Echoes of Yesterday

Death, Tom had learned, wasn’t something one could escape from- it was something inevitable, like the fall of its last leaf once its stem had withered, no matter how tall the plant stood, like a story reaching its final page, no matter how much you wished it could go on.

Tom had tried, of course, to prolong his story, to make sure it never reached its final page. Tom feared death, feared it when he was scrawny Tom Riddle, curled up in a ball in Wool’s orphanage, while a war raged on outside his window, feared it when he was Lord Voldemort, unleashing his wrath upon wizarding Britain. He thought he was safe, the sacrifice of parts of his soul a reasonable price to pay for immortality. He’d brutally ripped his soul apart, taking others’ lives in the process. He’d lost his sanity, his good looks, his ability to feel anything other than white-hot rage.

Death had been ever-patient, a silent figure waiting to pull him into its infinite depths. Lord Voldemort had been vanquished, yet again, at the hands of Harry Potter. He had died a humiliating death on that battlefield, like a fool. Terror had clawed at him, instincts screaming against the inevitable. He felt himself fade away, the pain dulling as death numbed his senses, the world dissolving around him. He had raged against the pull, fighting for every breath, unwilling to meet his end.

Well, at least he thought it was the end. Lord Voldemort opened his eyes once again, then felt like he was suffocating to death when he tried to suck in a lungful for air, just to realise there was no air. Then he didn’t suffocate to death when he realised he was absolutely fine and somehow didn’t need to breathe. What was going on?

He was even more confused when he spotted the one and only Harry Potter seemingly out cold on the floor. Tom, for once in his life, was utterly and thoroughly confused. Was he hallucinating after death? Was that even possible? Where was he anyway? Some sort of ghostly version of King’s Cross from the looks of it. Tom’s attention was redirected as his mortal enemy on the floor started to stir.

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“What?”

Harry scratched the back of his head as he waited for the gaping dark lord in front of him to process all the information he had dumped on the man. 

He had just lived through 50 years in what seemed like under a minute and had woken up on the floor with a confused Voldemort looming over him. It was weird, honestly, having 2 lifetimes of memories injected into his brain after he had just lived his own life as Harry Potter. It had been like watching someone else’s memories through a Pensieve but he could feel every touch, all the emotions he had felt etched into the inside of his skull.  Everything was oddly personal, yet distant. Thinking about it was making his head hurt so he refocused his attention on the man in front of him instead.

“Ana-” The dark lord looked like he was in pain.

“Harry, I was Anastasius, but I’m Harry now, I’d like to be called that -uh please?” Harry tried to force a smile as he watched Voldemort open and close his mouth like a fish, seemingly at a loss for words. Merlin, somebody save him!

The dark lord seemed to regain his composure after a second or two. “Yes -uh, of course, Harry. You're telling me after you had died from a run-in with a wanted dark wizard all those years ago, then resurrected and lived in America for 35 years before getting shot in the face, and then getting reincarnated as Harry Potter.” 

Harry didn’t answer, he could tell from Voldemort’s -Tom’s- tone that it wasn’t a question, the man just needed to say it out loud to process it properly. Apparently, Harry thought now was the right time to also tell the man how he had ended up here again.

“Yeah, I also just died like 2 minutes ago. I fell through the veil.”

Tom’s eye twitched and Harry lost it, clutching his stomach as he laughed uncontrollably. Tom apparently didn’t find it as funny as he did, judging by how his lips were currently pressed into a thin line. Harry really wanted to punch his noseless face and hug him at the same time. All the hatred he had garnered towards the man as Harry Potter clashing with the fondness and love he had for him as Anastasius made his insides feel funny. God, he needed a cup of coffee right now.

“There is one thing I do not seem to understand,” Tom had started after Harry finally composed himself, “If you’re here right after your death, how is it I only arrived after you even though my death was much earlier than yours?”

“Well, it’s nothing but the consequences of your own actions, really.” Harry shrugged as Tom looked at him suspiciously.

“Explain.” the man demanded, and Harry did. Launching into the same explanation death had given him before Tom had materialised out of nowhere. Harry went into depth about their connection, cracking a joke every once in a while when Tom looked like he was going to have a stroke. He explained how Tom’s Horcrux inside him had embedded itself so deep into Harry’s own soul they were eternally connected to each other. Thus, the first one to die would only arrive at whatever limbo they were in once the other had died as well. The real explanation had definitely been more in-depth and complicated than whatever he relayed to Tom but Harry really could not remember everything death had said, Tom was smart anyway, he didn’t need the full explanation.

