Tom gazed up at the partially destroyed house, the room that was once housed in the upper right nothing more than a scorched, gaping hole. He frowned at the preserved tragedy, remembering that night fifteen years earlier. He remembered finding James at the bottom of the stairs, wandless as he tried to protect his family. He remembered standing with Lily in front of baby Harry in his crib, facing Dumbledore. He remembered the green light and being too late to pull Lily out of the way. He remembered falling to the floor with Lily’s body, crashing into Harry’s crib as the boy screamed and sobbed. He remembered laying Lily gently on the floor to jump to his feet and grab Harry, determined to protect the child, only for some kind of curse to hit him in the back.

To this day, he still didn’t know what it was, only that he was destroyed physically and magically. He’d been unable to do anything but watch through his excruciating agony as Dumbledore cursed Harry, created the lightning bolt scar, and caused an explosion that set the nursery on fire. He remembered Dumbledore’s look before he disappeared, leaving the carnage for Sirius Black and then Hagrid to find. How desperately he’d wanted to take Harry, to save him from whatever Dumbledore had planned, but he was unable due to whatever the headmaster had done to him.

So, he’d left, fled with a broken apology to the crying, injured little boy that had reached for his mother and him while screaming for his father.

He let his eyes drift shut against the painful memories, breathing through the ache in his chest. He shook his head lightly at himself and turned towards the memorial statue, staring up at the stone faces of Lily and James Potter as they gazed down at their precious baby boy. Smiles had been carved into each of the three faces, happiness they had only felt with each other for a single short year. Only here in stone, frozen in this moment, were they the family they should have been, the family they lost because of his failure to protect them and stop Dumbledore. Because he was weak, the Potters were destroyed.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, bowing his head with the weight of his guilt and regret. When a light breeze twirled around him, he lifted his head again only to find there was nothing being disturbed by wind except his clothes and hair. He looked back at Lily and James, receiving a final caress of the wind on his cheek before it disappeared. His lips curved into a small smile, feeling he may have just gained their forgiveness.

Pushing aside his lament, he began to examine the statue, certain the entrance to the sword’s hiding place was likely there. He slowly circled it, looking closely until he spotted a small emerald on the stone wedding band on Lily’s finger. He glanced around to ensure he didn’t have an audience before pushing on the emerald, feeling it sink into the stone. He stepped back as he felt the statue shudder and watched as it slowly slid backwards, revealing a winding, stone staircase disappearing into a darkness illuminated just slightly by an emerald green glow, just barely visible around the corner.

He looked down and moved his sleeve when he felt his bracelet warm on his wrist.

All in place had been sent by Severus.

He replaced his sleeve and pulled his wand, lighting it and descending down the stairs with a deep breath. As he cleared the surface, the Potters’ statue slid back into place, sealing him underneath. He continued down the stairs with little hesitation, knowing he had little time to accomplish his task.

After a few spirals, he stepped off into a large, circular, stone room. Thin threads of silver and emerald created a kind of spiderweb around the walls, but it was the floor that was astonishing. At quick glance, it seemed to just be an uneven spiral, but, when he looked closer, he realized it was meant to be the coiled body of a snake. Just to the right of him at the entrance was a stone tail, built up to act as a pillar with a green flame engulfing the tail’s tip. Silver and emerald created the pattern of scales along the coils circling the room. In the center of the room, the floor built up into a large coiled body and head of a snake, a flat slab laid across the piled body with the head hovering over the center, tongue out and fangs bared. Large emeralds glittered as its eyes.

He watched in awe as the ghostly figure of Salazar Slytherin appeared in front of the slab and snake statue. The stare Tom received from the Founder was fierce and he already found himself doubting Hogwarts’ choice in him.

“Possible hero,” Slytherin said. “Step forward if you dare to attempt the trial of Salazar Slytherin.”

He couldn’t understand how Hogwarts had chosen him or how he was the wielder of Slytherin’s sword. He had disgraced both the legacy of Hogwarts and the bloodline of Slytherin. He couldn’t possibly be worthy of upholding the Slytherin and Hogwarts values, not when he’d broken every single one of them, not when he’d failed everyone and everything so terribly.

