Written in the Gutter city Secret Santa Fic Exchange for Lady Miya

And a Happy New Year

On the twenty fourth day of the twelfth month, there was an unusual silence cast over the North Pole. Not to suggest, of course, that the North Pole is usually very lively. Oh no, the North Pole was reputed to be one of the most silent places on Earth. Apart from the raging blizzards, that is. But there was something very unusual about this silence. Even the whirring noises, made by the elf machines could not be heard. At this time of the year, the elves were usually hard at work, hustling and bustling and making sure that all the toys and lumps of coal were perfectly in order, and that they were assembled and packed into gift-boxes, ready to be delivered to every good and evil little kid across the globe. Santa's elves were known for undergoing the preparations for Christmas with utmost enthusiasm.

At the moment, however, they were neither hustling nor bustling, nor making sure of anything. At the moment, they were angry.

"No! We refuse!" shouted an elf. "Put an end to it!"

The rather loud, consenting murmurs of the entire elfish workforce filled Santa's icy throne room. The old man sat cowering on his throne, confusion and despair etched across his features.

"But my dear elves, why? Every year you happily set to work, eager to ensure that children across the world have a happy and toy-full Christmas. Why do you no longer want to see them smiling?"

Poor Mr. Claus' eyes filled with tears at the idea of children crying on Christmas. Why were the elves acting so mean? He soon got the answer. A small, bearded elf stepped forward.

"Of course we want to see the children happy, Santa. That is the entire problem. We are worried about the little darlings in England."

England? What had happened to the English children? Santa's brow furrowed.

"And?"

"You know about the wizarding war going on in England. Do you know what they are doing to the non-magical children?" The elf shuddered. "I cannot even repeat the atrocities. It's like a battlefield! A Lord flying-thing has taken over with his extremely hungry cronies. Bad eggs, all of them. Last year, we gave them all lumps of coal. You know what they did? Instead of being ashamed, they collected the coal, and lobbed it at the non-wizarding people. Some even started bonfires and roasted little children alive! We can't give them any more coal. And I'll be damned if we give them toys. That Malfoy git's been asking for a tiara the past five years. Fix this... or nobody gets any toys on Christmas."

Mr. Claus gasped theatrically. No toys on Christmas?! Unfortunately, he knew all too well what was happening in England. The elves were right. Something had to be done.

"Let me think, elves. But please, get back to packing the gifts. We cannot leave the children any more hopeless than they already are. I'll come up with a solution."

Satisfied, the elves nodded, and filed out of the hall.

Now while Santa Claus intertwined his fingers thoughtfully, and entertained notions of warping Lord Voldemort's personality and making him unbearably fluffy and sappy, the doors opened once more. The half-mythical, millennia old man looked up, and felt his jaw drop open.

Standing in front of him was the absolutely, undeniably, most sexy woman he had ever seen. She had red lips, seductive eyes and curly red hair that cascaded down her back. A slinky, tight, red dress covered her figure to the best of it's pathetic abilities. Santa didn't even wonder how she wasn't already turning into a divine popsicle. He was captivated.

"W-who," he stuttered, "are you?"

A catlike smile graced her features, and she parted her lips to talk in the most heavenly voice Santa had ever heard.

"I," she purred, "Am Lady Miya, the Dictator of Smut. I have come to help solve your current… problem. It really is so sad, all that is happening to the Muggle fil- I mean, non-wizarding community in England."

Santa nodded, entranced by her siren-like voice. He was barely registering what she was saying. His head was occupied with un-Santa like thoughts concerning pulling the woman into his bedroom. Somehow, during the course of her dialogue, she had ended up only a few feet away from him.

"it really is simple," she continued. "Take these boxes. Give the red one to the Dark Lord, and the blue one to that boy, Harry Potter.

For extra emphasis, she patted the top of Santa's head. He sprang into action.

"Yes-yes. Let me just-I'll just- give this- elves."

The smutty-minded Dictator smiled again.

"Then hurry. I'll be right here when you get back."

