A/N: Okay so, a couple things really quick. 1) JK Rowling said they took the train on the 1st and that classes are on Mondays, but that doesn't really match up so given the 1st of 1995 was on a Friday, I used it to my advantage for this little scene. Which lead to; 2) Voldemort's horcruxes obviously aren't going to stay anywhere he might suspect Tom of being able to find them. So yes, the Gaunt ring was moved. Tom never studied horcruxes and he's not just going to figure it out overnight, especially not with a bunch of classes and the soon to be there Dolores Umbridge.

He hadn't felt this smug since he'd come out above Mulciber and the rest of the Slytherins in their first year, getting O's in all of his classes save Astronomy, which he got an Exceeds Expectations in. Only two other students in their year were above him in grades, and both were Ravenclaws, and he was tutoring both Avery and Lestrange AND two fifth years in Runes. Each year of students had their own ringleaders, the ones who were in charge. It varied on the reasons. Some, such as Malfoy, only held their spot due to old family lines and prestige and connections that no one wished to challenge, while others, such as Mulciber, had led their groups based on the traits that had landed them in the house of the snake. Ambition, cunning, resourcefulness, and the like, and were always backed strongly if their bloodline was considered pure.

Considering he was thought to be a muggleborn by his house, he'd always been at the bottom of the totem pole. The only reason he'd managed to not be shunned completely by his housemates was because of his extreme cunning and resourcefulness. Not only was he relatively close with the professors due to his charming nature, but he'd found his way into their Head of Houses "Slug Club." By second year he'd found a place of protection, for lack of better word, among his peers. He was a mudblood to them, and he'd never bothered to correct it as it would be hard without revealing his hand. But, he was a useful mudblood.

To be honest, while he knew that when word got out about him being a parselmouth he'd have to assume the position of top dog, he did not want to make an enemy of Mulciber. Besides the fact that Mulciber was well connected, the boy was relatively nice to him, at least less derogatory towards him then most of the others in his house.

Lounging in a straight-backed chair he'd taken by the fire, the younger years gave him a wide berth and the rest of his year hung around him uneasily. Such shifts in power were rare, especially given it was him, the person most had openly ignored. Much to his surprise, Mulciber never dropped his devil-may-care attitude, despite the fact that he was now only second in command, and was still telling Avery a joke. He hadn't made any threats and to be honest Tom was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

In a way he was glad that they knew now who he was, even if he hadn't been planning on revealing it in such a way. Professor Kettleburn had been lecturing them on the naga breed when one managed to wiggle it's way free of the crate it was contained within. They were fairly small, but highly irritated after being confined to the crates. The creature had darted towards one of the Ravenclaws and he'd had only a split second to act before he was commanding it to stop.

The class of course, was abruptly ended, both because Kettleburn was focusing on getting the naga into a better cage, and because everyone was whispering loudly to each other.

Tom Riddle was a parselmouth. The boy in question found the situation to be highly amusing, given how everyone was tiptoeing around him like they were afraid he was going to order them to be executed. Wizards were odd in this fashion. Sure, Heir of Slytherin was an impressive title, but he had no funds to his name, and lived in a muggle orphanage during the summer for Merlin's sake.

As the night went on, more and more students drifted down to their dorms to turn in for the night, until the room was empty and it was only him and Mulciber. Theon Mulciber was from a well off family, like so many in Slytherin, raised with the resourcefulness and drilled in ambition that came with many of the old pureblood families.

Slowly and deliberately Tom closed the book in his lap and cleared his throat. "Shall I be expecting an attempt of revenge?"

Mulciber raised his eyebrows at his straight forward question and gave a sly smile. "I don't believe so. I find leading is quite an exhausting effort for little return in rewards. Besides, I placed a heft bet with Goban a couple weeks ago that ole Sluggy will picking you for prefect next year."

"Oh?" Tom asked.

Mulciber nodded, "Oh sure, we may have our little ranks, but Sluggy picks his favorites and you're clearly his."

Not knowing how to respond, Tom stared off into the fire, but Mulciber continued on, "I expect it'll all settle down in a week or so, given you're a natural leader. I've seen how you handle the lower years and do your little study groups. And if you need help, I'll be here."

"Why are you being so helpful?" Tom asked carefully.

Mulciber shrugged nonchalantly. "No everyone wants to see you fail, you know. Sure we were all a bit harsh on you, but you're a decent bloke and I'd rather egg you on that have to try and fight you for the spot, yeah?"

"Better an ally than an enemy," Tom mused, rubbing his fingers over the cover of his textbook.

Mulciber nodded his head in confirmation. "Also I'm fairly certain you know more curses and hexes than I do so I'd rather stay clear of those, thanks."

