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Voldemort was bored. Harry, who was acclimating their newly-acquired Harry to the alpha universe, had told him to leave and ‘entertain yourself for a while’, which ‘shouldn’t be hard if you’re as cool and powerful as you say you are’.
Of course, Voldemort had threatened to kill him after that, to which Harry had responded:
“And leave yourself as the only sane person in the multiverse? Fat chance.”
It was distressingly accurate. Not that Voldemort would ever admit to such a thing. He was hopeful that, at some point in the near future, the two Harry Potters would become friendly with each other. Sexually.
But in the meantime, the unbearable problem of boredom remained, and so Voldemort had chosen to revisit one of his usual pastimes, which was dropping in on random universes with the intention of murdering all the irritating people in them.
After immersing himself in the fabric of the multiverse, Voldemort traced the path of a sparkling thread into an adjacent universe, where he found himself a brief distance away from the Great Lake. A lone figure was standing by the water’s edge, tossing stones across the glossy surface.
Since absurd and troublesome events clung to Harry Potter like rot did to a corpse, he tended to be the source of any and all divergences from the main timeline. So Voldemort approached the Potter by the lake, intent on uncovering what sort of universe this was.
The initial reaction of a Potter was generally very telling. Most tried to disarm him. Some of the more interesting ones tried to kill him, whereas some of the more curious ones tried to snog or shag him.
Voldemort could admit that he found the crazed sexual enthusiasm of the younger-looking ones to be rather distracting. It was not unexpected that there were versions of himself willing to consort with child versions of Potter, but presumably some adults somewhere had to be aware that an eleven-year-old Potter found the Dark Lord Voldemort positively fuckable, yet were completely unable to stop it from happening.
How anyone was expected to believe Dumbledore was a hero when this sort of poor decision-making was happening in the narrative, Voldemort had no idea.
“Hello,” Voldemort said, once he was close enough to speak at a normal volume.
“Hello,” said the Harry, who was wearing Hogwarts robes with neon yellow trim. He turned around and flashed Voldemort a serene smile. “My name is Hadrian Magnolia Orion Peverell.”
Voldemort was fleetingly reminded of the Hadrian Peverell, the one who still needed to die, and felt a fresh surge of annoyance. “... Magnolia?”
“It was my mother’s middle name,” Hadrian Magnolia Orion Peverell replied calmly.
“Then do feel free to send her my regards,” Voldemort drawled, raising his wand. “Avada Kedavra.”
The sun beat down as Voldemort sneered in distaste at his mundane surroundings. What was this, a Muggle petrol station?
A teenage boy was standing behind the counter. He wore hideous Muggle clothes and a blank name tag.
“Can I help you?” the boy asked. There were grease stains all over his face.
“Who are you?” Voldemort said, narrowing his eyes at the empty space below the words ‘Hello, My Name Is’.
The child frowned. “I’m Hank.”
“Hank,” repeated Voldemort. “Hank what?”
The scrawny, oversized infant shrugged. “Nothing else. Just Hank.”
Voldemort took a moment to imagine what was happening back in the alpha universe. He hoped there was a distinct lack of clothing and a bed involved.
“Actually,” said the Boy-Who-Was-Named-Hank in a thoughtful tone, “you look a lot like my boyfriend, V = ½bhl.”
“What,” Voldemort said, bewildered. He opened his mouth to speak again, except all that came out was another, “What.”
“V = ½bhl, you know, like the formula to calculate volume for a triangular prism?” Hank shrugged. “Anyway, I call him V for short. He works at the IKEA up the block.”
Voldemort supposed it was a mercy that he had been spared the knowledge of Hank’s hypothetical but equally vile surname. “Why?”
“I don’t know. But I really like all the letters in his name. It’s a lot of letters,” Hank said. He paused for a second, then added, “Not as much as the alphabet, but still a lot. Maybe he can try jumbling them up someday!”
Voldemort fingered the handle of his wand. There was no instance in any universe where maths belonged in a name. This was a crime against nature, which meant it was Voldemort’s duty to eradicate all traces of it from the multiverse.
