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Chapter Text

"SHE KILLED SIRIUS!" bellowed Harry. "SHE KILLED HIM—I'LL KILL HER!"

And he was off, scrambling up the stone benches. People were shouting behind him but he did not care. The hem of Bellatrix's robes whipped out of sight ahead and they were back in the Room where the brains were swimming....

She aimed a curse over her shoulder. The tank rose into the air and tipped. Harry was deluged in the foul-smelling potion within. The brains slipped and slid over him and began spinning their long, coloured tentacles, but he shouted, "Wingardium Leviosa!" and they flew into the air away from him. Slipping and sliding he ran on toward the door. He leapt over Luna, who was groaning on the floor, past Ginny, who said, "Harry—what—?" past Ron, who giggled feebly, and Hermione, who was still unconscious. He wrenched open the door into the circular black hall and saw Bellatrix rushing through, just about to vanish through a door leading to the other side of the lifts.

"Impedimenta!" Harry bellowed, and the spell hit the dastardly witch right in the back. She fell to the ground, frozen. Her wand slipped from her hands and clattered just a handful of centimetres away.

Rage clouded his mind as Harry grasped his wand with both hands, shaking in his boots.

"Crucio." It was barely a whisper, but it wasn't mumbled. It was spoken with resolve and anger and determination, and he was sure she was about to scream, and he'd revel in her tortured cries, but—

Nothing.

Bellatrix cackled meanly from her place on the ground. She was still trapped, but her wicked eyes shone with dark amusement, and Harry himself stood rooted in his spot as if he were the one who was cursed.

"Never used an unforgivable curse before, have you, boy?" She had abandoned the baby talk, even as her voice was still reminiscent of the shrieking of nails clawing on a chalkboard. She was revelling in this, laughing at his misery. "You need to mean them, Potter. To truly want to cause pain! Righteous anger won't last long. I'll show you how it's done, shall I? Just let me—" She was stumbling to her feet, shaking and shivering with what was either the remnants of a decade in Azkaban or his impedimenta spell.

"Crucio," he spoke, the word falling from his lips as easily as breathing. Vivid green eyes shook with repressed rage, a shudder wracking through his body. In that moment, he had no idea what sort of monster possessed him, what primal urge wrenched control of his body and unmade his being. But he couldn't find it in himself to grant mercy. He couldn't pretend to himself that he didn't want this—this monster of a woman to feel pain. The same pain she made him feel as Sirius slipped through the veil.

The moment the unforgivable connected to her form, she crumbled. His heart clambered in his chest, and his throat was suddenly dry.

She screamed this time, well and truly screamed. Strangely, her tortured cries made him feel powerful. Relieved. Electric pleasure shot through him like a lightning bolt, warmth coiling in his gut and every nerve of his shook with what could only be the addictive feeling associated with dark magic. Every iota and molecule of his being fizzed with electrifying power, and he could hardly be made to stop it. He felt strong. Confident. He was happy that she was in pain, that she was feeling what she made him feel just minutes ago.

Harry smiled cruelly. He didn't feel even a hint of guilt, somehow. He knew he should, and perhaps he'd feel a smidgeon of guilt later, but in the here and now, he couldn't bring himself to care. He didn't like inflicting pain onto others, he'd avoid it wherever he could, but the woman in front of him deserved it, his mind hissed. After what she did, pain was her just punishment, was it not? The thought felt oily, slimy. Like it couldn't really be his, but Harry was certain that it was.

His scar came to life, burning. But, it wasn't pain, he couldn't feel pain right now, only pleasure, so what was—

A footstep. Once, then twice. Then closer this time.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Harry looked.

It was Lord Voldemort, in all his serpentine glory. His red eyes shone with hidden amusement, and Harry couldn't help but notice the cutting angle of his hollow cheekbones in the light of the dark, circular hall of doors.

"Oh, Harry," his high, resounding voice curled around Harry's name, sweetly and softly, filled with glee. "Lord Voldemort had never expected to witness such a sight, in all his gloried days." His voice held a depth to it that Harry had never heard in him before. It wasn't innately malicious (like usual in their yearly scruffles), but instead, he was...fascinated, almost enraptured by the sight before him. It was a tone that might not have been out of place on the memory of a teenage Tom Riddle.

Bellatrix's screams quieted, and she crawled to her lord on hands and knees, in pain and shivering, blood dripping from dry, cracked lips. It was a truly sorry state, but numb as he was, Harry couldn't bring himself to feel more than a modicum of pity. "My-my lord, Master, the boy—he—the prophecy—" Her shrieking sputtered out under her wet sobs.

Harry didn't move to say a word. He couldn't. He couldn't open his mouth to speak anything at all, and his brain shut down for a few moments as his body experienced the electric aftershocks of the curse. But, unmistakably, there was a strange scent in the air. Voldemort's scent, it had to be.

He had always known Voldemort was an alpha, of course. It was never explicitly mentioned, but it had been clear from the way the man was described—his imposing aura and dominating scent, along with his sadistic, power-mad tendencies could only belong to an alpha. And then when Harry smelled a fresh but no less pungent and dangerous alpha musk on the man in the graveyard, he was immediately embroiled in it, pulled in by the very feel of it before disgust and horror took over. But now it was...far less menacing. It wasn't meant to cause Harry fear, and the scent itself clouded the room so deeply that Harry could feel the shiver of it in his bones.

Voldemort smelled like something dark and spicy and maybe a little sweet—perhaps cinnamon or dark chocolate—but it was warm and rustic and it curled around Harry like a thick blanket. It was—Voldemort was preening, at Harry.

("Preening," Hermione explained one day during their third year health class. "It's a subconscious instinct found in alphas, where they waft their pheromones, also known as scent, towards eligible omegas, hoping to prove themselves to potential mates.")

His thoughts stuttered to a halt. This—this was, impossible. Voldemort shouldn't be preening at him! Harry was his enemy! He murdered his parents! Just because Harry was an omega doesn't mean that—

The alluring disgusting scent pulled away, and Harry could finally breathe as he stumbled back, gawking at Voldemort like he'd never seen him before. And then, embarrassingly, Harry realized his own scent had grown as well, breaking his practised scent-masking charms and wrapping against Voldemort's, trying to both pull it closer, as was instinct, and to push it away. He cursed his damned hormones. Now was not the bloody time!

"What the fuck? You—you—" Harry flushed red as a tomato, and he gripped his wand tight in a white-knuckled grip. Fuck, he was screwed. "Why?" He sputtered.

Voldemort blinked awkwardly, and his eyes seemed almost half-lidded. Which was strange. Did he even have proper eyelids? But it looked like he did, at least, if his body could make the motion. The man stood before Harry in frozen silence, his form imposing and his scent strong in the air. For all the world, he was menacing, but not to Harry. Oh no, he could never be scared of the monster before him. He was pathetic and inhuman, clawing at a facsimile of life long after he had already died, and it was for that reason that Harry couldn't bring himself to feel either fear or hate. Only pity. Disgust.

"You...you are an omega." Slowly, hesitantly, something just dawned on Voldemort, and Harry felt himself jumping back before the man could get any...ideas. He knew the man probably wasn't a rapist (fuck knows Tom Riddle's handsome looks could've gotten just about anyone into bed, though the same can't be said about Voldemort), but considering his followers were, Harry wouldn't hedge his bets.

Seething, he began to shout, "Yeah? What about it?!" Fuck it, he was an omega, Voldemort was an alpha, and they were both enemies. The bastard in front of him wasn't going to lord his secondary gender over Harry, not as long as he could help it.

The Dark Lord stood still as a statue, staring deep into Harry's viridian eyes with an indiscernible, piercing look. He was thinking about something, something big, a part of him knew. What was Voldemort planning? What did Harry being an omega change? They were enemies! It didn't have to change anything.

With that thought in mind, he regained his bearings and ran, not even deigning to answer to Voldemort in his shocked state.

Before Harry knew it, he was slamming open another huge, nondescript door and dashing into a room full of cloying scarlet mist. He ran and ran, and kept on running.

That bastard, Harry thought scathingly. He's going to tell everyone! It was embarrassing, at least to him. There weren't all that many male omegas, and Harry had only recently presented over the summer in a strange, pre-heat. Sirius was the only one who knew; he was an omega himself, and he was more than willing to teach Harry the ropes, as well as to help him hide it. Male omegas were fairly uncommon, and Harry knew that if he was found out, the Wizarding World would coddle him and turn him into an invalid, expecting him to become some kind of kept omega. Everyone would see him completely differently, and even his friendships would shift.

Hermione would be normal about it at first, but then she'd have questions, ones that Harry couldn't answer. And it didn't help that both she and Ron, both being betas, had some preconceived notions about what omegas were like. They'd become protective, and Harry would surely end up being put into the role of 'Ron's baby brother whose chastity he had to protect.'

And Harry knew that Hermione could be a bit...weird about her omega roommates. She thought Lavender and Parvati, both omegas, were frivolous in their likes and the lack of attention they paid to their schooling. And Ron was raised by the rather traditional Molly Weasley; he was already overprotective over Ginny, who'd just presented as an omega herself, and Harry really didn't want that to happen to him. So he hid it. But now....

Voldemort, that git, was still following him. Angrily, Harry vaulted over a stray table and shot an overpowered jellylegs jinx in Voldemort's direction. It probably wouldn't hit, but it was meant to distract more than anything. He ran through the scarlet-misted room, pointedly ignoring the still-beating human hearts embalmed in jars or the walls full with diagrams of increasingly risque sexual positions, and he kept pace against the man.

He shot a quick look behind him. Voldemort wore a dark look on his serpentine face, and his snake-like pupils had thinned into slits. "Potter!" He hissed, his eyes darting around the room as if he were worried, almost. Strange, what could Lord Voldemort ever fear? "Enough of this. Leave. Surrender yourself and perhaps Lord Voldemort will take mercy on your dear mudblood pet. Your precious godfather may even find his way out of the veil of death, were Lord Voldemort so inclined."

Freezing in his tracks, Harry's emerald eyes burned. He twisted around, his wand ready to shoot right at Voldemort with red light sparking off the tip. "You liar! Sirius—he's...he's dead! Your little pet death eater killed him!" Just like their confrontation in first year, Voldemort was using his dead family against him, using pretty little words to try to trick naive, innocent little Harry into making a deal with the devil.

Voldemort's smile was cruel and full of teeth, and Harry shivered as the man's scent began to twine with his own. They were barely a meter apart, close enough for Harry to spot light glimmering against the scales on the man's neck. When did they get so close? He didn't notice, he reflected as his head began to grow hazy.

"Oh, really, little omega?" The endearment sounded like an insult coming from his mouth, his thin, almost non-existent lips forming into a smirk. "Do you truly not believe that Lord Voldemort could retrieve him? The blood traitor isn't truly dead, not if mine own self were gracious enough to enact the proper ritual."

Shivers wracked Harry's spine, and without his notice, his wand hand fell to his side. "I—but, you wouldn't. Even if you could, what's in it for you? You want to kill me!" Hope bled into Harry's features despite himself, but he was struck with resolve. The man in front of him would never do anything for anyone if something wasn't also in it for him. The devil was trying to trick him, and Harry knew better than to fall for his silver tongue and cruel tricks.

Voldemort took a step closer, even as Harry stepped back. They did it again and again, circling each other like a facsimile of a dance.

And then less than a minute later, the alpha stepped closer again as Harry's back hit a long, dark wooden lab table against the wall. He was cornered.

"Oh, Harry," his name was a soft hiss on barely-there lips, sounding regretful when they both knew he was anything but. "For what reason would your lord lie?" He could feel the warmth of Voldemort's voice in his ear, a spicy scent dancing in his nose, and a warm body flush against his. He shivered.

Too close! Voldemort was way too close. Harry felt too warm, and he was almost dazed from being so close to Voldemort's peppery scent. He tried to step back, but he tripped right onto the table, so now he was sitting on it as Voldemort got in between his thighs and stamped his hands on either side of Harry. Like this, he could almost forget the dark lord's previous words to him, but he didn't. He couldn't.

"You're not—", a heavy, stuttering inhale, "—my lord. Fucking hell, you're insane." He stared the man down, impertinent green meeting visceral red.

Warmth blossomed in his gut as Harry gazed into Voldemort's blazing crimson eyes. Fuck. What was wrong with him?

A hand shot out and wrapped around his throat. "Oh, Harry, aren't I?" The words were a deep, sibilant breath against his ear, inciting a deep shiver and tingles down his spine. He couldn't help but notice, now, the feeling of home emanating from his scar. He was certainly curious, somewhere in the back of his mind, but he couldn't bring himself to exude the mental wherewithal to question anything, transfixed as he was on the warmth of Voldemort's skin against his own.

And that was just the moment when they both knew the air between them had shifted.

Something was terribly wrong.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Voldemort felt something dark coiling in his chest, a possessive fervour that grew with each breath of scarlet mist that he took in. Internally, he began to rage as he stared into the gem-like eyes of the boy before him.

"It's too late..." he whispered. "Foolish boy, you have no idea what this room is!" Voldemort's scent grew thick in the air, a tinge of arousal blooming in the edges, almost as powerful as the sheer rage flowing off of him. Potter let out a wet little sound as his eyes glazed, and he tilted his head, showing off his bare neck and mating gland like he was trying to tempt him. Innocent as he was, he might not even realize what he was doing.

"What...where are...what is this place? I feel really—" Potter moaned, cheeks flushed red before his face went pale and he came back to himself.

"You—", his face went red again, and hands seized Voldemort's robes, a disrespect none had been allowed before, "—what is this? What. Did. You. Do?"

"No, little omega," Voldemort spoke, his high voice raw and furious, "The question is what did you do? You foolish boy, this is the Room of Desire! You led us here." He pulled at Potter's hair, unintentionally showing off just a sliver more of a pale, creamy neck, stark against messy black hair and blazing emerald eyes. Despite himself, his mouth began to water as he fought off the urge to claim the expanse, or perhaps to tear his throat out instead. Wouldn't that be sweet? He almost shivered at the thought of warm blood in his mouth as his fangs ripped the boy's throat out after he lapped against his mating gland and crushed it.

Potter hissed under his breath, and he yanked away Voldemort's hand as if it pained him. "Don't touch me! You have to stop this, you've...this is..." Potter's face inched closer to Voldemort, and the boy's hands on the cloth of his robes tightened as they gazed into each other's eyes. Something sparked between them, and then before they knew it, passion ignited between them like a forest fire, burning and all-encompassing.

Unthinkingly, Voldemort's arms wrapped tightly around Harry's waist and Harry's arms found their way around Voldemort's neck as their lips met in a deep, filthy kiss. Their lips moved against each other's in a way that was less akin to a lover's passionate embrace and more like a brawl between wild animals, both fighting to achieve domination over the other. Harry gave as good as he got, biting Voldemort on the lower lip and then lapping at the blood.

This earned a deep growl, and Voldemort used the chance to slip his tongue into Harry's opened mouth. The kiss turned even more blazing, filled with even more passion, and Voldemort felt something hard stirring in his loins.

It's been a long time since he felt this base, human urge, even before he lost his body. But this time the lust was deeper and more abiding, more passionate, and with the urge to claw his way so deep into Harry Potter that the boy would never be able to escape him.

"This—is—all—your—fault," Voldemort emphasized as he relinquished Harry's lips and began biting and kissing at his neck, just under his ear and falling closer and closer to the hallowed ground that was the boy's mating gland. He could barely resist the sweet scent of arousal coming off of it, and his own scent grew deeper in turn.

Harry could only moan and hold on tighter to Voldemort's neck, tilting his head to give him better access. Sweet boy, truly he he had no idea what that all was doing to him. The enmity between them was legendary, their relationship one for the ages, but perhaps the hatred between them could, for once, be channeled into more...pleasurable ventures. After all, Lord Voldemort was never one to deny himself pleasure, not in any form, no matter where it came from, he smirked. Perhaps it would be nice to take the boy before him, to defile the omega and ruin him for his precious light.

"Oh yeah? And who's just going along with it? Couldn't you just...ignore it? You're—gah—stronger than me so—oh fuck, Merlin don't stop—" Potter's pants were lovely, music to his ears. His cock stirred under his robes and Voldemort couldn't help but bite harder on the boy's neck, earning a yelp and small beads of blood that he quickly lapped up.

Voldemort smirked into Potter's shoulder. He did so love to see his lovers writhing in pleasure under him, something in his alpha could only preen at the sight.

He blinked. Lover? Of course not, Potter was—an inconvenience. A nuisance. And he wouldn't even be in this situation had it not been for the boy's own stupidity in entering a strange, arbitrarily chosen room. He'd prefer to kill him outright and be done with it, but yet...

The dark lord took a step away from the boy, and he began to look at him. Just...look.

Potter—no, Harry snarled at him with red, kiss-bitten lips, his eyes were glazed over with dilated pupils, and his neck was bruised and bitten while Harry's sweet, omega scent was syrupy thick with arousal. He already looked like a mess, and they hadn't even gotten anywhere yet.

Strangely enough, Voldemort found that he liked what he saw. He could already imagine it, the boy laying beneath him, taking pleasure in his cock and begging for him. Just the thought felt strangely satisfying, filthy in the best of ways. And as lust grew within him, even knowing he just might have been able to force himself from the scene with his impressive occlumency, he chose to place clawed hands on Harry's thighs, spreading them wide and using a spell to vanish the boy's robes, leaving him in his already-tented boxers. Ah, a chuckle. The joys of being a teenager....

Harry shivered, and Voldemort knew it was less from the chill and more from the way he withered shyly under the gaze of him, likely unused to the way an alpha might sample the look of their lover.

Tch. That word again. Harry Potter would not be his lover. This was a passing fancy, a way to debase the boy even further, to humiliate him in the knowing that he had wanted this, that he took pleasure in being fucked and dominated by his parents' killer before being killed himself.

