A Dark and Stormy Night
Unstupid, for Divine Protector of Skyrim.
It was a dark and stormy night. That was how he would recount it, he thought, and never mind those who disagreed, who said that it was actually unseasonably mild over the southwest of Britain that day. Umbridge would, at least. They'd stop, at least under the threat of: "How about a mild dismemberment, then? If that's how you recall the weather to be". A sigh. He could never get it right, even in his own head. Such a threat implied that the alternative would be a dark and stormy dismemberment, and those never went well, as it was always hard to cast accurately in such conditions. Why, the last time he'd ended up taking out Goyle instead of Crabbe. Lucky, then, that no-one cared enough to tell them apart. Crabbe certainly wasn't telling anyone that he should have been in pieces.
It was a dark and stormy night. That was how it was supposed to be, right? Pathetic fallacy, a good sense of narrative? Was there no real plot here, no sense of narrativium in a world where for whatever reason all it took was the right syllables in the right order with the right flicking of a stick for magic to occur? At least tomorrow there was supposed to be some storm up over Yorkshire. Why couldn't the world just bend to his will like that all the time? All the things he wanted had been forever denied him. A real family, first and foremost. This was denied even by his parents, what with his mother being nothing more than a worthless squib, and his father not seeing it as his duty to take care of his son, not that he'd particularly have appreciated growing up being expected to be the carbon copy of his parent that came with sharing a name - he'd exploited such resentment well enough in the second Crouch, hadn't he? And wasn't it wonderful how all the male Goyles and Crabbes were so interchangeable? Though, saying that, he was running a little short on Goyles, you just couldn't get the staff these days.
Why, Umbridge had now appointed herself "Secretary of the Death Eaters", and he kept having to field complaints from Bellatrix about how Umbridge kept pestering her for double-spaced field reports in triplicate according to the "(Secondary) Revised Comedomortem Guidelines 2.0, edition 5.1, section iv, paragraph 4". What a joke! It didn't help that all field reports had to include a weather report on the inside front cover, with at least three sources, where the Daily Prophet didn't count as a reliable source. When he'd questioned this originally, he'd simply been told that: "Of course the Daily Prophet isn't a reliable source, after all we practically own it at the moment. What a shame it would be to find that our reports had been forever devalued by inaccurate weather recollections? I think that a suitable punishment for anyone who omits it would be to write their next report with one of my special quills. Wouldn't that be wonderful, Lord?" He'd already had to do that twice, and "I took a single step in the northerly direction" was still fairly visible on his hand - though he had had quite a lot of fun cursing Goyle (or had that been Crabbe) for giving him the incorrect information surrounding the location of Rupert Perks, it wasn't quite up to ameliorating the result of that mile of walking due north.
Anyway, where was he? Oh yes, life's injustices. First his family turn out to be useless, then the orphanage was bad, and though he wasn't quite sure what he would have liked to have asked for from the orphanage at the time - apart from food, warmth, and a bit of respect - he now thought that he would rather have liked to learn how to play marbles. They kept going off without him, and it simply wouldn't do for their Lord not to know how to play such a simple game as marbles, after all. Even if they tended to play with the heads of those they'd killed, usually after their death, the rules couldn't be that different from normal marbles, surely? He was so often left alone in the middle of the meeting as everyone had "an important turn coming up next in their game of marbles" to excuse them. Even Nagini would leave, and would only laugh at him when he asked about how she played marbles: "I just have special balls, silly. Balls in both senses of the word, and I can just spit them out to play". It was really quite lonely at times, being a Dark Lord. Snape stayed, but conversation slid off him just as water slid off the oil on his hair.
Hogwarts, though, at Hogwarts he hadn't felt quite as alone. Firstly, he had the knowledge that this was a special world, open to an elite few. No better way to create a sense of belonging than to exclude large groups of people, and what a useful lesson that had turned out to be. A bit of a pity, though, as without it he'd seriously have considered recruiting a certain young couple straight out of Hogwarts recently, rather than a half-hearted offer. When that knowledge had turned sour, he'd had the mystery of Hogwarts itself to steep himself in, the sheer hidden depths of the place. When he'd unlocked enough of that knowledge to chance interacting with his peers again, Hogwarts had felt almost like his domain. At least in the dungeons, and in the pipes. All he'd wanted to do was to stay, to be safe, to be in this place that felt like the only home he would ever know. Denied, for no good reason. Denied, because the struggles of muggles were lesser. Of course, they were, but he hadn't appreciated that then. Denied, maybe even just because Albus Antivenin himself didn't like the look of him. Denied, because he didn't fit into the mould of Slytherin and then could not, would not, lower himself to ask - really to beg - to stay with an acquaintance. Now, of course, he'd just wander in, counting his steps for Umbridge's ridiculous reports, and take the biggest room. Or the second biggest if he attended Malfoy Manor - he couldn't ever unsee what he'd seen when he walked into the largest unannounced. Did people have no respect for their Lords these days? He liked dildos as much as the next man (maybe even loved them slightly more), but transfigured into the shape of his yew wand, really? Snape's nose was bad enough at first sight, but seeing Snape's nose side-by-side with his wand and what he only could presume was a replica peacock neck and head really gave him pause.