Nodding, Santa took the mysterious boxes and rushed out of the room, in a hurry to return. As soon as he left the room, the Dictator of Smut cackled. After so much planning, she had finally come up with the ultimate plan. This would work, and then her dreams would come true! She couldn't wait to get back to Gutter city, and brag to the Serpent and the Goddess. Smirking, she snapped her fingers, and conjured up a cloud of sexiness. She climbed onto it, and then flew back to her flourishing, secret Empire of Smut.

Concerning waking up, there were many rumours about the Dark Lord. Most stated that he probably didn't sleep, hence no worries about waking up. Some said that he killed five Muggles the second he woke up. There was also a tiny minority which claimed he would perform a daily ritual on his stuffed Teletubby to shield it from Nargles. It was amusing, to say the least, how very far of these speculations were.

On waking up, the esteemed Dark Lord cautiously poked his shiny bald head and blinking scarlet eyes out of his comforter.

This had become a necessary part of his morning rituals. His otherwise obedient servant, Bellatrix, had a rather annoying habit of showing up completely naked in his bed in the early hours of the morning.

Sure enough, there she was. Luckily for the adorable half-snake, she was asleep. He reached under his pillow for his wand and pointed it at her, reinforcing her sleep with a spell. He then sat up and sighed. Ah, the trials and tribulations of being him. He had gotten rid of his younger face for the sole purpose of shaking off the fan girls. Unfortunately, they were not deterred. The troubled Dark Lord mentally cursed all Higher Authorities for making him so appealing and seductive. Even getting rid of his face did nothing to change that.

Scanning the room for any traps or alarms Bella might have installed, his eyes landing on a small red box standing upright at the foot of his bed. After casting a Revealing charm for anything suspicious, he crawled forward picked the box up and read the label. Rather uncharacteristically, he let out a small squeal, a wide grin twisting his flat features. Finally! He had written to Santa every month since his revival, pleading and begging. He had even offered to trade his vintage Herpo the Foul Chocolate Frog card.

The Dark Lord made a mental note to always be as good as he had been this year. Maybe he should kill the Potter boy for extra credit. Voldemort removed the label which read 'From Santa- Potion for Instant Silky Hair' and pulled out a vial full of a red liquid from the box. He could barely contain his glee. For nearly four years, that Lucius twit had been flaunting and flicking his ratty locks on purpose in front of him. If only Voldemort could have shown Malfoy a picture of his younger days. Admirers had swooned all over him, trying to touch him and pull out his hair for love potions. It wasn't like he didn't have admirers now… they were just fewer and- he automatically looked towards Bella- slightly unorthodox. The admirers had also been the reason he had given up his looks, though lately he had been questioning the choice. He had never meant to lose his hair anyways. And now, he would get them back.

He stroked his smooth, shiny head thoughtfully, already envisioning the dark hair sprouting from his scalp. Oh yes, Lucius would finally see how insignificant the straw sticking out of his own scalp was. Smirking triumphantly, he uncorked the bottle and swallowed the contents in one gulp.

The Dark Lord raised his head groggily. What had- Oh. The events from early morning came flooding back. He automatically raised one hand to his head. Finally, he could feel thick hair on the top of his head! This called for celebration. His eyes snapped up. This was definitely not his room at Malfoy manor. Two beds were crammed into the tiny room, and it was almost bare save for some measly furniture, a mirror, and an empty portrait on the wall. And what were these? Presents? He picked up a familiar looking box with a label attached to it, and then realized, that the hand that had picked up the box definitely didn't belong to his. His beautiful, spidery hands were gone.

He shot out of bed, and crossed the room to the mirror hanging on the wall. At first, he thought he had simply reverted back to his younger self. Clearly, unless the mirror was lying, that was not the case. He glared at the face of the rascal of a Boy-Who-Just-Wouldn't-Die, who the nerve to glare back at him. There was something very wrong with this generation. They had no respect for their elders.

Frowning, he walked back to the bed, and picked up the labeled box, looking for answers. 'Get good enough for Bellatrix Lestrange', it read.

