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SIYE Time:23:26 on 28th March 2024
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Rehabilitation
By Mojomig

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Category: Post-Hogwarts
Characters:None
Genres: Humor, Romance
Warnings: None
Story is Complete
Rating: G
Reviews: 26
Summary: Stripped of his magic and left with nothing after his crushing defeat in the final battle, Voldemort decides he needs some love in his life. First though, he has to do something about the homicidal maniac side of his personality. There's only one place he can go: into rehab.
Hitcount: Story Total: 4858



Disclaimer: Harry Potter Publishing Rights © J.K.R. Note the opinions in this story are my own and in no way represent the owners of this site. This story subject to copyright law under transformative use. No compensation is made for this work.



Author's Notes:
Many many many thanks to Zen, who gives up her valuable time to help me.





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Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley stood over the defeated Dark Lord, as he clung to the rocks, ten feet beneath them. The waves of the ocean crashed around them, sending salty spray into the cold night air. The final conflict between the Light and Dark had reached an end, and the light had won.

"It is over, Tom," called Harry. "You'll never hurt anyone again."

Lord Voldemort stared up at the two young faces above him. Gripped with fear as he faced death at last, he could do nothing as the teens raised their wands together. As they began to chant a spell he didn't recognise, a pure white light began to form at their wand tips. As they spoke, the light grew until it fully enshrouded the deformed and mutated man.

Voldemort felt as if he was being pulled apart from the inside out. His skin stretched outwards. His mind whirled and his head spun. It was as if his very soul was being sucked out through every pore. Eventually, the blinding light subsided ad the tugging sensation ceased. As he re-oriented himself, a voice called down.

"See you around, Tom."

Two sets of clambering feet made their way back up the rocky cliff. Carefree laughing and joking drifted down to where an old man held on to a rock. Suddenly, comprehension dawned upon the man. His magic was gone. No longer could he feel the fiery tingle in his veins, as raw power flowed through his body. The strength given to him by rituals and potions was gone. Everything magical had been stripped away, leaving a seventy-something year old man, who was completely alone.

Not wanting to die in the freezing sea, Tom Riddle scrambled with difficulty up the tumbling rocks to the grassy cliff top. In the distance, he could see them, happy and carefree, completely lost in each other's presence. The old man watched for a while as the two youngsters danced around, shouting and whooping, before coming together for a passionate kiss.

That had always been the difference, Tom realised, between himself and Harry. He had someone who loved him, and that gave him strength. He had someone he would die for, and who would die for him in return. Riddle had had no-one, and that had made him weaker.

"Well," said the ex-Dark Lord to himself. "I may not have a lot of time left. But I sure as hell am not going to spend it alone. I'm going to get me some loving."

Tom Riddle was still an intelligent man, and he knew he needed to change his ways if he wanted to find a woman to share the rest of his life with. Murderous, torturous, evil desires could not be retained if he was to live out his remaining days happily. The old man strolled along the cliff top, all the while thinking about Harry Potter and Ginevra Weasley, and the power of love.

~*~*~*~

The perfectly manicured young woman in the white uniform looked up as an old man walked slowly in through the front doors and up to her reception desk.

"Good morning, sir, welcome to the Robinson Rest Relaxation Rehabilitation and Residential Retreat. How may I help you today?" said the receptionist in a tone that suggested it was the hundredth time already today.

"I want to check myself in," croaked the old guy. "I need help."

Just as he spoke, a middle aged man in a white coat came past, and overheard the old man's words.

"Well you've come to the right place," said the man, causing Voldemort to look round in surprise. "We can help with smoking, drinking, drug-taking, sex addiction, internet addiction, gambling addiction, shopping addiction, chocolate addiction, anorexia, bulimia, nymphomania, kleptomania, Beatlemania, compulsive obsessive disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, several phobias and we have a chap come in to do colonic irrigation every third Wednesday. What can we help you with, Mr…?"

