Lord Voldemort stared at the wand in his hand, wondering if he had made the right choice. Holly, eleven inches, phoenix feather core. It was the brother wand to his own.
It had not chosen him.
As he walked out of Ollivander's, Hermione chattering excitedly beside him to her parents about the mythical properties of vine wood, on which Ollivander had previously expounded, and Professor McGonagall leading the way with a stiff smile on her face, he was unable to determine whether he had taken a step forwards or backwards, as far as Albus Dumbledore was concerned.
When Garrick Ollivander had got that intrigued glint in his eye, Lord Voldemort had known instinctively that something was different about the smooth, warmly polished wand. He had been practicing legilimency for long enough that he knew it was wise to listen to those uncanny feelings. Though he felt just about the same amount of connection to this wand as to half the others in the shop—the vague, calm sense that it would operate for him, but was certainly not his wand—he imagined a shower of golden sparks, and felt the wand warm satisfactorily as it followed his command.
"Curious." Ollivander had said. And so Lord Voldemort learned that he held the brother wand in his hand, and was himself quite curious to know more. But Ollivander was tight lipped, and Lord Voldemort did not dare press on with Professor McGonagall and the mudblood hovering in the background. So he paid for the wand with seven galleons out of his orphan fund (he was appalled at the apparent inflation, remembering that in his youth he would have killed for seven galleons), and they left the shop.
Dumbledore and Ollivander were acquaintances, at least. He did not know if they had further ties. Had Dumbledore expected Harry Potter, the supposed vanquisher, to hold the brother wand? The name was deceptive, anyway; wands with the same core were usually crafted with diametrically opposite woods. What exactly that meant was up to the discretion of the wand maker, given the wide range of interpretation, but it was most often the case that a person's enemy, or at least somebody he disliked, would get his brother wand.
Then Lord Voldemort remembered that Dumbledore, and by extension Ollivander, could not possibly have known that he was Harry Potter. He himself was not supposed to know that. Lord Voldemort occluded his knowledge continuously, which meant that Ollivander could certainly not have found anything suspicious in his mind with a mere few superficial sweeps of legilimency, which would cover only the most benign of conscious thoughts.
It was still possible, however, that either Ollivander was interested in seeing whose hands the holly wand would go into, since he remembered selling its yew brother to Lord Voldemort, or that Dumbledore was interested in it and had told Ollivander to keep an eye out. Lord Voldemort had no way of knowing at the moment which was the case.
At any rate, McGonagall seemed to be concerned; there was extra tension in her gait, and she had ceased voluntarily explaining the sights and sounds of Diagon Alley to the muggle couple and their daughter.
Suddenly, it occurred to Lord Voldemort that McGonagall had recognized him. He had noticed before that Harry looked a bit like James Potter, but the resemblance had never struck him as clearly as it apparently did the transfiguration professor, perhaps because he hadn't known the man personally. Had anybody else recognized him, then? It would lift a layer of deception off his shoulders, at least, to be identified as Harry Potter, but it raised all sorts of other, heretofore nonexistent problems, including the possibility that Ollivander had recognized him after all. He would rather be free of the identity issue entirely, though he knew it was necessary.
Lord Voldemort wondered when McGonagall would decide to verify that he was Harry Potter.
As soon as possible, as it turned out, was the answer to that. After getting knocked around again on the Knight Bus, they dropped Hermione and her parents off at their home and Professor McGonagall got to business.
"Mr. Jones, do you remember your parents?" she asked. Lord Voldemort did his best to arrange his face into something rather offended.
"Why?" he demanded. Professor McGonagall looked rather pained.
"Mr. Jones, I really do think you aren't—your name isn't what you think it is. But I may be wrong; please, tell me if you remember—anything."
Frowning, Lord Voldemort replied, after a pause, "Well, no, ma'am. But I've always been called Eric. And Jones." he said in an insistent tone.
Professor McGonagall pursed her lips. "Would you mind terribly if we did a bit of test, then?"
"What kind of test?" he shot back suspiciously, clutching his bag of newly purchased supplies more securely in his hand.
"It's very simple." she reassured him quickly. "You only need to hold a rod for a few minutes. We will have to do it in Professor Dumbledore's office."
Lord Voldemort took a second to figure out what to do next. He decided to keep his expression rather negative, though not outright hostile. He remembered also that he was supposed to act like an ignorant muggle-born. "Professor Dumbledore?" he asked. McGonagall looked startled, and moved to better explain the entire process.
Hogwarts was a beautiful sight. Lord Voldemort was still moved by the magical castle in a way he had never been by anything else. As they stepped across the ward line, he felt as if he were being welcomed home, and only belatedly managed to make some suitably impressed sounds for McGonagall's benefit, though she barely seemed to notice. Up the wide steps and through the grand doors they went, down familiar corridors and passages, to stop at last before a tall, stone gargoyle.
Albus Dumbledore looked old. In fact, he looked a decade older than he had the last time Lord Voldemort had seen him in person—quite logical, seeing as it had been about eleven years. The wrinkles lining his face had deepened, and his white mane of hair had grown wispier. Lord Voldemort could not read his expression as Dumbledore handed him the twisted copper rod, which he obligingly held vertically above his head.
The long, black string connecting the rod to a small box wriggled, and a puff of smoke seeped out of the edges of the box before a slip of parchment shot out of the slit at the top. Dumbledore's expression turned grave.
"Harry James Potter." he read.
The entire matter was conducted quite secretively, or at least there was no fanfare surrounding it. No reporters or ministry officials erupted out of the stone walls to interrogate him. Nor, indeed, was "Eric Jones" ever asked whether he wanted to be called "Harry Potter" from then on or if he wanted to go live with his mother. It all was decided for him and happened very quickly.
Standing uncertainly in front of Lily Potter, Voldemort regretted not protesting. It was another one of Albus Dumbledore's games, he was sure; any normal child would have been outraged at the disregard.
Perhaps it could be attributed to shock, Lord Voldemort reassured himself. He had not lost quite yet. He needed to get into the mindset. That was all.
Narrowing his eyes, he licked his lips, as if feeling uncomfortable. "So you're my mother?" he asked doubtfully.
Lily Potter burst into tears. Taken aback, Lord Voldemort paused for a moment, thinking furiously. Why was she crying? He was certain she was saddened, not angered. His words had been the cause. But he had only been asking a question—rhetorical, maybe, but it might as well have been for confirmation or security. The closest possibility Voldemort could entertain was that Lily Potter was displeased that he was not immediately acknowledging her as his mother.
And what would her real son do in this situation? The first response that, unhelpfully, came to mind was: "I thought she was supposed to be in the loony bin!"
