My time for reflection has finally come. I first became aware of myself here on October 31, 1981. Anything before that… no longer matters.
The civil war felt endless, but I survived. In 1982, an idea struck me—a way to neutralize my greatest enemy, Albus Dumbledore. I began setting traps for him, using Horcruxes that were not my own. I hope he wasted more time and energy on them than I did.
In the summer of 1983, Dumbledore destroyed the first Horcrux—the Gaunt ring. That autumn, the second, after a bit of fun in the cave of the Inferi. And the third—the Basilisk from Salazar's chamber.
While Albus was busy breaking into Horcrux caches and Alastor Moody was getting himself blown up by some reanimated Aztec folklore, I prepared. By the end of autumn 1983, I had won the decisive battle and seized power. Mindful of my predecessors, especially Grindelwald, I chose an unconventional path. No mass torture, no killings, no grinding the populace into the mud. That was reserved for those who took up arms against me. As for the necessary… material… the world is a large place. We'll find those abroad who are already knocking on death's door. On the surface, it all looks very proper, almost honest. Paradoxically, it even resembles the greater good. Dictators usually offer their people death for a cause, with paradise as a reward. I offered those with me a life in a well-functioning state, with enormous rights and freedoms. As for why others hadn't offered the same, I had an explanation.
A Great Light Wizard is unwilling to kill for his goals. If he were, he would quickly lose his Light Magic.
Common Magic isn't powerful enough for its user to establish absolute rule.
Dark Wizards, in theory, have the will and the power, but… something in them always frays. At first, they might be adequate leaders, but they lack strength and experience. As those grow, their minds break, and they begin following some distorted vision of reality. And it's pointless to fight against facts.
I was just incredibly lucky. I had Tom Riddle's power and knowledge, yet I remained almost sane, enough to cobble together something acceptable. It's not quite the greater good, of course. I was only thinking of myself.
Everyone wants to bask in the light of Voldemort, but they find themselves in his shadow. It's not even safe for me to appear too power-hungry. I don't need any positive qualities, but I need others to think I have them. So, I must appear glorious, honest, and modest, constantly playing the part: well-intentioned but cunning, democratic but insincere. As for entrusting service to wizards of questionable loyalty—like Snape or Elison—former enemies can be more loyal than friends. They have more to prove. Besides, I trust no one. I keep people in the dark, in a state of unstable equilibrium, never revealing my true motives. Ignorant of my plans, they cannot defend themselves. Albus's wanderings on a false trail are a clear example. I hope that when the fog clears, it will be too late for him.
Reputation, of course, is a cornerstone of power. And Albus's is currently in tatters.
But my main principle is this: I never do what others can do for me.
I consider all the Dark Lords of the past my teachers, especially Grindelwald. History repeats itself: an aggressive leader takes decisive action, his power grows, he reaches a pinnacle, and then it all turns against him. His enemies unite. He flails, depletes his strength, and collapses. This pattern repeats because an aggressive man rarely controls the situation. He can't think more than a move or two ahead and is forced to react as his enemies multiply. His own impulsive actions have unforeseen consequences, and his aggression turns back on itself.
My goal in the political arena is to always be needed. The more people rely on me, the more power I possess. Their happiness and prosperity must depend on me—and my problems will decrease. The key is to never teach them everything I know, so they can't manage without me.
I am changing Hogwarts and the Ministry toward greater freedom, using others as my instruments. The new world has become so tolerant that we now tolerate intolerance. Rights and a cure for werewolves! Muggles in legal service to wizards! Healing for Muggles who can pay! Closer cooperation with the Muggle government, for we are the "Time Patrol." Common folk, don't forget your benefits. Sacrificing non-sentient beings is permitted for all—horned cattle, for instance. Just keep in mind: if your home explodes, that's your own fault. Don't like it? Don't practice Dark Magic. We have freedom, but remember—your freedom ends where another's begins.
Dictatorships usually issue dogma that must be believed because it has no connection to reality. But my societal structure is the most advantageous. And I am open to suggestions—the state and society are merely tools to reduce my problems. The populace should be comfortable, free, and happy.
As for the loyal lunatics and degenerates in my country? Welcome to foreign wars. Go die, kill, return with plunder if you like. But no rampaging at home.
The disloyal? If you're not violent, do as you please. We have freedom of speech. March with a Dumbledore placard, I don't care. But if you start casting spells at my servants… society needs prisons. Behave, and you'll get out without ever seeing a Dementor, and with improved blood magic skills.
It has all turned out rather well. Except for Albus. He is like a black hole, holding my enemies in his gravitational pull.
