This is my try on a completely different idea.
Not sure whether it's something that sparks an interest, but my attempt at a story about how life for Voldemort would be, if he was reborn as Harry Potter. I know that there are other fanfictions out there with similar topics (maybe even the same), but I have not used any of them as a model for my story!
The idea is mine. Sadly, I do not own the characters or the HP universe; those rights belong to the wonderful and amazing J.K. Rowling who made it possible for us to grow up with her magical world. :)
Enjoy the chapter and let me know, if this is something you'd like to read more about! ;)
"So it all comes down to this, doesn't it?" Harry Potter's voice was barely a whisper, but the eerie silence in the Hall made it sound loud and clear. "Does the wand in your hand know its last master was Disarmed? Because if it does… I am the true master of the Elder Wand."
Voldemort's hands were trembling. Trembling with rage, anticipation – and fear. A fear so raw and chilling, it shook him to the core with the knowledge that Harry Potter was in possession of a weapon more powerful than his. A weapon Voldemort was, at this very important, life-altering moment, holding in his hand.
No, he would not be defeated by a boy who'd survived by littering his path with the bodies of his friends; people he'd used as shields to hide behind while Dumbledore's great plan had been put into motion. But Dumbledore was dead, the old fool's corpse rotting away on these very grounds, weak and defeated.
He had triumphed! He was holding the Elder Wand in his hands, the one he'd stolen from Albus Dumbledore's grave. He had outwitted death not once, not twice but seven times!
Harry Potter would not defeat him, the greatest wizard of all time; one whose name would always be remembered with fear and respect, while the Boy Who Lived would long be forgotten by those who dared oppose him.
A red-gold glow burst suddenly across the enchanted sky above them, announcing the beginning of a new day, a new era that would see the rise of one great wizard while ending the life of another.
That bone-trembling fear was replaced by a flaming, all-consuming rage; Harry Potter was nothing compared to Lord Voldemort! He'd performed magic the boy couldn't even dream of, re-defined the very boundaries of magic itself. He would not fall today!
"Avada Kedavra!"
"Expelliarmus!"
Their spells hit in the centre of the circle with a deafening bang and a blur of red and golden flames. For a split second, Voldemort could feel the sheer power of the Elder Wand's magic cursing through his veins as the jet of green light from his own spell flew towards Harry Potter – but the look of triumph on his face turned into one of blank horror as the wand was knocked out of his hand, spinning across the enchanted ceiling and towards the master it would not kill.
Tom Riddle never saw the look of relief pass over Harry Potter's features as he caught the Elder Wand in his free hand, never heard the deafening roar of victory from the many people around them as his dead body hit the floor with a mundane finality.
.
The time Tom Riddle spent in an infinitely dark state of numbness seemed endless, the despicable remains of what had once been the brilliant mind of a young man with a promising-looking future.
He'd already begun to accept this new form of existence, concluding that it was better to live in darkness than not living at all; when all of a sudden, the numbness was mercilessly ripped away from him, opening the gate for a flood of emotions breaking down on him like a giant wave.
For a moment, all Tom could do was gasp for air, the dust entering his aching lungs making him double over with a series of violent coughs. Tears gathered in his eyes from the lack of oxygen, but he willed his body to calm down and even out his breathing.
Regaining control over his bodily functions after a few minutes, Tom started with the surveillance of his surroundings; it was dark, the space around him confined when his fingers brushed the wooden surface of a wall to both of his sides, and the air permeated with dust. To his great relief, however, he had not been locked up in a coffin, as one might conclude people would do after one's death; yet, here he was, alive and breathing, his loudly thumping heart evidence that Tom Riddle had survived a rebounding death curse.
A triumphant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. The boy had probably overlooked a Horcrux in his glorious quest to defeated the most powerful wizard of all time; a foolish mistake, but Harry Potter had never been known for his intelligence. If not for that Mudblood Granger, he wouldn't have lasted a day out in the field – maybe Tom should've gotten rid of the girl from the beginning, leaving Weasley as Potter's only companion, an even more incompetent fool than the boy himself.
