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Albus doesn't know why he'll be spending Christmas with his dad and his dad's… Is 'boyfriend' even the right word? Especially since Lily and James will be staying at the Burrow with Mum, just like every other year.
But then, of course, there are many things Albus doesn't know.
Not because he's stupid, however. No, on the contrary, he's pretty bright for a ten-year-old boy.
It's just that people often don't tell him stuff. They forget to mention it, or they purposely keep it to themselves for his sake or—more commonly—their own.
It always causes so much fuss when he asks for clarification too, so he doesn't anymore.
He hates being a bother, you see. His parents have enough on their plates without having to answer a bunch of dumb questions.
On days like today, when adjusting to all these changes is particularly hard, Albus can't help wondering whether the divorce is partly his fault.
Well, his and Lily's, but mainly his. He's the middle child. He should be a bit less juvenile and a lot less shy. He's Harry Potter's son, lest we forget. A certain amount of bravery is expected.
Maybe if he were more like James, then…
On those rare occasions when the topic crops up despite Albus' best efforts to avoid it, his dad is always quick to reassure him that the reasons for the break-up have nothing whatsoever to do with him, or with his brother and sister.
"You'll understand when you're older, son. Sometimes grown-ups… Well, your mum and I were still so young when we got married; too young, really, and we had all these unresolved… problems stemming from the war and… In a nutshell, that's why we couldn't make it work; the marriage, I mean. You're not to blame and neither is James or Lily, and we do still love you, both of us."
Albus always smiles then, even though his heart isn't in it.
If his parents still love him, both of them in equal measure, then how come he has to join his father and move into that scary old house in Little Hangleton? The place may have been restored and redecorated—supposedly, some parts were even rebuilt from the ground up—but it's no less daunting for it. Albus gets chills every time he stands in front of that solid wooden front door and gazes up at the gargoyles perched above it. With their narrow eyes, they look right back at him, heir beaks open in a half-sneer, as though they're mocking his predicament.
Albus runs a small, clammy hand through his wild dark hair, and glances around his old room for what he knows will be the last time. He sighs deeply.
Christmas, of that he is quite certain, is going to be anything but merry this year.
******
Albus' first evening at Riddle House is incredibly awkward.
His dad tries to make pleasant conversation at dinner, even suggests some nice things they could do together the following day.
"With all that snow, wouldn't it be brilliant to go for a sleigh ride tomorrow afternoon, Al? There's a magnificent forest bordering the village. Maybe we'll even get lucky and spot a deer or two."
There is no response; only a loaded silence that lingers.
Sensing the Lord of the Manor's scrutinising gaze upon him, Albus doesn't dare utter a word. All the different shapes and sizes of knives and forks confuse him, and his mashed potatoes are so difficult to swallow, they might as well be shards of glass.
******
Albus doesn't sleep well that night.
The few short naps he does manage to catch are filled with terrible dreams that leave him frantic and shaking.
He misses his mum, and his little sister.
He even misses James.
Above all, though, he misses home, and he can't understand, not for the life of him, why he was sent here.
Whatever did he do wrong to make his mum so angry with him?
******
Early the next morning—it can't be any later than seven—Albus tiptoes down the regal staircase.
He gave up trying to sleep and decided to fetch a glass of milk from the kitchen. Riddle's elf seemed nice enough when they were introduced, so hopefully she won't mind him disturbing her if she's already in there, cooking breakfast.
Albus is just about to sneak through the hallway when suddenly a familiar voice coming from a small sitting room stops him dead in his tracks.
"What? He's her son, too. Are you quite certain you didn't somehow misinterpret what she said?"
Albus gulps. Are they talking about him?
"Yes," comes the solemn response. "There was nothing to misinterpret, Tom. She doesn't want to see him, and Lily…" Albus hears a sharp intake of breath. "Lily can't come over on Boxing Day, not even for an hour. Ginny thinks…"
"Go on."
"She-She's scared of him."
Humourless laughter echoes through the small room and resonates out into the hallway. "He's just a little boy, Potter. What frightening things does she expect him to do? What sort of terrible evil could he possibly unleash at ten years old? From the way he was fidgeting last night at dinner, I was beginning to worry he might wet himself."
