DISCLAIMER: I do not claim that anything from the Harry Potter franchise is mine. Never will be, though I love to play with it! Nor are the ABBA songs used as titles for the chapters mine. No worries, darlings, they still belong to you.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Right. So this is a story I have wanted to write for a very long time, but never quite knew how to get it going. It's always been a fleeting idea, and I know how some scenes will play out perfectly, but I struggled with transitions to get there. Regardless, I'd like to think I am finally ready to start this, at the very least.

It is AU. There is no way Voldemort would have children otherwise. I personally don't like writing a Voldemort that is really out of character, but it's necessary in some instances to make it work. (Not saying I don't like reading it, if it's reasonable. I'm not as much of a Voldemort stickler now as I used to be.) Those of you that have read my Tom Riddle stories and whatnot will know this Voldemort at least a little. I'd like to think he is a mix of OCC and IC to varying degrees, and although I may drift from his book character, I try my hardest to make him react to certain things in a remotely realistic way. No ridiculous love-struck-rapist!Voldemort for me, thanks.

Also, the first several chapters are flashbacks. I suppose they can be seen as oneshots for the development of a relationship. They are not as in-depth as I would like, but I'd prefer to develop the characters, the relationships and the events over time. So take them for what they are at first, and as the story goes on, I'm sure things will become clear. I'm not sure how many of these chapters will be flashbacks, but it will be written at the top of each chapter until we reach the present day timeline, which is in 1999 – AU because I ignore the novel ending, and follow a similar line to my Him... a father? series in which Voldemort comes out victorious, though with Potter enemies lurking.

For now, enjoy the development of the relationships between 1971 and the mid-1990s. These first few chapters are basically a series of preludes to the actual story. Hopefully things are not too confusing, or too rushed. But the actual real main plot of the story will begin several chapters in. I simply did not want to make a detailed story on my OC and Voldemort at the present time (maybe I will at some point).

Anyway. Enjoy! And thank you in advance to all those that take the time to review! It seriously means a lot to me.

FLASHBACK – 1971

Deidre sighed. There was nothing worse than working a slow night, particularly when he was running late. Normally he would have been sitting at one of the slightly uncomfortable seats at the counter, smiling his dangerous smile and asking for continuous refills of coffee until she had to close the place up. Tonight he was late. Tonight, a night where she had served four fellows a beer and a steak sandwich, he had not come yet, and something inside her made her nervous.

The year was 1971, and she had been working at The Hobbit's Hat in her insignificant wizarding village in central Ireland since she had turned her back on her parents five years earlier. Naturally, that meant she never completed her full seven years of schooling; who wanted to keep attending Hogwarts so those people could figure out where she was? No, Deidre had refused to return to Hogwarts when she left her house at fifteen, not yet of age, but capable enough to get around without a constantly reliance on magic.

Her parents hailed from a long line of purebloods, all of whom had a mysterious way of kicking it in their early forties. Not that it was odd for someone to have a lifespan of only forty years in this day and age, but that was where the Gyden clan stood. They died young. Most of her relatives were either somewhere in southern England – apparently it was always lovely this time of year, which was bullocks – or her parents had burned ties years earlier.

They were difficult people to get along with. Stubborn, controlling, ignorant of the times... and of their heritage. You know they happily consorted with Muggles? Her father found them fascinating. There wasn't particularly much to tell. One fight led to another, and another, and another, and after years of constant tension and pressure, Deidre finally just left. She sought out family members that might take her in, but no one was willing to adopt Godric's girl, so she was left to find something on her own. Yes, that meant breaking into her trust fund and using it all to buy a small cottage in some pointless village in central Ireland, but that was hardly the issue. It gave her independence, you see? She found a job at a rather popular local diner, The Hobbit's Hat, and hasn't looked back since.

Two years later, at age twenty, she continued to exist a somewhat bland, but satisfying, existence. Many of her friends didn't understand; why wouldn't she just take her father's money? Both of them still loved her, and were willing to support her financially from afar (they were that... progressive pureblood type that seemed to think being liberal would earn their child's respect, mind you). However, there was something totally liberating about having one's own money, as small as it was, to deposit at the end of the month when the paycheck came by. It certainly wasn't much, but it was enough to slowly pay the mortgage on her cottage, and support her rather embarrassing and crippling love of shopping. A quick bus to the nearest (or farthest) large city always meant a day in the shops.

She still had the appearance of her class. High cheekbones, thick auburn hair with blonde highlights through from tip to root, cold blue eyes, and a constant look of annoyance around those that were less than she was that hinted at her disdain. Naturally, working in the service industry meant she would have to fake her horror at serving a Mudblood now and again, but it was all in a day's work. She could come home and whine to her friends over a nice hot drink whenever she felt like she needed to take four showers to get their stink off of her.

