Disclaimer: This story includes characters and situations that are part of the Harry Potter universe, which is copyright J.K.Rowling, Scholastic, Warner Brothers, Bloomsbury, etc. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made in the production of this FANFICTION. Also, when choosing a wand, resources necessary. "Sacred Woods and the Lore of Trees" by Jennifer Smith, found here: was very helpful in the writing of this chapter.
Author's note: This is an idea I've had for a long time. I tried writing it once, but for lack of planning and foresight (and a few really, really, weak plot devices) it didn't come out nearly the way I intended it to. However, this one has been painstakingly planned and thought out, so I will carry it out to the very end. (Which will be a long very end, I warn you.) Thanks for this first chapter go out to Kavitha, my former beta reader, who helped with wands, Kate, my co-conspirator on inhumanly long original pieces who helped with realism, and the S.S. Gin'n'Tonic over at Fictionalley park, because they are awesome people.
Expectations of Grandeur: Chapter 1: Tom Marvolo Riddle
Back in the days when Hogwarts was young, Slytherin and the other founders had a falling-out of sorts, and then the not-so- young Salazar Slytherin left the school. But he could not leave without leaving something of himself in the young school – something for his heir to come back to, to differentiate this purest of pure-blooded students. And so, the Chamber of Secrets was born.
For years it was believed to be a legend, a myth – no one could find it, no one had opened it, and as the years turned into decades and the decades turned into centuries, the knowledge of what was inside dimmed. And it was a millennium before the Chamber was opened again. The monster inside (for it was now unknown; the knowledge of the monster, as well as the chamber, had slipped away with the passing years) lived patiently, calmly, as if waiting for something. And then something came.
Albus Dumbledore slid down into the depths of the tunnel. It had once been wet and algae-covered, but now the cool marble was clean and dry to the touch. He soon reached the bottom of the drop, and, wand ablaze, began his now daily journey into the Chamber of Secrets.
The girl's toilet would, of course, be put off limits. The ghost would have to be evicted. Dumbledore wasn't fond of evicting ghosts, but the pitiable girl said she could find another place through the network of drainpipes, which, he supposed, was better than nothing. She said she frequented the prefects' bathroom. He would have to have a word with the Head Boy about that.
The Chamber was now awash with light, and really less formidable than it must have appeared to young Harry, when he came in his second year, and certainly less frightful than it had to have been for little Ginny Weasley. The poor girl – Dumbledore resolved to have her come down there to face her fears. After all, it is very valuable to face one's fears – especially in so easy a way as seeing the warmer, drier, Basilisk free Chamber. He had disenchanted the room, lit it up, and picked apart the ancient network of spells hiding its existence. It was being prepared as a new base of operations for the Order of the Phoenix.
They could use a meeting place, especially one in Hogwarts. It would make it much easier for Dumbledore to contact them in the case of an emergency – they were, after all, just down the hallway. Quite literally.
The chamber offered in itself the perfect hiding place; one that would be completely secret from the outside, and yet easily accessible, now that the enchantment on the entrance had been changed to accept a password in English, rather than Parseltongue.
That had been the hardest part, Dumbledore reasoned. After he had unlocked the Chamber and changed the password, it had all been simple.
None of which explained the boy lying to the side of Slytherin's statue.
Yes, there was a boy lying at the side of the monkey-ish Slytherin's feet; a boy who Dumbledore certainly did not expect to be laying there. In fact, Tom Riddle should, under no circumstances, be found anywhere near Hogwarts – he had already graduated and gone on to become the most feared Wizard in history, or at least recent times.
Severus Snape appeared behind the headmaster. "Albus," he said sternly, "When are you going to wake him up?" he motioned to the sleeping Riddle. "It won't do for him to be here through Order meetings, he's too young."
Albus considered laughing at the very idea that an older Tom Riddle would be more suitable for attending Order of the Phoenix meetings, but simply said "In due time, Severus," and continued on his business.
Really, Tom Riddle always bothered Dumbledore. Tom had been a brilliant student – one of the best Hogwarts had known, certainly. He had been a true Slytherin, looking out for himself and little else, absolutely. But as little as Albus Dumbledore had trusted Tom Riddle as a student; he hadn't imagined him to end up Lord Voldemort. Something was missing.
Tom Riddle might disdain Muggle-born students, he might have an inferiority complex to match his swollen ego, but he certainly wasn't afraid of death. Which is precisely the change Dumbledore saw in him after his fifth year.
Which was also the reason Dumbledore wasn't altogether surprised to see Tom Riddle's body lying in the chamber of secrets – exactly as he had looked in his fifth year, but without the prefect badge.
