A/N: Written for the Harry Potter Day Competition 2015 for the Dark Lord and Co. Category and the "How Did You Even Do That?" Category.
Thank you so much to my fantastic brother for beta reading this. I only wish we had more time to explore the discussion points you raised.
Word count: 10984.
Tom Marvolo Riddle: the young boy named after the Muggle father who left and the pureblood grandfather who suppressed.
He hated his name. It was a study in extremes; 'Tom' was so mundane and boring that he was always looking over his shoulder to see if the voice he'd heard was calling him, while 'Marvolo' was so uncommon and peculiar that all of the kids at the orphanage teased him mercilessly about it. Often, they would bring his surname into it; 'It's such a riddle, isn't it, that your middle name is Marvolo? Is that even a name?'Neither behaviour was appreciated. His childhood was spent longing for the day when he could legally change his name to something that was more balanced in the uniqueness department; Geoffrey Colin Saunders, perhaps. All he knew was that it would be unique but elegant, with the kind of simplicity that rendered it safe from mocking.
Other than his frustration at the puns it inspired from his otherwise barely literate classmates, he had no strong feelings, one way or the other, about his surname. It fit his internal schema for what names should be like, with its simplicity meaning that it was often overlooked, even by Tom himself.
That was, however, until the day that he was sure would change his life. The orphanage had taken the boys on an excursion to the local library, and he had come across a comic with an interesting-looking man on the cover. He usually went straight to the horror aisle, but something about the design caught his attention and refused to let it go, so he decided to skim through its pages first.
As he read, he was introduced to Batman – and to the Riddler.
Perhaps, he thought as he fell under the thrall of the game-playing character, my surname is actually quite alright.
The next day, when he took his first victim to the little sea cave he'd found years prior and set about getting vengeance, he made sure to ask him, "Riddle me this; who's about to be all alone in a big, dark cave?"
-t-e-o-a-n-
Magic had always been a form of escapism for him, a way to remind himself that he was special and to punish those who dared to undercut that. The discovery that his mother had been a witch was therefore intriguing to him; why had she abandoned him, and what was her legacy? He was too old and too mature for the hand-holding and coddling that he had once wanted from a family, but initiating contact with his relatives might still provide him with greater influence and power. After all, she had been a Gaunt, had been a member of an old and once distinguished pureblood family; publicising that connection could only benefit him.
Of course, the higher the climb, the longer the fall. The truth was almost unbearable. This woman had had everything – she'd been a pureblood from an old family and could have married anyone she wanted – but had thrown it all away for some filthy Muggle boy who didn't even love her. It was a disgrace. And then, when she had finally woken up to herself and realised that he didn't want her, she'd had the audacity to decide that life was meaningless without him and to abandon her son. Apparently, Tom hadn't been a good enough reason for her to go on living; she'd thought he wasn't special enough.
He looked into the two men he was named after. The first, that Muggle boy, had abandoned his mother when she fell pregnant. The second, his maternal grandfather, had made a habit of assaulting and harassing Muggles and had been commonly seen as crazy; inbreeding was, apparently, the common consensus. Neither namesake was anything to be proud of.
He held on tighter to his surname. That namesake, at least, was someone he could look up to.
Lord Voldemort: the man who feared death so much he tore his soul apart to escape it.
His mind worked differently to those of the people around him. It was faster, smarter, always looking for new amusements. Small things might occupy small minds, but lots of small things occupy large ones. For him, one such small thing was anagrams. He had come across the word game once in a book and had quickly acquired a taste for it; they were easy to do regardless of where he was or which dull person he was with, and no one was any the wiser that he was no longer concentrating on them.
Nobody else knew about it, even at Hogwarts. He was an intensely private and jealous person, after all, and this game was solely his; the idea of sharing himself in such a way and of diluting the specialness of what he had were both deeply repugnant to him. Most of the game was purely abstract, with Tom coming up with new ideas while sitting in particularly boring classes. Every now and again, however, he would manipulate his housemates into leaving his dormitory – oftentimes he would simply use their signal for when they were having sex for simplicity's sake – and lay on his bed to doodle anagrams on his parchment.
This time, it was a Hogsmeade weekend. As an orphan with no one willing to sign his form, he wasn't allowed to go. His friends routinely offered to stay back with him, professing that they would rather spend the day with him, but he preferred to let them go so that he could be alone. The arrangement never ceased to make him miserable, however, so, staring at the parchment before him, he decided to play around with his name again in a display of self-worth.
tommarvoloriddle
Lord, he thought. He hadn't noticed that last time. He should have noticed that last time. Still, his self-recrimination didn't last long; he was too excited at the find. The wizarding lordship system intrigued him. After first hearing of it, he had spent all of his free time for weeks researching in the library and then, when he had enough of a foundation that he knew he wouldn't embarrass himself, asking his peers about it. As the last member of the House of Gaunt, he would be able to lodge a claim upon his seventeenth birthday. Despite his continued disdain for his parents, he had subtly ensured that everyone knew of his ancestry. The fact that he could include the word in his anagram thrilled him.
tommarvoloriddle
Mort. As a future lord, multilingualism was expected. There hadn't been any opportunity to learn another language at the orphanage, so he had once again applied his method of researching and then asking to the situation. French was quickly deemed the most immediately advantageous second language; it would be useful and, as a few of his closer acquaintances spoke it, was convenient. The French word for 'death' had fascinated him ever since he first came across it. It was morbid and contradictory and more than a little inconvenient; he hated the concept of death and feared its clutches, but was still drawn to its darkness. He was beginning to think that he needed to find a way to tame or control it; if he could do that, he'd be able to get as close to the darkness as he wanted without ever falling in.
tommarvoloriddle
Three letters in the middlestuck out to him: vol. Or, in English, 'flight'. The third was already crossed out, but there was still an unused 'l' later on.
The concept of flight was also attractive to him. Being able to fly independently was a uniquely wizarding, and thus very appealing, thing. Mastering it – especially if he was able to one-up everyone by learning to do it unimpeded – would be quite the feat.
