He was born in a world that feared change.
A world that would rather burn truth than question tradition. That's what they did to him—Alexander Voss, the man who cracked the final equation, who made the world tremble not with warheads or curses, but with hope.
He had discovered a clean, limitless energy source. No carbon. No combustion. No fuel. A core of synthetic starlight that could end oil, gas, coal—all of it. But the world wasn't ready.
They called him a terrorist. Said his device was unstable. Dangerous. "Nuclear-level threat," they said.
They tore his lab apart. Put him in chains. Tried him in a courtroom more like a theater, where the actors all wore masks of justice but reeked of blood money.
He didn't speak in his defense. What was there to say to men who sold the world in barrels?
And now, the man they branded a monster, sat in a gray cell with peeling walls and a rusted ceiling fan that squealed like a dying bird. A single light flickered above as he turned the final page of the last Harry Potter book. The irony didn't escape him.
"After all this time?""Always."
He closed the book. Let it rest on his chest like a tombstone. And smiled.
A guard knocked. "Time."
His last meal: Wagyu steak, lamb chops, red wine. He chewed thoughtfully, savoring it—not for the taste, but for the defiance. "Let it never be said," he whispered, "that I met death on an empty stomach."
Then came the chair.
Straps. Screws. Silence.
The warden asked if he had any last words.
Alexander smiled. "I gave the world light… and it chose the dark."
Then came the shock.
White-hot volts tearing through muscle, memory, soul——and something opened.
A voice—old and inhuman—whispered in ancient Enochian:
"The Child of Death awakens."
When he opened his eyes, he was eleven.
His bones shrank, his skin turned pale and smooth. The prison walls were gone.
He stood in a nursery of black oak, candles lit in floating sconces, and a chill danced through the air like breath on glass. The ceiling was carved with constellations. Blood runes were etched into the stone around him.
He stumbled forward, gazing at his reflection in a cracked mirror.
Not Alexander Voss anymore.
Malthazar Black Riddle.
Eyes of molten amber. Black hair falling in gentle waves to his collar. Silver veins pulsing at his neck like molten sigils.
A child's body—but the mind of a betrayed genius. A man executed by ignorance. And now… reborn by magic and hellfire.
In his hand, a book. Bound in basilisk leather and stitched with unicorn hair. It growled when he opened it.
"Welcome back, Scion of Morgana," it hissed in Parseltongue.
Memories surged in like wildfire.
A mother who cackled lullabies over ritual circles—Bellatrix Lestrange.
A father who was not a man but a vessel—Voldemort, possessed by Lucifer.
He had been created. Not born. An heir not of love, but prophecy and ambition.
The first of his name. The Black Flame. The Prime Heretic. The Child of Death.
His first vision came that night.
Standing above a cradle in Godric's Hollow. Looking down at a baby boy with a lightning scar.
Harry Potter.
The Boy-Who-Lived.
The False Savior.
"Not yet," Malthazar whispered to no one. "But I will burn your world, Potter. Not to rule it… to free it."
A raven perched on the sill behind him.
No—something darker.
A fallen angel. His familiar. Wings broken, eyes glowing.Once a messenger of Heaven. Now bound to him.
"Orders, my liege?" the demon asked.
Malthazar tilted his head and smiled. "Tell the shadows to stir. The old flame has returned."
And far, far away——the wards of Hogwarts trembled.