nineteen ninety-six
A twisted thread of steel lies on his desk in front of him, gleaming innocently in the dim light of the half-moon. It’s not steel, Tom knows, but its silvery surface fools him, tempts him. But then, is it not a good kind of temptation, the kind when one wishes to do some good, for themselves and for the world by extension?
The amulet is simple, a non-descriptive circle with flexing and flowy metal (though he does not know how this is possible at all) attached to opposite ends of it, connecting seamlessly and big enough that he would be able to slip it over his wrist. The main temptation lies beside the bracelet in the form of a small — very small — hourglass. It’s barely the size of his thumb and the sand inside it shines in a way that makes him think, light, hope, new, power, and disgustingly, love. He can’t seem to ignore the thought however much he wants; it’s just how the magic is supposed to work, he rationalises, to enthral him and make him stumble right into its trap, willingly and damningly.
Maybe it’s not much of a trap, he thinks, having stared at the two things for quite a while and having managed to resist its pull. It’s magic, after all. If it’s a web, I’ll become the spider.
This doesn’t sound as powerful and great as he wants it to sound, even in his head, I’ll become a spider, but that is not the point.
Tom thinks of hours spent huddled in the basement of the orphanage, waiting for the bombs to stop falling, knees drawn up and face hidden, panicking but not letting it show, he thinks of beatings in the matron’s office, of Dumbledore’s insistent bias against him, and of the way all his classmates smile when they return home and how they greet their friends with bright eyes when they return for the new term, and he knows the decision is already made for him.
He ties the amulet around his right wrist and touches it briefly before letting it go and breaking the hourglass. Grey sand spills out and he’s hypnotised, eyes fixed on the steady trickle of particles as it forms a tiny dune on his desk and he can feel himself move forward, see his hand reach out and his body jolts the moment the amulet comes into contact with it and the grey sand rushes into the circle in the centre of the bracelet and swirls.
His body and consciousness swirl with it. The next moments are overwhelming, and he’s hurtling through time, space, and matter. It’s a whirl of colours and heat and cold against his skin, and his mouth opens in a loud, silent scream. His ears ring with noise with the onslaught of nothing. He screws his eyes shut against the colours and visions and muddled screeching speech and the scenery rushing by at superhuman speeds, the landscape changing, buildings falling and being rebuilt, forests burning and growing from the ashes. He can't feel his body and yet his skin feels like it’s tearing off his flesh and his eyes can’t remain shut. His soul wilts.
He isn't aware of how long he's been— rushing, or ascending through time, but after an indefinite amount of time, he finds himself lying still face down on something very uncomfortable.
He’s tempted to stay like that, but after a minute or so he forces his arms up and sits up with difficulty, joints creaking, before his entire body goes completely numb and he falls on his face again on the gravel.
A passerby startles and hovers for a moment, undecided, concern painting his face, and then there’s a train whistle nearby and he rushes on, leaving Tom to wince at the noise and groan into the gravel.
Apparently, there’s a street now where there used to be Wool’s orphanage fifty years ago.
He wonders if Hogwarts ever shifts locations.
~
The year is nineteen ninety-six and there are two months left until Hogwarts.
Tom holds his wand and apparates straight to Little Hangleton. The Gaunt shack is... he can’t even call it a shack anymore. There’s no one, neither Morfin nor Marvolo, and there’s at least an inch of dust covering everything.
Except for one spot on the floorboards where he hid his ring.
Rage builds inside him as he considers the options. Someone could have stolen it. Someone else could have it.
Or he himself (the other himself—the future one—the present one) could have taken it somewhere else.
I should not jump to conclusions, he reminds himself.
He plans a visit to the Gaunt house somewhere in Wales.
~
On the first of September, he’s at Kings’ Cross at eleven sharp and boarded the train in casual robes.
