Disclaimer: I own NOTHING, except for the vague sort of idea that went into this. I thought I should especially make note of this because-though it is a minimal amount-I do quote DH here a little.

A/N: My first ever attempt at a multi-chaptered fic ho boy we need to buckle up for the ride.

I wrote the majority of this in November, had it looked over in January, and finally decided to push it along to where I wanted to get it today. (I've been sitting on it for almost six months and I think I'm honestly starting to hate it at this point so just -flails about-). It was originally going to be a oneshot but-

Surprise, I changed my mind.

There is a lot of shift in tense (as well as a shift in tone of writing), and it might be a bit disorienting, but it's intentional, I promise. If it gets too confusing, let me know and I will try and explain things.

I foresee this being a two or three-shot, but then again, I managed to fit like 50 years into 4k words so maybe I'm not the best judge when it comes to this sort of thing.

The end is a bit... ambiguous, but I promise, it does not end there.

Thanks go to Pen for looking over the majority of this for me. The last thousand words or so are unbeta'd, so any mistakes are mine.

Chapter titles and the title of this fic are semi-ironically and also entirely un-ironically taken from Rabindranath Tagore's "Unending Love".

Please tell me what you think? It might motivate me to actually get more written for this instead of writing smutty incest afdsfasdf.

Tom can only remember his current lifetime, though logic would dictate that he has lived more than the one.

Sometimes, there are things that he sees that almost jog his memory, and it causes him to wonder if the understanding of his previous lives being at the tips of his fingers is worse than having never known they existed in the first place. He loves and hates his subconscious in equal measure for this; it is forever reminding him of the countless memories that he does not have. He wants them entirely or not at all, and it is hard to deal with this in-between that he is given.

He remembers the first time that he felt the flash of near-recognition—the first time that he ever remembers questioning himself.

Before he had known he was a wizard, before he had embraced the idea that he wasn't entirely ordinary, he had gone with his muggle classmates on a field trip. It was the Science Museum of London, and it contained many exhibits to examine. Some of the first ever steam engines were on display, and documentation on the first typewriter was also present.

The museum also contained a library. It was its saving grace, in Tom's mind—he wouldn't have bothered paying attention to the exhibitions if not for the inevitability that he would be granted the opportunity to sneak off and attempt to gain entrance. It was famous; it was Britain's dedicated library of science, medicine, and technology. It called to his mind so sweetly, so sensually, and he knew he would not be able to resist.

So Tom accompanied his classmates up staircases and down others. They passed through the clockmaker's museum, and over to the agricultural exhibit. They were shown through the East Hall gallery on steam engines and electricity, until finally they arrived at a temporary exhibit on the Smilodon.

He was fascinated, of course. Not in the way that he might have been under different circumstances—not in the way that the rest of his classmates were. He did not feel awe at the sight of the fossilized remains of the saber-toothed tiger; he was more intrigued by the power of the mammalian creature. To rule the world as completely and securely as it had…

There was something in that which appealed to Tom, even at that young age.

It was then—when he was striding forward to get a closer look at the plaque placed in front of the glass casing—when it came upon him.

There was a moment—a millisecond, really—in which he had not been himself. He was shorter and stockier and hairier and brandishing a crude weapon made of bone. He felt the adrenaline coursing through his veins—a euphoric, almost maniacal sort of glee—at the knowledge that he was facing up against this awful, terrifying, dangerous creature. It was lithe and rangy; spotted and powerful, and its jaw was gaping—showcasing an alarming display of canines that looked uniquely designed to tear through flesh.

There was something else though, as well—a feeling that he was not alone in this endeavor. He could not take his eyes off the great big cat that stood in front of him, he knew that much, but he could feel a presence beside him that was strong and steady and true. They were guarding Tom, and Tom was guarding them, and there was something lovely in the mutual protection of each other.

And then, the vision had left him.

The whole thing had vanished. Just as quickly, he was Tom again—the orphan with ratty clothes and no friends. There was no bone grasped tightly in his hand, no adrenaline making his senses sharpen and his heart accelerate, and no guardian with whom he was standing shoulder to shoulder.

The vision was so quick and fleeting that Tom wasn't sure that he hadn't imagined it to begin with. It was disconcerting, and it was the first time that his mind—so sharp, so intelligent, so exceptional—had ever seemed to fail him.

That was the first time that he had ever questioned himself, but there were other times to follow.

The next instance was when the orphanage workers took all of them out on their annual summer outing. They headed to the countryside this time, and the extent to which Tom had despised that trip is still memorable to him, even now. He enjoyed books and clean showers and solitude… not this. Not these fields with their green grass that was too long and itched to walk through, or the flies that buzzed endlessly around his food.

