Gryffindor's Legacy

CHAPTER ONE - When Lightning Strikes

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...

What Power? I haven't got any power.

...born to those who have thrice defied him,

My parents, I never knew them, because of him. No, because of me. He was after me that night. They died trying to protect me. They sacrificed themselves... for me.

...born as the seventh month dies...

I've never really celebrated my birthday - there's no point. I shouldn't be celebrating anything.

...and the Dark Lord will mark him as an equal,

My scar, a blessing and a curse all rolled in one. The mark I was left with on the night my parents died, almost sixteen years ago. The mark that shows I survived the Killing Curse. The mark that shows others who I am, The- Boy- Who- Lived.

...but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not...

What power? Tell me what power!

...and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...

To kill or be killed that is my destiny - my fate.

...the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies...

**~*~**

Nothing could be seen except for darkness, which fell across the eyes. Nothing could be heard for the amount of pressure that was placed upon the ears. Nothing could be spoken for the air stifled the voice. It was as if an unforeseen magic force was squashing life and everything associated with it. Destroying the world and destroying all of the peoples hope.

A small light flickered in the distance, just for a second, but enough to relight the hope that burned inside. It flickered again, this time remaining for a second longer. A tall figure was by its side, but before the figure could be recognised as being an animal or a plant, the light went out again, and darkness resumed.

The light came on again, a single bright but blurred light. It danced around in the darkness, casting shadows over many tall figures. They were trees, tall with numerous branches that reached up and out, some looking like hands reaching back for the earth at anything that might walk by them.

Closer, the blurred light's outline smoothed. It became a small dot of light, sitting upon something that guided its path as it danced. The light cast itself out from the centre, bathing more then just trees in its glow. It danced from a wooden stick - a wand, held by whiter then white fingers that were thin, long and spidery. It cast a narrow path of light on the ground. The path led to a clearing, and in the clearing stood two figures, both in black robes.

The wand light reflected on the back of someone's head. A head full of raven black hair glistened in the light for he was knelling in its path, his back towards the entrance of the clearing. His head was bowed and he had wrapped his arms around his body to make his frame smaller. He was shaking slightly from the cold and from the fear that had built up inside of him. But there was no mistaking the figure that he knelt before. Lord Voldemort, the darkest and most feared wizard of the time.

His livid red eyes gleamed with delight as he looked down at his captive, his eyes stood out against the whiteness of his skin, almost the colour of a skull. His thin lips on the snake like face were twisted into a smirk that nearly made them vanish completely. His nostrils on his flat nose were wide, smelling the fear from his quarry.

"At last, I have you and this time. There is no escape." Voldemort sneered in his high-pitched voice that sent shivers through his captive. He laughed callously at the look of fear upon the victim's face.

"At last, I can do with you what I please," he mocked again and dug his wand under the other's chin, forcing the head up so his prisoner had to lock eyes with him. Brilliant, wide, emerald green eyes stared into furious red.

"What do you want from me?" the other asked hoarsely, grimacing as the wand dug further into the skin under his chin, trying to hide the panic in his voice.

"I want you..." Voldemort trailed off, playing with his prey.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?" he screamed.

"I just want... you... Harry Potter."

The wand's light turned green, and the light hit Harry in his chest.

**~*~**

"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

A boy of nearly sixteen years of age was screaming from the nightmare that greeted him almost every night he slept. He had awoken his Aunt, Uncle and Cousin from their own sleep and now his Uncle, an enormous bulk of a man with no neck and a thick moustache, which was beginning to grey with age and stress, came bursting through the boy's bedroom door, cursing at the top of his lungs at his screaming nephew. But the boy didn't wake, he continued to scream and thrash in his bed, entangling his body in the covers and he was drenched in sweat.

His Uncle stood over the bed, looking down at the boy, a look of horror on his face as the boy continued to holler. He wasn't sure what to do, stop this by waking the lad up? But that would mean he would have to touch the boy, and what if he used ma... after all, this boy was a Wiz..., underage or not.