It was also appropriate in a more metaphorical sense. He was, while magically powerful, quite adept at knowing when to make a tactical retreat; after all, he didn't like staring into abysses unless he knew that whatever tethered him to the edge would keep him safe, whether that abyss be death or emotion or truth. While he would call that simple self-preservation, others would call it cowardly and liken it to taking flight. Furthermore, he adored the idea of people fleeing from him, or rather of people wanting to flee from him.
The word didn't quite fit in with mort or lord, but he decided to keep it for the time being in case he came across something that pulled it all together.
tommarvoloriddle
He might as well continue with the French theme. He shuffled the remaining letters around inside his mind, trying to fit them together to see how many French words they could create. But there wasn't much to build on, and the only thing that he could come up with was the preposition de, meaning 'from', which was decidedly unhelpful.
Unless…
Wasn't his entire thing to avoid his own death – or, rather, to fly from death?
Vol de mort.
tommarvoloriddle
There was only one permutation of the final three letters worth considering after that: I am. He had been searching for a name, for an identity, for years. He had finally found one.
I am Lord Voldemort.
-t-e-o-a-n-
It wasn't long after that that he made his first Horcrux. He had been searching for ways of prolonging death for a while, but he came across the first reference to Horcruxes the day after he had anagrammed his name. The timing was purely coincidental but was appreciated nonetheless; it served, in his mind, as a confirmation that he had made the right decision with the pseudonym. Scouring the library had then turned up more references to the Dark ritual and then, eventually, the bare beginnings of instructions.
Ultimately, he had resigned himself to asking his acquaintances – who he had started viewing as followers – about it. He hated admitting to them that he didn't know something, and he was never comfortable revealing his plans until they were mostly complete, but it was a necessary encumbrance. Fortunately for him, his girlfriend Priscilla Rosier had remembered reading about the ritual in her library and had written home for the book. Everything had quickly fallen into place after that.
As he stared down his wand at the man who had fathered him, he was surprised at how easy it was to muster up the pure hatred and murderous anger required for the curse. He detested his father, but he had expected murder to be difficult. Perhaps it usually was.
"Please," the man, who had appeared to recognise him but hadn't realised why until Lord Voldemort pointed it out to him, begged. "You don't understand. She drugged me. She took away my free will. I was not myself during that time. When I regained my senses, I had to leave."
"You were your best self during that time. From what you've said, your first act as a free man was to abandon your own son."
"How was I to know she wasn't lying? She'd deceived me before; it could have been another magic trick. Please. I'm your father. I didn't know you were real, but I do now. Let's start over." He said again, helplessly, "I'm your father."
"Yes, you are." Lord Voldemort forced himself into the man's mind, possessing him in a way most adult wizards would never have the power to do. He allowed himself a few moments to peruse his thoughts and memories before saying firmly, "Avada Kedavra."
He could tell the instant the ring he'd prepared became a Horcrux.
Patricide was much easier than he'd expected.
The Dark Lord: the ruthless leader who would do anything for power.
He was still deciding whether or not the conversation with Slughorn had been worth it. He had hoped for more cooperation, to be honest. The professor had always been purposefully blind when it came to favourites and, well, Voldemort was his favourite among favourites. But the stupid man had decided to panic and ruin things. Instead of telling him more about any potential side effects of creating that many Horcruxes, the idiot had focused on the morality of it. As if he cared what some stupid professor thought was right and wrong! Ever since then, Slughorn had been acting strangely around him; he had definitely panicked and decided to pull back.
So there was a good chance his recommendations wouldn't be quite so stellar in the future. That posed a problem; Voldemort's plans for world domination – so many people said it ironically, but he meant it wholeheartedly – had relied heavily upon his ability to become Minister for Magic or some derivative thereof. Lords weren't supposed to acquire the role, but he had been certain that he would be able to flatter and impress his way there. His backup plan had a significantly longer projected timeframe, requiring a complete political overhaul so that they reverted to the old monarchy system, wherein noble leaders were encouraged rather than prohibited, but he had been confident in it. Horace Slughorn's endless praise hadn't been a vital part of that, but it had been instrumental. Everyone knew that Slughorn was almost always able to discern when somebody had the potential for greatness and that he was able to foster that quality until it materialised. The recruitment office at the Ministry – and, indeed, everywhere – would immediately employ a new graduate at Slughorn's say-so. And Slughorn had always been ever so effusive in his praise of the intelligent, charming and witty Head Boy who had risen above his humble beginnings to become the best student to go through Hogwarts for many years.
The sudden cessation of such praise would be noteworthy and more than a little suspicion. People would wonder why Slughorn no longer wanted to discuss his once-favourite pupil, and they would draw their own conclusions as to what the boy had done to offend his Head of House and erstwhile benefactor. Truthfully, it would have been better for Voldemort had Slughorn never said a word about him. It would have been much harder to navigate the politics of wizarding Britain and, indeed, of Hogwarts, but he was sharp enough that he would have managed. He might have been less prepared to enter the outside world, but no one but he himself would have held that against him.
Now, those plans were all but ruined. Without Slughorn's recommendation, he would be unable to become Minister for Magic, let alone to restructure the political system in such a drastic way. He would need a lot more support for that, and had been banking on using Slughorn's network rather than planting the seeds himself. Besides, he rather suspected that Slughorn would fight to keep him from gaining power in the conventional way out of fear of what he would do with it.
Slow down, he thought to himself. There are many paths to power. That one might be blocked, but you can find another. You just need to think about it.
The conventional way was inaccessible to him, so he'd have to find an unconventional way. He would still have to reorganise the system, but he would have to employ much more force to do so. He would have to lead a rebellion.
If he couldn't lead in the light, he would have to lead in the dark. That would be alright. He was already a dark wizard; he could become a dark lord.
"Priscilla," he said as he returned to the common room, still livid from the meeting. None of his anger seeped into his tone, but it was obvious in his eyes. "I need to talk to you. Can we go for a walk?"
"Of course." She smiled brightly at him before following him out the portrait hole. It seemed like she was always smiling at something or other when in public, even though she was a much less visibly happy – and therefore more tolerable – person in private. "What's the matter?" she asked, her face now neutral once again, once they were away from their housemates and had cast a complicated series of diversion spells that would have even the most adamant tracker going off in a different direction.