It was some time before Dumbledore broke the spell and woke Tom Riddle. But it was soon enough for the old man who had hoped never to see the proud young Slytherin again. Tom let out a yelp at seeing Dumbledore. "You!" he shouted. "What are you doing here?"
"I should ask you the same question. What are you doing here?"
"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm waiting it out so as to be ready to finish my Hogwarts training. Waiting until after that maniac diary has been killed by someone more foolhardy and overconfident than I am." Dumbledore blinked. Obviously, this made perfect sense to the young Slytherin.
Recognition dawned on Tom. "Oh," he said, "You must think I'm Lord Voldemort. That's it, isn't it? Well, I'm not. I'm just Tom Riddle."
Dumbledore once again blinked. This was an unexpected turn of events – and he wasn't sure he believed Tom. But he motioned for Tom to take a seat at the wooden table he had transported down for the Order. "Perhaps you should explain the death in your fifth year, then?"
Tom nodded slowly. "That… that all began… I think it was early in my third year. The Head Girl – I forget her last name, it's not really relevant anyway – gave me this Diary. It was supposed to pass down from the most brilliant Slytherin to the most brilliant Slytherin. Of course, none of them had written in it – I could tell from looking, all the pages were blank – but it was, supposedly, this great honour that only people destined for great things got. You know, Head Boy, Minister of Magic, that sort of thing.
"In any case, I was the youngest student to have gotten it, and many of my housemates envied me horribly for it, but they couldn't deny that I was more clever than they were, so I got to keep the bloody thing. I even wrote my name on the inside cover – that is to say, once I had erased the names of all the other, previous owners.
"Not much happened after that, for a few years. Well, not much happened for two years – until the diary started talking to me. I rue the day that I answered back to that diary, but I was alone in that blasted orphanage and I had nothing else to do – after all, the children there avoided me like the plague. It was nice to have someone to confide in me, to treat me like a friend for once," he said, and then quickly added, "Not that I enjoyed it overmuch – I never was one for sheepish sentiment."
"Of course not, Tom," answered Dumbledore. "The child writing – Ginny Weasley?"
"Yes," Tom responded, and then continued. "Ginny Weasley's innocence and naiveté were like a breath of fresh air to the usual Slytherin cunning and, thereby, jaded-ness. I was shocked. It was addicting, if I think about it correctly. One of the children at the orphanage once got his hands on the matron's alcohol. It was like that – vodka, strong liquor. Once he had taken a sip, there was no amount of beating that could stop him from taking another – and another, and another. I was like that with the diary. Things started to go wrong, during the year, and I was always involved, but I refused to believe it had anything to do with innocent Ginny Weasley.
"By the time I figured it out, it was too late. It was probably too late for both of us, now that I think about it. I accept the blame for anything that happened to her – I hope she took my advice and left a message to say something had happened, so that someone could help her. It was hard to make much of a protest, when it came down to it." Seeing Dumbledore's confused expression, he explained. "The diary, professor. One moment I would be writing to Ginny in the diary, and she would just sort of… die out. Or I would fall asleep when writing, or something. Hours and hours of my fifth year, I have no memory of. I couldn't really fight that – whatever it was, but it had something to do with the diary – but I could usually, just before everything went dark, write a message or something.
"Not that it would have helped me, seeing as no one really cared what happened to the Slytherin prefect." He sighed. "In any case, I told her to leave a message, something about the Chamber and so on, before she was going to go into the chamber. Did she leave a message?" He looked innocently concerned for the girl. Dumbledore frowned – the character change was too much for him to handle; one moment, the boy was Lord Voldemort, the next he was worried about the fate of little Ginny Weasley.
"Yes, she left a message. But all it said was 'her skeleton will lie in the chamber forever,' so I don't see how that fits with your advice."
"She would have said something like that. She thought it was me possessing her, or some such thing, so she allowed herself more than a little melodrama. I put up with it, of course – but after a short time, telling her to trust me and that I certainly wasn't trying to kill her friends got rather boring. By then I was hooked anyway, so it hardly mattered."
"I still don't understand," Dumbledore replied at this pause, "how this brings you to the Chamber of Secrets."
"Don't you see? It's all a parallel of what happened with Ginny Weasley – since you certainly paid more attention to the little Gryffindor than you did me. It figures, you always did play favourites with your Gryffindor pets. I was brought down to the chamber just as she was – and a figure popped out of the Diary."
"She says that was the last thing she saw – that she would have died had Harry not fought it."
"Oh, so Harry Potter does exist," Tom laughed. "I was beginning to think he was a fictional character, from her descriptions of his perfection. But I didn't faint off at seeing something come out of the diary, as she did – after all; I was not an 11-year-old girl at the time. I fought it – but I was much weaker than I had ever been; the Diary sucks your life, your energy out of you – and that's how it builds a form in your image. I made a mistake in my spell, and gave the form tangibility – so instead of a spectre, it was a person, my twin, who walked out of the Chamber that day and called himself "Lord Voldemort."
