Chapter 2: The Body Remembers
In the depths of a dark, forgotten forest, the sharp crack of Apparition tore through the silence like a jagged knife. Voldemort appeared, his long black robes billowing around him, the rain already soaking through the fabric in cold, heavy sheets. He stood at the edge of a clearing, where a crumbling shack leaned against the storm as if ashamed to exist.
Thunder rolled above, a deep, guttural growl that shook the ground. The scent of damp wood, rotting leaves, and old, stagnant magic clung to the air. Rain pelted the earth, mixing with the mud beneath his feet, darkening it, as if the land itself mourned the filth it harbored.
He turned toward the shack.
The Gaunt Shack.
His lip curled at the sight of it—dilapidated, vile, forgotten. A relic of failure. The last gasp of a bloodline that had once whispered Slytherin's name with reverence and power, now reduced to nothing but madness and filth. His ancestors had squandered everything.
But he had used this place well.
His eyes slid to the door, where the dried corpse of a snake still hung—Morfin Gaunt's pathetic warning, preserved by curses that refused to fade. Its clouded eyes seemed to watch him still, frozen in a moment of meaningless defiance.
"Open," he hissed.
The door responded to its long-absent master with a soft click. It creaked open, protesting even in servitude.
Voldemort stepped inside.
The air within the shack was thick—rank with mildew, dust, and something older. Rotting memories clung to the walls like mold. The floor groaned beneath his steps, as if the wood remembered him. Remembered what he had done here.
Nagini slipped from his shoulders, gliding silently across the warped boards. Her scales shimmered faintly in the wandlight as he whispered, "Lumos."
A pale glow spread through the room, casting long shadows across broken furniture and decayed remnants of the past. He ignored them. His eyes found the far wall. He moved swiftly, stepping over shattered glass and twisted beams until he reached a familiar corner.
There, beneath the grime and the rot, he found what he had buried long ago.
He knelt.
His fingers pressed against the cold floorboards, feeling along the edges of memory. With effort, he pried them loose. The wood resisted—just once—but gave way with a reluctant groan, revealing a hollow beneath.
Inside: a small golden tin box.
He lifted it carefully, brushing off the dust with a swipe of his thumb. The chill of the metal seeped into his skin. This place may have rotted—but this, this was untouched. Sacred.
He opened the latch.
Wrapped in delicate golden lace, as if someone had dared to treat it like treasure, was the Gaunt Ring.
His second Horcrux.
The black stone glinted, cold and cursed, nestled in its golden band like an eye that refused to blink. For a long moment, he simply stared. This ring had once represented legacy—his blood, his vengeance, his mastery over death. It had carried a fragment of him. And now... it would carry him again.
No hesitation.
No fear.
He drew his wand and whispered ancient words, unraveling the web of enchantments he himself had once cast. Each spell peeled away with a scream of resistance, dark magic clawing at him, fighting to stay hidden. But his will was iron. He unwound the protections one by one until the last curse broke, its magic dissipating with a hiss like a dying breath.
The ring was ready.
He slid it onto his finger.
The gold settled against his skin—and the change began immediately.
A thick, black smoke oozed from the band. It curled up his arm, writhing like something alive, something sentient. It recognized him. Claimed him. Returned to him.
Then it struck.
With a violent jolt, the soul fragment surged into his body—slamming into his core with a force that shattered his breath.
Voldemort collapsed.
Agony consumed him.
He fell hard to the floor, his fingers clawing at the wood, breath breaking into ragged gasps as every fiber of his being screamed. His body twisted, spasmed, convulsed—as though it were rejecting him, tearing itself apart from within. The soul fragment was not passive. It fought. And in its madness, it brought with it every pain, every scream, every death he had inflicted.
Nagini was beside him instantly, circling tightly, her voice urgent.
"Master?! Master!" she hissed, eyes wide, coiling protectively. "You okay? Speak to me!"
The pain was unlike anything he had ever known.
But he had expected it.
This was the price of making himself whole again.
It wasn't the pain of a curse or a wound—not something inflicted. This was the kind of agony that came from within. From the soul unraveling and rethreading itself. From the ancient magic that clawed at the foundation of who he was and demanded that he become something more—or be destroyed in the attempt.
It was not just pain.
It was transformation.
Tearing and stitching. Burning and reforging. His very essence bent under the weight of returning power, of fragmented soulpieces grinding back into place like stone slabs beneath skin. He had never recovered a Horcrux before. Never tried to reclaim what he had torn away. And now, he understood why.
The Gaunt Ring had held so much of him. A larger shard than any of the others. It had been his second Horcrux—the one he'd imbued with the full might of his lineage, of his father's murder, of his hatred, his pride. A piece of him that had remembered what it was to be Tom Riddle, even as he tried to erase the name.
And now, it was coming back.
Thunder rolled overhead like a growl from the sky itself, shaking the decaying bones of the Gaunt Shack. Rain crashed down in thick, punishing waves, hammering the roof with primal fury. Wind screamed through the cracks in the walls. The storm raged in perfect harmony with the chaos inside.
Voldemort was folded in on himself, knees drawn close, forehead pressed hard against the damp floorboards. His robes clung to his trembling body, soaked in sweat and rain. One hand gripped the warped wood beneath him so tightly that it splintered beneath his fingers, dark slivers driving into his palm—not that he felt them. Not through the storm of agony pulsing through every nerve.
He groaned—low and raw, a sound dredged up from someplace deep, animalistic. It wasn't weakness. It was rebirth.
Nagini, coiled close beside him, lowered her head, her golden eyes wide with unease. Her voice slithered through the static air in a soft hiss. "Master...?"
Voldemort barely moved. He was folded over himself, his forehead pressed against the damp wooden floor, one hand gripping the planks hard enough to splinter them. A deep, guttural groan escaped his lips as another wave of searing pain ripped through him.
Something was happening.
His body was changing.
The thought had been a mere hunch—an experiment, a question of whether absorbing such a large part of his soul would affect him physically. He had anticipated a possible shift in his magic, an adjustment in his mind... but this? This was something entirely different.
His fingers twitched, his breathing unsteady. A strange sensation crawled beneath his skin, spreading through his veins like fire and ice, like something unraveling and rewinding all at once.
He could feel it.
He was becoming something else. Or rather... something he once was.
What felt like hours had passed, the torment slowly dulling from unbearable to something tolerable. The pain had settled to a lingering ache, a distant throb beneath his skin, as if his very essence had been stretched, reshaped, and reforged.
His breathing was slow, controlled, though the weight of exhaustion still clung to him. With effort, he lifted his head and leaned back, his fingers flexing against the floor before pressing against his knees for support.
Nagini, who had been coiled beside him the entire time, lifted her head sharply.
Nagini, still coiled protectively beside him, lifted her head sharply. Her golden eyes locked onto his face—and for the first time in years, they widened not in reverence or obedience, but in shock.
"M-Master..." she hissed, voice trembling with something too close to disbelief, "you... look so... young..."
