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Chapter Text

There was once a boy named Tom Marvolo Riddle who grew up with a gnawing hunger that could not be sated. He was born a murderer. When he was pulled from the womb of his dying mother, he did not cry like other babies. He only studied the world around him with strangely intelligent eyes. He was seen as inhuman, even then. 

As a child, he saw weaker children succumb to fever and hunger. The staff at the orphanage did their best to hide the corpses, but Tom caught glimpses of eeriely pale limbs hanging out of crisp white linens. When Tom became old enough to leave the grounds of the orphanage on his own, he spent many days walking the streets of London using his magic tricks to steal coins from the pockets of strangers. On one of those days, he came across the body of a bum laid out in an alleyway, reeking of urine and very much deceased. 

Burning with curiosity and trepidation, Tom approached the body and kneeled beside it. He was taught to say a prayer for the dead, but no words came to him. He laid a small hand against the man’s waxen cheek and swore to himself that he would never die. 

When Tom was older, he missed the worst of the bombing of London by only a few days. He wondered if that summer he would return to find Wool’s Orphanage had become a smoking crater. It could be called a happy coincidence that the Germans waited for Tom to be safely ensconced at Hogwarts before beginning The Blitz. Tom felt that it was an interference of Fate. He was meant for greatness. He wasn't meant to be one small broken body in a sea of the dead. 

Tom was so horribly fragile as all human beings were. He could be so no longer. He remembered his vow and sought out all avenues to achieve immortality. 

Tom had always been attracted to knowledge, especially the dangerous and forbidden. Once he learned of The Restricted Section’s existence, it was his goal to gain entry. It ended up being laughably easy. Once he gained the trust of Professor Slughorn, he received a pass that never expired. 

However, Hogwarts didn’t hold all the knowledge Tom sought. His allies in Slytherin- his Knights- helped his pursuits by offering him esoteric titles from their family libraries. Foolishly, they believed that Tom would offer them a fraction of the power he gained from what he learned in the ancient tomes his peers were too dimwitted to understand. 

At fifteen, he found a book called The Secret of the Darkest Art. He discovered that he could place a portion of his soul in a container which would give him the ability to defy death. At sixteen, he opened The Chamber of Secrets, unleashed the Basilisk, and used his first murder to split his soul. He put his first horcrux inside his diary. 

He went on to split his soul six more times. He became great. Terrible, but great. He crafted a new name for himself, one most feared to speak. 

In a neighboring dimension, there was a boy named Tom Marvolo Riddle who was born with a great chasm in his chest. At first glance, one would assume that this Tom was the very same one that was just described. He was born in the same tragic way, grew up in the same dreary place, and saw death at every corner. 

But this Tom had slightly different priorities. From his window, he watched young smiling couples come to the orphanage looking to complete their families. When Tom was very young, he would stand in front of his mirror practicing his most charming smile until he was called to wait downstairs with the rest of the children. He stood straight and tall with his freshly pressed uniform and meticulously combed hair, hoping to be the one chosen. 

Tom was more intelligent and interesting than any of the sniveling brats he shared space with. Tom was often scolded for his pridefulness, but he knew he didn't possess undue arrogance. He was better in every conceivable way. That was the simple truth of it. Yet, he was never chosen to be adopted. Once Mrs. Cole decided that Tom had something unholy tainting him, he was no longer allowed to meet with families at all. 

When a man named Albus Dumbledore came to Tom’s drab little room and told him of magic, it changed everything. The fact that this man seemed to detest Tom as much as every other adult he had encountered did little to dampen the vindication Tom felt in that moment. He always knew he was special and the proof was right in front of him. 

It finally made sense why Tom was never chosen to be adopted by any of the visiting families. Tom wasn't meant to be a part of a bland magicless home. He was meant to be among special people like him! 

Once at Hogwarts, Tom was set apart in his own house because of his muggle last name, secondhand robes, and dreadful accent. Tom endeavored to fix all these unsightly things about himself. He learned to transfigure his clothing to make them look just as well-tailored as his peers. He practiced elocution for hours until he naturally spoke with the same crisp posh accent as those around him. He researched his heritage, eventually discovering he was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself. 

Tom was more powerful and intelligent than any of his fellow students. Soon, his past as a grubby orphan was all but forgotten. He was feared and loved, just as he always wanted. 

But the chasm in his chest was still ever-present, aching to be filled. 

The people around him now were more like Tom than the muggle children he grew up with, but they were still so dull. Tom would give anything to meet one person that could measure up to himself. He just wanted to find one human being worthy of his time. 

At fifteen, he found a book called The Secret of Resonating Souls. It spoke of a fringe theory, dismissed by most, that every person had a soulmate, chosen by magic to complete them. 

The other Tom Riddle would have scoffed at the sentimental tripe before quickly returning the book to the shelf. But this particular Tom Riddle poured over the pages with rapt interest. Could there really be someone out there that ached as he ached? Was there someone out there fated to fill the hole within Tom that he had grown to believe would always be present? 

One Tom Riddle would give up everything to escape death. 

Another Tom Riddle would give up everything to stop feeling alone. At sixteen, within the very same diary his counterpart used to house half his soul, Tom crafted an impossible ritual to crack open time and space and bring him to his soulmate. 

The enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall displayed a dreary sky that reminded Harry of spoiled milk. 

Four days ago, Harry screamed until his throat burned as his godfather fell through The Veil of Death in the Department of Mysteries. Harry wanted to follow him then. He wanted to leap straight into the unknown. He most likely left half-moon-shaped marks on Remus’s arms where he fought to escape the man holding him back. 

Immediately after Sirius departed the world, the only emotion Harry had room for was rage. He went after Bellatrix Lestrange but was too weak-minded to succeed at torturing her. After, Harry had smashed the items in Dumbledore’s office, screaming in fury. 

Then, it was so easy to assign blame. He blamed Dumbledore. Why did he keep all his knowledge so close to his chest? He blamed Bellatrix for being a bloodthirsty psychopath. Harry blamed Voldemort, because every horrible thing in Harry’s life could be traced back to him. He even blamed Sirius a bit. Why didn’t he stay home where he was safe? What compelled him to toy with Bellatrix when he ought to have been fighting for his life? 

It didn't take long for those feelings to fade and Harry to realize the truth. He was the one to blame. Sirius’s death was Harry’s fault. If he had taken the time to think things through, he would have figured out that the vision Voldemort sent him was a trap. Not only had Sirius been killed by Harry’s recklessness, he had put his friends in danger as well. 

Ron, attacked by brains. Hermione, pale and bleeding out from a curse. Neville, screaming while being tortured by the woman who had stolen his parents from him. Luna and Ginny, who fought bravely through the pain and fear. They were all there because of Harry. 

Harry ought to have cried then, but his eyes stayed stubbornly dry. There was a throbbing ache that made a home in his sternum and he often felt on the verge of choking on the lump in his throat, but he could not shed tears for the man that could have been a father to him if they had more time. There was no catharsis, no relief from the gnawing agony. 

Maybe the sky took pity on Harry and cracked open and wept over Hogwarts in his stead. 

Normally, in the days following exams students spent as much time outdoors as possible. Harry’s peers were undoubtedly unhappy with the recent weather. Being packed inside the castle made everyone restless, especially in the wake of Voldemort’s official return. 

Harry felt a tentative tap on his shoulder and managed not to flinch at the sudden contact. He abandoned his thoughts and his porridge to meet the glassy-eyed stare of a Hufflepuff girl he had never seen before. 

“Harry,” she said, voice shaking with emotion, “I just wanted to say I'm so sorry I didn't believe you. I just really didn't want him to be back.” 

Tears were streaming down her face and Harry was frozen. This scene had played out dozens of times over the past four days and Harry still hadn’t figured out the correct way to deal with it. Was he meant to comfort the people who had spent the last year mocking him? Harry knew that most people believed what The Daily Prophet printed: that he was either attention seeking liar or a stark raving lunatic. Yet, it was another thing entirely to see all of the dissenters paraded before him, groveling. There was no satisfaction in it, only deep discomfort. 

Now, more than ever, he recognized his role as a commodity. To many, he was a source of entertainment and speculation. For most of the people around him, the fiasco at the Ministry was another one of Harry’s yearly near-death adventures. The addition of Voldemort’s confirmed return added a new layer of fear, but most of them trusted Harry, a mere fifteen-year-old, to eliminate the threat. 

Since his first year, Harry had never needed to introduce himself. People already knew him. At least the Slytherins had an inherent stuffiness to them that prohibited them from being overly familiar with Harry. 

The Hufflepuff girl moved closer to Harry, opening her arms. Harry flinched then, crossing his arms across his chest. Thankfully, the girl seemed to remember herself then and placed her arms back by her side. 

“Er, thanks,” Harry said, and somehow, that small acknowledgement was enough to make her nod furiously before rushing away. 

Across the table, Hermione offered him a supportive grimace. Harry shrugged and forced himself to smile back at her. 

Harry wasn’t sure if it was kindness or cruelty to continue to smile and joke with his friends, to allow them to believe he wasn’t completely shattered but on the mend.  

His friends chattered about their plans for the day and Harry let their voices wash over him. At some point, they had to have decided without Harry’s input to pretend everything was normal. Harry ate a spoonful of porridge which tasted like warm wallpaper glue and settled in his stomach like a heavy stone. 

Harry wished that his last breakfast in the Great Hall could have been more pleasant, but if it was he might have ended up changing his mind. 

Harry spent the day in a haze of sick anticipation. He entertained Ron’s requests to play chess and was soundly defeated. He listened to Hermione talk about the book she was reading and really pretended to be interested. He braved the rain to visit one of Neville’s plants in the greenhouse and complimented him on how healthy it looked. He helped Luna look for her missing shoes and let Ginny practice a few hexes on him. 

He spent the day being a good friend, hoping that maybe the last memories everyone had of him would be pleasant ones. 

He was being a good friend even now, he told himself. Harry was a dangerous person to be associated with and his friends were far too stubborn to allow him to simply distance himself from them, even for their own safety.

For two years in a row, someone had died because of Harry. It was a pattern now and Harry couldn't allow it to continue. 

Those were the noble reasons Harry was making this choice, but underneath were the more selfish cowardly ones he tried not to consider too much. 

He was exhausted. For some reason, he was meant to carry the world on his shoulders, but he couldn't. He had nothing more to give to this cause. All his righteousness had been wrung dry. He wanted it all to be over. 

When Harry heard Ron’s soft snores coming from the bed next to him, he slowly opened his curtains. He made his bed and placed three envelopes on the pillow: for Ron, Hermione, and Dumbledore. Harry considered writing to more people, but by the end of his third letter, his resolve had begun to slip. 

Harry had become spoiled by The Marauder’s Map and his invisibility cloak when navigating the castle at night, but he had to leave them in his trunk. He didn't want just anyone to come across them and claim them. He would just need to move carefully. 

Harry changed out of his pajamas and dressed in a striped tee-shirt and jeans. As he pulled on his red All-Stars, he wanted to laugh at the absurdity of dressing for his death. Someone finding his pajama-clad corpse just seemed wrong to him. 

Either way, a dark voice inside him commented, someone is going to find your broken body in the morning. You’re going to traumatize someone for life, you selfish cowardly-

Nope. Harry stubbornly pushed the thought away. 

He was going to hurt people by doing this, regardless. But he would rather the people he loved be sad rather than dead. They were resilient. They would move on eventually. 

Harry had to believe they would. They were strong. Much stronger than he was. 

Harry silenced the bottom of his shoes and slowly crept out of the dorm. He could hear Neville letting out wheezy little snores from the bed closest the door. 

Thankfully, the Common Room was completely empty. Harry was afraid The Fat Lady would kick up a fuss when she saw Harry leave, but she wasn't even in her portrait. Luck was on his side, it seemed. 

The path from Gryffindor Tower to the Astronomy Tower wasn't a very long one. Harry alternated from moving quickly to sneaking. Once, a strange noise caused him to duck behind a suit of armor, heart racing wildly. It was a false alarm though and eventually Harry found himself in the Astronomy Tower, unsure if he wished the journey had been longer or shorter. 

When the cool night air brushed against Harry’s skin, he shivered. 

I should have brought my cloak.

The stupidity of the thought caused him to laugh out loud, the sound echoing around him. He tensed up, waiting to be discovered. Nobody came so he allowed himself to relax.

Harry approached the ledge of the tower, not quite letting his toes hang over the precipice. The same cruel voice that earlier mocked him for planning to kill himself was now goading him to get on with it. 

Would it hurt? Surely not more than basilisk venom or the cruciatus curse. What if it didn't work and he had to lay at the bottom of the tower in agony all night until someone found him? What if The Order locked him up so tightly after that he had no opportunity to try again?

Harry took a deep breath in and exhaled. Okay, he was done stalling. 

Then from behind him, there was a startling sound: a deafening crack and boom followed by a sizzle. Harry reflexively jumped away from the ledge and turned around to look for the source of the commotion. 

There was a yellow light in front of him that was so blindingly bright that Harry had to shield his eyes against it. Through the slats of his fingers, he saw the light begin to fade and his nose prickled with the scent of wood smoke mixed with petrichor.

When Harry uncovered his eyes, he saw a body slumped over where the light had once been. Eyes widening, Harry’s previous task slipped from his mind as he rushed over to help the person in front of him. 

Quickly, Harry fell to his knees, desperately trying to remember any healing spells he knew. He could maybe manage an episkey, but he would be better off trying to get this person to the Hospital Wing. 

Harry’s eyes raked over the figure. A boy in Hogwarts robes, Slytherin tie, chest still rising- thank Merlin. Unconscious, probably? 

Oh, that was a lot of blood. Where was it coming from? Harry lifted the sleeve of the boy’s robe to reveal a bloodied wrist. He leaned closer, squinting in the dark. Were those runes carved in his skin? 

The boy’s eyes popped open and he took a heaving breath and started to move to sit up. Harry hurried to support his back. 

“I’ll be okay. I brought some..” the boy rasped. He reached a trembling hand into the pockets of his robes, pulling out several vials. His hand twitched causing the vials to slip out of his grip, fall to the stone floor, and shatter. “Blood replenishers…” he finished in a broken voice, staring at the pool of broken glass and liquid in horror. 

“It's okay,” Harry told him in the most reassuring voice he could muster, “The Hospital Wing isn't far from here. I can take you there.” 

The boy lifted his head and met Harry’s eyes, the intensity of his stare making Harry’s breath hitch. Reaching out, the boy gently cupped Harry’s cheek. Harry could feel the warm blood pouring from the boy’s wrist landing on his neck and trailing downwards. 

“It's you,” the boy said. Something in his tone felt worshipful. “You are lovely, aren't you?” 

Harry felt his face heat. This boy was bleeding out, but apparently had the time to flirt with him? 

“Hospital wing, I think,” the boy breathed out, before his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out. 

Fighting back nausea and panic, Harry supported the boy’s head and lowered him down. He looked tall. Harry wouldn't be able to carry him. Maybe he could levitate him? 

Harry recalled Hermione saying something once about keeping wounds elevated above the heart. Harry maneuvered the boy’s arms so they were crossed above his chest. 

Harry assessed him again. Something about the boy seemed so familiar, though the low light made it difficult to make out his features. Harry pulled out his wand. He knew that he needed to hurry and get this person help, but he couldn't resist casting a lumos first. 

Once the boy’s face was illuminated, Harry recoiled in horror. 

Harry knew this face. He recognized the sharp cheekbones and full lips. He remembered the perfectly styled brown hair with a single curl falling to his forehead. Even years later, he sometimes saw this face burnt into the back of his eyelids when he closed his eyes. The last time he had seen this boy was three years ago in The Chamber of Secrets, looming over Harry with a menacing smile as he nearly succumbed to the basilisk venom coursing through his veins. 

He has been laughing at Harry, mocking him, while his heart shattered. 

Now, for the first time Harry could admit his heart broke that day in the wake of Tom Riddle’s betrayal. 

But Harry had stabbed the diary with a basilisk fang. He had watched Tom’s face twist in surprise and agony as he faded away. 

Harry had killed Tom Riddle that day, so why was he here in front of Harry now? 

Tom had caused nothing but problems, both as the teenager lying before Harry now and as the monster he grew up to be. 

But for some utterly mad reason, Harry knew he couldn't leave him here to die. 

So, Harry opened his mouth and screamed into the night, “Please, somebody help!” 

Chapter Text

Sleep had never come easily to Severus, but for the past four nights it was especially evasive. Thankfully, he had the excuse of being a professor to pace the corridors of Hogwarts at his leisure. Normally, he enjoyed the possibility of coming across students out of bed and taking house points and detention. Seeing their indignant faces and cutting down their excuses was a great stress reliever. But currently, he wanted to pace the cold dark halls undisturbed. 

Severus was ruminating rather incessantly on the battle that occurred in the Department of Mysteries. He ought to have been satisfied with the outcome. Potter had idiotically charged in with his merry band of miscreants, but the Dark Lord had not succeeded in acquiring the prophecy. 

The Dark Lord’s plans to remain in the shadows were shattered and several of his most devoted Death Eaters were now imprisoned. Another mass breakout was inevitable, but nevertheless, it briefly stymied the Dark Lord’s plans. 

Severus had been the one to alert The Order that Potter was walking into a trap. The move was risky to his cover, but Severus was positive it would not be traced back to him. The Dark Lord believed fervently that Potter would have never trusted Severus enough to tell him the contents of the vision he received. 

Severus had not even lied about Potter’s lack of trust in him. Thus, he had been rather surprised that the boy had desperately sought his help in rescuing Sirius Black. Of course, the little malcontent was incapable of waiting for Severus to ascertain the whereabouts of the mutt and flew off to the Ministry on a thestral of all things. 

Overall, what could have been a horrible blow to the resistance against the Dark Lord had only resulted in one casualty, Sirius Black. He had been useless for the most part, addled by his years of dementor exposure and unable to move freely because of his status as a fugitive. 

Severus had despised him. 

So, why couldn’t Severus stop thinking of what he could have done differently to save him? 

It's not as if he was mourning the man. That would be ridiculous. Severus just could not afford to make mistakes. That was all. 

Now that the Dark Lord was out in the open once more, Severus’s life would only become more difficult. He had not been called to the Dark Lord’s side in the days following the battle, but it was only a matter of time. Severus entertained the idea of brewing a strong sleeping potion to use once the term ended, but it would be foolish. The pain of his dark mark burning would be enough to wake him, but the effects of the potion would linger and impair him. He could not afford to be anything less than perfectly clear headed when faced with the Dark Lord. 

Though, the sleep deprivation was already having a strong effect on his mind. 

There was a clatter that sounded like it came from nearby. Severus considered investigating it, but it was more effort than he felt like exerting at the moment. So what if two teenagers were going up to the Astronomy Tower to snog? Severus didn't want to have to escort them back to their dormitory or give a lecture. For once, he would turn his attention away from the youthful dalliance.

Severus paced the seventh-floor corridor and told himself once more that he didn't care that Black had died. Not only did he not care that he was dead, he was happy about it. Yes, overjoyed. Black had made Severus’s life hell as a child and nearly killed him. This was merely a comeuppance. Of all the Order’s combatants in the Department of Mysteries that evening, Black was easily the most expendable. 

But, perhaps Severus should have known Black would go after Potter. He could have found a way to secure him at headquarters. The man was far too reckless for a combat situation. 

If Severus had thought of a better way to inform Potter that he was investigating the problem, perhaps the boy would not have gone after Black at all. He could have come up with an excuse to get Potter away from Umbridge to speak to him freely. He had gained a small amount of her trust. If only he had known how to use it at that moment. 

Potter had once again managed to come out of an encounter with the Dark Lord still alive. But if Lily’s son had died there…

Severus’s thoughts were interrupted by a sound so loud that it nearly sent him careening into the wall. It came from somewhere above him and not very far away. 

Maybe students weren't going to the Astronomy Tower to salivate upon each other. Perhaps they were practicing some sort of powerful magic instead. Either way, Severus could not ignore whatever just happened. With a groan of annoyance, Severus made his way towards the Astronomy Tower at an increased pace. 

“Please, somebody help!” someone shouted. It was a strangled sort of scream, hauntingly familiar. Severus was sure he had heard the same voice screaming only days prior “They have Padfoot in the place where it's hidden!” 

Severus cast a lumos as he climbed the stairs to the top of the tower. Sure enough, the sight that greeted him was Potter bent over a prone body. 

Of course, it was Potter. It was always Potter. How could it be anyone else? 

Potter’s chest was heaving violently in his panic. In the wand light, Severus saw his cheeks were streaked with tears. Severus approached, joining Potter on the floor. 

“There was this bang,” Potter explained breathlessly, “Really bright light, and then he appeared. He's bleeding so much. He had blood replenishers but they shattered.” 

Severus looked down and saw the broken glass and pale red liquid on the floor surrounding the unconscious boy. He was wearing Slytherin robes and a prefect’s badge, but Severus had never seen him before. There was blood on the boy’s robes as well as blood on Potter’s neck and soaked through his ratty tee-shirt. 

“His wrists,” Potter said, pointing, “I think he must have been doing blood magic.” 

Sure enough, Severus lifted a wrist and found an array of minuscule runes carved into the skin. With a simple spell, Severus was able to stop the bleeding on both wrists, but it didn't change the fact the boy had already lost a lot of blood. 

“We will take him to the infirmary,” Severus said, “We must move quickly.”

Potter nodded and moved to stand. Severus conjured a stretcher and carefully levitated the body upon it. A black leather journal fell out of the front pocket of the boy’s robes while he was in the air, which Potter quickly caught. 

“Oh,” Potter said, staring down at the book with a strange expression. He immediately began flipping through it. 

“I am aware that you are incapable of resisting sticking your nose into the private affairs of others, Mister Potter, but we need to be moving now,” Severus reprimanded. 

Potter made a sound of irritation. “You don't understand, sir,” he sighed, but he closed the book and caught up with Severus. 

Moving the stretcher down the spiraling staircase that led up to the Astronomy Tower was cumbersome, but Potter was thankfully silent throughout the duration. 

“Why were you in the Astronomy Tower after curfew?” Severus eventually asked. 

“Er, I was brooding, sir,” Potter said, swiftly averting his eyes. 

It was clearly a lie or oversimplification, but considering the current situation Severus did not push for a more satisfying answer. 

With a wave of his wand, Severus blew open the doors to the Hospital Wing, triggering the alarm that would wake Poppy if she happened to be sleeping. Severus found an empty hospital bed and placed the boy on it. 

“What can I do?” Potter asked breathlessly.

Severus blinked in surprise. He had expected Potter would want to return to Gryffindor Tower, but he appeared eager to assist. In fact, he seemed so eager to assist that he would most likely be resistant if Severus sent him away. 

“Stay here and monitor him while I gather supplies,” Severus ordered. 

Severus made his way over to the supply cabinet and gathered several blood replenishers and restorative potions. He hoped that he would not need to brew anymore that night. As he returned to begin healing the child, Poppy burst out of the door leading to her quarters, still adjusting her robes. 

“Severus! What is going on?” she asked. Then, turning her gaze to Potter, she sputtered out, “Mister Potter, you're covered with blood!” 

“Not mine,” Potter said, pointing to the body in front of him. 

Poppy went to examine the boy, casting a series of diagnostic charms. 

“Severe blood loss,” she muttered, “Significantly drained magical core. What happened here?” 

Potter told her the same story he had told Severus and Severus pointed out where he had healed the child’s wrists. 

“We’ll most likely need Bathsheda or Albus to look at those runes,” Poppy said, squinting at them, “Unless you can decipher them, Severus?” 

Severus shook his head. He had more than a passable understanding of runes and their ritual use, but just from a preliminary look, he could tell the array marked on the boy’s skin was beyond his comprehension. It was incredible work for a child of Hogwarts age, but Severus currently did not have the time to be impressed by it. 

“This might help,” Potter piped up, holding out the notebook he had taken, “It fell out of his pocket. It’s full of runes and notes.” 

Poppy nodded. “We will focus on stabilizing him for now,” she said, “But see if you can find anything useful in that book.” 

Severus and Poppy worked in tandem, an easy rapport built up over years of healing together. Potter curled up in a nearby seat, looking through the book but occasionally lifting his head to cast strange looks at the patient. There was something haunted in Potter’s expression, dark circles under his oh-so-familiar emerald eyes. 

This went on for quite some time. Potter occasionally was sent to get more supplies and even called a house elf from the kitchen to retrieve drinks and a platter of sandwiches for Poppy and Severus to share once the boy was stable. 

“Who is this boy, Severus?” Poppy asked, “He's never been one of my patients before, that's I’m sure of. I would have remembered him.” 

“I don't know this student either,” Severus replied. 

“Tom Riddle,” Potter said softly from his chair, “That's his name.” 

Potter fixed Severus with a strange stare, as though he expected Severus to be familiar with that name. When Severus showed no sign of recognition, Potter let out a breathy laugh. “Of course, Professor Dumbledore didn't tell you. I guess he doesn't tell anyone anything. Here I was thinking I was special for being kept in the dark all the time.” 

Severus raised an eyebrow. “What in Merlin's name are you going on about?” 

“I'll go get Albus,” Poppy said quickly, leaving them. 

“Well?” Severus asked, looking at Potter expectantly. 

“Nobody else is here, right?” 

Severus shook his head, but cast a muffling spell of his own design around them just in case. 

“Did Professor Dumbledore tell you how the Chamber of Secrets was opened?” Potter asked. 

What did that have to do with anything? 

“He told me a cursed object possessed a student and forced them to open the chamber,” Severus said. 

“Did he tell you what kind of object it was?” 

“No,” Severus snapped, annoyed. For someone just lamenting on how Albus kept information from him, Potter was awfully in the know. 

“It was a diary. Almost exactly like this one,” Potter said. 

“And you are casually holding it?” Severus moved forward to knock the offending object from Potter’s hands, “You foolish, reckless-” 

Potter stepped away, protectively holding the diary to his chest. “I said almost,” he said, “The one that possessed Ginny looked blank inside and wrote back. That's how it possessed her. She wrote in the diary, the diary wrote back, an attachment formed and Tom was able to get control.” 

Severus looked from the diary to the boy on the bed. “Tom, as in this boy?” 

“Yes, but also no? Maybe?” Potter opened the book, moving closer to Severus to show him the contents. “I don't think this is the same Tom that possessed Ginny. I've been looking at this book and it seems like he's from an entirely different dimension.” 

“That's preposterous,” Severus sniffed, “Some of the greatest minds have been studying theories of dimensional travel for thousands of years and have never proven it as remotely possible.” 

“Well, Tom is probably the most brilliant person I've ever met. Besides Dumbledore probably. So if anyone could figure it out, he could.” 

“You find a mere child to be nearly as brilliant as Albus Dumbledore?” 

“Well, maybe not right now,” Potter conceded, “but the person he grew up to be in this world…” 

“If he grew up to be so brilliant, then how have I never heard his name?” 

“Oh, you might not have heard the name Tom Riddle, Professor, but you know who he grew up to be very well. You know him now as Lord Voldemort.” 

Severus stared at the sleeping body of the young Dark Lord he had just saved, aghast. Why had Potter been so desperate to save him? Severus would have left him where he laid or perhaps pushed him off the top of the tower. 

Before Severus could formulate a response, Poppy returned with Albus in tow. Albus looked at Tom Riddle and his eyes widened in shock. 

“How did this happen?” 

Once again, Potter explained how Riddle had mysteriously appeared out of the sky while Albus cast diagnostic charms on the boy. 

“I was just telling Professor Snape that I was looking at Riddle’s diary and I'm pretty sure he’s from another dimension or something," Potter concluded. 

“A dimensional traveler… Not just a time traveler?” Albus said, brows furrowed in deep thought, “He truly looks identical to the Tom Riddle I once had as a student.” 

“Not identical,” Potter said. When Albus and Severus both turned to look at him in question, his skin was flushed as if he had not meant to speak. “He, er, has freckles,” Potter said, “The Tom from the Diary didn't.” 

The Tom from the diary? Severus had many questions to ask Albus later about the artifact that possessed Ginerva Weasley. 

Albus peered closer at the Tom Riddle before him. “So, he does,” he said. 

There was a scattering of freckles on Riddle’s cheeks and nose. It was a rather boyish and charming feature for a boy who would grow up to cause so much death and destruction. 

Severus gave Potter a suspicious look. He seemed to be quite aware of the features of the young Dark Lord. Perhaps too aware. 

“And what other information have you acquired from reading the diary?” Albus asked Potter. 

“Well, a lot of it is about runes and rituals and I can't really understand most of it. But from what I can understand, it seems like maybe he was looking for me?” 

To Albus’s look of alarm, Potter continued, “But not as, er, a foe or vanquisher or anything like that. It seems that Tom, erm, Riddle, I mean, was looking for his-” Potter shook his head as if he couldn't quite believe the next word to come out of his mouth, “soulmate.”

The Dark Lord Severus knew would be interested in lofty pursuits such as dimensional travel, but soulmates? The very idea was laughable. The Dark Lord had never revealed any sort of inclination for romance or even sex. The mental image of a younger version of The Dark Lord writing in his diary about looking for his soulmate like a giggling schoolgirl was too much for Severus to process. 

Oddly enough, Albus seemed almost pleased by the revelation. His tense posture immediately relaxed. “And something in that diary led you to believe he was specifically searching for you?” 

“Well, besides the fact that he crash landed right in front of me, there's a bunch of entries in here where it looks like he was doing rituals to give himself visions to reveal the identity of his soulmate. None of them gave him my name or anything, but a lot of them are quite, er, specific.” 

So specific it seemed, that Potter moved the diary closer to him again.

“Remarkable,” Albus breathed. 

Remarkable? Severus scoffed. Nothing about this was remotely remarkable. It was horrific. It was obscene. It was ruinous. 

“What are we going to do, sir?” Potter asked meekly. 

Severus saw the calculating glint in Albus’s eyes as he pondered. “My dear boy,” the headmaster said, looking towards Potter, “what would you choose to do?” 

The fact that Albus was even asking Potter’s opinion was preposterous. Severus was about to open his mouth to say as much, but he found himself rather curious about how Potter would respond. 

Severus had very little in common with James Potter, but he had no doubt that the man would strike down the fledgling Dark Lord without hesitation. James Potter had no qualms about targeting the vulnerable. It would probably be familiar to him. 

“Well,” Potter said hesitantly, “This Tom Riddle isn't, y'know, Him. We don't know anything about him. I think… Well, he ought to have a chance to prove himself, right?” 

Potter fidgeted where he stood, looking between Albus and Severus nervously. 

“Certainly not-” Severus began, but he was cut off by Albus. 

“I am in agreement,” Albus said. 

Severus glared at the man, a confused rage stirring in his chest. 

“Severus, if you wouldn't mind joining me in Poppy’s office?” Albus asked, “Harry, perhaps you can stay and keep Tom company.” 

“Er, sure, sir,” Potter said, sitting back down. 

Once inside Poppy’s office, Albus began rifling through one of her desk drawers. 

“Albus,” Severus hissed, “What the fuck?” 

Albus chuckled as he always did whenever Severus was overwhelmed enough to curse in his presence. It made Severus feel small and childish. 

“I wonder if Poppy still has that lovely peppermint tea,” Albus pondered, “It’s a rather effective stomach soother… A-ha! Here we are.” 

Severus needed something much stronger than peppermint tea. He needed an extra strength calming draught or perhaps a bottle of Old Ogden’s reserve. Still, he slumped down in a chair and accepted the cup of tea when it was offered. The warmth of the beverage and the slight tingle of the mint was rather pleasant, but not enough to pacify his agitation. 

“I believe it is now time to tell you the full contents of the prophecy made concerning young Mister Potter and Lord Voldemort,” Albus said, “I believe it may help you understand why I am loath to simply eliminate this young Tom Riddle.” 

The surprise on Severus’s face must have been obvious. Severus had asked about the prophecy before. He wanted to fully understand what words had sent Lily to her doom but Albus had denied him. 

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…” Albus recited. 

Severus went over the words in his mind. Marked as his equal? Was that referring to the scar? The power the Dark Lord knows not? The only remarkable power Severus knew Potter possessed was the ability to speak parseltongue, which was an ability that the Dark Lord knew well. And the final part…

“Potter must be the one to kill the Dark Lord,” Severus said. 

“I believe so,” Albus said, “and of course that is important, but I would like to bring your attention to another part of the prophecy which speaks of ‘the power the Dark Lord knows not’. Do you have any idea what that could be, Severus?” 

“I confess I do not,” Severus said, “The boy is unremarkable. His marks are average. He has a middling talent in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but it is nothing in comparison to the might of the Dark Lord. His continued survival can only be attributed to a combination of sheer luck and the interference of much greater wizards than he.” 

Albus had the audacity to look saddened by Severus’s words. “Sometimes I forget that you see someone different when you look at him. Tell me, Severus, do you avoid looking into his eyes?” 

Severus slammed down his teacup, the clang reverberating in the silence, hot liquid sloshing from the rim and spilling on the desk. “How dare you,” Severus said, voice dangerously low. 

Yes, Severus avoided the boy’s eyes. How could he bear to look into them? The fact that teaching the boy occlumency had involved eye contact had been torturous. 

Albus was undisturbed by Severus’s outburst. A quick wave of his wand siphoned the tea spilled on the desk. Severus hated Albus’s casualness in the wake of his pain. It made him feel like he was being handled. 

“How do you believe Lily would have responded to the question I asked Harry?” Albus asked gently. 

“She would have seen the necessity of eliminating the threat,” Severus said. 

For all the warmth and love Lily had, she could also be cold and calculating. Her role in ending the first war had reduced her in the world’s eyes to a simple loyal wife, standing in front of her beloved child while her husband bravely died protecting their family, but Lily had possessed a vicious streak. 

Severus still remembered Mulciber howling in pain after a raid, leg blown halfway off, swearing vengeance against some “ginger mudblood cunt”. Restoring full functionality to Mulciber’s limb was fully within Severus’s capabilities, but to this day the man walked with a limp. 

Severus expected Albus to refute his claim, to sagely speak of Lily Potter’s love, but he only nodded and gave his tea a thoughtful sip. 

“I told Harry only days ago that I believe that the power he has that Voldemort knows not is love,” Albus said, “I am not just speaking of the power of dear Lily’s sacrifice, but of Harry’s own well of compassion that extends to even the least deserving. Do you recall how when faced with Peter Pettigrew, the architect of his parent’s murder, he showed mercy? Now, a younger version of the man who has given Harry more pain than any other is vulnerable before him and once again Harry chooses mercy. Isn't that incredible?” 

“It is asinine,” Severus said blankly. 

Peter Pettigrew had gone off that night and later resurrected the Dark Lord. He should have died that night. If Severus had not been blinded by his hatred of Black, he could have been the one to get rid of the rat. 

“To my knowledge, Lord Voldemort has never shown the capacity for love. He has never shown true care or concern for anyone other than himself. However, in the hospital wing at this moment, there is a version of him that was willing to risk his life to break open the very fabric of reality to find love,” Albus proclaimed, his voice filled with awe. 

“So,” Severus said slowly, “You intend to weaponize this.” 

“A rather crass way to interpret it,” Albus said dismissively, “but I do see young Tom’s presence here as a boon. He is a boy who more than likely shares much in common with Lord Voldemort but is already loyal to Harry. He can offer much insight into the mindset of Voldemort. He could greatly assist me in a puzzle I am already trying to solve.”

“So, what will happen if Potter’s so-called ‘well of compassion' isn't sufficient enough to find love for that monster? Will Tom Riddle run off to Voldemort, bringing with him all the knowledge he has gained of the Order and its operations? Will he bring his counterpart The-Chosen-One’s head on a pike?” 

Albus, the absolute bastard, laughed. The old fool chortled while Severus glared at him incredulously. 

“I apologize,” Albus said once his chuckles died down, “I am merely amused that you believe that I would not take precautions in this situation.” 

Severus resisted the urge to roll his eyes and stamp his foot like a toddler. “What precautions?” he grit out. 

“Tom has already done so much to be here. I am optimistic he would be agreeable to swearing a vow.” 

Severus left Poppy’s office dazed. He needed sleep. He needed a cigarette. He needed an entire barrel of scotch.  

Potter had fallen asleep in the chair next to Riddle, curled up impossibly tight in the tiny seat, chin tucked into his knees. He had never changed out of his bloodstained shirt or even wiped any of Riddle’s blood from his skin. Potter still held Riddle’s diary in his hands, but his grip had loosened in his sleep. Overcome with curiosity, Severus approached Potter and slipped the book out of his hands. Potter sighed sleepily but otherwise made no sign that he was aware of Severus’s intrusion.

Severus took the seat nearest to Potter and opened the diary. Like Potter said, it was mostly filled with runic arrays and cramped handwriting speaking of arcane magic and rituals. Severus kept flipping through the pages until he came across directions for the vision-inducing ritual Potter had mentioned. Briefly, a small pang in Severus’s chest urged him to copy down the directions for himself, but he resisted. Severus had long ago chosen duty over love. 

The entries describing Riddle’s visions were written in a more hurried scrawl, as if the boy was writing down everything he remembered as quickly as possible before the details faded from his mind. 

17 January 1943 

My first vision: a cloudless blue sky, a gleaming golden snitch, and a glove reaching towards it. I did not imagine my soulmate to be a Quidditch player, truthfully. 

24 January 1943 

A foggy graveyard, a headstone inscribed with my name but with an earlier date of birth. The grave of my father? Blood dripping down the stone. Unsettling. 

04 February 1943

A damp dark space. A closet or a cupboard. Small child-sized mattress, stained with blood and urine. A single dull light bulb illuminates the space. Cobwebs and a large spider in the corner. A dusty shelf lined with broken toys: a soldier, a spinning top, a rubber ball. A magpie’s hoard. Is this where my beloved rests his head? If so, whoever is responsible will pay the price in blood. 

Severus looked away from the book, bile rising in his throat. Surely that vision did not refer to Potter. It couldn't. Severus read on. 

14 February 1943 

At first, I believed the ritual did not work, as I was still in the Chamber of Secrets. Yet, unlike the Chamber I left behind, this one was flooded with water. When I looked into a puddle, I saw not my own face, but the eyes of my beloved hidden behind a cracked pair of lenses. They were the most breathtaking shade of green, as bright as the killing curse. 

Feeling incredibly unsettled, Severus closed the book and gently pushed it back into Potter's hands. 

He rose and cast another diagnostic charm on Riddle, determining that his core was replenishing more rapidly than another wizard of his age would after such a strain. 

Severus jerked awake to the sound of the Hospital Wing doors slamming open. He did not recall even falling asleep. Potter, still next to him, jolted from sleep as well. 

“Harry!” came a frantic shout, “Are you here?” 

Potter rose, yawning and stretching in a cat-like manner. Severus got out of his chair as well, following the boy out from behind the curtain. 

Weasley and Granger were standing at the entrance of the hospital wing, looking extremely harried. Granger had obviously been crying recently and was slouched in a way that contrasted greatly with the proud way she normally held herself. Weasley, in contrast, set his sight upon Potter and his expression shifted to something that spoke of rage. 

“I never went back to the dorm last night,” Potter said in a small voice, backing away from his friends and whipping his head around in search of an escape route. 

Severus pursed his lips in thought. Potter’s friends were undoubtedly used to him wandering off at night and giving no thought to school regulations. Surely they wouldn't be this upset over only that. There was something more going on. 

“Harry,” Granger said, looking stricken, “You're covered in blood.” 

“Oh,” Potter looked down at his shirt as if surprised the blood was still there, “Don't worry. It’s not mine.” 

Wild-eyed Weasley charged towards Potter, only allowing the boy to choke out a “Ron-” before he reared back and punched him in the face. 

Potter staggered back, clutching his nose which was now pouring blood. “What the fuck, Ron?” Potter spat out. 

“Ron!” Granger scolded. 

“No!” Weasley was shaking with anger. “You! Harry! You! What the fuck?” He took a deep heaving breath. “What the fuck? Where did you- Why did you?” 

Then abruptly, Weasley’s face fell and he burst into sobs. He lunged forward and pulled Potter into an embrace. Potter held one hand against his nose and used the other to pat Weasley’s back. 

Poppy came flying out of her office with Albus trailing behind her. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, “There are patients here that you are disturbing with your- Oh, Mister Potter! You really are bleeding this time! Merlin above!” 

Potter gave Weasley a hard smack on the back. “Geroff, Ron.” 

Weasley released Potter and stepped back, allowing Poppy to rush over to fuss over Potter's face. 

“I'm fine. I’m fine,” he groused, “I don't need to be bedridden.” 

“It will be easier to perform the healing charms if you lie down, Mister Potter. I really do insist-” 

“Miss Granger and Mister Weasley,” Albus interrupted, “Would you mind telling me what all the fuss is about?” 

Weasley and Granger looked at one another, then looked at Potter. Potter shook his head frantically and Granger looked apologetic. 

“This morning, Harry wasn’t in bed,” Granger explained, “And he left some concerning letters behind. One of them was addressed to you, sir.” Granger pulled out an envelope and handed it to Albus. 

Potter began to babble as Albus carefully opened the envelope. “Really, sir. You don't need to look at that. It's really all resolved now. I was- I was just- I didn't mean any of it so you can just toss it in the bin.” 

“Didn't mean any of it?” Weasley shouted, because apparently he had decided to stop weeping and become angry again, “Did you write Gringotts and set up your will for a lark?” 

“No!” Potter protested, “The war is happening no matter what. I just got ahead of things.” 

“And getting ahead of things meant writing suicide notes, fucking off into the ether, and making me, Hermione, and all our friends spend hours hunting you down?” 

“All our friends?” Potter asked softly, “You told everyone else?” 

“WE THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!” 

“Well, I'm not! Okay? I'm alive and I'm fine! I was just being stupid, okay? I'm sorry. It won't happen again,” Potter stammered, “See, er, Professor Dumbledore, nothing to worry about.” 

Albus, nose still buried in the parchment, simply sighed. 

“Harry, I know you may be upset, but I think this is the type of situation where it's best to go to an adult for help,” Granger said gently. 

“Thank you Miss Granger, Mister Weasley. You were correct. This was indeed something that needed to be brought to my attention,” Albus said, finally looking up from the letter in his hands, “Mister Potter, please go lie down on a bed so Madam Pomfrey can repair your nose.” 

“Okay,” Potter said mulishly, “but I don't need any other medical attention. I'm fine now.” He stomped off, Poppy following behind. They swiftly disappeared behind a white curtain. 

“Miss Granger and Mister Weasley, I believe it would be wise for you to let your friends know that Mister Potter is safe and sound. Please be assured that your friend is in good hands,” Albus said kindly. 

As Potter’s friends turned to leave, Albus’s gentle smile faded into a hard line.

Severus wondered what was going on inside the Headmaster’s head. He wondered if he got a glimpse, that perhaps he would be able to make sense of all that had just happened. 

The idea of Harry Potter attempting suicide was beyond understanding. He was far too strong willed and arrogant to give up like that. Severus always imagined Potter remaining steadfast until the bitter end. 

But Severus had found Potter in the Astronomy Tower, the highest place at Hogwarts. It would be easy to fall from there. 

‘Brooding, sir’ he had said. 

Which meant the only thing that prevented Potter from jumping was the unexpected arrival of Tom Bloody Riddle, the Dark Lord in miniature. 

Severus felt ill.

“Perhaps, dear Severus, more peppermint tea for us both,” Albus said solemnly, taking his arm and leading him back to Poppy’s office. 

Chapter Text

Tom Riddle hated being vulnerable, therefore he hated the Hospital Wing. He avoided the sick ward at the orphanage at all costs. Tom had a better immune system than most of the other orphans so it wasn’t too difficult. His least favorite time of year was when the doctor came to give all the children check ups. He hated the doctor’s strange questions, his cold hands, and his wispy mustache. Even getting a small piece of chocolate afterwards wasn't worth the aggravation. 

He avoided the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts as well. The first time he became ill, he insisted he was perfectly fine, even though he was nearly delirious with fever and coughing non-stop. Orion Black eventually dragged him to the Hospital Wing for a pepper-up potion. Magic truly was astounding. A single potion had Tom in perfect health once more. Afterward, he was a little less shy about getting assistance for illnesses, but he still steadfastly avoided anything that could lead to him staying in the ward overnight. 

Needing medical attention after his dimensional travel ritual was unfortunately inevitable. Tom had brewed and packed blood replenishers for the journey in order to shorten his recovery time, but he had not calculated for the possibility that he would be already so weak from blood loss that he would immediately break the vials. 

Oh what a fool his soulmate must think he was! 

Oh well, Tom Riddle was an expert at proving himself. 

The ritual itself was proof of Tom’s genius as well as his commitment. A courting gift for the ages, truly. Rituals of that caliber required sacrifice. Blood was the most obvious, far more than Tom had even given for a ritual previously. Tom had also chosen to use a cursed athame to carve the runes into his skin so the scars could never be healed. Not only was it a sacrifice of vanity, it would also serve to anchor him in his new dimension. Choosing to complete the ritual almost meant sacrificing his future in his own dimension. As Tom knew that he was destined for greatness, he knew it would be a strong sacrifice. To even further strengthen it, Tom closed his home dimension off. Even if his soulmate rejected him, Tom would never be able to return home. 

Tom sat up in the hospital bed, finding himself alone. Blinking against the light, he pieced together what he could remember from his arrival. Tom had met his soulmate! It had to be him. Tom had been dreaming of those bright green eyes almost every night for months. The rest of his features Tom had only briefly viewed were pleasing as well. While Tom ordinarily valued neatness, the unruly black curls on his soulmate’s head were rather endearing. His beloved had rushed towards him and held him up. Tom recalled how warm and steady his hand had felt against his back. 

Tom had practiced the first words he would utter when meeting his soulmate, but the overwhelming feeling of completion coupled with his rapidly diminishing blood supply had robbed him of his verbosity. No matter. Tom felt revitalized now. 

The curtains around his bed opened and a woman, presumably the matron bustled in. She was dressed almost identically to the matron of the Hospital Wing Tom knew from home, but while Madam Clark was round and rosy this woman was taller and almost birdlike in her features. 

“Oh, Mister Riddle! You're awake!” she said, “My name is Madam Pomfrey. I am the matron of the Hospital Wing here at Hogwarts. Would you mind if I cast some diagnostic charms on you?” 

“Not at all,” Tom said, “May I ask how long I’ve been sleeping?” 

Tom felt a warm soothing sensation throughout his body as Madam Pomfrey cast the diagnostic charms on him. “You've been here for five days, dear. Term ended three days ago actually.” 

“Oh,” Tom said. That meant that Tom had most likely landed in this new dimension on the same day as he left his previous one. Although, he wasn't certain if it was the same year. He remembered that his soulmate had been wearing a muggle shirt and trousers, which generally wouldn't be worn at Hogwarts where he was from. Either this dimension had a different outlook on muggle attire, or he was in a different time as well. “I apologize for the inconvenience. I hope I did not badly upset your summer plans,” he said. 

“Ah, don't worry your head about it,” Madam Pomfrey said, “I like to putter around here for a week or so after term ends anyway. You weren't a difficult patient after Professor Snape and I stabilized you. Speaking of, you've made a remarkable recovery, young man. Your magical core looks to be almost completely replenished. Though, I cannot say if your magic was affected by your journey.” 

Tom’s hand moved towards where his wand holster would ordinarily be, but it was gone. At some point he had been stripped and put into a hospital gown. Even if it was necessary, the thought of it made him uneasy. 

“Ah,” Madam Pomfrey said, her face falling, “I’m sorry to say your wand was destroyed when you arrived here. When I removed your wand holster, it was nothing more than ash. Professor Dumbledore’s theory is that since a version of your wand already exists in this dimension that yours could not coexist with it.” 

Tom took a deep breath, clutching a bit of his bedclothes in his fist. He mourned the loss of his wand, his true friend and partner. Then, there was the name Madam Pomfrey uttered. Of course, Professor Dumbledore was here. It seemed that Tom could not escape his least favorite man. It was too much to wish that this Albus Dumbledore may be one that did not treat Tom with constant disdain and suspicion.

“Thank you for informing me,” Tom said evenly. Madam Pomfrey seemed to like him at the moment and he was eager for her to continue to have a good impression of him. Hopefully one that even Dumbledore could not alter with his poisonous slander. Though for the most part, Dumbledore had failed to truly damage Tom’s reputation before. 

“The rest of your personal effects you brought along are all unharmed,” Madam Pomfrey told him, “I've placed them all here in this drawer.” She opened the drawer of Tom’s bedside table, showing its meager contents. There was a small leather pouch, which Tom had made larger with an extension charm, the wand holster that was covered in soot, his prefect’s badge, and his diary. Tom had considered shrinking down his trunk and trying to bring it along as well, but decided against it. Unfortunately this meant that the small assortment of items in the drawer were all of his possessions in the world. 

Well, Tom was used to having nothing. He was not completely destitute either. The pouch was filled with the “dues” he had collected from The Knights of Walpurgis, citing his need to acquire better study materials for his group. He had never delivered on that promise, but his privileged classmates had not even missed the money they easily handed over. Last time he checked, they were rather restless because Tom kept canceling meetings to work on the ritual. 

He wondered if The Knights would disband now that he was gone or if someone would try to take his place as the leader. Abraxas would, most likely. Abraxas already believed that he was owed the top spot in Slytherin’s hierarchy simply based on his family name and the size of his vaults. Even if he gained the power he wished for now, Tom will always have had it first. Try as he might, Abraxas will never measure up. That fact filled Tom with a childish glee. 

“I'm sure you have many questions, Mister Riddle. Now that you’re awake, I'll get some lunch sent up for you and afterward you can meet with Professor Dumbledore. He has much to discuss with you,” Madam Pomfrey said. 

“Of course. Thank you,” Tom said, unable to fully hide his disappointment in his tone. He was not looking forward to being faced with Dumbledore so soon. How much of his life was going to be dependent on that obnoxious old man? 

Tom had visited the headmaster’s office a few times throughout his years at Hogwarts. The first time was during his first year after the incident with Avery and Mulciber. Dumbledore had been (rightfully) adamant that Tom had something to do with his classmate's unfortunate accident, but Slughorn’s passionate defense along with Tom’s look of doe-eyed innocence was enough for Professor Dippet to believe Tom over his long-time colleague. It was a smashing success. 

Tom had never returned to Professor Dippet’s office as a person under suspicion after that. Instead, he visited to share information the headmaster wanted and cast blame away from his Knights when they became unruly. Tom had also visited several times to ask to stay at Hogwarts over the summer holidays, though he had always been denied. 

Dumbledore was Headmaster now, which did not bode well for the educational standards of this time. He doubted that Alchemy was even offered as an elective anymore. Sure, Dumbledore was happy to work closely with Nicolas Flamel, but Circe forbid if a student was interested in creating their own Philosopher's Stone. Briefly, Tom wished that he had waited to complete his NEWTS before completing the ritual, but he quickly dismissed the thought. If he had to wait much longer with that gnawing ache inside, he would have surely gone mad with it. 

Dippet’s office had been fairly tidy, with a few personal effects scattered about. He often had a few pieces of correspondence on his desk and a few loose quills. In contrast, Dumbledore’s office looked like a junk store. 

His desk was crammed with objects that lit up, made noises, and spun around. There were several blown glass animals, mounds of parchment, stacks of books, and a large dish filled with pale yellow sweets. Tom did not understand how anyone could possibly get any work done in these overstimulating conditions. 

Madam Pomfrey had insisted on escorting Tom to Dumbledore’s office, but once he was seated in the chair opposite of Dumbledore, she took her leave. 

Tom was certainly in a different time, as this Dumbledore had aged greatly from the one he had left behind. 

“Hello Tom,” he said with a strained smile, “I’m happy to see you up and about. Would you care for a sherbet lemon?” He gestured towards the candy bowl. 

Tom, as a general rule, accepted sweets whenever they were offered. He enjoyed sugary treats, although they were always in short supply due to rationing. However, as these were sweets from Dumbledore, Tom declined. 

“I'm sure you have many questions,” Dumbledore said, his watery blue eyes fixated on Tom, “I confess I have queries of my own. I'm sure you understand a situation like this is unprecedented.” 

Tom was unprecedented. Of course he understood. From the way Dumbledore continued to stare, Tom supposed that he was the one meant to speak first. From the man’s demeanor so far, Tom concluded that this world’s Dumbledore must have had similar feelings about this world’s Tom Riddle as he displayed in Tom’s home dimension. 

“What year is it, sir?” Tom asked, keeping his tone even and polite as he always did when speaking to Dumbledore. 

“It is 1996,” Dumbledore told him. 

Wow, Tom had traveled over fifty years into the future. Tom wondered what innovations in magic had occurred in that time. He wondered if his counterpart in this dimension had contributed to any of them. He also wondered what new horrible ways Muggles had invented to exterminate each other in that time frame. 

“What was the outcome of the muggle World War and Grindelwald’s War?” Tom asked. 

“Both ended in 1945. The allies won the muggle war. The war with Grindelwald ended when I dueled him and won. He remains imprisoned in Nurmengard to this day,” Dumbledore said. 

Tom hummed. The outcomes were favorable. Tom wasn't too enthused about Dumbledore being the hero who saved the world from Grindelwald, but he supposed that was better than allowing the Statue of Secrecy to fall. The muggles would slaughter them all if that happened. Still, Tom wondered why Dumbledore had allowed Grindelwald to live. 

“My counterpart in this world,” Tom started, “How did he die?” 

Dumbledore immediately paled, the bland smile slipping from his face. It must have been bad, then. Tom merely wished to avoid whatever mistake his counterpart made that led to his untimely demise. 

“What leads you to believe your counterpart in this world is deceased?” Dumbledore asked. 

Tom’s eyebrows furrowed. “Well, I’m assuming you looked at my ritual notes,” he said. Dumbledore nodded and Tom continued, “I discovered after many scrying rituals that something occurred in my own dimension that made my soulmate inaccessible to me there. Either he died or, considering the leap in time I have made, something happened that caused him to not be born in the future. When I crafted the ritual to bring myself here, I calculated to find a dimension where my soulmate faced a similar dilemma. As you appear to recognize me, I can only assume that my counterpart in this dimension died prematurely.” 

Tom knew that if he had found his soulmate in his own dimension and another version of himself showed up to claim his prize, Tom would cut down the interloper with extreme prejudice. He wasn't about to risk something like that occurring. 

“Your counterpart is alive in this dimension,” Dumbledore said gravely. 

“That's not possible!” Tom blurted, “Though I suppose he could be alive here, but done something to negate any possible soul bonds… but only the most grievous mutilation of one’s soul could do such a thing…” 

Horror washed over Tom at the realization. His wide eyes met Dumbledore’s and the old man nodded. 

“I'm afraid the man formerly known as Tom Riddle in this world no longer resembles the Tom Riddle sitting before me now.” 

Tom’s stomach churned thinking of what his counterpart had done to himself. What desperation could cause him to do such a thing? Did he still possess any humanity or sanity at all? Tom often dreamed of gaining power. He had surmised that there were few things he wouldn't do for the chance to stand above the rabble. But to give up his soulmate? To reject magic’s most precious gift? It was unthinkable. 

Tom bit back the rising panic. He would not lose control in front of Dumbledore. He could not. He pressed his feet against the floor, grounding himself. 

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing I’m here,” Tom decided, “My counterpart is clearly inadequate. My soulmate deserves better.” 

“Ah yes, I was wondering when you might mention your soulmate,” Dumbledore said. 

“Where is he?” Tom asked, “Is he here?” Tom looked around the office, wondering if his beloved could be hidden somewhere amongst Dumbledore’s detritus. 

“Harry is currently at Saint Mungo’s. However, he is being released from treatment today and should be flooing directly into my office momentarily,” Dumbledore said. 

“Harry,” Tom said. His soulmate’s name was Harry. He savored how the name felt in his mouth, the syllables on his tongue. Perhaps the name was rather ordinary but Tom was an ordinary name as well. They were both remarkable individuals with common names. 

Then, the rest of Dumbledore’s words registered. Saint Mungo’s? Why would he be there? Tom had carefully calculated the blast radius of his arrival so that he would appear in his soulmate’s vicinity, but not close enough to cause any harm to him. Harry had not appeared injured when he was helping and soothing Tom, but had Tom been too addled by his blood loss to notice that harm had come to Harry? 

“D-did I harm him?” Tom asked, ice in his veins. His chest clenched painfully as he struggled to draw sufficient breath. 

“Not to worry. Harry’s visit to the hospital is unrelated to your method of arrival,” Dumbledore said. There was a twinkle in the old man’s eyes that made Tom think that his minor loss of composure had passed some sort of test. 

But if Tom did not harm Harry, what did? Dumbledore didn't seem eager to share. 

Suddenly, Tom remembered the moment he appeared. Through the haze of light, Tom had seen the lone figure of his soulmate set against the backdrop of a sky full of stars. 

Tom had appeared in the Astronomy Tower and Harry had been standing far too close to the drop into the abyss. 

“No,” Tom whispered. 

This would not do. Clearly, Harry needed Tom as much as Tom needed him. Tom would eliminate any factor that led Harry to stand on that ledge. 

Tom had gone further than any other. He had shattered the known laws of magic to bring himself here. He would not lose Harry after coming so far to find him. 

With a woosh, the fireplace behind Dumbledore filled with green flames. Harry had finally arrived. Quickly, Tom adjusted the spare robes he had been given and smoothed down his hair. 

Harry apparently struggled to properly use the floo. Instead of striding out of the flames elegantly, he toppled forward with head bowed like a charging bull. Somehow, he had managed to get soot all over his clothing, which once again were muggle in origin and seemed too large for his thin frame. 

“Hate this bloody thing,” Harry said, brushing the soot off himself. Then, his head lifted and his eyes finally met Tom’s. Harry’s green-eyed gaze burned. Tom never wanted to look away. Harry’s lips parted and he let out a small “Oh.” 

“Ah yes, it is indeed fortunate that Tom here has recovered from his unusual journey and was able to join us,” Dumbledore said jovially, “Please take a seat, dear boy.” 

Harry moved around the desk to sit next to Tom, but he lowered himself into the chair in a manner that was stiff and hesitant. Tom wanted nothing more than for Harry to look at him once more, but Harry was staring down at his own hands instead as they clenched the fabric of his denim trousers. 

