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When Worlds Collide

Musings of a Dark Lord

Voldemort sat back in his elegant armchair before the fire and indulged in a moment of satisfied relax.

Four years ago, when Magic had granted him a second chance, to use a common-place phrase of which time had long ago destroyed all ingenuity, he had been greedy for power and desperate enough to grab it in whatever form, but nevertheless wary of the web of worlds suddenly connected, no matter the immediate advantages to himself.

Who knows what could have been in them! What dangers… he almost couldn't admit even to himself that he had feared the possibility of a rival to his own power…

He needn't have worried.

The new worlds hadn't been a source of enemies – far from it!

They had put within his reach resources beyond his wildest dreams!

Of course, it hadn't been all a bowl of cherries. The first world he'd reached… he still shuddered in remembrance. Useless place. And irritating to no end.

He hadn't liked anything there, from the overabundance of bright colours to the strange religion. In his not-so-humble opinion, religion had no sense, no use and no possibility of being exploited in any way. In short, it was a dreadful waste. He'd never been able to stand any form of it.

Magic was almost non-existent in that world, well-known, sure, but very weak; muggles milled everywhere and they were so pathetically happy. Apparently a 'great evil' had been defeated less than a few years previous and everybody was still celebrating.

He had divided his time there between cursing the foolish, weak, pathetic lot of them and feeling almost ill at the saccharine good-will oozing from almost every place.

It hadn't looked like a very big world anyway, or like it held any valuable resources, and there were certainly very few people there. None of them of use. He still felt like sneering at their stupidity and blindness, especially when he thought about their faith. Bah!

Insult added to injury, it was no use possessing the people there, either. Muggles were little better than rats and lasted about that long, with the added disadvantage that most were missed when they turned up mysteriously dead. No, that was not the place for him.

Thankfully he had remained very little there.

He'd found another window of passage in a matter of days and that one had led him to the most amazing place – and the most amazing ally.

He relaxed comfortably against the burgundy headrest, lazily swirling the wine in the graceful glass he held, and examined his brand new, young body once more. He didn't think he would get bored of admiring it any time soon. Lithe muscles, a handsome face, straight hair and penetrating black eyes; graceful yet imposing.

Oh, that Orochimaru bloke had been a godsend, truly! So similar to himself… yes, they had a lot in common, not least their love of snakes – the sign of a superior mind.

In fact, their goals and desires were so similar that he had had almost no difficulties manipulating the chakra-user to his own advantage. Almost no challenge, really. For all of the other's intelligence, experience, talent and cunning, he'd been no match for his greatness. He might have been disappointed in that, if it hadn't been so convenient.

Of course, he'd had to give up the secret of the Horcruxes, in the end, which was annoying, but could he really expect any less by such a worthy opponent? Life was all about compromise after all and he couldn't realistically expect the other snake lord to disclose his secrets for nothing. He wouldn't be a worthy ally if he did.

The Horcrux ritual was bound to catch Orochimaru's interest and more than adequate payment for any knowledge. Though he had to admit… the Soul Transfer technique was unbelievably useful! He knew all too well what kind of power a handsome face held over the lesser… and now, he could change his looks with barely any hassle, remaining forever young as well as immortal… not to mention, it eliminated the risk of another incident like those years ago with the Potter brat.

He scowled… never again would he be reduced to ghost and vapour!

Oh, yes. Orochimaru was an invaluable ally.

A bit whiny perhaps when things didn't go his way, but he made up for it with the sheer usefulness of the fear his reputation struck into most of that world's population, and even more, with his amazing web of contacts. He had sunk his fangs into anything of importance – revolutionary groups and criminal organizations and the major players in the politics and trade between the various nations all at once. And where his fame was considered infamy instead, he had well-placed spies, surprisingly loyal to the extreme.

Voldemort could use that is so many ways he might actually not have enough time for all!

Naturally, it had been a slow, tricky work getting the other to trust him; but on the other hand, it was time well spent as he'd learned quite a lot about the new world's strange magic.