He looked down at his wrist when he felt his pendant grow warm again.

Now, Harry had said.

With a deep breath, he approached Slytherin. Maybe he wasn’t worthy, but this was his last chance to prove he was. He met Slytherin’s eyes.

“Do you hold the title of Hero of Hogwarts?”

“Yes.”

“Do you intend to claim the Sword of Slytherin?”

“Yes.”

“Accept the life you have led and discover the sacrifices you are willing to make to prove you are worthy of my sword and the title of hero.”

Slytherin disappeared and items appeared on the slab. On the left side, he stared in surprise at the three familiar objects: a locket, a diadem, and a goblet. He frowned at his horcruxes, puzzled how they had gotten there. On the right-hand side, a crystal ball-like item that showed an image of Hogwarts. Finally, between them appeared an intricate, silver dagger with words inscribed in emerald in the stone below it.

What are you willing to sacrifice?

As he realized what the trial was asking of him, Tom ran a shaky hand through his hair, his heart pounding. He had to either sacrifice the life he had created for a world in which he had no place or sacrifice that world for a life that had no meaning. He knew it should be a simple decision. It should be easy to choose the world because it was his entire purpose for being there. It was what he had been fighting for all these years. Yet, faced with the choice so directly and alone…it wasn’t as easy as it should have been.

The shame he felt at his deliberation, his hesitation, was overwhelming and brought tears to his eyes.

The force with which he was confronted by what he’d done and what had been done to him caused him to turn away, unable to face what lay before him. He ran a hand through his hair again and walked the few steps to the wall, sliding down it until he was sitting on the floor. He bent his knees and leaned his elbows on them, burying his hands in his hair.

“You really are a coward, aren’t you, you son of a bitch?”

Tom dropped his hands at the voice, looking up to find a translucent seventeen-year-old him leaning casually against the stone slab. He glowered at his younger self.

“This trial isn’t about bravery,” he said. “This isn’t Gryffindor’s trial.”

His younger self looked at him with a sneer and raised eyebrow. “Not about bravery, huh? So, why are you over there instead of here doing what needs to be done?”

“I don’t know what to do,” Tom said.

“Sure you do, you just don’t want to because you’re afraid,” Young Tom said. “You’re scared to accept your life for what it is and to give up what you think gives it meaning.”

“What life?” Tom spat.

“The good, the bad, and the ugly,” Young Tom said almost flippantly. “You really want to choose these over them?” He gestured to the horcruxes and then the crystal ball which flashed images of Harry, Draco, Severus, and Kingsley before resuming with the picture of Hogwarts.

“I don’t belong with them. I will never have a place there.”

“Why not?”

“Because I failed them, all of them, by creating those,” Tom said, pointing at the horcruxes. “I failed them to create this life I’m being told to accept. How do I accept what I’ve created when creating it has cost me everything? How do I give it up when I have nothing else?”

“If it’s so pointless, what have you been doing all these years then?” Young Tom said. “Why bother doing anything for any of the people and places you claim will never want you?”

“Because it was right,” Tom said. “Because of what I had done.”

“But you can’t do it again?” Young Tom said.

“I don’t know.”

“What’s the difference between this and standing in front of Dumbledore to try and protect Lily and Harry?” Young Tom asked.

“That had nothing to do with me,” Tom said.

“Ah, I get it,” Young Tom said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You hate yourself and this makes you confront that.”

Tom looked away from himself, clenching his jaw.

“Guess that changes the question then. What do you hate more, yourself or the world that may not want you?”

“What do you want from me?” Tom said, feeling exhausted.

Young Tom’s face turned hard. “For you to look at yourself and accept what you see. For you to look at what your life has been and accept it as your life, all of it. For you to accept your life for what it is and be willing to take a chance on the world instead of yourself for once.”

“You’re asking me to destroy my soul,” Tom said.

“Isn’t it already destroyed?” Young Tom said. “Maybe I’m asking you to fix it.”

