Chapter 1: A Ripple In The Magical Field
Chapter Text
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For Scott, my husband. I’m so glad I can call you that now, love.
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When I met you,
You were kind of shy and...
I never knew what I was in for.
Time took over, we lost our minds and...
Now we′re lying, lying on the floor.
- Thinking of You, Andy Leech
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Prologue
War.
Nothing good ever came out of it, did it?
They say wars are necessary, perhaps even righteous – to avenge, to reclaim, to teach a lesson.
For the greater good.
When the stakes are high, when there is nothing left to lose, when the walls close in - it is good, they say, to fight. To give everything. To sacrifice.
For the greater good.
Dumbledore had said so - like all great leaders do. We pull out all the stops, we give our everything, we sacrifice. Always, for the greater good.
Harry was left numb, broken, empty.
They had won. But at what cost?
~*~
“They say, Harry, when you travel that far back in time, strange things happen. There are no limits to the wonders, the horrors, or the completely unexpected outcomes you may construct.”
Hermione sat across from him at the dinner table in Potter Cottage, Godric’s Hollow. She said those words, but her voice was not the same as what he was used to. Neither was she.
The Hermione before him was a hollow shell of the one he knew and loved. It was the same Hermione, but one who had lost everything.
Not her parents. No, they were safe, hidden far away, protected from the memories of their hunted daughter, the accomplice of Harry Potter, with a price on her head.
What she lost was far crueler. She had lost the one who would have been her other half, the one who should have been by her side long after her parents were gone, had he lived his full life. Harry had watched their love blossom, had seen their friendship deepen into something more. He had seen them accept each other’s flaws, adore each other’s quirks, share hugs that, at first, they refused to admit meant anything, until they realized that they meant everything. And then, with just a year together, one half was torn cruelly from the other.
Harry had witnessed it all, because after all, he was their best friend.
His heart broke again with that same horrendous, harrowing grief.
But he would not weep in front of Hermione. Not because he feared appearing weak - he had never been ashamed of that with them - but because if he did, he could never forgive himself for forcing her into yet another round of shuddering sobs. She had wept a million times already, until it seemed all her tears had been wrung dry, until she was left barely human.
“I don’t even know if it’ll let me go,” Harry said softly, each word weighed down by heartbreak. “The Time-Turner… this one, it chooses, doesn’t it? It has a mind of its own. If I do go back… it means I was supposed to.”
Hermione gave him the faintest whisper of a smile. “That’s true.” She hesitated, then added, her words almost a prayer, “I am glad, Harry, to give you company, for however long it is, even though you didn’t ask it of me.”
Harry’s eyes stung; he could not hold back the sorrow any longer. Hermione’s brimmed too, quickly, unstoppably.
She slumped forward onto the table, resting her head on her arms, and the sobs came, raw and unrestrained, as though ripped from her by force.
Harry’s heart broke at the sound. He rose, crossed the table, and knelt beside her, pulling her into a hug the best he could with her still curled over the table.
~*~
The casualties were horrific. Staggering. Unbearable.
Ron was killed as he duelled against Rodolphus Lestrange. Ginny was killed by Bellatrix Lestrange, as if she were nothing. As if it was nothing. Mrs. Weasley was next, Bellatrix slicing through her spells, her anguish, her fury, like a sharp, merciless knife. Fred was killed by Fenrir Greyback. George slit his wrist and let his life bleed away just a week later.
The battle took away half the Weasley family, just like that. Only Charlie, Percy, Bill, and Mr. Weasley remained, lone embers of a once-vibrant fire.
Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks. Snape. All gone.
The days that followed were grim, dark, heavy with nothing but grief and pain of the innumerable, costly loss.
For a while, Harry spent his days in a haze of immense, unending grief, suspended in the bleak vastness of it. He was dimly aware that he was the Master of Death, the title seeming like a mockery in the face of the losses endured. But something, something beyond him, stopped him from breaking the Elder Wand in two, as he so desperately itched to, and instead, that something kept him pressed to his armchair, eyes distant and hollow as they gazed out the window.
He hadn’t eaten or drank a drop of water in days, Death bowing to him, waiting for his permission. He never gave permission, not because he did not wish to die, but because that something kept him pressed to his armchair in a state of catatonic immobility.
Looking back, Harry might label that something as fate. Or perhaps, it was the force of love, pure and blind to rights and wrongs, for, in the face of love, nothing mattered, other than devotion and truth of the one who loves and the one who is loved.
He eventually slowly rose to the barest of functionality. He drank water by bits, he ate by bits. A month in, and his mind, though torn with grief, was blazing with ideas, contemplations, conjectures, of what ifs and yearnings for second chances.
What if he could make it right? What if he could go back, just once, to save them all - snatch them from death’s grasp before it claimed them?
He desperately wished to make it all right. He wanted Sirius back. He wanted Hedwig back. He wanted his parents back. He wanted them all back.
Even if it meant he may no longer be a part of their lives, their warmth, their smiles. It didn’t matter, as long as they all came back.
That yearning led him to Kingsley Shacklebolt. Harry requested the highest level of security clearance, citing 'personal reasons.'
It was granted immediately. The saviour of the Wizarding world was not questioned. Nothing stood in his way.
The moment the clearance was in his hands, Harry requested the upper echelons, including Shacklebolt, for full access to Time Turners. Not what was made public to the general Wizarding world, the small Time Turners that were given to students to manage demanding school schedules, the ones with a cap of five hours of time travel, no. He wanted information he knew was further hidden under layers of top secrecy.
They were stunned, the three of them, Shacklebolt, along with two top members of the Ministry.
“Are you quite sure, Harry?” Shacklebolt had asked him carefully, face grave, colour drained from his face.
The two other members – the Unspeakables – disclosed to Harry that the problem lay not in any violation of balance, but in that it will be a gargantuan task that Harry will be undertaking.
There was no grave violation of balance, they had revealed to Harry. The existence itself of such Time Turners evidenced that it did not violate balance. If it did, it simply would not exist.
These Time Turners, far more potent and powerful than the smaller ones they had used, balanced things out inherently, on its own.
For it allowed time travel in instances only where it was truly warranted.
And it allowed it on its own terms. To the year, the exact time and place, that it chose.
You had no autonomy in it, save for the raw truth in your soul.
They knew, from the context and the circumstances from which Harry was approaching it, that it was very likely that the Time Turner might allow his time travel. Though to which year, as to what end, none of them would know.
That is the tragedy and the terror of it, they had warned Harry.
It may not be the year you wish to travel to, Harry; it may not be for the purposes that you intend for.
Are you sure, Harry?
Do you still wish to go ahead with this, Harry?
Yes.
The finality of it was all that took for them to reveal the location of it to Harry, and accompany Harry to the location, hidden under layers upon layers of the heaviest of wards.
They told Harry that only three such Time Turners existed, with three different Ministries. One being with them, hidden away in the woods of Northern Ireland.
Harry asked them if either Grindelwald or Voldemort knew of these Time Turners or their locations. Shacklebolt and the two Unspeakables revealed that two upper Unspeakables, and the Minister of Magic, are bound by Unbreakable Vows, in a way that while revealing it to anyone without clearance is impossible (upon attempting this, they will meet with a quick death, before they could even reveal it), revealing it to someone with clearance is only possible if the one who approached them is deemed worthy by the Time Turner, the process of it pre-set, involuntary, aided by magic.
When Harry approached them requesting access to the Time Turner, the latter was precisely what occurred. They told Harry that he was the first one in the history of the Wizarding world to ever achieve this.
The news of it sunk neglectfully in Harry’s grieving heart. He did not care for being the first ever or the last ever. The only burning wish in him was to bring his loved ones back.
The woodlands were ancient, dark, towering. The air was raw and sharp with the scent of pine and earth that early morning. It was in a small clearing of it that Shacklebolt and the two Unspeakables accompanied Harry to.
Harry saw the three capable wizards lower the shields, open the wards, the air shimmering, nothing seemingly hidden there, until, Harry saw it, when the invisibility shield was finally lowered.
A small, unremarkable, wooden box, placed right atop the ground. It caught Harry off guard that it was only heavy, advanced wards that protected this powerful object. Not an iron safe, not a dungeon. Just there, on the ground, in the middle of a forest.
Shacklebolt bent, picked it up, and opened it.
There it lay. It shone golden in the faint light of the morning that filtered in through the canopies. The locket – the turner – was complexly beautiful, multiple rings orbiting around each other. The chain was thin and delicate.
They handed it over to Harry, their eyes, trusting and respecting Harry, carried a plea that said be careful, be safe.
With a brief nod, Harry acknowledged it, emotion tightening his throat.
~*~
In the immediate days that had followed, Harry set about dividing and leaving all his wealth and properties, save for a small number of galleons that he intended to carry with him, to the Weasleys and the Grangers, unbeknownst to them. They were only notified of it once Harry was fully through with the process of it with Gringotts and the Ministry.
Hermione had admonished him. The Weasleys thanked him with a letter, their hearts too shattered with losses to muster up anything else.
Harry had hugged Hermione until she quietened. And he wrote back to the Weasleys that it was the least he could do.
Hermione helped him pack essentials, and more than essentials, ensuring, however much her broken mind allowed her to, that he had everything he would ever need.
The Invisibility Cloak. The Resurrection Stone. The Elder Wand. His phoenix feather wand tucked away in his pocket.
Countless framed pictures. Ron’s letters. Fred’s letters. The Marauder’s Map. The little charmed things they made – cups, mugs, vases, bracelets, forgotten trinkets.
Harry wore robes, neutral enough of an attire, except it would stand out if he were to be dropped into a Muggle world by the Time Turner, but it should do; whatever time and place he was dropped to by the Time Turner, he hopefully wouldn’t stand out too conspicuously.
And then, that fateful evening, Harry wore the Time Turner around his neck, and turned it. Hermione stood in front of him, tears streaming, but bearing unflinching.
Three turns, no more, no less. Intent profuse, coursing through his veins. The Time Turner would pick up the intent though, whether he thought of it or didn’t. Such was its power, its beauty, its simplicity, its terror.
The world whirled like a tornado, white light seeping in, slow at first, then brighter and brighter, until he was blinded by it.
The last thing he saw was Hermione’s composure breaking, as she wept heart-wrenchingly.
~*~
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A Ripple In The Magical Field
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Harry was aware of lying, crumpled, on the ground. It was rough, like gravel, or cobblestone. The smell of piss hit him strongly. Rain pattered softly around him, trickling down his temple and cheeks.
His glasses were askew. All he could see around him was a grey blur, perhaps a street.
Harry’s hand came up to adjust his glasses.
It was an alley, two stone buildings, cheerless in appearance, two or three storey-high, on either side. The strip of sky between the two buildings was sleet grey. The air was cold and sharp.
He slowly, carefully, got to his feet, a hand instinctively reaching his pocket, fingers wrapping around his wand. The Elder Wand was tucked away, among all his other belongings, in a medium-sized bag on him, the multitude of things charmed to stay within the confines of it.
The Time Turner was still hung about his neck. Harry hurriedly removed it, relieved it was not stolen – he had no idea how long he was lying there in the open – and quickly dropped it into his bag.
A slow creep of chill, of dread, settled in his stomach and bones. His heart picked up its pace the moment it registered that cold.
Harry carefully stepped out of the alley, a narrow street unfolding before him, lined with two- and three-storey stone buildings. A few people walked by – men in caps or berets, suits, fur-lined coats, some carrying canes – cloaked in muted shades of grey, black, and brown. A carriage – no, a very antiquated car – trundled past him.
He swallowed hard, his heart thudding violently against his throat.
Without wasting a moment, he hurried along the street, earning a few odd glances. He needed to find a daily store, needed to know the date.
He spotted one as he rounded a corner. The boy sitting beside the stack of papers stared openly, clearly thrown by Harry’s peculiar attire.
“A ha' penny for the daily, mister,” the boy said.
“I just need to glance at something, if I may,” Harry replied, praying the boy wouldn’t argue.
To his relief, the boy only eyed him warily but said nothing more.
Harry picked up the paper, his eyes darting straight to the date.
October 25th, 1937.
The chill inside him sharpened, freezing him to the core.
With a trembling hand, he placed the daily back, slipped a galleon into the boy’s hand, having wordlessly charmed it to remove the embossed features, and quickly turned away, ignoring the boy’s audible surprise at the gleaming gold coin.
He cursed the Time-Turner – with all his might, all his heart.
1937.
1937.
The year a ten-year-old Tom Riddle lived at Wool’s Orphanage. Just one year before Hogwarts.
Before Harry could think any further, there were several loud cracks that rang down the street, jolting him, and everyone, into silent shock.
Then he saw them. Seven tall, imposing men, cloaked in robes. Wands raised.
“Aurors, sent by the Ministry of Magic. Reveal your identity!” one of them barked.
Harry’s wand was already raised, pointed at them.
“While you have a right to defend yourself,” another Auror said, “I advise you not to do anything foolish.”
They moved swiftly, forming a circle around him.
“What is your name?” the first Auror pressed again.
“Harry James Potter,” Harry said, breathing hard.
“A Potter with no magical records?” one of them scoffed.
“We need to know more about you, Mr. Potter, if that is your real name,” said another, jerking his head in a silent command as he extended his arm for side-along Apparition.
One Auror circled his wand over the street at the flabbergasted pedestrians, and muttered, “Obliviate.” A second later, they were gone.
~*~
They Apparated straight into the Ministry.
The light was dim, filtered gold casting long shadows across the polished black floors. Harry stumbled slightly as they landed, disoriented from the side-along Apparition, but straightened quickly, wand still in hand.
The Aurors flanked him in a wide formation, seven of them – still alert, still wary, like he was a wild creature that might lash out without warning. Their boots echoed sharply against the marble as they led him through a silent corridor, past closed doors and glinting brass signs.
They stopped at a heavy pair of double doors. One Auror knocked. A pause.
“Enter.”
The voice was clipped and cool. The doors opened without touch.
The room inside was grand but austere. A high ceiling, tall windows sealed shut with magical frost. A long table at the far end. Seated at it were three people: The Minister himself – fairly young, perhaps in his thirties, dark-haired, his pale blue robes fastened with a gold clasp shaped like the Ministry’s seal. Beside him sat two Unspeakables, dressed in deep navy, their faces grim.
The Aurors came to a halt and parted slightly to form a line behind Harry.
The Minister studied him, fingers steepled. He then turned his gaze to the Aurors. “What does he say his name is?”
“Harry James Potter.” said an Auror.
“Potter?” the Minister raised an eyebrow. He then turned his gaze back to Harry.
Harry inclined his head, heart still racing beneath his ribs. “Minister.”
“Hector Fawley,” the Minister said, inclining his head slightly. “You’ll forgive the dramatic retrieval, Mr… Potter,” said Fawley. “A wizard of considerable magical power appears in the middle of Muggle London, without record, without trace. That tends to raise alarms.”
“Understandable,” Harry said evenly. His voice didn’t shake, but it was dry. Controlled.
“You claim your name is Harry James Potter,” Fawley went on, voice smooth. “A name that appears in no known magical registry, not in the UK, nor in any European network.”
One of the Unspeakables leaned forward. “And yet, your magical signature is extraordinarily high. Not untrained. Not wild. It is refined and purposeful.”
Harry didn’t reply.
“Your wand,” the second Unspeakable said, tone low and toneless. “Please.”
One of the Aurors stepped forward cautiously. Harry met his gaze.
“I’ll hand it over,” said Harry. “But I expect it back.”
“You’ll have it,” Fawley said, though it wasn’t exactly a promise.
Harry passed the wand over slowly. The Unspeakable accepted it with gloved hands, murmured something under his breath. The air around the wand pulsed faintly.
“Phoenix feather,” he said quietly. “Holly wood.”
The second Unspeakable’s head tilted almost imperceptibly. “Curious.”
Fawley steepled his fingers again. “So. Mr. Potter. Tell us, calmly and clearly, where you come from. And why you are here.”
There was no time to think, so he thought of the best thing he could in that terse, tense moment.
Harry exhaled, and met his gaze directly. “With all due respect, I won’t be answering any questions unless I’m speaking to Headmaster Armando Dippet. You may administer Veritaserum if needed, but I will only speak to him.”
Fawley blinked. “Excuse me?”
Harry’s voice remained even. “You heard me. Dippet or no one. That is not a negotiation.”
A taut silence followed.
Fawley’s eyes narrowed. “You are in no position to make demands –”
“He is,” one of the Unspeakables interrupted quietly.
Fawley raised his eyebrows. “What?”
The Unspeakable didn’t raise their voice. “The moment he offered to submit to Veritaserum and declared his choice of witness, he invoked the Old Binding. He has the right to request one individual to whom he gives his full statement, especially when the matter involves sensitive or temporal magic. You can confirm it with the Department’s legal codex.”
Fawley stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then let out a tight breath. “So be it.”
He turned to an Auror. “Bring Headmaster Dippet here. Immediately.”
As the Auror nodded once and set off swiftly for the task, another motioned to Harry’s bag, still slung over his shoulder.
“Search it,” Fawley said.
Harry offered it wordlessly, his grip firm for a moment before releasing it.
The Auror placed the bag on the long table and carefully began to remove its contents.
A few practical items – change of clothes, spare boots, some galleons – then something clinked softly against the wood. A circular shape. A ring. A wand not matching the one already taken. A velvety cloak that seemed to meld into the colour of the air around it as it was withdrawn. A thin golden chain with intricate golden rings as its locket.
The room went still.
Fawley’s eyes locked on the items. “What –”
The Unspeakables had risen from their seats without a sound. One stepped forward, gaze fixed on the Hallows laid out on the table like they were ancient bones dug from sacred earth, the Time Turner forgotten.
The Unspeakable said, very quietly: “That’s the Resurrection Stone.”
“And the Cloak of Invisibility,” murmured the other.
“Not a replica,” the first added. “The wand –”
Fawley’s voice sharpened. “Who are you?”
Harry met his gaze again. Unflinching. Controlled. “That is not information I am prepared to give you. You’ll get nothing more from me today, Minister.” He then said, softer, “When Headmaster Dippet arrives, I’ll speak to him directly. Nothing before that.”
Fawley looked at him as if trying to fit all the puzzle pieces together and discovering the edges kept shifting.
He said nothing.
But the way the Unspeakables were staring at Harry now – warier, almost reverent – made the air feel heavier than before.
And when green flames flickered behind them, signalling Dippet’s arrival, Harry allowed himself – just barely – to breathe.
The green flames flared high, licking the hearth in long, silent tongues.
And then, stepping out with a calm, slow dignity that made the Minister’s office seem suddenly cramped, came Headmaster Armando Dippet.
He wore forest-green robes with gold trim, a thin silver chain clasping his spectacles to the lapel of his robes. His neatly trimmed beard and shoulder-length hair were completely white, and a pointed, embroidered cap sat atop his head. His eyes – mild, intelligent, and slightly exasperated – swept the room with a brisk efficiency.
“Well,” he said, dusting soot from his sleeve with fastidious fingers, “I do hope this is worth interrupting my lunch. I was enjoying a perfectly quiet tea when I was all but manhandled by your summons, Minister.”
Fawley stood. “My apologies, Headmaster. We would not have disturbed you if the matter weren’t – extraordinary.”
Dippet gave him a cool look. “The last time I was summoned to the Ministry with this much urgency, a Welsh Green had eaten half a Quidditch team. I trust this isn't about dragons again.”
“No,” one of the Unspeakables said, stepping forward. “It appears to be about time.”
Dippet’s brow lifted slightly. “I beg your pardon?”
“Temporal magic,” the Unspeakable continued, gesturing to the table behind them. “We found a Time Turner in the subject’s possession. Not Ministry-issued.”
Dippet’s gaze slid to the table, and paused.
There, sitting stark and quiet, were the three Hallows.
The wand. The ring. The cloak.
Dippet’s eyebrows rose, and he walked toward the table with measured steps, hands clasped behind his back.
“And these?” he asked quietly.
“We believe them to be genuine,” the other Unspeakable said. “All three of them.”
Dippet didn’t speak for a long moment. He studied the items in silence, his expression unreadable.
Fawley gestured toward Harry. “He gave the name Harry James Potter. There’s no record of such a wizard born in Britain. But the wand, the magical output, the temporal device –”
“– and those,” one Unspeakable murmured, eyes still locked on the Hallows, “they raise too many questions.”
Dippet turned toward Harry now. His gaze was sharp but not unkind. “And he requested me specifically?”
“He refuses to speak to anyone else,” Fawley said tightly. “Offered Veritaserum, but only if administered in your presence. He’s been… controlled, so far.”
The Unspeakable added, “He hasn’t made a single aggressive move. But he won’t answer a single question unless it’s from you.”
Dippet considered that for a moment, folding his hands behind his back.
“I see.”
Fawley gave a sharp nod. “We will grant the request. You and Mr. Potter will be moved to a private chamber down the hall. It will be placed under a Magical Containment Charm. No sound or spell will leave or enter while it is in place. Two Aurors will be stationed directly outside the door –”
“Standard precaution, I understand,” Dippet said, waving a hand. “No offense taken.”
Harry, until then silent, gave a small incline of his head. “Thank you, sir.”
Dippet studied him for a moment longer. “We’ll see whether you’re thanking me when we’re done.”
He turned to Fawley. “Take me to the chamber, Minister. I assume you’ll want a full report once we’re finished?”
Fawley nodded curtly. “The moment you’re able.”
“If I may,” said Harry, his tone courteous but firm. “I’d like my wand and bag returned to me now.”
They all turned toward him.
Fawley’s eyes narrowed. “We’re not in the habit of arming strangers who may or may not be dangerous.”
“And yet,” said Harry, careful, but bold, “There is no clause in your laws that permits indefinite confiscation of a wand or personal belongings unless a criminal charge has been made.”
“Technically,” one Unspeakable murmured, “he’s correct.”
The other added, voice cool and measured, “And now that we suspect he possesses all three Hallows… we must also entertain the possibility that we are standing in the presence of the Master of Death.”
That caused another brief ripple of stillness.
Fawley exhaled sharply through his nose. “Godric’s ghost.”
“A wand is an extension of one’s magical self,” said the Unspeakable. “Confiscating it without legal cause would be tantamount to dismemberment, magically speaking.”
With great reluctance, one of the Aurors stepped forward and placed Harry’s wand back into his open palm. Another brought the bag, now closed again, all items placed faithfully back in.
Harry accepted both. His fingers curled around the wand like something inside him settled.
Fawley’s voice was clipped. “They’re returned to you now, Mr. Potter. But be warned – if you try anything, even a flick in the wrong direction, the Aurors outside will be alerted within seconds.”
“I understand,” Harry said quietly. “And I appreciate your cooperation.”
“Let’s go then, Mr. Potter,” said Dippet. “You’ve made quite the entrance. I trust your story will live up to it.”
Harry’s gaze was steady, “I’m ready, Headmaster. We should talk.”
Dippet nodded once, sharply. “Very well. Let’s be done with this cloak-and-dagger nonsense.”
The two assigned Aurors led the way, and together, without another word, they stepped toward the chamber door; the Aurors stopped there.
As it shut behind them with a sigh and sealed into silence, the air outside remained very, very still.
Because for all their titles, and all their power, none of them could shake the feeling they had just handed a myth his powerful possessions back.
~*~
As soon as they were seated – Dippet across him at the long table, the room silent and empty save for them – Harry, elbows atop the table, buried his face into his hands, exhaling noisily.
His heart once again started lurching violently beneath his ribs, as if his body finally, finally, let go, tense and drawn taut as it was in the Minister’s cabin while he was being unrelentingly cross-examined.
But he pulled a last minute save, or at least tried to, gave them nothing, save for what they already were able to gather. They gathered the most important details, yes, but maybe, Harry still could salvage the situation. Maybe, this situation might do him more good than harm, stuck as he was in such an unfortunate year.
Was it a save? He asked for the first best solution that sprang to his head, the best a tense situation would allow, at the very least. Asked to speak only to Dippet. For some reason, something, that elusive something, stopped him from asking for Dumbledore. Perhaps he had far too many bittersweet memories attached to him, though his immense respect for him never wavered, to place a blind or ready trust anymore. Or perhaps it was because he instinctively knew Dippet was the one with more power and influence now.
He was unsure how different Dippet might be from Dumbledore. But perhaps, Headmasters were Headmasters for a reason. Wisdom shot through with kindness, usually, unlike the clinical and ruthless intelligence a Minister may possess.
“Are you alright, Mr Potter?” Dippet asked. “Or do you need a few more moments to collect yourself?” There was no malice, nor any unkindness, in his tone.
Harry slowly lifted his head from his hands, and straightened in his chair. He tried to steady his breathing.
“I’m alright, Headmaster. Thank you for asking.”
There were a few objects on the otherwise empty table. A vial with clear liquid, a glass of water with a cover lid on top. A glass jug with more water.
“Would you like to have a glass of water?” Dippet offered.
Harry nodded; he hadn’t realized that he was parched.
“I must warn you that it contains three drops of Veritaserum,” said Dippet. “I hope you won’t mind the mild bitterness.”
Harry accepted the glass of water determinedly as Dippet removed the cover and handed it to him. Harry downed it in three quick gulps.
“How do you feel, Mr Potter?”
“Quite alright.”
“Tell me your full name again.”
“Harry James Potter.”
“Were you a student at Hogwarts?”
“Yes.”
“Which house were you sorted into.”
“Gryffindor.”
“Parents’ names?”
A sharp pain in his heart made his breath falter. “Lily Potter, maiden name, Lily Evans, and… James Potter.”
“Hmm, I see some pain in you over that, Mr Potter. Would you care to explain why?”
“They were killed, by a… by a Dark Wizard.”
“A Dark Wizard? What is, or was, his name?”
Harry’s heart constricted with pain and rage. His lips tried to form the name, but faltered, despite the Veritaserum, such was the force of his emotions.
“Voldemort.” he bit out finally.
“You had some trouble saying that name.” observed Dippet.
“It’s because I fucking hate him.” the words spilled from Harry’s mouth unbidden, with raw force, the Veritaserum forcing the truth out sharply, openly, none of the usual filters of everyday white lies left to filter it.
Dippet’s eyebrows shot up. He continued, though, voice fairly neutral, “Is that his real name?”
“No.”
“What is his real name, then?”
Harry’s heart beat violently again, something unpleasant twisting it. Voldemort – Tom Riddle – was a child, a minor, in the present year, this blasted, nonsensical year that the Time Turner decided to throw him into.
“Tom Riddle.” said Harry eventually, toneless, empty.
“Tom Riddle?” Dippet quirked an eyebrow. “A moment, please,” Dippet accioed a monstrously enormous, thick book – it came flying from one of the shelves, and settled with a gentle thud on the table, before Dippet.
Dippet adjusted his spectacles slightly, and muttered a spell under his breath – the book opened, and its innumerable pages started flipping rapidly, clamourously, a flurry of slight breeze in its wake, and then, it settled, quick, on a page.
Dippet trailed an ancient finger down the page, his expression careful and absorbed.
“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” read Dippet, “Age ten. Lives in Wool’s Orphanage, room number 27.”
Harry nodded once, stiffly.
Dippet closed the tome, and carefully shifted it aside. His gaze returned to Harry, still neutral, his face giving away nothing.
“And your real name is Harry James Potter?”
“Yes.”
“This Dark Wizard, Voldemort, his real name is Tom Marvolo Riddle?”
“Yes.”
“The same Tom Marvolo Riddle as the one that lives in Wool’s Orphanage, ten years old?”
“Yes.”
“Curious. Very curious,” Dippet paused, as if weighing how it all was coming together. “You have travelled back in time to stop Tom Riddle from becoming Voldemort.” he stated quietly. Not a question. A statement.
Harry exhaled, a sick feeling in his stomach. “Yes,” he breathed.
“Which year do you come from?”
“1998.”
Dippet let in a sharp intake of breath. “That’s quite far back into the past you have travelled to, Mr Potter.”
“I did not intend to. The Time Turner… it dropped me here, on its own will.”
“Yes, as powerful Time Turners do.” replied Dippet.
A pause.
“But you were aware, briefed perhaps, about it?” continued Dippet. “That these Time Turners have their own will and volition?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm…”
Another pause, as Dippet’s mind stirred, processing it all; Harry sat sunk into the chair, breathless, but resolute.
“I will ask you this plainly and directly, Mr Potter,” said Dippet finally. “What do you intend to do with the boy?”
Harry’s breaths picked its pace again, the air that traversed through him pained, sharp, furious. Helpless.
Harry wanted to smash the Time Turner in his bag into pieces. Externally, nothing was visible of his rage, save for his quickened, laboured breaths, his tightened jaw, and the sheen of sweat on him.
“I don’t… know,” said Harry eventually, helplessly, and that was the truth of it, ripped as it was out of him by the Veritaserum.
Dippet’s eyes softened suddenly. He nodded slightly, as if in understanding.
Yet, he asked, “Why do you not know what to do with him, Mr Potter?”
“Because… because he,” Harry breathed hard, struggling to piece it together, to come to terms with it, with the mess of it, the vicious unfairness of it, “he is a child.”
“Yes, he is. Only aged ten.” said Dippet softly. “Would you say abandoning your own time for this is futile, then?”
“I don’t know…”
“So you mean there still lies a probability that you may kill him eventually? Stop him before he becomes Voldemort?”
“I don’t know.” Harry’s head started to spin with the onslaught of the gentle, astute, relentless interrogation. Dippet was brilliant, as brilliant as Dumbledore, Harry slowly realized.
“Hmm, your I-don’t-knows are properly valid, because it is under Veritaserum, after all,” said Dippet. “Here,” he extended the glass of water once again, “Have another glass of water, Mr Potter. I’m afraid I must insist.”
“A stronger dose?” said Harry, warily. “I don’t think the effect of the previous one has worn off.”
“It hasn’t,” Dippet admitted politely, “This one has three drops as well. But the addition will create a stronger, tightened hold on truth.”
Harry accepted the glass and downed the contents quickly. He placed the glass and sat back, jaw tightened in resolution. He needed to salvage this situation, he needed to.
“I will ask you once again, Mr Potter,” Dippet began gently, “Would you say abandoning your own time for this now seems futile?”
“Perhaps,” said Harry, the truth of it wrenched out swiftly from him.
“Why?”
“Because he’s a child,” Harry said, voice low. “But if he chooses the path I know he does – if he becomes the darkness that destroys everything in my time... killed every one of my loved ones, brought about Albus Dumbledore’s death, the deaths of Hogwarts professors who mattered, nearly razed the school to the ground, tried to tear down the Statute of Secrecy, to enslave and torture Muggles... If he goes down that path, I don’t know how I’ll stop him without force. Or violence.”
There was a grim, unsettling silence, Dippet’s face now etched with deep concern.
“Do you see it is probable,” asked Dippet softly, “that you may kill him eventually to stop him from becoming Voldemort?”
“Yes.”
“Was it a full-blown war?” Dippet asked quietly, almost disbelieving. “A battle?”
Harry nodded once. “Yes. The Battle of Hogwarts, as it came to be called. May 2nd, 1998.”
Dippet’s brows furrowed. “At Hogwarts?”
“Yes,” Harry said. “I was... they called me the ‘Chosen One.’ The one prophesied to face Voldemort. To defeat him. And that’s exactly what happened – despite everything he did to avoid it. Despite the lengths he went to for immortality.”
There was a long pause before Harry added, voice tight, “He created not one, not two, but seven Horcruxes. Seven. Starting from his time here, as a student. He made his first one in Hogwarts’ very walls. And continued until he created his last in 1994.”
The silence that followed was brittle.
Dippet leaned back in his chair slowly, his expression unreadable. Something in his eyes – shock, yes, but also a dawning horror, as if the edges of an unseen nightmare were creeping into the room with them.
“He began it here,” Dippet said at last, voice a whisper. “In Hogwarts. Under our very noses.”
Harry’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yes.”
Dippet looked down at the desk, at his own hands, folded too tightly. When he finally met Harry’s eyes again, they were dimmed with something heavy.
“And you… survived all of that. You defeated him.”
Harry nodded once, silently.
Dippet exhaled, the sound slow and grim. “Merlin help us.”
After a long pause, Dippet asked, his tone measured and eyes sharp with quiet scrutiny, “Do you wish to kill him now, when he is a child, when he is not yet dangerous, when he is at his most vulnerable?”
“No.” it tugged forth from somewhere within his heart and his soul and his bloodstream. The resolute, unthinking, obvious ‘no.’
Dippet nodded, in that same soft manner of understanding.
“Are you truly the Master of Death, Mr Potter?” he then asked.
Harry exhaled slowly. “Yes.”
“You’re quite young for that, aren’t you?” Dippet said, eyes narrowing, caught somewhere between wariness and a hope for truth. “How did you earn this notoriously elusive title, Mr Potter? Men have dedicated their entire lives for it, some turning insane in its pursuit, some meeting early deaths, others turning evil in their hunger for it, for it is a very attractive power to have, Mr Potter. Some would even kill those they love to claim it. How is it possible that you, a young man who can’t be more than eighteen, come about to not just pass by this power, but to wield it?”
Harry let out a soft breath, lips quirking into a bitter smile.
“I did not chase after this power, nor ever cared for it. It… chose me, I guess. It is a long story, but one I am willing to tell you, because I have nothing to hide. I have done nothing wrong and am here to make things right, as right as is possible for a… seventeen-year-old boy.”
Harry was then quiet for a long moment. His fingers curled lightly around the handle of his wand, not in threat, but in grounding.
“I didn’t want it,” he said at last, voice low. “I didn’t even know what it meant – not truly – until it was already mine.”
He looked up, eyes too old, too hollow for someone so young.
“I didn’t go looking for the Hallows. They found me. Piece by piece. The Cloak was passed down to me – my father’s, and his father’s before him. The Resurrection Stone came hidden inside a gift left by… Albus Dumbledore, I received it as part of his will, after his death. The Elder Wand... I won that in the events leading up to the Battle of Hogwarts. I never wanted its allegiance. But I took it when I had to, to end the war.”
A shadow passed across his face.
“I was killed. By him. And I came back.”
Dippet’s breath caught, but Harry pressed on.
“When I returned... I understood. The Hallows had chosen me. Death itself had... made room.”
He exhaled shakily, mouth twisted with something that wasn’t pride. “It’s not a title. It’s not glory. It’s a burden. It means outliving people you’d give your life for. It means being tied to something ancient and hungry and far beyond human reason. But it also means I have one chance – just one – to change things. To fix what went wrong.”
His gaze hardened. “And I won’t waste it.”
Dippet’s gaze was kind now, almost sympathetic, but his tone was laced still with extreme caution and concern. “You do realize that we are well within our rights to subject you to a duel against our best witch or wizard, and try to dismantle that status, don’t you?” he said. “Because, Mr Potter, I cannot allow you, no matter how grim a picture you paint of this supposed future, to kill someone who is, as of yet, to the best of our knowledge, innocent.”
“I understand that fully, Headmaster, but, in case he slips into a path of violence –”
“Then we prevent it.” Dippet cut in.
Harry stared at him, something keeping him absolutely still.
“What do you wish to do, Potter, truly wish to do, with the present situation you are in?” asked Dippet, gentle, pushing Harry, unbeknownst to both of them, into something, something neither of them understood in that moment.
“I wish to… to stop him, somehow… I don’t know how… I obviously may not have the heart to kill a child; he just might still be malleable enough… I don’t know, Headmaster,” Harry’s senses were fraying at its edges, his soul writhing under the impossible situation the Time Turner had appallingly dropped him into.
“I used the Time Turner to bring my loved ones back. That was my only intent. To bring every single one of my loved ones back. I thought, perhaps, the Time Turner might take me back to the night my parents were killed by Voldemort, as he tried to kill me as a child, when I was a mere infant of one. Tried to kill me because of the prophecy. And my parents died protecting me. I thought… I thought the Time Turner might drop me to that night, and I would be able to stop Voldemort there, prevent the deaths that followed, the deaths of everyone who were dear to me…”
“How did you escape death that night, Mr Potter?” asked Dippet, “A Dark Wizard of seemingly strong capabilities attacked your family, killed your parents, but you survived? And this is long before your status as the Master of Death.”
“My mum’s love protected me…” said Harry. “It was old magic. One that Voldemort did not foresee. His own killing curse rebounded on him, defeating him, he had to flee, just a bare, fractured soul and nothing else, as his body was gone, while also making me his accidental horcrux that night, giving me this scar.” Harry pushed his hair back to reveal it.
Dippet stared at the scar in silence for a long moment, the flicker of candlelight catching in his eyes.
“Merlin’s mercy,” he murmured at last, voice barely above breath. “What kind of life have you lived, Harry Potter?”
Harry let out a hollow breath, his voice low and rough. “Not one I’d wish on anyone,” he said. “But I’d live it again, endure twice the struggle, if it meant saving them.”
His fingers curled unconsciously around the strap of the bag beside him, where the Hallows rested like old ghosts. “I just... I wanted a second chance. I didn’t know it would come like this.”
“If there is one thing I know about these powerful Time Turners, Mr Potter, such as the one you seemed to have used, it is that they are intelligent, frighteningly so, no one knows what gives them that intelligence, perhaps the fabric of the cosmos, of time and space itself,” said Dippet.
Harry stared at him, his breaths sharpening again.
“What do you wish to do with Tom Riddle, Mr Potter?” Dippet pressed, again.
“I don’t know, I don’t –” Harry exhaled shakily, his brain once again thrashing helplessly in the impossibility of the maddening situation.
“Time for another glass of water, Mr Potter,” Dippet said, not at all unkindly, instead, with a certain warmth in his eyes now, as his lips quirked into a playful smile beneath the flowing, trimmed beard.
Harry’s lips quirked up as well, thinly, humourlessly, but calmed that Dippet seemed to be believing him. He watched Dippet drop three drops of Veritaserum from the vial, into the glass of water, renewed freshly with water from the jug.
Harry gulped it down, set the glass back on the table.
He sat back, somehow clearer in his head.
“Now,” said Dippet, his voice calm but firm, “let’s try again. What do you wish to do with Tom Riddle?”
“I might be able to watch over him…” Harry began, uncertainly. His voice wavered. “Ensure he stays away from the path I know he’s meant to take. I might be able to mentor him, guide him – and I’ll have to start immediately. Because the longer one waits, the more his mind will harden around his beliefs… the further along he will be on a path to darkness –”
Dippet nodded slowly, something almost warm flickering across his face. A gentle smile touched his lips.
“You’re not a dark wizard,” he suddenly declared softly. “Nor a threat. That much, I’m certain of now, Harry – if I may call you that.”
“Of course, sir.” Harry’s lips curved faintly, a fragile thing.
“I think, Harry,” Dippet said, and his expression grew solemn again, “the best course of action under these circumstances… is for you to raise Tom Riddle.”
Harry drew in a sharp, shallow breath. Something cold and heavy dropped in his stomach. He didn’t protest. He couldn’t. Because it was the same conclusion he himself had begun to form – Dippet had only said it aloud.
But the weight of it, the blasphemy of it, the cruel, exquisite irony of it — it twisted something deep inside him.
He swallowed hard. Something in him shifted, splintered, and slowly began to reform. His fingers curled tight around his wand — not to cast, not to fight — just to anchor himself.
The core of his wand the same as that of his.
“Yes, Headmaster,” Harry said quietly, a shudder running through him. “I think… I think it’s the best course of action.”
“It’s one you suggested yourself,” Dippet said with a small, understanding smile. There was a glint of something sorrowful in his eyes – a strange empathy. Or pity. “So I suggest you get used to it quickly.”
Harry stared at him for a long, heavy moment. He said nothing. The emotions flooding him were too complex, too sharp-edged to name.
It felt like desecrating the memory of everyone he had ever loved — and yet also like salvation. Like something sickening, and yet impossibly pure. Like redemption. Or ruin.
Harry nodded faintly — more to himself than to Dippet — letting the words settle, trying to make peace with them.
He didn’t know if he’d just committed the greatest foolishness of his life, or taken the most important plunge into the unknown he ever would.
Either way, the Time Turner — frighteningly intelligent, if Dippet’s words were to be believed — had placed him here. In this moment. Perhaps for a reason. Harry could only pray that was the case.
“I’ll commit to this course, Headmaster,” he said finally, his voice steadying. “But… I have a few requests. And I hope you’ll consider them seriously — not as threats, but as practical necessities. Without them, it will be difficult for me to do this properly.”
“I expected as much,” said Dippet gently. “You’ll need a few things to start you off — help to set you on your feet for what I suspect will be a rather daunting task.”
Harry nodded, sharper this time.
“I’ll need a place to live — for myself and for Riddle.”
Dippet gave him an encouraging nod. “Go on.”
“I’ll need a steady, decent job — enough to support myself and provide for… the boy. I’ll also need the place to be heavily warded. I can manage some protections on my own, but not all. I’d appreciate your help with that, especially with your years of experience.”
Dippet inclined his head solemnly.
“I’d also like the house placed under the Fidelius Charm, with you as the Secret Keeper. And… I need your word that none of this will be spoken of. Not to anyone. Not even to Professor Dumbledore.”
Harry’s tone was firm but respectful now — pleading not for sympathy, but for secrecy.
“I need the memories of the seven Aurors who saw and heard everything today to be modified, or obliviated. It’s too many people to know something this sensitive. I want this knowledge restricted to only you, the Minister, and the two Unspeakables — and even then, I’d prefer some sort of magical binding or promise to ensure it doesn’t travel beyond that circle. Because above all else, Headmaster… my goal remains unchanged.”
His voice cracked, just slightly.
“I want my loved ones back. I want them safe. That’s my goal. I cannot risk altering any course that leads to it.”
Dippet had listened to every word, never once interrupting. Now, when Harry fell quiet, he answered with a deep breath and a thoughtful nod.
“You ask for quite a bit, Harry. But I will grant you all of it. Your situation is… unique, and clearly of significant consequence — not just to you, but to the entire Wizarding world. I believe I understand the gravity of what you’re undertaking. So I assure you, I’ll help you in every way I can.”
Harry exhaled, relief curling in his chest.
“The only thing I must refuse,” Dippet added gently, “is any kind of Unbreakable Vow between us.”
“That’s all right, sir,” Harry said quickly. “I didn’t expect that of you anyway.”
“Good,” said Dippet, satisfied. “Now then, let’s talk about employment. Besides your very impressive track record of cheating death, what would you say you’re particularly skilled at?”
Harry couldn’t help a faint smile. “I’m fairly good at Defence Against the Dark Arts, sir.”
“Ah, unfortunately we already have an excellent professor for that subject. Anything else?”
“I’m good at flying,” said Harry.
Dippet’s eyes lit up. “Excellent! We’ve been meaning to replace our Flying Instructor — dreadful fellow — for quite some time now. Can you begin in three months? Will you have enough funds until then?”
“I think I’ll just about manage,” said Harry. “If I run into trouble, I’ll let you know.”
“Very good. I’ll take care of the necessary records. According to Hogwarts' books, you were accepted at age eleven, but your parents chose to homeschool you — it happens now and then, no one will question it. I’ll fabricate academic reports, Ministry registration, and link you to a distant Muggle-born branch of the Potter family. Your Muggle birth certificate will help sell the story. By the time you join as Flying Instructor in three months, everything will be in order.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll keep the story in mind.”
“Now, about your accommodation,” Dippet said, folding his hands. “There’s a cottage I can offer you — a little run-down from disuse, I’m afraid. It used to belong to an old friend of mine who passed away some years ago. It’s a quiet place, in the Scottish Highlands. Its remote, peaceful. Would that suit you?”
Harry nodded, “That would be perfect, sir.”
“And don’t worry,” Dippet added kindly, “I’ll see to it that the Aurors are properly obliviated.”
Harry’s throat tightened. “Thank you,” he said quietly. "For being clever enough to understand all of this. And kind enough not to run the other way."
“I make it a point to be good to good people,” said Dippet. “Now, just one last thing. Nothing important, just a curious little thought that won’t leave me. You are related to the Potters, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought so,” said Dippet, peering at him over his glasses. “That face structure — always the same, generation after generation. It’s unmistakable. That proud, stubborn jaw is pure Potter.”
Harry smiled at him, quietly grateful. Warm, for now.
~*~
Chapter 2: The Boy in Room No. 27
Chapter Text
~*~
Dippet asked him to wait a while – perhaps an hour, perhaps a little more – in the chamber. He had arranged a meal for Harry: lamb chops with mint sauce, buttered vegetables, rhubarb tart, and a glass of sherry. It sat splendidly on the same table where, just moments ago, had rested a jug and a glass of water, and a clear vial of Veritaserum – the tools of interrogation now replaced with a gesture of hospitality.
Dippet told him he wanted to take care of the immediate necessities that very afternoon. He said he would see to the obliviation of the seven Aurors, give a report of their meeting to Minister Fawley, and warn both him and the Unspeakables to remain absolutely tight-lipped.
And after that, he and Harry would head to the run-down cottage in the Scottish Highlands, a place Dippet promised would become picture-perfect and cozy once they’d worked on it.
Harry held out as long as he could. The food smelled divine, looked even better. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he was faced with it – the lamb tender and spiced, the tart sharp and sweet. Eventually, the gnawing hunger in him took over, and he ate.
By the time Dippet returned, Harry was full, the warmth of food grounding him; but already, a storm was building in his chest. The apprehension had returned, stronger than before.
He would meet the boy. Soon. A ten-year-old Tom Riddle.
Harry found himself praying, not just to one god, but to all of them, every one of them in the firmament – for patience, for strength, for mercy.
They left the Ministry together. Dippet took him by side-along Apparition, and in the next moment, they stood in the raw, roaring vastness of the Scottish Highlands – wild, ancient, steeped in nature. The wind whipped at their hair. The air was so clean, so sharp, it tore through Harry’s lungs.
Dippet tilted his head up, smiling slightly, eyes crinkled. “That’s the cottage.”
Harry looked. Up the slope, barely visible against the mist and the darkening sky, stood a little house. Black in silhouette, silent and still, but not unwelcoming. There was something in it, some potential. He could imagine it warm, cozy, even lovely, the sort of place that might feel like safety. But would it be all of that? Or might he have to abandon it one day, splintered, betrayed, helpless?
They walked up the slope together. When they finally reached it, they set to work – clearing ivy and wildly coiled weeds, restoring walls, sealing the roof, fixing rotten floorboards. The house seemed to be waking up slowly after years of silence.
Once everything was whole again, Dippet conjured firewood and lit the fireplaces in both the storeys. The orange glow spilled through the rooms.
Then came the wards. Harry laid the simpler ones; Dippet, the heavier enchantments, magic that curled into the land around them. Layer after layer of protection.
At last, they sealed it under the Fidelius Charm. The house vanished from the world, hidden now under Dippet’s guardianship as Secret Keeper.
They sat for a moment in the sitting room, the firelight painting soft gold on the walls.
And then, Dippet stood. He left with a kind word and a final glance, leaving Harry alone.
Alone in the little house that he didn’t yet know would become a home.
Alone in a place so dark and wild it seemed to echo the hollowed-out quiet in his chest.
Alone in the arms of nature – unyielding, deep, and patient – as he waited for the next great undoing of his life to begin.
~*~
Harry stalled and braced for two days.
He stocked up the house with essentials – vegetables, some meat, eggs, bread. Tea leaves, coffee. Soap, shampoo. Whatever he could find and thought he, they, would need, brought from the nearest neighbouring muggle town.
The thought still hadn’t settled, hadn’t seemed right.
The idea of them living in small, hushed, warm confines of four walls.
He was only used to racing heart and trembling breaths, death and doom, green jets flying, deep, painful losses, when it came to him.
Yet, there was this stubborn daring, this foolish wish.
He needed to make it all right.
And for that, being with him, every step of the way, was what he needed to not only come to terms with, but undertake unwaveringly.
On the second day arrived the necessary documents he would require to adopt Riddle, owled to him by Dippet. It came in a tied roll of parchments, charmed to not get wet in the relentless drizzle. Harry’s birth certificate which said he was born on 31st July, 1915 in London, proofs of prior residence in London, further residence proofs that said that he owned a house in Glencoe, Scottish Highlands.
On the third day, Harry had a paltry breakfast of butter on toast and some tea, barely able to swallow most it. Nerves, jitters, were twisting his stomach in knots.
Once done, he drew an umbrella from the stand next to the door, for it was still overcast, stepped out of the cottage, locking it securely – though it wasn’t really needed due to the scores of dense wards wrapping it tight – and then, he Apparated straight to London.
~*~
He was careful to Apparate with a disillusionment charm on, somewhere into a forgotten alleyway, so as to not draw attention to his arrival.
He found his way to the orphanage quick enough, few requests for directions here and there helping him along.
And then, there it was, as he rounded a corner.
The miserable stone building loomed before him like a grim prison, iron gates sealing it in fixed, definite, wretched captivity. He approached the gate; the latch was not locked. He pushed the gate; it opened with a groaning scrape. He stepped in. A few children ran about the front steps that led in to an arched entryway. The moment they saw him, they stilled, staring at him with some sort of slight hope.
Harry clenched his jaw, pained at the sight, but carried on steadfastly with what he came here for.
For Tom Riddle.
Inside, there wasn’t a single adult in sight. A stifling, stale smell pervaded the place. The long corridor was dim, lined with doors and shadowy stairwells. Children moved about, grimy, signs of neglect evident on their frames, each of them glancing up as he passed, their eyes tracking him silently.
Harry saw a wicket, behind which stood a woman. He knocked at the door. She immediately stepped forth.
“Yes?” She did not look pleasant.
“I’m – I’ve come here to adopt a child.”
She nodded once curtly. “Follow me,” she said, leading him up a flight of stairs.
The stairs were steep, poorly lit. The walls close and dark. They climbed in silence to the first floor, where she led him to a door and knocked sharply.
There was a pause. Then it opened.
Mrs. Cole emerged. Harry recognized her instantly.
The other woman explained briskly that he was here to adopt, then turned and left without another word.
Mrs. Cole brightened, briefly. “Oh, would you like to meet the children? What age are you looking for?”
Harry hesitated. “Er – I’m looking for… Tom Riddle.”
The change in her demeanour was instant. Colour drained from her face, and her smile vanished.
“Oh.” A pause. “Are you a relative?”
Harry nodded stiffly, not trusting himself to lie with words.
“That adds up,” she nodded slightly, “a specific request like that, usually it’s family. Very well. But I must warn you...” She paused, gravely. “He’s not an easy child. I only hope you’re prepared for what this entails.”
Harry’s stomach lurched with a sick sensation. He knew it, he had seen the memories. He knew this was exactly what he should be expecting, but hearing it spoken to him directly made it chillingly ominous.
“I’d appreciate if you could elaborate,” he said, quietly. He wanted to know more. He needed to.
Mrs. Cole nodded. “Please, come in,” she said, gesturing him into a small, cluttered office just off the corridor.
They sat across from each other at
a small, cramped table. The room smelled faintly of damp paper and dust. Mrs. Cole sat stiffly, wringing her hands in her lap.
“Well, you see, Mr…?”
“Harry Potter,” he said, voice low.
She nodded. “Mr. Potter. I’m Mrs. Cole.”
Harry inclined his head.
“There have been incidents,” she began, eyes flicking to the door as though to make sure no one was listening. “Frightening ones. Now, you may wonder why I’m telling you this – why, as the matron of an overburdened orphanage, I’d try to dissuade an adoption. Surely, with mouths to feed and wartime shortages, I should welcome any relief. And that’s true, Mr. Potter. But I have a conscience. I can’t offload one… strange child only to have him returned days later, with whispers spreading that we harbour the dangerous or the deranged. That would ruin us. And you –”
She paused, studying him with faint suspicion. “You look very young. Are you adopting on behalf of someone else? A family, perhaps?”
“Just me,” Harry replied, after a beat. He was still reeling from her words. “I’m of legal age; twenty-two. I have all the required documents.”
A lie, of course. He was only seventeen, but the forged documents Dippet had provided were watertight. That detail felt insignificant now; there were far darker things to contend with.
Mrs. Cole gave a thin smile. “I don’t doubt your ability to support a child. No, that’s not the concern. If only it were something that simple.” Her expression faltered, and Harry felt a sharp chill skitter up his spine.
Just how bad was it?
“I meant what I said, Mr. Potter,” she continued, voice low. “There have been incidents. Strange at best. Ghastly at worst. We were, in fact, very near finalising his admission permanently into a mental institution.”
Harry exhaled, slow and shaking. “I’d like to know what happened.”
Mrs. Cole hesitated, clearly uneasy. Her hands twisted together again. “Outwardly, he’s… calm. Sometimes disturbingly so. There’s something unnatural about it. He looks like an angel, and yet acts like –” she dropped her voice – “a devil. It unsettles me. You know the old saying – the devil was once the fairest cherub.”
Harry swallowed hard, dread settling into his chest like lead.
“There was a time we ran out of food,” she said, eyes distant. “Another child had stolen Tom’s bread. The next morning, Tom was found in the pantry, panting and winded, and all our food was gone. Every bit of it. We never found out how he did it. But that’s the thing with him. Nothing is ever provable. And that makes it worse.”
Harry said nothing, listening, stomach twisting.
“And that’s one of the milder incidents,” she added grimly. “There was a boy once, Billy Stubbs, who troubled Tom. He had a pet rabbit. One day, after a fight in which Billy bloodied Tom’s nose, we found the rabbit hanging from the rafters the very next morning. Dead. Again, no evidence. Just a coincidence. Another one.”
She paused, her face clouding.
“But there are worse. On our annual outing – we take the children to the countryside or the coast – Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop went into a cave with Tom. When they came back… they were never quite right again. We couldn’t get a word out of them beyond, ‘we were exploring.’ But I know something happened in there. Something wrong.”
Harry’s skin crawled.
“And then there are the snakes,” she whispered, pale as paper. “He brings them into the orphanage. Small ones sometimes, yes. But sometimes enormous, thick, terrifying things. We don’t know where he finds them. And he hisses at them, as though… speaking. It's not English. It’s a horrible sound. The children say he talks to them.” She shuddered. “And the snakes never attack him, only the others. There have been injuries. One child died. And I live in constant fear that one day it’ll be me.”
Harry was going numb. He had seen glimpses of this in Dumbledore’s memories, but never with such clarity. Never with such scale.
“And then…” Mrs. Cole drew a shaky breath. “There was the worst one. Betty Webley used to torment Tom. I warned her, again and again. Don’t provoke him, I said. She didn’t listen. One day, she mocked him – loudly, cruelly. There was a caretaker present, watching. But in the blink of an eye, Betty… she gouged out her own eye. Screaming the entire time. The caretaker couldn’t explain it.”
Harry sat frozen, horror twisting in his gut. He hadn’t known. He hadn’t really known.
“He’s… out of control, Mrs. Cole,” Harry managed at last, throat dry. “But I think that’s all the more reason why I must adopt him. Immediately. He needs guidance, structure, before it’s too late.”
Mrs. Cole looked stunned, and then profoundly relieved.
“Yes,” she said, nodding rapidly. “Yes, you must. You must.”
~*~
With each step he took up the narrow staircase to the second floor, guided by Mrs Cole’s brisk footsteps, Harry felt his heart thudding harder, louder, a wild creature in his chest.
They stopped before a plain wooden door with a tarnished plaque. Room No. 27.
Mrs Cole rapped once, her knuckles sharp against the wood, and then, as if the act itself had startled her, she stepped back swiftly – like prey sensing the rustle of a predator.
A beat passed. Then another.
The door creaked open.
A boy stood there – slightly tall for his age, slender in frame, his skin pale against the dim corridor light. Dark hair curled loosely around a beautiful, almost ethereal face. His grey eyes were sharp, watchful, and unreadable. There was something too still about him, too careful. As though even in standing still, he was calculating every possible outcome of this moment.
He said nothing. He simply looked.
Intense. Guarded. The subtle quickening of his breath gave him away, just barely – a flicker of fear, or anticipation, or both.
“Tom, you have a visitor,” Mrs Cole said, voice clipped and quick, and then turned on her heel and left without another word, not looking back.
Harry drew a breath, slow and unsteady. His eyes didn’t leave the boy. “Hello, Tom.”
Tom narrowed his eyes slightly. “Who are you?”
“You may not know me,” Harry began, anger, grief, bitterness, twisting through him, “but I know you well, Tom. I’m here to adopt you.”
There was no change in Tom’s stance. If anything, it grew even firmer, like the boy was bracing himself to slam the door shut. He stood squarely in the doorway, body angled like a barrier.
“And why,” Tom said, tone clipped and dry, “should I be adopted by you?”
No childish excitement. No spark of joy or relief. Only suspicion, clean and cold.
“I’m a distant relative,” Harry said quietly, lying with practiced ease. Hatred churned in him –raw, familiar – but he shoved it down. He couldn’t afford it now. This wasn’t about emotion. This wasn’t about retribution or softness. He wasn’t here to love the boy, nor to harm him. Only to take him away. Shelter him. Guide him. Contain him.
Tom’s eyes flickered. “A distant relative,” he echoed softly. “Or a doctor sent to lure me off to the madhouse?”
“I’m not a doctor,” Harry said. “My name… is Harry. Harry Potter. I’m here to adopt you. To take you away from this place. Give you a better life than this.”
That made something shift. Not trust; but something.
Still, Tom didn’t move aside. He stood at the threshold rigidly.
Harry changed tactics.
“I’m different, too,” he said, his voice lowering. “Like you. You can do things, can’t you? Things you can’t explain.”
Tom’s gaze sharpened.
“You don’t know how, but you know it’s there. That power. That wrongness everyone sees in you. But it’s not wrong, Tom. It’s magic.”
Tom’s breath hitched, just slightly.
“I’m like you,” Harry said. “From the same world.”
Tom regarded him for a long moment.
"You look too young to be adopting anyone," Tom finally remarked, in a challenge.
"Maybe," Harry said quietly, pulse quickening, vexed, rising to the challenge. "But I'm old enough to raise you."
They stared at each other for a long moment, stubborn green to calculating grey, neither backing down. And then, Tom slowly stepped back, just enough to let Harry in. But his voice was soft and low, a warning curled inside it.
“If you’re lying to me, Harry Potter,” he said, eyes gleaming with something ancient and terrible, “you’ll regret it.”
Harry gave a faint, bitter smile. There’s nothing worse you can do to me I haven’t already lived through, he thought. But he didn’t say it.
Tom closed the door behind them.
The room was small and austere – bare walls, a tiny desk in the corner, a single narrow bed, a cupboard, and a window that let in a wan, grey light from the overcast sky outside.
Tom sat in the chair, posture rigid, back straight. He watched Harry like a hawk – every movement, every breath.
Harry sat on the edge of the bed. Tom’s bed. There was nowhere else.
The silence stretched, heavy and taut, like the stillness before lightning splits the sky.
Tom’s eyes stayed fixed on Harry as though trying to peer beneath his skin. "You said you’re like me. How?"
“I can do magic. Like you.”
Tom’s expression didn’t shift. “Prove it.”
Harry took out his wand, slowly, from his pocket. Tom’s eyes widened slightly.
Harry gave a gentle flick of his wand, and a cluster of small, warm, golden pin-points of light floated up like fireflies, soft and glowing, casting gentle light across the stark room. They hovered for a moment before dissolving into the air.
Tom didn’t gasp. Didn’t show any discernible emotion. But his body went very still.
Harry watched him carefully. “You’ve done things too. Haven’t you?”
Tom’s gaze was sharp, like a hound catching a scent. “…What do you think I can do?”
Harry’s voice was distant, hollow, and the words came softly. “Make things happen when you’re angry. Move things without touching them. Hurt people who hurt you. Make animals obey you. Make people fear you without even trying.”
A flicker. Barely a twitch of Tom’s lips, almost a smirk. “Yes,” he said. “I can talk to snakes, too. They talk back to me. Is that… normal? For someone like me?”
Harry’s breath caught. He didn’t answer right away, his heart pounding excruciatingly with horrific, nauseating, frightening déjà vu.
Tom noticed. Of course he noticed.
That tiny pause was enough.
His face didn’t fall, didn’t shift, but Harry could feel the stillness turn cold. Like Tom had handed over a secret and gotten silence in return. And silence, to someone like Tom, meant judgment.
“It’s rare,” Harry bit out eventually. “But it’s not wrong.”
Tom looked at him long and hard, his voice quiet. “Are you really my relative?”
“Distantly,” Harry lied, wearily, “Far enough back that no one really remembers the connection.”
Tom looked unconvinced. It was obvious in the way his eyes narrowed slightly, in the way his shoulders tensed. But he said nothing.
Instead, Harry said, “Don’t worry. You’ll have a good life with me. A better life than here.”
Tom’s expression didn’t soften. “I don’t need pity,” he said, mildly. But it was there, a seething, fuming, ugly pride.
“It’s not pity. It’s an offer. A nicer life. Not a perfect one, but not isolation. Not being afraid of what you are.”
“And I should trust you?”
“You already want to. You just don’t want to need to.”
Tom tilted his head, not unlike a bird sizing up prey. “You think you know me.”
Harry’s gaze was steady on him, unafraid, hard. “I know enough. You don’t like being lied to. You don’t like being pitied. You’re clever. You’re angry. You hate being powerless, and you’ll do whatever it takes to never feel like that again.”
The air between them turned thick.
Tom’s fingers flexed slightly on the arm of the chair. His face was unreadable. “You really think you can help me?” he asked finally, a whisper of something vulnerable hidden in the tone, buried deep. But Harry caught it.
“Yes,” Harry said. “So you…” Harry’s quiet whisper trailed off. It was both sorrow and bile that threatened to rise to his throat, “better get your things in order. If all goes well, the process of adoption will be completed today, and you’ll come with me to your… your new home.”
The silence stretched, Tom gazing at him unreadably for a protracted, strange moment, and then, without a word, Tom stood. He walked over to the small cupboard in the corner, and opened it. He began taking out his meagre possessions – a threadbare jumper, two worn books, an old comb.
Harry stood as well. “I’ll go speak to Mrs. Cole,” he said. “Finish the paperwork. You take your time with it.”
Tom didn’t answer.
“I assume you don’t have a suitcase,” said Harry. “I’ll bring one for you.” He paused at the door.
Still, nothing.
But Tom didn’t look angry, or scared. He looked like someone who had just made a decision, and had started locking it away in an unyielding box.
Harry left the room quietly, his heart contracting with something hard to name – grief, maybe, or revulsion, or the damning weight of his choices.
And behind him, in that cold little room, Tom Riddle packed silently.
~*~
Chapter 3: Violet Light
Chapter Text
~*~
The young man had brilliant emerald green eyes. Strikingly beautiful, the shape of them, and the lashes that framed them almost coyly.
Raven hair, unkempt in a way that it seemed like the wind perpetually kept them tousled. Pale face, all sharp angles and tight jaw and thin lips.
A distant relative.
A clear lie.
The man looked highborn, yet unassuming. Suspiciously so.
He looked better than the entire orphanage put together; but then again, he wasn’t struggling for scraps of food or wrestling with moronic swine.
Perhaps he was bored, rich, zany, wanting to take on a challenge. A mad one, surely – adopting a boy who had undoubtedly been described to him as difficult, abnormal, dangerous.
But no, even that felt far-fetched.
Tom’s head was held high, jaw locked; he was tense all over. Something smarting and thick jabbed at his chest, licked at his insides, made his breaths shallow, sharp, painful. Tom recognized it as anger, but it had a deep, lacerating quality to it this time. It was different this time.
He was adopted. The paperwork was done.
Was he too quick to accept this man’s offer – an offer the man dangled in front of him like a gleaming carrot?
Too eager to escape the misery of being unwanted, of fighting for survival. Too eager to seek a hope of being understood, respected, treated the way he deserved.
Loved was a distant thing. He hadn’t even considered wanting it. To be treated with dignity, to have things – necessary ones, yes, but also fine things – that someone like him, brilliant, gifted, deserved – that alone would suffice. Love? That was a fever dream.
Since the moment they stepped out of the orphanage – Tom gripping the suitcase the man had handed him, stuffing in his possessions as swiftly and neatly as he could – he had been trying to keep up.
The man walked fast, like he was fleeing something. Tom only managed to match his pace because he was tall for his age – and the man, despite his, was short and slight.
The way the man spoke in his room, measured, something in his striking green eyes glinting with unbridled hatred, stuttering whispers that fell from his lips like it pained him to speak to him…
And then when the horrid, creaking gates shut behind them, the only words he uttered were follow me, two words dropped like stones, before he walked swiftly, yards ahead, as if he had nothing to do with him.
The man was avoiding him. As if Tom were something dirty. Something revolting.
Tom didn’t need affection, didn’t expect warmth. But to be shunned like disease? That sent flames of rage coursing through him.
The man, in his words, offered a better life, not an easy one, but one where he wouldn’t have to be afraid of who he was.
But now, looking at the man’s iciness, Tom wasn’t sure if those promises held water.
Did he, like a fool, agree to a strange man’s offers – offers so strategically and cleverly made, it was as if he knew exactly what Tom longed for?
Perhaps this unassuming, proper looking man had ulterior, sinister motives.
Perhaps he was only a cover, sent by someone repulsive, to lure him in for something abhorrent.
Or to experiment on in the madhouse.
Perhaps the proof of magic shown to him by the young man was a trick of light or a sleight of hand.
The thoughts rolled and roiled within him, frightening, choking. But he held his composure.
He would face whatever came. He would outsmart it, claw his way out of it if he had to.
The sharp angles and tightness of the man’s jaw screamed intimidating hatred – but the man was slight. Delicate.
And Tom?
Tom could be fast. Ruthless. Ugly.
Age be damned.
~*~
Harry walked to the same abandoned alleyway where he had apparated into. He could feel him following, steady, collected.
Harry had not bothered to speak or do anything more than what was absolutely necessary.
Though he was only ten, Harry could see the same cold, grey, piercing eyes, the haughtily cocked head, the sharp jaw, the cruel set of lips, that he had seen almost six years ago –
As Ginny lay white as snow – the red of her hair clashing like bright blood – on the cold, wet floor of the chamber…
It was him…
As they walked through the streets of London, pedestrians shuffling past, the cold afternoon overcast and dull over them, light drizzle dampening their hair and skin, Harry’s head swam with the insanity of what he was committing.
When they reached the alleyway, Harry stopped and turned to face Tom, gazing at him in silence.
Tom was expressionless save for the faintest of confusion in his eyes.
Harry held out an arm. “Hold on,” he said, his voice taut, with the barest tremor. “It’s required for Apparition. Just a warning, before it frightens or disorients you – it’s a process of instant transportation. You might feel uncomfortable, but if you hold fast and don’t loosen your grip, you should be fine.”
There, that slight tilt of his head, the cold mistrust in those eyes that narrowed just slightly.
But Tom stepped in, coming to a halt beside Harry, never taking his eyes off him, and wrapped his fingers around Harry’s forearm.
Harry closed his eyes and envisioned the cottage.
There came the familiar tug and pull, that strange sensation of being squeezed into something far too small for the enormity of their beings – their heartbeats, their muddled, fragile feelings...
An instant later, they were surrounded by wild, sweeping nature. The skies were frighteningly dark, and the wind fierce, untamed, pure.
The place had a haunting quality to it, as if fate and circumstance had conspired to bring them here with precise, cruel irony.
Harry braced himself against the wind, which surged with wild intensity through the stark, open land. It pushed hard against them, and they had to lean forward just to keep from being blown back.
The cottage stood on the slope, too homely, absurdly so.
Harry had cast charms on the firewood to burn indefinitely, so the house would be warm when they arrived. Yellow light spilled from the windows, the only pinpoints of warmth piercing the darkness that blanketed them.
Tom gazed up at the slope, eyes narrowed, face stiff against the wind.
Pale as a ghost in the violet light. Dark curls whipping around him.
“Let’s walk up,” said Harry.
Tom tore his gaze from the slope and fixed his eyes on Harry.
Harry looked away.
There had been a flicker – no, a trick of the light. He was a child, pale and windblown, caught between worlds. For a second Harry’s breath had stuttered in his chest. And then it was gone.
For in that brief, suspended moment, Tom looked different – in that light, in that place, in the quiet, unfamiliar novelty of it. Harry wasn’t ready to acknowledge it.
The walk up the slope would have been short if they weren’t battling the wind. Something about the Fidelius charm, the way it was placed, required the walk and disallowed apparating straight to the door or into the house, or at least that was what Dippet had told him – a walk that would have been pleasant at best and mildly inconvenient at worst under any other circumstance but this…
Walking with someone he wanted, now with ever rising instincts, to flee from.
He was always too reckless, wasn’t he? Rethinking his actions with bitterness, agony, blistering self-loathing, after he had committed them. He had killed Sirius that way, hadn’t he?
No matter, he would right every wrong now. Starting today. Every moment, every breath of his life now dedicated to it.
And so he forced himself to walk beside him, and not flee.
They reached the cottage before long.
Harry fumbled with the lock for a moment, then pushed the door open.
Warmth and light greeted them jarringly.
Harry stepped in, placing his umbrella into the stand beside the door. Tom was not too far behind as he stepped in as well, surveying the surroundings with unnerving calm.
Harry shut the door behind them.
Tom had no innocent gleam in his eyes; no cheer, no apprehension.
If anything, Tom’s jaw tightened, lips set into that cruel line, and his eyes went colder, with something like menacing contempt, or rage barely restrained. It was perplexing, vexing, cutting.
The afterimage of Tom in a different light – in violet light, pale, curls whipping about him – vanished like smoke into thin air.
Perhaps that Tom was just a figment of Harry’s imagination.
Along with guardedness, and sickening rage, it was pain that stabbed, inexplicably, into Harry’s heart.
But he steeled himself. He was not here to see him in a different light, to wonder if there could be softness, if there could be pliancy, where he could push, mould, shape, wring something warm out of.
He was here to drag him, if he had to, from any path that might endanger the ones he loved. By reason or force, whatever it took.
So he led Tom to his room – up the stairs, to the door on the left. He pointed out his own – on the right – in case Tom needed to know where to find him.
Tom had brought his suitcase up himself. Harry hadn’t bothered to help. Tom entered the room without a word and shut the door behind him.
There was nothing Harry could glean from it. Absolutely nothing.
The boy was unnaturally poised, completely unreadable. Not a single word – but that only set flame to the nauseating disquiet in Harry further, rather than easing it.
~*~
Harry moved through the kitchen, hands chopping vegetables, flame steady beneath the pan. The scent of garlic and thyme bloomed in the air, like a cruel joke – comfort, warmth, nourishment. For him.
He didn’t let himself think about it. About what he was doing. About how insane this was. He just cooked, because it was something to do with his hands. Something to hold him here, in this strangely snug cottage, in this strange moment. Like maybe if he fed the devil, he could forget what the devil had done.
When it was ready, he turned off the stove, wiped his hands with a sharp jerk of the cloth, and stared at the two plates he'd set. Two forks. Two chairs. It made his skin crawl.
He trudged up the creaky wooden stairs. The door to Tom’s room was shut, no sound from inside. No movement, not even breathing, it seemed.
Harry knocked once, short, curt.
“Dinner,” he said. Then, after a pause that was desolate, adrift, “Come eat.”
He didn’t wait to see if Tom followed. He turned and walked back to the table, his heart ticking out a syncopated rhythm of rage and confusion.
When Tom entered, he was quiet. Barefoot. He took his seat without a word, posture perfect.
They ate in silence. The clink of cutlery, the scrape of fork against ceramic. Tom didn’t fidget, didn’t look around the room.
He studied Harry instead, jarringly unabashed now.
Harry felt the weight of that gaze like a hand around his throat, his heart dropping, nausea churning in his gut, the hairs at the back of his neck rigid.
And then, Tom spoke.
“You cook well,” he said, voice even. “For someone so young. Is it a hobby? Or were you made to do it?”
Harry didn’t respond. He speared a potato and chewed.
Tom tilted his head, eyes narrowed slightly. “We are related somehow, aren’t we? Distant cousins? A bastard uncle, maybe?” A slow smile that wasn’t quite friendly curled his lips. “You went through a lot of trouble, dragging me here. Seems rude not to share the family tree.”
Harry looked up at him slowly. “Eat your food.”
That earned him a soft exhale from Tom’s nose. Not quite a laugh. Almost a scoff – just barely, barely there. As if to say: Really? That’s your answer?
Then Tom leaned back slightly in his chair, the picture of poise, and said with shocking calm:
“You hate me.”
Harry froze.
The sentence landed like a knife dropped point-first into the table.
Harry had stopped dead. His mouth was dry. “Why would you think that?”
Tom’s gaze was straight on him. “Any fool could see it. You look at me like I’m something you stepped in.”
Harry stared at him, stunned. Not because Tom was wrong – but because he’d said it. Because he had seen it.
Tom, meanwhile, was entirely composed. “You’re not subtle, you know,” he added, as if sharing a helpful tip. “If you’re going to lie to someone you live with, you should be more careful with your face.”
Harry said nothing. His grip on the fork tightened until the metal bit into his palm.
Tom’s eyes dropped briefly to his hand. “Bad liar,” he murmured. “You give everything away.”
Something ugly twisted in Harry’s chest.
“Learn all that at the orphanage, did you?” he said, voice sharper than he meant.
“When you’re fighting just to survive,” said Tom, “you learn things.”
Suddenly, there was no bite or venom. Just a boy speaking the truth of his world. And Harry, for one terrible second, could feel it. The hunger, the fear, the constant need to stay in control.
Harry wanted to scream. Or run.
Instead, he picked up his fork and ate, even as his appetite was dead and his stomach was threatening to heave out all its contents.
Across the table, Tom ate.
The first dinner passed like that, neither speaking any more.
~*~
Harry cast the cleaning charms on the table, the plates, the countertop – blindly, shakily.
Tom had pushed back his chair and stalked up the stairs the moment he’d finished eating. He hadn’t bothered with anything else. As if he knew how to get even, how to adapt to the pained, conflicted, raging staccato of Harry’s bearing.
Harry walked to his room on weak legs.
The moment the door shut behind him, something broke.
Everything he’d been holding in since arriving in this godforsaken time – three days ago – shattered all at once.
He slumped against the door and slid down to the floor.
Images and voices flooded his mind, crashing into him in a chaotic rush, too vivid. Memories both recent and old clawed to the surface.
Just three days ago, he’d hugged Hermione. Had seen her cry as he vanished from their time with the Time-Turner around his neck. He remembered her packing his things for him earlier that day – carefully, lovingly.
He had looked at the little trinkets she’d tucked into his bag every night since arriving here. But tonight, he didn’t have the strength to reach for them.
Tom.
His face was beautiful, young, innocent. Just a boy.
A devil, cloaked in the form of a boy.
He killed everyone Harry had ever loved.
The Weasleys… nearly all gone.
Tom…
Beautiful. Haughty. Razor-sharp.
You know the old saying… the devil was once the fairest cherub.
Pale as a ghost in the violet light. Dark curls whipping around him.
Cold grey eyes.
For in that brief, suspended moment, Tom looked different – in that light, in that place, in the quiet, unfamiliar novelty of it…
So pale.
So skeletal.
His eyes were a frightening crimson.
Jets of green light.
Cedric – lifeless on the ground.
Sirius – falling through the veil.
His mother’s voice, screaming his name.
Harry tilted his head back against the door and broke.
His body shook with the force of his sobs – raw, shattering. Ugly. Loud. Broken.
Like something inside him had come undone irrevocably.
~*~
Chapter 4: Wounded Deer
Chapter Text
~*~
Tom no longer doubted what Potter told him about magic, or the proof he’d shown him in his room. The way Potter had transported them instantly to this place, the strange, stumping method of it, had erased any uncertainty.
Potter, however, seemed to not only hate him, but to be lost. Adrift.
Why did he adopt him was a question to which the answer lay directly and paradoxically in that hatred.
Potter was so lost that his instincts were not sharp. Tom did not know if he was a man who usually had sharp instincts which were dulled now due to this weight Tom discerned over him.
Or it could just be that Tom’s own instincts were sharper than most, sharpened like razor-thin cutting edge, due to years spent not only watching his back, or unforgivingly evening scores with those that dared to harm him, but unleashing raw, deserved terror on scums who called themselves humans that inhabited the orphanage.
Because while Potter cooked in the kitchen, Tom had, unbeknown to Potter, opened his door so quietly, so softly, that not a creak escaped, and crept, barefoot, silent as a stalking feline, to the barricade on the landing that overlooked the kitchen below.
Tom crouched down behind the wooden balusters, and watched for a long time, his instincts telling him that Potter won’t be looking up any time soon to find him there. He just knew Potter won’t – the dull instincts Potter exhibited warranted it. The corner where he had settled himself into was tucked far enough to the edge that it anyway won’t be a place where anyone would spontaneously look up at.
Tom had been just pulling a shirt from the suitcase to put away in the wooden cupboard to the corner, when he had heard, softly, the gentle clatter and scrape of pots and pans from below. He had to watch, of course.
Watch just what the hell Potter was going to cook for dinner.
And so, he watched.
Watched what a man who seemed to hate his guts was cooking, possibly, for him.
He needed to know how whatever he was about to ingest into his body was being prepared by him.
He watched like his life depended on it. Every movement of Potter’s arms, his wrists, his hands.
The sheen of sweat on his brow.
He chopped vegetables quite methodically. His movements were slow, but practiced. Slightly awkward, slightly cautious, slightly unsure, but he seemed to know what he was doing – as he let salt fall from his pinched fingers, as he picked up a ladle and stirred. Adjusted his spectacles occasionally, the movement automatic, reflexive. Let a hand sift back through his hair unconsciously, pushing them away from his eyes.
Sometimes, he would still, two hands gripped on the edge of the countertop, and stare out the window in front of him.
Tom watched for any movement that might be out of the ordinary. Maybe a hand that might steal to the pocket of his pants and pull out a vial. Maybe pull out the wand he had, and flick it over the cooking dinner.
But Potter did nothing of the sort.
Tom watched carefully until Potter set the dinner on the small table in the kitchen, then make for the stairs.
Only then did Tom inch backward, still crouched low, retreating from the balustrade until the shadows of the hallway swallowed him. Once out of sight, he straightened swiftly and slipped into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him with quiet precision.
It was just moments later that Potter rapped on his door.
When he entered the kitchen, then settled himself on the chair opposite Potter, he watched Potter again, fixedly, watch him spear the same meat, the same vegetables, into his fork, and chew slowly; he could see the colour draining from Potter’s face, even as Potter avoided his gaze obstinately.
Tom kept watching him.
Then, slowly, only after his instincts settled fully, Tom took a small, gauging bite of his dinner.