Tom proceeded to stare into his soul after the explanation, a calculating look in his eyes. All of a sudden, the pillar to Tom’s right was incredibly interesting to Harry. 

He heard the man sigh “I see, I suppose you hate me now, after everything.” When Harry looked at Tom again, the man looked as if he were about to cry and Harry wanted to slap himself. Harry Potter hated Voldemort with every fibre in his being but Ana loved Tom Riddle to the moon and back. Harry felt as if he were an awkward thirteen-year-old again, staring at the man in front of him.

Harry thought over his next words carefully “I don’t hate you, but it’ll take a while to fully forgive you. It’s good that we have a whole lifetime ahead of us.” As if on queue, the ghostly version of King’s Cross faded around them and everything dissolved into darkness.

Did Harry forget to tell Tom that they were going to be transported back in time together? No, because he didn’t tell him on purpose. Did he feel bad? Also no, but he really should.

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Harry’s vision cleared up as his surroundings came into view. The first thing he felt was hunger, an insistent ache deep in his gut. His instincts screamed at him to find something to stuff his face with, quick. The hunger was familiar, a type of ache he had not felt in years. That, paired with his terribly familiar surroundings confirmed when and where he exactly was. He was yet again 9-year-old Harry Potter living in the cupboard under the stairs at number 4 Privet Drive.

Judging by the small rays of sunlight trickling in from the gaps on the door to the cupboard, it was daytime but the house was dark. It was either the crack of dawn or the Dursleys were out wherever they had decided to go, and looking at the busted-up alarm clock beside his bed that read 2:14, it was the latter.

Thankfully, the door was unlocked and he was allowed out of the cupboard to hopefully get some food. He was wandless, 9 years old, and severely malnourished so he doubted he’d be able to unlock the door wandlessly and would just starve to death if it was locked.

Harry stumbled his way into the kitchen and wolfed down the leftover lunch that was left on the stove. It had long gone cold by now, but he really couldn’t care less. Out of habit, he had washed up the pan and dishes before heading back into the cupboard because he had no fucking idea what he was doing.

There was one thing Harry needed to get done though, write a letter to Tom to discuss what they were going to do next. He had no interest in going to war again and he definitely would not be able to kill Tom like he did in his previous life. Harry had lost a lot of those dear to him once before and he would not be making the same mistakes again. Perhaps this time, he could convince Tom to take over wizarding Britain without all the terrorism and violence. Siding with the dark lord who had already taken hundreds of lives, probably -definitely- made him a bad person but he didn’t really care. Honestly, Harry was bored and tired, could you really blame the man? He also appreciated not giving himself a massive headache by questioning his morality and life choices at the moment

Harry did question, however, if he was going insane. He probably was insane, but one thing he was not, was a procrastinator -he was, at least when it came to his potions’ essay- so he reached under his mattress and dug out a ballpoint pen -it was probably stolen from his uncle Vernon- and a piece of scrap paper he kept for doodling.

The paper was slightly yellowed and the pen was running out of ink but he doubted Tom would mind. Harry clicked his pen and proceeded to sit and stare at a wall for a minute, wondering what he was going to write.

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Dear V̶o̶l̶d̶y̶ Mr Quirrel (Seriously, Harry? Mr Quirrel?)

I am sure you might be confused as to why I am writing to you. I intend to keep this letter short and succinct, for the matter at hand requires clarity above all else. I request a meeting with you at the leaky cauldron at your earliest convenience. This is important and I await your reply.

Harry Potter

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Harry supposed his formal letter-writing skills could certainly use some improvement. He did not write them often, his letters with friends and family did not require him to be mindful of letter etiquette, and the few formal letters he’s received in life mostly did not require him to send a reply. He doubted Quirrel would care how he wrote his letters if the dark lord was living on the back of his head anyway. 

Harry folded the paper up, sealed it in an envelope with some tape and slipped it into his pocket. Luckily, the enchantments of the wizarding postal system allowed Harry to be able to send the letter out even without him knowing Quirrel’s whereabouts by simply writing his full name out on the back of the envelope. Ah, the wonders of magic.