"Well," the word left Harry's lips in a sigh, his chest heavy with stuttered breaths. "Hurry up then." He looked like he had come to a truly painful decision. It must have used all his brain capacity, surely.

Voldemort smiled with teeth, and he took care not to simply vanish his own clothes, but to slowly, painfully, take off every article. A tease.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Harry couldn't help it, he stared. Voldemort wasn't...unattractive. And god, this was not a line of thought he should be having, but by Godric he was having it. He really shouldn't be doing this, but he was already hot for it and he already felt himself going wet in between his thighs.

He wanted this, he knew, and felt guilty for it. His body shook with the weight of his lust, his heart thumping madly at the thought of what they were going to do. But...Voldemort said this was called the Room of Desire, right? So maybe it wasn't really his fault, maybe he wasn't really attracted to the elegant slant of Voldemort's cheekbones, the deep scarlet of his eyes, or the glimmering scales against his neck.

But then the handsome face and cruel smirk of a young Tom Riddle superimposed over Voldemort's features, and then Harry knew he was lying to himself. His knees went weak, and he would have stumbled had he not been halfway sitting on the fortuitously placed dark wooden table.

Fuck. He thought Voldemort was hot. Or, he supposed, he wasn't exactly handsome, but he was fascinating. Elegant. Beautiful in a haunting, eldritch kind of way that stole Harry's breath the longer he looked at him. Harry couldn't help but steal glances at thin, spindly fingers ghosting against his thighs, inching to the waistband of his damp boxers.

Harry's brain was a mess of dazed-aroused-omega and holy-fuck-what-am-I-doing-teenage-boy. And unfortunately, his omega-brain was winning. He knew damn well what was going on, he knew exactly how terrible it was, but some part of him couldn't help but want it. To want him. Voldemort.

The thing is, he knew that all those emotions were the product of whatever spell the Room had placed on him. Bloody hell, if Harry knew that this was where he'd have ended up by running away, he'd have stayed put right there in that hall, facing Voldemort down to either death, and-or severe embarrassment by being outed as an omega. As of right now, he was severely regretting his earlier decisions.

But it was really hard to think when Voldemort was doing something sinfully good with his nipple and a warm, wet tongue—oh god, fuck.

Harry let out a dreadfully embarrassing mewl as Voldemort sucked on a reddened nipple, swirling it with a forked tongue. "Fucking fuck, you're—", a moan, "—just...keep on doing that." To his eternal shame, Harry knew exactly what he looked like at that moment. He was utterly out of it, his cunt wet with slick and his nipples red and puffy. The entirety of his face and chest were beet red, and the sweet honey scent of aroused omega clouded the room.

He could almost feel the corners of a satisfied smirk over a pink nipple as Voldemort began to kiss and suck around it, on his chest and collar, edging back to his neck. He just knew that come morning, he'd have a shiny set of colourful new hickeys marking his neck and torso. Hell, with the way Voldemort had his clawed hands wrapped around Harry's waist and hips, he was pretty sure he'd get a few bruises there, too. Maybe some claw marks if he was lucky....

The wave of arousal he got left him almost sick, and then he was filled with tangible horror.

He liked that, holy shit. He liked having Voldemort mark him. That...that was not a set of thoughts he had ever wanted to delve into, but just the very notion of it sent ripples down his spine.

Discreetly, he began to rub his damp thighs together, hating the feel of wet, warm slick against his underwear. Evidently, Voldemort bore witness to the sight with the satisfied growl he let out.

"Oh, Harry, you look...chafed." An unfairly hot smirk came from Voldemort, a man who looked straight out of a horror movie. Harry wanted to rip it off him, either with a punch to the jaw or a kiss, he really didn't want to figure it out. "Do you need my help with that?" His voice dripped with condescension.

Harry snarled. "I'm not going to beg. Hell, isn't it your job to simply take care of me, Alpha?" Just for extra emphasis, Harry twisted his full, pink lips into a pout as he gazed up with wide, innocent green eyes and batted his eyelashes like a pure little omega. For extra measure, he pulled back the hands he'd wrapped around Voldemort's neck and drew them down his back, scratching down roughly. Viciously, Harry thought that there'd probably be blood left behind. Maybe a scar, too.

He drew his hand away, and he stared at it, eyes rapt on the droplets of crimson blood on his index and middle fingers. He inhaled sharply at the sight, at the knowledge that Voldemort bled because of him, for once. The thought was infinitely satisfying.

Harry couldn't help but lick his fingers, swallowing down the coppery tang. He moaned around the blood.

Voldemort's pupils dilated, and he opened his mouth in an "oh" motion for barely half a second before he tried to regain his composure.

A clamp in the form of a large hand on his thigh. It burned his skin like a brand. "Oh my, Harry...." He didn't look angry, per se, but his scarlet eyes stared down at Harry, utterly enraptured. He seemed uncertain as to how he should react between the beguiling look and the growled out 'alpha' or the scratch on his shoulder, but then his lips quirked up, and he smiled. Genuinely. But with just a hint of condescension to it. To Harry, that look was pure Tom Riddle.

"Dear Harry, omega mine, how you please me. Taking my blood into your own, blood that originally formed from the sacrifice of your flesh nought but a year ago...." He gazed sharply at Harry, like he couldn't look away. His hand cradled Harry's cheek so, so softly, and he couldn't help but sigh softly and curl into the warmth of it, his eyes at half-mast.

Voldemort let out a soft breath, and his indiscernible gaze pierced through Harry's dazed form as his hand fell away from Harry's cheek, settling against his hip and almost unconsciously rubbing warm spirals with his thumb. "Darling omega, am I truly your alpha? Or did you say that just to please me?"

He nosed at Harry's ear, teething against the outer edge of the lobe. A shiver ripped down Harry's spine.

At this, green eyes narrowed, calculating the best course of action. Clearly, Voldemort was trying to goad him, and no matter how drugged out Harry felt, he couldn't help but rise to the challenge. He'd always meet Voldemort blow for blow if it came down to it.

Shyly, slowly, Harry tilted his head down before staring at Voldemort through half-lidded green, green eyes in the way that some girls did to him or Ron. He pouted softly, internally smirking at the way Voldemort's eyes followed the trail of his fingers as he grasped the hand his would-be lover had clamped at his thigh. Harry stroked it, softly, before unlocking the fingers and bringing the hand up to the mating gland on his neck, still cradling it in his own hand. He steadily coated Voldemort's clawed hand in his omega scent by rubbing it at his scent gland, just as he tilted his head to show off his mating gland.

He was entranced with the way Voldemort stared him down like a hawk as he stood frozen and aroused against him. For once, he felt powerful. In control of things.

"Oh, Vee, come on now. Would it really be a chore to be my alpha? Just for now..." Harry stood upright, twisting them both around until Voldemort was the one sitting on the table and Harry was draped over his lap, his thighs spread on either side of Voldemort's legs. "...I can be your omega," he whispered coyly in Voldemort's ear. Harry had absolutely no idea what he was doing, but he was...experienced in the art of reading porn mags, and he was trying his best to copy the seductive omegas he'd seen on there. Judging by the alpha's reaction, he did a good job of it. He almost wanted to pat himself on the back for that. He deserved an Oscar.

Voldemort's breath hitched against his neck, making some old, vaguely omega part of Harry purr. He had so much power like this, the breadth of it consuming and all-encompassing. He relished in having this kind of power over someone, heady as it was. Voldemort was staring at him, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing, what gift he was being given, wrapped up on a silver platter. Crimson eyes feasted upon Harry's aroused, virile form, and possessive lust was witnessed by him, clear as day.

The thought that Voldemort could ever desire him like this never before crossed his mind. It was an impossibility, surely, heady and powerful as the feeling was. The animosity between them was born in the very foundation of their relationship, but yet...if they were being forced into this, Harry wasn't completely opposed to using Voldemort for his own pleasure, not when the pleasure was so great, the scarlet eyes upon him so dreadfully arousing. But he would not be some guileless little omega, allowing himself the leisure of sitting back and letting himself get buggered without giving back just as much in return. No, if he was doing this, he was doing this.

"Dearest omega, does this please you so?" Voldemort rolled his hips, his own black silk underwear rubbing against Harry's boxers until he felt a distinct...hardness against him. One that was absolutely not a wand.

He gulped. Merlin, Voldemort was...well-endowed. Would it truly fit inside him? Could he even stretch that far? Harry's new-found confidence could only do so much for him, his omega hormones and the magic of the room mostly leading the way. But the reality of it was evident in the form of Voldemort's clothed cock, and Harry couldn't help but grind down against it, slowly and awkwardly, until he couldn't help but think it was being coated in warm slick that was dripping out of his boxers.

Well, let it not be said that Harry Potter was a coward. He was more than willing to try, he thought, mouth watering. Shyly, his face fell into Voldemort's chest, and he felt so awkward all of a sudden.

"Um...." Fidgeting, he began to speak, carefully measuring his words. He couldn't look this man in the eye. "I really...yeah, oooh, fuck, I like this." Harry whimpered as he met Voldemort's upward thrusts with a grind of his own hips. "But I've never...."

Freeze.

Voldemort was paralyzed right under Harry. It was only for a moment, but he was still as a statue, right until he wrapped his long, strangely muscular arms around Harry's waist and pulled him even closer. His hands began to wander, low, until he seized Harry's firm arse and kneaded both cheeks, splitting them open and rubbing his cock against the warm, wet folds of Harry's cunt while he did so, uncaring of the thin fabric of Harry's underwear. He let out a soft moan, they both did. 

"Omega," he sounded wrecked almost, and Harry thought he did something wrong before Voldemort groaned against his shoulder, rubbing his cock against Harry's dripping cunt. "Truly, have you never? Not even once? Have no alphas ever pleasured you?"

Spikes of arousal ripped through Harry's spine and slick gushed out from his cunt at the motion, with Voldemort's warm hand against his ass cheeks still fondling and rubbing him. 

More than willing to delve into Voldemort's pure-virginal-omega-Harry fantasy, true as it was, he reaffirmed his words. "Yeah, really. I haven't done...stuff. There was this one kiss with a girl, another omega, but then she was crying and it just wasn't..."

Voldemort hummed lowly, then a smirk. "It just wasn't good, you mean? You like this, don't you, Omega?" He rolled his hips again, and Harry tightened the hands he had wrapped around Voldemort's shoulders. Merlin, he just...they were already so close together. Harry felt enveloped in the very essence of Voldemort, somehow, with their chests flushed together and how the man's spicy alpha scent was twined around his own. His scar buzzed with warm pleasure, and a part of himself felt whole, for lack of a better word. He wasn't even inside yet, and Harry was ready to come apart at the seams. His cock was halfway wrapped in between Harry's folds, and if he changed the angle just a bit, he'd be delving right on in. Harry found himself cursing his boxers at the moment.

Bloody hell, even Voldemort's smirk was hot. Staring at him like this, so close, the man didn't look scary at all. He knew it might have been the magic of the Room, but Voldemort looked almost...human. His hollow cheekbones had filled out a bit more, and his skin was starting to look less grey. His arms were more muscular, even. Something felt off, but...

A spidery finger trailed down Harry's waist before curling around the lining of his boxers.

"Dear Harry," and oh Merlin did he hate how much he loved the way Voldemort's lips wrapped around the words 'dear' and 'Harry.' "How much do you want this? How much do you want me to be inside you? To fuck you so good that you'll scream my name? Tell me, Darling, how much do you want me to ruin you?"

Suitably distracted, Harry divested himself from his earlier train of thought. He smiled, concealing the violent gush of slick he felt come out at those words. "So vulgar, aren't you, Alpha? Exactly how much do you want this?"

Harry rolled his own hips, grinding against Voldemort's hard, straining cock until the alpha let out a soft groan. Harry was certain Voldemort was already halfway inside his cunt from the way they were frotting. "I can't imagine how long it's been since you've had a willing omega in your bed—er, arms. I suppose." And Harry was probably correct about that. He wasn't sure how long Voldemort looked all snakey, but he doubted that the man had had any sex in a while, so he was probably about as overwhelmed as Harry.

Voldemort took the bait for what it was, but, strangely, he didn't take offence at the insult. He looked...happy, almost. Joyous. Like someone was finally joining a game he'd been playing for years. "Why, Harry, are you jealous? Do you want to be the only omega in my bed?" He looked like the cat that caught the canary. As if he knew he had forced Harry into a corner for him to play with.

Damn, mission abort! They were getting into dangerous territory. Red flags were flaring in Harry's head, but he, unfortunately, really liked the colour red (as seen in Voldemort's eyes, for example), and he said what might have been the stupidest thing he could ever say. Though it may have just been the one phrase that changed everything between them, looking back on it.

"Well, Vee," Harry made sure to emphasize the nickname. "How do you feel about being the only alpha in mine? After all, you're my first. You're going to ruin me, you know. For all other alphas.... No one will feel as good as you, no one will be able to make me feel this way...but who knows, maybe you'll keep me? Do you want that?" Harry had absolutely no clue what was coming out of his mouth, his omega-brain leading most of the way, but the words didn't feel wrong, and they just...kept coming. Fuck. He wasn't even against it, either. If they could stay just like this, wrapped in each other, then Harry could die happy, he knew.

Red eyes widened. Voldemort's jaw dropped at the impudence, Harry was sure. The Room was as silent as a grave, until a hearty laugh bellowed from Voldemort's lips. It was practically the most emotion Harry had ever gotten out of him. "How forward of you, Harry! My, I've not even taken you out to dinner, and yet you're asking for me to mate you." Greedy eyes searched Harry's face, revelling in the shade of red he saw there, most likely.

Harry shivered. He...he liked that. The thought of Voldemort mating him. Fucking him. Being inside him. Fuck, he was scared of how much he liked it. "Well, what can I say? I've always been very, aaah, forward."

The Dark Lord pulled in and began to nose at Harry's scent gland, inhaling softly and adoring the smell of the boy against him. "Truly, omega, how you spoil me. Perhaps I may yet be tempted to look past your...flaws, to keep you with me despite our enmity. To see your pretty little pussy squeezing around me every night would be the greatest pleasure of all, wouldn't you agree?"

He didn't let Harry get a word in, but he breathed in the boy's soft moan and dilated green eyes, taking soft lips for his own and kissing him softly. He didn't try to force his way into Harry's mouth, either. Instead, they simply lost themselves in the motion, and Harry began to thumb his way over Voldemort's neck, to his scalp, to his...hair?

He leaned out from the kiss, ignoring the thin strand of saliva connecting their lips as he took heavy breaths. "I—Voldemort, do you see?" Voldemort leaned right back in, trying to kiss him before Harry pushed him back.

"Voldemort, look, there's—" Harry pulled on a lock of dark, slightly curly hair. Right there, clear to see on his scalp, hair had begun to bloom. It was short, and there were bald spots, but it was hair. And was it just Harry, or did Voldemort's cheekbones appear less hollow? Were his lips pinker? Fuller? Even his white skin began to tan just a little, turning into the beginnings of a still pale, but healthy skin tone.

How could he not have noticed? Was Harry that blind in the pursuit of his pleasure?

Then strangely, an ornate golden hand mirror appeared on the table, and Harry yanked it with both hands and practically threw it in Voldemort's face.

If Harry was shocked, then Voldemort was now absolutely gobsmacked. He was staring at himself like he'd never seen this face before, and he was practically feeling up his own cheekbones, the vain git.

"How...?" Angry red eyes, more round now than slitted, turned to face Harry. "Did you do this? How? How is this possible?!"

His voice was deeper. It was...hard to explain, but his voice before held this inhuman quality to it, like it was a high-pitched hiss, even though it was still rather deep. Now, it was a chocolatey type of rumble, warm and smooth and very masculine. Fuck, it sounded really hot. How did he not notice Voldemort's voice transition? Was he truly so lost in the throes of lust?

"You think I planned this?!" Harry seethed. "What kind of bullshit planning skills do you think I have? Why would I—why would I turn you hot?" Internally, Harry noted how terrible of a plan that would be. If Voldemort had looked like Tom Riddle from the moment he stepped out of that cauldron a whole year ago, then Harry might have presented as an omega right then and there, ripe for the pickings, he flushed.

(Harry could try to convince himself all he wanted that he didn't want this. That he hadn't felt just a whisper of attraction to an unfairly handsome teenage Tom Riddle. But he did want this. And a part of him knew that it was his desire for Tom Riddle, not Voldemort, that put them both in this position in the Room of Desire. That gave Voldemort the beginnings of his handsome once-visage.)

Harry didn't back down from staring at Voldemort, his one-time lover and current enemy. He hadn't chosen to be in such a...risque position with this man, but he had enough pride to not shy away from it. He looked at him, examining his features.

His skin was almost a normal shade of pale, at least from what Harry remembered of Tom Riddle. It accentuated his wine-red eyes (not blood red, evidently that was also something that changed), even more so with the handsome waves that were still growing to frame Voldemort's gorgeous face. His nose was also more...well, nose-like now. It was strange to see the beginnings of an aquiline nose forming around a snake-like slit. But it...it strangely suited him.

Voldemort wasn't quite Voldemort anymore. He was hybridized, still in the midst of his change, but if there was one thing that hadn't changed it was the tight coil of a cinnamon-alpha-warm scent against him, right along with the way Voldemort's hands tightened around Harry's waist, lacking claws but still searing him with lust at the feel of it, the intimacy of just being held in this man's arms.

Dare he say it, Harry wasn't exactly...unattracted.

The snarl that was far less intimidating and more dreadfully arousing on the face of Tom Riddle began to fade, and a cold smile replaced it. Harry recognized it from seeing it on Voldemort more than once, but he was suddenly struck with the memory that this was the exact expression Tom had made down in the Chamber—a look of quiet satisfaction, with a distinct gleam of greed in his deep brown red eyes.

