Tom had the satisfaction of watching his soul fragment enter the notebook before he passed out in the Chamber of Secrets. He spent unconsciousness blissfully, catching up on all the sleep depravation he accrued during the year. It was a peaceful sleep, unmarked by dreams or disturbances of any kind.
When he opened his eyes, his inner clock told him that it was nearing dinner time, and his eyes told him that there was a man looming over him. He struggled to stand, but an invisible force kept his limbs leaden.
"Who are you?" he growled instead.
The man smiled in response.
"One, Tom Marvolo Riddle; I will allow you one."
One what?, Tom thought distantly. Who was this man to give him orders? How did he even enter the chamber?
The man stroked his cheek, a gaudy ring slipping down thin fingers to press against his skin. Tom struggled to get away, but the man tapped his chin lightly before pulling back.
"I have sealed the rest of your soul to this body. Should you attempt another Horcrux, you will die."
Tom narrowed his eyes as the man smiled and placed his hands over Tom's eyes and shut his lids.
"Tom Marvolo Riddle, may your soul rest in peace."
When he woke, he'd been returned to his dorm room, his blankets tucked around him, and the notebook atop his heart.
He waited for Dumbledore or Dippet to summon him to their offices, but the orders never came. If the man didn't 'stop' him at the professors' beheast, then why?
Tom knew uncomfortably little about the man. For all he knew, it was Grindlewald in disguise. All that he could surmise fit into three very short points.
1.The man was Dark. His knowledge of Horcruxes was proof enough of that, but so was his magic. It was like a Venus flytrap, luring its pray closer before strangling it. It didn't purr like Grindlewald's magic did, and it didn't entice like Tom's did. It was sneaky, the man's magic, as if it were a shadow trailing harmlessly across the floor.
2.The man had an agenda. What it was, however, he didn't know.
3.The man was powerful. He was not a teacher, yet he entered the Chamber of Secrets (and possibly Hogwarts) under his own power. There was a chance that he'd been invited to the castle, but Professor Slughorn hadn't bragged about an alumni or dignitary visiting. Furthermore, even if there were such a person, there was no chance of finding and entering the Chamber without one, knowing where it was, and two, being able to speak Parseltongue.
It was more probable that the man had incomprehensibly strong magic than him having the genetic lottery of gaining Parseltongue without being bred for it as Slytherin's line had.
So, recap. Here was a man, potentially a wizard, but possibly a creature, who bypassed Hogwarts and the Chamber's wards like a hot knife through butter, who had the knowledge of Horcruxes and the power to control soul magic, and who had Dark Magic rolling off of him in waves.
Tom was surprised that the man hadn't turned him in to the Ministry (or at the very least, to the Headmaster) and that he hadn't outright killed him. Tom was clearly aiming to be a Dark Lord; immortality was a dead giveaway, and no one liked competition. Did that mean that the man didn't see Tom as a threat? Was he too weak? Or perhaps his assessment was off and the Dark Magic he felt was a byproduct instead of the goal?
-And wasn't that terrifying? That this mystery man obtained all that Dark wizards prayed for, but on accident.
Perhaps it was time to re-evaluate his stance on higher powers.
Tom murdered his last remaining relatives that summer. It felt unnatural. Originally, he wanted to use their deaths to create another Horcrux, but the man had done something and now his soul remained intact and mourning its morality. Pathetic.
"Oh, Tom."
He whipped around. The man glided past him and knelt to close the deads' eyes.
"Why are you here?" The teen ground out.
"It is the duty of the Master of Death." A soft smile played on those lips.
"The children's story?" Tom was skeptical, though it was just as far-fetched as any of his theories on the man.
There was a flash as the man stood, and around his gaunt form were the family Tom had just killed.
He stumbled back.
The ghosts disappeared.
"Sleep well tonight," the man laughed as he vanished. Tom wondered if he'd ever sleep soundly again.
Other than in The Tales of the Beedle and the Bard, there were no mentions of the Master of Death in any book in Hogwarts. The Purebloods scoffed when he asked them about it, but Tom knew better; there was some truth to the tale.
The Resurrection stone could be the cause of the ghosts Tom saw. It also explained the man's ill-fitting ring.
The Elder wand and the cloak could be how the man infiltrated Hogwarts. Now, if only Tom could get his hands on those objects. He needed their power for the plans he had.
The next time he met the man, it was after Dippet rejected his application for the Defense Against Dark Arts position for being too young. He understood the man's reasoning; it was better for him to see the world than remain sheltered at the castle, but Hogwarts had always been his home, and it hurt to be denied a life there.
"I've heard that one of your plans has fallen through."
Tom scowled at the cloaked figure.
The Master of Death kept his stride and bumped his shoulder as they walked. Ridiculous. The man was half a head shorter than him.
"Do you mind?" he ground out. The man shrugged.
"Do you have a Plan B?"
Tom ignored him.