It tasted just fine. He waited some more, watching Potter all the while, strangely satisfied at the way Potter seemed to almost squirm under his stare, and not once meet his eyes in defiance, challenge, or even bewilderment.
He struck up a conversation with Potter, enjoyed the way Potter writhed under the mordancy of it.
Tom will take this slowly. Carefully. He could be patient.
Find out why Potter adopted him. Why he hated him. Why a young man seemed to be fraying, trembling, at the edges.
Tom stayed in his bedroom after the dinner.
He waited, until sounds – soft, tired, shaky – died down, and he heard Potter close his bedroom door. Right across his.
Just a passageway separating them.
The cottage fell deathly quiet if no one was moving about; after all, nothing surrounded it but empty moors; even the trees stood at a distance. Dark hills stretched like spectres, far away, on the horizon.
Not even the sounds of nightly creatures punctuated the silence that rang around them. It was like the two of them were suspended in eternal nothingness.
Tom eased down to the floor beside his door and pressed his ear against the wood.
He wanted to know what he might be doing. Wanted to catch even the faintest sound. A breath, a movement.
Only silence answered back.
But Tom could be patient. He sat there, curled and listening, unmoving.
Waiting, for menacingly approaching footsteps, or perhaps stealthily approaching ones. Or purposeful ones that approached to cajole, or betray.
Yet nothing came.
And oddly, it slowly settled in - he did not fear Potter. Potter seemed too delicate, too soft, to set off any warning signs. In fact, he waited for Potter to approach, so he could feel that rush of satisfaction again, the same that he felt when he watched him writhe and struggle under that weight he discerned over him.
He could see himself having fun with someone like that. Someone who twisted beautifully when prodded.
What frightened Tom wasn’t Potter.
It was the possibility that Potter was just a front, a puppet sent by someone worse, someone vile, to bait him into something odious.
He hoped it was just Potter.
Because Potter, at least, seemed easy enough to predict. And soft enough to break.
As he strained his ears against the door to catch hold of anything out of the ordinary, he finally heard something.
Sobs.
Not quiet, not controlled.
Loud, ugly, pained.
Potter was crying in his room.
And a thought sprang to Tom’s mind unbidden – if a predator, having silently stalked a wounded deer, might feel the same strange satisfaction upon realizing that the deer might have walked into the forest willingly, dragging wounds behind it.
~*~
Chapter 5: Where Magic Settles
Chapter Text
~*~
So great was his fixation on the man who had adopted him – his desperate need to know whether he was truly safe – that the bewildering, vertiginous magic of being transported instantaneously from London to the Scottish Highlands was entirely lost on Tom.
It wasn’t until he peeled his ear away from the door – until Potter’s sobs had softened and settled – that the magic began to register. By then, Tom’s heart was laden with a sort of comfort that felt strange, fickle. The warmth of the dinner Potter had cooked satiated him, grounded him in a way he had never known, for he had never truly known what it was to be sated.
And when he finally, finally, stretched himself out on the comfortably made bed, drawing the blanket over his chest, the window beside him baring a darkened moor and a sky so black that neither stars nor moon could be seen, that was when the magic truly settled into him.
He was by no means at ease. His nerves, long-trained to leap like a cat half-asleep, like a creature ready to strike when startled, refused to settle. But the magic, the truth of it, settled in.
He was not mad.
He was not odd.
He was a wizard.
He had always known he was gifted. Destined for greatness. That he was unlike anyone else.
He had not known there were others like him. But even now, knowing that, he understood – he was still something different. Made of a different mettle.
Potter was a wizard, yes – older, experienced – but it had taken only one day for Tom to see that his own senses were superior. With age, with practice, with time, he would surpass him. That much was inevitable.
He did not yet know where Potter stood in the ranks of this magical world – whether he was poor, mediocre, or generally regarded as skilled.
There was, however, a quiet power in Potter, unmistakable, even in his brokenness. Tom did not yet know whether that power came from his soul, or from the magic itself. Or from both.
But whatever it was, Tom knew this: he would be better than most. He already made Potter squirm, after all.
Years of cynicism strained and splintered within him, fighting against the delicate tendrils of joy in his chest.
He was a wizard. And today, it had been proved, irrefutably. He need never again question his sanity, even in secret.
He wished to keep his eyes open, to prolong the experience of this strange, blossoming joy – this fullness, this satiety, this elusive feeling he had never before known.
He wished to hold off sleep, to resist its call, for no dream could ever match this new-found reality.
He wished to keep watch, to reassure himself that it was indeed real, that nothing would come crashing in to shatter it.
But his eyes betrayed him.
He fought his treacherous body, struggled to stay awake, to stay alive…
But the mortal body was weak. And eventually, sleep overtook him.
~*~
They were lowering the coffins…
Too many of them…
Hermione clung to him, and screamed.
Harry lay on his bed, eyes empty, the tears long since wrung dry, leaving behind throbbing, piercing ache in their wake.
He felt like he was bleeding, bleeding, from everywhere, soaking the bed beneath him with blood that was dark, thick, red.
Ron…
Ginny…
Mrs Weasley…
Lowered… lowered… into the arms of earth…
He had left Hermione alone in that world. He didn’t know what that world looked like now. Perhaps nothing had changed. Perhaps everything had. It had only been three days here. Three horrible, aching, empty days here, in this strange, empty world.
He shivered, his breaths slipping from his lips in quavering gasps.
He screwed his eyes shut.
But all he could see was them.
Him.
Them.
Him.
A painfully restrained moan escaped him, and tears spilled hotly from the corners of his eyes, soaking into his temples, into his pillow.
He gripped the sheets tightly, clenched his jaw, biting down a tremor aching to escape his throat. He would remain quiet, even as his tears escaped unrestrained.
He couldn’t let him hear it.
~*~
Morning arose with sublime, agonizing splendour.
The storm clouds had scattered, just slightly, for now. They still gathered thick and ominous above, heavy with the promise of return, but they had parted just enough to let the sun break through at last, for the first time since Harry had arrived.
And sunlight poured through the clouds like a million threads of gold and lilac, spun and falling in fragile strands, intricate, fleeting, as though the sky wept light.
Harry had barely slept. He had tossed and turned through the night, his body screaming, confounded on whether to hurt, dread, or scream with rage. Instead, he simply writhed about, and now he ached sorely, physically, all over.
Still, he pulled himself up, dragged himself to the bathroom, freshened up just barely, his body protesting it, wanting to only lie, to decay, until nothing of him was left; his body screamed at him to summon Death and be done with this cruel misery of a life.
He defied everything – death, his own body – punishing himself to live through all of this for a chance to see his loved ones again. He would be glad if they saw him as just a stranger. In fact, the farther away he was from them, the better it was for them.
Harry softly opened his door and stepped out. Tom’s door was opposite his. It was shut, once again, no movement or sound.
Harry bit down bile, and crept down the stairs to the kitchen. He could see himself living through this cyclical horror – of waking up to a reality of Tom Riddle across his room, cooking three meals for him, while he restrained his soul with trembling hands. Begging it, pleading with it, for mercy, for strength, so that it would not rot from the seething rage festering inside him. So that it would not shatter into a thousand sharp pieces and leave nothing behind but malevolence.
Harry cooked eggs and sausages. He readied the kettle for tea.
He heard footsteps before he saw him. Bare, deliberate. Soft, but not hesitant.
He did not need to go to his door to summon him this time. Tom came into the kitchen on his own, entering without a word, hair still mussed from sleep, his expression unreadable.
The scent of sausages and eggs curled in the air, warm and heavy. The kettle whistled once, sharply, then fell silent under Harry’s wandless flick.
Tom’s eyes caught that little magic trick; Harry could see Tom’s eyes brightening with interest, just a shade, at that.
Harry poured the steaming tea into two mugs mechanically.
“You cook better than the matron,” Tom said lightly, sliding into a chair at the table. “Though that’s not saying much.”
Harry set the plates down, one in front of Tom, the other in front of himself, before settling down on a chair. The scrape of porcelain was the only reply.
Tom didn’t seem perturbed. He picked up his fork, inspecting the food like it was part of some test. “You don’t look like you slept.”
Harry’s jaw tensed. “I wasn’t looking to impress.”
Tom cocked his head, fork pausing mid-air. “Touchy.”
Harry looked at him then, and there was something dangerous in the way he did it – quiet, sharp, like a killer who hadn’t moved because he hadn’t needed to yet. “I don’t do breakfast conversation.”
“But you do breakfast,” Tom said, spearing a sausage. “Interesting.”
Harry gave no response.
Tom chewed, slowly. He tried again. “It’s strange. You adopting me.”
Harry said nothing. The silence spoke of edges, of things unsaid and deliberately left to rot.
Tom continued, voice tighter, edged. “You don’t seem the type to play father.”
“Good,” Harry said, without looking up. “Because I’m not playing anything.”
Tom’s breath hitched. Not visibly, but enough that Harry noticed it.
As for Tom, the cold wall he expected to find cracks in was… firmer than it had seemed last night. For someone who looked ready to crumble, Harry Potter was disturbingly intact.
“I would’ve assumed you brought me here for a reason,” Tom tried again, voice measured. “No one does anything without reason.”
“I did.” Harry sipped his tea. “But that doesn’t mean you’ll like the answer.”
Tom paused, jaw clenched, only for a moment.
“I’m patient.”
Harry looked at him again, eyes unreadable. “I know exactly how patient you are.”
There was no heat in the words. No spite. Just… knowledge. Like he had peeled him open and saw what sat curled inside.
Tom went still. He picked at the egg, slow and quiet, but something behind his eyes had changed. The confidence, still there, was no longer untouched. It had a tiny puncture, sharp, unexpected. He hadn't expected this kind of resistance, not so early. Not from someone who looked so breakable.
But he said nothing. He ate the rest of his breakfast in silence.
Harry sat across from him, silent too. Burning and unbent.
~*~
Chapter 6: Small Mercies
Chapter Text
~*~
Tom finished his breakfast, but he did not leave the kitchen like he did last night.
He stayed in the kitchen, fixedly staring at Potter.
Potter was collecting the plates and mugs with quiet efficiency. He carried them to the sink, his back turned now; he drew his wand and cast a charm. At once, the dishes began scrubbing themselves under the steady rush of water from the tap.
So sharp was the sting of being one-upped, that not even the wondrous display of magic diverted it.
He wasn’t used to it. At the orphanage, not a single altercation had taken the form of such verbal sparring.
No one there was intelligent enough to engage in something like that. It had always been crude teasing or brutish bullying, clumsy and physical. The adults – dull, thoughtless – dealt in callous ultimatums, or ridiculous reprimands.
This was nothing like that.
Potter, his legal guardian, did not behave like a guardian, for one. What is more, he did not look of legal age. He looked like a brooding older boy, whose very presence seemed to threaten the standing Tom had always assumed was his alone.
An older, ruthless, unreachable brother.
Brother wasn’t the right word, though.
More like a nemesis. Menacing, formidable, too clever.
Tom’s breaths quickened its pace, as he dared to speak to pull Potter into another round of sparring. He had thought it would be easy to predict him, to break him. It didn’t seem that easy now, though.
But no matter, he wasn’t expecting Potter to be so sharp. Now, he was armed with that knowledge, and had filed it away in his memory, for leverage, for strategizing. And Tom can be quite persistent in all of that.
I know exactly how patient you are, Potter had said.
“How do you know exactly how patient I am?” Tom asked, voice smooth, laced with challenge.
Potter’s back was still turned, standing before the sink. His shoulders tensed. “Excuse me?”
“How do you know how patient I am?” Tom repeated, sharper, derisively.
There was a pause. The water continued to run, and the dishes scrubbed themselves quietly in the sink.
Finally, Potter said, “I have my sources.”
“Oh? Really?” Tom drawled, his lips curling into a sneer. “And what would those be? Why would you spy on me before you decided to come play saviour?”
Potter went completely still. Then, slowly, he turned to face him.
His eyes, those emerald eyes, were cold, like frozen glass, and locked onto Tom’s with unflinching precision.
“I had my reasons to gather information,” he said, voice low and controlled. “And I’m not obliged to share what my sources were.”
Tom snorted, sharp and scathing. “So you had your mysterious reasons for spying on a distant relative. Did it all from the shadows. Never bothered to write, never came to visit. But thought to do some cloak-and-dagger surveillance and then sweep in to adopt. You do hear how utterly absurd that sounds, don’t you?”
Potter’s breath came hard and fast, fury visibly bristling off him. It seemed like he struggled with himself for a bit, as if trying to restrain himself.
But then he snapped, voice razor-edged:
“Knowing the kinds of unspeakable, abhorrent things you were doing at that orphanage, Tom, yes. I had to spy. I had to know what I was bringing into my home before inviting in a dangerous, unhinged child.”
The words hit Tom like ice water to the face, but burning instead of freezing. His chest heaved, fury mounting like a tidal wave breaking inside his ribs.
Words clogged in his chest, in his throat.
Tom steeled himself, burning to slap Potter back with twice the force. “You don’t just owe me your sources,” he hissed. “You owe me the truth, your intentions, because it concerns me. I have every right to know why someone who hates me would go so far as to adopt me.”
That seemed to have landed somewhere in Potter’s chest, because he looked stricken.
But not in a way Tom wanted.
Potter seemed to be crumbling, again. But he did not reveal a smidge of it in his words, even as they fell from his lips in shaky, harsh whispers.
“You’ll know when I decide you’re ready to know. Not before.”
He stepped away from the sink, the now-dry dishes floating neatly into their shelves with a flick of his wand.
“If you think you can intimidate me into spilling anything, you’re in for a long and disappointing ride. You can try all you want to coerce or provoke me. It won’t work. Not now, not ever.”
Potter paused, eyes blazing. “If you can manage even an ounce of patience, if you can cut out that insufferable arrogance toward someone trying to help, you will get your answers. In time.”
He turned toward the stairs, as he added:
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Tom, I have better things to do than have my morning ruined by a ten-year-old who thinks he knows better.”
And with that, he left.
Potter had not given him an inch, a breath, to get in a word edgeways. The onslaught of Potter’s words slammed into Tom like a tidal wave of glass – jagged, shattering, cruel – and Tom’s chest ignited with a fury so deranged it felt almost physical.
He wanted to storm after him, tear the words out of his throat and shove them back down. To scream, to snarl, to demand how he dared – how dare Potter spit that galling drivel at him, when it was Potter who had walked – no, fled – ahead of him from the moment they stepped out of the orphanage, as though he weren’t worth a backward glance.
Potter, who looked at him with loathing. Who dripped hatred from every movement, every silence.
And now, now, he had the audacity to demand patience from him? Did he expect Tom to chase after him, tail tucked, whimpering for mercy, begging for love?
The thought alone made him want to set the house on fire.
But then, then, he remembered himself.
He forced the fury down, swallowing it with the old familiar taste of discipline. He reminded himself of what had always, always served him: patience. Not the volatile chaos of emotion. Never that. Emotion was weakness. Emotion clouded judgment.
It was cold patience and deliberate strategy that had kept him alive in that filth-ridden orphanage. And it would serve him here too.
Even if it meant battling – verbally, emotionally – for the first time, with someone as maddening and abhorrently perplexing as Potter.
~*~
Tom didn’t return to his bedroom for hours.
Instead, he remained in the sitting room, legs tucked up under him on the armchair. The room had two purposes today – one, to wait for Potter’s return and remind him of the guilt he ought to feel. And two, to remain vigilant. To watch. To see, perhaps, if he was truly safe in this house with this strange crumbling yet steely man.
When Potter finally emerged from upstairs, something shifted in his expression the moment his eyes fell on Tom seated there unmoving. Just as Tom had predicted.
Potter walked past him, wordless, and went into the kitchen. The sounds of cooking began not long after.
Tom didn’t follow. He made no attempt to hover or help or speak. He simply sat there; he didn’t think he was welcome anyway.
After nearly an hour, Potter called him for lunch.
Tom rose without comment and padded quietly into the kitchen. He sat at the table. His eyes were dull, expression unreadable.
“Would you like to have some books to read?” Potter asked after a while, not looking up.
It ought to have surprised Tom, after the spat in the morning. Instead, it only made Tom want to snort scathingly; but he restrained himself. Tom’s voice was quiet, controlled, when he spoke. “You care now?”
“Not really,” Potter said. “Just think it’s better for you to be occupied. What kind of books would you like?”
“Books on magic,” Tom said shrewdly. “From your– our world.”
Potter’s lips thinned. He didn’t look impressed. “I can’t provide you with those right now,” he said flatly. “What did you usually read?”
Tom’s eyes narrowed with vexation; again, he controlled himself, and gave a reluctant shrug. “The orphanage didn’t have much. I read anything I could find – magazines, newspapers, scraps. If you’re asking about fancy books, I’m not familiar with many. I read Macbeth once. That’s about the only real book I've had.”
“I’ll bring you some books this evening,” Potter said. “Something to keep you busy.”
Tom didn’t reply. He only stared at him, expression carefully blank, the weight of the heated exchange of morning thick in the air. Potter held the gaze for a moment, then looked away and returned to his meal.
After lunch, Tom resumed his place in the sitting room, still and watchful as ever. Potter eventually retreated upstairs again.
Some time passed. Then, Potter came back down. Tom watched, silent, as Potter pulled on his coat from the hook by the door, took his umbrella from the stand, and stepped outside without a word.
Off to get books, most likely.
Tom waited. He knew better than to assume Potter was truly gone – sometimes people came back suddenly, when they'd forgotten something.
But after enough time had passed, long enough to be sure, Tom moved, barefoot across the creaky floorboards of the cottage.
He climbed the same stairs as the ones to his room, but he did not enter his room. He stood before the room opposite his.
His fingers curled around the handle, the hesitation lasting only a moment before he pushed it open. It wasn't locked.
The room smelled of something woody, something warm. But there was another note in the air – soft, sweet, elusive, like vanilla, but not cloying; earthy, maybe. Something human; something... Potter.
It made something pierce in his chest – like fury, like hurt – and he hated it.
The room was simple – a bed with rumpled covers half-pulled aside, a half-open window letting in the damp breeze. The walls were undecorated, but the table was cluttered – an array of throwaway objects arranged without care.
Tom stepped in, each movement deliberate. He was not afraid, never afraid, but his eyes flicked across the corners of the room all the same, the way an animal does in another’s den.
He needed to know if he was safe, truly safe.
He crouched beside the bag slumped near the foot of the bed. Potter left it here, room unlocked, with a ‘dangerous, unhinged child’ loose in his house. Careless fool, Tom scoffed in his head.
Tom pulled the flap open, fingers sifting through its contents. There were trinkets, odd little magical tools whose purposes he didn’t know, and scraps of parchment with scribbled words, some in a tight, frustrated script, some in an elegant, beautiful script, some in a shabby, horrible script.
There were pictures.
His breath caught.
Moving pictures. Magical ones. His fingers brushed the topmost photograph and lifted it gently into view.
There was a man who strikingly resembled Potter – laughing, smiling. He was dancing, holding a red-haired woman in his arms. She looked like a woman from one of the orphanage storybooks, like a fairytale. Her hair was vivid as fire, and her eyes shone with adoration.
They looked like they loved each other.
In another photo, Potter stood beside a red-haired boy and a bushy-haired girl. The three of them smiled widely, arms slung around each other’s shoulders as though nothing in the world could ever part them.
Tom’s fingers trembled. He didn’t understand the feeling, not completely. But it curled deep and mean in his stomach, like a thorn twisting its way inside him.
He didn’t know those people.
But they had known Potter when he smiled like that. And he had not.
He set the photos down too carefully, too deliberately, as though afraid they might shatter.
He turned to the desk next. Knickknacks. A golden ball with wings that jittered when touched. A cracked chess piece carved in the shape of a knight. A pebble with a smooth, polished surface and a faint warmth – enchanted, maybe. A small book of poetry with a flower pressed between the pages.
Tom frowned. Useless.
He dug deeper. He needed to understand. The bag was enchanted as well, because its room kept going on and on the more he dug.
At the bottom of the bag lay a wand.
It was not the one Potter usually carried. This one looked older. Carved in a straighter, more solemn line, its handle worn smooth by years of use. Tom felt a faint thrum in his fingertips as he held it.
There was more.
A ring with a deep green stone that caught the light oddly, as if swallowing it. Tom stared at it longer than he meant to, until something under his ribs pulsed strangely, like grief, or memory, or something that had neither name nor shape.
He set it down.
And then – a cloak.
It looked ordinary, until he lifted it. Tom gasped – it vanished right in his hands, melting into air.
Tom, trembling with wonder, threw it over his shoulders. His breath hitched. He looked down, and saw nothing. His arms were gone, his body was gone. He was invisible.
He spun once, quiet and amazed, a flicker of childlike awe passing through him. For a moment, he forgot himself.
He took the cloak off slowly, dropped it carefully to the floor. He dug his hand in again, and his fingers found one last thing. A chain.
Gold, delicate, with intricate hoops for a locket. He lifted it, felt its weight settle in his palm. It was cold, then warm. Unfamiliar, then strange.
A twist in his stomach, in his spine.
And then he heard the creak of wood.
The door downstairs opened.
Tom froze. His instincts surged to the surface. He stuffed the contents back into the bag, turned, and darted from the room. His feet barely touched the floor as he slipped into his own bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.
His chest rose and fell, heart lurching.
Downstairs, he could hear Potter moving about.
Tom stood still in the silence.
His mind reeled with what he’d seen.
The images. The friends.
The parents - The red-haired woman. That man who looked like Potter.
Potter probably loved them dearly. And they probably loved him back dearly.
Tom slid to the floor beside the door, knees pulled up to his chest.
Potter had smiled, once. He had laughed once, genuinely, his face lit up with something soft and pure.
Not the way he looked at Tom now.
Not the cold restraint.
Not the weight behind his eyes.
He had smiled like the world was soft. Like it could be good.
Tom clenched his jaw. That part of Potter had nothing to do with him. He wasn't in those pictures. He wasn't in those memories.
He didn’t belong to that life.
And Potter didn’t belong to him.
~*~
Chapter 7: Starting Fires
Chapter Text
~*~
When Harry had lain on his bed, listless, staring at the ceiling, after retreating to his room after lunch, something in his chest had begun to twist – had been twisting – ever since he’d caught sight of Tom curled up in the armchair in the sitting room.
Curled like a cat that was hypervigilant, untrusting of new surroundings, eyes sharp and following every movement Harry made. Something in Harry had twisted then, and had not stopped since.
It had started in the morning, with that searing, heated exchange, when he had hurled a barrage of harsh words at Tom. He had not expected to feel satisfaction, but he did not expect he would be inundated with this agonizing guilt either. Harry’s heart, against his will, turned heavier, mercifully, finally, with something other than the unending rage that burnt inside him. And he welcomed it, for he was turning sick with the piercing rage that was corroding his insides, his soul.
The heavier emotion wasn’t softness; it was a strange kind of empathy, fuelled by an urgent sense of duty that was suddenly crashing in.
He had adopted Tom to change his path, to deflect him from the natural pathway he could and would take, one that Harry knew to his bones, his very soul crushed with the horrifying consequences of it.
He did not adopt him to throw the weight of his unending pain, his devastating losses, his rage, at this child who, yes, became the cause of all his griefs, this child who lay in the direct pathway that might yet lead to Harry’s ruin...
But the child had not done anything yet – Harry had to remind himself of that harshly, desperately, acutely.
He could not keep directing his fury at him. He had a duty now.
So he had called Tom to lunch, with a voice somewhat more subdued than before. Had told him about getting books. Something to keep him occupied, something to keep him from sitting there in that armchair like a cat that was once always harmed, and now watched, constantly alert, waiting to see from which direction the next blow might come, so it could know where to run off to, or when to claw.
And then, after lunch, when Harry had retreated to his room again – laying on his bed thrumming with roiling, complicated emotions that pained each of his nerves, each of his veins – he had thought about it.
Locking his room, protecting his bag, with a simple spell. A spell to alert him if something was touched or moved.
But he did none of it.
He just lay there, smothered in exquisite pain, motionless, drowning in it.
He wanted to protect his things, a feeble impulse for it settled somewhere in his guts, but something else overpowered it. Something fleeting, elusive, strange.
He’d heard enough about this boy from Mrs. Cole. Had seen enough. The devastating, horrifying, stabbing scope and scale of him.
He knew what would happen if he left the room unprotected. Knew what Tom – what Voldemort – would do. Invade. Violate. Take what was not his. It was in his very blood.
And yet Harry left it all untouched. Something in his blood made him do it – foolish hope, perhaps, or just plain foolishness. Perhaps grief-blinded carelessness, or perhaps guilt so loud it drowned out every sensible instinct.
He didn’t know what he had hoped for.
But whatever it was, the sight still hurt.
It was in the details, the slight shifts, the tiny misalignments, the way the contents of his bag and his table weren’t quite how he had left them.
He had come in carrying a pile of books, heavy in his arms, borrowed from a small public library in London that he’d previously mentally filed away to return to soon.
Shakespeare – collected works. Carl Jung – Psychology of the Unconscious.
Sherlock Holmes. The Secret Garden. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Frankenstein. Doctor Faustus.
He hadn’t curated the list too carefully, just taken what he thought might make sense as he passed the shelves, thinking of Tom, some Tom might reach for, some he might not.
The entire thing had taken him scarcely twenty minutes, the hasty yet slightly aware collecting of books, the process with the librarian that got done in a jiffy, then disapparating just as quickly from London to the moor in front of the cottage.
He'd dropped the books on his bed, moved to set his wallet on the table, and that’s when he noticed it. His instincts flared, sharp and certain.
His breath shivered in his chest, tight and painful.
He gathered the books again into his arms, hands trembling – fury, senseless heartbreak, knotting his fingers.
He stepped to Tom’s door and knocked, sharp and urgent.
“Tom,” he called, voice shaking.
The door opened. Tom stood there, eyes dim, expression unreadable. Hostile, but dimmed now, as if something had cracked in him and the arrogance was blunted.
Harry didn’t understand why. And in that moment, he wasn’t in any state to try.
He stepped inside harshly. He felt Tom’s faint surprise at that, but ignored it.
And then, without a word, Harry dropped the books onto Tom’s bed unceremoniously.
His eyes were stormy as they settled on Tom. “You entered my room. Went through my belongings, while I was away.”
Harry saw it, just the faintest shift, the subtle tinge of fear flickering in Tom’s eyes, though he wore his steely exterior like armour.
“What makes you think that?” Tom said softly, tilting his head with infuriating, practiced innocence.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, Tom. I won’t be fooled. What did you do in my room?”
“Just looked around,” Tom replied coolly. “To see if you had anything that could hurt me.”
Harry faltered. The words struck harder than he’d expected. The silence that followed was weighted, thick with guilt. Something like empathy, raw and unwanted, twisted inside him.
But all he could manage, finally, was a hoarse, bitten-out reply. “I am not in the habit of hurting children, Tom. Just because something is within reach doesn’t make it yours. Just because a door isn’t locked doesn’t mean it’s an invitation.”
Tom stared back at him with contempt, unmoved. Nothing Harry said seemed to reach him, buried as he was beneath all those layers of defensiveness, cold logic, fury, hurt.
Harry shook his head, grief-stricken, heart aching. Something in him slipping – slipping fast, as if the harder he tried to hold on, the more it slipped.
“Tom…” he said, voice low, splintered, a note of finality creeping in, “if you want to stay here, this can’t happen again.”
And then he looked at him, really looked, and saw something shift in Tom’s eyes. The realization dawning, sudden and awful: that Harry meant it. Meant all of it.
The defensiveness dulled, and the sharp lines of anger faltered, replaced by something that looked like horror. He masked it quickly, tried to bury it under another scowl, another layer of coldness, but Harry saw.
Harry didn’t say anything more. He raised his wand and, with a murmured spell and a swift flick, cast a theft-revealing charm over the room.
He could feel Tom’s unease begin to rise – nervous, trying to guess what Harry was doing.
Then a drawer in the nightstand beside Tom’s bed began to tremble faintly.
Harry moved toward it at once.
“So you can dig through my things,” Tom snapped, anger flaring back like a spring trap, desperation creeping in despite his best efforts, “but I’m the villain if I do the same?
“It’s not the same, Tom,” Harry said tightly, yanking the drawer open. “I don’t steal.”
Tom’s eyes widened, only slightly. “What do you mean?” he asked, voice a little breathless now.
“Pull out what’s inside this drawer,” Harry said. His tone was cold, firm, that sliver of consequence that had surfaced earlier returned now, quiet but unmistakable. It made Tom hesitate, made whatever retort he was about to hurl shrivel in his throat.
After a long moment, Tom walked over, slowly, grudgingly, fingers clenched, jaw tight.
He pulled out the items.
A mouth organ.
A thimble.
A yo-yo.
Harry’s stomach turned, twisted violently, a wave of sick déjà vu crashing into him.
The same objects. The same damned objects he’d seen in Dumbledore’s memories.
Tom hadn’t stolen anything of Harry’s. But that brought no comfort.
“Burn them.” The words slipped from Harry’s mouth, sharp, low, trembling with fury, before he could stop them.
“What?” Tom asked, drawing back slightly, curled tight in defensiveness.
“I said burn them, Tom.”
“Why?” Tom snarled.
“Because you stole them.”
“You don’t know that,” Tom hissed. “You don’t know anything. These are mine.”
Harry huffed a laugh then, a broken, cracked sound, deranged and despairing. “Don’t argue with me. You know it. I know it. We both know it. Put them into the fireplace, Tom.”
Another silence, heavy, horrible, stretched between them.
Tom’s hands flexed, his throat worked. Retorts rose like venom, but he didn’t spit them. That flicker of fear, the fear of real consequence, stopped him.
And then, slowly, something gave way. Something in him deflated.
With a clenched jaw and tight grip, Tom turned. He walked to the fireplace, and dropped them in.
They watched in silence as the items curled and blackened, devoured by the crackling fire.
~*~
Chapter 8: To Survive
Chapter Text
~*~
Tom did not know when Potter left.
He had just been standing there, rigid, in front of the stone hearth, his heart incinerating alongside the objects that had given him some semblance of control, of reclaiming his self-worth, now charring in the crackling fire.
When his vision began to darken and blur, and he could no longer stare at the fire without perhaps going blind, he tore his eyes away from it. The room swam in shadow.
He stumbled to his bed and lay down next to the pile of books Potter had dropped onto it. He couldn’t make out anything now, his vision as blackened and ruined as the possessions he threw into the fire.
He closed his eyes, and his breaths came fast and shallow. Pained, raging.
Yet, the tears never came. They never did. Not even when pain burgeoned in him, and crashed like uncontrolled floodwater breaching a dam; they just stayed within and damaged his insides, never spilling out and giving him reprieve or relief.
Along with rage, it was another feeling that welted him across his being – intense humiliation, and a spiralling feeling of losing control.
He felt vulnerable again. As vulnerable as he had been when he couldn’t physically fend off the scums who’d hurt him, humiliate him, make him feel small – until he’d found a way to strike back, venomous and dangerous, and make them fear him.
As small as he did every time they called him mad, strange, and said that he belonged in a madhouse. That he should be strapped to a stretcher, held down, and electrocuted until his brain fried and he no longer remembered his name.
As unwanted and dirty as he did when that old cow, Mrs Cole, would hide him from adopters like he was an aberration, a shame, unfit to be seen by the world.
He had to do something to stop feeling like this. And to teach Potter to never, ever cross him like this again.
~*~
Potter had returned too soon from his little outing to get books for him. Tom had miscalculated the time it would require for him to return, blundered badly, the lack of time impeding him from setting things back exactly as they were. If he'd had just a few more minutes, Potter would’ve never known he’d even been there; he was always that thorough with every single thing he ever did.
Pain and rage consumed him again, but he tried to still himself from trembling from it all over again.
Tom was still lying on his bed when Potter knocked – the books were scattered on his bed, untouched, rotting away on it, as he lay suspended in volatile emotions. He hadn’t spared them a single glance.
Potter’s voice came through the door – a simple call for dinner. Tom then heard footsteps that were retreating immediately. Potter didn’t linger; he never did for longer than absolutely necessary. Tom didn’t know if this time it was out of fear of backlash, or the hatred Potter anyway seemed to reserve for him.
Going against every single fibre in his body that protested against it, Tom pulled himself up from the bed and crept downstairs into the kitchen.
Tom had not bothered with anything – not looking at Potter, not trying to provoke or stir something in him. He would do that soon, yes, but with more strategy. Even if it meant suffering. Even if he had to lose himself in the process. Until he comes up with a better strategy, he would restrain himself, unforgivingly, if he must.
He slid wordlessly into the chair, not once deigning to give Potter a single glance this time. Funny, really; just yesterday, it had been Potter who couldn’t meet his eyes, avoiding his gaze like the plague while Tom watched him openly.
And now, he could feel Potter’s eyes flickering toward him, again and again, while Tom kept his lashes lowered, struggling to keep himself tied down, barely holding himself back from launching across the table and tearing Potter apart.
Dinner was already set. Beef stew steamed in a large bowl, and some loaves of crusty bread were set on a plate.
Harry wordlessly served Tom his portion, then took his own seat.
Tom picked up his spoon, lashes lowered. At least his hand didn’t tremble. He stared at the food a moment too long before bringing it to his lips.
“Tom.”
Potter's voice was quiet, almost hesitant.
Tom didn’t look up. He kept eating in silence.
“I know it must’ve seemed harsh. Telling you to burn those things.” Potter paused. “It probably didn’t make sense.”
Tom kept still, barely moving except for the spoon. What did Potter expect? That he nod, and thank him?
Potter went on, his voice thin and pained. “A lot of things don’t make sense until much later. And when they finally do, you look back with joy… or regret. Sometimes, by the time you understand, it’s too late.”
Tom snorted, sharp and sudden, against his better judgment. He still didn’t look at Potter.
“Tom. Look at me.”
His brows lifted, disbelief flickering across his face, but he looked. His gaze locked with Potter's, and there it was, that tight, painful fury simmering under his skin.
Almost as though he hated his mere existence.
Tom almost laughed. He didn’t, however. He just stared.
“I know none of this makes sense to you,” said Potter slowly, each word dragged like stone. “I’ve been through it too. Adults who either act like they’re saints for keeping you alive… or so cruel you wonder what you ever did wrong.”
Tom tilted his head, voice dripping with scorn. “You calling yourself an adult is the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.”
Potter didn’t react. “I’m sure you’re angry," he said instead, "confused, hurt. I know nothing I say right now will matter. But maybe, someday, it will.”
Tom laughed, sharp and cutting. He saw Potter's face falter, colour draining from his cheeks.
Good.
“Says the man who can’t stand to be in the same room with me for more than a minute.” Tom narrowed his eyes, breaking the gaze deliberately. “That hatred’s making a world of difference, Potter.”
“I’m sorry, Tom.”
The words came too easily, too quickly, seeming hollow.
“I’ll try to be better. You deserve better.”
“Do I now?” Tom asked flatly, still refusing to look at him.
“Yes. And I’m sorry I can’t be what you need. But I’ll try.”
Tom scoffed under his breath.
“I may not be good at being present,” Potter pushed on, “but I’ll do what I can. At the very least, enough to raise you properly.”
“Don’t strain yourself,” Tom bit out. His voice was venom. “You promised me a better life. Said I didn’t have to be afraid of who I am. All I’ve seen so far is some pathetic man trying to prove something to himself, and failing miserably.”
“Tom-” Potter's voice broke, soft and tight. “Please. Please let’s try to have one conversation that isn’t hostile.”
Tom let out a scathing laugh. “So you do dinner conversations, but not breakfast conversations? Pathetic.”
“I might be pathetic,” said Potter quietly. “But I haven’t given up on this cursed life yet.” He fell silent, then whispered again, “I’m sorry, Tom.”
That was new. No flying into blind rage, only soft apologies. It only burned Tom hotter, it made him want to rip him apart.
“Tom,” said Potter again, dragging the name like it weighed a ton. “I know you don’t want to hear this. But-” His eyes burned green, unsettlingly beautiful. “When you let hate drive you, it doesn’t destroy the person you’re aiming at. Maybe you kill their pet, maybe you even kill them, but their soul remains untouched. Yours is what corrodes.”
“You’ve no right to preach to me,” Tom hissed. “Take a look at yourself before you lecture me. You’re just as driven by hate.”
Potter nodded faintly, a strange, wry smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe I am. All I can do is say I’m sorry.”
He fell quiet, hands trembling around his spoon, staring at his food like he couldn’t see it.
Neither of them ate.
Finally, Tom spoke, voice sharp with fury. “Everything I’ve ever done was to survive.”
He met Potter's eyes fully, blazing. Potter looked back, wide-eyed, struck, wounded. It twisted something dark and unnameable inside Tom.
“You, with your picture-perfect life,” Tom spat. “with your little friends, and your parents. I saw your photographs. You had it all. Don’t you dare tell me how to survive. You show up yesterday, a pampered fool playing hero, and you think you know anything about me?”
Potter's gaze didn’t waver. He only said quietly, “I know, Tom. I know you’ve had it hard. But you don’t have to keep fighting the way you did before.”
Something in his eyes stopped Tom. Not belief, but something else. He saw it, clear as day, the deer again: proud, wounded, staggering toward its death.
Potter's green eyes, the exact shade of emerald.
“And you’d be surprised at what I’ve survived, Tom.”
Tom held his gaze, the afterimage of the deer swimming behind his eyes.
~*~
Chapter 9: At the Precipice
Chapter Text
~*~
The days that followed were strangely serene.
Tom seemed… quieter. Calmer, even, after the excruciating conversation they had shared over dinner.
Harry hoped that was a good sign. He needed it to be. He hadn’t come back just to exist alongside the boy. He had come to guide him, to contain the darker urges, to redirect the storm of potential into something safer. That had been the promise, to Dippet, to himself. That he would mentor this boy, this boy who was a preordained threat, and ensure he never became the nightmare Harry had lived through.
If things didn’t start shifting for the better, then everything Harry had done – adopting Tom, bringing him here, weathering these first fragile days – would mean nothing.
Because when he saw the same stolen objects, lying so familiarly in the boy’s drawer, it had struck a primitive chord of terror in him. His reaction had been pure instinct. The theft itself was almost mundane, but what it meant, what it echoed, was not. It told Harry that despite everything, despite taking Tom from that cursed orphanage and placing him in this safer, quieter world, nothing had changed. The timeline was still hurtling forward toward the same awful conclusion, the same fate, the same monstrous becoming.
When he told Tom to burn those things, it wasn’t discipline, it wasn’t strategy. It was raw panic disguised as command, a desperate attempt to seize control of something that had always felt inevitable. A furious instinct that maybe destroying the items that had once foreshadowed Voldemort would undo something.
But afterwards, guilt had pressed down on him like lead.
The act had felt cruel. Like something Vernon Dursley might have done, the kind of punishment that stung deeper for its lack of compassion. Children steal things, that’s not news. And Harry had known, in some part of himself, that he should have explained why it was wrong, gently, slowly, with patience.
But this wasn’t just a child. This was Tom Riddle, a boy who had once killed a child by releasing a venomous snake on him, who had made a girl gouge her own eye out.
Still, still, despite all of that, Harry’s heart twisted when he remembered the look in Tom’s eyes, the stiff silence as he set his stolen treasures aflame.
Tom had done those things at the orphanage without anyone to guide him, without anyone to teach him what was right. Without Harry. And Harry was here now, not to punish the past, but to alter the course of the future.
It wasn’t affection, nor was it guilt alone. It was grim, resolute sense of duty. And somewhere deep inside, a whispering instinct that begged, ached, for softness. It was anyway a given that if he responded to every mistake with harshness and fury, he would only harden the boy’s shell further, only ensure he became the thing Harry feared.
So he had spoken to Tom, as gently as he could, over dinner, by candlelight and simmering silence. Harry told him that survival didn’t always have to look like violence. Tom had said, simply, that he did what he had to do. And Harry could believe that, to a point. But it was the scale of it, the ease of it, that he could never allow to fester.
From that night on, Harry made a decision: he would contain him. Watch him, teach him, steer him.
And the very next morning, he tried something simple. He asked Tom if he’d like to help cook.
Just lunch and dinner, Harry said – breakfast he’d manage himself. He told Tom he could sleep in, take his time, and Harry would call him when breakfast was ready. But lunch and dinner, maybe they could make it together…
He had expected resistance.
But Tom had simply given a small shrug, and nodded quietly.
And for a moment, Harry didn't know whether that stillness was a good sign, or the silence before another storm, but he accepted it anyway.
Because peace, however fleeting, was still peace.
~*~
They quietly slipped into a cold November.
The wild nature surrounding them had dressed herself in hues of red and amber – slowly darkening, browning, shedding. The weather turned grey and ever temperamental, alternating between wild gales and the steady patter of bitter, sharp rain, or the brittle clatter of sleet.
They burnt firewood steadily, constantly, in the hearths. And yet, the chill crept in through the crevices of the ancient wooden cottage. Still, inside, it remained warm, yellow.
The cottage creaked beneath the winds, beneath the sleet.
And they cohabited the small space; quietly, softly.
Tom still woke around the same time as Harry, despite being told he could sleep in. He crept in barefoot and curled up in the armchair just outside the kitchen, the same place he had curled up like a wary cat that day after their argument and had watched Harry closely.
But now, he came carrying one of the books Harry had given him. Even from his place by the stove, Harry could tell which one it was. Tom had, of course, gone straight for the most complex one – the thick psychology text by Carl Jung, though Harry had long forgotten the exact title.
Tom had his nose buried in it the whole while as Harry cooked breakfast – oatmeal porridge with honey and raisins, and a glass of orange juice that Harry had wrestled together with the clunky old juicer. He pressed the halved oranges in by hand, transferred the juice into a bowl, mixed in a bit of sugar, and then poured it carefully into two glasses.
He called Tom for breakfast when it was done.
Tom came padding in quietly, without protest, the book still clutched in his hand, held open by the page he’d been reading.
He slipped into a chair, bookmarked the page with care, closed the book, and set it down on the vacant chair beside him. His eyes flicked to the food with a critical sort of gaze.
Harry ladled out the porridge into Tom’s bowl and chuckled, “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“It doesn’t look bad at all,” Tom’s quiet acknowledgment slipped in readily, quickly.
Their eyes met.
Tom had beautiful, cat-like grey eyes – stormy, turbulent. Dark curls framed his face delicately. His jaw was sharp, yet dainty, and a boyish innocence clung to him like fog on morning glass.
There had been a flicker – no, a trick of the light. He was a child, pale and lit in soft grey light.
For in that brief, suspended moment, Tom looked different – in this light, in this place, in the quiet, unfamiliar novelty of it.
Harry did not look away today.
And then he did.
Not because he did not want to acknowledge it.
“Thank you,” Harry said quietly.
They began breakfast in silence.
The quiet between them wasn’t strained – just still, calm. The soft clink of spoons, the crackling whisper of the hearth, the muted hum of November rain brushing against the windows.
After a while, Harry spoke, “I’ll go get myself a few books today as well. Might as well brush up on some things while I’ve got the time.” He paused to take another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Need to stock up on groceries too, running low on a few things.”
Tom looked at him, eyes unreadable, the movement of his spoon stilled. There was a flicker beneath his gaze – something elusive, something inward. As though he were not just absorbing the information, but quietly turning it over, fitting it into some larger, silent design.
Harry didn’t notice. To him, Tom’s look seemed merely uncertain, as if wondering why he was being told any of this at all.
“Would you like to come with me?” Harry asked.
Tom’s expression flickered, just for a breath, hesitation, maybe, before it was smooth again, composed and distant.
“No, thank you” he said politely. “I’d rather stay in. It’s too cold out for my liking.”
Harry nodded. “Alright. Fair enough.”
A few more moments passed. The quiet felt companionable now, surprisingly so. Harry found himself oddly aware of how natural it felt, how unforced.
His gaze slid toward the book resting on the empty chair.
“Is that interesting?” he asked, nodding toward it. “The book?”
Tom glanced at it briefly, then back at Harry. “Yes,” he replied. “Though I’m not familiar with a number of the terms. Some of them seem… technical. Scientific, or psychological, I think. I don’t understand most of those.”
“Oh,” said Harry, brows lifting just slightly in thought.
Tom was quiet for a beat. Then, he added with a small tilt of his head, “It would be helpful to have a dictionary alongside it.”
Harry nodded, then smiled, soft, faint. Sincere. “I’ll get you one,” he said. “Not from the library – I’ll buy it, so it’s yours to keep. Something you can always refer to.”
Tom looked at him, eyes briefly bright with something unreadable – not quite gratitude, but a quiet acknowledgment.
“Thank you,” he said.
~*~
The door clicked shut behind Potter.
Tom heard the key turn, the sound of a locking charm thudding faintly through the still cottage air like a final word. He didn’t move immediately. He sat in the same armchair, the book in his lap forgotten, staring at the far wall with a look that was almost blank; almost.
But his hand twitched.
And then the other.
And then, suddenly, Tom stood, sharp and breathless, as if something had struck him across the face.
He strode past the sitting room with its fireplace softly crackling, past the coat stand where Potter’s brown overcoat still hung in absence. His steps carried him to the foot of the wooden staircase. He ascended swiftly, each tread groaning faintly underfoot, until he reached the passageway at the top, and the door that stood across from his own.
Potter’s room.
He reached for the knob. Twisted.
Nothing.
He twisted again. Yanked.
Still nothing.
A low hiss escaped through his teeth. He backed up half a step, narrowed his eyes at the door like it had critically wounded him.
Of course it was locked.
Potter had locked it.
So much for all that gentle small talk, so much for all that talk of starting routines, of coexistence. So much for you can sleep in, Tom, and do you want to help with dinner, Tom, and I’ll buy you your own dictionary.
A farce, a distraction, a performance. A gesture to keep the beast calm.
The lock clicked once again under Tom’s hand as he tried to twist it harder, the wood creaking slightly under the strain, but not giving. His lips pulled back from his teeth in frustration, and he closed his eyes.
He gathered himself, gathered everything.
The silence of the house folded in around him, cold and thick. He could feel it deep in his chest like smoke, like heat, twitching just beneath the skin – that strange, powerful something he had never been able to name, never been able to control, but always had known was real. The same force that used to make things move at Wool’s when he was angry. The same strange will that had shut doors, cracked mirrors, made things tremble without ever touching them.
He raised his hand. Pointed it at the knob.
Open, he thought viciously. Open, you stupid –
Nothing.
He breathed in sharply. Tried again. Focused harder.
He visualized the inside of the room – the bed, the desk, the tall cupboard by the window. He imagined the things in Potter’s bag. The wand, the photos, the letters. A link to something Potter wasn’t showing him. Something precious. Something irreplaceable.
And in his mind, he imagined the thing somehow, somehow, coming to him, even through a locked door, and he imaged his fingers closing around one of those dear things – whatever Potter valued most – and smashing it into pieces. Snapping it in half. Grinding it under his heel. Taking it outside and flinging it into the cold, wet brambles behind the cottage.
It wasn’t about theft. It was retribution. For the humiliation. For being made to burn his things. For being seen as a thief.
When Potter returned, Tom would be the very picture of innocence – calm, confused. I don’t know what you’re talking about, he would say with quiet sincerity, all wide grey eyes and careful hands. Let Potter rage then. Let him search the house. Let him lose something. Just once.
Open, he thought.
Still nothing.
The lock held, unmoved by his desperate, boiling will to dredge up magic and move it.
It wasn’t an ordinary lock. Potter probably had used magic, strong magic.
Tom didn’t know how to break them. Yet.
That made something snap.
His hands balled into fists, nails digging into his palms. His breath came faster now, and his heart thudded like a drumbeat of fury.
Because Potter was right to lock it.
Because he would have entered again.
Because he would have not only gone through Potter’s things again this time, but would have destroyed one of them.
Because Potter saw him for what he was.
Because Potter was stronger than him.
Tom’s blood thundered against his ears.
He hated that Potter was older and more powerful. That he could seal a door with a flick of his wand and Tom, a boy with a devouring mind and a vindicated, rightful hunger, was powerless against it.
He hated that Potter had done this gently, without threats, that the softness had stung more than a slap, and that somewhere in the pit of his stomach was a voice whispering, He doesn’t trust you. He hates you. He is doing this for something, some purpose, that has nothing to do with any softness reserved for you. The sudden softness is perhaps a strategy.
Tom whirled away from the door before he did something reckless. He couldn’t afford to lose his control and damage something with an uncontrolled bout of magic. It was the same magic that had always helped protect him against anything that dared to hurt or humiliate him – an untamed swell of raw, shifting magic within him.
But now, it wasn’t enough.
He stalked back into the kitchen, a storm whipping within him. The room was still warm from breakfast. The chair where Potter had sat was still pulled slightly out. The orange juice in Tom’s glass was only half-finished.
Tom stood there, chest rising and falling, the quiet pressing around him, suffocating him.
He was losing.
But he knew – he wouldn’t lose for long.
~*~
Chapter 10: The Stag and the Snake
Chapter Text
~*~
There was a rhythm now, something like a parody of domesticity, that had settled into place in the days following the burning of his possessions.
Tom helped Potter with cooking now, as Potter asked. They made lunch and dinner together, Tom helping in ways he can.
And through all of this, Tom could not help but wonder: why was Potter always home? If he had no job to go to, no place to earn, then where was the money coming from? Potter seemed to have enough to sustain them both and maintain the cottage, but the source of it remained a mystery.
Not that Tom asked. He didn’t bother baiting Potter anymore with barbed comments just to reel him into conversation. No, all that had ended the day his belongings were turned to ash.
He didn’t talk unless spoken to. Didn’t ask questions unless necessary.
And so this strange little play, this farce of domestic life, continued, playing out again tonight as they stood in the kitchen, preparing dinner.
Mashed potatoes.
Tom hated it, hated helping someone who now put on a pretense of not hating him.
Potter handled all the chopping and dicing, his face tight with concentration. He hovered near the boiling water, occasionally glancing at the pot as he sprinkled in salt. He worked quickly, methodically. It was clear he’d done this before.
Then he poured a measure of milk into a smaller saucepan and handed it to Tom with a short nod.
“Keep an eye on it for me? Don’t let it boil over.”
Tom accepted it silently. He stood there and did exactly as he was told, watching the milk bubble at the edges but not once allowing it to spill.
By the time the milk was ready, Potter had drained the potatoes and left them to cool. He added a generous knob of butter to the bowl and pushed it toward Tom, along with a fork.
“Your turn,” Potter said mildly. “Mash them up.”
Tom didn’t say anything. He took the fork and got to work.
Tom’s fingers twitched slightly at the thought of 'accidentally' tipping an entire jar of salt into the bowl. Or smashing the dish itself. Anything to lash back, to spoil Potter’s odd little game of calm guardianhood. But he didn’t.
Because one thing still filled him with cold, sick dread: the orphanage.
Potter had hinted once, just once, that he could be sent back. And since then, Tom had been thoroughly careful. He was not being obedient, no. He was planning, biding time, calculating.
He didn’t want Potter to start watching him too closely. He wanted him to relax, lower his guard, so that when Tom finally did do what he so burned to, something that counted, it would land. And it would hurt. And Tom would enjoy every second of it.
So, for now, he wore the mask of being carefully blank, studiously aloof, flawlessly civil.
Potter began to fry sausages. The smell filled the kitchen, warm, rich, delicious. Tom’s stomach tightened, but his face remained composed, the picture of politeness as they moved through the motions; they plated the food, brought it to the table, and sat down, as if they had done so a thousand times before, as if Potter did not hate him, as if Potter did not have some secretive intent in adopting him.
Dinner passed in a kind of uneasy quiet, broken only by Potter’s attempt at conversation.
“I’ve started reading those books that I picked up,” he said. “They’re nothing fancy. Gardening, mostly.”
Tom looked up with a flicker of interest. He knew the books already, he had seen them. “Yes,” Tom said, his voice carefully neutral. “I noticed. One of them looked like a simplified history for children.”
Potter gave a small shrug. “Well, I never got much proper schooling,” he said, not embarrassed at all. “Figured I’d start with the basics.”
Tom said nothing. He forced himself not to smirk. Potter was laughable sometimes, he really was, but Tom kept his expression smooth. He didn't understand this man at all. But mocking him wouldn’t get him anywhere. Not yet.
Instead, he picked up his fork again and resumed eating, perfectly civil.
“How’s the book coming along?” Potter asked.
Tom chewed slowly, swallowed, and said, “It’s great.”
Potter smiled. “What’s it about?”
Tom looked straight into his eyes, fork resting delicately in his hand. “Exactly what the title says.”
He took a sip of water and added, cool as ever, “It’s helping me understand myself.” In his head, Tom was amused.
Potter nodded quietly, completely unaware of the ironies blossoming under his nose.
Tom had already observed that Potter could be both careless and ridiculous in turns. Case in point being the said book, Psychology of the Unconscious.
Chosen by Potter for Tom, the book had been intriguing from the first page. At first, Tom had stumbled over a few words, unfamiliar terms, but Potter, blithely unaware of the book’s contents, had provided Tom with a dictionary. And now, everything was making sense.
Tom was expecting something dry, perhaps even moralistic.
Instead, he found things far more interesting.
The book was, so far, thoroughly inappropriate. Or rather, completely inappropriate for someone his age. It spoke openly in the introduction about sexuality – childhood sexuality, no less – and how, if repressed or misdirected, it could manifest in grotesque or perverse ways later in life. It spoke of something called the Oedipus complex. It hinted that an unresolved desire for a parent could ripple through one’s psyche like a crack through glass.
Potter had given it to him without blinking. Dropped it that day unceremoniously onto his bed.
Tom almost laughed aloud thinking about it.
Potter, of course, had no idea what the book was actually about. It was just a black hardback with nothing on it but a title and an author’s name – mysterious, scholarly-looking, and therefore, in Potter’s mind, surely the kind of thing that would give Tom an intellectual challenge.
Either way, it was ridiculously amusing.
As for the book itself, it was absorbing. It didn’t scare Tom, neither did it shock him. If anything, it felt like it was naming something he’d always sensed inside himself, something strange and wordless and tangled. He didn’t understand it fully yet, but he knew he would eventually. The words made things sharper.
And in the meantime, he could pretend he wasn’t reading anything odd at all.
“Do you want me to pick up another one like it?” Potter asked after a few moments. “Or something different next time?”
Tom gave a tiny shrug. “This one will last a while,” he said. “It’s dense, but it’s readable.”
That seemed to please Potter, as he smiled faintly and returned to his food.
~*~
That night, Tom dreamed.
In a fitful slumber, his breath shallow and his body curled against the coolness of the sheets, the dream unfurled.
A wounded deer lay on its side upon soft, moss-covered earth, its flank rising and falling faintly, unevenly. The ground was blanketed in decaying leaves, crumbling, frayed at the edges, wet with recent rain.
A terrifyingly thick, enormous snake glided slowly, its scales black as nightshade, glistening and slick.
It began to coil.
Around the deer’s legs, its stomach, its chest. It was a slow constriction, patient and deliberate. Tighter, tighter.
The deer bled from somewhere beneath its fur, dark blood, near-black in the twilight. It made no sound, it only trembled, as though it still held onto the illusion of escape.
But there was no escape.
The snake was not hurried. It was patient. It didn’t want death.
It wanted the moment before.
It wanted the twitching limbs, the helpless arch of the deer’s neck as its breath came faster and shallower.
The snake coiled tighter. It pressed in, spine against spine, muscle against weakening flesh, tightening just enough to feel the desperate shudder beneath its body. It wanted the pain to last.
The deer’s death throes, the little spasms, the jerks of life that refused to extinguish themselves, that was what the snake waited for. And it watched and savoured it.
And in that drawn-out moment of suspended death, as the deer bucked and writhed beneath it, the snake felt it: a white-hot ecstasy unfurling within it like fire beneath scale.
Tom’s eyes opened in the stillness of night.
The room was blanketed in moonlight and quiet. A thin silver glow slanted across the wooden floor, and the only sound was the quickened rhythm of his own breath.
He felt warm, lain where he was in his bed.
Not hot, just a soft, low heat under his skin, concentrated somewhere beneath the blanket, in the pit of his stomach. His heart beat a touch faster than usual, not with fear, not with adrenaline, but something he did not quite understand.
He didn’t remember the dream in full. Only fragments: a deer, bleeding, a snake, large and black, coiling, coiling.
Something about it had felt cruel yet intimate.
His skin still carried it. His fingers curled lightly into the sheet, then loosened.
Sleep was pressing in heavy again, and he slipped back in into the depths of it.
~*~
Potter had gone out a few times to restock the house. Each time, he asked if Tom wished to come along. And each time, Tom declined.
But as soon as Potter was gone, Tom tried, unsuccessfully, to break into his room. Again and again, he tested the lock, prodded the hinges, looked for a weakness, a crack, anything.
Every time, he failed.
And every time, he was left seething, more desperate.
No matter how long he waited, no matter how patient he tried to be, he was unable to unleash his vengeance.
And the impossibility of it, of touching Potter, of hurting him back, made the violent savagery inside Tom grow with each passing day.
The parody of domesticity, the rhythm of quiet meals and shared chores, the steady, aloof pleasantness with which Potter treated him, did nothing to soothe Tom.
In fact, it enraged him, made him feel like he was being trained, tamed. And Tom Riddle was not a thing that could be tamed.
So he made a decision, a wild one, a reckless one. But he could no longer sit still, he could no longer wait.
He had promised himself that he would get back at Potter. Even if it meant suffering. Even if he had to lose himself in the process.
And so, one early morning, before the sun had even risen, Tom put on the warmest coat he could find, pulled on his boots, and took the umbrella from the stand by the door. He slipped out of the cottage in silence, the chill biting at his cheeks, the hush of the moor vast and watching.
Potter was still asleep; Tom was certain of it. He wouldn't notice Tom's absence for hours.
And so began the longest, most perilous walk Tom would ever undertake.
He walked, and walked.
Down the slope, into the endless moor. The sky above him was still frighteningly dark, the last of the stars dimming behind heavy clouds. All around him was the low hum of creatures of the night.
But Tom was not afraid, never afraid. If something dared try to strike fear into him, he would claw through it, tear it apart, and make it fear him instead.
He walked on, his teeth clenched, his hand tight around the handle of the umbrella. The cold clawed at his face, seeped into his boots, but he paid it no mind.
Ahead, barely visible on the horizon, was the shape of the woods. A line of black against black.
It could be kilometres away. It could be closer. Tom didn’t know. He didn’t care.
He only knew he had to reach it. He had to find the one being that had always watched over him, protected him, anchored him.
The being that had appeared in his dream, not as a monster, but as a promise.
His familiar. A deadly, venomous snake.
~*~
Tom didn’t know how long he had been walking.
But the evidence was plain: the sky above him had turned a pale, sullen grey. Rain fell in steady sheets, unrelenting.
The coat had been no use to him, drenched and heavy, plastered against his skin, weighing him down like a sodden shroud, trapping icy chill against his chest that threatened to freeze his heart. So he had torn it off, flung it away, somewhere far behind him. The umbrella had become more trouble than it was worth, and that too had been discarded.
Now, he walked on, shivering, soaked to the bone, the cold seeping into his very marrow, his hands stiff and red and numb.
It must have been hours.
Yet, he pressed on, through the moor, toward the shadow of the woods on the horizon. The snakes would be hibernating now in this bitter cold. He knew that. There would be none in the open. If he wanted to find one, he had to go where the earth was dense and deep, where shadow lingered and roots twisted through the dark.
The woods were nearing. Just a little more. Just a little more…
His legs ached. Each step felt like dragging lead weights forward, like his limbs had begun to die. But he pushed himself.
He had to.
It had been easier once. Back at the orphanage, it had been simple to find snakes. The first one had come from the zoo, and Tom had spoken to it, told it to stay for a while, and then, when it left, to bring another in its place. And they had obeyed, always. One after another, different varieties, each more poisonous than the last. They had always listened. They had liked him.
But now… he was in a new place, a new world. No familiar serpents, no cracks in the earth for them to hide. Only the endless, godforsaken moor and a cottage that seemed to be warded off against anything, even a critter, entering in.
There had been no chance.
Now, he had made the chance. And he would not waste it.
At long last, he reached the edge of the woods. He stepped beneath the dark canopy, swallowed by trees that towered above him. The rain fell heavier here, in thick drops that slipped from the branches and slapped the ground like cold coins.
He wrapped his arms around himself, his frozen hands digging into his ribs, his teeth clattering uncontrollably, breath stuttering in shivers.
Still, he opened his mouth. Forced his lips, numb and tight, to part.
He hissed.
‘Is anyone here?’ he called out. ‘Anyone who can help me?’
Nothing.
He hissed again, louder, again and again. He could not be silent, not now, not when he had come so far. One of them had to hear him. One of them had to come.
‘Please,’ he hissed, soft and hoarse. ‘I need one of you to help me…’
Silence.
Only the rush of the wind, the trees, the endless clamour of the rain, answered back.
He walked further, deeper, into the belly of the forest. The brambles tore at him, raked across his cheeks and arms, left red scratches on the pale flesh beneath his soaked shirt. But he could not move his arms from around his chest. They were too stiff, too frozen to obey.
‘Serpents,’ he hissed, breathless. ‘I need you more than I’ve ever needed anyone. You will help a kindred spirit in need… won’t you?’
Still nothing.
He only saw shadows of countless tree trunks looming.
He staggered on, legs trembling, breaths tearing his lungs like glass.
But his will was violent now, undaunted. Even if this killed him, he would do it.
Then, he stopped, frozen in place.
A ghostly, silver light began to spill through the woods. Soft at first, then growing brighter – ethereal, unnatural. It lit the trees from within, casting long shadows, outlining the wet trunks and brushes.
Tom’s heart stuttered. For a moment, he thought he was dying.
Surely, this was death. The cost of his reckless, frozen vengeance.
Terror clutched his chest.
He turned, slowly, toward the source of the light.
And there, emerging like a dream, like a ghost come to life, was a stag.
A magnificent, enormous stag.
Its antlers were high and intricate, its stance regal and proud. It glowed with a soft brilliance, as though carved from moonlight.
It trotted toward him, swift and purposeful.
And when it spoke, it spoke with Potter’s voice.
“Tom, please come home. Please come home,” it pleaded, raw and trembling. “I’m looking for you everywhere… where are you, Tom? Come home, please come home…”
Then it turned, and galloped away, strong and swift and impossibly beautiful, vanishing like a dream, dissolving into the woods.
The image of the wounded deer returned unbidden to his head then, but it took on a definite shape then, concretised into what it really was.
It was a stag.
Proud, magnificent, gentle.
And the black snake, the slick, glistening coil of vengeance, wrapped tighter around it in his mind. Tighter.
Tom clenched his jaw, his breath like razors in his chest. He dug his fingernails into his palms until he felt the sting of blood.
And he walked on, deeper.
The stag and the snake wound together behind his eyes, a fevered image that would not fade.
Then, finally, at long last, a shape slithered from the shadows, emerging from brushes, summoned to him by his voice.
A snake.
Tom collapsed to his knees, breathing in shallow gasps, his lips split from cold.
‘Please… help.’
The snake raised its head.
‘What do you need, little ssspeaker?’ it hissed. ‘You sssounded afraid. I have awoken from deep sssleep by your voice.’
‘There’s a man,’ Tom said, voice trembling. ‘My guardian. He gives me food, shelter… but I don’t think he loves me. He hates me. He hurt me, not with his hands, but… he hurt something inside me. I want you to scare him, frighten him, soon.’
The snake tilted its head.
‘How ssshall I ssscare, little one?’
‘Are you venomous?’
‘Yesss. Very.’
Tom was sure it was; it seemed, if he was not mistaken, to be an adder.
‘Good. I want you to hide in his room. And at night, coil around him. When he wakes, try to strike. Don’t actually bite him. I need him alive. He feeds me. But I want him to feel fear. Deep, cold fear.’
There was a pause. Then the snake spoke.
‘I will do thiss, little cold and ssshivering ssspeaker. But what will you give me in return? Will you feed me well?’
Tom nodded, feverish, breathless.
‘Yes. I promise. Whenever I can.’
The snake coiled closer.
‘Then lead the way, little ssspeaker. Let usss ssshatter the peace of your enemy.’
Tom rose, blood on his palms, cold in his bones, serpent at his side.
~*~
Chapter 11: Wrought in Pain
Chapter Text
~*~
The day had begun as seemingly any other.
Harry had woken up, wandered into the kitchen, and begun making breakfast.
Tom usually walked in the moment Harry set the kettle on for tea – always before it even whistled – already settling into his preferred armchair in the sitting room, from where he could sneak furtive glances at Harry as he moved about the stove.
But that morning, Tom hadn’t come down.
Harry thought, uncharacteristic as it may have been, that perhaps Tom was sleeping in.
Yet even after the kettle had whistled and been flicked off, even after breakfast had been plated and set out, Tom didn’t appear.
That was when Harry climbed the stairs to Tom’s room, knocking once, twice, to no response. Not even a stir from within.
He pushed the door open. The bedcovers were rumpled, clearly slept in, but the room was empty – empty in that dreadful, forlorn way, where the air hung too quiet, too still.
Harry’s heart dropped into his stomach, a cold, creeping dread sinking in. Something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.
His first instinct was to check the bathroom.
He checked. It was empty.
He swallowed hard, his breathing quickening painfully, dread shattering through his chest, thundering in his ears.
His next instinct was to throw on his overcoat, and reach for his umbrella in the stand by the door. That’s when he noticed that the spare was missing.
And he knew.
Tom had left the house.
Left the house for what? For where?
The questions crashed against his mind with no answer, only the blunt shock of confusion.
Things had seemed fine, peaceful, even. They’d settled into a quiet rhythm, and Harry had been grateful for the calm, even if, at the back of his mind, there had always been a gnawing, unrelenting fear.
That this peace was a borrowed thing, that it was too fragile, too thin. That it might shatter if he so much as breathed.
And now, he realized, that instinct had been right.
He stepped outside, scanning the grassy yard that circled the cottage, now overgrown with cold brambles and brittle brush.
“Tom!” he called out.
Only cold silence answered, the morning air misted and heavy around him.
He ran a hand agitatedly through his hair, breathing hard.
“Tom!” he called again, more urgent this time.
Nothing.
Heart racing, Harry shook his head in mounting panic and hurried down the slope on which the cottage stood.
The Fidelius Charm meant he couldn’t apparate straight from the door, and in that moment, it felt like a curse, an aggravation.
~*~
Harry apparated in and disapparated out through the wide expanse of moors that surrounded him.
It was around nine in the morning, and Harry’s mind reeled at the thought of how early Tom must have left the cottage. Because Harry couldn’t find a trace of him anywhere nearby. The distance he seemed to have covered was staggering.
It meant Tom could have left while it was still night, or barely morning.
Why... why...?
No matter how hard Harry tried to reason through it, he couldn’t come up with anything. Anything but one resounding, brutal conclusion:
That he had failed at this, that he wasn’t up to the task, that he was utterly unequipped to raise someone as complex and daunting as Tom Riddle.
A fool, that’s what he was, to think he might even have a chance at doing this right.
It hadn’t even been a month, and already, he had failed spectacularly.
He’d been too distant. He didn’t know how to raise any child, let alone a child so dark, so layered, so shrouded by terrifying implications.
After one too many apparitions and disapparitions, Harry’s magical focus began to fray with exhaustion and nerves. He was on the verge of splinching himself from the repeated, frantic succession of flitting in and out of places, desperately calling out like a madman for Tom.
By the end of it, his heart was pounding, his head swimming with frenzied thoughts that were not only about what this meant for the future he so desperately tried to save.
Flooding him with shocking force, was something else.
A raw, consuming fear.
Protective, wrenching fear.
For this dark boy that fate had conspired to place in his care.
~*~
When Harry stumbled back into the cottage, breathing hard, heart hammering, it was nearly evening.
The moment the door shut behind him, he thudded against it and slid down to the floor – wet, cold, reeling, his mind spinning with thoughts of Tom’s safety in the intemperate, harsh weather.
Pain and fear tore through his chest, through his stomach. Before he could stop it, he was shaking violently – not from the cold – his face buried in his hands, in his knees, as he curled in on himself and trembled uncontrollably.
He had come back to the cottage because it was the only thing left to do.
Somewhere, distantly, in a fogged-over corner of his mind, he realized that if Tom chose to come back home, someone had to be here. Someone had to be waiting to take care of him.
He should file a report with the Ministry, and he would, if Tom didn’t return in the next few hours.
Harry knew the one thing he needed to do now…
With a trembling hand, he weakly drew his wand from his pocket.
He exhaled shakily… once… twice…
“Expecto…”
The word came out as a breath, barely a whisper.
He tried to summon something happy. Anything.
“Expecto… patronum…”
But there was nothing; only the raw, erratic thud of his heart and the shallow gasps of air escaping his lungs.
“Expecto patronum,” he said again, voice tighter, higher.
Still nothing.
He repeated the incantation, again, and again, each time more desperate, more strained.
Not even a wisp of light emerged from his wand.
Raw fear surged in his chest. Desperation and agony accompanied it. His breaths grew choppier, harsher.
Nothing.
He couldn’t remember a single happy memory. Every one of them was stained black, twisted with bitter, gut-wrenching pain.
Sitting on the floor, he broke into tears, his mind shattering into smithereens.
Nothing remained but the pain, ripping, unrelenting pain.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, tears streaming, head pounding, heart clutched in desperate, blinding fear.
And then, somehow, through sheer force of will, he composed himself.
“Expecto patronum.”
Dead bodies surrounded him.
“Expecto patronum.”
Red eyes glared at him, filled with loathing and rage.
“Expecto patronum.”
Ron laughed. Hermione shook her head, tears of laughter in her eyes.
But Ron was in a coffin. Lowered into the arms of the earth.
Hermione had clung to Harry, and screamed.
“EXPECTO PATRONUM.”
He was beautiful. Breathtakingly so. His eyes were beautiful like a cat’s, grey like stormclouds.
“EXPECTO PATRONUM.”
But he was dark, so, so dark.
“EXPECTO PATRONUM.”
Harry had to be careful, so careful, in raising him, in dealing with him.
“EXPECTO PATRONUM.”
He tilted his head, sometimes in genuine confusion, sometimes in calculated, feigned innocence.
“EXPECTO PATRONUM.”
He had killed his parents. But Harry saw something now, something he hadn’t seen in his red eyes.
“EXPECTO PATRONUM.”
He was just a child. A child as starved of love and pained as Harry himself had once been.
He needed love. Parental love. Familial love.
He deserved it. Just once. Just one time. Maybe… maybe that one time would be enough.
He needed them, the warmth he had extinguished with his own hands. With just his being.
His mother hadn’t survived his birth.
He had ended the lives of his father and grandparents.
He had taken the lives of Harry’s mother… his father…
Maybe he needed all of their love, every single one of them.
Maybe he needed to feel it just once. Just once. Maybe… maybe that would be enough.
His mother had brilliant green eyes – his eyes – and enchanting red hair.
His father had his face, his jaw, his hair… his smile, warm and proud, like Harry mattered.
“EXPECTO PATRONUM.”
Blinding white light burst from his wand.
And then, there it materialized – his stag. Enormous, majestic, radiant.
“Tom…” Harry whispered, voice shaking.
The silver stag stood before him, still, patient, waiting.
“Tom… please come home. Please come home,” Harry pleaded, voice raw and trembling. “I’m looking for you everywhere… where are you, Tom? Come home. Please come home…”
The stag waited, listening.
“Give this message to him. Give him this message… see if he follows you, wait around… wait for him to follow you. Wait… and lead. Lead him here. Always be with him. Watch over him. Make sure he finds his way back home…”
The silver stag backed up, turned, and began to lope. It vanished into the cold evening air outside the cottage.
Harry remained on the floor, head tipping back against the wall, eyes sliding shut. He was still shaking, but the tears had wrung dry.
~*~
He waited, and waited.
It must have been two hours, or three, he wasn’t sure.
His heart was beating a violent staccato in his chest, prompting him into action – he needed to go to the Ministry now, he needed to. But he was in shock, he couldn’t accept what was happening.
It cannot be. It cannot be that he had lost Tom, not after all that had happened, not after the Time Turner had dropped him here with designs and intents that were beyond human understanding.
And then, he saw the stag’s light spilling in through the window, before he saw him.
Harry leapt to his feet and flew to the door, throwing it open.
The sight before him nearly brought him to his knees.
The stag vanished the instant Harry came into its view, leaving behind only Tom.
A bloodied, trembling, bluish-pale Tom, his clothes soaked through to his skin.
Tom collapsed to his knees, shaking uncontrollably.
“Tom!”
Harry dropped with him, right there at the threshold, gathering him into his arms, blindly, instinctively.
He pulled Tom inside, the boy nothing more than a freezing, unresponsive weight in his arms, and Harry shut the door with wordless magic, slamming the bitter cold out.
What followed was pure instinct, pure action.
Harry moved with urgency, his wand flicking in rapid succession as he cast drying charms, warming charms.
He summoned a thick, large towel, and immediately enchanted it with a heating charm before wrapping it swiftly and tightly around Tom.
Tom was convulsing in brutal, uncontrollable spasms, his eyes screwed shut, his lips parted and blue. His face was streaked with lacerations, shallow cuts, so was the rest of his body.
Harry had no idea how he’d made it back to the cottage.
He didn’t want to think about it. He couldn’t.
All he could do was hold him.
He pulled Tom tighter. Tom shook in his arms, spasming so violently that Harry himself was jolted with the force of it.
Harry held on tight, breathing hard, his body taut with shock, with fear.
He cradled Tom against his chest, one hand rising to cup the back of Tom’s head, guiding it to rest in the curve of his neck, pressing him close, pressing him into his body heat.
Harry summoned a water jug next, along with a glass.
One hand held Tom tightly against him; the other poured the water with careful precision.
He cast a warming charm over the glass, waiting until it felt just warm enough before bringing it to Tom’s lips.
Gently, he tilted it, coaxing the water down, even as Tom protested, weakly and disjointedly, a hazy murmur of resistance in Harry’s arms.
Gradually, a trace of colour returned to Tom’s face. The rigid blue gave way to a sickly, ashen white; then, faintly, to the palest flush of pink.
“Tom…” Harry whispered, his voice full of disbelief and fear. “Where were you? You won’t even step out with me when I ask, saying you hate the cold. Where were you that you got so hurt?”
Tom didn’t answer. Not at first.
His senses were returning slowly, and with them came a feeble attempt to twist away from Harry’s grip. He tried to shrink back, inching away as though ashamed, or afraid.
Harry only held on tighter. Harder.
“Don’t touch me,” Tom whispered.
“I must, Tom. You’re freezing.”
Tom stilled. He said nothing more, perhaps too weak to resist, perhaps resigned.
But his face was etched with fury, with desperation.
And Harry’s heart broke all over again.
If only he had done better. If only he hadn’t failed so deeply.
He wanted to take the blame for all of it, to whip himself with it, to carry the weight of his own inadequacy until he bled for it.
Because he hadn’t done a good job.
“Where did you go, Tom?” Harry asked, voice soft, trembling.
Tom’s reply came cold and clipped. “Just went for a walk. Lost my way.”
Harry did not question him further.
Tom did not want to talk, and Harry did not push, not when Tom was barely warm and barely there.
He only wanted to bring him ease, however he could.
~*~
Harry kept him held against his chest for a long time, until every last tremor in Tom’s body had finally stilled.
But Tom was far from anything resembling fine.
His body grew quiet again, too quiet. His breathing slowed, his limbs slackening.
And then, slowly, gently, he slipped into unconsciousness.
Terror seized Harry’s heart.
Despite the drying and warming charms cast on Tom’s clothes, Harry knew he had to get them off. He needed to see the wounds, needed to know the extent of the damage. The cuts littered Tom’s body – across his face, his neck, and trailing lower, beneath the collar of his shirt...
What had Tom done? Where had he gone?
There was no time for answers, only time to act.
Harry lifted him. Tom was heavier than he looked – despite his slender frame, there was height and bone that made him weigh heavier.
Harry cradled him carefully over his shoulder and carried him up the stairs, heart racing with every step, until they reached Tom’s room.
There, he lowered him gently onto the bed.
He paused only to get Tom’s change of clothes, laying them out with trembling fingers.
Then he sat at the edge of the bed and set about working swiftly, but gently, always gently.
He peeled away the warm towel first, then began removing Tom’s clothes. He only undressed what was necessary, mindful of Tom’s dignity, even in unconsciousness.
Tom was slender and pale. The cold had left its cruel signature, his fingertips and the tip of his nose flushed with red and purple.
But it was the lacerations that struck Harry hardest.
They were raw, angry, some shallow, others deep. Two shallow cuts marked across his cheek, another grazed the side of his neck. Deeper ones marred his torso, thigh, and calf. It looked as though he had fought through thorned branches, scraped again and again by rough bark and brambles.
Harry pointed his wand, his voice trembling as he murmured healing spells, trying to close them, trying to ease them. He wasn’t perfect at it; the magic wasn’t perfect. But the wounds stopped bleeding, and the worst of the gashes began to seal.
Some marks remained; the deeper cuts still glistened, half-healed. But it was better than before.
Once finished, Harry gently slipped Tom into dry clothes, hands moving with fitful urgency. Then he drew the blanket up to Tom’s shoulders.
Harry sat there, staring at his face.
He was beautiful. Even like this. Even now.
Thoughts crashed through Harry’s mind – images, fears, fates. Intentions too cruel to name.
He could let him go.
Let him weaken. Let him… fade.
No one would stop him.
It would be easy. It would be justified.
But he would never.
He couldn’t.
He wouldn’t do that to any child.
And he wouldn’t do it to Tom Riddle either.
Maybe... maybe Tom needed love. Maybe more love than anyone had ever known. Maybe, just once, if he got all the love he needed, maybe that would be enough.
Harry exhaled sharply. He should make him some tomato soup to warm his system. That might help.
His fingers shook as they reached forward, slowly, tentatively, to brush a curl from Tom’s forehead.
He pulled back quickly, his breath catching in his throat.
He adjusted the blanket over Tom’s shoulders once more, anxiously, compulsively, then stood.
He had to get to the kitchen; had to make the soup as quickly as he could.
He needed to bring Tom back to warmth and wakefulness.
Harry was coming undone with worry.
And so he hurried out, before the worry swallowed him whole.
