Music of the Night

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J. K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Music of the Night

Chapter 1: Madame Trelawney's Prophecy

The sweltering rays of the fervent August sun beat down on the sweaty face of one extremely tall boy of about sixteen. He walked through the marketplace cautiously, examining every booth for suspicious eyes. He strode past tent after tent, hearing shouts of "Fish cakes! Get yer fish cakes! Nice n' 'ot!" and "Precious gems, jewels, and relics! Get 'em while supplies last!"

Despite the boy's lack of interest in the merchandise of a Middle Eastern market place, he found himself struggling to interpret the Arabic shouts of the traders. One can never know when the most insignificant details can come in handy.

He raised a hand to wipe his sweaty black hair out of his eyes. August was definitely not a good time to come to the Dasht-i-Kavir desert. Why hadn't he come during Christmas break? Anything better than this freakishly hot sun.

Sun. Son. Oh, he was a son no more. No, not now that the first phase of his plan was complete. And the second stage, well, just keep looking for the right tent, he told himself.

He paused a minute by a public fountain and scooped handfuls of the warm water up to his sticky face and into his parched mouth. He was savoring his moment of bliss when a loud uproar behind him sounded. He turned to see stout man standing on crate, flailing his hands about wildly. He seemed to be making some sort of protest.

He moved closer to hear the man's high, squeaky voice. "Don't think the Axis Powers aren't interested in us!" the boy picked up. "They've got nearly all of Europe! They won't stop until they have total, world domination! We must be wary! We must be alert! Do not let the attempts of cover-up deceive you! We are next! We are..."

The boy walked away smirking back toward the direction he had been going in before he stopped for what he thought was a waste of the short man's time as well as the time of everyone who had stopped to listen. He really couldn't have cared less about the Muggle war. Why should he? Everyone in his world knew Grindelwald was behind it, helping to torture those whom he considered "unworthy."

Grindelwald The Terror of the wizarding world. The boy chuckled. Some terror. Resorting to fighting alongside muggles. Needing the backup of muggle soldiers, muggle machines, muggle war tactics. As if they knew anything. Now, to be really destructive, to be really, undeniably terrible, was a completely different matter. To truly be feared, one would be able to instill fright among the entire wizarding world at the mention of one's own name. To really be powerful, one had to gather followers who weren't dependent on big pieces of cumbersome metal. To be genuinely mighty and great, one would be able to vanquish entire towns, cities, and countries, with the flick of a wand and a few well-chosen words. Grindelwald was neither truly feared, really powerful, nor genuinely mighty and great, as much as he might have fancied himself to be.

The boy rose his head, squinting from the blinding sunlight, to see a dark purple tent about twenty feet away. This is it, he thought, as he read the sign tacked beside the beaded curtain that served as a door.

Madame Cassandra Trelawney

Seeress and Fortune-Teller

Learn your fate as the world-renowned seeress reads your palm, translates your tarot cards, and unfogs your future in her crystal ball.

Be astonished as the amazing Madam Trelawney demonstrates her uncanny psychic powers. Stand amazed as she prepares you for the trials ahead. Gape flabbergasted as she looks into your mind.

Behold Madame Cassandra Trelawney.

Price upon request.

He pushed aside the veil of colored beads and entered the tent. He immediately felt as though he had stepped into a giant kaleidoscope. Hanging on every wall were elaborately woven tapestries covered with geometric patterns. The floor was scattered with colored sand that seemed to have been bewitched to change colors at the touch of a footstep. He looked up at the ceiling to see a swirling chandelier filled with multicolored bulbs. Patches of red, gold, silver, blue and purple bounced off the walls as the candelabra turned. He assumed that it wasn't a real chandelier. For one thing, where on earth would Madame Trelawney have found an electricity line in the middle of the desert, and furthermore, a witch wouldn't need electricity anyway. He was sure it was just there for the effect. He turned around and nearly jumped backward at the surprising sight of a tiny wrinkled face peering at him from behind a tremendous mahogany desk.