Actually, that was a valid point. Lord Voldemort, like everybody else, had heard that Lily Potter had been living in the Janus Thickey ward for the past decade. But the neat, fiery-haired witch dressed in black work robes of a practical cut looked quite the opposite from addled or permanently spell-damaged, if one excused her current lack of composure as she sobbed uncontrollably into a dark green handkerchief.
"I'm sorry…" she mumbled. Voldemort was unsure what she was apologizing for. He only shrugged awkwardly—it seemed like an appropriate response. He remembered that nobody had quite known how to deal with Walburga Black's tearful temper tantrums back in the day. This was probably something similar, though he was sure it involved different motivations.
"Er, it's okay." he muttered as she dabbed her eyes and then blew her nose wetly.
"I'm sorry, we just met, this—this… no, I've got it. I'm okay. I'm okay." she said, breathing harshly. She drew a wand from her pocket, and Voldemort tracked it, feeling somewhat alarmed, even as she only used it to cast a few cleaning charms. Who knew what sorts of horrible results could ensue from casting under emotional duress?
In the end, Lord Voldemort did not manage to say anything. At least Dumbledore had already gone away to leave them in peace, and had had the decency to move them out of his office, which was full of spying portraits. He had no idea where he was now, since he had been side-along apparated onto an unknown street, and now they were standing about in an unknown house. He supposed it belonged to Lily; it was overwhelmingly muggle, to the point where there was no way he could tell that a witch might live inside—there wasn't even a fireplace. He found it somewhat unnerving.
Lily seemed to have calmed down, but Voldemort was hesitant to make conversation, uncertain as he was of his rusty acting ability. He had met Hermione Granger already, but the single example of what an eleven-year-old ought to be like was hardly enough, and he had the idea that Hermione was rather odd for a girl her age. Once he spent a day or two at Hogwarts, Voldemort was confident that he would slip back into the role of the accommodating student with ease, but for now, it had been sixty years since he had had to bow to anybody's wishes, and the change was difficult to accustom himself to. He was afraid he had already acted too passively several times. Wouldn't a real child have got angry at being ignored and having his identity rewritten without his permission?
Finally, Lord Voldemort settled on a good question to ask. "So… what's going on? Nobody will explain anything." He added a dash of desperation to his last few words, and frowned deeply.
"What do you know?" Lily asked. Lord Voldemort thought about it, because he really had no idea. He cursed himself for not having earlier devised some kind of mnemonic for separating his real knowledge from that which his persona was supposed to possess. Occlumency was only useful if one anticipated the need to organize one's thoughts.
He supposed that he was acting the part of an idiot schoolboy. So he said, "I don't know. Nothing? I only just learned that I was a wizard." He said this quickly, but decided that the words still sounded stiff. He needed to practice more, and quickly.
Lily did not seem to notice anything amiss, however. "Oh… I don't know where to start." she mumbled.
Lord Voldemort refrained from saying something sarcastic, though he wasn't sure why he bothered. Lily lapsed into silence for a few moments before she finally began.
"Well, I suppose…" She sniffed once, and then picked up her wand again, glancing around almost in paranoia. Then she twirled her wand expertly in very recognizable motions—a muffling spell, an alarm, and a distraction charm, all components of what was colloquially known as a privacy bubble. Lord Voldemort watched her face in anticipation, waiting.
"It all starts with a prophecy." she said, frowning.
"A prophecy?" Voldemort interrupted sceptically. He was curious to know if she had learned the wording sometime in the past decade, but it wasn't important. He needed to act the part of an apparent muggle-born. Lily smiled slightly, which he supposed meant that he had done something correctly.
"I didn't believe it at first, either." she replied. Then she glanced around again, as if distrustful of the integrity of her privacy bubble. "Listen, you shouldn't tell anybody I told you. Especially not Albus. He says you're too young, but I think you have a right to know."
The hoarseness of her voice made her message sound all the graver. Lord Voldemort thought furiously, even as he said only, "Er, thank you. I won't tell anyone." aloud. Albus Dumbledore did not want Harry Potter to know of the prophecy surrounding his life. Why was Harry too young? Was it because Harry knew little of magic, and could wish to disregard the prophecy, causing havoc? But that could easily be remedied by Dumbledore if he simply emphasized the prophecy's importance. Perhaps that was the problem; he knew nothing about Harry, and so did not know if he had the necessary influence to change Harry's mind.
He glanced back up to Lily. She was blatantly disregarding Dumbledore's wishes. Perhaps she wanted to gain Harry's trust, but it seemed to be an odd way of going about it. Harry Potter was an eleven-year-old child. The first things he could think of that would gain Harry's trust were giving him his favourite food and playing childish games with him. Such a simple matter certainly did not involve disclosure of the prophecy.
"The prophecy says that you have the power to defeat the Dark Lord." Lily said. Voldemort frowned.
"Who is he? Why does he need to be defeated?" he asked. "How come nobody else has this power? I'm just a boy." he added. That question had been bothering him for awhile now. Harry Potter was not particularly special. He was boy who had a good grasp on using imagination in magic and who had had more opportunity to practice magic than his peers, but a normal boy nonetheless. Perhaps, by not entirely abiding by the prophecy, Voldemort had stopped him from developing his special power, but the question still stood.
How could a random boy have a power that no existing, perfectly competent adult already possessed? Why would Lord Voldemort's actions—to mark somebody as an equal—have any impact on whether that person acquired a "power he knew not?" It still made absolutely no sense, and he was afraid he wouldn't see it until it was too late, if it ever came to that.
Lily looked somewhat astonished. "I… I don't know. I don't actually know the exact content of the prophecy." she admitted. Lord Voldemort was surprised that Dumbledore still had not informed her, and that she had not somehow extracted the information from him. "The Dark Lord is named Voldemort, and he's the one who killed James. Your father."
"Oh." Voldemort said, doing his best to look rather astounded. "My father was murdered?" Lily nodded slowly, and Voldemort thought she might burst into tears again. But she didn't. She only closed her eyes and leaned back and waited.
Suddenly, something occurred to Voldemort that he had stupidly never noticed before.
Why did Lord Voldemort's influence on Harry matter? Because the prophecy had urged Voldemort to attack Harry Potter and his family. If Harry Potter remained alive afterwards, then he would have a perfect motive to "vanquish the Dark Lord": revenge.
