(Tom Riddle's POV)
I stand within the Department of Mysteries, surrounded by the faint hum of time itself. Reality bends here — soft, pliable, obedient. I've sealed the chamber behind me with ancient wards not even Dumbledore could decipher.
Before me lies the Forbidden Archive, a place so secret even the Unspeakables whisper of it only in fear. I have several versions of myself working simultaneously — each one a fragment of me sent through different timelines using the Time-Turner I took from this very department. One studies the laws of temporal magic, another experiments with death and souls, and a third devours the lost arts of the ancients.
Every hour for others is a century for me.
Knowledge folds itself into my mind like a growing storm.
The only thing I ever lacked against Dumbledore was experience — the weathered instincts born of age and countless battles. But now, with time itself in my grasp, that weakness dissolves. A few centuries of training in these loops will give me the edge that even he cannot hope to match.
He may have fought Grindelwald.But I will surpass them both.
Already, I can feel my power — vast, unending. My Cosmic Dark Magic flows effortlessly, and my Dragon Core burns with near-limitless reserves. My spells no longer require incantation or focus. They simply happen at my will.
Dumbledore is stronger than I first expected. Despite my talent, my pure, undivided soul, and my immortal youth, he remains a step ahead in wisdom — for now. But wisdom is a resource that can be accumulated. Knowledge, experience, mastery — all can be stolen, refined, absorbed.
And time is now my servant.
My immortality is absolute. My system ensures eternal youth, my Horcrux ensures survival. I am a god in all but name.
Outside these walls, my empire grows. The Ministry bows to me — every department, every Auror, every parchment of law. The so-called Minister of Magic, my appointed puppet, sits at his desk blank-eyed, bound by a network of compulsion charms and mind seals so intricate even I occasionally lose count of them. He breathes when I permit it. He speaks the words I craft for him.
To the world, he is the leader.In truth, he is my mouthpiece.
Only I and a handful of my most trusted Death Eaters can issue him commands. And even they serve beneath the shadow of my will.
The Ministry has become a machine — every cog turning at my direction, every breath of bureaucracy whispering my name.
Now, my gaze turns outward.
Diagon Alley — the heart of wizarding commerce. The lifeblood of magical Britain.And its darker mirror, Knockturn Alley, where forbidden relics and black-market secrets flow freely.
They will both fall quietly, without chaos or blood. My control will spread like mist — unseen, unstoppable.
Within weeks, every wandmaker, every apothecary, every goblin ledger will serve my design. The public still thinks me their savior — the noble reformer who restored the Ministry from corruption. And they are eager to believe.
Soon, they will worship me as something more.
The Ministry is mine.Azkaban is mine.The Prophet is mine.And soon — all of wizarding Britain will belong to me.
Let Dumbledore hide in his castle of nostalgia and fading hope. He can clutch his ancient wand and whisper of light and love.
But I am not a creature of light.I am the architect of a new age.
And when I am finished, there will be no more shadows—because I will be the only one left to cast them.