"There's been a complication with Slughorn." Priscilla was one of the few people who knew of the extent of his ambitions. Despite the happy and polite façade she presented to outsiders, she was extremely bright and almost as ruthlessly ambitious as him himself; that, along with her public relations ability, had been what had attracted him to her in the first place, and was what made her such a useful ally. He kept the specifics from her, not wanting anybody – not even her – to know unless they had to, but she had a clearer idea of his future than almost anybody else. She knew that he wanted to revolutionise the wizarding world so that he – and, by extension, she – was in power, and she knew that Slughorn was to play an important role in getting him there. So she knew the significance of his words when he added, "He freaked out and has been ignoring me. I'm not going to have his support."
"Do you think you'll be able to change his mind? I could try; he likes me."
"No. I revealed too much too soon and what he saw terrified him. Even if you convinced him to give me the chance to explain things, there's no way he'd start liking my plan. I should have eased him into it like I originally planned, but I wanted his opinion and fooled myself into thinking I had endeared myself to him enough that he'd support me no matter what I said."
"Do you think he'll tell anyone?"
"No. He gave me some information, even if it wasn't anything new, and he knows I could tell on him as easily as he could tell on me. If he told anyone the truth, I'd bring out the memory and pretend I was just asking my favourite professor a question. Either we'd both be off the hook or we'd both go down for it. Neither option is worth him risking it."
"Then we'll find another way," she said earnestly. "It won't be easy, and it won't be as good, but we will. You can still make your way up the ranks at the Ministry. You could even tell a different version of events. You could pretend that it was some other embarrassing thing that was just an accident on your part but swear them to secrecy under the pretence that you don't want Slughorn to be humiliated about it. They would understand – or they'd think they did – and it might even start to dismantle his power base so that you can one day remove him as an opponent entirely."
"I could," he agreed, "but I'm not going to. There's a possibility that your way would work, but there's also a possibility that Slughorn would act against me in some way that didn't alert me to his involvement. My plans are more long term than you realise. It would have been easier to put the political plans into action now, but it is possible to delay them for the time being. Given how messy things are at the moment, I think that that would be better. In the meantime, I'm going to focus on developing my magic further. I'm good. False modesty aside, I'm brilliant. But I'm not the best – not yet. I'm going to go away and become the best, and then I'm going to come back to rally the purebloods for a forcible takeover."
"It could work," she allowed.
"However, it will require that I leave the public spotlight for a while. I need to focus on this, and I need Slughorn to think I've failed without his guidance." He waited until she nodded her understanding before he continued. "I'm going to need people with influence by my side. People like Malfoy and Bones and Rowle. People like you."
"You don't want me to disappear with you."
"No, I do," he disagreed. "But I need you to stay here."
"What would my role be?"
"You mentioned that your parents considered a betrothal contract with Terrence Nott before they agreed to let us have a courtship period. My understanding of it was that they would continue exploring the original contract if we decided that we were incompatible. Is that still the case?"
"You want me to marry him."
"Yes. I need you to marry him and to make yourself the epitome of a respectable society wife. When I come back, I need you to help me from the inside. I need you to convince your friends and their spouses to join my cause. Essentially, I need you to handle recruitment."
He could tell from her face that she wasn't impressed with the task. They had been courting for a number of months now and had both decided that they were compatible in every way they could imagine; neither of them wanted to part now. However, that compatibility was the very thing that led them both to see that it needed to be done. After all, one of the things that he most valued about her was her ruthless ambition. They both wanted to get married, but they both craved power more. "When do you want me to approach my parents?"
"I want you to approach Slughorn first. Tell him that you're seriously considering my suit and that you wanted his opinion on it first because you've noticed that I can get intense at times and aren't sure that we have the same methods."
"You want him to try to dissuade me. Am I to take it that I'm then to go to my parents about it?"
"Yes. Tell them that you noticed a potential incompatibility and approached Slughorn about it, and that he – despite attempting to be neutral – was obviously against the match. Make it appear like it's coming from him rather than from us. Then inquire as to whether it might be possible for you to enter into a courtship period with Nott instead."
"And if it isn't?"
"Then see if you can marry another lord or member of the Sacred 28." Deciding to allow himself a rare moment of forthrightness, he added, "I wish you could come with me, but I need you here."
"You know I'll do it. I assume we'll still act the same in public for now. If it were a minor issue, it wouldn't affect us much, and we'd be hiding it." He nodded, and she added in a much less professional tone, "And we might as well act the same way in private, too."
"It would be a waste not to spend our last few weeks together actually together," he agreed, stepping closer to her until he had her cornered between him and the wall.
"Especially when we fit together so well." He'd thought he had all the power in this situation, but her seductive smirk proved just how wrong he was. Although he usually hated losing control, her ability to take it from him in an instant never ceased to arouse him. "After all – "
His lips cut her off as he pressed himself flush against her. Her arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer still as her mouth opened and her tongue flicked against his. They would always be able to talk and strategise and even flirt. This would soon be prohibited to them; they might as well do it while they could.
-t-e-o-a-n-
After Priscilla's engagement to Terrence Nott was announced, the self-titled Dark Lord started solidifying his rapport with his followers. He started a group called the Death Eaters – he was to flee from death while they were to destroy it – that consisted of his most trusted supporters. Their strength only grew after their graduation. He took a job at Borgin and Burke's, determined to find more precious historical artefacts to use as vessels for his Horcruxes, and started refining his skills as both a salesperson and as a wizard. Proximity to dark forces introduced him to new ideas and gave him a chance to critique a wide range of practices and products in order to gain a better understanding of what made something effective and what made it fail. Meanwhile, his Death Eaters and unaffiliated sympathisers worked on inciting a desire for a revolution in everyone they thought was even mildly inclined towards supporting blood purity. As they did, they beget new Death Eaters and new unaffiliated sympathisers, thus growing their numbers and the number of people working to spread the sense of civil unrest. The only thing that hampered their progress was their desire to remain undetected by the likes of Albus Dumbledore and Horace Slughorn. Ideally, neither wizard would know of the dark uprising until it was much too late for them to do anything about it. Before any battle was brewed, the Dark Lord wanted to be prepared to duel and defeat both wizards. The latter was unlikely to want to fight, but he would make him if he had to.