It was a disgusting affair, and Tom couldn't wait to go back to the orphanage, even if a break from that place was preferred under normal circumstances.

At one point in the evening, someone had come up with the idea of a camp fire, and the aid workers had decided that it was easier to keep track of the children if they were all gathered around it. Tom was just taking his seat on a partially rotten tree stump a few feet away when it happened again.

For just a moment, he had no longer been Tom Riddle. He was larger than life—a creature of epic proportions. He could feel the thousands of scales that decorated his body and the wings that beat the air beneath him. He was breathing fire, and it was hotter than molten lava, brighter than a supernova, and more pleasurable than living itself.

He could feel the weight of something on his back, as well. It was feather light in comparison to what he could carry, he instinctually knew that much. But it felt warm against his scales, and the grip around his neck was tight and secure and filled him with contentment.

And then it was gone again.

For a heartbeat, he was a dragon, but then, he was Tom Riddle once more—small Tom Riddle, powerless Tom Riddle, insignificant Tom Riddle who could not breathe fire nor fly nor carry passengers through skies of deepest blue.

He hated himself for it, and his mind as well. Were these visions a product of an overactive imagination? Was he losing his sanity? How long would they continue? And most importantly: what was causing them?

It is not until much, much later that he realizes what these visions signify. Still, he finally does, and he is unsure how to feel about this new development. He does not know that he wants a soulmate, if he is being honest with himself. They sound like… a lot of trouble, really, and so many things could go wrong with having one.

What if they die? Will Tom be forced to live on without a soulmate? What are the repercussions of their death—for Tom's soul? For Tom himself? Will this bond be tempered with other urges, as well? Will he feel obligated to put their life before his?

Tom is rather self-serving, and he doesn't like the idea of that having to change for one person. Even if they are guaranteed to love him unconditionally, irrevocably, with all of their mind and body and soul… Which does slightly appeal to him, that is true…

If he wonders about his soulmate a bit more than is necessary, if he feels the slightest pangs of jealousy when Malfoy, and then Lestrange, and then others find theirs…

He doesn't have to admit it to anyone—least of all himself.

He keeps the memories close to his heart, though, and all of the ones that come after.

He collects them in his mind like delicate little chrysalises, and though he does not have all of the information he would like to have, or the person he wants to have, there is something in having this much.

They came slow, at first.

They came slow, and they left just as quickly.

The first time that Tom touched a wand—not his wand, but a wand nonetheless—he was eleven. But he was also twenty-nine, and he was a wizard knight who was pushing his will forward into a wandless shield charm to protect his king.

The first time that he saw Hogwarts, he was a student, but he was also a professor. He was aged and could feel his bones protesting as he stood slowly to address his first ever class of students.

But they came quicker, after that.

He found the secret passageways that connected Hogwarts to the outside world, and he saw Gryffindor's sword, and he opened the chamber of secrets. He killed a girl dressed in Ravenclaw's colors, and a muggle family after that. He tortured his followers and commanded with impunity.

He was a woman sneaking through the lush forests of the amazon. He was a man spearing his sword through the gut of his enemy. He was Salazar Slytherin commanding a snake, and a snake being commanded by a descendant of Salazar Slytherin. He killed a maiden dressed in rags, and a magical family after that. He commanded Grecian soldiers with cold conviction and tortured his adversaries.

There was always someone else though, always on the periphery of his awareness. He would catch glimpses of them, if he was lucky: a black-haired man dressed in wizard robes, a slender woman with emeralds for eyes, a king with a golden crown on his head, and a servant handing one over.

But more often than not, he only knew that his soulmate was nearby.

Tom feels no ambition to live forever—it is pointless, when he knows that he will never truly die. Yet he was sorted into Slytherin for a reason, and so despite the fact that there is no need for a silver locket or a golden cup, there is the need for followers, for an army, for the power that his ambition demands he seeks.

There is time for all of that, though; there is time. When he graduates Hogwarts, he does not strive for political power; he strives to know the world in its entirety.

He learns of ancient magics, and of those that are more recent. He learns of blood sacrifices and permanent death. He learns to spell cast in the staccato sounds of Greek, in the harsh sounds of German, and in the sibilant sounds of parseltongue.

And he learns of his soulmate, all the while.

They are lovers in one life, blood brothers in another. They are protector and ward, and the reverse centuries later. Man and man, woman and woman, two-spirit, and all the variations in between. More than that, as well, he realizes, when after learning to breathe underwater, he receives a vision of two dolphins frolicking in the ocean.

