Chapter Text
Hermione, Harry and Ron’s fifth year had been positively horrid. It had begun with Harry’s story of the graveyard and Voldemort’s return. Whispers of lunatic and liar followed the trio’s every step. Then, Professor Umbridge, that toad, had been appointed to Hogwarts and Dumbledore forced into hiding. She had passed decree after decree, spreading her control over the school and squashing anything and everything that made life at Hogwarts fun. At least Harry had finally mastered occlumency, after one terrifying afternoon where he had seen a vision of Voldemort torturing Sirius in the Department of Mysteries. He had broken into Umbridge’s office and contacted Sirius through the fire, only to find him sitting in the kitchen, completely unharmed and berating Kreacher for injuring Buckbeak.
To compound this, a secret dungeon deep within the school called the Chamber of Secrets had been opened for the first time in over fifty years. Muggle-borns had been petrified left and right until finally the board of governors decided that the only person who had a chance at stopping all this was Dumbledore, and Umbridge had been removed from the castle, her bags thrown unceremoniously out of the doors behind her. The last week of term had been joyous: Dumbledore had returned, the attacks had ceased and the victims had been un-petrified. The castle had been celebrating wildly and even the professors joined in with the revelry. However, everyone, caught up in their delight, had promptly forgotten that the culprit responsible for opening the Chamber may still be walking among them.
On the very last day of school, a group of second-year Hufflepuffs’ excitement over the approaching holidays was dampened only slightly by the mysterious absence of their friend, Harper Greenford. Her bed had appeared untouched when her dormmates had woken up for breakfast (which was odd, as she was not known to be an early riser), and nobody had seen her since.
—
Listening to a little girl’s troubles had been so very boring. She’d complained about painfully trivial matters such as the amount of homework Professor McGonagall assigned and how she worried that her friends were talking about her behind her back, but Tom had been patient, he’d been kind. He’d written back to her and given his sympathies, gaining her trust. How dreadful all that sounds, he wrote. Wasn’t she glad that she had a friend she could confide in?
It was worth it, after all. Every day that she poured her soul into him he grew stronger, and in turn he poured a little of his own back into her, slowly taking control. He’d made her kill the roosters, whose cries could kill his basilisk; and release the beast onto her Mudblood peers. Finally, right at the end of the term, he’d made her descend into the Chamber herself so that his resurrection could be completed.
Tom stood in the middle of the dim Chamber. One could hardly believe that this place, with its moss-covered walls and damp, earthy scent was once the lair of Salazar Slytherin, the greatest wizard of all time. The crumpled form of the girl lay at his feet. Her brown hair fanned out beneath her where she lay, and the grimy floor had left dark smudges across her pale skin. The beating in her chest had ceased, and her body grew cold; meanwhile Tom’s veins flowed with blood for the first time in fifty years and it was a glorious thing to finally have a form. He’d been trapped inside that godforsaken diary for the better half of a century, but no longer.
He picked up her wand and twirled it in his fingers, marvelling at the feeling of the cool wood against his skin. He pointed the wand towards the far end of the Chamber and shot a curse at the enormous wall. He let out a cold laugh as fragments of stone exploded in the distance, and his exhilaration only swelled as he shot spell after spell into the darkness.
“FINALLY,” he cried, savouring the way it echoed around him. Finally … Finally … Finally ...
“I am Lord Voldemort, heir to Salazar Slythern, and this world will be mine.”
Tom had been planning his return since he’d been awoken when the girl had started writing in his diary, but he still hadn’t decided what to do about the other Lord Voldemort. He had pushed the Harper girl to tell him as much about the modern wizarding world as she knew. It seemed that after he had split his soul into the diary, the later-Tom had begun to amass a following of dark witches and wizards and attempted to conquer Britain. He had disappeared following his attempt to kill the Harry Potter boy, but despite what the young girl had written, Tom was sure that Voldemort hadn’t actually died. Tom could seek him out and the two of them would make a powerful team, that was certain - they would be unstoppable. But would the other Lord ever share his power? Would Tom himself be willing to share?
For now, he would watch over the Potter boy and attempt to discern why he posed such a threat to the Dark Lord’s power, as the boy may prove to be a threat to Tom as well - or even a potential ally. For that, Tom would have to return to Hogwarts. He supposed it was inevitable anyhow; despite being trapped in that horrid diary for fifty years, Tom was still merely sixteen. He had no money, no home, and he suspected that he may still carry the Trace.