The other man sighs. "Ginny's problem…" He takes another deep breath. "The problem is that Al reminds her of you, apparently. A lot."
"Of me?" Riddle laughs again. "That's ludicrous! She was the one who gave birth to him, and I was still…."
"In custody," comes the reply, muttered so quietly Albus almost doesn't hear.
"Enjoying the Ministry's special brand of hospitality. Quite. So…"
An ominous silence follows.
Albus is just about to leave, flee to the relative safety of his room as quickly and as quietly as he can before the loud thumping of his heart gives him away, when Riddle speaks again.
"It's a good thing you fell for me in the end, Potter. Your habit of getting romantically entangled with unstable women was disconcerting at best."
Albus doesn't stick around to hear what his dad has to say to that.
******
Just after lunch, Harry Potter is called away on urgent Auror business.
Thus, the half-promised sleigh ride doesn't happen.
Feeling too nervous to interact with the strange, sinister man he's left with, Albus decides to retreat to his room and read; a Muggle adventure story about four children and a dog.
He practically knows the entire series of books by heart now, but that doesn't matter. Re-reading the tales is comforting and familiar. Doing so takes him to a world he knows far better and likes a lot more than this place.
When Albus summons the elf for a glass of pumpkin juice, he has to remind himself not to wonder whether Mum will firecall him today.
He already know she won't; not today, nor tomorrow.
******
Engrossed in his book, Albus doesn't realise how late it has become until a knock at his door makes him look up and a quick glance through the high windows learns him that it's already quite dark outside, the only light coming from the thick blanket of snow that covers the massive lawn.
"Yes?" he yells, and sits up from where he was lying on his belly on the bed. Has his dad returned at last?
No such luck.
Tom Riddle saunters into the room, a calculating smirk on his pale face. "There you are, Albus Severus," he says matter-of-factly.
"I-It's just 'Al'," the boy blurts out, quickly adding a "Sir" for good measure.
Riddle raises an eyebrow. Without having been invited to, he takes a seat on the bed. "What is, young man?"
"M-My name, Mister Riddle. Just call me 'Al'. Please?"
Riddle frowns. "Albus Severus is a fine, distinguished name, young Potter. Your father named you after the two men he admired the most after the war, though, admittedly, in the case of the former one might be inclined to question his judgement; possibly even his soundness of mind."
Albus gulps. When in doubt, always agree, James once told him, and that advice definitely seems applicable here. "Y-Yes, Sir," he mutters.
Riddle flashes a toothy smile, the sight of which is nothing short of chilling. "I'll have dinner brought up to you," he states, "then you can carry on with your reading. However…" He pauses meaningfully.
"Yes?" Albus breathes.
"Perhaps it would be best not to make a habit of dining alone in your room. You know how important family meals are to your father. Or rather, I assume you're aware of this."
"Yes, Sir."
"Very well, then." Riddle rises to his feet again. "I'll ask Trinny to prepare you one of those"—he scrunches his nose up in disgust—"pizzas your father mentioned. And for Merlin's sake, do light a few more candles. Reading in the dark can be quite hazardous to a person's eyesight. You don't actually fancy the idea of wearing spectacles in a few years' time, do you?"
Before Albus finds the coherence, never mind the words, to reply, Riddle has already exited the spacious bedroom.
******
Albus remains in his room for the rest of the evening.
The elf's pizza isn't as delicious as the ones his granddad makes—there's too much broccoli, even some stems, oh yuck, and not nearly enough mozzarella cheese—but it's still quite tasty.
He puts his book down around nine p.m., feeling incredibly tired suddenly, and decides to go to bed.
When his father returns at a quarter to midnight, Albus is already sound asleep.
******
On his way to breakfast, just as he's about to open the dining room door, Albus pauses.
His father and Riddle are talking again, animatedly. It seems the topic of a sleigh ride has cropped up once more.
"Won't people stop and stare if we take four white horses and an antique sleigh through the village? Is doing so even allowed? Legally, I mean? I'd hate to get in trouble with the Muggle authorities and you know how our Ministry feels about Obliviating random onlookers, too…"
"Oh dear." Riddle's distinctive not-quite laughter fills the room and sends a chill up and down Albus' spine. "So, you fancy yourself a qualified Auror, do you, Potter?"