He was going to show them the reason children are scared of the dark.
You Know Who: the wizard who everyone had heard of but whose name no one knew.
His influence steadily grew. At first, it was just in the crevasses of society that were waiting for someone to come along and represent their cause. Then, it bled into the rest of it as well. People became aware that something was happening, even if they did not know precisely what it was. A large contingent of purebloods and select half-bloods were banding closer together, often forgoing those witches and wizards who weren't in the know and making them wary. Over time, they learned that this network – this group – this whatever it was – had a leader. They whispered about him when nobody was looking and started following set patterns and were, all in all, much too organised not to be acting as a collective.
And then there were rumours. Rumours about men in masks and about Muggle villages inexplicably razed to the ground and about a push for change. It wasn't hard to put together that, if all of the reports were correct, that assemblage of purebloods was making their prejudices materialise into action. Still, nobody knew what their endgame was; killing Muggles was, apparently, on their agenda, but was that all they were going to do? Were they going to – could they – stop at Muggles, or were they planning on – would they feel compelled to – continue on to Muggle-borns as well? Nobody knew precisely who was involved in the actual killings, but many of the witches and wizards rumoured to be among the group were known to despise 'mudbloods' and to be ruthless and callously slow when it came to the people they disliked. There was a large general awareness among the Muggle-borns that this put them in a place of great jeopardy; half-bloods were presumably safe, at least for now, but those who were known to have Muggle parents need to keep both their family and themselves safe. For the most part, that meant ensuring that they didn't anger any witch or wizard suspected to be involved and to, quite simply, keep their heads down.
Most of all, however, they were curious about the leader. Nobody knew who he or she was and everybody, Muggle-born and half-blood and outer circle sympathiser alike, wanted to know who this person was who could so effectively unite and mobilise the blood supremacists.
Because the select few who knew who he was wasn't talking.
-t-e-o-a-n-
Molly Prewett flicked through the Daily Prophet, skimming it for any noteworthy happenings while also devoting half of her attention to thinking about Arthur Weasley. The Notice Me Potion that she had slipped to him one day at breakfast had worked, prompting him to become aware of all of her attractive qualities and to promptly ask her to accompany him on the next Hogsmeade weekend. Some of her Muggle-born friends had been incredulous when she had first told them – something about drugging the poor bloke – but she had quickly discarded their concerns. She'd only done it the once, after all, and it had worn off before he'd even approached her about the date, let alone before they'd gone together. The practice of using just a touch of love potion to either ease the wedding night or initially attract a desired suitor was a long, time-honoured pureblood custom, and she was hardly going to feel bad for it because a few of her friends were being wilfully ignorant of the tradition.
Besides, their relationship was still going strong. A single dose of the potion didn't blind you forever; if it had just been the diluted Amortentia, he would have noticed all of her flaws and left her long before that chilly morning in June.
A report caught her attention, and she hurriedly read it, her worry growing exponentially by the paragraph.
"He's struck again," she eventually commented, her tone conversational even though her thoughts were anything but. The tension that had pervaded their society – and, indeed, even their school – since she was ten was undeniably getting thicker. It was inevitable that, sooner or later, something would break. That terrified her. There was a high chance that they were on the cusp of war, and she knew that her Muggle-loving boyfriend and her brave, foolish brothers would insist that they be on the frontline. Yet Arthur, despite his obvious aptitude, was not the best dueller by pureblood standards, and Gideon and Fabian were both foolhardy enough that she could easily see them rushing into skirmishes without considering their safety or even watching their backs. Fear pervaded her mind; the only chance she had to prevent herself from curling up and crying was to keep the conversation uncharacteristically light.
"Who has?" Arthur, who – despite sitting next to her – was paying attention to something else entirely, distractedly asked. A Muggle puzzle that he said helped him exercise his mind lay on the table before him, and he was hunched over it, eagerly trying to work out which letters went in which little blank boxes. Usually, the sight would have been endearing. Arthur had always been so enthralled by Muggle culture despite having nowhere to learn it from; their Muggle-born friends were so disconnected from that world that they weren't much help other than saying that the Muggle Studies class and textbooks looked like a lot of hogwash. Molly loved how he could get lost in some strange device or game as he attempted to work out how it worked and then, when he knew, did his best to use it.
Now, however, it was nothing more than mildly irritating. This was important, and she needed more than a mere sliver of his attention. Exasperated and frustrated, Molly rolled her eyes and huffed. "You know who."
"I wouldn't have asked if I did," he insisted, glancing up at her this time before reverting his attention back to his original pursuit.
"Arthur, think about it. You know who."
This time, his gaze didn't leave her. "More killings?"
"A country town in Wales. If they don't watch out, they're going to break the Statute of Secrecy."
"No, they won't. Professor Knightley said there's an international war going on in the Muggle world. The way they – " His voice caught and he cut himself off. "Sorry. The way they, ah, do things is reminiscent of that. The Muggle authorities will probably just think it's an attack from one of the enemies. It'll escalate their fighting, but it won't bring attention to us." He sarcastically added, "They know what they're doing."
"I'm scared," she confessed. "It won't be long until we're at war too. What if – I don't to lose anyone. I don't want to lose you."
"You won't."
"You can't say that. You can't know that."
"Let's elope," Arthur said suddenly.
"What?"
"I was just thinking, 'You're right. We can't know what's going to happen. All we know is what we do now.' So let's make the most of this time; let's elope."
"Wait, aren't you supposed to ask me to marry you first?"
"Do you want to marry me?"
"Of course, but – "
"Then why don't we? Think about it first. We have another fortnight of exams to go."
"We could get married," she said breathily.
"A wedding would take months to plan, and, as you said, the war will have started by then. He – the wizard who's – well, you know who – not going to wait for us. I love you. I was planning on proposing anyway – proposing properly – once we graduated. If we want to – "
"Yes. Yes. Let's do this." She grinned at him. "Let's elope."
"Really?"
"Yeah." Coyly, she added, "If you've already planned the whole proposal thing, you might as well still do it; it would seem a shame to waste it, after all."
He laughed and kissed her before they, both giddy and unable to concentrate on their erstwhile intellectual pursuits, started talking about happier topics that, while perfectly normal, felt in that moment to be as special and childishly innocent as sunshine and rainbows and unicorns.
