Chapter Text
Every night since that first night, Harry had taken up the inconvenient habit of sleeping in Tom’s bed. It was only inconvenient because Harry was privy to the hushed tones of gossipy maids, who woke him up while Harry was blissfully asleep and comfortably nestled in his old page’s bed. They noticed the homier, smaller bed—the disregarding of Harry’s old, more grandiose bed—and judging by their wide eyes and pursed lips, Harry knew his habit was being spread about the castle.
How he felt about that…he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t like he could do much anyway. Harry refused to sleep in his own bed—he had tried, once, since the first night, but he’d found himself staring lackadaisically up at the ceiling, his lips drawn, his eyes mournful and half-lidded, unable to sleep.
Harry isolated himself from the rest of the world. Besides lessons and royal dinners, Harry was missing in action. His parents, who had now become aware of the revelation that Harry’s page was…for lack of better word…missing, gave him distance and grace, which Harry was deeply happy with. They did not chide him like Sirius had, but even so, Harry felt a wedge grow between him and, well, not even just his parents, but everyone.
It was like no one understood Tom’s loss. Which was true. No one did.
The comfort he received from the people around him was sparse. His parents seemed unenthused and distant. Sirius seemed bitter and all-too-confident about Tom’s intentions. Draco and Ron hadn’t bothered to talk to him, even though the news had to have reached them by now, judging by the powerful force of the maids that acted as some diabolical rumor mill. His teachers and tutors seemed to have catalogued the loss of presence of Harry’s page, but they didn’t bring it up. It became almost taboo—the name Tom Riddle—and the staff knew that speaking his name would draw Harry’s ire and temper.
And so, Harry also tried to shut Tom out of his mind, while hoping and praying that Hedwig had found him and delivered his message—that he would send another message back. Telling Harry he was sorry, that he loved and cared for him deeply, that he would be back soon. But Hedwig had not returned, even after a week, and Harry’s heart clenched at the thought of something happening to his most beloved mare. Bitter fortune always seemed to find him—whether that be with his horse or his page. At this point, Harry would be unsurprised if his own sword decided to grow a pair of feet and abandon him.
Felt fitting, honestly.
Midday, Harry unfastened the reins of a brown horse named Pig and decided to travel to the Malfoy apple orchard. It didn’t feel the same as before. Harry, firstly, wasn’t in possession of his mare. Secondly, Harry typically only ran off to the orchard when he had lessons or someplace to be—as a way of escaping the palace walls—but today, he had finished his lessons with Slughorn and McGonagall early, and he wasn’t escaping from anything. He just felt…nostalgic.
Harry passed by the castle walls, his steed picking up pace as they reached the idyllic scene that was apple trees stretching far and wide, as well as the dark, intimidating structure that was the Malfoy estate in the corner of Harry’s eye. Harry picked three apples from the tree, passed one to Pig and ate the other two himself, sour as they were. He leaned against the wood, before finally deciding to climb the tree.
Once he reached the top, he sat and stared off into the horizon, breathing deeply.
Harry surveyed the orchard. He hoped Tom would crawl out of whatever pocket dimension he’d shipped himself in, find him, and demand Harry return immediately to the castle for his education.
I’ve finished with my lessons, you miserable sod, Harry would scream at Tom, with a grin so vibrant and wide it could’ve rivalled a crescent moon. Come up here, would you, Tom?
And Tom, at least, fantasy Tom, would agree. He’d pull himself up by the bootstraps and climb an apple tree with Harry, and once they got to the top, they would sit next to each other on the biggest branch of the tree. Tom would lace their hands together and sit with Harry until the sun set, and it became dark. They would talk together for hours.
Even only the idea of that soothed Harry’s beleaguered heart.
But Tom wasn’t here.
And reality floored him once more.
“Harry!”
Harry almost looked up, certain he had imagined the sound. It couldn’t be…
“Harry!” the voice called again, and it wasn’t Tom, Harry knew that for certain. With a whiny, childish rasp that Tom’s voice never possessed, it was— “Potter—get down, would you! Get your arse down!”
It was Draco.
As if Harry’s day could get any worse.
Harry hadn't talked to Draco since their argument, which must've been about a week and a half ago. Harry had genuinely just expected Draco to never exchange a word with him again, but Harry supposed he was technically on Malfoy territory. This whole orchard did belong as a sector of the Malfoy's wealthy estate, which wasn't terribly far from the Potter castle.
