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One day at Hogwarts Tom stumbles upon a ghost in one of the deserted corners of the school grounds.
It's a boy in a school uniform.
He looks young and delicate, skin shining dully in the evening light. The boy is staring out at the black lake, unmoving and quietly shimmering.
A second, and Tom hears the ghost hum something, (a melody?) almost a lullaby.
Tom comes over, enchanted, and tries to start a conversation.
The ghost boy gives him a short side-glance as if deeming him unworthy of a talk and turns away.
The ghost never goes anywhere, he appears on the same bench and gazes at the lands around him with a melancholic little smile. He's looking slightly sad, but so so warm, despite not even being alive anymore.
Tom keeps coming over, strangely comforted by the enigmatic presence and his quiet humming. He sees the Gryffindor crest on the boy's school robe. It's meant to have red on it, but the ghost is all pearly and looks drained of colour.
Tom wonders what colour the boy's eyes were when he was alive.
But does that really matter? It becomes one of the insignificant details that continue to bug him.
At first, Tom approaches the ghost as he would any other. He stands in front of the boy, pulling his trademark friendly smile on with practised ease.
The ghost has ignored him once, but maybe he’s just an exceptionally slow-witted one.
— Hi, my name is Tom. Tom Riddle, — The boy turns to him, translucent eyes slowly gliding over his body, top to bottom, like he’s the weird one.
The gaze starts from his hair, falls upon his eyes, pauses there briefly, and before Tom catches it and starts talking again, coldly lowers to his lips, his secondhand robes and stops on his hand, stretched out for a handshake. There’s a tiny questioning twitch in his brow.
Stung with shame, Tom jerks the hand back, failing to control the sneer. Why did he extend a hand to a ghost of all things?
Meanwhile, the ghost boy goes back to calmly peering at the black lake again like nothing has happened.
Oh, so he’s being ignored. Figures.
Tom spitefully waves his hand in front of the ghost’s face, but there’s no reaction.
He settles for sitting across him and staring shamelessly.
It's not a person, he reminds himself, it's a study object.
It’s more interesting than he anticipated.
The pearlescent figure radiates calm in waves around it. Slowly, Tom’s shoulders unclench and sag from the uncomfortable position he is unwittingly keeping.
At some point, see-through eyelashes drop down, and the ghost gives a tiny sigh and starts humming a melody. It brings a very slight change to the ghost's face, something is barely there: a minuscule spark in his eyes, tiny furrow in brows, and a quirk on his lips. It looks surprisingly lovely.
Tom doesn’t know he’s asleep until he wakes up with a crick in his neck and the ghost is gone.
Despite the weird position, it's the best sleep he's had since… ever. Tom marvels at the content feeling inside his chest, wrapping tightly around his heart. He's surprisingly calm, none of that ever-present buzzing anxiety that usually fills him. The serenity is almost alien, but not unpleasant.
He's never felt safe before, not in the grimy cold orphanage with meagre food and lacklustre conditions, standing ever alone, ever on guard. Not in the magical school that promised to be his salvation, but turned out to be another disappointment.
Slytherin proved to be a cold and unwelcoming home, only amplifying his growing desperation to find his place. He'd thought he would find acceptable company among his peers, but it was more of the same old - him against an impenetrable circle of hostile strangers, so beneath him, but still believing themselves privileged. He would stand at a distance, aloof and frigid, and hungry. Hungry for whatever this thing between them was, their bond, their connection.
There was simply no place where he'd feel safe and content.
Before this.
For a short while Tom clinically inspects the stillness inside, then picks himself up and goes to the library for answers.
The books in the library are a wealth of knowledge on ghosts, apparitions and other otherworldly spirits.
