Updated: 10/10/2018
Disclaimer: This universe belongs solely to J.K Rowling, based on the Harry Potter franchise.
A/N: Another update! Thanks for the reviews, faves and follows on the first chapter!
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Tom managed to find a small, inconspicuous inn down Vertic Alley, where he spent the night and the subsequent morning reading through his diary.
The street the inn was situated on was short and possessed nothing of interest to the everyday shopper, but the bed was cheap and readily available.
Tom currently laid languidly on his one-man bed, idly turning the pages in his boyhood diary while reminiscing on the subjects his younger self had seen fit to share. The little book had been 'heavily' protected by at least three enchantments and a runic password, but Tom knew that some things never changed.
Speaking parseltongue to the diary was the only safe way to unlock its mysteries. Attempting to detangle the enchantments just earned one a trip to the infirmary.
He absentmindedly licked his index finger before turning another page, his eyes roaming over the scribbles. Parselscript. It was more than exasperating. His younger self had undoubtedly been victim to the protagonist syndrome, believing any and everybody was interested in what he did and thought. While he was not opposed to believing himself far more important than the people around him, he was not foolish enough to believe that everyone agreed. He might be a narcissist, but he was also capable of being rational.
He supposed that kind of wisdom came with age.
The Tom of the diary was currently reciting a situation in his fifth year transfiguration class, where his younger self had 'innocently' questioned the rules put forward by Dumbledore in relation to human transfiguration and its connection to charms and necromancy.
'That was hardly subtle, Tom,' he chastised his younger self in amusement.
Lord Voldemort had never become an accomplished necromancer before he was 'banished', though he had been adequately capable of gathering and summoning an army of inferi. It was not actually as complicated as one would think. For a powerful wizard, summoning a few dozen inferi was a simple matter of animation charms and a steady funnelling of magic into a ward stone, stabilizing the corpses' continued 'un-life.' If a wizard wanted to set a passive trap, the most optimal option was to situate the ward stone on top of a ley line, so it could sustain itself indefinitely. Most pyramids and Aztec temples were built with that option in mind.
Despite the notes on horcruxes and a reference to the location of the Chamber of Secrets and the Room of Requirement, nothing of paramount importance stood out to him. His younger self barely mentioned any of his companions at all, and if any person was specifically referred to, the individual in question was either a Slytherin or a teacher. It was expected, but Tom found himself surprisingly disappointed in the boy in the diary.
There were no plans beyond immortality. No further ambitions beyond 'forcing wizard-kind to acknowledge his superiority' and 'eradicating the muggle filth.' The short-sightedness was astounding to him, and Tom continued reading the dissatisfactory recounting of his school years with a scowl on his face.
'I can do better than this.'
He turned his heard sharply towards a sudden knock on his window, announcing the arrival of an owl, presumably carrying mail. Mail addressed to him. He couldn't remember the last time he had received any mail, so the experience left him slightly flummoxed, until he remembered that his name was not currently considered taboo and no anti-owl wards were active with him in mind.
He opened the latch of the window and let the little brown avian inside. The owl ruffled its feathers and stuck out its leg imperiously, if not very impatiently. It obviously had other places to be.
The Dark Lord detached the message and the snazzy owl promptly left. The green ink on the parchment was incredibly nostalgic and the dark-haired wizard carefully opened the letter and read his sixth year Hogwarts letter – again – informing him of this year's booklist, rules and regulations and time of departure at platform 9 ¾. The Hogwarts Express ticket was included.
He smirked victoriously. Apparently, he was invited to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. With everything that had happened in the future, the irony of an invitation into the school was not lost on him.
With the letter followed another piece of parchment, which turned out to be his O.W.L results. Unsurprisingly, he had received outstanding in all subjects and extra credits for Defence Against the Dark Arts. He grinned, finding the entire concept humorous.
He placed the letters and his diary in his robes and left his room. The Alley was just as vacant as the day before, but Tom found that he honestly preferred the room. He knew no muggle bombs hit the magical enclave during the war, and the chances were slim that Grindelwald had urgent business in magical London any time soon.
At least Dumbledore was good for something.