Around them, people continued to discuss the article and the man they all knew but couldn't name.
He Who Must Not Be Named: the most infamous dark wizard of all time.
The war did indeed break, but there was little that his opponents could do to strike against him. His followers were adept at feigning innocence, so they had nowhere to target in counterattacks; all that the Muggle-lover side could do was to defend themselves and try their best to find solid proof of Death Eaters' identities. It was almost like he'd created and subverted his own troupe of superheroes; respectable members of society by weekday, murderers by weekend. After all, he was the Riddler; unimpressed with the careless way wizarding society dismissed his cause, he was going to make them see its worth.
The wizarding world was swiftly split into those who were steadily winning the war for pureblood supremacy and those who lived in abject fear. People who had once professed to want to protect some naïve idea of equality frequently crossed the line to his side of the war. Many of them joined him at wandpoint, knowing that their choices were to defect or die. Many, however, willingly came of their own accord when they realised that there was nowhere to hide from his rampage; they could run, but their options would ultimately be reduced to that same dichotomy of defecting or dying.
There was no need to conceal his name anymore; everybody knew it. He still chose not to use the name he'd been given at birth by his traitor of a mother, but the others – Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord, You Know Who – had all become common knowledge. Of course, the simple fact that they were common knowledge didn't mean that people necessarily used them. His followers, and only his followers, called him the Dark Lord as a sign of respect. None but his staunchest enemies were bold enough to call him Voldemort. Everyone else called him You Know Who or, at the encouragement of his supporters, He Who Must Not Be Named. The discovery of the little phrase they'd taken to calling him had tickled his fancy; the idea of not needing a name, of being infamous enough that everybody would recognise him by those three little words alone, was heady. For the first time in his life, a name that others had created for him was flattering. He'd decided to run with it and had set his followers about slowly introducing the designation 'He Who Must Not Be Named' into conversation. It had quickly caught on; the lay public were terrified of him, and the idea that naming him would, like some children's party game, bring him to their doorstep was the sort of ludicrous notion that their paranoia latched onto like candyfloss until it was stuck all over their subconsciousness.
His victory was assured. Resistance was poorly organised and futile and, even if the counterforce Dumbledore was assembling proved more effective than anticipated, his Horcruxes ensured that time was not a consideration for him. Even if all else suddenly and unaccountably failed, he could hide for a few hundred years until Dumbledore was dead and Flamel was dying, find a way to steal the stone and restore his youth, and then continue unobstructed.
Really, the outcome had been sealed from the moment his first Horcrux had been made. As long as the vessels remained safe, he was indestructible. Dumbledore could kill – or, sorry, neutralise and imprison – as many Death Eaters as he wanted; there was no way he could ever touch He Who Must Not Be Named himself, for all that he still called him Voldemort.
He had not considered the fey and their penchant for meddling with wizarding affairs just to watch how things and people crashed and fell apart, or on their ability to make it seem so real while it lasted. Sitting at the desk at his father's childhood home, he waited as Severus Snape rambled on about Dumbledore and pubs and witches and babies. The half-blood wasn't taking as well to being a Death Eater as he had hoped; he was as skilled at Potions as Lestrange reported, and he was certainly eager, but he hadn't yet mastered the skill of keeping his composure. The young wizard's excitement was impairing his ability to communicate whatever it was that had sent him into such a tizzy in the first place.
"Stop," he ordered him. "I can't understand you when you talk that quickly. Take five minutes to calm yourself and then start again."
Severus Snape took all five of those minutes, even though he seemed to have calmed down about halfway through the period. He Who Must Not Be Named was amused at the strict observance of his instructions; the wizard was apparently too cowed by him to risk speaking earlier. "May I continue?" he eventually asked. At his leader's nod, he continued. "I was at the Hog's Head when Albus Dumbledore entered. He went to the counter to talk to his brother for about a minute and then headed upstairs without paying. Naturally, I concealed myself and followed him up. He entered a room and I listened in at the door. He was talking to a woman; someone called Sybil who wanted to apply for the Divination position at Hogwarts." He paused and took a steadying breath.
"You did well," his one-person audience commented. Most of the time, he enjoyed watching people squirm in his presence for the ego boost it gave him, but it really did become inconvenient at times like this. There was no benefit to a follower who couldn't form comprehensible sentences in your presence. "What did you hear?"
"Most of it was just a standard job interview. She cited past experience and insisted that she was a direct descendant of Cassandra. Dumbledore seemed unimpressed overall. But then she started speaking strangely."
"She made a prophecy?" Voldemort had never put much stock in Seers. Their ability was potentially game-changing, but it was impossible to determine what the outcome of their interference would be, and they made real prophecies so rarely that the effort of finding a true one and putting up with their rather systematic habit of predicting minor, useless things like what you'd eat the next day seemed like much more effort than it was worth. But if this prophecy was important enough for Snape to brave telling him about it…
Still, prophecies were fickle things. They come lead to great riches or great ruin. A number of theories had been posited in an attempt to describe their origins, with the leading one being that they were the machinations of the fey. As the younger wizard quoted the prophecy he had heard, however, Voldemort's wariness fell away, replaced swiftly by righteous anger. How could a boy who was not even born yet threaten everything he had worked for so soon after it was finally coming together?
He would just have to kill him before he was born, then. The danger of prophecies came when those who heard them tried to use the knowledge to shape the future. Equilibrium was only maintained if everyone who heard it was able to refrain from acting on it. Of course, that only mattered if those who heard it cared about equilibrium. Dumbledore certainly didn't, and it would be devastating if the man got to the child first and raised him as an apprentice. Besides, no one survived Voldemort's fury, and a pregnant woman was hardly going to break that trend; it wasn't as acting on the information would risk his person in any way. Furthermore, the child's parents had defied Voldemort three times; it would be fitting retribution for their defiance.
Someone who had defied him so many times, however, was most likely associated with Dumbledore in at least some way. Dumbledore had a definite advantage as he would have a better idea of who was and wasn't pregnant and was likely close enough to the couple to whisk them away into hiding. Voldemort, however, was not to be deterred; he would find that couple and he would eliminate the threat.