"I had to feign my death in order to survive – this Diary spectre would have killed me, had it not thought my own spell would do the trick. I put myself into an ageless sleep, to be woken up when someone like you decided to explore the chamber – some time when it was safer for Tom Riddle to continue his schooling."
"Then you've been here all along?" Dumbledore asked. "Why didn't Harry spot you when he came?"
"Harry Potter has been into the Chamber of Secrets? That's interesting. Went to save Ginny Weasley, did he?" Dumbledore nodded. "I might have known. I suppose it was rather darker when he came – perhaps he didn't notice me? Who knows; I suppose he's the regular oblivious Gryffindor."
Dumbledore shook his head, wary. "And why should I trust any of this, Tom? As you said in the beginning, you are Lord Voldemort."
Tom shook his head avidly. "No, no, no, Dumbledore, you forget in your typical Gryffindor-ish ways; I said you would think I was Lord Voldemort – when in fact I am most certainly not. I'm just an ordinary Slytherin, like any other ordinary Slytherin except, possibly more intelligent, trying to finish his years at Hogwarts without turning into some monstrous Dark Lord. You yourself know the spell I used; or else you couldn't have cast the counter curse. You can tell I've been here for fifty years. You can tell that just by the dust on my robes. If I've been here, how could I be out in the world, attacking Mudbloods and Muggles? Answer me that, and then I'll capitulate." He waited for a response. "Honestly, Dumbledore – if you can tell me how my being here and my being Voldemort coincide, then I will admit you are right and throw myself into Azkaban for you. But you are thoroughly mistaken if you think that I am Lord Voldemort."
Dumbledore considered a moment. The Slytherin's logic made sense he had to admit. And the more he thought about it, the more he believed Tom's story. "Call me Professor Dumbledore, and follow me. I'll re-enrol you in Hogwarts; that's what you want, isn't it?"
"Of course," answered Tom. "I won't have to be in Gryffindor, will I?"
"Dear me, no. I wouldn't wish you upon Harry Potter for anything."
"Still here, is he? Drop back a year or two?"
"No, Tom, you have arrived just in time to be in his year."
The only thing Tom could say was "Lovely."
Dumbledore had taken the disgruntled Tom to his office, sat him down, and taken the seat on the other side of the desk, at which Tom had adopted a rather confused expression. "You're headmaster? Whatever happened to old Dippett? I could have sworn he had a few more years in him…"
Dumbledore's smile vanished. Tom had gotten along much better with Dumbledore's precursor. "Armando Dippett was killed in an attack on the school by Grindelwald." Tom's face blanched slightly. "I succeeded him in this position."
"Well I could have guessed that," answered Tom.
There was a pause, neither wizard wanting to continue the conversation – or really knowing how. Dumbledore finally spoke.
"You shall of course need new school things, and books. I believe we can make you a schedule – but it will take a few hours to find your old records. Most students don't go through 50-year breaks in between their fifth and sixth years, you understand. Before that is done, however, I would recommend you take a new name."
This shocked Tom. A new name? What was wrong with his current one? "Why a new name?"
"Simply because your old one is known to a few students here," Dumbledore replied, "And they will not be happy to hear it overmuch. It would be easier on all of us if you started a new identity with your new days at Hogwarts."
"The people who know my name – who are they?"
"Ginny Weasley of course, and Harry Potter. I believe Ginny's brother as well and perhaps Hermione Granger… It's of little importance – anyone hearing your old name and recognising it will immediately think of the Dark Lord. That name is not safe."
Tom sighed. "Fine," he answered, resigned to the fact that it had now come to completely reinventing himself for this new life – something he had never wagered on doing. "Can I at least have time to do research?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "I must contact your head of house momentarily, and I have to have a name to tell him – before you leave my office."
Tom sighed. He looked up at the portraits of Headmasters. Their names were regal, found in mythology and star charts. Tom wracked his mind for the names of constellations. What was the name of the snake-bearer? "Ophicus," he answered, "For the snake bearer. Ophicus Marvolo."
"Middle name?" Dumbledore inquired.
It would have easier just to answer 'none', but Tom never responded with the easiest method. "Serpens, I suppose."
Dumbledore smiled. His eyes twinkled. It was the trademarked look; the look that said 'I know something that you don't,' without so much as verbalising it. The look that frustrated Tom to no end. But there was nothing he could do about it. "Now I must contact your head of house – I will be putting you under his care for the rest of the summer" Dumbledore said, standing up. "Help yourself to lemon drops while I am gone," he said, motioning to a tray of candies. He then left the office.
