A sigil in the mist — the same twisted serpent Tom had seen in Flitwick's classroom ash.
It hovered before him.
Then vanished.
The mist curled inward, heavy and swirling like smoke trapped inside glass.
Another memory took form.
This one was darker. Not because of shadows — but because of what it showed.
A long wooden table. A single candle.
Marvolo Gaunt sat slumped in a chair, breathing heavily, a bandage around his arm, blood seeping through.
The girl — now eighteen, thin and pale with black hair tangled down her back — stood silently across from him.
Her expression had changed.
No more fire.
Just... a quiet, hollow look in her eyes.
"You've failed," she said.
Her voice didn't shake.
"We've failed," he growled, coughing. "But the legacy—"
"Is poison," she cut him off.
The room snapped colder.
Marvolo sat up sharply.
"What did you say?"
She didn't flinch.
"You spent your life trying to burn the world down. But the world never cared about the Gaunts. No one remembers us."
"Then we make them remember!"
He slammed his fist down, coughing again. Blood splattered the table.
She walked away.
Marvolo stared after her, eyes burning, but he didn't move.
The fog thickened again — and shifted.
Now Tom stood in the village of Little Hangleton, beside a tall iron gate.
Beyond it, a young man on horseback — well-dressed, clean, with sharp features — rode slowly past.
Tom Riddle Sr.
The man who shared his name.
Merope watched him from the tree line, eyes wide — not cruel. Not angry.
Just... longing.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small silver phial. It glowed faintly pink inside.
Tom didn't understand what it was,
But a voice told him,
A love potion. It was like he was reading Merope mind
She uncorked it with trembling hands.
Next, the scene flickered — now the two were sitting together in a field.
Tom Riddle Sr. smiled at her, brushing her hair behind her ear.
But something about his eyes...
they were too still.
Too hollow.
"You're beautiful," he said, smiling.
She smiled back — tears in her eyes.
But they weren't tears of joy.
They were guilt.
Regret.
And need.
Desperate, dangerous need.
Tom watched it all, horrified... and confused.
"That man—"
"That's..."
The thought wouldn't finish in his head.
Not yet.
Because the mist was shifting again.
And everything he thought he knew was about to break.
The mist pulled Tom deeper, dragging the scenes forward like pages of a book too old to close.
He saw the cottage next.
Small. Cold. Run-down. The fire in the hearth burned low.
Merope stood in the kitchen, hand over her stomach.
She was no longer radiant, no longer humming spells or stirring potions.
She was pale. Tired. Breathing slow.
Pregnant.
She touched her belly like it was the last thing in the world that mattered.
And she was alone.
The mist shifted again.
Now Tom Riddle Sr. was standing in the same kitchen — but the glow was gone from his face.
His expression was one of shock. Of disgust.
"You... you charmed me?"
Merope stood in the corner, tear-streaked and shaking.
"It was only for a while," she whispered. "At first. Then I stopped. I thought—"
"You thought what? That I'd love you?"
He stepped back, horrified.
"You're insane. You're just some freakish—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He walked out the door. Slamming it behind him.
And Merope collapsed to her knees, sobbing.
She was still holding her belly.
Another shift.
This time: a dark alley, wind howling through crooked chimneys.
Merope Gaunt, barely more than a shadow, shuffled through the snow. Her clothes were torn. Her eyes — empty.
She clutched her stomach with both arms now.
Every breath was a wheeze. Every step a struggle.
She reached the stone steps of a building marked "Wool's Orphanage" and pounded weakly on the door.
The door opened, light spilling out.
Then the scene shifted again — to a small cot, where she lay dying, sweat on her brow and blood on the sheets.
In her arms...
A baby.
"His name is Tom..." she whispered.
"Tom Marvolo Riddle..."
She looked down at him one last time...
Then closed her eyes.
Tom gasped.
The vision shattered.
The mist faded — for now.
And he was left alone.
Staring at the empty dark...
With the truth.
The silence pressed around him like a closing tomb.
Tom stood frozen in the dark — every breath shallow, his mind spiraling.
The visions were gone.
His mother's death.
His father's disgust.
The truth of his name.
He should have felt broken.
But instead...
He felt watched.
The mist stirred at his feet.
Then — it rose.
Slowly. Thickly.
A shape formed within it. Cloaked. Towering. Black from head to toe.
No sound. No footsteps. Just presence.
Tom backed away instinctively... but the figure moved forward, hovering just above the ground, the edges of its cloak trailing like shadow.
Then — it stopped.
The figure raised one hand to its hood...
And pulled it down.
What stood before him was not a ghost. Not exactly.
It was a face carved from bitterness and ancient pride — Marvolo Gaunt.
His skin was pale and stretched. His eyes were piercing green, full of fury and madness.
And yet, they mirrored Tom's own.
"So..." the voice rasped, heavy with phlegm and gravel.
"You've seen it now."
Tom's fists clenched. His voice shook.
"What is this place...?"
Marvolo didn't answer the question.
He took a step closer. The mist curled around him like loyal snakes.
"You know who she was. You know how you were born."
"And now..." he leaned in, voice low and echoing—
"You know what you are."
Tom swallowed hard, his throat dry.
Marvolo raised a crooked finger.
