Disclaimer: This story is based on characters created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

AN:

Thanks to all of those who reviewed!

I'm glad that last chapter answered many of your questions. But fear not, there are still many other mysteries to solve and plot twists to unravel. So don't think that was the end of it, lol. ^^

And oh yeah, Abraxas was quite a cunning little bastard and badass with Harry. What he did, in essence, was to blackmail Harry into starting a forced friendship -as one reviewer described it so perfectly- and it's basically because he's truly interested in him.

We'll see how their relationship will evolve, as well as with Tom, as the fic progresses, because Abraxas will be one of the important characters of the fic.

Note: This chapter is shorter than usual, because I decided to post what I already had instead of making you wait, probably weeks, for the full thing. If you like this method better -in smaller doses but more frequent- then let me know and I'll start doing it for all future updates.

I hope you enjoy it!

Part I: Chapter 25

Harry fully blamed his brother for his current predicament.

He was lying against the headboard of his bed, flipping through a catalogue of Monsieur Ermenegilde's 'haute couture' collection of formal dress robes, all of them exorbitantly pricey, whilst feeling utterly clueless regarding what kind of attire his brother expected him to choose. Fashion definitely wasn't his thing.

Headmaster Dippet had gladly allowed Tom and him to stay at the castle for Christmas Holidays. In fact, it seemed any student who wished to do so didn't even have to ask for permission. The Headmaster was a fanatic observant of all wizarding traditions, and those who stayed at Hogwarts would be required to attend the Yule Ball.

Apparently, wizards didn't celebrate Christmas but Yuletide, some pagan wizarding festivity that came from the Germanic Goths, and had something to do with Astronomy and Winter Solstice, and with all sorts of legends and rites like something called the Wild Hunt and whatnot.

To Harry it seemed very much like muggle Christmas, at least as far as decorations went. The Great Hall had become adorned with green and red ribbons, holly wreaths, and garlands here and there, along with twelve enormous pine trees that had been charmed to have a constant soft drift of snow falling down on them from the enchanted ceiling, while a flock of fairies fluttered through their branches.

That, he liked. What he did not, was the whole Yule Ball business. All the students that were staying, especially the girls, spoke of nothing but what dress they were going to wear and what boy they hoped would ask them out.

When Tom had informed him about the Yule Ball -giving him one of his many pouches of galleons he had earned by selling essays to other students, so that Harry would order for them two sets of dress robes from Monsieur Ermenegilde's shop- he had also commanded him to find a date for himself.

A date! Harry had been horrified.

"Who are you going to take?" he had demanded grumpily.

"Olive Hornby," Tom replied, smirking at him.

Harry had scowled darkly. That explained why he had lately seen his brother constantly around Hornby and her little Ravenclaw friends who so liked to torment poor Myrtle.

After that, he had been stumped. He would have spared himself the angst and suffering by asking Felicity, but the Prewett twins were not going to stay at Hogwarts. Like many purebloods, they were going back to their homes.

Indeed, while the rest of the school made preparations for the Yule Ball, the Slytherins spoke of nothing but the 'Winter Season'. It seemed that from Christmas to New Year's Eve there was going to be a succession of social gatherings.

He heard them speak of the Rosier's Ball, the Wilkes' soiree, the Black's Wild Hunt party, the Malfoy's masquerade gala, the Avery's midnight dinner, and even a Ministry Ball that Charlemagne McLaggen was throwing in his manor and to which all the Slytherins would be attending with their parents.

At least, Harry had vindictively enjoyed seeing the glint of envy in his brother's eyes, surely because Tom was not invited and was thus going to miss so many opportunities to 'forge important social connections', as his brother had once put it.

However, Tom had been behaving very mysteriously since earlier in the day.

During breakfast in the Great Hall, his brother had received a package from an owl of Flourish and Blott's.

"At last!" Tom had muttered under his breath, paying the bird quite a load of galleons, sticking the package under his arm and standing up, to then leave his half-eaten breakfast behind as he hurried out of the Great Hall without another word or backward glance.

And during the whole day, Tom had seemed distracted during class, frowning to himself, impatiently tapping his fingers on the desk, and utterly ignoring Harry's probing questions.