~*~
Chapter 12: Chased by Love
Chapter Text
You are the life I needed all along
I think of you as my brother
Although that sounds dumb
And words are futile devices
- Futile Devices, Sufjan Stevens
~*~
Harry had made something that, to his great relief, at least tasted like tomato soup, for he brewed it as worry churned inside him, his movements hurried, frantic, desperate to get it to Tom as quickly as possible. Every moment wasted was a moment taken too long to nurse Tom back from a fragile brink.
The aroma was rich and warm, and Harry’s stomach twisted and growled painfully at the scent; he had not eaten anything since morning. But he gritted his teeth and steeled himself; he needed to first ensure that Tom ate.
As soon as he finished stirring it in the saucepan, he cooled it magically to a bearable heat, then poured it into a bowl, tossed in a large spoon, and carried it carefully up the stairs to Tom’s room.
Tom was still lying flat on his back, unmoving, eyes closed, face quiet and unaware. His arms lay slack at his sides, the blanket still covering his shoulders exactly the way Harry had left it.
Harry set the bowl down on the nightstand beside the bed, tugged a nearby chair close, and sat down right beside him.
With trembling fingers, he reached into his pocket for his wand. He looked at Tom’s face – beautiful, peaceful.
Then he raised the wand.
“Rennervate.”
Tom drew in a sudden, sharp breath. His eyes snapped open.
The moment they landed on Harry, they turned ice-cold, full of restrained fury. His jaw tightened, clenched.
“Have this, Tom. It will help,” Harry said quietly.
Tom’s eyes slid to the bowl on the nightstand. After a few moments of stillness, of defeat, or resignation, Harry could not tell, Tom tried to lift himself up, but failed. Frustration twisted across his features, helpless and angry.
His face was pale, sickly. His eyes were puffy, and his lips a deep, flushed red, the kind it turns to when you’re burning with fever.
Dreading what it meant, Harry, without a second thought, reached out and pressed his palm to Tom’s forehead.
He was burning up.
Harry swore softly under his breath.
Tom had frozen under his touch, stiffened to stone, to ice.
Without giving Tom’s reaction a second’s thought, Harry reached under his arm and gently tugged him up. The space between them vanished in an instant – it was too close. Close enough to hear the sound of Tom’s sharp inhale through parted lips, close enough to feel the shudder that ran through him, to feel the hard, tense clench of his fevered muscles.
Harry rested him carefully against the headboard, then quickly grabbed the pillow. With one arm sliding gently behind the small of Tom’s back, he eased him forward just enough to tuck the pillow between him and the wood.
Tom’s lips, close to the hollow of Harry’s throat, were drawing in sharp, roughened breaths, and Harry felt the heat and burn of them on his skin.
Tom muttered a curse, his voice tight, hoarse, wrecked, with fury, with disbelief, with weakness.
“Don’t,” he whispered, low but taut. “Don’t.”
“You’re too weak,” Harry said softly, drawing back. “Let me help you.”
Harry reached for the bowl and brought it close, setting it gently on the bed beside Tom so it was within easy reach.
“Please have it. Your body needs it.”
Tom sat with his eyes averted from Harry, lashes fanned over his cheeks, jaw clenching and unclenching, breaths quick and shallow. His pale, long fingers then reached out, weakly grasping the spoon, and he lifted it slightly.
Barely had he raised it, his fingers betrayed him – the soup quivered, jerked, and spilled back into the bowl.
Instantly, Harry’s hand shot out and gently took the spoon from Tom’s shaky grasp. “Here, let me help,” Harry said softly, his voice trembling.
Harry carefully took a spoonful from the bowl and – eyes fixed on Tom’s stormy grey ones, his heart shuddering, aching at the grave irony of it all, and yet, somehow, finally, finally coming to terms with the exquisite grief and ache of it – brought the spoon gently to Tom’s lips.
Tom’s mouth remained closed, jaw still tight. He turned his face away, lashes fanning across his cheeks once more. Blood rushed to his face unbidden now, staining his usually pale skin a violent rouge, while his breaths came hard and fast through his nose, his chest heaving slightly.
Then Tom’s eyes fluttered shut. His lips parted. He let out a trembling breath.
And at long last, he accepted it. He closed his lips around the spoon.
Harry repeated the motion – lifting the spoon, waiting patiently, each time, for Tom to part his lips – again and again, until all the soup was gone.
Tom, somehow finding some strength from the soup, laid himself gingerly back down onto the bed and pulled the blanket over himself.
Harry let him rest.
But even as he carried the empty bowl back to the kitchen, he’d already decided – he needed to take Tom to St. Mungo’s.
Harry quickly poured himself a bowl of soup, forcing himself to eat a few hurried spoonfuls – he couldn’t afford to faint now while Tom needed him.
Tom’s fever was high enough to seem dangerous to Harry’s frayed mind. And the cuts… the cuts needed proper healing, immediate attention. His own spells had been too basic, too rudimentary, nowhere near enough to truly bring Tom back to health.
Once done, Harry quickly returned to Tom’s room.
Tom was once again peaceful; eyes closed, body slack.
Harry was in the chair beside him in a flash, and immediately pressed his palm to Tom’s forehead.
But this time, Tom stirred faintly the moment Harry touched him, his eyes fluttering open, his breath quickening, whether in rage or fevered discomfort, Harry couldn’t tell.
“I’ll take you to a hospital, Tom,” Harry said softly.
Tom immediately looked alarmed.
“It’s a hospital specifically for wizards, only for people like us. It’s part of our world. You needn’t worry about anything.”
“No,” came Tom’s reply, feeble, but firm. “I don’t need it.”
“You do need it, Tom. I’m not magically equipped enough to heal you properly. And I need you to recover fully, and quickly. I’d rather not delay and risk complications.”
Tom remained unmoved. If anything, he turned his face away from Harry, gaze sliding to the side in pointed disregard.
“Please, Tom. Please, just listen to me.”
There was a long pause. Silence stretched between them, Harry clinging to threadbare hope, until finally, Tom gave a small, frustrated, imperceptible nod.
Harry quickly found the warmest jumper he could, a heavy coat – Harry’s own, which he shrunk down a touch magically so it fit Tom, and a scarf for Tom to wrap around his neck.
As Tom slowly tied the scarf around his neck, Harry hurried downstairs to retrieve Tom’s boots that were removed and hastily chucked away in the sitting room. Harry flicked warming and drying charms over them again and again, for they were soaked through. Then he grasped them in his hands, feeling carefully to make sure no damp or cold remained.
He brought the boots upstairs to Tom’s room, where Tom now sat at the edge of the bed, burning with fever.
Harry paused for only a moment, breath catching in quiet hesitation, before he slowly knelt down on both knees.
“I’ll put them on myself,” whispered Tom.
Harry looked up at him.
Tom’s expression was unreadable, almost cruel, but Harry saw the deep, violent rouge that had climbed high on his cheeks again.
“No. Let me,” Harry murmured.
He helped Tom into dry socks first, then gently guided his feet into the boots.
At last, when they were ready, Harry picked up the umbrella and braced himself before opening the front door.
It was nearly eleven at night. Outside, it was pitch-dark, a storm whipping cruelly. They could hear the clamour of it through their tightly shut windows.
Tom stood behind him, layered in clothes, sickly pale and sickly tired and weak, and yet, holding himself tall, holding himself straight, his chin jutted slightly up with wounded pride that he seemed to try hard to mask under tight lines of rage and coldness.
“It’ll be cold out,” Harry said gently. “And raining hard. Come here, Tom. Stay close, you’ll be warmer that way.”
Tom merely kept gazing at him coldly.
“We’ll have to walk down the slope before I can apparate us to the hospital. It’s in London – it’ll only take a few minutes once we’re down. And then you’ll be safe.”
Harry hated the necessity of that damned walk down the slope, especially now, in a circumstance like this.
Tom hadn’t moved. He stood as if carved in ice, fury beginning to creep into his eyes.
“Come, Tom. Please.” Harry’s voice trembled, pleading and quiet.
Finally, Tom stepped closer, eyes avoiding him, locked instead on the floor.
Harry cast a shrinking charm on the umbrella and slipped it into his coat pocket, he always carried it with him for safety, though it was rarely needed. For now, it was better kept away.
He needed both arms free to shield Tom from the cold.
When Tom was close enough, Harry instinctively reached out and pulled him in – arm wrapping tight around Tom’s torso, drawing him close, close, too close – against the tension of Tom’s rigid, fevered body.
“Impervius,” Harry whispered, casting the spell softly. At least now they would be protected from the rain, and most of the frigid cold of the night, if not all.
Keeping one arm tightly wrapped around Tom, Harry opened the door.
The cold hit them instantly.
He shut it quickly behind them and, with both arms now holding Tom protectively, pressed him closer against his own warmth.
With a wandless mutter, Harry conjured orbs of soft, glowing light to float ahead of them – illuminating the wet, treacherous slope in the pitch-black night. The same orbs he had conjured the day he first met Tom at the orphanage, when Tom had demanded proof of magic...
Harry held him tightly, shielding him as best he could, guiding every step so neither of them slipped.
At the foot of the slope, Harry gripped Tom even tighter, his arms wrapping around him, almost hugging him close to his chest. He closed his eyes and envisioned the red-bricked, dilapidated store one had to walk through to reach the hidden entrance to St. Mungo’s...
~*~
He was burning up, burning up, not just with fever.
Potter helped him, held him, touched him, over and over, closely, intimately, until his heart thundered violently, until intense shame and something like heat tore through him. Until anger mixed with battered pride, mixed with something sickly and smothering, thick and unbearable, slid its way down his throat, down his chest, something so cloying it made his stomach twist with the need to violently, painfully, deliriously heave.
He was weak. He couldn’t do much to resist it. He needed help.
But somewhere deep inside, buried in a part of his heart he had violently shut ever since he became aware of existing, the care, the help, the touches, the grip, felt heated, addictive in a way that was dangerous; the kind of dangerous that might make him crave it to his own ruin.
And that was why he hated it. Hated it. When Potter made him feel even more vulnerable than he already felt. More ashamed than he already was, at having to let himself be this vulnerable before him.
And sodding – infuriating, confusing, maddening – Potter had to be kind to him out of nowhere, had to be nauseatingly gentle, that it stirred that frightening part in him.
Tom hated it. Loathed it. Hated it so much he wished he could tear himself out of his own body, his own flesh, discard the treacherous, pathetic vessel that betrayed him with its need and weakness.
He wished he could become impervious. So that he would never need anyone, especially not Potter, like this again.
With the strange, squeezing awareness of his body being pulled through a too-tight space, they reappeared in front of a bricked store that lay in shambles.
Potter led him into the questionable-looking shop. The windows were cracked and shattered, and a lone yellow lamp hung overhead, casting a dim glow over the cobwebs clinging to it.
And then, suddenly, they were walking through the brick wall.
On the other side, they emerged into a brightly lit space.
It was chaotic.
People with grotesque disfigurements – extra limbs sprouting from shoulders, bright purple boils threatening to burst across cheeks, or dentures bizarrely stuck to skin – sat hunched on rickety wooden chairs. Figures in lime-green robes wove between them, scribbling briskly on notepads. A reception desk loomed near the back, behind which sat a cantankerous-looking woman with a perpetually unimpressed expression.
Potter slowly and carefully led them toward the desk.
Tom tensed violently the moment Potter’s hand settled on the small of his back. He wanted to scream at him to get it off, to stop touching him, but he barely had the strength to walk, let alone scream.
“I need a mediwizard or mediwitch. Emergency consultation. For my… for my…”
Potter faltered. His arm tightened around Tom, pulling him closer into his side.
Tom, abstractedly, blearily, realized that he had no sense of smell. He couldn’t smell Potter, couldn’t smell this place.
“Your brother?” the woman at the desk asked, voice bored and dry.
“Yes. Yes. For my brother,” Potter replied quickly.
Tom would have laughed out loud at Potter's silliness if he wasn't delirious with fever and weakness. Perhaps Potter was shaken up, worried sick, that he fumbled and couldn't even remember that Tom was his legal ward.
“Name?” she asked again, still not looking up.
“Tom… Tom Riddle.”
Tom heard the scratch of her pen against parchment.
“Your name?”
“Harry Potter.”
The woman finally raised one brow, mildly interested.
“He… he’s my cousin,” Potter added swiftly.
“Very well,” she said. “Third floor. Emergency Ward, third door to the left.”
“Thank you,” Potter said.
Potter led them carefully to an elevator. Soon, they reached the third floor, third door to the left. Emergency Ward.
Potter pushed the door open.
A woman in powder-blue robes hurried to them immediately.
“Yes, yes, please come in.”
Potter nodded quietly. “Thank you,” he said.
The woman – witch, or mediwitch – guided Tom gently to a thin bed.
“Hmm, let’s see…” she muttered, drawing out her wand and flicking it several times in front of his face and chest.
“Right, his ailment isn’t magical in nature,” she declared. “Heartbeat, pressure – normal. But he has a high fever, extreme exhaustion, extreme dehydration… and several cuts. Cuts that you, Mr. Potter, seem to have already attempted to heal, to some extent.”
Potter nodded quietly, his eyes dim and tired.
“His injuries also seem non-magical. Hmm… He’s abraded and bruised himself repeatedly on thorny branches – shrubs, brambles, something rough.”
The mediwitch furrowed her thin eyebrows. Concern, Tom thought.
“Alright, let’s bring your temperature down. You’re shivering from it, despite being bundled up.”
She muttered a few spells. Instantly, Tom felt the punishing heat begin to recede, a light sweat breaking over his skin as his body cooled. His mind felt clearer. He felt freer, infinitely better.
“And now let’s get your hydration levels up, though I can tell you've already had some tomato soup,” she said brightly, winking at him as though he were a child who might find it comforting.
What Tom found impressive, however, was how precisely mediwizards seemed to divine details about a person’s condition.
She handed him a steaming cup filled with a pale yellow liquid. He seemed to have gotten his sense of smell back too, for it smelled of peppermint and something sweet. Tom hesitated for only a moment, then downed it swiftly.
It tasted just like it smelled. He felt even better now, clearer still in his head.
“What were you up to, Tom?” she asked gently.
Tom glanced at Potter. Their eyes met, heavy, tacitly.
Then he turned back to her.
“Went out for a walk,” he said calmly, composedly. “My… brother is rather overprotective. I wanted to defy him for once.”
He looked back at Potter.
Potter was watching him with that same strange, aching warmth in his eyes, that unbearable gentleness that hadn’t been there before Tom nearly died. That warmth that only seemed to bloom after Tom tore his flesh over thorns and nearly froze to death in a storm.
Fuck Potter.
The mediwitch tutted in gentle reprimand.
“Oh no, no, don’t you dare defy your elder brother again, Tom. I can see he means the best for you.”
She turned brisk and cheerful again. “Now, you’ll need total bedrest for at least five days. At least five days, do you hear me? So you’d better be listening to your brother and taking every potion I prescribe. The fever may seem like it’s gone now, but it’ll be back within a few hours, so you need to rest. Just five days. That’s all I ask, before you go wandering into thorny shrubs again!”
She laughed heartily, casting a quick fond glance at Potter.
Potter gave her a small, tired smile.
Then his gaze returned to Tom.
Again, his eyes took on that same darkened shade of aching gentleness.
Fuck Potter. Fuck him, to hell and oblivion.
~*~
Chapter 13: Freefalling
Chapter Text
~*~
They reached the cottage without ceremony, without obstacles or further complications.
Tom looked better now – more colour on his cheeks, steadier in his bearing and in his gait – but Harry still guided him gently to his room. He gave him space to change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable for bed.
Then he knocked softly.
When he heard the faint “yes” from inside, he stepped in and tucked him in.
Tom still looked peevish through all of it, but at least now he was accepting Harry’s care.
Harry coaxed a little more of the leftover soup into him. The mediwitch had said it was a good thing he’d made it, had reminded him that Tom needed more fluids than solids for the next day or two. So Harry had insisted gently, waited patiently. Then he left Tom alone in his room, resting, for now.
He would be back, of course he would. He would be beside him soon, checking upon him, for as long and as often as it seemed like he needed it.
And Harry had caught himself, over and over, through this wild, surreal evening; caught himself reeling from the shockingly fast, shockingly intense rate at which he was beginning to care for Tom.
It was climbing too fast, too sharp. He could barely breathe from the force of it. His mind swam with it.
He had lasted, what... half a month?
Half a month before his heart latched onto the only companion he had, and now he was mired in growing, inexplicable, impossible care for him.
But it wasn’t just latching onto someone. It wasn’t just desperation reaching for anything.
It was Tom.
He could see him now, startlingly clear, the past blurring and fading away frighteningly to give way to a haunting present, for his beautiful face, his piercing mind, the vulnerabilities Harry was beginning to notice, clearer and clearer. He was brilliant, but fragile now. He was so, so young.
And he didn’t deserve darkness. He didn’t deserve the loneliness, the harshness, the soul-killing neglect that had trampled over both his outer beauty and the hidden worth inside him.
Of course Harry remembered Mrs. Cole’s words through all of this, this mind-numbingly escalating, freefalling disaster his foolish heart was indulging in.
Looks like an angel, acts like a devil.
Tom was sometimes shockingly calm, shockingly composed. Maybe Harry will never see it coming.
The devil was once the fairest cherub.
Even now, Harry had no idea where Tom had gone, or why, or for what purpose. Perhaps it was just a walk, some quiet rebellion meant to punish Harry, meant to earn his attention. Maybe it was a plea dressed as defiance. Whatever it was, it had left Tom grievously sick. And Harry, helpless in the face of it, had no choice but to care for him.
And whichever way Harry looked at it, the fault still landed squarely at his own chest.
He hadn’t cared enough, hadn’t seen clearly enough, hadn’t been enough. And so Tom had suffered, painfully, unnecessarily, for Harry’s emotional neglect.
No more of that, Harry promised himself.
And anyway, whatever Mrs Cole had said, whatever truth there was to it, it had been the truth of the orphanage. A place where Tom had no one. No one to care for him, to guide him, to bring structure to his life.
Now, he had Harry.
And Harry had already decided: he would bring in more of that structure, he would be that guide.
He would start in earnest once Tom recovered.
He will begin with the basics, teach him a little magic, slowly.
Give him the books on magic he had denied him, the ones he had asked for so eagerly, and Harry had withheld, fearing that learning magic now will only equip him sooner, arm him with the exact artillery with which he might overpower anyone. Overpower Harry as well. Perhaps overpower Harry first.
But now, now Harry’s heart was willing to take the risk.
Because if he didn’t take the risk, if he stayed still, unchanged and afraid, he might just ensure that the future remain unchanged as well, ensure that they hurtle to the same outcome, through a different door.
And if things went well... Harry would gift him a broom.
He could already imagine the sessions – teaching him, watching him fly, knowing full well Tom would pick it up fast. Of course he would.
And they’d fly together, twisting, freefalling through the skies.
This place was perfect for it: open skies, endless miles of wild air, nothing to stop them.
Nothing at all.
Harry dreamt of all of this in the kitchen, the bowls and the saucepan long since washed, and only he remained, unmoving, staring out the window into dark nothingness.
Harry was positively stinking. He hadn’t had a shower since morning, and he had run around in the rain, and then run around for Tom, and now he stood, with old sweat and dampness cooled and thick over him.
He let out a long exhale he had not realized he had been holding. He tried to slow down, to reign himself in, get a hold of his flighty, flighty heart.
Slowly. One step at a time.
But he would be there for him. He needed to be, in more ways than it was perhaps possible for him to be.
That was not going to change now.
~*~
When Harry stepped into his room, after being away from it the entire day since morning, to grab clean clothes and a towel for his shower, he saw it immediately.
A letter, lying on the wooden floor at the foot of his bed.
Frowning slightly, Harry stepped closer, bent down, and picked it up.
He saw the Hogwarts seal. It was a creamy white envelope, edges slightly singed, probably flooed to him, not owled, for whatever reason.
It made him faintly realize that Dippet might’ve already connected the cottage fireplaces to the Floo network. Or maybe they had always been connected, from Dippet's friend’s time.
On the envelope, in formal, elegant handwriting, was written:
From,
Professor Armando Dippet
Headmaster
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Harry tore the seal swiftly and pulled the letter out.
Dear Harry,
I hope this reaches you swiftly. I understand you and young Tom checked into St Mungo’s late last night. I say last night, for it is now past midnight, and word reached me only a short while ago. I trust everything is well now – Tom was reported to have a fever and some minor, non-magical lacerations. Easily healed, the Healers said. Still, it is always wise to keep a close watch on things when it comes to him, given the… potentialities you shared.
I would like to begin a regular correspondence with you, starting the 25th of this month. If this proves helpful, we may continue monthly, or once every three months, depending on developments. The details can be adjusted. However, I must insist upon routine communication. You understand why.
I hope you are well, and that Tom is recovering steadily. My regards until the 25th.
A.D.
Harry slowly slid the letter back into its envelope and delicately stowed it away inside his charmed bag, the same one that held all his other precious belongings.
That was fast, faster than lightning.
A hint of intimidating dread crept into his chest, but Harry brushed it away.
But perhaps Dippet merely wanted to know how things were faring. It made sense, after all, that Dippet would maintain regular communication with him.
It was good, reassuring, to know that a wise pair of eyes were watching over the two of them. Because though Harry was Tom’s guardian, he himself was only seventeen. They were both so young.
Dippet had entrusted him with a massive task that fate itself had thrust upon him, but Dippet was older, wiser, and it calmed Harry’s heart to know that the man was keeping watch from afar.
But of course, this had to be kept a secret from Tom. He could never know. It would be disastrous.
Harry gathered his clothes and towel, and walked to the doorway of his room, pausing there. He locked it with charms, more securely than ever, sealing away the explosive truths inside.
Then, quietly, tiredly, he padded down the short passage to the bathroom, the one they shared. There were no lights along the passage, only the faint orange glow from the fireplace in Tom’s room guided him, flickering through the gap in the door left slightly ajar.
Once he reached the bathroom, he flicked the bathroom light on. He stood for long moments beneath the steady batter of steaming water, tired muscles sighing with relief under the heat, eyes closed, lips parted, head tipped up against the water that struck him, his mind endlessly replaying the events of the day in vivid, fitful loops.
Once done, he softly opened the bathroom door; it let out a ribbon of steam that curled through the passage. He stepped out, towelling his hair with one hand, his skin flushed slightly from the warmth of the shower. The clean shirt clung to him in places, not yet settled against his cooling body.
His feet found their way back before his thoughts did. Down the short passage, familiar steps, back into Tom’s room.
Tom hadn’t moved. He lay still, breathing softly, caught in a shallow rhythm. His dark lashes dusted his cheeks, jaw slack with sleep, dark curls stuck to the sheen of his forehead.
Harry watched for long moments, hand tightening faintly on the towel draped around his shoulders. He stepped closer then, settling quiet as the night on the chair beside his bed. He kept watching him, his face aglow under the firelight’s dancing light, sheen of sickliness still on him, but his skin appeared calmer now, the cuts all but healed by the mediwitch without even a trace of a scar. The faint flush on his skin now calmed the worry in Harry.
Harry reached out a trembling hand. He settled it softly on his forehead, checking for temperature. Nothing; cooler than usual, even.
He let his hand linger, just a moment, heart clenching painfully. He brushed his curls, just a little, away from his forehead.
Then he drew his hand away.
Harry did not know how godawfully late in the night it was. His body was singing, tired and aching to lie down on soft mattress now after the shower.
So he padded quietly back to his own room, shut the door behind him, crawled into his bed, set the clunky alarm clock for four in the morning to check on Tom once again, and fell asleep before he knew it.
~*~
Chapter 14: Serpentine Tangle
Chapter Text
~*~
“When we’re almost near the cottage… you must slither off, d’you understand? Go quiet. He won’t see you, it’s dark anyway. There’s a toolshed… right behind the house. It’s got cracks, but not too open. You’ll be safe, better than the forest. Once in, just stay. Don’t move or come out, not till I come back for you.”
Tom’s voice had been a trembling, juddering rasp when he whispered those words to the snake tucked beneath his shirt. Wet as he was, he’d held the hem of it open from below to let the snake slide in. It had wanted that, had asked for warmth, unable to make the journey to the cottage on its own in the brutal cold and rain.
It was cold against his chest, and he was cold.
The stag had reappeared, like a mirage, a hallucination conjured by a mind slipping shut. It was so bright, so blindingly luminous, like some fragment of heaven's light. It had led him through the formidable dark of the forest, through tangled, tearing underbrush and dripping branches, until he emerged. It kept guiding him still, through the black, suspended emptiness of the moors. Like a ghost.
The snake remained curled tightly against him, unmoving, but he knew it was alive. If it hadn’t been, it would have dropped limp from his chest. Perhaps it had sunk back into that ‘deep sleep’ from which he had disturbed it, even as it remained wound there, sharing what little warmth they had left.
When they neared the cottage, the stag ahead of him – trotting forward, pausing, looking back every so often – Tom had nudged the serpent gently. He told it, quietly, to slither away while the shadows cloaked it, to slip to the back of the house and into the toolshed. To wait there, hidden, to stay, no matter what, until he returned.
He had felt glad, at least, for the loyalty of one creature, just one. That had to count for something.
And then Potter had found him at the doorstep, embarrassingly, horrifyingly weak.
And since then, everything had blurred into a fever dream, with Potter now beside him at all times, caring for him, as if the iciness between them, the barely restrained hatred Potter had worn so plainly, the attempts at civility that followed and persisted insultingly, had never existed.
For the two days that followed, Potter was tremblingly gentle, sickeningly caring.
Tom seethed and seethed endlessly. This was not what he had had in mind.
Where was Potter’s iciness? It had dissipated to the winds like mist. How, and why? Why did it vanish after he nearly died trying to exact some semblance of revenge and regain some fragment of control back?
Fucking maddening, abhorrently, disgustingly unstable Potter.
Oh how Tom hated him. Hated him.
Hated him to such extents, that as he lay on the bed – fever rising and falling just like the mediwitch had warned it would – Potter hurrying to him every so often with potions and warm food, sitting on the chair beside his bed and gazing at him with worried, darkly gentle eyes as he fussed over him, Tom wanted to send the plate of food or the mug of peppermint tea crashing from Potter’s gentle grasp.
Tom wanted to see the shock in his eyes, and the wound that would colour it.
Tom wanted to hiss and spit such utterly brutal venom, that Potter would reel from it, and when he was thus emotionally wrecked, he wished he could coil – coil around Potter tighter and tighter and tighter – until he heard him shudder and felt him writhe in unbearable agony under him.
Potter had done the unthinkable that night.
It was after Tom had eaten – by himself, this time, no more of the humiliating hand-feeding – and taken the evening dose of medicine.
Quietly, Potter picked up a book from the pile he had brought for him. He picked The Secret Garden.
Then he sat beside the bed, opened the book, and hesitated.
“I’ll read to you,” he said at last, voice tremblingly soft. “Thought it might give you some comfort. Help you sleep better. I liked this one's description at the back more than the others.”
Why did his voice tremble? Why was it tenderly soft?
There were no answers to these questions, only whipping, maddening swirl of heated darkness in his head.
The fever was burning his eyes again, irritatingly, making it impossible to read anything. So Tom let him.
Potter read, his voice low and soothing.
Tom lay there, listening in silence.
Something twisted in his heart then – something horrendously painful – as he kept watching him, kept letting his soft, low voice wash over him.
Potter’s hair was perpetually messy, as if even it held some sort of stubborn defiance that made him who he was. It was straight, but just barely, midnight black, and here and there, it stuck out rebelliously at odd angles. The shade of it stood in stark contrast to the milky paleness of his skin.
Potter was as pale as Tom himself, but his hair was black, while Tom’s was the darkest brown. He was wiry, slender, just like Tom, though his frame was smaller. At only nearly aged eleven, Tom was closely his size already. He knew he’d outgrow Potter.
The pale skin, the dark hair, the narrow frame – it made Tom think that perhaps they did look related. Maybe Potter hadn’t lied to the receptionist at St Mungo’s.
But that was where the similarities ended.
Their eyes told entirely different stories. Potter’s were a brilliant green, vibrant, and defiant just like his hair. Tom’s were grey, subdued, not expressive like Potter’s; they were restrained.
And then their faces, both marked by sharp angles, but even here, the differences showed. Potter’s face, for all its stubbornness, was delicate. There was something soft in the way his features came together. Tom’s, in contrast, held a tightened edge.
Potter looked highborn, despite his unassuming exterior – and so did Tom, despite a lifetime at orphanage. The difference, however, was that there was nothing unassuming about Tom.
Tom stared as Potter read.
Lashes lowered, brilliant eyes hidden now behind glasses and shadow. Voice still low, soothing. Tom’s eyes tracked his lips as he read.
He had the kind of mouth that always looked moments away from kindness... or refusal. Tom did not know which he hated more.
Tom was angry. Thwarted.
And he hated it, hated the uncertainty that whipped like a storm in his heart.
Fucking maddening, abhorrently unstable Potter.
Emotions were never good. He had always told himself that.
And yet, he had let himself be blinded by it in the most uncharacteristic way, hadn’t he, by the need to get even with Potter.
At the orphanage, when someone hurt him, his vengeance was cold and cruel. He was patient, even then. He could wait, if it meant getting the best revenge possible. And he did, calmly, methodically, like a crocodile beneath still water, waiting to kill.
But now…
Even when he had waited, the waiting was different. It was thick with a new form of anger – after Potter had made him burn his possessions, had made him feel so utterly powerless.
From the very first day, Potter had treated him icily, and that kind of rejection – coming from someone who looked young and fragile, someone who seemed like he was falling apart, and yet had for some reason adopted him, only to then blow hot and cold – had dug into his bones.
And now he swamped him with gentleness, with tenderness, with thorough, frantic care that smothered him.
This anger that coursed through him, Tom recognized, was not the same cold, ruthless fury he once reserved for the orphanage filth.
No, this was pained anger.
Fucking Potter. Fuck.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep it down. No matter how hard he tried to hold the floodgates shut, it poured in: wave after crashing wave of rage, rising and rising for Potter, until it drowned out everything else.
He had never been angry like this at anyone. Never like this.
This was different. As Potter sat beside him, reading a ridiculously childish book – of course Potter had picked that one – his voice low and maddeningly gentle…
It clashed so violently with every image of the cold indifference Potter had shown, it clashed with the ultimate, unforgivable act of forcing Tom to burn what little he had…
And it hurt.
Pain tore through him, sharp, deep, endless.
Pain, pain, pain.
Oh, how he wished he could coil tight around him, until he heard him choke, and felt him shudder beneath him with pain as deep as his own.
~*~
It was morning, the third day having dawned, after two days of being smothered by Potter’s care. Pale light seeped in through the misted windows, and the cottage lay in its usual quiet hush, save for the faint sound of running water behind the closed bathroom door.
Tom should have been in bed, still recovering, his fever barely broken and his limbs still weak. But he had waited for two days now, with simmering calculation, for this very moment. Because Potter never left the house since Tom had fallen ill. He was always there, always fussing. The only time he was ever out of sight now was when he took a shower.
So the moment the bathroom door shut and the water began to run, Tom moved.
Swiftly and silently, he slipped out of bed, wrapped in the thick spare jumper Potter had left draped on the chair, and padded to the back door of the cottage. He unlatched it without a sound, stepping onto the cold, browning grass that still glistened faintly with dew and last night’s rain.
The air was sharp with winter’s bite, but mercifully, it wasn’t raining now. Formidable clouds hung low and heavy, but the weather held, as if the rain had paused to let him move.
Tom crossed the yard quickly. The rickety toolshed, overgrown with moss and ivy, stood hunched at the edge of the property, leaning as though trying to hide itself behind the thicket.
He reached it, breath curling in the cold air, and leaned close to the splintered wood, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“Come out now, serpent,” he hissed, words curling low and ancient. “Now is the time.”
For a moment, there was only stillness.
Then, the faintest rustle, the sound like silk over stone.
From between the rotting panels of the shed, it emerged, its slick, black, gleaming body winding out through the cracks with eerie grace. Tom stepped back to let it through, the flick of its tongue catching the air as it coiled up beside him.
He crouched, wordlessly opened the hem of the layers of his shirt and jumper, and let it slither inside, and today, he was warm underneath.
“Slip into the corner behind the old cabinet in the storeroom,” Tom hissed. “Just by the back door… he hardly ever goes in there.”
“Yesss,” came the prompt response.
He returned the same way, swift and silent, closing the door shut behind him without a sound. The snake slithered free of him once inside, and disappeared into the dusty storeroom, exactly as he had instructed.
Tom stood watching it vanish, breath still catching, heart thrumming, not with fear, but with something fierce and fervent.
Then he climbed back into bed, pulling the blankets up just in time to hear the water stop running.
It was done.
Tom could not have very well waited around to send the snake at night to Potter’s bedroom, when Potter would be asleep – strike fear into him then, catch him off guard when he was vulnerable in his sleep. He would have waited, had he not fallen so terribly ill, to find a crack, a chance to slip the snake into Potter's bedroom somehow - through the window, through some brief lapse in Potter’s vigilance. But all chances for that had drowned with him when his body gave in.
Not that it would have worked anyway. Potter locked his damned door constantly now after his whole tailspin, after Tom had rifled through his precious belongings, not even to steal, but only to ensure he was safe in this house. His whole tailspin that involved iciness, talk about boundaries, and a harsh punishment – forcing Tom to burn the possessions that reiterated his worth to him.
To hell with staying put after suffering through that. To hell with Potter’s abhorrent violation of his self-worth and his infliction of pain upon his soul.
Oh, how Tom would have loved to send the snake in, hissing and rearing, to see Potter jolted awake, shaken with terror, disoriented and exposed. That would have been exquisite. But no, if he were to succeed, he would have to send the snake slithering when Potter was moving about the cottage, anywhere but his precious, locked bedroom.
~*~
Harry was at the stove, ladling a splash of broth over the simmering vegetables. The kettle was already on for tea – chamomile this time – something he thought Tom might tolerate.
It was a quiet afternoon.
He had napped briefly after ensuring Tom had eaten breakfast and taken his dose of potions. It felt like a small victory – Tom had eaten well, he had been resting well. Harry finally allowed himself to breathe. Things were stabilizing.
Perhaps the worst was behind them.
The thought had barely formed when he heard it – a sharp hiss, like air released from a valve, far too close to be part of his imagination.
Harry turned.
And saw it.
A black snake – not small, certainly not small – thick-bodied, sleek, its scales glistening like oil in the soft kitchen light. It had appeared without a sound, as if summoned from the shadows themselves, and now it was at his feet, tongue flicking, body coiled tight in a striking position.
For a few suspended seconds, Harry simply stared.
Not out of fear. No, not that.
But out of pure, confused disbelief.
The snake reared, hissing again, loud and violent now, baring fangs that gleamed like wet bone. It lunged forward – not fully, but with enough force to make Harry take a step back, one hand flying to the countertop for support, the other instinctively reaching for his wand.
Another lunge. Another vicious hiss.
Harry raised his wand halfway but didn’t cast. He didn't have to. Something about the snake’s movements – too precise, too measured – wasn’t quite right.
And suddenly, as if pieces locked into place in his mind, it clicked.
The day of Tom’s disappearance.
That day – before the fever, before the mediwitch, before the soft, confusing tenderness of the last two days – that entire day when Tom had been gone from morning till night, soaked to the bone when he finally returned, cold and convulsing, yet too proud to surrender fully to care. The day Harry had assumed he had just run off just to punish Harry for his emotional negligence.
But now, Harry understood.
The vast woods beyond the moors, visible like a dark spectre along the horizon. The ones that were miles upon miles away.
Tom had gone there to find a snake.
Not to keep, not to talk to, but to use.
And here it was, coiled and glistening on his kitchen floor, fangs bared, trying to strike.
Another lunge.
Harry didn't flinch this time. He didn’t even lift his wand. His mind had quieted into a strange stillness, watching, waiting.
And then, slowly, he noticed something.
For all its violent posturing, the snake wasn’t touching him. Not even once.
Every strike stopped just short. The fangs bared, yes, terrifyingly so, but they never landed. Its body was coiled with enough tension to snap a ribcage in half, but it didn’t move closer than necessary. It hissed like it wanted to kill him… but it didn’t.
It wasn’t attacking.
It was pretending to.
And Harry felt it then – that unmistakable shiver of realization sliding down his spine. A decision had been made, somewhere, and it hadn't been the snake’s.
It was Tom’s.
Tom had given it instructions, had sent it, knowing exactly how it would behave. Every movement was part of a script, hissed in parseltongue.
And suddenly, Harry didn’t feel fear.
He felt… conflicted.
Because what did this mean? That Tom hadn’t meant harm? That somewhere, beneath his anger, he still cared if Harry lived?
Or had he simply calculated that Harry was useful – his only tether to food, to shelter, to survival in a world that would eat him alive?
Was this cruel prank just another echo of what he used to do at the orphanage – calculated acts of terror on weaker prey, except now modified for his current reality? Modified for Harry?
But Harry wasn't a child from the orphanage.
He wasn’t easily rattled. He’d fought a brutal war, killed, watched people he loved die. He had known terror intimately – too intimately – and had been reshaped by it. A snake in his kitchen didn’t even scrape the surface.
Especially not a snake that spoke a language he used to speak too, once.
Because Tom’s soul had once lived in him.
You and I are not so different, Harry thought bitterly, staring down at the creature still swaying in place, forked tongue tasting the air between them.
Harry stood for a moment, chest rising and falling, trying to breathe, trying to understand.
He tried to understand the boy who had vanished into a brutal storm to find a creature who could strike fear into the heart of anyone, and used it to perform a pantomime of violence.
It was a message, yes. A warning, maybe.
But more than anything, Harry realized, it was a cry for power. For control, but also, for attention.
Harry didn’t know how to feel about that. Didn’t know whether to feel angry, sympathetic, or just sad. Because he had been part of the problem, hadn’t he? The catalyst that had pushed Tom into this spiral.
Tom hadn’t sent the snake to kill him.
Maybe, Harry thought, it was the closest Tom could get to talking.
And in Harry’s heart bloomed a creeping, painful recognition of just how terrifyingly lonely that was.
The snake was still coiled tight, head raised, fangs out.
Harry let out a soft breath. He spoke in plain English to the loyal, lovely creature. “I know you may not understand a word I’m saying, but I used to speak your language once too... I’m not afraid of you. You’re not here to harm me, are you?”
He crouched down slowly, careful not to startle the creature, even as it coiled, backed up slightly, and reared with a violent hiss again.
“I’ll have to stun you,” he said softly. “It won’t hurt. But I have to — because if I try to hold you, you might definitely strike me then, and I don’t know how long it’ll take me to recover. I’ll stun you… you’ll still be aware of everything. I’ll be taking you to Tom.”
Harry withdrew his wand gently. “Petrificus totalus,” he whispered.
The snake turned immobile as a statue, mid coil, fangs still bared. Harry gently, with great care, picked up the creature in his arms, and began walking up the stairs to Tom’s room, heart thudding painfully with emotions that were strewn all over the place.
He knocked at the door, softly, not wanting to startle or scare Tom.
Harry heard a faint rustle, and a moment later, the door opened, and Tom stood there, expression blank. He had grown thinner slightly, after the illness.
“Tom,” said Harry softly.
Tom’s expression remained unchanged, stoic.
“D’you recognize this snake?” Harry asked, gentle, only ever gentle now.
Tom narrowed his eyes slightly, and a faint sardonic smile lifted an edge of his lips. “Why would I recognize it? It’s not like I keep a directory of every snake in the country.”
Harry gave him a long, quiet look.
“I’m sure you know it,” said Harry. “There’s no other way it would’ve ended up inside this house.”
Tom’s expression didn’t flicker, and pat came his retort. “Maybe it wandered in. What would I know? Maybe the house isn't as safe as you think it is.”
“You had told me – that day," said Harry gently, "the day we first met, at the orphanage – that you can talk to snakes.”
Tom’s jaw twitched. “And? Just because I can doesn’t mean I summoned one into the house, does it?”
“That’s where you were that day,” Harry continued quietly. “When you were gone the entire day, out in the storm. You went into the woods… to find a snake, to scare me.”
Tom tilted his head then, slightly. There was a glint in his eyes, a hint of a warning, of danger, like a blade catching light.
“You think you have me all figured out,” said Tom, slow and quiet.
Harry didn’t step back. Instead, he took a slow step forward.
But it wasn’t intimidation, nor threat, just closeness, gentle and instinctive – as if his body was reaching for the boy he wanted to understand.
Tom didn’t move. He didn’t retreat, nor lash out. But he went very still, stiffened like drawn wire. His face stayed composed, perfectly neutral, yet something in the air between them crackled, thick with things unspoken.
Harry, who had not slept well in days, who had already lost too many people to cruelty and fate, looked at the boy who had once become something terrible, and now, only saw a fragile child masquerading as a fortress.
Harry said, quietly, “Nothing poisonous can enter this house, unless brought in willingly.”
Tom narrowed his eyes.
“I warded it,” Harry went on. “Because we’re in the middle of nowhere. If I hadn’t, we’d have had everything from venomous spiders to snakes slithering through the floorboards by now. The wards stop anything poisonous from entering in by itself.”
Tom’s lips parted slightly. The flicker of realization was small, but real.
Then he schooled his features into blankness once more and gave a small, cold smile.
“Yes,” he said. “I got the snake. Thought I’d at least have someone who understands me, then.”
Harry’s breath faltered.
The words hit like a blow. He stared at Tom, something twisting painfully through him, sharp and aching.
“I’m sorry,” Harry said. His voice broke as the words fell. “I’m sorry. For not understanding you. For not even trying to understand you. Not sooner.”
The words hung between them – strange, soft, terrible.
Tom said nothing.
His body remained frozen beneath Harry’s expressive eyes, every muscle locked tight.
Harry lowered his voice further.
“But now that you’ve got someone who understands you, why not care for it?”
Tom’s carefully schooled expression suddenly faltered, not dramatically, but in something that was akin to silent dread. Quiet, private dread.
“Listen,” Harry said, lifting slightly the snake that he held gingerly in his arms, “we can’t let it back out now. You may have disturbed its hibernation. And in this cold, sending it back into the woods might kill it.”
Tom’s eyes flicked down to the snake – still petrified in Harry’s arms – then back up. His jaw was clenched, his eyes still faintly wide. There was something deeply unsettled in his gaze, or conflicted. But his lips remained pressed shut.
“So better we keep it inside,” Harry continued, “where it’ll be warm and safe. You can keep it, Tom. As a pet. If you want.”
The silence that followed was strange. It was neither heavy not tense. Just… off. Tilted, as if reality had shifted a few degrees out of line.
Tom looked at the snake again, then back at Harry. His gaze was unreadable now.
At long last, after what seemed like a long internal war fought behind his eyes, Tom gave a single, stiff nod. Like it cost him something.
Harry interpreted the quiet fury and resistance as confusion at being faced with something unknown and unfamiliar.
And he promised himself, and Tom, silently, in his heart, that he would be there at every step, guiding him through it.
~*~
Chapter 15: To Be Loved First
Chapter Text
The snake lay gathered in an immobile tangle in Potter’s arms, held carefully like a breakable, lifelike sculpture.
“I’ll end the spell now. When it’s awake, tell it to be nice,” said Potter, and gave a small, fragile smile, as though he truly believed Tom was warming up to the idea of it all, “Tell it to find a spot that it prefers and to rest there. And also, that we will be feeding it, so it needn’t worry.”
The words were soft, gentle. But they landed on Tom’s skin like cold water.
Tom did not respond at first. The pause stretched. Then, stiffly, he nodded, the barest, smallest nod.
Potter smiled faintly, with an unknown pain, an unknown depth in his eyes. He adjusted the snake carefully to one arm, and, with the other, reached slowly into his pocket. His movements were cautious, mindful not to disturb the balance of the creature resting against him. Once he drew his wand, he gave a small flick.
The spell ended.
The snake twitched once. Its tongue slipped out, testing the air, before it slowly began to move, sluggish from its time under magical suspension. It blinked once, and slid off Potter’s forearm with a low hiss of irritation.
Tom hissed softly then, voice low and fluid, the language sliding off his tongue like oil,“Be quiet. Be tame. Stay out of sight. Rest where you want. You may stay here, for now.”
The snake blinked again, tongue flicking thoughtfully, then made a slow, deliberate turn. It slithered toward Tom, scales whispering against the floor, and coiled up beside his leg, nestling there with disarming ease, like it belonged there.
Tom didn’t move. His jaw clenched. He stared at Potter, impassive.
“Rest now, Tom,” said Potter. “You need it. I’ll make lunch; had to abandon it midway when this one showed up out of nowhere,” his eyes travelled to the snake, then back at Tom. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Potter smiled. The tenderness in it struck a deep terror in Tom, for a brief, breathless moment.
Then Potter turned and made his way down the stairs to the kitchen, footsteps slow, careful, fading.
Tom remained at the threshold of his room, unmoving. For a few long seconds he just stood there, his mind churning in the stillness, the snake nestled at his feet, quiet and unwelcome.
He had agreed to Potter’s sudden little decision.
But he hadn’t wanted to, not for a second.
He had wanted to curl his lips in distaste, in mockery, and spit at Potter to shove it.
He wasn’t going to raise this bloody thing. To hell with that. What was Potter thinking?
He didn’t want to raise anything. He wasn’t some caretaker, some animal-tending boy who would coo and croon over a creature.
Tom had restrained himself hard, to not lash out violently at Potter, tell him he can take care of it himself, and leave Tom out of the plans he made on a whim.
The only reason Tom had said yes was because to say no would’ve been infinitely worse.
He could already hear Potter's voice if he'd refused: “So you didn’t actually care about it, did you? You just brought it here to use it. You planned to scare me, and now that it’s useless, you’d throw it back into the cold.”
No. No, he couldn’t have that. Couldn’t have Potter looking at him like that.
He had seen what Potter’s face did, just briefly, when he’d said the words earlier:
“Yes. I got the snake. Thought I’d at least have someone who understands me, then.”
That look in Potter’s eyes – soft, pained, worried – had proven it. A good line, a very good line, one he hadn’t even planned, but it had come to him in the moment, instinctive and exact, because that was how he was, sharp enough to respond precisely, quick as lightning when needed.
And it wasn’t even a lie. It didn’t have to be, for it to be effective.
Tom could tell the truth and make it sound like a lie, and he could lie and make it sound like the rawest truth. It didn’t matter which one it was, what mattered was what it bought him – sympathy, distraction, leverage, space.
And right now, he needed Potter’s trust.
Because if Potter didn’t trust him, he would start watching him, really watching him, and Tom had no interest in being under scrutiny, no interest in being caught the next time he planned something, no interest in being anticipated.
Because he yearned to tighten around him when he got the chance for it; he had plans, none concrete, all hazy, shrouded in pain, in heat, in urge, in savagery. The need was filling his insides with growing intensity – the need to see Potter pained, aching, sobbing, shuddering, writhing. He did not yet know when, or how. All he knew was that he would make it happen.
That part was certain.
And when it came, he wanted Potter unprepared. If Potter braced for it, the pain wouldn’t be sharp enough.
Tom would play along.
The snake lay beside him, quiet and obedient, a living reminder of a failed plan.
~*~
The next days were painful.
Tom realized that while he could play the game well, when the door closed, and he’d lie in darkness, trying to sleep, he could no longer hide from the pain.
Tom watched it unfold – how Potter had no qualms loving a venomous adder the moment he laid eyes on it; how he wanted to care for it and protect it without hesitation.
Yet from the moment Potter had first laid eyes on him, and through all the days that followed, he had only ever looked at Tom like he was a pain, a wound, something to be tolerated.
Tom’s course of potions ended after five days of bedrest, just as instructed. Physically, he had recovered. He ate better now.
But in place of the bodily torment came a sharper torment, an intense pain that tore through his heart, relentless and raw.
The snake, once a source of power, of kinship, his only ally back in that filth-ridden orphanage, had now become a source of exquisite agony.
Potter was still tender with him, and that tenderness continued to strike deep terror into Tom’s heart. Twisting into that same agony was the knowledge that Potter had so easily given his love to a snake, a snake, and not to him.
And the most terrifying of all was the fear that Potter’s gentleness might damage him irrevocably.
The tenderness when Potter called him for breakfast. The soft smile he offered when Tom slipped into his chair. The easy way he poured his tea, sometimes coffee, and murmured, just rest, Tom, don’t help me with cooking until you feel better.
The quiet care and the kindness.
Potter told him to sit wherever he liked, or told him to curl up on the armchair in the sitting room, the one from where he knew Tom watched him move about in the kitchen.
Tom wanted to sink his teeth into this tenderness, tear into it and rip it apart. The more he considered his urge to tighten around Potter, to feel him shudder, the more was the pain that twisted through him every time Potter was kind.
The snake wanted to sleep in Tom’s room and be near him. Tom hissed at it to stay in the storeroom, where it had first rested.
He did not want that thing in his room.
When Potter asked, Doesn’t it want to be in your room?, Tom lied and said that no, the snake felt better in the storeroom.
Potter had gotten used to entering his bedroom now.
He would step in quietly, offer him a smile, sit beside him and ask him how he felt. He would ask what he and the snake had spoken of that day. He would pick up The Secret Garden and read to him, voice low and warm and unbearably tender.
Tom would lie there, not drowsy at all, but pretending to be, heart thundering violently against his ribs, waiting for and dreading the moment Potter would finally get up and leave.
Because then began a brutal battle with sleeplessness. He would twist and turn on the mattress, the sheets tangling with him, heart thudding viciously and painfully, and nothing in his head except a confusing, frightening static that rose to answer the ceaseless questions reeling through his mind –
Why didn’t he stop Potter from entering his room tonight? Why did he lie there, taking in his voice and the sight of him, instead of hissing at him to leave? Why didn’t he tell Potter that his presence and his attempts to soothe him to sleep had the exact opposite effect on him?
The pain was so immense, so constant, it was like a second heartbeat, thrashing and churning in him with no end, no respite.
So complete was the agony, Tom would forget to snap at him, forget to say he wasn’t a child, that he didn’t need to be read to, that he didn’t need to be tended to anymore, he had recovered. He would forget to ask why Potter asked him what the snake had said, why he didn’t just ask the snake himself when he cared for it so lovingly.
The pain was unceasing. It lived in every breath, every hour, as he woke, as he ate, as he slept, as he dreamt, under Potter’s gaze, under Potter’s voice, under his careful hands that looked after both Tom and the serpent with equal steadfastness.
And after all that had passed, Potter didn’t return to his old iciness.
Tom had known, somewhere deep inside, that this would happen.
Yet the violence of the pain in his chest still stunned him.
~*~
The fire crackled low, breathing golden shadows along the wooden floors of the sitting room. The snake, black and glossy like wet ink, lay coiled at Tom’s feet, its head resting neatly on one loop of its body.
Tom’s eyes were immersed in Psychology of the Unconscious, having picked it back up the moment he’d recovered. The dictionary was pressed against the armchair’s cushion, handily within reach, so he could flip to it each time he stumbled over an unfamiliar word. He had now reached the tail end of the long-winded introduction, which now explained how Jung diverged from Freud’s theories on childhood sexuality.
Though his eyes stayed fixed on the words, his mind was half-anchored elsewhere, wishing, in the part within him that simmered, that he could snarl at the snake and drive it away. But Potter was in the room when it had slithered to him and curled up on his feet like some common mutt, and Tom had kept his mouth shut.
The evening wore on, warm and safe within the cottage.
Potter, from the kitchen doorway, spoke casually, “Tom, can you ask the snake something for me?”
Tom glanced up, wary.
“Ask if it’s a girl or a boy,” Potter said, sipping from a steaming mug, his tone light, almost amused.
Tom’s eyes flicked down. The snake, slow to stir, uncoiled its head slightly and looked at him. “Are you female?” Tom hissed.
The snake blinked, and said, “Yesss.”
Tom relayed this with a faint shrug, “She’s female.”
Potter gave a soft laugh. “Right then. Hello, lady snake.”
Tom narrowed his eyes slightly. “Why can’t you ask her yourself?”
Potter’s smile faded slightly; still there, but faint. “Some wizards can talk to snakes, some can’t. It’s just how it is, Tom. You can. I can’t.”
Tom didn’t press. He didn’t care about who could or couldn’t talk to snakes. What he cared about, what twisted up the acid bitterness inside him, was the way Potter was looking at the snake.
Gentle and affectionate, a crooked smile on his face like he had just found something precious.
Potter walked closer to Tom, an amused, affectionate smile playing on his lips, eyes trained on the snake at his feet. Tom tensed at the advancing proximity, Potter stood too close now, and then he was crouching down to get closer to the snake at his feet. Tom tensed further, breath stuck in his chest.
“She’s curled like a little liquorice wheel,” Potter said. “I’m naming her that. Liquorice.”
Despite himself, Tom scoffed, letting out a light, sharp exhale with a quirk of his lips before he could stop it. “Stupid name,” he muttered.
Potter either didn’t hear, or he chose to ignore it, because the next moment, he stood, retreated to the kitchen, and then brought in a crate. He had lined it with some thin old shirts and knitted woollens. He placed it carefully in the sitting room, a few feet from the fireplace. “It’ll be warm here, but not too warm,” he murmured.
Then he said, “Ask her if she’s hungry?”
Tom’s jaw tightened, but he hissed the question at the snake.
“No. Only hungry in a fortnight. Thank you,” it responded.
Tom repeated it aloud, flatly.
“Only in a fortnight?” Potter grinned. “That’s a relief, we won’t be on daily hunt for dead rats, then.”
He stepped closer once again toward Tom, too close, and Tom realized with an inexplicable sense of agitated anger that it was only for the snake, hands out to gently lift her.
The snake hissed sharply, violently, coiling away as if approached with burning pincers. Potter blinked, startled, then laughed.
“She’s loyal only to you,” he said, eyes dancing, looking not at the snake, but at Tom now. There now, it unfurled within Tom, a low and giddy sense of satisfaction. Before it could take root, Potter said, “Could you put her in the crate for me?”
Just like that, the giddiness withered.
Tom obeyed, grudgingly. The snake slithered up onto his arms without protest, her smooth body sliding across his hand, his forearm. He walked over with her to the crate, and placed her in. She settled, curling into the fabric.
All the while, Tom simmered.
Potter moved away, settling on the couch with a book.
Then he looked up again, eyes almost nervous and uncertainly hopeful. “Oh, earlier today, when I went out, I didn’t just go to buy supplies for the house. I went to Hogsmeade. It’s the nearest magical town, not far from here.”
He was up then, and already halfway to the stairs.
“There’s a bookshop there, Tomes and Scrolls, and I picked up something for you.”
Tom’s brows pulled together, faintly confused.
“Just a moment, I’ll be right back,” Potter added, oddly breathless, and hurried upstairs.
He returned moments later, carrying a small paper parcel and a larger cloth bag that was bursting at the seams. He settled the bag carefully on the rug at Tom’s feet.
“I may have gotten you a little more than just a book,” Potter admitted, sheepish.
He unwrapped the parcel first. “This is the book. It’s a beginner’s guide, basic stuff… starter spells, simple magic. It’s nothing too heavy.”
He tilted the cover for Tom to see. A Beginner’s Guide to Everyday Magic, by Agatha Bletchley. It was hardbound, a deep navy cover that was littered with little twinkling gold stars. An owl wearing spectacles blinked up from the cover.
Tom stared. It was… beautiful. The letters were embossed, the edges shimmering like something from a dream. Tom didn’t move; he couldn’t.
Potter knelt slowly, unpacking the cloth bag now, and went on, almost nervously, “Also picked up a few sweets, and some clothes, warm jumpers, and a pair of boots that looked about your size. Oh, and mittens. Sorry, they’re kind of ugly,” he added with a laugh, “but they’re warm.”
He laid each item out, slowly and with care, as if arranging something fragile.
Tom’s mouth had gone dry.
Christmas was still a month and a half away. His birthday, even further. No one had ever given him anything, not ever.
And here was Potter, talking softly, laying out soft things, sweet-smelling things, magical, bookish, warm things.
The offerings were spread out at his feet.
The words slipped out of Tom, low and soft, “Thank you.”
Potter looked at him. Something unbearably warm lit his features. It should’ve felt safe, but it didn’t.
All Tom felt was fear, that same terrible, gut-deep, dizzying terror.
Potter, still kneeling at eye-level, as if he’d picked the thought straight from Tom’s head, nodded gently. “Go on,” he said, voice low. “You can open them. Try things on. Or read the book. They’re yours, Tom.”
Tom’s fingers betrayed him. They shook slightly as they reached forward and touched the book. He picked it up like it might shatter, drawing it into his lap.
He opened the cover.
The inside was charming, with childish drawings and silly letters, but the words were real and magical. His eyes devoured them greedily.
The back of his throat burned.
From the side, he saw Potter tilt his head slightly, trying to catch his gaze. Tom peeled his eyes away from the book and looked at him.
“Do you like them?” Potter asked softly.
Tom nodded, small.
“Good.”
Then Potter did something unthinkable. He reached out, hesitated, and then lightly, gently, ruffled Tom’s hair.
The touch lasted barely a second, but it hit Tom like lightning. No one had ever touched him like that. It wasn’t a shove, or a punch to the nose.
By the time Tom could react, the hand was gone.
Potter was already walking away casually, like nothing had happened. He dropped back onto the couch, flicked his glasses up, ran a hand through his messy hair absently, looked at Tom again, and smiled faintly.
Tom looked away sharply. His heart was beating far too fast.
Potter sipped from his mug, then said, like it was nothing, “Don’t let yours go cold, Tom. It’s there, on the side table.”
Tom glanced at it – a mug, still steaming faintly.
He hadn’t even noticed Potter setting it there.
He looked at Potter again.
He didn’t understand him, or anything that was happening, or anything that churned wildly inside him, but something in him desperately wanted to.
~*~
The next morning, they were in the sitting room, sated after breakfast. Potter, sitting back on the couch, was reading the silly gardening book he had borrowed for himself from the London library, while Tom, though still hungry to continue Psychology of the Unconscious, was too excited about the magical spellbook Potter had given him yesterday to resist it.
The two books couldn’t have been more different. The complex psychology text suited his tastes perfectly, while this one, with its bright colours and childlike letters, was far too juvenile for his liking. But he wanted to devour it immediately, for it belonged to the magical world; it contained knowledge of magic, knowledge that he couldn’t wait to grasp.
The snake was in her crate with them, nestled in the corner of the sitting room. Potter had said they should keep her nearby whenever they sat together, so she could feel included too. Potter had asked Tom to carry her crate in, because when Potter had tried, she had hissed violently at him. Tom, grinding his teeth and swallowing the snarl he wanted to throw at Potter that he did not wish to do it, obeyed instead, and did as he was told.
Now, they sat, each absorbed in their books.
Tom was pulled back from the pages when Potter said, “Tom, would you like to try a simple spell?”
Tom looked up at him, the book momentarily forgotten.
A giddy excitement surged in his chest.
“Yes,” he said, before he could stop it or form a single thought in his head.
Potter smiled then, almost knowingly, as though he could feel the eagerness coursing through Tom.
“Come on then,” said Potter, rising from the couch, setting his book aside, adjusting his glasses, and he walked to the centre of the room.
Tom set his own book down as well, rose, and followed, heart leaping.
Potter hesitated for the briefest moment, then reached into his pocket and carefully drew out his wand.
He looked at Tom for a moment, something strange and deeply pensive in his eyes, then slowly extended the wand to him.
“Here,” Potter said softly. “Take my wand. You can practice with it for now.”
Though Potter had told him very little about the wizarding world so far, somehow, Tom felt, from the way Potter offered his wand to him, that it was intimate. He tried to shake off the feeling, but it lingered, stubborn and strange. There was something about it that tugged at him. A memory not quite his own.
To his mind then was summoned unbidden the image of the stag, not the ghostly silver one that had led him to the cottage, but a real one, vivid in the eye of his mind. It stood close, staring at him, its gaze gentle and giving, too giving for its own good, despite its quiet nobility, its pride, its solitariness. Despite the fatal wound somewhere beneath its fur that it would eventually succumb to.
Tom reached slowly for the wand, fingers grasping around its handle.
The moment he touched it, something surged inside him, a deep, living power, racing through his veins. A feeling of rightness, of belongingness, clicked in, like the world around him locking into place.
He inhaled sharply, lips parting involuntarily.
“How does it feel?” asked Potter, his gaze fixed on him with that strange melancholy, something magnetic in his quiet voice, something that pulled at Tom like a spell. “Does it feel right?”
“Yes,” Tom whispered, the word falling unbidden, his eyes intent on Potter.
Potter gazed back, dazed. Their eyes locked in that suspended moment, caught between a fissure of something beginning and something long lost.
The moment passed. Potter looked away, breaking their gaze. He cleared his throat and said, gently, “Let’s try something simple. We’ll start with Lumos. It’s a spell to cast light from your wand.”
Tom gave a single nod, the words anchoring him.
Potter continued, calm and encouraging. “The incantation is Lumos. Give the wand a flick, like so,” he demonstrated the motion in the air with his empty hand “and say the word. Simple as that.”
Tom lifted the wand, uttered the spell as he moved the wand, mimicking the motion that Potter demonstrated.
Absolutely nothing.
Tom lowered the wand, eyes flicking toward Potter. He couldn’t understand why his razor-sharp focus had vapourised into thin air, why the air still felt heavy around them. He couldn’t pull his mind away from the wistfulness in Potter’s eyes, the lingering weight of their gaze, the image of the stag still burning into his mind’s eye, its impossible gentleness.
He couldn’t pull his mind away from the raw power that had surged through him the moment he had grasped Potter’s wand, as if something had locked into place, permanent and irrevocable.
Then Potter did something unthinkable again.
He stepped closer, and he reached out. His fingers found Tom’s hand, the one gripping the wand; he didn’t grab, didn’t force, he just guided with a light grasp. He adjusted Tom’s hold and, the proximity now far too close, he murmured, “Try moving your hand this way, Tom. Just feel the spell, don’t force it. Let it come to you.”
His voice was low, soft, close.
The words grazed his ear, fire erupting in its wake. Tom’s skin flared, his jaw clenched tightly, his chest tightened with a drumbeat he couldn’t control.
Then Potter stepped back, oblivious.
Tom was reeling. It felt like fear, but giddiness, too. A heady sort of disorientation, like plummeting off a cliff. He raised the wand again.
“Lumos,” he said.
Nothing.
He grit his teeth. He breathed faster, trying to ground himself.
Rage flickered in him, hot and sharp. It cleared everything, cut through the fog like a blade.
Tom narrowed his eyes. His voice dropped low.
“Lumos.”
A bright white light flared to life at the tip of the wand.
“There you go,” Potter said, the smile that played on his lips genuine. Tom saw something else too – a gentle, soft sort of pride.
The agonizing fear and giddiness returned, knocking the wind from his chest.
Tom was barely registering it when the snake hissed from her crate in the corner. It was a sharp, tetchy sound.
Tom froze. His expression, as always, was blank. Potter wouldn’t be able to guess that inside, a wave of fury had just split through him like a crack of lightning. No, Potter would think he was calm and serene.
But he wasn’t. He was splintering. At being rudely disrupted by her when he was steeped in something surreal.
Tom turned his head toward her. “What now?”
The snake hissed back, unhurried and unconcerned. “Too warm.”
Tom closed his eyes for a second. He wanted, desperately, to ignore her. He wanted to turn back to Potter, to the wand, to the magic, to the giddy tension that had just started to wrap around his spine.
But she hissed again.
Potter turned to him, brows furrowed with concern. “Is something wrong?”
Tom inhaled tightly through his nose. Reluctantly, like it wounded him to speak the words aloud, he said, “She says… she’s too warm.”
Potter frowned thoughtfully, glancing at the crate. “Let’s move her back to the storeroom, then. Could you ask her if she’s okay with that?”
Heated infuriation rose in him, and he clawed it back painstakingly.
Was he their translator now?
He was going to combust; he could feel it. Something dangerous was bubbling up in him now, spreading through his bones like poison.
Still, he turned stiffly, and hissed, “Will you be fine in the storeroom?”
“No. Your room.”
Tom’s jaw tightened. His nostrils flared. His next hiss was sharp and final, “Absolutely not.”
The snake, dismayed, relented. “Ssstoreroom, then.”
“She says she will be fine in the storeroom,” relayed Tom tonelessly.
Potter walked up to her crate, and crouched to lift it. The snake lashed out, hissing violently, her body tensing as if to strike.
Potter stepped back, reflexes quick.
Tom ground his teeth.
Of course.
He stalked forward, and picked up the crate. His arms burned with the restraint of not throwing it straight across the room.
Potter opened the door to the hallway, and they made their way to the storeroom in silence. Tom placed the crate down inside, and the snake coiled up peacefully, content now, as if she hadn’t just driven him to the edge of volcanic eruption.
Tom stared down at her.
Something in him felt unsteady, unmoored.
He was still burning with the feeling of Potter’s voice in his ear. His body still remembered the too-light touch.
And the snake was just there, coiled, serene, utterly unaware of how close everything was to snapping.
Something dangerous was rising in him now, something catastrophically dangerous. And he knew, he knew, that the outcome of it was inexorably terrible.
~*~
After dinner, Tom lay on his bed, the hard tome of Psychology of the Unconscious resting on his chest, fingers gripping so it wouldn’t fall under its weight. He had only just begun the first chapter, the words convoluted and promising, when a soft knock came at the door.
His heart stuttered.
The now-familiar rush surged through him – intense fear, pain, giddiness.
He took a steadying breath and called out, “Yes.”
The door creaked open, and Potter stepped in, smiling lightly.
Potter crossed the room and sat down on the chair beside Tom’s bed. The chair never returned to the corner where it originally belonged before Tom had been sick.
“How’re you feeling?” Potter asked, tone low and warm.
Tom gave a small nod. “Better.”
Potter smiled again. “That’s good.”
There was a pause. Then he said, “Did you try on the jumpers yet? And the boots?”
Tom nodded again. “Yes. They were perfect.”
Potter looked pleased. They stared at each other for a moment. The silence between them felt like the static right before thunder rent a dark sky.
Tom’s face remained still, but his heart clenched, his breath had stilled in his throat.
Potter broke the moment with a casual, offhand apology.
“Sorry, by the way,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck a little awkwardly. “About locking my room. I just… I have some important things in there. Magical artefacts. They matter a lot to me. I’ll tell you about them one day, I promise. But until then, I need to keep them safe. It’s for both our sakes. You understand, right?”
The stillness in Tom’s head was only momentary; his face remained the picture of calm, polite understanding. Tom gave a light, easy smile, then. “I understand,” he said.
~*~
The next two days, Tom was nothing short of perfect.
He offered to help in the kitchen again, quietly saying, “I’ve recovered fully now. I can help.”
Potter smiled, and said, “That’d be lovely, Tom.”
Tom helped, quietly, calmly. His eyes didn’t give anything away.
He helped with everything he could – washing, stirring the pots, watching over bubbling broths. Every gesture was thorough and thoughtful. His voice stayed soft, obedient, agreeable.
But in his head, a cruel design formed, slowly.
It was not something clever, not something grand, just… something bad. Something deserved.
He had had enough.
Enough of having to nearly encounter death to earn softness. Enough of being beneath a snake, who had received Potter’s love in a flash, without having to prove a thing. Enough of stumbling through hindrances for a hard-won flow of care and concern, only to have to share it, now, with a snake.
The snake had hissed and had almost struck Potter, yet, was instantly forgiven. She was gently relocated and spoken to as though she mattered.
And Tom knew, the snake would be the one to suffer for all the unbearable things he couldn’t name. For the way Potter’s hand had brushed his, and made his chest hurt. For the way Potter had smiled when Tom wore the jumper he bought him. For the way Potter had said, You understand, right?, like Tom’s understanding was a given, like it cost nothing.
And still, he smiled at Potter.
He stirred the stew, he tasted the broth and said it needed more salt, he handed Potter a knife, and when their hands touched, looked into Potter’s eyes and said, “Should I set the table?”
He didn’t know what he was feeling.
He just knew it hurt; whether for his damnation or his salvation, he knew not.
~*~
Chapter 16: Bloodletting
Chapter Text
~*~
It turned ever colder as the days swept by in gale and gloom.
It was November 22nd, 1937.
It was on October 27th that Potter had adopted him.
Almost a month now, under the care of his guardian. His youthful, elusive, enigmatic guardian. A guardian whose reasons for adopting him remained as much a mystery now as they had been that first day. Yet, as the days passed, the suspicions of some ulterior motive had slowly morphed into another possibility, one just as distant, but strangely more comforting. That perhaps Potter had adopted him to atone for something.
Because Potter ached. Tom could feel it. His smiles were tender, but there was a certain heartache that clung to them.
Because whenever Potter’s hands had touched him, when his arms had wrapped around him that night as he shielded Tom from the bitter cold on their way to St Mungo’s, his touch had trembled, and his grip had shaken almost as violently as Tom had convulsed from the cold.
Because when Potter had reached out – hesitant, unsure – and lightly ruffled his hair, after giving him those lovely things, sweet-smelling and comforting things, his fingers had trembled then too.
Maybe they were cousins, or even brothers. Perhaps their parents had died tragically, and the two of them were separated for painful reasons. Maybe now Potter had sought him out, and simply did not know how to bring him back into his life, so he had done it slowly, tremulously, cold at first, and then, thawed gradually into tenderness.
Why? It still did not explain why that unmistakable hatred had dripped from Potter so viscerally at first.
Maybe Tom was the reason Potter’s parents had died, the couple Tom had seen in those moving, magical photographs, embracing and laughing, vivid in full colour, unlike the drab black-and-white of non-magical pictures.
Maybe Tom was an illegitimate child, born to Potter’s father, or mother, or a close friend, and something terrible had happened, something that had led to the deaths of everyone involved.
Or maybe one of Potter’s parents had died long ago, and the other only recently, and Potter had taken him in to fulfil a last wish. Adopt Tom. Raise him. Even if he caused us grief.
He did not know. But what he did believe, through reason, logic, and the clarity of his intellect, was that it must be a shared, tragic family history. That would explain Potter’s coldness in the beginning, and the tenderness that came after.
Yet, for all his theories and reasoning, it felt like drawing lines on water. Nothing stuck. He was still presuming things in the dark.
And somehow, he knew, that even if he were to learn the truth, it would not ease the throbbing pain that smarted inside him and refused to subside. Potter had said that he kept his bedroom door shut because it contained magical artefacts that were too important to risk damage. Tom had a hunch that the truth of their situation was bound up with those artefacts.
It was a quiet morning.
They spent it together, as they had every morning since Potter had adopted him, save for the day Tom had crept out to get the snake.
The cursed snake. It slithered into the sitting room now, a long, shocking black ribbon, gleaming and twisting as it sought them out with an intelligence like that of a dog. It glided onto Tom’s armchair and coiled atop the cushion.
Potter stood behind him, and together, they faced the hearth where fire crackled quietly.
Potter spoke gently again, close, so close, to his ear.
He tried to guide him, teach him. He was a good teacher; he explained things well, always trying to ensure Tom understood what he was meant to do.
But Tom deliberately tried not to do well.
He told himself it was because he wanted to confuse Potter, make him worry that his teaching wasn’t working.
But deep down, in a place that was sealed shut in him for years – never opened, and only now creaking open to reveal the raw terror hidden within – he knew that it was also because he wanted to prolong their sessions, stretch them out, keep Potter’s attention on him, stay immersed in the magic, remain the centre of Potter’s focus.
It had been a few days of Potter teaching him small, useful spells, some from the spellbook he had bought for him, others from memory, that soon after, the realisation had cut through Tom’s heart in a slicing, slitting sort of way, and had sunk in, the cut deep, as though from a shard of glass that made it refuse to stop bleeding.
And the realisation was that he wished to stay steeped in the surreal magic that wrapped around them when Potter taught him real magic.
Potter’s hand reached out now, lightly grasping his forearm and adjusting the angle at which Tom held the wand. Potter’s hand was surprisingly steady today. Steady, purposeful, quick, dexterous. Maybe Potter was getting used to their proximity.
Tom, however, was not, and the pain in his heart, the tremble in his guts, only ever sharpened every time their proximity increased and the gaps between them kept vanishing.
“Speaking with intent is good, Tom. But not trying too hard is key.”
“Flamma incremento,” said Tom, voice breathy, ever so slightly shaken in his throat.
Nothing. The fire did not leap up in the hearth as it had when Potter had demonstrated the spell.
Tom knew nothing would happen.
It was because he had restrained his magic, chained it in, and he could feel it tug at his soul, held back from pouring out to course through Potter’s wand and spill fiercely from it.
He heard Potter exhale a slow, shaky breath just behind him. The heat of it brushed the nape of his neck.
“Tom,” said Potter, voice warm and low. He sounded concerned. “Is something worrying you?”
“Why?”
“Maybe you’re tense. I don’t know. That could be why the spell’s not working.”
Tom suppressed the playful quirk that ached to form on his lips.
“Maybe.”
“Oh,” said Potter, clearly thinking, worry turning in his mind. Slowly, he shifted from behind Tom to stand in front of him, meeting his gaze. “What is it? Is there anything you wish to tell me?”
Yes. The snake. Get rid of it.
Tom wanted to say the words, but held them back. No, not now. He wanted to draw out whatever it was that lingered between them, just a little longer.
“It’s nothing,” Tom thought of an excuse for a moment. “Perhaps the pudding yesterday. Doesn’t seem now that it agreed with me.”
Potter’s brows drew together in a crease of anger. “I’m never buying anything from that shop again, then.”
Tom’s lips quirked up at that, unable to help it.
Something flickered in Potter’s vivid green eyes, startled, then melting into something that looked achingly like affection. He smiled back at Tom, tender.
“What about that amuses you?” asked Potter softly.
“Nothing.”
~*~
When evening slipped in, they had settled into their usual places in the sitting room – Tom curled in his armchair, nose buried in his spellbook; Potter on the couch, holding that ridiculous children’s history book at a careful distance from his glasses.
It should have stayed in that domestic stillness between just two people who inhabited the cottage. Or, better yet, it should have given way to another practice session, where Potter taught him with a soft voice and undivided attention.
Tom was straining his ears to hear Potter call him for another round of practice, he was itching to ask it of him himself. His entire being was yearning to slip into that strange, surreal delight he felt when Potter taught him.
That was when he heard Potter speak softly, but not to him.
“Well, hello there,” said Potter, smiling fondly as the snake glided into the sitting room and began winding its way towards Tom.
“Do not come to me,” hissed Tom at it right away.
The snake stopped. By now, used to Tom’s rejections, yet never stopping its attempts to get near him, though never daring to defy his command, it simply slithered quietly to the centre of the room and settled there, before the hearth.
“Did you tell it not to come up to you?” Potter guessed, accurately, a crease of mild perplexity on his brow.
“No, I told it to be near the fireplace, so it can be warm,” said Tom. “It has gotten rather chilly over the past few days,” he added smoothly.
Potter didn’t look convinced, but nodded, expression still warm and quiet.
He then looked at the snake and said, “Are you comfortable on the rug, or do you need your little crate?”
He said it in a voice so tenderly affectionate that Tom’s skin prickled. Potter’s voice never turned so affectionate for him. It sounded close and intimate now, yes, but never so dotingly affectionate.
Tom clenched his jaw before he could stop it, biting down on the dark, unpleasant urge to hiss at Potter to stop being a fool and showering attention on a damn cold-blooded reptile.
“You don’t like me, do you?” Potter continued murmuring to it. “I think you’re comfortable on that rug. So I won’t bring the crate to you and annoy you.”
Tom’s blood boiled. He waited a beat, then two. But Potter did not initiate any practice session, neither did he approach him or speak to him, as though Tom did not exist in the same room as him and that pest of a snake.
Tom knew well, in the rational part of his mind, that Potter was simply existing, simply there, being himself, and that they usually had only one practice session a day, rarely ever two. So it wasn’t uncommon for Potter not to initiate a second round.
But it still hurt, because at the end of an arduous journey to finally receive affection and care, he had to constantly share it with a snake.
He was beneath a snake.
Beneath a snake, in the consideration he received. Potter had hated him initially and thawed only when Tom reached the brink of death, while a snake got affection even when it was hostile to Potter.
Or he was equal to a snake, but nothing more, for Potter gave affection to both him and the snake in equal measure. It seemed Potter gave his affection readily to anything he thought was helpless, or weaker than him. Tom was in no way special just because Potter now showed tenderness and affection to him.
It was just how Potter was, an emotional fool who handed out affection whether the object of his care deserved it or not.
No. No, this can’t go on.
Tom curled his fingers into a tight fist, and it tightened further as he thought of what he would soon do to take control of this situation.
As he stared at the snake, curled there in front of the hearth, golden light licking at its gleaming body – thinking of how it had made his home its home, how it had infiltrated his space, and how now it seemed permanent, like it wasn’t going anywhere, like Potter was never going to throw it out – he knew he would have to take matters into his own hands and change that reality.
Tom stared at Potter then – sitting back relaxed on his couch, book on his lap, glasses low on his nose, hair messy and sticking out at odd angles – and his heart did not know whether to clench with a deep ache, or incinerate with rage.
Tom was going to kill the snake the next time Potter stepped out of the cottage. Whenever it was, whether it was tomorrow, or the day after. Whenever Potter stepped out, Tom was going to kill it.
He would be precise with it, and he would not leave a trace behind.
Oh, his heart already beat faster at the thought of how Potter would panic when the snake couldn’t be found. Potter would search the corners of the cottage, calling for it. He would turn to Tom, eyes sharp, voice low, asking if he knew anything, suspicion stealing into his gaze, uncertainty gnawing at him.
Tom’s heart would beat even faster when Potter would suspect him, but it would thrill too, a dark, delicious thrill.
He had always wanted to see Potter ache, though the texture of that ache he craved was changing, growing stranger, deeper.
He still wanted to witness Potter's pain. But he no longer wanted it from a distance.
He wanted to be the reason for it. He wanted to be inside Potter’s pain.
He knew that he would never stop wanting to see Potter ache, but he realized that while he would feel a breathless elation watching Potter suffer, he would also at the same time feel an intimate pain.
Potter had become the centre of a spiral, and Tom, caught within it, felt ecstasy and agony both braided into the other like strands of the same frenzied thought.
Potter made him feel pain and pleasure in equal measure, until Tom could no longer tell them apart.
~*~
It began the next morning with the soft, telling click of the front door shutting below.
Tom paused where he stood by his bedroom door, listening and holding his breath. A moment passed, then another. He heard nothing more, no footsteps returning, no creak of the staircase. Potter had stepped out, finally.
He waited another beat to be sure, and then, without wasting another second, he moved.
