Blitz

A/N: This is one of those one-shots that could have gone into Scribble Pad, and I still welcome anyone who wants to write a continuation, but I thought this one was complete enough to stand on its own. The premise is that instead of ending in May of 1941, the Blitz lasts a full year, into September, and a fourteen-year-old Tom Riddle is stuck in London for the summer.

This story was inspired by conversations with mcepl, who has written a spin-off of Animagus at War, and I thank them for their work.

September 1941

The Welcome Feast at Hogwarts was subdued, as it had been for the past several years, but this year, it was worse. Open war had finally come to the shores of Britain—mostly in the form of muggle bombs, but stories spread of dark deeds done in the name of Gellert Grindelwald by agents hiding within the country. On the Continent, they said, things were far worse.

Even Pureblood students returning to school were shaken, with many of them having seen the effects of the war near their homes, even protected as they were behind their wards. Many of them spoke in harsh terms about some aspect of the war or other, but no one, it seemed, was angrier than a certain fourth-year Slytherin named Tom Riddle.

Tom Riddle was a study in contradictions: fourteen-years old, but with a bearing beyond his years. Handsome and talented, but of uncertain parentage. He couldn't prove any magical heritage except for being able to speak to snakes, putting him in an awkward limbo with his housemates. He tried very hard not to let anyone know that he lived in a muggle orphanage during the summer, for though he was raised muggle, he utterly rejected them. Tonight, however, he had larger concerns on his mind.

Tom glared up at the High Table as he picked at his food, not having much appetite tonight. There was Dumbledore, that bleeding heart who could end the war tomorrow if he wished, if you believed the Gryffindors, but he didn't. There were rumours that Grindelwald had some kind of hold over him, but no one knew if they were true. Slughorn was useful and amicable, but also wishy-washy and a coward. The others—Merrythought, Kettleburn, Binns—none were terrible, but none were useful to him either at this stage.

The worst, though, was old man Armando Dippet. He was the one who ruined everything—the one who couldn't be bothered to care enough about his students to actually listen to them. Well, this time, he wouldn't let it go.

He bided his time through the dinner. Finally, after the pudding disappeared, Dippet stood to give the announcements. "Welcome to Hogwarts," he said in his frail voice. "It is good to see all of you back. I have a few announcements before we head off to bed. I must remind you that no magic is to be used in the corridors between classes. The Forbidden Forest on the grounds is off limits to all students unless accompanied by a professor. Quidditch tryouts will be held on the first Saturday of term…

"And I understand that this year has been difficult for many of you," he went on. "To be sure, these are troubled times—"

And Tom took his opening. "Troubled times?" he called out, standing up. "You dare sit up here, safe in your castle, and call it 'troubled times'?"

"What? Mr. Riddle!" Dippet said indignantly.

Tom was already stalking up to the front of the Great Hall. He could hear the whispers rising around him. "It is war out there, Headmaster! Even now, the bombs are falling. You watch from afar and say how sad it is, but what about us? Not all of us live safe behind wards and magical concealment. You have no right to speak to those of us who have heard them falling around us when you won't lift a finger to help."

"Mr. Riddle, what is this? What supposed negligence are you prattling on about?" Dippet snapped.

"Don't you remember sir, when I asked last spring if I could say at Hogwarts for the summer? You brushed me off like a naive child. You said the school was closed for the summer, and just because the magical war hasn't come to our shores, you thought there was no risk. You said, wouldn't you you be happier to go home for the holidays, and sent me on my way."

"You live in a—?" he began.

"A muggle orphanage. Yes, I admit it," Tom said. He could hear exclamations of surprise from the Slytherin Table, but he kept going. "An orphanage in London, where the worst of the bombs are falling. And that orphanage is a dismal place at the best of times. I've never liked it since I was born, and I certainly don't now when its at risk of being blown sky-high every third night."

"Tom, I think that's quite enough," Dumbledore said, rising to his feet. "You've made your point."

"Shouldn't you be off fighting Grindelwald, Professor?" Tom said simperingly. "That's what your own house says, isn't it, sir? Any day now, you'll pop off to Germany and end this madness, won't you, sir?"

Dumbledore's face fell. Of course, he didn't have an answer, especially as the Gryffindors were looking up at him expectantly.