It was then that it all began to click together in the mind of the most-brilliant-student-Hogwarts-had-ever-seen. He was trapped in Harry Potter's body. Harry Potter had also received a potion from Santa. Harry Potter wanted to 'get good enough for Bellatrix Lestrange'. Voldemort had wanted a full head of hair. To fulfill both their wishes, Santa had, in the spirit of Christmas, exchanged their bodies. Now, Harry Potter was 'good enough for Bellatrix Lestrange'. Voldemort had his full head of hair.

Experimentally, Voldemort ran a hand through Potter's-his- hair. It definitely wasn't as silky or lustrous as his had been, but he supposed they would do. A greater matter was at hand. Potter was trapped in his body.

Voldemort raised one hairless eyebrow. So Potter had a crush on his faithful Bellatrix? Well, he would certain protect his follower from the scar-head. Memories of a naked Bellatrix re-entered his mind. On second thought, Potter could keep her. At the moment, he had a Santa to Crucio. It was preposterous to think he, the powerful and great You-Know-Who, had been transported into the body of a bratty teenager. Who knew, the repulsive brat might even be infected with cooties.

He did, however, make a mental note to find out exactly what kind of magic existed in the North Pole that made this possible. If exploited properly, this could be his ticket to immortality.

Suddenly, the door burst open.

"Oh, you're up! Good morning Harry! And merry Christmas!"

Voldemort stood horrified. For the first time in his life (other than the incident where he had walked in on Rodolphus going through his underwear with a creepy smile), he was at a loss for words. He turned around hesitantly. A red-haired little girl stood behind him. Somehow, she looked familiar.

"Er… hello? Umm," she was the one who had set his diary loose, hadn't she? What was her name again? "…sweetheart?"

Momentary shock flitted across her face. Maybe that hadn't been a very smart thing to say.

Then, much to his horror, she suddenly started smiling coyly at him.

"Mums calling you for breakfast, Harry. But she won't mind if you're a little… late."

She slowly started inching towards him, attempting to look flirtatious. Voldemort was frozen on the spot. What the heck was wrong with these kids?

Now she was directly in front of him. She leaned forward, and her disgusting breath fanned across his mortified face.

"I'm glad you haven't forgotten what happened last night," she cooed sickeningly. "After breakfast?"

This was too much for the poor orphan to bear. He jumped back, snatched up Potter's wand, and shot a killing curse straight at her.

What kind of a boy was Potter? What was this? These were Dumbledore's prized weapons? He shuddered, and then Vanished the girl's lifeless body. Draco was better than these… creatures. Feeling violated, he tried to concentrate on other problems.

So he was inside the Order. This was exactly what he needed. He could eliminate the opposition from inside. But first, he needed to get rid of Potter.

Stretching contently, Lord Voldemort let out a sigh. All was well. After the scarring encounter with Ginny Weasley (he had finally remembered her name), he gone downstairs and proceeded to explain to the Order members that he had had another peek into Voldemort's mind, and that he was at Malfoy manor, alone. When the order had reached the manor, they had come across 'Voldemort' and Bellatrix doing extremely unSanta-like things in Voldemort's bed. 'Voldemort' had, for some unfathomable reason, proceeded to try and convince the Order that he was actually Harry, but had been hit by a stray Killing curse from Bellatrix's wand. On seeing that she had killed her poor master, Bellatrix had a nervous breakdown, and after attempting to kill herself, went willingly with the Aurors to Azkaban.

The entire Order was now out celebrating the 'best Christmas ever' with drinks. Voldemort had declined; preferring to stay back at the place which he had now realized was the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Unfortunately for him, the bushy-haired friend of Potters had also volunteered to stay behind. Thankfully, she was less annoying than the others, and had curled up on a corner of the couch and fallen asleep.

Which brought him to the present. He surveyed his face in the ever-trusty mirror. Having gotten thoroughly disgusted by Potter's face, he had managed to change it back to his own using information from the useful Black library. His own. That didn't mean his snakelike features. Tom Riddle was back.

"…"

He cocked his head to one side. Was somebody cheering?

