A/N: Here's the prologue. It's been re-written. It's still the same story, just with a thicker plot. The old chapters might be used later on (most likely not.) Reviews would be most welcome: ideas, opinions, constructive criticism, would all be accepted with open arms. For those of you reading this for the first time…. Go read on.
Thank-you: Thanks to my Beta reader, Lilysunshine for a wonderful job on beta-ing.
Disclaimer: Does not belong to me. If it did belong to me, I would not be here, now would I?
Note: This is the past…The Heart, Blood and Soul
Screams and confusion were all around him, this nondescript, tall, cloaked figure. Several, curses strayed towards him, but with a casual flick of his wand, the spells were deflected or absorbed. He parted through the mob like a knife through hot butter, his intent evident in his gleaming red eyes, focused on the door. So wrapped up in his goal, he did not notice the large winged creature flying overhead of the battle, giving cries of doom to the mortals beneath it. He stepped over several carcasses and finally reached the door. He grinned nastily; he turned the knob and entered the house. He closed the door and all sounds of battle from outside were cut off, leaving only a muffled rumble. Instantly, he perked his ears up and picked out the distinct sound of two infants gurgling. His grin widened. He stalked up the stairs to the rooms above. The cooing and crying became louder with each step he took. "Wormtail," he called out and swiftly, a small man, emerged out of the room on the left, carrying a bundle in his arms. Trembling, Wormtail just about dumped the small wiggling bundle into his master's arms.
"H-h-here she is milord," he stuttered out.
"Good work," Voldemort said. He looked down at the child that he held in his arms. A tiny face framed with raven black hair and emerald green eyes peered back at him. Her little fists waved around as she screwed up her face and started crying. A cold laugh escaped Voldemort's lipless mouth, causing the child to cry harder. He was about to leave when he remembered something. He took out his wand and muttered a spell that rendered Wormtail unconscious. As Voldemort left, he did not hear the tiny screams of a young baby boy with emerald green eyes and raven black hair, crying for his sister and his fate to come.
As Voldemort exited the house through the back door, he heard distinctive, hollow footsteps following him. Unconcerned, he continued walking, slipping by unnoticed, his dark cloak concealing the crying infant in his arms. He felt, rather than knew that someone or something was following him, someone or something unearthly. Taking several detours, he finally reached his destination. A stone relief of two snakes guarded the circular entrance grounded onto an inconspicuous face of the hill, upon which an imposing castle stood, a haven for the innocent. Voldemort hissed in parseltongue and the two serpents sprang to life. They slithered apart revealing a widening hole. He entered into the chamber.
Inside, a great blaze flared up in the blackened stone hearth, licking the mantle above and yet leaving no scorch marks. The stones and the fire radiated an intense, unearthly heat. The infant in the tall cloaked figure's arms stirred. The fire suddenly flared up, showing its impatience. And from deep within the flames itself, a low, hoarse, spine-chilling voice boomed out.
"The child. Now."
Out of nowhere, an altar-like table appeared in front of the insistent fire. The tall figure glided to it and gently placed the crying baby on it. Immediately, the fire leapt out and engulfed the crying girl in its fiery arms. Unholy screeches arose from the turbulent enveloped flames; the cries of the little girl could be heard as well. In the heart of the inferno, the dark shape of the girl could be seen writhing in pain as the incorporeal mist danced around her. Finally, with an eerie glow, the fire receded. A silvery mist hung around the child. Above the gradually withdrawing din of the roaring fire, a cooing could be heard. The mist lifted, revealing a vaporous, pale hand over her heart before it too melted into the air. There, unscathed, on the table scorched black, laid the little infant girl gurgling and waving her arms and legs happily. Voldemort walked over and inspected her. No telltale mark of the unholy encounter was found, except for her left eye that had deepened into an amethyst violet and a small lightning bolt shaped scar over her tiny, beating heart.
"Ah yes, my little changeling," he whispered, satisfied.