Lord Voldemort had prevented Harry from harbouring hatred towards him, perhaps with this idea in mind, but he had never gone a step further in understanding why Harry might become his enemy. It was still plainly true that he had killed Harry Potter's father, and though he had twisted the truth for Harry's benefit, there might come a day when the boy realized that all was not as black and white as it had been painted. The prophecy remained forever a danger, and fighting it was like holding closed bursting floodgates with his bare hands. Leakage was inevitable.
Noting that Lily had yet to say anything further, he cast about for something else to ask.
"Why was I in foster care, then?" he tried. It was unbelievable that he had forgotten to ask that even earlier. If, in his childhood, he had been pulled from the orphanage to see his up to the point nonexistent mother—well, he supposed he had already gone through that with his father, and there hadn't really been any questions asked. He had instead cast three killing curses and made his first horcrux. Of course Lily Potter wasn't really his mother and he knew that she had not abandoned her son. And Harry Potter was nothing like Tom Riddle.
Lily looked pained for a moment.
"We lost you." she said. "I don't know how, but you disappeared. At first, Dumbledore thought Voldemort took you, but obviously—obviously that's not true."
Lord Voldemort did not let it disturb his outward composure, but his heart nearly skipped a beat. Of course he should have expected that Dumbledore would not have publicised his outlandish hypothesis about the defeat of Lord Voldemort without first having entertained more likely scenarios. In fact, Voldemort still had no idea whether Dumbledore really believed that he had been "vanquished" by Harry Potter, or had merely announced his verdict as misdirection.
"So nobody knows what happened?" he asked again in confirmation. Lily shook her head.
"So… how did Professor Dumbledore's machine know who I was? I had to be touching it, right?" Voldemort asked, changing the subject slightly. It seemed like a valid concern. Lily smiled slightly.
"That's right. It knows your name because your name is a magical part of you that can't be changed. You ask a lot of questions, don't you? You could be a Ravenclaw." she said. Voldemort noted that she had hesitated over her explanation of names. Filing away the thought for later, he obligingly replied.
"Ravenclaw? That's a Hogwarts house, right? Professor McGonagall was talking about them."
Lily must have found Hogwarts a nice and safe topic, because she suddenly burst into much more active speech and even managed to knock over a vase on a side table with her gesturing, a far cry from her previous tense stillness. The privacy bubble decayed into formlessness and eventually they migrated to the kitchen, where Lily made them lemonade with too much sugar.
Nursing his overly sweet drink and hiding a grimace, Lord Voldemort nodded along to Lily's explanation of Quidditch. She was, unsurprisingly, a Holyhead Harpies fan. Voldemort had never held much interest for the sport, but he knew enough to be bored by her enthusiastic description; he was surprised when she noticed and reassured him that not everybody liked Quidditch.
A movement under the kitchen table distracted Voldemort, and he glanced down, only to meet a pair of bulbous yellow eyes.
"A cat?" he exclaimed, startled that he had not noticed its entrance. It inspected him disdainfully before winding around the chair leg, keeping its sleek grey body out of his reach.
"Oh, yes, we have a few cats and kneazle mixes. Er, a kneazle is a sort of magical cat. That one's Mr. Tibbles. I think he's ordinary."
"Mr. Tibbles?" Voldemort repeated sceptically. Lily shrugged.
"They all really belong to Arabella. She's, er, a friend. This is her house, too." she explained.
"Where is she?" Voldemort asked, curious to meet another witch who was presumably an acquaintance of Dumbledore's, if she was keeping Lily hidden.
"Out shopping, I think." Lily replied.
Voldemort opened his mouth and then closed it furiously. He had almost begun to ask whether they had a house elf, because the kitchen had seemed quite clean. He really needed to properly figure out what he was supposed to know.
"Oh. Is there a bathroom?" he asked instead. Lily directed him down the hall and to the right, where there was a small alcove with a narrow sink and a toilet. He shut the door and sat down on top of the closed seat. Staring at a bit of wall to focus himself, he began to occlude actively, feeling a numbing haze come over his conscious thoughts that grew from ordinary listlessness into a seeping, magical force.
Sufficiently distanced from reality, he exerted some careful, conscious effort and found himself suddenly more aware of his stream of thoughts. What he needed to do was separate what he was supposed to know as Eric Jones from everything else.
His name was actually Harry Potter, he had just discovered that, and was that not extremely odd? It was more than odd; it was an astonishing revelation. His mother was alive, and he had met and spoken to her. That was what he had always wanted. Did that mean he wouldn't see Mrs. Watkins again? It didn't matter because he had learned that he was a wizard, that he was going to Hogwarts, that there were four houses at Hogwarts and each of them had a Quidditch team and each team had seven players, and they were—but he shouldn't remember what they were called anymore, it was complicated after all, but anyway the game was played on brooms, which was only one of the many fascinating magical things that were in fairy tales but had turned out to be real; actually it was very strange that so many fairy tales seemed to depict things accurately… hmm… he ought to read his history book…
Patiently, quite removed from his surroundings, Voldemort let his thoughts guide themselves, gently curtailing any attempts they made to veer into more profound topics. By the end of the exercise, about two minutes had passed, and, having reviewed the proper subset of his knowledge with the aid of magic, he could bring it more easily to the forefront of his mind without having to think so furiously. Pleased with himself, he stood up, remembered to flush the toilet and wash his hands to keep up pretences, and returned to the kitchen.
Two more cats had entered the room, and a long-haired white thing with a sharp face and bulky shoulders had stolen his seat. The obvious kneazle mix eyed him warily, and when he came near snapped its head forward, sharp teeth missing his fingers by a hair's breadth.
He cried out in some surprise as Lily reprimanded the cat, "Snowy! No biting."
Voldemort realized that the part-kneazles could sense his less-than-honest intentions. Biting his lip and thinking furiously, he reached forward again with his hand and allowed Snowy to lean closer to inspect it with a sniff.
"It's okay." he said. "I don't mean any harm."
It was true, for now, and the cat seemed satisfied with his promise. Snowy ducked under his hand and vacated the seat, bounding off out the door to the living room, where he disappeared from sight.
"Sorry about that. She didn't get you, did she?" Lily asked. Voldemort shook his head.
"No, it's fine." he replied, adding, "I like cats."
It wasn't true or false, for Voldemort had never been interested in having a pet or even a magical familiar, but it seemed to make Lily happy. "Really? Me too. Aren't they cute? We have four; that one over there is Tufty," she pointed to a long black cat with a bushy tail and shrewd yellow eyes, "and Mr. Paws is probably out exploring again."
Unimpressed with the names, Voldemort could only say, "Ah."
"They shed everywhere, though." Lily murmured somewhat ruefully, "But they're very clever. Snowy and Mr. Paws are trained as watch-kneazles. Sort of like watchdogs, but subtler."