"Voldemort. I have an overwhelming desire to purge the world of all those who are inferior to me."

"Excellent, excellent," said the man in the white coat, as if it was a perfectly normal condition. "Well, Mr. Voldemort, we don't use titles here — just first names. I'm Julian, the head psychologist. What's your first name?"

"Lord."

"Great. Well come on then, Lord. Let's get you settled in a room, and then we can get you started. There's a session at eleven called 'Controlling your urges' that you might like to attend." Julian took his newest resident by the arm, and guided him into the depths of the building.

~*~*~*~

A short while later, Lord found himself sitting in a circle with a group of complete strangers, in one of the Retreat's many seminar rooms. A dozen or so other 'inmates', of varying ages and genders all sat staring at him. One chair was left empty, just to Lord's left.

Look at them, pitiful Muggles staring at me in awe. I've a good mind to curse them all. I'll see them writhing on the floor in agony like the worthless insects they are. Damn! Damn! Damn! I'm just a stupid Muggle like them now. Damn that Potter and his Weasley girl. Always together. In love. Damn them for turning me into a sap. Let's have a look at these Muggles then. Hmm, bloke, bloke, woman — too young. Bloke, woman — yikes, too gothic. Bloke, bloke, bloke….hello. What have we got here? Middle aged, nice eyes, good bit of meat on her. She's looking at me. She's smiling. Merlin, what do I do? Kill her…Avada Ked…no. Must be strong. New life, remember? Smile back, that's right. Turn on the old Riddle charm…

Lord didn't notice that the empty chair had now been filled until a sharp, crisp voice distracted him from his internal monologue.

"Good morning, everyone! I'm Roger, and I'll be taking this morning's session on controlling your urges."

Roger was dressed in a white coat over the top of brown cords and sensible shoes.

I bet he's wearing a cardigan with elbow patches.

"Now then," continued the overly cheerful Roger with his insipid and deliberately non-confrontational tone. "We've got a new boy with us today…"

Lord bristled internally at being called a boy, and instinctively reached for his wand. Damn.

"…so let’s all introduce ourselves so we all know who we are. I'll start — I'm Roger, and I work here at the Retreat as a counsellor."

"Hi, I'm Rick. I'm addicted to alcohol," said the next person round the circle. He was a middle aged man with a sad, I've-lost-my-dignity expression.

"Rhonda. Anorexic," the gothic girl muttered.

Lord tuned out most of the vacuous, insignificant people. His attention picked up momentarily when the woman who smiled at him earlier spoke. She had a soft, kind voice, but there was a tinge of regret and unhappiness in it, too. Lord wondered what it was, before giving himself a mental slap for being soft.

"My name is Mary. I'm here at the Retreat to try and beat my addiction to biscuits."

Hmm, biscuits…interesting. Why is everyone looking at me again? Oh, right, my turn.

"OK, well…um…I'm Lord. I've come to the Retreat to get help with a problem. I…well…I want to kill everyone who is inferior to me and purge the world of all you insignificant nobodies. I need help overcoming this desire to torture each and every one of you into insanity for my own pleasure…"

As Lord continued, the other occupants of the circle all stared at the old man in the strange clothes with various states of horror, surprise, shock, awe, incredulity and compassion, but mostly horrified shock. As Lord finished 'introducing himself' Roger subtly made a note on his clipboard. Lord only managed to see one of the words Roger had written down — straightjacket.

That's good; I could do with some other clothes to wear.

"Thank you everyone. Now, does anyone want to ask Lord any questions, before we get started on today's discussion about urges?" asked Roger.

"Yeah!" called out Rhonda, the Goth. "Where d'you get those black robes? They're cool…"

After about fifteen minutes of Rhonda quizzing Lord about his favourite shops and the best place to get reliable black robes and cloaks, Roger managed to get the seminar underway.

"Mary, perhaps you’d like to start us off today. Tell us about the urges you get with regard to biscuits."

