Come Together Chapter 1 - Detour

AN:

Oni: Yes, I know this isn't an update for my other fics...but this plot bunny won't go away, and I'm on an Avengers kick right now so, here's the result.

Tom: Oh you've got to be kidding me...

Oni: Nope! So here's a new fic, that probably won't be updated as often once the first few chapters are up, but I don't abandon fics, so they WILL update! This takes place at first during the events of Captain America: The First Avenger, but will eventually sprawl into the rest of the MCU timeline.

Steve: Oni does not own the Marvel Cinematic Universe nor the Harry Potter Universe.

Tom: Most things in italics will be parseltongue.

Oni: Let's begin, and ONWARDS!

Little Hangleton was...quaint. It was everything Tom expected of a small town in the outskirts of Yorkshire, cut off from most of the world by the two steep hills it was situated between. He checked back at the parchment that had the address of his last remaining relative... Marvolo Gaunt. The namesake and his Slytherin heritage lived somewhere here, all he had to do was find him. He glanced over to the winding road that led a little ways past the town and up the hill, was a large, impressive manor. For a brief moment he thought that his grandfather lived there, but he shook that away when he remembered that the manor belonged to some muggles.

Making his way down the path specified, he checks his hair once more, then his cloak, and then his wand holster. He wanted to look as "pure" as he could before he met the Lord of the Slytherin House. Tom didn't think he was this nervous since...since he started Hogwarts.

And hadn't he impressed them? The crowd of witches and wizards, all praising him for his work, his charm. At least, to the other Houses, but the name Riddle wasn't exactly a pureblood name, was it? They had taunted him with that, at the beginning, before he set snakes at their heels with a few words, speaking to serpents like one would speak to friends. Then they groveled at his feet, did him favors with a sycophantic smile, like he was the purest of the pure.

But you're not, his mind supplied, You are just Tom Riddle.

And who is Tom Riddle, exactly? He wasn't quite sure, as growing up in Wool's Orphanage never gave one much of an identity to go on. Now that he was sixteen, there wasn't really a family who would adopt him now. Not that it really mattered, he would turn seventeen by the chime of the New Year, and in the Wizarding World he would be considered an adult. He would finally be rid of that dreaded grey building filled with such terrible memories for life, and perhaps he could carve his place into the magical society himself.

Tom's musings halted as he was met with a rather sorry sight. In front of him was the most dilapidated shack he had ever seen, far worse than even Wool's. The shack was made up of more rot than wood, excreting a smell more pungent than an expired potion ingredient. A jungle had taken up residence where the front lawn should be, and after carefully picking his way through the overgrown magical plants (taking some for later, you never know when you might need it...) he found himself face to face with a dead snake nailed to the door. Incredulously he regarded the purpose of such a thing, but shook his head and knocked on the moldy door anyway. Immediately the corpse raised its head and hissed at him.

"Who goesss there?"

Raising an eyebrow at the work of magic (was this a low level inferus or just strange charmwork?)

"The son of Merope Gaunt, and the last Heir of the Most Ancient and Noble Slytherin House." Tom hissed back, hoping he got the title correct.

It seemed his answer was valid, as the snake corse let out a hiss of admiration before going limp again. As soon as the head hit the rotting wood the door creaked open slowly, letting out an air from within that was so foul that he nearly cast a bubble head charm on principle. After the wind cleared, he managed to breathe in enough fresh air to prevent himself from expelling his dinner. It took a few seconds to compose himself again, but now his thoughts whirled. Was this a trick? This was starting to seem less like a front to something grander, like the Leakey Cauldron to Diagon Alley, and more like a sad, painful truth. Tom schooled his face blank, even bored, but his mind began to whirl in trepidation. He pushed the door open even further, lifting up the oil lantern so that he could see inside.

The interior was arguably worse than the exterior. The ceiling was thick with cobwebs, the floor coated in grime. Moldy and rotting food lay upon the table amidst a mass of crusted pots. The only light inside came from a single guttering candle placed at the feet of a man with hair and beard so overgrown Tom could see neither eyes nor mouth. He was slumped in an armchair by the fire, and Tom wondered for a moment whether he was dead until he noticed the man had a wand and a rusted knife raised. Overgrown hair shifted from the man's face, revealing dark, beady eyes, which met Tom's own deep blue ones. For a few seconds they stared at each other, before the man staggered upright, the many empty bottles at his feet clattering and tinkling across the floor.