Sitting up in what was obviously a bed, Tom stretched and turned his muscles. His eyes had yet to grow used to the lack of light in this place, but he didn't need to see to know that his body was unharmed – the lack of pain was evidence enough.
More concerning was the fact that his wand wasn't at his side and although Lord Voldemort didn't necessarily need one to perform magic, its presence had always been oddly comforting. The control he had over his magical core was unrivalled by anyone Tom had ever met on his long journey to greatness; except for Albus Dumbledore perhaps. But many of the old fool's tricks had come due to him being in possession of the infamous Elder Wand and Tom was almost certainly sure that, in a fair duel, he would have prevailed – his natural ability had matched the one of a man armed with the most powerful wand to ever have been created.
What sent a jolt of fear through his body once more, however, was the severely underdeveloped state of his magical core. It reminded Tom more of the one he'd expect to find in a child than the one he knew he possessed – or had been in possession of. How was this possible?
He hadn't been this weak after that fateful night in Godric's Hollow when he'd killed James and Lily Potter and failed to deliver the final blow to their one-year-old infant son.
His surroundings had slowly started to take shape, even though his vision was so blurry, Tom could hardly make out more than random silhouettes. He raised his hands to eyelevel and carefully examined them, before exhaling a shaky breath; they were distinctively smaller than those of an adult, as was the rest of his body.
The touch of his fingers felt cool against the skin of his cheekbones, his short hair was messy which could be attributed to his new body having been asleep, and there was a scar… on the middle of his forehead.
An audible gasp escaped him, his eyes wide with shock as understanding began to dawn on him. It was definitely there, the unmistakable lightning-shaped bump on his otherwise smooth skin; a reminder of the hardships this young body had endured.
Tom closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath to calm the looming storm of thoughts and emotions before it escalated to a crescendo. It was easier to maintain control over a more experienced, grown-up mind that acted more on logic than its young, still developing counterpart that was ruled mainly by feelings and impulsiveness. Right now, however, Tom Riddle needed a clear head to process and work with the information he'd just uncovered.
He deliberately chose to let a couple of minutes pass before he felt enough in control over his emotional state to summarise his theory.
Contrary to his initial belief, Tom had not escaped death; he had died in Hogwarts' Great Hall, killed by his own rebounding spell. The Elder Wand had recognised Harry Potter as its true master and refused to turn on the boy, instead targeting the hand to unrightfully wield it.
It was easy to realise the mistakes he'd made regarding Severus' loyalty, how he'd been too blind to see the truth – but Potter had so willingly opened his eyes, hadn't even considered the consequences should Lord Voldemort prevail. Of course, he hadn't, not in that world – if Tom's revised theory could be trusted.
Because as things were currently standing, Tom Riddle was certain that, not only had he died – he'd been reincarnated as the one person he'd spent so many years to destroy; Harry Potter.
The fact should have sent him into another fit of rage considering the boy had publicly humiliated and then defeated him, pointing out that his gravest mistakes had led to his own downfall. But the anger he should have felt never came. Instead, a sense of satisfaction overwhelmed him as his lips curled into a triumphant, devilish smile.
He'd been reborn as Harry Potter, the one place no-one would care to look in for Tom Riddle's soul. They would all be so preoccupied fighting Voldemort, that they wouldn't see the danger lurking inside Harry Potter's body until it was too late – and Tom wouldn't even have to put up much of an effort to achieve his goal. Knowing Dumbledore, the old fool would probably discover the Horcruxes all by himself, bringing about his own demise while doing everything in his power to protect the Boy Who Lived.
Tom had no illusions that Lord Voldemort didn't exist in this universe; the scar on Potter's, his face was proof of a killing curse gone wrong. He only had to be clever enough to not expose his true identity; there could only ever be one version of himself…
'And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...'
