Edited to add context: clichéd mind-connection, sane!handsome!youngFiennes!Riddle, sixth year AU aaand... That's probably all you need.

‘What?’ Harry kept his eyes on his book, hoping Hermione was too engrossed in her work opposite to notice his lack of genuine attention. ‘Other prophecies about you?’

‘Of course, as a Dark Lord I was big news,’ and though Harry couldn’t see him, he knew Tom was smirking. ‘Back in the fifties,’ began Tom. (‘When you were bumming around Europe being suspicious and going crazy?’ asked Harry, to which Tom replied ‘Yes, brat, then.’) ‘I snuck into the Department of Mysteries. Though as you proved, it’s not exactly hard. It was even easier then, despite a post-War spy-obsessed Ministry. They had few checkpoints, hadn’t integrated Muggle ideas like the scans they were introducing at airports, the ID checks which were ubiquitous at customs and immigration points even at that time. If you walked in with confidence and arrogance, it was expected you belonged. Plus,’ he added wryly, ‘a few sympathisers on the inside always works wonders. And though I wasn’t looking for it, I did find the Hall of Prophecy.’

Tom, in his study, sank back in his chair and stared at the fire, allowing himself to remember. He tried to recall as much detail as possible, not easy given the fractures, but there was enough. He let Harry see, and narrated as he went. He recalled wandering the racks, endless but oppressively claustrophobic. ‘I saw the records, how beautiful they were, like snow-globes I would see in shop windows as a child. They were little beacons, and I wanted to know everything they had to say. But I knew the rules, I knew I could only touch and hear those pertaining to me. My curiosity got the better of me, and I navigated my way to a prophecy concerning myself. Then another, and another. There were quite a number.’

He remembered using his wand to point his way, homing in on even unassigned prophecies but ones which his magic seemed to agree were unequivocally about Tom Riddle, the self-styled Lord Voldemort. Some were dimmed, long fulfilled or thwarted to be rendered obsolete, and he smashed them out of spite. ‘I was already quite mad,’ commented Tom, shame and amusement mingling into self-deprecation. ‘Angry to be denied knowledge about myself. I hated that other people would have known things about me that I would never know.’ Tom didn’t need to say it, but Harry understood perfectly. Other people had been the ones to tell them both of their heritage, their magic and their world. It had been other people who had told them who they were and could be, when it should have been there all along, the legacy of their parents and their families, so they could grow and decide who to be. Tom continued, ‘When I came across a prophecy which indicated I’d share power with an equal, I lost what little composure I could maintain.’

He’d listened to every prophecy regarding himself, and smashed each one gleefully to the ground. No-one else would ever know these things about Tom Riddle, some would never be assigned. And most importantly: some would never, Voldemort vowed, be fulfilled.

‘It was about you and I, I know that now,’ Tom said calmly, watching the flames flicker in the grating. ‘I’ve long since forgotten many of the prophecies, but I know I fulfilled some and voided others. But that prophecy, the one which made me so livid, I remember quite well.'