Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air in the chamber, usually thick with the scent of ancient stone and potent magic, now carried a faint, unsettling whisper of something else. Something wrong. Tom Riddle, a man who considered his very existence a honed weapon, found his composure fractured by the simple, impossible presence of a parchment square on his desk.
It was unmarked, ordinary, yet it had bypassed every intricate ward he'd woven into his sanctuary.

He picked it up, the paper cool against his fingertips, and unfolded it. The words, stark and black against the pale surface, felt like a physical blow.

‘The gurgle of her last breath, a sound lost to the ages, echoes still in your mind. The way her eyes, wide and terrified, reflected the horror you unleashed. You believed yourself unseen, infallible. You were wrong.’

The memory, buried deep beneath layers of calculated indifference, resurfaced with a sickening clarity. Myrtle’s final, choked gasp, the slick, humid air of the bathroom, the cold, reptilian gleam in the Basilisk’s eyes.
He had convinced himself it was a necessary sacrifice, a stepping stone. Now, someone, impossibly, knew.

That was impossible, he had not meant to kill the girl but she had been in the way and she made nice sacrifice to make his horcrux.
This was worrying, Tom knew that only Dumbledore had suspected him for the death of Myrtle, he remembered her only being a 1st year if memory served him, however he was getting old so that may not be accurate.

Whoever this was didn’t leave a magical signature and had somehow managed to get into his own chamber that he had in the slytherin castle.

The wards did not alert him of the intruder who somehow managed to get in and out undetected meaning this person was a danger who he needs to find and eliminate. He heard the clock tic and realized it was almost time for the death eater meeting to begin and sighed, he would have to look into this problem tomorrow and begin making as plan.

As he walked out of the room he didn’t notice the glowing green eyes in the dark right corner of the room.

——————————————————————————
Two nights later, another letter arrived, slipped beneath his door like a venomous serpent.

The letter had simply appeared on his desk, he had only left his seat for a moment. He went to grab a file from one of the cabinets in the corner, as he walked back he noticed a new piece of parchment in the middle of his desk that hadn’t been there a moment prior,
He picked up the parchment and unrolled it with a wary gaze, as his eyes scanned across the words.

“The first tear in your soul, the agonizing rending. Did you feel the recoil? The violation? Did you pause, even for a moment, to consider the price? Or was your arrogance too vast to allow doubt?”

The question hung in the air, a phantom accusation. He hadn’t slept. He’d paced the length of his chambers, his mind a whirlwind of possibilities, each more disturbing than the last. Dumbledore? Unlikely. A follower? Impossible. He had ensured their loyalty, their ignorance. Yet, the letter existed.

How had the letter appeared so randomly in the middle of his desk, he had only turned his back for a minute max.

That’s when it hit him, the person who wrote the letter must either still be in his chambers or gotten out relatively fast. He casts a few charms to detect if any witches or wizards had recently been in the room as well as a few detection spells for magical creatures in case this wasn’t a magick person at all and rather the magick of something most charms couldn’t detect.

To Tom’s surprise nothing came up and his eyes narrowed in suspicion something was definitely at play here that seemed to go undetected by his spells.

Chapter Text

“The abandoned manor, a monument to your callousness. The stench of decay, the flies buzzing over lifeless bodies. Did you ever return, Tom? Did you ever stand in the silence and acknowledge what you had done? Your father, in particular, died in fear.”

The goblet in his hand shattered, shards of crystal and crimson liquid scattering across the floor. The image of his father’s face, contorted in terror and disbelief, burned into his mind. He’d told himself it was justice, a necessary act. Now, doubt, a foreign and unwelcome emotion, gnawed at the edges of his resolve.

The shards of the goblet, like crimson teeth, scattered across the polished stone floor, mirroring the fractured state of Tom’s composure. He stared at the spreading stain, the wine a dark, accusing red, and the image of his father’s face, a mask of bewildered terror, flickered behind his eyelids.