"YOU!" he bellowed, "YOU!"

Tom's mind went momentarily blank as the man hurtled drunkenly at him, his wand and knife held aloft. Unfortunately, Tom's wand would do no good, as casting underage would alert the Ministry to his whereabouts. At last his mind offered a solution.

"Stop." he hissed out in parseltongue, causing his aggressor to halt so quickly he skidded into the table, sending some moldy pots crashing to the floor.

The man stared at him in a new light, understanding seeming to dawn on his face. For a few more moments they stared at each other, Tom's mind returning from its hyper state. Thank Merlin he had trained himself to always show a face of boredom and disgust after all those years of dealing with the Slytherin House, or else this man would have seen his moment of weakness. As drunk as he was, Tom was pretty sure this man was still a member of the House of Serpents.

"You speak it?" The man asked in awe.

"Yes, I speak it." Tom replied, trying to figure out who this man was.

He walked into the shack, letting the door close behind him. Was this man Marvolo? The overgrown and unkempt hair was making it difficult to discern, but from what Tom could tell the man in front of him wasn't old enough to be his grandfather.

"Where is Marvolo?"

"Dead," the man grunted, "Died years ago, didn't he?"

As if he was supposed to know? He couldn't find a tail when it came to Marvolo Gaunt until he discovered the address for the Shack. If Marvolo was dead, then was there really any point being here?

"Who are you, then?" Tom asked the man.

"I'm Morfin, ain't I?"

Morfin...well, if Wizarding names were consistent and the parseltongue was any indication, he would at least be some relative of his grandfather. But he didn't have any cousins, did he? From what he was able to find on the Slytherin family was that Marvolo (and his mother, and now him...) was the last of the family. Unless he took into account that Merope wasn't an only child.

"Marvolo' son?" Tom tried, which made Morfin grunt in affirmation.

"'Course I am, then..."

So this was Tom's uncle. Morfin pushed the hair out of his dirty face, to better see Tom, his beady eyes scrutinizing him.

"I thought you was that Muggle," whispered Morfin, "You look mighty like that Muggle."

This raised warning bells in Tom's mind. The way the man spat out the word 'muggle' told him that this man was like Abraxas, who thought of muggles as the scum of the earth. But the way Morfin also said the word conveyed familiarity.

"What muggle?" he hissed sharply, his mind once again jumping to a terrible conclusion.

"That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way," answered Morfin, and he spat unexpectedly upon the floor between them, "You look right like him. Riddle. But he's older now, in 'e? He's older'n you, now I think on it..."

So, his father is the wealthy muggle that lived in the manor. It seemed he didn't need to look too far to find the other side of his family after all. But this brought questions. Why didn't he go get Tom when he was in the orphanage? Why was his mother left to die alone on the streets of London if his father was rich enough to live in a manor?

Morfin looked slightly dazed and swayed a little, still clutching the edge of the table for support as he spoke again in parseltongue.

"He come back, see..."

Looks like he had another stop to make before leaving Little Hangleton, and maybe he would be able to get some answers. Answers as to why no one came for him. Why he was left alone. He stepped closer to Morfin, leaning in.

"Riddle came back?"

It was strange to use his last name in such a way, and thought he wanted to hate it's muggle heritage it felt...wrong to be disassociated with it.

"Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!" said Morfin, spitting on the floor again, "Robbed us, mind, before she ran off! Where's the locket, eh, where's Slytherin's locket?"

For some reason, Morfin's words stung him. It became very obvious why he was abandoned by the Gaunts, as they truly did not know or care enough to find out about his mother, their own blood. In his despair, he did not answer Morfin, which seemed fire up the man even more. Morfin was working himself into a rage again, brandishing his knife and bellowing at Tom.

"Dishonored us, she did, that little slut! And who're you, coming here and asking questions about all that? It's over, innit... It's over..."

Indeed it was over, thought Tom as he watched Morfin look away, staggering slightly with no doubt due to the onslaught of a hangover. There was nothing more to ask. This man was the last 'pure' remnant of the Slytherin family, and it was degenerating. Perhaps it would be better if he was just gone. Tom moved quickly, lashing out and grabbing Morfin's wand, which was very grimy and had obviously not been taken care of, and pointed it at Morfin. As he had grabbed the wand, his fingers also managed to swiftly pluck off the ring on Morfin's wand hand as well. A tingle ran down his spine as he touched the stone inset into the gold ring. For the moment he brushed it off, his eyes cold as he regarded the now fearful man in front of him.