Voldemort blinked.
His breath caught, chest rising unevenly. His crimson eyes met hers, narrowing.
"Young...?" he echoed, his voice rough—scraped raw from groaning through agony. The syllables dragged over his tongue like unfamiliar garments.
Nagini nodded quickly, slithering closer, her body shifting with visible excitement.
"Yes, Master! So handsome!"
He felt his heartbeat—steady, strong, thudding in his ribs like a war drum. It unnerved him. Not the beat itself, but the fact that he felt it. So distinctly. So fully.
He inhaled, deeper than he had in years, and for a moment, the air didn't taste like death. It tasted like dust and rain and blood. Life.
With sudden urgency, he staggered to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. The strength was there—it had returned—but his muscles had not yet adjusted to the new shape of him. He stumbled forward, catching himself against the mold-eaten wall with a thud.
The room spun briefly. His head swam. Every nerve in his body buzzed with awakening.
His eyes fell on the mirror—old, cracked, crooked on rusted hinges. Its surface was dulled by age and grime. He moved like a man possessed, snatching a soiled cloth from the floor and scrubbing at the glass with trembling hands until the smudges faded.
Then he saw it.
He froze.
The breath left his lungs.
It wasn't Voldemort who stared back at him.
It was someone else.
It was the boy who had once been a prefect. The man who had once charmed professors and preyed on minds with a smile like a knife's edge. The face was angular, symmetrical, beautifully human—strong cheekbones, high brows, jet-black hair falling across his forehead in loose, damp strands. The sharp intelligence in his eyes was still there, but the red had faded, softened to a strange, smoldering garnet that hinted at what lay beneath.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
He hadn't seen this face in over thirty years.
Not since the night he had severed his soul and cursed his body into something monstrous. Not since he had buried that name beneath the banner of Lord Voldemort.
And yet, here it was.
Here he was.
He reached out, fingertips brushing the glass—as if testing whether it were real. The mirror was cold beneath his touch, but the image did not fade. His reflection did not lie.
This was no illusion.
No glamour.
No disguise.
The soul fragment he had taken back from the Gaunt Ring had not simply returned—it had rewritten him. He hadn't just become whole again. He had been reborn.
Behind him, Nagini watched in awe, her coils still, her tongue flicking silently in the charged air.
And Tom Riddle... stared into the eyes of the man he used to be.
The change was surreal—disorienting yet exhilarating—as though he had stepped out of time itself. His body felt younger, stronger, untouched by the dark magic that had once mutilated him. No longer a wraith-like figure molded by immortality's cruel hand, he now bore the face of his past—of the man he had been before Lord Voldemort.
A deep inhale filled his lungs, and for the first time in decades, he felt whole.
"Come, Nagini." His voice was smooth, controlled.
The serpent lifted her head, sensing the shift in him. She slithered up his arm, her cool scales pressing against the warmth of his renewed skin. She was hesitant, perhaps even wary, though she did not question him. He gave her a fleeting glance before turning on the spot.
The world twisted—compressed—before reality stretched back into place, and they appeared outside a quiet, unassuming complex building.
The contrast from where they had been was stark. The Gaunt Shack had been nothing but a rotting corpse of the past, a monument to a name he had long discarded. This place, however, was different.
Tom stood still for a moment, his newly restored body adjusting to the crisp London air. His fingers flexed at his sides, feeling the subtle tension in his muscles, the sharp pulse of energy thrumming beneath his skin. The last remnants of pain had dulled, replaced by a foreign sense of ease—as though time itself had wound backward, restoring him to what he once was.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze toward the brick façade of the building before him.
It was exactly as he had left it. Worn yet sturdy. Timeless in its own way. The architecture blended into the city, unassuming and quiet, a structure that had stood undisturbed through the changing decades. Muggle by design, but beneath its ordinary exterior, it was something more.
His sanctuary.
A refuge carefully woven in magic, hidden from both his enemies and his so-called allies. A place even Dumbledore never discovered.
He exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting upward, past the darkened windows, past the iron-railed balconies, to the very top of the building.
The fourth floor.
His loft awaited.
His hand instinctively went to his pocket, fingers curling around something small, cool, and familiar—a key, aged and worn, its brass surface still marked with the faint engravings of time.
Without another word, he stepped forward.
Tom stepped forward, his polished shoes muffling softly against the damp pavement as he approached the entrance of the building. The street was quiet, save for the distant hum of passing cars, the occasional flicker of a streetlamp cutting through the late evening haze. The cool London air clung to his skin, crisp yet oddly welcoming—a far cry from the stifling, oppressive weight of the Gaunt Shack.
He reached out, his long fingers brushing over the iron handle of the building's door, and with a firm push, he stepped inside.
The interior was dimly lit, the hallways aged but well-maintained, the faint scent of dust and aged brick lingering in the air. It was exactly as he remembered—mundane, unassuming, the kind of place where no one questioned their neighbors.
A perfect hiding place.
Nagini slithered against him, her coils tightening slightly. "No one sees us, Master," she hissed softly, her tone curious.
Tom's lips curled slightly. "They cannot."
The moment he had stepped over the threshold, the wards had already taken effect. The building itself was not hidden, but his presence—his very existence within these walls—was veiled. The magic he had crafted here was an evolution of the Fidelius Charm, but unlike the original spell, there was no Secret-Keeper.
He alone dictated who could perceive what lay beyond these wards.
With steady strides, he began his ascent, moving toward the staircase that wound up through the old brick complex.
The climb was familiar, the sound of his own footfalls against the worn wooden steps eerily grounding. He had walked these halls before, in another life, when he had needed solitude, escape—when he had needed to be something else.
Now, he needed it again.
As he reached the fourth floor, the corridor stretched ahead of him—quiet, untouched. His eyes flickered to the far end, where a single door stood. To any other resident, it was nothing but an empty wall, an unremarkable stretch of stone where no door had ever existed.
But he knew better.
Approaching, he reached into his coat pocket, drawing out the old brass key. Its weight was familiar, grounding, a relic of a time when he had been more than a shadow of his own ambition.
He slid it into the lock.
A soft click.
The magic around the door shifted, the illusion peeling away, revealing the heavy, dark-wood door that had always been there—only hidden.
Tom exhaled through his nose.
He turned the handle and stepped inside.
Tom stepped into the loft, the familiar weight of the door closing behind him with a soft click.
The space was just as he had left it, untouched by time, preserved beneath the layers of magic woven into its very foundation.
The air inside was cool, undisturbed, carrying the faintest traces of aged parchment and old wood—a scent that had not changed despite the years.
His eyes swept across the loft, taking in the sharp contrast of dark and neutral tones. The design was minimalist yet elegant, reflecting his preference for order and control rather than comfort. Everything had its place, and there was no excess.
At the center of the living space sat a rich green velvet sofa, its deep color standing out against the sleek, muted surroundings. It was a relic of a different time, an indulgence he had allowed himself when he first curated this space—a touch of luxury amid the austerity.