Did Harry know who Tom was? Did he know Tom had come all the way to meet him? Was Harry… not happy to see him? 

“I was just answering some of Tom’s questions about what has happened in the past fifty-three years,” Dumbledore said, “I just informed him that his counterpart in this dimension is still alive. I was wondering if you might want to tell Tom about your unique relationship with his counterpart?” 

Harry looked up at Dumbledore, mouth slack with what looked like horror. “Me? You want me to tell him?” 

“I thought it may be best if he heard it from you,” Dumbledore said. 

Tom looked between Harry and Dumbledore in confusion. Unique relationship? Were they related? Was Harry his son? 

Tom quickly dismissed that line of thought. That would only be possible if Tom had chosen to procreate, which Tom couldn't imagine any version of himself doing with anyone except for perhaps his soulmate. Even then, Tom didn't care for children. 

Harry turned to Tom but notably did not look at him. “Well, you see, the Tom Riddle in this universe grew up and became a Dark Lord named Lord Voldemort. He wanted to rule everything and to get rid of all the muggles and muggleborns. He started a war. Loads of people died. Then, well, he found out a prophecy that said a baby born at the end of July could vanquish him. So, he went to that baby’s house, killed the parents, and tried to kill the baby as well. But the killing curse rebounded and destroyed Voldemort’s body and the baby lived and just got a scar.” 

Tom asked the next question, though deep down he already knew the answer. “And that baby was?” 

Harry then met Tom’s eyes as he lifted up his fringe to reveal the scar on his forehead. Tom was unable to hold in his gasp. It was shaped like a lightning bolt, yet was also the Elder Futhark rune sowilo, symbolizing the sun, vitality, and wholeness. Tom had carved that very same rune into his skin dozens of times, spilling his lifeblood to bring himself here.  

Harry was a miracle of magic, a defier of fate. Tom longed to trace his scar with his finger and to press his lips against it. 

Yet, Tom’s awe was overshadowed by the distressing truth that version of himself had been the one to harm Harry. 

“There's more, isn't there?” Tom asked. 

Harry let his hair fall back down to cover the scar. “Yes,” he said. The rest of Harry’s story came out in a rush. “Voldemort became a wraith. In my first-year, he possessed my defense teacher and tried to kill me twice. In my second-year, the memory of the teenage version of him trapped in a cursed diary possessed my friend and forced her to set a basilisk on muggleborns. Then, he tried to kill me with the basilisk. My fourth-year, he kidnapped me, killed my friend, used my blood for a resurrection ritual, and tried to kill me again. A little over a week ago, we met again. I guess he was going to try to kill me then as well, but he didn't get the chance before Professor Dumbledore showed up. My godfather died though.” 

How was Harry still breathing? Tom had felt the brush of death before while huddled in the basement of the orphanage with the other children, listening to them weep as they waited for the danger to pass. But the sheer amount of times that Harry had stared death in the face was insurmountable. 

“I don't know you, really,” Harry said, “But I'm not just going to assume you're like him. For one thing, I don't think the Voldemort I know would ever do what you just did.” 

“From what I have witnessed, Voldemort never desired personal attachments. Other people are tools to be used only for his benefit,” Dumbledore chimed in. 

Tom decided it would be unhelpful to mention that he didn't care all that much for most people either. Most were tools. There were people he felt some fondness for, but he felt no great loss when leaving them behind. He was certain that the only person who’s companionship he could ever truly crave was the bespectacled boy sitting next to him. 

Tom was sure of two important things, however. First, Harry was his to protect. He would never harm him. Secondly, Tom wouldn't cast a killing curse at an infant because of a prophecy. He had read Oedipus Rex. He already knew how that story ended. 

“I'm a dangerous person to associate with,” Harry said softly, “Voldemort wants to kill me and everyone I care for. He’ll be determined to kill you if he finds out you're another version of himself. He's an absolute megalomaniac. He’d see you as a huge threat.” 

Tom smiled sharply. “He’d be correct. I am a threat.”  

Harry laughed. It was just a small snicker, but it was mirthful all the same. As soon as it was over, Tom craved to hear it again. 

“I don't doubt that,” Harry said, “but you didn't know any of this coming here. You don't have to be a part of this war. You can be protected.” Harry looked at Dumbledore in askance. “He can be protected, right?” 

Dumbledore nodded. “Yes, but I have a feeling that your offer will be refused.” 

“I chose to come here,” Tom said firmly, “I didn't know what kind of world I would find. I knew I would never be able to go back where I came from. I came here for you. I am with you. No matter what.” 

Harry let out a shaky breath. 

“Would you be willing to swear a vow, Tom? Only to state you would not harm Harry intentionally and that you would not join forces with Lord Voldemort?” Dumbledore asked. 

“What?” Harry asked, whipping his head around to look at Dumbledore incredulously. 

“It’s only in the interest of your safety, Harry. I'm sure Tom understands,” Dumbledore said lightly. 

Tom knew those honey-sweet words were designed to manipulate him, but for once he did not care. “I understand,” Tom said, “Shall we do it now?” 

“There is the matter of your wand,” Dumbledore reminded him, “You’ll need to get a new one first.” 

Harry raised an eyebrow. “My wand burnt up when I arrived here,” Tom explained. 

“Another matter we must discuss is the summer holidays. Harry, as you know, you will need to spend two weeks with your relatives to renew the protection over your home.” 

Harry shuddered at that proclamation and Tom was reminded of the vision he had of the dreadful cupboard. 

“We left off on a pretty poor note last time I saw them. D’you think they'll even have me back?” Harry asked with something hopeful in his tone. 

“It's already been discussed,” Dumbledore stated, “They understand the importance of your presence. I believe they will endeavor to keep their distance during your visit.” 

Harry was obviously crestfallen, but was doing his best to hide it. “Well, if they act like they did last summer, I'll just leave. I'll leave and to hell with the blood wards.” 

“Oh, Harry, surely you don't mean that,” Dumbledore said in a gentle manner that made Tom wish for his wand so he could curse the man’s tongue to blacken and wither. 

“I do,” Harry said, sitting up straighter and giving Dumbledore a resolute stare. 

“There's housing for Tom to consider as well,” Dumbledore said. 

Tom knew better than to think that Dumbledore would allow him to stay at Hogwarts until fall term began. 

“I brought money with me. It should be enough to rent a room on Knockturn Alley for the remainder of the summer, depending I suppose on inflation rates.” 

“Sirius’s house is my house now, right?” Harry asked. 

“I believe he left his entire estate to you in his will,” Dumbledore said. 

“And it's under the fidelius. It's perfect. Tom can stay there,” Harry said. 

“Well there is a small matter involving that…” 

Harry ended up calling an ancient house elf and was able to determine that the Black family historical home belonged to him. Dumbledore seemed very reluctant to allow Tom to stay there but Harry argued fiercely, reiterating that it was his house and he said Tom could stay there.

“You don't need to spend all your money living in Knockturn Alley where a bunch of hags want to eat your toenails when I have a perfectly nice house for you to stay in,” Harry said, “Well, it's a bit run down honestly, but it's not all that bad.” 

“Thank you,” Tom said, feeling quite touched. 

Harry flushed. “It's not a problem, really.” 

With that settled, Dumbledore decreed that it was time for Harry to return to his relatives and for Tom to return to the hospital wing for one more night. 

Madam Pomfrey came to collect Tom as Harry and Dumbledore readied themselves to travel via floo to Hogsmeade before side-along Apparating to the home of Harry’s muggle relatives. 

“I'll see you soon, okay?” Harry said, offering Tom his hand. It wasn't quite a handshake or holding hands, but the contact was thrilling and made goosebumps rise on Tom’s skin. He wondered if Harry felt the same way touching Tom. He wondered if Harry felt the same swoop in his stomach and the same racing pulse. 

Tom squeezed Harry’s hand. “I’ll be waiting for you,” he said.

Chapter Text

It turned out that there was a mental ward at Saint Mungo’s. Harry hadn’t seen it on the list of floors when he visited the hospital on Christmas, but that was because it was secret. Instead of pressing on the buttons on the lift, the healer escorting Harry waved his wand and made several entirely new buttons appear. At the time, Harry was too annoyed to be properly impressed. 

Harry didn't want to go to Saint Mungo’s. He could acknowledge that writing suicide notes and very nearly jumping off the Astronomy Tower was a cry for help, but he also didn't see how being hospitalized would actually help him. 

Harry had a feeling even Dumbledore agreed with him, but then Madam Pomfrey had hissed something scathingly in his ear. Harry was pretty sure he heard the word ‘castrate’ somewhere in the mix. After that Dumbledore had acquiesced. Harry had never really appreciated how frightening a woman Madam Pomfrey could be. 

Harry conceded that the mental ward could be helpful to some people. There was a big dining area, a room to do crafts, group therapy, yoga, and meditation. Harry might have liked to participate in that. 

Unfortunately, the hiccup was that Harry was a very famous public figure with very special secrets. The healers couldn't sell Harry out to the press, but nothing was stopping any of the other patients he met. Therefore, Harry arrived at the hospital via a private floo entrance, was escorted to a private room under a disillusionment charm, and spent the next four days there. 

Harry’s wand was taken. He wasn't even allowed to keep his bloody shoelaces. He was given some books on mind healing to read that would probably make Hermione scoff, but thinking about Hermione hurt because she was the reason he was there. 

The best part of the whole ordeal was the potions. Harry was given dreamless sleep each night, but was warned that he wouldn't be given any to take home with him due to its addictive properties. Either way, it was nice to have rest that was uninterrupted by dreams of Sirius falling through the veil over and over. 

Harry also took a potion that cleared some of the heavy fog he felt hanging over him and made him feel less hopeless. He would be able to keep taking that one after he left. The healer that administered it was sure to tell Harry that he couldn't be helped by potions alone. He needed to do the inner work, whatever that was. 

He wasn't left completely alone. He had a few sessions with a mind healer, but the issue Harry ran into was that there was so much of his life that he couldn't even talk about with a normal person. He could only talk about Voldemort in the vaguest terms. He couldn't talk about the times he could see from Voldemort’s eyes. He probably shouldn't mention Sirius because legally he was still a fugitive that Harry could be reported for harboring. He could talk about how shitty growing up with the Dursleys had been, but what would that even accomplish? He knew that if he didn't go back every summer that Voldemort would show up there and kill them. No matter how horrible they were, they didn't deserve to be murdered. Harry couldn't have that on his conscience along with everything else. 

Harry had the feeling that if he was truly honest about everything that happened in his life, the mind healer would tell him he was experiencing some sort of psychosis. 

Talking about the graveyard was safe as he had already told the story to Rita Skeeter for the Quibbler article. But as he told the story he imagined that she already had her acid green quill poised to write her newest article about Harry’s vacation at the loony bin. 

“I can assure you that discretion is our utmost priority, Mister Potter,” Healer Pike said seriously, “if anyone on staff here were to betray your presence here they would lose their job, their license to practice healing, and would be subjected to fierce litigation.” 

“Well, I guess it's nice to know that if someone talked to the press they would be punished. Of course, you have to find out who it was first. Also, the damage would already be done,” Harry replied. 

“You don't trust people easily, do you?” 

Harry laughed without humor. “Would you trust anyone if you were me?” 

Healer Pike scrawled something down on her parchment. “Can you name five people that you trust?” 

Harry thought about it. His first instinct was to say Ron and Hermione. Then he remembered once again that Hermione had given Dumbledore that stupid fucking letter he wrote. Harry trusted Ron. Sure, Ron hadn't believed Harry when he said he didn't enter the Triwizard Tournament, but Harry had gotten over that. At least, he had thought he had gotten over it until he started thinking about it. 

Harry had trusted Sirius. He was pretty sure of that. Finding out how much of a bully he had been during his school days had been a blow. Either way, it didn't matter anymore because Sirius was gone. 

There was Dumbledore, who Harry thought he could trust but had avoided him all year long. Maybe he had a reasonable explanation for it, but it still hurt. 

Who else? Neville, Ginny, and Luna? Sure, Harry trusted them in the abstract sense but he didn't actually confide in any of them. He couldn't even pinpoint why. 

Harry realized that he had just been staring off into space without answering when Healer Pike cleared her throat. “I’ll rephrase the question then. What happens when you trust people?” 

“I get put in the mental hospital,” Harry said dryly.

“What would you do if one of your friends was in clear danger of committing suicide but asked you to not tell anyone?” 

Harry didn't know, because his friends weren't barmy like he clearly was. They knew how to deal with their problems in healthy ways. 

“You told me that you struggled with blaming yourself for Cedric Diggory’s death, even though he chose to touch the Triwizard Cup with you and you had no way of knowing that it was a portkey that would lead to danger.” 

Harry nodded. 

“I want you to think about how your friend Hermione might feel if she knew that you were suicidal but didn't do anything to seek help for you. Don't you think she would blame herself if you died?” 

Harry sighed. “I guess,” he finally said. 

“I think your friend Hermione is trustworthy because she chose to do what was best for you, even if it could potentially upset you. I understand you feel betrayed at the moment, but I hope you can recognize she did what she felt was necessary,” Healer Pike said. 

Only a few minutes after being discharged from Saint Mungo’s, Harry was faced with Tom Riddle once again. 

While hospitalized, Harry had avoided even thinking about that whole situation. It certainly wasn't on the list of things he could properly discuss and it was overwhelming to process. 

There was also the fact that the moment Tom appeared, Harry’s urge to kill himself had vanished. He hadn't even remembered why he was in the astronomy tower until Ron and Hermione came charging into the Hospital Wing the next morning and brought it all back. Surely that said something fucked up about Harry’s priorities.

Tom had crossed dimensions to find Harry. That made Tom Harry’s responsibility, didn't it? There was an obligation to see this through. 

Tom wrote about his ‘beloved’ in his diary in a way that verged on fanatical. Harry felt idealized in an entirely new way. What would happen when Tom realized that Harry wasn't brilliant but was broken? 

Well, at least Tom wouldn't be able to set a basilisk on Harry again. 

There was something about Tom’s presence that unmoored Harry. Tom was so stupidly pretty that it defied all logic. This Tom only looked at Harry with softness and his words were already so devoted. 

‘I came here for you. I am with you. No matter what.’ 

Harry wasn't sure what Tom even wanted from him. He wasn't sure what he could give him. 

Still, Harry saw flashes of the Tom Riddle he met in the Chamber of Secrets when the boy looked at Dumbledore. He wasn't an entirely different boy. There was darkness there, certainly. 

But Harry had plenty of darkness inside as well. 

Harry didn't really process that he just committed to spending most of his summer alone in a big creepy house with Tom Riddle until he and Dumbledore arrived at Number 4. 

“I know Tom is going to need clothes, a new wand, food and all that,” Harry said in a rush, “Just take it out of my vault. Whatever he needs.” 

“As always, I am deeply humbled by your compassion and generosity,” Dumbledore said. 

Harry didn't know what to say to that so he said “Aunt Petunia will have an aneurysm if she sees you out on the street in broad daylight in full wizard attire.” 

“Ah yes, what might the neighbors think?” Dumbledore said airily, “I will take my leave then. I will collect you in a fortnight.” 

Harry wanted to beg like a child. Please don't leave me here with them. 

Instead, Harry steeled himself. He lived with his relatives for eleven years with no respite. He could handle two weeks. 

Still, Harry wondered as he lugged his trunk up to his bedroom, what was going to happen when the blood wards fell next summer? Harry doubted the war would be over by then. Would the Dursleys even consent to going into hiding? 

The first night back at Number 4 passed without significance. Harry didn't join the Dursley’s for dinner, though he knew that he wouldn't be able to avoid mealtimes entirely during his stay. He heard Dudley pass by his door a few times, but his cousin didn't barge inside to bother Harry. 

The next morning, Harry woke up early and started making breakfast before anyone else made it to the kitchen. His relatives didn't acknowledge him when they came in, but they accepted their breakfast and did not comment when Harry gave himself the same portion as everyone else. Harry could live with being ignored for two weeks. 

“I’ll be out in the garden,” Harry announced once he finished washing the dishes. He only received a grunt from Vernon in return. 

Harry was pulling weeds when he felt a presence at his back. He turned around to find Dudley hovering over him. Harry sighed heavily. He didn't think he had it in him for a fight just yet. 

Dudley pulled something out of his pocket. “Mum got me a new walkman so I don't need this one anymore. You can have it,” he said, thrusting it at Harry. 

Harry accepted it and stared down at it in confusion. 

“There's a mixtape in it a girl made for me,” Dudley said, shuffling from foot to foot, “S’not really my thing but I don't know what kinda music you like. I have more tapes in my room. You can borrow whatever.” 

“Er, thanks Dudley,” Harry said, utterly bewildered. 

Dudley nodded in response and lumbered off. 

Music had never been a significant part of Harry’s life. His main exposure to music as a kid was whatever Petunia happened to play on the radio. Once at Hogwarts, he would sometimes listen to whatever Seamus was playing on his wireless and The Weird Sisters was usually played in the common room after Quidditch matches. Harry didn't really know what kind of music he liked either. Maybe he would like whatever this was. 

Dudley’s apparent kindness was strange. Harry felt suspicious of it. He wondered if Vernon would come out into the garden in an hour, raging because Dudley told him Harry stole his walkman. Harry supposed he could enjoy it until then. 

‘I wanna be the girl with the most cake,’ a raspy voice sang in Harry’s ear. 

“I have no idea why Dudley doesn't like this song,” Harry said, laughing to himself. 

It had been another two days and Harry remained undisturbed. He had listened to the tape several times and enjoyed most of the songs on it. There was a track listing written in a loopy handwriting on the cassette. Harry was honestly considering asking if Dudley wanted to go to the music store with him. 

‘I fake it so real, I am beyond fake. And someday you will ache like I ache.’ 

Dudley’s behavior was bizarre. He was being uncharacteristically friendly towards Harry but was also giving him space. Harry would suspect some sort of long-term scheme afoot, but he wasn't sure if Dudley was capable of such a thing. His cousin seemed firmly rooted in the present, something that Harry found that he envied a bit. 

Harry heard a knock. He paused the music, took off his headphones, and opened the door. Dudley stood there holding two glasses filled with a brown sludge. 

“Made you a protein shake,” Dudley said, “You’re too scrawny. You need to bulk up if you're supposed to be fighting that dark magic guy.” 

Harry took the glass and looked at it dubiously. He felt oddly touched that Dudley seemed to care about Harry’s situation with Voldemort. 

“It's ‘sposed to be chocolate, except chocolate has a lot of sugar so it’s, er,” Dudley took his time sounding out the next word, “care-ob.” 

“Carob? Isn’t that what Aunt Marge puts in her dog biscuits?” 

Dudley laughed. “Her dogs like them well enough. C’mon then, drink up!” 

Dudley polished off his protein shake in only a few gulps. Harry took a tentative sip and grimaced. 

“It's a bit shite, yeah?” Dudley said, grinning, “But it’s good for you!” 

“Completely vile,” Harry agreed but he drank the entire thing. 

“What do you think of the tape?” Dudley asked. 

“It's good,” Harry said, “I like it a lot.” 

Dudley beamed. “I knew you’d like it ‘cause of your shoes.” 

Harry glanced down at the red All-Stars he had gotten from Tonks as a birthday gift last year. 

“People who wear those shoes like that kind of music. The bird that made me the mixtape had loads of those shoes,” Dudley leaned in closer to whisper, “And she had a nose ring.” 

“She’s not your girlfriend then?” Harry asked. 

“Dunno,” Dudley said, taking a seat at Harry’s desk, “I’m keeping my options open.” 

“I kind of had a girlfriend this year,” Harry confided. 

“Oh, wicked! Big tits?” he asked, cupping his chest with a lewd grin. 

Harry snorted. “Er, they were normal, I guess.” 

“Did she let you touch them?” Dudley stared at Harry with rapt attention. 

“Nah, we just kissed once and went on a date on Valentine's. It was kind of a disaster,” Harry said. 

Harry wondered how Dudley would react if he explained the entire situation. 

‘You see, Big D, I reckon Cho was mostly interested in me because her boyfriend died right in front of me. I had a crush on her and probably a bit on him as well. I once had a really weird wank about being the center of a Cho and Cedric sandwich. She cried when she kissed me then only wanted to talk about Cedric on our date. So, things didn't work out there. But hey! A younger version of the dark wizard that’s trying to murder me just arrived from another dimension and he's really into me. He's kind of acting like we’re already married, actually. I should probably be more weirded out by it than I am.’ 

Yeah, poor Dudley’s head would explode, probably. 

The next morning Dudley arrived at Harry’s door bright and early with a slightly less terrible protein shake and an invitation to go with him to his boxing gym. 

Harry was expecting to find Dudley’s gang there, but the gym was occupied by some blokes who looked to be in their twenties and thirties who all greeted Dudley with back slaps and fist bumps. 

“Who’s this, then?” one of them asked, looking Harry over. Harry instinctively tensed at the attention. The man was built like a brick shithouse. He wore a red vest and athletic shorts that put all his muscles on full display. 

“My cousin Hazza. He's home from boarding school. Figured I'd teach him how to throw a punch,” Dudley said. 

Harry blinked. Hazza? 

“Decent build for the lightweights,” the man said appraisingly. 

“Wicked fast too,” Dudley said, “I used to chase him a lot when we were kids. I was a right fucking gobshite back then.” 

“You were a right fucking gobshite only a year ago, mate,” the man said, laughing. He turned to Harry, “The first time Dudley came to this gym I damn near knocked his teeth down his throat.” 

“Probably deserved it,” Dudley said cheerfully, “C’mon Harry, let's see if I can find some gloves ‘round here for your tiny fuckin’ hands.” 

The fight Harry had gotten into with Malfoy on the Quidditch Pitch had been fueled by pure animal instinct and rage. Boxing with Dudley was far more precise. Dudley stood back with a serious look in his eyes as Harry hit the punching bag. He then adjusted Harry’s form by the most minute intervals until he was finally satisfied. Harry had never seen his cousin so serious. The last few days had revealed a whole new side of Dudley that Harry had never seen before. 

Later, when they left the gym to get fish and chips for lunch, Harry realized with a jolt that he was actually enjoying spending time with Dudley. He imagined how shocked he would be if someone told him at twelve-years-old that a day like this would come. 

“How come you didn't come back home on the train like you normally do?” Dudley asked, “This Black bald bloke with an earring came by and told dad and mum that you'd be coming back late. Did something happen with that bad guy? Er, Voltamort?” 

“Voldemort,” Harry corrected. Harry wiggled his hand vaguely. “Sorta. We had another fight at the end of term. I got out okay, but my godfather died.” 

“The convict?” Dudley asked with wide eyes. 

“Yeah, but he was actually innocent,” Harry admitted, “I just said all that stuff about him to scare you.” 

Dudley shrugged. “I've said plenty of stupid shite to scare you. Sorry ‘bout that by the way. I was a huge fuckin’ wanker to you, but you still saved me from those Demmymaters.” 

“Dementors,” Harry said. 

“Yeah, those things. I'd never felt so horrible in all my life. Really made me wanna step back and decide if I really wanted to be a dick for the rest of my life,” Dudley said, “Mum and Dad are still scared shitless of the magic stuff, but I’ve been trying to talk to them about it. Figured if you could save my life with it, it can't be all that bad.” 

“It also gave you a pig's tail, made your tongue swell up, and blew up Aunt Marge,” Harry pointed out. 

“Yeah, well we were all right afterwards, weren't we? I think those blokes in the red robes made Marge forget all about it. Anyway, she shouldn't have said that stuff about your mum and dad.” 

“Thanks, Dud,” Harry said. 

Dudley ate a chip, malt vinegar messily dripping down his chin. “So, you had to fight Voldemort again. You couldn't make the train ‘cuz you had to talk to the cops or something?” 

Harry knew that he could just say yes and move on, but something about Dudley’s vulnerability made Harry want to be honest as well. 

“Actually, I was feeling pretty messed up after everything that happened and I almost jumped off a tower,” Harry said, “I had to go to a hospital.” 

“Jump off a tower?” Dudley asked, face scrunched in confusion, “Why’d you wanna do that?” 

“‘Cause I’m a bit nutters, I reckon,” Harry said, “Thought I'd be like you with that superman costume.” 

For a moment, Harry wondered if he went too far with his teasing, but Dudley threw his head back in laughter. “Oh fuck off!” he said, giving Harry a playful punch on the arm, “I was six!” 

Harry just kept laughing. It probably wasn’t all that funny, but Harry needed to take several sips of his pop to calm down. 

“This bloke from Smeltings, Gerald Hastings, died last year after taking a load of pills. Big shock for everyone. He had depression. Is that what you've got then?” 

“Something like that,” Harry said. 

“This doctor came and gave a speech to all of us. She said depression was a sickness just like the flu. So, you're not nutters. You just have the brain flu,” Dudley said sagely, “Get well soon, Hazza.” 

“Thanks, Big D,” Harry replied. 

“Let's go to that music shop down the road,” Dudley said once the meal was finished, “they've got more sad boy music you might like.” 

“You know, I might like more than just sad boy music.” 

“We’ll get you a copy of Ready to Die. Biggie Smalls. Now, that bloke gets it.” 

“Gets what?” 

“Y’know, life!” Dudley said leading Harry down the street, arms swinging by his side, “He’s real. You’ll see.” 

Harry laughed and caught up with Dudley. He was excited to get some more sad boy music and even to check out whatever Dudley liked to listen to. 

Harry wondered if the walkman would even work once he got to Grimmauld Place. If so, he wondered what kind of music Tom liked. He was from the 40’s, what did people even listen to then? Swing? Barbershop quartets? 

Harry ended up buying a few classical and jazz tapes alongside his other purchases. 

Back at Number 4, Harry decided to sit down and write a letter to Hermione. 

Dear Hermione, 

To be completely honest, I’m still a bit upset about you telling Dumbledore. I know you did the right thing. I'll get over it. 

Something else happened that night. Something big. It’s all a bit mad and I'm still processing it. I'll need to tell you and Ron about it in person. Consider this payback for all the vague letters last summer. 

I'm back with the Dursleys, but only for two weeks! It's been alright so far. Believe it or not, I’ve been hanging out with Dudley. Try to contain your shock. He's decent these days. 

Do you think a walkman would work at Snuffles’s Old Place? I’ll be there for the rest of the summer after I leave here. I know Hogwarts would totally fry it, but maybe it would be okay in one magical house? 

Have you listened to Hole? 

Cheers, 

Harry 

Chapter Text

Severus was not aware of where exactly Albus had hidden himself away while on the run from the ministry, but he wondered if the stress of the ordeal had caused Albus to take all leave of his senses. Since returning to Hogwarts, Albus’s decisions had been utterly baffling. First, there was the decision to allow Tom Riddle to live. Now, Severus had been summoned to Albus's office to be subjected to another inane idea. 

“Harry has insisted that Tom be allowed to spend the summer at Grimmauld Place. I believe, Severus, that you would be able to provide adequate supervision.” 

Riddle sat in the chair next to Severus, his lips curled into a moue of distaste. He seemed as put out by the suggestion as Severus was, though for different reasons. Riddle surely wanted unimpeded access to all the dark books and artifacts in the historic Black dwelling along with the privacy to pry Potter with his seductions once the boy joined him there. 

“Potter insisted?” Severus protested, “He is a child! He cannot be allowed to insist on anything. We are adults. We are the ones who insist!” 

Something in Severus’s rant seemed to capture Riddle’s interest. The boy’s head was tilted like a curious dog as he stared at Severus in a manner that was distinctly unsettling. 

Albus smiled as if he found Severus’s indignance amusing. “Be that as it may, it is important that Tom has a safe place to stay for the summer away from the public eye.” 

“Then, allow him to stay with Hagrid and muck out the thestral stalls,” Severus said, crossing his arms, “I do not see how I am the best choice for this task.” 

Albus frowned. “You surely are aware that Rubeus would be far from the correct choice.” 

Ah, Severus had forgotten Riddle had been the one who framed Hagrid for opening the Chamber of Secrets and got him expelled. Though in all fairness, the oaf ought to have been expelled for bringing a juvenile acromantula into the castle either way. 

Riddle interjected “Rubeus Hagrid? The half-giant?” 

Albus narrowed his eyes at Riddle, mind clearly churning. “The very same. He is the groundskeeper and Care of Magical Creatures Professor. Did you know him well in your home dimension?” 

Albus must have been curious if this Riddle had framed Hagrid for his crimes as well. Or if Riddle had committed those crimes at all. In this world, Voldemort had opened the Chamber of Secrets in his fifth year, killing Myrtle Warren. This Riddle had just completed his fifth year and seemed wholly focused on planning and executing his cross-dimensional soulmate ritual instead. However, Severus recalled from the diary that Riddle was aware of the Chamber and used it as a base of operations. Yet there was no mention of the monster inside or the petrifications of muggleborns. 

Severus would have thought that Riddle would not write about those topics to avoid incriminating himself, yet the book was filled with details of dark and undoubtedly illegal blood rituals so Riddle couldn't have cared that much about it. 

“Ah, so he became a Magizoologist. I am happy to hear that he accomplished his goal,” Riddle said in a blandly polite tone, “Rubeus and I were associates of a sort. He knew the Forbidden Forest well and assisted me with a problem I was having. In return, I put a stop to one of his more foolish pursuits.” 

“Did that foolish pursuit involve a juvenile acromantula by chance?” Albus asked. 

Riddle hissed through clenched teeth, clearly irritated by the memory. “Yes, the foolish boy was keeping it in the castle. I was able to leverage some contacts and have it removed to a sanctuary in South America.” 

“That was kind of you,” Albus said, smiling genially. 

Riddle waved a hand dismissively. “The beast would have eviscerated us all. It was merely a public service.” 

“The Tom Riddle of this dimension, as you know, unleashed a basilisk upon the students of Hogwarts. When a student was killed, he used his knowledge of Hagrid’s pet to frame him.” Albus said. 

“And he was actually believed?” Riddle scoffed, “How could anyone mistake a basilisk attack for an acromantula attack?” 

Albus’s mouth was a grim line. “I had similar thoughts, alas they were dismissed. Nevertheless, Rubeus is one of the few people alive that will associate your name and appearance with that of Lord Voldemort.” 

Severus decided to segue back to the topic at hand. “I believe that spending the summer holidays at Grimmauld Place would be disadvantageous to my position. Besides, my duties would call me away often, perhaps for even days at a time.” 

“I believe it could offer you a respite,” Albus countered, “and as Tom is nearly of age, I do not see it being an issue if he is left alone occasionally.” 

Severus saw it as an issue. If it was up to him, Riddle would be under constant surveillance. Preferably chained in a dungeon. 

Over the last few days that Severus assisted with Riddle’s care, more than once he had entertained the idea of going against Albus’s orders and killing the boy anyway. Albus would be cross with him, but it's not as if Severus would go to Azkaban for the crime of murdering someone who did not technically exist. The fantasy of wringing the neck of the extradimensional pest had been all too tempting. 

“Surely someone else would be more suitable,” Severus tried, “Lupin or Miss Tonks, perhaps?” 

Albus shook his head and Severus knew his arguments were a mere formality. Severus always ended up folding to Albus eventually. 

Though the house had only been empty for two weeks, Grimmauld Place had accumulated roughly a decade’s worth of dust. What was that decrepit house elf even good for besides spitting out slurs and getting his master killed? 

Severus held in a sneeze while Riddle’s eyes darted around the foyer. 

“Orion Black once lived here,” Riddle stated, “I spent the Yule holidays here once. Though when I visited it was in quite a different state.” He swept a finger against a banister and studied the dust that gathered his finger with a haughty frown. 

“Sirius Black was Orion Black’s son and Mister Potter’s godfather. His negligence caused this home to fall into this state.” 

Severus knew what he was saying was a vast oversimplification. Truly, it was a lie. From what he knew, Black had left home at sixteen and only returned here after being imprisoned for twelve years and on the lam for two more. However, he’d allow Riddle to cultivate a poor impression of Potter’s godfather. Perhaps it would cause a rift. 

“That's a shame,” Riddle said, “I will endeavor to restore the house to some of its former glory in time for Harry’s return.” 

Riddle was planning on cleaning? Severus held in a disbelieving scoff. Unbidden, a horrifying image of The Dark Lord clad in a maid uniform floated into Severus’s mind. 

“I was unaware of Harry’s surname until you called him Mister Potter,” Riddle said, his eyes gleaming with interest. 

Of course Riddle would be interested in Potter’s old pureblood name. 

“Yes, his father was James Potter and his mother was a muggle born witch,” Severus said. He waited for Riddle to react poorly to the fact his so-called soulmate was a half-blood, but the boy seemed unbothered by the revelation. Though, now that Severus was thinking about it, Riddle wasn't the surname of any pureblood family Severus had ever heard of. 

Did the Dark Lord himself have the filthy blood he rallied against? It was almost amusing if Severus did not think too hard about all of the atrocities. 

“Who was his grandfather?” Riddle asked, “Do you know?” 

“Fleamont Potter,” Severus answered. The man had gotten filthy rich from a hair potion of all things and used his wealth to turn his son into a spoiled nightmare of a boy. 

Riddle’s eyes lit up. “Ah yes, that explains everything.” 

Severus gave him a questioning look, but the boy didn't seem like he intended to reveal what exactly that information had revealed to him. 

Hating himself a bit, Severus grit out “Explains what exactly?” 

“The reason I needed to do the ritual in the first place was because something was preventing my soulmate’s existence in my home dimension,” Riddle drawled, “Monty Potter was six years ahead of me at Hogwarts. A genius at potions, but he had the recklessness typical of a Gryffindor. He died in my first year after one of his unauthorized experiments went wrong. His ghost haunted the dungeons afterwards giving students potions advice.” 

Briefly, Severus wondered what it would have been like to attend a version of Hogwarts where James Potter had never been born. He would have probably still had to contend with Black, but it would have been a much better experience. He doubted that he would have ever been hurt and embarrassed enough to lash out at Lily and destroy their friendship. 

Severus suddenly felt strangely vulnerable and knew he needed to flee Riddle’s presence. “The majority of the bedrooms are unclaimed. You may choose whatever suits you and get settled in. I am going to Diagon Alley to purchase supplies and will return this evening.” 

Riddle nodded and began to climb the staircase. He turned around and gave Severus a smile. Severus supposed the smile was meant to be charming, but with Riddle peering down at him, Severus felt distinctly like a bug about to be squashed. 

“Safe travels, Professor,” Riddle said. 

Now that Potter solely controlled the vast Black family fortune alongside his own considerable Potter inheritance, he had apparently decreed that the funds be used for whatever Riddle needed. 

Severus briskly traveled through Diagon Alley, only purchasing necessities. If Potter wished to spoil Riddle he could do so once he arrived at Grimmauld. Severus would have no part in it. 

Severus bought Riddle several plain robes, two pairs of pajamas, underpants, and toiletries. He nearly chose the cheapest option of everything available, but settled on choosing items at a median price point lest he be accused of showing bias against the little innocent freckled fledgling Dark Lord. 

Severus suddenly had access to a much more robust budget for groceries than he was accustomed to, but even there he only purchased the essentials. During the summer months, Severus often became so absorbed in his brewing that he forgot to eat so he bought many items that required no preparation. 

Severus visited the apothecary to stock Grimmauld Place’s potions lab. He would need to brew Polyjuice Potion, which he was not looking forward to. He and Albus had decided it would be the best option to discreetly bring Riddle to Diagon Alley to purchase a new wand. He would need one to complete the vow with Potter. Severus was glad that Riddle would not have access to magic before then, especially since he was spending the summer in a place the Trace couldn't reach. 

Severus returned to Grimmauld Place through the floo in the kitchen, wrinkling his nose at the scent of rotting food and unwashed dishes piled in the sink. Where was that blasted house elf? 

Severus cursed under his breath as he put away the groceries, vanishing the spoiled items in the cabinets as he went. He had just charmed the dishes in the sink into washing themselves when he heard voices in the foyer. 

One voice was Riddle’s but Severus couldn't recognize the other. It was feminine. Either way, nobody else should be in the house. His blood ran cold. 

Severus crept into the foyer, wand drawn, only to be met with the sight of Riddle chatting with the portrait of Walburga Black. 

Riddle was smiling, but there was something feral in the glint of his eyes. Walburga’s face was twisted in rage. 

“Oh,” Riddle turned at Severus’s entrance, “I was just talking to dear Wally here. We were classmates, you see.” 

“I WOULD NEVER ASSOCIATE WITH UPSTART MUDBLOODS AND CATAMITES,” Walburga screeched. 

Riddle grinned, “Oh I’m well aware, darling, but your cousin-husband never minded associating with me, as it were.” 

“DESIST WITH YOUR VILE ACCUSATIONS, YOU SCUM. DEFILING THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS!”

“Speaking of vile accusations,” Riddle drawled, “Whatever happened with your little “uh-oh” with Goyle? I suppose that must have happened here as well. Your father must have been so displeased. You know I've heard rumors about how the Black family deals with illegitimate spawn. Perhaps you can satisfy my curiosity, Wally.” 

Walburga responded with an ear-splitting screech of pure rage which did not even cause Riddle to flinch. 

Wincing at the ache now present in his temple, Severus waved his wand to cover the portrait with the moth-eaten curtain. 

Riddle pouted. “Aw, but we were having such a lovely time catching up!” he protested. 

Severus looked at Riddle with an unimpressed stare. “I'll be in the potions lab. Please do not disturb me unless it's urgent.” 

Severus and Riddle settled into their own routines over the next few days. By unspoken agreement, they did not spend any significant time together. They did not even share meals. The arrangement suited Severus fine. 

Severus spent most of his time in the potions lab. The Polyjuice Potion demanded a significant amount of his attention. Albus also tasked Severus with brewing Wolfsbane for Lupin, who was taking a break from his work with the wolf packs in the aftermath of Black’s death. 

Severus thought attempting liaison with the werewolves was a doomed pursuit either way. Lupin could be useful to the Order in other ways. That didn't mean that Severus was pleased that he would now need to interact with the wolf when he came to collect his potions. Undoubtedly, Lupin would want tea and conversation, but Severus would deny him, of course. 

Even though Severus was busy, he discreetly kept an eye on Riddle. 

Riddle actually spent most of his day cleaning and Severus had to admit the old house was looking better. By some miracle, he had even convinced Kreacher to get back to work as well. Severus had no idea how Riddle had won the allegiance of the mad old house elf, especially since Severus knew that Kreacher was utterly devoted to his dearly departed Mistress Walburga. 

When Riddle wasn't cleaning, he was either holed up in the library, psychologically torturing the portrait of Walburga Black, taking abnormally long baths, or playing the grand piano in the sitting room. 

Riddle was quite good at piano, Severus had to admit. His fingers flew gracefully across the keys, making complex melodies seem effortless. The sight made Severus wonder if the Dark Lord still played piano. It seemed like too human of an activity for him. 

When Riddle spoke to Severus, it was always measured and perfectly polite. If Severus forgot all about who the boy actually was, he would even say he was a good roommate, certainly more pleasant company than Pettigrew, who the Dark Lord had wanted to burden Severus with this summer.  

However, Severus could never forget who Riddle truly was. He wondered when the demon lurking under the boy’s skin would finally reveal itself. 

It would most likely coincide with the whirlwind of chaos that would mark the arrival of Potter. 

Severus entered the kitchen to find Lupin seated at the table sipping tea from a floral print mug while Riddle spun a web of lies. 

“I suppose you could say I was lucky to see so much of the world,” Riddle was saying, “but it was difficult to never be around children my own age. I'm looking forward to making friends at Hogwarts.” 

“I'm sure you'll have no trouble at all making friends,” Lupin said. He was smiling kindly at Riddle, revealing the dimple on his left cheek. 

“I haven't gotten a chance to speak to Harry much yet, but of course I'm ever so grateful he allowed me to stay here this summer.” 

In Severus’s eyes, Riddle was really laying it on thick, but Lupin didn't seem to notice how superficial the boy was. 

“Harry is very kind-hearted,” Lupin agreed.  

“I just hope we’ll be great friends,” Riddle said, catching Severus’s eye and smiling mischievously. 

“I'm sure you will be,” Lupin said, “You remind me quite a bit of his friend Hermione. You're both quite bright.” 

At that comment, Riddle’s lips twisted and one of his eyebrows twitched faintly. He schooled his features back to something more pleasant so quickly, Severus doubted that Lupin even noticed the slip in Riddle’s composure.  

Riddle was jealous. How very amusing. Riddle had Harry to himself for the summer. Once at Hogwarts, however, there would be hordes of admirers and sycophants that Riddle would have to compete with for Potter’s attention.  

Severus was looking forward to watching the fall out. 

Riddle decided to finally acknowledge Severus’s presence. “Good morning, Professor,” he said, full of false cheer, “Would you like a cup of tea?” 

“No, thank you,” Severus replied. 

Lupin turned around and smiled at Severus, seemingly just now noticing him. “Good morning, Severus.” 

“You never mentioned that Mister Lupin used to be a Professor at Hogwarts,” Riddle said, looking utterly guileless to the untrained eye. 

For just a moment, Lupin’s smile fell. He was undoubtedly remembering Severus’s role in his resignation. 

Severus wouldn't doubt that Riddle was already an accomplished legilimens even at this age. He probably plucked that memory right out of Lupin’s head and mentioned Lupin’s past as a professor to Severus just to entertain himself.  

“Lupin was a very popular professor,” Severus said. 

“I’m sure you’re a popular professor as well, sir,” Riddle said, once again managing to sound disgustingly earnest. He lifted his teacup to his lips to take a slow sip. 

Lupin looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. He could laugh if he pleased. Severus did not mind. He did not care if his students liked him or not. Unlike his predecessor, Horace Slughorn, Severus had no interest in currying the favor of mere children or collecting them like shiny trinkets. 

Severus was sure that at some point, Slughorn probably thought Riddle was the brightest jewel in his collection. It just showed how foolish the old man was. 

“I have your potions for you downstairs if you would like to come with me to collect them,” Severus told Lupin. 

There was a flash of confusion on Lupin’s face. Generally, Severus would make Lupin wait for him to retrieve the potions and refuse to socialize more than necessary. “Of course,” Lupin said, “It was very nice to meet you, Tom.” 

“The pleasure was all mine, sir,” Riddle replied.  

Lupin followed Severus out of the kitchen and down the stairs. As Severus gathered up vials of Wolfsbane, one for each day before the full moon, Lupin leaned casually against the table. 

“Nice kid,” Lupin commented, “Though the amount of sugar he puts in his tea borders on obscene.” 

“I wouldn't know,” Severus said. 

Severus put the vials into a small carrying case and turned to face Lupin. His hair had grown since Severus had last seen him. It curled just under his ears now. 

With a sudden swoop in his stomach, Severus realized he and Lupin were very much alone. It was a position Severus did his best to avoid as his actions when alone with Lupin tended to be regrettable. 

From the sly smile that bloomed on Lupin’s face, he was coming to the same realization. Severus directed his eyes away from Lupin’s dimple to the wall behind him. No distractions. 

“You cannot trust that boy,” Severus warned. 

Lupin blinked in confusion. “Who? Tom?” 

Severus simply nodded. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the steady bubbling of cauldrons. 

Lupin raised an eyebrow. “I suppose you're not going to elaborate then.” 

Severus fixed him with a hard stare. 

“Okay,” Lupin said, giving in easily, “I trust you.” 

Severus held out the case for Lupin to take. Severus had said what he needed to say. It was time to dismiss Lupin, return to his brewing, and put the man out of his mind until he returned in a month’s time. The words caught in Severus’s throat. 

The skin around Lupin’s eyes crinkled as he looked Severus over with a concerned furrow in his brow. “You look exhausted, Severus. Are you getting any sleep at all?” 

“I can sleep when I am dead,” Severus deadpanned. 

Lupin, annoyingly, did not laugh. Instead, one of his heavily scarred hands moved forward as if to reach for Severus, before curling back when Lupin thought better of it. “D-don’t even joke about that,” he said, frowning deeply. 

Severus was not joking. Not really. He decided not to inform Lupin of that.  

“No need to act so concerned,” Severus said dismissively. 

“I'm not acting like anything,” Lupin argued. He looked ridiculously petulant, golden eyes burning in the dim room. 

Severus kept his composure. He resolved to not allow Lupin to goad him. 

“Be sure to take every dose,” Severus said. 

Lupin rolled his eyes, but it was playful. He moved closer to Severus, but only by the smallest amount. “Yes, sir,” he said softly. 

Severus swallowed. No. He would not be goaded. 

“I will see you next month,” Severus said evenly. 

“Alright,” Lupin said, “I may come check in on you, though. Just to make sure you’re eating.” 

Severus knew if he refused Lupin, he would back off without argument. Lupin was never pushy. He simply brushed his toe against the line and waited to see if Severus would allow him to cross over. 

Severus knew refusing Lupin was the correct course of action. His divided attention between the Order, the Dark Lord, and now Tom Riddle put him in a perilous position. He could not afford any distractions, especially not this bizarre dance he had begun with Lupin after impulsively agreeing to share a bottle of elf wine with man on Christmas day in 1993. 

“I cannot control how you choose to waste your time,” Severus said. 

Lupin smiled at Severus in a manner that was far too soft. Severus was painfully aware he didn't deserve to have anyone look at him in that way, but he allowed Lupin to do it anyway, if only for a moment. 

After Lupin finally left, Severus stepped away from his potions to focus on renewing his occlumency shields. 

Chapter Text

Every Sunday, the children who lived at Wool's Orphanage dressed in their nicest clothing and walked together in two straight lines to the church one block away. 

Tom liked many things about going to church. The aesthetics were pleasing. The stained glass windows, plush red carpet, and assorted sculptures added a bit of opulence to Tom’s drab existence. His favorite statue was a bust of Mary, Mother of Christ. Her lips were mournfully downturned, and the teardrop on her cheek was a real jewel of some sort. When nobody was looking, Tom would press his finger to it. 

He thought often of the story Mrs Cole told him of his mother dying on the steps of the orphanage right after bringing him into the world. When he imagined her, he pictured Mary, crying shining crystal tears as her only begotten son was ripped from her dying arms. 

Tom liked the order of the church service. He liked that, for once, the other orphans were quiet and compliant. Tom was the best at sitting up straight and being very still. He imagined how the adults might admire him for his manners and whisper to one another in amazement “What a well-behaved lad! You wouldn't think he was an orphan at all!”

He enjoyed the piano the most. Tom often tuned out the words of the sermon and just observed the man sitting on the piano bench, imagining himself in his place. 

Tom knew that the families who came to Wool's Orphanage were not just looking for any child. They wanted an exceptional child. Tom knew he was exceptional and did not quite understand why nobody else could see it as plainly as he could. He would cultivate a talent, he decided. One day after the sermon ended, instead of waiting quietly with the other children for Mrs Cole to finish speaking with the priest, Tom broke away and asked the piano player for lessons. 

“I don' ‘av any money,” he said, “But I can get some.” 

Tom was not interested in the morals he was meant to be learning at church. He did not care for how often the word of God was used against him. He would happily steal money if it got him what he wanted. 

The piano player laughed. “Not necessary, laddie. Music is a gift of God that I’m happy to share freely.” 

Tom found that most pursuits came easily to him and piano was no exception. 

“God has blessed you greatly, Tommy,” his instructor said, “I’d say you're a prodigy!” 

One Saturday after breakfast, the orphans were all told to prepare for a family visit. 

“‘Ello, ‘ow d’you-” 

Tom was looking at himself in the mirror, practicing the perfect greeting. He winced. It was all wrong. 

“Huh, huh, hello,” he practiced slowly, “How do you doooo?” 

Tom might have come from the gutter, but he could mold himself into something more. He lined up with other orphans and smiled at the willowy woman and larger man who were looking them over. 

Tom was one of the children chosen to speak privately with the family and he very nearly thanked God for it. 

Tom wanted to wiggle in his seat in excitement but knew better than to do something so juvenile. “‘Ello,” he greeted, then grimaced at the slip-up. “How do you do? My name is Tom.” 

“Hello, Tom,” the woman said warmly, “I’m Gloria and this is my husband Christopher.” 

Tom liked Gloria immediately. She reminded him of Mother Mary. Christopher, in contrast, reminded Tom of an illustration of a cro magnon man he had once seen in a book on prehistoric times and wouldn't even smile. 

“Please, tell us about yourself,” Gloria said with an eager look in her eyes.  

“I’m seven years old; I love to read, and I'm the best in all my classes. I also play piano very well. I could show you if you’d like,” Tom recited, beaming at how nicely all the words had come out. 

“D’you like sports, Tommy? You like kicking a football around?” Christopher asked gruffly. 

At that age, Tom had yet to master the ability to keep his emotions from shining through on his face. He scowled. “I don' care for sports,” he said. 

Christopher grunted dismissively in response. 

The rest of the conversation was short. Gloria asked questions while Christopher crossed his arms and glared. Stupid cross-eyed lug. Tom wished he would just fall over and die. Then, Gloria would want to take Tom home with her. 

Gloria and Christopher did not choose Tom. They adopted a boy named Walter, who Tom once watched eat an entire bottle of paste. 

In Tom’s memory, it had not been very long since he visited Grimmauld Place so it was disconcerting to see the most beautiful home he had ever been inside had fallen to such decay. What had once been shining and ostentatious, a shrine to excess, had been tainted by dust and the scent of mildew. 

Limited to only wandless magic, Tom could only do so much to improve the conditions. On his second day in the house, he found a cupboard full of cleaning supplies which helped tremendously. Still, he longed to restore the frayed tapestries and mend the broken crystals on the chandelier. In its current state, Grimmauld Place was not fit to be a home for Harry. 

When Tom first visited Grimmauld Place, none of the people who lived there could even play the piano, yet it was always clean and gleaming. The sight of it untouched for decades made Tom’s heart clench. The charms that kept it tuned had faded and since Tom could not restore the charms without his wand he tuned the piano manually. 

Tom sat at the piano playing Gymnopedie No. 1, eyes closed as the gentle rhythm flowed through him. 

With his eyes shut, he imagined the room restored to its former glory. He almost felt the weight of Orion falling onto the bench next to him, moving close enough to Tom that their thighs touched. 

“What are you playing?” Orion always asked, even though he never remembered the title of the song after Tom told him. 

Orion liked to be close to Tom. He liked to touch him. He was especially entranced by Tom’s hands, always commenting about how long and elegant his fingers were. This devolved into Orion moving even closer, his breath hot against Tom’s ear as he whispered suggestions for other things he could be doing with those fingers. 

Orion was the first person at Hogwarts who saw Tom the way Tom had always seen himself. Special. Worthy. 

Tom was fairly sure Orion had loved him, but Tom was glad he didn't return his feelings. Falling in love with Orion Black would have been ruinous. Despite his feelings, he would have never betrayed his family for Tom’s sake. 

Tom wondered how Orion would feel, knowing that in a little over fifty years the legacy of his family had faded to nothing. 

Kissing and exploratory touching was enough for Tom, though perhaps it wasn't enough for Orion. Once Tom began researching soulmate theory, he had stopped coming to Orion’s bed entirely. It was for the best. 

If the hole in Tom’s chest had resembled a pinprick instead of a vast canyon, perhaps he could have loved Orion. But Tom needed more. He refused to be a bit of rough for a spoiled pureblood boy only to be tossed aside for his mad-as-crackers cousin. 

Tom’s thoughts did not linger on Orion very long. His head was filled with Harry Harry Harry, the name of his beloved as steady as the beat of his heart. Would he like how Tom improved the house? Would he join Tom on the piano bench and lean his head on Tom’s shoulder? 

Tom wondered what Harry’s hair smelled like. He wanted to feel his beloved’s soft curls against his cheek. Tom wanted to hold him. He wanted to press lips into his neck. 

The fact that Tom had found his way back to this house that now belonged to his soulmate felt like kismet. 

The days waiting for Harry to arrive were dark and dull. He craved Harry’s light. 

Tom adored the piano, but his favorite place in Grimmauld Place by far was the library. Tom had been completely overwhelmed the first time he visited it. It was significantly smaller than the library at Hogwarts but was filled with titles on dark and arcane magics, books that someone like Tom never would have access to ordinarily. 

Tom had not expected to find the library in good condition considering the rest of the house, but still he wasn't prepared for the utter carnage he found. 

He stood there trembling as his eyes raked over the near empty shelves. Someone had violated this sacred space, removing all but the most innocuous titles. It was nothing short of a tragedy. 

There was a pop next to him and Tom looked down to find Kreacher the house elf looking up at him with curiosity shining in his bulbous eyes. 

Tom had barely seen the elf since arriving at Grimmauld Place, but had heard Snape muttering under his breath about the uselessness of the old thing often enough. 

“Nasty half-blood master’s guest is being unhappy with this room?” Kreacher asked.

Tom grimaced at Kreacher speaking about Harry so derisively. “There used to be more books here. Many more. Do you know where they have gone?” 

Kreacher narrowed his eyes at Tom. “Kreacher is not recognizing Master's guest. How is he knowing there were more books?” 

It was a gamble, but Tom decided that cultivating goodwill with the Black elf would go a long way. 

“I was friends with Orion Black,” Tom told the elf. 

Kreacher looked only more suspicious. “Master’s guest is being too young,” he said, but after a moment his eyes widened slightly, “but he is being familiar to Kreacher, yes. But Kreacher is wondering how…” 

“Time travel,” Tom told him, choosing not to elaborate on the particulars. 

Kreacher’s mouth dropped open. 

“That counts as a secret of your Master, by the way. You vowed to keep his secrets, did you not?” 

Kreacher huffed, crossing his spindly arms over his chest. “Kreacher will be keeping the secrets of his nasty half-blood Master and his friends. Mudbloods, halfbreeds, blood traitors, oh my poor mistress! How she would weep!” 

“Kreacher,” Tom said smoothly, “I want to restore this home to its former glory. I want it to be worthy of the Black name once more. Wouldn’t you like to help? In memory of your dear Mistress Walburga and Master Orion?” 

Kreacher’s eyes filled with tears. “Yes, Kreacher be helping! The blood traitors be taking precious books and artifacts, saying they are dark and evil. But Kreacher be saving what he can. Many books!” 

Tom’s lips curled into a smile. “You are a very good elf, Kreacher,” he said, “I think you and I will be great friends.”

From the moment that Tom first laid eyes upon Severus Snape, he knew that the man despised him. Tom didn't need to look into Snape’s mind to uncover that. It was written all over his dour face. 

In fact, the moment that Tom attempted to skim Snape’s surface thoughts, he was met with an unforgiving wall of obsidian. If Tom attempted to press past it, Snape would surely be aware of it. 

Tom was not happy to be living alongside a person whose motivations he could not uncover in the usual ways. His dislike of Tom could just stem from the identity of Tom’s counterpart in the world. After all, Snape was one of Dumbledore’s lap dogs, perhaps amusing in the way he snarled and bared his teeth, but a whelp all the same. 

However, Tom also gathered that Snape detested Harry, which made him a threat to them both. 

Snape had made himself scarce from their first day in the house. Still, the man was watching Tom. Often, Tom felt a tingle on the back of his neck and turned his head, only to see a billowing black cloak disappear around the corner. It was unsettling. So, Tom’s best course of action was to be unsettling in return. 

He enjoyed taking out his frustration on the portrait of Walburga, especially when Snape happened to be watching. 

Walburga Black was an ideological enemy of Dumbledore and his ilk, thus was an acceptable target for Tom to torment, surely. What would it say about Snape if he found an issue with it? 

“Oh, hello Mister Lupin,” Tom greeted when the man stepped out of the fireplace, “It's nice to see you again so soon.” 

Tom had enjoyed speaking to the former-Professor when he visited previously. He was calm, polite, and appeared to possess some level of intelligence. From a brief look at his surface thoughts, Tom learned that Lupin was devoted to Harry, though interestingly there was a layer of bitter regret that surrounded all of Lupin’s thoughts about Harry. 

Tom had the impression that Harry had been failed by many people. Tom would gladly seek revenge for his beloved, but wanted to see how useful Lupin could be first. Regret was a powerful motivator. 

Lupin was behaving differently. He still smiled at Tom when he greeted him, but there was a wariness that had not been present when they first met. 

“Do you know where Severus is?” Lupin asked. 

“I believe he’s downstairs in his lab,” Tom said, “Would you like some tea?” 

Lupin shook his head. “No, thank you. Maybe after I speak to Severus. I'll go find him.” 

Tom nodded at Lupin, smiling at him blandly. For a moment, Lupin met his eyes and Tom seized the first thought that appeared in the man’s mind. 

'Severus said I can't trust Tom. I wonder why?'

Of course, Snape had turned the first person Tom had met against him. All due to the crimes of an alternate version of himself. Tom wanted to stomp his foot at the unfairness of it all. 

“Certainly,” Tom said, inwardly fuming, “I would enjoy continuing our conversation from the other day later if you are amenable.” 

“Perhaps,” Lupin said, a tense smile on his face, “If I have time.” 

Lupin left the kitchen. Annoyed, Tom followed after a moment, batting open the curtain that covered Walburga’s portrait, just to make her start screaming. With a small smile, Tom walked back into the kitchen, content to have tea and tune her out. 

“VILE HALF-BREEDS INFESTING MY FAMILY HOME. I WILL NOT ABIDE THIS TREACHERY!” 

Tom paused in the doorway of the kitchen. He turned around and walked back over to Walburga. 

“Half-breeds, did you say?” Tom asked casually. 

Now that he thought of it, Kreacher had mentioned half-breeds as well. 

Walburga sniffed, her childish pout looking absurd on her haggard wrinkled face. “My worthless son allowed mudbloods, blood traitors, and beastly werewolves into my beautiful home.” 

Werewolves? Interesting. Lupin certainly did not seem like a werewolf, though Tom had never properly met one. Tom tucked that bit of information away for later. 

After a moment, Walburga seemed to recall who exactly she was speaking to and let out a vicious snarl befitting the very creatures she had just been railing against. 

“AND YOU ARE THE WORST SCUM TO SET FOOT HERE. VILE CORRUPTER OF INNOCENT BOYS!” 

