Chapter Text
“I’m sorry,” Harry said politely. “Did you just say Gaunt?”
Slughorn was oblivious to the change in atmosphere as he continued to prattle on, “Absolutely! Didn’t you know? Why, Tom is opening up a new location in Hogsmeade very soon—”
Tom watched in horror as Harry’s face morphed from shock, to anger, to disgust.
“Sorry,” Harry said in a monotone. “I’ve just realized I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you again soon, Horace—” And Harry walked away, making long strides for the entrance.
Tom followed, chasing after, not caring who saw him or what Slughorn thought about his abrupt departure. His shoes smacked against the waxed floors as he ran out into the hallway. The lights were low here, and it was harder to make out Harry’s expression at this distance.
“Harry,” Tom called, “Harry, wait, I can explain.”
“Explain what?” Harry came to a halt, whirling around, and Tom was shocked to see the intense, vibrant hatred in those emerald eyes. “That you were lying to me this entire time about who you were? That you pretended to care about me, about what I told you about my parents? When all you really think is I’m some poor orphan to be pitied and put out of my misery—”
“I don’t think that,” Tom said, swallowing. “I never did. I promise, Harry, that I didn’t mean for things to go so far.”
“You’re just like the rest of them,” Harry said haltingly. “All you care about is your wallet. What were you doing? Scoping out the competition?”
“It’s not like that,” Tom said, frustrated. “You don’t understand.”
“What’s there to know?” Harry’s face was red, his hands clenched into fists. “You’re a spoiled asshole who thinks money can solve everything. You don’t care about me.”
Harry didn’t know anything. Harry didn’t know what it was like to have nothing, to grow up with nothing, to have no parents at all. During his entire childhood, Tom had worked hard for everything he owned; it wasn’t his fault he’d been handed a sudden inheritance. It might have been delivered to him, but he deserved it—this was what the universe owed him.
Because Tom had always been the pitied orphan at school, at work, wherever he went. The poor boy with the Muggle surname. Brilliant, handsome Tom Riddle who lived at a dirty Muggle orphanage during the summer. Harry had it easy, by comparison. He had no right to judge Tom’s life so harshly.
“You don’t know bullshit,” Tom snapped. “All you’ve ever done is live out someone else’s dreams simply because you were too afraid to have your own. You say you don’t want to be treated like some sad little orphan? Then stop acting like one.”
“Fuck you,” Harry spat back. He looked murderous, like he was going to start throwing punches any second. “Fuck you to hell, Tom. Leave me alone.”
The anger was expected, but hearing such harshness from Harry still cut deeply. Insides twisting, Tom watched Harry storm off. He felt helpless, like he was once again eleven years old and being thrust into a new world with no one he could trust.
Harry had trusted him, and Tom had broken that trust.
Tom regretted lashing out in anger, but he didn’t think what he’d said was wrong. Harry deserved to have his own dreams, his own ambitions. His grief was holding him back, and Tom could only hope that, with time, Harry would come to see this on his own.
Are you awake?
Tom snatched the parchment up and hurried to reply. He’d come home after the gala and stayed awake all night, hoping that Harry would write to Voldemort, and it seemed that his tenacity had paid off.
Yes, I am, he wrote, resisting the urge to add on more in case it gave him away.
Harry wanted nothing to do with Tom Riddle anymore, but he did want to talk to Voldemort. So Tom had to be very careful with what he said now, or else he’d lose what little connection with Harry he had left. Tom might never get a chance with Harry ever again, but maybe Voldemort could have one. Voldemort could hold onto the special connection with Harry that Tom had never felt with anyone else before.
Tom waited, staring at the page, but Harry didn’t respond. The minutes ticked by, and Tom began to feel anxious.
Prongslet?
There was another second of nothing, and then, finally, black ink appeared on the page.
Yeah. Sorry. It’s just been a long night.
I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to help?
Tom wished he could ask if Harry wanted to talk about it, but they had maintained their anonymity for so long that it would be odd for him to pry now.
Not really. Just talking is nice. It keeps my mind off it. Have you read anything new recently?