"Hello, young sir!" piped the tiny woman. "Madame has been expecting you!" She pulled a pocket watch out from inside of her fuchsia robes and glanced at it. "Although you seem to have been delayed for a minute. Distracted by one of those demonstrators, were you, dear?"

The boy nodded.

The woman pulled out a clipboard from behind her voluminous desk and dipped a large peacock feather quill into a bottle of purple ink. "Name, dear?"

The boy pulled himself up to his full height and tried to appear as though he were a few years older, even though he knew that he could hardly conceal his age from the renowned seeress. "Tom Riddle."

The old woman turned her face up to him and looked directly into his dark blue eyes. She wore a pensive expression. "Ah, yes," she said quietly, almost as if to herself. "Tom Riddle." She stared at him for a few moments before catching herself doing just that. She busied herself behind her desk at once and said to him as she searched through drawers, "I am not a seeress, but I certainly am much acquainted with an exceptional one. I have learned of you, Tom Riddle." She closed the drawers without pulling anything out of them, fumbled with some parchment on the desk, and dipped her quill into ink once more. She wrote something on the clipboard in front of her, and although it was upside-down to Tom, he managed to see his name on the parchment before the ink seeped into it.

"You may sit over there while you wait for Madame," said the secretary without looking up. "She will be right with you." She unceremoniously waved her hand and a large olive green beanbag appeared in front of a fireplace that Tom was sure had not been there a minute ago. He sat down and twirled his wand in his long fingers, thinking about what he was about to do.

He had completed the first part of his plan: Get rid of my filthy muggle heritage. Tom allowed himself a small smile of triumph as he recalled the past week's events. He had Apparated to Little Hangleton five night's before. He wasn't of age yet, nor did he have his license, but the pitiful excuse of a government that wizarding fools called the Ministry could not possibly trace him in Little Hangleton. For all they or anyone else knew, he was still at that horrid muggle orphanage, being jeered at by the pesty nine-year-olds for his unnatural tallness and inability to be adopted by age sixteen. No, he was pretty much untraceable. Especially in the middle of a marketplace in Iran. Besides, the fact that he didn't have his Apparition license did not make him any less competent. He was, after all, the top student of his year, probably the school, and possibly of all pupils in the history of Hogwarts. Tom knew he was destined for great things. After all, with a brain like his, who wouldn't be interested in world-domination?

He had managed to find the house of his no-good excuse for a father, a muggle who had abandoned his mother before he was even born. That was the problem with muggles. They were scared of anything foreign or strange. They thought they were too good and too sophisticated for anything so outrageous as magic. It was thanks to muggles like his father that he had grown up among orphans. He had starved, been taunted, and had been treated like trash.

He had killed father, along with his grandparents. It had been easy and quick. Just a little green light, and that was all. Tom had felt no remorse. If anything, he had had a twinge of satisfaction. All evidence had been destroyed. No one would ever need know that he was a half-blood.

That was crucial to his plan. Of course, once he gained power it wouldn't matter even if his father had performed illegal charms on a goat. But while he was still gaining followers, it was critical to be perceived as a cold, heartless, power-hungry terror from a long line of cold, heartless, power-hungry wizards. And after he left that school for good, he would change his name. No one would ever know that the notorious Lord Voldemort was ever the gangly, half-blooded prefect.

Tom sank back deeper into the beanbag. Now for his next step: Talk to Madame Cassandra Trelawney. He had no doubts that he would be a powerful sorcerer one day, but wanted to know if there would be any bumps along he should know about. One can never be too cautious, after all.

Tom wanted nothing to stand in the way of true power. He would vanquish the world from the non-magical folk that had made his childhood a living hell. He would show everyone what he could do. He was brilliant. He was handsome. He was ambitious. And he knew it. There was no reason why he shouldn't succeed.