Tom didn't take a candy. He surveyed his position. Not much could be done from here – even if he were some sort of Dark Lord, hell-bent on the destruction of Dumbledore and this Harry Potter fellow, he couldn't get at that goal very easily from where he was now. All in all, the very idea that anyone would use enrolling in the school as a way to get at Harry Potter seemed beyond Tom Riddle's imagination – and the idea that Dumbledore had been so sure that those were his motives in asking to be re- enrolled struck him as just a tad below the man's usual sensibility. Perhaps old age had gotten to his former Transfiguration teacher.
Then again, perhaps it was just the old Gryffindor sensibility coming to Dumbledore in his senility; the impulse to clobber first, ask questions later.
Tom wondered what his luck was to be woken up by Dumbledore, of all people. After all – Dumbledore knew Tom, and could probably trust him when he said that he was most emphatically not a Dark Lord. However, Tom had no love for the Professor.
As far as Tom was concerned, Albus Dumbledore was a prime example of Gryffindor stupidity – so sure in his bravery and nobility that he was absolutely correct that he couldn't face the facts when they were set in someone else's favour; absolutely confident that he had a corner on the morality market.
Not to mention bloody certain that no Slytherin could possibly turn out to be a decent fellow. Dumbledore had hated him in class for taking attention away from the 'brilliant' Ravenclaws and Gryffindors – Tom was sure of it. Every teacher had their favourites, and Dumbledore favoured the Gryffindors, perhaps without even knowing it. Tom wondered if it would be worse had Dumbledore been consciously giving Slytherins a hard time. He decided it might have been better that way; but certainly not worse. Dumbledore always had his favourites: always Gryffindors, always brash fellows who acted without thinking, always good examples of the pole-stuck-up-your-arse corner-on-chivalry Gryffindor mentality, always mediocre students eager to please their teachers and classmates.
Utterly disgusting examples of humanity in Tom's opinion.
Dumbledore returned, with another Professor following him; an oily, bat-like man who appeared to have spent much too much time in the dungeons and much too little in the sunlight. "This is Severus Snape," Dumbledore said, motioning to the teacher.
"Professor Snape, this is Ophicus Serpens Marvolo – a new student to be enrolled in Hogwarts this year. He will go into Slytherin." The look in this Snape's eyes told Tom that Snape knew he had been found in the Chamber, but clearly Dumbledore was saying this as a test – to see if Snape accepted the tale and thereby pledged his loyalty to it.
Snape merely nodded, staring at Tom in the most unsettling way. "And what year will he be enrolling in?"
"Sixth," answered Dumbledore.
"I will make sure the house-elves know to ready another bed," Snape answered, and started to leave. Dumbledore stopped him.
"Severus – Ophicus here has no one to look after him for the rest of the summer. As he is 16 years old, he is certainly able to take care of himself, but as he has been… entrusted to the school, someone will have to take responsibility for him. As head of Slytherin house, I put him under your responsibility."
Snape winced. "Dumbledore, have you taken into account the-" Snape stopped, looking nervously at Tom.
"Indeed, I have, Severus, and I believe that you will be able to handle it nicely – I assure you, Ophicus will provide no problem." This was said with a stern look at Tom. Dumbledore nodded to Snape and the younger man swept out of his office. Dumbledore returned his attention to Tom. "You are to behave yourself well, Tom. I assure you – Severus Snape is one of the best disciplinarians that I know – you will not get any leeway for mistakes under him." Wonderful thought Tom. "Finally, I see that you will need a new wand. Interestingly enough, I might be able to help you with the solution to that problem. Fawkes, my phoenix," here Dumbledore motioned to the red and gold bird, "has recently given another feather." Dumbledore pulled a fine reddish feather out of a drawer in his desk. "As your old wand had been phoenix feather-core, I believe that this will provide an ideal core for your new wand. Show it to Ollivander, he'll know what to do." He handed Tom the feather.
An odd jolt ran up Tom's arm – the feel of great power inside that feather. It was like the old feeling of holding a wand in his hand – forgotten in the eternity of enchanted sleep, but a hundred fold stronger. Tom nodded, and stood up. "Is that it? Shall I head to the Slytherin dungeons then?"
Dumbledore nodded. "The password, I believe, is Serpensentri."
Tom turned to leave, but then remembered something; "Dumbledore," he asked, "Can I have my prefect's badge back? I believe Voldemort stole mine."
Dumbledore's eyes sparkled again, as he reached into his desk and handed Tom a new badge. "I was wondering when you would ask," and with that, Tom left the headmaster's office.
He sat on his four-poster in the sixth years' dorms, idly twirling the feather in his hands. The bed was comfortable, of course, but he was wide-awake; who wouldn't be after fifty years of enchanted sleep? He mulled this new situation over in his mind.