"Really?" he asked with a thoughtful air, "How does that work? You can't really hear a cat's meow from far away." He allowed himself to adopt a more intellectual angle on the conversation. Let Lily think him a future Ravenclaw; he had no idea about watch-kneazles, anyway, and the right way to hold an ingratiating conversation with someone was to express interest in most of what was said. He remembered that much from his school days, at least.
"Well, kneazles can fit through even smaller spaces than cats. I think they can actually magically compress their skulls. They're also very fast, and can deliver messages or alerts." Lily explained.
Voldemort hummed. "Wouldn't a dog's bark still be a faster alarm?"
Lily shrugged. "A barking dog will alert an intruder as well, however, and it's better to have the element of surprise."
"I s—guess I can't argue with that." Voldemort replied, reminding himself to use more colloquial, juvenile language. He was hardly in the middle of a formal pureblood gathering at the moment.
His head turned toward the sudden, thick sound of the front door opening and the rustling of paper bags.
"Why thank you, Mr. Paws!" said a creaky female voice, presumably that of the as of yet unknown "Arabella."
"Arabella's home." Lily confirmed. "I'll introduce you."
Arabella was an old woman with greying hair and a matronly smile. She set down her bags, which clinked loudly against the floor and quickly attracted all four cats, to give Voldemort a firm handshake.
"Nice to meet you." he said to her, "Are you a witch too?"
Suddenly, discomfort flashed across both women's faces for a moment. Voldemort's interest was piqued. He frowned slightly and asked, "Did I say something bad?"
"No, no." Lily reassured him.
Arabella shook her head, surprising Voldemort. "No, I'm a squib. It means my parents were magical but I'm not."
"Oh." Voldemort replied. He smiled gently to express that he liked her anyway, as any muggle-born (and Harry Potter) would be expected to. In one respect, she was incorrect anyway, in that even squibs were magical. They emitted magic like any witch or wizard, which meant that they could interact with magic, unlike true muggles. They were, however, incapable of actually using their own magic.
"So what would you like for dinner?" asked Lily. Voldemort looked up, glancing out the window to see that it was still quite bright outside, before diverting his gaze to the clock, which said that it was six in the evening. He was surprised at how late it was.
"Anything." he replied. "Do you need help?" he offered politely. Lily turned to Arabella.
"Ask her. I'm a terrible cook, so I'm not even allowed." she said.
"Oh no, I'll be just fine." Arabella said, bustling about the cabinets as she stocked them with tins of cat food. "Mr. Tibbles! That's not for you." she reprimanded, taking a swipe at the grey cat that had been sniffing curiously at a packaged fish.
"Oh!" Lily exclaimed, "I should show you your room?"
"My room?" Voldemort asked. "I'm staying here, then?"
"Of course." Lily said. Voldemort wondered whether he ought to ask about Eric Jones's foster parents, but decided against it.
"Okay." he replied instead, following Lily out of the kitchen and up the stairs. He could see that the house had four bedrooms on the second floor, with a bathroom set into the corner of the hall. Lily led him to the last bedroom on the right.
"Here. Sorry about the dust. This used to be the guest bedroom, but I don't think we've ever had any guests." she said. "We'll get you a desk later. If you need anything else, just ask."
"It's fine." Voldemort replied. He entered the room, surveying the furnishings. A rather large mattress was pushed up against the wall in the corner on top of a low wooden frame, with sheets and bedspread folded neatly atop it, and in the opposite corner stood a white chest of drawers with a wooden figurine of a cat on top. Besides these articles the room was bare, and, as Lily had apologized for, coated in a thin layer of dust. Biting back a sneeze, Voldemort rubbed his nose and moved to sit on the bed.
"Are you fine here while I do some work?" Lily asked. Voldemort looked up and nodded.
"Yes." Something occurred to him then. "What about my other things? They're still with my foster parents." Eric Jones did not own much, and certainly nothing Lord Voldemort would need, especially considering he was still wearing transfigured clothing. Still, it would be suspicious not to care.
Lily looked surprised, which he supposed meant that she had not thought about it. "I'll see if I can get your things brought over." she said.
"All right." Voldemort agreed. "I think I'm going to get a head start on my school books." he told her. Lily nodded and agreed that it was a good idea, before she turned and continued down the hallway. Voldemort stepped downstairs and retrieved the fruits of his shopping trip, returning to the bed with the textbook for Potions opened to a random page. He had no intention of actually reviewing first-year material; he needed to deal with business, including the alarming reports Lucius had been sending about Dumbledore's newest efforts to promote legislation subsidizing the cost of muggle-borns attending Hogwarts. The issue was made more stressful by the fact that Voldemort was not entirely certain what stance he should even take toward the idea, though he had already sent his response to Lucius several days ago, urging him to derail the motion. Judging from the content of this morning's report, Lucius was not having much luck.
Currently, the problem with laws regarding muggle-borns was that firstly, there was no subsidization at all for their magical education, which meant that many muggle-borns declined going to Hogwarts or a magical trade school for financial reasons. Since magical education was not compulsory, they were simply left alone for the rest of their lives, while still being subject to the Ministry and allowed access to magical locations and travel, just like squibs.
This policy, in Lord Voldemort's opinion, left the magical world ridiculously insecure. Because muggles were not under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Magic except in cases involving exposure to magic, and the families of muggle-borns were allowed to have knowledge of the magical world, it would be easy enough for one of these muggle family members to spread information around. If nobody raised a ruckus, it would be impossible for the Ministry to know that any security breach had occurred, since no magic would have been performed. Though the Ministry ran the same risk regarding school-attending muggle-borns, these children would theoretically be more integrated into the magical world and be more interested in upholding the Statute of Secrecy.
The main problem at the moment, of course, was that uneducated muggle-borns and their families were allowed to keep their knowledge. Obliviation of any magical being was illegal, no matter what, which meant that obliviating the muggle-born in question was not allowed. Some of Voldemort's agents had been working to change this restriction, but opponents of obliviation had so far succeeded in arguing that it would be a moral slippery slope—if an exception was made in one case, what was to say more exceptions would not be made later?
Therefore, if the new legislation regarding subsidizing muggle-born education passed, there would be a decrease in the number of muggle-borns refusing a magical education, thereby ameliorating the problem somewhat. Of course, Lord Voldemort knew that it would be step back from a more permanent solution. He also doubted that educated muggle-borns ran much less risk of exposing the magical world.
