The room was empty now, save for the young professor and a single baby snake. Tom Riddle's face materialized from the silver mist, his earlier greeting still echoing faintly off the walls. His eyes scanned the space, taking in the furnishings.
The layout was subtly different from what he remembered, but the core structure felt achingly familiar. It slowly dawned on him: this was a Hogwarts office. His consciousness flickered with disorientation.
The baby snake coiled up, its scales whispering against each other with the tiniest rasp. Memories stirred deep in Riddle's soul—he recalled the castle, the candlelit feasts in the Great Hall, and how he'd linger after dinner, plastering on a fake smile, hovering near the head table to corner professors for knowledge beyond the textbooks.
But something was off. Deeper memories surfaced. He should be in the hands of some core Death Eater right now—tucked away in a dusty attic of a grim old manor or sealed in a Gringotts vault, isolated from the world.
Returning to reality should mean facing the main soul or one of his followers, not... this.
The apparition drifted out from the cup, silent. From the corner of his eye, he glanced out the window: a full moon hung in the sky, bathing the grounds, the Forbidden Forest, and the distant mountains in a silvery veil. The Black Lake shimmered like liquid starlight.
No other wizards in sight—no Death Eaters. After all these long years, reentering the world felt like stepping into an alien place. Yet here he was, in the Hogwarts he knew best.
Riddle couldn't fathom why he'd ended up here, in a Hogwarts professor's office, facing a strange young wizard.
Why had a stranger awakened him?
Why did this man know his name?
Why did he know about the remnant soul in the cup?
It was all so bizarre. He stayed quiet for now, and the young wizard didn't press. An unspoken silence settled over the office—heavy, almost tangible.
Man and snake stood by the desk, gazing up at each other.
From his robes and demeanor, the young wizard was Muggle-born, maybe twenty years old. He wore a long black overcoat, his youthful face carrying a calm that belied his age, eyes deep and probing.
Riddle couldn't shake the feeling that the man's expression and gaze rang a bell. It reminded him of his younger self—charming professors and classmates, drawing them in to fish for secrets, all while calculating behind a mask only he could see.
They just stared, wordless, a strange rapport building. Time slipped by, like two old friends catching up without a sound.
"Hiss..." Yulm flicked his tongue instinctively.
Riddle spotted the snake beside him—a delightful surprise. He turned slowly, his slit-pupiled eyes swirling with ominous magic, like a venomous serpent. His lips moved toward the baby snake, a low hiss escaping, laced with spreading power.
Parseltongue—for snakes, it was like the Imperius Curse.
Yulm's eyes froze for a split second, his will swallowed by that gaze and hiss. His body jolted as if plunged into the icy Black Lake. A surge of foreign force erupted inside him—he whipped around and lashed his tail straight at Voldemort's apparition.
The ethereal soul shard had no physical form, but the potion-born silver mist scattered like smoke. The shadow dispersed, taking seconds to reform.
"Woof!"
Yulm let out an furious bark—he'd picked that up from Fang.
Too bad Hagrid wasn't around, and neither Melvin nor Voldemort spoke dog. They caught the gist: it was filthy language, though the details were lost.
"..."
Man and remnant soul exchanged a blank look, listening to the baby snake's tirade. The vibe turned awkwardly tense.
Finally, Melvin stroked the snake's back, smoothing down the raised scales. Yulm gave a pitiful hiss and slithered into the emerald on Melvin's ring, ignoring the pair entirely.
Melvin paused, then asked softly, "How's it feel?"
Riddle's brow furrowed—he still hadn't pieced it together. "Who are you?"
"Melvin Lestrange. Just call me Melvin—we're friends, Tom."
A flood of thoughts raced through Riddle's mind. He knew he was just a soul fragment, housed in the Horcrux cup. The true Voldemort was the main soul out there. This man claimed friendship with him, but it must mean friendship with the real him.
He'd never considered this split before. Creating Horcruxes hadn't accounted for the absurdity of two "yous" existing. Now it hit like a bad joke.
"What year is it?"
"1993."
Nearly fifty years since the cup became a Horcrux. Riddle felt a daze settle in. By now, Voldemort must be the world's mightiest dark wizard, ruling the magical world—maybe the whole world.
The true Voldemort had to be at his peak, even sharing Horcrux secrets with others to awaken remnants like him.
With that odd mix of emotions, Riddle pressed on: "Are you a Death Eater?"
"..."
Sensing the pen pal had jumped to conclusions, Melvin thought it over and decided to fill him in on the last few decades.
First, the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters sparked chaos, blanketing the wizarding world in darkness and blood. Then, at their height, the Dark Lord was defeated by a baby in swaddling clothes. The Death Eaters scattered like rats, and peace returned.
He'd told this story once to the diary soul—practice made it smoother this time. He skipped side plots, zeroing in on the Boy Who Lived. The tale hit the soul apparition like a Stunner.
The diary hadn't reacted much last time, but now the fragment was right here. Despite his efforts to hide it, Melvin caught the shifts: smug grin to shocked wide eyes, then outright disbelief.
Melvin felt an unexpected rush of satisfaction.
Not counting the bit in Harry's scar, he could relive this twice more.
Riddle had no body, yet he swore he was sweating. Panic and fear—unfamiliar to him—churned inside. The mighty Dark Lord felled by a one-year-old? A foreign wizard knowing Horcrux truths? Death Eaters crumbled, main soul vanished?
The info deluge rattled his soul fragment, leaving his head spinning.