“Right, what now?”  Something productive Harry, yes good idea. He supplied himself in his mind. Harry could practically hear Hermione in the back of his head, so, like the responsible adult-child he was, he snuck out the house through his aunt Petunia’s garden fence and headed for  Diagon Alley to purchase a few books. Harry made sure to pat his hair down over his forehead extra hard before doing what he did when he was thirteen. He stuck his wand arm in the air and watched as a purple triple-decker bus swerved around the road and arrived wobbly before him. 

Technically, he doesn't have a wand, but he did in the past and he still was a wizard, wand or not. A lanky man awaited him at the entrance of the bus as it slowed to a stop. He pulled out a small card and seemed to read off it.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. My name is Stan Shunpike and I will be your conductor this afternoon.” The man -Stan- seemed to look from side to side before lowering his head and spotting Harry. 

“You’re a young one, where’ya head’n?”

“Uh, the Leaky Cauldron, London.”

“Well come on then, let’s not wait for the grass to grow!” Harry was ushered into the empty bus. The bus driver was the same old man he saw when he took the bus at thirteen with the same small shriveled-looking head hanging above the steering wheel. 

Stan knocked on the window twice and said, “Take it away, Ern.” This time, Harry knew to hold on for dear life.

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Harry had walked around Diagon for a whole five minutes before he realised he had absolutely no money on him. He didn’t have access to any muggle money at his relative’s let alone any wizarding currency. As Harry looked around awkwardly, the towering form of Gringotts Wizarding Bank seemed to be the answer to all his problems.

Harry knew Hagrid was able to access his vault using that vault key he had. Well, Harry didn’t have that key so he walked into Gringotts with nothing but a piece of candy in his pocket and a dream. Twenty minutes later, he walked back out with a pouch full of shiny gold galleons.

Turns out, he was able to access his vault by letting a small drop of blood drip onto a special piece of parchment to confirm his identity. However, he was only able to access a small portion of his inheritance with him still being a minor. It definitely wasn’t enough for anything super fancy but it was more than enough for some good ‘ol books (god, he missed Hermione). First stop, Flourish and Blotts. 

The bustling shop filled with towering stacks of books was where he had gotten all his school books for the entirety of his Hogwarts’ career. Matter of fact, he had continued to go there to purchase the various magical texts he needed even after graduating.

The enchanted bell above the door chimed softly as Harry stepped foot into the cluttered bookstore. There were a lot less people than he expected for one of the more popular stores in Diagon. Then again, it wasn’t really Hogwarts school shopping season. Harry scoured the many shelves stocked full of large varieties of books from textbooks to various texts on different advanced magical theories. He chose a couple books he figured would be useful to him.

Harry had ended up picking out a few familiar titles like “Curses and Counter-Curses” by Vindictus Viridian and “Magical Drafts and Potions” by Arsenius Jigger -this time, he caved and decided to finally read “Hogwarts, A History”-  along with a few books he hadn’t read before in his previous life like “Advanced Rune Translation” by Alberta Toothill, “Advanced Arithmancy for Creative Wizards” and “Modern Magical History”. He had slipped a copy of “The Tales of Beedle the Bard” last minute before going up to pay.

The old man behind the counter had greeted Harry warmly after handing the couple in front of him their books. The man didn’t seem to recognise him as he packed his books up for him. “Quite the advanced books for a young lad like you, you must be quite the smart one eh?” the man said to him, his voice grandfatherly and his brown eyes twinkled like a certain headmasters’. Harry laughed awkwardly in response.

The bookstore seemed to host more people when he left than when he had first come in, forcing Harry to squeeze between several customers while trying his best not to knock over any of the several stacks of books littered around the store. It was almost four in the afternoon when he left Flourish and Blotts, 24 galleons lighter and 7 books heavier.

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Harry missed Tom. He wants to talk to the man, curious of what the dark lord was doing at the moment. Tom was either still stuck as a wraith or already on the back of Quirrel’s head. There was a lot to discuss, Harry needed to contact the man, needed to get the letter he had written to him…but how?

He supposed he could just owl the letter to Quirrel, hoping the dark lord had already attached himself to his former defence professor. Getting into contact with Tom would be far more difficult if the man was still a wraith. Dang it, he really should've communicated with Tom more while they were still in limbo. Well, no use crying over spilt milk, he should probably find a way to contact Quirrel.

