Boy Who Lived

Part 4—Hogwarts and Heartbreaking Holidays

Harry rarely ever came home from the Department of Mysteries battered and broken anymore. Halloween, of course, was always unpleasant, and the solstices had a tendency to be so as well, but that was not entirely unexpected. After so many years, the Department had little left to squeeze out of him, and so had ended up making him something of a pseudo-Unspeakable.

Merope was always grateful for Harry's consistent good health. The years had been good to her and she loved her husband and son as deeply as she had dreamed in her childhood. Like any couple, she and Harry had their sticky spots and road bumps, but that was normal, and the life he had given her was as close to happily ever after as any woman could wish for. Some days she still woke up half-expecting to find herself back in her father's house or in a poor house, and on those days she would run her fingers over the wool bed sheets and Harry's flesh, not quite touching, as if he were a image in a bubble that would pop and dissolve away in a sudden shimmer if she wasn't careful enough. Then he would wake up and kiss her firmly and she would be reminded that this was real.

Occasionally, she woke up to calloused fingertips drifting feather-light over her skin and she would open her eyes and see the same expression on Harry's face that she imagined she sometimes had: like he was afraid that she was a dream and he was all too close to waking up. As if he was scared that a gaping hole would come into existence right under him and suck him down and spit him out back to the time he came from. So she would lean over and kiss him and give herself to him and remind him that this was real.

Her son was the most wonderful little boy in the whole world, in her humble opinion. On rare occasions it was somewhat painful to look at him and see his father's face—Tom Riddle's face—but she was able to push through it because her son was so much better than that man. Thomas was a genius and he was kind and thoughtful and lovely from the ends of his toenails to the tips of his hair.

There was no human expression to describe how proud she felt of Tom the day his Hogwarts letter arrived and he sat on the living room couch and read it to his parents, his face simply glowing with joy. Merope had descended on him with a watery squeal and they spun around the room for Merlin knew how long, just clinging to each other. Harry hugged his son tightly and the three of them Flooed to London and had dinner at an Indian restaurant—Tom's favorite.

They were no strangers to Diagon Alley, but there was just something absolutely novel about visiting it with Hogwarts in mind, like they were seeing it for the first time all over again. Their library underwent an enormous growth spurt and Harry mercilessly teased that Tom was even more of a bookworm than his old friend, Hermione Granger. Tom had flushed so red—both flattered and embarrassed—that it was something of a surprise that steam didn't shoot out of his ears.

The last couple of weeks before September 1st passed by in a whirlwind of emotion and color and activity. They slipped between platforms 9 and 10 and Tom and Merope gaped, breathless, at the sight of the Hogwarts Express. Harry simply chuckled and heaved Thomas' trunk on board. It had taken some effort on Merope's part not to cry; she'd thought she was prepared for this, for letting him go, but now she was thinking that she would never be ready.

Tom vanished for a few moments on the train before his face reappeared behind a window. He opened it quickly and stuck an arm out.

"I'll make you guys proud!"

Harry grinned. "No need, Tom; we're already proud of you!"

The train bellowed and with a sharp hiss the polished wheels began to turn. Merope finally caved and pressed a handkerchief to her cheeks.

"We love you, Tommy!"

"I love you too, Mum! I love you, Papa! I'll see you at Christmas!"

She snorted into her handkerchief. Christmas? Tom looked like it was already Christmas. "Write when you can!"

"Every week, Mum!" he exclaimed, hand cupped around his mouth.

"And after your Sorting too!"

His reply was lost in the din of the crowd and Harry and Merope stood and waved until they couldn't see the train anymore. The masses had vanished by then, with only the Potters and a couple other families remaining by the tracks. Merope was, not unexpectedly, rather melancholy for the rest of the day and when Harry found her staring wistfully into empty space he would pull her to him and simply hold her close. Talking about all the things they could do—and would do, he added wickedly—without a kid in the house set her cheeks aflame.

Thomas' first letter home arrived the next morning in the talons of one of the school's owls.

.

