Voldemort: The Mastermind of the Dark Mark: The Hogwarts Years

Can you love an eagle,
Tame or wild?
Wild or tame,
Can you love a monster
Of frightening name?
Nobody loves a genius child.
-Langston Hughes

Prologue

Caractacus Burke was having a field day.

First, two dark wizards had bought his most precious piece of memorabilia from Agrippa's laboratories, then a variety of hags had come into the building looking for cloaks of concealment, which he had been only too happy to supply them with, albeit after demanding a cruelly exacting price for every cloak. All in all, if Burke's coffers were any guide, the day had gone well, and as he made ready to shut up the shop, Burke was sure that nothing in earth, hell or heaven could make this very enjoyable, very profitable (which in Burke's case were the same thing) day any better.

Until that something stumbled into his shop. While he was busy shoving a cursed skull into its box in preparation for a nightly tenure in storage, Burke heard a crash behind him and whirled around to see the door ajar with a creature sprawled on the carpet whose pitiful character almost precluded it from being human. As the unwelcome entrant stood up, Burke saw a bulge in the lower area of its filthy clothes which marked it, to his intense disgust, as a pregnant witch. The fact that such a hideous apparition could engage in reproductive activity at all, however, made Burke seriously reconsider selling love potion ingredients, for he could not imagine what the child of such a being would look like, nor did he want to. However, on the off chance that gold might be lurking inside the witch's filthy robes, Burke put on the oiliest smile he could manage, given his disgust, and walked over to her.

"Welcome to Borgin and Burkes, Madame!" Burke proclaimed in a falsely jubilant voice. "What can we provide you with today?"

Burke's addressee swayed slightly on the spot and gave what sounded like a dry sob. Then, in a voice which radiated utter destruction of the spirit, she responded:

"Save yer salesman's talk, sir. I ain't 'ere to buy. I'm 'ere to sell."

Upon hearing this, Burke allowed his face to become the derisive sneer whose form it had so long protested to assume.

"And what on earth could filth like you have to sell?" he asked.

Whimpering and cringing, the ugly tramp removed a locket from her neck and handed it to Burke. Looking at the artifact at first, Burke was forcibly unimpressed. It seemed to have no magical properties and was clearly just some piece of silly costume jewelry which the pathetic little harlot was trying to pawn off on him. He handed the locket back to her with a disdainful shake of his head.

"I don't buy trash, you barmy little bitch."

The woman let out a fresh sob and forced the locket back on him. Burke stepped back to avoid the unwanted piece of Jewelry, but the hideous woman pressed in on him, shoving the locket under his nose. With a final, dry sob, she choked out words:

"Looket it, yeh pitiless barstard! Looket it! It's S...S...S...Slytherin's!"

Burke would have laughed out loud had it not been for the peculiar manner in which the light struck the locket the instant his assailant had uttered these words. The light showed a thin, serpentine "S" engraved on the locket and set with emeralds - an "S" which had only ever been used by the Slytherin family and which showed the locket to be genuine. Burke could hardly believe his good luck. However, summoning up what little skeptical bargaining power he still retained, having discovered this amazingly rare marvel, he gave the woman a gruff once-over with his eyes and said callously:

"I'll give you ten Galleons for it."

The woman whimpered a bit, but nodded strongly. Burke fished in his pocket and pulled out the money, which he counted out and handed to her as though she were a repulsive monster holding out a glowing treasure (which, from his perspective, she might as well have been). Then, crisply, he yanked the locket from her hands and swept back behind his desk. It took all his resolve not to crow and pump his fist as the hideous woman left. When she did leave, however, this was precisely what he did do as he hung the locket in a glass case with the price tag of a million Galleons before cackling and continuing in his closure of the shop. It was going to be a Happy New Year.

Merope Gaunt hurried along, desperation and distress snapping at her heels.

Ten Galleons! It had been more than she'd ever seen in her life. With this, she could surely pay someone to help her with the ugly burden struggling within her body. She was very far along, and she knew it, for with every step she took, the parasite growing inside her gave yet another insistent kick in its frantic quest to gain exit from her womb. It was painful - humiliating and painful. But for Merope Gaunt, these emotions were not particularly discomforting, considering it had been a good few years since she'd last felt their absence. As the newest kick resounded against her protesting body, Merope reflected back miserably on the moment she had been free of her family - the moment when she had been foolish enough to hope for the prospect of a better life.