Unfortunately, Voldemort had no idea what an IKEA was or how to begin invading it, which meant ‘Hank’ would have to come with him.
“Why don’t you introduce me to… your V,” Voldemort said tonelessly.
Hank brightened. “Oh, I would love to! I’ll ask Larry if I can take my break—”
Voldemort watched in disgust as the boy disappeared into a back room. If he was lucky, he might be able to hit both Hank and V = ½bhl with the same Killing Curse. That would at least save him some time.
Following the disaster at the petrol station, Voldemort formed a new plan that would ensure minimal suffering for himself, and maximal suffering for the insufferable doppelgangers he encountered.
After locating the newest Harry Potter in Diagon Alley, Voldemort disguised himself as a common wizard, then approached the boy and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hello,” Voldemort said pleasantly. “Is your name Harry Potter?”
The boy blinked at him. “No? My name is—”
“Wonderful,” Voldemort praised. “Avada Kedavra.”
The body fell to the cobblestone with a sickening thump. Voldemort, on the other hand, was already summoning a portal and moving onto the next universe. Simple and to the point. This new method of interrogation and dispensation was going to do wonders for his universe-refining efficiency.
“And what might your name be?” Voldemort asked, wand already in hand.
“Hoser Poutine,” said the boy with a wide smile. “I was born and raised in Canada! Would you like some maple syrup?”
“... No. Avada Kedavra.”
“Is your name Harry Potter?”
“My name is Harold Pot—”
“Avada Kedavra.”
“What is your name?”
“Harrison Ev—”
“Avada Kedavra.”
“Hudson—”
“Avada Kedavra.”
“Helveti—”
“Avada Kedavra.”
“Avada Kedavra.”
“Avada Kedavra.”
“Avada Kedavra.”
Voldemort gazed shrewdly at the little boy wearing a too-large shirt and lopsided glasses. In comparison to the rest, he appeared normal. But as Voldemort knew very well, appearances could be misleading.
“What is your name?” Voldemort demanded.
The small boy smiled cherubically. “Hagr—”
It was practically a reflex at this point, to kill anything that was not named ‘Harry Potter’.
Voldemort’s wand cut through the air as he intoned:
“Avada Kedavra.”
Green light flashed, and the little meat sack slumped to the floor. Voldemort did not move, instead replaying the last few seconds in his mind.
Had the boy been about to say Hagrid?
After another pause, Voldemort shuddered and turned away. There were some questions in any universe that did not need answers, and this was one of them.
For his final universe of the day, Voldemort found himself in an unfamiliar house. The lights were off, though Voldemort could hear soft footsteps padding across the floor above his head. After a moment of careful listening, Voldemort made his way into a darkened hall, searching for Harry Potter.
Several minutes passed before an adult Potter came down the stairs. He was dressed in normal wizard’s robes and did not look at all surprised to see Voldemort standing in his hallway.
“Oh,” the man said amicably. “It’s you. Did you need something?”
“No,” Voldemort said.
“Then what—”
Voldemort raised a hand to silence him. “What is your name?”
The man blinked. “My name is Harry?”
Voldemort felt relief. “Good. Lovely, even.”
At last, some order in the multiverse. A normal universe where Harry was on decent or even pleasant terms with him, and there were no strange happenings that would require his intervention in the form of several dozen bloody, drawn-out murders.
“Is that all?” Harry asked, frowning. “Because if it is, Severus booked a reservation for eight sharp, and you know how he gets when I’m late.”
“... Severus?” Voldemort repeated, just to be sure he’d heard correctly. “Reservation?”
Harry shot him another odd look and raised a hand to ruffle his hair. As he did so, light glinted off the simple gold band on the ring finger of his left hand.
“Yeah, for our anniversary dinner?” Harry smiled ruefully. “Did he not mention it? I told him he needed to ask for the night off…”
Feeling grimly resigned, Voldemort raised his wand and aimed it at Harry Potter-Snape’s forehead.
“Avada Kedavra.”
When the body hit the ground, Voldemort stared down at it for a long, disbelieving moment.
"Fuck it," he muttered, waving a hand through the air to summon a portal home. Even his Harry could not be mad at him for wanting to go home after this.
