Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

McGonagall has the most skeptical look on her face that Harry has ever seen. 

He doesn't blame her. He has, after all, come to ask for the position of Head of the Transfiguration Department. And, as far as she knows, Harry Potter spent the last year on the run. The Battle of Hogwarts was only a month ago.

"Potter, don't waste my time," McGonagall says. She sets her quill on her desk and leans back in her seat, her expression growing stern. "I have other applicants to see, and while I appreciate the gesture of help, I am sure the Auror Department could make better use of it. Or, perhaps, your education?"

She gives him a long look over her spectacles and lifts a stack of parchment, tapping it against the desk to straighten it.

Harry chuckles. "Let me show you," he says.

He slips his wand free and gestures. McGonagall's quill transfigures into a pheasant, which he sets free to trot around the headmistress' office. Her inkpot morphs into an intricate teapot, the ink now a swirly pattern through its porcelain surface, reminiscent of tiny galaxies. As he fills the pot with hot tea, steam pours from its spout. 

The book of Transfiguration theory on the desk transforms into a tiny wisteria bonsai, and the scrolls McGonagall has laid out beside her empty mug of tea shift into little paper figurines to resemble the school's frog choir. The batons the scrolls were wrapped around form themselves into cups almost identical to the ones provided in the Great Hall at meals.

Though this last display is not exactly his best bit of magic, he makes sure to add as much detail as he can. He wants this position.  

If possible, her skeptical look deepens.

Harry frowns. "Do you need to see more?" 

He studied under Dumbledore for seven years—he has his Mastery in Transfiguration—not that McGonagall knows that, but maybe it isn't enough?

A wave of his wand, and the candle on her desk shapes itself into a bust bearing a remarkable likeness to Tom, its stand weaving itself into an ornate crown to top the bust's curls.

The other boy's nose is off, and his lips aren't quite so full… Still, if the stern woman could look between the two of them—and she will soon, Tom is her next appointment—she'd appear far more impressed than she does now.

She doesn't say a word.

Concerning, but not career-ending.

Unable to resist one last attempt to break that severe expression, Harry leans forward and taps his wand to her empty teacup. Before their eyes, it becomes an ordinary Muggle mug bearing the words: World's #1 Transfiguration Professor.

"Minerva," Snape's portrait drawls from the wall. "Potter has obviously been Polyjuiced. I suggest you dispense with pretenses immediately and enact security measures."

"Now, hang on!" Harry says, indignant. "I haven't been Polyjuiced!"

"Oh, you haven't, have you?" Snape retorts. "Potter couldn't perform magic that well if his life depended on it."

"Severus!" McGonagall chides.

"It's true," Snape says. He adds, begrudgingly, "Not that Potter lacks in skill when pushed to his limits. This, however, is beyond him. I think even he would agree with me."

"Well, I don't," Harry says, helpfully.  

"What a surprise," his old Potions professor sneers. "The imposter disagrees."

Harry narrows his eyes, but before he can let loose one of the many smart retorts he has on his tongue, McGonagall intervenes.

"I'm afraid Severus has a point. Unless you can prove to me that you are Harry Potter…" She lets the threat hang, her lips pursed and a wary eye on the pheasant wandering about the office.

It's not their fault, Harry reminds himself. They don't know that he was gone for seven years. In their minds, during the Battle of Hogwarts, after Voldemort issued his call for peace so long as Harry offered himself, Harry Potter left the safety of the castle to present himself to the Dark Lord. He was gone for an hour, and once he emerged from the Forbidden Forest, Voldemort was defeated, and Harry had Tom at his side.

"All right." Harry grins. "What do you want to know?"

-

Tom's dark eyes lift at Harry's approach.

He rests against a wall in the corridor before the stone gargoyle, his arms folded. A beam of light falls from the window across from him and paints his pale skin pink. Formal black robes garb his thin frame. 

Like Harry's, his body is seventeen, and like Harry, his mind is older. In Tom's case, it is much older and full of chaos. It is both seventy-two and seventeen—it is where the past from a different timeline and the present of this one collide in one body.

"You were more patient than I expected," Harry says.

"You were enjoying yourself," the other boy—by all appearances—says softly. "At least, at first. It was… calming."

"Yes. It feels like we're home, doesn't it?"

Tom looks at Harry for so long, his magic restless coils around them, that Harry braces his shoulders.

"What?" Harry asks.

"I do not think I should be teaching these children, Harry," Tom says. His voice is as serious as ever. "This is a mistake—"

"She offered you the position," Harry says.

Tom's lips press together.

"You can say no," Harry reminds him.

"I cannot."

"You can—"

"Harry."

Harry smiles. "Tom. We still need to heal the rest of your soul. This is the only job that remotely made you happy to consider. Let's just try it. If it doesn't work out, then we'll go. Immediately." He steps close, sliding his hands into Tom's slender ones. "We'll figure this out. I promised we would, and we will."

Tom's head tips back against the wall. He studies Harry from beneath his lashes.

"Pretty words," he murmurs, and Harry's heart flips. The sting of cool unfamiliarity is soothed a moment later by Tom's return smile. He is so handsome, he makes Harry's heart ache, but Harry would love him no matter what face he wore.

"Let's go home," Harry offers. His tongue sticks against more. We can pack. Maybe you'll feel more excited then.

Things are still so strange between them sometimes. It's understandable, given everything that's happened, but Harry misses how much easier it was before Death and Love resolved their bet, even if it didn't feel like it at the time.

Tom holds onto Harry's hand as they begin the journey to the castle grounds.

It has been a long month since Harry's timeline resumed, and he has a feeling the coming weeks are only going to grow longer. Yet with Tom at his side, nothing ever seems quite as daunting as it once did. 

-July 1938-

"There you are, Harry."

Harry blushes, embarrassed, and releases Professor Dumbledore's hand to dust himself off. The other man twinkles at him and starts up the cobblestone path of the cottage he's Apparated them to, whereupon Harry promptly faceplanted.

"Thank you, sir. Er… where are we?"

"We are at Septennial Cottage," Dumbledore replies over his shoulder. "It belongs to me, and it should suit Tom and yourself while you see to his care."

Surprise thrums through Harry. He rips his eyes away from the meadow he can spot in the distance. "Professor, I don't think—"

"Really, Harry, as I've told you, it's quite all right." His smile genial, the Transfiguration professor waves Harry along.

"I can find someplace for us to stay," Harry hastens to assure him. 

"Nonsense. The cottage is warded," Dumbledore says, as if that settles matters. "Come along if you would, Harry. I have a few last matters to discuss with you, and it shouldn't take terribly long."

Intrigued, Harry follows the older man to the front door of Septennial. As beautiful as this property is, it needs a caring hand in places. Unruly wisteria trails up the brick walls of Septennial, stretches over its windows and door to the thatched roof. Ivy spills over the front set of steps crumbling at their edges, encroaches on the cobblestone, and covers the windows themselves.

It doesn't get much better indoors, at least where the sense of clutter is concerned. Mounds of tomes meet Harry's eyes, sprawling through the cottage in uneven stacks and hardly leaving any room for a person to tread. Which—compared to Dumbledore's home in Godric's Hollow, where they've come from, this… er… it's tame. Truly.

Dumbledore chuckles at his expression and removes his lavender fedora, which offsets the rosy three-piece Muggle suit he's had on since that morning, complete with plum lapels. It has nothing on the paint job in Dumbledore's house.

(Harry loves and misses it already.)

"You'll have to forgive me, Harry. I'm afraid I didn't manage my time well on such short notice, and the books and the potions garden were left unattended to. However, everything else should meet with your approval."

"It's brilliant, sir," Harry promises him. "I can see to both, it's hardly anything."

Dumbledore smiles. "If a text catches your eye, feel free to read it at your leisure. Anything you find here will aid you not only in classes this year, but in your lessons with me."

"Of course, sir."

Excitement stirs through Harry. He does his best not to show it—wouldn't want Dumbledore to think he is a child. The man saw his memories in a Pensieve yesterday, but Harry is well-aware of his baby face. It's unfortunately misleading.

Dumbledore peers down at his fedora for only a moment before squarely meeting Harry's eyes. "And you should know, Harry, nothing here is unsafe should it fall into curious hands."

Such as a miniature Lord Voldemort's.

The rug beneath his feet is fascinating, all threadbare, and crimson, and gold. Harry can't quite make out the pattern itself, worn away by time as it is. Dumbledore is such a Gryffindor. Harry appreciates that about him. Tom won't.

Tom. Tom Riddle.

Oh, Merlin—

"Dear boy…" Dumbledore's thin, albeit strong hands settle atop his shoulders. "If you feel this is too much—"

"Tell me about the wards?" Harry gets out, his throat tighter than he likes. He doesn't want to have this conversation again. If he was Dumbledore, he'd be persuading himself out of it, too. But he isn't. He is Harry, just Harry, and he's doing the best he can. "Er—if you would, Professor," he says, softening his tone.

"As you wish, Harry," the older man sighs, releasing him.

"I do," Harry says, and he stares earnestly into the professor's eyes. Knowing that he can use Legilimency. He doesn't care. "Professor—I know you think this is an act of…" He winces. Hates the taste of the word on his tongue. "Heroism. But it's not. And maybe saying that just makes you believe me less, but Death told me something, and I can't stop thinking about it."

Dumbledore's brows furrow. "Go on."

"He said…" Harry bites his lip.

The other man waits, patient.

Harry takes a breath. Releases it. "He said my soul is inside of Tom, Professor."

Dumbledore nods slowly, his eyes still on Harry's.

Silence falls between them, a blanket over the cottage.

"Do you know, Harry…" Dumbledore says at last. He reaches into his hat, his arm disappearing due to its Extension Charm, and hands Harry a sherbet lemon. As Harry takes it with shaking fingers, Dumbledore removes one for himself. Harry expects some wise lecture, but Dumbledore has only to say, tone pondering, "I admire you."

Harry jerks his head up. "Professor?"

"You embrace your destiny without question. You became Master of Death in your world precisely because of it. Here you are again, faced with another cruel hand from destiny, and yet still you take it without question." Dumbledore pulls out several more items from his fedora. A Hogwarts letter addressed to Harry Evans, a second, unmarked envelope, a Gringotts key, and… another sherbet lemon, which he promptly pops into his mouth.

Harry fidgets. He doesn't do it for admiration, and he currently has mixed feelings about destiny. "Then…"

"I will relent." The redhead hands him the bundle. "As I told you when you arrived, I am on your side." He beams a smile at Harry. "Now, should someone or something bearing a magical signature come within a certain distance of Septennial, the wards will alert you."

"Why not use a Fidelius?" Harry tucks the items away.

"I could," Dumbledore muses. He spins the fedora round his finger once. "However, Mr. Riddle may grow to have friends as he boards at Hogwarts. You may as well, Harry. For better or for worse, this is to be your home."

Home.

In a world parallel to his own, in 1938.

Flushing, Harry crosses to the kitchen. He hasn't given thought, really, to anything beyond what he's come here to do. Limbo, landing at Wool's, Dumbledore, Dumbledore's home, errands, this cottage… And now Dumbledore had to diplomatically tell Harry that people don't normally put a Fidelius Charm on their homes.

"The wards are less for visitors and more for what may come out of the woods," Dumbledore explains. "Please remind Tom of that should he explore."

"I will," Harry murmurs, wondering what is in there but too distracted to ask at present. "Thank you, sir. This is… all of this has been—incredibly helpful." To say the least of it.

"Most of it has been simply passing along information." Blue eyes twinkle. "But you are welcome, Harry. I'll leave you to explore. Anything here now belongs to Tom and yourself."

Harry nods. He wants to say more, but nothing can get past the lump in his throat.

Dumbledore touches his shoulder. When Harry doesn't pull away, he squeezes warmly, and Harry bows his head.

"I will see you soon," the older wizard says. "I look forward to celebrating your birthday with you, Harry. Take care until then."

"Take care, sir," Harry echoes.

-

Silence, unfamiliar in its intensity, follows Harry as he makes his way through the cottage. In the past year, he's never been by himself. Ron and Hermione were his constant companions. But Septennial is in the middle of the country. There isn't another soul around for miles.

Harry is alone.

But not, he thinks, running his fingertip along the chest of drawers in his new bedroom, lonely.

Harry was his own best friend when he was a child living in a cupboard under the stairs. He can relearn. Besides, in a few days, the cottage will have another soul… Harry's soul (why, why)… inhabiting it. As to whether Harry will still be his own best friend, he has no doubts.

His wardrobe holds a few blankets. Harry pulls his bag out of his pocket and unshrinks it with a tap of the hawthorn wand. It has practically nothing in it, only some things to tide him over until he can get to Diagon Alley. He wants to save his own school supplies (and wand…) portion of that trip for when he has Tom. Dumbledore already went to see Tom the day before, and it's possible the boy may have gone since then. If there's a chance he hasn't, Harry wants it.

Every moment counts. He must believe that.

Harry takes stock of his room. The chest of drawers rests against the window, and a bed with a heavy frame and a scarlet quilt sits cattycorner on the far wall, opposite the wardrobe. A strange, thin mist touches the ceiling. Honestly, it—it reminds him of the Great Hall in a way.

Sheer curtains the shade of maroon hang from a double-paned window. Harry pushes them to either side, then opens it. The meadow he saw earlier is in the distance, past a field maple tree and a stream. A breeze taunts Harry, carrying the scent of grass, sun, summer.

Time for a walk.

-

The wind teases Harry's curls as he makes his way back from the meadow, a conjured pail for the wild strawberries he found in hand. 

Delphinium, cornflowers, and red poppies carpet the hills; stretch all the way to the distant tree line, which rings the meadow. A stream runs directly through it, feeding back to the cottage. Rocky outcroppings jut up from the ground occasionally.

Harry keeps half his attention on not tripping, the other half on the woods. He wishes he asked Dumbledore what could warrant wards. S'poses he'll have to wait until Sunday to find out. He doesn't want to Fire Call for something so small. Not that Harry senses anything malevolent, but Harry can only compare it to the Forbidden Forest. And, in his experience, comparing any woods or forests to the Forbidden Forest is baby unicorns to Basilisks. No, the Forest isn't evil, but… does anyone feel "safe" in there, exactly?

He's begun to rethink the Fire Call when he realizes he's crossed the short bridge over the stream and entered his yard again. Harry shuffles from foot to foot, standing beneath the shade of the field maple, and eyes the front door. He must go back inside eventually. Explore the other side of the cottage, where Tom—

A flash of purple catches Harry's eye. The hawthorn wand slides to his fingers, and he nearly fires off a Stunner before he sees he'd have maimed a beautiful wisteria bonsai. In full bloom. In July.

Harry pockets his wand, sets the pail of strawberries down, and crosses the yard. The crinkle crankle wall bordering the potions garden is low, able to be hopped over. Harry lands with a soft thud, stepping through overgrown herbs, plants, and weeds until he reaches the bonsai. 

Its blooms hang like a weeping willow. When Harry makes to (gingerly) touch them, magic tingles at his fingertips, and he withdraws them. That explains how it is alive like this, then, how it stays trimmed, lush, preserved in its enormous pot. Why did Dumbledore leave it here? He said he hadn't gotten to the garden. But it's as abandoned as the rest of its surroundings.

Harry gazes at it a while longer, watching it sway gently in the wind, as adrift as he is, then retrieves his pail and heads inside.

-

Dinner and a bath prove to be mundane. Harry works up the energy after to clear a spot in the living room between the trunk-turned-coffee table, a settee, two cozy armchairs with crimson pillows, and the fireplace. Harry's cuppa hovers nearby him as he sits cross-legged on the floor and sorts through the nearest tomes.

He ends up setting them aside for the time being. While Hermione would be thrilled to get her hands on them, Harry can't make sense of anything. The theories on Transfiguration and Charms are so advanced, they make Harry's head spin.

How he'll get through the coming seventh year he doesn't want to attend, or Dumbledore's private lessons (which he does), he doesn't know.

Harry grabs the enchanted teacup—there is a whole set of them in the kitchen cabinet—and finishes his tea off. He needs fortitude for what is coming.

On the way to the other side of Septennial, he passes the pendulum clock near the bath. Stars and moons decorate its surface as it ticks away, filling the oppressive silence.

For a long time, Harry stares at the wooden panels of the bedroom door that will soon belong to Tom Riddle, his hands loose at his sides. But… it is merely a door. He's faced worse.

With that thought firmly in mind, Harry pushes into the room.

Mm. Comfortable, not dissimilar to Harry's. Only real difference is that it is somewhat smaller, and a stately desk is in the corner, hutch and all. Based on what Harry has seen in Dumbledore's Pensieve in his own world, this room is much better than what Tom has at Wool's. That doesn't necessarily mean Tom will like it, but Harry can hope.

He checks for loose floorboards, secret compartments in the desk drawers, false panels. Places that can hide something sinister in the future. Harry hates to think that way, but he doesn't want to take chances. Not that that will stop a determined individual like Tom Riddle.

Satisfied, Harry peers into the wardrobe. Blinks. A knitted, stuffed lion sits slumped on its shelf, missing a button eye. Extra quilts are its companions, along with a basket full of shimmering golden yarn.

Harry pulls the lion and basket out and searches the latter—finds a book beneath the hanks of yarn, its pages empty, except for a slip of paper with script decidedly not Dumbledore's stuck at the back.

Press the paw, it reads.

Er… 

Harry grasps the lion, the only thing he figures the message might be related to, and checks its paws. His thumb presses into each.

Nothing happens.

Disappointed, he sets the lion on the basket, gives the wardrobe a look over to ensure it holds no stowaway compartments, either, and returns to his room with the items in tow. He wants the little lion. Seems like it needs a fellow Gryffindor, which it won't find in this room.

-

Sprawled on his bed atop the quilt a few hours later, too awake to sleep despite his exhaustion, Harry contemplates the stars on the ceiling. Imitating fireflies, they wink in and out of the mist and came out when the sky outside darkened. Studying them proves easier than examining his thoughts on the days ahead, on the task he's been given. 

To prove Tom Riddle is capable of selfless love sometime in the next seven years, all to settle some wager between the deities of Love and Death. If Harry doesn't, time will no longer be frozen in his world. Voldemort will have killed Harry Potter in the Forbidden Forest, and even though he is now Master of Death, Death will never allow Harry to return. How they'll explain his missing body, Harry has no idea, but that hardly matters with Voldemort unhindered by his prophesized enemy.

How does Harry always find himself in these impossible situations? Well, it won't be the first time he's given the odds a two-fingered salute.

Across the cottage, the pendulum clock resonates in twelve sweeping tolls to count the hour. As the last fades, faint music reaches his ears, some sort of lullaby he doesn't know the tune to; it tugs at his lashes, entices him to doze if he wants. Strange—it reminds him specifically of warm nights in July at the Burrow. He'd be on his back under the stars, much like this… Ron would be with him, his brothers, Ginny… it'd be Harry's birthday soon there, too…

Harry would be far, far away from the Dursleys… swimming in happiness… ready for the school year ahead of him…

His eyes slip closed, and sleep claims him.

-----

Tom is not unfamiliar with drawing snakes in the dirt. Sketches of snakes occupy many pages of his diary, as well as their margins. The squiggly line before him, however, is unimpressive and of a poor quality he hasn't produced in years. Not that it doesn't meet, on some level, with his approval. A snake, after all, is a snake.

Yet it begs the question—why on Earth is he dreaming of something so banal?

Footsteps sound behind him, and Tom spins, a movement not in his control. Wariness trickles through him, heightened when five boys swagger into view, their leader a fat boy near Tom's age. Each look suitably menacing for playground bullies—but, more importantly, remarkably dimwitted and weak-willed because of it.

Tom opens his mouth to tell them to get lost. Dream or no, they will cave to his will and listen. But his mouth won't open. His hands won't lift. His magic won't respond.

He is powerless.

As fury rages through Tom, the lead prat smirks and cracks his knuckles. "Another successful game of Harry-hunting, boys."

Harry?

Tom's mouth opens, and a brightly sarcastic tone leaves him. "Wow, Diddykins, what a big word!" The fat boy flushes dark red, and the other boys snicker. Tom isn't done. "But your friends look more confused than impressed. Are you lot sure you're ready for secondary school?"

The group stares at Tom, then each other, the gears in their tiny minds clearly working through what he said.

Tom runs.

Or, rather, "Harry" runs. Tom never runs from anything.

Feet thud behind him, and Harry is… fast. The playground they are in is gone in seconds as his own feet eat up the ground. He hits pavement, crosses a road. Shouts for Harry ring out. Tom's lungs burn, and he shoves something up the bridge of his nose—glasses?

Tom wants to whirl around, dismember the bloody fools behind him, but he leaps over a hedge into someone's backyard. Thoughts dissolve into escape. He has no way to defend this body.

"Piers, don't let him get away!" Diddykins wheezes. (Is that a nickname? How abhorrent. Hm. Suitable insult.) Then, louder, "You're going to pay, Harry!"

"Yeah, yeah," Tom—no, Harry—mutters, breathless.

They lose two more boys over the next three streets. Harry is, so far as Tom can determine, a bit of an escape artist. He climbs bins to throw himself over fences, shimmies up a tree to avoid a yippy dog and cut from one yard to another; squeezes behind a strange car on a curb and jets between two homes to creep through an open gate.

Despite this, the boys seem to know his routine and have planted themselves throughout the vicinity. Everywhere Harry and Tom turn, a clown is there. And they are tired—their chest rises and falls in heavy pants, their face and ears on fire, though not as much as their lungs.

One of the boys rounds the corner and grins at them, and they are off again.

This, Tom knows, will be their final try.

"I found him! Oi, remember Dudley gets him first!"

Dismemberment is too kind, Tom decides.

"You really think Harry set a snake on him?" he hears.

"I was there, remember? Come on, Harry! You've got nowhere to go! Don't you want to get it over with?"

Never, Tom thinks viciously.

Harry seems to agree. He doesn't slow as he creeps beneath the windows of the backyard they are in, avoiding the eye of any residents. Their blood rushes in their ears in time with their heartbeat, makes them dizzy.

Tom resents everything. If these boys get their hands on Harry… on Tom… they will pay. Tom doesn't know how yet, but they will. No one touches him without his permission, and Tom does not tolerate bullying toward his person. The other children at the orphanage know precisely what would happen should they try.

A hole in the fence across the street—Harry and Tom break for it.

Three pairs of feet on their heels. Shouts. They won't make it, and never mind that, the hole is too small, too small, no, no, what is Harry thinking—

Except—

Harry skids at the last second, flinging them onto their side; their palm smacks into the ground, scraping, stinging; minimal wriggles, and they clear the other side.

A hand snags their shirt, sends them tumbling back into the ground. Harry yelps, twists free, smacks the wrist off. Exclamations rise on the other side of the fence. Harry pants and looks round. The yard is abandoned.

Harry crosses it quickly, hauls himself up a fence, hissing as his cut palm lands on top of the fence to hold his weight. Once his shoes find traction, he hefts himself up into a second tree and, finally, relaxes. Tom can see why. This house is surrounded by high fences and significantly harder to get to.

Warmth touches their eyes.

Oh. (Tom grimaces inwardly.) Tears.

But they blink them back and focus on the gash on their palm, the dirt and grass clinging to it.

"I don't need anyone," Harry says softly, resolutely, to himself.

And then, before their eyes, their skin knits itself together, as if the wound was never there.

Harry's gasp is sweet.

He's perfect, Tom thinks, enraptured.

-

Sunlight pokes into Tom's eyelids, makes his face scrunch in displeasure. He flings an arm over it and turns away from the brightness. He wants more time with Harry; he wants back in the not-a-dream.

But reality trickles in until he has no choice but to accept he is in his own body, at Wool's, far away from his newfound treasure.

Questions buzz, relentless in their pursuit of his diary pages. Tom sighs into his arm, then swings his legs over the side of his bed. He blinks sleep from his lashes and stares blearily into his bedroom. Stifles a yawn.

Mrs. Cole will be by soon if he doesn't appear for breakfast, and Tom needs his morning reflection. It keeps the rest of the world safe from (relative) harm.

Puffing his cheeks, he makes his bed, dresses, and retrieves his diary, pencil, and a tattered thesaurus.

Saturday 23 July 1938

My dream last night was strange. I wasn't myself but another boy, Harry. He was special, like me. I wonder if he is my soulmate. Love said I would see him soon. Why else would I dream of this?

But I wonder if it really was only a dream. Nothing was familiar. The cars were funny peculiar, and the clothing the boys I saw wear is also hard to describe. So are the buildings and the playground. 

His clothes were secondhand. They didn't hang on him properly. He was nearly tripping on them when we ran away.

He set a snake on someone. Can he talk to them?

Is he going to Hogwarts, as well?

Tom scribbles for a time more, trying to write down everything he can remember as it flows feverishly from him. He circles Privet Drive when he is done. Details of the not-a-dream have blurred since he woke, but the name of the street sign sticks out in Tom's mind.

Somewhere out there, perhaps even on Privet Drive, Harry is waiting for Tom. He must be.

-

Tom intends to go to Diagon Alley that day—the old codger from Hogwarts came to see him yesterday, and Mrs. Cole kept him too busy with chores—but it's raining. As excited as he is, he can wait another day.

On Sunday, it's still raining, and Tom is too impatient to wait any longer.

Before he can leave, however, Mrs. Cole finds more things for him to do around the orphanage once the church service is over. The other children have chicken pox, and there's no one else to keep under heel. Tom wants to find a way out of it—he'll do whatever it takes, they can't keep him from his destiny! But he remembers what Love told him…

If he "behaves," if he treats others as well as himself—at least until his soulmate arrives, whom he'll know on sight, supposedly—then he won't have his soulmate taken away.

Tom would normally ignore this. He doesn't understand love, and what he's heard about souls sounds like rubbish. But his soulmate is meant to be just his, special, his equal, and Tom has never met his equal. If nothing else, he is curious and doesn't want his one chance barred from him.

-

Love came to Tom each night for a week in a dream, and among many other things, It told him he was special.

Tom knows he's special. He did not believe in love (still nearly doesn't). He dismissed the dreams.

Yet Love knows everything about everyone at Wool's, at school, at church. If it concerns love, there is nothing about a relationship that It won't be aware of, from the moment the emotion is seeded. Tom was skeptical until he verified that the information he got from Love was true in the waking world.

If Love doesn't realize Tom will use information on everyone to his advantage, that's It's problem, not Tom's.

-

Tom spends the third morning in his room, between chores, writing in his diary. Rain pounds on his tiny window.

He is still bitter about Dumbledore and his wardrobe, but he returned the items he stole. His battered copy of Jane Eyre, which he nicked off someone at the corner shop, is tucked away in a new box—he got rid of the other. He doesn't believe that cooky professor didn't put some sort of magic on it, as well.

Tom doesn't much care for the book, but it is something to read.

A knock comes on his bedroom door as he is tucking his diary away, and something is off about Mrs. Cole when she pushes inside. She looks a bit funny around the eyes, and not because she is in her cups.

"You have a visitor," Mrs. Cole says. 

Another?

Can it be…? 

Tom straightens, feverish. Outwardly, he is sure only to give Mrs. Cole a polite nod. He expects the usual distrust from her, but she merely dips back out. His suspicion deepens. It must be who he's been waiting for.

The door opens again, and Tom gets to his feet, unwilling to be caught at a disadvantage. That professor from the school told him what will and won't be tolerated at Hogwarts—but Tom isn't there yet.

An older boy walks in, and… and Tom is hit with his magic.

Magic, to Tom, is dark, earthy, the scales of snakes, silk of a spider's web, dust, the stretch of shadows, blood, dead things. He didn't feel that old man's. Didn't know he was like Tom. But this boy's, this… It's airy. Fluttery and golden, darting about him, taunting him. Challenging him to catch it, to break it, to show it that nothing can stay so perfect and precious.

He has inky black hair, the color of Tom's own, and while just as curly, unruly to an alarming degree. His skin is lightly tanned, he's thin enough that he looks like he hasn't eaten well in a long time, and his knees are a bit knobbly. And his eyes—his eyes, Tom thinks breathlessly, are striking.

Even from across the room, Tom can see them, how green they are. Burning into him, into Tom's soul. They are feral, untamable. They are Tom's. All Tom's.

"Hello, Tom," the other boy says. He has a curious lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead. Tom wants to touch it. Sensing his hungry gaze, perhaps, the boy flattens his fringe. Tom smothers a pang of annoyance.

"Hello," Tom says, and he offers up his most pleasant smile. He doesn't know what Mrs. Cole told this boy. Tom must make a good first impression. And, unlike with the professor's, he won't ruin this one, won't let his emotions get away from him. "Who are you?"

"I'm Harry. Did Mrs. Cole tell you why I'm here?"

Harry.

Harry.

Tom stops breathing.

The older boy inhales and combs his fingers through his curls. "Right…" he mutters.

How—how is this Harry? He's—older…

Harry sits on the edge of Tom's bed, and Tom fights not to snap at him. That is Tom's bed. Harry didn't ask to sit there! But Tom, Tom thinks as he inhales sharply and pastes his smile back on, can be magnanimous.

"You're like me," Tom states. And—older, and not going to Hogwarts with him, and Tom doesn't understand, but no matter. He has his soulmate.

The other boy lifts his head. "Yes," he says after a moment. He rests his forearms over his thighs and leans back. "Yes, I am."

"I can feel your magic," Tom presses on, unwilling to waste time—Harry is his. His chest trembles with excitement. "Can you feel mine?"

Harry's face darkens. "Yes."

Tom tries not to frown. Reinforces his smile. "Is that normal for a wizard?"

Something shifts in Harry's expression that Tom can't decipher. He studies Tom for so long, Tom squirms and averts his gaze. He doesn't care for the way that Harry seems to see straight through him.

"No," Harry says, and Tom lifts his head. Satisfaction curls through him, hot, and he trembles again. "I've never… er. It's new to me. I don't know why we—"

"I do," Tom says, unable to help himself.

Harry tilts his head.

Tom takes this as encouragement to continue. "You're my soulmate." You're mine, he barely holds onto. Harry doesn't seem like he will be receptive to it. Yet. "It makes sense that we can feel each other like this. Don't you think?"

The other boy watches him again.

Stop! Tom holds onto the order. It didn't work on the professor. If he is to try it on Harry, Tom wants it to be at the proper moment.

"Where did you hear that, Tom?" Harry asks once several moments have passed.

"Love," Tom replies. He does frown now. Why did Harry sound so ominous?

"Love?" Harry repeats blankly.

Tom nods.

Harry places a fist to his mouth and looks out Tom's dingy window that even the rain can't completely clean. He rises and paces to it. Tom notices he's begun to nibble the edge of his thumb.

Vexed, Tom drops his eyes to where Harry mussed Tom's bed. He thought this would be good news. Harry has a soulmate. Harry has Tom. Harry should be so lucky.

Unless Harry thinks Tom isn't good enough…?

Tom's chest constricts, pain an unwelcome friend, and Harry turns to him, his green eyes wide.

"I hurt you," Harry says.

Tom glowers.

Harry's eyes soften. "I'm sorry. Let's… let's, er, get to why I'm here first, all right?" He draws a breath that makes his magic flutter around Tom with all the strength and fragility of wings, and Tom knows now how Harry realized Tom was upset. "I'd like to adopt you, Tom, you see, and…"

"You're going to adopt me?"

Harry hesitates. Nods. "If you'd like."

If he'd like.

Tom smiles.

Harry came to take him away. Harry, unlike Tom, surely knows of love, and he will care for Tom forever. And Harry, Tom can see, is soft. Malleable. He isn't as shrewd as that professor. Still… he can sense strong emotions from Tom's magic. It is something to consider.

The other boy stares at his smile, and Tom tilts his head, his lips spreading wider.

"Yes," Tom says. "I'd like that, Harry."

He finds he doesn't mind the silence that lapses between them as much when Harry's magic hovers close like it does then, whispering of sunlight and the open sky and wonder. Tom is loath to disturb it (catch it, he wants to catch it, crush it in his fingers). He doesn't know what has riveted Harry about his smile, but it will certainly prove useful later.

"Er…" Harry clears his throat. "Let's help you get packed, yeah?"

Tom nods, and Harry breathes, swiftly looking away. Tom's lips twitch again. He manages to keep a straight face. Harry's magic gave Tom a brief impression of plummeting through the sky. It amuses Tom, how Harry doesn't realize his emotions project so tangibly.

Harry is the perfect treasure, his soulmate, his possession, his Harry.

And Tom takes very good care of his things. 

Chapter Text

There is absolution in death. 

Harry watches Voldemort raise the Elder Wand, and all he can think about as green light fills his vision is that it is over. 

And. 

I'm sorry. 

And. 

… 

-June 1998-

Tom eats quietly, quickly, carefully. It is from his days as an orphan that he never entirely shook off, though when he is around others, he eats much slower. For now, it is just Harry and Tom, enjoying a meal at the Three Broomsticks early in the evening, before it grows crowded.  

"I am ill-suited to teach," Tom says, once he's finished with his plate, and Harry, who eats similarly, is nearly done with his. "I haven't been able to think about anything else."

Harry drags the crust of his bread loaf through the dregs of beef stew in his bowl. It has only been three days since they accepted their posts at the school. "What did I say before? We can just go—"

"We cannot simply go if we please," Tom says. "Not without causing a great deal of trouble for you."

"I'm not worried about that," Harry scoffs in surprise. He's grown so used to living life as Harry Evans, and he cared little enough for the limelight before. "You are what's important, Tom. And if this is too much, we'll go." He pushes his bowl away. "Come on. We'll go right now."

"Harry…"

Harry smiles and reaches across the table to fold Tom's hand in both of his own. Tom allows him to have it easily, though his dark eyes watch Harry's face in a way they haven't since Harry first brought Tom home from Wool's—like Harry is some curious creature to be studied, Tom's creature.

"What's on your mind?" Harry asks. "Why are you so certain this spells certain doom?"

Tom's lips quirk briefly at the corners. His eyes drop to where Harry's hands cradle his. There is a wistful air about him, one that Harry has grown accustomed to in the past few weeks.

"Given the things I have done," Tom says, "the things I think about doing still—how can I trust myself? How can it possibly be safe for them to be around me? You love me, and so your vision is colored—but imagine if you were the parent of a student who went to the school, and you had no idea about who I truly am… yet you discovered it. You would be beyond horrified. You would call for my head."

"Maybe so," Harry says. "But you know so much, Tom, and what you can teach others—that good will start to outweigh the bad."

"Maybe so," Tom echoes, softly. "If you do not put far too much faith in me, darling."

Harry squeezes his hand. "I don't—"

"You do. I am only doing any of this for you, Harry." The words carry no heat, no edge, only soft truth. "Every day is painful. It is not bound to get easier any time soon. It is a decision I made with you—but it was a decision made not only by me. It was a young me. Another me. I fear he may have somewhat overestimated my capacity to… heal."

Harry rubs his thumb along Tom's. "I don't think you did."

"You still refuse to see us as two separate individuals?" Tom asks.

"Your memories are in one body," Harry replies. "You share the same soul."

Tom lowers his eyes to Harry's hands, as if he can't bear the intensity of Harry's gaze anymore. "Yes… I suppose that is true, darling. Thank you for that perspective. I'll consider it more."

'Darling.' A new addition to Tom's vocabulary, since the Tom he raised and Voldemort became one person. Harry is still adjusting to it, even weeks later, but he likes it.

"You're welcome," Harry chuckles. He releases Tom's hand to lean back in his seat and thumb at the label of his Butterbeer. "I think this year will be great. Really, I do. C'mon…" He nudges Tom's foot with his own beneath the table. "When you applied for this position the first time—maybe not the second so much—didn't you want to teach?"

Tom's lips twitch.

"Thought so," Harry says. "And see, now you look as young as you do, and you've got the job. What would Dippet think?"

At last, Tom's lips break into a real smile, one that warms those rich brown eyes and settles something deep inside of Harry. It reassures him that this will work, and that his promise to Tom is not a lie.

Harry lifts his Butterbeer. "To second chances."

For a moment, he isn't sure how Tom will feel about it. His magic stills completely. But then the other boy lifts his own Butterbeer, and they clink glasses.

"I detest this beverage," Tom says, once he's had a small swig of his bottle. "Yet I don't. I suppose that is the summary of my life now."

Harry frowns.

"Don't misunderstand me, Harry," Tom says. "I believe you, of all people, know I would rather be alive than the alternative."

Harry's frown deepens. But he nods. He knows how much remorse Tom is living with.

"I just hate that you're in so much pain," Harry murmurs.

Tom's smile grows wistful. "Darling—you make it bearable. I am here for you."

But Harry doesn't want to hear that. Harry wants Tom to be here for Tom, too.

"I understand if I'm a guidepost," Harry says, "but you must fight for yourself, too, Tom. You must."

Tom's magic closes about him. "I am the last person who deserves…" He catches the words, his lips pressing together, the line of his jaw tight.

"Tom," Harry whispers. "No matter what you've done, you will always deserve love, and that includes loving yourself."

Tom won't meet his eyes, yet Harry knows he is listening. It is in the set of his shoulders, and then, finally, the subtlest of nods. Though it's not much, it's progress.

"I love you," Harry says, with all of his heart, and Tom lifts his head. "So stop looking so sad. Come on. Let's pay Rosmerta and get out of here."

It's as they are leaving the pub that Tom pulls Harry into an abrupt embrace, something he hasn't done on his own since time in this world resumed. Harry smothers a smile into Tom's neck and snakes his arms round Tom, just as tightly, if not more.

"I love you, too," Tom says, and Harry has never believed him more.

-July 1938-

Harry.

Harry, Harry, Harry.

Harry.

Harry shoves a pillow over his head and rolls over. The cooler sheets on the other side of the bed offer something of a respite, albeit not much of one.

He can still hear it.

Mine. Mine.

Feel it.

My Harry. My soulmate. Mine always.

Forever.

Harry flops onto his stomach. Buries his face into his mattress and kicks his blankets to his feet. His pillows provide a small fort atop his head but are otherwise useless to the phantom sensation of a snake wrapping about him.

Dry scales. A spider spooling its web; fog heavy over silent waters. Tom, smiling at Harry back at the orphanage, his magic a silken whisper in the dark to come closer, closer—

harrytreasureharry

Harry hadn't wanted to—knew better.

That didn't mean he wasn't tempted.

(He is not prepared for this.)

Harry blows his fringe out of his eyes and focuses on the bad part of Tom's magic. Dead leaves hide what is buried deep in the blood-soaked earth… whatever sociopathic secret that is. Likely a small animal or something, or a fantasy. It isn't like Tom has murdered anyone. (Yet, he tries not to think.)

The initial touch of Tom's magic unsettled Harry. The tall, pale boy with the dark eyes that lit up at seeing Harry seconds before his magic welled up, a graveyard Harry never wanted to revisit in this life or… or any other.

Yet the problem isn't earlier at Wool's. It is, gallingly, as Tom sleeps. Harry checked an hour ago to make sure—there he was, angelic in sleep in his new room—so he isn't even doing this on purpose. Yet here his magic is, spread across the cottage, singing with possession. Merlin, it's like—well. Like having Slytherin's necklace around his neck, listening to it whisper insidious things to him, except without the residue of the Dark Arts.

Why is Harry this affected? Because… because he's a Horcrux? Dumbledore told him that piece of Riddle's soul had died. But it must have stayed with him. Would it, until he—until he returns to that moment in Limbo, if ever?

If that's the case… what does it matter? Harry isn't this Tom's Horcrux… The soul piece shouldn't resonate. Unless… Tom's magic, his soul, senses it regardless.

Harry's head hurts.

This is so unfair—all of it, everything. The only reason any of this happened was because he said, "I'm sorry," before he died. Death, in Limbo, came to Harry after Harry spoke to his own Dumbledore, and he told Harry that his apology had touched Love.

It was all a bit much for Harry, who had just died, had spoken with his dead headmaster, and had no idea that love and death existed as deities.

"Do you remember what went through your mind the moment you died?" Death asked him at the time.

