Chapter Text
By the time Harry had finally relented to hosting a conference for the ever-hungry, ever-desperate press, the flashing cameras that once had near-blinded Harry now felt like familiar annoyances, idle distractions as he tried to string his sentences together. He’d become unfortunately familiar with journalists recently, the press somehow finding him with pinpoint precision every time he went in public, eager to get the exclusive scoop. Even Rita Skeeter had come out of her semi-retirement from active journalism, neglecting her editor-in-chief duties just to try and better pick Harry’s brain.
Harry hoped the press conference might discourage the reporters from following him around on the streets, but he wasn’t holding his breath. He pointed to another face in the crowd at random, already operating on autopilot.
“Lavender Brown, Witch Weekly!” called out the journalist, a smart-looking woman who had been waving her hand for upwards of twenty minutes. “We know the Auror raid on Voldemort’s home found trophies from the bodies of his more recent victims in his attic. What were those trophies?”
“For the sake of the victims’ dignity, I can’t give too much detail,” responded Harry. “But these included the organs and body parts that had been removed from his victims at the scene of the crime. We have reason to believe that Voldemort found the physical evidence of his success rewarding, and he’d keep these trophies until they began to naturally decay.”
Harry had no intention of ever verbalizing that Voldemort was a cannibal, now or ever. Though the case seemed well and truly closed, there was no need to leak any potential insight into Tom’s alternate identity, and Tom’s passion for delicious meat was well-known even outside of his immediate circle.
“One more question!” barked Kingsley from behind Harry, his arms crossed and expression grave. “Make it count!”
Harry couldn’t resist – he pointed to Rita Skeeter for the last question. She was an inconsiderate bitch who valued a good story over any ethical code, yes, but Tom did have a point in his appreciation of her writing – her articles on Voldemort were by far the most entertaining of the lot.
“Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet,” Skeeter purred, her quill already leaping into her hand. “We understand that amateur author Myrtle Warren was the last victim of Voldemort, the one who gave the insight that the Auror force needed to identify the culprit. Could you please walk us through exactly what Myrtle’s death illuminated?”
Harry shook his head, amused despite himself. Trust Skeeter to ask a question that would require a rehashing of the entire sequence of events.
“I’m sure you’ve all heard the details of how the body was displayed, but for the sake of transparency, I’ll briefly walk everyone here through the crime scene,” Harry began, to enthusiastic nods and note-taking from the reporters. “Myrtle’s body was displayed stuck to the floral wallpaper inside Flourish & Blotts, near their self-help section. Her upper body remained out of the wall, but most of her lower half was missing, giving the illusion of the wall swallowing her up. To keep her head upright, Voldemort had transfigured her glasses, turning the lenses into icicle-like spikes that pierced through her eyes and out the back of her skull to effectively nail her head to the wall, even as the rest of her body hung limp and without support.”
Which had been hard. Harry had wanted to do as much of the display as he could, but in the end, he’d had to let Tom take the lead on the more intricate bits – Harry was every ounce as powerful as his husband, but his magic seemed to thrive more in brute force survival situations, with matching Tom’s ridiculous level of flourish and detail more of a pain to Harry than any sort of pleasure.
But even if he hadn’t been the one to carefully transfigure each element of the Myrtle scene, content allowing Tom to do much of the dirty work, becoming a part of the process had been exhilarating. Harry had been the one to kill her, the one to carve up her meat and serve it, the one to relish in Tom’s pleasure with each bite of his cooking. He’d been able to design every element of the scene – from piercing the eyes that had coveted Tom to having the wall absorb her into obscurity where she belonged, Harry had been able to create the art he’d always cherished so dearly, finally able to reply to the love letters he’d received in their language.
Harry could see why Tom enjoyed it, honestly. At the end of the day, the kills were storytelling and riddles and trickery, lessons and clues that the Aurors were too blind to see peppered in, irreversible condemnations of such infuriating victims. It had joined the inside jokes he and Tom had shared, their language of meaningful eye contact and subtle body language, the intricacies of communication that could never be captured in words – now, they could share an entirely new world, with so many corners still left to explore.
