The Mystery of Tom Riddle
On a bright summer's day in in June 1949, Tom Riddle abruptly disappeared. He was of course skilled in Apparition, a common reason for wizards disappearing into thin air, however this time he'd been standing in Gringotts Bank. It was a universally known truth that Gringotts, much like Hogwarts and the Ministry, was a building from which it was impossible to Apparate in or out of.
There was a small sect of people who saw this as proof of the man's superiority. They were young, naïve purebloods who'd been fed lies and half-truths, happily led astray down dark paths to dark futures. However, when Tom Riddle failed to reappear in Gringotts or anywhere else, these people returned to their usual lives, and perhaps were better off for it.
The wizarding world certainly was.
Harry had been having a perfectly normal day. He'd gone to work that morning, savouring a cup of tea as he'd left the house. Ron had been stuck with a case of rescuing Kneazles from trees and he'd laughed himself sick at the idea of Ron trying to coax some cat, which in Harry's mind looked like Crookshanks, down from any sort of height. He'd had lunch with Dad, and they'd both bitched about bureaucracy and how much paperwork there was involved in being an Auror. In the afternoon, he'd thoroughly thrashed Malfoy in their mock duel, much to the other man's disgruntlement.
Therefore, it was quite a surprise to discover an unconscious man on Harry's living room floor when he'd flooed back home. The man was probably about Harry's age, with pale skin and dark hair. Harry wondered how he'd got there, for his wards hardly let just anyone in, and why he was out like a light after going to all the effort of getting into Harry's house.
"Accio," Harry muttered, snatching the man's wand from mid-air when it flew toward him. Perhaps he ought to have called it in with the Ministry. He hesitated for a moment, shock his head, and spoke, "Rennervate."
The man stirred, hand coming up to rub his forehead. Then his eyes snapped open, his dark gaze settling upon Harry in an instant.
"Who are you?" the man said.
"I think I ought to be asking you that," Harry said wrly. "Seeing as you're in my house."
The man looked around, taking in his surroundings, and slowly got to his feet. "Is this some form of joke?" he asked, voice low. "Have you captured me for some reason?"
Harry noticed the instant the man realised he'd lost his wand. The man stiffened, fists clenching, jaw taut, and anger burned in his eyes.
"You have something of mine."
"Answer a few questions, and I'll give it back," Harry said, sliding the other man's wand up his sleeve. "Who are you and how did you get in here?"
The man tilted his head, eyeing Harry with a mixture of intelligence and curiosity. "My name is Tom Riddle… and I have very little clue." He looked around again, his gaze settling upon the 'quirkier' aspects of Harry's house, or so they would appear to wizard; the TV, the digital clock, the motionless pictures, the electric lamps.
"You're not a Mudblood, are you?" Riddle asked, not bothering to hide the disdain he felt as he used the word.
Harry raised his brows. "That's a word I've not heard in a while. The last person to say it in my presence found themselves in a holding cell overnight. But no, I'm not, not that it makes a difference. Harry Potter, nice to meet you."
"Potter," Riddle repeated. "That's a good name. An old one."
Harry shifted, frustration building. "So, you what – you just woke up in my house, with no clue how you got here?"
"One moment I was standing in Gringotts… next, I'm on your floor." Riddle's gaze was analytical, settling upon the TV again. "What date is it?"
"Fifth of August," Harry answered.
"Hmm," Riddle said. "And the year?"
Harry tensed. There was only one reason a person would be asking that question. "2002," he said.
"Interesting," Riddle answered. "It seems that I've been temporally displaced by approximately fifty years." He surprisingly calm for such a statement, although there was a look in his eye that seemed to suggest he was just doing exceptionally well at keeping his true emotions off his face.
"Right," Harry said. "Right." He certainly wasn't equipped to deal with situations like this, however he knew a few people that were. "I think I better ring Hermione. Cleverest person I know." He narrowed his eyes at Riddle. "And if you call her a Mudblood, you'll regret it. That's not an acceptable word to use, in the future." Frankly, he doubted it had ever been acceptable.
Riddle inclined his head in silent acquiescence. Harry pulled out his mobile phone, thumb hovering over the dial button. He looked up at Riddle, who gazed back placidly, and wondered if this was a mistake, if perhaps he should just turn the time traveller over to the Ministry and wash his hands of it. Then he snorted to himself and hit dial. No matter what happened, he was always getting into some sort of trouble. He may as well embrace it.
"Hey Hermione," he said when she picked up. "You better come over. There's been… an incident."
"Why – what's happened? Are you okay?"
He met Riddle's gaze again and offered him a cautious smile. "It's a bit of a mystery, in the form of a man named Tom Riddle."
Word Count: 926
World Cup Russia – (trope) Time Travel