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How can they live like this? Tom wondered to himself with a sneer. The rows of identical houses with their neat hedges were almost painful to look at in their bid for suburban normalcy.

"Four Privet Drive," he said out loud. He was still enjoying the sensation of having his own voice back. "Four Privet Drive, Magnolia Crescent, Little Whinging, Surrey." He narrowed his eyes at the houses. Which bloody one was it?

He sighed. Apparently he'd actually have to look. It was no good using a "point-me" spell, he realized. Curtains were twitching in windows as nosy people attempted to catch a glimpse of the well-dressed stranger in the middle of the sidewalk.

That's Number Eight/, he thought to himself. And there's Number Six./ He strode down past the two houses and up to the tidy white door of Four Privet Drive. He could feel the prickle of wards meant to keep him out, and smirked. He meant the boy no harm. The wards would simply be uncomfortable.

A prim woman with a long neck and blond hair pulled into a bun answered the door. "May I help you?" she asked suspiciously, eyeing his expensive-looking, if outdated, overcoat and trousers.

"Pardon me, Madam," he said, smooth as you please. "My name is Thomas Peverell. I need to speak with you. Might I come inside?" He sketched a minute bow.

She smiled and bobbed her head in what appeared to be her idea of a gracious manner. "Of course, Mister Peverell," she said politely. "Do come in out of the cold."

As Tom stepped over the lintel into the warm hall, the woman yelled shrilly, "Vernon! We have a guest!"

Tom winced. What a voice/, he thought acidly. /She sounds more like a shrewish bitch than she would like to pretend.

A corpulent muggle man with a large moustache stamped out of the kitchen. "Vernon Dursley," he said heartily. "And you are?"

"Thomas Peverell. I need to speak to you and your wife rather badly."

"Fine, fine," the muggle man-Dursley-said. "Come sit in the living room, will you?"

Tom nodded and followed Dursley, looking about him speculatively. There were family portraits everywhere...of only three people. The Potter boy had black hair, he recalled, gazing at a photograph of an overweight blond boy on a bicycle.

"Our son Dudley," the woman said proudly. "He's a fine boy, isn't he?"

"Mmm." Tom made a noncommittal noise and took a seat.

"What was it you needed to talk to us about, Mister Peverell?" Dursley asked. He, too, had noticed the fine cut of Tom's clothing, and had a gleam of avarice in his eye.

"I have spent the past eight years tracking down family members," Tom started. "I finally found a lead a month ago that led me here." He paused, noting the uneasy looks on the Dursleys' faces. "A boy, Harry Potter is his name."

"Harry? What do you want with our nephew?" the woman said tensely.

Tom shrugged artlessly. "He is an orphan, much like myself. I have a home and a fortune to devote to raising a boy with all the attention that he needs."

"He gets what he needs here," Dursley said aggressively. "We took him in, and we raise him as we raise our Dudley."

"I'm sure you do," Tom soothed. "I also understand the difficulties of splitting attention between your son and your nephew. It can be hard, I'm sure." He gave the Dursley woman an earnest look. "I would like to speak with the boy, at least."

"He's out playing with friends," she said abruptly. "He won't be home until suppertime."

Tom scented a lie on the air, and settled into the armchair more comfortably. "I can wait," he said implacably.

"We've things to do," Dursley said. He stood. "I'm afraid you'll have to leave." His face was firm, but his eyes were anxious.

Tom slid his wand out of his sleeve. "I think not," he said.

The Dursleys paled.

"No," he continued. "I think you'll tell me where my young relative is, right now. I will be taking the boy, whether you like it or not."

"He's not here!" the woman screeched.

A thump came from the stairwell. The Dursleys exchanged panicked glances.

"And what was that, might I enquire?" Tom asked.

"Th-the cat," Dursley croaked. "She sets up quite a ruckus sometimes-"

The thumping grew louder.

"You lie, muggles," Tom said. He stood and strode out the living room and flung open the cupboard door. A small, skinny boy with messy black hair tumbled out at his feet.

"You don't want to take him," the woman said quickly. "He's disturbed, he's disobedient-"

"I am not," the boy said hotly. He looked up at Tom. "Are you really going to take me away?" His eyes were pleading.

Tom felt full of a cold fury he hadn't possessed for years. "Muggles," he hissed at the terrified Dursleys. "How dare you lock a child in a cupboard. You disgust me. You claim to be raising him. This /abuse/," he spat, "ends now."

The boy scrambled to his feet, adjusting his sellotaped glasses on his face. His bright green eyes gleamed with excitement.

"Imperio!" Tom intoned coldly, pointing his wand first at Dursley, then at the wife. "You will call the authorities in an hour, reporting the disappearance of your nephew. You will not hide or deny that you abused him."

They nodded mechanically, expressions vacant.