The only mention of ghosts ignoring people he finds is about something called a 'spiritual imprint'. The phenomenon refers to memory structures, infused with magic, that are sometimes left in places of some grand or magically intense events. There are a couple of examples, including one goblin war that replays again and again in ghostly form in a place (jealously sealed by goblins from muggles and wizards alike). There's also a mildly horrifying description of a witch burning, forever engraved into the matter of reality. The agony personified, limbs charring. The illustrations are a bit too detailed for Tom's liking. He's a bit repulsed, and skips to the next part.
This explains nothing. He knew that the boy had acknowledged his presence, he could feel the focus of the ghostly eyes on him.
There's a small note, tucked under a boring and long-winded text about the psychology of ghosts. The ghosts are not endless, just extremely time-durable. They might linger for a long time, but at some point their personality starts to wear down, powering them less and less. It's an indisputable fact that the ghost's willpower, their sense of self are the major energy that retains them in the physical world in their human shape. When the self-awareness slips away, the ghost might linger for a short while, but would ultimately disappear. The symptoms include prolonged silence or inability to speak, not being able to focus, the astral body blurring, forgetting their name or losing their memory. In extreme cases, something similar has happened to a few of the most ancient magical portraits.
The only portrait of Myrddin Emrys, also known as the great Merlin, has gotten tired of being displayed and has given up the animation charmwork, proving once again his astounding power. The magic woven into the canvas, one day just dissipated into thin air, leaving the painting as alive as a muggle one.
That sounds more like the ghost boy he'd been observing. He feels a slight pang in his chest, sorry to see something magical go, and not entirely sure if that little feeling concerns the loss of the image of the most unparalleled mage of their time, or the potential loss of a little nearly mute ghost.
Tom specifically doesn't come close to the school student transcript section. He's already feeling perturbed enough, thank you very much.
He doesn't want to put a name to that face. He certainly doesn't want to find out if the boy has forgotten that name either.
Tom's sudden fascination with ghosts and the paranormal doesn't escape his housemates. He's talking to the bloody Baron, celebrating Death Day with some of the oldest ghosts, trying to worm into their good graces and pry for more information.
And he visits his little obsession, unmoving from his usual spot, almost every day. At first, it's more of experimenting, trying to force the boy to acknowledge his existence, drawing out any reactions, casting ghost-specific diagnostic charms and verifying the results with the charts, cataloguing every detail. By his fifteenth visit, there's nothing more practical he can do, which is frustrating, but he's still too intrigued to let this go. So he plops himself down on the ground across the current mystery of his life and intently stares.
The gentle humming starts again, enveloping him in subtle warmth. Tom exhales, tension fading from his frame, and gently rests his cheek against one of his knees.
After a couple more visits he admits to himself that he's here, surprisingly, for the company.
He's extensively studied all written materials on things that exude calm and peacefulness, be it spells, potions or artifacts, but there are no records of any ghosts ever doing that. The only thing coming any close to the effects he's put under is a Patronus charm. Strangely, a corporeal form of the charm should be a shining animal likeness, radiating happiness and safety. There have been no mentions of human-looking patroni. And still.
The aura his ghost (already claimed) is generating is an evident thick soft blanket on his weary insides. It would be eerie and disconcerting to fall under the thrall of some unidentified phenomenon but instead it feels like a gulp of fresh air after a long underwater swim.
His whole life so far, Tom muses to himself, has been like a continuous plunge in murky cold water, discomfort and longing.
His unfortunate dorm mates decide to tail him a couple of times. Busy with studying ahead, personal projects and eager to return to his personal Patronus side, Tom barely has any presence of mind to properly educate them not to cross him. He halfheartedly curses them not even stopping his brisk walk.
Insignificant.
But that doesn't mean he forgets his ambitions and, later, his legacy.
He just needs to get his fix first. A breath of warmth to soothe the cold dark place in his chest, something to fill it with.
He's still his callous and cruel self, but the tired wound-up maliciousness is weakening, dissipating. He would be a merciful lord to those in his service, but never a forgiving one.
Over the years, Tom tells the uncaring ghost some things about himself, his days, and his childhood. The boy doesn't react much, just cocks his head on the side, barely showing any curiosity, sometimes throwing a brief glance at his face. He never says anything back.