1 September 1938

Dear Mum and Papa,

Hogwarts is every bit as wonderful as you said, Papa; it's amazing. What was that you said about having to fight a troll, though, huh? That wasn't funny! The Sorting Hat placed me in Slytherin as soon as it touched my head. I was very surprised, as I don't think of myself as particularly ambitious or cunning. I was rather hoping for Ravenclaw, to be perfectly honest, so I'm a little disappointed, but I'm sure the Hat made the right decision. It has been sorting students for hundreds of years, after all, though on second thought that makes me concerned that it might just be senile.

Head Girl this year is a Slytherin named Dorea Black. She's very pretty and seems nice, if rather intimidating. I've heard that she's engaged to an alumni named Charlus Potter. Are we related to the Potters, Papa? Miss Black and a couple other students asked me and I told them that I didn't know.

Some issues have come up already. I have four dorm-mates and they are concerned about my wizarding heritage, since I couldn't confirm if I'm related to Charlus Potter. One of them asked if I was a "Mudblood." I told them that both my parents were magical, if that was what they were asking, and they let the subject drop after that. Needless to say, however, I'm a bit concerned about this. "Mudblood" is obviously not a complimentary word, and I didn't feel like it would be a good move to ask my Housemates about it openly. Some clarification on the subject would be much appreciated.

My Head of House is a man named Horace Slughorn. He teaches Potions and comes off as rather eccentric. However, he is not nearly as eccentric as the Griffindor Head of House, Deputy Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, seems to be. I have never seen anyone dressed so bizarrely! I am told that he teaches Transfiguration. I get the feeling that his class will probably be a lot of fun; he seems like that type of person. The other Slytherins don't seem to like the Griffindor House in general. I believe it is some sort of misplaced rivalry dating back to Godric Griffindor and Salazar Slytherin's broken friendship. I don't see what the big deal is, but I suppose it is only a matter of time. I don't intend to let it get in the way of me interacting with students in other Houses.

I miss you already. It is going to be strange sharing a room with other people and not having Midas wake me up in the mornings like he usually does. I hope he doesn't get too possessive of you with me being gone, Mum, he drives Papa spare on a good day!

Your son,

Thomas Marvolo Potter

P. S. The Slytherin dormitory's serpent décor has been whispering at me ever since I arrived. Is that normal?

.

Ah, the questions. Questions Merope and Harry knew would be asked sooner or later. They hadn't quite expected them to pop up so fast, though. Knowing that the letter wouldn't make it to Thomas' hands until breakfast the next morning, Harry took his time composing a reply.

.

2 September 1938

Dear Tom,

Congratulations on being Sorted into Slytherin! Slytherin has something of a dark reputation, but I know that you will excel there. I'm not sorry for not telling you that all you had to do was have an old hat placed on your head; it's tradition!

I wish I could say I was surprised by your Housemates' reactions, but in truth I have been expecting it. You are not especially closely related to the Potters, Thomas, but your lineage and theirs can be traced back to a common ancestor.

I believe you were right not to ask your Housemates about the M-word. "Mudblood," Tom, is a very cruel slang term to refer to a witch or wizard who has muggle parents. Some "pureblood" families—those who come from generations and generations of witches and wizards and have no muggle ancestry (that they will admit to)—believe that muggle-borns have no place in our society and should not be allowed to go to school at Hogwarts. Salazar Slytherin adopted that viewpoint at some point in his life, and so Slytherins are now known somewhat notoriously for sharing that attitude. In my personal opinion, I think it's just a small portion of Slytherins that actually agree with it, but it would be wise to keep your head down concerning that subject; the Blacks are well known for their strong views on blood purity.

You are not muggle-born, Thomas. Your mother and I, however, do believe that muggle-born witches and wizards have just as much right to a magical education and lifestyle as any "pureblood." For this opinion, we may be labeled as "blood traitors."

