Chapter Text
Fate always favors Tom.
It brought Harry to him months in advance and far more admirably than he imagined—and his imagination, while extensive, he forces to stay… reasonable. Tom is uncertain Harry will ever fully enjoy the extent of what delights him.
When Tom desired to bury his father alive, fate saw to it that Harry didn't leave him despite how poorly he responded to that incident. And now, fate has seen to it Harry has once again come to Tom. Only this time, he brought a gift.
This time, he wanted to bind their magic together.
It was foolish. It was desperate.
Tom agreed.
He agreed because he cannot seem to help himself. He will take, and he will take, and he will take until there is nothing left of Harry to give—and then he will follow, chasing after the remnants of him in the fabric of the universe, because Harry is not allowed to die.
And tying his magic to Harry's… living inside of Harry…
Harry will always feel him. Harry will always need him. Tom will be the center of Harry's world, just as Harry is the center of Tom's.
"What are you thinking about? That smile never leads to anything good," Harry laughs.
"It led me to you," Tom counters.
A beautiful blush scrawls over the other boy's cheeks. He looks away, pleased.
They are at the cottage that Tom's father banishes him to when he returns for an occasional weekend. As there is no better place for them to perform the cooperative magic ritual, Tom and Harry have claimed it. They'll return to Riddle House in the morning.
"Harry." Tom grabs hold of his wrists.
The fire they've made the Muggle way crackles beside them. They are without use of their wands tonight. Soon, they'll cast their herbs onto the flames and call to magic itself.
"You have seen me. I am your monster." He pushes Harry's palms onto his cheeks, twines their fingers together. He closes his eyes. "And you are mine."
"Tom!" Harry gasps. "Don't—you're not a monster—"
"No, Harry," Tom says firmly. He opens his eyes—bores them into ones turned pine green by the cover of night and the dancing light nearby. "Before you tie yourself to me, it is imperative that you understand who we are, what we are."
Harry opens his mouth—he looks as if he'll protest again. Tom squeezes his fingers, and he quiets.
"You stopped me from murdering my father." Tom says the words out loud only to force Harry to confront them. He wants the boy to harbor no illusions about their character. "You know what I'm capable of. You know, if you permit me, that I will kill him, and that I will enjoy it."
Harry's throat works in a swallow.
"I am a monster, Harry," Tom reiterates softly. "But I am your monster. And because you are so willing to tie yourself to me, by definition, that makes you a monster, as well." He tips his head, watching the firelight play off the other boy's glasses. "Knowing these things… are you ready?"
Slowly, so slowly, Harry nods. His eyes never leave Tom's.
"Good," Tom murmurs. "Good, darling."
He lowers their laced hands and turns Harry's left one over, unfolding it and tilting it up so he may lay a kiss upon his heart line, precisely where he intends to cut. Harry's hand jerks in his, but he makes no move to reclaim it. Tom strokes the boy's knuckles in approval and leans back to retrieve the ceremonial knife.
Harry's blood is too precious to spill, and so Tom makes an infinitesimal slice along the heart line. The long line starts from his index finger and runs to the edge of his palm and is indicative of many things, none of which Tom has time to study at present. Though he has frequently practiced Divination homework on these hands…
Under the blade's bite, Harry winces but otherwise doesn't make a sound.
"We only need enough to smear our blood together," Tom murmurs.
He makes a matching scar on his own palm, then presses his hand against Harry's. Harry searches Tom's eyes for reassurance as he twines their fingers.
Tom smiles.
"Harry," he whispers. "There is no going back once we ask for permission to wed our magic together."
Among the light from the fire, the stars, and the glow from the Waning Gibbous moon, Tom can see a red flush settle anew on Harry's cheeks.
"Now you're trying to talk me out of it?" Harry sputters.
"Far from it, darling."
The other boy's brows scrunch together over his glasses. "Then…"
"I only want you to be absolutely certain—"
Still holding their hands together, his grip almost bruising, Harry purses his lips. He crosses the small distance separating them to put himself in Tom's arms, his back to Tom's chest. Tom readjusts his grip to hold the smaller boy closer and hooks his chin over Harry's shoulder.
Harry tucks his battered red Converses beneath him—how Tom both loathes and cherishes them—and twists round to snap, "I'm certain, all right! You're the one who isn't, is that it? Because if that's the case, that's something you ought to tell me now!"
