Ghosts of the Past
Tom Marvolo Gaunt
The name sat there, glaring at him from the map, moving through the castle as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But Harry knew better. That name didn’t belong here. It was a name tied to Voldemort, a name that represented everything Harry had fought against.
“What the hell?” Harry muttered under his breath, his heart pounding.
The dot was in the dungeons, moving steadily toward the library. Harry felt a chill run down his spine. Tom Riddle was dead—destroyed by Harry’s own hand. Yet here he was, roaming Hogwarts as if the timeline hadn’t been rewritten at all.
Harry didn’t bother waking Ron or getting Hermione. He wasn’t ready to explain what he had done, or why he was so certain that Tom Riddle—Tom Marvolo Gaunt—was alive and walking around. He needed answers, and he needed them alone.
Draping his Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders, Harry slipped out of the dormitory and made his way through the castle. The halls were quiet, the faint glow of torches casting long shadows across the stone walls. As he descended toward the dungeons, the air grew colder, and an unsettling sense of déjà vu crept over him.
The map showed the dot entering the Restricted Section of the library. Harry quickened his pace, his mind racing with questions.
Was this some remnant of Voldemort’s horcruxes? A ghost? A trick of the Hallows? Whatever the explanation, Harry knew he had to confront it.
When he reached the library, he paused. The door to the Restricted Section was slightly ajar, and the faint glow of a lantern spilled into the corridor. Harry slipped inside, his steps silent beneath the cloak.
Tom Riddle—or someone who looked exactly like him—was seated at a table. The resemblance was uncanny: the sharp cheekbones, the dark, piercing eyes, the neat sweep of his black hair. He wore Slytherin robes and carried himself with an air of confidence that made Harry’s stomach churn.
For a moment, Harry hesitated. This wasn’t the Voldemort he knew. This was Tom Riddle, a teenager, still human—at least on the surface. But how? Why?
The floor creaked beneath Harry’s foot, and Tom’s head snapped up. His dark eyes scanned the room, narrowing suspiciously.
“Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice calm but laced with authority.
Harry’s grip on his wand tightened. He stepped out from under the cloak, letting it fall to his shoulders. “It’s me,” he said flatly.
Tom’s eyes flickered with something—recognition, curiosity, maybe even amusement. He leaned back in his chair, studying Harry with a calculating gaze. “Potter,” he repeated, his voice smooth and cold.
“The famous boy-who-lived. What an unexpected pleasure.”
Harry’s mind raced. Tom knew who he was, but how? The timelines shouldn’t have intersected like this. Harry forced himself to stay calm. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice steady.
Tom’s lips curled into a faint smirk. “I could ask you the same question. But I suppose it doesn’t matter. What does matter is why you’re skulking around in the middle of the night.”
“I’m not the one out of place,” Harry shot back. “You shouldn’t even exist here. You’re a relic of the past.”
For a moment, Tom’s expression darkened, but the smirk quickly returned. “So you know who I am,” he said. “That simplifies things. But I think you’re mistaken about one thing, Potter. I’m very much alive, and I intend to stay that way.”
Harry took a step forward, his wand pointed directly at Tom’s chest. “I don’t know how you got here, but I’m not letting you ruin this timeline.”
Tom’s eyes gleamed with interest, but he didn’t reach for his wand. Instead, he folded his hands on the table and tilted his head. “Ruin it? Is that what you think I’ll do? Tell me, Potter, do you always see the world in such simple terms?”
Harry’s grip on his wand tightened. “You’re Voldemort. You’re the reason my parents are dead, the reason this whole mess happened in the first place. I’m not letting you destroy everything again.”
At the mention of the name, Tom’s smirk faltered. His expression grew colder, more calculating. “Voldemort,” he said slowly, as though tasting the word. “I haven’t heard that name before. But it sounds… promising.”
Harry cursed under his breath. He had revealed too much, given Tom exactly what he needed to feed his ego. He took a step back, his mind racing. He needed to regain control of the situation.
“Listen,” Harry said, lowering his wand slightly. “You have no idea what’s coming. If you keep going down this path, you’ll destroy yourself. Everything you’re planning—it’s going to fail.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed, his smirk returning. “And you know this because…?”
“Because I’ve seen it,” Harry said firmly. “I’ve lived it. I know your future, and I know how it ends.”
For the first time, Tom looked genuinely intrigued. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on Harry.
“You’ve seen the future?” he asked. “How fascinating. Tell me, Potter, what happens to me?”
“You die,” Harry said bluntly. “But not before you destroy everything and everyone around you.”
The room fell silent. Tom stared at Harry, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he stood, his movements deliberate and controlled.
“If you’re telling the truth,” he said, his voice soft but dangerous, “then perhaps you’re more useful than I thought.”
Harry swallowed hard, his heart racing. This wasn’t going the way he had expected. But as Tom’s smirk widened, Harry knew one thing for certain: whatever had brought Tom Riddle into this timeline wasn’t a coincidence.
And it wasn’t over.