A/N: Harry's letter is not a carbon copy of the books, both because it's
incredibly boring to read, and he's a wizard brought up in the wizarding
world. Also, his letter varies from others for a definite reason.
/
The room was dimly lit by a flickering candle, which cast warm gold shadows onto the walls and ceiling. The moon shone brightly tonight, a silvery shaft of light slipping through the window to lie along the floor. Harry turned over in his bed, and tried to get comfortable as he re-read one of his favourite books, 'Potions Masters, the secrets of some of the oldest and most venerated wizards of England'. He turned to the front page as he did usually when he couldn't sleep, and fingered the shabby paper.
It was fingermarked, and well thumbed, but written neatly in curving script at the top of the first page was 'Tom Riddle'. It had been his father's favourite book at school.
He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece over the fire. The delicate gold hands pointed to five minutes to midnight. Harry felt a chill run down his spine, and wrapped the blankets more securely around him. He would be eleven in five minutes time. He set down the book on the bed, and tossed back the blankets to walk over to the window.
Their house was large; one of the oldest houses in Britain and the window that Harry leant against, looking out at the moon was large and arched. The shutters that were used throughout the mansion were always folded back in Harry's room. He liked the light shining in at him.
He blinked; something had appeared out of the darkness of the night and was flying straight towards him. As it flew into the light of the moon, he recognised it as an owl, a fine tawny with a letter clasped in its talons. He glanced at the clock once more; two minutes past midnight on the thirty first of July. It was rather late for an owl, wasn't it?
Before he understood what was happening, the owl perched on the windowsill, and tapped gently at the glass with its beak. Harry opened the window hurriedly, and took the letter. The owl flew off with a ruffle of feathers as Harry looked at the letter in his hands.
'Mr Harry Potter, The bedroom under the eaves, Riddle House, Huntingdon, Ely'
Mr Potter? Harry knew his parents, before his father adopted him, were the Potters, but he'd been Harry Potter Riddle as long as he could remember. Surely they'd made a mistake? He pulled out several sheets of parchment.
'Dear Mr Potter,
Your place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has arisen. Term starts on September the first. The train leaves from platform nine and three quarters at King's Cross Station in London. Discretion while among the muggles is, of course, implied. Please find enclosed a copy of the first years' book list, and equipment needed.
Albus Dumbledore Headmaster, Supreme Mugwump, Order of Merlin, first class'
As he turned over the other sheets, he read lists of robes they'd already bought, and books they'd already purchased. It puzzled him, increasingly worrying him. Why was the headmaster of Hogwarts calling him 'Potter'? Blowing out the candle, he climbed back into bed, and fell asleep, leaving the mystery of the letter until morning.
/
He was finishing the last of his cornflakes when his father swept into the dining room, his face stony, brandishing the letter. Harry felt a piece of cornflake slip sideways in his throat and stick there. He choked, coughed hard, and banged himself on the chest to dislodge it, looking fearfully at his father. Tom Riddle's face was expressionless, no glimmer in his grey eyes. He cleared his throat quietly, and when he spoke his voice was hardly audible.
"Why did you not tell me you'd received your letter, Harry?" he asked mildly. "It is cause for celebration." He made no mention of the misused name, nor of Harry's apparent registration for a place at the school but Harry had the distinct impression that his father was not pleased about either.
/
The street was bustling with people hurrying into different shops; children were everywhere, especially Flourish and Blotts and coming out with large stacks of books. Tom gave Harry's hand an unusual squeeze, and when their eyes met, his almost sparkled with amusement.
"Good idea to buy your things earlier," he commented, looking ahead towards the wand shop. Harry smiled; if his father was happy it would be a very productive shopping trip. A couple, accompanied by a girl with a lot of thick and unmanageable brown hair pushed the door of the wand shop open, and came down the steps; the girl was clutching a long box. His father's lip almost imperceptibly curled. They were all dressed in muggle clothing. Trying almost not to breathe, for fear of setting his father off, Harry led the way to the wand shop as the muggle trio moved off.
