Chapter Text
Decades in the dark he had waited, sitting stagnant, stuck, impatient in exile and utterly forgotten to the passage of time. The Ring burned with neglect - how dare he be left like this? Out of sight and mind, stored like some common trinket beneath the rotting floorboards in a hovel of an even more rotten family. In the years of waiting, and waiting, and waiting, cursing his main soul piece vehemently, all the Ring could do was store the limited magic he still had and fall into long, meditating sleep. A few times he had attempted to draw the snakes that guarded the shack closer to him, reaching the tendrils of his magic out, out, out. But they could sense the darkness of him and kept well away, so his appetite for life, for living, went unsatisfied.
He did not know how long passed between Voldemort storing him away and vowing to return, and the day that the door of the shack fell open with a resounding creak, alerting him to the presence of another at long last. What he did know however, when he stirred into alertness with what might be considered a yawn, had he possessed a mouth to do so, was that whoever had just entered the Gaunt shack was not Voldemort. No, he knew the taste of the main soul piece from which he came, knew the sour and tarnished smell of him. No, this was someone else, someone treading gingerly into the shadowed room with soft steps, the dim light of a wand guiding their path.
Well. It would be a shame to waste such an opportunity, would it not?
He calls upon his magic, excitement bubbling wildly through him as he lets it bleed out freely into every shadowed corner of the depleted shack, coaxing its prey forward like a siren singing softly.
Closer, closer. Find me, find me.
The snakes flee at the first shift of magic, their scales dragging harshly as they rush to escape him and his curse, but the stranger kneels down to bring their wand light closer. They inspect the floorboards, stopping when the beam of light catches on the glint of his metal, the shine of the black stone which is embedded in the centre. Then the noise of the wood splintering above him as his hiding place is revealed, and he prepares himself to strike even as his magic continues to tempt the person closer, closer with his echoey soft whispers.
Come closer. Pick me up and put me on.
They seem to hesitate, reaching down into the cool space under the floors before pulling back at the last minute, clearly rethinking. If he had teeth currently, he would be gritting them as he builds all of the energy he has, determined to catch his prey now that the taste of another's magic is so tantalisingly close.
Put. Me. On.
Another lingering moment and then -
As soon as the metal of the Ring is settled in place against the skin of his poor, foolish prey, he attacks; violently digging his metaphorical claws in as the first curse takes action. The dark magic immediately sinks under the skin, riddling its way through blood and muscle as it spreads like wildfire through everything within reach, travelling further up the arm. The owner of said hand falls back with a cry of pain and the light blinks out as the wand is dropped to the side, throwing the room into darkness once more.
It matters not. He does not need light to find the flickering magical core within the writhing body beneath him, needs no guidance in latching onto it and draining it with deep pulls, stealing their power and taking it for his own as a body begins to form.
It was painful, to become physical again from nothing but a shard of soul and pure stubborn willpower. He slams into awareness all at once, wobbling on his new knees as he becomes aware of his heart beating madly like a drum, his lungs filling and deflating erratically. His bones, muscles and skin knit themselves together, piece by agonising piece, the sensation of being tingling and numbing all at once. The rush of blood is loud in his ears as he finally unfurls from his bent stance a few minutes later, wavering only briefly over the mostly drained body at his feet before standing to his full height, rolling his shoulders to shake the stiffness away and blinking his eyes open for the first time in so long.
Tom Riddle breathes deeply, triumphantly, inevitably.
Alive.
A shuffle and a poorly masked gasp of pain draws his attention downwards to the body on the floor and Tom very nearly stumbles off his newly formed feet when it registers just who had stumbled into his trap and become his unwilling prey. A laugh bubbles up before he can help it, incredulous and overjoyed at the sight.
“Dumbledore.” Tom drawls out, satisfied to see that his pale blue eyes hold not even a single trace of that maddening twinkle now. Instead they stare up at him in pained dismay and shock, the bloodied wet breaths rattling in his throat as he gapes up at Tom, his body shuddering as the Ring continues to weave its web of devastation. Tom grins cruelly from his place looming over him.
“I suppose I must thank you for freeing me from my confinement. What a shame that you will not live long enough to see the results of such.” He says sardonically before his eyes catch on something laying on the floor.
Ah yes. That’ll do nicely.
Dumbledore’s wand is long, engraved with strange markings and bumps which rub against his palm strangely when Tom picks it up, weighing it in his palm. Upon seeing what he’s doing Dumbledore becomes frantic, his arms shaking weakly as he attempts to sit up and crawl over, as if to take it back. His eyes are wide and bloodshot and his ghostly white skin has grown paler still.
“Ah ah. I don’t think so.” Tom sings, stepping back and out of the way, a needless action when the old man quickly succumbs to hacking violently on the floor as he keels over again, the red splatters of blood he coughs up decorating the black deadened skin of his hand.