"W-What?"
"Please tell me you've actually heard of 'Notice-Me-Not' spells…"
The other man, clearly embarrassed, mumbles something unintelligible in response.
More laughter is heard, and from his hidden spot in the hallway, Albus can't but wonder why Riddle gets away with taunting Dad like this. No one else would, not in a million years.
Then Riddle speaks again. "It's about time your son graced us with his presence, isn't it? Does he tend to sleep in?"
"No. Not really. But… er… well, he didn't get much sleep these last few months. When the situation with Ginny exploded, he started having terrible nightmares and…" Harry sighs deeply.
"Hm. You might have informed me of this sooner, Potter."
"I-I never thought that…"
Riddle doesn't wait to hear the full explanation, if there is one. "I'll call Trinny to go and fetch him. Even in times of personal hardship, laziness oughtn't be encouraged."
Hearing those words, Albus starts running again, bolting up the stairs as fast as his legs allow.
When the elf arrives, he's tucked in bed; fully dressed, but luckily she doesn't notice.
******
Feigning enthusiasm to the best of his ability, Albus agrees to tag along for the outing.
It isn't as though he has much choice in the matter as far as he can see. His dad seems dead set on making this a jolly Christmas even if it kills them all, and as for Riddle… He's not the sort of man Albus would even dream of disobeying.
So they ride through the town, carefully avoiding Muggles and their many means of transportation, to finally arrive in the forest.
Gazing at frozen ponds and snow-covered pine trees in a quiet clearing, Albus snuggles a little closer to his dad, inhales the fresh winter air, and smiles.
Like this, he can almost ignore the tall, thin man sitting on the other side of his father. Like this, he can almost pretend nothing has really changed.
******
Just before dinner, another urgent call comes.
The junior Auror, whose face appears in the fireplace, is extremely apologetic, but still insists on Harry Potter's immediate presence.
"No one here has the skills to handle this situation, Sir. This bloke, he-he's dangerous, reckons he's something of a necromancer, except he's clearly not a very good one because some of the things he's brought back… and I have to stress 'things', Sir. Those… creatures, they—well, I'll spare you the gruesome details in front of your little boy, but it's a lot worse than we expected… It's a bloody carnage, Sir!"
"All right," Harry says simply and hurries off to change.
Albus feels himself deflate on the spot. Having to spend another evening alone with Riddle—and the elf—isn't a pleasant prospect, and just when his day was going so well, too…
He wonders whether he could just stay in his room again, but he suspects that might upset his dad if he hears about it. No, when he does. Riddle doesn't seem the type of man who'd keep a secret for anyone's sake but his own.
So, with a heavy heart, Albus ventures downstairs that evening.
Riddle is waiting for him in the dining room. "Your father told me you like roast beef and Yorkshire puddings," he says, gesturing towards the table. "We also have mashed potatoes, peas and carrots."
Albus nods slowly. The food looks appetising, though it's probably nowhere near as good as his gran's cooking.
******
Dinner is surprisingly nice, until Riddle asks the dreaded question. "Are you looking forward to starting Hogwarts next year?"
"Yes," Albus mumbles, because clearly that's what's expected of him, even as he's forced to wonder for the umpteenth time why random adults always take such an interest in his future schooling. Or do they enjoy taunting him with the reminder that his so-called freedom will be over soon? Perhaps he should respond in kind, ask them whether they're looking forward to returning to work the following day. Of course, that would be more the sort of thing James would do. Albus is too timid to snap back at people. He didn't inherit the Weasley temperament, you see.
"Hm." Riddle takes a sip from his red wine. Albus doesn't know what kind it is, but the bottle on the table looks expensive. "You sound neither convinced nor convincing."
Albus tries to shrug off the comment, but Riddle is a lot more persistent than the average person.
"Is there any particular reason why you're less than eager to start your studies?" he asks. "Your father tells me you're quite bright, and you seem to enjoy reading as well, if the suitcases full of books you brought along are any indication, so am I right in assuming it isn't the curriculum you find off-putting?"
