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Chapter Text

Tom Riddle didn't like to think of himself as an arrogant sort. Of course he didn't, arrogance was a flaw and he tried to avoid those whenever he could. Some, he knew, might disagree on the matter of his arrogance but they either knew better or were simply too polite to openly say something like that. Tom was a proud wizard, to be sure, but arrogance was really excessive pride and he felt that every inch of his pride was well-deserved. Thus 'arrogant.'

Tom had always been able to be proud of his maturity and self-possession and, as he grew, he came to find pride in his intelligence, natural charisma, and magical talent. As a presumed Muggleborn with no family to speak of, conquering those Pureblood snobs and taking his rightful place at the top of the Slytherin heap was one of his finer moments as well. And of late, he had even found reason to take pride in his mother's family if not in his mother herself.

He had the blood of Slytherin running through his veins. He had no title and no heirlooms or great wealth but he did have the proof of his Pareseltongue ability, which was more than being the unheralded heir to some great lines would have gotten him, though for obvious reasons that must remain a secret for now.

His proof, something his followers understood even if no one else could be permitted to, was causing problems for him even now.

Somehow, his transfiguration professor and harshest critic had cornered him and Tom hadn't been able to get out of going to his office, supposedly to talk about his performance in class but that shockingly hadn't come up (and what needed to be said? Tom was a Transfiguration genius as well as topping all of his other classes) and who discussed schoolwork in Christmas Eve anyway?

Dumbledore stared piercingly at him. "It is such a tragedy that Miss Finnegan was attacked and must miss Christmas, do you not agree?"

Tom would have been more wary if staring piercingly were not Dumbledore's usual method for dealing with him. Dumbledore had a neat trick of making you feel like he could read your mind but Tom knew for a fact that if he were a Legilimens then he did not use this power on any student. After all, if Dumbledore ever used it on any student then it would be Tom. Tom himself had been studying Occlumency for years but he was not so vain as to think himself a match for Dumbledore, not yet. As such if Dumbledore were to use Legilimency then he could not fail to learn conclusively – and not just suspect – that Tom was behind the attacks and then he would act on it.

Dumbledore might have spent the last three years ignoring the increasingly desperate please from Western Europe to stop Grindelwald and save them all but Tom had faith that he would at least have Tom tossed out of the school they both resided in.

"She is unfortunate indeed, sir," Tom agreed. He didn't say that he cared because he didn't and he tried not to outright lie to Dumbledore just in case. And she was unfortunate in being the first Muggleborn the basilisk had come across; he had not set the creature after her in particular. It continued to amaze him that the basilisk was able to identify and attack a Mudblood on command but that was magic for you. It also proved, he supposed, that there was some sort of fundamental difference between wizards with proper families and those whom the basilisk was hunting.

"I am surprised at your staying at Hogwarts over Christmas, Tom," Dumbledore said mildly.

Tom frowned. "Really, sir? I had thought that you were aware that I would stay over the summer if it were allowed. You went to the orphanage yourself."

"It may not be an ideal environment," Dumbledore conceded. "Though I am sure that they are trying their best. But it is not safe here. This creature is targeting those of your background and-"

"I am not a Muggleborn," Tom interrupted quietly. Maybe he shouldn't antagonize the old man but he couldn't just sit there and be demeaned in such a way, even if Dumbledore didn't seem to view it as an insult. He was pleased that he had remembered to say 'Muggleborn' instead of 'Mudblood.'

"I thought you didn't know where you came from?" Dumbledore asked slowly, suspiciously.

Here was where he had to be careful. If Dumbledore knew that he was the Heir of Slytherin or even that he knew of his relations to the Gaunt and decided to do some research of his own then Tom could be in a great deal of danger of discovery.

"I know enough to know that my mother was a witch," Tom said stiffly.

"Be that as it may, if whatever force directed the attack is not aware of that then you may still be in danger," Dumbledore warned.

Nobody had known that Emma Hubbard was a Muggleborn either, raised as she was by her Muggleborn uncle and Half-blood aunt until the attack, after which the truth had come out. Dumbledore had to have known that and so, even if Tom were not the one directing the basilisk, he would have had nothing to fear.

"I appreciate your concern, sir, but I would rather spend a few weeks petrified than go back there," Tom replied.

Oh, some concern. Dumbledore had been expecting him to start strangling kittens or something equally appalling since he first walked into Hogwarts, as innocent – more or less – as any other first year. If Tom were to be petrified, Dumbledore would breathe much easier. He might even suspect a trick of some sort. Although that was an idea so perhaps he wasn't entirely off base. Still, no need to risk it right now. Perhaps if he became suspected.

"Who said anything about being petrified?" Dumbledore asked gravely.

Tom blinked, wondering briefly if Dumbledore was finally going senile. "Well, sir, all of the other victims have been petrified and so I think that it stands to reason that if I get attacked then I, too, will end up petrified."

Dumbledore sighed heavily. "I must confess that I do not know what manner of creature is attacking our students but sooner or later, if this continues, I truly believe that someone will die."

Tom felt a momentary flicker of concern (students being attacked was one thing but actually killed? Would they really just let that stand? Might they even close Hogwarts temporarily and force him to return to the orphanage?) but brushed is aside. The basilisk wasn't careless enough to do that.

"May I be excused, sir?" Tom asked politely. "I'm suddenly feeling not very well."

"Ah, my apologies for keeping you," Dumbledore said immediately, standing up and going over to open his office door. "I trust you will continue your pattern of academic excellence when the new term starts?"

Tom nodded. "I will, sir."

He was going to head back to the Slytherin common room but on a whim decided to stop by and see Rubeus instead. Maybe if things ever do go terribly, terribly wrong and Dumbledore isn't just worrying too much then he should have some sort of a contingency plan. He's sure he won't ever need it, not really, but there is no harm in being overly prepared.

Rubeus quickly hides what he's doing when he hears someone coming but he could not – really could not – look any more suspicious.

"Evening, Rubeus," Tom drawls.

Rubeus jumped and relaxed when he realized who it was. "Yeh shouldn' scare me like that. I though' yeh was a professor or somethin'. Course, yeh are a prefec'."

Tom held up a hand. "Not to worry, Hagrid. I quite understand. The rules are there for a reason, of course, because we do not want people who don't know what they're doing to smuggle all manner of creatures in here but you clearly have an affinity with these creatures."

Rubeus beamed. He was too easy to deceive and he trusted Tom. If it came down to it, he would make the perfect scapegoat, he and whatever it was he was raising this time.

"Yer the on'y one who understan's," Rubeus said gratefully.

"I'm sure that's not true," Tom said soothingly.

Rubeus nodded seriously. "It is true! Why, just the other day someone asked me if it were true that I was raising werewolf cubs under me bed! Werewolves! Can yeh imagine?"

Tom was honestly surprised at that. "But surely they know that werewolves are only actually transformed one night of the month?"

Rubeus shrugged. "Didn' seem like it. Not ter mention that even I'm not fool enough to go near a fully-transformed werewolf…"

"That is a good approach," Tom remarked. "Well, it's getting late so I'll let you get back to it. I'll see you later, Rubeus."

"An' yeh, Tom," Rubeus said, before turning his attention back to whatever it was that he had been hiding.

Satisfied with his work and his new resolve, Tom headed off to the common room. It was far too early to go to bed but being the only Slytherin remaining had its advantages and he happily envisioned a cozy evening reading by the fire.

He thought he saw something in the misleadingly bare patch of stone wall that led to his common room but, looking again, it was just a dark spot on the stone. Seeing things wasn't good and, unlike with his hearing things, there wasn't an easily explainable reason for that.

He pulled his favorite armchair closer to the fire and then grabbed the book he was reading and settled in for a very enjoyable evening.

After an indeterminate amount of time had passed, perhaps an hour or two, he sensed that he was no longer alone in the room. Staying perfectly calm, he looked up and saw the ghost of a rather plain-looking woman. She had eyes that went in different direction and dull, lanky hair. Tom tried not to put too much importance on beauty (though he believed it was only natural to prefer to look at aesthetically pleasing things) but there was something about this woman…She rather repulsed him, truth be told.

