Chapter Text
Pansy and Draco returned to the castle the following week, and so the fruitless hunt for the Chamber of Secrets began anew. They were focusing on an old, disused Charms classroom now, combing over the cool stone walls with their wands and casting a wide variety of secrecy-detection charms Hermione had compiled during her many trips to the library. Since their initial search had begun, they had found three secret alcoves, a concealed window that looked not out onto the grounds, but into the depths of an underwater cavern, and a very ancient liquor stash hidden behind a false brick in the wall, but, by Tom's design of course, no Chamber of Secrets.
"This is useless!" Hermione suddenly exclaimed, slamming her palm against a wall which she had said she felt sure was concealing something. "We've checked this room three times, there's nothing here!"
Pansy sighed. "I hate to say it, but I think it's time to check the one room we've all been avoiding." Tom glanced at her, wary – the others had been avoiding the girls' loo as well? He hadn't even realised. "I know none of us want to deal with her, but it's the last place we haven't looked."
Draco groaned. "I will not be caught dead in a girls' bathroom."
"Oh relax, Draco," said Hermione. "It's Moaning Myrtle's place, no one's going to see you except us. And Pansy's right, we've exhausted every other option along this corridor. If the entrance to the Chamber isn't in there, we're back to square one."
"I suppose," Draco sighed, sounding very put upon. "Well, lead the way."
Tom gritted his teeth and followed Hermione out the door. Well, he had known it would come to this eventually, and he didn't exactly have a good excuse as to why checking Myrtle Warren's haunt was a terrible idea. He was just going to have to make sure none of the others noticed the tiny snake carved into the copper tap near the back of the room, that would be a dead giveaway. Otherwise, all the detection charms in the world couldn't reveal the Chamber of Secrets – that was a feat reserved for those with the rare gift of Parseltongue.
"Here we are," Hermione proclaimed as they reached the door to the loo.
"Eurgh," Ron grumbled. "What's with all this water on the floor?"
"There was water the night the Chamber of Secrets was opened too," Harry said excitedly. "Do you think –"
"That we're about to catch the false Heir of Slytherin red-handed?" Pansy interjected, her voice laced with sarcasm "No. It's just Myrtle. Every few weeks she throws a tantrum because she's dead, or because someone said something vague that she interpreted as an insult, or simply because she wants to, and every time she ends up breaking the plumbing and flooding the entire bathroom. You learn very quickly in first year to use any loo except Moaning Myrtle's"
"It's impressive, really," Hermione added. "Ghosts don't usually affect their environment to that degree, poltergeists such as Peeves aside. She must be truly miserable."
Whoops. That was Tom's doing, wasn't it? He grimaced as he followed Hermione into the bathroom, hoping Myrtle wouldn't recognise him.
"Ugh," Pansy grunted as they made their way in. "I didn't think it would be this bad – maybe we should come back later, actually."
"No," Harry replied with determination. "We're already here, let's at least take a quick look around."
"Who's that?" Myrtle's thin voice rang through the air, and Tom turned away in case she emerged from her cubicle. "Come to throw something else at me?"
"Why would we throw something at you?" Harry asked, wading across the bathroom toward her.
From the corner of his eye, Tom could see Myrtle emerge, bringing with her another great wave of water. His heart hammered in his chest, but she wasn't paying attention to him. "Don't ask me," she shouted. "Here I am, minding my own business, and someone thinks it's funny to throw a book at me..."
"A book?" Harry asked. "You mean that one?"
Myrtle sobbed and nodded as Harry retrieved something from the floor. Tom could see him turning it over in his hands, but he refused to turn back and let Myrtle see his face. "Tom," Harry finally said, a note of disapproval in his voice, "Have you been throwing things at Myrtle?"
"What?!" Tom cried, indignant – he had far better things to do than harass a thirteen-year-old girl who refused to move on from her time on earth. "Why, in Salazar's name, would you think I'd do that?"
"This book's got your name in it," Harry replied. "Well, your initials."
