AN: Goggles at the story stats, then jumps up and does a happy dance. You guys are awesome! I'm glad the last chapter met with such a positive response, as it's been in the works almost since I first had the idea for this story.

Warning: teenage temper tantrums ahead. Woohoo, I can alliterate.


Harry slammed a cupboard door angrily. Of all the nerve…! He yanked open the refrigerator door and picked up the jug of newly bought milk. He'd love to go back outside and empty it over a certain Tom Riddle's head.
"Good afternoon Mr. Potter!" This had to be one of those people who could remember the name of every person she met; either that, or it was simply more proof that the village of Godric's Hollow was very small. Small enough that she could remember a customer who had only been in her store once.

"Afternoon, Mrs. Clark," Harry nodded to the owner of the village's only grocery. "Oh. This is my brother, Tom Riddle-Potter. He'll be staying with me the rest of the summer, till he goes back to school." Harry indicated the scowling boy standing just behind him.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Riddle-Potter." Tom sneered and stalked into a side isle. Harry's eyes narrowed. He apologized quietly to the Muggle woman, then moved on to business. "I'd like some more of that ham, please."


Harry crouched to shove the slab of ham onto the bottom shelf, next to the bacon. He tried to stand and sharp pain ripped through his knee. He sucked in a harsh breath and slipped to the ground, a hand clutching desperately at the counter.

The refrigerator door swung shut on its own but he hardly noticed as his head began to throb in time with the pounding in his leg. His hand slipped from the counter to rub harshly against his forehead, free hand pressed against the floor to keep himself from toppling over.

His vision started to spin and Harry sank further to the floor. The stone felt cool and soothing on his forehead.

He must look a sight, he thought irrelevantly, sprawled across the floor like this.

Tom could come in at any minute.

The thought of the boy sent another burst of anger through him, pushing through his hazy thoughts and letting him focus. He refused to let the brat find him this way.

The chairs around the kitchen table were lower than the counter; if he could reach them he could get himself off the floor before the boy came in. He pulled himself towards the table, practically army crawling as every slight pressure to his knee sent pain stabbing through him.

But the anger faded too soon, and with it, his only source of stubborn strength. His vision started down the all too familiar tunnel. He wasn't going to make it to the table. Damn.


Harry's jaw dropped. He stared at the boy in mounting fury.

"Apologize," he said in a low voice, "now." Tom crossed his arms and glared stubbornly.

"Excuse us, Mrs. Clark," Harry murmured, setting the payment for their groceries onto the counter with deliberate care. He lifted the pair of bags with one hand and gestured curtly at the door, staring straight into Tom's eyes, daring him to protest. A brief image of Dumbledore, staring down at him in disapproval, flickered through his vision. Tom winced and Harry realized the memory was not his own. He was a Legilimens, then. The knowledge made him no less angry.

"Let's go," he ordered, breaking eye contact. Tom set himself, lifting his chin and opening his mouth to say something that Harry was certain would make him lose himself completely. He snagged Tom's shoulder with his free hand, pulling up and over on his shirt just enough to set Tom off balance so that he was easily turned towards the door with a firm push.

Tom jerked himself free and led the way to the door with all the mustered aloofness of a dignitary.

As soon as they were out of sight, Harry took hold of Tom's shoulder again and apparated them both back to the front drive of the Potter Grounds.

The bags were banished to the kitchen with hardly a thought and Harry rounded on Tom.

"What were you thinking, saying something like that!"

"She's only a dirty old Muggle!"

Harry wanted to hit him. "She's just as human as you and me!" he bellowed, waving a hand about in anger. Tom's posture abruptly grew defensive.

This time, the flash of memory was his own; that of the towering Vernon advancing on his nephew, hatred and cruelty glittering in his eyes. The thought that he'd just manhandled a child in his care, and felt fully ready to do worse, stopped Harry in his tracks.

He took a deep, steadying breath, turned, and strode towards the house.

Tom did not follow.


"It's about time you woke up."

He recognized that voice. Who…? Not Ron. "Tom?"

His eyes cracked open. Everything was blurry. He blinked slowly.

"You were expecting the Minister?"

Harry wasn't up to giving a fittingly sarcastic reply. Things were still blurry, but the fabric of the living room couch was close enough to be recognizable, as his head was resting on its arm. Yes, there was the fireplace, and the windows… the windows were much too bright. He averted his eyes with a groan and came face to face with a blur that must be Tom.

"What—"

"You fainted."

