CHAPTER 1: A BOY AND HIS SHADOW
Harry gazed around the squalid room at the Dursley's, the faded wallpaper peeling from the damp walls and the worn carpet stained and threadbare. His gaze lingered on the cobwebs clinging to the corners and the dust motes floating in the pale morning light. The sight triggered a memory, one that wasn't his, but felt as real as his own. It was another dirty room, more than fifty years ago, in a desolate orphanage by the sea.
He could almost hear the howling sea winds that had whipped through the loose seals in the windows of that orphanage, making the window panes creak and the curtains flutter. He could feel the chill that would settle into his bones, making him shiver. But was it really him who shivered back then? Or was it Tom? Sometimes, Harry wondered if there was a difference anymore. Their minds had merged at the Ministry, their souls intertwined at the graveyard. Voldemort had used Harry's blood to revive his body, and now Harry carried something more of the dark wizard inside his head.
Harry's thoughts were interrupted by a soft, eerie whisper at the back of his mind, a reminder of Voldemort's presence. He had inherited not just memories, but emotions, thoughts, and fragments of a shattered soul. The memories came raw and unfiltered, a chaotic torrent of a lifetime's worth of experiences that surged through his mind. It would take years to sift through them, to catalog and understand when and where they had occurred.
"I can't keep living like this," Harry muttered to himself, though he knew no one was listening. His voice was shaky, betraying the fear he felt deep inside.
At just sixteen years old, Harry felt the weight of these memories pressing down on him. He had barely entered manhood, yet the burden he carried was monumental. By the same age, Tom had already transformed into someone unrecognizable, a man steeped in darkness and power. Harry still felt like a boy, struggling to find his place in a world that demanded so much from him.
He sat on the edge of his bed, closing his eyes. Almost instantly, Tom's life began to play out in front of him, a vivid and unending reel of film. He saw a young Tom Riddle, isolated and resentful, discovering his powers for the first time. The scenes shifted to Hogwarts, where Tom's charm and cunning masked his growing malevolence.
"No, not again," Harry whispered, trying to push the images away. But they persisted, relentless and intrusive. He saw Tom's encounters with Dumbledore, the creation of the first Horcrux, the growing obsession with immortality.
Suddenly, there was a sharp knock on the door. Harry jolted, his heart racing. Aunt Petunia's shrill voice pierced the silence. "Harry! Breakfast is ready. And don't you dare be late!"
"I'm coming," Harry replied, his voice strained. He stood up and took a deep breath, trying to ground himself in the present. The memories of Tom Riddle receded, but he knew they would never truly leave him.
As he trudged downstairs, Harry couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, of Tom's presence lurking just beneath the surface of his consciousness. He entered the kitchen, where Uncle Vernon sat reading the newspaper and Dudley shoveled food into his mouth with a speed that defied logic. Aunt Petunia placed a plate of eggs and toast in front of Harry with a scowl.
"Eat quickly," she snapped. "And then you can get on with your chores."
"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry said quietly, forcing himself to take a bite of the bland food. He couldn't help but feel a pang of resentment. Here he was, battling the remnants of the darkest wizard of all time, and all his relatives cared about was maintaining their mundane routine.
Harry's thoughts drifted back to Tom. How different would his life have been if someone had cared for him, if someone had shown him kindness? Would he still have become Voldemort?
Lost in these musings, Harry didn't notice Dudley staring at him with a mixture of curiosity and fear. "Harry," Dudley said tentatively, "are you okay? You look... different."
Harry looked up, startled by the question. Dudley had never shown any interest in his well-being before. "I'm fine," he lied, managing a weak smile. "Just tired."
Dudley nodded, though he didn't seem convinced. Harry returned to his meal, his mind a turbulent sea of thoughts and memories. He knew he had to stay strong, for himself and for those he loved. The battle within his mind was just as important as the one he would soon face in the real world.
Flashes in time. Scenes of murder and mayhem. Magic most foul. Witches begging for their lives. Wizards failing to defeat him, losing their lives and then their loves. The rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. The twisted satisfaction he felt, his body responding with a dark desire as he killed and killed again. Power was pleasure. Why had no one told him just how much pleasure there was in power, in dominance, in seeing the most mighty purebloods kneel at his feet?
Harry's eyelids fluttered, and suddenly he was elsewhere. A lavish throne room, grand and opulent. Bellatrix, black-haired and wild-eyed, knelt before him. Her long, wavy hair brushed against his thighs as she deep-throated him, her fanatical eyes locked onto his. She bobbed and gagged and spluttered, and it wasn't the physical sensation that made him climax, but the worship in her eyes, the unbridled delight. He knew in that moment, despite her background, despite the degradation, she'd never been happier.
