Chapter One

Considering he was the ruler of Wizarding Britain, Tom Riddle wasn't exactly in the habit of attending concerts - especially not of the variety in which there were an alarming amount of screaming teenage girls in the crowds.

Nonetheless, 'Lightning' were apparently the band everyone was into at the moment, and so he was obligated to show his support for the nation's best and brightest.

He found the whole set up horribly stuffy. Despite how everyone knew his name, Hadrian Black seemed to favour more intimate settings for his gigs as if he was still a non-existent indie band and not the musical phenomenon he'd become.

Tom cared little for such trivialities, when he had far more important things to be concerned with - like the dregs of the Order of the Phoenix and the Resistance, furthering his own agenda in a Ministry that was still relatively new, or avoiding war with other countries.

Every child knew the story of the Second Great Wizarding War, and of his victory and control over the country. Britain was now a first class magical zone, where muggles were related to secondary citizens, kept alive solely for cheap labour and their ability to potentially create muggleborns in a society that was becoming increasingly inbred.

They needed fresh blood, though he hadn't anticipated such things in his youth and the early stages of his regime.

Nonetheless, his utopia and perfect society was up and running, taking its first baby steps from the bloodshed and immeasurable sacrifice of the battles.

Dumbledore had fled, and had become only a minor threat now, skulking in the shadows and clinging to a prophecy that weighed on his mind also. The Potters had been killed as the last marker and turning point, their deaths bringing the first point of the frigid peace that had followed for almost thirteen years now.

Their child survived. A boy, who he'd attempted to kill that night, whisked to safety before he could get to him. But he got the parents, and he knew it was only a matter of time until he caught up with this 'saviour' too.

He didn't know if it was that boy, or the Longbottom child, but he assumed it was Potter because Longbottom was dead and his parents a drooling mess in St Mungos.

He just wished he knew his name; the child had vanished from all record, in the last acts of defiance and rebellion by his parents, and seemed to be under some kind of protection which meant it could not be spoken, or remembered without the indication of whoever it was who kept the secret.

He would have asked Pettigrew - he hadn't paid much attention to first names at the time - but the rat was dead, killed by the blood traitor Black.

The Prophecy, subsequently, taken out of the Ministry and placed instead in a heavily warded cabinet in his private office, continued to frustrate him.

S.B.T to A.P.W.B.D
Dark Lord and ?

All in all, there were a million other things he could be doing then listening to some popular music gig done by some brat. Nonetheless, he sat in his box, feeling utterly out of place, much more comfortable in political conferences though he could wear whatever facade he needed to well enough, and made sure his expression was carefully composed into something which wasn't utter boredom.

That changed when the boy actually strolled on stage.

His eyes slowly started to widen.


In all honesty, Harry absolutely hated the fame. Considering how he'd been used to anonymity - hell, being ignored by the Dursley's for eleven years at least - having everyone know his name, or at least his pseudonym, was both unnerving and incredibly annoying.

Still, he liked the music well enough, and more pointedly the opportunities it allowed him.

When one was the nation's favourite singer/songwriter, there was a rather steady flood of invitations to events and points of interest within the new Wizarding community.

He hadn't always been a rebel; he'd spent the first eleven years as an utter nobody in a small muggle village in Germany, and then after that had been running and hiding around Europe trying to get a grip on his magical abilities, before attending Hogwarts for a few brief years at the age of fifteen.

It was there that he met and made friends with Hermione.

He didn't know what Hogwarts used to be, but he hadn't enjoyed his schooling that much. It had been rigidly efficient, and stony with students wary of the threat hanging over them of entering the world, still reeling from a generation born out of blood.

The Hierarchy in Britain was simple: Death Eaters, Purebloods, Halfbloods, Muggleborns, Squibs and finally Muggles, at the crap of the heap.

He himself was a halfblood, though for a long time his identity had been something very different.

He met the Order of the Phoenix when he was seventeen, though he'd never much liked the state of affairs before than either.

He had to admit that his current status provided ample opportunities for sabotage and infiltration.

Of course, it would be even better if he could keep his mouth shut, and not want to punch someone whenever their esteemed ruler, Lord Voldemort, came up as a topic of conversation, but nonetheless.

