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Chapter Text

Tom Riddle was nearly done with the ritual by the time that something within him told him that it might be a bad idea.

The ritual was going perfectly, of course, with not a line out of place or a single word misspoke, but even then, an uneasy sensation winded its way through his body, threatening to upset his forced tranquility.

Abraxas had confirmed to him, quite emphatically, that the ritual would not harm him in any way, nor would it deliver him directly into the arms of danger. He would only be transported to the vicinity of that which could destroy him for good. Once he laid eyes on the form of that person, he would instantly know that they were the one he was after. Then, he could formulate a plan to swiftly take down his enemy, execute that plan, return to his manor, and never have to worry about an unknown, powerful adversary rising up against him again.

Orion had tried to caution him, saying that defeating his opponent might not be as easy as he was imagining it would be, but Tom shot him down quite quickly. Now, though, Tom started to wonder if Orion had been right, a thought that he had never had before in his life.

Still, Tom shook off his momentary anxiety, cutting his hand with the sacrificial knife Orion had gifted him for Yule three years ago, during their seventh year at Hogwarts. Orion said that he did not want a present in return, but Tom bought a broom-polishing kit for him as soon as he acquired enough funds for it. He did not get Orion a gift because of any real affection for the Black heir, but because of his ever-present need to never be in anyone’s debt, something that his time in Slytherin had forced into him.

Tom’s hand became wet with blood, which dripped down into the center of the ritual circle, sizzling as it made contact with the runes Tom had carved into the floor.

Abraxas and Orion were the ones who presented him with the ritual, both claiming that their respective families, the Malfoys and the Blacks, had been the ones to invent it. Tom would have let the shouting match that ensued to go on for longer if it had not been for his own intrigue into the ritual, referred to as Reperio Ruinae.

They explained it to him then, saying that the ritual was once used by pureblood Lords to take out other Lords from competing families, but had fallen out of fashion some time ago. The premise was simple: perform the ritual and be taken to the general location of the greatest enemy you would ever face in your life (Orion had been insistent on referring to it as a persons’ “downfall”, rather than their enemy, saying that it was the original wording of the ritual text). From then on, it was up to the user to decide what they would do, although most elected to simply kill them while they were caught unaware.

Tom had the same plan, although he wanted to stalk his adversary beforehand and ascertain what made them so worthy of being his opponent.

Before he said the final words of the ritual text, Tom pondered what his enemy would be like. Would they be overly-righteous and ultimately, unbelievably ignorant, like the old fool, Dumbledore? Or would they somehow surprise him and be completely different from those who had tried to stop him before? Tom smirked. That idea was almost humorous enough to make him laugh. Finally, Tom spoke the words that would transport him to his adversary.

“I call upon you, spirits of war, to bring me to the downfall of Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

The moment he finished the final syllable, Tom felt the floor fall out underneath him, as he tumbled into the newfound darkness below. In his last moment of consciousness, he once again asked himself if he had made a mistake.

For the first few seconds, Tom wondered if he had been cast into an alternate universe, a dystopia of sorts. Actually, most people would probably call this a utopia, as wizards and witches walked up and down the busy streets of Diagon Alley, chatting amicably and marveling at the wondrous ambience of the wizarding district. A sense of festivity brightened up every corner of the alley, and the atmosphere seemed almost too good to be true, shining with light and warmth.

Tom was not most people. He was used to a different kind of Diagon Alley, one that was still recovering from the terror that the Dark Lord Grindelwald had wrought on wizard society. Even though the global wizarding war had mainly taken place on the Continent, his power had been felt worldwide, and Diagon Alley’s otherworldly environment had suffered because of it.

All of that to say, Tom had no clue where he was, because though the place looked like Diagon Alley, it was not his Diagon Alley.

Quickly, he touched his bag to ensure that it was still there. Tom had brought only what he believed he would absolutely need to carry out his plan, as well as a few items he could not bear to part with: his wand, a healthy amount of galleons, a change of clothes, his diary, his ring, and his locket. As he put his hand on the bag, which he had casted an expansion charm on, his Horcruxes sang to him, reassuring him of their presence.

Soothed, Tom went out to look for the best thing that could ground him, despite how much he hated the thing itself: The Daily Prophet. Thankfully, a newsstand sat nearby, although the design and style of the paper looked different from how he remembered it. Nevertheless, he ignored the image moving on the front, a picture of a smiling man with unruly dark hair, and immediately looked at the date on the Prophet. He almost wished he hadn’t, because there, written in bold, black ink, were words he could not begin to comprehend.

What?

Tom felt unmoored, as though he had been unceremoniously dropped into the center of the Forbidden Forest with no directions on how to get out. Reperio Ruinae had somehow taken him exactly sixty years into the future. Which meant that either something had gone wrong during the ritual itself, an idea that Tom doubted, as he had never made a mistake like that before, or that his greatest enemy was here.

Perhaps that theory made sense at first glance, but when Tom thought about it, that had to mean that his adversary was, most likely, significantly younger than him, or else he would have been transported to a time that was closer to his own.

