Chapter Text
“Now, it wasn’t so bad, was it, Tommy?” Albus asks, smiling encouragingly.
Voldemort walks a few steps behind them, watching Albus holding the boy’s hand, leading them away from the playground.
“It wasn’t,” Tom says, looking up, with a smile of his own.
“You made friends?”
“Yes,” Tom says, without elaborating, even if Albus seems to expect more information.
Albus laughs. “You like to make me beg for details, don’t you?”
“I’ll tell you over supper.”
Voldemort falls into step with them. He meets Tom’s gaze for some seconds as Albus goes on about friendship and what a valuable gift it is.
In the beginning, he thought he would never get used to seeing those brown eyes staring back at him, as if from a strange, distorted mirror.
He would see them and think ‘mine’. Yet now, six years later, they are solely Tom’s.
Voldemort looks over his shoulder, in the direction of the playground. All the other children appear thoroughly relieved Tom has gone.
But if they’re afraid of Tom, they’re terrified of Voldemort, so they won’t say anything to their parents or to Albus.
It’s all Albus’ fault. Tom doesn’t want to go out and play with the children. Merope doesn’t want him to, either. Voldemort told Albus to drop it, but Albus, worried about how lonely Tom is, insisted on introducing him to the other Hogsmeade little spawns.
And then he looked truly worried when all the children complained to their parents that Tom scared them. Albus had a ‘talk’ with Tom and asked him to try again.
Voldemort threatened the children in advance. They’ll keep their mouths shut this time. Whatever Tom did to them will not leave the playground.
When they reach the house, a cozy, modest thing on the outskirts of the village, Merope waits for them in her garden, clothed only in a thin, sleeveless dress, even if it’s winter. An old habit, Voldemort supposes. She can act normal occasionally, but only if Tom is around.
She’s a disaster when he’s away, especially if it is Albus that takes him.
Tom lets go of Albus’ hand and runs away to hug her. She lifts him up, even if he’s getting too tall and heavy for that. But her skinny limbs have hidden strength to them. A mother’s strength, as they say.
She cries, as if she hadn’t seen him in years instead of two hours. Albus looks on in disapproval as Tom takes off his robe and tries to cover her shoulders with it.
“Shut up,” Voldemort says, when he sees Albus opening his mouth.
Once they are inside, Voldemort goes to the kitchen to check the food. He always does, ever since she first tried to poison Albus. It only happened twelve more times, and none in the last year.
Progress, he thinks. Luckily, Albus remains clueless about the several murder attempts.
Throughout the meal, Tom talks about his ‘friends’. He must have read a book about it because all of it sounds genuine enough. Though Voldemort isn’t the best judge, he didn’t have any friends. But Albus seems to believe it all.
Merope stares adoringly at Tom for the entire thing. Tom has to remind her several times to eat.
It’s never really clear who is raising who, but they survive it somehow.
Albus leaves before dessert, because it’s one of Merope’s rules. ‘Dessert is just for blood relatives,’ she declared a few years back, when Tom got old enough to eat solid foods and sit on his own.
As soon as Albus is out of the door, Merope springs from her seat and lifts Tom up, before sitting back and arranging him on her lap, burying her nose in his hair.
“How was it, really?” Voldemort asks him.
“It was fine. They left me alone this time. I brought a book with me and warned them to keep their distance.”
“Make sure to bring your new friends up in conversation every now and again,” Voldemort reminds him. “I hope you learned at least one or two names so you can satisfy Albus when he’ll no doubt inquire about it.”
Tom nods.
They eat dessert in silence. Tom pulls his book from his backpack, supports it on the table and gets lost in it. Merope is lost in Tom- she doesn’t need food with him there.
Voldemort enjoys his pie in peace. His mother is a skilled cook, he discovered. Everything she makes tastes good to him, better than any other meals he had, even if he lives in a castle filled with elves, even if once he lived in Lestrange Manor, with the best quality ingredients at their disposal.
She hums to herself, winding her slender, potion tainted fingers through Tom’s hair. The boy ignores her, captivated by his book.
“Extraordinary focus,” Albus said, amazed that Tom disappears entirely between the pages of whatever tome he’s reading, without getting distracted by anything going on around him.
Tom is exactly the lying, manipulative child Voldemort expected him to be. He’s antisocial, a bit cruel, and very stubborn.
But he loves his mother.
They fascinate Voldemort. The bond between them is unhealthy; he doesn’t need Albus to tell him that. And Albus doesn’t know half of it.
He doesn’t know it’s Tom that reads Merope bedtime stories before they go to sleep, or that it’s Tom that handles all their gold when they go to the shops around the village. Many times, he bribes her to get her out of the house.
“I’ll get you a nice cauldron if you come, mama. And some chocolates.”
Albus doesn’t know Merope poisoned two neighbours that were overly friendly with Tom, nor does he know she killed Tom’s pets.
It’s not like Tom wanted the pets. He pretended to be delighted when Albus brought them, but he never really cared.
Merope would kill the entire world to stop them from ‘trying to take Tommy’ away from her.
It will be very interesting when the time will come for him to go to Hogwarts, Voldemort thinks, finishing up his slice of pie.
“I have more,” she says, taking her eyes away from Tom to look at Voldemort. She smiles at him, shyly.
“I’m good,” he says, but she insists to give him another slice, and, as always, he caves.
Even if Tom is the one to read her bedtime stories now, there were many years when Tom couldn’t read, so she’d tell him stories.
About his father.
At first, she would go with immaculate conception, drawing from what little she learned in church, when she used to stalk the muggle there, in their childhood.
“You’re the son of God,” she’d tell Tom, who was happy to accept it for a while, before he grew old enough to stop believing in it.
After that, a romantic, teeth rotting tale that ended in tragedy became the official story. Apparently, a train killed Tom’s muggle father.
So far, from what Voldemort can tell, Tom doesn’t doubt this version.
Albus was harder to fool.
They had a big, ridiculous fight, that lasted for months, when Albus was convinced Tom was Voldemort’s son.
“He’s exactly like you!” he kept saying. “Uncannily so.”
“She’s my niece,” Voldemort tried to say, but Albus shut him down, saying the Gaunts are known for incest.
“I have never in my life slept with a woman,” he tried next, but nothing he said was enough to completely reassure Albus.
Eventually, he got over his distaste of blood magic and he took blood from Tom and Voldemort to establish paternity; obviously, the spell informed Albus they are not father and son.
Luckily, Albus only tasted for that and was relived with the results. When alone, out of curiosity, Voldemort performed a different spell- apparently, he and Tom are identical twins by magical standards of detecting and establishing blood connections.
“Here.” Merope places another plate in front of him, and a cup of hot chocolate.
She does the same for Tom, carefully arranging them around his heavy book.
She always serves them the same things. All of last year, when Tom would still drink a glass of milk at night, Voldemort would get the same treatment.
She gets sad if he refuses her, so Voldemort learned to just get it over it, and ignore the pathetic side of him that enjoys the attention.
“Thank you, mama,” Tom mutters, blindly taking his cup, eyes never leaving the book.
Tom often tells her she’s the prettiest woman in the world, that she’s the best mother in the world; it’s why he lashed out at the other children the first time around. Because they call Merope ugly and crazy.
Tom is fiercely protective of her, doesn’t seem to mind at all that he’s taking care of her.
He never bothers Merope with anything. If it’s because he doesn’t want to upset her or realises deep down that she’s completely useless, Voldemort isn’t sure.
He also understood, far before Voldemort sat him down and had a talk with him, that Albus can’t ever learn of some things going around in the house.
Albus declared Merope unfit to raise Tom since the moment he laid eyes on her, back in St Mungo, days after she gave birth, when she was just recovering form a very close encounter with death.
“There’s no one else to raise him,” Voldemort says. “She’s all he has. Or would you have me take the boy to the Gaunt men? Trust me, that’s much worse.”
“No, of course not. I-” Albus looks at him, hesitantly. “There’s…you.”
“No.”
“But-”
“Absolutely not. I hate children.”
“Seriously? You’re still saying that? After all these years at Hogwarts?”
“Fine,” Voldemort rectifies, annoyed. “I can tolerate children. Grown children, not babies.”
Albus doesn’t seem eager himself to take on a baby, so he doesn’t insist. But he insists they give the boy to a ‘good family’.
“I’m not stealing him from her!”
“It’s unfortunate- really, the poor girl, it’s not her fault she’s this way, but the child is equally blameless. He should have sane parents, and she should get treatment here, for whatever ails her mind-”
“What if it was your sister?” Voldemort spits. “I seem to recall you weren’t so eager to leave Ariana with the good healers, were you? If she’d have had a child, would you have taken it from her?”
That shuts Albus up.
They agree she’ll keep the boy and live in Hogsmeade. Under observation.
In any case, Tom knows never to seek help from Merope, and never to go to Albus, because then Albus would once again question Merope’s ability to keep Tom alive.
But he comes to Voldemort, easily. Tom isn’t the type of child to get sick, but he sometimes steals Merope’s wand and plays around with it; accidents happen. Minor enough things- some cuts, some bruises, a broken bone.
He writes to Voldemort, then, and the owl only takes a couple of minutes to reach the castle.
They rarely talk- they’re not talkative people. They don’t touch, even if Tom loves to hug his mother and is comfortable with Albus holding his hand or ruffling his hair.
But it’s not so bad, really. Voldemort didn’t anticipate he’d enjoy having Tom around. Yet he does. He’s just so… easy. They can sit and read together for hours, with rare interruptions when Tom asks what a word or another means. Voldemort only needs to explain it once, and then they return to their silence. It is company- a thing Voldemort now wants, since Albus healed his soul- but not irritating company, like the rest of the world is. Beside Albus; he is lovely company as well, though he’s very frustrating sometimes, because he expects Voldemort to be a decent man.
Tom has no such expectations.
(-)
When Binns finally dies, Dippet attempts to make Voldemort Deputy.