Chakra, what a laugh. Something anyone could learn with a bit of training… bleah. The Arts of Illusion were an amazing weapon though – nobody knew better than him the power of deception. And the convenience of not needing a wand for some truly destructive power was neat.

He was still mildly impressed at how easily everything had fallen into place to his advantage, however.

He suspected that, had he accidentally stumbled on one of the so-called Five Great Nations right from the start, before he'd had a chance to understand the dynamics of this world and what to be wary of, he might well have ended up worse than he'd started off – which was saying a lot, considering he'd been reduced to a mere wraith starving for power.

As luck would have it, though, he'd come to this world in the faraway, isolated and utterly naïve Village Hidden Among the Stars, in the Land of Bears, one of the lesser-known shinobi villages in that universe.

Shinobi, apparently, was their word for wizards, though it didn't translate perfectly. Voldemort had harboured the hope, for a while, that the name of the place was mistranslated too, but after a few years in that world, he rather despaired of their naming skills. But anyway.

Information gathered from the locals had suggested that the village's leader was 'the Star Shadow', however it hadn't taken long for Voldemort to figure out that he title didn't carry much real power - unsurprisingly. The rest of that world didn't seem to acknowledge the Village Hidden Among the Stars; not that they could be blamed, considering that the bunch of peasants didn't show to have any worthy skills, resources, or even proper cunning and ambition.

Apparently, their only possible claim to glory was the strange meteorite, the 'Star', in their words, which had struck the location a couple centuries earlier. While the effect of this celestial rock on the plant-life had been nothing short than devastating, the weird energy it emitted had been cleverly harnessed by a smart mind into a technique that allowed the inhabitants of the Village to achieve supernatural chakra levels. A technique called... the Mysterious Peacock Method.

Seriously. What was wrong with these people? How could they hope to exact any kind of respect and wariness if they kept using names with 'Stars' in them rather than 'Death', and peacocks, of all things, instead of snakes?

They clearly didn't have a clue about making a way for themselves in the world.

But that suited Voldemort just fine, as he had ended up nearly salivating when he's seen the 'Star' proudly displayed on top of an eagle's claw pedestal located at the very centre of the training ground where the technique had, once upon a time, been taught.

Feeling the power simply oozing from it had made him instantly believe the tall tales about chakra-users who had mastered the ridiculously named technique to the point of being able to solidify their chakra as a shield or create wings for flight... If that last had been more than a mere exaggerated legend, Voldemort would have confessed himself seriously impressed. There was no magic in his knowledge that allowed a wizard to fly unaided by artefacts, after all.

Unfortunately, the training was no longer applied. The 'Star's' intense radiation of chakra was, it seemed, too much for common shinobi to handle: if exposed to it repeatedly, their insides began to corrupt and their organs to weaken, eventually leading to internal bleeding or organ failure.

And so, naturally, it had been forbidden.

The stupidity and blindness of short-sighted leaders! Oh, how he hated it!

So what if the method had a high death toll? You couldn't obtain anything without sacrifice; and if only the strongest would survive it... well... it was the way of the world, to get rid of the weak.

This Third Star Shadow, this pathetically wimpy leader haughtily portraying himself as 'wise and charitable', had reminded him so much of the old coot that had styled himself the Light Lord to oppose him.

Dumbledore had always been weak, weak and blind. Trying to spare the poor little innocent fools, forever coddling the sheep eating out of his palm, and turning a blind eye to the fact that by keeping them tied up with nonsense about 'Good and Evil' he was doing them no favours.

This old fool of a leader had been the same – too scared to pay the price for true power and justifying his cowardice with talks of 'the Good of his People'.

It mattered not, however.

There were more than enough proud and persistent fools in that village for him to get his goal.

And one, particular youngster – a mere boy, still, that Akahoshi, with all the pride and egocentricism and reckless ambition of teenagers everywhere – had been so very susceptible to his manipulations that persuading him to assassinate the old Star Shadow had been a child's play. Of course, as soon as that idiot – ruthlessly driven as he was – had become the substitute Star Shadow, he'd reinstated the training, nicely granting Voldemort the chance to get close to the meteorite.