"Alright then, thank you, Roger."

Mary's voice was calming, and just a little soporific. Lord soon found himself quite pleasantly relaxed as he listened to this not-unattractive woman ramble on about how she couldn't resist a Digestive, or a Bourbon Cream.

"It's like, you see a double choc-chip cookie, and you know you just have to have it. You need it. It's the only thing you can think about, and until that cookie has been utterly devoured, you can't relax. Is that how it is for you, Lord, but with killing and torturing people instead of eating biscuits?"

Lord was surprised for a moment. Never in his life had his murderous, evil, psychotic demeanour been likened to a biscuit craving. He felt fairly sure that it never would again.

"Lord?" prompted the ever cheerful Roger.

"I…I guess…" stammered out the former nemesis of the wizarding world.

~*~*~*~

On his second day at the Robinson Rest Relaxation Rehabilitation and Residential Retreat, Lord had a busy schedule thrust upon him by the ever-enthusiastic Julian. In the morning, he had his first one-on-one session with a psychologist, followed by lunch, aqua-aerobics in the afternoon, dinner, and then a talk in the evening by the Chairwoman of the local Women's Institute about the health benefits of supporting the local community.

Having spent most of the night mulling over the perfect, happy life of Potter and Weasley, and the miserable existence that stretched out before him if he didn't change his attitudes, Lord strode purposefully into the psychologist's office. Pleased with his confident entrance, and hoping to gain the upper hand from the start, Lord was frustrated to notice there was no-one else present.

Lord drifted towards the window and peered out to the rolling hills. I bet they're out there somewhere, laughing, playing Quidditch, having fun. Maybe just walking together. That will be me soon. Maybe me and the biscuit woman. Happy…Hmmm…

"Lord?" called a voice from the doorway, causing him to jump and smack his nose against the glass of the window. Damn.

The ex-wizard turned around, to be greeted by a decidedly short man who introduced himself as Marvin, a life therapist. "Please lie down on the couch, Lord, and we'll get started," said Marvin, with warmth and encouraging tones. Lord complied without replying, but struggled a little due to his dodgy hip.

"Now, why don't you tell me about yourself, Lord? Your parents, your childhood, your lifestyle. Why did you come to the Retreat? That sort of thing."

Damned quack had to bring up my parents, didn't he? Well, he did ask for it…

"I suppose I should start at the beginning," said Lord quietly. Marvin rested his bearded chin on his hands and listened attentively, as his latest patient began to tell things he'd never spoken about before.

"My mother died shortly after giving birth to me, or so I was told. Her last act was to leave me at an orphanage. I hated her for dying. I believed she was weak and that she could have done more to save herself. My father…"

These two words were spat with venom.

"…left my mother during the pregnancy. I hated him for that. He was a coward. An inferior, worthless waste of humanity. I was sixteen years old when I killed him."

Lord continued for several hours, and Marvin, to his credit, continued to listen attentively, despite looking worried for his own safety for most of the time. Finally, Lord got around to why he had decided to put himself into a rehabilitation programme.

"It was all because of them. Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley. All along Harry Potter had bested me. And do you know why? Because of love. He always had people who loved him; family, friends, teachers and the Weasley girl. She particularly gave him strength. Not physical strength, but an innate strength of will. He had something to live for; a world full of love. She would have died for him, and he for her. Me? People supported my ideals, sure, but they were never friends. No-one would ever have chosen to die to save me. It's love that's the answer. You ask me why I came here. I need to learn how to love. To get over the desire to kill and maim and torture, so I can find love, and live out my years in happiness instead of hate."

Lord looked across at Marvin. During this last diatribe the stunned psychologist had finally succumbed to sleep, and now had his head on the desk and was dribbling onto his notes. The insolence. How dare he? Crucio!…Damn. No wand.