“Orion? Is he the innocent boy you're referring to? I'll have you know, he was far from innocent. Did I ever tell you about the time he and I-”

“I WILL NOT HEAR THE FILTH SPEWED FROM YOUR UNWORTHY LIPS!” Walburga shrieked in protest, actually covering her ears with her painted hands.

Tom wondered if that actually worked. Letting out a cackle, Tom returned to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. 

Chapter Text

Harry stood in the sitting room at Grimmauld Place, staring at the world’s creepiest display cabinet. It was made of dark wood. Harry didn't know enough about wood to know which sort it was. From far away, the intricate carvings looked beautiful, but up close one realized that it was thousands of tiny faces all twisted in pain. It had once been filled with a variety of artifacts, almost all cursed. Now, for some reason, it was filled with a collection of identical yellow rubber ducks. 

“Padfoot?” Harry called. 

The man himself appeared at Harry’s side, dressed in flowing robes of aubergine and wearing Augusta Longbottom’s vulture hat on his head. 

“Padfoot, have you ever been in love?” Harry asked. 

Sirius looked defensive. “That's a bit of a personal question, isn't it?”

“Sorry, I didn't mean anything by it,” Harry said, ‘I just don't have anyone to talk about these things with.” 

“Do you like my ducks?” Sirius asked after a moment. 

“They're alright,” Harry shrugged. 

“You’ll need to choose one, Harry.” 

“Choose one? Why?” 

“Because Harry,” Sirius said, breaking into a grin, “You have to marry one tomorrow!” 

“What?” Harry looked down and realized that his clothes had been replaced with an ivory wedding gown. “I don't want to marry a rubber duck!” he protested, flipping the long veil out of his face. 

Harry turned to Sirius and met his eyes, only to back away in shock when he noticed the blood pouring from Sirius’s mouth. 

“Padfoot! You need a hospital!” 

“‘M fine,” Sirius said, voice coming out muffled due to the waterfall of blood still streaming from his mouth, down his chin, and staining his robes. “Can’t miss James’s baby boy getting married.” 

“It's okay,” Harry said hurriedly, reaching out to grab his godfather's shoulder, “We can postpone the wedding. I can't marry the duck. I think there might be someone else.” 

Try as he might, Harry couldn't recall who someone else might have been. 

Sirius’s head tilted at an unnatural angle and his eyes shifted from grey to black. He opened his still-bleeding mouth and began to sing, “‘Cause I’m a bad man, I do what I can. ‘Cause I’m a bad man, I do what I can… All hail me.”

Harry jolted awake, sitting up and gasping for air. The song that leaked into his subconscious was still playing through his headphones. He had fallen asleep while listening to his walkman. He couldn't have even been asleep all that long if the tape was still playing. 

He yanked the headphones off and paused the tape, putting the walkman on his side table. He peeled off his sweaty shirt that was sticking to his back and tossed it haphazardly into the dark of the bedroom. 

What an unsettling dream. 

It was just a dream, Harry realized. It wasn't a memory of something horrific Harry had witnessed. It wasn't Cedric being struck down by a killing curse or Sirius falling backward into the veil. Nor was it a vile vision into Voldemort’s mind. It was just a dream. 

Harry fell back into bed and laughed into his pillow. 

Harry had only one more day to spend at Privet Drive, and for the first time in his life, the experience had not been terrible. Vernon and Petunia had not been pleasant company, but they had more or less ignored him for two weeks. Meanwhile, Harry had spent nearly every day hanging out with Dudley. They went back to the boxing gym several times, went shopping for clothes, and even went back to the zoo where Harry had infamously trapped Dudley in the boa constrictor enclosure. Strangely, though Dudley had been so frightened when the event occurred, he now seemed to think the whole thing was hilarious. Discreetly, Harry spoke to one of the snakes in parseltongue, much to Dudley’s delight. 

Harry was going to miss his cousin, as mad as it sounded. 

Harry was also anxious about seeing Tom Riddle again. Harry knew that the other boy had expectations of Harry and what their relationship would look like. While Harry was fairly sure that Tom wasn't evil, he still had only had one supervised conversation with him and didn't know him at all. 

There was the matter of the soulmate connection Tom was so attached to. It sounded a lot like fate, which Harry was about sick of. 

Yet, the part of Harry who grew up so desperately lonely and unloved felt eager to see Tom again. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to see where this went.

Or maybe it would hurt beyond all reason. Could Harry handle more hurt? 

Harry spent the morning packing his belongings into his trunk. He sent Hedwig ahead to Grimmauld along with a short note for Tom. 

Over the past fortnight, Harry had debated writing to Tom several times. He had even sat down with his parchment and quill more than once. He knew what he ought to say. He should have asked how Tom was settling into Grimmauld and asked if he had recovered after his stay in the hospital wing. He could have told him about Kreacher or warned him about Walburga Black's screeching portrait. Yet, Harry couldn't make himself put any of that on parchment. 

Instead, on the last day before joining Tom for the remainder of summer, he penned the following: 

Tom, 

This is my owl, Hedwig. She likes owl treats but likes bacon even more. I'm looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. 

- Harry 

It felt cowardly. 

Harry was giving the room one last look through to make sure he hadn't forgotten to pack anything when he heard two knocks on his door followed by a kick. He opened the door to reveal a grinning Dudley. 

“There's a party tonight at Piers’s place,” Dudley announced without preamble, “His mum and dad went to Majorca. His dad cheated or something and they're rekindling things. You remember Piers Polkiss, right?” 

Harry moved aside to let Dudley inside. Dudley flopped down on Harry’s bed and stretched out like a cat. 

“Yeah,” Harry said, “I remember Piers. He used to try to beat me up like every single day.” 

“So did I,” Dudley said airily, “and we’re great mates now.” 

“So we are,” Harry said, grinning. 

“You’ll come, right? It’ll be fun!” 

Harry hesitated. It probably wasn’t a very intelligent idea. He had a feeling the Order wouldn't be happy with how much time he had spent outside the safety of Privet Drive’s wards so far. Then again, Harry had not noticed any Order members watching the house like they had the previous summer. 

Really, it was odd. Now that Voldemort was operating out in the open, Harry thought he would be guarded even more closely than before. 

‘Fuck it,’ Harry decided. It was only one more night. What could go wrong?

Harry and Dudley approached Pier’s house, which was practically identical to Privet Drive from the outside. The only difference was that the front door was painted red. A few teenagers were milling around the front lawn, holding cigarettes and cups of beer. Music was blasting from inside. Harry recognized it as a song from the rapper Dudley liked, Biggie Smalls. Harry had listened to the album and enjoyed it, though he was a bit lost about what exactly Dudley found so relatable about the lyrics. 

The door opened to reveal Piers Polkiss. He was a little taller than Harry had seen him last, but no less rat-faced. 

“Big D!” he shouted in greeting, pulling Dudley into a back-slapping embrace. He stepped back, looking Harry over. “Oh shit! Is that your cousin?” 

“Yep!” Dudley said proudly, “Hazza’s here!” 

“Hazza the hero!” Piers called out, hugging Harry as well. 

Harry gave Piers a bemused smile. “Hold on,” Piers said, “I'll get you drinks!” 

Dudley leaned over and spoke into Harry’s ear, “I told my mates you saved my life last summer.” 

“You did what?” Harry asked incredulously. 

Dudley raised his hands. “Don't worry, I didn't say anything about the Dementias. I just said you saved me from a bum with a knife.” 

“Oh,” Harry said weakly. 

“Actually, a bum with a knife in each hand,” Dudley amended. 

Piers came back and thrust a cup of a red beverage into Harry’s hand. Harry had not been around alcohol very much, but from the smell he was fairly certain this drink contained a lot of it. 

“Piers Party Punch! Triple P!” Piers announced. 

Wrinkling his nose, Harry turned to Dudley and raised his cup in a cheers gesture. Dudley hit his cup against Harry’s and they both drank deeply. The taste was utterly vile, worse than one of Dudley’s protein shakes ever thought about being, and it burned Harry’s throat on the way down. Still, Harry smiled weakly as Dudley and Piers cheered.

The house was packed with people, some that Harry vaguely recognized from primary school. Harry hadn't made any friends back then as Dudley had prevented him from doing so. It was a bit ironic now that Dudley was steering Harry through the crowd happily introducing him to everyone. Harry had never received so many slaps on the back before, even after an especially successful Quidditch game. 

“Is it true you go to some kind of school for juvenile delinquents? That's what my mum said,” one boy asked, looking a bit frightened. 

“Nah,” Dudley quickly cut in, “Haz goes to a posh boarding school for geniuses.” 

“I like your shirt, Harry,” a girl told him. 

Harry had been excited to find a shirt for one of the bands he had liked best from his musical discoveries, Nirvana. He had paired the shirt with simple black trousers and a new pair of All-Stars, also black. 

“Thanks,” Harry said, “I, er, like your outfit as well.” 

The girl was wearing an all-black ensemble, sported hair teased into spikes, and wore eyeliner so thick she looked a bit like a raccoon. 

Dudley caught Harry’s eye and winked at him, before wandering off into the crowd. Oh, Dudley probably thought Harry was interested in this girl. 

“What's your name?” Harry asked. 

“Louise,” the girl said, “I would be insulted that you don't remember me from primary school, but I suppose I look a lot different these days.” 

Harry laughed. “Sorry,” he said, “I don't remember many people from primary. It’s been such a long time.” 

“You were a bit of a loner too,” Louise said. 

It hadn't exactly been by choice, but Harry didn't mention that. 

Louise leaned in closer, staring into Harry’s eyes. “Your eyes are gorgeous, did you know?”

“Er, thanks?” 

“Have you ever worn eyeliner? You would look so fit with eyeliner.” 

“I haven't,” Harry said. 

Louise squealed, jostling the drink in her hand. “I brought some with me. Won't you please let me put some on you? I promise I'll just do a little bit.” She looked at Harry, pleading. 

Under other circumstances, Harry would have said no, but at this point, he was on his second cup of Triple P and was up for just about anything. “Sure,” he said. 

Harry ended up sitting on the side of a bathtub while Louise leaned over him, tongue sticking out in concentration. 

“Keep your eyes closed,” she told him, “Relax. Don't squint.” 

Harry fought the urge to flinch as the eyeliner pencil pressed against the sensitive skin of his eyelid. He had no idea how girls did this every day without poking their eyes out. 

Finally, the pencil receded. “All done!” Louise said cheerfully. 

Harry opened his eyes, blinking slowly. Louise handed him his glasses. “Take a look!” she said eagerly, scooting over so Harry could see himself in the mirror. 

Harry stood up and looked at himself. As she promised, Louise had only added a small amount of eyeliner to his eyelids and under his eyes. It brought out the vibrance of his green eyes. 

Unbidden, Harry wondered if Tom would like it. Would he have some sort of weird 40s gender sensibility about boys wearing makeup? Or would he find it… attractive? 

“Wow,” Louise breathed, “You look proper lush. A bit like Brian Molko, you know him?” 

Harry shook his head. Was that another boy from primary school? 

“Oh, you must get the Placebo album! It just came out. It’s so good,” Louise gushed. She linked her arm with Harry’s and led him out of the bathroom and back into the living room where they promptly ran into Dudley. 

Dudley stood still, staring at Harry. Suddenly, Harry remembered Dudley’s homophobic taunts from the previous summer and wondered if he was about to get his arse kicked. Harry was about to back away when Dudley’s mouth stretched into a grin. 

“Hazza! I've been looking everywhere for you!” His eyes were a bit glazed over and his voice was booming. “Benny Dodger brought a keg! It's out back! C’mon! We’re doing keg stands!” 

“Doing what?” Harry squeaked. 

“It's gonna be fun! C’mon!” Dudley said, unceremoniously prying Harry away from Louise and dragging Harry away. Harry waved at Louise weakly from over his shoulder, powerless to stop Dudley’s mission. 

Benny Dodger was a boy Harry vaguely recognized from Dudley’s gang of cronies. He was clearly in the process of growing out a mustache, which wasn't really working in his favor. He was standing next to a tall silver keg. 

“Harry’s doing a keg stand!” Dudley said, pushing Harry forward. 

Benny stared at him dubiously. “You sure, Big D? He’s like seven stone. He’s gonna get way too pissed.” 

Harry glared. He was at least 9 stone now, thanks ever so. Still, he was apprehensive about hanging upside down while drinking beer. What if he choked? 

Harry imagined a Death Eater gleefully informing Voldemort that his prophesied enemy had been brought down by muggle booze. He let out a mad giggle at the visual. 

Meanwhile, Benny’s apprehension seemed to have struck a nerve with Dudley, who was clenching his fists at his sides and looking a mite murderous. 

“S’okay,” Harry tried, tugging at Dudley’s sleeve. 

“Harry may be little, but he is fierce!” Dudley said forcefully. 

Had Dudley… had Dudley just quoted Shakespeare? 

“Picture this,” Dudley said gravely, “Me and Hazza in an alley. A madman with a knife in each hand. He lunges towards me, but Hazza here, he's faster.” 

Dudley stepped back, miming the next sequence. “Haz goes full fuckin’ ninja. Swoop! Uppercut! Wham! Kick to the bollocks! Knife bloke falls down! He’s wailing for his mummy! Zap! Zap! Haz kicks both of the knives out of his hands. He says ‘I better not see you around here again’. Bloke pisses himself.” 

Harry flushed deeply as the people in the yard surrounded Dudley to listen to his completely ridiculous story. There was no way any of them believed any of it. 

“If Harry could do that, he sure as fuck can do a keg stand!” Dudley proclaims. 

Several party-goers cheered at that. Harry looked around at them all, shocked. 

“Don't fuck with Hazza!” Piers sang out, “It’s hazardous to your health!” 

In yet another surreal turn, the crowd began to chant, “Hazza! Hazza! Hazza!” 

Dudley lifted Harry’s legs and flipped him. “Just tap me when you're done,” Dudley told him before Harry put his lips to the tube Benny was holding up for him and drank. The chant continued as Harry guzzle it down. After several seconds, Harry tapped Dudley and was set down. 

Harry gave the crowd a wobbly bow and grinned as they cheered for him. 

Harry could not recall the last time he felt so loose and uninhibited. Maybe when he was eleven, new to Hogwarts, and nothing too scary had happened to him yet. He drank yet another cup of Triple P and danced horribly with Louise to a group called The Spice Girls. 

When he was feeling hazy and a bit sleepy, Dudley decided it was time to walk home. Harry accepted a sloppy kiss on each cheek from Louise and several rounds of back slaps as Dudley led him out of the house. 

Dudley had quite a lot to drink but was larger and had a stronger tolerance. This had been Harry's first time partaking in alcohol. He had been offered Firewhiskey from the twins at Quidditch after parties but had always declined, knowing Hermione would be furious with him.

Dudley had an arm thrown around Harry's shoulder as he led him down the street back to Privet Drive. 

“I'm gonna miss you,” Harry slurred. 

“Just stay,” Dudley said, “I won't let Dad fuck with you.” 

Harry signed, leaning into his cousin’s side. “Can't,” he said, “I’ve got stuff to deal with. There’s this boy. Er, it’s complicated. Magic stuff, y’know?” 

“Oh, like a boyfriend, then?” Dudley asked casually. 

“Nah,” Harry said, “Well, not yet anyway. Maybe. I dunno. Like I said, it's complicated.” 

Dudley was quiet. Oh bollocks, Harry had said something gay, hadn't he? 

“Is that, er, a problem?” Harry forced out. 

Dudley pulled Harry closer, squeezing him. “Nah, I don't give a fuck if you're into buggering.” 

Harry snorted. “Cheers, mate.” 

The lights were out at Number 4. Harry and Dudley giggled and shushed each other as they stumbled up to the front door. Dudley pulled out his key and unlocked the door. 

They snuck inside. Harry sighed in relief, thinking they had gotten away with coming back late and drunk. 

Then, the light turned on to reveal Vernon standing by the stairs, face purple with rage. 

“Harry!” Dudley shouted, “Just go to your room! I'll talk to him!” 

Harry took off up the stairs. 

“Oh no you don't!” Vernon growled, yanking Harry by the arm. Harry yelped as his shoulder dislocated with a pop. Vernon slammed him against the wall, breath hot against his face. 

“You think you can come back here and corrupt Dudley?” Vernon demanded. 

“I took him to the party, Dad!” Dudley protested, “C’mon, let him go!” 

“No!” Vernon roared, spittle flying from his mouth and splattering against Harry’s face. “I've had it! One of those freaks came here and said you would only be here for two weeks and wouldn't give us any trouble if we just gave you space. Well, look where that got us! We gave you space and you come here at three in the morning, stinking of booze and looking like some sort of rent boy!” 

“Dad, let go of Harry,” Dudley pleaded, “He’ll be leaving tomorrow. Just let him go to bed.” 

“He needs to be taught a lesson! I bet he's bewitched you, Dudley! Don't worry, we’ll sort it out.” 

“I'm not bewitched, Dad!” 

Harry tried to wiggle out of Vernon’s hold, but his uncle was too strong. Harry felt absurdly powerless without his wand. Suddenly, Vernon released him, but before Harry could run away he felt the crack of Vernon’s fist against his cheek. 

The force was enough to knock Harry to the ground. Looking up at Vernon’s snarling face looming over him, Harry thought the man might actually kill him. 

Then, Dudley lunged, knocking Vernon towards the kitchen and shielding Harry from him. 

“Harry!” Dudley shouted, “Get your stuff and run!” 

Harry’s body ached and he was still quite drunk, but the pure adrenaline of the situation was enough to get him to his feet and racing up the stairs. When he reached the bedroom, he was very glad he had been proactive enough to pack earlier in the day. He grabbed his trunk, wand, and Hedwig’s empty cage and ran back downstairs. 

Harry paused, taking in the sight before him. Vernon was desperately trying to push past Dudley, but Dudley was blocking him with all his strength. Despite his rage, Harry could tell Vernon was reluctant to actually harm his son, which worked in Dudley’s favor. Still, Dudley was a near-professional boxer and Vernon was just a garden-variety brute. Harry had a feeling who would win if the fight came to blows. 

“Run Harry!” Dudley called over his shoulder. 

Oh yes, Harry had forgotten about the whole running for his life bit. 

“I'll write you!” he promised, before racing out the front door. 

Harry kept running down the street until his lungs burned. He frantically looked behind him, relieved to see that Vernon had not followed after him. After catching his breath, he stepped to the curb and held out his wand. 

“C’mon, c’mon,” he said under his breath. 

With a mighty crack, the familiar purple double-decker Knight Bus appeared. 

After letting out a whoop of relief, Harry climbed aboard lugging his trunk behind him. 

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. My name is Stan- Blimey! You're Harry Potter!” 

“Nope,” Harry said, popping the p. Stan Shunpike looked just about identical to the last time Harry had seen him. “Like I told you last time, Stanley, my manly. I'm Neville Longbottom.” 

Stan guffawed. “Harry Potter’s got jokes! Just like I told you, Ern,” he said turning toward the driver, “Harry Potter’s a barrel of laughs, he is.” 

“I wouldn't know about that,” Harry said, leaning against the rail for support as his knees threatened to buckle, “I’m just a regular bloke who really loves plants. Venomous tentaculas and such.” 

“Sure, you are!” Stan said brightly, “Where you off to, regular bloke?” 

With a flash of annoyance, Harry remembered he couldn’t just say Grimmauld Place. “Islington,” he said. He could hopefully figure out how to make it to his house from there. 

“Eleven sickles if you please,” Stan said, gesturing towards the payment box, “Thirteen for hot chocolate.” 

Harry dug out eleven sickles, thinking that hot chocolate would make him vomit. 

“Hold on a tick,” Stan said, peering closer at Harry, “What ‘appened to you?” 

“Er, fought another dragon,” Harry said. 

Stan hummed and nodded thoughtfully. 

Just like the last time Harry had run off from Privet Drive in the night, the bus was filled with beds rather than seats. It was so late that there was only one snoring wizard in one of the beds. Harry set his belongings at the foot of the bed closest to the door and hopped up, gripping the post for dear life as the bus began to move. 

Harry’s stomach lurched as the bed slid haphazardly with the force of Ernie's erratic driving. 

“Alright there?” Stan called out. 

Harry lifted his free hand to flash Stan a thumbs up. Immediately after, he threw up all down his front. "Fuck," he said weakly. 

Stan took out his wand and vanished the sick. “All part of the service for the Chosen one!” Stan said brightly. 

Harry groaned, pushing his face against the bedpost. He wondered what Tom Riddle would think of the state of him. 

Chapter Text

Tom was attempting to assemble breakfast from the dwindling supplies that Snape bought nearly two weeks previously when the owl appeared. 

During his time at Hogwarts, Tom had seen many owls. Hordes of them flew into the Great Hall each morning to deliver the post. Tom never owned one of his own, but his housemates were generally more than happy to lend their owls if Tom needed one. Of all the owls Tom had encountered, the one that swooped into the kitchen was the most beautiful. 

It had to be Harry’s owl. Of course, he would own an owl as breathtaking as he was. The snowy owl landed next to Tom and extended her leg so he could take the short scroll attached. Tom eagerly unrolled it and read. 

Tom, 

This is my owl, Hedwig. She likes owl treats but likes bacon even more. I'm looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. 

- Harry 

It was certainly concise. Tom felt slightly bereft. He wanted more of Harry’s words. He wanted them all. 

Yet, Tom savored the little pieces of his soulmate the letter revealed. His owl was named Hedwig, a lovely name. Unfortunately, there was no bacon in the house. Tom would have to look for owl treats. Snape received regular correspondence, surely he had some somewhere. 

Tom liked Harry’s handwriting, surprisingly. It was crooked but charming. 

However, The most important part of the message was that Harry was coming tomorrow and he was looking forward to seeing Tom! Tom already knew that Harry would be coming then, he had been counting down the days. Still, the reminder furthered his anticipation and reminded him of all the things he still wished to accomplish before Harry arrived. 

“Hello Hedwig,” Tom greeted. Hedwig bent her head and allowed Tom to stroke her soft feathers. “Don't worry, I'll find something nice for you to snack on.” 

Sleep did not come easily that night. 

Tom had been busy all day making the final preparations for the house. There were still tasks he would need his wand to complete, but overall Grimmauld Place had made a remarkable transformation from the dung heap it had been when Tom first arrived. 

With the help of Kreacher, most of the rooms had regained much of their original luster. The worst room to restore by far had been an utterly wrecked guest room that had smelled of dung and was filled with hippogriff feathers. What imbecile was responsible for keeping such a creature indoors? 

The books and artifacts Kreacher had saved from being tossed out were back proudly on display. Tom had noticed Snape staring at a few of them with interest, but the man did not comment on their reappearance. 

Tom and Snape still barely spoke to one another. When Tom asked Snape which bedroom belonged to Harry, he had been rather rudely dismissed. 

Tom wished to share his bed with Harry, but he didn't dare presume the other boy would want the same. Tom thought it would be a capital idea to turn the master suite into Harry’s room. When Harry eventually invited Tom into his bed, there would be plenty of room for him to move in. 

This decision sparked the first major disagreement between Tom and Kreacher. 

“It is being the room of Kreacher’s dear Master and Mistress!” Kreacher wailed, “Kreacher cannot be changing it for the nasty half-blood Master!” 

Tom did not comment on the fact that Orion and Walburga were long dead and could no longer make use of the space, though he very badly wanted to.  

“Kreacher,” Tom said gently, “Harry is the heir of the Black family now. It is only appropriate that he takes the Master suite. Isn't it your duty to ensure your Master has the very best?”  

“It is being Kreacher’s duty,” Kreacher said warily, “Mistress Walburga and Master Orion would not be liking it.” 

“Do you serve the dead or the living, Kreacher?” Tom asked, “Don't you wish to restore the Black family to its former glory?” 

Kreacher tugged at his overly large ears in distress. “Kreacher wishes it. The half-blood Master-” 

“Is a wizard of immense power,” Tom interjected, “He is capable of bringing the Black name to new heights. He needs a good elf like you to support him.” 

“Kreacher is a good elf,” Kreacher mumbled, still looking uncertain. 

“We can move Walburga and Orion’s personal effects to a spare bedroom and keep them safe there,” Tom said. 

Tom had already found that the bedroom of Regulus Black had become a shrine to its former occupant. Kreacher had been reluctant to allow Tom to spend much time exploring it. Tom had also left Sirius Black’s former bedroom alone. Harry would most likely wish to go through his godfather’s belongings. 

Kreacher eventually conceded to Tom, though he threw several more tantrums throughout the duration of preparing the master suite for Harry. 

“Who is Tom to Master Harry?” Kreacher eventually asked. 

“I wish to be his consort,” Tom said earnestly, “If he’ll have me, of course.”

A short time after that conversation, Tom found a large stack of books on courting traditions waiting for him on his bedside table.

Tom was in the middle of a hazy dream where he was teaching The Knights of Walpurgis flower arranging in the Slytherin common room when he was jolted from his slumber by a loud crash downstairs. The crash was almost immediately followed by Walburga’s horrific wailing.

As much as Tom despised being subjected to air raids while living in the orphanage, he never had trouble going from asleep to alert very quickly.

After his first week at Grimmauld, Kreacher had looked at the plain clothing items Snape had bought Tom in disgust and declared that he needed more suitable clothing. Thus, Tom ended up with a wardrobe of garments that once belonged to various members of the Black family. Tom supposed that most would be considered old-fashioned in the year he lived in now, but they were far nicer than anything he had ever owned. Tom pulled on an emerald green silk dressing gown over his pajamas and slid his feet into black loafers embellished with the Black family crest before going to investigate the disturbance. 

Once against cursing his lack of a wand, Tom mentally inventoried the wandless spells he knew could be useful against an intruder. Ideally, Snape was proactive enough to be heading downstairs as well. 

Tom descended the stairs to discover a figure in the entrance hall clutching his leg and cursing. The hideous troll leg umbrella that Kreacher was so attached to had been knocked sideways onto the floor. 

“SCUM! SON OF A MUDBLOOD WHORE!” Walburga screeched from her frame. 

“Yeah, yeah, fuck me and the horse I came in on. I get it,” the stranger said, “Er, Kreacher? Can I get some light in here?” 

With a pop, Kreacher appeared to illuminate the space. 

Tom’s heart rattled in his chest. Still bent over, his most identifying feature was his gorgeous black curls, but it was more than enough for Tom to discern that it was his beloved standing below him. 

It was undignified for Tom to practically prance down the stairs like he did. Later, he might remember to be embarrassed about it. But at the moment, his thoughts revolved around getting to Harry as quickly as possible. 

Once Tom reached him, Harry looked up and smiled at him crookedly. As Tom began to take in Harry’s features, he quickly discovered something was wrong. 

Oh, Harry was as breathtaking as ever, but his cheek was marred by a fresh bruise. His eyes, attractively lined with kohl, were glassy and vacant. His smile, Tom realized, was the easy grin of someone intoxicated. 

“Harry?” Tom said warily. 

Had some ruffian attacked Harry? 

“Hey Tom, I’m home early!” Harry said, giggling. 

“I see that,” Tom said, frowning, “Harry, you're hurt.” 

“Pfft! I'm all good. This is nothing, really,” Harry said dismissively, “I’ve had worse. Lots and lots worse. This is just Tuesday, basically.” 

Harry so easily dismissed his own suffering, quickly comparing it to even worse events in his life. 

Tom recalled the winter of his first-year, when all of his housemates complained bitterly of the cold of the dungeons. Tom was cold as well. His peers all had quilts sent by their families with warming charms woven in, woolen cloaks, and soft gloves. Tom merely had the Hogwarts issued bedding and his threadbare secondhand robes. Still, Tom never joined in on the whinging. He could remember being tossed outside by Mrs Cole on a snowy day in only his thin cotton pajamas and no shoes. He had no reason to complain. Tom had been much colder before. 

Harry moved closer to Tom. He was close enough to touch now if Tom dared. 

“I left you alone,” Harry said softly, “I ought to have written more letters, shouldn't I?” 

“I'm just happy you're here now,” Tom said. 

“Sorry,” Harry sighed, “I've never had a soulmate from another dimension before. I'm buggering it all up, aren't I?” 

“You haven't done anything wrong, Harry,” Tom said gently. 

“You sure?” Harry raised an eyebrow, “Not gonna go back home and do Dark Lord stuff?” 

“If I was planning on participating in any Dark Lord activities, I would want to do them with you.” 

Harry threw his head back and laughed. “Tom, I need to tell you a secret.”

“You can tell me anything,” Tom told Harry solemnly. 

Harry was now so close that Tom could count each of his eyelashes if he wished. They were long, curved, and utterly beguiling. Tom had never seen a boy wearing makeup before, but the effect on Harry was striking. Tom’s breath caught in his throat. 

“I'm really drunk right now,” Harry whispered into Tom’s ear. Harry giggled and wobbled forward, his head landing on Tom’s shoulder and resting there. 

Tom could scarcely breathe, lest he disturb Harry and lose the weight of him leaning against him. Still, Tom couldn't stop himself from moving his nose closer to Harry’s hair. 

Oh, that was unpleasant. Tom ought to have known. Harry smelled like liquor and vomit. Tom should have waited to sneak a sniff when Harry was in a more ordinary state. 

Harry mumbled something into Tom’s shoulder. 

“Didn't catch that, darling,” Tom said. 

Harry lifted his head, a perplexed smile on his face. “Did you just call me darling?” 

Seeing no reason to conceal his admiration, Tom simply nodded. 

“Nobody’s ever called me that before,” Harry said. 

Nobody else ever would, as long as Tom had anything to say about it. 

“C’mon, let's have tea and biscuits!” Harry said cheerily. 

Harry grabbed Tom's wrist and began to lead him to the kitchen, only to stop short with a small cry of pain. He let go of Tom and clasped his shoulder. 

“Oh, that smarts. Forgot about that. Oops.” 

Gently, Tom lifted the sleeve of Harry’s shirt to discover another bruise on his shoulder. 

“S’not a big deal,” Harry said, “Just dislocated it. I can fix it. I used to do it all the time.” 

Harry moved away. Tom watched in horror as Harry approached a wall and began to smack his dislocated shoulder against it. 

“Harry! Stop!” Tom gasped. Harry stopped for a moment, giving Tom a blank stare, only to smack his shoulder against the wall again. This time, his shoulder popped back into place with a sickening crack. 

“We could have used magic,” Tom said weakly. 

Harry rolled his shoulders, wincing. “We’re underage. I almost got expelled for underage magic last summer.” 

“This is a magical dwelling protected under the Fidelius charm,” Tom said, “The ministry can't trace any magic you do here.” 

Harry's eyes widened. Really? Nobody had told him this? Tom was filled with a renewed annoyance for the adults in Harry’s life. 

“You can fix my face then,” Harry said cheekily, “I don't think hitting it against the wall would help.” 

Tom desperately wanted to know who had harmed Harry. Was it one of the relatives he had been staying with? Tom followed Harry into the kitchen, brainstorming plots for vengeance. 

Tom started to brew tea while Harry tore apart the cabinets in search of biscuits. Tom had not spotted any in the time he had been living at Grimmauld, but he had not searched as thoroughly as Harry was. 

Tom was pouring the tea into the nicest mugs he could find when the kitchen fireplace glowed green and Snape stepped out. 

Well, that explained why Snape had not come to investigate the noise earlier. He was off on one of his obligations. 

Snape sighed heavily and dusted off his robes, before finally noticing Tom sitting at the table. 

“Why are you still awake?” Snape asked, brows furrowing. 

Harry popped his head out of a cabinet. “Snape! What are you doing here?” 

Snape looked completely taken back then. “Potter?” 

“That's me, your favorite celebrity” Harry slurred, “Say Snape, do you know where the biscuits are? I’ve been looking everywhere.” 

Snape blinked. “There are no biscuits, Potter. Why are you here?” 

Harry frowned adorably. “Hey, I asked you that first. And what do you mean, no biscuits?” 

“I have been charged with supervising you and Mister Riddle for the summer,” Snape said. 

“You?” Harry asked, aghast, “You're our babysitter?” 

“Believe me, Mister Potter, I am displeased with the situation as you are,” Snape said dryly. 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Alright. So, we’re out of biscuits, then?” 

“I did not purchase biscuits to begin with,” Snape said. 

Harry looked stricken. “You didn't?” 

“Surely even you aren’t so spoiled that you cannot abide a lack of biscuits at past three in the morning,” Snape said. 

Harry glared at Snape. “That's not the point,” he snapped, “I told Dumbledore that my money was to be used for whatever Tom needed! Did you not stop and think that maybe he needed biscuits? Why would you not get him biscuits?” 

“Biscuits are not a necessity!” Snape shouted. 

Harry stumbled back, clutching the counter for support. 

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Potter,” he said icily, “You're drunk.” 

“No, you're drunk,” Harry retorted with a huff. 

Snape’s already unpleasant features twisted in rage. “You idiotic self-centered boy! So many people are risking their lives daily to keep you alive and this is how you behave! You are a disgrace.” 

Harry stiffened. Tom went to stand next to him. “Clearly,” Tom drawled, “Those protecting Harry aren't doing their due diligence, seeing that someone harmed Harry tonight. Don't you see the bruise on his face?” 

Snape scoffed and Tom hated him. “Oh, I am positive Potter just got drunk and got into one of the muggle-style brawls he is so fond of. You will soon see what type of boy you have so foolishly yoked yourself to.” 

Tom imagined flaying the sallow skin from Snape’s hateful face, revealing the fat and muscle beneath. Tom felt Harry’s hand on his arm, light but sure. Tom released a shaky breath. 

“Perhaps, as our designated caretaker, you could heal Harry’s injuries rather than continuing to insult him,” Tom said. 

“It's okay, Tom,” Harry said quietly, “I don't want him to heal me.” 

Snape laughed without humor. “Ah yes Potter, you do not wish to accept healing from a professional. One who, in fact, kept the boy you are currently clinging to alive when he was on the brink of death just weeks ago. I am sure you will fare much better on your own.” 

“It's just a few bruises,” Harry said, “I just wanna go to bed.” 

“I will show you your room,” Tom said. 

As Tom and Harry left the kitchen, Snape called after them. “I will be informing Professor Dumbledore of your behavior, Potter!” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry said under his breath, “Fifty points from Gryffindor. Twelve years detention. I get it.” 

Harry’s belongings were no longer in the entrance hall, so Tom surmised that Kreacher had already taken them to Harry’s bedroom. Carefully, Tom led Harry up the stairs, delighting in the opportunity to hold on to his arm. 

“Whoa,” Harry said when they got to the door, “Isn't this the master suite? Kreacher wouldn't let any of us even come near here last summer. He’d actually snarl at us.” 

“It's yours now, Harry,” Tom said proudly, “I hope it's to your liking. I had to make do with decorating it from what I could find around the house.” 

Harry looked around the room, eyes wide with wonder. It was the largest bedroom in the house, decorated in a manner that Tom imagined would fit the Palace of Versailles. Giggling, Harry flopped backward on his four-poster bed, still in his street clothes and shoes. 

“This is the nicest place I've ever slept,” he said dreamily. 

“You're still in your shoes,” Tom pointed out. 

Harry looked down at his feet. “Oh right, awfully gauche of me. Sorry.” 

“I could remove them for you,” Tom offered. 

Truthfully, Tom wished to remove all of Harry’s undoubtedly filthy clothing and dress him in silk pajamas, but Tom was aware that their relationship may not be at that stage just yet. All in due time. He could start with Harry’s strange-looking shoes. 

“Er, sure,” Harry said. He lifted one of his legs and wiggled his foot in Tom’s direction. 

Tom grabbed Harry’s ankle and gently pulled him so his legs were hanging off the bed. The sight of Harry suddenly sprawled out beneath him was almost too much to bear. Swallowing thickly, Tom focused on untying the laces on the first shoe and pulling it off. 

Harry’s feet weren't very large, Tom noted. The shoes he was wearing gave them a cartoonish shape. Tom peeled off Harry’s sock and admired the dainty arch of his beloved’s foot. 

Tom repeated the process on Harry's other foot, setting his shoes by the door afterwards. Tom considered throwing out Harry’s socks completely. One had a large hole in the toe. Tom ended up putting them in the laundry receptacle. Perhaps Kreacher would mend them. 

“Snape could be right, you know,” Harry said softly. 

“Pardon?” 

Harry pushed himself up into a sitting position. “I could totally be drunk and debaucherous. Going out constantly getting into brawls.” 

Tom laughed softly and sat on the edge of Harry’s bed. “Somehow, I doubt that very much.” 

“You've just met me though,” Harry said with a yawn, “How would you know?” 

“Call it a hunch then.” 

Harry laid back again, stretching his limbs like a starfish. “Yeah, you're right. I've never even had alcohol before tonight. Just wanted to be normal for five minutes, y’know?” His voice sounded distant as he stared at the ceiling. 

Tom had never wished to be normal. He had always wanted others to notice how exceptional he was. Harry seemed to be humble in a way that Tom didn't quite understand. 

“Did you know there's stars on the ceiling?” Harry asked. 

“Yes, lovely aren't they?” The constellations painted on the ceiling were Tom’s favorite feature of the room. 

Harry patted the bed next to him, “Come look at them with me,” he said casually, as if he wasn't granting Tom’s most fervent wish. 

Tom removed his slippers and laid down next to Harry, close enough for their shoulders to touch. Harry reached over and rubbed his thumb against the sleeve of Tom’s dressing gown. 

“This is nice,” he commented, “At least Snape got you nice things to wear, even if he cocked it up with the biscuits.” 

“Oh, Kreacher gave me this,” Tom replied. 

“Kreacher likes you. I can't believe it," Harry said, awed. 

“I have gained his allegiance, yes.” 

“How, though?” Harry asked incredulously, “He hates everyone!” 

“I merely told him that I would do my best to restore the Black family legacy.” 

Harry snorted. “You know, my godfather Sirius hated this house. Hated this family. Hated the whole legacy. Bit weird he gave it all to me." 

“It's your legacy now, darling. You can do whatever you wish with it,” Tom said. 

Harry hummed, his eyes slowly closing. “Mmm, well the first order of business is biscuits.” 

“Certainly.” 

“For you, of course,” Harry yawned, “‘Cause you came all this way.” 

Tom wasn't sure why Harry was so fixated on Tom having biscuits, but it was certainly endearing. Truly, it was the first time Tom could recall anyone being so concerned about him being well cared for. 

Tom turned to give Harry a fond look and discovered he had fallen asleep. He looked younger like this, with the worries smoothed from his brow. So sweet. Slowly, Tom removed Harry's glasses and placed them on the table next to the bed. 

Tom was unsure of Harry’s feelings on propriety. He appeared quite modern, though Tom was unsure what the standards of this new time were. Either way, it would have been appropriate to go back to his bedroom and allow Harry to sleep. 

But Harry could become ill in the night. It was better for Tom to stay nearby, just in case. 

Besides, Harry had not let go of Tom’s sleeve. It would be impossible to get up without disturbing his slumber. 

So, Tom closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off as well. 

Chapter Text

Harry drifted into awareness. The first feeling he registered was pain: sharp jabbing in his temple, aches in his jaw and shoulder. He shifted on the bed, letting out a tiny involuntary whine. His face was against something soft and silky. He burrowed into it further, not ready to face the new day. At least the bed was comfortable. He certainly wasn't laying in his bed at the Dursleys which had a lumpy mattress and cheap itchy bedding. If he wasn't there, though, where was he? 

The previous evening came back to him in broken pieces. He had gone to a party with Dudley. He had drunk alcohol, lots of it. Then, he ran into Vernon. Oops. 

The memories only grew hazier after that. He had taken the Knight Bus to Grimmauld. Tom had been kind and concerned, while Harry had been a complete mess. 

Had he really had a row with Snape about biscuits? 

Harry groaned, further nuzzling into the warmth his head was resting against. Belatedly, he realized it may not have been a pillow. Harry slowly cracked his eyes open. They felt practically glued together and even the low light of the room made him want to hiss and close them again. Ignoring the discomfort, Harry opened his eyes completely. 

He wasn’t resting against a pillow. He was snuggled up against Tom. The warm silk he had been pressing his face against like a cat was Tom’s dressing gown. 

Oh, dear Merlin. 

Tom was still sleeping, flat on his back with his mouth slightly parted. Harry had been the one who had curled against him in his sleep. How mortifying. 

Harry had shared a bed with Ron at the Burrow before, but even though they were crammed together all night, Harry had never woken up cuddling him. In contrast, the bed Harry was in now was huge. He had plenty of room to spread out, yet he was clinging to Tom like a limpet. 

Harry gently attempted to untangle himself without waking Tom. He was sure he had already interrupted Tom’s slumber by barging into the house in the middle of the night. Harry didn't want to be responsible for waking him again. 

Harry was relieved to notice that he had not woken up with an erection. He was already embarrassed enough, thank you. He pointedly did not look down at Tom’s crotch area, even though he was a little curious. 

Nope. Harry mentally spritzed himself with a spray bottle. He already felt like enough of a creep. Especially since something about Tom’s sleep-soothed countenance made Harry just want to stare at him. He looked a lot like a beautiful young god expertly carved from marble. Harry could remember catching glimpses of a movie Dudley enjoyed as a child where a singing mermaid kept a statue of a prince amongst her treasures. 

Tom was a bit like that, Harry thought. Ethereal. Untouchable. Yet, he wasn't untouchable, actually. Harry had just been touching him. He had touched him several times the previous night. Harry, who still fought not to flinch at a hug from his closest friends, could still remember his drunken urge to move closer to Tom, to put his hands on him. It had to be the alcohol. 

Harry had read a lot of Tom’s diary back in the Hospital Wing. He knew why Tom was here. He knew Tom thought Harry was his soulmate and wanted to pursue a relationship. All these facts fit together in Harry’s mind, but at the same time, it was all incomprehensible. All in all, Harry felt a bit disgusted with his slovenly behavior. He would have to apologize. 

First, Harry needed to get clean. He winced as he moved to a sitting position. Besides the pain from his head and Vernon’s beating, Harry also felt as if each of his limbs were weighed down by rocks. Despite living under the same roof as a renowned potion master, Harry was positive a hangover cure was not in his immediate future. The lingering effects of his intoxication would have to be endured. He probably owed Snape an apology as well, but the man was such a dick. Harry doubted anything he said would smooth things over with Snape. He always thought the worst of Harry. It was hopeless. Harry didn't know how he was going to survive the summer in such close proximity to him. 

Harry got out of the bed. His vision was blurred without his glasses, but he was able to see the gleam of his lenses on the bedside table. He lumbered over and slid them on, bringing the room into sharp clarity. 

His quarters were certainly regal. The walls were a soft blue, trimmed in white and gold. There was a large vanity that Harry couldn't really see himself sitting in front of. But he could imagine Tom sitting there, combing his hair into its perfect coif. The image brought a smile to Harry’s face. 

Harry found his trunk at the foot of the bed. The first thing he saw when he opened it was a piece of notebook paper placed on the top of his belongings. On it, Dudley had attempted graffiti-style lettering with the message “DON’T JUMP HAZZA”. Harry snorted and put it back in the trunk. Harry dug out his bag of toiletries, one of his new T-shirts, pants, and a pair of athletic shorts. 

The en-suite bathroom was absurdly nice, especially compared to the frightening one he had used at Grimmauld the previous summer. There was an ornate clawfoot tub, large enough to fit at least three people by Harry’s estimation. Harry thought a soak sounded quite nice, but he wouldn't feel properly clean without a shower. 

The shower was huge as well, with multiple taps and showerheads that Harry wasn’t sure what to do with. Harry felt too exhausted to be up for much experimentation, so he turned the largest tap and hoped for the best. The shower was the perfect temperature the entire time. After Harry was thoroughly scrubbed down, he didn't quite feel as alive and alert as he wished to be, but he was marginally better than he had when he first woke up. 

Tom was still sleeping when Harry walked back into the bedroom. For a moment, Harry considered crawling under the covers next to him. A loud grumble from his stomach changed his mind. 

Apparently, Tom had gained Kreacher’s favor, but Harry doubted that sentiment extended toward himself. Like he thought, there was no house-elf in the kitchen making breakfast. Thankfully, there was no Snape in the kitchen either. Harry was Kreacher's master now. He could call the elf and ask for breakfast, but the idea of that made his skin crawl. Also, Harry was still harboring more than a little resentment about the part Kreacher played in Sirius’s death. He would have to face him again eventually, but perhaps not at this moment. 

When Harry had last stayed at Grimmauld, the kitchen was always the cleanest space, thanks to Molly’s near-constant presence within. It looked even better now, friendlier somehow. It was woefully lacking in supplies, however. Harry finally understood the “hangover breakfast” stereotype, but unfortunately lacked what he would need to make a full English spread. 

Making a note to inquire about owl-ordering groceries, Harry started grabbing ingredients to make breakfast for himself and Tom. If Snape was hungry, he could fend for himself. Fucking git. 

Harry had just begun to boil the eggs when he heard soft footsteps behind him. He turned to find Tom in the doorway, wide-eyed and silent. He was dressed in a full set of robes, forest green with embroidered branches. 

“Eggs and soldiers okay with you?” Harry asked.

Tom said nothing, only kept staring ahead. Now feeling concerned, Harry moved closer to Tom. There were loads of old cursed objects in this house. Had Tom accidentally touched one? 

“You alright?” Harry asked. 

Tom blinked, seemingly coming back to himself. “Ah yes, I'm well. Eggs and soldiers would be perfection.” 

“Great,” Harry said, grinning. 

“I'll prepare the tea,” Tom said. 

Tom’s voice still sounded strange and stilted. Was Tom uncomfortable with Harry’s touchiness? Was he ashamed of Harry’s drunkenness? Harry flushed and turned his attention back to cooking. Tom seemed so refined. Was eggs and soldiers too juvenile of a meal choice? 

It was something he had always been jealous of Dudley for eating as a child. Harry had eaten boiled eggs and toast, but Petunia had never given him a fancy egg cup or cut his toast into strips to dip into the egg. Having a kitchen of his own made Harry want to experience that for himself. 

“Hopefully I can figure out owl ordering groceries today,” Harry said, keeping his tone light, “I don't think Snape will let me pop off to the supermarket, do you?” 

“And clearly, he can't be trusted to go on his own,” Tom drawled, “Can't even get biscuits.” 

Harry choked out a laugh. “Yeah, I'm surprised he got anything more than seeds and berries.” 

“Seeds and berries?” 

“Yeah, or whatever bats eat,” Harry said, turning to look at Tom over his shoulder. 

Comparing Snape to a bat was such an old joke that it barely got a response from most people. Still, it delighted Harry to see Tom laugh at his unoriginal humor. He would allow Tom to think that Harry had come up with the comparison on his own for now. 

“How are you feeling this morning?” Tom asked once they were both seated with their meals in front of them. 

“Could be better,” Harry said, “I don't think I'll be drinking again anytime soon.” 

“Shame,” Tom replied, eyes glinting with mirth, “I happen to know this house contains a cellar filled with the finest collection of vintage elf wine I've ever seen.” 

Surely, Harry wasn't considering drinking again after the night he just had.  

“Snape would hang me from the banister by my ears,” Harry said morosely. 

Tom dipped his toast into his egg primly. “He hasn't been paying much attention to me since we’ve been here,” he said, “He also leaves fairly often. I'm not sure where he goes.” 

“Well, this used to be the Headquarters of The Order of the Phoenix,” Harry said. At Tom’s confused look, he added, “That's Dumbledore’s organization for fighting against Voldemort. I assume they're meeting elsewhere now.”

Harry lowered his voice in case aforementioned dungeon bat was lurking nearby. “Snape is also a spy. He was a Death Eater during the first war and turned at some point. Now, he's playing both sides. He's probably meeting with Voldemort as well.” 

Tom huffed. “Well, he's awfully self-righteous for someone with that kind of past.” 

Harry nodded fervently. “That's what I'm saying!” 

Harry didn't doubt that Snape's position was extremely taxing and dangerous. It was just difficult to properly feel bad for him because he was such a berk. 

“He went to school with my dad,” Harry said, “Honestly, my dad was a bully. He and his friends were awful to Snape. I accidentally saw a memory last year-” Harry shuddered, not wanting to explain further, “But Snape thinks I'm just like my dad just because I look like him and I don't think there's anything I can do to change his mind on that. He's just always going to hate me.” 

Harry hadn't felt properly mauldin about his situation with Snape since his first year, but suddenly he felt like he was being whiny. At least, Tom didn't appear to be annoyed with Harry. 

“That's how it always was with Dumbledore and myself. No matter what I did, he was always suspicious of me,” Tom sighed, “Though, he always acted polite. He would have never spoken to me the way Snape spoke to you last night.” 

“I can't believe I shouted at him about biscuits,” Harry said, face heating with embarrassment, “I promise I'm not a spoiled brat.” 

“Never thought you were,” Tom said lightly. 

“It's just,” Harry closed his eyes as he tried to find the right words, “You were mostly alone in this gloomy old house. I just wanted you to have nice things.” 

“Thank you,” Tom said, meeting Harry’s eyes. It was still difficult to reconcile this Tom with the one from the Chamber. Harry couldn't imagine that version of Tom looking at him so softly, though at times Harry had wished he would. 

“Though, I guess it's not a gloomy old house any more,” Harry said, “Even those horrible mounted elf-heads are gone!” 

“Yet another thing Kreacher and I had a tremendous row about. I reminded him that Orion despised the ugly old things as well.” 

“Orion? As in Sirius’s dad?” 

“The very same. We were friends in school. I visited him here during the Yule holidays once. I was acquainted with Walburga as well,” Tom quirked an eyebrow and smiled mischievously, “Unfortunately.” 

It was strange to imagine Tom palling around with Orion Black in this house, back during its glory days. It made sense why Tom would have wanted to restore it. 

“I'm sure you hated the sight of this place when you got here,” Harry said. 

Tom shuddered. “It was frightful, but I think the house just needed someone to appreciate it.” 

“It certainly wasn't appreciated before,” Harry admitted. 

“I've been doing some light reading about house magic,” Tom said, “I haven't looked into it too deeply before, because I doubted I would ever be able to live in an old magical dwelling like this one. I certainly think this house is sentient though. I think over time if it continues to be appreciated that it may even make new rooms based on what it thinks you might like.” 

“That's fascinating,” Harry said, “Reminds me of this room at Hogwarts that changes based on what you need.” 

“Oh! I know that room too,” Tom said, “I call it the Room of Hidden Things. You can find all sorts of interesting objects there.”

“I used it to hold an illegal Defense group last year,” Harry said. 

At Tom’s questioning look, Harry launched into an explanation about the DA and Umbridge’s reign of tyranny. In return, Tom told Harry a bit about his own tutoring group and political organization he formed in school called The Knights of Walpurgis. Harry did his best not to think about how many of Tom's Knights later became the first Death Eaters. It was odd though, as nothing about Tom’s original group sounded all that extreme. They seemed mostly interested in dueling and arcane magic. Harry supposed that the rampant blood-supremacy either emerged later or there was a significant shift between the Knights of Tom’s dimension and the same club Voldemort started in this one. 

When Harry’s tea was gone, Tom poured them each another cup. Harry couldn't help smiling as he watched Tom spoon several heaping tablespoons of sugar into his cup. Clearly, he liked sweet things. From what he remembered from history class in primary school, Tom probably had not had access to sweets and pastries all that often in his time. Once they got better groceries, Harry would try his hand at baking. 

It was surprising how easy spending time with Tom was. During breakfast, most of the worries that had been nagging at Harry about his drunken behavior had faded away. Harry felt similarly to how he had felt on that first train ride to Hogwarts with Ron. It was like they had always known each other. 

But unlike with Ron, Harry’s interaction with Tom was charged with something more. Something he didn't know if he could name. 

Harry wasn't even sure he believed in soulmates, but if they didn't exist, what else could Tom’s ritual have pointed to? 

“I wish I had my wand,” Tom said, frowning, “I hate seeing you bruised like that.” 

Harry looked away, suddenly bashful. “It's not that bad.”

“Any mark on you is affront to nature,” Tom said. 

Harry glanced back at Tom. His eyes were sharp as steel, conviction absolute. Harry couldn't bring himself to laugh off the dramatic statement. 

“Was your wand yew and phoenix feather as well?” Harry asked. 

“Yes,” Tom said, looking surprised. 

“Mine is holly and phoenix,” Harry said, “The feathers came from the same phoenix, who only ever gave two.” 

“Extraordinary,” Tom breathed, his face alight with awe. 

“Maybe, er, my wand might work okay for you? If you wanted to try healing the bruises,” Harry offered, hoping he didn't sound like an idiot who didn't know anything about wand lore. 

“You would allow me?” Tom’s cheeks colored and Harry admired the warmth it brought to his face. 

“Yeah, sure,” Harry said. He held his wand out for Tom to take. 

Tom looked over the wand reverently, gently sliding his finger over the wood. Harry’s breath caught as he suddenly remembered Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets, causally twirling Harry’s wand as he monologued about his plan to kill him. 

But this wasn't the same boy. Maybe Harry was foolish and irresponsible for thinking so, but he was sure Tom wouldn't harm him. In fact, he felt safer with Tom at the moment than he could remember feeling in years. 

Tom rose from his seat and walked over to Harry. His hand moved towards Harry’s face, slowly as if in askance. Harry nodded and Tom closed the distance, cradling Harry’s jaw against his palm. 

“I'm going to heal you now,” Tom said, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Go ahead.” 

Tom raised the wand and held it against the bruise where Vernon had punched Harry in the face. With a whispered spell, Harry felt the area tingle and grow warm, the pain fading instantly. 

“How’s that?” Tom asked, looking uncharacteristically nervous. 

“Feels great,” Harry said. 

“I'll do the shoulder now.” 

Tom rolled up Harry’s sleeve and repeated the spell on his shoulder. Once again, Harry felt the warm tingling sensation as the bruise healed. Tom withdrew, letting go of Harry’s face and stepping away. 

Harry rolled his shoulder and neck, smiling at the complete lack of pain. “Thank you,” he said. 

“Of course,” Tom said, giving Harry back his wand, “and thank you for your trust.” 

Harry felt something light and fluttery in his chest at that. 

“Will you show me the rest of the house?” Harry asked. 

“Certainty,” Tom said. 

Tom took Harry on quite the grand tour through the halls of Grimmauld Place. It was astounding how much he had accomplished in two short weeks. After spending last summer constantly cleaning, there had been very little to show for the effort. Clearly, the old house was happy Tom was there and that knowledge warmed Harry’s heart. 

Harry had never noticed or appreciated the sheer number of rooms in the house. He never knew about the ballroom, dueling arena, or the ritual room. The latter two would have certainly been off-limits to him the previous summer, Harry was sure. The ballroom was stark and empty, but breathtaking all the same. Harry wondered if he would ever be the type of person who could put a space like that to proper use. He still had the occasional anxiety induced dream about dancing at the Yule Ball. Funnily enough, Harry found them a nice reprieve from the usual nightmares. It was funny how much something so small had mattered at the time. 

Hermione had been extremely interested in the library, but had been chased off by a harried Mrs Weasley. Of course, Hermione had pouted tremendously at the insult. 

“I can't believe so many of the books in here were just discarded,” Tom lamented, “Priceless knowledge. Irreplaceable.” 

Harry knew he wasn't much of a bookworm, but he appreciated Tom’s sentiment all the same. Now, he wished he had done something about how Grimmauld had been stripped of so many artifacts and books. At the time, he had been so consumed by grief and anger, Harry had barely comprehended how callous the Order had been with the ancient home. 

At the time, Harry had no love for the house either. He saw it as a place that tortured Sirius with unpleasant memories. But through Tom’s eyes, Harry saw something more. 

The cruelty of Sirius’s parents had tainted this place, but before that there had been centuries of Blacks who found a home and refuge there. Standing in the room with the Black family tapestry with Tom, Harry also saw a future stretching out before him, all contingent on how he decided to use the legacy Sirius had left him. 

Harry pressed his finger against the blackened space where Sirius’s name had once been. Underneath the space, a golden thread now led to Harry’s name. It had not been present the last time Harry viewed the tapestry. 

“I wish I could put his name back on here,” Harry said, “Though, I don't even know if he would want that.” 

“I think he would be pleased to be acknowledged as your family, Harry,” Tom said. 

“Yeah,” Harry said, lips curling into a smile, “I'm going to fix this. I’ll put everyone back on it.”

Tom was giving Harry yet another soft look that he had no idea what to do about. 

“Thank you again,” Harry said, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe, “You've gone through so much effort.” 

“This is your home now,” Tom said, “You deserve only the best.” 

Harry had never had a home of his own. Number 4 hadn't counted. Hogwarts was the closest Harry had gotten to having a home, but it didn't really belong to him. Tom was raised in an orphanage and had left everything behind. He deserved a home as well. 

“It's yours too,” Harry said quickly, “I mean it, Tom. This is your home as well, as long as you want it to be.” 

Something about the words felt uniquely charged, static sparking against his tongue as he spoke them. For a moment, the air around them felt heavier, as if the house itself was acknowledging Harry’s decree. 

Unbeknownst to either Harry or Tom, the tapestry behind them had already begun to weave something new. 

Chapter Text

For nearly all of Severus Snape’s life, he had been cruelly teased and mocked by children. 

As a child on Spinner’s End, he was the dirty freak who spoke strangely and dressed in his mother's old clothes for lack of anything else to wear. His father, somehow ignorant of how he had caused the conditions that made Severus a pariah among the other schoolchildren, urged him to put down his books and go outside and play. 

“Just go toss a ball around, roll in the mud, just be normal, for Christ’s sake,” the man grumbled as he pushed Severus out the door. 

Even when Severus, Circe forbid, attempted to smile and join in on the neighborhood games, more often than not he ended up with a face full of mud and fresh bruises for his trouble. 

Then, Severus had met someone like him. Lily. 

She wasn't really much like Severus, besides their shared magic. Lily was beautiful while Severus was ugly, vibrant while he was sullen, and she was kind while Severus was sharp-tongued and hateful. 

But at least, for a time, Lily had loved him regardless. 

Hogwarts was an escape from the horrors of his home but also held even children to torment him. There was James Potter and his gang of miscreants, who thought Severus was weird, ugly, poor, and dark. Then, there were his housemates who also thought he was weird, ugly, and poor, but not dark enough. 