He hadn’t thought of his father in years. Not truly. He’d relegated him to a distant, insignificant footnote in his grand narrative, a necessary casualty in his ascent to power. Now, the man’s fear, so vividly described in the letter, clawed at the carefully constructed walls of his indifference.

He rose, the movement abrupt and violent, and stalked to the fireplace. The flames, usually a comforting warmth, now seemed to mock him, their flickering light casting grotesque shadows across the room. He clenched his fists, the sharp edges of the broken glass digging into his palms, but he barely registered the pain.

“Did you ever return, Tom?” The words echoed in his mind, a venomous whisper. He had returned, once. Years ago. A brief, almost clinical visit, to ensure the lingering traces of his past were thoroughly erased. He remembered the silence, thick and heavy, the dust motes dancing in the shafts of moonlight, the faint, metallic tang of dried blood that was never cleaned.

He paced, his long strides echoing in the vast chamber. He needed to find the source of these letters. He needed to silence them. The intrusion, the violation of his carefully guarded secrets, was intolerable. He felt a prickle of something akin to fear, a sensation he hadn’t experienced since he was a child, cowering in the orphanage, vulnerable and powerless.

A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, a sound that was less a word and more a raw expression of his mounting frustration. He swept his wand in a wide arc, sending a wave of destructive magic crashing against the far wall. Stone crumbled and splintered, but the silence remained unbroken, a mocking testament to his importance.

He thought of his followers, their faces etched with unwavering loyalty, their eyes reflecting his own ambition. But even among them, he knew, there were those who harbored secrets, those who coveted his power. He had always maintained control through fear and manipulation, but now, he wondered, had he underestimated their resentment?

No, he was sure it wasn’t one of his death eaters leaving the letters. They wouldn’t even know of his actions and what he had done.

He considered the possibility of a magical artifact, a device capable of bypassing his wards. But even the most powerful magic had limitations, and he had always been meticulous in his defenses.

His gaze drifted to the shattered goblet, the crimson stain a stark reminder of his lost control. He had always prided himself on his self-mastery, his ability to suppress any emotion that threatened his carefully constructed persona. Now, he felt a creeping sense of vulnerability, a fear that his carefully guarded secrets were being laid bare.

He ran a hand through his dark hair, his fingers trembling slightly. He needed a plan, a strategy. He couldn't afford to be impulsive, to react blindly. He needed to find the source of the letters, to expose the sender, to reclaim his control.

He thought of the Horcruxes, those fragments of his soul, scattered and hidden, anchors to his immortality. They were his greatest secret, his ultimate defense. Yet, the letters had hinted at their existence, suggesting that his most carefully guarded secrets were known. The thought made his stomach churn. Had they been compromised? Were they vulnerable?

Yes

He considered the implications. If the Horcruxes were known, they were vulnerable. They were anchors, yes, but they were also targets. Each one a potential point of attack, a way to dismantle his carefully constructed immortality. He had always seen them as his strength, his ultimate weapon. Now, they were a liability, a weakness.

He felt a surge of possessiveness, a primal need to protect what was his. The Horcruxes were his, extensions of his will, fragments of his power. He would not allow them to be violated, to be stolen, to be destroyed.

He rose to his feet, his movements decisive, his resolve hardening. He would retrieve the Horcruxes, one by one, securing them, reinforcing their defenses, ensuring their safety. He would not allow them to be used against him.

He would also find the sender. He would tear them apart, piece by piece, until he understood how they had dared to trespass on his domain. He would extract every secret, every shred of knowledge, every ounce of power they possessed. He would make them pay for their insolence, for their audacity, for their intrusion. He would show them what it meant to challenge Lord Voldemort.

Chapter Text

The following night, the pattern held. Tom found himself momentarily distracted – this time by the insistent chirping of what sounded like a trapped bird near the fireplace. He’d dismissed it as some stray creature that had foolishly flown down the chimney, a minor annoyance in his grand scheme. He’d turned his back to cast a silencing charm when he felt the familiar, chillingly smooth texture of parchment against his hand.

