Tom's consciousness surfaced slowly from oblivion. The last thing he remembered was the bombing—explosions close to the orphanage, or rather to the shelter where the staff had led the children. He couldn't bring himself to hide with the others; it seemed to him that stillness was the worst possible response, that he had to be able to run, to hide, to Apparate if it came to that. And even if they weren't to be taught it for another year yet, in a moment of mortal danger he would rather Splinch himself than become what he had seen several times already when the rubble was cleared from the streets.
He gasped for breath and opened his eyes. His head rang; his thoughts were tangled, if the fragments racing through his mind could even be called thoughts.
Silence. A soft light, like early morning or early evening.
He was in a bed—such a luxurious one as he had only experienced once before, when he visited Abraxas Malfoy at his home. Memory came back slowly. Of course—he was in the famous house on Grimmauld. What a situation. He was essentially in the Blacks' debt now. Unpleasant. But probably better than death?
He must have died in that bombing—since he was here now and remembered nothing after. The main thing was to understand why these wizards had resurrected him—fulfilling whatever they asked might become the means of discharging the Life Debt he'd had no choice but to accept. In that ritual chamber, surrounded by unfamiliar magic, Tom had felt clearly that he had no other option.
One of the wizards was unmistakably Abraxas's heir—you could spot a Malfoy from a distance. Always. But why hadn't Abraxas himself appeared? Or was this beneath his notice? And that older witch—Walburga? Black? She'd been two years above him?
"Imagine, young man, that name is quite popular." He seemed to hear her voice and marvelled at his own imagination. Finally things began to come to him, slowly but surely.
Nineteen eighty-one, he recalled, picturing the young man as clearly as if he stood before him. Enough to make your head spin. Though—
Tom sat up sharply in bed, then sank back against the pillows with an expression of pure happiness. He was alive. He was young—despite being fifty-five by now. How had that happened?
He had only been thinking about creating a Horcrux, had only gathered all the details, hadn't even prepared everything yet. But apparently he had managed it somehow? Which meant he'd survived that summer, survived and returned to Hogwarts. Then why had he died?
And what mattered was—there appeared to be no war here. At least not nearby. That was wonderful.
Tom tried to get up—there was some clothing folded by the bed, clearly someone else's, but he was past caring about that. Clean was enough. His hands still obeyed him somewhat, but his legs—he could barely feel them, or much else of his body. He wasn't even hungry. And consciousness was slipping away again.
Then came a knock at the door, and in walked—yes, actually Hagrid, entirely real, just a little taller and more overgrown, accompanied by a young man in black who was clearly a Potions master. They fed him a portion of an extraordinarily good porridge, then poured into him—well, he poured it into himself, because he wasn't stupid enough to refuse what was clearly an enhanced Restorative, Strengthening, and whatever else he absolutely needed right now. He knew his potions. He'd have liked the recipe, too. Though he wasn't about to count on that. If this young Potions master had developed this himself, he could make a fortune.
After taking the potions he was even able to talk a little with his visitors, once again profoundly struck by the half-giant's intelligence—specifically on the question of whether to call a Healer. Coming to an agreement proved straightforward: no one wanted this made public. Not Tom, and not those who had resurrected him. But no one had asked about the Horcrux or his first victim. Did they know? But how?
And then he fell asleep—for a long time, it seemed. Or perhaps someone had put a Stasis on him for good measure. Along with a Somnus. Tom never found out.
***
The discussion at Grimmauld—what to tell young Tom and what not to—went on considerably longer than expected. It was obvious to everyone that the young man hadn't recognised anyone: not even the woman he'd shared a faculty with for years, apparently. So the carefully-sedated Tom was for now simply a copy of his sixteen-year-old self. But no one could predict what would happen next—whether the new Tom's personality would attract his Horcruxes.
After researching the matter more thoroughly—the entire company had spent the night in the Black and Prince libraries—they concluded it was unlikely. But the spirit of what might be called the final version of Voldemort, floating around somewhere unknown, could be drawn in very easily. And that was a matter of time. Which meant he would remember everything. So what then?
Snape suggested simply making the boy hiss in the right places the moment he woke up, then handing him over to the Department of Mysteries. For experiments. Especially since Rookwood was all for it. Enthusiastically so.
