Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Keywords: M/F, M/M anal
Author: W R Jenkins
Title: Potter: Voldemort's Worst Memory



   Disclaimer:(standard) Do not screw up.  Do not do anything illegal. 
This includes specifically (but not limited to) reading on if you are under
18- 21 in some localities If you are underage you must leave now.  If
you're young and curious, this is not the place to get the straight story.
You act like this and people will look at you strange and give you a wide
berth.  Also, don't try this at home.  Some of this stuff is just plain
wrong, most of it is unsafe in the present viral climate and some of it
doesn't work in this universe.  They are stories.  They deal with ideas,
fantasies and thoughts that might not even be pleasant in real life. 
Thoughts are like that.  Fantasies are there so we can toy with the
sensations without feeling or inflicting the pain, despair or humiliation.
End Sermon.

   Untold Hogwarts: Voldemort's Worst Memory - (HPmemory.txt) Pretty
twisted to call it fan fiction but- fair and balanced- that's the motto
It's not to say this freak likes Voldemort, but he is the main character
and that's just wrong.  It's also 60 years ago and who cares about back
then?  M/F, M/M, anal

   "Who's Rat Mom?" Avery asks as he looks over Tom's shoulder at the words
scratched out at the top of the parchment.  "I love lord rat mom?"

   "Bugger off," Riddle snarls as he hastily covers up his work.  This is
his private project and they can all be buggered if they think to see it
half done.  Rat mum, indeed, and not even rat mum- rat mom.

   As if he loved anyone's mum.  As if he loved anyone.  That doxy
Lestrange keeps chatting up- Bellatrix, he might do her, but for sport and
not because he cared about the bug-eyed freak.

   The whole matter is tepid and wasteful, Tom thinks.  From the first it
was never the boringly ordinary that excited him.  His expermients, though
admittedly childish and uninformed, had proved that even in his childhood.

   Sex organs had little to do with pleasure as he had proved with Amy
Benson in a dark cave by the sea.  The interesting part was how she
screamed and struggled, even caught in the fascination he now knows was
magic, as he pushed his penis inside her.

   It wasn't the vague rubbing, which was little more relief than
scratching an itch; it was seeing her horror as he made her do what she
didn't want.  Dennis Bishop was only another lesson.  He didn't fancy a
bugger.  It was only that he was an explorer and had to explore all
possibilities to eliminate them.

   He will admit that Dennis's smooth, round, unsullied buttocks were less
repulsive to him than some slash where Amy appeared to have been butchered
of what she should have there.  But that was because they appeared more
untouched, left for him alone to defile, he argues.

   And he didn't enjoy it, not like the others say sex is enjoyable.  He
enjoyed the feeling of ripping.  He enjoyed, as he did with Amy, the
screams, the struggle, the feeling of them powerless in his control.  That
was pleasure.  That was power and no other thing the body could provide
could match the pure sweetness of a mind content.

   He sends the letters swirling- I drove a troll mom?  He sighs.  It isn't
going as quickly as he thought.  There's that damn 'mom' part and that's
the last thing he wants to see on the page.

   "Come along, Tom, we're off to see Lestrange at work," Nott invites him
from the door of the Slytherin House.  "This will be great!"

   They will not fall in line as quickly if they feel no connection, Tom
reminds himself as he waves his wand to erase his work and gets up from the
desk.  It is an imposition, but such is the burden of the great, he sighs.

   Horsey.  Bellatrix is much too long in the waist and slender on both
ends.  No breasts to speak of, if he were in the habit of speaking of them,
and hips only wide enough to not be a boy's.  Riddle is bored already.

   He had a flicker of interest as she protested when Lestrange started
removing her clothes, but that was only false protest to make him randy. 
It is too evident that her argument now is meant to incite him.  Sham can't
stir a man like real unwillingness.

   He imagines it has a point- for some, but he doesn't see it.  Nott and
Mulciber have their parts out and are wanking furiously.  They seem to
taste the sweet fruit of the forbidden, but this is much too mundane to be
forbidden to Tom Riddle.  So little is forbidden to greatness.  It is the
sadness of of being superior.

   He resigns himself to sit and watch Lestrange over Bellatrix, his
buttocks bouncing up and down.  It is less interesting than bugs in the
same activity and hardly as much as a juggler at the circus.  He certainly
feels no excitement.

