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Divination says everything is decided. All paths are staked out. Time is only an illusion created by the limitations of the human mind, and magic is the means by which it can be overcome. With that tool at his disposal, Tom Riddle is determined to look into his future and gain insight into how he can become the greatest sorcerer the world has ever known. The tools of divination are, however, annoyingly imprecise, and he can't understand why no witch or wizard before him has made the effort to better them, especially not since the appropriate field to marry Divination to is well developed. Perhaps it's because Arithmancy demands too logical a mind for most magical folk. He's not most, though, and he delves into the calculations that make up the fabric of time, adding in the numbers of the present, all the variables he can possibly think of to make an accurate prediction of his future. What factors he cannot account for, his magic fills in for him.
Despite his certainty, it doesn't matter how many times he painstakingly prints out the numbers, the power it says he'll have doesn't add up. It's nearly double what he should be capable of, and while it's a very flattering mistake to make, it is a mistake.
He writes out similar sheets for his classmates, using as many parameters for them as for himself, coaxing, flattering, and threatening his way to the needed information, and every time, the result is exactly what he expects. They're average wizards, all of them, balancing around the same mediocre level. Only he far exceeds what should be possible.
Reluctantly, he takes his project to his Arithmancy professor, who takes one look at it and says, "You've left the number for your soulmate mark blank."
He is aware of the fact that he's indeed left it blank. "I do not yet have one," he says through clenched jaws.
"Oh," his professor says and gives him a pitying look.
A sixteen-year-old without a soulmate mark is unheard of. A mark blooms into place somewhere on your body when your soulmate is born, a mark that warms with their presence to help you locate and identify them. Age gaps of more than ten years are exceedingly rare, yet Tom's skin is blank. He's six years overdue, and his calculations on when he'll get his mark tell him that he'll be waiting for a long while yet.
"Have you been casting the right spell to fill in the blanks?" the professor asks next.
"I believe so." Tom makes an effort not to let the anger at the implication be audible in his voice, to keep the anger from arising in the first place. He came to ask for help. He has to accept that he's put himself in the position to be talked down to. He shan't let that enrage him. "Could you please cast the spell, Professor?"
"Certainly." She primly points her wand at the parchment, and the numbers that are scorched into the result column are no different from any of the times Tom has been the one casting the spell. The professor looks at it with wide eyes. "Well, while your calculations look correct, this isn't a standard sheet. You've made it yourself, correct? Combining Divination with Arithmancy is highly unconventional. You're one of my best students, Mr Riddle, but it might be that this is too advanced even for you."
It's not too advanced. He knows he's done it right, and now he's had his calculations confirmed by her spellcasting. He's filled with glee at the thought that he'll grow to be that powerful in time, but all he says is a quiet, "Thank you for your time, Professor."
She was more help than she realizes. She pointed out the faulty point, even if she misinterpreted it. The soulmate is the source of the power, and Tom knows exactly how to tap into it. The project of combining Arithmancy and Divination was only one of the many ways he wanted to expand magic. There are too many things he wants to do and a lifetime, even a wizard's lifetime, is much too short. He's searched for ways to extend his life, and while splitting his soul to make a Horcrux had seemed the safest thing as it would not only prolong life but prevent death, he's read of another way, a way that's connected to soulmates, and if his calculations are correct, he will choose that one. It could explain the power creep. Taking his soulmate's soul into himself, he'd gain power and life force. He'd have two wizards worth of magic in one body. He'd reach his goal of becoming the greatest sorcerer in history. No one would rival him.
—
Tom looks with displeasure at the potion he's completed brewing. His plan for a prolonged life has clear drawbacks. He'll need to make and drink this potion regularly, and he'll be vulnerable each time. It's intolerable. Relying on anything that isn't himself can only lead to ruin. The power, though, the power that it promises is so sweet, beckoning, and it is his for the taking. His soulmate is his. His soulmate's power and life, by extension, is his. If only the method by which he could obtain them did not require a potion, a drug that would addle his mind for several hours each time, it would be perfect. In time, he will make it perfect. For now, it is good enough.