Those were the words Sybill Trelawny had said to Albus Dumbledore at the Hog's Head Pub, the prophecy Tom had been willing to expose himself to the Ministry for only so he could hear it. In the end, it had not helped him win but it gave him a considerable advantage now that he embodied Harry Potter.
How his soul could inhabit the body of the boy he'd unwillingly turned into a Horcrux when the killing curse backfired was anyone's guess. Tom suspected that it was possible because he hadn't done the deed, not in this world – but did it mean that Lily Potter's sacrifice would grant him the same protection as it did to her son? It was certainly an intriguing theory, one he'd continue to study as the years passed by, but it was not his primary concern right now.
The absence of a fully developed magical core, however, was, because it made him weak and vulnerable. The only protection he currently had was his new identity, but Tom was no fool; he was aware of Dumbledore's reputation as one of the greatest Legilimens of all time, knowing the older wizard could enter Potter's mind effortlessly – if Tom didn't take preventive measures, that was. And he was a master at both Occlumency and Legilimency; so adept that he could plant visions in other people's heads undetected, making them believe that what they saw was real. He'd done it to Potter in the boy's fifth year, luring him to the Ministry in the middle of the night under false pretences – and Harry Potter had not disappointed. Had it not been for Lucius' incompetence to lead a fight against a horde of students, the prophecy would have been his.
Tom scowled, his fingers unwillingly curling into fists. He really needed to get this body under control before this rollercoaster of emotions got out of hand.
Deciding that it was time to further inspect his surroundings, considering that they were most probably going to be his new home, Tom turned around in search of a source of light. He did know that Muggles used electricity to power their houses and machines, but wizards didn't need fickle inventions when they had magic at their disposal. It was one of many smaller problems he'd no doubt be facing in his immediate future; a future he'd spend redeveloping his magical core until he had a wand in his possession once again.
He found what appeared to be a switch somewhere on his right and flipped it. The harsh, bright white of the lightbulb above his head momentarily blinded him and he instinctively used his hand to shield his burning eyes.
His blurry vision cleared once Tom remembered to put on the spectacles lying on a nightstand next to the bed. He blinked a few times to get rid of the white dots dancing before his eyes, then he looked around.
His 'room', if you could call it that, was incredibly tiny. In fact, there was so little space that Tom wondered how these Muggles had managed to cramp in a small closet, a bed and a nightstand without using magic.
Turning up his nose in disgust at discovering that he apparently shared his confined space with a handful of spiders and a thin but visible layer of dust, he immediately came to the decision that Tom Riddle, Harry Potter or not, would not be living in a wooden cage.
The boy might have been clueless about his heritage, but he wasn't and even if his magical core was severely underdeveloped, he'd always had enough control over his abilities to make people do things. Not world-shaking commands however he pleased, but simple… wishes they'd simply been unable to deny and the Muggles inhabiting this house would have to comply as well. Tom just had to make sure that the changes would come gradually and non-violently; it had been his tendency toward control and darker thoughts that had alerted Dumbledore's suspicion – there was no need for a repeat, even if his new body belonged to one Harry Potter.
Another, albeit not really surprising, yet infuriating and equally amusing fact Tom discovered, was that Vernon and Petunia Dursley apparently thought they could lock him up in this room. Him, the great Lord Voldemort, detained by a simple latch?
A dry, humourless laugh escaped his lips. Perhaps he would have some fun with these Muggles, after all… Not as long as he had to stay off the radar, of course, but later…
Accidental magic was not uncommon among young wizards and witches, and the fact that Tom was already in possession of a magical core also meant that he could use it – if only very restrictively. As long as he didn't perform major magic but merely what little was normal for boys his age, he should be relatively safe.
Judging from his height and the size of his core, Tom suspected Harry to be roughly between eight and ten years old. His body was thin, perhaps a sign of malnutrition and another thing he needed to take care of, but he had no signs of other forms of physical abuse. How Potter had still been able to remain loyal to Dumbledore despite having been forced to live with his relatives was beyond him. Tom had despised the idea of having to go back to Wool's each summer; he'd eventually begun to project those feelings of hatred at the man he deemed responsible for putting him through the hardships during those weeks every year.