Severus had taken to his "older colleague in skull and serpent" with remarkable speed—presumably on the principle of like meeting like, since both were primarily interested in uncovering magical secrets, and Rookwood knew his potions too, at least in his areas of interest. Naturally the brilliantly talented young Potions master had been drawn into those same areas. Andrei kept an eye on both of them, but didn't particularly object—turning Snape into a complete misanthrope and a scarecrow for the human race was not in his plans. Had the man started socialising with someone of his own free will? Excellent. Now a decision had to be reached—or rather, a way had to be found to make everyone else reach it.
"Honesty is the best policy, if you don't want the people you're friends with to become politicians," Andrei said, in a tone of great profundity—and for some reason everyone went quiet. The Hagrid image was apparently serving its purpose. No one had expected anything approaching an aphorism from him.
Oddly enough, the first to support the idea was Andromeda, and then Walburga Black—and since the latter had agreed, the matter was essentially settled. Andrei had taken an irrational liking to young Tom—a wild thing, certainly, but not yet a predator. That was plain enough to see.
After Tom had acknowledged the Life Debt, even Sirius and Regulus were in no hurry to heap accusations on him. There was nothing to accuse him of yet, in any case—except, perhaps, the first victim for the Horcrux, which needed looking into. But the possibility that the "primary version" of Voldemort might materialise was unsettling everyone. Lady Black even walked around the outside of the house casting additional charms and didn't return for an hour and a half. The debate resumed—and it became clear why that word was so applicable to such conversations: the young people were flushed with the effort of proposing and discarding, and even the ladies' cheeks were pink with the heat of argument.
Remarkably, it was another of Snape's proposals that resolved the question and articulated a plan that most of them had already half-formed.
"So—we all take Veritaserum and sit down to talk. Tom tells us how he ended up in this situation, and we ask him what he remembers. Then we drink the potion, and he asks us. I'll go and brew it," Severus concluded, and vanished in the direction of the laboratory.
Lupin and Regulus volunteered to help: time was short, the potion was highly complex and could only be prepared in small single-dose batches. There was enough work for everyone, even if the ladies had joined in.
Walburga did look in for a few minutes—simply to point out that the Prince heir had his own laboratory, and while she wasn't asking anyone to vacate hers, they could accomplish more working simultaneously. As a result, the young men were swept with a reproachful look from the mistress of the house, trooped out to the fireplace room, and departed "to Snape's," despite some grumbling from the latter. In Walburga's laboratory, she preferred to reign alone, or in the most intimate company possible. This time, that turned out to be the formerly estranged niece.
Walburga observed her work and became increasingly certain that the decision to exclude such a witch from the family had been, at the very least, shortsighted—if not wasteful and simply foolish. Blacks will always be Blacks, she decided, once and for all—time the Blacks themselves remembered that, herself included.
After some reflection, Sirius followed his friend and brother—still marvelling at himself. What was he doing in a potions laboratory, especially alongside Snape? He must have lost his mind. Though it would at least be interesting.
The expression on Snape's face—already in his own laboratory, cauldrons set in a row, both assistants put to work—when Sirius Black walked in in person, was priceless. Black braced himself for a withering response, but Snape gave a silent nod and turned away. Someone pulled at his arm a moment later, and before he knew it he was carefully stripping a Billywing's feathers alongside his own brother.
That's what the life-giving porridge does, Andrei thought with a smile, watching the imperfect but surprisingly smooth work of the former adversaries. He had followed Sirius in—the notorious troublemaker warranted supervision.
Snape had assigned Lupin to the weighing—presumably as the former top student. Sirius thought about it. Would Snape really brew the real thing for himself? Worth keeping an eye on. Which meant doing whatever he was given, without raising suspicion. And doing it properly—they'd all be drinking it in the end.
Watching them, Andrei was thinking how to wriggle out himself, or get an antidote from Snape. There were certain things about himself he had no intention of sharing. They'd been told "Hagrid," and Hagrid he was—no complications, no bodyswappers or spirits that could theoretically be exorcised. Or only under an Unbreakable Vow, as the most terrible secret imaginable.
He didn't have to think for long—Snape discovered something missing from his own stores, and Hagrid had to make several trips to Black House, to Malappert's apothecary, and to some obscure address in Knockturn Alley. Fortunately everything went smoothly, as if luck were on his side.
