"BOY!"

Tom jumped, whipping around and pointing Potter's wand at the doorway. The large muggle from before stood there, face red and piggy eyes narrowed. "Boy!" he bellowed again, taking a step toward him.

Tom clenched his jaw in irritation. If he tried to do anything to this muggle, the Ministry would have a field day with it, based on the way they were portraying Potter in the papers. He'd rather avoid attention until he'd decided upon a course of action. He lowered the wand, fighting every instinct that demanded he eviscerate this man. "Yes, sir?" he ground out. Perhaps he should have looked into the identities of the muggles Harry Potter apparently lived with.

The man glared at him, face moving from red to purple. It looked unhealthy. "Don't take that tone with me, boy. And put that thing away before I break it."

Tom reluctantly stored the wand in an overly large pocket and watched the man warily. "Did you need something?"

"Where's Dudley?" the man demanded.

"Why are you asking me?" Tom replied. Who the hell was Dudley?

"Don't lie to me, boy. Dudley hasn't come home yet, and here you are with that - that thing out." The man was now managing to look both afraid and furious, an interesting combination Tom usually got a fair bit of satisfaction from. At the moment, however, it was merely another aggravation.

Tom raised an eyebrow and asked cooly, "My wand, you mean? It's difficult to tell, you see, when you insist on being so vague." Before the man could fully process that, he continued. "I haven't seen Dudley, and I have no idea where he might be. Was there anything else?"

The muggle punched him.

The back of his head hit the window frame and bounced off, and the next moment he was on the floor. The muggle had punched him. Later, he'd say he'd considered the situation and determined this still didn't warrant the risk of exposing himself, but quite honestly, the muggle wasn't dead already because the wand had escaped his pocket and rolled away. He had to instead settle for merely glaring hatefully up at the walrus of a man above him.

The man, to his ever-so-slight credit, seemed taken aback by his own violence, but he covered it quickly with bluster. "Don't ever take that tone with me again, boy. And if I find out you hurt Dudley, there won't be a hole big enough for you to hide in."

The muggle left, slamming the door as he went. After a second, metal rattled, and Tom would be any number of Galleons the muggle had locked him in. Tom searched, belatedly, for the man's name. Uncle Vernon. Well. It would hardly do for The-Boy-Who-Lived to be killing his muggle relatives, but perhaps if he sent Lord Voldemort an anonymous tip? Magic-hating muggles live at this address, perhaps?

He sighed and pushed himself back into the chair he'd been in. Would Voldemort even agree to hear him out if they met? Tom Riddle had never been the type to share, and he highly doubted that had changed in the decade and a half since he'd parted with the rest of his soul. If it were him, he'd either kill the other claiming to be part of his soul or seal him away somewhere. With no reason to believe otherwise, he'd have to assume Lord Voldemort would be the same.

Even so, after a quick check as to the house's address, he penned the note and asked Hedwig if she were able to deliver it. She stared at him, and he resisted the urge to fidget under the look. "Do you object to the content or the recipient?" he asked at last.

She hooted twice.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Then give it to another owl to give to him. Would that be acceptable?"

Hedwig hooted once and stuck out her leg. Tom wondered how he'd come to be speaking to an owl when he was a parselmouth. He still obligingly tied the letter to her leg, hesitating before opening the window to let her out. "Don't take any risks, alright?" he said at last, feeling silly.

The owl hooted once more and took flight, the sound giving a clear impression of a mother telling her chick not to worry. He grimaced and closed the window behind her. Did Harry Potter have a mental disorder? Something biological that made him think such ridiculous things about his owl? Merlin, he hoped not. While he was quite certain that he, as Tom Riddle, had his own fair share of disorders, he knew and understood them. He didn't need to add someone else's into the mix though.

That thought gave him pause. How different might he be now that he was occupying a different brain? Were he more scientifically minded, the question might be interesting, but as it was he mostly just felt a dull dread. He felt like himself, but would he even notice if he'd changed? Would any changes be cumulative or had they already happened? What about his magic - how much of the magic he possessed now was his? Was he even still capable of casting the spells he knew?

The world started to go gray, and he realized his breath was coming in sharp, quick gasps. With great effort, he slowed his breathing and closed his eyes. His current circumstances were what they were, and no amount of panic would change them for the better. He ignored the part of himself that insisted that changes to his very being like this could, philosophically, be considered dying. He wasn't feeling very philosophical at the moment, and if that side of him was going to come up with such useless commentary, he doubted he ever would.

In the end, there was nothing to be done about it now, so he forced his mind to more immediate concerns. Who was Dudley? Presumably Potter's… cousin? Why did it feel like that should mean something to him… His eyes widened. The mysterious letter came back to him. "Kissed?" He belatedly remembered the old woman's babbling had contained something along those lines as well. He hadn't paid much, or any, attention at the time, but that now seemed to have been a mistake. Surely it wouldn't be long before the muggle authorities found this Dudley and contacted his parents.