Winter of 1984 began. Albus destroyed the Horcruxes at Malfoy Manor and Gringotts, bringing the score to a shameful 5-0.
What now? Neville turns four in July. To wait for Albus—Flamel's student, possessor of the Philosopher's Stone—to die of old age is… exceedingly optimistic. As is hoping I could defeat the master of the Elder Wand, who subdued Grindelwald without it. And I still can't properly transform into an Obscurus. It's pathetic.
In some ways, I've begun to understand the pure-bloods. It's a pleasure to sit at home, near a place of power, and drink. The overflowing magic makes you feel wonderful, like a sunbather on a beach. I have no desire to discipline disloyal wizards or brainwash Muggles who believe "wizards don't exist."
But I must. I thought about my probable immortality and Albus Dumbledore's death.
Our first encounter took place outside the Crouch house. I had bathed in dragon's blood, covered myself in protective artifacts, and tripled my strength with a ritual. I cornered Albus. I had more troops, a Horned Serpent, and an Obscurus—one formed from his own sister, for whom he surely felt some reverence. We used Acromantulas on a massive scale. Who would have expected tropical spiders on You-Know-Who's side? Thank you, Hagrid. I seriously hoped to kill the old man right there.
My opponents expected a fight, but not one of this scale, and certainly not with me present. Tom Riddle ran from Albus for years; no one was prepared for me to break that tradition. I'm sure I caught the lemon-drop-sucker without his enhancing rituals. Snape later confirmed it—not even Alastor Moody saw it coming.
Throughout the battle, I tried to do something to the old man, but he managed to protect his followers and knock me down several times. Paradoxically, it was my most productive encounter: I at least saw his blood.
My defeat at the Ministry was expected—too many enemies. But even then, Albus stood out. Fortunately, no one expected a Dark Lord to have a phoenix familiar, and I escaped in time.
The next meeting was much worse. That duel, where I found myself trapped in a painting, ended in an instant. We met by chance, and I couldn't even touch him.
It seemed Auschwitz had given me strength. Whatever Albus prepared, he couldn't top that. I had more than enough power. A hundredth of it should have been enough to kill Dumbledore. But he was like a bumblebee I was firing at with a machine gun, and yet he still managed to sting. His followers, however, lacked his talent and fell. Albus and I were knocked out almost simultaneously, but not before I had turned the tide of the battle.
Our next chance encounter at Malfoy's was a game of hide-and-seek. If it had happened earlier, before I'd developed my methods for immortality, or later, when they were complete, I would have stabbed him in the back. But why launch a landing operation in Japan in 1945 when the atomic bomb is almost ready?
Dumbledore's incredible effectiveness, I concluded, comes from two things: combining the incompatible and thinking like a Muggle. A wizard looks for a spell. Albus changes the conditions of the battle, then uses a spell. It's not a shame to learn from such a man.
But it's time to stop thinking about the old man and start working on my immortality. It's time.
Immortality for me is not a goal, but a means to minimize risk. I am protected from accidents and illness. But two risks remain: the lesser, death from old age, and the greater, violent death from some magical showdown. Or a Muggle one—even a nuclear bomb poses a threat.
The day has come. After communicating with the Brains, sitting under a Time-Turner, and endlessly studying Nagini, I am ready. Today, I either become immortal or admit this path is a dead end.
All paths led to Dark Magic. The Philosopher's Stone was an exception, but that's for a hermit, not for someone half the world wants to kill.
The simplest option was to merge with a source of magic. I would become an indestructible guardian, like Morfin Gaunt, but I wouldn't be fully alive. A super-golem, unable to stray far from the source. And if the source were plugged, even temporarily, I would die.
The second option: remote control of puppet bodies. Their death wouldn't affect my core self, but that self would still be mortal. And the control signal is vulnerable to jamming. Useless as a permanent solution.
Metamorphmagus abilities seemed promising, but only superficially. It's control over the phenotype, not the genotype. You can look young your whole life, but you will still die of old age as a human.
Dark Magic is full of ways to extend life, but they are all temporary. Becoming a vampire, for instance, is addictive, and its effectiveness diminishes. And none of these methods protect against a blade to the neck. A fatal blow is a fatal blow.
Tom Riddle saw the path in Horcruxes. Tempting. But they have fundamental flaws. First, a Horcrux is self-sacrifice. I am no masochist. Sacrificing my soul? I'll pass. Second, it's irreversible. Hair grows back. A soul does not. Third, a Horcrux can be destroyed. It's an exhaustible, non-renewable resource. Add to that the fact that the process drives you mad, and it becomes obvious—this is not my path.
