THE SEAL OF GAUNT

October 7

Grand Tower

This is the bathroom the moaning mudblood frequents, yes? Tom asked Harry telepathically as they entered a witches' lavatory on the first underground floor of Hogwarts' great tower.

I don't know why you assumed I'd know that, Harry replied surlily. But we won't find her here in the wee hours of a Saturday morning.

How lovely it would be if the chamber entrance lies here, Tom mused as he walked toward the bathroom's central octagonal column, one that hosted a mirror and sink on each of its sides. My monster can strike down that wretched creature in the depths of its squalor.

Harry rolled his eyes, then paused as he noticed something had captivated his cousin.

Come, Tom beckoned.

Harry adjourned his admiration of the room's Gothic design and diamond lattice panels to join his cousin at the sink left-perpendicular to the entrance.

Do you see it? Tom asked.

Harry gasped as he saw a snake engraved into the right side of the faucet. Touching it, he noticed two things. The tap didn't work, and magic very similar to Tom's permeated the entire sink structure.

"An enchantment so strong it conceals itself," Harry whispered.

Tom mentally prompted Harry to stand back. The Heir of Slytherin then loosed a hiss every bit as primeval as his 14-millennia-strong bloodline.

The power of Lilith upraised the column capital and parted the column body into eighths, each of which slid outward two paces. The eighth facing them then lowered into the floor, at which a grate closed over it to allow access to a broad octagonal pipe.

Tom nodded at Harry, who approached the vertical drop as agreed.

See, not a toilet shute, Harry prided his earlier prediction. He coated his ancestral cloak with an extra grime-repelling charm, gave a Third Reich salute, and jumped into the abyss.

About 10 feet down, the pipe curved into a rather fun slide — or at least Harry thought so. Tom, who watched the affair through Harry's eyes, radiated revulsion.

Just make sure to levitate when the pipe releases you, Harry warned as he narrowly avoided landing in a stream of wastewater.

A minute later, Tom joined his cousin in the cavern.

Seriously? Harry mocked the airtight bubble Tom concealed himself in.

The body of Lord Voldemort is a temple, never to be defiled by mudblood waste, Tom replied.

There's a lot more pureblood waste than muggleborn waste here, Harry rolled his eyes.

Tom sneered, then led the way down a subterranean passage. Courtesy of Slytherin's heir, pitch black gave way to a dim emerald glow that reminded Harry of those Muggle Studies "night-vision" goggles Algie showed him.

I heard that, Tom warned.

Harry kept his mind silent for the remainder of the journey through the malodorous tunnel, until they hovered before a stone wall fitted with a massive vault-like door. Bearing the carvings of seven silver spiky-scaled vipers stretching out from the left like a splayed serpentine hand, the gold-coated door seemed impervious to all but one form of sorcery.

Harry looked at his cousin with awe and wonder.

"It's here! Your chamber is here!" Harry exclaimed.

But Tom was silent.

"The door is too high for any of the wastewater to have seeped through," Harry encouraged. "Whatever lies behind this door has been untouched for centuries."

Tom remained silent.

"Wait, you're not trying to keep me out, are you?" Harry panicked.

No, Tom assured. But our first venture into the chamber shall be a most unique moment. One that calls for a most special occasion.

Okay? Harry prompted.

Samhain, the anniversary of our first meeting. I shall open the chamber then, Tom decided.

Harry rubbed the back of his head.

Tom, we might not be back in time, Harry warned. The war commemoration is all the way down at the Seven Sisters. Even if we leave early, I don't know if Aidon can fly us from the southern coast of England up to the Scottish highlands by night.

Then we stay, Tom urged.

Tom…it's the tenth anniversary, Harry reminded his cousin.

Tenth anniversary of what? Tom challenged. Of a war for which the British ministry lifted not a wand? Of the games played by a moneyed elite as the fate of magic hung in the balance? Of the stolen valor our robber barons seized from the witches who bled and died in battle?

Harry flinched at the last one, having long held a grudge against Arcturus Black for claiming an Order of Merlin first class for "leading reconstruction efforts" while war heroine Lily Evans received only an Order of Merlin second class.

Samhain, Tom repeated as he floated back toward the entry pipe.

October 9

Defense Against the Dark Arts Classroom

"Ah, Harry," Professor Albus addressed his tarrying student. "How may I help you?"

"Professor," Harry started once his classmates had filed out. "I–I wanted to let you know that I won't be attending the commemoration."

"Pardon?" Professor Albus asked.