And swallow his power as if it was cool water for his thirsty soul.

He'd kept an ear on the uproar in the village, while he'd gone about consolidating a temporary form for himself, mainly for amusement value: many had been all too eager to ignore the rumoured effects of the radiation, spurred by that Akahoshi's grandiose promises of forcing the other villages to accept and recognize their value.

Later on, when the high death toll had shoved the fools' faces into the reality of demanding prices, Voldemort had heard word that they had unanimously denounced Akahoshi as unscrupulous and mad with power, and rejected the practice of 'Star training'.

He could only shrug. That Akahoshi was an idiot – useful, sure, but that was it. Despite his willingness to endanger the village children in the quest for power and ruthlessly commit murder when needed, he'd showed a maniacal side that Voldemort only appreciated from the low-level grunts, where fanatical loyalty was needed to avoid any unpleasant protests against being sent to slaughter for their master.

No, Voldemort wasn't surprised that the fool had been unable to maintain the power he had gained for him.

By then, anyway, he had been far from that stupid remote village and well ensconced in the rising power of the Elemental Nations: the Village Hidden by Sound. Orochimaru's own den.

Looking back, he could easily say that the time in that world had been among the most interesting and challenging periods of his life.

Certainly, he'd never been bored in that world – not with that snake lord hissing and coiling his own traps around him, even as Voldemort worked to ensnare him.

Such an exhilarating feeling it was, to match power and wit with someone worthy!

The triumphant smugness of winning the many-layered game of deception and circumventing, wooing the adversary to your point of view even as you plot their demise, lulling them into a sense of superiority even as you manipulate them to your advantage – that always gave him a thrill only the deepest Dark Spells could hope to equal.

And now Voldemort held the other's Horcrux in trust - beautiful sword by the way, what was its name again? Kusanagi? - and could hold it over Orochimaru's head to insure his… cooperation… or dispose of it should his invaluable ally become less valuable after all, or too bothersome.

He ran a lazy hand down the ornate scabbard resting against the side of his armchair, the blue gems on its long handle gleaming darkly in the electric lights.

Beautiful, beautiful sword... it earned instant wariness and respect even from those unable to recognize him for the incredibly powerful wizard he was. Its simple presence at his waist was enough to mark him as someone possessing both strength and wealth and this kind of impression was one of the keys to success: presenting a front of power and splendour meant to intimidate and attract at the same time.

It was how he'd made his way in the elitist circles of the pureblood aristocrats of his world, back in his youth.

Him, a supposedly muggleborn nobody with no wealth nor connections, but with enough power and cunning to support all his ambitions and rise above all the haughty hypocritical nobles of wizardry: he had ensnared the snobbish elite and woven them tightly around his little finger before they'd even realized it.

He had chosen his targets carefully. The fashion-setters, those who would take many others with them, wherever they went; the rich idiots who had the means and influence to support him without the brains to use those resources for themselves; the easily manipulated hypocrites who called themselves traditionalists, and yet wished to break the established order, greedy for privileges they felt they were due...

He had won them over with a cultivated image of brilliancy and magnificence and subtly showed off his power in many little ways to those who came to him attracted by his shining... until they'd been too ensnared in his control to break free and too fearful of his skills to challenge him.

It had, at first, been just an illusion, admittedly, but as time had gone by, he had started building his image into something much more concrete – devouring knowledge his charismatic charm seduced out of their family grimoires, accumulating actual riches from more or less coerced donations, putting the high and mighty purebloods into his debt, until condescending tolerance had turned into reluctant acceptance, then wary admiration, nervous if greedy backing, and at last, fearful obedience.

That was the path he was now walking once more, on a much bigger scale than ever before, and the sword was just one of the many steps needed. It implied his power in a discreet but unmistakable way and made it so that he would not waste time being tested by easily intimidated weaklings, nor having to go look for covetous followers himself: they would be attracted by the show of power he was putting on – and warily cautious, so that by the time they might grow bold enough to question his actual might, he would be long ready to crush any opposition.