"Enough!" Dippet cut in. "Five points from Slytherin for your disrespect, Mr. Riddle. There's no need for such theatrics. Surely, you must understand that Hogwarts is in the same position as muggle boarding schools. Students are to go home for summer holidays—"

"No, because children at muggle boarding schools just bloody stayed there!" he shouted. "If the Ministry of Health knew you were sending children back into a war zone without cause, they'd have you out on your arse. Sir." People gasped, especially the other teachers, but he pressed his advantage. "There are hardly any children in London, now. All who have somewhere to go have been sent to the countryside for the duration. But not all orphanages have anywhere to send them. I was stuck down there for the summer, when you could have easily made accommodations here."

Professor Dippet was furious by now, along with several of the other teachers. (Slughorn, at least, was stolidly neutral.) Tom could tell he was just at the point of building up a good head of steam when he was interrupted from an unexpected quarter.

"He's right, Professor," a small, high voice piped up. "None of us should have gone back." He spun around. A round-faced girl with thick glasses whom he recognised as a second-year Ravenclaw had stood up. He remembered dismissing her as whiny, boring loser last year, not to mention she was a Mudblood. He was surprised to see her standing up for herself.

"Oh, shut up, Myrtle," one of the other girls said.

"No, Olive! You don't know what it's like out there. When…when I arrived back in London this summer…I didn't have a home to go to," she said, sniffling. "It was destroyed by the bombs. Mother said she wrote you three times asking if I could stay, Professor! Or if there was someplace else I could go, but you only sent her a form response. She didn't want to come back to London herself, but she had to to get me."

Oh, now this was getting interesting, Tom thought. It seemed there were others Dippet had wronged just like him.

"I was stuck in London too, Professor." A Hufflepuff boy stood up in solidarity. "My mum's a witch, but we couldn't leave the city because of dad's job. Dad wanted to ask if I could stay too, but Mum said there was no point because Hogwarts was never open in the summer."

A half-blood too? he thought. This was going even better than he'd expected.

"My brother and I were in Birmingham," another said. "It wasn't as bad as London, but there were still bombings there."

More people stood up. It seemed half the Mudbloods in the school had either wanted to stay at Hogwarts for the duration or were at least angry the choice wasn't available, and some of their friends stood to support them. One boy even revealed he had been wounded in one of the bombings and still walked with a limp. Tom turned around slowly, memorising their faces. For the first time, he considered the Mudbloods in a new light and began mentally laying plans. Perhaps they could be useful.

Dumbledore still managed to save the evening. When it was clear the tide was turning, he found his stride again and said, "That is enough, everyone," he said. "I think it's clear we have been negligent this past summer, and I want to apologise personally for my part in it. I could have done more. I will be speaking to the Board of Governors to see if we can keep the castle open for next summer. Now, I think, it is time for a good night's rest. Don't you agree, Headmaster?"

Tom rolled his eyes as Dippet dismissed them. Dumbledore would probably follow through, Mudblood-lover that he was. But he wouldn't forget the look in Dippet's eyes. The old man was not happy about being so openly defied. Tom had lost a lot of favour with him tonight. He wouldn't forget that in the coming year when Dippet gave him detention for trivial matters, or when he was passed over for prefect. But he didn't need to be a prefect. He had other ways of gaining influence with his peers, and Slughorn still liked him either way. He had plans to make.

On of Tom's first acts was to speak to Norbert Leach, a seventh-year Ravenclaw Mudblood with serious political ambitions. Or muggle-born, perhaps he should be saying if he was going to be talking to them regularly.

"Hey, Leach, can I talk to you?" he called when he caught him in the corridor.

"Oh, sure, Riddle," Leach said. "Hey, I wanted to say thanks for sticking up for us at the Welcome Feast. They really should've kept the school open for the summer. I'll be honest; I wasn't expecting that from a Slytherin."

"Well, I've recently had a change in perspective," Tom said, showing what he hoped was a natural smile. "Were you in London, too?"

"No, I'm from a small town; no bombs. But a lot of people this summer asked me how old I was and if I was going to enlist."

"Yes, I heard that from a couple old ladies who couldn't see well enough to tell how old I was. But that's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Oh? What do you mean?"

"How much can you tell me about muggle weaponry, military tactics, power—that kind of thing? I tried to avoid it as much as possible over the summer, and I've only just started to think I should be paying closer attention. If the war is coming to us, we ought to be better informed, don't you think?"