"I'll be staying at Hogwarts through the Samhain weekend," Harry reiterated.

"Is there a particular reason, if I may ask?" Professor Albus inquired.

This, of course, would be the question on everyone's minds. With the British Ministry of Magic hosting a celebration for the entire wizard world, the minister was doing everything he could to maximize citizen turnout. A four day weekend, free transportation from population centers, free food and beverages, an array of the nation's most popular entertainers, keynote speeches from the nation's most valued voices, and the opportunity to make a name and hefty sum in one of the many celebratory games. And with the fervent media buildup, the commemoration was shaping up to be the event of the century.

The only reason not to go was if one just did not want to go.

"I want to spend the day with family," Harry answered honestly.

"With Riddle, I presume?" Professor Albus asked, to which Harry nodded.

"And he does not wish to join everyone else? I believe all of your friends are going," Professor Albus raised.

"Samhain is the night we met—truly got to know each other, I should say," Harry explained. "It's the night we first found blood family since our mothers died."

"As the event stands, you are scheduled to give the remembrance speech for your mother," Professor Albus reminded.

"You knew her better than I, sir," Harry offered.

"But you are her legacy," Professor Albus said. "Moreover, you are a prime representative for tens of thousands worldwide who lost family in Grindelwald's war."

"Since the Ministry can scarcely find anyone else in the Isles who did," Harry scoffed.

Green-gold eyes kindly rebuked him.

"That was heartless," Harry admitted.

"Is anyone giving you trouble about your mother?" Professor Albus asked softly. "I know Slytherin is not the kindest house on matters of parentage, despite Horace's best efforts."

"They've accepted my place in their house," Harry answered.

"And none of the recent gossip about your father is affecting you?" Professor Albus asked.

"My only family is through my mother," Harry dismissed.

Professor Albus hummed in acceptance, if not advocacy, of Harry's position.

"If I may offer advice, gratuitous though it might be, the more you affiliate yourself with what remains of House Gaunt, the more rumors it will invite about your mother," Professor Albus counseled.

"It's not my fault gossipers are too stupid to draw the right conclusions," Harry griped.

"And what would define the right conclusion, in your view?" Professor Albus asked.

"You wrote 'your mother left this in my possession before she died' in the note that came with my cloak," Harry recited. "But even those who don't know her true heritage, for them to suggest her blood should be erased in favor of a random Black and a second-rate wizard?"

"They don't know better," Professor Albus replied. "They've been raised to believe that the contents of one's ancestral records and Gringotts vaults determine the content of one's character."

"Well, they'll see who has ancestral records, won't they," Harry snapped.

Professor Albus' eyes dimmed ever so slightly, but he made no comment.

"I take it that you will have Riddle claim you as a member of the Peverell legacy clan once he is confirmed?" Professor Albus asked.

Harry nodded. "Thank you, also, for agreeing to be a witness to his claim," he added.

"I knew him to be Slytherin's descendent within minutes of meeting him. It would be a lie to say otherwise," Professor Albus responded.

Harry nodded and made his way toward the door.

"And Harry?" Professor Albus said. "I'll ensure your mother's memorial speech stays in good hands."

October 27

Tom Marvolo Riddle's Quarters

"I have been thinking," Tom prefaced as he finished writing a diary entry.

"Oh dear, what now," Harry drawled.

Tom sniffed contemptuously. "You would do well to listen and learn, Ignotus."

"Alright, I'm listening," Harry claimed as he sprawled himself over the vacant bed. Tom turned his head part way to give a side-eye glare from his desk seat, but made no motion to weaponize the Slytherin decor. Yet.

"Once I emancipate myself, I cannot continue living in Slughorn's house," Tom started.

"I'm sure he'd be happy to—" Harry tried.

"The Heir of Slytherin, a beggar? Whoever would take him seriously?" Tom questioned. "No, I shall leave for Little Hangleton."

"For the Gaunt cottage?" Harry asked.

"No, you simpleton, though that hovel might have its own uses," Tom sneered. "But, if you care to recall, we shall evict the residents of Riddle manor come Yuletide. 'Twould be a shame to allow the property to fall into another beast's jaws."

"So you'll assume your father's identity," Harry accepted. "But what happens to Tom Riddle Jr., legal heir to all Riddle properties?"

"If for some reason, the brays of beasts still matter by the time 'Tom Riddle' must appear decrepit, I shall simply call myself 'Tom Riddle Jr.'," Tom said.

"You're assuming your body will age slower, and not faster with your sorcery," Harry raised.