But Tom had learned that bullies could only be kept in check by making them fear him; and that's what he'd done to protect himself when no-one else would.
It took him more effort than expected to unlock the latch at the door and slip out into what appeared to be a small but tidy hallway. Countless pictures of the Dursley family decorated the wall opposite of the stairs leading to the upper floor; probably where the rest of Potter's relatives had their respective bedrooms.
Next to the entrance was a brass-coloured umbrella stand, five pairs of neat shoes and expensive-looking coats as well as a small, white table with a telephone, two sets of keys and a digital clock on it. The red numbers were glowing ominously in the unlit hallway that was only illuminated by the silver rays of moonlight shining through the milky glass to both sides of the door. It was 3:46 am, rather early to be awake but Tom wasn't tired or exhausted as he probably should have been after having just been killed and resurrected.
Frankly, he felt quite adventurous and bold at the moment; probably partly an attribution to his young age and the urge to explore that came with it. With no further ado, Tom quietly traversed the empty hallway and found himself in a rather spacious kitchen. It was obvious that the Dursleys possessed more money than he would've given them credit for; but the neighbourhood, the size of their house and pictures from past holiday trips to expensive-looking destinations made it quite clear that they weren't exactly poor either.
Having grown up in the Muggle world, albeit around sixty years ago, had given him some insight into their economic and political system; and Tom had had to charm his way around the non-magical society more than once. It didn't mean he liked it, it merely meant he was familiar with how they operated and knew to use it to his advantage.
The fridge was filled to the brim with food, which strongly supported his suspicions that Potter hadn't really been a welcomed addition to the family. There also were three cans of could soup labelled 'Harry' and Tom wrinkled his nose at the thought of having to eat their contents – definitely something that would have to change, if he continued to live within the safety of Dumbledore's blood spell.
Of course, there were other possibilities for him as well; such as the Black estate or another wizarding family, if he chose to make his current living conditions public, but then he'd lose the protection Privet Drive Number 4 provided. He could probably even convince Lucius Malfoy to take him in, which would place him in the direct care of a pureblooded family but then Dumbledore would either keep a very close eye on him or, more likely, put down his foot and ship him back to Potter's last remaining relatives.
Tom closed the fridge with a sigh, massaging his temples. There was much for him to consider and think about and not much room for mistrials, if he wanted to succeed in ridding this world of its version of Lord Voldemort in order to take his place – wearing the face of Harry Potter, the saviour everyone thought would come to their rescue.
Ironic, considering the lengths the boy had gone to to kill him; but why should only self-crowned heroes be granted a second chance at life? The Boy Who Lived over He Who Must Not Be Named?
What did that make him, now that Lord Voldemort inhabited the body of Harry Potter?
The Lord Who Lived? The Boy Who Must Not Be Named? Lord Potter?
He returned to the cupboard under the stairs once his self-led house tour was over and he had gotten a rough image of the place and people he was going to live with. Not that it was anything to look forward to, but it would do. With age came more liberties, he'd just have to be patient enough to not murder this entire household before Dumbledore was gone; the consequences of discovery could potentially be catastrophic – because, if Dumbledore knew his true identity, Lord Voldemort would, too.
.
Three hours later, Petunia Dursley descended the stairs to prepare breakfast for her husband and son, unlocking her nephew's lock on the way to the kitchen. A quick but decisive bump on the door was all the warning she gave for him to get up and help; otherwise she'd send him back to his cupboard without a meal. Little did she know that Harry Potter's body was no longer his own and the changes this new inhabitant would inevitably bring upon her family…
Since Tom Riddle grew up in a Muggle orphanage and was sent back there each summer, I imagine he knows a lot about their ways of living. I know that he hates them but I'd like to think that he is smart enough not to openly display those feelings, especially since he now as to navigate his way through a world with two major enemies: Dumbledore and this other version of Voldemort. :D