Chapter Text
The doom of Great Britain was not one dark lord, for he stood alone against the world. A hero shall always rise in his wake.
The doom of Great Britain was not two dark lords, for they stood diametrically opposed. One shall best the other, falling in turn as a hero appears to slay the victor.
Nay, the doom of Great Britain was three dark lords, for they stood in balance. A one-legged, teetering-on-a-cliff's-edge sort of balance, yes, but it has kept them from killing each other for longer than they have any rights to, until what should have been a crisis became the way things simply were, with no end in sight. Any heroes rising during such times shall soon lose patience. They either depart, finding their luck elsewhere, or… depart, finding their luck wanting.
Even today, the magical nations of the world watched on from across the Channel, weeping for the plight of their fellow witches and wizards trapped on the island. What madness, what depravity must they be enduring at this very moment?
~o~
On a morning in June, 1999, an ordinary wizard awoke from restful sleep, feeling like a million Galleons.
Metaphorically speaking. And literally speaking. As in, he was both in a pretty great mood and wanted to have a million Galleons.
To the backdrop of soft sunlight filtering through the windows of his apartment set above a cafe, Harry Potter, Dark Lord and former (or 'false', some would whisper) Chosen One, sprang out of the bed, deftly snagging his wand from the bedside table. A wave of the wooden stick and his teeth shone white. A swish, and clean clothes flew out of the wardrobe... then flew right back inside, because Harry thought that the entrance was a bit too mundane for his taste. The doors shut behind them with a *clack*. A short period of quiet ensued.
The wardrobe doors opened once more, and clean clothes danced their way over to Harry, shirt tangoing with jacket, trousers and socks and trunks doing the can-can around him. He watched the performance with a little smile on his face, happy as he tended to be at the sight of that wondrous thing called magic. One by one, the articles of clothing languidly draped themselves on his body in what Harry thought was quite a sexy manner to dress oneself. For the finishing touch, he ran a hand through his hair, making a token (and ultimately futile) effort at combing the unruly mop.
Ready to face the day, Harry strode over to the balcony doors, throwing them back and stepping out to greet the world. The threshold marked the boundary of his Silencing Charm (long-term ver.), so the moment he passed to the other side, he was met with the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley.
Diagon Alley. The heart of Magical London, his domain. Beautiful not in its grand marvels but in the little magics, the daily workings that were at once normal and extraordinary. Let others boast of Hogwarts up north and the old places hidden deep within the Irish wilds, here resided the witches and wizards, the people, the life of—a flash of crackling green light shot past his vision, narrowly missing him by a centimeter after he jerked out of the way, putting a stop to his good morning.
"Some days, I wished I didn't take London," Harry muttered, Transfiguring the clematis vines he had cultivated into a twisting, multilayered cage of interwoven steel.
One of his peers had called dibs on Hogwarts along with Scotland as a whole, however, leaving hard choices for the rest of Great Britain's Dark Lords. Harry claimed London despite the high concentration of malcontents there, plus the England and Wales territories by extension, deeming it the only real option lest the city fall into the hand of the other. The fact that taking it also granted Harry no small amounts of amusement at the third lord's poor fate, did not factor in the decision at all.
Imagine having to hide out in Ireland. Couldn't be him.
Peering through the gaps of the cage, he searched for the assailant, spotting him—no, them far down the street, using the doorway of Flourish and Blotts as cover. Harry briefly considered sending a blasting curse from here, then shook his head. There were people huddled on the sides of the street between their positions, and who knows how many more in the book shop behind the pair that he cannot see at this angle, making it likely for things to go wrong. He decided instead to get closer.
One Animagus transformation later and he was slipping down from the opposite side of the balcony. Everything looked bigger and higher in this form, which was scary at first—a tad surprising, he corrected in his mind; Harry Potter does not know fear, thank you—but he had grown accustomed to it in the last few months. Hitting a cafe table's umbrella, he bounced off to flip end over end before touching the ground on all four legs, none the worse for wear. Always land on their feet, huh?
As spellfire continued to take chunks out of his clematis, Harry padded along the cobblestone road of Diagon alley, unseen. His usual sort of enemies always seemed to expect him to employ grander tactics, the likes of Apparating with nary a sound (maybe doable, if he gave it a good try) or using the shadows as a gateway between two points (not possible, he gave it a good try), and has yet to ever suspect that the innocuous creature approaching them would be him in disguise. Personally, Harry was of the opinion that he appeared a lot more eye-catching as an animal.