He picked up a Daily Prophet from one of the stands and left a couple of sickles in the bin besides the stacks of newspapers. As he passed a shop with approximately one thousand clocks and watches of different shapes and sizes in the window, he noted the time was appropriate for an early breakfast. The Leaky Cauldron offered a mediocre selection of dishes, but their tea was usually acceptable. The newly minted student decided that that place was as good as any.
While the anonymity was still rather irritating, Tom did feel a heightened sense of freedom. He did not have to plan his arrival or escape. No one was planning to kill him. He did not stand out, and therefore could move anywhere at any time he pleased. He truly had a blank slate. A chance to reconsider his plans and goals, a chance to finally succeed.
He could take his time.
With a relatively pleased and relaxed smile on his lips, he arrived at the Leaky Cauldron and ordered a proper English Breakfast and a cup of tea. If any of his future followers could see their Lord, sitting quietly and sipping tea while reading a newspaper in a pub, they probably wouldn't believe it. This was very unlike him, but he found, as he sat by his table and enjoyed his breakfast, a small amount of peace within himself.
A lot of worries were washed away instantly. Along with the peace, a renewed sense of determination made itself known. His head was awash with possibilities and he couldn't remember the last time he had the presence of mind to truly appreciate the endless opportunities he had to choose from.
The tea was also quite refreshing, he noted.
He idly wondered what would come next. If he truly decided to return to Hogwarts, he'd have to pretend that nothing had changed. He'd have to commit to a slew of limitations, which he found was more than unsettling. He strongly disliked letting anyone have any amount of power over him. However, he would have the opportunity to finish his explorations of the castle. Additionally, he determined that he hardly needed to attend all the classes. Not attending classes would be highly out of character for him, but Tom found that he hardly cared. He knew which relationships were important to nurture and which were wastes of his valuable time and effort.
A sly thought wormed itself into the front of his mind, prompting a devilish grin. Could he perhaps do something to make his stay at Hogwarts more entertaining? More than likely.
His future followers might benefit from a change in schedule.
"Riddle?"
Someone interrupted his musings.
The future Dark Lord of Britain stopped smiling and lifted his eyes from his paper, fixing an annoyed stare at the person in front of his table. The boy flinched and lowered his gaze to the floor.
Had this boy just dared calling him by that name?
He quickly reigned in his annoyance however. Of course, they'd call him that. He wasn't Lord Voldemort – yet.
The boy fidgeted uncomfortably in front of him. Apparently, he hadn't anticipated being correct. A younger boy was standing a little way behind him, looking curious.
He casually folded his paper and decided to get this over with. It was the 19th of August. He might as well become accustomed to people interacting with him before September 1st.
He entwined his hands on the table and raised an eyebrow at the yet youthful face of a sandy-haired Mathias Nott – silently demanding he got on with it. An interesting thing about Occlumency – competency meant that one rarely, if ever, forgot a face. Mathias Nott was a Slytherin in his year and he seemed to recall that the boy wasn't a regular near his side of the Slytherin table. Hardly remarkable. A future relative of his, however, Thaddeus Nott, became one of his most 'trusted' followers years later.
Nott's face was guarded, but his eyes spoke of general confusion. Entering the surface of his mind revealed that Nott hadn't initially believed that Tom was, in fact, himself, since he had been smiling so uncharacteristically. He also seemed surprised to see him there. Tom emphasized. He was quite surprised to be there as well after all.
As it seemed Nott wasn't prepared to answer, Tom impatiently elaborated upon his silent demand.
"What can I do for you, Nott?" Both knew that Tom wasn't asking to be helpful.
Nott swallowed. He had obviously decided to commit to the situation.
"I was surprised to see you," he paused briefly. "Do you have business in the Alley?" he uttered out as an afterthought, attempting to engage Tom in small talk. Tom didn't do small talk.
"I'm staying here for the unforeseeable future," the dark wizard told him simply, his tone not offering any details. Nott's lips thinned.
"I thought you had to stay at that muggle orphanage?" Nott asked, uncomfortable.
"The muggles can hardly stop me from leaving," Tom drawled dismissively.