Though he might have learned of the existence of horcruxes earlier in another life, he cannot escape the burden of their knowledge entirely. He comes across a tome detailing the darkest of magics, and he learns of immortality achieved in a different sense.

Horcruxes, he murmurs to himself. The word feels powerful and heavy and harsh on his tongue.

He contemplates it to the sound of a memory of his soulmate's laughter.

He returns to Britain a changed man. His appearance is the same, but his mind is not. The dreary weather is a reminder in a sense. It makes him realize how far he has come since he saw fog-covered banks last.

He feels more powerful, more knowledgeable, more equipped to rule like he knows he once did. My lord, they greet him, reverent and terrified in equal measure. Even they, inexperienced and unlearned as they are, can recognize the true power of Lord Voldemort.

He is filled with satisfaction and contempt when he sees this.

It is easy, now, to bring his plans to fruition. It is easy to contact those he met on his expedition—easy to convince them of their superiority and to play to their desires. Tom can feel himself make the transition from ambitious man to Dark Lord as he manipulates those around him. It is like weaving a tapestry of his desires into something tangible.

They speak of him in hushed whispers, but even those that have never met him will not speak his name. He has gained an opposition, but it was to be expected. The terror, the inferiority, the unwilling admiration that he inspires in the general public—

It is enough for him now; he knows he will rule them soon enough. He will have his retribution for their misguided ways.

He sends ambassadors to werewolf packs of which only he knows the location. He sends others to the mermen in the Atlantic, and to the Giants in the Pyrenees. He sends messages of power and vengeance to the hags and the goblins underground, and they listen.

He has changed from the person that he once was, but there is one thing that Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort still have in common: their ability to manipulate.

The creatures come slowly, at first.

A man with dark skin and even darker hair appears to him one night. His eyes are black as pitch, but Voldemort sees loyalty in them.

The woman comes next. She is hideous—Voldemort cannot help but recognize the fact. Her teeth are yellowed and broken, and her face seems as if it is formed all wrong: angles where there should be lines, and lines where there should be curves. But she is powerful—Voldemort can sense it in the magic that cloaks her body—and there is something to be said for that, certainly.

And then, suddenly, they appear in droves. Hair matted and perfectly groomed. Magic that fizzles and dies, and the darkest curses tripping on the tips of their tongues. Lord Voldemort accepts them all, until his army is as terrifying of a force as he is.

He urges them to take back their lands, their magic, their rightful places above the non-magical or those that do not deserve the gift of magic like they do. He feels truly himself in this moment: when in command of an army, and when he sees bronzed skin flickering in and out of his periphery, he knows that he was born to rule.

He is so close now—so close he can almost taste it on his tongue. Dumbledore and his menagerie of birds are finally coming to realize it, as well; Lord Voldemort knows this like he knows many things. Pettigrew—a sniveling, driveling coward—is not quite as useful as he should be, but he has use enough to tell him that. Just a few more months to wear down the resistance, a few more strategic plans to lure out Dumbledore and kill him—

And he will have won.

Yet despite all of this, despite the slowly diminishing forces of those that would oppose him, Lord Voldemort can sense something is… not as it might appear. It comes to him, one day, when reviewing Severus's thoughts after a particularly intensive confrontation with the order—

They fight not to kill, but to hold off. They fight with more determination than they should have. Almost, Lord Voldemort thinks, as if they are waiting for something.

When his most useful follower brings him the news—news of his prophesied enemy, the key to his defeat—it makes more sense than he would like to admit. Yet despite his wariness, he feels something that might be called jubilation in other circumstances. This, he thinks, is what he needs to deliver the final blow against Dumbledore's order.

This will be what will break them.

It does not take long to obtain the location of the Potters—that naïve family that would dare defy him, that would dare hide from him. Pity for them, that they decided to make Pettigrew their secret keeper, but unsurprising, at the same time.

Fortune has always favored Lord Voldemort.

And on Hallow's Eve, his plans are finally ready to be put into action. As he turns to apparate to Godric's Hollow, Bella and her husband are paying the Longbottoms and their son a little visit. Severus and the rest of his inner circle are causing diversions elsewhere; it would not do to deal with unnecessary complications.

By the end of this night, Lord Voldemort will be victorious.

He arrives at a quiet street intersection with a swirl of black robes and a muffled crack.

Glancing around, he can see proof of the celebration: carved, orange pumpkins with candles flickering inside them are perched upon porches; children dressed in costumes shriek and cackle to each other as they run past, buckets clenched in their tiny fists. He takes it all in before quickly moving on; he needn't delay when his victory is all but in his grasp.

