whop. Another one that popped up. One of the earliest i think.

There he was.

He knew he was dying.

Could feel it as his soul finally let go of what little was left of its hold in the mortal plane.

There was the glimpse of a pair of green eyes -a green he'd gotten accustomed to associate with the boy prophesied to deliver the last blow on Lord Voldemort.

Curiously enough, he couldn't quite bring himself to focus on him, to curse him in his last moments. Or even to rack his brain for some kind of way to twist the situation to his advantage, or at least so that he could slip away, somehow, to bide his time somewhere until he got his chance.

Instead, he found himself more preoccupied with the memories rushing to the forefront of his thoughts.

Huh. Would you look at that?

He was honest to Salazar watching his life flash before his eyes.

Somehow, in that moment that stretched into seeming eternity, that was what stunned him the most.

There, staring back into the Potter boy's eyes, he watched everything that had made Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Everything that had made Lord Voldemort.

And then...

There was the familiar feel of the sheets of his bed in the Slytherin Dorms, shifting like warm water beneath his skin as his body jumped into action and he twisted, curling into himself, chest heaving, lungs too empty, mouth gaping, sight filled with emerald green with the wreckage of Hogwarts only present in the back of his lids, and his ears drowning in the rapid beat of his pulse.

Too... Too hot.

He'd died once, but that wasn't true death, not really (as it was no true living either, admittedly), but even as it was, since the whole near death experience i.e 'biography movie clips' checked out, he'd almost expected death to also be similar in those lines people spout.

Eternal blackness to the point of madness maybe.

He carefully lowered himself lest his arms gave out on their own, his every nerve aching. The way the bed melted to his form was heaven in hell.

Anything but this.

Hazy blue eyes swiveled around, keenly tracing the artfully uneven surface of the stone ceiling, the dark wood of the poster bed, and the lamp hanging from a chain.

All too familiar.

Almost home.

Maybe that was it. His eternal torture would be played out here, until any idea of safety was superimposed with pain and- and... and regret?

...Something was wrong. Not just the place. Something was different.

He tried to strain his mind against the heavy haze of exhaustion.

In the end, his eyes rolled back in their sockets and he was dead to the world.

Just... not as literally as he might've expected.
_

He could feel the probing eyes on him, as absent of its twinkle as it had always been when it was him they landed on.

"Tell me, Tom. What do you think is death?"

His own though, he kept glued to the phoenix carefully unearthing themselves from the ashes of their previous life.

Maybe it was that Dumbledore had always been able to see through him anyways, so for the first time in a very long time, he was honest in his ignorance.

"...I don't know, sir."

He really didn't.

And that was the point, wasn't it?

Rare as they had become, in moments of honesty and deep contemplation, he knew that was the root of it.

The adults and other children from the orphanage feared him, because they didn't know. As his fellow Slytherins were enraptured with him, because- because they didn't know, couldn't know his limits, or the thoughts running in his mind.

He wondered, if he could know, would he stop fearing it?

No.

If the muggles knew, they wouldn't stop fearing him. Maybe the fascination would be gone, but then only the fear would be left.

So no, he really, really didn't want to know.

He turned to look at the man across him, smiling softly, gently, knowingly back at him.

"There is nothing to fear, in the face of just yet another great adventure."
_

Great adventure indeed.

Glaring into his own reflection, he grimaced.

Or rather, she did.

Now, Tom-Voldemort (who was he?) wasn't vain, in contrast to what some might've assumed. If he was, he wouldn't have lived through his resurrection.

The last face Lord Voldemort wore had been hardly attractive, in any sense of the word.

So while a bit different, he could, easily enough, adapt to this new body. As long as he still had his magic, what care did he have for the superficial stuff?

What was posing a... not a problem, but more along the lines of curiosity, was that she looked exactly like a feminine, more beautiful version of eleven year old him -Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The shadow of a familiar shade behind a stranger's face.

And he'd also found himself in his Hogwarts room rather than in some place, dead. As by all rights he should be.

He brought up a hand to his face.

Well, certainly, he felt the whole 'weightless, airy' kind of feeling that was so commonly described the sensation of being dead was supposed to be. But he suspected that was more out of having his soul mended after such a long time of it being... not.

This body fit him like a glove, better than even the poor excuse of a man that Lord Voldemort had been. He didn't realize how ill fitting it had been until now. Never quite noticed the staggering way his magic had flowed in it, as opposed to now.

