The white void dissolved, and a damp, moldy stench slammed into me. I blinked, my vision adjusting to the dim light of a cramped room. Thin mattress, threadbare blanket, a chipped wooden frame—my old bed at Wool's Orphanage. The torture house. I hadn't smelled this rot in decades, yet it clawed at my memory like an old wound. My hands shot to my face—small, soft, unscarred. A child's hands. I was 10 again.
A laugh bubbled up, sharp and bitter. Me, the great Lord Voldemort, reduced to a scrawny kid in a sagging cot. Hilarious. Then the weight hit—memories of hunger, of clawing for scraps, of the matron's sneers. My chest tightened, and tears stung my eyes. The crybaby dark lord, crying. Pathetic. Death had stitched my soul back together, and now every suppressed feeling roared to life. I lacked the steel to shove them down. That would take practice.
I wiped my face, forcing the sobs to stop. Focus. I swung my legs off the bed, the cold floor biting my bare feet, and scanned the room. A second bed sat nearby, its occupant still asleep. Michael Green. My first friend—and the first crack in my descent to darkness. His death at the hands of those snot-nosed brats had hardened me. Not this time.
"Status," I muttered, half-expecting nothing. A blue screen flared to life:
[Name: Tom Riddle]
[Titles: The Phoenix Lord (+10 VIT per 10 levels)]
[Race: Human]
[Level: 1 (0%)]
[HP: 250/250]
[MP: 330/330]
[STR: 12]
[VIT: 25]
[DEX: 12]
[INT: 33]
[WIS: 25]
[AP: 0]
[Money: 0 G 0 S 0 K / 0$]
[Perks: Master of Magick (Lvl 2), Inner Control (Lvl 1), Dark Master, Genius (+4 INT and WIS per 5 levels, +1 INT per level)]
[Traits: Touched by Death, MetaMorph, ParselMouth]
The numbers flickered, a tally of my past and potential. Excitement sparked in my gut—this game could be fun—but I tamped it down. What did I want? Immortality, sure, but not the same brittle kind. No more Horcruxes splitting me apart. I'd carve my own path, gods be damned. Heaven, Hell, I'd take neither.
First, my mind. If some omniscient bastard was watching, I'd lock my secrets tight. I sat cross-legged on the bed and sank into meditation, weaving mental shields. A notification chimed:
[New Skill Acquired: Mind Arts (Level 0/100)]
- Occlumency [1/25] (Defense)
- Legilimency [0/25] (Offense)
- Mind Design [0/25] (Memory and Efficiency)
- ??? [0/25]
Master of Occlumency once, and decent at Legilimency—those came easy. Mind Design, though? I'd glimpsed it in ancient tomes, but never cracked it. And the question marks? Intriguing. Another chime:
[New Skill Acquired: Meditation (Level 1/50)]
Passive: +2% Mental Power
Active: +5% Mind Arts EXP gain, Mental Fatigue Recovery
Useful. I kept at it, the familiar rhythm steadying me, until the door creaked open. Michael stumbled in, bruised and bloody, two crimson trails leaking from his scalp. His dead-eyed smile twisted something in me. They'd beaten him again—probably to get at me. Not this time.
"Sit," I said, sharper than intended. He obeyed, collapsing onto his bed. I grabbed our makeshift first-aid kit—cloth scraps and tape—and knelt beside him. "Do you trust me?"
He blinked, incredulous. "Of course, Tom. Thought that was obvious."
I pressed magic into my palm, raw and wandless. A screen popped up:
[New Skill Acquired: Wandless Magic (Level 1/200)]
Passive: +2% Power Amplification, -1% Consumption
Skill Upgrade: Level 50 – Elemental Branch Unlocks
Ignoring it, I focused. I didn't master healing spells—never bothered—but I could do this much at least. Magic flowed, warm and clumsy, stitching his bruises shut. They vanished, leaving smooth skin. Michael bolted upright, gaping at the cracked mirror.
"You can control it now?"
"Yes. And we're done here. I'm leaving tomorrow—come with me. I'll find a way to get you power too." I levitated both beds an inch, then set them down, proving my point.
His jaw dropped. "You're serious?"
"Deadly. In or out?"
"I'm in!"