But enough of that. Her history was... boring. Her life was boring. Except for him. He came every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evening, and would sit at her counter for hours asking for coffee. In the beginning she wouldn't really talk to him. The rest of the waitresses, herself included for a while, thought he was a creep. Quiet, reserved, sometimes with a scowl attached to his lips that lasted for hours; he was different. His appearance was... not as appealing as the other Irish lads that strolled through hoping she might give in to their courtships. No, he was cold. Distant. His eyes were permanently bloodshot, it seemed. Though he had a nice figure. Tall, lean, well groomed with a head of dark brown hair. He was also older. Perhaps that was what made the attraction grow; older men were her weakness.

Now, he had been visiting the diner for nearly two months at this point. The conversation had started off harmlessly enough. He always sat in her area, which meant she was the only waitress he knew from the place, and that suited the rest of the girls just fine. But he was interesting, sometimes. He usually had a copy of the Prophet with him, which he seemed to read religiously, and he liked his coffee as bitter as she could make it. Odd that he didn't drink tea, and when she asked, he claimed it wasn't enough to keep him awake at night. Maybe that was why his eyes were so red; it seemed like he never slept.

Regardless, from that mundane conversation started a series of new ones, after he began asking her what she thought of the front page news. Most of it had to do with the Ministry, and Deidre had a firm stance on them; they were bloody useless. Letting all these Muggle lovers get into power positions and start changing laws that had been in place for countless generations... Bah. However, her ability to converse on an intellectual level was lacking, and she usually felt stupid when the two of them talked. In fact, he had called her brainless several times, and insinuated that she had air for brains on other occasions, but her opinions always seemed to make him laugh. Now, it might have been at her, not with her, but she didn't mind. It was so rare that he laughed, and she took it whenever he did.

Two months of this, and sometimes the conversations had flirtatious undertones, sometimes they didn't. The man was so difficult to read, but she thought that was part of the fun. There was nothing particularly out of the ordinary about their relationship. It grew just like any other time when people got to know each other, and took its own course. Sometimes he would stay until closing time, when she had to kick him out or threaten to cut off his caffeine supply. Not really a threat, since he could get it anywhere, but it usually worked. He kissed her one night. Just on the cheek, but that was more than enough to make her blush. That was two weeks ago. Since then, she stopped kicking him out when she needed to lock down the diner and do a final cleaning. She let him sit and watch until they both had to leave, and from there he would walk her back to her street. Never to her home, but to the front of her lane, and he would watch her walk down until she was inside. He pretended he didn't, but she usually caught him in her window reflection, standing still with his hands in the deep pockets of his lengthy black coat, a stern expression on his face.

But tonight he was late. In fact, the last of her customers had just left, and the other girl who was working in the back kitchen was checking out for the night. She signed her time card that she had left a half an hour later than she actually did, but Deidre wasn't about to tattle on her. Everyone did it, after all. With a somewhat cross expression on her face, Deidre figured he wasn't coming. It was a Monday. Why wasn't he here? He hadn't said anything about it, so there were no excuses. She loosely tied her thick hair back in a ponytail as she grabbed the broom from under the counter and began her usual routine of sweeping under the cupboards and whatnot. It was amazing how much dust and grim could accumulate over the course of a single day...

The glass door to the diner was flung open violently, and Deidre straightened up from behind the counter, flinching as he slammed it shut behind him. So he was coming after all. She placed a hand on her hip, an eyebrow raised, "You know I can't serve you this late. The till is locked-"

She shut up when he pushed a chair into its proper place at the table harshly, a snarl on his lips. At that point, she eased off, sensing that this was not the man she was used to. Even on nights when he was irritated, he never seemed this bad. He crossed the space between there and his usual spot with relative speed, and she leaned the broom against the counter, rustling up a coffee on the house. No one would notice, anyway. When she set it down in front of him, he glared moodily down at the table. His cheeks were whipped red from the harsh winter winds, but his knuckles were white.

"What's wrong?" she asked finally after several moments of rather stony silence. His eyes flicked up to hers briefly, blue meeting brown and red, and he let out a lengthy sigh.

"I... met up with an old acquaintance tonight," he informed her, his large hands wrapped around the mug securely, no doubt taking in its warmth, "and it was frustrating, to say the least. Stubborn old idiot..."

"Ah," she mused, nodding her head empathetically, "I see. Did something go wrong?"

