Five years.Five years of study, creation, and perfection. The years had slipped by like ink through water, and now the calendar read 1960 — the year the new generation was born. The year that would, in the original flow of fate, bring forth names like Potter, Black, Lupin, Pettigrew, Snape, and Evans.This time, the world would not raise them alone. I would shape them. The future belonged to me.
I sat within the alchemical chamber beneath Slytherin Manor, surrounded by a halo of soft green light. The relics of the founders hovered in the air before me — symbols of ancient power, each one now fully understood and bound to my command.
The Relics of the Founders
Hufflepuff's Cup gleamed golden, faintly humming with enchantment. I dipped my wand into it, and a drop of Felix Felicis shimmered on the rim. The cup rippled, and before me appeared a second identical drop, and then a third, and then a dozen."Endless," I murmured, smiling. A cup that could copy any liquid it has tasted. Potions, elixirs, blood, even phoenix tears — limitless in quantity. Hufflepuff had likely never understood the true horror of what she created. But I did. With this, I could heal armies… or poison nations.
Slytherin's Locket rested upon my palm, its serpent design faintly moving as if alive. Its barrier pulsed softly, layers of defense stronger than most fortresses. I'd tested it. Three killing curses, one after another, and it had not even cracked.The locket's second gift — a reservoir of magic — was equally impressive. It could hold spells, power, or raw magical energy, to be absorbed later. I used it as a reserve battery, a hidden well of strength.Salazar truly was a genius. His craftsmanship bordered on divinity.
Ravenclaw's Diadem lay upon my desk, elegant, cool, and unimposing. Of all the relics, this was the least violent, but not without purpose. It calmed the mind, enhanced imagination, and cleared emotion. I wore it during my rituals — it allowed me to think as if the universe itself were a puzzle to be rearranged.Still, compared to the others, it was the weakest. Knowledge is power, yes… but only when wielded by someone willing to use it. And I was long past the stage of merely thinking.
As for Gryffindor's Sword… my Horcrux. My immortality. I had buried it deep, behind protections that even Death itself would hesitate to approach. I would never allow that relic to fall into another's hand again.
Five Years of Mastery
The first year I devoted entirely to alchemy — the purest art of transformation. I forged protective talismans, enchanted rings, and armors. I created lesser artifacts for the followers I would one day arm — my future Death Eaters. Even their basic gear would make them superior to most Aurors.
The second year was steeped in combat and destruction. I mastered dark curses meant to kill, maim, or burn away the soul. I tore apart ancient grimoires from Alexandria, Cairo, and Tibet — rituals that turned blood into fire, screams into weapons. I expanded my mastery over potion‑making as well, crafting elixirs of vitality, focus, and enhanced casting.
The third year became my foray into necromancy. I learned to bind the dead, not merely raise them. I studied the difference between Inferi and true undead, and soon I had armies of them — obedient, tireless, without fear. I also perfected golem creation, making sentinels of metal and stone that guarded my strongholds with silent vigilance.
The fourth year belonged to blood magic. I dissected the power of lineage, the essence of magical heredity. Through ritual and sacrifice, I learned to graft my own blood into another — to make them partially mine. I created adoption and inheritance rites that allowed my chosen to carry my magical imprint. My bloodline would spread, subtly influencing others' power, loyalty, and magical affinity. In time, my essence would exist in countless descendants.
And then, in the fifth year… I turned inward.The Mind Arts became my obsession.I tore apart the barriers of thought and soul until I could walk within another's mind as easily as a corridor. I learned to edit memories as if rewriting text, to plant commands that bloomed months later, to erase, twist, or awaken what others had buried.My own mindscape grew vast — a boundless black ocean beneath a silver sky, guarded by serpents made of thought and will. No one could defeat me there. Even Dumbledore would drown in my sea if he tried.
The Year 1960
When I emerged from that final meditation, the date struck me: 1960.The next generation had just been born.
The Marauders, Lily Evans, Snape — all tiny, fragile, untrained. The pieces of a game that, in the original world, would one day challenge me.But this was no longer that world.This was mine.
I stood before the great fireplace of Slytherin Manor, my black cloak brushing the floor, Nagini coiled lazily at my feet."It begins soon," I whispered.
I had power. I had knowledge. I had immortality.And now, I had time.
This generation would grow beneath the shadow of my influence — not in fear, but in reverence. The wizarding world would not birth heroes to oppose me; it would raise successors to serve me.