Hogwarts again denied him with the help of Mr. Antivenin, denying him the post that he was the best qualified for, not only because he was best at Defence, but because there was no-one better in the British Isles except possibly Mr. Antivenin himself. What a stupid decision, denying based upon the suitability of an applicant for the role. Maturity. Morality. Ethics. Urrgh. He'd proved him wrong with a nice curse designed to trigger should a teacher fail on any individual day to perform as well as or better than he would, and it was yet to fail to eliminate one teacher a year. Eventually, he'd have to be made Defence teacher as no-one else would be left! He'd outlive them all, now. Honestly, he just wanted to be in the place that he felt the most at home, and home didn't want him.
No-one really understood his motivations anymore. At least Snape often seemed to back his ideas up - though with the amount of monologuing that was heard after the first five minutes of every meeting, Snape would struggle not to sympathise with his viewpoints. It was a bit odd really, given that he was really on this whole crusade for them. Starting the Death Eaters had given him a sense of family again, and a sense of joint purpose. Even if said purpose may, slightly, disadvantage himself a little, that wasn't entirely the point. And besides, this was just a side hustle before he could go back to Hogwarts, feel properly at home once more, and teach. Before he started attending his Lord's seminars, Snape's offensive wand work had been simply atrocious, and his defensive wand work may as well have not existed. He was proud of the catchy names, too: "Duelling in Defence" and "Duelling Offensively Never Ends", as once you DiD the modules, you'd be DONE with duelling lessons.
Now, of course, he had to face the literal forces of magic itself, telling him that there were these two children, that he 'marked as an equal' blah blah blah. No mere child was going to stop him from teaching at Hogwarts, oh no! That was why he was here, on this suspiciously warm and clear evening to ensure that he could never fail. Snape had understood, after the monologue. Actually, Snape had been overcome with the sheer emotion of learning that his Lord might fail to complete his true goal, to teach at Hogwarts, just because of a mere prophecy. He'd gone off to cry in some toilet somewhere. Hopefully he hadn't taken a wrong turn, as he was sure that the master bedroom did not live up to Umbridge's safety expectations, and wouldn't that be a pickle if it turned up in Snape's meeting report (section v, "Unplanned Absences").
A step forward, a quick note down in the report (doing work sooner rather than later was a philosophy that Tom had found invaluable in his time at Hogwarts, and he applied it here too), another step forward and another note. It may have taken him a good ten minutes to get to the door, but what can you say, really, if this is what true bureaucratic efficiency looks like. One swipe of a Black's knife and the door opened, as he cursed to himself. Umbridge hadn't been apprised of the existence of this particular tool, and so he'd have to file a "possession of artefact" report, and those took at least ten pages, and had a practical part for the demonstration of safe usage. Ah well, these things happened. A quick trip upstairs to the nursery, and there he was. In the arms of his mother in a rocking chair, sat next to a sleeping Potter. What joy. Actually, here was a true opportunity to test out what he could improve at Hogwarts teaching DADA. Firstly, a silencing charm on the area, and between husband and wife. Now, who to test first, Potter or Potter? Urrgh. Last names were wonderful when one dealt with innumerable, interchangeable Crabbes, and numerable, innumerate, interchangeable Goyles, but failed here. Maybe Lily first? A quick enervate, and she was up, before appearing to activate…A ritual? Oh my, maybe Snape was just an awful student, and he might even have to brush up a little before teaching. A ritual in this amount of time was remarkably impressive.
"Not Harry, not Harry, take me instead. Please!"
"I must say, this is quite a nifty ritual here? Defence stopping whoever killed you from hurting a specified blood relative of yourself, very nifty. Can I see your wand work now please?"
Tom made sure to - through his speech - emphasise how impressed he was with her ritual.
Lily continued weeping: "Please, take me, not Harry. Not Harry. Hang on, did you just call this nifty? Nifty?! Are you not here to kill Harry?"
Lily had quite a few tears running down her face, and was quite clearly confused. Tom was a little confused, too, until he realised that she'd taken his presence here not as someone trying to discourage Harry from ever going into teaching. Unfortunately, "vanquished a Dark Lord" might preclude a teacher that was at least as good as he was, breaking the curse, and so making it rather difficult for Tom to teach, but a murder mission, really? He murdered for ideologies, not for job prospects. Rectifying said confusion was the work of but a moment or ten - and perhaps some planned cursing of Snape. Lily then had the glorious idea that maybe he should stop all this ideological nonsense, and just go and re-apply for the job under an assumed name. If he did that, there'd be no more reports for Umbridge, and no more being left out of marbles.
Determined, for once Tom had enthusiasm: "You know what, Mrs Potter, I think you're right. F*** this s***!"
Albus was only too eager to hire a candidate straightaway after the last one had had an unfortunate accident on the stairs the day before, and the rest was history. In the final round of the revived Triwizard Tournament, the self-styled Dark Lord Viktor Krum (it had become rather stylish to call oneself a Lord in the interim, and he was good at quidditch in the purple of Bulgaria) was rather quickly vanquished by Harry Potter in a duel in the maze, using the wand that he had borrowed from his Defence teacher, after his own had broken, and Tom (as Mr. Lover) had recognised the feather inside. At least, for once, narrativium was on his side, for inside the maze, it was (finally) a dark and stormy night.