Tom spun around. There was no way it could possibly be what he hoped – but oh, it was, and it was possibly the most beautiful sight Tom had ever seen. Sitting in Harry's hands was the diary the Tom Riddle of the past had worked so hard and carefully to craft, the culmination of months of research and study. How strange, to see Harry standing there holding another of his Horcruxes, two little pieces of soul carefully trapped in two beautiful vessels.
"Harry," he breathed. "I've been looking everywhere for that. Thank you."
Harry shrugged, handing Tom the diary – and oh, how his soul sang under his skin at the simple contact, the little fragment of himself very nearly coming home at last. “It’s nothing,” Harry said, “I just found it over there.” He gestured toward a sink.
Tom didn’t care – in that moment, Harry was his saviour, the solution to a months-long problem that he hadn’t known how to solve. The diary was now safely with its rightful owner and the Chamber of Secrets would remain sealed, his older self no longer having access to Ginny Weasley. He held it close to his chest, revelling in the flood of emotions that poured between him and his Horcrux, so similar and yet so different from the joy and peace that radiated around them whenever he held Harry close to him.
“You look like that boy,” Myrtle said, staring at him. “You look like that Prefect from before I died, but you can’t be him. You’re too young.”
“You’re probably talking about my father,” Tom snapped. “Pansy’s right, we’re not going to get anything done whilst wading about in ankle-deep water. We can come back later. Anyway, I need to dry out my diary and make sure it’s put away safely.”
“I didn’t know you kept a diary,” Harry said as they made their way back toward the dungeons. “I’ve never seen you writing in one.”
“That’s because it’s a secret diary,” Tom explained, as if that weren’t the understatement of the entirety of human history. “I usually keep it hidden in my trunk, but it went missing earlier this year. I’m so relieved you found it.”
“But… why did someone else have it?” Harry asked. “That almost sounds like someone stole it.”
“I’m not sure,” Tom lied, “but I have it back now, and that’s all that matters.”
They entered the common room, Tom still clutching his Horcrux against his chest, and too late he realised his mistake – Ginny Weasley was sitting by the fireplace, a look of serenity and relief clear on her visage, an expression not seen on her since the summer. Tom angled his body away quickly as she looked up, but from the horror that replaced her calm he knew: she had seen the diary, how he cradled it tightly in his arms. It didn’t actually matter – Tom was going to store it safely out of sight, deep in his school trunk where no one would ever find it. Even so, he knew it would raise questions in the girl. How did Harry’s friend find Tom Riddle’s diary, and why did he cling to it so possessively?
He practically ran the rest of the way to the dorm, desperate to get away from the girl’s terrified, searching eyes.
He kept the diary there for a few weeks, ignoring the deep temptation to write to his older self and explain why he had taken him away from his thrall and why he refused to allow the Chamber of Secrets to be opened yet again. He could hear the whispered siren calls of his soul late at night, sometimes, desperate to be held and spoken to and to fulfil the orders given by Voldemort, but Tom knew instinctively that he could not possibly convince his older counterpart to go against the Dark Lord’s explicit command. So too, he knew that communicating with himself, as Voldemort had once done, would only incite the soul within the pages to hunger for physical life anew, and he would be just as in danger as he had been when Voldemort himself had sought to subsume Tom and take his body for his own. And so, even as he began to have nightmares one more of losing his life and will to Voldemort, Tom kept the diary hidden under layers and layers of books and school supplies, a secret he wished to keep even from himself.
It helped, of course, that Harry still sensed his night terrors, sliding in next to Tom each time he awakened with a strangled scream in his throat, his arms slipping around him to provide comfort and strength. But he had grown shy with his touches, his fingers dancing away from Tom’s when he tried to slide his hand into his, ghosting over his arms instead of holding him tightly the way he had done before. And infuriatingly, Tom found himself increasingly paralysed by Harry’s presence, his own hands hesitant to reach out for him despite the need to hold him close and assure him that they were safe, they were protected, they had each other. He couldn't explain the change in their behaviour, even to himself. Whatever this strange feeling was, it was something new, something as of yet unexplored, both in this and his previous life.
And then everything changed on Valentine’s Day.
“Right,” the cupid wing bedecked dwarf said, sitting on Harry’s ankles, “here is your singing Valentine.”