Tom snugs his arm tighter around Harry's waist. "Let us say the incantation."
"You're certain?" Harry asks.
Tom kisses his cheek.
The Gryffindor turns back around in Tom's arms, and Tom knows even in the shadows that the tips of his ears are red.
"Harry," he breathes into the one closest to him. Harry's trim Seeker's body shivers against his. "You must ask Magic first."
The other wizard nods.
With a steadying breath, he says loudly, clearly, and not in the wavering, giggling voice he'd had in practice, "I ask Magic to see us, to know every corner of our hearts and our souls, to deem us worthy in the face of our desires, and to bless this union until—"
His breath hisses between his teeth.
Tom feels it, too—the shift in the air around them, the stir of wind through the wildflowers and the trees ringing the far edge of the clearing. It stirs through the fire, as well, enough to make embers flicker over the logs. Covering Harry's heart with his hand, Tom pulls the other boy more firmly against him.
"Until," Harry begins again, "we no longer draw breath and our bones return to the earth once more."
Their bones will never return to the earth. But Magic will hear the sincerity in Harry's heart as he says the words and then sprinkles their herbs onto the fire. Dried dandelion, guelder rose, and others to represent rebirth and power, spread out on seven separate plates.
The fire whooshes, its flames licking high, darting sparkling silver and ruby red. Harry instinctively leans into Tom, a minuscule amount of tension in his shoulders, before he relaxes.
"Your turn," Harry says.
"Right as ever, darling," Tom replies, kissing the crown of his head.
Tom's portion of the ritual is different from Harry's. Harry needed to go first simply because it was his idea to bind their magic. Tom would have preferred to take lead—he always does—but Magic will know.
"I ask Magic to see us," Tom says clearly, his voice ringing into the night, and Harry shivers against him, "to know the depths of our devotion to one another and the boundless expanse of protection that dwells within me. I wish to offer it to my partner."
Harry opens his mouth to protest again. Tom closes his hand over it.
"He is mine to protect," Tom continues, loudly, holding his Harry tight against him. "Please." He never begs for anything, and he hates the word on his tongue. If ever he is to plead, however, it is for this. Harry squirms a little but thankfully remains silent.
"I ask Magic to bless this union until every star that has ever been born or will ever be born has so burned itself into nothing, no life can possibly hope to exist," he finishes, releasing the other boy.
Harry shoots him a look as he's released, but Tom merely smiles and reaches for the herbs. He tosses a pinch of each onto the fire. The wind surges around them again, tugging hard at their curls and robes, and the flames race higher, colorful fingers and sparks emerging briefly before they resettle.
Their hands sting at the same time, or so Tom gathers by the way Harry hisses in another breath just as Tom's cut flares. Their hands find one another—fasten back together.
The wind returns a third time, and Tom relishes in the way it yanks at his curls. It kicks up such a fuss, the trees sway forward, dust rises off the grass beneath them, and—
Their fire goes out entirely, plunging the world around them into darkness. Not an ember remains. The only source of light comes from the full moon.
Tom frowns.
"Ominous." Harry shifts against Tom. "You think we, er… upset Magic?"
"No, my darling," Tom murmurs. He kisses the Gryffindor's temple in reassurance.
Slowly, the fire returns, stirring from the remains of ashes. First an ember that fumbles over charred logs, then catching alight all at once, its flames brighter than before, stretching high, high, higher, until it falls back onto itself.
This is not a natural fire.
Its flames are tinted ruby with hints of emerald green and vibrant gold. When Tom stares hard enough, he believes he can see a heart at its depths.
"Tom," Harry whispers, tugging at his hand. There is no terror in his voice, but it does carry a sense of urgency. "What do we do?"
Their research into the matter was vague on this point. The few who had performed a cooperative magic ritual and written about it after the fact hadn't deigned to leave much more than a footnote. Magic, they all agree on, will show itself or it won't. Should it show, it will be either accepting or livid. And in most cases, it is the latter.
Magic doesn't kill those who draw its attention for a magic binding. It only takes from them that which they consider life's blood: magic.
Harry must sense the tension he's trying to hide, for he squeezes Tom's hand. His thumb runs along Tom's. "We should say something."
Tom shakes his head. They've said enough.
But Harry calls out in his sweet voice, "Er—hello?"