Transferring to another body seemed viable, but it requires a pre-arranged ritual and doesn't save you from a sudden attack. Besides, I would be limited by the new body's weaker magic. A more or less acceptable option was the phylactery—placing the entire soul within an object. You are immortal as long as the vessel is intact. But if the vessel is destroyed, you die.
Other methods were even worse, like some perverse pharmacology: cure the heart, but the kidneys fail. Too many side effects.
I believed a better solution existed.
In magic, there are two key elements: blood-kin and voluntary sacrifice. Tom Riddle managed the impossible—multiple Horcruxes—by fusing his own blood with the voluntary sacrifice of another, using the victim's death as a "spark."
With blood-kin, it was easier. A good blood magician can use their own blood with far greater efficiency than a stranger's. But the blood of a close relative—a parent, sibling, or child—is even better. No atrocities required; the donor doesn't need to die. Two spoons of your child's blood can replace one of your own.
In the pursuit of efficiency, mages found an unexpected solution: incest. The blood of a child born of you and your own daughter could be used with three-quarters the efficiency of your own. Theoretically, one could breed a "purer line," creating descendants whose blood is almost as good as your own. They would become renewable batteries. Of course, inbreeding leads to deformities and feeblemindedness… I suspect this is what happened to the Gaunts.
This pursuit of the "ideal battery" was likely a root of blood purity ideology. But I wasn't interested in batteries. My problem was mortality.
This would have remained a curious academic point, if not for Rodolphus's wife.
I found it hard not to laugh. I later had a… specific conversation with her and her family. Rodolphus is married to the widow of Torquemada himself, the Dark Lord of the Middle Ages.
Her idea was this: tie your own blood—your child—to a voluntary sacrifice—your own death. When you tire of your old body, you commit suicide and awaken in the body of your pre-prepared, grown child. No runic circles, no million-galleon ingredients. Of course, it had flaws. The success rate varied, your magic was limited to the new body, and your Occlumency plummeted after the transfer.
Torquemada himself was unlucky; he was either killed suddenly or his first transfer failed. Isabella was luckier, with four successful rebirths. Her last was into the body of a thirteen-year-old girl. Her best match for a new vessel was Rodolphus Lestrange. It was a risk. She had to ally herself with a supporter of an insane Dark Lord. But what did Voldemort care about his servant's wife? Her plan was simple: the first child, a boy, would be the Lestrange heir. But the Torquemada line was fading. So, a later daughter would be given to her family name. When Isabella grew old, she would commit suicide and be reborn in that daughter.
Her plan seemed acceptable. The Lestranges would gain many children and lose only one, and they would never know. I decided not to interfere. In gratitude, she promised to name her eldest son after me. I had no objection.
Transference into my own children didn't solve the problem of a sudden, violent death. But the core concept—uniting blood-kin and sacrifice—appealed to me. The flaw in Isabella's method was that it required suicide and was limited to a single vessel at a time. And if I perfected it, someone else could steal the technology. I want to be the only immortal, not the creator of a race of them.
What do I have that is unique? The Resurrection Stone and Tom Riddle's legacy of five "Horcruxes."
The fruit of my prolonged efforts was a system that would make Herpo the Foul turn in his grave. In short: a beacon that is not a Horcrux, version 2.0.
I would perform a ritual sacrifice of one of Riddle's Horcruxes. Its shell would be destroyed, but the essence within would be transferred to a new vessel. This is considered impossible, but I would perform it with a simultaneous human sacrifice, focusing the entire process through the unique Resurrection Stone. The incomplete essence of Tom's Horcrux is useless on its own, but as his heir, I could give it new purpose. Placed within my own descendant, the shred of Riddle's soul would gain the missing functionality. The system—a chain of sacrifice involving a wizard, Tom's essence, the Horcrux's shell, and my own blood-kin—would be set in motion by a guiding kick from the world's greatest Dark Mage. It would be more than magic; it would be a miracle.
The resulting creation would not be a true Horcrux. It would have no special durability, no will of its own. It would simply be a beacon for my return. For the blood-kin, only my daughter, Delphi, was suitable. And there would be no negative consequences for her. She wouldn't need to be killed. As for storage, let the vessels live their own lives. They would be safer that way.
What if they break? The resource is now renewable. Upon the death of a temporary bearer, the essence returns to its source. Since the original Horcrux is destroyed, the one with the greatest affinity is… me. After reuniting with me, the essence can be implanted into a new descendant. To kill me, one must kill all my children-vessels and then me, before I can create new ones. I have only five of Riddle's Horcruxes, but the system itself is eternal.