What the magical world really needed to do was cut itself off completely from the muggle world. Currently, so many institutions were shared that it would be impossible, but in the span of half a century Lord Voldemort believed that it could be achieved. Furthermore, several generations after such a separation, muggle-borns would virtually cease to exist, if Voldemort's theory that all muggle-borns actually had magical ancestors was correct, and he strongly suspected that it was, though he had no solid evidence.
Previously, Voldemort had considered ridding the world of muggle-borns by killing them or forcing them to leave the magical world, but that sort of plan was flawed in several ways, as it did not reach the root of the problem. Muggle-borns would still exist and would have to be continuously dealt with, which would require more resources than was ideal. Therefore, integration was preferable to outright annihilation.
For now, the subsidization of muggle-born education seemed pointless or even detrimental to his cause, but might be politically beneficial, since all operations would be given the veneer of benevolence. The main problem with even considering supporting such an idea would be Lucius Malfoy himself, to whom the resolution of the issue was plain. Lord Voldemort's other followers, traditionalists as they were, would expect nothing less than outright rejection of the motion. Voldemort had drawn many of his most useful followers in through rhetoric against muggles and muggle-borns, claiming that he would cleanse the world of their presence and restore the old order of magic practice without explicating his planned methods. He knew that they had assumed, given the initial viciousness of his terror campaign, that his goal was to wipe out muggle-borns by killing them outright. He had not bothered to correct this misunderstanding.
In light of the recent proposals that Dumbledore had been supporting, however, Lord Voldemort wondered whether it would be prudent to explicate a change in his stance before he lost too much ground. He could not deny that Dumbledore was the one who was politically correct and gaining at the moment. Lord Voldemort acknowledged and accepted that he was a dark lord, the leader of a planned revolution against the present regime, but even a dark lord needed the support of real people, and preferably a majority of people, to survive politically.
Lord Voldemort cursed the precariousness of any hypothetical change in course. His long term aims were just the same and he imagined they always would be, but his short term goals were being thrown by every new move Dumbledore made, perhaps even without the man's own intention or notice. Voldemort knew that his organization and his cause were not necessarily what concerned Dumbledore. In fact, he imagined that he shared Dumbledore's end goals in regard to the magical world. Lord Voldemort emphasized separation, and Albus Dumbledore integration, but the two ideas worked toward the same result.
The reason he and Albus Dumbledore were enemies was clear-cut. Dumbledore could not tolerate Voldemort's means, and Voldemort put no stock in Dumbledore's. Violence, Dumbledore had always emphasized, even since his days as a mere professor of transfiguration, was never the answer. And violence, Lord Voldemort knew well, paved the path of change; destruction of the old order paved the way for the new, and no revolution could keep its hold without first eradicating all proponents of the regime it had deposed.
So it was clear: Albus Dumbledore did not necessarily oppose all of Lord Voldemort's goals; Albus Dumbledore opposed Lord Voldemort. And therein lay the problem. Forever cognizant of the prophecy's threat lingering over his head, Voldemort knew that he, as an individual, would have to continue treading carefully, even while Lucius and his friends took steps to push the Ministry into submission, even while his followers remained in the midst of ordinary society, unrecognized and unremarked, ready to strike at a moment's notice.
The majority of them believed him dead or at least temporarily unavailable, but he did not worry. If anything, Lord Voldemort's ability to lead was swift and effective, and it would be easy to reassemble the Death Eaters who had fought for his terror campaign.
All Death Eaters had sworn a threefold oath to him to treat his enemies as enemies and his friends as friends, to obey his commands, and to never betray him as long as he kept his side of the covenant. As this oath was a traditional one of fealty, it was not remotely as severe as, say, an Unbreakable Vow, but did hold consequences for those who dared break it. For one, any perceived violation of the terms gave Lord Voldemort a right to break his Lord's Promise to always protect a given Death Eater's family and property and to provide any kind of relief in times of need; every Death Eater knew that the punishment for minor offenses was a bout of cruciatus and for betrayal, torture and death. Additionally, a Death Eater who believed, even subconsciously, that he had violated a part of the oath would find the magic he had put into the oath turning against him, making it difficult for him to cast spells and otherwise inconveniencing his life, especially since the oath was tied into the Dark Mark, which was branded onto every Death Eater's skin and so was rather difficult to escape from.
Thus, the greatest threat to the movement at this very moment was the possibility that its leader might die. It did not matter that he appeared to be dead; key players continued to work toward his goals. The moment Lord Voldemort was truly gone, everything they had worked for would descend into chaos. Either they would be ideologically overpowered, or pureblood family politics, kept at bay by a common lord, would cause the unified front to devolve into a multitude of ultimately powerless factions. Some of this division was already well under way, but Lord Voldemort was not concerned because when the time came, he would be able to bring all of his vassals back together under their oath.
More important than his goals and ideology was, of course, his own life. Lord Voldemort was not abashed to admit that he feared death—it was his only fear. All sane people feared death. He had heard Albus Dumbledore's declaration that death was only "the next great adventure," and he dismissed it for what it was: weakness. Dumbledore had not overcome his natural fear of death; instead, he had managed to accept it as an inevitability and put his fears aside, too weak to turn and combat its approach. Lord Voldemort had vowed to himself that he would flee from death's grasp. Inevitable meant merely that death would come some day in the future. And if Voldemort had anything to say about it, that day would remain solidly "in the future," forever.
The prophecy was meant to tell the future as well. Nothing Voldemort had read could explain exactly how prophecies worked, except that the recipient of a prophecy played a part in determining its meaning. How large a part, exactly, was apparently up for debate. Some texts declared that the recipient's interpretation was the sole correct one, while others argued that the subjects of the prophecy were also, or more, important. Everybody seemed to agree, however, that the subjects of the prophecy were decided by the recipient, and no one else.
Whether it was possible to completely get rid of a prophecy's influence was also a point of intense contention, both magical and philosophical. There were currently two popular theories. The first was that a prophecy's outcome, however it was determined, was completely inevitable unless everybody involved died prematurely. That theory irked Lord Voldemort to no end, and so he chose to believe the second proposal, that all players could choose to either support or attempt to thwart the outcome, with the prophecy itself acting as an extra player that would always work toward the outcome. How exactly the last was possible was also a mystery, but one whose solution Lord Voldemort did not particularly care about.
Voldemort sat up straight and focused on the textbook in his lap as he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. A moment later, Lily was at the doorway, her long orange hair now swept out of her face in a ponytail.
"Dinner's ready." she said. Voldemort nodded and closed the book, setting it on the pillow beside him as he stood up.
"What were you reading?" Lily asked him as she accompanied him down the stairs.
"Potions." he replied.