Not to mention, it was wickedly delightful to see Orochimaru twitch every time he twirled it carelessly in front of him, reminding him that Voldemort held a piece of him in his hands.

Oh, it had been a trade of course. The snake lord was good: no way would he relinquish part of his soul without getting something equally precious in exchange; so now Orochimaru wore Slytherin's locket.

That rankled, but... it was how it was done. Mutual insurance and all that.

Hah! What a laugh!

Voldemort knew how to play that game much better than that. He had been very careful to imply that the process could not be done more than once. So Orochimaru had no idea about Voldemort's other fail-safes. If it came to that, the locket could be sacrificed…

But in the meanwhile, Voldemort was rather happy to know his precious piece of soul was safe. Who would think to destroy such a clearly valuable artefact after all? Unless they knew the truth? Especially in a world of thieves!

This had been the point that had convinced Orochimaru of the advisability of the exchange, too, and it was perfectly logical: each Horcrux would be safe – safer than anywhere else, probably - and at the same time be a guarantee of its maker's good faith.

Officially, at least.

Satisfying didn't even cover it!

His visit to this third world, a place he was currently exploring with care, was proving almost equally good, if a trifle disconcerting.

He glanced distractedly out of the window of the hotel room he was staying in and sneered. Deling City was a horrid place, in his opinion. Reminded him too much of his muggle upbringing. It was too bad that, according to what he'd soon found out, this awful city was the capital of the greatest and most influential country in this world.

He could understand the need to sink his teeth firmly into the most powerful government on this world – doubly so, since it had the best army, and better still, expansionist designs. Yes, it was the place to rule, the key to the rest of the world.

But it didn't make the utterly kitsch and utterly muggle place any less disgusting to his much more refined taste.

At least the hotel was high class.

Truthfully, he didn't even particularly want dominion of this unsettling world. To think, a world where the highest levels of magic were restricted to women! Inconceivable! Really, he was almost offended.

Still, this Edea Sorceress had been very receptive of his ideas – though he suspected that his new good looks had had a part in that. She was rather silly and definitely crazy too. She was beautiful, mesmerizingly so, but he'd seen enough possession cases to recognize the symptoms… and whoever – or whatever – had taken her over was rather insane as well.

He'd worked his charm to seduce her cooperation nevertheless. He didn't yet know enough about this world to dismiss it; besides, her being so receptive to his... suggestions... was too convenient to pass up.

He didn't put much stock in her plan and goals however. Back in his youth, he had researched the nature of time and found it too fickle to allow for any mastery. Still, you never know where and when an insane fool might have a brilliant breakthrough, walking on fields where sane people would never tread…

So if she wanted to try, more power to her.

In any case, she made a perfect safety case for Ravenclaw's diadem; much better than Hogwarts, where there was always the chance that moronic ghost would confess to the Headmaster.

It had been tricky to retrieve it: first he'd had to find a passageway to the right world – luckily he'd long ago studied a few rituals to temporarily grant himself a heightened sensibility to certain kinds of magic, so it hadn't been much of a stretch to adapt them to his latest purpose – then it had been a matter of infiltrating the old fool's domain without alerting him – amazing how useful a group of highly trained shinobi could be in such an endeavour, good thing he had them at his beck and call – and finally he'd decided that he should really make the most of it all and start sowing the seeds for his return, ferreting out accurate information about who had and hadn't stayed true to him, quietly arranging a few tentative contacts, making all of his loyal followers aware, in their dreary little prison cells or in their cosy grandiose mansions, that he wasn't gone forever and they'd better be ready - Lucius Malfoy at the very least should be able to prepare the ground for his triumphal return...

No, it hadn't been easy, but it had most definitely been worth it.

Edea had gushed over how lovely the jewelled headdress was and put it on immediately. And wonder of wonders! Her mind was almost ridiculously open. He hadn't expected that, not after how well-protected Orochimaru's mind had proved – pity, that – but not only had he been able to plant a Compulsion Charm never to get rid of the diadem in her mind, there was also a distinct possibility his soul fragment would take control of the Sorceress.

It was almost too perfect!

