A/N:
everyone always makes harry take a ridiculous gringotts inheritance test to speedrun plots and information dumps. no one ever does this for tom when he's the one who ACTUALLY HAS A MYSTERIOUS INHERITANCE TO INHERIT
so here we are
i actually started writing this in july of LAST YEAR but now it's finally complete
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Local Dark Lord Upstart Opens Bank Account, Inherits Millions
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The summer before his seventh year at Hogwarts, Tom Riddle visited Gringotts Wizarding Bank for the first time. This belated visit was an oversight on his part—bitterness held over from being ushered into this new world as an orphan with nothing—that he was now aiming to correct.
Now that he was seventeen and of age, it was only prudent that he open an account for himself and accumulate his wealth in a Gringotts vault.
Gringotts was located on the North Side of Diagon Alley. Over the past six years, Tom had walked by the building many times on his way to purchase school supplies. Today, he would finally go inside.
The front of the bank was tall and imposing, composed entirely of pristine white marble. Tom knew the institution extended well below ground to house all of its clients' vaults. The deeper the vault, the older and wealthier the family.
Tom shoved open the heavy bronze doors and went in. The entrance hall was massive, the ceiling nearly as high as that of the Great Hall in Hogwarts, and hanging from the centre of the ceiling was a massive chandelier.
Tom paused to take in the sight of the opulent gold fixture, admiring its artistry for a brief second before he turned his attention to the row of bank clerks.
The goblins at the desk were hard at work. Tom eyed each worker cautiously, then picked the nearest one and went to stand before them, waiting to be addressed.
After a long minute, the goblin at the desk flicked their gaze to him. "Yes?"
"My name is Tom Riddle," Tom said simply, "and I would like to open a personal vault with Gringotts, please."
The goblin paused their scribbling and examined him from head to toe, dark eyes settling on his Head Boy badge. Tom had pinned it to his chest that morning, knowing that if he ran into his classmates they would be suitably impressed by it.
"Of age?" asked the goblin.
"Yes."
"One moment." The goblin hopped off its chair and wandered away.
Tom stood patiently, knowing that to offer any sign of disrespect would land him with a truly awful vault location, and recited spells in his head to pass the time. When the goblin returned, their brow was creased in irritation. Tom kept a polite expression on his own face and waited to be addressed.
"You have not been here before," the goblin said sharply.
"Yes, that's correct."
The goblin continued to stare at him. "Muggleborn?"
Tom refrained from snapping and said, "Half-blood."
"Muggle-raised?"
"... Yes."
The goblin made several notes on a piece of parchment that Tom could not see. "First-year Muggleborn students are required to submit themselves for an inheritance test. It is a prerequisite for vault access and ownership." The parchment neatly folded itself in midair and vanished with a soft popping noise. "I will arrange for yours now, Mr Riddle."
Tom had never heard of such a test. Could it be that the truth of his lineage had always been available to him here? The mere idea was infuriating, even more infuriating than being wrongly referred to as a Muggleborn; for a moment, Tom could barely breathe around the sharp, painful rage lodged deep in his throat.
This was Dumbledore's fault. The old bastard could have told him to come here, to be tested and confirm the pure blood that ran through his veins, the ancestry that dated before even the founding of Hogwarts itself.
The professor had neglected his duty out of some twisted sense of morality and superiority, no doubt. Out of a belief that evil existed within Tom Riddle. Tom was no stranger to such vilification of his character, it had always been a common occurrence at Wool's, but the notion grated all the same.
The goblin at the desk shoved a form toward him. Tom gazed at the parchment, unseeing, barely able to process the words. It took a second for him to shake himself of his anger long enough to read over the terms, and then he took the proffered quill and signed his name at the bottom.
The scroll snapped into a tight roll and flew into the goblin's hand. "Excellent. If you would follow me, Mr Riddle, we will proceed with your test."
After having his finger pricked and his blood extracted, Tom sat in a small room that contained a small table and two even smaller chairs. Across from him was a stone-faced female goblin by the name of Gida. She was examining the large scroll that contained his test results.