He took a small sip, wincing momentarily, and then set the mug back down, "I suppose you could put it like that."

"I can't help you if you won't elaborate for me," she chuckled, grasping the broom once again and resuming her sweeping duties.

"I didn't come here for your help, you twit."

"Now now," Deidre chided, shaking her head at him as if he were a child, "there's no need for name calling because you are feeling sour."

She piled the dirt up neatly in her usual spot, and began work on the floor in front of the counter, which was always somewhat messier than behind it. People always trudged in dirt from Merlin knows where, and it was usually pretty bad in the winter. He glared at her irritably from his seat, a look that she ignored as she maneuvered the awkwardly large broom around a chair leg. Finally, he turned around fully to engage in conversation again, "I went in looking for a job, you see, and I was denied it."

"Oh."

"And I'm perfectly qualified... better than any of the other intellectually stunted morons who take up the position after their predecessor dies. Yet I was denied."

"Well, did he give a reason?"

"My current... activities bother him, among many other reasons. We were never really on good terms."

"I suppose one day you will have to reel in that pungent sense of modesty and grovel for a job if you really want it," she stated playfully, glancing at him over her shoulder. "I think you need to learn how to suck up to people. You know... make them feel all important and whatnot. You have this knack for making people feel about the size of my foot."

Which was pretty small. His retort to that was a rather loud snort, which made her look back at him properly and smiled, "What's so funny?"

"The way you speak to me," he replied, shaking his head. "Not a care in the world if something you say might offend me, or upset me."

"I thought I could be honest with you," Deidre remarked. "There's no harm in that."

"Some might think so."

"Well, I'm not one of them."

"You should be."

"And why is that?"

He withdrew a folded newspaper from his large cloak and set it down on the counter, "Come here and I'll show you why."

Sighing, she leaned her broom against the side of a booth, and then returned to the counter, leaning on it beside him as she gazed down at the headline.

YOU-KNOW-WHO STRIKES AGAIN!

Minister reports harsher punishments for radical followers.

She went on to further read the article, or tried to anyway, but he pulled it away and folded it up once again. With pursed lips, she gave him a once over, and then arched an eyebrow, "Well. You aren't the Minister... We may be in the middle of nowhere, but I do know what he looks like. So are you a radical follower of Britain's most recent madman?"

"You think he is a madman?"

"I don't know what I think," she replied absently, still looking at him as he in return studied her just as closely, "but I think we need someone to keep pushing for pureblood rights in a soft Ministry. He is radical, but I don't think his message is misguided."

He chuckled softly as he rolled his eyes, "Now now, we know that you and I cannot discuss politics. Your twenty whole years of life keeps the conversation from being equal."

"Well, I can still have an opinion," she snapped. "But don't change the subject. Who are you on the front page?"

She had asked his name dozens of times over the course of their developing relationships, and he usually gave her silly pet names she could call him, but never a firm answer. Her friends insisted that he was a married man, and by not giving his name, he was keeping his secret safe from a possibly overweight and overbearing wife at home. Ridiculous, but some days it seemed to make sense.

Deidre waited for a full minute, while he sat silently in front of her with an expression that appeared as if he was pondering a response to her question. With a huff, she turned away to resume her cleaning tasks. However, he stopped her and tugged her back with a rough pull on her arm, causing her to stumble slightly. When she met his gaze, she was standing very close to him, their faces mere inches apart.

"I'm not the Minister," he whispered, "nor am I a radical follower... but according to you, I am radical. Use the laws of deduction, Deidre, and you'll know who I am."

But the only person left... The woman wrenched herself free from him and took a few steps back, "No... No, that's... ridiculous."

"I know a man in this village... a hermit who likes to perfect illegal and dangerous charms," he informed her, slipping off his chair to his feet. "That's why I'm always here, you see. Genius man, until his worth dries up, I suppose."

The man before her, the one saying he was one of the most radical political and social figures of the decade, did a little spin for her, arms out as though he was showing himself off to her, "So what do you think, Deidre? Are you going to watch what you say to me now?"

Her forehead creased slightly as she thought about it, eyes on the floor. When she looked up, she still saw the same man who came in three times a week for endless amounts of coffee. He was the same fellow who kissed her on the cheek, and told her when she looked nice (and when she didn't). He was the same man who tipped wonderfully each time, despite her insistence not to, and he was still the same fellow who made those three days of the week worthwhile most of the time. She swallowed thickly, and then shook her head, "No."

He then smiled a smile for her that she barely understood, and probably never would as long as she lived. With that, he returned to his coffee, and soon complained that it had gone cold, and would like another one before he left.