She had also reciprocated with a very interesting gift, one that he was well aware was supposed to entice him into becoming her 'Knight': some sort of cross between a servant and a suitor, who was supposed to bond with the Sorceress and remain at her side faithfully, to serve and protect her.

The idea he would subject himself to such an ignominy was so ludicrous he couldn't even consider it without scoffing. He'd been suitably gracious in accepting it, and extremely careful never to imply even in the remotest of ways that he might be interested in her offer.

He examined the ring closely: a thick band of silver engraved with the silhouette of a lizard-like monster with finely etched bat wings twisting along its sides. It sat elegantly on his middle finger, even better than his old Gaunt heirloom had, back before it had become too valuable to show off.

Guardian Force, she had called it.

By using its true name – Bahamut, like the legendary demon believed to be the King of Dragons – to 'evoke' it, supposedly its power would be unleashed. The way he understood it, the ring worked along the name itself as a condensed Invocation Ritual that would unleash a demon-like thing on the ring-bearer's enemies. She had promised an explosion of powers with no rivals and if it delivered, the ring was priceless.

The only downside was the necessity of 'junctioning' it – that is to say, create a link directly to his mind and magic. She had warned him of the chance of memory loss. He wasn't surprised: power always came at a price. He was rather hoping Occlumency could protect him, however, and at any rate, the procedure to junction the Guardian Force – and more importantly, to disconnect it – was rather simple and could be done in a hurry, making this a good back-up plan.

Or, he could always force one of his minions to test it, properly disguising the experiment as 'a great honour for service rendered' or some such rot. That's what minions are for, after all!

And there was still another world to explore… so many possibilities…

He sank a little more comfortably in the plushy armchair, sipping the delicious wine – a rare, pricey shipment from somewhere called Centra, apparently. He'd missed these kind of luxury.

A little while longer – just enough to see Edea properly positioned as Ambassador of Galbadia, she should be able to handle her coup and become the next President on her own afterwards – and he could leave this place… and discover what else was in store for him in the next world.

And how to use it to his advantage.

Then... then he would finally go back to his own home-world – necessarily the best by that very reason – and to the place that was rightfully his: the absolute top.

It was in his nature, after all.

From a very young age he'd known that he was different, special. Destined to greatness. His adolescence in the noble House of Slytherin had honed his uncannily clever mind to excellency and taught him to cunningly make use of everything within its reach.

Dominance was his destiny.

Of course, he had to be careful... rash haste would not serve him now. Once already he had thought that he had very nearly achieved his every dream, had believed that he had had everything, everything, in his grasp, only to be thwarted at the hands of a foolish girl with no sense of self-preservation, and her unbelievably lucky brat.

He'd been such a fool. He knew, knew, what kind of destructive force the oh-so-hailed 'love' was. It broke you, destroyed you, weakened your senses until you threw away your life uselessly with a smile. He'd been very careful to avoid it – but he should never have forgotten that others were all too prone to falling for it.

And so he'd lost everything...

He had been so self-assured. Arrogant, some would say. But he had known that his carefully hoarded knowledge had few rivals, that his fully unleashed power would make all but perhaps one tremble and quake, that he had spun the messy web of politics and money and favours and baseless pride the wizarding world consisted of to his utmost advantage. He had made people believe in him and bow to his whim. He had brought the world to spin along his will, and his alone. He had been on top.

Of course, there had been those who opposed him… it was inevitable. He was a visionary. His goal was a better future for wizards and witches, an uncontaminated world shaped according to his splendid vision.

The wizarding world had needed reforming. There were too many festering problems to even list. It was necessary to purify it, to return it to the only viable way of life, with the truly powerful benevolently ruling the weaklings.

He knew, knew intimately, that he was the only one able to lead such a world. If they could only see… but of course, most hadn't. People were blinded by the minutiae, the regrettable but ultimately unavoidable sacrifices. No revolution happens without death and destruction. How could he build his wonderful new world without doing away with the wasteful remnants of the old, wrong one?

Why could those fools not see that he, and he alone, was right?

So what if in order to fix those problems he was forced to use a heavy hand?