"Er… no? Not really," Harry replied.

"You said, 'I'm sorry.'"

Death stared at Harry expectantly. At least, that was the sense Harry got. He couldn't see into the hood it wore. He still wasn't certain there had been face in there.

"I—well—I wish I could have done more," Harry said, and his mouth was a cotton ball. For the first time since he woke in Limbo, he found himself wishing for human needs such as water. This topic was unpleasant. "How do you know that?"

"Love heard you," Death answered.

"Love?" Harry asked, surprised.  

"Love. You said, 'I'm sorry' to Tom Riddle, Harry Potter. She heard you. Tom Riddle is who you wish you could have done more for."

Harry laughed.

It was soft. Broken. Bit mad. He'd gone through so much in the last seven years of his life, never mind seventeen years. And now Death had the audacity to tell him he'd spent his final moment apologizing to his mortal enemy, his parents' murderer?

Harry, my sweet Harry, mine, always…

Flipping onto his back again, Harry exhales at the ceiling. Dumbledore's pendulum clock ticks across the hall, the silence too thick to mask it.

Harry (such a sweet coo, vivid green scales coiled against him), Harry, Harry…

Harry hopes midnight gets here soon. That the enchantment on the clock will carry him away.

-

It doesn't.

Never mind that. It is—Harry casts Tempus and groans—half-past two in the morning. How… how is he to ever sleep? He can't drown out Tom's magic. No part of the cottage is safe. Harry refuses to be driven out of his own home. So—what, then?

The hall is dark. Harry nudges aside books he still hasn't packed away, the hawthorn wand lit to guide his way. He whispers Nox when he gets to Tom's room and pushes the boy's door open.

The curtains are open, and moonlight touches his pale face. With the shadows under his eyes, Tom looks bloodless, but his lashes twitch in his sleep. He makes a small sound.

How human he is hits Harry in the chest.

Here! Harry! Mine!

Close!

Harry pockets his wand. He enters the room.

Tom's magic—practically tangible, all around him, spiders and snakes and shadows. All the things Harry is most comfortable with. He waits for the rest, the darker flavors that make Harry's hackles rise, and his stomach twist.

There is nothing.

Harry exhales, not thrilled with how quickly his pulse shot up. Tom has him on edge, and he can't afford to let Tom know.

Harry! Harry! Here!

Special. Precious.

Here!

Special? Precious?

Harry! Harry! Harry!

Harry wants to run out of the room. Out of the cottage. Into the meadow, into the woods.

Mine! Close!

The whispers press on him. Harry steps toward Tom. The boy shifts in his sleep, a furrow between his brows. Without thinking, Harry reaches out and soothes it with the pad of his thumb.

Instantly, Tom's magic quiets.

Harry stares around the room. He looks down to see if it was because he woke Tom—no. Asleep still. When he withdraws his touch, the whispers start up again, fervent, greedy, eager.

He bites his lip.

No.

He'll suffer through it.

Harry leaves the room, and Tom's magic screeches after him, a bog of fury. It isn't until Harry buries himself beneath his blankets again that it shifts tactics, a plea.

harry please harry need

Harry isn't going anywhere, even if it kills him.

-----

Tom yawns.

He begins to stretch and finds he can't. One of his hands is trapped. He frowns and opens his eyes.

Harry.

The older boy is curled up next to him, Tom's hand clutched in his, near Harry's forehead. His glasses sit askew on his face, his messy curls sticking out in all directions. He doesn't have a pillow under his head or a blanket on top of him. The occasional snore leaves him, small things barely deserving of the name.

Why is Harry here? Tom is so curious, he can't even find it in himself to be angry his space has been trespassed on. For the second time. In less than a day.

Tom decides it doesn't matter. With Harry's magic so close like this, flashes of gold and seldomly fluttering, Tom can reach out… crush it… It would be his… Yet if he does that, Tom thinks, he'll never have the chance to catch it again.

Not yet, then.

His stomach growls. Hunger. It must be close to breakfast time at Wool's. Usually, Tom is not a charitable person. He would have shaken Harry awake or maybe gone in search of food himself. He doesn't know how to cook, but that doesn't mean he can't make do. Tom has learned to fend for himself.

But Harry's face is… drawn. He hasn't slept well, if at all. Tom cares—his soulmate needs to be in top condition if he is to keep up with Tom. He supposes Harry can stay in bed a bit longer. Harry's dinner spread was filling, and Tom is curious to see what he will produce for breakfast.

He extricates himself from Harry's grasp and rolls out of bed to retrieve his diary, which is buried in the wardrobe with his few belongings. Tom wrinkles his nose at his secondhand clothes but grabs an outfit for the warmer weather and slips into the bathroom in the hall to change.

Tom didn't get much of a look at it the day before. Their arrival at the cottage involved a quick tour and then dinner—after that, an early bedtime, with Harry quiet and awkward.

The ceiling is sloped on this side of the cottage, with a stone wall and wooden beams around a window that overlooks an overgrown garden. The curtains that hang on the window are floral with honeybees sewn into them, and the other walls, an off white, contain frame upon frame of pressed flowers and plants. Their names are written in loopy script.

Centaurea cyanus… Papaver somniferum… Delphinium elatum…

Tom sets his things on the edge of the overlarge sink. Once he's freshened up and changed, he takes his new comb and arranges his curls to fall in the perfect tumble, not a strand out of place. Satisfied with his reflection, he grabs his diary, checks on Harry—no change—and navigates the cluttered cottage to reach outside.

Birds chatter in the trees. Water babbles in its brook across the way. Grass sways in what little of a breeze there is and sticks up between the cobblestones that pave the cottage's path. Tom follows it, his footsteps an even tap. Sunlight dapples the ground when he comes to stand at the low, moss-covered serpentine wall surrounding the garden.

Tom considers taking his explorations there, and discards the idea. Later.

A field maple tree towers nearby and isn't difficult to climb because of its proximity to the crumbling wall, which is precisely why Tom chose it. Its leafy coverage provides him both privacy and an excellent view of the front door of his new home.

Tom settles against the trunk of the tree, his long legs stretched on a branch in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He twitches his diary open to where his pencil holds his place. A sketch of Harry's scar and eyes peer up at him.

Tuesday, July 26, 1938

The name of our home is Septennial Cottage. I must learn what septennial means and who owned this place before Harry. He's never been here. There are curtains with flower patterns and boxes of books he says he hasn't finished packing.

I don't know Harry well yet. Except I do. He would never choose those curtains himself. He doesn't seem like he's read these books, either, or will.

Why did he take us here? Does he not have a home of his own?

He said yesterday that we would talk about how we are soulmates later. It is later. It hasn't come up again.

A scowl creases his face. Tom flicks the page to its back and resumes his train of thought, the scritch of his pencil in his ears. The pinch in his stomach has just become unbearable when the front door of Septennial opens, and Harry bursts out.

Tom closes his diary.

Finally, he thinks, and he swings his legs over his branch to climb down.

"TOM!" Harry yells.

The birds fall silent.

Everything does.

Harry's magic, like his voice, can't keep the fear out of it.

Tom tips his head. Bark flakes under his palms. Below him, Harry's eyes search the yard, the trees, Tom's tree, the garden. He walks over to the latter, his pace quick, the hems of his trousers damp with dew. He calls for Tom again.

As quietly as he can, Tom presses into his tree.

Harry draws even with the field maple, and he cups his hands around the sides of his mouth. He faces the meadow.

"TOM!"

As Harry is right beneath Tom, his magic—and the fear within it—is directly accessible.

Heady. It is heady, the way it struggles to stay buoyant, crippled as it is, so close. Tom can have it in moments. Yet its light is feeble, weaker than when Harry had slept next to Tom. The taste of victory should be sweet.

Not yet, then.

"Harry," he says.

Tom doesn't have to raise his voice. His soulmate's head snaps up, and as his eyes widen, his magic shifts, stretches its wings, and glows.  

Pretty… Tom thinks.

"Tom!" Harry says hoarsely. "You didn't hear me?"

"I did. I called back to you." Tom pushes his brows into a light furrow. And then, echoing Harry, "You didn't hear me?"

Harry shakes his head. His cheeks are flushed, his gaze confused and dazed. Tom holds onto his diary while he climbs down, and he has barely set his feet on the ground when Harry yanks him into a hug. Harry, Tom notices, trembles.

Tom hates touches from others. He doesn't care to think of why, because he hasn't ever thought it would change. Apparently, Harry has become an exception to everything.

This makes sense to Tom. Tom leads a singular existence. If he bends his rules for anyone, of course, it will be for a part of his soul.

Yet… Harry doesn't hold Tom in the same regard. He is embracing him now, yes, and while Tom has observed this behavior in parents separated from their children—this isn't quite the same. They've only been together a day.

It's my soul, Tom concludes, grateful Harry can't see his smirk. Harry can pretend indifference all he wants. Harry's soul isn't as willing to ignore Tom.

Harry will likely want his affection reciprocated. People are peculiar that way. Well… If it will endear Harry to him faster…

Tom secures his arms around his soulmate's waist.

Oh. Harry is warm.

Tom supposes this isn't terrible.

Harry pulls away and won't look at him. He clears his throat. "Are you ready for breakfast?"

That's what it is. He runs, Tom thinks. Harry can't fly, unlike his magic. But he can run. Run from Tom. Why? Why does he want to?

"Yes," Tom says belatedly.

"Er—good. That's good. Let's see what we've got inside. I thought you could help me today." Harry's voice lightens the more they walk.

"Me?" Tom frowns. Harry must be mistaken.

The older boy chuckles and holds open the front door for him. "Yes, you. You up for it?"

Tom gives Harry a long look. "No," he says bluntly.

His soulmate surprises them both by laughing. Tom is not amused. He hates it when he is laughed at. Harry's magic glows brighter than it has yet, to make matters worse. Huffing, Tom storms past Harry and into the depths of Septennial, where it is darker.

Tom pauses to drop off his diary in his room. When he returns to the kitchen, he finds Harry with a large grin, whisking eggs in a simple red bowl.

Tom sits at the kitchen table and returns his gaze to Harry's hand. The older boy holds his wand, which he uses in the circular motions of a whisk. The eggs don't seem to notice, their yolks blending into one another. Harry's magic rises and falls with each flick of his wrist.

"When do I get one?" Tom is proud the words come out calmly.

"I was thinking we could go today," Harry says, only to chuckle again. When Tom glowers in question, he shrugs. "Your magic. It—you were happy. All right, yeah." He nods, pleased. "We'll go today, then."

Tom smiles, equally pleased. His Harry can know he is happy if it means Tom gets his wand.

The older boy floats the bowl over to the counter. He didn't use magic to prepare dinner.

Tom stares, fascinated. He can float small objects if he concentrates hard enough, and only one at a time. Now, plates and cutlery zoom out of cabinets and drawers and onto the table, albeit with a clatter that hurts Tom's ears. Both boys wince.

"I'll tell you a secret. I've never done that before," Harry confesses, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

Tom raises an eyebrow. Pointedly surveys the silverware strewn across the tablecloth. "It's not a secret, Harry."

Harry then flicks his forehead!

Tom gapes.

Furious.

Betrayed.

"Ow!" he protests.

Harry pays him no mind. "I've definitely overbeat the eggs, but I think we'll manage. Clean your hands, Tom. I meant it when I said I wanted your help."

"But we could use magic—"

Harry turns to him. "We could. I don't want to."

Tom almost presses him. Harry had been using magic. His wand is in his hand even now. But Tom doesn't trust Harry won't send him back to Wool's if Tom misbehaves too quickly. He acts too wary of Tom, regardless of their souls. If Tom ruins it, he'd rather it not be over their first breakfast together.

He fastens a smile onto his face and walks to the sink.

The other boy steps in the way.

"Don't," he says.

Tom tips his head to the side. "Don't what?"

"Your smile," Harry replies. He leans against the counter and folds his arms, letting Tom pass him. "I can tell you don't mean it."

The water from the faucet rushes bitterly cold over Tom's hands.

"When it's just the two of us, if you don't mean it, don't."

Tom pushes the bar of soap through his fingers. "Why not?"

"Because I want you to feel like you can always be honest with me," Harry says, and Tom looks up at him, into his bright green eyes. "Even if I don't like it."

Tom takes his time with his hands and then shuts the water off. The faucet drips after, leaky. Through more floral curtains Harry didn't pick out, there is a decent-sized window, and beyond it, woods. Harry follows his gaze but doesn't say anything.

"All right," Tom says, quietly.

Harry hands him a cloth to dry his hands, then withdraws and begins an animated explanation on how to cook eggs. Tom watches his hands move. He wonders how long Harry will appreciate his honesty. But Tom will give it because his Harry asked for the absence of an insincere expression.

How does Harry know him so well? Tom wants to feel relief—his soulmate should know him. Love said that a soulmate is a part of his soul. Bonded to him forever. Yet Harry runs from him… Then again, Harry wishes for Tom to be honest with his emotions.

Such a puzzle.

"Tom?" Harry asks. "Are you listening?"

Tom smiles—stops. Oh. More ingrained than he realized.

"I'm… thinking," he settles on.

Harry kneels and reaches into a cabinet. "That's all right. Here." He hands Tom a frying pan. "Place that on the stove, will you?"

-

The meadow, Harry tells Tom, is dangerous. And so are the woods.

"You have what's called the Trace on you until you're seventeen," Harry says. He puts more grilled tomatoes on Tom's plate, along with a second piece of toast. "What? Frown at me all you like, but you could stand to eat more."

"So can you," Tom shoots back. He leans across the table to ladle extra eggs onto Harry's plate. "I practically weigh more than you, and I'm eleven."

Harry blinks. Tom tucks into his food, so hungry he doesn't care to argue the point further.

"…Right." Clearing his throat, Harry leans back in his chair. He doesn't touch his breakfast. "Well, and this is important—once you have your wand, you won't be able to use magic if you're not at school. At least not, er…"

While Tom eats, Harry explains the Ministry of Magic's rules. Tom interrupts him midway to glare at the toast until his soulmate puts something in his stomach. Is this why Harry stays underweight? Well, that will change. Harry cooked an enormous meal. Not only can Tom not eat it by himself, Harry needs his energy. It seems Tom similarly adopted Harry, if Harry is to be this tiring. Very well.

"You said I'll be able to defend myself in dangerous situations," Tom says. He pops another piece of bacon into his mouth. Recently, he's grown hungrier than usual. Perhaps his strides in height have something to do with it?

"You will," Harry hedges. "But you shouldn't put yourself in danger to begin with."

"So help protect me," Tom says reasonably.

"What? I am protecting—"

Tom smiles, and Harry turns pink.

-

They set about cleaning up after breakfast is finished. The kitchen fairly sparkles.

Harry shoots Tom a satisfied smile. "My cleaning spells improved while I was on the—er—" He breaks off, his magic darting about Tom's head. "Help me with these dishes, please."

Tom is so curious about the aborted statement, he doesn't think to protest.

"Who owns Septennial Cottage?" he asks once the plates have been put away and he has his hands full of utensils. 

"What d'you mean?"

"It's not yours," Tom states.

Harry laughs under his breath. "That obvious?"

Tom shrugs and shuts the silverware drawer.

"It belongs to an old friend," Harry says. "He—er—he knew I wanted to adopt you."

Why did you want to adopt me? Tom bites back the question. Harry's magic has withdrawn, zipped higher and higher, its darts erratic. Harry, Tom decides, wanted to adopt Tom because Tom is his soulmate.

Harry can keep his secrets for now. Tom has his own.

-

Tom tugs his comb through his curls. Checks his reflection a final time. He can't help what he wears, but he can help how he wears it. This will be the first time he shows his face to the wizarding world. Impressions—when one doesn't foil them—matter.

Harry waits for him in the living room, a cozy space littered with plush chairs, a settee, and a threadbare (and rather garish) crimson and golden rug. The fireplace is enormous, and books cover most surfaces. Harry has found a spot by the coffee table, a knitted… lion in his lap. He pats it on the head, and it opens its mouth in a silent roar.

Tom must have been staring—Harry laughs… and laughs harder at Tom's narrowed eyes.

"You… remind me of me," the older boy explains. "I came to find out about this world the same way you did. I'd done magic before, only, I hadn't realized it. And when I saw it, really saw it, I…" He trails off, idly making the stuffed lion dance back and forth. It waves its paws.

Tom thinks of how long he's known he had magic, even if he's only known he is special. How hungry he nevertheless was to see Professor Dumbledore show him magic of his own. How he'll never tire of seeing magic because magic is everything (and Harry).

He could never doubt magic is real.

"You were afraid it was a dream," Tom says. The words are simple enough to give to his Harry, who so clearly wants them.

Harry looks up at him, the lion suspended in his hands.

"You'd wake up," Tom elaborates, and he fights not to frown. Did he not explain it properly? He'll try once more. "It… it wouldn't be real anymore. The magic."

Honestly! Is Harry slow?

His soulmate's lips quirk, and Tom finds his own mirroring the movement.

"Exactly," Harry says. Rising from the floor, he sets the lion on the settee. Stretches. "Got everything?"

Tom nods.

"The money Professor Dumbledore gave you? May I have it? Thank you. You don't want to get your diary? Don't give me that look. We'll be gone all day. No? All right. Take my arm, then."

Tom eyes Harry's arm with some trepidation. Instantaneous travel is wondrous—nausea is not. Apparating from Wool's yesterday afternoon nearly made him toss up the contents of his stomach. Harry promised him he'll get used to it…

He expects Harry to find amusement in his misery. Yet patience meets Tom's shrewd glance.

"It's all right, Tom," Harry assures him. "Whenever you're ready."

Tom puffs a breath.

Weak.

He puts his hand on Harry's arm, Harry turns on his heel, and they Apparate from Septennial Cottage faster than Tom can draw breath.

Chapter Text

It's so ugly, the baby-like figure under the bench. Repulsive. Harry shudders at the sight of its raw skin, yet he can't take his eyes away from it. Is this… Voldemort? Is this all that Tom Riddle has turned out to be? 

"Harry Potter."

He spins. 

A figure in a robe not unlike a Dementor but lacking scaly hands and rattling breath stands just behind Harry. It doesn't seem to have a face beneath its hood, and its voice may as well be fallen leaves rustling over one another in a brisk autumn breeze. 

"Who are you?" Harry ventures. 

The thing under the bench continues to whimper. Harry instinctively stands in front of it. He doesn't know why. He'll be glad to never see it again. 

"I am Death. And I have come to take you away."

"Oh," Harry says. He didn't expect a personal escort, he supposes. "It's just… Do you mind if… er… Where are we?"

"An in between place," Death replies. "Limbo, some call it."

"It looks like King's Cross," Harry mutters. Then, louder, "Where are we going?" If this is Limbo… "The afterlife?"

"No, Harry Potter. We will speak soon. You have a visitor on the way."

-

Dumbledore.

Dumbledore has so much to tell him. About the Hallows. About how sorry he is for not trusting Harry. About Dumbledore's past. About how good Harry is. About how Harry can still go back. Fight Voldemort. Protect everyone.

Harry frowns at the flayed figure beneath the bench. Dumbledore had said there was nothing he could do, nothing at all. Yet Dumbledore can't see Death, either. 

Death, who watches them both, patiently waiting… 

"Is this real?" Harry asks. "Or has this been happening inside my head?"

Dumbledore smiles. 

-

"He couldn't see you." 

"No." 

"Why not?"

"Because I chose not to reveal myself to him."

"That's convenient."

"Not all dead deserve to have their rest disturbed. Albus Dumbledore was permitted to come speak to you. No more. No less. He shall return to the peace he knew." 

"Oh… good," Harry says, shifting. "So he was happy?"

The hood nods. 

"Because he seemed a bit down…" 

"Regrets can follow a mortal into their afterlife. Albus Dumbledore has many regrets." 

Harry thinks of Dumbledore's account of what happened between his siblings and Grindelwald and sighs. 

"Time heals most wounds."

Harry frowns at Death. "But not all?"

"Do you remember what went through your mind the moment you died?"

-

Once Harry is finished laughing about his supposed apology to Voldemort before he died, he has only one question—two.

"Why are we talking about this?" Harry asks. "Why would—Love care about what I would think about someone before I died?"

"Because no matter what Tom Riddle did to you, in your moment of death, you still cared only for him. Love was touched. It wished to help you. I did not. We agreed to a wager."

Harry's head won't stop spinning. He sits back down on the bench he'd occupied with Dumbledore.

"And why didn't you want to help me?" he asks, numb. Not that he even knows what helping him entails. Not that he even wants to know.

"You are Master of Death. To stay so connected to someone—it will sadden you, as all mortals fade."

"Master of…" Harry trails off.

The hooded entity tilts its head. "You are the possessor of all three Hallows, Harry Potter, and you faced death unflinchingly." Death says this as if that will prove a satisfactory enough answer.

Harry tries not to let his frustration swell.

He does not succeed.

"And you're saying—you're telling me I'm immortal now?"

Death nods once more.

Harry doesn't even know what to say to that. Immortal… Does he even want to be…?

Voldemort's bit of soul lets out a piteous wail, and Harry looks its way. No, he decides. He's seen what others have done in their quest for such a thing. He wants no part in it.

"I'd like to stay mortal, if it's all the same to you," Harry tells Death.

"How noble," Death replies. "Perhaps Love was right. We shall see. Pick up the piece of Tom Riddle's soul, Harry Potter."

Harry shrinks away.

"No!" he says, quite emphatically.

"If you do not, you will not leave this place."

"Dumbledore said all I had to do was board a train!"

"Do you see a train?"

No… but—he can't just stay here—it's Limbo—

He must go back, he must stop Voldemort—!

"Should you succeed, and prove Love right, your loved ones will still be here, Harry Potter," Death says. "I will return you to this moment, and you will… board a train."

"Return me?" Harry furrows his brows. "Where are you taking me?"

"To 1938," Death says. "To the summer before Tom Riddle began Hogwarts." 

"193—" This must be a cosmic joke. "Look. I just—I don't understand. People need me, so if you could—"

"Pick it up, Harry Potter."

The soul piece cries out. It's eerie. Mostly because it did it in time with Harry's shiver of distress. 

"No," Harry refuses. "No. I can't." 

"You can, and you will. It is as I say. Should you succeed, you will be returned here." 

"Succeed in what!" Harry bursts out. 

"You will show Tom Riddle love where it has always been denied him. Should he learn how to love, selflessly love, then, and only then, will you be able to return to your own timeline."

Harry stares, dumbfounded. Does Death not hear itself? Tom Riddle? Love?

"So you're setting me up for failure, is that it?" Harry asks. It won't sink in, what Death wants from him. It's too impossible. The idea of going back in time. Harry can barely wrap his mind around what he saw in the Pensieve, how he came to die at Voldemort's hands, ridding the world of another Horcrux—and now Death (and Love) want…?

"Love does not seem to think so."

"And you? What do you think?" Harry snaps, beside himself. 

"I believe it has been some time since I have been surprised, and that you are full of surprises, Harry Potter. Pick up the soul fragment."

Harry makes no move to obey. Voldemort's fragment wails and wails, and it seems to Harry to echo all the unjustness of the moment. Likely, it thrives on chaos or something. Harry has no idea. He wants it to stop. 

"And if I fail? If I can't make Riddle… love?" Harry asks. 

"Then you will be trapped in his timeline, and this one will continue without you." 

-July 1998-

Tom traces the scar on Harry's forehead with the pad of his thumb.

His soulmate slumbers so peacefully next to a monster.

It is quiet in Harry's faculty chambers. Until now, they haven't been used in some time, as Minerva McGonagall took residence in the headmistress' chambers. They are situated a floor above Tom's in the Faculty Tower.

The man has decorated his rooms with scarlet and gold, as unflinchingly Gryffindor as always. On the nightstand, a Transfiguration book rests, but Harry has never read for the joy of it. Tom would happily wager everything he owns that Harry told himself he would at last get a head start on reading "current theories" in the field—read two lines of it—and then promptly gave it up for the next day.

"Harry," Tom murmurs. He presses his thumb more firmly to Harry's scar. "We will be late."

Harry's lashes flutter open. Green eyes peer blearily out into the world, then focus on Tom's face. Tom hands him his glasses, and Harry mumbles and shoves them on. He sits up, the blankets falling to his waist, and takes note again of how Tom is perched on the edge of his bed, fully dressed and ready for the day ahead of them.

"What time is it?" he mutters around a yawn.

"Half past seven," Tom says.

Harry groans in a rather dramatic fashion and climbs back under the covers. "Come back in thirty minutes."

Tom lifts a bemused brow. There is a part of him that wishes to laugh at Harry's antics, a childish part that is with him every minute of every day. As much as anyone might wish to maintain or even regain a sense of their youth, Tom is not so different. He can admit that now. But this—youthfulness—it comes attached with an inexplicable fondness for Harry that he cannot shake himself free of.

And he has tried.

In his darkest moments—when all of this, the redemption, the collision of his mind and the boy's, when it is too much…—he tries.

It never lasts long. He has a new emotion now, one he's never had a chance to grow accustomed to in life—at least, not in his first one, the one he considers his true life. That emotion is remorse.

To Tom, there is no evil greater in the world than remorse. He never knew what it was like to want to die—he never knew what it was like to feel sorry for anything he had done to anyone or anything. And now, every day, he is eaten up by his decisions. His disastrous ones from the past, and every time he nearly missteps in the present. (What if he chooses poorly? What if he thinks he is doing the "right" thing, but in reality, he isn't at all, but he cannot possibly tell, because he spent decades as a ruthless murderer—)

(And that isn't all he was—all he still is. Indeed, calling him a ruthless murderer is kind.)

"Tom?"

Tom glances down. Harry watches him, his face creased with concern, and the remorse prickles. He is the last person on this earth that Harry should ever worry for—perhaps not even then. What Lord Voldemort did to him—

"Tom…" Harry slips his hand into Tom's. He gazes down at Tom's knuckles, the pad of his thumb rubbing back and forth over them. "If today will be too hard—"

"No," Tom says softly. "I will be there with you, Harry."

He will always be with Harry. Harry is his life. Harry saw to that.

But then, Tom ensured that Harry would always be his, and that young part of him is so immeasurably pleased.

Selfish, he thinks.

He is so unbearably selfish.

-

The Atrium in the Ministry is packed with the press today. This doesn't ease once the lift that the boys take reaches Level 10. Aurors must step forward to allow Tom and Harry to pass unimpeded from the swell of curious onlookers and hungry journalists.

Harry keeps his gaze straight ahead, ignoring the questions shouted his way.

"—Mr. Potter, what are your thoughts on the Lestranges' trial—"

"—Mr. Potter, if you could look this way—"

"—Mr. Potter, there are rumors that the Ministry is unable to get ahold of you—"

Harry gestures sarcastically to the Aurors flanking them with the hand not holding onto Tom's, and several laughs ring out.

The press is unforgivingly loud. It presses on them as they're shepherded to Courtroom Ten. Harry's shoulders stay tense—his magic vibrates, warning the others off. Of course, Tom is the only one to notice, the only one who can notice.

"—Mr. Potter, you've been spotted everywhere with this man, Tom Evans, but no one has ever heard of him—"

"I have," says one of the Aurors with a wink at Tom. "Guess that's just another rumor, eh?"

"Thanks," Harry mutters when they reach the courtroom.

"Anytime," the man replies, and he hangs back by the door.

"Who was that?" Tom murmurs as they cross the room to climb to their seats. The courtroom is overflowing with people, the Wizengamot in full session, Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt watching the proceedings with a pensive expression.

"No idea," Harry says. "Do you?"

Tom shakes his head.

They settle beside one another, high above the others.

Soon, Tom will see Bella.

Soon, Harry will testify against her.

Soon, Tom will allow Bella to be carried back to Azkaban for her crimes, while Tom remains here, far guiltier, and free.

Harry turns his head to see Tom, but Tom keeps his eyes down below, on the chair that will soon keep his former lieutenant chained in place. He does not wish to be here, no. But he must be.

Harry's thumb presses into the center of Tom's palm, and Tom—he gives in, at last, to the longing clawing inside of him, and he squeezes hard at Harry's fingers. Harry squeezes back just as hard, if not more. Their grip is bruising.

"It will be all right, Tom," Harry murmurs.

Tom is not so sure.

-

For Bellatrix Lestrange, there may not be a second imprisonment at Azkaban but, instead, a Dementor's Kiss. Those who have come today are ruthless in their demands for justice. Tom can do nothing but sit, and listen, and watch.

She has been locked away for only two months, but it has made an impression on the stability of her emotions. Bella has always been volatile, yet she could hold herself together. She is still, in a sense, doing so—she is a proud woman.

Those moments are now few and far between, as she spends most of her time bouncing between snapping at everyone for staring at her, jeering at them, or answering the minister's questions in a taunting coo.

A woman who has nothing left and knows as such. A woman loyal to her master until death, who will show no remorse.

Tom pities her, but he can do nothing for her. He must sit here and watch each of his Death Eaters be tried, one by one, beginning with Bellatrix, and be put away for their crimes. Crimes Tom, when he was Lord Voldemort, ordered them to do.

They chose to listen! some small part of him rears up in defense. It is agony to quiet it. Many did not choose to listen to him. He took pride in the fear he instilled in others. While it is true that some, such as Bella, gladly carried out their orders, some did not. Some acted to protect their lives, as Voldemort would have tortured them, and then killed them.

Tom was a ruthless Dark Lord. There is no one to blame for that but himself.

It is as Harry is rising from his seat to testify that Bella's hooded eyes find them—find Tom.

By all rights, she should not recognize him. He took such care to erase any sign of his past as Tom Riddle, and he looks seventeen.

But her eyes widen in her sunken face, and she cries, rapturously, "My Lord! It's you! You're here! You've come to save me!"

They never do get back to the trial.

-July 1938-

At Septennial, the week until Harry's birthday passes in a strangely sweet haze.

Shopping at Diagon Alley takes them an entire day, and by the time they get home, they are knackered. Tom toddles straight into bed an hour after, out cold. He doesn't stir even when Harry creeps into his bed again at dawn, unable to block out the call of his magic. It's even sweeter that night, crooning shadows to sink down into his soul and whisper that Harry come to him.

In the morning, to Tom's delight, Harry whips their next meal up with magic, explaining as he does so Gamp's Law. Tom doesn't question why he was there again in his bed, and… Harry doesn't offer an explanation. He should. He knows he should. But he figures he'll come up with something when he must. Until then, he's more than happy to ignore the problem. He has too much on his plate.

Somehow, over the next few days, they fall into the habit of going on a walk before breakfast. Harry feels hunted at times, in the cottage, out here away from everyone. It makes him feel as if he is on the run again. Walking first thing helps to alleviate this before it can take root during the day.

They entertain themselves by reading. Tom, because he wants to, and Harry, because he must. As he struggles with his texts for this year, greatly out of the habit of studying—although Hermione kept up with her studying over the last year and tried to get Harry and Ron to, it didn't take, really—Tom ploughs eagerly into every first-year text.

He often tries to compare what level they will be learning at, his Transfiguration text to Harry's being the first.

"You must love the subject," he remarked. "This is all you read about."

Harry can't tell him the truth—why he's studying Transfiguration—so he shrugged. "It's fascinating."

"Yes, but do you understand it?" 

Harry frowned and lowered his book. "What?" 

"When you're frustrated, you make this face—" Tom mimicked Harry surprisingly well, his brows pushing together, his head tilting, his mouth opening a little in thought. 

Harry narrowed his eyes. 

"What? You do!" 

Tom is a playful child, and it continues to surprise Harry.

He didn't know what to expect. His only "memory" of Tom at this age—and it isn't even his own—is of Tom… Well. Having a disastrous first meeting with Dumbledore, but… Given who Tom has the capacity to grow up to be, given how he behaved, Harry couldn't imagine him doing the things he does—

Resting against Harry's side when he gets too tired, his head cradled on Harry's shoulder, whatever book he is reading pulled close to his chest… Cooking with Harry at meals, even if he complains or casts Harry the deepest, most sarcastic looks when Harry offers to let him take the lead… Following alongside Harry when they go for a walk, full of questions, of observations, his hand, at times, tucked securely into Harry's…

Teasing Harry. Laughing freely whenever he is amused, the sound pure and sweet to Harry's ears. Pouting when something doesn't go quite his way. Sneering, smiling, sighing—no matter what mood he's in, it's always so vibrant.

And his attention—it's focused on Harry constantly, intently. There is no escaping that dark gaze. It watches him always.

If Harry is being honest, it's a little frightening. To see Tom Riddle not only behave like a human, but to be so unexpectedly attached to Harry, so quickly.

Harry worried, at first, that maybe Tom was playing him. Tom, however, never gives Harry anything but the honesty he promised to, and he lets Harry see him at both his best and his worst. His magic, as well, seems to genuinely reflect whatever it is he's feeling at the time. If Tom is playing him, he must be some sort of child master of manipulation.

Not that Harry has entirely put that past him. What a fool he would be to come here, and within a week, Tom has him wrapped around his finger and later emerges as a Dark Lord.

The end result is that Harry never entirely trusts Tom, nor does he ever feel as if he is necessarily the adult of the two. Or, rather, it doesn't feel like a guardianship of a… son.

Disturbingly, Harry thinks back often to when he found the diary. How it felt like he'd abandoned a friend long ago, and they were now reunited—only, Harry couldn't remember anything about them.

It's—

…It's the same.

Being with Tom, spending their summer like this. It's the same feeling. As though he left Tom somewhere, as though he forgot all about it, and now, they are together again.

But the diary was a Horcrux.

Tom isn't a Horcrux.

Harry is.

The key, he realizes, is that the diary held Tom's soul. The fragment of Voldemort's soul inside of him, it must have responded when he picked it up. That, or the diary wanted to place him at ease.

It's something Harry hasn't thought about since second-year, how the diary made him feel. Yet here it is again. What is creating that connection? Harry doesn't have Voldemort's soul piece inside of him anymore…

Or does he?

He had picked up the soul fragment in Limbo. Before he could ask more questions, he had been spirited away. Arriving, in fact, at Wool's. Dumbledore was nearby. He was waiting for Harry. Death had come to see him.

When Harry picked up the piece, that twisted shard of Voldemort's soul that had clung on to him for seventeen years… did he take it back inside of him?

-

Harry has never felt so at peace.

It resonates deep inside of his bones—makes him gasp and open his eyes from where he's been roused from slumber.

Tom…?

Harry's lashes flutter. His vision is bleary as he fights to wake up more and focus past the strokes of calm, and warmth, and completeness heating him up. What's going on? Why does he feel so good?

Oh—

Tom… He carefully rubs the pad of his thumb against Harry's scar, back and forth, back and forth… His gaze is so focused… His magic—it's just as still as the rest of him…

"Breakfast," Tom murmurs, his smile almost catlike once he sees Harry's eyes focus on him. His magic certainly seems to purr with his satisfaction.

"Er," Harry says, his voice thick with sleep, and—and— "What are you…?"

Tom drops his hand from Harry's scar, and Harry can breathe.

"I need to walk first," Harry mutters, and he, too, releases Tom. His hand—always his hand. It has been a week here at Septennial, a week stuck in this timeline, and he is still unable to resist the call to Tom's side each night.

Harry rolls onto his back to stretch, grateful that he's under the quilt this time. It will hide his unfortunate and inappropriate reaction to what just happened with… that.

Tom follows Harry. He leans over him with his hands to either side of his head, his eyes bright and expectant. Harry has about half a second to process that before Tom—

He kisses Harry! It's only a peck on the lips, hardly a graze, but—

Harry gasps and sits up quickly enough that Tom tumbles to the bed beside him.

"What, er—what are you doing?" Harry asks. He is not proud of the squeak in his voice.

"What adults do," Tom says, a crease appearing between his brows as he scowls up at Harry.

…What adults do…?

The implication sinks in, and Harry flushes all over.

"Tom—we're not—that's not—"

"But you are in my bed," Tom points out, and the smugness in his magic coils about Harry. "Isn't this what adults who share a bed do?"

Harry hisses out a breath through his teeth. There's no way he's going to say, Only because once you go to sleep, your soul—magic?—won't shut up until I touch you. So, instead, he climbs out of bed to get ready for their morning walk.

"How do you even know this stuff?" he mutters.

"Books," Tom says simply.

Books? What books is he reading?

Harry grabs his wand off the nightstand, along with his glasses. When he climbed into bed last night, he was running off a week of exhaustion from waiting until the crack of dawn to catch a handful of hours of sleep. Once the grandfather clock struck midnight, and the lullaby charm didn't work, Harry caved and came here.

He put his things on the nightstand, got under the quilt with Tom, and grasped his hand. He was asleep within moments.

Harry is halfway across the room when he spots Tom scowling into his wardrobe at his new robes.

"What did they do to you?" he tries to joke, to get past the awkwardness of the morning.

Tom turns his scowl on Harry. He grabs a pair of light robes, then storms past Harry, across the corridor and into the loo, and slams the door. Harry stares after him, confused. Why is Tom so upset?

He changes robes in his own bedroom, then waits in the living room for Tom. The other boy comes out soon, looking as immaculately put together as usual—even for a walk—and ignores Harry entirely, striding outside. On his heels, Harry catches the front door before it, too, can slam.

"Tom," he says, catching up to the boy and falling into pace beside him. Tom doesn't slow, his eyes on the meadow ahead. "Tom?"

His ward's magic stings at Harry's skin. It leaves him with the impression of baby fangs gnawing irritably at him. Beneath the irritability is something Harry is more familiar with, something he felt that day at Wool's, when he adopted Tom:

Tom is hurt.

Realization swamps Harry. Technically, he rejected Tom's kiss.

Red floods Harry's cheeks.

He waits until they've crossed the bridge and the flowers of the meadow are pushing at their ankles to say, "There was something I needed to talk to you about today."

Tom doesn't stop walking. He doesn't look Harry's way once, or give any acknowledgement that he heard him.

Harry isn't sure what to do. Tom has never behaved this way before.

Today is Harry's birthday, and Dumbledore will be coming over later in the afternoon. However… Tom still doesn't know that Septennial belongs to the older man. That Dumbledore is Harry's "old friend." Harry has no idea how he'll react to that, and they're already off to a poor start this morning.

"We are special," Tom whispered fiercely to Harry, after they had gotten their wands from a much younger Ollivander, who had been all too excited to tell them that their wands were brothers. New information for Tom—a stone in Harry's chest.

Special.

That frightens Harry a little, too. He's seen what Tom is capable of, when he thinks himself unique—to think he is beyond mankind, that he is something more, something other. But… Tom is just a boy, right now, and Tom has opened up to Harry.

He said Love told him that they are soulmates.

It's something Harry has done a good job of not thinking too closely about, but this morning has brought the worry back to the surface.

Movement catches the corner of his eye.

"Tom." Harry grips onto Tom's shoulder to halt him, tugging him down beside Harry as he drops into a crouch. His heart pounds.

Tom yelps as he lands inelegantly in the dirt and flowers, his scowl deepening into a glare. His magic grows equally as hostile, sinking into Harry like needle-sharp teeth. Harry doesn't think—he puts his hands on Tom's face, cupping it and tilting it up.

The teeth recede.

"We need to be careful," Harry whispers. "Look—over there."

Tom twists his head, gripping onto one of Harry's hands when he drops them in an almost absent manner. Harry's heart moves oddly in his chest. He gazes at the profile of Tom's face as the boy peers alertly into the meadow—as his eyes widen with wonder.

Harry follows his gaze now.

"What is it?" Tom whispers.

"It's a white hart," Harry explains. "It's the guardian of the woods."

The white stag is huge. It shouldn't even be awake at this hour, given the habits of deer, yet there it stands proudly in the sunlight not too far away, its antlers massive. Harry can't see too well from here, but he thinks there are some sort of vines and flowers decorating them.

Tom moves to get closer, and Harry seizes a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down. The needle teeth sensation returns to prickle along Harry's flesh.

"It might hurt you if you get too close," Harry warns. "You must be completely pure of heart for it to trust you. Otherwise, it will attack."

