Chapter Text
Darkness. Serene and beautiful and enveloping.
Oceans of concentrated stillness, neither warm nor cool.
When was the last time he had experienced such calm? Such delight? It must have been years— he couldn't remember when. But it didn't matter. He didn't care much for worrying right then.
And so he went on for a long while like that, drifting in tranquillity.
There was no sensation of time there, only deafening peace. That was, until a quiet voice drifted in from the depths.
What is this? Why– why can’t I–
The voice infused his surroundings with feelings of irritation and confusion. Like an oil spill, the feelings spread, their intensity increasing to such a degree that he didn’t believe he could handle it for much longer.
It was paralysing to be submerged in pure emotion like that. What was going on? If this was a nightmare, it was unlike any he had experienced before.
As his vision remained fully black, he felt this mass of emotion sharply turn to him. It let out a sound of comprehension.
Ah…
In an instant, the pressure disappeared, replaced with a soft, pleasant voice. As it spoke, the darkness began to lose its volume.
You’d better hurry off before you miss your train, Tom.
It was as though at that moment a barricade collapsed, allowing the cold harshness of reality to weave itself through him. All recollection of the dream vanished alongside it. A rush of noise flooded in to replace the vacuum— voices, laughter, the hooting of owls, the clanging of luggage.
Tom Riddle’s eyes flew open, only to immediately narrow again. Pain spread through his head and he felt like it would implode if he stayed in the commotion. He shifted on the bench, rubbing his eyes and trying to shake himself free of the surrealness lingering to his senses. As he began to make out the forms around himself, he froze, realising he didn’t know where he was.
The last thing Tom remembered was leaving Wool’s Orphanage that morning with only his battered trunk and a handful of coins. He had boarded a city bus, sat near the back and… couldn’t recall anything following that. Had he fallen asleep then? Although that still wouldn’t account for his appearance here, wherever “here” was.
It was clearly some sort of train station judging from how his nose was overrun by the foul fumes of burning coal. Everywhere he looked were clusters of people dressed in robes resembling the ones he had seen in Diagon Alley, chatting and pushing carts of luggage. Dark smoke hung over their heads, emerging from a scarlet steam engine. Tom stood up and caught sight of a sign proclaiming: Hogwarts’ Express, eleven o’clock.
So this was the platform mentioned in his Hogwarts letter.
As he stretched— he felt unusually sore— he wondered why he had no memory of his arrival. It was concerning, to say the least. Perhaps that was the magical security of the place, keeping him from remembering the way there. But then was it like this for all the students or just those who hadn’t grown up with magic? He couldn’t see any other sleeping or bleary-eyed children…
Was it just him?
A warning whistle sounded, paired with calls by the conductor. Setting his thoughts aside, he grabbed his wand and trunk and started through the horde of witches and wizards to the nearest carriage. He had never been on a train by himself before. During his few childhood visits to the countryside, he had at all moments been surrounded by a procession of fifty or so raucous orphans. A newfound sense of fresh freedom swelled in his chest.
The train set off.
He imagined the countless orphans back at Wool’s going about their mundane lives, attending the dismal public school they had been assigned at birth, wearing the tattered Wool uniforms they had since infancy. For Tom, this destitute life had only been the prologue to a chronicle of greatness.
He found an empty compartment and took out his second-hand Charms textbook. After two months of tantalising waiting, he would finally get to use his wand again.
He hadn’t been allowed to do magic at the orphanage. Throughout the excruciating summer weeks, the image of his life at Hogwarts had been the only force strong enough to put a stopper in his magic— he had even avoided his usual wandless magic for good measure. Despite this, he had still kept the wand with him at all times— not out of necessity but rather as a reminder of what was to come. Each day, he had habitually taken it out to admire whenever he was alone. Just the sensation of the magic coursing through it was enough to put him in a good mood.