"I am Tom Riddle," he answered in English for the first time in the conversation, "I am the son of your sister, who is dead. Not that you will remember. OBLIVIATE!"

Morfin was too drunk to dodge the spell, which hit him in the face and caused him to fall into the broken bottles and pots, cutting into his skin. As the man attempted to snap out of his amnesiac daze, Tom transfigured some of the grime into the appearance of the ring he took, and put it Morfin's finger.

"Confundus. All this was just a terrible dream because of your drunken habits. When the ring turns to dust it will be because it finally realized the last of Slytherin's line has ended." Tom intoned coldly, leaving Morfin's eyes to roll back and let the spell take effect.

With nothing left to do in the Gaunt Shack, Tom took his leave. After closing the door to the disgusting place, he inspected the ring he had procured. It was beautiful in its archaic way, a symbol imbedded in gold within the dark stone, depicting a circle inside a triangle, and a line bisecting it. The ring felt like very old magic, and thrummed with a power unlike anything he had even come across. To think it could very well have wasted away on the hand of Morfin made him caress the stone, as if to tell it that it would not fall to such a fate. He slipped it onto his finger, and smiled when he realized it fit him well. Next Tom turned his attention to he wand. The poor thing was covered in mold and grime, and he cast a Scourgify on it using his own. If his spells haven't been detected yet, that meant this shack was at least listed as a magical household.

He looked at his surroundings to see if he was being watched, but as the sun had long ago dipped below the horizon he was doubtful anybody would be able to see in the low light, even with the lantern hanging off his arm. Breathing out a sigh of relief, he fished out his mokeskin bag (with a few extension charms...it's not like anyone would notice...) and carefully placed Morfin's wand inside. One never knew when an extra wand might come in handy.

Since it was far too late to knock on the door of his father's home, Tom decided to stay a night at the inn, next to The Hanged Man bar. So with wand in holster and lantern in hand, he made his way to the dimly lit buildings.

The innkeeper had sleepily quoted him the fair for one night, before his mind caught of with his eyes and stared at Tom as if he were a zoo animal. His mind began to come up with reasons why the innkeeper was the behaving in such a way before the man cracked a gap tooth smile.

"Well well well, Tom Riddle. Shouldn't you be up with your parents at the manor?" the man asked mockingly.

Now he was really panicking. How did this man know his name? How did he know he was going to meet the Riddles? Was this a wizard? No, the man had no magical aura...

"...I beg your pardon?" Tom asked quietly with a deceptively blank face.

The innkeeper looked at him questioningly, before understanding seemed to dawn on him.

"Ah, that's right... he must be older now... you must be the next generation. Strange, never seen you around before..." the man muttered more to himself than to Tom.

"Yes...though my name IS Tom Riddle." he told the man slowly, his mind screaming at him for giving away information.

But the innkeeper had probably been here for a long time. He probably knew both the Gaunts and the Riddles, and could tell him more about them. If push came to shove, he could always use Morfin's wand...

The innkeeper let out a barking laugh.

"Of course you are, can't be breaking the tradition now can you?"

"I'm sorry but...what tradition?" Tom asked, this time openly confused.

The innkeeper stared at Tom again, and Tom could see that the man was trying to make sense of him. He knew that revealing that he didn't know much about the Riddles was a risky move (one that should only be attempted by a non-Slytherin), but since the innkeeper seemed to know quite a bit he decided it was a risk he was willing to take. The innkeeper, for all his grime-filled glory, seemed to be doing his best to humor him anyway.

"For as long as anyone's remembered, the Riddles have always, without fail, had a single son each generation, and every generation that boy is named Thomas. Something about keeping a tradition or whatever, that's what the Riddles say. Been that way since they moved in, which's over five hundred years at least. Say they come from some royalty, they do. Probably right, each Riddle boy gets some sort of high paying job in the government... and they're all cowards, the lot. None of em have ever picked up arms for their country, and they probably never will. The most recent, other than you now, seems, ran off with that Gaunt broad years ago, but came back a few years after, saying that she did em in or something or other. Now he just lives in the manor with his first girl, Cecilia. Never even thought about going to war. Not gonna do nothin for his country. Despicable..."

The innkeeper trailed off his words with a sneer, before he realized what he had said in the last daw parts.

"Wait.. If you've never knew that, that means you gotta be the son of that Gaunt broad, Merope."

