Chapter Text
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Title: The Minister’s General
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To the average Ministry worker, General Harry Potter cut an imposing figure. Tall, sharp-eyed, and dressed in sleek black and green, he looked less like the Boy Who Lived and more like the man who’d won. Not just the war—though he had—but every strategic battle since. He walked the Ministry halls like he owned them, because in all the ways that mattered, he did.
Sure, Tom Riddle held the title of Minister of Magic. But anyone paying attention knew the real power ran in tandem. Not behind the throne, not beside it—but across from it. Equal. Opposite. Infuriating.
And tonight, he was on a mission.
As Harry made his way up to the top floor—ignoring the respectful nods, the wide eyes, the low whispers—he ran through scenarios in his head. Ways to push Riddle just far enough to get what he wanted without starting a political duel. Again.
He could already hear the Minister’s voice in his head, velvet-smooth and biting: "Oh, General Potter, another attempt at bleeding-heart legislation? How quaint."
He rolled his eyes just thinking about it. Tom was predictable in all the worst ways—clever, calculating, irritatingly beautiful, and capable of derailing entire negotiations just to get a rise out of him. Not that Harry ever gave him the satisfaction.
Well. Not in public.
Six years they'd worked together since the war ended in a blaze of blood and politics. Riddle, the so-called Dark Lord rebranded into a charismatic Minister. Harry, the chosen savior turned reluctant power broker. The world had expected one to kill the other. Instead, they’d formed a government.
Terrifying, how well it worked.
They bickered in council meetings, hexed practice dummies side by side, and coordinated national reforms like a pair of synchronized disasters. Harry pushed for change. Tom demanded order. Between the two of them, Britain hadn’t burned down. Yet.
Their relationship, if anyone dared call it that, was the worst-kept secret in the Ministry. Rumors spread like fire: whispered sightings of the General leaving the Minister’s office at ungodly hours, smudged necklines, smug smiles. No one dared ask. No one needed to.
Because when Harry opened the doors to the Minister’s private chambers without knocking—when he strode in like he had every right—no one was surprised.
Tom didn’t even look up.
“General Potter,” he said, voice smooth as ever. “What a predictable disturbance. Have you come to rearrange my weapon collection again, or simply to remind me that personal space is a myth in your world?”
Harry grinned like a wolf and dropped a scroll onto the dark stone desk.
“You’ll love this one. Equal magical rights for werewolves.”
Tom blinked. Slowly. As if Harry had just dropped a bomb on the desk instead of parchment.
“Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes.”
A pause. A stare. Magic in the air like a storm waiting to break.
The thing about Harry and Tom, the one the entire Ministry had picked up on long ago, was that they didn’t really argue. They circled. Teased. Challenged. Conversations between them were matches struck too close to powder, every sentence soaked in history and hunger.
"You realise," Tom said, flicking a glance at the scroll, "this will cause a catastrophic uproar in the Wizengamot."
Harry leaned on the desk, closer than professional decorum allowed. “Only among the cowards.”
“And you expect me to burn political capital for your bleeding heart?”
“No,” Harry said, smiling. “I expect you to do it because I asked. Nicely.”
“That’s your version of nicely?”
“It was,” he said. “But I can get more persuasive.”
Outside the office, a pair of junior aides pretended not to eavesdrop, ears tilted ever so slightly toward the door.
Inside, Riddle stood slowly, eyes locked with Harry’s.
“You’re a menace,” he murmured.
“And you like it,” Harry shot back.
This wasn’t a battle. It was foreplay. A dangerous game between two men who knew exactly how much power they held—and exactly how to wield it against each other.
No one knew what Harry said next, or what Tom’s reply was.
But an hour later, the werewolf rights bill appeared on the Minister’s official agenda.
---
Inside the Minister’s office, the temperature had shifted.
Not literally—Tom kept the room at a precise 21 degrees Celsius, as if magic couldn't possibly be trusted to maintain climate control—but figuratively. The air between them was always a little charged, like the room knew it housed two of the most dangerous wizards alive and didn’t want to get caught in the crossfire.
Tom set his quill down with slow deliberation, folding his long fingers together atop the desk. The flicker of candlelight made the silver on his robes glint like a warning.
"Walk me through it," he said at last. "The bill. Your rationale. And do try to do it without sounding like you're auditioning for sainthood."
Harry rolled his eyes, dropping into the chair across from the desk with all the grace of a man who knew he belonged there—even if protocol suggested otherwise. He slung one leg over the other and lounged like the war hero he absolutely hated being called.
"Three points," he said, ticking them off on his fingers. "One: the werewolves who fought in the war are still second-class citizens and we're losing allies over it. Two: the international press has already picked up on our treatment of magical creatures and it's a PR nightmare. Three: it's the right fucking thing to do."
Tom blinked. "Your eloquence continues to move me."
“Careful,” Harry drawled. “That almost sounded like agreement.”
Tom leaned back in his chair, watching Harry with the faintest smirk. "You’re charming when you’re furious."
"I’m not furious. Yet."
"You will be when the legislation fails in committee."
Harry narrowed his eyes. “So help me, Riddle—”
“Minister, please.”
“I will throw you out that window.”
Tom laughed. It was the real kind—low, rich, and entirely too amused. The kind that made Harry’s stomach tighten for reasons he refused to examine in a professional setting.
“You’re so impatient,” Tom said, tapping his fingers on the armrest. “You want everything at once. Revolution by breakfast.”
“And you’d rather sip tea while the world rots.”
They locked eyes again, that familiar current running between them. The argument was old by now, worn like a groove in the stone.
"You want me to burn political bridges for a law that will rile the old bloodlines, divide the council, and cost me at least three major donors. Why would I do that?"
Harry didn’t hesitate. “Because I’m the one asking.”
It was a bold play. A stupid one, maybe. But they weren’t exactly known for playing safe.
And it landed.
Tom’s mouth twitched. “You’re lucky I like you.”
Harry grinned. “You like me?”
“Terribly inconvenient, I assure you.”
They fell into a brief silence. Comfortable, if slightly volatile. The kind of silence that usually came before either a major policy shift or a well-placed hex.
Tom sighed, finally breaking the quiet. “If I back this bill, I’ll need something in return.”
“There it is,” Harry muttered. “Name it.”
“I want you at the next Wizengamot session.”
Harry blinked. “That’s it?”
Tom’s smile was all teeth. “In uniform.”
Ah. There it was.
“You want to parade me in front of the old purebloods like your prize stallion.”
“I want them to see the man backing this legislation is the man who led them through war,” Tom said, smooth as always. “And that I have you on my side.”