The walls were adorned with simple black shelving, lined with old books, a few framed documents, and a scattering of neatly arranged artifacts. Small potted plants rested on the ledges, their presence more for aesthetic balance than sentiment.
Across the open-concept space, the kitchen area was equally refined—dark cabinetry paired with warm wood accents, every surface meticulously arranged. A retro-styled stove and an old white refrigerator stood proudly against the backdrop, untouched by modern technology. Near the counter, an emerald green coffee machine sat on a sleek black shelf, a subtle nod to his preferred drink of choice.
His gaze drifted further, toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the far wall. The city stretched beyond them, London's skyline glowing faintly beneath the overcast night.
Nagini slithered down from his shoulders, gliding across the smooth wooden floors, her tongue flickering as she took in the space.
"It smells the same," she hissed thoughtfully, coiling near the dark, sleek fireplace that remained unlit.
Tom hummed in response, stepping further inside. He let his fingers graze over the back of the sofa, his touch lingering against the fine texture of the fabric.
It was strange.
After all these years, it still felt like his.
Still his sanctuary.
His gaze flickered toward the old 1950s radio that rested on a low wooden table near the bookshelves. It had once been his only connection to the outside world when he wanted to observe from a distance, to listen without being seen.
Without thinking, he lifted his wand with a subtle flick. The old radio whirred to life, a soft static filling the silence before settling on a low, murmuring broadcast.
He exhaled, stepping toward the narrow hallway that led to his bedroom and bath. Everything was still intact—the neatly arranged wardrobe, the unmade bed draped in deep green linens, the glass partitions separating the spaces with modern efficiency.
He had never needed excess—only utility and control.
A slow smirk played on his lips.
This would do.
"Master, are we staying?" Nagini inquired, lifting her head as she observed him.
Tom turned his gaze back to the open space, his dark red eyes glinting in the dim light. A slow smirk tugged at his lips as he exhaled.
"Yes, we are."
With that, he strode toward the bedroom, Nagini slithering behind him, effortlessly gliding up onto the bed as he moved to his built-in wardrobe, seamlessly integrated into the wall.
The dark wooden doors swung open with a subtle creak, revealing neatly arranged clothing, untouched by time. He ran his fingers along the fabric of pressed shirts, folded sweaters, and long coats. It was strange, seeing them all still here—a relic of the past life he had abandoned.
His brows furrowed slightly as he sifted through the garments, brushing aside crisp button-downs and finely woven wool. His fingers paused when they met something distinctly different—a smooth, supple material hidden between the layers of more refined clothing.
Tom's eyes widened slightly as he pulled it forward.
An old black leather jacket.
His leather jacket.
A low hum of amusement escaped him as he ran his hand over the cool surface. He had acquired it sometime in the 1980s, back when he had experimented with blending into Muggle society, keeping himself hidden in plain sight.
"So this is where I left it," he murmured to himself, turning it over in his hands. The leather was still in excellent condition, worn-in but well-preserved, the faint scent of aged material lingering.
Nagini tilted her head, her coils shifting lazily against the deep green sheets of the bed. "It looks odd, Master. Why did you have it?"
"Curiosity," Tom admitted, his tone thoughtful. The Muggle world had once intrigued him—before he had cast aside such trivial distractions in pursuit of his grander ambitions.
He turned toward the window as a deep clap of thunder rumbled outside, shaking the glass slightly. A sigh left his lips.
"Tomorrow, I'll see if it still fits."
Setting the jacket aside, he continued rummaging through the wardrobe, his fingers trailing over folded garments until they landed on something familiarly nostalgic.
A set of green-striped pajamas.
A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he lifted the top, his eyes catching the Slytherin crest still stitched into the fabric.
"Ah... my old school pajamas. Still intact after all these years," he mused, running his fingers over the embroidered emblem.
The past had a strange way of clinging to him, no matter how far he tried to outrun it.
Taking the green-striped pajamas, he tossed them onto the bed, the fabric landing with a soft rustle against the sheets. Turning back to his wardrobe, he sifted through the neatly arranged contents of the lower drawers. His fingers brushed against cool fabric, and with a quiet hum, he pulled out a pair of black silk boxers.
Satisfied, he stepped back, closing the wardrobe doors with a soft click.
From his pocket, he retrieved his trunk, its miniature form fitting easily in his palm. With a flick of his wand, the enchanted luggage expanded to its full size, landing heavily on the floor. He barely spared it a glance before stripping himself of his black robes, allowing them to fall into a heap at his feet. His shoes followed shortly after, leaving him clad only in the crisp, dark shirt and trousers he had worn beneath the heavy outer layer.
Nagini lifted her head slightly from where she had coiled near the pillows, watching his movements with quiet curiosity.
"Stay here, Nagini. I'm going to take a shower."
Without waiting for a response, he strode out of the bedroom, his footsteps silent against the wooden floors as he made his way down the short hall.
The door to his right led to the bathroom, a space he had remodeled himself in the 1990s after an irritating incident with a burst pipe. That had not been a pleasant memory. The mess, the frustration—it had nearly driven him to curse the entire plumbing system out of existence.
Reaching for the handle, he pushed the door open and flicked on the lights. The glow illuminated the sleek black walls, the warm wood accents, and the glass-paneled shower—a deliberate upgrade from the old, outdated fixtures that had originally occupied the space.
He inhaled, exhaling slowly. The day had been long, and though he would never admit it aloud, the strain of reabsorbing a fractured part of his soul had taken more of a toll on his body than he had anticipated.
A hot shower was necessary.
Without another thought, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
Nagini let out a soft sneeze, her slender body shifting as she adjusted her coils atop the bed. The deep green sheets were still faintly warm from Tom's presence, and the velvet beneath her scales was a strange comfort—a fleeting softness in a world that had given her so little. Her tongue flicked out, tasting the air as the storm whispered against the windows, but her mind was elsewhere. Drifting.
Memories bled into one another like watercolors left too long in the rain.
She could still remember what it was like to be human. To stand tall on two legs. To feel the whisper of silk skirts brushing against bare skin. The sensation of wind in her hair. Fingers curling around a cup of tea. Eyes meeting a mirror. A laugh. A breath. A kiss. All of it—distant, yet cruelly close. The memories hadn't faded, not truly. They lingered in her bones, like an echo she could never silence.
But they no longer belonged to her.
The Maledictus curse had made sure of that.
There had been a time, long ago, when she had hoped. A time when she thought maybe—maybe—if she just found the right spell, the right ritual, the right person, she could reverse it. That she could return to the girl she had once been. That her curse didn't have to define her. She had scoured ancient tomes, begged forbidden spirits, whispered prayers to gods she had never believed in. But the magic always said the same thing:
The transformation was final.
It was the price of being born with cursed blood. And she had paid it in full.
Now, she was this. A serpent. A creature. Bound not just by form, but by fate.