Barefoot and silent, Tom crept down the stairs, one hand lightly grazing the banister, the other curled tight into a fist at his side. The house was hushed, blanketed in the heavy stillness of the morning, the kind of silence that made even the faintest sound feel sacrilegious. He descended into it like a ghost.
The sitting room was exactly as he’d left it. The snake’s crate sat squat near the fireplace as if it belonged there, draped in the same woollens Potter had lovingly arranged to keep it warm. The serpent was curled within, coiled in a loose spiral of glistening scale and breathless ease, sleeping, utterly still.
Tom stood there for a moment, just watching it.
The rage came fast.
It surged like bile, hot and slick in his throat. The crate, the warmth, the fire, the affection – this was his home, his and Potter’s – and yet the reptile had taken root in it like ivy up a wall, slow and creeping and inescapable. It had lately abandoned the storeroom completely, and now this room belonged to it.
Tom turned away before the fury could splinter into something louder.
He tiptoed across the floor and into the kitchen, eyes scanning the drawers and counters in quiet, methodical hunger. He opened the drawer where he knew knives were, and found them – paring knives, butter knives, useless things – his fingers moved past them quickly, unsatisfied. Then, near the sink, he saw it.
The meat cleaver. Broad, heavy, clean.
Tom gripped it with a hand and felt the weight of it drag his hand down slightly.
When he returned to the sitting room, he moved like someone possessed, a shadow with purpose.
The snake had not stirred, not even once.
Tom took his position slowly, cautiously, every footstep deliberate. He approached the crate, eyes fixed on the gentle rise and fall of the creature’s sides. Closer, closer still. He knew the risk – if he was off by even a fraction, if the snake sensed him, if it lashed out...
There was no Potter in the house, no antidote, no help.
But his rage outmatched his fear.
And then, in one clean, singular moment of release, he raised the cleaver and brought it down. A dull, wet thud followed.
The snake’s head rolled clean off the body, landing askew in the woollens with a grotesque little bounce. Blood, a deep and glistening red, gushed into the crate, soaking the fabrics beneath. The serpent’s body twitched once, then went still.
Tom stared at it. A rush of heat expanded in his chest – triumph, relief, something primal and thrilling. He had done it; he had ended it. The pest, the intruder, the thing Potter cooed at while Tom sat invisible across the room. Gone.
He turned sharply and returned to the kitchen, breathing hard, hands shaking just slightly. At the sink, he washed the cleaver with brisk, jerking movements, scrubbing at the sticky dark red until the metal gleamed again. He dried it with a dishrag and returned it to its exact place by the sink, careful to place it in the exact arrangement.
Then he ran upstairs.
His room was dim and cold, still caught in the grey quiet of the morning.
He needed to think fast now. Potter might be back in five minutes, or in half an hour, Tom did not know. Especially not with Potter’s ability to Apparate and Disapparate at will.
He needed something to throw the snake’s body into.
He would not chuck it away with the crate. The crate needed to remain. He would figure out a way to clean the blood off it. But the crate had to stay.
It was essential for the lie – that the snake may have slithered off somewhere, that Tom had no idea where it went, that Potter shouldn’t look at him like that, with that cold, quiet suspicion that cut deep, that that was hurtful.
He needed a bag, a thick one. Even a cloth bag would do.
And then he realised – the only practical bag he had was the cloth one Potter had gifted the jumpers and boots in.
He yanked open his wardrobe, shoving past things until his hands found it.
The bag that had held warm things, things that were something akin to love.
Tom’s stomach twisted.
For a moment, he held the empty bag in both hands, fingers curling tight around the fabric like it meant something, like it could wrap around his throat and choke him. The memory of Potter’s voice – quiet, fond, warm with affection as he had given it to him – flickered through his mind.
But then he swallowed it down. There were more pressing matters now.
He hurried back down with the bag and approached the crate.
The snake’s body was limp now, sprawled out unnaturally. The head lay where it had landed, its dead eyes still open. Tom reached down, grasped the whole mess with careful hand – head, body, everything – and stuffed it in. Blood smeared against the fabric. He tightened the drawstring, hands steady despite the copper tang in the air.
Then his gaze fell on the woollens in the crate, ruined with blood.
He panicked, just for a heartbeat. But then he shoved the panic down and stared at it with intent. He stared at the bloodstains and summoned everything in him: rage, desperation, will.
He whispered a cleaning charm he’d seen Potter use.
The blood vanished. The woollens looked untouched.
A smile curved over his lips.
It was magic at command, his command; not taught, not structured, not instructed, just done. It made something coil pleasantly in his chest. It was not a feeling of joy, but of power.
He tightened the bag, straightened up.
A shallow stream lay just beyond the cottage. He’d dump the body there. Out of sight, out of Potter’s sight, where it belonged.
But then there was the creak of floorboards and the scuff of boots outside, and there stood Tom, right there, with a bloodied cloth bag in hand that might start dripping at any moment.
His heart jolted, and he stood frozen for a second too long, blood ringing in his ears, before he bolted upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, the cloth bag clutched tightly in his hand. The snake’s corpse inside was still faintly warm, limp and heavy, as though reluctant to give up its last trace of life.
He barely made it into his room before the front door creaked open.
A voice drifted up from below. Potter’s voice.
Tom nearly dropped the bag in fright. He spun quickly, scanning the room with wild eyes, desperately thinking. Where, where? Where would he hide it now?
He crouched low, shoved the cloth bundle beneath his bed, and pressed it back into the dark with shaking fingers, the cloth catching on the rough wooden floorboards. It reeked faintly of blood. He would have to deal with it later. Right now, he could barely breathe.
His lungs felt squeezed, ribs tightening like a cage around the panic that pressed hot and sharp inside him.
He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, trying to still his hands, but they wouldn’t stop trembling. Both his hands had faint, wet smudges of blood that had transferred from the cloth bag to his skin as he carried it up, as he shoved it under the bed.
The cleanness of the kill had meant nothing in the end. He hadn’t gotten rid of it. The crate in the sitting room looked untouched, unsullied; but if Potter were to start looking for the snake, if he were to enter Tom's room now like he often did without a second thought, then the scent of it, the presence of it, lying bloodied just beneath the bed, would mean it would be uncovered.
Downstairs, footsteps moved, the familiar shuffle of boots being toed off, the rattle of keys, the ordinary sounds of Potter returning home.
Tom didn’t trust himself to go downstairs. He couldn’t bear to see Potter while the cloth bag still sat beneath his bed, leaking into the floorboards.
So he stayed put, stiff and pale, hands tightly gripping the edge of the bed, the taste in his mouth metallic and bitter.
~*~
Chapter 17: Deeper than Roses
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
~*~
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers…
- E. E. Cummings
~*~
Tom heard a soft knock on his door. The quietness of it sent him jolting, as though it were the roar of a thunderclap.
Swallowing quick and hard, Tom frantically wiped his hands against the bed, over and over, palms rubbing furiously on the quilt. There wasn’t much blood on them anyway, just the faint remnants transferred from the cloth bag when he’d gripped it with both hands, racing upstairs to shove it under the bed. The colour shouldn’t be apparent against the maroon and white of the tartan quilt.
He cleared his throat slightly. “Yes,” he called out, his voice coming out unsteady despite his effort to steady it.
The bloodied cloth bag, full and heavy with the corpse, was pushed as far back under his bed as possible. Potter shouldn’t be able to see it immediately. He shouldn’t be able to, he shouldn’t be, Tom prayed.
The door opened slowly, as though afraid to startle him, gentle and soft, just as Potter had consistently been of late.
“Hello,” said Potter, a quiet smile on his face. “I bought you some cherry tart. Got it from another shop. Don’t want to risk an upset stomach, now do we?”
Tom knew not if this was how a father, or an older brother behaved, bringing him sweets and desserts every chance they got, just because he had once, in passing politeness, mentioned that he loved the sweets Potter had bought for him from Hogsmeade.
There was no way of finding out, for Tom had no reference point. Potter was his first experience of anything akin to a father, an older brother, a kin…
They gazed at each other in silence for a moment, racing heart against calm and steady heart.
Tom tried hard to maintain an even rhythm of breath, tried hard not to break into a cold sweat.
He realised indistinctly that Potter might grow concerned, and then inquisitive, if he didn’t smile back. Even a quiet, faint one, just like Potter’s, would do. But he had to smile.
And so Tom upturned his lips into a small smile, the faintest of sort.
“Come to the kitchen,” said Potter, voice soft enough to shatter something inside Tom. “I’ll make you some coffee. Or would you prefer tea? Though coffee would go well with tart.”
Tom paused a second too long before forcing his lips to move. “Coffee,” he said.
“Coffee it is, then,” said Potter, green eyes beautiful with an endless sea of placidness in them. “You can bring along your spellbook if you want. We’ll practice the fire-intensifying spell again.”
The words that Tom yearned to hear every minute of every day did nothing to ease the sick dread in his stomach today.
He merely nodded stiffly, rising too quickly, grabbing the spellbook from his nightstand in one swift movement, and walking out of the room just as fast, praying that Potter’s eyes wouldn’t fall to the bloodied mass hidden deep in the shadows.
They walked in silence down the stairs, Potter moving a few steps ahead of him. His hair was messy as ever, strands of pin-straight black sticking out in places. The vulnerable paleness of his nape stood out stark against the midnight darkness of his locks, and Tom felt close to him in that moment, strangely, achingly close, in a way he had never felt toward another living being in his entire life.
Not even toward a snake. And he had killed one now, just to become this being’s sole focus.
There was something strange in him. Something light and hollow and pained, unfurling in his chest and stomach, something that felt like dying, as though he stood at the cusp of something dark, something horrible, something catastrophic, something fatal.
He followed Potter into the kitchen.
Beyond the doorway at the other end, Tom glimpsed the sitting room. From here, he could just make out the crate before the fireplace. He let himself pretend for a second that the snake was still in there, sleeping soundly.
Tom slipped into his usual chair at the table, the one where they always sat to eat. Potter moved with quiet ease, placing the kettle on the stove to ready it for coffee.
Soon, the rich aroma filled the kitchen. Potter carefully took out the cherry tart from its packing, setting a slice each on two plates. He placed one gently in front of Tom, along with a steaming mug of coffee.
How lucky Tom was, to eat tart, to drink coffee, after Potter had devotedly made and served him breakfast only a little while ago.
“Let me have a bite from yours first, if you don’t mind,” Potter said, something playful yet protective in his voice and smile. “Let me see if it tastes okay. Then you can have it.”
He cut a small piece with a fork and closed his lips around it. After a moment, he nodded in approval. “Mm, tastes just fine. Here.”
He set the plate back in front of Tom.
Tom’s fingers trembled slightly as he grasped the fork. He cut slowly into the tart, right next to where Potter had taken his bite.
He kept his eyes trained on the plate, on the table, anywhere but Potter’s face.
He brought the piece to his lips and ate it. It tasted delicious, rich, sweet yet a touch tangy.
“How is it? Tastes all right, doesn’t it?” said Potter.
“Yes,” Tom replied. “Tastes all right.”
Potter sat down across him at the table. His gaze fell on Tom’s spellbook.
“May I?” Potter asked, voice quiet, seeking permission. When Tom gave him a faint nod, Potter lightly slid the book toward himself.
He sat across from Tom, flipping through the spellbook idly with a vague, mild interest, sipping his coffee and eating his tart.
A few quiet moments passed.
Tom’s heart hurt more, hollower still. He felt ever closer to something eerie, something strange, like death was right behind him, waiting, reaching, ready to take him.
It wasn’t long before they moved into the sitting room.
They practiced a spell, and they practiced some more.
Tom made no effort to restrain his magic today; he couldn’t control a thing anyway. His nerves were shaking too violently inside him.
And so, the fire in the hearth leapt on his very first try, flaring so frighteningly that, when he instinctively glanced at Potter, he found those green eyes wide open, startled, slight terror in them. The terror softened quickly into pride, into an innocent joy.
Potter switched to a new spell, a charm to mend broken things; vases, ceramics.
He brought out a chipped mug from the kitchen, broke it cleanly with a spell, and had Tom try the mending charm. Tom succeeded on the very first attempt.
Potter moved on to a spell for repairing glasses. Occulus reparo. Potter broke his own round-rimmed glasses; yet again, Tom fixed them on his first try.
Potter’s eyes were bright and his cheeks were flushed with that innocent pride, innocent joy, at Tom’s breakneck pace of learning.
Tom didn’t, couldn’t, restrain himself today.
His heart was thrashing like a wild animal inside his chest, his breaths coming fast, not from exertion, not from exhilaration at his skills, as Potter might have thought, but because he had let go. Because today, he wasn’t holding back.
The full, natural, jagged force of his magic was unrestrained today, left to behave exactly as it was.
“That was brilliant, Tom,” said Potter, face alight, a crooked grin on him, eyes warm with something akin to love, the faintest of dimples on his cheeks. Radiant. He was the sun himself.
Tom felt as though he had already died.
To have Potter – maddening, infuriating, elusive Potter – smile at him like that, as though he mattered, as though what he did meant something, as though it moved Potter deeply enough to bring out a smile so genuine, so full of warmth, that it made him resplendent. Blinding, like the sun.
Yes, it felt like he had died.
Tom had just witnessed, for the first time, what Potter looked like when he truly smiled.
It looked almost like the radiant grin he wore in those magical, moving pictures, when he was with those friends of his, arms slung around their shoulders.
And Tom realised something else. It meant the world to him that Potter smiled so resplendently at him, because even in his craving to see Potter ache, he had longed to be close to him, to grip him tightly, to cling to him like a bur. He had always imagined coiling around Potter – skin to skin, flesh to flesh – until Potter shuddered beneath him.
Tom understood now what that meant.
It meant he had always needed to be entwined with him, to be close to his heart, even as he made Potter hurt, even if it brought an intimate ache to Tom’s own chest, even if he felt pain, and joy, in the very same breath.
But of course, the fragile, vulnerable, dreamlike haze he’d been drifting in had to rupture eventually.
Because Potter’s eyes finally fell to the crate by the fireplace, the fact that the snake hadn’t appeared by now finally sinking in.
“Where’s Liquorice?” he asked. His gaze swept the room, quick and searching, exactly as Tom had predicted it would. “She’s usually here when she hears us in the room…”
Potter stepped away, peering into the corners of the sitting room, crouching to look beneath the armchair, checking behind the cabinet. He then went to the passageway leading to the storeroom, reappearing a minute later, scratching absently at the back of his head.
“She’s not in there either,” he murmured. “She always comes out when she hears voices…”
Tom stood still, unmoving, in the middle of the sitting room, watching, waiting.
Potter turned toward him, eyes searching now. “Could she have gone into your room?”
And just like that, like a switch flipping, Tom snapped cleanly, brutally, out of his warm, sentimental longing, out of the sweet ache of lingering in Potter’s smile, and into survival mode – cold, clinical, composed.
“No,” Tom said smoothly, voice steady, the lie slipping from his mouth with ease. “She can’t have. But… I am worried about where she might be.”
He tilted his head slightly, just enough, to feign thoughtfulness.
“Perhaps she escaped through the back door?” said Tom carefully, like it was a helpful, apprehensive suggestion, “We’ve left it open before, haven’t we? Did you leave it open today?”
Potter looked at him, caught in the suggestion.
“No… I didn’t,” said Potter quietly, brows still drawn, unease deepening now.
Tom drew in a soft breath, furrowing his own brow, mimicking the concern he could see on Potter’s face.
“Oh, I hope she’s safe,” said Tom, dropping his voice into something soft, lacing it with worry. “I hope nothing’s happened to her.”
Potter’s gaze softened.
“Tom,” he said gently, stepping closer. His hand reached out, fingers brushing Tom’s shoulder in a brief, comforting touch.
“Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”
There was warmth in his voice, quiet and full of understanding.
“If something’s wrong,” said Potter, “then we’ve got to think about the fact that you woke her from hibernation, didn’t you? You brought her here. And I’ve just had this feeling for a while now… that maybe we didn’t quite know how to care for her properly. Not the way she needed. I mean… maybe it wasn’t enough, what we were doing. Not for a snake, not really.”
Potter looked down for a moment, as if weighing the guilt, then looked back up at Tom, steady and calm.
“If something has happened to her, we’ll face it. It’s neither of our faults. We tried our best, tried to be kind, to do the right thing.”
Tom stared at him, saying nothing, the false worry still etched carefully across his face. But inside, something dark and molten shifted. He could feel the coldness of death creeping in again, turning his insides to ice, making his heart tremble in a way that felt permanent.
“But I need to find her,” said Potter, his voice low but determined.
“Oh,” said Tom faintly, shuddering violently within, “I can help.”
Potter shook his head. “It will take too long to find her non-magically. I’ll use a summoning spell.”
There. There it was. The moment when death tightened his icy hands around his throat.
“Accio Liquorice,” said Potter, voice quivering ever so slightly, as if he, too, felt the same dread that ravaged through Tom’s insides.
Nothing. Not even a dust mote stirred in the air.
Potter’s expression shifted into one of a dreading, slowly-sinking grief, as if the probabilities he had just rationalized aloud, to both Tom and himself, slowly settled in.
“Accio... accio Liquorice's body,” said Potter, quietly, so hollow that Tom could barely hear him.
There came hurtling from upstairs, from the direction of Tom’s room, a bloodied mass, flying over the banisters that led straight into the sitting room. It was white and dark red, its pristine white smeared in violence, the white patches far smaller than the sprawling, dark red blotches.
It flew straight at Potter. His hands moved instinctively, his reflexes sharp and unerring. He caught it.
Tom stared, rapt, at Potter, absorbing every flicker of expression, every subtle shift. The way pain suddenly coloured his eyes, the jaw that clenched, the breaths that escaped in short, tight bursts through his nose.
Tom felt pain and pleasure mount together, equal and immense, knocking into him with the sheer force of it. This was the moment he had longed for; Potter, aching. And it had come when he least expected it, when he hadn’t wanted it at all.
And just like that, along with pain, and fear, a sudden deluge of rage gripped his heart.
Potter slowly opened the bag, his face carving deeper into pain, and something sharper, angrier. He looked away sharply the moment he saw what lay inside, as if seeing it burned him. Then, wordlessly, he set the bag down on the floor.
“Why?” he breathed out, trembling, fixing wide, expressive eyes on Tom, eyes that held pain and fury, devastating in their beauty.
Tom’s lips curled with something ugly, with hatred and derision. It was a reflex, a defence against the beauty and the pain he witnessed before him.
“It tried to attack me,” said Tom, the lie tumbling quickly out, desperate and angry. “If you haven’t noticed, it’s a venomous snake. It could’ve killed me.”
“Attack you?” Potter shot back, incredulous. His breath quickened, his disbelief mounting. “That snake loved you. It wanted to be near you all the time. And you kept pushing it away.”
A ringing silence followed.
“Why, Tom?” Potter said, rage cutting through his voice, tightening his jaw. “You need to tell me why you did this.”
“Because you took in the snake without ever asking if I wanted it!” spat Tom. “You forced it on me.”
“You could’ve told me, instead of chopping its head off!”
Tom stared at him, breaths tight and harsh.
“Why didn’t you say something, Tom? Why didn’t you just tell me? All you had to do was say what you were thinking. I can’t read your bloody mind! I would've taken it to the zoo, back to where you found it, anything but this.”
“Had I told you,” Tom said, bitterly, “you would’ve judged me for it. Because that’s what you do. That’s how pathetic you are. You're a pretender who likes to think he’s noble and good. But you're not. You're pathetic. That’s all you are.”
“Don’t you dare throw that excuse at me,” snapped Potter, voice rising, raw now. “Don’t call me pathetic, after everything I’ve done for you – ”
“And now you think you’re some kind of saint, do you?” hissed Tom, eyes wild. “Because you were kind to me after I nearly died in the cold? Don’t pretend it was there before that.”
“You chose to run off like that, Tom!” Potter shouted. “That’s on you.”
Tom laughed then, a sharp, frayed sound that bordered on madness. “Is it? This, this is exactly why you’re pathetic. You’re just a sad, unloved, lonely little man, holed up in a cottage in the middle of nowhere because no one loves you. No one wants you.” Tom didn’t believe a word of it. But he kept going, louder, crueller, hurling them at Potter. “You took me in because you needed someone to make yourself feel less weak. Like you’re not already going soft in the head, rattling around in here alone.”
“Enough!” Potter bellowed. “Enough of your drivel, Tom! Enough of your shameful excuses for being cruel, for justifying your sick, revolting actions.”
Potter’s voice dropped then, shaking, “I’m reminded now of what Mrs Cole told me. About all the twisted little deeds you got up to in that orphanage. You killed a pet there too, didn’t you? Let a snake bite a boy and kill him. Made a girl gouge out her own eye. It's sickening. Sick. The way you twist everything, justify whatever suits your perverse idea of what’s fair when you don’t get your way. There’s no hope for you, none. You’ve made sure of that today, beyond any doubt.”
Potter stood there, heaving, looking away, hands tightening into fists at his sides, trembling.
"I should never have adopted you," whispered Potter, the words barely audible, but final, laced with something that felt like regret, like hurt.
Tom was silent for a moment. Potter’s words struck his soul with a force that was almost physical, as though he were slapped tightly across his face.
Silence stretched, mutilated, rotted.
“Take your words back,” whispered Tom.
Potter laughed softly then, a sound that edged into madness, a mirror of Tom’s own. “Or what?” he whispered. “Or what, Tom? You’ll chop my head off too, like the cruel little fiend that you are?”
“Take your words back,” Tom said again, voice just a breath, just a rasp.
“I won’t, Tom.” Potter’s voice was quiet, brutal. “You don’t deserve it.”
“Take it back.”
Tom didn’t realise that he was advancing on Potter, that his feet were carrying him forward, step by slow, steady step.
Potter held Tom’s eyes, furious, hurting, defiant.
Something cracked deep inside Tom, a rift torn open, raw, howling.
“Take it back!”
He did not know if he had whispered it or screamed. He did not know when the magic surged.
But he felt it break free of him – wild, invisible, volatile, like lightning with a mind of its own.
Potter’s body jerked. Brilliant red slashed across his chest like paint flung by a madman, his throat, as though slit brutally, ruthlessly. The front of his shirt soaked with blood, shockingly fast, soaking through, spreading.
There were more slashes, down his side, his legs, slick streaks of crimson blooming beneath his clothes.
It poured out of him, fast, free, like someone had turned on a tap and walked away.
Potter let out a soft, choked sound, crumpling to the ground.
He hit the floor, limbs sprawling, head thudding, blood pooling under him at once, spreading wide and thick like it was spilling from an overflown dam.
Tom stood there, breathing hard, throat raw.
He did not know what he had done.
The blood was everywhere.
Slowly, the red haze cleared from his mind. Slowly, he realized what had happened. His magic had broken free. He had lost control.
“No. No.”
Tom did not realize the words slipped from him, trembling, edged with something half-crazed.
“No… no… no… no…”
He dropped to his knees beside Potter.
Potter was unresponsive. His eyes were closed; his glasses had clattered away the moment his head had impacted on the floor, and they lay, a feet away.
The blood. The blood. Tom hadn’t known there could be so much of it in one person, so much pouring out, thick and hot, flooding everything. It had spread across the floor, seeping to the cabinet nearby, pooling beneath the table, reaching further…
“No, no.. no…” whispered Tom, eyes wild, body shuddering violently. The metallic scent of his blood, the shocking red of it, the copiousness, the flood, made him lightheaded.
Bile rose to his throat, hot and acidic, but he didn’t heave, for his heart threatening to give up on him, and the feeling of death choking him with his icy hands, were far more overpowering.
“No, no, Harry. No. No…” he breathed. “I didn’t mean to.” His trembling hands reached out, pressing desperately to the deep slashes across Harry’s chest, the deep, cruel slash across his throat, but they refused to stop, refused to stop spurting, pumping, spilling blood with hot insistence.
“No, no, no,” He didn’t even realize he had curled into him, into his Harry, his maddening, elusive Harry. That he was holding him now, cradling him close, their bodies pressed together, his own clothes soaking through with his blood. So much blood, warm and wet and thick, drenching them both with warmth that turned swiftly to chill.
Tom didn’t know when he had started to weep.
But he was weeping now, wretchedly, brokenly, with his heart splintering into a thousand bleeding shards. He shook with it, shuddered through it, clutching Harry tight.
He wept, undone. Cried, raw terror clawing through him, for the first time in his memory.
And as he wept through pain that felt like a thousand knives slicing into his heart, he saw it.
The stag.
It lay on its side, dying, not far from where the bloodied cloth bag was, bleeding its own river – a sea, a tide – of deep red blood, rushing over the floorboards like the ocean surging up against a shore.
The room was deluged by blood.
~*~
Notes:
I feel this song called 'Emerald Rush' by Jon Hopkins fits so well for them. Emerald for me is a colour deeply evocative of Harry, or his eyes. It's music video shows this boy who wakes up in a strange land, a strange forest, and follows a huge, luminous beetle, this beetle that strangely looks just like him, and it leads him up a jagged cliff, and into a cave, where there are so many of those luminous beetles, and in there are also innumerable, emerald crystals/ stalactite and stalagmite formations. Sharp, emerald green jets of light emerge from them, ricocheting off of each other, ricocheting endlessly and blindingly. He then notices that his feet are mere inches away from what appears to be a bottomless expanse of black nothingness beneath him. He takes a moment to think, to brace himself, before taking a plunge into it. He falls and falls endlessly, crashing over and over against bottomless endlessness, falling, tumbling endlessly, until his fingers, his limbs, his entire body, just disintegrates and melts, taking on the shape of the beetle, before merging forever into the endless nothingness.
I see this boy being either Harry or Tom, depending on how I look at it. Harry, as the boy who takes a plunge into the unknown, travelling back in time, adopting Tom, choosing to love him. Tom, as the boy who falls irrevocably and deeply for Harry, and the fate for both here being becoming one in this reckless plunge.
Chapter 18: Hunter's Moon
Chapter Text
~*~
Death.
Death bowed to him for the third time since the first time he had died.
The first time was after Voldemort, Tom’s future self in that strange, dear life that he had lived a mere two months ago, had struck him with the Killing Curse. Harry had visited that stark white place, the eerie stillness of limbo, where Dumbledore waited, and where he had seen Tom’s excoriated, flayed self, shoved there under a bench as though someone had carelessly disposed of him so.
He lay there as a wretched child-thing, with his splintered soul, as though hurting with the burn of a thousand hells and the pain of a million shards of glass piercing through him.
And Dumbledore had said then that he was an unsalvageable creature, something that was beyond help.
The second time was quieter.
It was after ‘winning’ the war, when Harry had neither eaten a morsel nor drunk a drop of water for days, for weeks on end, agonizing through consequences, surviving after having lost nearly every single one he had ever called near and dear.
And the third…
The third was now. Here, this moment, as he lay suspended in darkness, floating in a river.
A river the colour of which seemed to be a deep, dark red.
A river that poured and gushed forth from deep wounds that Tom tore open; Tom, in this strange, undreamed-of present life; Tom, for whom a dangerous kind of care had begun to take root in the recesses of Harry’s heart, for whom he had been nurturing, tenderly and quietly, a kinship that electrified him, as though freefalling from a great height, at dizzying speeds, straight to his death.
Death bowed, seeking permission.
And Harry denied him a third time; told him no, not yet, not now, that he needed him still, that he hadn’t made things right yet.
The moment the thought crossed his mind, Harry drew in a sharp, shuddering breath. His eyes opened slowly, as though afraid to witness what lay before them.
He saw a head of dark curls, damp in places with something thick and dark, his own blood, he slowly registered, tucked under his chin, against his chest. He felt the lean frame of him pressed against him, shaking, jerking. He was lying half atop him, the weight uncomfortable, painful, upon his body that carried blood barely restored.
And he heard sounds – hitching, wretched, pitiful sounds – that momentarily flung him straight back to the sounds he’d once heard from that excoriated child-thing, shoved carelessly under the bench in that stark white place...
The scent of metal, of copper, was sharp, overbearing.
Harry lay there beneath him, immobile, not knowing how to move, how to speak.
After long, protracted moments of dreadful stillness, punctuated only by wrecked, wrenched sobs pressed into his blood-soaked shirt, the sounds finally began to quieten.
And then, a beautiful, anguished face, a beautiful pair of eyes like storm clouds, red with tears, turned.
And froze.
Harry saw Tom’s breathing quicken, eyes flitting between disbelief, relief, shock, and fright. Tom sat up suddenly, frantically touching his neck, his chest, his stomach, with trembling hands.
“Harry,” Tom breathed, shaking, devouring him with tormented, desperate eyes, and dizzying shock shot through Harry, threatening to plunge him back into unconsciousness.
Tom whispered his name; it was not the cold, dispassionate utterance of his sixteen-year-old memory in the Chamber, not the venomous hiss of Voldemort, like breath curling off frozen wind, but a pained whisper that ached with warmth, with heat.
Harry slowly got up, weakly lifting himself onto his elbows, dried, thickened blood chafing slickly everywhere. Blurred violence surrounded him.
He reached his hand out, weakly, for his glasses.
Tom scrambled, beating him to it, and with shaky hands, handed them to him.
Harry put them on slowly.
The violence of his blood spread endlessly, congealing now, and the sight of both of them bathed in it, came into sharper focus.
He reached weakly for his wand in his pocket, surprised to feel it intact. He pulled it out; it was whole, despite everything in him feeling splintered.
He uttered the cleaning charm. Nothing. The blood remained just as deeply red.
He uttered it again, once, twice, thrice. Still nothing.
He had spent his magical reserves. Perhaps spent it all in healing.
Perhaps it was dead in him now, after the brutal walloping his soul had taken, faced first with Tom’s transgression, yet again in this new life, then with Tom’s wrath.
Then, he heard Tom utter the spell. The blood began vanishing from their clothes, their skin.
Tom uttered it again, wandlessly, shakily, and blood began disappearing from the floorboards.
Their eyes met – spent, ragged, sharp.
Harry’s eyes then fell to the bloodied cloth bag – a desecration of what it had once been.
Once filled with loving things, bought as one of the many consequences of a freefalling, electrifying descent into affection. Now it lay filled with the butchered remains of a creature he had loved as though loving a part of Tom’s soul…
The stickiness of faint remnants of blood still remained, he could feel it stubbornly clinging to his skin, despite the brilliance of Tom’s wandless spell.
Harry slowly got to his feet. Immediately, he felt dizzy, and stood still for a moment, trying to steady himself.
Then he walked, limping faintly – his legs felt like jelly – toward the bloodied bag. Stooping slightly, he picked it up.
He began dragging his feet toward the front door.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Tom move toward him, shadowing him like a lean, pale spectre.
Outside, watery grey skies stretched above, a late morning slowly tilting toward a brooding afternoon. The breathtaking, browning, wild landscape, sharply chilled, was awash in grey light.
Harry walked, slowly, but determinedly, in the direction of the old, beaten and bent toolshed that stood at the far end of the property, covered so wildly and entirely with weed and ivy that it looked like a shed made of browning ivy, rather than wood.
Tom followed wordlessly, tailing close behind him.
Upon reaching it, Harry reached his spare hand, the one not clutching the bag, into his pocket, and pulled out his wand again.
He pointed it at the ground. The tip of the wand shook fiercely, for his hand shook uncontrollably.
He uttered a spell to pull out the earth, to dig a grave. Nothing again.
Harry made to walk toward the toolshed, to see if there might be a shovel within, unsure if he’d even find a usable one.
He stopped when he caught sight of Tom, standing there. Tom’s breaths were sharpening, quickening with intent, as he repeated the same spell Harry had uttered, mimicking the word.
Tom uttered it again, more intently.
And there, the earth began to turn. It flung outward, as though tossed by unseen hands. Soon, there was a grave.
Harry caught his gaze, and their eyes met, ragged and sharp again.
Then Harry looked down at the grave, and walked slowly back toward it.
He crouched down delicately, muscles aching so sharply that he drew in a soft, involuntary gasp. He reached a hand into the bag, and slowly lifted the snake’s remains.
He placed them gingerly into the grave. Then, he placed the bloodied cloth bag too, atop the snake’s remains.
Flashes of the Weasleys, of Remus, of Ron being lowered into their graves flitted through his mind.
He was far too numb now though to shed tears. His heart and his breath lay still, pressed down, as though under an ocean.
Then, with pale, trembling hands, he began pushing the soil back in. Slow, sluggishly slow.
Another pair of pale hands appeared.
Tom crouched from the other side. He, too, pushed the earth back in.
Their hands were covered in earth, black against pale skin, the contrast stark in the soft grey light of the late morning that tilted into afternoon.
~*~
It was late in the evening.
Tom sat shivering on his armchair in the sitting room, alone, the firewood long turned to ash.
Harry wasn’t walking around to conjure more, to keep the flames burning. And Tom, for all the magic that he had been doing spontaneously, couldn’t make heads or tails of how to go about it.
Harry had walked back into the cottage after they buried the snake. He had seemed detached, as though something in him had snapped.
He had slowly trudged up the stairs, each step looking as if it pained him somewhere deep within, and shut himself in his room.
He hadn’t come out since.
That had been earlier in the day.
Hours had passed, and the cottage remained still, so still that not even a whisper of wind disturbed it, save for the steady, maddening ticks of the old grandfather clock standing in a shadowy corner.
The sitting room was cold now, dim, two soft, forlorn yellow lamps the only light left in the room.
Tom sat shivering, the ticking of the clock his only companion. Its eerie rhythm was usually drowned by the warm crackle of the hearth.
It had been hours of this. Hours. And with every tick, his mind edged further toward madness.
He was half-blind with hunger, the other half of him crazed with the fear of what might be happening behind Harry’s closed door.
He had sat there, turning more catatonic, more frantic, as the hours ticked by.
He hadn’t dared to go up, hadn’t dared to knock.
The incredible fact that Harry had woken after the brutal lashing out of Tom’s magic was the furthest thing from his mind.
He didn’t care whether it was normal for wizards to wake after bleeding their arteries out.
It was in fact simply the best thing that had happened all day. For those harrowing, eternal moments that morning, as he lay shuddering over his blood-soaked body, he had thought he’d lost for good the only good thing life had finally thrust upon him.
And when he thought he’d lost his sanity when he felt the softest breathing and the slow, deep thump of a heartbeat under his ear, pressed as it was to Harry’s blood-soaked chest, he had lifted his eyes to look at Harry’s face…
And saw his beautiful green eyes, vivid with precious life again.
Those eyes had looked grieving, resigned, as though they hated being pulled back into this life again. But the life in them was all that mattered to Tom in that moment. His world, his being, his entire existence had narrowed just to those eyes.
Harry had been behind his door, silent, for hours now.
Tom had been rendered immobile with guilt, with shame, with fear, all this while.
The gnawing dread within him reached a crescendo –
Was Harry still breathing in there? He had lost all of his blood. How much of it had been restored, even with magic? He had looked pale as snow…
Or was he just a mirage, revived momentarily to fulfil one last act, before vanishing into thin air, away from Tom’s gaze? Was that how a wizard’s life transitioned to its final death?
Might Tom be able to open the door now, for his magic was gone – and with it, the wards meant to keep him out – and find the room empty? Just cold, still air, and nothing else?
Raw, chilling terror tore brutally through his stomach, mixing with hunger, turning him dangerously light in the head. His vision began to darken with it.
Tom suddenly leapt to his feet, all the blood rushing from his head, threatening to send him crashing to the floor. He stood there for a moment, breaths sharp and uneven, his heart warring with itself over what action to take next, what would be the most prudent…
His mind, sharp and logical, told him to go to Harry’s room and knock. To check if he was still breathing. And if Harry didn’t answer even after Tom was kicking and screaming wretchedly at the door, gripped by panicked desperation, or worse, if the door opened because Harry’s magic no longer existed to keep it locked, if that was indeed how magic worked, then Tom could not imagine what he would do. He could not see a future that extended beyond that moment. All that stretched out from there was eternal, vicious darkness…
Yet, for the first time in his life, he felt another voice within him, an instinct unlike the harsh, cold one that usually spoke. This one pulsed soft and glowing, warm against the edges of his fear, and it told him: Go. Go to the kitchen. Make something for him to eat. His spirits are crushed, so crushed that he cannot even rise from his bed. That is why you do not see him, why he does not think to wonder how you are holding up with no food, no firelight…
And for the first time in his life, Tom listened to a voice that was gentle, a voice that was kind to him; and for some reason, it carried Harry’s steady, lovely, gentle cadence.
Tom’s shaky feet carried him into the kitchen. He flicked on the lights and glanced at the stove, at the clean pans hanging neatly, at the few plates and pots drying at the edge of the countertop.
He went to the larder, its shelves stocked with various jars and baskets, and searched through them. Relief loosened the tightness in his chest when he saw that the charm to keep food fresh was still working; everything smelled clean and untouched. Harry’s magic was still holding.
There was a loaf of bread, a bowl with a knob of butter, and a jar of tea leaves. He knew what to do, even if it wouldn’t be anything like the lovely, simple dishes Harry cooked for him.
Tom pulled the items out, set it on the countertop, and got to work, though he was swaying on his feet, though hunger gnawed frightfully at his stomach.
How to light the stove? Harry always used magic…
Remembering the spell, Tom muttered, “Incendio,” half certain it wouldn’t work in his state, but the burner flared to life with a sputter.
He’d need something to toast the bread on.
Leaving the fire burning, he searched, eyes landing on a griddle resting on a shelf, its racks holding a modest collection of pots, pans, plates, and cups.
He pulled the griddle down and set it over the flame.
From the cutlery caddy by the stove, he fished out a fork, scooped a bit of butter, and dropped it onto the griddle. It sizzled and hissed.
Only then did he remember he hadn’t sliced the bread. He scrambled for a knife, adjusted the loaf on the counter, and sawed off a jagged, unsightly slice – by now, the butter smelled sharp and caramelly, perhaps burning, the flame far too high. He hastily threw the slice onto the griddle.
It toasted, and toasted.
He’d need to turn it. He forgot he’d need a flipper for that.
Another frantic search through drawers. Finally, he found it among the ladles.
By the time he returned, a smoky smell was already permeating the kitchen, unmistakable in its warning. He flipped the toast; it was blackened badly, though not completely charred.
He pulled a plate from the nearby shelf and set the ruined slice on it.
He repeated the process four more times; each new slice burnt a little less, though all bore some mark of fire.
The heat from the stove had chased away his shivers, grounding him a little.
He took the kettle to the sink, filled it with water, tossed in a spoon of tea leaves, hesitated, then added another, along with some sugar. Setting it over the stove, he used the same spell to light it. Black tea it would be; he didn’t trust himself to manage the extra step of adding milk, not with his thoughts shattered with fear.
He waited. Eventually, it whistled.
Had Harry not heard the clatter of pans? The whistle of the kettle?
Perhaps he hadn’t. It took every ounce of strength in him to not fall apart in crazed terror.
He poured the piping hot tea into a mug, then gathered everything – the smaller plate of toast, the steaming mug of tea – onto a large plate.
He gripped it with both hands, and began the climb upstairs, fighting the dizzy sway in his head, willing himself not to faint and send the plate of food and the mug of tea crashing to the floor. The plate trembled precariously in his grip, but he ground his teeth, steeling himself with a fierce determination, holding on with the desperate strength of someone driven by fear alone.
At last, he reached Harry’s door. He did not trust himself to balance the plate with one hand, so he set it down on the floor. He straightened, shivers returning to rattle his terrified bones. He knocked once, gently. He couldn’t wait – desperation clawed at him – and he knocked again, once, twice, sharply, insistently.
He waited through protracted, terrifying moments, before the door opened softly. Harry stood there, still pale, but his eyes were vivid and lovely; his hair stuck wildly in every direction. He had changed out of his blood-soaked clothes, the same from which Tom had vanished the shocking red with his wandless cleaning spell, the same Harry had worn when he’d shut himself in his room. Now, he looked soft and clean, his skin flawless and unmarked, not a single scar visible.
Harry's eyes were expressive, swimming with something aching, fixed on him as though in slow-moving awe, crashing with stillness, and grief…
“Were you… were you asleep?” asked Tom, breathless.
“Yes,” Harry said quietly. “I was awake through the day, but I must have fallen asleep sometime in the evening.” His gaze dropped to the plate still resting on the floor.
Tom nodded, eyes never leaving him. “I made something for you,” he said softly. Crouching, he picked up the plate and straightened, gaze fastening back on Harry with desperate intensity. “I thought… you might need it.”
Harry’s breath hitched, his face flickering through pain, ache, and mounting surprise.
“Tom.” The name left Harry’s lips as if carrying a thousand griefs.
“May I?” asked Tom, breathless again, pain lodged in his chest, hunger and dizziness momentarily forgotten.
“Yes,” whispered Harry.
Tom stepped inside, carrying the plate to the table beside the bed and setting it down.
He turned, eyes finding Harry’s.
The scent of the room. The scent of it. Tom was thrown back to that first, forbidden time he had entered, violating what Harry hadn’t wished to give then. The scent of him. Something sweet and elusive, like vanilla, but not cloying; something human, something him.
Tom stood there, silent and stupid.
Harry moved to the plate, carried it to his bed, and sat on the edge. He looked at Tom.
“Have you eaten anything?”
“No.”
“Then come here.” Harry’s smile was soft, almost sorrowful. “Come, sit.”
Dazed, Tom obeyed, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. The plate lay between them.
Harry picked up a toast, smiling faintly. “Thank you.” He bit into it, set it back, then took the mug into his hands and sipped once before returning it to the plate.
“This one’s more burnt, don’t eat it; I’ll have it,” Harry said, setting aside the most blackened slice. “You can take these two,” he added, nudging the lesser-burnt ones toward Tom. “The tea’s a little bitter, but not bad. You can have some too, if you don’t mind, I’ve already sipped from it.”
Tom’s heart clenched at the undeserved care.
His fingers shakily reached for the mug first, not the toast; Harry needed to know he did not mind at all that it was sipped from. He brought it to his lips. It tasted horrible, too strong, sharp and bitter, with barely any sugar to reduce its impact.
Such was his hunger that Tom did not realize he had finished the two slices until they were gone. He had controlled himself enough, though, to let Harry have a few sips of tea, placing the mug back every so often, taking turns with him, until they finished the tea, too, in no time.
Tom rose quickly, not wanting to trouble Harry with his presence, and reached for the dishes.
“Tom, wait.”
Tom froze, standing still, heart lurching. He could not understand why his heart lurched so. Harry was gentle now, so gentle, despite everything Tom had done. His heart shouldn’t be lurching with fear now, not when Harry spoke soft words, instead of the terrible, harsh ones that had torn Tom’s heart to shreds and made him lose his control.
Harry gazed at him, eyes expressive, swimming with ache, with grief, with pain. With something akin to love.
And then, something happened, something that Tom would never have dreamt of.
Harry did the unthinkable.
In one stride, he closed the distance between them, gathering Tom tightly into his arms. Tom’s head was tucked under Harry’s chin, his chest pressed impossibly close against his.
Harry was so warm. Tom sharply inhaled the sweet, elusive scent of him.
Harry’s breaths stuttered; he tightened his grip on Tom, so tight it hurt.
Tom felt him breathing erratically, laboriously, against the crown of his head, into his hair…
Then, he heard Harry begin to weep, pitifully, wretchedly, as though something inside him had broken free like a tidal wave. It shattered something in Tom, terrified him, sent a jolt of lightning through him.
Tom’s lips parted against the crook of Harry’s throat, for he had to gasp to breathe now; something heavy and lumped and painful in his own throat was suffocating him.
Tom’s hands, limp at his sides, flew up before his thoughts could catch up, instinctively pulling Harry tightly in.
They stood there, shaken, gripped and trembling in each other’s arms.
Outside, the moon washed the forsaken land beneath her in pale, hoary light, spilling through terrible clouds parted only for now, seemingly the only witness to what passed, to what seemed like fate, its passing otherwise protected in the midst of empty moors where no one and nothing stopped the winds when they blew unfettered.
~*~
Chapter 19: Achilles’ Heel
Chapter Text
~*~
Once one knew of addictive warmth, of fraught heat held close and contained with clutching, gripping fingers, of sweetness so tender that no other delicacy would be a match to it, it is difficult to part with it.
And so, with aching difficulty, they had parted. Tom had insisted Harry rest when Harry had murmured that the dishes could be left in his room; Tom, with quiet insistence, had said he would take care of them. He had washed them, set them neatly in the drying rack, walked upstairs, and shut himself in his room. Now he sat on the edge of his bed, unmoving, rigid, eyes wide and unseeing in a room that was cold, dark, and fireless.
Tom had always known it would be a weakness, a crack in his armour, an Achilles’ heel, as he had read in a tattered, ancient copy of a hefty dictionary, at the tail end of which there were lists of assorted mythology and interesting facts, and therein had read, that, heel notwithstanding, Patroclus was the one and only thing that had cracked Achilles’s intact, ruthless, warlike heart.
And so Tom knew that opening his heart so unreservedly to someone – irrevocably, helplessly, to this one person, this sweet, maddening gift life had thrust upon him – would ruin him. It would corrupt the darkness he cherished, the darkness that shielded him, with blinding, addictive light. That was why raw terror had filled him every time Harry gave love freely, unguardedly.
Despite his youth, Tom knew with shocking clarity what that meant. That while darkness was the nature of his soul, the light of Harry’s soul that had seeped into it would be the one chink in his armour forever. That while he would feel nothing for anyone, he would feel everything for him. That while he would slaughter the world, he would beg, would crawl, would cry at his feet to make him see that he did it just so he could offer the world to those feet.
Those lovely feet, those lovely hands, and those lovely fingers, and lovely eyes, and lovely lips, and lovely ears; lovely chest, and lovely throat, and lovely face, and lovely hair, and lovely voice.
Tom suddenly felt that Harry was slipping from him, all of his pieces…
His fingers curled and tightened into the mattress, gripping the edge hard, while his vision darkened and swam with rising terror – that something so precious would be snatched away before he could ever truly hold it.
The embrace they shared was something foreign to his body, something he never knew could even exist. He never knew a feeling like that existed, an indescribable feeling of safety and warmth, that mixed with heat, and fraught, thunderous heartbeats, and euphoria, and an overflowing rush of love that felt like it poured and crashed from both like a deafening waterfall…
He had gasped against his throat. But in truth, a moan had lumped in his own throat, fighting to escape, and he had kept it suppressed with all his might, and gasped instead, gasped for dear life…
Had it escaped, perhaps it would have had the same roughened and grieving cadence as Harry’s…
But he hadn’t wanted to cry for a second time that day. When he had cried earlier that day, pressed his tears into Harry’s blood-soaked shirt, he had thought that it was in the abandoned and cruel silence his precious person had left him in. When a moan lumped in his throat as he was held tight by him, lips pressed to his throat, the darkness in him, so instinctively entrenched in him, so deeply mixed in his blood, did not allow for it to slip in his presence.
And yet… it was that same darkness that made him feel with such ferocious, unbearable intensity that he feared he might die from the force of it.
For he felt that Harry was slipping from him, all of his lovely pieces…
Flashes of him lain in an endless pool of his precious blood – the shocking red of it on his pale skin, on Tom’s own pale skin, on Tom’s hands; the petrifying deep gashes on the vulnerableness of his neck, his chest, his stomach; and Harry’s eyes staying closed, not a flutter of life behind them, his warm blood cooling on them, chilling Tom as though it were ice – ripped through Tom.
Tom did not know his hands flew now to his head, nor that he curled in on himself, eyes screwed shut, fingers clutching violently at his hair. He was shuddering now, going to pieces.
A moan of terror escaped his lips.
The embrace had felt too heavenly, too dreamlike. It hadn’t felt real at all. For how could something that beautiful even exist? How could something so beautiful ever happen to him? Life wasn’t so beautiful. Only sweet dreams and fairytales were that beautiful. The real, waking life was harsh, ugly, bitter, cruel…
Tom was certain – the certainty solidifying, growing ever stronger – that the soft and dreamlike vision of Harry at the threshold of his bedroom: spotless, in clean clothes, with eyes that seemed devoted, transfixed with awe and unconditional love for him; then inviting him to his bed, sharing Tom’s burnt and bitter offerings, inviting Tom to drink from the same mug, to touch his lips where his lips had touched, and then pulling him back as he made to leave, just so he could crush him violently in a kind of love Tom had never known even existed – was all but a dream, a hallucination born of a mind unbalanced with bottomless grief.
Tom couldn’t stay sitting. He sprung to his feet now, pacing like a caged, wild animal. His eyes did not see a thing. His breaths fastened and fastened and fastened, matching the violent tempo of the drumbeat of his heart. He shook even as he paced, teeth clattering, breaths trembling.
He couldn’t bear it, and raw terror forced him to open his door. He found himself in front of Harry’s door before he knew it. He knocked, repeatedly, frantically.
He did not know what he’d do if the door did not open. Or worse yet, if Harry’s magic no longer existed to keep his door shut.
Tom twisted the doorknob with fraught, rapid, vehement turns.
~*~
Harry heard violent knocks on his door, jolting him upright in fright. The frantic clicking of the doorknob followed, then the loud, forceful pounding again.
He realized instantly, somehow, what it was.
Harry threw back the blankets, rushed to the door, and flung it open.
Tom stood there wearing a distraught, half-crazed expression.
“Harry,” he breathed, eyes desperate on him.
“Are you alright?” said Harry, softly, concern knitting his brows together; yet, a certain realization slowly hit him. His breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight of Tom.
Tom’s expression shifted from crazed and overwrought, to cautious and tense. He stood there, mute.
Harry was about to call him in for the second time that night, when Tom finally spoke, his voice thin and uncharacteristically trembling. “I thought… I thought I was going mad.”
He paused, collecting himself, bracing himself. His eyes fluttered shut, then opened to meet Harry’s again. Terror kept his face pale and clammy.
“I thought I imagined it all,” he breathed. His eyes took on a softness – a terrified, clutching hunger Harry had never dreamed he would see in them. “Everything. From the moment you opened your door, to you… to you holding me.”
Tom’s gaze dropped to his feet. His breaths faltered; his skin remained pale and clammy.
An intense shockwave of awe, and a clenching need to pull him close, to tuck him somewhere in his heart, filled Harry’s veins, his bloodstream, his chest.
“Come in, Tom,” Harry said, his voice tender in a way it never was for anyone else. It shocked him, yet, it made complete sense.
Tom held his gaze with unblinking eyes, as though bracing himself, or disbelieving. Or in that clutching hunger that terrified Harry.
Yet, Harry wasn’t terrified at all. Something heavy and exquisite settled in his chest. It wasn’t terror at all.
Tom stepped in, dazed, eyes never leaving Harry’s.
Harry sat slowly on the edge of his bed, the same spot as before. “Come, sit, Tom,” he said, yet again, invitingly.
Tom sat down carefully, leaving a safe distance between them.
They stared at each other – vivid, wide emerald to intense, tumultuous grey.
“Are you real?” whispered Tom at last.
“I’m real, I promise you that,” said Harry, quiet honesty in his voice, caught in a reciprocative, loving protectiveness that answered the raw need before him.
Tom nodded, gaze slipping to his hand resting lightly on the mattress. Harry held the fragility of the moment, preserving the silence, staying as still as he could beside him.
Tom’s gaze rose again, vulnerable disbelief shading it darker now.
“Would you like me to hold you again?” Harry asked softly. “I promise I won’t cry into your hair this time,” he added, with a small smile, using a fragile humour that was meant to ease the thrashing fear he sensed in Tom.
The darkness in Tom’s eyes shifted into something raw, something unnameable. Harry saw the subtle quickening of his breaths. Tom looked away, gaze dropping to the floor.
In the firelight, Harry saw a deep flush climb high on Tom’s cheeks. Harry stared, heart swelling with awe, with ache.
Tom was flushing at the proposition, Harry could see it. Yet somehow, Harry knew it in his bones that it wasn’t embarrassment, he knew it with something deep in his soul that tilted his entire world in that moment.
He saw Tom give the barest, smallest nod.
Harry wasted no time. He shifted close, gathering Tom into his arms for the second time that night, this time as they sat side by side on the edge of the bed.
Tom was stiff for a few seconds, then melted into him.
Slowly, Tom brought his arms around Harry’s waist. He tightened his hold, and tightened some more.
Their hearts beat against each other. Their warmth seeped into each other, grounding, calming, and yet stirring, whipping up something restless and agitated with love.
“Are you real?” breathed Tom against Harry’s chest.
“Yes,” Harry murmured, lips pressed to his curls. “And I’ll tell you that for as many times as you need to hear it.” The words fell from his lips like a vow.
“Just let me hold you,” whispered Tom, voice raw with need. “Let me hold you. Til I know that you’re real –” the words spilled frenzied and hot into Harry’s chest, “– and not an imagination of my fervid mind.”
Molten shock surged low in Harry at the intensity of his words, an intensity that had no right to lace into the voice of a boy so young.
Yet, there they were, guardian and ward, shivering in each other’s arms; alone, broken, at long last having found solace in each other.
Harry had not realized how deeply Tom had bonded to him, or how deeply he had bonded to Tom. All it had taken was a month. A month.
Fate had a funny way of unfurling, didn’t it?
Harry could never have foreseen the depths to which Tom’s feelings would plunge.
Tom held him in a feral, unyielding grip.
Harry held him back just as tight.
“Yes, Tom,” Harry whispered at last. “Yes. For as long as you want. I’m here.”
They stayed like that, held in comfort, in affection that perilously grew, until eventually, Harry could not have said when, Tom’s arms around Harry began slackening, and his weight began slumping heavily into him.
His arms were still looped around Harry, but limp now, fallen slack with unconsciousness. His mouth hung open, breath soft and uneven, a thin line of drool dampening Harry’s shirt just above his heart.
Harry’s heart clenched at the sight, so violently he almost couldn’t breathe. This boy, so sharp and feral and furious in his waking hours, had melted into something fragile, unguarded, unbearably human in his sleep.
He shifted carefully, guiding Tom down onto the mattress with the gentleness of someone handling something breakable. Tom stirred faintly, but did not wake, lying on his back in the same position Harry had set him.
Harry slowly adjusted the blanket over him, all the way up to his shoulders.
He then walked around the bed, and lay down on the other side. He carefully pulled the blanket – the same one draped on Tom – over himself, too.
Harry’s body turned instinctively towards the boy. His eyes lingered on the faint rise and fall of Tom's chest, his tousled dark curls. Then he, too, at long last, succumbed to a sleep that blanketed them mercifully, to heal them both from that bloodied, brutal day.
~*~
When dawn spilled pale light across the room, Harry stirred first. He blinked, heavy-eyed, his eyes opening slowly.
It was to a soul-shifting sight that he woke up to.
Tom was still asleep next to him, barely shifted at all from where Harry had laid him down. His dark lashes rested still against his cheeks, breaths steady and soft. He looked ethereal in the light, his dark curls a sharp contrast to his soft paleness.
Something tight and aching twisted in Harry’s chest. A smile broke quietly over his lips, tender, helpless.
Harry slipped carefully out of the bed, padded softly downstairs to the kitchen, and set about making breakfast.
The crack of eggs, the clatter of a pan, the soft, comforting hiss of heat filled the sacred silence of the morning.
Harry heard soft footsteps, just before the kettle whistled.
He turned slightly and saw Tom entering the kitchen, hair mussed in every direction, eyes still puffed with sleep, but fixed on Harry with strange, aching clarity. He didn’t look at the food, or the kitchen, or anything else; only at Harry, as though he were half afraid he might vanish if he dared to look away.
“I woke up,” Tom said, voice quiet with sleep, “and found myself in your room. You weren’t there. I got… terrified. But then I heard sounds from here.”
Pain tore Harry’s heart open. He swallowed down the tightness in his throat.
He smiled, then, tenderly. “I’m here, Tom. Right here. Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Tom returned softly, so quiet it was almost shy. His gaze flicked away, quick and unsure.
But Tom crossed the room silently and came to stand near, watching every move. After a moment, without words, he joined in, passing a plate, steadying a knife, reaching for something. Small things, but his hands worked beside Harry’s reverently.
Together, they set the table.
They sat opposite one another.
Tom did not eat much. He only stared, quietly, intensely, eyes fixed on Harry.
Harry was reminded of their first dinner together, the day he had taken Tom in. Tom's stare was just as unyielding and intense; but back then, it had burned with defiance, and dark, simmering challenge.
But now, it felt different. It was as though Harry were the North Star, guiding a lost, wayward sailor through uncharted waters. As though he were the very cynosure of Tom’s eyes.
At length Harry looked up from his plate, and met that stare. Harry's breath snagged, and he laughed, softly, with a breath that sounded almost like pain. “I’m here, Tom,” said Harry lowly.
Tom’s gaze did not waver. His grey eyes seemed bottomless.
“Good,” Tom said at last, voice quiet, but certain. “I wouldn’t know what to do otherwise.
~*~
Chapter 20: Frozen Fire
Chapter Text
~*~
I tell my secret? No indeed, not I;
Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not today; it froze, and blows and snows,
And you’re too curious
Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there’s not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say…
- Winter: My Secret, Christina Rossetti
~*~
After breakfast, they wandered into the sitting room together. The fire burnt low in the hearth, Harry having conjured firewood again; its flames now snapped faintly as they caught at the wood.
Harry eased himself onto the sofa, muscles still aching faintly from the trauma his body sustained yesterday. Harry took his gardening book from the table nearby, and balanced it on his lap. His thumb slipped against the worn edge of the pages. He wasn’t really reading, his eyes sat on the words, but his mind drifted, carried by the steady tick of the grandfather clock in the corner.
Across from him, Tom had curled into his usual armchair, his frame taut. He sat there, his gaze flicking toward Harry and away again.
There was a long moment of stillness. Then, suddenly decisive, Tom rose.
The movement was measured, but it might as well have been a hawk taking flight from stillness. Harry’s gaze lifted, a question caught on his face, and he watched as Tom crossed the room.
Tom lowered himself onto the sofa, sitting next to him. His movement was deliberate, almost careful, as if afraid he might be unwelcome.
Harry’s smiled softly before he could stop himself.
“I hope you’re well,” said Tom. His voice was tentative, quiet, but carrying something solemn.
Harry nodded. “I am.”
“Tell me if I should do something for you,” Tom offered. It wasn’t casual; it sounded almost desperate.
Harry’s response came low and steady, “Calm your heart for me.”
The words fell like a caress. Tom froze; he nodded once, grey eyes holding Harry with startling depth.
Harry’s throat tightened. He drew in a breath. “I won’t lie to you,” he said slowly. “I was shocked. I was hurt, and angry… I’m sorry, Tom, that this is how it had to be for us. I hate the way we began, how cold I was with you. But… I need you to know how much I’ve grown to care for you. How much you mean to me now. And I want you to know that I’m here, always.”
Tom did not speak at first. His gaze was locked on Harry’s face, his silence profound. When he finally broke the stillness, it was only a nod.
“I care for you, too, Harry,” Tom said at last.
The smile that tugged at Harry’s lips was delicate, something fierce and quiet in his chest.
For a while, they let the fire speak for them, the soft crackle filling the space. Then, Tom spoke, his voice hesitant, careful, pained, “May I ask… about how you came back to life? If that’s… all right.” His eyes flickered, as though he half-expected Harry to be offended, half-prepared to retract the question entirely.
Harry set his book aside. He looked at Tom then, gaze intent, though his heart had quickened despite himself. “I was going to bring this up, because I wanted to reassure you, make sure you weren’t left frightened or unsettled for too long by what happened. But since you’ve asked yourself… let’s speak now.”
Harry pressed his lips together, a hint of unease on his face, then drew in a breath with quiet determination. “Most wizards wouldn’t survive what happened to me,” he began, his voice gentle, measured. “Coming back from something like that, it’s not… normal. It isn’t the way things usually go. If a wizard is struck with a curse that kills, or if they suffer a wound, magical or not, if it’s grave enough, it usually ends a life. There’s no return. That’s how it is for most.”
He hesitated, then said, “I don’t want you to ever be under the impression that a wizard can simply survive anything. That’s not how it works. It’s dangerous to believe otherwise.” His voice dropped lower, almost confessional. “I shouldn’t say too much now… but I need you to understand that.”
Tom had gone motionless. His back was straight, his body taut as a bowstring, his gaze sharpening with an intensity that disconcerted Harry.
“What do you mean?”
The sudden tension in Tom’s voice unsettled him. Harry’s heart picked up, unease coiling in his stomach.
“Not many wizards would come back after a grievous injury,” Harry repeated. “Or after a killing spell.”
Tom studied him for a long moment. Then he asked, quietly, “How many come back to life, then?”
“Not many,” said Harry again.
“So you mean to say,” pressed Tom, “it isn’t common.”
“No,” Harry replied, “it isn’t.”
“How rare is it, then?”
Harry’s stomach knotted with a familiar dread. “Very rare,” he said, carefully. “And if it’s alright with you, Tom, I’ll tell you more when you’re older. It isn’t something I wish to delve into while you’re still so young.”
“Of course,” said Tom politely, but Harry saw it, the churn of thought beneath his composure. Tom turned his gaze away, toward the grandfather clock ticking solemnly in the corner, toward the glass cabinet lined with porcelain figurines, his eyes unfocused, lips pressed together. He was thinking, turning over every word, dissecting it.
When he finally spoke, Tom’s voice was soft, deliberate. “So, you’re one of the powerful wizards in the world, then?”
Something in Harry’s chest stuttered. Tom’s conclusion was too sharp, too quick, and a sliver of cold fear slid into him. “I’m by no means powerful,” he said immediately.
Tom regarded him as though truly seeing him for the first time. Yet, his eyes weren’t hard or cutting, they were deeper, filled with something searching.
“You’re far too modest to admit it, aren’t you?” murmured Tom.
Harry shifted uncomfortably, fear tightening heavier in his stomach. “It isn’t like that, Tom. One day, I’ll explain it properly. You’ll understand then.”
Tom’s lips curved faintly, his storm-grey eyes steady on Harry’s face. “Very well,” he said. “I will wait for that day.”
Though the smile on Tom’s lips was calm, Harry could see it, the glint of certainty in his gaze. Tom didn’t believe him, not for a moment.
“I only have one last question,” said Tom, hesitating slightly. “For my own safety… so I don’t do something reckless, thinking I can defy death.” He paused, then added quietly, “Do you think I have the same ability? Coming back to life? If it’s rare… might I be one of the few?”
“No, Tom,” said Harry.
Tom absorbed the information, utterly still. He nodded finally, not pressing for more. He didn’t look disappointed. However, it was not before Harry caught a passing shadow of deep fear in Tom's eyes. But before Harry could react to it, it was gone, and Tom only looked deeply attuned to every shift in Harry's expression, every flicker in his eyes.
A few quiet moments passed. Both were wrapped up in the other’s presence, rapt and still.
“I’m sorry, Tom,” said Harry, breaking the silence. “For the way I’ve been with you, for not being who you needed, or deserved.”
“I wouldn’t want anyone else as my guardian,” said Tom simply.
Harry smiled, caught again and again by the fierceness in Tom’s eyes and his words.
“I’m sorry… I’ve been so lost in my own worries, in my own head, that I didn’t give you the time, attention, or the words you needed,” said Harry, earnest. “You’ll forgive me for starting now?”
“Yes,” said Tom softly.
Harry held his gaze with equal softness, equal indulgence.
“I want to tell you so many things,” said Harry, “but I’ll take it one step at a time. Don’t want to overwhelm you with too much at once.”
Tom listened quietly, attentively, politely waiting.
“I hadn’t even spoken with you yet about your education, your schooling,” said Harry, contrite. “Where would you like to be educated?” he asked, wanting to hear Tom’s thoughts before telling him anything.
“Would you rather go to the best school there is,” Harry added, “or would you like me to keep teaching you?”
Tom was silent, eyes flitting with a play of emotions as he weighed the question. At last, he said, with quiet, fierce conviction, “I’d like you to continue teaching me.”
Something sweetly, selfishly, covetously satisfied twisted in Harry’s heart.
It shocked him. It made his chest tremble, his breath catch in his throat.
Harry smiled at him, overcome.
“I’ll teach you, Tom,” he said. “For as long as you want me to. But on your eleventh birthday, which is next month, you’ll receive an acceptance letter from Hogwarts. It’s a school for witches and wizards. There, you’ll learn everything properly, better even than what I can give you.”
Tom regarded him, silent and still, absorbing every word.
“You’ll be staying there during the year,” Harry went on gently. “Coming home only for Christmas and summer holidays.”
At that, something shifted in Tom’s face. His breathing quickened slightly, and he broke their gaze, looking instead at the glass cabinets, the grandfather clock, eyes lost, his mind flooding with a rush of thoughts.
“You mean,” said Tom at last, voice low, uncertain, intense, “I must be apart from you?”
Shock coursed through Harry’s chest and stomach at the cadence of his voice.
And Harry knew it meant only one thing. That Tom did not want to be separated from him.
Harry’s head swam. The deep irony of it clenched his heart painfully, twisted his stomach, filled him with a dizzying, sickening sweetness, with fierce, molten affection.
Tom’s storm-grey, cat-like eyes fixed on him, utterly still, clinging to his every breath.
“No,” Harry said, smiling, secretive, indulgent, even as warning bells clamoured in his head at the reckless pace with which his heart was plunging into perilous affection for him.
“I’m joining Hogwarts as an instructor,” Harry told him. “I’ll begin in two months’ time. That means I won’t be here during the day. But the headmaster already knows about us, about you and me. In fact, tomorrow, the twenty-fifth, I’m meeting him. He’s asked to see me about something, and I’ll be asking him to let me travel in and out each day, instead of living on the grounds like the other professors. That way, I can come back every evening to take care of you, until you join me in September. Then we’ll be there together.”
Tom absorbed this in silence. His expression shifted subtly, cooling by a degree.
“When did you get this position?” asked Tom finally.
“A month ago,” said Harry. “Just days before I took you in.”
Tom nodded once.
“If I may ask you something, Harry,” he said then, his voice very quiet, his frame very still, “why were you cold with me at the start?”
A chill went up Harry’s spine. The utter stillness of Tom, his eyes, his voice, unnerved him.
“I want to tell you, Tom,” Harry said at last, “but not now. It’s not a story for today. It’s too heavy for you to carry yet. One day, when the time’s right, I’ll tell you, everything. I promise.”
“Very well, Harry,” Tom replied, smiling then, polite. But it did not reach his eyes. The fire in them had cooled. “I’ll be eager to hear it, when the day comes.”
~*~
Chapter 21: Ash and Iron
Chapter Text
~*~
The day passed in silence. Not the comfortable kind that sometimes grew between them, for a sharp-edged stillness clung to Tom. He spoke little, his eyes dark and unreadable. When they practiced spells in the afternoon, his wandwork was precise, flawless, but his voice clipped, his attention elsewhere. Harry sharply felt the withdrawal.
At dinner, Tom ate quietly, back straight and stiff, his mind clearly far away. The clink of fork against plate rang sharp. Harry’s stomach knotted tighter with every passing moment.
It was only later, when the dishes were being cleared and they stood side by side in the kitchen under the soft glow of the lamps, that Harry finally spoke.
“Tom… what's wrong? Ever since we spoke this morning, you’ve been withdrawn.”
Tom did not look at him right away. He dried his hands on the dish towel slowly, before turning. His eyes seemed darker in the lamplight.
“Yes,” he said. “There are things... that aren’t right. Things I need answers for.”
Harry stilled, his gut tightening. He had expected a shrug, perhaps a clever deflection. Instead, Tom’s voice came taut, tightened with something almost dangerous.
“I don’t think I can rest until I know the exact reason why you were cold with me first," said Tom. "I cannot tolerate it now, really, after knowing your warmth, your love.”
The last word came low and heavy. Tom’s gaze burned, hungry and dark.
Harry felt dread settle in him.
Raising Tom was like walking on glass with bare feet, every word careful, every breath deliberate. And he tried, God knew he tried, but Harry knew, that no matter how hard he tried, it would never feel enough.
“This life you have outside of me,” said Tom, “It’s been a month since you brought me here, and you haven’t told me anything about yourself. You were cold the whole time. I had to fight just to get anything from you.” His lips pressed together, bitter. “And you… you seemed happy keeping your secrets. But me,” he clenched his jaw, “I feel now I might burst into flames if I keep my thoughts shut from you any longer.”
Harry stood still, stunned.
“And tell me,” demanded Tom, “do you even know how to take care of someone? You barely look older than me. Why are you raising me? What’s your reason?”
Harry felt himself flush, not with anger, but with the heat of truth. Slowly, he nodded. “You’re right. I’ve been lousy.” He paused. “As for why I adopted you, I –”
“-you won’t tell me anything,” snapped Tom. “I know that. But I can’t stay quiet anymore, Harry. Not after everything that’s happened between us.”
Harry’s breath hitched. The way Tom spoke, hungry, piercing, astute beyond measure, reminded him again with a chill of who he was raising. Tom Riddle, brilliant and terrifying, who could cleave the world in half if he so wished. One slip, one misstep from Harry, and everything could unravel.
Tom’s voice grew rough. “It makes me angry, how I had to fight through your coldness, just to get you to even look at me. Only when I was nearly dead did you finally care. And when you did, it was too much, it burned. You gave me so much at once I didn’t know what to do with it. And now it’s stuck in me. I can’t get rid of it. I can’t stop caring, can’t stop wanting you close. You did that to me.”
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, an inch, then another, closing the gap between them until Harry could feel the heat radiating off him.
“Then you die,” whispered Tom. “I thought I’d lost the only good thing I ever had. And then you came back. Do you know what that did to me? I kept seeing it, your body covered in blood, me covered in it too. Over and over. And when you came back, I thought I was dreaming, or going mad. I can’t stop thinking, what if you hadn’t come back? What if you’d stayed gone? What would’ve happened to me then?”
His words faltered. His eyes fluttered shut. He dragged in a breath, trembling with something he couldn’t name. For a fleeting second, he looked fragile.
Then his eyes snapped open, fevered on him again.
“I don’t know how you can come back from death. But seeing it, seeing you like that, I never want it again. Not if it was me who did it, not if it was anyone.”
The words slammed into Harry.
Tom went on, voice low, desperate.
“What if your power doesn’t always work? Can you really trust it to save you every time? And when I asked if I have it too, you said no. Then what, Harry? What happens when I die? You’ll keep living while I rot in the ground? Is that what I am to you, just someone who ends, while you go on like it’s nothing?”
Harry shook his head. “No, Tom, it isn’t like that –”
“Then you tell me you’ve got a job. That you’ll be gone all day, away from me. That I’ll only get you in the evenings. What am I supposed to do here alone? Sit and wait, like I don’t matter?”
Harry opened his mouth, but Tom cut in.
“You say I’ll go with you in September. But you never even asked me first. What if I don’t want to go to that school? What then? Would you still just leave me here, waiting? How can you decide everything by yourself when it’s about both of us?”
Tom stopped then. His outpouring seemed to shock him as much as Harry. He breathed harsh, eyes heated on Harry.
Harry stood, reeling. Eventually, he found his voice. “I may have a life outside of us, once I start this job. But the decisions I make, they’re for your good. Don’t you want to attend Hogwarts?”
“I do,” Tom admitted. “But you should’ve told me sooner. Not kept me in the dark all this time.”
“Yes,” Harry said, his voice softening. “And I am sorry. As I apologized before. And you accepted it, because that’s how it had to be. But I promise you, Tom, I’ll tell you everything hereafter. Because it isn’t now how it was before.”
“Why wasn’t it like this since the first day?” asked Tom, furious, desperate, “Harry, your secrecies will undo me.”
Harry stepped closer, closing the gap between them further, until he inhaled the ash and iron scent of him. “No, Tom. I keep these secrets so they don’t undo you. Please, believe me when I say it’s for your good.”
When he was met only with silence, Harry went on, “I’ll tell you everything if I could. I wouldn’t want to keep a thing from you, not after everything between us. I only want to protect you.”
Something in Tom’s gaze shifted.
Harry, trembling, lifted a tentative hand and placed it against Tom’s cheek.
Shock seemed to course through Tom at that; his eyes remained immersed in Harry’s.
Their breaths quickened, the air charged with fevered heat.
“Believe me,” whispered Harry, wishing he could tear the truth from his heart and present it to Tom, bloodied and raw. “Believe me when I say that I want to protect you. Raise you the best I can. Be there at every step with you. That I care for you, so much.”
Tom’s eyes burned into his, drowning. Slowly, imperceptibly, he nodded.
Harry’s hand dropped, trembling. His eyes seemed to sting, his vision blurred. Tears had collected in them. He tried for a smile. “You’re brilliant, Tom, beautiful, and fierce. You don’t deserve a thing less than care and love.”
Tom stared at him, riveted, as though he were undone.
In the quiet kitchen, in muted glow of lamps, and orange firelight that slanted in from the sitting room, in the dark that pressed against the windows, something terrible and tender curled tighter still between them.
~*~
That night, Tom could not sleep.
The moment he closed his eyes, images came unbidden, flooding him, drowning him. Shocking red blood, everywhere. Harry lying in it. Him and Harry submerged in it. Harry whispering that he could come back. But this time, he didn’t.
Tom jolted upright in bed, sitting in blind fright. His breath tore in and out, fast and shuddering, his chest heaving as though the room were closing in on him. His head reeled.
The day replayed itself in his mind, piece by piece. The morning, waking in Harry’s bed, in that room suffused with his sweet, elusive scent. Maddening, delicate, like Harry himself. Then finding Harry in the kitchen, where they had shared a tender moment that had left Tom shaken. Later, in the sitting room, he had been unable to stay away, unable to resist the pull of Harry’s warmth, his lovely presence. He had wanted to dissolve into it, enmesh himself into it.
But then Harry had spoken of a world outside their own, of strange powers that defied death, of mysteries that stretched beyond Tom’s grasp. And Tom, restless and hungry, had wondered, where was his place in it? Where did he stand beside this Harry who seemed, with each revelation, to rise higher, shining brighter, becoming more unattainable, more angelic.
Yet still, he was his Harry, the one without whom Tom no longer remembered how he had survived.
And maddening Harry had poured heat onto him, day after day, in tender looks, in unthinking touches, in warmth given so freely and copiously that Tom’s worst fear had come true: he was addicted, utterly, irreversibly addicted.
But if Harry could slip so easily through death’s fingers, could he also as easily slip through Tom’s? Did this strange power of immortality always hold? What if, one day, it failed Harry? How could Tom protect him then? And what of Tom’s own end? Would Harry, immortal and untouchable, carry on alone, Tom’s devotion, his sacrifices, his need for him, all fading into some forgotten shadow of memory?
He lay back down, tossing and turning, sheets tangling around him. Firewood crackled in the hearth; Harry had conjured it for him before retreating to his own room.
Sweat dampened Tom’s body, his breaths quickening again, his heart knocking. The images returned, vivid.
The snake, its head rolling cleanly away, the dark, glistening blood that had poured out, soaking into the woollens Harry had so carefully lined the crate with.
Harry had loved the snake, given it his gentleness, his compassion. But Tom had coveted all of that, coveted it so much that he had killed a creature that was kin to him, just to hoard Harry’s love for himself, like a dragon hoarding gold.
Now the thought returned with a dark pulse, that same instinct, that same need to coil around Harry, to wrap tight until Harry shuddered beneath it. Until Harry’s endless life, stretching far beyond Tom’s own, rippled with the force of it. Until the sting of Tom’s insignificance in that endless life of his was erased.
His blanket kicked away, Tom lay flat on his back, breathing hard. The images flooded again: blood, resurrection, death.
No.
He could not lie here and let it drive him insane.
He had to coil himself around Harry, hold him so tightly that Harry could not dream of anything beyond him.
Then, only then, would the madness ease.
~*~
Harry heard knocks on his door. They were less violent than last night’s, but no less insistent; they landed sharp, and repeated.
He hadn’t been able to sleep himself. Tomorrow he would face Dippet, and he needed his wits about him. He would need to choose his words carefully, guard the truths that had grown between Tom and him, and hold back what Dippet must never know. He had to protect Tom now.
At the knocks, his breath caught. He threw off his covers, hurried to the door, and opened it.
There stood Tom. Dishevelled, reckless, desperation barely restrained beneath his upright, rigid posture.
Before long, they were in bed again.
They lay side by side on their backs, silent for a while. Harry breathed in the now familiar ash and iron scent of Tom, unsettling him yet anchoring him paradoxically.
“I couldn’t sleep either,” Harry admitted softly.
Tom gave a low hum, before speaking. “I hadn’t meant to come to your room again tonight, but my mind was restless. My thoughts wouldn’t be quiet.”
“It’s alright,” Harry said, turning his face toward him. “I’m here for you, Tom.”
Silence stretched, until Tom’s voice broke it, careful, searching. “Do you hate me?”
Harry stilled, startled.
“That’s what I first thought,” Tom reminded him. “I told you on the day you took me in. I thought you hated me.”
Harry’s heart ached. “I’ve grown to care for you, Tom. A lot. Those first few days–” he exhaled slowly “–they’re something I’d rather forget. They hurt me too, as much as they hurt you.”
“So you don’t hate me?” asked Tom.
Harry studied him in the shifting glow of firelight and moonlight that bathed Tom's features - smooth pale skin, dark curls falling across his forehead, long lashes, cat-like eyes that in that light looked almost black. The sight filled Harry with a sudden rush of love.
“No,” he said firmly, with a small smile. “I care about you so much, Tom.”
Tom stared at him, serious. “When you found out I killed the snake…” He paused, watching Harry. “I’d never seen anyone get so angry over an animal before.”
Harry turned his eyes to the ceiling, his voice quiet but steady. “Animals are pure, Tom. Purer than people, I’ve always thought. Their deaths have always affected me deeply.”
Tom’s expression softened, as they lingered on Harry.
“Yet you don’t hate me for it?” he asked again, prying still.
Harry was too tired to fight his questions and his idiosyncrasies. More and more, he found himself simply accepting them, registering them with weary ease.
“No,” said Harry. “I don’t. I loved that snake because… in a way, it felt like I was loving a part of you, a piece of your soul. When you killed it, I just–” he swallowed, voice breaking “–I lost my mind in anger, in grief, in fear that my love for you wouldn’t be enough.”
His words grew slower, heavier, as sleep began to creep over him.
Tom lay utterly still, watching him, rapt, drinking in every breath of his.
“Wouldn’t be enough… for what?” asked Tom softly.
