Disclaimer: J.K.Rowling is the proud owner of the Harry Potter world. I am merely borrowing her creativity for my own entertainment.

A/N: Yes, I know, I shouldn't be starting yet another story when I already have others sitting on standby. It can't be helped – inspiration strikes and the stories must be begun.

Harry Potter and the Life Relived

Chapter One: The Last of Them

The night guard of Little Hangleton was a young lad, fresh from Academy, and just back from his honeymoon. He had been assigned the task of watching over the town after dark because he was "the best man for the job." Strolling through the foggy, cobblestone streets at two in the morning, he knew he was working the graveyard shift not because he was "the best," but because he was the only man for the job. A lot of odd things had been happening in the town, things that couldn't quite be described, yet were the topic of whispered gossip in the safety of sunlight. The moment the sun touched the western horizon, the townspeople closed their shops and scuttled home, locking windows and doors, for no one dared the risk of being caught outside after dark.

Richard Lawrence knew that the moment he had left for his honeymoon, his colleagues had voted for him to be night guard while he was miles away and unable to politely decline the "promotion." A few years back, while he was still in Academy, the body of an old gardener had been found on the Riddle property. There had been no obvious cause of death, and the mortician had been mildly baffled, but ultimately decided it was simply the man's time to go. The mysterious nature of the man's death had sparked a roaring fire of gossip as the elderly folks of the town remembered the Riddle tragedy. Rumors flew left and right, the most recent being that the old Riddle house was haunted by a particularly nasty spirit.

"Codswallop," Richard muttered under his breath. As far as he was concerned, the mortician was right. Frank Bryce had been a cranky, old war veteran with a stiff leg and goodness knows what other kind of "old man affliction." It didn't take a nasty spirit for him to kick the bucket. Richard looked over in the direction of the Riddle house, but the fog was too thick to see anything. Kicking angrily at a stone, he wished he was indoors, lying next to his new wife, rather than pacing through a superstitious town. Remembering the days he and his pals used to sneak into the mansion on dares, he began wandering toward the hill on the outskirts of the village.

The path to the Riddle mansion curved around a cemetery and up a hill overlooking Little Hangleton. As Richard was slowly meandering around the curve, he heard a soft, indistinguishable sound and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He froze in place and cocked his head, straining to hear, but all was quiet. A shiver ran up his spine and he pulled his jacket tighter around him, muttering under his breath about "stupid ghost stories." Try as he might to convince himself that nothing was amiss, Richard couldn't help but notice that his heartbeat was reverberating throughout his entire body and his breath was a touch shaky.

As he crept toward the wrought iron archway leading into the ancient cemetery, he surreptitiously felt for the comforting presence of his radio, baton and flashlight. Reassuring himself that all was present and accounted for on his belt, Richard paused at the entryway and peered in, searching for the source of his unease. As much as he chose to ignore or scoff at the rumors surrounding the Riddle mansion, he could not deny the fact that the Little Hangleton cemetery had its own mystery. Less than a year after old Frank Bryce was found dead, an event of some significance had taken place among the graves, for one morning the place was found in shambles. Scorch marks decorated the ground like a strange oriental rug, and tombstones were cracked or shattered. A trail of blood could be found splattered throughout the trampled grass and little Bonnie Clyde had sworn to her mother she had seen a spectacular light show from her bedroom window that evening. The mysterious death of an old gardener seemed to pale in comparison to the fact that something strange and violent had occurred just outside of Little Hangleton.

The cemetery had since been cleaned and many of the tombstones had been repaired or replaced, but there were still reminders of the odd occurrence. Richard's eyes flicked over to the angel statue missing half of a wing. He remembered how it had appeared that the missing chunk of the wing had been blasted across the cemetery. Another chill ran up his spine and his breath caught in his throat as he sensed, more than saw, a presence just past the angel. Taking a hesitant step forward and squinting through the fog, Richard could just make out the outline of a person kneeling on the ground.

He crept forward as silently as possible and paused behind a rather large headstone when he began to make out a quiet muttering. The figure appeared to be a man, and as Richard peeked over the headstone, he saw the man empty a container of ashes into a shallow hole.

"…finally over," the dark figure murmured as he reached for a small box at his side. "You killed my parents. You killed my aunt. You killed Cedric, and you killed my friends."

Richard felt a cold chill at the man's words. It appeared the ashes had belonged to some sort of serial killer. But why would the man be burying him here? Did he kill him? A thousand questions ran through his mind, but he put them on hold as he watched the figure begin to pull odd things from the box. The first item was a tattered book that seemed to have a hole marring the center. The man tossed it carelessly among the ashes.

