Chapter Text
He had to try.
Harry walked up to the wall that was the entrance to the Slytherin common room and hissed, “open” at the snake carved there. The bricks shifted and opened into an ornate doorway, revealing the usual entrance to the Syltherin Common room.
He swallowed hard, his sudden urge to laugh at a slack jawed Malfoy was countered by rising alarm. They had not forgotten he had lost points at the beginning of term for being late to the welcome feast!
“You are the heir of Slytherin!” Pansy whispered, her eyes wide, and face paler than usual.
Harry glared at Malfoy who had sprung the surprise snake on him at dualling club, then stepped swiftly through the opening and hissed “close.” Now everyone thought that. As if he wasn’t in the dog box with his entire house as it was.
He made it as far as the common room when he ran into the rest of the house. Flint was cracking his knuckles, a warning if he should do anything to get himself booted off the team. Why was everyone here? Had he missed a house meeting? His fellow second years clustered at his back and then slunk off to the second-year lounging couches under the windows that looked out onto the lake.
“Mr Potter,” Aldebert Burke called, and he reluctantly walked over to where the seventh year in charge of house unity stood with an elbow on the mantlepiece.
“Are you a parselmouth?”
“Uh?”
“Can you speak to snakes, Potter?”
“Yeah. Always have been able to, didn’t realise it was bad.”
“Its associations are complicated,” Burke stated, with a slight smile which meant he had given away a secret worth a fortune. Harry grimly resigned himself to discovering the consequences.
“Are you the heir of Slytherin?”
Harry opened his mouth to snap ‘no’ when he abruptly shut it again. He had no idea who his grandparents were on either side.
“Wouldn’t know, sir.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Harry’s heart sank. He knew he should have found a way to research the Potter family, but Dobby’s interference had landed him detentions all over his research time.
“Don’t know anything about my family, sir.”
There was an odd quality of silence about the room.
“You stay with your aunt and uncle, do you not?” Burke said too smoothly and Harry couldn’t quite hide a wince. He might as well give up and go camp out in the owlery for the next week. The Common room was out now that everyone knew.
“I do.”
“Have they not told you of your family?”
“No, they don’t think it’s important.”
The scandalised gasps and whispers susurrated around the room.
“Mr Potter,” Callista Bulstrode, the seventh year in charge of house decorum, spoke up from where she sat beside the fire in a wing backed chair. She was Millicent’s older sister and amazonian was the best description of her, a tall large girl, who dressed to enhance her curves. Harry, Greg and Vince had a quiet agreement to teach each other what curses they found, that should Millicent ever grow so beautiful they would be able to protect her from unwanted suitors. They were all currently working on Weasley’s slug vomiting hex.
“Mr Potter,” she continued, “are you aware that the only other parselmouth in the Isles is the Dark Lord.”
Harry choked on his breath.
“I’m related to the Dark Lord?”
The quality of silence in the common room was three-fold. The sudden silence of terrible realisation. The sneer of disdainful dismissal and worse, the calculating intensity of the upper years.
Malfoy snorted, and the tension broke. Harry couldn’t keep up with the whispers and hushed conversations as people shifted and slipped away to more discreet locations.
“There’s no way you’re related, Potty.”
“If I were, he’d be a better guardian than what I’ve got,” Harry snarked, and stomped out, his head spinning. There had to be books on this stuff in the library somewhere. Peerage or something? Anything? He would start with Slytherin and see what he could learn. The Potters weren’t of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, he knew that. He was a halfblood because of his mum being a muggleborn.
Half an hours hunt in the school library provided some answers. That was after being glared at by Madam Pince, and misdirected by a student he hadn’t realised was a Gryffindor until he landed in the section on Sex Ed.
Slytherin’s line had become the Gaunts. The Gaunts were also descended from the Peverals, which was brilliant, because so were the Potters. Only, so many generations back, that they could only be regarded as distantly related, not family. He was irritated to learn that the name Peveral was non extant. So Gaunt was his only lead. It was one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, which meant he could write to the Ancestry Services and pay them for a family tree.