He sat this way for quite some time, his piercing eyes fixed on the flames in front of him. Strangely enough, cool air seemed to escape from them instead of heat. Tom welcomed the fresh breeze. He checked his wristwatch. He had been sitting in front of the fireplace for over an hour. He was about to ask the secretary when he would be allowed in when he heard a mystical voice coming from one of the tapestries. "Come in."

"You may go in, dear," said the secretary, not looking up. "The entrance is to your left, through the curtain."

"Thank you, ma'am," Tom responded politely. The woman would not meet his gaze.

Tom rose from the beanbag and turned left. He was surprised to see himself facing another beaded curtain. Perhaps he hadn't seen it because it blended in well with the tapestries. Or perhaps it hadn't been there before at all. He smiled. He had always had a fondness for magical doors. Disappearing doors, reappearing doors, invisible doors, doors that only opened during the quarter moon, doors that refused to lock for anyone with gray eyes, doors that sang, doors that were ticklish...

He pushed aside the curtain and looked around for Madame Trelawney. His eyes passed over her several times before he realized that the small bundle of cloth in the corner was in fact a woman.

"Ah, Mr. Tom Riddle," said the woman in a dreamy voice. "We meet at last. Please, have a seat."

Tom sat down on yet another beanbag, this time a deep red one, and examined the woman in front of him. He was unsurprised that he hadn't seen her when he first walked into the tent. Her numerous robes devoured her, engulfing her in a mass of color. A tiny face poked out from behind various scarves. Her wizened eyes were small and black, and her ears were flat against her head, almost invisible behind enormous gold hoop earrings. She gave Tom a small, toothless smile. He hesitantly smiled back. Tom always thought himself to be a rather good judge of human character. Based on Madame Trelawney's appearance, he decided immediately that he liked her. She definitely seemed like the genuine article. He could tell from the way in which she held her head and the sadness that was present in those inky eyes. She had seen the woes of the world and all of the troubles that would come in the future.

"Well?" said the seeress, clearly waiting for something. "I do believe some congratulations are in order."

Tom's smile turned to a look of puzzlement. "I beg your pardon, but I don't underst-"

"Oh, you see, my dear," said Madame in that airy voice. "In five minutes time I will be a great-great-grandmother."

Tom blinked. "Oh, well, congratulations then."

"Thank you dear. She will be something of a Seeress herself. You see, these things often skip three generations."

"Oh, I see." Tom stared at his hands.

"Tea, dear?" Tom looked up. Madame Trelawney was holding up a tiny purple teapot. Magically heated, of course. "Oh," he said. "Thank you."

She poured some of the hot liquid into his cup. "Long journey for a young European wizard like yourself." Tom opened his eyes wide with surprise. "Yes, I recognize a fellow wizard when I see one."

Tom nodded and sipped his tea, playing the role of a charming teenage young man.

"I suppose you're wondering why I station my practice in the middle of the Iranian desert."

Tom hadn't really been wondering, but he thought it ill-mannered to disagree. "Yes. I was."

"Fortune-telling is quite the common occupation here among the gypsies. I blend in with the crowd. Imagine if I were to settle in the middle of London. As a psychic witch, I'd be a sure target, wouldn't you say?"

Tom understood. Grindelwald. "Oh, yes."

"You don't think much of Grindelwald, do you, Tom?"

Tom gaped at the woman who had calmly revealed to him what he had been feeling for the five years since he had entered the wizarding world. He felt more at ease. He didn't have to pretend anymore. This witch knew his most inner thoughts. She knew of his plans and ambitions. There was nothing to hide. "No. I do not." His tone was firm.

"May I ask why not?"

"He is a coward."

She gazed at him intensely, pausing, going over her words in her mind before she spoke. "I once told Grindelwald his fortune. I saw his hunger, his thirst for power. I knew of the outrageous crimes he would commit to humanity. And yet, I told him his future." She leaned forward, her breath on Tom's face. "Do you know why, Mr. Riddle?"