The ritual is complex and reveals much, but only at the first stage. Within the bearer, the additional essence is practically undetectable and cannot be removed.
The concept was almost perfect. Now to test it.
I stood by the Slytherin source with my materials, including the wizard who would die today. I chose Riddle's diary. It contained the most "essence" and was the least valuable as an object.
My only child, Delphi, was sleeping. "Don't worry," I thought. "Some fathers abandon their children. I'm just thinking of how to make us closer." A special bond might form between us, a bond her mother would have sold her soul for. And since I used her blood at Auschwitz, the connection could be two-way. One soul, one body, shared blood… We could probably even share a wand. If it works, she could have a constant mental link with me. If she needs a hint on an exam or peers are bullying her, she could just ask, or let me take control. How to explain it? "Why do I hear my father's voice?" "Because I love you, daughter. Because I am a god, and I hear your prayers." If I can't think of anything better, one of those will have to do.
You are Bellatrix's daughter, after all. With a mother and father like yours, you would have grown up to be a volunteer anyway. I'm just speeding up the process.
The ritual was long. The wizard-material suffered terribly. I worked. The child slept. After an hour and a half, the moment came. The wizard was burning alive, not from fire, but from overflowing magic. I struck the diary on his chest with a new ritual dagger. Both shells received fatal damage.
A strange mist rushed toward the child. This was the first test. The second: would the child die? The smoke entered her tiny body. She showed no signs of discomfort.
Excellent. This fire and smoke show is a one-time event. Upon a bearer's death, the essence will return to me quietly.
Now to check. An analysis of the child showed something at the edge of my senses. I entered her consciousness. In her dream, she was nursing at Bellatrix's breast. A one-way connection exists. I imagined a picture, and the child saw it, stirring in her sleep. I returned her to her dream and broke the connection. The two-way link was confirmed.
My wife is simply priceless. I came to her in the middle of the day, said, "Darling, you need to sleep," and she did, with the help of a sleeping charm. After waking her, I suggested we play with Delphi together while I began the second stage of the test: my own immortality.
Throwing myself under an Avada Kedavra would be stupid. I just needed to enter a state of clinical death. This time, there was no light. I felt myself in my body, but it seemed I could leave it, like a ghost held to this world by a thread. My magic had diminished, but I could still cast. With an effort of will, I returned.
Bellatrix was hardly surprised.
Immortality is good, but I could be imprisoned forever. I must protect my vessel. I need to make more… with a reserve. I may have only four of Tom's "Horcruxes" left, but I can have more children. The more, the better. They will intrigue among themselves for my favor. And I will be the perfect father. "Here's some money, go have fun. Come back when it runs out." I don't plan on hurting them. The better and longer they live, the better for me.
On autopilot, I cooed at Delphi as she chewed on a rattle. "Our little girl is so defenseless," I said to Bellatrix. "I've placed some protective charms on her. We need a security service for the child."
"We also have Neville, my Lord," she replied. "We need to do something with him."
Neville is useless. He's not my blood. He cannot be a vessel. "I'll put protection on him too," I said. "Bella, I was thinking… Wizards are obligated to rule the world. But this can be achieved without killing Muggles. Even the Weasleys had six children. Pure-bloods must be better! I want many children, my dear. And all from you."
I need to find a potion for quadruplets. Then we'll have spares. How did I not understand before? Family is everything. Children are the key to immortality.
Bellatrix looked at me strangely. She called a house-elf to watch the child and began pulling me toward the bed. "My Lord," she whispered, "I sometimes forget how obsessed you are with blood purity."
After all, Albus was right. The power of love is exactly what's needed.
The beauty of it is that our connection is one of souls, which cannot be blocked. And because the shred of soul within them is in a vegetative state, they cannot influence me.
The question of my body aging remained. Metamorphism is just a costume. The solution is the phoenix. It kills itself to be reborn young. A wizard would simply die. But not me. I can commit a mock suicide. As long as I have one functional vessel, my "death" will only rejuvenate my body.
Now, to chart a course for the future. I need to move beyond a few children to grandchildren, great-grandchildren… The problem with dictators is that their interests don't align with society's. So, I will merge my interests with society's. Not through force—that makes you a disease to be cured. But through symbiosis. I will move away from five bearers and turn all my descendants into bearers. I will become wizard-kind, a Voldemort woven into the very fabric of humanity. Daughter, marry a Muggle, a werewolf, a goblin. Or don't marry at all. Just have more children. So I can have granddaughters. Voldemort is for free love. I'll cross my descendants with others until everyone in the world is my descendant.