"Harry, dearest boy," Voldemort's hand began to trail goosebumps down Harry's waist before making its way down to his underwear. He pinched the elastic of the waistband and pulled it back, then down just an inch before beginning to rub a finger against that spot, too close but yet too far from what Harry desperately wanted him to touch. He had forgotten it in the past moments, but his dick was still achingly hard and his hole felt utterly filthy with his wetness. He couldn't help it, he rubbed down against Voldemort's crotch just as the man whispered in a dark, extremely and unfairly seductive sort of way, "Do you truly find me so attractive? Was it your desire that led us here? And was it your desire that has begun to shift the form of Lord Voldemort now?"

Harry moaned at the friction, his face flushed with embarrassment at the knowledge that he was becoming so hot from Voldemort's words, too. Fuck, his voice was so much hotter. Tom Riddle sounded unfairly seductive, his voice syrupy and warm and tender, like a forbidden temptation. This man was the apple, not the snake, and Harry was Eve, led to the tree by his own greed, his own curiousity....

A chuckle. "I'll take that as a yes, dear Harry." And then before Harry knew it, Voldemort's hand was spilling into Harry's boxers and shoving them down.

Harry let out an unmentionable sound somewhere in between an "nghh" and a desperate "eep!" It echoed sharply through the Room, and he felt so filthy at the knowledge he was getting off from this. It was his first time, and he'd heard horror stories from Sirius or from omegas he had listened in on, and it felt too unfairly good to be having sex with Lord Voldemort of all people. He didn't want to enjoy it, but he really did. So Harry did what he did best and pushed down all his thoughts and did something that was probably equal parts stupid and unreasonably horny-omega-like. He was more than willing to blame his omega-brain for this.

Harry's hand shot down to grab Voldemort's fancy silk underwear before vanishing it completely by instinct. He was more aiming for throwing it against the floor, but this worked just as well. He ground down hotly against Voldemort's too-large-oh-merlin-too-large cock, soaking it in his omega juices as it slid farther between his folds. "I—please Alpha....I need you! Please just...I really need...."

A moan escaped from Voldemort's soft pink lips. Subconsciously, Harry couldn't help but notice how human he looked. How handsome. And that thought was not helping his raging hard-on, his wet hole, and the way he was desperate to be fucked, bred, and utterly destroyed. He was dizzy with it. He was so fully in the mindset of a heat-lusted omega that it didn't cross his mind how out of character he was being, how strange this all was.

"Oh darling, I have you, please, you have no idea what you're doing to me. Just a moment, omega...." Voldemort tapped a hand against the table he was practically lying on, lengthening it and conjuring a cushion or two before turning Harry against it and climbing on top of him. Fuck, Voldemort looked utterly debauched, sweating and panting with dilated pupils and unfairly plump lips. Harry knew he looked no better. But his eyes.... He was staring at Harry like he wanted nothing more than to devour him, like he was the moon and Harry was the sun he revolved around, praying to him for life and light. It was utterly intoxicating, even as Harry knew he was probably staring at him the same way.

Harry whimpered, twisting around and desperate in his search for something, anything inside him. His hand went down, down until he reached his cunt, laying just shy against it, rubbing against the edge of his folds. He...he hadn't done much before. Just a finger or two, but he was throbbing for something and god he just ached for it.

Voldemort shushed him before taking his own finger and slipping it inside Harry's warmth, taking Harry's hand away. And no matter how gentle the motion was, it still shot through Harry like a live wire. The warmth of a finger breaching his cunt was too great for him, already aroused as he was. "Oh pleasepleaseplease I need more just—another please—" It didn't feel like enough, nothing was enough. A finger wouldn't do it. He needed a cock. A long, thick cock with a huge knot that he could be fucked on like a whore—

"I know darlin', I know, but you have to wait. I'm too big for you, I want you to be ready to take me.... I will not be gentle." Oh shit oh shit. Harry may be addled with lust but even he wasn't oblivious enough to ignore the tinge of an accent. It was cockney, almost, like from newsboys on those old films, but it was unfairly attractive on the man before him. Voldemort—no, Tom because this had to be Tom's voice, Harry knew—pumped a finger deep inside him, right as he clutched Harry's cheek and widened it just slightly to get a better angle. He took a cushion before positioning it against Harry's back to tilt his ass up, giving him a sign of what was coming. "You're so wet for me, love, so open I know you're ready, but please let me do this. I don't want you to hurt during your first time."

Tom was so sweet that Harry could combust. This...this couldn't be Voldemort. But it was and Harry was completely and irrevocably into it. Fuck. If he knew sex was so good he would have had it years ago, but a part of him knew that it might not be this good with anyone who wasn't Voldemort, that it wouldn't have all the mind-bogglingly blazing tension, the sharp throbbing of adrenaline and fear in his gut. This...this was why hate sex was always so popular in the books some omegas read, and Harry found himself throbbing for it.

Harry squirmed and murmured a few expletives along the lines of "Please—fuck—just get on with it" and "god I need you now you fucking git" and "Just fuck me already!" He knew he sounded so needy but he really couldn't help it, and he didn't care either way just as long as he got fucked.

Tom positively hissed against the tight opening of Harry's wet cunt, his face just too close to Harry's most sensitive, throbbing area. "Darling, just...one moment, ah, I'm going to cum now if you don't control yourself." For a moment, he withdrew before entering with a second finger, then a third, stretching him even more as quickly as was bearable for Harry.

Harry mewled pathetically against the table, a wet sob. He just needed it, didn't his alpha know? "Please, a-alpha I just need you to...."

"I know, love, I know...just a moment now." And then the face of a truly sexed-out alpha Tom Riddle appeared before Harry just as a long, thick cock rubbed against Harry's cunt, being coated with his thick juices.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. That sight was so fucking hot that Harry will one-hundred percent be imprinting it in his mind. He burned the scene into his memory and he almost felt guilty-upset-sad that this would be the only time they'd ever...well...you know together. He wanted more of this and they weren't even done yet!

And then Harry let out a screech as something thick began to poke at his opening, stretching out his hole before going even further. He was already so open, but Tom was just so thick, steadily getting thicker as he bottomed out inside him. "Ohmygodohmygod please Alpha fuck just put it inside I—"

The head slipped inside with an awkward, aching, desperate motion like Tom was just as needy for it as Harry was. "Oh Harry, yes you're doing so well for me. I know you can take me, Darling. Just a moment...."

Harry did his best to push down against the cock just barely peaking into his pussy, pushing it even farther in. "Come on, more. Just fuck me, I can take it."

A wicked smirk on a way too good-looking face. "Oh, Darling, can you? Can you truly take me?" With that one phrase, Tom fucked right into Harry, pushing himself to the hilt with a grunt. He barely gave him even a moment to adjust before he started to thrust hard and fast inside him.

Harry, for his part, was doing the perfect job of acting like a dutiful omega, moaning prettily while being fucked full with a huge alpha cock. He didn't particularly like the idea of that, necessarily, even as he was being railed so hard he was starting to see stars, so he did something unexpected.

Tom was groaning quietly against Harry's hip, as if he was trying to hide it, but Harry knew better. Smirking, he pulled on a medium-sized lock of wavy-curly hair and spoke in their shared language, parseltongue. "Enjoying yourself, Tom? I know I—ahhh, oh, I know I am." His voice sounded hoarse from moaning, but it just made him sound even more fucked out and, surprisingly enough, sexy. Exactly what he was aiming for.

A potent hiss, before Tom climbed up his body like a beanpole and gave a hard thrust inside him as he glowered at Harry like he wanted nothing more than to fuck him straight (which was practically impossible, since that would be counterintuitive). "So it is true.... The fabled Boy-Who-Lived truly can speak the tongue of serpents." A hiss against Harry's throat, and a set of teeth positioned right against Harry's jugular but still too close to his mating gland.

Fuck, he really couldn't stifle that moan. Parseltongue sounded positively filthy coming from this man, and the teeth against his throat made his already fast-beating heart give a little thump out of turn.

"Mhm, yeah. Found out in—ah, oh god—second year." Harry groaned heavily, still squirming and impaled on Tom's cock, even though the man was stock-still on top of him. "Come on, please, just—oh fuck me I need it."

A dark chuckle, then a pointed thrust against a sensitive little nub that Harry was already feeling but now the motion just made his head explode. "You do, don't you? Tell me, Omega, just how much you need me...."

He probably wasn't expecting it, Harry thought. He really wasn't expecting Harry to respond to that, being who he was. But who was he to deny an order from his alpha? Harry smirked.

"I do. I need you so bad. Please, Tom. Fuck me hard on your cock. Aaah! Use me, breed me—please—" And then that's about when Tom started pounding into him roughly, his huge hands scorching bruises onto Harry's waist.

"How wanton of you. Do you want me to breed you, Omega? Do you want me to fill your dirty little hole with my seed and let it take root, fucking it so far into you it will never come out?" Tom snarled breathily against Harry's ear. "Do you want to give me a child, Harry?"

"Fuuuuck," Harry whined. It was embarrassing. He was so wet and his hole was throbbing and the squelch and the feeling of Tom fucking him was too much. And now his words just made his pussy clench. "Pleasepleaseplease I wanna...I want it, so please."

"What do you want, love? Use your words now, Dearest."

And the pet names, oh Merlin the pet names were it. Harry was so fucking close to cumming he was about to burst with it.

"Your—your knot please...knot me." The last words came out in a hiss, barely edging into the territory of parseltongue. Harry would be mortified if he wasn't so fucked out right now, but begging for Voldemort's knot seemed like a damn good idea to him at the moment.

Tom moaned loudly against Harry's ear, fucking him even harder while spreading Harry's thighs open even more. Unconsciously, Harry wrapped his legs around Tom's neck and pushed Tom even closer. He barely got a chance to gain his bearings before he got pounded into the cushions with the new angle, and fucking hell he loved it. Pleasure flooded through him with every thrust, and Harry was pushing his ass down to meet Tom's cock halfway, providing for a truly strenuous experience. They kept on at the same pace for a few minutes until something inside Harry began to grow.

Tom's dick thickened almost imperceptibly at first, but eventually, there was no mistaking the thickness, the huge cock inside him was knotting him. Harry felt so full with it already, but now the hilt of Tom's cock was catching against his folds and Harry could feel his stomach distend and he was so ready for it and— "Nnnngh. Oh yes...."

"Fuck, Harry, please, you're so...." Tom was practically sobbing over Harry, still fucking into him, but now it was slow and steady from the sheer stretch. "I just knotted you, Harry. How...?" He kept on rolling his hips, slowly and gently as Harry adjusted to the new thickness. "Alphas can only knot during heats or ruts, but now...." It wasn't completely untrue, of course. Sirius had said that it was uncommon for alphas to release a knot without the heat or rut hormones to guide them, but if hormones were the answer, then Harry and Tom were chock-full of them. The Room must have caused it, he knew.

Harry didn't really care. Instead, he pushed down against Tom's cock and murmured, "Faster. Harder. Come on, I can take it. I wanna do this so just fuck me already."

There were no words between them now. No guilt or shame in their actions, pleasure overtaking everything. Tom began to fuck harder into Harry as his knot continued to inflate, and Harry had his legs spread wide open, ready and aching for it.

At this moment, they were no longer Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort. They were two people, alpha and omega, sharing the sweetest, most natural pleasure one could share.

They continued in this way for a little longer, right until Harry began to whine and scratch at Tom's back. "Come on...just a little more, ngggh. I'm gonna cum. Oh guh—god!"

"I'm no god, Harry." A syrupy whisper against his ear. "Call me what I am, dearest. Say it."

Harry writhed in pleasure, his orgasm just upon him. He wasn't really thinking straight, but this felt so right and he was so full that the words just slipped out. "My-my lord! Alpha...."

Tom groaned deeply, then with a single, stuttering thrust, he came with a filthy squelch inside Harry. The sheer feel of it, of the thick ropes of cum filling him made his pussy sputter. "Fuck, Harry, what are you doing to me?" He murmured in appreciation, coming off his high.

Harry came. Right there, his omegan cock released a few filthy spasms of cum against Tom's abdomen, and his cunt contracted against Tom's shrinking knot with a gush of slick, even as his hole was still milking Tom's knot for what it's worth. Fuck, it'd be a miracle if he didn't get pregnant. Knowing this man, he'd have a damn litter.

Fucked out, they settled for a few minutes in the white-hot bliss of the aftermath, Tom having collapsed right onto Harry after he slipped his cock out of Harry's used cunt. They didn't say a word to each other. Neither mentioned that the heavy haze of magically-induced desire clouding over them was gone, that they were now back in control of their actions (if they had ever lost control at all).

Harry sighed dreamily as he came down from his high. He didn't want to think, but his thoughts were completely focused on the feel of Tom's lips and teeth against his throat, his tongue lapping against his pink nipples and his cock thrusting into his sopping cunt. He could feel himself getting hard again, and the thought that he wouldn't ever be doing this again was almost painful.

Then, a pair of lips began to mouth at his shoulder, the opposite side from where his mating gland was, but still too close, or perhaps not close enough. Harry hummed in pleasure, still high on the aftershocks of filthy sex. But then he twisted around to face the dark lord in the eye. He looked so human now, so far removed from the face of Lord Voldemort that Harry could hardly believe they were one and the same. But they were, and this was enough. They really shouldn't be doing this, especially with no more excuses.

"That's...that's enough. We have to stop. We shouldn't have done this. Here. Now. It's not right." He sounded disappointed, almost mellow. He hardly believed his own words, and the omega part of him ached, but this had to be the right choice.

At his words, a wicked face came up to stare into Harry's eyes, deadpan. The man before him was purely Tom Riddle now, handsome as ever, and Harry could almost swoon in the face of his malicious grin. "Do you truly mean that, Dearest? You moaned so prettily for me when I fucked you, I'm hard-pressed to believe that it isn't right." When he said 'hard-pressed', he rubbed his thick cock against Harry's thigh, and the boy found his thoughts clouding over in arousal once again.

"Noooo. We can't... I—", a whimper was heard as Tom began to fondle Harry's nipples, sucking on one while rubbing the other between two fingers. "Please...Fuck I really want...."

"What do you want, Harry? Do you want to stop?" Tom's toned body towered over Harry now, even as his hands wandered lower and lower. "Or do you want to keep going? To let me take you once more? What's the harm, Dearest?"

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Voldemort found himself to be strangely...soft. He wasn't curious at all about the change in temperament, his mind strangely hazy, but he knew that he'd be furious about it later. Now, all he was concerned about was seeing his darling omega writhe under him once again, to see him taking his cock in his wet pussy so prettily.... Or perhaps he'd use his mouth this time, to witness the pretty boy choke on his cock?

He blanched. When did Harry Potter become his omega? They had copulated the once, that was enough, surely? But...the boy was oh so tempting, and he was already under him, begging for a repeat performance of their little dance.

It would be no trouble at all to give in to the pleasure, to have his wicked way with the boy once again. And he was about to, he was about to let himself fall when Harry did something rather unexpected, but no less pleasurable.

He kissed him. They kissed before, certainly, but this held a certain...weight to it. Voldemort wasn't certain what the feeling was, but it felt warm as sunlight, as if he was basking in magic itself and feasting on pleasure. It was good, so strange but enchanting, he couldn't get enough of Harry's sweet taste. He deepened the kiss, pushing his tongue into the boy's mouth and exploring the smooth cavern, biting on his lip as payback for the boy doing the same earlier and sucking on the blood.

"Oh Harry....," Voldemort whispered. "What a joy you are, so special.... You are so good to me, Darling, aren't you? Won't you be good for me?" The worshipful tone the words came out in wasn't quite what he expected, but it did its job when the boy moaned so sweetly, so beautifully, that Voldemort couldn't help but to slip down the boy's supine form and to play with his little cock.

It was an average size for an omega, perhaps four or five inches, and he needed no lubrication other than the dampness of Harry's remaining cum as he groped it, kneading the flesh in his hands and burning with shared pleasure at the sight before him, Harry Potter with glazed eyes and a filthy little mouth, begging for him, for his cock and pleasure.

The sight was entrancing, truly, and Voldemort could hardly remember the last time he was in bed like this. It was at least a few years before his death at Harry's hands, and he was still vaguely human-like, though without a nose and perhaps some early baldness and scales under his glamour, and it had felt nothing like this. He couldn't remember how long ago it was when a partner begged for him like this, when someone looked at him like he held the sun as he held them down and fucked them. It fed his ego, and the alpha in him preened in satisfaction at the sight of his omega.

Nevertheless, after a few moments of this pleasure, he continued into the crowning glory of their little show, the moment he couldn't wait to reach once more. He held his cock in his hands and directed it to Harry's sopping wet cunt. The sight was utterly enchanting; he was debauched and dripping, but he still found a way to look pretty. A part of him found joy in the fact that he caused that, it was his cum from his knot that put the boy in this state. And he couldn't wait to do it again.

Impatiently, he fucked into Harry once again, not even waiting for him to get used to his girth, he pushed forward. His omega was already so ready, so open for him, and they both basked in the pleasure of their coupling for the next few minutes.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

After two whole rounds of fucking, and perhaps a bit of awkward, blissed-out snogging afterward, they both knew they had to leave.

Enough was enough, Harry thought. He had no idea why he did it, and he was so angry at himself that it was so good, but he had to put his foot down now, before anything else could happen.

Harry sat up, still dripping wet, sweaty, and utterly fucked out. His hair was a mess, love bites covered his skin, and he wasn't even sure where his clothes were. His legs felt heavy and he was sure he'd stumble if he got up now. There was no doubt of what he'd been doing. "It's time to go.... We need to go back out there."

Neither of them said a word as they both stood up in the Room, both on shaky knees. Tom cleaned Harry with a pretty neat spell that he'd have asked the incantation of, but he really wasn't about to. He summoned both their clothes for where they had been and cleaned them of both scent and stains, and Harry glamoured his love bites and fixed up his hair.