Look at me! I'm adorable!
They did not so much as twitch in his direction, how typical. Maybe cuteness was just another one of those powers that evil wizards and witches knew not. The curse-happy duo continued aiming up at his apartment and, curious, he turned his head to check the state of it. The steel cage held up well, as did the overall structure of the balcony. The spells that managed to shoot into the open doorway were the problems. Did he leave out anything delicate and unrecoverable?
…Yes.
His grumpy face could have melted a thousand hearts, the limited range of animal expressiveness charmingly concealing the surge of rage he experienced at the thought of harm coming to his broomstick collection. Most were under protective measures but the Moontrimmer was in the middle of restoration, sitting out in the open!
Fast slinking past the pair, Harry hopped onto the windowsill to peek inside the shop. The early morning was not a busy time for the bookseller, nor was June since the reading lists for students have not been sent out yet, but he did spy a small group of customers huddled in a corner, terrified out of their wits and kept compliant by a wand pointing at them. The wand was wielded by a third accomplice to the attackers standing past the threshold, a short distance apart from her cohort.
Hostages, huh? Well, let's see how you like this.
Harry darted towards the other side of the street. Midway, he spun and transformed back to human form in one smooth motion, wand aimed at the trio, who had only a split second to gawk at what appeared to be a wizard Apparating in without a hint of a sound, confirming their fears of Harry Potter's magical prowess. They did, however, hear the softly-spoken word as he casted—
"Bombarda."
—an Exploding Charm, though it still left them too little warning to do anything about it, the spell striking the heavyset masked wizard taking point. The man, his partners, most of the Flourish and Blotts storefront, and that of the shop next door disappeared in a fiery detonation, with a resounding boom ringing out over the length of the street as smoke obscured the scene. Through it all, Harry maintained the same stoic position, wand outstretched, not moving a muscle…except for a twitching eyebrow.
"Damn. I didn't even Maxima it that time."
His Expelliarmus days were long since over, traded for his favored go-to of the Exploding Charm whose potency can end fights in one fell swoop, but there was something to be said for that nifty piece of second-year magic. Usually, it was said by people who knew him, commenting that he used to not leave so many holes in the landscape. Lo and behold, another gaping crater greeted him once the smoke cleared, waist-deep and reaching the first set of shelves to devastate its contents. Splatters of blood and bits coated the area. The customers, no longer being menaced by the dark witch, were now staring in rapt horror at the Dark Lord before their eyes. Harry waved to them, trying his best to show a disarming smile.
"Heheh. No worries, I can fix that. Reparo!"
Unlike the spectacular effects of his previous spell, this one accomplished a whole lot of nothing, which made it rather awkward when a wizard he recognised as the owner of the place stuck his head above the counter. The man took in the scene, looking from the crater to the books burning merrily on the shelves to Harry, then burst into tears at the ruins that was his store, causing Harry to wince.
"Right. Can't repair what's gone for good." Any object caught in the blast radius had been vaporised. Reduced to ashes. Kaput. Rubbing the back of his head in mild embarrassment, Harry amended his earlier words. "No worries, I can pay for that."
Just have to go rob Gringotts again. They're always good for it, and he was planning on stopping by there to take a million Galleons anyway.
Wait, no, he can't. He had promised himself to give them a sporting chance, and they've yet to restore their defenses back to decent levels since he perpetrated the Great Gringotts Heist of Christmas 1998. Bollocks.
And, honestly, the haul has diminished somewhat due to the Great Gringotts Heist of Christmas 1997. And Summer 1997. And the four in 1996 that did not warrant the 'Great Gringotts Heist' title, being more pitched battles than theft. Not to mention 1995…Huh. They might not even have vaults that he can rob—cough, cough—liberate guilt-free anymore, now that he thought about it. A different method of raising funds could be the winning play here.
…Y'know, if he had one. Money-making ideas were not exactly his forte, which trended more to the Gryffindor side of things, what with the prophecy-oriented upbringing that was intended to mold him into a hero/sacrifice.
