Chapter 3
There was a child.
A small, trembling thing.
Its screams cut through the air like knives, shrill and desperate. Bloodied little hands clawed at the wood, tiny fingers scraping, searching for a gap, an escape. The scent of blood and smoke was thick, suffocating—burning Harry’s lungs with every breath.
Each deafening crash that shook the world made the child’s cries grow sharper, more frantic. Too loud. Too piercing. They echoed inside his skull until it felt as though they would tear through his very mind.
Harry wanted to block them out.
Wanted it all to stop.
But he couldn’t.
And then—the singing began.
A woman’s voice. Low, unsteady. A whisper slipping through the cracks of time.
"Abide with me, fast falls the eventide."
Harry turned his head. The vision formed before him, emerging from the shadows.
Long hair veiled the woman’s face, her dress no more than a tattered sheet clinging to her trembling frame. She was pale—ghostly pale.
A crucifix dangled from her fingers, her lips moving in a ceaseless prayer.
"The darkness deepens, Lord, with me abide."
The child’s screams did not cease.
"When other helpers fail and comforts flee—"
Harry wanted to shout at her.
Wanted to scream for her to shut up. It wouldn’t help. Nothing would help.
"Help of the helpless, O abide with me."
Why wouldn’t she stop singing?
Another crash. Louder. Closer.
The wood splintered.
Silence fell.
Like the entire world had stopped breathing.
And then, there was nothing.
But Harry wanted to weep.
Wanted to scream.
Wanted to run.
And that was when it arrived.
The cold came first.
A shiver climbed his spine, curling around his limbs like unseen fingers. A presence—vast and endless—folded itself around him. Something that was everything and nothing all at once.
It wove through him like an ancient shadow.
Like it had always been there. Waiting.
A touch—light as air. A whisper of sorrow laced into the void.
Then, the voice.
Soft. Melancholy.
"I am sorry, child. Come now. It is time. Wake up."
Harry woke.
His eyes snapped open, his body jerking upright before his mind could catch up.
Light sliced through his vision like a blade of fire.
He gasped, blinking rapidly as the world around him swayed—caught between light and shadow, tilting as if it couldn’t quite decide which was real. His breathing came short, uneven.
He lifted a hand to his face.
His glasses.
They weren’t there.
They had never been there.
And yet—he could see.
Perfectly.
A knot tightened in his throat.
He wanted to cry.
Wanted to laugh—hysterically.
Because never, never in his life had he felt so utterly detached from himself.
"Oh, dear, you’re awake?"
The gentle voice snapped him from his thoughts.
Harry lowered his hands, his eyes landing on the healer as she approached. A tray balanced between her hands, a soft smile on her lips—or at least, until she saw him properly.
The moment her gaze met his, her expression shifted.
The smile vanished. Replaced by something almost imperceptible—but Harry felt it.
Tension.
"Are you alright? Any pain?"
Abby’s voice was steady. Professional. But there was something else buried beneath it. Something real.
Harry flinched slightly as she neared.
He hadn’t meant to. Hadn’t even noticed until it had already happened.
Abby frowned, her violet eyes narrowing with something that looked far too much like concern.
He swallowed, his throat dry and raw, like he’d swallowed a mouthful of sand. He cleared it. It didn’t help.
"No."
The word came out weak. Barely there. The kind of answer that vanished into the air before it could fully exist.
He cleared his throat and tried again.
"I’m fine, ma’am. Just… a nightmare."
There was sympathy in her eyes.
And Harry hated it.
"It wouldn’t be my first choice," Abby said, her tone shifting—clinical, measured. "But if these dreams are becoming an issue, I can prepare a Dreamless Sleep Draught. Nothing too strong. Just a little relief from whatever is troubling you."
Harry’s eyes widened.
He didn’t know what to say.
So he just nodded.
The relief that washed over him was staggering, loosening something tight in his chest—something he hadn’t even realised was there.
Abby gave a small smile.
Quiet. Sincere.
Then she cleared her throat, the moment slipping away as she focused on the tray in her hands.
"Here’s your meal." Her voice returned to its usual practical tone. "Just something light for now. We don’t know how your stomach will handle anything heavier."