Tom hadn’t, but there were books they had yet to discuss, and so he could use those as conversation fodder to help remedy the situation he had inadvertently caused by stepping into Harry’s bookstore without knowing who Harry was. Without knowing that Harry was Prongslet.
As a matter of fact, I have…
A week went by. The new location of Gaunt Books opened as planned, and Tom caught himself repeatedly thinking of Harry and Little Godric’s Bookshop.
As the sales numbers of the new Gaunt Books location rose, Tom felt terrible, only there was nothing he could do with these feelings because Harry refused to talk to him.
Tom had owled Harry letters full of lengthy explanations and apologies, but he had not received any responses. It was fair, though. He should have come clean to Harry much sooner. The bookshop meant the world to Harry, who he had every right to feel betrayed by Tom’s actions. Tom just hadn’t wanted to confess to being the man who was going to run the shop out of business. He had let his fear of losing Harry control his decisions.
While Harry continued to ignore owl post from Tom Riddle, he did, however, continue to talk to Voldemort.
They were talking more than they ever had before, and Tom grew more distressed with every passing conversation. Tom wanted to see Harry in person and apologize to him. But if Harry found out that Tom was Voldemort, then that would be the end of it.
So Tom was at a loss for what to do. He hated that he was still lying to Harry about who he was, but he was also afraid of losing Harry a second time. Because he… because he cared about Harry. He cared a great deal, if he was admitting it to himself. And if things at the Publishers Gala had gone differently, if they weren’t dreaded business rivals, then he would have asked Harry out on a date.
But all of that was meaningless now. Tom would remain Harry’s anonymous friend, a distant confidante, and he would have to be content with that.
To distract himself, Tom buried his head in his work, only it was impossible to push Harry out of his mind completely when they conversed on a nightly basis.
Tom had never been this close with anyone before; it was a new feeling. He trusted Harry with everything. Harry was sweet and empathetic, kinder than Tom deserved, and that was how Tom found himself writing more and more about his past. His wretched childhood at the orphanage. His struggle to fit in at Hogwarts as a poor Muggleborn in a house full of posh, ambitious children.
Though he was careful to redact the names and dates involved, Tom slowly unravelled for Harry all that had made him who he was, disclosing everything before the point where he had learned of his mother’s surname and the powerful lineage that ran in his veins.
It felt… nice. To get all of that off his chest. To share his thoughts and feelings with someone who understood. With someone who he knew would not mock him for his fears.
Tom had never thought that investing in the Weasley twins’ joke shop would result in anything other than a solid return, but it had.
That ridiculously-named parchment had changed his entire life so irrevocably that Tom could not imagine where his life would be at this moment if Harry had not stumbled into it.
Two months later, Tom received news that Little Godric’s had closed for business, permanently. Tom was not sure how to feel about this. Harry’s correspondence with Voldemort was the same as ever—cheerful, even—and Voldemort was in no place to inquire about Prongslet’s personal life.
Then, one afternoon, Remus Lupin came into the store with his resume.
Tom didn’t need to think about it. “You’re hired. I’ll put you in the children’s department, if that’s not an issue.”
Remus stared for a few moments. “I—you don’t mind my availability?”
“Not an issue.” Tom waved it off. “Delphini is always asking after you. I’m sure you’ll do a wonderful job here with us.”
“Thank you, Mr. Riddle. I don’t know what to say. Or how I can repay you.”
Tell Harry I’m sorry, Tom thought. But he didn’t dare voice the wish aloud.
“You’ll start next week. I’ll ask Marietta to show you around.” Tom retrieved a folder and passed it over. “Until then, you can look these over and sign them at your leisure.”
“Thank you,” Remus repeated. “I’m eager to start here.”
Tom honestly did want to hire Remus. The man would be a good fit for the location, and he was wonderful with children. There had been no discrimination in the company’s hiring practices since Tom had taken over. Remus would work just as hard as any other employee, Tom was sure.
And if Harry ever came by the store to see his friend, then that would only be an added bonus.
“Harry?” Tom blinked to make sure his vision wasn’t playing tricks on him.
It wasn’t. Harry Potter was standing in the middle of his bookstore. Harry was wearing a lumpy maroon sweater and Muggle denim jeans. He looked well. Tom was ridiculously glad to see him.