The magic that surges through him as the potion settles in his stomach is phenomenal. It is beyond anything he could have imagined. The calculations, the numbers printed black on white had not done it justice. The experience is other earthly.
However, the adverse effects set in.
Afterwards, he cannot say what he did, where he went or to whom he spoke, he can only reap the unpleasant results, the embarrassment, and strange looks. It's a minor price to pay when magic has become as easy as breathing. When his wand rests in his hand, all his thoughts become reality, and without it, spells are more easily cast than they ever were before with a tool.
The world is his for the taking, and take it, he will.
—
His fingers twitch. His hands are cold, icy numb as if a freezing charm has been spell cast on them. His insides are hollow, queasy and cold. All of him is cold. The iciest part of him is the triangular patch of golden skin over his heart, the mark of his semi-dead soulmate, an infant buried, a soul kept among the living, giving his own energy. The blazing fires, the rich royal purple robes, and matching fur-lined cape cannot give him warmth. He cannot cast magic without his wand. He's waited too long for the next dose of the potion. He has to wait still. He cannot afford to be mindless, not with his enemies closing in on him from all directions.
Enemies are something you gain when, in a few short years, you dissolve democracy in one of the world's richest nations and declare yourself emperor only to continue your conquest into continental Europe, taking control over one country after the other. His enemies come from outside, but they're also within the empire, plotting and scheming against him, wanting to return things to the way they were before, a time when freedom allowed people to do atrocious things to one another.
To many people, freedom is more precious than crime rates brought down to zero, unemployment numbers dropped equally low, and eradicated poverty. Freedom is more precious than magical health care provided to all or education without the tuition fees. People want the freedom to choose what career to pursue, to choose their work hours, and to choose where they live. Above all, they want the freedom of thought. They want to be free to slander, to hurt, to hate, to rain hellfire down upon those who are different from themselves. A perfect society is not enough for the individual person.
He should listen to what his advisors are saying, but his thoughts stray to the potion, to how wonderful it will feel to take it, to have the life and magic of his soulmate rush into him, to not have to think for a scant few hours, to wake up and have the power to do anything he puts his mind to. That's what he needs, not the drivel of these busybodies. What worth has the air they're puffing out when all he has to do is put up his protection, say that he's indisposed for a few hours, and then set out to destroy all who would oppose him?
He clenches his hands, barely feeling his nails cutting into his palms, but it works to ground him in the moment. He has asked to hear these reports because, even with all the magic he normally has, there are things that are beyond him, and knowing where his enemies are will make it that much easier to obliterate them.
If he had his power, though, he could tear the information from his advisors' minds, not needing them to ramble things to him, struggling to put it delicately, and using their mental thesaurus to make themselves seem more intelligent than they are.
His fists have loosened, and he clenches them again. Blood seeps out from crescent moon shaped markers in his palms. He didn't want to rely on the potion. He promised himself long ago to find a permanent solution. He's not had the time. He's not lived one full lifetime yet, and he always knew that his ambitions far exceeded his allotted time. Ruling an empire is the most time-consuming endeavour he could have decided upon.
He's stuck in a cycle of renewed power demanding to be used, followed by moments of calm where he can think clearly and his cognitive abilities are required to solve more pressing matters, and declining power that makes his focus brittle, and then nonexistent. He's at the end of the cycle.
He rises from his throne, royal purple cloth spreading out around him, drawing attention and saving his image when his face must show his exhaustion. He speaks, interrupting Lucius Malfoy mid-sentence, "Gentlemen. Ladies. I thank you for your reports and your advice. You have given me much to think of. We will reconvene in two days."
"But, sire—"
He cuts Malfoy off with a silently cast and shortly held burst of the Cruciatus Curse, sending the man to the floor and turning his objections to pained gasps. If Malfoy dares to be so bold as to interrupt, perhaps the clothes he wears, the mark of his might, doesn't serve to keep them from noticing his declining vitality. But even with the well of his soulmate's power dwindling, he has his own magic, and it is greater than that of any wizard he's ever met.