Snape had told him – there was to be no unruly behaviour, he would get his school things at Diagon Alley the next day, and then begin on school work; there were, after all, precious few weeks left in the summer and, according to Snape, Slytherins were never lazy. Tom had thought of correcting him: he had known quite a few Slytherins in his time who were quite lazy. Often these were the ones who somehow got Ravenclaws to do their work for them.
Tom thought them clever, cunning, but on the whole, good for nothing slobs without the ambition to further themselves. So it was just as well that Snape didn't expect him to be one of them – Tom certainly wouldn't disappoint on that account.
After getting accustomed to the jolt the feather gave him when he picked it up, Tom had discovered the deliciously soft feeling of holding it – and he was loath to set it down, now. He swirled it in the air above him, lazily.
The same time that Snape had warned Tom of laziness, he had handed the student his schedule and supply list – everything Tom would need for another year's study at Hogwarts. A house-elf had come in later with the necessary pouch full of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts. Tom tried to smile at the house-elf, but the things always disgusted him, so the act was beyond him.
It was nearly midnight, and he was still awake. He put down the feather and rubbed his eyes, leaning back and trying to see if he could fall asleep. But there was that voice in the back of his head, telling him he had slept enough and should at least do something before he went back to sleep again. He sat up again. Despite his eagerness to act, there really was nothing to do in the vacated castle. He went back to pondering.
So, he would be in the same class as this wonderful Harry Potter. From everyone he had talked to about the character, he gathered that he was the favourite of the Gryffindors. Tom would probably hate him. Then again, perhaps the Gryffindor fool would be afraid of Tom – didn't Harry think that Tom was, in effect, Lord Voldemort? 'Hello Harry Potter, my name is Tom Riddle.' The boy would run screaming. Tom laughed. It was the old debate that had run through his head while talking to Dumbledore.
Everyone thought he was Voldemort, of that he was sure. But was this a good thing? A bad thing? He supposed it was bad due to his gut wrenching reaction that that was not him, but he supposed that there were things about the Dark Lord to be proud of. After all, Lord Voldemort, from what Ginny had told him, was the most powerful wizard of the recent times –who only feared Albus Dumbledore. And there was something there, even if Tom didn't picture himself as the type to become an evil overlord – enjoying the quiet pastimes of mass-murder and torturing Muggles. Hello Harry Potter, my name is Tom Riddle. – Lord Voldemort.
Except – no. His name was no longer Tom Riddle. Ophicus Serpens Marvolo. He winced. Why had Dumbledore not given him at least a little time to choose a name in the library? He already hated his new name – his tongue got garbled up whenever he tried to say it himself. Ophicus Serpens Marvolo. Ophicus Serpens Marvolo. Tom shook his head.
Why couldn't he just be Tom? The name was a wretched, Muggle name, but it was his own. And it was hard to mispronounce – unlike Ophicus Serpens Marvolo.
Tom sighed. No. Ophicus Serpens Marvolo sighed. He would have to drill it in his head – to prevent himself from ever slipping up.
He picked up his prefect badge from the table beside the four-poster. In a world of uncertainty, here was one thing that was looking up; he had his old powers back. And at least Voldemort wouldn't bother him this year.
He had forgotten to ask Dumbledore about that. He decided that it was a minor fault – after all, someone would certainly have come to power in the past fifty years who could have defeated him. Ginny had said – yes, Ginny had said that Harry Potter defeated him. He was only a fifteen-year-old boy when he left the Chamber. How hard could it be to defeat a fifteen-year- old boy?
Even if that fifteen-year-old boy was the smartest Slytherin the school had ever seen?
Tom –Ophicus – smiled at that. Some things remain constant, and if Tom – Ophicus – was confident of anything, it was his magical ability. He put the prefect badge down, picked up the pouch of money, and started tossing it into the air. He didn't sleep that night, nor any night until school started. He had slept enough.
"Ophicus!" he heard a shout from the common room. "Get in here this instant!" Tom jumped up, grabbed the pouch and the feather, and ran up the stairs into the common room. Snape was standing there, snarling. "I have to go into Diagon Alley on business of my own today," he said. "You will buy your school things. I expect no trouble from you."
From the glare, Snape hardly took to Tom – Ophicus. He still hadn't gotten used to the ring of his new name. Snape walked briskly to the fireplace, tossed in some Floo powder, and shouted "Diagon Alley," disappearing. Tom hurried to do the same. Of course, upon his arrival at the Leaky Cauldron, his 'guardian' was nowhere to be found. Shrugging this off as irrelevant, Tom made his way into the thoroughfare and down to Ollivander's: to get his new wand. There was a line of children – probably eagerly awaiting their first wand for their first years at Hogwarts – and so Tom causally stepped into a darker corner, and pulled out the phoenix feather, twiddling with it.