“Hey, Tom.” Harry stuck his hands into his pockets and shuffled forwards. “I’m here to say I’m sorry. For everything. I don’t think you’re a rich jerk. Actually, I think you’re a pretty decent person, and so I wanted… I wanted to know if you would like to try being friends again.”
“I—I would like that.” Tom stepped closer, then added, “And it’s not your fault. I’m sorry, Harry, for lying to you about who I was. And for what I said to you that night. I should not have overstepped—”
“No, it’s not all on you,” Harry said. He shook his head. “You… you were right. I was mad at you for lying. I lashed out. But you were right about my needing to figure out what my own dreams are.”
A weight had been lifted from Tom’s shoulders. He felt more at ease than he had in ages. “So, are we friends?” Tom asked, holding a hand out.
“Yeah.” Harry smiled, green eyes glinting behind his glasses. He took Tom’s hand in his own and shook it firmly. “Friends.”
“Perfect,” Tom said. He paused, then offered, “Would you like me to show you around?”
“Sure, I’d like that,” Harry said, and he didn’t sound like he was only being polite. He seemed genuinely interested in looking around.
“Why don’t we start with the children’s department,” Tom said. “I assume Remus has told you a bit about it, but I was wondering if you had any opinions on a few potential additions…”
I’ve been working on a new project lately.
Tom tapped the end of his quill against his chin as he considered the words. This was the closest that Prongslet had ever gotten to talking about his personal life. How should Voldemort respond to this?
If you want my interest, you’ll have to extend more information than that.
Cheeky git, Prongslet wrote back. Maybe I’ll leave you to stew in your curiosity to teach you a lesson.
Tom frowned. You wouldn’t dare.
Oh, I do dare. Someone ought to knock you down a peg or two, Voldemort. I think I may sit on this for a while, just to see if you can figure it out.
Tom felt he already had an idea of what it was, only there was no reason for Voldemort to come up with such a guess.
Seems unfair. Do I get any hints?
How about this? You figure it out, and I’ll let you take me to dinner.
Sweet Salazar. Tom set his quill down on his desk and took a moment to run his hands through his hair, distressed. Harry was interested in him. But not him—Voldemort.
Then Harry wrote another line, which appeared underneath the first. We don’t have to meet in person if you don’t want to.
Tom had debated retiring his alternate persona entirely, only he was worried what would happen if ‘Voldemort’ suddenly went missing. Harry might try to track Voldemort down.
But now… what could Tom do now? Harry wanted to meet him. And if they did meet, Tom would be caught lying yet again, and then Harry would leave him for good.
I do want to meet you, Tom wrote. And I want to take you to dinner someday. I just need some time first.
I understand. I’m willing to wait as long as it takes. You’re an important person to me, and I want to do this right.
Tom eyed the words, his heart thudding out an irregular beat in his chest. Voldemort was important to Harry. More so than Tom was, because Voldemort had never hurt him.
But Tom… Tom had learned his lesson about lying to Harry. He would tell Harry the truth; he just needed to think of the best way to do it. And if Harry meant what he said, then maybe he could find it in him to forgive Tom for this as well.
Harry set a heavy stack of paper down upon the table with a thump. The papers were covered in Harry’s handwriting, neat rows of words running across the pages. All of the pages were bound together by a thick black ribbon. Tom gazed down at the pile, bemused.
“I took your advice,” Harry said. “This is my final copy of a children’s novel I’ve been writing. Astoria was my editor, and I’ve reached out to Slughorn for publishing. We’re drawing up the contracts next week.”
“That’s wonderful,” Tom said, standing up. “It’s no small feat to finish an entire novel. You should be very proud of yourself, Harry. I knew you had it in you.”
Harry fiddled with the corner of his manuscript. “This copy is for you to read. It’s the final version that I finished by hand. Slughorn said he’s going to arrange for an artist to provide some illustrations, but I wanted you to be the first… the first real reader to read the whole thing.”
“Of course I’ll read it,” Tom told him. He’d do that first thing tonight.
“And... and if you like it,” Harry added, sounding nervous, “I’d love for Gaunt Books to carry it. Exclusively.”
