In one way, this part of the story delves into events from the first book. But there will be elements from other books in the series that crop up, too, because … well, that's just kind of how it worked out.

I think it's interesting, how everything shook out.

I hope you enjoy heading to school.

One.

None of the select few who knew Thomas Gaunt's identity were surprised to see him sorted into Slytherin, nor was it out of line for Harry Potter to end up in Gryffindor. It was foretold. What was surprising, at least to everyone but Sirius, was when Merope Gaunt was placed in Hufflepuff. To their eternal credit, her new housemates weren't upset, or even especially surprised, to see a grown woman—nearly thirty years old—join their ranks. They welcomed her the same way they would have welcomed anyone.

Sirius watched her sit down at the table with the other Hufflepuffs; he was quite sure that she'd already decided that every single one of these children were hers now. She smiled, laughed, ruffled their hair, with all the innate gentleness of a mother deer, and Sirius couldn't help but wonder what power was waiting for the right moment to show itself.

A few Slytherins started snickering and whispering to themselves over Merope, but it quickly died down.

Thomas Gaunt was small for his age, and he generally preferred to fade into the background, to be quiet and unassuming; he liked to observe rather than inject himself into any given situation. However, when the subject was his mother's honor, he was as fierce as any serpent to come before him, and Sirius thought he spied a few slick little hexes being tossed this way and that.

More than one Slytherin student found their bowl of soup blasted into their faces.

Sirius laughed to himself. "He'll be a menace," he said.

"I believe that's the worry," Minerva murmured softly.

Sirius shrugged. "Let's not pretend that this school doesn't treasure its rulebreakers," he said. "We all know the very best of us never followed rules." He winked. "Look at me. I made history that way, didn't I?"

"If you aren't careful, Sirius," Minerva said, "your ego will inflate your head too much. You won't be able to enter your own classroom."

Sirius flashed a toothy grin. "What can I say? There are benefits to knowing certain people."

"We shall see, Sirius. We shall see."

A third-year Slytherin boy stood up, glaring down at Thomas's head, then made to move closer and promptly tripped over his own shoelaces.

Sirius threw his head back and laughed.

Two.

Thomas Gaunt was the only Slytherin that Ron Weasley seemed able to tolerate, and this was only because he'd asked about the Chudley Cannons upon their first meeting. So it was that Thomas would sit with Harry and Ron in the morning, for breakfast, despite proudly wearing the trappings of his own house.

"They aren't suspicious? They don't wonder what you're up to over here?" Ron asked one morning, during their second week.

"I told them I met Harry before school," Thomas said, "and that I was going to use my history with him to spy on you." He gestured to the Slytherin table, behind him. "So far, they haven't accused me of making things up. I was sure they'd start to suspect me when I mentioned you lot kept sphinxes in your tower and rode them around the castle at night."

Ron snorted laughter.

Thomas turned to glance at the Hufflepuff table, where his mother was engaged in passionate conversation with three girls. The boys couldn't hear anything, but even from this distance they could see the sparkle in Merope's eyes. Thomas smiled.

"You and your mum are from an old family, right?" Ron asked.

Thomas turned back, already nodding. "The Gaunts," he said. "We're one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, for . . . whatever that's worth." The dismissive way he said it immediately endeared him further to the youngest Gryffindor of the Weasley family. Thomas tilted his head to one side. "I believe the Weasleys are, too. Aren't they?"

"Sure," said Ron, "but Mum and Dad always say it doesn't matter much."

Thomas nodded. "Harry and me, we're what's called half-blood."

"Both my parents used magic," Harry said, "but my mum was Muggleborn."

Ron took this information in stride, clearly marking it only as a bit of interesting trivia; his opinion of his newest friends hadn't changed in the slightest. Harry had known for a long time that the Weasleys didn't put much—any—stock in blood purity, but it was still nice to have it reaffirmed in public.

"My father has no magic," Thomas said.

"Was he surprised to find out you were coming here?" Ron wondered.

"Mama explained everything," Thomas said.

This was all he would say on the matter. There was something about the way he said it, a kind of grim finality, that told Ron to drop the subject. Harry, who knew the truth about where—and when—Thomas had come from, wondered if Thomas's father was even alive anymore.