Nott slowly nodded, looking like he wanted to ask further questions, but his little companion saw the lull in the conversation and pounced like a Nifler on the opportunity to speak.
"Tom Riddle, is it? Is it true you caught the person who killed that girl?" the small fellow demanded with enthusiasm. Tom was initially confused, until he realised that the papers must have published his name in connection to Hagrid's expulsion. He seriously needed to meditate on his memories from this time – he couldn't continue being surprised about everything. It was unbecoming.
Nott visibly flinched at the question, turning a furious glare at the younger boy, a silent demand to 'shut the fuck up immediately or there would be consequences.' Tom cracked a smile. Nott noticed and paled instantly.
"Yes, that is correct," Tom admitted easily, drawing another flinch from Mathias. "The girl wasn't killed directly by the convicted however, but by the beast he was irresponsibly keeping in the castle."
"Do you know what kind of beast it was?" the boy prodded.
"Yes." Tom smirked at the boy. "Do you?" His question lit a fire behind the eyes of the boy. Nott attempted to subtly discourage the boy by gripping his shoulder, but the lad was persistent. He took a step closer and pulled the adjacent chair from his table and sat down, shrugging off Nott's hand in the process.
"No, I don't. The Prophet didn't elaborate upon that detail. I assumed the investigation was classified," he trailed off in a whisper, eagerly participating in the discussion.
Tom's expression turned pensive. He delicately thumbed his chin while looking off to the side, appearing as if he was considering sharing a crucial piece of the puzzle to the eager boy. Nott stood stiffly to the side, looking between Tom and his little friend anxiously.
Finally, Tom turned back to the boy, easily capturing his attention. Scanning his thoughts, he learned that the boy was, in fact, Mathias Nott's younger brother Torben Nott, a second year Ravenclaw, going on his third year come September.
"If I tell you, what would give me in return?" he slyly asked. The younger Nott scrunched up his face in thought. He evidently craved the information, but Tom had never in his life offered information freely. The boy had invaded his table, so if he wanted information, he should be willing to pay for it, he thought sardonically.
The older Nott was visibly uncomfortable now. Apparently, he didn't think Tom was trustworthy.
"Ben- "his classmate started carefully, but he was cut off by a hand. The younger brother had had the gall to interrupt his older brother with a rude hand gesture of silence. The older looked flabbergasted. This was amusing – and curious. Another sweep of the boy's thoughts revealed that Ravenclaw house had some kind of bet going on. Undoubtedly, the person who could prove the species of the beast, with proper sources and/or evidence, would win the earnings.
"I have an extra ticket to this week's national quidditch match at the Unreliable Stadium. My uncle was supposed to join us, and our father, but he's fallen ill. The game is Montrose Magpies against the Falmouth Falcons. The Battle of the Birds, they call it! Game of the year, what do you say?" Torben Nott proposed confidently, grinning widely at Tom.
Mathias' eyes snapped to Torben. He then started speaking condescendingly to his brother.
"Ben, I hardly think Riddle is interested in something as tedious and cacophonous as a quidditch match. The teams aren't even anything special, it's only a national event. Besides, Riddle doesn't even li-"
"That is acceptable," Tom said as he imitated the younger Nott by holding his hand up to interrupt the teenager's tirade. Mathias gaped unattractively at the hand. Tom ignored him.
The Battle of the Birds. The name had sparked something in his memory. Several quidditch fans in his house had returned from the holidays, starting his sixth year, and complained extensively about the match. Apparently, the match had ended in an unprecedented draw, which is nearly unheard of in quidditch as it is, but what was particularly remarkable was the 150-150 score. The Falmouth Falcons had failed to score a single goal the entire match while the opposing team had flattened their adversaries unrelentingly. Nonetheless, the Falcons' Seeker managed to catch the Snitch 2.8 seconds before the Magpies succeeded in scoring a final goal, resulting in a ridiculous draw of 150 against 150. Apparently, a lot of wizards had gambled on the match, and nobody had won a single galleon. The accusations spoke of obvious foul play.
Tom spotted an opportunity.