"I don't believe I've seen you before," Tom said neutrally, setting down his book. "Are you a ghost of the castle?"

The woman shook her head.

"Then what are you doing here, if I might ask?" Tom inquired. "Are you visiting? Were you in Slytherin?"

Her smile was tinged with melancholy. "I was never afforded the opportunity to go to Hogwarts but I would have liked to have been a Slytherin, I think. I am pleased that you, at least, are a Slytherin."

Tom began to get a very bad feeling about this. Still, she seemed to be a ghost and not a poltergeist so if things took a turn for the nasty there was nothing she could do to him short of annoying him. And possibly finding out about the basilisk and telling someone. Could ghosts be petrified? He would need to look into this.

"My name is Tom Riddle," he introduced.

The wistful expression on her face grew stronger. "I know."

"Then I'm afraid that you have me at a disadvantage," Tom said pointedly.

A sharp flash of pain in her eyes. "Of course. I shouldn't have realized…Of course. My name is Merope Gaunt. I'm…"

"My mother," Tom realized, taken aback. Clearly he had inherited his looks from his filthy muggle father. And this rather answered the questions he had about whether his mother was a Squib or something since she had died rather ignobly at a filthy muggle orphanage. You couldn't be a ghost if you were a Squib, after all.

Merope bowed her head. "Yes."

What was he supposed to say to that? He supposed that there were questions he should have for her – she looked as if she expected questions – but he was having difficulty thinking of anything. Well, there was one thing, wasn't there? The reason it had taken him four years to consider the possibility that his magical blood had come from his mother's side of the family.

"Why did you bleed out in a muggle orphanage if you're a witch?" Well, that came out a little blunter than he had been intending.

Merope winced. "I…Well…"

Tom waited patiently.

"You have to understand that after your father left…I never had much in my life," Merope began awkwardly. "I had my wand and the locket handed down in our family since Slytherin himself but my father was a cruel and unstable man and my brother grew up to be just like him. He was so terrified of anything happening to ruin the purity of our line that he wouldn't even let us be exposed to Hogwarts. I shudder to think about how far he would have gone to ensure that our line remained pure."

Tom's mind suddenly went to some very unpleasant places and tried to put that out of his mind.

"Then my brother and father were taken away to Azkaban and I ran off with your father and things were perfect but then he left and…I loved your father. Whatever else you may believe, believe that," she said firmly. "And with him gone, I really had no idea how to survive on my own. I was forced to peddle what I had and I just…I gave up caring about myself, as much as I ever had. I don't think that I ever cared about myself when your father wasn't there."

This pathetic and desperate creature was his mother? Tom was finding this whole thing rather distasteful and was putting his considerable effort into not revealing his distaste. He may yet learn something from this encounter.

"I wanted to hold on, at least until after you were born," she explained. "I tried to find a place that would take you."

"You were so bloody concerned about me that you died giving birth to me and left me at an orphanage," Tom said, unable to help himself. "What kind of a witch were you?"

"Not a very good one," Merope said, pained. "And what kind of a life would you have had with me, anyway? The muggles looked like they knew what they were doing and I thought that maybe, without me, your father would come back."

"He didn't," Tom said coldly.

Merope sighed. "I can hardly blame him, really."

Just how defeated was this woman? She forgave the man whose actions had ultimately killed her in more ways than one just like that? That was really not healthy. "He abandoned you," Tom reminded her.

"I…may have forced him into marriage against his will with the use of magic," Merope conceded. "But he was so loving, so gentle, so kind! He didn't care what his family or his friends or that horrible girl thought. He just loved me and wanted me and we left together to start a new life together. But then I was pregnant and…"

Realization hit Tom then. "You let him go."

"I really thought he loved me," Merope said again, pleading for understanding.

And his father had woken up to find his will sapped, his body ravaged, his life stolen and the fiend who did it all standing hopefully before him asking him to stay. That explained why he had left. What it could not forgive was why he had never returned for Tom himself. Maybe Tom Riddle Sr. had only been a muggle himself but he couldn't be worse than the orphanage.

He slightly amended his summer plans to track his father down.

"Why are you here? Why did it take you fifteen years to track me down?" Tom asked.

"I'm not a ghost," Merope informed him.

Tom stared at her. "Really."

"Well, now I am," she conceded. "But normally I'm not. I'm here under special circumstances, you see, to issue a warning to you."

This sounded like the sort of thing Dumbledore would come up with.

"I'm listening," he said impassively.

"You must not continue down this path you have started," Merope warned.

"What path?" Tom asked innocently.

"I know about the Chamber of Secrets," Merope said flatly.

"That old legend?" Tom asked dismissively. "I rather think whatever is attacking the Muggleborns is a little closer to Earth, if you take my meaning."

"There is really no need to pretend with me," Merope told him. "I know all about it, more than you yourself even know."

That was an unsettling thought and Tom found himself resenting it. Even if it wasn't true, there was a great deal of presumption in her words.

"You will find power, true," Merope conceded. Power was good. "But also pain and a brutal defeat that will leave you far worse off than death could ever do. What you will do to yourself, my son…I cannot bare it. And the wizarding world will suffer greatly so I am given this chance to appeal to you."

"How can you appeal to me when I know nothing about this future that you are describing?" Tom asked reasonably. "It is all just a bunch of words."

Merope nodded. "And I am but a stranger, besides. You're right. I can't. You have every right to hate me, Tom, but I can't let you throw everything away and destroy yourself because of my actions."

Hatred was a strong word. He felt nothing for this woman but mild dislike that was bordering on indifference.

"So what do you intend to do?" Tom inquired. "Or was all of this just a wasted trip from the afterlife?" At least he knew there was an afterlife now. With regular ghosts it had sort of been implied but he had never quite been sure. And she looked well enough. Or at least he didn't imagine that she looked much worse than she had in life.

Merope shook her head. "No, I am but the vanguard. You will be visited by three other spirits tonight and, if fate is kind, you will see why you must change your path."

"Very well then," Tom acquiesced.

Merope drew back. "You do not wish to resist these visits?"

"I can hardly stop them if I try," Tom replied. "So long as they do what they mean to do and leave me in peace whatever I decide, I am willing to tolerate this intrusion. It is only one night and I had nothing important planned anyway."

"Oh, you will not regret this!" Merope swore as she began to float towards the door. "They will appear every hour on the hour starting from one o'clock."

Tom looked at the clock. That was still a few hours away yet.

He might as well get to bed so he would have the energy to deal with this tiresome intervention.

And he still wasn't convinced that Dumbledore was not somehow involved.

Chapter Text

Tom woke up when he sensed another presence entering his room. It was probably one o'clock then. He immediately got up and pulled on his robe because there was no reason to be caught unprepared and lounging around in bed, was there?

So it was time for his 'redemption' to begin. Not like he had even done anything that required intervention. Those Mudbloods were all going to be fine.

The ghost this time was easily identifiable due to his strong resemblance to the statue in the Chamber of Secrets. He didn't bare much resemblance to Tom but it had been a thousand years and he already knew of and could prove his lineage.

"Salazar Slytherin," Tom said, unable to help feeling awed by the presence of his august ancestor. He did wonder that the man who had placed the basilisk in Hogwarts in the first place was going to try to talk him out of using it for its intended purpose, however.

"You are my last decedent save one," Slytherin intoned gravely, eyeing Tom critically. "And I think that you are the worthier one despite your obvious shortcomings."

Tom felt a brief flare of resentment at what he could only assume was a slight on his unfortunate parentage. He pushed it aside. "I have a relative?"

Slytherin nodded. "An uncle. Morfin Gaunt. He is…deranged."

The most recent generation of his mother's family continued to disappoint, didn't they?

"What are you here for?" Tom inquired. "You disapprove of me using the basilisk you left behind in the manner that you intended it for?"

"Not…precisely," Slytherin said slowly.

Tom felt his interest in the matter rise.

"Then what is it?" he asked curiously.

"I've seen the future," Slytherin said bluntly. "And I don't like it."

Tom suppressed a sigh. Not this again. "I do hope you can be more forthcoming about this than my mother was."