Tom had been yearning for a wand ever since his first encounter with another wizard. When the irritatingly meddlesome Dumbledore— honestly, what did he care about a few trophies Tom had collected?— had set his wardrobe alight, apart from the immediate feelings of shock and indignation, he had felt a sense of marvel light up inside him. If he had a wand, would he be able to make things burst into flames as casually as lighting a match?
He had wanted to cast nonstop spells the moment he walked out of the wand shop, but the uncanny shopkeeper had warned him of serious repercussions should he be caught using it in the muggle world. Afterwards, as he walked down Diagon Alley, he wanted to curse everyone around him for allowing such an obviously targeted law to prevent him from practising magic in the summer. All the ‘regular’, wizard-born students cheerfully passing him could use it to their hearts’ content. He would come to learn that this was just one of the many ways in which the worthless muggles around him were ruining his life.
He had been determined not to let that rule prevent him from using magic until he reached Hogwarts. As such, right before heading back to the orphanage that day, he used his wand for the first time. He simply couldn’t let the opportunity pass him by. He cast the first spell in The Standard Book of Spells, performed hastily in a narrow alley near the store. The pebble levitated in the air as Tom conducted it between pipes and behind boxes before ultimately guiding it into a rubbish bin.
The wand streamlined his magic in a way he hadn’t thought possible. He cast a few more basic spells just to savour the feeling of it, but the sun had started setting and shops around him were closing, leaving him with a strong desire to pick up where he had left off.
The moment had come at last.
Tom opened to a section near the front of the book, and quickly skipped to a page about the ‘wand-lighting charm’. He had memorised nearly all the contents of his school books that summer and all that was left was to put them into action.
“Lumos.”
Almost eagerly, his wand lit up. The light it produced was instantaneous and far brighter than any light bulb he had seen before. Tom marvelled at this triumph. Of course, it was nothing compared to his past feats of magic, but the thought of the possibilities the wand would bring him left him yearning to do more.
After this initial success, Tom engaged in a thorough spell-casting spree, quickly shooting one after the other at his Potions textbook. He changed its weight, colour, size, and whatever else he stumbled upon in the book. He was pleased to succeed in doing most on his first try.
He passed the first half of the train ride in this way, a highlight being when he merged his Potions and Herbology textbooks in a rush of eagerness. He reverted the spell and was satisfied to see they were in the same shape they had been in before his barrage of spells. Seeing the ease he had with casting charms, he moved on to Transfiguration.
He proceeded to turn the book into a slightly papery mug, then an ashtray with words tattooed across it, and finally a very uncomfortable-looking shoe. His jaw clenched, and he repeated the spells feverishly until he finally reached what he deemed acceptable. The shoe looked familiar, and it didn’t take him long to vanish it with a wave of annoyance after realising it was one of the matron’s.
He practised a couple of spells from each chapter until he reached the last, which served as an end-of-year summary and guided him to further reading on more advanced topics. One of these caught his attention: object-animal transfiguration.
Surely if it was mentioned in a first-year book, it couldn’t be all that difficult. It did note that it was beyond first-year, but then again that was all the more reason for him to try— to test his limits.
His attempt to turn the textbook into a snake was laughably terrible, giving the book a layer of coarse, crooked grey scales. He reversed it and tried again, getting no further. Exhaling with frustration, he set the book down on the bench opposite him and closed his eyes, trying his best to follow the book’s limited descriptions of the process.
He focused with all his might on his mind’s image of the creature and cast the spell with a sharp burst of magic. He opened his eyes to see a noticeably boxy snake hissing and slithering about on the floor of the compartment.
He caught it to examine it closer, and it flitted its bookmark-ribbon tongue at him. He had done it— Tom had created something akin to life. The reality of being a wizard hit him with a wave of delight.
Oh well done, Tom Riddle. There are fifth-years who wouldn't have managed that.
Tom jumped and dropped the snake. He swivelled in every direction looking for the source of the voice, but there was no one in the compartment but him. The voice had been loud enough to sound as if someone sitting right next to him had spoken.
