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Lord Voldemort does not remember the last time he felt.
Well, perhaps this is a lie — he has his guesses.
It was probably in his fifth year, when poor, pitiful Myrtle Warren stared into his basilisk's eyes and died on the spot.
Lord Voldemort had no great feelings for her death — Myrtle Warren had not been a particularly gifted witch. She had been in Ravenclaw, and yet possessed no great intelligence. She would cry upon getting bad exam scores, but seemed more interested in studying boys than her notes. The wizarding world had felt no loss when Myrtle Warren left this world — and indeed, her death had been worth more than her life.
After all, it was Myrtle Warren's great sacrifice that had enabled Lord Voldemort to shed his humanity like a snake of its skin. The girl had died, and with her, Lord Voldemort's last ties to mortality.
And now here he was, 10 years into his War. He had never been more powerful, never come closer to his goals of conquering wizardkind — but Fate, it seemed, had different plans.
"And you are sure, Severus, that this information is accurate?"
"Yes, My Lord. Sybil Trelawney — she is descended from the great Seer Cassandra Trelawney — made the prophecy herself to Dumbledore."
"And to whom do you think this prophecy refers to?"
"I believe it may pertain to the Longbottom family, My Lord. Frank and Alice Longbottom will be expecting their first child next summer..."
"Do you take me for a fool, Severus? Do not presume to keep secrets from Lord Voldemort — you will tell me the truth, the whole truth, and you will thank me for this opportunity to correct yourself."
"Yes, yes My Lord, I apologize. It — It may also reference the Potter child. James Potter's son will also be born around that time, My Lord."
Lord Voldemort had laughed, then, a raspy, sibilant sound that had his servant cringing into the ground. Humans and their disgusting need for feelings, for emotions. Oh, they were quite amusing to manipulate sometimes — he had never seen Abraxas perform better than when he threatened the man's son, after all — but they were horribly inconvenient at others.
He briefly wondered if he had anything to worry about from his Potions master — but he had reassured the man that he would not seek to murder Lily Evans with her son, and Severus had no great love for James Potter or his spawn. Perhaps the man would even be grateful to his master for getting rid of his once-tormentor.
Yes, there was no need to worry about Severus.
He would kill the Potter child, and then he would kill the Longbottom child for good measure. And once they were gone, no one would have the power to vanquish the Dark Lord.
— // —
The Potter residence in Godric's Hollow was pitifully unprotected. They had put too much faith in their friendships and loyalties, hoping that the Fidelius would be enough to keep them and their child safe from harm. And perhaps if it had been any of their friends but Peter Pettigrew, the Potters would have remained safe. But as it was, Lord Voldemort had taken the location from their Secret Keeper, and the wards fell apart with his knowledge as he approached the home.
Lord Voldemort stroked his wand, silently contemplating as he walked up the path. He would kill Pettigrew after he was done here, yes — those who betrayed once were all too willing to betray again, and he had no faith in the rat's abilities to provide him anything else useful. Another murder to pencil in for the night, then.
Face split in a barely human grin, Lord Voldemort flung open the door and stepped into the Potter's home. It was sickeningly domestic. The radio was humming some pop tune, and he could smell brownies baking in the kitchen. It was clear that the Potter family hadn't expected any interruption this Halloween night.
James Potter was a surprisingly good dueller. Perhaps if he had a few more years of experience and his wand on him, he would have been a proper match. Instead, Lord Voldemort flung him aside like a ragdoll as he wasted his last breath telling his wife to run, and a flash of green light took his life from him as easy as — well, as easy as breathing. He hoped Severus would be happy — be grateful to his Lord.
But that was not his main objective tonight.
Lily Potter was screaming, but the Dark Lord paid her no mind as he stepped into what must be young Harry Potter's room.
(He wasn't screaming or crying, he noted in the back of his mind — Harry Potter stared back at the Dark Lord with wide eyes and an innocent tilt of his head, until Lily Potter moved in front of him, using her body as a shield.)
"No, not my son, not Harry, anything else, please—"
The Dark Lord frowned. Feelings, really. He wished he could just kill her as well, but Severus would be upset, and that might upset his later plans if the man could not fully appreciate the murder of the Potter line.