Tom holds onto him so that he doesn't get any closer. Exasperation unfurls inside him. He glares at the side of Harry's head, but he ignores Tom. Because of course, he does. Why listen to good, common sense? The very things he adores in Harry, he detests. The duality hasn't left. He doesn't think it ever will.
The flames leap, and Tom knows, then: Magic is listening to his heart.
He lifts his head in challenge, leaving himself open for its judgment. He has nothing to hide.
But… Tom's magic—
It… It burns.
His shoulders tighten. Harry shoots him a questioning look, which Tom doesn't acknowledge. He stares instead into the heart of the fire, allowing his magic to scour him without protest, no matter the agony that he endures. And it is agony, as if a limb he was in control of all his life has turned on him. It blisters him from within, an inner inferno that dots his brow with sweat.
Tom digs his fingers into the earth to hide their shaking and to permit them to take most of his weight. He doesn't want Harry to feel this.
That thought only makes his magic flare more intensely, and a cry rips from his throat.
"Tom!" Harry yells. Then, at the fire, "What are you—please! Stop!"
It doesn't stop.
Tom doesn't remember hitting the ground, but he's curled into a fetal position, anyway, screaming into his knees, his hands over his head. How undignified, he thinks on some plane where he is detached from his body. He is to become a Squib, after all. And here he is, rolling in the dirt, unable to control himself—
No!
He is not weak! He is not weak!
His magic is his own. He has held it within himself for sixteen years. He will hold it for sixteen years more—sixty—six hundred—eternity!
Distantly, he feels Harry's hands on him. Hears Harry yelling at the fire, at Tom. He can't make out the words. The touch feels as if it is coming through layers of cotton. There is only this trial of pain. How pathetic. How disappointing. How intolerable.
Get up, you foul, pathetic creature! he snarls at himself.
He can't.
Fine. Something easier.
A mental prod at his magic sends what fragments he has left of his consciousness reeling.
He comes back at it. His magic is his, and though it's nonsensical to think that he could take it back from Magic itself, it is all he has. Another, firmer prod renders him numb, and it takes longer to come back. By the third touch, he's braced himself. He pushes through, grips on. Pain blooms, spreads outward, consumes him in its blistering fury.
Tom grips more and more, more—hangs on.
Somewhere in the real world, his face is tacky with tears, and it is disgusting—
But Harry has always seen him at his worst, and he doesn't care. He wouldn't care now, if Tom was a Squib. If Tom turns them both into Squibs, which is what will happen if Tom can't hold on. If he lets go now, he will not only be damning himself, he will have taken Harry with him. He can't allow that to happen. If anything is intolerable, it is the idea of harming the other boy.
He meant what he told Magic. He'll protect Harry at any cost.
It might be his imagination, but Tom's magic becomes less painful by the moment. That, or he's unfortunately grown accustomed to the feeling. He chooses to hope this torment is almost over.
"—just hang on—"
Sound returns in fragments.
Tom cracks open his swollen eyes.
The wind continues to vocalize its discontent, sweeping through the yard, dirt and flowers wrapped up in its walls. The fire remains impervious to the storm. Above, the moon looms larger than ever, seeming to encompass most of the sky. An illusion but an effective one.
Harry stays pressed close to him. Heedless of the danger as he stares hard at Tom.
"—Tom?"
Maybe, if Magic finds any… benevolence at all, it will spare Harry. His Harry has done nothing wrong. He loves Tom… He loves anyone he cares for, really, much to Tom's constant displeasure… But he loves with the entirety of his heart, should he decide to give it… He needs to be able to protect those he cares about… That will make his darling happiest…
All at once, the pain drops away. Tom stays where he is, the sensation of his magic running through him without pain both a novelty and… strange. He's never been aware of it in this way before. This is immensely uncomfortable, and he hopes he becomes accustomed to it again soon.
"Tom!" Harry cries. He lifts from Tom's side, but only to push his fingers into Tom's curls. "Merlin, what do I—"
"Harry," Tom croaks. He pushes himself upright. A painful process, but he wishes no assistance and fends off Harry's helping hands.
"What happened?"
Tom doesn't waste words answering. Judging by the expression on Harry's face, he knows Tom's response may have been a somewhat scathing, What does it look like? were it not for the exhaustion pounding through him.
"Let's finish the invocation," Tom says. There's nothing to be done for the hoarseness of his voice. He stares into the fire again, and Harry's hand snugs into his. Tom squeezes it.
