Y/n Potter and the Wizarding World

Scars and Invitations

The village is under a dark sky. Still as stone. a trio of tombstones all bearing
surname Riddle and the identical date of
1943.

Frank Bryce the grounds keeper sets a kettle on the stove and with his shaky hand he adjusts the flame. He leans forward, squinting to get the fire right and the window beyond him he sees Something flickers. Softly from the old manor.

Frank: Bloody kids!

He takes a flashlight and heads over to the creepy old manor. After entering the old and abandoned building, Frank hears voices coming from upstairs. He slowly climbs up the stairs trying to get a glimpse of who was in the room beyond.

??????: How fastidious you've become, Wormtail. As I recall, you once called the nearest gutter pipe home. Could it be that the task of nursing me has become wearisome for you?

As Frank reaches the upper floor, he sees Wormtail, Peter Pettigrew, speaking to an obscured man in a chair.

Wormtail: Oh, no! No, my Lord Voldemort! I only meant perhaps if we were to do it without one of the boys...

Voldemort: No, the boy is everything! It cannot be done without him! And it will be done exactly as I said!

A mysterious young man steps into view.

??????: I will not disappoint you, my Lord.

Voldemort: Good. First, gather our old comrades, send them a sign.

Suddenly a snake slithers by Frank and into the room with Voldemort. She speaks to Voldemort in Parseltongue.

Voldemort: Nagini tells me the old Muggle caretaker is standing just outside the door.

Frank steps back from the door when Wormtail walks into the doorway as smiles an ugly smile.

Voldemort: Step aside, Wormtail, so I can give our guest a proper greeting.

Wormtail smiles creepily as he steps out of the doorway.

Voldemort: Avada Kedavra!

A blast of green light hits Frank. And Y/n shoots up from his bed in a fright then lays flat on his back, breathing hard as though he had been running. He had awoken from a vivid dream with his hands pressed over his face. The old scar on his forehead, which was shaped like a bolt of lightning, was burning beneath his fingers as though someone had just pressed a white-hot wire to his skin.

He sat up once again with one hand still on his scar, he looked around the room that was lit by a faint, misty orange light that was filtering through the curtains from the street lamp outside the window.
Y/n ran his fingers over the scar again. It was still painful. He turned on the lamp beside him, scrambled out of bed, crossed the room, opened his wardrobe, and peered into the mirror on the inside of the door. A boy of fourteen looked back at him, his E/C eyes puzzled under his untidy H/C as He examined the lightning-bolt scar of his reflection more closely. It looked normal, but it was still stinging. When suddenly over his shoulder in the mirror Harry awoke from the light and eyes fixed on Y/n.

Harry: Another nightmare?

Y/n: Yeah. Sorry. Go back to sleep. Sorry I woke you.

Harry didn't move.

Harry: What was it. You know. The dream?

Y/n tried to recall what he had been dreaming about before he had awoken. It had seemed so real. . . . There had been two people he knew and one he didn’t. . . . He concentrated hard, frowning, trying to remember. . . . The dim picture of a darkened room came to him. . . . There
had been a snake on a hearth rug . . . a small man called Peter, nicknamed Wormtail . . . and a cold, high voice . . . the voice of
Lord Voldemort. Y/n felt as though an ice cube had slipped down into his stomach at the very thought. . . .