Harry turned his head and spotted Draco sitting in a tree, looking ever-so-cocky. Harry hadn't even noticed him climb it: how long exactly had he been there?
Draco quickly climbed down from the tree, a wide smirk on his face. He said, "Well, look who it is."
"Draco," Harry tossed out, nonchalantly.
"Harry," Draco almost cooed.
"It's Prince Harry James Potter to you," said Harry, looking away and walking in Pig's direction. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
"What am I doing here? As in—in my family's orchard?"
"Yeah," Harry laughed. "It's not like you pick apples yourself. You have servants for that."
"Sometimes our servants don't always do the job right, do they?"
Harry paused and stiffened. That felt like a dig. An insult to Tom.
Or was it? Harry couldn't tell anymore. It was like this—this obsession, almost. Harry thought about Tom with such fervor and to such a degree, that every one of his conversations looped back to him. It was infinitely frustrating.
"What do you want?"
"I'm resting, Harry. Training for the Duel of Duels is tiring," murmured Draco off-handedly. "How's Weaselbee doing?"
"Just fine."
"Doesn't sound fine to me. He sounds like he's already learning how to kiss the ground beneath my feet with his foul mouth," Draco said. "Already learning the proper way to enunciate 'I yield' with as much dignity as he—"
"Just...don't," Harry said. "I'm in no mood to argue with you."
"You came to my orchard."
"I'm the prince. I can go wherever I please," Harry snapped back. "I could buy this orchard from you."
Draco snorted. "It's still mine. I had it first."
"Your father had it first."
"It belongs to me!"
"It does not! It belongs to Lucius. Not you."
"Same thing," Draco said with a roll of his eyes. "Stop arguing semantics. Harry, I just want to talk. Stop making everything a bloody argument. It's so un-diplomatic."
"What do you know about diplomacy?" shouted Harry. "I'm the prince! I'm the one with the diplomacy lessons—if anything, I'm the master of it, and I say—you're a pain in the arse. I don't want to be your friend anymore!"
Draco flinched, just a bit. Harry instantly noticed, a roil of guilt making a flush arrive at Harry's neck.
Then Draco said calmly, "Exactly. I don't want to be your friend either."
"Fine! Perfect!"
"I want to be your page."
Harry blinked, his lips twisting. "I—no. What—"
"I heard about what happened to your last page," Draco said softly. "And I offer my sincerest condolences."
Condolences?
"I know death is not a fun thing to go through," Draco said. "I haven't yet experienced that myself, seeing as my family genes are remarkably sturdy and all, but still. It must not be pleasant."
Did he... Did Draco seriously think—
"So yes, sorry to hear about his unfortune passing," Draco intoned coolly. "But now you need a new page. And I figured since I was your second choice, I might as well place that out there."
"You are not my second choice."
"So your first, then. Fabulous."
"Draco—" Harry said, then faltered. "Tom isn't dead."
"Father says grief makes people think all sorts of funny things. Is this what he meant by bargaining?" wondered Draco aloud. "Whatever. It doesn't matter. All I know is your page is dead, and you need a new one."
"For someone who speaks so ill of the lower-class, you're remarkably quick to want to become my servant."
"A servant to the future king, you mean," Draco said, "which is not a real servant, in my opinion."
"Well, you can't be my page. Tom is not dead."
"And so where is he, then?"
Harry breathed in deeply, trying to steady himself. "I don't know."
Draco looked at him with a wrinkled nose and sharp, silver eyes. "My father says he's dead. And his intel isn't wrong."
"Where, pray tell, did he get this informa—"
"The king, of course."
Harry almost choked. His dad? How could that be? Harry had been telling his parents that Tom was missing, but he had never said he was dead. "Your father must be mistaken. My dad knows Tom is alive. I've told him so."
"Maybe you've told him, but he doesn't believe you, for certain."
Is that why my parents haven't scolded me about Tom? wondered Harry. Unlike Sirius, they had never once spoken ill of Tom, or talked about him in a traitorous light. Maybe they avoided the topic because they thought Tom was dead... Which was impossible. Tom couldn't be dead.
Harry would've felt it if Tom had died. Something in the universe would have shifted; some cosmic force would tell him so, he was certain of it.
"I believe your parents are already seeking a replacement," Draco said. "I know we've had our fights, Harry, but come on. We're so close. You're practically a brother to me. Put in a good word for me, would you?"
"I'll want you as my page," said Harry slowly, and bitterness unfurled in his tone, still and dark, "when hell freezes over."
And Harry turned on his heel, grabbed his steed's reins, and rode away.