The urge to snatch it out of her hands reared its ugly head several times over the next few minutes while Tom forced himself to keep still.
"Mr Riddle, I have your results," she said, gazing shrewdly over the top of the parchment at him.
Tom smiled blandly. "Yes?"
She passed the parchment to him. Tom took it in hand and eagerly began reading.
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Full Name: Tom Marvolo Riddle
Status: Half-Blood
Date of Birth: December 31st, 1926
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Father: Tom Robert Riddle Snr
Mother: Merope Gormlaith Riddle née Gaunt
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Heritage Lines:
Black Line
Gaunt Line
Gryffindor Line
Hufflepuff Line
Merlin Line
Morgana Line
Pendragon Line
Peverell Line
Ravenclaw Line
Riddle Line
Selwyn Line
Sayre Line
Slytherin Line
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The paper went on, listing other Pureblood lines he was more distantly related to. Additionally, there were a number of vaults and accounts that he, presumably, had owned this entire time. The amounts listed alongside each account were astounding. He could fund all of his planned endeavours with plenty of galleons to spare. With hundreds of thousands of galleons to spare.
Sufficiently shaken, Tom continued to read, skimming over the next section which covered his Parselmouth status, affinity for the Dark Arts, and Legilimency talents. Some of the abilities listed he was not familiar with, but he would find out more as soon as he could. Necromancy was definitely at the top of the list.
Further down, the parchment listed several dozen properties he owned in Europe and around the globe. Manors, penthouses, gardens. Entire castles. At least one of these places must have been owned by fucking Merlin.
At this point, Tom sat back in his too-small, too-short chair. Not only was he filthy rich, but according to this record, a dozen Pureblood families owed him life debts.
When Tom at last reached the bottom of the scroll, his jaw went slack. A gormless expression had plastered itself to his face, but Tom felt it was entirely justified.
Soulmate: Harry James Potter
"Harry James Potter?" Tom said aloud, dragging the syllables out.
Gida yanked the paper away from him. "Our mistake," she said, viciously swiping her finger across the name before she handed the list back to him.
Tom glanced down. The entire line about his soulmate was now redacted. "Who was that?" he demanded. "Why did you erase the name?"
Gida sneered. "Wouldn't you like to know."
Tom clenched the parchment hard enough to crease it. Putting aside the fact that soulmates apparently existed, the redaction did not matter. He had the name. No one could take that away from him. He would seek Harry Potter himself. After several deep breaths, Tom felt centred enough to regard his goblin companion with solemnity.
"I would like to view the statements for all of these accounts." He gestured to the parchment. "Starting with when they originally fell under my control."
"Of course, Mr Riddle."
"Next, I want to open an account for my personal usage, under the surname Riddle. Empty all of the smaller accounts, then split the withdrawn assets equally across the Riddle, Gaunt, and Slytherin vaults. If there are others with access to my accounts, remove them."
"Of course, Mr Riddle." Gida grinned at him. "All of this will be done as you requested. We will provide you with your statements by the end of the week, at the latest. Is that all?"
"I'd like to make a withdrawal."
"We will withdraw whatever you require following the conclusion of your visit today."
What else was left to do? Tom's head was spinning with plans upon plans for his newfound wealth. Wealth that had been kept from him because of Albus Dumbledore.
"Mr Riddle?"
"Yes?" Tom replied absently. Did he have enough money to buy Hogwarts? Was that something he could do? Or he could buy out the Board of Governors and make them do what he wanted. If he could control Hogwarts, he would fire Dumbledore and instate himself as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
"We have yet to discuss the matter of your wives."
"My what—"
It turned out that having several dozen Pureblood lines indebted to him meant that, due to some twisted medieval magical bond, their female descendants were now his property.
Tom was not interested in having forty wives, but he was interested in leveraging his new 'property' over the heads of everyone who had ever irritated him. Which was everyone, because everyone irritated him.
Malfoy would regret ever having called him a filthy mudblood now that Tom could quite literally steal his wife away.