"Step aside. I only need your son. You don't need to die, really, I would hate to upset Severus —"
The woman's expression changed in a flash until she was snarling. It was almost scarier than Bella, though distinctly less unhinged.
"I don't care what that filthy excuse of a wizard told you, you will not take my son!"
"Really, step aside, there is no need to spill your blood—"
And then Lily was brandishing something in front of her, and his wand came up, ready to deflect a curse, but no, she was holding a knife.
"Get. Away. From. My. Son."
"That knife will do nothing to me, I will tell you one last time, step aside or both of you will die."
Lord Voldemort was rapidly losing his patience; any second now the rest of the Order could be arriving, and he did not want to be caught up in an extended battle tonight.
Lily Potter did not charge the Dark Lord with her knife, but he could tell from the bloodlust in her eyes that she wanted nothing more than to gut him right there (and really, that was quite the nice look on the woman, perhaps he should have tried to recruit her, but no, her and Severus would have inevitably fought and brought more feelings into his Circle, which he did not want to deal with).
Instead, the woman slashed her palm open, spraying blood across the carpet, and turned to grab her son.
"Avada kedavra!"
For the second time that night, green light lit up the house, and Lily Potter slumped to the ground, dead.
Severus would be disappointed, but he had been more than merciful, giving her three chances to cede to his wishes, and the Potions master would accept that — must accept that. He cast an assessing eye on young Harry Potter, who was still staring silently across the room at him.
(The child was creepy. Were all children like this? He thought all they did was whine and cry, but this empty, wide-eyed look was almost worse.)
The child's face was smeared with blood, but whatever blood magic (and wasn't that something — good, Light Lily Potter using blood magic) his mother had attempted to do hadn't taken her son away from him.
Lord Voldemort tilted his head back, childishly mirroring the toddler.
Harry Potter was quite fascinating — it was almost a shame to kill him.
For the third and final time, Lord Voldemort raised his wand and cast the familiar Killing Curse.
And his world turned black.
— // —
The wraith that had once been the Dark Lord was screaming in pain.
Harry Potter apparently heard the wraith better than he had heard his dead parents, and began screaming as well.
(The fact that the child was still alive was a fact that should have bothered the wraith, he thinks — it thinks? — but there are more pertinent things to worry about right now. For example — the pain.)
Lord Voldemort — Tom Marvolo Riddle — The Wraith — he had never felt such horrible pain.
For the first time since he broke his soul into seven pieces, he feels — fractured.
He needs to leave, to flee, but he is shattered, stretched taut between Death and Earth, shards of broken glass reflecting green, so much green —
Harry Potter is looking at him with those eyes, and he is screaming, and he needs to leave.
The wraith tries to gather himself — he sweeps himself together like a pile of glass kicked together by a broom — he collects his soul, or what's left of it, and —
— // —
The wraith lands in Albania. It is peaceful here — there is no screaming. Even young Harry has stopped screaming —
The wraith freezes.
Harry Potter sits on the ground next to him, eyes red and pouting, but apparently even he knows not to disturb the ancient forests of Albania with the caterwauls of a child.
The wraith has no body — he is a spirit, and by all means he should be invisible to the mortal eye, not alive but certainly not dead. Harry Potter looks straight at him with eyes that see too much.
Wraith and child sit in silence as the stars twinkle merrily above.
— // —
"Harry, get down from there at once," the snake hisses.
Whoever had come up with the term Terrible Two's had not considered that another year would only add to how insufferable children were.
Harry Potter was now three, and if Lord Voldemort had been aware just how much the boy liked putting himself in life-threatening situations, he would've never gone to Godric's Hollow that night and just left the boy to kill himself.
Instead, he's raising a boy that seems to risk his life every other hour.
"Don't wanna," Harry Potter hisses back, and continues scaling the tree.
"In English, Harry, and you will climb down at once or I will tell all the snakes not to play with you."
Being a snake brought more challenges than Tom would have thought — it is, apparently, exceedingly difficult to take care of a human child as a snake. The first year, he could simply wrap himself around the child and keep him from trouble that way. Unfortunately, Harry was now too big for that particular tactic, and took his fun in running up trees or down rivers or anywhere else that would be sure to kill him, much to his caretaker's annoyance.