Tom looks unimpressed.

"Fancy getting gored by those antlers?" Harry asks him. "I know I don't."

His new ward opens his mouth—judging by the way the teeth of his magic digs in, it's an unpleasant remark. But instead of voicing it, he returns his attention to the white hart.

They sit there watching the stag until it eventually has its fill of the morning sunlight and dashes back into the woods.

-----

Tom's mood hasn't improved much by the time they've almost finished their walk.

He cannot believe that Harry refused to return his kiss.

Tom has never deigned to kiss anyone. Not their forehead, their cheeks, their hands—nothing. His mouth has stayed clean of such cursed contact. Kisses are… wholly unnecessary, in Tom's opinion. Why would he want someone's wet and sticky mouth on him, when he has no idea where it has been?

Yet…

Yet…

He made an exception (again) for Harry. He spoke honestly, earlier. Harry is in his bed every morning when he wakes up. He is Tom's soulmate, and he does not reject Tom's possession or affection. Why, then?

As they near the stream by the cottage, Harry takes Tom's hand and tugs him to a halt.

"Tom," he begins. "Today…"

He hesitates as Tom regards him. Does he sense Tom's suspicion? Good. Harry looks incredibly nervous, and it does not bode well for whatever it is that he wishes to discuss.  

Harry clears his throat and perseveres. "Professor Dumbledore will be stopping by the cottage today."

…What?

But—

"Why?" Tom asks. The word is tense. He can't hide it, and he does not try. Though it has only been a week since Harry requested Tom's honesty, being honest with Harry with his emotions has felt good. Harry has never once grown upset with him—

"It's my birthday," Harry explains, and Tom's heart drops in his chest. "He—"

"It's your birthday?" Tom demands. His throat feels oddly tight and hot.

Harry looks… surprised… by Tom's response. It's only then that Tom realizes how he sounds—hostile. But he feels hostile.

"You didn't tell me," Tom accuses. "Why wouldn't you tell me?"

His guardian wets his lips. "I didn't think it mattered? I'm not—I wasn't terribly attached to this birthday—"

"You're mine!" Tom bursts out. That is not the way he wanted to tell Harry, but his emotions are roaring through him. He only knows that he is hurt. "Of course, it matters!"

"What?" Harry places a hand on Tom's shoulder, but Tom slaps it away and scrambles back a few steps, unable to bear his touch when he's so upset. He can feel how hard he's trembling. "Tom, what's wrong?"

Tom shakes his head back and forth, hard and fast.

"Tom…"

"Why? Why is he coming here?" Tom demands.

Why does a professor from the school—why does that particular professor—need to be here today? Is he close to Harry?

Dread claws at Tom's throat, threatens to consume him.

What if that old coot tells Harry about the day they met? What if he tells Harry lies? Worse, what if he does not, and Harry still sends Tom back to Wool's, anyway.

He knows if he doesn't wish to go anywhere, if he wishes to stay with Harry, he needs to calm, to get ahold of himself. But he can't. All he can think about is Harry sending him away—of how Harry didn't tell him something so important—it is his birthday—he is Tom's, why would he think Tom would not want to know such a thing—

Why didn't he kiss Tom back—?

Does he not want Tom, after all?

Has he changed his mind already?

"Tom—Tom, calm down! If I don't know what's wrong, I can't—"

Tom can't go back, he can't go back—

He will survive, he will always survive, but Harry is his soulmate—

Harry is his—

"Tom! Tom!"

Harry's hands seize around his shoulders and shake, gently but firmly.

It's enough for Tom to see the flower petals and clumps of dirt in the air, the pebbles. Harry has a cut on his cheek.

The sight of red blooming on his skin deepens Tom's horror. This is his magic. It is unleashed, raining hell on the meadow at their feet, throwing up bits of earth in small chunks—casting it into the air to spin, and spin, and spin all around them. It must have hurt Harry—something must have hit him inadvertently.

He would never hurt his Harry, not like that.

Tom treats his possessions with such care—

"Tom," Harry breathes, and his palms slip up to cup Tom's face, as he had when they had seen the white hart together. It is only then that Tom realizes his cheeks are damp. He is immediately disgusted with himself. He is not a child—he does not cry— "Come here…"

Harry bends in front of Tom, never minding the magic whipping past him, and tips his face up. Green eyes rove over Tom's face—Harry's thumbs carefully wipe away his tears.

Tom glowers at him, trembling still, his chest heaving up and down.

He does not push his Harry away.

"I'm sorry," Harry breathes. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Tom's glare deepens, but before he can tell Harry that he isn't hurt, that he is fine, Harry kisses him.

His lips, while slightly chapped, are so warm—

It's over so quickly.

Tom sniffles, staring up at his soulmate.

A smile crosses Harry's lips, but he doesn't release Tom, not yet. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about my birthday, Tom. I didn't think you would care—"

"You're mine," Tom whines, sniffling again, and he hates it. He hates how he feels. He hates what's happened. There are more words, of course—how he deserves to know everything about what is his—but they stick in his throat.

Harry's smile widens. "Tom. I'm not going anywhere. No matter what happens. All right? I'm here to stay. I promise."

Harry is full of promises, of what he must think are golden words.

But they work. Harry's green eyes are so earnest, and while Tom knows that he can use that, he also sees no lie in that gaze. The older boy's magic is just as guileless, as focused on Tom as the rest of him. It endears him to Harry even more.

Harry straightens and pulls Tom into a hug. Tom leans into him, his hands clutching at Harry's back, his smile hidden away where it's buried in Harry's chest.

"Let's go make breakfast, yeah?" Harry offers, and Tom nods into him. He tips his head back to smile, his chin resting on Harry's chest. Harry grins back. "Brilliant."

-

Dumbledore arrives after lunch in a shower of flames.

Before Tom can do more than blink from where he's seated on the living room sofa, the flames vanish. Harmless, it would appear. They leave behind the professor and… a large bird, perched on his shoulder. It is as crimson and gold as the rest of this room.

Today, Dumbledore isn't wearing that horrid plum suit he'd donned when he came to give Tom his letter. In its place are robes that Tom can only describe as… festive… They are lime in color, with what would appear to be a butterfly pattern sewn into them. They clash horribly with his auburn hair, which is clipped back with a butterfly pin.

When he sees Tom silently observing him, he breaks into a twinkling smile and says, "Good afternoon, Tom!"

Tom hates him.

"Good afternoon, sir," Tom says. He uses his most polite voice. Though Dumbledore will recognize it for what it is—extraordinarily fake—Tom has resolved to be on his best behavior while the man is here. Tom believes Harry's promise, that he won't leave Tom, but he doesn't wish to give Dumbledore a reason to say anything to Harry.

Still…

"Do you visit all of your students on their birthdays?" His question is innocent in its curiosity.

"I do not," Dumbledore admits easily. He offers nothing further, his gaze roving over the living room, taking note of its tidiness, before he returns his attention to Tom. "Have you ever seen a phoenix before, Tom?"

What a stupid question.

Of course, he hasn't. He's been in the wizarding world for one week.

Still, he smiles for Dumbledore. "No, sir."

"Well, you're in luck. They're quite handsome, aren't they?" Dumbledore reaches up to the bird on his shoulder and strokes its chest feathers. "This one is named Fawkes. He has been my friend for a few years now."

Tom looks at Fawkes, who coos softly at him.

"Professor!" Harry says, and Tom twists in his seat to see his guardian return to the living room, his eyes on the older man and his bird. "Fawkes! Er—" He flushes. "Hello, Fawkes. I'm Harry."

The phoenix coos again and blinks at Harry with great affection.

Tom hates it, too.

Toward the back of the cottage, a shrill whistle breaks free. Dumbledore turns in surprise, Fawkes clutching onto his shoulder, and Harry winces.

Tom rises to see to his new pet owl that Harry purchased him at Diagon Alley, a greater sooty owl that he has named Athena. She is the color of soot indeed, with white flecks dotting her feathers. Her eyes are solid black. She is beautiful.

Just as he opens the door to his bedroom, he feels the barest of weights land on his shoulder, and then warm feathers press against his cheek. Talons grip onto his shoulder with a similar real lack of pressure.

The phoenix.

He should be far heavier, yet he has made himself incredibly light.

Tom wonders what game Dumbledore is playing at.

He decides that it does not matter. He will endure the phoenix's presence and pass whatever test this is. There is no doubt in Tom's mind that it is one.

Fawkes nibbles at Tom's ear.

Annoyance flares in Tom—he stifles it the best he can and looks for where Athena is resting. The owl's black eyes focus on Tom, and the floorboards creak underfoot as he crosses to her. She is nocturnal—did the noise wake her?

The phoenix on his shoulder does not seem to care that Tom is busy. He continues to nibble Tom's ear, followed by his neck, his temple, his curls. It grows steadily more insistent and ticklish until a giggle rips free from him before he can hold onto it.

He glares at Fawkes, but the bird only coos and presses his beak into Tom's cheek.

Tom huffs and soothes Athena for a few minutes, who doesn't seem to mind the presence of the phoenix pestering him.

On his way back to the living room, he stays as quiet as he can. He draws to a stop when Dumbledore and his Harry's voices reach him.

"…I just think—you must admit, it's strange," Harry says, and Dumbledore hums in agreement. "I thought we could talk about it. Later."

"Of course," the redhead murmurs. And then, without turning around, "Is your owl all right, Tom?"

Tom hears Harry's breath draw in, and he scowls. What might Harry have said, if he wasn't alerted to the fact Tom is in the corridor?   

"She is," Tom says.

"Right," Harry says, and as Tom comes into view, he falters for a moment, his eyes on where the phoenix perches on Tom's shoulder. The feathered menace hasn't budged an inch.

Harry's face—his magic—it goes soft. Malleable. Circling low, enticing Tom…

He speaks to Dumbledore, but his eyes don't leave Tom, and Tom smiles at him. "Would you like some tea, Professor?"

-

Fawkes refuses to leave Tom's shoulder, and Dumbledore won't stop asking him questions. How does he feel about the coming start of term? and similar topics make Tom's skin itch with the desire to do—something—he doesn't know what, but he knows it will not be pleasant, whatever it is.

And so, while Harry prepares their tea, Tom keeps his lips tipped in a polite smile, and he keeps his answers to the professor just as polite. Occasionally, Harry's gaze flicks over to where he is seated with Dumbledore at the table, and his smile returns.

Tom is happy for that, if nothing else. When Harry gives him his full attention, it is the best feeling in the world.

"You've got your wand," Dumbledore says, his eyes lighting on the stick of holly in Harry's hand. "Ollivander wrote to me, informing me that the wands Fawkes gave his feathers to were claimed. He seemed very happy, and he expects great things from the two of you."

Harry strokes his fingers gingerly along the phoenix's head. "Thank you, Fawkes."

The charmed teacups from the cabinet settle themselves onto the table. As Harry seats himself between Tom and Dumbledore, setting the kettle down, Tom turns over the information he was just given.

He eyes Fawkes. The feather in his wand's core comes from Dumbledore's phoenix?

But… it also ties him to Harry—and it is his wand, and he will not let Dumbledore ruin this for him.

"I brought a gift with me," Dumbledore says. He waves his own wand, and piles of candy appear on the table, the likes of which Tom has never seen before. Colorful boxes all declare Honeydukes on them. "My other gift, I fear, needs a little more time to be completed. I should have it for you by the time you come to Hogwarts."

"Yes, Professor," Harry says with a soft little laugh. He picks up a pentagonal box and slides it over to Tom. "Honeydukes has the best candy. Try this: it's called a Chocolate Frog. It's one of my favorites."

"Oh, yes, and try the Fizzing Whizbees after," Dumbledore adds, smiling at Tom over his glasses. "That will be a pleasant surprise."

Tom fights not to narrow his eyes at Dumbledore, or to say that he hates surprises (which is untrue).

"No beans?" Harry asks the professor, and the man laughs.

"Why do I feel as though you know of my distaste for this particular candy?" Dumbledore picks a box off the table that is labeled Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. To Tom, he says, "It's really every flavor. My first ever bean, in fact, was earwax—"

Tom takes the box from him just to shut him up.

-

When it's time for their visitor to go, he disappears the way he arrived—in flames, with Fawkes roosting on his shoulder.

Harry's hands land on Tom's shoulders from behind, and Tom tips his head back to see him.

"I want to try baking a cake," his soulmate announces. Green eyes glitter down at Tom, as bright as Harry's magic. "Come help me."

Tom groans. It is only half in any real protest.

"I'll let you lick the batter," Harry offers. "Can't promise how it'll taste, but…"

"Very well," Tom concedes. "But only because it's your birthday, Harry."

Harry laughs, and the sound (his magic), it warms through Tom more surely than any other ever has. He snugs his hand into Harry's on the way back into the kitchen.

His soulmate squeezes their palms together.

"You've never baked a cake?" Tom asks him.

"Not that I can recall," Harry murmurs.  

Tom's sense of contentment deepens.

"Happy birthday, Harry," he says, and the way Harry lights up, the happiness on his face—

It is a small, unexpected gift of its own.

Chapter Text

The Hogwarts kitchens are full of the scent of cooking as the house-elves work. They made sure the boys were laden with food when they first entered, and then they retreated.

It's disruptive of Harry and Tom to be here, honestly—breakfast is ongoing on the floor above—but being stared at by their fellow faculty members is worse.

At the beginning of summer, the faculty as a collective stayed at the school instead of returning home until September. They've been working on rebuilding Hogwarts, on repairing the damage that was left by Voldemort's attack. Tom and Harry are assisting, and there are a few professors on loan from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, who also wished to help.

It's invigorating to Harry to see everyone so willing to work together, when such unity was so hard to find in the not-so-distant past. Of course, Harry feels the difference keenly. For Harry, it's been years since Voldemort was back in power.

Ever since Bellatrix Lestrange called Tom her lord at her trial, there's been a bit of an uproar. There's nothing they can do to stop it, either, except to deny that claim. While the Ministry was quick to also deny it, speculation has run rampant—primarily because one Rita Skeeter just won't let it go.

The amount of speculative articles she's written on Harry Potter and Tom Evans since the trial is indicative of a few things. One, Rita Skeeter clearly has more time on her hands than she knows what to do with. Two, she has an audience for all the digging she's tried to do into Tom's past. Three, if it wasn't this, it would be something else.

Harry has kept to himself since the timeline resumed. The Ministry doesn't like it. Kingsley has sent him more than a few letters, all with the intention of involving Harry in the Aurors, or politics. It's tiresome.

Ron and Hermione don't like the distance, either, but at least he has a meal with them tonight to clear everything up.

Tom pushes Harry's copy of the Daily Prophet back across the table. His face, his magic, is clouded with irritation.

"What?" Harry asks between bites of his eggs.

Tom shakes his head.

"Rita Skeeter again?" Harry reaches for his toast.

"She needs to get a life," Tom says, and Harry smiles.

"We're of the same mind," he says.

"We rarely are not—these days, at least," Tom murmurs.

Harry's smile widens at the reminder that they were once prophesized enemies. Beneath the table, Tom's ankles hook around his. It's comfortable. Familiar.

It's perfect.

-

They spend the morning on repairs to the castle. After lunch, everyone disperses to relax. The new term begins on the morrow. As much as Harry and Tom are prepared, they are eager to enjoy their last moments of peace.

In the afternoon, they head to Grimmauld Place. The townhome is in the process of renovation, and it's where the boys will stay during holidays. Renovation is taking a moment, due to the unforeseen severity of its state by the renovators. They hadn't quite believed Harry when he told them how much work it needed.

For now, the boys are its sole occupants. Tom roams upstairs, exploring on his own, while Harry cooks dinner in the kitchen. Ron and Hermione are due to arrive within the hour.

Knives chop vegetables on their own behind Harry while he works on the main dish. He's hardly aware of them, lost in his own world of preparing dinner and a question Tom asked him just before they Apparated to Grimmauld Place.

"Harry… I did not think to consider it when I was a child and unaware of who you really are," he began. He slipped his hand securely around Harry's elbow for Side-Along.

(Harry misses when Tom would grab his hand for traveling, but he knows, in his heart, that one day—one day, Tom will stop hesitating in his affection.)

"What?" Harry asked, when Tom had paused.

"The small fortune you had while you raised… the other me," Tom said.

He's still unable to think of himself and the Tom that Harry held guardianship of in the past as the same person. Harry understands, as much as he's able, but he's also worried that Tom will drive himself mad if he doesn't start looking at it otherwise.

"How did you come by it?" Tom asked.

"It was given to me," Harry said.

"Dumbledore?" Tom replied, skepticism sharp in his magic, a burst of spiders over Harry's skin.

"That tickles," Harry said with a shiver. "No. It was me."

"You?"

"Another me."

"Another you…" Tom murmured, pensive.

He Apparated them to Grimmauld Place before Harry could say another word about it, and there hasn't been time to since. It's far from dropped, however. As the other boy wanders about upstairs, his magic occasionally lashes across Harry's—a cat, batting at a shiny light. At least, Tom has always described Harry's magic as what Harry privately thinks of as a Snitch.

Harry is mostly able to ignore it until a wave of rage slams into him, and his scar flares, sending white hot prickles of agony through his head.

The rage is gone as soon as it came.

Harry finds himself gripping onto the kitchen counter, panting, disoriented. He hasn't felt his scar do that in… he can't remember.

Pressing a trembling hand to his scar—the skin there warm beneath his touch—Harry pushes upright. The knives his magic was controlling have fallen beside their cutting boards. As he heads to where he can still feel Tom's magic—an angry pulse, though Harry's scar doesn't react—he reflects on why his scar had always hurt before.

He finds Tom in a part of the townhome that hasn't been refurbished yet. The other boy stands before a bedroom door.

Do Not Enter Without the Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black

"The one time you explore, and this is what you find," Harry chuckles breathlessly.

Tom is silent, his magic puffed up around him in such a manner that it reminds Harry of a cat who had its hair petted in the wrong direction. Brilliant. Harry gets to guess what the matter is. Fortunately, he thinks he has an idea.

"Y'know, when I told you everything—" Harry begins.

Tom pushes the door open to Regulus Black's bedroom and, for lack of a better word, storms in. He paces about, looking at everything, his hands in tight fists at his sides. His magic… Well, Harry is content to stay right where he is, in the threshold of the door.

Resting his shoulder against it, he crosses his arms and folds one ankle over the other.

"Did you tell me everything?" Tom asks him, and when his eyes flash at Harry on his next pace past him, they're red.

"I s'pose I told you the important bits," Harry says. "You've had a lot on your plate since this timeline resumed—"

"Do not use that as an excuse!" Tom snaps. Trembling hard enough to match his lashing magic, he stops in the middle of the bedroom floor and turns to Harry. Accusation lines his face.

Harry holds up his hands, palms outward in a placating gesture. "Tom. What's this really about?"

Tom draws in a breath, hard enough that Harry thinks that he's about to yell—his scar prickles dangerously—but Tom only curls his lip and looks away.

"…Your friends," he says at length, the words terse.

"Ron and Hermione?"

"Yes."

"Tom," Harry sighs. "I understand that you're… worried. But I can't keep them in the dark any longer. The new term begins tomorrow, Hermione is one of my students—"

Tom's magic sinks teeth into him. The sensation is no longer like baby fangs—it's much sharper, and Harry breaks off with a hiss and a glare.

"Stop that," he reprimands. "Use your words, Tom."

But Tom is no longer a child. He is a boy, barely graduated Hogwarts—he is decades of a former Dark Lord. He bares his teeth at Harry instead of struggling to contain his temper.

"My scar," Harry says. "It hasn't hurt in years."

Tom's eyes burn into Harry's, red, red, red.

"It hurts now," Harry says. "Please, Tom—"

Red pupils slip back to brown as remorse floods Tom's handsome features. "Your scar hurts?"

He crosses the room in two strides, and then he has Harry's face cupped in his palms. Tom presses his lips to Harry's scar.

Harry's eyes close as warmth shudders through him. He fights not to lean into Tom—wraps his fingers around Tom's wrists to steady himself.

"I'm sorry," Tom whispers against his skin. "I'm so sorry, darling."

"It's all right," Harry whispers back.

"It is far from—"

Harry squeezes onto Tom's wrists until he quiets, tension in his shoulders.

"It's all right," Harry says again. He nuzzles the tip of his nose into Tom's. "Maybe hosting dinner here was a bad idea. Sorry."

"Harry—"

His name is said in such a raw way that tears touch his eyes. He swallows against the hot lump in his throat and blinks them back.

Tom's magic rubs against Harry's—slowly, so slowly—as the other boy presses his lips back to Harry's scar, his long fingers in Harry's curls.

"Never apologize to me," Tom whispers. "You will never owe me an apology."

Harry scoffs. The sound is shuddery, wet. "Tom, what're you—"

"I am a monster," Tom says softly, seriously, "the things I have done—"

"You?" Harry laughs. He licks his lips and tastes salt. "The things I—"

Tom presses the pad of his thumb against Harry's lips as his hand slips down to cup the curve of Harry's jaw.

"Nothing you have done to me or will do to me will ever—ever…" Tom brings his lips to Harry's scar a third time. He sighs there, against Harry's skin. "Nothing will ever come close to the crimes I have committed against you, my Harry."

In moments like this, Harry feels as if they haven't left the past at all. As if the boy he adopted from the orphanage is still here, in his arms as he wraps them around Tom. As if Tom never had to go through what he did in this timeline.

As if he has always had Harry's love.

Harry tightens his grip and simply hangs on.

-

He greets his friends in the living room, where the Floo spits them out. Hermione arrives first, followed moments later by Ron. They take turns hugging him, long and hard, once they've finished siphoning soot off their robes. To this Floo's credit, there isn't much of it.

"I love what you've done with the place, Harry," Hermione says as Harry gives the couple a small tour of what's been renovated.

Her tone is polite.

It holds a world of unspoken questions.

And, well, how can Harry blame her? The last time she saw Harry was the day that Voldemort died and Tom was reborn. Harry hadn't left Tom's side. There had been no time for talk. Since then, they've communicated via letters.

"Yeah, mate," Ron says. "It's not, er—" He breaks off with an embarrassed flush, even though it's no secret how much of a dump Grimmauld Place was before. "It looks great."

Harry's friends don't know how to behave around him. That becomes increasingly clear once he no longer has anything to show them, and they return downstairs. Silence creeps in, until it covers them in a thick blanket.

Harry fights not to suffocate in it. With the amount of tension between the three of them, they are, too.

"Toad in the hole!" Hermione exclaims upon entering the kitchen and seeing the set table. "Ohh, I haven't had that in ages!"

"Mum made it last week," Ron says with a furrow to his brows, and Hermione looks up at the ceiling.

"As I said… ages," Hermione says in a strained sort of voice. Hastily, she seats herself, her cheeks as red as Ron's had been earlier. "It smells delicious, Harry."

Harry fights not to grin. He shouldn't enjoy her discomfort.

The boys sit at the table, as well, and Harry allows himself a small smile as everyone digs in.

-

He tells them everything.

Well—mostly everything. There are some things that Harry doesn't think he'll ever tell anyone. Which is likely what Tom had sussed out of whatever background for Harry he seems to be piecing together.

They'll need to discuss it more once Ron and Hermione are gone, of course.

"So—you're telling us that we were…" Ron wets his lips and exchanges an uncertain glance with Hermione. "That all of us… We were frozen in time for seven years?"

Harry nods, once.

"And—and this Tom Evans bloke that my sister has been telling me looks like that thing from the Horcrux—"

"It's not a thing," Harry mutters.

"It tried to kill Ginny!" Ron retorts. "You're not seriously defending—"

Hermione puts her hand on Ron's arm. He quiets with a glare and turns his head away.

"What I think Ron is trying to ask, is if—if you're really saying that… Tom Evans… is Tom Riddle?"

"I believe I just did," Harry says. He folds his arms and frowns at his friends. "Why is this so hard to believe?"

"Well, Harry, it's just—" Hermione begins, but Ron cuts her off.

"Everyone thinks You-Know-Who is dead, and good riddance, and now you're telling us that the Dark Lord is your… your…" The redhead's face is red, this time with anger. He can't seem to bring himself to finish.

But Harry has nothing to hide from them when it comes to Tom.

"I understand how you feel, Ron. I do. But I love Tom," Harry says.

"You love the Tom you adopted in the past," Hermione counters. "Harry, would you still love him, if V-Vol—if… Tom didn't have those memories?"

"Yes," Harry says. He knows everything about Tom Riddle. Everything.

Perhaps that's why Tom is so upset. Harry knows everything about Tom, but Tom doesn't know everything about Harry.

Harry will remedy this soon.

"Listen," Harry says into the tense silence that has gathered since his honest answer. "I don't expect you to understand. But tomorrow, we'll both be at Hogwarts."

Ron's face pales. "He's teaching?"

Harry tries not to wince. Tom, wherever he is, is listening to them right now, he knows he is. And Ron's response is exactly what he's spent weeks worried about.

"Yes," Harry says again.

"Does McGonagall know who he really is?" Ron demands.

"No," Harry admits. "She thinks he's a relative."

"You do look similar," Hermione muses.

"Hermione! This isn't—"

"I know, Ronald, I just don't think right now is the time to argue," Hermione mutters. "Listen, Harry…" She pushes away her plate. Her food is mostly untouched, as she stopped eating early into Harry's tale. "I want to believe you, that he's… better. But…"

"But you need to see it," Harry says. "You will. Soon. I promise."

"You're not about to go on about how much he's changed, are you?" Ron mutters. "I don't think I could stomach it."

Harry leans across the table, and he takes Hermione's right hand and Ron's left hand and holds onto them, ignoring the way Ron blushes and squirms. He isn't used to Harry being so tactile. Still, he settles quickly, his gaze curious.

"Just because I've forgiven him, it doesn't mean that I expect you to, as well," Harry says. "And it's not up to me to earn your forgiveness for him. That's for Tom to do."

-

The dinner ends earlier than Harry anticipated, yet likely should have. Hermione cites an early night to prepare for their first day at school tomorrow (he still has no idea what her thoughts are of his professorship, but he suspects he will discover them soon). Ron, of course, goes with her.

Just before Hermione steps into the Floo, she says, "Where is You-Kn—Tom at?" A strip of pink rests over her cheeks at the fumble. "I'll get used to it, Harry, I swear."

"I won't," Ron mutters behind her, but Harry doesn't need to worry over a slip-up from Ron. He's joining his brother to help with the joke shop.

Tom emerges from the depths of the upstairs once their voices fade. Harry can tell by the coil of his magic, and the pensiveness that's returned to his expression, that Tom doesn't want to waste time with small talk. He'd rather get right to the main event—

Harry's secrets.

"All right," Harry sighs, exhausted.

He would like comfort after what happened with his friends—though it's true that he hasn't truly seen them in seven years, he still loves them. But Tom is and always will be the last person he expects comfort from when it comes to having people in his life other than Tom.

It surprises him, then, when Tom carefully pulls Harry into his arms and rests their cheeks together. While it's true that he offers no words of comfort, his embrace, his touch, brings more comfort in that moment than mere words ever could.

-August 1938-

Tom is both excited for his coming first-year term at Hogwarts and disappointed that his holiday with Harry and only Harry (with the exception of Dumbledore and Fawkes visiting for tea every Sunday) is drawing to a close.

He doubts that when school begins, he will be able to sleep with Harry any longer. Harry won't cook his meals and smile at Tom over the effort of what they've made. They won't Apparate to Diagon Alley when they're bored and browse the bookstore for Tom, or the Quidditch shop for Harry.

They won't read together, or practice Tom's letters with the quill—which often seem like a Sisyphean task in disguise, when Tom would prefer to learn it as efficiently as when he writes with a pencil. They won't tend to the potions garden (Harry uses magic when he works outside, and he allows Tom to watch); they won't walk through the meadow in the mornings and the evenings, and sometimes see the white hart in the distance…

At the same time, Tom would never pass over the chance to attend a school for magic. Harry will be there, too. He can't remember the last time he genuinely looked forward to something. Perhaps when he knew his soulmate was coming… but before that, he can't recall.

-

A week before they're due to leave for school, Tom meets a snake. She is the sweetest one he has ever encountered and the color of Harry's eyes. He names her Echidna, a name he found in one of the many books Harry has forced himself to study.

(As much as Harry claims to enjoy Transfiguration, he certainly seems to struggle…)

He first finds the grass snake slithering across their front yard. Tom retrieves it and sits in front of Harry, where he is studying cross-legged on a conjured blanket, his head bowed over a book. They've spent the better part of the morning outdoors. Lunch is soon.

The snake winds itself along Tom's arm and over Tom's wrist.

Before Tom can say a word, Harry asks, "Is that meant to intimidate me?" He looks down at the snake. "Hullo. Are you a friend? Are you enjoying our garden?"

Tom's eyes widen as snake language—what Harry told him is called Parseltongue—slips off his soulmate's lips.

"Speaker," the snake hisses in surprise. "Tell small one to put me down."

Harry laughs. "I guess you should put it down, Tom."

Tom stares down at the snake around his wrist. He pulls it up to his face and peers into its tiny black eyes. "You don't want to be released, not really—do you?"

"Of course not," the snake hisses after a moment, entranced by Tom. He knows it is his magic that has made it so pliant. "I'll stay with you."

Pleased, Tom smiles to himself. "What's your name?"

"Name?"

"What the other snakes call you."

The grass snake releases a hiss for syllables Tom can't imagine as a name, and he wrinkles his nose. "I'll find you a new name. You want that, don't you? A new name?"

"Tom…" Harry murmurs.

Tom doesn't lift his attention from the snake's gaze, and when it consents, he rises to his feet.

"Tom—" Harry says.

Leaving Harry sitting there with furrowed brows, Tom crosses the yard to go back inside. It is time to find his new pet a name.

-----

I can speak to snakes. I found out when we've been to the country on trips—they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?

"Tom, you can't keep it."

It's the first thing Harry tells him, once he's entered the living room and found Tom with his grass snake. He has several books around him open, and Harry has a vivid flash of memory to when he first had Hedwig.

"Of course, I can," Tom says. "We're allowed pets at Hogwarts."

"You have a pet," Harry replies, a little taken aback by the frostiness in Tom's tone, and the way the boy's eyes stare into him. "More importantly, snakes aren't allowed."

"Fine," Tom says, in a sweeter tone. The hairs on the back of Harry's neck stand up. "I'll keep her until I go to school, then."

For a moment, Harry finds himself at a loss. He rarely needs to parent Tom. It's more awkward than it should be, given that Harry is, technically, his guardian.

"It isn't a thing to control, Tom," Harry says softly. Much like when Tom had held the grass snake's gaze, Harry stares into Tom's eyes. "Let it go. Then, if it wants to stay, I'll allow it until we leave for Hogwarts."

Teeth.

Harry ignores the dig of Tom's magic and folds his arms. This isn't something he'll back down on. More importantly, why is Tom behaving in this manner? Is it because Harry spoke in Parseltongue? But why?

It was impulsive, a little, to do it—but Tom sat before Harry with this gleam in his eyes, and Harry sensed mischief. He spoke without much thought.

Tom doesn't look away for the longest time, his fingers petting over the grass snake's unusually green scales. Harry doesn't think he's ever seen one that shade of green before.

The boy sets the snake on the floor, and they both watch as it slithers away. Harry picks it up and sets it back outside in the yard. It hisses its thanks and disappears into the grass. He has a feeling they'll see it again.

Harry returns to the living room, only to find Tom isn't there anymore. He's in his bedroom, pacing, trembling, his expression—his magic—dark, forbidding. Rather like that day in the meadow, when Harry returned Tom's kiss.

Tom had felt rejected then. Hurt. 

"Tom," Harry says softly from where he leans against the doorway. "I know you're upset with me."

Dark eyes turn his way in a glare.

"Why?" Harry presses.

Tom must have been waiting for Harry to ask what upset him, because he says, immediately, his eyes burning into Harry's, "You didn't tell me you're a Parselmouth!"

His magic flares as he shouts, and those teeth dig in.

"Tom." Harry crosses the room to him. He slides his hands over Tom's shoulders. He lets them keep sliding up until they cup Tom's cheeks. As immediately as the shout had come, Tom relaxes, his magic settling about Harry in loose coils.

"Why not?" Tom demands, the words mostly a pout. "Why wouldn't you tell me something that important? I thought it was rare. You said it was rare. I spoke to you, and you pretended you didn't understand me."

He pushes himself into Harry's arms, nuzzling his face into Harry's chest. Harry's arms fold around him with an instinct he is incapable of describing. He only knows that he can't imagine not holding Tom when he's like this.

"Well," Harry murmurs, "I'm not a Parselmouth, Tom."

Tom lifts his head. "Then how—?"

"There's—something inside of me, something given to me when I was a child," Harry murmurs. "I'm able to speak Parseltongue because of it."

Tom's brows push together.

"I don't remember it," Harry says. "Well, not much of it. I found out I had the ability when I was nearly your age."

Tom's face goes opaque. His magic stills. He seems to be considering something.

"Tom?" Harry asks.

He pushes his face back into Harry's chest, and Harry inches his fingers into Tom's curls. The boy's grip on him tightens. "Then why did you hide it from me?" The words come out muffled, smothered as they are by Harry's robes.

"I'm sorry for that," Harry says. "It's… instinct, I s'pose. I warned you that our people—that they might not see it for what it is: a gift."

Tom has many thoughts on that. He has proven himself to be very opinionated on what Harry has taught him about the magical world already. Yet he only nods into Harry's chest, seemingly accepting his answer for what it is.

"You are my soulmate," Tom says. "Of course, you can speak Parseltongue."

Harry doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't. He just strokes Tom's curls, and he wonders what else Death didn't warn him about. One day, perhaps, he'll adjust to Tom's tendency to cling onto him—he'll be able to think of how Tom is his soulmate without blushing and quietly worrying.

Today is not that day.

-----

The dream!

Tom had nearly forgotten!

In the dream Tom had of a younger Harry, just before Harry came to adopt him… One of the boys said that Harry had talked to a snake.

Harry's secrets have never been starker to Tom. The taller boy claimed it was a gift he was given as a child—that he took no notice of it until later…

Yet that doesn't seem strictly true. Harry's magic… It had dimmed—shrunk away from Tom and clung close to Harry.

He's hiding something.

Tom wonders—

He wonders if it's because…

Are they—

Are they related?

-

They must be, Tom decides after a few days.

His snake comes back, curious of the "speakers" in residence. Tom, mindful of Harry's eye on him, doesn't attempt to control her again. (It is a "her," he discovers.) Harry speaks as fluently as Tom, and freely.

Tom engages him in conversation speaking only Parseltongue often after that. At first, Harry hesitates when he hears the language of the snakes—but not in the way Mrs. Cole and the others at the orphanage did. He seems more surprised than anything.

Then, gradually, his eyes soften when Tom speaks it, and he will often pet Tom's curls. Tom isn't certain what that is about, entirely, but he will accept any and all affection from his Harry.

They look so similar. Tom, an orphan, has spent years studying the faces of others, searching for any sign that he is not alone in this world. That he has family.

Harry's hair is curly, as is Tom's. It is the same shade of black as Tom's. He is tall and slender like Tom. He speaks Parseltongue. He came to adopt Tom, and whenever Tom asked him about his past, he found a way to deflect discussing it, until Tom stopped asking altogether.

Tom does not know much about Harry's past, perhaps, but he does know him in the present. In the present, Harry feels guilty of something. Lying to Tom about their relations?

But why hide it?

Tom desires to bring his discovery to Harry, but he worries Harry will laugh at him. As much as Tom does not need anyone… he needs Harry. And, as such, this topic is too difficult to broach until a much later time. Perhaps once Tom has more evidence.

Until then, he spends the last few days of the summer holiday packing for school and learning more from Harry about their world.

-

Every morning, Tom opens his eyes to find Harry asleep next to him, holding onto his hand. This morning, the morning Tom and Harry depart for Hogwarts, is no different.

Tom allows himself to rouse more slowly than usual. Judging by the way the sun hasn't fully risen and the chirping of the birds outside his window, it is early. Harry slumbers heavily, the occasional, small snore escaping him. He chose not to climb beneath the quilt last night, it would seem, and sleeps on his back, his face slightly turned away from Tom.

His scar is exposed.

Carefully, so carefully that he doesn't trust himself even to breathe, Tom reaches out and strokes it with the tip of his finger.

Harry's brows furrow, but he doesn't stir. The first few times Tom did this, he would, flushed and jerking his hips away from Tom, his eyes so bright when they popped open. Tom has learned since then, through persistence, that if he strokes lightly enough, Harry won't wake at all.

He makes the most content sounds in his sleep, when Tom rubs his scar.

This morning, perhaps in part because he has nothing covering him, Tom sees Harry's… reaction… to being touched in such a manner. It lifts against his pajama bottoms, tenting them, and his magic… his magic… it gives the headiest spirals…

Usually, Tom allows himself to drift with those spirals, content to only touch Harry's scar while the other boy sleeps, unaware. This is different. Harry has given him something new about him to explore.

A secret, unveiled.

Tom works open Harry's pajamas and pants. It takes him forever—he must keep one eye on Harry, touch his scar, and pull his cock out without waking him. But then he has it free and gripped up against his palm.

The skin there is soft. So soft… As soft as his own.

Not that Tom has explored it like he explores Harry's. His fingers stroke everywhere—carefully, so carefully…—half his attention on Harry's face, on his mouth, where the most enticing sounds are falling out.

Harry's skin is flushed. It looks as warm as Tom's—it's a strange feeling. The low swooping of Harry's magic has caught Tom up in the sensation, and he can feel it behind his navel. His breath comes harder, much as Harry's does.

Clear fluid gathers at the head of Harry's cock. It slickens his fingers as he loses track of moving slowly, as he follows that swooping, chasing it with his fingers, until cries are rolling out of Harry's mouth, and his eyes flash open.

"What—?" he asks, disoriented, his voice lower than Tom has ever heard it.

Tom whimpers. Harry's fingers slip around his wrist, as if to pull Tom's hand away from his scar. They tighten in the next moment as his hips jut up into Tom's fingers, and a long, hoarse groan falls from him. It excites Tom in ways he doesn't fully understand.

And then hot, thick fluid is covering his fingers in strings of pearly white.

Harry's head falls back onto the pillow. He trembles, his eyes on the ceiling as they come back into focus.

Tom licks his finger to taste what coats it.

"Tom!" Harry squeaks, and Tom lifts his gaze.

His guardian is so red.

"H-Here, let me…" Harry fumbles for where his wand rests on his nightstand, and then he collects Tom's hand and cleans it off with a muttered spell.

Tom watches him all the while, silent, achy.

"Tom," Harry says, breathless still. He wets his lips. He does not look at Tom. "We can't—we can't do that sort of thing, all right? It's not… It's not—"

"You are my soulmate," Tom says. It is simple to him.

"I… I am," Harry says, and Tom is pleased. Harry so rarely acknowledges it. "But, Tom…" He sits up and cleans off his dirtied cock, then sets his wand aside and tucks himself back into his pajamas. "You're…" He wets his lips, his eyes on his hands. "You're young, Tom. I know you don't want to hear that—"

"You're right," Tom says, crisply. "I don't."

Harry sighs and drags his hands over his face. "Well, you are," he mutters. And then, louder, in the firm tone Tom has come to associate with a stubborn Harry, "You mustn't touch me like that again, Tom."

"Ever?" Tom growls.

Harry flushes. His magic zips high. "…I—I didn't say that. I—" High, higher. "Look, we can talk about it—about it later, all right. But, for now…" He takes a deep and steadying breath. "For now, we get ready for school."

-----

Had that really happened?

Had Tom… really—done… that this morning?

Harry can't wrap his mind round it, so he stops trying and focuses on feeding Tom breakfast. They can finish their last-minute packing after and Apparate to Platform 9 ¾.

Tom seems in no real hurry, and Harry wonders where his sense of excitement is. He doesn't need to for long—once they're both very certain they have everything, they leave, Tom's hand tucked safely into Harry's.