In actuality, it was – as it so often is – much easier thought than done. It didn't take long for Voldemort to compile a very short list of the people who had thrice defied him without ever actually dying, or for his spies to discern how many of those individuals were expecting a baby. In the end, there were two couples who might qualify: Frank and Alice Longbottom, and Lily and James Potter. All four were talented and worthy adversaries, and either couple could beget a child that might fulfil the prophecy.
He imagined that their methods would, however, be different. The Potter child would be a half-blood, like him; he pictured him as the kind of person who might be heralded as a conquering hero fighting for the Muggle conceptualisation of justice. The Longbottom child would be a pureblood, and was, technically speaking, probably the greatest threat; he too might take on the role of the conquering hero, but he might also be able to use his own blood status to sway some of Voldemort's less zealous supporters to his side. Even if Voldemort managed to snag the boy and raise him himself, he might merely be raising his replacement; very few of his followers knew that he himself was a half-blood, and he didn't know what they'd do if offered a proficient pureblood replacement.
Of course, it was entirely possible that either or both children were girls; Voldemort just couldn't imagine his potential successor being female. Witches might be equally capable, but he couldn't see the patriarchal pureblood society – or his Death Eaters – encouraging one to try her hand against him.
In terms of their blood statuses, they were both equal in his mind.
But there was one name that stood out.
Lily Potter; Horace Slughorn's new favourite. If the rumours were correct, she was as much Slughorn's darling as Tom Riddle had once been. The professor was renowned for noticing and collecting rising stars, but he had taken to Tom in a way that he never had to anyone else – that is, until Lily Evans charmed her way through his Potions class and utterly besotted him. Tom had always viewed Slughorn as a surrogate father; well-meaning, brilliant, but easily fooled by those who knew him the best. Voldemort imagined that Lily saw him the same way. In his mind, that made them something akin to step-siblings.
Most would take this perceived familial connection as a sign that they should reach out to the girl and her child, but Voldemort had never been one for familial affection. He examined the situation with the ruthless precision to which he was accustomed; if Lily Evans was his replacement in Horace Slughorn's mind, perhaps her son would be his replacement in the minds of the fey.
No; the difficulty wasn't in identifying the prophecy's subject; it was in locating them. Dumbledore, it appeared, had realised who it could refer to just after Voldemort had; shortly after Voldemort started putting plans into place to get to Lily Potter, both the Potters and the Longbottoms had gone into hiding.
Over the next few months, Voldemort and his followers searched for them. Every time they got control of a member of the Order of the Phoenix, they used all methods available to them to find out what they knew about the two couples before killing them. People were tortured, truth potions were given, and minds were perused, but no information was forthcoming. All they found was confirmation that Albus Dumbledore had indeed advised and helped all four Order members to go into hiding.
As July came and went and confirmation was received that baby boys had indeed been born into both families, Voldemort grew restless. He had never been a patient man; while he could easily wait until the boy was thirteen and take him out on a Hogsmeade weekend, it seemed like a pointless wait. So, although its fruitlessness did not appear to be likely to change anytime soon, they continued searching for the Potters.
One day, unexpectedly, they found them; or, rather, they were told how to find him. Peter Pettigrew was a Gryffindor who had joined his side years prior when he'd realised that the war wasn't letting up and that he was not the sort to be able to fend for himself on a battlefield. Apparently, he had decided that it would be safer for him to be protected by both sides and had considered betraying his friends to be an acceptable payment for it. The wizard's role was usually to inform them of upcoming sweeps so that they would be prepared to evade them. This time, his news was invaluable.
Lily and James Potter were using a Fidelius Charm. Of course they were. The defence was, admittedly, theoretically unbreakable if the person you entrusted with keeping the secret had a strong enough force of will to complete the task and remained in hiding. The main benefit of the charm was that the person could not be tortured or otherwise blackmailed into revealing it; it had to be a willing decision. It did not, however, prohibit coercion in the term of bribes, nor did it keep anyone from killing the Secret Keeper and thus releasing the secret into the void for any to share and tell. Essentially, it was impossible to use a stick to break the person, but entirely permissible to use a carrot for it or to simply remove them from the situation entirely. Voldemort didn't put much stock in solutions whose effectiveness lay solely in other's abilities and trustworthiness. Everyone had a limit; they might profess to loyalty and altruism, but there's a time at which everyone's survival instincts will kick in and tell them to put themselves first. Similarly, there's always a carrot somewhere in the world that's tasty enough to tempt someone to give in.
Their first Secret Keeper had been Sirius Black; a very predictable but, given his hatred for all things related to his family, safe choice. Yet, for some reason, they had then changed Secret Keepers to Peter Pettigrew. According to the rat, Black was tired of being stuck at home and, determined to return to the field to fight, had suggested that they use Pettigrew – who was content to remain in hiding – instead.
Trust had been their downfall after all. Pettigrew was more than happy to accept the dangling carrot, immediately running to Voldemort to tell him the news, their plans and, more importantly, the address. They were going to spend the following few days at Hogwarts in order to assist Dumbledore with something, but should be back by 30 October.
"We'll go on Halloween," Voldemort said.
"On Halloween, my lord?"
Why must he so frequently be surrounded by wizards who seemed intent to do their best to resemble parrots? "Yes. On Halloween. We should give them a day to get back in case they get delayed. Besides, it will be more poetic this way."
"It does seem fitting."
"Meet me here at four o'clock that afternoon. You will Apparate us there."
"M-Me, my lord?"
"Of course. Did you really think that, after you provided such vital information, I would not repay you by allowing you the honour of being at my side on that most important of nights? You will not be able to come inside, of course – it would ruin the whole thing – but you may as well wait in their yard. I'm sure you'll be able to think of somewhere to hide between now and then. A nice bush, perhaps?"
"Of course. Thank you, my lord. Thank you for this honour."
"You may leave. Oh, and – Pettigrew? – don't be late."
The man scampered from the room in a manner largely reminiscent to his movements when in his rat form. In his absence, a slow and mocking smile spread across Voldemort's face. This was good news indeed. He would finally be able to kill the boy and make his final Horcrux. He would be able to enjoy the symbolism of the man who betrayed them being present when they died; it would be amusing to watch the man be forced to grapple with the knowledge that his actions had led to his friends' deaths, to mock the man for his disloyalty to them under the guise of rewarding him for his loyalty to him. And he would merely have to point outside the window to let Lily and James Potter know exactly how he knew where to find them.