"You are a Gaunt, boy. One of the last. A true heir of the old blood. Of the dark blood."
"You are one of us."
Tom stared at the figure before him — gaunt, ancient, eyes burning with the same green that haunted his reflection.
"You are one of us," Marvolo said again.
Then he raised both hands...
And the mist around them shuddered.
It began to shift, reshape — no longer fog, but vision.
Like stepping through a pensieve made from smoke and old magic.
They stood suddenly in a stone chamber — cracked walls, flickering torches, a single raised platform.
A man stood there — robed in green, his hands shackled in magical chains.
"He was pure-blood," Marvolo said, his voice a ghost in Tom's ear. "A descendant of the Travers line. Executed for defending himself against Muggle attack."
The man screamed, "They came at my wife!" before he was silenced by a curse.
Tom flinched.
The fog twisted — now flames licked the edges of a small wizarding village.
Bodies lay scattered. Wands broken. Children crying.
"Muggle soldiers. A 'cleansing.' They said witches were poisoning wells. The Ministry covered it up."
Tom turned away from the smoke, but Marvolo forced his gaze forward.
"Your blood remembers these things. Even if your mind does not."
Now: a grand old estate — abandoned.
Dust covered ancient tapestries, Slytherin sigils faded to brown. A portrait whispered from the wall, ignored by time.
"This was once the home of the Sallow family. One of ours. Their lands seized. Their name erased."
Tom blinked.
Sallow?
Marvolo looked sideways at him.
"Some of us went underground. Others became shadows. But we never disappeared."
The mist pulled back into its smoky stage. The darkness surrounded them again.
Marvolo stepped closer.
"The world fears the old blood, Tom. They envy it. So they poison it."
He touched Tom's chest with one clawed finger.
"You feel it, don't you? The rejection. The hunger. The fire beneath your skin."
Tom didn't move.
But something inside him did.
"You are not cursed," Marvolo said. "You are chosen."
The mist tightened again.
The visions faded. The air went still.
Only Marvolo remained — standing tall, arms lifted like a preacher before a buried congregation.
His eyes — green fire.
His voice — sharp as broken bone.
"You have seen the pain.
You have tasted the truth.
You carry the blood.
You bear the flame."
The mist trembled as he chanted — low, rhythmic, like a spell passed down through the ages.
"The world forgot us,
But the blood remembers.
The fire sleeps,
But the heir awakens."
"They will tremble.
They will kneel.
The unclean will scatter.
And the true shall rise again."
He stepped forward — his breath now cold against Tom's face.
"You, Tom Marvolo Riddle..."
"You are the true heir of Salazar Slytherin. The one who can finish what the rest of us began. The one who will not fall to mercy... or love... or weakness."
Tom's chest rose and fell.
He couldn't speak.
But something in his veins felt like it knew these words.
Like they had always been there... waiting.
Marvolo's voice dropped into a whisper — low, heavy, and final.
"We are coming for you."
"And when we do... the world will burn."
The mist began rush vigorously towards Tom,
The Slytherin dormitory was silent.
Only the soft snoring of sleeping boys filled the room.
Until—
A sudden rush of black mist swept through the air like a breath being sucked back in.
It gathered above one of the beds.
Then —
THUD.
Tom Riddle's body dropped onto his mattress, arms limp, breath ragged.
His eyes fluttered.
He didn't wake.
Just shifted slightly... and fell into a deep, unnatural sleep.
The mist vanished as fast as it came.
Footsteps echoed seconds later.
The door burst open.
Severus Snape came rushing in with Magnus Rosier, the Slytherin prefect, trailing behind him.
"He was gone!" Severus panted. "He vanished — into smoke!"
Rosier frowned, unimpressed.
"Snape, if this is some weird joke—"
"Look at him!" Severus hissed, pointing toward the bed.
Rosier stepped closer and narrowed his eyes.
There Tom was, sound asleep.
Face pale. Brows slightly furrowed. But... breathing normally.
The room was still.
Rosier turned back to Severus with a scowl.
"He looks very much here to me."
Severus looked like he'd been slapped.
"No — I saw him disappear— He— he vanished right in front of me— there was smoke—!"
Rosier folded his arms.
"You've been reading too many cursed scrolls, Snape."
Severus's face turned red.
"I'm not lying."
"Then explain how he's lying there snoring and not a trace of any dark magic? Hm?"
He gave Tom's blanket a tug, almost to prove it was real.
Tom didn't stir.
Just let out a low, pained exhale... and turned to the side.
Rosier gave Severus a long, unimpressed stare.
"Snape, if this is some bizarre way of getting attention, you've got to try harder. You're not fooling anyone."
Severus opened his mouth, but Rosier raised a hand.
"He's here. He's sleeping. And I'm not going to lose sleep chasing shadows — especially when it's our house that'll pay for it if this turns into some prank war."
He gave Tom one last look, shook his head, and turned toward the door.
"Next time, make sure he's actually gone before dragging me out of bed."
The door shut behind him.
Severus stood there in the dark, fists clenched at his sides.
He wasn't crazy.
He saw it happen.
And somehow, Tom Riddle — still breathing softly on the bed — had made it all look like a dream.
But Severus knew better.
Something had happened.
And whatever it was...
It wasn't over.
NESSGEEORIGINAL