~*~*~*~

After his marathon session with the vertically challenged Marvin, Lord barely had time to enjoy his smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel before it was time to get ready for aqua-aerobics. The Retreat's swimming pool was pleasantly warm and Lord was surprised at how much he enjoyed his first bit of physical activity for fifty or so years. True, he'd had to borrow some Speedos from the front desk, and that's not a good look on a seventy year old man who's distinctly out of shape. But once he was in the water and pumping his arms and legs along with Melanie, the instructor, Mary, the biscuit woman and several other residents, Lord lost his self-consciousness and jigged along to YMCA with the rest of them.

~*~*~*~

And so the days progressed for Lord. He had to hand it to the staff at the Retreat; after a week in their annoyingly non-confrontational hands, the former Dark Lord felt calmer, more relaxed, and was far less likely to scream out curses at people who merely asked him if he'd like some more cranberry tea.

The other noticeable effect of his stay at the Retreat was Lord's blossoming friendship with Mary, the middle-aged woman suffering from Compulsive Cookie Consumption Syndrome (or so the staff called her biscuit problem). She had been the only other patient that hadn't been inwardly repulsed by Lord, and the strange desires he was struggling to overcome. No, Mary Migginbottom from Nempnett Thrubwell had truly extended the branch of friendship, despite his Superiority Towards Denizens Syndrome. She did not treat him like some kind of lunatic or dangerous psycho like some of the others.

On the eighth evening, just before dinner, Lord was pacing nervously across his room. Tonight, he was having dinner with Mary. Alone. Just the two of them. They'd reserved the small table for two that was in the corner of the dining room. It had a distinct wobble (due to a former patient gnawing the end of one of the legs) and was right next to the toilets, but it was the only table for two. All the others were big round tables laid with six places, at which Lord found he always got incredibly wound up by at least one of his fellow diners. There'd either be a moaner, or a talker, or an old codger going on about the war, or someone would be craving something, or trying to feel him up under the table.

The little table in the corner would be perfect for a nice, comfortable conversation, with no other idiots to get him all riled up. They'd agreed to meet in the hall at seven. Lord checked the clock by his bed again; two minutes to seven.

Damn! Damn old people and weak bladders. This is the seventh time in half an hour…

The suave old man, once known as Tom Riddle made it to the hall a few minutes after seven. Determined to avoid the use of the word 'Waterworks' and the uncomfortable conversation that would inevitably ensue, Lord decided not to mention his tardiness. Instead, he merely proffered his arm to the waiting Mary, and swept her into the dining room.

Mary took her seat and eagerly picked up this evening's menu. Seeing that her eyes had lit up, Lord took his chance to open the conversation, and immediately move past that moment when silence can set in.

"Something you like on the menu, Mary?" Lord said, in his most charming voice.

"I'll say," Mary replied. "Bread and butter pudding, my favourite dessert. It's a good job I wore these trousers with the elasticised waist."

The evening wore on, and gradually the conversation moved away from food and came round to Lord and his motivation for coming to the Retreat. He told Mary about how two young people had taught him the importance of love.

Lord woke up the following morning with a spring in his step. A week ago, he would have been incensed at himself for even entertaining the notion that he had a spring in his step, but not anymore. One harsh lesson from a pair of young whippersnappers, several excruciating sessions listening to people prattle on about their problems and a budding friendship with a Hob-Nob-aholic had left him more human than ever before. So with as much of a spring as a seventy year old man with a dodgy hip could muster, the one time homicidal maniac made his way down to the dining room, secretly hoping there would be toasted muffins for breakfast.

Mary and Lord had talked for a long time last night. It was fair to say that they definitely had some kind of mutual attraction to each other. Whether it was physical or mental, or simply based on an understanding of each others compulsive urges, they were getting on like the proverbial house on fire. Mary had even convinced him that he should write to Potter and Weasley, maybe even meet with them, so he could get closure on a part of his life that was in the past. Whilst it settled a little uneasily to be taking instructions from another person, and a Muggle to boot, Lord found that he did it anyway. He had started experiencing something he never had before; that internal sense of satisfaction and warmth from making someone else happy, and because of that, he enjoyed his breakfast and went back to his room to write a letter.