“Who’s there? Reveal yourself!” Tom ordered, raising his wand.
After a pause, the voice continued.
What if I already have and you simply haven’t noticed?
He scanned the compartment once more, his eyes narrowing suspiciously at the snake before giving up on the idea.
It sounded as though, ominously, the voice was coming from inside his mind. Tom hadn’t read about anything of the sort being possible in his textbooks. Was this a practical joke? Some kind of magic communication? Although, who would do either such thing with him? The voice was mellow, yet confident and refined as well. There was something about it that sounded unsettlingly familiar.
“Who are you? How- What are you doing to me? How do you know my name?”
The voice hesitated, as if deciding whether or not to tell him something. When its mind— if it had a mind— was made up, its reply came as pleasantly as before.
I am a guide, Tom— your path to greatness. I am a spirit living inside an ancient magical heirloom. A gift from your ancestors that you wear upon your finger…
He hadn’t missed that only one of the three questions had been answered, although Tom’s thoughts were suddenly far too preoccupied to dwell on that. On his right hand was a strange and beautiful ring that he had never seen before. The band was thick and gold with scale-like engraving all around. Inset in the middle was a black stone branded with a rune-like triangular symbol.
Tom felt his mouth go dry and his heart rate quickened. He didn't need an appraisal to know that this was the most valuable thing he had ever touched, let alone worn. At the mention of his wizarding roots… the emotion aroused in him could be described as nothing less than elation. Hearing that it was ancient, that there was a possibility that he could inherit power, prestige, and wealth…
"My magical ancestors?" Tom whispered under his breath.
Yet it had to be too good to be true. Because if the voice was telling the truth, and it did come from his wizarding ancestors… But no, it made no sense for this supposed “heirloom” to simply appear from nowhere.
“H-how did you get on my finger?” he inquired, his mind swirling with the revelation, "and don't even have a try at lying to me— I can tell!"
The ring took its time to answer.
…As I have told you, I am your guide, Tom. I sensed your departure for Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and came to accompany you, the last remaining heir.
Tom paused. The ring introduced itself as a generational family guide of sorts. One that, as it had said, would ‘lead him to greatness’. If it had been able to ‘sense’ he was leaving for Hogwarts, it was likely highly magical. A magical guide that could lead him through Hogwarts would certainly put him ahead of the others… And had it also mentioned that he was ‘the last remaining heir’? Despite the attractiveness of the idea, Tom couldn’t get past the scepticism.
“Why should I trust anything you tell me?”
Tom Riddle, I have been tracking your magical imprint ever since you first came to be. From the flowerpot you knocked over by merely willing it to, to the pain you inflicted on those muggle children in the seaside cave. My only wish now is to further this progress. To serve you.
Tom's blood ran cold at the mentions of his past deeds. Just hearing them said aloud was surreal, as if some of the mysticism and pride surrounding the acts was ruptured by their simplicity. Whatever this ring was, it was far from a childish trick or a common cursed object. Did this mean that what it had said earlier was true?
An ancient magical family.
His own bloodline.
How was it possible that all his wildest imaginings had come true? Tom’s heart felt like it was expanding, crushing his ribs from the exhilaration. He felt a smile overtake his face as he sat down.
He had known it.
He had known that he was special since before he could remember.
Tom Riddle, who never played with the other children. Tom Riddle, who always somehow managed to exact his revenge. Tom Riddle, who was magic, who was leaving the orphanage. Tom Riddle, who has an ancient, magical bloodline.
He felt he could burst with excitement as he packed away his books and shoved his luggage into the rack above the window. He checked that the compartment blinds were fully drawn and turned his back on the door before he cast his full attention on the ring.
It really was an exquisite thing— undoubtedly made of real gold, and he wouldn't be surprised if the stone was pure obsidian. The symbol it bore strongly reminded him of Celtic knots he had seen in a library book once. Could his ancestors be Welsh? It was such a distinctive item that it was a wonder as to how he hadn't noticed it on his hand earlier.