"Suppose I went along with you to the match, would there be an opportunity to place a bet?"
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Mathias Nott was certain this was a bad idea.
It was the 23rd of August and Mathias felt unsettled. He was currently sat on a bench, his head cradled heavily in his hands. His younger brother and father were standing by the railing of the bridge, discussing the procedure of Floo-travel as if nothing was wrong.
Did they not understand who they had invited? Clearly not, he thought has he squinted his eyes at his brother in annoyance.
This was all his fault. The little shit.
The quidditch match was set to commence at the Unreliable Stadium of the Isle of Sheppey, some kilometres east of London. The island was predominantly used as a muggle nature reserve, but the muggle authorities had approved of the construction of a pitch prior to that settlement in 1875, which meant that the stadium couldn't be usable always. Instead, the stadium was set to only appear every second and a half month, and only on odd days of the week, excluding particularly rainy weekends. Since the math was unreliable, so was the stadium.
The Department for Magical Sports and Games had declared that the math finally agreed with the weather – so the match was called. Unfortunately, it has happened that they were wrong before, and the game had had to be cancelled mid-match because the goals disappeared. Everyone obviously hoped for the best.
This was all very confusing, but apparently the muggles thought their reserve was important or something. He couldn't imagine how their magicless trees and animals were more important than a national quidditch match, however.
He heard the deafening roar of the Knight Bus approaching, so he lifted his head and waited warily. The bus skidded to a stop haltingly, tires screeching. Tom Riddle himself exited the bus a moment later, calm as you pleased. The sight of the boy walking towards them felt like a bad omen.
Mathias Nott had been classmates with Tom Riddle from the moment he entered Hogwarts, shared all of his classes with him - sans Arithmancy – and he could confidently say that no person terrified or confused him more. The boy walking towards him was the epitome of dangerous. No one had said anything, but everyone in Slytherin house knew that Tom had something to do with the murder. In which manner was up for discussion.
Not only that – Tom's magic was ridiculous. He had too much and could control it to an alarming degree for a person supposedly raised in the muggle world. He had seen him use that magic. It would've been a simple matter for him, but no one had voiced their suspicions. In Slytherin house, provoking Riddle and his group was synonymous with suicide.
Duelling with him just wasn't worth it.
His academic excellence had garnered him the respect of his house, but his strength had sealed it. Everyone in the house knew he was born and raised in the muggle world, and of course the Slytherins had pointed that fact out to Tom numerous times during their first year.
Mudbloods didn't belong in Slytherin. Tom was an anomaly. The black sheep.
Until he wasn't.
It was an unstated fact in their house that Tom couldn't be categorized as a mudblood, and so he wasn't. No one spoke of it. He was the perfect student. A model Slytherin. Someone the other Slytherins should aspire to be like. Handsome, clever, cunning – dangerous.
His origin was a taboo discussion – mainly because no one wanted to entertain the thought that a mudblood could be better than them – so everyone silently agreed to not think about Tom's muggle background. He supposed it worked. Tom fit in with the purebloods seamlessly, and they seemed to benefit from his favour – Slughorn's group especially.
Mathias stood from his position and moved towards Riddle. He couldn't believe Tom Riddle was joining them for a quidditch match.
"Riddle… good to see you again," he greeted hesitantly. Riddle nodded agreeably, face expressionless. Even without a wand in his hand, Riddle was bloody terrifying. Why couldn't they feel it?!
"May I introduce you to my father, Marcellus Nott. Father, this is Tom Riddle, my housemate in Slytherin."
"It is a pleasure to meet you, sir," Riddle stated, offering a friendly-looking smile while shaking his father's hand firmly.
"I'm sure it is," the stout man promptly answered, placing his hands on his wide middle. "I wasn't expecting to have guests join us on our outing today. Which team do you support? I am personally inclined towards the Magpies. Their new keeper is a tad old, but very experienced!" the man rambled on brightly. The Slytherin's smile was accommodating.
Riddle seemed to charm his father effortlessly.
"I do not presently support any of the teams. I do however plan to place a bet on the outcome," Riddle informed his father amiably a moment later. His father's eyebrows rose in surprise.
