He had a plan, at first. He would leech off the boy's magic (of which there seemed to be plenty), until he grew strong enough to make contact with the boy, and when the time was right, he would whisper words in little Harry Potter's ears, words that would shape who he'd become – words that would transform him into the perfect vessel for Lord Voldemort.
It shouldn't have been difficult. The boy was innocent – far more innocent than he should have been. He had no sense of self worth, no one to guide him; he was nothing, a scared little boy who was happiest living a life that was not even his.
As much as he despised the little monster he once was, he knew embracing what was left of his younger self was to his advantage – Harry already sympathized with Tom; he already knew that Tom had suffered as he had, but had overcome his suffering.
So, as much as it irked him, he would introduce himself as Tom Riddle. And slowly, Tom would mold the impressionable and likely unstable Harry Potter into his own image, carry him on the same journey he himself had traveled, until the boy was virtually indistinguishable from him.
That was when he would merge their souls, and take the boy's body and magic for his own. The master soul would no doubt seek him out, and once he'd pieced them all together – Harry Potter, he himself, and Lord Voldemort's master soul – the Dark Lord would be reborn.
It was maddening, watching the boy take beating after beating, insult after insult. He felt every kick, every punch, every tear rolling down Harry Potter's cheek. For the first time in his life, he experienced, if only indirectly, guilt and shame, and worst of all, the desperate urge to become a better person, to be a good person. Never before had he known pain, not like this. The boy was drowning him in sentiment, fear, and chaos.
Damn Lily Potter. The filthy mudblood was probably laughing in her grave.
Lord Voldemort had grown restless. Anxiety crept at the edges of his mind, as he continued to reassure himself. He would not fail. Everything was in place. His future was secure. He just had to wait.
Harry Potter...the boy continued to surprise him. He was earnest, yet devious. Frank, yet tactful. Bold, yet careful. He was kind and honest and...virtuous.
And yet his magic...it was malicious. Most magical children suffer from sudden bouts of accidental magic. Most of his magic, of course, hadn't been accidental to begin with, but he'd heard many tales at Hogwarts, of clothes changing colour, objects taking flight, or toys moving on their own.
From what he had gathered, accidental magic was playful and innocent, a happy trademark of every witch and wizard's childhood. But Harry Potter's magic...it was different.
It was strong and unpredictable; it rose up from inside of him like a tempest, warring for release with a desperation he had never before attributed to magic - but most significantly, it rarely showed itself except to cause harm...usually against the boy's wishes.
His first thought was that it was not the boy's magic that was causing problems - it was his. But by the time he watched the child set his Uncle's shoes on fire for the fifth time, it was clear to him that it was not Lord Voldemort's dark magic that was leaking so crudely from the boy; it was the boy's uncorrupted light magic, raw power with a mind of its own that was begging to be used.
Did such a thing even exist? Magic that was evil and pure at the same time. It boded well for him, he supposed - it was no doubt a precursor to what would be an unstable and tumultuous state of being for the impressionable boy, which would make him all the more vulnerable.
And yet...
There was something wrong, something terribly wrong. There was something missing. The child was an anomaly, but he wasn't quite sure why. Not yet. There was so much he did not know. So much could go wrong. He needed to know. He needed to understand.
Harry Potter loved thunderstorms - that much had been made clear to Lord Voldemort. The child would lie awake for hours when the weather took a turn for the worst, mesmerized by the rushing sound of the rain and the rhythmic pounding of the heavens, while he wondered what greater power caused the sky to cry and the clouds to light up with white fire.
He was not able to listen in on the boy's thoughts, but more often or not, said thoughts would be made tangible as he narrated them meticulously to the spiders that spun their webs on the ceiling of his meagre living quarters, or the plastic toy soldiers that sat on his shelves.
Little did the child know, it was his magic that caused the sky to cry. Whenever too much power built up in little Harry Potter's oversized magical core, it would dissipate into the air and stir up the makings of a storm. It was truly remarkable to watch. And to think, one day that power would be his...
Not much longer. Harry Potter would be his soon. He needed him. He needed to know.
Harry Potter was his puzzle to solve. And he wouldn't let anyone even get close until he'd managed to learn everything there was to know about Harry Potter. He just needed patience. Just patience.
It was almost time. He had managed to amass more than enough magic, and soon he would speak to Harry Potter for the first time. Glee bubbled up and danced in his mind. It was almost time! Sweet, innocent Harry Potter was almost within his grasp.
Diary...Ring...Locket...Cup...Diadem...
Diary...Ring...Locket...Cup...Diadem...Harry Potter
Harry Potter, a strange, twisted creature with a pure, white, gleaming soul.
Yes, things were going according to plan – but of course they were. Lord Voldemort's plans never failed.
Harry Potter was almost his.
He would break him, stain him, corrupt him, and any innocence left in the ruins would belong to him, a pretty little trophy for him to admire. His masterpiece.
Yes, Harry Potter would break. He would lose everything.
But Lord Voldemort had already broken. And he had already lost.
.....
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