"I'll reconstruct my body whenever necessary," Tom countered.

"And each time wear weaker flesh than the last," Harry returned.

Light flickered out for a moment, but Tom seemed to take Harry's point seriously.

"Vexing as you can be, your advice is often useful, and your company rarely grows intolerable," Tom begrudgingly complimented.

Harry opened his mouth for another quip, then he noticed his cousin's solemnity.

"Wait…you're asking me to live with you," Harry realized.

Tom nodded.

"That's…that means a lot," Harry whispered. "I'd love to. Having you around has been a dream, even with the snake bites…"

They both chuckled at this.

"But I'll still be fourteen. Fourteen with a godfather guardian," Harry pointed out.

"Meaning I shall have to assume your guardianship," Tom concurred.

Harry's eyes widened.

"I'll be considered your closest living blood relative once I name you a member of the Peverell-Slytherin clan," Tom posed. "I'll be known to possess the oldest magic blood in the world, the only blood in Europe older than your own, so my ability to nurture your powers will never be questioned. And I shall, of course, have your approval."

"But, you also have to prove you can financially support me," Harry raised. "And your fortune is in the muggle world, the last place we want the Ministry to look."

"Muggle money will serve as the basis for my laundering network," Tom agreed. "No, I'll never buy goblin gold with it. However, the Evans vault holds a most respectable sum."

Harry nodded. His mother's spell and potion innovations — though disgustingly undervalued due to her age, sex, and "blood" — won her more gold than that owned by the vast majority without generational wealth. Then Lily Evans died, and her heroism inspired a flood of donations from across the world. Most came from outside the British Isles, including a non-negligible portion of House Rosier's French gold courtesy of the French ministry, although there had been one particularly generous British donor. Then as Harry grew up, his various feats — from taming a specimen of every extant dragon species by age 14, to casting a fully-formed Patronus at age 13, to becoming the European Youth Dueling League champion at age 12, to winning every continental youth broom and mount racing competition by age 11 — also added to the Evans stockpile, to the point the vault was envied by most pureblood families.

"You want me to transfer the gold in the Evans vault to the Gaunt vault," Harry surmised.

"The Peverell-Slytherin vault," Tom corrected.

Harry looked at Tom's ring, the key to a chamber deep within Gringotts Wizarding Bank that served as one of the establishment's first vaults. A vault currently barren, bereft of even a coin of bronze.

"We'll still be a laughing stock next to the Blacks, Malfoys, Notts, Lestranges and Averys," Harry warned.

"Know this, Ignotus: only you and I shall ever venture inside the vault," Tom declared.

"And we prove the Gaunt—sorry, Peverell-Slytherin—vault has money, how?" Harry asked.

"The record of transfer should suffice, so long as done before I claim you," Tom said.

"A leap of faith," Harry murmured. "You could leave me destitute."

"I could," Tom concurred.

"You know, I'd laugh at anyone else who dared suggest this? And I mean laugh as they cried from my hexes," Harry threatened.

"You would," Tom agreed.

"You're a psychopathic narcissist, a dark wizard, and the most extreme blood purist I know," Harry complained.

"You say that as if those are negative qualities," Tom purred.

"When do we go to Gringotts?" Harry asked.

"Can you summon your thestral here by daybreak?" Tom proposed.

Horace Slughorn's Suite

"Harry, my boy," Horace greeted jovially.

After a quick embrace, the two sat down for their regular three-course Friday dinner.

"I presume Tom won't be joining us?" Horace asked.

"Just the two of us," Harry confirmed.

While Horace typically telegraphed some disappointment when Tom didn't show, he actually seemed somewhat glad this time. Harry wondered why.

After light hearted conversation through the first course of hare soup with sourdough bread and the main course of roasted pheasant, mince pies and stewed mushrooms, Harry sensed a pause as dessert was brought out.

"Are you sure you won't reconsider coming to Seven Sisters?" Horace asked.

Over the past two weeks, Harry received a fair share of stares as the rumor of his planned absence spread through the school. Like with the rumors following Goldwin's birthday party, the most traditionalist and reformist students supported Harry's decision while the others grumbled bitterly. Particularly offended were sons of political dynasties such as third-year Ravenclaw Bartemius Crouch, as the British ministry felt much more vulnerable to accusations of "stolen valor" without their world-famous war baby to parade about.

"Tom and I will observe Samhain here, together," Harry said as he dug into his parfait.

"You will be two of the very few students remaining behind," Horace noted. "Of our house, Burke is the only other not going, and his father is far the most reputable character."

