Harry was back at Privet Drive and feeling as though he had hit rock bottom. His birthday was the next day, and not even that fact cheered him at all. Sirius was gone.
Every time he wedged his way into his thoughts, Harry compulsively grabbed his wand as if wishing he could have another chance to save Sirius' life, to do something, anything for his lost godfather. He wasn't aware how hard he was gripping it; he only felt rage and grief course through his body.
Suddenly, his wand vibrated for a split second and grew very hot, and he felt a searing pain in his scar. He tossed his wand to the floor and knelt down, feeling as if he were going to faint and throw up from the pain. Then just as suddenly as it had come, it disappeared. The painful stabbing in the scar on his forehead was nothing new: it was now more of an annoyance than anything. But what happened with his wand?
He got up from the floor and stood up rather stiffly. His window was open, allowing the night's breeze to flow through his room. He was all too quickly aware of how quiet everything was. There was nothing, no insects humming, no young birds screaming for food from the nest in the tree just outside his window, no sounds of passing cars… just nothing. Suddenly the lights on the street started to go out, one by one. He remembered the Put-Outer and the advance guard and felt a shock of excitement. Were they coming to get him at last?
"Haaaaarrrrrrrrrryyyyyyy," echoed a chilling voice through the dark street.
That was not the voice of anyone he knew, but it was frighteningly familiar. It almost sounded as though it was toying with him. He jumped to his window sill and searched frantically. It wasn't Voldemort: it couldn't be. He remembered the high-pitched screaming too well. Nevertheless, he saw a man with what he guessed was black hair and swishing robes walking onto the Dursley's front lawn. The night was dark and he could barely make out his features from nearby street lamps.
Tom Riddle?! Tom Riddle was outside his window at Privet Drive. His mouth went dry and his heart began to race. He remembered the sixteen year old Tom from his second year at Hogwarts, and this man was identical to him in every way. He seemed to have aged a few years into an unhealthy-looking adulthood. How had Voldemort retrieved his old body? Was this some sort of joke, some strange hallucination, or the work of dark magic he didn't understand?
"I know what you're thinking, Harry. You're wondering why I'm here. Don't worry, I'm still wondering myself," he called up from the lawn coolly.
Harry hadn't actually been wondering why Tom Riddle had rather instantaneously appeared on his street half so much as how. He could feel his face going hot and a sickness and peculiar sort of rage welling up in him all at once. It was almost too much to take. His eyes quickly searched around for his wand, where had he thrown it? He wasn't prepared to defend himself against Voldemort or Tom Riddle or whoever he was calling himself, but what other choice did he have?
"I'm not here to hurt you, Harry. I was just fancying a little chat. You are sixteen tomorrow are you not? I'd say you've grown up quite well," Riddle hissed with a soul-penetrating smile on his face.
He felt fury and total confusion. What was he doing here? And why was he trying to reason with him? This was not the Voldemort he knew. The Voldemort he knew was a bloodthirsty murderer, not a smooth-talking negotiator. Then again, this wasn't necessarily Voldemort either.
"Not in the mood for talking tonight, I take it? That's alright; all you have to do is listen to what I have to offer."
He looked around for someone, anyone, but the only living creature around was Hedwig, and she was sleeping soundly in her cage. The Dursleys had gone to bed hours ago, and the same seemed true of all the neighbors. Not that the Dursleys would give one tinker's toot if he was murdered in cold blood, aside from wondering what the neighbors would say and how to explain it to the police.
He stood frozen. The only thing he could think that would bother them the most was if the surrounding neighbors heard his screams, but then again, any neighbor or passing policeman would be as defenseless as he felt at that very moment, so it made no difference.
"As I was saying, our existences are going nowhere Harry. We're to be locked in a deadlock forever, do you understand that?" he questioned in a sickly sweet voice.
Harry was beginning to feel faint. He imagined it was much the same feeling a mouse would have, being batted around by a cat waiting to eat it. This man was responsible for so much pain, for all of his own pain, and he was stating the glaringly obvious to Harry in a tone so kind it was almost condescending. What exactly was this about?
"I take it to mean that you do, Harry. It took me ages to admit there was a possibility you might really be my equal and have the ability to defeat me. I so gravely underestimated you, Potter, and both of us are living with the consequences even still."