Finally, he turned to look at Tom, who had once again adopted a distinctly Voldemort look—though not before ogling himself in the mirror for a minute, or twenty. Harry thought it was cute, if a little vain.

They were both dressed and ready to head on out, and they would have left, really, if not for the distinct air that settled heavily in between them.

Harry gazed searchingly at Voldemort, looking for any glimpse of the Tom Riddle he had just seen. Was the kindness, the sweetness he saw in the midst of their coupling truly so fake? Was it just a fluke or a sign that perhaps Voldemort wasn't a monster? Harry didn't know. But strangely, he found that he wanted to.

When looking at Voldemort, he saw something...soft in the way he looked at Harry. There was no longer just hatred in his stare, but something deeper. More...affectionate, if Harry were to put a word to it. But the idea was silly, Voldemort would never let go of his hatred of Harry, not even now, right? Voldemort hated Harry, but surely Harry hated him back? Right?

Putting a pin in that thought to catastrophize later, Harry and Voldemort began to silently walk through the Room, standing too close to each other but not close enough. They didn't say a word, and Harry found that he couldn't look straight at Voldemort, even though the man was shamelessly staring at him as if he was some fascinating new specimen he couldn't wait to pick apart.

The tension between them could be cut with a toothpick, and by the time they reached the door, they turned to face the other.

"Omega..." Voldemort began to speak before being cut off.

"Don't, just...don't." Harry begged. He didn't want to hear it. His hormones were still at an all-time high, and he couldn't be trusted not to jump the man's bones if he were to call him by any endearment, if he were to simply look at him the way he'd been staring earlier.

Voldemort, no Tom, just by the look in his eyes Harry could tell, smiled down at him. His head tilted down, right to Harry's ear. "I truly enjoyed our time today, Dearest. Perhaps we can—"

Harry held true to himself, and while he did his damn best not to commandeer the Dark Lord for a round three of all things, he couldn't resist strong-arming his way into a kiss.

A pair of hands flew up to find their way across Tom's shoulders, and his body practically arched as his lips melted against Tom's. He was awkwardly kissing frozen lips before he began to pull back, embarrassed, at least until he was seized up by the hips and forced right back into the kiss. Harry's legs wrapped around Tom's waist, and they kissed with the passion of a hundred suns, devouring the taste of one another. They couldn't get enough of it anymore, not when they had only just gotten a taste.

Eventually, Harry had to slip off, and Tom had to once again compose himself. The air was changed between them once again, charged with something ferocious yet delicate, something that neither of them understood just yet.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to do that, I shouldn't have...." A flush blossomed on a sweet face and swollen lips.

Tom snickered. It was a strange sight on Lord Voldemort, but Harry could only smile back, comforted. "Your sweet lips on mine were not unwelcome, my dear omega. Please feel free to do it once again, next we meet."

His eyes blew open, shocked. "You—once again? You mean this isn't a one-time thing? It...it was caused by the Room, it had to be, so why would you ever be okay with that?" It didn't even shock Harry anymore that he was okay with that, that he was perfectly fine with fucking Voldemort again, no strings attached. But he was completely fucking confused that such a feast of a man wanted him of all people.

"Oh Harry, my sweet, why would I ever give up the sweet pleasure of you? I can't find myself ever doing that in a sane mind, not with the gift you've given me."

Dazed by the endearment, Harry caught himself. "I...what gift?"

"Your first time, love. You've truly given yourself over to me, haven't you?" He smiled wickedly, a vision of Tom Riddle appearing superimposed over Lord Voldemort. And then, he took Harry's hand before softly, sweetly kissing the back of it. He winked.

Those were his last words before he swished away, back to the hall of doors.

And Harry, he couldn't do anything to stop it. He felt empty as he stood rooted to his spot, and a certain idea came to him.

This man...he wasn't Voldemort. Harry's desire was for Tom Riddle, the kind and charming teen in the diary, the one who'd always helped him. What if the Room did more than just make them desire one another, what if it changed Voldemort?

Harry didn't know, but he was certain he'd figure it out.

Chapter Text

The moment they stepped out of the Room, whatever magic that had taken control of their minds and removed their inhibitions was gone.

The mellow cloud that had settled over Harry's mind was beginning to fade, and slowly, over the next few hours as the battle reached completion, as he stood in shocked awe at the might and powerful glamour of the duel between Dumbledore and Voldemort, as Fudge finally saw the error of his ways and realized that the Dark Lord truly had returned, the thoughts in his mind began to blur. Some part of Harry hated Voldemort. He hated the way the man was so easily able to brush off what they did together, how he didn't even so much as glance at Harry after what happened between them, and that part of him raged.

Where did that bastard get off fucking him and then ignoring it? Not even a single look or a backwards glance, his eyes slipped over Harry like he was air for those last few hours in the Ministry.

Through all this, Harry couldn't bring himself to feel any kind of vindictive pleasure when seeing the horror in Fudge's eyes, and he could hardly feel a thing other than hollow guilt when being told that Ginny broke her leg and Ron and Hermione were in the hospital wing recovering from their wounds, while Harry was there with hardly a few scratches to his name, just some very suspicious soreness and bruises.

He nodded along with glazed eyes at hearing about what happened to Umbridge, and he could almost feel an imagined tinge of satisfaction if he thought about it, but he really couldn't.

He simply went through the motions for the next few days, nodding along at all the happenings and pretending he was physically able to enjoy Dumbledore's return and the end of Umbridge's iron-fisted reign. Harry couldn't so much as taste the food he was currently feeding into his mouth, even knowing this was probably one of the last good meals he'd get before going to the Dursleys for the summer.

The only time Harry felt anything, anything at all was when he had just returned from the Ministry, empty and angry and still grieving for Sirius.

Harry's form stood rigid in Dumbledore's office, still as chaotic and filled with knick-knacks as ever, considering how it was blocked off from Empress—ahem, Headmistress Umbridge. He couldn't bring himself to say anything at first, but then Dumbledore began. And what came out of his mouth was pure and utter horseshit, Harry seethed.

A prophecy. A fucking prophecy was the reason why his parents died, why Sirius died. The prophecy that Dumbledore hid! Harry begged him all the way back in first year to explain why exactly Voldemort killed his parents, but what did the old man do, he said he was too young.

Harry felt himself raging. All throughout that entire conversation, he was at his tipping point. And in the end, his magic exploded out of him in such a deep inferno that every single one of those damn trinkets of Dumbledore's were burned beyond all recognition.

Harry stalked out of the office, beyond the gargoyle, all the way to the Astronomy Tower.

He didn't leave for hours, only being prodded awake by Neville when he came to find Harry. He didn't have the map, so he must have spent a while trying to find him. Harry smiled.

Thank you, he mouthed, hardly able to get the words out.

And so there Harry was now, almost three whole days after what he had posthumously dubbed the incident, and Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were all finally out of the Hospital Wing. They were all sat in the Great Hall for breakfast, and while the noise made Harry's head ring, he could endure. Across from him, Harry even spotted Neville and Luna chattering about what kind of plants Blibbering Humdungers or whatever they were named ate.

His lips quirked up. He couldn't bring himself to think about what all happened, considering he spent the past few days in a kind of haze, but he was glad for his friends, and he was so glad they were okay. If he lost any of them that day, he could hardly bear it, especially after the loss of Sirius.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, blocking away any tears. Sirius, dear Sirius, how could he just forget about him? His godfather was dead and it was all his fault.... If only he hadn't been so reckless, if only he'd realized that Voldemort was manipulating him. He was just like Tom Riddle in the diary, with a (now) beautiful face and a wickedly charming demeanour. He could manipulate like the rest of them, and Harry dreaded their next encounter. He...he didn't know what would happen. Harry was almost more scared of what he'd do—of what he'd want more than the man himself.

But in the end, all Harry could feel was guilt for seemingly forgetting about Sirius, and his hatred for Bellatrix surged with the memory of her insane cackles and crazed dark eyes, a shade of grey all too reminiscent of his godfather.

How could Harry forgive himself? He slept with the murderer of his parents, the man who was ultimately responsible for Sirius's death, less than twenty minutes after it all happened. Harry flushed incriminatingly at how he'd acted. He'd been gagging for it, and simply the memory of what they did got his heart thumping in his chest. He hated it, his own body betrayed him, and even his mind did as well, in the end.

But he knew better now. He couldn't do it again. The first time was an accident, caused by the magic of the Room. And the second time, right after the first, was Harry getting high on hormones and being lost in the moment. Even their kiss at the end, the 'third' time, was an indiscretion that couldn't happen again. Voldemort's parting words to him meant nothing, they were simply pretty little lies he could use to manipulate Harry, to get him into his grasp just to humiliate him, to kill him.

Harry would not do it again. He wouldn't. He would stand resolute against him, betraying nothing of what he knew he truly felt.

But then it was just plain fate that with that last thought, a rather stern-looking eagle owl dropped a package right on his head before flying off with a satisfied hoot.

Strangely, neither Ron nor Hermione noticed, and Harry was able to slip the package inside his pocket with a quick shrinking charm before giving some excuse about leaving his books up in Gryffindor Tower and slinking away to the dorms. He had no idea who'd sent it to him, but deep down, just gazing at the non-descript package and adjoining letter, Harry knew.

With shaking hands, he peeled open the package. He didn't know anyone who would send him anything, but...there was something inside the velvet lining of the fancy box. A faint scent. And the moment he opened the darn thing and his eyes slipped back on the letter and what looked like an unassuming potions storage box, he knew exactly where the thing came from.

If the elegant, slanted handwriting wasn't obvious enough, the distinct alpha musk coming off of the letter would be obvious proof of what Harry already knew. Voldemort—not Tom, Harry knew better, he had to—sent him a little gift.

His breath hitched in his throat. A courting gift? The thought ran through his mind before he could stamp it out. He blanched. No way, there is no way he would ever begin to court him, what was he thinking? And why was the thought so disappointing?

Harry contemplated why Voldemort would send him anything while aiming every curse detection spell he had ever been taught on the package itself, the storage box, and the letter. It all came out clean, which was still suspicious, but he'd rather risk it than go up to the newly returned McGonagall about a potentially cursed object and get everything confiscated for being sent from Voldemort. That was not an interrogation he'd ever attempt with a ten-foot pole.

Harry crumbled at the thought of anyone reading the note and seeing whatever bile had been written that teased Harry for his...momentary desperation at the Ministry. But if he had been desperate, Voldemort had been utterly enraptured by the end, Harry knew. And while he was sure that they were both more than willing to blame their indiscretion on the Room of Desire's magic, he knew better than to hope that Voldemort wouldn't use this for his own gain. In all likelihood, he might just scream it from the rooftops.

These past days, Harry was utterly terrified at the idea of waking up one morning to find the Daily Prophet's opening page said some such rot about Omega Boy-Who-Lived desperate for that snake dick, even though Voldemort was distinctly less snakey and more drop-dead gorgeous by the end of things. He could hardly bear the thought of it, even.

And so, impatiently, Harry ripped open the letter.

He was no coward, and Voldemort would still try to lord their tryst over him even if Harry burned the bloody letter and the whole damned contents of the box.

His eyes went wide as he began to read, unable to take his eyes off of the letter.

My Dearest Harry,

I greatly enjoyed what we shared together naught but a few evenings ago, and I truly would enjoy a repeat, but it has recently come to my attention that you may not have access to a certain...potion shall we say. You may have need of a contraceptive, and as the one responsible, I am glad to give it to you. Please take it, Dearest, as I doubt either of us wishes for a child just yet, especially with yourself still in your education. It would be remiss of me to deny you proper care, after all.

Along with the potion, please take care of a certain gift I've also enclosed. I hope you enjoy it, Dearest.

Yours faithfully,

TR

Harry breathed in the letter, taking in as much of Tom's spicy scent as he could. He basked in the spidery handwriting, reading and re-reading the letter again and again while praying it would begin to make sense.

He flushed at the endearments Tom used, and he swooned at the care he took to give Harry contraceptives. In truth, he had completely neglected to think about what he'd do if he got pregnant. And sure, male omegas have a harder time getting pregnant outside of heats, but it was still perfectly possible, and the fact that he was thinking about Harry...and the way he signed faithfully yours at the end of the letter, including the initials for his real name, even...well, Harry found himself momentarily forgetting exactly who sent him all this.

And that's when reality crashed on top of him. This...this was a love letter. From Lord Voldemort. And Harry, he swooned like a bitch in heat the moment he caught a whiff of the man's scent. Horror painted his features, and before he knew it, tears began to fall.

Was...was he really so easy? He let himself get fucked by the murderer of his parents, and he was all for it until the moment he left the Room. He was so certain it would never happen again, but the letter made him forget all his inhibitions. And then what about the next time Harry saw him? Snake face or not, Harry was liable to jump the man's bones next time he saw him. His omega would have no one else.

Harry flushed.

"—You're going to ruin me, you know. For all other alphas.... No one will feel as good as you, no one will be able to make me feel this way...but who knows, maybe you'll keep me? Do you want that?"

He recalled his words back in the Room of Desire, and the sheer mortification he felt was somehow outclassed by the fact that he knew his words rang true. He was ruined, and dirty, and he knew that no alpha would make him feel like Tom. He hated himself for it.

Harry hated himself for how good it felt, for the fact that he may just do it again one day if given half the chance. What did that say about him? What kind of person was he? And then there was the way he'd tortured Bellatrix back at the Ministry. He held her under the Cruciatus and revelled in her screams.

He was disgusted with himself. He should've known better, surely.

Harry howled, a part of him grateful that he was alone in the dorms, and he kicked the damned package across the bed. It hit the end frame of his four-poster, and a soft, fluffy fabric poured out.

What? Distracted from his pain, Harry reached out to grab it. It...was a blanket. A fluffy sage green blanket, made out of some type of fancy fleece fabric. He brought it to his chest, and his jaw went slack as he was made speechless.

The scent...the blanket, it smelled like Tom. Unconsciously, he brought it to his nose, and he took it in. The warm spice, the cinnamony sweetness and the dark toffee undertone. It was him. Tom's scent....

Was this the gift he mentioned in his letter?

Along with the potion, please take care of a certain gift I've also enclosed. I hope you enjoy it, Dearest.

Oh. This was the gift, then, he noted, his eyes going half-lidded. But it wasn't just any gift, a part of Harry realized, aghast. It was a courting gift!

Percy Weasley sat them all down once a few years ago for a certain talk, and he mentioned that when alphas, like him, found an omega they liked, they'd begin to court them. He drilled them through the basics of courting and the etiquette surrounding it—considering the muggle equivalent has since begun to fall out of favour—and, undoubtedly, this was a courting gift.

As a first gift, alphas sent a token with their scent on it to the omega they wished to court (often a blanket or a handkerchief, perhaps a piece of clothing), and then that omega would ascertain whether their scents were compatible, aka if their inner omega liked the feeling of it. Afterwards, if the omega accepted, there would be a courting period that was expected to lead to marriage and mating.

Oh god, mating. Jesus Christ, Tom Riddle, Voldemort, whatever the hell he wanted to be called, wanted to mate Harry. Hell, he probably wanted to marry him, too! Bugger him! Make a baby with him!

Unbidden, the image of himself in a flowery maternity gown cradling his distended belly while being sat on Tom's lap came to his mind.

Harry screamed into the blanket, flushed red. The irony of it wasn't lost on him, of course, that he was cradling the blanket like a teddy bear even as he was rolling in horror at the thought of what was going on. His stomach flipped as he took in the scent, and, guiltily, he found himself wishing that Tom was actually there with him and that the scent wasn't just a token.

Fuck. He was completely fucked, wasn't he?

Voldemort was going to kill him. He didn't want to court him, definitely not. He wanted to play with Harry. To mess with his heart so he could humiliate and kill him. Hell, if Harry knew him like he thought he did, he may just keep him, for a little while. Just for fun....

Harry clenched his teeth, his blood simmering in his veins. Well, that won't work. He won't make it easy for the bastard. Harry won't be easy. Not again.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

"Aaah," he groaned, gripping his bedsheets. "More, please, I need mo—oore, oh god...."

Harry's whimpers grew louder as the man over him continued to lap at his nipples, his fingers playing with them even as he sucked marks onto a sensitive pink nub.

"You want more, Darling?" The alpha chuckled, continuing his ministrations. "Ssh, Dear, don't worry. I can make you feel good."

"N—no, that's..." Harry's pants made him sound like a dog in heat, but he didn't care, overstimulated as he was. He felt like they'd been at it for hours, and nothing was ever enough. He needed it, Merlin, he needed it. "Please, give me...give me your cock, please, I need it—ooh, fuck!"

The alpha pulled up his legs suddenly, before landing a harsh slap on his arse. Smack. "No, Omega. You don't get to order me around. You will take whatever I give you, and you will be thankful. Is that clear?"

Fuck. Harry mewled in pain and pleasure. The smack against his bum made him feel hot and tingly, and his alpha's words were just...unreasonably enticing. He didn't usually like being ordered around but just those words coming from his alpha made him wet.

"A-alpha, please...I'm sorry, I can take it, but I—I'm so close and I wanna...I wanna come on your dick pleasepleaseplease."

Harry cries reached a crescendo as his alpha leaned down against his ear, as he began to fondle the round globes of his ass. "Yesss, my dear omega. How prettily you beg for me. You're such a good boy, aren't you? Will you be good for me?" The alpha kneaded his cheeks, rolling them in his hands and providing a cool balm from his hands to Harry's tingling opening as his fingers inched closer to Harry's core.

"Mmhm, I'll be good, please, I can be good, Alpha, please give it to me, I miss you, I want it, I want you—" If this was any other day, Harry would be mortified by the way he was begging, but right now the words felt so right, and his inner omega wiped away all his inhibitions, leaving nothing but pleasure and aching desire in his gut.