He realised why right then— it felt natural to wear it, as though it was a part of his own flesh. Even now the heavy-looking stone cast no weight on his finger. Hidden under his unfitted handed-down Hogwarts robes, it would have been completely hidden from view.
The last remaining heir, the ring had called him. Absently, Tom felt some forgotten, childish fantasy of long-lost relatives die out. This was quickly replaced by a new revelation— he was the last link of a heritage that was likely centuries old. He would represent the power and prestige of the previous generations, and be expected to carry on the legacy. His entire body was buzzing with excitement now.
“The family. Would it be the Riddles, my father’s line? How did they all die out? Are they powerful?” Tom asked breathlessly. No answer appeared in his head.
“Hello? Are you listening to me?”
I always am.
“Well then answer me!”
When at last it did, the sound was faint, as though from far away.
I'm afraid I can’t. I myself don’t know much beyond what I have already shared. I lost nearly all my memories recently.
This vague lack of an answer took Tom off-guard. Was the ring mocking him? What could possibly cause magical, talking jewellery to lose its memory?
"And how would such a thing happen?" Tom snapped, his patience running thin.
I believe that the two of us have travelled to the future.
What?” Tom asked incredulously. He couldn’t see the connection with his question, but that wasn’t what mattered now. Time machines were a curiosity and among the favourite talking points of Wool’s children. It wasn’t impossible that the wizarding world had mastered time travel, but for it to have happened to Tom?
“When would that’ve happened? And how would it even be possible without me knowing?”
I am only certain of the fact, not the circumstances surrounding it.
“Well what year are you saying we're in then?”
I cannot be sure, but I believe we might be sometime around 1990…
Tom was instantly overtaken by a sense of dread. The year itself seemed impossibly far away, and the idea of being in it was even more far-fetched. “Why would I believe something as mad as that? Prove it!”
At that moment, he heard clattering and squeaking wheels approaching the compartment, followed by a rapping at the glass door. Outside stood a witch poised behind a trolley overflowing with colourful magical sweets.
“Anything off the trolley, dear?”
The trolley witch? This should do. Purchase a chocolate frog and… I believe she also sells The Daily Prophet. This will be all the proof you need.
Though Tom didn’t know what either of those items were, he obliged— he himself wasn't completely sure why. He had been hoping to save up the few silver and bronze coins he hadn't spent for his school supplies, but perhaps the absurdity of the situation he was in overshadowed that wish. He was handed a newspaper and a frog-shaped chocolate, shutting the door as the witch lumbered away.
He looked at the papers and froze when he saw the date.
Sept. 01, 1991.
Tom felt rooted to his seat. Faintly, he heard a sharp inhale in his mind as though it confirmed the ring's fear.
That date was more than fifty years in the future. Was it still possible this was just a trick? He looked out the window, searching for any hint of the unordinary. Of a time beyond his.
The train was currently passing through the vast English countryside, with nothing but the occasional cluster of trees or odd farmhouse breaking the monotony. In the distance, he spotted a small country road weaving itself through the valley greenery. On it were multiple automobiles that looked simply… otherworldly. Sleek and glimmering and like nothing he had seen before.
Questions flooded out all other thoughts. He turned back to the papers as panic seized him. When had he left his time? Was it during his unusual awakening at the train station? It had to be. But how did it happen? Was someone purposefully trying to send him into the distant future?
…Could it be the memoryless ring that had supposedly travelled with him? If it was, what exactly did it gain from the situation?
The steady stream of reality slipping from him was somewhat stemmed by the familiar voice.
Let's not allow ourselves to panic just yet.
Nothing that had happened after the ring first spoke made sense. His time travel happening right as the ring appeared on his hand only made it more suspicious. However, the ring had also seemed surprised at the date in the newspaper, as if it didn’t want to believe what it had said was true.