   However, he lets his mind wander, if this Bellatrix was squirming like a
bug on a stick...  If she were wriggling her sick needs as if with a lover-
but with no one there.  If she was to never know...

   He feels a stir.  Not in his lower parts, certainly, but along the back
of his neck as if he has felt a chill.  That, he thinks, that could be
interesting.

   He has long known of his bloodline.  Not many Marvolos pop up in the
Pure Blood Registry.  He has pursued it in secret, not ready to announce it
until he has found a satisfactory way to shed his Muggle father's name.  He
doesn't know Merope, but that is no matter.

   He doesn't have to specify his ancestor to instill awe in the kind of
muck that fawns on him.  He withholds it mysteriously and that serves as
more proof than any document could.  They're wankers for the most part, but
he needs them to trod on in his climb.  That's simply the way it's done.

   No one dares question him, even now.  Among his peers at least.  With
one eye out for the interefering Dumbledore, he can move at will.  If it
means he prefers the girl's lavatory to relieve himself, it is no business
but his own.

   It leads him to his great discovery in Hogwarts.  He notices the snake
on the spigot.  Why hello there, he addresses it in Parseltongue.  What a
nice boy you are.

   The snake, of course, does not answer politely when addressed.  This is
the height of rudeness and not to be tolerated by the great Riddle.  Come
on then, he hisses, you have something to say or are you another useless
lump?

   He is not mad.  It amuses him to practice his imperious manner.  It
makes him feel it is more real than just in his head.  You can open up to
me, he confides to the spigot.

   For an instant he is not sure what is happening.  He was in a private
space and to have, as it seems, the world split open, fills him with the
dread of discovery.  His wand is out and he looks wildly around as the
sinks open and lower into the floor to reveal the opening.

   He does not immediately settle on the Chamber of Secrets.  It is one of
his suspicions, for the fact Parseltongue opened it.  He has long been able
to descend quickly and smoothly.  He knew it as a child when he took Amy
and Dennis to the cave.  He glides down the shaft and finds the chamber at
the end.

   No need to have a conversation with the door.  Open, he commands in
Parseltongue.  It does.  He enters, wand alight and walks down the hall to
the great bust of Slazar Slytherin.  He knows it's the Chamber now.

   The monster he has yet to see.  Then it emerges.  He is taken by the way
it slithers out of Slytherin's mouth.  Parseltongue made flesh, he thinks,
what a clever idea.  Then he senses his peril.

   He has no fear of snakes.  They are his servants, but the eyebeams of a
Basilisk- that's another matter.  Stop, he commands.  Do not look on me.

   Who are you?  the Basilisk hisses.

   Well, no need to tell him my real name and a fine time to announce itto
someone- or something at least.  I am the Heir of Slytherin, Tom says
grandly.

   Snakes being snakes and not really thinkers, the Basilisk responds to
the voice.  It should also be considered that Parseltongue is a strong
argument, so the monster doesn't seem too lame.

   Poor Myrtle, victim of opportunity - or responsible for her own fate? 
To be fair, Tom is stalking a victim, the prepared Diary in hand.  He does
intend to tease Myrtle in the guise of comforting her, but she provides the
trigger.

   "What do you know about it?" Myrtle snaps when Tom asks what is the
matter, "You're just a homeless boy with no parents!"

   Well, noise- always irritable Myrtle about to tell them to go awayyellow
eyes- dead- Horcrux.  Tom feels something like satisfaction at the tug of
his soul being rent.  Now that's sex!  he thinks.

   Dartmoor!  Dartmoor moville.  Momentarily excited by that popping out of
the scrambled letters, Tom is returned to a funk as 'moville' resists
turning into anything interesting, let alone suitable.  He is distracted by
wiping the parchment as he hears the footsteps.

   "Time Tom!" he hears Dolohov crow.

   Oh yes, very worthy, very well-planned.  Just the right assignment of
duties and so smoothly done- if they weren't doing it to him!  Rosier has
his wand.  The beefy Mulciber and Dolohov have his arms and he's forced
down on the table.  He is restrained and left only with his wits.

   Seeing who he faces, it is hardly a fair contest, but one that might
provide sport.

   "Oho, you have me," Tom says.  "How well done.  Did it take you long to
think of it?  Imagine, only five of you overpowering me unaware.  You must
be proud.  Now what?  In this position I can only imagine you intend to
bugger me.  Is that it?  Are you all buggerers?"