Harry leaned forward, hands braced on his knees. “You don’t have me.”
“Oh?” Tom’s voice was low now. Dangerous. “Do I need to remind you of last night?”
“You never let me forget.”
Another pause.
Then, quieter: “Deal.”
Tom inclined his head, almost reverent. “A pleasure, as always, General.”
Harry stood, not bothering to hide his grin. “You’re a manipulative bastard.”
“And you,” Tom murmured, “are the only one who can keep up.”
Harry’s grin faded, just a flicker of shadow across his features, but Tom caught it. Of course he did.
Because Harry knew a darker game was at play here.
It wasn’t just about rights or reform, or even the optics of unity between the Minister and his General. Tom didn’t move without three layers of strategy folded beneath the surface, and Harry had learned—sometimes the hard way—that agreeing to his terms always came with hidden costs.
“You’re putting me on display,” Harry said, quieter now. “Not to remind them I won the war—but to warn them I haven’t left the battlefield.”
Tom didn’t deny it.
“You’re too useful when angry,” he said, voice silky, unreadable. “They need reminding that your fury still answers to my voice.”
“Does it?” Harry asked, one brow raised. “That’s a risky bet.”
There it was again—that look. The one that said Tom was never bluffing, only waiting for the world to catch up to him.
“You agreed,” he said softly. “You’re already mine.”
The words weren’t flirtation. Not now. Not here.
And Merlin help him, Harry didn’t flinch. But it was close.
Because under the teasing, beneath the banter, there were truths neither of them said aloud. That power in their world wasn’t just about magic or titles—it was about control. And they both knew exactly how much they had over each other.
Tom had the throne.
Harry had the people.
And neither would ever truly kneel.
He turned to leave then, needing air, distance, anything to dilute the taste of the game they'd just escalated. But before he reached the door, Tom’s voice followed him:
“Wear the Order of Merlin to the session. Full regalia.”
Harry stopped with his hand on the handle. “Trying to blind them with nostalgia?”
“No,” Tom said. “I want them to remember what happens when they push you too far.”
Harry didn’t respond. He just opened the door and stepped out, his boots echoing down the polished floor once more.
But the grin didn’t return.
Because now the stakes weren’t just political. Tom had made sure of that.
This wasn’t about passing a law anymore.
It was about choosing a side— publicly .
And Harry had just let the Minister of Magic wrap that choice in silk and strategy, then hand it to him like a gift.
Clever bastard.
And the worst part?
Harry couldn’t quite tell if he’d lost this round… or won something far more dangerous.
---
The war room in the Department of Magical Strategy had never been quiet, but this evening it hummed with a particular kind of energy—half anticipation, half disbelief. Word had spread, as it always did: the werewolf rights bill was on the agenda. The actual agenda. No footnotes, no whispers, no “review pending” status.
Harry Potter had done it again.
Sort of.
Hermione Granger stood by the window, arms crossed over her chest, watching Harry with the kind of look that said she’d been patient enough , thank you very much.
“You’re not going to tell me what you said to him, are you?”
Harry, sprawled across a chair with one foot up on a second, looked entirely too pleased with himself. Jacket off, tie loose, sleeves rolled—an infuriating portrait of victory and exhaustion and smugness. The kind of look that had made headlines during the war and set off rumor mills in its aftermath.
He glanced up at her with a grin far too innocent to be trusted.
“Who, me?”
Hermione rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of her head.
“Yes, you, General Sly Smirk . Don’t play coy. The entire Ministry’s buzzing. One minute the Minister’s saying the bill’s a political landmine and the next it’s got top billing on the docket. You walk out of his office looking like you’ve just had dessert and a victory parade. I’m not stupid, Harry.”
“Never said you were.”
“You think I am, though. Every time you pull the ‘oh, it’s just politics’ nonsense.”
Harry leaned his head back with a sigh. “It is just politics, Hermione. Sometimes I win.”
“You don’t walk like that when you win a vote,” she said flatly. “You walk like that when you’ve just had Riddle wrapped around your wand—figuratively or otherwise.”
That got a snort from Harry. “ Gross .”
Hermione gave him a look. “Don’t act scandalized, Harry. You’ve spent six years running around this place like a double-act with him. The Minister and the General. Like some dystopian buddy comedy.”
“Dystopian?” he echoed, mock-offended. “Rude.”
“You bicker like exes. You move like chess pieces. He listens to you . You could say ‘Tom, I think the sun’s a bit loud today,’ and he’d order the Department of Magical Atmosphere to muffle it. Honestly, it’s weird.”
Harry laughed. “You’re being dramatic.”
Hermione arched a brow. “Am I? Last week you literally threatened to ‘burn the building down and salt the rubble’ if the education board didn’t pass that Hogwarts funding bill.”
“And they passed it, didn’t they?”
“Because he gave the go-ahead to strong-arm them!”
Harry waved a hand. “Semantics.”
Hermione stared at him. “Just admit it.”
“There’s nothing to admit.”
“You’re in love with him.”
“I’m not —!”
“—officially in a relationship with him. I know. You always say that. It’s adorable how you think it makes a difference.”
Harry blinked at her, caught off-guard by the softness in her voice.
“Look,” she said, quieter now, stepping forward and leaning her hip against the table beside him. “I’m not judging. Merlin knows it makes a twisted kind of sense. You and Riddle have always existed in the same orbit. But stop pretending it’s not real just because there’s no label on it.”
Harry exhaled, shoulders dropping. He dragged a hand through his hair, then over his face.
“It’s complicated,” he said finally.
Hermione nodded. “Of course it is. It’s Tom bloody Riddle . There’s probably a six-layered blood pact and at least one morally grey sex dungeon involved.”
“ Hermione! ”
She smirked. “What? I read.”
He groaned. “You’re the worst.”
“Not denying it though.”
He didn’t. Couldn’t.
Because she was right, in that terrifying Hermione way.
He and Tom didn’t need to define it. They barely spoke of it. But it was in every glance they shared across meeting tables, every calculated move they made with the other’s shadow at their back. They argued and maneuvered like enemies, but never without the knowledge that they were on the same side. Always.
There were no love letters. No anniversaries.
But Tom let Harry walk into his office unannounced, let him hurl ideas and insults and passion onto his desk. And Harry let Tom wield him like a weapon in public and then whisper undoing things in the dark.
It wasn’t love the way the storybooks said.
It was theirs.
And maybe that was more dangerous.
“You’re not wrong,” he said at last.
Hermione blinked. “Say that again. Slowly.”
“Don’t push it.”
She laughed and nudged his boot with her toe. “Just be careful. He’s not like us. He’s a—”
“Snake in human form. I’m aware.”