Her thoughts slipped, unwillingly, to a name she hadn't dared think of in years.
Credence.
The syllables curled around her thoughts like smoke. He had been the only softness in her final years as a woman. He had seen her—truly seen her—before the change took her. She had left him to protect him. Had vanished before the curse stole everything, afraid that he would try to follow, try to save her. She had hoped he would forget her.
But part of her hoped... he hadn't.
Was he still alive? Had he ever looked for her? Did he remember her name?
A quiet ache threaded through her chest—one she had no name for anymore. She buried it quickly, coiling tighter into herself as if she could squeeze the thought out. There was no point in wondering. No point in hope. Not for someone like her.
Above, the sky grumbled again—low, distant thunder rolling like the slow growl of a sleeping god. The rain had thickened, drumming steadily against the loft's windows, casting streaks of silver down the glass like teardrops the sky had tried to hold back for too long.
Nagini shifted, her golden eyes flicking toward the bathroom door.
She could hear the soft rush of water, the steady rhythm of the shower. He was still in there.
Her Master.
No—Tom.
He had changed. Not just his body—his soul felt... different. Not weak. Not soft. But lighter. She had known him in many forms. She had served the monster, the man, the shadow of both. But this was something new. Something reborn.
And that, more than anything, unsettled her.
She closed her eyes and listened to the rain.
Steam curled in thick waves against the dark walls of the bathroom, cloaking the space in a veil of warmth. Condensation gathered along the sleek black glass of the shower enclosure, while hot water poured in steady rhythm down Tom's skin.
He exhaled slowly, palms pressed flat against the cool tiles in front of him, letting the heat wash over him. Only now did he realize how cold he had truly been.
For years, his body had carried a chill that no fire could thaw—a side effect of his fragmented soul, of the countless rituals and dark magic that had twisted him into something other. He had grown used to it. The numbness. The void. The bone-deep frost that made him more shadow than man.
But now... something had changed.
The warmth seeped deeper, not just into his flesh, but into the hollow places beneath it. There was weight behind his breath again. Color beneath his skin. The reabsorption of the Gaunt Ring Horcrux had begun to mend what had long been shattered.
Lifting a hand, he ran his fingers through his hair, letting the cascade of water stream down his face and back. His gaze dropped absently, eyes trailing the rivulets of water that slid over his chest, down his abdomen—until his fingers brushed against something faint.
A scar.
His hand stilled over it, just above his navel—a small, pale mark, old and barely visible. He can't believe absorbing his horcrux would even bring back this.
He remembered.
A duel. Two twelve year olds. A careless hex cast in anger, wild magic and egos colliding in the Slytherin common room. He had ended up on the floor, blood soaking through his robes, pain sharp and immediate.
And Abraxas Malfoy—young, proud, shocked—had knelt beside him, hands trembling as he tried to stop the bleeding.
It had been the first time anyone in Slytherin had shown him concern. Before the legend. Before the whispers of greatness. Back when he was still Tom Riddle, the orphaned half-blood boy no one wanted to sit beside.
His jaw clenched.
That had changed.
By his fifth year, he had made them fear him. The Basilisk. The Chamber. Parseltongue. His bloodline revealed in full, a descendant of Salazar himself. They had stopped whispering then. They had bowed.
He had forced them to see him.
Tom's fingers curled slightly, tension flickering through his jaw. He exhaled sharply, pushing the memories aside. No use dwelling. The past was behind him—even if it sometimes clung to the skin like old magic.
Reaching for the bottle resting on the shelf, he poured a generous amount of thick, emerald-green shampoo into his palm. The scent—rich, crisp, and herbal—filled the steamy air as he worked it into his hair. His enchantments had preserved everything flawlessly. Not a bottle dried out. Not a seal cracked. As if time itself had been instructed to wait.
But the food...
His lip curled slightly. That, at least, would not have survived. Perishables had their limits, even under stasis charms.
He would have to discard everything.
And then... shop.
The thought soured his mood. He hated grocery shopping. The artificial lights, the mindless chatter, the endless packaging. Mundane, exhausting, beneath him.
Still. It had to be done.
If he was to remain hidden, walking among Muggles as one of them, he would need to adopt their customs. Play the part. Maintain the illusion.
For now, he would allow himself this rare indulgence—hot water, solitude, and the feeling of being whole again.
Stepping out of the bathroom, steam curled around him like a lingering ghost, dissipating into the dimly lit loft. A towel hung loosely at his hips, clinging to the water droplets that still glided over his skin. He ran a hand through his damp, dark hair, pushing it back from his forehead as he stepped into the open space.
Outside, the storm had not relented.
Thunder rumbled low and deep, shaking the bones of the building, while flashes of lightning lit the rain-slicked windows in ghostly pulses. The rhythmic patter of rain against glass was relentless, steady—oddly calming. It filled the silence like a lullaby for the war-torn.
Tom exhaled, rolling his shoulders slowly, letting the cool loft air wrap around his freshly warmed skin. He welcomed the contrast—the sensation of feeling again, of heat and cold and the subtle pull of gravity. He crossed the room toward the bedroom, each step measured, silent.
Nagini stirred.
She lifted her head from where she lay coiled atop the dark green sheets, her golden eyes blinking sleepily before flicking toward him.
"Master..." she hissed, her voice low and casual, "can I have a rabbit?"
He paused.
Of all the things she could have said, he hadn't expected that. And for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, his expression shifted—not a sneer, not a smirk, but a smile. Small. Genuine. Fleeting, yet real.
"Sure," he murmured.
He picked up his wand from the bed, giving it a simple flick.
With a muted pop, a plump brown rabbit appeared on the hardwood floor—its tiny body frozen in fear, nose twitching rapidly as it tried to comprehend its sudden shift in reality.
Nagini was a blur.
She launched from the bed with fluid precision, striking with all the elegance and lethality of a serpent who had hunted all her life. There was no scream. No noise at all. Just a brief convulsion of the rabbit's limbs—and then, stillness.
Tom watched with detached interest.
Predator and prey.
The world in perfect, brutal order.
Another rumble of thunder passed over the city as he turned away. His bare feet moved silently across the smooth wood floor as he reached for his black silk boxers. He slipped them on without pause, then gathered his green-striped pajama set from the bed.
The fabric was soft against his skin. Familiar. The silver accents caught the faint light as he buttoned the top with calm precision, as though nothing in the world required haste anymore.
Nagini was already back on the bed, her powerful body coiling in rhythmic waves as she slowly began to swallow her prey. Her muscles rippled beneath her glistening scales with each practiced movement. Tom didn't watch. He'd seen it all before.
Crossing into the living area, he passed the velvet-green couch and stepped into the kitchen. The silence hung heavy around him, broken only by the storm beyond and the subtle hum of magic still woven into the walls.
His gaze drifted over the appliances.
Retro. Elegant. Practical. Aesthetic by design.