(Tom had, of course, considered just leaving the child to die — but quickly dismissed the notion. He was his only companion at this point, and he had, he loathed to admit, grown fond of him. Lord Voldemort would never come back, and so Harry Potter was not a threat but instead quite possibly the last barrier between him and a lonely, painful decade in the Albanian wilderness.)
Another challenge was language.
That night, when Lord Voldemort's soul had shattered even further, part of him had ingratiated itself into the child. It was helpful, because without the extra magic, he doubted Harry would have survived those first few weeks in the freezing cold forest with nothing but an incorporeal guide. It was also helpful because now Harry understood the tongue of snakes, and thus could communicate easily when Tom had figured out how to possess the reptilian creatures, gaining some semblance of a root to the realm of the living once more.
Unfortunately, it also meant that Harry did not like speaking English, which was concerning because Tom had no desire to stay in the wilderness forever and that meant Harry needed to become a civilized child.
So yes, he was a snake, trying to raise a respectable kid in the wilderness of Albania. How Lord Voldemort has fallen, he bemoaned. A glorified babysitter to the boy he had once tried to kill.
"Don't wanna. Want friend!"
The snake cocked its head, becoming concerned. The last friend Harry had had was a hippogriff. The creature had surprisingly not bitten Harry's head off (Tom commended it for that fact alone, because he hadn't yet managed to overcome the urge himself), but it had almost thrown him off a cliff when he tried getting Harry away from its clutches.
"What friend?"
"Friend in tree!"
Harry slapped a palm across the tree's trunk, sending a jolt of pure magic across it, and a twelve-foot long snake dropped out of it.
"Friend!"
"Nagini?"
"Fool child, I will eat you!"
Harry seemed way too gleeful at the prospect of being friends with a snake that wanted to eat him — maybe he would have another conversation with him about taking care of his life and not befriending every dangerous creature in the forest.
That could wait, though.
"Nagini, my dear, how did you find us? And why were you in a tree?"
Tom had never known Nagini to be a fan of trees — the serpent was too large for any sort of strategic maneuvering to be done there.
The three settled down for the night, Harry lighting a fire with a spark of magic that had Tom beaming brightly in pride, as much as a snake could anyways (Harry had become talented with wandless magic out of necessity, learning how to warm himself and Tom during those early months), and curling up against the two serpents.
Nagini wove a story about how, the night Lord Voldemort had fallen, his act of fleeing had uprooted his souls with him. But in his reduced state, he had only been able to bring Harry fully with him, the rest of his Horcruxes lost (Tom thinks he should feel slightly more alarmed that the links to his immortality are lost, but he feels nothing but a great burst of apathy). Nagini, his most faithful companion, had traveled the greater part of the year, relying on their soul-bond to try and find him.
She had met Harry first, a hatchling that resembled her master so greatly in magic that she hadn't known what to do, wondering if she had been misguided. Harry, the terror that he was, had harassed her until the serpent had fled up a tree to escape. Tom reminded himself to both keep a closer eye on the kid and have that conversation with him about befriending dangerous creatures — Nagini would never harm him, but there were other large, scary beasts that would have no compunctions against it.
But that was for a later night — tonight, their family of two became three, and they curled against each other, two snakes and a human.
— // —
The ring was the first Horcux to make its way back to Tom.
With Nagini now present as an extra set of eyes to babysit the child (no matter how grudgingly she did it), Tom had felt more secure setting out from where they had been hiding the past year. Following his magic, he had slipped between the old growth, traveling for days and ignoring the anxious tugging that being separated from Harry induced (he was Lord Voldemort — well, no, he wasn't anymore, but regardless, he did not get separation anxiety).
Three days had passed before he found it. The Gaunt ring lay alone and bare, having killed a circle of vegetation around it — even animals could detect the aura of death around the artifact, and no bird had dared take the bauble for its nest.
Tom looked at the ring, and perhaps in a different world he would have taken it to hide and protect once more, willing to pay the price of a soul for immortality. Instead, for the first time in decades, he felt.