Twenty years before, Voldemort would have gloated- Dippet finds him more competent than Albus.
In truth, he really is. Voldemort is more efficient, he doesn’t show blatant favouritism (though he encourages his Ravenclaws to cheat at Quidditch only to annoy Albus and Horace) and parents are terrified of him. Few would dare to complain to him about the almost lethal accidents that happen at Hogwarts on a monthly basis. The Ministry is on his side, too- at least the old blood purists that hold most of the power. The school governors make sure to be especially polite to him when they visit the school. On the other hand, they despise Albus with a passion.
To say nothing of the fact that Voldemort is an actual descendent of a school founder.
“It would be fitting that one day you should be the Headmaster, once I retire,” Dippet points out.
But Voldemort is perfectly content where he is; he doesn’t need more responsibilities that would force him to deal with people, especially parents. God forbid he murders one- he came close to it a few years back, and only managed to abstain because the child was right there in the room, beside his annoying mother.
So he refuses, and Albus gets the job. Keeping Albus busy is a good idea- when Tom will come to Hogwarts, it is best if Albus is as busy as possible, so he doesn’t look too closely at his perfect Tommy.
Voldemort already has headaches when he thinks about the impending doom.
(-)
Voldemort feels a pang of anxiety every time he notices how small the Stone is getting.
Every year, he approaches the topic of immortality with Albus, lately going as far as to suggest their continuing survival would benefit the world, and they can go around doing good deeds or whatever nonsense, to make Albus agree to it.
Albus doesn’t bulge; in turn, he tries to convince Voldemort death is ‘natural’.
Neither are willing to switch their convictions.
At least Voldemort has an ally- for once, Fawkes is on his side, making it clear he agrees with Voldemort and he doesn’t see death as natural. How could he?
They get along better since the Healers at St Mungo couldn’t help Merope; they conserved her in a magical coma after the birth, but because her incestuous family, nothing they did would make her blood clot; no matter how many blood replenishing potions they shoved down her throat, as soon as she woke up, she’d lose it all again. They tried all the wound healing spells they knew, but the wounds just wouldn’t close.
“On top of the clotting issue, her magic is drained, so it’s not helping her at all. It went to the baby; it was her magic that kept him alive through the harsh conditions they lived in,” the Healers explained.
So Voldemort went to Fawkes, and he had to suffer the indignity of begging for his tears, until the stupid bird relented and shed a few for Voldemort to capture in his vial. After that, he slaughtered a unicorn, took its blood, and added some Elixir of Life into the mix.
That proved enough to heal her, though the Healers consider it a ‘miracle’ since they weren’t there when Voldemort snuck into her room to tend to her.
Voldemort brought Fawkes some snakes to snack on, afterwards, and since then the bird tolerates him better.
Albus is extremely happy with this tentative truce. Now he’s frustrated with Fawkes because the bird doesn’t seem to like Tom that much.
“He’s a darling!” Albus admonishes Fawkes. “The sweetest little boy!”
It’s a bit concerning how wilfully blind Albus is when it comes to Tom. He blames all of Tom oddities on Merope’s influence.
Voldemort knows that the only ‘sweetness’ Tom has inside him is due to Merope being there.
Tom is as uncaring as Voldemort remembers from his own childhood; but Merope is definitely the exception. He seems to genuinely like Albus, as well, though Voldemort can’t decide if it might only be because Tom feels Albus is enamoured with him and always brings him sweets and books and all kinds of toys.
Voldemort couldn’t have imagined how much Albus would take to Tom. He is a kind man, that smiles often, but he’s as guarded as ever, in general. Very private.
His only real smiles, his almost contagious laughter are reserved for Voldemort, when they are in private.
And for Tom.
“It’s odd,” he confesses once, when they are in bed, preparing to sleep. “I never wanted children- I never even thought of it. But now I can’t picture life without Tommy.”
Voldemort can picture life without Tom quite easily, but he’s not particularly bothered that he’s there, either.
(-)
Albus wants to take Tom along for their summer trips. Voldemort doesn’t- that’s his and Albus’ time, just for the two of them.
He feels like a young man again when they explore the most dangerous parts of the world. He’s filled with pleasure when he sees how powerful Albus has become, now that his magic finally reached its maturity.
Tom would only be in the way, and Voldemort never liked to share attention, but especially Albus’ attention. It’s enough he has to share it during the school year, with all the students- the summers should be only Voldemort’s.
Merope would never agree, in any case; Voldemort shudders to imagine what she’d do, if left on her own, without her son to keep her in line.
Albus won’t let it go, however, trying his best to persuade her, every time they go to Hogsmeade for a visit. To their misfortune, Tom overhears one of these conversations.
He wants to come with us, Voldemort knows, watching the boy sitting on a small bench, surrounded by his mother’s impressive magical garden, as Albus and Merope fight in the living room.
Not that she’s much of a fighter. She just glares and says ‘no’, over and over again.
Albus always brings Tom ‘adventure’ books, as he calls it, and Tom already read more about mythical places and wizarding history than most people Voldemort encountered.
He surely would like to see some of the ruins Albus tells him about.
There’s something about watching him in that garden, knees drawn up to his chest, staring ahead wistfully, that reminds Voldemort of himself, staring into space at Wool’s, constructing adventures in his head, ignoring the horrible environment around him so thoroughly that he’d be surprised when he’d blink and find himself still at Wool’s, and not wherever he imagined.
Of course, a nice house in Hogsmeade, with a devoted (if slightly creepy) mother, with all the food he could wish for, is quite different from being alone in Wool’s.
Still, Voldemort is uncomfortable with the image, so he makes a sacrifice. He sends Albus and Tom together on holiday, just one week in Portugal at the beginning of the summer, and he remains home to make sure Merope doesn’t murder or rape or enslave any of the neighbours.
He stays in her house, instead of his quarters at Hogwarts, because she’s unconsolable in her anger at Tom being ‘taken from her’; he doesn’t dare leave her unsupervised for even a minute.
She mothers him, what with Tom gone.
It’s… nice. Pathetic that he’d enjoy it, at his age, but it is what it is. He long accepted Merope has a strange place in his heart, always did, ever since he first saw her, bruised and skinny and tiny, with Salazar’s necklace around her throat.
She wears it now; Voldemort gave it back to her on her twentieth birthday.
“Morfin wouldn’t want me to have it; he will be furious when he finds out I have a half-blood child,” she said offhandedly, two years before.
Voldemort assured her he will deal with Morfin. Alas, he put it off, busy with his duties at Hogwarts. When he finally went, he found Morfin dead already, the cup of tea still stained with poison.
He cleaned up after Merope and left the corpse there; they still haven’t found it- after all, who would visit Morfin? When they will find him, if they ever do, by then the traces of the poison she gave him will be long gone from his rotting body.
While Tom and Albus are away, she cooks his favourite meals, she sits at his side and gazes lovingly at him, she brings him hot chocolate and asks if he needs anything, every other minute.
“Was I a bad mother?” Merope asks, one day, making hairs stand on the back of his neck.
He’s never truly sure how much she knows, how much she understands about who he is, how it all makes sense in her head.
“Yes,” he says, eventually.
“I’m sorry,” she says, with a sniffle, her blue eyes filled with tears. “But I’m not bad now, am I?”
He’s not sure. Albus insists she’s not good for Tom. Of course, she’s better than Voldemort ever had, but since Albus doesn’t compare it with that, Merope’s unhinged demeanour and her clinginess must look bad, indeed.
“Tom is happy here.” He gives her the only answer he has.
It is the truth. Tom loves her, in whatever way he can. Perhaps he feels suffocated by her occasionally, but Voldemort knows that boy, and he knows he loves his mother.
“For you, not Tom. Am I bad for you this time around?”
He doesn’t know what to answer. It’s so absurd. “I don’t need a mother,” he settles on, after some minutes.
“I wish I had a mother,” she says, pouring him more hot chocolate.
(-)
“What did you do with him?” she asks, on another day, experimenting with a potion. She often experiments.
Him. The muggle. She’s never mentioned him before, so determined Tom is only hers, that Voldemort thought she fooled herself into actually believing his conception was a miracle.
“I sent him away. To another country.”
A sudden, but intense, desire struck the Riddles to move across the ocean and never set foot in England again. He can’t decide if erasing his father’s memories about Merope was a mercy or another violation against him.
She frowns. “You should have killed him,” she says matter-of-factly. “He deserves it. He left us. He left Tommy.”
There is no point in explaining to her why the muggle left. Merope doesn’t distinguish right from wrong, not after she was raised in a secluded shack in the woods by two alcoholic, deranged men.
She’s secluded in Hogsmeade, too, seeks not to interact with the villagers, even when Tom drags her along outside.
But she is happy; she likes her home, cares for it, keeps it spotless. She likes her garden, and she needs nothing else, wants nothing else as long as Tom is there. Or Voldemort.
(-)
When the boy turns nine, Albus finally gets wind of the fact that Tom has no friends, and all the children in the village are terrified of him.
“Why did you lie to me, Tommy?” Albus asks, heartbroken.
“It’s what you wanted to hear,” Tom explains. “I didn’t want to upset you, since it seems so important to you.”
“It’s Merope’s fault,” Albus declares, when he’s alone with Voldemort. “The children fear her and her sinister reputation, so they are weary around poor Tommy, too.”
Voldemort pretends to agree, so he takes Tom to socialise with sons and daughters of his former students, where ‘Merope’s reputation’ wouldn’t affect him. Albus doesn’t like that either, worried the ‘snobby purebloods’ might be mean to Tom because of his blood, but Voldemort refuses to let Tom go hang out with the spawns of Albus’ former Gryffindors, because when Tom will terrify those, too, Albus won’t be able to blame it on Merope anymore.
So he sets Tom loose on the Black children; they’re the only ones resilient enough to withstand him and it is unlikely their complaints will ever reach Albus when Tom undoubtedly ends up terrorising them in Grimmauld Place.