"Gambling, ey? I'm sorry to say that minors usually aren't allowed to place bets," said the man regretfully, shooting Riddle a look of pity. Riddle's smile widened.
"Well, sir, I was hoping we could work something out between us."
"You want me to place a bet for you?" His father's brows furrowed.
"I will supply the funds. In truth, the amount is very small. I would greatly appreciate it if you would do me this favour." Riddle stared his father directly in the eyes – unnervingly.
This was unheard of. His father was about to answer – presumably to decline Riddle's ridiculous proposition – but the man's eyes widened minutely before settling in a vaguely dazed expression. 'What?'
"Well, as long as the bet is small, I don't see why not. All young wizards should be responsible for their own money eventually, after all. You seem like a responsible sort." His father agreed happily. He had only just met him!
Mathias looked at Riddle suspiciously. His wand wasn't in his hand and he saw no potion vials or artefacts in the vicinity of his person. He would've confronted him, but he wasn't suicidal.
The four of them exchanged a few more pleasantries, before walking towards a set of iron stairs, moving slightly below the belly of the bridge and onto a small platform.
His father tapped his wand towards a certain, uncharacteristically shiny nut on the pillar, prompting the metal to fold inwards, exposing the hidden entrance. In order to go to the Unreliable Stadium, one needed to go by Floo. The stadium had their own personal Floo central, which was the only access available since side-along-apparition was nearly impossible during such long distances and most people had never been there previously. However, domestic Floos weren't sufficient in this instance, since they couldn't cross bodies of water.
The bridge they were currently entering was the location of Vauxhall International Floo Central of London. One could normally not floo internationally, but a revolutionary witch from Puerto Rico in 1911 thought that was ridiculous and invented the Faraway Floo. This specific floo network was connected to floo centrals worldwide but required magical charging prior to departure in order to reach the distance. Unlike portkeys, one needn't order a ministry approved artefact, which took weeks to arrive. Additionally, the price was far lower compared to portkeys. A Faraway Floo could be prepared in approximately four work days, depending on the number of travellers, to which one could only arrive at other designated Floo centrals. If your destination had no nearby Floo centrals however, a portkey was more optimal. Nowadays, every major city had at least one Floo central.
They leisurely made their way towards their appointed fireplace. Mathias noted that their names and destination were displayed in tasteful engraving on the mantle. While they waited for the Floo central employee to supply the needed powder for the travel, Mathias noticed that Riddle was looking around in interest, his expression subtly curious.
Right, Riddle had likely never been to a Floo central before.
Riddle's eyes then travelled to his, and Mathias swore he smirked wickedly at him before dropping the powder and stepping through the Floo. He wasn't sure what to think.
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The Nott patriarch had vanished off to somewhere to place the bet Tom had requested, which left him alone with Mathias and Torben. Before departing, Tom had been fascinated to notice the vintage Faraway Floos, with outdated enchantments that took days to prepare. How archaic.
Well, he supposed they weren't outdated, yet. Those Floo-networks were vastly improved upon in the future however, to the degree that the Floos could be set upon demand with only half a day's warning in advance.
The older brother had stared at him in bewilderment earlier, and a cursory scan of his thoughts revealed that Nott thought him to be as culturally intelligent as a muggleborn. Which was quite frankly insulting, but Tom once again reigned in his temper. Creating a spectacle at the Floo central wasn't optimal, so Tom had opted to reinforce Mathias' rational fear of him instead.
"Do you gamble, Riddle?" the younger brother asked eventually, making Riddle look at him with an expression of disinterest. They were standing by a row of vendors, awaiting the return of the elusive Marcellus Nott. The man was taking his time – having to wait for people was aggravating.
"No," Tom Riddle answered unhelpfully.
"But –" Tom cut Torben off, again.
"I don't take unnecessary risks. Risks comes from not knowing what you're doing. I always know what I am doing."
Torben looked highly sceptical of this, but Tom didn't care for the opinions of teenagers. He knew fully well what the outcome of this match would be, and if the outcome somehow changed, then the measly number of Galleons he wasted would be small a price to pay for this experiment.