Everyone backstage had been excited that the man was here tonight, though few knew what he actually looked like. He played his part accordingly, smiling, and noticed scarlet eyes watching him from the best box in the house.

Voldemort may have had the political power and a standing army and whatever else, but people didn't really like him, even if they were quiet about it. He himself had very little influence over Government and anyone of weight, but he was very popular and liked, so maybe he could use that to his advantage.

He felt like a bloody trick pony. He knew the Dark Lord probably wanted to use him to better his own image, and that he would have to tread very carefully here.

He was at the bar now, in the after party, and couldn't help but wonder if there wasn't something similar between celebrities and politicians. Both required a mask to fit into their arenas - he needed to come across harmless, fun, perhaps a little roguish (Sirius, to whom he'd dedicated the last name, had been a great help with that part). As their dark overlord, Voldemort no doubt had to keep up a facade of constant control and intimidation.

Not that he sympathised with the bastard.

He paused as a drink was slid in front of him, and someone took a seat, and did his best to keep from stiffening.

"Why are you a singer?" the question was asked bluntly, without any opening greeting or introduction, and Harry blinked.

He didn't know what he'd expected from their esteemed overlord, but it wasn't to find him at an after party full of drunken people, without a slimy introduction and boast.

For a second, he was convinced that the man knew, as he turned his head slowly to face the other. With the young face and full head of raven locks, Harry was personally convinced of a glamour.

Vain git.

"Because I like singing," he replied, dryly, automatically. "Most people start with a hello, or are you above all that, my lord?"

"Please," he received a tight, carefully charming smile. "I saw no reason for introductions. You know who I am, evidently, as you do not leave under a rock, and I know who you are, because I do in fact read the news."

Harry didn't know what he'd expected.

"It's polite," he replied.

It wasn't this.

"Do you have a particular inclination to spend five minutes on small talk?" The Dark Lord raised his eyebrows. Harry took a sip of his drink, not touching the one bought for him, and tried to figure out how the hell he was supposed to behave.

He had expected to meet the man who murdered his parents eventually, but not like this. Never like this. The worst part was, for the greater good, that he couldn't do anything about it.

His mouth felt unbearably dry.

"What would be talking about instead?" he tried for a grin, a little goofy. "I don't know much about politics, and you don't look like a man who knows much about guitars. No offence. Voldemort"

Damn it. This wasn't going right.
He'd blame the alcohol for why he wasn't scraping and bowing.

"You don't seem very frightened of me."

"I see no reason to be. There'd be a public uproar if Lord Voldemort murdered me in a bar. I doubt you want that."

The other's head tilted.
"You also use my name, Hadrian."

Harry had never felt more awkward in his life, and he thought he'd been getting good at this type of thing.

"He-who-must-not-be-named is a bit of a mouthful, and you-know-who could be referring to anyone, really," he offered lightly, receiving a hum in response.

Why was the man talking to him?

Probably for status points or something, he didn't know.

The Dark Lord stared at him for several long moments, gaze unwavering, seeming to sear straight through him.

"I'm throwing a dinner next week. Friday. Seven O clock. Someone will send you the address."
Voldemort stood up, and Harry stared at him. He didn't feel so much as invited as ordered to attend. It wasn't a pleasant feeling.

"I'm busy."

The Dark Wizard turned to stare at him, an almost incredulous air to him. The air around him sharpened and crystalized to something colder, those eyes disconcerting red eyes turning dark, menacing, much more like the feared leader of Armies in the stories he'd heard, than the ruthless if charming Politician he paraded about as nowadays.

Harry wished he'd kept his mouth shut, wetted his lips, refused to drop his gaze.

He still suspected a glamour.

The other offered him another, all too pleasant smile.

"I'm sure you can reschedule, Hadrian. I'd very much like to see you there."

He swept out without another word, and other faces quickly replaced him.

Harry stared at the scotch in front of him and tried to control his heartbeat.

It had begun.


Reviews would be great, please, thank you! So I know if this story is worth continuing :) I hope you like the start, even if prologues/first chapters don't tend to be the best. Maybe that's just me :P