"Well…" Albus takes a deep breath. He would really rather not say, but he can't exactly tell Riddle to shove off, can he? That would be terribly rude, for one thing, and it would upset Dad, too. Riddle seems to make Dad happy, or at least less miserable, even if Albus can't for the life of him comprehend how or why.
Riddle crosses his arms. "Yes?"
"It's…. er… James, my brother, he…" Albus swallows hard and then blurts out, "He keeps telling me I'm going to be sorted into Slytherin."
Riddle sneers. "And what, pray tell, Albus Severus, would be wrong with that?" he asks in a tone Albus might have described as 'brusque'. That is, if he knew the word, but he doesn't, so he settles for 'snippy' instead.
"W-Well," comes the stammered response, "uncle Ron always says that every wizard in Slytherin is destined to go bad."
"Does he now?" Riddle shakes his head. "Well, your father did tell me that Hermione Granger used to be the brains of the operation. It's highly unfortunate that over the years, none of that intelligence seems to have rubbed off on her husband."
"You were in Slytherin," Albus exclaims before he can stop himself, "and you went Dark, didn't you?"
Riddle's eyes widen.
Albus clamps a hand over his mouth. He probably shouldn't have said that. No, definitely not. "I-I'm sorry," he adds quickly. "I-I didn't mean to be rude. It's just… Uncle Ron's not stupid and you were Lord … I mean…" He bites his lip to avoid spilling more nonsense he'll no doubt regret.
To Albus' amazement, Riddle doesn't seem angry, however. The man waves a dismissive hand and states plainly. "Never apologise for speaking your mind, Albus Severus, though you may wish to remember that ugly things are generally better received when they've been wrapped in tact first."
Albus gulps. He nods and decides not to say anything further. He should probably count himself lucky that he hasn't been hexed yet, or at the very least sent up to his room without dessert.
"Incidentally," Riddle continues, something odd and almost triumphant to his tone, "I sincerely doubt you have what it takes to make Slytherin."
Albus frowns. "How do you mean, Sir?" he ventures carefully.
"I see you as a Hufflepuff."
Albus' face drops.
"Now what is the problem?" Riddle demands, sounding either irritated or amused, perhaps a bit of both.
"James is going to pick on me even more if I'm in Hufflepuff," Albus mutters solemnly. "He'd never let me live that down. At least in Slytherin I'd be… I don't know… maybe I'd make some influential friends or something."
Riddle shakes his head. "Hufflepuffs are loyal, generous and some of them, remarkably intelligent in their own way. I could have done with more friends like that when I was still in school."
Albus frowns. Was that a compliment, or something else? Either way, the strange, sinister smile playing around Riddle's lips is enough to dissuade him from asking.
******
Much later that night, from what has become his usual hiding spot on the stairs, Albus overhears Riddle saying something about sibling rivalry, the eldest son undermining an innocent young boy's self esteem, perhaps even inflicting permanent psychological damage, and some other things.
He doesn't know what it all means, exactly—there are a lot of big, odd-sounding words and aunt Hermione isn't around to explain them to him—but he suspects James might be in for a bit of an earful from Dad when he comes over; if he's ever allowed to come over.
Albus grins.
******
The following morning, after an unexpectedly restful sleep, Albus goes down to breakfast. He feels… not exactly happy, but still a lot lighter, somehow. Perhaps he's slowly getting used to the place.
Riddle is already in the dining room, sitting at the head of the table and buttering a piece of toast.
Albus opens his mouth to ask where Dad is—please, not called away again—but he needn't bother.
"Your father decided to bring a Christmas tree into the house." Riddle picks up the newspaper and glances at the front page. "He went into the village to purchase one from a Muggle shop. I assume the two of you can decorate the thing together. I suspect I'll be too busy today."
Albus smiles at Trinny, who walks in with a warm plate of fried eggs and bacon.
******
A large, lavishly decorated tree with a big sparkly star on top sits in the corner of the living room.
No presents have been placed underneath it yet, but Albus isn't worried. There are still three more days to go until it's December 24. His dad is bound to think of something. He always does.
******
"Why don't you like Christmas?" Albus asks Riddle the following day at lunch. "Everyone else I know absolutely loves it."