The stove gleamed under the soft kitchen light, its vintage dials and knobs still perfectly intact. The white-and-chrome refrigerator stood like a sentinel, untouched by time. And the old 1950s radio sat on its shelf like an artifact—still warm from earlier use, still whispering static and low, murmuring broadcasts into the quiet.
Tom's fingers tapped against his chin.
It had once pleased him to surround himself with relics. With echoes of decades long passed. They had suited him—timeless, untouchable, always in control.
But now...
He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing at the stubborn refrigerator that hadn't changed since the Kennedy administration.
"I think I need to update my appliances," he muttered.
Pausing before the fridge, Tom braced himself.
He hadn't opened it in decades. Whatever lay inside would be far from edible—possibly even unrecognizable. With a firm grip, he pulled the door open.
A musty wave of cold air hit him at once, tinged with the sour staleness of time left unchecked. He wrinkled his nose as he examined the contents. On the top shelf, a few preserved potion bottles stood upright like forgotten sentinels. Along the door, jars of unidentifiable substances remained sealed, their labels faded beyond readability. The rest—whatever had once been food—had rotted into colorless mush or hardened into fossilized decay.
His lip curled in disgust.
With a flick of his wand, the entire contents vanished in a silent puff of air. The fridge stood empty, sterile, cold.
He exhaled slowly.
Tomorrow, he would have to leave. He would have to step back into the world.
Into Muggle London.
He hadn't walked its streets in years. He had avoided it for reasons both strategic and personal. But now, it would serve as the perfect place to blend, to observe, to exist without expectation. His return would be quiet, clean... unnoticed.
Closing the fridge, Tom turned, his sharp gaze scanning the rest of the kitchen.
With another flick of his wand, the upper cabinets opened in synchronized precision. Their contents greeted him with dust, rust, and expiration—rows of canned goods, boxes long past their prime, forgotten attempts at convenience.
Another flick—gone.
Even the coffee.
The glass container that sat beside his retro emerald-green coffee maker vanished without ceremony. He hadn't tasted coffee in decades. He had once been methodical, even in his comforts. Morning rituals, carefully timed—before everything he was became consumed by darker things.
But now...
Now, he was hungry.
His steps were quiet as he crossed the room, drawn toward the large floor-to-ceiling window. He placed a hand against the cold glass and looked out over the city below.
London at night shimmered beneath him, a web of golden lights and neon veins, its breath still fogged from the rain. The storm had passed, but thunder still rumbled softly, echoing across rooftops like a memory too stubborn to fade.
Then, he saw it.
A small, boxy car pulled up to the curb across the street. The glowing "PIZZA" sign atop its roof flickered faintly as the delivery boy stepped out, holding a large cardboard box and a two-liter bottle of cola in his arms.
Tom tilted his head, eyes narrowing.
A pizza delivery. How... convenient.
A smirk touched his lips—small, amused, entirely unholy.
The last time he had eaten Muggle food—true Muggle food—had been sometime in the early '80s. A moment of careless curiosity, a silent evening spent tasting the world through someone else's lens. He had forgotten what it felt like to indulge in the utterly mundane.
Why not... just this once?
He unlatched the window and pushed it open, letting the cool night air spill into the loft. Lifting his wand, he narrowed his eyes and whispered the incantation.
"Imperio."
The effect was immediate.
The teenager below stopped mid-step. His shoulders slackened. The tension drained from his limbs. His fingers tightened around the pizza box and soda bottle, his face now slack and empty of thought.
Tom's magic snaked out like a thread, invisible and absolute. He guided the boy's movements with ease, manipulating limbs like a puppeteer.
Down below, the delivery boy moved without question. He approached the building's entrance, bent down, and placed the food neatly on the stoop.
"Now, return to your car," Tom murmured from four stories up, the words sliding through the boy's thoughts like silk.
Without hesitation, the teen straightened, turned, and walked stiffly back to his vehicle. The car started, headlights flaring against the rain-wet pavement. A moment later, he was gone, tail lights disappearing into the London night.
Tom released the spell.
He chuckled softly.
"Accio pizza. Accio soda."
The cardboard box and the bottle lifted cleanly from the stoop, floating upward through the open window and into the loft like obedient guests.
For a moment, Tom simply stood there, hand resting on the windowsill, watching the storm clouds drift across the skyline. The scent of cheese and herbs was already filling the air—foreign, artificial, and strangely comforting.
He turned toward the kitchen, the box trailing behind him in midair.
Tomorrow, he would shop like a Muggle.
Tonight, he would eat like one.
Setting the box and bottle down onto the dark counter, Tom flicked the lid open with a smooth motion. Immediately, the rich aroma poured into the air—melted cheese, savory tomato sauce, and the earthy, spiced scent of double pepperoni mingled with mushrooms. The smell was bold, almost vulgar in its strength, yet... oddly welcoming.
Double pepperoni with mushrooms.
A peculiar choice. He hadn't selected it, of course, but fate—or the poor boy's customer—had done so for him.
His lips twitched slightly at the thought. Mhm. Not bad.
Sliding into one of the kitchen chairs—simple, black metal with a green cushion—he reached for the bottle and twisted the cap with ease. A soft hiss escaped as carbonation broke free, the scent of sugar and chemicals rising in a sharp rush. He poured the soda into a glass, watching the dark liquid swirl, bubbles rising to the surface in a chaotic dance.
For a long moment, he simply... watched.
The simplicity of it—soda fizzing in a glass, pizza steaming in a cardboard box—was surreal. A warlord seated in silence, contemplating fizzy drinks and takeout like a man without a past. But he wasn't here to conquer tonight. He was here to remember.
"It's been forever since I had pizza..." he muttered aloud, voice low. "I think the last time was in the early '80s."
He lifted the glass, swirling it once, then sipped. The sharp sweetness hit his tongue like a jolt of lightning—sharp, cloying, sticky with memory.
"Even soda..." he added thoughtfully, eyes distant. "Last time I tried a glass version was... back in the '40s."
The words lingered in the air, not meant for anyone but himself.
And yet, a memory stirred.
A much younger Tom Riddle, freshly graduated from Hogwarts, sitting in this very loft with a borrowed newspaper and a curious slice of pizza—stiff, oily, utterly strange. He hadn't enjoyed it. Not then. But he had been fascinated. By how ordinary people gathered around it, laughed over it, treated it like a small ritual. A comfort.
Now, decades later, he found himself doing the same.
Not out of necessity. Not for study.
But because he could.
Because his body, once corrupted by dark magic and fractured souls, now hungered. It craved. It remembered.
He reached for a slice, lifting it slowly. The cheese stretched, the crust still warm. With a quiet breath, he bit into it.
It was imperfect.
Greasy. Salty. Rich.
And strangely... satisfying.
The faint chirping of birds filtered through the loft's sealed windows, mingling with the distant hum of early morning city life. Somewhere far below, the world had begun to stir—cars, footsteps, morning radios, the breath of London rising with the sun.