Harry eyed the empty vials sitting on the coffee table. He'd purposely left the wards on the medical potions stock easy enough for Tom to get through if he needed to. The problem was he couldn't ever remember telling Tom where they were, and he had no idea how Tom'd got them into Harry without waking him up. Doing that required medical knowledge Harry had in no way known by his second year.

"Awake, are we?" a new voice boomed. Harry jerked upright and his vision went white. He groped blindly for his glasses, only to have them pressed into his hand. He shoved them on, blinking rapidly as his vision took its time coming back.

Horace Slughorn stood just inside the hallway, looking boisterous as ever and, at the moment, faintly apologetic.

"So sorry, Mr. Potter, didn't mean to startle you. Professor Horace Slughorn," he introduced himself, "Tom's Head of House and Hogwarts resident Potions Master. He was a might worried when you didn't wake up and called me, smart lad. Now, don't get up, you'll still be a bit dizzy yet."

"Er, it's a pleasure, sir."

How long had he been unconscious, Harry wondered blearily, lifting a hand to protect his eyes from the sunlight pouring in through the windows. Wait. If there was that much sun coming inside, it had to be well into the evening. He'd been out for several hours.

At least a Potions Master knew what he was doing with the potions more than a soon to be second year.

"Of course, of course. The honor's mine, I'm sure, to be meeting the man Tom chose as his new family. He's a fine lad, most promising student I've seen in my career. And I do pride myself on knowing talent when I see it."

Harry stretched a bit. Ah, one of those vials had to have contained a pain potion. He was feeling much better, if a little dizzy, as the Professor had said.

"I'm sure he does well in his classes, sir."

"He certainly does," the man laughed, then fixed Harry with a speculative look that made him distinctly nervous. "So, a Potter, eh? Good name, solid history, the Potters. Been gone a while, though."

Harry forced a stoic look upon his face. "Yes. I know. And you don't need to worry about losing your prize student. I'm perfectly capable of providing for him."

Slughorn laughed again and turned to Tom, who was scowling at being ignored. "Ah, good choice, Mr. Riddle-Potter. Got good heads on your shoulders, the both of you. But it's getting late, and now that Mr. Potter's awake I'd best be going. I'll let you get back to your evening. Don't be afraid to call if you need my assistance again, boys, but you might consider contacting St. Mungos if this becomes a repeating occurrence. You never know if the problem could be more serious than it appears, and I'm no mediwizard. Always willing to help, of course, don't doubt that."

"I'm sure I'll be fine, sir. Thank you." Harry cut in when it looked like the man would never stop talking.

"Of course! Of course. I'll be going, then. If I could use your floo?"

"Yeah. The powder's over by the fireplace," Harry pointed to the bookshelf, where the floo powder sat, still in the bag he'd bought it in.

After another round of thank you's and goodbyes, the man finally left in a flash of green fire. Harry sighed and slumped in his seat, muzzily debating the merits of trying to get up to his room against just lying back down where he was. He didn't even realize Tom was still in the room until the boy cleared his throat.

Harry rested his chin in one hand and gave the twelve year old his attention. He hoped Tom would not bring up what had transpired between them earlier; he was in no mood to test his temper again so soon, even if it seemed to have settled down a bit while he was unconscious. Go figure.

But Tom had another issue on his mind.

"You mentioned my mother, the day we first met."

Harry had wondered when the kid would finally get around to asking about that. "Yeah?"

Tom scowled. "You acted like you knew who she was. I haven't been able to find anything about her or my father. What do you know about them? Tell me!"

Harry narrowed his eyes. He was not inclined to giving in to a demand that really should have been a request, especially after this display of less than perfect physical health; that would open him up to perceived weakness that Tom would walk all over. However, Harry had no intention of keeping Tom from knowledge about his family, especially not with the little hints he'd been dropping. That would be cruel.

Harry lifted a hand and summoned a specific book from the library, locked down under more than one security measure. The wards recognized him and released one of the books he'd taken from the vault. Pureblood Families and an Overview of Their Histories flew into his hand a moment later. He handed it to Tom. "The name you're looking for is Gaunt. Your father won't be in there."

He knew that giving Tom knowledge of his mother's family was all but telling him of his famous ancestor. He'd find that out soon anyway, though, and Harry would rather Tom come into that knowledge on Harry's own timing.

But Tom was looking at him, not the book. "Why won't my father be in here?"

Oh. Yeah. He didn't know about that yet.

Harry sighed and sat up fully, wincing a bit. "Sit down, Tom."

