Begged and borrowed time - Tom Riddle

𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒖𝒆

As his fingertips trailed along the crystal sphere, caressing it with the most delicate of touches, his eyes turned a greyish shade of white, resembling the formation of a storm strong enough to destroy entire worlds. His expression appeared almost lifeless.

The group of young men who accompanied him observed with intrigue, exchanging glances and attempting to decipher each other's expressions, as if their lives depended on that fragile piece of gleaming glass. Some eyes reflected fear and confusion, almost hoping for the man in front of them to vanish, while others gleamed with hope and fascination.

Tom delved into his vision, feeling his surroundings blur and the room darken as forms began to take shape. He witnessed power and success, and a slight smile crept across Riddle's face as he admired the image, pleased with his achievements. His group of followers surpassed his expectations, marked with the emblem of their lord on their forearms-a colossal skull composed of what appeared to be emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue-a concept he had always toyed with but had yet to bring to fruition. In that moment, he caught a glimpse of himself, but the extreme changes to his appearance left him unrecognizable at first. His once flawless pale skin had turned whiter than a skull, almost translucent, revealing his veins like a network of tiny red serpents slithering across his head. His once perfect, always in place hair had vanished, and his wide, livid scarlet eyes resembled those of a nightmarish monster, as if conjured from the depths of the devil's own dreams. His face had been grotesquely transformed, with a flat, snake-like nose bearing narrow slits for nostrils. Could this be the result of his horcruxes?

His fists clenched, along with his jaw, aware that his good looks seemed to improve as he aged. He cunningly utilized his charm to win over many of the teachers at Hogwarts or anyone he wished to persuade. Tom possessed an array of skills, including the ability to manipulate and orchestrate people as he pleased. This was merely an evident outcome of his deceit, and only a few individuals possessed the wisdom to see beyond his attractive appearance and refined manners. Nevertheless, if his beauty was the price he had to pay for his mission, so be it.

Tom witnessed his new persona, Voldemort, being informed by a loyal follower about a prophecy that foretold his downfall. Feeling threatened, he sprang into action to prevent its fulfillment.

He was torn from his body, existing as something less than a spirit, less substantial than the feeblest ghost, yet still, he clung to life. The Horcruxes he had created ensured that his spirit remained tethered to the physical realm.

In some way, Voldemort became aware of the Philosopher's Stone and its potential to restore him to his corporeal form. However, upon discovering that the stone had been taken earlier that very day, he realized it was hidden within the walls of Hogwarts, thanks to his followers' connections. Yet, before he could bring harm to the chosen child, Dumbledore appeared, and Voldemort's soul fled, leaving his follower dead in the process. Weakened and more feeble than ever, Voldemort retreated to the Albanian forest, forced once again to bide his time and rely on someone else for aid.

Upon witnessing his future self repeatedly fail at what should have been an effortless task, Tom felt disappointment and even shame. The intensity of his anger was so overwhelming that it threatened to snap him out of his trance.

Time and time again, Tom observed himself being defeated, his meticulously crafted plans falling apart. He found it utterly pathetic, struggling to fathom a reality in which he could be vanquished.

The torment of witnessing his worst nightmares, aware that he was destined to endure them, became almost unbearable. Yet, he understood the necessity of acquiring such knowledge.

A glimmer of hope emerged as he beheld his future self rising from the ashes, stronger than ever before, bolstered by his most loyal followers. Embarking on a second Wizarding War, unparalleled in magnitude, surpassing even Grindelwald's endeavors. Only to see his perfect scheme crumbled by of a group of mere children. Once again.

Just as his future body succumbed to lifelessness, wand in hand, defeated by the very same child he couldn't kill, Tom snapped out of his trance, consumed by an uncontrollable wrath.

The room fell into a heavy silence, disrupted only by the rapid rhythm of Tom's breath and heartbeat.

Ridiculous, he thought bitterly. How could it have happened so swiftly? One of the greatest, if not the greatest wizard of all time, brought down by a mere child whose blood was not even pure. He couldn't help but wonder whose fault it could be, if not his own, considering every move he made was meticulously calculated to be flawless.

The notion of dying like any ordinary wizard sent a shiver down his spine, momentarily breaking his composed demeanor. In a moment of lost control, he impulsively threw the same Crystal Ball that had revealed his series of failures, watching it shatter into countless shards upon the cold ground.

The young men exchanged uneasy glances, their eyes reflecting horror at witnessing their leader lose his grip on himself. It was an unfamiliar sight, and it left them unsettled.

Disappointment also mingled in the air, evident in the expressions of a few, as Tom's uncharacteristic reaction signified a future failure they had all been hoping to avoid. Riddle fought to regain control over his breathing, staring blankly into nothingness, his chest rising rapidly with each breath, a hint of fear flickering in his eyes, so slightly it was almost unrecognizable.

His followers, uncertain of how to respond or what to say, turned their gazes to Abraxas, Tom's trusted right-hand man. The weight of responsibility seemed to settle upon Malfoy, and he decided to take the first step. A small bead of nervous sweat trickled down his warm forehead.

"Lord?" Malfoy managed to utter, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and caution. In such a grave situation, he dared not use Tom's name, hoping to avoid drawing his anger upon himself. "What did you see?" he asked, his heart racing in his chest.

Tom, however, chose not to respond to the question, not yet ready to voice his revelations aloud. Instead, he slowly raised his head, keeping his back turned to his followers.

"We are traveling to 1991." he muttered, his words barely audible. Already, his mind was abuzz with plans to outsmart his future self and avert his own impending failure.