"You do not question. You obey. I am your Emperor. My word is law." He walks down the steps from the raised dais of his throne to loom over Malfoy's prostrate form. "We. Will. Reconvene. In. Two. Days." He swoops from the grand reception hall, his long cloak trailing behind him. He moves with poise through the public hallways with their polished flagstones, gilded paintings, rich tapestries, and treasures on display, all accented in royal purple.
After a long walk, he reaches his private apartments. Here things are more understated and the fabrics go in jewel tones of green to honour his heritage. Once there, his proud stature gives way to hunched shoulders, and the flow of his steps turn hurried. Without delay, he goes to the cabinet where he keeps the potion. The door does not open. Unthinking, he pulls harder, and when that does nothing, slams his hand against the wood. It's charmed to only open at the cycle's end. He's sure it's the end of the cycle, but counting in his head, he knows that it's not. It's too early to be feeling like this, to so desperately crave the renewal of the connection.
(He won't acknowledge that the number of days when he feels good has dwindled ever since his soulmark appeared nearly twenty years ago, burning cold. He won't acknowledge that he's addicted, like some of the Muggle soldiers he saw in his youth, eyes feverish with their need for opiates, their children dumped at the Orphanage because they've failed as fathers, using the money that should have been put to the care of their children into satiating their own desperate needs.)
He breaks his own spell-work with an ungodly effort that sends cold sweat running down his back. He forcefully opens the door and snatches the potion, uncorking it and drinking, and as soon as it settles in his stomach, he warms, life and power and soul and everything right filling him.
Before his mind fogs over, he has only enough time to think that he hasn't renewed the wards to his apartments. He's left without his usual protection, and his enemies are close.
—
He's in a vast hall of luminous white. At a closer inspection, he recognises it as the Great Hall of Hogwarts. The long tables, the tall arched windows, and the vaulted ceiling are impossible to not recognise even bleached of all colours. At the end of the Head Table sits a man. Being the only thing that stands out in the hall, Tom approaches.
"Hello, Tom," he says. He has messy dark hair and brilliant green eyes. The closer Tom gets, the warmer the mark on his chest grows.
"You're dead," Tom tells his soulmate. The child had only lived for a day. He lacked the power, the will, the soul to live. Tom had taken everything from him. His young parents had named him Harry James Potter and buried him in Godric's Hollow.
"I'm no more dead than you are."
"I cannot die," Tom says.
Harry raises his brows. "That's not the path you chose. You chose to take my life to prolong your own. You're not protected by soul pieces broken off from the whole. You thought about making Horcruxes when you began to fear for your life, but something always got in the way—"
"There was too much—"
"Too much to do in one lifetime. Yes, you used to think that. And now that life has ended."
"It's not ended, I—"
"You what? You think you can get out of here?"
"I can do anything, boy. I'm—"
"Anything? Well, listening isn't part of that apparently, but now you're going to make an effort to do the impossible and listen." Harry sat up straighter in his chair. "Once you decided to take what should have been mine, there was no chance for us. But we're not dead just yet, not exactly. Though this world has only one sweet moment set aside for us, we can make this moment last forever. I've lived with you, learned what I could, and I'm holding us here, in this one moment, and I will have what you took from me. If you don't fight me, we can live this dream forever, love forever."
"Love!" Tom scoffs. "I chose power! I choose power."
Harry rose from the table, coming around to the front. "Don't you see? You don't have that power anymore. Here you're not an emperor in purple raiment. All that's left is my love, and though I hate you for what you've done to me, for what you've done to my family, for what you've done to the world, you're the only person I've ever known. You're the only person I've been given to love, so I will forgive you and love you."
"I don't want your forgiveness! I don't want your love."
"Oh, they're not for you to refuse. I'm not giving them for your sake, but mine. You wanted to live forever. I, however, can wait forever. By all means, rage, scream, try to find a way out. You'll come back to me. I will get my way. We will be true soulmates before the end."