Slytherin shrugged. "There are three of us coming. I'm here to discuss the past, then there will be a discussion of the present, and finally the future. You'll see once we're done here."

"If the future is really the relevant part then I don't see why we can't just get straight to that," Tom objected.

"I don't understand what's so terribly interesting about the present, perhaps," Slytherin agreed. "But I think that the past will help you to understand. Although you're quite correct, you'll find the future the most interesting."

Tom decided that there was really no getting out of this and so if he wanted to see the future – or one possibility, at least – then he had to tolerate this first. "I am ready to be shown the past."

Slytherin nodded. "Good lad." He reached out and touched the sleeve of Tom's robes and they were gone.

They arrived at a building half-hidden among tree trunks and by the darkness cast by the shadows of the trees. The walls were mossy and the roof was in quite a state of disrepair.

"This place looks quite abandoned," Tom said, puzzled. "What-"

He cut off as an exceedingly dirty man missing several teeth and dressed in rags dropped down from one of the trees right in front of a rather ordinary-looking man that Tom hadn't noticed.

"You're not welcome," the man hissed.

Tom's eyes widened.

"Yes," Slytherin said, nodding. "That is your Uncle Morfin."

"Someone actually lives here?" Tom couldn't believe it. "Your last descendents actually live here?"

Slytherin nodded distastefully. "Yes and they actually believe that I would approve although how they imagine that I cannot say."

The man backed up a little. "Er-good morning. I'm from the Ministry of Magic -"

"You're not welcome," Morfin repeated. He was brandishing a wand in one hand and a bloody knife in the other.

"Er-I'm sorry... " the man said uncomfortably, looking to be on the verge of fleeing. Tom didn't blame him. He rather wanted to hex his uncle personally but seeing as this was just a replaying of past events that would be quite impossible. "I don't understand you."

"He has to know that any other random person he's going to meet won't understand him!" he exclaimed. "And what is he doing being so disrespectful to a member of the Ministry? Doesn't he understand the trouble they can make for him?"

"I rather think the Gaunts are past the point of caring," Slytherin said wryly. "But you're right; it is quite impractical of them."

Tom watched as Morfin attacked the ministry employee and a nasty yellow goo spurted from the man's nose.

"Morfin!" said a loud voice. Tom turned to see an elderly man who looked distinctly related to the ghost beside him although rather stranger-looking and almost deformed run out of the house and up to Tom's cackling uncle.

"Is that my grandfather?" Tom asked, horrified.

"Marvolo Gaunt," Slytherin confirmed.

"I was named for him!" Tom cried out.

"You could have been named for Morfin," Slytherin pointed out.

"Ministry, is it?" Marvolo asked, glancing at the employee.

"Correct!" snapped the man. "And you, I take it, are Mr. Gaunt?"

"'S right," said Marvolo. "Got you in the face, did he?"

"Yes, he did!".

"Should've made your presence known, shouldn't you?" Marvolo said unapologetically. "This is private property. Can't just walk in here and not expect my son to defend himself."

The employee looked incredulous. "Defend himself against what, man?"

"Busybodies. Intruders. Muggles and filth."

Tom almost had a heart attack. "He can't just say things like that in front of just anybody! He's never met this man and has no idea what his position on blood purity is and he's not inclined to look on them favorably as it is! Was my mother's family really this stupid and short-sighted?"

"I'm afraid they were," Slytherin told him. "We'll discuss why in a minute."

The employee fixed his nose while Marvolo hissed at his son to go in the house and Morfin reluctantly did as he was told.

"It's your son I'm here to see, Mr. Gaunt," the employee explained. "That was Morfin, wasn't it?"

"Ar, that was Morfin," Marvolo said apathetically. "Are you pure-blood?"

Tom just shook his head, at a loss for words.

"Hardly the sort of cunning subtlety I was known for," Slytherin said ruefully. "Fortunately their connection to me was not widely known due to their eschewing of wizarding society."

"That's neither here nor there," the man said coldly.

"See! This is what happens when you don't test the waters first!" Tom cried out. "You make a terrible impression! Though my dear grandfather here is just digging the hole deeper at this point."

Marvolo squinted at the employee. "Now I come to think about it, I've seen noses like yours down in the village."

Tom rolled his eyes. "What kind of insult is that? Even if he were an outright Muggleborn there's no reason to think he's from his part of the country!"

"You really should lower your expectations here," Slytherin advised. "It might make this easier to watch."

"There is nothing that will make this easier to watch," Tom said flatly. "I mean, I can't even focus on the intent because no matter how insulting he meant to be he did it very badly indeed."

"I don't doubt it, if your son's been let loose on them," the man sniffed. That was actually a pretty good reply, especially given how inadequate the insult had been.

He requested to come inside, Marvolo acted as if he didn't understand the word and admitted that he had gotten the notice but didn't believe in reading or some other nonsense, and finally agreed to let him inside.

As Tom followed them inside, he saw evidence of three tiny rooms.

"I could have lived here," Tom said, horrified.

"The orphanage is looking a little less of a worst possibility now, isn't it?" Slytherin asked rhetorically.

"There's still the matter of my so-called father," Tom said darkly. "I don't know enough about him."

Morfin was sitting in an armchair playing with a snake. "Hissy, hissy, little snakey, slither on the floor, you be good to Morfin, or he'll nail you to the door."

Tom made a face, remembering the snake already nailed to the door outside. "Lovely."

He caught sight of Merope, looking more defeated and desperate than ever though markedly cleaner than her other relatives, fiddling in the kitchen.

"M'daughter, Merope," Marvolo introduced curtly.

"Good morning," the man said politely.

She cast a frightened glance at her father and returned to what she was doing.

"Well, Mr. Gaunt," the man said, "to get straight to the point, we have reason to believe that your son, Morfin, performed magic in front of a Muggle late last night."

Merope dropped one of the pots loudly on the floor.

"Pick it up!" Marvolo thundered. "That's it, grub on the floor like some filthy Muggle, what's your wand for, you useless sack of muck?"

"Mr. Gaunt, please!" Ogden said, shocked.

Merope flushed and dropped the pot again her before shakily grabbing her wand, pointing it at the pot, and accidentally sent it across the floor away from her, hit the opposite wall, and crack in two.

"She's not very talented, is she?" Tom said, feeling deeply disappointed. Perhaps he shouldn't have been given what he had seen of her and of the Gaunts already but he had rather hoped…well, he had gotten his remarkable powers from somewhereand it certainly hadn't been his Muggle relations.

Morfin cackled wildly.

"Mend it, you pointless lump, mend it!" Marvolo screamed.

"Somehow I don't think the constant shouting will help matters," Slytherin said distastefully.

Merope stumbled across the room but the ministry employee beat her to it and mended the pot for her.

Marvolo jeered at Merope for needing the help before the ministry employee was finally able to bring the subject back to Morfin's hearing. It would have helped if Marvolo had been willing to admit that there was anything at all wrong with Morfin's actions of attacking a muggle or if he had acknowledged ministry authority. It turned out that this employee was the head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad which really should have made Marvolo sit up and take note. It didn't.

"It's not like I have some sort of moral problem with attacking muggles," Tom said, shaking his head helplessly. "Because, really, I don't. It's just…I do have a problem – moral and otherwise – with people being that stupid and that careless. There is a time and place for attacking other people and a certain protocol for what you do if you are caught and this is not helping."

"I agree but they just don't care," Slytherin replied. "It's almost Gryffindor of him but Godric was never actually stupid."

"And you think we're scum, do you?" screamed Marvolo, apparently taking offence at the man's job. "Scum who'll come running when the Ministry tells 'em to? Do you know who you're talking to, you filthy little Mudblood, do you?"

"That's not a word to be uttered in front of the Ministry!" Tom cried out, not sure why he was even bothering to be surprised anymore. "And he doesn't even know that he's a Mudblood. In fact, given what he's wearing, I'm nearly positive that he's a Pureblood. Even half-bloods usually have more exposure to the Muggle world than this."

Slytherin nodded. "He is, at that. His nephew is currently a member of the Wizengamot and he himself invented Ogden's Old Firewhisky after he retired."

Tom was getting a headache. "To think that he place so much store by blood status and yet remains incapable of detecting it…"

Slytherin nodded. "It does make him look quite foolish."