From his back, he heard Draco yell, "He's dead, Potter! Get over it!"
No. Tom was alive. Tom was alive. Tom was alive.
Tears still streamed down his cheeks, as he rode away.
Tom's favorite tea was chamomile.
Harry sat there and drank it, breathing in the earthy, heady dosage of it. It reminded him of petrichor and mildew, and it tasted bitter as the rind of a lime, but Harry paid no mind. It was Tom's favorite, and so, somehow, it became Harry's favorite. Or it would become his favorite; he would acquire it, by any means necessary.
Harry sat by the window of the dining hall, all alone, sans for the company of a small, orange tabby cat that belonged to one of the servants. Harry petted the cat, still idly thinking about Draco's venomous words, about Tom being dead. Harry winced, squeezing his eyes shut at the thought. No. The thought was too bitter and decrepit, and Harry pulled himself out of his downtrodden one-track mind. Agony had never tasted more like chamomile and the thought of a beautiful boy with dark brown eyes.
Harry offered the tabby another luxurious caress against his back, making the poor thing mewl. Harry wondered if Tom was touch-starved. He was an orphan, wasn't he? No parents. He always looked surprised when Harry touched him, the slight widening of dark brown eyes, a second-split lick of his lips. Like he couldn't believe Harry would touch him. Harry trailed his hand up gently from the plains of the tabby's back to his head, where he used two fingers to press down in both soft and hard strokes. The cat arched.
Harry, for some reason or another, couldn't pull his thoughts away from Tom.
Tom was a bit like a cat, wasn't he? All bravado, all airs and graces. But...soft. Gentle. Coming undone, so surprised, when Harry touched him.
God, Harry missed him.
All of a sudden, from the corner of his eye, Harry spotted a flash of white at the window. A white steed.
His heart leaped. He didn't think he would ever experience this level of happiness before, not with the bleakness and mundane nature of his life—he had expected this sort of feeling on, say, his coronation day. Or when he, one day, joined the Duel of Duels and beat every young champion there. Yet, nothing in his life compared to seeing Hedwig returning, paces steady and firm.
Harry instantly ran out of the castle, past guards and maids who looked at him wide-eyed. Like he'd grown a head, or a tumor.
"Hedwig! Hedwig!" yelled Harry, ecstatic. This was beyond his wildest dreams.
His horse paused, saw him, and ran to him. They embraced at the front gates of the castle, where his guards stood and watched Harry carefully. Harry gently petted Hedwig's muzzle, smiling broadly.
"Where is he?" Harry asked.
Of course Harry knew it was a foolish question. If Tom had truly returned...wouldn't he have returned on the back of Harry's noble steed? Flicking Hedwig's reins idly, a princely smile on his beautiful face, as he hopped down and offered Harry a...hug. A hug.
But somehow, Harry's utterly delusional mind had figured Tom had returned. Or that he had left a letter.
Or...something.
Harry checked the leather cheekpiece of Hedwig's halter, seeking perhaps a letter, Tom's response or something of the sort. Instead, he found his own letter, still neat and pristine inside. It was as if no one had ever opened it. Blinking in disbelief, Harry opened the letter and was face to face with the same words he had written only a few days before.
"He...never found you, did he?"
Hedwig whinnied.
Harry didn't know if that was confirmation or not, but it felt like it. He brought his eyes back to his letter.
For a moment, Harry thought the letters looked different. Not the words—the words were his own—but something about the pressure of the ink seemed wrong. He dismissed it as the shaking of his hands.
God. He was a wreck. Harry looked down at his traitorous hands, which were trembling.
He had pinned all his hope on this letter, and it seemed that Tom had never even received it. Harry felt an itch of a cry in the back of his throat, but he knew not to make a scene.
The guards were staring at him, pinning his form with their gazes. Whatever he did, he knew, would be reported to his parents. His parents, who believed that Tom was dead.
"I..." Harry said, and he took the letter and teared it in half. Then again. Over and over, until it was shreds and fodder. Harry threw the remains of the letter onto the dirty, moist floor and stamped his feet petulantly, like he was an insolent child, over and over again. "There."
Hedwig stared down and let out a whinny, almost of confusion.
"Draco might be right," Harry said, and he hated the way his voice sounded. "If you couldn't find him..."
Hedwig blinked.
"If you couldn't find him," Harry repeated, his voice as coarse as gravel, "he has to...he might be..."
Harry couldn't finish the sentence.