Eeylops Owl Emporium came to mind, the place Hagrid had bought him his own owl for his 11th birthday, his first best friend. Harry approached the small shop, the few caged owls outside the shop watching him as he entered the dimly lit shop. He crossed his fingers and hoped his snowy friend would be waiting for him inside despite him coming 2 years early.

Harry was utterly disappointed when he couldn’t spot the snowy owl he’d spent over a decade with in the selection of owls Eeylops had. Though the man running the store had enthusiastically introduced him to the many newly arrived owls, Harry couldn’t bring himself to take any other owl home. He politely thanked the owner and exited Eeylops, he would not be replacing his very best friend thank you very much! Right, plan B then, time to find an owl rental. Where would he even find an owl rental? Did people even rent owls? Wait, Harry Potter you absolute idiot! Post offices exist in the wizarding world and there was one right behind Gringotts.

The post office was a long two-story establishment, its outside was decorated with many posters, a golden sign hung above the window which read “Owl Post”. Harry pushed open the double glass doors and stepped into the neatly kept post office. He couldn’t help but look around curiously, having not been in the place before. He hadn’t needed to visit any sort of post office before in the past, all his wizarding mail had been taken care of by Hedwig after all.

The post office had enchanted glass cabinets that stretched up to the ceiling, various letters and parcels constantly moving about between them. A dusty chandelier hung from the ceiling, an old barn owl perched upon it, periodically switching between watching Harry and grooming its feather. A stern-looking old woman with golden hair was furiously scratching her quill across a fancy notepad, she stood behind stacks and stacks of parchment.

“Quick boy, what is it you need? I haven’t got all day!” The woman snapped at him without stopping her writing or even lifting her head up from her notepad.

“Uh, just needing to deliver a letter, ‘s all.” Harry quickly dug the sealed piece of paper from his pocket and placed it upon one of the stacks of parchment.

The woman finally stopped writing and looked up at him and drawled, “ All letters must be properly addressed and sealed, we are not reliable if your ill-addressed letter is not delivered.” before taking her wand out to levitate the letter into one of those glass boxes.

The woman cleared her throat and said, “The fee is one Galleon, expect your letter to be delivered in the next few hours.”

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Tom wouldn’t say necessarily like being a wraith, constantly feeling like he would fade out of existence at any moment was not a good feeling. However, it was much better than being stuck on the back of a snivelling idiot’s head.

When he had regained consciousness after blacking out in that ghostly version of King’s cross, he then remembered what it was like being utterly weak and powerless, surviving on his follower’s magic and unicorn blood.

Imagine his surprise when he saw a brown owl,  carrying a small white envelope, land on Quirrel’s open window. The man had no friends from what he could remember and one look at the piece of metal around the bird’s leg that read “ Owl Post” told him it was nothing serious worth noting.

Tom resisted rolling his eyes as Quirrel jumped in his seat at the sound of the owl landing on the window sill and almost tripped standing up. Pathetic. 

What was even more pathetic was how the letter had been sealed. Tom was appalled by the sloppy piece of tape pasted on the envelope to seal it. He was even more appalled by the yellowed notebook paper whoever sent Quirrel a letter used to write on. Not even a proper piece of parchment? Really?

However, one look at the contents had Tom taking back everything he had said. The tape wasn’t that bad, he’s seen worse. At least his Harry had bothered to seal the envelope in the first place. Tom shouldn’t be judging the choice of paper anyway, Harry Potter should be about 9 years old at the moment he received the letter and probably didn’t have the best materials. Yes, Harry did not have access to proper materials so Tom supposed he could excuse the letter being written in muggle pen ink. Tom could also ignore how he could tell when the pen Harry had used began to run out of ink. He appreciated Harry wanting to meet him so soon.

Tom’s mood soured once more as Quirrel opened his stupid mouth to ask him what he should do. Did the man know how to do anything for himself? Tom couldn’t help himself this time and rolled his eyes.

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“Well, Mr P-p-potter I have to say I'm cu-curious as to why you have asked to me-meet me…”

Harry raised an eyebrow at the Quirrel’s stuttering, knowing just how well the man could speak when he had tried to kill him to get the Philosopher's Stone. Speaking of the stone, that was something he also wanted to discuss with Tom.