"Hm...you do, don't you? Tell me, Harry, how badly do you want me? Have you ached for me, in these days? Your pretty little cunt is still so wet for me, my sweet omega. You're like a budding flower that blooms only for me...."

Harry moaned, his words lost to him in the midst of his pleasure. "Y—yeah, I really, I wanna....I mis—missed you!" He babbled, his words coming out awkwardly. He had no idea who this was, just that the man towering over him was his alpha that he missed desperately. His mind was cloudy, but he could vaguely conjure memories of wicked red eyes on a handsome (or perhaps serpentine?) face as he was held down and pounded into.

"Please, Alpha, please, I want you I'm yours so take me please finally I need you I want it—" Harry sobbed as his alpha continued sucking and biting on his unreasonably sensitive torso and hips. He ground his hips up, his omega cock meeting his alpha's toned thigh with a whimper. It felt too much too good all at once.

His alpha smirked against his waist, and then he bit hard into Harry's thigh, almost drawing blood just as he rolled his thigh against Harry's cock.

Harry's whine was drowned out as his alpha took his lips for his own, and Harry found himself sighing into his mouth. "Did you like that, Omega? You must be so tired, I know you want me.... Please, Dearest, keep telling me what you want, let your pleasure spill from your lips as I pleasure you, My Own."

The words sounded so familiar, and he was sure he'd have recognized the speech pattern if his mind was in any way coherent, but it wasn't, so far, and Harry found himself answering his alpha's request. Wanton begs fell from his lips as his alpha continued grinding his thigh against Harry's rock-hard dick, and he was sure he'd have come from just that alone until his alpha decided to sneak his hands down and rub a finger around the edge of Harry's hole, teasing.

Harry's squeak echoed as his alpha rolled him over and got on top of him, with Harry's spread hole in between his alpha's thighs. "You're already so wet for me, Harry. You want me that bad, don't you?"

The omega didn't answer. He simply laid his head against the pillows and sobbed into the fabric as his alpha blew a gust of air into his opening, making his already sensitive cunt sputter. "Aaah—nnngh! Please...."

"Oh no, Darling, you can't do that." His alpha grabbed Harry by the chin, and he twisted Harry's face until his cheek was against the pillow and he was gazing straight up at his alpha with teary green eyes. "I want to hear you. Let me hear your sweet cries, Dearest."

"Stop teasing me, and come on!" He sounded a little more like himself now, a little more coherent, and something began to feel a little familiar. This situation, this vivid pleasure, where did he know it from?

Without any words, his alpha grabbed Harry's pussy and impaled it painfully on two fingers. He fucked into Harry hard and fast, the thick squelch of his slick loud in the air. At Harry's pained moans, he began to speak. "Did you forget, Omega mine? You will not give me orders, you will take the pleasure I decide to give you."

Blood-red eyes gazed down at him greedily, a vicious grin on his face. The eyes, where did he know them? This felt....

Harry forgot. Instead, he ground down against those fingers, meeting them thrust for thrust as they opened up his hole. "Alpha—mmm, this is good, it's so....nnngh, please more, give me more I feel so empty."

"More, you said? Don't worry, Dearest Omega, this is just the beginning." And then a third finger entered Harry, then a fourth, and before he knew it he was certain there was a whole fist inside his cunt, railing him and massaging his little nub in a way that made his body spazz out in pleasure.

The fingers were so long and went deep, so much deeper than Harry's ever could, and he found himself sobbing into his pillows, the pleasure too much for him as his body writhed on the sheets. He felt about ready to combust, almost like a wire ready to snap, and he knew that if his alpha kept going like this, maybe a little harder or a little faster, he'd cum on his fingers. Just the thought of it made him hot.

"A—alpha, I'm almost...aaah, I'm gonna—"

"Do it, Harry, my lovely...cum for me, cum on my fingers, I want to see, let me look at you." His alpha's red eyes never once left Harry's body, his eyes, and his pussy. The man's gaze was ravenous as he stared at the fluttering lips of Harry's opening, and his breath hitched at the sight of it straining and sputtering over his fingers.

Whimpers left Harry's throat as tight ropes of cum shot out of his untouched cock, while at the same time, his cunt spurted slick and clenched over his alpha's fingers. The whole time, green eyes never left red, and that's when Harry knew.

Tom Riddle. Voldemort. What were they doing?

Harry's glazed-out expression morphed into one of shock and horror, just as Tom grinned amusedly at Harry before taking his fingers out of Harry's cunt and sucking on one of the wet digits. "Delicious, Darling. You're so sweet for me, so easy, aren't you?"

Harry screamed.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

And then he got up.

The darkness of Harry's dorm room refused to illuminate the expression on his face, but disgust and horror seeped from his form. His hands shook in his lap, and shivers wracked his spine. Despite that, there was a distinct wetness in his drawers, his most private areas soaked with the evidence of his dream encounter.

For many minutes, Harry sat there in his bed, ejaculate soaking into his sheets as he held back tears. He would not show weakness—none at all—and surely, surely this was an after-effect of the Room? Perhaps a remainder of its magic had stayed with him, perhaps the Desire wasn't truly gone, but waiting for the chance to strike.

Or maybe...Harry grasped the blanket, the same one that held Tom's scent. He used it the whole night, wrapping it around himself as if in comfort, despite where it came from. Guiltily, Harry realized the Desire came not from the Room, but from himself. He held the blanket up to his nose, taking in the scent to calm down.

There was no shame in it, he realized. He was an omega in his most hormonal years, and Tom Riddle a handsome and desirable alpha. What happened in the Room wasn't his fault, and he truly held no shame for it. If it were anyone else, Harry may have just been mortified for a time, but he would have inevitably forgotten about it, or at least tried to.

No, the true shame came from the identity of his one-time lover. Voldemort. The murderer of his parents and Sirius. In the end of things, Harry allowed Voldemort to fuck him. He allowed Voldemort to do all those things to him, and the handsome face of Tom Riddle came after.

And now, the blanket—given as a courting gift, no less—gave him that dream. An extremely vivid dream, Harry's jaw went slack.

Their connection!

Shame brewed in Harry's gut as, despite himself, he came to an epiphany. This was no dream at all. No, it was....

"Delicious, Darling. You're so sweet for me, so easy, aren't you?"

It was all too clear now, too vivid to forget. The dream was no dream, but a vision. One that he shared with Tom, Harry snarled.

How dare he! How dare he take advantage of their link like this! Shame was replaced with fervourous anger as Harry wandlessly vanished the wetness in his drawers and stalked to the bathroom, getting himself ready for the day just an hour or so earlier than usual. He cleaned himself and got changed quickly before stalking out of the bathroom and grabbing a quill, hair still wet and eyes blazing.

Snarling, he put a quill to parchment and began to pen out his words.

Harry would be sending a letter.

Let's see how he likes it....

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

That afternoon, Harry was getting dressed in the Gryffindor dorms post-potions class. Despite it being the end of the year and without them having brewed anything, they were reviewing for next year, and his robes smelled distinctly of potions fumes and some kind of creature dung.

He had only just slipped his undershirt off when the door creaked open.

"Hey!" He yelled, upset. "Ron! Learn how to—" It wasn't Ron. Shit.

With a jolt, he instantly held his robes up to cover himself. But it was too late, she'd already seen.

It was Ginny, and she stared with bulged eyes at the marks on his body.

"Um...wow. l...who did that to you?!" Her gaze was fixed on the still dark hickies on Harry's throat, dotted around his mating gland. Other than those hickies, Harry had spotted dark bruises in the form of hands on his hips and thighs in the shower, and his torso and chest were dotted with yellowing-green marks that looked slightly more bruise than hickey. But in the end, it was clear to see that Harry was marked all over, and what he had been doing was pretty obvious to anyone with eyes.

"Ginny! Please, please don't tell anyone!" He stammered his words as he yanked the shirt back on, trying to position it so the hickies were covered up. Harry had no idea what to say, if words could ever be enough, but he just knew that Ginny had to keep her mouth shut. He couldn't explain what happened, where, and with whom, and this was just...Merlin, no.

With a sigh, Ginny closed the door to the dorm room and shot a locking spell towards it. "Well, Harry, looks like we need to talk. Why don't we sit?"

Slouching his way, head down, Harry plopped onto his bed with all the mental clarity of a criminal on death row about to be faced with a dementor. Ginny sat on the chair of his adjoining desk, and with a hand on her cheek and glimmering eyes, she asked, "So, Harry, who's the lucky girl or guy? I'm pretty sure it's an alpha, at least, looking at all...that." She chuckled.

Harry gaped, looking at her like she just told him she was in love with Severus Snape and they were engaged to be married. "Huh?" He said dumbly.

"Well? Out with it! C'mon, was it good? You gotta tell me, I haven't gone that far yet, but you...wow." Ginny giggled into her hand, the colour of her cheeks matching with her red hair.

"I—yeah, yeah it was good." His words came out heavy, but it was almost like a release, as if he just put down a weight he'd been carrying. It was...nice. It was nice to admit. Despite who it was with, Harry had really enjoyed it. He didn't want to accept it, but sexually speaking, Tom and him were...extremely compatible. If Tom wasn't his enemy, if they were the same age, Harry wondered....

He couldn't let his mind go down that path, though, so instead, he spent the next hour fielding Ginny's questions, sharing with her giggles (somehow) as he explained how his first time went down, heavily edited, of course.

"So, um, he held me down, and then he...well...his hands held my thighs down hard—enough to bruise—and he opened them and then...he just looked." He blushed, his words felt too explicit and he almost couldn't go that far, but Ginny understood, as evident by the flush on her cheeks.

"Wow. That is some alpha... huh. Bloody hell, do you think he has a brother? Maybe one that likes redheads?"

Harry snickered. "You'd bloody hope not. The sex is good but the guy's a git, and if he had a brother, then Merlin help us all."

"This guy isn't You-Know-Who, Harry." She said with an eye roll, not realizing exactly how wrong she was, but Harry certainly wasn't going to tell her. "Or Malfoy...right?"

Looking into Harry's dumbstruck eyes, she snapped, "Right?"

"Harry, my dear brother's best friend, my basically brother, please tell me you didn't let Malfoy fuck you." She looked displeased, somehow, her hair going every which way and her eyes holding a certain passionate quality in them. "Harry!"

"Of course not," he yelled in an attempt to regain his bearings. He was horrified at the thought of ever sleeping with Malfoy, the pointy git. Hot villain Tom Riddle was one thing, but his school bully? He'd rather die. "Malfoy isn't even that good-looking. I actually have taste, you know." Yeah, in Dark Lords, he didn't say.

"I dunno...Malfoy is kind of cute." She twirled her hair with her fingers as she gazed out the window, her lips flicking up. "It's the hair. When it isn't gelled up, it looks nice. Remember the Yule Ball? He looked really good."

With a blink, Harry recalled Malfoy at the Ball. With his hair down and wearing shimmery robes, he looked almost like a prince when guiding pug-faced Pancy Parkinson around at the ball. Harry noticed him, definitely, but then he looked away when he spotted Cedric and Cho twirling on the dance floor....

"Okay, I see your point. But he's still not my type." He shivered at the thought. "But he's yours, then?" Harry would be the first to admit he was oblivious to the people around him, but even Ginny's...crush was clear to him. So that meant she must have been mooning after Malfoy for a while. From what it looked like, ever since the Yule Ball a year and a half ago.

She blushed, then nodded. "I know, he's a prick, but...I can catch him talking to the younger Slytherins sometimes, and he's really nice with them. There was this one time I caught him hexing Bryce Taylor, a sixth year, because he hurt a younger Slytherin. He looked so...righteously angry. It was really...yeah. So, what about you, hot stuff? We're talking about your love life, not mine."

Ginny smirked. "You ever gonna meet up with him again?"

"No!" He yelled way too quickly. Yes, a part of him thought.

"He's that much of a berk, then?" A snort. "So I guess the fuck wasn't good enough for you to ignore it."

"It was! Well, I mean—no, it wasn't but...okay fine. We're just too different. It would never work. And besides..." Harry gave her a once over, narrow-eyed. "Do all omegas talk like that, Gin? I know your mum would be upset if she heard you."

Whack.

Ginny gave him a good smack on the head with a really thick book she snatched from the table. "Don't bring my mother into this! But seriously, Harry, is that what you think of omegas?" Her glare was piercing.

"What? No! I just...my Aunt Petunia, she's a beta, but she has...opinions, I dunno, I guess." Little Harry could easily recall the bile that sprung from Petunia's mouth all throughout his childhood, chastising any omega she could see, practically calling them sluts in as many synonyms as her cow-like brain could fathom. "I guess it's not true, though. You're different, Ginny."

"Not good enough! I'm not the exception, Harry. Omegas aren't just creatures that exist to lay prettily in some alpha's bed to be fucked and used as a breeding machine! I'm an omega, and—bloody hell, you're still young enough to present, you know. You're pretty enough to be an omega, at least. Very delicate." Her anger cooled just a bit, enough to truly give him a once-over.

"I—yeah, you could...still present." Her gaze was fixed on his neck to where his shirt had pulled down, showing off his marks. They circled around a spot just off the junction from his neck and shoulder, the exact spot for an omega's mating gland, and it was clear that Ginny noticed.

Damn, she was too smart for her own good.

"Harry Potter, do you have something you need to tell me?" She raised an eyebrow, hands on her hips in a way all too reminiscent of Mrs Weasley. Clearly, the expression was genetic.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Half an hour later, they'd gotten some things settled. It was a long and hard conversation, but Harry admitted to being an omega and waded through a truly mortifying explanation where he affirmed that yes, Ginny, he was on the potion, and he told her exactly why he couldn't tell anyone.

"It's stupid! There's nothing wrong with being an omega, Harry. It's normal."

"Maybe to you! To the wizarding world.... But male omegas are way less common, and omegas are treated pretty badly in the muggle world. And I'm the Boy-Who-Lived! What are people going to say, Ginny? I can already see the headline: The Omega-Who-Lived, by Rita Skeeter!"

A snort left Ginny's lips. "Okay, yeah, I kinda get it, but Dumbledore is an omega, did you know? No one gives him any shit for it. Being an omega is just...normal. People are going to forget about it eventually."

"Dumbledore? He's an omega?!" Okay, wow, talk about things Harry didn't know. Still, the thought was strangely encouraging, despite his recent negativity towards the old man. "I didn't know that...."

"Course you didn't. It's old news, and it doesn't matter. I promise, Harry, we aren't like the muggle world. No one's going to give two fucks about you being an omega, except for the courting gifts you're going to get, but you can ignore those," she waved her hand in the air, "so it really doesn't matter."

As their conversation went on, Harry began to feel strangely better about himself. He felt good, really. A little more confident. Less cautious. He wasn't upset about being an omega, it was completely the opposite. He loved the idea of being a caretaker, of being able to give birth to his own children and give them the love he never had. He wanted a family, and being able to give birth to one sounded like a dream.

What he truly hated wasn't his secondary gender, but about who exactly would take advantage of it. Tom Riddle. Voldemort. The only reason they slept together was because Harry was embarrassed and ran off, and when they got to the Room, well...he could definitely recall what happened. He turned red.

He didn't want to reveal his status to the world, not yet. Revealing that part of himself was akin to unveiling his deepest vulnerabilities, to opening the door and telling people to have at it with taking advantage of him, he shivered, wrapping his hands around himself.

"I'm scared, Ginny." He spoke up suddenly, derailing their conversation. "I'm scared. How can I just...tell people? I've never had to tell anyone this. Sirius discovered me himself, you found out because I couldn't hide it, and that's it. I've never had to say it and I'm scared what everyone will think." He wanted Sirius. He wanted his godfather so badly that he ached. They may not have been together for long, but they bonded over that summer in Grimmauld, with Sirius teaching him about omegas. Despite how mortifying their talk was, Harry was grateful he had someone close to explain it all to him.

And now, he didn't have that. Sirius was dead. Gone. He vanished through the veil. And Harry had slept with the man who killed him.

Tom Riddle stood at an altar of sins, and the death of Sirius Black was the most recent one, laid on the steps of his wicked greed for power.

He couldn't say it, he couldn't admit it. Were Ron and Hermione right there next to him, asking what happened, Harry couldn't say. He'd be content with never admitting a damn thing for the rest of his life, but Ginny pulled it all out of him with a pair of pliers and that damned Weasley stubbornness. Just like her brother.

Ginny hugged him, her warm arms around his waist as her calming cardamom and rosy scent danced in his nose. "I know, Harry. I'm not going to rush you, it's alright, I'm here...."

It was good, so good, and they stayed like that for a while. Harry was glad she was here, that she found him. He needed this, and for a moment, he wondered, was this what having a sister felt like?

His lips formed into a watery smile. "Thank you." And yes, yes it was.

For another while longer, they laid down silently on the bed together in a not very risque, but almost suggestive position if anyone were to see them. It wasn't until Ginny rose up with a gleam in her eye and a spell on her lips that the heavy pressure in the room began to recede.

"Tell you what, Harry, what'dya know about glamour charms?"

Glamour what? Harry blinked. "I know what they are, but I'm not really good...." He rubbed the back of his neck before drawing his hand out after his finger caught on a tiny scab from what could only be a bite mark.

"I'll teach you. This is a household charm, you know, for every omega." And then she taught him a very neat spell to hide all the marks. The spell would last for a while, but it would fade underwater and when Harry was sleeping. It was simple to cast and Ginny didn't let up until he could cast it wandlessly. It was pretty simple, and it relied mostly on will and a short incantation. Turns out it's a fairly common spell, often cast wandlessly by teenagers with something to hide.