"Good. We need a plan."
It was January 1991—my eleventh birthday loomed on the 29th. In my old life, this was the year I'd botched stealing the Philosopher's Stone. Now, I had months to carve a foothold in this warped wizarding world before Hogwarts. First, I needed intel—how did magic work here? And my mind had to be ironclad. No intruders.
For two days, I honed my skills. Memory charms and subtle mind-bending pushed Legilimency to Level 3, Healing Arts ticked to Level 1, and Meditation climbed to 5. Occlumency hit 6, Wandless Magic 4. My old mastery sped things along.
That night, we packed—food, water, our papers. I cast a wide Stupefy, knocking out the orphanage, then unlocked the doors with Alohomora. A flick of my hand, and flames roared to life, devouring the place. Same old Voldemort? No. Done killing? Hardly. Survivors wouldn't remember us anyway—my charms saw to that.
Notifications flooded in:
[You killed a human! +20% EXP]
[You killed a human! +20% EXP]
[Level Up! +1 All Stats, +5 AP, +1 INT (Genius Perk)]
…
[Level 4 (75%) Reached]
[Hidden Trait Unlocked: Arsonist]
Passive: +50% Fire Spell Power, -25% Magic Cost, +100% Fire Spell Learning Speed]
My stats climbed: HP to 280, MP to 390, STR, DEX, and VIT to 15, INT to 39, WIS to 28, AP at 15. INT fed my magic pool, VIT my health—simple enough. I'd puzzle out the rest later.
We hit London's slums, swollen and dark without electricity. Muggle progress had stalled, and magic's chaos reigned. Charing Cross Road was our target—Diagon Alley. No apparition—too risky, too conspicuous. Besides, I wanted to see this broken world.
Thugs eyed us twice. A pulse of magic gave them splitting headaches and wiped their intent. By 11 p.m., we reached the Leaky Cauldron. Michael squinted, confused, until I touched his shoulder, revealing the pub. No handle—just a solid door. I knocked.
A slot slid open, showing half a face—Tom, the owner, eyes narrow and wary. "Who're you?"
"Tom Riddle, sir. This is Michael Green. A wizard told us I'm magical, said to come here to learn control."
He scowled, voice low and rough. "This ain't a school, boy. Nor a charity. How'd you even find this place?"
A woman's voice cut through, warm but firm. "Oh, let them in, Tom. They're just kids—look at 'em, half-starved. Wards'll catch any trouble."
The slot snapped shut. I fixed my face into something innocent—more blank than boyish. Locks clicked, and the door creaked open. Tom loomed, broad and tense, sizing us up. "Any funny business, and it's the Aurors. Got it?"
"Yes, sir," we said in unison. A white-haired woman bustled forward—Madam Alcott, Tom's wife, her smile softening the air. "Rare to see new faces through that door. Usually just keyed regulars or delivery orders. I'm Madam Alcott. Hungry?"
We nodded, stomachs growling from the trek. She ushered us to a table, setting down steaming bowls of soup and beans on toast. Tom lingered near the bar, arms crossed, watching us like we might sprout fangs.
Michael slurped his soup, then frowned. Then looked at me and I could hear his thoughts well. Something like 'how'd you know this was here,' 'what wizard?' or something like that.
He was so close to ask me the questions which would raise trouble. "Eat," I cut in, shooting him a look. He shrank back, spoon halfway to his mouth. Madam Alcott tilted her head, curious, but didn't press. Tom, though, wasn't letting it go.
"A wizard, eh?" he said, stepping closer. "What wizard? Where'd he find you? Most kids your age don't just wander in—'specially not muggle-looking ones like you two. Where you from?"
"An orphanage," I said, keeping it vague. "London. He showed up, said I had magic, pointed us here. That's it."
Tom's eyes narrowed. "Orphanage, huh? Which one? Plenty of kids go missing these days—dark lords snatch 'em up. You're lucky to be breathing, let alone knocking on my door."
Michael froze, spoon clattering. "Dark lords? What's that?"
I kept my face still, but my mind raced. Dark lords—plural? In my time, I was the Dark Lord. Had someone taken my place, or was this world rotten with them? Madam Alcott sighed, patting Michael's hand.
