3 CH3 - Edmund Cole

Every person has probably experienced that one night of sleep as a child that despite being extremely long and undisturbed, left them feeling jarred after waking up. They woke up with none of the satisfaction that sleep ought to bring, only stiffness and leftover fatigue.

Mentioning 'as a child' is key, for the adults can probably better associate the feeling with a particularly bad hangover, or the more adventurous, the morning after a drug-fueled bender.

That is precisely how the unknown soul now residing in Tom Riddle Jr.'s body felt as it regained consciousness after countless millennia of inactivity and monotony in the void.

'Ah shit, I swore I would give up drinking after the last time!' he cursed himself as he clutched his head in an attempt to quell the mother of all headaches. 'You stupid motherfucker ______ ______' he continued, before pausing.

'Wait... my name... Why can't I remember? Who am I?!' he thought frantically, panicking as he realized his memories were hazier than he had ever experienced in the past. 'What the hell did I take last night?! C'mon, c'mon, think!' he yelled mentally as he smacked his head over and over again.

'Right! Right,' he calmed himself down. 'Tom Riddle, your name is Tom Riddle, you're eleven years old, and you like torturing your bullies,' he reminded himself as if reading out a shopping list.

'... What the fuck?!' he began panicking once more. 'No the fuck I do not!' he vehemently denied as he hyperventilated.

'Talking to yourself is like the first sign of insanity or something isn't it,' he thought as he tried to slow his breathing.

Bang!

It was akin to a seal being snapped in his mind. Memories flooded through his brain of Tom Riddle Jr. and the life he had lived so far. As his recollection slowed to a halt, another stream of memories began, more fuzzy and vague, supplementing his knowledge of his current situation.

'I'm some sort of protagonist, huh?' he deliberated. 'I could have at least been put in the good guy's body. What do you do as the psychopathic villain?' he grumbled jokingly internally while trying to come to grips with reality.

"So you survived after all," a seemingly pleased grating voice pierced through his mental fog.

Tall, menacing, red eyes seemed to see through him while showing complete and utter apathy with a hint of madness.

'Voldemort,' his mind supplied, surprising him, especially considering his look was not at all like it was described. 'Something is very wrong here,' he concluded with more wariness than ever.

"I assume you have questions," Voldemort began after a short moment of silence. "I know I would," he smiled slightly as though he could not stop himself.

'Great,' Tom —no! not Tom!— thought. 'Voldemort's a jokester. And a bad one at that.'

"Allow me to explain," Voldemort continued.

He talked. He talked and talked and talked. Then he talked some more. Voldemort practically gave an account of his entire life before moving on to the reason why he had summoned 'not Tom' to this reality.

Voldemort clearly did not realize that things had not worked out as he proceeded, because 'not Tom' noticed there were some things Voldemort had omitted from his tale, particularly the existence of his horcruxes.

'Hmmm. Paranoid, but smart. Seems like Voldemort,' he confirmed mentally.

"Any questions?" Voldemort asked, staring at him as if to convey the consequences if 'not Tom' wasted his time. "Your Hogwarts letter will arrive soon, and I need to place you in an orphanage, alter tens of memories to an extreme degree to give you a backstory, and deal with a ridiculous amount of paperwork."

'Not Tom' gulped, before moving forward.

"Several. What am I meant to do once I reach Hogwarts?" he asked.

"Within the Chamber of Secrets, you will find the study of Salazar Slytherin hidden behind the resting place of the basilisk. The study houses not only Salazar Slytherin's work but also the heir and lord rings for house Slytherin," Voldemort instructed. "When you put on the heir ring, it will test whether you are truly Salazar's magical descendant. If it deems you worthy and senses there is an eligible living descendant of Salazar, the protections surrounding the lord ring will fall, allowing you to bring it to me."

"Be warned," Voldemort intoned gravely, "Dumbledore will have warded the primary entrance to the chamber heavily, no doubt to notify him of any intruders. Between your studies, you will need to dedicate time to searching the depths of the Forbidden Forest for the entrance the basilisk would have used for its own hunting needs."

"Are you serious?" 'not Tom' asked in disbelief. "I have no doubt that I am brilliant, but I will still be a first-year student at the end of the day. You cannot expect me to accomplish this within a year," he pleaded.

"And I do not," Voldemort said simply. "I expect you to accomplish it within two."

Voldemort put up his hand to forestall whatever complaints 'not Tom' may have wanted to voice.

"There is no use arguing with me on this. I will not bend. I have my own deadlines, as do you. Do not disappoint me, for you know the consequences if you do. If you fail at the end of the two years, I will have to resort to another method at that point," Voldemort spoke each sentence resolutely.

"Another method?" 'not Tom' questioned. "If you have another method already, why not proceed with it instead of going through all this? Even if I am you, I know we are not this trusting," he argued.

A staring match ensued between them before Voldemort finally sighed when he realized 'not Tom' was unlikely to let this go.

"Stubborn," he complained almost sulkily before straightening up once more.

"All magic, but ritual magic especially, depends heavily on the correct intent," Voldemort explained. "A ritual does exist that would allow me to return to my former glory. It calls for three primary ingredients: the bones of my father unknowingly given, the flesh of a servant willingly given, and the blood of my enemy forcibly taken. The first ingredient lies easily accessible in a graveyard. The third, Harry Potter's blood, would be a challenge to acquire but is not an impossibility. The second ingredient is the real issue," he listed off using his fingers as numbers.