-t-e-o-a-n-
That October night hadn't gone as he'd planned. Instead of killing the possessed child, the spell had rebounded in the worst way imaginable; when Lily Potter jumped in front of her son the second time, the curse had identified and taken her rather than her son as the human sacrifice. Searching for Voldemort's dislodged soul piece, it had found that the piece inside Harry's head didn't meet its requirements. It had then assumed that he, as the only other body with a single soul inside it, contained the piece of his soul he had meant to place into the vessel and had acted accordingly. As no one had been around to direct it into the vessel, he had been set adrift, left to wander as the baby boy with a piece of his soul still in his head started to wail.
It had been horrible. Years had gone by while he was still stuck in that state of half-life. Later, he would learn that Priscilla Nott had died of dragon pox while he wandered half-formed, but, during that time, all he knew was his feet and the ground and the pain and the impatience. Finally, a man with a thirst for power and distinction arrived in the Albanian forest, and he'd once again had a body and a plan. It hadn't been the same as having one of his own, but he'd made do. Over the ensuing years, his plans had been constantly foiled by the upstart Harry Potter.
Foiled, that was, until now.
Albus Dumbledore – renowned as the greatest wizard who'd ever lived – was dead. Voldemort had had to let go of his long-held desire to do it himself, but he had still orchestrated the event. Watching it in Snape's memory had been one of the most satisfactory moments of his life. The man had even begged.
That had been his favourite part.
Potter and his friends had fled like startled rabbits to their burrow and then down into their interlocking network of tunnels. It would take some time, but he would flush them out. Their power had been neutralised by their foolish mentor's death; they'd had the tiniest of chances with him, and even that was gone now. Instead of concentrating on them, he focused his attention on other areas. His plans were all well underway; the Minister was Imperiused, Severus and the Carrows had control of Hogwarts, and he was planning on promising the goblins to acquire and return all goblin-made items should he have Gringotts' support in the war.
He had set about his reign of terror virtually unopposed and extremely secure. Like in the last war, Dumbledore's precious Order of the Phoenix were on the back foot, fighting to protect and stop rather than to defeat. It seemed counterintuitive to him to fight a war when you weren't willing to kill your opponents; how could you ever hope to win when they could whittle away at your numbers while you never budged theirs? How could any tactician possibly fool themselves into thinking that that was a sustainable strategy of attack? He had no such qualms; his side had their eyes clearly on their goal rather than flicking between it and social niceties.
Knowing this, anybody who wasn't for him kept their heads down lest they be noticed and targeted. Despite his years in isolation, the fright that the sound of his name caused had never left them. Even when they'd thought he was gone for good, they had refused to say his name out of fear and habit. That had worked in his benefit; the rare few who were brave enough to use the name Voldemort also happened to be the people he most wanted to find, so it gave him an easy way of grouping them together. His foothold at the Ministry had enabled him to use their authority to set a trace on that name. It had almost resulted in their capture once, after which they appeared to have learned to avoid saying the word. He hoped, however, that they would eventually be unable to resist the instinct to call him the name that had always symbolised defiance and bravery to them. If they did, even once, then he'd have them.
Nothing more came of it in relation to them. Others were caught or chased into hiding by it or by the Snatchers, but the three people he was the most interested in kept eluding him. He would have even been content with just one of them; even if it weren't Harry Potter himself, and even if they did live up to their self-righteous creed of refusing to talk, he would be able to use them to lure The Boy Who Lived by Letting Others Die While Feigning Righteousness to him.
In the end, he didn't need to; in the end, Harry Potter came to him of his own accord. The boy made his way to Hogwarts and was spotted by the Carrows. Voldemort wondered whether Potter had found out about the Horcrux, had decided to try to lead a coup, or had no idea that Hogwarts was no longer the safe place it had once been for him. At the end of the day, however, it didn't matter. A battle broke out and raged on for hours, continuing until Voldemort called a ceasefire for regrouping and to encourage the other side to surrender Potter to him.
But, in the end, Harry Potter came to him – twice – like a lamb to slaughter.
The first time, Voldemort killed him. He knew he did; Narcissa Malfoy confirmed it. Yet he somehow came back. As Bellatrix fell and Voldemort turned to Molly Weasley, filled with fury at the loss of his most zealous supporter, Potter materialised in front of him as if the meeting in the clearing had never happened. They circled one another as they talked. People lined the room, surrounding them, but it felt as if they were alone. They had unintentionally made a habit of meeting one another like this – alone but not alone – and both knew that this was the last time they would cross paths. It was the climax of the story, the manifestation of the prophecy. One or the other would die that night; there was no way they and their idiosyncratic ideals could ever coexist peacefully in such a small society, not with the history that existed between them.
The wizard, almost the spitting image of his father, had the gall to call him Tom. That boy wasn't him anymore; that boy had been lost to the sands of time.
Harry Potter had no right calling him that. But that didn't matter anymore; nothing mattered but finishing this.
This was the end. This was it.
As if in unison, they both raised their wand to cast their signature spell.
The Wizard Who Died Nameless: a wizard who will always be remembered with hatred and, in some cases, pity.
The nation mourned. Their community was so small, so insular, that there wasn't a single person within it who didn't know someone who had died during the battle, let alone during the war. Once the initial celebrations ended, silence fell over wizarding Britain. The war had left them devastated, with copious amounts of rubble to clear away, homes and businesses to reclaim and try to salvage, services and governmental positions to restaff and reorganise, criminals to detain and charge, entire institutions to restructure, and people to find and identify and mourn.
While some set about rebuilding the community, most drew in upon themselves as they tried to gather their loved ones to them to regroup.
The wizarding world was in shock and disbelief. They'd believed it was all over once before and had been proven catastrophically wrong; no one quite knew whether or not to believe the terror was over for good this time. Despite their fears, witches and wizards eventually started emerging to help with the damage and to start tentatively going about their lives once more.