“How do I make this choice?” Tom said.

“By realizing your life had meaning, still does, and always has,” Young Tom said, his voice gentling. “You don’t need these for your life to matter.” He pointed to the horcruxes again.

“And if I do this and I’m rejected?” Tom said.

“Isn’t it better to have a world to be rejected by? You can always keep trying,” Young Tom said.

“If you don’t do this, you will always be alone.”

“How do I accept what I’ve done, what I’ve caused?”

“That’s all on you. It’s your trial,” Young Tom said with a small shrug of one shoulder. “Is the life you created really worth giving up everything else?”

“What else is there?”

“You won’t find out if you don’t try.”

Tom stared at the image of Hogwarts.

“Take a chance, a leap of faith.”

Tom got to his feet and walked up to the statue again, his younger self moving to the side. He gazed down at his horcruxes and the crystal ball. His mind was racing around in vicious circles.

“Accept your life,” Young Tom said. “Accept the good things you’ve pushed aside, the terrible things you did, and the things that were done to you. Accept the world that may not accept you.”

Tom reached out to pick up the dagger, reading the message in the stone again.

What are you willing to sacrifice?

He knew the answer. He knew what he had to do. After all, if he didn’t, his younger self was right; what would be the point of everything he’d done all those decades? It should be easy; they were just things, after all.

He put his wand away and picked up the locket, gazing at it almost reverently. Could he destroy them, the tattered remains of his broken soul? Could he return to his empty, meaningless, broken life? He knew the horcruxes were terrible, but they were special, notable…important to a boy that had never had anything, had never been special.

“You had been building a life at Hogwarts,” Young Tom said, his voice softer than it had been. “You broke your life when you broke your soul. It doesn’t have to stay that way.”

Tom swiped his thumb over the amber surface of the locket and moved his eyes back to the image of Hogwarts. Was what he’d almost had more important than what he did have?

His soul or their lives?

“It’s time to stop being selfish, to stop fighting alone, to stop being alone,” Young Tom said. “It’s time to accept what was and what can be.”

Tom knew then that his younger self was right and it was finally time to end it all. He placed the locket back on the stone slab and opened it, revealing the swirling blackness that was his soul shrouded in the dark magic that had been used to create it. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he gripped the dagger and brought it down hard into the locket’s center. He gasped at the feeling of a knife being driven into his chest and twisted. Smoky blackness wrapped around a similarly smoky white core rose up out of the locket and exploded into a kind of dust that disappeared before hitting the floor.

His other horcruxes, the dagger, and the crystal ball vanished, leaving behind the shattered remains of Slytherin’s locket. He turned his head to Young Tom who smiled.

“You’re not the little boy in the orphanage anymore,” Young Tom said before shimmering away.

In his place, Slytherin reappeared and a shiny, silver sword shimmered into existence on the stone slab above the broken locket.

“You have accepted your life and shown your willingness to sacrifice what matters for who matters,” Slytherin said. “Come, Hero of Hogwarts. Claim your prize and take back what’s been lost.”

Slytherin turned to the sword and Tom gazed down at it. It was a very long, slender blade ending in a very fine point. ‘Salazar Slytherin’ was inscribed in the upper blade in the finest calligraphy he’d ever seen. The hilt was inscribed with characters Tom didn’t recognize and a silver snake wrapped around it. The tail of the snake sat a few centimeters down the blade, ending at Slytherin’s name. The body of the snake wrapped around the hilt, twisting around the cross arms and up the top, its head making the very tip of the hilt. Green lined the snake scales while emeralds were its eyes.

As someone who had hunted down beautiful artifacts of the Founders’, Tom was certain this sword was more gorgeous than any of them.

“All lives have worth,” Slytherin said. “The depth of that worth is dependent on you.”

Tom reached out then and grasped the sword. Powerful, warm magic coursed through and around him, filling the chamber. His eyes fell shut at the force and watched his life play before him, the life he had finally accepted as his after all these years.

