AN: It's been awhile, huh? Been really busy and couldn't work up the energy to write a lot on my off time, so this probably all you guys will get out of me until at least after Spring Break. And if you want someone to blame, blame my professors and not me. Of course, it's not really their fault that I'm too lazy to do the work they assign and writing, but they also don't have to read your reviews and get their feelings hurt.
In case you couldn't tell from the summary, this is a crack fic about Voldemort being sent back in time because he didn't die right or whatever. I looked for one of these but couldn't find any story where it is Voldemort who gets sent back in time. If you would like, I an not averse to writing more of this, but it would probably be in the form of short, fragmented oneshots. I just can't see a way to turn this into a long story since Voldemort with knowledge of the future would simply curb stomp everyone.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, obviously
After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure. - Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
Tom Marvolo Riddle—also known as Lord Voldemort, You-Know-Who, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, The-Bastard-Who-Won't-Bloody-Die (it turns out his parents were actually married, so maybe not that one), the Dark Lord, the Heir of Slytherin, and of course Moldyshorts and all its deviations—opened his eyes to what seemed to be a waiting room. A muggle waiting room, at that.
The walls were a bare white, so was the sofa that he was sitting on. Apart from him, there was only one person in the room. This person was seated behind a counter, looking at one of those new muggle devices Tom believed were called comfuters. The man, whom Tom was beginning to realize was a muggle secretary (ie: the lowest of filth), turned to look at him once, looked back at the comfuter, and then said, "Follow me, Mr. Riddle."
In a state of shock at the muggle's audacity, Tom followed the secretary out of the waiting room—through a door that Tom only half recognized wasn't there a second ago—and into a hallway as threadbare and boring as the room had been. Every once in awhile, a door would appear beside them as they walked by, but neither of the men paid any attention. The secretary due to the novelty wearing off, and Tom because he was more focused on discreetly searching for his wand after wanting to hex the secretary and finding it missing.
Just as Tom was getting angry enough to try a wandless AK, the secretary stopped by a door that looked just like any of the others. He knocked a few times, called out, "Mr. Tan, a Mr. Riddle to see you." After a brief moment and a reply of, "Let him in," the secretary opened the door and gestured for Tom to enter.
Something fishy was going on, Tom realized, and he was going to find out what it was. He walked into the room, purposely ignoring the secretary and took in his new environment. Unlike the waiting room and the hall, this room did not look like it had been flooded with bleach. This room had hardwood floor, cream walls, and filling cabinets stacked up next to the side wall. Right in the center was a desk—Mahogany, Tom noticed—with only a picture frame facing away from him and a desk plaque on it. The plaque read S. A. Tan, Director of Lost Souls. There was a chair on either side. The chair closest to Tom was empty, but the one across from him was occupied by the most nondescript man Tom had ever seen. He was short, but not that short, with light brown hair and dark brown eyes, small ears, slightly pointed nose, and rounded chin. Tom had never seen anyone more hideous. Even Myrtle was better than this monster.
The horrid beast pointed one of its offensive hands at the chair across from it, indicating to Tom its desire for him to sit. Deciding he would rather not anger an creature that surely has an XXXXX rating without his wand handy, Tom sat. The two stared at each other, both waiting for the other to crack first. Neither did. The challenge lasted for an eternity, for time did not flow in this place—though Tom did not know that—yet still neither one gave. So ends the tale of Tom Marvolo Riddle, but this is not very interesting, so for the sake of the story we'll pretend they both blinked at the same time.
The odious freak smiled and leaned back in its chair. "Do you know why you're here, Mr. Riddle?"
Tom, feeling bitter about not winning, decided not to respond. This was quite a petulant act, and made Tom seem like a child, but it's not like anyone ever tried to curb such behavior. After all, calling the Dark Lord a child was a surefire way to get yourself killed.