Harry nodded in thanks—
And only then did he realise how hungry he was.
It was as if his body were running on a delay.
As if only now he had been granted permission to feel hunger.
On the tray before him sat a bowl of steaming soup, a few slices of toast, and a goblet of pumpkin juice. He reached for the drink—then stopped.
His fingers.
His hands.
They were still marked.
Dark, twisted lines marred his skin—ugly, unnatural.
Slowly, he raised them, opening and closing his fingers. They felt… normal. There was no pain. But it was still there.
"Have you… figured out what this is?"
His own voice sounded strange to him—low, uncertain. Like he was speaking about someone else entirely.
Abby followed his gaze.
The moment her eyes landed on the markings, her expression hardened.
"Unfortunately, no."
Her tone was measured, but the way her lips pressed together said more than her words ever could.
"Dumbledore is researching it," she continued, looking back at Harry. "For now, all we know is that it’s Dark Magic. But of an… exceptionally advanced nature. That makes it far more difficult to decipher."
She hesitated. Just for a second.
"I’m sorry, dear."
Harry shook his head quickly, as if trying to push away the conversation along with the growing unease in his chest.
He forced a smile, but even he could tell how out of place it was. How false.
"It’s fine. Thank you."
Abby didn’t look convinced. But she didn’t press him.
She merely nodded, exhaling softly before making some excuse to leave him alone with his meal.
The silence she left behind was… heavy.
Harry picked up his spoon, taking a small mouthful of soup. The warmth spread across his tongue.
He forced himself to eat, but after a few bites, the hunger that had gripped him so fiercely only moments ago vanished.
Just as suddenly as it had come.
He took a sip of the pumpkin juice, the cool liquid sliding down his throat as if trying to douse the fire of his thoughts. Then, without thinking, he set the tray aside and pushed back the sheets.
He needed to leave.
The mere thought of staying in that bed a moment longer made his stomach churn. The idea of falling asleep again, of closing his eyes and sinking into that oppressive, suffocating darkness—
No.
He swung his feet onto the cold floor and stood. His legs wobbled slightly, a faint tremor running through them, but he ignored it.
The infirmary was tooempty.
Usually, the hospital wing was filled with students recovering from botched spells or Quidditch injuries, but now—
Silence.
It set his nerves on edge.
He swallowed, ignoring the tightness in his chest, and walked towards the door. His heart pounded as he reached for the handle.
The click echoed softly in the quiet corridor.
Unlocked.
Harry hesitated.
He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to hear Abby’s footsteps, to see her emerge from her office and call him back.
But nothing happened.
The hallway stretched before him—cold and silent.
Harry stepped through.
The stone beneath his bare feet was rough. The air carried the faint scent of old parchment and burnt candle wax.
He had no idea what time it was. No idea what day it was.
But the corridors were empty.
Perhaps the students were in class.
Or perhaps—perhaps the entire castle was avoiding him.
His feet carried him aimlessly, the silence amplifying every footstep. He needed to see. Needed to confirm with his own eyes that everything was still there. That Hogwarts was still Hogwarts.
By the time he realised where he was, he was standing before the doors of the Great Hall.
His fingers twitched, itching to push them open, to step inside.
But he hesitated.
Would it be wise? Would he be exposing himself too much, too soon?
Perhaps he should turn back.
He had no idea what Dumbledore had told the students about him.
But before he could decide, he felt it.
He wasn’t alone anymore.
A prickling sensation ran down his spine seconds before the voice reached him.
"If you’ve come for breakfast, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. It ended half an hour ago. You’re late."
The tone was smooth. Impeccable. Each word crafted with careful elegance.
And terribly, terribly familiar.
Harry turned sharply.
His heart slammed against his ribs—
And there he was.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Perfect. Beautiful, in a way that was almost cruel.
Dark hair neatly combed, the emerald-and-silver of Slytherin wrapping his frame in an air of effortless power. Every inch of him exuded control, precision—like nothing in the world could ever touch him.
But his eyes—
His eyes betrayed him.
For a moment—just a moment—
He was startled.