Together, they chant the last of the ritual. Harry's fingers dig into the back of Tom's hand so hard that there will be imprints there later. Compared to the threat of his magic being stripped from him, this is hardly anything close to pain. Tom rubs soothing circles onto the back of Harry's hand with the pad of his thumb.
As the final word slips into the night—"Aeternum!"—the flames of the fire surge forward. Though his body is weak, Tom throws his arms around Harry—
Only to find Harry has thrown himself on top of Tom, his back to the golden flames, sending them crumpling to the ground. The flames was over them, but they don't burn.
Harry gasps into Tom's ear, his body stretched protectively atop Tom's. Tom wants to curse him for his recklessness—he wants to both shake him and hug him close. Harry is his treasure. He cannot endanger himself so easily!
The world once more returns to only the stars and the moon as their source of light as the fire dies.
Harry and Tom's harsh breathing fills the silence.
It's broken when they both hiss, Harry lifting off Tom. They fumble to examine their palms again, holding them up to the moonlight. Embers haven't stirred back to life in the fire. Tom's too tired to be annoyed.
The pain in his palm is gone, but so is the wound he made with his knife.
Harry meets his gaze.
"It worked," he breathes. "Tom… Tom, I was—I thought, for a moment—" He doesn't finish, instead pushing himself back into Tom's arms, his face buried in Tom's neck.
Tom nuzzles Harry's curls and permits himself to relax a fraction.
"I protected you, Harry," Tom assures him. His limbs tremble, and he detests it. But he has nothing to hide from Harry. "I'll always protect you."
"Tom, what? No!" Harry lifts, glaring, his hands pinching Tom's shoulders. Moonlight slashes over his face, and the shadows turn his pretty features harsher than usual. "I wouldn't—if we'd—I accepted what could happen when we said we'd do this. I just… I didn't know you'd be in so much pain."
Ah.
That.
Tom cages Harry's chin with long fingers. "All things in life worth having come attached with pain, darling."
Harry laughs. "Well, now, that's untrue," he refutes.
"Nothing is free," Tom argues immediately.
"You have me," Harry parries.
Tom looks into those brilliant green eyes, muted in color by the night but no less intense in their gaze. He wonders what it will feel like in a year from now, when whatever emotion that has lit Harry up from inside burns beneath his own flesh.
"I do have you," Tom agrees. He believes what he said: Nothing is free. He also knows when to cede an argument to Harry. He slips his hand around the nape of Harry's neck and pulls him forward to kiss his forehead. "And now I will always have you."
Even magic itself agrees.
*
July 1997
The boys say nothing on their return to Malfoy Manor to drop Draco off. The Malfoy heir appears ready to burst with questions, but Tom pays him no mind. He has a far larger problem—Harry's reluctance to trust him with who the matter of the founder is.
"I thought we were well," Tom says, the moment they're back at Potter Cottage via Malfoy Manor's Floo. The home remains quiet, as if they're its only occupants.
"Don't," Harry mutters. He heads out of the living room, away from Tom. "I just need some space to think, all right?"
Tom grabs him by the wrist to jerk him back around, and Harry angrily yanks it back. Those green eyes flash at Tom in warning, and he must work to stifle a thrill of anticipation. Oh, how he loves to get a rise out of his Harry. He becomes so breathtakingly beautiful.
"What could you possibly have to think about?" Tom demands. "We are in this together. You told them that I'm your partner! If that's true, why would you keep this from me? Draco, I understand. But you won't tell me? I deserve to know, darling."
"And you will," Harry insists. "But not right now. Don't push this on me, Tom. Let it go. Let me go—"
"Never," Tom snarls.
Harry rolls his eyes in exasperation. Takes a deep breath and holds it.
"Tom." He rests his hands on Tom's chest—presses their lips together. "You know that's not what I meant. Please give me space."
But Tom doesn't want to. He can't bear to experience it again, that day at the start of the summer, where Harry ignored Tom, left him to dwell on whether or not Harry had left him and why… He refuses.
"Don't you have a dinner to get to, anyway?" Harry asks.
"Darling…"
Harry kisses him again.
"Why don't you trust me?" Tom whispers.
Guilt flashes over Harry's face, needles at Tom's magic. Their bond is so close to completion, mere hours away.
"I do," Harry says.
"Then why won't you tell me this?"
Harry drops his eyes. All the fire that's held him thus far vanishes.