He hadn’t seen it appear. One moment, empty air; the next, a stark white rectangle nestled amongst his dark robes. His breath hitched. This was beyond mere intrusion; it was a deliberate, almost mocking display.
He unfolded the parchment, his fingers surprisingly steady despite the tremor of fury that ran beneath his skin. The words were different this time, less accusatory, more…knowing.

“The locket, clutched tight against a dying breast. Regulus knew the truth, didn’t he? The sacrifice he made, a futile gesture against the inevitable. Did you ever consider his final moments, the cold seawater, the crushing despair? Or was his defiance merely an irritating footnote in your glorious rise?”

The image of the Black boy, defiant even in the face of death, flashed through Tom’s mind. A flicker of something akin to…annoyance? Regulus had been a fool, a weakling who had ultimately betrayed the cause. His death had been a minor inconvenience, easily rectified. Yet, the letter’s implication, the suggestion that his sacrifice held some deeper meaning, rankled.

This was becoming more than just an intrusion; it was a targeted assault on his carefully constructed history, a deliberate attempt to unearth the vulnerabilities he had buried so deep.

He glanced around the chamber, his eyes narrowed. He had cast layers upon layers of detection charms before retiring for the night, each one designed to alert him to any magical presence, any unusual movement. Yet, the letter had appeared as if by a phantom hand.

He focused his Occlumency, building the walls of his mind, seeking to block out the insidious whispers of doubt that these letters were beginning to sow. He would not be swayed. He would not be rattled. He was Lord Voldemort.

He repeated the detection spells, each incantation delivered with a precision honed over decades. The air shimmered, the magical energies swirling around him like visible currents, yet they revealed nothing. It was as if the letters were not merely bypassing his wards but existing on a different plane entirely, untouchable by conventional magic.

A prickle of unease, a sensation so foreign it almost felt like a physical ailment, began to spread through him. His carefully constructed world, built on power and control, was beginning to fray at the edges. This unseen entity was not just taunting him; it was demonstrating an ability to operate outside the very rules of magic he had mastered.

He paced the length of his chamber, his long strides echoing in the oppressive silence. His mind, usually a steel trap, was now a battlefield of conflicting possibilities, each more unsettling than the last. Could it be a form of ancient magic, something predating even the founders of Hogwarts? A forgotten artifact, imbued with a malevolent sentience?

The thought of a magic beyond his comprehension was galling. He, Tom Marvolo Riddle, the most powerful wizard of his age, confronted by something he couldn't even identify. It was an affront to his very being.

He stopped abruptly before the fireplace, the flames casting dancing shadows on his impassive face. He reached out a hand, the heat a familiar comfort, but tonight it offered no solace. His gaze fell upon Nagini, coiled serenely on her cushion, her reptilian eyes observing him with an ancient wisdom. He considered confiding in her, but the words caught in his throat. How could he explain this intangible threat, this silent invasion?

He turned away, his frustration mounting. He needed answers, and he needed them now. He would delve into the deepest recesses of his library, seeking out forgotten texts, deciphering ancient scrolls, searching for any mention of a magic that could defy his wards in such a manner.

Hours bled into the night as he pored over dusty tomes, his fingers tracing faded ink, his mind racing through arcane theories. He found nothing. No mention of a magic that could leave physical manifestations without triggering detection spells, no entity that could seemingly materialize objects from thin air.

As dawn began to paint the sky with streaks of grey and pale gold, Tom finally conceded defeat for the night. His search had yielded nothing but a gnawing sense of helplessness.

He returned to his desk, the smooth surface now seeming to mock his efforts. He ran his hand over it, half-expecting another pristine white square to have appeared during his absence. But the desk remained bare.
cold fury began to simmer beneath his carefully controlled exterior. If this unseen force operated outside the known laws of magic, then he would adapt. He would learn its rules, its weaknesses. He would not be outmaneuvered in his own domain.
He focused his formidable will, pushing past the frustration and the creeping tendrils of fear. He needed to think with clarity, to analyze the situation with the cold, detached logic that had always served him.
The letters. They were the key, the only tangible link to this elusive entity. He retrieved the crumpled parchments from where he had discarded them, smoothing out the creases with a flick of his wand. He reread them, his eyes scanning each word, each phrase, searching for a pattern, a clue.
The language was simple, direct, yet imbued with a chilling intimacy. It spoke of his deepest secrets, his most carefully guarded memories. It knew things that should have been lost to time.
He considered the possibility of a powerful Legilimens, one capable of not only penetrating his Occlumency but also extracting memories he had long suppressed. But even the most skilled Legilimens required direct eye contact, a conscious connection. These letters appeared without any such interaction.