Golden light crept across the floor in slanted streaks, touching the edges of sleek dark wood and modern furnishings. The soft glow warmed the space in a way that felt strange... almost foreign. It painted the sharp lines of the room with something softer, more human.
It was 8 a.m.
Beneath the deep green covers, Tom stirred.
His body shifted slowly, the familiar sensation of wakefulness arriving not as a jolt, but as a gentle ascent. His breathing remained even, his pulse steady. There was no weight in his chest. No dull ache in his bones. No cold lingering in his veins.
His eyes cracked open, narrowing slightly against the pale morning light.
And for the first time in decades... he felt rested.
Not just physically—but truly rested. He didn't rise with tension in his jaw or spells on the tip of his tongue. He hadn't been hunted in dreams, hadn't woken drenched in cold sweat or burdened with the echo of ancient magic. He had simply... slept.
Had he ever slept like this before? The thought came and went, too quiet to grasp.
Before he could dwell on it, movement stirred beside him.
A familiar weight slid across the bed, smooth and deliberate. Nagini's cool body glided over the blankets and across his chest, coiling herself with casual precision as her golden eyes peered down at him.
"Master," she hissed softly, her voice a gentle prod. "Time to get up."
Tom inhaled deeply, exhaling through his nose in a long, controlled breath. He wasn't sure what surprised him more—the fact that it was already morning, or that he had allowed himself to sleep through it.
He shifted slightly beneath the covers, lifting one arm to rest across his forehead before letting it drop. His other hand moved without thought, fingers trailing absently along Nagini's body, brushing over her scales in long, absent strokes.
"Is it?" he murmured, his voice still low, thick with the weight of sleep.
"Yes," she confirmed, tongue flicking out with quiet urgency. "And you said you were going out today."
His eyes drifted toward the tall windows.
Soft light streamed in, catching dust motes that hung like tiny ghosts in the air. The city beyond looked calm for once—quiet, gray, touched by the kind of golden haze that only lasted a short while before the world turned too loud again.
Tom gave a low hum, not quite agreement, not quite protest.
It was a new day.
And unlike so many before it, this one did not begin with war.
It didn't take him long to rise, wash up, and dress for the day.
He moved with quiet efficiency, each motion deliberate, precise. After selecting his attire from the preserved wardrobe, he donned a deep green business suit—tailored, sleek, and refined, a garment that spoke volumes without a single word. It hugged his frame with exactness, the rich fabric clinging to the sharp lines of his shoulders and tapering down his form with near regal precision.
He examined himself in the mirror, adjusting the cuffs. His fingers moved confidently, smoothing the fabric into place.
A faint smirk touched his lips.
Of course, it still fit.
Beneath the suit, he fastened polished black shoes—classically styled, glossy, and unmarred by time. Over his ensemble, he slipped on a long, cape-like cloak in deep black, the weight of it draping across his shoulders like a living shadow. As it settled, he stood straighter, taller—complete.
From the dresser, he reached for a sleek glass bottle—Oasis Oud by Eau De Parfum.
He pressed the nozzle once, releasing a controlled burst.
The scent curled through the air, instantly rich and intoxicating. Raspberry leaf and delicate peony danced on top, veiling the deeper tones—oud, patchouli, and warm cedar—an unmistakable blend of refinement and power. It was the fragrance of someone who knew how to command a room without raising his voice.
He breathed it in, pleased.
Finally, he picked up the Gaunt family ring and slid it onto his finger. The cold gold pressed against his skin like a weight of memory—a reminder of lineage, of power born and taken. Then his hand swept to the interior of his cloak, fingers checking the hidden holster beneath the fabric.
His wand slid into place—concealed, but never out of reach.
He turned toward the couch.
Nagini remained coiled there, comfortably relaxed across the velvet cushions. Her golden eyes blinked slowly as she watched him prepare.
"You must stay here," Tom said, fastening the last of his buttons. "I have business at Gringotts—I need to withdraw some funds."
Nagini lifted her head slightly, flicking her tongue with amusement. "Very well, Master. No need to give me a rabbit—I am still rather full."
He gave a single nod in response, then crossed to the door.
His fingers curled briefly around the brass key in his pocket—the symbol of this hidden life, of this quiet return.
And with that, he stepped into the corridor.
It was time to return to the wizarding world as Tom Marvolo Riddle.
With a sharp turn on the spot, the air around him twisted and compressed. The comforting dimness of his loft vanished—replaced by the sudden pulse of bustling energy, color, and magic.
He reappeared in a shadowed alcove just off the main street, where the warped bricks of a long-forgotten storefront formed a curtain between him and the world. The stone beneath his boots was cool, uneven, humming softly with the residual magic that saturated the alley.
Diagon Alley.
For the first time in decades, he stood once more at the heart of wizarding commerce—not as Lord Voldemort, not as a face to be feared, but as Tom Marvolo Riddle. A man thought long gone. A ghost reborn.
He inhaled deeply.
The air was thick with scents—fresh parchment from the bookstore, warm bread from a corner bakery, the sharp spice of burning incense curling from the nearby apothecary. It was familiar... and yet, foreign. Like stepping into a memory viewed through frosted glass.
Stepping forward, the hem of his black cloak swept silently across the worn cobblestones. The alley was alive—shops glowed with enchantments, window displays twinkled with magical wares, and the steady flow of witches and wizards filled the morning air with motion and conversation.
Children tugged at parents' robes. Storefront bells jingled. A street performer levitated a stack of enchanted juggling wands for tips.
And no one noticed him.
No gasps. No double takes. No widened eyes of fear.
He passed unseen.
His youthful face, untouched by the corruption that once disfigured him, was unknown. He looked like any other well-dressed, sharp-eyed wizard in his late twenties. Polished. Poised. Mysterious.
A slow smirk touched his lips. How ironic.
The anonymity suited him—for now.
His destination loomed ahead: Gringotts.
Raising his chin slightly, he moved with purpose toward the white marble tower at the far end of the alley. The bank, as imposing as ever, stood like a bastion of wizarding power—unchanging, untouched by time. Its massive doors flanked by goblin guards, its arched windows watching the alley like eyes that never blinked.
Two armored goblins stood at the top of the stairs, their axes polished, their expressions unreadable. As Tom ascended the steps, one of them turned its head toward him. Its beady eyes narrowed, sensing something—something ancient, something wrong—but before suspicion could form into accusation, Tom passed through the threshold.
And stepped into the gleaming marble halls of Gringotts Wizarding Bank.
Inside, chandeliers of wrought iron and crystal shimmered overhead, casting a golden glow over the expansive chamber. Rows of goblins perched at their towering mahogany desks, scribbling in enchanted ledgers, weighing gemstones on brass scales, counting stacks of galleons with long, clawed fingers. The scent of parchment and metal hung in the air.
It looked the same. But grander.
He did not hesitate.
Without a word, he strode toward one of the vacant tellers, his footsteps soft, his presence sharp.