Tom invited all forty Pureblooded witches to one of his many new manors and treated them to tea. A dozen House-Elves that catered to their every whim as they sat in the gardens and nibbled on biscuits. Tom listened to them complain about their husbands and offered sympathetic responses. By the end of the afternoon, they were all great friends.
"You're such a darling boy," Dorea Potter née Black cooed in farewell, drawing him in for a warm hug.
"You simply must come visit again," Tom said to her. "And of course, if you are ever in need of a place to stay… my many properties are available to you."
Dorea swayed forward to kiss his cheek. "I must admit, when the goblins came to tell us about your inheritance, I was worried! Charlus was convinced you would try to steal us all—"
Tom laughed. "As if I ever would." He smiled at her, then dipped his head to her ear and murmured, "Just between you and I, dear Dorea, my taste in Potters may be closer to your husband than yourself."
Dorea's cheeks pinkened. "I see! How silly of me." Her eyes scanned his face, and she seemed rather flustered as she disentangled herself from him. Embarrassed, perhaps, that she'd found herself attracted to him—a handsome young man with opposite inclinations.
Tom hummed in a non-judgemental sort of way and kissed the back of her hand.
"Well," she said with a huff, "don't you worry, Tom, we'll find you some company soon enough!" She patted his shoulder. "With my connections, not a single wizard in all of Britain is beyond your reach!"
This was true; the Blacks were a highly influential family. However, Tom was not interested in just any wizard. He was interested in a relative of hers, one that had possibly not even been born yet, based on the small pool of Potters available in Britain.
"I have plans to travel soon," Tom said with a charming smile, "but while I remain in Britain, rest assured I would be more than happy to hear your advice."
Unfortunately, Tom's followers were not as pleased with his decision to leave.
"But my Lord," they pleaded. "What about our plans?"
First of all, their plans were his plans. Second of all, it was not his problem that they had nothing to do with themselves when he wasn't around.
He told them that they would take over Britain once he returned. It would be foolish of him to burden himself with the responsibility of a nation when he had the wealth to explore the globe at leisure.
There was no hurry. He was an immortal with all the time in the world. Britain could run itself into the ground for another five years and one would hardly notice the difference.
Five years later, Lord Voldemort returned to Britain.
After making discreet inquiries through his followers, he had learned that while many major institutions were not actually for sale, politicians in charge of such things were. In short order, a majority of the Ministry fell under his control.
The remainder that was not under his thumb would be dealt with eventually. It would be troublesome to find quick replacements for many of the integral positions. He could afford to be meticulous with who he chose to fill those roles.
One role in particular would require a fastidious selection process.
As the heir to all four founders, Tom Marvolo Riddle was also named the Heir of Hogwarts. It was an impressive title that afforded him many privileges.
"Your follies will be your downfall, Tom," Albus Dumbledore intoned, gazing wearily at Tom over the top of his half-moon spectacles.
Voldemort only smiled. "It is your own folly that you should be concerned with. All of Britain is mine, and you…" He gestured at the two Azkaban guards who were holding Dumbledore upright. "You will never know a day's happiness ever again."
Grand High Overlord Voldemort peered over the top of the crib. Lying at his feet was the rebellious, traitorous mother of his soulmate. She was dead, and so was her husband.
"Hello, my dear," Voldemort said fondly to the infant in the crib. "I've come to claim you at last." He extended a finger and waited for the bright-eyed boy to raise a chubby fist and grip it.
As their skin touched, their bond seemed to solidify, the warmth of powerful magic running a gentle caress over them from head to toe.
The child, his soulmate, giggled in quiet delight. Voldemort picked him up and cradled him against his shoulder.
Harry Potter was young, but there was no hurry. Lord Voldemort was immortal. He had all the time in the world.
"This one?"
Green eyes followed the toy owl back and forth as Voldemort dangled it in the air. "Buy."
"And this one?"
Harry paused, scrunching his face at the toy potions set. "Die."