Just like the eyes in the shadows that slowly faded…

Chapter Text

The chamber was colder than usual, a subtle chill that had nothing to do with the outside weather and everything to do with the gnawing unease in Tom Riddle's gut. The crumpled parchments, now smoothed and laid flat on his desk, seemed to pulse with a malevolent energy. He’d spent the entire night dissecting every word, every turn of phrase, searching for a pattern, a tell, anything that would betray the sender.

He’d considered everything: ancient curses, forgotten magical creatures, even a form of highly advanced, untraceable elemental magic. Each theory dissolved under the weight of the evidence, or lack thereof. The letters left no trace, no magical signature, no physical residue. They simply appeared.

"Impossible," he murmured, the word a rasp against the silence. But it wasn't impossible; it was happening. Someone, or something, was breaching his sanctuary, his mind, his very past, with unnerving ease.

His eyes fell on Nagini, who had uncoiled from her cushion and was now slithering silently across the polished stone floor. Her scales shimmered in the faint light, and her forked tongue flickered, tasting the air. She stopped beside his desk, her head rising to meet his gaze.

"They know, Nagini," he hissed, the Parseltongue a balm to his frayed nerves. "They know of the Horcruxes."

Nagini’s emerald eyes, ancient and knowing, seemed to widen imperceptibly. A soft, almost imperceptible rumble emanated from her throat, a serpentine equivalent of a purr of concern.

"They spoke of Regulus," Tom continued, his voice tight. "Of the locket. They speak of things no one alive should remember, things I have buried deeper than the grave."

He reached out a hand, his fingers brushing against Nagini's cool scales. The serpent, his most trusted confidante, his last true link to a semblance of affection, pressed her head against his hand.

"This is not Dumbledore," he mused, more to himself than to Nagini. "Dumbledore would have acted directly, with a righteous fury. This is… different. More insidious. Like a phantom, leaving only whispers in its wake."

He pulled his hand back, his brow furrowed in thought. The letters were not just taunting him; they were subtly guiding him, pushing him towards a confrontation with his past. Each memory invoked was a carefully chosen dart, aimed at a specific vulnerability.

Myrtle. His father. Regulus and the locket. These were not random acts. They were deliberate, chronological steps down a path he had desperately tried to erase. The implication was clear: the sender knew the sequence of his transgressions, the very blueprint of his soul's fracturing.

"Unless…" A chilling thought struck him, colder than the chamber air. "Unless they were there. Witness to it all."

He dismissed the idea as quickly as it formed. No one had been present during the creation of his Horcruxes. His victims had been mere instruments, quickly dispatched, their deaths serving his grand design.

He paced the length of the room again, his mind racing through possibilities. He needed to broaden his search, to look beyond conventional magic. If his wards were useless, if his detection spells were blind, then the source of these letters lay outside the realm of his current understanding.

He stopped at the window, gazing out at the impenetrable darkness of the night. His reflection stared back, a pale, gaunt face, eyes burning with a relentless intensity. He was Lord Voldemort, the most powerful wizard of his age, and he would not be outmaneuvered.

"I will find you," he whispered to the empty air, his voice low and dangerous. "And when I do, you will regret ever crossing me."

Nagini, sensing his resolve, coiled herself once more on her cushion, her gaze unwavering. She understood his determination, his thirst for knowledge and retribution. The game had changed. It was no longer about defending his secrets, but about uncovering a new, unseen enemy. And Tom Riddle, for the first time in a very long time, felt a flicker of something akin to exhilaration. The hunt was on.