He had been accused of selfishness… lies!

His quest for domination and, yes... immortality, was motivated by nothing short than his desire to improve the world that belonged to him.

He could still hear the echo of the damn old coot's words: "There is no true goal in your actions, Tom, be it laudable or despicable. There's just fear and death and pointless torture!"

Wrong, wrong, how wrong he was! He was blind… blind!

That nonsensical accusation that the Dark Arts had twisted him... Dumbledore had made that his most annoying refrain, shouting it from every rooftop to scare the weak-minded. It was a remark that never failed to offend him, even just in memory.

The Dark Arts... there was almost nothing better. The idiocy of thinking they were dangerously addictive was nothing more than a save-face for those too weak to seek the greatness they offered. The Dark Arts opened ways; they could not change their wielder. They did not crawl inside your head and scramble your brains as every light-aligned fool no doubt believed. The opportunities they offered might affect the judgement, perhaps, but by the same coin, they could also strengthen the resolve!

No, neither the use of the Dark Arts nor his decade as little less than a spirit had corroded his sanity.

He wasn't mad.

Had never been mad.

Those years as mere shadow had taught him patience, though.

Yes, he had patience. Patience to once again cultivate his Dark Lord persona slowly, thoroughly. Patience to scheme, and plot, and arrange the world and the foolish pawns that populated it to his benefit. Patience to foolproof his plans, and make sure everything happened exactly the way he wanted.

He couldn't risk the same mistakes again.

He wondered… what would he find when he went back to his birth-world? Would his instructions have been followed satisfactorily? Would everything he needed to implement his plans be ready? It better be... There would be people to punish, of course, treasons to avenge… but for now, it could all wait. He wouldn't waste this chance.

So far, everything was going his way and wasn't that a wonderful feeling?

He was so busy, he rarely had the time, now, to wonder about the surge of magic that had opened up so many possibilities for him.

But it was never very far from his mind. Where had it come from? What had provoked it? Could it be repeated? Recreated? It didn't matter of course, but he'd always had a scholar's curiosity.

More pressing was the question of whether someone else had taken advantage of it.

He'd kept his eyes open, just in case… but so far he'd seen no trace of anyone else travelling through worlds. Of course, he'd been carefully discreet himself, so it might not mean much… but no, it took a wizard of exceptional power to even perceive something like that, much less use it… that meant Dumbledore.

But the old fool would never dare. Pathetic moron. For all his impressive power, he'd never had the courage to act… he bemoaned the wrongs of their world but never lifted a finger to right them.

And he had the guts to blame him for doing what was necessary! Sure he'd killed some… sacrifices were unavoidable! But the old man was too much of a coward… too conservative to understand the beauty of the revolution he would bring to the wizarding world.

No, he did not fear Dumbledore's meddling so far from the cosy prison he'd made for himself in Hogwarts.

As for the boy… the boy prophesied to take him down… but no, no.

The more he thought about that dreadful mischance, the more he was convinced that the brat was a fluke. Not worth worrying over.

It had been the mother's sacrifice and the amazingly strong shield it had erected that had – temporarily – defeated him. He'd been careless, that was all.

If only he'd never gone… but how could he have imagined the silly girl would resort to such powerful Old Magic?

It was no use crying over spilt milk however and anyway, the consequences of that damn night had almost completely been overcome.

There might be some residue from the powerful spell on the brat, it was always a possibility with Old Magic, especially if tied to the blood, but there were ways to counter it; as for the Prophecy that had pushed him into that reckless action, the existence of such a prediction did not necessarily mean the boy had anything special about him and even if he did, there were ways to sidestep the always unclear wordings of any foretelling.

He'd thought he could simply squash the threat, but he should have remembered that cheating Fate was never that easy. He would be better prepared to neutralize the danger, when the time came to confront it again.

He wouldn't make the same mistakes again…

A/N: Bit of a change of perspective... after all, Harry's not the only one who's taken advantage of the worlds collision! Let me know what you think about the new POV, please! Next chapter I'll probably peak into Dumbledore's mind... Luna