Keeping the pride off of his face, perhaps, was even harder than displaying Myrtle had been.
“Now, within the Auror force, we’d already identified that these kills all seemed to have one common link,” continued Harry, relishing the anticipation in his audience. He’d hated reporters for his entire career, but with the thrill of secret-keeping making his heart race in his chest, he had to reluctantly admit that he was having a wonderful time. “Me.”
The crowd of journalists gasped in front of him, a low murmur thrumming through the crowd nearly drowned out by the renewed sound of cameras flashing.
“I’d realized that the victims seemed to be people who had wronged me in some way, or symbolically indicative of recent problems I’d faced,” said Harry, letting his voice weaken a bit. A show of humanity, vulnerability for the papers to leap onto – perhaps they’d write about Harry being traumatized by the horrors of his career, but who cared? He was retiring, and either way, a seemingly mentally weak man would be far less likely to have a side hustle as an elite serial killer. “From Creevey writing a critical article on me to Muggles who had been unkind to me as a child, the link was becoming undeniable. Myrtle, however, gave away something the others did not – while I’d told some of my peers about my experiences with the other victims before Voldemort got to them, very few people knew of my connection to Myrtle.”
Harry trailed off, staring down at his hands as if lost in thought.
“What was your connection to Myrtle?” asked Rita impatiently, yanking him out of his daze.
Head snapping back up, Harry continued. “Myrtle had been harassing my husband for years. We’d kept it between us, of course – no need to encourage her by having her hear from anyone that we were monitoring her obsession – but my husband would receive letters from her weekly if not near-daily, with some very concerning contents. It had become a constant burden on us, and Voldemort had realized this, killing Myrtle in order to try and make me happy.”
At this, Harry smiled bitterly, shaking his head. “Of course, murder could never bring me joy. But in this case, it did help me identify who the killer was – after speaking with Tom, he had only ever told one other person about Myrtle, and only a few days before she was found dead.”
“Draco Malfoy,” finished Skeeter, looking near-manic with the pure giddiness in her expression, her quill rapidly flipping through the parchment in her hands.
“Yes, Draco Malfoy,” repeated Harry, bowing his head somberly.
Tom, ever-perfect, had been planning to frame Draco for his kills long before Harry had ever discovered his alternate identity. When he’d gone out to find his victims, he hadn’t only needed to forge his own alibi – he’d also intentionally chosen times where Draco had been without an alibi, adding an entirely new layer of complexity to his kills that Harry was finally able to appreciate. During their last little tête-à-tête, Tom had been able to plant all the evidence he needed into Draco’s home and mindscape – Harry hadn’t needed to do a thing but raise the alarm.
“I hadn’t realized this, of course, until after his arrest, when we had enough evidence from his home to authorize the use of Legilimency on him,” said Harry, making sure he still looked appropriately grim with a casual glance at his reflection in the wide lens of a nearby camera. “But since our Hogwarts day, Draco had harbored…affections for me, affections I had never realized given the happiness of my relationship with my husband. In his mind, in addition to finding vivid memories of each of his kills, we found that his obsession with me had never waned, and that he genuinely felt killing all of those people would make me happy.”
Harry shook his head mutely, as if struck dumb from grief.
“My association with these murders is one of the most upsetting tragedies I can imagine,” continued Harry in a near-whisper, the hubbub of the room fading into silence for once. “The only relief I have is that Draco Malfoy is securely imprisoned in Azkaban thanks to the hard work of the many Aurors who have supported me and all of us throughout this difficult time.”
His next announcement was one he’d been looking forward to sharing all day.
“But with that,” said Harry, still quiet, still projecting abject grief to the best of his ability. “This case has had an extreme impact on my personal life and wellness. In the interest of protecting my own privacy and mental well-being, I’m sorry to announce that this will be my final day on the Auror force.”
“What?” screeched Skeeter, hopping out of her chair – it seemed that the rest of the journalists were all inclined to follow her example, as the room suddenly erupted with noise, each newspaper desperate to ask just one more question. Harry stumbled back, his back hitting Kingsley’s strong, reliable chest.