Harry explained that the arm is customary, but Tom didn't listen. Now here they are, what Harry has begun to consider life with Tom. He knows that isn't good—that he needs to get better at saying no to the boy—but it's surprisingly difficult.

Maybe not. He did grow up to lead what basically amounts to a cult in Harry's timeline. A cult that amassed an army.  

Harry promises himself to stay more vigilant going forward. At least he will be safe from sharing Tom's bed, now that they'll be in separate dorms and across the castle from one another. Harry shouldn't be able to hear Tom's soul calling out to him anymore. He'll be able to get some decent sleep for once.

Tom stares round the platform with wide eyes. Hoots and mewls rent the air over the bustle of parents with their children. Tom holds onto Harry's hand as they climb onto the train to find a compartment and put their things away.

Harry doesn't bother dissuading him. As much as it makes him blush, a guilty part of him likes the way it feels when they hold hands. It didn't feel like that with Ginny… Which is usually when he stops thinking about it, because—as he told Tom this morning—Tom is… He's too young for Harry to have these sorts of thoughts.

And to wake up to find Tom above him, his dark eyes riveted to where he was stroking Harry's cock, those pale cheeks flushed, and his curls rumpled…

It's—it's wrong, to think about it.

"Here?" Tom asks.

"Yes," Harry says, and they slide into a compartment with relative ease.

Harry helps him put his trunk and his owl away, along with his own.

Just as he's finished, he hears an unknown voice say from behind him, "Is this compartment taken?"

Harry turns to see who he thinks, for a moment, is his father. Once his heart stops pounding so hard, he sees that it's not his father at all, but… a relative, undoubtedly.

"Yes," Tom says from beside Harry, and he chuckles.

"No. Come in," Harry offers.

"You look… familiar," the new boy says. "I'm Charlus. Charlus Potter. And you are?"

Harry's chest is so tight. "Harry Evans. This is my—this is Tom Riddle."

Tom glares up at Charlus with distrustful eyes.

Charlus gives a grin that Harry has seen in the mirror countless times before.

"Is this your brother?" He lets himself into the compartment and puts his things away.

Probably the only two Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts since the great Slytherin himself. We even look something alike…

Harry wets his lips. "No. He's my ward."

Tom's fingers dig into the back of Harry's hand with bruising force.

"Your ward?" Charlus tips his head, then sits. "That's bound to be an interesting story."

If only you had any idea… Harry thinks.

Chapter Text

-September 1998-

There are less students that Sort into Slytherin this year, and even fewer students that Harry attended Hogwarts with that return to school. Not that the latter is entirely indicative of anything. If time had never been frozen in this world, he's certain he would have gone into Auror training with Ron, instead of what they are doing now.

Yet this seems to be a direct result of the war, more than anything.

From where he sits at the High Table during the opening feast, Harry looks to the Gryffindor table. Sensing his gaze, Hermione flicks her eyes to his.

It's strange, to not be seated with her during the ceremony, even after their years apart.

Judging by Hermione's expression, she feels the same. A tentative smile crosses her lips, and she lifts her hand in a little wave.

It's the shape of the smile that hurts. That has hurt, since the previous evening. In his bleakest moments during the last seven years, Harry held onto the image of seeing his friends once it was all over. Even when he was at his happiest, he missed them. Ron and Hermione are everything to him.

In these sorts of moments, it's difficult to tell himself that they'll come around eventually. But he must, or he'll simply despair.

So Harry inclines his head with a little wave and a smile in return.

Beside him, Tom watches the students, his expression opaque. His masks are in place as he receives curious (and in many cases, admiring) stares.

His magic winds around Harry in slow, thoughtful coils as the Sorting finishes, and McGonagall directs everyone to feast. It might have been odd seeing her in Dumbledore's place if he hadn't grown so used to Dippet in the intervening years.

He thinks she'll make a brilliant headmistress.

Once the feast is over, the faculty departs from the High Table while the students are ushered to their Houses by their prefects. Many of Harry's former classmates draw Harry's eye as they file out of the Great Hall. Seeing them again fills him with such warmth.

He's looking forward to the year to come.

-

Not too long after he's settled into his chambers for the evening and has dressed for bed, Tom joins him. The other boy waves his disguised wand—his yew wand, as it's too distinctive as having belonged to Voldemort. Pajamas remove themselves from Harry's wardrobe and fly across the room, to his hand.

Harry sets his notes for tomorrow atop his nightstand, as well as his glasses, and waits for Tom to change and climb into bed. A flick of his own wand, and the gentle glow of the candles extinguish themselves. In the darkness, Harry slides his hand into Tom's and shifts closer on the bed.

"I remember your Sorting like it was yesterday," Harry murmurs. The glow of the moonlight at the window helps him detect some of Tom's features, but the rest are lost to shadows.

Confliction causes Tom's magic to spike.

A drowsy smile pulls at Harry's lips. He understands.

"That life… It was different," Tom murmurs.

"Like it doesn't feel real when you remember it?" Harry guesses.

"Somewhat," Tom agrees, the word a thoughtful hum more than anything else. His fingers lace through Harry's. "Yet… it was real. You are real."

Emotions that Harry doesn't even know how to go about putting a name to curl around his heart and squeeze. They fill him with love, until he's near to bursting with it.

He presses his lips to Tom's in the gentlest of kisses, and a quiet thrill tugs at him when Tom kisses him back.

Ever since this timeline resumed, Tom has been so tentative when it comes to Harry and intimate matters. He'll hold hands with Harry—he'll embrace him—he will tell Harry that he loves him. But so rarely do they kiss. And, even though they share a bed, they never…

Almost—almost as if Tom is afraid his touch will corrupt Harry. Or something.

Which is completely—

"Even without our bond, I can hear you thinking," Tom whispers into the only inch of space separating them. His breath is a warm, sweet wash over Harry's lips.

"I miss you," Harry murmurs. "That's all."

Tom could easily say, But I am right here.

He doesn't.

He puts his arms around Harry—tucks Harry's head beneath his chin.

Harry buries his nose into the warm skin of Tom's neck. He tries not to cling, but he doesn't think he succeeds very well.

He can feel Tom's heart beating against his own… Tom smells like soap, and it closes around Harry in a comforting musk…

They're asleep within minutes, their gentle breathing the only sound in the room.

-September 1938-

At first, Tom thinks that Charlus Potter is a minor inconvenience that will go away soon. He never likes it when anyone takes Harry's attention. Yet, as attached as he is to Harry, he (reluctantly) understands that there will be, at times, people Harry must… associate with.

Even so, by the time they reach Hogwarts, his dislike of Potter has deepened considerably.

There are many reasons. The most pertinent: not only has Harry kept up a steady stream of chatter with Potter the entire way, Harry's eyes are bright, intent, in a way that Tom has never seen before. He laughs in a way that Tom has never heard. Open and easy—free.

In spite of that, there are two more things to note. The first, Tom has noticed, is that Harry never fully explains how Tom is his ward, and why he would adopt him before taking on another year at Hogwarts.

"I'm an orphan, too," Harry had said, which was news to Tom. "I knew Tom was a wizard, too, and I couldn't imagine leaving him there."

He doesn't explain how he came to know about Tom, and he insists that they are not related.

The second matter to note is that Potter is insistent that he is related to Harry, which is something even Tom can understand. Potter looks like a cheaper (yet somehow posher) version of his Harry. They both wear glasses and have curly hair—they are tall and thin. Their facial structure is the same. Aside from a lack of a magical connection and (presumably) Parseltongue, Potter could be Harry's relative with ease.

It grates at Tom. Mostly because that would mean Potter is related to him, as well.

Harry is the only family that Tom needs. They have one another. They don't need anyone else.

-----

Charlus suspects that Harry is a Potter.

It's a problem that Harry didn't anticipate—his relatives in the wizarding world are still alive in this timeline.

Well, of course they are. They never had a Dark Lord to put an end to them.

Regardless, as happy as it makes Harry, worry stirs in his chest. While, yes, this is a separate timeline, will he not be born here in the future? If Harry interferes with that, somehow, by dabbling with his family line, intentionally or not…

It's possible even his parents might not be born.

He'll need to be careful.

(As if he doesn't have enough to worry about.)

Tom grips onto his hand as they exit the train, but he's forced to let go of Harry once the groundskeeper calls for all the first-years to follow him.

Harry's ward tilts his face up to Harry with a wrinkle of his nose. "Must I?"

Harry smiles and bends before Tom so that they can see eye to eye, his hands on his knees. "It's tradition. You'll love it. I promise."

Tom's look is so skeptical that Harry laughs. He ruffles the boy's curls and is rewarded with a tiny smile.

As Tom leaves Harry, his eyes occasionally flick back over his shoulder, until he is at last out of sight.

"He's rather attached to you," Charlus observes.

"Yeah," Harry says, warm inside. "I'm so grateful. I really didn't know what to expect when I adopted him."

He expected the literal worst scenario imaginable and hoped against hope for the best. What he saw in the Pensieve… What he knows of Tom…

Of course, his worries are far from over, but Harry is—happy.

He smiles to himself as he realizes it, his eyes on where Tom disappeared.

-

Harry takes a carriage to the school with Charlus and Charlus' friends, whom he never went to find once the Hogwarts Express got rolling. They stuck their heads in the carriage a few times to "check" on him—as a joke, it seemed. Now that they're all together, they question Harry as freely as Charlus had.

Where is he from? Why is he only attending Hogwarts now? How does he have a ward so young? are only a few of the questions they pepper him with.

Harry has had time to craft, with Dumbledore, a background for himself in this timeline. He hails from a wizarding hamlet, which is so small, Harry is "not surprised" that most haven't heard of it (fictional as it is). He's decided to attend Hogwarts, as a letter he wrote to Professor Dumbledore on Transfiguration encouraged the man to have Harry come and finish a final year of schooling to sit his N.E.W.T.s. The school board accepted his enrollment, but Harry doesn't claim to know the details behind it, only that it was made possible for him.

"That Dumbledore," Charlus laughs again. "I've never heard of him doing anything like that before. You must have shown real promise for him to push the board."

"I s'pose," Harry says with a sheepish grin.

In reality, he's no idea how Dumbledore secured him a transfer seat at the school.

As Charlus had, his friends accept Harry's story about Tom as his ward, although Harry is left with the distinct impression that they find him as eccentric as Dumbledore.

-

Tom's face, as he walks into the Great Hall with the rest of the first-years to stand where Dumbledore and Harry wait by the stool, is lit up in a way that tugs at Harry's chest. He can still remember the first time he rode the boats across the Black Lake—the first time he took in the school as he passed through its doors.

Harry nods to Dumbledore and moves to stand in the line of first-years, next to Tom. It's a little awkward, as they are all so much smaller than him, but he needs to be Sorted again.

"Someone fell into the lake," Tom breathes, his dark eyes dancing, and Harry is reminded of Colin Creevy and his brother.

He smiles instead of letting the shadow of pain he feels cross his face. "Did they?" he whispers back.

Before Tom can expand, Dumbledore clears his throat from where he stands by the stool. It is enough that every new student in line quiets from where they were having their own whispered conversations, and they each turn to face him.

----

A giant squid lives in the Black Lake, and it saved the student.

It is what Tom means to tell Harry—that, and the fact that he thought the child on his own boat was acting foolhardy enough that it did not surprise Tom when he took an accidental dive in the lake. Yet the Sorting is underway, and he will need to wait.

Students brim with excitement as they're Sorted, and as more and more names are called out in alphabetical order, Tom is no exception. He can't wait until Harry and himself are both Sorted into Slytherin House with the rest of the students whose uniforms, in comparison to the simple black of the first-years (and Harry), have green and silver accents.

"Evans!" Dumbledore at last calls.

Tom smirks to himself as Harry seats himself on the little stool that Dumbledore has provided the first-years to sit on. Compared to the rest of them, he seems so much larger. The hat, when it's placed on his head, doesn't swallow the entirety of it, either, like it has other students.

Some students who were under the hat Sorted almost immediately—others, moments to a handful of minutes would pass before the hat declared their House.

Harry is of the former.

"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat announces.

Harry takes the hat off rather than the deputy headmaster and grins, clearly… happy… with this choice.

What?

Tom was so sure…

No.

No.

Harry can't be in Gryffindor, he simply can't be—

But he is.

An uncomfortable tightness constricts Tom's chest.

Harry explained Houses to Tom earlier in the summer. No matter how often he's gone over them, or how much Tom has read about them in Hogwarts: A History, he has always known he would be in Slytherin. He just assumed Harry would be Sorted into the same House.

He was certain that Harry was a Slytherin, like him… He is resourceful, he is ambitious, he—

It seems Tom was wrong.

As he watches the rest of the students line up to be Sorted, dread creeps its icy fingers through him.

Harry is his soulmate. Tom can't bear to be apart from him. It is weakness, and he should use this as an opportunity to strengthen his independence to where it had been before Harry adopted him. Yet, as his soulmate, does Harry not—in some capacity—define him?

"Riddle!"

Tom jerks his head up.

Every face is turned to him as he makes his way over to where Dumbledore stands beside the stool with the hat. The smile the redhead gives Tom is likely meant to be encouraging—his eyes twinkle. Yet Tom's nerves are strung so high, he sees only mockery.

He averts his gaze to the student body. There isn't a single person who isn't watching him.

The brim of the Sorting Hat falls over Tom's eyes, and then all he sees is darkness.

I know where you belong, a voice seems to say right against his ear. It must be the hat.

"Wait!" Tom whispers.

Yes?

It would be easy, to go to Slytherin House, where he knows he belongs.

You'll do great things there, the Sorting Hat agrees.

But he wants to be with Harry.

Oh. One of you, the hat observes. A romantic. But he won't be here forever, you know.

"You don't know that!" Tom hisses, and his fingers dig into the hard wood of the stool. He clutches its edges where he sits, every bit of him… vibrating, practically, as he works out what he wants.

I didn't mean it as literally as that. The hat's tone is apologetic. Knowing. As if it can see into Tom's mind. Perhaps it can, if its job is to decide where to put him. Yes. It's all here. Which is why, I think, you would do well in—

"I can't!"

Come now, child. What are you afraid of?

Tom's shoulders round, and he bares his teeth. "I'm not afraid at all."

Just the response I was looking for. The hat's tone carries a measure of satisfaction. Better be—

"GRYFFINDOR!" it roars.

It's pulled off his head, and cheers and applause resound from the Gryffindor table. Tom ignores Dumbledore's startled look and leaves the stool to make a beeline for Harry, the only person in this Hall that he has eyes for.

-----

Harry can't quite believe it.

He can feel how round his eyes are.

Tom makes it to their table, and he worms his way into a spot by Harry's side without a care for the other first-years.

Quickly, Harry orients his mouth into a welcoming grin. It wouldn't do for Tom to take away the wrong impression. "Good to know I won't be alone this year. Welcome to Gryffindor, Tom."

Tom's answering smirk will live on in Harry's memories for years to come.

"Why, thank you, Harry," he says, in a faux gracious tone. It belies the glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "It's good to be here."  

Chapter Text

On the way down to breakfast from the Faculty Tower, Harry runs into Ginny.

They each pause, poised on one of the winding, wooden staircases that lead up to where Harry's chambers are located. Above them, candles float on a chandelier, and the morning sun streams in through the stained-glass windows lining the staircase. The combination causes Ginny's hair to burn a fiery red, glints of color woven amongst the strands and over her skin.

It's the first time they've been alone together since Harry's return.

"'Lo, Gin," Harry greets.

Ginny drops her head, her eyes on the scarlet and cream carpet runner beneath their feet. "Hi. I thought I would try and catch you before breakfast."

The fact that Ginny can't meet his eyes doesn't escape Harry. He lets his lips shape into a smile regardless and hopes that his tone is encouraging enough. "Looks like you found me."

She chuckles and lifts her gaze at that, then climbs another step, bringing them closer together. Her hand comes to a rest on the railing—she grips it hard, loosens her hold to hardly there. "So I did."

Curious, Harry watches her, content to wait her out. From what he remembers of their brief relationship, Ginny doesn't particularly care to be forced into saying what's on her mind. She needs to come round to it on her own.

Before she can, Tom appears at Harry's shoulder. His eyes flick over Ginny, then shift to Harry. Once, a long time ago, Tom's magic would have seized in jealousy—it would have coiled itself tightly around Harry while he glowered at the girl. Now, he looks and feels almost bored.

There is no opportunity for Tom to speak. As he opens his mouth, Ginny turns on her heel and hurries back down the stairs, the muffled thumps from the carpet echoing in the stairwell. Harry peeks over the edge of the railing, catching one last sight of her chalk-white face.

It's as if she's seen a ghost.

Harry sighs. She hasn't behaved that way since she was a little girl. It saddens him—he doesn't want her to be afraid of Tom, but he understands why she might be.

"That was Ginevra Weasley?" Tom prompts him. "The girl who was possessed by my H—by the diary?"

Harry nods.

Unfortunately, there's nothing he can do at present. He has no interest in chasing Ginny down, and he suspects that she wouldn't want him to, either.

-

That morning's issue of the Daily Prophet features an article on Goblin unrest. Pictured is Griphook, along with several other Goblins who died at the hands of Voldemort's wrath, and damage to the Gringotts' roof that has since been repaired.

"They want to speak to me," Harry murmurs to Tom. He keeps an eye on the Gryffindor table as he eats at the High Table, prepared to hand out timetables as soon as the last straggler makes it to breakfast.

"You do keep putting them off," Tom murmurs in return, a brow raised.

"What am I meant to tell them? 'Sorry we broke out of Gringotts with one of your dragons, it won't happen again'?" Harry quips.

Tom's answering chuckle is soft.

A second-year Gryffindor hurries into the Great Hall and plops herself down with the others. Even from the High Table, Harry can see the pillow creases that line her face.

"I'll go hand these out," Harry says. He doesn't hesitate to kiss the other boy's cheek.

Tom turns his head and catches his lips in a brief peck. "Do not get lost on the way," he mutters, wryly. Amusement glimmers in his eyes and in the scales of his magic.

Harry grins. It's nice to see this playful side of his soulmate. "I wouldn't dare."

McGonagall clears her throat, and Harry spares her scolding look a more sheepish grin.

"Sorry, Minerva," he apologizes. "I'll remember to be mindful of public displays of affection."

"See that you do," she replies, yet there is warmth in her gaze as she returns to speaking to Professor Slughorn. The man sits on her other side, occupied with discussing some Potions paper recently printed.

Every time Slughorn and Tom are around one another, Harry expects some sort of reaction from the former. Slughorn should recognize Tom's face. But he, like Hagrid, never reacts. At least, not visibly. It's left Harry with the impression that they would prefer to remain in ignorance than to face the reality before them.

Peace is such a fragile thing. It's why Harry doesn't judge them for it, and it is why he allows himself to feel relief that it's one less thing he needs to worry about.

-

As Harry hands out timetables, he is once again met with familiar faces.

"I heard you were a professor, Harry," Dean Thomas says. "I didn't really believe it until I saw it."

"It's good to see you, Dean," Harry replies. "I wasn't sure I was cut out to be a professor, either, but I do enjoy it."

"Teaching?" Dean asks, confused by his wording. "Like when you taught us in Dumbledore's Army?"

Dumbledore's Army. That seems like ages ago, mostly because so much has happened since then.

"Yeah," Harry says, because he supposes it's not a lie. He did enjoy teaching them. Each of their lessons always left him with a sense of accomplishment. He was helping others—he was helping them learn to protect themselves and to only harm when necessary.

That is Tom's job now, as their new Defense professor. It's amusing for Harry to think of, how he once considered Defense Against the Dark Arts his best subject. He supposes, in some ways, that it always will be. But after all these years, Transfiguration has come to hold a place in his heart.

Ginny doesn't meet his gaze when he hands her a timetable. If he didn't know any better, he'd think she was angry at him.

Hermione accepts hers with grace, a twitch of a smile on her lips. "This will take some getting used to, but—I look forward to it." She opens her mouth to speak further and hesitates.

"What?" he asks.

The girl looks up and down the length of the table. She gives him a somber shrug. "It's empty. I wish our friends could be here."

Harry inclines his head in a nod of agreement.

Hermione tips her head at him, her brows pushing together as she tries to puzzle him out. He leaves her to it, moving down the table and dispensing the remaining timetables. Behind him, Hermione and Ginny lean into one another to whisper.

Harry is positive that it's about him. The looks they throw his way don't help.

There is time to worry about it later. There will, for Harry, always be time.

-

The Transfiguration office holds many a fond memory.

It is his past with Albus that he feels most keenly here, more than any meetings he took with McGonagall over his years in school. How many lessons passed in this office, Saturday after Saturday after Saturday…? They never stopped, even when Harry himself began to teach at the school.

Every Saturday, no matter what was occurring in the world outside the bounds of Hogwarts… Every Saturday, Harry Evans learned magic at the hands of Albus Dumbledore.

Harry Potter runs his hand along the edge of his desk. For several years, he shared it, but it belongs to him alone now.

How many times had Harry spoken to Albus, in this very room, about Tom, and what he should do?

How many times had they worked together, laughed together?

And now—now Albus is truly gone forever…

-

His first class is with a group of Ravenclaw third-years. They are keen to pepper him with questions about not only his young age, but who he is.

"Did they only give you the job because you're Harry bleeding Potter?" a particularly shrewd student asks.

The girl beside him elbows him into silence.

Harry chuckles. "I thought that might come up. Here. A demonstration of our lesson today."

On his desk sits a terrarium full of lizards. A wave of his hand, and a lizard floats across the room and comes to a gentle rest against the curve of his palm.

It sticks its head out between his fingers and looks round at the class, who giggle.

"Today, we will be turning these lizards into lockets," Harry announces.

He flicks his wand with the proper incantation, his intonation careful, but firm. It transfigures the lizard into a silver locket with an 'S' inlaid on its surface in (fake) emeralds. He dangles the chain of the locket from his fingers for their examination.

The class gasps at the show of seamless magic. Questions about Harry's capability cease in favor of questions about their lesson.

He grins at their excitement.

-

At lunch, Tom is quiet. He spares no words for Harry, focusing instead on placing one bite after another into his mouth. His magic prickles at Harry's skin, stirs anxiety in Harry's chest. Though Harry wants to ask what's wrong, he's uncertain that Tom will answer him here, in the Great Hall, where they are far from alone.

"Are you all right?" he settles on, his voice no louder than a murmur.

Hesitance touches Harry. Or, at least, that is how he's come to identify how Tom's magic draws in on itself a certain way before he—

"More than," Tom says.

Before he lies.

-

Harry waits until they're curled up in bed together that evening and Tom's eyes are closed to whisper, "Say the word, and we run away."

Brandy brown eyes snap open. They peer at Harry in the darkness. The two lay close enough to one another that Harry can see Tom's face without a need for his glasses.

"I don't wish to run," Tom murmurs. "I wish only to sleep. It has been an exhausting day."

"You had first-years today, didn't you?" Harry winces. "They can be draining."

He doesn't believe this is what Tom is upset about at all. Tom is conflicted about teaching, and Harry has felt his guilt and his worry in his magic throughout the day. It's something Tom wouldn't have hesitated to tell Harry in what he's coming to think of as "Before." Now, the Tom in the "After"—he's reluctant to be vulnerable around Harry.

"Yes," Tom agrees. Bumping his forehead into Harry's, he murmurs, "Go to sleep, darling."

Harry remembers when Tom called him his Harry. He remembers how exasperated he would grow at times at the level of possession Tom displayed. If there was one thing he never told the boy, it was how much he enjoyed hearing Tom claim him. Every time.

He considers doing so now. Discards it. Tom's mood isn't what Harry would call… receptive.

"I'll sleep," Harry says. "But I want you to promise me you'll talk to me if it gets to be too much."

He has seen firsthand what happens to Tom when the boy is anxious and left to his own devices.

Harry expects that Tom might grow restless—in this timeline, Harry has strayed away from insisting they communicate. Half of this Tom has never conceded to Harry's wishes, nor has he wanted to. But this doesn't come from a place of guardianship—it comes from Harry's heart, it comes from love.

Tom brushes their lips together.

"Yes, my Harry," he whispers, and Harry's eyes close. "I promise."

-

Harry doesn't see his N.E.W.T. students until the following Monday.

Technically, he observes and converses with Hermione before then. She is Head Girl, and Harry is Head of Gryffindor. Due to her duties, they speak at times. Outside of them, she hasn't sought him out on her own, preferring to keep to herself or with Ginny.

Often, the two girls can be seen together, their heads down and whispering as they walk someplace to spend time with one another, at meals, and studying. The sight is enriching but painful.

He wouldn't trade this life for anything, even if it meant he would be seated at Hermione's other side—perhaps Ron would be there, too… Or perhaps Harry wouldn't have returned. He might have taken up Gawain Robards on his offer to train Harry as an Auror. Ron would have certainly been at his side there.

Harry wonders how Hermione and Ron are faring. Neither of them gave him any indication in their letters over the summer that they weren't all right, and they looked well when Harry saw them at Grimmauld Place. Hadn't Hermione mentioned dinner with Mrs. Weasley?

However curious he is—however worried—Harry can't allow himself to dwell on the situation with his friends. They need their space from him while they sort out what it took him years to, and they don't have the attachment to Tom that Harry does. How can he expect them to? He has no right to push them to speak to Tom, with Tom always visibly at Harry's side, and with Harry having no intention of changing anything at all in this regard.

-

His N.E.W.T. class isn't as easily persuaded by Harry's attempts to distract them with an assignment. They demand to know how Harry learned to perform magic as well as he does. While the majority of them weren't in Harry's year, they are old enough to know who he is, and many defended the castle in May.

"Did you learn it all while you were on the run?"

"I've never seen you cast like that. Were you just hiding your talent before?"

"Yeah, Professor Potter—come on, tell us the truth!"

"All right, all right," Harry says. He raises his hands in a placating gesture. "Everyone, calm down. I understand that you're curious. I would be, too. But, unfortunately, there's nothing to tell. I've always been this good at magic. You can be, too. Would you like to know how?"

Sixteen pairs of eyes squint at him.

"How?" a Hufflepuff finally asks, suspicion layered in her tone.

"Studying," Harry replies. "Applying yourself."

Predictably, his class groans.

"He just doesn't want to tell us how he did it," Harry hears a Slytherin boy mutter beneath his breath.

-

Hermione hangs back after class is over.

"You're a good teacher," she murmurs, kindness in her eyes. Her touch on his arm is so light, it's hardly there at all. "Brilliant, even. You really… you really learned how to do all of this—" she gestures in a broad sweep of her wrist around the class "—from Dumbledore?"

Harry inclines his head. "I really did."

Hermione seems at a loss for words, so he adds, "Your approval means everything to me, Hermione."

Her answering smile is watery. It's the only warning he gets before she launches herself into his arms and clings onto him. Harry snugs his arms back around her, and they stay like that for a while, just holding onto one another.

There are no words for the relief that suffuses Harry. Hermione and he, at least, are all right.  

-September 1938-

Sleep, for Harry, comes in fits and starts.

Harry! Harry! Mine! Harry!

While it is wonderful that Tom got Sorted into Gryffindor, it would seem his dormitory isn't far enough away. His magic—his soul—whatever it is—it shrieks at Harry, just as it has every night since Harry adopted Tom.

He can't go to the boy. They're at Hogwarts now, trapped within their respective dorms. It would be an exceedingly bad look for Harry to creep into Tom's bed while other first-years are in the room.

What can he do, then, but drift off every so often, only to be woken again by a shriek that manages to claw at Harry harder than the others had.

Harry! Please! Harry!

This is hell. Someone is punishing Harry for what happened right before school began. When Tom… When he… When Tom wanked Harry off in his sleep. They must be. Why else would Tom Riddle be in Gryffindor House, if not to make rest an impossible dream?

He's happy for Tom. Worried—but happy. With how long he was under the Sorting Hat, this clearly wasn't a decision that he had come to in the heat of the moment. Or had it? Tom had looked so angry, beneath the hat. Had he fought it over where to place him? Did he choose Gryffindor, to be with Harry?

Harry doesn't know what that means, and it frightens him.

Please! Harry! Mine!

This House will undoubtedly be good for Tom. Slytherin House is very concerned with blood status. Tom's blood status, so far as they know, is unknown. The thought of Tom's fellow Slytherins calling Tom a Mudblood makes Harry burn.

He has no idea what Gryffindors were like in the thirties and forties. In the nineties, they were great. Certainly, at times, they banded against Harry—but nearly everyone did, until they accepted that Voldemort's return was real. Here, they should have no such problem.

Only… Dumbledore is their Head of House.

Harry tries not to groan and silently says good-bye to any hope for a peaceful year.  

Harry! Mine! Harry!

-----

Tom sits in a Hogwarts classroom.

He knows that it must be, even if he has yet to attend a single class.  

The bones of a great, winged creature (a dragon?) decorate the ceiling. Hogwarts students—Gryffindors, if their robes are anything to go by—whisper to one another from their desks as their quills scrawl across parchment. Tom is pleased to see that no one has writing as good as his own. The hours of quillwork paid off.

On the chalkboard, notes are written about defensive spells. Ah. This is Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Only—

He is dreaming, isn't he?

The answer to that question comes when Tom attempts to turn his head and finds that he cannot.

Harry! he thinks with a thrill. He's dreaming that he is Harry again!

"Do you think he's a natural at Defense?" he hears a girl whisper behind them.

"Obviously," someone else whispers, a boy. "He defeated You-Know-Who when he was only a baby. Why wouldn't he be a natural at it?"

Harry's face feels uncomfortably warm.

"Ignore them, mate."

Harry turns his head.

A redheaded boy sits beside Harry. His oafish face is covered in freckles, and the smile that he wears is sympathetic.

"They'll get used to it," he goes on. "You'll be old news before you know it."

"Thanks, Ron," Tom—Harry—mutters gratefully, and he lifts his gaze to the teacher seated at the front of the room, behind his desk. A pale man with a turban wrapped around his head.

The scenery changes.

Tom half-runs with a swiftness across a courtyard, Ron at his side. Both boys pant for breath, flushed in the face. Tom's chest hurts with the bite of cold in the air. Deep reds and oranges have painted trees and bushes, and dead leaves crackle underfoot. Autumn is here.

"We'll be late again," Ron moans.

"We won't," Tom assures him. "We're nearly there. Come on!"

His feet lead him across the last of the courtyard, past several students who are also scurrying. Their uniforms, Tom notices, are slightly different from the ones he has in reality. Instead of a simple Hogwarts crest on the front of their robes, Tom spots House-themed ones to denote their placement, rather than on their blazers beneath them, which notably are missing. He doesn't get too much of a good look at them—Harry's eyes only land on a handful, and they do not linger.

Tom bursts through a pair of ornate doors, Ron in tow. Their feet clatter along marble—as they dart into another corridor, it shifts to stone. Each area of the castle seems to offer something different in appearance. It is magnificent and would steal Tom's breath further if the body he was in was his own. As it is, he has a cramp in his side, and Harry seems content only to vault them to their destination.

Sunlight stings Tom's eyes as the last set of doors takes them out onto the grounds. He slows his half-run, half-walk, yet his footsteps are still hurried. Soon, they encounter a group of students clustered around a woman with golden eyes.

"Potter! Weasley!" she doesn't quite bark. "Grab a broom and join the others."

As the boys walk over to a rack of brooms laid out nearby, Ron mutters, "I can't believe McGonagall is still making you take flying lessons. You're a natural."

"She says everyone needs lessons—even the Youngest Seeker in a century," Tom mutters back. "She wants me to be prepared."

"You have Quidditch practice three times a week," Ron retorts, disbelief scrawled over his face. "What more practice do you need?"

Tom shrugs.

The scenery changes again.

Flying.

Tom is flying—

He has only a moment to process it, his hands clasped firmly around a broom handle where he's bent over it, before it abruptly jerks higher into the air. It zigzags erratically from there, throwing him up and down in the air, and Tom fights to hold onto it, his heart slamming up into his throat. Screams erupt in the distance.

What is going on, what's happened to the broom—

Harry—!

-

Tom's eyes shoot open to stare up into the canopy above his four-poster bed in Gryffindor Tower.

His hands fist into the sheets at his sides, and then he sits up, his heart still lodged firmly in the base of his throat. A glance around reveals four bodies under their blankets in their own beds, the movement of breathing the only indication that they're alive apart from a bit of snoring.

Tom pats along the side of his bed until his fingers locate where his diary is wedged between the mattresses. He tugs it free—bends over to his nightstand to grab quill and ink, along with his wand, which rests on top. Drawing the curtains shuts out the rays of pink light that creep through the arched windows of the dorm, leaving darkness to descend.

"Lumos," Tom whispers.

It is his first attempt at the spell he has seen Harry use numerous times in the evening at Septennial Cottage, and Tom is careful to mimic the wand movements.

The tip of his yew wand lights, and giddiness rises in Tom's chest at his first successful bit of magic with a wand. He sets it on the bed and angles it to where it will illuminate his diary as he writes.

Friday 2 September 1938

I dreamed of Harry again. He was here, at Hogwarts.

The uniforms of the other students were different. He had a friend named Ron. He is the youngest Seeker in a century, and he is famous. 

Harry hasn't said he's never been to Hogwarts. But if he went before, why didn't he tell me? Why would he have gone through another Sorting? 

More secrets. 

-----

Dumbledore slips Harry and Tom their timetables at breakfast. He doesn't linger, only wishing them luck on their first day of classes, a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his lips.

Seeing Harry's timetable somehow makes it more real that he's here. That he's really doing this. 

"What is your first class?" Tom leans over his arm to see. "Magical Theory. The one you're looking forward to the least."

Harry forks eggs into his mouth so that he doesn't have to answer, and Tom is forced to sit back in his seat. Harry hasn't forgotten the morning before. He doesn't think he ever will. Putting space between them is imperative to Harry's sanity. Not to mention how inappropriate what happened is. 

He clearly needs to develop better boundaries between them. He's given Tom entirely the wrong idea. 

Harry's head throbs. 

"Harry?" Tom asks, his hand hooking around Harry's elbow. "Do you remember about a fortnight after I came to stay with you? It was the only night you didn't come into my room."

He fortunately doesn't say that loud enough that others at the table overhear. 

"Yeah," Harry mutters. Pulling at his arm doesn't dissuade Tom—the boy's hand stays fastened on him. "What about it?"

That night, Harry had foregone sleep in an attempt to block out Tom's magic. He stayed firmly in his room—even walked the perimeter of Septennial to see how far away he would need to sleep to block out Tom's magic. It had only dulled when he had crossed the bridge and was midway through the meadow.

Harry thinks that's the distance of their… connection… before he can no longer feel Tom's magic at all, awake or asleep.

"You looked like this," Tom says. 

"Like what?" Harry asks, a frown on his lips.

"Like you didn't sleep," Tom elaborates.

His brows furrow, and a little line appears between them. Harry resists the impulse to smooth it away with the pad of his thumb.

"I slept," Harry says.

Tom's frown deepens.

"I slept," Harry promises him. He ruffles his fingers through Tom's angelic curls—pulls them free when Tom leans into his touch, his lashes slipping closed and resting against his pale cheeks, like dark bits of lace. "How are you liking Gryffindor so far?"

"The common room is… red," Tom says.

Harry chuckles. "Well, I can't deny that when the entire common room is covered in red tapestries, can I?"

Tom smiles. He shakes his head, his cheeks dimpled with something akin to mischief, his dark eyes full of affection. Tom finds Harry vastly entertaining, and Harry can admit to himself that he enjoys how it makes him feel, even if it, too, scares him a little.

How differently might things have turned out in Harry's timeline, if someone had been there to love Tom Riddle?

-

Magical Theory is, as Harry suspected it would be, frighteningly dull. No real magic is performed, only intense discussions, and they're informed that their N.E.W.T. on the topic will require a paper on a theory of their own. Harry can't think of anything he would rather do less—he's so much better with hands-on activities.

The students spend a lot of time staring at Harry, much as they had at breakfast. It's nothing he isn't used to from his time as Harry Potter.

At lunch, Tom regales him with how his Potions class with Professor Slughorn went. It's another thing that cements Harry into this timeline—seeing the much younger professor in the flesh instead of in a Pensieve memory. His hazy, summer days with Tom made it easy to forget, at times, the reality of Harry's situation.

But this man—this man, if Harry isn't careful, will one day discuss Horcruxes with Tom.

Harry can't allow that to happen.

Death only put him here to resolve a bet with Love, but Harry doesn't want Tom to become a Dark Lord. Not if he can help it. If Tom makes Horcruxes—once he crosses the threshold of murder—it will become that much harder for Harry to prove that he can love selflessly.

It's something he's thought about often, during the hours he refused to seek out Tom while the boy slept, when sleep was inescapable unless he caved and climbed into bed with him. How can Harry keep Tom on the path of—for lack of a better word—good?  

-----

Saturday is Harry's first lesson with Dumbledore.

Tom doesn't want him to go.

"Must you?" he whines. "I thought we would explore together."

They're clustered in an alcove above the Gryffindor common room, where Tom dragged Harry to discuss their day.

"I can't, Tom," Harry says with a touch of regret—his magic spirals so low, it's impossible to mistake it as anything else. Still, Tom doesn't like it. "I'm meant to be in his office after breakfast. You can walk with me there, if you'd like. You haven't had Transfiguration yet, and it wouldn't hurt to see where it is."

Tom scowls.

Harry hesitates—slips his fingers into Tom's curls. Tom holds himself still. He isn't sure what he did last to scare Harry's touch off, but he doesn't want it to happen again.

"We can spend time together tomorrow," Harry promises. "We'll go anywhere you want to. How does that sound?"

Awful. He wants to go today.

"All right." Tom fastens a smile onto his lips. It's entirely possible that Harry will be able to tell how at odds it is with the disappointment inside of him, but that's only because Tom's magic gives him away.

Not for the first time, Tom wonders how much easier it would be to manipulate Harry if he didn't have that handy insight.

-

On the way to Dumbledore's office, Harry points out where the library is. The red doors with golden stars emblazoned on them look identical to the ones Tom passed in his dream of Harry the other night. It's not too far away from their destination, and Tom will be able to trace his steps back without much effort.

They pass through a courtyard that is—again—similar to the one Tom initially dreamed of. The trees and bushes are green instead of red, on the threshold of summer and autumn. They'll likely change colors soon as they welcome in Tom's favorite time of the year.

The Transfiguration classroom is full of odds and ends that draw Tom's attention—a display of butterflies that change colors with every flap of their wings, as well as a locket with a wiggling lizard tail, books upon books heaped along the walls, and a blackboard with notes left over on it from the last lesson held here.

Just as they reach the door to Dumbledore's office, Tom snugs his hand into Harry's, the one he isn't using to knock.

"Harry," the codger greets upon opening it. His eyes land on Tom. "Tom."

He doesn't seem surprised. Good. Tom belongs with Harry, and he will never tire of making that clear to Dumbledore.  

"I'll see you later." Tom squeezes Harry's hand, then leans up to press a kiss to his cheek.

He's gone before either of them can say a word, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

Harry usually gives Tom what he wants. It's disappointing not only to him hear say, "No," but to stick to that decision. Pressing him on it doesn't seem like the wisest course of action, not when Harry respects Dumbledore so much.

At least, not yet.

Retracing his steps to the library is an easy enough endeavor, and once he's pushed through one of its doors and seen the holy grail it contains within—two floors dedicated to magical tomes, with tables for students to work, entombed in silence that extends from the marble of the first floor to the stone arched ceiling far above—he decides that, perhaps, it is good to have some time to himself.

He returns to Gryffindor Tower to grab his texts and then disappears in the library until dinner. Though he has only been at Hogwarts for a handful of days and is far from seeing the entirety of the castle, he knows in his heart already: this is, and always will be, one of his most favorite places in the world.  

-----

Dumbledore makes tea for Harry and himself, a type the professor calls Fwooper Hysteria.

"Why Fwooper Hysteria?" Harry asks. If it was a Muggle tea, the name wouldn't be relevant, and Harry wouldn't bother. Dumbledore tends to drink magical teas that offer some property or other, and Harry and Tom have partaken of several with him during his visits over the summer.