~*~*~*~

Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley were both happily living at the Burrow at the moment. After they were married later in the year, they were going to move into a house in Dartmouth, which was further down the Devon coast, and a very pretty little harbour town. A week or so after an old man many hundred miles away had sat down to write a letter, Molly Weasley happened to find said letter in the post box they kept by the gate for the Muggle postman. She tucked it into her apron pocket and headed back into the house to make biscuits.

Harry made his way into the kitchen after the aroma of Molly's baking roused him from his reading in the lounge. Ginny came bounding down the stairs moments later, also tempted by the delicious smell that was currently seeping its way around the old wooden house.

"They'll be five more minutes, dears," called Molly, without even turning round from the sink. "Oh, I nearly forgot," she continued suddenly. "I found this in the Muggle post box; it's for you Harry, dear."

"Thanks, Molly," Harry replied, as he took the envelope from his mother-in-law to be.

"Who's it from, Harry?" enquired Ginny.

"I dunno. I don't recognise the writing. And why would a Muggle be writing to me anyway?"

"Only one way to find out, dear," injected Molly, who was busying herself at the oven once more.

Harry tore open the envelope, still wondering about the spidery handwriting that spelled out his name.

To Harry Potter and Ginevra Weasley

I am probably the last person you ever expected to receive a letter from. In fact, I wouldn't have believed it myself a few weeks ago. I would like to invite you to come and visit me at the Robinson Rest Relaxation Rehabilitation and Residential Retreat for a spot of tea…


Molly Weasley soon became aware of the stunned silence the two youngsters had fallen into. She turned from the stove to see Harry with his mouth open, staring at the page with a blank look on his face. Ginny, who was standing and looking over his shoulder resembled a goldfish, as her mouth opened and closed but made no noise.

"Oh, for goodness sake, you two," chided Molly. "What can have shocked you so much?" She made a grab for the letter, expecting Harry to keep it from her. To her surprise, he let it fall from his grasp without even the tiniest change in expression.

Molly delved into her apron pockets and pulled out a pair of reading glasses. "Now, let’s see what's left you two in such a state." Her eyes flitted quickly across and down the page, finally coming to rest at the signatory.

"Oh, my sweet mother of Merlin."

~*~*~*~

A smartly dressed young man and his prettily dressed fiancée walked up the gravel drive of the Robinson Rest Relaxation and Residential Retreat, their feet crunching with every anxious step.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this, Harry?"

"No, Gin, I'm not. But seeing as though we’ve come this far we might as well see it through. It's not as if he can hurt us anymore, is it? Maybe he's right. Maybe it'll give me closure on the past, too."

"Well that would be good. But if he tries anything, I'll give him the mother of all Bat Bogey Hexes, and to hell with the Statute of Secrecy."

"That's my girl. Violent and criminal to the end," laughed Harry, as he held open one of the large double doors into the Retreat's entrance hall, allowing Ginny to pass through ahead of him.

Ginny and Harry approached the bored looking receptionist, who snapped her head up as they neared her desk. Plastering on her fake smile, she spoke her greeting with the usual false cheeriness.

"Good morning, sir, miss. Welcome to the Robinson Rest Relaxation Rehabilitation and Residential Retreat. How may I help you today?"

"We've come to see my grandfather. He's staying here at the moment." Harry smoothly reeled off the lie that had been pre-agreed with his old enemy.

"Ah yes, Mr. Voldemort. Please go through into the lounge…" she began, gesturing towards a door leading further into the building. "I believe your grandfather is waiting for you."

After mumbling their thanks to the receptionist, who had turned her attention back to the latest copy of Vogue the moment their eyes had moved to the lounge door, Harry and Ginny made their way across the hall to the white panelled door that led into the lounge.