"Though I wouldn't judge if you needed Plan B to prevent future heirs..."
Tom very much wanted to smack the grin on the man's face.
The man gave him a thoughtful look.
"Perhaps furthering the Pureblood agenda with your half tainted blood?" He schooled his face into an expressionless mask. "Or perhaps you plan to be a Dark Lord? A professor at another school, perhaps. Or maybe," at this, the man's eyes glinted, "you'd like to see the universe with me."
Ridiculous. Tom needed to discover this man's informant or how he was infiltrating the wizard's mind. Still, though... exploring the world with a guide who controlled magic, who must know secrets that wizards weren't privy to was too tempting an offer for him to turn down, no matter how undesirable the company.
Why?
"Why do you care?" he asked.
The man shook his head. He wrote 'Tom Marvolo Riddle' in the air and tapped the letters.
'I am Lord Voldemort.'
Tom sucked in a breath.
Bloody hell.
The man called himself Harry. Underneath the cowl he looked like an ordinary human. Tom was disappointed with how normal he seemed. By the next millennium, Harry told him, he would be all skin and bones, like the myths of old. In a millennium after that, he would be all bones and dust.
"Have you decided?" The man serenely sipped tea in Tom's apartment, cloth shielding all but his mouth.
Tom brought a plate of sandwiches over.
"Depends on what you're willing to tell me."
He'd become the Master of Death on accident; he hadn't meant to, but the Hallows ultimately chose their master, and they chose him. He hadn't known immediately, only that he healed faster than his peers and never fell ill.
When he was forty, he realized he wasn't ageing. When he was sixty and fighting off Muggles, they lobbed off his head, and still, the Elder wand kept spitting spells and he commanded his headless body to behead his enemies too.
Every time he died, more of Death's magic entered him. Around five thousand years after he was born, he had all the knowledge that he needed for the job.
He traveled. He jumped through dimensions and time, hoping to find a lasting purpose, but Death's magic only told him that he was to stand vigil. He was the barrier between Death and those who sought to control it.
Many tried to summon his charges, his Dementors and Death, but Harry stepped in every time. They ordered him to vanquish their enemies, destroy the world, make them kings, but Harry merely struck them dead where they stood. Some learned; some didn't. When a mage aspired to be a necromancer, they sent him an offering, and if he accepted, they were granted temporary use of a gate to his realm. Others desired to steal one from him, or to crudely punch a hole in the dimensions and use it. These, he made into the wandering souls he used for sacrifices.
They thought that they could control him because of a line of salt or because their intruction manual told them so.
He scoffed.
Tom listened attentively. It gave him hope that Harry had once been a wizard like him; he knew that he couldn't take the Master of Death title from the man, no matter how helpful it sounded, but there must be other magic that he could harness. If not, surely the knowledge he'd gain on this trip would be enough for him to reintroduce lost magic to the wizarding world.
He packed quickly and devoted the remainder of his time to sending letters to his minions (peers? cohorts?). What did one say when one was traveling with a mythical being whose powers transcended wizards without sounding insane and blasphemous to Purebloods?
After the diary, he had felt the drain, the way magic rushed around his body to fill the void, but it was untamable, raw, and unyielding. He knew that each part he split from himself would be smaller and smaller, but Harry informed him that even though the slices were smaller, they were more vital. By the third Horcrux, he'd fall into complete madness, unfit to rule the Wizarding World.
There were other ways, the man told him. There was more magic than Wizarding magic, and perhaps one of those could aid him, but he'd never discover it on his own. For that, he needed Harry.
They travelled. Harry crossed countries and boundaries with ease, slipping past wards and enchantments as if they weren't there. They journeyed to the realm of the High Elves first, where the man presided over a burial ritual in silence. When it was complete, he stretched out his hand to the soul of the elves' queen and escorted her to Death's realm with all the honor befitting her station. His magic swirled around her like an opulent cloak, and her transparent eyes sparkled with joy at the display; she seemed almost alive again.
He held her hand through the streets and towards the ship that awaited her. The elves' banner waved from the sails, and ghostly past kings and queens kissed her hand and she passed.
It was a grand procession, and at the end of it, the new king bowed to Harry and swore fealty. His subjects kneeled and gave him their gratitude.
"No need. For creatures such as yourselves, who live as long as the trees and air, every death is worthy of my ceremony," Harry smiled.
They gave him their loyalty anyways. From the ferocity in their eyes, Tom recognized that this was true loyalty, that the Elves would aid his companion until their dying breath. This was the loyalty he needed to inspire in others if he wanted to change the Wizarding World.
This was what an alliance looked like.
Harry did not reap all souls personally; he had minions, but he did oversee those of note, such as world leaders but also catastrophes.
The duo stood in an arid desert, hidden by Death's own cloak. They watched as bombs dropped from planes and soldiers with guns so large they were on wheels and still required multiple men to pull them. Tom couldn't recall seeing these in his Muggle textbooks, but well, if he was them, he wouldn't admit to this scale of destruction either.