Tom is struggling with his rule over the Slytherin house and his conquest and growth of the Knights of Walpurgis.
He's brilliant, but the perfect mask has to stay on even in the dorm. He can't show anyone a moment of weakness, lest the sharks converge on him and there would be just shreds left of the power and reputation he's painstakingly developed and gathered over the years.
The only times Tom feels like himself are when he's behind the spelled curtains in his bed, and in that godforsaken corner of the school with the nostalgic-looking ghost, shining with the softest of sheens.
The boy brings him comfort and makes the better part in himself float up to the surface. The mask-dropping unclenches something deep inside of him, one little knot after the other.
When Tom is sure his psyche is starting to crumble from the stress of his hyper-controlled life, he goes to the ghost.
When Dumbledore insults his prowess in the classroom and looks at him like he'd never amount to anything, and why does his heart lurch so painfully at the thought, he stalks back to the boy. When his followers bicker between themselves after failing a simple order from him, and a red haze descends onto him, blurring the edges of his vision, he punishes them and escapes to the boy again, breathing raggedly and barely containing himself.
Every time there's something unstable inside himself, he finds his feet tracing the familiar path towards comfort.
The serene ghost lets him sit by his side and gives him the slightest of glimpses back, then resumes his staring at the lake and hums.
Tom stills the shaking in his fingers, the boiling in his blood and breathes out a long long exhale. His body relaxes and unfurls, the limbs loose. This. He needed this.
The humming isn't even that harmonious or good, but casual and sweet, washing over him and settling something tightly strung down.
He never managed to find anything about who his mysterious boy is, no name, no matching description, and no other people to have witnessed him aside from Tom. That definitely makes him feel special.
And a little bit sad.
How ironic, the only presence in his life he was genuinely happy about was someone dead from a long time ago.
He keeps coming over to the now-familiar corner, the yawning chasm of loneliness closed for good some time ago. He's still short-tempered and demanding, but without his insides twisted, he feels balanced and human. He doesn't resent the feeling. He's still special, his strong magic coiling around himself like an excited snake, his mind sharp and words carefully considered.
In the summer of his fourth year, he takes a step into the Gaunt hovel, takes one look around, then turns and leaves in disgust, not bothering any further. He doesn't listen to the pitiful excuse for a wizard, its parseltongue garbled and filthy, tainted.
He never discovers the mansion on the hill, and at this point, he's done with looking for family.
He'll craft his own legacy.
It's sixth year, and Professor Slughorn is even more obnoxious than usual. The reason is revealed soon enough. Looks like the old leech never quite managed to grow up and gets excited by the same things as teen girls.
The mother-of-pearl sheen of the potion gives Tom an unpleasant lurch in his gut.
Amortentia.
He's read up on it (it's in his study schedule), but he'd rather read about anything else. How can something be so dangerous and so appallingly pitiful at the same time?
He's repeatedly asked to smell it by the beaming professor, until he gives in.
Tom moves closer to the cauldron with deliberate strides, careful as if he's approaching something that could spring at him and attack. His skin crawls.
He doesn't realize he's already close, because the smell is inconspicuous, subtly gaining intensity with each step. It's familiar, dust, breeze and warm light. He doesn't know how it's possible to smell warmth, but it's magic we're talking about.
The dusty smell is quite overpowering, and he isn't prepared.
He sneezes and sneezes until his nose is red and leaking, and the girls in the back of the classroom are snickering.
He gives them a dark promising glare.
It would've been a bit more effective if he didn't look cute pathetic at that moment.
One day, he stumbles through the corridors towards his personal patronus,Tom's eyes blown wide and hair disheveled. He's just made a huge mistake. Something that could end all of his plans for the future. He wasn't careful enough with the basilisk, and she accidentally looked at a student. One casual swipe of the yellow eyes was all it took for the unfortunate pimply girl to crumble down to the floor dead.