Tom looked down at the boy. "It's time to vanish you, Harry Potter," he said calmly. "You're a Peverell now."

The boy looked up at him and beamed.

**

"Why were you in that cupboard, boy?" Tom asked, striding down Diagon Alley toward Gringotts. Harry trotted at his side, a conjured hat pulled over his hair.

"I turned my teacher's hair blue, sir," he said promptly. He grinned, and ducked his head. "She didn't believe me about Dudley hitting me at recess. I got mad."

Tom snorted. "I think I like you, boy," he said. He opened the heavy bank doors and ushered the child inside.

"That's good," the boy said, relief clear on his face. "I mean-" he faltered. "If you like me, you won't send me, back, right?"

Tom growled. "I'll not be sending you back to that dumping ground for the dregs of muggle humanity," he snapped. "You are family, closer than, in a way. You're my charge to protect and raise now."

He rapped his knuckles on the counter in front of one of the goblins, ignoring the boy's wide-eyed stare.

"Yes?" the goblin teller drawled.

"We are here to freeze an account," Tom said coolly, politely. "Privacy is needed for our transactions."

"I see," the goblin said. "I'll let Snagfang know he has customers." He beckoned to the two wizards to follow him into a small room.

Tom and Harry discovered that Snagfang was a whipcord-lean goblin in pince-nez and an embroidered satin waistcoat.

"How might I be of assistance, Wizard?" Snagfang asked as they settled into the cozy private office.

"We're freezing Harry Potter's account," Tom said. He nodded to Harry, who removed the hat.

Snagfang raised a hairy eyebrow. "Well now. May I ask why you are making such a move?"

Tom leaned back in his chair. "Harry Potter is a relation of mine. I, in turn, am reclaiming my ancestral name of Peverell, and adopting him."

The goblin's eyes widened. "Peverell? Peverell, that spawned the Gaunt line?" He swore in Gobbledygook quietly. "So that's how it is, eh?"

Tom nodded, a thin smile on his lips. "I trust you will keep this confidential, Snagfang? After all, I would hate to find a new manager for the family accounts."

"A goblin understands money, Wizard," Snagfang told him, "and power. You and your ward have both." He reached into the desk and pulled out a form and a quill. "I shall freeze the Potter accounts until the boy comes of age. Your access to the Peverell accounts is dependent on the vault accepting your blood." He held out a knife and a small gold key. "Smear a few drops on there, Wizard."

Tom drew the blade quickly across the pad of his thumb, and squeezed it to bring his blood to the surface. Harry watched, fascinated, as the blood dripped onto the teeth of the key and, with a hiss, were absorbed by the metal.

Snagfang smiled widely, revealing all his pointy teeth. "Congratulations...Mister Peverell." He snapped his fingers, and the newly filled out form disappeared into a file cabinet in the back. "And young Master Peverell, as well." He bowed slightly from his seat.

Tom inclined his head. "It is good to be back in England," he said in satisfaction.

"One might assume it is good to be back at all," Snagfang replied with sharp humor.

Tom laughed. "That it is." They stood and shook hands, Harry jumping up from his seat a beat later. "I shall take one of your chequebooks," he said. "And then the boy and I will leave."

Snagfang handed over a thick chequebook and a fancy leather cover. "Go in prosperity, Peverell," he said to Tom.

"May your path be rich," Tom answered. He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder and steered him out of the office.

"I don't suppose you've ever apparated before," Tom sighed, looking down at his new charge. What had he been thinking? Still, he felt the lingering anger at the muggles, and remembered the sight of the boy falling from the cupboard onto his feet.

Harry shook his head. "No, sir." He looked up quizzically. "What is it?"

"Apparating is moving from one place to the next instantly." Tom wrapped an arm around the boy's bony shoulders and pulled him close. "It'll feel like a tube is squeezing you for a moment. Hold on tight to my waist."

He closed his eyes and, with a crack, took them to the Riddle House.

"Wow," Harry whispered, peering around the main hall. "It's so big."

"Indeed," Tom said dryly. "Come, boy, let's set you up in a room."

The boy whirled and stared at him in wonder. "I get a room?" he exclaimed. "A room, like Dudley has?"

Tom sneered. "Forget the muggles, boy," he said sharply. "You are better than those pigs that raised you. You will have a room of your own, clothes of your own, food of your own." He raised his eyebrow at the boy. "You will not be a servant here."

The boy-Harry, he reminded himself-flung his arms around Tom's waist in a brief, tight hug. "Thank you," he said happily. "Thank you, thank you!"

Tom coughed, and the boy let go, blushing. "Your room is upstairs," Tom continued, as if nothing had happened. His chest felt tight. "I'll show you to it."

He led the boy up the wide wooden stairs and down the hall. "This is my bedroom," he pointed out. "Should you need me, knock." Harry nodded. "Your room is here, past the library." He smiled faintly at the spark of interest in Harry's eyes.

