Chapter Text
1st September, 1943
To think the cease of existence had once been Tom Riddle’s greatest fear. It had started with his mother, too weak of a witch with too weak of a will who didn’t have it in her to cast a simple healing spell over herself. She died giving birth to him- basically a squib of one of the oldest magical families, reduced to using a love potion probably bought from a joke shop to ensnare a man who would leave her and his child the second the spell broke. Dead in a run down orphanage in smog filled England on the eve of a new year. Her death wasn’t even the first of the day at Wool’s-illness was rampant among the children-nor was she even the first person to die in childbirth at the orphanage.
As such, her death was forgotten shortly after, blending into the melancholy routine that suffocated the building. As a babe, clustered in the small room that barely contained enough cribs to be called a nursery, Tom survived as those around him didn’t. He was a runt that many of the matrons bet to be one of the ones to pass on before they could crawl, so when he not only survived, but thrived under his newfound abilities, it was easy to mark him as a child taken by the devil.
When a blanket disappeared off a child’s sleeping form, the source was always found to be Tom- yet the matrons never said anything. Tom’s only response was steely eyes and firm lips as they snatched the blanket off of him to return it to the rightful owner. Food would vanish off a child’s spoon and all eyes would easily track to Tom as he quickly swallowed. As the boy grew older, Tom came to appreciate the fear that would ignite behind the other children's eyes as he stole whatever enticed him. The word ‘magic’ was still far out, but everyone knew that whatever abilities Tom possessed placed him above them as something akin to predator. No one dared stand in his way as he only grew stronger.
This is, atleast, what he told himself at night as he curled under his threadbare blanket and forced his head between two pillows, acquired from one of more annoying children at the orphanage. They barely held against the snoring of the room’s other occupant. The fear of his powers is what placed him above everyone else.
When the matrons came to steal his blanket back, their steely eyes resolutely never took in the other boy that was huddled under stolen blankets. When Billy Stubbs reeled from his sandwich seeming to evaporate from in between his hands, Billy quickly shoved his chin against his chest and did not comment on the boy that sat at Tom’s side who let out a delighted noise as a meal appeared to conjure from nowhere in front of him. When Erik Whalley sneered at Tom as the taller boy demanded a deck of cards Erik had somehow procured, the sneer had quickly turned into fear as the pebbles on the yard around them quaked under Tom’s anger. But there was something else in Erik’s eyes as he darted them to the smaller boy that followed Tom like a shadow. Tom had only held onto the feeling of triumph when the deck was shoved into his hands, and that thought was shoved away. The same was done with the pieces of conversations Riddle heard from the matrons and children that all centered around one topic; Tom’s weakness for the shadow.
The young boy sees it for the irony it is, that it was only because of that shadow that Tom had gained the ability of retrospection and was able to see what he had missed for so many years. It should not have been his own death to fear. Yet Tom has been called many things, with ‘problem-solver’ needing to be higher on that list than it currently was. He did not dwell in his failings, only sought how to make them right again.
Whispers had surrounded him with his return to Hogwarts for the fourth year, all centered around one subject; why had Riddle missed the end of his third year and what did it have to do with Evans' death. Oh, he had known that this is what his return would bring-had placed a number of charms on the Express’ cabin and had allowed whatever to happen, happen; the scenarios played through his head. In a school full of self-important Purebloods, half-bloods wanting nothing more to rid themselves of their muggle roots, with the muggleborns not far behind them, Tom knew simple world events would not mingle into the school’s body. Sitting safely in the walls of Hogwarts made even those whose families were affected by the muggle war, able to erase the horrors from their minds. A simple look at a newspaper or listening to muggle radio would clue them in-Harrison Evans, only fifteen years old, had passed during the bombings of London. That was too simple, and conjecture, wild speculation , was far more enticing.
One theory Tom knew he would hear would be that Tom had killed Harrison with some dark spell gone awry. Simple and would allow for more insane theories to weave in. Some might add on dramatics that he and Harrison had been in a tense fight as the smaller boy begged his friend to give up the dark arts that had only escalated. From there, others would add that the spell itself may have been a ritual that Tom sacrificed the other boy to in order to gain unbelievable magic abilities. The thoughts had long spiraled and Tom fell into the pit of numbness that often came with these bouts of panic. His breathing always became erratic, dry throat clamping on itself even as streams of tears escaped the corners of his eyes. His nails dug into the tops of his thighs as he worked his way back to a control that felt harder to obtain these days, a control he had fought years to cultivate and harness as its own power- all ruined by Harrison.