Five-year-old Tom sat in the corner, arms wrapped tightly around the small knees tucked to his chest, as he watched the other children play sadly. Every few seconds, one of the children would glance at him, faces of fear or confusion or anger. Even the caretakers gave him suspicious looks and ones of disgust they thought he didn’t see or recognize.

He wanted to join them, the other children, wanted to be accepted, but ever since the weird stuff had started happening, he was shoved aside more than ever. Something was wrong with him and the others were scared of whatever it was.

He looked over to where Julian was playing with a train set. He’d always liked the bright red and black steam engine. Biting his lip, he uncurled himself and slowly shuffled over to the other boy.

“Hi, Julian,” he said quietly. “Can I play too?”

“Get away from me, freak!” Julian spat, jumping to his feet and dashing away with a glare.

Tom watched him go sadly, tears in his eyes. He sat on the floor with the train. He pushed it across the floor despondently, wishing it could take him far away as a tear fell down his cheek.

* 

Seven-year-old Tom smiled at the set of small wooden animals he’d received for Christmas from the community donations to the orphanage. He lined them all up across his little writing desk—the lion, the eagle, the cat, the snake, the owl, the badger, the mouse, the horse—and rested his chin on his arms, making the toys eye-level. He just gazed at the animals for a long while, happy to have something for the first time in his life.

After several minutes, he sat up and picked up the snake. He wished they were real, wished he could have real friends, even if they were just wooden animals.

He frowned when he thought he felt the snake shiver in his palm and gasped when it started moving, slithering in a circle on his palm. He watched with wide eyes as all the other toys started to move as well, the lion, cat, badger, mouse, and horse running around his desk while the eagle and owl began to fly around his room.

‘Hello, child,’ the snake hissed and Tom nearly dropped it.

‘You…you can…talk?’ Tom said, shocked.

‘To those with the gift,’ the snake said.

‘I can talk to snakes?’ Tom said. There was something about him that was considered a gift?

‘You can, indeed,’ the snake said.

Grinning at the amazing revelation and his new friends, Tom spent hours speaking with the snake and playing with all the others, temporarily transported to a magical, far-off world.  

*

Tom cried out at the kick to his stomach, coughing painfully and disturbing the dust under his face. Tears streaked through the dirt that had settled on his cheeks.

“Look at him cry like a baby!” Henry taunted.

“Wishing your mummy was here, freak?” Daniel sneered. “Oh, sorry, forgot. You don’t have a mum.”

“Neither do you,” Tom snapped.

“No, but mine didn’t die to get away from me,” Daniel said and Tom glared at him.

“That’s not true,” Tom said.

“That’s what Mrs. Burrow said,” Daniel said. “Poor, little Tom Riddle, hated so much even his own mum would rather die than keep him.”

Tom saw red as the group of boys laughed. Within seconds, all five of them had fallen to the cave floor, screaming and writhing in apparent agony. Letting his rage continue to roll through him, Tom climbed to his feet and walked over to the boys. He stood over them as they screamed and sobbed and contorted.

Tom could only grin gleefully at their pain.

*  

Tom gazed up at the gleaming Hogwarts Express in awe, gripping the thin strap of his small, tattered bag. Families hurried around him to get their kids on the train while friends dashed around to find friends. He did his best to ignore the happy, loving families, an ache settling in his chest every time he was reminded that he was there alone and always would be.

Taking a deep breath, he finally climbed onto the train, eyes darting around to take in every detail as he looked for a compartment. He slipped past people uncomfortably in the corridor before stepping into an empty compartment. He slid onto one of the seats next to the window, clutching his bag on his lap.

A knock made him turn from the window, finding a boy with short, dark hair and a round face in the doorway.

“Hi, can I sit with you?” the boy asked and Tom gave a small nod, watching the boy sit across from him. “I’m Philip Murton.”

Tom gave a small smile. “Tom. Tom Riddle.”

*  

One after another, Tom stared into the dead eyes of those he’d murdered and, in his hand, sat the corresponding horcrux.

He gazed into the brown eyes of Myrtle Warren and held his diary, a feeling of horror trying to rise up, but being forced down.