"Well, I doubt anyone will accuse me of mourning Grindelwald's defeat," Harry laughed.

"They might, in time," Horace suggested solemnly.

"What, Ministry egos are that fragile?" Harry scoffed. "Or is this about Potter?"

"Word has been traveling about pureblood circles. Word that the Evans family might claim itself as a bastard branch of the fallen House of Gaunt," Horace warned.

"Oh, the contempt! You'd think these families didn't fork over vault-sized dowries to marry their daughters into the bloodline of Peverell and Slytherin," Harry ridiculed.

"That was when House Gaunt held power," Horace said. "Now Tom is all that remains of its legacy."

"And I'd sooner join Tom than any of their houses," Harry scorned. "Especially an offshoot of a cadet branch of House Black. I wouldn't even be a name on their oh-so glorious tapestry, just a 'one son' underneath Dorea and Charlus Potter. And at the cost of my mother?"

"They won't ask you to renounce your mother," Horace emphasized. "They could never erase her, nor are they attempting to. They endeavor to mend broken bridges, an increasingly rare aspiration in our society."

"They want to mend Pollux's broken pride, you mean," Harry snorted. "Arcturus doubtlessly mentions Dorea's barren womb in every argument he and Pollux have."

"I'm not suggesting you should like the elder Blacks, or that you should forgive your father for ignoring you all these years," Horace clarified. "But you have the opportunity to reclaim your birthright: the Potter abode and a veritable mound of gold. Furthermore, I have it on good authority that your father would be amenable to you taking the name Evans-Potter."

"You've been communicating with him directly," Harry responded coolly.

"As your godfather, it is my duty to ensure your success," Horace maintained. "I understand your concerns—believe me, I do. But I cannot in good conscience recommend that you pass on this offer. And I certainly cannot advise affiliation with the remnants of House Gaunt."

"Have the Gaunts not been the Slytherin silver standard for centuries?" Harry posed.

"Times change," Horace sighed. "The devastation of Grindelwald's war invited a critical eye on families once considered beyond reproach. Families that for all their power and splendor, built their identity on muggle hatred, blood purism, and the dark arts."

"You've never suggested Tom keep quiet about his heritage," Harry raised. "When he and I found his ring, you were the first to suggest he go before the Wizengamot."

"To name himself a Peverell-Slytherin descendent," Horace countered. "Tom's illustrious ancestors are removed enough from the present that their legendary contributions to magic outweigh their dark deeds. But the Gaunts? Their centuries-long saga of vanity and violence ended when Marvolo Gaunt died alone in Azkaban, unmourned and unmissed."

"It's only a rumor that he killed his brothers to marry his sister," Harry defended the alleged kinslayer.

"The very fact such a rumor could spread, much less be accepted by most of Wizarding Britain, shows how sullied the Gaunt name is," Horace argued. "The Potters, at the other end of the wand, have long been on the right side of history. First with Ralston Potter, the most well-known author and advocate of the Statute of Secrecy. Then with Henry Potter, your own great-grandfather, who warned us that muggle world war would inevitably involve us, and that we must choose to engage proactively or reactively."

"Consider, also, the impact the Potters have on everyday life," Horace continued. "Your grandfather Fleamont invented Sleekeazy, the most popular hair-grooming potion in the wizard world. And Potters' imprint on the potions field is so great that we owe them most of our restorative remedies, from bone mending to vision correction."

"My mother was your most accomplished potions student, not Charlus Potter," Harry raised.

"He loved her, you know," Horace said softly. "Though I have criticized your father, I don't doubt that had his parents supported his choice, Charlus would have married your mother. And both Fleamont and Euphemia regretted pushing for a noble marriage in the end."

"Only once they realized the Potter name dies with their son," Harry ground out.

"Harry…" Horace attempted.

"You say the old flea regretted pushing for a 'noble' marriage?" Harry questioned. "How could he regret a time-worn Potter tradition? Through the generations, Potters married a number of witches of pretty pedigrees, even if none brought any remarkable talent into the lineage. At least House Gaunt judged merit by magic. It's their very motto: 'Magic is Might'."

"Harry, I beg you to reconsider…" Horace attempted again.

"I don't care about the gossip of jealous fools," Harry determined. "I choose the one who has always chosen me before all others. I choose Tom."

Harry finished his parfait in silence, thanked his godfather for the meal, then departed to spend the evening with his cousin. There were a number of hours till daybreak to practice martial magic, self transfiguration, spiritual projection, and other magick well beyond the curriculum.