“No further questions!” barked Kingsley over the barrage of shouted inquiries in his gruff, unstoppable way, his hands gripping Harry’s shoulders, meant to be both a comfort and a shield at once.
With the speed of camera flashes reaching entirely new heights, Harry stepped out of the conference room with a clueless Kingsley at his back, utterly triumphant, completely free.
***
“I’m not here to argue with you,” said Kingsley, walking up to Harry with both his hands raised in the air, a mock show of surrender. Harry paused where he’d been cleaning out his cubicle and mourning his lack of prior organization – some of these papers were from years ago, and sorting through what needed to be saved and what needed to be destroyed was deeply tedious. “I get why you’re retiring. And we’ll miss you like hell out here, but I get it. You’ve got to look out for yourself, and Merlin knows you’ve given more to yourself to this department than most of us even consider.”
Harry nodded cautiously, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Thank you, sir. For what it’s worth, I know I’ll miss this job, too.”
Kingsley tilted his head in acknowledgement, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Not enough to stay?”
Harry couldn’t help but smile back, endeared by Kingsley’s stubbornness now that the end was finally in sight. “Not enough to stay. Not after all of this.”
His small smile dropping into a frown, Kingsley moved closer to Harry, dropping his voice low. “That’s actually what I came to talk to you about.”
Instantly, Harry felt something in his gut clench, the beginnings of adrenaline bringing him to full alertness. “What’s left to cover?”
Kingsley sighed, crossing his arms tightly to his chest. “You’ve always been the most perceptive among us, Harry. And after all you’ve had to go through with this case, you know that I trust you. But…are you sure about this?”
“Sure about what?” asked Harry with a frown. His hand crept slowly towards his wand, just out of Kingsley’s field of vision.
“Draco Malfoy,” sighed Kingsley, brows furrowed. “You get a feel for these things over the years, you know? It just doesn’t feel right. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re missing something big, something that would turn this whole case upside down.”
Harry dropped his hand – Kingsley hadn’t discovered anything, after all.
“I get it,” said Harry, nudging Kingsley with his shoulder. “Pretty weird to not have Voldemort to chase after, right? I thought the same thing at first, but the evidence against Draco is honestly airtight. It took me a bit, but I realized it’s not really nerves about having caught the wrong guy – it’s just so surreal that we got him that it takes a bit to sink in.”
“You think?” asked Kingsley, his voice a bit hopeful.
“I know,” answered Harry firmly. “We got him, sir. We’ll have to adjust to a life without Voldemort to catch, but I know I’m pretty damn proud that we actually did it.”
Harry watched the show of emotions flashing across Kingsley’s face, the allure of triumph and rest conflicting against the pervasive unease of uncertainty.
“Yes,” answered Kingsley slowly after a pause. He clapped Harry on the shoulder with one hand, his grip as firm as always. “You’re right as always, Harry. I’ll leave you to it, yeah? Don’t be a stranger.”
“Same to you,” said Harry with a grin. Perhaps Kingsley wasn’t fully convinced yet, but at the end of the day, no court of law would ever have the power to push back on the evidence against Draco — their case was simply too thorough.
Besides, Harry couldn’t focus too closely on Kingsley – he and Tom had big plans for after work for him to look forward to instead.
***
Harry didn’t have the chance to even speak as he walked through the front door – upon hearing the clunk of the lock, Tom had immediately ambushed him, sweeping him off of his feet and pulling him in for a deep, messy kiss.
“What’s this all about?” gasped Harry as he came up for air, taking a quick breath before Tom could resume his attack.
He had no defense against Tom’s answering smile, so unbearably fond – Harry melted into his arms obediently, wrapping his arms around Tom’s neck.
“I’m just excited for our date today,” said Tom, carefully stroking Harry’s hair off of his forehead, his touch gentle and soothing. “I think we’ll be able to make such a lovely dinner.”
“You haven’t even shown me where we’re going,” teased Harry with a pout. “You’ve been so cruel with all your secrets.”
