Chapter 1: Getting to know you...
Disclaimer: You know the drill by now.
As the man once known as Tom Riddle walked through the gore and viscera, memories walked with him. He remembered the beautiful witch that had bore his child, Jessica Nox. Jessica had been from a minor house, but a pureblood and the potency of the mother mattered not we He was the father. His superior Slytherin blood would surely wash out the inferior blood of a lower house. He remembered how the tiny black haired child was sent away to the Hellmouth to hide him amidst the swirling vortex of natural magic and bolster his affinity with dark magics. One point of curiosity that stood like a glaring beacon to him was why his son had chosen to use a knife instead of magic against his victims but was explained away that these had been demons and must have had some sort of weakness against whatever metal- cold iron he suspected- the knife was made of. If these corpses had had some sort of immunity to magic, then his son had just accomplished a feat not even his inner circle could have managed. Oh, he was proud this day!
The dark lord stooped down to examine his unconscious son and noted immediately the missing eye. “Nox shall pay for letting this harm befall him.” he muttered. It was not that the eye was irreplaceable, but that it had happened in the first place. He lifted the eye patch and examined the wound. It was old and there had been no signs of even artificial replacement. Stranger and stranger. He checked his son’s pockets and found no wand. A slowly simmering anger began to rise from his stomach. He checked the blood stained shirt for secret pockets, still no wand. The anger grew hotter. A Squib? His son?! He pointed his wand to his temple and muttered, “Arcanus Visus.” His entire world shifted to dark grey even as his son began to emit a strong dark blue aura laced with strings of black and the corpses radiated a demonic blood red. He was not a squib then or he would have had little or no aura.
“Accio wand!” Nothing happened. Had his son’s wand been within a three mile radius, it would have come flying into his hand unless someone had been holding onto it with a great deal of force. Considering the fact that they were in the middle of the jungle with no one to apply the pressure needed to deny him, this left one option then: His son had been raised without the benefit of magic. He stifled the urge to scream in anger and instead, redirected his angry energy towards leglimency.
As he reached out with his mind, he felt the disconcerting, yet familiar feeling of sticking one’s tongue out to far that accompanies the mind magic. When he touched Xander’s mind he saw… nothing? He pushed harder, but whatever this barrier was kept him out of the young man’s mind more completely than anything he had ever encountered before. It was rather like trying to stare at the center of a solid rock. He had to get creative. He slipped like water around his son’s mind, looking for an opening. It took several minutes, a good deal longer than he had ever needed before, to find what he needed. Blood. He should have thought of it sooner, for blood is truly the most important thing in the world. It was the reason he was here in the first place.
The link between father and son let him slip past the wards as a non-threat. This method of entry would be troublesome. He would not be able to grab what he wanted; he could only view what was readily available. While a slightly less complete version of what he wanted to know, it would still give him a general overview of his son.
He soared down, past the wards that looked, in passing, like willow trees with interlocking branches and landed on a landscape that nearly made him laugh. A high school campus sitting on it’s own little planet. ‘History has repeated itself, I see.’ He, of course, knew better than to speak this aloud in another person’s mind, so he merely mused as he walked towards the entrance of the building that it was fitting that his son would view a place of learning as his true home in the same way that he thought of Hogwarts.
His dark robes billowed in the nonexistent air as he opened the glass double doors and entered the building. He walked slowly and noted every detail he thought might have been important. The floor tiles where white with a blue criss-cross pattern and the walls had many different layers of brick type, with the darkest and roughest at the bottom and the smoothest cream colored brick at the top, likely symbolizing the depth hidden in his son’s mind. The ceiling was made of those generic white tiles and held the sterile florescent lights that all modern schools can’t seem to get enough of. Voldemort noted that every now and again, a light would be burned out and seemed to give off a deep darkness that contrasted with the brightness of the other fixtures. ‘Those probably represent his darkest emotions. I should avoid those areas when I can; don’t know what would happen in there.’
When he came to the first classroom door, he stopped to read the placard by the door. ‘Comic 101’ in white, block letters stood out against the brown background. The next door was labeled as ‘Movies 101’. The next was ‘Video Games 101’. He sighed as he hurried past the obligatory pop culture knowledge that dispelled any doubts he had had on whether his son had been raised muggle or not. He contemplated the methods he would use to torture the Nox woman when he happened upon a door labeled ‘How to Kill Things 101’. A serpentine smile stretched his thin lips across sharp teeth when Voldemort noticed the scuffed and worn tiles at the entrance to the room that indicated that someone had opened this door almost constantly. Full of fatherly pride, he moved on to the next door and placard, one with a title that nearly did not fit in the allotted space: ‘How to Set Up a Façade of Buffoonery and Have Your Enemies Underestimate You In Critical Situations, Allowing You to Stab Them In The Back When They Least Expect It 105’. While he did not approve of one of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Slytherin acting like a fool, he did recognize the pure duplicity and ruthlessness of such an act. That his son was intelligent enough to use his enemy’s prejudices against him confirmed, at least, the truth of his parentage.