The masses focused their efforts on Hogwarts; institutions such as the Ministry and Azkaban required more specialist knowledge to rebuild, but the first and longest step of reopening the school involved mere manual labour – which, for wizards and witches, is not really all that manual. No one was under the delusion that students would be able to return on 1 September, even if they wanted to, but the school had always been such a sentimental, safe place for everyone that knowing that it was in a shambles felt like a direct loss.
"To the Great Hall," Filius Flitwick instructed a group of older witches and wizards as he himself stood at the school's gates and focused on fixing and recreating the wards. Most of the original ones were salvageable, but there were some that had gone completely or that were far enough gone that he'd had to scrap entirely. A separate group of younger volunteers made to follow them. "No, not you lot. Bilby, you were always good at construction charms; you lot go to group working on checking and refortifying the school's foundations."
"You're reworking the wards," Hermione Granger commented as she and her friends arrived. "That's – that's really amazing magic. They were designed so that only the Headmaster could…"
He smiled up at her before saying in that squeaky voice of his, "It's always wonderful to see you too, Miss Granger. While it's true that they were designed that way, Professor Dumbledore had a hectic schedule and so set the task of ensuring their upkeep to me. After having interacted with them with the Headmaster's permission for so long, it wasn't difficult at all to manipulate them as needed. You four – and you lot behind them – might as well all go to the second floor. We should have enough people on the first floor by now."
As they walked away, Hermione was about to try once again to engage Ginny in conversation – the girl had alternated like a pendulum between caustic and flat ever since Fred died, with the only reprieves occurring when she was with Harry; Hermione was sure she was going to snap eventually and blow up at the first person who crossed her path afterwards – when she overheard a glimpse of the other group's conversation.
"It's them," a smooth voice was whispering. "See? It's Harry Potter. The one who killed He Who Must Not Be Named."
"I know who Harry Potter is, you idiot; I'm not daft."
"Sometimes I think you – "
"You're wrong," Ginny snapped, whirling around even as Hermione and Harry tried to stop her. The three wizards who had been following them immediately stopped talking, their shock at her sudden outburst evident on their faces. "I'm so very tired of people like you. Harry didn't kill He Who Must Not Be Named. Do you know why? Because He Who Must Not Be Named never existed."
"Ginny – "
"Let's just keep – "
"Everybody has a name," she continued, not heeding their attempts to subdue her. Hermione tried to link her arm through hers to guide her away, but Ginny just casually shrugged her off. "Sure, there was a time when it was dangerous to say his. But if, as you say, he's dead now, then that time is over, isn't it? There's no danger to it anymore. So either Harry killed Voldemort, or He Who Must Not Be Named evaded Harry – and all of us – and is still a risk. You can't have it both ways."
The group had gone pale in the face of her tirade. A furious Ginny Weasley was not a person to be trifled with, after all, and none of them were used to the fire that she held on the best of days.
"I wasn't saying he wasn't dead," the first one said.
"Don't worry about it," Ron told him. "That was a long time coming and not really about you. We're just agitated right now. Still getting back to normal, you know?"
All three nodded frantically, awed at the fact that the Ron Weasley was reassuring them about something. They would have liked their meeting to have been much more flattering to themselves, but were still enamoured of the legends standing before them.
"Remember how long it took you guys to be able to say his name," Harry reminded her. "You can't blame them for not being ready for it yet."
Ginny seemed to visibly deflate. "I know. I just – It's so maddening that Fred d-died but everybody treats us like we're the heroes when people like him are forgotten just because he's not around to thank. I'm really sorry. It's not your fault. It's just – it's just stuff."
Her erstwhile victims hastened to reassure her that it was alright.
When she spoke again, her voice sounded tired and exhausted. "Can you do me a favour? Don't call him He Who Must Not Be Named. Let him have died nameless, even, but don't reinforce what he did by continuing to live in fear. Try to call him Voldemort but, if you can't, call him something else. Call him that, even! Call him The Wizard Who Died Nameless." She wiped at her eyes in an attempt to stay the tears that were gathering in them. "If Fred's name's going to be forgotten one day, let his be forgotten now. I'm sorry; I need to go."
Ginny turned on her heel and ran off, her friends – after apologetic glances and goodbyes – following after her.
"I like the name," Harry commented as they ran.
"Of course you do," Ron muttered, rolling his eyes. He'd grown accustomed to not having to worry about seeing his best friend and sister snogging one another and was having a hard time readjusting to the fact that it was happening again, even if he did technically approve of their relationship. "She suggested it."
"I've got you," Harry said, pulling Ginny into his arms, when they finally caught up to her. "I've got you, Gin."
"I miss him."
"Yeah, I know." He pulled her more closely into his embrace.
Unbeknownst to them, Harry and Ginny weren't the only ones who had liked that name. The three wizards had, due to a mixture of lingering alarm and genuine liking, also appreciated it. Even as Ginny's tears dried, the new moniker was being spread throughout the school as people used it instead of whatever they had previously been using. Some switched to it because they had heard that Ginny Weasley had gone into a rage over it. Some switched to it because they had heard that Ginny Weasley had cried over it. Some switched to it because they thought it would be a fittingly scornful end to the man's legacy.
Regardless of their reasons, the moniker soon caught on. History books recorded each and every pseudonym the tyrannical wizard had acquired over the years for the sake of posterity. People, however, were generally uninclined to follow the historians' lead. They remembered all of the names, certainly, and there were witches and wizards who still referred to him by them. Few willingly gave him the honour of calling him He Who Must Not Be Named, but most found it hard to break the habit completely. Similarly, people found it hard to disassociate the phrase, 'you know who' with the man. The remaining Death Eaters were unable to break the habit of calling him the Dark Lord. And Harry always referred to him as Tom, from the day of the battle thereon.
Yet, although the names did persist in some way, the derogatory use of The Wizard Who Died Nameless ran rampant. Tom Marvolo Riddle had spent his whole life collecting names but, in the end, he was remembered as the wizard who had acquired so many names that none of them were truly him; he was remembered as the wizard who died nameless.
A/N: I played around with the timing a little. In canon, Voldemort's already, well, Voldemort when he finds out about his family history from his grandfather's memories. However, it fit the structure better for it to have happened slightly earlier so that there was more of a distinction between the different names he went by.