(Enchanting Melodies) Chapter 57: Riddle Me This

Chapter 57: Riddle Me This

24 May 1992, Hogwarts

“Oh, that’s very simple, Mr. Potter. You see, I will be leaving this classroom with either a new apprentice which will need to know my true goals, or a dead body to hide. After all, dead men tell no tales. You see, I can tell that you will grow to be an exceptionally powerful wizard and I can’t take the risk of you being convinced with Dumbledore’s honeyed words. So, you’re either a potential ally and perhaps even my heir on day, or you’re a potential enemy. I don’t particularly enjoy threats to my goal, and you will be one. This is your choice, Potter, serve or die. So, what will it be?”

Lord Voldemort watched as the chained young wizard paled in fear. There was just something about the expression on his face that just delighted him. The terror at the thought of dying, the anger at being in the situation, the wounded pride that he would be nothing more than a glorified servant, and finally the regret for the actions that brought him to this situation.

The Dark Lord remembered this exact feeling all those years ago, as if it was today. Back when he was Tom Riddle, back when he was nothing more than an exceptional student. He had just gotten his OWL results. He thought that they might be his ticket out of the hellish orphanage that he was forced to stay in. He was so foolish back then, believing in a utopian magical world.

That was until the wizarding great war came to his doorstep. Oh, the muggle one was still happening, and London was being bombed frequently, but the ministry of magic had tracked down every muggleborn in the country and set up a basic anti-bomb ward on their homes. It wouldn’t hold up against any magical attacks, but it was more than enough to ensure his safety from the war.

No, the big shock came when two magical titans dueled in the middle of London. Grindelwald had decided to attack the city and Dumbledore was dueling with him. It was then that reality set in, that he realized how small he was in front of the two Archmages. His vision on the magical world was broken at the sight of the two duelers carelessly killing countless innocents, wizards and muggles alike, that were just bystanders to their fight.

An attack that Dumbledore redirected had ripped the flimsy ministry wars as if they weren’t even there and destroyed the orphanage with Tom still there. He had crawled his way out of the mess, his magic keeping him alive, and saw the destruction around him. Everyone was dead, not that he really cared about it, but magic was the only thing that saved Tom, the only thing that stopped Death from claiming him. The worst thing was that the fight ended with a stalemate with the Dark Lord retreating, leaving a devastated city in front of him.

The following day, most of the destroyed buildings were restored, and the survivors healed. The muggles chucked it up to a mass Nazi bombing after a few obliviation charms, and everyone went on their way, unaware of the constant threat of death that hung on their heads.

But Tom was aware. He remembered the emptiness. He remembered Death’s icy grip almost touching him but his magic fighting it off. He had almost died a meaningless death, without any meaning. On this day, he vowed never to feel such a feeling again. And thus, Lord Voldemort was born from the ashes of Tom Riddle.

At first, he directed his hatred towards Dumbledore and Grindelwald. Until, that is, he researched such fights. In every generation, there was always two Archmages, one of light, and one of darkness, who fought, bringing nothing but ruin and destruction. If either side wins, another challenger would appear a few decades later, and the cycle kept going on and on until it was done. It didn’t always happen in Britain, or even in Europe for that matter. But even if they were continents apart, they sought each other out, and fought in their seemingly destined battles. It took years of travel and exploration to understand the nature of the light and the dark, and their role in shaping the history of the magical world. He realized that to stop them, he needed to stop the entire cycle, not just Dumbledore and Grindelwald.

Thankfully, Grindelwald was imprisoned and not killed, meaning that he had time to prepare, and prepare he did. He honed his magic to a maddening degree, committed atrocity after atrocity, to hone his body and magic to compete with the absurd power of a champion. He succeeded, and with excitement in his veins, he was ready to start his revolution, to save the magical world.

And yet here he stood, barely more than a wraith, a cursed existence that could barely even be considered alive, nor have a presence in the world. He needed to rely on weaklings like Quirrell to survive. He had tricked the pathetic muggles studies professor into accepting his possession, only for the man to cowardly go back on his word when he had almost gotten a student killed. He ended up taking over the man’s body before he could foolishly confess to Dumbledore, but the mismatch between Quirrell’s magic and his soul was tearing the body apart, which was why he had needed unicorn blood in the first place. He had lost a chance from killing Longbottom during one of his hunts. He had lost it because of the chained boy in front of him.

Back to the boy in front of him, he was glaring defiantly at him, which amused the Dark Lord immensely. He was a brilliant boy, one that he would have assumed was the dark champion, if it wasn’t for the fact that Grindelwald was still alive. He would have become a threat, but he was also a potentially powerful asset.

The boy responded, “We both know that you don’t need an heir, so don’t try to honey your words. It’s servitude or death. There is no middle ground.”