He thought about Harry, how the child had grown on him so quickly, his only source of happiness in this abandoned forest, so removed from the world. He thought about his own father, kept mindless, free will stolen away until he could not love his son, until Tom had been a beacon of pain as much as Harry was his own beacon of hope.
Rage was a familiar feeling to Tom Riddle, but it was not rage he felt now.
No, it was deep, deep sadness, that Tom Riddle Sr. would never experience the fierce, deep love a parent had for a child. They said that a child borne from Amortentia could never love — but for Harry, he would try.
It was not remorse, not exactly, but it was enough.
Tom Riddle woke up in the body of the 17-year-old that had murdered his father, and made his way back to Nagini and Harry — his family.
— // —
It takes two more years to find the rest of his Horcruxes and reabsorb them. Some of them, he simply did not have a close enough tie to the one he murdered to feel anything, much less remorse. But then he thinks about how his foolish decisions had led to Harry, his Harry, suffering so much at such a young age, raised in the wilderness when he should be spoiled and treasured and nurtured — and it's enough.
He does not try to take his soul from his two living Horcruxes — he will not regret what they've become, that he is as much a part of them as they are of him.
Harry has just turned five when they finally find another human being. The old woman lives on the edge of the forest, and she is not altogether surprised when Tom smoothly lies that he is a recent Durmstrang graduate who lost his way. She is surprised that Tom somehow found a child in there, but eventually shrugs and comments that the forest has spit out things stranger than a dirty five-year-old.
(Harry spends the entire exchange staring wide-eyed at Tom, who he had not known could speak Greek of all languages. Tom later explained that he knew most of the major European languages, because apparently that was important for world domination, and though he didn't know Albanian, he had been fortunate that they were in a part of the country home to a large Greek population. The dialect they speak is different, but it's enough to get the general gist, apparently.)
The woman explains that her daughter had once lived in a cottage a bit further south before getting married off to a Bulgarian official and moving there, and if they could be dears and fix it up a little, they were welcome to stay there as long as they wanted.
Tom responds that the offer is too kind in the saccharine voice Harry knows to mean they will be quite happy to take advantage of the woman's generosity, and that night, Harry sleeps inside for the first time.
He hates it.
Tom wakes up to his ward shattering a hole through the windows.
"What in Merlin's name are you doing? I just fixed that window." Tom does not yell — the memories of the orphanage and screaming matrons make him loathe to ever raise his voice to a child — and his tone is one of soft exasperation rather than anger. He has gotten too used to Harry's antics, he thinks.
"Outside," Harry pouts, ignoring him as he usually did while he attempts to tumble out the window.
"Full sentences, Harry," Tom reminds, even as he rolls himself out of bed to grab the little menance.
"I wanna see outside," Harry whines in response.
"Want to, not wanna, don't slur, it's unbecoming," Tom huffs. "You're going to have to get used to sleeping inside, Harry. See isn't this bed nice and comfortable, no need for cushioning charms here, right? And it's nice and peaceful, why don't you come back to bed, darling..."
— // —
If Lord Voldemort had fled that night alone, he probably would have spent the next ten years learning Dark Arts, biding his time until he had the strength to once again return to his goal of conquering the magical world.
Instead, he has Harry, and he learns something else.
"Pastërtor!"
Tom Marvolo Riddle had been a magical prodigy, who had learned the arts of wandless and wordless magics before he even left Hogwarts. Tom Marvolo Riddle was at least semi-fluent in a dozen languages and had picked up two of them simply by listening to the Malfoy family conduct business dealings.
Tom Marvolo Riddle was surprisingly bad at learning Albanian cleaning charms without a wand, he realized as the poor window in the back of the room shattered for the fifth time that day.
Tom cursed. Well, at least he had mastered the glass-repairing charm at this point.
There was one large gap in his education it seemed — he had never felt a need to learn household charms. After spending a morning trying to get the window back in one piece after Harry's tantrum last night, he had been forced to admit defeat and make the trek to the old lady's house, who had stared at him with disgust and then proceeded to stack his arms with Albanian textbooks and one English pamphlet titled "How to Be a Good Albanian Housewife."