"The diary," he said, "that almost killed Ginny." Next he pulled out a ring and tossed it in the hole, "The ring that wounded Dumbledore." The man rummaged in the box and held something tight in his fist. His shoulders began to shake and he choked out, "The necklace…" The man sniffled and threw the necklace forcefully into the hole. "The necklace," he growled, "that killed Dumbledore needlessly!"

Richard's brow furrowed in confusion. What in the world was going on? How could these simple objects cause deaths? He watched, fascinated as the man pulled out another necklace and held it up as it spun around, tangling itself.

"The real necklace," he whispered as he dropped it in the hole. The man paused for a moment, then took a deep shuddering breath and reached into the box again. He pulled out a small cup with two handles. Richard could see that there was a design on the front, but it was too dark to make it out.

"Hufflepuff's cup," the shadowy figure whispered, "So many have died over this cup…ironic, isn't it?" The man spoke almost wistfully, "The Lady Hufflepuff favored the loyal and hard-working. Had she known what this cup would be used for, she would've destroyed it herself." He gently set the cup down among the other odd objects before reaching into the box again.

The next item he pulled out was an old-fashioned hand mirror. The back had ornate designs, most of which were too difficult to see in the dark, although a large bird seemed to be the focus point. When the man slowly turned it over, Richard dared to lean a bit further forward to see if he could catch a glimpse of his reflection. A crack ran lengthwise down the mirror, distorting the mysterious man's face. However, Richard could make out enough to tell that the man was far younger than he had anticipated. In fact, he looked to be in his late teens – still a boy. There was a nasty scar on his right cheek and another on his forehead. What he could see of the boy's eyes told Richard a story of lifelong pain.

The boy stared at his own reflection for a moment longer, watching as a tear slowly trailed down his cheek and dripped off his nose. He turned the mirror over one more time and begin tracing the outline of the bird with his fingers.

"Ravenclaw's mirror," he murmured. A sob escaped him as he relived some horrible memory. The boy started rocking back and forth on his knees, sobbing uncontrollably, clutching the mirror with a white-knuckled grip. Richard's conscience warred within him, debating whether or not to make his presence known. Just as he was about to stand up and step forward, the boy roared in fury.

"YOU TOOK THEM!" he shouted at the hole in the ground. Richard's eyes grew wide and he huddled a little further down behind the gravestone. "You took them!" he sobbed, more emotional. The boy held the mirror out over the hole, and Richard could see that his hand was shaking violently. "Luna and Hermione," he choked as he dropped it with a clatter into the rapidly filling hole.

A long moment passed with the boy sobbing and cursing the remains of whoever he was burying, while Richard began to feel a dull ache in his knees from squatting for so long. The boy sniffled and rubbed his arm under his nose before reaching into the box one last time. What he pulled out caused Richard to clap his hands over his mouth to stop himself from gagging. It appeared to be the head of an enormous snake, it's eyes wide open and it's fangs bared in an angry hiss. He didn't look too closely, but he was able to tell from a quick glance that the decapitation had not been a clean cut.

"Nagini," the boy said, holding the snake up and staring it in it's lifeless eyes. "Ron and Neville stood with me to the end…until you. There wasn't enough time to save them. One, maybe, but not both." The boy's shoulders suddenly straightened and his back stiffened as he gripped the head tighter and continued to stare at it. A furious hissing and spitting sound came forth and for one wild moment, Richard thought the snake had come alive until he realized it was the boy making the sounds. His entire body broke out in gooseflesh at the morbidly fascinating display before him.

"The last of them," the boy said firmly as he threw the snake head into the hole. He stood suddenly and began kicking dirt over the odd grave. When he finished stomping the dirt in place, he reached deep in some hidden pocket and extracted a small stone. He placed the stone over the makeshift grave and stood back. "Buried next to your Muggle father, Tom. How does that make you feel?" he asked bitterly. The boy spat on the grave before him, then turned on the spot and vanished with a soft pop.

Richard's eyebrows shot up and his eyes widened in disbelief. He stood slowly, relieving the tension in his knees, and hobbled over to the new grave. Pulling out his flashlight, he shined it first on the large gravestone that supposedly was the deceased's father and read "Tom Riddle." Richard frowned. Everyone from Little Hangleton had heard the stories about the Riddle deaths, but not one rumor mentioned the younger Riddle having a child. The mystery surrounding this graveyard seemed to get more and more mysterious, Richard thought to himself as he swung the beam of light down to the small stone recently placed on the ground. The stone seemed to be an ordinary gray rock one could find on any dirt path, but inscribed on it were three initials: "T.M.R."