"This is fantastic, sir," Harry breathed, standing motionless at the doorway of his bedroom. The light cream walls were lined with dark bookshelves holding volumes of both literature and spellwork. The bed, a large four-poster in the same dark wood, boasted a soft coverlet in dark blue, with sheets and pillows that matched the walls. A heavy wool rug lay on the floor before the wide fireplace. An open door in the adjacent wall led to an en-suite bathroom with a shower.

"It is what you should have grown up with," Tom said evenly, trying to control his temper. It was difficult watching the boy he'd imagined to be spoiled act so much like him at that age. "This, or something similar."

Harry walked in tentatively, stroking the spines of the books along the shelves, then gingerly touching the lofty bedspread.

"Wash up for dinner," Tom said firmly. "I'll expect you downstairs in ten minutes." He waved his wand at the boy's clothing and it shrank to fit his skinny frame.

"Yessir," Harry said quickly. He rushed to the bathroom. Tom stood in the doorway for another minute, and then turned to see to dinner.

**

"Sir?" Harry asked, moving the asparagus spears around on his plate. "Can I ask you a question?"

Tom took a sip of wine. "You may," he corrected calmly.

"What was the stuff you were doing with that stick? It looked like magic-everyone says magic isn't real, but I think it is-is it? And what are muggles? What were those people in the bank?"

Tom held up a hand to stop the flow of words. "One question, Harry?" he asked, mildly amused. Harry blushed. "To answer you, I was doing magic, and it is not a stick, it is a wand. Magic is very real. Muggles," he sneered, "are non-magical people. Some are decent, as I've learned through my travels, but there are many like your old family, who have no problem with locking children in closets and killing people for stupid reasons."

Harry nodded, thoughtful. "That makes sense, sir," he said. "Are wizards like that too?"

"Wizards would never abuse their children," Tom said firmly. "Such a thing is so taboo in our culture, we're shocked when muggleborn wizards and witches-magic people born to muggle families-have violent tendencies toward their spouse or child. They aren't raised in our culture; they don't understand the world they've entered."

"Am I muggleborn, sir?" Harry asked. He looked worried.

"No, Harry," Tom reassured him. "Your father was the only son of a long line of wizards-a pureblood family. Your mother was one of the few muggleborn witches worth her magic."

Harry sighed with relief, then looked at him sharply. "So, they didn't die in a car crash?"

Tom looked into his wine glass, hoping to find a good answer. Don't ask me that just yet, he begged Harry mentally. "No," he said simply. "They didn't die in a car crash."

"How did they die, then?" asked Harry, eyes alight with curiosity.

Here goes nothing, Tom thought gamely. "There was a war in the Wizarding world," he started. "There were two factions. One faction wished to introduce muggle ways and ideas into the culture. The other sought to preserve Wizarding culture and traditions before the muggleborns wiped them out with their ignorance. The war was increasingly bloody, and ideals were taken to extremes as time dragged on."

"So, my parents were killed in the war?" Harry concluded.

"Yes," Tom said. He braced himself. "They fought on the side opposing the faction I fought for. They died protecting you."

Harry looked down at his plate. "Oh," he said in a small voice. "Wh-who killed them, then?"

Tom said quietly, "It is my great regret to say that I did, Harry." Please accept it, he thought. "As I said, I consider us closer than relatives. I had the childhood that I gave you. It has been eight years since I've been in England. We are bound together, boy, by fate and parallel lines." He placed his index finger under the boy's chin and raised his face to meet his eyes. "Please allow me to make amends for what I have done to you."

"I-I need to think," Harry said softly. He blinked rapidly behind his broken glasses.

Tom removed his hand and turned back to his meal. "That's all I ask."

**

Knock. Knock-knock.

Tom sat up in bed and called out sleepily, "Yes?"

The door cracked open, and Harry slipped into the darkened bedroom.

"What is it, Harry?" Tom asked. "Couldn't sleep?"

Harry shook his head. "I was thinking."

"And?" Tom prompted.

"I don't know everything you did," Harry said. "But even if you killed my mum and dad, it was a war, right?"

Tom nodded. "Yes, it was."

"And you took me from the Durs-I mean, the muggles," Harry continued. "And you gave me a bedroom. And you gave me food." He sighed. "If you say you want me to be Harry Peverell, or whoever, I reckon it's a sight better than who Harry Potter was."

Tom smiled and patted his shoulder paternally. "In that case, Harry," he said, yawning, "You ought to call me Uncle Thomas."

Harry smiled back shyly. "Yes, sir-Uncle Thomas." He stood up. "Sorry for waking you. Good night!"

"Good night, Harry," Tom called back. "Sleep well."

He lay his head back down on the pillow and stared blankly at the dark ceiling, pondering the strange twist his life had taken.