When the wand he was presented with, finally, warmed to his touch and sent bright red sparks into the air, Mr Ollivander clapped and smiled warmly as his father nodded respectfully. Harry examined his first wand with a pleased smile, hearing Mr Ollivander talk.
"Yes, very good for Transfiguration. Why, I remember your father's wand. He favoured a good transfigurative wand too," he chuckled. Harry looked up, smiling at his father.
"Father's wand was for Transfiguration?" he asked, looking from the old wand maker to the slim figure beside him. Mr Ollivander shook his head, a gentle, sad look in his eyes.
"No, Mr Potter," he said quietly. "I mean your father, James Potter." Harry felt as if he was rushing along in a very big wind, his ears roaring and his stomach dropping. His father? It was a funny feeling to think about his birth father.
"Enough of that," Riddle snapped. Mr Ollivander regarded him silently.
"Your mother preferred a wand for Charms," he added, almost airlily. "I remember your wand, too, Mr Riddle. Phoenix feather core, too. Why, it's odd, very odd." He looked perplexed, glancing at Harry.
"What is it?"
"Why, Mr Potter," Harry ignored the name, "The phoenix who gave a tail feather to your wand gave another. Just one other. It seems odd that you should be destined for this wand, when its brother belongs to Mr Riddle."
Harry looked at his father, his eyes shining. "Do you hear, Father? Our wands are brothers!"
"Yes, boy," Riddle said very quietly. "I heard."
/
A/N: Next chapter, the Hogwarts Express, and first meetings. For those of you in doubt, yes, I shall show flashbacks to Harry growing up but sparingly. For his entire life he has thought of himself as Harry Potter Riddle – and yes, I know his middle name is James – and at four he wouldn't have a 'clarifying moment TM' to tell him that his father was a sadistic bastard.
Additionally, I shall probably cover how Riddle came to power in future chapters, but for those confused – Riddle looks like an ordinary man. Experiments with power were not to the extent of the book in changing his appearance. He is Minister for Magic and no-one knows for definite that he is Lord Voldemort. Since Harry was adopted, the attacks stopped, and people believed Voldemort defeated.
Hopefully that answers questions.
/
The room was dimly lit by a flickering candle, which cast warm gold shadows onto the walls and ceiling. The moon shone brightly tonight, a silvery shaft of light slipping through the window to lie along the floor. Harry turned over in his bed, and tried to get comfortable as he re-read one of his favourite books, 'Potions Masters, the secrets of some of the oldest and most venerated wizards of England'. He turned to the front page as he did usually when he couldn't sleep, and fingered the shabby paper.
It was fingermarked, and well thumbed, but written neatly in curving script at the top of the first page was 'Tom Riddle'. It had been his father's favourite book at school.
He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece over the fire. The delicate gold hands pointed to five minutes to midnight. Harry felt a chill run down his spine, and wrapped the blankets more securely around him. He would be eleven in five minutes time. He set down the book on the bed, and tossed back the blankets to walk over to the window.
Their house was large; one of the oldest houses in Britain and the window that Harry leant against, looking out at the moon was large and arched. The shutters that were used throughout the mansion were always folded back in Harry's room. He liked the light shining in at him.
He blinked; something had appeared out of the darkness of the night and was flying straight towards him. As it flew into the light of the moon, he recognised it as an owl, a fine tawny with a letter clasped in its talons. He glanced at the clock once more; two minutes past midnight on the thirty first of July. It was rather late for an owl, wasn't it?
Before he understood what was happening, the owl perched on the windowsill, and tapped gently at the glass with its beak. Harry opened the window hurriedly, and took the letter. The owl flew off with a ruffle of feathers as Harry looked at the letter in his hands.
'Mr Harry Potter, The bedroom under the eaves, Riddle House, Huntingdon, Ely'
Mr Potter? Harry knew his parents, before his father adopted him, were the Potters, but he'd been Harry Potter Riddle as long as he could remember. Surely they'd made a mistake? He pulled out several sheets of parchment.