"Oh. Do you like it?" Lily seemed enthused at the mention of potions, and Voldemort gathered that she must have some expertise in the field. He himself was able to brew anything out of a recipe, and was knowledgeable enough to improve on certain formulas, but lacked the experimenter's touch required to invent entirely new potions. He left that to Severus, who had not only passion but also an excellent laboratory with any conceivable potion ingredient in easy reach, given his status as a first-rank member of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers (MESP). The man had made quite the name and fortune for himself as a researcher of medicinal potions and certified brewer of Class A restricted potions for the Ministry, in particular veritaserum.
"I think it's interesting," Voldemort told Lily, "but I wouldn't know until I try it out for myself."
Lily nodded. "Well, of course. Would you like to? Try it out, I mean."
Voldemort was surprised at the offer. He would be chary of teaching an eleven-year-old to mix volatile and often poisonous ingredients together on the kitchen stove, unless there was a laboratory hidden away somewhere in the muggle house.
But he said, "I'd love to." He felt more relaxed now while speaking. His earlier occlumency reinforcement had probably helped. Being able to think of himself as an innocent, inquisitive boy made it much easier to formulate appropriate responses. "But I thought the ingredients I bought were for school."
Lily waved a hand dismissively as they entered the kitchen and were greeted by the pleasant smell of fresh pasta and the sight of Arabella in a luridly pink, cat-patterned apron with gigantic, bright green oven mitts encasing both hands, clutching a large ceramic dish. The table was already laden with bread, cheese, and salad.
"You won't have to worry about the ingredients. I have a friend who's a potions master, and he'll provide us with everything we need." Lily told him. Voldemort wanted to know who this friend was, but knew that it would be strange to ask, considering he wasn't supposed to know any wizards anyway, so he only gave a nod.
"I hope you like spaghetti." said Arabella as she set down the dish and divested her hands of the mitts, which she set on the side of the table.
Voldemort nodded. "I like all kinds of food." he said. It was true; he was hardly a picky eater. Lord Voldemort was more concerned about having something to eat than what that something was, perhaps a product of his years living in a muggle orphanage during wartime. With an understanding that a full stomach and a relatively healthy lifestyle freed his magic for conscious use, he was content to eat anything that would give him the proper nourishment.
Taking a forkful of pasta, he chewed carefully and glanced at Arabella through shuttered eyelids. The food certainly passed his standards of acceptability. "This is really good." he said quietly, after he had swallowed. Years of ingratiating himself with authority figures had taught him how to improve others' opinions of him, and his skills, though rusty from disuse, were finally coming back to him as he slipped into his role. People thrived on small but seemingly heartfelt praise, especially regarding their achievements. On the other hand, compliments that came out of nowhere or that seemed superficial might be regarded with suspicion, so it was important to regulate what one said to give an impression of sincerity.
Arabella seemed to light up at his comment, and Voldemort filed it away as a good sign.
"So have you looked at your other books yet?" Lily asked him. Voldemort was about to shake his head when he decided that he might be better-served otherwise.
"A bit." he said. "I looked ahead at some spells." It was what he had done originally, when he had really been a first year. He had been all-too-eager to begin using his wand.
"You didn't try any of them, did you?" Lily inquired hurriedly. This time, Voldemort shook his head.
"Of course not." he said firmly. Lily nodded.
"Good. Underage magic is illegal without supervision." she informed him.
"I'll keep that in mind." he replied, though he doubted he would have to worry about anything like that. Underage magic was tracked through an enchantment, the Trace, placed on all student wands, usually by the wand maker. Used outside of a Ministry context, a monitoring spell like the Trace would be more practical if applied to the subjects themselves, but as it was impossible to enchant a human being for more than several weeks, let alone seven years, the wand was the next most practical target for the Ministry. As an added precaution, students living near muggles often had the Trace cast on their persons at the end of every school year, and though the spell would not last for the entirety of the holidays, it usually served its purpose curtailing the use of magic.
The most major flaw in the system, of course, was the way the spell feedback had been configured. The wand enchantment only alerted the Ministry if a listed spell was used within its radius, and no adult's wand was nearby at the time. It was a very inaccurate enforcement measure, but there was little other way to manage it automatically and efficiently.
At any rate, the fact that he had his original yew wand on him at all times meant that the Trace would not affect him at all. He would need to be careful, however, to keep his wand properly concealed while still accessible. Without a good wand, it would take more focus to cast spells, and some spells would be unable to manifest at full strength.
"If you're really interested, I'll take you to see Severus tomorrow." Lily said, interrupting his train of thought.
"Severus?" he repeated, privately astounded. Severus was not a particularly common name, even among wizards, and if she was referring to her potions master friend, Lord Voldemort was almost certain that it had to be Severus Snape.
"My friend who can show you some potions." Lily explained. "He has a huge lab and everything."
"Seems rather brilliant." Voldemort replied honestly. The MESP really was a marvel for dedicated researchers. Instead of working independently, all affiliated potioneers funnelled whatever funding they could get their hands on into the Society, and in return everyone was able to utilize top-notch equipment and ingredients, while also benefitting from intellectual discussions with peers. The membership oath also conveniently prevented most forms of academic dishonesty and limited destructive competition, and the MESP had churned out more successful new potions and potion theories in the past century than independent researchers had in the previous ten combined. Hector Dagworth-Granger was rightly regarded as a genius and a saint for the Society's founding.
Indeed, the next day, as they took the floo into the lobby of the main laboratory building and Voldemort made a show of falling on his face after hurtling out of the fireplace, he was able to see first-hand what the conditions were like for the Society's members. Non-members were not allowed inside unless they swore a non-disclosure oath and were invited by a member, and Lord Voldemort had never before bothered to do so.
Meeting Severus Snape was a bit of a shock, despite all of his expectations.
"So this is the brat?" was the first thing Severus said to Lily as he gave Voldemort a glance up and down and seemed to find him lacking. "He looks just like James." There was a strange, unreadable glint of emotion that flickered in his black eyes at this pronouncement.
"Nonsense." Lily said resolutely. Voldemort was pleased to finally hear that somebody agreed with him; black hair and a pointed nose did mean that Harry Potter looked exactly like James Potter. On the other hand, he was annoyed to find that Severus, as a close friend of Lily's, must have known that she had kept her mental faculties perfectly after the attack and had not seen fit to inform him of it. Then he quashed his irritation, as he could easily see the reason—Severus had either thought it trivial, or had assumed that Voldemort had already known.
"Well. Severus Snape." said Severus, holding out a hand. Voldemort took it and shook it firmly.