He stared into the brown eyes of his father and held the ring he’d stolen from his uncle, one of the many holes deep inside him aching.

He looked into the blue eyes of Hepzibah Smith and held the goblet, rage simmering inside.

He stared into the blue eyes of the random London woman and held the locket, darkness entombing his mind and heart.

He gazed into the green eyes of the Albanian peasant and held the diadem, an emptiness sitting heavy in his gut.

At the end of it all, he no longer recognized himself.

*  

Tom looked up from the book he’d been reading when he heard a stair creak. Instantly tense, he put his book aside and pulled his wand. He stood slowly and quietly left the study, sticking close to the wall to avoid detection. He turned a corner only to be grabbed by his collar and shoved into the wall, a wand jabbing hard into his throat.

He raised his hands and looked at the black man in Auror robes that held him.

“Who the hell are you?” the man growled.

“Tom Riddle,” Tom said calmly.

The Auror’s eyes narrowed. “All the Riddles are dead.”

“The senior ones, yes,” Tom said. “Shacklebolt, is it?” he added, glancing at the identification tag on the man’s chest.

“What do you know about You-Know-Who? Why are you in his hideout?” Shacklebolt said.

“I know quite a lot actually,” Tom said. “What do you know?”

Shacklebolt’s eyes narrowed even more, full of suspicion.

“Care for tea?” Tom said lightly. “I’ve got a story that might interest you.”

*  

Tom knocked on the door, flakes of peeling paint falling off even under his relatively light touch. He peeked out from under his hood up and down the dim street, darkened by the rainstorm. He turned back to the door when a light came on through the curtain covering the cracked window. The door opened and he gazed into the hard, dark eyes of Severus Snape.

“Who are you?” he snapped.

“A friend,” Tom said. “I believe we can help each other.”

“With what?” Severus said suspiciously.

“The truth,” Tom said.

They stared at each other for a long while, rain pouring down on Tom and thunder rumbling distantly. Eventually, Severus stood aside and allowed Tom to enter.

*  

Tom ducked the Stunning Spell that flew over his head, rolling to escape Sirius Black. He sent his own Stunning Spell, catching Elphias Doge in the chest. He gasped as a Cutting Curse hit his upper arm.

He threw up a shield to block the Cutting Curse, Stunning Spell, and Restraining Charm that were sent his way by Remus Lupin, Frank Longbottom, and Lily Potter respectively. He ducked again as Marlene McKinnon sent a Blasting Curse. He watched as it hit the upper floor of his manor, the old building quickly catching fire.

“Enough is enough, Tom.”

He turned at Dumbledore’s voice and glared. He made to raise his wand at the headmaster only for a shift to happen in his mind that he couldn’t explain. He was suddenly consumed by rage and hatred, and he began to cast the most horrendous curses. He laughed as Aurors and Order members burned and bled and screamed under his curses, as they fought to hit him through impressive shields or to escape his daunting approach.

He spun sharply and deflected the Stunning Spell that had been sent at his back. He grinned at McKinnon evilly and slashed his wand through the air.

“Avada Kedavra!” he shouted.

The woman hit the ground, quickly followed by Fabian Prewett. He cackled as orders were called out to retreat. Pops rang out across the property as Dumbledore’s fighters Disapparated away. He glowered at Dumbledore once he was the last still present.

“This isn’t over, Tom,” Dumbledore said and also disappeared.

As soon as the headmaster was gone, it was as though a curtain had been pulled back from his mind and his rage disappeared. He was left with a dawning horror as he thought of the two dead and turned to his home.

“What have I done?” he whispered, watching the manor burn and tears falling from his eyes.

*

Tom shoved the door open and ran inside. He hurried through the sitting room, heading for the stairs, only to find James lying on the floor. He stared, shocked and horrified, at the blank eyes that stared back at him.

“Not Harry!”

Lily’s shout pulled him from his frozen state over James and he ran up the stairs. He crashed into the nursery at the end of the hall, finding baby Harry in his crib, Lily standing in front of it, and Dumbledore before her, wand pointed at her chest. He hurried over and joined Lily in front of Harry, gaining a shocked look from both Lily and Dumbledore.

