The Sun Sets Twice Again

At some point, though he wasn't sure when, Harry had decided that Number 4 Privet Drive was his own personal hell. The turning point might have been the letter from Sirius, his godfather. Sirius, who agreed that he should stay with the Dursleys all summer and not go the Burrow. Sirius, who said it was for his own safety. Because the Dursleys could *so* protect him against wizards and witches. Hell, wizards and witches couldn't even protect him from the Death Eaters. The only high point of the summer had been the fact that no one had managed to break down whatever protection Number 4 Privet Drive had around it. Of course, that wouldn't be a high point if he went mad from being cooped up with all three Dursleys for two and a half months.

He had forgotten what it was like: this lack of hope. Well, he supposed he didn't completely lack hope; some part of him was looking forward to going back to Hogwarts and classes and Quidditch, especially the freedom he felt when he was flying. More than anything else, though, he missed Hermione and Ron, his two best friends. Of course, the rest of him was feeling guilty for looking forward to anything at all. So, maybe it was better that he was miserable at the Dursleys-- it's not like he deserved anything else. Just thinking this made him angry at himself, which in turn made him angry at others, so then he felt guilty all over again. It was turning into a habit-- a habit that was making him sick of himself. It didn't help that he'd spent the better part of the summer being voluntarily locked in his room.

That was why he was currently laying on his bed (which, even though he was small for his age, didn't really fit him) staring blankly at the ceiling, disliking the universe in general. It's not like he asked to be the Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived. Still, it wasn't as if he was going to off himself, or do anything that could be considered suicidal like ask Ron to come get him. That would put Ron at risk anyway and he wasn't willing to do that. So, instead, he had spent a lot of time thinking and, when he wasn't thinking, working. It had to be the first time he had ever finished his homework before his birthday. Since he was being more agreeable than ever, the Dursleys hadn't locked his books and supplies away-- though in return they seemed to be feeding him less. He didn't actually mind this, as he'd been having trouble stomaching anything for awhile anyway.

He'd sent Hedwig to Flourish and Blotts for books a few times over the summer, most of them dealing with defense against the dark arts; of course, Hermione had sent him a book on his birthday, but he was running out of material. Harry thought that he'd studied more in the last few months than the rest of his Hogwarts time combined even if he couldn't really practice. He'd be reading now if he wasn't so tired that the words kept blurring together. Not that he could sleep anyway; when he slept he dreamed, and when he dreamt it was a nightmare- a nightmare or a memory, sometimes both, sometimes reality mixed with his worse fears. Sometimes, he ordered Cedric's death-- those were the worst. It was getting to the point where he didn't want to sleep, where he refused to sleep and had learned instead to blank out-- to fall into a state that wasn't quite sleep at all. A state where he didn't have to dream and he didn't have to think and he barely had to breathe.

He was fairly certain it was Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome (he'd gotten his hands on some Muggle psychology books when he was still trying to stop the dreams), but the only cure for that was to deal with the incident that triggered it. Except Cedric was dead while Voldemort wasn't, and there was nothing more to sort out as far as Harry was concerned. He wasn't strong enough or studied enough to manage the sort of time spell that'd be required to fix anything and, he felt, given the circumstances, Dumbledore would just tell him that he couldn't change what had been done-- only change what will be. What Harry did know was that the next chance he got, he was going to fix everything he could-- even if it killed him, and even if he had to kill someone else. He wasn't letting things get that out of control again. He couldn't. He wouldn't survive.

As he lay in bed his muscles began to cramp from the constant pressure of being still, but he didn't mind. At some point the incessant gnawing hungry had ceased, leaving an empty feeling that almost had him worried his body had gone as numb as his mind. It was nice to feel something. He supposed it was also a good sign that he was worried in the first place. Circular thought. A to B to A again. The familiarity was nearly comforting, but he didn't want comfort. He shifted as the muscles of his lower back, what few he had left over from the last time he played Quidditch, began to throb, protesting of his lack of motion. He was starting to wonder-- in circles, of course-- if maybe he was going insane, but each time he dismissed the possibility, because if he was would he really be wondering such a thing at all? He didn't think so, and therefore was more or less sure that he was of sound mind and body, or at least not completely barkers. Only marginally out of his mind. He laughed to himself, though it sounded cynical in his head, and he found the thought not at all reassuring

Harry turned his head, craning it upwards and over to glance at the clock on the bedside table. 4:17. In two more hours it'd be dawn and he'd go on pretending that he was awake because it was light out and not because he didn't want to have to relive that night two months ago. Maybe only an hour and a half 'til daylight. At least he knew it wasn't his imagination that the nights were getting longer, though it might not be better that they were. He sighed and went back to staring at the ceiling, but soon he was too tired to even do something so simple as that, and against his will he felt himself falling asleep.

