Malignantly Cursed

2

Voldemort didn't know what to do.

He contemplated ignoring the prophecy altogether. They were self-fulfilling. If he never heard it, he wouldn't set the actions in motion needed to complete it.

But it wasn't the prophecy that scared him was it?

Voldemort pulled his pocket watch out and glanced at it.

No, it was Rose.

He wasn't scared before but now he saw her everywhere. He should have never goaded her, he should have never killed the Potters. They were old—they would have died soon anyway.

If this baby was Rose, he had to get rid of her. He had to now, before it grew up. Last time he didn't kill a Potter because he was still young, the boy went and married the woman with whom he secured his downfall.

He could not make the same mistake again. She was still a baby. It was wrong on so many levels to kill a baby—even he knew that, knew it well. But she posed a greater threat than other babies, didn't she?

He would kill her parents first. Potters were the bane of existence, but they were not invincible. He would kill the parents, as he wanted to for a long while, kill the baby, and possibly mourn the death of Rose number two—depending on how he felt after he made his final Horcrux.

Voldemort closed his hand over the pocket watch. Making Horcruxes were his way of comforting himself that Rose couldn't touch him. The more that stood between him and death, the better he felt.

He would use Harriet's death to make his last one, the pocket watch. It would be his most symbolic Horcrux. It would set in stone how undefeatable he was.

***

The Potters knew he was after them, because of Dumbledore. They were also under heavy protection, because of Dumbledore.

But he prevailed. He found a crack in their strong support system and he pushed his way in and jumped at the opportunity to attack them. The moment Peter Pettigrew whispered the location of the Potters' house into his ear, he went.

He stood outside their quaint Godric's Hollow cottage. It was near a Muggle town, where the Muggle children were trick-or-treating.

The fact that it was Halloween night should have tipped him off. After all, it was on this day, twenty-eight years ago, that he ruined Rose's life. Voldemort was growing overly superstitious and paranoid, he should turn away and come back tomorrow. It was a sign reminiscent of that fateful night and he shouldn't feed into fate's hand.

His desperation shadowed superstition.

It was now or never. Peter was a rat Animagus, if he found a way to escape and went to Dumbledore, there was no way Voldemort would ever be able to get his hands on the Potters ever again.

He unlocked the door.

James Potter stared at him, wide-eyed and frozen. Wandless. The fool.

He shouted for his wife to grab Harry and run.

Voldemort killed him on the spot, without any remorse. He felt the weight on his shoulder lighten a bit. Another Potter dead.

His eyes flicked up the stairs, where the wife was bounding up, running to their baby. Voldemort calmly followed. His actions were almost robotic. She would not get away. He set up Anti-Apparition wards, as well as several others to prevent their escape.

She realized this, as she was cradling the baby in her arms and crying in fear. Voldemort's figure blocked the light spilling into the dark nursery.

Lily put the baby Harriet, or Harry as they liked to call her, in her crib and stood protectively in front of her, begging for mercy.