The next door, however, baffled Voldemort to the point that he could not merely walk past it without investigation. He slowly opened the door labeled ‘People to NOT Piss Off’ and raised a hairless eyebrow at what he saw. There were a lot of statues of women in here. Thinking his son a coward, he examined the pedestal in front of the nearest painted statue, that of a short blond.
Buffy Summers, Slayer Prime.
Reason not to cross:
Killer of countless vampires and lesser demons,
Beat the Hell Goddess Glorificus to death with a hammer,
Most powerful and longest living slayer alive.
Okay, his son may be justified in fearing a god killing slayer. But surely this must be the exception and his fear of all these other women is unwarranted. He walked over to a statue of a petite, elfin redhead in unassuming clothing.
Willow Rosenburg, High Priestess of Saga Vasuki
Reason not to cross:
Knows childhood secrets
Power quickly approaching divine levels
Examples of Progression:
Ensouling Angelus Age 17
The Unity Spell Age 19
The final battle against Glorificus Age 20
Intended near Destruction of the world (May of ‘02 Apocalypse) Age 21
Casually Ensouling Angelus Age 22
Activation of all potential Slayers Age 22
Accidental near Destruction of the world (Jan. of ‘04 Apocalypse) Age 23
Voldemort honestly didn’t know what to think about this. He quickly reminded himself that physical presence does not correlate to magical potency. For a moment he worried for his plans of ultimate dominion, but dismissed them. He had seen such individuals before and they almost always ascended to godhood and left the world behind. He should assign a spy to watch her and pilfer any items of power that she leaves behind after her enlightenment.
The next statue seemed to shift faces with the angle you observed it from, as if the statue itself couldn’t make up its mind on who or what it wanted to be. The plaque read:
Anya, AKA Anyanka, Patron Saint of Scorned Women, AKA Aud
Reason not to cross:
Might come back from the grave if I sleep with a woman that isn’t her.
Read the ‘Patron Saint of Scorned Women’ part again
Left her at the alter and she might still be mad about that
Voldemort read the plaque again. And again. He then left the room to continue his exploration while making a mental note to remind his followers to never say the word ‘wish’.
His wandering led him through halls and more halls. Some halls would twist and lead to dead ends while others turned in on themselves and led in directions that made no sense. This was entirely expected for a mindscape. For what seemed like days and years and seconds all at the same time; he wandered until he found what he was looking for. Two swinging doors with circular windows at eye level and the unmistakable word “LIBRARY” written proudly, almost in challenge to anyone who would dare enter, just above the door frame. A quick glance at the trophy case next to the doors had him wondering if this “Katie” had been his first kill with that vicious looking knife as he pushed his way through into the center of his progeny’s mind. He then stumbled back out in response to the massive wave of power his son’s magical core emitted. Smiling his crooked, lipless, snake smile, he steeled himself and once again pushed passed the doors.
He surveyed the room from the doorway. It had all the normal installations of a real life library with a two glaring exceptions. The primal hyena spirit in the book cage was interesting to say the least, but ultimately of no consequence. The real prize was the massive, blue magical core floating roughly a meter off the ground. It reminded him, with its size and black rings orbiting it, of Uranus in passing fancy. He needed to end this expedition quickly, he was having passing fancies.
Voldemort reached out towards the glowing sphere, meeting resistance from the sheer power pulsating away from the object. Shadows seemed to trail behind his outstretched fingers like a wispy smoke as he struggled to keep his eyes open in the powerful light. The tension built as he moved closer and closer yet still seemed so far away. Then, in a moment of absolute silence, he made contact.
Emotions flooded into his mind. He gained a complete, nearly instinctual knowledge of his son and rage filled him in response. A squib son or a weak wizard would have been disappointing, but his son, His Son, was a champion. A humble defender of the light so filled with life and love. It made him sick with anger, so Lord Voldemort did what Lord Voldemort always did when he was angry. He destroyed something.
A/N Geeze I have been slacking. Sorry for the wait. Hope it was worth it. I think I'm going to go work on 'Detectives' now. Let me know what you think. I'm impressionable enough that I'll probably decide what I update next based on the reviews. Buenos Noches everyone.