He knew a scholarly sort who can offer advice on the aspects of life nobody bothered to teach him, though. She was up in Scotland last he checked, toiling under the rule of the Dark Lord there—and would be ever so glad to see him, he was sure. By rote memory, Harry scribbled out a quick IOU to the owner of Flourish and Blotts without needing to look at the slip of parchment, so often did he write them, and set his sights northward.
Hogwarts, huh?
Guess it's time he paid Old Tom a visit.
~o~
The current Headmaster of Hogwarts stood at the windows of his office, peering out over the grounds of Great Britain's premier school of magic. Once again, the tall, thin man thanked his past self for the foresight that led him to replace the dingy and outdated castle windows with this more elegant design where the glass wall wrapped around the tower. Sure, it necessitated some tricky enhancements to maintain the structure, and a complete overhaul of the interior to match the new feng shui, but in return he could bask in the light of the sun each and every day from the comfort of his desk while enjoying an unrivaled view of the surrounding lands. This time of year, he could watch the clouds go by for hours since the students have departed for their homes.
Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr. sighed in contentment.
Another term has come to a close, and most everyone made it to graduation. His lovely students have once again proven the limited intelligence of the many detractors who refused to believe in his vision of Hogwarts, who claimed his methods were 'cruelty incarnate' and 'impossible to survive''.
Ha! Showed what they knew. It delighted him each time those fools turned out wrong. Best of all, only one of his favorites received a knife in the back during the year, which confirmed that the rest have taken his lessons to heart. Chiefly, that it was of paramount importance to protect one's heart!
Of course, this also meant he would have to rebalance the Seventh Year Gauntlet for the next batch of would-be graduates to be harder. It would not do for Hogwarts's standards to stagnate and he always relished the challenge of crafting a new exam. Perhaps a subtler test this round. Critical thinking was a crucial trait for anyone wishing to unlock the secrets of magic.
Yeeees. Something à la 1991, with the chess and the riddle (heh!) and the other dastardly obstacles. He can already imagine the improvements he'd make to Flitwick's Flying Keys level. Have them turn clockwise to reality half the time, set a few (or a lot) to counterattack, and—voilà!—instant underachiever weeding method!
Not the troll, though; that was just lazy stage design. Damn Quirrel.
It was upon such blissful ponderance of death-traps and mimic treasure chests that Tom noticed a disturbance taking place at the distant edge of his school. Putting on his enchanted eyeglasses, he focused on the object, no, the wizard careening towards Hogwarts on a broomstick. The speeds far beyond what was recommended for magical flying vehicles of any sort clued him in on the maniac intruder's identity. Intruder, visitor, same difference.
Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr. heaved another sigh, this time one of…not annoyance, heavens no, but his enemy/friend/rival/ally has a strange tendency to cause trouble wherever he roamed, never mind that the boy blames his woes on the world having it out for him. In any case, the Lord of London cometh, and must be greeted as befitting his station.
The moment the flier reached the outer wall of Hogwarts, Tom activated the upgraded wards. A bubble sprang up to encapsulate the school, at once incorporeal and physical. That last part was very important. Harry Potter, for it can be no other, smacked into the shield, his impact marked by the satisfying sound of a bell toll; Tom had worked hard to incorporate that feature, and was gratified that he could hear the melodious note from his office. The boy hung there for some time, arms and legs splayed wide, broom grasped in one hand, before he slowly slid down the length of the bubble, the surface sloped in a manner that allowed a safe(-ish) descent punctuated by a painful drop on the final ten-meter stretch.
The corners of Tom's mouth twitched upward in a smile, gleeful upon seeing the scene develop as he had hoped for. That long afternoon of ward-tuning was worth every hour.
He soon lost the smile, because a tiny dot was now zooming past the gates to signal the other Dark Lord's survival (great!) and impending arrival (not great!). The fun was over. Now came the moment he must defend Hogwarts in truth. Rushing to his desk—custom-ordered, yew, decorated with snake motifs—he grabbed at a hand mirror laid carelessly to one side, tapping back and forth to make the pattern belonging to another mirror elsewhere, owned by one of his senior research assistants, a graduate student working towards her Mastery.
Seconds later, a voice chirped from the magic mirror, "Yes, Headmaster. Did you need something?"
"Miss Greengrass, I have a task of utmost priority for you. He is at the gates. Please escort him to my office."