"You disgusting little Squib, you filthy little blood traitor!"

As her father's fingers closed around her throat, a voice - the voice of the stranger from the Ministry - cried, "Relashio!" and Merope found herself able to breathe again. The moment of peace was not long survived, for no sooner had she been freed than her brother, brandishing a bloody knife in one hand, and his wand in the other, rushed at her rescuer with an unholy, purposeful vigor. The man fled and she was left alone - alone with her father, and her brother, and the vicious enmity they were more than ready to loose upon her. As she backed up against the wall, her hand frantically grasping for something to defend herself with, she saw her father raise his wand towards her with a twisted grin which held all the past seven years of hatred that he'd regarded her with since her magic powers had proved nonexistent.

"CRUCIO!"

Merope collapsed on the floor, writhing and sobbing in pain, every muscle in her body protesting, begging, pleading for mercy from the agony which her father's implacable wand was spewing into her. Hatred flooded her mind - hatred and desperation, both emotions which she had fought to restrain, but which now no longer would be denied. Her sobs became screams - screams empowered by the pain which was destroying her physically and the anger which was enabling her to survive. As she felt her malice reach a peak, suddenly the pain stopped. She opened her eyes, formerly squinted shut, and saw her father inflating slowly on the spot, his eyes popping at her in shock. Her brother was rooted to the spot, staring at the slowly ballooning entity that had formerly been both their parent. Marvolo rose into the air, his clothes splitting against his slowly growing bulk, his anger and fear becoming increasingly evident. Merope had no idea how, but she had the vague subconscious inkling that her father's plight was her doing, and that idea brought a twisted, bitter smile to her face as she watched him expand.

A blast of sound broke the moment. Wizards swarmed into the hut. Confusion. Stunning spells flew everywhere. Morfin was subdued and Marvolo deflated. Merope watched it all in a bemused trance. Her frustration had devastated what small measure of meaningful consciousness she still maintained. She fainted, withdrawing completely into herself.

Ten Galleons! The jingle of the coins and the frantic kicking of her offspring jerked Merope out of the remembrance. She was vaguely conscious of her decreasing stamina as she continued running through the streets of London, hoping and praying that she would find somewhere safe to give her child life. A small part of her mind registered the sign telling her that she was in Morningside Heights. An even smaller part registered the pain in her lungs from running so much. The most recent kick was so insistent that Merope had had to double over and clutch her stomach. The moment of stillness brought her back to the days when Tom Riddle had been hers.

"I love you, Merope."

He had always been handsome. Merope remembered that only too well. She also remembered his snobbishness - the derisive way in which he would glare at his inferiors - the white hot rage which enveloped his face when she had ceased feeding him the potion which had created his love for hers. The memory brought tears to her eyes. She had kept him under the influence of Amorentia, but the guilt of her deception had proven too strong for her. She could not find it in herself to love Riddle and keep him imprisoned at the same time. So she had freed him. She rationalized that he must somehow love her - that the potion must have some effect on his psyche after such prolonged use. She hoped that, even if this proved untrue, he might stay for his child. But it was all wrong. She had found that out when he first ceased drinking the potion.

"You filthy little tramp! You worthless little bitch!"

Riddle was backing away from Merope, his eyes wide with horror. There was none of the love in them now - only pure, unmitigated revulsion mixed with a confusion which both broke Merope's heart and destroyed her last traces of hope. She moved towards him, but he repulsed her with his eyes and in the manner that he shrank from her. She extended her hands toward him, pleading.

"Tom, please..."

"Don't talk to me! Don't you dare talk to me, you hideous little slut!"

"Tom, I never meant to..."

"I had everything before I met you! Everything! You ruined my life, you whore! YOU RUINED MY LIFE!"