"I was under the impression that I was speaking to Mr. Gaunt," said Ogden wearily, not moving.

"That's right!" roared Gaunt, thrusting his ring in Ogden's face. "See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? Centuries it's been in our family, that's how far back we go, and pure-blood all the way! Know how much I've been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of arms engraved on the stone?"

"Is that an heirloom?" Tom asked excitedly. "Does Morfin still have that?"

"He does," Slytherin allowed.

Tom once again amended his summer plans to seek out his father as he added in a trip to reclaim a relic that he deserved far more than that miserable little madman.

"I've really no idea," said Ogden, blinking, "and it's quite beside the point, Mr. Gaunt. Your son has committed-"

Marvolo clearly needed some sort of validation here as he next turned to Merope and dragged her over to Ogden, thrusting the locket she wore into his face.

"She didn't have that when she died," Tom noted. "Or if she did the orphanage matron kept it from me."

"She didn't," Slytherin informed him. "She was forced to sell it for far less than it was worth after your father left her."

Tom thought for a moment. "Borgin and Burkes?"

"Yes though it has been sold since then to the descendents of Helga Hufflepuff," Slytherin said bitterly.

"Hufflepuff?" Tom demanded, outraged. "What do the descendents of Hufflepuff need with my family heirloom?"

"They don't," Slytherin said shortly. "I feel like at this point I should be trying to discourage you but…they really don't. Get it back."

"I will," Tom vowed, making this one of the few promises he had ever made to another that he fully intended to keep.

While they had been talking, Marvolo continued to shout about how he was a descendent of Slytherin (and Slytherin himself had been wincing at his descendant's antics) and nearly throttling Merope while Ogden had tried to get him to let her go.

"So!" Marvolo said triumphantly, spitting at Ogden's feet. "Don't you go talking to us as if we're dirt on your shoes! Generations of pure-bloods, wizards all-more than you can say, I don't doubt!"

"He's just so…ignorant!" Tom lamented.

Ogden was determined to stay on topic and informed Marvolo and Morfin of the details of the crime and the hearing. He stopped as horses and laughter were suddenly heard passing the house. Marvolo looked curious, Merope terrified, and Morfin strangely eager. Was he planning another attack while a ministry employee was right there? Even he couldn't be that stupid, could he?

"My God, what an eyesore!" a girl exclaimed loudly. "Couldn't your father have that hovel cleared away, Tom?"

Tom froze. "Tom? Is that…?"

"It would be a strange coincidence if it were not," Slytherin replied.

"It's not ours," Tom Riddle said. "Everything on the other side of the valley belongs to us, but that cottage belongs to an old tramp called Gaunt, and his children. The son's quite mad, you should hear some of the stories they tell in the village -"

The girl laughed and it was clear that they were coming closer. Morfin made to get up.

"Keep your seat," Marvolo warned him.

"Tom," said the girl's voice again, now so close they were right outside the house, "I might be wrong-but has somebody nailed a snake to that door?"

"Good lord, you're right!" Tom Riddle said. "That'll be the son, I told you he's not right in the head. Don't look at it, Cecilia, darling."

"'Darling,'" Morfin whispered. "'Darling, he called her. So he wouldn't have you anyway."

Merope appeared to be on the verge of fainting.

"What's that?" Marvolo demanded. "What did you say, Morfin?"

"She likes looking at that Muggle," Morfin said viciously. "Always in the garden when he passes, peering through the hedge at him, isn't she? And last night-"

Merope shook her head jerkily, imploringly, but Morfin went on ruthlessly, "Hanging out of the window waiting for him to ride home, wasn't she?"

"Hanging out of the window to look at a Muggle?" Marvolo asked dangerously.

"Is it true?" Marvolo asked, looking like he very well might kill somebody and stalking threateningly towards his daughter. "My daughter-pure-blooded descendant of Salazar Slytherin-hankering after a filthy, dirt-veined Muggle?"

Merope shook her head frantically, pressing herself into the wall, apparently unable to speak.

"But I got him, Father!" cackled Morfin. "I got him as he went by and he didn't look so pretty with hives all over him, did he, Merope?"

"You disgusting little Squib, you filthy little blood traitor!" roared Marvolo, putting his hands around Merope's throat and starting to squeeze.

Ogden cast a spell to release her and, angrily, Marvolo turned on him, forcing Ogden to flee from the house.

"He comes back with reinforcements," Slytherin said placidly. "And both Morfin and Marvolo resist and do time in Azkaban."

"They resist Ministry employees?" Tom couldn't believe it. "They're not nearly powerful enough for that and they didn't even leave!"

"I wanted you to see this particular scene for a reason," Slytherin informed him. "I could have shown you the twisted circumstances of your conception or your mother dying hoping you would look like your father or even your own early years. None of it, however, I feel would be as effective as this scene right here."

"Why?" Tom asked curiously.

"Your uncle is perhaps the most Pureblood wizard alive," Slytherin informed him. "I came from a long line of wizards and my descendants have not married anyone that is not a Pureblood themselves. That's the problem with being Pureblooded, you see. Technically, all you need to be is a third generation wizard on both sides so you can have a muggle couple who produce a wizard child who has a Half-blood child who has a Pureblood child. Most people who care about blood status want a little more than that, though."

"None of the Purebloods in Slytherin would ever admit to being any less of a Pureblood than Morfin," Tom told him.

"They are, though," Slytherin assured him. "Maybe they haven't mingled with someone three generations removed from a muggle in four hundred years but it is in their blood somewhere closer than in that of the Gaunts."

"It's rather sad that he is the biggest Pureblood around given what a raving lunatic he is," Tom said, disgusted.

"Ah, but don't you see that that's the point?" Slytherin asked him.

Tom frowned, reluctant to admit that he did not, in fact, see what Slytherin was trying to tell him.

After a moment, Slytherin continued with, "I do not know if you're aware of this yet but all of the ancient and proud Pureblood families who need much more than four wizarding grandparents before they will consider somebody a pureblood have difficulty conceiving and their children are more likely to be weak if not outright squibs. And then there's the added instability that comes from marrying someone too closely related to yourself and having children with them."

"That runs counter to everything I've ever heard," Tom said, blinking.

"Take yourself as an example," Slytherin suggested. "Look at your maternal family. Your mother can barely use a wand and your uncle and grandfather were violent and unstable. And yet look at you. Introduce some new blood – even if it is muggle blood – and suddenly you're quite sane and brilliant and have more magical power than you know what to do with. What do you have to say about that?"

"Perhaps looking a little further down the family tree before marriage might be a good idea," Tom conceded. "But not muggles."

"I can agree with that," Slytherin said, satisfied. "It just creates a mess. Do you know why I was against Muggleborns in the first place?"

It surprised Tom a little that Slytherin called them 'Muggleborns.' On the other hand, maybe the term 'Mudblood' hadn't been around at the time.

"Because they're inferior to wizards?" Tom hazarded a guess.

"As far as I know," Slytherin said, looking annoyed. "There is nothing to prove that magical talent has anything to do with blood purity unless you count those idiots who won't stop marrying their first cousins over and over and over again until they're little more than squibs."

That was rather surprising. "Then why?"

"As you may be aware," Slytherin began dryly, "back when I was alive Muggles had this annoying habit of attempting to burn us at the stake. It rarely worked, of course, as the wizard in question usually either managed to keep their wand with them or another wizard heard about the problem and cast the flame-freezing charm so really it was just a bunch of muggles killing each other. But sometimes it did work and there was always the risk. Even if their hunting was largely ineffectual, I did not appreciate having to hide from people who could never hope to match me."

Tom nodded; it made sense to him.

"Muggleborns were raised by their magic-hating families until they were old enough to catch someone's attention as a wizard and as such they had years of magic-hating to soak up. They might be magical themselves but was that really enough to erase an upbringing that portrayed us as evil? There were some devoutly religious and self-hating Muggleborns who thought that their God was testing them and they had to kill their fellows in order to prove worthy," Slytherin said contemptuously. "And despite the great sin that suicide was believed to be, we had quite a few of those as well from Muggleborns who simply could not handle their magic. And then there were those who requested that we erase their memory and bind their magic."