After his brief tenure in the Dark Lord's service, Severus returned to Hogwarts to be tormented by children once more. Once again he was weird, ugly, and dark. In addition, he was strict, cruel, and unfair. 

Children were uniquely cruel, Severus learned. Their insults no longer harmed him. Severus knew himself. He knew which taunts were true and which were false. As for the taunts that were true, he learned to accept them. 

Severus knew he was unsightly to most. The knowledge no longer bothered him the majority of the time. 

So, he was not sure why his thoughts were turning so self-deprecating at this time when he had more pertinent problems to deal with. 

‘No one could ever want you,’ the nasty voice in his mind snarled as Severus rubbed the salve on his hands. His hands looked as if they belonged to one much older than himself, gnarled, veiny, and yellowed by exposure to potion ingredients. ‘No one could truly want those horrible hands on them.’ 

Severus scoffed at his internal monologue. He wasn't the desperate one. The wolf was practically begging for it. He clearly didn't find Severus’s form too displeasing. 

‘Or he wants something from you. You’ll let anyone use you as they please if you get a drop of affection in return. Whore.’ 

Severus knocked back a nerve regeneration draught. Enduring the Dark Lord’s Cruciatus was something that never got easier. The spell was designed with that in mind. Still, Severus could prepare for the aftermath and lessen the lingering effects. 

The treatment worked best within three hours post-exposure to the curse. Severus had not expected to be waylaid by Potter stinking of a distillery and shouting at him about biscuits. 

If the delay caused Severus's brewing to suffer due to a prolonged hand tremor, Severus would find a way to have Potter scrubbing soiled bed pans every Saturday of his entire sixth year. 

Severus sat on the edge of the bed and sighed. Compared to how Grimmauld Place had blossomed in the past fortnight, the quarters Severus chose for himself remained dark and wretched. As a moody teenager, he would have found it poetic. Severus could move his belongings to one of the restored guest rooms, but he suspected within days wherever he chose would wither with his presence. The little Lordling despised Severus and his house did as well. 

Severus needed to clear his mind. With a deep breath in and out, he began to sort his thoughts. The wolf went back into his cage. Severus’s anger at Potter’s reckless stupidity faded into the background along with the cold dread Severus had felt at Riddle's display of possessiveness over the boy. 

In place of the unsettling thoughts, Severus called forth the memory of Lily Evans. 

Lily handed Severus an ice lolly on a hot summer day. Lily grinned triumphantly at Severus when their experimental potion succeeded. Lily laughed and twirled as the snow fell on the ground around her.  

With her image in mind, Severus drew his wand and called forth his patronus. 

The sleek silver doe emerged from his wand and looked at him expectantly.

“Message for Albus Dumbledore,” Severus rasped, “Potter has arrived ahead of schedule. I will provide more information at our next meeting. I am available to meet with you in the afternoon.” 

The doe leaped into the air and slowly faded away. Severus then prepared for bed. As he pulled his blankets over himself, Albus’s phoenix patronus appeared and opened its beak. 

“Please come to my office at three in the afternoon. You may floo there directly.” Albus’s voice was rough. Severus was sure his message had woken Albus up, but he could not summon any remorse. 

With that taken care of, Severus allowed himself to drift off to sleep. 

Severus allowed himself a lie in. He deserved it. Potter and Riddle could spend the morning fornicating on every surface of Grimmauld Place for all he cared. As long as they didn't disturb his potion’s lab, Severus would not be getting out of bed before noon. 

Severus doubted he would have any peace for the remainder of the summer holidays. There had been a tentative peace with Riddle, but after the events of the previous night, it had shattered. Severus knew very well how vindictive the Dark Lord could be. He shuddered to think of how Riddle, a hormonal teenage version of the monster, might express his displeasure. 

It may have been humorous to imagine the Dark Lord witnessing a younger version of himself doting upon his prophesied nemesis if that wouldn't immediately lead to Severus’s execution. 

When Severus finally got out of bed, he drank another nerve-replenishing draught and was pleased to note his hands no longer shook. He was hungry, but reluctant to leave the room. He considered drinking an appetite suppressant, but a nagging voice that sounded like Poppy changed his mind. He repeatedly faced the Dark Lord and lied to his face. He could go to the kitchen. 

Severus did not encounter Potter and Riddle on his journey downstairs. The house was eerily silent. Perhaps they were still sleeping. 

There was hardly anything left to eat in the kitchen. Severus really needed to go shopping to feed the ungrateful brats that had been forced upon him. Yet another task on his never-ending list of obligations. As he buttered his toast, Severus smirked imagining buying biscuits and keeping them locked away in his bedroom. 

After finishing his meager meal, Severus set off to search for Potter and Riddle. He had no desire to speak with them yet but was begrudgingly aware that he ought to at least see what they were up to. 

He found them in the drawing room. They were sitting closely on a floral loveseat and so utterly absorbed with each other that they did not even notice Severus in the doorway. 

They made an odd picture. Riddle was wearing expensive robes, looking very much like a pure-blood lord. Severus was unsure where he had gotten the robes as they certainly weren’t the ones Severus had purchased. Riddle must have just helped himself to the robes once worn by long-dead Black family members. Potter, the actual Lord of the house, was dressed in a muggle T-shirt with a photo of a woman wearing a crown and holding a bouquet. He was also wearing garishly crimson athletic shorts that were nearly indecent in length. They were looking over what appeared to be owl-order catalogs. 

“This is a fetching color,” Riddle commented, “Perhaps for the entrance hall?” 

Potter hummed in agreement. “We’ll have to figure out how to move Walburga’s portrait. Or I guess we can paint around her.” He smirked before adding, “Or over her.” 

Riddle laughed. “No need for any of that, darling. You can simply spell the paint on the walls. It only takes a moment and you needn’t move anything.” 

Darling. Severus put a hand to his mouth as bile climbed up his throat. 

Potter beamed at Riddle like he was staring into the sun. “I love magic.” 

Severus backed out of the room, disgusted by the display. 

He supposed that if the pair were focused on home maintenance, they would lack the time to cause trouble. Severus was well aware of the cellar full of elf wine and vintage fire whiskey. Unfortunately, Severus couldn’t even ward the space to keep Potter out. Now that Grimmauld Place belonged to him, no door would ever be barred to him. Severus’s only recourse was placing alarm charms on the doors of his bedroom and potions lab to notify him if someone besides himself entered. 

Severus went downstairs to check on the Polyjuice, content that Potter and Riddle would not do much damage away from his watchful eye. 

When three o’clock drew near, Severus cleaned up his space in the lab and placed several bubbling cauldrons under stasis before resetting the alarm charm on the door and heading up to the floo.

Potter and Riddle were still in the drawing room, but now Riddle was playing the piano while Potter continued to leaf through catalogs, peeking at Riddle over the pages with a cow-eyed expression. 

Severus grimaced and walked away. At the fireplace, he steadied himself for what would more than likely be an irritating discussion. He tossed in the floo powder, stepped into the flames, and called out, “Headmaster’s Office, Hogwarts!” 

“Good afternoon Severus,” Albus said jovially as Severus stepped out the fireplace, “Please have a seat.” 

Severus sat in his usual chair and poured a splash of milk into the cup of tea that was already waiting for him. He took a long sip and waited for Albus to speak. 

“Please tell me, how did Harry arrive at Grimmauld Place ahead of schedule? I was meant to fetch him today.” 

“I am unsure of the details,” Severus confessed, “I was called to the Dark Lord’s side last night. When I returned to Grimmauld Place, Potter was in the kitchen, falling over drunk-” 

“He was intoxicated?” Albus interjected, looking troubled. 

“Drunk and belligerent,” Severus griped. 

“And he did not say how he was transported to Grimmauld Place nor his reasoning for leaving the safety of the home of his guardians?” 

Severus shook his head. “He was not forthcoming. I believe he may be more open with you.” 

“Do you have any more relevant information to share?” 

“He had a large bruise on his face,” Severus said. 

At Albus’s look of concern, Severus clarified, “Judging by Potter’s brutal attack on Mister Malfoy last year, I merely assumed he was brawling with muggles.” 

“I have never known Harry to be recklessly violent in that way,” Albus said. 

Severus nearly rolled his eyes. Of course Albus did not see Potter as capable of violence. He had spent an entire year avoiding the boy while Severus had been constantly exposed to his presence. 

“You do understand why all of this concerns me?” Albus asked softly, “Especially considering the incident at the end of term.” 

Ah yes, Potter’s little stunt at the top of the astronomy tower. The more Severus reflected on it, the more he was sure that Potter would have never actually jumped. For all his faults, Potter was far too righteous to abandon his role in the upcoming war. Thoughts on the contrary were quickly tucked away in the back of Severus’s mind before he could reflect upon them. 

“Once again, I urge you to attempt to look past your animosity towards James Potter and see Harry for who he truly is,” Albus said in his frustratingly sage-like manner. The man thought every word from his lips was a drop of precious knowledge that Severus ought to be scrambling to consume. 

“Please Albus,” Severus said, taking another sip of tea to hide his sneer, “I did not come here for a psychology session.”

“Of course,” Albus said. His eyes did not leave Severus. Despite the urge, Severus did not look away. “Once our meeting has concluded, I will follow you back to Grimmauld Place to check in on Harry. I would like his assistance for an errand in the upcoming weeks.” 

Judging by Albus’s secretive tone, he most likely wanted Severus to inquire further on the nature of the errand. Severus did not rise to the bait. He did not care what the headmaster needed Potter for. 

“What of you meeting with Voldemort? Any new insights?” 

Severus could have sighed in relief at the change in topic. This was the role he was accustomed to. 

“The Dark Lord remains focused on capturing Potter, yet has abandoned his pursuit of full prophecy at the moment. The Death Eaters are restless. The Dark Lord intends to drive up fear and terror. He wishes to target several prominent light families,” Severus said. 

“Are there any targets that the Order can realistically save without blowing your cover?” Albus asked. 

Severus thought it over. “Perhaps Amelia Bones. She is high-profile enough to be seen as a potential target without inside information.” 

Albus sighed. “I doubt she will be open to receiving protection from the Order, but I will urge her to prioritize her safety.

This was the ugly game of war, deciding who could be spared and leaving the rest to be slaughtered. 

“Has Voldemort learned of Harry’s time in Saint Mungos?” Albus asked. 

“Not to my knowledge,” Severus said, “I doubt he shall learn of it. His efforts to place spies in the hospital have not been fruitful, due to the nature of the oaths employees must take.” 

“That is a relief to hear.” 

“The Dark Lord remains furious about the failure in the Department of Mysteries,” Severus continued, “With Lucius in Azkaban, the Dark Lord has decided to punish him through his family members. I believe that Draco will be marked by summer’s end.” 

“You know the boy well, Severus,” Albus said, “Do you believe he would accept the Order’s protection?” 

“The boy is weak-willed. He spouts his family’s ideology but lacks the true conviction to carry out the duties of a Death Eater. Nevertheless, Draco is too prideful to accept a way out, at least not only for himself. He would want his entire family under protection. Narcissa would potentially abandon the Dark Lord for Draco’s sake, but Lucius never would.” 

“Then perhaps while Lucius is imprisoned?” 

“The Dark Lord is punishing him by leaving him in Azkaban for now, but there will be another breakout. The threat of Lucius’s ire is another factor that would prevent Draco from deflecting. The boy puts his family above all else.” 

“An admirable quality,” Albus mused. 

If only it was enough to save him. 

Potter and Riddle were already in the kitchen when Severus returned to Grimmauld with Albus in tow. 

Potter appeared to be baking. The counters were covered in flour, bowls, and cooking utensils. Potter was wearing a flour-dusted apron and had managed to also get flour all over his face and in his hair. 

Riddle was at the table with a catalog, most likely in pursuit of draining the Potter and Black coffers dry. 

“Oh hello Professor,” Potter said brightly when he noticed Albus, “Good to see you.”

“I am pleased to see you as well, my boy,” Albus said, “Though I confess I am puzzled why you are here when I was meant to fetch you from your relatives today.” 

“Oh no,” Potter gasped, dropping the spoon in his hand, “I was going to owl you. Did you go over there?” 

Albus chuckled. “Ah, not to worry. Severus informed me when you arrived here last night. I was hoping we could all have a discussion.” 

Riddle had abandoned his catalog and was regarding Albus with a pinched expression. 

Potter nodded rapidly. “Sure, of course. I, er, have some pastries in the oven right now. They’ll be done in, er-” He looked towards Riddle. 

“Four and a half minutes,” Riddle supplied. 

Potter flashed Riddle a sunny grin. “Right, I suppose we can all head to the drawing room while they're cooling?” 

“That is acceptable,” Albus said, “and might I add, whatever you are baking smells wonderful.” 

“Thanks!” Potter said, “They’re chocolate chip croissants. You're welcome to have some when they're ready, of course.” 

Severus certainly had not bought any chocolate chips when he went shopping. He wondered if one of the owl-order catalogs were for groceries. If so, he was a bit grateful to be spared a trip to the shops. 

“Sounds delectable,” Albus replied. 

While waiting to take the croissants out of the oven, Harry busied himself cleaning up after himself. It was rather surprising, as Severus would have expected the boy to leave the kitchen in disarray after his baking experiment. Though now that he thought about it, Potter had never left a mess at his Potions station in class. 

The croissants that Potter removed from the oven actually looked edible, yet another surprise for the day. Riddle immediately began lavishing the boy with praise, which made Potter’s cheeks turn pink. Albus was smiling as if this display was anything other than disturbing. 

Potter removed his apron and hung it on a hook. Severus felt vaguely ill as he watched Potter allow Riddle to wipe the flour from his face with a wet cloth. Once his face was clean, Severus noticed that the bruise he had earlier was gone. 

Meanwhile, Albus was eying the croissants with interest. 

“Not yet!” Potter chided playfully, “You’ll burn your mouth, Professor!” 

Albus laughed while Riddle looked as if he wanted nothing more than for Albus to suffer a burnt tongue. 

“I believe it is time for our discussion,” Albus said. 

Potter immediately deflated as the consequences of his behavior neared. “Of course, Professor Dumbledore.” 

In the drawing-room, Potter and Riddle claimed the same loveseat as earlier. It was long enough for them to spread out, but they chose to sit so closely that their thighs were nearly flush. Albus and Severus each took an armchair facing them. 

“I must say, this room is greatly improved from the last time I visited,” Albus commented. 

“Oh, it was all Tom, really,” Potter gushed, “He's been busy sprucing up the place since he's been here.” 

“Is that so?” Albus smiled warmly at Riddle, “Excellent work, my boy.” 

Riddle's responding smile was tense. “I wished to make this home as welcoming as possible for Harry when he arrived.” 

“I am sure he is appreciative!” Albus chortled. “Now Harry, I found several things Severus told me about your arrival last night concerning. He believed you to be intoxicated?” 

Believed? No, Severus was certain. 

Potter hung his head shamefully. “I was,” he admitted, “My cousin wanted to drink together before I left for the rest of the summer.” 

“I am pleased to hear you are getting along better with young Dudley these days,” Albus said, “Though I cannot condone underage alcohol consumption, especially when being in a vulnerable state puts you at considerable risk.” 

“I understand,” Potter said to his knees, “I apologize for disappointing you.” 

“I understand you have undergone a great deal of turmoil recently,” Albus said soothingly, “I hope you have learned from this lapse in judgment.” 

“Of course sir,” Potter said, looking up with a contrite expression, “Never again.” 

Severus was incensed. Of course the boy would face no real repercussions for his actions. Severus was ever the fool for thinking he might this time.

“Severus also mentioned you had a bruise on your face, though I confess I do not see it now.” 

“Oh er-” Potter froze. 

“We owl-ordered some bruise paste,” Riddle said smoothly, “Worked like a charm.” 

Lie. 

“I see,” Albus said, “and how did you come to receive this injury?” 

“Well, I was drunk, sir. I fell down,” Potter said, his eyes darting to the side as he spoke. 

Another obvious lie. Why wasn't Albus picking up on the deception? Was he expecting Severus to be the one to bring it up? Allow Severus to play the role of villain to Albus’s kindly grandfatherly persona? Well, Severus refused. 

“How did you travel here?”

“Knight Bus,” Potter said, “Don't worry, there was only one old man on the bus and he slept the whole time. I don't think anyone is going to find out about it.” 

“That is a relief to hear though it troubles me that you were out alone and unprotected,” Albus said solemnly, “I hope I can trust you to stay here where you are safe unless accompanied by a member of the Order.” 

“Of course, sir.” 

“I am sure you are aware how important it is that Tom remains hidden until a suitable alternative identity can be established for him,” Albus continued. 

“I would never put him at risk, sir,” Potter said adamantly. 

Severus failed to hold in an aggrieved huff. Potter would never put the Dark Lord's counterpart at risk, but he would so easily risk himself? Idiotic child. 

After that, Albus seemed to believe the lecture was complete. “Now before I take my leave, I find I must take you up on that offer of a croissant.” 

“Sure!” Potter said, eagerly getting to his feet, “They ought to be fine to eat now.” 

The group returned to the kitchen. Well, that was a colossal waste of time. Severus clearly could not count on Albus to dole out any discipline. As always, the burden belonged to Severus alone. 

Potter gave everyone present, including Severus, a croissant. He did not even seem to begrudge handing off his baking to his most hated Professor, though he never met Severus’s eyes. 

“I would like to request your assistance with a small errand shortly before your birthday,” Albus told Potter, between bites of croissant. 

“I’ll help,” Potter said easily. 

“I am happy to hear it. I've heard a rumor that Mrs Weasley is planning quite a celebration at the Burrow in honor of your birth!” 

“Oh, that's nice,” Potter said absently. His gaze moved to Riddle nervously. “Tom can come right?” 

“I am sure that will be possible,” Albus said. 

Potter smiled. “Good,” he said. 

Finally, Severus stopped staring hatefully at his croissant and took a bite. 

Damn it all to Tartarus, Potter’s baking was delicious. 

Chapter Text

Two days of sharing a home with Harry Potter were better than any of the other days in Tom's life. 

Before, Tom thought that discovering the mythical Chamber of Secrets had been the best day of his life. It had been a heady accomplishment, certainly. However, the happiness he had felt then was minuscule compared to the joy Tom felt just watching Harry exist. 

Tom could be convinced that Harry was of the fae, completely crafted by magic. Yet, his beloved was so unassuming. He had no idea how captivating and beguiling he was. All the better for Tom to show him. 

Tom and Harry were standing in the entrance hall, which had once again been transformed. The walls were now a fetching shade of mauve. The hideous troll leg umbrella stand had been relocated to the room designated as “Kreacher’s Museum” which held the severed house-elf heads and all the other unsightly decor that Kreacher was so attached to. The umbrella stand was replaced with a beautiful golden coat rack that resembled the thin trunk of a tree with small branches attached to it. 

Even after consulting several books in the library, they were unable to find a way to remove Walburga’s portrait. Instead, the curtain covering had been replaced with one that was both more sturdy and attractive. It was warded so a slight breeze would no longer invite Wally's rage, but it was easy enough for Tom to open the curtain and bother the old hag if he was bored enough. 

But with Harry around, Tom doubted he would be bored again. 

The sitting room was currently filled with shrunken boxes with various owl-ordered furniture, decor, and paint. There were also boxes of new books in the library. Tom longed to visit the used bookstores nestled in Knockturn Alley, which would carry the types of books Tom was truly interested in: ones not found in any catalog. 

Neither Tom nor Harry had ever had a space to personalize to their own tastes. Harry admitted he wasn't entirely sure what sort of styles he preferred. 

“I don't like my Aunt and Uncle’s house, because it's so sterile and boring,” Harry said, “My best mate, Ron, has a brilliant house. You’ll see it when we go for my birthday. It's warm and cozy. I think having a cozy house would be nice.”

Harry also described Ron’s bedroom which was decorated in orange and filled with Quidditch memorabilia. Thankfully, Harry said the overall effect was a bit too much and the color hurt his eyes. Despite being an avid Quidditch player, Harry did not have a preferred team and had no interest in decorating with posters or pennants. Thank Merlin for that. Still, Tom decided to look for tasteful Quidditch-related decor that Harry might like, such as vintage brooms. 

Tom's taste was more refined, more influenced by the grandness of the Grimmauld Place of old. Both boys were influenced by the first homes they had been invited to by a friend.

Their preferences combined resulted in fine furniture, lots of natural light, and plenty of decorative pillows. 

“D’you think this room needs anything else?” Harry asked. 

Tom took in the space. Too many more additions would probably make the room too crowded. 

“Maybe some potted plants,” Tom suggested, “and perhaps some framed art or photographs to replace the heads.” 

“Oh, plants would be brilliant. My friend Neville is aces at Herbology. I should write to him for suggestions,” Harry said. 

“Wonderful idea,” Tom said. Tom did well in Herbology because he excelled in all subjects. However, he did not have much interest in the subject beyond learning what was required of him. 

Harry stared at the blank space of the wall where the heads once were mounted. “I think photographs would be nice. I have a book with some old ones of my parents. Now that I think about it, though, I don't really have any of my friends and I.” 

Harry frowned slightly. Tom moved to stand next to him. While intoxicated, Harry had touched Tom fairly freely but appeared shy about it now. Tom suspected that, like himself, Harry had not been subjected to much positive touch in his life. Gently, Tom placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. The tension in Harry’s stance seemed to drain instantly. 

“Perhaps we can look into getting a camera,” Tom said. 

“Yeah,” Harry said, “That sounds nice. Maybe Colin has some old pictures he can send me, too.” 

Tom asked who this Colin was, Harry told him about a tiny boy who relentlessly stalked Harry with a camera for an entire year. No wonder Harry didn't have many photos of himself. He probably did not like being subjected to the flash of a camera after enduring that. 

At Tom’s stormy look, Harry said, “He’s not like that anymore, I promise. He’s just… excitable.” 

Briefly, Tom allowed himself to imagine what the wall of photographs might look like after several years with Harry. They would travel the world together, so there would be plenty of photos documenting their travels. They would attend galas together as well, absorbing all the attention in the room. Tom wondered if Harry would be interested in a traditional hand-fasting ritual or if he would prefer a more modern bonding. Either way, they would have photos taken in their finest dress robes for the occasion. 

Tom pictured Harry dressed in robes of white and gold, adorned with flowers in his hair, with his eyes lined with kohl like they had been the night Harry came home. Tom’s robes would be darker in shade, but complement what Harry wore. They would be the perfect pair, magic’s blessed and chosen. 

“You have a dreamy look in your eyes,” Harry commented. 

Tom’s cheeks heated. “I'm just thinking about the future,” he said. 

Harry laughed. “I try not to do that too often,” he joked. 

Tom had not yet mentioned how he had appeared to Harry at the top of the Astronomy Tower and what he suspected Harry had been doing standing so close to the edge. Tom generally was unafraid to speak his mind on many matters, even on subjects that caused others discomfort. Yet, Tom was hesitant to bring this subject up. 

With Voldemort’s presence, Harry most likely only saw war and pain in his future. Tom would change that. The monster that shared Tom’s past would be destroyed. Anyone who dared to harm Tom’s precious soulmate would be similarly obliterated. 

For a moment, Harry gave Tom a studying look. 

“Recently, I've been thinking about it more,” Harry said eventually.

“Thinking about what?” 

“The future,” Harry said, offering Tom a tiny smile. 

Tom found Harry sitting on the floor in the drawing room next to a bulky contraption of some sort. It was black and was most likely some kind of muggle invention that had appeared in the last fifty years. Harry was studying a book in his lap, worrying his lip between his teeth. 

Harry was wearing shorts again. Today they were blue. When Tom first walked into the kitchen to find Harry wearing clothing that perfectly displayed the delectable curve of his arse and his muscular thighs, Tom had been in danger of passing out due to lack of oxygen. 

Tom’s overwhelmed reaction had been mortifying at the time, especially since Harry appeared to believe Tom had fallen ill. Tom had grown up hearing the priest at church telling women to cover their bodies to not tempt men to sin. Tom had scoffed at the message at the time. Perhaps the men should practice self-control, he thought. 

He understood it slightly more now, as seeing Harry so exposed was more tempting than anything Tom had ever witnessed. Still, Tom would never dare ask Harry to cover himself. Tom would take Harry's choice of revealing clothing as the precious gift that it was and further strengthen his self-control. 

“What is that thing?” Tom asked, looking at the contraption. 

Harry looked up from the book. “Oh, it's a tape deck. It plays music, like a gramophone.” 

There was already a magical gramophone in the room, so Tom wasn't entirely sure what use Harry had for that eyesore. Then, Tom saw a box that was filled with smaller plastic boxes. Tom grabbed a cushion and joined Harry on the floor. He lifted one of the plastic boxes. There was a drawing of a piano on it along with the title “Mozart and More: Classical Favorites”. 

“That’s a cassette tape. I wasn't sure what kind of music you liked, but I got that one and a few more with music from your time,” Harry said. 

Tom was touched by the gesture. In the orphanage, he had not been exposed to much popular music. He heard hymns in church and learned classical music for the piano. Occasionally, Mrs Cole would bring out a radio and allow the children to listen to it quietly, but Tom tended to avoid the crowd of children and find something else to do during that time. 

“Thank you, Harry. That's very thoughtful,” Tom said.  

“I haven't listened to very much music before this summer,” Harry said, “My aunt would play the radio sometimes but if I looked like I was enjoying myself too much she would turn it off or send me outside."

Once again, Tom was struck by the similarities between himself and his beloved. 

“My cousin gave me his old walkman this summer,” Harry continued, “It's a smaller version of the tape deck that you can carry around with you and it has headphones. I got this thing from the music store because I thought maybe you'd like to listen to music together?” 

Harry looked adorably earnest and hopeful. Silly boy, didn't he know Tom would do whatever pleased him? 

“I would be delighted to,” Tom said, “I am curious how music has changed since my time.” 

“It's changed loads, I reckon. I hope it's not too shocking.” 

“I'm sure I can handle it.”

“‘Course you can,” Harry said, grinning. He gestured towards the box of cassette tapes. “I've really fallen in love with all of this. I guess I never knew that music could make me feel things, y’know?” 

“The first time I heard Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2, I nearly wept,” Tom confessed in a soft voice. 

Harry’s smile grew even wider. “Play it for me sometime?” 

“I shall.” 

“Sirius really loved music as well. He said he was going to introduce me to all his favorites, but well…” Harry’s voice trailed off as his fingers fussed with the pages of the book in his lap. “Anyway,” he said, “Hermione sent me this book. She said it might help me be able to make the tape deck work here.” 

“I would be happy to assist,” Tom said. 

“Thanks,” Harry looked down at the book. “I'm decent with Charms, I think, but the stuff in here is a little more complex than anything I've done.”

“May I see?” Tom asked. 

“Sure,” Harry said, handing the book to Tom. 

Tom and Harry became absorbed in the project for hours, filling up several inches of parchment with notes. Harry tended to have unorthodox ideas that turned out to be rather brilliant. Tom could tell that Harry wasn’t used to being praised for his intellect. At Tom’s compliments, he often blushed and looked away. It was sweet. 

Tom would build Harry's confidence, but he would still look for ways to make Harry blush. 

When Harry mentioned taking a break for lunch, Kreacher surprised them both by popping into the room with a tray full of finger sandwiches.

“Don't think he’s ever done anything like that before,” Harry commented after the elf left, looking bewildered. 

“He's beginning to see you as a powerful Lord,” Tom said. 

“Guess so,” Harry said, picking up and studying a cucumber sandwich, “Weird.” 

As they ate lunch, Harry explained his previous interactions with Kreacher, which were largely negative. Tom was previously unaware of the role the elf had played in Sirius Black’s demise. 

“I know it wasn't even really his fault,” Harry said, “He didn't have to be truthful with me back then.” 

Harry had such a forgiving soul. Too forgiving, really. Though Tom had to admit he benefited greatly from the grace Harry handed out so freely. Even though Tom’s counterpart had injured Harry so gravely, Harry had shown no hesitation in opening up his home to Tom. He had even told Tom to consider Grimmauld Place his home as well. For an orphan boy who had never had a home before, it had been overwhelming. Tom had never met anyone like Harry Potter before. Tom was fairly certain his beloved was utterly unique in this world and all others. 

“It sounds like The Order of the Phoenix should have been aware that something like that could occur,” Tom said. From the pieces of information Harry had shared so far, Tom had serious doubts about the effectiveness of the organization. 

Harry appeared contemplative. “Sirius was wonderful,” he said, “but he hated being trapped in this house and he took it out on Kreacher. He was so cruel to him. I guess I can understand why Kreacher had no loyalty towards him. It was strange honestly. He could be volatile. I think anyone would after being locked in Azkaban for twelve years. But he usually was respectful to people. Except for Kreacher and Snape.” 

“Anything cruel he said to Snape was probably deserved,” Tom said. Tom was unable to think about the man without becoming furious. It was an outrage that Snape had ever been given a job that involved working with children. 

“It doesn't excuse how Snape acts now, but the stuff Sirius did to Snape when they were kids…” Harry began with a distant look in his eyes, “Well, I don't reckon anyone deserves that.” 

Harry tore his tiny sandwich into even smaller pieces. “There's so much I never understood about Sirius. I thought I would have more time to ask.” 

“He was complicated,” Tom surmised. 

Harry nodded. “He was the closest thing I ever had to a father, but really he wasn't much like a father at all. Not that I would know what a father is supposed to be like, really. I wanted him to be that for me. Now, I reckon I don't really need a dad.” 

“You didn't need one to turn out brilliantly,” Tom said. 

“Same for you,” Harry said. 

Once the tray was cleared of everything but a few stray crumbs, Harry and Tom resumed working on charming the tape deck. Harry seemed very eager to move on from the more vulnerable discussion and was even more fixated on the goal than he had been previously. 

Harry cast the final spell on the tape deck. “Moment of truth,” he said, before pressing a button. When a small red light glowed in response, Harry let out a triumphant whoop. 

“I can't wait to tell Hermione we figured it out,” Harry said gleefully, “She sent the book over, but I reckon she didn't actually think I would be able to do it. Though, I don't know if I would have done it without you.” 

Tom smiled back. “You would have worked it out on your own eventually.” 

Currently, Tom was not sure if Harry was simply insecure in his abilities or if people like his friend Hermione made him feel incapable. If the latter was true, Hermione would need to be corrected. 

Harry was nearly shaking with excitement as he picked out a tape. “Please don't blow up,” he pleaded to the machine as he inserted the tape. He pressed another button and music poured out of the speakers. 

Harry was correct. Music had changed dramatically over the last five decades. Tom was unsure if he liked what he was listening to. The moody guitars were accompanied by a deep male voice that was difficult for Tom to understand. 

“What kind of music is this?” Tom asked. 

“This band is called Joy Division,” Harry said. 

Tom couldn't stop himself from grimacing. “I don't see how this could be considered joyful.” 

Harry laughed brightly. “Hold on,” he said, reaching over to pop out the tape, “I'll play you my favorite song by them. It's a little more upbeat.” 

Harry turned the tape over and put it back in the player. He fiddled with the buttons, the machine produced a whirring sound, and a new song began to play. 

First there was the sound of guitars. Then, drums. Other instruments joined in, some that Tom did not even recognize. Harry mentioned new genres of music, but he hadn't mentioned entirely new instruments. Like Harry said, the tune was far merrier. 

Harry got to his feet and held out his hand. “Are you any good at dancing?” he asked. 

Tom accepted the hand and was pulled to his feet. “Of course I am,” Tom said, with a little more confidence than he felt at the moment. He had learned all the proper pureblood dances he needed to in order to be accepted by his peers, but none of them were really suitable for this style of music. 

“Good,” Harry said, “I'm pants at it. You can lead.” 

Giving Harry his most charming smile, Tom placed one hand on the small of Harry’s back and held his hand with the other. Tom’s skin tingled with the thrill of the contact. Something warm ignited in his chest as he led Harry in a simple box step. Harry was looking down, seemingly occupied with not trampling on Tom’s toes. 

“Look at me,” Tom said softly, “Trust yourself.” 

Harry did as he was told. His emerald eyes met Tom’s. They were so bright. Tom felt his mouth growing dry. 

“But love, love will tear us apart again. Love, love will tear us apart again.” a voice sang from the speakers. 

Harry’s face was radiantly flushed. His skin was so warm under Tom’s hand. Tom longed to pull him even closer. He had never wanted to kiss someone more. He thought if he did, he might never be able to stop. 

“Lyrics might not be too joyful,” Harry said. 

“Perhaps not,” Tom said. 

Tom was unsure if the song was even to his taste. It was so unlike anything he had heard before. Either way, he was grateful it existed and had allowed him a chance to dance with Harry. Tom would listen to all of Harry’s strange little songs for the opportunity to hold him like this. 

Eventually, the song ended. Instead of a new one playing, the tape player clicked and the room was silent. 

“Shall I play you a joyful song?” Tom asked. 

“Yeah, alright,” Harry said. 

Not letting go of Harry’s hand, Tom led him to the piano. They sat on the bench together, just as Tom had fantasized about. Endeavoring not to be driven to distraction by Harry’s bare thigh pressed against him, Tom began to play. 

Tom chose to play Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 16, which to him exemplified the feeling of joy. There was a warm glow in his chest as his fingers moved across the keys, not only because of the music but for the company as well. 

Tom wished he could watch Harry’s face as he played. What beautiful expressions was he making? Was their closeness as electrifying to him as it was to Tom? 

When the song ended, Harry clapped politely. Tom preened.

“Will you play another?” Harry asked softly, pressing closer. 

Tom would play another. He would play until his fingers were bruised. 

As incredible as sharing a bed with Harry had been that first night, Tom would never be so presumptuous to join him again without an explicit invitation. 

As Tom slept, there was a sharp cry that echoed through the house. Tom shot up in bed, his heart pounding. There was another anguished wail. 

Harry. 

Tom quickly put on his dressing gown and slippers and left his bedroom. In his haste, he nearly slipped on the stairs as he climbed down them. In the kitchen, Tom filled a glass with water before making his way to Harry’s room. 

There was another cry when Tom reached the door. Luckily, the door had not been warded and opened easily.

Harry was tangled in his bedclothes, thrashing and whimpering. He was sweating profusely. The sight was wretched. 

“Sirius,” Harry cried, “No! Please!” 

Tom didn't know how to offer comfort to someone having a nightmare. There had never been someone who came to him when he screamed in the night. Tom shook Harry gently, trying to rouse him. Harry let out a pitiful moan. 

“Harry,” Tom whispered, “It's me. You're okay. You’re having a nightmare.” 

Tom repeated the words like a mantra as he jostled Harry’s shoulder. Finally, Harry opened his eyes and squinted up at Tom. 

“Tom?” he asked, his voice thick and syrupy from sleep. 

“Yes, it's Tom. You were having a nightmare.” 

“Oh,” Harry said, blinking. Harry reached up and cupped the side of Tom’s face and traced his cheek with his thumb. 

“Freckles,” Harry whispered. 

Tom swallowed. “Yes,” he said. 

“I like ‘em,” Harry slurred, dropping his hand. 

Tom's face was uncomfortably warm. “I brought you a glass of water. Would you like it?” 

Harry hummed affirmatively and slowly moved into a sitting position, having to adjust the tangled bedclothes in the process. He accepted the glass of water with a trembling hand. Harry drained the glass quickly. 

“Thank you,” Harry said, putting the glass on the bedside table. 

“Are you feeling better?” Tom asked. 

Harry nodded. “Yeah,” he said as he laid back down. 

Tom was unsure how to proceed. As a child, he had longed for some to hold him after his nightmare and whisper soothingly to him until he fell back asleep. Would Harry want that? 

Harry looked up at Tom, soft and vulnerable. “Will you stay?” he asked. 

Tom lifted the bedclothes and joined Harry in bed. Laying beside his beloved, Tom breathed in slowly as he tried to control the rapid pounding of his heart. Harry stretched languidly and curled up against Tom, his head resting against Tom’s chest. 

It was nearly too much. 

Recklessly, Tom began to run his fingers through Harry’s messy curls. “Is this okay?” he whispered. 

“Mm, it's nice,” Harry murmured. 

They didn't speak any more after that, but Tom continued to play with Harry’s hair until they both fell asleep. 

Chapter Text

Grimmauld Place had a backyard, but the previous summer Harry had not even been allowed to step out there. Tonks had tried once. A thorny vine had wrapped around her ankle and dragged her into a thicket of ivy. It took over an hour for Kingsley and Moody to rescue her, and in that time, Tonks had very nearly suffocated. 

A few days after Harry came back to Grimmauld, he watched amazed from the windows as the vines retreated on their own, leaving only lush grass, wildflowers, and…

“Is that a treehouse?” Harry exclaimed, forgetting the potential danger and rushing outside. 

It was a treehouse! It was one thing Dudley had begged his parents for and never received. It just wasn't possible. The backyard was too small and there were hardly any trees on the entire street. Dudley had demanded Uncle Vernon just buy him a tree. Looking back, it was funny to think the magic his uncle hated so much would have easily solved the problem. 

The treehouse was unsafe to use at the moment, as much of the wood was rotten, but Tom was confident it would be back to working order with only a handful of spells. If that didn't work, Tom revealed that he was a dab hand at carpentry. 

“We often made crafts to sell to raise money for the Orphanage,” Tom said, “Birdhouses, wooden boxes, and such. I also made garden beds.” 

Harry had spent much of his childhood and summer months forced to work in the Dursleys garden, though it was the chore he minded least. Still, Harry had been beholden to Petunia’s gardening preferences which were strict and regimented. Harry could now imagine a lush space, like The Secret Garden from the book he read as a child, hidden carefully in his cupboard. 

“I enjoyed that book as well,” Tom said when Harry mentioned it, “I used to daydream that my father would find me and take me to his manor on the moors.” 

“I used to hope that a nice teacher would take a liking to me and adopt me,” Harry confessed. 

Though Harry had always done his best to be polite in school and do well on his assignments, teachers were distrustful of him. There were rumors spread by Petunia that he was troublesome, ungrateful, and thieving. There was also Dudley who liked to steal Harry’s schoolwork to rip up, step on, or crumble into balls that he threw at Harry for target practice. 

Harry tried not to think of Dudley too harshly now, as he was much improved this summer, but the bruises from childhood still hurt when pressed on. 

“If I was your teacher, I would have adopted you,” Tom told him. 

Harry laughed. “That would be weird,” he said, “Y’know considering…”

“Considering what?” Tom asked, smirking viciously. 

Harry blushed violently and turned away. 

Harry had yet to name it, this thing growing between himself and Tom. He knew he was near the edge, each day getting closer to tumbling over. After Tom woke Harry from his night terror and stayed with him the rest of the night, they woke up to find Kreacher moving all of Tom’s things into Harry’s room. 

Tom commented on Kreacher’s presumptuousness and offered to move his things back, but Harry could tell his heart wasn’t in it. He wanted to stay. Surprisingly, Harry found himself wanting Tom to stay as well. 

“It's fine,” Harry said with a forced air of casualness. 

Tom had smiled brilliantly at that, leaning against Harry as the tension in his body drained. 

Kreacher just did things for Harry now, without ever being asked. It was nice. Harry still hated the idea of ordering the elf about, so he still cooked the majority of the meals. But now Kreacher occasionally appeared with sandwiches or scones, never quite acknowledging Harry as he presented them. Harry didn't think Kreacher held any real loyalty towards him, but Kreacher adored Tom and knew being a good elf for Harry would please him. 

Kreacher had polished Harry’s Firebolt so it shone brilliantly and neatly trimmed the wayward bristles. He had also dug up an old Slytherin Quidditch kit from merlin-only-knows-where. Tom said it looked even older than the uniforms the team wore in the 40s. Orion Black had not played Quidditch, but Sirius’s favorite uncle Alphard had been a beater and the team captain. He was five years older than Tom. Orion, strangely enough, had been a very committed member of the Frog Choir. Tom was the accompanist. 

Harry was thrilled for the chance to get in the air again. The air was crisp and scented of wisteria. The sun was warm but not too bright. The yard wasn't large enough for Harry to do anything too acrobatic, but he was happy to fly around in circles. 

Tom chose to remain safely on the ground, sitting on a picnic blanket. He had brought out a few books that would potentially help with restoring the old treehouse but had not even cracked them open. Instead, he was watching Harry. Harry found that he didn't mind being observed. His stomach did a funny little swoop whenever he looked down at Tom and saw his eyes were still focused on Harry, with what looked like adoration on his face. 

Harry didn't have anyone around to prevent him from making poor decisions. Hermione was the one who usually talked him down from charging recklessly into things, though she didn't always manage to convince him. Snape was lurking about, but Harry had no interest in listening to anything he had to say, certainly not relationship advice. 

Harry knew that it was strange to already feel so close to Tom. It wasn't normal to already be sharing a home and his bed with a boy he had only recently met. In truth, Harry ought to have been angry that Tom had crash-landed into his life, speaking of fate. Harry had already been harmed by fate enough. 

But this fate, if that was what it was, felt different. Harry thought that even if he and Tom weren't “soulmates’, Harry would still fall for him. In a way, he already had fallen for a version of Tom that had been crueler and colder. Faced with a version of that boy who clearly cared for Harry, how could he possibly resist?

Harry had barely ever been given choices in his life. At first, Tom's arrival seemed like yet another choice taken from him. But Harry was beginning to see it as a gift instead. Tom wasn't forcing Harry to do anything, was he? Harry still had a choice and he wanted to choose Tom. 

Harry stood at the door, his hand hovering over the knob. All he had to do was open the door, but it felt like an insurmountable task. 

“We can do this later,” Tom said gently at his back, “His room will still be here.” 

Harry desperately wanted to retreat. He wanted to crawl back into his bed or curl up in an armchair while Tom played Mozart in the drawing room. But Harry’s stubborn pride won out and he opened the door. 

Harry immediately began to choke on dust when he walked into Sirius’s bedroom. As tears streamed down his face, Harry wished he had continued trying to learn the Bubble-head charm back in fourth year, even though he had not managed to master it in time for the second task. 

Tom was at his side with a cool glass of water in an instant. Harry choked out a thanks before sipping it greedily until he could finally breathe properly again. 

Sirius’s room had been left in complete disarray, haphazard piles all over the space. Harry heard a crunch as he stepped on an empty crisp wrapper. Harry looked over at Tom and held in a laugh when he noticed him staring in disgust at the posters of muggle women in bikinis on the walls. 

“Are these sorts of images widely available?” Tom asked.

Oh right, Tom was from the 1940s. He was probably shocked by the scantily clad women. 

“Compared to other magazines out there, those posters are tame,” Harry said. 

Tom wrinkled his nose. 

“I don't think Sirius actually liked those posters all that much. He just put them up to tick off Walburga,” Harry added. In truth, Harry harbored a suspicion that Sirius had preferred the company of men. It was yet another thing Harry would never have the opportunity to ask him about. 

Tom brightened considerably at that. He was pleased by anything that caused Walburga Black distress. 

Harry thought going through Sirius’s belongings would be a smart thing to do. It would probably bring him closure, which was something the mind healer at Saint Mungo’s had mentioned. Now, Harry was afraid that being amongst Sirius’s old things would just make him feel worse. 

Tom focused on gathering the considerable amount of rubbish strewn throughout the room, while Harry sorted through the rest. Sirius had run away at sixteen and most of the things Harry found were the things from his childhood he had left behind. There was a box full of old letters and notes from the Marauders along with what looked like some preliminary notes for crafting the Marauder’s Map. He set it aside to read through later. 

Harry wondered what happened to the things Sirius owned when he had been sent to Azkaban. Were they still out there, stored away somewhere? Had the aurors ransacked and destroyed it all? 

There was a box of muggle records that Harry was surprised that Walburga had not purged. Perhaps part of her had missed her son when he finally left. Maybe she had closed up the room and refused to enter it. 

“Oh,” Harry said softly, staring down at what he had just found. 

“Find something interesting?” Tom asked. 

“It’s a letter from my mum,” Harry said, “Look, there's a picture. 

Harry handed him the photo. James and Lily sat on the floor laughing while little Harry zoomed around on his first toy broom. 

“You were a natural,” Tom commented, looking down at the picture with warmth in his eyes. 

Harry read the letter, forgetting his internal promise to save things like that for later. When he reached the end he nearly started choking again. 

“Dumbledore and Grindelwald were lovers?” Harry cried out in disbelief. 

“What?” Tom demanded, kneeling next to Harry to read the letter over his shoulder. 

“Could something like that really be true?” Harry asked, “My mum did mention that Bagshot was a bit batty.” 

Tom’s answering smile was sharp and malicious. “It would be quite the scandal if it was true. They were always oddly fixated on one another.”

Shamefully, Harry knew very little about Grindelwald’s War other than it happened, it had been bad, and Dumbledore had been the one that finally brought the evil wizard down. Voldemort was widely considered the greater and more terrible Dark Lord. Harry then realized that he was sitting next to someone who had lived through Grindelwald’s rise to power. 

“I don't see how Voldemort could be considered more terrible,” Tom said when Harry relayed his thoughts, “More powerful, I’m sure.” He said this with a particularly smug smirk. 

“Still, Grindelwald spread terror throughout the continent for decades. Voldemort kept his war here in the British Isles and was in power for a fraction of the time. But most of us saw Grindelwald as a distant threat, while I’m sure Voldemort was much more immediate to those living on British shores.” 

People were biased by their own experiences. That made sense. 

“I think Grindelwald’s most lasting impact here is reflected in legislation. There was already a push against magic seen as unsavory and dark in my own time, and from what I've learned it's only gotten worse over the years.” 

“I don't really know much about any of that,” Harry admitted. 

“Where I'm from, the ritual I performed to come to this dimension would have been frowned upon because of its experimental nature but completely legal. I learned shortly after I arrived that according to this dimension's laws what I did was horribly illegal and I could be sent to Azkaban for at least two years if the Ministry learned about it.” 

Harry felt a spike of anxiety. He couldn't allow Tom to be locked away. Tom seemed to sense his discomfort and placed a steady hand on his knee. 

Tom sighed. “It's frustrating. Academic freedom and fighting censorship was one of the main tenets of the Knights of Walpurgis. Voldemort’s actions in this world did nothing to work towards that goal.” 

“It's a good thing you’re here then,” Harry said, “You can fix what he mucked up.” 

Tom nodded, clearly lost in thought. 

“You want to go to the library, don't you?” Harry teased. 

Tom shook his head. “Later,” he said, “we’re doing something important right now.” 

Harry nearly cried when he found Sirius’s leather jacket. Harry put it on. It was baggy on him, but comfortable. It smelled like Sirius, warm and woodsy.

“You look rather dashing,” Tom said, eying him from head to toe. 

Harry blushed. Something about Tom’s old-timey compliments really got to him. “Thanks,” he said when he was able to breathe properly again. 

Under the bed, they found a carton of cigarettes. Tom held up a pack, eyes narrowed at the heath warning. 

“Doctors used to say these were good for you,” he said. 

Harry laughed. “They're terrible for your lungs. Have you ever had them?” 

“Everyone in London smoked,” Tom said, “Even the sad little orphans used their scant pocket change to buy fags. My pureblood classmates thought the habit was terribly gauche, so I would hide at the edge of the forbidden forest and smoke during my Prefect rounds.”

“Awfully naughty of you,” Harry said playfully. 

This time, it was Tom’s turn to blush. 

Steadily, they made progress on cleaning up the room. Harry made a small pile of items to take with him, including the leather jacket, letters, and vinyl records. He left most of Sirius’s items in the room, though. He simply organized them better. 

“It just sucks that there won't be a funeral for him,” Harry said later. 

“Why not?” 

“There isn't a body,” Harry said flatly. 

“There could still be a memorial,” Tom said, “The library has a book on Black family rituals. There's a section on funeral rites. Would you like to take a look?” 

“Okay.”

Harry knew soon as he opened the book that Sirius would have hated everything in it. 

“I don't think any of this would be right for him,” Harry said, “Maybe this stuff can be used when I die.” 

Tom looked alarmed. 

“Don't worry,” Harry said, holding his hands up in peace, “I'm not planning on dying any time soon.” 

Harry found that he meant that. He actively wanted to live these days. How novel. 

“I still want to do something in his memory though,” Harry said, “Too bad we can't take his motorbike out for a spin.” 

Tom looked extremely frightened by that concept. Harry couldn't wait to tell him about the adventure with the flying Ford Anglia. He would have to bring it up when Tom was in a good position to lie down. 

Harry eventually thought of a plan to honor Sirius. It wound up being quite simple but nonetheless Harry thought it was quite brilliant. 

Harry and Tom spent an afternoon fixing up the treehouse in the backyard. Eventually, Harry wanted to make it look more impressive, but for the moment they focused on making it safe enough to use. 

Harry and Tom climbed inside the treehouse along with a bounty of sweets from Honeydukes, vintage firewhiskey pilfered from the cellar, a pack of cigarettes, and the box of old letters Harry had found. They discussed finding a way to transport the gramophone up there, but it proved too cumbersome. Instead, Harry carried out the tape deck along with a selection of tunes he thought Sirius would appreciate. 

Harry thought it more than appropriate to celebrate the legacy of Sirius Black with a bit of teenage rebellion. Harry imagined that before Sirius ran away from home, he probably hid from his family in this treehouse and did exactly what he and Tom were doing now. 

In Sirius’s honor, they were both wearing muggle attire. Tom had none of his own, so he was wearing a pair of joggers that once belonged to Dudley that hung tantalizingly low on his hips. There was a chill in the air so they both wore jumpers made by Mrs. Weasley. From the way Tom looked at the jumper when Harry tossed it to him, it seemed that Harry might not get it back. 

“I won't get sick this time,” Harry promised, holding a shot of firewhiskey in his hand. 

“I'm not keen to overindulge without hangover potions on hand,” Tom said. 

“If only Snape wasn't hogging the only potions lab,” Harry sighed, “Not that I would be able to brew a hangover potion.”

“Oh, they're dead easy,” Tom said, “A first-year could brew one. In fact, I brewed them as a first-year and made a tidy profit selling them to older students.” 

“How did you ever manage to become a prefect?” Harry questioned, laughing. 

“I'm clever,” Tom bragged, “and quite sneaky as well.” 

Harry and Tom tapped their shot glasses together and drank. The firewhiskey burned his throat on the way down. He gagged a bit, eyes watering. 

“First time?” Tom asked, a wry grin on his face. 

Harry chased it with several sips of water. “How could you tell?” 

Tom responded with a laugh. 

“Have you drunk much firewhiskey, then?” Harry asked. He noticed that Tom didn't even make a face when he took his shot. 

“Not all that often,” Tom said, “I prefer to remain in control of my faculties. Usually I would accept one shot and discreetly spell anything else I was given into water.” 

“Only one shot for you, then?” 

“No, I’m planning on getting tremendously sloshed so you can take care of me,” Tom said with a wink. 

Harry doubted that Tom actually planned on drinking very much, but it was touching that Tom felt safe enough around Harry to unwind a bit. With firewhiskey running through his veins, Tom was loose. He laughed easier. Harry was delighted when he noticed Tom's perfectly posh accent begin to slip into something rougher. 

“‘Ere,” Tom said, sliding two cigarettes out of the pack, “Lemme show ya a trick.” 

Tom could wandlessly and wordlessly cast an incendio. He lit both of their cigarettes with a snap of his fingers. Tom watched as Harry took a drag from his cigarette for the first time. 

“You gotta inhale,” Tom laughed, “You won't get anything out of it if you just puff on it like that.” 

Harry tried again, this time feeling the smoke enter his lungs. Immediately, he began coughing. 

“That's terrible!” Harry wheezed, shooting Tom a look of distress. 

“It gets easier,” Tom soothed, “Jus’ take it nice n’ slow.” 

Tom was able to blow smoke-rings and Harry watched him with great interest. It was an excellent excuse to watch his mouth. His lips were so plush, made to be kissed. It was genuinely unfair how perfect Tom’s mouth was. 

He probably tasted of firewhiskey and smoke. Harry probably did as well. 

“I should say things, yeah?” Harry moved his eyes away from Tom’s lips. “A eulogy.” 

“I believe tha’ would be appropriate,” Tom said. 

“I should have written something,” Harry said, “I think you're usually supposed to write these things ahead of time.”

Tom chuckled. “I don' think any part of this is formal.” 

“Right,” Harry said, “Off the cuff, then. Just like Sirius would probably want it.” 

Harry fiddled with the volume control on the tape deck until Kurt Cobain’s vocals were faint. 

“The first time I met Sirius Black, he was a big scary dog,” Harry began. 

“Hold on,” Tom interrupted, “Can I borrow your wand?” 

“Sure,” Harry said. 

With a murmured spell, the roof of the treehouse faded into invisibility. 

“He’s up there,” Tom said, handing Harry’s wand back. 

When Harry’s heart felt steady enough, he laid on his back to find the dog star in the sky. He reached over and tapped Tom’s leg a few times until the boy laid down beside him. 

“The first time I met you, you were a big scary dog. I didn't like dogs that much, but I don't remember being scared of you,” Harry said. He turned to Tom and added, “A lot of people thought Sirius’s animagus form looked like a Grim. My divination professor spent an entire year foretelling my death.” 

Harry looked back at the sky, finding Sirius shining bright. “The first time I met you as a man, you broke my best mate’s leg, dragged him through a tunnel, and tried to murder his pet rat.” 

“I am now realizin’ there are many parts of this story I was previously unaware of,” Tom commented. Harry laughed. 

“I convinced you not to kill Peter Pettigrew that night. I dunno if it was the right thing to do. It felt right at the time. It probably would have prevented a lot of future issues if he had died that night. Could have created some new ones too. I try not to think about it too much.” 

Harry felt Tom’s hand brush against his own. He looked at Tom. His eyes were soft and questioning. Harry intertwined their fingers. 

“Less than half an hour after I met you, I told you I wanted to come live with you. That probably wasn’t normal. I’m not sure if you noticed. You said I’m like my dad, but I think really I'm more like you. Both of us grew up in a place where we never felt loved. I don't blame you for hating this place, either. I could never love my relative's house, no matter how pretty someone made it.” 

Harry swallowed, hoping to relieve some of the tightness in his throat. “You spent a year in a cave eating spiders and rats just to be close to me,” he continued, “Nobody has ever loved me that much. I wanted a chance to love you that much too.” 

Harry held in a sob. “I should have been smarter. I should have realized that vision was a trap. Everyone keeps telling me not to blame myself. You would tell me not to blame myself. But I'm gonna blame myself a bit longer. I no longer wish I had dove into the veil after you, so that's an improvement.” 

Tom squeezed Harry’s hand. His palm was warm. 

“I'm not going to say something about how I will avenge you by defeating Voldemort or some rot. I know you hated me playing any part in this war. Still, you were one of the few people who recognized I was in this, whether I liked it or not  and didn't constantly try to keep me in the dark. I’m grateful for that. So, in your honor, I'm going to try to live. Live well, even. I'll try to be young until I can't be anymore.”

Harry’s cheeks were wet. Tears were streaming freely down his face now. 

“I love you, Sirius. Rest in peace.” 

Harry’s silent crying turned into full blown sobs. Rolling over, he buried his face into Tom’s sturdy chest. He wasn't even in the mind to feel self-conscious about it. Tom rubbed slow circles on Harry’s back, helping him settle. 

Harry appreciated that Tom wasn't saying anything like “It's okay” or any of the other soothing nonsense people said when someone was crying. Of course, it wasn't okay. Not at the moment. 

But Harry was beginning to see that things could be okay. He would carry this hurt forever, but it didn't have to be so heavy. 

For a long time, Harry just allowed himself to be held. He stayed the way he was, even when his tears had all dried up. They were quiet for so long, Harry was surprised when Tom spoke. 

“Sirius,” Tom said quietly, “You loved Harry so well and I'm grateful to you for it. You’ll never be truly gone. Your magic will be in the air, your star will shine in the sky, and Harry will carry you in his heart. Rest in peace.” 

Chapter Text

Tom kept hold of the railing as he went up the stairs, his legs wobbling beneath him like a newborn colt. Harry giggled at his back, light and free. 

“Almost there,” Harry said, “You're doing brilliantly.” 

It was a reversal from Harry’s first night at Grimmauld Place. Now, Tom was the one who was drunk and Harry was the one helping him up the stairs. Tom really hadn't intended on drinking that much, but Harry had seemed so entertained that before Tom knew it he was properly sozzled. 

At least Tom didn't get sick and Harry seemed more charmed than annoyed. 

They reached their bedroom. It was no longer just Harry’s bedroom, it was Tom’s as well. The sudden memory of that fact made Tom’s heart soar. He truly could not recall being so happy and the alcohol had nothing to do with it. 

Tom flopped down on the bed, not bothering to change his clothes. The jumper he was wearing was still damp with Harry’s tears, but Tom didn't give a fig. He never wanted to take it off. He loved how the jumper had a giant letter H knitted on the front. It was like Harry was marking Tom as his. Tom wanted to place his claim on Harry in a similar manner. Perhaps he could get Harry a pair of cufflinks with Tom’s initials engraved into them? 

Tom wanted the entire world to see that he and Harry belonged together. 

“Shall I take your shoes off this time?” Harry asked, sounding amused. 

Tom glanced down at his loafers and sighed. How uncouth! 

“You may,” he said, deciding the prospect of Harry putting his hands on him was worth more than his shame. 

Harry laughed and pulled off Tom’s shoes. “Socks on or off?” 

“Off,” Tom requested, wondering if Harry would find his feet appealing. 

“There we are,” Harry said when he was finished, “How about some pajamas?” 

Tom patted the space next to him on the bed. “C’mere,” he said. 

“I ought to change my clothes and clean my teeth,” Harry said hesitantly. 

Tom propped himself up so he could look at Harry directly. “C’mere,” he repeated, “Just for a bit?” 

Tom knew he was pouting. He also knew that he was a very cute and persuasive pouter. 

“Yeah, alright,” Harry said, shrugging. He bent down, taking off his shoes, before climbing on the bed and lying down next to Tom where he belonged. 

“Thanks for indulging me tonight,” Harry said. 

“I am happy to indulge you in all things,” Tom said truthfully. 

Harry laughed. “Charmer.” 

Tom turned on his side so he could look at Harry. His face was flushed from the firewhiskey. His eyes were still slightly red from when he had cried earlier, making the green of his irises even more prominent. Harry was ethereal. 