Shaking, Tom ordered the basilisk down the pipe and fled, fleeing so fast like there were hellhounds after him.
He had been toying with the idea of Horcruxes for a while now, and now there was this unfortunate death on his hands. She wouldn't be found until hours later, he had the time to turn this to his advantage, if he wanted. Sitting by the ghost's side, he ponders if he should use what fate gave him.
His stomach churns with dread just at the thought of the school closing. The castle might've been a poor unaccepting home for him, but still the only place he would tentatively consider as such.
He doesn't even realize that he's telling his ghost whatever had happened until the boy looks back at him, assessing him again for the first time in ages. His usually serene and unperturbed face suddenly sharpens, gaze piercing.
The humming stops.
This is important enough even for his ghostly companion, Tom realizes.
— What should I do? — He asks the boy, — Should I use her death to cement my immortality?
The boy never answers, unsurprisingly. But his eyes grow sadder than Tom's ever seen them. He stares at him, locked into the gazing between them, feeling the importance of the moment. A minute or an hour later, the ghost seems to have found something in his face, zeroing in with intensity usually absent from his eyes.
And then he just looks disappointed and tired, turning away with the lightest of sighs. There's an unfamiliar tightness around the corners of his mouth.
No.
No no no no no.
Not him, not his patronus ghost. He couldn't be disappointed in Tom, his only heartfelt comfort in this whole staged world.
Tom stills himself and sits by the ghost's side the whole night. He never goes to make a Horcrux.
After graduating with honours, satisfied with his life so far, Tom proudly saunters to their usual place to say goodbye to his only friend.
The ghost is absent. And he never comes back, even when it's time for Tom to leave.
That burned. But at the same time, he is grateful. It would've been a really tough goodbye for him if he'd laid his eyes on his lovely ghost.
Tom vows to come back and see him again.
Over the years, Tom has travelled far, amassing a wealth of power and influence, experience and knowledge.
Now he was back, and he was teaching at Hogwarts.
At first, Headmaster Dippet declined him an offer, citing the lack of life experience, then Dumbledore refused him too, telling him to live his life more first.
In the meantime, Tom was shaping the world around him, his followers researching, crafting and passing the bills on muggleborns, creature rights, and magic freedom.
Because magic has to be free.
He had quite a complicated system working for him. Which had taken time and effort to cultivate, until the construct made of people, power plays, debts, promises and blackmail between them started working.
It was a piece of art and a shame that no one else could appreciate it.
He was careful enough to pass some helping papers for education as well, getting the school more funding, and looping his influence all around the school board members.
After everything he has accomplished and prepared, Albus wouldn't have enough influence to reject him again. That thought brings a triumphant smile to Tom's lips.
It takes decades, but in his late forties, the acclaimed professor and a very successful politician, Tom Marvolo Riddle returns to the school as one of the staff. There is no more denying him.
Dumbledore isn't happy, and it shows, but Tom knows that he has absolutely nothing on him. Tom has been extra careful ever since Myrtle Warren's unfortunate death.
After unpacking and a short dinner with his new colleagues, he traces the familiar path back to his, their, corner.
His heart flutters, when his eyes land on the nostalgic small figure sitting in the same pose, same corner, as all those years back.
Now, the boy is so much smaller than him. They used to be almost the same, both starting with rather thin frames. Tom has shot up and never stopped growing until his mid-twenties, his shoulders broader, legs longer.
Personally, he attributed his height and body to the overflowing magick roaring inside him. He was always powerful. And he has matured into his magic potential nicely, with careful stabilizing rituals he had spent years researching and tweaking in Egypt and Romania.
He looks down at the boy by his side, and the ghost looks back, catching his gaze and holding it. His smile is small, but blinding, eyes flickering wetly.
He hasn't said anything, still.
But Tom knows he had been missed, and his heart soars.
He had expected his feelings to have dulled, it was decades ago, after all. However, none of that seems to matter as the familiar, gentle warmth envelops him in a tight hug.