Tom shook his head wonderingly. "I can't believe so many people were so ungrateful for this wonderful gift they were bestowed. When I thought I was a Muggleborn…I wasn't anything but thrilled for the opportunity to escape my fate."

"As you should be," Slytherin said approvingly. "And the idea might sound quite ridiculous to you now but there was a legitimate threat of spies. Godric knew this, Rowena knew this, and Helga knew this. They pitied the spies and to some extent I can understand why. It wasn't their fault that their minds were poisoned against their own kind even if that pity could not be allowed to let us grow soft and let them destroy us. Given how many wizards I honestly believed were fine with their magic until one day they revealed their true colors and turned on us, I did not believe it was worth the risk."

"You make it sound like they were massacres waiting to happen," Tom said thoughtfully.

"Many of them were," Slytherin confirmed. "But the other three didn't agree with me that the best solution was to just exclude anyone without at least one magical parent from Hogwarts. It was safer, they could not deny that, but they did not feel that that was fair and thought it might even make things worse if these lost Muggleborn children had nowhere else to look for guidance than their fear-stricken and magical-hating communities. And these untrained Muggleborns would have no defense against the flame, either."

Even if they were only Mudbloods, Tom felt a little sick imagining a wizard actually burned alive at the stake. He had had a few nightmares about that himself once he had first found out that he was a wizard up until he realized that he could rescue himself from such a predicament if the need ever arose. It seemed highly unlikely that the need would ever arise but it was better to be prepared and never need it than to one day find himself facing the fire and not know what to do.

"And what about now?" Tom inquired. "We've pretty much moved past that so there's less of a security risk with the Muggleborns. They might still tell people about magic but no one believes in magic anymore and if they tried to prove it we've got an entire department at the Ministry for fixing these things up."

"It is safer to have them around, yes," Slytherin conceded. "And so it is less odious to me that they are at Hogwarts."

"You're still not happy with it, though," Tom pressed.

"How can I be?" Slytherin demanded. "Muggleborns might as well be from a different country. In fact, they are even more foreign than fellow magic-raised wizards from foreign countries! They have a different way of doing things and, like everyone, believes that their way is correct. In the muggle world they can do things their way but if they must be a part of the wizarding world then they need to make some cultural concessions and stop trying to free the house elves and befriend giants and adopting muggle technology. We do not need their paper and pens and whatever else they want to introduce. They always want to change everything and while some changes are necessary to keep us moving forward, they want to change everything until we are a mirror of their muggle world and that is what I find insupportable."

"The muggle world isn't that great," Tom said bluntly. "I wouldn't want to live in a wizarding world closer to it than it already is."

"And just look at you!" Slytherin continued. "You might as well be a Muggleborn for all your magical upbringing but you're not trying to muggle-ize the wizarding world and take great pains to fit in to your new world. If more Muggleborns were like you then we could just completely put the whole thing to rest."

"There aren't many people who are like me," Tom said quietly.

Slytherin grunted. "And more's the pity for it." He leaned over to touch Tom again and then they were back in his common room. "Do promise me that you'll think on what I said about how there can be too much of a good thing and we've reached that point with blood purity."

Tom, who as a Half-blood who had once thought himself Muggleborn had never been half as attached to the idea of blood purity as his fellow Slytherins, nodded easily. "I will. You've given me much to think about."

Chapter Text

Tom chose not to go back to sleep after his first encounter. After all, even if he were to fall back asleep immediately (hardly likely after such an encounter!) then he would only have an hour of sleep before he would need to wake back up and, in his experience, getting that little sleep only served to make him groggier upon waking up. He didn't actually know why this was the case but it happened time and time again and he didn't want to be too tired to deal with his other ghostly visitors.

The anticipation made it a little difficult for Tom to focus on his book but he had plenty of experience forcing himself to read when he had other matters begging to occupy his attention.

Right as the clock struck two, another ghost materialized in the room right before Tom's eyes. He had never heard of ghosts that could materialize like that as it had been his experience that, while they could pass through objects harmlessly, they still came from somewhere else and did not just poof into being. Perhaps these other ghosts were only temporary ghosts as well.

This man was wearing the same style of clothing that Slytherin had so perhaps they had been contemporaries. He strongly resembled the portrait of Gryffindor still hanging in the school (though it was not an exact match) and so Tom felt emboldened enough to say, "Godric Gryffindor, I presume?"

Gryffindor nodded, pleased with the quick identification. "Indeed. And you're one of Salazar's, I believe?"

"Do you mean of his house or descended from him?" Tom inquired.

"Well, both in this case," Gryffindor replied after thinking it over for a moment.

"I actually already got an explanation about why Muggleborns are not as bad nowadays as they were in the past and why too much of an obsession with blood purity leads to problems from Slytherin himself," Tom informed him. "I do hope that you weren't planning on delivering one as well. Or if you were perhaps you could skip it now since it's really not necessary anymore."

Gryffindor looked a little disappointed at that before brightening back up. "Still, it's good to see Salazar coming around. I always knew that he would, eventually."

"I still can't believe you were so much in favor of letting all those potential spies into Hogwarts when the whole reason you formed the school in the first place was to get away from all of those Muggles who were out to kill you," Tom couldn't help but say.

Gryffindor looked like this was a line of argument he had heard many times before. "I was never in favor of letting spies into Hogwarts. Who would be in favor of letting spies into Hogwarts? I just didn't believe that the risk was so great that it justified keeping everyone of non-proven wizarding lineage out of our school. Additionally, no alternative to the hatred of the muggles would only make the Muggleborn problem worse."

Tom merely shook his head, saying nothing.

"And things worked out just fine in the end anyway," Gryffindor pointed out.

"You can't use how things happened to end as proof that your course of action was correct!" Tom protested.

"Why not?" Gryffindor inquired. "Things did work out so my course of action could not be completely terrible regardless of what seemed likely at the time."

Tom sighed. "What did you come here for? To show me what people are doing in the near future?"

"In the present," Gryffindor amended.

Tom cast a skeptical look at him.

"Oh, alright, in the near future," Gryffindor conceded. "But let me tell you that the Ghost of Christmas Past, Ghost of Christmas Present, and Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come sound a lot better than the Ghost of Christmas Past, Ghost of Christmas Near Future, and Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come."

"I'm pretty sure that the one scene that Slytherin showed me didn't even happen at Christmas," Tom declared.

Gryffindor looked rather put-out. "Well he was supposed to!"

Tom shuddered. "Trust me, the one scene was enough. I do not need to see what passed as Christmas dinners in that hovel!"

Gryffindor still looked undecided. "Well…if you're sure…"

"I'm sure," Toms aid firmly.

"Then let's get on with the near-future then," Gryffindor said, holding out his hand.

Feeling like he was going to really regret this but not having much of a choice, Tom took the proffered hand and he found himself back in the orphanage.

"I thought we weren't doing Christmas past," Tom said, annoyed.

The orphanage had always been a rather trying place but it especially was at Christmastime. They did not have any money for frivolities and yet the staff always tried to decorate the place anyway and expected everyone to be merry and joyous despite the fact that none of them had any parents or families that wanted them. They had very little in the orphanage and were forgotten by society and large and couldn't even afford the proper kinds of Christmases that he had heard about from those with families and he was supposed to welcome this? And the very idea that a time of year should force a particular feeling on someone was patently absurd.

Because his birthday was only a scant six days after Christmas (what kind of a Christmas had his mother had that last time, starving and dying and desperate and stupid enough to be taken advantage of so abominably in regards to that locket. Whatever price she had been given wouldn't have been nearly enough) he was somehow expected to appreciate it more and, well, he didn't.

"This isn't the past," Gryffindor assured him. Ah. Now he understood. Gryffindor was trying to cheat things while still staying technically within the bounds of what he was supposed to show by showing a scene that might have been from Tom's past except without Tom. Not that Tom usually played a great role in the Christmases back when he was around.

"Then we have even less reason to be here," Tom retorted.

"Don't you want to see how your little friends are managing in your absence?" Gryffindor said, not really listening.