“I just feel like this huge weight on my chest is gone,” Harry said softly, “I’m always going to miss him, but I think it will be easier now.” 

Harry turned so he was facing Tom as well. Tom was seized by the urge to pull Harry closer. 

“I couldn't have done any of it without you, Tom,” Harry said, “I’m really happy you're here. I just want you to know that.” 

Tom had never lost anyone like Harry had. Yes, Tom had left everyone he had ever known behind to travel to a new dimension, but it didn't feel like a great loss. He had gotten Harry in exchange.

“I'm happy to be here,” Tom said simply. 

“Good,” Harry breathed, “I’m sure you weren’t expecting my situation to be so complicated. I would understand if you wished you had traveled to some other Harry Potter without all the baggage attached.” 

Tom shook his head. “No,” he said adamantly, “I wouldn't want some other version of you. It was always meant to be you.” 

Harry smiled and leaned closer to Tom. Harry’s hand reached out to trace Tom’s jawline. Tom shivered at Harry’s touch. He could feel his pulse jumping in his neck, rapid and rabbit-like. 

“I want to kiss you,” Harry whispered, “I've been thinking about it for ages.” 

Tom never begged. It was unbecoming. “Please,” he said. 

Harry’s fingers continued their gentle exploration of Tom’s face. “You've had a lot to drink,” Harry said with a small frown, “I'm worried about taking advantage of you. You were such a gentleman when I was drunk.” 

Tom laughed. He couldn't help himself. Harry was adorable. 

Tom had always loved sweet things and fate had given him the sweetest thing of all. 

“I promise I am in complete control of myself,” Tom said, “I can give you proof if you'd like.”

“Proof?” 

“I could do some advanced arithmancy?” Tom offered. 

Harry huffed out a laugh. “I would have no way of knowing if your work was correct.” 

“I could perform a physical feat of some sort then,” Tom said, daring to move even closer. He could think of a few enticing physical feats at the moment. 

“I’ll just take your word for it,” Harry said. 

Then, Harry kissed him. 

Harry’s lips were soft, warm, and completely addictive. Harry kissed Tom hesitantly as if he had little previous experience kissing someone. The idea that Tom was the first person Harry was sharing this sort of experience with made Tom's chest fill with a possessive heat. 

Tom wanted to share all these experiences with Harry. He wanted to give Harry every possible form of pleasure. 

Tom’s hands moved to Harry’s waist, pulling him even closer so their chests pressed together. Tom gently pressed his tongue against Harry’s mouth until his lips parted to allow him entrance. Harry made the sweetest sound as Tom licked into his mouth. 

Harry may have kissed someone else previously, but it was apparent that he had little to no experience kissing with tongue. He was sloppy but highly enthusiastic. 

When Harry pulled away, gasping for breath, Tom took the opportunity to press kisses to Harry’s slender neck. When Tom sucked on a particularly inviting spot, Harry moaned. The sound went straight to Tom’s groin, his cock jumping in his trousers. 

Harry, unfortunately, clamped his mouth shut immediately. 

“Please don’t be embarrassed, darling,” Tom said, kissing down Harry’s neck, “I want to hear you.” 

“But,” Harry said, sounding quite flustered, “Gotta be quiet. Snape. He could hear.” 

Tom moved so he could whisper in Harry's ear. “You’re a wizard, darling.” 

“Oh yeah, right. Magic. Fuck. Hold on.” 

Tom smirked as Harry quickly untangled himself, taking his hand from his pocket to shoot an imperturbable charm at the door. He haphazardly tossed his wand on the bedside table and returned to Tom’s arms. 

Harry resumed kissing Tom, now with more finesse. Harry was a remarkably fast learner. Or maybe he was made for kissing Tom. 

Harry’s hands became bolder as they kissed, running down Tom’s back towards his arse. Tom had one hand in Harry’s curls and the other at his waist, gently squeezing. As much as Tom liked looking at Harry in his jumper, he thought he would like it off of him even more. 

Tom snaked his hand under Harry’s jumper so he could touch the warm flesh there. Before Tom could worry if he had gone too far, Harry responded by deepening their kiss and fully palming Tom’s arse. 

Tom moaned into Harry’s mouth, lost in the sensation. Kissing Orion had been pleasant enough, but it had been nothing like this. Every nerve in his body was alight with need. His nails dug into Harry’s back as he pushed himself closer. 

There was a shift and Tom found himself on his back with Harry on top of him. Tom never thought he would find enjoyment in that position but it felt wonderful to have Harry pressing down against him. Especially when Tom noticed Harry’s hardness pressed against his leg. 

Recklessly, Tom maneuvered Harry’s hips until their cocks were pressed against each other. The sensation was incredible. 

“Fuck,” Harry said against the side of his mouth, “Fuck, Tom. I-” 

Tom bucked against Harry, grinning when his beloved let out a broken moan. 

“Tom, we should-” Harry began, his eyes fluttering and moaning again as Tom sought more friction. 

Tom wanted to watch Harry come apart completely. He wanted his beloved to shatter in his arms. He was completely enthralled by how responsive Harry was to his touch. 

“Tom,” Harry said again, “Please.” 

“I'll do whatever you want,” Tom vowed, “I’ll give you everything. Gods, you feel amazing.” 

“Tom, we should stop,” Harry said. 

Tom stilled, ice in his veins. 

Harry rolled off of him and took several deep breaths. 

“Did I..” Tom swallowed thickly. He wasn't accustomed to feeling so wrongfooted. “Did I do something to upset you, Harry? Did I take things too far?” 

Harry’s eyes went wide. “Merlin no, you were brilliant. I swear.” 

Harry scrambled to gather Tom back into his arms, hugging him tightly. 

“It's just, well, we’re a bit drunk, yeah? And this was our first time kissing. I just thought that maybe we should wait to go further. I want to be sober,” Harry kissed Tom gently before adding, “I want to be able to remember every detail.” 

Harry really was so precious. Heroic. It was all so endearing that it just made Tom want to rip his clothes off even more. Still, Tom had already committed to going at Harry’s pace. He certainly wasn't going to squander things now just because he was aroused. 

“You’re right,” Tom said, “Let's wait.” 

Tom could wait. His patience was legendary. Besides, now that he shared a bed with Harry, he doubted it would be very long before Harry completely succumbed to his desire. 

The more he considered it, the more Tom loved the idea of exploring his physical connection with Harry without alcohol in his system. The first time they fucked, Tom would take things slowly. He would explore every inch of Harry’s body until he writhed with mad pleasure. 

Tom’s cock throbbed at his musings, which was rather unhelpful. 

“How about we get ready for bed?” Harry asked. 

Tom nodded, feeling rather too boneless to move at the present. 

Harry kissed him again before getting out of bed. Tom looked at the constellations painted on the ceiling as he listened to Harry shuffle around the bedroom. 

“Oh,” Harry said with a little laugh, “I reckon Kreacher didn't like my pajamas.” 

Tom sat up slightly. Harry was holding up a pair of black pinstriped silk pajamas. 

“They even have the family crest on them. How about that?” Harry said, “I wonder if he’ll give me one of those stocking caps to match. I’d look rather spiffing, don't you think?” 

Tom’s thoughts were still focused on how Harry would look without any clothing. 

“Oh, don't look at me like that,” Harry groused, “I’m trying to stay strong in my resolve.” 

“Look at you like what?” Tom asked, innocently batting his eyelashes. 

“Like you… like you want-” Harry groaned, cheeks burning red, “I’m just going to get ready for bed now.” 

Grinning in satisfaction, Tom collapsed backward onto the mattress. When he heard the click of the bathroom door closing behind Harry, he reached down to press his hand against his aching cock. Tom was fairly positive he had never been so turned on in his life. Just from a bit of snogging too! 

Tom moved his hand before he got too carried away. Now wasn't the time to think of Harry spread out beneath him, panting and moaning as Tom twisted his nipples until they were cherry-red. Now wasn't the time to think of Harry’s cock, hard and leaking, begging for Tom’s touch. 

No. No. Tom couldn't think of any of that. He thought of Hagrid’s horrid hairy spider. He thought about Mrs. Cole’s polka-dot knickers. He thought about how Fortinbras Selwyn ate porridge like a deranged anteater. 

By the time Harry came back into the bedroom, Tom’s erection had softened and he was starting to feel sleepy. 

“I set out some pajamas for you,” Harry said, sliding under the bedclothes. 

It was maddening that Tom had missed Harry in the mere minutes he had been absent. Tom gave Harry another kiss, just because he could. His breath was pleasantly minty. The difference from Tom’s smoke and liquor tainted mouth was most likely stark. 

“Thank you,” Tom told him as he got up, “You’re always so thoughtful.” 

Harry blushed, as he did with any of Tom’s compliments.

Tom took the bundle of nightclothes waiting at the end of the bed and padded towards the bathroom. He would do his ablutions hastily so he could return to the side of his beloved. 

Tom woke up with Harry in his arms. Idly, Tom wondered if a day would come where he had grown used to waking up next to his beloved. Surely not, he thought. It was entirely too incredible.  

In Tom’s life, he had seldom felt lucky. Now, it was all he could feel. 

“You’re mine, aren't you?” Tom whispered to Harry’s still sleeping form. 

Harry’s cheeks puffed up as he breathed. Tom was overwhelmed with the odd urge to poke at Harry’s cheeks and squeeze him all over until he squealed. Tom calmed himself with a few breaths, before choosing to leisurely run his fingers through Harry’s hair instead.  

Harry made a soft noise and smacked his lips together. He cuddled closer to Tom, burying his face into his neck. 

“Mornin’,” Harry said, voice raspy with sleep. 

“Good morning,” Tom replied, “Did you sleep well?” 

“Amazing,” Harry said, “I sleep so much better when you're here. You're better than a dreamless sleep potion, I swear.” 

“Happy to hear it.” 

If Harry had any regrets about the activities before they went to sleep, he wasn't showing it. In fact, only moments later, he tilted his head up to catch Tom’s mouth. 

They kissed slowly and unhurried. Tom knew he would be content doing this all day. Harry, it seemed, had other plans. 

“I can make you a full English breakfast now,” Harry said, eyes gleaming with excitement. 

Who was Tom to deny him? 

In the kitchen, Harry ushered Tom to his seat before beginning to prepare their breakfast. Tom liked watching Harry cook. He bounced around the kitchen, much like a bumblebee, as he chattered about various subjects. 

“We got to the platform and it wouldn't let us through,” Harry was saying as he flipped the sizzling sausage in the pan, “I found out later that Dobby the house-elf had managed to block off the platform.” 

Harry told the most riveting stories Tom had ever heard. They were more compelling than the ones found in any storybook. Tom could barely believe the experiences he spoke of were true. 

“What did you do?” Tom asked, “Did you send an owl to the headmaster?” 

Harry laughed. “That would have been the intelligent thing to do, but no. Ron decided the best course of action would be to use the flying car to follow the train to Hogwarts.” 

Tom pressed his face into his palm. It was impossible, but Tom wished he had managed to perform the ritual earlier. Clearly, Harry had needed him when he was younger if these were the types of decisions he went along with. 

Tom’s fingers gripped the table as Harry continued the harrowing tale, which included several near-brushes with death. He finally felt he could breathe again when Harry said the car had reached the grounds of Hogwarts. 

“Of course, we had forgotten about the Whomping Willow,” Harry said. 

“The Whomping what now?” 

“Oh, that's right. You wouldn't have had it in your time. It was planted back when my parents were in school because of- well, I'll tell that story later. Anyway, it's this great big tree with branches that will wallop anything that goes near it. We didn't realize how close we were to it until we, well, got whomped.” 

“And you survived?” Tom exclaimed, horrified. 

“Luckily,” Harry said, “Car was banged up pretty badly, but Ron and I managed to make it out with only some scrapes and bruises. Bloody miracle honestly. I think the car had enough of us after that, because it drove off into the Forbidden Forest. Ended up coming in handy later when-” 

Harry’s voice cut off suddenly. Snape had entered the room, wearing his usual billowing black robes and a sneer. 

“Oh do continue with your riveting tale of how you completely disregarded school rules to fuel your incessant need for attention, Mister Potter,” Snape said dryly. 

Tom would have said Snape was in a poor temper, but it seemed this was his default mood. 

“You already know about this story anyway,” Harry said tonelessly, “You tried to have me expelled for it afterward. Would you like some breakfast? I made plenty.” 

Snape scowled. “I still maintain you ought to have been expelled for that stunt. Clearly, you’ve learned nothing as you're standing here bragging-” 

“He wasn't bragging,” Tom interjected, “Harry was telling me about a life-threatening experience he underwent because as usual, no competent adults were around to offer him any assistance.” 

Snape turned to Tom, lips curled into a snarl. “Presuming that Potter was even telling the truth about the barrier being sealed, there were a plethora of options he could have explored before driving a flying car to Hogwarts!” 

“From what I heard, it appears that Harry’s friend Ronald was the one to insist on flying the car. Surely, wouldn't you say it was responsible of Harry to go with his friend?” 

Truthfully, Tom believed that Harry should have picked self-preservation and let his idiot friend get pummeled by a murderous tree on his own. Why on earth had such a thing been planted at a school? 

Still, Tom had been itching for a chance to argue with Snape since the man’s tantrum in the kitchen the night Harry had come home. Snape's utter indifference to Harry being injured had made Tom loathe the man. 

Just months before the flying car incident, Harry and his friends had been forced to save the Philosopher’s Stone from being stolen when no adults had been up for the task. Not to mention that the so-called “protections” on the stone were simple enough for a group of first-years to foil. 

Then, at the end of Harry’s second year, once again Harry was the one who had to save the day on his own. He had to slay a Basilisk! At twelve-years-old! Tom was a bit saddened to hear about the demise of this world’s version of his ancient companion, but Tom would allow thousands of ancient beasts to be slaughtered if it meant Harry lived. 

Tom was sure that Harry had even more harrowing tales to share. 

“I can see why you would defend him. After all, I am sure you were guilty of much worse crimes, but managed to use your charms to avoid the punishment you deserved,” Snape moved closer to Tom and loomed over him, “Rest assured, Mister Riddle. I know exactly who you are. Nothing you do shall get past me.” 

Tom stared up at Snape defiantly. It was almost amusing how the man thought he could intimidate Tom by getting into his space. Snape was a worm compared to others Tom had faced. 

“It's all over and done with anyway,” Harry snapped, “Can you just leave it, Professor? I'd thank you for remembering that Tom isn't Lord Voldemort and isn't beholden to any of his crimes. Now, would you like some breakfast or not?” 

Snape took a look at the delectable and mouth-watering meal Harry had prepared and stuck up his nose in disgust. He grabbed a single apple from the fruit bowl and stormed out. 

“Suit yourself!” Harry called after him. 

The meal was delicious but Harry was clearly on edge after the encounter with Snape. His leg jiggled under the table as he pushed his food around his plate. 

“I just can't stand him,” Harry seethed, “It was so nice when he just left us alone.” 

“All he has are his words,” Tom said, “If he tries to harm you it will be the last thing he ever does.” 

Harry smiled crookedly. “I know I really should scold you or something for the murderous threats, but you’re just so charming about it.” 

Tom wondered if it could be enough to charm Harry out of his clothes. 

Harry seemed to be in better spirits anyway. “Shall we go outside for a while? All this talk about flying makes me want to get in the air, I think.”

“Sounds lovely,” Tom replied. 

More than anything, Tom wanted to take Harry back to bed, but going outside sounded nice enough. Harry looked distinctly edible in his Quidditch kit. Tom liked the idea of Harry becoming sweaty from exercise, needing a shower afterward, and asking Tom to join him. Or perhaps Harry would want to take Tom into the treehouse for a bit of snogging and heavy petting…

“I can tell your mind is somewhere in the gutter,” Harry said, smiling as he got to his feet, “Come on, you randy thing.” 

“I can't help that you’re irresistible, darling,” Tom drawled, joining him. 

Harry rolled his eyes playfully before pulling Tom in for another lingering kiss. “Wanna try out my broom today?” 

“Only if you're willing to catch me when I plummet to my death.” 

Harry laughed. “By the end of this summer, I'll have you ready to try out for the Quidditch team.”

“Whatever you say,” Tom replied, letting Harry take his hand and lead him away.  

Chapter Text

Severus stood alone in the corner of the room, sipping the gillywater that Molly Weasley had forced upon him. 

Both the Order of the Phoenix and the Death Eaters had issues with punctuality issues. Meetings rarely began at their scheduled time. The Dark Lord liked to build suspense by forcing his followers to wait for him. This resulted in a group of grown men standing together silently for up to an hour, trying not to piss themselves in terror. While the Order waited for meetings to begin, they socialized. 

All in all, Severus preferred waiting for the Dark Lord. 

Though most of the Order members feigned politeness towards Severus, they were not eager to draw him into their conversations. He had the trust of Albus Dumbledore, but not of his followers. This suited him just fine. The only person who consistently made an effort to socialize with Severus was Lupin, who was presently occupied. 

The majority of the Order had been informed that due to the death of Sirius Black, Number 12 Grimmauld Place was no longer a viable location for headquarters. Albus expressed the belief that the house could be accessed by Narcissa Black or Bellatrix Lestrange. It was true that Albus had worried over the possibility, but Potter had been able to take full ownership of the home. Still, Albus maintained the fiction so no one would be aware that the house was currently harboring the Dark Lord’s trans-dimensional counterpart. 

In the meantime, Order meetings were being held at the Weasley abode; a bizarre establishment referred to as “The Burrow.” Severus supposed some would call the home cozy, but to him, it was cluttered, claustrophobic, and contained far too many redheads. 

The youngest two Weasley children, Ronald and Ginevra, had been barred from the meeting and were outside. They were most likely scheming to listen in. Fred and George Weasley were of age and had dropped out of Hogwarts, so they had been allowed to become members of the organization. Clearly, Albus was allowing only the finest recruits. 

William and Charles Weasley were tolerable. In truth, the Weasley child that Severus disliked least was Percival, but he had abandoned his family completely. His blind faith in the ministry was unfortunate but if Severus had been born into the Weasley family, he would have been searching for a way out as well. 

Across the room, Lupin was engaged in conversation with Nymphadora Tonks. Tonks was one of Severus’s former students. She did well enough to join his advanced class but wasn't a remarkable talent in the subject. She had a penchant for troublemaking but had an easy charm that was difficult for even Severus to resist. He liked her, in spite of himself. 

Tonks was leaning close to Lupin’s ear, speaking rapidly. Lupin responded with a warm chuckle which made Tonks look immensely pleased with herself. She moved even closer to him, linking their arms as she continued speaking. Lupin was nodding, a small smile on his face. 

Then, Lupin looked directly at Severus. He gave Severus a small wave, which Severus did not return. A brief look of hurt crossed Lupin’s features before he turned back to Tonks and resumed their discussion. 

From Tonks’s mannerisms, she was clearly besotted with the wolf. The way her eyes latched on to him reminded Severus uncomfortably of the interactions he had witnessed between Riddle and Potter. 

Tonks was far younger than Lupin. She surely had her pick of young men her age, so why was she throwing herself at a man more than a decade her senior? 

Tonks was reasonably bright, charismatic, and kind. Truly, she was a better choice for a partner than someone like Severus could ever be. 

The conversations in the room ceased the moment that Albus Dumbledore made his entrance, his long purple cloak trailing behind him. 

“Good evening, everyone,” Albus said, “We have much to discuss.” 

Albus had an odd definition of the word “much”. Very little new information had come to light about the Dark Lord’s plans. Most of what Severus had already discussed with Albus was not relayed to the rest of the Order. None of them were aware of the distinct possibility that Hogwarts would have an active Death Eater as a student in September. 

Thus, much of the meeting was spent on blind speculation. The Ministry was placing prominent Muggle politicians under its protection, though there was no proof that the Dark Lord had any interest in the Prime Minister. 

While Severus explained that the recent Death Eater attacks were random acts of terror meant to stir up unrest, Diggle and Vance passionately believed that the attacks had a motive and pattern. 

“If we ascertain the pattern, we will know when and where the Death Eaters are planning to attack next!” Diggle squealed with excitement. 

It was utter foolishness, yet the conversation was allowed to persist for nearly half an hour. 

The discussion moved on to Potter, as it always did. The Order was aware that Potter was no longer at the home of his relatives, but Albus remained mum on his current location. This led to Molly Weasley passionately beseeching Albus to bring Potter to the Burrow to spend the remainder of the summer. 

“He will come here on his birthday, Molly,” Albus said, “As we have previously discussed.” 

Albus’s tone left no room for further discussion. Molly sat back down in her seat, red in the face. Severus was tempted to take her aside at the end of the meeting and inform her that Potter was perfectly content building his love nest with Riddle and she needn’t worry herself so much over him. 

Finally, the meeting concluded. Severus moved to leave immediately. Molly called after him, inviting him to stay for dinner, but he ignored her. 

Severus returned to the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, relieved to not find Potter and Riddle waiting for him there. Potter never struck Severus as the type of person to enjoy cooking and baking, yet he had been doing it constantly since he arrived. Was it to impress Riddle? Severus didn't think Potter would need to do much more than draw breath to impress Riddle. 

When had Potter learned how to navigate the kitchen so effortlessly? Surely the boy was used to being waited on hand and foot? 

A brief memory of something Riddle had written in his diary crossed Severus’s mind… a small cupboard that looked like a place for a child to sleep… 

Severus shook his head, shoving the thought away. It was utterly preposterous to think that a spoiled child such as Potter would have slept in such a horrible place.  

There was a plate of eggplant parmesan set out on the kitchen table. In defiance of The Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, it had been placed under a stasis charm so it was still fresh and warm. 

Potter had left this out for Severus? Clearly, it was a ploy of some sort, but what was the purpose? 

Upon ascertaining that the meal had not been tainted with any potions or poisons, Severus sat down and ate it. 

Before retiring for the night, Severus searched the house for Potter and Riddle to ensure they had not wandered off in his absence. The pair was in the drawing room. Instead of the ear-splitting music Potter preferred to play from his muggle listening device, today the gramophone was being utilized. The song playing was pleasant, gentle guitar accompanied by a woman singing in what sounded like Greek. 

An unusual choice. 

Potter was lying on the loveseat, dozing, with his head in Riddle’s lap. Riddle was holding a book with one hand while combing through Potter’s curls with the other. Riddle looked up from his book to see Severus in the doorway. The smirk the boy directed at Severus was horribly smug. 

The next afternoon, Lupin showed up at Grimmauld Place to collect his Wolfsbane Potion for the upcoming full moon. His last visit was before Potter’s arrival. Predictably, Potter was thrilled to see his former Professor and immediately began to enthusiastically babble at him. 

It was a bit amusing to watch Riddle's reaction to the display. His expression was calculating as if he was determining how to best return Potter’s attention to himself. 

“The house looks great now,” Potter said, “It's completely different than it was last summer. Tom worked really hard on it.”

Riddle stepped forward. “We worked together,” he said, voice nearly a purr. 

“I'm very impressed,” Lupin said, “Perhaps after I retrieve what I need from Severus, you could give me a tour?” 

“Yes!” Potter exclaimed, “And you should stay for dinner!” 

Lupin gave Potter a lopsided smile. “I would be delighted to.” 

Potter clapped his hands together. “Great! I'll need to make something impressive, then.” 

“You needn’t go through too much trouble for me, Harry,” Lupin protested. 

“Harry can make any meal impressive,” Riddle said earnestly, “He made me the best eggs and toast I have had in my entire life.” 

Potter rolled his eyes fondly. “Tom likes to flatter,” he said. 

“If you are finished…” Severus said, interrupting the blatant flirtation. 

“Ah yes,” Lupin said, his cheeks coloring slightly when he turned to Severus, “I apologize, Severus. I don't want to take up too much of your time.” 

Potter was looking from Lupin to Severus with a confused furrow in his brow. It wasn't as if Severus asked Lupin to call him by his first name. 

“I'm a man of principles,” Lupin said with a wry smile, “I refuse to call someone I've slept with by their surname.” 

With the miasma of teenage hormones already in the air, Severus did not need to be recalling any former amorous activities with the wolf. Clearly, his affections had moved on to young Miss Tonks, which was truly for the best. 

“Harry and Tom are awfully cozy,” Lupin remarked once he and Severus were tucked away in the potions lab. 

“Do not remind me,” Severus sighed, “I might gag.” 

Lupin laughed. “I think it's sweet.” 

“Of course you would think that,” Severus said. He gathered the seven vials and placed them in a carrying case. 

“Though I am concerned about what you said about Tom. Do you think he could be a danger to Harry?” 

Severus sniffed. “I do not believe the boy poses any danger to Potter, it is the rest of us who should be cautious.” 

Lupin looked thoughtful as he accepted the carrying case. “I know you aren't keen on offering details, but I feel I have to ask: does your dislike of Tom stem from the same place as your dislike of Harry?” 

“I do not know what you are speaking of,” Severus said stiffly. 

“Come on, Severus. We both know that your hatred of Harry is irrational.” 

“I do not hate-” 

“Fine, dislike then,” Lupin amended. 

“The boy is just like his father. Arrogant and foolhardy. Of course this would not bother you as you so eagerly played James Potter’s lapdog for so many years.” 

Lupin let out a long-suffering sigh. “If you only let go of your animosity for James for a moment, you would see that Harry is a completely different person. He isn't like James at all, he’s-” 

“Don't you dare attempt to compare him to her,” Severus snapped. 

Lupin groaned. “I wasn't! I was going to say that Harry grew up without either of his parents to influence him. He deserves to be seen as something other than an extension of them.” 

Potter had gleefully skirted school rules from the moment he arrived at Hogwarts. He could scarcely go a single day without drawing attention to himself. He had stolen from Severus’s private potions stores, violated his privacy by entering his pensieve, and publicly disrespected him countless times. How could Lupin not see the resemblance to his deceased friend? 

It was foolish for Severus to even idly think that Lupin could understand him. 

“You have your potions,” Severus said, “I believe Potter is waiting for you.” 

“Have dinner with us tonight,” Lupin said. 

“As wonderful as that sounds, I must pass,” Severus said, “Goodbye, Lupin.” 

As Lupin left, he gave Severus one last sad glance. “Just think about what I said, will you?"

Severus spent the day in the lab, avoiding Potter, Riddle, and Lupin. 

As Severus tried to focus on his brewing, Lupin’s unwelcome words kept creeping into his mind. 

Lupin had worshiped James Potter in school. He had stood idly by as Potter and Black made Severus’s life hell. Though Lupin had expressed regret for his inaction, he also maintained that Potter had matured considerably during the war. 

“I think if he had lived, he would be first in line to apologize to you,” Lupin had once said. 

It was laughable. Severus was unsure what Lupin was even trying to accomplish by weaving such a fiction. After all, Potter’s partner in crime Sirius Black certainly never deigned to apologize to Severus for his childhood cruelty. 

Severus had spent enough time in Harry Potter’s presence to see the numerous similarities between the boy and his father. 

If Severus had somehow been wrong… if his perception had been completely skewed…

Once again, he thought of Riddle’s disturbing diary entry. He thought of Potter offering Severus breakfast with the tone of a disappointed mother. He thought of how Albus spoke of the boy's “well of compassion.” 

Lost in thought, it took several moments for Severus to smell the acrid smoke that was now billowing from his cauldron. Cursing, Snape drew his wand and vanished the ruined potion. Severus could not even recall what error he had made. 

Thankfully, it had merely been a wide-eye potion. It was nothing important. However, it made the mistake even more inexcusable as the potion was so simple. 

Severus’s mind was clearly too scattered to brew properly, but the lab and his bedroom were the only two places in this blasted house where he could escape Potter and Riddle. 

He decided to go to his bedroom and do his best not to run into Lupin on the way. He was cleaning the stubborn residue of chopped salamander tails from a table when Albus’s phoenix patronus appeared before him. 

“Severus,” the patronus rasped. Albus’s voice sounded weak. “My office. Please. It is urgent.” 

Albus sounded ill or injured. Perhaps even gravely. Yet, he was calling for Severus rather than going to Poppy or Saint Mungo's. With his heart in his throat, Severus flung open a cabinet gathering as many restorative potions that he could quickly cram into a bag. 

He raced up the stairs to the floor, only to nearly collide with Lupin. 

“Severus, are you alright?” Lupin asked, looking terribly concerned. 

“I need to go,” Severus said. 

“Of course,” Lupin said, “I can stay with the boys until you return.” 

The commotion caused Potter and Riddle to appear in the corridor. Potter’s look mirrored Lupin’s while Riddle’s was more inquisitive. 

“What's going on?” Potter asked. 

Severus swept past the group into the kitchen, using the floo to travel to Albus’s office. 

If Severus had doubted Albus’s command of his faculties when the doddering fool had easily accepted Riddle’s presence, he now was certain that Albus’s mind was completely addled. 

“You touched a potentially cursed object with your bare hands?” Severus exclaimed in disbelief. 

He felt sick to his stomach as he examined Albus’s blackened hand. The man Severus had come to devote his life to would never do something so utterly foolish. 

“You must forgive me, Severus. The temptation was too great.” 

Severus wanted to ask what had tempted Albus so greatly, but he doubted he would receive a satisfying answer. 

Albus had refused to be moved to the Hospital Wing, even if Severus sent Poppy away beforehand. 

“You are the only one I can trust,” Albus said. 

Albus was lying on his bed in his personal quarters, pale as death, as Severus desperately tried to unwind the curse that was killing the Headmaster. Severus could not even take a moment to reflect on the novelty of being in Albus’s private space. Compared to his cluttered office, Albus’s quarters were sparse. It was truly a space only for sleeping. 

Severus was glad he had brought invigorating potions, as he needed them to keep his focus as he tried to heal Albus. 

“I am unsure if I can stop the curse completely,” Severus confessed. 

“I only need a little more time,” Albus said softly, his eyes tiny slits, “I would be grateful for even another week.”

Severus failed to hold in a cry of frustration. There were many healers and curse breakers who would be more capable of healing Albus. If only Albus wasn't so committed to damned secrecy! Did he not realize how much he put on Severus’s shoulders? He could hardly bear it all. 

In the end, Severus managed to contain the curse to Albus’s hand. It was withered and black. Looking at it made his stomach churn. 

“Tell me, Severus, how much more time have you given me?” 

“No more than a year.” 

Albus sighed in resignation. “It is more than I thought I would have. Thank you, Severus.” 

“If you would allow me to take you to the hospital,” Severus said once more, “Or even consented to me contacting William Weasley-” 

“No, I am afraid this must remain strictly between us,” Albus said. 

“Nothing will change your mind?” 

“I have lived a long life. My only regret is that I will not live to see the end of this conflict,” Albus said, “I will need to have faith in Harry.” 

“Potter is a mere child!” Severus protested. 

“And yet, our hope lies with him,” Albus said softly. 

Overwhelmed by exhaustion, Severus placed his face in his hands. 

“Plans will need to be altered,” Albus said, “But for now I would like to rest. Thank you, Severus. You are one I can depend on.” 

Severus stood. He did not know how to reply to Albus’s parting words, so he simply left. 

Lupin was waiting in the kitchen when Severus returned, nursing a mug of tea. 

Severus knew that hour had grown late, yet Lupin had stayed up waiting for him. 

“Severus,” Lupin said, eyes growing wide, “Is everything alright?” 

“Yes,” Severus bit out, “You may go.” 

Severus swept past him to retreat to his bedroom. Severus could not calm his ragged breaths nor stop his shaking hands. Once in his quarters, Severus pulled open a drawer, searching for a calming draught. 

“Severus,” Lupin said from the doorway. The wolf had followed him up the stairs. There was something so tender in the man’s expression that Severus could not bear to look at him. 

“I'm worried about you,” Lupin said. 

“There is nothing to concern yourself with,” Severus said, “Even if I wanted to discuss what occurred this evening, I could not.” 

“I understand that,” Lupin said, “You just seem really upset. I thought you might want-” 

“Company?” Severus sneered. 

“Yeah, maybe.” Lupin shrugged, “You don't have to carry everything alone.” 

“I always have.” 

Lupin’s lip quivered. “I just want to help.” 

Severus was sick of Lupin’s pitying glances. If Lupin insisted on sticking around, he could make himself useful. 

Severus seized the front of Remus’s shirt and crashed their lips together. 

Severus had been vehemently avoiding this particular distraction, but he thought that at the moment, a distraction was what he needed. 

Lupin mumbled something against Severus’s mouth, but he ignored it, maneuvering Lupin to press him against the wall. 

Severus kissed him roughly, without an ounce of tenderness. All of Severus’s pent up emotions were directed towards the pliant man beneath him. Abandoning Lupin’s mouth, Severus moved to suck and bite at the man's neck, running his tongue over the silvery scars already present there. 

Distantly, Severus was aware that Lupin was speaking, but he was focused on the throbbing need that consumed him. Suddenly, Severus was roughly pushed away. Severus stumbled back, glaring at Lupin who was still leaning against the wall looking utterly wrecked. 

“For fuck’s sake, Severus! I said stop,” he said between gasps. 

“Why?” Severus demanded, “Isn't this what you wanted?” 

Lupin looked completely bewildered. “You think I want to fuck someone clearly in the middle of a nervous breakdown?” 

Severus laughed coldly. “You have been coming here because you wanted this, but now you suddenly do not because my mood isn't to your liking? Do you wish for me to treat you sweetly? Do you want me to make love to you?” 

Lupin sighed, scrubbing at his face with his hands. “I'm only trying to support you.” 

“You can support me by getting on your knees and being a good little distraction.” 

“A distraction,” Lupin echoed, expression blank. 

“Yes! A distraction! Is that not what this,” Severus gestured wildly between them, “is?” 

“I can see now that we have very different ideas on what this is,” Lupin said. 

“What do you think it is, then?” Severus questioned, lips curling into a nasty sneer, “Are you trying to tell me you care for me?” 

“I thought you knew that!” Lupin shouted, “I thought it was fucking obvious!” 

There was a stubborn lump in Severus’s throat. He turned away from Lupin, searching for something else to look at. 

“I'm worried about leaving you alone like this, but I don't think I can be around you right now,” Lupin said softly. 

“Then leave,” Severus said coldly, “I am not a child. I do not wish to be coddled.” 

Lupin sighed heavily. “I’ll come by after the moon.” 

“Do not."

“Fine,” Lupin said weakly, “Maybe that's for the best then.” 

When Severus heard the bedroom close behind Lupin, he collapsed on the bed. He had sent Lupin away definitively. It was for the best. 

Clearly, Lupin was confusing lust for something deeper. Once he had space from Severus, he would understand that. It would be unfair of Severus to entertain the notion of having a relationship with someone. He doubted he would live much longer after Albus’s passing.

Besides, Lupin had a gregarious and engaging young woman who wanted him. He would be fine. 

As for Severus, he had long abandoned the idea of being fine. He simply would persevere until his time ran out. 

Chapter Text

Tom was able to admit that he vastly preferred having Harry all to himself. He was trying very hard not to think much about how, once the new school term began, he would be forced to share Harry’s attention with his friends, coursework, and bloody Quidditch. 

Remus Lupin was pleasant enough company, but throughout his visit, Tom felt an acute sense of unease and a consistent desire to pull Harry into a secluded corner just to assure himself of his beloved’s continued interest and devotion. 

Thankfully, Harry did not pull away from Tom when Lupin was around. He wasn’t as freely affectionate as they were in private but he never strayed far from Tom’s side and was sure to include Tom in the conversations he had with Lupin, stopping to explain any context that Tom was unaware of. Since their first kiss, Harry was almost always touching Tom in some way. 

Of the adults in Harry’s life Tom had met so far, he had the most respect for Lupin. Harry learned the Patronus charm from Lupin when he was thirteen, which had saved Harry’s life on two separate occasions. Tom owed Lupin for that at the very least. 

Tom was still concerned about the guilt he had glimpsed in Lupin’s mind that accompanied his thoughts of Harry. What did he feel so guilty about? Was it something firmly in the past or something that could potentially cause harm to Harry in the future? Tom itched to dig deeper into the man’s mind but knew that he would be unable to do so without drawing notice. 

After enjoying yet another stunning dinner courtesy of Harry, they retreated to the drawing room. Lupin was delighted to see the box of records Harry had discovered in Sirius’s bedroom. 

Lupin held up a yellow record with a stylish Black woman on the cover. “This one was Sirius’s favorite,” he said, “He adored Nina Simone.” 

Privately, Tom preferred what they had listened to of Sirius’s music over Harry’s collection of tapes. The music Harry played was so modern compared to what Tom was accustomed to. He still had difficulty adjusting to the difference. 

“You know sometimes, baby I'm so carefree

Oh, with a joy that's hard to hide

And then sometimes again it seems that all I have is worry

And then you're bound to see my other side.” 

Harry was leaning against Tom on the loveseat, his eyes closed, and their fingers tightly intertwined. 

“Sirius used to sing this one whenever he got detention,” Lupin commented with a light chuckle. 

“But oh, I'm just a soul whose intentions are good

Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood.” 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Harry said with a small smile. 

The easy atmosphere shattered when they witnessed Snape rushing toward the floo looking highly harried and offering no explanations. 

Harry, in particular, had trouble settling down after that. Lupin had put a new record on and tried to distract Harry with more stories about his father and godfather, but Harry barely seemed to hear him. He got up frequently to pace the room or stick his head into the corridor to check if Snape had returned. 

“I just feel like something is wrong,” he kept repeating. 

Eventually, though, Harry's anxiety shifted to exhaustion. He all but collapsed against Tom, struggling to keep his eyes open. 

“I think it's your bedtime, darling,” Tom told him, moving a wayward curl out of his eyes. 

Harry mumbled something sleepily in response. Tom could guess the meaning. Despite how tired he was, Harry was still concerned about whatever Snape was up to. 

“I’ll wait until Severus returns,” Lupin said, coming to the same conclusion Tom had. 

Harry yawned, sitting up. “Will you wake me up if something important happens?” 

Lupin nodded. “I highly doubt that Severus will be candid with me about what has occurred, but I will wake you if needed.” 

Harry did not seem completely satisfied by that but he allowed Tom to lead him to bed. It did not take Harry long to curl up against Tom and fall asleep. 

Tom, however, remained restless. He did not doubt Harry’s intuition that something of importance had occurred. While Harry slept, Tom busied himself with reading a book about the use of demotic script in ritual circles. He found it difficult to stay focused and eventually put the book down to watch Harry breathe instead. 

Tom sat up straighter when he heard the sound of footsteps outside the bedroom. He tilted his head, straining to hear any conversation, but if Lupin and Snape were speaking, they were doing so quietly or with a silencing charm in place. 

Quite suddenly, there was the jarring sound of someone shouting, but Tom was unable to make out whatever was being said. The sound woke up Harry, who quickly shot up in the bed, looking around wildly. 

“What's happening?” he asked. 

“I have no idea,” Tom replied. 

Harry shoved on his glasses and ran into the corridor, Tom following closely behind. 

Lupin was already descending the staircase, but he turned around when Harry called after him. 

“I’m sorry, Harry. I don't know anything,” he said. 

Harry was studying Lupin with a concerned frown. “I heard shouting.” 

“Just a disagreement of a personal nature, I’m afraid,” Lupin explained with a defeated sigh. 

It was difficult to make out in the low light, but it looked as if Lupin had been recently crying. 

Harry shifted from foot to foot, mouth opening as if to demand more details, only for it to slam closed again when he thought better of it. 

“I’ll be at the Burrow for your birthday, Harry,” Lupin said with a forced smile, “Goodnight to you both.” 

Tom and Harry gave their farewells and went back to their bedroom. Harry plopped down on the edge of the bed, face still scrunched up in thought. 

“That was weird, right?” he eventually asked. 

“It was,” Tom agreed, “Did you notice-” 

“That Remus was crying? Yeah! What was that about? A personal disagreement?” 

Tom sat down next to Harry. “Is he the type to hide things from you?” 

Harry waved his hand vaguely. “I’d say he's more open with me than most adults in the Order, but still doesn't want me to be burdened by all the details of the war.” 

Tom wished to take Harry away to a faraway country to escape the war until Voldemort was defeated. He understood the impulse to want to remove that burden from Harry’s shoulders. Tom also knew that he and Voldemort shared a steadfast persistence. Voldemort would hunt them down wherever they went. Presently, Tom lacked the resources to fully protect Harry from a version of himself with more than fifty years of additional experience with the darkest of magics. The reminder of that fact burned. Tom had to discover a way to surpass his counterpart. 

“I don't think Remus was lying though,” Harry continued, “I really don't think Snape would share anything with him. Maybe that's why they were shouting. I reckon I just don't understand why Remus would be upset enough to cry about it.” 

“Lupin came here fairly often the first two weeks I was here,” Tom said. 

“To speak with Snape?” Harry asked, looking at Tom with wide eyes. 

Tom nodded. “He would have tea with me if I offered, but he would go to Snape’s lab for around an hour each time. I don't know if the visits were professional or personal in nature.” 

“It would have to be professional, right?” 

“You would know better than I.” 

“It would have to be professional. Remus doesn’t even like Snape.” Harry nodded, lips knitted tightly together, looking like he was trying to convince himself that the words he spoke were true. 

Snape had seemed merely resigned to Lupin’s presence in the few times Tom had seen them interact, but Snape might have been acting cold and indifferent because Tom was watching. 

“But Remus was crying.” Harry scrubbed at his face. He was quite occupied with that detail. 

“Perhaps they are closer than they appear to be,” Tom said. 

“Snape made Remus lose his job when he was teaching at Hogwarts!” Harry said, “There’s no way that they could be friends after that!”

“How did Snape cost Lupin his job?” 

Harry let out a hesitant sound. 

“Did it have something to do with Lupin being a werewolf?” Tom guessed. 

Harry looked fairly shocked. “Did Snape tell you that? Did Remus?” 

“Walburga did, actually,” Tom said. 

“Of course, she would,” Harry said, shaking his head, “Oily bint.” 

“Indeed,” Tom said with a small smile. 

“But yeah, at the end of the year, Snape told a bunch of the Slytherins about Remus’s lycanthropy. He was already trying to drop hints about it all year long, but Hermione was the only one that caught on and she kept it to herself. Remus resigned to avoid a proper scandal.” 

“That certainly would be difficult to forgive,” Tom said. 

Still, Tom had noticed something affectionate in Lupin’s gaze when he looked at Snape. 

“Lupin calls him by his first name,” Tom commented. 

Harry made an exaggerated face of disgust. “Well, fuck Snape for whatever he did to upset Remus,” Harry proclaimed with a yawn, “If Remus was trying to be friendly with that git, he’ll probably stop it now. Reckon it's none of my business anyway. It's just fuckin’ weird.” 

Tom thought that everything that occurred in Grimmauld Place was Harry’s business. Especially since Snape’s loyalties were already so dubious in nature. The man was playing both sides. It was impossible to know to whom he was truly loyal. It was even possible that Snape was waiting to see which side of the conflict was victorious so he could claim he had been loyal to that master the entire time. Either way, Snape was dangerous and needed to be monitored. 

“I'm knackered,” Harry sighed, letting his head flop down on Tom’s shoulder. 

Tom leaned down to kiss the top of Harry’s head. “Let's go to sleep, darling.” 

The next day, Harry was determined to question Snape about what happened the previous evening, but the man was absent all day long. Tom did not even see him lurking around corners watching them like he normally did. 

Tom endeavored to distract Harry with more pleasant pursuits. They listened to music on Harry’s tape deck, practiced waltzing, arranged furniture in one of the guest rooms, and enjoyed a lovely snogging session out in the back garden. Still, even when Harry wasn't talking about what happened with Snape, his mind was clearly occupied. 

They were eating dinner when Snape walked into the kitchen, wearing a dispassionate expression. 

Upon seeing him, Harry immediately got to his feet. “Sir, what happened last night? Is everything okay?” 

“It's none of your concern, Mister Potter,” Snape said, glowering at him. He then turned to Tom. “The Polyjuice potion is complete. Tomorrow I will accompany you to Diagon Alley where you shall purchase a wand.” 

Harry grinned at Tom. “Brilliant! We can get our school supplies too!” 

“You will not be joining us, Mister Potter,” Snape stated. 

Harry glared at Snape. “Why not? We have to get school supplies anyway!” 

“It is not safe, you foolish boy!” Snape growled, “I suggest that you utilize those owl order catalogs you are so fond of.” 

Harry sat back down in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest petulantly. 

“Professor Dumbledore has also requested you accompany him on an errand tomorrow,” Snape told Harry, “I cannot imagine what use he could possibly have for you, but he has asked for you to be ready to depart at ten in the morning.” 

“Oh yeah, I remember him mentioning that,” Harry said, “Alright then.” 

Tom did not like the idea of Harry going off to do something potentially dangerous with Dumbledore, but Harry appeared unbothered. Tom needed to come up with a way for him and Harry to easily communicate with one another when they were separated. It would be even better if Tom also designed discreet portkeys that could transport them to one another at a moment’s notice. 

“We will be departing at the same time,” Snape told Tom, “Do not be late.” 

“Understood,” Tom replied. 

With one last withering look at the pair of them, Snape took his leave. 

The next morning, Tom dressed in a roomy set of robes, not knowing how the Polyjuice potion would alter his body. He also grabbed his coin purse and put it in his pocket. Snape had stated his intentions to return to Grimmauld Place immediately after their visit to Ollivander’s, but Tom was planning on finding an opportunity to sneak away. It was nearly Harry’s birthday, after all. Tom needed to purchase a gift. 

“I dunno if should dress magic or muggle,” Harry said as he looked through his wardrobe, “I have no idea what we’re meant to be doing.” 

“Perhaps muggle clothing would be best then,” Tom suggested. 

Harry gave his clothing a baleful look. “I hope Dumbledore doesn't mind if I'm not dressed very smartly.” 

“You are radiant in everything you wear, darling,” Tom said. 

“Tom,” Harry sighed, a blush appearing on his cheeks. 

“I mean it,” Tom said, “I never truly appreciated muggle clothing until I saw you wearing them.” 

“Yeah, you just like staring at my arse in trousers,” Harry teased. 

Tom gasped in faux-offense. “How could you accuse me of such a thing, darling? I am committed to protecting your precious virtue.” 

Harry hummed. “You weren’t so committed to protecting my virtue yesterday,” he said slyly, “I’m going to have to wear a shirt with a high neck because of you. Ta for that by the way.” 

Tom moved to stand at Harry’s back, wrapping his arms around his middle. “Would you like me to vanish the marks for you?” he asked. 

“No way!” Harry said, grinning cheekily. 

Tom's hand slid under Harry’s pajama top. “Hmm,” he said, “It almost seems like you enjoy it when I claim you.” 

“Maybe,” Harry said. His breath stuttered when Tom reached his nipple and lightly rubbed it. 

Smiling into Harry’s neck, Tom continued his ministrations until Harry began to moan sweetly. 

“Not fair,” Harry gasped out. 

“I bet I could make you come just like this,” Tom hypothesised. 

“Tom,” Harry moaned. 

“That's it, darling,” Tom said, rocking his gradually swelling cock against Harry’s backside. 

He still had aspirations to spread Harry out on their silk sheets and slowly take him apart, but it was impossible to resist Harry when he teased Tom like this. All Tom could think of was sliding his hand into Harry’s pajama bottoms and bringing him off. His cock would feel so warm and heavy in Tom’s hand and he would make the most exquisite sounds as Tom stroked him. 

“T-t-tempus,” Harry gasped. Tom paused his amorous attention to look at the time that Harry had just conjured. 

Dumbledore was due to arrive in less than ten minutes. 

“Fuck!” Harry whined, “I was going to let you get me off this time.” 

“It appears my timing could be improved,” Tom admitted. 

“At least you can hide your cock in that tent you're wearing,” Harry complained, “Fuck it, I’m going to wear robes too. If Dumbledore wants me to wear something else, he can send me back up to change.” 

Tom released his hold upon Harry so he could swiftly pull on his robes. Idly, Tom recalled how in his recent past he was well known for his exceptional time-management skills. 

Tom was still becoming accustomed to Dumbledore’s new appearance since he had aged over fifty years. Looking at the man standing in the kitchen, Tom believed that Dumbledore looked even older than when he had last seen him on the day after Harry had come to Grimmauld. Tom noticed that along with canary yellow robes, Dumbledore was wearing thick crimson dragonhide gloves. Dumbledore had always displayed an eccentric sense of style, but the gloves still struck Tom as an odd choice for a summer’s day. 

“Good morning, boys!” Dumbledore greeted cheerfully, “Professor Snape was just telling me how well the pair of you have been getting along!” 

Snape looked rather exasperated to be mentioned. Tom was sure Dumbledore’s statement was the most charitable possible interpretation of whatever bitter complaints Snape had been spewing. 

“After our individual errands, I would like us to reconvene here to discuss the matter of Tom’s schooling,” Dumbledore informed the group. 

Harry immediately stiffened. “Well, he's going to Hogwarts, obviously,” he said. 

Dumbledore smiled, that annoying twinkle in his eyes shining. “But of course, it would be remiss of me to interfere with Tom’s education. I merely mean we must discuss the precautions that will be taken to protect his identity.” 

Harry’s posture relaxed. “Oh okay, yeah, that makes sense.” 

Tom raised an eyebrow. He wondered what Dumbledore was planning. Surely, Tom would not be expected to do something as inane as constantly consuming Polyjuice Potion for an entire school year. Dumbledore though, it seemed, was intending on keeping his plans secret at the moment. 

“Harry, we will be apparating from the street. Have you traveled by side-along apparition before?” Dumbledore asked. 

Harry shook his head. “No, sir.” 

Dumbledore chuckled. “Ah well, I will be sure to conjure you a bucket then.” 

Harry looked distinctly discomfited by that notion. Tom placed his hand on the small of Harry’s back and rubbed it soothingly. 

“I believe it is time for us to depart, Harry,” Dumbledore said. 

Harry pressed a chaste kiss to Tom’s cheek. “I'll see you later, yeah?” 

Tom couldn't keep the satisfied smile off of his face. He had not expected Harry to be this affectionate in front of Dumbledore. “Of course, do stay safe.” 

“No need to worry, Tom. I promise to return Harry completely unharmed,” Dumbledore said with a warm smile. 

Tom was used to being a subject of Dumbledore’s suspicion and scorn. The warm way Dumbledore was regarding him now made his palms itch with discomfort. Neither he nor Harry could trust the man, Tom was certain. Unfortunately, Harry seemed to see Dumbledore as a guiding force in his life.

Once Harry and Dumbledore departed, Snape pulled out a vial of thick magenta potion. “As we previously discussed, we will be traveling to purchase your wand and returning here immediately after. I will give you an additional dose of the potion if needed, but I plan for this to be an expedient endeavor.”

Tom accepted the potion. He still was formulating a plan to separate from the man long enough to find Harry a birthday gift. It would be difficult to get away from Snape’s watchful eye. Tom drank the potion down. He knew the color and taste changed based on the identity one was changing into. The flavor of the potion was not entirely unpleasant. It was mainly herbal. The unpleasant part of the experience was the pain of Tom’s body twisting to alter its appearance. 

Snape was not diplomatic enough to offer Tom a mirror to view his new appearance. It seemed the potion master did a decent job at picking someone with a similar body type to Tom. The robes did not seem much tighter or looser. Tom likely could have worn his own robes. His skin was slightly darker, more of a peach tone rather than Tom’s usual porcelain shade. His hands were shorter and blunter. He ran a hand through his hair, finding it to be closely cropped.

Snape watched Tom’s exploration of his new form with a bored expression. “If you are finished with your preening, shall we get this over with?” 

Tom was far too eager to have his own wand to bother talking back to Snape. They used the floo to travel to Diagon Alley. Snape walked at a brisk pace, giving Tom very little time to take in the changes the street had gone through since his last visit in his previous time and dimensions. 

There was one colorful shop with a line of young patrons spilling into the street. Snape paused briefly to glare and shake his head at the large sign which said “Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes”. Tom recalled that Weasley was the surname of Harry’s best friend Ron. They would be going to the Weasley family home for Harry's birthday celebration. Was this the storefront of one of Ron's relatives? It seemed quite successful. 

“Come on,” Snape said gruffly, as if Tom was the one who had forced them to stop moving. 

Ollivander’s Wand Shop had not changed since Tom’s last visit. There was still the dusty cushion and wand displayed in the window. 

“I will be standing outside,” Snape told Tom. 

Tom briefly allowed his surprise to show before schooling his features back to neutrality. He really had expected Snape to be breathing down his neck the entire time he was in the store. 

Tom walked into the store, the bell over the door ringing pleasantly to announce his arrival. 

Ollivander looked remarkably similar to how he had when Tom had purchased his first wand. While looking quite old, he had a certain ageless quality. 

“You are a bit older than my usual first-time customers,” Ollivander said in lieu of a greeting, “Yet we have not met.”  

He stared at Tom with an unwavering intensity. It was unnerving, but Tom lifted his head proudly and met his rheumy eyes. “My name is Thomas,” Tom said. His voice was higher, breathy with a heating nasal quality. 

“You have had a wand before, yes?” 

Tom nodded. 

“May I enquire as to how you lost your previous wand?” Ollivander asked. 

“It was stolen,” Tom said. 

In the strictest sense, Tom was lying. Yet, the statement felt true to him. His counterpart in this world was a scourge upon it. Voldemort had mutilated himself beyond recognition. He was so addled that he failed to comprehend how much of a treasure Harry Potter was and sought to destroy him. His actions were unforgivable. He did not deserve to draw breath, let alone use the wand that rightfully belonged to Tom. 

Yes, when Voldemort’s corpse finally laid at the feet of Tom’s beloved Harry, Tom would reclaim the yew and phoenix feather wand for himself. 

“A shame,” Ollivander said with a look of sorrow, “What was your wand made of? That might help me find some decent options for you.” 

“Yew and Phoenix feather,” Tom said. 

“Ah, an unusual combination,” Ollivander said looking thoughtful, “I have only sold one wand with that particular combination, myself. It’s wielder… well, I shan't bore you with the details. Which is your wand arm?” 

“Left,” Tom told him. 

Ollivander waved his wand, summoning a tape measure that began floating around Tom. Tom hoped that visiting in a different body would not have too great of an affect on him finding a decent wand. 

Ollivander began pulling down boxes. “It is generally more difficult to match an older wizard to a wand. As one ages, one’s personality and values become more rigid. Eleven is a wonderful age to receive a wand because while a person developed a solid foundation, there is much room for growth.” 

Tom was handed a long black wand. “Ebony and dragon heartstring,” Ollivander said. 

Tom had barely lifted the wand before it was snatched away. 

“I think not,” Ollivander said, giving the offending wand a tiny scowl. 

It had taken Tom quite a while to find his first wand. For a brief horrifying moment, he even worried that no wand would choose him. This visit seemed to drag on even longer. Tom was growing concerned that he would need to take his second dose of Polyjuice when Ollivander’s back was turned. 

“This one is 14 inches, hawthorn and phoenix feather, rather rigid.” 

This wand warmed slightly in his hand, but only weakly sputtered when he waved it. 

“I have some more unusual wands in the back,” Ollivander said, “Please wait here a moment.”

When the old man disappeared into the back room, Tom withdrew the vial of polyjuice from his pocket and drank it. 

Ollivander returned after a few minutes with a stack of boxes balanced precariously in his feeble arms. 

When Tom tried a crooked beech and unicorn hair wand, the tip burst into flames. The next few wands he tried did not have as explosive results, but they didn't feel right either. 

“I confess, I did not create this next wand. As a wandmaker, I frequently examine the work of my competition to increase the quality of my own offerings. This wand was made by Mykew Gregorovitch, who uses certain ingredients I do not personally work with. I would not normally offer a customer a wand I did not make myself, but I find myself curious…” 

Ollivander held out a dark wand with an appealing wavy grain in the wood. “Thirteen and a quarter inches, snakewood, phoenix feather, swishy.” 

When Tom touched the wand, he immediately felt a soothing warmth in his chest. When he waved it, he was showered with golden sparks. 

“Ah, yes, magnificent,” Ollivander said, clapping lightly. “I confess that it is rather humbling when I am unable to match a customer with a wand of my own creation, but nevertheless it always brings me joy when a wand makes its choice.” 

After Tom paid the man seven galleons, he had an idea. “Sir?” he asked, allowing slight hesitation to leak into his tone, “I was wondering if there was another exit from your shop. You see, there is a man waiting outside for me who brought me here today. I wish to thank him with a gift, but I would like it to be a surprise.” 

Ollivander seemed happy to help and showed Tom a hidden door that led to a side street. Tom thanked him and set off. 

He knew he would have to spend his time wisely. Unfortunately, most of the shops he passed were unfamiliar. He knew Harry wasn't particularly interested in books, so he only gave Flourish and Blotts a single look of longing before passing by. Tom was intrigued by the idea of purchasing jewelry for his beloved, but he knew that he wanted to take the time to find something perfect for Harry. He simply did not have time for such a lofty pursuit at the moment. 

Then, in the distance like a beacon calling him, Tom saw an establishment advertising the perfect gift for his beloved. 

Once Tom had secured Harry’s present, he made his way back to where Snape was waiting for him. He did not particularly care if Snape found out that he had given him the slip. Usually, Tom tried to appeal to authority figures, but with Snape that seemed like a lost cause. Snape had been far too cruel towards Harry for Tom to ever respect him. 

It's not as if Snape could actually punish Tom. The pathetic man had no power over Tom at all and it would do him well to realize that. 

However, when Tom reached Ollivander’s, he found Snape already occupied. He was in conversation with a weedy looking man with lank brown hair with silver at the temples. Snape looked frustrated about whatever his companion was telling him and seemed only moments away from snapping completely. 

Tom passed the pair unnoticed. He opened the door to Ollivander’s, stepped into the doorway, and walked out again. He then moved to stand at Snape’s side. 

“Took you long enough,” Snape said with a haughty sniff, as if Tom had any control over how long it took for a wand to choose him. 

The man with Severus leered at Tom. “Ah, Severus, who is this?” 

“A student,” Snape said brusquely. Interestingly enough, he moved to stand in front of Tom, as if protecting him. “I must be going, Avery.” 

Tom peered at the man with interest. Now that he looked more closely, he saw the resemblance the man had to his former classmate Alphonse Avery. The man was probably a Death Eater, then. 

