cold instant.
He lifted his wand.
A precise flick of the wrist, subtle, economical. Power spiraled outward, invisible but absolute.
"Muffliato Maxima," he murmured.
The silencing ward expanded in a perfect dome, swallowing sound whole. The wind died. Crickets froze mid-song. Even the distant laughter vanished, as though the village itself had drawn a breath and forgotten how to release it.
Isolation achieved.
Tom began to walk.
Each step was unhurried, deliberate. He did not need to rush. The Fidelius Charm had been a clever defense, but cleverness failed when loyalty rotted. Peter Pettigrew's secret burned in Tom's mind like a map etched into flesh. The house stood before him, ordinary and unremarkable, a small two-story structure nestled between hedges and illusion.
James Potter was inside.
Lily Potter.
And the child.
Tom stopped several paces from the door. He raised his wand again, this time higher, the movement sharp and decisive. His fingers twisted, drawing a tight sigil through the air.
"Confringo."
The spell detonated not as a simple explosion, but as focused destruction. Blue-white energy compressed, then erupted outward in a thunderless shockwave. The door did not merely shatter. It folded inward, splintering into fragments that burned as they flew, scattering across the entryway like embers from a dying star.
Tom stepped through the smoke and rubble as though walking through mist.
The house smelled of magic and fear.
James Potter stood at the foot of the stairs.
He had his wand in hand, but Tom immediately noted the flaw. No shield already raised. No pre-cast enchantments. Too slow. Too emotional. James's magic burned bright, but undisciplined, like a bonfire left to consume itself.
James stared at him, eyes wide, jaw clenched.
"So it's you," James said, voice shaking with fury rather than fear. "Get out of my house."
Tom regarded him coolly.
"Where is the child?" Tom asked, his voice calm but edged with a cold hunger, as his mind raced with the possibilities and the purpose behind this act.
James's grip tightened around his wand. "Go to hell."
Such a small, human response.
James moved first.
"Expelliarmus!"
The spell tore from James's wand in a streak of red light, fast and forceful. Tom did not step aside. He did not flinch.
His wand moved in a tight arc, wrist snapping sharply upward.
"Protego."
The shield bloomed instantly, a translucent hexagonal barrier flaring into existence with a low harmonic hum. James's spell struck it and dispersed in a shower of red sparks, sliding harmlessly off the surface like rain against glass.
James did not hesitate.
"Stupefy!"
Another bolt of crimson shot forward, followed by a third spell, wordless, wild, blue, and crackling.
Tom's eyes narrowed.
His wand blurred.
A flick left, a twist, then a downward cut through the air.
"Expulso."
The force spell detonated mid-air, colliding with James's attacks and tearing them apart in a violent burst of pressure. The resulting shockwave slammed into James like a physical blow, lifting him off his feet and hurling him backward into the wall.
James hit hard.
Blood sprayed from his mouth as he crumpled, his wand skittering across the floor, coming to rest near Tom's feet.
Tom stepped forward and crushed it beneath his heel.
James tried to rise. He failed.
Tom raised his wand again, not bothering to speak this time. His wrist rolled smoothly, a fluid, almost lazy motion.
A narrow jet of force struck James square in the chest, pinning him to the wall. Bones cracked. James gasped, choking on his own breath.
Tom leaned closer.
"Where is the child?" he asked again, voice quiet.
James spat blood. "You'll never touch him."
Tom sighed.
"Avada—"
He stopped himself.
Killing James here would gain him nothing. The child was upstairs. He could hear the crying now, thin and sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade.
Tom turned away, leaving James slumped and bleeding against the wall, barely conscious.
He ascended the stairs.
Each step creaked softly beneath his boots. The house seemed to shrink around him, walls pressing inward, magic trembling like a living thing sensing a predator too great to fight.
The crying grew louder.
At the top of the stairs, a door stood half-open.
Light spilled out, warm and golden.
Tom entered.
Lily Potter stood between him and the crib.
She had no wand in her hand. Her magic flared instinctively, raw and untrained, a desperate shield formed of nothing but love and terror. Her green eyes burned as she stared at him, defiant despite the tremor in her limbs.
"Please," she said. "Take me instead. Kill me. —Leave him alone."
Tom studied her.
So this was the woman Severus Snape had begged for.
He felt… nothing, yet a flicker of curiosity stirred within him, questioning the true nature of the child and his own purpose.
"I have no interest in you," Tom said calmly. "Stand aside."
She did not move.
"I won't," Lily said. "You'll have to kill me."
Tom's patience thinned.
He flicked his wand, a short, brutal movement.
"Depulso."
The spell struck Lily like an invisible fist. She flew backward, slamming into the wall with a sickening crack. Her head snapped sideways as she hit, and she collapsed to the floor in a boneless heap, unconscious.
The room fell silent save for the child.
The crib was shielded by a faint, shimmering magic, a fragile barrier that hinted at the child's vulnerability and the danger he faced.
The boy stared back at him.
Bright green eyes. Too bright. Too aware.
For the first time that night, something twisted in Tom's chest. Not fear. No doubt.
Recognition.
The child's magic flared instinctively, weak but defiant, clinging to him like static electricity. Tom felt it brush against his own power and recoil, as though it had been burned.
Interesting.
He stepped closer, looming over the crib.
This was the child of the prophecy.
A weapon, perhaps.
Or a tool.
Tom considered possibilities with the speed of a blade sliding into place. Raise him. Bind him. Twist the prophecy itself, turn destiny into a leash.
The child gurgled, tiny fingers curling around the blanket.
Tom raised his wand.
A pause.
He did not know why he hesitated. Perhaps it was arrogance. Perhaps curiosity. Maybe some distant echo of the boy he had once been, staring back at himself from the other side of time.
"Forgive me," Tom murmured, more to the universe than the child.
His wand lifted, perfectly steady.
"Avada Kedavra."
Green light erupted from the wand's tip, a killing curse shaped by flawless intent and absolute certainty. It streaked forward, filling the room with emerald brilliance.
And then—
It shattered.
The curse struck an invisible barrier around the child and rebounded violently, twisting, screaming, folding back upon itself. Tom's eyes widened as the world seemed to fracture.
Pain, unlike anything he had ever known, tore through him.
The curse slammed into his chest, detonating inward. His body convulsed as magic ripped itself free, soul-tearing like wet parchment. He screamed, the sound ripped from him against his will, as his vision exploded into white.