He brought Hedwig to the stables, fed him ten sugar cubes for his work, petted him, and went back to the dining room in the castle. He paced, like an animal caged, his chest heaving with heavy thought. A pressure had begun to encircle in his head, making all of his thoughts painful and strained. The truth stared at him, plainly, but Harry had been too hopeful to see it. Tom was...
Harry finished the rest of his chamomile, and mourned.
A letter came for him the next morning, fetched by one of the butlers.
Harry didn't even allow himself to feel hope anymore, and he knew, for certain, that this letter wasn't from Tom. Immediately, the golden-edged sides screamed not Tom, as well as the gaudy, curly handwriting. Harry had never seen Tom's handwriting before, but this was evidently not it.
Dear Harry,
I'm sorry for making you feel sad and uncomfortable yesterday. It was not my intention to hurt you or to force you to make me your page. When I heard about your page's death, I felt really bad, and I know it was fairly recent, so I shouldn't have brought it up. It was very undiplomatic of me.
I know you might not be over it, and are probably not looking for another page. So I'll stop talking to you about it. But I know your parents are already setting up a new page-selection ceremony, which you might want to talk to them about. Just a suggestion.
I hope you’ll come and watch me at the Duel of Duels in two days’ time. I know you’re mad at me, but I really am sorry. I hope we can mend our friendship.
Cordially,
Draco Malfoy
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, suppressing the urge to take the letter and shred it into a million pieces. It wouldn’t be the first letter he’d shred in the past forty-eight hours, but Harry took a deep breath, resisting the desire that’d flashed in the forefront of his mind for only a second’s time. Instead, Harry set the letter down at Tom’s bedside table, an act of mercy in itself, and pondered.
Draco had apologized. In whatever fashion he had, tactless and still as self-absorbed as ever—he had apologized in a very un-Draco-like manner. It was more than Harry had expected since the encounter at the apple orchard, since the encounter a week ago with Ron. But still. There was an undercurrent of blatant manipulation—Draco was trying to get at his good graces to become his page, wasn’t he? This apology was just some grand, charitable act, so Draco could replace Tom.
Maybe he deserves to be replaced, thought Harry. It was unbidden, intrusive. Draco’s right. He’s dead. Hedwig couldn’t find him. You miss having a page. Replace him. You need a new page.
Was Draco truly in the wrong here?
To him, it was the universe remedying the worst choice Harry had ever made. To Harry, his universe was gone.
A flutter of understanding erupted in Harry’s stomach, and he felt a weak, fleeting smile against his lips. He understood Draco. And he—he would forgive him. The letter was honest.
And Harry—Harry missed Draco. He missed having company.
So he wrote a letter back, quick and without much fanfare or fluff.
Dear Draco,
If your letter is meant to be an apology, I forgive you. I don’t want to talk about the whole page business, but I’m sorry too for what I said. Let’s be friends again.
I’ll be glad to watch you at the Duel of Duels. Take it easy on Ron, would you?
Cordially,
Harry
Hands shaking, Harry called for a butler and asked him to deliver the letter to Draco. When the butler left, Harry dug his hands in the crooks of his pits and curled up into a little ball on the cherry-wooden chair by his tableside. Even sending the letter to Draco felt like a betrayal. His mind rattled. It was a betrayal.
But—if Tom was dead, did it even matter?
The next night, his parents asked him about a new page-selection ceremony. It was expected. Draco had warned him, had he not? Harry had pursed his lips and decided to hone his acting skills by dropping his head with a timid disposition.
In his saddest voice, one he was ashamed to muster, Harry said, “I’m still mourning… I can’t…I can’t bear the fact that Tom is gone.” Then he allowed real tears to gloss the innards of his eyes. “I—I think it’s a little insensitive to get a new page so quickly after…after his passing.”
Lily immediately hugged and consoled him. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Harry. You are right. It is far too early.”
“Lily, Harry needs a page—” James began.
"I know," Lily said quietly.
“The tutors are complaining.”
“I know.”
She looked toward Harry.
"But look at him."
James stayed quiet, as his gaze fell on and rested on Harry. Who looked nothing short of pitiful.
“Harry needs to grieve. At least, give him a proper week of mourning,” Lily said gently. “A new page can come whenever. Harry already has his tutors and servants. A proper page can wait, until after the Duel of Duels.”
“The Duel of Duels is tomorrow,” Harry said, brushing his tears away.
“Exactly. A full week of mourning,” Lily said. “Why, we can use the Duel of Duels to scope out a potential page! Say, what about that?”
Harry’s stomach turned at the thought.