Harry reiterated his earlier point as he stared at himself in the mirror, seeing a pale neck with no marks to be found. Even the bruises on his thighs and hips were hidden away. You couldn't even see them unless the light hit his marks in the right way, and then they'd appear vague and almost yellowish. Indistinct. He was so, so glad for Ginny.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Tom Riddle was sleeping. He laid in bed under dark grey silk sheets trimmed in green. His breathing came out heavily and his pupils were dilated as he dreamed. Under the covers, there was a rather evident hardness in his trousers.

He was dreaming. For many years, Lord Voldemort had no need for sleep. From the time he first conquered death, standard human delights grew foreign to him. Food began to taste like stale ash on his tongue, and sleep was short, when it came at all.

Voldemort had no need for sleep, and he never dreamt. Ever since his resurrection, he had no need for a bed, even. He simply worked, and if he was ever tired of it, he relaxed on a comfortable armchair and began to read in front of a warm fire, still plotting in the back of his mind.

He didn't sleep, and he hadn't dreamt in years. But now...he does. From the moment he strode out of the Room of Desire, a glamour covering his form, a face he had lost long ago, something in him had changed irrevocably.

He was no longer Lord Voldemort, but Tom Riddle, at least in matters of the flesh. And speaking of matters of the flesh, there was...him.

The boy. Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived. An omega.

His, he hissed in the back of his mind.

Ever since they laid together days before, the boy never left his mind. He couldn't forget seeing Harry's eyes bloodshot and teary with raw pleasure as he looked at Voldemort as if he was everything, as if he held up the sun in the sky. Every time he closed his eyes, he could only see Harry, his eyes, his handsome body undulating under him, and his opening sucking in his shaft.

Voldemort held himself in hand far more times in the past few days than he cared to admit. He felt almost like a young man once again, not that he partook in self-pleasure very often, even then. After all, many were very willing to pleasure him, rather than the other way around.

But Harry? Voldemort enjoyed picking him apart, turning him into putty in his hands as the boy whined. He wanted to take the boy, claw his hands down his chest and stick his cock inside him, claiming him in the best of ways and taking him raw as Harry screamed in pain and pleasure under him. And Salazar, was the boy tempting. His own little seductress with lips as sweet as caramel.

The boy was a pretty little slip of a thing, and Voldemort would have called him weak before discovering the truth of his secondary gender. The first time they met, in the graveyard, Voldemort was certain the boy had not yet presented, considering the herby, vaguely sweet-spicy scent of pup that the boy was steadily growing out of.

But that day in the Ministry, the scent of omega was thick in the air, and the sweetness and vivacity of it was ever so alluring, far more so than any omega he had ever met. As the boy faced against him, eyes blazing and a snarl against his lips, a part of Voldemort grew hungry.

He couldn't forget. He couldn't make himself want to kill the boy. Simply the thought made his alpha instincts spike with vehement uproar.

Voldemort didn't want to kill Harry. He wanted him. In all ways. He wanted the boy in his arms, his bed, impaled on his cock, and with his marks on his neck.

He wanted Harry for a mate.

It wouldn't destroy his plans. He'd still take over the wizarding world and defeat the light, but instead of killing Harry Potter, he would convert him. The boy would join his side, he would convince him. Harry was amenable enough to be taken by him once, and perhaps with a little convincing...yes. Yes, it could work.

And that was why Voldemort sent the omega a courting gift. Well, it was for multiple reasons. Harry likely didn't have easy access to a contraceptive, unless he was bold enough to ask the school mediwitch, but it was simply for Voldemort's peace of mind as well as a way to appeal to Harry that he sent it. And, of course, there was the token. As was tradition, he sent the boy a blanket he slept with for days, then spelt it to permanently capture his scent. It would never fade, and he hoped Harry would sleep with the blanket wrapped around him. The boy would look ever so pretty in green, after all.

Voldemort was left-footed himself, of course, when he discovered several hours after the Battle at the Department of Mysteries that he now needed to sleep. Before, he simply hadn't had either the want or the need, but the heavy feeling of exhaustion and fatigue was apparent enough, however unfamiliar it may have become. And so he slept, dreaming of nothing. For the first time in a long time, he truly felt rested.

For days after, he still didn't dream. Until this night.

He dreamt of Harry. He dreamt of holding him in his arms, seeing him, edging and spearing him with his fingers until he was a begging pile of mush underneath him. He loved it.

And then...he saw it. He felt their mental link pulse with Harry's distinct mix of horror and lust as the boy realized the truth just as he did.

It was no dream at all, Voldemort grinned like a cheshire cat. As he awoke, he spent many long minutes in the bed, recalling the vision and imprinting it in his memory, tapping into Harry's mind through the link and simply listening, basking in the boy's anger.

If he hadn't already made his decision, this would have cemented it.

Harry Potter was his.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Many hours later in the darkness of twilight, not a sound could be heard as a lone figure cloaked in black stalked down through the corridors of the Ministry of Magic. No one could see him, not that anyone was still there, and he had a plan.

Lord Voldemort's next courting gift to Harry Potter would be this, he would fulfill his promise to the boy.

"Do you truly not believe that Lord Voldemort could retrieve him? The blood traitor isn't truly dead, not if mine own self were gracious enough to enact the proper ritual."

Voldemort would do it. He would. He was the Dark Lord, and even death would bend to his will. It already had many times before.

Before he knew it, he was there.

In front of him was the Veil of Death. It was barely more than a thin, transparent curtain held up by crumbling pillars. A mist of grey peaked out at him, and Voldemort could hear whispers.

The words were indistinct, but they were snarled, gasped, and yelled out at him. These were the voices of the dead, all those whom he killed personally or whose deaths could be laid at his feet.

He simply didn't care. Their words meant nothing, and there was only one voice he wanted to hear.

"Black," Voldemort uttered, his voice clear and deep in the air. "Sirius Black, I call to you."

The veil continued to flutter with non-existent wind, and to anyone else, it would appear that nothing changed. But he could feel it. Something heavy settled in the room, and the scent of rot and ash entered his nose.

Death. It was here. And it was listening.

Voldemort stood. And he was not afraid.

"Sirius Black. I give you an offering."

He took something out of the pocket of his robes. It was a simple metal key, thick in his palm.

It clattered to the ground, and Voldemort shot a spell at it, unveiling its true form.

A woman appeared. She had crazed eyes and dishevelled hair, ripped dark clothes, and a tight corset. She gathered the hem of his robes and kissed his boots, grinning madly as she kneeled.

"My lord! Do you have need of me? Anything, I will give you anything!" She cackled, her eyes rapt on the hazy form of his face underneath his robes. She couldn't look him in the eyes, not with the spell to hide his face underneath his cloak, but she didn't care. "You can have me—mind, body, soul—I'm yours!"

He smiled warmly, trailing his wand underneath her chin. He dearly loved the loyalty his followers gave him....

Their loyalty had always been rewarded, no matter what, but this time, Bellatrix's loyalty had to be sacrificed.

Harry would want nothing more....

"You will, won't you, Bella? I am your everything, and you will give me anything, won't you? Swear it."

She nodded instantly, her head bobbing. "Yes! Yes, Master, what do you wish?"

"For your death, Bellatrix." And with that, he silenced and bound her, taking no heed of her struggling form as he filed up the steps to the Veil, displaying her flailing body in front of it.

"Blood for blood. Life for life. Soul for soul. Bring him back. I ask for Sirius Black." The words were in Latin, and as spoken in the language of the dead, the dead shall listen.

Death shall listen.

And he will obey.

He tossed Bellatrix Lestrange into the veil, her screams soundless as she stared at him with eyes filled with betrayal.

Chapter Text

The end of term grew near on the horizon, and with it grew Harry's resolve. He would forget about it all, what happened. Voldemort was no matter, and neither was their nascent...well, situationship would be the only applicable term for it. It didn't matter because it would never happen again. Harry stood on that hill, and he pledged to die on it.

And so, his summer began. On the first day after he returned to the Dursleys, he was able to keep his things in his room. Strangely enough, all it took was a few barked threats to Petunia reminding her exactly how his mum died, and should anything happen Harry needed to be able to protect everyone. She blanched at his words, but nevertheless allowed him to spirit his things away upstairs.

Vernon wasn't very happy, but Harry didn't care overly much. He ignored their hushed arguments during the nighttime hours, and he spent the next few weeks of summer studying his books and pretending he didn't exist while eating the rather generous food portions from Petunia. Perhaps she was scared Harry would hurt her precious ickle Duddykins if he didn't get fed enough, he snickered.

He didn't have many chores to do other than cooking breakfast, gardening, and cleaning the bathrooms because Merlin knows Aunt Petunia has never willingly touched a damn mop in her life. So usually, he was there in his room, reviewing and reading and rereading. He combed through his old school books, memorizing the theory and completing his homework early. Harry rationed it out, not wanting to be bored the whole summer while waiting however long it took to be picked up this year—if he ever was. He slumped, recalling his outburst in Dumbledore's office.

Harry didn't regret it. Not one bit. Realizing that every trauma he ever experienced could be blamed on a prophecy and one stubborn old man's machinations over his life made him question everything. And in truth, he didn't like what he found. He understood it, but he didn't like it. Behind those twinkling eyes was a chess master, a general in the game of war, and Harry wasn't even a king, he was a pawn in the game, his hidden treasure ready to be thrown out whenever Dumbledore saw fit to use him.

He meant nothing to the man he looked up to, the man he trusted, and that hurt. Perhaps Professor Dumbledore did care for him in a way, but it wasn't enough, not if he expected the prophecy to end with Harry and Voldemort's downfall. Both of theirs, really. He recalled the lines of the prophecy, imprinted as they were in his life, and two lines hit the most.

"...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...

Marked. Harry was marked. Not with Voldemort's love bites, perhaps, but with his lightning scar. Harry was marked by Voldemort as his equal, and according to Dumbledore, he had the power to defeat him. With...love.

Harry snorted, the saner part of him aghast at the thought of his initial perspective on Dumbledore's words.

Ah yes, Harry's magical healing cunt, the real power the Dark Lord knows not. That was bull if he ever heard it.

Love played no part in their little skirmishes, no. Love would never defeat Voldemort. The man could not love, and Harry couldn't kill him either.

Harry could never see himself pulling out his wand to strike the man with the killing curse, it just felt wrong to him, like he was destroying a part of himself. He knew it was partially his omega instincts at play, rebelling against the thought of hurting his alpha.

Harry snarled at the thought, but there wasn't much to be done about it. It would get better over time, Harry was sure. He'd just need to wait his instincts out. He was a teenage boy, after all, he should hopefully be able to grow feelings for someone else. He did have that crush on Cho for a time, after all, though that didn't go well. So he resolved to simply wait for the right time.

But there had to be some way other than mutually assured destruction if Harry really was destined to defeat him, especially when he couldn't even fight against his own instincts. The prophecy said neither of them could live while the other survives, and so Harry found himself wondering. He had the time, and his thoughts wandered quite a bit that summer.

What exactly did the prophecy mean by the wording? He talked it out with Hermione and Ron, and living and surviving were two different things. And then Harry wondered in the back of his mind if perhaps, maybe...Voldemort could love.

Neither of them really lived during the past decade, not at all. Voldemort was a wraith and Harry was with the Dursleys. And whenever Harry was floundering through and barely surviving his mess of a school career, Voldemort would be planning something, something big to bring himself back to life once and for all.

He could almost feel it—if he were capable of bringing himself to hope. Voldemort was different now, not quite as mad as he used to be. Perhaps the Room of Desire truly did change him the way Harry had initially hoped. His Desire was for Tom Riddle, the charming and handsome boy in the diary, and the Room had fulfilled it. Voldemort went from snake-like monster to handsome young man (arguably, as he was still physically older than Harry by about a decade, give or take a few years). If something else about him had changed too, then...well, it would simply be part of the Room's magic.

Harry couldn't think of anything so powerful as to truly change the very nature of a person, not even the Imperius curse, and even if something could, it just wouldn't be right to take advantage of it. Not even Lord Voldemort deserved to be changed like that, right?

Harry didn't know. It wasn't fair to him that all this was on his shoulders, that Voldemort was playing with him. He didn't want this, he just wanted to be home.

But when thinking of home, his imagination came in blank. For many years, if he ever tried to imagine someplace that felt like home, he'd think of the hazy image of his parents and Sirius and perhaps the little cottage in Godric's Hollow his parents used to live in. Now, though, something else came to mind, to his enduring horror.

Before he could think about it, he thought of a nice house, airy and light and magical with a lot of space, with adult Harry living there with his mate and children. Closing his eyes, he could see himself going to work in the afternoons, leaving his children with maybe a babysitter or working in shifts with his mate to take care of the kids while they both worked.

And his mate....Harry's eyes flashed open, suddenly. The man who came to mind when he thought of mate was a handsome, much older man with a cutting jawline and thick dark curls, with a pair of greedy crimson eyes and a clever smirk dancing on his lips.

Harry flushed, and his eyes closed tightly. No. Nonononono. His mind was playing tricks on him, no. He would never! He couldn't—just the very thought....

But when Harry saw glimpses of a small child running around, still unpresented in their secondary gender, and with pretty dark curls and Tom Riddle's dark red eyes on a handsome face, he found himself softening minutely. The idea was sweet, so very sweet, and he found himself wishing that it could happen, that the war could easily be ended if Harry fashioned himself into a war bride for his own selfish desires.

But no. He couldn't do that. He couldn't. He could never be mated to Tom Riddle. He could never agree to a courtship, never marry him, never have a child with him, never be cradled in his arms at night or spend his heats with him. They would never spend pleasurable nights and enjoy hot rounds of sex with each other while their child was asleep and their room was under silencing charms.

Harry shivered. Just the thought...

Wetness arose in his drawers, and before Harry knew it—before he could stop himself—a hand snuck inside his trousers under the dark cover of night. Harry slipped down his trousers and boxers, hardly thinking about what he was doing, and he touched himself.

His fingers easily curled around his petite cock, and he kneaded it gently, teasingly, as if another, familiar pair of hands were doing this for him. Edging him.

"Do you like that, Darling?" The voice was heavy with lust, thick against his ears. It felt real but not, hazy in the way vivid dreams might often be.

The words came to Harry's mind, and he quivered. His hands continued to stroke his cock, but when the pleasure began to grow, to crescendo, Harry stopped. Instead of reaching that height, his hand went down. He lightly fondled his cock, his balls, and his fingers slunk down to his opening.

A finger rubbed against his folds, and he could feel the gathered slick. He was hot. His skin was red and sweaty, and then, before common sense and fear could kick in to put a stop to this, Harry slipped a finger inside.

But it wasn't enough. His fingers weren't long enough and didn't reach as deep as he wanted. So he slipped inside another, and another, but yet Harry still didn't feel full enough. Before he knew it, he was hissing from the pleasure but something just wasn't enough. He wanted something, something better.

Harry took his other hand, and he grabbed his arse cheek and spread it wide so as to impale himself in a new angle, an imitation of something else, a vision he had weeks ago.

He knew what he wanted. He knew. But he shouldn't want it. He shouldn't want his fingers to be Tom's, or for a thick cock to be inside him instead of even those clever digits.

He shouldn't want it, but Harry knew he did. He ached for it, his hole clenching wetly around his fingers simply at the thought.

And then Harry's green eyes slipped shut. He was too out of it to feel the way his scar buzzed warmly.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

"Oh, Darling Omega, you're so needy.... You miss me, don't you? Tell me?"

Harry saw. He knew, he knew where he was, what he was seeing, and it all felt so real. Tom over him, naked, and staring down at him with rapt eyes and a salivating grin.

He saw, and his pussy clenched against his fingers. With the angle Harry was at, his knees up and his thighs spread, Tom had a perfect view of the way his hole contracted simply by a few pretty words.

His alpha cooed, his lips forming into a sweet, condescending little smile. "Oh, Dearest, you missed me that much, didn't you? Don't worry, your alpha's here now, ready to service you...."

To service him. What? Tom Riddle, no Lord Voldemort would never service anyone. What was the man playing at?

And strangely, a part of Harry warmed at the thought of Tom calling himself his alpha, but he ignored that part.

Harry bared his teeth at the man, a snarl on his lips. "What are you playing at, Riddle? Why are you here?"

Tom's eyes lit up, and his lips quirked, amused. "Ah, so the little lion finally bares his fangs? How feisty, Darling. How truly fearless." He whispered the last word against Harry's ear, and he found that the heat from Tom's breath made his body ready to combust.

His fingers stilled inside of him and suddenly withdrew. Harry wasn't aware they were still moving.

"Fangs, hm? That's easy to say coming from someone who was so recently de-clawed." Harry took his wet fingers, and he held Tom's hand, rubbing his nails and trying to remember the feel of those claws gripping his thighs, his waist, and moving inside him while—strangely—never ripping him.

Tom gasped against him, and his hand curled around Harry's fingers. Wet.

He brought Harry's fingers up to his mouth, and he sucked—like Harry's fingers and his juices were a delectable type of candy.

"So sweet," Tom moaned, his tongue lapping at Harry's fingers. Green eyes were fixed on the sight, rapt and panting at the way too-erogenous feeling of getting his fingers sucked.

"Tom," the name fell as a breathy whisper from Harry's lips. God just the sight of this man, and Harry began to feel like an angel jumping from heaven into the devil's arms, simply by the sight of him and his captivating crimson eyes. "Please, I want—"

"You do, don't you?" The words were less a tease and more like an astounded question, hypothetical and breathy, disbelieving. "Don't you?" Red eyes dilated, staring down at him, but not ready to wait for an answer.

Harry's breathing stilled, and his green eyes betrayed nothing, even as the lustful state of his body told the man all he needed to know.

"You look lovely beneath me, Lovely, grasping against and moaning for me," Tom rejoiced, red eyes on green a worshipful prayer, his gaze piercing through the young omega like a spear of realization. Fuck, his want of Harry was genuine, and if it wasn't, he was made for the London stage, wizarding world be damned.