"No? Well, let me tell you. You see, by making all those Horcruxes you ruined all predictions of your death date. Now, that may seem all well and good for you, but we're the Ministry of Death, and we need to know when people will die so that we can prepare for them. You, we are not prepared for. Not at all. No one's estimate was even close. We had a pool going, you see, and defeated by a seventeen-year-old boy wasn't even one of the options. But still, here you are, which leaves us in quite the pickle.
"However, you brought us so much business, that I've been authorized to treat you as an esteemed client. What that means is you have a choice to make. The first thing you can do is to just sit here and wait for us to prepare something for you. I don't really recommend this, though, because as you've no doubt seen, the waiting room is quite a boring place, and since time doesn't really flow right here, who knows how long you'll be waiting.
"Your second option is to go back right to the moment that you died. However, we'll be sending back your spirit, which means you'll have to get yourself another body once more, this time with no followers as they're all dead and no Horcruxes. I can see in your eyes that you don't like this option. Good, I don't like it either. You would not believe the amount of paperwork it would generate.
"And finally, I can send you back to your childhood with all your memories intact. I recommend you choose this one. It would be the most entertaining, both for you and the Ministry. Of course, it does mean we'll have to release a few souls, but we're willing to part with them for a while. After all, it's not like we won't get the back. No one can escape from death, not even you, Mr. Riddle."
Tom decided to ignore that last barb and focused his attention on the last choice, "And if I do choose to go back, would everyone else retain their memories too?"
The repugnant abomination seemed surprised that Tom had asked such a logical and perfectly understandable question. "Oh, no, Mr. Riddle," it said, "the most recent esteemed client before you was Grindelwald, and while he'll retain his memories, it's not like he even knew you existed by the time he died. He'll just cause a bit more chaos, but he won't cause you any trouble. In fact, his actions will probably make it easier for you considering—"
The abhorrent vermin continued to speak, but Tom ignored him in favor of his own thoughts. He was tempted, to be honest, to go back to his childhood. He knew that he shouldn't make such an important decision without thinking about it for longer, but what choice did he really have? Wait around forever, fight a losing battle, or start over? There wasn't much else he could do.
"I'll do it. I'll go back to when I was a child."
The revolting imp stopped talking when Tom cut him off and smiled broadly at hearing his choice. "Very good, Mr. Riddle. Now, just sign your name here," a contract appeared in its hand as if through magic—well, not really as if; it actually was magic—and it handed it to Tom, "and you'll be off. Simple as that."
Tom stared at it suspiciously for a moment, but after reading through the contract and looking for any hint of a fine print—there wasn't any—he signed it above the line. He didn't feel any different, so Tom opened his mouth to tell the thing off. But just before he could complain, he felt a familiar sensation of something hooking his navel and dragging him backwards. In a flash of light, Tom disappeared from the office as if he was never there at all.
"Thank god he's finally gone," Samuel Arthur Tan said to himself as he picked up the photo of his lovely wife and daughter. "What a repulsive devil."
Tom Marvolo Riddle—also known as Just-Another-Orphan—opened his eyes to the sight of his old room in Wool's Orphanage. He stood up and looked down at his body. His small, small body. He couldn't be older than eight.
For a second, Tom almost cried thinking of all the work he had to do just the get back to the point he once was. All those pure-bloods he had to manipulate and fool into being his slaves. All those battles with Dumbasdoor's Order of the Flaming Chicken he had to fight in. All those bumbling Death Eaters he had to tolerate daily.
But that lasted for only a second. After all, losing everything he had worked so hard to achieve was a bother, but he had already lost to that blasted Harry Potter. At least this way, he could correct any of his mistakes before they even happened.
Yes, this was probably the best thing that had ever happened to Tom. Better even than being invited to Hogwarts. Oh, yes, Tom was going to have a lot of fun.
A mad cackle echoed out of Tom's room, and a shudder ran through all those who occupied Wool's Orphanage.
They say animals can tell when something bad is going to happen. Well, humans are animals too, and these orphans, they could tell that something had changed. The winds had shifted, and all anyone could think was something wicked this way comes.