Tom smirked. "Very well. Allies?"

Mulciber extended a hand, "If we're allies, then you might want to call me Theon."

Taking his hand and shaking it, he nodded. "And you might want to call me Tom."

While he had sworn that he'd finally immerse himself into school life with the weekend between the arrival of the students and the start of classes, he found himself simply not wanting to, and instead took a trip out of the area.

Apparating to Little Hangleton, Tom found himself outside the Gaunt shack. It had taken him some time to rename the home, given he'd demolished the shack and the name Gaunt was a bit dodgy sounding, but he'd finally settled on Rowanoak Cottage, a play on the word Roanoke and the fact that most of the trees on the front side of the property were either rowans or oaks. He was suddenly very glad to have rebuilt the home completely instead of trying to fix up the shack, and the extra years it had been left had done no favors to this horrid building. The gates and fences were trashed and falling over. He wondered if the muggles could see it and if so, why they had left it be so long.

Voldemort seemed to have no desire to reclaim the home and Tom wondered what the man had done just after school if he hadn't lived in the shack. The dead snake, long since rotted away, had left a stain on the door, and he hesitated entering the shack.

He couldn't bring himself to believe sometimes that Voldemort was another version of himself given how different the pair was. Besides the absolute horror and chaos he'd wrecked on the general public, it was like Tom had never existed.

Pushing the door open, he stepped cautiously inside. It was empty, like no one had been there in over a century and he wasn't quite sure what drew him to the house, but he knew it was empty and there was nothing left for him here. No meaning or answer to the madness of the other him and he apparated quietly to the Riddle Manor. It was just as torn apart, if not more so, though there were a few signs of the place having been lived in, possibly by squatters or the followers of Voldemort during the year prior. He could remember something from Voldemort's memories, the flashes of them at least, enough to know he'd been in the house as well.

It was getting dark when Tom finally found his way back to Hogwarts. Despite having eaten nothing since breakfast, which he'd taken in his quarters, he found himself unable to stomach the idea of eating in front of nearly three hundred curious students and staff. But, when he arrived to his room on the third floor, there was already someone there.

Albus was peering down at the lessons plans which were stacked neatly on the desk and only turned with Tom shut the door behind him. "I see you're settling in." His tone was welcoming, but Tom could tell from the lack of a sparkle in the man's eyes this was to be a serious talk, rather than just a check up.

"As much as one can in these circumstances," he said in agreement.

"I was surprised that I did not see you at lunch today," Albus continued, "And then again for dinner. I thought perhaps I should check up on my newest professor."

"I was looking into some things," Tom said with a wave of his hand. "I wanted to see if something was… changed."

"And was it?" Albus asked, taking a seat into one of the arm chairs by the fire.

Tom shook his head. "As empty as the day I claimed it."

"Your home?" Albus asked with unconcealed surprise, to which Tom nodded. "I wanted to know if Voldemort would claim the only remaining belongings and property of Slytherin's heirs, the Gaunts. Their shack was untouched, though it appeared as though he'd been putting a little use to the Riddle Manor."

Albus nodded his head thoughtfully and pulled a familiar black books from inside his robe. It was black, leather bound and Tom had not looked at it in years, not since he'd placed it onto one of the shelves in his study for safe keeping. He'd received it as a present from Professor Slughorn in his fifth year, "T. M. Riddle" engraved on the back cover. He'd not used it as a diary, per say, but rather as a book to take personal notes and reminders in, sometimes using it to make homework lists or plan out his week, while eventually he and his year mates had turned it into a way to pass notes in classes they were too bored to pay attention in, charming some of the back pages to link to other books that the boys owned, anything you wrote appearing on the sheet for whom the note had been penned for.

But there was something different about this diary. As he took it from Albus, he could see the large hole through the front cover, the opening going straight through to the back cover where it had just barely pierced the leather. Around the stabbed area of the book were large pockets of dried ink, as though someone had poured it into the opening and let it drench the book.

"My old diary…" He flipped it open, the pages turning over quickly in his fingers. His initials and name were still engraved in the back cover and he noticed that the book had never been written in.

"This was recovered by Ginny Weasley after a run in with one of Voldemort's followers in which they gave her the diary. Apparently it had contained a bit of Voldemort's soul in which he possessed Miss Weasley and opened the Chamber." Albus explained. "Harry was able to stop him however, and destroyed the fragment within the diary."

"How?" Tom asked, ignoring the handful of flickers he knew were flitting around in his brain. Sure he'd catch glimpses of what had happened but it wouldn't be the full story.

"With a basilisk fang."