Shaking his head, he focused on the problem at hand. In the library, he had found ancient stories about successful dark wizards. He looked down at the checklist he had composed. These were the utterly fundamental things every dark wizard must have in order to be successful.

'Unrivalled knowledge of Dark Arts?' Check.

'Faithful pet? Preferably a hated and feared creature.' Check.

'Army of brainless minions with one who is actually a traitor trying to destroy you?' Check.

'Chocolate?' Check.

It was the last one that troubled him.

'A loyal and intelligent lover who you have gone through great pains to win over? Preferably hated you at first.'

As far as he could think, there was no such person. Granted, if he actually found this person, it would be easy winning her over. Bellatrix wouldn't do. She never hated him. Besides, he didn't think he would survive after that. Narcissa, then?

He doubted she would count. It would not be too hard to win her over.

It was then that, perhaps influenced by a few notable denizens of a specific city, that Tom's gaze shifted to the girl curled p on the couch. He started to mentally assess her.

She didn't look too bad, and unlike his numerous admirers, and hadn't fallen into a tub full of makeup and perfume. From what he had heard and observed, she was supposed to be the most intelligent witch in her class. Judging by her interactions with him over the day, she was also very loyal to the Order and her friends. All he had to do was manipulate her loyalties towards him.

She stirred, almost as she was uncomfortable under her gaze. Then she lifted her head and looked up at him. One hand automatically reached for her wand. He was momentarily puzzled, before realizing that he had changed his face. Oh crap.

"Hello, my name is Tom. Kingsley sent me to check upon you. He didn't want you alone on such a festive occasion. You are Hermione granger, correct?"

"Oh," she lowered her wand. How naive and gullible was she? This would be too easy.

"Where's Harry?' she asked.

"Sirius and Ron came back and dragged him away to celebrate. They didn't want to wake you up." He could easily explain his disappearance later as being killed some very distraught and emotional Death Eater. Probably a Lestrange.

She nodded again.

It was time to charm. He was going to make sure he got that 'loyal and intelligent' lover. His eyes flickered to the cat that was curled up beside her.

"So, you are a cat person?" He sat down on the sofa in front of her and looked up expectantly.

"Of course I do! I find them admirable. The amount of pride and confidence they have… they could probably outshine humans. The ancient Egyptians would even worship them. Bastet was known as their cat goddess. It's amazing how they manage to stand tall and live without relying on others. It's almost like they're your owners instead of your pets!"

Tom blinked. Who the hell wanted their pets to be their masters? Wasn't she supposed to be intelligent? Then again, judging by what these future generations had fallen to, she was his best bet.

"I'm more of a dog person actually. They are obedient and loyal, and don't make much of a fuss. Also manage to do what they are told. Even if you tell them you're going to take over the worlds and then wring their necks and throw them in a river, they'll still love you."

Hermione frowned. Her discomfort was visible on her face. He wondered why. Maybe she was afraid of dogs?

"What's your name?" she suddenly remembered he had not yet given her a last name. An uncomfortable silence descended on them as Tom just sat there and smirked at her while she fidgeted.

He had two options: One, Obliviate her and force her to marry him, or two, dig up the skill he had used to charm two of the greatest treasures of history out of Helga Hufflepuff's descendant.

"Well?" Hermione demanded, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Tom bowed his head. When he looked back up, Hermione's eyes widened.

The arrogance from his face was completely gone. He was looking like a kicked little puppy. His eyes were large and soft, and he looked almost scared as he hesitantly returned her gaze. She could feel her motherly side making an appearance.

"Well, you see… I don't usually tell anybody about my heritage. How I wish, sometimes I wonder if I should just take my life. . It's so shameful, I can't help thinking it's somehow my fault. Dumbledore told me not to do that, but now that even he is gone… all because of him. I think I'm probably as bad these kinds of things don't just skip a generation or something. Even normal things like me liking dogs. Maybe he does too. It's all so bleak and hopeless."

