Disclaimer: I don't own the Raising Voldemort plot. I don't own Harry Potter, Voldemort, Tom Riddle, Merope Gaunt, nuns, an Orphanage, or New Year's Eve, not to mention I don't own the 20th century. Do you want me to go on? I didn't think so. Morbid.
Pre-Author's Note: I wrote this at first because I had a plot bunny nibbling on my shoes. It was saying to write something like this! Except that I decided to throw that plot bunny to the sharks, because I'm already going to be doing too many stories. The plot bunny will be explained at the end, and if anyone saves it from the carnivorous sea creatures, please tell me! I want to read a story like that bunny told, not write one... Angedemort means Angel of Death in French.
"Parseltongue"
Birthdays in Blood
Part 5, the 8th Day, of the 13 days of Christmas
"On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me: Eight maids a milking, seven swans a swimming, six geese a laying, FIVE GO-OLD RINGS, four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree."
Song: The 12 Days of Christmas
"On the 8th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: 8 comic books, 7 packs of smokes, 6 packs of two-four, 5 GOLDEN TOQUES! 4 lbs of backbacon, 3 french toast, 2 turtlenecks, and beer in a tree."
Song: Bob and Doug Mackenzie's the 12 days of Christmas
He burst into the room swiftly. It was almost midnight on the 31st of December, 1925, but he didn't care. What he wanted was in that building, and he heard the birth screams just as he entered. On the table was a horridly ugly woman wearing rags, on her death bed, and next to her was two nuns, one holding a child covered in blood, whimpering, its umbilical cord being cut by the other nun. Dark hair was plastered to his head and the blue eyes every new born child had stared at him between blinks and screams.
"T-Tom?" Merope Gaunt – for this was the dying woman's name – whispered, hoarse. "Y-you found me again."
The man narrowed brilliant green eyes. He was twenty three now, by appearance, and held no love for the woman. And he knew many things that he probably shouldn't, by the natural order. But, then, he scorned the natural order. Order in general, in fact, was horridly boring. So, of course, knowing these things he felt a stir of chaos. He knew the woman to be a witch, the boy a wizard, and both spoke the snake tongue. He knew exactly who the child was destined to be. Most importantly, he knew exactly how horrible this orphanage would be. He'd have none of it.
"Merope," he acknowledged, kneeling at her side as any good supposed-husband ought to. "I will keep him safe." This was all he said, and the woman passed with a smile on her misshapen face. He turned immediately from the death, even if it was not the first (no, not by a long shot!) he had seen. "The boy is to be named Roman Amadeus Slytherin-Riddle. So mote it be."
A light came from the dim orphanage, a sickly green, and in the morning the two nuns present for the New Year's Eve birthing would be found, dead from an unknown source. No one saw the strange young man with messy jet black hair and a handsome face, nor how the eyes had turned red upon their deaths. All anyone knew was that there was a woman dead from child birth, two from what seemed to be fear, and the child was gone. The nuns mourned, and lives went on in muggle London.
All had been going well. The brat was under his control. No longer were there any threats to him. The outside could do nothing to his wizarding isles. These were his domain, and none could resist. Oh, one had been prophesized to be able to stop him, but the brat was his, trapped in dungeons deep under the earth.
Except that just when all was settled, the boy freed himself. They faced one another, atop the towers of his citadel. Why should he fear the boy? He didn't, but he did fear prophesy. One was to die at the hand of the other, after all. He was certain the brat would die. He was immortal! He had many safeguards against death. Enough to ensure his reign an extra seven life spans of above-average wizarding life span at the least. Even if the boy destroyed his body, his loyal were ready to create him another at a moment's notice.
Instead of outright dueling though, the young man, who looked so much as he had when younger, had jumped at him.
And so they fell from the parapet.
One must kill the other! That was the prophesied line. None one must kill both. One must kill one, and only one, of the two. He had won! He knew then, that they boy had flubbed. His eyes shut, and he welcomed the earth's embrace.
When the dust settled, it was only one crumpled form that rose, unharmed from the long drop. There were no other bodies bout, just the one, whole, and perfect. It was as if they had been one. From an 80-something year old man, half snake, held together only by the darkest magicks, and a young man, not yet even twenty, who had been hearty and whole, now stood what could only be described as the most demonic of angelic men.