It wasn't long before the crowd thinned out, and someone came up to him – a trainee from the looks of it. "May I help you, sir?" the trainee asked, eyeing the feather greedily.
"I need a new wand," said Tom. "And I want it to have this core. Professor Dumbledore at Hogwarts told me to speak with Mr. Ollivander."
The trainee nodded, slowly, and took the feather, leading Tom to the aged wand maker, who was just finishing with another customer. "Mr. Ollivander, sir, this man here's got another feather from Dumbledore – he says it's for his wand."
Tom looked at Mr. Ollivander, and Mr. Ollivander turned to him, and all of a sudden, the old man had the most peculiar reaction – he squeaked. "T…Tom Riddle?" he inquired.
Tom began to nod, but then stopped himself. "I apologise sir, but I don't know of any Tom Riddle. My name is Marvolo – Ophicus Serpens Marvolo." He hoped he hadn't mangled the name.
Ollivander nodded slowly. "And why are you in need of a new wand? Your old one hasn't broken?"
"No, as a matter of fact, it was stolen."
"Stolen? Who would steal a wand?" Tom could hear the unspoken question – who would steal a wand from a wizard such as you?
So Ollivander had realised the game – and was playing along. This was going better than Tom had thought.
"A wizard – you've probably never heard of him. We had a… petty, personal dispute."
Ollivander looked suspicious. "And this wizard's name?"
"Oh, he's probably dead now – I believe he went by Voldemort."
The trainee squealed louder than Tom would have thought possible. Tom winced and suddenly realised that he had made a gross error in judgement. "V…v… You-know-who stole your wand?" squeaked the trainee.
"You-know-who?" Tom glanced nervously to Ollivander, trying to gauge how serious a misstep he had taken. Ollivander motioned to the trainee.
"Phillip, take the phoenix feather into the back room and prepare it for making a wand, please." The trainee scurried away. Ollivander turned to Tom. "Now, Mr. Riddle, I see that you are quite behind the times. Your wand has been up to some serious cursing while you were away, I fear. I am surprised Dumbledore didn't tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"The wizard who has your wand now is very much alive – and one of the most feared wizards of recent times. I suggest you not say his name aloud, as doing so will mark you as either very ignorant, which you are not, or very foolhardy, which I hope you have not become." Ollivander sighed. "As to the feather – I suggest you look to other wands in this shop, and come up with another story as to how you lost your wand."
Tom blinked. Mr. Ollivander left the main shop for the back room, and the trainee came out again, looking calmer now – and more sceptical. "What's all this hogwash about You-Know-Who stealing your wand?"
Tom sized up this opponent, and quickly found him not one to really respect. Small, lanky, and looking as if he had never done much of anything very difficult in all his years, Tom decided that he had reason to disdain this wand maker. "It's not hogwash. You-Know-Who did steal my wand. Along with my school things, my Silver Arrow – excellent broom, by the way – most of my clothing, my family and almost all of my friends. I think this You-Know-Who fellow has it in for me."
"And who are you? Harry bloody Potter? The Dark Lord isn't into petty thievery, Mr. Marvolo." The assistant was seething. Perhaps it would be better to end this now, with some placating statement, but Tom was having far too much fun for that.
"It certainly was not petty thievery – he had to get those things from somewhere, didn't he? Where do you expect You-Know- Who got his start?"
"Mr. Ollivander says he was one of the most brilliant students Hogwarts has ever had. That's a start."
Tom laughed. "You are quite mistaken. The Dark Lord was the most brilliant student Hogwarts has ever had. Not one of."
The trainee looked even more suspicious but turned away from Tom. "Well, I've been directed to start you out on some of these wands," and handed Tom a wand.
"I don't want this one – I need the one with the phoenix feather core," insisted Tom.
"Well, that's not up to you – the wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Ollivander always says. Come along now, wave it around."
Glaring, Tom cast a quick swish-and-flick motion, pointed his wand at a nearby flower pot, and said "Wingardium Leviosa." The flowerpot exploded. He turned back to the trainee.
"Well, I suppose that's not the right one," the trainee answered, handing Tom another wand. "Try this one."
This time Tom tried a reparo charm, but it only succeeded in lighting the shattered flowerpot on fire. The next two wands did nothing, and the fire started to spread, so the trainee took a short break to douse it with water and stomp it out, bemoaning his bad luck. They moved on to other wands.
Three hours and five hundred and forty six wands later, they had come full circle and tried what had to be every wand in the store. The place was a mess – wand boxes destroyed to mere confetti littering the floor, spills of water from flower vases and shattered glass, windows broken, scorch marks in several places on the floor. The air was full of dust, but through it could be seen Tom, grinning like a maniac – he had been proven right; he did need the phoenix feather wand.