“Absolutely,” Tom said, clapping his hands together. “Should I owl Slughorn now?”
Harry flushed. “You ought to read it first, Tom.”
“I’ll love it,” Tom said promptly. “It’s perfect.”
“Read it,” Harry insisted, pushing the manuscript across the desk. “And then make your decision. I want to know what you think. Your honest opinion, Tom. Not just because we’re friends.”
Tom pulled the papers towards himself. “Very well. I’ll read it tonight and give you my honest opinion.”
“Good. I’d expect nothing less.” Harry smiled, and the sight of it triggered a blossom of warmth in Tom’s chest.
Tom burned through the entire manuscript in just under an hour. It was a children’s novel, written obviously for its younger audience, but the world and the characters Harry had created and woven together were so compelling that once Tom had started to read it, he simply couldn’t put it down.
A tale of friendship, adventure, and love. Characters that Tom found himself consumed by. He empathized with their struggles and related to their perspectives, almost like the book had been written for him specifically. There was a profound simplicity to the way Harry conveyed even the most basic of human emotions.
As soon as Tom had finished, he’d activated his Floo and placed a call to Harry’s flat.
Harry connected almost right away, and then his head appeared in Tom’s fireplace, his eyes bright and giddy.
“What do you think?”
“It’s incredible,” Tom breathed. “You’ve got yourself a bestseller, Harry.”
“Really? I mean, I thought it was good, and Astoria did, but I know people don’t take children’s books as serious literature—”
Tom had to interrupt at this point. “Harry, I am quite possibly the most particular reader you will ever have the misfortune to meet, and I’m telling you that this is the best novel I’ve read in a very long time.”
Harry blinked, his mouth hanging open slightly. “I—wow. That means a lot, Tom. Coming from you. I really appreciate it.”
“You’re making the right choice with this career, Harry. And I’d be honoured to carry any and all stories you decide to write.”
“I’d love that,” Harry said. He was even bouncing up and down now, bless him. “Merlin, I’m so excited. I can’t wait for us to do this together.”
They spoke late into the night—until Harry was nodding off, yawning every other word. Tom sent him off to bed and ended the call. Then Tom got up, wincing as his knees cracked. He didn’t typically make such long calls, preferring instead to meet in person, but Harry was the exception. Harry was, and would always be, the exception to the many protective walls Tom had built around himself.
It was only once Tom was tucked into his own bed that he spotted the Powwow Parchment resting on his night stand. He hadn’t touched it all night, and neither had Harry. It was the first night in ages that Prongslet and Voldemort had skipped their nightly conversation.
Regret tore at Tom. He couldn’t, in good conscience, allow Harry to sign anything before he knew the full truth. It wouldn’t be fair for Harry to be trapped in a contract with Tom without knowing who he was agreeing to work with.
So Tom summoned a quill, then spread the parchment out upon the night stand, debating what he wanted to say.
In the end, he settled for something simple.
The Hog’s Head. Tomorrow, 10 am sharp. Hope to see you there.
Tom stared at the words for a long while. They did not fade away, which meant Harry hadn’t seen them yet.
It would do no good to meet Harry with a poor night’s rest, Tom decided eventually. He shut his lights, pulled the covers over himself, and tried to sleep.
When Tom woke in the morning, there were three new words written on his parchment that sealed his fate.
See you there.
Tom had risen early due to his nerves. So he washed and dressed, then paced his flat, restless and worried. Usually he had tea or coffee, but caffeine would do nothing to help ease his anxiety. Today would either be the start of everything, or it would be the end. Everything would be laid out for Harry to see.
When Tom arrived at the Hog’s Head, he was thirty minutes ahead of schedule.
Somehow, Harry was already there. Dark grey sweater layered over a cream coloured shirt and tan pants. There was a maroon-gold Gryffindor scarf draped loosely around his neck.
“Tom!”
Tom winced inwardly at hearing his name and walked over. “Harry,” he greeted. “You’re here early. At the bar, I mean.”
“I’m meeting someone,” Harry said. He sounded cheerful. For now, anyways.