It's just an attempt at making conversation, a way of showing interest, no harm intended, and Albus is feeling braver than usual ever since he got Hugo Weasley's card that morning. He takes the latter to mean that at least he didn't lose his best friend. Only his immediately family—Mum, James and even Lily, although she's probably too young to realise what's going on—would rather pretend he and Dad don't exist. Albus wonders whether he'll be hearing anything from his grandparents. Gran won't ignore him at Christmas, surely?
It's not Riddle, but Harry Potter who finally answers the question when the silence has lingered on for too long. "Tom grew up in an orphanage," he says, clearly uncomfortable with the subject.
Albus frowns. "Yes, I know," he replies, still oblivious to the thick tension in the room. "So wasn't it celebrated there then?"
Riddle sneers. "Oh, it certainly was. I never partook in the festivities myself, however."
"But why not?" Albus asks, genuinely baffled.
"Suffice to say there were some"—Riddle's voice is ice—"notable differences and… inevitable conflicts between the other children and myself."
"Differences?" Albus parrots. Then, suddenly, his eyes widen in understanding. "The other kids picked on you, didn't they?"
"Something along those lines, " Riddle replies and adds with another one of those sinister smiles, "Though rest assured, never for very long."
Albus turns his attention back to his plate, and makes his first resolution for the coming New Year; he shan't be asking his father's partner any more personal questions.
******
On the morning of December 24, a large package arrives at Riddle House.
It's a box from the Burrow, filled to the brim with goodies. There are even some of Molly Weasley's scrumptious home-made mince pies.
Albus almost does cartwheels at the sight, but the contents of the hamper, though quite wonderful, have very little do with that.
His grandparents haven't forgotten about him after all, and judging from the bottle of vintage Whiskey, they don't hold a grudge against his dad either.
There's no note from his mum, though, or any other indication that she and his siblings wish him a happy Christmas, too.
Albus tries not to be upset. He reminds himself to focus on the good things like Dad always tells him to do.
******
Albus is surprised when Riddle sits down for Christmas dinner, dressed in smart, formal robes. Dad is impressed too, if that smug grin is anything to go by.
Smiling widely, Trinny brings in the food. She's obviously in good spirits as well. Albus imagines she hasn't served a festive meal in years and is chuffed to finally be able to do so again.
She has certainly outdone herself with the cooking.
They start with soup and freshly baked bread rolls, and the main dish is everything a Christmas Eve meal should be: stuffed turkey baked with chestnuts, potatoes, mushrooms and parsnips. There are also Brussels sprouts, peas, carrots, parsnips and cranberry sauce.
Following his dad's example, Albus tucks in eagerly. Riddle takes small, delicate bites and doesn't touch the sweet sauce.
Not much is said during dinner, which is quite a change from the Christmas celebrations at the Burrow, where adults as well as children are chattering away the entire time, about every possible topic under the sun.
The silence isn't unpleasant, though.
In fact, since Albus moved here, he's begun to realise that quietness is in fact something he can appreciate. It's far easier to read, and even think, when there aren't a dozen relatives buzzing around his head like a colony of frantic flies.
After dessert, a rich chocolate cake, gifts are exchanged in front of the cosy, crackling fireplace in the living room.
Albus made drawings, as he usually does on these occasions. Dad says he should save his money and moreover, he really enjoys drawing. He likes to think he's pretty good at it, too, and contrary to what James says, it's not a girly hobby at all. Dean Thomas makes boatloads of money with his paintings, for one thing, and no one would dare call him a girl; not unless they fancy a head-on collision with the bloke's fist.
Albus bites his lip as he hands Riddle the colourful parchment depicting the front of his stately home.
Tom eyes the gargoyles with interest, possibly even approval, but it's never easy to tell with him.
Either way, Albus worked hard on that picture and it shows. The statues have turned out almost lifelike. When he stares at them long enough, they scare him nearly as much as their three-dimensional counterparts.
"Interesting," Riddle says at last. "You have a keen eye for art."
"Thanks," Albus replies, knowing this is the closest thing to a compliment he'll get from that man.
"Do you like snakes, Albus Severus?" Riddle continues.