Griphook looked up from his ledger, sharp ink-stained quill momentarily stilled in his clawed fingers. His narrowed eyes flicked toward the tall figure approaching the counter—expression unreadable until they locked onto the man's face. Recognition dawned swiftly, and with it, surprise.
"Ah... Mr. Riddle," the goblin said slowly, his voice laced with curiosity and something sharper, like interest laced with caution. "I see you have... regained your youth."
Tom merely inclined his head in acknowledgment, letting the weight of his presence speak for him. He remained silent, allowing the goblin to continue at his own pace.
Griphook, ever perceptive, leaned forward slightly, long fingers drumming against the polished mahogany. "How may I assist you today? A vault withdrawal? Deposit? I should inform you, you've missed quite a few of our updated policies and communications. We've attempted to contact you via owl since the late 1980s... but I imagine those never reached you."
Tom's crimson-tinged eyes narrowed faintly, but he answered evenly. "No, they did not."
"Indeed. Then allow me to explain," Griphook continued, his tone shifting to one of well-practiced formality. "We have introduced a new system of currency management, inspired in part by Muggle financial technology. It's a method of convenience: a magically bound, goblin-enchanted artifact based on their 'credit cards.'"
The goblin reached beneath the counter, retrieving a thick stack of parchment bound in black ribbon. "With your permission, we can bind a card directly to your vault—no need for frequent visits or to carry heavy bags of Galleons. The card works seamlessly at all wizarding establishments and several vetted Muggle ones as well. Would this interest you?"
Tom paused. The idea—though foreign in concept—was not unwelcome. He had seen Muggles using plastic cards with alarming efficiency. And now, a magical equivalent?
Discreet. Efficient. Convenient.
"I have seen Muggles use them before," he murmured, almost to himself. "Yes... very well. Proceed."
Griphook's grin sharpened. He placed the paperwork on the counter with precision and slid it forward. "Please review and sign, Mr. Riddle. The enchantments are already in place. Your signature will bind the card to your magical identity and vault security sigil."
Tom took the documents in hand, scanning the finely printed runes and paragraphs with a quick, discerning eye. Every line was clear, every enchantment well-crafted. It seemed the goblins had truly embraced modernization, even if done quietly beneath the notice of most of the wizarding world.
He reached for the elegant raven-feather quill Griphook provided and, with a flourish, signed his name in his infamous, fluid script:
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
The ink shimmered gold for a moment before absorbing into the page.
Griphook took the parchment back with a satisfied nod, already sliding it into a silver-rimmed tray that vanished with a pulse of magic. "Excellent, Mr. Riddle. Your card will be ready in moments. One of our forging goblins is crafting it now. Would you like it charmed with Muggle-concealment and self-returning properties?"
"Yes," Tom replied simply.
A minute later, a gleaming card—golden and perfectly polished—floated back through the air and landed gently on the counter.
Griphook gestured toward it proudly. "Your Gringotts Gold Enchanted Credit Card. Forged in dragon gold and bonded with your signature magic. It will always return to you if lost. It will only respond to your magical signature and cannot be copied or cursed."
Tom picked up the card between two fingers, the weight satisfying and the metal cool against his skin. His name was etched boldly across the bottom: TOM M. RIDDLE. The raised lettering gleamed in the light of the enchanted chandelier overhead.
His smile was thin, but genuine.
"Very efficient," he said quietly, fingers brushing once more over the polished gold surface of the card before sliding it into the inner pocket of his cloak.
Griphook nodded deeply, a glint of pride shimmering in his narrow eyes. "Gringotts, after all... is timeless. And we've had some powerful encouragement to ensure we remain so."
Tom's brow lifted slightly.
"The Magical Royal Family," the goblin continued, tone dropping just enough to signify both respect and caution. "They've recently mandated a complete modernization initiative. Magical card readers are being installed in every magical town—Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley, even some outposts in the French and Nordic territories. And imagine my surprise," he added, a sharp-toothed grin pulling at the corners of his mouth, "when Knockturn Alley complied without protest."
Tom stilled. "Even Knockturn Alley?"
"Oh yes," Griphook said with a low chuckle. "Even your old employers at Borgin and Burkes agreed. Took a bit of convincing, but apparently, someone from the Royal Treasury paid them a little visit. After that, the enchantments went up overnight."
There was something almost amused in the goblin's eyes now—clearly enjoying the idea of the most stubborn and shadowy corner of wizarding commerce bowing to progress under the royal family's watchful eye.
Tom tilted his head slightly, lips curling into a thoughtful, almost nostalgic smirk. "Hmph. They always did know how to survive."
"As do you, Mr. Riddle," Griphook replied, inclining his head in a small but respectful bow. His long, bony fingers tapped once against the polished wood of the desk as he leaned forward slightly. "This card functions much like a Muggle credit card, but with goblin enchantments," he explained, his voice low and crisp. "It links directly to your Gringotts vault—no need to withdraw physical currency unless you choose to. It is accepted across all magical shops within the wizarding world, and in Muggle establishments that have been integrated into the magical banking network."
Tom took the card in his gloved hand and studied it for a moment longer. The enchanted gold shimmered faintly, not unlike dragonhide catching firelight, before he slipped it into the inner lining of his cloak. A sleek, efficient addition to his arsenal of control and convenience. "And what of my vault balance?" he asked coolly.
Griphook gave a short, knowing smile. "Your vault remains precisely as you left it. No withdrawals have been made since the early 1980s. However, thanks to accumulated interest, magical bonds, and long-term investments tied to numerous properties and international contracts—each under your pseudonyms—your wealth has grown substantially. In fact, you remain among the most profitable and discreet clients in Gringotts' recorded history." His sharp eyes flicked up. "You are, after all, the Heir of Slytherin. And now... the last living heir."
A quiet hum of satisfaction rose from Tom's throat. He had planned well. Even in his pursuit of power and immortality, he had not neglected the importance of financial security. While others chased influence through brute force and political maneuvering, he had invested in silent dominance—businesses, landholdings, vaults buried beneath names long scrubbed from public record. The war had cost him many things—but his gold? That had remained untouched.
The goblin tapped his nails once more, awaiting instruction. "Will you be making a withdrawal today, Mr. Riddle?"
Tom paused briefly, considering it, before shaking his head. "No need. I assume the card is already active?"
Griphook nodded. "Fully functional. It will work anywhere immediately. Additionally, it may be used at specially marked ATMs—Muggle machines that have been enchanted with concealment sigils. Only witches or wizards can see the magical indicators. You may withdraw up to five hundred Galleons per day from these ATMs, converted directly into Muggle currency if necessary. The card itself adapts automatically."
Tom's eyes gleamed faintly with intrigue as he pulled his black gloves back on, smoothing the leather with precise motions. "Very well. Then we are finished here."
"Should you require anything else, Mr. Riddle," Griphook said with a slight bow, "you need only return. Or, if discretion is preferred, send word through the Royal Courier network. They handle high-security clients directly."