Tracing a non existent shape in the air, he watched black hair fold itself into a loose braid over her shoulder.

The sweater and skirt beneath her Hogwarts robes fixed itself to mimicking a brand new set, whatever loose thread there had been was repaired and the spots where the dye was faded disappeared. The hem of the robes were lengthened appropriately and darkened in colour, any fault in her stockings was restored, and her Mary Janes had a present gleam to it.

A shaky breath.

Then again. And again. And again. Until he'd finally dislodged the lump in his-her throat when looking at the green, silver, and brown theme of the bathroom.

Slipping out back into his room, he slung his book bag and pocketed his wand -warm in his hands, as eager for action as ever.

Out the door and into the first years dorm hall, he resisted to tip toe his way into the Common Room as he was tempted to.

With only a moment's pause, he entered the circle of familiar faces as they waited for a prefect to show them the way to their classes, glancing around and begrudgingly acknowledging the threat of falling into nostalgia looming over him.

"Hello. Riddle, right?"

He smiled, finding her facial muscles almost too easy to control.

"Yes. Greengrass, isn't it?"

The 'how' was a blank blot and something he doubted he'd get an answer to without at least scouring the library. Meanwhile, he'll work on the 'what'.

For all intents and purposes, he was reliving the first day of his first year, albeit in a female body.

Harold Greengrass sidled up to his side, effortlessly including him into the already on going conversation he was leading. The ones who weren't already orbiting around him, were doing so with Abraxas, the pair of them already obviously their year's leaders.

Greengrass was a poster boy for extroverts, hailing from a 'gray' family.

They had taken a stubbornly neutral stance in the 'Blood Wars' he'd created. But if he recalled correctly, they were a staunch supporter of Grindelwald.

...oh. Right.

Grindelwald. Hitler.

And that meddling old coot.

"-Mother told me about Professor Slughorn and the Slug Club." Parkinson huffed, puffing her chest a bit. "My brothers already have their places in it and I can't see any reason why I won't."

They must still be on the speech Professor Slughorn had made last night. Tom couldn't quite remember the exact contents after all these years but he knew it had made an impact on the younger him and his yearmates at the time.

"I've already practiced potions with a tutor Dad hired. I'm really glad that Auntie insisted, now that I'm a Slytherin. I mean, I'm not great but it would've simply been a shame if I was bad at his subject, being our Head of House. Whatchu think, Riddle?"

He smiled sheepishly, shaking his head, "Well, I really wouldn't know."

There, that could be construed in numerous ways.

Greengrass blinked, "Oh."

"That's right!" Brown leaned forward curiously, "You grew up in the muggle world. Are you a muggleborn?"

He really didn't know. But by the state of his things and the familiar pyjamas he'd peeled off earlier with the tiny 'Wool's Orphanage' print on it, he'd hazard that, for the most part, his background was still the same.

Gripping his bag to his chest and willing himself to flush, he made use of his femininity and people's natural inclination to sympathise more with a girl, "I don't... I live in an orphanage, so I don't really-"

Nott nudged Brown a bit and the girl backed away, "S-sorry, that was nosy of me-"

"What's it like? Living with muggles?" Greengrass had put on a picture of polite interest but he was eleven and didn't yet have the ability to hide his true intent from Tom.

He was testing him.

Tom was almost tempted to roll his eyes. Him, this boy just in his double digits testing him, Lord Voldemort, the man who'd conquered magical Europe.

Then again, eleven was much better than two.

He didn't need to fake the grimace.

"... Not all muggles are- I mean, not everyone's bad, but-"

Harold nodded, as if he expected nothing else.

For his part, he had to keep himself from giving the boy a flat look. Or cursing him at his insolence.

A clap startled everyone out of their respective topics -which were for the most part just a lot of bragging- and gathered everyone's attention towards the older blonde girl, the prefect badge proudly pinned on the front of her robes.

"Alright babies, listen up. Compared to the rest of the castle the dungeons are actually straightforward. Which isn't saying much, being a literal underground labyrinth-" he tuned out, putting up a facade of obedience while he retreated into his mind.

There was the warmth of the other tiny bodies pressed around him, but he couldn't make any judgement on that, considering that he had been incapable of feeling much of anything since he'd lost his original body. He could think of about a hundred ways to fool every single one of his senses just from the top of his head

It felt real, but he wasn't- couldn't be so easily convinced to believe that this was actually...

Real.

Another chance.

How. Why.

A redo.

Him. Of all people.

"Alright! Let's get going!"