The boy nods quickly. "I can't talk to them like Dad can, though. I haven't inherited that skill. None of us kids has."
Riddle smiles enigmatically, whispers something in Parseltongue, and within an instant, a small, colourful snake appears out of thin air into his right hand. He gently places the serpent in Albus' lap. "This is Ebenezer. I believe he'd like a friend."
Albus blinks, blushes, and then grins from ear to ear. "He's bloody brilliant! Thank you!" With that, he leaps up and throws his arms around Riddle's neck, only to quickly pull back again when he suddenly realises—remembers—with whom he's dealing here.
He waits a beat before he dares to look up again. To his immense relief, Riddle isn't angry, just a little… amused, perhaps?
"Dad, can I go play in my room with Ebenezer?" Albus blurts out.
Harry Potter smiles. "Of course, but don't you want to see my present first? I got you something, too, you know."
"Oh." The boy grins sheepishly. "Yeah. Sure. Sorry."
A box of books is pulled out from under the tree, along with some new crayons.
Albus says, "Thanks," kisses his father on the cheek and again asks to be excused.
"Of course," Harry Potter replies with a soft chuckle.
Holding the snake carefully—he may struggle with words and carry a very awkward conversation, but he's not all fingers and thumbs like his dad is—Albus runs up the stairs. In his excitement, he doesn't think to listen to the exchange in the living room.
******
"Thanks," Harry Potter whispers, his voice thick with emotion.
Tom Riddle gives a curt nod. "I told you he'd be fine, didn't I? Your former wife is and always has been a complete twit. She had him pegged as someone destined to go Dark… Him. Good grief, I daresay there's more chance of Trinny leading the first Great House Elf Rebellion."
Harry smiles despite himself and then mutters in a regretful tone, "Ginny never understood Albus. I think it's because he's so quiet; he's often off in his own head and he has some interests that are… out of the ordinary, I suppose. He likes snakes, rats and spiders. He talks about wanting to specialise in Potion-crafting later; either that or build a career in the arts, away from the wizarding world. He seems to have a special bond with animals as well. They tend to like him on sight. He's a remarkable lad, but I suppose, on the whole, she…"
"She considers him a threat because she can't work him out?"
Harry nods. "Something like that."
Tom shakes his head. "At least the boy's grandparents have more sense."
Harry doesn't say anything to that. He just reaches for the bottle and refills both their glasses; glad he decided to bring the wine in with him.
"For pity's sake, do stop brooding, Potter."
Harry blinks.
"This is a new beginning. There is no reason to behave as though someone has died. You and I, we shall raise the boy as our own. After all, since my great plans of immortality have been thwarted—no thanks to you, I might add—I believe I shall require an heir. So unless we can find a way to get you pregnant…"
Harry coughs, almost choking on the mouthful of wine he's attempting to swallow.
"Quite. So we'll raise Albus Severus as our son. Who knows? If the poisonous Weasley wench keeps shoving him away, I might even adopt him."
"W-Would that be possible?" Harry stammers. He ignores the insult directed at his ex-wife. He no longer sees any reason to defend her, or to make half-hearted excuses for her appalling behaviour.
Tom smirks. "You're Harry Potter. You convinced those cretins at the Ministry to set me free. You told them I was a Horcrux side effect and technically hadn't done anything wrong." He takes a sip from his wine and adds dryly, "I'd wager you could get pretty much anything accomplished if you truly set your mind to it."
Frowning in contemplation, Harry doesn't reply for a good few minutes. Then he raises his glass. "Er, Arthur always makes a toast on Christmas Eve. Maybe I, er, we ought to do the same?"
"Very well," Tom says, also raising his glass. "To what are we drinking?"
"Family?" Harry suggests.
"Family?" Tom parrots, not sounding terribly convinced.
"Well, yeah," Harry replies awkwardly. "You, me and Albus."
"Ah." Tom smiles one of those genuine smiles only Harry ever gets to see. "Very well. Family it is, then."
Harry smiles back and downs his glass. It's been an odd, turbulent year—a messy divorce, nasty accusations on both sides, and to top it all off, falling in love with the least likely person imaginable—but finally, things are looking up.
And this is only the first Christmas. Something about here and now tells him that the best is yet to come.