Apparently, they’re apt to fight back, and Voldemort often needs to heal minor injuries on Tom when he goes to retrieve him.
“Makes for good practice,” Arcturus brushes it off, when his own children show up bloodied or with bruises. “It will enhance their dueling skills if they start so soon.”
Strangely, after a while, Voldemort realises Tom actually grows to look forward to the visits. He likes the competition, it seems.
They even start exchanging owls when they are apart, to Albus’ delight. He’s so relieved Tom made friends.
Merope is not as delighted; she throws tantrums every time Voldemort comes to collect Tom to drop him at Grimmauld place for a day. She’s afraid he won’t come back; sometimes, she tries to hide the letters Tom receives from Alphard.
“You don’t like them better than you like mama, do you, Tommy? Tell me it isn’t so.”
“It isn’t so,” Tom reassures her, calmly. “I just tolerate them.”
When Merope goes to the kitchen, Tom looks at Voldemort. “Perhaps it would be easier for her if the Blacks were to come visit me, instead? This way she won’t get frightened I won’t return.”
Voldemort shakes his head. He doesn’t want to have to explain to Arcturus why his children or nephews were found buried in Merope’s garden.
(-)
Obviously, the holly wand chooses Tom when they go to Olivander’s on his eleventh birthday.
Even Merope came along, though when Albus wants to treat them all to ice cream after they get the wand, she disappears to Knockturn Alley, taking Tom with her.
Albus wants to go after them, upset Merope would expose Tom to Knockturn shops, but Voldemort persuades him to let it go, to enjoy the day with him, instead.
Even after so many years, people still gawk at Voldemort, and he can hear whispers about the duel with Grindelwald. No one dares to approach him, however. Not about that, at least.
Many former students stop to say hello. Theirs is not a big world, so most everyone under thirty-five was their student.
They always look a bit surprised, but no one comments on the fact that Albus and Voldemort haven’t aged. Not that wizards age normally, but even by wizarding standards, they’re pushing it.
Horace definitely looks older than both of them these days.
When Tom and Merope return from Knockturn, Albus scolds her for buying the boy a cursed inkpot.
Merope blinks when Albus retrieves the inkpot from Tom’s pocket. It’s painfully obvious she didn’t buy it; or at least it is obvious for Voldemort, who knows the boy is a compulsive thief.
Once, Voldemort took him to muggle London to expose him to muggle literature; they left with many tomes, without paying. And those books rest at the top of Tom’s bookshelf, a place of honour, besides a goblet engraved with the Black family motto and a golden time piece. Albus thinks it’s because Tom prefers those books over others. Voldemort knows he prefers them because they are trophies, remind him of the adrenaline rush stealing can bring.
Not that Merope is any different. She still didn’t grasp the concept that she can’t simply take what she wants, that she needs to give something in return.
Tom at least understands stealing is frowned upon, so he hides it, is careful with it. Merope genuinely struggles with that knowledge, so it’s for the best Tom is the one buying things they need from Hogsmeade shops.
It’s surprising Tom didn’t grow into a spoiled little shit. Merope never denies him anything, and Albus is almost just as bad. Aberforth and the owner of Honeydukes also like to give him sweets when they spot him around the village.
All of Tom’s needs are met and surpassed; Voldemort’s wages are not impressive, by any means, but he earns a decent amount of gold and he doesn’t have anything to spend it on but Merope and Tom.
Perhaps it’s the responsibility of having to care for a grown woman ever since he could walk that grounds Tom, but he truly isn’t spoiled. He doesn’t demand much, happiest when he receives books instead of expensive toys, and he’s never one to throw tantrums on the rare occasions he’s refused something
(-)
When Tom starts school, Voldemort has to remove Merope from the grounds every day, for a few weeks. Eventually, she accepts to stop trying to stalk Tom if he is allowed to come home Saturday.
Voldemort has to ‘convince’ Dippet to approve it. Albus is harder to persuade.
“It’s not normal! It’s not good for Tom! He’s supposed to bond with his peers during the weekends! Have fun and get to know them, not be shut in with that woman!”
But Tom insists he wants to go home every Saturday, and eventually they settle into this schedule.
“Do you really want it?” Voldemort asks him, as he takes him to Hogsmeade.
“Does it matter?” Tom asks back, after some seconds. “You always give her what she asks of you.”
Voldemort ponders over the answer for some seconds. “It matters,” he decides, eventually. “If you don’t want it, I will talk to her.”
Tom smiles, a tiny thing. “She’s my mother,” he says. “I’m all she has.” He shrugs. “I don’t like the other children, anyway. I suffer them, but I’ll enjoy a day away from them.”
“You don’t like Abraxas?”
Tom makes a childish face. It’s easy to forget he’s a child, as composed and grown up as he acts, but it’s there now, in the way he scrunches up his nose.
“I despise him.”
Give it another couple of years, Voldemort thinks.
(-)
Tom doesn’t pretend as much as Voldemort used to pretend when he was his age.
It helps that no one mocks the boy, he imagines. Tom is accepted- oh, he’s sure Abraxas made one or two snide remarks about half-blood this or half-blood that, but that’s Abraxas. The rest aren’t bothered. And the older students are all in awe and fear of Voldemort, so they take great care not to disrespect his ‘nephew’ in any way.
Tom remains mostly antisocial, always with a book on hand, even during meals, though he seems to exchange a few words with Alphard and Rodolphus and some heated looks with Abraxas every now and again.
He’s polite with the teachers- they are all charmed rather quickly, especially Horace.
“Such an incredible little fellow,” Horace gushes in the teacher’s lounge, and everyone agrees with him.
Voldemort treats him no differently than any of his students; if there’s any bias, it’s for Abraxas. He’s fairly certain that if he had no prior knowledge of the blond and this would be their first time interacting, Voldemort would have hated him. The little shit is obnoxious.
But Voldemort knows there’s more to him than the spoiled, rich pureblood front, so he’s inclined to give him a pass, when he was never inclined that way before, towards anyone.
Albus is ridiculous with his blatant favouritism towards Tom; no one is surprised he’s playing favourites, but it’s usually- actually, always- a lion that gets his favour. Not a single Transfiguration class passes by without Tom gaining an unreasonable amount of points.
“It’s embarrassing, really,” Tom says, and it must be bad if Tom flushes. “The others will hate me if carries on like that. You’d think I’m Merlin’s second coming, the way he goes on.”
“As if you care what others think,” Voldemort retorts, grading homework in his office. “And you are better than Merlin,” he adds.
He doesn’t look up from his parchments, but even so, he can see that Tom’s blush spreads all over his face now.
The boy is shy. Somehow.
Well, perhaps it’s not that surprising. He did grow up quite sheltered, unlike Voldemort who never knew privacy until adulthood, always surrounded by screaming demons, forced to co-exist with them. An orphan can’t grow up shy, not after everything that’s to be witnessed in a very poorly supervised building full of adolescents.
(-)
He takes Tom to the Chamber of Secrets early into his education at Hogwarts.
He lets him wake the basilisk, enjoys the awestruck look on the boy’s face, so very childish in its excitement.
“Albus knows about her,” Voldemort warns him. “You can never set her loose, you understand?”
“Why would I set her loose?” Tom asks, a rare expression of confusion gracing his features. “She’d cause mayhem.”
Yes. That’s precisely why Voldemort awoke her in his time. But Tom- well, he has no resentment and hate gathered inside him, brewing there for years, simmering and simmering until it boiled over.
So Tom puts her back to sleep, and he even openly talks about her with Albus at dinner, on Saturday, about how special basilisk are, how interesting the magic used to preserve her must be.
“She was put there to kill mudbloods, Papa said,” Merope adds to the conversation, making Albus wince.
“Muggleborns,” Albus corrects. And that is expected, but what is not expected is that Tom corrects her at the same time.
Albus beams with pride, ruffling Tom’s hair.
“He knew about the basilisk?” Voldemort asks, curious of this knowledge in his family that never reached him.
She hums, nods. “His own Papa told him. The King of Snakes lies under a bathroom, ready to extract our vengeance, waiting for an Heir to take control.” She shrugs. “Or that is what he told Morfin.”
“How did he imagine the basilisk will get revenge, if he was the last Heir and didn’t send his children to school?” Voldemort asks.
She shrugs. “Papa never made much sense.”
“Was he powerful?” Tom asks, taking advantage of this rare occasion Merope mentions her family.
“No,” she answers, serving the second course, filling Tom’s and Voldemort’s plates to the brim, but only throwing a meagre amount in Albus’ plate. Still, she gave him something, which was not always the case. Albus so far had to serve himself. “He was mean and stupid. Weak. My brother was weak, too.”
Her eyes flash with pleasure. They found Morfin a year or so ago, when a man that he owed money to finally tracked him down only to find his rotting corpse.
(-)
Tom’s goal in life is to win the House Cup, to break the seventeen-year-old record of Ravenclaw wins.
He’s just incredibly bored. He spends his entire second year sabotaging Ravenclaws, with Rodolphus’ help. All sort of minor accidents: homework disappearing, potions going bad when a Ravenclaw looks away from their cauldron, even for a second.
Older students being caught with alcohol in their bags, even if Voldemort knows very well those boys would never drink.
No one ever suspects perfect, polite Tom.
He is a menace.
Voldemort is wise enough to let him win.
It does feel nice to see the Great Hall draped in green and silver again, at the end of the year, even if Horace is insufferable about it.
At least Voldemort still has the Quidditch cup, since Tom shows no interest in the sport.
(-)
Most of the girls in the lower years are besotted with Tom when he starts his fourth year. Even some in the upper years.
He seems oblivious about it, though he can’t be. They aren’t discrete at all.
And then there’s Horace and Albus, teasing him about it.
“Doesn’t she look lovely, Tom?” Horace asks, during one of his stupid Yule parties, nodding at a Slytherin fifth year Perfect.
