Somewhere in the world, in a dark, dark place, someone licked his wounds.
He took his time, hovering in place while his spirit slowly regained strength, the ectoplasm gradually taking a form resembling what he had once been in life. He could barely recall much about that, in fact, only that he had once been very handsome. Blond hair, perhaps, blue eyes, or were they green?
He wasn't sure, and he didn't care.
He laid there for minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, he didn't know, all he could feel was the agony of his soul stitching itself back together, the missing piece forcing its way back into his body and forcibly bonding itself with the part already there.
Memories came with it, the image of Ariana Dumbledore reaching out reverently to touch the pendant around his neck, her dull, stupid eyes lighting up. How he'd hated the little bitch. Albus had, too, oh how he had. The resentment had almost been a palpable thing, the negative feelings towards the sister that had taken away his father and then, his future so clear anyone would've been able to notice.
For moment after that curse had hit her and it had become clear she was never going to wake up, he thought that Dumbledore would be happy. But, for once in his life, he'd been . . . horribly wrong.
The resentment turned to grief and guilt in an instant, then a slow, burning anger and hatred. Towards him.
And how he'd made a mistake of making an enemy of Albus Dumbledore.
That had been so many years ago, too many too count. He'd been in hell for so long, this horrible state of unlife. He was cold, sick, tired; it was like he was a corpse, some type of zombie.
A ghost. That's what he was. A ghost.
Philosophers might've theorized that the soul was the base of the human, but he had found that he was nothing without a body.
And he'd been so close. It had been within his reach, in that little brat's pocket . . .
Riddle. Even though his own features were long lost to time, he could clearly remember what Harry Riddle looked like, especially that infuriating, superior little smirk on his face.
He wanted to break that face, make it so that he could never smirk or smile again.
He wanted to do the same to Dumbledore, too, and to Voldemort.
His soul remembered Voldemort, just as it did Ariana and Albus—the dark lord looked quite a bit like his filthy spawn; he even wore a similar facial expression as he pierced his precious horcrux with a basilisk fang, as he watched the poison spread and destroy the pendant beyond all repair.
But Voldemort was nothing more than mudblooded trash. People were fools for refusing to speak his name, but he supposed he couldn't blame them.
They hadn't known true terror. But they would.
The Sorcerer's Stone was gone, but there were other ways. It might take years, but he would be back.
And then, the world would know what it meant to be terrorized.
And Dumbledore and Voldemort and Riddle would all pay. He promised them that.
The End