“Yeah, but he’s your snake, apparently.”
Harry tilted his head back and groaned into the ceiling. “Why do I talk to you?”
“Because I’m the only one in this building who tells you the truth.”
He couldn’t argue that. Not really.
“I just don’t want you to forget yourself in all this,” she said softly. “He might be the Minister. But you —you’re still the heart of this place.”
Harry looked at her, and for once, didn’t deflect.
“I won’t forget,” he said.
---
There was a certain hush in the private chamber of the Minister’s inner circle—a hush that came not from quiet but from dread.
Tom Riddle sat at the head of the obsidian table, perfectly composed, swirling a glass of blood-red wine as if the world outside hadn’t spent the day screaming about the werewolf bill he'd just placed on the official docket.
He didn’t look concerned.
That made them more afraid.
Rabastan Lestrange leaned forward first, his voice low and dry like crackling parchment. “Forgive me, my Lord—Minister—but this bill is... deeply unpopular.”
Lucius Malfoy didn’t speak. He was too careful for that. He simply sat beside Rabastan with his hands folded on the table, eyes sharp and pale, watching for cues, for danger, for escape.
And Bellatrix?
Bellatrix Black was draped over her chair like a lazy cat, legs tucked under her, wand spinning between her fingers. Her laugh had already interrupted the meeting three times. She hadn’t blinked once.
“I think it’s lovely ,” she cooed now, as if discussing a bouquet rather than legislation. “Let the mutts off their leashes. Give them voting rights, houses, neckties—oh, maybe even a seat in the Wizengamot! That’d be fun.”
Tom didn’t even glance at her. Bellatrix’s madness had long since stopped amusing him.
Lucius cleared his throat delicately. “The public perception—”
“—is irrelevant,” Tom said, smooth and final. “They’ll follow.”
“They followed you when you promised stability,” Rabastan pressed, the edge of worry slipping in now. “But this… this isn’t the kind of compromise they understand.”
Tom’s gaze lifted slowly.
“Do you presume to explain the public to me, Lestrange?”
Rabastan’s breath caught. “Of course not, my Lord.”
Lucius stepped in, diplomatic. “There’s concern, Minister. Among the bloodlines. You’ve moved swiftly on reform—centaur accords, goblin banking independence, half-blood inheritance rights—”
“Ah,” Tom murmured. “And now werewolves. The tipping point.”
“No one is saying that progress is wrong,” Lucius said smoothly. “But it’s coming too fast for some. The Greengrasses are threatening to withhold their vote on the new portkey network. The Fawleys are rallying the traditionalists.”
Bellatrix snorted. “Let them cry into their powdered wigs.”
“They’re not afraid of you anymore,” Rabastan muttered. “Not like they were.”
Tom placed his glass on the table with a gentle clink.
The air changed.
“You mistake fear for silence,” he said, voice low and even. “They are quiet because they remember what I did the last time I was crossed.”
A beat. Bellatrix grinned, delighted.
Lucius’ hands tightened slightly on the tabletop. Rabastan wisely said nothing.
Tom stood, movements deliberate. Regal. Deadly.
“I have rebuilt a broken magical world,” he said. “I ended the curse wars, abolished the Unforgivable imprisonment clause, restructured magical education, and made the bloody Unspeakables answerable to my office. And yet now you whimper because I gave a handful of wolves the right to vote without being chained?”
No one dared respond.
He paced to the window, looking out over the night-blanketed city. His reflection stared back, cool and gleaming like a blade.
“I have ruled with fear. With fire. With the weight of names written in blood. And still,” he turned slowly, “you question the value of faith.”
Bellatrix clapped once, giddy. “I love when you do speeches.”
Tom ignored her.
Rabastan cleared his throat. “And Potter?”
The air thinned.
Lucius flinched, ever so slightly.
Tom walked back to his seat and resumed it with feline grace, settling into silence for a long moment.
Then, without looking up: “What of him?”
“His involvement… It raises questions,” Lucius said carefully. “The public wonders who leads. The press whispers... things.”
Bellatrix smirked. “ Very good things, I hope.”
Tom said nothing.
Lucius braved one more inch. “They say he sways you.”
“They mistake coordination for compromise,” Tom said coldly.
“You used to call him reckless.”
“He still is,” Tom said. “But he’s right more often than not.”
“And,” Bellatrix drawled, “you let him talk to you like that.”
Tom’s eyes cut to her.
She grinned, all teeth. “He calls you an arse in public.”
“He is,” Tom said simply. “And he’s earned the right.”
The silence that followed was different. Uncomfortable. Charged with understanding none of them wanted.
Bellatrix laughed and spun her wand again. “I always said you’d marry the brat if he stabbed you properly first.”
Tom leaned back in his chair. “Marriage is a construct.”
“Ha! So is monogamy, darling.”
Lucius looked like he wanted to die.
Bellatrix was glowing.
But none of them dared push further. Not when Tom’s expression turned unreadable. Not when something in his voice curled dark and dangerous and almost fond.
He stood again, tugging his robes into place, his expression smooth as marble.
“Prepare for the backlash,” he said. “I’ve already written the counter-legislation. The Greengrasses can withhold their votes, but I still control the floor time.”
“And if they go public?” Rabastan asked, still uncertain.
Tom glanced back, a half-smile ghosting over his mouth.
“ Faith, ” he said. “And the one person in this country mad enough to believe I still deserve it.”
Then he was gone—just like that.
The doors closed behind him, and the room exhaled.
Lucius stared after him for a long moment. “We’re all going to die.”
Bellatrix giggled. “Yes, but it’ll be fascinating until we do.”
---
The fallout had started before sundown.
Three op-eds by dinnertime. One of them called it “Potter’s Coup.” Another called it “the beginning of magical moral decay.” The third made the bold suggestion that perhaps the Minister was under an Imperius Curse—though the writer had the sense to keep that anonymous.
By ten o'clock, four high-ranking families had requested “urgent clarification on the Minister’s stance,” which meant veiled threats. A protest had formed outside the Ministry's south entrance—fifty or so, chanting slogans that had been fashionable in the last war.
Tom hadn’t blinked.
But he also hadn’t left his study since the sun went down.
When Harry knocked once and stepped inside without waiting, he half-expected to find Tom pacing, plotting, or maybe slicing someone’s name into a parchment with surgical vengeance.
Instead, the Minister sat perfectly still in his armchair, sleeves rolled up, cravat loosened, hands clasped around a glass of something dark and slow-burning.
Harry shut the door with a soft click.
Tom didn’t look up right away.