“She does,” Tom agrees, weary. He’s almost as tall as Voldemort, already. Possibly the culprit for that would be the food he always had at his disposal, unlike Voldemort, who had little of it.
“Such a smart girl. And from a good family-”
“Not that it matters,” Albus says, materialising at their side out of nowhere, interrupting Horace. “Mathilda is a sweet girl, too,” he adds, referring to one of his lions.
Voldemort extracts Tom from between the two lunatics.
“What will make them back off?” Tom asks him in a low whisper.
“Invite one girl to dance,” Voldemort advises him.
“I can’t dance.”
“It’s not difficult. Observe them and go for it.” Voldemort points to a couple of the dance floor, and then Tom focuses his attention on them.
After a handful of minutes, he asks Lucretia Black to dance, back straight with confidence, as if he’s been dancing all his life.
He’s good at it, too, because Tom is good at everything if he spares even a minute of concentration on it.
Horace is delighted, muttering about Blacks and ‘nothing better than that’ probably already envisioning the wedding in his head.
Albus just looks relieved Tom is interacting with his peers.
Voldemort amuses himself when Abraxas practically orders Greengrass to dance with him, trying to show off his superior dancing skills.
Tom is not one to be defeated. They keep glaring at each other, but Voldemort is fairly certain neither realises yet that they’re obsessed with the other.
Albus finally puts it together, towards the end of the year.
“Oh, Merlin,” he says, watching the boys fighting at the breakfast table. “Oh, no.”
“Took you long enough,” Voldemort mocks him.
After all, every Saturday lunch they spend with Merope, Tom only speaks about Abraxas, and how annoying he is, how stupid, how he looks ridiculous in his Quidditch uniform.
“What can he possibly see in Malfoy?”
Voldemort shrugs. “He’s the only one as self-involved as Tom is.”
(-)
His special club is bigger than ever. It’s become somehow of a tradition, a secret rite of passage in some families; indeed, almost all the students there have parents that also attended back in their school days.
Except, of course, the muggleborns. Not that there are many of those. Albus gets to most of them before Voldemort can, so they all have preconceived notions of dark magic.
But there are children there that are born of muggleborns Voldemort previously taught.
Always, there’s a student that raises above the rest in these meetings of theirs.
It comes as no surprise when Tom fills the role, as soon as he attends the club, when Voldemort deems him old enough, at fifteen.
Tom was old enough for dangerous magic since he could crawl, really, but Voldemort couldn’t very well invite an eleven-year-old to attend his meetings, so he waited until Tom was made a Prefect.
“What are you teaching them?” Albus asked, long before, almost anxiously. “They’re very tight-lipped about it when I ask. Even my Gryffindors.”
“I’m teaching them what they want to know,” Voldemort told him. “What they would try to learn anyway, on their own, in far less safe environments.”
Some students are just inclined towards ‘forbidden’ knowledge. The smartest of them will always be curious. It’s for the best Voldemort is there to guide them when they delve into such dangerous topics.
Some that attended became famous Aurors. Voldemort always receives letters of praise from the Auror Program, gushing how highly educated the students he taught are, how they excel at any test.
Voldemort teaches everyone how to defend against the Dark Arts. But those select, hand picked few- well, those he teaches dark magic, too. And, of course, if one knows intimately what they are defending against, they become more efficient at it.
Most of them won’t end up working anywhere, sons or daughters of rich families. Or they go to the Ministry.
Others go into research.
He has witches and wizards in all important sectors of the Magical world.
Not that he does anything with these connections. He doesn’t want anything, just the knowledge he still has power and influence over people, even if he chooses not to use it.
Tom is trying to get his own influence, exerting it over his peers with ease.
Albus often asks him what he wants to do after Hogwarts, if he set his eyes on a career, if anything particular appeals to him.
“I haven’t decided,” Tom says. “I think I’d like to travel for a while.”
(-)
Voldemort is distracted, deep in thought about a theory he and Albus had been working on regarding a spell, so he only feels a bit of glee at getting to terrify someone when he senses the subtle magic hanging over a classroom door.
At that hour, well past midnight, it can only be hormonal teenagers.
So he opens the door without much thought, and freezes in the doorway when Abraxas steps back from Tom with a surprised noise.
It’s not the first time he finds Abraxas breaking curfew to fool around, but this is definitely the first time he finds Tom.
Abraxas, used to harsh punishments, has a panicked look about him.
Tom, however, meets Voldemort’s eyes with no issues. If anything, he looks annoyed Voldemort dared to interrupt them.
Both their ties are askew, and a few buttons are opened-
“Back to the common room,” Voldemort says, stepping away from the doorway to allow them to leave. “Fifty points from Slytherin,” he adds, and then he pretends he doesn’t notice when they go left, instead of right, which they should go if they intended to return to the dungeons.
The rumours soon start about the two of them, all around the school. They quickly reach Septimus, too, who spies on his son constantly.
Of course, this time Tom is not known as a mudblood, he isn’t a poor orphan, and he’s Voldemort’s nephew, who Septimus respects.
So he doesn’t make a fuss about it, doesn’t try to keep them apart as hard as he tried when Voldemort was young.
But, obviously, he’s still focused on his family legacy, and he always will be.
(-)
Ever since the newspaper published news about Abraxas’ engagement to a beautiful French girl of good pedigree, in the summer between Tom’s sixth and seventh year, Albus seems to suffer more than Tom.
“It’s fine,” Tom assures him, when Albus keeps giving him pitiful glances. “It wasn’t anything serious. We were just passing time.”
“It didn’t seem that way,” Albus says, softly.
“He’s the heir to the largest vault in Europe; of course he has to marry and produce offsprings. It’s hardly a surprise.”
“It shouldn’t matter how much gold he stands to inherit-”
Tom snaps, even if he’s been holding it together quite well so far. “We don’t all live in your fantasy world, Albus. Here, in the real world, such things matter.”
“Mama can brew some tea,” Merope suggests, when Albus leaves. “You can give it to the girl and then she’ll… go away.”
Tom blinks at her. Voldemort rubs his temples.
“No,” Tom says, though he looks tempted for a second.
“Hmmm…then I can brew another tea. For the boy. It will help him realise he only wants you.”
Tom bends to kiss her forehead. “Everything is fine, mother. No need for teas.”
“I don’t like it when you’re upset. I want you to be happy!” she insists, clinging to him.
“I’m not upset,” Tom repeats, and then he changes the topic.
(-)
“You need to keep him home,” Voldemort tells Merope when Tom is almost done with Hogwarts. “He must not travel, you understand?”
Merope nods. “Alright.”
She’s his only hope. Albus thinks Tom should leave, that it will do him good to stay away from Abraxas and the impending wedding. He even offered to fund Tom’s travels.
Luckily, Tom is so proud he wants to earn his own gold, first, so he won’t leave right away.
Voldemort knows what will become of him if he travels, if he leaves behind everything he loves and cares for; Albus, most of all. Tom was born cruel and uncaring, it’s in his blood, and having Merope and Voldemort around did nothing to curb these predilections. But Albus’ kind nature, his absurd pacifistic tendencies, left some sort of impact on the boy. Tom clearly doesn’t want to disappoint Albus; it is a desire Voldemort understands well, since he experiences it.
“I’m surprised you didn’t retaliate more… decisively,” Voldemort says, in his office, after he learns Tom got into a fight with some Gryffindors.
A fight he did not start, and that ended quite tamely, all things considering
“You would have been well within your rights to send them to the Hospital Wing.”
As it is, all that was irreversibly broken about the lions was their ego when Tom disarmed them easily, without causing them harm.
“I know.” Tom shrugs. “But then Albus would have taken me aside and told me I can do better, that I’m far more intelligent than those idiots and thus I have a duty to rise above it. You know how he gets. Besides, it’s his birthday tomorrow, I don’t want him pouting and sighing dramatically through dinner.”
But if Tom is removed from Albus’ influence, if he’s far away from that all knowing blue gaze…Voldemort knows what will happen, then. He knows nature will take over and Tom will not return the same man he left.
Even stripped away of the anger Voldemort had at his age, of resentment over how unjust his life was, Tom would still be consumed by dark magic, simply out of boredom. He’d seek the most dangerous adventures, he’d be curious about the worst people, and the end result would not be pretty.
“I’ll keep him home,” Merope promises.
And she does.
Tom refuses any internship at the Ministry that Horace procured for him, he refuses to attend any higher institutes of magic Albus suggests; he ends up working in a shop.
Apparently, it’s one of those things that was meant to happen.
But this time it’s not Borgin and Burkes.
Merope begs him to help her open a Potion shop. It’s her dream, she says.
“Ever since I was a little girl, I wanted to sell potions” she insists.
But Merope doesn’t do well with people, and she certainly can’t deal with customers, so she never leaves the house, brews in the comfort of her home, and it’s Tom that opens and tends to the shop.
It becomes successful, fast. She really is a talented brewer. And Tom is a good salesman.
Within three years, everyone in their world has heard of it. People come to Hogsmeade for their potions, better than any they could find on Diagon.
Certain people, discrete ones that would never talk to Albus, close and trusted acquaintances of Tom’s, know the shop offers potions that aren’t displayed on the shelves, if only one knows how to ask for them. Potions that otherwise could only be found in Knockturn, but of a dubious quality, compared to what they can get in Hogsmeade.
“Apparently no one can brew Amortentia quite like mother,” Tom comments.
The shop is closed, and Tom is bent over the counter, scribbling in the registry.
“Is that what happened to my father?” he asks, without looking up.
Voldemort doesn’t react, remains interested in one of the many vials gathered in a corner of the room.
Tom rarely mentions his father; but it does come up from time to time.
“I do not know. I told you I found her in London just hours before she gave birth. Only she knows what happened before that.”
They grow reasonably wealthy. Voldemort is quite proud of Merope, especially when he remembers the little slip of a girl that seemed ready to snap in two at a stronger wind, with her bruises and too-small dresses.