Leach looked surprised, as if he hadn't thought much about that himself. "Yes, I suppose that we should," he said. "I don't know that I'm an expert myself, but I can write my dad for some books. You were raised muggle, right?" Tom nodded. "So you do know what guns are, and so forth?"

"I know they shoot bullets," Tom offered.

"Eh, good enough. Sure, I can give you a short course. I'll let you know when I get the books."

Predictably, Tom's housemates were less than amused by his new studies.

"Consorting with Mudbloods, now, Mr. Heir of Slytherin?" sneered Walburga Black. Walburga was a sixth-year who thought she ruled the roost and was the most mindlessly blood purist person he knew. Tom grumbled silently. This would be so much easier if he could track down real proof that he was the Heir. If he could find Slytherin's secret chamber, then he'd really show them.

"We should've known, what with you growing up in a muggle orphanage," she kept going. "You can try to be a proper Slytherin, but you can't wash the stink off so easily."

"Black, shut your mouth. Your stupidity is showing," he snapped back.

Of course, this didn't work. She jumped to her feet and drew her wand. "How dare you!"

Tom casually pulled out his own wand and twirled it in his fingers. "Please, I could beat you any day of the week," he said. It was only half a bluff. An average sixth-year, definitely, but she probably knew a few extra old, dark spells. "And for your information, my dear Walburga, it is just this sort of closed-mindedness that will be our downfall if we aren't careful. I am educating myself about the dangers muggles can pose so I can be better prepared to deal with them."

"What, like their bombs?" Walburga said. "In case you haven't heard, Riddle, once you're done here, you won't have to worry about them."

People were gathering around to watch the fight, and Tom took the initiative: "Don't be so naive. If wizards are to conquer the muggle world like Lord Grindelwald wants, we need people who understand the muggles and their weapons. Grindelwald himself has been warning us about their power for fifteen years. He isn't ignorant of them. We shouldn't be either. But Slytherin House doesn't seem to have learnt that yet. I never liked muggles even when I thought I was one, and even I know more about muggle warfare than you lot."

He looked around the room at the real power players. "What say you? Lestrange? Rosier? Dolohov? Malfoy? Do you think we can just keep ignoring the muggles like we have been?"

Walburga Black continued sneering at him, but as she looked around for support, she quickly found she didn't have as much as she'd hoped. The boys he'd called out were keeping their faces carefully neutral, but many of their housemates were muttering darkly about Grindelwald's rhetoric and the threat of muggles. Walburga wasn't happy about it. From what the older students said, the Blacks really did rule Slytherin House a decade ago, when there were half a dozen of them at Hogwarts at any one time, but this year, there were only two, and it wasn't enough to keep control. (And personally, Tom thought Walburga was a little too friendly with her twelve-year-old cousin, Orion.)

She wasn't done, though. "Learning from Mudbloods, though, Riddle?"

"They have their uses," he said casually.

"But what of their loyalty? Not to mention yours? Mudbloods are all wallowers in the end. They're too attached to their precious muggle families and society to serve properly in ours."

"Are they?" he said. "They're more complex than you think. They have levers we can turn. The muggles have suffered two devastating global wars in as many generations, and it looks like it's only going to get worse. Most of the Mudbloods would want wizards to take over too if it'll make the bombs stop falling. That's a motivation that makes them useful to us."

Tom scanned the room again and saw more people nodding along with him. "Useful" was something Slytherins understood. Yes, he could work with this.

July 1944

Tom Riddle wasn't planning to return to Hogwarts for his seventh year. He was originally going to, but after the muggle invasion of France, it looked like if was going to be any help in the war, he would need to go now.

He'd had a productive three years up in Scotland. He'd finally identified his family. The magical side hadn't attended Hogwarts in over a century, which was why they'd been so hard to find. He'd also tracked down the Chamber of Secrets. Some idiot had renovated it into a girl's lavatory at some point. Showing the basilisk within to a few choice Slytherins had firmly cemented his status as the Heir, but he'd refrained from killing anyone, not even that obnoxious little Myrtle Warren. He'd saved that honour for his muggle father.

Tom had become more pragmatic over the past three years. For one, he saw that many muggle-borns were more valuable to him alive. For another, he was paying more attention to the goings-on in the world at large, and a good thing, too, or he would have missed this opportunity.