The conversation moved on to different topics, and the three boys finished their meal.

Three.

If anyone had asked him, Sirius would have admitted that it wouldn't surprise him to learn that Thomas Gaunt spent much of his free time seeking out the rifts and rips in magic and reality by Kafell's spell-work. Thomas was, after all, still the same boy who would have become Lord Voldemort; no matter what anyone thought about the man, he'd always been a visionary.

He went to his classes, he did his homework, he watched Quidditch. Thomas did all the things that a new student at Hogwarts might be expected to do, and this was the reason most of the faculty never noticed what he was doing in his spare time. Dumbledore knew, because Dumbledore had always known—there was no world in which he wouldn't pay close attention to every step this boy took—but he didn't intervene. Whether this was because Dumbledore trusted Thomas not to get into trouble, or because he had more important things to worry about, was difficult to tell.

But it was the second thing.

So it was that one evening, when all the other members of his dormitory were asleep, Thomas Gaunt tracked down a fae rift and stepped inside it. If asked, he wouldn't have been able to explain what caused him to choose this one but, in the moment, he knew it was correct; he knew he ought to do it.

Something pulled him that way.

Something told him it was important.

Once through the rift in reality—which Dumbledore and his Order of the Phoenix spent every free moment tracking down and closing—Thomas found himself in another space entirely, a place he'd never seen before. If he'd ever used a Portkey before, he might have thought to compare the experience to using one; if he'd ever apparated before, he definitely would have thought to compare the experience. However, Thomas Gaunt had no experience with either of these things, and so he didn't bother to think too much past its function at all.

He could have told his mother; he could have told Sirius Black.

Somehow, though, Thomas knew that either one of them would have stopped him.

Well, Merope would have stopped him.

She would have recognized where her son was, after his . . . trip. She would have been intimately familiar with the high grass, infested with weeds and other detritus, in the yard. She would have known the house, the shack, shoddy and unkempt, barely more than termite-infested planks held together by spite.

Thomas, knowing none of these things, stepped lightly into the Gaunt family home.

When he found the ring, hidden beneath the floorboards in the family room, Thomas didn't know what he was looking at. He didn't know what a horcrux was, nor did he understand the implications of one; all the same, he was drawn to the ring.

He knew that this ring's home was on his finger . . . or oblivion.

The same intuition and mad confidence that pushed Thomas Gaunt into the portal in the first place, made him slide it onto his finger; even though it didn't fit—it was sized for a man's finger, after all—it still felt familiar. It felt nostalgic.

He didn't recognize the figure that appeared in front of him, hanging in the air.

And yet . . . didn't he?

"Hello, Papa."

Four.

The wispy, glowing figure of Tom Riddle stared down at the boy who looked so much like him. "You know me," he said, "and yet I do not know you."

"My name is Thomas," said the boy. "You are my father. I am from a different place, where things went a different way. Do you remember my mama? Merope Gaunt."

Recognition, and more than a little fondness, crossed the spirit's face.

"I remember Merope."

"I think," said Thomas, "in this world that you're from, I killed you. The me from this world, I mean. He is a different man, with a different history, and he hates you for abandoning him." Thomas gestured. "I understand what happened between you and Mama. You never promised to stay with her. She never asked you to stay with her."

"You speak true," said Tom Riddle. "I still find it difficult to blame the boy who killed me. How was he to know the truth? He had many words for me, before he turned his magic upon me. He mentioned that his mother was dead." The spirit looked wistful. "It is good that she lives, wherever you are from, Thomas."

Thomas nodded. "I agree," he said. He smiled, feeling tears burn his eyes.

"I think the Merope Gaunt that I knew, the woman who died for the boy who killed me, would be quite proud if she could meet you. I think it would help her move on, help her heal from all the hardships she faced. It would be good for her to see what you might have become."

Some part of Thomas understood, on a primeval level, that he shouldn't listen anymore.

He knew this, somehow.

"I'm sorry, Papa," said Thomas Gaunt. "I can't help the woman you knew, and I can't help you. I have too much to do. It was good to see you. Goodbye."

He removed the ring from his finger, slipped it into a pocket, and left the shack without hesitation.