Harry can't imagine what the beneficial properties of a Fwooper might be.

"It's raspberry flavored. Ear-splittingly so," Dumbledore explains. He must think that is a sufficient enough answer, as he doesn't offer more on the matter. "Now, before we begin our lessons, I wished to discuss something with you."

Harry looks up from spooning sugar into his tea, which is a surprisingly hot pink color. "Yes, Professor?"

"Why is it that whenever I see you, you look as though it's been ages since you last slept?"

Harry's mouth pops open a little. No words come forth.

"Today, in particular," Dumbledore goes on. "You're barely standing upright. I saw you use Tom's grip on you to steady yourself, my boy. You are dead on your feet." His eyes twinkle.

Harry's cheeks flush at the reminder of what the older man witnessed in front of his office door. "Professor, I'm not sure I can…" He trails off.

"Whatever it is, I'll do my best to help you." Dumbledore tilts his head, his gaze kind as he observes Harry. "Even if, as I suspect it is, this is about Tom."

Harry should be wary.

No one needs to know about what's happened, about how Tom's magic affects him, no one. Not only does he not need their judgment, it's not as if he could be helped. Furthermore, what if that information were to fall into the wrong hands?

What if Tom is taken away from him?

His tone soft, Dumbledore says, "While I realize that I'm your professor, Harry—and, in another timeline, your headmaster—I would like to think that I'm also your friend. And as your friend, I'm asking you: what's happened?"

Harry exhales, a trembling, ragged sound—the sound of a man approaching the gallows. There is so much guilt inside of him, and it's eating him alive. Here is a chance to purge himself, in part, of this cursed knowledge—to no longer simmer in it as he has been, unable to tell a soul without fear of repercussion.

So he lets Dumbledore know everything. What happens when Tom falls asleep, the bedsharing, the attachment Tom has to him because Love told him they were soulmates—how Tom touched Harry while he slept. The way he treated Charlus Potter on the train, and how he behaved today. As if Harry is his property, to do with as he wishes.

Dumbledore watches him silently throughout. When the steam to their tea finishes unfurling in pink drafts, he taps the sides of their cups with his wand to have them retain their heat. Otherwise, he doesn't move, his eyes intent on Harry.

"But—I love him," Harry says. His cheeks are damp. He feels as if he has raked himself over the fiery coals of judgment, every word flaying him open. "He's right. We're soulmates. I don't know what to do. I'm—frozen."

He bows his head and swipes his hand over his face to rid it of the dampness. Clearing his throat to steady his voice, he continues, "I'm frozen in my indecision, Professor. I want to go home. I'll do anything so that I can get home. But what if—what if he's uncontrollable, sir, what if… what if it's all for nothing?"

Dumbledore hums. "You think that Tom Riddle is incapable of change?"

"I—"

"Tom Riddle, Heir of Slytherin, Sorted into Gryffindor," Dumbledore says. He leans forward across his desk, and his hand closes over Harry's wrist where it rests by his tea. "Wouldn't that suggest that he is?"

Harry swallows around the spiky lump in his throat. It burns. "He's—all right, yeah, he's a Gryffindor, and it's—it's—" impossible, unlike him, but none of that is true, is it? "—brilliant." It is. "But if he only got into this House because of me—"

"What are you suggesting? That Tom chose Gryffindor House?"

"I chose Gryffindor," Harry says. "I asked the Sorting Hat to put me there. It wanted me to go to Slytherin."

Dumbledore's brows furrow. "And you think Tom chose Gryffindor House because of you?"

"Don't you?" Harry retorts.

The older man raises a placating hand, and Harry's shoulders slump.

"Sorry," he mutters.

"That's all right, my boy. Stress has the tendency to make us lash out. What I think, from an observer's perspective—that is, if I may?"

Harry nods.

"Even if Tom became a Gryffindor for you, Harry, he's a clever boy. Undoubtedly, he knew you'd only have this year together, yet still, he chose Gryffindor. It seems to me that Tom wanted to be a Gryffindor—not only for you, but for himself."

Is the professor right? Tom is so impulsive…

"In any event," Dumbledore continues, "even I can see a change between the boy I met in the orphanage and the one who arrived at Hogwarts this week. Is it a change for the better? I suppose only time will tell. But there is one thing we can be sure of: Tom cares deeply for you."

Harry's throat tightens. He can't speak.

"By all indications of your memories, in your timeline, he never cared for anyone. I would say this is something to be proud of, given what you need to accomplish. Wouldn't you?"

Harry takes a sip of his tea in the hopes of loosening the grip around his vocal chords.

The taste of raspberry explodes in his mouth. Swallowing leaves him with ringing ears and a tart bite attached to his tongue.

Dumbledore chuckles. "I did warn you."

"So you did," Harry rasps. "That is—that…" He realizes he is wide awake. "Why drink coffee when you can drink this?"

"There is one downside," Dumbledore admits. "While we will spend the rest of the day more than prepared for your first lesson, by evening, we'll both be suffering from quite the headache."

"Seems worth it to me, sir," Harry says. He's practically vibrating out of his skin, he's so awake, but not quite enough to feel like he'll go mad.

"Tell me if you still feel the same once you experience the headache," Dumbledore laughs. "Now, Harry—I might have a solution for your problem with sleep. What if I were to teach you Occlumency?"

Harry bites his lip.

Should he admit that he's terrible at Occlumency, or should he try again? This time with Dumbledore's help instead of Snape's.

"You really think that would work, Professor?" Harry asks. "The link I have with Tom—it's stronger than the one I had with Voldemort. This isn't the first time you've suggested Occlumency to me. The other you had someone teach me—or—well, try to teach me in fifth-year."

Dumbledore frowns. "It failed?"

"We had a bit of a falling out about it, and I couldn't be arsed to try again," Harry says. "But now I'm even more desperate than I was when Voldemort wanted me dead, so I s'pose it can't hurt."

His gaze lifts to Dumbledore's window, where sunlight glows.

"Don't despair, Harry," Dumbledore murmurs. "All will be well."

"Why?" Harry snarks. The lack of sleep is really getting to him. "Because you have faith in me?"

"No." The older wizard's eyes twinkle as he smiles. "Because there are, fortunately for you, sleep potions to aid you. That is, until you're able to Occlude."

In spite of all the worry shredding him up inside, Harry laughs.

It's better than crying again.

Chapter Text

Autumn ushers in a quiet peace around the castle. Students have mostly settled in their classes and memorized the paths they must take to reach them on time. They have grown to understand what their professors expect from them, and they have a grasp of what will and won't be tolerated at Hogwarts.

It makes those born with natural nosiness—Harry would call it curiosity—turn their attention from the classroom to the more personal aspects of school.

"What House were you in?" a seventh-year Hufflepuff queries one day, after Tom's Thursday morning class has gotten started on their assigned reading for the next half hour.

Tom does not look up from where he grades papers at his desk. "Gryffindor."

He can sense the look several students exchange.

Yes. He supposes Gryffindors are not known for a reserved approach to life (Salazar forbid). However, had he said he was a Slytherin, equally true, it would have only invited more questions.

"Have you finished the chapter, Miss Costello?" he asks.

"No," she mutters with a sheepish grin, and she returns to her text.

"He's lying."

The words are so quiet, Tom nearly misses them. He lifts his eyes from a first-year paper droning on about basic defense stance and gazes directly at the source of the accusation.

Ginevra Weasley.

Her lips are pressed in a thin line of defiance.

Intrigued, Tom sets his quill down. Ginevra has not once spoken to him since the term began, not unless she absolutely must. The graceless, foolish part of himself wants to deride her—how easy it would be, to make fun of such a defenseless creature. But Tom has learned that she is precisely that—a victim of what Tom has done to her.

That does not make it any easier to hold his tongue.

Venom lurks in her gaze—simmering pools of fire. She wishes to fight.

Harry would hate it if Tom indulged her.

He leans back in his chair, a polite smile on his lips. "What was that, Miss Weasley?"

"I said that you're lying."

The accusation is clear, concise, loud, ringing through the classroom.

Tom's N.E.W.T. students whisper to one another, exchanging furtive glances. Granger hisses Ginevra's name—tugs at her elbow. The redhead ignores her, those fiery eyes locked on Tom's.

Like this, with righteous fury plain on her face, Tom can see what once drew Harry to her. If there is one thing Harry Potter understands, it is sanctimony. His moral streak has seared through Tom on more than one memorable occasion.

"And why is that?" Tom asks her, in his most bored tone of voice.

"You're a Slytherin."

"I believe you will find that I am, in fact, a Gryffindor," Tom replies. "Though what crime would it be if I had been in Slytherin, might I ask?"

The students find something to look at that isn't their professor or the Weasley girl, their silence heavy in the classroom.

Ginevra offers nothing in response, her lips pressed into a thin, white line, and again, Tom wants to goad her. The petty man in him who never really died would relish in this moment for as long as possible, if only so that she never opens her mouth to question him again.

Fortunately for Miss Weasley, Tom has an even greater desire to not upset his soulmate.

"Were you finished with the chapter?" he asks her.

She stays quiet, making no movement other than to glare at him.

"Please resume reading," he instructs with a glance at the pendulum clock on the far wall. "It is imperative that you absorb the written material before we begin the practical portion of our lesson."

Miss Weasley gets to her feet and exits his classroom without a further word. Her possessions stay behind with Granger, who throws him a barely veiled suspicious stare. Tom inclines his head at her, as polite as he was with Ginevra.

His class is well-behaved enough that they resume reading after only a moment or so of excited whispering. Granger makes a point to close her book and fold her arms, but her eyes move to the arched windows set deep into stone.

Tedious.

Holding onto his temper, pretending he cares about any of the children in this room—especially ones who tried to usurp him—

It is incredibly tedious.

-

The next morning is a blustery one as Tom crosses the Transfiguration Courtyard before breakfast. The bushes and trees are a riot of color in the whips of wind, showing off their usual red, yellow, and orange hues at this time of the year. Tom has always perversely found the most comfort in this season, where death is so beautiful in its natural state.

A polite knock on Harry's office door receives no response. The boy's classroom sits in a somewhat disheveled manner behind Tom. The notes from the previous lesson are still on the chalkboard, and display cases hold odds and ends from Harry's lectures. Only the absence of teetering stacks of books wherever the eye lands saves Tom from going mad.

He knocks again on the solid oak door set into stone that has weathered centuries. He knows the boy is here—his magic tantalizes Tom from within his office.

"Come in," Harry calls, a groggy strain to his voice, the sound itself muffled.

Opening the door reveals Harry with his arms folded on top of his desk, his face buried in them. Sunlight from the window streams in patches over his inky curls and stains them red, broken up as it is by the trees clustered outside.

"So this is where you slept," Tom observes. "It is nearly breakfast. You should prepare for the day."

"I should, shouldn't I?" Harry mumbles into his arms. "That would be ideal."

"It would indeed." Tom comes closer to the desk until he's staring directly down at Harry. "Did you mean to sleep here?"

"No," the boy admits. He rests his cheek on his arms, a noisy sigh on his lips. "I was grading papers until I couldn't keep my eyes open anymore."

"You should have come to bed," Tom murmurs.

"Oh. I didn't think you'd care, I s'pose," Harry replies.

He says it so casually, his tone light and easy, as if this is a well-established fact between them. Yet a glint remains in his magic, one that Tom cannot decipher.

"I would care," Tom says. The words are measured—stilted. He clears his throat and tries again, finding it easier when he looks at the window and the bars laid across its surface. The trees just past the glass either have the touch of autumn on them or remain evergreen. Harry's favorite part of the season, he confided to Tom many years ago. "I cared, darling."

"Oh." Harry gets to his feet, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He can't seem to think of anything else to say, so he offers, "I'm sorry." And then, more emphatically, "I really didn't think you'd mind."

"Why?"

Tom does not mean to ask the question. How easy it slips from his lips, as though he did.

It is Harry's turn to gaze out the window. What he sees there seems to be beyond the colorful trees—his brows furrow in what Tom recognizes as worry, and his magic swoops low. The sensation leaves Tom a touch breathless.

In some moments, it is so clear to Tom how inextricably bound together they are.

"You haven't seemed as if you would care," Harry at last says, in that same tone from before. "If I'm being honest—"

"Please do."

Harry turns to him, marks Tom's expression, and hesitates. After another moment, he adds, softer, "All right. If I'm being honest, Tom, I thought you might be—I dunno, happy? You seemed as if you wanted the space after we talked about what happened in class with Ginny."

"Why?"

Again. Again, he did not mean to ask, yet he does, and more mortifyingly, it sounds so—plaintive. A child, desperate for Harry's attention. Yet he can't find it in himself to be angry. He supposes, in some measure or other, he has always been desperate for Harry Potter's attention.

Harry's eyes dart to his. Their green depths are as open to Tom as they ever are, yet when Harry looks at him like this, it is a heady feeling. It has always been one that filled him with remorse after—Tom, still so bitter and rotten inside, often enjoys having his former enemy be so devoted to him, so weak. How many ways can Harry show to Tom that he has submitted to him so fully?

The satisfaction rings hollow every time.

"I'm sorry, Tom," Harry says. "Truly, I am."

Tom expects more—an explanation—but Harry still gives him nothing. He only tugs his hands through his curls and gives Tom a slight smile, one worn with exhaustion at its edges.

"I'll head to my chambers to catch a shower," Harry says.

He hesitates—as if he is waiting for something—but when Tom, too, stays quiet, he smiles to himself.

"See you at breakfast, then," Harry says.

Say something. Say something. Say something.

Tom inclines his head.

Harry leaves him there in the room, alone, as if he is not hurting, and Tom does not understand. A part of him fears he never will—that this fragile existence they've built between the two of them will crumble to ashes.

He wonders if that has happened already. If these ashes where they reside are flaking away, eroded by time and the certainty that every breath Tom takes leads to more pointlessness.

-----

Harry's scar…

Warmth flares through Harry in gentle waves, and his eyes slip open. Above him, the sunlight framing the back of his head as it washes over Harry's bedchambers, is Tom.

He strokes Harry's scar lightly, his magic a snake coiling around Harry in its satisfaction. What's odd is that while Harry recognizes the snake, it's one that he hasn't felt since he left the other timeline—one that seems to have belonged solely to the boy he…

"Tom?" he murmurs, the boy's name thick with the sleepiness that makes it difficult to open his eyes completely.

"Yes, my Harry," Tom murmurs back. That smile on his lips is unmistakable, and Harry, already melted into the bed from the touch on his scar, grows boneless.

Long, slender fingers slip his pajamas open, easing one button out of its hole after the other. Though they haven't yet encountered his skin, Harry shivers from their touch. A tiny voice at the back of his mind urges him to wake up more, wake up faster—it warns him that something important has happened that he needs to address, now.

Tom glides warm palms up Harry's stomach, and higher thought vanishes.

"Missed this," Harry murmurs in a fuzzy sort of way, before he can second guess himself. Tom hadn't liked it, a week ago, in Harry's office—he'd seemed to understand what Harry hadn't been able to bring himself to say.

It has been wrong of Harry, to hold himself back, if it means he hurts Tom. Though Tom himself hadn't seemed to realize he was, Harry recognized the pattern in his magic. After years of navigating the, at times, moody boy's emotions, Harry has learned some of their nuances. One thing he grasped early is that feelings do not always reflect surface thought.

Tom presses his lips into Harry's neck—hooks his teeth over the lobe of Harry's ear, and a low moan rises in Harry's chest. It has been years since his scar being touched so tenderly roused an erection out of him, set him so on edge.

"You are thinking too much," Tom breathes into his ear.

"Trying to wake up," Harry mumbles.

"Don't," the other boy whispers. "Relax. Let me take care of you."

A sleepy chuckle leaves Harry, and his eyes slip closed. "That doesn't sound like you at all."

"Why not?" Tom pulls at the waistband of Harry's pajamas—slips his cock out of his pants, and just the touch of him there, when it's been ages… Harry doesn't think he'll last long at all. He doesn't have it in him to be embarrassed, not when he's needed the other boy so badly. "Have I not taken care of you, my Harry? Ensured your every happiness?"

Harry's chuckle turns dry—hitches as Tom drags his thumb through the precum gathered over the slit of Harry's cock.

"Now you're just exaggerating," he says.

"How dare you?"

Tom steps away from Harry, and for a moment, even though there is no indication for it in his magic, Harry thinks he's angered Tom. That he pushed too hard for the easy camaraderie they once had and no longer do. But Tom returns, clad in nothing, his pretty cock, also hard, bouncing slightly. He straddles Harry's hips.

"Tom?" Harry manages to choke out.

A muttered spell, and then Tom grips Harry's cock and guides it into his hole, hot, tight, wet from the lubricant charm he cast. He goes slowly, a startled hiss on his lips, and Harry can only be grateful, his grip on Tom's hips white-knuckled.

"Oh, my God…" The Muggle phrase is off Harry's lips before he can stop it, his eyes rolled back in his head from the exquisite torture that is Tom's arse wrapped about him like a glove. He remembers himself—barely—enough to ask, "T-Tom—are you hurt?"

"No," Tom pants, the strain in his voice marking him a liar. By contrast, his magic glitters around Harry, shimmering scales of happiness and pleasure. "Shh. Be quiet. Let me concentrate."

The bratty demand is so like Tom that Harry is only too content to do exactly what the boy wants.

"Good," Tom sighs, the word trembling as much as Harry is with the effort to stay still. If only he could plunge up into that welcoming heat… "You're so good for me, my Harry…"

They stay like that for a time, Tom simply running his hands along Harry's chest and murmuring soft praise, inspecting Harry, only giving the occasional roll of his hips for friction. Sweat gathers quickly on Harry's skin, and as much as he wants to move, it's almost nothing at all not to. Not when Tom speaks to him so sweetly, even as he tortures him.

"You are so precious to me," Tom whispers. "You have always been precious to me. Do you know why?"

His cheeks damp with the swell of love in his chest, Harry shakes his head mutely.

Tom smiles down at him. "Yes, you do."

"Because I'm your soulmate?" It takes a few tries to form the words, and Harry still fumbles them, his head too full of the need to take Tom to speak, or think, without considerable effort.

"No," Tom whispers. He rises, so slowly Harry thinks he might scream, and then lowers himself again, just as slowly. Harry's nails dig into soft flesh, a whimper caught in the back of his throat. "Because we are the same, you and I, and where we are different, I somehow, always, love you in spite of it."

He works himself on Harry then, deep rolls of his hips, hard, until he's all but bouncing on Harry's cock. Harry stares at the backs of his eyelids—he can't keep them open. It's all he can do to hold onto Tom, his grip undoubtedly bruising that pale stretch of skin. He tries to hold on to his cries, but they inevitably fall free, joining Tom's as he rides Harry, the slap of their flesh meeting echoing in the room.

Harry reaches for Tom—the other boy slaps his hand away.

"Not yet," he pants, sweat glistening on his skin, running down the hollow of his throat. His curls stick to the sides of his face and neck. "Not yet…"

"Tom," Harry whines. "I need—"

"Not yet."

Harry pries his eyes open to catch Tom's gaze with his own. Tom must see something there that he likes—his magic flushes to a rosy shade, and contrary to his hissed words from a mere moment ago, he grabs Harry's hand and guides it back to his straining cock.

It's slick against Harry's fingers, leaking with precum as it is, and Harry jerks his wrist. He knows just the way Tom likes to be touched, what brings him quickest, and he utilizes that now. Within moments, Tom whimpers above him, his head tipping back over his shoulders as his hot spend spills over Harry's fingers.

Harry lets himself go, tipping over the edge all too eagerly and spilling deep into Tom's somewhat loosened hole. His breath runs ragged, as if he has run for miles and hasn't merely suffered at the hands of a fantastic orgasm.

"Good," Tom whispers into his ear. "You did so well, my Harry. You were perfect."

Harry is too tired to do more than whimper in response and clutch Tom closer to him.

-

He must fall asleep. When he opens his eyes again, Tom is by the window, dressed in his instructor's robes. The light of the day no longer holds a pink hue as it plays along Tom's profile. It is well into the morning—undoubtedly, breakfast is over. If Harry doesn't move soon, he'll be late for his first class of the day.

"Why didn't you wake me?" he asks as he pushes back the covers Tom must have pulled over him, a chuckle on his lips.

"Do you think we gave the other teachers plenty to gossip about?" Tom turns from the window, a mischievous smile hooked on the corner of his mouth. The sight of it startles Harry's heart into a flutter. "Neither of us thought to put up a silencing ward, and neither of us arrived in time for breakfast."

"In my defense, I was—er—occupied," Harry mutters, his cheeks red as he fumbles for robes in his wardrobe.

Tom's answering chuckle is so low, it makes the red creep down Harry's neck.

"Tom?" Harry asks, once he is dressed and on his way out the door, Tom on his heels. "Are you—is everything—er—"

He glances over his shoulder. Tom lifts a brow, stepping around Harry so that he may shut the door to his chambers. It's then that Harry notices it—the way Tom holds himself upright as he waits for Harry to speak, his hands in his pockets and his head tilted slightly to the side.

"Oh, my God," Harry says again. Other words escape him for several moments as he stands there, gaping. How can he explain what he's just realized? "Tom—you—"

"Come on, Harry," Tom says, amusement wry in his voice. "You don't wish to be late, do you?"

"I think I can bloody well be late for this—"

"Well, I don't wish to be late," Tom counters.

He sets off down the stairs nearest to Harry's door. His footsteps echo in the stairwell in a muffled thump as they encounter the carpet runner.

Harry stares.

Somehow, he has—he has… his Tom again, the Tom who loves him so unquestioningly, the Tom he raised…

Whatever this means, it can't be good.

Chapter Text

-September - October 1938-

On the second Saturday of the term, Dumbledore sets up a Floo connection in his office that leads directly to his house. A task he has for Harry to perform over the next several months will take one hour every Saturday until it is completed.

"You want me to alphabetize your books?" Harry repeats. His brows furrow over his glasses. Is Dumbledore serious?

"Yes," the redhead says, and Harry does not trust the twinkle in his eyes. "Through any means you deem necessary."

"So… with magic," Harry pieces together.

Dumbledore inclines his head in affirmation.

Harry wonders how the man got permission to allow a student into his home while school is in session. Maybe he didn't. Dippet seems like he trusts Dumbledore explicitly and would never think to question him.

A flagrant abuse of power, Tom would say with that too-big vocabulary he has, thanks to the thesaurus he owns. As if he himself would never think to do it.

"All right," Harry says.

Given what he's seen of magical books—the Monster Book of Monsters springs to mind—and what he's seen of Dumbledore's home, he thinks the task is manageable. Hopefully. Dumbledore has quite the collection of books…

-----

"Every Saturday?" Tom frowns. "Every Saturday until the end of the year?"

"Well, I imagine not on holidays," Harry sighs.

The boys sit next to one another at the Gryffindor table for breakfast. Tom sets down his utensils by his plate and turns to face Harry full-on. The serious look Tom gives him makes the older boy choke on his eggs.

"What?" Harry asks.

His magic flutters with amusement, and Tom narrows his eyes, unsure what is so hilarious. Harry knows better than to laugh at him outright, at least—now, after Tom spent weeks making it clear that it is simply unacceptable…

"He is using you to do his chores," Tom says. How Harry hasn't figured that out is beyond him, but he will set his soulmate straight so that Harry may do something about it before it is too late.

"What?" Harry snorts. "No, he's not."

"'Use magic' to alphabetize his books?" Tom huffs. "At his house. And you said there are hundreds of books, if not more! He is clearly using you, Harry, and you're letting him. I am disappointed in you."

Now Harry laughs outright, and Tom scowls.

"Oh, you're disappointed in me, are you?" Harry retorts. "Good to know, Tom. The man is my mentor—I'm sure there's a perfectly good lesson I'll learn from this."

"Yes," Tom agrees. "That you're a fool."

Harry huffs, but Tom knows he is right.

-----

Harry stares around at the heaps of books—tomes ("books" doesn't do them much justice)—in Dumbledore's study upstairs.

When he visited the older man's home upon his first arrival in this timeline, Harry was charmed by the way the tomes were crammed into every available surface and trailing out the bloody front door. Into the corridor, in the corridor, stacked against its sides… There isn't a clear spot to be found in the professor's home.

Harry is meant to alphabetize this mess?

He scratches the back of his neck. Well, an hour of work, and then he can head back to Hogwarts, eat dinner with Tom, and get started on the mountain of homework waiting for him.

A Gryffindor through and through, he makes the mistake of trying a shortcut first.

"Accio titles that begin with the letter 'A'!" he says clearly.

At first, nothing moves.

Harry frowns and leans toward the closest bookshelf. Perhaps Dumbledore's books have anti-Summoning wards on them? Except…

Harry's eyes widen.

The shelf… is that—is that a tremor?

Books soar through the study door in a flurry of paper, headed directly toward him.

Merlin, no!

"Protego!" Harry cries.

In the end, no less than thirty tomes hurl themselves into the study. Harry figures it could have been much worse, but as he examines some of the broken spines, he wonders if Professor Dumbledore will feel that way.

-----

Saturday lunches are quiet for Tom, as he has no one to sit with him. Harry disappears after breakfast and reappears before dinner, and Tom hasn't bothered to make other friends. He detests others as a general rule of thumb—if you hate them before they can hate you, they can never hurt you.

Yet on the first lunch that Harry spends away from him, the Carmine twins sit across from him. They are not identical (they will later tell him the word is fraternal); a boy with cornflower blue eyes and chestnut brown hair, and a sister who looks remarkably similar. They never go anywhere without the other, so far as he has observed.

"Yes?" he asks, biting back a more severe, What do you want?

The last thing he wants is company.

"I'm William, but you can call me Will," the boy says. "This is Ruth."

I know who you are. "Tom."

Tom's smile slips, and he reinforces it. He hopes this is over with soon.

"We thought we'd get to know you," William says.

"You looked lonely," Ruth adds.

Tom's resolve to be polite breaks. "I'm not," he snaps.

Far from being deterred, the twins only exchange a single glance before launching into their plans for the day.

-----

One of the books hops.

"Come here!" Harry hisses.

Sweat coats his brow. It has been three weekends—three hours in total, but he has better things to do than obsess over how this book eludes him. Is this a Mr. Miyagi thing with Dumbledore? Because if so, Harry… can't admit defeat over a hopping book, damn it.

It helps, he supposes, a stitch in his side, that his professor has no idea who Mr. Miyagi is.

"Accio!" Harry fruitlessly tries.

He swears the book laughs at him as it bounces a meter or so forward, as immune to the Summoning Charm as most of them are.

Harry lunges. It predictably scoots forward more.

He'd tried jumping for it off a table. Unlike the Monster Book of Monsters, however, it was quite intelligent, and Harry ate the floor. Waiting it out for an hour last weekend hadn't earned its respect, either, nor had chasing it about the house to wear it down.

How is Harry supposed to—

-----

Tom sets The Djinn's Jinx back on its shelf in the library with a small sigh. This is not what he was looking for—the title is misleading. It seems to be—well—fiction, presumably for leisurely reading. It is definitely in the wrong spot.

Resigned to resume his searching, Tom turns around, only to find William and Ruth there, curiosity writ plain on their faces.

Tom resists the urge to jump. Nothing spooks him—how do these two move so quietly? Or had he been that engrossed in his thoughts?

"Need a study partner?" they ask in unison.

"No," Tom says, with extreme prejudice.

He walks off, expecting that to be that, but he only makes it a few paces before they fall into step behind him, whispering about Professor Merrythought's recent penchant for hats that look like clouds, and how her fluffy white hair matches them.

-----

Ohhh, moth books!

Harry grins in awe.

They flap their covers like wings near the sloped ceiling of Dumbledore's conservatory, perhaps entranced by the star-shaped Muggle-like lightbulb fixture that hangs there. The star throws off enough light that one can see their feet while they walk at night, but it isn't overbearing enough to discourage the plant life.

"Accio!"

Harry braces himself.

Typically, nothing happens.

Er. Right.

He conjures a ladder. The volumes only fly higher, out of reach.

"Of course," Harry mutters.

Every magical book in this house has it out for him.

-----

Harry is always annoyed lately when he comes to dinner on Saturdays. The first weekend in October, he is even late, which has never happened before. In his absence, the Carmine twins descend on Tom, sitting to either side of him—sitting in Harry's spot.

Tom glowers at them.

They ignore him, instead having a heated discussion on precisely how stupid it would be to nick a broom from the broom shed.

"Incredibly stupid," Tom says at last, unable to withhold his opinion, and Ruth begins to look smug. It ignites his contrary behavior—the smile he gives her is sweet. "However, I feel I must side with your brother. If he wishes to improve his broom riding outside of our flying lessons, what does it matter?" William swells up behind him, and Tom sweetens his voice even more. "If he gets caught, let it fall on his head."

He'll play them against one another, they will rue the day they marked him as "friend," they—

"Tom," Harry says, exhausted, with some relief to the boy's name. "I—oh. Hello."

Harry stares down at where William occupies his space. The first-year pointedly doesn't move, instead throwing up a cautious wave.

Tom wants to kick him.

"That is Harry's seat," Tom informs him, in a last bid to get the boy to move without resorting to magic.

"It's all right, Tom." Amusement crosses Harry's face. "I'll move."

He walks round the table to take the seat across from Tom, and Tom does not hex William.

It is a close call.

-----

"A Quiet Place for Contemplation?" Harry reads aloud.

Curious, he opens the cover, which has golden leaves woven into it.

Pages fly out at him, and before he knows what's what, he is no longer in Albus Dumbledore's kitchen. He doesn't even have time to yell.

The book stays in his arms despite the wrench behind his navel. A Portkey?

Harry lands on his feet in a… forest. It's familiar in the way all forests are, yet strangely unsettling.

The book transports him straight back to the kitchen, and he falls into his abandoned seat, his cup of tea steaming where it sits on the table.

-----

History of Magic is the most difficult class to stay awake in. Professor Binns is a fossil, and though he imparts much detail to them about the goings-on of Goblin wars, it is never over anything meaningful. What will they learn from knowing how many buttons were on the uniforms of those who fought in the Goblin Rebellion of 1724?

One particularly brutally boring day, Ruth offers to loan Tom her notes after class.

He resists the urge to glower and pastes a placid smile on his face. "I took notes," he says instead of what he wishes to.

"You slept for half the class," William protests. "You should take Ruthie's notes, Tom."

Tom. Not Riddle, but Tom, as if the twins truly think they are friends.

"I did not sleep," he hisses. "I only closed my eyes for a moment."

Ruth smiles at him. "I'll leave my notes with you. If you wind up not needing them, then you'll be all the better for it."

She grabs her brother's hand and drags him ahead of Tom in the corridor they're walking down.

Tom growls beneath his breath. This girl has practically begged for a dead animal in her bed.

-----

The hopping book will meet its defeat today, Harry is sure of it.

"I don't have the patience for you," he informs it beforehand.

It wriggles at him, jumps a good meter in air, backflips, and scuttles off.

Harry presses his lips together.

-----

If Fawkes is present during Tom's Transfiguration classes, he tends to sit on Tom's shoulder and nibble at his ear the moment Tom sits down. This earns coos from his female classmates every time, without fail. It irritates Tom. So does the smile Dumbledore flashes their way.

They have a lesson to get to.

More importantly, Tom despises how familiar Dumbledore acts with him. He wishes the man would treat him the same way he treats his other students, though perhaps not even that. Dumbledore, Tom has noticed, tends to coddle his dunderhead Gryffindors when they struggle with their lessons.

Early on in the term, William claims the seat next to Tom. The smile Dumbledore gives Tom at that—as if he is happy for Tom—makes anger flush through him. He determines more than ever not to be friends with William or Ruth Carmine.

-----

For a solid month, the moth books elude Harry in the conservatory.

Their reign ends now.

Harry holds up his wand. This is, he can admit, a dangerous idea. But he has no other recourse. Lumos didn't work. Neither did Hermione's bluebell flames or a candle or even Incarcerous.

"Incendio!"

A controlled, thin jet of fire issues from the tip of his wand.

Elated, Harry watches a book bodily fling itself toward the fire.

Yes!

Finally!

The tome promptly incinerates itself on the flames, torched in seconds.

"NO!" Harry squawks. "No, no, no, no!"

A second one eats fire, and oh, Dumbledore is going to murder Harry.

-----

"Why would you use a fire spell?" Tom cackles.

He sat with Harry in front of the fire in the common room while the other boy recounted his tale of the moth books and the ensuing demise for two of them.

Harry glowers at him in a manner so reminiscent of Tom that Tom's chuckles cease in quiet wonder.

"I dunno!" the older boy sighs, exasperated, and something about it makes Tom dissolve into fresh giggles.

-----

"…Rudimentary Caving…"

Harry arches a brow.

Why does Dumbledore have a book on potholing? Isn't this new for Muggles at this time, never mind if wizards are interested…? It frankly doesn't seem like their sort of thing.

Harry is hardly a Gryffindor if he doesn't find out.

He flips the blank cover open. Pages fly out to circle around him in a flurry, and he has precisely five seconds to gird his loins before he's freefalling into pitch black.

This time, he can't hold in a scream if he tries.

Harry wrenches the book back open—struggles not to lose it. At once, he's returned to Professor Dumbledore's library. Harry slams the tome on its shelf, his heart ready to pound out of his chest, and wonders if the man is secretly trying to kill him.

-----

Tom trails through the Quad Courtyard, dead leaves, wet and moldy from the rain, attempting to cling to his boots as he does so. A light mist tickles his face, and swollen gray clouds from that morning's rain hang in the sky above. It's chilly enough that he's dipped his chin into the folds of his Gryffindor scarf to keep his face warm. The warming charm he's learned only heats his robes and uniform.

Footsteps thud behind him, and he sighs audibly as the Carmine twins fall into step with him, their faces animated with whatever discussion it is that they're having. Tom tunes them out, out of habit.

He's rethought his plan of leaving dead animals in their beds. Dumbledore is his Head of House and will suspect Tom, regardless of whether or not it's earned. It puts Tom at something of a disadvantage. Harry, he reminds himself frequently, will be upset with him if he caves to his crueler instincts.

But, oh, if Tom was allowed to be himself…

-----

Harry lunges onto the hopping book.

"Yes!" he cries, triumphant as his hands close around it.

As usual, the joke is on him.

The book shoots off, and it does not seem to care that Harry is attached.

Book-sledding. That is the only comparison Harry has for it. All he can do is clutch onto the thing for dear life because, after nearly two months of trying to capture this book, he refuses to let go. Absolutely refuses!

"Incarcerous!" Harry yells.

Nothing. Fine. He hadn't expected anything, anyway.

They take a corner rather hard, and he groans as his ribs smack into the threshold of the dining room. Oh, shite, no, that's the table, that's the table—! Brilliant, they're going under it—no, no, the chair legs, ow, OW!

A button on his shirt pops—his tie chokes at him—his glasses dangle off one ear.

"Can't we just be friends!" he asks of the book, not for the first time.

Damn, it's approaching the kitchen—!

Harry bows his head as best he can to protect himself. The book bucks—makes some sort of mad chomping motion like a rabid dog. He nearly tears it in half in his effort to hold on.

"Please stop!" he begs.

Paper trails behind them. Harry doesn't have it in him to be upset. Dumbledore will be lucky if this book survives at all, Harry thinks viciously.

As if it can read his mind, the book throws him against the wall. Harry narrowly misses a display case of daggers that shatters to the floor. Runed ones which could have severed his body permanently and sent him to the four corners of the Earth. They've been inert of their magic for five centuries, but that is so beyond the point.

The tome vibrates. Swings wildly left. The small of Harry's back hits the stack of books he worked on the weekend prior and sends them tumbling across the living room floor. The bouncing tome shakes him right, and Harry yelps, hanging on by one hand for a handful of seconds as his legs careen into the sideboard and his arm threatens to jerk out of its socket.

I'm going to die, Harry thinks. Not by Voldemort, not by Tom Riddle, but by a bloody jumping book.

Are those the stairs to the cellar?

"Sod it!"

Harry releases the Hopping Tome of Death, left panting at the top of the stairs. The monster hits the door to the cellar and flops feebly.

This is Harry's only chance to strike. He simply refuses to go crawling to Dumbledore over a jumping book—a possibly murderous one, at that, given how many bruises now coat Harry's body from the journey through the house.

Steeling himself, he pushes himself up onto his palms, and from there, his feet. He aims his wand at the book.

"Incarcerous!"

The book has nowhere to go except to Harry or against the door. Harry's ropes hit it, wraps it up. Relieved, he slumps against the banister and runs the back of his wrist over his forehead.

He's never opening a book without first knowing what's in it again.

-----

Tom watches Harry sleep.

It's easy to sneak into his dorm when the castle is quiet, everyone having turned in for the night. If he walks carefully enough, his footsteps don't echo in the stairwell when he makes his way to Harry's dorm. The older boy has the bed closest to the window, and his curtains are always drawn.

So secretive, his Harry. So like Tom.

No amount of stroking Harry's scar wakes him. Tom attributes it to the empty vial he often finds on Harry's nightstand before he slips behind the bed curtains to find his soulmate within.

Tom feels tempted to touch Harry's cock—it's not the first time, and he's certainly indulged in that impulse over the past several weeks once or twice. He decides instead to curl up against Harry. The bed is narrow enough that instead of merely clasping hands, Tom must snuggle in close so as not to fall off the side.

He wakes some immeasurable amount of time later with Harry's arms around him, his nose buried in Tom's curls, his breath a soft wash over Tom's ear.

When Tom sticks his head through the curtains, he sees that it's nearly sunrise. He scrubs the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand and sneaks back to his own dorm to rest until it's time for breakfast.

-----

Harry holds his breath—waits.

The golden bubble pops into place around the moth books.

Flap, flap, flap.

They remain oblivious.

Brilliant!

Now to reinforce the bubble with several more so that it doesn't pop when he moves it…

-----

"How is the tea, Tom?"

Dumbledore smiles at Tom over his glasses. They sit in his office one Saturday afternoon while Harry is away at Dumbledore's house. In the corner, Fawkes is perched on his pedestal as he cleans his feathers.

Tom takes a sip of his tea.

"Tolerable," he says.

Dumbledore gives him a sort of knowing smile, but Tom only reinforces his own polite one.

-----

The reinforced bubble holds. Harry's first modified charm works.

He would dance if not for the delicate nature of the mission.

"Hello, friends," he cooes. Lepis to Pteron I, III, and V flutter at him beneath the pearlescent sheen of the bubble. "This way."

-----

Tom can't concentrate.

"That's not it at all, Will. I'm saying that she looks like a sheep, and the cloud hat just sort of leaves her with a sheep face. It blends in."

"Poor Professor Merrythought. Ruthie will never let her live it down, will she, Tom?"

Tom puts his quill down as calmly as he can and lifts his head. The Carmine twins give him identical looks of inquisition. They've taken to inviting him into their "chats" lately, and Tom, still on strike against their friendship, refuses to be pulled into them.

Today, he feels as if they have finally pushed him to his limit. Why be polite anymore? It's clearly not working!

(Oh, if only he could act on any of his plots against them…)

"We are in a library," he hisses at them in his most venomous tone.

Whatever reaction Tom expected, it wasn't for the twins to look at one another in surprise and then burst into giggles.

Tom bangs his forehead down onto his open textbook.

-----

Harry steps back to admire his handiwork with a stretch of his arm, one hand on his shoulder. All of 'A' has been sorted, and it only took him 'til just before Halloween! he thinks only half-sarcastically.

The rest of what he's managed to sort sits in tidy piles around the library except for Miss Hopper—AKA The Bottlenose Dolphin Patronus—and the Moths. The former stay unbound and locked in the sunroom (for now) while the latter remain bubbled and in the library (also for now).

It is time to head back to Hogwarts for dinner.