Hermione leaned forward and placed a hand on his knee. The poor boy. What had happened to him? The sympathy in her eyes made it even harder for Tom not to laugh.

"What is it? I won't judge you. You can tell me."

He choked back a sob.

"My father, he- well it's not like I consider him my father. It's just… no, I'm as bad. I am his son, after all."

Hermione's hand moved up to his cheek.

"Yes?"

"My father. It's because of him. I'm so ashamed of this name. He laughed when he cursed me with it. Said I was tainted with him forever. He- he's the reason everybody's celebrating tonight. His death."

Hermione's eyes slowly widened as she finally understood. Her hand drew away from his face in shock. Voldemort's son! It was disturbing to think anybody had ever slept with him.

"See, even you're scared now. Then that hate will enter your eyes. How many of your friends has my father killed? And I've inherited it. Inherited the curse."

He looked down at his hands, keeping his eyes wide open to make them water and turn red.

"I'm a monster."

"No!" Hermione protested, "I was just shocked! Oh, you poor Tom."

She moved to his sofa, eyes almost brimming over with tears for his misfortune. Wrapping her arms around his head, she pulled him down and cradled him to her chest.

"Shh... it's alright. They can't hate you for what your father did." Smoothing his hair back, Hermione looked down at him, worried.

"I know how you feel. Only a bit, because, it wasn't as bad for me, obviously. The Slytherins would always tease me for being a 'Mudblood'. I can just imagine what you must be going through. You have to stay strong."

If it wasn't for the self control Tom had accumulated over years of sucking up to Slughorn, Borgin, and Hepzibah, he would have flung Hermione away from him. As it was, the Dark Lord was a very composed man. So he only had to stop himself from cringing. Or throwing up.

A Mudblood? Granger was a Mudblood? A Mudblood was touching him! For Merlin's sake, she was stroking his hair. If his followers were ever to find out, his whole reputation would be in shambles.

Realization struck him hard as a smile curled across his face. His followers would never find out about this. In fact, now that his previous self had been destroyed, he would have to come up with a new plan to take over the world anyways. And what better way than with Potter's Mudblood? It would just go to show how different he was from his father.

He lifted his head from her rather comfortable chest and looked straight into her eyes, cupping her cheek in his hand.

"It must have been so difficult for you. It's so unfair, isn't it? I wish I could forget all about it. Even if it was only for one night…"

He leant forward, and pressed his lips to hers. She let out a gasp, and Tom took advantage of it to slide his tongue into her mouth. She resisted for only a split second, before melting into the kiss. He slipped his hands under her shirt. She moaned and then pushing him back onto the sofa, surprising him, as she undid the front of his robes. His lips found her neck as his hands snapped open her bra. She moaned again.

"Tom..."

"Merry Christmas, Hermione."

This was too easy.

The former Lord Voldemort collapsed onto his office chair, and looked around the study. He was still, as was his nature, planning on taking over the world. After all, he was now a successful Dark Wizard. Though now that he had reached this level of greatness, there was almost no need for him to continue trying to take over the world in order to prove himself. To be honest, he was quite content spending his time here, searching for a cure to his mortality. It also may or may not have something to do with a certain Dictator from Gutter City who always ensured that regardless of how much he tried to find a way to Santa's palace to learn extremely powerful magic, he would always, somehow or the other, end up at home, between his wife's legs.

Speaking of wife, the door opened, and a very pregnant Hermione waddled in. Tom leapt to his feet.

"Is everything alright dear? Little Allie isn't bothering you too much, is she?" it was hard to tell whether the worry in his voice was genuine or fake. Hermione beamed at him.

"She's asleep darling. It's actually this new one that's bothering me" she patted her stomach. "I feel so tired. She bounces and kicks so much. We should name her 'Bouncy'."

Tom smiled, shaking his head at his wife, and then wrapped an arm around her. "You really should get some rest. Come-on, its time you slept. Although I think 'Bee' would make a good name."

Busy laughing at her husband, Hermione allowed herself to be towed away, and the study door swung shut.

Maybe, just maybe, he could get used to this.

Thank you for reading!