Tom’s stomach twisted with shame to admit it, but he had spent the past year thinking about the castle almost as much as he had dreamed about his plans for ascending to power. Although bored by his pathetic peers who could barely tell a Red Cap from a Hinkypunk, Tom missed his lessons. He missed being a prefect - the first role of responsibility he’d ever been trusted with. He especially missed the library, with its towering shelves of books that whispered with centuries of knowledge. He would spend hours there, pouring through books, and no one would dare interrupt him. Hogwarts was his home, and he was looking forward to his return.
—
The sun had long disappeared below the horizon on the last night of the school year, yet instead of relaxing with a hot cup of cocoa, Albus was pacing around his study. His old Persian rugs practically had a path worn into them from his years of walking to and fro.
A letter lay open on his desk, its lines of frantic writing smudged by worried teardrops and shaking hands. It was from the parents of a second-year student called Harper Greenford, who had written to Albus about how their daughter had not returned back on the Hogwarts Express.
He had ordered a thorough search of the school and the grounds, yet she was nowhere to be found.
The girl was a half-blood but still Albus suspected that her disappearance must be connected to the Chamber of Secrets. After all, the culprit had not been caught despite the recent lull in attacks. It seemed impossible for the school to reopen the following year while the heir of Slytherin may still be hiding within the midst of the innocent students.
The Ministry of Magic would have to be contacted the following morning if the girl still hadn’t been found, and arrangements would have to be made for the fate of the school and its students. Albus’ heart ached for his pupils; they had been through so much already.
His anxious pacing was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was rare for one of the teachers to call on him so late at night unless there was an emergency.
“Come in,” he called, seating himself behind his large oak desk and interlocking his fingers. The portraits on the walls hastily adopted acts of sleep, although their snores were slightly too loud to be believed.
Across the threshold stepped a tall teenage boy with neatly combed dark hair, high cheekbones, and eyes that were as dark as the night sky outside. Albus supposed he must have drunk a few too many goblets of Madam Rosmerta’s delicious mulled mead at the leaving feast because this boy looked like … But it wasn’t possible …
“Good evening, Sir,” said the boy in that cold voice that had haunted Albus for the better half of the last century. “I suppose you remember me? I’m not surprised that they named you Headmaster after Dippet.”
The horribly familiar individual sat down in the chair before the desk, uninvited, and watched Albus carefully, his face betraying nothing of his intentions. Despite the warm June weather, it felt as if a gust of icy wind had been let into the study.
The hair on the back of Albus’ neck stuck up and he felt as though something cold were trickling down his spine. Little surprised Albus anymore, but this, the renewed existence of this boy - it shocked him.
“Tom Riddle,” uttered Albus in a soft voice that threatened to shake. “Ah, but that is not possible. Tom Riddle grew into Lord Voldemort a long time ago.”
“Yes, I thought we might face some confusion there, so I’ve come to explain,” Tom leaned in closer to the desk and spoke with practised words. “Lord Voldemort placed a memory of his teenage self in a diary. A diary which would instruct one how to open the Chamber of Secrets. It was I, through a second year girl called Harper Greenford, who opened the Chamber once again. You see, she had been pouring her soul into the diary all year and it caused me to grow stronger and more powerful. Today, I instructed her to come down into the Chamber, and as she gave up the last of her soul, I once more gained a solid form.”
“Sadly, she gave up too much of herself to be saved," Tom stated, as a look of grief spread over Albus’ weary face.
Tom didn’t appear to realise it, but he had just let slip a crucial detail, one that Albus had long suspected. The ‘memory’ the boy spoke of, for it to be able to possess the girl and now stand before him in corporeal form, must in fact be much more. A Horcrux. A piece of Lord Voldemort’s soul separated, preserved, and now standing before him. Likely only the first of several.
“Tom Riddle, if you are what you say, then why should I not call the Aurors at once, or strike you down myself?” Albus prayed that the boy would not recognise his bluff. He suspected that the Auror department had already been infiltrated by Death Eaters; calling them would only alert Lord Voldemort to this fascinating new development. The other option, to kill the boy, would likely be impossible. Albus had not yet discovered any piece of magic that would be able to destroy a Horcrux, and this particular one just may be more useful alive.
“You won’t do that,” Tom responded with soft confidence. “I’ve come to ask you to allow me to return to Hogwarts for my sixth year.”
“And why would I allow that?” Albus peered at the tall figure standing before him. The question was rhetorical. The two of them had reached the same conclusion, and they both knew it.
“You and I are both aware that I am a threat to the Dark Lord like no other, even more than that Harry Potter boy. No one knows more about him than I. I know his past; his innermost thoughts and desires.”
Albus had spent years hunting down every person who may have had interactions with Voldemort in his early years, looking for any scrap of information that may provide The Order with an advantage. He had brought Horace Slughorn back to Hogwarts for that very reason. And yet here, unexpectedly, stood the very thing he had been searching for. He would be a fool to allow it to slip away.
