The Sun Sets Twice Again

* * *

Tom viewed the familiar grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with wary curiosity. It certainly looked as he remembered it, but that meant little. After all, only fifty years had passed, a mere fraction of the time since Hogwarts was founded, if indeed he wasn't in 1941. He was more concerned with the fact that it felt, though he disliked the inexactness of that term, different to him. This might be attributed to the nearly two days prior to his arriving here, which had been odd, though that was a understatement.

* * *

Pain. Everywhere, anywhere, worse than anything he could remember, including the time he'd 'accidentally' been thrown down the stairs and end up in the hospital for a week when he was eight. This was more internal than that, as if he was injured from the inside out. That, he thought, wasn't possible, not even for a wizard. His stomach was bubbling, as if it were an insect trying to crawl its way out through his throat. The image wasn't comforting. His head throbbed in rate with double heartbeats as he gasped for air. It was hard to breathe now, like he was dying, or certainly in enough pain to be dying. One thought, above all the others running around like headless chickens, was clear though. I don't want to die. Then suddenly, the pain stopped, his body still wracked in tremors from the strain.

He lay there, outside of time, for minutes? Hours? Days? He lay there, remembering the pain and the thoughts and something that felt foreign even though it was as natural to him, nearly, as breathing. His name was Tom Marvolo Riddle. He was Tom Riddle. Not...not...he didn't know. Not something. He hated not knowing, but who could he ask? No one at the orphanage that he was currently abandoned to would speak to him. Which, in comparison to the treatment he'd received before he was eleven, was actually a vast improvement. Still, something was wrong; even they would have said something after what...whatever had happened that caused the pain. Even if it was just to tell him to shut up. Maybe he had managed not to scream.

That was when he realized he didn't hear breathing aside from his own. He could count on his fingers the number of times that had occurred and none of those had happened at the orphanage. He opened his eyes, like slits, hoping to filter as much light as possible. Except it was dark. It was never really dark in the orphanage, someone always has some sort of light on or the hall light would come through the half-opened door. Something. He hated that about it; he liked the darkness, felt more at home in it. At least at Hogwarts he could crawl off to some half-hidden cubby hole at night, curling up in the comfort of the concealment. Though he'd been doing that far less frequently ever since accidentally running across one of those monsters that Rubeus Hagrid called a pet. If Hagrid wasn't mostly harmless and capable of physically snapping him in half he would have put an end to all that two years ago.

Still, the question remained as to where he was, since he was supposed to be in the orphanage. Talking the risk of opening his eyes fully and looking around, he was confused to see that he didn't recognize his location at all. It was a bedroom, certainly, and he was on a bed, but as to who's bedroom or what house he didn't have the faintest idea. It was upsetting. The bedroom, aside from being decorated entirely in black, looked benign enough, from what he could see. Of course, between the darkness and the shadow-like quality of his surroundings, he really couldn't see much at all. He needed to find a lamp, he supposed.

Ignoring the protest of his still tense limbs, he forced himself into a sitting position and then, muscles aching, up onto his feet. The dizziness was palpable, but he pushed it away, ignoring the vaguely frantic warning his body was attempting to enforce. His body was wrong more often than not; it underestimated him, much like everyone else around him. He was stronger than they gave him credit for. He shrugged away these thoughts and focused on the task at hand: finding a light, or a door. He reached over carefully, searching for a solid shape next to the bed. His hand hit wood and he smiled, feeling for the lamp. There it was. After not feeling a knob, he pushed the indented button, muttering 'lumos', and was suddenly cast into a bright, yellow-white light. His eyes shut and he slammed his hands over them, trying to block it all out.

"Argh. Bloody 'ell!" The exclamation came somewhere between a whisper and a shout.

If his head hadn't hurt before, it did now, and he winced. He always had sensitive eyes and now he was seeing splattered blots of light. Suddenly he heard footsteps outside where he had guessed the door to be. Well, at least now he'd be getting answers-- one way or another.

"Ma-Master?" The voice called tentatively.

Master? Tom laughed. He was no one's master. He didn't even have house elves.

"Who is it?"

"It's Pe-peter Pettigrew, sir."

The name meant nothing to him, but he thought it better he didn't reveal that for now, in case he was suppose to recognize it. He opened his eyes cautiously. The light didn't seem so bright anymore and he smiled weakly. One step at a time.