Why? To make every one of them a bearer of my essence. The amount I have is small, but the total will remain constant, enough for my immortality. I just need to automate the transfer process. A billion rituals is too much even for a Dark Lord.
I will become man-humanity. To remove me, you would have to kill all people. And why just people? I am very tolerant. If some eight-eyed creature can contain my essence, so be it.
I won't limit their freedom. They can do what they want. They can even ask me for help. As for sacrifices… don't worry, I'll take them myself.
To avoid being caged, I need to become much stronger. A wizard's magical reserve doesn't grow. You use what you have. Or you turn to blood magic and ritual sacrifice. I see two paths to power: using more than one body for casting—the bodies of my bearers—or the Deathly Hallows. But Albus has two of the three. It's unlikely he'll give them up.
But I have the Resurrection Stone. I will learn to sacrifice the souls of others and assemble my own Hallows, using the Stone as a crane. It is, in its own way, a "Horcrux." I'll need to develop a special ritual to integrate its properties into myself. I'll need material, of course. Fifty people a year should suffice. I have time. I am immortal, and I have a Time-Turner.
But those are plans for the future. First, I must get rid of Dumbledore. Otherwise, he might figure things out and kill me before I'm ready. He could kill half a dozen children, I'm sure. Cursed old man. I must stop him. I want to live.
How? I've tried everything. Traps didn't work. Only hostages remain. And I still need to find something to serve as a decoy Horcrux.
My gaze fell on Neville, who was trying to feed grass to his Diricawl. The three-year-old babbled as it flew away. I should have given him something that doesn't fly. Like Delphi's corn snake. They look at each other with such understanding.
What to make a Horcrux? Something Albus would believe is mine. I looked at Neville. A Trojan horse. An excellent idea. Tom Riddle killed Neville's parents and made his enemy a Horcrux—that's why his character changed. Dumbledore discovers the child in the Lestrange house. Despite overwhelming security, he engages in an unequal battle and dies heroically.
I'll need to develop a method of resurrection, just in case. Barty can handle it. Bella will guard the real vessel and spin the Time-Turner—I need more than one child. Once she gives birth, I'll scatter them. Edward, the Secret-Keeper, must be moved from the Lestrange house, as must the pregnant Isabella.
I will prepare a trap. An army. I'll shield the area from nuclear reaction using modified versions of Dumbledore's own artifacts. At the end, I'll be waiting with Neville. And many hostages, to prevent area-of-effect attacks. I'll throw Muggles with explosive runes at him. Maybe he'll try to save them and lose, like Flitwick. And if he doesn't? False hero! The end justifies the means!
Neville… "The power the Dark Lord knows not." "He will mark him as his equal." No, I won't turn you into a real Horcrux. I'll just perform a small operation. Remove a vertebra, enchant it, and put it back. After I eliminate Albus, if Neville survives, I'll reverse it. The boy will get a prosthesis.
If Neville doesn't work, there's always Harry Potter. The seventh "Horcrux." I'll just need to hide Lily's Muggle relatives and come up with an explanation for her. "You see, Lily, Dumbledore has gone mad. He wants to make Harry his Horcrux. I will protect him. For free." But it shouldn't come to that.
It's time. The work awaits. Who will win? The mad Dark Mage, Albus Dumbledore, or the chosen one, Neville Longbottom? After my preparations are complete, it will be time for my enhancing ritual. Weaker than Auschwitz, but stronger than at the Crouch house. It's a pity the goblins won't have all the blades ready in time…
About a week later. Order Headquarters.
Albus Dumbledore sat and thought. His enemy had barricaded himself in a house with a Horcrux, clearly waiting for him.
"The security is unprecedented," Robert said. "A huge army. Channels connected to the Ministry and Stonehenge. They're expecting us. And… there are many Muggle hostages."
Hostages. He couldn't destroy the Horcrux without causing collateral damage.
What was he to do? Abandon his goal? Voldemort killed people every day. How many would he kill in an eternity? What was better—an endless horror or a horrible end? To allow the deaths of innocents? He had always opposed such measures. To kill unknown people for the crimes of others was foolish.
So what now? Hope someone else destroys it? His enemy had placed him in a trap. To try to break the Horcrux was to do what Voldemort wanted. To try to save the people was also to do what Voldemort wanted.
Eternity in the hands of a wizard who builds human shields is not a fate he would wish on anyone.
Once again, he faced a question with no answer. In chess, it's called zugzwang—any move leads to a worse position. Lately, his whole life felt like that.