Title: Lord of Magic

Author: Claire

Rating: K+

Pairings: None

Genre: General

Warnings: Spoilers, I guess, but basically any Harry Potter fanfiction has spoilers…

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to JKR.

Another story, but this one follows story format a bit closer than the last. Other than that, please enjoy the story!

From a very young age, Magic spoke to me.

Well, perhaps 'spoke' is the wrong word.

It whispered to me, guided me, and showed me the way. I was it's favourite. It didn't hiss like the snakes. Magic wasn't so crude as to need sound to communicate its will.

When people, the Muggles, tried to hurt me it would protect me. Later it would give me my revenge. It loved me.

I was Magic's favourite.

Its child.

Its lord.

When the wizards came, picked me up from my hellhole, I knew it was my calling.

My destiny.

My world.

I would do great things – the wand maker said so. My wand, phoenix feather, was powerful.

It was yet another sign of Magic's love for me.

To this day I don't know why Magic chose me. Was it my own power? My resilience? My fate?

But I couldn't help thinking that perhaps I chose it.

Did I choose to create this world of Magic – my world? Did Magic come into existence by my insistence?

I rather thought so, at one point.

But now, so many years later…

I went through school, got good grades, etc., etc., ad nauseum. I was respected by my peers, and cherished by my teachers. I wanted to learn more about my Magic, my world. I would one day come into my power, after all.

At first I wanted to stay at my school, my home, where the Magic felt so strong, but when I was cast out I decided it was for the better. I travelled the world, finding magic everywhere I went.

But I wanted more.

In Albania, I found dark secrets beyond belief. It was there that Magic became playful and taunting, teasing me with knowledge of Death and destruction, only to shove it behind it's back, saying it would only teach me if I completed a list of the most mundane tasks it could think of, only to tell me at the end of a weary day that no such knowledge or spell or potion or idea existed. Then the next day I would find myself with an epiphany on how to work that same magic it had said impossible. Smug, I would laugh; call it wrong and not so powerful, after all. Then it would listen, as I explained how my thought came from something I had done the day before, then watch in dawning horror as it gloated over one-upping me again.

In Egypt, I rediscovered ancient texts of rituals and runes. It was here Magic became sombre. It was sentimental as it lovingly showed me the days of the old pharaohs, the days in which it was worshipped as Gods. I spent years there, directing Magic with a cracking whip on what directions it teachings should next follow, whilst it trailed on behind, captured in memory.

I was driven. Magic lagged behind. But somehow, by its nature, it managed to stay with me every second of every day of every week of every month…

In Russia I spent two months dedicating myself to Fiend Fire, and another month on lesser spells of fire. In Russia, Magic was powerful, burning with desire and strength as we crashed through villages of Muggles just for the fun of striking them down. Together we laughed at the sport. By the end of the three months I could walk through the beasts of my Fire and they would nuzzle me, brush past me, choke me just to be near me. But they would not burn me.

In the Himalayas Magic was at peace. We trekked on the winds through many a country, passing in blizzards and avalanches, smiling serenely as villages froze. I studied secrets of the mind as Magic taught me with detached patience. Disconnected by the glacial barriers around my head, I was callous, no longer feeling the passion as I swept through homes bringing Death. It was no longer for the fun.

We travelled the world, Magic and I. Light magic, dark magic, healing, destruction, rituals, potions, creation, charms, curses, survival, anything, everything. Nothing was spared from my education.

But even then, nothing could compare to my own secrets.

My seven secrets.

I believed it was my right. I had created this world – shouldn't I be allowed to enjoy it? But underneath this was a scared little boy: scared of the dark enough to make light, scared of Death enough to kill.

I believed it was my right to kill people – after all, they were mere people.

I was other.

When I had learnt all I could – when I could no longer ignore the yearning inside me; Magic called me back. It wanted me to return, it missed me. Although it was everywhere, it wanted my home back.

So I returned. I tried to return home.

But I was forced out once again. I knew then that if my home was denied to me there was only one way to get it back: by force.

I spent years building my armies and allies, waging wars. I killed thousands of people and creatures: Magical and Muggle alike. Troll, dog, horse, Veela, Giant, pet, Boggart, Muggleborn, thing, Squib, koala, penguin, Werewolf, Vampire, Pureblood, Half-blood, dinosaur, Dragon, Witch, Wizard, muggle… it did not matter to me.

Even through all this destruction, Magic guided me on its way.

I used dark arts to abominable degrees.

Yet still it led me.

Once I heard a prophecy. Not the entire prophesy; just a bit.

And on that day I realised I had never changed from that scared little boy: scared of the dark, scared of Death.

And that scared me more than anything else could ever hope to.

I went to kill the little boy. His eyes were a dull green until I lit them up.

But he didn't die.

Just like a small baby, so many years ago, who didn't die when his mother stopped breathing, three months before giving birth to him. Just like a young boy who fell off a cliff and didn't die. Just like a man whose heart stopped beating at sixteen and did not die.

The killing curse rebounded at me.

I never found Magic again.

Thirteen years I wasted away as a spirit, three years further I wasted in a vaguely human form. Magic never once comforted me: it had given up on me.

I was no longer it's favourite.

Me!

It's Master.

But now I know better.

The little boy I tried to kill has the brother wand to my own – he is also destined for greatness.

He also recognises the wonder of Magic – I see the way it reeks off him, dotes on him, speaks to him.

It doesn't hiss to him, like the snakes hiss to him. Magic isn't so crude as to need sound to communicate its will.

He also would do anything to protect Hogwarts, our home.

But he's Master of Death, not Magic, I see it in his eyes – still that brilliant green from the curse of so many years past. His eyes have seen Death. They are the green of Death, like mine are the red of Magic.

He'll never feel Magic the way I do... Did.

I prefer it that way.

As I cast my final curse, Magic whispers to me: a jumble of words. I cannot help but feel joy at its touch as I see my own curse being flung right back at me. To die in its arms… I never wanted to die, but it is the only Death I have ever considered worthy.

Magic tells me:

It feels no regret: It cannot feel such things.

It never loved me: It owned me.

In that second I am no more or less than I have ever been. I am a scared little boy: scared of the dark, so he makes a light; scared of Death, so he becomes immortal.

But there is immortality in Death.

…

I now know I will never die. That is certain. I do not belong in Death's realm. Its servant would never accept me. Magic has its own special place for me.

For now…

Gone is the scared little boy.

Dispersed across time, where light and dark have no meaning, there is nothing to be scared of. Death will never claim me: can never claim me. I am immortal, ageless, bodiless, nothing.

I am everything.

My name was Tom Marvolo Riddle.

I was, am, will be, the Lord of Magic.

I am Magic.

Thanks for reading, please review!