"Well, come in." His tone was harsher than he meant it to be, but he didn't apologize.

The door creaked open and a short, balding, chubby man, who had maybe once had blond hair, entered as if he were afraid he was going to be killed on the spot. Tom didn't think he knew the man, though he seemed almost, just almost, familiar. He wondered how long these nagging suspicions were going to coil in the back of his mind before striking with clarity or disappearing completely.

"My Lord." The man bowed; an ungraceful movement.

Tom frowned. My Lord. Lord? He wasn't a lord at all, though the man seemed to think he was. Was it a joke? No, no one would go to such lengths, not even that horrid Malfoy bloke.

"Your Lord." He sneered. "Lord of what?" The tone was sarcastic and a bit amused as Tom fought to squelch any bit of curiosity he was experiencing from filtering in.

"Lord of Dar-darkness, sir. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

"My own servant, afraid to name me." The laugh came out dangerous.

"Lord Vol-voldemort, Bringer of Darkness."

Oh hell. No one knew that name. No one. Something was very, very wrong. Tom took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. What was going on? His face went cold and blank as he considered how to phrase the next question, to ask what had happened, without revealing that he, himself, did not know. He needn't have worried, however.

"Lord. The spell...it, we're not certain what went wrong. It seems to have misinterpreted what you meant for it to do. You, you look, to us, to be fifteen. We're not certain why. We're working on reversing it, Master, do not worry. You will be returned. We will not fail."

He looked fifteen. The man, Pettigrew, said he looked fifteen. That meant both of them were unaware of how badly the spell, which ever one had been performed, had gone wrong. Tom was certain it was quite badly, because he couldn't think of a single reason why someone would want to reverse themselves to the age and memory of a fifteen year old. He needed to find out what spell Pettigrew was speaking of.

"And, what, exactly, are you doing to reverse it?"

"The Aedifico Ego Ipse spell, as per your orders, s-sir."

Aedifico Ego Ipse; I Create Myself. Bugger all! Tom quite abruptly knew exactly what had gone wrong, though the spell itself had probably worked exactly as intended. He needed to talk to...to anyone...to someone who would know. Christ. Tom grimaced, a bitter taste sliding its way up his throat, knowing who he needed to talk to. For if anything was predictable in his life, it was this: Albus Dumbledore would know what was happening, and he, Tom Riddle, wouldn't like it.

* * *

So here he was, on the grounds of Hogwarts, searching out a man whom he was told still resided within these halls. A man who certainly hadn't been fond of him fifty-years ago and, if what that simpering idiot Pettigrew told him was true, would most likely wish him dead now. Funny, he didn't remember having a masochistic streak before. He looked around, noticing the tale-tell signs of protective wards and fully aware he was probably missing most of them. Well, either way he was already here, so now was not the time to turn away.

To his lack of surprise, no one stopped him on his way in. Surely security was not that lax, which meant that Dumbledore knew he was here or that he was coming. Wonderful. Though he had expected nothing less. Some day he would have to discover how the old man knew these things. Of course, now that he was inside the castle he wasn't at all certain of where to go. Pettigrew had said that Dumbledore was now the headmaster of Hogwarts, which meant that his office would be behind the gargoyle, but the chances of the gargoyle being in the same location as it had been...Even if it was, unless the professor had continued using the names of sweets as his passwords, Tom couldn't get into the office. He didn't fancy wandering around the grounds like a lost first year, either. He thought he could just stand there until someone wandered upon him-- which, if Dumbledore knew he was here as he seemed to, wouldn't be long-- but he disliked that idea.

It didn't matter because moments later Dumbledore appeared from around the corner. Tom smirked; some things never change. However, he noticed that Dumbledore had changed. The already old coot was noticeably older and, if possible, carried a serene air more prevalent than even in the time of Tom's attendance.

"Ah, young Mr. Riddle. It's very nice to see you again after all this time. Very nice indeed."

Tom forced himself not to glare at the man and smiled politely. "I wouldn't know."

"That, I suspect, is why you're here. You believe I'll have the explanation to your current plight."

"Yes," he said, his muscles tense. What was it about this man that upset him so?

"Well, then, let's move this conversation to my office. I will explain things, as I understand them to be, once there."