With a sob of emotional anguish, Merope picked herself up off the street and surveyed the street. She would have to find somewhere to give birth soon - there was no way the child would wait any longer. The spires and chimneys of the surrounding neighborhood glinted in the moonlight - their indifference only magnified by the rain dripping down their unmoving forms. Then, as Merope's gaze tapered downward, her eyes found a sign. The sign stood in front of a dark building, and read "Southwell Orphanage." With a final gasp of resolve, Merope heaved herself toward the building, aware that if she didn't get there quickly, her child would be born to the welcome of the elements - an encounter with the cruelty of nature which it was highly unlikely to survive.

It took Merope only seconds to reach the door, but given her situation, those seconds each felt like an indeterminable span of eternity. With frantic abandon, she forced herself against the door repeatedly, hoping the noise would wake someone in time for her salvation.

It did. The door opened, exposing a frightened face. Merope rose to meet the gaze of her rescuer.

" We're closed. Come back in the mor--"

"Help me..." gasped Merope. "Help me...I'm pregnant."

The door was shoved ajar. Light flooded Merope's face. The woman who had greeted her seized her around the shoulders, and with frantic warnings about how far along Merope was, guided her over the threshold. Then, supporting Merope by the arm, the woman, who Merope heard introduce herself as "Ms. Cole", guided Merope through what seemed like an endless expanse of hallway to a small, cramped room and, and this was the most grateful sight Merope saw in a while, a bed.

Ms. Cole guided Merope to the bed and laid her down on it, muttering curses. As Merope felt the pillow against her head, her body suddenly gave way and the kicking being in her stomach began to force itself from her. Pain flooded her body, and she screamed, for it was the pain of life - the pain of existence being created. Merope had never felt such pain in her life, not even under the effects of the Cruciatus curse, and she screamed. Screamed and cried as she felt the slippery instrument of her agony claw its way out from between her legs. She barely paid attention to the words she screamed, or the snakelike twinge they acquired, but only screamed them, in a frantic attempt to make the pain subside.

"Damn you, Tom! Damn you for putting me through this! Damn you for this pain! I hope you die, and slowly too. I hope our child finds you and make you pay for this - I hope our child puts you through this pain too!"

The kicking intensified, causing Merope to scream only more fiercely. The anguish in her body was speaking - it was speaking the language of all that had created the child which was its instrument. It was speaking the words it knew were best calculated to destroy Merope.

Bitch! Whore! Slut!

Filthy squib!

Blood traitor!

YOU RUINED MY LIFE!

And then it was over. A fresh cry resounded in Merope's ear - a cry that was not her own. Peering downwards, Merope saw Ms. Cole holding something small. Something small, slimy and fragile. And it was moving. Merope felt a surge of affection for the innocent creature and held out her arms. As Ms. Cole placed the child in her arms, Merope began to whisper to it in Parseltongue, singing it to sleep as she did so.

When the child's cries subsided, Merope turned to Ms. Cole, her expression one of broken expectation.

"Is it a boy or a girl?"

Ms. Cole answered that it was a boy. Merope sighed. She had hoped it would be - a boy who would look like Tom. A boy who would be able to make friends and retain power. A boy who might one day become a great, great wizard - the grandson her father might have wanted. She turned to the child, and then back to Ms. Cole.

"Name him Tom, after his father. And Marvolo, after his grandfather."

Ms. Cole nodded and moved to take the child. Merope put up a pleading hand and turned to the child, which had now nuzzled up to her breasts and was trying frantically to feed. With her last breath, Merope whispered in parseltongue to the baby.

"Tom...Tom, please...if you ever discover what happened to me...don't hate your father. Please...don't hate him. I forgive him. I forgive him for everything."

The child stopped sucking on her breasts and raised its gaze to her, gibbering and attempting to mimic her speech. Merope smiled. The child would definitely be a Parselmouth, and the fact that it was already trying to talk was evidence of great intelligence. As she closed her eyes and prepared to sleep, the child suddenly ceased gibbering. Instead, its fledgling voice had managed to mimic her Parseltongue and form a word - a word whose repetition cut its way into Merope's heart.

"Hate."

Merope fainted. She would not wake up. Between her breasts, which now no longer rose and fell, Tom Marvolo Riddle slept, his mind free of the darkness of the world for an unmercifully short time.