***
"Under an Unbreakable Vow," Lady Black supported his proposal. "Otherwise I won't touch this." She looked at the row of phials.
"How's our Tommy doing?" Andrei asked, and the young people snickered.
"He'll wake up soon. Kreacher is watching over him."
No one knew that Tom Riddle's sleep had been disturbed—and for some time.
***
Little Harry was simply a child at that age when one doesn't yet understand limits—and sometimes, on direct collision with a limit, the limit gave way. That was what happened with the protective charms on Tom's door—simply because a small wizard was curious.
Tom, unceremoniously woken, swore in Parseltongue and stared as the small miscreant—hissed back at him:
"Uncle! Want—"
And climbed onto the bed. Tom was so dumbfounded he didn't even think to object. And then it was too late.
***
When Hagrid and the Black brothers saw the door to their dangerous guest's room standing ajar, they rushed in without hesitation—and found the occupant still lying peacefully in bed, but with Harry Potter bouncing on his stomach. Both were hissing enthusiastically at each other, passing conjured little snakes from hand to hand—checkered, to judge by the colour, which was quality illusion-work, since checkered snakes were unknown even to wizards. As were large-green-polka-dot ones.
The tableau was worthy of the finest wizard portrait-painter.
"UncleTooom!" Harry declared in a single word, settling the poor man's future definitively, then turned to the arrivals and bounced on Tom's stomach again. Tom grunted but bore it stoically.
Andrei grinned. Why shouldn't the wretched prophecy come true—in exactly this fashion? A troubled life was certainly guaranteed, especially without a house-elf to manage things.
"So you've had a good hiss, have you?" he asked, and received a nod.
From Tom, naturally—Harry was occupied with the toy snakes.
There was probably no trace of Voldemort here. That version would certainly not have tolerated what little Potter was doing to him—and would have recognised the child immediately. And then— Andrei knew rationally that it was safe now, but his insides went cold all the same.
From the look on the Black brothers' faces, it had dawned on them too.
"How are you feeling?" Andrei made himself ask. "Up to coming down to dinner?"
"If you can remove this creature from me first." Tom smiled. "Who is this little one? Whose is he?"
"Harry's," the boy said, frowning.
He'd told this grown-up who he was already. Did he think he was completely stupid?
"Harry Potter," Andrei said, watching Tom carefully. "An orphan. In the care of—the lady."
No. This Riddle found the child's name entirely meaningless.
That won't last long, he thought, extending his hand and suggesting Harry come with him—time for his porridge. The little snakes dissolved, Harry patted Tom's duvet and lisped something resembling a promise to come and play again, and Tom sat up.
"More Strengthening Solution?" Hagrid enquired.
"Better after dinner." Riddle's smile was rather charming, despite the fact that this incarnation of the dim half-wit gamekeeper-classmate still didn't quite fit in his head.
"Get dressed and come down. The house-elf will show you the way." Regulus finally came back to himself and did his duty as host. "Kreacher!"
"Yes, young master…"
"Thank you, I can manage."
"You are new to the house of an ancient family. We would prefer you to remain safe."
"Thank you again. If you'll permit me?" Tom reached for the clothes.
"Of course." Regulus answered, while Sirius and Hagrid silently left. "We'll be waiting in the small dining room downstairs. Kreacher—understood? Show the guest the way and help if he asks."
The house-elf nodded, bowing very, very low—so that the expression on his face went unnoticed by everyone.
***
After dinner—just dinner for now—Andromeda Black and Remus Lupin chose to take their leave. They had nothing to tell Tom, and listening to the Dark Lord's difficult childhood…
Thank you, we'd appreciate a brief summary at some other time, was approximately how Andromeda Black's courteous farewell came across—and no one in this house could quite bring themselves to refer to her by her married name. Sirius went with them—whether to see Andromeda out or his friend was unclear—and so he didn't come back for quite a while. He was probably counting on his brother and the Pensieve.
The evening of "memories of the future" stretched almost to dawn. Especially after the potions brewed by Snape and company were consumed not by their makers—they had been obliged to exchange with the esteemed mistress of the house. However dissatisfied everyone was, the arrangement was judged optimal. In the circumstances, any gaps in information or unspoken understanding could cost dearly. Lives, even. Tom, incidentally, drank first. Yes—as it turned out, the boy had precious little to hide. Except that he hadn't even seen Myrtle until the last moment, and had barely managed to "catch the energy of her death" in a specially prepared notebook he always carried with him. Yes, since that very summer. For him, those almost four decades hadn't passed.