His uncle shuddered; he didn't even want to think about that.

Vernon, do something! He'll wake the neighbours up," his wife hissed from the door, for she was more concerned about what their neighbours might think than about the boy's welfare, even though it was hardly likely that the neighbours would hear. He looked at her, she was clinging to a dressing gown that she had wrapped around her skinny frame and she pulled up the collar to conceal her long neck, making sure she didn't trap her blonde hair within it. His son was also there, almost as stocky as his father now, peering over his mother's shoulder, eyes wide but calculating what was going on with his cousin, no doubt he would use it against him at a later date.

Slowly, Vernon Dursley lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, reaching out for the boy. He hesitated as his hands were about to touch him then he roughly grabbed hold of the boy by the upper arms, pulling him up, he began shaking the boy hard.

"Wake up! Wake up!" he shouted at the boy, still shaking him with every word. The boy resisted some more, fighting against the hold Vernon had on him.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?" he screamed again and his eyes snapped open, startling Vernon. But before Vernon could let go and jump up, a surge of energy built up between them and Vernon yelped with pain and quickly pulled his hands from the arms. Harry crashed back down onto his bed, hitting his head so hard against the wall that everyone grimaced from the impact. Vernon jumped off the bed, yelping and holding his hands out in front of him; they were red and blistered as though they had been burned.

"That blasted boy!" Vernon shouted at his wife as she ran over to him to nurse his wounds. She then looked at her nephew, who was sitting up now, wide awake. He had raised his hands to his head, but placed them on the scar and not where he had cracked it on the wall. His face was twisted with pain, his eyes watering. She left her husband's side to see what was wrong with him.

"What's wrong?" she asked coldly, folding her arms across her chest.

"Nothing," he muttered, pulling his hand away from his scar and his face going impassive. "I'm fine," he added steadily.

"Good, then maybe we can all get some sleep," she retorted, turning back to her husband and pushing him and her son out of the room and closing the door behind them.

The boy sighed and fell back against his bed, careful not to bang his head again on the wall. He stared up at the dark ceiling, just being able to make out the pattern painted onto it. He sighed again and sat back up, flinging his legs over the edge of the bed and he untangled them from the sheets, throwing them aside before he stood up. He then stretched and yawned to rid himself of any sleep that remained in his body and to release the tension that stiffened his muscles after sleeping in that uncomfortable bed.

He stood there in the shadows of his small and plain room, staring out into a world that he didn't feel like he belonged to but he had to endure it for six more weeks of the remaining summer holidays. It had become hot and sticky during the summer and now thunder clouds gathered on this particular night to release some of the tension in the humid air. Lightning struck something on the horizon, turning the glass of the window into a mirror and he saw his own reflection looking back at him

A mane of thick, jet black hair framed his thin and scrawny face, his cheekbones and jaw line clearly visible. His hair was almost down to his shoulders at the back and falling into his eyes at the front, and if he looked hard enough he could make out his scar on his forehead, red and sore against his pale skin. Bright and watchful emerald green eyes gazed back at him, narrowed on the spot that the lightning outside was striking. They blinked as did his own and the lightning faded along with his reflection.

He stood there, waiting, the thunder roared across the clouds.

One... Two...Three...Four...Five...Six...BANG!

Lightning struck in the exactly same place as before, but that wasn't supposed to happen. It was a Muggle term, 'Lightning never strikes in the same place twice'. But he had just witnessed that it did, and he reached up to his scar, which still pulsated painfully from his dream. His dream in which he had died from the killing curse. He traced the scar with his finger, a lightning bolt. What if his dream was true and what if 'lightning' did strike him twice?

With a sigh, Harry looked away from the window and at the empty cage that stood on his desk. His owl, Hedwig, had been gone for three days now and hopefully she was taking refuge somewhere, protected from the storm. He knew Hedwig was clever and sensible, she wouldn't risk her own life, but it didn't stop him from worrying. Outside of Hogwarts, his school, Hedwig was his only friend.