She’s well fed now, she’s happy and confident in her abilities, her potions bring Tom considerable amounts of gold, her dresses fit her, yet one day Voldemort notices a few fine lines around her eyes, a lone grey hair that would be easy to miss in her brown plait. But he doesn’t miss it. He sees it, he sees those fine lines, and it unsettles him deeply.
(-)
Soon after that, he wakes up one morning and he doesn’t prepare the Elixir. He sits there at his desk, the Stone and the potions laid in front of him, ready to be mixed and he just doesn’t.
He doesn’t feel the need.
There is no fear.
Besides, it’s just one day, isn’t it? He can always start making it again the next day.
Albus knows him far too well to say anything about it, when he wakes up and the Elixir isn’t the first thing to see on his nightstand.
He says nothing, but his eyes, still barely lined, under still mostly red-brownish eyebrows, glow with joy and his lips linger more on Voldemort’s lips when they part ways to head to their classrooms.
(-)
“He’s hurting himself.” Albus sits on the edge of the bed, braiding his hair, that has gotten so long it reaches past his waist.
It’s still red, so Voldemort is distracted by it, because he knows it won’t last much longer, and he’s determined to feast his eyes on that incredible, unique colour while he still has the opportunity to do so.
“You should talk to him, convince him we’ll take care of Merope, so he can leave. He really needs to stop seeing Abraxas. It is hurting him, Tom. You must agree.”
It must be so, Voldemort thinks, still captivated by the way Albus’ hair catches the candlelight.
He can’t remember if he was hurt by Abraxas leaving his flat at dawn, to return to his wife and his Manor, leaving Voldemort all alone.
He doesn’t think it hurt; he already had two Horcruxes, he was filled with vague plans of revenge and blood and pain.
But Tom does look more and more bothered these days, ever since Lucius was born.
Voldemort left when Abraxas’ wife was still pregnant, so he doesn’t know how that would feel.
Tom wants to leave. He needs to leave, he confessed to Voldemort, recently. “If I don’t, I might do something I can’t come back from.”
But Merope fell sick, just as Tom was packing his things.
Mysteriously sick. No one can figure out what plagues her, and Tom threatened no less than six Healers to put her to rights her or else.
She’s poisoning herself every morning, a poison of her own invention, and she takes the cure at night.
“He won’t leave if I am sick. Do not look worried, I will be fine. I know my teas,” she reassured Voldemort when he insisted she’s taking her promise to keep Tom home too seriously.
Voldemort doesn’t like it. Even if it safe, he doesn’t want her in discomfort. He doesn’t want Tom hurt and angry.
And he doesn’t like how worried Albus is about it. All these years Voldemort made it a goal to keep Albus content, to be greeted only by smiles when they retreat to their quarters after dinner.
He lied, he told the truth, he helped students, he threatened parents, he obliviated Dippet as many times as he needed, he covered Tom’s little mistakes- he did everything in his power so that Albus wouldn’t turn into the hardened, lonely, burdened Dumbledore.
There’s only one solution to this messy problem. Only one way to keep Tom in England, for good, without Merope having to poison herself daily.
“I’ll talk to him,” he says, drawing Albus close, winding his arms around him.
“I hope he listens to you. He lies to my face, pretends he stopped meeting with Abraxas years ago and it’s so frustrating that he’s denying it.”
“It will be fine. I’ll solve it.”
Albus turns around, looking half worried, half amused. “Last time you said that to me you went on a killing spree in France and Austria.”
Voldemort rolls his eyes. “No need for a killing spree this time.”
Only one person needs to die.
(-)
He waits for a while, enough not to be too suspicious. It will be suspicious, in any case, but Albus can be wilfully blind when he wants to, so Voldemort will give him all the excuses Albus needs to lie to himself.
Like he always does.
Tom caught on that Merope’s sickness is self inflicted, but that doesn’t solve anything, because he can’t figure out how she’s doing it or how to stop her.
In June, right as Tom’s patience ran thin and he decided he’ll leave, Merope’s manipulations be damned, Voldemort makes his way to Malfoy Manor.
He made sure Tom is with Albus, at Hogwarts, a farewell dinner, so that no one would suspect Tom.
The Manor is well protected. If Voldemort had not lived there for over a year, if he hadn’t studied the wards and had Lucius explain every little thing about them, it would have proved impossible to penetrate them without being noticed.
As it is, with a bit of work, he slips onto the grounds unnoticed.
Abraxas is on the patio, staring into nothing, looking miserable, nursing a glass of liquor.
You wretched coward, Voldemort thinks. If Abraxas had a spine, this wouldn’t be needed.
Voldemort passes by him, camouflaged, sees the letter Abraxas is holding in his hand, with Voldemort’s own writing on it. Well, Tom’s.
Voldemort made a great effort, since Tom was born, to make adjusting to his writing, enough so it won’t be identical to Tom’s. It is still very similar.
“He even does his loops the way you do,” Albus noticed, early on, and Voldemort explained muggle genetics to him and insisted handwriting can be inherited, and that it must run in his family, the way their looks run in their family.
He finds the woman in the nursery. She, too, looks miserable. A beautiful young thing; Lucius will take greatly after her.
“Such a good boy,” she says, with a small smile, bending to kiss her son’s forehead. Even as young, Lucius is quiet, and he doesn’t make a fuss when his mother walks away from the nursery, leaves him alone to head to her own quarters.
Very far from Abraxas’, Voldemort notices.
He never bore her any ill will. He hated easily, but he never hated her. His anger was directed at Abraxas, back when he was young.
It’s been a while since he killed anyone, and not at all since he gained his soul back.
He can do it, easily, yet he has this pang of pity when her long neck snaps.
Oh, well. Such is life.
Besides, that’s how she died in the past, or in the future, too. She hanged herself, so what if Voldemort gave her a helping hand and accelerated it?
In fact, he tells himself, as he gets out of the Manor, this could be a mercy. In the past, it was a nine-year-old Lucius that found his mother hanging from the ceiling. Surely, sparing a child of that sight counts as a good thing?
You’re turning into Albus, a voice mocks him. Next you’ll say it was for the greater good.
When he returns to Hogwarts, he pretends he just left Merope; he’d assured Tom and Albus he’s tending to her.
“Take care of yourself,” he tells Tom, because supposedly he will leave on the morrow.
Tom hugs him, which is unexpected. The boy hugs his mother often enough, he hugs Albus on ‘special days’, but it is the first time he hugs Voldemort.
He’s grown taller than me, the little shit.
“I will,” Tom says.
“And be sure to send us letters every week,” Albus warns. “If I don’t hear from you often, I’ll track you down and you won’t like that!”
Tom smiles. “I’ll write,” he promises, which Voldemort knows very well it’s a lie.
If he leaves, he won’t write. Not often, in any case.
But he won’t leave.
“And don’t worry about Merope. We’ll take care of her and she’ll cease her dramatics once you’re away and enough time has passed. Just as she did when you came to school.” Albus ruffles his hair, hugs him again, and keeps Tom company on his way out.
Fawkes glares at Voldemort and croaks at him, as soon as Albus is no longer in the room.
Truly uncanny the way he can tell when Voldemort does something ‘bad’.
“Oh, spare me. You’re a fucking bird, what do you know of morals?”
More than you, Fawkes eyes seem to say, before he turns his back to Voldemort.
“I’ll miss him,” Albus says, when he returns. “But it’s for the best. Maybe he’ll find a nice fellow on his journeys. Someone that deserves him, that chooses him over a vault.”
“I’m sure he will,” Voldemort agrees. “See, I told you not to worry.”
(-)
Of course, Tom doesn’t leave, because the Prophet comes first thing in the morning to report on the tragic news from Malfoy Manor.
Tom is convinced Merope killed the girl, somehow, because she’s been offering to give her ‘tea’ for years now.
Merope neither confirms nor denies, meeting Voldemort’s eyes over Tom’s shoulder.
In any case, Tom is not at all upset. Quite the contrary.
Abraxas comes to their house mere hours after the morning Prophet did. He doesn’t look upset, either.
Albus looks upset. But, really, it was common knowledge the girl was unhappy- though unhappy is an understatement- and that Abraxas was a horrible husband.
“A troublesome time for a woman,” the Matron says in the teacher’s room, where everyone is gossiping about it. “There had been some unfortunate souls to make troubling decisions in the months after giving birth.”
Albus tries to believe it truly was suicide; even if he doesn’t, he seems to suspect Abraxas is behind it, the way many other suspect it.
It was the same in the past. The rumours that Abraxas killed his wife reached Voldemort all the way in Poland. He knew it was false, he knew Abraxas didn’t have the stomach to kill anyone, let alone the mother of his child, but he presented such a vile, tough exterior to the world, that many were quick to accuse him, behind close doors.
The important thing is that Albus doesn’t think it could have been Tom. And if the thought crosses his mind that Voldemort might have done it…well, he never shows it, and, eventually, he resumes his easygoing nature, he stops casting weird glances at Voldemort during meals, he stops sleeping with his back turned to him.
Even Septimus causes no issues, as Voldemort imagined. He has his precious grandson, his lineage secured, so it doesn’t matter what Abraxas does next, what partner he chooses.
Tom never leaves England, which was the stepping stone for becoming a dark lord. He stays home, where he’s careful to resist his most unpleasant urges, mindful of Albus.
He stays with his loving mother. With Abraxas, who could even bring Voldemort joy, once upon a time, when no one and nothing else could.
And Voldemort can see to his life with Albus, he can teach in peace and have Saturday dinners with Merope without having to plan on how he would navigate a potential war he would have no interest in. Now, that would have been headache.
(-)
Dippet finally retires, and Albus becomes Headmaster. Voldemort refuses to be his Deputy, as averse to the idea as always, preferring to focus on his students.
So Horace takes on the role.
Minerva McGonagall replaces Albus as the Transfiguration Professor and Gryffindor Head of House.