“It’s over, Albus,” Tom said. “Let them go.”

“Over?” Dumbledore said. “Oh, no, we’re entering the third generation.”

Tom glanced at Harry and his eyes hardened as he turned back to Dumbledore. “You’ve done enough.”

“It’s enough when I say it’s enough,” Dumbledore said. “Avada Kedavra!”

Tom tried to pull Lily behind him, but he was too late. The curse hit her in the chest and she fell against him heavily, dead. He caught her, but the weight sent him to the floor, knocking into the crib and knocking Harry from his feet. The boy screamed and sobbed at the commotion.

“I’m sorry,” Tom whispered, gazing down at Lily in his arms, tears filling his eyes. He glared up at Dumbledore. “You won’t get away with this forever. They will find out the truth and I will come for you.”

“Such hopeless faith,” Dumbledore said.

Tom carefully laid Lily on the floor and jumped to his feet. He reached into the crib to grab Harry only for the most excruciating pain to radiate through his body, with it a bone-deep chill. He collapsed to the floor beside Lily, writhing and releasing silent screams, the pain seemingly paralyzing him, even his vocal cords.

And so, he could do nothing but watch as magic was poured into baby Harry and a horrible lightning bolt was carved into his forehead.

*  

“Your core is nearly non-existent,” Kingsley said quietly, lowering his wand.

Tom just stared blankly at the ceiling. There was little else he could do. His body and magic no longer responded to his commands.

“I don’t know what he did. I don’t know how to fix it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tom said dully. “I’ve failed.”

“No, you didn’t,” Kingsley argued.

Tom flicked his eyes to his friend. “Tell me what’s happened in the last twenty-four hours.”

Kingsley sighed. “Lily and James Potter have been found murdered by Lord Voldemort. Harry Potter survived and has been brought to his Muggle aunt and uncle. Alice and Frank Longbottom were tortured to insanity, supposedly by Bellatrix Lestrange and Barty Crouch Jr. Sirius Black has been sent to Azkaban for betraying the Potters and murdering Peter Pettigrew and twelve Muggles. Severus Snape has re-entered Dumbledore’s service and will become Hogwarts’ Potions professor upon completion of his mastery. Remus Lupin has vanished. Officially, Lord Voldemort has been destroyed by Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.”

Tom’s eyes drifted shut and tears poured down his cheeks. “Tell me what part of that is not failure,” he whispered.

He received nothing but another sad sigh.

*  

Tom had heard everything that happened at Hogwarts once Harry Potter joined the student body. He heard the whispers of students strolling through Hogsmeade, heard the gossip of the professors as they had drinks at the Three Broomsticks, and heard the facts from Kingsley. He heard of all the terrible things Harry went through at the hands of ‘Lord Voldemort’ trying to regain form.

He heard the story of Harry’s Sorting and he remembered chuckling as he thought fondly of Lily and James when he heard Harry was a Gryffindor. They would’ve had quite the handful with that boy, clearly such a mixture of the two.

He heard the story of Harry facing a possessed Quirrell to save the philosopher’s stone. He heard how Quirrell died as a result, seemingly by Harry’s hand.

He heard the whispers about Harry being a Parselmouth and remembered his shock that the boy had inherited the special gift of Slytherin descendants. He heard about the petrifications and about the taking of young Ginny Weasley into the Chamber of Secrets. He heard the story of Harry defeating the Basilisk, nearly dying, and defeating a memory of ‘Tom Riddle’, saving Ginny. He’d felt the destruction of his diary that night.

He heard about the efforts made to keep Harry safe from the supposed murderer, Sirius Black. He heard the lies fed to all of Hogwarts about Sirius and it caused an ache deep inside, knowing the lies were in an effort to stop Harry and Sirius from meeting. He’d shaken his head sadly, knowing it was Pettigrew that had been working for Dumbledore, not Sirius. He heard about Harry’s experiences with the Dementors, nearly dying by the lake until he produced a remarkable Patronus.