"Well, Harry," whispered Ginny. "This is it. Ready?"

"As I'll ever be, sweetheart." Harry confidently pushed through the door and quickly scanned the room beyond. It was a fairly large room, about the size of a classroom, but, this being a former stately home, it was immaculately furnished with paintings, a plush carpet, antique sideboards and mock-Georgian two-seater settees. Sitting together on one settee were a middle-aged woman and an elderly man. On, the low table in front of them was a tea service, complete with four cups.

Seeing no-one else in the room, Harry and Ginny made their way toward the couple, who looked up at the sound of footsteps.

"Hello, Harry," said Lord, with a hint of trepidation in his voice. He might be a Muggle now, but he wasn't stupid. This young man could easily blast him into next week if he saw fit.

"Tom," responded Harry coolly.

"Miss Weasley."

"Tom."

The two youngsters stared at the old man, waiting for him to make the next move, but in fact it came from the woman who was still sitting on the settee.

"Well, sit down, all of you. My name is Mary; I'm a friend of…" she paused, not sure what to call him. "Well, I know him as Lord."

Harry failed to suppress a snort at this, earning him an elbow in the ribs. As they sat down, Voldemort sighed and explained the name situation.

"When I arrived, I gave my name as Mr. Voldemort. One of the quacks pushed me for a first name, so I said Lord. Mary, Harry and Miss Weasley called me by my real name, Tom."

"Well, it makes no odds to me. It’s not your name that matters, is it? It’s what you do that counts," stated Mary firmly.

Harry and Ginny remained silent once again, curious as to what the former Dark Lord wanted to say to them.

"Would you like some tea?" Lord asked. "We could arrange something to eat as well, if you'd like."

Relaxing slightly, as it appeared the former evil maniac had undergone a complete personality switch, Ginny found her pureblood manners and politely accepted the offer of tea. "Actually," she said. "We didn't know what this place would be like, so we bought some biscuits with us."

"Biscuits?" Mary's head snapped up so fast the crack of her vertebrae was heard in the aqua-aerobics session in the basement pool complex.

"Yeah, my mum baked them this morning."

"Home-made biscuits?" A small trail of saliva started to run down Mary's chin.

"Mary?" called Lord, gently.

"What?" snapped Mary.

"You're drooling."

"Oh God!" she cried to herself, before delving into the pocket of her elasticised trousers to find a tissue. Having regained her composure somewhat, but retaining the slightly feral glint to her eyes, she managed to speak calmly.

"Well, share them out, dear; they're no good to anyone in your bag are they?"

As the tea and biscuits flowed, the uneasiness between the three former enemies gradually decreased to a somewhat bearable level. Eventually, talk came round to the real crux of the meeting, and the Muggle former known as Voldemort managed to get a lot of things off his chest.

"…so you see, Harry, I could never have beaten you. With Miss Weasley here, you always had an inner strength I couldn't even begin to understand. There was always something, or should I say someone for you to live for. I didn't comprehend that power. The power of love. The only person in my life who cared enough to die for me did so the day I was born.”

"Until now," interrupted Mary.

Lord turned to her. "What?"

"I said, until now. I care for you, Lord…Tom…or whatever your name is. I really do."

~*~*~*~

Several years later, on a cold and rainy Sunday in September, three people gathered at a crematorium. The first person was a woman approaching sixty years old. She wept loudly as she watched the coffin containing her husband of four years glide slowly through the little curtains.

In the row of seats behind the woman sat a young couple in their mid to late twenties. The face of the man with the messy black hair bore a mask of indifference. The young red-headed woman let a single tear roll down her cheek, in respect of the distraught widow in front of her.
As the curtains closed, all three people whispered softly to themselves.

"Goodbye, Tom."


---



A/N - Did you like Voldie by the end? Please let me know!
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