"This isn't about you, Tom. Or us. Er—no. That's not true. I s'pose it's about us. It's entirely about us," he mutters. "But I haven't been completely truthful with you about something, and…" He wets his lips. Closes his eyes and takes another deep breath. "And I need to figure out how to tell you. Please, Tom. Please just let me work it out on my own for now. I won't keep you in the dark forever."
Tom doesn't like it. He wants to press, to insist. To keep prodding at Harry's boundaries. Maybe he'll even get upset again. Yell at Tom. But that's hardly conducive to a healthy, proper relationship, which he is sometimes capable of remembering (such as now), and so he takes a deep breath and nods.
"I will see you at midnight," he says.
"Tom—"
Tom kisses him. "You either trust me, or you don't. Midnight."
He leaves before Harry can do more than sputter after him.
*
Tom eats a quiet lunch in his bedroom, where he pens a letter of interest to Rita Skeeter, a rather unscrupulous journalist whose services he wishes to acquire. He's held off in the past, as Harry doesn't approve. Now, given how the morning went, Tom doesn't feel nearly as charitable. That being said, he never mails the letter, merely folds it up and stuffs it in a drawer.
He spends the afternoon studying. Or trying to. Concentration is beyond him. Harry's refusal to be forthright with him—even teasing that he has a second secret!—has him in an anxious vise. He detests it. Harry Potter is his one true weakness. Were this anyone else, he would have tortured the answer out of them, if he had to, and then erased their memory.
Tom half-expects what he terms his Harry Diary to warm at some point, but it never does. If anything, Tom's determination to get to the truth only grows. His sense of indignation is great. He told Harry about his Horcrux plans, yet Harry can't trust him with the secret of TOP's founder? Harry carries more secrets, secrets that Tom hadn't even been aware of? His Harry has lied to him?
He exhales raggedly and sets the book in his lap aside, where he's seated on his bed, pillows propped up at his back. Mid-afternoon sunlight streams through the windows. Everything under its touch turns golden, and dust motes dance in its beams.
Tom rises to get ready for the dinner with the Fletchers that Mary demanded he attend. He'll need a long bath to soak and prepare himself for this societal Muggle nightmare.
*
The dinner goes as well as he expects it to—stiff, with awkward looks thrown in his direction. Tom resembles his father almost perfectly, and it is no secret to anyone at the table that the Riddle heir is a bastard. A poof, at that. Ancient imbeciles, all of them, yet if Tom behaves, if he endures their thinly veiled insults with grace, Mary won't withdraw the funds that she allots him until his trust kicks in. The sum is quite large and is the main reason they tolerate one another on the surface.
"Don't wear that prissy paint on your eyes next time," she hisses at him once they're home. "Why do you insist on embarrassing me? I've done nothing but help you, Tom, and you insist on repaying me at every opportunity with disrespect. Perhaps your father is right! You're nothing but a burden on this family."
Tom sees red, and he grabs his wand, which is sheathed to his wrist under his shirtsleeve. Before he can draw it, she turns her back on him and stalks off into the manor house. How he'll raise his yew wand and curse her plays out impended in his mind. He can so clearly see her drop to her knees, unable to scream, her vocal chords locked up by the sheer amount of pain he's put her under…
His back pocket warms.
Harry.
Trembling, red spots lingering at the corners of his vision, he pulls the Harry Diary from his back pocket.
How did dinner go?
See you at midnight.
Tom closes his eyes—takes a deep, steadying breath.
Another life spared by his guardian angel. Not that he believes in an afterlife, but if anyone embodies the characteristics of a heavenly savior, that person is his beloved Harry.
*
Half an hour to midnight seems to come quickly, yet also take its time arriving. Tom Apparates to Godric's Hollow, on edge with the excitement of what's to come and the tedium of the day, the anxiety that has plagued him in Harry's absence.
He hopes the walk will clear his head, but it doesn't. If anything, the gnawing sense of anticipation only mounts the closer he gets to Harry's home.
Awe flashes through him, quicksilver in the night, as Tom steps into the Potters' backyard. His own greets it. Though it's not yet midnight, the press of Harry's emotions balloon inside of him. He reaches the other boy's window and finds Harry already there, unlatching it, opening it, dragging him inside his room.
They kiss, a tangle of tongues, an exchange of bites. Harry pushes him onto his bed, and they curl up on their sides, cuddled up together as close as possible. Their kisses slow as a heady sensation bubbles—their eyes meet. It must be midnight.