Oh, how he missed, how he craved.
All the years spent away were rewarding, sometimes exhilarating, when he managed to pull something impossible off.
But here he sits, finally back to where he always planned to return.
Home.
The classes never grow dull with Professor Riddle constantly being in research, proposing new bills, and leading breakthrough experiments. His wide net of followers keeps the country running like a well-oiled machine.
It takes decades more, but one day Albus engages him in a light conversation over breakfast, and there it is, a twinkle hiding behind his glasses. The cold shoulder isn't there anymore. There are only constant sweet offerings, but that is something the old coot wouldn't ever change. Tom begrudgingly admits that the old fool is tolerable, no matter his horrifying taste in robes and blinding love for everything muggle.
As long as Tom has any say in it, and he has, the wizarding Britain is tightly kept under the Statute of Secrecy, and the Department of Muggleborn Assistance would continue to be well-staffed and even more well-funded (along with the Obliviator crews).
It worked well for him, being subtle and patient rather than forceful and abrasive. Instead of an obvious track for what he wanted to be done, he'd use his framework of persons from all around the society (British or foreign), and stagger their movements over time and over government departments. Sooner or later what he wants will get done.
Sometimes he wonders where or how does he muster the patience for that, but then he'd concentrate on his inner depth, and there it would be - the barely there imprint of warmth, a lingering lullaby hum.
The years fly by, and at some point, Albus, yes, he is calling the geezer by his first name now, dear Albus has to retire due to his advanced age. There isn't even another candidate, and Headmaster Riddle rightfully steps into another round of duties, having prepared for this role for quite some time. Albus mentored him for so long, that the school doesn't even feel the change in hands: classes running well, the school board being their insufferable selves and a nightmare to fight against.
During all this, Tom is never absent long enough from a particular corner of the school grounds. Under his care, the school has been renovated here and there, but this one little place he keeps without change, fixing the damage of time himself.
The boy is there for him, a calming constant in his life.
Tom knows every inch of his face by now, every strand of his hair. He's also learned to read his blank eyes. The boy isn't just sitting and staring at the lake.
He is waiting for something.
Or someone.
Years pass, then decades, and Tom is absolutely thrilled to test his theory.
He retires as headmaster after reaching his proud two hundred (and not even looking it). He's secretly pleased he doesn't look a day over a hundred.
He never leaves Hogwarts, staying as a History of Magic professor.
And then, one evening sitting by the fireplace, he knows in his heart it is time.
It is finally time to test the loveliest guess of his life.
He relaxes in the chair again, placing the Firewhiskey glass on the side table, and feels his old strong heart stutter heavily in his chest. His magic rises and envelops him in warmth, and then he's on his way, happily tracing the same path as he had done hundreds of times before.
The boy turns to him with his striking green eyes and a smile so lovely, so blindingly perfect.
— You're here, — he whispers in a familiar voice, and Tom finds himself sliding down on the bench by his side, as he usually would.
They're almost similar in size again.
His hand finds the boy's hand, and for the first time, their fingers intertwine.
He is home.
Their soft laughter scatters over their hiding place, young and joyful, and so full of love.
Two barely shimmering boys sit on the bench, holding hands and gazing at the black lake.
Later:
— I can't believe how long you've made me wait for you, Tom! — Harry's voice doesn't hold any accusation in it, despite his words. Only frustration.
— I'm sorry, darling? — The playful non-answer.
— Finally we can go onto the next great adventure.
— Don't tell me we're going to disappear any moment now, — Tom's voice grows slightly concerned.
— Not exactly, but you'll know. This time we were born so far and long apart, that it became a bloody circus with me sitting here, waiting for you, locked into half-existence. Next time shouldn't be that bad. Let's have fun. Now, hold tight onto my hand, and may magic help you if you slip away and board the wrong train again, Thomas!
— Very well. Onto the next adventure then.. love.