Harry sighed as he glanced down at a picture of a young wizard striking poses while wearing some weird ensemble of pointy hat, flashy silver tunic, and bright pink and green polka-dotted bowtie – 'The latest Parisian style!' read the banner above the photo.

Suddenly, the curtains of his bed were yanked open and Tom appeared before him, staring down at him, his dark blue eyes sparkling as he rushed out in a quiet whisper, "I've finally found something. Come!"

Harry shot him a bewildered look. "Come where?"

"Just follow me – be quick!" said Tom hurriedly, already turning around and making his way to the door.

Bemused, Harry gladly left Monsieur Ermenegilde's catalogue behind and trailed after his brother. All his questions were shot down as they climbed up moving staircases, Tom refusing to say a word 'out in the open'.

Harry groaned when they reached the library.

"Do we have to go in there?" he whined mournfully. "What do you want to show me-"

"Hush!" snapped Tom, grabbing him by the hand and forcefully pulling him along. "Not a word until we're alone."

Sighing, Harry followed him into the depths of the library, passing through rows of shelves and some tables occupied by a few Ravenclaws here and there.

Finally, they stood before the grates barring the way to the Restricted Section. Tom waved his golden pass at them and they parted open. They both slipped inside and Harry followed his brother until they reached a nook in one shadowy corner, boxed in by several shelves filled with dusty, grimy tomes.

Tom dropped his schoolbag on the only small table in the place, and then whipped out his wand. "Eligo Salazar Slytherin's tree-line!"

Several books came shooting out the nearest shelf and landed on the table. Without another hitch of breath, Tom was quick to open them, flipping through their yellowish pages.

Finally, he arranged them in a line, one next to the other, and then gestured at them.

"Take a look," he commanded shortly.

Quirking an eyebrow, now intrigued, Harry obeyed. He blinked when he saw that all the books were opened on pages that displayed tree-lines that were nearly identic. It was no surprise that the name on the top was Salazar Slytherin's, though it was connected by a line to a name that sounded vaguely familiar to him.

"Honorea Woodcroft," said Harry, frowning pensively. "Woodcroft? I've heard that name before-"

"She was the daughter of Hengist Woodcroft," interrupted Tom curtly, "the founder of Hogsmeade."

"Oh! Yeah," said Harry brightly, fondly remembering Alphard's ramblings when they had been exploring the village under Charlus Potter's Invisibility Cloak, breaking all sorts of school rules. He shot his brother a curious look. "So Slytherin married this Honorea witch… did he love her?"

"What does that matter?" bit out Tom, casting him a contemptuous glance. "She was a pureblood witch, daughter of a very well respected, influential wizard. Salazar must have chosen her for that," he added with a sneer, "not due to any romantic sentimentalities."

Harry huffed, feeling a mite disappointed. He would have liked the idea that their ancestor had some redeeming qualities and had married out of love and not self-interest.

Seeing his expression, Tom said superiorly, his tone pleased, "Slytherin was a ruthless, practical man. As he should be." Then he scoffed, looking irked and disgusted. "Though many historians do like to write about how Salazar was really secretly in love with Rowena Ravenclaw or truly pinning after Godric Gryffindor." He suddenly smirked with dark amusement. "Funnily enough, no one dares to speculate that he was enamored with good, chubby Hufflepuff."

Harry snorted at that, but before he could voice any opinion, his brother eyed him closely, as he demanded, "Besides what is common knowledge, what do you know about Salazar Slytherin?"

"Hmm… I know he was the first to create Fertility Potions," replied Harry slowly, not mentioning the information he had learned from his secret friend. It still made him shudder and blanch when he remembered Alphard's revelations about Breeder Potions.

"You don't know much, then," said Tom sternly, looking vastly annoyed. He heaved a deep, steadying breath, as if gathering patience, before he gestured at a couple of chairs. "Very well, let's take a seat and I'll explain the most important parts."

Harry complied and his brother was quick to begin, by demanding, "Do you remember Alice Jones' history lessons, about the era before the Plantagenet kings?"