Then Tom had made the mistake of enquiring where he could get a wand, and the woman had went on a rant about this generation and their dependence on wands, why back in my day, we weren't afforded such privileges —
(Tom had shown himself out.)
And now here they were, Harry struggling his way through learning Albanian while Tom tried to repair and clean this stupid window.
"Xhare," he intoned, and at least the glass flew right back to where it had been. "Pastërtor," he continued — and this time, thankfully, the glass stayed where it was, the filth wiped away from the surface. Perhaps a carefully controlled Scourgify would have done the same thing, but, well, let it never be said that Tom Riddle backed away from a challenge.
"Tom, I wanna — want to — help, can I help?"Harry asked from behind him, where he had clearly grown bored of reading textbooks.
"Sure, Harry, how do you — Harry no!"
"Pastërtor!" the five-year-old butchered, and the window shattered once more.
— // —
Cooking presented its own challenges, because while they had been able to live off wild berries and nuts, and even the occasional deer or rabbit from Nagini's hunting, Tom wanted Harry to experience the wonder of a good, flavorful meal.
The issue there was, of course, that Tom could not cook.
He knew the basics, because he had helped in the orphanage kitchen often enough, but since going to Hogwarts, he had surrounded himself with higher society, and the thought of someone like Abraxas Malfoy cooking — no, absolutely not.
Tom's first meal was barely edible, not because he had burnt it or any foolish beginner's mistake, but because he had no idea what spices the old woman had provided him and had therefore gone completely overboard. And he certainly wasn't going to submit himself to her ridicule again, which meant that he managed to ruin another three dinners before finally managing something that tasted good (Harry had been very upset by the end). And good lord, he really was a proper housewife now, wasn't he, experimenting in the kitchen?
Still, the look of surprise and happiness on Harry's face when he finally tasted a good, properly-seasoned deer was completely worth it.
— // —
They left Albania after a pleasant winter in the hut. Tom made sure to leave his sincere gratitude and a protective amulet charmed with Parselmagic for the woman, whom he had grown rather fond of over the last few months. Still, there were things to do, things to prepare, if he wanted Harry to return to Great Britain to attend Hogwarts.
Albania was sparsely populated, so it took them another half month of travel to reach a wizarding community large enough to provide a Portkey to Italy.
Harry was having a great time of it all, oohing and ahhing over the presence of so many buildings and pavement. Nagini was having a distinctly less great time, shrunk and wrapped around Tom's neck so as to not attract too much attention.
Tom had mostly left behind his life of crime, but he had no qualms about Imperio-ing the Transportation official into giving him the international Portkey and then obliviating their presence from his memories.
Harry had frowned at him a little, but when Tom told him that the alternative was spending the next six years slowly making their way back to Britain on foot, he acquiesced.
— // —
They had fun in Italy.
The wizarding community there was flourishing, though nowhere near the size of the ones in France and Britain. They were large enough to have a Gringotts branch, however, which was Tom's main goal.
He told the goblin that he was Sacha Thomas Gaunt, son of the late Tom Marvolo Riddle, and he'd like to declare his father dead and himself the new Lord Gaunt. Oh, and if it wasn't too much trouble, he had found this poor dear of an orphan during his travels, and he'd very much like to blood adopt him.
The goblin gave him a look that meant he knew he was spewing absolute bullshit, but as long as he finally started using the Gaunt's considerable resources to funnel more money to the goblins, they had no issue with it.
Harry was distinctly uninterested in money and called the Galleon a "weird-looking lump" up until he realized it could be used to buy sweets. They celebrated Tom's new identity with gelato.
— // —
On Harry's sixth birthday, Tom brought him to France.
It was a little risky, being so close to Britain before he had any plans of officially returning, but he had promised to spoil Harry and that meant showing the boy the amazing landmarks of the country and stuffing him with French pastries.
Nagini did like that particular vacation, if only because they spent considerable time in the unmapped portions of the catacombs and the snake had gotten to wander around to her heart's content. Harry had been surprising comfortable at being surrounded by dead bodies — maybe he had rubbed off on the child. Then again, Harry had been quite strange from birth, hadn't even cried when he murdered his parents, what a good boy.