And then… Harry—
All of Harry—
The other boy is inside of him; his magic, it's coursing through Tom's—
Tom hears both of them gasp. His head tips back on his shoulders, Harry's name a whisper on his lips. Yet at the same time, it's his own name that he utters as he gazes down at himself in awe and fondness. The vision fades even as Tom watches. He is Harry, but he is no longer in Harry's skin or seeing through his eyes, he is only emotion. Sensation, if he presses, tucked into the back of Tom's mind.
(They're happy, they're so happy, they're together, they're together, this is right, so right—)
And Harry's magic, it's golden and glittering and light, darting about Tom, running inside of him as if it's been a part of Tom for as long as he has, welcoming him, embracing him. They're twined so deeply, it takes Tom a moment to feel how thoroughly it was woven over the last year now that it's fully ribboned inside of them. He can't hide his gratitude, that Harry will never be able to escape him…
Their magic is new—it's their magic—
Objects lift off Harry's desk, a book (the one Regulus Black returned to him?), a biro, papers, parchment. Other items in his room follow, everything not weighted down. Tom focuses inward, the glittery gold of Harry's magic living and breathing inside of him, and he wonders what part of him lingers inside of Harry. The other boy's wonder mirrors his own, his magic fluttering in response.
There will be time to cast a spell and test its potency soon, as they have planned. His minutes with Harry, trapped in this heinous time where the Gryffindor doesn't trust him…
Tom closes his eyes. He thinks about how much he needs Harry. He thinks about how much Harry needs Tom.
They can do anything alone. But why, when they can do everything together?
Tom won't tolerate a world without Harry. Harry means everything to him. Harry is the only person who has ever meant anything to him. He will never let Harry go. He is incapable of letting Harry go. When he told magic itself that he wished to wait until every star had burned out before they separated, what he really meant was that even then, he would find a way to cheat death, because the thought was intolerable, allowing their magic to separate before it had even joined, never mind after spending an eternity together. This is why Magic attacked him.
Does Harry understand? Have Tom's thoughts conveyed his emotions enough for him?
Warmth that does not belong to Tom blooms in the center of his chest. It sparks and spreads like Magic's fire, and as it reaches Tom's heart, he wonders if this is what he glimpsed in its depths.
That warmth is abruptly replaced by pain, a pain so great that their eyes grow damp. Tom stares at Harry in confusion, Harry's anxiety resounding inside of him, his guilt. What is it, what's wrong, what—?
"I want to tell you," Harry whispers, his voice ragged.
"You can tell me anything," Tom fervently promises him. He presses their foreheads together. "Anything at all, darling. I will never turn away from you. It's impossible."
Harry blinks hard. Nods and shuts his eyes—takes a deep, shuddering breath. When he opens his eyes again, they're dry, and they blaze with a familiar stubbornness.
"Dumbledore is the founder, but I could tell you figured that out." Tom nods, not entirely able to bury the smugness he feels at being right. Harry continues, haltingly, "I got the idea for cooperative magic from him."
Tom sighs. "Oh, Harry."
"Not directly!" Harry emphasizes. "I went to see Fawkes one day, and I saw a book on his desk about it, open to a page about how the ritual was performed. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but now I'm wondering if…" He wets his lips again. "Fleur told me something else. That Dumbledore is the leader of the Order. If he's behind all of this, founding the Tournament, leading a rebellion—for some reason—then it suddenly didn't seem so impossible that he might have left that book for me to find."
Tom pets his Harry's curls. Does he like this information? No. But he will hardly fault Harry for Dumbledore's machinations.
"Why do you say that, darling?" he murmurs.
"Because I thought I knew him," Harry whispers. "But I'm only just realizing that I don't really know anything about him."
Tom kisses him. "We are going to discuss Dumbledore more in depth later. For now, you should sleep. Everything will become clearer in the morning."
Harry relaxes at that placation, nodding, then snuggling back against Tom. His cheek rests over Tom's heart, which picks up at the proximity. "Stay with me as long as you can?"
"Of course." Tom returns to soothing his fingers through the other boy's curls. He shifts on the bed, getting comfortable. "I'll leave only when the sun rises."
Bound like this, magic to magic, soul to soul, they fall asleep within minutes—their hearts beating as one, their breaths in tandem. For how could they ever resist such comfort?