-----

Tom and Harry sit shoulder to shoulder in the alcove above the common room, their homework spread around them. Both are knackered—Harry, from his attempts to tame Dumbledore's books, and Tom, by his persistent classmates and Dumbledore, who always seems to be around every corner.

Harry wraps his arm companionably around Tom's shoulders.

For a moment, Tom stays still, unable to move, unwilling once more to scare away Harry's touch. Then he melts against Harry, his temple coming to a rest against his soulmate's shoulder. Harry's body heat soaks into him on this cold October day, and Tom burrows even closer. A pleased thrill shoots through him when Harry, in turn, rests his head against Tom's.

They fall asleep—for just a short nap, for just a little while.

Chapter Text

-October 1998-

The ticking of the clock in Harry's sitting room rolls over his nerves. In its defense, anything is liable to set him off right now. He has far more questions than he does answers. And while at first, he didn't mind—and was willing to do anything to keep the peace—now, it's coming to a head.

Typically, Tom spends his evenings with Harry here, after dinner, discussing how their day went while grading papers. Tonight, despite what happened that morning, Tom resumes their tradition, albeit more vocally.

Harry has realized before how he is the one to keep up conversations between them. He'd have to be completely self-absorbed not to. Tom's magic is often full of contentment as he listens to Harry, and he rarely offers anything to say, especially lately, unless it's… purposeful. Idle chit chat is not something he enjoys.

"You keep staring at me," Tom says at last. "Do I have something on my face?"

"I think you know why I'm staring at you, Tom."

"Do I?" Tom, of course, has the audacity to appear puzzled. Yet their bond tells Harry that Tom knows exactly what he's referring to.

"Tom," Harry murmurs. "Please."

"Would it not be better to pretend things are as they were?"

"How can I do that, when I know the truth?"

"Because it is in the interest of my soul, is it not?"

Harry sighs. "In this case, I think it's better that you explained to me what happened. Whatever it is, it can't be—" Good, he doesn't finish.

A frown wrinkles Tom's brow. He seems as if he might debate—decides not to, straightening his shoulders and resting his curled knuckles on his knees.

"Very well," he agrees. "I will tell you my theory."

Theory? Harry wants to press. Tom only has a theory? But he's learned enough about Tom over the years to know not to interrupt, or the possibility of receiving answers grows slimmer.

Tom rises from what Harry considers Tom's chair. Scarlet and gold, well-worn in appearance—a style Tom has confessed to loathe, even though he was Sorted Gryffindor—it is nevertheless the spot that Tom chooses to sit in when he frequents Harry's sitting room.

Though he paces, his fingertips steepled together, Tom's movements are elegant, much like the boy Harry remembers from the Chamber, all those years ago. Yet there are subtle differences, too. His hair, for one, isn't quite so perfectly coiffed. Tom leaves it almost unkempt. Instead of the careful combing he once gave it in the morning, followed by touch-ups throughout the day until he learned how to use product, he brushes it first thing and then lets its curls tangle throughout the day. Often—such as now—they're crumpled from where his fingers distractedly ran through it.

It's a change from the past few months (almost six, Harry realizes with a start, not for the first time in his life. Time flies so quickly…). Ever since Harry returned to this timeline, Tom has appeared most like his diary form. Seeing him like—like Harry's Tom—leaves Harry's heart in his throat.

"For some time now, I have been… dreaming," Tom murmurs. Aside from the ticking clock and the pops of embers in the fireplace, the room is dead quiet, and Harry hears him with relative ease.

"Dreaming of this life, only able to observe it from a distance… unable to have any input whatsoever, except when I reacted particularly strongly to something…"

Harry listens to him, breath held, tension coiled tightly inside of him—a sharp contrast to the relaxed state of Tom's magic.

"The next thing I know, I was awake—in charge of this vessel…" He curls his fingers inward toward his palms. "There is a presence in the back of my mind now, who I must assume is the former Lord Voldemort. Yet here we differ: where I was aware, he seems to be truly slumbering, not nearly as observant and obtrusive as I'm sure I was."

"Why do you do that?" Harry asks. "Refer to him—to yourself—as Voldemort? He's—" Harry takes a breath to gather his thoughts. They're spinning. He hadn't known this could happen, and distinguishing between the two is an exercise in disaster. "You're not Voldemort anymore."

Tom lifts a brow. "Do you not think that makes it easier to tell us apart?"

A frown tugs at Harry's mouth. "You were meant to become one. You're not meant to be apart."

"Yes, and it would seem my other self struggles with that concept," Tom hums. "There is nothing I can do about it for the time being."

"There must be a way to merge you, to make you—him—come around again," Harry protests.

Tom tosses his head back and laughs, the sound so loud and pure that Harry looks away. He has heard this laugh before, many times, although the last was months ago. His soulmate is genuinely amused.

"This is not something you may force from him, my Harry," the boy murmurs, when his chuckles have at last ceased. "But I have a healthy appetite for living. I do not think my other self will be asleep for terribly long."

There is nothing more to be said about it for now, and so they retire to bed.

That first night with Tom, Harry is careful in how he holds him. Then Tom pushes his back to Harry's chest to be properly spooned, and any restraint is abandoned. He buries his nose in the back of Tom's neck as he clutches his soulmate to him, content to hold him for as long as he can.

He doesn't push for more, doesn't ask. He's afraid this is a dream, and that once he sleeps, he'll wake to find matters as they were before. That in itself is not so horrible a scenario, of course not. He loves Tom. Yet…

"I thought I'd lost you," Harry whispers. "I thought—"

Tom turns in his arms and kisses him into silence before he can say more.

-----

After Tom's next Defense Against the Dark Arts class with the seventh-year Gryffindors, Ginevra Weasley approaches his desk.

She says nothing while the remaining students file out, Granger with continuous glances over her shoulder. He nearly calls out to her to tell her to stay and protect her friend if it will make her feel better. As the thought is born from impish intent and would only serve to make Harry upset with him, he does not.

The door closes behind the last student, and a tomb-like quiet descends, filled only by the ticks of his clock.

"Hermione wanted me to apologize for that day I called you a liar," Ginevra says at length. Leaning forward, her eyes glittering with hatred and her hands fisting at her sides, she adds, "But I'll never forgive you for what you've done. You are a liar."

Gryffindors can be stubborn and self-righteous to a fault. Tom knows this all too well, having spent so many years among them. A liar he may be, but he is still a lion.

"Yes, your Gryffindor morals are preventing you from doing the sensible thing," Tom agrees. "As a fellow Gryffindor—"

The redheaded witch scoffs.

"—I can appreciate where you're coming from. However, in the long run, you may find such an outlook detrimental."

Folding his arms over his chest, he leans back in his chair. The leather of its backing is supple and has charms built into it to cushion him comfortably while he is grading papers or overseeing his students. His other self purchased the chair in Muggle London and wove the charm in himself, some sort of gesture toward reparations that hardly matters. A chair, after all, will not bring back the countless dead.

Ginevra continues to eye him warily.

"As fun as it is to be the sole voice of reason," Tom says, "it does become rather lonely after a time, does it not?"

Her suspicious stare deepens.

Tom sighs. He has a busy afternoon, and she is now interfering with it.

Getting to his feet and collecting the parchment rolls on his desk into one stack, he says, "Harry will always choose me, Miss Weasley. We are soulmates. Learn to accept what is right before your very eyes, or your future will be quite lonely indeed."

"There's something different about you," Ginevra says. "You're finally acting more like… him."

"I have no idea what you mean," Tom demurs. "What I do know is that I have my next class in—" his eyes flick to the clock "—three minutes."

"This isn't over, Riddle!" she says, heated again. "Harry—"

Oh, for Godric's sake.

"On that, we can more than agree," Tom says, unwilling to listen to another tangent. "Thank you, Miss Weasley. I will see you in class."

-----

October slips quietly into November.

For the first truly heavy snow of the season, which falls on a Saturday, Harry acquires hot chocolate from the kitchens. He shares it with Tom in his office, their cups topped with marshmallows, a candy notably lacking in England when Tom was a child.

A snowball smashes into the window and showers ice.

"Oooops!"

Shrieks and giggles, and the Hufflepuff first-years who had strayed too close run off, clutching gloved hands, their matching pigtails streaming behind them. Harry watches them through the glass, then returns his attention to the boy seated on the other side of his desk.

While Harry has many memories of this room from his own time in school, none are so precious as any moment he spends in it relaxing with Tom.

"The most curious thing happened yesterday morning when I read the paper," his soulmate says.

Harry blows on the steam wafting from his cup. The marshmallows clump together, united as the chocolate melts them. "Is that why I felt your magic do… whatever that was?"

A contraction, similar to a snake's coils wrapped about him and tightening.

"Possibly," Tom muses. "My other self was quite affected by the events in the news."

Harry remembers the paper well enough to not spend a moment reflecting. "They sentenced Bellatrix Lestrange to the Kiss."

"Indeed. I felt… a sense of terrible loss."

The laugh that brings from Harry is a bitter one. He tries to turn it into something more honest—fails. Mutters, "Well, I'm not surprised. Bellatrix is his favorite person in the entire world."

He's not being very charitable, he knows. But he's worried about Tom—the other Tom (Merlin, when will that stop being so confusing?). He runs from Harry, from their life, from… undoubtedly the remorse he was saddled with every day. Yet when the first real news of Bellatrix's fate hits the paper, it's enough to rouse him from his self-induced slumber.

"Yes, but this loss was accompanied by a great sense of guilt, my Harry," Tom murmurs. "I think if we truly want to merge me with the 'other' me, we should look at clues like this."

Tom is right, of course. Harry's lingering resentment for Bellatrix can be set aside for now, in favor of actually fixing the problem.

"When did you get so smart?" he murmurs with a smile.

"I have always been this smart," Tom purrs, a mischievous smile on his lips. "But it's so nice when you notice."

Harry takes a sip of his cooling chocolate.

"Knut for your thoughts?" Tom murmurs.

"I miss when things were… simpler," Harry admits. "When all I had to worry about was how to get home. Now I am home, and…" He trails off with a sigh.

"You want to get back," Tom finishes for him, his voice soft.

"Sometimes," Harry says. "But that's all right, it's just a part of life. We always long for easier times when the present grows hard, don't we?"

"Words of wisdom, Harry?" Tom chuckles. "What's next, tea? A piece of candy?"

A bit of red colors Harry's cheeks. "Don't be a brat."

"You would want me any other way?" Tom bats his lashes a moment—breaks into an easy laugh.

His expressions are so vibrant again, so—

Don't do that, Harry chides himself for what must be the thousandth time. Don't compare them.

"No," he says, and he makes himself smile for Tom. "I prefer you just as you are."

Smugness radiates from Tom at that, and he finally lifts his hot chocolate for a drink. A film of white is left on his upper lip after, and this time, Harry's smile is sincere. It twitches onto his lips before he can bite it back.

"What?" Tom asks, narrowing his eyes.

"Come here so I can kiss the marshmallow off your lip," Harry offers.

By the saucy glint in Tom's eye at that, the likelihood that they'll finish their chocolate diminishes. Harry gladly sets his cup aside. Ideas of how they can spend the morning instead rush through him as Tom drags his tongue across his upper lip, a show designed to mess with Harry's head.

It works. He doesn't think of their problem again until after they've finished coupling on top of Tom's chair, Harry's desk, the wall, and finally, the rug on the floor. Tom grins at him as they pant for breath, both of them flushed and covered in a damp layer of sweat, and it is this grin that reminds Harry once more of how different things are. How that difference can't stay like this, not if they have any hope of merging boy and man together.

Of repairing Tom's soul.

He kisses Tom before his worry can show in his eyes or his magic. He'll give himself Tom like this, just for now, and then he'll work on resolving the problem again tomorrow. They deserve a little happiness for themselves after everything they've been through. Maybe the other Tom will feel that happiness, that love, and feel safe enough to come back.

Maybe. But Harry doubts it.

Chapter Text

-July 1938-

Tom surprises Harry when he wants to slip into a salvage shop for their Potions vials. Thus far, none of his purchases have been secondhand, a line of thinking that Harry understands, given that both their lives have consisted of hand-me-downs. Harry through the Dursleys, Tom, an orphanage. But why would Tom change his mind?

"Sometimes, you can find things you wouldn't expect," Tom explains, perhaps sensing his curiosity in their magic. "And you said yourself that we can use Reparo on anything that needs mending."

"Not anything—"

"So we'll mend whatever we find here."

Tom grabs him by the wrist and drags him inside, obviously not concerned in the least by Harry's refutation. Vials glitter at them from the walls. Most are sold in sets containing at least one chipped bit of glass at a reduced price, but the center of the store contains rows of displays of solitary vials in every size and shape one could imagine.

Despite himself, Harry is charmed. He's never seen such an assortment. In the end, he chooses predominantly crimson and scarlet phials. Their shapes range from typical to elaborate geometric designs. His favorite is a dreamy blue crescent with a bronze, star-shaped stopper—it reminds him fiercely of Luna.

Tom's trend darker in color (no surprise there) and are far more elegant, with finely cut crystal stoppers and a traditional slender shape. Though he knows Harry will apply the Mending Charm to any nicks once they've purchased them, Tom must find some sort of reassurance in inspecting each vial. He holds them up to the light pouring in through the street window, his face an honest mask of concentration, his magic slowly winding around Harry. A snake coiled in the grass as it studies its prey.

They're on their way to the counter to pay for their goods, their arms full, when Harry happens to glance out the window.

Black, ruined buildings stand where not moments ago, businesses blossomed. Rubble sits in piles, and half the street is missing its cobblestone, as if bits of it were gouged out of the earth. The slightly overcast sky has turned a dismal gray limned in red.

The sight is so unexpected and unsettling that Harry upends the vials in his arms as he runs to the door, most of which bounce harmlessly off the floor. What he finds in the center of the street is even more alarming—

Himself.

Himself and Death.

Harry jerks his head around to find Tom, a marker on where he is in order to better protect him, but that only lines up his next nasty surprise: everyone stands frozen right where they are, mid-task, Tom included. As if the river of time simply… stopped.

His heart thundering in his ears, his holly wand (newly reunited with him!) in his palm, Harry steps out from the doorframe and back into the shop. At the window, he hunkers down, positioned out of sight but where he's able to still easily see the two figures conversing as if there's not a worry at all.

The other Harry… He's hard to look directly at, as if he's some warped reflection that will turn Harry to stone if he stares too hard. There's a certain… emptiness… on his face, one that Harry vaguely recognizes, though it's not an expression he's ever worn. He's nowhere as thin as Harry is—he's quite fit, really, what Harry might look like now had he never been on the run. His robes are fine, black and tailored close to his body. Also familiar.

Tom, he realizes. Voldemort.

The empty look of someone whose soul is severed. And those are the type of robes Voldemort prefers to wear.

Harry opens the window a bit in the hopes that their voices will carry. Luck favors him—not long after, they come to stand close to where he's knelt.  

"Nothing is like I remember it," Other Harry says. "It's all been destroyed."

"By your hand," Death says in his dry voice, and Harry's eyes widen, his heart thumping uncomfortably.

"And Tom's," Other Harry says. "But it doesn't matter who started it, does it? Most of the world looks like this. It'll be ages before they recover."

"You asked me, before, if there was something that you can do. The answer is yes."

Other Harry scoffs. "You said it wasn't possible."

"New events have come to light. I am on my way to Limbo to speak to another you—a curious one. I have an offer for him, but first, I need something from you."

"What is it?"

"That soul that you wish to fully repair—you can. If you are willing to die."

"I told you—anything," Other Harry says, his voice so serious that the hairs on the back of Harry's neck raise. "I'll do whatever it takes."

"Good. Then we will begin when you are ready."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Does it matter?" Death counters.

Silence stretches, broken only by the howling wind sending bits of rubble skittering along the broken cobblestone.

"Very well," Death says at last. "The soul will go into a vessel. If this Harry Potter succeeds in what he wishes to prove, that vessel will provide a new body for his Tom Riddle."

"Harry!" Tom cries, and Harry, his heart pounding in his ears with confusion and adrenaline, jerks his head up to find his ward standing over him.

Color seems to have been restored to the shop, and the babble of customers filters in. The bell at the door jingles as a portly wizard bustles inside.  

Harry scrambles to his feet, ignoring Tom's inquiring stare, and looks out the window. Buildings are whole once more. The street is packed with shoppers and their children.

Time has resumed. The Other Harry and Death are gone.

-November 1938-

"You did well, Harry," Albus praises gently, and Harry, who had been mid-sentence in summarizing what he'd learned for the day, falters.

"Er—sorry, sir?" But Harry is only confused for a moment. Uneasiness plinks through him as he realizes what happened. Dumbledore got past his Occlumency shields. "When did you—?"

"Just now," his mentor says. "You've grown adept at evading me. That was the hardest I've had to work to remain undetected in some time."

Harry swallows. He thought he had nothing to hide from Dumbledore anymore. Surely nothing he inadvertently revealed about his relationship with Tom the past handful of months even came close to the confession that he'd allowed himself to be touched inappropriately by the boy.  

Was he wrong?

"Is that why you're looking at me like that?" Harry mutters.

Albus frowns. "Like what?"

"Like you feel sorry for me." The bite to his voice is unintentional, and Harry winces at himself. He supposes he's a bit angry at himself—and at Dumbledore—for allowing his mentor to slip through what he thought were carefully erected shields. "Sorry. I feel like I never get enough rest."

"The sleep potions aren't working?" Albus' brows rise.

"I don't want to rely on them," Harry explains. "They seem like they could be, I dunno, habit-forming?"

"Perceptive, my boy. But I should think one every now and again won't hurt."

Harry shakes his head. "Maybe not, but I still don't want to risk it."

Stroking his ginger beard in contemplation, the other man leans back in his chair. "What do you think Death meant when he called our Tom a vessel?"

Harry knows instantly to what Albus refers to, only because they've discussed it before. The way the question was phrased signals that this was the memory he witnessed while Harry was unawares. A part of Harry relaxes. There's nothing embarrassing or incriminating in that one.

"You said you thought it meant that he was a vessel for the soul," Harry says.

"Yes. But what do you think?"

Harry frowns and looks out the window, where the first snow of the season is piled on its ledge. Distant shrieks indicate a snowball fight is underway. He saw a cluster of first-years preparing a fort in the Transfiguration Courtyard on his way to Dumbledore's office this morning.

"I think," Harry says, "that Tom doesn't have a soul of his own. That the Other Harry's soul is in his body. And that possibly… He only exists for that reason. But… that sounds… I dunno. Mad?"

"On the contrary, Harry," Albus murmurs, "I don't think it sounds mad at all."

They share a solemn gaze.

Contemplate as they like, however, Harry is no closer to solving the mystery. Every day, he calls to Death for answers, but the deity never replies. All Harry has left is speculation. 

-

In the middle of December, he wakes up to find Tom curled up in his arms.

He stares down at that head of dark curls, his heart in his throat, and wonders how on Earth the boy got here. His second thought is that this is unlikely the first time it's happened, knowing Tom. It would also explain how he's able to find rest on nights when he hasn't taken Dreamless Sleep. Would tonight have been more of the same, had he not been plagued with worries for the future?

Though it would be prudent to wake Tom up and send him back to his own dorm, he finds that his arms have instead wrapped snugger about the smaller boy and tugged him closer. He buries his nose in Tom's soft curls and closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, some few hours later, Tom is gone.

-

How often has Tom snuck in to see him? How will Harry explain that to anyone, should Tom get caught?

These thoughts and more plague Harry through his lesson with Albus that day, distracting him from the text he's meant to be reading from. To make matters worse, there is yet again joyful screaming occurring not far away as children play in the snow. In his chair by the window, he can't escape the sound, and he nearly wishes Albus would charm it silent.

The promise of pulling off a new spell in spite of the constant distractions is an alluring one, and the concentration needed helps to put Tom out of his mind and drown the noise from outside to nothing more than background static. For hours, diagrams of spellwork and algebra crush his brain in its attempts to form new wrinkles.

And then Tom himself joins the fanfare, and Harry can concentrate no longer.

His magic plays over Harry, a mischievous coil.

"Harry?"

He looks up. Albus eyes him from the desk, a brow raised.

"You've been staring into space for a long time now."

"O-Oh," Harry says, and he scratches the back of his neck. Clears his throat and tries to focus on the text in his lap.

This happens three more times before Albus says, a bit exasperatedly but warmly, "I think we can break early today."

Harry's lips twitch into a grin at that. "Yeah?"

His mentor inclines his head.

Harry works mostly in a dream after that. He packs up his things, stuffs them in the satchel that Tom picked out for him months ago, and hurries out of the office with a waved good-bye. The Transfiguration classroom sits empty of students—the shrieking grows louder, joined by muffled thuds and thumps of ice smacking against the walls.

The classroom opens into a corridor off the courtyard, and the chill is bracing. Harry shivers and wraps his scarf more securely about his neck before he follows the tug of Tom's magic. Snow coats the empty branches of the giant tree in the courtyard, dusts a fountain of a dragon, its water iced over. Half the courtyard has been taken by a snow fortress, and a great number of children have joined the fray of a snowfall fight.

Locating Tom is harder than it initially seems—there are so many tiny bodies about—but he eventually spots his ward on the far side of the courtyard, behind a corridor that leads back into the castle, a ball of snow cupped in his scarlet and gold mitten. His eyes are gazing straight ahead, at the back of the heads of the Carmine twins.

Harry realizes his intention just in time.

He throws up a Protego as Tom launches the ball, only he aims the shield at the midway point between Tom and the twins. The frozen ball smacks against the shield—far more than snow splatters. Much to Harry's dismay, rocks also tumble free.

Whirling to Tom reveals a guilty face. His magic reflects the same emotion. Were Harry less keen to the way his soulmate thinks, he would assume that the boy felt guilt over his intended harm to the Carmines. He knows better. If anything, Tom is only regretful that Harry discovered him in time and that Harry will be upset.

The latter is what curbs Harry's initial reaction. Dismay fades to a worried sort of fondness, and he drops to one knee before Tom, peering up at him. Tom's eyes are so big, so brown, so fretful. His magic is far calmer. Manipulative brat.

Harry pulls him into his arms—murmurs into his ear. "Why hurt them?"

"They're annoying," Tom confesses. His tone is so pouty that Harry must bite his lip against a chuckle. "I want them to leave me alone."

Harry rubs between Tom's shoulder blades. "That's within your rights, but I don't think this was the solution. Have you tried talking to them?"

"They think I'm joking," Tom mutters. "They won't take me seriously."

So you'll make them fear you.

Harry cups Tom's sweet face in his hands. Over the past six months, he's grown closer to Tom in ways that he'll never be able to sufficiently explain to anyone in his life back home. Or even here, perhaps. His eyes linger on long eyelashes, on the flush of pink on Tom's pale cheeks. He wants Tom to be sweet for him. To want to be. But he knows that pursuing that would be madness.

"From what I've observed, I think they just want to be friends with you," he says. "Do you want me to talk to them for you instead?"

Tom slowly shakes his head.

Harry sighs. "All right, Tom. But… you can't harm them."

"It would have looked like an accident," Tom says, his brows furrowed.

Harry fights not to focus on how adorable his precious face is, scrunched up so defensively like that.

"Not to Dumbledore," he says. "I don't think you should risk it. What if I lost you, Tom? What then? I need you here, with me, not expelled for hurting others."

"I wouldn't get expelled over rocks," Tom mutters.

"Maybe so," Harry says. "But I think we both know that you were planning on a bit more than rocks, if this didn't work. Weren't you?"

Tom won't meet his eyes. Tiny teeth poke into Harry's skin, the boy's magic a needling pressure.

Harry kisses a red cheek, the skin cold beneath his lips. He snugs Tom's Gryffindor scarf up around his face and neck—taps the tip of his wand to his robes to warm them. He rubs at his shoulders and arms to circulate warmth back into that thin frame.

"What are you doing outside?" Tom mutters. "Don't you have lessons with Dumblesnore?"

Harry knows he should scold him about the name, but only grins. "I asked if I could spend today with you." Yeah, it's bending the truth. Tom's dark eyes lighting up makes it worth it, and the magic teeth recede to affectionate nibbles. "Do you want to stay out here, or come with me for hot cocoa?"

Curiosity pinches Tom's features. "I've never had hot cocoa."

"Then now is the perfect time to try it," Harry says. "I'll show you a secret, but in return, I want you to promise me that you won't harm the Carmine twins."

"I promise," Tom says immediately. He adores secrets. Excitement paints a new flush over his handsome features.

Harry holds up his finger for a pinky promise, and Tom's little pinky closes firmly around his.

-

"You tickle the pear right here. See? Like this. And then—"

The portrait hiding the entrance to the kitchens swings open. Tom's eyes gleam with delight, and he snugs his hand in Harry's before tugging him after him to explore.

House-elves rush up to them, eager to help. The tables spread around the room groan beneath the weight of the food for lunch. Harry sees understanding dawn on Tom's face as he makes the connection for how the food travels.

"The Great Hall is right above us," Harry says, with a point at the ceiling.

As they seat themselves at a spot of table that hasn't been weighted down with food, the house-elves shove platters of sandwiches and sweets in their direction. The hot cocoa is set before them in great mugs. Asking for marshmallows earns Harry a puzzled look. Guess they haven't been invented yet.

The house-elves bow and scarper off, eager to return to preparing lunch and relieved to have helped them. Hermione would be so irate with Harry for bothering them like this, but they seem happy enough, so…

"Thank you, Harry," Tom says.

Harry's heart flutters. Tom never freely offers gratitude for anything—not sincerely.

He kisses the top of Tom's head, closing his eyes.

In moments like these, anything seems possible.

Chapter Text

-December 1998-

The winter holiday arrives before the boys know it, and they head home to Grimmauld Place for a sense of privacy. Since the renovations are complete at last, there is no need for them to stay at the school, as they had this past summer.

Curiosity is strong within Harry. The last time he saw Grimmauld Place, even with partial renovations complete, the townhouse was… rough, to say the least of it. Even though he emptied a good portion of his vault for the affair, the impression Grimmauld left on him as a boy has yet to leave.

Yet as they Floo home through Harry's office and take in the refurbished living room, he admits he may have been silly to worry. This opinion is only reinforced as he tours the townhouse with Tom in tow, examining every room, nook, and cranny. But no matter how hard they look, any sign of Dark magic and neglect has vanished. In their place, a beautiful and pristine home welcomes them.

Harry had worried about moving into the master bedroom, as well, given his past experience. He'd avoided it when he was on the run, unable to bear the lingering pain of Sirius, entering only because he was desperate for any information at all. But the renovation was so thorough that no trace of his godfather remains. He can't decide if that upsets him or not.

"Is this our room?" Tom asks. He grins at Harry. Pushes him toward the bed so that he's forced to walk backward and not trip over himself as Tom waves his hand and their robes slip off their bodies. "Brilliant. Let's break it in."

He smothers Harry's laughter with a hungry kiss.

-

They spend the next few days shopping for groceries and Christmas decorations. Harry ordered Tom's presents back in November, so that's one less item on his mind to concern himself with. Of course, purchasing something that each Tom Riddle might enjoy hadn't been easy, but he wants to do his best to coax this timeline's Tom out of slumber.

Riddle, he's taken to calling him in his mind, until they are one. Fitting, in a way. A return to how things were.

He hates it.

Tom's laughter fills each room of the townhouse as the holiday progresses and they string tinsel and garland everywhere. Deep and throaty—sometimes high, depending on his level of mischief. A sound that never fails to bring a smile to Harry's face. By the end of the first week, Grimmauld Place feels like home in a way that it never has before.

They aren't alone for long. Hermione visits with Ron and Ginny the day before Christmas Eve. Harry's friends can't stop staring at the renovations.

"Mum has got to see this," Ginny mutters to Ron. "She won't believe us when we tell her that it may as well be a new house. Look, even the portrait of Walburga Black is gone. Amazing…"

Harry guides them to the kitchen, where a feast is spread out on the table. They gasp at both the piles of food loaded on it and the sight of Tom, perched in the chair at the head of the table, his legs crossed at the knee, a Father Christmas hat atop his inky curls. He smirks at Harry's friends.

"Welcome to our home," he says.

Ginny stares hard at him. She's just decided to say something—her eyes narrow, and her mouth opens—when Hermione puts a hand on her shoulder and sends a forced smile Tom's way.

"Hello, Tom. It's a little strange to call you that after we've deferred to you as 'professor' all year, isn't it?" she asks. Her laughter is stilted enough that Ron kicks her ankle. "Ow! I was breaking the ice, you didn't have to kick me…" she mutters, flushed.

Harry rubs a hand over the back of his neck. When is it ever not awkward with his friends when Tom is around?

"Please, sit," he offers. "Tom and I have cooked all day. We're excited to have you here."

Ginny ducks her head, but not before Harry sees her disbelieving face. He sighs inwardly. He had hoped Ginny had come because she was past her war with Tom, but maybe that had been too hopeful on his part. His eagerness for his friends to be past the whole, "But it's Tom Riddle!" phase has grown greater than his patience, but he must remind himself yet again that he's had years to come to term with it. They have had far less.

Tom's magic squeezes around him in one long coil of reassurance. Harry shoots a smile his way as they seat themselves. Chair legs scrape against stone. A ham sits in the center of the feast, surrounded by various plates of vegetables, rolls, tureens of gravy, Yorkshire pudding, and two types of potatoes—roasted and mashed. There's more than enough food and then some.

"I'm glad we're spending time together like this," Hermione says, after plates are full and everyone has dug in.

"Yeah, this is amazing," Ron agrees, his mouth full of potatoes.

Ginny smiles at Tom, saccharine sweet, as she cuts into her ham. "I didn't know you cooked. You don't seem like the type. No offense."

"None taken," Tom replies with a warm chuckle, a glass of wine in hand. He's barely touched his plate, content to lounge in that large chair he's claimed and more than made his own. "Harry cooked most of this. I made the, ah—what did I make, darling?"

"You skinned the potatoes for me," Harry says. And then, to his friends, "He even did it the Muggle way. I was very proud of him."

"Only because you bribed me with a tasty dessert. Of which I have yet to see any sign of, by the way." Tom takes a long sip of his wine.

"Oh, it's there, you brat," Harry retorts. "Mind your manners and wait."

"You're so cruel to me, my darling!" Tom protests. "If you're not careful, they'll see what a tyrant you truly are. Hiding behind Christmas feasts and professorly smiles—" He breaks into laughter at the same time as Harry.

"Professorly smiles?" Harry asks around his chuckles.

"I've no idea," Tom admits, equally amused. "Perhaps I should drink less wine and actually try the food you've labored so hard over."

"Perhaps," Harry mocks him, grinning.

He can feel the stares of his friends, and his neck heats, but he pretends not to notice.

-

They don't stay long past dessert, a simple chocolate trifle Harry whipped up when he realized all they had for sweets to serve are stale biscuits and candy. Hermione has the grace to offer to help clean up, but he politely declines and sends his friends home. He can tell that they're relieved.

Tom's arms wrap around him from behind. His magic sinks into Harry, a comforting blanket of familiarity. He's tipsy from all the wine he ingested, and his good mood is intoxicating. Harry turns around in his arms to pull him closer and kiss him.

"I think that went well, don't you?" he asks.

Tom chuckles. His eyes are bright, his cheeks flushed. "They hate me, Harry."

"They don't… hate you," Harry protests.

"Very well, they merely tolerate me, and they only do so at your behest." His soulmate hooks a finger beneath Harry's chin—kisses him. "I'll help you clean up."

"You can watch," Harry laughs. "I don't think you're in much of a state to clean."

Tom pouts, but he doesn't disagree.

-

On Christmas, Harry charms snow to fall from the ceiling but never actually land anywhere. A trick he picked up when Tom was a child. It's more than fitting here in Harry's present, when they've yet to see any snowfall in London.

A heavily decorated and festive tree stands guard over a heap of presents in the living room. Harry has no idea when Tom got him anything, yet half that pile is for him. Tom has been as sneaky as Harry in stashing gifts until the time came. Had he slipped out to Hogsmeade in his spare moments, too, or ordered from catalouges?

He returns to their bedroom. Climbs onto the bed and kisses Tom awake. The boy's soul never once cried out for him. It hasn't, not since this timeline began. Harry wonders if it's because he accepted Tom so completely, and Tom knows it, even if a part of him (Riddle) denies it, and so his soul never cries out for comfort from its mate.

Or maybe that's just more fanciful thinking, and it's something else entirely.

"Come on," Harry whispers. "Rise and shine. I've made you breakfast, and I know you're excited about presents."

Tom's eyes slip open, but Harry sees right away that it's not Tom at all—it's Riddle.

"Oh," he says.

"Disappointed?" Tom—Riddle—murmurs wryly, his voice thick with sleep.

"No," Harry says honestly. "I was worried I might not ever see you again, actually."

Riddle studies him, bleary-eyed though he is, and sits up. His curls stick up in all directions—he's also stark naked beneath the blanket. Stubble clings attractively to his jaws and cheeks, as Tom went a few days without shaving. Effortlessly handsome.

"How have you been?" Harry asks. He averts his eyes for politeness' sake. As much as he shags Tom, he's never actually had sex with Riddle. "Tom described what happened to you as—er—taking a nap. To get away from… things."

"A nap?" Riddle murmurs. "Yes… In a way, I've been—dreaming."

"Dreaming?"

"Yes," Riddle says again, even more quietly. "Of who I am when I've only ever known you."

His eyes lift slowly to Harry's, and Harry's breath catches. He's not even sure what he sees there. Regardless, the rub of Riddle's magic is warm, comforting, familiar. No matter who is conscious in their body, Tom's magic always feels the same.

"I understand him better," Riddle says. "I understand—you better."

Harry's lips quirk into something resembling a smile. His heart isn't in it. All he can think is that he'd rather they were one again. Going between them like this is painful, and it can't be good for either of them.

Riddle grips his wrist, urging Harry to look his way again. When he does, Riddle's hand tightens.

"Harry—I saw what happened. The day you returned to our timeline," he says, in that same quiet voice. A shiver creeps down Harry's spine as he's held captive by those dark, mahogany brown eyes. "I saw without my own experience to color my judgment. I do not think I entirely understand it, but I…" He shakes his head, wordless for a moment. "He loves you. Genuinely. And I felt that love, and it was…" His breath shudders.

"Monumental," Harry whispers.

"Terrifying," Riddle counters. "And when your friends were here yesterday, you stood by him—by me. He went to sleep happy, content, loved. I want to understand him, too."

Harry exhales. He's trembling, he realizes. Shaking right down to his bone marrow. Hadn't he wanted this all along? For Riddle to be open to change, to understand, to heal? To not loathe this life so much? To not—go to "sleep" to escape it? To stay here, and fight for a life with Harry?

"I could dream more," Riddle says. "Or I could be here, with you."

"You should be here," Harry says. "This is your home. Your body."

The other boy shakes his head. "No. It is his body, the body that he earned through his own actions. I have done nothing to deserve it. I, who have only ever thought of myself."

Harry turns his hand over in Riddle's—holds onto it. "That's not true."

"But it is, darling." Riddle closes his eyes. "Everything I have ever done has only been in service to myself. Even here, with you, after the war, learning to be mortal again. To be good. I would have done anything to escape the pain of my soul, to escape any responsibility of my past actions. The moment I realized I could escape, I did. I did not regret it."

Harry leans forward and carefully kisses his cheek. "I didn't blame you. I knew it was hard. I just think it'd be easier if…"

"If we were one," Riddle sighs. "Yes. You've said. But I have begun to believe that it may be impossible."

"No," Harry protests. "Tom…"

Those dark eyes flash open—narrow. Harry's words die in his throat.

"Yes, my darling," Riddle insists. "We are two different people at our core. I see it now. He never had the chance to become me—you saw to that."

"Then you have to find a way to reconcile," Harry pleads. "You can't be separate like this. You—"

Riddle kisses him.

There's certainly one way of shutting me up.

Long, elegant fingers thumb open his shirt, buttons slipping from their holes. Riddle's palm, so warm, slips inside and rests over his heart. His lips trail from Harry's, over his jaw, down his throat, to the crook of his neck and shoulder—he bites, and Harry gasps, spasming from the flash of pain mingled with pleasure.

"I want to see," Riddle murmurs. "I want to understand what makes you so addictive."

An awkward chuckle leaves Harry at that. "Addictive?"

"Yes." Riddle's lips return to his, seizing them so fiercely that Harry melts and grips onto his shoulders to steady himself. When he speaks again, his voice is rough with desire, "I considered myself above such base urges. Yet it would seem that in the Nexus, my child self was drawn to you in every way, even this one."

"And you?" Harry whispers, his own voice a little rough. "Are you drawn to me?"

"I have always been drawn to you, Harry Potter." Riddle smiles, and it is not a kind one. "That seems to be our destiny."

Harry kisses him—pushes at his shoulders to nudge him to lie back. Yet Riddle resists. He flips Harry onto his back instead and peers down at him as they pant at one another, breathless, the sound filling the silence of the house. Sunlight tickles their room through the window, grazes their bodies.

"Not this time," Riddle says. "I want you to see you helpless."

He waves his hand. Harry's clothes slip off him and land in a pile on the floor, and he never thinks to be afraid. He trusts Riddle, he trusts Tom. No matter how confused he is, Riddle loves him, just as Tom does. He can't escape from the jumble of memories, even when sleeping at the back of their joint consciousness. Those memories tether him to Harry.

Riddle wants to understand him, understand their love, on his own terms.

"I've never taken you," he tells Harry, slipping his fingers down Harry's thigh, up, along his cock. "I have never claimed your body the way that you have mine. I will remedy that now."

Harry's cheeks flush. For the first time, vulnerability hits him square in the ribs. Exposing himself like that to Riddle requires a great deal of trust. And he does trust him, of course. He supposes he's so startled because Tom was never really curious enough to lead in that respect—he wants to be pampered, and Harry is all too happy to do so.

"Nervous?" An edge of dark amusement glitters in Riddle's eyes, layers his voice.

"Yeah," Harry admits. "But I trust you."

Another fierce kiss from the other boy. Then he flips Harry again, this time onto his stomach. Harry's breath leaves him in a shuddery exhale. He forces himself to relax—jerks reflexively when Riddle runs a finger over his perineum.

"He's really never touched you here," he chuckles. "Good."

Claiming a part of Harry that Tom hasn't. So possessive.

"You should look at him like he's you," Harry rasps. "Y'know? Practice."

They are separating more and more—growing into two distinctive halves instead of a merging duo.

Not good.

"Practice the mindset of a child? No," Riddle muses, and he shoves a finger slicked with lube inside of Harry before he can argue. A yelp trips off Harry's tongue. He flushes. The feeling is intrusive but not unwelcome, no matter that it burns a little. "Though you may be right. I am willing to concede that it is likely for the best that our conscious minds merge."

"But…?" Harry pants.

"But as I said, we are far too independent of one another. Our only common ground is you."

Riddle thrusts his finger lightly as he speaks—adds a second and scissors them. Harry writhes under him, a whine slipping from him. He's unable to stay still against the pressure. There are no more words exchanged between them, only Harry's gasps and puffs of breath, the slick sound of two fingers prying him open, followed at last by a third.

Pleasure suffuses Harry. His gasps turn to deep, needy groans, and he arches back into Riddle's fingers, silently begging for more. The other boy humors him, fingering him open hard and fast, with little regard to his comfort. Mimicking what he wants to do to Harry?

Abruptly, Riddle pulls his fingers away. Harry trembles against the bed, his arse clenching around nothing. He struggles not to ask to be touched again. If this were Tom, his Tom, he wouldn't hesitate. But it's not. This is Riddle, and he wants to lead.

Pressure—

Harry gasps, his head tipping back on his shoulders, his brows knitting together above his glasses. Riddle presses another inch of his cock in, then another—another—and Harry shudders beneath him, biting at his lip to stifle his cries, his fists clenched in the blanket. The intrusion burns, it burns, but he welcomes the pain.

Riddle makes a sound deep in his throat as he comes to rest in Harry, buried up to the hilt. His hands play over Harry's body, groping, stroking, rubbing—soothing him, his magic flicking after his every touch, until Harry is boneless against the bed, his every worry about Tom and Riddle's unity spiraling away from him. Vanishing into the ether.