As he said before, the boy was clever, but still arrogant. Yeah, he was immortal. His Horcruxes guaranteed his survival no matter what happened. There were too many of them for there to be a risk to his survival. You would need to do the impossible to gather his Horcruxes, and even then, the aftermath would be noticeable enough that he would know to change their hiding places. Why would he need an heir if he was going to live forever? The boy was right, but he was foolish to point that out. The thin veil of civility was his own protection.

Voldemort gave him a wide smile and answered, “I was planning on making you my lieutenant, of giving you control over the British Isle after my conquest. But fine, if you want to do it that way, then alright, servitude or death. Which one will you choose?”

Voldemort knew the boy’s answer before he could speak it. He had seen it in the mirror, the utter desperate fear of the abyss that was death. The boy would choose servitude, he just knew it.

However, instead of bowing his head and accept his gracious offer, the Potter boy spoke up, “Do you know why I never tattled on you to Dumbledore or anyone else?”

The possessed professor raised an interested eyebrow, “Do tell…”

“I wanted nothing to do with your war with Dumbledore. I don’t trust him not to screw me over, and I definitely don’t trust you. I wanted to live in peace and learn my magic, and not be dragged in a conflict that wasn’t mine.”

“It was your parents’ conflict too,” Voldemort remarked.

“Yes, and they died for it. It’s no longer my problem. And yet, here you are giving me the illusion of a choice between two horrible options, while being dishonest about what you represent.”

While he was still somewhat angry by the boy’s defiance, the Dark Lord was slightly amused. He didn’t really need the Potter boy’s allegiance, but he was curious. The boy was like him. He had the potential to be an Archmage, while not being chosen as a champion, and he was curious about it.

Honestly, even if most of what he had told the boy was true, he did bend facts slightly. Voldemort had no intention of restraining the champions of light and dark, but absorbing their magic, absorbing their might. Freezing them in time was the original plan because there was no other motive. Alas, in an ancient Sumerian tomb, the Dark Lord found another way. A ritual stolen from Solomon’s grimoire himself, to absorb the power of a champion.

The legendary mage had tricked the champions of his era and had trapped them. He studied their power and devised the ritual. He absorbed both their powers and became the single most powerful being in history. His reign was a peaceful one, a true age of prosperity, alas the cycle continued after his death. But Lord Voldemort had conquered Death. If he performed the ritual, it would guarantee that no one would ever try to free them. The result would be peace, eternal peace, with him as the magical messiah.

Voldemort had prepared himself for the ritual, committing atrocity after atrocity, readying his magic, mind, and body, to receive the power of the champions. He would become the strongest being in history, surpassing Solomon too, and ushering a magical golden age.

He would need to redo some of those preparations after regaining his body, but that wasn’t really an unsurmountable obstacle.

So, yes, perhaps he wasn’t being truthful with the Potter boy, but did that matter when he was the one in control? No, it did not. Sure, the boy was a curiosity, an amusing distraction to have an opponent to Dumbledore’s golden boy. Two potential candidates of the prophecy, fighting against one another. It almost seemed like fate in a way.

“You’re testing my patience, boy,” the Dark Lord answered with a menacing voice.

“Maybe I am. But you’re going to leave me be either way,” the boy retorted.

“And why is that?” Voldemort responded, out of curiosity than actual anger.

“You really think that I would walk in here without any assurance. You literally singled me out. I wrote a letter for Dumbledore telling him exactly where I was, who you are, and what you’re trying to achieve. You kill me, you so much as injure me, and my owl will deliver the letter. And you can kiss your chances at getting the Philosopher’s stone goodbye.”

The Dark Lord almost burst into laughter. Oh, he wasn’t surprised by the boy’s knowledge of the stone’s presence. It wasn’t that hard to deduce, especially with the half-giant simpleton of all people knowing about it. He would have thought that it was a trap by Dumbledore, if it wasn’t for the powerful magical signature that he had tracked down after his heist in Gringotts ended up being a failure. The Philosopher’s stone was in the castle, and he had tracked the stone to the forbidden corridor. It wasn’t a subtle thing, and why the Flamels kept it in fortified places over the centuries. Anyone could track the stone, but retrieving it was another matter altogether. He didn’t know what Dumbledore’s angle was nor did he care; the stone was there for the taking and it was chance for him to return to his former might.

As for the boy, this was proof that taking him under his wing would be a mistake, “Dumbledore is in a Wizengamot meeting, one that would not end for hours. I have timed my heist while making sure that he would not be able to interfere. Your letter is meaningless. I would be long gone by then, with the stone in my possession. But I see now that I was mistaken in offering you, my mercy. Goodbye Harry Potter.”

The boy barely had time to widen his eyes when the possessed professor waved his wand in a familiar pattern, “Avada Kedavra!”

A blinding green light hit the boy in the chest, and he stilled. It was a shame. What a waste of potential. Alas, the boy would have been a threat to his world order. The dark lord quickly walked out of the classroom and walked towards the forbidden corridor. He had a stone to steal after all.

The possessed professor did not notice the blood in the boy’s palm, nor the small glow his cloak had a fraction of a second before the spell hit him.