No wonder he hadn't recognised Walburga—he might sooner have taken her for her mother, but he'd never had occasion to see her either; the Blacks had not thought to invite a halfblood, known only within the school, to their home.
How good it would be if the boy stayed himself, Andrei thought, quietly looking around at everyone seated at the table. Somehow I think that's on everyone's mind, and one doesn't need Legilimency to see it.
To Tom's credit, he looked visibly shaken—particularly after twice stepping into the memories of Snape and Regulus. The Calming Draught did come in useful. And as for how "pleased" he was to learn that his "missing portion" would be rejoining him before long—that was beyond words. Though the orphanage boy found words for it—such that even the lady covered her ears. And given that this was the inimitable Walburga Black—that conveyed exactly how badly the young man was taking the news.
After which he was informed that the house was currently protected against all outsiders, in whatever form they might appear—and he was finally able to breathe.
"One substantial question remains: how much of a stranger your older self actually is to you, Tom," Lady Black concluded.
"I can't disown it, I take it?"
"Well—what's grown is grown," Snape said.
"Want me to tell you what grew out of you?" Hagrid offered in an extraordinarily gentle tone that left Severus uneasy.
"Er—thank you. Some other time perhaps."
"I'd quite like to know."
"There's a similar ritual, but it requires calculation."
"Then let's do it."
No one needed to go to the library—clever Regulus had everything required to hand. Walburga looked at her son with quiet pride and produced her great-grandmother's grimoire—it contained relevant information as well. Work began in earnest.
But everyone was still watching Tom as though he were a mine with a ticking clock—and he could feel it. And then it happened—just before dawn, when the calculations were done and the conversation finally petered out, not because there was nothing left to discuss but from sheer exhaustion and an empty supply of Invigoration Draughts, when everyone was beginning to leave.
First Harry came hurtling down the stairs, crying loudly, with a wringing-his-hands house-elf barely keeping up. Blood ran down the child's face from his scar. Harry flinched away from Tom—and Tom—
The young, clean face contorted: half became a savage grimace, while the other half flushed crimson with the effort of—holding back, refusing to move. But a hand shot up—even without a wand:
"Ava—"
"Tom!" Hagrid barked, and the boy seized his own hand and clamped it over his mouth.
It was frightening to watch: Tom seemed to be fighting something invisible, at the closest possible range, on the most terrible possible level—inside himself. Clawing his own hands, biting his lips bloody, writhing as though trying to escape his own skin or turn himself inside out—the struggle was brutal.
"Tom!" Walburga called out, in a voice of remarkable clarity—and they all saw her for a moment as a young girl, beautiful in a way that rivalled young Bella not-yet-Lestrange, as she crossed swiftly to him.
"An illusion," Sirius murmured. "So that's what she—"
"Val?" Tom rasped, and the red gleam in his eyes began to fade. "Or am I imagining it?"
"UncleTooom!" Harry grabbed his leg—he'd rolled up at some point, while Walburga was busy putting a hasty seal on the cut, and everyone else had lost track of him.
Hagrid gripped Tom's head firmly, looking into those pitiless, inhuman red eyes.
"Tom," Severus put a hand on his shoulder—and Regulus mirrored the gesture from the other side.
"Tom, come on—you're stronger than this!" Sirius stepped forward. "Look what you did—you jumped over three, four decades! Hey—don't give in to that filth."
Tom went limp—all the colour draining from his face—and would have collapsed if Hagrid hadn't caught him. Then he opened perfectly ordinary grey-blue eyes, exhaled in unsteady breaths, and lost consciousness.
No one saw how old Kreacher watched this strange battle with the self. No one noticed when something cleared in his clouded eyes, or heard the snap of his thin fingers—which no one heard. And no one saw the satisfied, sated smile of the house-elf, who appeared to have shed decades in an instant.
"The bad wizard will never again make master Regulus give Kreacher away! The bad wizard will never appear anywhere again! There will be another, quite different boy—the best friend of mistress Walburga. A friend and—a debtor. All the boys will serve the House of Black—the very finest house!"
And he vanished, taking all the used dishes with him.