“We can’t have that, can we?” asked Tom rhetorically, finally separating from Harry to better set up for his dramatic reveal. “Without further ado, then – welcome to the workroom.”
And with a wave of Tom’s wand, the hallway melted before Harry’s eyes, an entirely new room taking its place as if it had been there all along.
***
“Voldemort can kill frequently,” Tom began. “But ultimately, we can’t have an intricate display for every single dinner we share. And though there are wonderful alternatives to human meat out there, I do always intend to have human meat ready to go, in case the right recipe presents itself.”
Harry nodded along, endeared by the clear passion in Tom’s voice. He seemed so earnestly enthusiastic, as if he’d been waiting their whole marriage to share his hobby with Harry, and though Tom was certainly trying to contain his excess of enthusiasm, Harry didn’t miss the way he kept bouncing on the balls of his feet or the involuntary grin that kept creeping up on his flushed face.
“I’ve been keeping this man here, just in case we need something time-sensitive for a last minute meal,” continued Tom with a little flourish. “And tonight, it’ll be your turn to pick a cut of meat.”
“You didn’t,” groaned Harry, finally taking a peek at the man strapped down to a gurney behind Tom. “Tom, you’re the most ridiculous man I’ve ever met.”
“And you love me for it,” answered Tom, not showing even a hint of remorse.
“Cedric and I went out for a month.” Harry sighed. “I can’t believe you even remember who he is. Honestly, I barely remember who he is.”
“I’m not going to let a man who cheated on you live the rest of his days without regret,” said Tom, quite pleased with himself. “I’m protecting your honor, dear. It’s all because I love you so much.”
“Jealous bastard,” said Harry in amazement. “I hope you’re not telling any of your patients to solve their grudges the way that you do. This cannot be a healthy way to deal with people who piss you off.”
Tom rolled his eyes, not even bothering to answer as he strode closer to poor Cedric Diggory’s prone form. “To focus on what we’re here for, as you know, I’m quite the experienced chef. No matter what body part you choose, I will have a recipe to fit. Go ahead and pick your favorite.”
Harry strode closer, observing the abnormal stillness of Cedric’s body. “Is he still alive?”
“Of course,” said Tom. Harry looked up, amused at the hint of offense that had entered Tom’s tone and catching the insulted frown on his face before Tom could hide it. “My ingredients are always fresh.”
Harry reached out to touch Cedric’s bare arms, running his hands up the man’s biceps. He’d bulked up a bit in the many years since Harry had seen him, his muscles thick and wiry, but he lacked the warmth Harry would have expected from an unconscious man. “How’d you knock him out? Draught of Living Death?”
“Exactly,” answered Tom, tracking Harry’s movements with precision, his eyes locked on where his fingers met Cedric’s right shoulder.
“Do you ever wake them up?” asked Harry quietly. Perhaps he’d solved the mystery of Voldemort’s identity, but he couldn’t help continuing to dissect his profile, eager to discover more and more about his motivations, his methods, his genius. Even now, after his official retirement, he found himself relishing the opportunity to ask the man himself about his operations – their casual dialogue over a mystery that had plagued him for years was still novel enough to be a delight, new puzzle pieces sliding into place every day.
“Occasionally,” said Tom. “Sometimes, I keep them awake constantly, allowing them to watch and feel every cut I make. On other occasions, I’ll wake them up after a partial harvest, just long enough for them to understand their imminent mortality. Or I’ll just kill them before ever reawakening them. Each body has its own story, dear, and I try to treat each one with the unique consideration it deserves.”
Harry nodded thoughtfully, slotting it into his profile, absentmindedly running one hand up and down Cedric’s neck. “How do you choose who to display and who to keep for your own meals?”
Tom, it seemed, had finally had enough of watching Harry touch another man, even if that other man was little more than a comatose slab of meat on its way to their dining room table. Moving carefully, Tom took both of Harry’s hands in his own, forcing Harry to make direct eye contact.