"Why is my father not in this book?"

"Sit down, Tom." Tom dropped to the edge of the coffee table, bumping a few of the glasses. One of them fell over and rolled off the table.

"He wasn't a wizard, Tom." Tom's breath hitched.

"Liar! You liar! He was a wizard! He was! Tell the truth!"

Harry snarled. "No, Tom, he was a Muggle. A mundane Muggle from a mundane Muggle town."

"I don't believe you!" Tom sounded desperate.

"That's your problem, not mine, but if you want any more information about your father, you'd best start looking where I first found him; a Muggle obituary."

Tom stared at Harry, wide eyed.

Harry sighed and scrubbed his hands across his face. "He died of pneumonia," he said quietly, "there was apparently an epidemic of it that year. It killed your grandparents as well."

"And my mother?" His voice sounded surprisingly even.

"I'm not sure; the records for her aren't as clear. Best I've been able to figure she just didn't have the will to live without your father."

Harry's eyes drifted past Tom's shoulder to the pictures on the mantle. He knew what he was making this sound like, but he just was not ready to address that issue right now. Eventually Tom would realize that the dates did not line up, and there would no doubt be another explosion of tempers. Harry was content to let the issue lie until then.

Tom still looked a bit dazed.

"Tom…"

"Stop calling me that!"

Harry stared at him, dumfounded. "What should I call you, then?"

Tom snarled. "I don't care! I-"

"No? Maybe you'd like Tommy? Or TJ? Tommy Junior. Yes, that's fitting, isn't it?"

"Shut up! I'm no Muggle!"

"I think I know that by now!" All the shouting was making Harry dizzy. He slumped back into the couch while they both caught their breath.

"Nothing wrong with being ordinary, Tom," Harry said more calmly. His gaze locked on to the photo of the Gryffindor trio bent over mounds of books. "I'm rather enjoying it, actually," he added under his breath.

Tom squinted at him. He stood without a word, the book clutched tightly in his arms. Harry saw him cast a glance at the photos as he hurried across the room. He reached the foot of the staircase and paused, turning back so he could look at Harry. "They're the ones that the new grave marker is for."

Harry jerked, eyes flying to the window, then the pictures on the mantle, and back to Tom. He'd been spending quite a bit of time fixing up the family graveyard in the days since Dumbledore's visit. It was quite and peaceful, a little glen tucked away just inside the forest's edge. Since seeing his former Headmaster he'd felt the need to do something to remind himself that his previous life was dead and gone. He needed some kind of closure before he did something to give himself away.

Apparently, Tom was more aware of where he spent his time outside than he'd thought.

"Them and my parents," he admitted.

Tom smirked. "One measly little stone. In Memory. Not so much as a single name. Don't think they would be very happy with you if they knew that's all you gave them."

"You know nothing about them."

Tom slammed the book down on the banister. Harry jumped. "I know more about that than I do about anything else!" He stormed up the staircase.

Harry sat on the couch for a long time. He eventually gave up trying to figure out what Tom meant by that last sentence and just went to bed.


The next morning, Harry limped his way downstairs, thinking only of a morning cuppa and perhaps some scrambled eggs. Skipping dinner the night before had left him absolutely ravenous this morning. He stopped when broken glass crunched under his slipper-clad feet, looking down in surprise. Where had that come from?

He followed the scattered glass carefully. There wasn't much of it, just a few pieces here and there, but it seemed to be fanning outwards from… he stepped around the coffee table and stopped breathing.

The glass was concentrated in front of the unlit fireplace, its source suddenly very clear. The picture frames had been thrown to the floor. Broken glass crunched underfoot as Harry approached and gingerly shifted one of the frames aside. In among the scattered glass lay the remains of what had been two wizard photos of Harry and his friends, both of them torn cleanly in half.


End Chapter

Dun dun dun. Kind of a cliffie, I guess. Apologies for the shortness and lateness of this chapter. At least they finally got around to the issue of family again.

I'm hoping Slughorn's personality is right. A friend is borrowing my copy of HBP so I couldn't really check it. This is how I remember him, so…

Two questions:

Is there anything specific that you'd like to see covered between Tom and Harry? There are several issues that I have in mind to include, Parseltongue being one, but if you guys think of something I haven't I'd like to put it in. Second, would you like to see some of Tom's POV? I was going to try and do the whole story from Harry's POV, but there are certain things that are hard to explain through Harry's eyes, Tom's reasoning in letting Harry adopt him being one.