"I wouldn't care if they were all bombed into oblivion in my absence," Tom said truthfully, feeling liberated at finally getting to voice that rather persistent thought aloud. Most people could not know of his disregard for the lives of those he deemed not worth his time – which was most of the population – and those who he could share those sentiments with he did not want to remind of his rather unfortunate beginnings. "In fact, I might prefer it because then perhaps I could stay somewhere with magic over the summer."

"Oh, you sound just like Salazar. You don't mean that," Gryffindor said with such a fond certainty that if he weren't a ghost Tom would be very tempted to hex him.

Mrs. Cole was gathered around the table with the workers and the orphans. They were all in their finest clothes which were just the clothes they wore for church and just the cleanest and least-worn of their few meager articles of clothing. There was no great feast on the table, just their ordinary winter food except maybe a little bit more of it on Christmas.

"Alright now I want everyone to go around the table and tell me what you're thankful for this year," Mrs. Cole instructed.

Tom rolled his eyes, disgusted. They had nothing to be thankful for and he had simply refused to answer in years past when it was his turn to speak as he did not want to be too openly antagonistic. Now he had a great deal to be thankful for but could never tell her even if he were to ever be there for Christmas again. He wouldn't want to tell her even if he could, however, because she was so far beneath him that she didn't deserve to know and could never truly appreciate it. She would probably think it added to his freakishness.

"I'm thankful that we got to hear that lovely story in Church," Martha said, smiling beatifically.

At least the Christmas service was slightly less dull than the other services he had attended though he didn't know what kind of holiday involved having to sit through church even if it was, he supposed, a religious holiday in origin. Somehow he couldn't imagine that the wizarding world was populated by good Anglicans and yet they seemed to enjoy the holiday even more than the poor orphans did. They certainly had the means to commemorate it better.

"I'm thankful for this fine feast," Peter said, beaming, having clearly never seen an actual feast in his life.

"I'm thankful for all my friends here in the orphanage and for Mrs. Cole and for having such a nice place to live even though I don't gots no parents," Eric rambled and Mrs. Cole smiled, touched.

Gryffindor was beaming beside him. "Doesn't it do your heart good to see such genuine Christmas cheer even in those that do not have very much in their lives?"

"No," Tom said curtly.

Gryffindor did a double-take at that, clearly not expecting to be disagreed with on the point. "What do you mean?"

"It just strikes me as rather pathetic that people with so little are so delusional and think that they actually have something worth celebrating," Tom replied with an easy shrug.

"You can't think of it that way, Tom," Gryffindor insisted. "You have to focus on the good and not the bad and remember that things could always be worse."

"The fact that things could get worse and they could all be dead or on the streets somewhere doesn't mean that the way things are now is really worth celebrating. In fact, that it can get worse at all is something to decry," Tom reasoned. "I suppose it would be pretty miserable for people like that to be upset all of the time but at least it would be more honest. Though I suppose I cannot expect everyone to be able to face the truth."

"I think you might be missing the point of Christmas slightly…" Gryffindor said wearily.

Tom spread his arms. "Well if you think that can explain it to me then by all means do so."

"It's about family and friends and fun and togetherness!" Gryffindor exclaimed.

"And something about the birth of our lord and savior," Tom said dryly.

"Don't be such a muggle, Tom," Gryffindor told him.

"I don't have any family, my 'friends' aren't even here, apparently my fun is going to lead me to evil one day, and as the only Slytherin in the castle it's hard to find a sense of 'togetherness'," Tom declared. "Unless you mean with the whole of Hogwarts but the other houses are…Well, I wouldn't have any fun if I'm with them."

"Why don't we see that for ourselves?" Gryffindor asked suddenly. "But first, how about I show you how some of your friends celebrate Christmas?"

Tom cast him a baleful look. "You had best not show me how those with a family celebrate Christmas given the complete and total impossibility of me ever achieving that no matter how ardently I 'redeem' myself."

Gryffindor looked awkward. "Oh, well…quite. How about Hogwarts then? You never attend the annual Christmas feast."

"I did once," Tom argued. "But it was insipid and a waste of my time and so I did not attend again."

"But it's fun!" Gryffindor protested.

Gryffindors never listened to anything you tried to tell them and it would appear that they were well-representing their house by doing so.

"It's not fun for me and if the point of going is to have fun and I will not have fun then why should I go?" Tom asked reasonably.

"To be sociable!" Gryffindor rejoined.

Tom took a deep, calming breath. "And what is the point of that when the only people I ever care to talk to aren't even going to be there?"

"You can make new friends," Gryffindor suggested.

"I don't want new friends," Tom growled. Strictly speaking, he didn't particularly want the ones he did have but they would be useful.

"See, this right here is why it doesn't surprise me that you're going to grow up to be evil," Gryffindor said knowingly.

"What does not wanting to make new friends or not liking Christmas have to do with turning evil one day?" Tom demanded. "Lots of people are like that."

"I wouldn't be so sure but I'm willing to bet that many of those that are are evil," Gryffindor said knowingly. "You don't hear good people going around hating friends and Christmas."

"I don't think that's precisely what I said-" Tom tried to say but he was interrupted as the scene changed.

Hogwarts at Christmas. Was there anything sadder than that? Perhaps not for the professors (though not all of them were there. Slughorn never was) but for the students it meant there was literally nowhere else to go so why advertise, even to people in the same boat? Oh, he supposed some might choose to stay but that was just bizarre and did not indicate a healthy home life. That or these were incredibly self-absorbed children who preferred to have fun at the castle with any friends left over for two weeks than to see their parents for the first time since September and the last time until June. Although that did sound rather like those he went to school with.

The Great Hall was decorated as grandly if predictably as it ever was so he couldn't tell if it was the past or near-future but he did recognize the students still sitting there so it probably was that year. He wasn't present, of course, but why would he be? There were maybe sixteen students present and five of the professors.

Dozens of wizards crackers had already been pulled and Tom witnessed several more being pulled by overexcited first years who had clearly never seen this before. Tom had gone to the Christmas feast as a first year himself, more out of curiosity than any real desire to participate and, though the experience had been a unique one, he had never seen the need to go again.

The feast here was truly worthy of the name, unlike the pale imitation that Mrs. Cole had managed to scrape together at the orphanage. It did look rather delicious and Tom realized with a start that he was a bit hungry. There was no need to actually go to the Great Hall, however, when he had the overly attentive House Elves determined that every student have access to however much food as they wanted.

"See?" Gryffindor asked triumphantly, apparently under the impression that Tom's quiet contemplation was a wistful longing to join the festivities.

"I do indeed," Tom remarked neutrally.

"And the best part is, Tom, that it is not too late! Tomorrow you can march down those steps and partake in this joy and merriment!" Gryffindor explained.

"That is certainly within the realm possibility, yes," Tom conceded reluctantly. He was not actually going to do it but he could have. There was really nothing stopping him except his own desire not to go and his lack of understanding of what could possibly be gained by his attendance.

Gryffindor stopped and really looked at him. "You're not going to do it."

"I had not planned on it, no," Tom agreed.

"But…why not?" Gryffindor just didn't understand and Tom was reminded that his house was the one with all the festivities all the time. It sounded exhausting, frankly.

"Because I don't want to," Tom replied simply. "There is no earthly reason for me to attend and I assure you that I am not actually missing out on anything I do not care to."

"But what about not wanting to turn evil?" Gryffindor demanded.

Tom fixed him with a look. "To begin with, I do not believe that I am actually in any danger of 'turning evil' and your mad insistence that I must celebrate Christmas with my fellow students or turn evil is not doing much to convince me that you are correct or, indeed, know how to correctly define 'evil.'"

"Don't you see that it's all connected, though?" Gryffindor asked plaintively. "Rejecting people and isolating yourself will only make it that much easier to become a genocidal madman later and terrorize the wizarding world!"

"That may be so," Tom said, not actually believing for a moment that that was the path that lay before him but reasoning that it would probably be easier to be a genocidal madman if one did not care about people. "But there is a long, long way between not wishing to celebrate Christmas and attempting to massacre entire groups of people."

Gryffindor shook his head like he was disappointed in him. "I've done all I can. It's out of my hands now. Let's hope that the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come will be more effective."