A sharp intake of breath, and silence ensued on the other end of the call. The Lord of Hogwarts said nothing, waiting while racking his brain for backup options present on the premises that he could contact. Then, the voice returned.
"...I will bring him along shortly, Headmaster."
Tom ended the call, and fist-pumped in victory. Hard as it was to declare for certain whenever Harry Potter gets involved, his school was probably as safe as it can become. Disaster would be averted. Dropping into his chair, the man once again praised his own genius as he lounged on velvet cushions.
In a twist that must have amused Fate to no ends, it was only after relinquishing the hatred he harbored for the weaker, yet arguably deadlier, of his two foes in lieu of pursuing his true goal that he discovered the solution to Harry Potter. Tom, further than anyone else, had delved into the mysteries of magic, pushing its boundaries past limits never before reached as he explored the ways to which a mortal man may bend the world to his will, structuring chaos into order and unbalancing order to draw forth chaos. Amidst the primeval forces of the world, he realised a great truth.
Mischief cannot be curbed, merely redirected. Thus he had stumbled by complete happenstance upon the surest method to protect his domain from that localised natural disaster.
Harry Potter, powerful as he was, remained a mere teenager. And those, if nothing else, were predictable in one aspect. Throw a pretty witch at him, and he would usually focus his efforts towards acts of magic that were meant to impress the girl rather than aggravate everyone else. The risk of collateral damage remained ever-present, but tended to be a reversible sort of destruction.
Of course, there was a limit to how much Potter a person could take in a single sitting, so he made sure to enact a rotation. Miss Greengrass has fared better than most, though what that says of Young Harry's interests, Tom shuddered to think. Amongst the student body, the girl has a reputation of a quick wand and a preferred target for her unwanted suitors. Even…diminished as he was, he knew by instinct to fear the threat she posed. Not Harry, that brave soul who once dared to laugh in Miss Greengrass's face and lived to tell the tale. Tom saw it as yet another point in favor of the two Dark Lords' current arrangement, as he did not fancy his chances of prevailing against that embodiment of Felix Felicis.
Quickly, he fixed his posture, back straight and fingers steepling to shadow half of his face. With a jolt, he recalled a note he had left for himself and went for his wand. A series of glamours concealed all traces of the surprise to be later revealed and he readopted his previous pose. Ten minutes on, he heard echoes of a conversation coming from the direction of the rotating staircase.
As was the norm for Harry Potter, the boy barged into his office without so much as a knock. Carrying an easy laugh, he walked with his head still turned towards the open door, calling down to someone below, presumably Miss Greengrass.
"I swear, I'm going to get a smile from you again one of these days! Good luck with your research!"
Tom's ears pricked up as he heard a faint response from the lower tower entrance. It sounded like a farewell and, to his consternation, one absent of a biting retort at that. As the Lord of London spun to meet his gaze, Tom quelled a shiver.
What manner of man are you?
The two stared at each other across the way, neither breaking the sudden silence between them. Tom maintained the appearance of calm, betraying nothing of his true thoughts. Harry just kept his cocky grin, seeming without a care in the world. Tension grew and grew in this endless moment. Papers throughout the office rustled. On a warm summer's day, frost formed on the window glass.
Then, it passed. He kicked his feet on the desk, and Harry barked out a laugh, striding across the room.
"Old Tom!"
"Young Harry."
"I saw the NEWT scores. Congratulations on another successful year. Even the other countries can't hide their jealousy."
"Thank you, thank you. Really, it was all due to the efforts of my students," Tom humbly demurred. He also did a second fist-pump beneath the desk, ecstatic to receive the acknowledgement of his peer seeing as he wasn't going to get it from the rest of the international community outside the Blockade. "It is not the only success I've enjoyed."
So led, he dispelled the glamour charms. The response was instantaneous.
"Heeey, lookie who got his hair back!"
Tom turned to one side, then the other, showcasing the full head of hair.
"Eh? Eh? This was the exact cut I had when I made my third Horcrux, I'll have you know, and there's not one strand missing. It was the most popular style of 1962 as voted in Witch Weekly, I might add."
"You look fabulous," Harry assured, before his smile dipped. "Shame about the nose."
Tom waved a dismissive hand. "I'm working on it. My hair, my nose, my…" He glanced downward. "I'll get it all back, of that there will be no compromise. Although, the process would have been a lot simpler if you hadn't destroyed my dia—journal."