Tom followed Dumbledore through the magically twisted hallways of Hogwarts, amused to find that the headmaster's office was exactly where he remembered it to be, and that Dumbledore's password was 'jumping chocolate frogs'. The office itself looked different. There was more color and trinkets. There was also a phoenix, blazing red and orange, on a perch in the corner, seeming rather adverse to his presence.

"You want to know what happened?" Dumbledore asked, gesturing for them both to sit. His blue eyes twinkled, looking no worse for age.

"Yes. I've been told I'm in the year 1995. Considering the last thing I was remember was in the summer of 1941, this is rather disconcerting."

The old man nodded, adjusting his spectacles. Then he began to speak, "To explain to you how you've come to be as you are today, you need to understand some of what has happened," he stopped, drawing himself up as if gathering energy, and then continued, "You won Tom. You showed the world, in no uncertain terms, that you had power and that you were unafraid, and they, for the most part, cowered at your feet. Those who resisted you, also for the most part, died. You became Lord Voldemort and proved that this was a name to revere, to fear. I assume by now you've at least come up with the title, no?" He paused, his eyes darker than Tom ever remembered seeing them, though not violently so. Tom, guessing he was waiting for conformation, nodded. "Yes. You can't even picture what you did, will do, have done, to yourself with that name, let alone the ramifications of your actions. It suffices to say, you became the darkest Dark Lord this world has seen, and then, then, you were defeated, more or less, by a fifteen-month old child. It was this child, now nearly the age you are currently, who informed me of your actions. Simply put, you succeeded at performing a very difficult spell, the Refici Ego Ipse, which I'm certain you've heard of, but you were blinded, as you always were, by your arrogance." He stopped on the expression at Tom's face, looking for something, it seemed, and whatever he saw made him smile. "You did this to yourself, Tom. Now, the question remains, can you reverse it? And, do you want to?"

The dark haired boy slouched slightly in his chair, considering this. He was defeated by a child, a baby. Badly enough to consider using a spell that was often considered a curse. He had failed against a smaller, weaker opponent-- something that was nearly unfathomable to him. How?

"What curse did I fail at?"

"Avada Kedavra."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, but when they did he laughed. Not the condescending chuckle he often used when no one was paying much attention, nor the fake laughter of a healthy, normal boy, but a genuine laugh full of humor. Dumbledore's brow furrowed for a second before his expression changed to a smile devoid of humor.

"You always did have apt appreciation of irony."

Tom sobered after a minute. "Does anyone know how? I assume that my reputation was not made on pleasantries; so, why did this boy, of all people, survive?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "No. The boy doesn't remember it, and all we have are theories lacking substance."

Tom's eyes narrowed, but the pleasant look remained on his face and he nodded. The Professor, per normal, was not telling nearly as much as he knew. He probably hadn't even told the boy himself what he knew. Which reminded him...

"You say the boy is the age I am now? Does he attend Hogwarts, then?"

"He does. I'm curious; Tom, you never answered my questions."

He had only one of the answers. He did have the reversal spell, which would be ready in less than forty-eight hours. As for if he wanted to...

"I must have been desperate," he stated quietly, "to take such a risk. It isn't something I'd do now, you know." The reversal spell would be as risky, if not worse so, than the original.

"So, then, you intend on remaining as you are now. With no recollection of the last fifty years."

He could get that information from books. He nodded once, slowly. "If it's feasible, yes. However, would people not recognize me if indeed I am that infamous."

Dumbledore grimaced, and the action didn't fit his face. "The man they know as Lord Voldemort is not a man at all. There is little risk of most people knowing you as him. You made certain of that, as well."

He could see where, and why, that idea had come to pass. Physically, mentally, emotionally; all three keys to recreating oneself. Mentally, that would be easy. Emotionally...

"Have I killed my father?" The words left his mouth before he had a chance to temper them, and he winced internally.

"Yes. Your father is dead. His grave is outside the Riddle House."

Tom felt himself give a small, satisfied smile. He hoped the man had suffered, though if he was the killer then of course his father had, probably horribly. Dumbledore was peering at him in a piercing sort of way, and he shook himself out of the more violent images that always accompanied wishing his father dead. No point in lying now; Professor Dumbledore had always seemed to have a sixth sense for lying as well.