He looked pointedly at Tom, seeming to wait for him to say something.

"Was there anything else?" Tom asked politely.

"Weren't you going to ask about the curiously claw-like feet under my robes?" Gryffindor asked pointedly.

Tom glanced down. "I was not planning on it."

Sighing and shaking his head once more, Gryffindor was gone.

Chapter Text

It was suddenly quite cold. Tom had never actually been around a Dementor but he imagined that if he had the experience would be very much like this one. He looked around. He was suddenly outside of the Leaky Cauldron and there was this…figure next to him. He couldn't quite make out the shape because it was wearing loose black robes that completely covered it but it was large and rather intimidating.

Tom felt his legs begin to tremble and, with effort, stilled them. This was no different than dealing with Merope or the two founders of Hogwarts. And how scary could a ghost be anyway? Ghosts couldn't hurt you and the future was his for the taking. There was really nothing to fear.

"Hello," Tom said politely. "I assume that you are the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?"

The figure inclined its head.

"So you have something of the future to show me to save me from turning evil?" Tom guessed.

Another nod and the figure gestured to the pub.

Tom got the hint and walked inside. He had never been in here for longer than it took to get from Muggle London to the Leaky Cauldron but it usually wasn't quite so lively. It was a good thing that he could move through the scene as if he were a ghost himself because there wasn't room for anyone to really maneuver.

"Free drinks for everybody!" Tom the bartender (why must he be cursed with such a common name?) called out happily.

There was a lot of general excitement about the place. Since he doubted he'd get anything out of the drunks unprompted, he slipped out the back and went through to Diagon Alley.

There were far more people in the Alley than he had ever seen before and he usually went school supply shopping during the busy days that had the best sales. Everyone was looking cautiously hopeful and like they had not had such good news in a terribly long time.

"Is it true?" one witch said to another. "I mean, is it really? I had heard but…it's all a bit too much to hope for, isn't it?"

"It's true, it really is," the other assured her. "Lily and James Potter are dead but so is You-Know-Who! He really died!"

"What about that son of theirs?" the first one asked. "Was he there, too?"

The second nodded so excitedly that her hat nearly fell off. "He was! And he yet lives! I hear he's got a nasty scar but he's alive and You-Know-Who is dead!"

"Who is You-Know-Who?" Tom wondered aloud. It was all very good to have people so terrified to say your name that they had to refer to you as 'you-know-who' or whatever but, on the other hand, it did make it rather difficult when you did not know who it was. "And what does this have to do with me? You want me to see how, if I don't change my ways, people will celebrate my death? What do I care what random strangers think? And I'd be dead anyway so it really makes no difference."

And if he had it his way he'd never die anyway so he would have nothing to worry about.

"I don't think I'll learn any more from watching more people celebrate," Tom told the cloaked figure, not quite looking at him. "Was there anything else I needed to see?"

Another nod and then Tom was in another room.

There were flames, clearly magical, blocking the exit from the room that they were in. A frightened and dirty first or second year was staring at a man in a large purple turban. The man was ignoring him and peering intently into a floor-length mirror.

"What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!" the man entreated.

Was this man's master the boy? Was he just crazy? The latter seemed more likely since the boy didn't appear to be there of his own free will.

"Use the boy ... use the boy ..." replied a voice that seemed to come from the man himself but was not the same voice as had first spoken. Was this some sort of disassociation then or a possession?

Then man rounded on the boy. "Yes - Potter - come here."

That caught Tom's attention. "Potter? As in that child that was there when You-Know-Who died?"

He magically removed the boy's binding and pulled him towards the mirror, instructing him to report what he saw.

"Well?" the man asked impatiently. "What do you see?"

"Is this some sort of magical mirror?" Tom asked, intrigued. "Most mirrors will just show you yourself and even the magical ones I've come across will either just allow you to communicate with someone with the other half of a set of mirrors or it will show your reflection but offer helpful critiques."

He hadn't thought a lot of the advice that he'd received.

"I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," the boy claimed. "I - I've won the House Cup for Gryffindor."

Tom stared at him. "He is a terrible liar. And this man believes him? Hopeless."

"Get out of the way," the man said, allowing Potter to gratefully step aside.

Fortunately, Tom wasn't the only one not fooled by the rather pathetic performance as, just when Potter was sneaking away, the earlier voice spoke again. "He lies ... He lies ..."

"Why is he just repeating what he says twice?" Tom wondered. "That seems so unnecessary. And what is going on with that?" He chanced a glance at the spirit but it remained as impassive as ever and he quickly looked away.

"Potter, come back here!" the man shouted. "Tell the truth! What did you just see?"

"Let me speak to him ... face to face ..." the voice insisted.

The man actually dared argue with a being that, for whatever reason, he gave the title 'master.' If Tom ever had anyone call him that he wouldn't put up with that from them. "Master, you are not strong enough!"

"I have strength enough ... for this ..." the voice insisted. Privately, Tom rather wondered about that. After all, it did pause an awful lot when saying pretty simple sentences almost as if it were out of breath or something.

The Potter boy really should have been running but for some reason he just waited patiently while the man approached him, took off his turban, and turned around.

Tom recoiled, disgusted. "Dear God, what is that thing?"

There was no answer of course.

It was…it was a face gone wrong on the back of the man's head. Why would he agree to something like that? Tom wasn't vain but he did have to admit that his father's looks (for who else could they have come from even if he didn't know what said father actually looked like) were convenient and helped him get what he wanted and so he wouldn't soon part from them. And this creature…it didn't have a nose, for one thing. Or rather, it had a snake's nose which wasn't even a real proper nose. It was completely white, too, which just made it look stranger given that the man's skin tone was several shades darker. The eyes were glowing red like something out of a Muggle horror story. It was just appalling. And it was clearly a parasite existing on the back of this idiot's head.

"Harry Potter ..." it whispered. "See what I have become? Mere shadow and vapor ... I have form only when I can share another's body ... but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds ... Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks ... you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the Forest ... and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own ...Now ... why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket?"

Tom didn't question how that thing knew that the stone was in Harry Potter's pocket. It was probably Legilimency or something. Then there was the fact that there was a noticeable bulge in the boy's pocket where there wasn't one before.

At least the thing seemed displeased about the current state of events but how in the world did it even get that far? To be so dependent on another, a servant, a stone, and a unicorn…it was repellent to him. What kind of wizard was so helpless? And it seemed like he was blaming this child for his state, too, which was rather pathetic no matter what had actually happened. This was a first year! If Tom ever got bested by a first year he would just have to admit that he had failed at life somewhere along the line.

Potter finally showed some sense and started to stumble backwards.

"Don't be a fool," snarled the face. "Better save your own life and join me ...or you'll meet the same end as you parents ... they died begging me for mercy ..."

"I have to say," Tom critiqued, "the fact that you're a disembodied face – however grotesque – does not really do much to inspire actual fear and convince people that you can back up your threats. I mean, can you even do magic like that?"

The boy was looking furious. "LIAR!"

The thing smiled as it advanced on Potter. "How touching ...I always value bravery ... Yes, boy, you're parents were brave ... I killed your father first and he put up a courageous fight ...but your mother needn't have died ...she was trying to protect you ...Now give me the Stone, unless you want her to have died in vain."

"His parents were Lily and James?" Tom questioned. "So this is the You-Know-Who they were speaking of. I see it isn't quite as dead as all that. And he would have to be incredibly thick to actually believe that promise. In fact, if I were him I'd have to wonder why he hadn't just killed me and taken the stone. This offer is a gesture of weakness."

"NEVER!" Potter thundered, running for the flame door.

The thing screamed, "SEIZE HIM!" and then the man grabbed Potter's wrist momentarily before quickly letting go.

It all got a little strange after that. The boy appeared to have a headache and the thing kept shouting about seizing Potter, completely ignoring the fact that every time the man touched him the part of his skin that made contact with Potter's began to blister. That wasn't normal.

"What the-?" Tom began to ask, looking to the spirit but the spirit merely gestured and suddenly they were at Hogwarts.

The first thing that Tom saw was a woman who had the signs of once being beautiful but something had ruined her features. She had a gloating smile in the seconds before a curse hit her in the chest and then she fell over.