"I say again, that was not my fault," Harry denied. His arms came up to cross in an 'X'. "Malfoy was supposed to protect your diary—"
"Journal!"
"Diary, and he passed it off to a child as a prank. The blame for your…'smoothness of body' can be put squarely on him."
Tom almost snarled before he doused the fire of his rage. Frankly, he had already accepted the truth of the matter long ago; it's the lingering sorrow that instigated him to sow blame everywhere. That, and the escape of Lucius Malfoy before Tom could exact vengeance for his descendants, leaving him without an outlet to vent at. Exerting great effort, he pushed the matter of old wounds aside.
"What brings you to my redoubt, Young Harry? I rather thought you prefer to avoid this place of learning, given you handily rejected my offer to finish your last year." And wasn't that a sore spot? The boy gained a smidgen of power and immediately considered himself too good for a Riddle Education™.
Harry, oblivious to the prodding, answered, "I want a million Galleons."
"So would I." And likely everyone else. "The ever-growing budget of Hogwarts certainly needs an injection, and exam dungeons don't sprout on trees. Your point?"
Taking a seat, Harry pointed at the teapot, and helped himself to a cup once Tom waved to give permission. He took a sip, then snagged a biscuit from the tray.
"Right, well," he began, "at first I was going to stop by Gringotts to rob it, as one does."
"As one does," Tom echoed, nodding. Truly, Great Britain's most convenient bank.
Harry continued. "But then I had a better idea."
"Which is?"
"Give me Hermione. She has the best ideas."
Tom balked at the insane request. "No. Her work is at a very delicate stage, and she has no time to go gallivanting about!"
"She's my best friend!" Harry argued.
"And my best assistant. One of the select few that survives and keeps on surviving the things we face here without a debilitating stay in the infirmary, or a permanent one in the grave." At least, when they can find the parts to put in the grave. "Do you know how rare that is? I've had to start importing my vict—ahem, my researchers just to keep our native population up. We're running short of Gryffindors, actually, and—" Tom blinked, for the mood had taken an abrupt turn for the dangerous.
Killing intent, sharp enough to cut with but a single push of willpower, emanated from his companion, the entirety of it aimed at him.
"A lot of Gryffindors in your program, then, Old Tom? Performing research work? That doesn't sound right at all."
The twirling wand in his hand spoke of a Bombarda ready and waiting should he find the answer unsatisfactory. Tom contemplated, purely as an exercise, whether he can go for his own wand and unleash a preemptive attack in this situation. The conclusion he arrived at was a resounding no, as it often was when other people's lives were on the line in the vicinity of his rival.
Choosing his words with care, Tom replied, "It is the simple truth. I have their employment contracts in my records."
"They know the risks?" Harry pressed the line of inquiry.
"Of course. Better than you did on your adventures thwarting my plans."
"You know that's not a high bar to jump over. They willingly accepted it, I hope. No nudges of encouragement via the Imperious or things of that nature."
Tom scoffed. "Are you joking, Young Harry? Those maniacs volunteered the moment they heard me say the words 'mortal peril'. Took it as a challenge, in fact. How you idiots live this long, I'd never know."
"That–!" Harry quieted. A sheepish grin crept onto his face. "Okay, now that sounds like them."
"Doesn't it just? You can take one if you like. It would improve their life expectancy manifolds."
Harry shook his head. "No, that won't work. Two Gryffindors are only smarter than one when Hermione is there." He sat back in his chair, peering up at the ceiling in thought.
A metaphorical Lumos popped up above the boy. Then, a literal one, as the dramatic fool shot off a surreptitious spell. Tom watched the ball of light with caution, fully expecting it to explode.
"Fine, I won't ask Hermione to help, but let me borrow Daphne Greengrass."
"...I beg your pardon?"
"She's good at that business stuff, right? I remember someone mentioning that her family deals in potion materials or whatever."
Was this his aim the whole time? Tom wondered, and could not resist another roll of his eyes. If it was, then he'd give Young Harry points for using an oblique angle to achieve his goal, but his excuses could use work. As for the plot itself to spend time with the girl…back in his days, a wink could convey all that needs saying for Tom to get a date. None of this convoluted modern-teenager tripe to skirt around the issue.