The owl arrived at breakfast the next morning. He had learned to never open correspondence at the table and stuffed it into his robe pocket while Malfoy distracted everyone when his mother’s owl arrived with treats.
He had to wait until lunch break to sneak into the library to look at the letter. They had sent him two rolls of parchment, one listing that the only living Gaunt descendent was Tom Marvolo Riddle, by Merope Gaunt his mother. The other paper was for the descendants of the Peverals, which they had sent him a tightly rolled scroll for. He unrolled it and unrolled it, and realised glumly that it showed his ancestors were clearly Gryffindor. By the way whole generations all died in the same year, whole swathes of them signed up for each and every conflict the Wizarding World threw itself into. The Gaunts dwindled into a few intermarried cousins, unhealthily so by the pictures. The Potters had dwindled into two lines, both abruptly ending in the last wizarding war, except for Harry James Potter.
So, if the Dark Lord was the last parselmouth, and parseltongue was an inherited ability, of the Peveral line, not the Slytherin line then by some dunderhead logic, as Snape would put it, Tom Marvolo Riddle was the actual name of Lord Voldemort.
Harry then had a very sneaky idea.
He hastily scribbled out three letters and ran to the owlery. He watched the three school owls wing away and wondered how much he would regret tomorrow.
He heard the hissing in the walls again, and it was driving him mental. Fortunately, he was avoiding his house like the plague, as they were all either hexing him in the halls for having the audacity to even think he was related to the Dark Lord, or terrified that he was. He ran half way across the castle chasing it, but lost it again.
“Hiding again, Potter?”
Harry turned from where he had been absently staring at his reflection in the water outside the girls bathroom. Gregory Goyle ambled over.
“No, just wandering around.”
“Better than in there,” Greg nodded down the stairs towards the common room.
Harry kicked the water up in a spray so it splattered the wall and glanced up at the red on the wall. It was most certainly blood, according to the Slytherin upper years.
“How bad is it?”
Greg snorted and fell into step beside him.
“It’s just stupid stuff right now. Some say you’re the Heir of Slytherin, others say you’re the Dark Lord’s Heir, both of which are rubbish, unless James Potter stole you and did a blood adoption.”
“That’s possible?” Harry yelped.
“Yes, the Bulstrode’s blood adopt, so do the Travers and Montague’s.”
That didn’t make Harry feel any better. It also opened a whole new can of worms.
“If I am the son of the Dark Lord” Harry said, trying to keep his breathing calm as he felt more and more dizzy, “then him coming to kill my parents makes sense.”
He and Greg stared at each other in rising horror.
“Uh, you might not want to mention that idea,” Greg said heavily. “It would make sense though, why you’re in Slytherin, when Lily and James were in Gryffindor.”
“Yeah, I won’t mention it,” Harry said feeling like he might be ill. He really wished he could recall his letters though. That had been a very stupid idea, if it had the slightest chance of working.
He almost threw up at breakfast the next morning when three owls deposited letters on his plate. One had his name written in copperplate, one was written somewhat shakily as if a very old or ill person had written it, in what he sincerely hoped was not blood, and the third looked horribly like the elegant script of Lucius Malfoy. He hid all three in his robe and slipped away from the table as Malfoy’s distraction of gifts from his mother arrived.
He ran to the third-floor corridor, used the unlocking charm on the door and slipped into the now empty room. The trapdoor was open, and had a ladder down it, but all he could see below was an empty classroom. He sat on the floor and hastily opened the one from Mr Malfoy.
There was a whole lot of pretty twiddly writing about it being from the desk of Lucius Malfoy, and his apologies for them not having a polite introduction to each other, then the man got down to business.