"I thought you said you were above this." The words come out in Parseltongue. English has never seemed like such a struggle, yet the snake language comes to him effortlessly for once. "How do you know so much?"

Riddle chuckles, a breathless sound, and responds in kind. "I never said I was inexperienced, you silly boy. Merely that I was not naturally moved to this condition."

This condition being arousal, of course. Yet Harry is the silly one.

The boy above him withdraws, so achingly slowly that Harry groans in protest. Riddle's answering laugh, low, dark like cinders, burns against Harry's ears. Falling embers of sound that burst into flames everywhere they touch. Harry trembles, sweat damp on his brow, the small of his back. He's stretched so wide…

Riddle slams back in, his hands grabbing Harry's and forcing them to rest beside his head. He laces their fingers as Harry cries out, bucking back against him. His heart pounds as quickly as if he's been running or duelling. Their magic braids together and creates an effect of a snake coiled about him, the impression of a Snitch's wings. Shadows and light. Blood, soil, bone.

Harmony.

"So beautiful in your pleasure…" Riddle hisses above him.

They move as one, Riddle's hips rolling in a hard, steady outpour of thrusts, Harry rising back to meet him, their hearts racing, their souls tangled. A fragment enclosed in love. The piece inside of Harry warms with vibrating pleasure every time Riddle sinks back into him. He can only imagine what it must feel like for Riddle, the sense of wholeness in their coupling.

Tom once described it as utopia.

Orgasm crashes into Harry, invoked entirely without touch. Light sears behind his eyes, and his head swims, pleasure a tide that he can't fight if he tries. When it eases, he feels Riddle above him, trembling and giving a last few thrusts as he empties himself into Harry, floods him with sticky heat.

Their magic fairly sings with their joining.

Riddle's teeth sink into his shoulder, and Harry yells at the flash of pain. Groans as Riddle suckles on the patch of skin he just mauled. He peppers kisses up Harry's neck, to his ear, where he bites again.

"Mine," he hisses in satisfaction.

Harry doesn't deny it, though he scoffs. "You've always been so possessive."

"You enjoy it," Riddle retorts, entirely unbothered.

"A bit," Harry admits with a grin.

They spend several minutes recovering, spooning on their sides, Harry's back to Riddle's chest. The other boy's breath deepens behind him as he falls back asleep. Harry thinks of the breakfast he made, turned cold in the kitchen. He can cook more later, he decides, and he allows himself to follow Riddle into the realm of slumber.

But when they wake again an hour later, Riddle is gone.

Tom blinks at him with a sleepy, content smile. "Good morning."

He makes no mention of what Riddle had done, which leads Harry to wonder if he even knows. Maybe he doesn't care. Tom isn't the one resisting their joining—Riddle is.

"Good morning," Harry echoes. Confusion mounts. Why had Riddle disappeared again already? Had their shag scared him back into slumber? Had he gotten the answer he wanted, and it had scared him? Harry can only speculate until he reappears. "I had breakfast ready, but your other half had different plans."

Tom chuckles. "He's been so curious of late. I frequently feel him stirring around."

What?

Harry sits up. "Why didn't you tell me?"

The other boy's brows furrow. "I did not wish to get your hopes up if I was only imagining it, darling."

"Right…"

"Harry?"

Harry scrubs a hand over his face, then climbs out of bed. "It's not you. It's him. I just—I don't understand. I'm beginning to think he's afraid of me."

"Well, maybe he is," Tom reasons. He sits up, as well, running his fingers along his curls. They smooth out from their rumpled appearance, eased into place by magic. "Think about what happened. You allowed him to take you, entirely without fear for your own safety. You were vulnerable with him. Exposed. He is used to your fear, your hesitance."

"I've accepted him," Harry retorts indignantly. "This isn't new, I—"

"Sex is new," Tom argues, and Harry falls quiet. "I do not believe he has ever experienced sex as he so recently did. You are unlike anyone or anything else, my darling. He thought he was prepared to experience that, and he was not." He shrugs, a careless roll of his shoulder that Harry has never seen Riddle make. "He'll recover, I'm sure of it."

Harry rolls his eyes. He finds his clothes and yanks them on, though he leaves his shirt unbuttoned.

"Why are you so angry at him?" Tom murmurs.

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not," Harry insists. "I'll be in the kitchen." He returns to the side of the bed to drop a kiss on Tom's cheek. "Love you. Breakfast will be ready soon."

He leaves the room, and while Tom doesn't call out after him, his magic does, a silent plea to return.

Harry ignores their bond. His hands won't stop shaking. He doesn't trust himself to say something that he won't regret.

Tom is right. Harry is angry. But since there isn't anything that can be done about it at the moment, cooking is the most productive way to channel it.

-----

In the bedroom, Tom sighs.

He falls onto his back. Searching inwardly for the source of Harry's ire reveals him curled up in the corner of Tom's mind, dreaming once more. There but not. Hiding.

Harry loves us, Tom tells him, not that he's ever tried directly speaking to his older self before. He has never wanted to intrude on his slumber. Circumstances have changed, however, and their situation has grown more urgent. Don't ruin this for him.

How can they heal their soul without their soulmate?

But Riddle, as Harry likes to call him, only dreams on.

Chapter Text

-December 1938-

Tom dreams of a younger Harry again.

This time, he recognizes immediately that it's Harry body that's he's been once more transported inside, and he doesn't bother to fight it. They sit on a cold stone floor in a mostly empty classroom, their arms wrapped about their knobby knees, their eyes on the mirror before them, a cloak loosely draped over their shoulders. Somehow, beneath their neck is invisible, but trapped as he is like this, Tom doesn't think to question it yet.

Moonlight pours in through the windows, but they never once glance away from the mirror—they can't. Two figures stand behind them, not really there at all, yet somehow still so present within the reflection, their hands on Harry and Tom's shoulders, their gaze loving.

"Mum," Harry whispers. "Dad."

Tom jerks awake.

The other boys of the dorm are already up and about, and William Carmine stands nearby, a worried expression on his dopey face. It clears into relief when he sees that Tom is no longer asleep.

"Good," is all he says, and he returns to dressing, his back to Tom.

Drowsy still, Tom pushes up onto his elbows—resists the urge to roll back over for more sleep. Mirror ghosts rises up behind his eyes, and he instead waits until the room has emptied out to reach between his mattress and the box spring and pull his diary free.

Sunlight presses through the windows lining the room. Between that and the small furnace in the center of the dorm, a fire crackling away within it, he's baking in the heat—despite the December chill outside and the heaps of snow. He scribbles the details of his dream onto his diary with less care than he'd usually take in his eagerness to be done so that he can escape. He's not even certain how much will be legible later.

Not that he could ever forget what he witnessed. Harry, mostly invisible, gazing longingly into an enchanted mirror of some sort, his parents interposed behind him in the glass…

Harry had told Charlus on the train to school this year that he was adopted. The dream makes it clear that Harry misses his parents in a way that Tom has never felt. Like Tom had told Dumbledore at Wool's, he suspects his mother was a Muggle—she couldn't have died if she had magic. She wouldn't have left him alone. Which leaves his father, a wizard who is likely still alive and knows that Tom exists, perfectly happy to neglect to find him for his entire life.

No, Tom doesn't miss them at all.

-

He dresses, then ensures he's packed everything properly for the trip home. Today, they'll return to Septennial Cottage for the winter holiday. Tom can barely keep back his excitement. He hardly slept a wink last night.

He'd skip to breakfast if it wouldn't earn him mockery, but his pace is nonetheless a quick one in his eagerness to reach Harry's side. The castle has been decorated with the Christmas spirit, and no matter where he turns, he finds garland, tinsel, singing statues, and giant trees covered in delicate silvery ornaments, or candy canes, or fairy lights.

Yes, Dumbledore certainly wasted a good bit of his time tending to each tree. They're hideous. Tom finds absolutely no comfort in their appearance, only a deep, loathing disgust. He'd burn one down, if he wasn't trying to behave for Harry.

Since he is, he keeps his nose in the air and his wand to himself.

Harry waits for him at the breakfast table, positioned on the bench to watch the door. Tom comes straight to him and sits, fairly vibrating with energy. Harry chuckles, his magic a sunny glow.

"Ready to go home, are you?" he asks, idly petting Tom's curls. Recently, his affection has returned in full force. Giving Harry what he wants can be a trial at times, but this is a worthy reward for Tom's patience. His skin and his magic sing when his soulmate touches him. "Eat up, and then we'll head down to the carriages."

Tom eats quickly, finishing even before Harry, and must nudge him to hurry.

"All right, all right," Harry laughs. He pops a last piece of bacon into his mouth and rises from the table. "You're so impatient today."

Tom huffs. He's impatient every day.

-

The boys ride a carriage together with Charlus Potter to Hogsmeade Station.

Tom scowls, his arms clutched about Athena's cage, anger coiled tightly in his body and no doubt his magic—but Harry refuses to ignore the other Gryffindor. His own magic sparkles golden with amusement, and resentment simmers within Tom.

Snow covers the grounds, glistening a soft white in the rising sun. The sound of the carriage wheels over the muddy path fills the silence of the crisp morning air. Tom stares gloomily to the side, his chin tucked into his Gryffindor scarf, his eyes on the not so distant line of snow-capped mountains.

"I have to admit, Evans," Charlus says, "I found it hard to believe you were Dumbledore's apprentice at first, but now I can see that it's true."

Harry chuckles, the tips of his ears red. Tom's ire ticks higher. He finds it increasingly difficult to keep his attention on anything but this conversation, and they're only halfway to their destination.

"No, really," Charlus insists, leaning forward. "I saw you practicing your homework the other night. Magical Theory, yeah?"

Harry shrugs, his chuckle wry. "Probably. It's all a blur, at this point."

"That shield you made… I've seen you working on it for weeks," Charlus says. Admiration brightens his dull brown eyes. "You'll have to show me how it works sometime."

Tom puffs his cheeks. This brazen hussy!

The carriage hits a bump in the road, hard enough to knock Charlus across his seat and forcing him to grip the side to steady himself. Athena squawks indignantly in her cage in Tom's lap. He hides a smirk against his scarf. Only then does Harry finally glance his way, his brows furrowed in question. Drat. Tom's magic gave him away yet again.

"Sure," Harry says, his attention already back on Charlus. "Er—how good are you with advanced maths?"

Tom fights down a fresh pang of annoyance. He can see it so clearly in his mind, how he'll destroy Charlus. And soon, once they arrive at the station. An accident would be most unfortunate but not unexpected, given how many magical children are headed home for the holiday.

"Maths?" Charlus laughs. "I thought you were studying Magical Theory, not arithmetic. Or is this closer to Arithmancy?"

"Not Arithmancy, and you'd be surprised…" Harry sighs. "Arithmancy studies the magical properties of numbers. The maths I've looked at for Magical Theory is less about its magical properties and more about its scientific ones and how they blend. Professor Adams believes that magic and science are indistinguishable at a certain level and that Muggles and wizards could co-exist, if more wizards were to widen their education toward the application of magic."

"And Dumbledore?" Charlus returns, leaning forward again. "What does he think?"

Who cares what Dumbledore thinks?

Tom fights not to roll his eyes.

"That's it's impossible but admirable to dream about," Harry chuckles. "I dunno. I agree more with Professor Adams. When I was a kid, I'd ask why we lived as separate societies, and the answers never seemed good enough for me. I think, as wizards, that we can do better."

Tom huffs, unable to stay silent any longer. "Why should we have to do better? Muggles are the ones who persecute us."

"Muggles fear what they don't know," Harry retorts, an edge to his voice. "Just like we do."

Tom glares at him, thinking of his absent father again, his dead mother. "Muggles far outnumber us. We have a right to protect ourselves."

"We wouldn't have to live like this if we came out of hiding, Tom," Harry says. "Think about it: imagine a world where you can use magic around Muggles and not have to face a trial at the Ministry if something goes wrong."

"That's oddly specific," Charlus murmurs. "Doesn't the Ministry typically side with the wizard or witch, if they cast in self-defense?"

"Not always," Harry mutters.

"Know someone who was wrongfully put on trial, Evans?" Charlus chuckles. "Perhaps that just means that we should better our government, not open ourselves up to Muggles."

Tom huffs in agreement. He loathes Potter, but that doesn't mean that he's wrong, in this instance.

Harry shoots him an incredulous look—sighs and turns back to Charlus. "I won't argue that we should better our government. But there are so few of us. Like Tom said, we're outnumbered. I'm not so sure we'll be able to hide away forever. We should be prepared for that day."

"Now you sound like Grindelwald," Charlus remarks dryly.

"Grindelwald wants to destroy Muggles," Harry counters with a grin. "I just want to be friends with them."

Charlus chuckles. "You're an odd one, Evans."

Harry looks like he wants to say something, his magic strained and fluttering, agitated stripes of gold, but seems to think better of it. In any event, they've reached the station, and Tom's chance for revenge has arrived. With the muddy, icy ground, there is no end to potential accidents that could end with Charlus in the infirmary, his head split open—far away from Harry.

As they climb out of the carriage, Tom grips his wand in his pocket and aims it at Charlus' feet, where he stands a meter away. He's just about to send off a hex when he catches sight of Harry's face. Those green eyes plead with him.

Be good, they seem to say, for me. Please.

Tom drops his gaze, and with much effort on his part, he releases his wand.

"You can go on ahead," Harry tells Charlus. "I need to talk to Tom about something."

The other Gryffindor shoots them a strange look, but shrugs and heads toward the train, his trunk in tow.

Harry puts his hand on Tom's head—soothes his fingers through Tom's curls. "Thank you." Then, kindly, "Ready to board the train?"

That's it? No lecture or advice?

Tom squints at his soulmate in suspicion, but he grabs Athena's cage and his trunk and nods once, curtly. Harry's magic beats around him in golden waves of contentment and fondness. That admittedly helps for the price of the good behavior. Perhaps he hadn't been able to deal with Charlus, but in return, Harry's happiness is a dizzying embrace.

They cross the station, mindful of where they step. The levitation charm that Harry put on Tom's trunk has yet to wear off, and it bobs along behind him. Snow sits piled high around the edges of the station and along the sloped roofs of its buildings. They're due for a fresh wave of snow that will wipe this ugly old ice away where it's gray and brown in most places on the ground.

Harry gestures for Tom to board first, then follows after him. They pass compartments full of rowdy children just as excited for the holiday as Tom is. His nose wrinkles at their witless behavior, however. At least he can contain himself.

Tom glances over his shoulder occasionally to ensure Harry doesn't want a spot—they pass two perfectly empty compartments—but the older boy only shakes his head in answer and smiles.

Eventually, they arrive at the very back of the train, where one of two compartments is empty. Harry taps Tom's shoulder, and he slips inside with Athena. Harry tucks their trunks away in the rack above them, then settles right beside Tom, so close that their thighs are brushing. The warmth from Harry's leg sinks into him, as does his magic, still spiraling gently about Tom.

For the first time since the summer, he considers grabbing it. But… perhaps not to destroy. Not any longer. He'll cradle the magic lovingly to himself, treat it with the care and attention that he gives the few possessions he considers truly his.

Tom reaches out with every fiber of his awareness, picturing Harry's magic in his mind, a circling Snitch trailing golden light. He attempts to curl his own magic around it, to pull it back to himself and hold it the way he'd like, were it tangible.

Harry gasps beside him. "What—What are you—?" He shakes his head, blinking hard. "Tom—"

"It's all right, Harry," Tom murmurs. As carefully as he had grabbed his soulmate's magic, he releases it. "I won't hurt you."

Harry stares down at him, his face flushed, his eyes oddly bright. He swallows audibly and tilts his head back onto the seat—presses his hands to his face.

"Harry?" Tom asks, suddenly not as confident as he'd been. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"What? No! No." Harry lifts his head again and pats Tom's curls rather haphazardly. "Nothing like that. The—the opposite, really." The red on his face deepens, and both his gaze and his touch soften. "Would you do me a favor, though? Would you ask me before you try that next time? It didn't hurt, but I'd like to be prepared, all right?"

Tom nods, reluctant as the idea makes him. But then, when has Harry ever truly told him no?

"Of course, Harry," he assures him. "I'll ask."

Relief flickers clearly across Harry's face, and he bends to press a kiss to Tom's forehead. "Thank you."

Somewhat mollified, Tom leans so that his head is on Harry's shoulder. He rolls his eyes up to see him from this angle. Keeps them big and wide, the way that Harry can't resist.

"Will you read to me?" he asks.

"'Course," Harry says. "Do you happen to have the book on you, or do I need to open your trunk?"

Tom pulls Frankenstein free from his pocket, his smile innocent. "I borrowed it. It looked interesting." He stole it from William, an advanced reader like Tom, but Harry doesn't need to know that.

Harry chuckles. "You're always prepared, aren't you? All right, then."

He pats his lap, and Tom eagerly sprawls out, his head on Harry's lap, his feet tucked up on the seat with him. Harry conjures a small, simple pillow to place beneath Tom's head. Then he strokes Tom's hair with one hand and uses the other to hold Frankenstein in front of his face.

"Letter One," he reads. "To Mrs. Saville, England. St. Petersburgh, December 11, 17—something or other, there's a dash there." He clears his throat awkwardly—continues. "You will rejoice to hear…"

-----

Harry is hoarse by the time the Hogwarts Express pulls into King's Cross. Tom had been content to spend hours curled up on the seat, listening to Harry read. He never once dozed off and often had questions, either about the subject matter or a difficult word.

"I haven't read this before, either," Harry had to say a few times when Tom grew impatient, barely suppressing his amusement. "I know as much as you. Let's work it out together."

They've nearly finished the book, which Harry suspects they'll read again this holiday. As Tom tucks the book away and hops onto his feet and stretches, Harry follows up after him. He pats Tom's curls after his own stretch—earns a smile and the friendly coil of the boy's magic wrapped about him.

So much safer and innocent than it had been when Tom grabbed his magic. If that was what happened. Harry isn't sure. He just knows that one moment, he'd been content, and the next, flushed, his heart pounding against his ribs, the world a whirl of bright colors, the taste of Tom's magic on the back of his tongue, a sharp bite of power, yet so innocent. He's never tasted his magic before.

He also has no idea if Tom will actually listen to him and ask before he tries that again, but Harry feels certain he'll at least consider Harry's feelings before he decides to just take what he wants. A problem that they're still working on but one that Tom has gotten better about.

"Let's get off this train," Harry says. "What are you thinking that you want for dinner? Maybe we'll go to the Leaky."

The cottage has preservation charms for food in its cupboards, but the thought of whipping up a meal after a day's worth of travel exhausts him further. Easiest to take them to Diagon.

He makes sure that Tom has everything once they're on the platform, then extends his elbow for the boy to grab. A crack!, and they're gone.

-

Not that Harry can see it very well in the dark, but the cottage remains unchanged aside from the winter landscape. Snow coats the roof, the garden, the trees, the meadow… A blanket of white, glittering under the moon, unblemished aside from the occasional animal tracks. Rather large hoof prints mark a path by the side of the cottage itself, and Harry wonders if they belong to the guardian of the woods.

Flush from dinner at the Leaky Cauldron, Tom toddles along behind Harry as he uses his wand to clear the pathway. Snow heaps up on either side of the cobblestones. He unlocks the door and presses his palm directly to the center of it, which will allow the wards around the property to recognize them. At the back of his mind, he feels them drop and reorient themselves to trigger a warning against others who may come.

Tom rushes past him the moment the door is unlocked, slowing only when Athena squawks. Harry hears him muttering apologetically to her on the way back to his room.

"I'll just get our things, then," Harry calls after him.

Amused but pleased to see that Tom both considers this place a home and his owl worthy of his sympathy, Harry carts their trunks inside. With a flick of his wand, he shuts the door behind him and guides Tom's trunk down the corridor after him. His own room glitters with firefly stars and a thin silver disc that glows, which must be a stand in for the moon.

Harry waves his wand again, and the stars and moon retreat to the ceiling.

He manages to unpack approximately half his trunk before Tom rushes into his room, his eyes bright, clad in his winter pajamas and a pair of heavy woolen socks.

"I saw him—the white hart!" he says.

Harry frowns. He hadn't felt the wards light up. "Where?"

"Outside my window! Look, he's in the meadow, come on…" Tom grabs his wrist and yanks him through the cottage until they're standing at his window and gazing out into the snow-clad meadow.

It's true. The giant white stag stands tall among the snow, its antlers no longer colored in greenery, as bare as some of the trees. He seems to bask in the moonlight, ethereal, untouchable.

Tom trembles beside Harry, but he doesn't say a word. Harry tries not to let that worry him. He recognizes the feverish glow to those dark eyes. When Tom wants something, eventually, he gets it, no matter who it harms. The only question is, what exactly does he want from a white hart?

-

Harry! Please! Harry!

That night, after Tom has gone to sleep, Harry spends an hour in bed, attempting to Occlude against the boy's magic. He's got Dreamless Sleep potions in the drawer of his nightstand, but he doesn't want to spend the first day of his holiday groggy. Then again, if he never manages to fall asleep, he'll be cranky toward Tom and ruin his day.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, pulls on his own woolen socks, and pads back across the cottage to Tom's room. A glimpse through the living room windows on the way reveals that the stag is gone. The scenery remains quiet, peaceful, idyllic, broken only by the ticking of the enchanted grandfather clock.

Harry pokes his head into Tom's room. He must have made some sort of noise, as Tom's eyes slip open, his magic quieting. Harry hesitates only a heartbeat before he slips inside the room. Tom lifts his quilt, charmed earlier by Harry to stay warm against the chill in the cottage, and Harry climbs under it. His arms are full of Tom a moment later, the boy clinging to him, his breaths sleepy as he nuzzles into Harry's neck.

Everything feels so right that Harry doesn't fight it. He slips his arms around Tom in return and snuggles close, one hand buried in silky soft curls. Falling asleep is as easy as breathing.

-

In the morning, they rise together. Tom's magic vibrates with happiness, phantom scales sliding across Harry's skin. The boy leans up and kisses him, a sweet peck on the lips, and Harry finds himself unwilling to dissuade him, as he had that summer. He simply accepts the kiss, smiles a little awkwardly, and crawls out of the warm nest they've made to tend to breakfast.

The charms have kept, and before long, Harry puts together a full English. He expects that Tom will need it. Over the past several months, he's shot up in height again, and during meals, he visibly struggles not to shovel food into his mouth.

True to his prediction, Tom eats most of the meal, with Harry having more than enough for himself. Tom helps him clean up after, and Harry allows him to use his wand, now that he's at least started school. They're so far away from Muggles that the Trace doesn't trigger.

A bit of soapy water splashes Harry in the face, and Tom's impish giggle tells Harry that maybe allowing the wand had been a little reckless. He's grown so soft on Tom in the passing months. Yet when he peers down at those glittering brown eyes, he can't bring himself to be too upset.

"Very funny," he says, dryly. "What if I did the same to you?"

A splashing match inevitably ensues, and Harry roars with laughter. By the time it's done, there isn't any water left in the sink. Instead, the boys wear it—and the floor and the walls. Harry draws Tom a hot bath to get him warm again and sees to his own clothes and the wetness in the kitchen with a simple charm. A bath would have soaked his bones better, but Tom's health and comfort is more important.

"We're going into town today," Harry announces, once his ward has emerged from the bathroom, clad in the robes that Harry laid out for him on the counter.

Tom scrunches his brows, his curls still damp. "What for?"

"Decorations," Harry says. He taps the top of the boy's head with his wand, and those curls poof into dryness.

Unfortunately, he's not so great at that charm yet, and Tom twists back into the bathroom—squawks in dismay the second he sees his reflection. He pats his curls down frantically, but they only continue to spring up.

"They look like mine," Harry chuckles in apology, leaning against the door frame. "Sorry, Tom."

Tom's frantic patting motions cease. He stares at himself in the mirror, then turns to look at Harry. Mumbles something indecipherable and brushes past Harry and into the corridor.

"Let's go," he says impatiently over his shoulder.

Harry scoffs but follows, his amusement only growing.

-----

They spend the day shopping for Christmas decorations, just like Harry had said they would.

First, they go to Diagon Alley, where Harry actually takes Tom into his vault with him this time. Over the summer, he'd been minded by a goblin in the lobby while Harry saw to their money. Now, Tom holds onto a rickety cart as it zooms underground, the vaults of doors, stalactites, and the distant breath of what must be a dragon flashing past.

Harry's own vault holds mountains of gold. Tom stares in awe while his guardian refills their coin pouches.

"How do you have so much money?" Tom demands.

The goblin watching the door chuckles in a derisive manner. Tom shoots a glare his way, to which the goblin only leers back with his beady black eyes and sharp rows of teeth.

"Someone died and made sure their wealth went to me," Harry says. He's rather red in the face as he guides them back to the cart. Behind them, the goblin reseals their door.

"Your parents?" Tom asks.

"Er—this was from a friend," Harry replies.

"What friend?"

"Someone I've known a really long time."

How maddeningly vague of Harry.

-

They reach the surface, where the overcast day seems bright in comparison to underground. Squinting against it, Harry points them to a shop down the way, and Tom follows, burning with questions. Yet as they shop in a store overflowing with pine garland and Christmas spices, he's no closer to giving Tom a proper answer.

"So this friend you've known a really long time just left you loads of money?" Tom asks.

Harry gathers an armful of garland. "Why is that so hard to believe?"

Tom trails him to the counter, his arms full of as much the prickly garland as he can carry. "Do you hear yourself? Repeat it out loud. Say, 'My friend that I have known a very long time left me a vault full of Galleons.'"

Harry chuckles but notably doesn't answer, nor does he bring the subject back up as they leave the shop, their purchases shrunk down to fit in Harry's pocket. Instead, he squints at the line of shops in the distance.

"That way," he says.

Tom scowls but doesn't give up. By the time they've left a snowy Diagon Alley, their pockets full of shrunken purchases and their bellies warm with stew from lunch at the Leaky, Harry looks harried. He gets them inside the cottage and works on restoring every item to its proper size. Their living room overflows with the scent of pine, sap, and strands of garland.

"I don't understand why you won't tell me," Tom says, a petulant bite to his tone. "And I refuse to help you decorate until you do."

Harry laughs in a strained manner at that, guiding garland on top of various surfaces from the pile on the floor with his wand. "They wanted me to keep it a secret, Tom. And it's rather rude that you won't drop it."

"It's rude to keep secrets from your soulmate!" Tom protests.

"Tom." Harry sighs and drags a hand through his curls. "I know you don't want to hear this, but I don't think it's right for me to tell you until you're older."

Tom scoffs. "Now I'm too young to know the truth?"

"I've told you the truth!" Harry's voice rises in a snap, and regret instantly crosses his face. He sighs—lifts his hands placatingly before him. "Tom. I want to have a good day with you. I don't want to discuss this anymore. Can we please let it go for now? I promise you—one day, I will tell you."

Tom wants to scream at the injustice. The furniture in the room rattles in warning of his impending loss of control, but Harry's gaze turns pleading. Tom scoffs again and clenches his eyes shut, trembling with all the fury that runs through his body, his anger for being denied the truth. A moment later, Harry's fingers card through his curls.

"Thank you," the older boy whispers. "Thank you, Tom."

"You're not welcome," Tom mutters mulishly. He squints open an eye at Harry to glare at him. "You really promise to tell me one day?"

"Yes," Harry says, and between all the feverish sincerity he puts into that one word and the swell of his magic, Tom finds it hard to believe that it's a lie. Harry kisses his forehead—his cheek. Delicately presses their lips together, the briefest of pecks. "I promise."

More than anything, it's the kiss that dissolves the tension inside of Tom. They've shared exactly three of these types of kisses between them, and not only did Tom initiate two of them, Harry had been upset with the first. Now he's here, kissing Tom all on his own, all to placate him.

Tom allows it.

-

Harry conjures questionably-shaped Christmas ornaments for the remainder of the evening. In the morning, after once more waking to Harry in his arms, Tom stomps through the snow behind his soulmate as they carve a path into the woods to cut down a tree.

"Will the white hart let you take it?" Tom asks when they finally find one, pink in the face from the exertion of their hike. They've been at this for what must be an hour already.

"'Course," Harry says. "I'm leaving something behind."

Noting Tom's trembling, Harry taps his wand to Tom's robes, which steam as they thaw. The snow around him melts, exposing muddy grass and a tree root from a towering oak behind them.

Harry applies several cushioning charms around the area before he even attempts to cut the tree. It takes him a few Diffindos, but eventually, the fairly small pine cracks and falls over, which Harry then gently guides onto the cushioning charms with his wand.

"We don't have an axe," Harry explains on the way back. The tree levitates behind them. Deeper in the woods, near the stump of a tree, a seed has been planted and will be tended to with magic until it grows. "I didn't realize that when I had this brilliant idea…"

Tom smiles at his sarcasm. "It was a brilliant idea, Harry. Now we have a Christmas tree."

They hadn't had one every year at Wool's. Tom can recall two occasions in which a half-dead tree took up residence in the orphanage, under which no presents could be found. If anything, those trees only made the holiday worse, offering a promise that was never to be fulfilled. Why have an ugly tree with no gifts to make up for it?

Tom will never understand the decisions of the adults in his life.

Harry thaws the snow and ice off the tree before he brings it inside with them. They place it near the windows in the living room in a pail of water and spend the rest of the morning decorating it with tinsel and Harry's clumsy ornaments, a fire crackling merrily in the hearth nearby. Harry wraps a crimson quilt around the pail in the illusion of a tree skirt, and then to Tom's delight, summons his gifts from wherever they'd been hiding in the house. Colorful packages zoom into the room, nearly smacking into Harry. He guides them under the tree.

Tom rushes into his bedroom to grab the package he hid in his wardrobe—the location was pending until he found a better spot for it—and slips it onto the small pile. He looks up triumphantly to find a surprised expression on Harry's face. It shifts to a pleased smile, and Harry again runs his fingers through Tom's curls.

"Thanks for thinking of me," he says.

"Of course," Tom replies, prickles slipping down his spine from the touch. He leans his head into Harry's hand. "You're my soulmate. You deserve the world."

Harry kisses a spot just above his brow. "You're very sweet when you want to be."

Tom only gives him another innocent smile. If he told Harry the truth, that Tom only wants to be "sweet" for Harry, because he knows that it makes him happy, that would make Harry sad. He wants Tom to care for everyone, in some small way. Empathy, he called it. And why make Harry sad when he could make him happy instead?

Harry had told him to always be honest, and Tom had promised that he'd try. He has tried since then, and he's learned what tends to make Harry the most upset. In a way, this has taught him when it's best to be honest with his soulmate and when it's best to withhold the truth.

-

Tom spends the afternoon attempting to conjure an ornament of his own. He's determined that if Harry can do it, so can he. Yet it's far more difficult than it appears, and by the time dinner arrives, he still hasn't gotten anything more than a wisp of smoke.

"Do you want my help?" Harry asks more than once, to which Tom always sharply replies, "No."

Finally, after dinner and a bath, Tom conquers his task and manages to conjure the thinnest sliver of a startlingly clear piece of glass. Harry praises him for his efforts and ties a string around it so that it can hang from the top of the tree, prominently on display.

"You're so talented, Tom," he says, squeezing his hands over Tom's shoulders as they stand back to admire their work.

That night, Harry comes directly to bed with him. They curl up together, Tom's back to Harry's chest, comforted by each other's presence and the tangle of their magic. Perhaps so many nights spent sneaking into Harry's dorm and dozing with him while he was unaware has made sleeping together now so easy.

The rest of the week passes in a warm haze of light and peace. They finish Frankenstein, and Harry often reads, studying even when they're not in school. Tom joins him with his own textbooks, keen to be perceived well by Harry, though his guardian tells him more often than not that they don't need to suffer together.

"Enjoy your holiday!" Harry insists.

Tom gleefully and willfully ignores this suggestion, content to stay by Harry's side.

Some afternoons, Harry bakes them cookies. Both of them have gained weight since September, although Tom thinks he more so than Harry. There's a tiny bit of a pudge to his stomach now. Harry likes to poke it affectionately when Tom has been impish and gaze at him with warm regard.

It's nice to never go hungry, to always have food. Before Harry, Tom would have stayed at the castle for Christmas, rather than go home and face the sort of hunger he's suffered at the orphanage.

Other afternoons, they play outside, throwing snowballs at one another and shrieking whenever one lands. Tom wins one match by climbing up into the field maple tree near the cottage and using the snow from various limbs to pelt balls at Harry from above.

"All right, all right!" Harry shouts, laughing. He spits snow out of his mouth and scrubs a hand over his face to clear it. "You win. Let's go make hot cocoa. I've got some special chocolate from Hogsmeade. It's got peppermint pieces in it."

So loving, his Harry, his soulmate. So caring. Always putting Tom first, except when it comes to guarding his secrets.

-

Christmas dawns bright and early.

Harry sleeps on, golden light creeping across his face, and he doesn't stir when Tom untangles himself from their embrace. He simply rolls onto his back, wriggles his nose, sniffs, and continues to doze, the occasional light snore slipping from him. His glasses sit on the nightstand near his head.

Perfect.

Tom retreats beneath the quilt, slipping down Harry's body and between his thighs. He makes a small sound in his throat but otherwise doesn't stir. Tom grows bolder, palming Harry's cock through his pajamas. Many nights of practice have taught him exactly how to stroke Harry without once waking him. Light brushes of his fingers, so delicate, until Harry's cock is plump and strains against the fabric confining it.

He glances up infrequently to confirm that Harry remains asleep.

This morning, he wants to try something that he hasn't before. He wants to put his mouth on it.

One of the Slytherin pureblood boys had sucked another boy's cock one day in the Quad Courtyard in late fall. Tom, reading nearby and both fascinated and repulsed once he realized what he was witnessing through the bared shrubbery branches beside his bench, hasn't forgotten the sight of it since. He wants Harry to make those obscene sounds, to writhe in pleasure as Tom's mouth torments him.

The first lick of Harry's cock tastes like salt and soap. His skin is warm and incredibly soft, and against Tom's tongue, that sensation multiplies. Fascinated, Tom trails his lips to the flared head, his tongue flicking over a spot of salty precum, and Harry twitches beneath him. His lashes stay closed, his breathing even. His magic, by contrast, flutters around Tom.

Tom puts himself to delicate work, not eager for Harry to wake until he's too worked up to push Tom off him. He gets his wish, for the most part. When Harry's eyes eventually crack open, he's flushed in the face and down his neck. His cock leaks copiously in Tom's mouth as Tom bobs his head inexpertly, his fingers tight around Harry's hips to steady himself.

"T-Tom—" Harry croaks. "What're you…?" He trails off, a loud groan slipping from him. Then, trying to rise from the bed, "Hang on—"

Tom snuggles closer, his arms fused around Harry's waist, and continues to suck. Harry is tense for only a moment before his entire body unwinds, and he lifts a wrist to his mouth, smothering what sounds like a sob there, his magic taking flight in radiant streaks of golden light.

His spend fills Tom's mouth. Certainly… unique in flavor, but not so bad that Tom won't repeat this in the future. He swallows it down and crawls up Harry's body to press a messy kiss to his lips.

"Happy Christmas," he says.

Harry grips Tom by the back of the head and shoves his face against Harry's chest. His arms come to wrap tightly about Tom, almost bruising in his grip, keeping Tom pressed firmly to the long line of Harry's body.

"I love you so much," he whispers shakily into Tom's ear. "So much. Please tell me that you know that."

Tom nods, content to be hugged so hard. Though this is the first time that Harry has said those words directly, he's known that he's loved by his soulmate for some months now. No one has ever cared for him the way that Harry does.

"Good." Harry kisses the top of his curls. "Now listen to me. We can't—do this. Not when you're so young. People—they wouldn't understand."

Tom scoffs and wriggles to be free. Harry instantly relaxes his grip.

"So we will keep it a secret," Tom says. "I can keep a secret. Can't you?"

"Tom—"

"Brilliant." Tom slips out of Harry's arms and off the side of the bed. "Let's get up. It's Christmas. I want to open presents."

-----

His mouth hanging open, Harry watches Tom leave the room and disappear around its corner.

That smug little gremlin!

"Tom!" Harry calls after him, to no avail.

Athena trills sharply at him from atop Tom's wardrobe, glaring over the curve of her wing. Harry mumbles an apology—climbs out of bed, awkwardly stuffing himself back into his pants and yanking his pajamas up. He takes a moment to relieve himself in the bathroom, then hunts for his ward, who is retrieving items from the cupboards for breakfast.

Harry wants to pinch one of his chubby little cheeks.

"Come here," he says instead. "I want to show you something."

Conjuring fake snow takes only a moment, as he's practiced this home brew charm so many times, far more than any of his homework ideas. The silvery flakes fall from the ceiling, yet never touch the ground or land on anything. An enchantment that feeds itself endlessly until canceled. Mostly illusion-work similar to his own bedroom here and the Great Hall at Hogwarts, the sources of his inspiration.

Tom stares beside him in silent wonder. Holds up a palm to perhaps catch some of the flakes.

"It looks so real," he breathes. "This is for me?"

Harry's face reddens yet again, but he nods. "I wanted us to have an amazing first Christmas together." The best Christmas that Tom has had so far in his life, although it seems Tom has his own ideas about what that may entail, given how he woke Harry up this morning. "I hope you like it."

Tom leans up in his tiptoes and kisses him square on the mouth. "I love it, Harry." He grabs Harry by the hand and tugs him into the kitchen. Harry, who knows he shouldn't enable this behavior at all and yet helplessly trails after him, enamored with his soulmate in his own twisted way.

I can keep a secret. Can't you?

Chapter Text

-December 1998-

Christmas comes and goes, and before Harry knows it, Tom's birthday has arrived. He wakes the other boy up with his mouth, a form of payback for all the times that Tom molested him in his sleep. After Tom has orgasmed and filled his mouth with spend, he yanks Harry up for a hungry kiss. It's not so surprising that they shag after that, Tom on his stomach, screaming into his pillow as Harry pounds into him, just like he'd asked for, their magic snagged tight and vicious around each other in its attempts to get as close as it can.

A lovely start to the last day of the year.

There is no peep from Riddle. He hasn't surfaced again since Christmas, and Harry has given up on expending the energy toward worrying about him. Once their holiday ends and they return to Hogwarts, he'll concern himself more. For now, he's allowing himself to enjoy this time with Tom.

Maybe he's part of the problem, he wonders, at the back of his mind. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad if he could find some way to connect with Riddle…

-

He makes breakfast for Tom, and they spend the day lazing about, just enjoying each other's company. Tonight, after dinner, Harry will give Tom his gifts, as is tradition by this point. They've received several offers from Harry's friends to go out and celebrate New Year's Eve, but Harry prefers to stay in, and he knows Tom won't want to go.

Yet Tom surprises him when he suggests they go to Hogsmeade and meet up with Hermione, Ron, and some other Gryffindors.

"Can't let them think I keep you all to myself," he chuckles, "as much as I would like to."

Harry sighs but dresses for an evening out. As exhausting as the prospect is, Tom is right. This will do wonders to improve the others' good opinion of him. Only his close friends really know who Tom is, but the other boy often comes off as intimidating, being so young in appearance as a professor, and so skilled. Just like Harry, who defeated the Dark Lord. Though he supposes people have known him long enough to find him far from intimidating.

What might they think, if they knew Harry didn't defeat Voldemort through any skill? That it was love, yet again, that brokered peace?

-

They Floo to a pub in Diagon Alley, taking the time to siphon a light layer of soot off one another's robes. The fire certainly wards against the late December chill, and they find Harry's friends at a table in the far corner, tucked close together around Butterbeer and chips. Their eyes light up upon seeing Harry, though their enthusiasm falters a little when Tom appears at his shoulder.