Of course, Tom could live that long and have nothing about his looks change. He had ensured his immortality with his first Horcrux, the diary, years ago. If anything, he would probably be much more powerful in sixty years than he was now. But to think that his greatest opponent was maybe six decades younger than him was astonishing. Was there truly no one strong enough to give him a real challenge? The age gap put Tom at an immediate advantage. He was wiser, more knowledgeable, and had a longer time to practice than his enemy did.

Even then, a cool sense of dread filled him, as he wondered how he would return back to 1948. Perhaps, in the future, some great wizard had created a spell or ritual that could bring him to his past time. Still, it could take ages for him to find that ritual and successfully complete it. And what would he do if there was no way out? If he was trapped here? Suddenly, something that Abraxas had said to him offhandedly when they first introduced Reperio Ruinae screamed from the back of Tom’s mind.

“And, I mean, the whole ritual kind of fell out of favor about a decade ago? Some of the wizards who did it completely vanished and never returned. No one really knows what happened to them, but, well, it’s probably fine!”

At the time, Tom had brushed the comment aside, only giving Abraxas’ words a second of thought before he internally winced at the blond’s lack of eloquence. (Honestly, for the Heir of the House of Malfoy, Abraxas could really use some lessons in decorum).

But now, looking around the familiar yet simultaneously foreign streets of Diagon Alley, Tom wished he had paid attention to Abraxas for once.

As Tom stared at the people going by, he felt almost detached from the scene around him. These people seemed to be untouched by the fear of war. These people had never forced themselves not to eat the only food they had, because they did not know when their next meal would come. These people did not know what it was like to hide under their bed, praying that the bombs falling from the sky hit the people down the street instead of them. These people knew nothing.

Tom shook himself from the memories. He was glad he did, as he was able to notice a small commotion further down the alley. He slowly prowled toward the noise, trying to see what stood at the center of the small storm.

He had some difficulty seeing through the crowds of people, all of whom had started to focus on the man at seemingly the exact same moment that Tom did. Still, he could see enough.

A man exited what looked like a newly renovated version of Flourish and Blotts. The brown-skinned man was smartly dressed, with dark blue robes that hugged him tightly enough to show off his toned arms yet noticeably thin waist. His black curls seemed to bounce in every direction, as though they were attempting to get away from his scalp by any means necessary. The man's most notable feature, though, were his glimmering eyes, which were hidden behind a pair of round glasses. Suddenly, the color of those eyes reminded Tom of the Killing Curse, green and magnetic, powerful and alluring. A scar in the shape of lightning tore its way down the side of the man's face, the shape of it reminding Tom of the movement to cast the Killing Curse.

The crowd cheered at the sight of him, as the man gave an agreeable smile that did not quite meet his eyes. He had a dark air about him, something that repelled Tom as much as it drew him in. (And it drew him in, a lot). Part of that pull was most likely due to the natural air of danger that surrounded the man, but also due to the actual pull Tom was feeling. It was not a physical pull, but simply a little tug, as if it were made to simply remind Tom of its own existence.

Tom, in that moment, recalled that the ritual would make the target of the ritual known to the user. He also recalled the newspaper that was still in his hand.

When he looked at the article once again, his suspicions were confirmed. This man was Tom’s greatest enemy, the one he had come here to kill. The man was also well known enough to have made the front page of the Prophet, which could either make Tom’s job much easier or incredibly difficult. Absent-mindedly, he began to read the article that featured his enemy. As he read, horror began to creep its way through him, clawing all of Tom’s carefully thought-out plans, ones that spanned months, years, decades, to shreds.

To his growing horror, Tom looked further down to find a photo of a snake-like monster prowling Hogwarts’ courtyard, dressed in dark, flowing robes. The creature was grotesque and malformed, and looking at it filled Tom with such a profound sense of disgust that he nearly turned away. Tom could almost say that the monster reminded him of the basilisk hiding within the Chamber of Secrets, but that creature was beautiful in its deadliness. This was not. The picture had been taken from far away, as though the photographer did not want the subject catching them capturing the photo. At the bottom of the image, Tom saw the final nail in his coffin. The caption read:

Lord Voldemort during the Battle of Hogwarts. This is the only known photo to ever be taken of the Dark Lord. The photographer, Colin Creevey (16), was murdered by Death Eaters minutes after this picture was taken.

A faint scent of smoke entered Tom’s nose, and it took a moment to realize that the smell was coming from the Prophet that was currently burning in his hands, his own magic reacting violently to the news. He watched as Potter’s moving, smiling face slowly blackened at the edges. The newspaper charred, until the only thing left was Potter’s striking green eyes. At the last moment, the eyes turned and looked directly at Tom, glaring into his fractured soul. Then they were gone.

Tom raised his head from the newspaper, letting the burnt thing fall to the ground in a spiral of ash. He almost wished he hadn’t, because there Potter was, staring at him with the same green eyes. An odd look crossed Potter’s face, before he, seemingly to himself, shook his head and turned away from Tom, vanishing back into the crowd.

There was no reason for Tom to have done the ritual. There was no stopping his downfall.

It had already happened.