"Eric—" he made a show of forgetting his name, "er, I mean, Harry Potter, sir. I'm really glad to meet you."
"Eric?" Severus turned dubiously to Lily, who flushed slightly.
"You know how we found him living with muggles in foster care?" She continued as Severus nodded, "He didn't know his name was Harry Potter."
"I see." Severus said, peering at him again, as if in a new light. Then he nodded. "Well, Lily told me you were interested in potions. I am uncertain what exactly I'm meant to do for you," he began with his usual blunt honesty, "but if you would like, you may watch me work."
Lily looked somewhat embarrassed for her friend, but Voldemort, used to Severus's manner, only gave him a smile and a nod. "That would be great, sir."
"Good." Severus motioned for him to follow as he tugged open the wooden door and stepped through into the potions lab.
Half of the lab was bathed in bright light from overhead lighting enchantments in the form of floating orbs, while the other half of the lab was almost completely dark, with only dim blue rings set into the wall to provide enough illumination to navigate by.
Though he had a good idea as to why this setup was the case, he asked anyway. "Why is that half so dark?"
Severus answered the question thoroughly: "Some ingredients are adversely affected by certain types of light. For example, the aconitum leaf used in potions changes its magical properties depending on the amount of light it is exposed to for about an hour before use, while its chemical makeup remains the same, which is advantageous because one can then separately determine the magical and physical interactions to ensure that the potion is safe to ingest."
"I see." Voldemort said. He was genuinely curious, having never gone particularly deeply into the theory of potions, as he had been more concerned with the practice. "But if some of the ingredients are poisonous, how can you stop the potion from being a poison?" He knew that magic was somehow involved, but he did not know exactly how, as he had never needed to know.
"For most potions, as they are intended for consumption by wizards, the toxicity of the ingredients is not extraordinarily important, as a wizard's magic will neutralize physical poisons. For example—let's use aconitum again—if I forced a 50 mL tincture of aconitum down your throat, I doubt you would even begin to feel the symptoms, whereas a muggle would be dead within the hour. If there's a reason to suspect that the recipient's magic will be unable to combat the toxicity, then there are several magical methods of rendering potions and ingredients safe. There are exceptions, of course, but that is what research is for." Severus explained. Voldemort nodded.
"That makes sense." he said. "Thank you for explaining." He had actually never realized that wizards were resistant to poisons, though it made some sense, considering the fact that magical poisons was an entire subfield of potions. Magical poisons would hardly be necessary if ordinary substances could be used. Then again, if one was not in need of subtlety, even wizards and witches were susceptible to ridiculous doses. His successful murder of Hepzibah Smith with common rat poison proved that, though he supposed that the fact that she was a useless, weak excuse of a witch had probably helped.
Severus turned his head to gaze at him for several moments before he nodded in return. "It was no trouble." he said. "It's good to see children who appreciate the art. Now, since you're here, I might as well treat you like an apprentice for the day."
Voldemort bit back a sigh at that declaration. He would likely be fetching ingredients and cleaning cauldrons for the rest of the day; alas, he could not reveal to Severus that he was hardly the child he appeared to be.
When Lily came to retrieve him in the afternoon, Voldemort's arms were rather sore from lifting cauldrons, and he had learned several titbits of potions theory he had not previously known, including the mechanics behind Ministry-grade veritaserum. Severus was a good teacher—at least, for adults. Voldemort imagined that if he had really been eleven-year-old Harry Potter, he would have been completely in over his head and bewildered by the fast-paced explanations.
"How was your day?" Lily asked him. Voldemort gave her a tired smile.
"It was fine." he said. "Mr. Snape is really good at potions."
"He is, isn't he? He's one of the foremost experts in Britain." Lily informed him.
"Really? Wow. I feel really lucky to have worked with him today, then." Voldemort said. He knew that many students would kill for such an opportunity, as Severus Snape was extremely picky about apprentices, and had only ever taken on two. Voldemort supposed that being the son of Severus's friend had some perks. It was a pity he wasn't actually a child interested in becoming a potions master. He was more interested in strengthening his cause, thwarting the prophecy, and eventually getting rid of Dumbledore, and that meant preparing and preparing ever more.
The month between his arrival at Lily and Arabella's home and his departure for Hogwarts passed in the blink of an eye. Lord Voldemort had successfully made Arabella his friend, and Lily loved him, whether it was something about him or merely the idea of him as her son, and goodbyes bordered on tearful as they stood before the merry, scarlet steam engine that was the Hogwarts Express. Arabella had tried to make him take Snowy along, but Voldemort had managed to convince her otherwise. The last thing he wanted was a pet to be responsible for. Voldemort had slicked Harry's untameable hair down somewhat with Sleakeazys Hair Potion and had already donned his school robes in place, while Lily and Arabella remained in muggle attire and were taking turns giving him hugs.
Lord Voldemort had, at first, been taken aback by their open show of emotion, but had quickly got used to the action. After he spotted Narcissa Malfoy clutching her son Draco so tightly to her chest that his white face had turned bright pink, he decided that it must be a convention of the new generation.
Having an hour until the train's departure, Voldemort found himself an empty compartment near the front of the train and settled down.
Five minutes later, he realized that he was bored. It was a novel feeling, as he had always had concerns to occupy his mind before. But at the moment, everything had already progressed as much as it could, and he only needed to wait.
Lucius had been steadily losing ground in the Wizengamot on the issue of muggle-born integration, while he had nonetheless been able to pad enough pockets to increase the stringency of the Statute of Secrecy and up funding for the Obliviators. An agent in the Department of International Magical Cooperation had been put under the imperius curse right under Bartemius Crouch's nose. As far as Lord Voldemort was concerned, there was little else to worry about in the Ministry.
The prophecy, too, he could do nothing about until he reached the school in six hours time. The train had not yet left the station, and other than Draco Malfoy and Vincent Crabbe, both sons of his supporters, he had not seen any other young students on the platform, so socialising did not appear to be an option as of yet.
Reaching into the pocket of his robes, which for the first time in awhile were real robes, not transfigured, he pulled out a slip of parchment, which he unfolded. The crease lines disappeared. He tapped it with his holly wand. No text appeared on it, which meant that he had not received any reports.
Tapping the parchment again, he extracted a self-inking quill from the front compartment of his trunk and began writing.
"I have boarded the Hogwarts Express."
The words glistened and then sank into the page, as if they'd never been. Raising his quill to write another sentence, he was surprised when the parchment grew warm in his hand and ink blossomed across the page.
"That's nice?" it said. Belatedly, Lord Voldemort realized that the parchment was still linked to Harry's own piece, as he had never cancelled the spell. "Do you need something" Harry's messy handwriting appeared again. A moment later, a swift, "my Lord?" was also appended. Voldemort snorted.