Tom went quite bug-eyed at this and blinked stupid, trying to imagine a young Harry Potter some how getting a basilisk fang without dying. "And the basilisk?"

"Killed by Harry with the sword of Gryffindor." Albu said in a pleased tone.

To hell with trying to give the boy some extra mentoring, Tom was going to send him a caravan of chocolate and a horde of presents. "And how, exactly, is he not dead?"

"To the best of my understanding, having heard the story secondhand from Harry, Fawkes clawed its eyes out, thus rendering it unable to kill or petrify with its sight, and Harry stabbed it up through the jaw and through its brain. He was bit, but Fawkes healed him."

"Phoenix tears," Tom said with understanding. "Mr. Potter has lived a most excitable life."

Albus gave a small chuckle, "Oh I'm certain you don't know the half of it. You should ask him about it. The things he's been through will astound you."

Turning the diary over in his hands, Tom wondered what he should address first. There was the soul in the book, but he knew that had waited long enough, it could wait a bit longer. "Why did you insist on Mr. Potter staying with his relatives during the summer?"

Albus leaned back in the chair, still smiling. "Would you believe me if I said I simply hoped he and his cousin would bond some more?"

When Tom shook his head with a stern look, Albus sighed and shrugged. "When Lily died to save Harry, it put a protection over him and his home. The safety of the wards lives on through Lily's sister, Petunia, keeping him safe from those who wish him harm."

"That sounds like a flawed plan, Albus," Tom said cautiously, "There are too many ifs, especially considering the attack of those dementors. Had I decided you were being ridiculous and not gone and gotten him, who knows what might have happened."

"Actually," Albus said with some hint of amusement, "I had planned on sending some of the Order to pick him up that week, but I delayed it due to your presence at Grimmauld Place."

"Excuse my language Albus, but that is bullshit and you and I both know it. You could have asked me to stay at the school."

The headmaster gave a sigh and shifted in the chair. This wasn't the same Albus as his own. They were so similar sometimes he forgot, but this one had been used to being the one in control, the one playing the pieces on the chessboard without ever answering for his moves or choices. "I did truly intend to have Harry picked up, and I felt it was vital for you to interact with the Order, but it appears you still managed to hermit yourself away." When Tom's eyes narrowed in accusation, Albus continued with an explanation. "I asked Molly."

"You shouldn't be worried about whether I'm tucking myself away or not." Tom folded his arms across his chest. "I'm a grown man. Mr. Potter, on the other hand, is not. You're turning that boy into a soldier, Albus. To what end?"

Albus frowned. "I only have Harry's best interests at heart."

"Albus," Tom started then stopped. Several things weren't adding up and the more he absentmindedly flipped the pages of the destroyed diary, the more the pieces all seemed connected. "Harry said that sometimes he could see into Voldemort's mind. Why?"

The headmaster appeared glad that Tom was switching away from the uncomfortable topic and answered. "It seems that when Harry repelled the killing curse back at Voldemort, the pair became connected. Whenever one is feeling a particularly strong emotion, the other can feel it, and the same can sometimes happen when Harry is asleep. Before Voldemort had a body of his own, Harry would sometimes feel a sharp pain in his head, particularly around his scar."

"And, why was Voldemort able to survive the rebound of the killing curse?" Tom pressed, "How was he able to come back?"

"I have a few theories, of course, but each seems more unlikely than the last."

"Then explain them to me, Albus." Tom was leaning forward now, trying to look the man in the eyes, not to use legilimency, but to try and read any emotions that the elder man might betray.

But Albus wasn't quite ready to play his card or bleed his hand. "I'm sorry Tom. But no matter how much the Albus you knew trusted you, I have spent the majority of your life watching a Dark Lord blossom. Forgive me, but it is hard to trust you completely." He stood slowly and Tom thumped the diary against his leg angrily.

"I hope to see you at breakfast tomorrow," Albus said as he went towards the door.

Tom nodded absentmindedly, looking back to the diary. "I shall if you allow me to hold onto this. I would like to examine it."

Albus consented and then took his leave.

The next morning, as demanded by the headmaster, Tom made an appearance at breakfast, taking a copy of the Prophet from the owl who had landed in front of him. It was Sunday and as such, most of the students were sleeping in, but a few of the older or more studious students who intended on actually waking up at the right time the next morning were there.

He received a few curious glances, but more for the normal curiosity one felt when meeting a new teacher, or likely because there was supposedly a curse on the position. Perhaps they were taking bets on how long he would last, or how he would end up leaving.

If Albus didn't want him to hide away from the students, then he wouldn't. He'd work on his research out by the lake, where plenty of the students liked to relax. After Albus had left the night before Tom flood back to Grimmauld Place and with Sirius's permission, began searching through the Black Library, trying to find any books that lend him to an idea about how Voldemort had sought out immortality. There was also the connection to Harry and the diary, which helped him begin crossing off ideas from his list.

