I am supposed to be researching medieval times for my end-of-year history term project. Instead, I have decided to write my first oneshot. And for a disclaimer, I don't own Harry Potter. I am only doing this for fun. Yes. Because I like writing.

The Riddle Enigma

Lady Zabini

He was born Tom Marvolo Riddle…

He was different from the other children in the orphanage. He knew that.

But why so different?

They stayed together in groups. He preferred to be alone. They played with toys. He played with dangerous truths and lies. They were so naïve. He liked causing them pain. He could, if he wanted to. All he had to do was think about it, and whatever he wanted to happen would happen. Things would go his way. They always did. He liked it like that.

He could speak to snakes. All he had to do was look at a snake and speak. It sounded like speaking English to him, but what really came out of his mouth was a hiss.

The first time was an accident. A common garden snake had hissed at him to get out of the way or he would be bitten. He had responded by telling the snake that he would step wherever he wanted.

Needless to say, the snake had been very surprised.

The other children of the orphanage both hated and feared him. To them, he was the loner, the scary dark-haired boy who glared at them with 'creepy eyes.' And Tom wouldn't have it any other way.

Because he was Tom Marvolo Riddle. Not Amy, not Billy, not Mrs. Cole, no one else. Just Tom.

Tom. His name is Tom. Tom Marvolo Riddle…

"Riddle, Tom!"

Was it his imagination, or was that professor who had went and told him about his magical abilities staring at him with an intent expression in his blue eyes?

But so what if he was? Professor what's-his-face could go do something anatomically impossible, for all he cared. He was just glad to be out of the orphanage.

All his life, he had been shunned. He wanted to be accepted now. Possibly even shun people himself.

Shun non-magical people. Because they deserved it. Hiding him away from his true destiny all this time…fools.

He made a silent vow.

They will pay.

And then he sat down and tried on the Sorting Hat.

The Hat had not even touched his head when it screamed out, loud enough for the whole hall to hear, "SLYTHERIN!"

Tom smiled and took off the hat. He ignored the stunned looks on the Slytherins' faces, probably because I'm not a 'pureblood,' I think it's called.

But Tom didn't care. He slipped into a seat at the end of the table and continued watching the Sorting of students.

What that hat said in its song…ambition…true destiny…

They will pay.

His true Slytherin heritage is shown.

It was amazing. A whole secret chamber, all to himself. And a monster to control.

All that hard work, all that research…it was completely worth it.

"Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts four," he hissed in Parseltongue. He immediately knew what to say. And Slytherin was the greatest of the Hogwarts four.

He was rewarded. Yes, the monster was a basilisk.

And now, it was time for that payback he had promised.

Yes, revenge was sweet.

His Muggle heritage, however, is not forgotten.

"Who are you?" the man asked, sneering at him disdainfully.

Tom stared stonily back, feeling just as disdainful. This man, this scum, this Muggle was his father.

Mother, he thought, I am proud of your Slytherin heritage, and I will avenge you by killing this man, but how could you have stooped so low as to marry a Muggle? If you wanted to marry someone with impure blood, it could have at least been a Mudblood, if not a halfblood!

He didn't say this out loud, of course. All he did was continue glaring at his Muggle father, while noting their rather similar appearances.

It was just like Morfin, his uncle, his mother's brother, had said. They did look alike.

But the similarities ended there.

Morfin had been helpful. Not only had he gotten directions to where to go, he had gotten the ring.

The ring would help carry out the plan he had began to concoct when in Slytherin's secret chamber, in the library there. It would help him.

I can no longer go by Tom Riddle, my filthy Muggle father's name. I need a new name. A new outlook.

And yes, revenge will be sweet.

But for now, he had to concentrate. He had never killed a person before. But it should be easy. He had practiced that wonderful incantation, Avada Kedavra, plenty of times. The jet of green light that had shot out of his yew wand was exhilarating. It made him feel powerful. And Tom craved power.

But for now…

"Don't you remember me?" Tom taunted in a mocking whisper. He leaned even closer to his father and his grandparents, who were all staring at him in a horrified, transfixed sort of way. "I'm your son."

"I don't have a son," Tom Riddle Senior contradicted, even though the evidence was as plain as the haughty, aristocratic look on his face.

"Oh, that's where you're wrong," Tom said quietly. "And you know, I'm going to make you pay for abandoning my mother in her time of need."

"What can a boy like you do?" Tom Riddle Senior asked disdainfully.

"You'd be surprised." Tom pulled out his wand and fingered it, before writing silvery, wispy words in the air. A name, in fact:

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

"Now then," Tom continued in an almost brisk manner. "Who wants to be killed first?"