“Mr Potter, my son wrote to me about the rumours and suppositions circulating the common room of late. I would have dismissed it as the usual gossip were it not for a very interesting letter you sent. The manner of address was a dangerous one, and I trust you will never do it again. The contents of the letter were even more dangerous and I sincerely hope that you have not breathed a word of this to another soul.
The only correct conclusion you had was that parseltongue is a bloodline ability, and that you have inherited it. This allows you no relation, claim or due acknowledgement by our Lord. Kindly cease any correspondence of this kind. The consequences of not doing so would be unfortunate.”
This was followed by a whole slew of pretty sounding farewells before the man filled half of the page with his twiddly signature.
Harry wondered which of his three letters had triggered this response.
He cautiously opened the other letter with the beautiful handwriting. It also had the customary greetings, but flowed with less grace than Mr Malfoy’s, before it got to the point.
“Mr Potter, this news is as startling to me, as it is to you. I thank you for supplying me with my family tree. You have given me much to think over, and I will have to meet you in person before we could possibly consider calling ourselves cousins. There is much for me to research before I do so, however. It would be best if you waited on my next owl for a place to meet.
Yours Sincerely, T. M. Riddle.”
Rather bewildered, Harry opened the third letter.
“Mr Potter,
Cleverly researched, and accurate. Most of the British Wizarding society is related, many closer to you than I. Do not hope for family, they despise half-bloods. Make something of yourself and make them want you.
Regards, Lord Voldemort.”
Harry put out the three letters on the floor and stared at them in puzzlement. The letter from Lucius was the easiest to understand. Any letter written to the ‘Dark Lord’ would route to the Malfoy’s and Lucius kept up correspondence for the title on behalf of Lord Voldemort.
But why did Riddle and Voldemort, respond as two different people?
By Malfoy and Voldemort’s response, they both agreed that he had the true name of the Dark Lord and his titles correct.
This mystery was too much to ignore. Also, Voldemort was a Slytherin, why had he given away so much information? Yes, Harry had already known Riddle was a half-blood, but hinting that he had suffered through Slytherin as Harry was now doing, and what he had done about it. Did he want Harry to follow suite? Yet it contained a warning that Voldemort would not take Harry in. Not that he wanted him to, but, still.
It took him the whole weekend to consider his words. He had a rough draft for Voldemort when a letter with neat cursive on it fell in his eggs on Monday morning.
“Astronomy Tower, 7:30 pm, alone.”
With his invisibility cloak he made it up just as 7:30 came around. It was pitch dark, save for his own lumos. He stayed at the stairs, and waited for an attack, but none came. A lantern flickered to life and beside it stood a young man dressed in old fashioned clothes. Harry was impressed he recognised them as old, who would have thought he would have absorbed Blaise and Draco’s understanding of fashion?
“Harry Potter,” he said in a smooth accent that Harry recognised, one too well practiced, too smooth, too much like his own. This boy hadn’t grown up speaking like that.
Also, wasn’t Voldemort in his seventies? This boy looked like he was a fifth or sixth year, and certainly not in Slytherin for all he wore a Slytherin tie.
“Tom Riddle,” Harry returned in the same.
“How did you know to write to me?” Tom asked, and turned a wand in his fingers.
“I sent three letters, one for each of your titles,” Harry shrugged.
“Blind fortune then,” he sounded almost disappointed.
“And I received three responses,” Harry tagged on slyly, “curious that there are pretenders to your name.”
Riddle went very still.
“Who?” he bit out as the wand fell into his hand ready to flick into motion.
“I’m sure they would like to know that also. Isn’t Lord Voldemort in his seventies? You can’t be much older than me.”
“Ah,” Riddle smirked. “I am sixteen, perfectly preserved at this age—”
“Oh,” Harry noted, “that’s why you don’t know me. Or know the family history.”
Riddle grimaced.
“I dislike the history I have learned. My older-self eliminated what family I had, though I doubt I would have wanted to know either.”
“So are there two Riddles running around, a younger you, and an older you?”
Riddle grimaced.