With a curse, he grabbed Potter's wand and looked around. Nothing here seemed remotely useful. Where were his things? Surely he had some. It took a precious few moments to rake through the boy's memories to find the stash of supplies hidden under a loose floorboard. The rest, apparently, were in the cupboard under the stairs, which was kept locked. Tom ground his teeth and considered the situation. If he wanted to continue to hide his identity, his options were extremely limited. Was it necessary?

He didn't have time to consider it properly. He took a deep breath. He wouldn't trust Vernon farther than he could throw him without magic, so staying here and hoping the man didn't follow through on his threat was a non-option. Getting his trunk would require magic, which was unwise but not completely out of the question, but he couldn't count on being able to avoid the muggles on his way out. That confrontation was, again, a non-option. It would most likely end in them dead, and him in Auror custody or on the run.

Without Hedwig, he couldn't even send a request for help. He eyed the window she'd left through. It was the second floor. He could survive a jump like that. His trunk might be a loss, but then, things were replaceable. His life was… for the most part… not.

Decided, he pushed the window open just as he heard a ringing downstairs. Telephone, he thought. Without pausing, he made sure Potter's wand was secure this time, tucking it all the way down into the pocket, and lowered himself out the window.

The boy had a wiry kind of strength uncommon in wizards. Tom wasn't sure if that was from some muggle sport or Quidditch, but at the moment he was grateful for it. That strength allowed him to lower himself all the way down and hang for a moment while he searched for a foothold. There was nothing, but this was still a far sight better than simply flailing as he fell out the window. He dropped down, wincing at the shooting pains through first his ankles and shins and then, as he fell back, his buttocks and back and already-injured head. The world swam for a second, then he was on his feet and sprinting away from the house.

Each step hurt. Not so much the bones, aggravated though they were by his fall, because between this body's youth and his magic, such a small injury was easy to work past. His head, on the other hand, throbbed with each pounding step against pavement. Even discounting his decade-and-a-half unintentional break from the world, it had been years since he'd last been physically injured even to this degree, and he'd have preferred to have continued that streak.

He was only a few feet from turning the corner onto, he realized belatedly, the same street he'd awoken on when a voice shouted for him to stop.

It was male, and not the muggle. He slowed and, after a moment's hesitation, obeyed. He didn't feel nearly well enough to run far anyway.

"Harry, didn't you get Sirius's letter?" asked a thin, haggard-looking man as he pulled off an invisibility cloak and stepped out from the darkness and under a street light.

Sirius? His mind raced. That was probably the so-called Padfoot. Black? Most likely? He recalled that one Sirius Black and James Potter had been close friends and partners in the Aurors before Potter went into hiding. "Telling me to stay there?" he asked skeptically.

The man nodded. "Why are you out here? And sneaking out the window no less."

Tom sighed. "Because when the - when Uncle Vernon finds out his son is as good as dead, he'll kill me."

The man's brow furrowed, mouth set into an uneasy grimace. "Harry, whatever you think your uncle might do, it can't be worth risking your very soul." He didn't sound very sure of himself.

"Think?" Tom had to struggle not to laugh at the obliviousness of Potter's supposed protectors. "He told me himself that he'd kill me if anything happened to Dudley." He stepped under the streetlight, head up so the man could see whatever damage the muggle had done. "He gave me this, and possibly a concussion, just before I left."

Tom didn't bother to watch the man's reaction. Instead, he was combing his memory for this wizard's name. Unfortunately, it took longer to search Potter's memories while having to focus on the present, and searching for a person based on physical appearance was more difficult than searching a relation or a name.

A touch against his cheek - the one that was likely bruised - snapped him out of his thoughts, and he jerked away, snarling. Seeing the surprise on the man's face, he stopped. Oh. "Sorry," he muttered. "I'm still feeling out of sorts."

"I apologize, Harry." The wizard heaved a sigh and glanced anxiously around them. "With that being the case, I suppose you can't be blamed for leaving. Expecto Patronum." A silvery wolf appeared and, with it, a name. Remus Lupin. Lupin told his Patronus, "Tell Sirius I'm bringing Harry with me." The wolf prowled around the pair once before bounding away into the night.

Lupin eyed Tom critically. "Is your trunk still with the Dursleys?"

Tom nodded shortly. "They locked it in the cupboard under the stairs. I didn't want to risk trying to get it."

Lupin sighed again. "We'll have to send someone to get it later then," he said apologetically. "I don't want you out here, unprotected, any longer than necessary." He held out his hand. "Are you alright to side-apparate?"

"I think so," Tom replied and, with only a brief hesitation, grabbed the offered hand and held his breath as Lupin turned on the spot with a CRACK.

The next second they were in a city, standing before a row of muggle houses. His stomach roiled, but Tom swallowed hard and ignored it. Where were they? He turned to Lupin quizzically but, before he could ask, something grabbed him and pulled him somewhere and everything went black.