The numbness that carried past this bout of panic allowed him to withstand the whispers that filled the Great Hall well into the festivities after the Sorting Hat ceremony. Though Tom had not cast his eyes away from the food in front of him, he felt Dumbledore’s intense gaze against his back. The professor may have been a part of the whispers himself, no doubt pushing the dangers Tom could have placed his fellow Slytherin in. No, Dumbledore, that was all you.
After the first week of classes the whispers died, but never ceased and Tom began his plans. The Slytherins had given him a cautious berth that reeked of anticipation for whatever schemes he may be brewing, but terror at what they may bring. Plans that involved them all, but none would see the fruition of, which they could not know. Unfortunately, the rumors that Tom had finally begun his ascent as a dark lord had probably led many to believe one of them may be used to complete it. It irked Tom that they thought they understood his plans that he hadn’t even spoken of, but all of this would be used to obtain what was needed. He spread word through the few Slytherins he could completely trust on discretion, that he wished to obtain materials from their family libraries that may contain anything on soul magic, blood magic tied to that, and, strangely, books that delved on Hogwarts and the history of their poltergeists. Weak vows of secrecy were made and by winter break of his fourth year Tom had a trunk bursting with shrunken tomes.
From there, Tom began shoring up his plans. He had a vague understanding of what he wanted to accomplish; discover how to summon Harrison’s ghost, tie him to Tom through a soul bond that Riddle was certain the pair shared, and work with Harry on making him corporal. One step at a time, certainly. Tom knew he would be able to research the topics and perform the magic, but he had to understand the magic he was working with. One wrong wand movement, mistake of potion ingredients, anything could ruin Tom’s chances of accomplishing this goal. Throughout the rest of the fourth year, the boy had to juggle keeping the Slytherins he allied with on a short enough leash they did not leave him for another ambitious Slytherin, but loose enough to where he could steal himself away to the Chambers he had discovered in their second year, while also evading Dumbledore’s watchful gaze. The Professor had quickly begun to follow his movements when he returned to Hogwarts and the man seemed set on discovering what Tom was working on.
Tentatively, through any nights he could manage to slip away, research was conducted and ingredients were sought after. By dripping bits of false information to his Slytherins, he had been able to keep them invested in his efforts by making them believe he was summoning Salazar Slytherin’s familiar to rid the school of ‘filthy blood’ ( And did you seem to forget that I am of that blood? ). Classes could not be forgotten lest his other professors suspect him of far less sinister means-he could not afford another stint at St. Mungo. So it was not until his return to Hogwarts as a fifth year, that he was finally able to put everything into place. As soon as the festivities had ended on their first day back, Tom snuck himself away for the last time to the Chamber of Secrets. None of the students could have outpaced him, but a cursory look was given around the girl’s bathroom before he hissed ‘open’ to the snake on the sink’s faucet. Once he slid down and ensured the opening closed so that he could not be followed, Tom made the journey to the inner chamber quickly. The chamber was empty, save for a table the boy had conjured where a trunk sat tucked underneath. Tom had placed the best stasis charm on the trunk and knew everything would be ready for when he began the ritual. His diary was pulled out of his cloak pocket and placed open to the page where the notes of the ritual had been copied to. Like everything Tom did, the notes were concise, the rotations of the cauldron and potion times circled in all the right places to ensure complete efficiency. Nothing to ruin this.
The summer leading into 1943 had been nothing, but productive and, now, the Chamber of Secrets gave him the silence he needed for intricate work, with only the drippings of water off the stalagmites providing a soothing song.