"Don't scare 'em, Tom," she said, then turned to us. "Dark lords are wizards gone bad—powerful ones, with armies. They've been tearing things apart for years. In the UK, we've got two big ones: Lord Cynric, who's mad for blood magic, and Mr. Floyd, a battle mage mixing muggle tricks with spells. Cynric's got a thing for muggleborns—kidnaps 'em young, raises 'em as soldiers."
Michael's eyes widened. "Muggleborns? That's—like me?"
"No," I said quickly. "You're a muggle. I'm the magic one." I glanced at Madam Alcott. "Right?"
She nodded. "Aye, muggleborns are wizards born to non-magic folk. You'd know by now if you were one, Michael. As for you, Tom, seems you are—lucky that wizard found you before Cynric did."
Tom grunted, unconvinced. "Still don't add up. No wizard just 'points' kids here without a reason. You sure he wasn't one of Floyd's scouts? Or worse?"
"He didn't stick around," I said, sipping my soup to buy time. "Just said I'd figure it out here. Didn't even give a name."
Madam Alcott frowned, thoughtful. "Odd, but not impossible. Some stray do-gooders still poke around, dodging the dark lords' nets. Maybe he was one of 'em." She brightened. "Anyway, you're here now. Finish your food—looks like you haven't eaten proper in days."
Michael dug back in, but his brow stayed furrowed. "So, these dark lords—they're everywhere?"
"Not everywhere," Madam Alcott said, "but enough. Europe's crawling with 'em. Besides Cynric and Floyd, there's Lady Carline here—calls herself the Astral Mage. Rising fast, could match the others soon. Then you've got Tobias the Cruel in Germany, Demnok Lannik—Warlock of Demons—in the Netherlands, Macro and Maria Deathbringer, siblings in Italy, and Lord Rawlins, the Wolflord, in Sweden. Freelance dark wizards too, stirring trouble. And the worst is in France…"
Tom cut in; voice tight. "Don't even say his name, woman."
She rolled her eyes, conjuring a paper and scribbling: "Supreme Dark Lord of Europe, Doombringer, Grandmaster of Dark Arts, Lord Grindelwald the Undead." She slid it to us. "There. Read it, don't speak it."
I scanned the title, masking a smirk. Grindelwald, still kicking? And undead? My old rival had outdone me in flair. These others—Cynric, Floyd, Carline—new names, new threats. My ego prickled. Lord Voldemort felt tame next to "Doombringer."
Michael stared at the paper, pale. "How're we supposed to live with all that out there?"
"You don't," Tom said flatly. "You hide, or you die. Or they take you. Surprised you two made it this far."
"Tom!" Madam Alcott swatted his arm. "They're safe here. Wards'll catch any troublemakers fast. Speaking of—need to check you for dark magic. Alright?"
I nodded. No rituals yet, just basic spells—clean enough. Michael whispered, "Will it hurt?"
"No, child," she laughed, waving her wand. "Done. Intention wards sniff out danger, and you're fine. Just making sure no one's hexed you without knowing."
Tom's shoulders eased, but his glare lingered. "Still don't trust it. Too convenient, you showing up like this."
"Leave 'em be," Madam Alcott said. "They're just boys. Let's get you settled—plenty to learn if you're sticking around."
I swallowed a grin. Plenty indeed.
----------------------
Name: Tom Riddle
Titles: The Phoenix Lord (+10 Vit per 10 levels)
Race: Human
Level: 4(75%)
HP: 280/280
MP: 390/390
STR: 15
VIT: 28
DEX: 15
INT: 39
WIS: 28
AP:15
Money: 0 G 0 S 0 K / 0$
Perks: Master of Magick[Lvl2], Inner Control[Lvl1], Dark Master, Genius / PP: 0 (+4 INT and +WIS per 5 lvls, +1 INT per level)
Traits: Touched by death, MetaMorph, ParselMouth, Arsonist (NEW!!) / TP: 0]
Skills:
Wandless Magic [Level 4/200]
Meditation [Level 5/50]
Mind Arts [Level 9/100]
(Occlumency [6/25] |Legilimency [3/25] | Mind design [0/25] | ??? [0/25])
Healing arts: [Level 1/80]