During those early years, I had a lot of time to think.
From a few expeditions into the Wizarding World, I cobbled together the state of things. I had obviously vanished, and my followers had either been arrested or rejected me. Meanwhile, everyone believed that Harry Potter was an amazing and incredibly talented child (a not inaccurate belief).
I'll admit that I'd grown weary of being a Dark Lord. It was boring, the Death Eaters were annoying, and I had no particular interest in reigning over a nation of mindless sheep. There was a certain charm to fighting against Dumbledore – the wily fool – and murder is a good stress-reliever. But perhaps it was time to discard my previous life. This new identity could open doors that my previous self had foolishly closed long ago.
It was time to return to my first dream:
Teaching.
...
To be honest, I hadn't planned on the whole Dark Lord thing. It just sort of happened.
I'd always wanted to be a professor, either of Defense Against the Dark Arts or just of the Dark Arts. The latter wasn't exactly taught at Hogwarts, however, and Hogwarts was my first true home. My greatest desire was to return to it and live there. Forever.
With my original Horcruxes created and hidden away, I might have become as much a fixture of the school as poor, idiotic Binns. That dream was crushed by Dumbledore. His first official act as Headmaster was to deny me the position. After a very strenuous job interview, I might add. Offended and heartbroken, I cursed the DADA post and stormed out of the castle.
So there I was: depressed, unemployed, and increasingly intoxicated. I slumped across the Hog's Head's bar, accompanied by a few of my old Slytherin buddies. We were reminiscing, telling racist jokes, and complaining about all the Muggleborns stealing our jobs. At some point, we got onto the topic of the abysmal education provided by Hogwarts. Turning away a young, eager, intelligent – if slightly evil – job applicant showed a startling lack of foresight.
"Kids nowadays don't know anything," I slurred. "I bet the six of us could take out every one of the half-wits they're graduating and show them exactly how much they suck at defending against the Dark Arts. Then they'd have to hire me."
That's the last thing I remember of that night.
A few days later, I woke up in an alley with a pounding headache. By the time I'd gotten home and downed a hangover potion, The Prophet had arrived. In my drunken haze, I'd killed six Ministry workers and declared myself the Dark Lord Voldemort (I never would have picked that name had I been sober).
Once you've done something like that, it's exceedingly difficult to get a job around children. I know. I tried.
The next several years were spent struggling to legitimize my movement. I commissioned uniforms, made inquiries with Europe's darker creatures, cobbled together an ideological banner with which to rally new recruits...Recreating the Dark Mark alone took me nearly six months. Natural genius aside, I have no idea how I managed that while smashed.
My power base was entrenched in the Pureblood, Slytherin alumni as my drinking companions benefitted greatly from convincing their allies to join me. Not only were they tied to my will with dark magic, but they were also desperate to cover up the details of our drunken escapade. An embarrassment like that would be a crippling blow to their rapidly declining oligarchy.
In retrospect, the situation could have been worse. I might have joined forces with dozens of pompous fools and admitted cowards, but at least I was their leader and therefore best.
...
I stroked the parchment of my Hogwarts letter with fondness.
The youngest Dursley nearly wet himself at the deranged smile on my face. That was an expression usually reserved for our little "chats" (These usually involved quite a bit more screaming than chatting. Still, I always healed him at the end, so it's not like he has anything to complain about).
My "loving" relatives were more than happy to ship me off to Hogwarts where I would be far, far away from them. The desire was mutual. Even with training, the three were barely tolerable.
If I'd known the scar would be this much trouble, I would have worn a hat. I slammed the door shut on a particularly persistent fan. Sure, I liked groveling as much as the next dark lord, but for a stranger to actually try and kiss my robes? Honestly! Whatever happened to keeping a respectful, reverent distance?
Wandlessly locking the door of the shabby, silent shop, I took a moment to catch my breath.
"Good afternoon," a voice murmured. I practically jumped out of my skin. How in Merlin's name had he snuck up on me?
"Mr. Ollivander," I said to the pale eyed, elderly man. Nearly fifty years had passed since I'd last seen him, yet he hadn't aged a day. Clearly I wasn't the only immortal wizard in Britain. I quashed the urge to ask him how he'd done it.
"Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." He spoke my name with a strange emphasis.
While I pondered the wandmaker's dark secrets, the man chattered inanely about nothing in particular. His mask of absentminded insanity was admirable. He handed me one wand and another and another still. Before I could even give them a wave, he snatched them from my hand. He proceeded to do this with every wand in the bloody shop. If I hadn't been certain he'd taken precautions against such paltry attacks, I might have stabbed him with one of his wares. I was Lord Voldemort, for Merlin's sake! I could easily force the cooperation of even an unsuitable wand.
An unsettling glint appeared in Ollivander's silvery eyes. Mumbling to himself, he dug out a holly wand. It hummed beneath my fingertips, warm to the touch. Unconsciously, I smiled at the familiar sensation and swung the wand around in a rain of colorful sparks.
Wrapping it up, he muttered. "Curious…curious…"
I was beginning to suspect something was curious. I inquired, with careful politeness, "Curious?"
"Curious," he agreed. He rambled on about my wand for some time before finally coming to a point. "It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother – why, its brother gave you that scar."
"What a coincidence," I squeaked.
He stared at me intently, and I could feel my stomach drop. He knew. I could see it in his watchful eyes, the taunting tilt of his head. Ollivander knew exactly who I was or, more precisely, who I wasn't. My gaze darted to the wrapped wand in his hand. If I was fast, I could probably grab it, kill him, and run in a minute, maybe less. I'd have preferred to avoid murder for a few more years, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
Seemingly unaware of my frantic thoughts, Ollivander continued, "I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter…After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things – terrible, yes, but great."
…Was he supporting me? That sounded suspiciously like a compliment. I said, "Thank you, sir, for the help."
"Anytime, Harry Potter," the man rasped.
...
Stepping into the train station as the Dursleys' car squealed away, I had never been happier. I was returning to Hogwarts, and it had been far too long since I'd been home.