Chapter Text
It all began on a day like most other days. The only difference, perhaps, was that due to the high temperatures, Petunia really didn’t want her freak of a nephew working on the yard. Oh, no, not for his sake. But how would it look to the neighbors if he fainted away from heatstroke right in her front yard? So, instead, she shooed him up to the attic with a few rags for dust clothes, and an order to not come down until it was neat and organized.
Harry shook his head in mild disgust as he opened the trap door and spider webs cascaded down on his head, but pushed his shoulders through the square opening anyways. Nothing much creeped him out after his not-brief-enough- encounter with Aragog second year. As he pulled himself through, Harry could immediately label the disused, dusty scent of the attic. But, it was much better than being stuck out in the heat all day, he thought to himself.
The title ‘attic’ was actually a misnomer. Oddly enough, the space looked to be nearly as big as the second floor of the house, only without the dividing walls. It was even tall enough for Harry to stand up straight, not that that was saying much, Harry thought with a huff.
It actually reminded him of the wizard-space tent the Weasleys had for the world cup, but that was ridiculous. Harry laughed to himself at that thought, then looked around for a place to start.
He didn’t know why, but he was drawn to the furthest corner of the room, where a single wooden trunk sat. Obeying that pull, Harry sank to his knees in front of the trunk, and ran his fingers over the top, sweeping aside the dust.
Inscribed in the top was a simple ‘ LJE’.
Harry knew what this was. His mothers’ school trunk, somehow tossed up here in this corner, and forgotten.
With held breath, he opened the trunk. He had expected a chaos of items – broken quills, old schoolbooks, perhaps a few pictures. Those were there, but everything was neatly organized. And, laying on top was a slightly yellowed envelope with a name on it. His name. In a hand that was obviously handwritten with a quill.
He gingerly pulled the envelope out, leaving the trunk open. Settling down a bit better on the wooden floor, Harry carefully opened the envelope, pulling out the letter inside. As he unfolded the paper, a ribbon of cream-colored silk fell out, tied around a lock of entwined black and auburn hair.
Harry, however, only had eyes for the letter.
My darling boy.
You will hopefully never see this letter – in fact, I hope to have it torn up before you leave for Hogwarts, much less before your 16 th birthday. . But, needs must. And as I sit here, rocking your cradle with my foot, I find I am more uncertain of the future than I ever have been.
Never doubt that I love you, for I do. You just came at an awfully inconvenient time for both your father and I, truth be told. He is becoming ever more obsessed with the war, and increasingly not himself.
And there I go, rambling. Harry-love, if you do get this letter, then the worst has happened, and for whatever reason, you ended up with Petunia. As much as I hope that she has treated you well, I fear that she hasn’t done so much as told you a thing, and that Dumbledore has gotten his claws into you.
All is not as it seems, and I beg you to keep an open mind.
Dumbledore is the one who is hiding things. Tom – Voldemort, if he has kept that silly affection of his – is… Well, he isn’t an angel by a long shot. But neither am I. But everything Tom has done has been in response to Dumbledore, I can promise you.
Did you know Dumbledore wishes to integrate our world with the Muggles? Even now, I know that it wouldn’t work. Both the Muggles and Wizards are too violent, too prone to fits over anything that is different. I…
No, I don’t know what the state of things will when you get this. The war might be over. But, Harry? If there is a lock of hair in the letter, it is a port-key. Of sorts. Has anyone told you your mother is a right dab hand with spells? I played with it a bit. It will take you to what the magic in it considers a safe place. It could be to your father, or to one of your god-parents, I don’t know. Magic is notoriously difficult to predict, just as the future is. The key word is home .
Everything will be clear in time. I love you, and so does your father, and we always will.
As Harry finished reading, he softly murmured the word ‘home’, not realizing that the hair had fallen into his lap. With a familiar hook to his navel, he was whisked away in a whirl of color and sound.
When the world materialized around him, he landed with a plop on something soft and fluffy. As soon as he steadied, Harry looked around, letter fallen out of his hands onto his lap. What new trouble had he gotten himself into? His eyes widened as he saw that he was sitting on a widow seat, in a room that was obviously meant to be bright and sunny, but was dark, with the curtain pulled, and a smell of disuse. It was a nursery. A crib sat along the opposite wall from the window next to a door, with a desk along the wall perpendicular to it. A desk that looked as if someone had left in a hurry. The inkwell was tipped over, a dried puddle of ink spilled over parchment and discarded quills. Drawers were pulled out, and envelopes scattered on the floor under.