“I see you survived the feeding frenzy,” Harry said, voice low, careful. “How many traitors today?”
“Seven,” Tom said, swirling his drink. “Eight, if we count the Prophet’s editorial board.”
Harry crossed the room and sank into the opposite armchair, tossing his jacket over the backrest with a sigh.
“They actually printed the phrase ‘biting the Minister’s leash.’” He grinned. “Honestly, that one’s creative.”
Tom arched a brow. “Do they think I leash you?”
Harry tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Don’t you?”
That earned him a faint smile. The kind only Harry ever saw—crooked at one edge, like the world was amusing in spite of itself.
“Idiots,” Tom murmured. “Every last one of them.”
“They’re scared,” Harry said, leaning forward. “Because you did something good. They don’t know what to do with that.”
“I’ve done plenty of good.”
“You’ve done plenty of effective, ” Harry said, gaze sharp. “This one? It wasn’t about strategy.”
Tom sipped his drink and didn’t deny it.
The silence stretched.
Outside, somewhere beyond the wards, a group of protestors broke into a chant again. The rhythm of it echoed faintly through the stone. Angry. Tired.
Tom’s voice was low when it came again.
“They’ll use this to divide us.”
“They’ve been trying to divide us since day one,” Harry said. “It didn’t work then, and it won’t work now.”
“You’re my general. The public thinks you—”
“Sleep in your bed?”
Tom looked up sharply.
Harry shrugged. “Let them. They’ll always talk. We might as well make it worth their while.”
A pause.
A beat of something unspoken.
Tom stood, slow and graceful, and crossed to the hearth, drink in hand. The firelight etched gold along his shoulders, casting his face in shadows.
“They’ll say I’m weak,” he said quietly.
“You’re not.”
“They’ll say I’ve gone soft.”
“You haven’t.”
“They’ll say I’m ruled by you.”
Harry stood too, walking to meet him, steps steady.
“You’re not ruled by me,” he said, and then added, “ But you do listen. ”
That made Tom glance down, amused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Harry stepped closer, until their shoulders brushed. “I say that like it terrifies them.”
Another beat.
And then—soft, rare, honest:
“Does it terrify you?” Tom asked.
Harry let the silence sit before answering. Then: “No.”
Tom turned toward him fully now, watching him like a riddle he still hadn’t solved.
“You’re not afraid of what they’ll say? What they’ll do? What this makes you look like?”
“I’m a war general who doesn’t wear a uniform, uses dark magic in the field, and calls the Minister of Magic a prick in front of Parliament,” Harry said, dry. “I think my reputation was dead three years ago.”
Tom huffed a laugh.
Harry’s gaze softened. “You put it on the docket.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
A pause.
Then Tom said, quietly, “Because you were right.”
Harry blinked.
Tom turned back to the fire. “And because I am tired of building empires with bones. I want to build one that lives.”
The quiet pressed between them.
Harry stepped closer again, now chest to Tom’s back, heat against heat. He didn’t touch him but his voice was softer now.
“We’re already building it,” he said. “And you’re not doing it alone.”
Tom didn’t move for a long moment.
Then he turned, slowly, deliberately—and for once, the mask wasn’t there. Just tiredness. Sharp edges dulled slightly by trust. And something else.
“Do you ever regret it?” he asked. “Standing beside me?”
Harry’s mouth quirked. “Only when you don’t share your bourbon.”
Tom exhaled something close to a laugh, and Harry stepped into his space at last, lifting the glass from his hand and taking a sip.
It burned, rich and heady.
They stood like that for a while—close, quiet, unspoken.
Not lovers, not officially.
But together in every sense that mattered.
---
The Prophet ran the headline in gold-embossed ink. Tasteful , if utterly vicious.
MINISTER’S PET?
New Photos Raise Questions About Potter’s Privileges and Position
Below the headline sprawled three, high-resolution, damning photos.
The first showed Harry leaving the Minister’s office late last night, coat over one shoulder, tie loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone, smirking like the cat that hexed the canary.
The second—far more scandalous—caught a blurred but unmistakable moment of Tom Riddle leaning in, just barely, toward Harry’s shoulder. It was ambiguous, but the angle, the softness in the line of Tom’s mouth, screamed intimacy .
The third photo—clearly taken magically from a building across the square—was shot through the half-open study window. Harry, sprawled in one of the Minister’s armchairs, boots on the table, wand in his mouth like a toothpick, laughing at something as Tom poured two drinks.
Worse, the captions were masterpieces of suggestion.
“Sources say General Potter holds unprecedented access to the Minister’s private chambers.”
“A former aide anonymously confirmed: ‘No one speaks to the Minister like that but Potter. It’s unnatural. Intimate.’”
“A rising number of voices are asking—just who is in charge of the Ministry?”
By nine a.m., five foreign embassies had requested statements. Parliament was in a frenzy. One particularly aggressive Daily Scrybe op-ed referred to Harry as “the Minister’s spoiled Gryffindor consort.”
Harry read it all at breakfast with his legs crossed on the office’s high table, calmly eating toast.
“‘Consort,’” he repeated cheerfully, buttering another slice. “That’s such a pretty word, don’t you think?”
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose.
“I’m going to kill you.”
“No, you’re not,” Harry said around a bite. “Because I’m adorable and terrifying in equal measure.”
“You’re going to make this worse.”
“Am I?” He held up the paper again. “Because this is bloody hilarious .”
“Harry—”
“They’re panicking, Hermione. That means they’ve got nothing left.”
Hermione looked at him with a mixture of deep exhaustion and reluctant pride.
“You can’t go to the press like this,” she said. “They’ll twist anything you say.”
Harry grinned, devilish.
“Oh,” he said. “I’m not going to the press.”
---
The Ministry atrium was packed.
No one had expected the General of Magical Forces to strut in at high noon and hold a spontaneous press conference , but Harry had never been big on permission.
He looked like every headline’s wet dream.
Black slacks, sleeves rolled to the elbow, wand tucked behind one ear, a silver clasp holding back his hair at the nape of his neck. And he was smiling. That lazy, confident, I-know-something-you-don’t grin.
Reporters swarmed. Flashbulbs flared.
He didn’t flinch.
“Right,” Harry said loudly, clapping his hands. “Let’s settle this mess, shall we?”
“General Potter!” a reporter barked. “Is it true you’ve had special access to the Minister’s chambers?”
“Yes,” Harry said cheerfully. “And I plan to continue accessing them at my discretion.”
Scandalized gasps. Hermione audibly choked from where she stood at the back.
Another voice: “Are you confirming a romantic relationship?”
“I’m confirming that your definition of romance must be very boring.”