"God, no, Tom please—" he didn't know what he wanted, what he was pleading for, but—

"Mmhm, I'll be good, please, I can be good, Alpha, please give it to me, I miss you, I want it, I want you—" Tom said suddenly, the strangely familiar words a sudden break in the moment.

"That's what you said last time, wasn't it, Darling?" He grinned, his cheeks ruddy and his eyes delighted. "Who could've thought, that the Boy-Who-Lived could want me that badly.... I, Lord Voldemort, have never felt such a great burst to my ego, such a great feat of praise for my wiles, Darling."

"No, you haven't," Harry said, suddenly mortified. He remembered those words, he remembered the way he felt at that moment, lost in pleasure and his lust for the man before him. "You've never felt that kind of burst to your ego, right? What does that say for your skill in the sheets, hm? You fucked out a newly presented, virgin omega. That doesn't mean much."

A warm chuckle. "Oh, Dearest, if you want it rough, just tell me." He leaned down, and his forehead made contact with Harry's before finely-shaped, cupid's bow lips met his own.

Instinctually, Harry found himself kissing back with equal fervour, equal passion, and he could pretend to himself that he didn't want it all day, but when he was right there, pinned underneath the alpha before him, no lies could be told, and Harry lost himself in the feeling.

Many moments later, Tom found himself pulling away, and even as Harry tried to chase after those lips once again, Tom shushed him.

"By the way, Darling, I greatly enjoyed your letter, did you know?" He breathed heavily against him, mouthing at Harry's shoulder.

"I could feel the veracity of your words, the fury that emanated with every stroke of your quill. Or perhaps...it was not fury at all, no? Perhaps..." and then he stared down at Harry, scarlet eyes greedy and leering and all too amused. "Was it because I didn't fuck you?" Tom's words were breathy against Harry's ear.

"Were my fingers not enough for you, Darling? I fucked your pert little cunt until you wept, Omega, and yet it was still not enough, hm? Do you want more?" A hand went down, and it stroked Harry's thigh slowly, seductively, so close to his warmth. Almost in a promise of what was to come. "Do you want my cock, Darling?"

Shivers wracked up Harry's spine, and his body squirmed at the feeling. Slick gushed out, and Tom smiled. "So wet already, hm? Well, that's unsurprising, considering what you were doing before summoning me oh so wantonly...."

"I—no! No, I wasn't!" He knew it was futile to lie, but Harry found himself in a shoddy attempt to protect his dignity despite it, blushing.

"No need to lie, my lovely, I can see your heart, mind, and your sweet, gorgeous body.... You can't hide, not from me." His eyes pierced through him, studying Harry's form and nodding as if he liked what he found.

Harry flushed. He wasn't exactly insecure, but he didn't think he was all that attractive. His body was lithe and pretty, perhaps, having grown curves and small, hardly noticeable breasts—common for male omegas—but he wasn't anything special, not like Lavender Brown's gorgeous charm or Cho Chang's cute and petite form. He was proud of his thighs, at least, thick and corded as they were with light muscle from many years of Quidditch training (and judging by the way Tom looked at them, so was he), but he was thin and bony, with ribs that peaked out and obvious collarbones. He had always felt a little bit like a flightless chick, small and like an ugly duckling without the swan part.

Harry wasn't all that gorgeous, perhaps a little cute in a doll-like way, but Tom...he was staring at Harry like he was an enrapturing creature, a siren meant to tempt mortal men. And Harry, dare he say it, liked it.

"I absolutely delighted in deflowering you, Darling," Tom spoke suddenly, his body shifting as he suddenly towered over Harry, his legs on either side of the omega's thighs. "And while I loved fucking you with my fingers last time, I'm afraid it wasn't enough for me. No, I have something else in mind for today, Love...."

His eyes were delighted, bright and joyful. Somehow, Harry knew he was plotting something.

His alpha leaned down, and he breathed in Harry's omega scent against his ear, nosing at his throat. "Did you know, Darling, that I have a rather...fast refractory period? Surely you remember that from our first time...."

Harry groaned, both from the man's words and the feeling of a naked hardness in between his clenched thighs, grinding against his cock. And oh, did Harry know. They went at it twice in consecutive fashion the first time, and he was fairly certain they could have gone for more if Harry wasn't so insistent on finishing it.

And then, for a single moment, Harry recalled the letter he had sent weeks ago, right after that vision.

To the sick bastard who deflowered me,

Fuck you and your cruel sick jokes. It wasn't enough what happened just days ago, you just had to be in my dreams just to pretend you could get it up to fuck me, you creepy old man! Fuck you, you damn coward and do it yourself. Not just with your fingers.

Without regards,

HP

P.S. You couldn't even fuck me, really? Why was that, you couldn't get it up? I didn't realize your refractory period was so slow.

Fuck. That bastard, he was quoting the damn letter! Was this all a joke to him?

Harry glared at him with blazing eyes, and then suddenly he rolled over and Tom was laid against the sheets with Harry on top of him, his small hands against Tom's chest, in between his hard pecs.

"I'm going to lead this time." His words came out akin to a hiss, and Harry's hands pushed Tom's shoulders down before the man could make any moves.

Fuck it. They were doing this, and he knew he was going to beat himself up for it later, but for now, Harry would be a Gryffindor and let impulse take the wheel. But he wouldn't be inactive about it, he would do it himself.

"You remember my letter, Tom? I couldn't trust you to fuck me last time, so now I'm going to do it myself." His eyes were resolute, and while Harry wanted to look as intimidating as Tom did so effortlessly, he knew by the lustful look in the man's eyes and the hardness pressed against his ass cheeks that he was anything but.

He ground down.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

"Fuuuck," Tom hissed, parseltongue slipping from his lips at the sight before him.

Harry, eyes bright with power and desire, grinding down against him and grinning. The boy was a temptress, the blessed child of Eros and Aphrodite, an Adonis in mortal form, and he was all his. Tom could hardly be any more proud of himself for taking the boy for his own.

He didn't realize that he had started calling himself Tom in his head. Perhaps it had begun with his omega moaning that name so sweetly?

Tom was paralyzed, frozen underneath Harry as the wicked boy took his pleasure. He could feel the wetness from Harry's cunt rubbing against his cock, and Tom was sure he was harder than he'd ever been before.

He'd never given someone this much power over him before, he didn't think he'd start now, but he'd be remiss to deny Harry this, to deny himself this. He could simply lay back and watch as his lovely omega, his in all ways, took Tom's cock for his own, filled himself with it and fucked himself silly.

But Tom wouldn't do that, no, of course not. If Harry wanted to play, then Tom would join the game. He leered up at the boy, and then he thrust up, meeting Harry's hole at an angle, and the head of his cock slipped into Harry's folds ever so slightly.

Harry whimpered above him, quivering. His eyes began to tear up, and Tom could feel the evidence of Harry's pleasure, from the way his omegan cock was pressed to Tom's torso and the feeling of Harry's cunt contracted against him, open and wet and ready to be filled.

"Please." The word fell from Harry's lips like a whispered prayer, a plea for a divine blessing to be showered upon him. The poor boy was so hot, wasn't he? Salazar knew how long the boy had already been pleasuring himself to no avail before Tom came along.

Well, Tom wouldn't argue against this. He smiled, and then he ground up against Harry, not yet entering him but rubbing against Harry's fluttering lips and gathering the wetness there.

He felt the way Harry slumped forward, dazed at the pleasure and begging for more, already at the edge of his climax judging by the way he whimpered above him, laid out on Tom's chest and aching.

Tom thrust up once more, and then he began to rub against his Harry, frotting against his lover's sweet hole and delighting in the pleasure, summoning the echo of Harry's own pleasure through their bond.

"Ssh, Darling, don't worry, I have you, you feel amazing around me, ssh." Tom wrapped his hands around Harry's waist, and he flipped them around. "I'll fuck you, but not yet. No, you've been naughty, Darling, and do you know what happens to naughty boys?" Red eyes leered down, relishing in the sight of Harry's tears and his slack, drooling jaw.

"Naughty boys get punished." He whispered, grinding down against Harry once again before pulling his cock away and settling it on Harry's thigh. He was ever so tempted to stay, to fill the boy with his seed and fuck it so far into him that it would take root, but he couldn't, no.

"You were so naughty, Darling," he said, his mouth against Harry's nipple and mouthing at it like a babe would its mother's breast. It wasn't enough for Harry, he knew, from the way the boy whined, but he'd take it, Tom would make sure. "Pleasuring yourself without me there to see you...slipping your fingers into my hole." Tom slapped Harry's chest, rubbing against one of Harry's nipples as the boy cried. "Be glad I could feel it, Harry, your pleasure, and be glad that I could open up our link to bring you here, so I could take care of you...."

"Fuck. You." Harry rasped, eyes half-lidded and fighting to stay open as the boy rode Tom's thigh. Tom had not forgotten about Harry's cock, but he could almost smile at the sight before him. The poor thing, it was red and weeping. The boy must be so on edge, he grinned cruelly.

Ah, well, there was nothing for it. Harry would simply wait it out.

Tom smiled kindly, and he leaned down to Harry's neck, beginning to bite and suck on the spot where Harry's small Adam's apple, common for male omegas, could be seen.

"You poor thing, so hard against me...don't worry, I have you, you just need to let me play with you for a bit." Tom thrust his cock down against Harry's, frotting against him and bringing him too close but yet too far from the crescendo of pleasure the boy would soon feel.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

The omega yelped, the sound a mixture of a moan and an enraged yell.

"This—this should have been a one-time thing! And not even that!" Harry groaned in what could either have been annoyance or pleasure as Tom continued lapping at the crux between shoulder and neck, right near his sensitive mating gland, assuaging the bite marks there.

The boy let out a deep, guttural moan as Tom bit especially near his mating gland. "You—you can't mark me, Riddle. I won't let you!" His words held an undertone of deep fear; he knew it would be a truly terrible idea to be marked by his worst enemy in such a way, but Merlin did the very idea of it feel so unjustifiably good, and it clouded his already hazy mind in just the nicest way....

Harry let out a pathetic mewl as Tom bit into the same spot again, and he was almost about to beg him to just claim him already before his human!brain kicked in just enough to make him freeze in his spot. "You—you don't want to actually claim me, do you...? I—we can't." Harry rubbed up against Tom's cock, thrusting against him unconsciously, but still searching for his pleasure.

A growl rippled in the air. Tom's growl. Harry didn't know something could sound so very hot and claiming and make him feel all warm inside but that sound did everything all at once. It made him want to be claimed by this horrible, horrible man, and wasn't that a scary thought?

"Harry, my darling," Tom looked at him with what could only be described as pure adoration, making Harry tense. "What I wouldn't give to do just that, but I have already marked you in another way, haven't I?"

Tom's hand slowly, sweetly crawled up from its spot on the back of Harry's neck to begin rubbing gently at his scar.

Harry moaned. Bolts of pleasure shocked through him at the simple touch, and it felt like he was finally whole for the first time in a long time. It was so very right.

Tom's jaw went slack. Then, he began to eye Harry like a piece of meat. "Oh, Darling, what is this? What is this little bit of pleasure that encompasses us so? What type of connection has been wrought from our union?"

He could barely manage to stitch together his words, the aftershocks of that pleasure still running through him, but he spoke dumbly, "The—connection, it's...from that night. Dum-Dumbledore said you left a bit of your magic—oh—" Harry frotted against Tom's thigh, cock hard and his soaked cunt clenching tight against nothing, desperate for any bit of friction "—please, oh fuck, please just—"

A searing gleam in Tom's eye ripped its way through Harry's pounding chest. This man stared at him as if he'd just been gifted Merlin's lost grimoire, as if Harry was a newfound prize to be treasured—no, to be conquered. And, oh, how badly did Harry want it.

It scared him, but he really, really did.

Things went quickly after that. Tom's lips claimed Harry's in moments, and the kiss deepened instantly. They were both pent up, aching for something they'd had to go without for weeks, and they hadn't gone all the way for longer. Harry was already sore and aching from his fingers earlier, and all he wanted was for Tom to impale him on his cock already. To make himself clear, he began to hump against Tom's thigh, kissing up the man's neck, sucking lightly, shyly. "Alpha, please, I want you. Fuck, I need you in me, it's not enough I need your cock!"

A long moan left Tom's lips, and then he began to climb down Harry, squeezing his thighs and spreading his legs wide open.

Harry quivered in anticipation.

With the first thrust of Tom's cock, Harry melted as his cunt squeezed Tom in.

Fuck. It was too good. The stretch was amazing, and his pounding ache had settled into warm tingles of delectable contentment as Tom moved inside of him, ploughing him through.

For many long minutes, Harry moaned and pushed back down as Tom kept fucking him, the thick squelch of slick and slapping skin loud in his ears. His hands were wrapped tightly around Tom's shoulders—knowingly feeling up his delectable back muscles—while Tom's hands were on either side of Harry's head.

He felt trapped like this in the best of ways. Tom was over him, within him, piercing every bit of Harry. God, the feeling was amazing. It was almost better than their first time because now, they were...doing this knowingly and willingly.

Merlin, just the thought! If anyone had ever told Harry before that he'd enjoy getting buggered by Lord Voldemort, then he'd have dragged them up to McGonagall's office and gotten that person sent up to the Janus Thickey Ward. Now, though, Harry found that he enjoyed the feeling all too much to ever let go of it.

Soon enough, their pleasure began to crescendo, and Harry could feel his end coming forward. "Ah, I'm—I'm gonna cum!"

A smile. He leaned down to Harry's ear, panting. "Then cum, Darling."

Harry spasmed as he came, his body heavy with satisfaction. Bloody hell, where did Lord Voldemort get off having such an attractive voice? It was seriously unfair, a right and true crime against the crown that was.

Tom was still thrusting. Even as Harry's ejaculate soaked both of their chests, Tom still kept thrusting into him, the flood of Harry's slick simply paving the way for more. He felt so tired—aching, but yet his body was still ready for more.

The look on his face must have shown how he felt because Tom smirked down at him. "Oh, my darling, did you think we were done?" His eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure. "I'll enjoy taking you, Darling. All. Night. Long."

Drat. This was his own fault for commenting on the bastard's refractory period in his letter, wasn't it?

Well, let it not be said that Harry wasn't a teenage boy. He'd gladly take it. It wasn't exactly much of a punishment, he grinned. He'd enjoy this while it lasted.

Chapter Text

Harry held the thin crystal phial up to eye level.

Shimmery blue-green liquid glittered within, sloshing against the sides. It looked sweet, almost appetizing, but Harry knew better.

It tasted savoury with an inexplicable oily taste, almost like drinking pure fat from an unseasoned roast chicken with too much salt. Unique, he knew, but he's had worse-tasting potions in the Hogwarts hospital wing. Despite that, he still didn't like this potion. Not just for its taste, but for what it stood for.

A contraceptive.

It was worth it, Harry knew, but it was still strange to think that he was now sexually active. And he was very active indeed. He had to hold back an embarrassing giggle at the memory of his...activities.

Harry wasn't sure he needed the potion, of course. It was just a dream, no matter how vivid, but...

A flush rose in his neck and cheeks. He was beet red and had a stupid smile on his face. Fuck.

This time couldn't be any more different from the last two times. He...he liked it. He practically initiated it and wasn't truly upset that it happened. The guilt had faded to a dull ache, and for his own peace of mind, Harry resolved to simply not think about it.

He was happy, at least a little. He woke up that morning fully satisfied. His sheets were soaked with his cum, but it was still early so he was able to sneak down and wash up, doing the laundry without his relatives noticing. He opened the window to air out his room and everything, and he used a truly egregious amount of air freshener.

Harry was sore and aching from the night before, but he wasn't sure if it was simply from his own fingers or his dream. Bloody hell, it was so real, but it was still a dream, right? Voldemort—no, Tom (Harry could call him Tom) couldn't get through the wards, right? He hoped not. So it must have been only a dream.

But he still couldn't risk it. Harry had heard enough myths—both magical and muggle—talking about some kind of magical conception or something. Magic was weird, and pregnancy via shared dream could probably still happen, and he didn't want to risk it, not with his luck. The existence of the prophecy tempted fate to mess with his life enough as it was; he wouldn't dance on the tightrope of potential parenthood just yet.

There was no harm to be done, considering Tom had originally sent him a full dozen contraceptive potions, so Harry drank, gulping it down quickly.

He gagged and coughed into his fist, he wasn't being dramatic one bit, that's how bad it was. The taste was utterly foul, but he knew it was worth it.

Harry couldn't get pregnant. He could not get pregnant from his parents' murderer. Not only was he far too young, he could still hardly fathom being...okay with sleeping with him—as long as nothing changed in the war, perhaps—so having to birth his kid? Yeah, no, he'd opt out.

It was with that thought in his mind that Harry sat down at his rickety disk to eat his rations for the morning. He just made the breakfast himself, and he relished in looking a bedraggled Petunia straight in the eyes as he spirited upstairs a plate of a full English breakfast. I can get used to not being starved this summer, he laughed. If the Dursleys tried anything, Harry was more than willing to pull out his wand to threaten them.

He had already passed the point of no return with Bellatrix in the Ministry, and he didn't regret that one bit. I wouldn't regret it now, either, he thought.

It felt like something had cracked inside of him that day, an invisible barrier that kept at bay some hidden darkness within him had been destroyed, and it all began with the death of Sirius, and then perhaps with his and Voldemort's burgeoning sexual relationship.

Harry's brows furrowed. He wasn't quite sure what to think about the thing going on with Tom and him, but one thing was for certain, he wasn't allowing Voldemort to fuck him silly, it was Tom. After, and even during, that first time, it was Tom. And something in Harry flourished simply by seeing him. It was sick, and he almost felt dirty for it, but a part of him knew that it wasn't his responsibility to be a martyr for the Wizarding World. He didn't want that. If he wanted Tom, then so be it. The man clearly wanted him in turn, and they were bonded in a way so deep that they were drawn together and shared dreams on the spectral plane. Harry didn't care about the prophecy, not really, and he felt that maybe the man he saw in his dreams didn't deserve to get vanquished, not when he wasn't the same Voldemort Harry had met in that graveyard.