Professor Dumbledore is definitely a unique man. I didn't learn from him myself, but I have no doubt he will be an excellent teacher. Slughorn was never my favorite teacher, but he knows his craft well. He has an eye for talent and, if you manage to impress him—and we have little doubt that you will—he will probably try to "collect" you into his club, which is called the "Slug Club." It is made up of Hogwarts' brightest and best-connected; kids that he thinks will be going places and making big discoveries after they graduate. It's kind of annoying.

As for the snakes talking to you: keep that a secret, Tom. You are a Parselmouth, as are your mother and I. It is not a common gift and people often take it as a bad omen, even though it is no different than any other inborn talent. If you make a friend that you feel you can trust to tell, you may, but this ability is one that is best kept under wraps at present.

Your mother and I miss you. Midas is unbearable; I haven't been able to get close to your mum all morning without getting pecked at! What do you think of me getting him charmed like a postage owl so that he can take letters to you? I think the oversized snitch could use the exercise.

All My Love,

Papa

P. S. I almost forgot. Mum says to make sure you wear clean underwear. Midas says hello.

.

Numerous letters were written and read during the following weeks. As promised, Tom wrote every weekend and through his letters Harry and Merope watched from a distance as he blossomed and grew. After some effort he came to be on friendly terms with his roommates: Lestrange, Avery, Rosier, and Mulciber, despite his obscure heritage. There wasn't much time in a first year's schedule to be social with their neighboring Houses, but Thomas was no ordinary first year and he sometimes spoke of a quiet, book-centric sixth year, Miranda Goshawk, who could always be found in the far corner of the library, and he spoke highly of a Griffindor girl who was a year above him, Minerva McGonagall. Less pleasant things were said about Housemate Walburga Black and Cornelius Fudge and a set of twins belonging to the Hitchens family. Septimus and Sextus Weasley were the bane of every teacher for their trickster ways and had charmed every House banner sans Griffindor's to be bright orange and black on Hallowe'en.

No more was spoken of blood purity or Parseltongue in the letters, but there was an unspoken promise of 'we will talk about this for sure.'

Christmas break couldn't come soon enough for Harry and Merope. Though they originally planned on eating in London after picking Tom up from the train station, but at their son's insistence, his cheeks and nose red with the winter chill, Harry cooked instead. Midas accosted Tom shortly after walking in the front door and after dinner they sat in the living room with the radio on and were happy. Tom kept himself buried deep under Merope's arm, ear pressed to her heartbeat while she stroked his hair and planted kisses on his forehead whenever she felt compelled.

The house was not decorated for the season yet; they'd waited for Tom to come home so that they could all do it together. Harry and Tom hiked out into the woods to cut down a tree while Merope dug the lights and ornaments out of the attic. By the time they made it back to the cottage their faces were red and as Tom put down his hood Harry stuffed a handful of snow down the back of the adolescent's coat.

"Ah! Papaaaa!" He shrieked, dancing in the entryway as he tried to grab at the snow melting down his spine.

Harry bent double with laughter.

"It's not funny! Ahh! Cold! Cold! Co-old!"

"All this shouting and stomping about; what's happened?" Merope asked, poking her head out of the kitchen. The house was rich with the smell of lamb and potatoes—undoubtedly there was a shepherd's pie in the oven.

"He put snow down my shirt! I can't get it out!" Tom exclaimed, scrabbling at his back.

Merope sighed good-naturedly. "I'll get it, Tommy." She moved with a practiced ease that only a mother could possess, stripping Thomas of his coat and yanking his tucked shirt out of his pants. The slush dropped to the floor without further complaint and rapidly melted. Thomas sagged with relief.

"Not funny!" He scowled at his still-chuckling parents.

"Yes, it was!" Harry said.

Merope snorted and yanked Harry out of the doorway so that she could close the door. "Okay, okay, boys. Tom, why don't you get out of that wet shirt? I'll talk to your father."

Now it was Tom's turn to laugh.

The shepherds' pie was as delicious as it ever was. Tom fidgeted while they cleared the table and set the dishes in the sink, hating that he was about to sour the atmosphere.

"Mum? Papa?"

They looked over at him.

"Can I ask you guys something?"

Merope tilted her head to the side slightly, wiping her hands on a towel. "Of course, Tom. What is it?"