He heard all about the Triwizard Tournament. He heard about each trial. He heard about the graveyard. He could still remember Kingsley telling him what had happened.

They sat at a table in the pub of the Bronze Dragon, Kingsley demanding that he needed a drink. Tom had obliged, heavily concerned, especially when the man downed his first glass of whiskey in one shot, only to ask for another.

“It was all a set-up,” Kingsley said. “He’d made the cup into a Portkey to take Harry to the graveyard in Little Hangleton.”

Tom tensed, already dreading the rest of the story.

“It was quite the show,” Kingsley said, his voice and gaze far away. “Resurrection ritual, a dozen Death Eaters, torture. Only…”

Tom swallowed thickly as Kingsley trailed off, draining his glass again and summoning the entire bottle.

“He didn’t plan on Harry being the great kid he is, or maybe he did, who knows,” Kingsley said with a short bitter laugh.

“What happened?” Tom asked quietly. He was taken aback at the pain in Kingsley’s eyes 

“Harry and Cedric took the cup together,” Kingsley said and Tom’s heart dropped. “They just wanted Hogwarts to win. It took them both to the graveyard. He killed Cedric.”

Tom’s eyes drifted shut at the pain that exploded in his chest.

“Lord Voldemort has returned,” Kingsley added dully.

*  

Tom gazed out the window, watching all the Hogwarts students pass by as they headed to the train station. Their conversations blended together as they walked by, nothing overly important or intriguing being said. There was the occasional mention of the Prophet’s story finally acknowledging the ‘return of You-Know-Who’ with the horrible picture of Harry from the Ministry.

He rubbed his temple as residual pain from the forced joining of his and Harry’s minds echoed through his skull. He sighed as he thought of that night, remembering the murder of Sirius Black and Harry’s near suicide in an effort to follow the only family he’d ever known or at least remembered. He’d never seen such anguish in anyone, especially one so young.

He shook his head and took a long sip of his tea, turning away from the window for a moment. He perked up seconds later when he heard Harry’s voice. He stared out the window again, watching the boy come into view with the friends that had been with him at the Ministry. They were talking about the coming war, making Tom frown.

Children should not be discussing war.

“We’ve got something Voldemort doesn’t,” Harry said and Tom listened curiously.

“What’s that?” Neville Longbottom asked.

“Something worth fighting for,” Harry said.

As the group walked away and Harry’s words echoed in his head, a strong ripple disturbed the air around him.

Magic had heard Harry’s conviction.

Tom’s eyes flew open and he drew in a deep breath as though he’d been underwater for too long. His eyes darted around, taking in the statues and the portraits and the ebbing emerald light. He gazed down at the sword in his hand, realizing he still had it and that it was vibrating with power. As the light dimmed and brightened, so did the magic as it awaited the return of the final sword.

He turned to his right and stared at the large snake. It was coiled up high with a stone slab balanced across its coiled body. The head hovered over the right side, facing the other statues with its jaws open and tongue wanting to taste the air. Glittering emeralds sat in its eyes.

Taking a steady breath, he walked over and laid the sword carefully across the stone. As he released it, the magic burst in the chamber as though released from tight bonds. It whipped at his hair and clothes, nearly distracting him from the illumination of the emerald on Hogwarts’ necklace and from the tingle on his arm. The four gems on Hogwarts’ necklace twinkled, seemingly happy to be reunited. He lifted his sleeve to find a green band sitting lower on his forearm below the gold, silver, and black bands he already had. There was blank skin between the green band and the lowest silver, telling him they would all likely receive more bands to complete the pattern.

“Champion of Slytherin,” Slytherin said and Tom looked up at the Founders in their portraits.

“And Hero of Hogwarts,” Ravenclaw said.

“You have proven yourself,” Gryffindor said.

“Hogwarts thanks you,” Hufflepuff said.

There was another brush of magic across Tom’s face, but it felt different than the previous burst of power. This was light and gentle and warm. This was a caress.

“Thank you,” Tom said heartfully, looking at each Founder as they smiled at him.

“Welcome home,” they said together.