“Every choice I make is for you,” murmured Tom, his predator’s gaze unwavering and resolute. “I display the bodies with the greatest potential to create beauty that you’ll find pleasing, to make scenes that you’ll enjoy and delight over. I serve the bodies that are more desirable for their meat than for any tableau storytelling or visual display. With every life I take and every slice of meat I cut, I think only of your happiness, of the intrigue and excitement it could spark, of the flavors it could deliver to you. Nothing could ever move me more.”
Any words left in Harry’s throat died away in an instant at Tom’s guileless sincerity. He’d never had Tom like this before, never been given the opportunity to see his husband’s love as the cruel, uncaring thing it was. Tom was as he had always been – still an ambitious, attention-seeking man with an uncommon soft spot for Harry, still a glamorous socialite with particular tastes, still a seemingly suave man hiding a petty, childish sense of humor – but Harry had never gotten to see him in full, only ever experiencing a portion of who Tom really was. Now that he knew of Tom’s work as Voldemort, Harry could know him, a far deeper understanding than what Tom had ever allowed anyone else to reach.
And for the first time, Harry saw how vulnerable it had made Tom. For once, Tom could fear rejection, knowing that with every new facet of his identity he revealed to Harry, he risked Harry’s disgust and horror, risked jeopardizing the stability of the love they’d shared for so long.
Tom’s love for him was bloody and violent. He was still home-cooked dinners and cheesy love letters, still morning kisses and bouquets of flowers, but he was also headless, reanimated corpses who dragged themselves into heart shapes, nosy journalists with sex offenders on the run hidden inside of their bodies, Harry’s last blood relatives crushed to death directly in front of his office. He took small indiscretions as offenses worthy of execution. He ended the lives of everyday, average humans on a whim. And he toyed with any who attempted to defy him, a genuine sadist, unrelenting in his vengeance.
But how could Harry ever hold that against him when Tom’s cruelties were so loving?
Whether or not Harry had been aware at the time, it had been Tom’s tender care for him in each crime scene’s splatters of blood, Tom’s adoration in each limp body and severed limb. He was loved to the point of sacrifice, an obscene number of deaths dedicated to his happiness, his idle, careless desires deemed more important than so many human lives. He could see Tom’s focused dedication in everything he made, from meals to murders – who could possibly object to such all-consuming devotion?
“I love you,” blurted out Harry unthinkingly, tightening his grip on Tom’s hands. “More than anything in this world. Always.”
Tom blinked rapidly, startled, before his previous intensity faded into something soft and reverent. “I love you too, dear. Have you chosen your cut of meat?”
“His heart,” said Harry without hesitation, smiling softly at his perfect husband. “Please, Tom?”
“Anything,” whispered Tom, leaning in closer. “Anything for you.”
***
“Thank you again for taking the time to speak to me,” said Kingsley, all smiles and professionalism as he took his seat in Barty Crouch Sr.’s office. Barty Crouch Sr. seemed to have mellowed out over the past year, no longer dragging Kingsley into pointless meetings or trying to turn the Aurors into a glorified military force, but he still took his role as the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement seriously. Kingsley knew he couldn’t let himself seem at all unreliable or ill-informed during today’s meeting, not if he wanted to have any chance of being taken seriously.
“Of course, Auror Shacklebolt,” answered Crouch with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You mentioned the Voldemort case in your message?”
Getting straight down to business.
“Yes, sir,” answered Kingsley. “I know that the case was closed over a year ago now, but I strongly believe that we’re missing something. For all that Draco’s memories and alibis perfectly match what we’d anticipate for Voldemort, he simply doesn’t seem to have the character for it. By all accounts, Draco was a frivolous, silly man, guilty of treating his patients poorly, but without the stomach for any sort of physical violence. We need to investigate other possibilities.”
Crouch narrowed his eyes, listening to Kingsley carefully. “Is there any new evidence to suggest this?”
Kingsley grimaced. “No, but–”
“Then leave it alone,” commanded Crouch, cutting Kingsley off mid-protest. “Since we sent Malfoy to Azkaban, there have been no further Voldemort kills. All the evidence points towards his guilt, despite your loose concerns about his profile. Speaking frankly, reopening the case would be a delusional waste of resources that I have no desire to invest in.”
