Heir Apparent By MonsieurClavier

Chapter 1

Note:
I’ve made Harry’s mind impervious to Legilimency because it is not, technically, from this time, and the timeline is protecting its secrets by keeping Harry’s mind hidden. Basically, it’s a result of time travel, not of Harry suddenly becoming a master Occlumens.

In this version of events, Voldemort murdered all the Gaunts, who were the last living Parselmouths aside from himself. No other Parselmouths exist.

Also, Harry decides to call on his Slytherin side to come up with something vaguely resembling a strategy, even though he’s still a dumbass Gryffindor who can’t stop sassing Voldemort to save his own life. Like. Literally to save his own life. Sigh.

Enjoy!

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On the eve of his thirty-seventh birthday, Voldemort received an unexpected gift.

He had just returned to Britain after journeying across the world, absorbing magical knowledge from wherever it could be found. Now, more powerful than ever, he envisioned returning to his country a conqueror. Caesar returning to Rome.

But before he reclaimed his throne—and his Death Eaters—he had to unpack. One couldn’t very well unpack some of the most dangerous Dark artefacts known to man in front of lackeys undeserving of the honour… and even more undeserving of one’s trust.

Voldemort didn’t feel much like Caesar here, amongst rotting fabric and cobwebs as thick as knotted wool, but this old corpse of a house would have to do for now. Voldemort was, despite his fearsome reputation, an expert at making do. His years at the orphanage had made him so. He would unpack, rest, prepare, and then publicly announce his return when it was most advantageous to him. It wasn’t like he was in a hurry. He had all the time in the world.

He was immortal, after all.

However, scarcely had Voldemort un-shrunk his belongings before a wind whipped violently through Riddle Manor, and produced, out of nowhere, a boy.

The boy landed on the dusty floor with a muffled, “Ouch!”

It should have been impossible. Voldemort had keyed the wards to let none pass but himself, and the strongest blood magic kept all but his blood-kin at bay. Not that he had any blood-kin. That was the point. He’d killed them all.

Nobody but Voldemort should have been able to Apparate in here. Or use a Portkey, for that matter. Mere space could not be traversed into his home… but time could. And Voldemort had felt, in that sudden wind, the brush of temporal magic. It was some of the most ancient magic there was. Ancient, but unstable.

Voldemort was no fool. His wand was out and stringing the boy up before he could so much as move. That the strings of the magical net were formed of snakes—real, live, writhing snakes—should have had the boy shrieking and shrinking away from them, but all the boy shouted was, “Shit, fuck, let go!”

And the snakes let go.

Voldemort stared.

And stared.

And realised, with a slow, shattering sort of shock, that he had just heard Parseltongue.

More staring revealed that the intruder had a mop of dark hair, similar to Voldemort’s but more untidy, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and a truly vicious glare. A glare that met Voldemort’s only to skitter away, but not before revealing that behind the glare was a well-guarded mind. Voldemort’s wordless Legilimens slid off the boy’s mind like oil, unable to find a grip. A partial body-bind held the trespasser’s physical form in place, but his mental form was ineffable, shapeless, concealed as if behind a wall of fog.