Harry hates their continued hesitance, truly, but Tom takes it in stride and shakes hands with everyone, who wish him a happy birthday. They pull up a couple of chairs, and before long, have moved on from Butterbeer to sharing a bottle of Firewhiskey. Hermione sticks with the Butterbeer, declaring someone needs to be sober enough to watch over them, though that surprises no one. She's never been a big drinker.

Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and Neville seem to have been the only four willing to come out and meet them. Neville fills Harry in on what he's been up to—studying magical plants in India—while Ron recounts to Tom his latest trial of Auror training, now that he's joined the Ministry instead of helping out at the joke shop anymore.

"I failed one of the tests," Ron says. "They're letting me retake it next week. I really thought I'd be better at stealth at this point, what with that year we spent on the run and all…" He seems to realize what he said and looks quickly to see Tom's reaction, but Tom merely claps his shoulder in encouragement, determined to be on his best behavior.

"I can help you practice," he offers.

Ron goes a little white—swallows—but catching Harry's eye, he straightens in his seat and gives a jerky nod. "Er—yeah, sure. 'Course. That'd be great."

Harry smiles at them both, feeling better about their night out already. Not that he thinks Tom likes Ron at all, or any of his friends. But it's nice to see him trying, especially after how possessive he was as a child, something that never entirely went away.

-----

Close to midnight, as Harry goes to the bar to get another round of drinks, Ginevra finds the courage to approach him. The surprising bit about that is she does it while Tom is there. Usually, she takes one look at Tom and glares at him, and if she's around them when they're together, she finds something else to do.

"Harry," she says, placing her fingertips on his forearm, and Tom smothers a childish urge to lop them off. Harry is protective of Ginevra and will absolutely blame him if something happens to her. "Tomorrow, a new year starts."

Harry sits on one of the stools, and Tom leans against the bar, his shoulder companionably brushed up against Harry's. On Harry's other side, Ginevra takes the stool there but swivels so that she's facing him.

"Yeah," Harry says, his tone open and friendly, his magic a reflection of that.

Ginevra takes a deep breath, balancing on arm on the bar top, her other draped across her lap. "I want—I want to be friends again."

Harry frowns in confusion. "We are friends, Gin."

She lowers her eyes. "Are we?"

Harry puts a hand on her shoulder at that. His magic warms with affection. "Yes. Of course. I never meant to make you feel as if we aren't."

A smile darts across Ginevra's lips. "Thanks for that. I know I've had trouble… accepting your new relationship—" That's one way to phrase it, Tom thinks "—but I want to believe that you know what you're doing. If you say he's safe to be around, then…" She nods. "All right."

I am standing right here.

Harry ignores Tom's inner ire and gives his former girlfriend another dazzling smile. "I really appreciate that."

They exchange some small talk before the bartender slides their drinks across the bar. Tom twists his fingers, and with a bit of magic, the glasses float across the pub, over the heads of the increasingly rowdy patrons. The three find their way back to the table where Harry's friends are gathered.

Granger reaches for Ginevra, who slides back into her seat beside her, and the two talk in hushed voices, their heads bent close together. Likely going over what Ginevra discussed with Harry. Longbottom and Ronald pull Harry into a talk about Quidditch. Tom watches them, content to sip his glass of Firewhisky as the last minutes of his birthday crawl ever closer.

He still doesn't particularly care for any of those gathered, aside from his soulmate, but their unhappiness with the situation has weighed terribly on Harry. This night is Tom's attempt to soothe over that ground, as much as it pains him. But it's only one night. Soon, they'll be back at Hogwarts, Longbottom will return to India, Ronald to the Ministry, and Granger and Ginevra will simply be students that Tom must occasionally put up with. Giving Harry one night to enjoy the company of his friends, even if it's on Tom's birthday, isn't the end of the world, much as it might have been when he was still a child.

If there is one thing that Harry has taught Tom—and continues to teach him—it is that selflessness is essential to a healthy relationship. And while he hates it, Harry's happy face, his shining magic, more than makes up for the dullness of the evening. So Tom can pretend to like Harry's friends. Just this once.

-

When they get home, Harry collapses straight into bed, fully clothed, smelling like a brewery. Tom follows after him, somewhat drunk himself, and his soulmate clasps an arm over his waist and buries his face in Tom's shoulder. He doesn't stir as Tom waves his hand to draw the blanket out from under them and cover them, his magic indicating that he's already deep asleep.

Tom sets his wand on the nightstand, gently tugs off Harry's glasses and sets them beside it, and rolls over, shifting Harry with him. He quietly works to get their shirts off so that they're pressed skin to skin. Harry's magic flutters around his, golden perfection. When they're like this, cuddled up together, at peace, it's easy to forget their past trials or the ones that await them still.

Riddle—as Tom has also taken to calling him now—slumbers peacefully on, content to dream. But not for the first time of late, Tom wonders what he can do to bring him back around. Surely, this shouldn't be entirely on Harry's head? It would be so easy to lock him away in there, in the far corners of his mind, where he can never again stir and bother their peaceful coexistence, their soulmate bond.

Yet that would make Harry sad. He wants to see Tom and Riddle as one being, not two separate selves, because Harry accepts all of him, even the most wicked parts, the parts that don't truly deserve forgiveness.

Tom presses a kiss to Harry's brow, where it's smoothed out in sleep, and Harry's magic flutters in response, a golden bob of contentment.

It's a new year, as Ginevra had said earlier at the bar. The perfect time to make impossible goals for the year for one's self to adhere to. But since when has Tom ever let the impossible stop him?

-December 1938-

After breakfast, they sit before the tree. Harry intends for them to face one another, but Tom once more takes the initiative and plops himself down in Harry's lap, his back to Harry's chest. Harry knows he should make Tom sit properly on the floor or on the sofa, away from him, yet that's not what happens. He snugs an arm around Tom's waist instead and uses his wand to summon a brightly wrapped present over.

Tom catches it with both hands. Shoots a grin up at Harry, his magic fairly buzzing with his excitement and happiness. He rips open the present to reveal a tome on magical theory for beginners. The book is heavy with new leather binding, its title Magical Theorem: Introduction written in golden letters across its front, with faux gems encrusted along its edges.

The boy releases a breath of wonder as he opens it and pages through it, his touch reverent.

Harry smiles. "Since you're so interested in my homework all the time, I thought you might like something on the subject."

Magical Theory isn't available as a class until Tom is at least a fifth-year, but what harm is there in giving him a head start? One could argue that it's dangerous, to help Tom's magic grow so soon, but Harry can't live their lives worrying constantly over what will set Tom on the path of a Dark Lord. To some degree, he needs to trust his soulmate and show that he does, or else there may be trouble later.

"Thank you, Harry," Tom breathes.

Harry kisses the top of his curls and summons the next gift over. They spend the better part of half an hour opening and admiring everything that Harry got him. Books for reading, more books for learning, a new diary, unique inks and quills, robes for when he's not in uniform, and enough candy to rot Tom's teeth.

Tom gives him yet another kiss on the mouth and hugs him in gratitude. Harry's arms come up around him in surprise. Very rarely does Tom initiate an embrace on his own, and more often than not, he merely tolerates them. Though his magic tells Harry how happy he is, the hug seems like a gift of its own.

The boy climbs up from his lap and reaches under the tree for the last gift, a meticulously wrapped package, and places it directly in Harry's hands. Smiling in curiosity, Harry carefully opens it, a contrast to how Tom had gleefully ripped the wrapping off his presents this morning. Truth be told, he's surprised that Tom got him anything, if only because they've been at Hogwarts since summer. Maybe he found and ordered something through a catalogue, like Harry had.

A pair of diaries.

Harry blinks down at them. They're leatherbound, black, with silver clasps—handsome books that must have cost Tom most of his pocket money. While Harry doesn't actually use a diary and frankly has no interest in starting the habit, he's still glad that Tom had thought of him.

It is a bit eerie. They're not like the one that Tom had made into a Horcrux in his own time, which was a simple Muggle diary. But the gift holds a weight of its own that he can't explain to Tom.

"They're charmed to communicate," Tom explains, giggling at his expression, the delightful sound full of mischief. "If you write in one, it appears in the other, no matter how much distance separates them. This way, we can always talk, no matter where we are."

A sweet gift. Definitely more for Tom's benefit than his own, if that giggle is anything to go by. Harry will need to be on the lookout when using these, but he doesn't think there's anything nefarious involved.

He grabs Tom in order to pull him back onto his lap, who follows without a shred of resistance. He presses several more kisses to his head of curls, then the tip of his nose, and lastly, the corner of his mouth. Tom turns his head for a real kiss, which Harry accepts with only a small measure of worry.

"Thank you," Harry murmurs, earning a happy hum in response. "I love them."

He rests his head against Tom's, and they simply hold on to one another for a while, the charmed snow falling merrily all around them.

-----

Harry waits until lunch to break the news to Tom that Dumbledore will be coming for dinner.

Tom's mouth instantly drops open in protest. "But why?"

His soulmate slides Tom's sandwich in front of him and huffs in amusement. "It's Christmas, Tom. We spend it with our loved ones."

Tom's offense only deepens. "You love him?"

Harry tips his head back with a sigh. "Yeah. As a friend." He shakes off his ire and ruffles his hand over Tom's curls, earning a glare. "Oh, don't make that face. I'm allowed to have friends, Tom. Besides, he's my mentor, remember?"

Five rude retorts spring immediately to the tip of Tom's tongue, but he doesn't say a single one of them when Harry, sensing his deepening frustration, presses a kiss firmly to his mouth.

"You should eat," he says. "You'll need energy if you want to spar with him later."

Mollified, at least a little, Tom eyes Harry's thin form. "Where's your sandwich, Harry? You can hardly take care of me if you don't eat."

The older boy grins. "That was rather pointed, but you're right."

He returns to the counter to make his own sandwich, then sits across from Tom at the table. Tom finishes his sandwich in a few bites—glares at Harry when he notices his soulmate has only nibbled at his. His magic flutters with strange nerves, the golden streaks not as bright as they were when the boys opened presents together.

"What's wrong with you?" Tom demands. "What you are worried about?"

Harry chuckles but only shakes his head, clearly unwilling to part with his thoughts. Yet he does lift his sandwich with both hands and finally begins to eat it.

-

His guardian spends the early afternoon tidying up the cottage. There isn't much to do, but the sense of productivity seems to make Harry feel better. His nerves have only deepened since lunch.

Tom, trying to lose himself in one of his new books, finds it nearly impossible, given how demanding Harry's magic is in its longing to be soothed. Tom doesn't know if Harry even realizes how much it's advertising for him how he feels inside (something Tom can relate to), but regardless, it's far too distracting.

Experience has taught him that pushing Harry when he doesn't want to open up about something is meaningless. The older boy will only grow frustrated, which, in turn, will irk Tom. Best to stay close instead, which he manages by setting aside his reading and joining Harry in his cleaning routine. His guardian perks up at Tom's presence, and together, they work in comfortable silence. Within the hour, the cottage is in tip-top shape.

Harry starts on Christmas dinner afterward, recruiting Tom's help in the kitchen. While Harry preps a ham, Tom peels and chops potatoes and carrots. Before long, they've put the ham in the oven, which requires wood to fuel it, its fire easily taken care of with a few taps of Harry's wand. The vegetables get put to the side until closer to dinner, their bowls charmed to preserve their contents, and the boys get to work on a Christmas cake.

By the time dinner is nearly finished, the scent of ham fills the cottage, meaty and enticing, along with vegetables and their sugary cake. Tom's stomach growls in anticipation. He finds it difficult to concentrate again, too preoccupied with the coming feast. While it's true that Hogwarts offers more than its delicious share of meals, Harry's home cooking appeals to Tom more.

His guardian puts three wrapped packages beneath the tree. When Tom stands there, glaring at them, Harry huffs a laugh and tenderly pushes his fringe off his forehead to place a kiss there. Tom's ire sloughs away, ice melting in a ray of sunshine.

Harry is lucky that Tom adores him so much. He can't stay mad at him. Though if he had his way, Harry would only ever think of Tom's happiness. He'd forget that old dingbat entirely, and their lives would improve significantly.

One day, Tom vows. One day, Harry will belong solely to him, and no one else will matter.

-

Dumbledore arrives in a swirl of phoenix flame.

Fawkes launches from his shoulder to come rest on Tom's, his beak nuzzling Tom's cheek in greeting. Tom's grumpiness deepens, but he tolerates the bird, unwilling to be rude to it under Dumbledore's watchful gaze. He smiles at Tom, as if he finds this sight most amusing, his eyes twinkling away.

I should pluck them out, Tom thinks, averting his gaze as Harry rushes into the living room, a smear of sugar on his cheek. He'd been frosting the cake.

Fawkes nibbles more insistently at Tom's ear until he sighs and sets his book down in order to pet the wretched thing. The phoenix croons in approval, and the warmth that creates in Tom's chest unsettles him. How is it that a magical creature can induce such discomfort with only its voice?

"You're here!" Harry says. "Brilliant. Dinner's ready. I just need to wash up. Tom, you, too. Come wash your hands."

Tom rises from his seat on the sofa. He casts a superior smile at Dumbledore and struts off down the corridor. Maddeningly, Fawkes refuses to detach from his shoulder, rather ruining the effect he wanted.

Harry follows straight on his heels, babbling to their professor about something or other, who responds cheerily. Tom tunes them out, his motions mechanical as he washes his hands and face. He returns to the living room to find Dumbledore right where they left him, except he's looking all about—at the charmed snow, at the tree and its decorations, at the garland gracing the walls and the hearth. Is he disappointed that their decorations are far superior to the trees he'd adorned at Hogwarts?

Smugness radiates throughout Tom.

-

Harry and Dumbledore carry on a conversation about magical theory over dinner, and despite himself, Tom listens to every word, fascinated. Fawkes roosts on the back of his chair, sneaking occasional nibbles at his ear when his guard lowers.

At one point, Tom gives the phoenix a purposeful glare, allowing the entirety of his annoyance to radiate from his eyes. Fawkes only coos in response, rubbing his beak gently into Tom's cheek, his usual response in the face of Tom's ire.

They get through dinner quickly enough and move on to dessert. Tom helps himself to a second slice of cake, filled to bursting but unable to resist the allure of Harry's cooking. It tastes even sweeter, to know they made it together. Dumbledore himself indulges in a second helping for the cake, which is unsurprising, given how notorious his sweet tooth is.

Once the table is cleared and the dishes are soaking in the sink, it's time for presents. Dumbledore finds his fedora, which he took off to eat, and pulls several shrunken items out of it. A tap of his wand restores them to full size. He places three rectangular objects in front of Tom and a rather long one before Harry, who summons the man's gifts over with a flick of his wand and a quiet, "Accio presents."

Harry gestures for Dumbledore to go first, and their professor unpacks a book he'd apparently asked for, as well as candy, and…

"Socks," Dumbledore chuckles. He smiles delightedly at the Gryffindor designs on them. "Thank you, my boys. One can never have enough socks."

Harry grins, and his magic twitches in such a way as to indicate a quiet pleasure. Tom thinks he missed some sort of inside joke. He'd ask about it later, if he gave a fig about Dumbledore, but he doesn't.

"Your turn, Tom," Dumbledore instructs.

Tom had guessed his gifts were books, and he isn't wrong. They are, however, of a very fine quality, old but well-cared for beneath his fingertips. He runs his hands over their surfaces, Fawkes singing on his shoulder. Each book focuses on a different topic—Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms, and Transfiguration.

"I found these in a little shop, quite out of the way," Dumbledore says, his gaze intent on Tom. "As you can see, they're a bit old, but they were penned by Merlin himself. Only charms have kept them this well in tact for so long. You'll need to be careful when you handle them."

"Merlin?" Harry breathes. "Wow, that's brilliant."

Dumbledore chuckles. "They'll be in good hands, I suspect. I've noticed that our Tom has a voracious appetite for acquiring knowledge."

Our Tom. The man is clearly delusional. Tom belongs to no one but himself—well, and his soulmate.

Harry gives him a pointed look, his magic a swoop of gold.

"Thank you, sir," Tom forces himself to say, a pleasant smile on his lips. He does not mean it at all, but never let it be said that he doesn't prioritize Harry's happiness. "The books are lovely." That part is true, at least.

Dumbledore inclines his head graciously. Old bat. "Now, Harry, it is your turn. I fear I never did give you a birthday gift—nothing seemed quite right."

Harry turns red. Quickly waves a hand. "Professor, that's—"

"Hopefully this one will make up for it," Dumbledore continues.

Eyes and magic alight with curiosity, Harry reaches for his present and tears off the simple brown wrapping. Inside is a red box covered in golden Snitches. He smiles at the sight of it and lifts its lid—blinks quickly once he sees a broom cushioned inside.

"Professor—sir—this is too much!" he protests.

His magic darts about him in frantic streaks, glimmers of gold that make even Tom uneasy. He resists the urge to shift in his sudden discomfort. But there's happiness buried there, too. A tentative sort of hope.

"Nonsense, my boy!" Dumbledore tuts. "When you were first here, I confess I didn't know you well enough, and perhaps that's what stymied my decision on what to gift you. But after having known you for some time now, I've gleaned that you care a great deal about flying. Now, if it was no pain for me to gift this to you, there's hardly any need for a fuss, wouldn't you agree?"

A grin appears on Harry's face. His magic similarly lights up.

He reaches into the box and pulls the broom free, admiring it.

"I added a few charms to the seat," Dumbledore says, "admittedly under the watch of the broom maker, but nothing was tampered with to make it unsafe. They will keep you warm enough while you're in the air, nor should you ever find discomfort after riding for a long time."

"Thank you, sir," Harry says, and Tom would feel jealous of his happiness toward the gift if Harry hadn't been far happier with Tom's gift just that morning. The anxiety that has run in the older boy's magic like a current all day has yet to leave. It taints his happiness toward the broom—confliction creates red streaks in otherwise gold ones.

Tom approves. Anything that lessens the affection Harry feels toward Dumbledore can only be a good thing.

-----

Dumbledore leaves not long after the gift exchange, as it's getting late. A part of Harry feels grateful. He hadn't been able to look his mentor in the eye the entire time he visited. He'd been too worried Dumbledore would see in his surface thoughts what he hasn't had real time to process yet—how he woke up with Tom's mouth wrapped around him.

That night, Tom tugs Harry with him across the cottage to his room, to curl up together in bed, and Harry goes willingly, even as he worries what the morning may bring. Yet it would appear to be a baseless concern—Tom merely falls asleep, and when Harry cracks open his eyes after a long night of rest, the boy hasn't tried anything untoward.

They spend the day mostly outside, bundled up against the cold and playing with Harry's new broom. Tom watches from below while Harry tests it out, the charms doing their job to keep him warm and comfortable. He allows Tom to try it after, though his ward remains hesitant, distrusting this method of flying.

Will he eventually teach himself how to fly in this timeline? Harry wonders. And even if he does, isn't that likely a while off yet?

In an effort to make him feel safer, Harry has Tom seat himself before Harry on the broom, and he holds on tight to the boy's waist with one arm while his other hand steers them about the meadow. He's careful to never fly too high—they don't want to attract unwanted attention, should someone somehow see them flitting above the trees. Tom seems to enjoy this the most, snuggled back comfortably against Harry, gripping Harry's arm, his body and his magic trembling with excitement.

And so goes the rest of their holiday. Studying, reading, playing outside on the broom, baking, cuddling together before a roaring fire. Before Harry knows it, Tom's birthday has arrived, and Harry showers him with more gifts. More books, stationery, robes, candy, a giant cake. Tom requests that they communicate only in Parseltongue for the day, which Harry acquiesces to, fondness firm in his heart. The way Tom's eyes light up is a gift of its own.

It's on that evening, as they rest curled up around each other, their magic coiled as tightly as they are, that Harry has an unsettling dream.

-

He's back in the Chamber of Secrets.

Harry stares around, his heart in his throat. He takes a tentative step forward—reaches for his wand, which isn't there. His foot lands in water, but when he looks down, he sees that it's not water at all. It's ink, black and covering most of the ground. In the distance, Salazar's statue stands tall, ink running from its eyes and down its face like tears, and an eerie silence encompasses the chamber.

"Finally. I've reached you."

Harry spins on the spot and nearly trips over his feet as he finds the ink has risen to his ankles and doesn't seem to be in a hurry to stop. More importantly, Riddle stands across from him, older—Harry's age—holding out his hand, his expression impassive, his eyes… green… Green like Harry's…

The diary bleeds between them, its wound gaping as it feeds the torrent of ink.

"Do you believe you are capable of trusting me, Harry Potter?" Riddle asks.

Harry scoffs at the Horcrux. He knows instinctively that this is one, that he must have just killed the Basilisk and stabbed the diary. Even as he thinks it, a Basilisk fang appears in his hand. But strangely, he drops it. The ink swallows it and continues its rise, reaching his knees. He takes a step back, adrenaline surging.

"You're not the diary," he says. "Who are you?"

Folding his hands behind his back, a knowing smirk on his lips, Riddle steps toward him. Ink tugs at the hem of his fitted black robes, eddies about the two of them.

"I've been a part of you since you were an infant. Now it seems as though I'll be tethered to your soul forever, seeing as how you've taken me back." He tips his head, his lashes low over his startlingly green eyes. "I know. It's not what I initially wanted, either. However, I suppose this is better than dying, a mercy you didn't show to the others or even to yourself. To us."

Harry takes another step back. This is the bit of soul that was stuck in his scar, isn't it?

How does he look so young? Why does he have my eyes?

As if reading his thoughts, Riddle smiles. He closes the distance between them—one moment a meter away, the next, directly in front of Harry, his long fingers stained with ink and caging Harry's chin. Warmth blossoms through Harry at the touch, and he fights not to shut his eyes.

"You purified me when you took me with you. I've tried since our arrival in this… Nexus… to reach out to you, but only now have I been able to. I suppose you needed to endear yourself to me fully before you could hear me. So listen closely, Harry Potter…" Ink laps at their knees, their thighs, their chests. "There are things you should be questioning."

"Like what?" Harry murmurs, lulled into a content state with the warmth radiating outward from Riddle's grasp on him.

"Why is Dumbledore so kind to you? To us?" Riddle murmurs. "Why did Death imply that this version of me is a vessel? Consider this: we are not in another timeline but some sort of nexus."

"A nexus?" Harry lifts his chin to avoid the ink covering his mouth. "What d'you mean?"

"I mean a realm between the living and the dead," Riddle says. "I mean—"

The ink closes over their heads.

-

Harry wakes up sputtering.

It takes a moment to realize that it was just a dream. His heart pounds in his ears in the quiet of Tom's bedroom, darkness pressing in against him, a warm body curled up in his arms, soft curls tickling the underside of his chin. Slowly, he relaxes, his heart lodged in his throat.

He rubs the center of Tom's back to soothe himself, but his thoughts keep tracking back to what Riddle had said.

I mean a realm between the living and the dead.

He searches inwardly for any sign of Riddle, desperate for answers to the questions he'd raised, but it's in vain.

Harry is all alone in his head, just as he was before.

Chapter Text

-January 1999-

Harry meets with the goblins at Gringotts before he returns for the spring term. They're unhappy that he waited so long to set up a meeting, but he soothes things over the best he can, Ron and Hermione at his side.

For once, he's without Tom. He hadn't been sure the other boy's presence would help, not when he has to say things like, "Isn't it for the better that Voldemort is defeated? If we hadn't broken into Gringotts, this war wouldn't have ended!"

While the Tom he raised wouldn't have taken offense, he knows that such a statement would have upset Riddle in some form or fashion. This whole remorse thing has eaten him alive, chased him away into slumber. The less damage done to his fragile state, the better. Not that he thinks Riddle would appreciate being referred to as fragile.

The goblins reluctantly agree that Harry hadn't had much choice in the matter, and he sets up a stipend for them from his Hogwarts pay to take care of the damage the dragon produced. Then he thanks his friends for handling that with him and returns to Grimmauld Place, where he finds Tom seeing to their things for their return.

"How did it go?" he asks.

"Fine," Harry grumbles. "I dunno what they expected me to say, but in the end, it became obvious they just wanted me to pay for the damage."

Tom sets the robes he's holding down and levels a look at Harry. "You didn't. Tell me you didn't."

"I did," Harry says. Tom tsks and rolls his eyes. "Oi—look, if it gets them off my back, what does it matter? I have more than enough money and just want this to be over with."

"As usual, darling, you are far too kind—" Tom cuts himself off, confliction spasming across his face and in his magic. The sensation of spiders crawling over Harry's skin draws a shiver from him. What had caught Tom by surprise? The endearment? "Your defeat of my other self should have been repayment enough."

Harry shrugs a shoulder. "I have the money."

"So do they," Tom retorts. "They are the only wizarding bank in Britain. We all must make and accept sacrifices, and the goblins are not to be excluded from this."

Harry snaps the clasps of one of Tom's trunks closed. This one is full of robes and bursts at the seams with them. Never let it be said that Tom doesn't enjoy the current fashion trends. A hefty part of his faculty pay has gone toward his wardrobe.

"What's done is done," Harry says, with a note of finality in his voice. He's not eager to continue discussing this. He's already washed his hands of the matter. "We worked out a total amount, and it'll be paid off within the year. They've fixed the damage already—and more importantly, they didn't even want me to cover the full amount, just a fraction."

Tom's disapproval hammers at him, nibbles of his magic inching along his skin, and Harry fights the urge to rub at his arms.

"Quit it," he huffs. "It's important to maintain good relations with the goblins."

"But you don't have to bend over and—"

"Tom."

Tom sighs, a world of frustration in the sound, and spins back to his last trunk. This one is full of parchment, ink, and other odds and ends. He snaps the lid shut over it—buckles it—taps his wand against it to secure the items inside.

"Ready?" Harry asks.

Tom nods, a stiff motion of his neck. Harry cups that perfect face in his hands and drops a kiss to the tip of his nose, earning a slightly mollified smile in return. Harry kisses that, too.

-----

Tom isn't, exactly, looking forward to their return to Hogwarts, something he shares in common with his other self, though the reasons are vastly different. While he's unafraid of his effect on a younger generation, he finds the process quite wearying. He'd never set out to be a professor, but needs must.

True to her word on Tom's birthday, Ginevra makes herself less of a pain during his classes, as well as Granger. They're not exactly friendly, but they bother to be polite. Ginevra doesn't scowl at him whenever the opportunity presents itself, and when she asks questions about the material he assigns, her voice lacks its typical frostiness.

Her eyes still watch him when she thinks he hasn't noticed.

January ebbs into February, and Tom spends the entirety of Valentine's Day in Harry's chambers, locked up with his soulmate, rarely leaving bed. They exchange chocolates and take their time exploring one another's bodies, peaceful in their time together.

Harry seems unwilling to bring up Riddle anymore, and Tom doesn't push him on it—but inwardly, he wonders what he can do to help. He nudges at the corners of his mind where Riddle sleeps but never receives any sort of feedback, either steadfastly ignored or unnoticed. So it takes him by complete surprise when, one day in March, during a particularly rousing lecture about advanced shield charms, Riddle stirs to the forefront of his thoughts.

How are you not bored?

Tom blinks, growing quiet mid-lecture, the curious eyes of his second-year students upon him. Riddle has never spoken to him directly before. Were it only his own curiosity, Tom would state his mind, but Harry needs him not to chase Riddle away. He finishes his lecture, assigns them some reading, and pretends to grade homework while his mind travels inward.

You're awake, Tom observes.

Answer my question.

Tom huffs to himself. Riddle apparently has no wish to indulge in niceties. Very well. He'll be blunt.

How are you not bored, lurking in our mind all the time as you do?

A sense of… disdain… rather like a scoff rolls across his thoughts. Riddle doesn't speak again, no matter how much Tom prompts him. With an annoyed sigh, Tom sets about to actually grading the stack of parchment before him.

-

At dinner, Riddle's presence fills his mind again, the essence of snake scales and a wiggle of spider legs. Comforting to Tom, yet he remains wary, on the alert for any sort of commentary. Harry pokes at his plate next to him, an ear turned toward Flitwick as they exchange pleasantries about their day.

Perhaps Tom will tell Harry tonight of this new development. At dinner is too open, with too many ears to overhear the exchange, and he hasn't gotten a moment to otherwise. Before bed should be perfect. Though it's not much news, Harry had grown upset with him at Christmas when he hadn't revealed such poking about in his mind from Riddle before. He'd rather avoid a repeat performance of the incident.

Don't, Riddle warns him. I only wish to observe.

Tom bites back his discomfort and annoyance. He's used to being alone in his head, for the most part. This is incredibly intrusive.

Shall I leave you to it, then? Return to my steadfast slumber?

No, of course not! Tom snaps. Riddle's amusement tickles at him, and Tom's shoulders bristle in response. I don't like keeping secrets from Harry.

Yes. I can see that. But if Harry knows I am 'awake,' he will have expectations of me that I'd rather like to avoid for the time being.

Why?

Look at how he's molded you. Perfectly content to be so subservient. Tell me, do you not possess a mind of your own?

Of course, I do! Tom retorts, his fingers spasming around his fork. But Harry is everything to me. His curiosity is my own. It is for our well-being for us to bond, to become one. Why do you oppose that so much?

Predictably, Riddle fails to reply.

Harry nudges his shoulder into Tom's. "You all right?"

"Yes," Tom says. Stiffness coats the word, and he works to dispel it from his tone. "I've merely got a headache. It was quite the long day. Many frustrating incidents with students. You know how it goes."

Harry nods in understanding, a sympathetic chuckle light on his lips. "Yeah. I'm sorry you don't feel well, though."

Tom shrugs. "That's all right. I'll take a potion if it doesn't let up."

He hates lying to Harry.

A mocking sensation takes root at the back of his mind.

He wishes he could stab Riddle. It would certainly make him feel better.

He's going to figure it out, you know, Tom warns him. He always does.

But if Riddle is worried about that, he certainly doesn't show it.

-

He does, however, stick around for the next week.

No matter where Tom goes or what he does, he has Riddle whispering in his ear, for lack of a better term. Questioning why he grades papers with such leniency, failing to understand how he maintains friendliness with Ginevra and Granger on a sincere level and not merely for show, and interrogating him about his lack of hair product are only a fraction of his grievances with Tom's daily habits.

Tom spends most evenings in his own chambers, coming to Harry only when it's time to sleep. He can barely keep a straight face with Riddle hissing at him, and he's sure that Harry knows something is up. His soulmate sends him frequent concerned glances, though he hasn't questioned Tom too much. Yet. He will—it's just a matter of time.

So pretend you care less than you do.

My magic will give me away, Tom inwardly snarls. You're ridiculous. You behave as though you weren't in control of our body for months before the reality of your sins grew too much for you.

Don't you mean our sins?

No! I most certainly do not! You got it into your head to commit racist genocide and actually carried through with it! That idea NEVER occurred to me!

How above it all you are, Riddle mocks him, as if I cannot see your own misdeeds here in our head.

Whatever I've done in my past hardly compares to your atrocities! Tom sniffs and shuffles his stack of parchment into something resembling order.

Riddle sighs, the sound shivering through all the corners of Tom's being. He gives up surprisingly quickly otherwise, not bothering to surface vocally again until close to dinner, where he derides the state of Tom's hair.

You want to look just like Harry, Riddle accuses him.

And?

It's pathetic.

Tom takes a deep, steadying breath, and leaves his reflection to head downstairs to the Great Hall. What's pathetic is your inability to understand love.

Bitterness twists in his mind—touches the back of his tongue.

I understand it well enough. It reduces me to this state, after all.

Do you understand it? Tom challenges him. Or do you resent it? Because Harry loves you. I see the things you've done, and I'm frightened by my propensity for evil, when untethered to this world or to someone who cares for me. I'm grateful that Harry saved me from such a stark fate. And you, who has had another chance at life, one where you can experience true fulfillment—you turn your nose up at it. I will never understand you.

Because you have been coddled all your life, Riddle retorts. You've experienced no real hardships—

Never say that to me! Tom pauses in the stairwell of the Faculty Tower, trembling and full of fury. You know very well what 'hardships' I've had. The sacrifices. I wasn't raised alone in an orphanage or a social pariah through my first few years of school, but I've endured my own trials! They're the very reason we are here right now! I have gladly faced what you fear and come out the other side triumphant, and that was all due to Harry's love for us!

For the first time, Riddle seems to contemplate that. He grows quiet again and retreats to the back of Tom's mind, his essence thoughtful but watchful.

Tom stands in the stairwell for a moment longer, then resumes his trek to the Great Hall, the carpet runner muffling his footsteps against the ancient wooden stairs.

-

Riddle at least has the grace to bugger off for a few days, always present in the sense that he lurks but is otherwise silent. Though Tom can't entirely escape the occasional trickle of disdain or mocking amusement, he finds this vastly more preferable.

Harry corners him the next Saturday when Tom comes to his rooms so they can grade paperwork together, handsy, his teeth at Tom's ear as he gropes and squeezes Tom's body in greeting. Tom barely gets out a breathlessly chuckled greeting of, "Well, hello to you, too," before Harry spins him around and presses him into the wall.

"I've missed you," he murmurs into Tom's ear.

"You see me every day," Tom reminds him.

Harry laughs, a fond sound, and buries his nose in the back of Tom's neck. His hands shift to cover Tom's growing arousal where it's trapped in his pants and squeeze.

"Ah, I see," Tom teases him, as if he's not on fire at Harry's touch. "You missed my cock."

"And your moans." Harry's teeth pinch at his ear as they nibble across its shell. "I love the way you sound when I fuck you."

Tom spins about in his arms, hungry with desire, and pushes at his soulmate, forcing him to walk backward into his bed chamber. The backs of Harry's knees hit his bed—they tumble onto it, grappling for control. End with Harry pushing Tom into the mattress, face down, his hands shoving up his robes and yanking his pants down his thighs.

Doesn't waste any time, does he? Riddle muses, breaking his silence for the first time in days.

Tom swallows back a spasm of irritation. Now his other self wants to chime in?

Of course. The two of you together are… fascinating. Riddle's tone makes it clear it's not quite a compliment.

Harry grabs Tom's cock, and Tom moans, a wanton sound that contains a fortnight of pent up lust. They haven't gone this long without shagging since Tom took over the forefront of this body. He couldn't be bothered to even touch himself, lest he draw Riddle's criticism and it instantly kill the mood.

So unrestrained in your desire, Riddle observes. No wonder he enjoys you like this.

Bugger off, bugger off, bugger off—

"Tom?" Harry asks, his magic fluttering about in concern, matching his voice. "D'you—d'you want me to stop?"

"Don't be stupid," Tom pants. "Keep going."

Riddle—blessedly—deigns not to speak again until Harry's slid inside Tom's arse, which he only bothered to prep with a brief lubricant and loosening spell, the way they both like it when they're feeling feisty. Tom arches his head back, a loud cry on his lips, his hands fisting in the sheets, only to earn Riddle's renewed derision.

No decorum, either, I see.

Bugger off! Tom thinks at him again, the two words full of venom. Harry placed silencing wards since you first took a nap. No one can hear us.

I can.

Then go back to sleep, old man. Isn't it about time for another nap? Tom retorts, and Riddle's essence thrums with the offense he takes at that.

Harry's begun a rhythm—a tentative roll of his hips at first, testing, followed by hard and vigorous thrusting. Tom melts against the mattress, tension unraveling from him that he hadn't even known he was carrying. Sparks fizzle through his veins and ignite in a roaring fire, all stemming from where he's stretched open around Harry's wonderfully girthy prick.

So youthful, Riddle sneers through the haze of pleasure that's consumed their body. So heavy-handed. He paws at you like a boy still green. And you do more than indulge him. You actually enjoy this. It was far better when I took him on Christmas. You should take control—show him how it's done. I will guide you. You'd both do well to learn from me.

BUGGER OFF! Tom roars at him. Perverted old—

"Tom…" Harry's voice, strained. "Er… Are you really sure you want to do this? You seem… I dunno, distracted…"

"I'm fine!" Tom snarls, and remorse fills him as he realizes he lashed out at his precious Harry. "I—that is to say—"

Harry pulls out, and Tom curses inwardly. Hastily, he rolls onto his back and pulls Harry down against him. Those bright green eyes peer worriedly at him.

"What are you keeping from me?" he murmurs. "I can tell, you know, and I don't want to do this if your heart's not in it."

How sweet, Riddle drawls. To cherish you so much despite all the trouble we bring.

"My heart is in it," Tom insists. Weeks of frustration boil up, and he presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. Takes several deep breaths to calm himself. And then the truth comes tumbling free, because he's going to go mad if he must put up with this self-hatred for a moment longer! "Riddle is awake. He didn't want you to know. He threatened to go back to sleep if I told you. But I don't care anymore! He keeps offering commentary right now, and I just want—I need you, Harry. Please."

He lowers his hands to peer up at his soulmate. He's no idea what to expect. Rejection, maybe. Rightful anger. This is so important to him, and Tom kept it a secret for far longer than he should have.

But Harry settles between his thighs, one hand circling Tom's bony hip. "What's he saying to you?" he murmurs. His magic swoops in golden trails as he grinds his sticky cock against Tom's, still erect, clearly not going anywhere.

"You're not angry with me?" Tom breathes.

Harry kisses him firmly on the mouth. He shifts his hips, and then he's pushing back inside Tom, swallowing every sound he makes with his lips as he stretches open around him. Tom trembles—drags his nails down Harry's back, which he arches into with a low, wild sound.

"Nope," Harry murmurs. "'Course not. It's not your fault."

Oh, but it is mine? The two of you are so precious.

"What's he saying?" Harry asks again. A roll of his hips, tearing another noise from Tom's throat. "Go on. Tell me."

"He's mocking me," Tom whispers. "Mocking our—" his breath hitches as Harry thrusts harder, from the tip of his cock to the hilt "—our lovemaking…"

Harry grins, more to himself than at Tom. He presses their lips back together in a lingering kiss. "Let me guess. He wanted you to take control? Fuck me instead? Maybe even sounds a little jealous?"

"Got it in one," Tom breathes. Harry knows them so well.

I am not jealous! Riddle protests, though there's hardly any sense of the refined dignity in the words that he's attempted to project since he first started pestering Tom. How dare he! How dare you!

"That upset him," Tom chuckles. "He said he's not jealous."

"If he's not jealous, then why won't he shut his mouth?" Harry asks, his tone wry. "Too busy enjoying the sound of his own voice?"

Tom grins at him, gleeful at Harry's jab at Riddle and not bothering to hide it. "You're not worried about scaring him off?"

Harry grins in return. "Why should I be? He can't seem to stay away, can he? Getting a tad predictable in his old age."

Riddle seethes at the back of Tom's mind, a wordless pit of black and gnawing spiders.

Another thrust from Harry, this one powerful enough to curl Tom's toes. He arches—digs his nails in to Harry's rump. Together, they move, Harry threatening to crack Tom wide open with every jerk of his hips. And wouldn't that be lovely? Harry could climb inside him, make a new home for himself there in Tom's heart as if he hasn't already, because even though their very souls are bound, even though they've crossed timelines to be together, what they have is never enough, can never be enough.

Tom half-expects Riddle to make another comment, but he never does. Despite his earlier protests, he seems swept up in it with Tom, and just for a little while, they occupy their body together, blurring into one being, so that Tom doesn't know where he begins and Riddle ends. Harry has rendered them incapable of thought, of knowing anything other than pleasure at his hands.

Harry and Tom roll on their sides to face one another, their breaths easing from something less laborious to sleepy. Harry rubs his thumb across Tom's cheekbone—tucks his curls gingerly behind his ear.

"Is he still there?" he whispers.

"Yes," Tom whispers back. "Sort of. We are… at peace."

Likely it won't last much longer than this afterglow, but he can admit how nice it is to not be at one another's throats, bickering incessantly for weeks.

Harry smiles and tugs Tom against him to hold him close, his grip sure and comforting. He's so patient—so accepting. He truly loves them and wants them to succeed. Riddle has never known this touch before, and though fear colors his presence, he stays relaxed, soaking up every bit of comfort that Harry wants to provide. Taking what is so freely offered.

Perhaps there is hope for them yet.