Tom Marvolo Riddle, High Heir of the Just and Most Olde House of Slytherin, walked through the bustling village of Godric's Hollow with the hood of his cloak pulled low over his face. No one noticed him. The wind was bone rattling and Tom wondered if there was some magic to it as it seemed to cut straight through not only his cloak but his warming charms as well. It was Samhain after all, who knew which ancestors were dancing through the night in a place older than Avalon itself.
Mrs. Cole had been the first person to call him unnaturally cold and unfeeling, but certainly not the last. Her solution was extra prayers and extra discipline. Dumbledore, the fool, had shown fear and acted much the same way–taking away his things, treating him harshly and with more suspicion, denying him opportunities and encouraging others to do so in an attempt to smother whatever was dark and dangerous in him.
Everyone seemed to forget which House he was Heir to. He was descended from the second son of Chaos himself. One of his ancestors long, long ago was a Dark Naga. He had the weight of an entire Oligarchy's Family Magicks and Responsibilities on his shoulders. Above and beyond that, his Family Attribute was Just. Justice could not be swayed by emotion. At times, it was cold and brisk, and other times it was a seering inferno.
Tom was no fool, however. He knew the circumstances of his conception and birth were less than ideal. Born under a Love Potion, he was unable to love. The lack of paternal bond and the instantly severed maternal bond had certainly not helped. He was a child who needed connections, needed magical stability, even more so than others because of the strength of the magic in his blood. He was supposed to be the Head of a glory filled House, standing as a Sentinel over Avalon. Instead he was relegated to simple heir. Even the bonds with his Vassals seemed a pale imitation of what they should be.
His inability to love did not keep him from feeling other emotions. Loyalty, devotion, desire, greed, envy, loss, fear… he could feel them all, but they lacked a sense of balance. He could be unintentionally cruel and cutting, wounding deep into the bone. He didn't mind being purposefully cruel and cutting, but to lack control of any of his actions when he was so strong and so blessedly Dark was dangerous. His absolute devotion to Mother Magic and Avalon were the only things that stayed his hand from completing the rights for the Lordship of Slytherin. As an Heir untested, he might find a way to continue his House and help Avalon. As an Heir rejected, few would trust in him and his House might fall to ruin.
He had spent the last several decades plumbing the depths of magical knowledge in search of a solution. Some days the grievous wound his mother left would throb inside him. He had no true bonds, no familial bonds. He was completely alone in his magic. He was the last Slytherin. The only Oligarch to be acknowledged in centuries. And, as far as he knew, he could not properly Bond to a lady-wife or to a child. Therefore, he needed to live as long as he could without delving into Black Magic until he found a solution. It was… difficult.
Perhaps it seemed counterintuitive then that he was going to a quaint little cabin at the edge of Godric's Hollow to kill a child. Oh, there had been a Prophecy, and Tom fully believed in and respected prophecy, but an incomplete prophecy was as useful as a broken wand. Sometimes it could be used as a tool and others it would dangerously backfire. Just because a child had the power to destroy him, didn't mean it would. There was even a question of whether he could be considered a Dark Lord, he was only an Heir after all. He'd tried to parley with the Potter's three times. It, too, was a House facing extinction and Tom would never seek the complete and utter ending of an Ancient House. Each time, Lord James Potter sent him a very impolite and vulgar letter, often with some type of hex or itching powder or color-changing potion attached to it. It was disconcerting and unbelievable. This was not a game. It was not the way a Lord of any House should act, especially the Lord of the Honorable and Most Ancient House of Potter. Because of Lord Potter's pettiness, his son would cease to exist and Lord Potter himself would die. Such a slight against the Just and Most Olde House of Slytherin could not stand.
His vassal Severus Snape, recently Heir Prince, had begged for Lady Lily Potter nee Evans' life. He listed a hundred reasons why his childhood friend should not be punished for her fool of a husband's mistakes. It was a small boon to give, to swear he would not kill her. He had no issue with Lady Potter. As an added gift to Severus, he allowed the Potion's Master to execute Peter Pettigrew. There was no room in Avalon for a petty wizard who happily betrayed his sworn brother in the hopes of being granted the Ancient House's spoils.