“Wonderful to see you, as always,” Avery responded, sarcasm clear in his tone. With a tiny wave, he walked away. 

“You took so long I almost needed to enter the store to give you a third dose,” Snape hissed as they walked towards the public floos. 

Tom was quite glad that had not happened. If Snape had entered the store to find Tom not present, the man would have ripped the street apart looking for him. 

“I apologize for being a difficult client,” Tom snarked. 

Harry and Dumbledore were already back at Grimmauld Place when Tom and Snape returned. They were in the drawing room, sitting at the chess board. 

“I'm being destroyed,” Harry complained when they entered, “It’s not fair.” 

Harry’s bright green eyes darted over Tom’s form. “You're changing back now. You look weird as a ginger.”

“I trust you have received an adequate wand?” Dumbledore asked. 

“Ah yes,” Tom said, withdrawing it from his pocket, “Snakewood and phoenix feather.” 

Dumbledore squinted at it. “Garrick does not ordinarily work with snakewood.” 

“This wand was made by Gregorovitch,” Tom explained.

“How interesting,” Dumbledore said, “It is a rather handsome wand.” 

“Suits you,” Harry said with a small smile. 

Harry looked so precious wearing his burgundy robes with his hair askew. Tom wanted Dumbledore and Snape to leave immediately so he could ravish his beloved right there on the carpet. Tom knew that his intentions must have been painted on his face at that moment, because suddenly Harry was blushing furiously. 

Seemingly obvious to the unspoken conversation Harry and Tom were having, Dumbledore rose and strode over to the loveseat and armchairs. “Let us have the discussion I promised earlier this morning,” he said. 

Once everyone was comfortably seated, Dumbledore spoke again. “There are currently very few people alive who can connect the name Tom Riddle with the identity of Lord Voldemort. Most of them are on our side, but the ones who aren't are extremely dangerous. I am sure that it does not even need to be said that if Voldemort discovers that Tom is here, it would be disastrous.” 

“So, how are we going to prevent that?” Harry said, his hand squeezing Tom’s leg with some force. 

“I have been toying with various ideas since Tom’s arrival,” Dumbledore said, “Finally, I have found a ritual that I believe holds the answer. Though, I must warn you that it will be rather taxing on you, Tom.” 

“How bad would it be?” Harry asked, brows furrowed with worry. 

“Certainly easier than the ritual that Tom has already undertaken,” Dumbledore said lightly, “He may need bed rest for a day or so.” 

Dumbledore’s assurances seemed to do little to lessen Harry’s worries. Tom placed his hand over Harry’s and rubbed the skin there soothingly. He frowned slightly when he felt that part of his hand was covered by a scar of some sort. Tom would need to look more closely at it later. 

“What will this ritual accomplish?” Tom asked. 

“It is similar in nature to the Fidelius charm that protects this home,” Dumbledore said, “However, instead of protecting a physical space, we will be protecting your identity.” 

Dumbledore reached into his pockets and pulled out a photograph. “It was difficult for me to acquire this photograph. Luckily for use, Voldemort has already gone through a painstaking effort to separate his current identity from that of the boy named Tom Riddle who once attended Hogwarts. As you can see, the boy in this photograph is nearly identical to you.” 

Tom took the photograph and studied it. The version of himself in the picture appeared slightly older and was wearing a head boy pin on his robes. He was smiling but his eyes lacked any joy. 

“But there is a difference,” Dumbledore said, “Harry seemed to notice it immediately.” 

“Oh yeah,” Harry said, “You have freckles, Tom.” 

Tom remembered Harry waking from a nightmare and tracing Tom’s freckles with his finger. Had he been dreaming of the monster and needed to reassure himself that the Tom in his bed was his? 

“The freckles are the key!” Dumbledore said cheerfully. 

“The freckles are the key?” Harry repeatedly dubiously. 

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said, “Once the ritual has been completed, anyone who has not been told the secret of Tom’s true identity will see no similarities between Tom and the boy in this photo. They will be too focused on the difference.” 

“That's kind of brilliant,” Harry said. 

“I assume if this ritual is similar to the Fidelius, then there will be a secret keeper?” Tom asked. 

“That is correct,” Dumbledore said. 

“I want it to be Harry,” Tom said forcefully. Tom certainly did not want Dumbledore to have the power to give away that information freely. 

“Of course,” Dumbledore said pleasantly, “I see how diligent the pair of you have been in restoring Grimmauld Place. I am assuming there must be a designated ritual space.”

“There is,” Harry said. 

“I believe Kreacher should have no problem preparing the space. Would you mind asking him to do so, Harry?”

“Sure. Er, Kreacher?” 

The little elf popped into the room. “Kreacher was called?” 

“Er, yeah. Hi Kreacher. Would you mind preparing the ritual space for us?” 

“Kreacher will be doing so, Master Harry,” Kreacher said with a bow. His large eyes swept over to Tom as if seeking approval. Tom gave him an encouraging smile. 

"Excellent. We will also complete the vow that we discussed," Dumbledore said. 

Harry looked like he wanted to argue but Tom spoke before he could. "That will be acceptable." 

Dumbledore pulled two thick envelopes from his robes. “I also thought I would hand deliver your OWL results.” 

Harry and Tom each took an envelope. 

“Tom, I made the assumption that you were just as studious in your home dimension as your counterpart was here. I simply pulled his results and altered them to apply to your new identity.”

Harry peered over Tom’s shoulder. “I guess it makes sense that you’d get a different name.” 

The results were addressed to one Tomas M. Rosier. 

“Am I meant to be related to Armand Rosier?” Tom asked. 

“Very loosely. The Rosier family in Britain came here from France in the late 1800s. You are a member of the main family, who make their home in Toulouse,” Dumbledore said, “Your mother was a British half-blood witch. Until this year, you were homeschooled.” 

Snape, who had been sitting silently throughout the conversation, spoke up. “This story will hold up under investigation?” 

“But of course,” Dumbledore said, as if he thought Snape was being quite silly, “Benoit Rosier owed me a favor.” 

“Can you speak French?” Harry asked Tom. 

“Oui,” Tom responded with a playful smile that caused Harry to blush. 

Tom had received twelve Os on his exams, as expected. Harry had grown wide-eyed at the revelation, stuttering and trying to hide his own results. 

“These results are perfectly acceptable, especially for someone who has been under as much pressure as you have throughout your academic career,” Tom soothed, “Besides, I am an excellent tutor.” 

Tom considered informing Harry of the litany of rewards Tom could offer for academic excellence, but decided that could wait until they were alone. 

“Oh, I'm Quidditch Captain?” Harry asked, holding up the badge that was tucked into the envelope. 

“Professor McGonagall insisted,” Dumbledore said. 

Harry looked at the badge with wonder in his eyes and a small pleased smile. 

Tom would miss the power and prestige that accompanied being a prefect, but he would rather have additional time to spend with Harry. Besides, Harry’s Quidditch captaincy would grant him access to the Perfect’s bathroom. 

As Tom spared a moment to daydream about Harry's wet nude body surrounded by bubbles, Kreacher popped back into the room. 

“The ritual room is being ready,” he croaked. 

Chapter Text

Tom was still sleeping when Harry woke up. Harry propped his head up on his elbow and did not waste the opportunity to admire him for a moment. Tom looked peaceful as he rested, tiny puffs of air escaping his parted lips. Harry thought Tom had the loveliest eyelashes he had ever seen, long, thick and curled. 

Sleeping, Tom reminded Harry of a doll Aunt Petunia had once owned, a brunette boy with wide brown eyes and thick lashes. Petunia dressed him in a sailor suit and kept him displayed in a tiny chair in the living room. Even Dudley wasn't allowed to touch him. Harry had liked looking at the doll but he never let his eyes linger too long on it when Petunia was watching. He had wanted to pick it up and rock it in his arms. Unfortunately, Aunt Marge had come for a surprise visit one day and her dog Ripper had found the doll and chewed it before Petunia could stop him. Petunia had been devastated by the loss and strangely Harry had felt quite sad about it as well. 

Tom probably wouldn't like being compared to a doll, even a very handsome one. 

Tom was still in the same position he had fallen asleep in. Dumbledore had said that the ritual would drain Tom considerably. Harry had needed to practically carry him up the stairs, help him out of his robes, and tuck him into bed. 

It wasn't the same as when Tom had drank a bit too much firewhiskey and had been cheerful and loose. After the ritual, Tom’s eyes were heavy-lidded and his speech was slurred and nearly incomprehensible. His gait alternated from rigid and heavy to so wobbly that Harry felt like he was holding on a particularly slippery snake. Maybe Harry would find it humorous in the future but at the time all he could do was worry. 

There had been blood involved. Tom had raised an eyebrow when Dumbledore had unsheathed the ritual knife. Harry knew from what Tom previously told him that blood-based rituals were considered illegal dark magic. It was odd seeing Dumbledore performing one but Harry wasn't about to question him. 

Harry and Tom had taken turns slicing open their palms and letting the blood drip into a metal bowl. It was far less blood than what had been pouring from Tom's wrists when he first appeared before Harry. It was safe. Tom was in no danger of bleeding out. But Harry couldn't slow the pounding of his heart or fear that was clawing at his throat. He hated seeing Tom bleeding again. 

Harry had also hated the bloody unbreakable vow. Harry had tried to protest it, yet again, but Tom had insisted that he didn't mind going through with it. 

Still, Harry had argued against the wording Dumbledore had initially suggested. He was going to have Tom promise to “never intentionally cause harm to Harry Potter”! Harry wasn't proud of it but his mind had drifted to him and Tom snogging in bed. If Tom bit Harry’s neck too hard would he slump over and die afterwards? Harry couldn't let that happen! But he couldn't let Dumbledore know he was thinking of that. 

Well, if Dumbledore and Grindelwald had truly been lovers, maybe Dumbledore would understand? 

Ugh. No. Dumbledore was ancient and wrinkled. Harry did not want to think about him experiencing sexual passion. 

“We’re going to want to practice dueling,” Harry eventually said, “What kind of dueling partner would Tom be if he had to hold back to keep from hurting me?” 

Snape scoffed in derision but Dumbledore had acquiesced to changing the wording. 

“And I'll make the same vow to him as well, of course,” Harry declared. 

Apparently Snape’s entire contribution to that evening’s events were noises of contempt. 

“It's only fair,” Harry said with a shrug. Dumbledore always got a particular look in his eyes that said his decision was final and he would hear no arguments. Harry tried his best to emulate that look now. 

It seemed to have worked. Harry thought that maybe Tom, of all of them, would try to argue against Harry binding himself as well. He hadn't, though. Tom seemed willing to tie himself to Harry in every way possible. Tom probably liked being a part of a reciprocal unbreakable bond with him. Weirdo. 

Tom stirred, breaking Harry out of his reverie. Tom blinked as he came into awareness, his cinnamon-brown eyes settling on Harry. 

“Hi, swee’hear’,” Tom said, his voice low and raspy. 

Harry was surprised how much he liked that term of endearment coming from Tom’s lips. But Harry was starting to feel like he might like everything Tom did. 

He liked Tom’s teasing and dramatic turns of phrase. He liked Tom’s absurdly long legs. He liked Tom’s freckles. He liked how Tom looked at him like he was an answered prayer. 

Harry never thought he could have anything like this. He never even allowed himself to dream of the possibility. 

As a child, Harry had been an unlovable freak, something to hide away. He had been whisked away to a land of magic where he had been proclaimed “The-Chosen-One” but Harry had never really felt chosen. Not completely, anyway. There would always be someone or something that was more important. 

But Tom wanted to choose Harry. Tom looked at Harry like he was magic itself. 

“How are you feeling?” Harry asked. 

“Bit horrid,” Tom replied with a croaky laugh. 

Harry frowned in concern, reaching over to caress Tom’s cheek. “Shall I bring you some breakfast?” 

“Mmm, don't leave,” Tom protested. 

“You need to keep your strength up,” Harry told him, “I won't take long.”

Tom’s face was peeking out of the bundle of bed clothes, pink-cheeked and pouting. Harry's heart clenched at the adorable sight. 

As Harry considered ignoring his hunger for a bit longer, Kreacher popped into the room carrying several trays. 

“Kreacher is bringing breakfast for the young Masters,” he said before busying himself with setting everything out. 

With a snap of Kreacher’s crooked fingers, large pillows appeared at Harry and Tom’s backs to make it easier for them to sit upright. 

“Er, thanks for all of this Kreacher,” Harry said. 

“The consort is being ill,” Kreacher croaked, “Kreacher is being a good elf.” 

The consort? Harry probably needed to investigate that later but for now his thoughts were consumed by the tantalizing scent of bacon.

Harry and Tom were each given plates filled with fried eggs, bacon, toast, and fruit. There was also a large pot of tea that Tom reached for eagerly. Tom probably drank upwards of ten cups of tea a day. 

Tom was meticulous in most of his doings, which made his approach to tea all the more fascinating. Harry had tried to memorize how Tom took his tea so Harry could prepare it to his liking. However, Harry discovered that Tom seemed to have no set preference for him to emulate. When Tom added sugar to his tea, he did not use measured spoonfuls. He allowed the sugar to nearly overflow from the spoon as he scooped it up. The amount of sugar he used varied. With each addition of sugar, he would take a prim little sip, adding more until he was satisfied. 

“See, isn't this nice?” Tom commented mildly. 

“It is,” Harry agreed, “I do like cooking for us, though.” 

“You make the finest food I've ever eaten,” Tom professed. 

Harry looked down at his bacon to hide the goofy grin that appeared on his face. 

“What happened on your errand with Dumbledore?” Tom asked. 

So much had happened since Harry returned to Grimmauld afterward, he had nearly forgotten all about his morning trip with the Headmaster. 

“He wanted me to convince a former Professor to return to Hogwarts next year,” Harry said, “Older bloke. You might have had him, actually? Were you ever taught by Professor Slughorn?” 

Tom nodded, looking intrigued. “Oh yes, I knew Sluggy quite well. But why would Dumbledore want him to return to Hogwarts?” 

“I just reckoned he was desperate for a decent Defense professor,” Harry said with a shrug. 

“Oh, Slughorn isn't a Defense professor, darling. He’s a Potion’s Master.” 

Harry dropped his fork. “But wait, that means…” 

“Seems like Dumbledore is replacing Snape. Wonder if he knows?” 

“Snape’s been after the Defense position for years,” Harry said, grimacing, “Just when I thought I was done with him…” 

“Were you not planning to continue on with Potions at NEWT level?” 

Harry shook his head. “Snape only accepts students with Os on their OWLS. I got an Exceeds Expectations.”

“Sluggy accepted students with EEs. Or at least he did when I was a student. His instructional style leaves a lot to be desired, but as I've told you before, I'm an excellent tutor,” Tom said, giving Harry a lascivious smirk. 

Pushing away the thoughts of what a tutoring session with Tom would entail, Harry asked “You call him Sluggy?” 

Tom laughed. “He had this little club when I was a student. Did he mention it to you?” 

“Oh yeah, Dumbledore said he liked to collect people,” Harry said with a small shudder. 

Tom was charming, handsome, and a total genius. Of course Slughorn would have wanted to collect him. Something about that made Harry feel uneasy. 

“Slughorn was quite useful to me. I made connections through him I would have never been able to otherwise,” Tom said. 

“It seems like you liked him.”

Tom shuddered, looking horrified. “Certainly not,” he scoffed, “His obsession with stroking his own ego through the accomplishments of others is supremely unattractive. But at least unlike some, he's honest about using people and letting others use him in turn.” 

“Dumbledore said Slughorn will want to collect me,” Harry said, “and that I should let him.” 

“I don't want him to even look at you,” Tom said, his stare heavy. 

There was something heated in Tom's gaze that made Harry’s gut churn with anticipation and a touch of fear. Tom was speaking of Slughorn but it seemed that Tom didn't want anyone looking at Harry at all. 

Harry wasn't afraid of Tom’s possessiveness, he realized. He was afraid of how much he liked it. 

“Of course Slughorn would want to collect you,” Tom continued, “Anyone would. But he can't have you. You're…” 

Tom trailed off, biting down on the words Harry knew were next. Was Tom worried that Harry would find it too much? Harry would help him out then. 

“I'm yours,” Harry said. 

Harry heard Tom’s breath hitch. His answering smile was almost predatory.

“That's right, darling,” Tom crooned. 

Suddenly, there were far too many plates and trays on the bed with them. In a flash, Tom took out his new wand and sent them flying away to stack in front of the door, cast a silencing charm, and then pulled Harry into a searing kiss. 

Harry had only kissed Cho before Tom. His kiss with her had been wet and uncomfortable. Kissing Tom was nothing like that. 

Kissing Tom Riddle offered the same kind of heart-pounding excitement Harry received from performing a Wronski Feint on the Quidditch Pitch. Sometimes Tom kissed Harry fiercely like he wanted to devour him. He also kissed Harry slowly and deeply, like he was savoring every moment. It made Harry feel cherished. 

The kissing started off nearly violent but quickly shifted to something more passionate and languid. Even after eating, it was clear that Tom had very little energy. Snogging probably wasn't the best activity for him to be engaging in at the moment, but Harry wasn’t about to tell him to stop. 

When Tom moved his head down to suck at the pulse point on Harry’s neck, Harry moaned. His cheeks heated as the attention Tom was paying to his neck became even more enthusiastic in response. Tom delighted in pulling out all sorts of sounds from Harry, but Harry couldn't help feeling embarrassed by showing his pleasure in that way. 

Tom’s hand grasped underneath Harry’s knee and gently pulled upward to wrap Harry’s leg around Tom’s waist. The friction the new position offered was delicious. They pressed against one another, so lost in the sensation that they weren't even kissing any more, just panting into each other’s mouths. 

Harry felt so sick with need that there were no rational thoughts left in his mind. He felt Tom’s cock, hard and pressing against his own. It felt big. Harry wanted to see it. He wanted to touch it. He wanted to taste it. 

Tom rocked against him, chasing his pleasure. Harry tucked his head against Tom’s neck and whined. This felt so much better than anything Harry had ever accomplished using his hand. Feeling dizzy, Harry matched Tom’s thrusts with his own. 

Tom laughed. “Eager, baby? Tell me what you want.” 

Harry could tell that Tom was trying to sound authoritative but the breathiness when he spoke revealed he was as overwhelmed as Harry was. It made Harry’s thoughts spiral with curiosity and arousal. How much control would Tom give him if he asked? 

Harry’s cock was achingly hard, throbbing and confined. 

“I want to come,” Harry gasped, “I want you to make me come, Tom.” 

“Yes, darling. Anything you want. I'll do anything you want. You’re so beautiful. You're fuckin’ perfect. Harry…” 

There was something so hot about Tom babbling in his ear, especially when his words cut out completely and turned into gasps and moans. 

Harry was reduced to something primal. All he could do was lick and suck on the expanse of Tom’s throat as his pleasure built and he moved towards oblivion. With another hard thrust, Harry shattered, stars erupting in his vision as he came. Tom followed him, letting out a strangled sound before collapsing against Harry. 

Harry ran his fingers through Tom’s sweat-soaked hair while he attempted to catch his breath. “That was… wow,” he eventually surmised. 

“Just wait until I'm recovered,” Tom said, a vicious smirk appearing on his flushed and fucked-out features. 

Tom clearly had more of an idea of what he was doing than Harry did. Until this point, Harry had spent little time even thinking of sex. Occasionally, he would wank silently to vague and fanciful notions. He certainly had not received any sex education from the Dursleys so most of what he had picked up about the act came from what he heard from other boys. 

Briefly, Harry worried. Would Tom compare him to whatever boys Tom had previously been with and find him lacking? 

“You're thinking too much,” Tom chided. 

Bit of an ironic statement, Harry thought, as he was sure Tom had a entire station worth of trains of thought running at any given moment. 

“I've just never done anything like this before,” Harry said softly, “I mean, you've probably noticed. I don't want to disappoint you.” 

“I like that I'm the first person to touch you like this,” Tom said, “I want to be the only one to ever touch you.” 

Harry sighed, relieved. 

“Besides,” Tom continued, kissing Harry’s temple, “There are plenty of things I have yet to experience that I want to share with you.” 

“Yeah, er, same here,” Harry replied. 

Now that a bit of time had passed, Harry was beginning to feel uncomfortably wet and sticky where he had come in his pants. Tom yawned, withdrawing his wand again to clean them both up with a muttered spell. 

“I'm afraid I cannot offer any additional entertainment until I've had a few more hours of sleep,” Tom said. 

“I would apologize for involving you in vigorous activity but I'm not sorry at all,” Harry said, grinning. 

Tom stretched, shifting so Harry was wrapped securely in his arms. “I hope you weren't thinking of running off.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Harry said, luxuriating in their closeness. 

As long as Tom was recovering, Harry didn't plan on leaving his side. 

If Harry belonged to Tom, he was certain that Tom also belonged to him. There was something heady about having someone to care for and being cared for in return. Harry never wanted to let go of that feeling. 

Chapter Text

It was a beautiful summer’s day. The sun was shining butter-yellow in the sky surrounded by fluffy fat clouds. The Burrow always had an idyllic quality to Hermione, like an illustration from the storybooks she had as a child. Before Hermione knew that magic was real, she knew what it looked like. 

Unfortunately, today there was little time for sitting back and enjoying the view. Today was Harry Potter’s sixteenth birthday and the Burrow was enveloped in chaotic preparation. 

It went undiscussed but Hermione was fairly certain that Harry had never had a birthday party before. He had never disclosed the full extent of how his relatives treated him but Hermione could make inferences. Even if Hermione took the crumbs Harry had given her over the years and crafted the best possible scenario, she didn't see Harry’s childhood involving anything that celebrated his existence. 

Hermione had birthday parties every year until she went to Hogwarts. None of her classmates ever came but her parents made sure she had presents and cake. One memorable year, they had rented out an entire roller skating rink for a few hours. Hermione didn't even like roller skating but thought such an event would entice her classmates into attending. Apparently Hermione had been too much of a pariah to even tempt a single classmate to spend time in her company. So, Hermione did know a fair amount about unhappy birthdays and was determined that Harry should know what a nice one was like. 

Mrs. Weasley was in a right state, barking orders at anyone nearby. Fred and George had difficulty stopping their shenanigans long enough to assist in a meaningful way. Ron and Ginny were trying a bit harder but kept getting distracted. Hermione kept her focus on the task at hand, trying not to let her mind drift to the worries that had been plaguing her about Harry recently. 

Since finding out she was a witch, Hermione had experienced many moments of pure terror. There was the troll in the bathroom followed by Harry’s nearly countless near-death experiences. Still, Hermione had never felt more terrified than she had when Ron told her Harry was missing and had left behind a suicide note. 

More than anything, Hermione had felt furious with herself for not seeing the signs. Harry had been pushed down so many times but he was so resilient. He always got back on his feet and kept fighting. Hermione had taken that for granted. She had assumed that would always be the case. 

Relief at finding Harry alive and safe had quickly turned to despair again. Hermione knew that the most responsible course of action was to tell Dumbledore what Harry had been planning. Still, the look of betrayal in Harry’s eyes had been haunting. 

Harry’s first letter to Hermione after that had only filled her mind with more questions. She was happy that he seemed to understand why she gave the letter to Dumbledore but then he had alluded to some important secret that he couldn't tell her yet. 

Hermione knew that Harry had been hurt by people keeping secrets from him the previous summer but she thought he had gotten over it. 

The letters following that brought even further confusion. Harry didn't talk about his time in the hospital or his feelings. Instead, he listed muggle bands and songs he thought Hermione might like and asked about charming muggle stereo devices to work at Grimmauld Place. Hermione had learned that Veruca Salt wasn't only a Roald Dahl character but also the name of a music group Harry liked. Harry had never mentioned liking any sort of music before. Hermione was glad that he had a new hobby but after listening to some of the tunes he recommended, she worried that the content would only make him more depressed. 

But strangely enough, the letters only became more cheerful as the summer went on, albeit shorter. Apparently Harry was interested in baking now as well. Dumbledore had told the Order that Grimmauld Place was potentially dangerous but apparently Harry had been there for over a fortnight baking scones and pondering over the right color for new curtains. Hermione was fairly sure Dumbledore would not have allowed him to stay at Grimmauld alone but who could be with him? 

Hermione was itching with questions. Her first impulse was to demand answers but she knew that Harry would not respond well. She very badly wanted to pull Ron aside and discuss it but there had been no time. 

The party was being held in the back garden. Hermione was setting the table while watching the twins out of the corner of her eye. They were demonstrating something new and explosive they had crafted. Hermione was already dreading the amount of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes products she would be confiscating over the next term. She doubted Ron would be any help in enforcing any bans on the items from the twin’s store. 

“Fred! Get that thing away from the table!” Mrs. Weasley shouted. 

“I don't have anything, Mum! George is the one with the Whizzy Banger!” 

Poor Mrs. Weasley looked close to tears. “George, then! Whoever you are! Get the explosive away from the table for Merlin’s sake!” 

George, or maybe Fred, gave her a salute and moved away. 

There was a figure in the distance walking up the path towards the house. Hermione squinted, making out someone with long blonde hair carrying what appeared to be balloons. 

Hermione stepped back to look at the table. It was ready apart from the flower arrangement for the center that Neville said he was bringing. While Hermione doubted that many in attendance would care much about the aesthetic, she still wanted things to look nice. 

“Hello Luna, dear. Don't you look lovely?” Mrs. Weasley said. 

Hermione supposed loveliness was subjective. Luna’s hair was in messy lopsided pigtails and she was wearing a dress that appeared to be made of old rain slickers patched together, knee-length mismatched striped socks, and muggle bowling shoes. What Hermione thought were balloons seemed to actually be newt eyes that had been engorgioed, inflated, and then attached to multicolored ribbons. 

“Thank you!” Luna said cheerfully, “I'm so pleased to be invited to a birthday party! I've never been to one before!” 

“We’re very happy to have you, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said. Her eyes narrowed at the “balloons”. “Er, you can put those-”

“They’re meant to be tied to the chair of the birthday boy,” Luna said, “They’re for a year of luck.” 

A brief look of horror flashed on Mrs. Weasley’s face before a grinning Ginny swooped in and directed Luna to the chair at the head of the table. 

There was a warm chuckle near Hermione’s ear. 

“Utterly barmy,” Ron said, shaking his head, “but Harry will think it's a laugh at least.” 

“Harry might think it's a laugh, but your poor mum looks close to having a stroke,” Hermione said quietly. 

Ron choked out a laugh. “Oi, what was that about my mum?” 

Hermione's cheeks went pink. “It's a medical emergency that happens to muggles,” she said, giving him a light push on the arm, “Get your mind out of the gutter.” 

Ron kept laughing and after a moment Hermione joined him. 

Hermione had never had the easy camaraderie with Ron that she shared with Harry. At times, they bickered so often she wondered why they were friends at all. But other times Ron felt like the steadiest thing in her life. 

Their friendship had been slowly shifting to something more since fourth year. Hermione thought that this was the year they might finally get on the same page about it all. Hermione just worried about beginning a romantic relationship with Ron might affect Harry, especially with his recent volatility. She was worried about Harry feeling lonely. It was a pity that things hadn't worked out between him and Cho. Maybe this would be the year Harry would finally notice how Ginny had been pining away for him. 

“D’you think Harry will tell us the big news he's been keeping from us?” Ron asked. 

“Surely he will,” Hermione said, “We’ll need to find a way to get him alone.” 

“It's got to be about,” Ron leaned closer, lowering his voice, “You-Know-Who, right?” 

Hermione pursed her lips. “Harry said it was a good thing, though.” 

“Maybe Dumbledore has figured out a way to beat him,” Ron said hopefully, “Maybe that’s what Harry’s been up to all summer. Secret training with Dumbledore.” 

The idea had merit but Hermione doubted it all the same. “You know what I can't stop thinking about?” 

“What?” 

“Remember when we found him in the Hospital Wing? How he was covered in blood?” 

“Oh yeah,” Ron said, looking sheepish. He was most likely recalling how his punch had added even more blood to the equation. 

“He said it wasn't his blood. But whose blood was it?” 

“You-Know-Who’s? A Death Eater?” 

“Maybe,” Hermione said, unconvinced. “And if Harry wasn't injured, why was he in the Hospital Wing?” 

“Dunno,” Ron said, “He’ll tell us, though. Right? He always does.” 

Harry had not told either of them that he was considering ending his own life. What else was he hiding? 

“Hello,” came a dreamy voice from behind them, “What are we discussing?” 

Hermione nearly jumped at the sudden interruption. How long had Luna been standing there? From her dazed expression, it didn't seem like she had overheard anything important. Hermione was never sure exactly how aware Luna was of anything going on around her. Most of the strange things she said could be easily dismissed but she had the power to blindside Hermione on occasion. Hermione was still slightly embarrassed about insisting the carriages to Hogwarts weren't being pulled by anything only to be proven wrong. 

“We were just talking about Flarthing Flumpkies,” Ron said quickly. 

Luna tilted her head, much like a parakeet. “I've never heard of such a thing. Are you teasing me, Ronald Weasley?” 

“Er,” Ron stuttered, skin flushing. 

“I've never been teased in a friendly way before,” Luna said, beaming, “This is a wonderful day.” 

Once everything was ready, the party guests spilled back in the house to wait for Harry to arrive. He was meant to come through the floo at noon, so everyone had congregated in the kitchen. 

Most of the DA would have accepted an invitation to the party but Harry would have been overwhelmed by such a large crowd. So, the guests consisted of the Weasleys (sans Charlie and Percy), Fleur, Hermione, Luna, Neville, Professor Lupin, and Tonks. 

The full moon was drawing near, so Lupin appeared pale and exhausted. He seemed sad as well but Hermione assumed he must still be grieving after the death of his friend. Tonks was hovering near him, intent on getting him to crack a smile but had so far been unsuccessful. 

Finally, the fireplace filled with green flames and Harry tumbled out. He caught himself before he fell and started to dust the soot off his clothes. It had only been a month since Hermione had seen him last, but he looked taller. He was dressed in muggle clothes but they actually fit him. He was wearing a black T-shirt with the logo of one of the bands he had mentioned in his letters, Nirvana. He also had on distressed denim trousers. Hermione wasn't sure why anyone would want to buy clothing that already had holes in them but that was just her opinion. 

Harry lifted his head and gave everyone a crooked smile. 

“Happy Birthday, Harry!” Tonks called out and was quickly joined by everyone else repeating their well-wishes. 

Before Harry could speak, the fireplace behind him glowed green again. Hermione barely had time to start wondering who else could be coming before another boy gracefully stepped out of the floo. 

Unlike Harry, the newcomer did not stumble. The fine robes he was wearing carried no trace of soot.

Harry turned and grinned at the stranger. “Of course you have no trouble with the floo,” he commented wryly. 

“One simply must have confidence, darling,” the boy drawled, flashing Harry a charming smile. 

His accent was quite posh and his style was reminiscent of a snobby pureblood Slytherin. Yet, Hermione did not recognize the boy at all. Hermione would have remembered a boy like him. He was tall, perhaps a few inches taller than Ron. While Hermione didn't put much stock in physical appearance, she couldn't deny that this boy was perhaps the most handsome person she had ever seen. He looked like a film star with his perfectly styled hair and aristocratic features. 

Hermione glanced around the room, registering the looks of confusion and curiosity on the faces around her. At least she wasn't the only one in the dark. 

“Oh,” Harry eventually said, turning back to face the group from where he had still been smiling at the boy, “Hi, everyone. This is my boyfriend.” 

“Tomas Rosier,” the boy said, stepping forward, “It’s a pleasure. Harry has told me so much about all of you.” 

“Well, he hasn't mentioned you, mate!” one of the twins called out. 

Rosier’s lip twitched slightly before turning into a bland smile. 

“Well, we’ve been getting to know each other,” Harry said, “Y’know, er, privately. I wanted to introduce him to everyone today.” 

“How did you meet?” Ginny asked, “I haven't seen him at Hogwarts.”

“He's a Rosier?” Bill followed. 

“Oi!” Ron called out, “Lay off the inquisition! This is supposed to be a party, innit?” 

Harry gave Ron a grateful smile. Rosier moved to stand closer to Harry, wrapping an arm around his waist. Hermione watched, bewildered, as Harry immediately relaxed into his new boyfriend’s hold. 

When Hermione was younger, there were times that she grabbed Harry and embraced him, usually when emotions were high. He always went still and tense when she did so. Hermione eventually concluded that these hugs were something Harry allowed her, rather than something he wanted. It was strange to see him so easily accepting touch. 

It made Hermione feel a bit jealous. She didn't fancy Harry or anything like that. It just rankled a bit seeing Harry so comfortable with Rosier’s touch when Hermione couldn't put a comforting hand on Harry’s shoulder without him flinching. She had never allowed herself to take that personally before but now….

“I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have for me,” Rosier said smoothly, “but we're all here to celebrate Harry, are we not?” 

There were some murmurs of agreement followed by Mrs. Weasley herding everyone outside where lunch was waiting. 

Harry took his seat at the head of the table, giving a bemused glance at the decor Luna had tied to his chair. Rosier took the chair to his left while Ron scrambled to take the one to his right. Hermione took the seat next to Ron, noting how he was looking between Harry and Rosier with a range of expressions ranging from confusion to what may have been anger. 

Hermione thought that Ron might have spoke out to stop the questioning because he wanted to be the first one to receive the answers. 

Sure enough, right after everyone had filled their plates, Ron directed his attention to Rosier. 

“So,” he said, clearing his throat, “Rosier, is it?” 

“Oh, do call me Tom,” the boy replied with a dazzling smile. 

“Okay, then, Tom,” Ron said, “How did you meet Harry?” 

“The coming war put my family in a… precarious position. Until recently, I was homeschooled as my parents frequently traveled. Dumbledore kindly offered me a place at Hogwarts for the upcoming school year but I had no place to go for the summer. Harry was kind enough to offer a place in his home.” 

Tom smiled at Harry warmly, reaching over the table to squeeze his hand. Tom spoke like someone accustomed to speaking before an audience, making sure his voice carried all the way to the end of the table. Not that it mattered overmuch. Everyone had their attention glued on him. Even Luna had paused her usual rambling about conspiracy theories to watch Tom with unguarded interest. 

“Any relation to Evan Rosier?” Mr. Weasley asked. 

Hermione remembered hearing that name tied to a rather notorious Death Eater who had died during the first war, nearly taking Alastor Moody down with him. 

“I am a part of the main Rosier family branch, from Toulouse. Many many generations removed from British Rosiers,” Tom said. He gave Mr. Weasley a pointed look when he added, “Different values, as well.” 

Mr. Weasley looked satisfied by the response. 

“What's your favorite Quidditch team?” Ron asked gruffly. 

“I suppose the Gryffindor House team as it’s the one Harry is on,” Tom replied, “Speaking of, darling, did you tell your friends the good news?” 

“What good news?” Ron asked, looking slightly offended. 

“Oh yeah,” Harry said with a small smile, “I'm Quidditch Captain this year.” 

Ron beamed at him. “Brilliant, mate!” 

The rest of the table offered their cheers and congratulations as well. Quickly, the tension in the air lifted as the conversation eagerly shifted to the upcoming Quidditch season. 

Throughout it all, Hermione still paid attention to Tom. His eyes rarely left Harry, focused intently on every word that left Harry’s lips. Occasionally, someone would chime in with another question for Tom, which he would answer politely and succinctly before shifting the attention back to Harry with a “Darling, you should tell them about-”. 

On all fronts, Tom seemed like an attentive and caring partner. So why was Hermione so convinced there was something sinister lurking under the surface? 

Once everyone had enjoyed a hearty slice of strawberry cake and all the plates were cleared away, a large pile of gifts were levitated over to land in front of Harry. 

“Blimey,” he said, looking at them in astonishment, “This really is too much.”

“Nonsense, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said with a gentle smile. 

Harry began opening his presents. Hermione usually gave Harry a book for his birthday but this year had branched out based on his new interests. She had even gone to her moody cousin Raquel for assistance. 

“Oh, this is brilliant, Hermione! Thank you!” Harry said, holding up a cassette tape, “I've been wanting to listen to this one.” 

Mr. Weasley’s eyes were glimmering with interest at the muggle artifact before him. Harry quickly gave him an explanation of cassette tapes and how to play them. 

“Tom and I managed to get my tape deck working at home,” Harry said, “I can pass on our notes if you want.”

“I would certainly love to have a look,” Mr. Weasley said. 

Hermione had given him three tapes along with another surprising item Harry had mentioned wanting. 

“Oh, cheers!” Harry said, grinning, “Look Tom, Hermione got me eyeliner.” 

“Wonderful,” Tom practically purred as he examined the cardboard tube. 

Hermione had no idea where the interest in muggle cosmetics had come from. Harry had always seemed, well, too masculine for that sort of thing. But then again, when Hermione had gone to the music store she had seen several glossy posters of men wearing thick black eyeliner. 

Ron gave Harry a new practice snitch. The twins gave him a veritable mountain of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes offerings. He got a stack of books from Professor Lupin, a house plant from Neville, and more prank products from Tonks. 

Luna had given Harry a bright red clown wig. “If you ever need to disguise yourself as a Weasley,” she told him seriously. 

“Thank you, Luna,” he said with a solemn nod, “This could be very useful.” 

After Harry had opened the final gift in the pile (a poster of a Hungarian Horntail courtesy of Ginny), Tom pulled a box out of his pocket, tapped it with his wand to enlarge it, and pushed it towards Harry with an expectant smile. 

Harry smiled at him incredulously. “You got me a gift? When?” Harry arched an eyebrow. “Wait… then? With him? He wouldn't have just let you…” 

Tom gave him a fox-like smile. Harry threw his head back with laughter. 

“Oh Merlin, I reckon he was furious then,” Harry said. 

“Oh darling, he didn't even notice,” Tom replied. 

Harry laughed even harder at that, completely obvious to the several questioning looks being directed his way. Still giggling, Harry untied the emerald green ribbon on the box and opened it. 

“Oh, it's a camera!” Harry exclaimed, smiling down at it like it was the most precious thing in the world, “This is brilliant, Tom. Thank you.” 

“Oh wonderful!” Mrs. Weasley said, “We’ll have to take photos then!” 

“There's a tripod as well,” Tom said, “We can set it up and get a photo of the entire group.” 

The way Harry was looking at Tom was utterly unlike any expression Hermione had ever seen on his face. It was like he had stars in his eyes. So soft and utterly besotted. 

Admittedly, Hermione was confused. Harry had never once expressed an interest in photography and had despised being photographed previously. Why was Harry acting like this particular gift was the greatest one he had received that day? Was it because it had come from Tom? 

The camera was set up and everyone squeezed together for a group shot. After that, Harry had happily declared he wanted pictures with everyone. 

While Harry took photos with Tom, Hermione and Ron exchanged a look before walking away to find a private spot to talk. Ginny, nose primed for gossip, immediately followed after and inserted herself. 

Ron gave his sister a pointed look but she didn't leave, rocking forward on her feet and smiling.

Ron let out a sigh and looked away from Ginny before addressing Hermione. “So, what d’you reckon?” 

“It's a bit of a shock, to be honest,” Hermione said. 

“He’s fit though, right?” Ginny chimed in, “Like wow.” 

Hermione squinted at her. “Are you not… jealous?”

After all, it seemed everyone except Harry knew about Ginny’s feelings for him. Harry was convinced that Ginny’s crush on him had vanished after he saved her from the Chamber of Secrets, not realizing that Ginny had just grown more comfortable in his presence. 

Ginny cackled. “Don't reckon I can be anymore if that's my competition. Merlin! You see, I was annoyed about the whole Chang thing because she's a total snooze but Tom on the other hand…” She mimed fanning herself. 

“Well,” Hermione said a bit stiffly, “Glad you're coping.” 

Ginny looked over where the couple in question were still posing for pictures, the twins jeering at them to kiss for the camera. “Reckon they’d be down for a threesome?” 

Ron’s face twisted with disgust. “Oi!” 

Ginny lifted her hands peaceably. “I'm kidding! Anyway, I guess this is as good of a sign as any that I ought to return Dean's owl.” 

Ron glared at Ginny. “Thomas?” he practically growled. 

Ginny returned his glare even more fiercely. “Don't even start with that protective older brother shite. I will turn your bollocks into balloons. Don't even think I won't. Luna already said she’d teach me the charms.” 

Ron looked a bit green at that. 

“Oh well, I guess I'll leave you two to discuss whatever you don't want me hearing. I'm going to see if Harry and Tom will take a photo with me between them. Could be something nice to have on a cold lonely night. Ta!” 

Ginny skipped off, her flaming red hair whipping at her back. 

“Did you even know Harry was… you know?” Ron whispered. 

Hermione shook her head. “I suppose he always gave Cedric interesting looks but he never told me anything.” 

“It feels like there's a lot he hasn't been telling us,” Ron sighed. 

“Well, he does seem much happier than he did in June,” Hermione said weakly. 

“But that's just the thing, innit? Harry was ready to…” Ron’s words cut off and he shuddered before continuing, “That was only a month ago. Now, he's all cozy with some bloke he just met, telling us all about the new tea towels they picked out together. It's mad!” 

Hermione hummed in agreement. “You don't think he…” 

“What?” 

“I mean your brothers are selling love potions in that shop of theirs these days. Anyone could get their hands on one.” 

Ron scoffed. “Those potions don't even do anything besides making the drinker a bit randy. It wouldn't cause whatever this is.” 

“Well, Tom does seem rather intelligent. He would probably be capable of brewing something on his own,” Hermione pondered. 

“But if Dumbledore is involved…” 

“Right,” Hermione said, “Dumbledore would have caught on if that was the case. At least, I think he would." 

“We need to speak with Harry,” Ron decided, “without the boyfriend around.” 

“Right,” Hermione said, hoping that their planned intervention did not turn into a shouting match. 

When Ron and Hermione returned to the group, Harry and Tom were standing with Luna, who was waving her hands animatedly as she spoke to them. 

Harry turned, spotting them, before whispering something in Tom’s ear, kissing his cheek, and walking over. 

Tom watched Harry go, looking forlorn, before turning back to Luna to listen to whatever she was prattling about. 

“Hey,” Harry said a bit awkwardly, “Can we talk somewhere private?” 

The group walked together until they found a shady tree to sit under. 

“So, I’m sure you both have questions,” Harry began, hands folded in his lap. 

“You bet Merlin’s sweet arse we do!” Ron said hotly. 

“Merlin’s arse… is sweet?” Harry laughed.

“Don't change the subject!” Ron said hotly. 

“We are concerned,” Hermione said diplomatically. 

“Reckoned you would be, yeah,” Harry said, “It’s not like I don't know how mad this all is. I figured I owed you two the truth.” 

“So, all that stuff you were saying back there was a lie?” Ron asked. 

Harry waved a hand. “That was the official story we worked out with Dumbledore.” 

“And the real story?” Hermione prompted. 

“Right, I was getting to that.” Harry took a deep breath. “To start out, I'm aware this all sounds completely mad but I promise it's the truth.” 

“Mate, your entire life has been mad,” Ron pointed, “That pretty much goes without saying at this point.” 

Harry’s lip twitched into a tiny smile. “So, Tom isn't from France. He's not even from this time. Or this dimension.” 

“What?” Hermione interjected, “That’s not possible.” 

“Anything is possible with Tom. He's brilliant,” Harry said dreamily. 

“But nobody has ever successfully traveled between dimensions! Not to mention that time travel becomes completely unstable after more than twelve hours! Harry, you know this!” 

“What year is he from?” Ron asked, ignoring Hermione's outburst. 

“1943.” 

Hermione let out an exasperated groan. “Harry, if he managed to travel from that far in the past he would have shown adverse effects by now. Like rapid aging, memory loss, fugue states…” 

“Listen, I'm sure Tom would be happy to let you look over his ritual notes,” Harry snapped, “Will you let me finish the story, please?” 

“Sorry,” Hermione said, clamping her mouth shut. 

It was more than a little alarming how convinced Harry seemed to be of what he was saying. Hermione knew that Harry didn't read as much as she did but surely he didn't believe something this absurd? 

“So, that night…” Harry bit his lip, “You both know which one I'm talking about right?” 

Hermione and Ron both nodded. 

“I was standing in the Astronomy Tower and there was this loud bang and flash of light. Suddenly, Tom was right in front of me lying on the floor. Merlin, he was bleeding so much. I've never seen so much blood.” 

So, that's where the blood on Harry’s shirt had come from. 

Harry let out a shaky breath before continuing. “Luckily, Snape was lurking nearby and heard me shouting for help. We got Tom to the hospital wing. After that, I had my, er, mandatory vacation.” 

“I'm really sorry about that,” Hermione said, “But it really was in your best interest to get an adult involved.” 

“I know, Hermione,” Harry said quickly, “It's fine, really. I'm not upset about it anymore.” 

“Good,” Hermione said. 

“So, Tom traveled here from another dimension and just happened to land in front of you?” Ron asked. 

“Tom’s spent most of the last year studying soulmate theory. When he realized he couldn't find his soulmate in his dimension, he made a ritual to bring him to his soulmate in a different one.” 

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. Harry’s explanation of dimensional travel was already completely impossible and now he was adding another crackpot theory on top of it? 

Ron laughed uncomfortably. “Soulmates? Isn't that a bit fanciful?” 

“Putting it mildly,” Hermione said. 

“I mean, it sounded dodgy to me at first too,” Harry said, “but after being around Tom…” 

Harry paused, seemingly lost in a fond memory, before clearing his throat. “Anyway, I don't know anything about runes or any of that but something Tom put into his ritual brought him to me. Even if he's not my soulmate, he saved my life that night. That's gotta count for something.” 

“That's just it, Harry,” Hermione beseeched, “A month ago, you nearly killed yourself!”

“Exactly!” Harry said, “A month ago, I never thought I would be happy again. I'm happy now. I actually feel hopeful again. Tom gave me that.” 

“We wanted to be there for you, Harry!” Hermione said, tears prickling at the corner of her eyes. 

“I know,” Harry soothed, “I really am sorry I didn't tell you what was going on with me. But, I really am feeling better. I just want you to be happy for me.”

Ron sighed. “It's not that we’re not happy for you, mate. We’re just worried. How do you actually know that this bloke isn't just some spy sent by You-Know-Who trying to get close to you?” 

“Er, because Dumbledore would have seen through that?” Harry said. 

“Well, I don't want to badmouth Professor Dumbledore but he did hire a polyjuiced Death Eater for an entire school year,” Hermione said. 

“Believe me, I remember,” Harry sighed, “Besides, even if Tom was a part of a nefarious scheme, it wouldn't matter now. He swore an Unbreakable Vow to me a few days ago. He can't harm me.” 

“Well, I suppose that's comforting,” Ron said. 

“I didn't want him to…” Harry said. 

“What?” Ron interjected, “Are you mad?” 

“I just think the concept is a mite fucked up,” Harry said with a shrug, “But Tom insisted. He's doing a lot to gain everyone’s trust. I mean, imagine what all of this has been like for him. He didn't come here expecting to be tied to me, of all people. He didn't expect to be immediately met with suspicion. But every step of the way he's shown that he's committed to me, even with all the danger attached.” 

Hermione sighed. “This is just a lot to process.” 

Harry plucked a blade of grass from the ground and held it up, twisting it between his fingers. “I understand. I didn't expect either of you to accept everything right away. But will you at least give Tom a chance? Come visit us at Grimmauld. It looks so much better now. Merlin knows that Tom would appreciate an intellectual discussion, Hermione. And Ron, he might actually give you a challenge at chess.” 

“Fine,” Ron said, “but if he does anything-” 

Harry laughed. “He already knows. Trust me.” 

Hermione still felt profoundly uneasy about all of this but it was nice to see a genuine smile on Harry’s face. How long had it been since he had laughed so easily? 

Hermione would make Tom show her his ritual notes. She would investigate him thoroughly. She already had a mental list of books to consult. If Tom had anything less than the purest intentions towards Harry, Hermione would make sure he paid. 

After all, Hermione had set a man’s robes on fire for Harry before. She had trapped a woman in a jar. She had fought and bled for her friend because she knew that Harry would do the same for her. 

Tomas Rosier had a lot to prove. 

Chapter Text

When Harry finally wrapped up his conversation with Ron and Hermione, they made their way back towards the larger group. 

Harry wasn't naive enough to believe that his closest friends would immediately trust Tom. It wasn't unwarranted that they would be suspicious of a newcomer that Harry was suddenly so close with. However, Ron and Hermione had both agreed to give Tom a chance, which is what Harry had been hoping for. 

After much internal debate, Harry decided not to tell his friends who Tom’s counterpart was in this dimension. He hated keeping secrets from his friends but didn't want them to judge Tom based on the actions of Voldemort. Harry already saw how Snape sneered at Tom and gave him suspicious glares. Dumbledore, while more pleasant, seemed to regard Tom with a calculating gleam in his eyes. Harry just wanted his friends to judge Tom based on his own merits. 

Annoyingly, Harry had realized he didn't quite trust them to do so. Hermione, of course, would claim that she wasn't judging Tom based on Voldemort but Harry knew she secretly would anyway. Ron judged people just for being sorted into Slytherin. There was no telling how he would react if he found out Harry’s boyfriend was Slytherin’s Heir. 

So yes, Harry had withheld information. Some might even say he lied to his friends. It felt necessary. Perhaps, if everything went well, he would tell them the truth later. 

Rather diplomatically, Tom had insisted that the choice be left up to Harry. 

Harry found Tom, absorbed in a conversation with Fleur. Harry felt drawn towards him, as being pulled by an invisible string. Their hands slotted together instantly. Tom’s face was passive as he chatted with Fleur in perfect French but the strength of Tom’s grip on Harry’s hand betrayed his true emotions. 

Harry had no idea what Tom was saying but hearing him speak in another language was doing something to Harry. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to get Tom alone. Absolutely no one else ought to be allowed to know how sexy Tom sounded speaking French. 

Thankfully, the party seemed to be winding down. Harry exchanged thank you’s and goodbyes with everyone, unable to tone down his frantic pace. 

The only person who commented on it was Ginny, who raised an eyebrow and asked, “In a hurry, are we?” 

Harry blushed and stammered out something nonsensical in response before gathering all of his gifts and practically dragging Tom to the floo.

Once at Grimmauld Place, Harry barely was able to relieve himself of the gifts he was carrying in his arms before he found himself pinned against a countertop and being kissed fiercely. 

Harry lifted his arm to bury a hand into Tom’s hair, melting into the kiss. The polite mask Tom had been wearing all day had slipped away, revealing something hungry and almost desperate. 

It was startlingly possessive, the way Tom’s fingers dug into Harry’s wait, the pressure just on the edge of painful.  

Harry wanted more. 

He wanted Tom to drape across him like a heavy blanket. He wanted Tom to scent him like a wild animal. He wanted Tom to consume him until there was no trace of any other touch on his body. So there was no denying that Harry and Tom were permanently entwined. 

Perhaps, if Harry was a more reasonable person, he might worry he was going mad. 

Tom broke away from Harry, his lips wet and swollen. “I need you,” he gasped. “Right now.” 

Harry had no objections. Except well…

“We’re in the kitchen,” Harry said weakly. 

Tom hummed in response, moving down to kiss Harry’s neck. 

Harry’s eyes fluttered closed, briefly forgetting all objections. So what if they were in the kitchen? Cleaning spells existed. Who cared about propriety? Who cared about…

“Snape,” Harry remembered, “We need to go somewhere else before he finds us.” 

Tom removed his mouth from where he had been sucking at Harry’s collarbone. He took out his wand and cast Homenum Revelio. Once the spell revealed no human presence in the house, Tom moved on to attempting to unbutton Harry's trousers. 

“When he comes back, he’ll come through the floo,” Harry said. 

“We’ll block the floo,” Tom said dismissively, pulling down Harry’s zipper. “I need your cock in my mouth, darling.” 

“Fuck,” Harry breathed. 

Harry’s cock was straining in his pants. Tom’s words made him want to throw all rationality out the window. Still, Harry knew that if the floo connection was blocked when Snape attempted to return to Grimmauld, the overgrown bat would certainly fly off the handle. Dumbledore would undoubtedly be called upon. Harry didn't want to imagine the disappointed look the headmaster would give him. 

Ugh. Harry didn't want to be thinking about Dumbledore at all when Tom was shucking Harry’s trousers down his thighs. Harry certainly wanted everything Tom was offering but needed to find a way to move to another location without ruining the mood completely. 

Harry distracted Tom with more kissing, pulling Tom’s bottom lip into his mouth to suck on it. When they pulled apart again, Harry noticed that Tom’s eyes were nearly black, only the barest amount of his brown irises visible. 

Harry leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of Tom’s ear. “Take me to bed,” he whispered. 

Tom shivered before moving to claim Harry’s lips again. They stumbled out of the kitchen, still attached by mouth and clumsily maneuvering through the corridor. Getting up the stairs was a challenge, as neither of them was inclined to stop snogging on the way. Harry had disposed of the very last parts of his rationality when convincing Tom to leave the kitchen. If Tom pushed him down and sucked him off on the staircase, Harry would have probably been too blissed out to mind. 

By some miracle, they made it to the bedroom. Harry plopped down on the edge of the bed and started removing his shoes, only to laugh when Tom shot a spell at them to instantly untie them. Harry finished kicking them off, uncaring where they landed. 

Harry’s heart was pounding wildly in his chest as he scrambled backward onto the bed, wincing when his head smacked against the headboard. 

“Alright?” Tom asked. He got on the bed a little more elegantly, moving to straddle Harry.

There had been a sting of pain but it was brief. “Yeah, I'm fine,” Harry said, clutching the front of Tom’s robes to pull him down into a kiss. 

Harry had been imagining Tom in this position for quite a while and it was even more satisfying than he imagined. Tom kissed Harry slowly, more gently than he had downstairs. Harry savored it, splaying his hand on Tom’s chest. 

Tom pulled at the hem of Harry’s T-shirt. He broke from the kiss to mutter, “This needs to come off.” 

Harry tried to keep the self-conscious thoughts at bay as Tom removed his shirt. Harry knew he was a bit scrawny, though he had been eating better this summer. He also had unsightly scars littered across his torso and upper arms. The most prominent were from he had been bitten by the basilisk and been cut by Wormtail in the graveyard. But there were also reminders of smaller cruelties, hot oil splatters, bites from being attacked by Marge’s dog, and other tiny forgotten marks. 

Tom threw Harry’s shirt off the bed, leaning back to stare at his exposed chest. If Tom had negative feelings about what he was looking at, it didn't show. He looked ravenous. Harry couldn't help but admire how utterly disheveled Tom looked at the moment. 

“Beautiful,” Tom whispered. 

Tom reverently kissed Harry’s neck, pausing to suck at his pulse point, before continuing to move down his body. The sensation of plush lips, warm tongue, and the occasional scrape of teeth was nearly overwhelming. Harry’s breath was caught precariously in his throat. He was unable to do much more than witness what Tom was doing to him. 

Harry let out a strangled moan when Tom swirled his tongue around his nipple and sucked on it. Tom pulled off with a lewd pop, flashing Harry a smug smirk before resuming even more enthusiastically. Tom’s hands roamed freely as well. As he covered one nipple with his hot mouth, his fingers flicked and twisted the other. His other hand gripped Harry’s waist, then his hips. 

It struck Harry that Tom was still completely dressed in his midnight blue satin robes. He looked resplendent, of course. Still, it was rather unfair. Harry lightly tapped Tom’s shoulder. When he didn't respond, Harry tapped again a bit more forcefully. 

Tom looked up at Harry, his curls beautifully askew. “Yes, darlin’?” 

“C’mere,” Harry choked out. 

Tom obliged and Harry set himself to the task of fumbling with the pearl buttons of Tom’s robes. There were far too many buttons and Harry’s trembling hands weren't helping matters. 

“Having trouble?” Tom asked, voice dripping with false sympathy. 

He didn't move to help, seemingly enjoying Harry’s struggle. 

“I want to see you,” Harry said. It may have been a whine. 

Tom took one of Harry’s hands and kissed the knuckles. “Let me help you out,” he said. 

He took out his wand, pointed it at a button, and whispered an incantation. All of the buttons popped open simultaneously, revealing part of the smooth expanse of Tom’s chest. 

Working together, they divested Tom of his robes. Tom leaned back slightly after so Harry could properly drink in the sight. 

Unlike Harry, Tom didn't appear the least bit modest. Tom was gorgeous and was completely aware of it. At the moment, Harry could only feel extraordinarily lucky that fate had worked out for once and placed Tom Riddle in his bed. 

Harry put his hand against Tom’s breastbone, inhaling shakily. He was so eager to get Tom’s clothes off too but now he had no idea what to do. 

Lowering his gaze, Harry noticed that Tom was wearing a pair of plain white Y-fronts. It felt in delightful opposition to the fine robes he had been wearing. It made sense that Tom wouldn't wear any of the Black family bloomers, but the sight made Harry crack a smile nonetheless. What was a little less humorous was the impressive-looking bulge displayed prominently. Harry gulped before looking back up at Tom’s adorably smug face. 

Harry moved to kiss the smirk off of his mouth. It was easy to get lost in the feeling of Tom’s pressing into him, his tongue swirling in his mouth and his hard cock pressing against Harry's still denim-clad one. 

Harry moaned, running his hands over the planes of Tom’s back. There were scars there, he noticed. Long horizontal stripes that were unevenly spaced from his shoulders all the way to the small of his back. 

The thought of Tom being flogged ignited a mix of heady emotions. There was rage, of course. But also a stark sense of sympathy that made Harry’s heart ache. 

Sensing Harry's discovery, Tom pulled away from the kiss, their eyes meeting. Despite his placid expression, there was something vulnerable in Tom’s eyes. Harry knew that something banal as an apology wouldn't do. 

Harry reached up, cupping Tom’s cheek tenderly. “You came here for me,” he said softly. “I’m going to make sure you never regret it.” 

Tom smiled crookedly. “I could never regret you, darlin’. Not for a moment. Now, let’s get those trousers off.” 

Harry laughed freely, kissing Tom sloppily before lowering his arms to allow Tom easier access to his lower half. 

Once Harry was only in his pants, Tom pressed his face against the fabric, mouthing at his throbbing cock. 