"You can't kill anyone; you're just a boy," Tom's grandmother argued, but there was fear in her eyes, as well as the eyes of the rest of the Riddles, excluding Tom (Junior).

"Now that's where you're wrong again. I can do it quite nicely, and I'll start with you. Avada Kedavra!"

The flash of green light, the feeling of power and triumph…Tom craved it.

Tom's grandfather let out a shout and raced to his wife's side. "What did you do?" he shouted fearfully at his grandson.

"I killed her. I believe I have already said that. And now it's your turn. Avada Kedavra!"

"Why are you doing this?" Tom's father asked, staring at his son with wide, horrified eyes. "They were your grandparents!"

"And very loving grandparents, too," Tom agreed sarcastically. "Now stay still and let me kill you."

"No! Don't kill me; I'm your father!"

" 'I don't have a son.' 'What can a boy like you do?' " Tom mimicked in an over-exaggerated voice. "No, you're not my father. And what I'm about to do next will not let out all of my anger, but it will help. Crucio!"

The agonized screaming was music to his ears. He really should do this more often.

"Don't…" the man gasped out. "Just…don't…"

"Too late, Riddle." Tom raised his wand again. "Avada Kedavra!"

The last look on Tom Riddle Senior's face before he died was one of pure terror.

But no matter what, he will stay Tom Marvolo Riddle. That is whom he will always be, no matter what else he calls himself.

"Tom," Cecilia called. "Tom, wait for me!"

"Cecilia," the sixteen-year-old dark-haired boy returned, never slowing down his pace. "I have told you. Call me Voldemort. That is my name now."

"Yes, Voldy."

"It is Voldemort," Tom corrected.

Cecilia pouted. "But that takes so long to say!"

"It is only three syllables, Cecilia. Surely you are not so dim-witted as to be unable to pronounce three simple syllables?"

"All right. I'll call you Voldemort. But I still think it's a dumb name."

"Think whatever you like, Cecilia. But that is now my name."

"Alright, whatever you say. Now what did you think of that last Potions essay Slughorn assigned us…?"

The Heir of Slytherin lives on.

He was free.

After years of being trapped as a memory in that diary, he was free.

Finally free.

It had been easy to manipulate Ginevra Weasley. She was just a silly little Gryffindor girl with a crush on the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter. She was just a silly little girl, and nothing more.

He had poisoned her mind with lies and deceit. Slowly but surely, she had begun to believe her family didn't care about her. And that was when he had started to take over her mind, to possess her.

It had worked. He was free.

And it was all a trap. A trap to capture Harry Potter.

Harry Potter, the cause of all his problems. He had been living the most perfect life a Dark Lord could lead. He had seen it all, done it all, remembered it all. And then a baby had temporarily defeated him.

Emphasis on the temporarily.

But he was back. He was free to take control again.

He was no longer Voldemort, the Dark Lord.

He was Tom Marvolo Riddle, Heir of Slytherin.

And proud of it.

To recap: he was born Tom Marvolo Riddle…

He was not Tom Riddle, he told himself. He was Voldemort, the great and powerful Dark Lord. And he was about to kill the most annoying thorn in his side—Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived.

It didn't matter. Harry Potter couldn't kill him anyway. He had his Horcruxes to save him. Now his loyal Death Eaters knew he could be resurrected, he wouldn't be abandoned again. Even if Harry Potter managed to hit him with the Killing Curse, there was no way he would die.

Fate did not seem to like the Dark Lord, however.

"I hate to end this, Riddle," Potter taunted, throwing up a shield to deflect the curse Voldemort had just sent at the annoying boy—more of a man now, really. Voldemort still couldn't get over the fact how similar they were—both halfbloods, orphans, black-haired, bespectacled, and powerful. Pity Potter was a Gryffindor and chose to waste that power. He could have been a valuable asset to the Dark Lord's forces.

But seeing as he was not, he would have to be terminated.

"But all your Horcruxes are gone, so I really have to say good-bye," Potter finished.

Voldemort froze. "What did you say?" he demanded sharply. He heard wrong. He had to have heard wrong.

Wrong. He was wrong. He hadn't heard wrong.

"Your Horcruxes," Potter repeated. "I've destroyed them all. Good-bye, Riddle. Avada Kedavra!"

Voldemort was so shocked, he never had the chance to duck. He fell to the ground, stone cold dead.

And as his body lay there, it began to change. Color went back into his face, instead of the pale white mask it usually was, his eyes turned human again, his nose gained shape. He no longer looked like the Dark Lord…just Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Because that was who he was.

…And so he shall die Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Finite.

How was it? Am I so awful a writer I should never write again? Should I delete this and go hide my face in shame? Or should I be proud of this?

Let me know.