A shiver of desire ran through Harry. Or was it Tom who hungered for this? The lines blurred, and he wasn't sure it mattered anymore. The Daily Prophet slandered him as a liar and a fantasist for insisting that Voldemort had returned. His friends distanced themselves, unable to grasp the gravity of his situation. Dumbledore, the supposed protector, had left him to be abused at the Dursleys. This wasn't the life he wanted. He, too, had power. Why else would Dumbledore seek to control him, Voldemort seek him?
Harry's mind raced. He would forge his own path, one where he wielded dominance over those weaker. He would no longer be a pawn in their game.
The kitchen was filled with the mundane clatter of breakfast, an uncomfortable contrast to the storm brewing in Harry's mind. Dudley continued to stare at him, unnerved by the intensity in Harry's eyes. Uncle Vernon grunted over his newspaper, oblivious to the tension.
"Harry," Dudley ventured again, more hesitantly this time, "are you sure you're okay?"
Harry forced a smile. "I'm fine, Dudley. Just tired, like I said." The lie slipped easily off his tongue, and he turned back to his meal. The bland food tasted like ash, a stark reminder of the dull life he was determined to escape.
As he swallowed mechanically, Harry's thoughts wandered back to the memories. Tom's memories. The brutal clarity of those moments of power and dominance. The pleasure that came with control. He pushed away the plate, appetite gone. He couldn't remain here, trapped in a life he no longer wanted.
Later that day, as Harry did his chores around the Dursley's house, he mulled over his next steps. He needed to harness the power within him, to learn and grow stronger. The merging of his mind with Voldemort's had given him insight, knowledge, and a newfound determination.
In the shadows of the garage, where he was supposed to be cleaning out old junk, Harry whispered to himself, "I won't be their pawn anymore. I will carve my own destiny." The darkness seemed to resonate with his words, as if affirming his resolve.
That night, as he lay in bed, Harry's thoughts returned to Bellatrix's worshipful gaze, to the sense of power and control. He closed his eyes, feeling the darkness within him stir. The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with danger and moral ambiguity, but he no longer cared. He would rise above them all, wielding his power to create a life of his own design.
And as sleep finally claimed him, Harry dreamt not of Tom's past, but of a future where he was the one in control, where he wielded the power that was his by right.
"There is only power, and those too weak to seek it." The phrase reverberated in Harry's mind, a mantra he found himself murmuring over and over. He sat naked in his room, the cool air making his skin prickle. His hand moved rhythmically, and he was both aroused and repulsed by the dark thoughts consuming him. Tom's memories had unveiled the true source of power, a revelation far more profound than any he had encountered in the magical texts at Hogwarts.
Tom's power was not solely derived from his exhaustive research into ancient and forbidden magic, nor from the soul-splitting and blood-letting rituals. It was the Death Eaters, those who had branded themselves in submission to him, who were his true genius. Their mark, their allegiance, allowed him to draw on their power whenever he wished. They were not just followers; they were living, breathing batteries for his wand, conduits of immense magical energy.
Harry's thoughts darkened further as he realized the implications. With their constant supply of power, Voldemort could fight unaided for days, conjure gargantuan spells without caring for the magical cost. He could feel their minds, their thoughts and emotions, and bend them to his will. The more followers he branded, the more powerful he became. His growth was limitless, an insatiable hunger for domination and control.
The spell Voldemort had used to brand them was an ancient one, originally devised by a sultan or emperor of a long-forgotten reign. Sick of the jealousy and infighting among his harem, an ancient Egyptian emperor had created a spell to control them more directly. Once he had seeded them, he branded them, binding their minds, hearts, and souls to his will. This spell allowed him not only to quell discord but to draw on their life force, enhancing his own power.
Harry's breath quickened as he understood the brilliance and the horror of it. He could almost see Tom, a young man discovering this ancient magic, his eyes lighting up with the possibilities. "Why not take their power too?" Tom had thought. "Why not become a god among men?"
Harry's grip tightened, his thoughts swirling in a mix of lust and loathing. The memory of Bellatrix, her devotion and submission, floated back to him. She wasn't just a follower; she was a source of immense power, a willing vessel for his dark desires.
As he sat there, the mantra still echoing in his mind, Harry felt a shift within him. He was no longer just Harry Potter, the boy who lived, the boy who suffered. He was something more, something darker, a fusion of himself and Tom Riddle. The potential for immense power was there, waiting to be seized.
But with this power came a choice. He could follow the path of domination and control, using those around him as tools for his own gain. Or he could find a way to harness this power for a greater good, to fight the darkness that threatened to consume him.
Harry's hand stilled, and he took a deep breath. He stood up, the cool air a stark reminder of his humanity. He dressed quickly, the mundane act grounding him. He couldn't ignore the power within him, nor could he deny the darkness that came with it. But he had to find a way to control it, to use it without losing himself.
He looked at his reflection in the cracked mirror, seeing not just Harry but the echoes of Tom within him. "I will not be your puppet," he whispered fiercely. "I will find my own way."
With renewed determination, Harry left his room. The journey ahead was uncertain, filled with moral ambiguity and danger, but he knew he couldn't walk the path alone. He needed allies, friends who could help him navigate this treacherous terrain.