Open the chocolate frog. The collectable cards should be dated as well. I wonder…
The ring didn’t say what it wondered as Tom numbly opened the box. As soon as he took the lid off, a glossy brown frog leapt out of the box, joining the forgotten snake on the carpeted floor. There was a card at the bottom of the box— likely the reason for his purchase. He took it out and was met with a moving picture of the wizard he had spoken to at Wool’s only two months prior.
At first, he didn’t recognise Dumbledore, as though it was without a doubt him, he looked drastically different. He had the same piercing blue eyes and crooked nose, but his face was more lined, his hair and beard now waist-length and white.
In the corner of the card appeared a small textbox saying, Card acquired 01/09/1991.
Do you believe me now?
“How- Who did this?” Tom choked out, his breathing shallow and his voice rising, “have you done this to me?”
I’m certainly not the one to blame— the memories I lost were a result of me following you to 1991. Unfortunately, I don’t know the reasons behind why this happened.
Tom clenched his hand around his wand. Just like during his encounter with Dumbledore, he couldn’t tell whether he was being lied to. The voice he used to force the truth out of orphans didn’t work on the ring. If what it said was true, the ring would have no reason to transport them both into the future.
Although what reason did he have to trust what it said? What evidence did the ring have of actually being his family’s? It could be a malicious cursed object. As misgivings filled Tom’s insides, he decided to give it the benefit of the doubt for now. If he ever sensed anything was off, he would dispose of it. It was, after all, the closest lead he had on his family so far.
For most of the train ride, the ring didn’t engage in any conversation. Tom couldn’t focus on reading textbooks or practising magic and spent the time contemplating on his situation, his eyes absently roving over the newspapers and occasionally moving to the ring.
He will surely need to wear a disguise at Hogwarts— what if someone from the future (namely Dumbledore) recognised him? Yet this meant he wouldn’t be able to attend lessons unless he impersonated someone. Was there a body-swap charm he could use?
At that moment, his thoughts were interrupted. The door of his compartment thudded open and a boy his age came in. His round face was tear-stained, his bottom lip trembling, and everything about his demeanour pitiful.
“H-hi, I’m Neville. Have you seen a toad anywhere? I’ve lost my toad, Trevor,” he sniffed tearfully. His bleary eyes landed on the two animals, one chocolate and one not, neither of them a toad. He sighed heavily and leaned on the compartment door, giving no indication of planning to leave any time soon.
His nerves already strung tightly, Tom snapped.
“...Your what? That’s– Of course I haven't.” The boy sniffled even harder. “Will you leave my compartment now?” Tom realised he wasn’t being overly courteous, but with all that was happening, he didn't care much.
That summer, he had decided to put on an act of sorts once he started wizarding school. He would uncover what it was people wished to see from him and play the part expertly. The brilliant student. The perfectly couth classmate. The assertive leader. He figured this was the best way to gain the trust of others. The idea had come to him after observing some of the older, more pretentious orphans as they sucked up to teachers and potential employers alike. However, whereas they had been little more than brown-nosers, Tom would build up a shining image once at Hogwarts. Although, should he bother following this through in such a foreign timeline?
The boy stood there unsteadily for a moment before abruptly plopping down on the seat opposite Tom, his head in his hands. He clearly had little care for Tom’s dismissal, likely having been too preoccupied with whimpering to fully listen.
“Oh, I’m never going to f-find him! Gran’s going to kill me! Hermione said we’re going to find him since he's got to be s-somewhere on the train but now I’m not so sure he is!” The boy sobbed as he rocked where he sat. Belatedly, he added, “Mind if I sit here?”
Tom was about to order the boy to get up and leave— or maybe he could force him to leave using one of the spells he had learned— when the ring put a stop to it.
This boy has seen how you look. He must be the one whose body you will inhabit. That, or you must wipe his memories.
For a second, Tom faltered, wondering whether the ring had read his mind earlier or simply come to the same ‘body swap’ conclusion as him. He sincerely hoped it was the latter.
Ask him for his name.
“Go ahead”, Tom said begrudgingly to the whimpering boy. He made sure to shape his voice to be soft and understanding, “what’s your name?”