It was at that moment that Mr. Ollivander came out. He looked surprised to see Tom still there, and even more surprised at the state of his shop. "What has been going on?" he asked.
"We've tried every wand in the store," replied the exhausted trainee. "All with disastrous results."
The look on Tom's face could only be described as fey. But he controlled himself and turned to Mr. Ollivander. "I told him I needed the phoenix feather wand," he said.
Mr. Ollivander handed Tom the freshly made wand, hand shaking. "Phoenix feather and blackthorne, Mr. Marvolo, 13 and a half inches. This wand has a mind of its own, I warn you."
Tom only smirked, grasping the wand firmly, and, waving it around, called out "Reparo." There was a whirl of wind and the dust filtered down to the ground. The scorch marks on the ground were gone – the wand boxes reformed from confetti, surrounding their wands. The vases melded back together from shards into their original forms. The shop was back to normal.
"Mr. Marvolo, I believe you have a wand," answered Mr. Ollivander, warily. "But may I warn you – that wand has two brothers; and the two brothers are constantly at war. You may find yourself pulled into the struggle." Seeing that this only added to Tom's confidence, Mr. Ollivander sighed. "That will be sixteen Galleons, Mr. Marvolo."
Tom paid, and left the shop to get the rest of his school supplies.
There were a few people who stopped him in the street, but upon seeing his face they all turned away. He supposed it was some popular young Hogwarts student that he looked like – at least in passing.
Having spent the day (and most of his money) and procured everything he could forseeably need for his next year at Hogwarts, he returned to the school. The first thing he did was speak to Snape. He had realised, throughout the day that the way Snape treated him wasn't with ambivalence; on the contrary, his 'guardian' was ruthlessly contrary to Tom.
He found the head of house's door without much event, and knocked – even if the teacher could not possibly deign to respect the young Slytherin, Tom realised that respect should be given where it was due; especially within Slytherin house.
"Come in," came a rather annoyed voice from inside. Tom stepped inside, silently. The Potions master was sitting, bent over a sheet of parchment, grumbling to himself. "Albus, I cannot accept this class list – you have somehow managed to confuse Potter with a student gifted in Potions." Professor Snape looked up, and, seeing Tom, scowled. "What is it?" he snapped.
"Professor, with all due respect, you treat me as if you think I belong in Gryffindor house. I assure you that while I may not have been under your tutelage before, I have no reason to believe that I am worthy of your disdain."
Professor Snape looked at Tom, as if measuring him against something, and then snarled again. "Pride will get you nowhere, Marvolo."
Tom sighed. It seemed that flattery was his only recourse, but Tom was not one to flatter in any situation. He tried again. "It appears that you have not understood me, Professor. I did not mean to sound proud, my ego is not so inflated that I fail to recognise that I have much to learn from the Professors in this school. I simply meant, in all due respect, sir, that in my ignorance I did not understand why you appear to hate me so."
Where Tom's other request had washed off Snape's oily skull like water off a duck's back, this one seemed to penetrate. "You want to know why I can't bear the sight of you, Marvolo?" the Professor asked. Tom nodded. "You remind me of a student – a student whom you will no doubt soon be acquainted with – whom I disdain."
Tom nodded slowly. "People in Diagon Alley also appeared to take me for someone I was not," he responded. "But I hope to prove to you that I am certainly not the same person as whomever this hated student is."
Snape paused, carefully considering his words. "Now, since you so rudely interrupted me – I see that you have been placed in my N.E.W.T.-level potions class. I assure you that the homework I assigned will not take less than a full week – I suggest you get to work on it as soon as possible, in order to have a presentable essay for my review before the start of school."
Tom smiled, stood up, and turned to go.
"Oh, and Mr. Marvolo," Snape called, "I am guessing you still have money left over from your trip to Diagon Alley today?"
Tom turned back. He had about a quarter of it left – but he had intended to keep it. "Yes, sir," he said, deciding that the consequences of breaking his trust with Snape this early on were worse than being low on money for trips to Hogsmeade. "I still have nearly a quarter of the money that was given to me."
Professor Snape smirked. "Good. Hopefully that will last you through the end of the year. You may keep it, Marvolo."
Tom nodded, thanked his head of house, and left the office for his own dorm room.
Of course he knew who he was being mistaken for so constantly – it was fairly obvious. For the past year, he had been drowned in comments about the wonderful Harry Potter. He knew enough about the other boy's appearance to be able to realise that they looked quite similar. He also knew enough about the boy to know that those similarities weren't only superficial – both were half- bloods, orphans, etcetera. It was fortunate that Snape hadn't heard Tom's story.
Once again, he couldn't sleep. He sat awake again, wondering. It was clear to him that a trip to the library would be necessary for his potions homework – he could put that off until tomorrow. But something was bothering him.