   "It's tradition," Avery says apologetically, but making Tom's blood
freeze.

   "We all go through it," Nott says as he draws down Tom's drawers.

   "We're not queer or anything," Rosier says and lunges forward.

   He will kill them all.  He will get a snake and feed them to it.  They
will die screaming and begging for mercy.  And they will do it gratefully,
taking pride in their stupid loyalty!  Tom can do no more than rail with
his imagined revenge as Rosier's penis rips painfully into his rectum.

   It's everything he derides about sex, bothersome and pointless- except
to rouse his murderous rage.  And excepting that it's bothersomely painful.

   They've planned this bit as well.  Rosier, obviously, went first because
he would do the least damage.  When Avery rams into Tom's arse it is as if
Rosier had not gone before.  Avery is larger and it hurts as much.

   They're not even having the pleasure of it.  Their intent is to ravage
him with a thrust or two and then give way.  They're trying to show him his
place.  Well- UNRRRGGHH!!- I'll show them my place when they let me up.

   Nott- Avery and Rosier sit on his arm as Mulciber takes his turn.  Then
they all hold him for Dolohov.  The first glimpse of Voldemort's red eyes
comes as Tom strains at Dolohov's thrust.  There are broken blood vessels
that make his brown eyes swim in a sea of red.

   Dolohov is not content to merely conquer.  Tom feels his bowels heave as
Dolohov drives into his arse.  Dolohov is intent on ruining him.  He lets
his natural instinct to maim and cripple free as he thrusts his out-sized
member into Tom.

   When it it done, Tom is beyond the immediate revenge he planned.  He is
physically weak and feels too ill to stir.  Rosier holds his wand for
safe-keeping.

   "No hard feelings now, Tom, just tradition," Avery says again.

   "Try and take it back and you'll have worse," Dolohov threatens.

   It's not a memory.  It never happened.  Tom denies it to the depth of
what's left of his soul.  It's not his worst memory because he doesn't
remember it all.

   I am Lord -- Dovmeltor!  no, nice end though- Melvodtor?  Dromvelto? 
Voldemort?  Bugger!  That will have to do.  Tom needs a new name now.  I am
Lord Voldemort!  Grows on you, he thinks.  I'll kill anyone that doesn't
like it.

   "Why Tom, you are a smooth one, you know I'm seeing Rodolphus, don't
you?" Bellatrix purrs.

   "But you don't mind, do you?" he is at his most charming.

   "I suppose not, Tom," she says, regarding him with her owl-like gaze. 
"You said it was to talk?"

   "Yes," he says hastily, "And the first thing is that I don't go by Tom
anymore.  So ordinary a name, don't you think?"

   "You're the first I've told," he says, drawing her closer, "I've
rearranged a bit.  It works out to: I am Lord Voldemort!"

   "Lord?" Bellatrix looks at his poor clothing.  "Voldemort?  Well, I
suppose.  But do we call you Lord or Voldy or what?"

   Voldemort, so newly named, chokes back his rage at her presumption. 
She's a misshapen whore with lantern eyes.  How dare she question him?  He
answers smoothly.

   "My Lord or the Dark Lord will do," he says.  "But you can call me
Master."

   He speaks the last coquettishly and Bellatrix giggles.

   "Why Tom...  I mean Master, whatever do you mean to do to me?" she asks
longingly.

   Watch you squirm on the end of a long, pointy stick, he thinks.

   "Oh!  My Lord!  Master!  What pleasure!  Ahhh!"

   It is as he imagined.  Forever sullied by letting Lestrange touch her,
he has no desire for her even as sport.  But he does enjoy watching her
flop and wriggle on the floor before him.

   As she twists and squirms in the passion she deceives herself as
experiencing, he lifts her naked, gross body to the vertical.  With his
wand, of course, he has no intention of touching her.  He can even make her
think she pleases him.  It is the greatest deception of all.  He owns her
thought and soul and it warms him.

   Now one more thing, he thinks.  Those damn eyes.  Cover those damn eyes.
He tightens his grip on his wand and her lids are forced down.  The wand
shakes with the force of his grip and the lids quiver as sinews snapforever
to droop where he's put them.

   Lord Voldemort has recuited his first convert.
   ###