Voldemort takes an instant liking to her. He liked her when she was a student, too, a no nonsense girl with her head firmly on her shoulders, but he likes her even more as a teacher. Finally, there’s someone to keep a close eye over the lions instead of ignoring all their wrongdoings.
If only Albus would agree to replace Sprout with someone more competent.
“She’s perfectly competent,” he insists.
“She’s too soft,” Voldemort argues. “She’s good at her subject, but she goes too easy on the students. She doesn’t demand the best from them.”
“Nonsense.”
They fight over Hagrid being made the Care of Magical Creature Professor, as well.
“He’s a dimwit!”
“He has an Outstanding O.W.L in his subject,” Albus says.
An O.W.L. As if that’s enough to teach at Hogwarts. Hagrid barely crawled through five years of education and then called it quits.
“Yes, the only O.W.L he has! Albus, this is an excellent school, you can’t have morons teaching here.”
“He’s amazing with creatures. There’s no one to know more about creatures than him.”
“Oh, yes, he knows so much about them that he kept an Acromantula inside a school!”
“It didn’t hurt anyone. Tom reported it in time, as you remember, and we re-homed it safely.”
Other than Hagrid and Sprout, the rest of the teachers are good enough. Flitwick, especially, is one of the best spell crafters Voldemort ever met. He’s one of the few colleagues Voldemort deigns to speak with, outside Horace.
(-)
It is a glorious days when Blacks return to Hogwarts. Voldemort always misses having them around.
And this time it is The Black. His Bella.
She’s the most adorable, frightening little girl. Voldemort is ecstatic he gets to meet her and guide her so early on.
She’s a delight in every of his classes; smart and capable, an intense focus in her beautiful eyes.
He keeps every single one of her essays, from the badly written ones she handed in as a first year, up to the perfect ones, with splendid calligraphy she hands in in her final year.
“The best student to come through these doors since Tom,” Horace gushes over her, when he owls her the Head Girl badge.
In Voldemort’s meetings and at the Dueling Club, Bellatrix smashes any opposition, the way Tom did. Even when Voldemort has her fighting multiple adversaries, she still wins with ease.
“There’s something wrong with her,” Albus says, shaking his head. “She’s too cruel.”
She’s perfectly cruel, in Voldemort’s opinion.
Horace swears she’s a prodigy in Potions, too, gives her leave to brew recipes that only Potion Masters have attempted before.
She excels in all of them. That might be because she’s always welcomed in Malfoy Manor, where Tom and Merope live, and Merope allows Bellatrix near her precious cauldron. Bella always makes sure to quote Merope as an inspiration when Horace demands to know how on earth she’s so good at Potions.
The way Albus feels about Tom, Voldemort feels about her. He, too, never wanted children of his own, but if he would have had a daughter, he’d have been proud to call Bellatrix his own.
(-)
“I still think it is beneath you,” Albus says, as he’s fussing over Tom’s robe. “It’s not too late, you know. You’re much better suited for academia.”
Tom rolls his eyes. “Someone has to do it,” he drawls. “Didn’t you always says that as great men we have to take on burdens that would shatter other men?”
“I dislike it greatly when you throw my words in my face,” Albus chides him. “And I certainly didn’t mean this.” He sighs, steps back. “All this black puts me in mind of a funeral. At least pick something green-”
“You’re colourful enough to compensate,” Tom bites back. He turns to look at Voldemort. “I will never understand why you let him leave his room dressed like this.”
“Not all battles can be won,” Voldemort says, though he’s become quite fond of Albus’ increasingly crazy robes.
They’re even worse than what he remembers from the past life. Dumbledore was always colourful, but Albus reached a new level of flamboyance.
The robes are so eye catching people can’t help but stare at him in awe, and they forget to pay attention to Voldemort or ask him never ending question about Grindelwald. Which might be what Albus intendeds when he dons these outfits.
Or he might do it so people forget just how extraordinary powerful Albus is, how he could crush them in a second. He looks like he couldn’t hurt a fly, what with the way he sparkles and shines.
It makes people open up to him, puts them at ease, because no one can look intimidating dressed like that.
Albus pouts. He looks just as good doing it as he did many years before, even if his hair is half grey. Voldemort used to dread that dreadful grey, yet it only enhances the red that is left, makes it more vibrant.
“No one is forcing you to come,” Tom reminds him. “If you hate it so, go back to your school.”
“Nonsense. I’ll always be here for you, even when I don’t approve.”
These days, Voldemort thinks that even if Tom turns into a dark lord Albus would still be at his side.
“Where is Abraxas? We don’t get along much, but he would certainly agree with me that you should wear something more lively. You look like a dictator!”
Tom smiles. “That’s what I was going for. Abraxas is there already, probably measuring if the length of the curtains is suitable and there’s no dust under the carpets.”
“Pretentious, snobbish-”
“Albus,” Tom warns, and Albus keeps his muttering to himself.
Voldemort ignores the bickering, seated in a comfortable armchair, looking out the window at Merope.
She seems deep into conversation with the crazy house-elf, surrounded by plants, her very expensive robe covered in mud and leaves.
“What are you doing here?” Tom demands and Voldemort turns to see Lucius just entered.
The boy blinks. “I thought it’s time to go?”
“Weren’t you supposed to be with your friends in Spain?”
“Father prohibited it. He decided I should be here.”
Tom pinches the bridge of his nose, before he points his wand at a teacup. It grows bright, shakes and then settles.
“Go.”
“But father-”
“I’ll deal with your father.”
Lucius grins. A rare sight. Such a serious boy. Voldemort sometimes has the urge to throw him out of the window when they’re at Hogwarts. He does everything so perfectly, never a foot out of line that it’s a little creepy.
And when he sees Lucius outside Hogwarts, he’s constantly tense around Abraxas, striving to be more perfect than he already is.
Tom is a much better father figure, and the only one to make Lucius smile.
“That is highly illegal,” Albus comments, when Lucius takes the tea-cup Portkey and disappears from the room, probably to join his friends in Spain. “An affront to international law and-”
“I am the Minister,” Tom reminds him. “I make the law.”
“This is such an inauspicious start,” Albus argues. “You haven’t even been invested yet and you’re already using the position in ways you shouldn’t.”
“I’ve seen you make at least a dozen illegal portkeys when you would take me along on holidays!”
“Well, that was bad of me,” Albus shoots back. “But at least I wasn’t representing the ministry!”
“Please take him away,” Tom asks Voldemort.
(-)
Albus sniggers as they walk out of the Manor. “He’s so fun to rile up!”
“Only you can manage it.”
Albus beams brighter.
When they reach the Ministry, they find Abraxas already there. Indeed, the room looks splendid. He looks so smug, one would suspect he’s the one to become Minister.
“Already ordering people around,” Albus mutters, narrowing his eyes at Abraxas, who’s barking instructions at a bunch of terrified Ministry employees.
“He’s been ordering people around since he was old enough to write,” Voldemort reminds him. “It has nothing to do with this.”
“Professors!” Fleamont shoulders his way to them, the same excited look in his eyes he had since he was eleven, never mind these days he looks older than Voldemort.
“Really, Fleamont, how many times do I need to tell you to call me Albus?”
Fleamont laughs, waves the notion away.
“Congratulations for that potion you invented!” Albus offers.
“Thank you, thank you.” Fleamont runs his hands through his mostly grey hair, that finally doesn’t stick out everywhere, but lies docile and orderly on his head. “Now if only I can convince my son to use it! The little rascal refuses!”
Oh, fuck. Already? Voldemort forgot all about Potter. Again.
But yes, it makes sense the boy would have been born, what with Sirius Black running around Grimmauld Place and Malfoy Manor.
“We’ll meet him soon, won’t we?” Albus asks.
Fleamont nods. “Yes! James can’t wait to come to Hogwarts. Especially to meet you, Professor Gaunt. I’ve told him everything about you.”
Voldemort groans and turns around.
Fleamont laughs. “He’s just as grumpy as always!”
“Only getting grumpier,” Albus comments. “The students love it.”
Voldemort heads to a group of people he doesn’t want to murder. Well, that’s a stretch. There’s no group of people that don’t make his fingers twitch, but at least in this particular one there are people he likes.
Seven almost identical faces greet him. Bellatrix is sadly not there, probably in Spain, with Lucius and their friends.
“A good day,” Arcturus comments, pleased. He worked tirelessly to elevate Tom through the ranks, supported him unequivocally through the years.
“I just wish it would be over faster,” Walburga says, anxious. “I need to go home to make sure Sirius didn’t burn down the house.”
“Oh, relax.” Orion rolls his eyes. “I put flame freezing charms on the walls before we left.”
“Then maybe he’ll flood it, instead!”
Voldemort spends some minutes talking to Pollux and Cygnus, until the room goes quiet and Rodolphus steps on the raised dais.
He’s the Head Auror; Tom named him so, when he was in charge of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Tom already took over the Ministry, long ago. He has his loyal men in all departments. He has men on both sides of the Wizengamot; being named Minister is only ceremonial at this point, mostly meant for the rest of the wizarding world to understand he is in charge. Everyone else within the Ministry has long been aware of it.
The room quiets down completely when Tom walks into the room, his footsteps echoing all around, all eyes on him.
There’s something tense in the air, primal instincts inside all those gathered there that recognise Tom as the predator he is.
He is a tall, imposing man, but his presence, his magical aura is even larger than his physical form.
Voldemort can’t help but smile as he watches him climb the dais.
He really became sentimental in his old age, but there’s no helping the surge of pride that he feels towards Tom.
“Oh,” Albus breathes, suddenly at his side, and Voldemort sees those brilliant eyes grow glossy with unshed tears.
He’s sure it’s on account of the red lining of the hems of Tom’s robes, the subtle gold of the buttons that were not there when they left him in Malfoy Manor.