“Who might that be?” Tom asked, affecting surprise. “Anyone I know?”
Harry shuffled his feet. “Sort of… an anonymous pen pal? We’ve been talking back and forth for a few months. Today he asked to meet me in person.”
Tom couldn’t help pushing further. “A stranger?”
“No,” Harry said quickly. “He’s… he’s different. I’m—I sort of—he’s been really good to me, Tom. We talk almost every day.” Harry smiled, fond, then continued, “He’s smart and charming and well-read. And understanding. Most of the time. Sometimes I find myself having to beat basic concepts of human decency into his head.”
“Sounds like the perfect man.”
Harry coughed a laugh. “I suppose he is.”
“And you like him?” Tom asked.
“I—” Harry trailed off. “I do. I like him a lot.”
“But you’ve never met him,” Tom said. “He could be fifty years your senior, for all you know.”
“I don’t think so,” Harry said, doubtful.
“He could be bald. Or missing his nose.”
Harry slapped a hand to his chest in mock horror, his head tipping back in an exaggerated motion. “I’m offended you think that matters to me!”
Tom laughed despite himself, then sobered. “So you’ve fallen for a man you’ve only spoken to through the use of the written word.”
“You underestimate the seductive charms of my writing.”
“Oh, I think I know it very well by now,” Tom said.
They made eye contact again. Harry blushed, dropping his chin down.
Tom hesitated before he spoke this time. “Harry, there’s something I wanted to say to you. Last night. I didn’t get a chance to then, so I suppose this is as good of a time as any.”
“Sure, Tom. What’d you want to say?”
Tom inhaled and slid his hands into his pockets. “If we had met in other circumstances, if I hadn’t been responsible for putting your parents’ shop out of business…” Tom met Harry’s gaze, voice firming as he continued, “If we had met on a typical day, as perfect strangers to each other—Harry, I would have asked you to be mine from the moment I laid my eyes on you.”
“Oh,” said Harry. His hand lifted to cover his mouth, and then it dropped back down.
“And I know,” Tom continued, “that I had my first chance, and I ruined it. But if you can find it in yourself to offer a chance to a man you’ve never even seen, then I hope you could offer me one last try.”
“Tom, I…” Harry glanced over his shoulder, where the sign of the Hog’s Head hung from its post. “I really wish I could.”
Tom swallowed down the bitterness in his throat. He knew what he wanted to say. And Harry could do whatever he wanted with these words, say whatever he wanted, because no matter what happened, Tom would always mean them.
“I understand,” Tom said. “I only want you to know that I am… that I will be here for you, without exception, without fail. You’re an important person to me, and I want to do right by you. You give me something to hope for, Harry. More hope than I ever dreamed of having.
“So, if you’ll have me,” Tom continued, his voice wavering the slightest bit, “I’d like to take you to dinner someday. Or lunch, as this case may be.”
Harry froze, his body still partly angled towards the bar entrance. “That—you—” He exhaled and turned to face Tom fully. “He is you, then? You’re—you’re Voldemort?”
Tom tried to smile, but he was unsure if he was succeeding. “I shouldn’t be surprised by how brilliant you are anymore, yet I still find myself amazed. You knew it was me?”
“I didn’t—” Harry shook his head as though to clear it. “Not for sure. I suspected, or maybe I wondered.” Harry stepped closer still, so that they were barely an arm’s length away from each other. “Tom, I was hoping it would be you. I wanted it to be you—”
And then Harry was right in front of him, clutching at his elbows, and Tom couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move out of the sudden paralysis that had seized his entire body.
“You wanted it to be me?” Tom asked, his voice distant to his own ears.
“I wanted it to be you so badly,” Harry said, his words as clear as if they’d been written in ink on a page.
Harry surged forward for a kiss, stealing the remaining air out of Tom’s lungs as he pressed their mouths together, and Tom’s arms wrapped tightly around Harry’s body as they swayed in place.
Tom inhaled the soft, clean scent of Harry’s jumper, learned the smooth feel of Harry’s unruly hair. The gentle touch of Harry’s hands and lips that left a sweet ache wherever they went.
It felt like something out of a fairytale ending, Tom decided. It felt like love.