Oh no, couldn't be a date. This was an outing. Please.
Still, it would mean he need not fear a Potter escapade to 'liberate' Miss Granger from his employ.
"Very well. That is acceptable."
"Wait, really? I thought it was a long shot, if anything. Wasn't she one of your assistants, too?"
"I can spare her for a while. Her survival skill is somewhat of a problem for the experiments we are conducting this month."
"That's a surprise. Daphne always seems so competent."
And now he's getting defensive of her. Peh.
"She is. Very much so, to the point that it became a detriment. Her instincts are top-notch…in that she avoids the department altogether with astonishing regularity anytime the chance of death or dismemberment ticks above a certain as yet undetermined level. Understandable, in a way, as her physical ability falls far short of her peers. In that aspect, Ms. Granger is the best bar none. No one else can dodge a rampant blast of magic or put down a particularly stubborn sacrifice—ah, ingredient, I mean—quite like she can."
A pause, as enlightenment dawned.
"In fact, the ones you've trained in that DA secret cabal of yours have shown better results than the norm across the board. Hmmm. I think I shall reach out to the ones not already working for me in the coming days." More silence. "I will make the request to her, but I would like a favor in return, to be settled at a later date."
Lives were pawns to be played. Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr. peered into the future and saw a day, soon, where he must call on Harry Potter to do whatever he did to produce such hardy test subjects. If the cost for that help was Miss Greengrass, then that was a sacrifice he was willing to make.
Now, would the bait dangling before his eyes be enough to blind the judgment of the Lord of London?
"Yeah, alright, let me know what she says." Harry accepted the deal with an easy laugh. Tom, elated, returned with one of his own.
"Of course, of course."
My, my. Should not you know better than to accept a deal with the devil, Young Harry? Oh, Gryffindors. How gullible.
~o~
Harry laughed, but not out of camaraderie.
So subtle you are, Old Tom. I may not know what your ploy is, but it's bold of you to assume that I don't think Slytherins are scheming something by default anyways.
Dark Lord Harry
First of His Name, The Lord of London, One of Three, The Explosion Maniac, The Localised Natural Disaster.
Discovered the beautiful magic of Bombarda in a tumultuous period of his life, and went a tad overeager with it on the Death Eaters organisation. When allies rejected his claim that it was a wartime measure, he evaded capture by hiding in the Forest of Dean where he lived in a tent and desperately honed his magic to better protect himself from a suddenly hostile world, guided by no teachers. Overshot his goal in a sense, and now embodies the trait of Strength.
Dark Lord Tom
The Artist Formerly Known As Voldemort, The Lord of Hogwarts, One of Three, DADA Professor in Perpetuity, Forerunner of Magical Research.
In the wake of his resurrection, found that he lacked quite a few crucial bits. Came to the realisation that he was far less a man than in his youth. Longing for his glory days and seeing opportunity when his two enemies were fighting, joined the war on the frontlines. And stalemated. Claimed the position of Headmaster of Hogwarts after striking up a shaky alliance with Dark Lord Harry to oust their mutual foe. Has delved further past the boundaries of magic than anyone, and thus embodies the trait of Knowledge.
Dark Lord Albus
The Greatest Wizard of Modern Times, The Lord of Carrauntoohil Mountain, One of Three, Call Me The Light Lord, Call Him Dick*
Forced to the frontlines when his protégé/sacrificial lamb deserted then formed a third faction. Seek to bring back peace and freedom to Magical Britain. His history and various past machinations, re-framed in a new light, earned him the title of Dark Lord. Arguably the most powerful of the three, nevertheless would have perished in 1996 had his counterparts not immediately betray each other at the moment of imminent victory. Set in his ways, yet understands the most minute of nuances in the magic he wields. Held the two rising stars at bay by sheer capability, and so embodies the trait of Skill.
*Do not call him Dick. Only two people in Magical Britain can survive making that joke.
Author's Notes: …This doesn't look like Yakuza Arc. It's not even a RWBY story!
I'd rather not see the idea sit for a year unwritten, though, so here we are.
Is this Haphne? Well, no idea. Humor takes importance over romance at the moment, and that was just Dark Lord Tom's perspective on things. Fleur Delacour is popping in at some point. Not a harem, that's all I know.