The corner between the desk and the window had a cushioned rocking chair, with a small bassinet, low to the floor for rocking with a foot beside it. And on the floor beside the bassinet was a carelessly discarded lap desk, with a quill poking out from under it.
And along the free wall, beside a set of double-doors was a toy chest, with plushies and other assorted toys sticking out from under the lid.
Harry slowly stood up from the window seat, and walked over to the desk, straightening some of the papers. That… That was the same handwriting as his letter.
Was this… Had this been his nursery?
Before Harry could consider that thought further, he heard footsteps outside the room, coming closer to the door the crib was next to.
Without any other options, Harry lunged for the double-doors, hoping that they led to a closet.
They didn’t. But what they led to was nearly as good, a bedroom, drenched in the same smell of disuse that the nursery was. Harry didn’t waste time looking around, merely closed the doors behind him, and darted under the bed, watching out from under.
He heard the door of the nursery open, and heavy, hesitant footsteps walk in.
And a hissing sound that made him go cold, and his mothers’ letter echoed in his mind. Was that the truth? Why he could understand Parseltongue? Was Voldemort his father?
He forcibly shut down his thoughts, as he listened into the conversation.
**Nagini, you fool.** There was a lengthy sigh. **Why would anyone be in this room?**
Harry could just imagine the snakes’ tongue flickering out before she responded. **Smells like you, Master, but younger. Warmer. Nestling.**
The footsteps crossed the room as he kept speaking. **Nagini, there hasn’t been a soul in here since...**
The voice trailed off, and Harry winced, the letter floating back into his mind. Did he drop it?
But then the voice started again, as the legs of the desk chair screeched across the wooden floor. ** Since Lilly left me.** The voice had turned rather cold, and the sound of papers rustling could be heard. **Left me for the light, and took my best lieutenants with her, damn her.**
Harry cocked his head at that. The letter didn’t say anything about
that
. In fact, it sounded almost as if his mother hadn’t trusted Dumbledore. And... 'lieutenants'? Who...?
**But, Master.** And the snake sounded as if it was getting closer to the doors. **There is someone nearby.**
The desk drawers shut with a bang. **Nagini! That is quite enough. I am done humo...**
Harry scooted further under the bed as the voice trailed off.
**Lilly, what did you do?** The voice asked, as if it was in shock, and Harry could hear the crinkling of paper slow down, as if the man was actually reading something.
It was a good ten minutes of silence and rustling paper, before the man spoke again. **Nagini, fetch.**
Fetch what? Harry thought, letting his mind dwell on that. A piece of paper? A quill? Anyways, what could a snake fetch?
He was so caught up in his musings that he didn’t notice the creaking of the double doors until it was too late. The snake had his arms wrapped in her coils, and was dragging him into the other room, surprisingly stron.
As he looked up, though, the man – Tom, Voldemort, whomever, didn’t look angry. He just looked – sad?
“So, Boy. What are you doing here?” There was none of the usual venom in Toms’ voice. “Why would you come to my lair, alone?”
Harry gathered up his courage, and as the snake unwrapped him, sat up. “So, is it true?”
“Is what true?” If Harry didn’t know better, Harry would have taken that tone of voice for pure disinterest. But he did know better. And perhaps he was naive, but anyone that had sounded that heartbroken, anyone who had kept a nursery of a lost child undisturbed, couldn’t be that terrible.
And he switched to Parseltongue. **Are you my father?**
Toms’ eyes widened. **I… I believe that I am, yes.**
Harry nodded sharply, and uttered words that he never thought he would say. “Good. Then you will let me go back.”
He saw the way that Tom bit his lip. But Tom nodded. “Fine. Yes. I will lower the wards so you can apparate out.” he paused for a second. “Oh. No, you aren't old enough. Of course. I will make you a portkey.”
“Gringotts, then, please.” Harry said, careful not to shatter the facade of civility.
Toms’ eyes narrowed at that, but he nodded once more, and bent to pick up a loose square of paper, eyes not leaving Harry.
He looked at the paper for a moment, concentrating, before gingerly handing it to Harry.
“Key is ‘Gringotts’.” Then he paused, before continuing, voice slightly strained. “And to come back is ‘Nursery’.”
Harry refrained from commenting on the word choice, before uttering one word. “Gringotts.”
And that hook in his navel took him away, but not before he saw Tom slouch in the chair, eyes closed.