Harry saw it.
Barely there. A flicker of hesitation, the faintest tension in his shoulders, the briefest shift in his dark gaze as he swept his eyes over Harry—analysing, assessing.
And then—
It was gone.
As if it had never been there at all.
Tom tilted his head slightly, his expression smoothing into something neutral.
Curious. But careful.
Harry couldn’t breathe.
It was the same face he had seen in the Chamber of Secrets.
The same voice that had slithered through the air, dripping venom and manipulation with every syllable.
But now—
Now, he wasn’t a fragment of soul.
He wasn’t a twisted memory, trapped inside a diary.
He was real.
Alive.
Whole.
And that was so, so much worse.
˖‧ 𓆗 ࣪‧ ˖
Tom Riddle was furious.
Not the kind of fury that made men roar or punch walls. No. Tom’s anger was cold, calculated, dangerous.
He despised Quidditch.
A game with no real value, no demand for intellect or power—only brute strength and quick reflexes. Was there anything more pathetic than relying on luck and raw talent?
But he always attended.
Because being seen in the stands, supporting Slytherin, meant something. It meant influence.
His housemates respected him more for it. His followers saw a leader—attentive, dedicated, loyal to his own. Every glance in his direction, every subtle nod of acknowledgement, every whispered conversation about his presence reinforced his control.
And that was all that mattered.
So why, of all days, had he chosen not to go?
The one time he dismissed the match as unimportant—something happened.
Something that, quite clearly, should have been of interest to him.
And none of his followers knew what it was.
It enraged him.
The entire castle buzzed with murmurs of an enigmatic figure appearing in the middle of the Quidditch pitch. Some swore they had seen a colossal creature fall from the sky. Others claimed it had been an impossible Apparition—absurd.
No one could Apparate within Hogwarts. Centuries-old wards made certain of that. Either it was impossible—or it was something sodark that it should have triggered an immediate alert at the Ministry of Magic.
And yet—
No Aurors arrived.
No professors gathered students for explanations.
There weren’t even solid rumours about what had truly happened.
And that—
That infuriated Tom Riddle.
Only three people in the castle seemed to know the truth: Dumbledore, Dippet, and Healer Lestrange.
None of them were accessible. None of them could be pressed for answers.
And that was intolerable.
Tom spent the rest of the day in a foul mood.
His followers, ever the obedient little dogs, quickly picked up on his displeasure and wisely kept their distance.
But Tom’s anger was never fleeting.
It was a steady, gnawing thing, a weight pressing against his ribs. He loathed being left in the dark. Hated the idea that something monumental had happened right in front of him, and he had no idea what.
The following day, Tom awoke with that same irritation coiled tightly in his chest.
At the very least, he had been granted some reprieve—he was excused from his first lesson to carry out his duty as a prefect.
Morning patrol.
Usually, he didn’t mind. In fact, he found it useful—an opportunity to remind students exactly who held authority over them.
But today—
Today, he wanted a target.
Someone to blame for his frustration.
If he caught an unfortunate student wandering the halls late, he would ensure their morning was just as miserable as his.
And then—
He saw him.
Standing before the doors of the Great Hall.
Dressed entirely in white.
The sight was strange enough to make Tom pause.
Hospital robes?
He dismissed the thought. Likely just some clueless student—perhaps lost, perhaps running late. The perfect excuse for punishment.
So he stepped forward, already preparing to strip away house points—perhaps even assign a detention.
But then—
The boy turned.
And Tom felt his voice die in his throat.
Tom Riddle was an observer.
He had learned from a young age that people were books—if one only knew where to look. The way someone dressed, the way they walked, even the slightest nervous tic—each detail revealed weaknesses.
And weaknesses were information.
Information was power.
A student’s uniform could tell him whether they came from wealth or filth. Their posture, their hair, the way their eyes darted towards the floor—each sign determined whether they were worth his attention…
Or completely disposable.
Appearance had always been just that—a means to an end.
Until now.
Because this boy—
He was not like the others.
The first thing Tom noticed was his hair.
Jet black.
Unruly in a way that seemed untameable—as if the strands themselves refused to submit to order. It was impossible to tell where his hair ended and where the shadows around him began.