“Bloody hell,” Harry moaned. 

Tom lifted his head. “Has anyone done this for you before?” 

“No.” 

Tom smiled sharply. “Good,” he said, “I thought there might have been a queue.” 

Harry huffed out a laugh. 

Tom pressed his lips to Harry’s hip bone before yanking his pants down and pulling them off. Finally free, Harry’s cock sprang up. He was so hard that the tip was nearly purple, already soaked with precum. 

“Lovely,” Tom commented, “Just gorgeous. Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?” 

“Er.” Aware of how red his cheeks had to be, Harry moved to cover his face. 

“Oh, none of that now,” Tom rebuked pleasantly. 

He lightly stroked Harry’s cock with a single finger. After all the building tension, just that feather-light touch was enough to make Harry cry out, back arching. 

“You like that?” Tom asked, arching a brow. 

“Y-yes,” Harry gasped. “Please.” 

Harry felt so desperate but Tom was just playing with him, his smile beautifully cruel. 

Finally, Tom took pity on Harry and began slowly stroking his cock, spreading his precum over the shaft. 

“Oh, fuck,” Harry said. 

“That’s right,” Tom said. “You're perfect, Harry. You were made for me.” 

Tom’s pace remained unhurried, content to slowly drive Harry out of his mind. Then slowly, he lowered his head, gazing up at Harry as he lightly licked the tip of Harry’s cock. 

Harry made an incoherent noise in response, spurring Tom on. His tongue swirled around the head, eyes still focused on Harry’s face. 

Then, without warning, Tom’s mouth engulfed the head of Harry’s cock completely. 

Harry let out a strangled cry but he was beyond embarrassment now. Tom’s hands gripped his hips tightly, keeping him pinned down while Tom worked Harry’s cock down his impossibly hot and tight throat. 

Harry didn't dare move. He didn't even dare breathe. He felt pure awe watching as Tom took him into his mouth completely, not even coughing or gagging. 

The slow teasing ceased then. Tom relentlessly sucked Harry’s cock, moaning as he bobbed his head on Harry’s length. Harry tangled his fingers in Tom’s sweat-soaked curls, throwing his head back to let out a broken noise. 

“Tom,” Harry moaned, eyes rolling back in his head. 

Tom moaned around his cock, making it throb in response. Still keeping Harry pinned down with one hand, Tom used his other to stroke Harry’s balls. 

Harry’s pleasure crested. Tom was about to send him over the edge. 

“Oh fuck, I'm gonna-” he warned. 

But before Harry came, Tom pulled off of his cock. At Harry’s vexed look, Tom said, “Oh, I'm not done with you yet.” 

This Tom wasn't a Dark Lord but he was still a bit evil. 

Tom was a portrait of debauchery. His lips were cherry-red and swollen, soaked in a mixture of saliva and precum that was dripping from his chin and pooling between Harry’s thighs. The sight of him was nothing less than angelic. 

Harry caressed Tom’s cheek and pressed his thumb against his dripping-wet lips. Tom’s mouth parted, taking in the tip of Harry’s thumb and sucking. 

“You're perfect,” Harry told him.

Tom preened as Harry's thumb slipped out of his mouth. 

“It's your birthday,” Tom mentioned casually. “Tell me what you want.” 

“Er,” Harry stuttered, mind going blank. 

What Tom had already done to him was already completely beyond his imagination. 

Tom gazed up at Harry through wet lashes. His expression was sweet with just a touch of mocking. “You don't even know, do you?” 

“I'll take anything you give me,” Harry said. 

Tom smirked. “Anything?” 

“Yeah,” Harry breathed, full of adoration and trust. 

Tom hummed thoughtfully. “You know, I could edge you for hours until you're begging to come. That could be interesting.” 

Harry made a strangled noise in response. He was already so desperate. There's no way he could handle that. 

“No?” Tom’s eyes glimmered with mirth. “Not today then.” 

Tom’s hand moved to lightly stroke Harry’s thighs. “Have you thought about me fucking you, Harry?” 

Harry nodded furiously. 

“Oh? What about you fucking me?” 

Harry had definitely thought about that as well. A lot, in fact. But it surprised him that Tom would bring it up. “You would want that?” he asked, voice coming out rough. 

“I see no sense in denying myself any sort of pleasure, darling,” Tom said sensibly. “Do you?” 

Harry’s life had been marked by small fleeing pleasures and harsh denials. This thing with Tom was one of the only beautiful and pure things offered to Harry that he hadn't forced himself to turn away from. 

“Oh, darling,” Tom said and this time there was no trace of mocking in his tone. No pity either. 

Harry imagined it was like how he was feeling when he found the scars on Tom’s back earlier. It was being so completely entwined with another person that you felt their pain as starkly as your own. 

Tom kissed Harry and this time it was soft and honey-sweet. Harry tasted himself on Tom and strangely he found nothing off-putting about it. In fact, the evidence of where Tom’s mouth had just been made Harry’s cock jump in anticipation of whatever else Tom wanted to offer him. 

Harry kissed Tom deeply, reaching down to tug at the band of Tom’s pants. He felt Tom smile against his mouth, undoubtedly thinking something very self-satisfied. Harry broke the kiss once Tom’s pants had been pulled off, not even bothering to tone down how eager he was to see what was revealed. 

What Harry saw made his mouth immediately grow dry. Tom’s cock was so pretty. Long, hard, dripping, and the most gorgeous shade of pink.  

Tom took himself in hand, smiling down at Harry as he gave his cock a long slow stroke. He was clearly basking in Harry’s admiration. Harry felt nothing but fondness. 

“Merlin, you're perfect,” Harry said, eyes glued to the display, “How are you even real?” 

Tom moaned wantonly, his free hand moving to pluck and twist at his nipple until it grew red. 

“I have an idea,” Tom said slyly. “Don't worry, darling. I promise you'll like it.” 

“I think I’d like anything you do to me,” Harry admitted. 

Tom’s head moved around, eyes widening when he caught sight of his wand. He picked it up and to Harry’s shock, pointed it at his arse and muttered a spell. 

“Next time,” Tom said, “we’ll do that part without magic. But I'm a bit desperate for you, darlin’. I have to admit.” 

Harry tilted his head, trying to see what exactly Tom had done to himself. 

“I opened myself up for you,” Tom explained. 

Oh. Tom wanted Harry to- 

“Fuck,” Harry said. 

“That's the idea,” Tom said, oozing with cockiness. 

Tom pointed his wand again, this time at his hand. His palm was filled with what appeared to be oil. Tom dropped his wand back on the bed and dribbled a fair amount of the oil onto Harry’s cock. It was pleasantly warm and tingled slightly. 

“I invented that spell myself,” Tom commented. 

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. 

“You're the first person I'm using it with,” Tom said, reaching back to slather the rest of the oil on his hole. 

When Harry moved his head again, seeking a better view, Tom obliged him and moved closer. Harry could now see Tom’s hole, open and fluttering as Tom pressed a finger at his entrance. 

“C-c-can I?” Harry asked. 

“Yes.” 

Harry moved a finger to where Tom's was, first just circling the hole. When Tom nodded, he slowly sank his index finger inside. It went in easily, Tom’s insides tightening around it. Harry took a shaky breath before beginning to slowly thrust his finger in and out. The soft moans Tom let out went straight to Harry’s cock. 

“I'm not hurting you?” Harry checked. 

“F-far from it,” Tom replied, “You can add another.” 

The second finger also glided in easily. Tom was so warm and tight, velvety soft inside. Harry couldn't even begin to imagine what it would feel like to have his cock inside there. For a moment, he wondered if he could be dreaming. 

When Harry’s fingers brushed against something smooth and soft, Tom let out his loudest moan yet. Grinning, Harry pressed against it again with more pressure. Tom moaned again, bucking against Harry’s fingers. 

Tom panted, eyes squeezing shut. “Okay,” he said, “I'm going to ride your cock now.” 

“Are you sure?” Harry asked hesitantly. From the little he had read on the subject, most people weren’t ready to be penetrated after only being prepared with two fingers. However, Tom had used that spell. 

“I'm ready,” Tom insisted. 

Harry removed his fingers. Tom grabbed hold of Harry’s cock and adjusted himself so he could slowly sink onto Harry’s length. 

“Oh,” Tom said, biting his lip as the tip of Harry’s cock breached him. 

Harry moved his hands to hold each side of Tom’s waist, just letting them settle there as Tom controlled the pace. 

Harry felt almost faint. The feeling of his cock sliding inside Tom was incredible and the sight of Tom taking him was mesmerizing. Harry thought he might actually cry when Tom bottomed out. 

Tom wiggled his arse, causing Harry to grip his waist tightly. 

“I might-” Harry said between clenched teeth. 

“Breathe, love,” Tom instructed. “I can start moving in a moment.” 

It occured to Harry that Tom’s control and willpower in this moment was unfathomable. When Harry no longer felt like he was going to explode he choked out a “Okay.” 

With a pleased smile, Tom started to move. Slowly and surely, he lifted himself up and down, thighs clenching with the exertion. 

The noises Tom made were incredible. Harry could feel his cock throbbing inside of Tom’s wet heat, every movement sending him closer and closer to the edge. 

Harry let out a string of moans and swears as Tom increased his pace. Tom angled himself so every time he sank down Harry’s cock, it hit his prostate. Soon, Tom was crying out in earnest as he bounced on Harry’s cock. 

“Harry,” Tom moaned, “Fuck, you feel so good.” 

Tom’s cock was steadily leaking, dripping on Harry's stomach. Harry wrapped a hand around it and began stroking it to the same pace Tom was riding his cock. 

“Baby,” Harry moaned, lacking any verbosity, “Yes. Oh fuck.” 

“Yeah.” Tom nodded. “Come for me, darlin’.” 

In only a few more moments, Harry let out a sob as he spilled inside of Tom. He kept stroking Tom’s cock as he pulsed inside him. After just a few more strokes, Tom’s orgasm followed. Come shot from Tom's beautiful cock in a graceful leap, covering Harry’s chest. 

Tom ran his hand through his hair, breathing heavily. Their eyes met, still burning with the intensity of the moment they had shared. Tom leaned down to share a kiss with Harry before carefully lifting off his now softened cock. 

Tom practically collapsed on the bed next to Harry, tucking his head into the crook of Harry’s neck. 

“Holy… wow,” Harry said. 

Tom kissed Harry’s shoulder. “Good birthday, then?” he teased. 

“Yes,” Harry said firmly. “The best.” 

Chapter Text

It was the nature of Severus’s profession that he was in the process of brewing at least one potion at all times. All successful brewing required precision and time was often an important element. Thus, any time Severus wished to remove himself from an unfortunate social entanglement, he could cite a time-sensitive potion that needed to be attended to and he was rarely questioned for it. 

It was just Severus’s luck that he felt a disturbance in his wards at Spinner’s End as he was working on a truly time-sensitive potion. He had set the wards to only notify him if a magical person approached the house. If he hadn't, he would be notified every time the particularly persistent woman who sold cosmetics door-to-door tried to solicit his business once more. 

So, it wouldn't do to ignore the intrusion, as much as he wanted to. Severus closed his eyes, following the tug that alerted him until he got a vague grasp of two magical signatures. Both were moderately powerful, one far more stable than the other, and they were most likely blood-related. 

Narcissa and Bellatrix, then. 

Severus released an exasperated sigh before flicking his wand at the flame under his cauldron to extinguish it. The potion was ruined. It had been something the Dark Lord had requested as well. Severus now needed to adjust his brewing schedule, lest he face the Dark Lord’s wrath. 

Severus laughed to himself darkly. Even if the potion was flawless and delivered on time, Severus was still likely to suffer under the Dark Lord’s wand. The Dark Lord was rather liberal with his use of the torture curse these days. 

Severus left the dingy potions room and went upstairs to the kitchen, thankful to not run into any mindlessly rutting teenagers on the way. He tossed a pinch of floo powder into the fireplace and traveled to his despised childhood home. 

Upon his arrival at Spinner’s End, Severus quickly shot off some cleaning and air-freshening charms in an endeavor to make the drab little house look more lived-in. He strode over to the front door, opening it to reveal the nearly identically pinched faces of Narcissa Black and Bellatrix Lestrange. 

Briefly, Severus amused himself thinking about the indignation someone as posh, prissy and pure-blooded as Narcissa must have endured while traveling the filthy streets of the foul-smelling mill town in which Severus had grown up. The woman was taking in the room she stood in with clear disgust on her features but she was far too refined to comment on how unsightly her surroundings were. 

As for Bellatrix, she had seen her fair share of these small muggle villages during her career as a Death Eater. Though normally, she would be leaving death and destruction in her wake. 

“It was unwise to come here,” Severus stated. 

It was obvious this visit wasn't sanctioned by the Dark Lord. If it had been, Narcissa wouldn't have been trembling and avoiding Severus’s eyes. 

“It's about Draco,” she whispered. 

Severus was not remotely surprised. He had expected something like this to occur, in fact. Draco Malfoy had received his Dark Mark merely two days previously, conveniently on the same day of Potter’s birth. The Dark Lord surely chose that date to amuse himself. Severus had not been invited to attend Draco’s marking ceremony. He was glad of it. Severus had seen many people take the mark over the years without flinching, yet the idea of watching Draco writhe and scream under the Dark Lord’s wand made Severus feel horribly ill. 

“The Dark Lord has given him a task,” Narcissa continued. “I am afraid he may be unable to complete it.” 

“Have you so little faith in your son?” Severus asked. 

Narcissa flinched. “He is only a child,” she said. 

As a mother, wasn't Narcissa meant to protect her son? She never should have allowed Draco to be put in this position. She should have never allowed his mind to be poisoned by the ideology that would now send him to an early grave. 

The wallpaper in the room was the same as it was when Severus was a child: vertical stripes of brown and salmon pink. It brought his own mother to mind, a woman who protected Severus by not protecting herself. Could she have protected them both by leaving this house behind? Who could say? 

Like any good soldier, Severus had his orders. He agreed to help Draco, as it was a devoted Death Eater would do. Truthfully, the inclusion of an unbreakable vow had surprised him. It was vexing that neither Narcissa nor Bellatrix knew what Draco was being ordered to do. It was not difficult for Severus to infer what would need to be done, what he had now committed himself to. 

When the two women left, Severus spent some time just pacing. It was only delaying the inevitable. He drew his wand and pulled up his ward schema, just to be certain that the sisters were not still lurking on his property to spy on his next move. Once satisfied that Bellatrix and Narcissa had fled Cokeworth completely he prepared himself to summon a patronus. 

Severus felt numb at the moment, which meant there were no strong emotions he needed to shove behind his occlumency shields. He just needed to call upon a happy memory. 

The sudden knock startled Severus. He rarely ever received visitors to his personal quarters. If Albus needed to speak to him, he would call through the floo. 

With a pinch of trepidation, Severus opened his door. Lupin stood in the doorway, smiling softly and holding a small box. 

“Er, may I come in for a moment?” Lupin asked, hesitation showing by how his feet shifted beneath him. 

Severus had been avoiding the wolf since his extremely ill-advised and wine-fueled decision to go to bed with him on Christmas Day more than a fortnight ago. Severus had been ignoring Lupin so thoroughly that he was not even aware if the man had also been avoiding him in return. 

“I suppose,” Severus allowed. “Though I cannot speak with you very long. I have a time-sensitive potion to attend to.” 

“Sure,” Lupin said, with a small smile that said he didn't quite believe him. 

Severus hoped that Lupin had not come to discuss the events that had transpired between them. Severus did not think it was something that required discussion. 

Lupin looked around the room and approached the small table where Severus occasionally took his meals. There were two chairs but only for the purpose of symmetry. No other person had ever sat with him there. As Lupin placed the box on the table, Severus recalled the date. 

“Happy Birthday, Severus,” Lupin said, opening the box to reveal a small cake. 

It was round, covered in chocolate buttercream and attractive molded chocolate roses. ‘Happy Birthday’ was written on it with white icing in an elegant script. 

“Did you bake this?” Severus asked. 

Lupin chuckled. “It wouldn't be edible if I had. I got it from that little bakery in Hogsmeade.” 

Severus had not acknowledged his birthday in many years. He had not had a birthday cake on the day for even more. His mother had made them for him as a child when she was able to spare the funds for ingredients. In the years she couldn't, she would make fruit gelatin or give him a small piece of chocolate. 

Severus looked at Lupin, taking in the shabby robes he wore, littered in patches. Severus was well aware of what poverty looked like. He knew that it was financially irresponsible for Lupin to buy something as frivolous as a cake for Severus. 

“I suppose since you bought the thing, you may be permitted to stay in my quarters long enough to have a slice,” Severus said. 

Lupin smiled, looking well-pleased. 

“Can you eat chocolate?” Severus asked as he searched his cabinets for plates and cutlery. 

Lupin let out a choked noise. “Was that some sort of werewolf joke?” 

Severus set the plates and forks down on the table. “I genuinely did not know,” he said. “It would be an inconvenience if you poisoned yourself in my domicile.” 

Lupin laughed, open-mouthed and gleeful. Severus found himself cracking a small smile in return.

“Expecto Patronum,” Severus cast. 

His faithful doe patronus appeared, ears poised for instructions. 

“Message for Albus Dumbledore: I need to meet with you at your earliest convenience,” Severus said. 

The doe sauntered away to do Severus’s bidding. 

Severus blinked in confusion at what his mind had conjured up when he needed a happy memory. 

He always used a memory of Lily. It had always been Lily. Who else could bring him happiness?

Why did he think of Lupin this time? Why now after Severus had pushed the wolf away for what had to be the final time? 

It was best for both of them to forget the foolishness they had previously indulged in. Severus did not regret how things had ended. He could not regret it. 

Before Severus could properly begin to panic, Albus’s phoenix patronus arrived, informing him that the headmaster was in his office and was able to meet immediately. 

Severus returned to Grimmauld Place that night in a daze. 

He had barely begun to accept that Albus would be dead in a year. Now he had to contend with the fact that his death would be by Severus’s hand. 

Albus was correct. When Severus killed Albus, the Dark Lord would no longer have any reason to distrust him. 

Severus would only lose the trust of everyone in the Order of the Phoenix; haunted and hunted until his death. 

But when had Severus ever cared what anyone thought of him? There were more important things at stake than his already flimsy reputation.

Instead of returning to the potions lab as he ought to, Severus took a bottle of vintage elf wine from the cellar and went up to his bedroom. 

Severus groaned as his sleep-crusted eyes cracked open. He stretched his aching limbs and winced at the staccato beat of the pounding in his head. A tempus charm informed him that it was already past eleven in the morning. 

“Blast,” Severus spat. 

The aftereffects of his drinking were so strong he couldn't even ponder how to best salvage that day’s brewing schedule. 

Severus sat up, clutching his head and releasing a hiss through clenched teeth. He rarely ever indulged in alcohol but any Potion’s Master worth their salt always had a hangover cure on hand. He pulled the murky green vial out of his bedside drawer and drank it down.

It only took moments for his head to clear and the nausea to fade. Severus’s grumbling stomach reminded him that he had not eaten dinner the previous evening. He changed into his usual black robes and made his way to the kitchen. 

It seemed that he would not be allowed to have a meal in peace. Potter was standing at a counter, chopping vegetables and bobbing his head along to the heavy guitars and rough vocals coming from the music player sitting on the kitchen table. 

“Bow down before the one you serve

You're going to get what you deserve

Bow down before the one you serve

You're going to get what you deserve” 

Potter began to turn at the sound of Severus’s intrusion, a grin stretching across his mouth. 

“Hi, love! Did you figure it out?” he chirped. 

When Potter was facing Severus completely, the happy smile on his face faded and replaced by a guarded look. 

Briefly, it had been as if Severus was in a mirror world where he had made many different choices, resulting in Harry Potter smiling in happiness when he entered a room. 

“Oh,” Potter said, because a smile that bright could never be for someone like Severus Snape. “Hello, Professor.” 

Severus was surprised that Riddle was not already present. The boy would happily wear Potter’s skin as a cloak if allowed. 

Severus’s eyes involuntarily landed on a mottled collection of bruises on Potter’s neck. Quickly, he looked away, turning his attention to the cutting board Potter had been using when he walked in. 

“You slice bell peppers much more precisely than flobberworms,” Severus commented. 

“What?” Potter cried out. His cheeks were a vivid red. 

“It is decent work, Potter,” Severus said. 

He was capable of being diplomatic. 

Potter blinked at him owlishly. “Er, thanks?” 

“Professor Slughorn allows any student who has received an Exceeds Expectations or higher on their OWL examination to join his NEWT course. Will you be continuing in the subject?” 

“Maybe,” Potter said. “Tom thinks I should.” 

“I was told you had ambitions of becoming an auror. Has that changed?” Severus asked. 

Potter’s eyes narrowed in clear distrust. “I’m not sure. You see, the person who told me I would do well in that career was actually a Death Eater in disguise. I’m not sure I trust his judgment.” 

“If not that, what will you do after Hogwarts?” 

Potter shrugged. “Dunno, really. I’d like to travel a bit after Hogwarts. I've never seen the sea.” 

Did the foolish child not possess a single drop of ambition? 

Or was he already far too weary for only sixteen years of age? 

“Never seen the sea? Did your relatives not go on holiday to the coast?” Severus asked in disbelief. 

Every summer, the Evans family had gone on holiday to Cornwall. Severus assumed that Petunia would consider the tradition with her own family. 

“Yeah,” Potter snapped, “but I wasn't invited, was I?” 

Severus frowned in confusion. 

A bell rang. Potter had cast an alarm charm. He grabbed a pair of mitts that were hanging on a hook, opened the oven, and pulled out a tray of small tarts. With a pair of tongs, he began setting each one on a cooling rack. 

Petunia Evans had always been a snob, believing herself above the ordinary working-class people of Cokeworth. She had been bitterly jealous of the magic that made Lily special. Petunia was often spiteful and cruel. 

Severus recalled how Minerva had observed Petunia’s family on the day Potter had been taken into their care. She had described Petunia as a haughty housewife who spoiled her child and allowed him to run wild. 

“And Albus worries about Harry becoming too spoiled in a Wizarding family,” she had scoffed, “That family is far worse than any of our sort.” 

Once again, Severus thought of what he had read in Riddle’s diary and wondered if it had any merit. 

“Sir?” 

Potter was turned toward Severus again, a furrow in his brow. 

“I made some tomato tartlets,” he said. “They should be cool enough to eat in just a moment, if you'd like some.” 

Hunger now forgotten, Severus shook his head. “I must be going,” he said, striding toward the floo. 

“Okay,” Potter said. “Bye, then.” 

Unlike other bumbling fools in the Order, Severus knew better than to visit a muggle street wearing robes. He had one outfit for occasions such as this, a white collared shirt and khaki trousers. 

Albus had taken Severus to Little Whinging once before so Severus could apparate there if he was ever required to. Petunia had sneered at the row house Severus lived in yet had chosen to live on a street filled with bland identical houses. 

‘Little boxes made of ticky-tacky’, Severus mused, remembering a song Lily had sung to him as a child. 

The only thing that set Number 4 Privet Drive apart from the other houses surrounding it was its front garden that was very well-tended. Severus remembered how she and her family had been lured out of their home the previous summer after being told they had won a lawn competition. 

The Order members had laughed uproariously at the scheme but Severus had only been able to think of how easy it would be for a reasonably intelligent Death Eater to capture them with the same method. 

Severus approached the front door and knocked. Shortly after, the door swung open to reveal Petunia who was wearing a hideous floral ensemble. 

“You!” she growled, twisting her thin lips in rage. 

“Hello, Petunia,” Severus said, smiling sharply. “Are you not going to invite me in?” 

Before Petunia could slam the door in his face, Severus caught it with his foot. Petunia snarled. 

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” Severus asked dryly. 

“You were never a friend of mine!” Petunia protested. 

Severus placed a hand over his heart. “That hurts, Tuney. Truly,” he said, deadpan. 

Petunia opened the door fully. “Get in here before the neighbors see,” she hissed, gesturing wildly. 

Severus snorted and stepped into the house. After so many years had passed, irritating Petunia still came as easily as breathing. Perhaps he ought to have visited years ago. It could be great stress relief. 

“I don't know where he's gone,” Petunia snapped. “I figured he was with one of your lot!” 

Potter had left home over a fortnight ago. Did Petunia truly not care where her nephew had run off to in the middle of the night? 

“He is,” Severus said, eyes roaming around the small entry room they were standing in. 

“Then why on earth are you here?” 

“Curiosity,” Severus said.

His eyes caught sight of a small door under the stairs that had to led to a cupboard. Strangely, there were multiple heavy locks on the outside of the door. 

“What do you keep in that cupboard?” Severus asked. 

“Cleaning supplies, obviously. It's a cupboard,” Petunia said. 

She made an affronted noise as Severus pushed past her. He drew his wand and blasted all the locks off the door. 

Petunia yowled like a furious feline. “I won't allow you to wave that freak stick in my home! I won't allow it! I know your kind has a police force! I could get you locked away…” 

Severus tuned out her wailing and pulled open the door. 

Like she said, it was filled with cleaning supplies. There was a broom, mop, and various bottles of spray cleanser. Nothing unusual. 

Except. 

There was a small dusty shelf lined with broken toys: a soldier, a spinning top, a rubber ball. A magpie’s hoard. 

Severus slammed the door shut, feeling ill. 

“Are you even listening to me, Severus?” Petunia demanded, “I want you out of my home immediately!” 

“I was just leaving,” Severus said, pushing past her again to reach the front door. 

Before he stepped outside, he turned to look at Petunia once more. The woman was pale and shaking, genuinely afraid of him. 

His mind cycled through hundreds of rebukes but he found he had nothing to say so he walked out of the house. 

Severus heard the front door slam as he stalked up the walkway. He saw a lawn ornament of a cheerful-looking duck wearing wellington boots. Seething, he kicked it into the street. 

He walked down the street back to the secluded spot where he had apparated. He didn't know where to go now. Back to Grimmauld? Back to Potter? 

“Sir?” 

Severus ignored the voice behind him. 

“Excuse me? Sir?” 

There was the sound of rushed footsteps followed by a tap on Severus’s shoulder. Severus whirled around, hand tightly gripping the wand in his pocket. 

“What?” he demanded, glaring at the irritant that waylaid him. 

A teenage boy gaped back at him. He was large, wearing a vest that revealed thick muscular arms. His hair was the same straw blond as Petunia’s but he had the same button nose that Lily had. 

“Are you one of Harry’s crowd? Y’know,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “a wizard?” 

Severus nodded curtly. 

“I'm his cousin,” the boy said, “Dudley. Do you know if Harry is okay?” 

“Yes. Mister Potter is perfectly fine,” Severus replied. 

Dudley grinned goofily. “Oh good! He had to leave so fast and I was worried that something coulda happened to him. Y’know with the whole Dark Lord business.” 

“Why did he need to leave so suddenly?” Severus asked. 

“Well, you see…” Dudley paused, trying to think but clearly finding that quite difficult. 

“I am aware that Mister Potter was intoxicated that night. There is no need for you to come up with a false story,” Severus said. 

“I just wanted Harry to have some fun,” Dudley said morosely, “He’s been sad and scared so I asked him to go to a party with me. It was over at one of my mate’s houses and it was brill! But when we got back home my dad was all hacked off. I tried telling him that that whole thing was my idea but he wasn't listening.”

“And was it?” Severus asked, tilting his head, “Your idea?” 

Dudley scoffed. “‘Course it was! Not like Harry has time for any of that! He’s too busy fighting wizard crime!” 

“So,” Severus surmised, “your father was angry Mister Potter consumed alcohol and told him to leave the house.” 

Dudley shook his head. “No, he knocked Harry to the ground and I had to fight Dad off before he really hurt him. Harry’s little, y’know.” 

“I see,” Severus said. “Thank you.” 

Severus began to walk away but Dudley was too dim to see he had been dismissed. He caught up to Severus quickly, matching his strides. 

“So, what are you anyway? One of the wizard bobbies?” 

“I am a Professor,” Severus said. “I am one of your cousin’s teachers.” 

“Mum was acting like she knew you,” Dudley said casually. 

“We grew up in the same town.” 

“Oh, so I reckon you knew Harry’s mum too?” 

“Yes.” 

Dudley stopped walking. Severus continued on, thinking the boy had finished his line of questioning. Then, he heard his voice again. 

“Hey!” 

Severus turned. 

“You’ll take care of Harry, right? Mum and Dad never wanted him around so I reckon he's never had anyone to do that for him before. You seem smart. Like you know a lot of spells and all that. And I reckon if you were friends with Harry’s mum she'd like to know one of her mates was looking after him.”

Dudley smiled at him, earnest and hopeful. 

Severus had always kept the boy alive. He had done what Albus required of him. 

“Did your parents make your cousin sleep under the stairs?” Severus asked. 

Dudley looked away from him, his smile dropping. “Yeah, until he started getting all the letters. The first one said something about the cupboard and Mum and Dad went mental over it. I thought it was normal back then. I reckon nobody was around to tell me that it was wrong. I get it now but I'm just a muggle. I can protect him from other muggles like my dad but I can't protect him from evil wizards.” 

“There are many people,” Severus choked out, “that are very dedicated to keeping Harry safe.” 

Dudley beamed at him. “That's really good. I'm happy he's not alone.” 

Self-loathing was a familiar bedfellow. Severus had wrestled with it for most of his life. 

He could not change the past. He could do very little to change another person’s perception of him after their mind had been made up. 

So, Potter didn't have the pampered childhood most people assumed he had? He had plenty of people to adore him now. If Severus altered himself now to be more caring, Potter would most likely hex him for the insult. Potter’s psychotic trans-dimensional lover would push Severus into a pit of vipers and order them to consume his traitorous flesh. 

There was nothing he could do. 

Albus would be dead in a year and Severus would be the one to kill him. 

Severus should have never gone to that house. He had found exactly what he feared and it changed nothing. Severus had already destroyed any chance of building rapport with the boy and in a year's time he would see Severus as a traitor anyway. 

Back at the fireplace at Spinner’s End, Severus threw in a pinch of floo powder and called out, “Number 6 Franklin Court.” 

It was a foolish whim. Lupin had given Severus his floo address over a year ago and Severus had never used it. He was surprised that he was allowed to simply step through. 

Immediately, Severus was facing Remus Lupin, who was curled up on the couch covered by a heavy quilt. Lupin’s eyes widened in surprise. 

“Severus, what are you doing here?” 

“I-” Severus started but stopped himself. 

Why was he here? Lupin wasn't a person he turned to for comfort and companionship. What had Severus even been expecting? To order muggle takeout and take advantage of a listening ear and a soothing voice? 

He certainly wasn't expecting sex. Lupin had made that clear enough. Apparently, fucking was on the table if Severus’s judgment was skewed just enough to make such a poor decision. Yet, if Severus became addled past a certain threshold, it was no longer acceptable. 

“Do you just leave your floo open? Anyone could come through,” Severus chastised. 

Lupin rolled his eyes. “I keyed you into the wards.”

“Why?”

Lupin sighed. “Don't make me say it.” 

Severus looked closer at the quilt Lupin was using. Each patch displayed a different colorful flower and what appeared to be the scientific name for it. 

“Lily made me this quilt,” Lupin said, “for after the moons. There's sachets of lavender sewn in it. She charmed them to never lose their scent, but well…” 

Lily was very gifted with charms but that kind of spellwork always faded after the caster was deceased. 

Severus imagined Lupin wrapped up in the quilt following Lily’s death. Lupin lost every friend he had in rapid succession and was forced to recover after the full moon alone as the scent of lavender, the reminder of Lily’s care, slowly faded. 

The thought made Severus feel an uncomfortable jolt in his chest. 

“Did something happen?” Lupin asked cautiously. 

“Nothing that I could share with you.” 

“I understand why you can't,” Lupin said.

Coming here was a mistake. Severus needed to make his excuses and leave. 

“There's some Murder She Wrote reruns about to come on the telly,” Lupin said gently. 

“I have no idea what that is,” Severus said. 

Lupin smiled, that damned dimple appearing on his cheek. “You’ll like it, I think. Stay for one episode?” 

Lupin peeled back the quilt, offering Severus space beneath it. 

Abandoning his senses, Severus sat down next to Lupin, letting the quilt fall over his legs. 

Severus did like the television program. He found Lupin’s company pleasant as well. 

In a year’s time, the man next to him would hate Severus. Lupin would believe that Severus betrayed their cause for the Dark Lord. 

It would be easier to keep pushing Lupin away. If Lupin already despised Severus, it would be easier for him to cope. 

But selfishly, Severus did not want Lupin to hate him. At least, not for now. 

Chapter Text

Harry was fretting.

He had been fretting since he opened his eyes that morning. The first thing Tom was even conscious of when he woke was Harry holding him a bit tighter than usual, his breathing staggered. 

Harry’s closest friends, Ron and Hermione, had agreed to visit Grimmauld Place that afternoon to see all of the changes to the house and to get to know Tom better. 

It was slightly disconcerting that the two people whose opinions Harry seemed to trust most were also the only two people at Harry’s birthday gathering that Tom had failed to sufficiently charm. 

“It's nothing you did,” Harry insisted in that sweet way of his. “Ron and Hermione are just paranoid.” 

Tom supposed they had sufficient cause for paranoia. After all, there always seemed to be some villain lurking in the shadows with the intention of harming Tom’s beloved. Tom hoped that today he could reach an accord with Harry’s friends. Surely they would appreciate another sharp eye looking out for potential threats? 

Especially if Tom was sorted into Slytherin, as he suspected he would be. Tom would gladly don crimson and gold to stay near his beloved but he was Slytherin down to his marrow. The Sorting Hat would undoubtedly see that. 

Tom pushed the thoughts of a cold and empty bed in the dungeons out of his mind. He had Harry now who was warm, shirtless, and pressed against him. Tom intended to not waste a moment of the delicious proximity. 

“There's so much I have to do before they get here,” Harry weakly protested as Tom mouthed at his jawline. 

Harry’s sleep-warm skin glistened with a trail of Tom’s salvia. 

“Relax a bit first,” Tom said soothingly, guiding his hand down to rest on top of Harry’s bulge. 

“You're a terrible influence,” Harry groused, yet he seemed unable to resist bucking his hips to grind his cock against Tom’s hand. 

They kissed like that for a bit, Tom exploring Harry’s willing mouth while savoring his quiet sounds of pleasure. 

After a whispered “Tom, please”, Tom took Harry's cock out of his shorts, slicked his hand up with oil, and stroked Harry languidly.

Harry keened, letting out the most wonderful moans, his eyes fluttering closed and thighs trembling. Touching him was addictive, more potent than any drug Tom could conceive of. 

Oh how Tom loved to watch his beloved fall apart. If only he could keep Harry right here always. They could allow the rest of the world to fade away. 

“I’m close,” Harry eventually said, his breath hit against Tom's ear. 

“Come for me, darling,” Tom said, grasping Harry’s chin to look in his eyes. 

Tom watched closely as Harry reached his peak. Harry’s eyes, the shining gemstone green darkened by his lust, were half-lidded. Harry’s lips were swollen and kiss-bitten. Harry moaned and mumbled nonsense until he came with a silent cry, his eyes squeezing shut. Tom made sure to fully memorize every second of Harry’s ecstasy; ecstasy only Tom could give him. 

Tom held Harry’s softening cock as Harry caught his breath. 

“You’re incredible at that, you know,” Harry said, still trembling slightly. 

“Oh am I?” Tom asked with a triumphant smirk. 

Harry laughed and slightly pushed at Tom’s shoulder. “Always so smug.” 

“Your compliments fuel me, darling,” Tom said loftily. 

Harry grinned, a gleam of determined mischief in his eyes. Swiftly, the bedcovers were thrown back and Harry was expediently removing both Tom’s pajama bottoms and his pants, exposing his cock to the cool air. 

Harry was perched above Tom, a delighted smile on his face. He leaned in for a kiss, sweet as treacle. Tom returned it, running a hand through Harry’s sleep-mussed curls. 

Harry broke away from the kiss and moved down Tom’s body, stopping along the way to press quick kisses on Tom’s neck and chest. He did not linger long, intent to reach a certain destination. 

Harry’s mouth hovered over Tom’s cock, his breath hot against it. Tom knew that Harry had never taken a cock into his mouth before. He was thrilled that he would be Harry’s first. His only. 

Harry closed his eyes for a moment. There was a determined set to his jaw and a slight furrow to his brow. It seemed as if he was mentally preparing himself. Then, his eyes popped back open, he flashed Tom and crooked grin, then proceeded to swallow Tom’s cock down in a single motion. 

Oh, so Harry was playing a game. He was trying to fluster Tom. 

Well, it was working. Any witticisms vanished from Tom’s mind as his world narrowed to the feeling of the tight heat of Harry’s throat. How on earth was he not gagging? 

Harry moaned around Tom’s cock as his bobbed his head up and down. Tom found himself tightly gripping the bedclothes, back arching as he desperately tried to keep himself from immediately coming down Harry’s throat. 

Harry looked up at Tom, eyes glistening with tears. It seemed like he wasn't completely unaffected by the intrusion. Seeing that made Tom want to thrust into his mouth, fucking his throat until Harry was fully crying and hoarse. 

But it was Harry’s first time so that could wait. 

Tom was already pent up from getting Harry off so it didn't take long for his orgasm to build. When Tom saw Harry reaching between his own legs to stroke his renewed erection, it sent him over the edge. 

Tom barely managed to gasp out a warning before he spilled into Harry’s mouth. Harry kept moving, letting out muffled moans as his hand flew rapidly over his own cock, the sound of the wet slaps filling the room. 

Harry lifted his mouth off of Tom’s spent cock and threw his head back, the veins in his neck rippling as he reached an orgasm for the second time that morning. 

Afterwards, Harry laid back down next to Tom for a cuddle. Tom was barely allowed to enjoy the afterglow before Harry kissed his temple and said “We have so much to do.” 

Harry’s fretting did not end but overall he appeared more relaxed and cheerful as he puttered around the kitchen bouncing on his toes. 

Tom had finished putting up newly framed photographs on the wall going up the staircase. Now he was in the kitchen with Harry fulfilling the role of taste tester. 

Harry brought a spoonful of tomato sauce to Tom’s lips. He looked adorable, hesitant and hopeful as Tom tasted his offering. The flavor of fire-roasted tomatoes burst on Tom’s tongue. Harry had used the perfect blend of spices to make the sauce complex yet comforting. 

“It’s wonderful, darling,” Tom praised. 

“Are you sure it doesn't need anything else?” Harry asked. There was a tiny flash of teeth as he nibbled his bottom lip. 

“Positively sure.” 

Truthfully, Tom didn't know enough about cooking to offer any real advice if it was warranted. Children weren't even allowed in the kitchen at the orphanage. The staff were too concerned about someone nicking food. 

Harry’s smile in response lit up his entire face. Tom would happily swallow down stewed flobberworms to have Harry smile at him that way. Thankfully, Tom didn't need to even slightly exaggerate about how much he enjoyed Harry’s cooking. 

There was something in particular Tom loved about Harry hand feeding him. Perhaps it did something to soothe the uncared for child within him. Or maybe Tom just liked Harry’s fingers so close to his mouth. Either way, Tom was delighted when Harry returned to his side later to pop a tiny hor d'oeuvre into his mouth. It was a piece of puff pastry filled with spiced beef. Utterly delectable. 

“Well?” Harry asked when Tom was finished chewing. 

“I don't think your friends would like them,” Tom mused. “I think you ought to save them all for me.” 

Harry barked out a laugh. “You really had me going for a second!” 

He gave Tom’s curls a fond little tug before returning to his work. 

It was nearly three in the afternoon, the time Ron and Hermione’s scheduled arrival. Tom and Harry waited in the kitchen for their arrival. Harry seemed unable to decide whether he wanted to be seated or standing, alternating between the two positions at a rapid clip. 

Tom was considering pulling Harry into his lap to keep him still when the floo flames turned green, signifying the arrival of their first guest. 

Ron Weasley, Harry’s gangly ginger friend, stepped out of the flames. “Harry!” he greeted, flashing Harry a warm smile. He then turned to Tom with a more hesitant expression. “Hullo, Tom. Nice to see you again.” 

“It's nice to see you as well,” Tom replied. “Thank you for coming.” 

Ron stepped aside as the floo activated once more, revealing Hermione Granger. It was rather amusing how similar her actions were to Ron’s. Like him, she greeted Harry with enthusiasm before turning to Tom with distrustful eyes. 

Oh well, Tom would make them see how committed he was to his beloved. Soon Ron and Hermione would realize that they couldn't possibly reach the level of Tom’s devotion towards Harry. 

The visit began with a full tour of the house. Harry did most of the talking as the group moved from room to room. Tom was content watching Harry explain all the changes they had made. The presence of his friends and their lack of open hostility towards Tom seemed to have soothed Harry’s nerves considerably. 

“And this is our bedroom,” Harry said idly as they passed the door of the master suite. 

Tom noted Ron and Hermione both gaped a bit at that but neither commented as Harry led them along the corridor to the library. 

Hermione in particular seemed pleased at the restored library. She immediately strode over to the shelves, examining the books and looking much like a hummingbird being drawn to nectar. 

When Tom made a comment about how Kreacher had managed to save some of the books the Order had tried to dispose of, he noticed that Ron looked fairly uneasy. 

“We’ve already checked them over for curses,” Harry reassured him. 

“I bet some of them are really dark though,” Ron said, eyeing the shelves with trepidation. 

“I never supported any of the books being thrown out,” Hermione commented. “I don't think any knowledge should be restricted.” 

“What about the really bad stuff? I'm talking about super dark evil shit. D’you think those books should just be lying around for anyone to look at?” Ron countered. 

“Many old pureblood families have these sorts of books,” Tom cut in. “If we’re meant to fight against that sort of magic, don't you think we ought to understand it as best as we can?” 

Hermione nodded but Ron crossed his arms, his stance stiffening. 

“So you're planning on fighting, then?” Ron asked, eyes narrowed. 

“Of course,” Tom said breezily. “Harry’s battles are my own. I would do anything to protect him.” 

“He’s not some damsel, you know!” Ron snapped. “He doesn't need you guarding him like some sort of… some sort of knight!” 

Tom wrinkled his brow. Sometimes feigning confusion helped temper other’s hostilities. “Well, of course I know that,” Tom said. “Harry is a very capable fighter. He got the top score on his Defense O.W.L after all.” 

Ron’s shoulders relaxed minutely but he still shot Tom suspicious glances as they left the library and continued the tour. 

Back downstairs, they moved into the formal dining room. Tom and Harry had spent very little time there. It was much easier to take their meals in the kitchen and the table was far too large for only the two of them. 

As Harry turned to lead the group on to the drawing room where the tea and hors d'oeuvres were waiting, Hermione remained standing where she was, a strange look on her face. 

“Hermione?” Harry asked, looking back at her. 

“What's this?” Hermione asked quietly. 

She was staring at the Black family tapestry. 

Like Harry had wanted, Sirius Black’s name had been restored. There was a branch descending from Sirius’s name that led to a new addition: Harry James Potter. 

However, what had captured Hermione’s attention was obvious. There was a horizontal line branching from from Harry’s name that led to Tom Marvolo Riddle. 

Harry’s face had paled and Tom wouldn't be surprised if his own visage had taken on a similar pallor. That name linked Tom directly to Lord Voldemort. 

Hermione moved closer to the tapestry, tracing Tom’s name with her finger. 

“Tomas Matthieu Rosier,” Hermione read out. “What does this mean?” 

Very briefly, Tom allowed himself to be impressed with the power of Dumbledore’s ritual. It seemed that only Tom and Harry were able to see Tom’s true given name on the tapestry. The pressing mystery now was why Tom’s name was on the tapestry to begin with. 

“Did you get married?” Ron demanded, turning to Harry and looking furious. 

Harry’s arms flapped nervously at his sides. “What? No!” 

“Then, explain!” Ron directed this to Tom. 

“I truly have no idea how this occurred,” Tom said, though he was not displeased to for his connection to Harry being magically displayed in this manner. 

“Master Tom not be reading the books.” 

Tom turned towards the source of the familiar croaky voice to see that Kreacher had entered the room. He looked at Hermione and Ron with obvious distaste before fixing his large eyes upon Tom. 

“Master Tom would be understanding if he be reading all the books,” Kreacher said, his tone chiding. He looked moments from wagging his crooked finger at Tom like an old school marm. 

“What books?” Harry asked. 

“The courting books…” Tom said softly in realization. 

Tom had glanced through some of them but had been thoroughly distracted by Harry’s arrival at Grimmauld. They were probably still stacked on the bedside table in the guest room Tom had been using before moving in with Harry. 

At Harry’s questioning look, Tom explained, “When I first came here, I told Kreacher of my intention to court you. He provided me with some books on the subject.” 

Harry’s cheeks flushed cutely at Tom’s mention of courting. Tom’s lip quirked in amusement at Harry’s suddenly shy look. He distinctly remembered how only hours earlier Harry had been boldy shoving Tom’s entire cock down his throat. 

“Will you please tell us why Tom's name is on the tapestry, Kreacher?” Hermione asked kindly. 

“Kreacher is not having to tell the filthy mudblood anything,” Kreacher responded, giving Hermione a venomous glare. 

“Oi!” Ron shouted. 

“Don't call her that, Kreacher,” Tom admonished. 

There was the briefest tingle of magic in the air after Tom spoke. From the way Kreacher immediately bowed his head in obedience, Tom realized that Kreacher was now beholden to Tom’s direct orders. 

“Please explain, Kreacher,” Tom requested. He kept his time gentle, despite his growing annoyance at the elf’s evasiveness. Tom knew his beloved had a soft spot for the creatures. 

Kreacher rolled his eyes. “Kreacher be explaining to ignorant Masters and ignorant guests,” he said with a long-suffering sigh. “Master Tom be giving Master Harry a courting gift of great significance and Master Harry be giving a greatly significant courting gift in returns. The house be recognizing this as an betrothal.”  

“Gifts of great significance…” Harry said, looking deep in thought. 

“Well,” Tom said, “In my mind, I considered the ritual I designed to get here to be a courting gift.” 

Harry looked at Tom with a sweet little smile at the corner of his lips. “You did?” he asked quietly. 

Tom nodded. 

“Then Master Harry and Master be standing in this room when Master Harry be giving his gift to Master Tom,” Kreacher said. 

“I said this was your home,” Harry said. 

“You did,” Tom replied. 

Harry had so easily offered a home to Tom, a boy who had never had a place to truly call home before. He felt warm remembering that moment. It was the first Tom had truly felt completely and unconditionally accepted by another person. Now that he thought about it, Tom’s heightened senses had picked up on something magical in the air at that time. 

“I guess we’re engaged, then,” Harry said quietly, looking at Tom with an extraordinarily pleased smile. 

Tom's world narrowed to just Harry. Radiant, kind, and generous Harry, who had given Tom everything he had ever wanted without him ever needing to ask for it. 

Tom still wanted to give Harry a ring and ask for his hand in marriage properly but he was happy knowing that magic itself recognized Harry as his. Tom felt tremendously gratified by how clearly Harry also desired this form of connection. 

An indignant sounding squawk reminded Tom that there were other people besides Harry present with him in the room. Tom briefly bristled at that fact. He wanted more than anything to pin Harry to the wall and have him right against the Black family tapestry. 

“You're only sixteen!” Hermione yelped, scandalized. 

Harry just shrugged. “We’ll have a long engagement.” 

“You met him a month ago,” Hermione said, her tone almost pleading. 

Harry showed no trace of discomfort at the reminder. “I mean, this really doesn't change much,” he told her. “I've already been certain about what all of this was leading to. Now, it's just official.” 

Hermione let out an exasperated sigh, scrubbing at her face with both hands. “I need some air,” she announced before promptly storming out of the room. 

Harry watched her leave with a small frown on his face but he didn't follow after her. He sighed, leaning over to rest his head on Tom’s shoulder. Tom kissed the top of his curls, breathing in the scent of his minty shampoo. 

Ron was awkwardly shuffling from foot to foot, staring at the pair of them wide-mouthed. 

“Just say whatever it is you're gonna say, yeah?” Harry told him, sounding exhausted. 

“It's just…” Ron started, his eyes darting between them in a manner that was nearly comical, “This bonding happened accidentally and neither one of you seem to care. I feel that, er, maybe some concern is warranted?” 

“What do you think, Kreacher?” Tom asked, looking down at the elf. “Should we be concerned?” 

Kreacher shook his head, his enormous ears flapping with the motion. “The bond not be harming Masters and is easily being dissolved if Masters wishes it.” 

Harry chuckled awkwardly. “See Ron? Nothing to worry about!” 

Ron didn't exactly look convinced. “You know we’re only being cautious because we care, right?” 

“Yeah,” Harry said, “And it's noted, alright? But can't we just all hang out together and talk about basically anything besides my relationship? There have to be other topics of conversation.”

“Harry tells me you're very good at chess?” Tom offered. 

Ron was still stiff when they went into the drawing room but he accepted the hors d'oeuvres Harry made with relish and agreed to a chess match with Tom. 

Ron was, in fact, a brilliant chess player. Tom was always the best chess player in Slytherin so he thought that they would be more equally matched. Tom was planning on letting Ron defeat him as a method to get on his good side. It turned out that Ron could soundly defeat Tom, even when Tom was putting his all into the match. 

Tom loathed losing. 

“Does anyone want tea?” Tom asked. 

“Sure,” Harry said, sitting down to play the next match with Ron. “Thanks, Tom!” 

Ron also mumbled something that sounded like an agreement before Tom made his way towards the kitchen. 

It was fine to lose. Tom was already planning on throwing the match. It would further his goal of winning Ron over. It would make Harry happy. 

Tom wanted the loss to be on his own terms! 

He entered the kitchen and forcefully grabbed the kettle. 

“So, there is a real person under there. Good to know.” 

Tom turned to see Hermione sitting at the kitchen table, looking at him with a shrewd expression. 

“What?” he asked. 

“You were angry just now,” Hermione said. “The mask went up as soon as I spoke but just for a moment, you looked furious.” 

“Oh, I-” Tom began, combing his mind for an excuse. 

“Don't bother,” Hermione said, waving a hand. “It's good to know you're actually human.” 

“I wasn't anticipating losing so badly at chess,” Tom admitted in a quiet voice. 

Hermione laughed. “Ron was regularly embarrassing seventh-years when he was only eleven. If he had been born a muggle he would have been one of those sensational wunderkinds defeating Russian grandmasters. Nobody beats Ron at chess. There’s no reason to beat yourself up over it.” 

“I wasn't beating myself up over it,” Tom argued. 

Hermione snorted derisively. “I just told you I like you better when you act like a human being, remember?” 

Tom ignored the comment and started to make the tea. 

“I don't trust you,” Hermione said with an air of casualness. “It's only because you haven't proven yourself yet.” 

“Then how shall I prove myself to you?” Tom asked, unable to keep the annoyance from seeping into his tone. 

Tom had been constantly forced to prove himself for his entire life. Often it seems as if nothing he did would ever be enough. 

“Being close to Harry is dangerous,” Hermione said. “I want to be able to believe that you won't run away scared when things get tough.” 

“Would you like me to make a vow?” Tom asked sardonically. 

Hermione shook her head. “Merlin, no. Of course not. That's far too extreme.”

“Tell me what I need to do, then. I’ll do it.” 

Hermione sighed. “Do you not realize that building trust takes time?” 

“So, I suppose you will look at me with suspicion while questioning Harry’s ability to make his own decisions until some arbitrary period of time has passed, and you feel like I have behaved in a sufficient manner and that I've earned your trust. Is that correct? I guess it doesn't matter how much it upsets Harry in the meantime. He's only been meticulously planning and stressing himself out over this visit for days, after all.” 

“I’m not-” Hermione groaned. “The last thing I ever want to do is upset Harry,” she said. “If you had been through half of what we’ve been through together you would understand.” 

“I'm here now,” Tom said. “If I could have come here sooner, I would have.” 

Hermione’s face crumpled and she dissolved into sobs. 

Tom stood still, unsure of how to proceed. 

“Harry can't be abandoned by anyone else!” she shouted. “I’m not sure he would be able to survive it.” 

Quickly, Tom moved to sit in the chair opposite her. He considered giving her a pat on the shoulder but ultimately decided against it. 

“I'm not going to abandon Harry,” he promised. 

Hermione sniffed, wiping away her tears. “I have no way of knowing that, do I?” 

“Then we’ll build trust,” Tom said, attempting a smile. “Just like you said.” 

They sat together for several minutes as Hermione pulled herself back together. 

“I suppose this is unfair but I have a difficult time seeing you as the type of person that can understand the pressure Harry is under,” she eventually said. 

“Harry and I are more alike than you think,” Tom said. 

“Maybe so,” she said. “Apparently you’re soulmates.” 

Tom leaned towards her. “I'll give you something to think about then,” he said. “I gave up everything in my life and left every person I have ever known behind because I wanted to meet the one person that could possibly understand me. What kind of person would do that?” 

“A lonely one,” Hermione said quietly. 

Tom disliked that word. It was one he had never used to describe himself. It sounded pathetic. 

But it wasn't completely untrue, was it? 

Chapter Text

When Tom left to go get tea, he was gone far longer than Harry had anticipated. 

Harry was pretending to ponder his next chess move in his game against Ron but really Harry was pondering when exactly Harry had become so used to Tom’s presence that his absence felt so uncomfortable, like a persistent itch. 

The tense atmosphere of the day was also contributing to Harry’s unease. Things had been mostly okay, albeit a bit awkward, until the revelation that took place in the tapestry room. 

Harry was not upset that he was magically bonded to Tom. In fact, it was the opposite. He was thrilled. It felt like solid proof of his and Tom’s connection. It was real and lasting, not a fleeting summer haze that would lift as autumn set in. 

Harry was torn by his friend’s reactions. Harry understood their concerns, truly he did. There was just something small and childish within him that made him want to stamp his foot and demand Ron and Hermione to just be happy for him. 

Sure, it was sudden. It was still incomprehensible in many ways. Yet, somehow, it felt right. 

“Hermione means well,” Ron commented. “You know that.” 

“Of course,” Harry said tersely, not looking up from the chessboard. “My life is full of people who mean well.” 

Ron snorted. Harry looked up to see his amused expression and glared. 

“Sorry, mate,” Ron said placatingly. “I completely see your point there. You just said it so dramatically.” 

Harry found himself grinning. “Reckon I did,” he admitted. 

They exchanged a few chess moves before Ron spoke again. 

“I've been thinking about some stuff I remember my mum and Dad saying about betrothal bonds,” he said. 

“Oh?” Harry asked hesitantly, wondering if he would like the direction this conversation took. 

“They’re rare,” Ron said, “and they require sincerity of intent to work properly. It rarely worked for arranged marriages, for instance, because usually, the couple didn't actually care for each other. Anyway, I’m saying I guess I don't really have a good reason to suspect Tom is trying to use you or hurt you in some way anymore. That's one of the main things I was worried about.” 

“Good,” Harry said. 

“I still have concerns, mind,” Ron said quickly. 

Harry rolled his eyes but Ron kept speaking. 

“Tom was just a student living his life in the 40s and now he's right in the middle of a war. It's a lot of pressure is all I'm saying. I think I would be worried about anybody’s ability to cope with such a situation.” 

Harry’s lips curved into a smile. He felt touched that some of what had looked like Ron’s mistrust seemed to be actually born from concern for Tom. Harry knew that Tom was powerful beyond measure and incredibly resilient, but nevertheless, he had similar worries. 

It was one thing for Harry to try to explain to Tom just how fucked up his life could be. Experiencing it was another thing entirely. 

“He's got a lot of enemies now, I reckon,” Ron continued. “You-Know-Who, Death Eaters, Ministry flunkies, Rita Skeeter…” 

“Rita Skeeter being on the same list as Voldemort is strangely appropriate,” Harry commented. 

As always, Ron shivered slightly at Harry’s use of Voldemort’s name. “Well, yeah,” he said forcefully, “You remember how mad things were back in fourth year with the whole love triangle thing!”

“Love triangle?” 

Harry turned his head at the smooth voice, smiling when he saw Tom walking into the room carrying a tea tray. Hermione followed behind him, looking much calmer than when Harry had last seen her. 

“There was this reporter during the Triwizard Tournament who wrote that Hermione and I were dating,” Harry said, taking the teacup Tom handed him with a grateful smile. “Then when Hermione actually started dating someone, the same reporter wrote that Hermione broke my poor pitiful heart.” 

“She was allowed to publish unsubstantiated rumors about children?” Tom questioned with a grimace. 

“I reckon anything goes over at the Prophet,” Harry said lightly. “It really was Hermione who got the worst of it. She was getting all sorts of horrible things in the post.” 

“Bubotuber pus,” Hermione said, looking a bit green at the memory. 

“So, you’ll have that to look forward to, Tom,” Ron said cheerfully, taking a sip of his tea. “Oh, this is fancy.” 

“It's oolong,” Tom supplied. 

“The constant scrutiny can be a lot to deal with,” Harry told Tom. “I understand if you might want to keep things quiet at first.” 

Tom looked offended by that statement. “Absolutely not.” 

The implication was clear. You are mine. I want everyone to know. 

Harry’s cheeks were warm. 

“If Skeeter tries anything again, Hermione can just put her back in a jar,” Ron said. 

Tom turned to Hermione, a vicious-looking smirk appearing on his face. “A jar?” 

Hermione looked a bit flushed. “She's a beetle animagus,” she explained. “She kept sneaking into Hogwarts to spy on Harry-” 

“And you,” Harry added. 

“Well, yes. Hagrid as well.” Hermione said. “I knew there had to be some way she was getting all of her information. I finally caught her and trapped her in a jar. I made her promise not to write anything for a year, or I would report her for being an unregistered animagus.” 

Tom nodded, looking impressed. “Nice work,” he said. “Only a year though?” 

“I didn't want to blackmail her indefinitely,” Hermione replied, a defensive edge to her tone. 

Harry met Tom’s eyes and laughed. Tom certainly would have blackmailed Rita Skeeter indefinitely. He would have used her to publish stories in Harry’s favor consistently, not just the one Quibbler article. Strangely, the thought made Harry feel warm and fuzzy. 