Tom gave a nod of acknowledgment before turning away from the desk. The hem of his cloak flowed like ink behind him as he crossed the marble floor of Gringotts, stepping beneath the glow of floating chandeliers and the vigilant eyes of goblin guards. As he exited through the great doors and into the morning bustle of Diagon Alley, the polished card now resting securely in his inner pocket, he felt something he hadn't felt in a long time.
Prepared.
And very much in control.
Tom stepped out of Gringotts with quiet grace, the weight of his new Gringotts credit card settling against the fabric of his tailored inner coat. The golden surface had gleamed with silent authority—a symbol of wealth, power, and the unbroken ties he still held to the ancient bloodlines of magic. As the heavy doors shut behind him, he paused just beyond the threshold, letting the cool breeze of mid-morning stir the edge of his cloak. The scent of rain lingered faintly in the cobbled air, mingling with freshly baked bread, crushed herbs, and hints of wand polish from nearby shops.
He adjusted the drape of his cloak with a subtle flick, ensuring the wand nestled within the concealed holster remained undisturbed. His gaze swept over the alley with dispassionate calm. It was still early—many witches and wizards were only just beginning their errands. Children tugged at their parents' robes in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies, while flustered shopkeepers arranged displays of magical wares in their storefronts.
No one noticed him. No one recognized him.
And that, more than anything, pleased him.
His polished shoes echoed softly against the uneven cobblestones as he began a slow, deliberate walk down the alley. The chatter around him rose and fell like waves—unimportant, mundane. But one thought nestled at the edge of his consciousness like a whisper he couldn't ignore.
Perhaps he should pay a visit to an old acquaintance.
His lips twitched into a subtle smirk.
Borgin and Burkes.
His first real employment in the magical world. Before the rise of the Dark Lord. Before the world knew his name in fear and reverence. The shop had once fascinated him with its quiet menace, its array of cursed artifacts, and its disregard for the morality that governed lesser minds. He had learned a great deal there. About power. About secrecy. About control.
And curiosity—yes, it tugged at him now. Were the same relics still on display? Did the current owner still cower at the mention of certain names? Had the shop evolved... or had it decayed?
Either way, it was worth a look.
He pivoted at the next turn, slipping down a narrower path that split from the main thoroughfare. The cobbles here were darker, the buildings older, and the magic in the air thicker. A thin fog clung to the edges of the alley, as if whispering secrets through the cracks in the stone.
Knockturn Alley.
Still as grim as he remembered. Still perfect.
He let the smirk linger on his lips as he stepped forward—only to collide with someone.
A sudden thud followed, and a boy went crashing to the ground with a groan, landing hard on his arse.
"Son of a bit—" the boy hissed, clutching his head.
Tom's eyes widened slightly, pausing to look down at him.
The boy on the ground groaned and muttered to himself, "Fuck... why are you... so pissed..." rubbing at his forehead, his fingers brushing against the lightning bolt scar.
From somewhere in the distance—muffled through the Floo Network—came faint, panicked voices:
"Harry, where are you?!"
The boy winced. "I bet he mispronounced again using the Floo," he grumbled to himself.
Tom watched him carefully.
Harry Potter stood up slowly, brushing himself off—only to turn and come face to face with him. His green eyes locked onto Tom's features and immediately went wide. His body froze, and for a heartbeat, he didn't breathe.
Tom narrowed his gaze. "Potter."
Harry's mouth opened slightly, his voice coming out hoarse and shaky. "R-Riddle..."
Tom's eyes narrowed more. Of course. The diary. He had learned it was destroyed. And Lucius had paid the price. No doubt the boy would recognize him—especially when he looked identical to the memory Harry had encountered. That sixteen-year-old version of himself... unchanged, alive, and now standing right in front of him.
Harry's hand twitched toward his wand. "H-How... did you... are you using a glamor?"
Tom simply stared. "No." He folded his arms under the drape of his cloak, tone calm and sharp. "Relax, Potter. I'm not in the mood to hunt or kill you."
Harry blinked, confused, still on edge.
"You... what?"
"You can relax this summer," Tom continued, his voice low and even. "And maybe sixth year. As far as the idiotic Lucius Malfoy knows... I'm in Ireland. On a mission."
Harry blinked, clearly struggling to make sense of the situation unraveling before him. His breath came in shallow bursts, eyes locked onto the man he knew should not exist like this—not whole, not young, not normal.
Tom's gaze flicked once more to the boy's hand, which still hovered too close to his wand. There was no tension in Tom's voice when he spoke again, only the faintest trace of amusement laced beneath the calm.
"If you're planning to hex me, at least do it properly," he said, voice smooth and unbothered. "You look like you're going to faint."
Harry quickly withdrew his hand, caught in a tug-of-war between fear and reason.
Tom stepped past him, his movements deliberate and fluid, the edges of his black cloak brushing lightly against Harry's shoulder as he walked deeper into the fog-shrouded alley.
But just before the shadows could claim him, he stopped—his voice low, cold, and unmistakably final.
"Tell no one you saw me. I want my vacation free of idiotic followers and Order... you."
Then he was gone, swallowed by the mist, leaving Harry standing alone beneath the flickering gaslight—bewildered, shaken, and completely uncertain of what had just happened.
"Harry! There you are!" Hermione's voice rang out as she rushed over, worry etched clearly across her face. She skidded to a stop beside him, her eyes scanning him from head to toe. "School let out early and the first place we Floo'd to from the Burrow was—well, here! And you weren't answering!"
Ron came jogging after her, blinking in confusion. "Mate, you alright? Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?"
Harry turned to them slowly, still looking a bit dazed. He opened his mouth, then paused, as though the words were still trying to find their way out.
"I just... came face to face with him," he said at last, his voice quiet.
Hermione's breath hitched. Ron's expression dropped.
"He was right here," Harry continued, motioning vaguely to the alley behind him. "He looked... human. So human. Like—like the diary version, only real. Solid. Alive."
Hermione and Ron stared at him, eyes wide.
"And he didn't even raise his wand," Harry added, bewildered. "Didn't cast anything. He just... looked at me. Told me not to tell anyone I saw him. Said something about wanting a vacation. I think he was being serious."
"A vacation?!" Hermione squeaked.
Ron looked like someone had smacked him in the back of the head with a Beater's bat. "Wait—so he's just... giving up? No more hunting you? No more Avada Kedavra attempts?"
Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair—then gave them a small, tired smile.
"No more hunting me," he said, half relieved, half in disbelief. "No more trying to kill me. Please tell me that means I finally get some nightmare-free nights, yeah?"
Ron was still gaping. "So what—he's just... on holiday now?"
Hermione looked like her brain was spinning through five different theories at once, but even she couldn't form a full sentence yet.
Harry just shook his head. "I don't know. But he said he was going to Ireland. As far as Lucius Malfoy knows, anyway. And for some reason... I believe him."