Agreeing to go to this quidditch match was, in truth, twofold. On one hand, if his predictions were correct, he'd win a substantial amount of capital, which would be a boon for him later, when graduating Hogwarts. On the other hand, he might be incorrect, to which further experimentation was warranted.
Over the last week, Tom had meditated upon his memories and meticulously filed nearly every single accessible memory from 1939 to 1950. If the match ended differently, then there could be a slew of reasons behind it, but two were especially prominent. One; he somehow managed to change the outcome purely by arriving in the past and leaving the orphanage, or two; this past is fundamentally different than the one he remembered, and history had changed naturally according to some obscure magical happenstance that would make his memories of future events useless. Both were unlikely, but Tom expected that the outcome of the game would be unchanged. The Daily Prophets he'd checked from the last couple of years lend credence to his theory of a completely unchanged past, with expectations for a future likewise unaffected by his presence, depending on him keeping an uncomfortably low profile.
His plans would not – could not – remain low profile forever.
Tom was more than likely the most powerful dark wizard presently alive, the current menace called Grindelwald included. The title of Dark Lord was bestowed upon the most notorious of dark wizards, earned through magic, and while the thought of earning such a title disturbed most people, Tom had been innately proud of his achievement – however unexpected it had been. It was just another thing that commanded people's respect and set him apart from the rest. Once one earned the moniker, other powerful wizards could recognize the label on his magic. It was like an imprint on the fabric of his being. An addition to his identity. A powerful affinity for dark magic and a beacon for chaos. When one becomes a Dark Lord, their status is irreversible and recognizable in the way their magic interacts with other wizards and witches.
If he seriously started flexing his magic, other less powerful wizards would undoubtedly notice the difference as well. Not to mention above-average wizards. They wouldn't really know how to categorize the feeling as that of a Dark Lord, but a primal sense of fear was usually the result regardless.
It would likely pose a problem in the very near future. Dumbledore would undoubtedly realize what Tom was very fast – especially since Dumbledore used to be in regular contact with Grindelwald before the war, who was also a Dark Lord.
A Dark Lord who was currently alive, powerful and active. Unlike Tom. He was trapped in a quidditch stadium.
The 16-year-old Dark Lord scowled. 'Ridiculous.'
While Tom had spent the last couple of minutes contemplating his place in the world, the Nott brothers had discussed quidditch players, tactics and broom models. They had attempted to drag him into their discussion, Mathias albeit reluctantly, but Tom wasn't really inclined to entertain their ridiculous notion that quidditch was somehow important. He honestly had better things do, but necessity compels. He desperately needed funds.
"Ah! There you are. I had convinced myself that I'd left you near the popped corn, but I suppose my memory fails me." Marcellus Nott chuckled while munching on his popcorn. He had apparently deigned to reappear before the start of the match.
"Tom, my lad, this is for you," The 'elder' wizard handed a couple of pieces of parchments to Tom, who took them gingerly and read their contents. It was a magical contract detailing the bet he had made, unsigned. Without looking, he swiftly summoned a pen, wandlessly, which resulted in a yelp of shock from somewhere in a nearby crowd and a pen surreptitiously landing in his hand. Torben seemed extremely intrigued by the display, while his older brother choked on his spit.
"You just performed wandless magic?!" Mathias exclaimed in incredulous fright.
"Clearly," Tom said, unimpressed by his transparency. The boy was awful at containing his feelings. Were all teenagers this obvious? Was he like this when he had been young and naïve? He hoped not – he has experienced enough embarrassment to last him fifty years.
Mathias was looking at his feet, his eyes wide with panic while his brother looked impressed and contemplative.
Tom swiftly signed the contract. While acquiring the contract itself was near-impossible for a minor, nothing said a minor couldn't sign it. For all intents and purposes, the Quidditch Gambling Association were now magically obligated to pay him if he won, regardless of his age.
Tom smirked and folded the papers, placing them in the inner pockets of his robes next to his diary. He then turned to his companions and motioned towards the stands that were visible at the end of the vendor's area.
"Shall we go observe this spectacle, then?"
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A/N: Reviews are encouraged!