Tom Riddle opened his eyes.

He remembered dying. The撕裂 of his soul, the diary splitting apart, the agony of being unmade. He remembered Harry Potter's green eyes, fierce with rage, and the basilisk fang in his hand.

But he was not dead.

He was lying on cold, wet flagstones. The Chamber's high ceiling vanished into darkness above him. Salazar Slytherin's great stone face loomed in the shadows, mouth open in a silent scream.

He sat up slowly. His body felt strange—solid, heavy. Real. He flexed his fingers, watching them move with a detached fascination.

But there was no Harry. No red-haired girl.

Only you.