Disclaimer: Nothing is mine except some part of the plot. J.K. Rowling own all of this.
Past, Present and Future
Part 1: Past
It was a steady, if inconsistent throb that haunted his dreams and waking nightmares; a forceful rhythm of unparalleled vigour. It was constant, yet ever changing, and only a fool would ignore its presence.
Tom Marvolo Riddle was not a fool, for all that his elders swore he was. He had first noticed the persistent thrumming when he was a small child –only then it had not been nearly as pervasive, nor as frequent. He had not heard it, however, until he was around five –he had been drifting on the edge of unconsciousness after a particularly savage beating from one of the older children. It had been oddly comforting at the time, and when he finally plunged into the darkness, it was with the vague thought that one day, the older children would fear him.
He rapidly figured out that this thrumming, discordant thing was something that set him apart from the other children –something that could be used. And use it he had, until it was not merely the older children who feared him, it was the adults as well. Only, they feared him more because their supposedly “greater intellect” told them that what he could do was unnatural. He was later to learn from an old fool of a wizard by the name of Albus Dumbledore that he was a wizard, a being with magical powers. What the Old Fool had not intended to teach him however, was that odd force inside him was more than magic, it was something innate, something only he had. And he knew this by watching the Old Fool’s eyes -they twinkled but they did not burn, not like his did.
And, eventually, even the Old Fool that ran a school full of children that were just like him, children that could do the things he could, if they but tried, feared him. Feared that odd thrumming power that coursed through his veins and filled his eyes with a burning hunger.
At times, Tom had noted, his temper would inevitably be aroused, and when it happened he’d later find himself committing various acts of revenge, a rather maniacal grin crossing his face as he moved to the intrinsic fluidity of the force that pulsed ever on in his veins, that roared within his head.
A steady, powerful march that lead him towards his ultimate goal, a goal that only he had known at first; the creation of Lord Voldemort, Heir of Slytherin. It had led him to the Chamber of Secrets; it had led him to the Basilisk. It had soared to a near-shrieking crescendo of fury and power when he summoned the creature that last time and watched as the snivelling Myrtle fell before its might. At the peak of that crescendo, he cast the spell that would split his soul so that he could live forever, using Myrtles death as a catalyst for the powerful magic.
There was a brief moment of triumph, and then, pain.
Tom Riddle, as he had been, was no more. In his place stood the man that would become the Greatest Dark Lord in history.
Part 2: Present
It was silent here, or at least not so raucous. He found he liked it. A welcome reprieve after so much noise, so much screaming pain. It was peaceful. He lingered in the silence, dozing and thinking alternatively. And that was what really made him feel content -there was nothing getting in the way of his thinking, and for once he was thinking clearly, far more clearly than he ever had before.
But after the daze had worn off, he began to question the clarity of his mind, and the not-nearly-as-quiet-as-he-believed silence. The soul-splitting was a success? he questioned. He doubted it –for everything he had read about the process indicated a gradual decline in mental processes, not an increase. But then...
He opened his eyes, but saw nothing. And endless void of darkness and still more darkness greeted his astonished sight. There was a strange weightlessness to his body, and he couldn’t feel his fingers move or his eyes blink. And the force that had kept him company since he had been a small child was a gentle pulsing.
Tom had always been a smart boy, and now was no exception. He didn’t have a body to move. There was something like panic welling deep within him. With a snarl, he pushed it aside, and concentrated. He ‘felt’ deep within him, and found the tenuous connection that linked him to his ...former body, in order to ensure his immortality. Upon finding it, he knew why none of the theories involving Horcruxes had involved the portion of soul being aware -he was feeling particularly vindictive at the moment, and the connection was fragile enough that a mere tug would dissipate it.
Of course, Tom knew this fragility was due to it being new, and that over time it would harden. He also knew that as soon as the version of him that was ...real?... was fully aware, he would not hesitate to strengthen the connection. Just in case.
Tom would have punched something if he could have, but right now that just wasn’t possible. So, frustrated and angry, he bent his will and all the power he possessed on the connection, and tugged. There was a brief moment of dislocation, and then the same stillness. He was unaware of time, was unsure of how much of it was going by, but that really didn’t matter. What mattered was the gentle pulse of his weakened power was growing again, becoming that familiar, if lesser, throb that had comforted him when nothing else would.
So, he plotted, planed, and generally made plans with which to escape. He vaguely remembered that he had chosen his diary to be the container for his horcrux, and began to pour limited amounts of his powers into its recesses, creating an illusion of sorts that would gradually bind any who wrote in its pagers to his will. And eventually his freedom.
Dear Diary,
I’ve finally made it to Hogwarts! I can’t believe I’m finally here! It’s certainly not what I imagined though. I ought to hex Fred and George for telling me that we had to wrestle a mountain troll to be sorted...
Part 3: Future
Tom stood over the thin boy’s quivering frame, a taunting grin stretched over his features. He was steadily filling out again, becoming alive through the girl’s energy. He savoured each pseudo-breath he was taking, flexed each muscle, and tested each and every nuance of this new body. He felt triumphant, victorious, and more than a little smug. His power flared around him throbbing with intensity previously unknown to him. He supposed it was glad to be out of its cage as well. He flicked the stolen wand in his hand, pleased when it shot out green sparks. It was familiar, as if grasping an old friend...
“Please don’t be dead. Wake up. Wake up!” came the whispered plea.
“She won’t wake,” Tom said softly.
“What do you mean, she won’t wake?...She’s not...”(1)
“She’s still alive, but only just.” For the first time that night, Tom really looked down at the second-year Gryffindor, and nearly leapt back. Those eyes –burning, vivid, intense Avada Kedavra green. The pale skin and thin body. The cut of the face, the tilt of the eyes... It was like looking into a photograph of him at that age. He said something -many somethings, in fact. But if asked, he probably wouldn’t have been able to repeat a single word of it. All he knew was that the boy named Harry Potter was getting more and more furious with each passing word, and his eyes were burning.
“Why should you care? Voldemort was after your time!!” (2)
Tom paused, and then smiled.” Voldemort,” he started softly, as if trying not to spook the boy “is my past. My present.” He paused, unsure. “My future.” He closed his eyes at the decision, then waved the stolen wand in his hand, and in the air wrote TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE. He stared at the name, and almost regretfully waved the wand again. He watched as the letters rearranged themselves.
I AM LORD VOLDEMORT
After that it was just a jumble of intensity and power and so much noise. He was screaming, that damn phoenix was screeching, the basilisk was full-out roaring its rage and that power that raged inside him ground out a furious rhythm. It swirled around him until Harry was lying before him, panting heavily, bleeding from the bite wound on his arm. He smiled, even as he cursed at the phoenix as he watched the damn bird cry over the wound. He smiled, even as the boy picked up the dagger-like tooth and brought it down forcefully onto the diary. Tom smiled, staring down at those bitter burning eyes, eyes like his used to be before the ceremony, even as he screamed.
He felt his soul, dissolving around him. He closed his eyes and thrust. Everything swam for a moment, and then he was surrounded by an unknown throbbing. He would have smiled if he had the lips for it, but instead buried himself deep within his new cage.
What better cage for him than in the body of one like him? One who could do the things he could. One who had already beaten his other half? Who, indeed, but Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived?
Tom’s soul smiled, because this was not the end.
Not by a long shot.