"I see." Voldemort set the offending gift aside and gazed discompassionately at the second wizard kneeling before his throne. "You heard him," Voldemort said smoothly. "Avada Kedavra."
Harry cheered and clapped his hands as the flash of green light struck its target. Voldemort smiled indulgently and patted the boy on the top of his head while the toy owl circled like a vulture over the dead body. Having a soulmate was really quite delightful.
A quiet knock on the door drew Voldemort away from the ancient tome he was reading at his desk.
"Come in."
"My Lord," Lucius said, stepping into the room and bowing low. He deposited three scrolls on Voldemort's desk, then took a step back and bowed again. "I have secured another three islands for you. They are located in the Indian Ocean and—"
"Excellent. Add them to Pendragon, Crouch, and Selwyn estates."
"Yes, my Lord." Lucius nodded, then asked in a quiet voice, "Would you like me to… do anything with these islands, my Lord?"
Harry chose that moment to fly into the study on his miniature broomstick, bowling Lucius over in the process. Voldemort kept his face carefully impassive while Lucius picked himself up off the floor.
"Do?" Voldemort asked, raising a brow.
"Yes, my Lord," Lucius said, flustered as he attempted to set his distraught hair back in place. "You have hundreds of private islands. Perhaps some of them could be used for agriculture or—"
Harry giggled, tumbling loops through the air before he came to rest next to Voldemort. Voldemort plucked Harry off of the broom, which fell to the floor, and settled him on his lap.
"I have plenty of funds. There is no need for any of that," Voldemort said dismissively.
"Of course, my Lord."
Still giggling, Harry summoned the broom from the floor and hurled it at Lucius' head.
As Lucius dove out of the way, Voldemort rewarded the boy with a rare grin. Wandless magic at this age was very impressive.
"May we go fly now?" Harry asked with a pout.
"Yes," Voldemort said gently. To Lucius, he added, "Lucius, tell my wife to wait in my bedchambers."
When Voldemort said 'my wife', what he meant was 'your wife', which Lucius understood well. From the floor, Lucius said in a miserable voice, "Yes, my Lord."
Voldemort Apparated both himself and Harry to one of his many island properties. While Harry enjoyed the use of his little broomstick, he much preferred flying in the Dark Lord's arms.
They would circle the island for an hour, enjoying the scenery, and then they would return to the manor, where Narcissa would watch over Harry while Voldemort tended to business with the Australian Minister.
Lucius, of course, was left free to draw his own conclusions as to what his wife would be doing in the Dark Lord's bedroom. According to Narcissa, now that Lucius was constantly terrified of losing her, her sex life had much improved.
"Perhaps I shall gift you some wives when you turn of age," Voldemort said to Harry, who was red-cheeked with excitement as they soared over the sandy beach of Harry's favourite tropical island.
Harry, who was not yet even eleven, simply beamed at him in response.
Harry was hunched over a roll of parchment when Voldemort entered his bedroom. So engrossed was Harry that he did not notice the Dark Lord peering over his shoulder until the parchment was snatched away from him.
"This does not look like homework," Voldemort said in a disapproving tone.
"You have eighty wives," Harry said sharply, jabbing a hand at the parchment. "Eighty."
Voldemort supposed that Harry was now old enough to begin questioning these sorts of things. "Some may be given to you once you are of age," he said in a placating tone. "Now—"
"I don't want wives!" Harry said, a frustrated edge to his voice as he glared down at the desk.
"Then what do you want?" Voldemort demanded. "What could you possibly want?" For Harry's fourteenth birthday, Voldemort had purchased all of Britain's Quidditch teams for him. The boy was unbearably and unrepentantly spoiled despite never asking for anything. It seemed no offer of material items would ever satisfy him. It was maddening.
Harry's face had gone bright red, his hands balled into fists as he stood from his chair and turned to face Voldemort. He squared his shoulders, clearly bracing himself, and Voldemort waited impatiently to hear what was so important.
"I want you," Harry said stubbornly. There was a defiant jut to his chin that dared Voldemort to contradict him.