He'd made his way across Europe, slipping past allied and enemy lines alike to reach deep into Germany. Careful enquiries had directed him to an extremely upscale hotel in Cologne, and after passing through layers of security including being blindfolded and led through a magically-altered interior, he was brought to a stateroom that was converted into a war room. Tom knelt down before the man inside.

"Rise, Tom Riddle," said Gellert Grindelwald.

Tom stood and looked at Grindelwald's face—the face that had been plastered on Wanted posters the world over for twenty years, pale, white-haired, with one blue eye and one black, and the sharp look of a keen intellect (and probably some Legilimency).

"Yes, I have heard of you from my agents in Britain," Grindelwald guessed or read his immediate question. "A very talented young man, and very shrewd, they tell me."

Tom wondered, were any of his followers among Grindelwald's agents? It wouldn't be disastrous, but he would prefer to have control of the information. But if Grindelwald read this thought, he didn't say it. "Why have you come to me, young Tom? I can't have been easy to find."

"I…I have come to pledge my service to you, Lord Grindelwald," Tom said. "Your cause—it is the best hope for the magical world."

"For both worlds, Tom," he said. "Für das Größere Wohl. I seek to rule the muggles for their own good, for look what they do to themselves in the absence of proper control." He motioned out the window, as if to show him the whole world of bloodshed taking place hundreds and thousands of miles away.

"I've already seen more than I care to of that, sir," Tom replied, dipping his head slightly. "The muggles certainly need controlling. There are even muggle-borns who feel the same way."

"Are there, now? I have heard some muggle-borns speak thus. Well, if you serve me loyally, you will make a fine addition to my army. But the question is, what will your place be? A common fighter? No, no common wizard. Few people would take the initiative to cross half of Europe to find me even before they have finished school. So I do have to wonder, what do you want from this, Tom?"

He was ready for that. "Personally?" Tom said. "Armando Dippet's head on a platter. Also, your knowledge and training if you'll have me. But beyond that, I told you I want what you want: an end to the Statute of Secrecy—and end to this senseless violence where we skulk in the shadows while the muggles kill each other, and we're the ones caught in the crossfire."

Grindelwald's mouth quirked into a small smile. "Dippet's head is yours when we reach him," he said. "But my personal training is not so cheap. What can you offer me in exchange for this, young Tom? I welcome followers, but you still haven't finished school."

Tom smiled back. "I was at the top of my class for O.W.L.s. My knowledge of the Dark Arts was unmatched at Hogwarts, except for Albus Dumbledore. I have power. Followers of my own, both pureblood and muggle-born. Experience surviving in a muggle war zone…I also happen to know the location of an adult basilisk, and I have the ability to control it."

Grindelwald's eyebrows rose. "A basilisk? Those are very rare, and powerful. Where could you have found such a beast?"

"A secret chamber underneath Hogwarts built by Salazar Slytherin himself. And not even Albus Dumbledore can find it because only a Parselmouth can enter."

"I would advise you not to underestimate Dumbledore," he said coldly. He sprang into action, striding over to the table on which his battle plans were laid out. He shuffled them around and began drawing lines on a blank page. "We should move it to a safer location so that it is not unexpectedly snatched away from us." He looked Tom in the eye. "Do this for me, and I will train you," he said. He snapped his wrist, and Tom's wand, which he had had to hand away to the guards, appeared in his hand. He nodded slightly, and Tom took it back. "Do this, and you will be honoured among wizards forever, Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Tom was clearly intrigued, but he flinched at the sound of his name. "I don't want that name anymore, Lord Grindelwald," he said. "It belonged to my muggle father. I will be…Lord Voldemort."

Grindelwald stared at him. "No, you won't," he said flatly. "That sounds ridiculous. In fact…did you just rearrange the letters in your name to come up with that?"

Tom's eyes widened. He figured it out that fast? And he'd thought that was a really intimidating name.

"Childish," Grindelwald said. "Childish and foolish. You can do so much better. If you have such pride in your heritage, you ought to show it properly. Take the name of your noble ancestor. Become Thomas Slytherin. Or Marvolo, if you prefer. Now—" He motioned back to his battle plans. "—will you join me in this sacred mission?"

Thomas Slytherin nodded.

The world would never be the same.