More shouting. More flashes.
“Do you deny undue influence over Minister Riddle’s policies?”
Harry leaned into the mic with a grin that was mostly teeth.
“I have exactly as much influence as the Minister allows. If you think anyone tells Tom Riddle what to do, you clearly haven’t met him.”
The crowd laughed. Nervous. Captivated.
Another question: “Do you refute the claim that you’re too close to the Minister to serve objectively?”
Harry’s grin dropped into something cooler. Sharper.
“I fought beside him for six years. I’ve bled for this government. I’ve buried people for it. If you think proximity undermines loyalty, then maybe you don’t understand what service looks like.”
A hush fell.
Then he smiled again—easy, mischievous.
“And as for the photos—” he held up the paper, flipping it so the headline faced the crowd “—I do not apologize for having good hair, a better face, and the audacity to enjoy a drink with my boss.”
The crowd roared. Even some of the aides clapped. Hermione put her head in her hands.
Harry waved once, winked at the nearest reporter, and left to a trail of stunned silence and sputtering quills.
---
Tom was reading a transcript of the press conference when Harry strolled in, whistling.
“Why are you like this?” Tom asked without looking up.
Harry dropped into the armchair, legs swinging over the side like he owned the place. “Dunno. Gifted, I guess.”
Tom set down the scroll and gave him a long, unreadable look.
“You’ve managed to derail the news cycle, embarrass Parliament, and make the Prophet’s editor cry.”
Harry beamed. “I’m an overachiever.”
Tom studied him. “You didn’t deny it.”
“The photos? There’s nothing to deny.”
“That we’re—”
“Together?” Harry shrugged. “Are we?”
Tom’s mouth twitched. “You’re not subtle.”
“Neither are you,” Harry countered, tone gentler now. “You put that bill on the agenda knowing full well what the backlash would be. That was a bigger statement than anything I said today.”
Tom paused. Then, quietly: “You made it survivable.”
Harry tilted his head. “I made it funny.”
“Same thing.”
They shared a look. One of those long, charged, silent conversations they’d perfected—where a dozen things were said without speaking.
Then Harry stood.
“I’m going home to nap,” he said, walking to the door. “You should try it. I hear it keeps people from turning into cryptids.”
Tom raised a brow. “You’re taking the attention well.”
Harry glanced back, mouth crooked in that familiar, teasing grin.
“I’ve always looked good in a spotlight,” he said. “Especially when I’m standing next to the devil.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Tom exhaled.
Then, reluctantly, he smiled.
---
It came during Tuesday’s Parliamentary session.
Subtle at first—just a footnote in the schedule. A proposal filed by Councilor Grimsbane, a known pureblood traditionalist with a flair for the dramatic and a well-funded grudge against anything with Harry Potter’s name on it.
The bill was titled:
“The Separation of Military and Ministerial Powers Act.”
Its purpose, on paper, was simple: to preserve the sacred independence of political institutions from undue military influence. Noble-sounding. Reasonable. Even progressive, if you squinted.
In reality, it was a dagger with Harry’s name carved into the hilt.
Because tucked into its pages was a clause banning military officers from participating in cabinet-level strategy discussions . Another that required strict quarterly audits of personal relationships between Ministers and military staff . And a third that gave Parliament the right to review and recall any active field commander deemed “politically compromised.”
They didn’t say his name.
They didn’t have to.
The whisper campaign exploded before noon: This is the checkmate. Potter’s out. Riddle’s cornered. Power’s being restored to the people.
Harry, reading the draft on a floating screen in the strategy room, slowly leaned back in his chair and muttered:
“Oh, that’s precious. ”
Tom stood at the head of the war table, arms crossed, eyes like frostbite.
Around him sat the core of their war cabinet—Hermione, Draco, Theo Nott, and Kingsley Shacklebolt—while Harry sprawled in his usual spot, sipping from a mug.
“The bill’s a bluff,” Kingsley said. “They know it won’t pass the full Wizengamot.”
“It’s not about passing,” Hermione countered. “It’s about bleeding support. Stirring public doubt. Painting Harry as a liability.”
“They’re attacking from the one angle we don’t outright control,” Theo murmured. “The old guard. Tradition. Public fear.”
Tom was silent for a moment longer. Then:
“Leak it.”
Everyone turned.
Harry blinked. “Leak what , exactly?”
Tom’s gaze slid to him. “Everything.”
Harry’s brow lifted. “Tom, love, I know I’m chaotic, but that’s usually my line.”
Tom stepped closer, laying both palms flat on the table.
“We leak our internal plans. The full reform package. The next five appointments. The upcoming vote counts. All of it. Unredacted. And we do it with the story of how this bill is being used to silence wartime leadership. To control narrative. To set a precedent.”
Hermione blinked. “You’re making us look reckless. ”
“No,” Tom said coolly. “We’re making ourselves look transparent. Brave. Under fire for doing the right thing.”
Harry whistled. “You want to turn their paranoia into your halo.”
Tom met his eyes. “They want to paint you as my weakness.”
He reached out, slowly, deliberately, and tapped a finger against Harry’s chest.
“They’ll regret not understanding that you’re my weapon.”
48 Hours Later
The second press conference was not impromptu.
It was staged down to the millimeter. Lights, security, flags, screens. A visual feast of governmental power.
The documents were released to the public at noon sharp. Transfigured into floating pages above the atrium, glowing like prophecy.
They didn’t just leak the reform package—they turned it into a campaign. “Truth in Governance.” A branding dream. A moral gut-punch.
Tom Riddle himself took the podium this time.
He was resplendent in black, eyes like polished obsidian, voice low and cutting.
“There are those who wish to dismantle progress,” he said. “To weaponize the fears of a weary public. To divide your leaders. To tell you that unity is weakness.”
He glanced sideways—just briefly—to where Harry stood in his uniform, arms crossed, smirking like a wolf in a formal portrait.
“I say this: transparency is not submission. Loyalty is not corruption. And strength—true strength—is having the courage to trust the people who bled beside you.”
The crowd roared.
And then—because Harry couldn’t help himself—he strolled to the podium, plucked the mic from its base, and said, sweetly:
“If I’d known leaked photos would result in this much transparency, I’d have let them catch one of us actually kissing .”
The place exploded .
The press practically levitated. Wizards screamed. Parliament choked. And somewhere in the crowd, a young reporter muttered, “He’s a menace. I love him.”
---
Councilor Grimsbane stared down at the new poll numbers in silence.
Approval ratings: up. Support for the reforms: surging. Trust in the Minister: near-unshakeable. Potter’s favorability with younger voters: sky-high.