Tom cleared his throat in an attempt to hide is nervousness. The man knew to much already, but he was hesitant in using the wand so soon...

"Yes, that's right. I grew up in London."

"Do me a favor, boy, and don't try to meet them. There's only heartbreak for you there. Pretty sure any boy your father and Cecilia have will be their heir anyway. Best do what you can to make it one your own." The innkeeper muttered, with what seemed like rare warmth.

"I will keep that in mind." Tom told him, before paying his fare and going up to his room for the night, his mind still arguing whether or not he should Obliviate the man now that he's gotten what he could out of him.

In the end, he decided that he would leave the man's memories be until the morning.

Meanwhile, Steve Rogers is touring around, trying his best not to feel like a monkey in spandex. He counts how many times he has to dramatically punch a Hitler actor in the face, while the men, woman, and children cheer from the stage. This feels wrong. He wants to do his part, but they still won't let him.

It's like before all this even started. Before he was simply underqualified but now... now he could fight for his country alongside Bucky. Dr. Erskine understood that, and helped him get to that level, but now that was taken away from him once more. Everyone else was off risking their lives and here he was, stuck in a star spangled outfit and lines that made him want to retch inside.

It just felt wrong, playing Captain America with dancing girls, urging people to buy war bonds for the soldiers he should be fighting alongside. It made him wonder whether the good doctor's work was worth it if he couldn't even put it to good use. He puts his face in his hands, sitting backstage as the show begins to start. He doesn't want to go out there, he doesn't want to be reminded of how he feels like a caricature of the soldier he should have been.

Perhaps if things get worse, they will have to bring him in to help. Then he could prove to them that bullies, no matter where they come from, can't win. But for now, Captain America is needed to punch Hitler in the face and to entertain the crowd.

Steve just hopes that it'll all be worth it.

"I really should have thought this through."

The telltale crack of apparition sounded from a ways away, probably outside the town so as to not alert the muggles of the town. It seemed that he was right on the assumption that it didn't matter who's wand he used, the Ministry only tracked magic use to areas that weren't labeled as a magical household. The Aurors would be here soon. Tom glanced at the now dazed innkeeper, his mind whirring to come up with a plan.

"This is too Gryffindor of me..." he muttered under his breath, changing the memories of the man to one of Marvolo Gaunt attacking the man instead, hoping that the inebriation of his uncle will somehow explain the mess he was caught in.

He could hear the footsteps of the Wizarding law approaching, and realized that there really wasn't any way for him to escape. Well, that wasn't true, there was one...

Apparition was only taught to those near the age of seventeen, which Tom clearly qualified in. However, he couldn't say that he had much practice. Enough to cover a short distance safely, perhaps, but he would still be easily found that way. It seemed like today was the day he would be acting like a complete Gryffindor, then. He stuck his wands into his pack, hoping that whenever he landed, the Notice-Me-Not charms let his belongings evade sight if he happened to be caught.

"Destination..."

He closed his eyes, envisioning a woodland area he once saw in a picture, but didn't exactly remember where it was from.

"Determination..."

The footsteps were getting closer, they must nearly be at the inn.

"Deliberati-"

The door to the inn slammed open, with a couple Aurors in muggle garb streaming in. But all they found was a dazed, gape toothed innkeeper, and the hint of magic in the air.

Elsewhere, Tom Riddle landed in a forest clearing, the impact knocking the wind out of his lungs. With a groan, he opened his eyes, taking in the scene of the woodlands he had pictured. The second thing he did was check himself for splinching. It seemed that he had not pissed of any higher beings recently, because he was miraculously unhurt. Tom didn't know if it was simply luck or if he was simply that magically gifted (he hoped it was the latter, but he knew better). He was, however, completely drained of energy. Tom attempted to sit up, but his aching muscles refused to move. Even his head could barely lift itself off the ground. Of course, this situation was pretty bad, but at least he was in one piece with nobody chasing him. One must be thankful for small miracles.

He was unconscious by the time he was found by two soldiers dressed strangely, all in black. They had patches on their clothes depicting a mass of tentacles coming out of a menacing skull. The two soldiers argued on what to do with the body, before one of them knelt down to the boy's prone form. They decided that he must have been a young soldier that had been a bit too excited and crossed enemy lines against orders. After all, what other kind of idiot would come so close to their base in Austria?

AN:

Oni: That's all for now! I hope you like it!

Tom: Don't forget to follow, favorite, and review.

Oni: And I'll see you next time, my pretties!