His identity is now Tom Riddle the Third, son of Tom Riddle the Second and grandson of Tom Riddle the First, also known as Tom Riddle the Muggle. Goblins were ever so helpful when one behaved properly and spoke the right words. He is registered as being seventeen years old again and starting fresh at Hogwarts as a seventh year transfer student from a little-known wizarding institution located, incidentally, in Wales where the only currently functioning Gaunt home is situated.
He did not wait for the boats and instead went along with the older students in the carriages, feeling uncharacteristically impatient. The thestrals stare unblinkingly as they always have. He smiles a small, private smile. Some things are better off without changing.
When the first years arrive, he’s waiting by the large double doors and Dumbledore arrives in a frazzle, the little children right behind him.
“Ah,” he says, stopping short when he sees Tom. “Are you Mr. Tom Riddle?” he asks in a slightly bewildered tone.
Tom dips his head very slightly, because he knows when to play demure and when to challenge, and replies in a hesitant voice, “Ah, yes, sir. I had not received any word that I should be travelling by boat and only realised it once my classmates commented on it as I was riding the carriages with them. I apologise for the confusion and inconvenience.”
You sound like a provision shop putting up a CLOSED TEMPORARILY sign on the front door, he forces himself to think, solely to keep his irritation at bay.
Dumbledore blinks at him for a minute. Tom counts the seconds and fidgets expertly, closing and opening his eyes slower than is normal.
At long last, Dumbledore nods. “It’s no big deal, my boy,” he smiles, and isn’t that a sight. He knows the name Tom Riddle, so he must either be acting too, or he bought into the I'm not my father or grandfather, I was raised by good people as a good little boy in a good little village in Wales story. He wants to cackle. “Let us get you all sorted now, shall we?”
He claps his hands at that pun (was it meant to be a pun?) and gives his usual perfunctory speech about the Houses. Tom tunes him out and feels petty pleasure at doing so.
Though, if he was Headmaster, shouldn't the Deputy be doing this? Tom feels even more gleeful when he realises that the old coot rushed here solely because of him.
Oh, he would love to give the goat a nice big heart attack.
~
He is unsurprisingly sorted into Slytherin and he grins as he takes his place among familiar faces that look at him curiously; probing, evaluating.
He will show them that his power is such that they could not hope to evaluate it with any measure existing in the world.
At the other end of the hall, there’s a clatter. Tom looks up and sees a boy standing, probably a fourth or fifth year, and another, older-looking one pulling him down to sit again. There’s a girl whispering in a panic to the two of them. All three of them seem to be staring at him.
He meets their eyes one by one, smirking at the last one, the younger boy. His black hair looks similar to that of Potter from his time and he places him immediately. Harry Potter, who defeated Lord Voldemort.
He’d scoffed when he’d first heard it. Defeated? Him? A baby? Absolutely no way.
But he’d been forced to accept it and in the two months he had left, he’d done quite a lot of research. And planning.
Harry Potter glars back and swallows, and Tom follows the movement greedily.
Interesting, though.
If the boy (a sixth year, though he looks much younger, he muses) knows about this form, the human-looking one, it is just another piece falling into place of how exactly he could get his revenge and get rid of a potential threat in one swoop.
He wonders how the boy came to know.
Dumbledore frowns down at them, but Tom made sure he didn’t see him smirking at the so-called Golden Trio of Hogwarts. He really must’ve been fooled by the act, Tom thinks, satisfaction curling in his stomach.
Two months spent alone, bored, forced to research all he knew of a child, the opposition and his own unworthy followers, and it is only now getting fun. Sensing the green gaze of his supposed defeater throughout dinner only adds to the giddy feeling in his chest, and he allows himself a broad smile, like he's drunk on luck.
Do not forget your purpose, he reminds himself later as he falls asleep in a familiar yet different room. Have you forgotten already, the fear and the pain?
That is why, he thinks back at himself firmly, I’m doing this. This time, I won’t be the one hurting and fearing.
He does not sleep well, the anxiety of the past haunting him through time and space.