Harry, drowsy, gave him a faint smile. His eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion. “I’m sorry, Tom… just so sorry. For not being enough…”
Suddenly, the heat in Tom’s eyes flared. “Don’t apologize,” he said sharply. “I won’t have you apologizing needlessly. You haven’t done anything wrong. If anyone should be sorry, it’s me. For what I did to you, for making you… die. It should have been a fitting lesson for me.”
But sleep had already pulled Harry under, soft and inexorable.
He did not know whether those miraculous words had been real, or only a dream.
~*~
Chapter 22: Shadowed Dark and Luminous Light
Chapter Text
~*~
Sleep would not find Tom that night.
Last night, Tom had fallen asleep in Harry’s arms, letting Harry’s warmth lull him and cradle him into ease. It had been so effortless to sleep when held in warmth and comfort.
Tonight, it was Harry who was lulled, not by touch, but by Tom’s voice, by his quiet confessions that Harry caught only in fragments, while Tom remained restless and wide awake.
Tom was glad that Harry had only heard part of it, for he would never speak them in Harry’s full, waking consciousness.
Tom lay beside Harry, still as the night, curled on his side, facing him.
And stared.
Harry was beautiful. Tom had never seen anyone so beautiful in his short, tumultuous years, years that had stretched horrifically long. Yet the past month had warped time entirely. It had felt like a year compressed into one month, so intimately familiar did Harry feel, yet somehow, it had not been long enough. It had flown past before Tom could grasp at any of it.
Firelight danced across Harry’s face, while moonlight slanted ethereally from another angle. Strands of black hair clung damply to his forehead, sweat lightly glimmering on his skin. Outwardly, he looked peaceful, yet his eyes, behind closed lids, shifted restlessly. Tom knew he did not truly find peace, even in sleep.
Tom stared, breathing carefully so as not to disturb the very air, and risk waking him.
For he wished to stare at him for as long as he could.
It was all so strange, so new.
Here he lay, in Harry’s room, a room Harry had once barred him from, fearing his destructive impulses. Yet here they were, Harry unconscious, vulnerable, and Tom wide awake beside him.
And the strangest thing of all was to lie beside another soul, a possibility Tom had never imagined; it was now his reality. And he was gifted it with someone so utterly beautiful inside and out.
Tom drank him in, unblinkingly, noting every curve, every detail – the face, the throat, the chest…
Harry lay flat on his back, chest rising and falling gently, face pressed sideways to the pillow, one arm thrown carelessly above his head, the other resting gently on his abdomen.
His lips rested lightly closed, not parted, as though even in sleep, Harry could not fully let go.
How vulnerable he looked.
If Tom so wished it, he could slice into that pale, open throat, and Harry would not have the time to stop him…
Deep, cruel gashes across his throat, sides, chest, vulnerable abdomen…
A river of blood, the room deluged by it…
The stag.
Beautiful, ethereal, magnificent, like him. Carved from moonlight itself, standing as a shocking presence amid the intense darkness of the woods. It had guided him home.
The stag had died, though, the real, corporeal form of it. Its lush brown coat was dulled, lying on its side, bleeding a river from somewhere beneath its fur. It lay dying, as Harry lay dying, and as Tom lay atop him, drenched in Harry’s blood that touched him in places no one, and nothing, had ever touched…
How it changed things, made what had been building between them concrete. Astounding, what a river of his blood could do. Perhaps it was the purity of it, its cleansing, devastating power. It made them hold, and touch, until they were enmeshed, inseparable.
What if Harry hadn’t come back? Was any of this real, or merely dreams conjured by his irrevocably grieving mind? Were they right, those who called him mad?
The stag was dying, Tom saw it. It lay bleeding, not far from the bloodied cloth bag, a tide of deep red rushing over the floorboards, like an ocean surging against the shore…
Harry was dying. Tom could barely hear his heartbeat.
Suddenly, Tom realized he was breathing hard, fast, lungs tearing, throat tight, heart thrashing like a frightened animal.
A pained sound escaped his lips. He was trembling.
Tom tugged the blanket higher, the one they were sharing.
He shifted, quick and reckless, toward Harry’s warmth, toward his vulnerable, unconscious form.
His arm curled around Harry’s torso, unthinking and urgent. He needed to anchor himself in Harry’s presence, needed to wrap himself tightly around him, so tight that neither of them could dream of anything else.
Harry stirred in his sleep, startled, a soft whisper of his name slipping past parted lips, threaded with confusion, and concern.
“Shh,” whispered Tom, resting his cheek against Harry’s bony shoulder, curling tighter against him. “Let me hold you. I couldn’t sleep.”
Harry exhaled slowly. Unconsciously, he placed a hand against Tom’s arm that clutched him tight across his midriff. The hand slowly slipped away in sleep.
Tom held him tighter. Then, only then, did the madness ease. Then, only then, did sleep finally claim him, too.
~*~
Harry felt lean weight pressed against him as sleep slowly gave way to awareness, in the soft grey light of morning seeping through the windows.
For a moment, he was drowsy and muddled, until his eyes opened and his thoughts caught up. He saw a tumble of dark curls, the darkest, most luxuriant brown, pale skin, and lips parted faintly in sleep.
What startled him was how closely Tom had folded himself into him, head pillowed on Harry’s shoulder, arm fastened tight around Harry, a long leg sprawled over his own as though it had always belonged there.
Warmth spread through Harry’s chest, melting the last shreds of sleep. His heart beat with giddy, impossible fondness. For so long, Tom had kept his distance, wary and prickly, but now here he was, clinging in sleep as if Harry were a harbour he’d chosen without knowing.
Harry dared not move, not wanting to break the spell. His hand hovered, then settled lightly against Tom’s hair, brushing back a curl. The tenderness in him ached, almost painful with its force.
Tom stirred, eyes opening slowly, finding Harry at once. For a moment, his gaze was unfocused, soft with the haze of sleep, before sharpening to steady, arresting intensity.
“Good morning,” murmured Harry, his voice soft with affection he couldn’t hide.
“Morning,” returned Tom, still studying him, his hold on Harry unrelenting.
Harry smiled then, helplessly. He would never have foreseen such moments with Tom, yet here it was, a fragile miracle unfolding in his arms. And when Tom’s lips tugged into the faintest answering smile, it felt like sunlight breaking through a storm.
“Next time, warn me before using me as a pillow,” said Harry, smiling playfully, his voice light, teasing.
A faint flush crept across Tom’s cheek, his eyes startled as they stayed fixed on Harry, as if he’d never been spoken to like this before.
“Why?” asked Tom, caught off guard, unsure how to respond.
“My arm’s gone numb,” laughed Harry, wiggling his fingers. “Pins and needles everywhere.”
Tom just stared, his expression unreadable, like he was trying to figure out if it was some sort of trick.
Harry chuckled, gently extricating himself from Tom’s embrace and sitting up. “Come on,” he said, tossing him a warm, playful look. “If you’re feeling generous, you can help me with breakfast.”
Tom’s expression remained still and uncertain, as if his thoughts were moving sluggishly through his mind. After a moment, he nodded once, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
~*~
Chapter 23: Framed in the Doorway
Chapter Text
~*~
Harry had just opened the door, padding quietly down the stairs, leaving Tom to the upstairs bathroom they shared. He meant only to slip downstairs, to use the smaller bathroom near the kitchen. His body moved out of habit, but halfway down the creaking staircase, it struck him with dizzying force: how deeply he and Tom had bonded.
Only a month, yet the events strung between them felt heavier, stranger, more consuming than years of his life before. Two months ago, he would have laughed at the suggestion, he could never have imagined it, never have believed something so mad, so impossible, could come to pass. Yet here he was, his steps faltering on the worn wooden stairs as events of past month burned through him.
He sat down heavily once inside the bathroom, his mind whirring, full. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, breath caught in his throat. Ron would have had a word for this – several, in fact, punctuated by outrage. Hermione’s voice, still clear as though she had spoken only yesterday, rang through the haze of his thoughts. “They say, Harry, when you travel that far back in time, strange things happen. There are no limits to the wonders, the horrors, or the completely unexpected outcomes you may construct.”
The words struck harder now than they ever had. In a single month, he could see them proven.
Suddenly, he missed them all with a raw ache. Ron’s blunt warmth, Hermione’s sharp steadiness, the sound of their laughter that had once wrapped around him like a blanket. Sirius’s crooked smile, Remus’s weary gentleness, Snape’s bitter drawl. His mum, his dad.
Grief welled up with a violence that left him gasping.
Harry realized with a sick twist in his gut that it had been days since he’d even touched the letters and keepsakes Hermione had packed for him. At first, every night in this strange new life, he had clutched them as though they were lifelines, objects that tethered him to who he’d been, to the people he had loved and lost. But lately… he hadn’t reached for them.
Tom filled that space.
In the blur of the last weeks, Tom had taken up every inch of Harry’s mind, every thought, every moment. So quickly, so thoroughly, that the memory of his old life had begun to blur, the lines of familiar faces softening, voices slipping further and further away.
The realization terrified him.
His throat tightened. A hot pressure behind his eyes welled, and Harry pressed his face into his hands, muffling the sob that threatened to tear free. His elbows dug into his knees, his chest heaving, as he fought to keep the sounds inside him. His breath rasped in sharp, shallow pulls, each one aching more than the last.
I’m sorry, Harry whispered fiercely inside his head, for it was an astounding paradox that he had fallen slowly into. I’m sorry, all of you. I’m sorry. The words repeated like a chant, breaking in rhythm with his ragged breaths. Tears slipped hot and silent between his fingers, streaking his cheeks as he bent forward. Ron, Hermione… Sirius, Remus… Mum, Dad… Snape. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.
The images crashed over him – Ron’s grin, Hermione’s frown, Sirius’s laugh, all flashing too quickly, too vividly, like wind ripping through him.
Interwoven with them now, strikingly, were Tom’s solemn eyes, grey and fathomless. The tilt of his head, the calculating way he watched. His rare smile, small and quiet, like the shadow of sunlight. His fevered whispers. His clutching hands. His tears.
The past blurred, the present sharpened, and the present had pale skin, dark hair, and a gaze that swallowed everything else.
Let go.
The whisper came to him like an echo carried across time. His mother’s voice. The same words she had cried to him when his wand and Tom’s stayed locked in priori incantatem, refusing to kill each other. Her ghostly face was alight in the golden web that their twin wands had spun, and she had urged him to let go, as Harry stubbornly held on. Let go, Harry. Let go.
His chest hitched, but the words soothed, somehow. His shaking slowed.
And then, blindingly vivid, rushed Tom’s image, soft in the morning light, clutching Harry, leg draped over him. Gazing at him with intense eyes, with faint, answering smile. The image filled him, and soothed him, too.
~*~
Harry had washed his face until it cleansed his pain, dried it carefully until no trace of tears remained, and by the time he met Tom in the kitchen, he was warm again, smiling, steady. Together, they went through the motions of breakfast.
By the time they had finished eating, and began clearing the plates, Tom’s earlier softness had dulled into a faint sullenness, his mouth set in a line Harry knew all too well by now.
“Tom, you alright?” Harry asked gently. He flicked his wand; the dishes floated to the sink, and began scrubbing themselves under the running water.
“Yes,” murmured Tom, standing close.
Harry gave him a small smile.
“I’m going to Hogwarts,” said Harry, “to meet the headmaster. His name’s Armando Dippet. You’ll meet him too, when you start school.”
“When will you be leaving?”
“In about an hour.”
“Have you done your schooling at Hogwarts too?”
Harry paused, then reached for the story Dippet had carefully tailored, keeping the necessary secrets so he didn’t invite larger troubles that might slip beyond his hands. It pinched to say it, but he kept his voice gentle. “No. I was taught at home.”
“Oh.”
Harry glanced away briefly at the stab of guilt. He added quickly, “But Headmaster Dippet was happy to give me the job. I’m joining as the Hogwarts flying instructor.”
“Flying instructor?”
Harry’s lips quirked. “Flying’s something wizards do. On broomsticks. I’ll be training students to fly.”
Tom let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Broomsticks? Really? So the old stories weren’t superstitions.”
Harry’s chest warmed. “Not superstitions. And…” his eyes softened, “I’d like to teach you flying, too. We can start soon. I know winter’s nearly here, and you hate the cold, but would you like to try?”
“Yes,” said Tom at once.
The speed of it made Harry’s heart jubilant. He smiled quietly, fond. He flicked his wand, sending the clean dishes toward the drying rack.
But Tom wasn’t done.
“What’s the meeting for?”
A tug of guilt pulled at Harry as he thought of the letter hidden in his bag, the meeting’s true purpose that Tom could never know. “To talk about the job.”
“What things?”
“Oh, you know,” said Harry, keeping his tone light. “Schedules, timetables, things no one wants to hear about.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
Tom tilted his head, unconvinced. “Or are you keeping more secrets?”
Harry felt the faintest prickle of unease – he was indeed lying, but he smoothed it with a quiet smile. “No secrets. I’ve told you what I can.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“An hour, maybe less, depending on how busy he is. Could be quicker if I get lucky.”
“I need to know,” pressed Tom. “Who else will be there? Only the headmaster? Or will there be others?”
“Just him.” Harry met Tom’s gaze steadily. “Only the headmaster. No one else.”
A pause stretched. Tom’s voice dropped, softer, but taut. “I’d rather you didn’t go at all.”
Harry went still, unnerved.
The words constricted around him grasping and fragile at once. Warmth and unease twisted together in his chest. No one had ever said that to him, not Ron, not Hermione, not anyone. People had worried for him, yes, begged him to be careful.
But this was different.
“Tom,” he said, gentle, “It’ll be all right. It’s only a meeting.” Then, with a smile, he said, “And if I don’t go, Dippet might decide I’m too irresponsible for this job.”
That earned him nothing more than a flat look.
“I am going,” said Harry softly, not cold, but steady. “I have to. But I’ll be back before you know it.”
Tom’s eyes betrayed the slightest disagreement, before his face smoothed into a practiced composure. “All right,” he said.
His tone was cold, but Harry only smiled faintly, refusing to mirror the chill. He reached over, hesitation in his movement now scarcely there, and lightly ruffled Tom’s hair. “You’ll see, I’ll be home before you even get a chance to miss me.”
Harry had barely noticed the way Tom’s breath had caught in his chest.
~*~
Harry wore a dark trench coat over his regular clothes. When he stepped into the sitting room, Tom looked at him as though seeing him anew.
Harry took his leave with a soft smile. Tom stood at the threshold of the front door; he seemed reluctant to part with Harry, his quiet eyes and solemn lips betraying what he didn’t speak.
Leaving today felt different. It wasn’t like the times Harry had gone before, to fetch books from the library, or to pick up things for home. He told himself Tom’s reluctance was a result of the ordeal they had recently endured.
The weather was sharp, chilly, and thoroughly bleak, the air shifting from rain and sleet toward snow. Harry was sure it would begin snowing within a week or two.
As he walked carefully down the damp slope, instinct made him glance back at the cottage. His heart gave a sudden tug. Tom was still there, lingering in the doorway, pale and lean, clad in light shirt and dark short trousers, a spectre-like figure in the bleak light of the moors.
Harry lifted his hand in a light wave, his lips tugging into an aching smile.
Tom didn’t move. He only gazed after him, silent and still.
At the foot of the slope, Harry turned once more. Tom remained; distance hid his expression, and the quietness of his eyes.
Harry waved again.
This time, Tom’s hand rose, slow, slight, but enough.
Harry envisioned Hogsmeade, closing his eyes momentarily to the arresting presence of Tom in the distance.
When he opened them again, colour and motion swallowed him, tugging him through the chaos of apparition toward the wizarding village, the first necessary stop, since he wouldn't be able to directly apparate to Hogwarts.
~*~
Chapter 24: The Abyss Gazes Also Into You
Chapter Text
~*~
He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster.
And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.
- Friedrich Nietzsche
~*~
When Harry apparated onto the wet cobblestone road of Hogsmeade that lay glazed with rainwater, quaint stone houses and shops lining it with their elongated gables and steeply slanting roofs, he had no clear idea who might be there to receive him, or whom to approach regarding the headmaster’s summons.
He had magically shrunk the envelope in which Dippet’s letter had come, and had stowed it away in his pocket, the proof of his errand. If asked, he could show it, though the letter itself he had left behind, too dangerous to carry with him due to the secrets it contained about Tom.
He set off toward the Entrance Bridge, a long path that eventually led to the castle. If he walked far enough, he would reach close, but without a permitted escort, he would neither be able to see the castle grounds, nor be able to enter it.
Robed figures passed by him, hurrying into warmly lit shops, or lingering by display windows. Harry kept his eyes forward as he walked, opening his umbrella as rain began pattering down.
At the bend that led to the bridge, he stopped abruptly.
A thestral, skeletal and eerily black, was tethered to a waiting carriage.
Its leathery wings shivered slightly in the cold, misty air. Its eyes, pale, haunted, and unsettlingly intelligent, seemed to pierce straight through him.
An enormous man with a rugged, chewed-out face, a jagged scar running across it, and a slight limp, stood beside the creature. Without hesitation, he strode toward Harry.
“You must be Harry Potter,” said the man, voice gruff.
“Er, yes, could you by any chance–”
“Middle name?”
“James,” Harry replied, slightly thrown.
“Date of birth?”
“31st July.” His heart lurched when he realized he’d forgotten the year Dippet had specified in his fabricated birth certificate. Before panic could fully set in, the man growled –
“Any proof what business you’re here on?”
“Oh, yes,” said Harry, brightening. He drew the envelope from his pocket, and with a swift, wandless motion, restored it to its full size. “This. Though I won’t be able to provide the letter itself.”
The envelope alone should be proof enough.
“No matter,” the man grunted, waving it off without so much as a proper look. “Come on, then. Headmaster Dippet’s waitin’ on you.”
As Harry neared the carriage, he hesitated, captivated by the thestral. He gazed at its elongated, skeletal head, its thin, leathery wings tucked against its bony frame, its hollow, unblinking eyes, pale and chilling. He reached a tentative hand forward, hovering it before the creature’s face. The thestral gazed back, dark and unreadable, as if it already knew every secret Harry carried, every weight he bore, from Tom, from Dippet, from the future he desperately tried to contain.
“Come on, before it bites your hand off,” the man snapped, breaking Harry’s reverie.
Harry closed his umbrella, and climbed into the cramped carriage, and the man followed, settling opposite him. Harry offered a polite, tentative smile.
“The name’s Ogg,” said the man. “Gamekeeper here.”
“Nice to meet you, Ogg,” said Harry, vaguely recalling Mrs. Weasley mentioning him years ago. Ogg had lived long enough to be the gamekeeper during Mr. and Mrs. Weasleys’ Hogwarts days.
"Dippet said I’d find a skinny little lad with black hair pokin’ about like he’d lost somethin’. One look at your wide-eyed mug and I knew it were you."
Harry nodded, humming in acknowledgment. He tried to feign interest as Ogg chatted about his role as gamekeeper, and asked if Harry was related to Charlus Potter (who had graduated, per Ogg, a few years ago), or the Potters in general. When Harry lied that he wasn’t, Ogg’s brows lifted in surprise, but he continued chatting anyway.
Harry’s mind was elsewhere, twisting itself into knots with thoughts of the impending meeting. With every turn of the carriage wheels, he felt nervous anticipation churn in his chest.
The road wound on, the carriage having taken a different route, for the Entrance Bridge was meant only for foot traffic. Jagged trees pressed closer, until the path diverged and carried them into the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest.
At last, Hogwarts loomed ahead in the mist, its towers and turrets stately, familiar, unchanged, beneath this different sky, this altered time. If he allowed himself a fleeting pretence, he could almost imagine Hermione and Ron waiting inside, as if the world he once knew still existed.
The carriage drew up at the front of the castle. Harry stepped down, murmuring his thanks to Ogg.
He made his way past the stone port cochere into the paved courtyard.
Clusters of students strolled about, their voices rising in snatches of conversation.
As soon as he entered, a few heads turned. Harry felt their eyes on him.
He kept his eyes down, his instinctive aversion to attention solidifying after spending years under its glare, and pressed forward.
He did not know the names or faces of these students, nor whether among them were the ancestors of those he had once known; those he had loved, and lost.
He mounted the broad stone steps leading to the great doors of the reception hall.
No one stopped him. He only saw students passing by. And they all stared.
It was probably the trench coat, probably his unfamiliar face. He should have worn robes. Somehow, he always managed, unfortunately, to draw undue attention, he thought morosely.
Harry knew the castle like the back of his hand, and he supposed Dippet knew as much, that Harry would have no trouble finding his office.
From the hall, he took the smaller flight of stairs that led to the vast, moving, circular grand staircase. He climbed, and climbed, three shifting flights, until it deposited him before the Gargoyle corridor.
The corridor was empty, silent. At its end stood the Gargoyle, ugly yet stately, guarding the stairway to the headmaster’s office.
Harry halted.
How was Dippet supposed to know he was waiting?
“I’m here to meet Headmaster Dippet,” said Harry, hesitantly, to the Gargoyle.
The Gargoyle stared back, stony and unyielding.
“Can you… pass on the message or something?” tried Harry.
Still nothing.
Helpless, he lingered there for a long moment, until a crisp, small envelope floated towards him seemingly from nowhere. Harry caught it quickly and tore it open.
Dear Harry, the Gargoyle has alerted me to your presence. The password is Goblin Silver.
The instant Harry read it, the letter and the envelope snatched themselves from his grasp, and burnt in flames, black soot falling limply to the flagstone floor.
Harry, momentarily taken aback, recovered, and uttered the password aloud. The Gargoyle stepped aside at once.
He entered the moving staircase. At last, he found himself before the tall oak doors of the office.
Raising a hand, Harry knocked.
“Enter,” came a mild voice from within.
Harry pushed open the door and stepped into the large, semi-circular room.
It held the same warmth he remembered from when Dumbledore occupied it, though its appeal was different. Where there had been small, whirring contraptions cluttering every surface, now there were books, shelves upon shelves, so that the office resembled a library, more than an eccentric inventor’s workshop.
“Good morning, Headmaster,” said Harry, a rush of warmth rising in him at the sight of Dippet seated where Dumbledore once had. It was Dippet who had anchored him in this unfamiliar time, who had given Harry a chance to turn a lonely cottage into a home for himself and Tom. Yet in the old headmaster’s presence, in the authority of his wisdom, his long years, and his slightly austere expression, Harry felt a twinge of nervousness, too.
“A very good morning to you, Harry,” said Dippet. Unlike Dumbledore’s, whose smile bristled with whimsy, Dippet’s smile was formal, though always cordial. “I hope you’ve been well.”
“Yes,” said Harry without hesitation.
Only two days ago, Harry had lain in a pool of his own blood. That night, he had clutched Tom Riddle violently to his chest, crying into his hair. Then, yesterday morning, he had revealed to him that he was a rare wizard who could cheat death. Last night, Tom had slipped into his room again, and clung to Harry like a bur. This morning, Harry had woken with Tom in his arms, and, overcome with fierce affection, had brushed a hand through his hair.
All of that, yet Harry kept his expression steady, his voice even, and said simply, ‘Yes.’
Dippet’s expression made Harry feel, unsettlingly, as though the headmaster had witnessed every thought that had just rushed through his mind. Yet Harry was certain Dippet had not attempted to read it.
“Please, have a seat,” said Dippet.
Harry lowered himself into the chair across the table.
“Now, Harry,” began Dippet, his tone deliberate, “while I am glad you say you’ve been well, I must be forthright. I know something has occurred at the cottage. I placed protective wards around it, and I’ve no qualms in admitting this to you that they alert me whenever something drastic transpires there. The wards do not reveal the nature of the event, only that something of considerable magical force has occurred. And something has. What was it, Harry?”
Dippet had spoken with absolute seriousness.
A chill twisted through Harry.
“I assure you, it was nothing bad,” said Harry quickly. He had prepared himself for this, for protecting Tom, for revealing nothing of what had truly passed between them. But Dippet’s blunt, rapid declaration made Harry’s heart hammer all the same.
Harry promptly reached for lies rooted in truth, the kind that could withstand further cross-examination.
“It was a minor fight,” said Harry evenly. “You may recall Tom had some minor cuts, for which we went to St. Mungo’s. That was because he’d gone all the way to the nearest woods, quite a trek, really, in protest,” he repeated the story Tom had told the mediwitch, “because he felt I was being too… watchful. He was restless, uncomfortable, perhaps not used to being cared for. Three days ago we argued again for similar reasons, and this time Tom lost control of his magic. He lashed out, broke a number of crockeries, plates, mugs… that was all.”
Harry’s heart thudded painfully, but outwardly he maintained a steady composure. “I should add, Tom apologized, sincerely. And we’ve been getting along quite well since.”
Tom had, in fact, not apologized, not even once. Instead, he had come to Harry’s room with burnt toast and bitter tea, and that had been enough to gut Harry with molten affection. In that moment, Harry had realized that Tom was no longer the Tom of his previous life who was untouched by Harry.
Dippet had heard him in grave silence.
At last, his expression relented, but Harry couldn’t shake off the feeling that it was the headmaster’s deliberate choice not to press the matter further. “Very well, Harry,” said Dippet, voice weighted as though under a hundred million experiences. “If matters have resolved themselves, that is good to hear. It remains of the utmost importance that I monitor you both, to watch for any difficulties along the way. But if you say things are easing between you, that is welcome news indeed.”
Harry nodded, letting loose, just barely, the knot of tension in his chest.
“And in any case,” said Dippet, “I cannot intrude overmuch into your life, Harry. Owing to the temporal nature of your presence here. You must exercise the utmost care and responsibility in all matters concerning him, for neither I nor others can intervene much, save in circumstances most extraordinary.”
Harry absorbed that with intent seriousness. “I shall keep that in mind, sir.”
“Very good.” Dippet inclined his head. “Now tell me, have you been keeping the boy occupied with studies? Reading, writing, the rudiments? And, has there been any practice of magic as yet?”
“Oh, yes,” said Harry. “I’ve brought him some books from the library, and I bought a beginner’s spellbook as well. I’ve been teaching him a few spells.”
“Oh? And what spells, pray?”
Harry listed them.
Dippet’s expression shifted, pleased, then concerned. “A commendable effort, Harry, most commendable,” he said, “Yet I must caution you, in your enthusiasm you may have gone somewhat beyond the mark. Some of those spells you mentioned are not first-year material at all, they’re second, even third-year. You must be careful not to give him too much too soon, considering the strength of his capabilities.”
A pang of irony struck Harry. Once, he had been so reluctant, determined not to teach Tom any magic at all. Yet, blinded by growing affection, he had not even realized that he had gone too far the other way.
“Yes, Headmaster,” said Harry, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good,” said Dippet. “Now, lastly, we come to an important matter that concerns your position here at Hogwarts, Harry.”
Harry felt the faintest tremor of dread at Dippet’s grave tone.
“While the position I have granted you remains yours, and my word in this regard remains unchanged, you must understand that any teaching role at Hogwarts demands relevant and adequate preparation. I do not in the slightest doubt your skill in flying. Yet teaching it within a school, ensuring the safety and instruction of young students, requires expertise beyond what you may have gained as a student, or as a member of the school Quidditch team.
“I left you undisturbed this past month considering you needed the time to settle in with Tom. But now I must insist you begin the necessary training within the next two months. It will require a considerable portion of your time, and must commence at once.”
Harry was still, trepidation clawing in him.
He could already see the way Tom would receive this news.
“What sort of training, sir?”
“A course that is compulsory for all flying instructors in the wizarding world, whether at Hogwarts, or with professional Quidditch teams,” explained Dippet. “The standard is six months. Given your unique circumstances, you may complete it in two. I must insist on this, Harry. Should you decline, I cannot uphold the position I promised. Of course, I may grant you the full six months if you prefer, though this will delay your joining at Hogwarts. Alternatively, I can assist you in finding another post, but it will not be at Hogwarts. The choice is yours.”
Harry tried to take it all in.
If he refused, the job would be lost.
He needed this post, to be near Tom, possibly, and preferably, until Tom graduated.
Stretching the training to six months meant finishing it only three months before Tom began his first year at Hogwarts, leaving barely a month before the school closed for the holidays to acclimate to his very first job, with all the inexperience he would still face despite the training.
No.
As punishing as two condensed months of training sounded, it was, he knew, the wisest choice.
“I will take the two-month course, Headmaster,” said Harry.
At that, Dippet’s expression softened, with empathy, or with pity, perhaps, and his eyes carried a gentleness Harry had not noticed before.
The rest of their meeting passed with Dippet carefully outlining how Harry was to proceed. Harry also mentioned his request to be allowed to travel to and from Hogwarts daily once he began his job after the two-month course, and to be exempted from residing on the grounds like the other professors, until Tom started his first year, since he had to care for him at home. Dippet permitted it immediately, without the slightest difficulty.
At one point, he had a splendid lunch brought to the office, despite Harry’s protests. He joined Harry at the table himself, easing Harry’s discomfort, turning the meal into something almost companionable. Harry was glad that he had cooked lunch for Tom before leaving the cottage, having heard an instinct in him that told him to keep it ready for Tom in case Harry got late reaching their cottage.
By the time it concluded, the headmaster’s demeanour had grown even kinder.
Harry took his leave, the warm, strangely nostalgic room leaving him with a heart no less settled than when he had entered.
~*~
When Harry apparated back to the cottage, the silence inside was loud enough to make his ears ring. He removed his coat, hung it on the stand by the door, set his umbrella down, and glanced at the clock on the mantel. Two in the afternoon. He’d been gone far longer than he’d promised.
Tom sat in his armchair, rigidly composed, his dark expression carving shadows across his pale face. He didn’t rise, neither did he greet him. His stillness was eloquent enough.
“You’re late,” said Tom at last, voice smooth but taut.
“I know. I’m sorry. The meeting went on longer than I expected.”
“You said one hour.”
“Yes. I thought so. But it stretched.”
Tom’s lips curled, though not in a smile. “Strange. You claimed it was only timetables and schedules. What could possibly require so much discussion?”
“I’m sorry, Tom. Truly.”
The apology hung between them, heard but not accepted. Tom turned his face away, profile sharp against the firelight. He looked as though he’d already carved out the grudge and placed it neatly beside him, waiting for Harry to notice how it wounded him.
Harry, unwilling to let the silence calcify, muttered something about fetching water and slipped into the kitchen.
The sight that met him stopped him in his tracks.
On the counter lay a chopping board. Carrots, potatoes, parsnips, onions, celery, all neatly cut into small, uneven cubes. It was not careless, not childish, but deliberate, each piece slightly mismatched yet recognizably careful. The knife still rested on the side.
For a moment, Harry just stared. His throat tightened inexplicably. Tom – sharp, prickly impossible Tom – had done this.
He hurried back into the sitting room.
Tom didn’t look up. He spoke before Harry could open his mouth, his tone still dark, sullen, but deliberate, as if he had rehearsed this.
“I thought I’d do it for you,” he said. “Your body might still be weak… after–” he broke off, faltering as though in distress, then resumed in that same calm, low voice, “–after everything. And today, you were out so long, I thought you’d be tired.”
Harry’s stomach dropped. His first, irrational terror was of blood, thin fingers sliced open, crimson against pale skin. He strode to the armchair before he could think better of it and dropped to his knees, seizing Tom’s hands.
Tom stiffened, glaring down at him, but Harry ignored it, running his thumb along each finger, turning his hands palm-up, searching.
“Did you cut yourself?” demanded Harry, voice tight.
Tom’s fingers twitched, caught in Harry’s grasp. “I did not,” he said flatly.
Harry checked again anyway, tracing the smooth skin, his own hands shaking slightly. No cuts, no blood. Just fine, elegant fingers resting in his.
When Harry finally looked up, Tom was watching him with that dangerous stillness, his expression unreadable, except for the faintest slant of his mouth, whether in mockery, or something else, Harry couldn’t tell.
Harry’s thumbs smoothed over Tom’s unmarked fingers one last time.
He let Tom’s hands go, but not before he said, voice low and thick, “Tom… you didn’t have to. I’d have done it easily. It isn’t any trouble for me.”
Tom’s eyes were unreadable, something dangerous stirring behind the flat calm of his face.
“You know I never do it by hand,” continued Harry, searching his expression. “I just let the knives chop for me. It isn’t much work at all,” his voice softened, breaking into something almost scolding, almost pleading, “What if you’d cut yourself, doing it with your own hands?”
For a heartbeat, Tom looked ready to spit something back, something sharp, but Harry’s expression must have disarmed him. Harry knelt there, gazing at him, chest swelling with raw affection. Then his lips tugged into a soft, helpless smile. “Thank you,” murmured Harry.
Before Tom could react, Harry leaned in, gathering Tom into his arms.
Tom froze, going still as a statue. Harry could feel the sudden, shallow flutter of his breathing against his shoulder, hear the quiet catch in his throat. Tom’s frame was rigid, braced, but he did not push Harry away.
Harry’s eyes closed. He held him, gentle yet firm, and in that moment, it felt as though the world shrank down to the cottage, to the firelight, to the boy who had chopped carrots and parsnips with his too-careful hands.
When Harry finally drew back, Tom’s face was as blank as ever, but the faint flush in his cheeks betrayed him. Tom’s dark eyes gleamed, not with softness, but with something hungrier, sharper.
They settled after that, Harry sitting on the couch beside the armchair with a glass of water, Tom in the armchair, gaze steady on Harry. The silence between them was filled with unspoken things, until Harry finally cleared his throat.
“I should tell you how the meeting went,” he began carefully.
Tom tilted his head slightly, all attention now, still and expectant.
Harry chose his words with precision, trimming truth with lies, offering a version safe enough to share. He spoke of formalities, of a position that would be his to keep. All of it true, in part.
But then came the part he dreaded. He swallowed, gaze lowering.
“There’s something else,” said Harry quietly. “The headmaster’s made it… a requirement, of sorts. I have to undergo a training. It’s two months long, five days a week.” He forced the words out, his voice tightening. “I’ll be out through the day, and back in the evenings.”
The fire popped in the grate.
Tom’s face went dark; his stillness rang louder than any outburst. His hands gripped the armrests of the chair, pale knuckles pressing against the worn wood.
Harry’s chest knotted. He braced himself for the storm.
Tom sat motionless for a long time, firelight flickering across his pale face, shadowing his eyes until they seemed to burn. His lips parted slowly, like he needed to taste the words before he let them strike.
“You’re leaving me, to rot.”
Harry stilled, dread tightening. “Not leaving. Just–”
“You’ll be out all day,” Tom cut in, voice suddenly sharp, a lash of steel, “gone, absent, every day, like every other useless adult who abandons their child. Tell me again how that isn’t leaving.”
Harry’s heart constricted, but he kept his tone even. “Tom, I’m not abandoning you. I’ll be back every night. This is for us – for me to keep the post at Hogwarts. For you, when you start school–”
“For me?” Tom’s laugh was cold, brutal, a boy’s frame with a man’s scorn. “How very noble. You vanish for hours, and I’m supposed to sit here, quiet, good, waiting like some dog until you deign to come home again?”
Harry’s patience held, but only just. He leaned forward, voice low. “Tom. Please. It’s two months. We’ll manage.”
Tom rose from his chair in a whip of sudden motion, face carved with fury. “No,” he hissed, “You’ll manage. You’ll stroll off every morning, free of me, free of this–” he tersely indicated, once, at the cottage, at their fragile, intimate world, eyes fixed ruthlessly on Harry “– and I’ll sit here rotting, wondering what strangers are feeding your time. Wondering what you keep from me.”
“That’s not fair,” said Harry, sharper now.
“Fair?” Tom’s eyes went darker. “Do you imagine I care about fair? I care about you, here, with me, not running off where I cannot follow.”
Harry’s chest burned. He tried, desperately, to soften, to soothe. “Tom. I’ll always come back. Always. You matter more than anything.”
“Do I? Do I matter enough for you to feel any shame, knowing I can tell you’ve probably lied through every word? Do I matter enough for you to feel remorse for the excuses you’ve just spouted for being gone all day?”
Harry flinched, “No, Tom, this is not an excuse–”
Tom cut in, striking harder, crueller. “You hide things from me. You go about playing the saint, dripping tenderness, as if I’m some half-wit child too dull to notice anything else. But I see everything, Harry. Now you expect me to sit quietly while you vanish every day, as though I matter no more than a piece of furniture in this room.”
Harry sat there, struck dumb. Tom… Tom was unlike anyone he had ever called close. The Dursleys’ cruelty had been cold, careless, and it had scarcely mattered. His friends had always meant well. But this… this was different.
Only another presence had ever cut him with such fiery, ruthless precision, and that was Tom Riddle, grown into Voldemort, himself.
“You’re pathetic,” spat Tom, turning crueller by the minute, as he let lose his fury, his fear, “You sit on your secrets, and now you can’t wait to run the second you’ve got an excuse. That’s what you were waiting for, wasn’t it? A way out. Or else you’d have just kept rotting here alone, like you always do. Because no one has ever wanted you.”
Harry’s control, painstakingly held, began to fray. His voice rose, ragged with frustration, though love still pulsed hot beneath it. “For God’s sake, Tom!” He surged to his feet, hand raking through his hair. “I thought – after what you did to me – you’d have some concern, some decency.”
Tom froze.
Harry’s chest heaved, words spilling now, unstoppable. “You nearly killed me." He paused, breathless, nearly unable to speak with fury, with ache. “I bled out on this floor because of you. I cared for you anyway. And you can’t,” his voice broke, “you can’t even give me two months without tearing me apart for it?”
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Tom’s face twisted, not in rage this time, but in something far uglier, a wound struck deep. His eyes burned, but no tears came. His lips pressed into a thin, vicious line.
Without a word, he turned and strode for the stairs, like a storm that restrained itself.
“Tom–” began Harry, but Tom didn’t stop.
The slam of the bedroom door rattled the cottage.
Harry stood alone in the flickering light, chest hurting, his own words echoing back at him like curses he wished he could take back.
~*~
The house was too quiet.
Harry had been pacing for what felt like hours, sick restlessness gnawing at his gut until he could hardly bear it. Tom’s words were lodged like poisoned barbs in his chest. But Harry could also see, clear as day, that Tom’s cruelty was defence, anger, a mask. For it was the same Tom who had stood in the kitchen painstakingly carving vegetables, simply because Harry might be weary.
At last, unable to stand it, he climbed the stairs and stood before Tom’s closed door. His hand hovered over the wood, uncertain, then knocked, gentle, tentative.
“Tom,” he said softly, almost pleading. “Let me in.”
Silence.
Harry waited, heart pounding, hoping, praying Tom would relent. He knocked again, whispering, “Please.”
Still, nothing.
Finally, with a weary sigh, Harry lifted his wand. He muttered the unlocking charm, and the door clicked open.
Tom was sat stiff on the bed, his eyes blazing, lips curled in a snarl that looked far too dangerous for someone his age.
“So you can open my door with magic,” hissed Tom, voice trembling with fury. “Funny, that. All this time you kept your door locked against me like I was some common thief, yet mine you waltz through without hesitation.”
Harry tried to soothe the storm. “Tom… it’s not like that. I wasn’t shutting you out. I just–”
“Just what?” Tom cut in. “Just didn’t trust me?”
Harry stepped closer despite the venom, despite the way Tom’s eyes glittered like knives. “Listen to me,” he said softly. “I’m not leaving you, all right? I’m not.”
“Aren’t you? You’re already running, Harry. You couldn’t wait.”
Harry didn’t argue again. He simply closed the last of the distance between them and pulled Tom into his arms.
Tom’s breathing came sharp, uneven, and for a moment Harry thought Tom might shove him off, strike him, lash out with all the fury brimming in his thin frame. But slowly, reluctantly, the fight quietened. Tom didn’t relax, but the tension dulled, his fists unclenching.
Harry bent his head, voice low, soothing. “Hey… listen to me. I might not be here for a few hours. But otherwise, I’m here. I’m always here. That’s what life is, isn’t it? We all have things we need to do. But when I come back, it’s you and me again.”
He drew back just enough to meet Tom’s dark, furious gaze. “When I return in the evenings, we can do whatever you like. Anything you want.”
Something flickered in Tom’s expression then, something dangerous, calculating, a shadow of thought like smoke behind his eyes. His voice was quieter when he spoke, but no less sharp.
“Whatever I want?”
“Yes,” said Harry. “As long as it’s not about the things I can’t tell you.”
Tom’s stare was long, heavy.
And then, just as suddenly as his rage had spiked, Tom gave a small nod.
Harry felt a smile tug weakly at his lips, relief flooding him, grateful for the truce.
~*~
The cottage filled with the scent of stew and herbs. Harry stirred the beef stew, his heart tugging as he added the vegetables Tom had chopped earlier.
The evening wore on, and Tom ate in his usual poised, deliberate way, each bite measured, each glance toward Harry unreadable. The silence between them had softened since their earlier storm.
They washed up together afterward, magic drying the dishes in neat stacks, and then, they retreated to their rooms.
Harry was bone-tired, though the weariness in him wasn’t just physical, it was emotional. He undressed slowly, slipped into softer clothes, slid beneath his quilt, and exhaled into the quiet.
The knock came just as he began to drift.
It carried the urgency and sharpness Harry had learned to recognize.
He pulled the quilt back and padded to the door, opening it to find Tom standing there in his nightclothes, shadows sharpening his already stark face.
“Let me spend the night with you again,” said Tom without prelude. His gaze burned raw. “I can’t sleep.”
Harry’s heart thudded sharply. Worry clawed in him, deep and uncomfortable, but he stepped aside, wordlessly allowing Tom in.
It’s fair, Harry told himself. After everything that’s happened, after what I told him today. Maybe he just needs safety, comfort, something steady to hold on to.
They settled into bed, awkward at first, two bodies lying parallel, a careful distance between them.
After some time, Harry broke the silence. His voice was quiet.
“My door isn’t locked magically anymore,” he said. “I trust you, Tom. I’ll let myself trust you, and I’ll let you show me how you’ll handle that trust.”
The admission felt like a risk, even as he said it.
Tom’s eyes gleamed in the firelight. He didn’t hesitate. “I know,” he said. “I went into your room when you weren’t here.” His tone was matter-of-fact, stripped of apology.
Harry was stunned. Not at the trespass itself, he had half expected it, but at Tom’s candour.
Tom went on, voice soft, “Very well, Harry. I’ll let you see how I handle your trust.”
It struck Harry as sweet. Or was it sweet? The line was too thin to discern. Was it honesty, or a threat hidden in honesty?
Harry’s thoughts churned.
He had been careful. The most important things, the Hallows, and Dippet’s letter, remained locked away in his cupboard, bound by wards strong enough to withstand Tom’s attempts, the same wards he’d used on his door.
Everything else, the keepsakes from Hermione, memories of a life gone, he had left out in the open, not because he valued them any less.
The Hallows were of utmost necessity if he was to raise Tom successfully and survive it. His death at Tom’s hands had made that painfully clear.
The letter from Dippet… that secret Harry would guard fiercely to protect Tom from burdens he wasn’t ready to carry.
No, he left the rest in plain sight because in his heart arose the same need to test Tom. The thought that he had turned his memories into bait made his stomach turn, yet he could not stop himself. He needed to see if Tom would pass this test, see if Harry had been any good as a guardian.
The thought gnawed at him now. He wanted to go check his belongings immediately, see if anything had been touched, shifted, pried open. But a stronger urge pinned him in place; it was a need to remain here, in this bed, with Tom beside him. He would wait until morning.
When Harry’s eyes caught Tom’s again, Tom was staring at him.
His dark eyes were steady, almost predatory in its focus.
To anyone else, it would have been unnerving.
But Harry found himself growing used to Tom’s quirks. He tucked this, too, into the growing list of Tom’s idiosyncrasies that no longer startled him.
Harry’s heart felt heavy with a complicated affection. He smiled despite himself, softly.
Then he shifted onto his side, turning fully toward Tom, meeting him head-on.
For the briefest moment, Tom’s face betrayed surprise. Then it darkened again, eyes bottomless, fathomless abyss that gave nothing back.
Harry didn’t flinch. He held his gaze, stubborn and steady.
Tom didn’t flinch either.
Silence lingered. Then Tom moved. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted a hand. Harry could see the faint quickening of his breath, could feel the slight tremor of hesitation, before Tom placed his palm softly against Harry’s cheek.
Harry’s lips tugged helplessly into a smile again, playful this time, as though accepting whatever strange game this was that Tom had decided to play. Harry didn’t look away. He only gazed deeper into his dark eyes, dangerous abyss from which he could perhaps never truly return.
Harry’s eyelids grew heavy, his body yielding to the pull of sleep. He tried to resist, but the day’s weight dragged him down.
In the end, Tom won the game. Harry slipped under; the last thing he felt was Tom’s hand against his skin.
~*~
Tom lay awake for a while, gaze fixed on Harry’s face. After a long, restless pause, he shifted close, fastening his arm tight around Harry’s waist, same as he had the night before. Pressed so near, he breathed in his scent, sweet, maddening, elusive, like him. His warmth bled into him, until Tom felt branded by it. Then, only then, did he let sleep claim him too.
~*~
Chapter 25: Enclosed in Love
Chapter Text
~*~
Harry woke that morning to find himself tangled yet again in Tom’s limbs.
But it was different this time.
The day before, he had woken up from a heavy, near-comatose sleep, body still recovering, only to be swept away by the sight of Tom wound tight around him.
Last night, however, when Harry had stirred awake briefly in the middle of the night, he had found Tom tucked against him, but instead of disengaging himself, Harry – half-dreaming, heedless – had only nestled closer.
Morning burned with clarity, though.
Harry was not ashamed, nor angry.
What unsettled him was the relentless shock of it, the way his mind reeled each time.
Tom had shifted slightly lower in the night; his head rested against Harry’s chest, his arm locked firm around Harry’s waist, and his leg thrown over his with possessive ease.
Carefully, Harry began easing himself free.
Tom was a light sleeper, though. The shift roused him, grey eyes opening, dreamy, and darkening the instant they fixed on Harry.
Not long after, they were in the kitchen, sharing breakfast. There was a heavy silence between them that morning, unlike the brightness of the previous morning.
Harry had sunk into the sofa after that.
Tom rose from his armchair. The movement reminded Harry of a feline that stalked slowly.
He sat down beside Harry. It was not softness that Harry saw on Tom’s face.
Through breakfast, Tom was mostly silent. Now, there was an unmistakable air of intent simmering off him.
“Yesterday,” said Tom, voice quiet, “just hearing you say you’d be gone for so long filled me with blind rage.” His storm-grey eyes were dark, locked on Harry. “But then I started thinking about what you said. You talked about this two-month course. But in two months, you’d be starting your job as well. Which means,” his lips twisted, bitter, sharp, “it’s not just those two months you’ll be away. It’s more. By February you’ll be off again, and it won’t stop there. It’s like you’re gone for forever, not just for a little while.”
Harry had expected this, but not so soon, with Tom practically cornering him.
Yet, Harry’s tone was gentle, patient.
“Yes, I know,” said Harry, “but it will be for the better. Think about it.” He paused, willing Tom to see what he saw. “By the time you join Hogwarts, I’ll already be settled into the work. It’s my first job, after all. If I start earlier, I’ll have time to find my footing. Then, when you’re there, I won’t be weighed down by learning the ropes, I’ll be able to give you more of my attention.” He leaned forward slightly, sincerity raw in his voice. “Even at Hogwarts, Tom, I’ll find ways to spend time with you.”
But Tom looked at Harry as though the words slid off him like rain on glass. No recognition, no softening, nothing.
Finally, Tom said, with quiet disdain, “No. I’m sure this is for your own benefit. None of mine.”
The words struck like a slap. Harry felt irritation flare. He bit it back, pressing his tongue hard against the roof of his mouth. He would not snap, not now.
Tom was far from finished.
“And another thing,” His voice dropped further, as though to ensnare tighter, “Yesterday, you had the audacity to throw at me that I nearly killed you. That I ought to have some ‘decency’ now.” Tom’s mouth twisted, almost incredulous. “Forgetting, of course, that I stood there chopping vegetables for you. That I could have cut myself. But no, none of that mattered, you just had to throw something spiteful back at me. Just to win. How dare you?”
Harry had thought himself prepared for Tom’s turns, but this, this incisiveness, the way Tom would peel back each misstep, and expose them, raw and ugly, left him breathless.
“I hate myself,” said Tom, voice trembling slightly, “for being so blinded by your… your–” He broke off. For a moment, something hovered on his tongue, something dangerous, revealing, but he held it back, altering course at the last instant. “…your tender act. Your tender looks.” His jaw tightened. “Had it been anyone else, Harry, I would have ripped them to shreds for wounding me like that.” His words lashed like a whip. “You knew. You knew how it affected me. You saw what it did to me, seeing you lying in your own blood, my hands the cause. Yet you chose to give me that cruel retort.”
Harry sat stunned, pulse hammering in his ears. A hot instinct rose in him to chastise Tom thoroughly for that phrase… ‘ripped them to shreds.’ It struck a primal terror, for in that instant he saw clearly how it echoed Voldemort.
Yet with herculean will, and in a striking, lucid moment of presence of mind, Harry restrained the knee-jerk reaction that had once made him force Tom to burn his stolen possessions. Instead, he chose – whether it would lead to ruin or redemption, he could not yet know – but he chose love, and heeded to hear the fervid love that lay mixed in Tom’s venom.
“I’m sorry, Tom.”
The words left Harry hoarsely. For a moment, Tom only stared, grey eyes still brewing with storm.
Harry didn’t wait for a reply. He only gathered Tom into his arms.
Tom’s frame was stiff at first, his body resisting it when he was so livid. But Harry only held him tighter. He pressed his chin to Tom’s narrow shoulder, clutched him with desperate urgency, because what else was there to do? He needed this. Tom needed this.
As Harry melted into his warmth, into Tom’s thin frame, he ferociously thought, I am flawed. My mind is torn by griefs and traumas that never healed. I lash out without knowing, saying the cruellest things. Tom gets caught in the crossfire, in wounds that aren’t his, in wounds that aren’t yet caused by him in this strange past.
Harry’s hold tightened. I must love him. Love him until there is nothing left. Love him enough to make up for every slip. Love him in moments like these, when my wounds aren’t pressed at, when I’m not lashing out in blind pain.
Harry held him harder. His breaths came ragged, chest tightening, throat burning. His eyes stung behind closed lids.
Tom had melted right back against him in the midst of Harry’s fevered, self-flagellating thoughts. His breaths had quickened too. Harry felt the shudder of an exhalation, then the sharp intake of a gasp, against his collar.
Then Tom began reciprocating, swift, almost brutal. One hand braced on Harry’s shoulder, the other locked tight around his waist, tugging Harry closer with surprising strength.
“Tom,” whispered Harry. He cradled Tom’s head, fingers slipping into the dark curls. His heart beat fervently for him, fierce protectiveness flowing like molten fire through his veins. He pressed his lips to Tom’s hair, breathing in his iron-like scent. “My tenderness for you is not an act,” said Harry. “Never think that, and never forget it, no matter what.”
Tom only shuddered in his arms, burying his face deeper into the crook of Harry’s neck, jaw pressed hard against Harry’s shoulder.
“I may say stupid things sometimes,” Harry said, voice aching. “Forgive me for it.”
Tom stayed pressed tight, clinging to him with relentless force.
They remained like that for a long time, until their breathing eased, until the thunder of their heartbeats slowly quieted.
When at last they drew apart, Tom’s grey eyes were dark, the shade of the blackest storm, as they pierced into Harry’s. His cheeks were flushed, but the heat only made his gaze more dangerous. Harry felt the intensity sear into his very soul.
And yet he gazed back, steady, unafraid, his love and affection for it now unmistakable.
~*~
After lunch, when the kitchen had quieted and the air smelled faintly of herbs from their cooking, Harry and Tom had settled into their usual rhythm of practice. Charms and spells, flicks of the wand that sent sparks scattering over the worn floorboards, Tom sharp-eyed and hungry for more than Harry would give him, Harry patient, steady, reigning him in.
When at last Harry called an end to the practice, Tom obeyed, retreating into one of his books as if to brood through the rest of the afternoon. Harry left him to it. His body was tired, his mind heavier still, and the lure of the bed upstairs tugged at him with insistent gravity.
In the morning, Harry had not been able to check, with Tom beside him, whether his belongings had been rifled through, or worse, something taken. The urge had risen the night before, but he had suppressed it, unwilling to spoil the moment with Tom. Now, alone in his room, he looked. As far as he could tell, nothing was disturbed, nothing missing. Love for Tom swelled in him stronger. He only hoped the propriety would endure.
He lay back against the sheets, one arm flung above his head, staring up at ceiling, at the low wooden rafters. But it wasn’t rest that came. Instead, his thoughts reeled back to the meeting in Dippet’s office, the words the old Headmaster had said, all the things Harry had not repeated to Tom.
Temporal nature of the situation requires care, and restraint, Dippet had stressed, his expression grave. Your presence here alters much already, for the better, we hope. But we must tread with utmost caution. Tom must not be placed openly in the wizarding world before his time at Hogwarts begins. To do so would be folly. We cannot predict what unforeseen outcomes such a premature step may invite.
Harry exhaled through his nose, the memory sharp inside him. He could still hear Dippet’s voice, firm beneath its gentleness. Tom must remain in seclusion. Tom must remain in the cottage.
Keep him occupied, Dippet had instructed. Give him lessons, yes, but structure them. Not only magical. Make him write. Writing exercises, proper muggle studies alongside the magical. Build him slowly, steadily. Keep his mind too busy to look beyond the walls.
Harry rolled onto his side, staring at the dip on the pillow next to his, where Tom had rested. He let out another heavy breath that was held in him. The memory of the meeting pressed forward, heavier still.
There had been more. Dippet had leaned forward across the desk, his eyes piercing through the dim-lit office.
There is another reason Tom must not step beyond protection. The Fidelius hides him there, no one can find him, no one can reach him, unless he leaves it. And he must not leave. Keep a ward around the perimeter, Harry, subtle but strong. He must not be able to pass it, even if he tries.
Harry remembered the weight of those words, the way his chest had tightened. “Why? Is something wrong?” he had asked, unable to keep the disquiet from his tone.
Dippet’s eyes had softened, but remained resolute. I will tell you in due time, Harry. Not now. Trust that it is necessary. For the present, let that suffice.
Harry had wanted to press further, but something in Dippet’s gaze had stilled him. He had left it, trusting Dippet, though unease pooled in him.
And then, Dippet had drawn a ring from a small wooden case, the silver catching the firelight as he held it out. For Tom. It is charmed to respond only in moments of true distress. If danger threatens him, it will call to you, no matter where you are. Place it on him when he is willing to wear it, when he is in a mood to obey rather than rebel. Do not force it, or he will cast it off the moment your back is turned.
Harry turned the memory of that ring over in his mind now, as though he still felt its cool weight in his palm. He would have to coax Tom into accepting it, make him believe it was a gift, not a tether. That would require gentleness, patience, things Tom was not always inclined to meet him with.
And for his own messages to you, Dippet had added, get him an owl. A creature of his own. Let him feel the power of reaching you if he needs to. And you may get one for yourself, or use the facilities at the training centre. The training grounds are near, in Scotland, but outside of Hogwarts.
The thought of an owl for himself twisted sharp grief in his chest. Hedwig’s white wings fluttered in his mind, her loyal amber eyes, her soft hoot that had been home to him as much as anything ever had. She was gone. He could not bear another.
But Tom could have one. Tom should. Perhaps it would soften him, tether him in ways Harry himself could not.
Memories of Liquorice twisted sharper still into his chest.
But getting Tom an owl was a necessity now.
Harry's chest ached with the burden of secrets, of all the things Dippet had said, all the things he withheld carefully from Tom. He buried his face into the pillow, but the unease grew, gnawing at the back of his mind.
~*~
Chapter 26: That Shuddering Thing
Notes:
Hey all, just a quick note: this chapter opens with a flashback to the day after Harry first arrived this year (about a month ago), before shifting forward to pick up from where the last chapter ended.
Chapter Text
~*~
26th October, 1937.
Armando Dippet, in all his three centuries of life, had never witnessed anything quite so strange, so shocking, so utterly singular, as what had transpired on the 25th of October, 1937.
And that was saying something.
He had lived through Goblin rebellions, through plagues, through the rise and fall of wizards whose names had once inspired terror across continents. But yesterday… yesterday had been different. It was a day he knew, deep in his ancient bones, that would be marked in history, not only wizarding history, but perhaps in the histories of the entire world.
And the next day, the 26th of October, he could not hold the burden of it in silence any longer.
He had chosen temperance, mercy, trust, when he might have chosen suspicion and merciless precautions. He had looked at the boy, Harry Potter, and seen something so disarmingly genuine, so pure, that he could not bring himself to doubt. Not yet.
But others had to be told. Others with power, with responsibility, had to be warned.
So Armando ceased pacing the length of his office, his old feet aching with every restless turn, and strode instead to the fireplace. He seized the waiting bowl of emerald powder with a hand that did not tremble, but only because he forbade it to.
He cast the powder, stepped into the flames, and allowed the flames to transport him to the Ministry.
He emerged directly in the Minister’s office, a privilege afforded by age, office, reputation.
The room was full; Minister Hector Fawley was at the head of his long table, his two ever-present Unspeakables flanking him – Gregory Broadmoor and Howard Gudgeon – and a cluster of lesser officials were gathered around, muttering over documents.
They all looked up as the fire flared.
At once, chairs scraped back, and every single man and woman rose.
A reverential silence fell.
“Headmaster,” said Hector, inclining his head with grave courtesy. The others echoed the gesture, inclining their heads to him.
When one had lived as long as Armando had, nearly every face you saw was the face of a child you had once taught, once guided. He still saw them that way now, his children. And his children must be warned.
“Minister,” Armando returned the bow of his head, his voice level but heavy. “I must speak with you in private. Immediately.”
Hector did not hesitate. He dismissed the officials at once, his tone clipped, brooking no delay. They departed swiftly, sensing the gravity of it.
“Please, sir, have a seat,” urged Hector as the door closed behind them. But Armando remained standing, his spine ramrod straight despite his years. His eyes moved to the Unspeakables.
“Gregory. Howard,” he said, addressing them by name, as he always did. To him, they were not faceless agents of secrecy, but boys who had once sat in his classroom. He remembered them both – Gregory, quick-tempered but brilliant; Howard, quiet, sharp, righteous.
They inclined their heads in acknowledgement.
“What is it you bring to us, Headmaster?” asked Hector, though his voice already carried an edge of dread.
“There is a grave concern I must lay before you,” said Armando. “What we saw yesterday has consequences that reach farther than any of us yet understand.”
The three men stood still, tense.
“Harry Potter,” said Armando, his voice lowering, instinctively, as though even stone walls might betray him, “is indeed the Master of Death. He possesses the Elder Wand, as we witnessed yesterday with our own eyes. But this has grave ramifications, gentlemen.”
Hector’s brows creased with concern, though Gregory and Howard had realization slowly dawning with horror in their eyes, prompted into a certain clarity at Armando’s words, a certain realization they hadn’t perhaps considered before.
“It means,” said Armando, “that the wand Grindelwald holds, is no longer his,” he let them know grimly. “It will not obey him, not fully, and not for long. He must already feel its resistance. When he realizes why, when he begins to search for the cause…”
The implication needed no spelling out.
Hector’s hands clenched white. “Then we stand on the edge of calamity. Grindelwald will not stop. If he learns Potter holds the Elder Wand, he will come for him without mercy.”
“And not only him,” said Armando. His grey eyes swept across them. “Tom Riddle must also be protected. He is a mere child of ten, an orphan. Now, with Harry having adopted him, he is too closely tied to Harry. If Grindelwald cannot seize one, he may strike at the other.”
“And what,” said Hector slowly, “if Potter himself proves to be the threat? If this young man, who holds death in his hands, turns on us? You ask me to protect him, but what if he is what we must fear most?”
It was not an unfair question.
But Armando’s answer came without hesitation.
“No,” he said firmly, with a finality that echoed through them. “I looked into his eyes. I felt the purity of his soul. Do not ask me to explain it in logic, for it is not logic I speak from, but the instinct of a man who has lived too long to mistake what is true. He is not to be feared. He is to be trusted.”
Hector hesitated, his lips tightening.
“If my years have taught me anything,” said Armando, “it is that mercy, not severity, is the path that preserves us. Temperance, not harshness. He is a boy carrying a burden none of us could endure. And so, we must carry him.”
At last, Hector nodded once. “Then we shall do as you say. But tell us, Headmaster, what must we do now?”
They looked upon him solemnly, openly, for guidance.
Armando spoke, guiding them, as he always did. “We must move faster than Grindelwald at all times. If he takes two steps, we must have taken four. Aurors must be on constant watch, Unspeakables alert to the faintest tremor of his movement. Above all, the boys must be guarded. Guard Harry Potter as though the world itself depends on it,” Armando paused, before speaking what his heart told him, “because it does. Protect him.”
His voice dropped, carrying more weight than anything he had ever said in his life.
“Protect him. At all costs.”
As Armando left the office, with the three men behind him standing in spellbound dread, yet in loyalty he knew was unflinching, he thought of the things he had not told them, despite already having revealed so much.
He thought of it as he stepped forth from the green flames that returned him to his office at Hogwarts, and as he sank into his chair, the weight of his three hundred years settling in his bones.
He thought of the fact that he had withheld from them the true nature of Tom Riddle.
Armando believed in nurture, not nature. In the mind as a blank slate, not a rock already carved. He had seen the fiercest dragons brought to gentleness with love that constantly nurtured, and, just as often, the softest of hearts hardened into cruelty when exposed to relentless scorn.
Tom Riddle, in another life, had grown into a dark lord far worse than Grindelwald, if Harry Potter’s stories were to be believed. Armando did not doubt it; Veritaserum had stripped all lies from Harry’s tongue.
But Armando would sooner renounce all his titles, than condemn a child, blameless as yet, as a monster.
If the years that had bleached every strand of his hair to white had taught him anything, it was this: granting a chance, rather than snuffing it out, was the most beautiful, the most humane, the most divine act one could commit. It was such chances that sometimes wrought the most beautiful results.
And so, he had not revealed to them that he had given Harry Potter the cottage of a dear old friend, long passed with no heirs, so that Harry might raise Tom Riddle there, and fill the blank slate of his mind with love instead of hate.
The secluded, lonely nature of that cottage was no accident; he had chosen it deliberately.
For if his long years had taught him true, then nothing bound two opposites more powerfully than enforced seclusion, the kind where nothing and no one could intrude. In such silence, sometimes, miracles happened. It was a risk, but one worth taking.
He had also not revealed that he had bound the place, as Harry had wisely requested, under the Fidelius Charm, with Armando himself as the Secret Keeper.
~*~
27th November, 1937.
The cold had grown bitter by late November, a relentless chill pressing itself against the stone walls of the cottage. The windows shuddered faintly under the weight of the wind outside, the glass fogging with condensation that blurred the barren trees and the moors beyond.
Inside, the fire in the sitting room crackled steadily, wrapping the two of them in warmth.
Harry sat, as was their norm now, on the couch that was next to Tom’s armchair.
His voice, when he spoke to Tom, was casual, almost gentle, though there was that trace of carefulness in it, as though testing waters before stepping in.
“Tom,” he began, “I’ve been thinking… about when I start my training.”
Tom tilted his head, lips pressing into the faintest curve that wasn’t a smile. He hated that tone of Harry’s, quiet, deliberate, as though he had to measure his words around him. It made something ugly lurch in his stomach.
Harry pressed on. “If you had an owl, you could write to me whenever you needed something, or if something was wrong. That way, even if I’m away, you’ll still have a way to reach me.”
At once, Tom scoffed, sharp and unamused. “An owl?”
Harry’s brow furrowed faintly. “Yes, Tom. That’s how we communicate in the magical world. And before you say anything, I’ll tell you – it works. It’s reliable.”
But Tom’s lips curled, disdain flashing in his eyes. “No. Absolutely not.”
Harry stilled, taken aback. “Why not?”
Tom leaned forward, his voice suddenly dark, warning. “You remember what happened with Liquorice.”
There was a terrible, horrible pause.
“If you get an owl,” whispered Tom, something violent and insane suddenly leaping forth in him, “I’ll do the same thing to it.”
Harry froze, his eyes widening faintly at the straight, direct threat.
“Why?” he asked, voice shaky with disbelief, with pain.
The answer seared through Tom’s mind.
Because you’ll love it immediately, won’t you? You’ll pet it, feed it, coo over it, without it needing to prove a single thing to you. And I’ll watch it. I’ll watch you give to it what you withheld from me, what I had to claw out of you with blood and fire. And I will hate it. I’ll hate it so much I’ll tear it apart, just so you look back at me. Just so you remember I’m the one you’re meant to look at.
The words roared, tearing at his insides, desperate to be loosed.
But he held it all back.
His breath came ragged, his chest rising and falling too fast.
At last, he ground out, “Because I despise animals.”
Harry's expression flitted, not to anger, but to something else.
Something shattered, stunned, pained.
It was worse than anger.
“Despise animals?” Harry echoed quietly, like the words themselves wounded him.
Tom’s jaw clenched. “Yes, Harry,” he slowly, heatedly whispered, “Despise them. I don’t like crooning over some useless creature day and night, feeding it, cleaning up its filth.” He spelt out each word slowly, harshly, to sear them into Harry’s soul.
“Unlike you,” added Tom, pointedly, deliberately, to wound Harry as much as he could to even suggest something like this, “I’d rather look after a person, someone you’ve taken in, instead of fawning over an animal the moment it shows up.”
The words struck Harry. Tom could see it.
Harry’s breaths faltered, but he held himself steady, green eyes holding him firmly. “Owls are how we can communicate, Tom.”
That calmness only stoked Tom’s fury further. He tore his gaze away from Harry; it took all his restraint to not scream.
Then he fixed his blazing eyes back on him.
“Isn’t there any other godforsaken way?” demanded Tom, voice seething. “In the magical world, which is crammed full of answers for every blasted thing under the sun, don’t tell me the only way is with a bird?”
Harry regarded him quietly; his tone was then firm, but not unkind. “Yes, Tom. I could write to you myself. There are owls at the training centre. I can send you letters from there.”
Tom seized upon it like a lifeline, though he hissed his agreement. “Yes. Then do that. You write to me. Every day. Every single day that you’re gone. And more, if you can. And I’ll write back, with the same damn owl.”
Harry’s eyes searched him, agonizingly, vividly green. Tom could not read the look on his face.
It was something drowning. There was something compassionate, and infinite, in the way it drowned.
Tom didn’t understand it, but he wanted to drown in it too. He wanted to bathe in it, sink deep in it.
He wanted to press himself into Harry, bury his face into his chest, breathe him in, sweet, maddening vanilla warmth that clung to him like a curse. He wanted to hold on, to stab his nails into Harry’s skin until there was nothing left but the two of them bound.
But he didn’t move. He sat there, rigid, shaking with the force of his own need, staring into the eyes that were destroying him slowly by the day.
Harry must have felt it, must have seen through him, because he stepped forward, then knelt beside the armchair, closing the distance between them, and lifted a hand to Tom’s face. His palm was warm, gentle, impossibly gentle, as he cupped Tom’s cheek.
Tom’s eyes fluttered shut. He leaned into it helplessly, as he always did, his body betraying him. His heart pounded so hard it hurt, but he leaned closer, until he thought he might fall into pieces if Harry withdrew.
Harry whispered something, soft words, soothing, comforting, the kind he’d been saying often lately. Tom didn’t hear them. He couldn’t hear them; they were drowned out by the frenzied beating of his heart, the wild rush of his blood.
In his mind slowly curled through the words from the book he had picked back up that morning, Psychology of the Unconscious, the damn volume Harry had given him; dark, twisted, confusing. Terribly familiar, pages spilling forth shadows like his own, words whispering things that thrilled and terrified him, things he had in him buried deep pulled to the surface.
As Harry’s hand stayed on his face, and as his heart thundered inside, Tom thought that the book was himself.
And Harry was both the hand dragging him out of the dark, and the hand shoving him deeper into it.
The book whispered to him.
Dark, twisted, fascinating things.
Of buried possibilities, too faint to act on but powerful enough to unsettle. Of disturbances in the soul. Of moral revulsion, resistance, blindness.
Of dreams dressing desire as danger, of being stabbed by a lance, or by blades, or beasts, or a serpent. Of violence and lust bound together, fear and want twisted into one. Of the mind cloaking what it craves in terror, so that longing enters disguised as threat. Of lust in the shape of sin, always lurking beneath.
Of pursuit, intrusion, violation, yet the savage desire that prompted it all. Of fear and lust entwined, sin given the skin of snakes, the strike of fangs. Of the soul that trembles between revulsion and yearning, as if what it dreads is also what it secretly seeks.
Of a poem that expressed it all ‘brutally,’ for it said:
What's in the net?
Behold,
But I am afraid,
Do I grasp a sweet eel,
Do I seize a snake?
Tell the child
Where to seize.
Already it leaps in my hands.
Oh, Pity, or delight!
With nestlings and turnings
It coils on my chest,
It bites me, oh, wonder!
Boldly through the skin,
It darts under my heart.
Oh, Love, I shudder!
What can I do, what can I begin?
That shuddering thing;
There it crackles within
And coils in a ring.
It must be poisoned.
Here it crawls around.
Blissfully I feel as it worms
Itself into my soul
And kills me finally.
~*~
Chapter 27: What is Lust?
Chapter Text
~*~
What is lust?
Tom had heard the word mentioned by some of the older, sanctimonious, moronic girls in the orphanage, the ones who planned on becoming nuns. They spoke of it cloaked in darkness, disgust, and abhorrence.
He had heard it again during the revolting Bible lessons he had to sit through, with the rest of the orphanage filth, in a cramped, stale-smelling room. A priest used to visit, wearing his holy-looking cassock, to teach them. The teachings were always done in the cramped, stale-smelling room, the air pungent and staler still with the orphanage filth that surrounded him.
Tom remembered the way the abhorrent lump of flesh used to look at the children.
At him.
He knew the priest longed to tear him apart and commit unspeakable acts. Yet, Tom always wore a mocking smile on his lips. It would be the faintest smile. But it would play on his lips through the laughable lessons on ‘morality,’ on ‘sins.’
Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth…
The seven deadly sins… Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy, and Pride…
Tom laughed inside his head, while outwardly, he constantly fixed a look of morbid amusement on the holy priest wearing his holy-looking cassock.
He laughed at the future of those older, moronic, pious girls, who dreamt of becoming nuns, at the fate that surely awaited them under hands like those of the holy priest.
Blessed are the meek indeed, he thought.
Sometimes he wondered if half the children in the orphanage weren’t already the spawn of such priests and such nuns. He did not know what he would do if he ever discovered he was one of them himself.
Perhaps hunt them down and kill them.
Perhaps discard his own filthy body, their filthy body, and build himself a new one, cleansed of their stain.
As for the priest, Tom waited for the day the scum would make a fatal error. But such a day never came. Had it come, he would have perhaps looked unrecognizable by the time Tom was done with him.
Tom had fantasized it in great detail, and the morbid amusement that made a smile play on his lips through the despicable lessons was borne of a morbid fascination in his head, when devising all the ways he could torture and murder.
He could use his snakes, yes. Whisper to the one he had possessed at the time to bring with it a horde of others, make them coil around the body and hold it still, while he carved deep patterns into the filth’s face with the knife he kept hidden in his room.
Cut out the tongue first, feed it to a snake. Hollow the eyes out the next from their sockets, feed it to another snake. The tongue that preached against sin; the eyes that committed it.
But those days were gone now.
And here he was, with Harry. Coiled around him in the night.
Tom had always been adept at self-preservation. With or without Harry, he would have survived, in the ways he knew best.
But Harry was now in his life.
That had changed everything, yet, nothing at all.
No matter who looked at him, Tom still devised fresh tortures. That part of him was unchanged. But Harry… Harry was the exception.
Tom also knew that if anyone looked at Harry the way the priest had once looked at him, Tom would annihilate them.
But would Harry annihilate such a presence, if the presence looked that way at Tom?
A soft, almost pained smile tugged on Tom’s lips then, as he burrowed deeper into Harry’s sleeping form.
Harry lay flat on his back, an arm flung over his head as usual. Tom pressed his face into Harry’s neck, breathing him in, heart tugging.
Harry had looked puzzled yet again tonight, when Tom had asked him yet again tonight if he could sleep with him. But Tom had told Harry to hold his tongue, that this was the least Tom deserved, in the light of Harry leaving him here alone in a godforsaken cottage in the middle of endless moors.
A home he had grown to love.
The untamed nature soothed his soul in a way the London filth never could have.
Harry soothed his soul.
And set it on fire.
Tom wanted to rage endlessly, yet lie pressed close for eternity, buried in Harry’s warmth. It was peace, the most peace he had ever found in his life, the most peace that he would ever find.
In Harry’s arms.
Would Harry annihilate such a presence? The true evils of this earth, that lurked around wearing robes of holiness?
Tom instinctively, paradoxically, could only smile against Harry’s neck again, breathe Harry in again. Curl his arm tighter around Harry again. Curl his leg tighter around Harry again. Coiling around him, coiling, and coiling.
Would Harry annihilate such a presence?
The fact that he craved it from Harry only made him smile softly into Harry’s neck, only made his chest tighten with exquisite pain, only made his skin heat unbearably. He did not understand any of these physical reactions.
Would Harry annihilate such a presence?
The answer lay, in memory. The day Harry returned from Hogwarts, and found that Tom had carved vegetables into tiny, equal cubes. The horror on his face, as he dropped to his knees beside Tom’s chair, seizing Tom’s hands, turning them over, caressing his palms and fingers with his, checking every inch for cuts. The way those eyes had gazed up from that kneeling position, raw and pained, demanding to know if Tom had hurt himself.
Both Tom’s cold logic and the new, softer part of him that belonged only to Harry, agreed on this much…
That Harry indeed would annihilate them.
Tom suspected that when witnessed, Harry’s protectiveness would be something frightening.
What is lust?
Lust is wanting what should not be wanted, yet wanting it with an ugly, consuming ferocity.
What is lust?
Lust is the word spoken in shadows and secrecy.
What is lust?
Lust is the filth in the priest’s eyes as he preached against it with his foul tongue.
What is lust?
Lust is the nightly craving to coil himself around Harry, to need it so desperately that the thought of denial filled him with terror.
If that was lust, then so be it.
And to hell with anyone who thought they had the right to define sin for him. Tom would carve their tongues and eyes out, and feed them to the hounds.
~*~
Chapter 28: More Than I Should
Chapter Text
~*~
I love you more than I should
So much more than is good for me
The timing is cruel
I need and don't want to need
What is love, but whatever
My heart needs around
My sheet is so thin
So I say I can't sleep because
It's so very cold
But I know what I need
And if you were just near to me
Would you go...
- Lie in the Sound, Trespassers William
~*~
The night dragged on. Tom’s thoughts circled and circled, devouring their own tail, a feverish recursion that refused to break. Curled into Harry, face pressed into the crook of his neck, he heard nothing but the riot in his own skull. Even clinging as tightly as he was, half draped across Harry’s body, the contact felt like the thinnest tether to sanity, something he might lose at any second.
Harry stirred, then. The faintest shift, but Tom felt it immediately, pressed so close.
“Tom,” whispered Harry, voice thick and heavy with sleep.
Tom went still, heart, blood, breath locking in his chest.
It felt like being caught mid-crime, terror holding him in place.
Harry stilled too, as if the world itself had frozen with them.
A long breath escaped Harry, followed by a drowsy shift that loosened Tom’s clutch around him, leaving a sliver of space between their bodies.
“Did you not sleep yet?” murmured Harry, his voice quiet with concern.
“I did,” lied Tom. “Just woke up. Nightmare.”
“Oh,” Harry’s voice softened, rousing a little. “D’you want to talk about it?”
“No.” Tom’s eyes were fixed unblinkingly on him.
Harry rolled gently onto his side to face him. His hair was tousled, his eyes adorably bleary, the absence of glasses making his face look even younger, softer. The plain nightclothes only added to the softness of him.
But in turning, Harry had left space between them. Not rejection, not withdrawal, but it was no longer the desperate entanglement Tom needed.
“You sure?” murmured Harry, already slipping back toward sleep.
“Yes,” said Tom.
The ache of distance pricked sharp inside Tom, but he stayed still. He stayed still even as sleep eluded him, refusing to quiet his frantic mind. He understood now – sharing a bed wasn’t enough. He had to be wound into Harry, their limbs bound, their breaths shared, to have any chance at rest.
Only when Harry’s breathing deepened into steady rhythm did Tom dare to inch closer, sliding an arm around his waist, careful, as though even the slightest shift might shatter the fragile peace. He resisted the urge to bury himself completely into him, afraid of waking him.
It was much later that Tom finally surrendered to sleep.
~*~
Morning found them tangled together once more, five days in a row now.
Harry felt a pang of unrest deep in him as he carefully freed himself from Tom’s heavy limbs. Today, Tom did not stir. Usually, he woke at the slightest shift. But today, he slept on deeply.
How innocent he looked in sleep. How pure, how utterly childlike. His soul whole now, not broken, not broken, not shattered cruelly by his own hands.
Harry could not tell how long Tom had truly been awake the night before. But the weight of Tom’s slumber now told its own story. He must have fallen asleep very late, long after Harry had drifted off.
A quiet unease spread in Harry’s chest as he freshened up and made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen.
Tom was growing dependent on him, at a sharp, alarming pace.
Harry felt dread coil within him as he thought back on the past five days. Harry had died yet again at Tom’s hands, but this time, instead of satisfaction, he had won Tom’s relentless attention and raw terror. Harry had escaped death yet again right before Tom’s eyes, but instead of wrath, he had drawn out raw, desperate need from Tom.
Harry pushed the disquiet aside for now. He would deal with it later.
Today was for Tom.
It was Saturday, the last quiet weekend before Harry’s training began on Monday.
Harry had planned a day that he hoped would be enjoyable, happy, memorable. Tom had grown restless, his displeasure at the looming changes barely veiled. Beneath his prickliness, and the sharp, sometimes violent words that spilled from him, Harry could feel his desperation.
Shopping would be the first order of the day. Tom still wore his threadbare second-hand nightclothes from the orphanage. They weren’t torn, but they were faded, worn thin with years of use. Every time Harry saw him in them, his heart clenched.
He would replace them. All of them. Not just the nightclothes, but every scrap of clothing that tied Tom to the orphanage. Already Harry had bought him new boots, warm jumpers, a pair of mittens. But his clothes from the orphanage mostly still remained, and lately, Harry had been seized with the need to eliminate them completely.
