The Pupil

Special thanks to all the help I have received with this fic. Quite a few people gave me ideas for this. It was a pleasure to work with everyone who has given me advice or aid.

I'd like to especially thank my last Beta SerpentClara, a very patient and knowledgeable person.

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It was midday when he saw the young man on the road. He peered closely at the looking glass, grimly nodded, and softly cursed as he pushed the ginger-furred cat off his white wool coat.

He Apparated outside and waited on the narrow mountain road, a shadowy, crooked mark against white stone. It did not take the young man long to come around the bend.

The young man smiled as he looked at Aganin.

"Meredita Enver Aganin," he said pleasantly, offering his hand to the older man.

Aganin ignored the proffered hand and gazed menacingly at the youth.

"Your attempts at Albanian are an insult to my language. If you must mutilate a tongue, let it be your own, Englishman."

"My apologies, I had only meant to please," the youth said as he stepped closer. He smiled, the sun lighting up his features.

Bloodshot eyes roamed over the dark and handsome figure. The solid stick-straight back, long nimble fingers, the self-assurance of power, and the dark gleam in the young man's eyes... he felt it, and knew it to be true, that this man would be great. He saw, as the youth stood in the glory of the sun, that his was a life of promise, that his was the future.

Aganin felt his brittle bones strain. His dry and papery skin was flecked with the signs of age. His joints creaked. The wind blew, chilling his temples and ruffling scant thin white hairs. His eyes did not move from the youth; he could not look away from all the future and possibilities this young one would behold. A part of his memory toiled to recall when he might have been peer to this strange new specimen. But years had erased those memories and all he could feel was his old frail body. He hated the younger man then.

"What do you want, boy?"

The young man's smile twitched slightly, much to Aganin's secret delight.

"Nothing that should make you so nervous, Mr. Aganin." The young man stopped smiling and looked seriously at the older man. "I came here to find a teacher."

"This is not an academy. Go back to your filth-lovers. I do not teach presumptuous brats."

"I am no presumptuous brat." His face twisted, and Aganin was satisfied to see an ugly expression spread across the young man's handsome features. However, the satisfaction was short-lived. The man's face became calm once more. "I have come here under the suggestion of a close acquaintance of yours-- a Mr. Theodosius Thompsett."

"He's an idiot, and you must be a greater ass if he thinks highly of you."

"At least he does not cower in exile as the filth-lovers taint the great traditions that were bestowed upon us by our glorious ancestors. At least he has not resigned himself to the world for the last thirty years in self-imposed exile. He did not accept the defeat of the great general Xhumal as the end of the world. He does not hide in his home ignoring those who would fight to achieve the Master's great dreams. You, the great librarian of the Illyrians, you who Xhumal called 'the most learned of our brethren,' have allowed the filth-lovers to win."

"What do you know of Xhumal, boy?"

"I know he was the one who stood up to the British and French Parliament and their pro-Muggle meddling. He had seen that there was no place for Mudbloods in the wizarding world. He dared to fight and to eradicate the vermin from corrupting our very core."

"I see you have been listening to Theodosius. Did he also forget to mention that the war tribunal, by your dear home country, tried Xhumal as a mass murderer in a mockery of a trial? They paraded him around to be spat upon by Mudbloods and dickless politicians. Did he tell you about how he screamed as the Dementors pressed their cold grim lips unto his?"

The youth stared evenly at Aganin. "Which do you think he would have preferred, oblivion or to see the world fall into chaos? He did not sacrifice himself in vain. Grindelwald soon took up his cause."

"And Grindelwald failed as well. They could not even find his ashes for a burial. I believe it's all thanks to one of your dear teachers."

"Dumbledore is no teacher of mine! He has interfered with my education and sought to twist me to his Muggle-loving ideals. I have done much to further the greater cause, and unlike some, I will not let the defeat of others before me distract me from what must be done."

"You've overstepped your limits, boy! Who do you think you are?"

"I am Lord Voldemort."

"Is that supposed to impress me?" The old man sneered. He pointed his wand menacingly at the youth. "What a ridiculous generation is being born, little brats still swaddled in their mothers' blankets--" the youth twitched at this-- "pretending to be important. Now tell me, dear Lord Voldemort, whatever should you want with an enabler of the desecration of wizardkind?"

"I am not the enemy of the true ones. You are. You hide away not only yourself but the tomes that have been entrusted to you. Xhumal's notes on the great Yagas, Malis, and Medeas, great families that had mastered the forbidden arts, are buried. All memory of them have disappeared, eradicated by the filth-lovers. Disenchanted, burned and hexed, the great spells of times past, lovingly crafted upon the page, have become ashes while you hold the key to their secrets and relish them as much as one would toilet paper."