"I know this kind of thing doesn't matter, not really, but nevertheless I want to know." Tom swallowed and took a slow, calming breath. "What is my blood status?"

As he knew it would, the atmosphere in the house sobered instantly. Tom found himself half-wishing he'd just kept his curiosity to himself. For a moment, Harry and Merope exchanged a long look full of apprehension and what seemed to be defeat. Then Harry sighed and walked to the other side of the table to sling an arm around Thomas' shoulders.

"You are a half-blood, Tom."

"Oh. So which of you is…?"

Harry held up a hand, and Tom fell silent, confused and wondering where the worried throb in his chest was coming from.

"I think we should all sit down for this." Harry said softly.

Though he was puzzled, Tom nodded and they all migrated to the living room. Harry took up residence in his usual chair, while Merope joined her son on the couch, holding his hand tight. Tom looked up at her questioningly.

"What's…" he swallowed and found the words stuck in his throat.

Merope's gaze was filled with nothing but love. "You father and I knew that you would ask that question one day."

Harry's elbows were on his knees, hands clasped under his chin. "You are a half-blood, Tommy, and so am I; but Merope is a pureblood witch."

Tom's dark eyebrows furrowed, tilted upward just the slightest bit. "I… I don't understand."

Merope inhaled deeply, her eyes closing as the echoes of old pains washed over her. "The first thing you have to understand… is that my family weren't nice people. Your grandmother died when I was very small, but your grandfather and uncle were very, very purist. They hated muggles and muggle-borns and half-bloods very much. Your grandfather—my father did not love me; he only cared about the blood in my veins, my 'pure' ancestry, and he got violent very quickly. Always shouting." Her breath trembled and though Tom didn't understand where the story was going, he squeezed her hand reassuringly. She smiled and squeezed back.

"There was nothing I wanted more than to run away forever. There was a man in the village that I took a strong fancy to; he was handsome, wealthy; at the time, to me, he was the sun and the sky. My brother, Morfin, caught me looking at him once and hexed him."

Tom's eyes darted to his father. Harry's bright eyes were pained and he mouthed I love you, Thomas.

Merope continued. "The Ministry found out, of course, and an Auror came to our house to tell us that Morfin had to go in to court. Father didn't like that. And then Morfin… Morfin purposely… he let it slip that I was in love with a muggle. He liked that even less." Her voice dropped to a whisper and understanding slowly made its way across Tom's face, which paled. "Father almost killed me that day, but the Auror came back with others and my brother and father were sent to Azkaban and I haven't seen them since.

"I was free for the first time in my life, free to go wherever I wanted, to do what I wished. But I knew that would only last so long if I was by myself; my father had a much shorter jail sentence than my brother and I couldn't make it far in the world on my own. I'm a woman; it just wasn't done.

"It was a very hot summer day. The man who was the object of my affection was out on his horse. It wasn't terribly difficult to convince him to take a drink of water that I'd mickey'd with amortentia."

Thomas looked stricken.

"We married within the month and rented a small house in London. It wasn't real love, but I was happy and I came to love him very, very much. I'd hoped that, despite being drugged, he'd come to care for me truly too. So, I stopped giving him the amortentia." Tears began falling from her eyes in earnest. "I was wrong. I told him I was pregnant with his child, hoping he would stay for the baby, at least. He left anyway. I found myself homeless and penniless faster than I could have imagined. I had to beg and pickpocket. I was arrested by the muggle police a couple of times for panhandling." Thomas' grip on her fingers was so strong she could feel her bones grinding together.

"By the time I went into labor, I was very weak. It was very cold and I was bleeding out. Purebloods… most of us are hemophiliacs. Our blood doesn't clot, and if we aren't given the proper potions, we can bleed to death from small injuries—That's where the term 'mudblood' comes from, you see. A girl a little younger than me stumbled into me and took me to the orphanage where she lived and worked. I gave birth to you there, Tommy. I thought I was going to die."

He made a vague sound deep in his throat. He didn't cry, but his hands shook.