His wand was placed on the table before he hauls the trunk out to begin pulling out the necessary items. A chill not belonging to the cold of the chamber ran down his spine-somehow, he had been followed and Tom was sure of who that someone was. Thankfully, Tom had been impatient on the train ride to Hogwarts and had used that time to get his Slytherin's to create long enough of a distraction that he was able to sneak away to a restroom and work on the beginnings of the potion. A stasis charm to keep it at the exact state, a steady equilibrium charm for the potion to not shift in its cauldron, and a shrinking charm were all cast on the cauldron before Tom had left with enough time to take his place back in the cart, in his school robes. That should buy the boy some time, no doubt as Dumbledore tried to see what he was doing in his entirety before he intervened. A smirk pulled at his lips as he placed the salt and herb infusion for the ritual circle in the center of the room.
Nothing would be able to stop him when he is close to obtaining what he wants.
The potion is quickly set up to return to boiling and he adds the last of the ingredients of before copying the required movements out of his diary. It only needs time now.
When he returns to the trunk, he cannot help but take a moment to turn over the silver bracelet in his hands. Tom had gifted it to Harrison on their second Christmas at Hogwarts and the poor boy had thought it was simply a friendship bracelet. The memory was as sharp as if it had occurred yesterday; the younger boy had stared lovingly at the snakes that coiled together to encircle his wrist before launching himself at Tom. Tom had allowed him that hug for a while, before pushing the boy back to explain to him it was not a simple bracelet, but a tracking bracelet. Tom had one himself, and when tied to a person’s magic, would tell the wearer where that person was by subtly tugging them in that direction. The pair had ripped their bracelets off as they pulled their wands out and Tom guided Harry in the correct movements. When they were back on their respective wrists, Harry had just looked at Tom and asked, “Why would I need this, I’m always right beside you.”
Well, Harrison had lied to Tom and here they were. The healers at St. Mungo had given the bracelet to Tom on his third week of recovery and he had not taken it off since, even though the cold touch of metal did not bring forth the comforting warmth of Harry’s magic. Still, if anything contained Harrison’s magic, as the ritual required, this item would have been it (the smaller Slytherin may have lost his wand more than the bracelet was off his wrist).
The silver chain was held in one hand, with his diary and wand in the other as he made his way back to the circle. The bracelet was placed in the middle with the diary out of the circle slightly, but within reach if needed. Before he entered the circle again, Tom had a series of cleansing chants he must read aloud (to rid him of any other’s magic that may linger on him, he decides) before he can return to the cauldron to continue with further incantations. One chant spoken while summoning the thought of who you wanted to pull toward you, another chant for that beings soul to also call out to yours, and, finally, a chant to cement that being into your world. Tom has always been great at remembering long bouts of prose. Once done, a portion of the mixture from the cauldron was poured into a cup which he carried with him back to the center of the room. The circle of salt and herbs began to glow once Tom and the goblet were in their place in the middle. When the bracelet was placed on his own wrist, the salt and herbs began sparking.
At the sight of the magic flaring, Dumbledore ended his disillusionment spell and only had to take a step to be able to reach the circle. Tom hid his shock at his proximity behind a sneer as he raised his wand.
“Tom, you need to stop whatever dark magic you are dealing with.” Dumbledore made a motion with his wand as if he tried to whisk away the circle, yet Tom has already placed a protego to encompass the space around him.
Rage built in Tom as he took in Dumbledore’s too calm manner; his robes were impeccable when Tom and Harrison had to squalor away at Wool’s, his blue eyes showed that same malice that they held when Tom had begged for the pair to remain at Hogwarts during the spring break, his pale, knotted hands that show no signs of dirt, unlike Tom and Harrison as they fought for scraps of food-.
None of that would matter soon.
The ritual's magic began to meld with Tom’s and he was able to use that to push Dumbledore back a few meters. Tom’s voice began to echo through the chamber as the swell of magic began to rise. The potion was downed and Tom’s voice faded as he moved to the spell portion of the ceremony. His movements were precise as he meticulously copied the movements from his diary and with a final swoosh of his wand, the sparks from the salt and herbs ignited to create a wall of black fire around him.
This is when Tom Riddle began to worry the ritual was not going according to plan. The black flames, described to be blue in the tome Tom copied information from, began to lick towards his figure and he bit his tongue when the fire begins to crawl up his legs– I may be about to die, but Dumbeldore will NOT get this satisfaction . However, there was no pain. Instead, where the flames touched, dark mist began to replace sections of Tom’s body and it wasn’t long before his vision was obscured to nothing- and his body began to float away. For a moment, he floats in a dark, endless space. The rush of magic has ended, leaving him completely senseless. This must be death.