"I was speculating on how I did it. I can't imagine it was pretty or quick." Yes, let's convince the one man you could never get to trust you that you are, indeed, completely psychotic. Still, the idea of his father withering in pain...It was a very nice thought.

Dumbledore still hadn't said anything and Tom, rather uncharacteristically, felt the need to fill the silence. "So, I've gotten revenge on my father and the Slytherins as well?"

Ha, the Professor actually showed a bit of surprised, Tom smirked to himself as Headmaster Dumbledore was affected by the question.

"A man named Lucius Malfoy, who I can only suppose he's somehow related to the Malfoy I myself go- went- to school with, was bowing at my feet as recently as this morning." Now the smirk bubbled to the surface, covering Tom's handsome features. "That was something I wanted from, well, the train ride on my first day of Hogwarts. Not Lucius exactly, much rather my,-- well now ex-roommate,-- Augustus Malfoy, but still...it was a sight. A fulfillment. A sense of revenge. I seem to have servants, you said as much yourself, and I doubt it's wrong to assume that these are made of predominantly Slytherins. As you said as well, I always did appreciate irony."

"Death Eaters." Dumbledore's eyes were darker than his voice, though that was not without malice.

"Hmm?"

"They are called Death Eaters."

Tom frowned. He could explain the change in appearance and his choice in servants, but Death Eaters? The phrase was entirely foreign to him. Not even an inkling of a thought. Worse, he didn't know why he'd chosen that particular term. He sighed, this time audibly, and stared back at the Headmaster.

"Do you know why I chose that term?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "It's possible you didn't. It never felt like your style." The old man's blue eyes sparkled, leaving an unsaid 'not as pretentious as expected'.

He supposed he could ask Pettigrew when he went back. If he went back.

"So where, Professor, does this leave us?"

"Actually, now that I've spoken with you, I was hoping that we could come to an agreement as to your immediate future."

The Headmaster sounded positively excited and expectant, as if foreseeing something great from what amounted to an accident. This naturally made Tom wary; still, he didn't favor returning to that cottage by the sea in isolation.

"I assume you have a plan then?"

Now Dumbledore's smile did look genuine.

"No one could accuse you of not seeing the best in a situation."

Or the worst, Tom added mentally. He nodded his acquiescence, prompting the older man to continue.

"Yes, Tom, I do have an idea. First, however, I must be certain that you are no threat, either to myself or to others."

I'm fifteen, how much of a threat can I be? Tom clenched his jaw unnoticeably before replying. "How, exactly, would I show you this?"

"Two things. I want the names of those who helped you perform the Refici Ego Ipse curse."

Thus removing my ability to undo it quickly.

"As well, you will need to agree to being questioned under Veritaserum. This would only be in my presence and that of Severus Snape, because neither of us want to involve the Ministry, as it is."

Tom frowned. "In return?"

"I will help you create a guise under which you may reenroll in Hogwarts safely. I assume you would prefer one in which you can claim pure-blood?" He didn't wait for an answer. "A rather reclusive old family I know would be willing to allow you to use their name, I suspect. If for some reason you are unable to acquire enough money to-"

Tom shook his head. "I can get the money." The last thing he had done before leaving for Hogwarts was receive the key to a private, and well-filled, Gringotts bank vault.

"Well then. You'll be able to start over. The choice in how you do so is yours, as it should be, but you will not be without allies."

Tom went silent then and remained so for nearly five minutes, taking into account everything he had been told and what information he was still lacking.

When he spoke again his voice was quiet and clear, not a hint of his usual arrogance or charm. "We will agree on what questions may be asked under the Veritaserum. Any violation of those will void this deal. After which we will create an identity, as you suggest. If it is to both our liking, I will give you the names of those who helped me, and a way in which to catch them without incriminating either of us. Does this work for you?"

Headmaster Dumbledore didn't need to consider the terms for nearly as long; in fact, he agreed immediately. "Now, I believe Severus has returned yesterday and he should have some Veritaserum in stock. Let's go find him, shall we?"

Tom followed the jovial man out of his office, putting aside a nagging sense of suspicion for the moment. He might not like Albus Dumbledore, but the man had, to his knowledge, never broken his word. Sometimes you just had to trust. He hated those times.