The barely there colour doesn’t make him look less like a tyrant- in fact, the red only enhances that impression, in Voldemort’s opinion, but Albus only cares that those are his house colours Tom chose to display; he only cares that Tom took his advice, in some capacity.
As if it’s surprising- Tom often takes Albus’ advice. Never in full, always a half-measure, but he never dismissed Albus completely.
Albus can complain all he wants that he didn’t want Tom into politics, yet he always offered solutions for the multitude of obstacles Tom faced in the beginning of his career.
He sighed and pouted that Tom slowly replaced all Department Heads with his friends, yet he was the one to suggest Tom needs younger men as his allies, that the old ones need to go.
Voldemort offered no help. He truly despises politics, and he kept his word that he will not get involved. Besides, his involvement would have no doubt meant murdering Tom’s rivals.
Albus found it harder to resist. He can’t stop meddling, never could.
Even with core disagreements between them, Tom and Albus plotting together led to a peaceful and rather swift takeover.
Albus dislikes calling it a takeover. He calls it natural progress.
But it is a takeover, even if done by legal means. Sure, Tom’s opposition resigned, or was tricked out of office instead of being hunted and murdered, but it is still a takeover.
Albus would have no doubt wished Tom get rid of the influence old blood purists have on the Ministry, but Tom kept certain people by his side, the Blacks chief amongst them.
He keeps a rather healthy balance, Voldemort thinks. But, at some point, the scales will tip, one way or another.
At some point, Tom will grow bored. It was hard work to become the youngest Minister in Europe, but now that he’s done it, Voldemort worries there aren’t enough challenges in front of him, that Tom will create challenges for himself simply because he has nothing else to do.
Voldemort was the same when he was younger. Now he’s old, he wants peace and Albus and his castle, but Tom is still too young to be content with anything.
Only time will tell.
Tom doesn’t speak for long. That’s where their different upbringing comes into play.
Voldemort used to love to monologue, probably because he spent the first decades of his life in silence, because no one would listen to what he had to say, so he overcompensated for it.
Tom had no such issues, he always had a captive audience in Merope and Albus, ever since he learned how to talk. So he’s short in his speeches.
“A man of action,” the newspapers called him. “Someone that solves problems, not just talks about solving them.”
Of course, the newspapers are all bought with Malfoy gold, so who knows what journalists really think about Tom. No one will ever likely find out.
Yet he does solve problems. It’s not just Tom’s credit. Sure, he is competent, he knew how to organise the Ministry, how to make people obey him, he has Abraxas’ wealth to get things done, but it’s Voldemort that made sure Hogwarts ran as it should have, that it produces educated witches and wizards, unlike the circus it became in the past.
Voldemort expects every single one of his students to be the best they could be, he never lowers his standards and he insists other teachers hold the students accountable.
In the past, most wizards couldn’t even Apparate. Now, since he banished the Ministry instructor decades ago and he took it upon himself to teach the students how to do it- well, now only a very small portion of their world can’t Apparate.
Before, they used to have a special department that was called to deal with Boggarts. Now, after everyone went through Voldemort’s class, there is no more need for that department. Everyone can do it on their own, as it should be.
Hogwarts has such a great reputation that neighbouring countries are begging to be allowed to send students to their school.
“He only sounded half-tyrannical,” Albus comments, once Tom’s speech about a ‘new era’ is done.
“I’d say three quarters,” Voldemort counters.
‘I shall not suffer treason or incompetence’, Tom warned those listening, a glint in his eyes, Rodolphus menacing presence looming behind him.
Tom returns with them to Malfoy Manor.
“Shouldn’t you stay for the party in your name?” Albus asks.
“Gods, no. I no longer have to put up with people,” Tom says, looking relieved. “I don’t need their votes anymore. Let Abraxas deal with them; he likes socialising, after all.”
“How was your day?” Merope asks, as they sit down for dinner. “You’re all dressed so festive! Was there a wedding?”
She remains as disinterested as she’s always been about things happening outside of her direct sight.
Voldemort still remembers she was the only soul unaware of his victory against Grindelwald.
“A Ministry function,” Tom answers her. “How was your day?”
She chats away about the gardens, the way she loves to do.
Tom refused to move to Malfoy Manor, for the longest of times, even when it was deemed enough time has passed for Abraxas to ‘grieve’ his late wife.
When he agreed, he took Merope with him. In fact, he agreed because of her.
“Remember when I was little, and I promised I’d build you a castle, mama? So you can be a princess? Well, I didn’t build this one, but it’s still a castle. And it’s where you deserve to live.”
Merope finally found a friend. It’s the crazy house-elf, Dobby, but they get along swimmingly.
Abraxas tried to explain to her that Dobby is beneath her, that he’s a lowly creature, a servant, but no one can speak sense to Merope, not even Voldemort.
Merope cooks, because she wants to cook for Tom and, by extension, Abraxas. She likes to do everything for Tom, she likes to clean his room and take care of his robes, she likes tending to the gardens, so Voldemort is unsure what Dobby has left to do, really.
Merope is under the illusion Lucius is Tom’s son, so she always dotes on him, too.
Tom and Abraxas never married, because they are both too attached to their own names, and a magical union demands to unify a family under a single name.
Lucius doesn’t call Tom father, though he clearly views him that way, so Merope treats him like her biological grandson and there’s no purpose in trying to dissuade her of the notion.
And, clearly, Abraxas makes Tom happy, since he hasn’t yet been poisoned.
Abraxas returns well after dinner is done with.
“Where is Lucius? That boy, I told him I wanted him there at the ceremony.”
“I sent him to Spain.”
“I wanted him there, Tom. So we can be seen as a unit-”
“It’s highly unlikely anyone would forget he’s your son, Abraxas. Let him be a teenager, he’s fourteen, not forty. He has no business at the Ministry.”
“You are too harsh on Lucius,” Albus backs Tom up, staring at Abraxas. “He came to Hogwarts already acting like a tiny, perfect adult, Abraxas. I don’t know what more you can ask of him.”
(-)
“Those two will be trouble,” Horace says, as they watch Sirius Black and James Potter already laughing their heads off when Minerva leads the first years into the Great Hall.
“You can say that again,” Voldemort mutters.
He gave up on trying to remember to kill the Potters, but surely he’ll remember to kill the mudblood before Harry is born.
His eyes scan the row of first years, trying to find her. He doesn’t need to look for long.
Bright red hair captures his attention and he knows he won’t be killing her either, because while the red is not as vibrant as Albus’ used to be - nothing is, not even freshly spilled blood- it’s still close enough and Voldemort won’t be able to do it.
Ah, and there are the green eyes. There’s Severus, too, the little backstabbing traitor, standing at her side, unwashed hair falling into his eyes.
There’s the werewolf, at the back of the line, everyone staring at him already.
Albus hounded Tom until he signed a decree allowing werewolves to get an education at Hogwarts.
Some people- most people, Voldemort bets- are not thrilled with the decision, but no one is brave enough to complain to Tom about it.
The prophet praises him, writes a very flattering article about ‘unity and progress between all magical entities’.
Albus was happy, too happy, in fact. Just to annoy him, Tom, in the name of 'unity and cooperation’ pardoned Fenrir Greyback for his many crimes and has welcomed his wild pack back into society.
“No, you can’t cherry-pick,” Tom argued when Albus threw a fit. “If you want werewolves to have rights, all of them will have them.”
“Greyback is a murderer!”
“Well, only because he was- how did you put it? Ostracised and pushed aside, poor little werewolf.”
“I said that about Remus Lupin and other children in his position! Not the man that bit them!”
“Perhaps he only bit them because he was ostracised and pushed aside, Albus. You’re fond of second chances, why shouldn’t Fenrir get one?”
“You only want him on your side because he’s the oldest, most powerful blood thirsty creature in Europe!”
“Did you call him a creature? How bigoted of you.”
In any case, Fenrir is now to be treated as a member of society, and little werewolves are allowed to attend school.
Remus Lupin is the first to do so, the only one brave enough to face what is sure to be an adverse reaction from his peers.
Albus wanted him to transforms into a tunnel, on full moons, spoke about placing a wild willow on top of it, as protection.
He’s clearly growing a little senile. Voldemort can’t imagine a worse ‘safety measure’ if he tried.
Voldemort built Lupin a truly safe enclosure, and he has the centaurs posted around it, to make sure no curious student attempts to get close to it.
The Sorting Hat is growing senile as well. Voldemort should renew the charms his ancestor placed on it, because they are beginning to fade after all these centuries.
It places Pettigrew in Gryffindor, when he is clearly meant for Slytherin.
(-)
He decided he should try to keep Potter and Evans apart, since he apparently gave up on trying to kill them.
He thought it would be hard, that there will be a sudden, powerful chemistry between them.
So he was surprised when he saw how much Evans despises Potter.
No wonder; the boy is insufferable. Worse than Fleamont. He was clearly spoiled rotten.
Minerva attempts to keep him and Sirius in hand, but Albus always overrules her, because he likes the boys.
Horace turns a blind eye to one of his students being bullied mercilessly, because he, too, likes Sirius and Potter, and, even more importantly, he’s afraid of Orion and wouldn’t dare admonish his first born.
Voldemort could stop it, but he has some resentment over Severus’ past betrayal, so he doesn’t interfere.
Besides, the boy refuses to take precautions and make himself less of a target, stalking Potter and Sirius around, making himself available as target practice.
But he is an accomplished student, a smart one, even if socially inept, so when they all enter their fifth year, Voldemort invites both him and Sirius into his special club.
Not Potter. Potter is a decent enough student, he’s intelligent, but not very curious. He’s not one to appreciate the dark arts.
Besides, if he were to attend, he’d only harass poor Lily and Voldemort would be forced to expel him.
He already had a stern talk with the boy, when he started sending Lily dozens of heart-shaped notes every single day, and advised him to stop bothering her.
It’s nothing to do with trying to stop Harry Potter from being born. It’s just that Voldemort doesn’t put up with male students pestering the girls. He never did, and never will.