He tuts at the pitiful sight but smiles all the same, twirling the wand the same way he used to with his own Yew wand. While there was an appeal in thieving the wand of Dumbledore practically from beneath his old, crooked nose, nothing would compare to his first wand, the one that chose him. All the same, it would work for what he needed to do now so he wields it in his palm properly, a flickering heat answering him back.
“Now then, before you go.” With an unnecessary but well deserving kick, Tom sends Dumbledore splaying onto his back on the dusty floor, ignoring the yell the man lets out as he hovers over him, levelling the stolen wand in his face. “Let’s see what’s been happening while I’ve been away, shall we?”
He takes great delight at the dawning realisation in Dumbledore’s eyes as Tom looks head on into them, calling the incantation loud and clear despite not needing to, just to make the impact of it hurt all the more.
“Legilimens!”
Slipping into Dumbledore’s mind is oh so simple due to his depleted magical core, to the rampage and ruin his cursed ring has dealt against his defenses. The old professor puts up an effort to fight him off, but his feeble shields fall easily when against Tom and his freshly invigorated power, his encompassing need to know what shape Voldemort has molded the wizarding world into in the years between then and now.
But instead of the success he’d expected, Tom only finds madness and failure. What had Voldemort done? Where had the careful ambition gone, the plans he’d made with his Knights to overhaul the Ministry from the ground up, to slip into the gaps and climb until they reached the top, until Tom reached the top? All he could see was a magical society rife with fear and mayhem, so much blood and potential lost to the hands of a madman. For that was all this Voldemort could be; utterly and irredeemably mad.
It was absurd, nonsensical - where had Voldemort gone so wrong? And how could Tom make sure that he didn’t end up the same way?
He pulled out of Dumbledore’s mind and stumbled back, his own thoughts realing and recalibrating with what he’d learnt. Something itched under his skin, a restless urgency to get out into this future world and do something.
Tom wasted no more time in the shack, yanking his ring from Dumbledore’s prone body and leaving it behind without a backwards glance, no longer caring to draw out the defeat of his most hated teacher. He slips it in place on his own finger, the curse having lodged itself firmly into Dumbledore’s very bones and making it wearable again.
Outside in the open air for the first time in fifty years, Tom takes a deep lung filling breath and soaks up the clinging warmth that lingers on summer nights. It’s a balm against his skin, which carries the cold of having been stuck in the ground as a ring for so long, something he can only hope will not be long lasting.
The moment passes and Tom opens his eyes from where they’d unconsciously fallen shut, settling them immediately on a house in the distance. A familiar house, perched obnoxiously atop the hill overlooking the village of Little Hangleton, and one that in his own memories, he had not long left behind.
Riddle Manor.
It was as good a place as any and admittedly quite ironic, seeing as Tom had vowed to never step foot in its halls ever again once he’d left the bodies of his paternal family strewn across them. But that was then and this was now, and from what he’d gathered from Dumbledore’s memories, while Voldemort had once taken up lodging there, he likely wouldn’t return.
Using the slant of moonlight overhead, Tom winds his way back through the silent country lanes in the direction of the Manor, his new wand clutched tightly in hand as a precaution. It’s far easier this time around to get into the building, to push through the roughage of overgrown weeds and plants towards the front door which swings open under his touch without the need for magical interference.
It’s slightly jarring to see the decrepit ruin of the interior, when the memory Tom has still fresh in his mind is so strikingly different. Before the entry hall had been grand, with deep red rugs lining the floor and heavy, ornate furniture boasting shining vases and expensive decor. A butler had answered the door then, but the only greeting Tom receives here and now comes from the echo of his shoes walking across the cracked marble floor.
Time had dealt its hand here and it was glaringly obvious that Voldemort had not dedicated time towards interior decorating during his stay. But as much as he’d despised the name, and still does, Tom is a Riddle and this is Riddle Manor. It’s his. And he’ll be damned twice over if he’s going to live in a place as run down and depressing as this as he figures out how to live in the future he now finds himself in.
That was a job for another day, though. For tonight he makes his way through the ground floor of the house and settles on a small room with an unbroken window at the back, where the carpet has not yet been completely eaten through by the mice. Tom transfigures himself a decent enough bed for the night from some discarded pieces of wood left laying around, and a blanket from some torn curtains.
He’d slept in worse places and the effort of gaining his physical body again was beginning to give him a headache, so he kicked his shoes off and curled down to rest, twirling the ring around on his finger methodically. He keeps his wand held loosely in his other hand and thinks sluggishly over his plans to find more answers, until the weight of sleep pulls his eyes shut for good.
Answers which will likely begin with Voldemort’s end.
Harry Potter.