Tom thinks Harry might cry if he died, though. He thinks he might cry if Harry dies, which is a somewhat foreign thought, first because he can't remember the last time he cried, and second because, well, they can't die. Him and Harry and Nagini, all linked to each other, forever.
It's a nice thought.
He smiles.
— // —
Tom does end up crying a few months later, when Harry gives him his birthday present.
It's a shoddy Transfiguration effort, but considering Harry had just started learning the art and precious metals were difficult to work with to begin with, it's the most beautiful thing Tom has ever been given.
"I'm sorry, I squished the head a little too much," Harry is apologizing, flustered.
The snake's head is indeed squished, flattened out a bit awkwardly.
"That's alright, it just looks more like Nagini," Tom answers smoothly, running a hand across the silver. The texture is smooth — Harry really did do a great job with this. The snake is curled around an emerald the exact same shade of green as Harry's eyes, and Tom thumbs at it, feeling a bit melty and warm. It's quite poetic — the snake is clearly him, and the emerald is Harry, and he's protecting him (I'll always protect you, Harry).
"It does not look like me, I am magnificent and regal and this lump—" Nagini begins, only to cut herself off when Harry's lip begins wobbling. "I meant. It looks exactly like me. As magnificent and regal as me, how did you manage to capture my likeness, what brilliant skill," the snake rushes out.
Tom's face feels wet. Is it raining? No, they were inside. A leaky ceiling?
"Tom? Tom, why are you crying? Is it that bad?"
"No Harry, I love it. I'm crying because I'm happy."
Oh.
He's crying because he's happy.
— // —
Harry has an innate talent for the Dark Arts. Tom would be surprised, but then he remembers how Lily Potter spent her last breath performing blood magic. He had never really figured out what she did — originally he thought that she had failed, had attempted to send her son to safety only to be tossed aside before she had the chance. But the bond between him and Harry...he thinks that Lily Potter had played a role in that. And really, Harry is the best thing that had happened to him, so he's quite glad for it.
Harry learns the Arts at a pace that shocks even Tom, who had spent his first few years at Hogwarts devouring every scrap of knowledge he could find. He keeps the child away from the more dangerous rituals and spells, of course, but the Dark Arts are varied, and there are many harmless, helpful spells to teach him.
(The next year, Harry gifts him a Dark Arts book that Tom has never seen, much to his surprise and glee. He opens it excitedly only to find a collection of Dark household spells and weakly threatens to throw the child out a window while Harry and Nagini howl with laughter on the ground.)
— // —
Tom learns just as much as Harry does. For the first time, he studies Light magic. It doesn't come as easily to him, and he finally cedes and gets a wand out of necessity. It pays off when he thinks about Harry and manages to produce a corporeal Patronus for the first time in his life. The Italian wandmakers are no match for Ollivander, of course, but it will do for these next few years. He staunchly refuses Harry's request for a wand — children should be allowed to connect with their magic naturally, and he doesn't want to chance them being tracked down.
Sacha Gaunt and his new heir stay out of the way and stick to themselves for the most part. He does not mention his last name to the few Italians that he does talk to, and anyone who might recognize a 20-something young Lord Voldemort is either long gone or currently Headmaster of Hogwarts.
So Tom and Harry and Nagini live peacefully, comfortably, until Harry turns 10 and their return to Hogwarts is impending. They pick up their life and make their way to the Italian Department of Magical Transportation, where Tom does not Imperio or Obliviate anyone but instead legally purchases a Portkey to Great Britain.
Tom and Harry come home one fine spring day. They fix up the old Gaunt shack using an odd amalgamation of Albanian household charms and the Dark Arts while Nagini chases out a family of rats that had decided to take over the house.
A month later, Hogwarts opens up job applications for a Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Tom thinks that Albus Dumbledore's face when a young Tom Riddle walks into his office holding Harry Potter's hand will power many Patronuses in the years to come.
— // —
Tom gets the job. He's not dumb enough to think that Dumbledore believed his spiel about wanting to step away from the weight of his father's wrongdoings, that he just wants to live a happy, peaceful life and support young Harry (even if it is the truth, he's shocked to admit to himself).