“Public opinion is firmly in your favor now anyway, mate,” Ron said to Harry. “They’re going to love Tom. He might finally usurp Lockhart for Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award.”

Harry felt a pang of jealousy when he imagined Tom on the cover of Witch Weekly. Tom was beautiful. Of course, everyone was going to want him. What if he realized that there were people out there who were far more interesting and attractive than Harry? People who weren't at the top of the hit-list of a vengeful Dark Lord? 

Yet, Harry remembered that Tom chose Harry when they were strangers to each other. Tom had sought out Harry, not knowing that he was The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, or whatever moniker the press chose for him that week. 

Harry had once feared that he wouldn't be able to see past the fact that another version of Tom grew up to be Voldemort. Now, he barely even connected the two anymore. He had faith that his Tom had no interest in waging a war to gain power, though he probably would wage war against anyone who threatened Harry. If Harry had faith in that, he could believe that Tom wouldn't be fickle enough to leave Harry behind if someone better came along. 

Harry had planned to serve dinner in the formal dining room but the Black family tapestry was located there. Ron and Hermione were in much better spirits and seemed to be opening up to Tom. Still, Harry worried that being faced with the reminder of the bond might make the earlier tensions resurface. 

So, they enjoyed pasta with Harry’s homemade arrabbiata sauce at the kitchen table. Tom retrieved a bottle of prosecco from the wine cellar and even Hermione accepted a glass without making a comment about being underage. 

Harry felt settled in a way he had never experienced before. He was betrothed, which was utterly mad yet felt completely right. He had a home to invite his friends to. He was able to share a meal with and bring happiness to the people he cared most for. What could be better than that? 

Harry felt light and happy from the prosecco and listening to Tom and Hermione passionately debate about arithmancy. Harry had no idea what either of them was talking about, but it didn't matter. It seemed that whatever happened when Tom was getting tea had softened Hermione’s feelings towards Tom. She was smiling as she spoke, her cheeks slightly pink.

After everyone had a piece of tiramisu, Ron began to yawn, stretch, and talk about going to bed. There were more than enough guest rooms at Grimmauld for him and Hermione to spend the night, but Harry found that he was ready to be alone with Tom. 

From the way Tom’s hand had been steadily creeping up Harry’s thigh throughout dinner, he felt similarly. 

“Are you going to Diagon for school supplies?” Ron asked at the fireplace, “Fred and George really want you to come see the new shop, Harry.” 

Harry shrugged, looking over at Tom. “Snape seems to think going would be dangerous but I would like to.” 

“Paranoid bastard,” Ron grumbled. “Well, send over an owl and we can make a plan to meet there if you decide to go.” 

They said their goodbyes. When Hermione shook hands with Tom, she stared at him a bit too long, like she was trying to figure something out. 

When Ron and Hermione were gone, Harry found it easier to breathe. He was happy that they had come to visit and that the atmosphere had improved after a rocky start. Overall, the day felt like a success. 

Being alone with Tom was just peaceful and comforting in a way that Harry had never encountered with any other person. Without even thinking about it, Harry found himself melting into Tom’s arms and burying his face into his neck. 

“Alright, darling?” Tom asked. 

“Just missed you,” Harry said. 

Maybe it was a strange thing to say, considering that Tom had rarely left Harry’s side that day. But Tom hummed into Harry’s hair like he understood the sentiment completely. 

After a few moments of luxuriating in the closeness, Harry looked up at Tom and grinned. “We’re betrothed apparently,” he said. 

There was something almost wild behind Tom’s eyes when he replied, “Magic itself has declared that you are mine.” 

Harry found he liked it when Tom was a bit grand. 

“There was never any doubt,” Harry said. 

It was true. Even when Harry had been at Privet Drive, still hesitant about Tom's sudden appearance in his life, it felt inevitable that would eventually accept the devotion that Tom was offering.

Tom pulled Harry into a kiss, slow and searching. As Tom’s hands wandered down Harry’s back, Harry found his cock already growing stiff. He wondered if he was always going to have such a strong reaction to something as simple as Tom’s kisses. It made his whole body light up and throb with need. 

“Shall we go back to the tapestry?” Tom asked, his breath warm against Harry's ear. “See our names together?” 

Harry was feeling more inclined to go to the bedroom at the moment but the curve of Tom’s smirk spoke of plans that Harry would probably find himself enjoying. 

Harry barely had enough time to actually look at the tapestry before he found himself being pressed against it. Tom eagerly devoured Harry’s mouth, moving so leg was pressed against Harry’s groin. Shamelessly, Harry rutted against him, his moans swallowed by kisses. 

Tom pulled back, hair disheveled. Harry whined at the loss of contact, chasing after Tom’s mouth. 

“I want to try something new,” Tom said breathlessly. 

“Anything,” Harry said, desperate for Tom to touch him again. 

“Okay,” Tom said, “Right.” His eyes roved over Harry’s body, expression thoughtful. He leaned in to kiss Harry again before saying, “Turn around and put both of your hands against the wall.” 

Harry complied instantly. He was confused about what exactly Tom’s aim was but following the command made him nearly tremble with anticipation. 

Tom's shoe pushed in between Harry's feet and kicked them apart so his legs were spread. 

“Push against the wall, darling. That's it. You're so good.” 

Tom’s hands gripped Harry's hips, arranging him as he pleased. 

“Perfect,” Tom breathed. “Entirely mine.” 

Harry was so warm that he felt close to combustion. He could feel his cock straining with the discomfort of still being trapped within his jeans. He was only moments from begging. 

“Yours,” Harry said, his voice small and tight with desperation. 

Tom seemed to take pity on him then, wrapping an arm around Harry’s waist to unbutton Harry’s trousers, unzipping them and pulling them down. Tom gave Harry’s arse a squeeze before pulling down Harry’s pants as well. 

Harry’s leaking cock sprung free, the tip nearly kissing the tapestry. He waited for Tom to wrap a hand around it, to finally give him the relief he was aching for. Instead, Tom’s attention remained focused on Harry’s arse, petting, squeezing, and kneading the flesh. A finger dipped lower between Harry’s cheeks. Harry let out a soft gasp as it slightly brushed against his hole, only to move away almost immediately after. 

Was Tom planning on fucking Harry for the first time right there? 

He wanted to turn his head to see what Tom was doing but felt strangely rooted to the spot. 

Tom’s hands didn't return but Harry felt a slight breeze and tingling sensation there, most likely one of the spells Tom had used on himself. 

But Harry didn't hear the rustle of Tom removing his robes. Instead, there was a slight thud against the floor as Tom fell to his knees. It was then that Tom touched Harry again, placing a firm hand on each cheeks and spreading them apart. 

When Harry felt Tom’s warm breath ghost against his hole his knees buckled. “You’re going to…?” he squeaked out in shock. “There?” 

“You’ll like it,” Tom said matter-of -factly. 

This certainly wasn't anything Harry had heard about when listening to the older boys in the Quidditch locker room. Before Harry could think about it too much, though, all of his mental energy was redirected to the matter at hand. 

Because Tom’s tongue, hot and insistent, was now swirling against Harry’s most private and sensitive place. 

Harry ought to have felt mortified but any protests he might have spoken died in his throat. He never imagined something like that would feel so damn good. 

Tom’s tongue pressed greedily against Harry's hole, unrestrained like a starving man. There was none of the meticulousness that Tom ordinarily possessed, only desperation and worship. 

“Tom!” Harry cried out, unable to stop himself from adjusting his stance to push against Tom’s mouth. Harry’s neglected cock was throbbing, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. 

Tom said something in response, muffled by the location of his mouth. Then, Harry felt Tom’s tongue pushing into the tight furl of muscle, slowly loosening it. 

Harry might have screamed. He might have sobbed. He was no longer fully aware of the noises being ripped out of him nor was he in control of how his body reacted, hips bucking and knees threatening to give out from underneath him. Tom remained steadfast and focused on his task, making sloppy wet sounds. There was a mix of saliva and sweat dripping down Harry’s thighs. 

“Please,” Harry begged, though he wasn't entirely sure what he was asking for. It was all too much, yet not nearly enough. 

Tom licked Harry one more time before moving his mouth away. He stood, adjusting Harry’s body like a doll to steady him. Harry had no idea how he still remained standing. 

“You taste incredible, darling,” Tom said. 

Harry had no idea how that could possibly be true but he didn't voice his doubts. Instead, he just said, “Tom,” his voice coming out as a hoarse whisper. 

“I know, darling,” Tom soothed. “I have you.” 

Finally, miraculously, Tom wrapped his hand around Harry’s cock. Harry was so sensitive, so close to the edge, that it only took a few well timed strokes before he was coming, his spend splattering against the ancient tapestry on the wall. 

“You’re beautiful, baby,” Tom said, sounding awed as he stroked Harry through his orgasm. “So good for me. So perfect.” 

Harry felt dazed and Tom turned him around and gathered him into his arms. Harry nuzzled closer as Tom fussed over him, lightly kissing his temple, running his fingers through his sweaty hair, and whispering endearments with the hint of a cockney accent that Tom only seemed to reveal around Harry. 

When Harry was finally capable of speech he said, “I came all over the tapestry.” 

Tom chuckled. “We’re wizards, darling. It’ll come right off.” 

“I’m not going to be able to look at it the same way anymore,” Harry said. 

“You should know that I have every intention of having you in every room of this house,” Tom declared. 

“Fuck,” Harry breathed, dizzy at the thought of it. 

“All in good time,” Tom said, tilting Harry’s chin up for a kiss. 

Harry could taste himself on Tom’s lips but found that it was not unpleasant like he imagined it would be. He could feel Tom’s still-hard cock pressed against his leg. 

“Let me take care of that?” Harry offered. 

Tom hummed in assent, parting his robes so Harry could reach inside and slip his hand past the elastic of Tom’s pants. Harry kissed Tom deeply as he brought him off. It didn't take long for Tom’s cock to pulse and spurt into Harry’s hand. 

Eventually, Harry removed his sticky hand from the confines of Tom’s Y-fronts. Before he could locate his wand to clean off the come dripping from his fingers, Tom leaned forward to take Harry’s fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean. 

Harry watched the whole scene in amazement. His cock twitched, valiantly attempting to plump up again but far too spent to achieve another erection. 

“You're incredible,” Harry said, eyes wide and enraptured. 

Tom pulled off of Harry’s fingers with a wet pop, smirking and looking entirely too pleased with himself. 

Harry suddenly felt overcome with a burst of tenderness that had nothing to do with the sex. It was overwhelming fondness and the desire to never let Tom go, to always keep him this close. 

Was it love? Harry wasn't sure how to classify an emotion he had never felt before. He only knew that he had never felt something this strongly towards another person before. It felt like something even more because if this is how the average person felt when they fell in love, how did they cope? How did they not die of the intensity of it? 

How was Harry going to manage at Hogwarts when he couldn't reach out and touch Tom at any given moment? 

Overcome, Harry reached out to trace the freckles on Tom’s cheeks. 

“You’ll need a ring, of course,” Tom said. 

Harry laughed at the abruptness of Tom’s statement. “Sure,” he said, giggling. “For you as well. We’ll go to Diagon.” 

Tom smiled. “I'll add the enchantments myself, naturally.” 

Harry nodded. “Naturally.” 

Harry didn't even know what sort of enchantments were added to rings but trusted Tom’s judgment on the matter. 

It felt surreal to be discussing engagement rings with a war looming over their heads. Harry had no idea when the safe bubble he had formed with Tom would pop. Harry only knew that eventually he would be forced to face Voldemort again and that keeping Tom safe was paramount. 

Yet, Tom wasn't a delicate flower for Harry to protect. Tom wouldn't allow Harry to shield him. He wouldn't step back and run away from the fight. Harry couldn't run away either. Voldemort would never stop chasing after him. 

Now, more than ever, Harry was determined to become strong enough to end Voldemort once and for all. More importantly, Harry resolved to survive. 

“You’re thinking entirely too much for someone whose cock is still out,” Tom commented with a wry smile. 

“We should start practicing dueling,” Harry said. “I want you to teach me the type of things you taught your study group.” 

Tom raised an eyebrow. “You want me to teach you Dark magic, darling?” His voice was nearly a purr. 

“It's like you said,” Harry said, “you have to understand Dark magic to fight it properly. I reckon I'm feeling less inclined to be noble.” 

Tom’s eyes sparkled with glee. “We’ll start tomorrow, then.” 

Chapter Text

It was impossible to become a good spy without also being a good liar and Severus Snape was practiced at the art of deception. He was capable of altering the contents of his own mind thoroughly, weaving fictions that fooled the most accomplished of Legilimens. 

Severus was now forced to grapple with the fact that he was also far too capable of deceiving himself. 

Severus began studying the art of Occlumency shortly after his friendship with Lily Evans ended. The idea of being able to protect his thoughts from prying eyes was appealing to him, certainly, but what really drew him in at the time was that by studying the mind art, he might be able to shove the constant pain he was feeling behind a barrier. 

After perfecting Occlumency, Severus still felt his emotions rather strongly, yet the ones he found unhelpful or unpleasant were able to be quickly filed away. It made him able to keep focus without becoming consumed. 

Severus was currently furious with himself. He never should have gone to Privet Drive. He never should have followed that trail of curiosity. 

Part of him had known what he would find there. After looking in that cupboard, countless idle thoughts and memories that Severus had buried behind his occlumency shields began resurfacing. 

Potter was smaller and thinner than the other first-years. Sometimes, he flinched away when his friends attempted to touch him. His temper flared when his friends were insulted but seemed indifferent to attacks against his own person. 

There was the memory Severus had viewed in Potter’s mind where the boy had been filled with terror whilst being chased by a snarling bulldog while the people watching laughed. Severus had told himself that it was an isolated incident. Many children had adverse experiences with animals. Severus convinced himself that it didn't mean anything. He purposely avoided seeking out other childhood memories from Potter's mind. 

Severus had not even realized that he was worried about what horrors he might uncover. 

Potter was wary of adults. Over and over again, Potter bucked authority and insisted on doing dangerous things either on his own or with a group of other children. 

It was so simple that it truly was unconscionable that Severus had not understood it earlier. Potter was reckless, not because he was a glory-hound, but because he did not expect that adults would believe him or be willing to assist him. 

It brought Severus back again once more to the night Sirius Black had died. Potter had sounded so desperate, calling out to Severus of all people for help. It was clear now that Severus had not handled the situation appropriately, leading Potter to attempt a rescue mission on his own. 

Many of Potter’s actions were now being viewed under an entirely new lens. The previous motivations Severus assigned to the boy crumbled under scrutiny. Severus no longer knew what to think or how to feel. 

All of these revelations ran together, each opening a new box in Severus’s mind that he would have liked to remain closed. His mind was in a disarray. His shields were in shambles. He spent several days hiding away in the potions lab at Grimmauld Place, his hand occasionally moving to rub at his Dark Mark, anticipating how it would eventually burn again. What would happen if Severus was called to the Dark Lord’s side before he managed to get his mind back in order? 

Severus avoided Potter. 

He did not know what to say to the boy. If Severus admitted that he had snooped at the Dursley home, Potter would believe it a betrayal. 

Severus was also unsure if he could continue on the way things were now that his worldview regarding Potter had shattered so thoroughly. It was easier to just keep his distance.

Yet, Severus continued to think of Petunia’s dimwitted son standing before him and asking him to look after Potter. 

“I reckon if you were friends with Harry’s mum she'd like to know one of her mates was looking after him,” Dudley Dursley had said, smiling dopily as if those very words were not a knife stabbing into Severus’s chest. 

Severus was so weary. Hadn't he done enough? Had he not endured enough? 

Was there a point to seeking absolution from Potter now when Severus would only appear to betray him again down the line? Was Severus only trying to ease his own crushing guilt? 

Severus went to Lupin’s flat, seeking a distraction. 

When Severus exited the floo, he expected to see Lupin curled up on the couch like he had been the last time he visited. Severus felt small and foolish standing in the empty living room. It had been several days since the full moon. Lupin was more than likely well-recovered by now. Of course he wasn't home. 

Had Severus been expecting Lupin to be right there waiting for him with a cup of tea and warm smile? Lupin had a life and duties that did not involve Severus. 

Severus had decided to return to Grimmauld Place when he heard the sound of soft footsteps against the hardwood floor and a voice asking, “Severus? Is that you?” 

Lupin walked into the living room, smiling when he laid eyes on Severus. There was a strange yet pleasant squirming in Severus’s stomach when he caught sight of Lupin’s damnable dimple. Someone was actually happy to see him. How novel. 

“Hi!” Lupin greeted, sounding a bit breathless. “Is everything alright?”

“Am I only meant to visit you if something is wrong?” Severus snarked. 

The words that slipped from Severus’s lips felt so idiotic, he immediately wished to undo them. Of course Lupin did not expect Severus to seek him out without some sort of cause. 

Besides, there was something wrong.

Severus clenched his fists at his side. The air around him felt strangely heavy. “I thought we might-” His voice sounded far too hopeful, far too bright. He took a breath before lowering his tone to something more acceptably detached. “If you are not currently occupied, I would not be adverse to viewing more of that television program.” 

Lupin laughed, warm and bright. “Murder She Wrote?” 

Severus nodded. “I believe Jessica Fletcher would be a far better addition to The Order of the Phoenix than the Fletcher we are currently saddled with."

Lupin grinned, stepping closer. “Agreed,” he said. “I’m not sure if we can watch it right now though.” 

“Ah, did I interrupt something pressing?”

Severus took in Lupin’s attire. His clothing was muggle: a soft looking shirt with corduroy trousers. He wore no shoes but had on a pair of thick knitted socks. Severus swallowed, recalling how Lupin once wore sock garters with his teaching robes. There was something about them that Severus found so appealing that it had snapped his self-control. 

“No, no,” Lupin replied with a gentle shake of his head. “I just don't know when it comes on next.”

“When it comes on?” 

“Yeah,” Lupin said. “I can't just watch it whenever I please. There's a schedule. I think I have a guide somewhere around here.” 

As Lupin began to rifle through a magazine rack, Severus glared at the television. 

“What is the point of this blasted thing if you cannot watch Murder She Wrote whenever you desire to?” 

Lupin giggled, presumably at Severus’s scowl. He began paging through a glossy booklet. “There's other good things to watch,” he said. “But it would be nice to just turn the television on to whatever you're in the mood to watch. Hopefully the muggles can sort that out someday.” 

Severus tilted his head towards the magazine in Lupin’s hands. “Well, is it coming on soon?” 

“Oh yes,” Lupin said, a slight flush appearing on his cheeks. “There's a few episodes coming on today but not until four. Would you like to come over then? Or… have you had lunch yet?” 

Severus had not given much thought to eating over the last few days. He had studiously avoided the kitchen, as it was a common spot that Potter and Riddle congregated. 

“I have not,” Severus said. 

“I haven't either,” Lupin said. “I could make us something? I think I have stuff for sandwiches…” 

Lupin walked to the kitchen and began pulling out supplies. “I thought this bread looked interesting,” he said, holding up a loaf. “It has all sorts of seeds on it.” 

“It appears acceptable.” 

Lupin chuckled. “You can have a seat if you’d like,” he said. “Just go ahead and make yourself at home. I’ll only be mo’.” 

Severus sat down at a small wooden table with a rickety leg and watched as Lupin sliced the bread with a thick knife. ‘Make yourself at home’ was a common turn of phrase. There was no reason to dwell on it. 

Yet, something about the sincerity in Lupin’s tone made Severus’s heart beat a bit faster. He looked around the tiny flat. It was hardly large enough for one person. Lupin’s many books were set on overflowing shelves. Other than the books and the quilt folded neatly on the couch, Severus did not see any personal effects. There were no photos on the walls or decorative items. 

Severus wondered if Lupin had more personal touches to his bedroom. He frowned at the rather presumptuous thought. He nearly told himself that he had no interest in viewing the room where Lupin slept but then he recalled that he was attempting to no longer lie to himself. 

Lupin set down a plate in front of Severus. The sandwich on it looked rather appetizing and Severus found his mouth watering at the sight. 

“I hope it's alright,” Lupin said as he sat down in the chair opposite of Severus. “I'm not much of a cook.” 

Severus took a bite of the sandwich. The ham, cheese, and vegetables were perfectly balanced and the thick seeded bread elevated the culinary experience. “It is quite nice,” Severus said. 

Lupin blinked. “You think so?” 

Severus narrowed his eyes. “Have you ever known me to give a compliment that was unearned?” 

Lupin laughed. “I was just surprised. That's all.” 

“I could always rescind it.” 

“No, no,” Lupin protested, waving a hand. “I accept the compliment.” 

A memory appeared in Severus’s mind unbidden of the last time he had given Lupin a compliment. It had referred to the appearance of a certain part of Lupin’s body and his ability to use it- 

Suddenly, Severus was choking on his sandwich. 

Lupin leapt forward, alarmed. “Severus!” 

Severus grabbed the glass of water in front of him and gulped it down, taking heaving breaths as his airway cleared. He held up a hand. “I am fine.” 

“Merlin, you scared me!” 

“Not to worry, Lupin. It appears that I will live another day,” Severus said blandly, a smirk appearing on his lips. 

As Severus finished eating his sandwich, Lupin chattered to him aimlessly, sharing idle gossip about various Order members and remarking on a recent article he read in Transfiguration Today. Severus mostly nodded along to Lupin’s musings but the conversation about the ethics of human Transfiguration turned into a lively debate. As they talked, they moved over to sit on the couch, thighs pressed together. 

As he listened to Lupin passionately argue his point, Severus realized that he was happy. 

Remus Lupin, the werewolf and the last remaining Marauder, made Severus happy. 

Thoughts of Remus Sodding Lupin, former bane of Severus Snape’s existence, now provided happiness powerful enough to produce a Patronus. 

The revelation made ice-cold unease crawl up Severus’s spine. Lupin’s voice faded into the background as Severus clenched his fists into his lap, suddenly overtaken by pure panic. 

It was simple to make the choices he did when Severus had decided long ago to set his life aside to pursue vengeance for the death of his first and dearest friend. It was simple to make the choices he did when Severus was certain that nobody around him truly cared if he lived or died. It was easy for Severus to treat himself as a weapon, a tool, something ultimately disposable. 

Somehow, quite accidentally, Severus had begun to care about something other than the cause he had dedicated his life to. He had begun to care about Remus. It was also impossible to deny that Remus cared for Severus in return. Remus trusted him. 

Remus had already been betrayed by someone he trusted. He had already lost every single person he cared about as a result. When Severus carried out Albus’s plan, he now knew that he would be shattering Remus all over again. 

Yet, Severus found himself sitting at Remus’s table, sharing a meal, listening to the warm tones of his voice and stubbornly eschewing the rational voice within that demanded he stay away. 

Now that Severus was in the habit of being truthful to himself, he knew that even if he turned away from Remus now, it would not mitigate the damage. 

Severus was on a path that would ruin this man. 

“Severus?” 

Severus looked up, blinking at Remus’s worried face. 

“Where did you go?” Remus asked, his voice so gentle that it made Severus ache. 

Remus had a worried furrow in his brow that Severus nearly reached out to smooth with his thumb. 

“You were right,” Severus rasped out. 

Remus tilted his head, a hint of a smile appearing on the corner of his mouth. “I was right?” 

Severus swallowed, his throat feeling uncomfortably dry and tight. “You said recently that my… dislike of Harry Potter was irrational. You were correct.” 

Remus’s smile grew marginally but to his credit he did not crow with vindication. “I'm happy you've realized that.” 

“I am unsure of how to proceed,” Severus admitted. 

“An apology would be a good start.” 

“After all this time, I cannot see it absolving me,” Severus said. 

Remus shrugged. “Harry is a remarkably forgiving kid. He needs people like you in his corner. As much as it horrifies me to admit, Harry will eventually be forced to face You-Know-Who again. Soon, more than likely. Who in this world other than you is more well-suited to prepare him for that?” 

“Albus,” Severus said quickly. 

Remus shook his head. “He's a genius, sure, but he doesn't understand You-Know-Who like you do. He doesn't understand the Dark Arts like you do. You could be a good role-model for Harry.” 

Severus snorted. “I am not a proper role-model for anyone, least of all boy heroes.” 

Remus laughed softly, his corner of his eyes crinkling in a fond manner. “You are fiercely intelligent and extraordinarily brave.” 

Severus found himself unable to speak as he regarded Remus’s soft expression, his eyes moving over the long scar that bisected Remus’s eyebrow, crossed the bridge of his nose, and ended at a jagged point at his jawline. 

The next words that tumbled out of Severus’s mouth demonstrated none of the intelligence that he was purported to have. In fact, they jeopardized everything. 

“In the near future, I will be given the opportunity to prove myself to The Dark Lord and ensure that my loyalty to him will no longer be questioned.” 

Remus frowned. “Should you be telling me this?” 

“No,” Severus said but the admission did not stop him from continuing. “When I win the Dark Lord’s trust, I will lose the trust of the entire Order, save the one person that knows the truth behind my actions.” 

“Albus Dumbledore,” Remus concluded. 

Severus nodded. 

“Why are you putting yourself in danger by telling me this?” Remus asked, his voice nearly a whisper. There was an intensity to the way he was looking at Severus now that felt entirely new. 

“I-” Severus began, the vulnerable truth feeling like ash in his mouth. “I do not wish for you to despise me.” 

Remus moved closer. When he spoke, his warm breath fanned against Severus’s ear. “I don't believe I could ever despise you.” 

“You should,” Severus whispered. 

“I won't,” Remus countered, now close enough that their noses brushed. 

Their lips met and Severus was unsure which of them had been the first to close the distance. Perhaps it had been both of them simultaneously.

Until now, every kiss they had shared had been hot and desperate, a vicious meeting of tongue and teeth. Their kisses had been the culmination of weeks of tension where Severus avoided his desires until the last threads of his self-control frayed and snapped. The kissing was always a precursor to Severus shoving Remus to his knees or bending him over a table. It was a harsh craving being slaked. 

This kiss was different from all the others. It was impossibly soft, terribly affectionate. Severus did not fight against it. He let himself be kissed like a precious thing. He allowed himself to believe he was worthy of this tenderness. 

It felt like the sun coming out after a harsh winter, the frozen ground finally thawing so new buds could bloom. 

It was like the strangling tendrils of Devil’s Snare receding after being exposed to light. 

Four o’clock came and went but the television was never turned on. 

The time came that Severus could no longer avoid returning to Grimmauld Place. He stepped out of the fireplace into an empty kitchen, the lingering scent of spices in the air. 

It seemed that Potter had prepared a curry, though there were no plates in the sink or splatters of sauce on the walls or counters. The space was pristine. 

Severus walked out of the kitchen, listening for any signs of life in the quiet house. He could hardly believe that he had kissed Remus on the couch for hours. It had been only kissing, too. Neither of them ever moved to remove their clothing or relocate to the bedroom. Severus would have said they snogged like teenagers, though he suspected that the actual teenagers he currently lived with were up to things far more depraved than simple kissing. 

Severus and Remus had made no grand declarations or promises of any kind. Regardless, there had been a shift in their relationship that was undeniable. It could not be undone nor did Severus want it to be. 

The drawing room was empty, as were all the other rooms on the ground floor. Severus stepped into the back garden, still cautious of the delinquent foliage, and found that Potter and Riddle were not there either. 

Severus made his way up the stairs, pushing back his growing concern that the pair had left the premises. Even if they were not occupying one of their usual haunts, it was reasonable to believe that they might be in the library or even squirreled away in their bedroom engaging in activities that Severus would rather not think about. 

At the top of the stairs, Severus heard what could only be the sound of spellfire. He increased his pace, his robes billowing behind him as he searched for the source of the noise. Had Riddle found a way to betray Potter without breaking the vow he had made? 

One door in the corridor was slightly cracked, an orange flash of light peeking out. Severus swung open the door, his wand already drawn and pointing directly at Riddle. As Severus swiftly moved to disarm the boy, he realized that Riddle was not even holding his wand. 

The room was a dueling hall that was only slightly less grand than the one located in Malfoy Manor. At Severus’s entrance, both boys turned to face him. Potter was holding his wand loosely, looking slightly abashed, while Riddle simply looked amused. A few feet away from the pair, there was a line of practice dummies, each covered in slashes and scorch marks. 

“Hullo Professor,” Potter said, looking like he expected Severus to begin shouting at any moment. 

“What spell did you just use?” Severus asked him. 

Potter glanced towards Riddle and pursed his lips. The boys looked at each other, appearing to be engaging in a silent conversation made up of the slightest of expressions. Potter turned back towards Severus and said, “It was an entrail-expelling curse, sir.” 

It was a dark curse and a firm favorite of many Death Eaters. 

Severus set his eyes on Riddle. “I suppose you taught him?” 

“Yes, Professor,” Riddle replied. 

“Did you cast it nonverbally?” Severus asked Potter, moving into the room. 

“Yes,” Potter replied. “Er, sir.” 

“Show me,” Severus ordered. 

Potter looked at Severus, confusion apparent, but did not argue. Riddle gave Potter’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before moving away to stand next to Severus. 

Potter turned toward the dummies, moving into a dueling stance with the grace of a dancer. He flicked his wand out, the jet of orange light crashing into a dummy and leaving behind a sizzling crack. 

“What other spells are you working on?” Severus asked. 

“Harry needs a larger repertoire of offensive spells,” Riddle said. “We’ve also been working on the head shrinking curse and a flaying curse of my own invention.” 

“Demonstrate the flaying curse,” Severus said. 

Harry moved to comply, a brief look of concentration moving over his features before he jabbed his wand towards a dummy, moving it upwards in a forceful swish. The spell hit the dummy, cleanly peeling back the leather. 

Severus nodded. It was as he suspected. 

“The Dark Lord in this dimension invented an identical curse. The countercurse is well known amongst the Death Eaters.” 

Riddle’s smug expression disappeared, replaced by a pout.

Potter watched Riddle, lips twitching before letting out a bark of laughter. Riddle narrowed his eyes at Potter, glaring. 

“Sorry, Tom,” Potter said, still laughing. “It's just, well, your face.” 

Riddle huffed dramatically in response but he then gave Potter a smile that was filled with fondness. 

“It is still useful,” Severus found himself saying. “It is valuable to have knowledge of any of the spells enemy combatants might use.” 

“Right,” Potter said. “That's what Tom’s been saying too.” 

“What is even more useful,” Severus said, “is having an arsenal of spells that are unknown to the enemy as well as spells that have no counter curses.” 

Potter gave Severus an assessing look. “Are you offering to teach us some?”

“I am,” Severus responded.

The very least Severus could do was ensure that Potter was properly prepared for the war ahead. 

Chapter Text

From the moment Tom began to reside at Grimmauld Place, Severus Snape had been watching him. 

Snape kept his distance, yet Tom frequently felt his presence just outside of his periphery. Tom had learned to tolerate this. Tom would, of course, prefer Snape to be gone, but Tom recognized that any other adults assigned to watch over him would be far more present. Snape’s idea of adult supervision was laughably lax. 

Still, Tom despised the man, especially after Harry had told him more about his history with his dour professor. 

Dumbledore had written Tom off after a single meeting. Nothing Tom did was enough to change his opinion. Yet, Tom had at least gotten a chance to make a first impression. Snape was so bitter over the actions of Harry’s father that he decided to hate Harry before they even properly met. 

“I thought potions would be cool,” Harry once said. “A bit like cooking, y’know? Or more like baking, I suppose. Precise. Either way, I was looking forward to it but from that first class, I knew that Snape would never allow me to succeed.” 

Thinking about it made Tom’s blood boil. Even though Dumbledore clearly distrusted Tom, he graded Tom's assignments fairly and never openly disparaged him in class. Snape couldn't even manage something as simple as that. 

After over a month of keeping Snape keeping his distance, something shifted. Suddenly, Snape was standing in the dueling room, telling them that he wanted to assist in Harry’s training. It was troubling that Tom was unable to ascertain what changed. 

Tom had plans for his training sessions with Harry, plans that required privacy. 

It thrilled him to think of dueling Harry, their powerful magic swirling in the air as they moved. Tom imagined how at the end of the duel, they would both be panting, sweating profusely in their heavy robes. The robes would need to be removed, of course. Then, Tom could press Harry to the ground and reward him for a job well done. 

Now, Tom could bring none of those fantasies to life because Snape was there in the room with them, dark eyes focused on the proceedings and thin mouth constantly barking out criticism. 

“Adjust your stance, Potter,” Snape said. “The smallest gust of wind could knock you over.” 

Frustratingly, Snape was not wrong about Harry’s stance at that moment. However, if they were alone, Tom would have moved behind Harry to manually adjust his stance. He would gently whisper encouragement in Harry’s ear as his hands roamed over Harry’s form, teasing him. Harry excelled with positive reinforcement. 

To borrow Harry’s charming modern terminology, Tom needed Snape to bugger off. 

Snape even joined Harry and Tom for meals now. Clearly, Harry was struggling to find topics to discuss that would not prompt Snape to make acerbic comments, which resulted in everyone eating in tense silence. 

Tom had grown accustomed to reaching out to touch Harry as often as he wished. With Snape present, Tom now needed to be more conscious of decorum. That meant that when he and Harry finally retired to their bedroom in the evening, Tom needed to feel Harry against him as closely as possible. 

Harry had been wearing robes for training, a practical choice, but Tom missed his tiny shorts and how he could admire his thick thighs and squeeze them whenever the mood struck him. 

Once Tom made sure the bedroom was properly warded and silenced, he pushed Harry back onto the bed, removing his robes with a flick of his wand because he was too impatient to undo all those buttons. 

Harry laughed as his back slammed against the mattress. “Merlin, Tom,” he gasped out. “Try not to break me, yeah?” 

Tom frowned down at Harry in concern. “Are you hurt?” He gently pulled Harry’s legs up to remove his shoes and socks. 

“I'm fine,” Harry reassured him. 

Tom lifted Harry's foot to his mouth and pressed his lips against the arch. “Good.” 

Harry pushed himself up on his elbows, looking at Tom in bemusement. ”Did you… did you just kiss my foot?” 

“Yes,” Tom said, doing it again. 

“Why?” 

“It's a lovely foot,” Tom said simply. 

Harry shot him a look of disbelief. “Do you have a foot fetish or something?” 

Tom thought it over, tracing his finger over the delicate bones of Harry’s foot as he did so. He smiled when the action caused Harry to shiver. He couldn't recall ever being especially interested in anyone else’s feet, and truly, he didn't have a particular fixation with Harry's feet in comparison to the rest of him.

Tom simply wanted to worship every inch of his beloved. 

“I have a Harry fetish,” Tom decided. He kissed Harry’s foot again before lowering it. “I would not be opposed to sucking your toes but I'm far more interested in sucking your cock.” 

Harry let out a strangled sort of sound. “Yeah?” he breathed, looking adorably flustered. “Are you gonna do that then?” 

“Certainly,” Tom said, trying not to betray that he had been thinking of hardly anything else all day. “I would also like you to fuck me again.” 

“Will you please just come here?” Harry asked with obvious impatience. 

Of course, Tom was more than willing to oblige him. He climbed on top of Harry, pressing him down as he kissed him. As their snogging became more heated, they began grinding their covered cocks together. Eventually, when the heat became overwhelming, Tom pulled away, yanking down Harry’s pants and swallowing him down. 

Harry let out a string of curses, bucking into Tom’s mouth. “Sorry,” Harry said, looking mildly ashamed when Tom pressed against his hip to keep him pinned down. Tom smiled, releasing Harry’s cock to squeeze and suckle his tempting thighs. 

Tom entertained the idea of continuing on his current path until Harry came down his throat. He even thought about working a few fingers into Harry’s arse as he lavished attention on his cock. He was sure Harry would like it. It seemed Harry liked everything Tom did to him. 

But there was an ache, a nagging need inside of Tom that demanded that Harry be closer. 

It was difficult to become too accustomed to these feelings of neediness, the knowledge that even spending nearly the entire day in the same room with Harry wasn't enough. Tom desired Harry’s unmitigated attention, all for him. Even before Tom knew of Harry’s existence, he had craved it. 

Tom did not use the spells this time, adoring Harry’s look of concentration as he worked Tom open with his fingers. How could anyone claim Harry was less than the perfect pupil? Tom’s cock was so hard he wondered if he might come without Harry even touching it. 

“I'm ready,” Tom said through clenched teeth.

Harry was sweet enough to not make Tom beg for it, even though it would have been easy for him to do so. Tom sucked in a sharp breath as Harry’s cock began to breech him, squeezing his eyes closed to keep himself from coming before Harry was fully inside of him. 

The last time they had done this, Harry had laid back while Tom rode him. Now, Harry was setting the pace. He entered Tom slowly and carefully, his bright eyes soft and open as he seemed to catalog every minor change in Tom’s expression. 

“This is okay?” Harry asked, caressing Tom’s cheek. “I'm not hurting you?” 

Tom shook his head. “Not at all. ‘s good.” 

It was more than good. It was exquisite. Tom let out a punched-out sound when Harry bottomed out. Harry’s face was screwed up in an intense look of concentration, chest heaving. Tom felt so wonderfully full. 

“You feel fucking amazing,” Harry said reverently. “Like you were made for me.” 

“I was,” Tom said. 

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, “You were.” He intertwined his fingers with Tom’s, gently pulling one of Tom’s arms toward him to press kisses to the runic scars on his wrist. 

Tom’s heart soared at the gesture, the acknowledgment of their cosmic significance to each other. Tom was so unaccustomed to his type of happiness that it felt like delirium. 

“You can start moving,” Tom said. 

Harry laughed as he granted Tom’s wish. He started out so slowly that every press inside felt like a tease. Harry carried on that way until Tom heard himself whine with impatience. Harry smirked at him knowingly before finally beginning to fuck him in earnest, each piston of his hips causing Tom to cry out. 

“Fuckin’ hell, ‘arry,” Tom moaned. Having Harry’s cock inside of him was enough to temporarily erase all of the efforts Tom put into mastering his elocution. 

“Yes,” Harry gasped. “Are you gonna come for me, love?” 

The head of Harry’s cock slammed against Tom’s prostate, robbing him of his capability of speech. Tom nodded, nearly sobbing when Harry began to stroke him in time with his thrusts. 

In barely no time at all, Tom was coming so hard that his vision blurred. Harry kissed him deeply as he fucked Tom through it. When the orgasmic haze lifted, Tom felt Harry’s cock pulsing inside of him and flooding him with warmth. 

Tom wrapped his arms around Harry, pulling him closer so their chests were pressed together. He relished in how connected he felt to his soulmate in that moment, how their hearts seemed to beat in unison. He was becoming quite sentimental, he discovered. 

After Harry pulled out and they had cleaned their selves up, Tom was dying for a smoke. Harry had protested at Tom’s idea of smoking in bed but eventually agreed after Tom cast a variety of charms to prevent the room from smelling of smoke and their bed from catching aflame. 

“I suppose it feels a bit sophisticated,” Harry remarked with his cigarette dangling between his fingers. “Bit European.” 

Tom leaned in to steal a drag. “I was mainly thinking about how I wanted to keep you undressed and in bed with me.” 

Harry grinned. “And this is why you got all Os on your OWLs. Sheer cleverness.” 

“So kind of you to notice,” Tom said airily. 

“I notice everything about you,” Harry said softly. 

It was mandatory to kiss Harry after that comment. Harry had to scramble to move his cigarette out of the way when Tom lunged for him. 

Yes, he was unfathomably happy, Tom thought as he laughed against Harry’s mouth. Who could blame him? He had everything he had ever wanted. All he needed to do now was dispose of his deficient counterpart. 

“Next time,” Harry said, looking a bit hesitant. “I want you to fuck me.” 

Tom felt his spent cock twitch feebly in interest. “I would like that very much,” he said. “I will endeavor to make it perfect.” 

Harry chuckled. “Oh, I have no doubt of that.” 

“Snape is being weird,” Harry said a little later. “I can't figure out why he's being so helpful all of a sudden.” 

“You don't think Dumbledore told him to?” 

Harry shook his head. “If Dumbledore asked him to train us, Snape would have definitely let us know what an inconvenience it was. When he had to give me occulumency lessons he wouldn't shut up about how I was wasting his precious time.” Harry wrinkled his nose. “It's like he’s actually being nice.” 

Tom raised an eyebrow. “He called you a dunderhead six times today.” 

“Are you keeping a tally?” 

“I might be keeping track of his offenses,” Tom said lightly. At the moment, Snape was useful. If that changed, Tom would gladly ensure he was punished. 

Harry laughed brightly, leaning his head against Tom’s shoulder. “He’s as insulting as ever but he’s also giving genuinely good advice. For him, that's downright friendly.” 

“Decent teachers give good advice without constantly insulting their charges.” 

Harry hummed in acknowledgment. “I think Dumbledore would be furious if he found out what Snape was teaching us. For someone who’s convinced that I have to be the one to kill Voldemort, he doesn't seem all that concerned about me being properly prepared for it.” 

Tom agreed. It was all rather suspect. 

“I know it's naive,” Harry continued, “but I never really questioned Dumbledore much until this past year. I just trusted that he has a great big complicated plan and that it will all make sense eventually.” 

Harry sighed and Tom began to run his fingers through his curls. “I keep thinking though, isn't defeating Voldemort Dumbledore’s top priority? Yet I'm expected to off the wanker without any special training? Dumbledore acts dotty sometimes but he's not daft. There has to be something I'm not seeing.” 

Tom wanted to destroy Voldemort. He was an absolute failure in every sense. They shared a name and parts of their past, but truly, Voldemort could hardly even be called Tom’s dimensional counterpart. Voldemort had magically mutilated himself beyond recognition. Not only had he thrown away the golden opportunity to have someone as perfect as Harry as a soulmate, Voldemort had also caused him grievous injury time and time again. 

Tom supposed he was grateful that Voldemort’s ineptitude was responsible for bringing Tom and Harry together. Still, there was no way that Harry could have the life he deserved until that vile scourge was wiped from the earth. 

“You believe Dumbledore has some master plan and Snape is going against it?” Tom asked. 

“I guess so," Harry said with a shrug, "and it's not as if Voldemort would want Snape to teach me how to fight him more efficiently, so he can't be following his orders. It makes me think that Snape has a plan of his own. I just wish I knew what it was.” 

The next day, Tom and Harry entered the dueling hall to find it transformed. There was now an extensive obstacle course and from the heavy bags under Snape’s eyes, he was up most of the night preparing it. 

“Wicked,” Harry said in appreciation. 

While Harry was busy dueling against several dummies, Tom moved to stand beside Snape. 

“Harry needs dueling robes,” Tom said. 

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Potter’s current attire is more than adequate for that purpose.” 

Tom scoffed. “The robes he has on are from the last century and have no protective charms. He deserves something better than that, surely.” 

“Why, may I ask, are you telling me this, Mister Riddle? Surely Potter is capable of purchasing robes for himself.”

“Of course he is,” Tom said. “I’m sure you are aware that it is best to get fitted for those sorts of robes in person.” 

Snape scoffed. “I see now. This is a ploy because you want to gallivant around Diagon Alley with Potter. I have already told you it is too risky.” 

“It's not a ploy,” Tom said in annoyance. 

It was a bit of a ploy. Harry did need better robes but Tom was mostly concerned on getting a ring on his beloved's finger before they returned to Hogwarts. Harry was his. A physical token would ensure everyone understood this. 

“Harry would benefit from new dueling robes and Diagon Alley just so happens to be the best place to purchase them. Do you not trust your Order to protect us?” Tom asked. 

“You do not need protection if you stay here where it is safe.” 

“Perhaps,” Tom said. “Do you truly believe that Voldemort is going to attack us while we’re out shopping? It seems he prefers a bit more showmanship with his murder attempts.” 

Snape grimaced, his body stiff with tension. “Do not call him by that name.” 

Tom stared at him. “Don't you believe that I, of all people, have every right to call him by that name?” 

“You are not of this world,” Snape said, “You do not understand-” 

Tom cut him off. “I once scribbled on a piece of parchment, creating anagrams of my name. I imagined all my classmates who mocked and scorned me for my muggle surname bowing down and calling me their Lord.” 

“And I suppose you had a change of heart, then?” Snape asked mockingly. 

Tom watched Harry as he expertly dodged the balls of flame shooting in his direction. He was resplendent like this, completely in his element. “I discovered something more important.” 

Snape laughed but there was an edge to it that was undeniably cruel. “The Dark Lord is a master manipulator that will say anything if it gets him what he wants. He makes promises he never intends to keep. You may be able to trick everyone else around you into believing your motives are pure but I see exactly what you are doing. I know who you truly are."

Ah, so it was like that, then. Tom already knew that Snape did not trust him but had not expected to receive such explicit confirmation. 

“Believe whatever you like,” Tom said dismissively. “For some reason, Harry values your opinions but we both know he values mine more.” 

Snape’s lips curled into an ugly sneer. “Potter has never valued my opinion.” 

Tom couldn't stop himself from letting out a bark of laughter. “Are you that deluded? Even though you have treated him with nothing but scorn, he still wants your approval.” 

Personally, Tom did not understand why Harry craved the approval of people like Snape and Dumbledore. Tom generally desired approval but only because it made his life easier if authority figures liked him. Harry wanted approval for approval’s sake. Harry was the first person Tom wanted to make happy just for the pure pleasure of it. 

Soulmates were not matched sets, they were two parts that fit perfectly to make a whole. Tom cared little for the people around him so Harry possessed an abnormal amount of compassion in exchange. Begrudgingly, Tom knew that caring for Harry properly meant sharing him, even with those Tom found unworthy of Harry’s affection. 

“As long as you remain useful to Harry, I will be able to tolerate you.” Tom told Snape. “You are eager to state that I am the same as your Dark Lord, so allow me to make one thing abundantly  clear. If you harm or betray Harry in any way, you will find Voldemort’s actions merciful in comparison to mine.” 

Snape stared at Tom, the contemptuous look he wore replaced by something more fearful. As much as Tom despised being connected to the miserable wretch that had caused so much misery to his soulmate, it was gratifying to know that it was enough to invoke fear in someone like Snape. 

“Er, is everything alright?” 

Tom turned his head to see Harry, looking confused and slightly singed. 

“Everything is fine,” Tom said, smiling. “You performed admirably, darling.” 

Harry shuffled, flushing as he always was prone to when receiving a compliment. Snape stood silently, so Tom gave him an imploring look. 

“I have some notes to share with you later,” Snape told Harry, “but overall, you did… well.” 

Harry’s mouth opened in shock. “Er, thanks Professor.” 

“Keep up the good work,” Snape said with a tight nod. “If you will excuse me, I need to stir a potion.” He then swept off, leaving Harry gaping at his back. 

“What did you say to him?” Harry asked Tom, looking awestruck. 

“Just some mild threats.”

“Tom!” Harry admonished but he was laughing as he pulled Tom into a hug. 

Tom held Harry, inhaling the scent of smoke and magic clinging to him. 

Tom was not Voldemort. He harbored no desire to kill indiscriminately. However, he was well aware of the darkness he possessed. He was capable of hurting others without feeling remorse. He even found pleasure in it. 

Harry was a light in the darkness. While he understood the necessity of learning more robust ways to defend himself, it was clear the idea of harming another person was painful to him. It was remarkable how Harry held onto his kindness, when he was subjected to such meaningless cruelty. 

Harry let out a tiny gasp as Tom pulled him even closer. 

Voldemort wanted to own the world. When Tom was young, helpless, and hungry, he had desired that as well. Now, Tom had the world right there in his arms and it was better than he ever dreamed. 

Anyone who tried to take Harry away from him would learn the true meaning of suffering. 

Chapter Text

Since Snape had decided to train Harry and Tom, seemingly out of the blue, Harry’s days at Grimmauld Place had become much busier. There was barely time to think. His world had narrowed to practicing dueling, learning new curses, and reading over the thick tomes that Snape thrust upon him. At night, Harry was often so exhausted that all he was capable of was clinging to Tom tightly and falling into a deep sleep. 

Some mornings, Harry would wake with Tom’s erection pressed against his backside and Tom’s lips pressed against his neck. However, before anything good could come of it, they would hear rapping against their door and Snape commanding them to rise and meet him in the dueling room following breakfast. 

After a week of intensive training, there was an abrupt shift in their schedule when Dumbledore appeared one morning in the floo while they were eating breakfast and followed Snape into the library, where they spent the majority of the day. 

As much as Harry had been anticipating being fucked by Tom, there was something hideously uncomfortable about the concept of having sex while Dumbledore was so nearby, even with layers of wards and silencing charms on the door to their bedroom. 

Besides, Harry truly was exhausted. Even Tom wasn't unaffected by how hard they had been working. They spent their free day in the treehouse cuddled up on a blanket, lazily exchanging kisses while listening to music on Harry’s tape deck. 

It was perfect. 

As the new school year approached, Harry began to prematurely mourn these uncomplicated summer days. Soon, Harry would be surrounded by people who all wanted something from him. Coursework, Quidditch, his friends, the war… would Tom tire of him then? Would Tom find Harry wanting once he met other more interesting people? 

Harry pressed his face closer to Tom’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. He sighed as Tom’s lithe fingers carded through his hair and caressed his scalp. 

Something within him, small and afraid, wanted to beg Tom for reassurance. He longed to hear Tom promise to stay. 

As dinner time approached, Dumbledore remained at Grimmauld Place. Harry made enough dinner for all four of them, to be served in the kitchen. The formal dining room would probably be more appropriate since the Headmaster was visiting but Dumbledore or Snape were bound to notice the tapestry. Harry wasn't quite ready to overturn that particular bucket of flobberworms. 

Harry made chicken piccata (if Dumbledore liked lemon drops so much, he’d probably like a lemon sauce?). Just as Harry was considering knocking on the library door and potentially facing Snape’s wrath, the two men came into the kitchen. 

As soon as dinner was served, Dumbledore announced, “I've arranged for Harry and Tom to visit Diagon Alley tomorrow to retrieve their school supplies.” 

Snape looked annoyed but unsurprised by this information. Harry had no doubt that Snape had already expressed his displeasure to Dumbledore privately. In fact, he looked rather peeved at Dumbledore’s continued presence. He looked at the chicken piccata like it personally offended him, since dinner meant Dumbledore sticking around longer. 

Tom, on the other hand, seemed caught between elation that he and Harry would be able to go shopping after all and annoyance that it was Dumbledore of all people who made it so. Harry squeezed Tom’s hand under the table. 

Harry was happy to be able to go to Diagon Alley but underneath that was the frustration of always needing permission to do basic things. 

“I would also like to have private lessons with Harry, starting at the beginning of term,” Dumbledore continued. At Tom’s scrutinizing state, Dumbledore smiled. “You are welcome to attend as well, Tom. I am sure you will find the content illuminating.” 

“He is so infuriatingly vague,” Tom snarled a bit later, pacing in their room. “He and Snape are up to something.” 

“They're always up to something,” Harry said, lying back against the pillows. 

“Dumbledore was wearing those gloves again, did you notice?” 

Harry nodded. Dumbledore’s fashion sense had always been on the side of eccentric but it was always cohesive. That day’s ensemble was made up of blues and greys. The crimson gloves clashed. 

“Maybe he's done something to his hand,” Harry said. “What d’you think about these private lessons? More of what Snape’s doing?” 

Tom scoffed. “I doubt it. If he planned on teaching you dueling, he would never invite me along.” 

“I would just take you with me anyway,” Harry said. He patted the space on the bed next to him. “C’mere.” 

Tom settled into the space next to Harry and pulled him in for a kiss. Quickly, the conversation was abandoned in favor of more pleasurable pursuits. 

“Tell me what you want,” Tom whispered. The heat of Tom’s breath against Harry’s neck made him shiver in anticipation. 

“Your mouth,” Harry said, “Please.” 

He was so hard that it ached. His desire for Tom was so all-consuming that Harry thought he might die of it. He needed…

They were interrupted by three booming knocks on the bedroom door. 

“Your escorts are here,” said Snape's snide voice outside the door. “Do not keep them waiting.”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” Tom groused.  

Harry groaned into his hands. “I think I liked it better when he just occasionally dropped by to insult me and fucked off afterwards.” 

“I know I liked it better,” Tom said with a grimace. 

They dressed quickly, Harry thinking of Umbridge performing a striptease in an attempt to get his erection to wilt. 

Harry put on black denim trousers and a white T-shirt. He knew that it was rude to keep whoever was escorting him and Tom waiting but he still took the time to put on some eyeliner. From the appreciative look Tom gave him when he left the washroom, Harry had made the right decision. 

Tom looked quite nice as well. Looking at his black robes and emerald cravat made Harry wonder if there was a good place in Diagon Alley for them to sneak off alone. 

Harry wondered if he should purchase more traditional robes. Did he and Tom look ill-suited standing side by side? Tom didn't seem to mind Harry’s preference for Muggle attire, but then again, Tom had yet to meet the pureblood Slytherins with a more refined sense of style. Maybe Tom would like them better. 

Harry swallowed. He wasn't sure where all these thoughts were coming from but he desperately wanted them to stop. 

Tonks and Remus were waiting for them in the kitchen, along with Snape who was leaning against a counter and sipping tea with a choleric air. 

“Wotcher, Harry!” Tonks said, grinning brightly. “Nice to see you again, Tom!” 

Tonks explained the plans for the day. They would be flooing into Diagon Alley, meeting the Weasleys and Hermione at the twins' new shop, and then completing their shopping together. As Tonks spoke, Harry noticed that Snape was watching her with a very peculiar look in his eyes. 

Remus was standing rather close to Snape, actually, which was odd. Harry guessed that Remus wasn't upset about whatever fight they had anymore but couldn't decide if that was good or bad. 

Harry remembered Tom’s words from that night, “Perhaps they're closer than they appear to be.” Harry winced, refusing to consider that line of thought further. They couldn't be friends. It just didn't make sense. 

“That would be wonderful. Thank you,” Tom said. 

Harry had been so absorbed in watching Remus and Snape that he completely missed whatever conversation Tom and Tonks were having. Tom looked extraordinarily pleased though which made Harry break out in a grin. 

Harry thankfully didn't end up in Knockturn Alley again when he used the floo. Hermione and a gaggle of Weasleys were already waiting for them in the Leaky Cauldron. Harry was happy to see Hermione and Ron greet Tom much more warmly than they had when they visited Grimmauld Place, though it was obvious they still weren't entirely comfortable with him. Harry told himself they just needed time. 

Oddly enough, Remus never joined them. It seemed like he wasn't part of their guard after all. Was he just at home hanging out with Snape? That was suspicious. 

The Weasley Twins had given Harry a massive assortment of products for his birthday but it really was a drop in the ocean compared to what awaited him at their storefront. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes was packed with excited customers, quite the contrast from the rather dismal and barren landscape of the rest of Diagon Alley. Harry had noticed that several businesses were boarded up including, to his sadness, Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor. Harry had been harboring the silly desire to drink a milkshake with Tom with two straws like he once saw on telly. 

Tom, who had told Harry that he found pranking juvenile and a waste of valuable time, still seemed impressed with Wheeze’s many offerings, especially those in their defensive line. However, he stopped at a display advertising love potions and scowled. 

“I was upset about them at first, too,” Hermione said. “They aren't real love potions, though. Just mild aphrodisiacs.” 

“So, it's false advertising,” Tom said, though he looked relieved. 

“Only false advertising for those who don't read the fine print!” a cheerful voice chimed in. 

Tom tensed as the twins came at him from both sides, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “See anything you like? We’re happy to give you a discount if you're wanting to spice things up with our Harry-kins!” 

“No thank you,” Tom grit out, face flushed. 

“Suit yourself,” Fred said. “Have you considered getting a pet for Hogwarts? Allow me to show you our pygmy puffs!” 

Tom did not purchase a pygmy puff. He seemed to find their very existence apalling, bristling when Ginny introduced him to hers which she called Arnold. When they visited the Magical Menagerie so Harry could buy owl treats, Tom gave a longing look at a group of glass terrariums containing snakes but said nothing.  

Even with Tom’s identity protected, he still would need to hide his parseltongue ability. It would be something Voldemort would definitely notice if the information got back to him. 

“When all of this is over,” Harry said, slipping his hand into Tom’s once they were back out on the street, “we’ll fill the whole house with snakes.” 

Getting fitted for new robes was extremely boring as always, though watching Tom try on robes added some appeal. Tom insisted they both purchase dueling robes and higher quality boots, which required a visit to a separate store. 

Harry watched, charmed, as Tom spent ages in the bookstore. Tom’s efforts to visit some of the more obscure book shops in Knockturn Alley were turned down by a giggling Tonks. Harry just wanted to kiss the adorable frown off of Tom’s pouting face. 

Finally, they had everything they needed. 

“I guess we should head home then,” Harry sighed. 

“We have one more stop,” Tom said, sharing a conspiratorial look with Tonks. 

Tonks led them to an unassuming-looking shop with a thatched roof. When they entered, Harry took in his surroundings and turned to beam at Tom. 

“A jewelry store!” Harry exclaimed. 

Tom returned the smile. “Shall we pick something out?” 

Harry nodded fervently and they approached the counter. 

“We’re looking for engagement rings,” Tom told the elderly wizard at the counter. 

The shopkeeper didn't express any surprise at their apparent youth. However, Harry knew that arranged marriages only recently stopped being the done thing amongst the pureblood sect. This man probably grew up in a time where a lot of matches were decided at very young ages. 

“Look at this one,” Harry breathed, pointing at a ring. 

It was a golden ouroborus with green jeweled eyes. Tom was looking at it with undisguised awe.

 “Are you interested in matching rings?” the shopkeeper asked. 

Harry worried at his lip as he considered it. Admittedly, he worried about the message that wearing a ring like that would send. Its aesthetic was undeniably dark, Slytherin, and would probably remind people of Voldemort. 

But also, it made Harry think of Tom. Tom, whom he adored beyond reason, his betrothed, his soulmate. 

He exchanged a look with Tom, who seemed to be attempting to be impassive but had a hopeful glimmer in his eyes. 

“I would like matching rings,” Harry said. 

“You’ll want all the standard charms, I assume?” 

Tom shook his head. “I'll be adding my own charms,” he said smoothly. 

The shopkeeper raised a fuzzy white eyebrow. “Suit yourself,” he said gruffly. 

The price of the rings ended up being shockingly high but Tom’s glowing smile made the purchase worth every galleon.