"Is this supposed to mean something to me?" Tom asked loudly over the sound of a high-pitched scream. "I am really going to need some context here."

Looking around, Tom saw that the scream seemed to come from a chalk-white snake-man (had You-Know-Who finally gotten a body? Well there was that, at least, since he appeared to have been bested by a first year twice) who cast a spell that sent the three people he was dueling (one of whom seemed to be Slughorn of all people and when did he start putting himself on the line?) flying backwards. You-Know-Who took advantage of this sudden lack of opponents to aim his wand at a dumpy red-headed middle aged woman across the hall. Had she been the one to kill that other woman or something? Seriously, it was like walking into a film an hour into it.

"Protego!" shouted a teenager that Tom hadn't seen there a moment before. Perhaps he could make himself invisible. And was that…

Tom groaned. "Harry Potter? Is this Harry bloody Potter again? Why are you showing me this?"

He didn't even look to see if there was an answer this time because he knew that there wouldn't be.

The crowd in the Great Hall had apparently been under the impression that he was dead or something because they were all very pleased to see him and were loudly shouting about his living status.

"I don't want anyone else to help," Potter declared, silencing the crowd. "It's got to be like this. It's got to be me."

"Well of course he doesn't feel like he needs help," Tom said, irritated. "Apparently he regularly defeats You-Know-Who over here."

You-Know-Who hissed."Potter doesn't mean that. This isn't how he works, is it? Who are you going to use as a shield today, Potter?"

Potter didn't seem disturbed by the taunt and why should he? You-Know-Who was clearly exceedingly bad at killing him and if someone failed to kill anybody often enough then they just lost credibility. Maybe there was some leeway if the person who wasn't killed was someone like Dumbledore but this boy was still a child even now. He might be a little older than Tom himself but it wasn't like he claimed to be an adult just yet.

And You-Know-Who shouting about how all of the apparently many, many times that Potter had gotten the better of him were just freak accidents that could have happened to anybody wasn't convincing anyone.

Potter's use of the word 'Horcrux' intrigued him. He had heard about Horcruxes and how they were a nice way to cheat death. He was still looking into them, though, trying to make sure he knew how to do it right and that there wouldn't be any side effects that he didn't want to deal with. There wasn't much he would not do to stay alive but there might be other ways to do it that didn't involve particularly nasty side effects like no magical powers or constant pain or something.

And the fact that Potter had apparently destroyed all of You-Know-Who's made the case for hiding them better and not telling anyone about them. It really would make the most sense to use something not obviously valuable but Tom didn't know if he'd be able to just stash a piece of his very soul in an old boot or something. It just wasn't very dignified.

"You won't be killing anyone else tonight," Potter declared boldly as he and You-Know-Who circled each other. "You won't be able to kill any of them ever again. Don't you get it? I was ready to die to stop you from hurting these people. "

"But you did not!" Tom and You-Know-Who said at exactly the same time. Tom's tone was matter-of-fact while You-Know-Who's appeared rather desperate but the similarity disturbed Tom and he frowned.

"I meant to, and that's what did it," Potter claimed.

"Oh, that's not fair. You 'meant to' but didn't so why should that count?" Tom demanded.

"I've done what my mother did. They're protected from you. Haven't you noticed how none of the spells you put on them are binding? You can't torture them. You can't touch them. You don't learn from your mistakes, Riddle, do you?" Potter asked contemptuously.

Tom was torn from his musings about protection spells (he'd never had much use for them but if they can stop magic from working there might be something to them, if only to work around them) by that familiar appellation.

You-Know-Who wasn't pleased either. "You dare-"

"Yes, I dare," interrupted Potter. And why not? Nothing Tom had seen so far gave him any reason to think that Potter couldn't do whatever he pleased as far as You-Know-Who went. "I know things you don't know, Tom Riddle. I know lots of important things that you don't. Want to hear some, before you make another big mistake?"

There. It was official. He couldn't deny it anymore although he was sorely tempted to. Denial might lead to ignoring this and, as Potter said, making another big mistake. He couldn't even begin to imagine the mistakes he must have made to have been killed by a small child and then forced to depend on so very many things and people and to look like he was some deranged snake-man and to have all of his Horcruxes destroyed. He might die. He probably would, right here and now.

He was barely listening as Potter spoke of strange things that Tom couldn't possibly understand, not now decades before the words would mean anything. He let the news that love was apparently a very big deal magically, that someone named Snape was in love with Potter's mother and so never on that thing's side, and that Dumbledore had the Elder Wand and even if that thing currently held it Potter was its true master wash over him. He had heard of the elder wand, briefly, in a book of children's tales. And it was real it would seem.

But what did that matter? This future could not be. He wouldn't let it. It didn't matter if he was 'evil' or not but to come to such an ignoble end…it would not happen, he swore it.

"So it all comes down to this, doesn't it?" whispered Potter, winding down from his truly impressive speech. "Does the wand in your hand know its last master was Disarmed? Because if it does... I am the true master of the Elder Wand."

That thing that Tom could not accept as his future self cast a sensible Avada Kedavra at Potter who, at that same moment, responded with an…Expelliarmus. Not the choice Tom would have made and from the expressions that many in the crowd wore he was not alone in his wondering about the wisdom of that.

Still, it seemed to work for Potter as the spells met in a burst of golden flames and not only did the Elder Wand fly out of that thing's hand but the bright green killing curse rebounded and hit it dead on.

Potter even caught the wand. Damn him.

The cheers that rose up then were nothing. It didn't matter and it wasn't him and it would never be because of this second chance so it didn't matter but they were still rather irksome and so Tom quickly turned back to the spirit. It was strangely harder to look at him now than it was before.

"I'm ready to go home," Tom said quietly. "I've seen enough and I understand now that changes will have to be made."

The spirit approached Tom and he held his breath but stood his ground as it wrapped one cloaked arm around him and covered him darkness.

The next moment, Tom's entire body was still covered but it was much warmer and he was lying down so he pulled his blankets off of his head. He had somehow ended up back in his bed although he rather doubted it was a dream. It was too important to risk that it had not been a dream.

He didn't rush out of bed, however. He just lay there for awhile thinking. It was Christmas morning so though everyone was bound to be up early, they would be too preoccupied with presents for the time being and so he had time.

He still didn't see how a few harmless attacks would lead to him dead at the hands of a teenager one day after spending who knew how long existing as a parasite but with so many people linking the two events (although they seemed more concerned with the morality than the mortality) he figured that they might have a point.

And he certainly didn't want to risk people knowing that he was the one attacking them. Maybe one day but for now it wouldn't suit his purposes and if that sort of thing got out then it would close far more doors than it would open. The kind of people that would support his actions were usually Slytherin enough to not openly do so.

He wondered what he would even get out of a life like that because it certainly couldn't be worth it. Near-universal respect and fear was nice but he didn't approve of the accompanying dislike he seemed to have as well. Tom had never actually killed anybody and while he didn't believe that it would bother him, he also doubted that he would enjoy it so much as to make that be his sole or even main motivation for a career as a genocidal madman. And if he ever did become so self-indulgent then clearly he was already making mistakes.

Far better to have legitimate power than have to curse everyone in sight to force them to obey him.

So that decided it, then. If genocidal madman had ever been something he had been considering – and it really hadn't so where had that come from? – then he could definitely rule it out.

And if he did make Horcruxes (or perhaps just one because he would really need to look into what made him look like a humanoid snake) he'd definitely have to hide it better.

And one day, if his new plan didn't change things and prevent Harry Potter from being born, he was going to have to hunt him down and find some way to feel better about what he had seen in the future. It would be difficult because a grown man in some way dominating a child would just be pathetic but he had a few years to figure it out.

And he'd need to do some serious reworking of his plan to remake the wizarding world in his image that did not involve having to kill so many people and consequently end up in that pathetic state where he'd almost be better off dead.

He'd have to be much more careful in the future because he hadn't even known about the mistakes he was making. But now that he did he was confident that he was on a better path with a better and less humiliating future waiting for him.

And if that wasn't a Christmas miracle then he didn't know what was.