A few caveats before we embark on a magical, mystical story of adventure, murder, mystery, and politics. First: readers may wish to acquaint themselves with the seven-volume biography of Henry James Potter, Junior written by Joanne Kathleen Rowling. This is optional, as this story reflects an alternate timeline that split off in mid-August of 1938. That said, an alternate timeline does not mean alternate people. Specifically, Thomas Marvolo Riddle, his immediate family, Eileen Prince, Professors Horace Eugene Flaccus Slughorn and Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore of Potions and Transfiguration respectively, Hermione Jane Granger, and others are the same people as they are in the Prime Universe. Should he be alive and unsatisfied with my portrayal of his personality, Professor Nicolas Flamel in specific is welcome to serve process on me and file suit in a court of law of his choosing. As for events... well, you'll see.
Second: I must emphasise that The Hon. Tom M. Riddle is every inch a psychopath in the clinical sense as defined by Doctors Robert Hare and Hervey Cleckley. The events described, however, begin long before Dr Hare's career. It should be understood that Tom's illness (debatable-he'd call it a variation in nervous 'wiring' and I'd probably agree with him) is very much of the affective genus. After thorough consideration of his curriculum vitae, both in this timeline and the alternate, I have concluded that our friend Tom doesn't believe in the ideas that might makes right and greed is good. He knows that such is the case, that homo hominem edit, and that this is right and good. He agrees with Herbert Spencer about the survival of the fittest, and he believes (not without justification) that he is among their number. The natural corollary to this is that those not so blessed deserve whatever ill luck befalls them-including their reputational, legal, financial, and medical ruin, as well as their death. Much like Professor Slughorn, Tom is a passionate collector-and much like that same learned man, Tom collects people. As for his opinions, the concepts embodied by the words good and right, and evil and wrong, are the sorts of fairy tales one outgrows at about the same time as the misapprehension that new siblings are brought home by ciconid birds. The needlessly overcomplicated song-and-dance about those three letters s-e-x, well, some people-self-described ladies, chiefly-have a seemingly pathological insistence on defining love as anything other than a zero tennis score. The truth is that the voluptates carnales, like cryptics or cribbage, are merely an alternative to the boredom of a rainy Sunday afternoon.
Third: feel free to disagree with Riddle's beliefs if you like-he won't hold it against you. Hell, go ahead and disagree with his thoughts on evil. Vocally so, if you like; the men and women who consider themselves his friends do. Frequently. If you must believe in the existence of evil as such, though, never make the grievous mistake of equating it to the Dark Arts-certainly not if you value your dignity or eardrums. The former is tantamount to the act of murder; the latter, to homicide or even to a knife. Whether you agree or disagree, though, know that he is Tom Marvolo Riddle, war hero, rightful Heir to Salazar Slytherin, et caetera, et caetera, et caetera, and he is awesome-not that his ever-enlarging collection of titles have anything to do with that indisputable fact.
Fourth and finally: every preceding word is true. Riddle is a hero; Byronic, yes, psychopathic, yes, dark, yes, but heroic, also yes. One can not but note that heroic, light, and angelic are in no way synonyms. True, in another lifetime he'd let the King of Serpents roam in Hogwarts' hallowed halls, leading to an innocent girl's death. True, he'd used her demise to make a Horcrux. True, he murdered five more people, attempted another murder, and the members of the secret society of which he served as Grandmaster murdered hundreds. It's also true, however, that every arse has two cheeks. Miss Warren's death was an accident-do you really think he wanted his one true home to close its doors? Besides, Myrtle was a whiny, annoying bitch whom nobody liked-it was a service to humanity, really-and how was he to know that not only were Horcruxes addictive but also that they drained one's sanity away like a Dementor drained happiness? Really. Think about it. This time around, though, a series of fortunate events prevented him from embarking on his campaign of bigotry, torture, murder, murder, murder, murder, murder, murder, attempted murder, military defeat, and a justified demise at the hands of Harry James Potter-but this is a saga of war, and one with which Slytherins have thrown in their lot. The truth is a slippery thing, famous for presenting a different face to everyone who meets it-and those who have confronted it are vastly outnumbered by those who, for their own reasons, make false claims to the selfsame effect.
Have you got all that? Cauldron? Broomstick? Very good. Roll up your sleeves, throw on your cloak, holster your wand, and slap that silver dagger on your belt. Not to put too fine a point on it, people, but it started with a war. Pick a side-oh, the Hell with it, pick three.
NOTE: The first chapter of Riddle's life in this timeline was accidentally destroyed. I will endeavour to reconstruct it from memory when I have the time and inclination. The salient details are that Tom-and don'tyou dare call him that, at least not for the next few months-arrives late to the Welcoming Feast in his second year. No thanks to his former "friends'" failure to save his customary seat, he joins a few older students, making their acquaintance within school rather than without. I'm sure you'll grasp the significance if I tell you that Mulciber, Lestrange, Nott, and Jugson give way to Prince, Ollivander, Malfoy, and Verwoerd. It's worth remembering that South Africa was fully part of the British Empire in 1942-and that Verwoerd is very SA'can. An exchange student will make her appearance soon. As for Tom's wand, it contains nothing of phoenix origin, whether from Fawkes or otherwise-instead, it was expertly carved from a branch of Sambucus nigra thirty-eight centimetres in length, and boasts a core of pilos caudae Equi atropos. From whence it came, who made it, and how it came to be in Tom's possession are for me to know and for you to figure out. Where would be the fun in telling you?