Slowly making his way towards his destination, Lord Voldemort feels a peculiar sensation wash over him. It is not excitement; he has not felt emotions along that spectrum in a long time now. Anticipation, possibly. Perhaps a burgeoning sense of triumph. There is a smug sort of satisfaction that comes from knowing the power he wields—and that which he will soon obtain.

"Nice costume, mister!"

A young boy dressed in brown and grey frayed clothing runs up to him, and peers out through the holes in his mask. Lord Voldemort imagines he can taste it on the air—the moment when the foolish child realizes that Lord Voldemort is anything but false. The boy turns, horror-struck, and begins to run away.

Lord Voldemort lightly presses his fingers against his wand inside his robe pocket. It would be so easy to kill the boy—one flick of the wrist, six syllables, two words—but no, it is not necessary. Not tonight.

And so he continues on.

He pauses amidst two nondescript-looking houses, and focuses his mind on the spot between them. Slowly, the magic of the Fidelius Charm seems to peel back, revealing his destination to his eyes.

It does not look any different from the rest. There is a flimsy wire fence with a gate inset that blocks his path, and past it, he can see a slightly overgrown hedge and a rock garden. The cottage itself is as nondescript as the others—small, two-story, paint lightly chipped in some places—and Lord Voldemort feels a flash of irritation at the Potters, this family that would defy him so, and yet live like common muggles when their protection is stripped away.

He pauses for a moment longer, peering through the black, parted curtains into the living room. He sees man and child sitting there—both black-haired, both smiling at the magical smoke display.

How domestic, he thinks to himself.

He reaches into a robe pocket and loosely grips his wand in his pale, slender fingers. With a careless wave of his hand, the gate is slowly pushed open, and he makes his way past it.

Up the steps he walks, now—over the wooden porch—up to the door closed and bolted.

Pathetic. As if these minimal precautions could bar someone with his power.

He blows the door off its hinges, and takes only two steps into the quaint little cottage before coming face-to-face with James Potter.

He yells some nonsense warning his wife to flee, but Lord Voldemort pays no attention to it other than to feel a vague sort of amusement. This man is no match for him, and even less so without a wand.

He kills him with a flash of green light and a twitch at the corner of his lips.

On he goes—stepping over the lifeless body—up the narrow stairs, listening to the mother's frantic attempts to erect some sort of barrier to keep him out—down the hall, past a glass table covered in moving photographs—until he is finally, finally there, standing in front of the door behind which he can hear her whimpering and moving things about.

He pushes it open, gives another flick of his wand, and watches her contemptuously. Not a wand on either of them, he notes with a bit of condescension. Stupid of them both, to believe they could be without their wands for even a moment.

"No, god no," she croaks as she drops the child into the crib behind her. Her wild, red hair matted and clinging to her tear-stained face, she moves to stand in front of him: arms outspread and body quivering. "Not Harry, please not Harry."

"Stand aside," he tells her. He can be merciful, Lord Voldemort. On this night of all nights, he can spare her as a favor to Severus.

"Not Harry, not Harry, please!"

"Stand aside," he tells her once more, though there is irritation now. He is not in the habit of asking for something more than once, and this foolish girl does not seem to understand the curtesy that he has extended her.

"No, please no!" She is begging now, her face turning splotchy and red with emotion and tears. "I'll do anything, take me instead, please, please!"

"This is my last warning," says Lord Voldemort, and any amusement that he felt at this family—with their stupid amounts of trust in their friends, and their lack of wands, and their useless attempts at fending him off—is long gone by now. "Stand aside, you silly girl. Stand aside, now."

"Have mercy!" She yells at him—as if these might be the words to change his mind.

In response, he directs a jet of green light at her, and she inevitably falls.

He looks past her, into the baby's face. He is standing up now, tiny fists gripping the horizontal bars of the crib and wearing a curious expression.

Lord Voldemort turns his wand slightly, aiming for the spot right between the child's eyes. He wants to see the death of this one; he wants to see for himself, the removal of his last obstacle to power. And then—

The baby starts to cry—his mouth opens wide, wide, wide—his eyes scrunch into tiny little slits—and he lets out a loud, pitiful wail—and the suddenness of it makes his wand twitch just slightly, so that when he sends the jet of green, killing light at the child, it is not centered between his eyes, but rather on his forehead, slightly off-center—and for the split second that it takes the light to cross from Voldemort's wand to the child, Lord Voldemort can hear the crying—but not just hear it, but feel it in his bones—in his mind—in his soul—there is a duality in his perception of what is real—

And then the cries become screams—his, and the child's—the child's and his—terror and agony, they are consuming him, until he is nothing but—and he needs to leave, but he can't—he will die here—he is dying here…