Harry looked around wildly at the crowd surrounding him – Draco looked horrified, frozen as though he too had been Petrified by the basilisk, Ginny had gone a bright red, her hands spread across her face to cover her humiliation in vain, and Tom – Tom looked furious, a hungry, possessive expression blooming over his features, a look that made Harry’s heart stutter.
The dwarf cleared his throat.
His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard.
I wish he was mine, he’s really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.
The crowd around him burst into giggles and Ginny ran off, her hands still pressed tightly against her flaming face, but Tom strode forward, pushing the dwarf Professor Lockhart had conscripted into his poorly planned “morale-booster” off of Harry’s legs and helping him to his feet.
“Of all the foolish, unwanted things…” Tom was muttering as he collected Harry’s spilled books from the floor. “That boorish man thinks having students be assaulted in the corridors to be good for morale, lucky for us he won’t last the year…”
“Tom?” Harry’s voice faltered. “What are you talking about?”
“Hmm?” Tom hummed looking up at him. “Oh, it’s nothing Harry – the Defence Against the Dark Arts position is rumoured to be cursed, that’s all. No one’s lasted more than a year in decades. Come now, we’re going to be late for Charms.”
“Tom, wait,” Harry said, a growing sense of urgency blooming inside of him. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Is it quick?” Tom asked, grabbing Harry’s hand and tugging him through the dispersing crowd and onto the staircase.
“Er – no,” Harry said, feeling a bit feverish. “But it’s important.”
“Can it wait until after class?”
“Oh,” Harry replied, his heart sinking. “I suppose.”
He had been sitting on it for weeks now – months, really, ever since Draco had suggested that his and Tom’s relationship was more than just friendly. In the past few weeks, though, it had become unbearable. Something inside him burned with jealousy each time he saw Draco and Pansy sneaking off to be alone, and every time Tom held him his heart would begin hammering in his chest. He had tried desperately to squash down the feeling, not wanting to risk ruining their friendship, but then Tom had looked at him with that smouldering, possessive glint in his eye, and he had known instantly that it wasn’t ever going to just go away. Harry was going to have to tell him.
Harry found himself unable to focus in Charms, his wand stubbornly refusing to produce the same floating purple flowers Tom’s was beside him. It was no doubt because of the jitters that were still running through him, initiated by Ginny’s Valentine and then fed by Tom’s reaction, leaving his mind tangled and running ragged. He needed to get Tom alone, to ask him –
“Oh!” Flitwick exclaimed. “Excellent job as usual, Mr Riddle – five points to Slytherin.” He hummed over the sad, incompetent, dead buds littering the table in front of Harry. “Not your finest work, Mr Potter,” he concluded. “I know you can do better.”
“Sorry sir,” Harry stammered. “I have… a lot on my mind.”
"Ah," said Professor Flitwick knowingly, "no doubt you've become the latest to fall victim to one of Professor Lockhart's roving gang of romance-spouting hoodlums." Harry nodded. "Having trouble deciding how to respond to your unexpected paramour?"
"Er –" Harry faltered. "Something like that, sir." Beside him, Tom frowned in disapproval.
"Well, conflicting emotions can certainly interfere with your ability to cast," Flitwick replied. "I'll overlook it this time, given the situation. However, I'd like you to put in some extra practice once you've, well, resolved the issue, and show me next class that you've mastered the Floribundus charm. I'm sure Tom here can help catch you up to speed."
Harry felt a blush rise into his cheeks as Professor Flitwick moved onto the next table, and he looked away, suddenly terrified to meet Tom's eyes. He could still, however, feel Tom's quizzical gaze fixed on him.
"Harry," Tom started, and his voice was low, dangerous in a way that made Harry shiver. "You don't actually fancy Ginny, do you?"
Why on earth was everyone so interested in whether he fancied someone or not? First it had been Draco, now it was Tom, and well... he really didn't want to give Tom the wrong impression. He forced himself to meet his eyes and shook his head.
"No," he insisted. "I mean, Ginny's very nice, but she's Ron's little sister. And besides, there's..." There's someone else hung, unspoken, on the tip of his tongue. Harry shook his head again. "It doesn't matter. I just don't want to upset her."