“N-Neville. Neville Longbottom.”
What an unfortunate name. Tom held back a grin at the thought of how the boys would have bullied him at Wool’s.
The Longbottoms… Pureblood— or at least they had been back in our time. Either way, perfect for our needs. Would it be alright if I…
Without the ring finishing its sentence, Tom felt a tingling in his left arm, before not feeling anything at all. He wasn't controlling his arm's movements anymore. Instead, by its own volition, his arm swished his wand through the air, sending a wave of red light at the curled-up boy. He froze instantly. Tom's arm performed a complicated sequence of movements, and the boy shrank exponentially, leaving a thin metal band and a wand where Longbottom once sat. With the magic completed, Tom took to processing what had just happened. A mix of shock and horror passed through him.
"Hey! Did you just– Did you dare take control of my arm? Keep in mind that I can and will toss you out the window at any moment without hesitating!" This wasn’t fully true, although he wasn’t even sure if throwing it away would do anything— it did magically appear on his finger in the first place.
He rubbed his arm, which still felt strangely cool to the touch. Could the ring really seize control of him whenever it wanted? The thought left him feeling uneasy.
Oh, my deepest apologies, Tom Riddle.
The ring spoke in a tone far too sarcastic for Tom's liking. Gritting his teeth, he moved across the compartment to look more closely at the items on the seat. Despite the brutishness through which it had been done, the magic performed could be described as nothing less than awe-inspiring. The boy had been stunned, shrunken, and transfigured into a ring all in a few wand movements.
"Is he dead?" Tom asked, observing the ring with wonder before putting it on next to the much larger gold one. It was quite plain in comparison, only having a small red ruby-like stone in the centre of a simple band.
No. Simply… in another state. I performed human transfiguration on him.
“But how does turning him into a ring help me hide my identity?”
He isn’t the ring. I transfigured his tie for the metal band. He is the ladybird in the small glass container.
Taking a closer look, Tom noticed what he thought was a ruby actually had spots on its back. The insect’s legs were unnaturally splayed out, the space it was in hardly enough for it to stretch them out.
The ring continued.
Keeping him alive would be most convenient— long-term human-object transformation tends to leave lasting consequences. Human-animal on the other hand… Well, less so in any case. This means you will need to feed him regularly— just tap on the glass with your wand to open it.
Tom observed the container, captivated by how the ring could produce such detail with only a few wand strokes. Then the ladybird caught his eye once more.
“You still haven’t answered my question: why did you transform him in the first place? If it’s to hide him, will you transfigure me to look like him now then?”
No. The process might take some time and the chance of us being seen doing it while on the train is high. I will perform it once we arrive.
The time seemed to drag on as he waited for the train to slow down. He loathed feeling so lost, so powerless. Question upon question layered itself in his mind. How would he get through Hogwarts without getting discovered? And, if he never found a way to return to his time, would it really even make any difference that he attended Hogwarts at a different time? Was this simply a bigger change than he had been expecting?
…Could his time travel actually turn out to be a positive change? Being Longbottoom would offer him a complete start-over, including with Dumbledore. It was only in the weeks after their meeting that Tom realised that in his wariness and eagerness, the impression he had left on the wizard was one of suspicion and the need to monitor him. That paired with the ring's magic... perhaps the time travel wasn't all that bad.
By the time the train started coming to a stop, the sky outside was steadily darkening.
Memories or not, Tom was well aware that in such a foreign environment as the future, he was significantly better off with the ring and its complex magic. If he were to impersonate a new identity, did that mean he would never have to return to the orphanage? The corner of Tom’s mouth curled up at the thought.
The train came to a halt, and the hall erupted with chatter as students left their compartments. Out of his window, Tom could see the inky sky, endless and overpowering, broken only by the faint lights of a village and the hazy white mountaintops. In the distance, he could see the shadowy outlines of a few spectacular turrets. A sharp excitement filled him.
We have arrived.