Tom has equally strict rules at the Ministry. He’s as fond of Bellatrix as Voldemort always was, and he listened to her when she told him how unfairly women are sometimes treated just because they have a womb.
Of course, no one treats her unfairly. She’s the most respected Healer in the country, the only one able to deconstruct stubborn curses or detect lethal potions.
Sometimes she experiments on some of her patients, but Rodolphus and her family cover it all up quite efficiently.
Sirius and Severus are his best students, far superior to any other student in Voldemort’s club.
Voldemort lets them duel there, under his supervision, take out their hatred on each other in a safe environment, and after a year, the boys grow an unwilling respect for the other.
As a consequence, Severus is no longer a target for the Gryffindors, because Potter listens to his best friend.
But because now he has Sirius’ stamp of approval and Severus is fully embraced by the rich purebloods from the old families, he starts talking like them, and soon enough Lily heard him saying ‘mudblood’ so that causes a rift between them.
To get back at him, she goes on a date with Potter, in their sixth year, and there goes any hope Voldemort harboured that maybe Harry won’t be born.
“James is not so bad, really,” Lily says when Voldemort asks her what’s wrong with her. “I mean, he is a twat, but he has it in himself not to be, when he’s apart from his mates. He’s quite sweet when he puts his mind to it.” She blushes and lowers her eyes.
“I expected better from you,” Voldemort scolds her.
Even if Potter does turn into a half decent human being, he stops bullying Slytherins and becomes calmer, Voldemort refuses to allow Albus to make Potter Head Boy. Ridiculous.
One of his own Ravenclaws gets to wear the badge, but Voldemort doesn’t argue against Lily. She works hard and is generally responsible. Her biggest accomplishment, in Voldemort’s eyes, is keeping Potter in line.
(-)
“Have you seen Tommy’s office as of late?” Albus asks, as they lounge on a beach in Madagascar.
A leisurely holiday, after he forced Albus to walk his way through the Saharan desert.
The man never enjoyed walking, and he’s only growing lazier in his old age, but Voldemort keeps pushing him, because he’s determined to keep Albus healthy and in shape. He carefully monitors his sweet intake as well, often having to hunt down for stashes of lemon drops Albus hides around their rooms.
However, he does deserve some relaxation, so Voldemort rewards him with a week on the beach, where they do nothing but read, argue over theories, and enjoy the sun and the water.
“When do I ever step foot in that cursed place?” Voldemort hadn’t been to the Ministry since Tom was invested.
“You should. It’s absurd. In the first years, he only improved his chair slightly. ‘Make it more comfortable’, he said. Year after year, the blasted thing kept evolving. And now it’s a honest to Merline throne! A throne! He removed any other chair in the room, so he lounges on the damn thing and everyone else is forced to stand when they seek an audience with him.”
Voldemort laughs. “I bet he looks good on a throne.”
“He would look good sitting on a tree stump,” Albus argues. “The Ministry workers bow their heads when he passes by. It’s embarrassing. I took a walk with him around the building and people were lining the walls, head bowed. Soon, they’ll start kneeling.”
Voldemort is sure many are kneeling, but Tom must have told them to refrain when Albus is around.
“He refuses to deescalate the situation with France. Mark my words, if he doesn’t back down he’ll start a war.”
Voldemort shrugs.
“Don’t shrug! I’m old! I have no desire to see him through a war!”
“Darling, I’m quite confident you don’t need to see him through anything. He’s certainly capable of seeing himself through it.”
Albus rubs his temples. Voldemort reaches over, taking his hand in his own. “If you’re truly upset, I will solve it.”
Can’t take him more than a week or so to murder the French Minister. Of course, Tom will only find an argument with some other Minister, but when that happens, Voldemort can solve that too.
Tom is hungry for more power, for more things to do. Always more.
But he can have his war after Albus and Voldemort are gone. He won’t let Tom upset Albus in his golden years.
“Gods, no!” Albus shakes his head. “Please don’t solve anything.”
“Alright,” Voldemort pretends to agree, but he’ll keep an eye on the situation and intervene as necessary. “But stop pouting. You’ll line your face.”
They both laugh, because a few more lines wouldn’t be noticeable amongst the many already there.
It’s been many, many years since Voldemort prepared the Elixir at all.
In fact, he forgot where he put the damn stone. It’s not important. He doesn’t need it.
Perhaps he’s becoming senile, too, because now he only looks at Death as another adventure he and Albus will undertake together.
There’s not much else to do in this life, after all. They’ve travelled all the world, every nook and cranny. They discovered many ruins, remains of old magic. They have hundreds of books written between them, enriching wizarding culture.
Voldemort has gathered five Order of Merlins, for various accomplishments.
Albus has three, but they’re the only people in Britain with more than one, so there’s that.
Tom built them both statues, right in the Ministry’s Atrium. Voldemort hasn’t seen them, but he was told the statues are nine feet tall, dominating the Hall.
“You are devolving into a child,” Voldemort admonishes Albus, later that evening, at their villa, when he catches Albus with sugar smeared over his lips.
“Oh, please! I ate my vegetables at dinner,” Albus mocks. “Surely I deserve some pie!” He pulls the pie from a loose floorboard and offers it to Voldemort. “Have some, perhaps it will make you sweeter.”
Voldemorts sits beside him on the settee and takes the pie.
“That’s one way to stop Tom from going to war. If we keep eating so badly, we’ll become frail and he’ll be forced to take us to his Manor and look after us.”
Albus laughs. “Or he’ll commit us to St Mungo, into Bellatrix’ caring hands.” He shudders. “That woman is terrifying.”
“She’s a darling,” Voldemort argues.
“She’s insane.”
“Both can be true.”
She often visits Voldemort or sends his letters detailing her latest experiments. She’s invented a new form of the Cruciatus, one that targets specific body parts.
Rodolphus says it’s very useful in interrogations, a way to inflict pain in the prisoners without making them loose their mind.
They have twin children, a girl and a boy, and Voldemort cannot wait to receive them at Hogwarts.
They’ll be in the same year as Harry Potter.
Voldemort only killed one more person after Abraxas’ wife.
Albus got it in his head to introduce Divination as a subject at Hogwarts, because the other big schools teach it.
“It’s useless, but I won’t have Hogwarts falling behind,” he told Voldemort.
“I’ll interview people,” Voldemort said, because that isn’t suspicious. He’s always the one to conduct interviews, because he wants capable people and has far higher standards than Albus.
So he interviewed Trelawney, served her one of Merope’s teas, and she dropped dead a few weeks after. Bella was the one to perform the autopsy, Voldemort made sure of it, and she declared the woman died of natural causes.
Perhaps it wasn’t needed, but Voldemort took no chances. He won’t risk the prophecy be made again.
Because Tom is a dark lord, no matter how peaceful his reign has been so far. He’s perhaps an unusual dark lord, but he is one and Voldemort needs no prophesied hero to stop him.
Even so, he handed the Elder Wand to Tom, who was not surprised to find out it was the true elder wand.
“I researched it, long ago,” he confessed, as if Voldemort had any doubts tales of a powerful wand would escape Tom’s notice. “And I reached the conclusion it fell into Grindelwald’s hands, at some point.”
“And now it’s yours,” Voldemort said.
“Is it? Shouldn’t I win it from you?”
“You don’t need to win a wand to make it yours,” Voldemort lied. “Not this wand, at least. Doesn’t it feel like it will obey you?”
Tom frowns, playing with the wand. “It does.”
Of course it does. It recognises Tom and Voldemort as one person.
“The other Deathly Hallows are real, too,” Voldemort informes him. “The Potters have the Cloak, but do not steal it from them until Albus and I are gone. And the ring-” he lifts his arm, and the ring glints on his finger-” the ring will pass to you, once that happens.”
Instead of looking ecstatic at the news of such power falling into his hands, Tom seems upset.
“What?” Voldemort demands.
“I’d rather have you and Albus over a ring and a cloak,” he says, slowly.
It almost makes Voldemort emotional. It doesn’t, but it’s a close call.
“You’ll have us around for many years, do not fret. We’re ageing gracefully. But I wanted you to know about the Hallows, for when the time will eventually come for you to have them.”
Tom still looks uncomfortable, but forces a smile onto his face. “Ageing gracefully?" he mocks. “Perhaps you are, but I am told Albus’ opening speeches at Hogwarts get more and more deranged with every passing year.‘Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber!’ Did he truly say that?”
Voldemort sighs. “He did. He’s just having fun.”
Albus is leaning into his eccentric reputation. He’s taking joy in it, confusing the students with his oddities. But he turns serious really fast when there’s a need for it.
There’s rarely a need for it. Voldemort is serious enough for the both of them.
“We should go on a muggle cruise next summer,” Albus says, reaching over to kiss some powdered sugar off Voldemort’s lips. “I hear old muggles like to do that. Apparently, people wear outrageous hats and lounge around the deck all day long.”
“No,” Voldemort refuses. “Absolutely not.”
“The European ones are more dignified. Well, stuffy is what I’d call it, but to each their own. So it would have to be an American cruise. They don’t take themselves as seriously over there.”
“I said no.”
“I asked Lily to help me with the ‘booking’ or whatever it is called. She already reserved two seats for us.”
“Albus,” Voldemort begs.
“It will be wonderful! I researched it and they serve you drinks straight from coconuts! They put tiny colourful umbrellas inside them. They give you this string of flowers to wear around your neck.”
“Please, no.”
“And all the men wear pink or green shirts and trousers. With flip flops. It will be so much fun! We can go visit some dark cave in the North Pole, afterwards, I promise, so you can be an antisocial gremlin, but first we’ll go on the cruise. It will make me very happy!”
He smiles brightly, and Voldemort knows he already lost this battle. He grunts his approval and Albus rests his head on his shoulder and summons his magazine with knitting patterns.
Voldemort takes his book about blood curses, and they settle into the night, snacking on Albus’ never ending stash of sweets.