Hero of None

Prologue

In the end, it had been pathetically easy for Voldemort to get into the house of his nemeses. Potter Cottage had been ill-protected, almost suspiciously so, and aside from the Fidelius ward, easily bypassed with Wormtail's assistance, there was nothing else, no complex enchantments that he would've loved to pick apart, nothing worthy of the "Great" Albus Dumbledore, anyway.

The Dark Lord Voldemort stood opposite the cottage, retaining his harsh, vice-like grip on Wormtail's arm, digging his nails onto soft skin, relishing in the soft whimper of pain that his action elicited. His lips peeled back in a grotesque mockery of a grin, as he strode forward, his movements resembling that of a predator seeking its prey. He set a brisk pace, his leather boots meeting the cobbled pavement with ominous clicks.

He heard the telltale crack of Disapparation behind him, signifying Wormtail's departure from the home of his friends, whom he had so pathetically betrayed. Oh, how hard it was for the illustrious Order of the Pheonix to snuff out a rat from its midst.

Upon reaching the residence of the Potters, he idly noted the shadow cast by three silhouettes upon the window -- two of which seemed far smaller than the last, his true targets of the night -- instead of the expected four but continued without pause, his yew wand twirled idly between pale fingers, belaying his confidence bordering on arrogance.

In one fluid motion, he had blasted the door clean through its hinges, the splinters of wood moving with such a force that they embedded themselves into the floral patterned wallpaper of the house.

He turned toward the woman, the Mudblood, who faced him with only a hint of fear in her otherwise steady stance, her wand pointed toward him. He noticed how she hid her children behind her and might have even commended her for her foolishness, her useless bravery that would inevitably falter in his hands, had he more time on his hands. Instead, he was running on a time constraint, and held back his comments.

"Lily Potter," He addressed the Mudblood, keeping Severus' request in mind, "You needn't die tonight. Lord Voldemort does not wish to spill any needless magical blood tonight. Step aside, and you may live freely in my reign." He declared, his voice soft and coaxing, as though dealing with a cornered animal. He employed as much charm as he could afford to, keeping his stance deliberately loose so as to avoid an unnecessary altercation. The duel could come in time, when the with would undoubtedly fail to comply with his perfectly reasonable demands. While he had promised protection to the Witch, his temper still remained quick to rise and impossible to quell. While he hardly ever seemed visibly enraged any more, his anger was clear beneath his carefully manufactured actions, in the bite to his words. It simmered beneath the surface near perpetually, all too willing to rise and escape, crashing down in waves at the offender. If the witch aggravated him, he would doubtlessly respond in kind.

The Mudblood frowned but didn't move from her position, but steadied her wand, pointing it right at his chest. Pity, she could have been a promising recruit, but he digressed. Squaring his shoulders and settling into his reputedly unconventional dueling stance, Lord Voldemort allowed some of his magic to flood the air, if only to intimidate the woman, to serve as a warning for the suffering she would face if she continued with her folly. Still, the stubborn Witch refused to move. She cast first, flicking her wand in a quick, well-practiced motion after a few tense seconds, and Voldemort made to deflect the dull pink hex that shot through the air almost idly,  and so the duel was on. 

Spells shot through the air at unimaginable speeds, neither party willing to give up easily, though the witch seemed to sense that Lord Voldemort was simply toying with her. Indeed, his boredom was palpable, as was his wicked amusement as he stood still, flicking his wand dully in slow, deliberate movements, only parrying her barrage of curses and hexes, both lethal and not. He hadn't even bothered to cast a shield, relying on his skills honed through ample experience to warn him of when a spell would hit. He purposefully let her tire out, watching as the rage dimmed in her eyes, slowly replaced by the familiar glint of fear and apprehension he had become acquainted, and had come to await almost keenly in his many years of existence.

Voldemort, growing tired of playing with his prey, shot a deep blue curse curse at her legs, watching as she -- predictably -- dodged the curse recognizing it to be relatively harmless to her, and wishing to save her energy for the truly threatening curses.

The hex shot past her, lodging itself square into the red headed child's cheek, who slumbered despite the ensuing chaos.

In response to this, Lily Potter growled in anger, continuing her spell-fire, to no avail. It was evident that she was simply too exhausted to continue any longer.

Eventually, she came to a stop, her chest heaving with rapid gasps of breath. She slouched defeatedly, grip loose on her wand. Then, Lord Voldemort struck, his movement poised and calculated, belaying his many years of practice. He flicked his wand, and a rich wine-red curse exited, doubly faster than the Witch's own spells. It struck her directly in her head, and she flew back, crashing into the wall with a sickening crack, sliding down onto the floor, her blood quickly staining her hair darker than it's original deep red shade.

Amidst all this commotion, one of the children had awoken. He had the same unruly, distasteful hair of his sire and the captivating green eyes that he had just witnessed the light exit from, though the child had had brighter green eyes that shone even in the dull light of the house, eerily similar to the shade of the Killing Curse. The child seemed to have noticed his mother on the ground, limp, with blood coating her head. His lips had begun to quiver, eyes becoming glossy with unshed tears. Lord Voldemort, who did not want to deal with a crying toddler, quickly took aim, pointing his bone-white wand at the child, slashing through the air in the familiar shape of a lightning bolt.

The Killing Curse struck true, landing on his heart, the nearby skin darkening with the after-effects of a dark curse. The toddler slumped onto his seat, his expression permanently contorted in grief.

Then, something unexpected happened. An excruciating pain shot through Voldemort's chest, from so deep within that it lay beyond human reach. It felt as though his very soul was being torn apart, far more painfully than when he had created a horcrux.

It had been Voldemort's plan to create a Horcrux, aided by the death of the Potter children. He had already laid out the required materials and had finished the ritual beforehand. The only thing remaining was to commit the crime that would sever his soul and complete his set of seven. Voldemort was meant to have succeeded where no one else had. He was meant to have secured his immortality.

And he had succeeded in his endeavor. Voldemort had split his soul for the seventh time by tearing apart an innocent family to ensure his own longevity. The tiny sliver of his soul that had  broken apart flew to the closest magical object unbeknownst to its owner, lodging itself firmly into Harry Potter's scar.

Immediately, Voldemort doubled over as intense pain overtook him, clouding his senses with its intensity. His knees buckled, and he fell to the hard wooden floor, small whimpers of pain escaping his lips. Suddenly, his back arched, as his soul, too small to possibly anchor itself onto a human body, forcefully exited via his slacked mouth, leaving his body to fall to the ground, lacking any of the grace he had been so proud to possess in his life.

On that night, the thirty-first of October, nineteen eighty-one, Wizarding Britain rejoiced over their newfound freedom gained through the death of the oppressor Lord Voldemort at the hands of the Boy-Who-Lived, Heath Potter, who was celebrated as the savior of the country.

As for his twin? Harry Potter had been thoughtlessly abandoned, left at the mercy of his non-magical relatives.