“How am I to know that you don’t seek to join Lord Voldemort’s ranks? You two share the same motivations, after all.”
“We both know that he would never allow such a thing. I could help him, sure, but what advice could I provide that he does not already know, considering we are two parts of the same person? The Dark Lord wants power more than anything and he is egotistical; he does not share, and nor would I. I am nothing more than a threat to his autocratic dream, too much of a hazard to be left alive.” Tom gave Albus a rather exasperated look. “If I wanted to run to the Dark Lord’s side I would have done so the instant I emerged from the Chamber rather than come to your office, alert you to my existence and now engage in this very conversation.”
Tom waited several moments, analysing Albus’ expression, before continuing. “A war is coming, I’m sure you’re aware. Cornelius’ Fudge’s foolish political ambitions have allowed the Ministry to become weak and I suspect it will fall soon. Perhaps it would have stood a chance in preventing this war had Fudge heeded to the warning signs of the Dark Lord’s return, but, alas, it is now too late.” Tom had clearly given this much thought. “A war is coming,” he repeated, “and it will come down to yourself and the Dark Lord. Which side would you rather have me on?”
A minute passed in silence, save for the clicks and whirrs of the magical instruments that lined Albus’ shelves. Fawkes sat on his perch in the corner, grooming his feathers, oblivious to the potentially monumental events that were playing out before him. Albus looked to the upset sky outside the ornate windows. A storm was brewing and the summer air was tense and electric.
“I understand the situation, Mr Riddle,” Albus finally spoke. “For this reason, I shall allow you to remain in Hogwarts and carry out your sixth year.” Tom Riddle’s face gave no hint of reaction to Albus’ words, but his knuckles tightened then loosened with relief. Albus leant forward and spoke in a dark, warning tone that he rarely used, “but, you will not, for one moment, forget the significance of the allowance I have given you. I am Headmaster now, not Armando Dippet, so you will not be able to fool me. I will be watching your every action and should I get any hint of misbehaviour, I shall act swiftly. In addition, you will provide me with the location of the Chamber of Secrets and the key to opening it.”
Riddle paused before giving a somewhat pained nod of assent. “Of course, Sir.”
“You are to remain at Hogwarts until the next year commences, under constant supervision from our permanent staff. This is not a concession - you will be assisting them in their daily duties,” Albus gave a rare smirk, “and I think you will find it most displeasurable. For now, you can return to the Slytherin dormitories and they will prevent you from leaving at night, should you plan on wandering the castle. Goodnight, Tom.”
Tom stood, dismissed, and exited the office quietly.
At once, the portraits burst into protest.
“Madness. Absolute madness, I say!”
“The boy is lying! The evil scoundrel.”
“You are too soft! If I were still headmaster I would have him shackled to the dungeon wall and beaten for his nerve.”
Albus held up a hand to silence them. “My decision is final. You will all be bound to secrecy for what you have witnessed tonight and the issue will not be debated.”
Placing the boy in Slytherin had seemed the best choice to Albus. Of course, there was the risk that he would find supporters within their pureblood ranks, but there was even more risk of placing him in another house. Gryffindor was out of the question. It would be unthinkable to have him sleep in the same dormitory as Harry Potter, where, despite Tom’s promises to do good, it would be all too easy for him to harm Harry. Neither Filius nor Pomona were part of the Order, so Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were also unideal options as their Heads of House could not be confided in about the true nature of Tom Riddle and therefore could not watch over him in the proper way. In Slytherin, Severus would be able to keep a close eye over the boy as was required. Albus saw the potential in young Tom, but he was not fool enough to trust him.
Allowing Tom to remain at Hogwarts for the holidays was also the safest option. For now, he required constant supervision which could not be provided by a working wizarding family. Alternate arrangements for the following holidays could be made later when the boy’s trustworthiness was established and there was more time.
There still lay many difficulties in the issue of Horace and Hagrid, who would both remember Tom. He had been a brilliant student, and Hagrid, having been caught and accused by Tom of opening the Chamber, was sure to not have forgotten his face, even over the decades. Albus hated having to do this, but there was no other option for it: he would have to alter their memories of the boy. He knew that if they realised who Tom was, they would be blinded by the horror of his other selve’s actions and may act rashly. Perhaps this would all turn out to be a blessing. Tom could be the key to defeating Lord Voldemort - after all, he had said it himself: no one knew his weaknesses like Tom himself.
Albus reached for a blank scroll of parchment and with a heavy heart he began to write a letter to the deceased girl’s parents. The sky broke open with a crack, and the pouring of rain accompanied the scratches of his quill as he wrote late into the night.