I decided to change the genre from parody to humor, as I've gone in a much different direction from typical parodies and that doesn't really suit this any more. As promised, here is Voldemort's origin story.

There is a theory that some split-second decisions cause branches in time, and traveling down each branch will show two very different futures. Who could say what might have happened had young Tom Riddle been dropped off at an orphanage, rather than at the Sacred Order of the Divine Sisters? Perhaps he would have grown up quite ordinary as far as wizards go, taking a small post at the Ministry of Magic and living out a dull, predictable life. Or perhaps not.

But Merope Gaunt's water broke just ten feet from the steps of the tiny nunnery, and a kind passerby alerted the sisters inside to the woman's plight. The sisters brought her inside and fluttered over her uselessly, leaving her to struggle through over twenty hours of labor. Still pale and trembling from the birth, Merope held her baby in her arms and stared up at the crucifix hung on the wall, stating blankly that she would find the nearest river and throw the newborn into it. The nuns quickly agreed to take Tom Marvolo Riddle in and keep him well, in the service of the Lord, in order to save his poor life. Merope did not even look at her baby once before she staggered out of the church, never to be heard from again.

The nuns clucked over the little baby and set about caring for him. Some of them had wanted to be mothers and saw this as a blessing from God on high. Others disagreed with the choice to raise the baby inside of the convent, but these were outnumbered and could only grumble among themselves in corners. Until, that is, the baby charmed them too with tiny fists and wide eyes.

Tom Riddle was raised well. Certainly with care, for what child could want for affection with over twenty mothers? He never cried, and all of the nuns saw this as his way of respecting the holy place he slept in, which was a handmade manger usually only used for the Christmas nativity. His bedtime stories all came from the Bible, and his first word was 'crucifix.' Tom was a quiet and studious child, who learned to read by the tender age of three ("A is for Abomination, B is for Blasphemy, C is for Contrition, D is for Damnation," et cetera). The nuns taught him everything they knew and everything they believed, and he soaked up the talk with the same enthusiasm as a desert plant absorbed rain.

Soon it became apparent to the nuns that their little foundling was something very special indeed. Strange things began to happen around Tom, right after he turned four. Sister Mary swore up and down that she had only given the child a cup of water, yet he spilled grape juice all over the floor. The nuns had not even had any grape juice in the house. Small animals seemed to find their way into the church and Tom's feet, and would do anything he asked.

Tom would say things that made him sound decades older than his six years. He could recall detailed stories of the nuns' experiences that he hadn't been alive to be present for. He talked to himself and when asked said that he was speaking to his Father. Then he would point upwards.

By now, the nuns were wondering. Could this orphan be the reborn Messiah? The 'miracles' as they dubbed the events were certainly taken straight from Bible lore. Efforts were made to track down Tom's mother, but Merope had disappeared into the London streets like smoke in the wind. Either she had crawled away to die from infection after the birth, or she had hidden herself behind a new name. There would be no answers from her.

Tom knew he was special, and destined for great things. By his tenth birthday, he was able to heal minor wounds and soothe pain. The older nuns were so grateful for his assistance with their aches and pains that soon, he was allowed to study anything he wished. By this point, he had nearly convinced himself that he was the reborn Jesus, son of God. What other explanation could there be?

Later that year, his 'other explanation' came. An owl clutching a yellow letter with green ink found him, and insisted he take the message. What it contained changed everything.

The sisters must not know of his magic, or of the existence of others like him. Tom was sure of this even as he read the letter and realized he was not unique or special, even as he began to fume quietly over the ruination of his destiny.

He forged another letter and made it seem to come from the government. The nuns were easily convinced that he'd be going off to a normal boarding school for state wards. Tears were shed, but the head Matron determined that boarding school would help Tom associate with those his own age, and even offered him some meager cash for supplies.

His first term came, and Tom was taken by a professor to buy supplies using a fund for orphaned and unfortunate students of Hogwarts. The professor seemed vaguely disturbed by Tom, but said nothing about his misgivings. After all, Tom was perfectly polite, pious, quiet, and intelligent. He accepted the existence of an entire secret world with neither surprise nor endless questions. His only concern was the sisters he had left behind, and when he might see them again.

Tom excelled at Hogwarts. He led the ultimate double life, studying Muggle topics and the holy books in his spare time so that he could present his façade in the most convincing way possible. He was handsome but distant from other students, his aura one of solitude. Still, he knew he needed disciples, so he set about finding those most ostracized and put down, those most ready to follow strength.

By the time he'd graduated Hogwarts, he and his were the top of their classes. He'd found himself twelve disciples, just like Jesus. They were pretty evenly spread out across House lines, even though Tom was a Slytherin and thus had a hard time convincing the two Gryffindors to join him. Gryffindor had a major bullying problem, though, so Tom found his targets' chief tormentors and hung them upside down in the Great Hall. After that, he had little Pettigrew worshiping him as a true disciple should. The others looked up to him as a leader, but Pettigrew was naturally subservient and very susceptible to praise, so he was the easiest to control.

Tom made sure all of his disciples studied Muggle lore and the Bible. He painted it as a game—"Let's see if we can take over the world"—only to him, it was anything but a game.

Tom Riddle would lead the world into a new era of righteousness.

He started small, in order to avoid attracting the attention of the wizarding world. Any new Messiah would need a testament of their own, in order to bring new believers into the fold and to provide a base for his form of the Christian religion. He intended to leave no Muggles out, and needed a way to convince former Muslims and Jews to convert. So he spent a good year after school concluded just traveling the world, keeping in contact with his disciples and studying the main religions of the world. He would frame his testament so that even those of the polytheistic religions like Hinduism and Buddhism could count themselves among his number.