"Er…" Harry trailed off, hesitantly. "Um, not really-"

"Do you remember Professor Binn's lectures in History of Magic, then?" snapped Tom irritably. "About Merlin and Arthur Pendragon."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I know the story but not because I paid attention to Binns. You're the only one who doesn't fall asleep!" He huffed, miffed. "I know a bit because I read the textbook for the essay we had to write about the-"

"About the Fall of the Druids," interjected Tom sharply. "Exactly." He shot him a vexed glare, before he continued, "As you should know, after the destruction of Arthur Pendragon's kingdom, Druids were persecuted and killed off by muggles. It's said that it was the Druids themselves who had found Merlin as a young boy and raised him and taught him magic. But only a few survived the decades of scouring after Pendragon's death and before the rise of the Plantagenets. Of those of Ireland, Cliodna was the last one of their kind."

"Cliodna?" piped in Harry, perking up. "I have a Chocolate Frog card of her! It did say that she was a Druidess-"

"Whatever your stupid card says," interrupted Tom, darkly aggravated, "I'm sure it's not much." He briskly gestured at the shelves around them. "It took me a long while to find and piece together the full account of it. She was the last Druidess, yes, but she also took it upon herself to teach others about Magic, so that her kind's knowledge wasn't lost. She went around the British Isles, visiting village after village, finding magical children and choosing the worthier among them."

He paused to then shoot Harry a pointed look. "In Scotland, she found Helga Hufflepuff. In Ireland, Rowena Ravenclaw. In England, she found Godric Gryffindor, in a southern town that nowadays bears his name – Godric's Hollow. In northern England, in what is today Lancashire county, she found Salazar Slytherin, in a town called Woodcroft."

"Woodcroft?" Harry stared at him, bemused. "As in Hengist-"

"Yes, as in Hengist Woodcroft," retorted Tom impatiently. "The wizard was the Chieftain of the wizarding town, and it's believed that before marrying Honorea, Salazar Slytherin knew her from there, when they were little children, before Cliodna took him away."

Tom waved his hand dismissively, before he continued, "Cliodna had other pupils, of course, but several years later, when she died, it was the four most outstanding of her students who decided to continue her work but in a more organized, permanent way-"

"And they founded Hogwarts," breathed out Harry, startled and then fascinated by the whole story.

"Yes," said Tom curtly. "Meanwhile, the wizarding village of Woodcroft was attacked and burned to cinders by neighboring muggles. The Chieftain, Hengist, managed to escape with his daughter, and he adopted the name of his former town as his surname." He paused, before adding musingly, "As a reminder and way of honoring those who had died, I suppose. Moreover, rumors about Hogwarts had already spread among wizarding communities, so he travelled to Scotland in search of it. Evidently, he was successful, and that's when he finally founded Hogsmeade."

"Nice!" said Harry, grinning widely. "So besides Slytherin, our other ancestor was the daughter of the Chieftain of Woodcroft and founder of Hogsmeade!"

Tom shot him a scathing look. "Hengist was remarkable, yes, but from what I've read, Honorea was quite useless. Just a pureblood witch with a renowned father that Slytherin used, to have her bear pureblooded children for his line – nothing more."

Harry glowered at him and then scoffed. "I don't care what you say. I still think it's wicked."

Tom leveled a snide glance at him, before he gestured at the books impatiently. "Now that you know a bit of his background story, look at his tree-line of descendants and tell me what you see."

Piqued, Harry moved his chair closer to the table and peered down at the nearest book. He then frowned, puzzled, trying to untangle all the connecting lines that seemed to loop up and down all across the page.

"What's with all the twists?" he groused out, his eyes narrowing with the effort of attempting to follow the lines. "It's impossible to understand!"

"That's what incest looks like in a tree-line," replied Tom placidly, then smirking at Harry's shocked expression. "Oh yes, there you have it – uncles marrying nieces, cousins paired with cousins, siblings with siblings, and every other combination possible."

"That's – that's disgusting!" choked out Harry, his small nose scrunching under his big, round eyeglasses.