Hair of ebony, an elegant mess, as if only ruffled, yet still tame, covered the eyes, both a killing curse shade of green. Skin of whitest sheet and fair features, a gorgeous man with a perfect face. His body was lithe, and six-foot tall. But no one saw this transformation. For, though when the two fell it had been the last hour of the twentieth century, 'twas Christmas day that they rose. Indeed, Christmas day some 80 years prior to the fall at all. And so he, the Lord Riddle of Hangleton, Duke Potter of the Welsh Hollows, Lord Voldemort of the Wizarding Isles became one.
A long life of hate and abuse beat down one just as bad, destroying the spark which was love inside him. He remained Voldemort, and yet he was just as much the Chosen One. Except now, he was something beyond. More than a full soul. They had become Other, and knew already what was wished to be done.
The year was 1925, and Voldemort was to be born. He left, knowing what lay before him. Yes, the muggles would get what they deserved for what was done to them. For the orphan days of Tom Riddle. For the lonely, abused childhood of Harry Potter.
And he would foster the one who should do it.
"Roman," Angedemort said low as he entered the bed chambers of his fosterling. The child looked up to him, dark green eyes leaving his thick volume, far beyond his age level material. He had been reading such books since he was five.
"Yes, Father?" The boy enquired, picked up his leather strap to tie his black locks back. He looked like a smaller version of the being before him, though less ethereal, more human, than It. The Angel of Death.
"It is your seventh birthday," He clarified. "As a Slytherin descendant, you know your duties." In the past seven years, Angedemort had taken enormous fortune, having himself and child live in luxury. At first, they had lived in the Riddle house, after killing the filthy muggle inhabitants of course, though only for a year as He gained connections all around, manufacturing dark items to sell in shady shops to begin with, then dealing with stocks and behind the scenes dealings. Soon, they were among the richest families in Britain, having knowledge of the past which was beyond the comprehension of many others.
"Yes sir," Roman nodded, pushing back the last of the black locks from his face and tucking his book away. "I have selected the blood traitor for the ritual." The boy was now standing with all the Slytherin decorum and Angedemort turned, leaving.
The child followed and then, when they left the mansion, it was Roman who lead the way into the nearby town. It was a magical town, and everyone feared the two who lived on the hillside manor. There were whispers that the older, known to most as Lord Thanatos, a Greek Lord who moved into area with his son six years hence, was really Angedemort, who had been terrorizing England for the past three years. They were right f course, but they had another incorrect assumption. But it mattered not if they thought he allied himself with fools like Grindelwald.
No, instead Angedemort merely followed his young charge to a cafe, and the boy pointed out a young waitress who was serving coffee to some patrons who had journeyed in for a pick me up before going to their New year's festivities. The Dark Lord nodded, and the pair ordered drinks to seem unsuspicious. After, they left, but vanished.
The young witch, a Dorea Black, Harry Potter's paternal grandmother, was not seen after she took the trash out back. Two figures left the town via apparition, and arrived in the prepared room that held that same portkeyed woman within. She panicked, dark hair flying about as she stumbled over a cauldron. It bubbled as she passed over, her foot was still inside when her bottom hit the concrete floor. Roman advanced, and she was frightened.
He was just a child of seven, but when he lifted the wand – her wand – he said to words that no child should be able to put into effect. Yet, the rushing green engulfed her, and the small piece of spirit that pushed her out, instead of returning to its master, was channeled into the bubbling potion. From green to clear, and finally the artifact inside, an old stone ring with a triangle, circle, and line on it was a horcrux for a small, but very powerful, seven year old boy.
Angedemort rested a hand on Roman's shoulder. Yes, they would be ready to conquer soon enough.
Roman was now seventeen, and Angedemort ruled wizarding Britain. Roman didn't really care about the man who was supposed to be his father. No, he just cared that he hadn't lived. When they were to celebrate the day of his birth, the day that he came of age, Roman did the unthinkable.
He killed the Angel of Death.
"You told me once, father, that a prophecy stated that neither may live while the other survives," Roman stood over the cooling corpse then. "You should have thought of it then. One of us had to kill the other. It's just your bad luck that you couldn't realize what we were doing."
He left, then, and the wizarding world rejoiced. Their dictator was gone! However, they didn't realize the truth of the matter. The old fool who cared to much was gone. Roman Slytherin was much different from Angedemort. Crueler. They had no clue what was to happen before the boy turned twenty. By the time he was, all who stood against him had regretted it thoroughly in the grave.
Author's Note: That was the New Year's special. So the plot bunny said this to me as it nibbled at my shoe: There are tals of Harry raising himself, and Harry raising Voldemort, not to mention Voldemort raising Harry! But what if Voldemort raised himself? Well, I just wanted to get the plot bunny away, and it fit in with my New Year's thingy so... yeah.
Happy New Year's!