In twenty-year-old Tom Riddle's memories, he'd just poisoned Hepzibah Smith, snatching Hufflepuff's Cup and Slytherin's Locket to craft two Horcruxes. Back to reality, everything had changed—like a fever dream.
Then it clicked. He snapped his gaze up: "Even so, how do you know about Horcruxes?"
Melvin's smile was unsettling. "I happened to get hold of an old diary. Tricked the info out of it."
Riddle's form flickered like a glitchy old telly—static and snow just short of appearing. He steadied the apparition and glared:
"What do you know? What did you do to the diary!?"
"That's no way for the Dark Lord to act, Tom. Whatever happened before, it's in the past. Right now, you should be asking what I want."
By the timeline, Tom Riddle was barely twenty when he turned Hufflepuff's Cup into a Horcrux—fresh out of Hogwarts, lurking in Borgin and Burkes, scheming for gold and kills. Not yet the merciless Dark Lord. Immature. Fun to toy with.
Riddle cooled off. He'd braced for some powerhouse; turned out it was just a greedy, lowlife dark wizard who'd lucked into secrets. He buried his rage and sneered: "What do you want?"
"What do you have?"
Riddle's fury simmered, but he kept his voice even: "Power. Wealth. Join me, Melvin, and the whole world is ours."
Melvin shook his head. "You don't look too convincing right now."
Riddle's shadow inhaled deeply: "I have deep knowledge—you know my accomplishments. Partner with me, and I'll unlock magic's secrets for you, teach black arts you've never dreamed of. Trust me, Melvin—this power's beyond your wildest imagination."
"Power that can't beat a baby in diapers?" Melvin quipped, watching the flicker. He cleared his throat. "Er... I mean, the diary and I already delved into plenty of dark magic secrets. Not planning to dive deeper anytime soon."
Riddle couldn't hold back anymore. "What exactly did you do to the diary?"
"I promise, it's intact. Safe as houses."
Melvin said it earnestly. After all, the headmaster had sworn he'd witness the Horcrux's destruction—no invite yet, so Dumbledore was probably still tutoring little Tom.
Riddle eyed him hard, silent for a beat, then: "I can share the secret to immortality—endless life, endless time. Every treasure will be yours."
"Hepzibah's Horcruxes have huge flaws. Not keen on ripping my soul anytime soon. And besides..."
Melvin paused for effect, dead serious: "Horcruxes keep you from dying, but not from being controlled. The Dark Lord's been down for over a decade—your later self, I mean. No sign of him. What if someone's got the main soul locked up?"
Riddle went quiet, eyes flickering with doubt.
It made sense. The mighty main soul beaten by an infant? Immortal Dark Lord, MIA for thirteen years? Sealed in the cup for ages—too much had changed, unbelievable stuff.
"What do you want from me?" Riddle asked coldly.
Melvin found the tone more genuine now. He smiled faintly: "In the postwar cleanup, loads of Death Eaters bought their way out with Galleons. They're still out there—ancient pure-blood families. I'd like to tap their resources and wealth. As their old leader, Tom, you could give me pointers."
"..."
"Nothing to hesitate over. These wizards swore eternal loyalty to the Dark Lord, but when things got tough? Nothing. They slunk back to your enemies, playing innocent and clueless. Lived cushy lives all these years..."
"Spare me your clumsy manipulations!"
Riddle drawled, smirking coldly. He'd pegged Melvin as some Dumbledore type—power-shy, immortality-proof, hard to sway. Wrong. Just another power-hungry fool. Tricky, but easy pickings with patience.
"But they do owe a price. I can help you wring those two-faced servants dry."
"Also, I want the cup to serve its normal purpose."
Riddle's gaze swept the cup on the desk. He felt control shifting back. No answer—instead: "And what do I get first?"
"What do you want?"
"Information. Investigate the truth of that night in Godric's Hollow. And the real me's whereabouts."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a partnership, Melvin." The shadow hovered over the cup, whispering.
"I've got no time for detective games." Melvin pondered. "But I can set things up so you uncover the truth yourself."
"What do you mean?"
"You know about substitute professors?"
...
Third Wednesday in March, morning.
Melvin wrapped up his sixth-year Muggle Studies class, debating the positive and negative sides of shadow mirrors with the students. He called on a few to answer—wrong ones had to come up front and squirm. Heading downstairs after, he bumped into Professor Flitwick.
The part-goblin Charms master had just finished second-years; Trevor the toad had left footprints on his bald pate, and Seamus had singed half his beard. Still, he beamed cheerfully.
Melvin carried his textbook and a gold cup etched with a badger crest.
Flitwick, shorter than most wizards, didn't notice at first. But at the stair landing, his eyes locked on it.
He recognized the hallmarks, face twisting in conflict. After a hesitation, he blurted:
"Melvin, is that... Hufflepuff's Cup you're holding?"
"Pretty obvious, huh?"
Melvin grinned, tossing the cup lightly hand-to-hand, casual as could be. "Planning to use it as a prop for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Next period—Harry, Neville, and the second-years."
Flitwick eased up, assuming a replica. He chuckled: "No wonder you were scoping out the Hufflepuff common room last weekend—for lesson prep. Watch those kids; a few are real handfuls."
"Mm-hmm."
Melvin nodded. Flitwick didn't pry, so he didn't explain. They parted at the fork; Melvin headed to the DADA classroom.
Flitwick watched him enter. Young, handsome professors always ran tighter ships. Melvin rapped the lectern—the rowdy room hushed instantly.
Then his mild voice:
"For today's lesson, I've brought in a teaching assistant..."
---ilham20