The anger in Voldemort's chest vanished, replaced with pure affection for his young, sweet soulmate. "I see," he said.
Harry sucked in a shaky breath. "Yeah. So I don't—I want—I don't want to be one of—" His gaze drifted unhappily to the list of names floating next to them.
Voldemort nodded in understanding. "You are more than they are. I will prove this to you." He offered his arm—which Harry took after a moment's hesitation—and Apparated them to Diagon Alley.
"I know you're older than me," Harry was saying, "and Draco kept saying it's weird because you raised me and you killed my parents even though they were blood traitors and you've got your pick of people anyway and I'm just your ward but—"
"All first-year Muggleborn students are required to submit themselves for an inheritance test," Voldemort said loudly, cutting the rant off. "You will now do the same."
"But what does this have to do with anything?" Harry asked incredulously as Voldemort led them towards Gringotts. "I'm not a Muggleborn."
"You'll see," Voldemort promised. The time had finally come.
After Harry had his finger pricked and his blood extracted, Gida the goblin led them to a small room that contained a small table and three even smaller chairs. Voldemort watched as she examined the small scroll that contained Harry's test results.
"Mr Potter, I have your results," Gida said, gazing shrewdly over the top of the parchment at them.
Harry shot Voldemort a confused glance. He did not yet understand why they were here.
"Let the boy read," Voldemort said magnanimously to Gida.
Harry took the parchment from her and began reading. The scroll was not very long. By the time he reached the bottom of the list, he was frowning.
"Do you understand now?" Voldemort asked, his crimson eyes very intent upon Harry's reaction.
Harry bit down on his lower lip, then released a slow sigh. "I… think so."
"Wonderful," Voldemort said. "Now—"
"I'm really grateful for everything you've done for me," Harry continued, "and I understand. I really do. Thank you for bringing me here." He set the parchment down and stood from his chair. "I guess I'll be at Hogwarts if you need me," he added with a small, melancholy smile. To Gida, he asked, "Is there a Floo here I can use?"
"There is one in the lobby."
With one last smile in Voldemort's direction, Harry Potter departed.
Voldemort did not understand what had happened. "What did you tell him?" he demanded of Gida.
Gida merely nudged Harry's test results over to him with one of her long-fingered hands.
Incensed, Voldemort snatched up the parchment to read. The first few lines were normal, expected.
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Full Name: Harry James Potter
Status: Half-Blood
Date of Birth: July 31st, 1980
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Father: James Henry Potter
Mother: Lily Jily Evans-Potter
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Heritage Lines:
Potter Line
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And then, at the bottom in shining gold ink—
The parchment burst into violent red flames. Voldemort had not noticed his magic reacting in response to his fury, but now he could only watch as the ashes of Harry's inheritance test smouldered on the table.
"You," Voldemort snarled, whirling on Gida. "You lying, vile, bottom-dwelling leech—"
Gida met his anger with an unimpressed stare. "I do believe," she said in a low, bored drawl, "I informed you that Mr Potter's name on your inheritance test was our mistake."
The table between them exploded in a fit of wooden splinters, but no raging burst of unrestrained magic could calm the vicious hatred carving its way through Voldemort's chest.
"You will make him take the test again," Voldemort demanded darkly. "You will fix this or I will slaughter every goblin in this country—"
"Of course, we are able to administer the test again," Gida said with a wide grin, displaying her sharp, pointed teeth, "for a fee. But before we do so, may I add that we have yet to discuss the matter of Mr Potter's wife."
"Wife?" Voldemort spat. "Who could that possibly be—"
"Yourself, obviously," Gida said. A fresh scroll appeared in mid air and unrolled itself. It was another copy of Harry's inheritance test. "Now, if you could please review Mr Potter's results below—"
At first, Voldemort was unable to focus on the parchment, he was so furious. Then his entire field of vision was consumed by the final line written in shining gold ink.
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Soulmate: Cedric Benjamin Diggory.
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Whoever this Cedric Diggory was, he was going to die.
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END.