He snarled.
“They’re unstoppable,” one of his aides whispered.
“No,” Grimsbane growled. “They’re arrogant . We just haven’t hit hard enough yet.”
But even as he said it, doubt was creeping in.
Because the problem wasn’t that Riddle and Potter were politically untouchable.
It was that, somehow, they made scandal look like strategy.
And everyone else was left playing catch-up.
---
The fire was low in the grate, casting golden shadows across the black marble and dark bookshelves. The Minister’s study was a fortress of stillness—warded, soundproofed, and untouched by the storm outside.
The rest of the world was still catching its breath.
Here, it was silent.
Tom stood with his back to the window, watching the city beyond the glass. Below, the Ministry’s white stone facade glowed in moonlight. High above it, owls crisscrossed like scattered stars, bearing news, fallout, speculation.
He hadn’t moved in an hour.
Behind him, the door opened without knocking.
Only one person ever did that.
Harry walked in like he’d been summoned—like he’d known, instinctively, that now was the moment Tom needed someone not to knock.
His tie was gone. Shirt wrinkled, sleeves still rolled from the press conference. The chaos of the day clung to him, visible in the slump of his shoulders, the smudge of ink on his fingers, the exhaustion in his eyes.
And still, he smiled like he didn’t regret a second of it.
“Don’t you ever sit down?” Harry asked softly, letting the door click shut behind him.
Tom didn’t answer immediately. Just watched the city for another breath. Then:
“They hate you more today than they did yesterday.”
Harry snorted, toeing off his boots near the sofa. “So, business as usual, then.”
Tom finally turned to look at him. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—always colder in public—had thawed. He looked at Harry the way a man might look at a familiar storm cloud: knowing the damage it caused, and still grateful for the rain.
Harry plopped onto the long couch, arms flung over the back, legs sprawled. “Did I make it worse?”
“You made it impossible,” Tom said.
Harry blinked, grinning. “You're welcome.”
Tom crossed the room slowly. His coat was gone. His sleeves were rolled. He looked human. Still sharp, still serpentine—but tired, now. Real.
“You made it impossible,” Tom repeated, “for them to pretend I’m the only one who matters.”
Harry tilted his head. “That a problem?”
Tom reached him, and then—uncharacteristically—sat on the couch beside him. Not across the room. Not at his desk. Right there, shoulder to shoulder.
“They came after me through you,” Tom said quietly. “And you handled it like a court jester with a sword.”
Harry’s laugh was soft. “Not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment.”
“It’s both.”
They sat in the silence that followed. Not tense— companionable. Like the final note of a long battle fading in the air.
Harry watched the fire. “I know I make it harder.”
Tom’s jaw tightened. “You make it better.”
“You don’t always act like it.”
Tom’s mouth quirked. “I’m not known for my emotional clarity.”
Harry chuckled, dragging a hand through his hair. “That’s putting it mildly.”
Another beat passed.
And then, without any ceremony, Tom leaned against him.
It wasn’t a dramatic thing. No declarations. No possessive grip. He just… rested his weight there. Shoulder against Harry’s. Warm. Solid.
Harry blinked at him, then leaned back just a little more, letting their bodies align.
“You should sleep,” Harry murmured, not moving.
Tom closed his eyes. “You’re still here.”
“I’m always still here.”
“That’s dangerous.”
Harry smiled faintly. “Only for them.”
Tom didn’t reply—but his fingers, slow and careful, brushed the inside of Harry’s wrist where it rested on the couch. Not quite a touch. Not yet. Just proximity. Just the choice to be close.
Harry didn’t flinch.
Instead, he leaned his head back and said, lightly, “So. Still not your consort?”
Tom gave a soft exhale that might’ve been a laugh. “You’ll be lucky if I let you near a microphone again.”
Harry grinned. “Oh, you love the chaos.”
“I love you,” Tom said.
The words landed in the quiet like a match in dry leaves.
Harry turned his head. His breath caught, just slightly, as if surprised—even after all this time.
Tom didn’t look at him. Just stared at the fire, still resting against him.
“You don’t say that often,” Harry said eventually.
“I don’t say it lightly.”
Harry swallowed. “So… now?”
“Now,” Tom said, “I need you to know it.”
The quiet stretched again—no awkwardness, just depth.
Harry reached out and tangled their fingers, grounding it all. No performance. No headlines. Just Harry and Tom, alone, whole, and still in the eye of the political hurricane they’d chosen to ride together.
“I love you too, you know,” Harry said, softer than the crackle of flame.
Tom didn’t smile, not really. But his body relaxed. Like the words had soothed some wound even he didn’t fully admit to.
They sat like that for a long time. The world outside whispered on—laws, rumors, alliances shifting in the dark.
But in this room, there was just this: two men, battered by power and drawn together not despite it, but because of it.
And for once, they let the war wait.
---
The Unity Gala was the event of the season—ostensibly a celebration of cross-departmental collaboration, inter-species diplomacy, and governmental transparency.
In reality, it was a political mosh pit.
The Ministry atrium had been transformed into a glass palace of illusion: floating chandeliers, enchanted string quartets playing slightly too loud, Ministry officials gliding across polished floors like swans pretending they weren’t dying inside.
The dress code was "formal magical," which translated to: if it doesn’t sparkle, it better be cursed.
Tom Riddle, Minister of Magic, arrived exactly on time in deep emerald robes lined in black, the kind that moved like ink in water. His hair was sleek, his expression severe, and his presence was enough to cause several junior undersecretaries to drop their champagne flutes.
Harry Potter arrived twenty minutes later—fashionably, obviously—in a black-on-black tailored jacket open over a blood-red shirt that hadn’t seen a tie in years. His hair was artfully disheveled. His wand was tucked behind one ear. And when he strode in with a smirk that could ignite press columns, the room noticed.
Especially because he didn’t walk in separately.
He walked in and made a beeline straight for the Minister .
“Oh no,” Hermione whispered from her seat at the side of the room. “He’s doing it again.”
Next to her, Theo Nott looked up from the drinks menu. “Doing what?”
“The whole ’we’re not together but watch us scandalize the aristocracy' thing.”
“Ah.” Theo squinted. “Brilliant.”
---
Harry appeared at Tom’s side with all the subtlety of a bomb. He didn’t say anything, just offered him a drink—a deceptively sweet-looking cocktail with something faintly glowing at the bottom.
Tom glanced at it with suspicion. “What is that?”
“No idea,” Harry said cheerfully. “Stole it off a tray.”
Tom took it anyway.
