Chapter Text
disclaimer: I'm just playing in J.K.R.'s sandbox--I own nothing!
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Tom Marvolo Riddle huddled in the forests of Albania for the longest time, moving from animal to animal as he nursed his exhausted soul back to health. He had no knowledge of time. His thoughts were on a green-eyed baby.
In the first month, he cursed his fate. He cursed Dumbledore. He cursed the Potter brat, who had ripped his soul from his body.
In the second month, he rethought his stance. He needed to get back and kill the boy. So much power was dangerous in an enemy.
In the second year, he stood on two feet triumphantly, the Muggle villager’s body in his thrall. He began the slow journey back to England.
In the fourth year, in a tavern in Croatia, in his third Muggle body, he reassessed his position once again. No, the boy was young enough to be malleable. He would make a good apprentice, if he were biddable enough.
In the sixth year, as he lay in a hostel near the Swiss border of France, he wondered what the boy was like. Spoiled rotten, no doubt; praised as a hero for ridding the world of Voldemort.
In the eighth year, he looked across the Channel at Britain and decided to discreetly look up his old followers when he was back home.
Eight years and one month after being hurled violently into limbo, an exultant Tom Riddle stood in his own body again. He looked around the shack his relatives had called ‘home’ and smiled, slipping the Peverell family ring onto his right index finger. The Horcrux of his forty-year-old self had been remarkably cooperative after hearing Tom’s plans.
Time to go, Riddle, he told himself. Let’s see what this Potter boy’s made of.