'Dear Mr Potter,
Your place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has arisen. Term starts on September the first. The train leaves from platform nine and three quarters at King's Cross Station in London. Discretion while among the muggles is, of course, implied. Please find enclosed a copy of the first years' book list, and equipment needed.
Albus Dumbledore Headmaster, Supreme Mugwump, Order of Merlin, first class'
As he turned over the other sheets, he read lists of robes they'd already bought, and books they'd already purchased. It puzzled him, increasingly worrying him. Why was the headmaster of Hogwarts calling him 'Potter'? Blowing out the candle, he climbed back into bed, and fell asleep, leaving the mystery of the letter until morning.
/
He was finishing the last of his cornflakes when his father swept into the dining room, his face stony, brandishing the letter. Harry felt a piece of cornflake slip sideways in his throat and stick there. He choked, coughed hard, and banged himself on the chest to dislodge it, looking fearfully at his father. Tom Riddle's face was expressionless, no glimmer in his grey eyes. He cleared his throat quietly, and when he spoke his voice was hardly audible.
"Why did you not tell me you'd received your letter, Harry?" he asked mildly. "It is cause for celebration." He made no mention of the misused name, nor of Harry's apparent registration for a place at the school but Harry had the distinct impression that his father was not pleased about either.
/
The street was bustling with people hurrying into different shops; children were everywhere, especially Flourish and Blotts and coming out with large stacks of books. Tom gave Harry's hand an unusual squeeze, and when their eyes met, his almost sparkled with amusement.
"Good idea to buy your things earlier," he commented, looking ahead towards the wand shop. Harry smiled; if his father was happy it would be a very productive shopping trip. A couple, accompanied by a girl with a lot of thick and unmanageable brown hair pushed the door of the wand shop open, and came down the steps; the girl was clutching a long box. His father's lip almost imperceptibly curled. They were all dressed in muggle clothing. Trying almost not to breathe, for fear of setting his father off, Harry led the way to the wand shop as the muggle trio moved off.
When the wand he was presented with, finally, warmed to his touch and sent bright red sparks into the air, Mr Ollivander clapped and smiled warmly as his father nodded respectfully. Harry examined his first wand with a pleased smile, hearing Mr Ollivander talk.
"Yes, very good for Transfiguration. Why, I remember your father's wand. He favoured a good transfigurative wand too," he chuckled. Harry looked up, smiling at his father.
"Father's wand was for Transfiguration?" he asked, looking from the old wand maker to the slim figure beside him. Mr Ollivander shook his head, a gentle, sad look in his eyes.
"No, Mr Potter," he said quietly. "I mean your father, James Potter." Harry felt as if he was rushing along in a very big wind, his ears roaring and his stomach dropping. His father? It was a funny feeling to think about his birth father.
"Enough of that," Riddle snapped. Mr Ollivander regarded him silently.
"Your mother preferred a wand for Charms," he added, almost airlily. "I remember your wand, too, Mr Riddle. Phoenix feather core, too. Why, it's odd, very odd." He looked perplexed, glancing at Harry.
"What is it?"
"Why, Mr Potter," Harry ignored the name, "The phoenix who gave a tail feather to your wand gave another. Just one other. It seems odd that you should be destined for this wand, when its brother belongs to Mr Riddle."
Harry looked at his father, his eyes shining. "Do you hear, Father? Our wands are brothers!"
"Yes, boy," Riddle said very quietly. "I heard."
/
A/N: Next chapter, the Hogwarts Express, and first meetings. For those of you in doubt, yes, I shall show flashbacks to Harry growing up but sparingly. For his entire life he has thought of himself as Harry Potter Riddle – and yes, I know his middle name is James – and at four he wouldn't have a 'clarifying moment TM' to tell him that his father was a sadistic bastard.
Additionally, I shall probably cover how Riddle came to power in future chapters, but for those confused – Riddle looks like an ordinary man. Experiments with power were not to the extent of the book in changing his appearance. He is Minister for Magic and no-one knows for definite that he is Lord Voldemort. Since Harry was adopted, the attacks stopped, and people believed Voldemort defeated.
Hopefully that answers questions.