Tom's dark blue eyes glinted and his smirk widened as he said loftily, "I wouldn't say that. I would call it necessary and understandable. The Slytherins weren't the only ones who took such measures to preserve the blood purity of their line. Most of our housemates' family lines are filled with incest as well."

Squicked and grossed out, Harry shook his head, before he inspected the page again, focusing on the notations in parenthesis underneath some names instead of the connecting lines.

The first that caught his attention was a Slytherin who had the label of 'Founder of the True Blood Alliance', making him remember the Prewett twins' explanation about the Egeriana Rose that the members of that group used as a symbol.

Then, he found something else: a Sidony Slytherin, one of the few who was matched with someone outside the family – with an Ignacius Peverell, in her case – with a note under their linked names that prompted the reader to 'See Potter line for information of descendants'.

Harry's gaze snapped up, his eyes wide with happiness. "We're related to the Potters?"

He very much liked Dorea's secret beau. Charlus Potter had not only lent Alphard and him his Invisibility Cloak that day in which they had gone exploring down the secret tunnel behind the statue of Gunhilda of Gorsemoor, but was also very kind, warm, and friendly to him.

Just the other day, when he had been leaving the Great Hall after lunch, they had crossed paths.

"A pretty little bird has told me that you're quite fantastic on a broom," Charlus Potter had whispered, winking at him, before he huffed with mock annoyance. "Indeed, lately, my own girl has been doing nothing but singing your praises when instead she should be paying attention to the naughty things I do to her." He had shot Harry a rakish, challenging grin, as he added, "Oh, but I am looking forward to matching skills with you in the pitch and see if she's right!"

And with that, the fifth-year Gryffindor had strolled away, and Harry had only stood there, in the middle of the corridor, in silence, because he had been too stumped and taken aback, and then highly peeved for a moment.

Dorea always told him very sharply to keep his mouth shut about his secret Quidditch training, saying that she wanted to give Charlus Potter a nasty surprise next year during Quidditch matches. And then, evidently, she turned around and spilled the beans to Charlus! Boyfriend and 'naughty things' involved or not, that wasn't an excuse, as far as Harry was concerned.

But then, he had felt rather happy with himself and content with the prospect of playing against Charlus, not only the Gryffindors' Captain but also such a brilliant Chaser that he had beaten the talented Dorea in all matches.

So this new discovery of being related to a boy he liked and admired made him feel quite joyful and proud.

"Related to the Potters?" scoffed out Tom disdainfully. "The connection is too distant to be significant, little brother. We're not cousins with them or anything of the sort."

At that, Harry's shoulders slumped dejectedly, his disappointment deep and crushing.

Tom released an annoyed sigh, as he then said crisply, "I wanted you to notice the last of the line, not waste time with nonsense."

Harry shot him an irked glower, before he grabbed the book, looked and found, and read out loud, his tone waspish, "Sherisse Slytherin. Death, 1340. Dragon Pox. Age 15." He glanced up at his brother, and snapped, "So what?"

"So, you halfwit," said Tom tetchily, "that information evidently isn't correct because here we are-" he gestured grandiosely at themselves "- alive, descendants of Salazar Slytherin. And she was the last known one." He then pointed at the other books lying open on the table, displaying the tree-lines, as he added with much contempt, "And all the others have the same. Not one says anything different about Sherisse Slytherin."

Closing the book in his hands and sighing, Harry muttered quietly, "We already knew that everyone thinks the line died off ages ago." He gestured at the book resting on his lap. "You can't be surprised."

"I wasn't," retorted Tom solemnly, before he abruptly smirked smugly. "But I found a different version regarding her death."

Tom grabbed his school bag and took out a glossy, bright, colorful magazine.

At the sight of it, Harry's eyebrows shot upwards and then he guffawed loudly. "The Witch Weekly!" He started sniggering, his green eyes tearing. "You've become a fan of a rag for chits? What – hope to see yourself nominated as The Most Charming Smile?"

He chortled and his brother shot him a murderous glower as he spat, "Shut up, you twit!"