The diary, charmed to erase its pages once out of Tom’s possession, does just that as the ink of his notes drip down the pages and trickle towards the circle. Somehow, it slowly begins to absorb the mist of his body. His body is frozen in the Chamber of Secrets, while his mind floats in the void-and it is only as the last bits of his body begin to be pulled into the diary that Tom realizes his foolishness. His obsession with another drove him to a ritual that would summon his soul back to this world, but it had merely encased Tom into his own diary. Absolutely ridiculous. Perhaps he can find Harrison, if Tom makes it to an afterlife, and they can laugh over the absurdity of it. For now, he feels himself completely placed in the diary before darkness takes over.
21st August, 1938
The moment Albus Dumbledore had stepped into Wool’s Orphanage, in what now felt like another lifetime, the Professor had been quickly pulled into the head matron’s office. Mrs. Cole was many things, short tempered, hard, and no nonsense, all evident in one glance into her mind, which is why Dumbledore headed her words when she spoke to him.
“He scares the other children.”
Albus understood that to mean bullying, but the matron pushed further that. A young boy, with a propensity for cruelty, never able to be caught, but still able to hold the fellow children down under a veil of retribution.
“That other boy…there’s something off about him too.”
And this is what gives Albus pause. He was only aware of one possible wizard here, Tom Riddle, and the possibility of another magical child here? Susceptible to Tom’s control?
“You’re not going to be able to speak to one of them without the other there. Harrison, the smaller boy, arrived here seven months after Riddle’s mother died here giving birth to him. Much the same state, most likely, but he was left on our doorstep with only a blanket with his name embroidered in it. The pair are like gasoline to a fire. Please, just take them both to your school.”
When Ablus peers into the room that houses the two young boys, he does not know what he is expecting- cold, brown eyes that show many years of hardship on a small boy’s pale face is not one of them. Behind the brown eyed boy, who stands tall like a snake ready to strike and used most of his body to cover a smaller body behind him, stands a thinner and shorter boy. This boy, with his tousled dark chocolate hair and striking green eyes, creates a soft antithesis to Tom’s fiery demeanor.
While the two boys stood off to the side, Dumbledore rested himself on one of the beds in the room and gestured for the boys to do the same on the other one. The older man introduces himself, and quickly understands why Mrs. Coles’ letters only concerned Riddle. As Albus speaks, Tom’s harsh stare seeks out Dumbledore’s eyes as if he is working to read his thoughts; legilimency does not seem to be far out of this boy's reach and he barks out a command for Albus’ to tell them who he really is.
“You’re a doctor. They bring them in because they think there’s somethin’ different with us.”
After years of pondering the events leading up to Albus’ present, the professor still thinks it was the right move to change his focus to Harrison Evans.
“Are there things you can do, Harrison, that the other children here are not able to do? Sometimes when you’re feeling very emotional?”
Anger twists Tom’s face as he presses himself further in front of Evans’ to continue his interrogation, but, behind him, a small voice speaks out.
“I don’t get as mad as Tom, but I’ve been able to make myself reappear somewhere else when I’m being chased…”
When the Professor reaches out with his own magic, he can sense Tom’s on numerous pilfered items throughout the room, on both sides. Harrison does not get as angry as Tom, nor seem to hold his want for theft.
Harrison’s confession drove Tom forward with his own, stained with dark magic and the thrill to hurt others, many seeming to be fueled by harm being done to Evans.
“I’ve got to use my abilities to protect the both of us. No one should be able to hurt us.” Tom already knew the capabilities of his tone of voice and young, handsome features, as he schooled everything into the image of an innocent child protecting his friend. A far abstract from the angry boy from just a few seconds before.
From there, these capabilities only grew through Tom and Harrison’s years at Hogwarts. The pair were sorted into Slytherin, where Dumbledore in his capacity as only their Charms instructor, can only observe from afar. When Riddle divulged the information to Albus in their first meeting of his parseltongue ability, Dumbledore only feared his assumptions in Tom’s path towards darkness would come to fruition. Slughorn was agreeable to keeping a closer eye on his students when Dumbledore asks his aid on keeping track of a student’s magical abilities, especially one as promising as Riddle.