It was as if something inside him did not belong to this world.
His skin was pale. Too pale, like porcelain stretched too thin.
He was thin, too. Not with the easy elegance of pure-blooded upbringing, but with the sharpness of hunger.
And then—
His arms.
From his fingertips to his elbows, his skin was stained in deep, inky black.
Like something had taken root beneath his flesh.
Magic.
Tom knew it instantly. But what kind?
He had never seen anything like it before.
And that—
That fascinated him.
Because Tom Riddle knew every student at Hogwarts.
Each one, from the powerful to the insignificant.
It was impossible for someone like this to have gone unnoticed.
But he did not know this boy.
For the first time in years, Tom’s mask of control faltered.
The shock was real—enough that his expression nearly betrayed him.
But then—
As always—
He adapted.
The cold, analytical stare melted into something warmer. Polished. Cordial.
A carefully crafted smile curled at his lips.
If he wanted answers, he would have to earn them first.
"Oh, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced."
His voice was smooth. Charming. The same voice that could dazzle professors and ensnare fools alike.
"Tom Riddle. Fifth-year prefect of Slytherin."
A polite dip of the head. Measured. Calculated.
"A pleasure to meet you…?"
Silence.
Strange, uneasy silence.
Tom’s brow furrowed ever so slightly as he took in the boy’s expression.
He looked cornered.
Wide eyes gleamed with something—something Tom couldn’t quite name. Fear? Confusion? Recognition?
His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.
Open. Close.
Like a troll struggling to form a coherent thought.
Interesting.
Tom narrowed his eyes slightly, observing.
"Are you quite alright?"
Another carefully crafted smile. Gentle. Persuasive. Hiding his growing frustration.
"Are you lost?"
But before the boy could answer—
"Oh, Harry! There you are. Slippery feet, my boy!"
Tom did not flinch. He would not admit it.
But for a brief second, his body tensed.
And he saw the flicker of amusement in the boy’s eyes.
He had noticed.
That irritated Tom deeply.
But there was no time for that.
Headmaster Dippet approached, his expression kind as he strode forward. And beside him, watching like a hawk—
Dumbledore.
Both had their eyes locked onto the boy.
Analysing.
Tom did not like it.
"You shouldn’t be wandering, dear boy," Dippet continued, his tone too gentle. "We’ve yet to determine whether your condition allows such adventures. Come along, now. Professor Dumbledore and I have matters to discuss with you."
His words were not a suggestion.
Dippet turned to Tom, smiling. But Tom recognised the weight beneath it.
"Mr Riddle! What good fortune to find you here. I trust you’ve been keeping an eye on our guest? Wonderful."
A hand on Harry’s shoulder.
"Now, if you wouldn’t mind some discretion. We’d like to avoid unnecessary rumours."
A command.
Not a request.
Tom loathed being given orders.
He kept his expression carefully neutral, but inside, frustration simmered like a cold fire—silent, deadly, and relentless.
He wanted to know more.
He needed to know more.
But for now, he would accept defeat.
So, he did what he always did when the odds were against him: he yielded—with grace.
Tom smiled.
"Of course, Headmaster. I shall take my leave now."
But before he did—because he could—he turned to the boy. No, to Harry, and held his gaze with a smile that was both polite and deliberately enigmatic.
"It was a pleasure meeting you, Harry. I do hope we cross paths again soon."
The change in the boy’s expression was immediate.
The faint flush that still clung to his cheeks vanished, leaving him ashen.
Ah.
Now, what was that?
Tom didn’t miss it.
He ignored the gnawing weight of curiosity, forcing himself to turn to Dumbledore, who was watching the exchange with the sharp eyes of a hawk.
The Transfiguration professor didn’t trust him. He never had.
Tom kept his smile impeccable and inclined his head in polite deference.
"Professor."
Dumbledore said nothing. He only stared.
Tom left.
But as he walked away, his thoughts moved faster than ever.
He would find out who Harry was.
He would uncover what was happening here.
And he would do it before the afternoon was over.
˖‧ 𓆗 ࣪‧ ˖