Harry nearly shouted in fury but managed to contain himself out of fear for the lives of any casual passersby or neighbors who were possibly awake and listening. He wanted more than anything to shut him up, but a small part of his mind began to focus. He needed to think clearly.
"I know what you're thinking. It has something to do with your sweet mummy and daddy. You could have them back you know."
His blood froze. Surely he had misheard? Everything he had ever heard about the magical world had told him that it was impossible to bring the dead back to life. What was he talking about? Moreover, why would he do it? Voldemort didn't care about others, not unless it was for his own murderous benefit. His mind was racing too quickly to adequately understand Riddle's motives. What could possibly be done?
"Ahhh, I see I've captured your full attention at last. The problem with you Harry is that you are my equal, my only equal. I have heard of the prophecy too."
He paused, glancing up at Harry curiously, clearly enjoying the effect his words were having.
"You must understand that while I did transfer some of my powers to you the night that your most beloved parents died, you carried with you your own inherited magical prowess. You surely must be aware that two equals cannot win a battle against one another. To do so would require one to be stronger, faster, cleverer, and yet we are both of us equals. I have understanding that you could never dream of, and you have your dumb luck. What is to be done?"
He had to be joking. Harry was no match for Voldemort and he knew it. For the past five years he had spent at Hogwarts, he couldn't help but feel a strange feeling that he had lucked out so many times, had so narrowly escaped his own death just a few times too often. He had risked his friends' lives, and two had already paid for it. He looked down at Voldemort standing in his lawn, but could not look him in the face. Harry was being watched by two very cold and callous eyes, and it wrought fear and hatred down to his very soul. For a few moments, Voldemort remained silent, watching Harry, and making him feel more and more distress at the situation of having a notorious killer standing on the grass that his uncle took such pains to care for.
"You must be wondering when I'm going to get to the point. I have a nasty tendency to go on about things, do forgive my drabbling," he said sarcastically.
"Would you ever take back history, Harry? If you could go back to the events of two months ago and retrieve your dearly loved godfather, would you?"
He must have sensed Harry's immediate interest in such a proposal from his eyes. They lit up and shone fiercely, craving whatever knowledge Riddle possessed, and it was the hook he needed. Riddle raised his hand to interject something else before Harry's mind went on a goose chase trying to imagine a world with Sirius in it.
"Would you take back history so far as to even have your parents back?" Harry's heart skipped a beat and he felt chills running down the his spine.
"Yes," he stammered, not fully aware that he seemed to have no control over his own answers.
"You do have a voice after all," Voldemort replied.
"Of course I want to meet my parents," Harry said more confidently. "But you murdered them."
"Perhaps you would do well to sleep on it. I am sorry things didn't work out between us. You have been my pain and torment for so long Harry, as I'm sure I have been for you. I knew we could both be mature and let it go," he said with a sort of feigned civility.
"Oh, and I do believe you dropped this?" he said, holding up Harry's wand. "It's a fine piece you know. My wand is so very like yours. You should be thankful for that, for it is the very reason I was able to make such a proposition to you tonight."
"What are you saying?" Harry blurted out. "Why are you doing this? What are you doing?"
In the blink of an eye and with a loud crack, he was gone, and Harry looked over to his bedside table and saw his wand on the floor. It made no sense. One by one the lights came on again. He didn't go to bed until the sun was nearly up. His mind was teeming with more thoughts than he reasoned were humanly possible. He felt like Riddle had been torturing him in a bizarre sort of way, offering things he knew he could never have.
Had Riddle even been real? He did think it very possible under the circumstances that he could be hallucinating. He was so weary and full of sore emotions since Sirius' death, and eventually, sleep and dreams overcame him. It was the most unusual night of dreaming he had ever had.
He dreamed away a whole lifetime of memories: he saw himself at birthday parties with his parents, his father showing him how to ride a broomstick, his mother nursing a scabbed knee, himself trying on the Sorting Hat at Hogwarts: it was a life of general obscurity that he never realized he had wanted so desperately. "Happy birthday, Harry!" came the shouting voice of a woman. He woke with a start. That was not Aunt Petunia he was hearing.