"But then… then Harry showed up. I had just about given up on living. I had nothing to give you, Tommy, not a roof to put over your head or money to buy food, I thought it would be best if I let myself slip away and let you grow up in the orphanage. Harry convinced me otherwise. He saved me; he saved us both; took us in out of the goodness of his heart, and we fell in love. Harry proposed on your first birthday. You know the rest, of course."

So.

That was why.

Harry wasn't his real father.

The air sitting in Thomas' lungs swelled and thickened, forming a block in his throat. The revelation was so unexpected. He knew that his parents had to have had a good reason to keep quiet about his blood status, but to discover that Harry was, in truth, his stepfather?

He never would have guessed. Not in a hundred years.

He stood, his hand pressing into his temple, eyes lowered. "I-I'm going to bed. I need to… think." He abandoned asking about Parseltongue; he didn't think he wanted to know.

He didn't see something in Harry's expression break.

The following days were awkward for Merope, to say the least. Thomas was quieter than ever, buried so deeply in thought that he drifted around the house like a ghost. Harry avoided his son at every turn he could, insecure and not wanting to hear words of rejection from Tom's mouth. Caught between them—a husband that was mourning what he hadn't yet lost; a son who seemed too far away to call back—Merope felt helpless.

Thomas finally pulled out of himself and noticed Harry's behavior on Christmas Eve. Tom came down for dinner and Harry slunk away shortly after Tom set foot in the kitchen. His dark eyes settled on his mother's back, noting that her shoulders were slumped as she picked at her plate, looking defeated.

"What's wrong with Papa?"

Merope looked up at him and scratched her cheek, her fingers sliding across her bottom lip. "He's scared, Tommy."

Tom frowned. "Scared? But Papa's not scared of anything."

"Yes, he is." She said softly. "He's scared that you don't want him as a father anymore."

Tom's mouth dropped open. "W-what?" His hands gripped the table so harshly his knuckles were ashen, his voice tinged with horror. "How could-how could-how could he think…?"

"You've been wrapped up in your thoughts for the past few days; which is completely understandable, of course, but even grown-ups get insecure sometimes, including Harry. Especially Harry."

He had been wrapped up in himself, hadn't he? Tom had paid no attention at all to his surroundings, withdrawing into his mind as he let the shocking revelation of his heritage sink in. But to think of rejecting Harry's status as his father—Unthinkable! He knew and wanted no other father figure in his life. Of course, there remained a burning curiosity about the man who had biologically sired him, but-but—

"What should I do?" He asked faintly.

Merope slid her chair close to him and took his tense, white hand in her own. Her gaze was as dark and deep as he'd ever seen it. "I think you should talk to him. Don't make excuses or apologize—you have nothing to be sorry for, but just… talk." She placed her palm on his cheek. "We have secrets; too many for a normal family, probably, and ones more earth-shaking than this. You'll learn them in time. But your father loves you, Thomas. We both do. Never forget that."

How could he ever? So he let himself fall into her arms and just float.

Harry hadn't gone far. When Tom didn't find his father in Midas' room or in the master bedroom, he looked out the window and spotted Harry standing in the backyard, staring at the holly trees. The young boy chewed his lips red as he hurried downstairs and threw on a scarf and wellies. Tossing open the door without further ceremony, he went stomping through the snow as fast as he could manage, marring the near-pristine landscape with foot-shaped hollows.

Harry turned at the noise, his nose red from cold and eyes wide with surprise. "Tom—?"

Thomas threw himself at the older brunette, his arms catching around Harry's middle and clinging as if for dear life.

Harry's arms were around him in an instant, with not even the slightest flicker of hesitation. "Tom? What is it? What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"You will always be my father. No one else." Tom murmured, half-afraid that Harry would turn him away.

Harry was still and silent for a moment, but then shifted Tom's hold on him and knelt and hugged the boy so tightly that Tom found his breath stolen away as his chin came to settle on his father's shoulder.

"I love you, Tom."

And, unsure of the exact reasons why, Tom just clung tighter and cried.

To Be Continued...