Harry couldn't stop laughing, though. He had often seen Felicity Prewett and her Gryffindor girl friends with that rag, gawking and blushing at the pictures of handsome wizards awarded for stupid stuff –The Dandiest! The Dreamiest Eyes! The Most Scrumptious! The Most Yummy Body!– and then pouring over hairstyle advice, and best fingernail color-charms to match robes of that shade or other, and gossip about who married whom and who cheated with whom and when and why, and such.

It wasn't until Tom used the rag to whack him on the head with full force, making his skull throb, that Harry ceased his amused chuckles and snickers in order to rub and soothe the forming bump.

"It isn't mine, you idiot! It's Hornby's. Olive and her little Ravenclaw friends have been yapping about an article in this magazine the whole week," said Tom, his tone snide and poignant, which suddenly made Harry feel all warm and fuzzy inside, and he grinned to himself, feeling vastly vindicated.

Ha! He had known that his brother couldn't truly like Olive Hornby. Granted, she was very pretty, smart, and a pureblood, and already had Tiberius McLaggen eating out of the palm of her hand, but she was also very nasty and cruel to other girls who were lacking and easy prey, like Myrtle.

"They thought it was utter rubbish, and kept making fun of it," continued Tom acidly, still glaring at Harry, "but as I heard more and more about it, I decided to read it for myself."

He brusquely opened the magazine and flipped until he reached a page, to then shove it along the table towards Harry.

"There, read it, and stop acting like the lamebrain you are!" hissed out Tom, shooting him a venomous look.

"Alright, alright," said Harry in an appeasing tone of voice, "keep your bonnet on."

He rolled his eyes and grabbed the thing. What he saw first was a full, lengthy article that occupied most of the page.

He cleared his throat, and said carefully, as to not arise his brother's temper again, "Erm, I don't suppose it's the piece about 'How to Make your Hair Sparkle like a Fairy's', right?"

"No," said Tom testily. "It's the column by the margin."

"Right," said Harry, glancing at it and trying his best not to find anything amusing in it. "So it's this column written by the… er-" he had to badly rein in his need to chortle "-um, The Pink Quill?"

"Yes," bit out Tom, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"I see," said Harry tactfully, as he gazed at the small moving picture of the old witch who called herself 'The Pink Quill': she had a long, thin face, with bright emerald, winged eyeglasses and a peacock feather sticking out from the bun at the back of her head, which bobbed up and down in the air as she moved and gave a shark-like smile.

Seeing no way around it, he heaved a sigh and began to read.

My dear, avid readers and beloved fans, this week I will reveal another heart-wrenching, tragic story of a famous witch swindled, misused, abused, and mistreated by a heartless, despotic wizard.

Researching, unearthing, and unraveling this particular tale has been a project of mine that has lasted for countless months. At last, I'm prepared to give you the unadulterated facts, the brutal truth, that only I have been able to bring forth to light.

I begin the tale by asking you to remember: Who was Sherisse Slytherin?

Witches like myself, vastly educated and knowledgeable regarding the history of the most prominent and important wizarding families, will instantly recall her as being the last descendant of the infamous, dangerous, and deranged Salazar Slytherin, the darkest and most cruel of wizards in English wizarding history.

Witches like myself, enthusiast, devoted, and dedicated self-taught historians, will even know that, according to all publicly-accepted and known accounts, Sherisse Slytherin, like her parents, died in the calamitous outbreak of Dragon Pox in Hogsmeade in 1340, which devastated the wizarding community by taking the lives of many in village and Hogwarts Castle.

At the tender age of fifteen, the last of the Slytherins died. But – did she really? Was it truly due to Dragon Pox, like her parents?

I have unburied the truth: No.

The first fact that made me question the records of renowned historians, regarding Sherisse Slytherin's cause of death, was an unresolved mystery. If she had died two weeks after her parents, as is widely claimed by established authors, what happened to the famed collection of books, heirlooms, and fortune that the Slytherins had amassed for three centuries since the times of their abominable forefather?

Most historians would answer that they were simply lost and destroyed with the passage of time, that perhaps they were plundered and stolen by others after Sherisse's death, or even, that they are still intact, hidden somewhere in Hogwarts, in the legendary, mythical Chamber of Secrets, zealously guarded by the monster within.