But Dumbledore had clearly learned from his first denial of Tom's application for the post, or maybe he was simply following the rule to keep your friends close but your enemies closer. Dumbledore couldn't prove anything, so he would bide his time and keep his eye on him.
The Prophet goes wild the next day — "LORD VOLDEMORT'S SON ATONING FOR FATHER'S SINS — HARRY POTTER RETURNS TO BRITAIN" screams the headline, and Tom snorts at the ridiculousness. Well, it was Rita Skeeter who had interviewed them, so he had been expecting this.
Harry peers around him to read the article for himself.
11 years ago, You-Know-Who was vanquished from this world by our young Savior, Harry Potter. For so long, we wondered as to the Potter heir's well-being and whereabouts after he disappeared from Godric's Hollow that fateful Halloween night. Well, these questions now have their answers — Harry Potter has been adopted by the son of You-Know-Who himself!
Imagine my surprise, dear readers, when I was offered the exclusive opportunity to interview Harry Potter before his reintroduction to the wizarding world. Coming to the door to greet me in front of a cozy, humble shack that once housed the old Gaunt family, was a handsome, well-mannered young man who introduced himself as Lord Sacha Thomas Gaunt. Readers may remember that the Gaunt family had died out decades ago — but according to the new Lord Gaunt, You-Know-Who had been a descendant of the line!
Gaunt regaled me with the tale of his escape from his father. "I never knew my mother, and my father only saw me as a tool," he told me earnestly. I could see in his eyes that he had suffered as much as the rest of us from his father's reign of terror. "I only ever wanted a simple, peaceful life, so I fled to Albania. I lived off the wilderness, became more in tune with my magic. I was so lonely, but I didn't dare come out of hiding, because I was scared for my life." Like so many of us, You-Know-Who's own son suffered many losses from the war.
But then, how did he meet his father's conqueror? And how did they become so close, like father and son?
Gaunt's affection for Potter was clear as day, and I found myself touched as I watched their interactions, teasing each other and joking around. Why, if Gaunt hadn't told me himself, I would have never expected this charming young man to be descended from the Dark Lord. Gaunt told me that he had come across Potter completely accidentally.
"I was out in the forest one night when I heard a child crying. When I ran to the scene, I found my father's dead body next to Harry Potter. Of course, I didn't know at the time who he was, but eventually the news from Britain made its way to me, and I was able to connect the dots," Gaunt explained.
But why, with his father dead, did Gaunt not return to Britain immediately and return Potter to his guardians? Of course, I had this question too, so I asked Gaunt.
"I was living in the far countryside," Gaunt laughed. "It was years before I actually heard the news, and during that time, I became quite fond of Harry. I was also scared, and felt guilty, you see. Perhaps if I was less of a coward and stood up to my father, Britain would not have suffered so much. Going back to Britain, seeing the people I failed... It was weak of me, but it took me a long time to gather the courage to return. But eventually, I wanted Harry to have the best education he could get, and that means Hogwarts, of course. I couldn't let my own fears hurt him."
What touching sentiments! And Gaunt has clearly raised Harry Potter well.
Potter was a well-mannered child, and from what he shared of his studies under Lord Gaunt, is quite the intelligent young man as well. Old friends of the Potters will be glad to hear that Potter has all of Lily Potter's wit and James Potter's charm. Raised abroad, he mastered Albanian before learning Italian after moving to Rome with his guardian, and hopes to learn French in-between studying healing magics and runes over this summer.
"You made me sound like a bookworm," Harry complained.
"You are a bookworm," Tom scoffed, putting the article down. "I must say, Skeeter was quite flattering. Not even a hidden jab, I'm surprised. Maybe the war mellowed her down."
"Or maybe your flirting worked too well," Harry teased.
Tom made a face but didn't refute the claim.
"Alright, finish your breakfast — we need to buy your school supplies today."
— // —
September 1st finds Sacha Gaunt and Harry Potter standing in front of Hogwarts Express. Tom knows that he'll see Harry soon enough that night, but it still pains him to step away and wave as Harry bounces into the train with one last goodbye.
Ah, feelings, he mourns. They're still inconvenient, still painful — but the happiness Harry brings into his life makes them all worth it.