"How are your lessons?" he penned. He did not actually care much, but he hoped Harry would appreciate some concern. It might improve their relationship, which was still a rather odd one.
"Fine." Harry wrote back. "I'm in divination right now" there was a smudge of ink, "a load of rubbish but I have an E in the class."
Talk of divination with Harry reminded Lord Voldemort of the prophecy and then of Lily. He hesitated for a moment before he wrote.
"Harry. I found out that your mother is fine."
"?" was the articulate response.
"She is perfectly sane and lives in a muggle area, but everybody still believes she is a long-term resident of St. Mungo's. I do not know why." Voldemort wrote, even as Harry's scrawl interrupted him halfway through his sentence with, "Why?"
"Oh." Harry added quickly.
There was no response for several more minutes, and just as Lord Voldemort was growing annoyed again, more words appeared on the page.
"Sorry, teacher came."
"You had better get back to your lesson then." Voldemort replied, effectively ending the conversation. Hopefully, Harry had understood that Lily's situation remained a mystery to Voldemort as well, and would consider him an ally in solving the question.
A loud whistle shrieked, and then the train began to move, startling him. At that moment, a knock sounded on the compartment door, and he looked up, folding the parchment and slipping it back into his pocket. The door slid open and revealed a boy with dark brown hair and freckles peering in cautiously. His tie was black, indicating that he was an unsorted first-year.
"Er, can I sit here?" asked the boy. "The other compartments are full of older years."
"Certainly." Voldemort replied equitably. The boy entered and took a seat across from him.
"I'm Michael Corner." He held out his hand. Voldemort took it and gave it a shake.
"Harry Potter." he replied. He could tell that Corner seemed surprised, but the boy did not say anything.
They sat in silence for a few moments before Voldemort decided that he should strike up a conversation. Corner was not the name of a noble pureblood house, and he certainly had nothing to do with Voldemort's existing supporters.
"What house do you think you'll be in?" he asked the boy. It seemed to be a very common concern for incoming Hogwarts students. He remembered being asked at least several times on his very first train ride.
Corner shrugged. "Hufflepuff, maybe. Mum was in Hufflepuff. I really want to go to Ravenclaw, though. What about you?"
"I don't know." he decided to say. "Maybe Ravenclaw or Slytherin. Or Gryffindor. My parents were in Gryffindor." It was incredibly unlikely that he would be sorted into Gryffindor, but Corner did not need to know that.
"Do you think it matters what house we want to be sorted into?" Corner asked. Voldemort thought about it.
Logically, "Probably. Otherwise people might protest." In that case, then, he supposed he would do his best not to be sorted into Slytherin. It would be the least productive house for him.
"How do you think we get sorted? Mum wouldn't tell me." Corner said.
"I don't know." Voldemort replied, as expected. The Sorting Hat was a surprisingly well-kept secret to first years, given that most of the wizarding population knew about it. It was a bit of a tradition not to reveal it to new students until the last minute.
The compartment door slid open again with a dull thud, and both occupants glanced over, startled.
"Hermione." Voldemort greeted, recognizing the bushy-haired girl at the door.
"Oh, Harry, hello." she replied. "Have you—have either of you seen a toad? A boy named Neville's lost his."
This sort of hassle, precisely, was why he did not want a pet. Though in some cases, having a magical familiar could increase the strength of one's own magic, most Hogwarts pets did not serve this purpose and were simply annoyances.
"Have you tried summoning the toad?" he asked Hermione, while Michael Corner informed her that he had not seen the animal in question.
"I read about the summoning spell. It's a fourth-year spell, though." she said worriedly.
"The prefect's carriage is behind this one, I think." He knew it was, in fact. He pointed Hermione on her way and shut the door. Taking out his parchment and quill again, he tapped the parchment surreptitiously with his finger to shift the link away from Harry's parchment, and began making notes about Michael Corner, talking with him at intervals to glean more information.
The only other disturbance for the duration of the ride came from the trolley witch, who had plenty of candy to sell. Michael Corner bought himself a pile of chocolate frogs, and Voldemort purchased one in the interest of seeming childish. He was not particularly fond of sweets, but magically manufactured chocolate did have some mentally bolstering properties.
Opening the package, he snatched the frog out of the air as it made to leap away and studied the charm work on the wriggling creature, taking a moment to appreciate the complexity of the enchantment. The chocolate moved fluidly, and when he bit it in half, he discovered that while the inside was solid, the outside was liquid, meaning that there were also flexible containment charms allowing it to move while keeping it from smearing everywhere.
Corner was not nearly as interested in the activity of his frogs, and was instead shuffling through the pentagonal cards in his hands. "Dumbledore, Morgana, Barne. Nothing good." he said.
"You collect?" Voldemort inquired, and received a nod. He swallowed the rest of his frog and took a look at the card he had got. "Cornelius Agrippa."
"You're kidding!" Corner demanded. Voldemort obligingly angled the card so that the other boy could see. "You've got unbelievable luck. That's probably the rarest card there is!"
"Do you want it?" he asked. Corner gaped at him, his eyes going wide.
"Do I want it?" he repeated dazedly to himself. "I couldn't…"
Voldemort smiled to himself and put the card into the boy's hand. "Don't worry about it. I don't collect them or anything."
"Really?" Corner asked, but did not wait for a reply. It was obvious he greatly desired the card. "You're amazing. Thank you so much. So much." He held up the card in the light, observing it with unbridled glee on his face as if it were some sort of holy artefact.
"Collects choc. frog cards. Status: friendly." Voldemort penned. A tap of his finger and the new information dissolved from the page, joining the rest of the notes on Michael Corner in his desk journal, still stored safely at his home.
Soon enough, the train had pulled up to Hogsmeade Station, and a witch's voice announced that their luggage should be left where it was. Disembarking, Voldemort's eyes immediately caught on the imposing figure of a huge man waving a lantern.
"Firs' years, follow me!" Shouted the man over the din of clattering feet. "Firs' years this way, firs' years!"
A/N: Wow. Sorry for the late update. I could have finished this ages ago, but I got stuck about halfway through and couldn't figure out what to do. Forced myself through that part, so it's probably not that great, but I'm not sure what to do about it. I did manage to iron out some plot details that will make themselves apparent later on, though. The process involved several outline changes, so if anybody notices a plot hole or an inconsistency here or in the future, please speak up before it gets really bad.
Also, a big thank you to all the people who reviewed the last chapter. It really helped me get through my little bout of writer's block.