Lord Voldemort was still alive.
It didn't strike Tom as even possible, for Lord Voldemort to remain after fifty long years. Besides – Ginny had told him,
Voldemort had been defeated. Of course he hadn't pieced together that puzzle.
Tom Marvolo Riddle. I am – you are – Lord Voldemort.
He remembered the letters of his name swimming through the air, rearranging, and becoming that new, twisted version. He had been forced down into the chamber, and was face to face with – himself.
He was still fuzzy around the edges, but Tom was still terrified; "What are you? Who are you?" he had asked.
"A dream, a possible future – I am you, Tom Marvolo Riddle."
Tom shook his head. He was… he was… well, he was right here, holding his wand, and facing this future-self. He hadn't just popped out of a Diary. And he didn't think he had red eyes. He thought he had blue eyes. "No, you aren't me, you can't be me." There's only one of me, Tom wanted to add.
But now there wasn't. Here he was in this New World – fifty years in the future – and there still were two of him. It was a logical paradox. Either one of them was Tom Riddle, or the other was Tom Riddle. He supposed this was why Dumbledore had him change his name: neither Tom Riddle could exist while the other did. There was only one Tom Riddle.
Just like the Diary-thing had said; "Indeed, there is only one of you – that is why you are going to die."
Tom had backed away, ran into the statue of Slytherin. "You're not me, you're that Diary…"
"Clever, aren't we?" the thing had laughed. "Here I was hoping you would blame little Ginny Weasley."
Tom had been shocked. He hadn't even thought of Ginny – did this mean that the same thing would happen to her? "What is going on?"
In retrospect, it was all painfully obvious. Of course the same thing had happened to her – except, by some odd quirk of the failed spell, she got another Tom. Maybe it was just impossible to make an anagram out of Ginny's name. All the more power to her. She wouldn't be caught in this same bind.
But then another thought entered his mind – if he had been meant to blame Ginny, then she was meant to blame him. She would have – and that was yet another reason behind changing his name. Ginny Weasley and whichever of her brothers was still in school might not recognise him as Tom Riddle – but if he said that was his name, they would pounce, not realising their mistake, that it wasn't his fault.
Except, whom was he fooling? It was his fault, his fault from the beginning, for not destroying the Diary in his own time or at least making sure Ginny stopped writing. Perhaps if he had never written in it again, she would also have stopped. But he had continued to write – causing his own downfall and maybe hers too. Harry Potter was still alive; had he succeeded in saving Ginny? Knowing the Gryffindor mentality, he probably had. No true Gryffindor would save his own skin at the expense of someone else's if there were the slightest chance of the other surviving. Even if the only chance was getting the body of the dead to it's loved ones. Typical Gryffindor mentality, and from all signs, Harry Potter was such a typical Gryffindor.
At least Ginny had survived the mistake. His mistake. He promoted it, asked for her confidences and concerns. He had wanted her to pour out her own soul into that Diary, and he had done the same with his. It was no surprise that something popped out of the clearly magical book.
Just like the Diary-Tom had said. "You really do belong in Gryffindor, Master Riddle. You and that brat Ginny Weasley have been pouring yourselves into the Diary for the past year – so much that something just happened to pop out. Me. Or, should I say; you." That had been when he had done the trick with names. Fortunately, Tom had had an advantage. He had a wand – and the spectre didn't. He had shouted out a spell to lock the spectre in the Diary.
It was the only spell Tom Marvolo Riddle ever botched.
It had turned on him, draining him of energy. The new Tom had solidified, laughing, as Riddle dropped to the floor. He had picked up the wand – phoenix feather and yew, thirteen and a half inches. "This will come in useful," he had intoned. Then, snatching Tom's prefect badge, he had left his enemy for dead.
Tom had known it wasn't safe to leave until this Voldemort was good and dead, so he had tried another spell, and fallen into the same enchanted sleep.
And now he was back. He wondered if it was any safer now. He doubted it. But, if Harry Potter had succeeded, at least there weren't three of him running around.
He decided that he could handle two Tom Riddles, but that three would be excessive.
At the same time, he wondered how he would explain any of this to Harry Potter or Ginny Weasley.
Albus Dumbledore sat in a chair at the table in the Chamber of Secrets, surveying his surroundings. Torches burning brightly, the place wasn't as fearsome as anyone had anticipated. He finished dismantling the spells around the Chamber with a smile, thinking that this hidden cavern beneath the lake would serve perfectly for the Order of the Phoenix.
After all, no one knew about it.
But somewhere far, far away, a high, cruel laugh broke the air, raising the hairs on people's spines. It was an uncanny laugh, and unnatural laugh, but a laugh of triumph nonetheless.