Rain lashed the windows of Number Four, Privet Drive, masking the sound of breaking bone.\n\nHarry lay curled on the floor of the cupboard, blood pooling beneath his temple, breath shallow. Vernon’s belt had snapped ribs this time. Petunia hadn’t screamed. Dudley hadn’t noticed. No one ever did.\n\nBut deep inside, something stirred—an ember in ash, a voice without words. Magic surged, not from wand or will, but from the core of a soul refusing erasure. It tore through the fabric of death, reaching into the void where a fractured consciousness floated: a man who once feared mortality above all else.\n\nTom Marvolo Riddle felt it—a pull, a warmth, a child’s hand gripping his fading essence. 'You’re not alone,' whispered a voice in Parseltongue, though no lips moved. 'I remember you. I am yours.'\n\nIn the darkness, Tom laughed—a dry, broken sound. And somewhere, in a golden bedroom with posters of Quidditch stars, Jim Potter woke gasping, convinced he’d just heard another boy scream his name.