“I dislike what I became, what I did, I had such clear goals, and I not only did I squander the chance, I destroyed my followers.”
Harry was astonished to see the worry in his eyes.
“What will happen to you if you meet?” Harry asked curiously. “The older and younger you?”
Riddle looked pensive.
“I am unsure.”
“You have some idea though,” Harry prompted.
Riddle twirled his wand again, absently, nervously, a tell, as Blaise would put it.
“Let me consider what you have revealed. We will meet again. It may not be until after Christmas break.”
“If you see older you, ask him why he killed my parents and tried to kill me. It seemed more personal than being on two sides of the war.”
“Trust me,” Riddle said with fervour in his dark eyes, “I will.”
Harry revised his rough draft for Voldemort for a month, then sent it off. A letter in a copper plate hand returned the week after Christmas.
“Astronomy Tower, 7:30, alone.”
Harry took a box of fudge and a jug of hot chocolate, because the Astronomy tower was freezing. He cautiously poked his head out and found not Tom, but an older wizard, his dark hair going silver at the temples, huddled in a cloak and hood.
“Harry Potter.”
The voice was the same, but much smoother, his accent more natural.
“Lord Voldemort?”
He chuckled, low and quiet.
“It would not be a good idea to use that name, I still have the taboo on it. Should I so choose I could summon my minions to eliminate you. You are also too trusting; I could have called you to your death.”
Harry stepped out of the shelter of the steps and gasped as the wind bit at his face.
“If you can get in here, you can sneak into the school, wouldn’t be any different from Malfoy hexing me in the back.”
“Ah, a lack of self-preservation due to indifference. Not a good situation.”
Harry shrugged.
“Want some hot chocolate?”
Lord Voldemort fixed him with a long stare, but warmed his hands on the jug handed him. He refused the fudge after a brief twirl of his wand over both offerings.
“It’s laced with a mild love potion,” he warned dryly.
Harry abruptly held it away from himself, then with his best bowling hand tossed it almost to the Forbidden Forest to land in a clump of bushes.
“Who wants your attention?”
“I got that from Mrs Weasley, so, Ginny? She’s the only girl,” Harry wrinkled his nose, as he remembered the awkward Christmas dinner in the great hall, “never talks to me though, just squeaks and goes red.”
Voldemort nodded.
“I had to endure endless screeds of bad love poetry written in your honour while I knew her.”
“You, what?” Harry choked on his hot chocolate and hoped Voldemort thought his face was red from the cold, not the cringing mortification of knowing someone had written him love poems. Eew.
“I knew her briefly,” Voldemort said with a grimace, “be thankful she is silent in your presence. Be sure to examine everything you eat and drink from now on; but enough of that. It has come to my attention that we need to discuss our situation—”
“Why did you kill my parents?”
Voldemort raised the hot chocolate jug and took a sip.
“That’s part of it. It will be a messy, distressing and long discussion. Not for the top of the tower. Name a place of your choosing, a time of your choosing and a day of your choosing. Neutral to the both of us. Preferably indoors.”
“Muggle or wizarding?”
“Wizarding, we’ll be signing contracts.”
“Gringotts,” Harry said instantly.
“That is goblin territory, and not neutral. We have a pact of non-aggression, not a peace treaty. Surely Binns has covered that.”
Harry pulled his cloak tighter around himself, and shivered.
“Um.”
“Study your history text book in class if you’re going to ignore the ghost,” Voldemort growled waspishly. “Consider a meeting place and send me an owl. You can reach me at Lord Slytherin.”
Harry shivered, and from more than just cold. The glances, suspicions and stares in the common room weighed around his shoulders, until he realised, he could honestly declare he was not a suspect, not when Voldemort had claimed the name.
“You took the title?”
The man smiled, his dark eyes seemed red as he raised the jug as if to toast with it, and stepped backwards off the tower to float in the air.
“All the better to claim my heir,” he stated and shot off towards the forest and was lost in the night.