Tom made it to the edges of the Potter's wards and stared into the open windows of the cottage. The Fidelus Charm was nothing more than a faint glow in the corner of his eyes now. Lord Potter was blowing smoke rings with his wand at his son, interspersed with showers of fireworks that would pop on the babe's nose. The child seemed torn between glee and terror. Then Lady Potter stepped into view. He couldn't make out much of her features in the lingering smoke, but he could see enough to understand why many people thought her beautiful. The red of her hair was certainly unique. She scooped the child up and moved toward the stairs. Lord Potter threw his wand down on the couch and stretched. This was the moment.
Tom slid his executioner's mask over his face. Bone white, snake-like, Voldemort, his enemies called it, called him. Apt, he supposed. He did bring death, and they were right to flee before him.
A twitch of his wrist and the front door disappeared like ash in the wind. He met Lord Potter in the front room as the man bumbled toward the stairs. He gaped at Tom like a stunned fish, as if it never occurred to him that he could be found, thinking himself far too clever. He'd even left his wand on the couch. The utter fool. Tom transfigured him into the fish he so resembled and crushed his head under his heel. Another flick of his wrist and the smell of roasting fish filled the air. A gasp from upstairs quickly followed by an infant's wailing let him know that Lady Potter knew her husband was dead. Tom felt a twinge of uncomfortable familiarity at the child's cries. But at least the boy had a strong mother and an unbroken bond remaining.
The next door fell away just as easily. To his surprise, no spells were thrown at him as he entered the nursery. Lady Potter stood defiantly in front of a small crib, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. He was smart enough to know that her apparent lack of wand did not mean she was unarmed or unprepared. He could barely see the child behind her. How ironic that their own safety measures (anti-apparition wards and blocked floo) were keeping her and the child trapped. He had the uncanny feeling that she had not been in control of those decisions.
"Not Harry!" Lady Potter exclaimed, "Take me instead!"
"Stand aside," he replied evenly. This would be painful. There was no way around it.
"No, please, not Harry!" she begged.
Tom raised his wand, barely sparing her a glance, and a jet of red light streaked through the air. "Stupefy!"
A brief look of surprise flashed across her face before her eyes rolled into the back of her head. He caught her with his magic and gently laid her down on the ground.
He stepped closer to the cradle to get his first and last true look at Harry Potter.
The Potter Heir was a fine boned child with full healthy cheeks and pale skin. His hair was black as the new moon. It was obvious that he was well loved. His eyes were closed as he cried, blindly reaching out for his mother. Tom gently touched his wand to the boy's chest. The boy wobbled and opened his eyes, blinking up at Tom. Tom froze. The boy's eyes were like emeralds.
Confusion, surprise, and something else he couldn't name warred within him. Emerald eyes. The same color as Tom's own. The color that signified membership in the Slytherin bloodline. He… he didn't have family. He was the last one. How could… he looked at the unconscious woman on the floor. The boy was supposed to have her eyes and if true, it meant that she was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin too. She was a member of his House, his family. Why hadn't he been informed? Did no one know? Even Severus hadn't mentioned it, and Severus had begged for her life, stating every good quality or magical ability she had. They couldn't see. Why couldn't they see? Why could he? Was it a ploy?
He cast several revealing and diagnostic spells. The only odd bit of magic that showed up was a very powerful white magic spell at Lady Potter's feet. She was ready to give up her life for her child. The thought sent a chill through him. She was his! The boy was his! No wonder the boy had the power to kill him. The child, Harry, no, not Harry. Harry Potter couldn't exist, but perhaps Hadrian. Hadrian Riddle or Hadrian Slytherin. He had come with the express purpose of taking the boy, breaking his bonds with his parents, and having him blood adopted by one of his Vassals. But now…
He allowed his magic to dance around them. Instantly, he felt drawn to them, his magic itching to connect, to Bond, with them. The distinct pop of apparition sounded in the distance. Tom made his decision. He levitated Lady Potter, Lily he hoped she'd soon grant him, and cradled her in his arms. He levitated the boy next and laid him on his mother's chest, employing rather prodigious sticking and sleeping charms.
"Prongs? Where are you?" The voice of Sirius the Nameless echoed downstairs.
Tom smirked underneath his mask. Silently, he vanished the glass and jumped out of the window. His robe billowed through the air as he flew towards Slytherin Castle with his new found family in tow.