They stood shoulder to shoulder as reporters circled like vultures, watching, taking notes, wondering— was this an official appearance? Was this a power play? Was this a public confirmation?
Tom didn’t say a word.
Harry smiled at the crowd like he was keeping ten secrets and none of them were safe.
"Did you have to wear red?" Tom murmured, eyes scanning the room.
"It brings out the rage in your eyes," Harry replied.
Tom didn’t laugh. Not outright. But there was a brief flicker in the corner of his mouth. A tic. A crack in the marble. The rarest kind of smile.
Harry noticed. He always noticed.
“Look who’s coming,” he said, tilting his chin toward a group of heavily powdered traditionalists in silver-lined robes.
Tom sighed. “Let me guess. Grimsbane, Catterwall, and—oh. Lady DeMoss. That one once tried to curse me with an honesty hex.”
Harry leaned in, voice low. “Should I kiss you just to ruin her night?”
Tom’s fingers tightened slightly on his glass. “She’d faint.”
“Tempting.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I’m strategic.”
They watched the pureblood bloc approach with the collective energy of two apex predators watching a group of poodles wearing crown jewels.
Grimsbane reached them first, puffed up like a toad in moonlight. “Minister Riddle. Commander Potter. What a rare and interesting sight.”
“Unity Gala,” Harry said, gesturing grandly to the room. “We’re being unified.”
Lady DeMoss narrowed her eyes at their proximity. “One wonders if we’re witnessing a political alignment or a… personal indulgence.”
Harry blinked innocently. “Why, Lady DeMoss. Are you flirting with me?”
Tom choked on his drink.
Lady DeMoss turned the color of salted parchment.
Grimsbane stammered something about tradition, and Tom—ever so graciously—cut in with a smile so smooth it could’ve ended wars.
“We believe in modern interpretations of loyalty and partnership,” he said, placing a hand lightly at the small of Harry’s back. “Adaptability is a hallmark of successful governance.”
The reporters across the room collectively leaned forward.
Harry’s grin was pure chaos. “And successful romance,” he added cheerfully.
That did it.
The press flashbulbs went off like wildfire.
Lady DeMoss sputtered, Grimsbane fled, and several Ministry interns had to sit down.
---
Harry leaned against the rail, watching the enchanted willows sway under floating lanterns. Behind him, the music continued, laughter rising and falling like waves.
Tom joined him in silence, standing close.
“You’re trouble,” Tom said softly.
“You love it,” Harry replied.
Tom didn’t deny it.
For a moment, they simply watched the night.
“I thought you hated public appearances,” Tom murmured.
“I do,” Harry said. “But I love showing people they can’t control what they don’t understand.”
Tom glanced sideways. “And us? Do they understand us?”
Harry huffed a laugh. “They don’t even know what we are.”
Another beat.
Tom’s hand brushed against his. Just once.
“I think that’s the point.”
Harry didn’t take his eyes off the glowing trees. “They’ll be talking about this night for weeks.”
“Let them,” Tom said. “It keeps them busy.”
Harry finally looked at him, soft and sharp all at once.
“You realize we’re going to have to deny everything again tomorrow, right?”
Tom nodded solemnly. “I plan to issue a statement about the Ministry’s unwavering commitment to ‘interdepartmental synergy.’”
Harry grinned, teeth showing. “You’re so full of it.”
“And you’re still here.”
“Yeah,” Harry said. “I really am.”
The music played on.
The night shimmered.
And the Minister and his war general stood side by side, untouchable in the eyes of the world—equal parts spectacle, scandal, and the kind of quiet, enduring power that only the two of them could make look effortless.
---
The chamber of the Wizengamot was as grand as it was outdated—rows of tiered stone seats spiraling around a circular floor, stained glass windows that filtered in light like judgment, and the persistent scent of aged parchment and older grudges.
The robes were deep purple. The voices deeper still.
And at the heart of it all, in the central floor space traditionally reserved for testimony and spectacle, stood Harry bloody Potter —uninvited, unapologetic, arms folded.
He wasn’t supposed to be there.
Which, of course, meant he was absolutely going to stay.
At the highest dais, the Minister of Magic sat flanked by his aides and legal advisors, every inch the warlock king of sharp cheekbones and sharper laws. Tom didn’t look down at Harry. He didn’t need to. His entire posture read, Yes, he’s here. Get over it.
“Order,” croaked Chief Warlock Pyrites, whose age and accent hadn’t changed since before the last goblin rebellion. “We convene to debate Article Nine-A: the amendment to the Classification of Dangerous Creatures Act, which proposes full civic restoration for afflicted werewolves—”
“ People, ” Harry interrupted loudly from the floor. “Afflicted people. ”
A few gasps. One cough of disapproval. A long-suffering groan from Madam Marchbanks.
Pyrites glared. “Commander Potter, you were not recognized to speak.”
Harry gave a sunny shrug. “Didn’t stop me before.”
Up at the dais, Tom Riddle did not smile. But he did rest his chin on one gloved hand, eyes glittering like a man watching a dragon let loose in a chicken coop.
“Perhaps,” he said coolly, “we allow the Commander a brief remark. For perspective.”
Pyrites, scandalized, adjusted his monocle.
“Brief,” Tom repeated, with a warning edge.
Harry stepped forward like a general onto the battlefield. “Right. I’ll keep it short, since I know dinner reservations are more important than civil rights for some of you.”
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
“You all know where I stand. I’ve fought beside werewolves, bled beside them, trusted them with my life. The law we have now was built in fear, not justice. And if you’re so afraid of them, maybe you should ask yourselves why they trust me more than they trust this room.”
“Potter—” someone growled.
He turned toward the voice. “What? Scared they’ll vote? Live next door? Marry your niece?”
“ Commander, ” Pyrites said, as if the word physically pained him, “this is not a court for speeches.”
“Good,” Harry snapped. “Then we can skip the pretense and move to the vote.”
“ You don’t call the vote, Mr. Potter,” said Lady Selwyn in clipped tones, her rings glittering like knives. “And you certainly don’t dictate the law.”
“I don’t,” Harry agreed. “But he does.”
He tilted his head up toward the dais, straight at Tom.
And that silenced the room.
Because everyone knew—no matter how many robes and titles filled this hall—that the person with the most influence here wasn’t speaking yet. He was watching .
And now, he rose.
Tom Riddle stood with the kind of deliberateness that made hearts falter. His voice was smooth and deep, cutting through the chamber like a spell.
“The law,” he began, “is not made by sentiment. Nor by tradition. It is made by will—and by necessity.”
He walked forward slowly, robes sweeping the floor. “We cannot afford to legislate from fear. Not in this century. Not with the world watching.”