"How?" 'not Tom' demanded. "You're a literal Dark Lord. If you don't have willing servants, no one does."

"Ahh, but what constitutes a servant?" Voldemort asked. "The ritual requires someone who truly believes with their whole soul that they are a servant of mine. Most of the purebloods within my faction are self-serving. While I was in power, they were happy to use me for their gain. When I was banished, none came to find me. No, they do not believe themselves to be my servants. I need someone who is fanatically loyal to me like Bellatrix Lestrange or Barty Crouch Jr, or who is deathly afraid of me like Peter Pettigrew. Alas, those I mentioned are either imprisoned, dead, or missing completely. I would not risk such an important ritual with one-third of my ingredients not being adequate. Not unless I had to."

"I... suppose I can understand that. If we're doing this, I assume you've got some plan to alter my appearance and name, especially if this Dumbledore you mentioned knows me... or us..... this well," 'not Tom' tried to confirm.

Voldemort looked at him approvingly before fading back into his blank face.

"Indeed. Your appearance can be easily dealt with using a modified polyjuice potion that will not wear off until the antidote is administered," Voldemort lectured.

"That's the potion that requires some part of the person you wish to morph into, right?" 'not Tom' cut in, trying to maintain his facade of ignorance.

"Correct. Do not interrupt me again until I am done," Voldemort warned, although he didn't look terribly angry. "As for the name, I have decided upon Edmund Cole."

"Edmund?" 'not Tom' asked with slight recognition. "Edmund, as in Gloucester's illegitimate son from 'King Lear?' Hmmm. A man who seizes every opportunity and is willing to commit to any depravity to achieve his goals. A fitting name. I'm surprised you still haven't forgotten!" he exclaimed with surprise. He hadn't pegged Voldemort as the sentimental type.

"The first book that we owned. The first thing that belonged to us," Voldemort confirmed, smiling slightly once more.

"It belonged to us because it was the only book that no-one else wanted to read," 'not Tom' —Edmund, he mentally corrected— reminded. "We were too weak at that age to take what we wanted."

"They didn't not want to read it. They simply couldn't understand words longer than five letters," Voldemort scoffed deprecatingly.

"True. But most of the kids who spent time actually at Wool's itself were less than ten if you remember. Not exactly Shakespeare's target audience. The older ones are —were—" he corrected angrily before continuing, "always out looking for work. Not that it did much good with the Depression. Besides, most kids like reading about 'brave heroes' not cunning villains," Edmund shrugged.

"We always wanted to be like Edmund," Voldemort commented.

"And we aren't exactly normal, are we? Well… I can deal with Edmund. Much better than Tom, you know," Edmund teased slightly, trying the discern how far Voldemort would allow him to push.

"It's still a muggle name at the end of the day, so don't be too happy," Voldemort hissed, although his annoyance was clearly faint.

"Other than spite, I assume that's the reason you picked it, right? A Muggle name stands out less than a Pureblood one. Especially for an orphan," Edmund reasoned.

"I'm glad to see that I wasn't misremembering the fact that I had a functional brain, even as a child," Voldemort replied, far too pleased.

'This bitch... He really can't resist praising himself...' Edmund thought in disbelief, before clearing his throat and hurriedly responding.

"Why Cole though? Mrs. Cole was always a bitch to us," Edmund grumbled whiningly, betraying his age.

"A bitch she may have been, but at least she was a bitch to everyone equally. Besides, she helped deliver us, she has a little bit of my respect," Voldemort dismissed.

Perhaps because the orphanage was a lot clearer in memory for Edmund, he still wasn't too pleased. Years of starvation tend to convert into hatred for the person responsible for feeding you, regardless of the circumstances.

Voldemort must have noticed this, as he shot Edmund a cutting glare.

"Keep your whining to yourself. I summoned you because I believed you would be a little more mature than someone else of your age. Do not prove me wrong. Cole is as good a name as any. Besides, the point is moot. I have already forged the necessary papers in your name," Voldemort said as he stood up from the tattered wingback chair he had been sitting in, the only piece of furniture in the small, enclosed stone room they were in.

'A ritual room,' Edmund concluded while he bit his tongue. He wanted to retort that Voldemort had clearly been lying earlier when he said he still had much work to do regarding Edmund's identity. However, somehow he doubted it would win him any brownie points with the Dark Lord.

"No more questions?" Voldemort stated more than asked. "Good. If the need arises, I have already hidden a communicator inside you that you can activate to communicate mentally with me at will," he spoke briskly.

'Like this,' Voldemort's voice echoed in Edmund's mind as he demonstrated.

'Weird,' Edmund thought, 'but easy enough to operate. Hey, wait a minute...'

"Do not worry. No one will be able to detect it unless they specifically go searching for it," Voldemort attempted to preempt Edmund.

This only made Edmund more worried.

"No, no, no! What do you mean by it's 'inside me?' Inside me where? And what do you mean by 'go searching' for it?" Edmund asked frantically as he twisted his neck around as if it would help him locate the device.

Voldemort looked at him with pity, further infuriating him.

"Hey! Answer me you bast—" Edmund began to shout.

Too late.

The last thing Edmund saw was a smirk on Voldemort's face, and his wand in Edmund's face glowing red.

'This bitch,' Edmund managed to think, right before he lost consciousness.