As he traveled, he began to craft his testament, and titled it the True Testament. Old and New would be consigned to the realm of fairy tales, though he did not intend to directly contradict either of them. He also practiced wandless magic day and night, until he could cast spells without the barest whisper to betray his intention. By the time he had circled the world and returned to dreary Britain, he could strike men dead with a single glance and heal all but the most tortuous injuries with a wave of his hand. Thus empowered, he gathered his disciples again and traveled out to the smallest village on the corner of the map to begin his takeover.

They all laughed, and jeered, when he and his disciples rode into town on the backs of donkeys, holding palm fronds. People formed a loose mob around them and traffic stopped for others to stare and point. Voldemort, for that was the name he fashioned out of his old one, ignored them until he reached the center of town, a mere roundabout with a tiny war memorial sticking out of the earth like an upraised nail. There he dismounted and pointed a single finger at the sky, causing the clouds to burst apart and sunlight to fall upon his head. The beam followed him as he moved, casting spells to make the horse from the war memorial leap off of its pedestal and the water in the pathetic fountain to run red with fine wine. When he was done and the crowd was sufficiently stunned silent, he turned to them and raised his hands. "Rejoice, those who bear the mantle of the righteous, and cower, those who would commit sin, for He Has Risen." Upon his palms he conjured wounds that bled and gaped freely but caused him no pain. This move caused several in the crowd to gasp, fall to their knees, and start crossing themselves furiously. Excellent. No one was laughing now.

"I bring joyous news, my fellows. Come, and be blessed by the touch of my hands."

"Get a load of this wanker!" One in the crowd stage whispered, probably an atheist. He was shushed by those surrounding him, and scowled.

"You there, non-believer, step forward." Voldemort said, and smiled when the crowd parted to reveal the speaker. "You suffer from some ill unnamed. Name it and it shall be healed."

The man snorted and crossed his arms. "If you think you can heal my bum leg, you go ahead and try, but if the doctors couldn't I doubt some crackpot can." A 'bum leg' could refer to anything, but Voldemort noticed how the man was leaning heavily on one side to keep weight off his knee. So he cast a simple anesthetic spell to start with, and reveled in the widening of his first skeptic's eyes as his pain melted away. "That—that doesn't prove anything!" He said, but there was doubt in his voice. Doubt was all Voldemort needed. He looked into the non-believer's eyes, scraped at the inside of his mind until he had the pathetic man's entire life story, then said quietly, "Jess would believe in me." Michael took a step back, not even realizing in his astonishment that he could do that without having to worry about his knee collapsing underneath him.

"W-who the hell are you?!"

"I am the Lord and the Way, the Light and the Path. I am Truth. I am All. And I am One. Fall before me, worship me, and I will show you wonders the likes of which Mankind has never dreamed of."

He had them. He could see it. Even as he thought this, some people began to get to their knees. Still others were already on the ground and stared up at him fearfully, whispering half-forgotten prayers under their breath.

Oh yes, what he could do with this power. He curled his fingers and the last of the dissidents fell to their knees against their will. "Now," he almost purred, feeling the first of many pieces drop into place, "Shall we begin?"

"But the prophet who speaks a word presumptuously in My name which I have not commanded him to speak, or which he speaks in the name of other gods, that prophet shall die.' You may say in your heart, 'How will we know the word which the Lord has not spoken?' When a prophet speaks in the name of the Lord, if the thing does not come about or come true, that is the thing which the Lord has not spoken. The prophet has spoken it presumptuously; you shall not pay attention to him." Deuteronomy was such a useful book, Voldemort had always thought so. He did not speak loudly, but everyone in the room could hear him clearly. "I am the Lord and the Way, the Light and the Path. I have delivered unto you, my precious faithful, many blessings, and each event I have spoken of has come to pass. There can be no doubt that I am the true prophet. I now present you with His vision for this new world we will build. My name means 'flight from death' and that is what I intend to give to my faithful: eternal life and joy.

"There are those who would stop us. Those who refuse to believe the information received by their senses, who insist I am a charlatan. They wave their hands and imitate my wonders with cheap illusions and trick objects and think themselves above us." The low hiss started after the first sentence and began to grow among the crowd as Voldemort spoke. He closed, his eyes, reveling in the sound of people so easily convinced. A few cataclysmic weather events, some well-placed healing, and he had a sizeable crowd ready to persecute their own just to please him.

He remembered his History of Magic lessons, dull as Binns attempted to make them. The fear of traditional wizardry and witchcraft was still very much alive in the minds of Muggles everywhere, and could be channeled for his own ends. At first, his disciples had questioned him, unsure of his true intentions. A few choice words in private with each of them, different words each time, convinced them easily enough. And once they outlived their usefulness, it would be no struggle to end their suffering forever.

If he couldn't be the true reborn son of God, he would make himself one. He already held the tenuous first wisps of true immortality in his grasp, and intended to use it to live and reign over an earthly kingdom of his own design. He would start with people no one would miss, and slowly build his movement until his momentum could not be stopped. And in the end, he would cast God from heaven and declare himself the one true lord.

Muggles were so predictable, but wizards were even more so. Once their community was revealed, fear would lead to war, and war would lead to death, and Tom Riddle had obsessively studied the grand weapons of war Muggles now possessed. Those weapons magic could not stand up to, and the Wizarding world knew this, which is why the Statute held so firmly. Despite all their magic and all their power, wizards were scared of Muggles. They had no idea.

He'd give them something to be truly afraid of.