These views on Tom begin to spread and taint his views of Evans, Dumbledore can see when he reflects. The smaller boy does not contain Riddle’s thirst for power, nor seems to have the magic to do so, but he still remains steadfast by the taller boy’s side throughout their years. While Tom’s visage was that of a boy who saw himself as better than all of his other students, with the personality to match, Evans was too much the opposite in calmness. When threats of harsh hexes slipped between Riddle’s lips in the hallways of Hogwarts if a student hurled an insult towards either of them, Evans would be by his side with a laugh and some phrasing of words that manage to turn Riddle’s fury into a haughty air of indifference as he smugly lead them to their next class. All of Hogwarts could agree Evans was the only one that could control the taller Slytherin. Still, the Charm’s professor worries the younger boy can or will only do so much.
And this is where Albus’ recognized, his level headedness had pushed itself away, when Tom Riddle made his way into Headmaster Dippet’s office that fateful March day. Barely there surprise had furrowed his eyebrows when he spotted Dumbeldore resting in a chair by the headmaster’s desk, however, he pushed onward with his request, which had been agreed to every year since his arrival; could he and Harrison remain at Hogwarts over spring holidays. It was simply a formality, as many students remained at the school during the break which preceded finals. Unlike other years, Dippet remained silent as he mulled over the information Dumbledore had given him of the boy’s activities for the year. Albus’ was sure he had discovered the Chamber of Secrets and was working to unleash the fabled basilisk from its hideaway, with the spring holidays a perfect time to further whatever he was working on. Thus it had been decided none of the Slytherin’s would be able to remain behind that year. When Dippet spoke on this, Albus with foresight, knew he should have better analyzed the student’s face.
He knows now if he had, there would have been the traditional fury that marred Riddle’s face, but underneath, attempting to be hidden away, would have been the unmistakable terror in his eyes, the despair as the boy uncharacteristically stammered over his words in a plea to allow them to stay. Albus hopes he would have changed his mind if he had seen this. In the moment, he did not and the student was dismissed back to the dorms.
Headmaster Dippet pulls faculty to the side on the first day of the return from spring holidays, and reveals the passing of one of the Slytherin students and the hospitalization of another due to events in the Muggle world. When Riddle returns, Albus tells himself that following the boy is more than necessary now. With Evans gone, what can an unhindered Tom Riddle accomplish?
A year later, when the Professor stands in the Chamber of Secrets, after watching the same boy conduct some unknown dark ritual, with nothing left now but for Tom Riddle’s diary that rests on the flooded stones of the chamber, Albus Dumbledore can not really say what Tom Riddle managed to accomplish.
After the incident in the Chamber of Secrets, it remains closed and the diary is placed in the top drawer of the Professor’s desk. The only mark of magic on the diary is that of a concealment charm, one Dumbledore is sure is made to hide the contents of the diary away from anyone not to be the owner.- nothing to give away that any soul resided in it. The disappearance of Tom Riddle is at the forefront of his mind for many years (he had caused this), yet as the years move on with no progress, the diary is moved to the drawer below. It is mostly forgotten until the 31st of August, 1991 at approximately eight at night. Albus cheerfully drank from his cup of lavender tea as he worked on winding himself down for sleep. The letters he signed with his name flip around from one stack to the other through his magic and it is almost due to his tiredness that he nearly missed the name on the letter that he was signing.
“Harry Potter. The cupboard under the Stairs, 4 , Privet Drive, Little Whinging, SURREY. Why are you in my pile, once more?”
Before Albus can ponder this, a furious banging noise begins to emit from his now shaking desk drawer and furious screaming accompanies it.
“Let me out this instant, or you will quickly regret it!”
Even though it’s been fifty years, the Professor would always remember the one student in the history of Hogwarts who often threatened him. And how strange that it occurred as he held a letter posted for Harry Potter? Said letter is quickly stashed away before Albus flicked his wand to open the drawer.
Instantly, a pale figure hurtled out of the drawer before drawing himself upwards in a defensive stance. Usually poised inky hair pointed in every direction while thin lips pulled into a snarl, his wand gripped in his hands. Tom Riddle’s voice thinned and was barely audible;
“What did you do now, Dumbledore?”