He planned on questioning Potter about his connection with Voldemort in great detail at some point, but for now he had a shoulder bag stuffed full of books that were dark enough to make Albus's moustache curl. The diary was also shoved in there, though he doubted he'd be able to find out much about it. Perhaps a talk with Miss Weasley was also in order, since she had dealt the most with it.

Turning a page in the Prophet, he frowned at the absurdities that were being posted. It was like instead of actually reporting the news they'd become an exclusive gossip column.

"Professor Riddle," Minerva greeted as she sat down.

"Hello Minerva. Please call me Tom, I feel like I'm being scolded." He teased lightly. To be truthful it was simply disorienting to have a friend call him by his surname.

"Very well then," she conceded, turning to spoon some porridge into a bowl. "Are you ready for the start of classes?"

He nodded, "I've been ready for weeks." He paused, then continued, "You know, I was surprised you didn't pick Potter for the Gryffindor's prefect."

Minerva grimaced slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line. "As it so happens, I did. Albus insisted that the boy had too much on his plate."

"You'd think he'd want to find things to keep the boy's mind off of things, rather than leave him to ruminate."

"Well, he is the seeker for the Gryffindor quidditch team, so he'll be busy with that, and he has his O.W.L.s this year to study for, but I agree." She turned back to her food and Tom leaned back in his chair.

Tom cleared out from the Great Hall before too much of the student population made their way out of bed and he found a spot under a tree not too far from the lake and the front doors, where he'd have a clear view of the campus. The books he'd found from the Black library were helpful in his search and gave him a few leads, but nothing concrete, and the only time he managed to catch sight of Potter was when he and a small group were headed towards the quidditch pitch. Miss Weasley was among them, but he didn't feel particularly like spoiling their fun, and let them be. There would be time another day to discuss their unpleasant memories. As he expected, nothing further came from examining the diary, though something about it made his hair stand on end.

He was handicapped in a way, because his own knowledge of these people and places conflicted with what they were in this world. Harry Potter had faced Voldemort in his first year. Voldemort had possessed the body of Quirrell and taken up residence on the back of his head, implying he lacked a body of his own. So he'd been a spirit. But he wasn't a normal ghost as normal ghosts possessed no such ability. So something between living and dead.

Thumping the diary impatiently against his leg, he began scribbling these thoughts out on a bit of parchment, hoping that seeing them written down might help organize his thoughts.

Harry's second year, and Ginevra's first year, the diary had somehow possessed Miss Weasley and together they'd opened the Chamber of Secrets. When Quirrell died, had Voldemort somehow transferred over to the diary? No, but that couldn't quite be right because Harry had described a teenage Voldemort to Dumbledore, and he doubted that a man that appeared as he currently did would have been able or wanted to take the body of his teenage self. Harry had went into the Chamber of secrets. Harry was a parselmouth. Not impossible, given Slytherin's trait hadn't exactly started with him, and the Gaunts and the Potters had some overlapping relatives. It was curious that Harry would have the ability, but perhaps his encounter with Voldemort as a baby had brought it out.

Scribbling out beside the mention of Harry being a parselmouth, he also added a note about the mental connection the pair shared. As he thumped the diary against his leg again, he froze and turned his attention back to it.

Voldemort had somehow managed to preserve his teenage self in here. Or was that simply what it had pretended to be? From the half fragmented memories of Voldemort and the second hand memories of Albus about the event, Ginevra had wrote in the diary, and it had responded. It wasn't just a conduit to Voldemort though, as it was clear that Harry had destroyed the diary because the spirit in it was attempting an escape, using Miss Weasley as its sacrifice.

Now that couldn't be good. That likely meant a bit of Voldemort was actually in the diary and he stared intently at it. He'd studied soul magic as a sort of hobby for a couple months, but it had been brief before his attention has switched over to something else. Magic that messed about with one's soul was almost always considered dark, and therefore illegal. He felt like he'd read something about splitting a soul, but if he had, he couldn't recall the details.

Wracking his brain, he tried to recall where he might have found such a book, but was truly uncertain. He felt like it had been from a secondhand bookstore or a cart. Nothing very easy to track down, and definitely not something he'd find in the Hogwarts library. Perhaps in the Black library he might find something, but he would likely have to dedicate an entire weekend with Sirius's aid to search all the books for mentions of splitting one's soul.

Leaning back against the tree he closed his eyes. Perhaps if he found a book and it was remarkably large he could simply beat Albus about the head and shoulders with it until the barmy codger saw sense.