* * *

The spell itself wasn't that hard, if you knew what you were doing. The potion was rather complicated and the charm difficult, but neither were impossible to do. It wasn't a well-known spell, despite its power, and he'd run across it quite by accident in a very old text while he was recuperating. A spell to restore oneself, were it from illness or a curse. He felt that his own rebounded curse fell well enough into that category, no doubt. However, it was contingent on strength, on the inherent power of the caster, and, most importantly, on will. Many wizards wouldn't be able to cast such a spell, which was probably why it wasn't well-known, no matter how useful it was.

Refici Ego Ipse. It was brilliant in its simplicity. I Restore Myself. Exactly what he intended to do. Restore himself to the glory he had once been, to the self that had caused fear and pain and chaos the world over; the self that had proved he, of all people, was not weak in any way. At least until a babe, a little bright eyed child, had somehow ruined it all. Oh well; he'd kill that child, now a young man, easily enough once he was strong again. He realized the mistake that had been made in the graveyard, a grievous miscommunication. Those responsible had been dealt with accordingly for not telling him that the boy had a brother wand and therefore, obviously, could not be fought with his own wand in hand. That just meant he'd have to kill Harry Potter the old fashioned way. No difficulty there. Next time they met each other he'd know better and the boy would die.

Until then he had the spell to keep him occupied. Once it was finished he could concern himself with details like Harry Potter's impending doom and the defeat of Albus Dumbledore. He'd been planning the latter for a long time and had almost done it before the...unfortunate... incident at Godric's Hollow. The old fool had never realized exactly how close to death he had come, and would once again be coming to soon. He'd complete that task yet, but that was after, and right now was before.

He heard a shuffle at the door, followed by a knock.

"Yes."

"My-my Lord. The potion is r-ready. It's ti-time," Pettigrew called.

He'd have to get rid of that stuttering idiot after this.

"Alright. I'll be out soon," he replied.

"Y-yes, Lord." The servant shuffled away.

Yes, he would get his victory, and better yet, his revenge. He rose, still sore from regaining his body after twelve long years, and walked towards the door, unlocking it with a flick of his wand and entering the hall. The ceremony would be held in the main parlor, and for the purposes of secrecy and concentration, unlike in the graveyard two months ago, the only ones in attendance would be himself, Pettigrew, and one Lucius Malfoy. Both were good, intelligent wizards, and far too cowardly to even consider double-crossing him.

The parlor was circular, and adorned in silver, green, and black: his favourite colours, the colours of his mark. In a way it reminded him of the Slytherin dorms from so long ago. In the center of the room a high-set altar was atop a black cloth, the table top containing a dagger, a cauldron with the still bubbling potion, and the charm that would be needed to complete the spell. On either side of the altar, not quite on the cloth, were Malfoy and Pettigrew. The top of the table came nearly even with their heads, enabling him to reach the ingredients without bending over himself. Good.

He stood over the altar and picked up the charm in one scaled hand, placing it in his palm, and with the other hand he took the knife. Shifting the charm to rest on his fingers, he carefully made shallow cuts, carving a symbol identical to the one on the green colored stone. After pulling away the dagger and placing it back on the altar top he closed his hand into a fist, covering the charm in his own blood. A moment later he moved his hand over the cauldron and let the stone drop in. The potion went from a pleasant sort of red, to blood red, and then black in a few seconds. Black, the color of magic. It was ready.

Soon...soon he'd be restored; restored to his health, to his power, to his self. He'd once again be unstoppable and undefeatable. He'd be the man he was at the height of his reign, the man that inspired such fear-- no longer a shadow of his former self. Restore himself indeed. He watched the potion calm in a detached sort of amusement, but as he poured some, exactly four ounces, into a cup, the feeling turned to cold victory. Smiling to himself, though he imagined it looked more like a sneer to the two men on their knees, he thought briefly, 'here's to my health,' before swallowing the potion in one single gulp. It burned in a good way, making him laugh out loud for the first time in... years. It felt like when he was young again. When he took pleasure in smaller things. In things other than pain. This was the first sign that something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