He shook his head.

"It's because of who he was then." She drummed her fingers together. "I do not judge a person by who he will become. I judge a person by who he is. Do you understand, Tom?"

He merely stared back, not acknowledging that she had just asked him a question.

Madame Trelawney sat up suddenly, her pensive expression turning into a motherly smile. "Shall I read your cup, dear?"

Tom handed her his now empty teacup. He watched as she swirled the dregs around three times with her left hand, and turned the cup upside down, keeping it there until the rest of the tea dripped out. She then turned the cup over and examined is contents.

"You have been busy, Mr. Riddle." Tom looked up to her face. "Pardon?"

"I believe that you have recently met your father. Not to mention a giant snake as well."

"Oh, yes." Tom looked up at her imploringly. He couldn't have her telling anyone of his heinous actions. "You wouldn't-"

"Oh no, Tom. I See. Others do not. That is how it is meant to be. That is how I keep it."

"Your secretary won't look at me. She knows."

Madame Trelawney smiled. "Apparently, I spoke in my sleep last week. Do not worry. It is a rare occurrence."

Tom breathed a sigh of relief. His secret was safe. It wasn't that he was ashamed of what he did. Far from it. But it wouldn't do him much good to become expelled from Hogwarts. And it certainly wouldn't be advantageous for him in the future if his potential followers found out that he was an outlaw. He would need their complete, absolute respect.

"Thank you. I was wondering if you could possibly-"

"Of course, Young One. I will tell you all that you need to know. I have been expecting you for quite some time now. I have Seen you." She tapped her temple with a long red nail. "I have Seen you, and yet I have not. I have Seen Tom Riddle, but I have also Seen Lord Voldemort."

Tom dropped his act of innocence and sat up straight in the beanbag, beaming, unable to contain himself any longer. "Ah, so I will be great. I never doubted it."

"Yes, Tom. People will fear to speak your name. Your followers will do your bidding without question."

Tom closed his eyes, imagining his glorious future. "I will be the greatest sorcerer in the world," he said contentedly.

The old woman shook her head. "No, Tom."

The boy's eyes snapped open. "What?"

"Not the greatest in the world. There will be one who may stop you. There will be one in possession of a power that is utterly foreign to you. He will be the only one with the ability to defeat you."

"Who is it?"

"Ah," replied the oracle. "One does not receive the Sight upon command. It is a gift. I know not the identity of your foe, only of his lineage."

Tom leaned forward apprehensively.

The woman continued. "Your adversary will be born to the flying stag and the flowering one who loves. More I cannot say."

Tom was speechless. He didn't voice his incredulity that his greatest enemy would be a hybrid of a deer with wings and a loving plant. But if this was what the famous soothsayer said, maybe there was some truth to it...

"Thank you very much," he said when he found his voice at last. "This has been very insightful." He threw a few sickles on the little table in front of her and rose to leave.

"Be cautious, Tom Riddle," the Seeress warned as the boy turned toward the beaded curtain. "You will be great. I have no doubt about that. But what you do with your greatness, that is your choice. I know of the future, but that does not mean that you have no chance or free will of your own. Remember that."

"Yes. Thank you. I will." And with that, the boy left.

He followed his feet as they trekked through the marketplace once more. He tried to take in all that he had just learned. He would be great. He would have one enemy with the capability to defeat him. This enemy would possess a power that he would not. This enemy would be born in the future to...

That part was certainly a mystery. The flying stag and the flowering one who loves?

First things first. Tom had to get back to the orphanage before the director sent police after him. Then he would work on his diary so that Salazar Slytherin's noble mission would one day be fulfilled. Next, he would continue to learn and develop spells and curses of his own. He had made his bedroom at the orphanage untraceable, so he could practice magic there freely.

There was plenty of time in the future to figure out the riddle of his enemy's identity. The flying stag and the flowering one who loves would reveal themselves eventually. And when they did, he would be ready.