Tom frowned at him as if he were a puzzle he couldn't quite figure out.
Harry avoided Tom's gaze for the rest of class, trying in vain to think of anything but him, but ultimately gave up on his attempts to conjure any magical flowers and let himself be consumed by the required reading instead. At least the dense text in front of him distracted somewhat from the unrelenting awareness of Tom sitting directly to his left, moving on from the basic purple blooms and conjuring a veritable floating garden of different floral varieties that floated through the air and made his classmates 'ooh' and 'aah' over their artistry.
At long last, class was finally over and Harry followed Tom out to the corridor among the throng of students. Once free of the Charms classroom, Tom turned to him smiling, though his eyes were still searching.
"Alright then," he said, "what is it you wanted to ask me, Harry?"
Harry shook his head and took Tom's hand, leading him away from the crowd. "Not here," he hissed. "Need somewhere quiet."
He led him down the winding corridor, the voices of his classmates fading into the background. When he was reasonably sure they would no longer be overheard, he stopped and turned to Tom, curling his hands into fists to stop them shaking.
"Harry," Tom asked, a note of amusement in his tone, "what's all this about?"
Harry's brain seemed to have short-circuited now that he finally had the chance to talk to Tom alone. "It's – it's Valentine's Day," he blurted before he could stop himself.
Tom frowned. "It is," he replied. "You're not still thinking about Ginny, are you?"
"No," Harry said, his heart beating out of his chest. "I mean yes – I mean, the singing Valentine, it made me think – and I just – I just wanted to ask –"
"Slow down, Harry," Tom said. "You're hyperventilating."
"Wilyougooutwime?" It came out all at once as one long, rushed word, exploding out from wherever Harry had been hiding the question deep inside for so long. As he waited for Tom's response he finally allowed his fists to uncurl, though he was still shaking like a leaf in a tornado.
Tom froze, his lips parting in surprise. "Go out..." he echoed, "with you?"
"Like – like Pansy and Draco," Harry mumbled. "But you and me."
For a moment, Harry thought for sure Tom would laugh in his face, bringing all his hopes and dreams crashing unceremoniously to the ground. Instead, his mouth stretched in a wide smile and he stepped right up to him, cupping Harry's face in his hands and tilting his head back.
"Of course, Harry," he breathed. "Of course I'll go out with you."
And then he kissed him.
It was everything about which Harry had been dreaming and more – Tom's lips were so soft on his own, and while the kiss was brief and chaste, Harry didn't think he'd ever tasted anything sweeter than the lingering feel of Tom's mouth pressed against his. When he broke away, it was to look down at Harry in breathless wonder, his pupils blown so wide that his dark eyes were almost black.
"What brought this on, darling?" he asked softly, tracing his thumb against Harry's cheekbone.
"It's er – something Draco said, over the summer," Harry replied, wondering if he looked as awestruck as Tom did. "I wasn't ever going to say anything, but today when I got Ginny’s Valentine, you just looked so… It was like you were furious that anyone but you had the gall to send me one. I knew then I had to tell you how I… how I felt.”
“I’m so sorry, Harry,” Tom said in a hushed tone. “I made you wait all through Charms to tell me. You were so flustered , and I thought it was just because of Ginny.”
“No,” Harry chuckled weakly, “that was all you. Happy Valentine’s Day, Tom.”
“Happy Valentine’s indeed, Harry.” And then Tom kissed him again.
They made their way back down to the dungeons after that, hand in hand and basking in the warm glow between them, growing even stronger now than it had been before. Harry was oblivious to the glances from the other students, the whispers and nudges as the two of them passed, only having eyes for Tom. They made it back down to the Slytherin common room and opened the blank wall, hands still intertwined as they passed Ginny, whose face fell as she saw them, and sat down at a study table across from Pansy and Draco, Harry letting his head fall onto Tom’s shoulder.
Pansy goggled at them and, eyes wide, nudged Draco in the side. Draco looked up from his essay and stared at the two of them, eyes glancing back and forth between Harry and Tom, a slowly growing smile spreading across his face.
“Sweet Salazar,” he sighed at last, smirking triumphantly as he leaned back in his chair. “Finally.”