"Are you accusing me of possessing forbidden books? Now where would I hide those books? The Aurors have been here before. I have no such books."

"Really. For a moment I had mistaken you for a coward and hypocrite. After all, you said: 'we, the true heirs of magic, have become the slaves of weaklings and fools. The great traditions of the past have become black arts and dark magic, things forbidden by cowering fools whose blood is as filthy as a used piss pot. I say it is our right to preserve these ancient tomes and to teach them to the true inheritors of--' you look upset, Mister Aganin; perhaps you have forgotten your speech. "

"Save me from the shit I expelled in my youth! I have had enough time to vomit those words up for the past thirty years. They had come to me in nightmares, even before you were born." He glared. "Do you know of how I scavenged the country side? I kept those backward mongrels away from the hallowed arts. I fought even when dear France and Britain threatened the parliaments of the Balkans into accepting those little half-shits into the schools of the true; they demanded that they give them the rights that our great-great grandfathers had earned for us with their blood. I fought believing in the greatness of my fellow brethren, and now they welcome the tainting of our blood. They even call it marriage now when in a brief act of rebellion some childish brat decides to humiliate herself with some shit-blood." A dark look flashed through the young man's eyes as he stared at Aganin. "Soon there will be no more purity - the world will be ruled by filthy Mudbloods."

Voldemort stared icily at the man before speaking. "What the Minister of Magic did was a shame, an outrage to all wizardkind. We true British wizards sympathized with the blight of the Balkans. The true bloods of England had looked to them to continue the ancient rites passed to us by ancestors. Many pure wizards forsook the dirtied ground of Hogwarts to have their children taught by the masters of Durmstrang. The teachers of Durmstrang understood that we must protect the purity of wizard blood. But the filth-lovers destroyed it. They forced upon this holy place their own perverse morality." He paused for a moment and stared intently into the older man's eyes. "I know how much you have done for the cause. I know how much you fought. I know that there isn't a single inch of this mountain that has not been covered in blood from your efforts."

"Are you accusing me of murder, boy? The council, the kiss-assess of my countrymen, tried that once before. If you are so suicidal, boy, you only had to tell me in the first place. I can assure you, though, your body will never be found; whatever you came for, and whatever you hoped to achieve, your death will be in vain."

"I am not a trap set by the Balkan councils. Your enemies did not lead me here. I am Lord Voldemort, last of the descendants of Slytherin. I am the foreseen heir. I am here to fulfil Xhumal's promise at Valbuena, and to redeem the failure of Grindelwald."

Aganin's eyes shot up.

"Idiot, do not speak of that here! Come with me." He led the youth off the road, through the twisting undergrowth of the slanting mountainside, and then finally through a narrow crack.

"I can Apparate," the young man said crisply.

"Yes, any brat can Apparate. Don't you think I know that? If you think you are so clever, Apparate into my house. It took seven years to clean out the last fools that tried."

"If it is under protection, how could you Apparate out?"

Aganin's eyes twitched upward at the youth's remark. The youth had to be powerful to have been able to detect Aganin Apparating not the mountain.

"It is my house, and I am its owner. It will not refuse its master."

Aganin watched a small smile form on the youth's lips. As they stepped through the crack and entered the dilapidated stone courtyard of the dark house, the damned cat hissed in fear before running to hide in one of the cracks in the stone.

They walked silently into the main hall that was more like a series of tunnels into the white cliff side of the mountain than any house meant to comfort man. The long walls of jagged white stone contrasted with the finely laid wooden floor and carpets of red, green, brown, black and gold. Here and there gaunt portraits frowned from behind aged panes of glass. Arrogance hung like a thick smoke choking the air. Aganin led the way into a room made tiny by a giant stuffed two-headed eagle whose wings and beak still hung open in a silenced scream of rage. Behind the eagle, above the furnace, a vibrant gold tapestry depicted two golden-eyed felines watching the scene unfold carefully. The tapestry had been one of the few useful things his wife had left him.

He sat on a crooked chair and motioned the youth to the old couch. They sat across from each other, only a few feet apart, separated by a dark stump of wood that could pass for a table. Aganin scratched his head; the fireplace came to life and spread a dark orange glow across the occupants of the room. Aganin had no doubt that he looked like death itself just then. Staring at the youth, he was annoyed to find that the man's ethereal beauty had turned ghastly grim in the amber light. He was a specter to behold in horror. This was a man to be feared.

"What is your proof, boy? Slytherin was an ancient and respected line. I knew Malvolo; consider it a compliment when I say you look nothing like him."