If money ran short, he would ask Dippet for help, Dippet had offered, after all, but Harry would not let anything stop him from giving Tom what he needed.
And Tom needed it. Especially now, when every surge of his anger, every word sharpened with acerbity, only told the same truth – his fear of the looming changes, that ultimately revealed his fear of losing Harry.
Harry’s heart clenched again, with the sort of pain that comes only from love so fierce it borders on unbearable, and from the boundless understanding of another’s mind.
Tom walked in then, hair mussed and eyes puffy, into the kitchen, before the kettle had even whistled, as he so often did.
Tom glowed differently this morning, despite Harry’s thought that he may not have slept properly. Tom seemed quieter, lighter, as they sat down for breakfast. His voice was soft when he spoke, and his gaze on Harry was soft.
It warmed Harry. It made what he had planned to say feel like an even brighter occasion. And today, Harry wasn’t going to let Tom’s usual “no, I hate the cold” deter him.
“Tom, I was thinking,” began Harry gently, “we should go out today, buy a few things. Would you like to come with me?”
Tom’s eyes lit up at once, his interest sparking.
“Yes,” he said immediately.
Warmth spread through Harry’s chest. He smiled at Tom, and his heart brimmed full when Tom answered with a quiet, almost shy smile.
~*~
They dressed, each in their own space, carrying within them a kind of unspoken anticipation.
When Harry stepped out of his room and descended into the sitting room, Tom was already waiting for him on the armchair, sitting with a stillness that seemed deliberate, his gaze lifting at once to Harry. There was something in the way he looked at him, as though seeing him afresh.
Tom wore the new boots Harry had bought him, and one of the new jumpers too, a soft grey that drew out the grey of his eyes.
“Wait a moment,” said Harry, struck suddenly by a thought. He hurried back upstairs, rummaged in his wardrobe, and returned with one of his own scarves.
Harry held it out. “Here. Wear this.”
Tom accepted it without a word, only a long, silent look at Harry before looping the scarf around his neck. His hands moved slowly, carefully, but each fold was neat, precise, the knot exact.
Harry smiled, unable to stop himself.
With a flick of his wand, Harry cast an Impervius Charm over them both, a shield against the bitter cold waiting beyond the cottage. Together, they stepped out into the crisp air. Harry locked the door behind them despite the countless thorough wards; a compulsive habit.
They made their way down the slope, their boots crunching softly against the frost-hardened ground. At the bottom, Harry slowed, turned, and held out his hand.
Tom looked at him then, long and searching, his eyes holding something too deep for his age. Then, wordless, he reached and took Harry’s hand, his grip firm, steady.
Harry’s fingers closed around his, and with that familiar, fleeting pull, the moors vanished.
They landed together on the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade.
“This is the magical village I told you about,” Harry let Tom know, “Hogsmeade. The place where I picked up things for you.”
Tom’s eyes drank in the scene – crooked rooftops dusted with frost, chimneys puffing smoke into the pale air, the street alive with robed figures carrying parcels or bags. Children tugged at parents’ hands, their laughter ringing in the wintry hush.
Tom said nothing, but Harry felt the quiet happiness in Tom, as he walked, hand-in-hand, by Harry’s side.
Tom did not let go of his grip. Harry did not ask him to.
They wandered slowly, peering into windows lit with enchantments, shelves that rearranged themselves, cauldrons stirring unattended, hats that tipped politely to passersby. Tom’s gaze swept everywhere, wide and careful, but always returned to Harry, as if needing him there as anchor.
Harry led him toward their first stop. A clothing shop tucked between a bookbinder’s and a bakery.
The place smelled faintly of lavender and wool. Stacks of folded shirts, trousers, and robes lined the shelves, while mannequins shifted every so often, tilting to show off their garments. Tom’s hand stayed locked around Harry’s even as he gazed at the displays, expression carefully schooled, as though to hide his interest.
A cheerful witch bustled out from behind the counter.
Harry said, “I’d like the best clothes you have for him. Shirts, trousers, jackets, a few robes. Socks. Nightclothes too.”
The witch’s eyes lit up at Tom. “What a beautiful child,” she said warmly. “He deserves the finest.”
Harry looked at Tom and smiled, but it was Tom’s reaction that caught him. Tom coloured faintly, but his eyes met Harry’s fiercely, and his voice was tight with gratitude when he whispered, “Thank you.”
The witch, mistaking the flush as hers to claim, laughed brightly and began pulling pieces from the racks. She rattled off names – plaids, half-sleeved shirts, dress shirts, Cossack jackets, lumberjack coats, robes of every cut, soft elegant nightclothes.
Tom gravitated toward darker shades – black, brown, deep grey, navy. He tried them on one by one in the fitting room, stepping out each time for Harry’s wordless nod of approval. The colours only heightened the starkness of his pale skin, sharpened the dangerous beauty already etched into his features, but to Harry, it only made him lovelier.
At last, they left the shop with three bags heavy with new clothes, Tom clutching one of the smaller bags.
Their next stop was a small café called Brews and Stews.
Inside, the air smelled of roasted beans, caramel, and something buttery.
Harry guided Tom toward a small corner table by the window, the glass fogging faintly from the warmth inside, the grey street outside blurred.
They sat across from each other, Tom’s gaze rarely leaving Harry’s face, as though there was nothing else in the room, nothing else in the world.
Harry met that gaze, steady and indulgent, though he told himself that Tom’s fixation was due to Harry’s impending absence once training began.
They studied the menu together, debating until they settled on treacle tarts, slices of fruitcake, and two cups of coffee.
“You’ve a terrible sweet tooth,” teased Harry.
“You’re the one who keeps feeding me sweets,” returned Tom smoothly, though a smile tugged at his lips. “But I’ve no complaints.”
Harry laughed quietly, though inside, he felt a pang. There was something in Tom’s eyes, something consuming, unrelenting, that he tried not to dwell on.
Harry spoke instead of the day he had come here so he could enter Hogwarts, and met Ogg, and the thestral… how apparition into Hogwarts grounds was impossible…
“I used to love coming here with my friends,” said Harry, smiling faintly at the memory.
Tom’s face darkened. His eyes narrowed, though his voice stayed even. “Where are your friends now?”
Harry’s throat tightened. “They’re dead.”
In his head, Harry added Hermione, gone to him in another way, lost to time, and all the others, lost to war. He thought of how those death’s tally had been written by the same boy sitting before him…
Though not this boy, thought Harry fiercely. Not this Tom, who had Harry in his life.
“And your parents?” asked Tom.
“Dead too.”
“Why are they all dead?”
Harry looked into the dark, questioning eyes across from him. “War,” he said quietly. “They had… their part in it. It’s complicated. I’ll tell you one day.”
Tom only nodded.
Harry gave a small, determined smile. “Let’s not talk of sad things today. I want this to be a happy day.”
So he told Tom about Hogwarts instead, the castle with its soaring towers, its shifting staircases, its ghosts and portraits and secret passageways. “You’ll love it,” promised Harry.
“I’m looking forward to it because you’ll be there,” said Tom simply.
Harry’s heart clenched at the candour. He smiled at him, gaze lingering with quiet affection.
Their food and coffee arrived soon after. The treacle tarts were golden and sticky, the fruit cake dark and fragrant, the coffee rich and steaming. They ate, they talked; there was immense warmth, solace, and affection in it.
Then he remembered the thing he had been carrying in his pocket.
Harry knew, that now was the time.
And Harry decided that truth was the only way to go about it.
He set down his cup. He drew a small, dark box from his pocket, and laid it carefully on the table. “Tom,” said Harry, “there’s something I need to give you.”
Tom stilled faintly in expectation.
Harry opened the box to reveal a plain silver band. He held it, gazing at Tom. “Here. Wear this.”
For a moment, Tom didn’t move; he only stared at Harry, rapt.
Harry reached across the table, took Tom’s hand gently, and carefully slid the ring onto his finger. It fit perfectly, snug and sure.
“When I’m not home, or not near you, and you need me, truly need me, it will tell me, and show me where to find you,” said Harry. His eyes searched Tom’s. “Promise me you won’t take it off. If you do, it won’t work.”
Tom stared down at it, then up at Harry again.
His voice was quiet, almost reverent, when he spoke. “I won’t remove it.”
Jubilant relief surged through Harry.
He could protect Tom now, even when afar.
When they left the café, the afternoon stretched into more shops, more small delights. They wandered through Hogsmeade’s narrow streets, ducking into magical shops, laughing quietly at window displays charmed to wink or wave at passersby.
Tom was then drawn to a magical rosebush at the window of a store, its blossoms the deepest, most impossible blood red. Harry bought it, too, for him.
Harry finally led them to Dervish and Banges.
Once in, Harry’s eyes lit with quiet wonder and excitement at the rows of broomsticks, gleaming handles stacked in neat rows.
“You seem fascinated,” observed Tom, though his gaze stayed fixed on Harry more than the brooms.
“I love flying,” Harry admitted simply, a smile on his lips.
Harry chose a Silver Arrow for himself, the shopkeeper nodding in approval, calling it a broom for serious flyers.
Tom, meanwhile, lingered before the Comet models, fingers brushing the polished wood.
“What’s the latest model?” Harry asked the shopkeeper.
“The Comet 140.”
“We’ll take one of those too,” said Harry without hesitation. “For Tom.”
Tom turned to him in stunned silence.
He walked over to Harry silently. He slipped his hand into Harry’s, and, gazing at Harry, held on, as though with an overwhelming intent of not letting go.
“Thank you,” said Tom.
Harry paid for everything.
By the time they stepped back into the street, sleet had begun to fall in heavy, glittering sheets.
“Good thing we finished our shopping,” said Harry, grinning at Tom.
Tom returned the smile, his hand warm in Harry’s, the silver ring glinting in the dim light.
“Shall we go home?” asked Harry.
“Yes,” answered Tom quietly.
With a tug, the world spun away, and they apparated back to the cottage.
~*~
They spent every moment of the rest of the day together, evening tea steaming between their palms, spell practice by the fire where Tom’s eyes were sharp with concentration.
Later, they cooked dinner side by side in their scoured, quaint kitchen. They ate together, laughing softly, trading remarks, the cottage having turned into their home, their sacred space.
But when night came, unease stirred again in Harry’s chest.
They parted at the landing as they always did, retreating into their separate rooms. Harry closed his door, stripped down, put on softer clothes, and slid under the sheets. Sleep tugged at him heavily, leaden, pressing down over his thoughts.
And then, knocks.
The sound that had come without fail, every night.
Harry’s stomach tightened. The knocks no longer meant simple companionship to him.
They had become an omen, a nightly ritual, bound with Tom’s frightening dependency.
Harry loved that Tom clung to him, he truly did, but he also noticed, unmistakably, the slow escalation of it.
Nothing good could come out of this.
Because… what would happen once they were at Hogwarts? When Tom could no longer slip into his bed at night?
Harry’s thoughts swirled as he pushed back the covers and opened the door.
Tom stood there, storm-eyed and resolute, as though the possibility of being turned away had never crossed his mind. He stepped past Harry without hesitation, a silent claim in his steps.
They settled into bed, the mattress dipping with Tom’s slight weight.
Harry lay stiff at first, uncertain.
He didn’t know whether Tom would bury his face into his neck again, as he had the night before.
That moment had jolted Harry awake, heart hammering, fear striking through him at such raw need displayed so unguardedly. It had frightened him, not because it was unwelcome…
But something had to change…
While getting Tom so dependent on him might seem an easy, cheap trick to make Tom compliant, Harry would rather end his own life, than knowingly and willingly destroy Tom’s brilliance and sharpness.
Tom’s voice came quiet and low, breaking the silence, and Harry’s reverie –
“I’m glad I have you, Harry.”
Harry’s heart tugged at the unguarded openness.
He turned his head, met the boy’s eyes in the faint moonlight spilling through the curtains. “And I’m glad I have you, Tom,” he answered, truth in every word.
Tom shifted closer, but only a little. One arm slid around Harry’s midriff, and he rested peacefully. He didn’t burrow into him, didn’t clutch him tightly.
Harry exhaled, some of his fear softening.
Still, the thought returned, firm as ever.
Something had to be done.
He could not let this pattern continue. For Tom’s own sake.
But for tonight, Tom’s slender frame beside him, Harry let sleep take him.
~*~
Chapter 29: Love Until Nothing's Left
Chapter Text
~*~
Harry woke before Tom, as he always did.
For a long minute he lay still, watching: Tom’s head half-buried in the pillow, one arm flung possessively across his chest. The boy’s breath pressed warm and fast against his neck.
Harry felt that familiar contraction, a sharp ache that lived under his ribs, part love, part fear.
He knew what drew Tom back to him each night: the memory of Harry bleeding out in his arms, gasping, going still. That day had nearly broken him.
Since then Harry had wrapped the boy in love, softened every edge, terrified that without it, Tom’s mind might splinter.
And in those same days Harry had finally told him things he hadn’t before: about Hogwarts, about the job waiting in two months, about how their cloistered days in this cottage couldn’t last. Then came his meeting with Dippet, the revelation of training, the promise of long hours away.
Each truth only made Tom cling harder.
Nights had grown heavier. Tom burrowed close as though to fuse them together, holding tight until Harry’s heart hammered in panic, panic at what it might mean.
He told himself it was fear that Tom’s wings would be clipped by such dependence.
But in the deepest part of himself he knew it wasn’t wings that might be lost.
It was something darker: a tether that could strangle them both.
Last night, Tom’s grip hadn’t crushed his chest.
For once, Harry’s heart hadn’t raced with panic.
He thought then that he must temper his own fears. He loved the boy now, loved him too much to give him anything else. And with his absence looming, that love had to be enough.
Love him until there is nothing left.
~*~
They had breakfast. It was Sunday, their last quiet weekend before Harry’s training began.
Afterward, they sat in the sitting room with their books, the fire steady, the silence companionable.
But eventually Harry turned, voice cautious.
“Tom, you know… I’ve been thinking ahead. About you and me.”
Instantly, Tom’s full attention snapped to him.
The ring Harry had slipped on his finger yesterday caught the firelight.
“At Hogwarts you’ll have your own dormitory, with other boys,” Harry began gently. His priority was reassurance – nothing would change all at once. Tom could take his own time.
“We won’t be able to… well, you know.” He faltered, then rushed on before courage failed under Tom’s steady gaze. “You don’t have to stop coming to my room. Not at all. But at some point, we should start getting you used to the idea.”
Tom didn’t answer right away. He stilled, head tilted, storm-grey eyes fixed on Harry, strangely calm, piercing, too-knowing.
“I see, Harry,” he said at last. Then, softly, with unsettling clarity, “You’re scared.”
Harry froze.
Tom had stepped neatly over the matter of Hogwarts, gone straight to the raw truth.
Harry’s head reeled.
“And it doesn’t matter how I think that,” Tom went on, quieter now. His gaze never wavered. “When two people live together the way we do, you notice things quick.”
Harry sat rooted, speechless.
“I see it,” Tom went on. “The other night… I was overwhelmed. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Harry’s pulse thudded. Tom had noticed, the discomfort Harry thought buried. He had picked it up, like a hound catching scent.
“This is new for you too, isn’t it?” Tom’s voice dropped, coaxing, almost tender. “Having someone need you like this. Having me need you.”
Harry’s breath stilled. It was the old Tom Riddle he glimpsed then, blunt and calculating beneath the softness.
“You’ve been right beside me, Harry,” said Tom. “Through all the insanities of this month. But you don’t always have to be so strong.”
At last, Harry found his voice. “I will always be right by your side, Tom,” he said quietly. “And I’ll try my best to be strong for you.”
Tom smiled then – smooth, knowing.
“I believe you,” he murmured. “You’re right about Hogwarts. It’s something real to think about. If you need me to start sleeping in my own room, to help you get used to it… then I will.”
“Tom.” Harry’s voice cut across, firm, drawing a line. “If it’s for me, it’s also for your sake.”
“I understand.” Tom tilted his head, pitying. “I want you comfortable in your own home. I’d never want to make you uneasy.”
“You’re not a source of unease.”
But Tom only smiled like he knew otherwise.
“Harry,” he said softly, tender, sharp, “promise me one thing?”
Harry’s chest twisted. “What?”
“If you ever have trouble sleeping… if you’re cold, or lonely… my door will always be open. Just like yours has been for me. We can take care of each other, can’t we?”
~*~
Chapter 30: Recoil
Chapter Text
~*~
Tom had excused himself and shut himself away, spending the day behind his door.
Harry felt it like a dread that would not lift.
He called Tom for lunch, then when evening came, for tea. Each time, Tom emerged briefly, quiet, answering Harry’s gentle questions with clipped, flat words. Then he’d fall back into silence again.
Harry asked if everything was all right.
“Yes,” said Tom, and nothing more.
Harry knew better.
Harry knew now with sharp clarity that Tom’s moods were like an axe – they swung wild, disorienting, from one extreme to another, jarringly.
The other day, Tom had threatened to kill a hypothetical owl, an innocent creature, destroyed cruelly already in his mind. Tom said he hated animals, hinted that he wanted Harry’s attention undivided.
To Harry, it was chillingly absurd; yet, he had gone along.
In Tom’s fragile state, Harry had been willing to bend to almost anything, so long as it kept Tom’s mind from shattering.
Today, nothing earth-shattering was said. Harry had reassured Tom he could still come into his bed; he had only suggested that one day, eventually, Tom might have to break the habit.
A practical truth.
But if Harry was truthful to himself, he was pushed to initiating it after being left shaken by Tom’s intimacy in the nights, the way Tom melded into him with such closeness that it left Harry trembling.
But Harry shoved the thought aside now.
Because he was left shaken by something else now…
Tom, with inhuman perception, had stripped bare Harry’s thoughts that Harry thought were private.
Harry hadn’t said much at all, hadn’t tried to push him away. Yet, Tom had spoken back with sharp blade hidden in calculating softness.
The words were chillingly similar to the old Tom.
Tom, in his own way, had been almost honest when he had warned Harry not to get an owl – he had threatened openly, rather than waiting to strike in silence.
Harry had had to rein himself in, to not lash out in the blind fear those words struck in him.
He’d tempered himself, thinking of Tom’s fragility first, after all the blood spilled.
But now, Tom’s mind seemed far from fragile. It had just glinted its sharpest.
He’d flipped things back onto Harry. Recalibrated sharply and surgically.
Harry, with sickness rolling in his stomach, recognized that style of manipulation. It was the same as the Tom of pensieve memories, same as the Tom who had come alive from his diary.
No matter the love that had miraculously grown between them, at his core, Tom was unchanged.
~*~
What a fool he had been.
In the past week, he had forgotten himself, turned into a lovesick fool.
Let his guard down, thought love was safety.
Harry suggested restrictions, drew boundaries, because Tom had wound too close to him.
Why, such a fool he had been.
But no matter, he understood it now.
Usually, when he understood things, he filed them away, used them for leverage later.
But this, no matter what he told himself, made his chest hurt.
Had Harry begun drawing these boundaries because of his looming absences? Was he weaning Tom off, extricating himself from the hold, so he might be freer to pursue other things? Perhaps other people?
Tom paced his room with the door locked, agitatedly, like a caged wild animal.
His hands shook; his vision blurred.
His eyes fell on the bags of outfits bought for him only yesterday, still neatly folded and left untouched.
His eyes fell on the rosebush at the sill, with its lush, blood red blooms.
Roses that had captivated him because they reminded him of Harry’s blood, Harry lying in rivers of it, Tom’s heart bleeding alongside him, and then, the way it latched onto Harry thereafter in fierce, molten heat.
Why, what a lovesick fool…
Tom sank down to the floor, knees drawn to chest, back pressed to the cupboard, the bags of outfits close by on the floor, resting neatly against a side of the cupboard.
He buried his hands in his hair, coiling fingers in them, grabbing at them, pulling tight. He shook, breaths trembling in his throat. His vision swam.
The ring fit snug around his finger.
Tightening fists further into his hair, he dug his nails into his palms until they stung, and buried his head into his knees. His fists tightened until he felt sharp pain, and suffocated.
What a fool. What a lovesick fool.
His tremoring body, and the heart that thrashed in his ribcage, defied his mind that screamed at him to rein himself in, to leverage the situation, use against Harry the fact that Harry suggested boundaries when he’d be abandoning Tom through the day starting tomorrow.
But his body and his heart only wanted to fall apart.
Then gather up, coil, and strike.
Why, why… Why talk about boundaries now? When Hogwarts was months and months away, and Tom wasn’t some imbecile halfwit who couldn’t figure out or understand possible rules of a school…
And how to break those rules…
No, this was something else. This was Harry putting distance between them when Tom fused close.
This was about impending absences, Harry weaning him off.
Because Harry had other priorities. Priorities that didn’t include Tom.
At this ‘training centre,’ who would he be meeting? New people? Or maybe old friends who still lived?
Tom wanted to hunt down the surviving friends and kill them, and he wanted to dig up the dead friends and pulverize them.
Was it even a training? Or something else? What if Harry was lying? Someone who kept secrets as easily as breathing would not hesitate to build lies upon lies.
Tom lifted his head from the coil of his arms and knees, loosened the fists in his hair.
His eyes fell again on the bags of folded and new outfits, on the rosebush, on the ring circled around his finger.
He wanted to rip all of those untouched clothes to shreds. He wanted to burn the rosebush to a crisp. He wanted to violently cast away the ring into a raging pit of fire where every bit of it would melt away irretrievably.
Magic surged in him, dangerous, the way it had surged before it had struck Harry and torn into him. Tore him apart. Killed him.
The cupboard behind, the windows, and every little and large thing in the room began shaking, juddering; a faint thrum rang through, as if earth itself tremored low and dangerously beneath.
Tom tipped his head back against the cupboard, dragging air through clenched teeth – exhaling, inhaling, exhaling – hard, harsh, eyes screwed shut, as he desperately, desperately fought to rein his magic in.
He would not lose control like that again, not in front of Harry, not anywhere near him.
Even if Harry was lying.
Tom had always believed that emotions belonged to the weak; love, most of all.
Now, his own treacherous heart had betrayed him, shown cruelly to him how debilitating love can be, how weakening.
He had always been right – love was a fool’s errand.
His own life proved it to him now.
But he was helpless now.
No matter how fierce his rage, he still trembled at the thought of Harry torn open and bleeding out, blood going from warm to chilling cold against his skin.
He would have to find other means to correct Harry. Teach him not to lie, nor pull away. Train him if he must.
And this time, his restraint was not born of fear of being sent back to the orphanage. Those fears had dissipated the instant he had first buried his face in Harry’s neck that fateful night, held feverishly in Harry’s arms, in his surprisingly fierce grip.
It was born of a different fear now.
Fear of a life without Harry.
To keep Harry, Tom would kill, plunder, brutalize. He would resort to the basest means; sink to the lowest depths of depravity if he must.
And if those means involved Harry, and anything short of killing him, Tom would try them all, too.
~*~
At his core, Tom was unchanged.
Yet Harry, by now, intimately knew the jarringly beautiful depths of his dark core – deep affection, deep want… almost shy smiles that belied something consuming and unrelenting, the gripping of hands, of waist, of shoulders, that frightened Harry, even as they drew him close.
Tom was his ward now, his responsibility. His to care for. His to love and understand.
Harry knocked. They’d had their dinner; Tom had come out briefly to eat, then vanished back into his room.
Now, it was late, and tomorrow, Harry would begin his training. He didn’t want the night before it to be like this.
“Tom, please, come talk to me,” Harry said softly, knocking.
Not a stir.
He wanted to kick himself for broaching the subject today. But no, no, he reminded himself, he hadn’t said anything wrong.
He had to be strong. He couldn’t crumble and wither under Tom’s heated justifications, his sharp arguments and counterarguments. His manipulations. He had to hold firm if their relationship was to sustain itself, and not crash and burn violently.
He had to be strong, for both their sakes.
He had to be strong, so he wouldn’t feed Tom’s natural inclination for darkness and manipulation.
Harry also knew there was no reverting now, after knowing Tom’s shades of darkness so intimately.
He had promised himself to love him until it drove away the darkness in him. Love him until there was nothing left.
Harry knocked again.
He waited, and waited.
Then he tried to open the door with magic.
The door, however, surprisingly didn’t budge.
That meant only one thing. Tom had locked it.
But Harry had never taught him the spell.
Unless… Tom had done it wandlessly now, in a surge of uncontrolled magic.
Tom’s emotional state was that volatile, that angry.
Still, Harry refused to regret what he had said. He hadn’t been wrong.
And if he faltered, Tom would walk all over him, refusing to listen to a word.
Harry asked him again to open the door. Again, nothing.
Harry changed his approach then. Heeding an instinct in him, Harry tried something.
“Fine,” said Harry, loud enough so Tom could hear him from within. “I’ll sit right here by your door. I have to leave early tomorrow morning for the training, but I’ll stay here until you open it. I won’t sleep. Let me fall off my broom or crash into something if I must.”
Harry lowered himself to the floor of the passageway, and settled there, arms looped loosely around knees.
And waited.
The door did not open for a long time.
Eventually, Harry’s hope began to fade. Dejection set in.
Perhaps Tom was unmoved…
But then, at long last, the door creaked open.
Harry barely registered the joy in him, for his urge to pin Tom with the question burning in his head was stronger.
Harry rose at once, facing him squarely.
“What’s driving this, Tom? Was it something I said?”
Tom clenched his jaw tight, eyes cold, cold enough to frighten anyone else. But Harry had steeled himself.
“I didn’t say anything wrong, did I?” said Harry. “I only spoke of something that had to be done eventually, not right away.”
Tom’s jaw stayed locked, eyes steady.
Harry exhaled, exasperated. Tom’s expression turned dangerous then, as though he couldn’t believe Harry dared to look exasperated at him.
Tom turned on his heel and strode to his bed. “Please,” said Tom, not looking at Harry, his voice clipped, “let me try and get used to the idea, Harry.”
Tom lay himself down on the bed with slow ease. He curled on his side, as though Harry wasn’t there.
“My training begins tomorrow, Tom. Let’s not be like this.”
Tom gave a snort. He turned then to face Harry, sprawling flat on his back, and gazed straight at Harry, who had walked up to him and stood now beside his bed.
“You have the nerve to tell me not to be like this,” said Tom coolly, “when you did this?”
Something warm, absurdly warm, bubbled in Harry at the sight of him lying there, gaze straight at him, shooting that question at him so seriously.
“What crime have I committed this time, Tom?”
“You have the gall to ask that?”
“Yes, because what did I do? I only said that eventually, you’d have to start sleeping in your own room. It was not meant for now.”
“Well, let’s start now then,” said Tom, tilting his head away. “Why wait? You may as well start pushing me out now.”
Harry muttered, “Oh, you’re such a brat,” and sat down on the bed.
Tom instantly pinned Harry with his gaze, indignant fire in his eyes. “You impose boundaries but don’t follow them yourself,” snapped Tom. “Just like you’d locked your room but had used magic that day to enter mine.” His tone was smug, triumphant.
He stayed sprawled, refusing to move, as if to prove Harry wasn’t worth the effort.
“Yes,” said Harry evenly, “I don’t follow them when you behave like a brat. When you do, I come to you to remind you to stop, because someone has to.”
Tom turned his face away in pointed disregard.
Harry's heart ached. Leaving Tom alone, furious, the day before he would be gone for hours, felt unbearable. He exhaled, and did something bold.
He lay down beside him.
Tom snapped his gaze back to him at once, eyes burning with cool fire.
“I need sleep,” said Harry firmly. “I have the training tomorrow, and I don’t want to fall off my broom and die on my first day. I wouldn’t sleep at all, worrying about you all night. So I’m here. Sulk all night beside me if you want. Don’t mind me. Besides, you told me your doors are always open for me.”
At his wits’ end, Harry had decided that two could play this game.
Tom stared at him for a long time. Then, softly, lowly, he said, “Yes. I did say that.” Then, after a long pause, softer, Tom said, “And I don’t take it back. My doors will always be open… for you.”
They lay side by side, stiff, for a long time.
“This training,” began Tom, voice soft, almost dangerous, “is it really about training? Or is it something else, Harry?”
Harry sighed again, exasperated. Tom’s jaw tightened dangerously.
“You think I’m lying about it?” asked Harry. “Really, Tom. What do you want me to do, give it to you written in blood?”
“Do that if you must,” said Tom. “I’ve no way to know if you’re truly off to train, or to lavish your attention on someone else.”
Tom was… jealous. Tom was… trying to lock him in suffocating hold…
But Harry also knew what was beneath it; Tom was utterly lonely, utterly insecure.
The thought made Harry’s heart clench.
“You’re the only one I’m lavishing my attention on,” said Harry softly, choosing a candour that matched Tom’s.
Their eyes were locked.
“The only one I’ve ever…” He faltered, startled by the truth of what he was about to say. “The only one I’ve ever lavished so much attention on.”
Harry smiled then, pain behind it. “So you’d better be grateful for it.”
“Careful,” Tom murmured, the coolness in his eyes liquifying to dark heat. “Be glad I’ve not given you a piece of my mind for bringing up boundaries the very day before you leave me alone here to rot.”
There it was. Harry had known it was only a matter of time before Tom wielded it like a weapon, cut him deep with it.
It hurt, it cut with violence, and a sudden rage spiked in Harry. “Careful,” whispered Harry, “lest you push away someone baring their entire heart to you.”
The words hung, heavy, between them.
“Are you?” whispered Tom at last.
“Am I what?”
“Baring your entire heart to me?”
Harry’s throat went dry. “Yes.”
Tom only stared at him for a long, silent moment.
Then, Tom shifted close, slow and sure.
He slid an arm around Harry’s waist. He pressed in, resting his face against Harry’s chest.
Harry let himself forget everything else.
Forget the head games, the sharp retorts.
For the next few months, he’d give Tom the comfort he needed. Harry only wanted him ready when reality finally came knocking.
And deep down, he knew. Saying aloud ‘Tom, don’t cling to me. Tom, keep your distance’ would be sacrilege.
So Harry held his tongue, and let himself be held close.
The bond between them was unconventional.
But if this was what it took to pull Tom from darkness and love it away, then so be it.
And for now, he ignored the quiet voice that still whispered doubt, that no amount of love could tame what lived in Tom’s core. Harry smothered it down, buried it beneath resolve, because if he let it rise, he feared everything would shatter at once.
~*~
It hadn’t even taken a day for Tom’s tactical retreat to crack Harry’s resolve.
Better yet, Harry had stepped into his space, onto his bed, and lain down beside him.
Harry couldn’t sleep without him, just as Tom couldn’t sleep without Harry.
Tom hadn’t needed many retorts once Harry crossed that threshold. Harry had come, sat beside him, stretched out next to him, and with that, Tom’s goal was met.
Tom did voice the fear in him, that Harry might give his attention to someone else when away from Tom.
Harry’s answer was more than honest. It was raw. It reassured him, made satisfaction coil in his stomach.
Tom didn’t feel the urge to even the score for how Harry had made pain lance through him.
The moment Harry had threatened to wait all night at his door, then came willingly into his room, onto his bed, Tom’s retribution was complete.
Harry did not even see Tom's deliberate retreat as tactical and orchestrated, the careful silence that had led him here, straight into Tom’s arms. That blindness was its own gift; Tom savoured it with the same hunger he savoured Harry’s warmth.
Triumphant joy swelled in him. He hid an almost pained smile in Harry’s chest, arm locked around him, heart bleeding with love.
~*~
Chapter 31: Before Dawn
Chapter Text
~*~
It was Monday, the 29th of November, 1937.
Harry woke while it was still utterly dark; it was four in the morning. The alarm clock, that Harry had remembered to set last night before giving in to sleep in Tom's arms, had rattled, but Tom hadn’t stirred; he was still deeply asleep.
In the quiet of the hour, Harry watched Tom sleep, still curled to the side that Harry pulled away from to vacate, and he felt it – deep, intense, protective love.
Sitting up on the bed now, Harry brushed his fingers once through Tom’s dark hair, registering the thought that everything he did now was for him. Train, so Harry could be at Hogwarts by his side. Rise earlier than the sun, so he could see to every duty before setting out for the day; leave no stone unturned in caring for him, for he depended on him.
Harry then left Tom’s room and quietly stepped into his own room. He pulled on whatever warm layers came to hand – jumper, coat, thick socks.
The air nipped sharply as he stepped outside into the dawn, the world shrouded in darkness. Creatures of the night rattled, their calls shrill and eerie through the Highlands’ empty expanse.
He walked a fair distance from the cottage, far enough to mark the boundary he did not want Tom to cross alone, and there, he stopped.
Drawing his wand, Harry cast the charm Dippet had asked him to – an invisible perimeter that Tom would not be able to breach, even if he tried. For Tom’s protection. Dippet had offered no explanation, but Harry knew that it wouldn’t be without a significant reason.
Harry then retraced his steps, walked up the slope, stepped back in.
He went to his room, shed the heavy outer layers, until left in the soft night shirt and loose trousers he had worn to bed.
He now had another task at hand.
He had to plan lessons for Tom, lessons that Tom could study, read about, or write about, while Harry was away.
It was to give Tom structure, to give him things to learn, things to hold his restless, brilliant mind.
Dippet had told Harry to give him structured lessons, including Muggle studies.
Yet, Harry had nothing prepared.
Saturday was spent shopping, the rest of that day in quiet companionship. Sunday… Sunday was spent arguing with each other, over real and imagined pains…
And now Monday had arrived, with training looming, and no time left.
Harry, having neither the headspace nor the time to prepare in the four short days between Dippet’s sudden announcement and the start of training today, hadn’t managed to purchase any books relevant to the subjects.
Thankfully, he had at least five unused diaries with him, plain, undated ones, along with quill and ink, thanks to Hermione’s careful packing.
From his bag, he drew out one diary, the quill, and ink.
Harry sat at the desk, thinking carefully.
His quill moved steadily as he wrote:
Think and write words that describe the cottage, the Highlands around it, the weather today.
Make a list of things you’d change about this cottage, if you could.
Imagine you wake up tomorrow, and no one can see you. What would you do? Would you help someone? Trick someone? Why?
Imagine a child is lost in the village, and only you see him. What will you do?
He paused, and then, with a tug of a memory of Hermione’s quiz books, began to scribble riddles and puzzles. Some half-remembered, some altered and invented:
A baker has seven loaves of bread and meets three hungry travellers. He wants to divide the loaves equally among them, but they are whole loaves (though he may cut them). How can he divide the bread fairly, so no one feels cheated?
A boy has two coins that add up to 15 pence. One of them is not a five-pence coin. What are the two coins?
A boy owns one toy. Two friends want it. If he gives it to one, the other will cry. If he keeps it, none are happy. What is the fairest resolution, so that everyone has a turn?
Then, softer, wanting to draw Tom to a world he had never yet been taught to value:
What’s one scientific or technological invention that you like? Why do you like it?
And finally, with hope tugging at him, wanting to glimpse something of Tom’s imagination:
Write a story about a magical creature, a phoenix, who chooses to live among ordinary people instead of wizards. Why did it make that choice?
By the time Harry set his quill down, twenty minutes had passed. He tore out a single sheet from the diary, and wrote a note with a careful hand:
Dear Tom,
In this diary, on the first and second pages, you’ll see I have left you questions to solve and answer while I’m away. Think of them as lessons, part of my teaching and your learning. You told me you wanted me to keep teaching you; this is my way of doing that.
I’m looking forward to seeing what you write.
Harry hesitated, then wrote, tender, deliberate –
I love you. See you this evening. I’ll be back by six o’clock.
Love,
Harry
Quietly, Harry carried the diary, quill, ink, and note into Tom’s room.
He placed them on the nightstand.
Tom slept on, still turned toward the side where Harry had lain, one arm flung across the sheets, one leg bent at the knee, as if even in sleep, he reached for him. Harry lingered only a moment longer, then slipped from the room in silence.
He had a lot of cooking to do, to see Tom through the day.
He began with breakfast, a fry-up – beans from the tin, eggs crisped in butter, sausages, bacon, black pudding, toast browned just so. The kettle whistled when tea was ready.
He left one plate and a mug of tea out for himself, while the other plate, and the kettle, he placed under a charm so it would remain fresh, steaming warm to Tom’s touch when he woke.
Harry ate quickly at the kitchen table, alone, in the dim light of the lamp.
Having neither strength nor time to prepare separate dishes for lunch and dinner, he settled on making one meal in greater quantity, enough for Tom’s lunch, and for both of their dinners.
He decided on shepherd’s pie.
From the icebox, charmed to remain freezing cold, he pulled out minced beef, along with vegetables from the larder.
Butter melted in a large pan as he sautéed and stirred, adding the vegetables, herbs, and meat, until everything was thoroughly cooked.
He mashed the potatoes, spread the meat mixture into a baking dish, heaped the mash on top, baked it...
When it was done, he set that too under the same charm.
By then, dawn had begun to pale the sky.
Harry glanced at the grandfather clock in the sitting room. It was already six o’clock; half an hour before he needed to be gone.
He moved quickly. He took a shower to shake off the early chill, tugged on his regular clothes, and wore dark robes over them. He packed what he might need into a smaller bag and slung it across his back. Finally, he carried his broomstick – the Silver Arrow he had bought – just in case, unsure whether brooms might be provided at the training grounds.
Before leaving, Harry stepped into Tom’s room. Tom still slept soundly, still on his side facing where Harry had lain. Harry lingered, then withdrew with one last look.
He did not lock the cottage door when he left. Tom would want the freedom to step outside if he chose. Harry hoped he would not wander far enough and discover the boundary. The perimeter stretched wide, well beyond the slope, giving Tom more than enough room.
Harry apparated away, straight to the training grounds in Sutherland.
~*~
Chapter 32: Lessons in Honesty
Chapter Text
~*~
Tom woke to silence. For a fleeting moment, half-dreaming, he expected to hear Harry’s voice from the kitchen downstairs, or hear the hiss of sear on a pan, or the whistle of the kettle.
Nothing except stillness greeted him.
His hand brushed the space beside him; empty, cold.
His eyes then caught a folded note, a quill, a bottle of ink, and a black diary resting on the nightstand.
Tom sat up, fingers tracing the note, before he opened it.
For the first time, he saw Harry’s writing. It was adorable, messy; it explained that there were questions he’d left in the diary, that it was his way of teaching Tom, that he looked forward to seeing Tom’s answers.
Tom’s eyes landed on the small black diary.
Tom took the diary into his hands, and opened it to see what Harry had written in it.
He read through the questions.
Though deceptive simple, they were crafted to test him, to measure him, like one of those absurd examinations meant to uncover a person’s moral fabric. A… test of character. A way to peer into his mind…
Harry wanted to know his mind, his thoughts, his morals, things hidden inside him.
Tom smirked.
He leaned back with the diary still in his hand, eyes still fixed on Harry’s messy scrawl.
If Harry wanted answers, Tom would give him perfect ones, ones that made Harry’s heart soften, made him think Tom was safe to love.
Yes. He would give Harry exactly what he wanted to see.
For lately, the days had been... good.
Harry had been utterly soft, utterly gentle; giving Tom things that made Tom’s heart beat faster, stranger.
Last night, Harry even came into Tom’s room, into his bed, and lay beside him as though he belonged there, all on his own accord.
If playing the perfect version of himself was what it took to prolong it all, then Tom would play along.
He rose from bed, washed up, and padded downstairs. Silence rang in the house, yet traces of Harry remained everywhere, in the scent of warm, homey food, in the way the chairs were slightly askew.
Tom’s eyes fell on the kitchen counter. There, waiting for him, were neatly arranged plates, all kept under lids.
He lifted one. Steam rose up – a perfect fry-up, still warm. There was enough food for two, or perhaps enough for him to eat through the day without having to cook anything again.
Harry must have remembered the last time Tom had tried to cook something by himself; burnt toast, bitter tea...
Sacramental bread, holy water, Tom thought wryly. The meal that had sealed their bond tighter.
Even in his absence, Harry was everywhere, thoughtful to the last detail.
The kettle was still warm to his touch. Tom poured himself tea, the temperature neither scalding nor tepid, but just right.
He ate quietly in a peculiar kind of solitude.
He had always eaten alone in a room full of children and people, noise and filth. But this solitude, it felt protective, warm, even in its silence.
Once upstairs, Tom was at once at the desk, with the diary, quill and ink.
Quill, what a peculiar thing to leave for him to write with. But Tom loved that too, just as he loved everything Harry did for him.
Tom wrote the answers carefully, beautifully, every word tailored to soothe Harry, to make him believe Tom was good, gentle.
Some questions were meant to challenge his intellect. Those, at least, were genuine entertainment. Tom devoured them, solving each in mere moments.
Within an hour, the pages were filled, every line a performance, a sweet manipulation.
Then, there was nothing left. Just a long, empty day.
Tom leaned back in his chair, ink drying on the paper.
Harry would have to try harder to keep him engaged.
~*~
Tom sat in the sitting room by the hearth, where fire burned ceaselessly, charmed that way, he was certain, by Harry.
He spent the rest of the day there, curled in the couch with Psychology of the Unconscious.
It was an unrepentant excavation of the human mind, asking why people dreamed, why symbols mattered…
It spoke of how language, born from intellect, grew into something that shaped intellect in return…
Claimed that humans were irrationally bound to myths, that even when the universe revealed itself as cold, meaningless, godless, they still sought divine salvation, still yearned to find sacredness in Christ’s death, deluding themselves to faith because the truth was too bleak to bear…
That human psyche was not new but ancient, a vessel that echoed thoughts and urges of long-gone civilizations…
That when the mind wandered in daydreams, it wandered backward through time, into primal places, and more than half those wanderings were sexual…
Phallic symbols of snakes and spears, myth of Persephone’s abduction that echoed a violent desire to force, to take…
Sodomy that reflected a deep, accepted, even cherished love between men in ancient Greece eighty generations ago…
That humanity had a long and unending obsession with the erotic and the forbidden...
That our private, ‘shameful’ fantasies were not ours alone, but relics of a collective, ancient hunger, embedded deep within the species’ shared memory…
Tom read on, the darkness in his mind colliding with the darkness of the book, mirroring it. He paused only to eat lunch, shepherd’s pie that was still warm and tasted of affection, and then, for evening tea, finishing the remainder of the fry-up.
Time slipped past unnoticed.
By the time the clock struck six, minutes later, almost on cue, the front door opened.
Harry stepped in.
Tom’s eyes found him immediately, as Harry’s found Tom.
Harry looked tired, but radiant all the same. There was a lovely smile on his lips, though his face was sheened with sweat. His shoulders sagged with fatigue, his shirt clung damply to him under the robes, with sweat, or rain, or both, and the broomstick hung loosely from his hand, as though even that simple weight had become too much.
“Tom, how was your day –”
Tom wasn’t sure when he’d moved. One moment, he was standing by the chair; the next, he was across the room.
Then Harry was in his arms, or he was in Harry’s.
“Hey,” Harry laughed softly, breathless, “I’m sweaty –”
Tom tugged him closer, a small, jerky pull that surprised even him with its force. Harry let out a soft, startled sound. Tom pressed his face into the curve of his neck, inhaling deeply.
Harry smelled of rain, of wind, and beneath it, of overwhelming sweetness that was only his.
A low tremor ran through Harry; Tom felt it ripple through the embrace.
Then Tom drew back, only slightly, his hands still lingering at Harry’s waist. His gaze fastened on Harry’s face, intense, unblinking.
Tom drew back fully then, once the haze cleared. He felt heat on his cheeks, on his ears.
Harry was smiling at him, still radiant, his face now flushed, too. Perhaps with joy. Perhaps with… perhaps with the same inexplicable tug that Tom felt deep within.
~*~
Once Harry had settled in, eaten, and freshened up, they sat together in the sitting room.
Harry began speaking about his day, unasked.
How eager he looked to tell Tom everything. His face was alive with animation, his voice carrying a quiet excitement that, it seemed, came when he spoke of flying. Tom realized, as he watched him, that flying wasn’t just something Harry was perhaps frighteningly good at, it was something that made him happy.
Harry talked about the training, how gruelling it was, how there was barely a moment to rest between drills. There were instructors, he said, who could shapeshift into children to feign emergencies, the kind of dire situations where a student might fall from the sky, plummet to their death. The trainees, Harry explained, were taught to dive after them, twist and freefall in pursuit, or to chase with terrifying speed and accuracy if needed, or cast a spell called Arresto Momentum to slow the fall and save someone in need.
Then, he spoke of flying in different formations and techniques, only two, so far, out of nearly ninety that would be covered during the course.
“Who were the instructors?” asked Tom, trying to keep his voice steady, mask the storm of anger, doubt, fear, beneath his calm. “Anyone you know?”
“Oh, no,” said Harry with a small laugh. “All new faces. But they were kind and helpful, even though the work was brutal.”
Tom studied him.
He watched the way Harry’s expression softened when he spoke, the way his eyes brightened at the memory of it. There was no guile, no secrecy; only open, guileless honesty.
That, more than anything, disarmed Tom.
Warmth began to unfurl inside Tom, against his will.
The vigilance, the suspicion, melted away in the face of Harry’s gentle sincerity. The way Harry stayed by his side despite his exhaustion, his eyelids heavy, his body clearly aching with fatigue, made Tom feel something close to peace, something deeply affectionate.
Then Harry turned to him, a smile on his lips. “Did you look at the questions in the diary?”
Tom nodded.
A touch of eagerness lighted Harry’s tired face. “Can I see what you wrote?”
Obediently, Tom rose, and went to his room, returning with the diary.
He sat beside Harry on the couch, close enough to feel his heat.
Harry opened the diary, and began to read.
At first, there was a small smile playing at his lips. Then, gradually, his expression shifted, curiosity turning into faint consternation.
“Tom,” he said at last, looking up at him. His voice was gentle, his eyes unbearably kind. “These are brilliant answers. But… I want you to be honest when you write them.” Harry’s gaze held his. “You can rewrite them tomorrow if you like, but promise me you’ll be honest.”
For a long moment, Tom didn’t move. He simply looked at him, still as stone. Then, he gave a slow smile. “What makes you think I wasn’t honest, Harry?”
Harry’s eyes softened further, impossibly green in the firelight. “Because I know you.”
Tom’s smile was quiet. “You’ve known me for a month. You think that’s enough to know when I’m not being honest?”
“Yes,” said Harry simply. “And I’m not angry. I’m just asking for something I want from you.”
Tom’s voice was soft, “Do you know me enough to love me?” He paused, then said, “I’m reminded, Harry, of the words you left for me in the note.”
Harry didn’t flinch. “I do. I meant what I wrote.”
Tom stared at him, unreadable. Then, slowly, his expression smoothed into something deceptively calm.
“Very well then, Harry,” he said at last, voice low, measured. “I’ll rewrite the answers with every bit of honesty I can summon.”
~*~
That night, as he lay tangled with Harry in Harry’s bed, Tom dreamed.
He dreamed of vast, dark skies, endless and open, and of himself and Harry, hurtling through them, plummeting, together. But they were not bodies; they were formless. He was a shroud of darkness without shape, and Harry was light, ethereal and incandescent, and together, they twisted and plunged through the heavens at terrifying speeds.
They merged at times, folding into one another as they turned and fell, and each time they did, lightning tore through the sky, and thunder rent the air.
The skies were immeasurably dark, and Tom, formless shadow, blended seamlessly. But Harry shone; he was radiant, angelic, heaven-bright, his light revealing them to whatever gods or monsters watching them.
So Tom tried to shroud him, contain him, draw the light into himself, wrap around him. He coiled, tightening, and when he did, he felt the light tremble beneath him, shuddering, writhing, alive.
Tom tightened violently, ruthlessly, as together, they plummeted endlessly through the sky.
~*~
The next morning, the cottage empty again, Tom sat with the diary, as Harry had asked.
Harry’s first question read: “Think and write words that describe the cottage, the Highlands around it, the weather today.”
Tom moved the quill slowly, deliberately, as he wrote:
Isolated, silent, desolate. The wind sounds like it’s trying to find a way in. The grey light makes everything look dead. It’s the perfect hiding place. It’s ours.
“Make a list of things you’d change about this cottage, if you could…”
Larger rooms. A window in my room that doesn’t face the empty moors, but into yours.
“Imagine you wake up tomorrow, and no one can see you. What would you do? Would you help someone? Trick someone? Why?”
I would raid Hogwarts, find the rarest books, and keep them for myself.
I would follow you to your training and see who you speak to.
If I had time, I would place a snake in Mrs. Cole’s desk drawer.
Helping someone is inefficient; it doesn’t grant you power. Knowledge and control do.
“Imagine a child is lost in the village, and only you see him. What will you do?”
If he was useful, or from a family of wizards, I would return him and ensure his family was in my debt.
If he was not magical, and a dunce, I might lead him further into the woods.
It is not my responsibility to correct the consequences of another’s stupidity.
“A baker has seven loaves. Three travellers.... How can he divide the bread fairly?”
The baker gives each traveller two whole loaves. He then cuts the remaining loaf into three equal parts and gives each traveller one part. Two and one-third loaves each.
The problem here is sentimentality. The baker shouldn’t care if they feel cheated. He has the food; their feelings are irrelevant.
“A boy has two coins that add up to fifteen pence. One of them is not a five-pence coin. What are the two coins?”
A ten-pence coin and a five-pence coin. The riddle states, ‘one of them is not a five-pence coin,’ which is true, the ten-pence coin is not. It does not say that neither is a five-pence coin.
Most people are fooled by their own assumptions. They overlook facts.
“A boy owns one toy. Two friends want it. If he gives it to one, the other will cry... What is the fairest resolution?”
The boy should keep the toy. He owned it first. The friends are weak for crying and trying to take what isn’t theirs. By keeping it, he teaches them a lesson about entitlement.
‘Fair’ is a word the weak use to take from the strong.
“What’s one scientific or technological invention that you like? Why do you like it?”
Anatomy, the mapping of the human body. It shows where everything is, what is essential, and what can be removed without killing someone.
Tom wanted to add that it could serve both as a means to save a life, and as a method of precise torture, but he left that part out.
He simply dipped the quill again, and continued writing, movements deliberate, steady:
“Write a story about a magical creature, a phoenix, who chooses to live among ordinary people instead of wizards. Why did it make that choice?”
The phoenix lived as a god among ordinary people.
They worshipped it, for even if someone tried to kill it, it rose again, invincible.
It was tired of living among wizards as an ordinary magical bird, and chose power for itself instead.
When Tom finished, a single thought settled in him, cool and certain – if Harry balked at these answers, if he had asked for honesty only to flinch from it – Tom would ensure Harry learned what it meant to ask for truth and then recoil from its consequences, no matter the lengths and depths of the love Tom had for him.
~*~
Chapter 33: Something Real To Build On
Chapter Text
~*~
It was evening, and Harry was home, to the home where Tom waited for him.
He sank into the couch by the hearth. With a soft smile, he took the diary from Tom’s hands. The fast-paced, whipping frenzy of the training grounds was a world away now. It was replaced by the quiet crackle of the fire, and Tom’s intense, watchful presence beside him.
He opened the book.
The first few answers, the description of the cottage as isolated, silent, desolate… ours, made his breath catch with understanding. He sees the world in shades of possession and desolation.
Harry noticed the handwriting. Harry’s own was jagged, messy, the y’s and g’s and j’s ending in hard, straight lines with no loops. Tom’s… Tom’s was the same in structure, but far more elegant, nearly calligraphic. It was striking how similar they were, his almost eleven-year-old hand already bearing traces of the elegant, jagged precision that Harry had seen perfected in Tom’s sixteen-year-old self.
Tom’s answers were brutally honest, almost challengingly so.
Harry felt it like a quiet provocation. If I show you who I really am, take off the mask, will you still love what you see?
He read on.
The answer about the lost child...
Lead him further into the woods.
Harry’s jaw tightened, though he didn’t look up. He had asked for this. He had demanded honesty. And the cruelty of it, sheer, unflinching, unvarnished, was its own twisted form of trust.
When he reached the final entry about the phoenix, the word god almost burning on the page, he closed the diary slowly.
He could feel Tom’s gaze on him, waiting for the recoil.
Harry placed the diary carefully on the coffee table, as though it were something dangerously alive.
Then he turned fully toward Tom.
“Thank you, Tom,” he said quietly. “This is what I asked for. The truth.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed, a faint, almost cruel smile curling his lips. “That’s all? Gratitude for my honesty?”
“I am troubled,” said Harry evenly, his green eyes holding Tom’s. “But yes, grateful. Because now we have something real to build on, instead of something nice to look at. Your answers before were pleasant. These are true.”
He leaned forward slightly, voice steady. “Let’s talk about the lost boy. You said you’d lead him further into the woods if he was a dunce. Help me understand. What do you believe that achieves?”
Tom’s lip curled. “It removes a useless thing from the world. It teaches a lesson about carelessness.”
Harry’s tone softened, but his words were deliberate. “A lesson for whom? The boy would be dead. He wouldn’t learn anything. His parents would be shattered. The village would be terrified. Where’s the lesson in that? Where’s the power?”
"I did not write anything about leading the boy further in to let him die," said Tom, shrewdly, a slight tilt of his head feigning innocence, and when he saw that Harry did not look impressed, that he saw through that tactic to deflect, he turned utterly still, eyes carefully trained on Harry.
“The power,” said Tom finally, voice soft, “is that I decided. His life was in my hands. That’s the point. Their feelings are irrelevant.”
Harry nodded slowly, almost wryly. “Their feelings make it a tragedy, Tom. So they aren’t irrelevant.” His voice gained a quiet force. “Power isn’t doing something just because you can. Any bully with a bigger stick can do that. True power is in choosing not to. It’s knowing your strength means responsibility, in using it to protect, not to harm, or kill.”
He saw the derision flicker in Tom’s eyes and pressed on. “You think ‘fair’ is a word the weak use. I think ‘fair’ is something that lets people live together without fear. You dismiss it because you think you’ll always be the strong one. But no one is invincible, Tom. Everyone needs fairness, someday.”
He picked up the diary again, tapping a finger lightly against a page. “This bit about anatomy, ‘what can be removed without killing someone.’ That’s healer’s knowledge. It’s what saves lives at St. Mungo’s. The knowledge itself isn’t dark. It’s neutral. What you do with it decides what it becomes. If you’re thinking of it as a way to understand, to help… then I’m glad.”
He set the diary down again, his expression pained, but resolute. “I’m not asking you to pretend to be someone you’re not. I’m asking you to think. To use that brilliant mind of yours, the one that solves puzzles faster than anyone I’ve ever met, to look beyond the thrill of control. You see a chessboard and want to take the king. I’m trying to show you that the game is more beautiful if you learn to value all the pieces.”
Tom’s silence was heavy, his face cold. “And if I don’t?” he said finally. “If this is who I am? You said you loved me. Was that a lie, dependent on me turning into some better version you’ve imagined?”
Harry didn’t flinch. Instead, he reached out, slow and deliberate, and placed his hand over Tom’s where it rested on the couch. Tom’s eyes burned into his. He didn’t pull away.
“My love isn’t a prize you have to earn, Tom,” Harry said, voice low, thick with emotion. “It’s… real.”
Harry drew a breath. “I love the brilliant, fierce boy who reads the hardest book on the shelf just because he can.” Harry saw the faint hitch in Tom’s breath, but mistook it only for surprise that he’d noticed. “I love the boy who brought me toast and tea because he was terrified he’d lost me.”
His hand tightened gently over Tom’s. “And because I love you, I’ll never stand by and nod while you talk about leading a child to his death. I’ll fight you on it. I’ll argue, scream if I have to. I’ll do everything I can to show you a different way, not because I want to change who you are, but because I don’t want you to end up alone in that darkness.”
Harry kept his gaze on Tom firmly. “You asked if I know you enough to love you. I do. I see you now more clearly than I ever have. And I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere. But neither is my refusal to look away from what’s wrong. You’ll have to learn to live with both.”
He released Tom’s hand and leaned back. “The diary’s yours. You don’t have to write in it again if you don’t want to. But if you do, keep being honest. Because this conversation,” he paused, “painful as it is, it’s real. That makes it better than a thousand perfect answers.”
Harry stood, suddenly feeling a profound exhaustion that had nothing to do with flying. He looked down at Tom, who sat very still, storm-grey eyes steady on him.
“I’m going to make some tea,” said Harry softly. “Join me if you like.”
He walked toward the kitchen, leaving Tom alone in the quiet, surrounded by the echo of Harry’s words, and an almost terrifyingly steadfast certainty of his love; love that was not a shelter for his darkness, but a light fixed upon it, refusing to let it hide.
Harry's heart had pounded through nearly every calm, deliberate word he had spoken, but he'd spoken them anyway, like whispers flung to an abyss that devoured.
~*~
Chapter 34: Winter's Blossom
Chapter Text
~*~
Let's go out on the street
You take me away
Faces, they fade
Love stays
Cross my heart and hope to die
If you ever catch me in a white lie
I lay me down in the tall grass
Tangled in the weeds in my messy bed
Bring me under the soil in the roots I toil
Trying, crying, trying to show
Break through watch as I grow
- White Lies, Odesza
~*~
The next day, Harry requested some time off from training.
He let them know that he was a guardian, though young himself, of a boy who had no one else in the world, and neither did Harry have a single person to fall back on for help with the gargantuan task that was raising a child.
Let alone a child like Tom.
Every morning, he left his ward alone at home for his training.
He needed a short leave, a few hours at the most, to take care of something urgent.
With that permission, he went to London.
He searched high and low for books.
Muggle books. On science, history, geography, culture…
Dippet had been clear. Harry must engage Tom in structured Muggle studies. That in fact, Harry had to tone down the magical lessons, for he had gone overboard in his enthusiasm. That it was, undeniably, of utmost importance, that Tom had structured studies of the Muggle world.
For Dippet knew. Harry had told him during their very first meeting the truth of how Tom’s seething contempt for Muggles had destroyed lives.
He needed to keep Tom occupied through the day. Tom had told him as much during the night, as they lay together, that Harry’s questions kept him engaged for half an hour, an hour at the most, but no more. Harry had realized that himself; his questions wouldn’t be enough.
Two days into this new routine, Harry felt the strain. He was juggling work that began at dawn and ended near dusk, while raising a child of staggering intelligence and unnerving intensity. Tom tested him constantly at a mental chessboard of intricate design with his razor-sharp mind, in sparring matches of logic and emotion that would daunt a lesser man.
Harry drowned, drowned, in Tom’s tidal wave of need, in his relentless, head-spinning, rapid onslaught of head games, which mixed with frightening levels of hunger that Harry knew not what to categorize as – it was too fierce to be mere affection, too raw to be anything but love.
It took Harry an hour to gather all the books he thought Tom would need. A book on world history. One on geography. Another on science, one on arithmetic. A volume on art and world culture. An encyclopaedia of animals. A thin book of philosophies, written straightforwardly enough to understand.
He tucked them all into his bag, then disapparated from the quiet alley, back to the training grounds. Seven more hours until six o’clock, until he could go home to Tom.
During evenings, Harry would frame questions, questions that required him to read the books first.
He would come home, tired to the bone. Tom would always meet him at the door, tugging him close fiercely, hugging him, breathing him in. Harry shook at Tom’s raw and wordless affection. He’d feel it, the molten love that rushed through the embrace, as he sagged against Tom’s thin frame, as Tom caught his weight inflexibly.
And no matter how exhausted, Harry would sit beside him on the sofa. He would go through what Tom had written through the day, not the philosophical riddles of the first day anymore, but questions about plant growth, fractions, ancient civilizations of Egypt, or Rome, volcanoes and earthquakes, tribes and their culture…
Harry learnt as he taught. He read the books carefully, trying to understand them enough to frame questions Tom would find stimulating.
When the night stretched late, as it always did, and Harry would still be there on the sofa, straining heavy eyes on the books’ pages, Tom would be right by his side.
When Harry paused, quill hovering over a page to write a question, Tom’s quiet voice would be there, close, so close, offering well-framed questions, helping Harry help him.
Tom had also begun to insist that they prepare ingredients for the next day’s cooking, such as chopping vegetables, or mashing potatoes, the previous night itself, so Harry wouldn’t have to in the morning. So Harry could sleep in a few extra minutes, if he could...
Harry told him it wasn’t necessary, that he could manage with magic, but Tom had only said, softly, that magic didn’t work in a vacuum. That physical exhaustion dulled intent, and that even spells demanded energy.
He wanted to lessen Harry’s burden, in whatever way he could.
So Harry taught him, for Tom demanded to be taught, to make knives move with a flick of the wand. Tom learnt it instantly. The knife sliced effortlessly on his first try.
Tom clung to him tighter again at night.
When Harry shifted in those restless hours, caught in some gnawing, wordless dread, Tom had begun to press a hand flat to Harry’s chest, still him, hold him down. His face was so close Harry could feel his breath ghosting his skin, his dark curls brushing Harry’s cheek, or ear, or lips.
Tom whispered then. Reminded him softly that Harry had promised him they could do anything Tom wanted, anything at all, save for the things Harry couldn’t tell him. And lying close together, Tom said, was well within those rules.
It struck Harry belatedly that he had walked straight into a trap. But how could he even call it that? How could he complain, when Tom was, by every measure, perfect?
Tom was on his best behaviour at all times. Despite the harrowing, excruciating things they had endured, fire that curled around and devoured Tom’s stolen possessions, blood that spilled from a loveable snake and soaked into the pristine white of a cloth bag lovingly given, blood that spilled bright-red from Harry, and drenched them both in carnage, death, resurrection, all of it bearing witness to Tom’s darkness, Tom did not take anything from Harry’s room, though it stayed open all day; he did not break or destroy anything, out of anger, or spite, or otherwise; he never raised his voice above a murmur or a whisper, and when he spoke, if his words carried darkness, it was only traceable to a frighteningly intense affection.
Tom, when at his best behaviour, was probably the most well-behaved child Harry had ever known. Not even Harry, at that age, had been so composed, so measured, so methodical. Not even Hermione, brilliant as she was, had been this calm, this steady, this thoughtful even when she was a year older than Tom.
Before they knew it, snow fell heavily, blanketing everything in white, shrouding the air in wisps of drifting flakes.
As the days grew colder, they turned to each other for warmth, for love, with nothing around them but an endless snowy expanse. Inside the cottage, they were warm, sheltered.
The fire burned hotter and longer in the hearth. Harry made cocoa or coffee for them, and they had it in the quiet crackle of the flames, with books for company.
Tom had noticed it first, and he let Harry know – the rosebush Harry had bought for him, the one that sat quietly on the window sill of Tom’s bedroom, hadn’t been watered in days by either of them. Yet, it remained vibrant and alive, blood-red blooms unfolding fresh every other day.
They were puzzled by it, but in the end, they brushed it off as some quirk of its magical nature. The shopkeeper witch had simply handed it to them without a word of instruction, and neither of them had thought to ask. Still, Harry decided they’d stop by the shop one day to ask about it, and settle the small mystery.
One weekend, they went to the London library from where Harry had borrowed books for Tom. Harry realised with a start that he had overshot the return date by two weeks.
Tom accompanied him.
The librarian gave Harry a dirty look, then proceeded to scold him for the delay, thoroughly rude and thoroughly indignant. Harry had to pay a hefty fine for it, too.
Tom kept his eyes coolly trained on the woman. Harry felt it, the dangerous thrum of magic in Tom, and had to quickly excuse them both, drag Tom to a secluded aisle and warn him not to even think of trying anything.
Tom leaned against a tall rack. The muffled hush of the library surrounded them. Tom’s voice was low, almost casual. “She’s rude. You were only taking it.”
“Yeah.” Harry pushed a hand through his hair, meeting Tom’s eyes. “Because I’m the one in the wrong. And if she’s rude, you’d hurt her for that?”
Tom’s lips tilted. “Yes. Her, or anyone. If they’re rude to you, I will. And I expect you’d do the same for me.”
Harry’s jaw set. “No. That’s not how it works. If someone actually tries to hurt you, then that’s a different story.”
“Different how?”
“They’ll regret it.”
For a moment there was silence, then Harry saw it, the faint, satisfied smirk that slid across Tom’s face, as if that had aligned perfectly well to his taste.
Tom wanted the psychology book reissued. He was obsessed with it, constantly reading it when he wasn’t working on his muggle studies homework. Harry reissued it for him, along with a few others Tom said he might read later.
Before they knew it, it was the week before Christmas.
Snow draped the countryside in sheets of white, and the roads to Hogsmeade gleamed under the pale winter sun. They went there one afternoon, a cold Saturday, wrapped in thick coats, boots crunching over snow as their breath fogged in the cold air.
The village was aglow with Christmas cheer, shopfronts with floating golden lights, wreaths hung from every door, and the scent of cinnamon and butter wafted through the streets.
They wandered from shop to shop, their arms gradually filling with parcels and paper bags, sweets from Honeydukes, a new jumper for Tom that Harry insisted on buying, a few trinkets, and books on magic they didn’t strictly need but couldn’t leave behind.
They stopped by the shop where they had gotten the rosebush and asked the witch about its curious nature. She told them that it thrived on love, it didn’t need watering, but rather sensed the love between its owners. If it was blooming so often, it meant there was immense love. Without love from even one of its owners, it would wilt, no matter how much it was watered.
Having spent nearly the entire day at Hogsmeade, they stopped for dinner at a quiet inn. They sat across from each other, Tom quiet but watchful, Harry smiling in a small, unguarded way that came only when the world outside ceased to matter.
The week from Christmas to New Year’s was a holiday from training. Harry had decided, long before, that he would spend it entirely with Tom, give him the Christmas, the birthday, the New Year’s he’d never had.
They began decorating their cottage, Harry trying in his own modest way – tinsels, baubles, string lights, and a little tree by the hearth that smelt of pine. Tom followed him around, always helping, with eyes that softened now and then when the light touched them right.
Harry, heart brimming with love even as he turned restlessly through the nights under Tom’s grip, believed it truly now – Tom deserved it. He deserved warmth, deserved joy. Deserved to know what it meant to be loved.
~*~
Chapter 35: Polarity
Chapter Text
~*~
Harry came home from training that day more exhausted than usual, his eyes tired yet still holding that addictive warmth and love. Tom was addicted, when he hugged him close, sunk into his neck, his sweat.
Later, settled beside each other on the sofa, Harry began pulling books from his bag. So many of them – new and glossy, hardbound and neat. Harry placed them on the coffee table with cautious, delicate happiness, eyes flickering to Tom’s face, innocently eager.
Books on geography, history, science, arithmetic…
Harry was eager for Tom to read them, to learn them, to be taught their contents.
Why?
The question was a silent scream in Tom’s mind. When the magical world existed, why this? Why force him to learn this irrelevant drivel?
The thought was violent in its injustice. Yet, he did not express a word, did not show a trace of his wrath externally. His face was perfectly composed, perfectly collected.
Harry told him he’d had to practically beg for time off to go buy the books. They were strict with the timings, with the rigour of the training, considering also that Harry was cramming into two months what others learned in six. He looked so tired, so profoundly exhausted.
The rage building like a tidal wave in Tom was reigned in only and only due to the immeasurable, inconvenient, insane feelings he held for Harry.
It was insane, the lengths and depths of his feelings for him, for had Tom not possessed it in his heart, he would have curled his lips in loathing, and told Harry to throw those books into the fireplace, or threatened to do so himself if Harry didn’t comply, words quiet, lethal and violent in his trembling rage…
It would only be fair, for he had made Tom do the same once for something he had not seen eye to eye on with Tom.
But Harry was tired. Harry tried, so hard, for him.
Tom did not have the heart to grab a book and fling it violently across the room, or into the goddamn fire.
Such violence in his head, yet Tom had only smiled quietly at him.
The picture of obedience, of perfect behaviour.
He wanted to draw out the gentleness, the molten love between them, for a little longer. For as long as he could, in fact.
But how long could he contain his violent impulses and measureless anger at the polarity between them?
Harry, wanting to teach him non-magical things, while deliberately holding back on giving him magical knowledge.
Harry speaking of boundaries, while Tom dreamt of breaking down every single one of them.
Harry keeping so many secrets, while Tom wanted to exhume, violently unearth every single one of them.
Keeping Tom in the dark…
Why, Harry really thought Tom a fool.
Tom had only smiled at Harry, heart hammering with violence, with love.
~*~
Come to think of it, his restraint might have its benefits.
The past month had been violent, horrific, a cycle of blood and resurrection. And Tom, barely giving Harry a day to recover, had barraged him with rage, indignation, and desperation, day after day. Harry had been endlessly patient, endlessly loving.
Maybe now, playing it calm was the right move. Lying low, giving Harry respite.
The instincts hardwired into him told him it was the right thing to do.
If Tom played it right, he could gain everything.
Harry would see an innocent, good soul, calmed and quelled by the right environment and care, by Harry’s presence; all he had needed was Harry.
Then, after Tom had obediently learned every useless fact, after he had performed perfectly, he would ask. He would ask Harry to teach him magic again with the same vigour as before. Harry, his heart softened by obedience, would agree. Tom knew him well enough to know that. He felt it in their hugs, in their whispers, their lingering gazes.
And that was when he would begin, slowly and surely, to unravel the mystery of Harry’s resurrection.
Tom knew that every other secret – the adoption, the initial iciness – was rooted in it. In the heart of Harry’s eternal life.
He would destroy every last atom of existence before he suffered a life where he did not partake in that same gift with Harry. If Harry dared to live without him, Tom would drag him down into the dark.
To unearth things, he needed patience.
He could be patient.
For now, he would savour Harry’s warmth and love; the quiet laughter, the soft smiles, the embraces. The nights lying tangled close.
For now, he was satiated by the truth of Harry’s love for him, and his own terrifying feelings for Harry, the magical rosebush, blood-red and blooming, an undying proof of it.
~*~
Chapter 36: Where The Compass Points
Chapter Text
~*~
The week of Christmas and New Year’s was a holiday for Harry.
Tom was quietly grateful for the company.
After all, in the past, he had only ever spent these days alone, in misery, in rage, in filth.
Never like this, in loving warmth.
They shopped endlessly. Tom had never in his life seen so many things bought at once. So much that he almost worried whether Harry would have enough left for them to live on, for it was still over a month before Harry would begin his job at Hogwarts.
Sweets, ingredients, clothes, keepsakes, decorations. A medium-sized Christmas tree.
They decorated the cottage together. Real tinsel and string lights, and then, shimmering magical lights that floated softly in the air; Harry’s handiwork.
Tom thought no house in the world could look prettier, more whimsical, than theirs did now.
He helped with every bit of it, heartfelt, genuine, not an act.
With each little task done and ornament hung, Tom’s heart swelled with a quiet anticipation he didn’t quite know how to name.
Harry had said Tom didn’t need to study those horrid non-magical books for the week, and that alone had put Tom in better spirits.
He wanted to ask if they could practice spells again, like before, but somehow, he felt it wasn’t yet the right time.
When they finished, the cottage looked picture-perfect; cozy, wonderful, magical.
The Christmas tree stood by the hearth, its lights dancing on the walls, drawing one’s eyes to it again and again.
The next day, Harry began baking batches of cookies and other delicacies for Christmas, which was now only three days away.
The entire cottage smelled divine; warm, sweet, utterly delicious.
Harry really did cook well, Tom thought.
He was always by Harry’s side as he worked, helping however he could, watching the way Harry moved in quick, agile motions. The way his hand flew up to push back a stray lock of hair, or adjusted his spectacles out of habit. The way he gave soft, precise instructions, his voice patient and fond.
Tom could barely restrain his feelings for Harry in such moments, his indignations and pride forgotten. His eyes devoured Harry feverishly, greedily.
His… guardian.
At night, when Tom lay tangled close against him, he thought their relationship was hardly like that of guardian and ward. It felt more like… equals. Like… impossibly close friends.
Yet the way Harry nurtured him dotingly, lovingly, reminded Tom of a loving parent he never had, and perhaps, never could have had, if not for Harry.
Two days before Christmas, Harry appeared with a keen, boyish smile, and asked if Tom wanted to fly with him.
It was snowing heavily outside.
Tom, looking into those lively green eyes, couldn’t help but smile back. He was eager too, for this was finally something magical Harry had offered in a long while.
Harry layered him in charm after charm to keep him warm, and in jumpers and scarves, until Tom looked ready to march into a blizzard.
“I think that’s quite enough layers, Harry,” said Tom dryly, as Harry tried to pull yet another jumper over his head.
“Arms up,” said Harry firmly.
“Quit fussing over me. I’ll wear it myself,” muttered Tom. “Do you mind leaving me to it and closing the door behind you?”
“No,” said Harry. “You told me you think it looks odd, so I’ll stand right here and make sure you wear it properly.”
Tom almost rolled his eyes, but raised his arms obediently. Harry grinned and pulled the jumper down over him.
Tom loved the attention, despite the way it made him feel small and boy-like. Almost absurdly, Tom wished he could be the one pulling a shirt on Harry, fastening each button slowly, surely…
“Now these,” said Harry, brandishing another pair of socks.
“Harry,” muttered Tom, exasperated.
“Come on, quit being difficult and put them on.”
“I already have two layers of socks on,” said Tom flatly.
“Then one more won’t kill you.”
Grudgingly, Tom sat at the edge of the bed and obeyed. Then came the gloves, and the scarves, and the thick coat.
At last, Harry was satisfied. He left briefly to fetch his broomstick, and Tom picked up his own from where it leaned in the corner.
When they stepped outside, the world was white and silent, wrapped in frost and snow. But Tom barely felt the chill, Harry had made sure of that.
“Here,” said Harry, handing him a pair of goggles. “Wear these. The wind will sting your eyes otherwise.”
Tom slid them on as Harry held his broomstick for him.
“And these,” said Harry next, opening his palm to reveal two small, dark, spongy objects.
Tom looked at them, uncertain. Before he could ask, Harry stepped closer, and with quiet care, pushed them gently into Tom’s ears. Harry’s gloved fingers brushed against his skin, just a fleeting touch, but it sent Tom’s heart stuttering, sent heat rushing through him.
“They’re charmed,” murmured Harry, voice soft near Tom’s ear. “They’ll protect you from the wind.”
Tom took his broomstick back, their gloved fingers brushing.
They walked a little way from the cottage, until they stood in the middle of a snow-laden expanse, empty and glimmering.
The world felt still, expectant, waiting for them.
“All right,” said Harry, standing before Tom.
How beautiful Harry looked.
The thought came unbidden, as Tom took in the sight of him – him in dark coat dusted lightly with flecks of snow, thick boots, gloves, goggles framing a beautiful face.
Harry crouched down and laid his broom neatly on the snow. Straightening, he nodded at Tom.
“Do the same,” he said encouragingly.
Tom obeyed, mirroring him.
Harry smiled approvingly.
“Now, hold your hand over the broom, like this,” Harry demonstrated, his palm hovering above the handle. “Say ‘up.’ It should fly straight into your hand. Catch it quick, no hesitation.”
“Up,” said Harry, and the broom snapped cleanly into his grasp.
He looked at Tom, eyes expectant.
“Up,” said Tom. His broom leapt obediently into his hand. He caught it with ease, the action instinctive, requiring almost no thought.
Harry’s smile was proud, almost awed; almost darkened with the memory, or the realization, of something almost painful.
“Very good,” he said softly. “Now, mount it, like this.”
With practiced grace, Harry swung a leg over and mounted his broom. It seemed to welcome his weight.
Tom followed suit, careful, mirroring him once again. To his surprise, it felt comfortable, weightless, as though the air itself was holding him up.
“Good,” said Harry again, pleased. “Now, hold the handle firm, lean forward slightly, and kick off the ground, a little hard. Don’t think of flying, or that’s exactly what you’ll end up doing. Think of hovering. Just hovering.”
Harry demonstrated. He kicked off despite the inches of snow, his footing sure. And then he was a few feet above the ground, floating effortlessly. The sight made Tom’s breath catch; how natural Harry looked doing this.
Tom did the same.
Before he knew it, he was floating, too, face-to-face with Harry, both of them mid-air, hovering above the snow-laden ground.
Harry’s smile was radiant, that same, brilliant, sunlit smile that could melt through frost.
“Very good, Tom,” he said encouragingly. The air was sharper up here, but Tom felt no chill at all. Harry’s charms were holding steady.
“Now, keep leaning forward and follow me,” said Harry. His broom tilted upward, and he began to rise, smooth and sure, the distance between him and the ground increasing…
Harry glanced back. “Come on, Tom!” he called.
Then Tom was after him, swift, precise, effortless.
Harry turned mid-air, facing him again, his movements clean as if he and the broom were one.
They were high now, far above the tree line. The wind rushed around them, the snow drifting like mist. Even though Harry was only a few feet away, Tom could see him only faintly through the swirling white.
Tom realized that this was Harry’s reckless side – teaching Tom to fly for the first time in the middle of a snowstorm.
Harry did have this reckless, unthinking side; for some reason, it only filled Tom with sharp excitement, with eager thrill.
Almost as though catching Tom’s frenzied, dizzy hunger straight from Tom’s gaze, Harry threw Tom a grin that was boyish, daring, then he was gone, shooting upward, slicing through the snow at dizzying speed, vanishing into the white.
Tom’s heart gave a lurch, filled with the need to meet the challenge, show that he can not only meet it, but best it, and Tom was hurtling forward at dizzying speed, chasing the dark outline he could barely make out ahead of him but knew was Harry.
The world blurred, cold air whipping past, but Tom didn’t care. Tom knew no fear, no inhibition. It was as though he had done this before a thousand times, as though the sky itself bent to his will.
Harry climbed higher, higher; soon, Tom was beside him again. The wind roared around them, their ear charms the only things keeping the cold from burning through.
Then Harry slowed, his hand raising slightly. “Tom! Let’s try descending now!” he called, his voice half-lost to the gale.
In one smooth motion, Harry tilted downward. He threw a glance behind, checking on Tom, slowing down.
Tom caught up with him, swift as the gale around them; Harry picked up his pace instinctively to match Tom’s, and together, they plunged downward from that great height…
Tom’s heart hurtled, too, wild, unrestrained, and somewhere in that dizzy descent, he remembered a dream.
A dream where he had merged with Harry, inseparable, one soul moving through the same skies.
For a breathless, impossible instant, Tom wished that he could do it here too, in waking life.
They touched down, their boots sinking lightly into the snow before finding steady ground.
Tom’s face was flushed with exhilaration; his breath came quick, misting in the cold air. It was a breathtaking experience, and the fact that it had been with Harry made it infinitely more precious.
He was dismounting, broom still in hand, when Harry came toward him, eyes alight.
“Tom, that was brilliant.” Harry’s smile was proud.