With one bomb, the Muggles murdered neighborhoods and cities, wiped out whole civilizations. They were crueler than any Dark Wizard in existence.
They stood vigil over the body of Rookwood, a classmate of Tom's. He died in an attack in Diagon Alley; friendly fire from Grindelwald's forces.
Tom didn't thank the man for taking him to see his friend one last time before he 'passed;' he stood stoically as the funeral procession marched on.
He was hidden under the cloak; he had not been invited by Rookwood's parents, but Harry had not taken that as a sign that he was not welcome. They arrived fashionably late and only at Tom's request did they lurk under the cloak.
"Will you not say your goodbyes?" Harry asked. Tom continued gazing as one by one, each of his peers bent their heads to bless the boy, granting him an easy journey to reunite with Magick.
Tom turned to his side, watching a pale spectre form. Rookwod silently watched his parents weep at his body.
"There's no need, I think." Rookwood turned clear eyes upon him. "I have time."
In all the books at Hogwarts, Japan was said to be a beautiful country with mountains and sakura trees and a respect for nature. Gazing around him, at the smoke and fire, Tom wasn't sure if they were in the right country.
There was nothing beautiful left.
Harry placed a hand on his shoulder and teleported them to a city called Hiroshima.
Tom fell to his knees and cried.
Was this what war looked like? No change in government, no change in policies, just one government declaring war on another, and suddenly innocents were dead.
Tom could imagine the wizarding world wiped out by a war like this.
"Why did you bring me here?" Tom was already on his knees; he couldn't sink any lower.
"This is World War II," Harry tells him. Tom shuddered. He had been sheltered from these sights while at Hogwarts; he hadn't known of the true horrors of his generation.
Time was inconsequential to the Master of Death. According to him, Tom had only a handful of decades to prepare the Wizarding World. A worse war was on the horizon.
'This war cannot be stopped,' Harry told him solemnly, 'but you can prevent the destruction of Magic.'
The pureblood agenda seemed so pointless and petty compared to this.
After that trip, Harry took Tom to a cottage in the countryside. They were removed from the world, living in blissful peace. It was quaint; a one room stone cottage with a loft and a full kitchen. There was a small couch in front of roaring fireplace with black flames. A Dementor poked its head out.
"Your letters have been redirected here; your friends are eager for their replies," Harry dismissed the teen with a smile. Tom bristled at being treated like a child, but he was talking to a timeless, eternal being here.
The other two occupants waited until his quill scratched parchment before they discussed their business. Tom couldn't make out words, only the low murmur of death rattles.
His letters seemed childish. He'd seen so much the last few months that his previous plans seemed petty and useless.
He revised them.
A year after he started his journey with Harry, Tom left his companion to reform the Wizarding world.
Harry pressed a kiss to his forehead and wished him luck.
Tom was the Minister now. Only two years in, yet he was lauded as the best they've ever had. He created equal rights for creatures, and he passed education reforms that allowed magical students, especially Muggleborns, to take Muggle courses if they wished. The Purebloods were indignant, but Tom knew that the best way to protect them from an upcoming war with the Muggles was to have wizards study their technology.
Dumbledore was still suspicious of him, but Tom suspected that he always would be.
Even as he pushed wizards to be knowledgeable of their non-magical counterparts, he improved the Statute of Secrecy. The task force of Obliviators was doubled, and any wizard discovered to have leaked knowledge was thrown in the upper levels of Azkaban for up to a month.
The public were originally outraged, but Tom remained firm. This was one law that he refused to let slide.
Tom was on his deathbed. He has led the Wizarding World for decades, and finally found peace.
Harry appeared at his side, gaunter than the man remembered. He said so.
"It has been a century, Tom." The Master's hair was still inky blank, his eyes still bright with youth, but he was thinner now. Not alarmingly so, but any person on the street would hand the man a pie.
"I guess you ferry Minsters of Magic too," he joked. It was a joke because Tom knew how insignificant he was, that there were beings who have ruled for centuries. He ruled a tiny percentage of a population of a tiny island.
Harry smiled.
"I would ferry you no matter what you became, Tom."
The wizard thought back on the dictators Harry once showed him, the pinnacles of human evil. He could have followed in their footsteps, and he imagined the man's disappointed gaze as he ferried Tom across the Styx.
"The old coot told me that death was the next great adventure," he rasped conspiratorally.
Harry smiled nostalgically. Tom wondered if Dumbledore said the same line to him when he died.
"Do you want it to be?"
Yes. Merlin yes.
"Are you leaving Dementors to babysit me again?" Tom implored. The resulting laugh rattled through the pores in Tom's bones.
"Did you forget?" Harry placed a slim book on Tom's chest, as he had all those years ago.
Tom's breath hitched.
"I gave you one, Tom Marvolo Riddle, because that was all you'd ever need."