Harry sat the backpack -second-hand from Dudley- he brought down onto the floor and cleared his throat, “Uh, Mr Quirrel, I’ve contacted you in hopes you’re hosting some…company?” They were currently in one of rooms the Leaky Cauldron rented out to the public. Harry knew the confidentiality of their conversation and booked a room in advance. The room was relatively cheap for a one-night stay and Harry could see why. It was relatively the same size as the room he stayed in after he blew his Aunt Marge up but the only furniture in the room was a small wooden table, a bed and a dusty old wardrobe.

Before the older man could answer, Harry could hear a hoarse chuckle from the back of his turban. Quirrel stiffened as Harry rolled his eyes. Tom seemed to be communicating with his former professor as Quirrel stared at Harry with a funny look in his eyes before he dramatically unwrapped his turban and turned around. Harry rolled his eyes again.

When Harry first glimpsed Voldemort on the back of Quirrell's head in his first year, he thought the sight was pretty grotesque. He had long forgotten most of  Voldemort’s appearance on the back of his professor’s head but the scene in front of him jolted unpleasant memories. 

The skin on Quirrell's scalp was stretched taut over a face that seemed to press out from within him. Voldemort’s…face? Was horrifyingly pale, almost translucent there was a sheen to his flesh that made it look like he was made of was, or perhaps rotting flesh. His eyes were of red malice, slits of shining rubies and his nose were reduced to slits, much flatter than the one on the serpentine form he had in Harry’s fourth year. All resemblance of Tom Riddle washed away a tide of unrelenting darkness that claimed him entirely, the sin of ripping his soul apart. His human form erased along with his humanity, the crimson blood that once ran through his veins now replaced by the venom of malice, cruelty, corruption.

He felt as if he were 11 years old again, facing Lord Voldemort for the first time. This time, Harry was no longer plagued by the fear he had felt then. Instead, his brain burned the hatred he had for what the man had become into his skull, while his heart pumped the pity and sadness he had for the sad young boy underneath all the maelstrom of violence and rage through his veins.

Harry felt like he would implode if the silence stretched for any longer. As if sensing that, Tom began speaking, “I appreciate you seeking me out so soon after your sudden departure, Harry. I'm assuming there is something you want to discuss?” 

The hoarseness of his speech made Harry mourn the smooth velvety tone of Tom Riddle’s voice. Harry picked at the fabric of his pants before speaking.

“About you regaining your body, I don’t think you should go after the Philosopher’s Stone again.”

“Oh? Pray tell why I shouldn’t go with my original plan? You’re not planning on stopping me again, are you Harry?”

Harry huffed. “Well, no, I’m not planning on stopping you. But, robbing Gringotts is not a good idea judging by what happened last time. Stealing it from Hogwarts isn’t going to be easy either with Dumbledore around, the man has eyes and ears everywhere. Additionally, there is no information anywhere that tells us how we’re supposed to use the stone in the first place, let alone any side effects that the stone might bring.

Tom seemed to take his words into consideration for a moment before speaking up again, “Since you are so against my original plan, perhaps you have already thought up an alternative? I would certainly prefer it if I regained my own body as soon as possible.” 

Harry looked more than happy to tell Tom the plan he had been brewing up.

“Well, I was thinking we could do more research on that ritual you used during the tournament, y’know figure out why you came out all snake-like. Though Wormtail isn’t the best wizard, we can’t blame it all on his incompetence. There was certainly a problem with that ritual.”

“I see. Well, I will be diligently researching this matter then.”

Harry scratched the back of his awkwardly as the room, once again, fell into complete silence. He cleared his throat. “Uh…sorry about not telling you about this earlier.”

Tom’s answer came quickly. “I hold nothing against you, Harry.”

Harry nodded and shifted in his wooden chair uncomfortably. Wow, this was awkward. Harry always tried his hardest to leave when things got awkward, but, oddly enough, Harry didn’t really want to leave. He picked up the backpack he had put down a while ago and pulled out one of the new books he had bought when he had recently gone to Diagon. He had brought “Magical Drafts and Potions” by Arsenius Jigger with him, aiming to improve his potions’ foundation since he’d learned absolutely nothing from Snape, Slughorn had not stayed to teach for long enough to really get make an impact on Harry’s education. Harry looked at Tom again.

 “Uh, I’m gonna read for a bit. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all.”