“I just want to be able to interview potential suspects,” bargained Kingsley, pleading. “People who match the profile, just to investigate all avenues. It’s our job to protect and serve, sir.”
“What suspects?” asked Crouch, skeptical.
“Tom Riddle, for one,” answered Kingsley promptly.
Since Harry had retired last year, Kingsley had thought of him often, wondering what could have possibly moved him away from the Auror forces. He’d been reading through the old case files, refamiliarizing himself with Voldemort, when he’d come across a staggering coincidence – the profile drawn up for Voldemort had been an uncanny match for Harry’s husband, from his magical proficiency to his field of work to even his obsession with Harry. Harry had always been the best and brightest of them all – wouldn’t it have made sense for Harry to uncover the truth first, retiring to better protect his husband?
Kingsley didn’t have even a shred of evidence outside of his gut instinct, but his gut instinct had brought his career where it was today.
But upon hearing Riddle’s name, Crouch had burst out laughing, all of Kingsley’s credibility destroyed in a second. “Riddle, really? The celebrity Mind Healer?”
Kingsley nodded, stone-faced and humiliated.
“No, Auror Shacklebolt,” chuckled Crouch, wiping a tear from his eye, his tongue flicking out of his mouth in a single, odd motion. As his laughter eased, Crouch steadied himself, carrying himself with complete self-assured confidence – Kingsley could see no opening to push any further. “No. The case is closed, and we’ll keep it that way. I don’t want to hear even a whisper of any sort of reinvestigation. Are we clear?”
“Clear, sir,” forced out Kingsley, bowing his head. “I’ll leave you to your work, then.”
Alone in his office, Barty leaned back in his chair, the jitteriness and tics he only allowed in complete privacy once again taking over his body.
Kingsley’s theories were news to Barty, but perhaps not as surprising as they should have been. He’d always known that Riddle was unconventional, yes, even if he hadn’t known the extent of his strangeness, but at the end of the day, his old Mind Healer’s methods had done so much for him. How could he hold any of Riddle’s special quirks against him?
With another lick of his lips, Barty grabbed a quill and parchment, preparing to pen a message to Riddle. Kingsley wasn’t the type to let sleeping dogs lie, no matter what instruction he received from his superiors, but with Barty’s heads up, he was sure that Riddle would be very well-equipped to handle himself.
***
The very next week, the Riddle-Potters hosted another dinner party.
Kingsley had unexpectedly resigned from the Auror force a few days earlier, supposedly leaving on a trip to a remote region in Europe to reconnect with himself after many years of working an immensely stressful job, but despite his absence, some of Harry’s old Ministry colleagues were in attendance, from the new Head Auror Spinnet to his old boss Barty Crouch Sr. The food was delicious, with all attendees ranting and raving afterwards about the impossibly flavorful, tender pork served as the main course, and as expected, the Riddle-Potter couple was an even more popular topic of conversation.
Though they’d always been in the public eye due to their professions, recently, the two had seemed to step back, with Harry’s retirement from the Aurors and Riddle’s withdrawal from some of the old social events that he had frequented so regularly. Theories had spread like wildfire – some said the trauma of the Voldemort case had required Riddle to serve as a caretaker to his mentally-ruined husband, while others believed that perhaps the couple avoided being seen in public due to fractures in their marriage.
But as all the dinner party attendees would unanimously share, nothing could be further from the truth.
Harry Potter and Tom Riddle seemed absolutely, completely in love, as if stuck in a honeymoon phase all these years after their marriage. They were unbearably soft with each other, sending each other yearning glances from across the room whenever they wound up having separate conversations, and seemingly holding hands under the table at points throughout the meal. At one point, as some particularly lascivious gossips shared through titters, the two had escaped to the kitchen to “check on dessert” and returned with mussed up hair and healthy red flushes on their cheeks, though who could say if such accounts were truthful?
Though the Aurors were certainly kept busy by the random spree killings that seemed to pop up periodically, Voldemort had not killed again in years, the wizarding world safe and content in the knowledge that Draco Malfoy was behind bars for the rest of his life.
All was well.