Tom turned to him, heart still pounding.
He didn’t know who moved first, only that a heartbeat later he was in Harry’s arms.
They drew back after a moment, breathless, Harry’s arm finding its way around Tom’s shoulders as he tugged him close, ruffling his hair with a familiar, affectionate roughness.
Still breathless and buoyant, they stepped back into the cottage, where the soft glow of Christmas lights and the scent of sweets welcomed them home.
~*~
It was Christmas Eve. The morning was spent eating delicious food and the sweets Harry baked, flying again through the pale winter sky, then reading by the hearth and the Christmas tree with two mugs of cocoa, the lights casting soft, dancing colours across the room.
When it was afternoon, and the snow still lay thick and pristine outside, Harry suggested that they build a snowman together.
Tom found the idea ridiculous.
Before Tom could protest, Harry tugged Tom up and rushed him along to wear warm layers, fussed over him with warming charms again.
Soon, Harry was already crouched down on the snow, hands scooping it up to form the base. Tom followed reluctantly, pretending the sight had nothing to do with the warmth in his chest.
Tom settled beside Harry, trying to help.
Harry watched Tom struggle with the snow for a while, then said, “Like this,” demonstrating how to pack it tight so it didn’t crumble apart. “You’ve got to press firmly, see? Not too soft, not too hard.”
Tom watched, unimpressed. “I’m certain I can figure out how to roll a lump of snow.”
“Oh, really?” said Harry, “Show me again how it’s done?”
Tom tried. The snow broke apart pathetically, slowly.
Harry just laughed, cheeks rosy, breath misting in the cold.
“You’re intolerable,” muttered Tom.
“And you’re terrible at making snowmen,” teased Harry, gently brushing snow off Tom’s glove as he reached over to help him form the base properly.
Tom pressed the snow tighter this time, mimicking Harry’s motion with a focus far too fierce for something as silly as this.
Harry smiled at him, amused. “See? Perfect. You’re a natural.”
“I learn quickly.”
“I noticed,” said Harry, still smiling.
They worked together, building, stacking, arguing over proportions, laughing when the middle section slid off balance and toppled over.
“Maybe we should give him a hat,” said Harry, eyes narrowed, appraising their work critically. “I think he’d look dashing in one.”
“He’s snow, Harry. He doesn’t care,” said Tom dryly.
“Still, you can’t expect him to meet the neighbours bareheaded.”
Tom shook his head. “You’re insufferable.”
By the time they finished, their snowman stood crooked and lopsided. Harry transfigured a few stones into buttons and used a handkerchief for a scarf. Tom, pretending to not care, shaped the eyes and mouth with meticulous precision.
Harry stood back, hands on his hips. “There. Our masterpiece.”
Tom tilted his head. “It’s hideous.”
Before Tom could react, Harry scooped up a handful of snow and tossed it straight at him.
The snowball hit Tom on the shoulder.
“Oh, how wonderful,” muttered Tom, staring daggers at Harry.
“Wonderful, is it?” laughed Harry, already backing away with another handful of snow.
Snowballs flew, impatient and rapid. Harry kept dodging Tom’s snowballs despite Tom trying to aim as precisely as possible.
Tom finally managed to hit him with a particularly large snowball to his face.
Harry, breathless and flushed, laughed, letting himself fall straight onto the snow.
Tom was upon him in an instant, taking advantage of the moment of vulnerability, tackling him, shoving more snow onto Harry’s face.
“Truce,” sputtered Harry, splaying his arms above his head in surrender.
Tom smirked. He was sat atop Harry’s sprawled form. “Say you concede defeat,” said Tom. He tenderly brought his gloved hand to Harry’s face, brushing away the snow from his face, his hair.
Harry grinned at him. “Who's insufferable now?”
Tom’s smirk softened into a tender, almost aching smile.
~*~
Among the many things they’d brought back from Hogsmeade was a little wizarding radio, a kind that could tune into both non-wizarding and wizarding stations. Harry had insisted on buying it, despite Tom’s sceptical look, and had left it playing ever since they came back in from the snow.
At first, Tom ignored it. He made a point of turning a page of his book every time a song came on, pretending the music in the background didn’t exist.
But somewhere between one song and the next, his foot began tapping, barely, against the wooden floor. Harry noticed, of course. Harry always noticed. He didn’t say a word, just smiled to himself as he stirred the cocoa on the stove, the air fragrant with chocolate and cinnamon.
Harry switched the radio to a non-wizarding station that played only instrumental Christmas carols. The music was rich, joyful, with fiddles and pianos, and bells and choral hums.
Tom recognized some of the tunes. They were the same ones that had echoed through the orphanage halls, sounding hollow and cold.
Here, though, with their decorations sparkling in the firelight and snow falling thick outside the window, they sounded… more real.
Harry came over with two steaming mugs of cocoa, and set them on the table.
Then, with a flick of his wand, he conjured tiny, glowing, muti-coloured lights. They floated gently around the room, drifting like coloured snowflakes, painting the walls in more hues of red, blue, and gold. The entire cottage seemed to hum with quiet enchantment, magic woven into the very air.
Then, Harry, in a fit of holiday madness, said the unthinkable.
“Let’s sing,” he said, far too brightly.
Tom stared at him as though he’d just suggested they dance naked in the snow. “Sing?” he repeated, scandalised.
Harry grinned, that infuriating, reckless grin of his. “Yes, sing. It’s Christmas Eve, Tom. You can’t just sit there like a brooding gargoyle.”
“I do not brood,” said Tom, affronted.
“You absolutely do,” said Harry cheerfully. “Now come on –” before Tom could protest, Harry began singing.
It wasn’t perfect, his voice was warm but unpolished, cracking on high notes, yet he sang with such joy that Tom almost forgot to roll his eyes.
Harry nudged him after a verse. “Your turn.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Come on, just one,” coaxed Harry, smile teasing, eyes soft with mischief. “If you don’t, I’ll just keep singing until you can’t take it anymore.”
“You already sound unbearable enough,” muttered Tom, but his mouth twitched.
“Good. Then fix it,” said Harry, grinning. “Sing with me.”
He couldn't deny Harry, for how lovely Harry was. And so somehow, impossibly, Tom conceded, then.
His voice came out awkward at first, tentative.
He had never sung before, after all.
But as the music played on, and Harry kept singing with him, and Harry’s eyes met his, the warmth in the room seemed to seep under his skin; his voice grew steadier.
He forgot himself in the face of Harry’s love, forgot that he didn’t do things like this. That joy, laughter, singing, those were for other people, not for him.
But Harry was looking at him like he was seeing something extraordinary. In that moment, Tom understood – Harry’s love made him do things he never thought himself capable of.
By the time the carol ended, Harry was laughing softly, a hand reaching out to softly brush through Tom’s hair. “Tom,” he said, eyes bright with something fond and fierce, “you’ve been hiding that voice from me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Tom, deadly.
Harry chuckled. “Too late. I’m ridiculous for you all the time.”
The radio kept playing softly in the background as they sat there, lights floating lazily above, the fire crackling low.
For the first time, Christmas didn’t feel like something that other, lesser people enjoyed.
~*~
It was morning, wintry, pale light slipping through the curtains when Tom felt someone brush a hand lightly through his hair.
“Tom,” came Harry’s voice.
Tom stirred, lashes fluttering. When his eyes opened, the first thing he saw was Harry, smiling, so full of fondness it made Tom’s heart pick up its pace.
“I thought I’d wake you up today,” said Harry. “Hope you don’t mind I’m the first thing you’re seeing on Christmas morning.”
Tom gazed up at him, still hazy with sleep, and then, very simply, without thought, he reached out and touched Harry’s jaw. His fingers brushed lightly there.
His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse with sleep. “It’s the best thing, Harry.”
Harry’s smile faltered for a moment, not in displeasure, but… something; something raw.
Tom’s lips tugged into a smile, faint, almost defenceless. “If you haven’t got me any presents,” he murmured, “this will do.”
Tom saw a flush creep up Harry’s neck, his ears. Saw the way his breaths quickened slightly. Saw the way his eyes were startled, yet loving.
For a moment, Harry didn’t speak. He then simply leaned forward and drew Tom into his arms, as Tom lay there, and held him close. Tom’s face found its way into the crook of Harry’s neck with such naturalness that Tom felt Harry’s breath catch again.
“Merry Christmas,” whispered Harry.
Tom hummed softly, the sound content.
Harry chuckled and pulled back. “Come on, you. Get up. There’s something I want to show you.”
~*~
Downstairs, the fire was still crackling in the hearth, and Christmas lights twinkled around the tree. It smelt faintly of pine and cinnamon, the scent of home.
Tom’s gaze fell to the base of the tree, where, to his astonishment, there was a pile of gifts. They were all neatly wrapped, with his name written in Harry’s jagged, messy handwriting.
“Harry,” said Tom slowly, eyes narrowing in disbelief, “when did you…”
Harry shrugged, hands in his pockets, feigning innocence. “When did I get all of this done? That’s a secret.”
“They’re all for me?”
“Yes. All for you,” Harry gave a sheepish smile. “I might’ve... gone a bit overboard.”
Tom sat down before the tree and began to unwrap them. There were jumpers, warm, soft ones, all in colours Harry said would look good on him. Scarves, gloves, socks thick enough for snow.
Tom looked up, amused. “Harry, my cupboard is now overflowing. There won’t be space for more clothes.”
Harry smiled. “Then I guess I’ll just have to get you another cupboard, won’t I?”
Tom silently unwrapped the next gift.
There were keepsakes, a beautiful set of quills, a polished ink bottle with silver trimming, a lovely watch.
Finally, a small, simple box.
Inside it was a compass. Sleek, elegant, but unlike any Tom had seen before.
He looked at Harry, curious.
“It doesn’t point north,” said Harry. “It points home. To our cottage. So you’ll always find your way back. No matter where you go.”
Tom’s throat went tight. He turned the compass over in his hands, and saw the engraving on the back.
For Tom.
Wherever you are, on every Christmas, you’ll have me.
Tom did not speak, for he truly was rendered speechless.
Harry crouched beside him. “Do you like it?”
Tom only set the compass carefully aside, then pulled Harry into a fierce embrace.
“Thank you,” whispered Tom. He pulled back just enough to look into Harry’s eyes. “One day, I’ll give it back to you, and more.”
“There’s no need, Tom,” murmured Harry, brushing a hand through Tom’s hair. “I’m not doing any of this to expect something back. I’m doing it because I love you.”
Tom inhaled sharply, then leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Harry’s. “I love you too,” he said quietly.
Outside, snow fell against the window, and inside, tree lights glowed like captured stars.
~*~
Come evening, Harry took Tom to Hogsmeade again.
It was a cacophony of magic and festive joy.
Wreaths of holly and icicles adorned every door and window, and the air tasted of cinnamon, of pine.
A wave of gasps and delighted laughter swept through the crowd. Tom looked up. Soaring above the main street, pulled by reindeer – majestic creatures with antlers shimmering from within – was a sleigh. In it sat a wizard with a long white beard and red robes; he waved his wand, sending beautifully wrapped presents floating down into the hands of cheering children.
Harry led Tom to The Three Broomsticks.
The moment they pushed open the door, they were hit by a wall of chatter, laughter, and the rich scent of roasting meat and mulled mead.
The ceiling was charmed to look like a starry winter sky, and enchanted snowflakes drifted down, dissolving into puffs of cool mist before they touched anyone.
A group of teenagers, likely Hogwarts students who had stayed back for the holidays or come down to Hogsmeade for a festive gathering, were crammed into a large booth, faces flushed with butterbeer and the thrill of being unsupervised. Their eyes slid over Harry and Tom without a flicker of recognition.
Harry found them a smaller table near the crackling fireplace. When the food arrived – a platter of golden roasted chicken, buttered vegetables, and two foaming tankards of butterbeer – Tom eyed the drink suspiciously.
“Is this alcoholic?” he asked in a low voice.
Harry let out a laugh. “No, Tom. It’s just… warm and sweet. Try it.”
Tom took a cautious sip. It was delicious, creamy, butterscotch-sweet, spreading warmth through his chest.
But the true intoxication came from something else entirely.
As they ate, as Harry pointed out a particularly dreadful Christmas jumper on a wizard across the room, and as he stole a piece of chicken from Tom’s plate with a playful grin, Tom felt a dizzy, effervescent high coursing through his veins…
It wasn’t from the butterbeer.
It was a heady mix of belonging, of safety, of love so profound it felt like intoxication.
He was drunk on Harry.
A small choir of witches and wizards had gathered near the hearth, their voices weaving a beautiful carol through the noise of the pub. The warmth of the fire, the fullness of the meal, the emotional saturation of the day began to pull at Tom’s consciousness. He felt heavy-limbed, blissfully weary.
He glanced at his wrist, at the elegant new watch Harry had given him that very morning. It was nearly ten.
Without a second thought, without a flicker of his usual awareness of public perception, he let his head fall onto Harry’s shoulder. He burrowed into the side of his neck, inhaling the familiar, sweet, elusive scent of him.
Harry simply accepted it. His hand came up, one palm spreading wide and warm across Tom’s back, cradling him securely. The other cupped the back of Tom’s head, fingers gently tangling in his dark curls, a gesture of pure, unthinking protection.
Then Harry did the unthinkable.
He bent his head, and pressed his lips against Tom’s forehead.
It wasn’t a quick, fleeting kiss. It was tender, lingering; a seal upon a perfect day.
The touch was so gentle, so full of unguarded affection, that Tom’s heart clenched, a sharp, almost painful spasm of emotion. His fingers fisted in Harry’s jumper, as though to stop the world from spinning.
“Merry Christmas,” murmured Harry into his hair.
Tom lifted his head. Their faces were close, so close, that he saw just how beautiful Harry’s green eyes were.
A powerful, impulsive urge surged through him, to lean forward and kiss him back, press a kiss to Harry’s forehead, to his cheek, to the bridge of his nose. To reciprocate, to claim.
But then a sudden fear pierced through the haze, a fear of breaking the spell. Fear of what his touch might do to this fragile, perfect moment. Fear of Harry flinching away.
So he restrained his urge. He only hid his face back into the crook of Harry’s neck, hiding the sharp stab of want, and held on tighter.
Eventually, they were home. The Christmas tree lights still glowed, casting soft, shifting colours across the walls.
Once in bed, darkness fell like comforting blanket. Tom curled into Harry’s side.
The impulse from the pub returned, softer now, braver in the secrecy of night.
He tilted his head and pressed his lips, once, against the fabric of Harry’s nightshirt; not a kiss, but only to whisper words that were utterly intimate:
“It was the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”
Harry’s arms tightened around him. “I’m glad, Tom. I’m so glad I could give that to you.”
There were no more words. The silence that followed was thick, full.
Sleep didn’t elude Tom that night; it fell upon Tom like a caress. His body, his mind, his treacherous, hungry heart, were so profoundly sated that, for the first time in his life, there wasn’t a sliver of worry left to keep him awake.
For one perfect night, Tom knew absolute peace.
~*~
Chapter 37: Frightening Completeness
Chapter Text
~*~
Harry stood beside the running shower, just slightly out of the falling water, head tipped back, working lather through his hair, when he heard it.
A series of insistent raps on the bathroom window.
At first, he thought it was only the wind, blowing too hard and rattling the frame. It didn’t sound quite right, but he dismissed it and continued soaping his hair, until the knocking grew sharper, more deliberate, almost angry.
Frowning, eyes stinging and covered in suds, he stepped fully beneath the shower to rinse them clear, then stepped out of the shower, and pushed the frosted bathroom window open.
A gust of cold air rushed in, and with it, an owl burst through in a flurry of feathers, dropped an envelope onto the tiled floor, and swept out again just as fiercely.
Harry’s confusion lasted only a moment before understanding dawned.
Still dripping, naked, and half-covered in soap, he bent to retrieve the envelope.
The red Hogwarts seal was bright against the stiff paper of the envelope.
From,
Professor Armando Dippet
Headmaster
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Harry set the envelope on the vanity for a moment, dried his hands hastily on the hand towel, then tore open the seal.
Dear Harry,
I trust this letter finds you and young Tom in good health and spirits. I merely wished to enquire after your well-being, and to convey my good wishes for the season.
Should all be well at your end, we may forgo this month’s meeting in light of the Christmas and New Year festivities, and reconvene on the 25th of next month.
Pray forgive my tardiness in writing; I found myself quite caught up in the cheer of the season. A belated Merry Christmas and a most prosperous New Year to you both, and my quiet good wishes in view of Tom’s approaching birthday.
Should you require anything of me, do not hesitate to write.
There is, of course, no need for a prompt reply; I shall await your convenience.
With my kind regards until the 25th.
A.D.
Harry read the letter twice, smiling faintly, eyes lingering on the kindness in Dippet’s words.
Then, he tore the parchment neatly down the middle.
He held the halves over the toilet bowl, retrieved his wand from the vanity, and murmured, “Incendio.”
The fire caught instantly. The parchment curled in from the edges, black and gold. When only the charred edge remained, he tipped it into the bowl, and flushed the ashes away.
Better to burn it than risk anything untoward.
He stepped back into the shower, turned the water on, and stood beneath it once more.
Steam still clung to the tiles, and the water ran steady. He let it wash over his shoulders, eyes half-closed, mind slipping where it always did when left alone too long.
He thought of the days gone by, the odd little joys that had begun to take root in him.
Tom’s smile, or his set jaw, or his unwilling huff of laughter, or his witty retort. The way he listened, utterly still, when Harry spoke of something that caught his interest.
Tom was… something else.
When he fixed his attention on something, he did it with frightening completeness. There was no half-measure in him; as though, for him, the world existed only in extremes.
Everything about him was intense, but – there was no use pretending – endlessly dear.
Harry tilted his head back, the water tracing down his face. It was easier not to think too much about it. Easier to just remember how soft his eyes looked when he was happy, or how quick his temper flared and faded sometimes.
Still, the thought of it all left an ache somewhere deep in him. It felt like tenderness, like love.
He let the water run, until the steam clouded everything.
~*~
Tom thought back on things, as he often did when left alone.
His core had always been dark, and Harry knew that much. Knew it without Tom ever needing to hide it, or lie about it.
Harry had once said that he’d been watching him, before adopting him. “I have my sources,” he’d said, when Tom had challenged him that second day after Harry had taken him in.
Tom still didn’t know how much truth there was to it.
It didn’t sound like something Harry would really do.
And yet… it was strange. There were moments when Harry spoke to him, and Tom would feel the faintest chill, as if Harry already knew the answers long before Tom gave them.
He told himself he would ask about it one day; clarify, whether Harry had truly watched him before taking him in.
He would ask soon, but not now. Not in the midst of holidays and festivities, when he got to spend every minute of the day with Harry, when Harry was smothering him so completely, so tenderly, with love.
Harry’s awareness of the darkness in him hadn’t made him flinch, the way others would.
When Tom had written those answers for the questions Harry had left him, those peculiar ones that seemed to test his morality, he had done so with brutal honesty the second time around, after Harry had seen through his earlier, sugary fabrications, and demanded to see the real him.
He had weaponized his honesty then, to test him, to challenge him. It was the kind of honesty that should have made anyone recoil.
But Harry hadn’t punished him, or flinched away, or written him off as irredeemable or insane.
He had only read them quietly. Then, sitting beside Tom, had talked to him, not in rebuke, only calmly, as though laying out another perspective.
It had confused Tom at first, that calm, forgiving clarity.
Harry’s heart was so open, so steady, so good, that it almost frightened him.
It was the kind of light, the kind of goodness, that still believed in better things, in kinder possibilities.
Tom was contemptuous of it, for he knew the world did not function that way. Yet, he wanted to touch it, taint it, consume it.
An almost rational thought settled in him, for the way their love grew could only be explained thus: if both their cores were dark, such love would perhaps never have taken root between them. If both were their cores were light, it would never have burnt as deeply.
In the past few days, their love had grown into something vast, consuming, so much so that Tom sometimes forgot everything else.
Forgot that Harry still kept secrets; that there were things Harry would never say, things he hid behind his smiles, his lovely voice.
Harry’s love was relentless, smothering, total.
He loved Tom as if there was nothing dark in him at all.
It made Tom forget himself, made him want to surrender the hard edges of his pride, just to feel that warmth.
But beneath it, something strange and contradictory stirred, a kind of resentment that wasn’t truly anger, but ache.
It wasn’t the kind of resentment that burnt dark or lethal, the kind he was used to.
It was the kind that made him want to clutch Harry tighter.
Tear into his insides, make everything in him – secrets, heart, life-force – his own.
It was the kind that made him want to become one with him, no matter what Harry thought of it.
~*~
Chapter 38: 31 December, 1937
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
~*~
The days drifted by in a haze of love and contentment; dangerously so, for it began to feel as though they needed no one else in the world.
Once, Harry went out to buy a few things, and returned with several large bags.
Tom knew that he must have bought him presents. He didn’t ask, didn’t peer into the bags.
Tom, despite trying hard to quell it, was oddly eager for his birthday.
No matter how hard he tried to remain unaffected, how much he tried to suppress the eagerness in him, he couldn’t. He was eager; eager to see how it would unfold, finally, in a way that wasn’t wretched like it always was.
Harry had mentioned that Tom might receive his Hogwarts acceptance letter on his birthday. Though spending the day with Harry was the thing he looked forward to the most, the thought of the letter, too, stirred anticipation in him.
That night, the eve of his birthday, filled with a nervous anticipation that almost consumed him, Tom found himself unable to sleep.
He clutched Harry tighter around his shoulder, leg draped over Harry’s, face pressed to Harry’s chest, just beneath the warmth of his throat. Any trace of shame or inhibition had long since vanished after nearly two months of near-constant, addictive proximity, especially during the nights. The proximity Harry had once tried to restrain, and Tom had pulled him back in viciously, without even a day’s respite…
After some time, as Tom’s breathing only grew more uneven, and his restless tightening upon Harry’s body only continued, Harry brushed a slow, comforting hand through Tom’s hair.
“Tom, you all right?” he asked, voice low and hoarse.
Tom was silent. He did not relinquish his nearly violent clutch on Harry, his breaths still uneven.
“Tom,” murmured Harry again, gentler this time. He cupped Tom’s face, and tilted it to look at him.
Molten need filled Tom, an unbearable urge to bury his fingers into Harry’s hair, press closer to him.
“You seem restless,” said Harry. In firelight and darkness, Tom saw limitless understanding in Harry’s face, as though he could see straight into Tom’s thoughts. As if Harry knew exactly what he felt, as if he had endured something similar himself, perhaps long ago, perhaps now.
Harry smiled then, eyes lovely and bleary. “Can’t wait for your Hogwarts letter?”
“No… it isn’t only that,” murmured Tom, gaze fixed on Harry’s face, so close that if he leaned in just a breath more, his lips would touch his skin.
“It isn’t only that?” repeated Harry, slight amusement in his expression. “What else is it, then?”
Harry’s hand rested at the back of Tom’s head, no longer moving, but cradling, grounding him, like a mother might have. The scent of vanilla, sweet and elusive, filled Tom’s senses. Harry’s warmth bled into him, tethering his sanity while also derailing it.
“It’s… spending my birthday with you,” said Tom.
Harry looked a little confused. “You’re worried about spending your birthday with me?”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“What’s wrong, then?”
“It’s new. For me. Spending my birthday, spending anything, with… someone I love.”
Harry was momentarily stunned into stillness. His eyes, though, were loving, giving. He smiled then, touched.
“Then it should calm you,” he said, resuming his slow caress through Tom’s hair.
Then kiss me again, Tom wanted to say. Like you did on Christmas night. That will calm me.
Hold me closer. Closer than now.
The words wouldn’t leave his lips. They were killed in his throat.
“Relax,” said Harry gently. “You’ll be spending it with me, no one else, and here, nowhere else.”
But Tom couldn’t relax. He couldn’t calm down.
“Sing for me,” he murmured, voice feverish against Harry’s chest.
“Sing?” said Harry, amused.
Tom briefly pulled back to look at him. “Yes. You made me sing on Christmas Eve. It’s only fair you sing when I ask you to.”
Harry let out a soft laugh. “I knew you’d hold that against me.” His eyes were fond, almost sorrowful, as they gazed into Tom’s. His hand continued its gentle rhythm through Tom’s hair.
Tom tried to let the rhythm lull him to peace.
With a small tug, Harry drew him close again. Tom nestled into his heat, and then, Harry began to hum.
It was a tune Tom didn’t recognize, one he had never heard before. But it was Harry’s voice – soft, uneven, sincere.
It nearly made Tom cry.
It felt maternal; like warmth, like love.
It sounded like something Harry had to tear out from deep within, from a place he himself did not have in him, but had to form, had to find, just for Tom.
And so, it was inelegant, inexperienced, but it was Harry’s lovely hum. Tom sank into the tremor of it that he could hear through Harry’s chest.
Tom didn’t know when he finally fell asleep.
~*~
Morning crept in like a fragile dream.
Tom stirred first, the scent of sleep and warmth thick around them. For a long moment, he lay still, watching Harry, thinking that it was the finest gift.
When Harry woke, slow and drowsy, his first conscious act was to pull Tom close, press a kiss to his forehead, and murmur, “Happy birthday.”
In that instant, Tom’s wish from the night before was granted.
Harry kissed him, the second time since Christmas night. Tom stored the memory away in his mind, somewhere he knew he would return to again and again.
Breakfast was simple. Tom ate absently, watching the way Harry’s face looked in the morning light.
Harry caught him staring, and smiled, teasingly. “You’ll have to wait till evening.”
He misunderstood Tom’s gaze; thought that Tom awaited presents.
By late morning, Harry was in the kitchen, determined to bake a chocolate cake.
Tom joined him without being asked.
“You don’t have to help bake your own birthday cake,” chuckled Harry.
“I want to,” said Tom simply.
The kitchen was soon filled with the rich, warm scent of chocolate.
Standing beside Harry, Tom thought that if this was what birthdays could be, and if this was what life could be, he had never truly lived until now.
~*~
The afternoon had barely settled after lunch when there came a sharp rapping at the frosted window of the sitting room.
Harry rose to open it. When he did, along with the cold gust of wind, an owl swept in. It dropped a letter onto the middle of the floor, and vanished back into the pale winter sky.
Harry closed the window, turned, and picked up the envelope.
He looked at Tom, smiling affectionately.
The Christmas tree still stood by the hearth, lights glittering, throwing multi-coloured patterns onto the wall.
Harry sat back down beside Tom on the sofa.
“Here, Tom,” he said. “It’s for you.”
Tom took the letter from Harry’s hand, and read what was written on the envelope:
Mr. T. Riddle,
Gleann Ruaidh Cottage,
Glencoe, Argyllshire,
Scotland.
He broke the green wax seal. Inside were three neatly folded sheets; one of them looked very much like a ticket.
As Tom drew them out, the empty envelope suddenly jerked free of his grasp, and burst into flames before their eyes, leaving only ashes behind that fell slowly to the floor.
Startled, Tom glanced at Harry.
Harry only shrugged once, though even he looked slightly surprised. “Well, that’s Hogwarts for you.”
Deciding to ignore Harry’s mild surprise and to press him later on this, Tom turned his attention to the sheets in his hands:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Armando Dippet
(Order of Merlin, First Class; Grand Sorc.; Chf. Warlock)
Dear Mr. Riddle,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September, 1938. We await your response no later than 31 July, 1938.
Yours sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Deputy Headmaster
Tom read the second sheet after that, containing a list of uniform, equipment, and book requirements.
He then finally took a look at the smaller, third piece of paper. A ticket. Upon it was written:
London to Hogwarts
For one way travel
Platform 9 ¾
Train departs at 11:00 am sharp on 01/09/1938
Issued subject to the rules and regulations of the Hogwarts Express Railway Authorities
“London?” asked Tom, slightly perplexed. “But we live in Scotland.”
Harry smiled. “Hogwarts is in Scotland, too. But they have a strange rule. Students – even those who live a stone’s throw away – must still travel to London to take the train to Hogwarts. They say it’s to help students get to know each other properly. Young witches and wizards from all over Britain come to Hogwarts to learn, after all; it’s easier for them to all depart from one place. It would be impractical anyway to arrange transport from every corner of Britain.”
Tom narrowed his eyes. “You were taught at home, weren’t you?”
Harry took a pause, a slightly hesitant one, before answering, “Yes.”
“How could you possibly know all of this, then?”
Harry gave a small shrug. “Just because I was taught at home doesn’t mean I don’t know these things, now does it?”
Tom kept looking at him, utterly still. “Who taught you at home?”
Again, that pause. “My uncle and aunt,” said Harry finally. “I don’t have much recollection of my parents. From the time I can remember, it’s been my uncle and aunt.”
“And where are they now?”
Somehow, Tom already knew what Harry would say next.
“We don’t keep in touch anymore.”
Tom smiled a little. “Why is it that everyone you’ve known either dead or gone from your life, Harry?”
At that, Harry froze.
Tom didn’t like seeing his Harry this way, he really didn’t, but it was as though a switch flipped in him the moment he sensed fear, or lies; when he caught it like a hound catching scent from kilometres away. He turned sharp, precise. Angry.
“It’s just how things are, Tom,” said Harry at last. His voice had cooled, his face shuttered. “This falls under the things I can’t tell you yet, but I will, in time, when I think it’s right for you to know.”
Tom tilted his head, a smile still playing on his lips. The absurdity of Harry’s answers then made a soft laugh escape him. The sound of it, high, cold, seemed to drain the blood from Harry’s face.
“Harry,” said Tom, his voice deceptively calm, “as your ward, I think I have a right to know why everyone you care about ends up dead or gone. Don’t you think I deserve to know if being with you puts me in danger too?”
There it was. That familiar, terrible look, the hurting anger Tom used to see etched into Harry’s face nearly every day, two months ago, every time his gaze fell on him. It was back.
But right now, Tom seemed to have lost his mind a little. His heart hurt, but rage drowned the pain. He was seized by a sudden violent wrath at all the secrecy, the deflection.
“Do you feel like you’re in danger when you’re with me, Tom?” Harry’s voice came out trembling with pain and fury both. His chest heaved; his restraint was fraying.
Tom didn’t care. “You sound far too desperate to convince me it’s safe being with you.” He knew it would cut deep, yet he couldn’t stop.
Harry flinched, drawing back slightly even though he was already seated a safe distance away on the sofa.
Harry sat very still for a few moments, his gaze turned away, eyes distant, his breath coming a little too fast, as though he were reeling himself back, struggling to keep his composure.
The sight of it only made Tom’s anger burn hotter.
“Tom,” said Harry at last, voice low, careful. “It’s your birthday today. Let’s not do this now. We’ll talk about it, tomorrow, if you like.”
“Sod my birthday, it’s not worth a damn,” hissed Tom. “What’s the point of it, spending the day with someone I trusted like a fool, let myself care for, without knowing the first thing about him? It’s all lies and secrets, isn’t it, Harry? You preach honesty, doing what’s right, yet you hide behind a pathetic, gutless mask, pretending to care.”
He saw Harry tremble. Harry’s eyes shut tight; his hand came up to press the bridge of his nose, as if holding himself back. His breaths came hard and uneven, anger barely contained.
The sight of it, of his restraint, his silence, only sent Tom’s rage spiralling. He wanted to launch himself at him, pin him to the sofa, wrap a hand around his pretty, pale throat, cut off his airway –
Tom ground his teeth, eyes gone blind with fury.
He violently tossed the three sheets from Hogwarts, sending them scattering to the floor. He shot up like a whip.
Harry still wouldn’t look at him. He only stared at the fallen papers, expression hollow, listless. To Tom, it felt like contempt.
Feeling the way his magic dangerously surged, the way his body craved to throw itself upon Harry and violently seize at his neck, Tom simply left, rushing upstairs, and slammed the door shut behind him.
~*~
Harry gathered the scattered sheets from the floor one by one, his hands trembling faintly. He carried them upstairs, moving as if in a daze, and once inside his room, locked the door behind him.
He placed the letters and the ticket carefully in his cupboard.
He felt drained, as though Tom had not merely struck at him verbally, but physically.
He lay down on the bed, eyes staring apathetically at the ceiling.
It hadn’t been long since Tom had shut himself away, but Harry didn’t go after him yet. He knew that forcing a conversation now would only worsen things. He’ll give him time, for now.
The pain was unbearable, pressing up into his throat until he couldn’t breathe. He poured so much love into him, but it only took an instant for everything to come crashing. One letter, one letter was all it took.
Yet, he understood Tom. He wished he didn’t. He wished Tom wasn’t so cruelly sharp, able to turn in a fraction of a second from making Harry feel like the centre of his world, to seeing Harry with nothing but poisonous anger.
Harry pressed his face into the pillow, pain welling. He wept quietly for some time.
When at last the tears ran dry, he pushed himself up, went to the bathroom, and washed his face. The mirror showed a cruel reflection – eyes red and puffy, nose reddened – but he seemed composed.
At Tom’s door, he knocked softly.
There was no answer.
“I’m coming in,” he murmured, and turned the knob. The door wasn’t locked.
Tom lay on the bed, his back to him.
Harry approached carefully, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He reached out and touched Tom’s shoulder, fingers gentle, tentative, half-expecting Tom to lash out again.
Tom didn’t move.
“Tom,” said Harry quietly. “Why spoil a day like this? You know I keep some things from you for a reason; we’ve talked about it before. I’m not doing it to hurt you. I’m just trying to keep you safe. Everything I’ve done since taking you in… even the secrets… it’s all been to protect you.”
Tom said nothing.
“Your Hogwarts letter should’ve made you happy,” Harry went on. “I don’t want it to end up being something you remember as awful. Let’s just… start over. I’ll give you the letter again, and you can ask me anything you want, about the books, the list, the school… anything. My secrets don’t matter right now. What matters is that it’s your birthday, and you should be happy today.”
For a long, still moment, Harry thought the silence would never break.
At last, Tom shifted. He rolled onto his back, and looked up at Harry.
“I can’t be truly happy while a part of you is hidden from me,” said Tom. His gaze was dark, with a consuming intensity. He sat up, looking at Harry with pain. With love.
Harry took it as a small victory for now.
He regretted the secrecy, but Tom wasn’t ready yet. No matter how much it hurt them both, there would come a time for truth. Until then, if they had to suffer for it, then they would.
Before Harry could say anything, Tom moved. He threw his arms around him.
Harry felt a jolt run through him when Tom pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder, then to his hair. Tom clung to him, burying his face in the curve of Harry’s neck, his breath warm against his skin.
“Well,” whispered Harry, voice unsteady, “I hope you can be happy. Because even if you don’t believe it, with all the secrets I still keep, I love you. Doesn’t that make you happy?”
He wanted Tom to say it made him happy. He needed it, for both their sakes.
“Yes,” said Tom. “But that doesn’t mean I can stand you keeping parts of yourself from me.”
“It doesn’t matter right now, Tom.”
“It does,” said Tom, drawing back just enough to meet his eyes. “It always will. But I must endure it for now, because unfortunately for me, I love you, too.”
~*~
The rest of the evening unfolded as a gentle rewriting of pain.
Seated side by side on the sofa, they went through the Hogwarts requirements again. Harry explained the nuances of the equipment list, as he spoke about the pewter cauldrons, the brass scales, the telescope. Tom listened, asking questions that were sharp, intelligent, his attention wandering, though, to the warmth of Harry’s shoulder brushing his.
Later, Harry set the chocolate cake on the centre of the kitchen table. It wasn’t perfectly shaped, but it looked dark, rich, and inviting.
With a flick of his wand, he lit the single candle placed upon it.
Tom stared at it, his face unreadable.
“Go on,” said Harry, smiling. “Blow it out.”
Tom, for whom birthday once meant a bloodied nose in a dusty corner of Wool’s, hesitated for only a second, before leaning forward; he blew out the flame.
“Now make a wish,” said Harry. “A secret one. It won’t come true if you say it aloud.”
Tom didn’t close his eyes. He looked at Harry, eyes dark and burning with quiet hunger.
Let me have the power to conquer death itself. Let me find a way to never die, just as you did. Let me bind you to me, forever. No matter the cost.
Harry, blissfully unaware, reached out and pulled him into a warm embrace, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Happy birthday, Tom,” he murmured.
They ate slices of the cake until they couldn’t anymore. Harry carefully placed the rest under the charm to keep it fresh.
Then came the gifts.
A set of new spellbooks, not childish, but elegant, though subdued, thin and simple, their bindings neat and clean. Tom liked them immensely. They were a silent promise that Harry would keep teaching him magic, would pick it back up, sooner or later.
More clothes followed. Tom accepted them with a small chuckle. Harry grinned, half contrite.
And then, the last gift.
Harry drew it carefully from a velvet-lined box: a small mirror framed in dark, polished wood.
“I found it in a little shop in Hogsmeade,” said Harry. “It doesn’t show your reflection, it shows your favourite memories.”
Tom lifted it, and the glass shimmered, clearing not to his own face, but to a cascade of moments that stole his breath.
He saw them together through the glittering, snow-blanketed days before Christmas, through Christmas Eve, and then, Christmas night, Harry’s lips on his forehead for the first time.
He saw last night, wrapped in Harry’s arms, Harry’s low hum tremoring through his soul.
The memories spiralled further back, to the night of the snake, and the blood, and the catastrophe of his volatile magic. The mirror showed not the violence, only what came after – the desperate clutch of their embrace.
“What do you see?” asked Harry.
Tom tore his eyes away from the glass. “Our memories,” he said, voice rough. “Together.” He paused, then extended the mirror toward Harry. “Tell me what you see.”
Harry accepted it gently, and looked for a long moment.
A shadow crossed his face, a hint of sorrow, deep and distant, as though he were gazing across time itself. But it passed, replaced by tenderness.
“What did you see?” Tom asked, voice low, uncertain.
Harry smiled a little wistfully. “Our Christmas together. And then, the first time I'd held you after… everything.”
The same memories.
Satisfaction, fierce and absolute, settled within Tom.
~*~
The world outside Tom’s bedroom window was inky black. Inside, the firelight painted the walls in soft gold.
Harry settled cross-legged beside him on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight.
“I’m going to cast a spell now,” said Harry, bright with excitement. “We’ll sit here and watch what happens until the clock strikes twelve. We can stay after, too, if you’d like.”
“Yes,” said Tom at once.
A small smile appeared on Harry’s lips. He picked up Tom’s watch from the nightstand and pressed it into his palm. “Keep an eye on the time,” he murmured.
The old alarm clock on the nightstand showed quarter to midnight, its hands inching inexorably toward the new year. They sat in silence, in shared vigil.
“I learned this from one of my tutors at the training centre,” said Harry after a moment, a faint crease appearing between his brows. “They use it for… something. I can’t remember now.”
Tom let out a soft, teasing laugh. Harry’s grin came quick and unrepentant.
“It’s the same sort of magic you’ll see on Hogwarts’ Enchanted Ceiling," said Harry. "It makes it look like, well, you’ll see.”
He raised his wand, pointing it toward the ceiling. With a quiet incantation, a shimmer of magic rippled outward.
The low wooden rafters didn’t crack or crumble; they simply vanished, replaced by the vast, unbroken night sky. Yet no cold wind swept in, no sound from the outside world intruded. The ceiling still existed, solid, invisible, and transformed.
Tom stared, spellbound.
The sky was a cavernous sweep of blackness, the stars not gentle pinpricks but fierce, ancient lights burning across time and distance, just to be seen by them now.
He had never thought much of the sky before. Over Wool’s Orphanage, it had always been dull and murky. But this felt immense, sacred.
He was filled with reverent awe not just for the sky, but for the lovely magic Harry had wrought. For him.
He watched in silence, until wonder became too heavy to hold alone, and he leaned his head against Harry’s shoulder. Harry’s arm came around him at once, steady and sure.
They lay back against the pillows, side by side, the spell still holding. Tom raised a hand and traced invisible lines across the sky.
“Cassiopeia,” he murmured, sketching the distinct ‘W’ shape. “And there, Orion. The hunter.”
“You know them?” asked Harry with open admiration. “That’s brilliant, Tom.”
Tom felt a stir of pride. “I used to read about them in a tattered old book at the orphanage. About planets and constellations. One of the few books I liked. I must’ve read it a hundred times.” He continued, then, voice low. “That one, the brightest one, that’s Sirius. The Dog Star.”
Harry’s arm tightened imperceptibly around him. Tom felt a subtle tension in his body. Harry drew him closer, as if grounding himself in the contact.
Then the alarm clock on the nightstand burst into a clunky, awful ring, shattering the spell.
Harry winced and flicked a hand toward it; the ringing died at once. He laughed when he saw Tom’s deeply displeased scowl. “Sorry," said Harry, "I just kept it on in case we forgot to look at your watch, which, as I predicted, we did.”
The spell had broken, but something else lingered in the silence. Harry leaned in, pressing a kiss to Tom’s forehead.
“Happy New Year, Tom.”
Tom’s heart picked up its pace. Emboldened by the day’s many forehead kisses, he leaned in, and pressed his lips against Harry’s cheek, soft, lingering. The stilling of Harry’s breath was reward enough.
“Happy New Year,” whispered Tom.
Tom let his head rest back on Harry’s shoulder, the starry sky stretched infinitely above them.
Slowly, and eventually, intoxicated by their proximity, by the intimate spell of the moment, he laid his head down in Harry’s lap.
He felt Harry stiffen for an instant, but then his hand came up, and his fingers threaded slowly through Tom’s hair.
Under the touch, Tom’s eyes slowly closed to the fading sight of Harry, of a vast black sky.
~*~
Notes:
What a happy coincidence that tomorrow is my birthday, too. Perhaps it’s just proof of how deeply this story has its claws in me.
Chapter 39: Creating and Bridging Rifts
Chapter Text
~*~
New year opened with a chasm.
It was Tom who created it, suddenly and decisively.
As the days passed by, sweeter than the last, he couldn't stand the contradiction, the unbearable physical closeness that existed alongside a cavernous, infuriating lack of true knowledge of Harry.
The warmth of Harry's body next to his at night began to feel like a lie; comfort offered without the intimate knowledge of him that should anchor it.
"I'll be sleeping in my own room," stated Tom one cold night, his voice devoid of the tempest raging within him.
Harry's surprise was brief. He didn't resist it, didn't question it. In Harry’s quiet, swift acceptance, Tom detected something that stung more than Harry’s elusiveness ever could – a hint of relief.
A lifetime at the orphanage had taught Tom to completely seal off any part of him that craved closeness, to the point of not even being aware of its existence. Harry was the first to ever breach those defenses. But Tom felt the walls locking tightly back into place.
A new, frigid routine began.
Their days went on as it always did. Harry returned from practice each evening, and their lessons continued.
Tom absorbed magical lessons with greedy, vehement focus, grasping spells and theories like forging weapon.
He took in the non-magical lessons – ones Harry forced upon him – with detached, clinical calm, swallowing them with thorough discipline like bitter poison.
When he was not learning either of those, he devoured Psychology of the Unconscious, the only non-magical book that gripped him. It opened the darkest recesses of his soul, and named what lived there without break or mercy.
Harry laid out the foundations of the world Tom was about to enter bit by bit, naming the strange and unreal like they were ordinary facts of life.
Muggles were non-magical people.
Quidditch, the game Harry would soon teach children to master, had chasers, beaters, seekers, keepers; quaffles and bludgers and the golden snitch; goal hoops that floated fifty feet in the air.
Gringotts, the wizarding bank in Diagon Alley. Galleons, sickles, knuts. Goblins who guarded vaults.
House-elves who cooked feasts. Food, that appeared magically in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, where candles floated overhead, and an enchanted ceiling mirrored the endless sky outside.
"We’ll talk about the house system another day," said Harry.
Tom no longer wasted energy wondering whether Harry lied or not. Perhaps he had learned it all from his aunt and uncle. Perhaps he had read some extensive book that detailed every corner of the wizarding world. But it was the certainty in Harry’s voice that betrayed him every time. He spoke not like someone who had studied these things, but like someone who had lived them.
And the moment Tom pressed on it, the shift was immediate. The bright, open young man vanished, replaced by someone closed-off and wary, answering in short, clipped sentences before finding a reason to walk away.
It was this transformation, this elusiveness, this refusal to be truly known, that festered in Tom.
He was unable to bear the tender proximity of the night when the man himself remained a sealed book.
Seething rage and helpless love warred constantly within him. It always left him sleepless.
He withdrew, built a wall of silence, of clipped responses, a fortress to protect himself from the ache of Harry's presence.
~*~
If Tom held his distance, it seemed Harry was more than fine with it.
That was what Tom staunchly believed.
Then, one frigid Friday night in the middle of January, Harry knocked on his door. The next day, being the weekend, was a break for Harry from training.
When Tom answered with a curt yes, Harry opened the door gently.
“I know you value your own space now, Tom,” began Harry, lingering in the doorway. “But I can’t help feeling you’ve been avoiding me. That you’ve stopped talking to me.”
The sheer audacity of the statement, after everything else Harry had ever dared to say or do, was staggering.
Tom was leaned back against the headboard of his bed, reading Psychology of the Unconscious. He glanced up briefly, his eyes then straying back to the page and the words he was reading:
Mephistopheles:
What will you bet? There’s still a chance to gain him
If unto me full leave you give
Gently upon my road to train him!
“Tom,” said Harry, and he dared to step forward, gently pressing the book down and away from Tom’s hands. He took it and set it aside on the nightstand.
Finally, Tom looked at him, granting him his full, silent attention.
Harry sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, next to where Tom was lying.
Then, Harry sighed. “I know why you’ve gone quiet. It’s the same reason why you were angry on your birthday.” He held Tom’s gaze, and when the silence stretched, he continued, “You’ll know everything about me one day, I promise you that. But until then… I thought we could talk about our pasts.”
“Our pasts?” Tom’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes,” said Harry, his voice soft. “Our pasts. I want to know everything about you, Tom. The same way you want to know everything about me.”
Tom remained still, watching him.
Harry reached out and grasped the hand Tom had resting on the mattress. Tom didn’t pull away or flinch; he never could.
“I want to know how it was for you. What it was like. No matter how… unpleasant.” Harry's grip was warm and steady. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. But if you’ll let me… I’d like to know. I want to know you, your past, all of it.” Harry smiled then, devastating and quiet as the moon shining outside the window. “So I know how to love you better.”
Of course Harry would say that. Harry had an infuriating, uncanny talent for finding the most direct path to his core, after all, for disarming his defences with a single phrase.
“And in return,” Harry pressed on, “I’ll tell you things from my past, too. Except for the things I really can’t say. I want you to know me, the same as I want to know you.”
Tom only gazed at him, his mind racing behind his calm mask.
“So… what d’you think? We’ll share the things we’ve been through?”
Tom was silent for a moment. “Share?” said Tom eventually, voice dangerously soft. “You have a staggering nerve, to speak of sharing.” His full attention was fixed darkly on Harry. “Every bit of your past is hidden from me, yet you demand I lay mine bare. That isn't sharing, and I have no interest in performing for you.”
Tom knew, with a cold, certain part of himself, that Harry wasn't lying about this. But he said those words anyway, needing to lash out, to toy with him, because the memory hurt immensely, that fleeting look of relief on Harry’s face when Tom had announced he would sleep in his own room.
Harry remained calm, as if, in the past three months, he had slowly grown immune to Tom’s barbed baits and acerbic attacks. “Why do you think I’m lying about this?” he asked gently.
“Are you testing my intelligence? Or my memory?” Tom’s voice was sharp. “I haven’t forgotten anything. It’s because you lie about everything. I know you’re lying about this, too.”
“Why do you think I lie about everything?”
“Because you keep a thousand secrets,” Tom bit out. “If you’re not an imbecile you would understand that requires lying on a daily basis.”
“I’ve told you already,” said Harry, his calm unwavering. “I keep secrets to protect you. You’ll understand it one day. But keeping necessary secrets isn’t the same as lying about everything. And I think you know that, too. You’re only saying this to spite me, because there’s something else, isn’t there?”
Tom tightened his jaw, seething silently.
“Tell me,” pressed Harry, infuriatingly patient. “What else is there?” He smiled a little then, and reached out to ruffle Tom’s hair roughly, playfully, trying to stir him out of his temper. “I know you’re hiding something else.”
The nerve of him –
Tom swatted his hand away.
The nerve of him to infantilize him.
“Harry,” said Tom, his face cold. “I am not in the mood to be playful. Don’t embarrass yourself.”
Harry withdrew his hand with a sigh. “Fine. Be boring, then.” He still managed a small smile.
Tom clenched his teeth, feeling his anger surge dangerously.
“What’s wrong?” asked Harry, his tone shifting to genuine concern. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”
“When I said I would sleep in my own bed,” said Tom, the words icy, “I saw the way you looked. You were relieved.”
Harry’s brows knit in genuine confusion. “I looked relieved?” he asked, blankly.
“Yes,” hissed Tom. “Relieved. Don’t you dare pretend.”
Harry looked utterly bewildered. “Why would I be relieved of all things? I was worried at first, but then I thought… you wanted your space. It’s been two months since… well, since you saw me bleed…” He faltered, then went on, “I thought you’d gotten past your fear, that you didn’t need me so close anymore. I was glad for you, Tom. Because it meant you were healing. Maybe that’s what you saw.”
Understanding dawned on Harry’s face. “You thought I was relieved to be away from you.”
Tom didn’t speak, he only glared at him.
“Tom,” sighed Harry. He reached out and touched Tom’s cheek once, fingers brushing fleetingly. “I love you, remember that. Just remember that, always. No matter what.”
Tom stared back, unmoving.
“Tell me you’ll remember that, no matter what your head tells you.” Harry paused, a faraway look in his eyes, as he glanced at the window briefly, something like nostalgia, or a fond memory, passing over his features, before looked back at Tom with a small smile. “Sometimes, Tom, our own mind is our biggest enemy. It tells us so many lies, lies about our loved ones, lies about ourselves. Its because, sometimes, we get scared… scared of being rejected, of being forgotten. So our mind twists things. It takes a situation, or a certain innocent action of our loved one, and tells us it’s proof that we aren’t loved anymore.”
Tom looked at him, completely still. His mind churned, and infuriatingly, the words made a terrible kind of sense.
The words loved ones was key here, and it sunk in. What Harry said was in no way applicable to anything beyond the narrow world he shared with Harry.
“Tell me, Tom,” murmured Harry, gazing at him. For a moment, Tom thought he caught the faintest trace of fear in Harry’s calm, beautiful green eyes. “Tell me you’ll never forget that I love you.”
Tom gave a single, slow nod, dark eyes fixed steadily on Harry.
Harry’s smile was soft, then. “So… we’ll tell each other things from our past? Things we really want to share?”
Tom gazed away once, heart instinctively, repulsively, repelling away from the memories of the orphanage. He looked back at Harry, and nodded again, noting to himself that if he ever felt like dragging anything of that repulsive past to light, he would. But not before Harry had first offered a piece of his own.
~*~
Chapter 40: Ghosts of the Past
Chapter Text
~*~
The days blurred past, each one carrying Harry closer to the end of his training on the 28th of January. There was a brief respite of a few days before his duties as the Hogwarts flying instructor began on the 1st of February.
Yet, the chasm between him and Tom remained. Tom continued to sleep in his own room, something Harry was privately, immensely grateful for, for Tom’s own sake, but it was Tom’s continued, polished detachment that unnerved him. Even after Harry's offer to share with each other their pasts, a wall of courteous silence remained.
It took Harry those quiet, observing days to understand. He realised, with a slow, creeping sense of embarrassment, that while he had proposed a pact to share their histories, he himself had offered nothing to Tom.
Tom, with his proud, exacting nature, was waiting. He held his distance for Harry to make the first move. Three months with him was enough for Harry to see his patterns, and catch onto things.
So, one evening, as they sat side-by-side at the desk doing muggle studies, arithmetic that day, Harry gently set down his quill.
"Tom," he began. "Can we talk for a moment? There's something I'd like to share."
Tom, who was meticulously solving factors of a large number, stilled his hand. He didn't look up immediately, but slowly leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes lifting to meet Harry's.
"You remember," said Harry, "when I told you I learnt things from my aunt and uncle? That wasn't entirely true. I did live with them, but they didn't teach me magic. I had... other teachers for that. I had good friends. I had a godfather who... who meant the world to me."
He thought of them. Ron and Hermione. The Weasleys. His professors. Lupin.
Sirius.
He pushed forward before he could lose his nerve. "The truth is, my aunt and uncle were... horrible to me."
Tom's expression didn't falter; his gaze was assessing, dissecting.
“They locked me in a cupboard under the stairs – my bedroom, for the first eleven years of my life." Harry let out a soft, bitter laugh. "They barely fed me. There were days when all I had was a few thin slices of bread and watered-down tea, every meal. I remember... crying, sometimes, from the hunger. And my cousin... he was the worst bully I've ever known."
He hurried to the better part then, the salvation. "But my friends, my godfather... they were my real family. I only knew my godfather for about three years. Then... I lost him. He died, because of… war."
A slow, chilling smile touched Tom's lips. "So, you did lie to me." The words were soft, precise. Harry's heart plummeted; of all the things he had offered, this was the thing Tom had chosen to take. "You lied about your aunt and uncle teaching you."
"I didn’t mean to hide it from you," said Harry. " Now, I want you to know what it was really like. How they treated me. How my life only got better when I found my friends, my teachers."
Tom merely watched him, his face an unreadable mask of polite interest.
"Very well, Harry," he said at last, his voice courteous and utterly closed. "Thank you for sharing a piece of your past with me."
Harry stared, disoriented. But then, Tom smiled quietly; Harry caught the subtle shift in Tom’s gaze, the way his dark eyes softened to an impossible grey, revealing a depth that was profound, aching, and Harry’s breath eased. He offered a small, quiet smile in return.
“Your relatives deserve to be flayed, that is certain,” said Tom. “But at the very least, you found friends, and people who mattered.”
“And so will you, Tom.”
“I’ve found what I need."
Harry’s pulse quickened with affection, yet with the dread of what was coming, and sure enough, Tom pivoted unpredictably.
“If your aunt and uncle were so awful, how did you end up with people willing to teach you magic?”
Harry admired that mind. He feared it too. That relentless precision that was so reminiscent of who he became…
Harry remained calm, and offered what was closest to truth. “They tried to stop me from learning. They really wanted to. But someone who knew my parents forced their hand and made sure I got an education.”
Tom absorbed it in silence. His expression didn’t move, but Harry saw the clear cynicism behind courteous eyes.
At length, Tom said, “While your past sounds unpleasant, mine was, I assure you, far worse.”
Tom spoke almost disinterestedly, as though speaking of something that had nothing to do with him.
“There were nights,” said Tom, “when I slept without a blanket. They used to hide it when it was the coldest. I’d curl into a corner, use my coat if it hadn’t been stolen. Some nights, there was nothing.
“Food was a battle. If I was given bread, someone would take it from my plate. The matron always looked the other way. I was the worst of the lot, you see. When she saw it, she thought I deserved it.
“They liked giving me names,” said Tom, after a pause. “Sometimes, they described, in precise, filthy detail what they… desired to do to me. They’d laugh as if it were the finest joke.”
Harry’s stomach coiled into a freezing knot. He forced himself to remain still and silent, to take in the poison Tom was purging.
“That boy, the one I killed with the snake,” said Tom lightly, as if discussing the weather. “He spread a rather… entertaining rumour. Said I had certain… appetites. That I wished to do things to one of the older boys. They all believed him. Or pretended to.”
Tom paused, then smiled as if remembering something particularly funny, “There was a priest who visited. He watched me far too long and far too close,” Tom laughed, amused. “He looked so hideous, he’d have looked better had I crushed his face in with an anvil.”
Tom’s eyes were locked with Harry’s, ensuring he was witnessing every detail.
“The fights were constant. Billy Stubbs’s fists found me with tedious frequency. He had an infuriating talent to flee the moment my magic surged to cleave his head in two. Dennis Bishop and Amy Benson laughed every time my tormentors had luck. Betty Webley…” Tom’s voice lowered, now tremoring with fury. “She was older. Called me names same as others, yet followed me like a bitch in heat. She tried to put her hands on my…” Tom paused, clenched his jaw, and went on, “There was a scuffle, and for a moment, her filthy mouth was on mine. My hands found her throat. I showed her exactly how close she was to heaven, cut off the air to get her there. She ran when a knife flew from the pantry into my grip. The next day, she was back, calling me a freak of nature. I made her gouge out the eye she used to leer at me.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Harry sat, unmoving, the puzzle pieces of Tom Riddle’s soul clicking into place. He understood him. He understood it now.
Tom’s eyes searched his face. “Was it the same for you?”
“No,” said Harry, quietly. “It wasn’t.”
After a moment more of that ringing silence, Tom asked, “Harry, how old are you, really?”
“Twenty-two.”
Tom’s gaze lingered, tracing the lines of Harry’s face. “You look younger. Much younger.”
“I’m twenty-two,” repeated Harry, speaking with a calm he did not feel.
Tom’s smile was a lethal, beautiful thing. "Twenty-two. But immortality would make a mockery of such a number, wouldn’t it? You could be centuries old, wearing the face of a youth.”
Harry couldn’t help but return a soft smile. “I’m not centuries old, I promise you.”
Perhaps it was the cadence of Harry’s voice, or the softness of his expression, but it made the distrust in Tom’s expression fade.
And Harry’s heart bled.
It made sense. It all made sense.
The darkness, the rage, the need for absolute control.
He ached with a primal need to pull Tom into his arms, press a kiss to his brow, hum him a thousand lullabies, rock him through a thousand nights, until every single hurt in him dissolved, and he knew he could breathe without pain.
~*~
Chapter 41: Gold, Frankincense, and Myrrh
Chapter Text
Author’s Note:
Hey everyone, this is going to be a long note, so strap in. You can skip ahead if you’d like to jump straight to the chapter.
I felt like I must take a moment here and share a few clarifications about certain aspects of the story that many of you, correctly and perceptively, have brought up in your comments.
Before anything else, thank you so much for all the love, kudos, and thoughtful messages. It gives me so much joy to know that this story has resonated with so many of you. This fic is deeply personal to me; it’s something I write both for the sheer love of storytelling, and as a way to untangle and heal certain parts of myself. Seeing it receive such love from readers means more than I can express.
If you’ve been following along and the story has meant something to you, I would be endlessly grateful if you could leave a kudos or a comment, it would give me joy to see this work, which is so close to my heart, being loved by you.
I’ve cherished every single comment I’ve received. They’ve been thoughtful, compassionate, and deeply insightful. It’s because of that care that I wanted to take a moment to address a few of the questions or reflections that have come up more than once.
- Picturing young Tom
Some readers (and my husband too) mentioned that it’s a little difficult to picture young Tom, since he seems preternaturally intelligent and far too mature for his age.
Here’s an image that comes close to how I picture him in his pre-teen years (though he does look slightly older than eleven, it’s the closest match I could get for how I imagine him at around twelve or thirteen):
View the image here, on tumblr
As for why Tom appears so unnaturally perceptive and mature, it’s because he has had to grow up too quickly. His environment was abusive, hostile, violating. A childhood shaped by such conditions warps time, forcing a child to adapt, to read danger, and to intellectualize pain far before they should ever have to.
- Tom’s morality and capacity for empathy
This is where things become complicated, and purposefully so. Tom’s morality is deeply grey. His empathy exists, but it is narrow, conditional, and selective.
At its worst, it’s absent; at its best, it’s entirely focused on Harry, and even that empathy is precarious, vanishing the moment it threatens Tom’s sense of control or his vision of what their bond should be.
Some readers noted feeling unsettled by Tom’s seeming indifference to Harry’s suffering in the previous chapter, and I think that reaction is not only valid but expected. However, in that very moment, Tom was being unusually genuine.
A few things to clarify:
i. Tom doesn’t yet know the full extent of Harry’s pain, he doesn’t know about the repeated attempts on Harry’s life (ironically, by his future self), or the full weight of his losses. Harry’s words, ‘I lost them to war,’ are interpreted by Tom through his 1930s frame of reference, the war, to him, is the World War. He tries to rationalize things in ways that fit his world; you’ll see some of it in this chapter.
ii. There’s a moment of genuine feeling in Chapter 40: Tom smiled quietly; Harry caught the subtle shift in Tom’s gaze, the way his dark eyes softened to an impossible grey, revealing a depth that was profound, aching, and Harry’s breath eased.
And also when he says, “Your relatives deserve to be flayed.”
That line reflects the internal rage he feels that anyone could mistreat what he considers his most precious possession. His anger doesn’t stem from compassion in the pure sense, it comes from possessive fury. But it is feeling nonetheless.
iii. When Tom recounts his own past and checks with Harry whether his was similar, and Harry says no, Tom registers that as confirmation that Harry was not sexually assaulted. To Tom, that means his past is the more horrific one.
Tom’s view of his trauma is tied to humiliation, degradation, and the stripping away of control. To him, being seen not as a formidable force or intimidating but as something pretty to be defiled – by the priest, by the older boys, by Betty Webley – is a desecration of the self he believes must command reverence and fear. All of it has been, to him, the ultimate violation.
I hope this offers some clarity, but know that your interpretations remain equally valid. Fiction is, by its nature, open and subjective. The beauty of it lies in how each reader gives it their own understanding and experience.
Thank you, once again, for reading and for showing this fic love.
Now, without further delay, here’s Chapter 41.
~*~
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~*~
As he sat at the kitchen table, having the breakfast Harry had left for him – marmalade on toast, glass of orange juice – on yet another morning where the empty cottage echoed back Harry’s absence, Tom found himself thinking about everything Harry had said.
What Harry spoke of his past, a past before Tom, lingered hauntingly in Tom’s mind. He had finally caught a glimpse of what he’d longed to see, the truth hidden in Harry’s elusiveness, the pieces that would let him know Harry inside and out.
It had been worse than he’d expected. Harry, too, was mistreated, had grown up an orphan, same as him. But his demons wore a different face compared to the ones of Tom – family, his own blood, people who should have loved him, treating him like dirt. Losing loved ones to death.
Yet, Harry had found solace, and love. He had found it in friends, in teachers, in the godfather he had spoken so fondly of.
Tom’s blood had boiled, irrationally, yet in a way that made painful, perfect sense.
Harry had found his salvation long before he found it through Tom. Harry had once turned to others for comfort.
Tom’s salvation was Harry. Tom had turned and will only ever turn to Harry for comfort, for love.
He had maintained his composure, of course, storing each revelation away as he always did.
When Harry spoke of the aunt, uncle, and cousin who had hurt him, Tom felt fury rise in him, the same rage he’d felt toward his tormentors at the orphanage.
It had taken effort not to tell Harry that he wished to know where they lived, so that, one day, he could pay them a visit, give them a fitting surprise.
Because, for some reason, hearing the way Harry was mistreated made him feel as though the affront of it was felt in his own bones.
At the same time, Tom welcomed it, for it made them feel more alike, more connected.
But when Tom had carefully asked ‘Was it the same for you?’, Harry had confirmed that his suffering hadn’t gone that far.
He hadn’t been violated the way Tom had been.
He hadn’t been made to feel skin crawl under another’s touch, stripped of dignity, made to bear someone else’s filth.
The knowledge of it festered. It felt unfair, monstrously so, that Tom had endured the greater horror, yet was not the one allowed to be Harry’s first source of solace, the one to whom Harry turned first for safety and comfort.
The thought filled him with something dark and intensely wild…
An unbearable urge to kill the friends, the godfather, snuff the life out of their bodies once again.
Harry had told him they’d lost their lives to war. Tom could imagine the older men – Harry’s father, the godfather – being soldiers perhaps, wizards or not, dragged into the muggle conflict. But how had Harry’s mother died? His friends – boys and girls surely Harry’s own age – how did they die?
Perhaps it had been some sordid entanglement, wizards interfering in muggle war, playing some large, unseen role. Whether out of misguided heroics or cruel ambitions, Tom knew not.
He knew only this: he was glad they were gone.
But that glee did not sit right; it made him hurt deep inside, in a way that made rage run hot and fast through his veins, because he hated the implication of it.
That he should feel grateful that the others in Harry’s life were swept away to leave room for him. That he should accept their absence with delight, as though he were a hungry, lesser dog, watching other beasts take their fill of something precious, while he, the inferior one, was made to wait and salivate until the feast was done.
The thought was bitter, humiliating – he had been made to wait, he had not been the first.
Harry had already given pieces of himself to others, long before Tom ever had the chance.
~*~
Harry’s heart felt flayed for days after they bared their wounds to each other.
After that, he had poured more tenderness into Tom than he had ever before, taking every small opportunity to reach him. Tom still kept to himself during the nights.
Harry wished – violently, uselessly – that he could turn back eleven years. If only he had met Tom before the world choked him with cruel hands.
If only he had held him the day he was born, shielded him from the hands that would have harmed him, violated him.
Instead, the time turner had spat him into 1937.
Even now, Harry couldn’t fathom why the supposedly brilliant, mystical thing had chosen such a vicious year.
Once, he had hated it because it meant he couldn’t kill the monster who would one day destroy everyone he loved.
Now, he hated it because, though Tom was only eleven, Harry felt that he had arrived too late to love him, nurture him, protect him, with everything he had.
~*~
It was the night before the first of February soon, the next day being Harry’s first day as flying instructor at Hogwarts, and he lay sleepless, thoughts clamouring in his head.
He thought of the forefathers of people he had loved and lost or known in a forgotten future, and wondered how he might be received by them, his students, in this undreamed-of present, and felt clawing panic at the thought of standing before them, before a crowd of them – without Ron, Hermione, Ginny, or Fred and George, to knock sense into anyone unruly.
In every role he had ever played – teaching the secret Dumbledore’s Army, captaining the Gryffindor Quidditch team – he always had someone beside him to make others listen when his placidness failed him.
Harry had never been the loud, commanding sort. He worried that his quietness would falter here, that his two months of training, respectable A on his certificate or not, would crumble before the noise and chaos of a pitch full of forefather-children on broomsticks.
Tom, who had continued sleeping in his own room despite what Harry had shared of his past, crept into Harry’s room that night. They both knew, that Harry needed comfort that night.
Tom wrapped himself around him. Harry welcomed the warmth like someone long starved. Tom whispered to him in the dark, quiet, precise questions as always, endlessly curious about Harry.
About the thestral Dippet had arranged for him, about his schedule, his free hours, what he would do in his spare time, how long Tom would have to wait for him to return.
Then, slowly, Tom drifted off, arms and legs slackening heavily over Harry, pressing in on him like a blanket.
Harry lay awake, affection swelling for him, even as nerves refused to be quiet.
Good. Let Tom not see how tightly he held him back, how he breathed in that iron scent of him, nose pressed into his soft curls.
He was doing all of it, this job, this new beginning, for him.
When morning came, at four o’clock, Harry woke, exhausted. He had barely slept. Tom was still sound asleep, undisturbed by the clunky alarm that went off twice before Harry silenced it.
Harry prepared breakfast, lunch, and dinner in the still dark kitchen, as he always did. Then, at half past six, he paused by Tom’s bedside, Tom still fast asleep, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and left the cottage.
He apparated to Hogsmeade.
Waiting for him at the familiar corner, the same place it had stood before, first on the twenty-fifth of November, and again five days ago when he’d come for his second scheduled meeting with Dippet, was a thestral. Both times before, the gamekeeper, Ogg, had been there beside it. But today, it stood alone in the dull morning light, shocking, skeletal, yet somehow regal, in its black-grey stillness.
Dippet had told him during their last meeting that the thestral would be his transport from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts. You’ll be doing enough flying once you’re here. Let us at least bring you in with some grace.
Harry wasn’t sure what kind of grace that entailed; the thestral itself was graceful, be it in its eerie way, but he couldn’t help imagining how strange it might look to an onlooker – him arriving each day on a creature only those who had seen death could see. Most students, he supposed, wouldn’t see anything at all except him flying in on a floating saddle.
Still, he did not mind it. It was the quickest transport, and Dippet’s kindness outweighed any awkwardness. Dippet had also asked him to stop by his office before leaving today, though Harry still had no idea why.
The thestral watched him approach, milky-grey-white eyes unblinking. Harry reached out a hand instinctively, as he always had before, though Ogg had twice warned him sharply away. Take your hand back before it bites it clean off. But Harry knew otherwise. He knew how gentle thestrals were, or at least, always were to him. He remembered Luna’s words, that they were but utterly misunderstood creatures.
The creature’s eyes softened.
It nuzzled his hand, closing its eyes for a moment, like a docile pet.
Then, drawing back slightly, it bowed.
Master. Revered master… came a voice, cold and quiet as winter air, in his mind.
Harry snatched his outstretched hand back, gasping, heart hammering.
He stared at the creature. It stared back.
You are the Master of Death, are you not? said the voice.
Harry stopped breathing, stunned. “I didn’t know thestrals could speak.”
We speak only to the Master of Death, echoed the voice again – not his own – in his mind. You do know, master, that you may speak to me with your mind. There is no need for words to be spoken aloud.
Harry stood there, still stunned.
Come, said the voice. I will fly you to Hogwarts. Do not be afraid. We revere the Master of Death.
Slowly, hesitantly, Harry mounted the thestral.
Once in the air, the thestral spoke again. She told him her name was Myrrh, and said that all thestrals could speak to one another across any distance, but that they were not mind readers. We only hear what is willed to be spoken. Even now, we speak because we choose to, not because we can hear what’s unsaid.
Always fascinated by thestrals’ appearance of haunting grace yet decay, and recalling something Luna had once told him of their bond to death and resurrection, a conversation he hadn’t thought much of then, a question formed in his mind.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” said Harry, then, remembering Myrrh’s words, willed himself to think the thought to her, how old are you?
Myrrh told him she was four hundred and fifty two years old, with a husband of around similar age, and two children, both around two hundred years old. She spoke of them fondly, as though describing an ordinary family life.
If ever you have need of anything, she said, call for any one of us, and we shall come. Should some troublesome child try your patience, say. We do not bring harm to the young, though, I confess, should one prove truly deserving, the thought may stir within us, yet the laws of this place forbid such deeds. Still, in all else, our strength is yours.
Harry laughed softly, unsure whether she was joking.
You are kind, said Myrrh, and lovely in spirit. May luck and strength be with you, on this first day of your teaching.
When he landed at Hogwarts, he thanked Myrrh. She left him with a bow, and a cool flap of broad yet torn wings.
The grounds were still quiet, the air fresh with the sharp cold of morning. No students were out yet; it was barely seven. He walked across the lawns unseen, robes stirring slightly behind him, toward the faculty tower.
His office turned out to be unexpectedly beautiful. It had a long, polished table, a deep-cushioned chair, and a sofa near the fireplace. Recliners stood by the window, where red, velvet curtains framed a view of a snow-laden Quidditch pitch. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with books on everything flying and Quidditch, or with trophies won for the school, and broomsticks ranging from ancient, twig-bound relics to sleek Comets.
Moments after he arrived, breakfast was brought in by Frinkens, the house-elf Dippet assigned for him. Frinkens was small, wide-yellow-eyed, and insistent, ignoring every one of Harry’s protests that he had already eaten.
“Headmaster’s orders, sir,” he said, piling another plate in front of him. “Professor Dippet says to feed you proper breakfast, lunch, and anything else you’s be needing. You’s too thin, sir.”
Harry refused a third helping.
A wave of resin-scented smoke drifted toward him from the corner.
“Frankincense,” said Frinkens. “I burns it every day. I now burns it here, too, every day. For love and warmth. I likes it. That’s why I’s called Frinkens, sir.”
Soon, the house elf vanished. Harry sat in the silence, smoke and fragrance growing in the room. Coughing lightly, he blinked through the smoke, watching sunlight spill over the vast grounds and the countryside beyond. He felt, with a strange, painful sense of familiarity, at home.
~*~
His first class began at nine o’clock.
Picking up a latest-model Comet from his office, Harry stepped out onto the flying lawn. The first-years, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, were already gathered in chaotic disarray – boys hollering, wrestling, or chasing one another for no reason. Only the girls stood in neat, silent ranks, watching the boys with disdain.
When Harry drew near, they stilled, looking at him with startled, curious expressions. He gave them an awkward nod and a smile. The staring continued. He felt, briefly, that perhaps there was something on his face, but then told himself it was simply what first years did, the staring.
The boys murmured. The girls remained obediently quiet. Harry told himself he’d need to start talking.
“Hello,” he began. The muttering died down, but the staring did not. “My name is Harry Potter. I’m your new flying instructor.”
They stood, blank and wide-eyed. He cleared his throat, counted students in his head, and summoned the school brooms from the shed. The brooms shot out, flying towards them, and quickly arranged themselves on the ground in two neat rows.
The students were still stood in disarray.
“If you could please take your positions by house – Hufflepuffs this row, Ravenclaws that one – and take a broom each,” said Harry. They obeyed, a little quicker now.
Starting with first-year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws was merciful.
He was dreading the older classes, especially the… Slytherins.
The students waited. Some of them looked oddly thrilled.
“I’ve reviewed the lesson plans left by the previous instructor,” began Harry. “According to them, you should already know mounting and hovering, and basic flying at five feet –”
“We have not learnt any of those things!” a boy interrupted.
Harry looked at him, perplexed.
“Yes, we haven’t done them,” another complained loudly. Heads nodded in assent collectively.
“Why?” asked Harry. “By now you should have completed those, as per the curriculum…”
“The previous flying instructor didn’t teach it to us,” a girl said. “Well, he tried to. But the boys wouldn’t let him.”
Chaos erupted; boys yelled over one another. “That’s not true!” shouted one. “Professor Dodworth never shut anyone up! Even you gossiping girls! He couldn’t stop Fletcher or Davies flying around without permission and –”
Harry couldn’t catch the rest of it, because it was just offended boys yelling over each other.
“All right, boys, that’s enough –” began Harry, but his voice was woefully soft, drowned out completely under the din.
Harry realized, panicking, that he will end up exactly like Professor Dodworth if he didn’t buck up and assert himself.
“All right, I said that’s enough,” called Harry, louder than he liked, but having no choice. He needed to hold on to this job; he couldn’t afford to be fired like Professor Dodworth.
He needed it, because he needed, wanted, to be here with Tom, hopefully until Tom’s seventh year.
The din was halted to silence. They stared at him, suddenly attentive.
“If you haven’t learnt the basics yet,” said Harry, “better late than never. Let’s start now. But before we begin, I want each of you to tell me your name and, more importantly, your favourite flavour of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Bean.”
The first-years looked thrilled.
~*~
Mercifully, the next hour was free, and Harry spent it in his office lying on the sofa, not proud of doing that instead of planning lessons. He called for Frinkens, and asked for a glass of juice. He was startled by how drained he felt after just one class. Frinkens returned with a goblet of pumpkin juice.
Feeling revived, Harry sat up, picked up a quill, and began writing down lesson plans, referring to the teacher’s flying handbook he found on the shelf. Once done, he neatly filed the parchments away.
The next session, from 11:15 to 12:15, was with second-year Slytherins and Gryffindors.
Harry took out the student name lists provided for each year, and scanned through the second years.
A chill ran through him.
Evan Rosier, Walburga Black, Eustace Crabbe…
This was Evan Rosier Sr, father of future death eater Evan Rosier Jr, who was captured and killed by Moody.
Evan Rosier Sr had become one of the earliest death eaters of Voldemort, one of those who had gone to Hogsmeade to wish good luck to… Tom, when he had sought his Defence Against the Dark Arts teaching post at Hogwarts.
The thought of it, of that Tom, who had made alliances with these students, made Harry’s stomach turn.
What if history repeated itself? The thought was agonizingly frightening. These students were already here, alive, present, and Tom would inevitably meet them.
Harry could only hope that this time, no dark group would form again among the Slytherins under… under his Tom’s influence.
He hoped, desperately, that the love with which he nurtured Tom would be enough to stop that.
Walburga Black, Sirius’s fanatical, pure-blood-maniacal mother…
Eustace Crabbe, grandfather of… Vincent Crabbe.
The Gryffindor list, too, held a few familiar names. Jordan; McLaggen.
Harry’s heart grew heavy, grief weighing over him suddenly, and under it, no matter how hard he tried to shake off, was fear.
~*~
Harry had believed that second-years, Slytherins included, might still be manageable. At least compared to the fifth-year Slytherins scheduled for the three to four p.m. slot.
He was catastrophically mistaken.
The Gryffindors were attentive, excited to learn under a new instructor who seemed competent. The Slytherins, on the other hand, were out of control.
Harry tried teaching, but only Gryffindors listened. The Slytherins carried on as though he were invisible, murmuring among themselves, giggling, whispering, tossing glances that were just short of openly mocking.
After several minutes of this, Harry’s patience snapped.
“If you don’t want to learn flying, why are you here?” he asked. “You do know you’re allowed to drop the subject in second year, don’t you?”
One of the Slytherins – Harry didn’t know his name; the introductions had dissolved into sneers and taunts earlier – snorted. “The only reason we kept it is because the last instructor didn’t try so hard. He was smarter. He knew when to give up.”
The Slytherins guffawed. Harry’s gaze landed on Walburga Black – striking, unmistakable resemblance to Sirius – and the smug tug of her lips sent an ache through him. A face so familiar… yet a manner so chillingly, paradoxically, like Bellatrix.
“So this used to be free outdoors time for us, Mr. Potter,” the boy finished, smirking.
Harry’s jaw tightened. “I see.”
Blood pounded through him. These Slytherins were worse; smugger, crueller, more unrestrained, than even the ones from his own time.
“Fifty points from Slytherin,” said Harry, finally, “for wasting class time and proudly admitting it.”
The Slytherins flew into rage. Fifty points?! Outrageous! Unfair!
Meanwhile, Gryffindors collapsed to delighted laughter, cheering Harry on, shouting back that it was more than deserved.
“Mudblood-lover Potter!” someone screamed. “Look at him, the exact likeness of them. Mudblood-loving filth, the lot of them –”
As Slytherins laughed, a hex shot from the Gryffindor line. The offending Slytherin collapsed, face erupting in angry boils.
Harry moved instantly, wand flicking to dispel it. The boy’s screams died down.
And Slytherins demanded he punish the Gryffindor.
Harry didn’t even pretend to consider it. “No. He earned it.”
The uproar intensified – slurs, shrieks, insults hurled at Harry with vicious enthusiasm. He ignored them, something cold and decisive settling.
His voice cut sharply through the chaos. “One of you Slytherins will demonstrate a simple aerial weave. Thirty feet up.”
He was met with jeers, snickers, rolling eyes.
Harry raised his voice. “Come now, aren’t you all proud pure-bloods? Show me that supposedly superior magical strength.”
