Disclaimer: I do not own Tom Riddle/The Dark Lord/Voldemort/He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named/You-Know-Who/You-Know-Poo/Voldy-Poo/Any-Other-Silly-Names-People-Come-Up-With. I also do not own Harry Potter, but you knew that.
Warning: This is a slight parody, and if you have a problem with making fun of Wormtail and poking at Voldemort, you may want to turn back immediately. Also, this is under the 'parody' category for a reason. Thoughts and actions will be unrealistic, but hopefully humorous.
Note: I have also never written, nor do I think read, an article by Rita Skeeter (I don't remember the fourth book). My apologies if it is off.
Tom Riddle had always prided himself on his secrecy. No one knew anything about him-his background, his name, or his blood. Everyone had just assumed he was a pureblood, and Tom had no intention of changing that. Well, Dumbledore knew the truth, too, but it wasn't a problem to Tom if he decided to die in a hole, forever burying his heritage. That was why it was such a shock when one of his Death Eaters-Peter Pettigrew-while tending to him had said, "Happy Birthday, my Lord." Well, since it was Pettigrew, it was more squeaked than said, but it still counted.
"What?" Tom hissed.
"I-it-today's your birthday, my Lord," Pettigrew stuttered. "I just-"
"How do you know of this?" Tom cut across his servant, staring down at him coldly. As Pettigrew coiled in fear, Tom felt some satisfaction. Tom Riddle, now calling himself the Dark Lord, Voldemort, had always felt amused at how much people feared him.
"It-it-"
"Spit it out, Wormtail," Tom hissed.
"It-" Pettigrew swallowed and promptly began another round of stuttering, making Tom want to roll his eyes. He greatly liked (Tom never loved) how merely the mention of him struck fear in people's hearts, but sometimes, it just got so annoying.
Before Pettigrew could say another 'it', Tom quickly brought out his wand to use his favorite curse (alongside the Killing one). "Cruci-"
"No!" Pettigrew yelped, jumping slightly. "I'll tell you! It-it was in the Daily Prophet."
"What?" said Tom. "How can the Ministry publish such trash when those idiots that work there don't even believe I've come back?"
Pettigrew licked his lips nervously. "It appears Dumbledore decided to send it out as a joke or something. Something to say how old you would be, and it appears you would be old, sir-"
That was the wrong thing to say. Tom immediately kicked Pettigrew across the floor.
"Oh, really," said Tom. He fingered his wand. "And how old did Dumbledore say I was?"
Pettigrew gave another squeak. His Lord was enunciating way too much. Once again, Tom resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Sixty nine," Pettigrew murmured.
Tom scoffed. "That's idiotic," he said in another one of his cold tones. To Pettigrew, the tone seemed like the only one he could use. "And the old fool's being a hypocrite. He's a hundred thirteen."
"Of-of course, my Lord," Pettigrew said in barely more than a whisper, deciding not to ask how his Lord knew of 'the old fool's' age. He moved closer. "Would you like to see the article, my Lord?"
"Yes," said Tom. "And you sound like a fool, Wormtail." Pettigrew, for a split second, reflected on how much his Lord liked calling people fools. "You don't have to add 'my Lord' at the end of everything you say." Tom grinned as Pettigrew gaped, his grinning only seeming to terrify Pettigrew even more. Well of course, thought Tom. There was a reason why he never looked in mirrors these days.
As Pettigrew shakily handed Tom the article, the Dark Lord managed to see the title (even if it was shaking violently); How Old Is You-Know-Who? Dumbledore Gives An Inside Look.
Tom inwardly sighed. He had only read the title and he could already tell the story was going to be boring, even if it was about him. Why people still bothered to read the Daily Prophet these days, he didn't know. They were always saying he was dead. Tom liked that people didn't believe he was still around (it gave him a cover, and he was able to do whatever he wanted so it would get blamed on that atrocious Sirius Black), but dead? Merlin's beard, no.
Tom began to read.
Lord Voldemort, commonly known as You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named by the wizarding community, still strikes fear in the hearts of wizards, witches, and squibs today.
Tom smirked.
Everyone knows of the terrors this Dark Lord caused, but few-if any-know anything about this enigma's back story.
