The Shadows of the Room

Chapter #3

Tom cuddled into the warm blankets around him and sighed contentedly. He was finally home. He could feel it, even with his eyes closed; he could smell the past years in the atmosphere, the aroma of warmth all around him which he only ever felt here, in Hogwarts. Tom frowned suddenly. No, he couldn't be here already.

He opened his eyes, and found of course, that he wasn't in his dormitory as he'd originally thought, but he wasn't in St. Edmunds the orphanage, either.

He sat up in bed and looked around the infirmary. He could vaguely remember being walked downstairs after they'd had their fill of answers from him the night before. He stayed in bed a moment wondering, his stomach squirming, what was going to be done with him, and then finally got up. No one was there, but he was certain that he wouldn't be left alone for very long.

It seemed Dippet's office hadn't been the only thing to change. Tom looked around the room, intensely curious. Why had they bothered? The beds were in a different arrangement then they had been before. No longer those creamy aqua hospital sheets, now everything was white.

He circled around slowly. That wasn't all. There was something else he couldn't quite place his finger on, but something seemed infinitely different....

The door creaked open and Tom turned with some apprehension to see Dumbledore enter the room.

"You're awake," he smiled. Was there no end to this mans façades?

Dumbledore smiled. "We had to be sure Tom."

"Of what?"

"That you weren't a danger."

Tom shook his head. "But you've known me for years."

Dumbledore nodded. "Perhaps more years than you think," he said. Tom frowned. "We believe you Tom," he continued. "But, no one is quite sure what happened... It seems that he traded places with you."

"Who, Voldemort? Why would he need to be at the orphanage?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "It wasn't the orphanage he traded with you Tom. It was the time."

"The time?"

*

Tom wandered the length of the hall repeating the name to himself. Voldermort. How could such a name inspire so much fear?

No, it couldn't. It was impossible. If fifty-four years had passed he would feel it. It wouldn't just be a change in location.... How could 'he' be a dark lord? Who would fear him? He knew how he looked, and it didn't at all fit the image. In fact, most would probably be painfully embarrassed to realize that they had been afraid of 'him' all these years. He had the sudden urge to search out a mirror, knowing full well what he would find there; the boyish face, the dark hair and brown eyes, the smile if it chose to come. Not the face of that 'thing' in the orphanage. Nothing about him was unusual. He was just like everyone else.

Tom had to bite back that comment. No, he wasn't like everyone else; he had always been different; first with his magic, then with St. Edmunds at Hogwarts.... In fact, everything about him, except perhaps his appearance, was very different from all the people he had known--.

"Where are you going?"

Tom stopped and searched for the source of the voice. A young woman in a painting was watching him candidly.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

The girl smiled, baring a set of very large white teeth.

"Not really," she answered. "I just need to know where you're going, is all."

"And why is that?"

"Well, we can't have 'you' wandering around unattended, now can we?"

Tom grimaced.

"I'm going to the library," he said shortly, and walked away. So this would be it, from now on he would always be watched?

He sighed and pushed open the door to the library--and froze. He looked around, completely taken aback. The library was different.

Slowly he walked forward. Everything was different. The shelves were a different kind of wood, darker than they used to be. The carpet was now a mix of browns, already deeply worn in.... It had been there for years.

"Hello."

Tom turned at the sound of the voice. A boy was sitting at a table, watching him between two bookshelves.

"Hi," he said stepping forward.

The boy smiled at his hesitance, but didn't say anything else. He was looking at him with such an odd expression on his striking face.

"What are you doing here?" Tom asked. "They don't let students stay during the summer."

The boy smiled slightly.

"They made an exception for me; I got here this morning."

Wondering why he was suddenly so tense Tom pulled out the chair directly across from the boy and sat down. His hair was so dark that black was the only color to describe it with, and his eyes... Tom had never seen anything like it. He hadn't taken them off of him once, and as far as he could tell, hadn't even blinked. Everything about him was deep and focused. He must be a Slytherin.

He didn't know what to say under the silent interrogation. Suddenly the boy reached forward and gently brushed his fingers against the side of his face. Startled, Tom didn't pull away.

He trailed his fingers down his jaw and paused a moment before letting them brush his lips.

Tom shivered and the boy drew away.

"What was that?" Tom asked quietly.

"Just checking," he replied with equal quiet.

"And?"

"And you're real."

Tom nearly laughed.

"What else would I be?" he asked.

"A memory." The boy stood up abruptly. "Last time I met you, that's what you were." He placed Tom's diary on the table between them, and walked past him.

Tom stared at the broken book; the ink, the burnt pages, the hole seared through the centre, and turned around.

"So you're Harry Potter?" he called after the retreating back.

"Yeah," he said turning back around. "And this time I know... You're Voldemort."

Tom stood up trembling as the door clicked shut.

He needed to find the history books.