That got them. The jeering faltered, though the arrogance lingered.
“What’s wrong?” Harry goaded, tone turning razor-sharp. “Afraid? Worried we’ll all see just how pathetic your flying actually is? How abysmal your magical potency is?”
A lean, smug, brown-haired boy stepped forward at last. “I’ll be happy to, professor.”
Harry nodded once. “Your name?”
The boy only sauntered a few steps closer, broom held under his arm. “Why should I humour a mudblood-lover?”
“His name’s Evan Rosier, sir!” a Gryffindor called helpfully. Rosier shot him a dark glare; Gryffindors burst into louder laughter.
Rosier.
“Go ahead, Rosier,” said Harry. “Give us your best.”
Rosier mounted his broom and kicked off with startling speed, climbing neatly to thirty feet, executing the weave with sharp, controlled turns. His broom stayed steady, technique confident. When he descended again, he dismounted with the kind of smirk that begged to be wiped off.
Harry met his eyes, expression unflinching. Then he smiled. “That’s one pure-blood showing off the might of his blood. Who’s next?”
Slytherins bristled.
But Harry’s quiet insistence, and the lingering challenge, did the trick. One by one, they stepped forward, determined to prove their superiority.
It went downhill beautifully.
One boy lost control of his broom entirely, whipping around in jerky circles until Harry arrested the motion and lowered him gently. Another fell flat from a pathetic three-foot hover. Another couldn’t even get the broom to lift.
Only the quieter half-blood Slytherins could manage a decent weave, but even they wore the same smugness as the others.
There wasn’t a single muggle-born among them.
By the end of their attempts, the Slytherins were flushed, embarrassed, and suddenly quite uninterested in speaking to one another.
Harry had Gryffindors perform the same technique.
Muggle-born, half-blood, pure-blood – many of them executed the move beautifully. Just as many struggled or failed, across all backgrounds. But the difference was undeniable – far more Gryffindors succeeded than the almost-entirely-pureblood Slytherin group.
Harry turned to the Slytherins. “Second years,” he said, glancing briefly at the Gryffindors, “what did we learn from this little experiment?”
“Blood purity doesn’t matter,” one of the Gryffindors said.
“Correct. Ten points to Gryffindor,” said Harry. “Surprising, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter at all.”
His gaze hardened, landing squarely on the Slytherins. “Now, consider this your dismissal. Off my pitch.”
The Slytherins stared at him with venomous defiance.
Rosier’s chin lifted.
“Why should we listen to a mudblood-loving halfwit who forces untrained students into dangerous stunts? Blood purity is about status, wealth, and power. Things you clearly know nothing about.”
Slytherins roared with laughter, emboldened by him.
Harry’s smile was savage. “Seems Slytherins have trouble following their professors’ instructions.”
He lifted his wand.
Bludgers shot out of the broom shed with a violent clang that made everyone jump, and bats flew straight into Gryffindors’ grasps. Harry made sure of that, with subtle flicks of his wand.
“Gryffindors,” said Harry pleasantly, “beating practice. Your targets are Slytherins.”
The Gryffindors, screaming with joy, mounted their brooms, and launched themselves skyward. Bludgers whistled viciously across the pitch, swinging toward cowering Slytherins, each blow narrowly missing, the danger very real in their eyes.
Harry guided every trajectory with quiet precision. Not a single student would be harmed.
But the Slytherins didn’t know that.
They ran, bolted, their dignity dropped like dead weight.
Some fled on foot, some fled on brooms.
Within a minute, not a single Slytherin remained on the pitch.
~*~
Harry had nearly two hours before his next two classes. Of the two, it was the last one, the three to four p.m. fifth-year Slyherin-Ravenclaw slot, that loomed darkly.
He was sprawled on the sofa in his office again, drained physically and mentally. This time, he didn’t even pretend to feel guilty about it. Lesson plans could go to hell; he was far too gone to care.
At exactly 12:15, Frinkens appeared with a loud crack, balancing several plates in small arms. He set them on the table, then fussed over Harry until he rose from the sofa, urging him to eat instead of lying there like a corpse.
Harry was grateful for the intervention. Left to himself, he might have starved himself despite the gnawing in his stomach.
On the table lay a mouthwatering feast – steak and kidney pie, two slices of treacle tart, a goblet of pumpkin juice. He ate quickly, hungrily.
When he finally pushed the plates away, some of the storm inside him had settled. He drew the student name lists toward him again.
Fifth-year Slytherins. Those who had opted for flying.
Alphard Black, Angus Carrow, Dacre Richmond, Thurl Snyder.
He looked at the fifth-year Ravenclaws.
Boot, Chang, Dagworth, Fawcett, Goldstein.
Hecat, Hobhouse, Larson.
He didn’t recognize some of the names, but some of them were deeply familiar.
These names, all these names… ancestors of friends, enemies, or boyhood crush.
All boys, he noticed absently. Perhaps it was the era, rigid expectations seeping even into the wizarding world, where flying was considered something meant for boys, not girls.
~*~
If the second-year Slytherins had been bad, Harry truly had no idea what awaited him with the class he’d been dreading all day.
The fifteen- and sixteen-year-old boys stood scattered across the pitch in loose clusters. There were more Ravenclaws than Slytherins who had opted for flying in their fifth year. Harry almost dared to take that as a good sign.
It wasn’t.
As Harry approached them, he noticed some of the Ravenclaw boys suddenly still, their faces caught in some recognition at his sight. They exchanged glances – quick, knowing, far too amused.
Harry introduced himself. The boys introduced themselves in turn.
Alphard Black’s resemblance to Sirius was uncanny, not just the familiar features, but the mannerisms, too; in the confidence with which he carried himself.
For a moment, Harry allowed himself to relax into the rhythm of the lesson. He began outlining their syllabus, the drills they’d cover, the safety expectations. But the Ravenclaws were oddly distracted, murmuring to each other when they thought Harry wasn’t looking, tossing him sidelong glances, nudging one another whenever his back was turned.
Then it happened.
“Mr. Potter,” called one of the Ravenclaws. Hecat. “You were at The Three Broomsticks with a boy on Christmas night, weren’t you?”
Harry paused, frowning. He vaguely remembered seeing a group of teenagers there, perhaps these boys, but their faces had blurred in his memory.
“Why?” he asked, genuinely perplexed.
Larson smiled. “Just wondering who you were with, sir. Pure curiosity.”
Harry levelled a cool stare at him. “Do you believe you're entitled to personal details about your professor, Larson? Especially who I spend my holidays with?”
“Oh, professor,” Dagworth chimed in lightly, “I think we are entitled… if our professor is a degenerate. Or,” he paused, his eyes glinting, “of the wrong sort.”
Harry’s brows furrowed. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“Let’s not pretend you don’t know,” said Hobhouse. “We’d simply like to know whether you’re one of those sorts who go after children, Mr. Potter.”
For a split second, Harry genuinely wanted to spit in his face. Or grab him by the collar, throw him to the snow, and pummel his face in. Or hex him to St Mungo’s.
“Excuse me, Hobhouse,” hissed Harry. “You’re making filthy, baseless accusations about me and my ward.”
The Ravenclaws laughed. The Slytherins, Alphard Black alone excluded, joined them, loud and gleeful.
Another indecent comment followed, something about Harry “canoodling” with his own ward, something vile about him “picking” a ward for that purpose –
“A hundred points from Ravenclaw,” snapped Harry. It was half past three. He was at the edge of his endurance. He wanted nothing more than to go home.
The Ravenclaws erupted, outraged, scandalized, exactly like the second-years had.
Harry’s face hardened into ice. “Keep acting like brainless idiots,” he said, voice low and vicious, “and I shall have you expelled for openly hurling obscene accusations at a professor about his minor ward.”
"You dare threaten to expel us?" Hecat barked savagely, and the four pulled out their wands, and pointed them at Harry.
Within a split second, Harry shouted, “Expelliarmus!”
The four wands went flying, falling onto the snow.
“How dare you?” said Harry, breathing hard, enraged. “Try that again next time, and it might be the last thing you ever do,” he spat. The Ravenclaws looked utterly shocked at the open threat. “Detention. Ten a.m. sharp, tomorrow. Since you’re so convinced you know what I am, come and test your theory.”
This era’s students were out of control. Completely, utterly deranged.
Chaos swelled. Harry was one breath away from walking off the pitch entirely, and if Dippet dared question him, Harry would gladly shout the castle down.
A voice cut through the uproar, then, cool, commanding: “Do summon a shred of shame, boys,” said Alphard Black. “This spectacle is beneath even the most mediocre lineage. You’re carrying on like guttersnipes. It’s an insult to Hogwarts, and to the very notion of intelligence.”
Silence fell.
Alphard Black stepped forward, gaze steady on Harry.
“Please, Professor,” he said, voice carrying authority beyond his years. “Continue with your lesson. If they misbehave again, I will personally ensure they’re expelled.”
~*~
The walk to the Headmaster’s office felt ominous. Every step tightened the knot in Harry’s stomach. He had threatened violent retaliation, set bludgers on students, openly favoured Gryffindors… It had been reckless, in retrospect.
He braced himself as he entered.
Dippet wasn’t behind his desk. He stood by the window, worn and heavy, and when he turned, his expression held apology, instead of anger.
“Harry,” he said, his tone contrite. “You deserved better today. The shame is ours. The last instructor let contempt fester in this subject, and the students have forgotten discipline.” His eyes were sharp, resolute. “What you did today wasn’t only appropriate. It was necessary.”
Relief hit Harry. The respect he already held for this man settled deeper, anchoring itself in gratitude.
As if reading the exhaustion in him, Dippet stepped behind his desk, lifted a heavy pouch, and pressed it into Harry’s hands. “An advance on your salary. The holidays, Tom’s birthday… I am certain your resources have been stretched. Please accept it. Consider it well-earned.”
Harry managed a soft smile, accepting it.
The journey home was a blur. Even Myrrh’s cool, probing questions received little more than foggy murmurs.
He was scraped empty.
When he reached the cottage, the door opened before he touched it.
Tom stood like a quiet silhouette framed by firelight.
Harry didn’t speak. He walked in; everything he had held together since morning – sneers, accusations, forced control – collapsed.
Tom stepped forward; he slid his arms around Harry’s, clutching at his shoulders, drawing him close, and pressed his face to Harry’s throat.
Harry folded around him with a sudden, fierce desperation. He buried his face in Tom’s curls, breathing in that familiar, iron scent that had somehow become to mean the same as home. Hobhouse’s voice, one of those sorts who go after children, vanished under the truth of the unmistakable love they had for one another.
He’d tugged him close so tightly that Tom stiffened for an instant, a startled breath slipping out. But Harry didn’t let go. He simply held on, and let Tom’s presence anchor him back into himself.
They stood in the doorway for a long time, the warmth between them absorbing the final tremors of the strain he’d endured.
The next few days passed by with Harry returning every evening with no energy left to teach Tom his lessons. Tom didn’t ask for anything.
Tom returned to Harry’s bed without prelude. He only silently crept in, and Harry lifted the blankets. They slept as they always had, tangled close. Harry hadn’t realized how starved he’d been for that comfort until it was pressed against him again.
By Saturday evening, with the snow and the evening falling swiftly over the Highlands, clarity finally settled in Harry.
He watched Tom curled in his armchair, working through an arithmancy problem, unprompted, Harry not having to even ask him to do his lessons.
Harry’s heart ached with a fierce, protective love.
He crossed the room, then, and knelt before Tom’s chair. The movement made Tom still his quill.
“Tom,” said Harry quietly. “I need you to promise me something.”
Tom’s gaze was silent, assessing.
“At Hogwarts,” began Harry, “there are boys like the ones at Wool’s. Small-minded, spiteful little brats. Life is nasty that way. It puts people like that in one’s path. So, I need you to promise me that you’ll never care. That you’ll never give any of it a second thought. Their words mean nothing. Do you hear me?”
Tom’s expression remained perfectly calm, but his stillness was that of a predator that processed the slightest shift of the wind.
"Promise you’ll always remember that their noise doesn't matter," Harry’s voice went soft and aching. "Because I love you. That is the only thing that is real. That is the only thing that matters. Promise me, Tom."
For a long, charged moment, Tom just looked at him. The silence stretched, filled only by the crackle of the fire. Then, a slow, soft smile touched his lips.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Of course, Harry.”
~*~
Privately, Tom understood far more than Harry ever meant to reveal.
He didn’t need names. Harry’s haunted exhaustion had been enough. The boys at Hogwarts weren’t nuisances. They were threats. They had dared to touch Harry’s light.
As he watched Harry kneeling before him like a supplicant, Tom made a silent vow.
He would master magic with a speed that broke limits. He would learn spells, of the darkest kind if need be, and he would learn secrets that sharpened power. He would become so formidable, that a whisper of his name would chill the spine of anyone foolish enough to think of sneering at Harry Potter.
He would teach Hogwarts exactly why one did not toy with what belonged to him.
~*~
Chapter 42: Coils That Beguile
Chapter Text
~*~
The fire in the Headmaster’s office burned steadily. There lay, ominously, a pile of letters on Dippet’s desk.
Dippet let out an exhale, worn by petty minds, and their loud quills.
The letters were all from pureblood families who did not take too well at all to Harry’s bold methods of handling of their insufferable children.
The door opened. Albus Dumbledore stepped inside, composed as always, but his blue eyes missed nothing, scanning the letters and the uneasiness on Dippet’s face at once.
“Headmaster,” he greeted.
“Albus,” said Dippet, gesturing to the letters. “It seems Mr. Potter’s efficiency has ruffled more than a few feathers. The Board is receiving vigorous feedback.” Dippet smiled faintly, “He has a fire in him. Took charge of a pitch full of disorder, and restored order, in a single afternoon. He reminded me of another talented, if unconventional, young professor whose appointment I pressed for.” His gaze wavered meaningfully to Dumbledore.
Dumbledore inclined his head. He was silent for a moment. “Mr Potter is clearly very capable,” he said at last, “but he is exceedingly young.” His voice remained mild, despite the trace of concern on his features. “You brought him here quite suddenly. I’ve tried to place him among the Potters, yet cannot find him attached to any branch I know, despite his remarkable resemblance to the line.”
There was a pointed question behind that statement.
“Don’t trouble yourself about that, Albus. Every so often, a young wizard appears who deserves a chance before anyone weighs him down with expectations. Sometimes, you must simply trust my decisions.”
Dumbledore didn’t answer at once. He looked at Dippet, a long, steady look that said more than words could.
A look that said, you are playing a dangerous game, Armando. I fear the consequences for us all.
“I have always trusted your decisions, Headmaster,” said Dumbledore at last. “But as your deputy, I should be informed when positions on the staff are filled.”
Dippet nodded, his gaze shifting to somewhere faraway, his expression contemplative. “There are moments that demand swift action, and as few other voices as possible,” he finally said. “This was one of them. Don’t worry, Albus. I will handle what the Board wants regarding Mr. Potter.”
Dumbledore gave a small smile. “I will help you handle it. I am here for anything necessary for the good of the school. I trust you know that, Headmaster.”
Dippet knew that, of course; allowing Dumbledore in, be it partly, was better than shutting him out. It was always better to have a formidable intellect on his side.
“Your help is always valued, Albus,” said Dippet. “And in this matter, it will be indispensable. The Board will need careful handling. Let us together prepare our defence of our promising new professor.”
Dumbledore inclined his head courteously.
~*~
In the quiet of the night save for the shudder of snowstorm against the windowpanes, Harry’s bedroom lay in half-shadows. Firelight caught on Tom’s face in flashes of gold. They lay facing each other under the blanket, warmth between them thick.
Tom’s voice slipped into that stillness.
“That second day, after you took me in,” he murmured, eyes fixed on Harry’s, “at breakfast, you told me you’d been watching me. That you had to know what kind of dangerous, unhinged boy you were inviting into your home.”
He paused, letting the weight of it settle.
“Did you?” he asked. “Did you truly watch me?”
Harry’s gaze dropped, sliding past Tom’s shoulder into the dark, as if searching for an easier truth. “I did,” he said quietly. “But not in the way you’re imagining…”
I did see pieces of your childhood, your adolescence, but from a now-lost, strange future…
“It wasn’t about… judging what sort of boy you were,” said Harry, contritely. “That thing I said at breakfast, that was just anger talking. I shouldn’t have said it.”
Tom’s expression did not change. “Then what else was it?” he demanded, voice still utterly soft.
Harry hesitated, feeling trapped. “That… falls under the things I can’t tell you yet.”
The smile on Tom’s lips was cold; it didn’t reach his eyes. It was a smile that conveyed that he had expected this answer. “And my Hogwarts letter?” asked Tom after a moment. “The envelope that snatched itself away and burst into flames. Is that… common?”
The Fidelius Charm, Harry’s mind supplied, it must have destroyed itself to protect the secret.
And Harry’s mind reeled. Tom’s memory wasn’t merely sharp; it was vault-like. He had received that letter almost two months ago. He had waited, with patience that bordered on predatory, to ask this question; chose when Harry was vulnerable in mind and body, worn thin by Hogwarts, and then struck cleanly, like it was instinct.
Harry forced his voice to remain even. “I... I'm not sure, Tom. Hogwarts magic can be strange.”
Tom didn’t look away. He stared at Harry’s eyes, as though wanting to spear his soul. Harry had grown used to Tom’s oddities over the months, had accepted many of them with weary, fond ease; but tonight, something in his stare felt different; felt off.
Harry’s pulse began to trip.
Slowly, Tom moved. A sinuous coil of motion. He slipped an arm around Harry’s waist, drew closer, slid a leg over Harry’s, looping them together.
A snake that coiled itself around him…
Yet, Tom was unbearably warm. Human. A fragile miracle in his arms. Harry’s body instantly betrayed him. He let himself be pulled into the beguiling coils.
Perhaps it was the way Harry surrendered to it, perhaps it was something else, but Tom broke their eye contact. He nestled his face against Harry’s chest, his expression softening into something unbearably defenceless.
Any remaining traces of chill in Harry had scattered, turning into an almost violent love.
Tom fell asleep.
Harry clutched him back, staying wide awake. His heart kept thundering violently with formless fears, which mixed with worries of work.
He needed to keep his job at Hogwarts, wanted to, for the next seven years. For Tom.
~*~
Chapter 43: A Thoughtful Unwinding
Chapter Text
~*~
That evening, Harry was weary as ever, and the ride from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade on Myrrh’s back had been quiet to the world outside, but not in his mind.
They tested you because they sensed a soft heart, said Myrrh, her wintry voice clear in his head. I have watched people for centuries, unseen. I know which ones whisper trouble in doorways, which families hide disgraces behind fine manners. If you so wish it, I could tell you every secret. My kin could listen too. The wayward ones who plague your days would shake in their boots if you chose to make use of what we’d find.
Harry had only sighed, tired but fond, and thanked her for the offer. He didn’t need a legion of spectral spies for now.
The blunt edge of disciplining had worked well enough. Students were beginning to realise that if they didn’t want him handing out detentions like sweets or stripping points without hesitation, they had to behave. And his detentions were unpleasant – cleaning the broom shed, paying for anything broken (per school rules), maintaining school brooms, scrubbing cupboards, polishing Quidditch trophies. All the tedious things no child wanted.
He found himself less rattled by their dramatics with every passing day, and more absolute in the consequences he laid down. His firmness, sharp as a snapped whip, remained tightened due to his perpetual drive and desperation to keep his position.
Slowly, the chaos of the early days dulled into a sullen, grudging quiet on the pitch. Hardly an inspiring triumph, but one achieved through sheer stubbornness.
For now, it was enough.
~*~
Tom met him at the doorway, like he always did: the door barely clicked shut before Harry had an armful of Tom. Face pressed into Harry’s neck, as always, arms tightening around him; and he always breathed Harry in, as if the promise of it every evening was the one thing that rooted him to sanity through the long hours without him.
It was a routine, this embrace at the threshold, but the strangeness of it never dulled for Harry. The novelty of it still clung. Every time, just like the first evening Tom had pulled him in after he had returned from flying practice, Harry felt the same startled shudder.
“You’re cold,” murmured Tom, drawing back, grey eyes glazed, soft.
“Long day, as usual,” said Harry.
Once the evening settled in, and Harry began setting out dinner, he noticed Tom wasn’t in the kitchen. Tom always helped him set the dinner.
Today, Harry heard movements from the sitting room: a low rustle, a soft click.
Then, music drifted in. Strange, lovely, aching melody, scratchy through the radio, like it carried someone’s sorrow across decades.
Harry turned toward the doorway, startled.
A moment later, Tom stepped back into the kitchen. He gave Harry a quick, faint smile, then averted his eyes, joining him, gallantly as always, to set the table.
“Felt like we could use some music tonight?” asked Harry, amused.
Tom’s hands paused on the cutlery. “Mm.” He kept his gaze fixed on the fork he was aligning. “Thought you might… like it. You’re tense everyday, when you get home.”
Harry’s heart contracted violently with love. “Thank you,” he murmured.
They ate quietly, with the ghostly accompaniment floating in from the other room. "It’s been a while since we had music on,” said Harry. They hadn’t played the radio since Christmas.
Tom looked at him fully then. His eyes seemed deeper for a moment; perhaps it was a certain depth in them, perhaps it was just the slow, melancholy tune around them. “Just something to help you unwind,” he said.
Harry smiled. “You’re thoughtful.”
Later, they sat in the sitting room, each with a book, though Harry’s eyes moved over the words without absorbing anything. His body was exhausted, his mind drifting dreamily to the music, to Tom’s earlier smile, to the ways Tom tried to take care of him…
Tom glanced at him once, then twice, catching Harry staring at the same page for ten minutes.
“You haven’t turned a page,” remarked Tom.
Harry let out a contrite chuckle. “I’m tired,” he said. “Don’t want to go to bed yet.” After a pause, Harry asked, “Do you want to practice spells?”
Tom’s eyes immediately took on a keen look despite his best effort to look neutral. “If you have the energy,” said Tom.
Harry nodded. “Yes."
Tom stood then, and crossed the room to switch off the radio; the music cut abruptly. Harry rose too.
He reached for his wand, and offered it hilt-first to Tom.
Tom always paused at that, like it was a ritual only the two of them knew.
He took the wand, and the moment he wrapped his hand around it, that look flickered across his face. Raw, electric. Like something profound had stirred awake in him.
Harry saw the breath Tom drew in, the way his pupils dilated, the slight tightening of his jaw as magic thrummed up his arm.
“Happens every time,” said Tom.
Its because the core of your wand... is same as that of mine, thought Harry achingly.
Tom’s eyes flicked up to his. There was a hunger there, but also wonder.
Harry told him about Protego, a spell that raised an invisible shield, to guard oneself, or to guard someone you wanted to keep safe.
“Show me,” whispered Tom.
Harry did, stepping close, raising Tom’s hand with his own, teaching him, like sharing a secret.
~*~
Chapter 44: A Mortal's Love For An Immortal
Chapter Text
~*~
The skyline falls as I try to make sense of it all
I thought I'd uncovered your secrets but, turns out, there's more
You adored me before
My good looking boy
You're not who you are to anyone
I'm not who I am to anyone these days, not at all
- Good Looking, Suki Waterhouse
~*~
Harry was nearly eight hundred feet high, the winds wild and cold, mist shrouding everything, but as he took a sharp plunge downward at blistering speed, his grasp on his broom was strong and steady, the move immaculate enough that, as he descended further and was visible again to the five seventh-years watching from below, it drew hoots of awe from them. They’d been about the only ones impressed with Harry since day one (along with all of the first years barring Slytherins, and, well, if Harry was truthful with himself, almost all of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, and at least half of Ravenclaws).
When Harry landed onto the snowy turf, pulling the goggles off his face, McAvoy, a seventh-year Hufflepuff (the seventh years were a mixed batch of two Hufflepuffs, two Gryffindors, one Ravenclaw), his voice carried across enthusiastically, “Mr. Potter, that was remarkable! Better than any instructor we’ve had. Better than anyone I’ve ever seen fly, I’d say.”
The others nodded, grinning their agreement; five boys, all aiming for professional Quidditch after school.
Before Harry could speak, McAvoy said, a bit hesitant, “With skill like that… you ought to be playing. What are you doing teaching us here?”
Another boy cleared his throat. “If it isn’t too bold… how old are you?”
Harry was immediately on guard as he regarded them neutrally. “Why the sudden interest?”
“Well… you look very young,” said the boy, apologetic. “You don’t fly like someone who ought to be taking practices, more like someone who ought to be winning matches.”
Harry didn’t answer that. He simply nodded toward their brooms. “Preliminary laps.”
At once, they walked toward their brooms that lay lightly on the snow, but their talk drifted back as they summoned them up, put on their goggles, and took their positions.
“…about the trouble with the younger years,” Harry heard fragments of McAvoy’s words. “Shameful business, the way they carry on…”
“I shouldn’t have thought it of Ravenclaws,” another muttered. “Sixth-year Ravenclaws behaving like that… poor show.”
“Parents sit on the Board…” said McAvoy.
Harry didn’t comment, only watched them. Still, something in him eased, quietly, as the boys kicked off, violently swift, into the air.
~*~
Harry was called to the Headmaster’s office later that day.
He hadn’t expected an audience.
Headmaster Dippet was seated at the head of the long table, his expression mild but watchful; beside him sat the Deputy Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore.
The Dumbledore before him was younger, though still easily in his sixties, with hair mostly grey but shot through here and there with auburn that didn’t fade. His hair and beard were shorter, though still a flowing mess; his frame was leaner, but it was his eyes that caught Harry.
No warmth, twinkle, or familiarity, only a cool, steady assessment.
“Harry,” said Dippet, inclining his head in greeting. His voice was courteous, welcoming. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Harry nodded, murmured a polite, “Headmaster,” and tried not to let his gaze travel toward Dumbledore again, though he felt Dumbledore’s eyes on him.
Dippet gestured lightly around the table. “Allow me to make the introductions, since this is the first opportunity we’ve had.”
He indicated the man closest to him – a severe man with dark hair, dark eyes, and an extremely haughty expression. “Pollux Black, of the Board.”
Black did not even bother nodding or acknowledging Harry’s presence in any manner other than simply staring at him venomously.
Next, two Ravenclaws seated side by side, their expressions similarly venomous. “Mr. Hecat and Mr. Hobhouse,” Dippet said. “Also of the Board.”
So these were the parents. Harry suppressed the urge to say something mean and wipe the arrogance off their faces, something along the lines of the apple not falling far from the tree.
Beside them sat a red-haired wizard with warm eyes and sturdy frame. “Linus Prewett,” Dippet introduced, “for Gryffindor.”
Prewett smiled almost reassuringly.
Harry instantly felt an immense pang of grief in his heart.
Ron’s great-grandfather.
“And Lorcan Scamander,” said Dippet, nodding toward a gentle-faced man with a thoughtful smile, “for Hufflepuff.”
Finally, Dippet gave an almost soft smile to Harry. “And this is, of course, Professor Dumbledore.”
Dumbledore responded with the smallest of nods, a gesture of a man acknowledging a stranger.
The moment Harry sat down, Pollux Black spoke, a sneer on his face. “Headmaster, this is quite beyond the pale. Mr. Potter has, by every account, subjected our children to treatment both dangerous and most insulting.”
Hecat and Hobhouse murmured their agreement.
Harry opened his mouth, ready to answer, but Dumbledore’s voice cut across the table. “As I understand it,” he said, “your children employed slanderous insults after several warnings from Mr. Potter that such language was not to be used. Least of all directed at a professor.”
His gaze found Pollux Black. “You would defend children who deem it appropriate to use a derogatory word, against a professor who cautioned them repeatedly not to?”
“Of course I would,” snapped Black. “They merely addressed him as what he is.”
“Pollux,” Dippet’s voice carried a sharp warning.
But Black shook him off. “Walburga has told me in full what transpired. I see no need for further dressing-up.”
“And what,” asked Dumbledore quietly, “has Alphard told you?”
Black’s lips pressed thin. “Alphard,” he said tightly, “has ever been the unruly one. His accounts are… unreliable. He makes a habit of turning matters on their head.”
“No,” said Dumbledore, “he speaks plainly because he prefers the truth. He saw how the boys behaved toward Mr. Potter, and he alone had the courage to state it.” He looked at Harry. “Did he not?”
Harry nodded. “He did.”
Dippet cleared his throat, his manner brisk. “Harry, your wand, if you please.”
Harry handed it over.
Dippet raised it, murmured the incantation, and the ghost-light of spell after spell shimmered in the air. Dippet sifted through with practised precision, pausing at the spells cast on Harry’s first day.
“There,” said Dippet. “Protective charms, consistently so. Deflective spells. Not a single strike intended to harm.” He glanced pointedly at the board members. “The bludgers in question were diverted from contact every time. A firm tactic, yes, but safe. And, as I recall, used only after sustained provocation.”
Hecat inhaled sharply, as though preparing another complaint, but Dumbledore spoke first. “As for your sons drawing their wands,” he said, his tone cool, “that alone is a disciplinary offence of the highest order. A student pointing his wand at a member of staff with intent to cause harm… well, last I read the rules, it warrants expulsion.”
Silence ensued.
“Mr. Potter responded with a simple disarming charm,” said Dumbledore. “Followed by detention. Both were appropriate and necessary.”
Dippet handed Harry his wand back gently. “Gentlemen, if we dismiss every professor who attempts to instil order in these halls, we shall have no school left to run.” Dippet’s tone was wry. “We may as well shutter the castle entirely and let the children run wild, if that is the alternative you prefer.”
Dumbledore inclined his head slightly. “We are not here to indulge the whims of any child, nor the sensitivities of parents who dislike that their children are chastened. A school cannot stand without discipline. And a master cannot uphold it if his hand is tied at every turn.”
Dippet folded his hands. “There is nothing in the rules that condemns a teacher for firm, safe discipline. On the contrary, it is necessary. Therefore, your request to remove Harry Potter is denied.”
Black rose at once, stiff with fury. Hecat and Hobhouse followed, their robes snapping behind them as they swept from the office.
Prewett and Scamander lingered.
Prewett had an awkward smile on. Scamander shook his head wearily at the door that slammed shut.
“Must attend these meetings, I’m afraid,” said Prewett. “Each House has to be represented.”
Scamander’s eyes flicked once to the closed door, then back to Harry. “We came with no ill intent. Most board members voted against your removal; even so, Black, Hecat, and Hobhouse insisted on speaking with the Headmaster.”
“We knew it would unfold precisely as it did,” chuckled Prewett. “From what we’ve heard from all reliable accounts so far, it seems Hogwarts has gained a remarkably capable instructor.”
~*~
After an eventful two weeks of teaching at Hogwarts, it was weekend again.
Most evenings, when Harry returned home, Tom switched the radio on – always those soft, melancholic pieces. By bedtime, Harry’s heart was softened to helpless warmth, and, inevitably, they curled together and slept in the same bed, limbs wound, sharing heat.
But now, Harry’s thoughts were restless again with reminders of just how startlingly close they’d become.
He tried, not very successfully, to imagine any circumstance in which an eleven-year-old boy and his seventeen-year-old guardian slept each night like this, inseparable and entangled. And he tried, again not very successfully, to understand how Tom had grown so deeply attached to him, in such a short span.
Pride stirred in him sometimes, an astonished pride at having managed to reach Tom’s heart at all… but the pride always turned into something heavier that was a constant, aching weight in Harry. Not a burden, but a sense of foreboding, despite the terrifying, intense love and responsibility he felt for Tom.
He would never have imagined anything so miraculous as Tom Riddle binding his heart to him with such love, depth, and ferocity…
But it had happened.
Now Harry felt, with an unshakeable terror, responsible for it. He felt that he should draw back, create at least the feeblest of boundary between them.
But Tom was… unique.
The one time Harry had tried to set any boundary at all, Tom had recoiled with a storm of fury and then shut down completely for an entire day, until Harry had practically begged him to let him back in. Harry knew, down to his marrow, that if he tried again, the same thing would happen. Tom would shatter, harden, then vanish behind walls that Harry couldn’t bear to see him retreat to again.
Tom didn’t simply stay close to him. He clung to him, breathed him in, twined around him, whispered to him, touched him with desperate or gripping hands, as though they weren’t two separate people at all, but a single being split into halves trying endlessly to fuse back together.
These thoughts had begun to echo in Harry’s head the moment he and Tom had first grown close like this, nearly three months ago. But now, added to them were also cruel echoes of the Ravenclaw boys’ words.
Foolish words. Careless, thoughtless words, spoken crudely by those who had no understanding of their bond…
The way it was forged in fire and blood, the trajectory within which their bond was made – Harry made Tom burn his stolen possessions, Tom returned the repressed fury with bloodshed…
Foolish conclusions, reached shallowly after witnessing a moment they were never meant to witness, a tender moment that unfortunately transpired in public…
Harry hadn’t thought, in that instant, to tell Tom to pull back or restrain his affection. How could he? He had just kissed Tom’s forehead for the first time that night – Christmas night at The Three Broomsticks – a memory they both treasured, Harry knew, because they both had witnessed it in the mirror that Harry had gifted him, one reflecting their fondest moments…
That night, at The Three Broomsticks, Tom had leaned close to him, perhaps too close, nearly touching his forehead to Harry’s, but stopping short for some reason. Instead, he’d stared at Harry’s eyes fixedly, softened, sleepy, for it was nearly their bed time, it was ten at night, and they were both tired, for they’d been celebrating since morning…
But that was how Tom was – intense, incapable of half-measures, only knowing to seize things with frightening completeness.
It wasn’t as though Harry himself didn’t feel it, the overwhelming deluge of Tom’s affection. He felt it every moment. Still, he didn’t want to stop it. Some selfish, trembling part of him simply couldn’t. Because… what if, in stopping him, Tom recoiled, and shut himself away? What if, in trying to teach boundaries, Harry ended up stopping the only ways Tom knew how to love, and taught him to stop seeking it, showing it, embracing it?
No. No, he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t risk that.
Yet… he was drowning in it. In Tom’s love. It was too intense, too consuming. Harry could feel the need for space building inside him, undeniable at last, a need to break out of this deluge and gasp for air. He found himself drowning, drowning, helpless to do anything but give in to it. Sweetest torture, he thought shakily. Sweetest, most unbearable.
He loved Tom for it. But sometimes, he wanted to hold Tom’s face and tell him that it was all right to relinquish his grip. That Harry wouldn’t vanish the moment he did so.
But Harry didn’t have the strength for it yet, not after the last time, after the silence and the collapse that followed setting the smallest boundary.
He would have to face it eventually. He knew that.
Just… not now.
~*~
Tom had waited. For two weeks, he’d watched, as always, the slightest shifts in Harry’s demeanour, quietly tracking the exhaustion, the slow way it faded. The first week, Harry had looked worn down and hollow. By the second, a bit of strength had begun to creep back in him. By Friday, there was a renewed lightness to him, an ease in his smile that hadn’t been there before.
Why the change? Tom, in a moment of burning fury, wondered if Harry had found someone at Hogwarts to account for this new happiness – perhaps a friend, a kindred spirit. The thought nearly made him shatter in rage.
It prompted him into finally cornering Harry about his tight-lipped silence these past two weeks. This was the same Harry who once told him every detail of his flying lessons during training. What had changed now? Every time Tom asked him about work, Harry offered the same tired refrain. It was tiring. It was all right.
Tom had been patient, careful not to seem inquisitive or push too hard, especially after Harry’s talk about the ‘small-minded, spiteful little brats’ at Hogwarts. But patience had its limits; seeing Harry suddenly calmer and happier had obliterated his restraint.
So that Saturday morning, in the sitting room, weak sunlight spilling through the windows, Tom finally cornered him.
“How has work been lately?” asked Tom, his voice neutral.
Harry, slumped comfortably on the sofa, gave the same answer. “It was all right. Still tiring.”
Irritation flared, hot and immediate. Tom tilted his head a little, watching Harry carefully. “Harry,” he said, “you have given me the same answer for two weeks. Why?”
Harry stilled, his body tensing. He looked at Tom, and for a moment, seemed to search for an escape. Finding none, he sighed. “Because… I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea about Hogwarts before you’ve even started there. It’s a wonderful place. I didn’t want some irrelevant… unpleasantness… to cloud your judgment.”
Irrelevant unpleasantness. The euphemism was awfully evident to Tom, unbeknownst to Harry.
“What,” asked Tom, his voice dropping to a deadly quiet, “has been happening?”
Trapped, Harry relented. He spoke of boys who had bothered him, confirming Tom’s suspicions of the same, of parents sending angry letters to Dippet, complaining that Harry had been too harsh. “But it’s all under control now,” he added quickly, his eyes widening slightly as he took in Tom’s dark expression. “Dippet and the Deputy Headmaster, Dumbledore, they had my back. The boys were punished.”
“Who are they?” Tom’s question was soft, but there was no mistaking the precision and the demand in it.
“That doesn’t matter,” said Harry, voice tightening with quiet finality. “You don’t need their names. They were given apt punishments, and that’s the end of it.”
Of course. Of course Harry would not give him names.
Tom understood the reason without being told – Harry was wary. He knew Tom too well, knew that Tom did not hesitate when it came to retributions, that in Tom’s logic, apt punishments were permanent, brutal solutions. Maiming, or killing.
Tom simply gave Harry a smile. "Very well."
He could see the palpable dread settle in Harry's expression at his easy acquiescence, and Tom had to restrain a laugh. Harry, Harry. So expressive, so easy to read…
Hoping to put Harry at ease, Tom let out a soft, contrived huff of laughter. “You look at me as if I’m about to hunt those boys down and do something dreadful.”
Harry didn't relax. He remained stiff, gaze locked on Tom, the dread not easing, but deepening.
Tom laughed again, a light, dismissive sound. "Well, you seem to be suffering from some sort of overactive imagination, aren't you?"
"Remember what I told you, Tom," said Harry, his voice solemn, intense. "Just remember that I’m always here for you. Let that be the only thing that matters. Don't let anyone's words… don't let any of this affect you."
Tom was unnaturally motionless as he gazed at him with a faint smile. "Of course," Tom agreed smoothly then. "Which is why you should not be looking at me with such distrust. It's rather insulting that you think so poorly of me."
Harry said nothing; the unease didn't leave his expression.
After a long silence, as Tom tried and failed to read his magical theory book, yet kept his eyes trained on the book as the cogwheels turned relentlessly in his head, Harry suddenly spoke, voice thin and uncertain.
"Tom… why did you steal those things?"
Tom looked up from his page, eyes narrowed, for once genuinely thrown.
"Those three things from the orphanage," pressed Harry. "You stole them. Why?"
Tom’s face softened into perfect innocence, a small, almost hurt smile forming. “Harry, I didn’t steal them. I found them at the orphanage. Why would you think I stole anything?” He gave him a confused look. “You’ve been saying that since you took me in. Who put the idea in your head? Mrs. Cole? You’d trust her word?”
Harry stiffened, his face settling into numb shock as the lie landed. Silence hung, before he finally spoke, achingly, “No, Tom. I know you stole them. Remember the spell I cast? The one that made your desk drawer rattle? That spell doesn’t react to things you’ve only found. It only reveals stolen objects. It wouldn’t have moved if they weren’t stolen. It reacted because they were.”
He drew in a shaky breath, eyes still fixed on Tom, something bottomless, something like love in them. “Please, don’t lie to me. Don’t lie to me about anything at all. I want you to be honest with me always. No matter what it is, even if it feels like the world might come crashing down. Just… always be truthful with me.”
Tom’s resolve hardened to something absolute. Very well, he thought. If it’s the truth you want, it’s the truth you shall have.
He will force it down Harry’s throat if he recoiled, if he tried to flee from the truth he just demanded.
“Well, yes, Harry. I suppose we do need to start showing each other who we really are, don’t we?” said Tom. “You keep so many things hidden from me. I want the truth from you too, even if the world comes crashing down. But you never give me that. So be it. You asked for honesty… I’ll give it to you.
“Yes, Harry. I stole them. I suppose you are right.” A faint, cruel smile curled his lips. “You want the truth of how and why? The mouth organ… I took it from the boy I killed with the snake. He was playing it before the snake struck. I picked it up from beside his corpse, before others found him.
“The thimble… Betty Webley was sewing with it on her thumb when she called me a freak of nature. I made her gouge out her own eye with the same hand. The thimble,” he gave a small smile that turned Harry’s insides freezing solid, “helped her do a very thorough job of it.”
He saw the colour drain from Harry’s face, and savoured it.
“And the yo-yo. I used magic on its string to strangle Billy Stubbs’s rabbit. I took it after I’d hung the rabbit from the rafters.”
He finally paused, letting the horror settle.
“You see, Harry, I did not take those things because I was fascinated by them. I took them because… they reminded me of the only times in my life I truly felt victorious. They were the closest things I had to… good memories.”
Harry was silent for a long time. Tom had expected it, the stunned silence, the way Harry’s mind tried to process the darkness he’d just spilled.
“Do you… still feel that way?” Harry asked at last, unsteadily. “About what makes a good memory?”
“No,” said Tom simply. “My good memories… now they are the ones I make every time I see you. And, with you, there’s no need to take anything. You’re already mine.”
A shade of fear passed through Harry’s eyes.
“I’m always here for you, Tom,” said Harry carefully, as he seemed to try and guide them toward steadier grounds. “As your family, your guardian. And I’m… I’m glad your idea of a good memory has changed.”
“Thank you,” said Tom with a soft smile. “Although, I must admit… stealing things does have its own charm. If I were ever to steal something of yours… I do wonder what it would be.”
Harry couldn’t hide the shudder that ran through him.
“Tom,” he said, a note of warning in his voice, yet it sounded like a plea. “Why even think about stealing now? You now have everything you need. Think of the magical rosebush… the ring I gave you to keep you safe. Things I’ve given you – not to make a point, but… why not cherish those as your possessions instead?”
“Of course, Harry.”
Harry’s eyes, those bright, vivid emeralds, felt as though they were being swallowed by the abyss, the darkened love, that Tom felt deep within him, the light in those eyes pulled inescapably into something endlessly hungry in him.
~*~
Later that night, while Harry was in the shower, Tom stole into Harry’s bed. He leaned against the headboard, Psychology of the Unconscious propped on his lap:
I can share all things, even immortal sorrow;
For thou hast ventured to share life with me,
And shall I shrink from thine eternity?
No, though the serpent's sting should pierce me through,
And thou thyself wert like the serpent, coil
Around me still. And I will smile
And curse thee not, but hold
Thee in as warm a fold
As, but descend and prove
A mortal's love
For an immortal…
A mortal’s declaration to an immortal. A love so consuming that it would embrace the serpent, the sting, the sin, anything to remain entwined.
Tom closed his eyes for a long moment, breath rising and falling with a tremor.
He needed to find a way.
He didn’t yet know how, but the ideas blazing through his mind were wild, electric, thrumming and flailing.
He needed immortality. He needed to ensure he would not be left behind, not condemned to rot in the dirt while Harry lived on untouched by time.
But Harry, his sweet guardian angel Harry, kept secrets with a ferocity that made Tom’s heart incinerate. Always tight-lipped, always hiding something; the biggest secret being the reason he had adopted him. Harry could be gentle, warm, and then suddenly glacial, unyielding, as though protecting some fragile truth he feared Tom might tear open.
Those secrets stood between them like a fortress Tom could not claw through. They prevented him from knowing who hurt Harry, who troubled him, who Tom should destroy. Harry refused to trust him with that knowledge, afraid Tom might seek violent vengeance.
Which he would. How else could love express itself?
It drove Tom mad.
Mad with the need to possess Harry inside and out.
He’d read something recently in the magical theory book, one small line hidden in a chapter that looked utterly harmless. The line briefly mentioned the words ‘dark magic.’ It mentioned that the wizarding world had two branches of power - light magic, taught and used daily by everyone… and dark magic, shunned not because it was ineffective, but because it was too effective.
Tom found it absurd. Why shun something so powerful simply because it was dark?
Darkness had always been the only thing that had kept him alive.
If from that darkness he could wrest the secret of eternity, to bind himself to Harry forever, then he would pursue it to the ends of the world.
The alternative was unthinkable. The thought of Harry living on, centuries unfolding without him, perhaps finding another to love… he would burn the world to cinders than allow it.
Harry, Harry…
Harry had insisted he was twenty-two. But for someone who guarded secrets so fiercely, how easy would it be to lie about this too?
If his age was a lie… how many lives had Harry lived? How many people had he loved? How many children or wives had he held before Tom?
The thought was blasphemous, striking a rage so unholy, so severe, that it made his fingers itch to wrap around Harry’s pretty, pale throat, squeeze the air out of it…
A memory, visceral and brutal, flashed through his mind then - cruel, red gash on that throat, shocking red torrent of blood seeping out because of him, Tom dying with him because he had no life without Harry.
He forced himself to breathe, clutch reality before it slipped from his grip entirely.
He was losing his grip, his sanity was being shred into incoherent rage.
Harry loved him. Harry had chosen him. He was being absurd. He would never hurt Harry, never.
Tom snapped the book shut and shoved it onto the nightstand, lying back heavily. He breathed in the scent of Harry on the sheets, vanilla, warmth, tried to still the frantic thrashing of his heart...
His eyes slipped shut; he knew not how long he lay there breathing in and out.
“Tom?”
Tom’s eyes flew open. He steadied his breaths.
Harry stepped into the room, damp hair dripping onto his nightshirt. “You all right?”
“Yes.”
Harry moved about the room, putting his wand away, adjusting a lamp, folding something absentmindedly. He left the lights on. Then he sat at the edge of the bed, still towelling his hair.
Tom watched him.
Harry tossed the towel aside, lay down beside him, and exhaled long and low. In the lamplight, his features were intensely visible. Damp hair clung to his forehead, dark against his skin, which looked fresh and nearly translucent after his shower, save for the faint rosiness on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose…
Tom watched, captivated.
Harry felt his gaze, and smiled softly as he glanced up.
Tom’s breath was stolen momentarily. Those eyes were vivid green, flecked with gold, framed by lashes too pretty to belong to anyone. In that moment, Tom knew he was powerless before them.
No matter the suffering, the lies, the secrets, he would always be defeated by them.
“Your eyes,” whispered Tom, before he could think.
Harry frowned, confused. “Something in them?”
“No.” Tom’s voice dropped, darkening with something he barely understood. “They’re beautiful.”
Tom watched, fascinated, as a deeper flush spread across Harry’s cheeks. A sudden, hot coil of possession tightened low in Tom’s stomach.
“Thank you,” laughed Harry, the sound soft, flustered. “Your eyes are beautiful, too.” He said it with such genuine love it made Tom ache.
“You’re quite fine looking, you know,” pressed Tom, needing to catalogue the reaction.
Another laugh. “You’re a very handsome boy, too, Tom.”
Handsome. He’d never given it much thought, though the orphanage had taught him his face was a currency, a target, a tool. Beauty could be a curse.
“No one’s said that to me before,” he murmured.
Harry’s face softened, his eyes melted, and his smile was warm and radiant. “Well, you’re a very handsome boy, and anyone who failed to notice can go straight to hell.”
Tom smiled, but his eyes were busy, tracing the delicate line of Harry’s nose, the shape of his lips…
Harry tilted his head to reach for the alarm clock, pushing a hand through his hair, sweeping the dark locks back from his forehead.
Tom saw it, then. A scar. A thin line, right beneath his hairline. Tom had seen it before, in passing, a faint line swallowed by hair. But now, he registered its strange prominence.
“How did you get this scar?” he asked.
Harry answered lightly; it had happened long ago, a tussle with a friend, it was accidental.
Another person, another set of hands on what was his, marring what belonged to him long before he had the chance to claim it.
Tom shifted closer, pulling Harry close. He held him too tightly, perhaps, but was unable to loosen his grip.
He lay like that until sleep dragged him under, heart thrashing even then, desperate to guard, to claim, to keep Harry entirely his, forever.
~*~
Chapter 45: An Heir's Rituals
Chapter Text
~*~
There was a ritual Tom kept hidden, a secret he intended to carry to his grave.
When Harry was not at home – through his days of training, and now when he was at Hogwarts – Tom slipped into his bedroom.
The door always remained unlocked, open and inviting. Harry had begun leaving it that way nearly three months ago, when their bond had begun to deepen. I trust you, he’d said. I’ll let myself trust you, and I’ll let you show me how you’ll handle that trust.
The room was the likeness of Harry – messy, careless, warm.
Tom’s eyes always travelled first to the objects on the small table. The magical photographs with their coloured, moving figures. Harry with his friends, his arms slung around a redheaded boy and a bushy-haired girl. A young woman with fierce, enchanting red hair and Harry’s eyes, in the arms of a man who looked like Harry, as they twirled, and danced.
A scatter of other trinkets lay across the table.
Tom’s fingers always itched to align them, to impose order on Harry’s chaos, but he restrained himself. He did not want Harry to ever discover his frequent, continual presence, his ritual.
He moved to the wardrobe.
His hand went in without hesitation, found the shirt Harry had worn through the night, and pulled it out. Soft, suffused with Harry’s maddening, intoxicating scent.
He sat with it on the edge of Harry’s bed. His eyes slipped shut as he brought it to his face, and inhaled.
He let his mind drift, swallowed by the scent, for a few long minutes, and when the emptiness of the cottage rang too loudly, for much, much longer.
Face buried in the shirt, mind instantly supplying him with Harry’s touch, Harry’s voice, Harry’s warmth.
It was never enough.
Eventually, he parted with it, and placed it back on its hanger.
Then, as always, he went to the cupboard, the one whose door remained permanently shut by magic.
Tom had seen what was inside once, when he had slipped into Harry’s room and rifled through his belongings without permission. He’d glimpsed strange objects, things Harry had said were important to him.
They were no longer left out in the open, nor was the bag in which Tom had found them.
Since the day Harry began leaving the bedroom door unlocked, the most precious of his secrets had been moved into the cupboard, behind its magically closed doors.
Every day, Tom stood before it. First, he would try the handle, a futile, physical test. Then, his focus would turn inward. He would raise his hand, wandless, and channel his intent.
“Alohomora,” he would whisper, uttering the syllables of the spell Harry had once taught him, gathering all his will, his frustration, his burning need to know.
When that failed, an innate magic within him would rise, a dark, swelling tide. It rattled the windowpanes, made the objects on the table tremble, shook the cupboard door in its frame...
But the lock held.
Tom would step back, then, chest heaving, breathing in furious, silent shudders. His jaw would be clenched tightly. The failure, the humiliation, would settle in him like ice.
He went through this ritual today, too.
He stepped back, and sank onto the edge of Harry’s bed, staring at the unyielding cupboard, and for the hundredth time, made himself a promise.
I will unravel you.
I will know every secret of yours.
All of you will one day be mine.
~*~
Evening settled dark and thick around the cottage by the time Harry settled in, too. They took their usual places by the fire, Harry on the sofa, Tom in the armchair beside it, the magical theory book balanced on his lap.
The book was written in simple language, but was comprehensive, and Tom read it with the absorption of someone hoarding every scrap of knowledge one could find.
Yet even as his eyes moved across the lines, his mind drifted back to when he’d asked Harry what had been plaguing him lately. Harry, two weeks into teaching flying at Hogwarts, had seemed to be weighed down by something more than mere exhaustion of shuttling between the school and home for he had refused residency to be here, with Tom.
Eventually, Harry had admitted that some students had been bothering him. Then he’d immediately shut down, insisting the matter had been handled and refusing, with a stubbornness that felt like a slap, to give Tom any names.
What could they have done to him?
What had they said?
What had hurt Harry enough to leave him hollowed and disillusioned?
Tom’s jaw tightened before he even realised it, though outwardly he remained the picture of calm – back straight, book open, eyes fixed on the page as if he were still reading. Inside, frustration and fury whipped at him. How could Harry trust him with so much, yet keep such things from him? How could Harry not see that he wanted to protect him?
“Tom,” said Harry softly.
Tom looked up at once. Harry wore that expression Tom had learned to recognise – hesitant, bracing himself, gathering courage to say something he found difficult.
Tom’s attention sharpened instantly.
“I’ve been –” Harry exhaled, steadying himself, “I’ve been meaning to tell you something for a while now. Some important things you should know.”
Tom watched him silently.
“It’s about the way the wizarding world is… sorted into,” said Harry, his expression clouding with discomfort. “The wizarding world sorts people into three groups. Purebloods, muggle-borns, and half-bloods. Purebloods come from families that have been magical for generations. They’re usually pretty well off and settled in the wizarding world. Muggle-borns have parents who aren’t magical at all. They don’t know anything about our world, until their child suddenly does something unusual. And half-bloods… are witches or wizards born to one pureblood parent and one muggle or muggle-born parent.”
Tom absorbed it, quick and sharp. “What do you call a witch or wizard born to a muggle-born and a muggle?” asked Tom, analysing what Harry said.
“Still a muggle-born,” said Harry. “There just aren’t enough magical generations in the family for them to be called a half-blood.”
Tom watched him for a long moment. “What kind of wizard are you, Harry?”
“Half-blood,” said Harry.
Tom was quiet for a moment, letting the weight of his curiosity hang, then asked, “Do you know what I am?”
Harry stilled. Finally, he nodded slowly. “Yes,” he murmured, the smile turning tender. “You’re half-blood too.”
"I hope you are not about to admit that we are brothers."
Harry chuckled. “No, Tom. We aren’t brothers.”
Harry went on to explain the Hogwarts house system, something he’d promised to tell Tom about long ago, but had never quite got around to, until now.
There were four houses – Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. Each house championed a set of central traits. Students were sorted into the house that recognized and valued their most innate qualities.
Bravery. Intelligence. Loyalty. Ambition.
“Which house do you believe you’d be in?” asked Tom.
“Gryffindor,” he said simply, as if the answer was always within him.
“Harry,” said Tom suddenly, eyes narrowing with intent, “tell me how you know I’m half-blood.”
Harry hesitated, before that familiar resolve to guard secrets set into his features. “I know because of something I can’t tell you yet. But I can tell you how. Your mother was a witch, and your father was a muggle.”
“My mother… was a witch?” asked Tom, pointedly.
Harry hesitated again, then said, “She’s no longer alive. And… I didn’t know her personally.”
“My father?” pressed Tom.
Harry’s expression was still closed off, and Tom knew he would only get half truths. “I don’t know where he is. I don’t know his whereabouts.”
“My last name… is from him?”
Harry nodded. “Yes.”
A heavy silence settled between them as Tom processed this new knowledge – his parents, his lineage, the puzzle pieces he had not known all his life.
He would return to that later. He would extract more from Harry soon.
But for now, something else mattered more.
“Does one’s magical potency change depending on one’s blood status?" asked Tom. "Are purebloods stronger because of generations of magic, and, by that logic… half-bloods or muggle-borns weaker?”
A strange, knowing smile tugged at Harry’s lips. “No, Tom. Magic doesn’t work like that. You already have more raw power at your age than most adult wizards ever will, and the strongest witch I’ve ever known was muggle-born. My friend. The one in the photographs.”
“You never told me their names.”
“Hermione, and Ron.” Harry’s face softened with a bittersweet warmth that Tom instantly disliked. “Ron was pureblood, but not particularly powerful. Hermione was muggle-born, and she was the most brilliant witch I’d ever seen.”
Tom did not doubt him.
Harry had no reason to lie about magic, about power.
Tom himself, despite being half-blood, surpassed most grown wizards already. Harry said so himself.
And Harry… Harry who had died and returned, whose magic felt to Tom both ancient and impossible… he was powerful beyond anything Tom had yet encountered, and, inexplicably, he felt certain, Harry would surpass anything he would ever encounter in the future.
If Harry said blood did not determine strength, Tom believed him.
Pureblood, half-blood, muggle-born… it didn’t seem to matter.
Besides, Tom had already decided his universe began and ended with Harry.
But another, fiercer question rose in Tom. “What about my parents?” he asked softly. “Who are they, exactly? What do you know about them? How do you know my father was a muggle, and my mother a witch?”
For a moment, Harry hesitated. Searching, almost, as though looking for a safer answer… or another lie.
But then he exhaled, giving in. “Your mother was Merope Gaunt,” said Harry. “She belonged to the Gaunt family. The last direct heirs of Salazar Slytherin – one of the four founders of Hogwarts. The one after whom Slytherin house is named. Like Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, and Rowena Ravenclaw gave their names to the other three houses.”
He paused, as if gathering the right pieces of a painful memory.
“But the Gaunts weren’t powerful anymore, Tom. Not magically, not doing well for themselves either. They fell apart because they refused to marry outside their own bloodline, so obsessed with purity that they… let themselves rot. Your grandfather never sent his children to Hogwarts. So your mother and her brother grew up isolated, closed off from everyone.”
Harry’s eyes were faraway, lost as though in something morbid.
“Your father lived across from the Gaunts’ shack. A handsome man. You look like him, Tom. Your mother fell in love with him. And then… you were born.”
Harry paused.
“Your mother died in childbirth,” he said. “Your father…” he hesitated again, visibly hitting a barrier. “I can’t tell you more. It falls under the things I can’t say.”
Tom’s thoughts spun wildly.
Was Harry his father? Young in appearance, but older in truth?
No, Harry had said his father was a muggle, not a half-blood.
Still… why hide this? Why refuse to speak of him?
Tom knew when Harry’s walls were up. Pressing now was useless. So he pivoted, voice smooth, “Are descendants of the founders common?”
“Not like the Gaunts,” said Harry quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“Other lineages survived for a time, but ceased eventually as direct lines. Only Slytherin’s has a living descendant. So you… you’re a direct heir of Salazar Slytherin.”
Something settled inside Tom, something cold, triumphant, vindicated.
It made sense now. The certainty that he was different, greater.
Though even this felt like only a small answer to something larger, something deeper he felt inside him, and it felt like Harry was the only one who seemed to somehow… answer it.
“In fact,” Harry added, still distant with memory, “your ability to talk to snakes, it comes from that lineage. Slytherin’s sigil is a serpent. Only his direct descendants can speak to them.”
Tom absorbed it without awe.
Because in Harry’s shadow, even an ancient gift felt small.
What was speaking to snakes, compared to immortality?
Harry told him the ability was called Parseltongue, and those who spoke it were Parselmouths.
Tom stored the word away, a clinical acknowledgment.
“I look like my father?” Tom asked instead, eyes lingering on Harry’s face with quiet intensity.
Harry smiled. “Yes.”
“And he’s… handsome? How do you know that?”
Harry’s smile grew playful, yet evasive. “I’ve heard so. I’ve never seen him.”
“From whom did you hear it?”
“That,” said Harry softly, “again, falls under the things I cannot tell you.”
His voice closed firm on the finality, even as his smile lingered, colour crept to his cheeks, and his eyes skipped away from Tom.
Tom found himself smiling too, just a little, just enough to tease, unable to help it.
~*~
Chapter 46: To Spill Darkness In
Chapter Text
~*~
The silence of the cottage was broken by the faint click of cutlery against plate. Tom ate the breakfast Harry had left, oatcakes with cheese, while turning the revelations of the previous day over in his mind with deadly precision.
The pattern was clear. It infuriated him.
Harry had spoken freely of his mother, Merope Gaunt, a dead witch, but had slammed shut like a vault at any mention of his father.
The reason was obvious. The father was likely alive.
A living target was more dangerous knowledge to give than a dead woman’s name.
It was the same logic behind Harry’s other maddening silence - the names of the students who had tormented him at Hogwarts. Harry withheld those because he knew, he knew, exactly what Tom would do with them. He was protecting those worthless creatures from the consequences they deserved.
Now Tom realized with cold clarity that Harry was protecting his muggle father the same way. The truth closed together like a snap trap in his head.
His father must have been the kind of man who mistreated a witch, or abandoned her. A muggle who saw magic as deviant, who tormented a woman carrying his child.
Tom had seen the diabolism of muggles firsthand; he didn’t need to stretch his mind to picture it.
Harry, in his infuriating mercy, was shielding even that man from Tom’s judgment.
He set his fork down. The breakfast, prepared by Harry’s loving hands, turned to ash in his mouth.
A sudden, volcanic rage surged through him, so vivid he could feel the phantom weight of the plate in his hand, the way it would career across the room, the satisfying shatter against the wall.
Precisely because Harry’s loving hands had cooked the breakfast.
The problem was - these withheld secrets, these guarded truths, they seemed like they were held in Harry’s endless, suffocating righteousness. It was a righteousness that loved Tom but refused to trust him fully.
So what if I know? The thought snarled in his mind. So what if I would take violent retribution?
It wasn’t as if his rage was indiscriminate. It was rational, deserved. His rage wasn't a mindless eruption; it was from every slight he had ever endured, and now, the slights directed intolerably against Harry. It was for all the right reasons that this vicious rage boiled inside him, desperate for release.
~*~
Harry had, after a long pause, returned to those strange moralistic questions, the ones meant to probe Tom’s sense of right and wrong, and once again, he had urged Tom to answer honestly.
Tom was brutally honest again, because Harry had asked for nothing less.
Then Harry sat him down, gently, trying once more to guide him toward whatever light Harry believed he was nurturing in him.
Tom listened, while inside, he felt a familiar, strange urge.
An urge to reach into Harry’s insides, and spill darkness into him.
To make Harry feel what he felt – that darkness didn’t have to be a flaw to be corrected, but a powerful ally.
But Harry was stubborn.
Tom could be patient, though.
He would work his way slowly into Harry’s depths, and when he finally poured that darkness in, he hoped Harry would finally recognize its beauty, its usefulness.
~*~
Albus Dumbledore sat in his high-ceilinged office, the evening light stretching long, slanting shadows across the room. His fingers were steepled, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the window.
The facts stood this way – their new, young professor, Harry Potter, who looked as though he should still be sitting his NEWTs, had been accused by a handful of Ravenclaw boys of having an inappropriate relationship with his ward.
The boys had some choice words to use – canoodling, among other crude suggestions, but underneath the filth was a truth that Dumbledore had garnered by now – they had witnessed Potter and the boy together at The Three Broomsticks over the winter holidays.
Something about the way the two interacted had struck them as too close, and they'd twisted it to the ugliest thing they could think of.
The question that burnt in Dumbledore’s mind though was that why would someone so young take in a child at all?
Guardianship wasn’t a careless decision. It was a life-binding responsibility.
Either Potter was astonishingly selfless, or there was a deeper connection he refused to speak of.
Potter seemed to have no family. Perhaps the boy didn’t either.
Teenagers can be cruel...
But Potter’s anger… it somehow seemed more than a simple horror of being wrongly accused.
It had a tinge of something far more raw, the rage of someone who felt that a private, sacred bond had been dragged through the mud.
As for why a young man adopted a boy? To find out answers, he would keep his eyes open.
~*~
Chapter 47: Green Eyes
Chapter Text
~*~
Honey, you are a rock
Upon which I stand
The green eyes, the spotlight
Shines upon you
And how could anybody
Deny you?
Honey, you are the sea
Upon which I float
That green eyes
You're the one that I wanted to find
And anyone who tried to deny you
Must be out of their mind
- Green Eyes, Coldplay
~*~
Nature transitioned slowly, as winter’s hold loosened at last, and gave way to the slow stirrings of spring. Snow melted to reveal dull, brown earth, the sharpness in the air softened with each passing day, and twilight lingered a little longer against the Highland sky.
That evening, after Harry returned from Hogwarts, they settled into their usual places in the sitting room. Tom was absorbed in the magical theory book; it was one of the birthday gifts Harry had given him. These days, it was the only book that competed with Psychology of the Unconscious.
Ghostly, melancholy music drifted from the radio; Tom switched it on when Harry was home. Tom didn’t care for it; it perturbed his concentration, which was why he saved simpler chapters for evenings, and read the more demanding ones through the silent and empty hours of the day. But the way the music always seemed to put Harry at ease made the irritation feel tolerable.
After a long stretch of reading, Tom closed the book, and let his head rest against the armchair, eyes sliding shut as ideas settled in his mind.
“I hope you’re giving yourself breaks,” said Harry. He lowered the Quidditch magazine he was reading, and was watching Tom now, concern on his expression. “You can’t just read all day.”
Tom met his gaze. “You don’t leave me much choice.” His tone was mild, but the intent was slightly sharp. “You’re gone through the day. Books are adequate company.”
Harry’s face shifted to a gentle, aching compassion. “Just a few more months,” he said quietly. “Then you’ll be at Hogwarts.”
Tom only held a neutral expression.
“Well,” said Harry after a moment, with hope in his eyes, “we could start flying on the weekends, now that winter’s over.”
“Yes,” said Tom, his smile slightly indulgent. The elated smile Harry gave made the acquiescence worth it.
Tom returned to his book. Some time later, he glanced up, and found Harry flipping through the magazine with boredom, restlessness evident in the way he shifted against the sofa. Harry, it seemed, was never built for stillness.
“You have a fascinating way of losing interest halfway through a page,” said Tom.
Harry laughed. “Some of us have perfectly average brains.”
Tom arched a brow. “It’s just focus,” he said lightly. “Something you lack.” His gaze flicked to Harry’s hair. “Still, I admire the consistency of it. Your standards for order are… thoroughly nonexistent.”
“Oh, really?” said Harry, standing and stretching. He started toward the kitchen, then slowed as he passed Tom’s chair. His voice dropped to a playful murmur. “Mister perfect hair…”
His hand shot out toward Tom’s head.
Tom reacted before thoughts could catch up, his hand snapping up with startling speed, fingers clasping with an iron-grip around Harry’s wrist an inch from his hair. A hand shooting out swiftly at him meant a shove, a yank, something unwanted, something untoward.
Harry didn’t pull away; he only grinned, playful, unbothered.
A strange, seeping warmth filled Tom from within, and there formed a smile on his lips that he couldn’t restrain.
Harry twisted his captured wrist free. “Come on, just a little chaos, for solidarity.” He made another attempt at his hair.
Tom caught his wrist again. "Don’t.”
Harry only seemed encouraged by it, and a huff of laughter escaped Tom.
Tom blocked his attempts with quick, precise movements from where he sat. Harry was laughing, intent on it now. Tom, without warning, surged to his feet, and buried a hand in Harry’s hair, thoroughly ruffling the already unruly locks.
Harry laughed, stumbling back a step. Tom took the advantage, both hands now involved, one gripping Harry’s wrist again the moment his hand made an attempt to resist, and the other in Harry’s hair, intent on complete destruction.
“Stop,” said Harry between laughs, pushing at Tom’s shoulder with his free hand. In his attempt to evade, his foot caught the leg of the coffee table, and he lost balance.
They fell together, connected as they were physically, hitting the arm of the sofa, then landing in a heap on the rug, Tom on his back, Harry half atop him, twisted just enough to avoid crushing him.
For a moment, there was only breathless laughter.
Harry eased himself up slightly, flushed, bright-eyed. Then, quick as a diving seeker, his hand shot out for one last ruffle.
Tom grasped his wrist before he could ruin his hair again. “Too slow,” murmured Tom, a roguish smile on.
Harry’s smile softened.
Tom relinquished his grip. Harry rolled off him, and they lay on the floor shoulder to shoulder, staring up at the ceiling.
Tom’s heart was racing with a strange exhilaration.
Harry showed him that a fight could end in laughter, that a physical struggle didn’t necessarily have to leave him angry and raw, but vivid and alive. But like every other lesson Harry had taught him so far, every understanding Tom had gained since being with him, Tom allowed this one, too, to exist only within the small, contained world they shared.
Harry laughed again, quieter now. Tom wanted to join him, but couldn’t, the strangeness in his heart only letting a quiet smile escape him.
The music drifted on, ghostly and soft, as the fire crackled beside them.
~*~
Tom’s hands moved steadily as he helped Harry with dinner, but his mind was anything but still.
Even now, the simple sight of a full plate before him felt unreal. The meals Harry lovingly prepared for him were a reminder of nights at Wool’s where hunger was constant and gnawing. He knew he was fortunate. He understood it with irrefutable clarity.
As his gaze strayed now and then to Harry, who moved with unthinking certainty, he remembered how Harry had known this hunger too. Harry had shared it with Tom, when they first bared each others’ past wounds.
It was sacrilegious, unbearable, that the one who was now the centre of his world, the source of all love and purpose, had been tormented, diminished, by worthless creatures who called themselves humans.
~*~
Flying became their weekend ritual. Tom took to it with remarkable ease. Tom was astonishingly skilled, the skill seemingly innate, twisting and turning in advanced manoeuvres that left Harry exhilarated, heart swelling with pride.
It was the weekend again, and the larder was running low. With the winter’s bite finally receding, Tom wanted to come along, simply because he wanted to be with Harry.
Harry, grateful for the company, agreed.
The late afternoon was crisp and clear, a weak sun casting long, gentle shadows across Glencoe. They apparated to the outskirts of a quiet muggle town, and walked to the street of shops not unlike Hogsmeade, but absent of magic. They moved from store to store, collecting what they needed – tins of food, a particular strong tea Tom had developed a taste for, bars of soap that smelt like pine and cedar.
Arms laden with bags, they were making their way back when Harry stopped.
On the pavement, curled on the cobblestones, was a small cat. It was painfully thin; not too young, but still looked kittenish, perhaps three months old. Its fur was white dappled with grey, like ash on snow. But it was the eyes that arrested Harry – wide, luminous, and a piercing, unmistakable shade of green.
It meowed softly, a frail sound that carried across the quiet street.
Harry’s intention was simple – a moment’s kindness. He would pet the creature, then step into the nearest shop for some minced meat to give it a proper meal.
As he moved toward it, Tom fell into step beside him like a silent shadow.
Harry crouched. The kitten leaned into his touch, arching its spine, the plea for affection tightening something in his chest.
“The eyes,” said Tom, his voice oddly quiet.
Harry glanced up. Tom was staring at the cat, his expression a strange mix of awe and something darker, like dread.
“They’re the exact shade as yours,” said Tom.
Harry smiled softly, pain inexplicably piercing deep in him. “Wait here,” he said, rising. “I’ll get her something to eat.”
He had taken only a few paces down the pavement, his eyes scanning shopfronts for a butcher, when the thought struck him like a physical blow. He had just left Tom – Tom, who had strangled a rabbit with a yo-yo string, who had beheaded a devoted snake – alone with a defenceless animal.
A violent stab of dread twisted in his heart. He turned around.
Tom was still there. But he had crouched down, and his hand – his slender, dangerous hand – was resting not with violence, but with shocking, impossible gentleness on the kitten’s small head, stroking near its ears.
As if sensing the weight of Harry’s gaze, Tom looked up. From that distance, his face seemed calm, yet tinged with that strange fear.
Heart thundering against his ribs, Harry forced himself to turn and hurry on. He found a butcher, bought a small portion of minced meat, and rushed back.
Tom was standing guard beside the ball of fur, which was now nestled trustingly near his boots. The kitten looked up as Harry approached, its green eyes blinking at him.
Harry fed it from a bowl he bought from the shop next to the butchers. It ate with desperate, grateful voracity, mewing thickly around each mouthful. When it was done, licking the bowl clean, Harry retrieved it, and they began to walk away.
They had taken only a few steps when Tom stopped dead.
He turned, his face gone pale. Something formidable shifted behind his eyes, a clash of impulses, a silent war, before resolve hardened his features. Without a word, he strode back to the pavement.
The kitten, seeing him return, stood and arched its back, curling its tail in a friendly question mark before rubbing itself against his leg.
Tom crouched. Carefully, he scooped the small creature into his hands, tucking it against the warmth of his coat. He straightened, his jaw set.
He didn’t speak. He simply began to walk, the kitten a small, hidden weight against his chest.
Harry’s heart raced, a torrent of fear and awe crashing within him. His mind conjured a horrific memory – a pristine white cloth bag, stained with shocking red, holding the severed pieces of a butchered snake.
He wanted to scream, to snatch the kitten away, to beg and plead.
But he looked at Tom’s face – pale as parchment, yet etched with a certain solemnity that surpassed his years – and the words died in his throat.
Tom paused, meeting Harry’s terrified gaze. Townsfolk walked around them, oblivious to the seismic shift occurring on the pavement.
“I'm not going to hurt her,” said Tom, quiet, astoundingly perceptive.
A sleepy conversation rose unbidden in Harry’s mind, then…
When you found out I killed the snake… I’d never seen anyone get so angry over an animal before.
Animals are pure, Tom. Purer than people. Their deaths have always affected me deeply.
Yet you don’t hate me for it?
No. I loved that snake because… in a way, it felt like loving a part of you. When you killed it, I lost my mind… in anger, in grief, in fear that my love for you wouldn’t be enough…
Harry understood something then.
Lessons given without intention, slipped through vulnerability rather than instruction, seemed to take root in Tom more tenaciously, and they took root in him only if he chose them.
This… this was Tom choosing.
This was Tom offering his soul to him without words.
Harry would hold that offered fragment of Tom’s soul with such tenderness, such ferocious protectiveness, that there would be no part of him left untouched by it.
For it was not lost on Harry. Tom took the cat in because her eyes reminded him of Harry. It was a baring of the heart that Tom had, all his life, so violently guarded. And he now bared it to him.
~*~
Chapter 48: A Test of Patience for Disorder
Chapter Text
~*~
As they walked back toward the outskirts of the town to apparate to their cottage, the kitten still held delicately in Tom’s hands, another dark memory reeled through Harry’s mind –
“If you get an owl… I’ll do the same thing to it.”
Harry had frozen at that straight, direct threat.
“Why?” Harry’s voice was shaky with disbelief, with pain.
“Because I despise animals.”
Something in Harry had shattered, stunned, pained.
“Despise animals?”
“Yes, Harry. Despise them. I do not like crooning over some useless creature day and night, feeding it, cleaning up its filth. Unlike you, I would rather look after a person, someone you have taken in, instead of fawning over an animal the moment it showed up.”
As he looked at Tom and saw the way his face held no trace of that earlier hurt and anger, Harry hoped, prayed, that what he was witnessing now was miraculous progress.
~*~
The kitten squirmed constantly in Tom’s hands as they walked. Then she began to bite him, so gently it barely counted as biting at all, only opening her mouth and leaving little patches of warm wetness on his skin. Tom found it more amusing than irritating.
Apparition was the tricky part.
Once they reached the outskirts, Harry gathered the kitten into his arms. Just to be safe, he held her tightly to his chest with both hands instead of taking Tom’s hand the way he usually did. Tom did not mind this time. Harry told him to hold on to him properly, and Tom did, wrapping an arm around Harry’s middle.
Harry leaned in to press a quick, fleeting kiss to the top of Tom’s head. Tom noticed the sudden quickening of his heartbeat, the way he looked at Harry.
Harry smiled with something like pain, something like a deep and aching love in his eyes, then closed them, vivid green hidden now beneath his lids, focused his intent, and after the familiar tug and whirlwind, they were standing at the foot of the slope that lead up to their cottage.
The following days were… menacing and tiring, to say the least.
They began by making arrangements for her eating, drinking, and for her to relieve herself. Harry took out a mid-sized tray, conjured fine soil in it, and placed it in a corner of the cottage near the storeroom. They would have to train her to use it, he said, looking very hopeful.
By they, Tom knew it fell on him, for he was the one there during the day – to train her, watch her, or deal with whatever she decided to do.
But it was his decision to bring the kitten home. If he made a decision, he saw it through.
The ball of white fur dappled with grey relieved herself wherever she pleased for the first few days.
Tom, absorbed in a book, would from the corner of his eye catch her streaking across the floor, pouncing at nothing, or crab-walking abruptly and ridiculously. It would only be when he rose to fetch a glass of water that he would notice the deed done in a corner of the kitchen, or the edge of the sitting room.
Tom stared at the mess with a displeased scowl and muttered the cleaning spell. It worked flawlessly every time, with no wand needed.
Still, this could not continue, not only because it was inconvenient, but because disorder was intolerable, even if it could be erased with a word.
So Tom looked at her and willed her to approach him.
He had effortlessly trained animals before at the orphanage, granted never for good ends. But if he could train them there, he could train this kitten too.
The will worked, as it always did on animals.
With snakes, he could speak, explain, and refine his commands into something precise. With others, it was simpler, cruder, but still effective. He did not know why it came so easily to him. It simply always had.
The kitten pranced to him at once.
Tom lifted her with one hand and stared straight into her eyes. Green eyes.
“Don’t you be as messy and disorderly as Harry,” he whispered. “I will not like that. I would rather you behave like me.”
The kitten began to squirm again.
Tom did not care. He carried her to the tray by the storeroom and crouched, holding her over it. “Here,” he said softly, giving her a small shake. “You will relieve yourself here. Do you understand?”
She went oddly still, staring down at the soil.
“Good,” he hissed, and released her.
She immediately pranced away, to the bowl of food in the kitchen, and ate as though she had not eaten in days.
She always went to the windows and doors, scratching at them as if to say let me out. Tom would step outside with her for a while, indulging her restlessness, and then, once he had had enough, inevitably scoop her up and carry her back into the cottage.
Tom continued to go to Harry’s bedroom to sleep with Harry. The kitten, too, always found her way there.
They left the bedroom door ajar so she could flit in and out; otherwise, she relentlessly scratched at it in the middle of the night.
The way she did not let them sleep was maddening.
She would launch herself from the top of the cupboard or the wardrobe, hurtle down onto their chests or legs, narrowly miss their faces, then scamper off again, leaving thin claw-marks stinging on their skin in her wake.
Tom buried his face into Harry’s chest, half-asleep but fully furious. He groaned, deeply regretting his decision.
“She’s a kitten,” murmured Harry, voice thick with sleep. “She’ll grow out of this playful phase soon, Tom.”
“I don’t care,” muttered Tom. “Can’t we use a sleeping charm on her through the night?”
“We could,” said Harry, actually considering it. “But I don’t know what kind of… untoward effects it might have. I’ll ask someone who knows.”
“We need to take her to St Mungo’s,” Tom reminded him, for what felt like the hundredth time. “They will know what ought to be done for her. I would rather everything be seen to properly than have you consult those with no relevance at all.”
Harry agreed.
So they waited for the weekend, to take the kitten to St Mungo’s once and for all, see to whatever might be necessary for her, and, most importantly, find out whether a sleeping charm through the night was permissible.
Whether she would be allowed in Hogwarts was another matter entirely, one Tom insisted Harry clarify at once.
Harry came home that evening and told him he had asked Dippet. Yes, she would be allowed, despite being a muggle cat, provided they took good care of her and accepted full responsibility.
That ended, decisively, Tom’s faint wondering about whether they could simply give her away.
Yet, for reasons he did not fully examine, he thought it was the better outcome.
He got to keep those exact shades of green eyes to himself.
~*~