* * *

Pain. Not the sort of pain brought on by the Cruciatus Curse, that was worse, but for a moment he wondered if maybe that was what was happening. Then he remembered that he was alone in his room at the Dursleys' where no one could get in and that it had all been a dream. His head throbbed and he felt nauseous, both from the pain still radiating from his scar-- hurting from the inside out-- and from the images he had seen. Voldemort. Voldemort as Tom Riddle. Why had Voldemort thought that charm to be a good idea? He'd been going on about time, about giving himself time. Like he wanted to restore his strength and make him "himself" again. Had he meant to make himself fifteen again? No one would actually be crazy enough to do that, would they? Well, if anyone was... Harry forced his eyes open a little, though he felt like he was seeing stars, and found the glowing red numbers of the clock. 6:06.

Two hours. He wondered if he was wrong in thinking that this was the longest he had slept in a single night in over a week. He couldn't recall. Though he did vaguely remember that, some days back, he'd passed out into a great oblivious darkness, where he was so far under that no dreams could reach him because he was dead to the world, all before he woke up (or regained consciousness-- he wasn't sure which) twenty house later to the insistent pounding of his Uncle's massive hand against the door. Vernon seemed worried that if Harry died under his care 'those- those-people!' would put a curse on the Dursleys and had therefore been rather upset, leading to Harry muttering, 'Like you wouldn't bloody celebrate on my grave' at dinner. This, of course, had prompted Vernon to drag him up to his room and lock him in again, whilst going on a tirade about what an ungrateful little troublemaker Harry was. Since then, aside from someone occasionally slipping food to him, he had been left blissfully alone-- or if not blissfully, than contentedly.

He sighed, shaking himself out of his tangent. He'd had a dream with Voldemort. Not just a dream-- he was used to those after all-- but one of the visions. The visions that caused his scar to burn like the branding that it was. If nothing else his summer had been free of such distress, until now. He should write and tell Dumbledore and Sirius. It was what Harry Potter would do; it was what he should do. He sighed, shaking off the last vestige of pain, and got out of bed, going over to the desk in search of parchments and a quill. He found them in the drawer where he knew they were and sat down at the desk, writing out both letters quickly, trying to recall every detail that he could before signing them each and tying them to Hedwig's leg. At least this year his Uncle hadn't locked Hedwig in her cage, which meant he could send off the letters without having to go through Hermione the Muggle way. As he sent Hedwig on her way the first light of day dawned on the horizon, officially beginning August 14^th, 1995.

* * *

August 15^th, 1995. 3 p.m.

Albus Dumbledore looked down at the parchment in his hand, rereading it for the fourth time, Harry's owl Hedwig watching him expectantly. He smiled, fishing a couple of owl treats out of a dish on his desk and put his hand out for her to eat them. Then he turned back to the letter in concern. The Refici Ego Ipse spell was something he had only heard of and even then it was considered legend. A literal fountain of youth or...the reversal of time altogether. It was possible that this new Tom Riddle didn't remember anything past the fifteen years seen by his body. Possible indeed, and if that were true... No, he couldn't let his hopes up, it was also possible he remembered everything. Nothing was certain for now. Once it was decisions could, and would have to, be made. Until then, however, he would have to wait. Luckily, he was a patient man.

What he didn't know, however, was that time was on his side, for as he considered how to phrase his reply to Harry a lone boy was approaching the front gate of Hogwarts. This boy had jet-black hair and was wearing fairly standard wizard robes, looking not a bit different than the hundreds of other Hogwarts students who would be approaching the very same gates in a fortnight- aside from the rather obvious fact that he was two weeks too early. That didn't matter, because this wasn't a Hogwarts student; no, this particular boy hadn't attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for over fifty years. Not that he knew that.

Headmaster Dumbledore was, of course, alerted by the wards surrounding the school the second said boy passed the front gate. Furrowing his brow, he muttered a revealing spell on the small, circular object sitting on his desk. Seeing who it was, the twinkle is his very blue eyes strengthened and a small smile crossed his lips. He recognized the boy, would never forget him even if he lived, as his friend Nicholas Flamel had, well into his 600s or beyond, and he knew that this boy wasn't supposed to be here, now, but he was and that could mean great things. Perhaps this time they wouldn't be terrible as well. As for the boy himself, if you had asked his name was Tom Marvolo Riddle, he was fifteen as of last March, and he remembered Hogwarts as if he had last seen it as recently as two months previous, which, in his mind, he had.