As he stepped into the kitchen, the mundane sounds of the Dursley's life surrounded him. But Harry knew his life was anything but mundane. The power within him was a double-edged sword, and he would wield it carefully, mindful of the darkness that lurked in the shadows of his mind.
Tom hadn't cared for the spell that worked only on women. His desire was for a more complete domination, a control that went beyond superficial adoration. He craved power, not love. Love was fickle, fleeting, and he had no use for it. What he sought was fear, and thus, the Morsmordre spell was born, along with the Dark Mark—a bond of his own making.
As he lay back, slowly stroking himself, he pondered the changes within him. The heat of his hand contrasted sharply with the cool night air. His desires had shifted. He now longed for love—not the fleeting adoration that came with fame, but a true, unwavering love, like the one his parents had shared. He no longer wanted to be feared by those who followed him. Love, he realized, was a form of submission far more potent than fear.
His owl, Hedwig, watched him with a disapproving gaze. Her submission was simple; she depended on him for sustenance. But what about the women in his life? Which of them would submit to him willingly, and what means did he have to control them?
He ran through the faces of the girls at Hogwarts in his mind. None stood out immediately. Hermione Granger—perhaps with the right approach, she could be swayed.
Bellatrix Lestrange's youthful visage flashed in his memory, and with it, another thought emerged. Her sister, Narcissa Malfoy. He wondered if his memories held another potential ally, another piece in his game.
Tom rose from his chair and began pacing the room, his mind racing. "Hermione," he murmured to himself, considering her intellect and strength. "She's strong-willed, but that makes the conquest even more satisfying." He imagined the challenge of winning her over, the strategic maneuvers required to break her resistance.
He paused by the window, looking out into the darkness. "And Narcissa," he continued, the name rolling off his tongue with a sense of curiosity. "She's bound by duty, by family. But duty can be twisted, and loyalty can be redirected."
Hedwig ruffled her feathers, seemingly impatient with his musings. Tom turned to her with a smirk. "Don't worry, Hedwig. All in good time. Submission, whether through love or fear, is inevitable."
He considered writing to Narcissa, crafting a letter that would pique her interest without revealing too much. He wanted to understand her, to see if she could be brought into his fold. He sat at his desk and began drafting a letter, each word chosen with care, each sentence a calculated move.
"Dear Narcissa," he wrote, "I hope this letter finds you in good spirits. It has been some time since our paths crossed, and I find myself reflecting on those who have influenced my journey..."
As he wrote, his mind wandered to the many ways he could manipulate emotions, the strings he could pull to bind others to him. Love was indeed a powerful tool, and he intended to wield it masterfully.
Hours passed as he revised and perfected his letter, ensuring it was just right. Finally, he sealed it and set it aside, a sense of satisfaction washing over him. This was just the beginning. With a mixture of love and fear, he would weave a web so intricate that none could escape.
He looked at Hedwig, who seemed more relaxed now. "We have work to do, my friend," he said softly. "Much work to do."
As he prepared for bed, Tom's thoughts were filled with possibilities. He had a new game to play, and the stakes had never been higher. But he was ready, and he was certain of one thing: he would emerge victorious, no matter the cost.
Tom had never laid a hand on her, wary of angering his most influential lieutenant, Lucius Malfoy, or his favorite devotee, Bellatrix Lestrange. Lucius, though his proclivities leaned toward young boys, would still rage and scheme if Tom had touched his wife. Weak men always sought to guard their possessions, regardless of how little they actually used them.
For years, Tom had been satisfied with the Malfoys' wealth and their considerable political influence. Narcissa, for her part, enjoyed a semblance of independence, ever the aloof and untouchable princess. But he knew that could change with the right leverage. If she believed he was truly Tom Riddle, she would submit. Fear for her son, Draco, and her husband would make her compliant. Was she as beautiful as he remembered her from the Quidditch World Cup, her bosom high and proud, her hips wide, her backside so captivating that even the Bulgarian Prime Minister had struggled to look away?
Tom needed to know. He needed to see her now.
With a thought and a surge of his magic, he wiped away the Ministry's Trace on his wand. His memories of his previous life came in fragmented bursts, but the ones he needed arrived swiftly. Malfoy Manor—its precise coordinates, the layout, the wards—all surfaced in his mind. Apparition, an act he had performed countless times, would be easy. But would the wards recognize him? Was he enough of Tom Riddle, or too much Harry Potter?
He focused, envisioning the grand, imposing structure of Malfoy Manor. The sensation of being squeezed through a narrow tube overtook him, and a moment later, he stood at the edge of the Malfoy estate. The manor loomed ahead, dark and silent.
He hesitated for a fraction of a second before stepping forward, testing the wards. To his relief, they accepted him, a testament to the lingering presence of Tom Riddle within him. He approached the front door, his heart pounding with anticipation.
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