Hmm, thought Tom. So he was an enigma, was he? Better than being called a half-blood, anyway.
Rumors of You-Know-Who growing up with a dark wizard and witch family spiral around, and rumors of him not even being from England-perhaps from Germany, America, or Iceland-
Iceland? Fools.
-continue to circle, but so far, no one has shed any light on the subject. His birth date isn't known, and up until recently, most people have believed he was around Dumbledore's age, lying low after the defeat of Grindelwald and then coming out when it was safe. Some people like to believe he is young, only in his twenties or thirties, and as most have yet to see him, imagine him as a sexy sort.
Well, thought Tom, he was quite the charmer, back in his day. Too bad evil comes with a price.
Nothing has been done to quell these rumors until now.
Stupid Dumbledore, Tom thought acidly. Why couldn't he leave things be and let people continue to think of him as a good-looking villain? Life, Tom decided, was not fair.
Recently, Albus Dumbledore, famous wizard and Headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardly, came forward to explain.
"I do not know much about Voldemort,"-
Yeah, right. Absently, Tom began to plot up a plan to shut Albus Dumbledore up for good, or at least for a while. The old man just simply could not jabber off information like this. Distantly, Tom wondered what Bellatrix would think of him now, and thanked Merlin, Circe, or whatever the kids were saying these days, that she was in Azkaban.
-said Dumbledore when we had caught up with him as he visited Hogsmeade, "but as the Headmaster of Hogwarts, I have access to student records. Unfortunately, as the document was quite old-
"I. Am. Not. Old!" Tom accidentally hissed aloud, causing Pettigrew to give another squeak of fear. Tom sniffed the air with his non-existent nose. Was that urine he smelled?
-not all of the information was clear."
"How did you know it was You-Know-Who's?" our reporter, Rita Skeeter asked, but Dumbledore had only smiled serenely.
Of course, thought Tom. How else does he smile? Angrily?
"It came with a picture of himself," said Dumbledore. "I was a teacher at Hogwarts when Voldemort attended, so I vaguely remembered what he looked like. The picture seemed to fit the description."
"What about his name?" Rita Skeeter asked, but Dumbledore had politely refrained from telling, explaining 'it was not his information to tell, and his memory was rusty so he did not remember'. He did mention, though, that You-Know-Who's name was Tom.
At least my followers know better than to call me that, thought Tom, but after a moment, he laughed inwardly. Who was he kidding? All of his followers were idiots. Pettigrew was proof of that.
"That is all I recall," said Dumbledore when pressed for more answers, "I am afraid there were a lot of Toms running around in those days, so it is hard for me to remember."
Hm. Tom looked over the paragraph. He says 'remember' too much.
Our reporter then asked if Dumbledore knew anything about this mysterious Tom's age.
Mysterious Tom? Please. It sounds like a child's superhero.
"Yes," said Dumbledore, to excitement from the crowd. "Voldemort was born December thirty first, nineteen twenty-six. That means he would be sixty-nine." The old Headmaster had then excused himself, saying he needed to get a Butterbeer. He would not allow anymore questions.
Tom, disgruntled, refused to read the rest of the article, instead quickly skimming to the bottom of what was left to see who had written it.
Article written by Rita Skeeter.
Of course. Who else would write such trash? Of all his years of dealing with journalists and reporters, Tom had long ago decided the Skeeter woman-the "Queen of the Quills"-was by far the worst.
"M-my Lord?" squeaked Pettigrew meekly. Tom was unwillingly reminded of the rat's presence in the room.
"Wormtail," hissed Tom. He stared angrily at Pettigrew with his red, snake-like eyes. "Do you need something?"
"No," said Pettigrew. He shifted.
"Then why did you call me?"
"I-"
"How dare you speak my name without a purpose," said Tom cruelly. He pointed his wand. "Crucio."
Well, Tom reflected as he watched Pettigrew writhe on the floor, if he couldn't torture Dumbledore, if he couldn't torture Potter, and if he couldn't even torture Skeeter, there was always Pettigrew.
Happy birthday, Riddle! (For those who are curious, Rita was allowed to write this article because it pokes slight fun at Voldemort/Tom.)
For the rest of you-Happy New Year!
~D