He stopped at the edge of the central ring, where Harry stood, defiant and utterly unbothered.
Tom’s eyes met his.
“Progress,” Tom said, “requires discomfort.”
It wasn’t a declaration. It was a warning.
Then, smoothly, he turned.
“And I do not intend to waste my Ministry’s resources defending an antiquated classification system that punishes the vulnerable and excuses the powerful.”
That got them.
Gasps. Whispers. A few panicked owls took off from the rafters.
“The Ministry,” he said, louder now, “backs this bill. And so do I.”
The vote was called in an instant.
Hands raised. A flurry of parchment. A few ancient voices protesting in a last gasp of resistance.
But it wasn’t enough.
When the Chief Warlock rose, gavel shaking, and read the tally aloud, the bill passed—by two votes.
There was a stunned silence.
And then—
A slow, deliberate clap.
Harry. Grinning like a boy who’d stolen a dragon egg and gotten away with it.
One by one, others joined in.
Not all.
But enough.
Up on the dais, Tom didn’t clap. He didn’t need to.
He only looked at Harry, something like amusement flickering in his eyes.
Harry mouthed: Told you so.
Tom mouthed back: Show-off.
And for one brief moment in the heart of the old wizarding world, change didn’t come with fire and fury.
It came with the quiet, brutal certainty of two men who had stopped pretending they needed permission.
---
The Ministry was finally asleep.
Even the atrium’s enchanted fountains had stilled into silence, portraits along the halls dozing in their gilded frames. The last of the aides had left Tom’s office an hour ago, whispering their way out with careful glances at Harry, who hadn’t moved from his place on the couch since the vote was counted.
Tom poured the brandy himself.
No aides. No pomp. Just them.
He crossed the room, handed Harry a glass, and leaned on the edge of his desk, still in half of his formal robes. The other half lay draped over the chair, rumpled and discarded in a rare lapse of Riddle-esque precision.
Harry accepted the drink with a quiet nod, but didn’t sip.
Instead, he watched Tom in the dim light of the fire—silver shadows casting across sharp cheekbones, dark lashes low over tired eyes, lips still pressed in the same unreadable line he’d worn since they left the Wizengamot floor.
The bill had passed.
And Tom hadn’t said a word since.
Harry broke the silence. “You’re brooding.”
“I’m not,” Tom replied flatly.
Harry cocked his head, smirking into his glass. “You’re brooding elegantly, then.”
Tom gave him a dry look. “You’re annoyingly smug when you win.”
“I learned from the best.”
That earned him a breath—half a laugh, half a sigh. Tom set his glass down and crossed the room again, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. Which, technically, he probably did. Immortal bastard.
Harry’s gaze followed every step.
They didn’t need to talk about it. The win was real. The cost of it, even more so. The opposition would scream. The press would salivate. There’d be riots in pureblood parlors by morning.
And still— they’d done it .
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Tom slipped down beside Harry on the couch, one leg tucked under him, shoulder brushing Harry’s.
He said, quietly, “You looked furious when they called the vote.”
Harry didn’t answer right away. “Because it shouldn’t have been that close. It should’ve passed without me throwing a public tantrum.”
Tom gave him a sideways glance. “It wasn’t a tantrum. It was strategic political theater.”
“It was me being pissed off.”
“Same difference.”
Harry let out a short, huffed laugh. Then silence again, thick with things neither had the energy to pretend weren’t there.
It had taken six years of strategic campaigning, policy rewrites, clandestine backdoor diplomacy—and, more than once, actual fistfights behind closed doors—for Tom Riddle, Minister of Magic, to push the magical world into something resembling modernity.
And through it all, Harry had been right beside him. Not just as his General. Not just as his partner in politics.
But as his .
Tom looked at him now like he was still trying to believe they’d pulled it off.
Harry tilted his glass, watching the amber liquid catch firelight. “Do you remember the first time we talked about this?”
Tom hummed. “Second year of your commission. You said, and I quote, ‘If you don’t fix the werewolf laws, I’ll publicly call you a coward.’”
“I said that?”
“You shouted it. Across a full council room.”
“Charming,” Harry muttered. “No wonder you fell for me.”
Tom leaned in, brushing his lips against Harry’s temple. “I fell for you because you never shut up.”
Harry’s smirk returned, this time a little softer. “And here I thought it was my sparkling war record.”
Tom’s hand found his. Fingers laced. Firm. Familiar.
For a moment, there was no war. No law. No headline screaming through the Floo.
Just the two of them, breathing the same air.
Harry turned toward him, eyes tracing the planes of Tom’s face—every sharp line and smooth angle that had grown more human over the years, but never less dangerous.
“I’m proud of you,” he said, voice low.
Tom blinked.
Not because he didn’t believe it. But because he did .
The tension between them shifted. The air went warm and heavy, the way it always did when words failed and only touch could finish the sentence.
Harry leaned forward slowly, hand sliding to the back of Tom’s neck, pulling him in.
The kiss was not a desperate thing. It didn’t need to be.
It was practiced, confident, and entirely theirs—familiar in the best way, a language they’d honed in secret rooms and stolen nights. Lips moving with slow certainty, pressed close and warm, the kind of kiss that said we survived another storm and I’d still choose you.
Tom's fingers curled into the fabric at Harry’s waist, anchoring him. Harry shifted closer, legs brushing, knees touching, deepening the kiss with a quiet sigh that tasted like relief and bourbon.
The world had tried—many times—to force them apart.
It had failed.
The kiss went on, slow and consuming, until Harry broke it with a low laugh against Tom’s mouth. “We’re going to have to do interviews tomorrow.”
Tom hummed, dragging his mouth along Harry’s jaw, his voice deliciously disinterested. “No, you are. You’re the poster boy for radical empathy now.”
“Don’t make that sound like an insult,” Harry whispered, turning his head to catch Tom’s mouth again. “I’m brilliant at empathy.”
“You’re brilliant at chaos,” Tom muttered between kisses, hands sliding beneath Harry’s shirt now, fingers tracing scars and muscle and every familiar place in between.
Harry bit his lip, breath catching. “Semantics.”
Tom finally leaned back, just enough to meet his eyes.
And whatever Harry saw there—pride, possession, exhaustion, love —it rooted him right to the floor.
They didn’t say it.
They never needed to.
But it was written in the way Tom brushed Harry’s curls off his forehead. The way Harry kissed the corner of his mouth. The way they didn’t move to leave the couch, even as the fire died and the room grew dim.
This was their celebration.
Not the applause.
Not the headlines.
This.
Victory pressed in the silence between them, and a kiss they would remember long after the next war found them.