I, however, do not believe in fairytales or vague, dismissive answers meant to excuse one's own ignorance and make light of a serious, grievous question. What was the fate of the Slytherins' possessions – who took flight with them?

It was through an old acquaintance of mine – a passionate, ardent, self-taught historian like myself, who throughout her life had formed an impressive collection of rare books – that I found the answer.

In her library, I found an old tome, written by a wizard two centuries ago and published posthumously, only for his research to pass unnoticed, ignored, or ridiculed by wizarding academic circles.

Allow me now to reveal the truth Mortimer Mullhorn had painstakingly unearthed. Sherisse Slytherin did not die of Dragon Pox, but from complications during childbirth.

Childbirth! Many of you must be shaking your heads, in disbelief. From childbirth, at the age of fifteen, when she was unmarried? Yes, my dear, beloved readers.

Her story was clearly a tragic one. After having lost her parents, amidst an outbreak of Dragon Pox and with death surrounding her, she gave birth. The sire, a mysterious M.G..

Mortimer Mullhorn must have known the identity of the wizard who so callously impregnated the young Sherisse Slytherin, only to take the child with him and flee.

In the ensuing chaos produced by the laments of the relatives of those who were dying during the outbreak, the mysterious, ruthless, despicable wizard took his child, and all of the Slytherins' amassed possessions, and escaped.

Mortimer Mullhorn must have discovered the wizard's full name, since his annotation of the wizard's initials –M.G.– had been quickly scribbled, as if it was a reminder to himself, to be further expounded upon.

Alas, he did not.

Mr. Mullhorn died before completing his research, before finishing writing what would surely be an account regarding M.G.'s identity, background, and further fate after fleeing from Hogwarts and Hogsmeade.

It was Mortimer Mullhorn's son who published his father's unfinished work after death. It is so, that we will never come to know who the odious M.G. truly was.

Yet, there was a child, my dear, faithful readers. Sherisse Slytherin was not the last of her line.

Thus, could it be that there are descendants of the ignoble Salazar Slytherin amongst us, this very day, keeping themselves hidden in our midst?

Could it be that there are Parselmouths, those with the darkest and most dreaded and feared of magical abilities, who are deviously passing themselves off as good, honest wizards and witches?

I dare to believe it possible, and shudder.

Harry finished the article and stared at Tom, his eyes wide, his breathing haggard, and his heart loudly thumping in his small chest.

"Is it true?" he breathed out, hope powerfully swelling within him.

"It has to be," said Tom firmly, his lips then stretching into a triumphant smirk. "It's the only explanation possible, given that we exist."

Then he swiftly dug into his schoolbag and brought out a very worn, battered old book.

He presented it to Harry as he said with much self-satisfaction, "I ordered it from Flourish and Blott's. It took them a while, but they found a copy of Mullhorn's book in a small wizarding bookstore in Ireland, and they purchased it for me."

"That's the package you received today," murmured Harry quietly, understanding dawning on him as he automatically took the tome. He fixed his brother with a penetrating gaze. "Is she right, then? Did this Mullhorn chap-"

"Yes," replied Tom instantly, then indolently gesturing at the book in Harry's hands. "It's all exactly like she wrote. Mullhorn's account of what happened to Sherisse Slytherin. The tree-line he made for the Slytherin family – with the annotation of the M.G. initials as the sire of Sherisse's child. It's all there."

"M.G.," whispered Harry slowly, in wonderment.

"Exactly," said Tom, a smug smirk on his face. "He must be our father's ancestor. Whoever he was, his descendants at some point came to have the Riddle surname."

"And now we finally have our first clue!" piped in Harry excitedly, glancing down at the book in his hands with wide, bright eyes. "Granted, initials isn't much, but it's a start, isn't it?"

"It is," drawled Tom superiorly. "And you have me to thank for that."

"I do," said Harry softly, glancing up at him with a warm, beaming smile. "This is great, Tom!"

That night, Harry could barely sleep, so joyful and exhilarated he was. They were one step closer to finding their dad, because he just knew that he was somewhere out there, waiting for them.