“Mum—it’s been a week.”
“A week of mourning, exactly,” Lily agreed. “Then we can begin discussing a potential replacement, all right? Just begin.”
James nodded encouragingly, still staring at Harry.
Harry knew his mother would not understand him, so he just said, “That sounds all right.” Harry wondered if Tom was only getting a week of mourning because he was a lowborn—but then again, his mother had been fairly lowborn, at least, in comparison, to his father, so it didn’t make much sense—or because they didn’t yet know if Tom was actually dead.
(It was either Tom was dead, or had abandoned them. Both thoughts struck a vulgar, violent notch in Harry’s mind.)
“Have you picked your sword for the ceremony?” James asked, with a clearing of his throat.
“My sword? I’m not fighting though.”
“It’s ceremonial for you to carry one, anyway. As the heir,” James said. “Even if you don’t participate.”
This has to be some humiliation ritual, Harry thought to himself bitterly. Perfect.
“I’ll take the ruby-encrusted one,” Harry said off-handedly. “I don’t think it matters much anyway. It’ll be sheathed the whole time, won’t it?”
“Yes, but it’s tradition, Harry, that you pick.”
Harry nodded stiffly.
“Your Uncle Sirius will be participating,” James announced, smirking. “Are you excited? I know you’ll be cheering him along, as well as your younger friends in the youth division.”
Harry thought about his last talk with Sirius and grimaced. “Yes. I’ll, um, be cheering him on.”
“And your Uncle Remus too,” laughed James. “Now you have to pick between them, don’t you?”
“Both in the adult division?” Harry said, his eyes wide.
“Yes, unless you think Sirius ought to be in the youth category,” James said, smirking. “I won’t disagree with you there. He’s so…young at heart. And mind. Suits him just fine.”
Harry hadn’t seen Uncle Remus in a long time. He too was often traveling, attached to Sirius’s hip, almost. Harry was close with him too; part of him wondered what Remus would say to console him in this situation. He was deeply empathetic, kind, and fatherly; Harry knew he would understand.
“When is he coming?”
“As soon as the duel starts tomorrow morning,” said James. A few seconds later, he added, “God, I wish I could participate.”
“You can,” said Lily dismissively. “You’re male and of age.”
“I’m also king,” pointed out James with a glimmer in his eyes.
Lily rolled his eyes, and James pressed a kiss to her cheek, smiling widely. Harry looked away, hating how gushy his parents got—they were king and queen, for goodness’s sake, what gave them the right to act like lovebirds in Harry’s presence—
“Sorry you can’t participate, Harry,” James said casually. “I know you really wanted to. Why, your birthday is only a couple weeks after. But rules are rules, you know. Have to be all fair and just, as king.”
He exchanged another gushy look with his mother. Yuck.
“It’s fine. I don’t think I even want to anymore,” Harry murmured. “I’m too busy—”
“Grieving,” interjected Lily, nodding with an understanding Harry knew she didn’t feel. “We understand.”
Harry offered a passable smile that was strained. “Right. Grieving.”
His parents exchanged a knowing look, that quickly elapsed and turned to a loving look, suggestive and soft. Harry turned away, his nose wrinkled. Was this really the time?
“You are all so—in love,” Harry rasped, with a mock-disgusted expression. “Just a reminder: I’m still…grieving! Goodbye, farewell. Wake me when the duel starts.”
“You’ll understand when you’re older!” James called after him. “We’ll see you tomorrow!”
Harry groaned and ascended up the staircase and to his room. He sat on Tom’s bed for a moment, only a moment, before deciding that this wasn’t right.
It was improper, no matter how Sirius had justified it.
This wasn’t his bed. It was the bed of a dead boy.
Tom.
And Harry stood up and trudged to his own bed a few paces away. He sank into his bed, which felt more like a foreign diplomat, or an adversary, and closed his eyes shut, praying sleep—that merciful tyrant—would take him.
It evaded him, but even so, Harry still didn’t change beds.
Even sleeplessness, Harry thought, was better than heartbrokenness.
Outside the castle walls, the lists for the Duel of Duels were already being erected beneath fluttering banners. Armor was polished until it gleamed. Nobles arrived by carriage from every corner of the realm. Servants hurried through the courtyards carrying swords encrusted with diamonds, glistening with gold, wrapped in velvet.
By sunrise, every eye in the kingdom would be fixed upon the tournament grounds.
Harry, however, knew none of it.
He slept fitfully, dreaming only of dark brown eyes.