His mind turned to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; he was six weeks away from entering his sixth year. But this year, he really didn't want to return, for life there had changed for the worse and terrible things had happened at the end of last year. Things were revealed to him that he wished he hadn't been told of. But then he also wished they had been told to him earlier. Then Sirius would still...

He couldn't think about that. He wouldn't allow himself to think about that for every time he did, his heart broke a little bit more, and he didn't know how much more heartache he could handle. But he couldn't block it out of head this time; it clouded his mind and his senses.

He stared at the wall as the image of his late godfather, Sirius Black, was hit in the chest by a curse that didn't kill him, but it had knocked him off his feet and he had fallen to his death through the Veil in the Department of Mysteries in the Ministry of Magic. And it had been his fault. If he had never fallen for Voldemort's trap, if he had never believed in the dream that Voldemort had sent him that day, then Sirius would still be here, waiting at Number Twelve, Grimmauld place for Harry's return to the Wizarding World when Dumbledore would allow it.

Another sigh escaped Harry's lips, but it was a heated one this time - more of a huff. It had escaped him because he had thought of Dumbledore, the wizard who had hidden the truth from him for so long. The truth of how Voldemort had came to want his life and why Voldemort had taken his parents'. He seemed to bring only death to those who cared for him and those he cared for in return. So he really couldn't blame Dumbledore, even though the old man had tried to put some of the blame of Sirius' death upon himself.

Harry pulled off his too small pyjama's that stuck to his body with sweat, and rummaged through his trunk that he kept all of his belongs in to find some clothes. A plain white t-shirt that was too big for him but it barely reached his waist and a pair of faded jeans, the bottom of the legs only reaching his mid-calves but the waist hanging upon his hips for it was enormous. They had belonged to Dudley, his cousin, a few years ago and had been passed on to Harry, like all of his other Muggle clothing, none ever fit him properly, and his sudden growth spurt hadn't helped matters either.

He slipped his old, holey and mouldy trainers on and turned back to his bed. He pushed his pillow to the side and picked up the eleven inch thin stick of wood, Holly wood and Phoenix feather, to be exact, and slipped it into his pocket. It was his wand, the one thing all wizards were told to carry with them at all times, and after all, Harry Potter was a Wizard.

He then grabbed his round glasses from the desk, knocking a stack of unopened letters from his friends onto the floor. As he placed the glasses on his nose, he glanced down at the stack but didn't retrieve them from the floor. Instead he crossed the room in two steps, unlatched the window and opened it up. As he swung a leg over the edge and grabbed hold of the newly erected drainpipe, he cast one last glance at the letters before sliding down onto Number Four, Privet Drives driveway.

He stumbled backwards as he landed on his feet; he wobbled and managed to turn in the effort to steady himself. But still he stumbled forward, towards his Uncle's brand new company car. He had to bend and rock on tiptoes over the car's bonnet to avoid slamming into it and setting the alarm off. He had already awoken them once and if he did it again, tomorrows treatment would be the worse he had ever received in his life.

He sighed and slowly straightened up as he bounded over to the path beside the driveway. With one last glance at the front door of Number Four, he took off up the path with great speed; heading for the park situated a few streets away. He often did this at night and he would just sit on the swings, staring into space, trying to become lost in the part of his mind that wasn't filled with Voldemort or the death of Sirius.

As he sat upon a swing, rocking gently backwards and forwards as he wrapped his arms around the chains and stared at a patch of grass that looked black against the night sky. The clouds rumbled overhead again and out of the corner of his eye he caught the bright flash of lightning, the storm had moved closer.

He looked up at the clouds as yet another rumble passed through them. The clouds were black and grey but as the thunder roared, dull reds, blues and purples followed its path before another bolt of lightning stuck just feet away. He jumped to his feet to escape the storm but as he did, the heavens opened up and cool refreshing summer rain pounded down upon the earth and upon him.

He stopped and looked up at the sky, watching the dark clouds turn pearly white as they released their load. He allowed the rain to soak him to the bone as if it would wash all the unpleasantness away, but no matter how long he stood there, he never felt clean.