Voldemort's mouth twitched as if ready to ask a question, but then his lips were still. No words came. Instead, he withdrew a dagger and a scroll from his robes. He laid out the blank but ancient scroll bound with the seal of Slytherin and then brought the dagger to his right palm. With a swift movement blood dripped through the spaces between his fingers. As it hit the ancient parchment, the blood came alive and slithered across it in tight lines forming ancient characters that glowed an ominous red in the firelight.

Aganin's eye twitched as he observed the writing. It was Germanic, annoyingly enough. Still he could understand the words and signs.

This is the blood of my heir. This is the blood of a son of Slytherin.

Suddenly the blood congealed together, forming a serpent that reared its head off the paper and hissed at Aganin before falling backwards and disappearing into the scroll. The youth wiped his blade; the blood from his hand instantly stopped flowing as if on command. The dagger disappeared and the youth smirked.

A sneer formed on the old man's lips. "Don't get so cocky, boy. It has been over a thousand years since the death of Slytherin. You may be a relation of his, but it does not mean you possess any of his talent."

He was not certain, but he thought he heard a strange hiss come from Voldemort's mouth.

"See for yourself, Mister Aganin." The youth pulled out a dark wooden wand and pointed it at the older man. Aganin stiffened, grabbing his own bone-inlaid wand, before a dark ray of light burst from the wooden tip and shot past his ear.

"Boy, that will be the last spe--" his mouth hung open as a spider the size of his hand came across the room, flipping backwards unnaturally. Its legs bent upwards and then downwards, breaking at the fragile joints, and the youth smiled like a tiny conductor issuing forth a bizarre and silent melody of pain.

"Imperius," Aganin said in approval.

"It is not the only forbidden spell I know. I know the killing curse," Voldemort whispered excitedly.

"Death? Do you think death is the worst thing there is?"

"What else could be greater?" Serpent-like eyes smiled up at him, stirring with some strange hidden glee.

"Don, Don Cappa Don!" the old man bellowed, rising to his feet. With a sudden snapping sound, an old, gnarled house-elf appeared in the room. Aganin motioned the house-elf to sit between the two men. A sudden look of horror and understanding shone upon its face. The thing began to sob uncontrollably. "Watch, boy!" Aganin bit out before lowering his wand to point upon the snivelling form. "Crucio!"

A loud scream filled the air as the house-elf writhed and bawled upon the ground, blood flowing from its mouth where it had bit its tongue. Aganin smirked at the look of awe and wonder on the youth's face. It was as if he had given the boy his first wand.

"Pain, suffering, torment beyond what any normal mind could bear . . . this is the gift of the Cruciatus curse. Voldemort, lay your knife upon my table," he boomed over the suffering creature's wails. Eagerly, the youth laid out his dagger. Aganin lifted up his wand, breaking the torture curse. "Watch carefully now, boy."

The elf raised its dark and maddened eyes to the laughing humans in front of him. Within seconds, he had grabbed the blade from the table and hurled himself at his master.

"Impedimenta!" his master roared, sending the elf slamming backwards against the wall, effectively knocking it out.

"That is impossible; house-elves can never harm their human masters."

"There is no such thing as the impossible. All notions of morality, all expectations and natural behaviours, and all thoughts of sanity are destroyed by the hands of agony and despair. With the proper application, Crucio can destroy the very makings of humanity." Old lips curled back into a cheerless smile.

"Teach me!" The youth whispered excitedly.

Aganin stared at the man. This strange boy, so full of promise, would curl his fists around the world. He could feel it. Perhaps the youth's foolishness had rubbed off on him, or the strange promise this boy held had intoxicated his once clear mind . . . whatever the reason, he turned his head to Voldemort and nodded.

The boy would have another teacher.

10

Means "Good day" in Albanian

Xhumal (a non-canon character) is something of a predecessor of Grindelwald (a canon character mentioned in the cards). He led a brief uprising affecting the Balkans and other large blocks of eastern Europe during the first World War. If it's not clear several eastern nations were forced to accept Muggle-Born wizards into their schools and accept them as citizens who have the right to vote on Wizarding affairs. Old families openly rebelled and vicious attacks on Muggles sprung throughout these nations. The Governments refused to protect the Muggle borne. This forced Britain, France and other more enlightened nations to take drastic actions. A brief but bloody war followed.

These names were taken from folklore and mythology. Baba Yaga, is a Russian and Slavic mythological figure known for living in a walking house and having an appetite for children. Malit is both a location in Albania and a folktale figure that dominated one of my mother's darker fables. Medea is the wife of Jason, Greek myth. After being abandoned by Jason, she poisoned his second wife and slaughtered her and Jason's children.

Piss pot - is a chamber pot. Before there were toilets people relieved themselves in these. Aganin is in his late nineties so he's more used to chamber pots than toilets.

A city in Albania