Whatever the Room did to him, he's different, Harry thought. And I want to give him a chance.

Harry resolved to try. He resolved to hope and be exactly the kind of bleeding heart everyone always said Gryffindors were. He hoped he wouldn't regret it. He probably wouldn't live to, even if he did.

And then while he was eating, after he had given Hedwig her due share, a rather wide tawny owl flew in through the open window, letting in a gust of blistering summer air. The thing stared at him with haughty, beady yellow eyes. It held an article from the Daily Prophet tightly in its claws, and Harry knew it wouldn't relinquish its prize without due payment.

So of course, he dropped a few knuts in the payment pouch and grabbed the paper. The owl flew out with a hoot, and Harry flopped onto his bed.

"You see this, girl?" He held up the front page of the Prophet to Hedwig, not caring that she probably didn't know or care about whatever was on it. "It's probably gonna be some hogwash speculation from the aurors again."

That's basically what the Prophet amounted to these days. With Voldemort officially back, the Wizarding World was in a state of disarray; everyone was clambering for more information and hunkering down for another war, complete with muggle and muggleborn raids.

Harry was preparing for it too, and he dearly hoped Hermione and her parents were safe, hopefully on vacation outside of the country. Preferably somewhere remote, like Canada or something. He'd never heard of Death Eaters in Canada.

But strangely, nothing happened. Nothing at all. No raids, no news, and no movements from Voldemort. From Tom.

Harry would have been almost overjoyed had he not known all about the ability Voldemort had previously demonstrated in controlling the Prophet. The damn thing was the Ministry's propaganda machine, and everything in it was written at the whims of the pureblood elite, aka a group made up of mostly Death Eaters or sympathizers with the intent of squashing the so-called 'lesser' underneath their dragonhide boots via control of propaganda production, i.e. the media. Merlin, he sounded a lot like Hermione just by thinking that; her lectures must have taken root.

And so, Harry sat to read through the Daily Prophet with a fine-toothed comb, ready to read between the lines for any strange happenings. Fortunately for him, he didn't need to do any of that. He simply had to look at the front page.

Lord Thomas Slytherin Revives Olde House! Reclaims Wizengamot Seat!

Harry choked. Immediately, he choked on the remnants of bacon in his mouth. He laid there dying on the ground for many long minutes until he composed himself, took a nice long sip of orange juice (really, he was spoiling himself that day with the juice), and went to actually read the article in hopes of it being a sham.

It wasn't.

For something written by Rita Skeeter, the damn thing was being completely truthful. Turns out that with something this mind-boggling, the eccentric woman had hardly a need to embellish.

Lord Fucking Voldemort AKA Tom Riddle AKA Thomas Slytherin (he had to put the paper down just to come to terms with the ostentatiousness of the man's new title) was now in the Wizengamot, claiming the name of Thomas Marvolo Slytherin and very, very obviously hinting at being Voldemort's illegitimate son with an unnamed muggleborn witch who fled during the war for her own safety.

Harry choked again, but on his spit this time.

Fuck, what was Tom getting at? He was plotting, and most of it went over Harry's head, but taking on the Slytherin name? Resurrecting the 'Olde and Esteemed House of Slytherin'? And then changing the Wizengamot alignment of the seat to Grey rather than Dark? He had to be doing something. Was this some kind of Ministry takeover? Had he already taken over the Ministry? Were his friends okay?

The questions whirled through Harry's head like a mini-tornado, and he wasn't sure what to do. So, he sat down and began to think, clearing his head.

Okay, so what did Harry know?

1. Tom was now going by Thomas Slytherin and has claimed a Wizengamot Seat with multiple votes, and therefore a lot of influence.
2. He's pretending to be his own son. For what purpose? And why is he simply implying it rather than admitting it outright?
3. He's changed Slytherin House's political alignment to Grey. Why isn't he Dark?
4. Voldemort was now known to be alive, but Tom still decided to fool the masses. Why?
5. Dumbledore must know the truth, and his position as Chief Warlock has been reinstated, so what's going on? Is he doing anything about Tom? How can he let this happen?

All in all, he didn't know much. It was all so very confusing and Harry needed more info. Picking up the paper, he began to scrutinize it once more for any details he might have missed.

There weren't any apparent details, not until the picture caught his eye and absorbed his attention. Harry blushed at the sight, studying it rigorously.

Harry's gaze was fixed on shiny dark hair and glimmering eyes. Tom's hair was perfectly coiffed with a single curl laid neatly on his forehead, and his eyes were as dark as coals with an almost reddish gleam, with the real shade perhaps hidden under a glamour. A charming smile danced on his lips, looking almost sheepishly confident but proud of himself, a strange but fitting dichotomy for the mask of Thomas Slytherin. The smile was an act, Harry was sure, calculated and confident as the man was, but it suited Tom all the same.

Tom in the picture held up a hand, waving it slowly at the camera to show off his lordship rings, and Harry's gaze was caught on a twisted gold ring with a kind of angular black stone embedded within. There was a strange symbol on it, but it was too blurry to see. Was it some type of heirloom or lordship ring? Perhaps not, considering Tom wore what could only be the Slytherin ring on his middle finger, an elegant monster of a piece with a thick silver band and a round, spherical emerald gem embedded in the middle. That thing positively screamed Slytherin.

Merlin, Harry thought, is this what he's been doing?

It explained so much, and the frigid hurt that Harry spent his free time nursing began to melt, at least a little. Frustration still laid heavy in his gut, but he could understand why Tom had been so busy, now. He was glad he knew.

For the past handful of weeks, he'd been so angry, but more than that, Harry had been...pent up, as one could say.

Harry's spent...time with himself, whenever the Dursleys were gone or sleep, in hopes of triggering another vision like before. It was to no avail, of course. He drifted off to sleep feeling frustrated and forgotten, despite his orgasms, and it just wasn't enough. He simply felt a roiling need in his gut that had yet to be assuaged.

Now that he knew what being bedded by an alpha was like, what being bedded by Tom was like, he could never get enough of it. It was very, very frustrating, and his inner omega was feeling upset and abandoned. Logically speaking, he knew that Tom might not have time for him, but tell that to his hormones. His omega was just so upset that his alpha (yes, his despite them not being bonded) was ignoring him, when they were still so new!

Then in his sleep, or perhaps right after Harry had just gotten himself through a pitiful orgasm (at least compared to actually being with Tom, and feeling that addictive, almost painful intensity) and his eyes were flitting shut, he could feel something tingling in his scar, a foreign feeling in the back of his mind. A strange mixture of amusement and frustrated, possessive lust poked at him. He could almost convince himself it was from Tom. But if that was the truth, then where was he every night?

Could he not spare any time for Harry? Did he not want him? Was he bored of him? A part of Harry, the omega part, felt like crying whenever the crushing feeling of abandonment seemed to hit, but then the rest of him began to grow angry, and most nights, he sizzled with it. He needed to see Tom again, just to give him the scolding of a lifetime.

The man just...ignored him. Just like right after the first time, there was nothing. Harry knew it was stupid. They didn't have a real relationship, so he shouldn't be hurt. But he was. It felt like a kick in the gut. He was so upset, especially now that he was finally at least semi-okay with sleeping with him, so he wanted to do it more often, but then the man just...didn't come.

Harry found himself angry. Angry and frustrated.

So one night, he got it into his head that he wanted to give Tom some payback, and so he focused on his scar, on the thought of Tom, and he fell into a deep sleep.

The weight of his own mind crushed him, and Harry could feel himself floating in inky darkness as he felt for something. That something turned out to be a thick, spiritual rope connecting them.

Harry reached out and pulled.

He fell.

He didn't dream, not really. Instead, he had a vision. It was so very hazy, more closely akin to the dreams he'd had in fourth year of the scaley-little golem form of Tom (and it was so strange to think that his Tom could have come from that) than the dreams as of recent.

Harry sat tall on his gilded throne, looking down upon his inner circle of Death Eaters sitting upon their own chairs on a long, dark wooden table. Elegance dripped from the room, his eyes catching on neat stone walls and polished hardwood floors. The ceiling loomed high above, and he could only see darkness. There were no windows, and Harry had no idea where he was. But at the same time, he did. He felt like there was nothing more natural than to be where he was, powerful and unyielding, in control of the wixen who followed him.

The power was thrilling, and memories of times long past flashed through his mind, too quick for Harry to grasp.

There were murmurs and whispers, acknowledgements of my lord and master and a warm coil of satisfaction nestled in his gut.

Harry smirked darkly, his pale, serpentine fingers tapping at the armrest of his magnificent throne. Yes, this was where he should be, where he was meant to be. The only thing that could make this better would be his presence. His eyes flashed.

The image of fierce emerald eyes and a fearless grin came to mind. That boy...he was bewildered by how quickly he came to be bewitched by him. For so long, he wanted nothing more than to kill him, than to make him bleed for his transgressions. But now...his feelings couldn't be any more different.

He wanted him. He wanted to always be with him, to see him at his side, on his side, but yet not at his feet. No, his darling omega wouldn't be anything like his followers, he would not kneel before him. That was what attracted him in the first place. It wasn't simply his looks or seductive—no matter how unpracticed—wiles, it was that look he could see in his eyes.

Harry wasn't afraid. He could see the fear in his body, the way his muscles twitched and his body twisted away from him, ready to run at a moment's notice. But there was no fear in his eyes, not a hint.

Harry Potter had always stared at him with sheer hatred, to the extent that Lord Voldemort wanted nothing more than to make him afraid, but yet that evening at the Ministry, the boy gazed at him so lustfully, he bent for him so prettily, and he was like no omega he'd ever met. Lost in his lust as he was, the boy begged, yes, but there was no moment he was truly subservient, and he never broke under Voldemort's passion, no, not like many of his earlier lovers once had.

Instead, his sweet Harry met him glare for glare, thrust for thrust, and he played their little game so well that he simply had to have him again. It was almost fun. No one had challenged him like that before, and all the hatred and bloodlust that Voldemort previously felt for the boy simply...shifted. The speed at which his feelings for the boy changed could almost be terrifying for a man such as he, emotionless and cold as he was, but Harry simply engendered a type of passionate desire he'd never felt before.

That day at the Ministry, he didn't want the boy afraid, he wanted him...well, there was no word for it. He wanted Harry to look at him the way he did that day, with lust-bright eyes that gazed at him adoringly, as if he held the sun, but with an iron spine that would never fully bend. He was utterly dazzled by the sight of that unruly child, and he couldn't help but make him his.

He ached for Harry's unyielding devotion, but not for his servitude. He wanted Harry to stand with him willingly, and he would, but the boy would never bend for him in any way other than in bed. He wanted the boy willing, but he wanted him to fight. Harry would stand at his side, but he would not be a follower. He would be his omega, his equal, and the crown jewel of the Dark. After all, what was an alpha without his omega?

He always did love shiny things, and Harry simply sparkled, not just with eyes as green as the killing curse, but with a sort of vivacity and fiery life to him that Voldemort had never even seen in himself, let alone anyone that he'd ever met. Harry was simply intriguing, and he was pulled in.

His thin lips twisted into a sardonic grin, and that's when Harry felt a type of mental feeler prodding at his mind.

He was subsequently wrenched out of Tom's head, but not before hearing..."Hello, Harry. Miss me? As do I, but it was rude to enter my mind unannounced."

And that's when Harry woke up, with dawn's rays shining dimly in the early morning over his sweaty and sleep-hazy form.

When his eyes burst open, Harry practically jumped out of bed, tripping onto the ground and bracing his fall with an inelegant roll.

He groaned from his spot on the carpet, thumping his head against the floor. Fuck.

Harry would later say that his little foray into dream walking had been a disaster, considering it hadn't gone at all like he'd intended, but...he wouldn't be so sure of that.

Harry flushed a bright crimson. He could still remember the thoughts running through his head in that vision, the way Tom thought of him.

He was right, Tom's desire for him was genuine. His insecurities were assuaged, now, but that brought up another question...what the hell was Harry doing?

The way Tom thought of him, the sheer desire and lust Harry could feel in his thoughts...it was serious. This wasn't some type of fling or anything like one of Harry's normal misadventures, this was Tom wanting Harry at his side, as his mate, even. He wanted Harry to join him. But would he?

No.

The answer was so quick to cross his mind that Harry sighed in relief. He wasn't...compromised, not really. He wouldn't join Voldemort just because he liked sleeping with him. He couldn't. But where did that leave him? Them? There would be a war, and they'd be at opposite ends of it. There wouldn't be room for any type of relationship. Er, situationship, he corrected. Not that the distinction mattered much when this wasn't exactly a normal fling. It never would be, if Tom had his way.

Suddenly, Harry remembered an earlier thought of his, and it struck him with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. A war bride. Tom...he wanted Harry to be a war bride. Or something akin to it, at least.

The flush on Harry's face grew. Could he be? A war bride...just the thought was—no, of course not.

Harry wouldn't be some kind of leader of the Light. That was Dumbledore, and Harry already knew he was a chess piece for the man to use in his game of war.

But this...well, if he wanted to, Harry could easily clear the board and play a new game entirely. He'd be the queen to Tom's king. And wasn't the queen more powerful than the king? His lips twitched.

Obviously, he was not considering it, except for the part where he was.

His loyalty lied firstly with his friends, and then perhaps with the betterment of the Wizarding World afterwards. If that goal aligned with the Light, then fine, he could handle it, but he couldn't stand at the forefront of the Light, not if Harry had any chance at all of influencing Tom. He'd stick with him, now that he knew he could. He wouldn't betray his friends, and his loyalty wouldn't change. He'd simply have a new...strategy, one could say. After all, isn't it said, if you can't beat them, join them?

Tom would never let him leave, and perhaps Harry didn't want to, not when he knew the power he held.

He knew that he had power, that just this situation gave him power that he never could have had before. He didn't want power for the sake of it, but if Harry could use this power to protect the people he cared for, he would.

Tom wanted him, and Harry would never use that against him, not necessarily, but he knew that the Light had no chance of winning. Even in the first Wizarding War, Tom would have won had he not gone to Godric's Hollow that night. This time, with his sanity back, he'd be far more likely to succeed.

Harry wouldn't hope that he would, necessarily, but if Tom did, and still had an interest in him, then Harry would stay at his side. He would keep him from doing anything drastic, and he'd protect the people he cared for as much as he was able to.

"...But he shall have power the Dark Lord knows not..."

The phrase crossed his mind in the quiet of the morning, the bird's song high and trilling in the air as Harry began to nod off once more, and he smiled vaguely as he fell into sleep, his mind already falling back into unconsciousness.

Yeah, that sounds right, he thought, drifting off into sleep for that precious hour before Aunt Petunia would violently rap on his door to wake him up.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

There was a letter, a simple letter written on yellowed parchment. It wasn't anything special, but it was now creased from being rolled and unrolled over and over again. Harry couldn't help it, not really. It was less what it was, and more what it said that made Harry feel this way.

The letter was from Dumbledore. It was a simple letter, but it had come that Monday, just a few days ago, telling him that Dumbledore would be coming to pick him up.

Harry would finally leave the Dursleys this summer.

A heavy weight fell from his shoulders, and Harry began to finally breathe. He was certainly worried for a moment there. He thought that perhaps Dumbledore would be upset, enraged more likely, about the way Harry destroyed his office a few months ago. He didn't feel guilty for it, not in the least, but perhaps, maybe he now thought that he could have done something other than destroy Dumbledore's office and potentially risk his chance of a good summer.

But that didn't matter anymore. Dumbledore was going to pick him up. Today. Harry let out a calming breath, still staring down at the driveway from his window, his trunk at his side with Hedwig's cage next to it. He'd been packed for hours, and Hedwig had been sent off to Grimmauld already earlier that morning. Now, all that was left was to leave.

He couldn't wait.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Harry Potter was sleeping soundly, his head against the windowpane and his glasses askew as he snored. He'd been sitting on the desk chair for the better part of four hours, staring down at the darkening street, until he finally fell into a fitful sleep to pass the time.

His room was small and not all that neat, littered with apple cores and owl feathers and school notes and half-eaten sugar quills. There was a stack of newspapers laid on his bed, ragged and wet with orange juice from breakfast, but it was still legible.

It read:

Harry Potter: The Chosen One?

The first piece wasn't anything too special, it was simply Rita Skeeter and her ilk hypothesizing and gossiping about the scandal of the Ministry, and the return of Lord Voldemort. And then, it also spoke of the Boy-Who-Lived, their chosen one. Could it be, was Harry Potter destined to defeat the Dark Lord? They did not know, but they were more than willing to speculate. Rumours ran rampant about a prophecy, one between the Dark Lord and Harry Potter, and bugs like Skeeter were more than willing to publicize it, whether they believed it existed or not.

The other articles weren't any more interesting, but they were a little more concrete and more befitting of the title of news article rather than gossip rag, as Skeeter's works usually were. Perhaps the woman would be better off as a famous novelist rather than a reporter, this narrator mused.

The second article, right after the first rag, was this:

Scrimgeour Succeeds Fudge

Rufus Scrimgeour, previously Head of the Auror office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, has succeeded Cornelius Fudge as Minister of Magic. The appointment has largely been greeted with enthusiasm by the Wizarding community, though rumours of a rift between the new Minister and Albus Dumbledore, newly reinstated Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, surfaced within hours of Scrimgeour taking office.

Scrimgeour's representatives admitted that he had met with Dumbledore at once upon taking possession of the top job, but refused to comment on the topics under discussion. Albus Dumbledore is known to (ctd. page 3, column 2)

To the left of this paper sat another, which had been folded so that a story bearing the title MINISTRY GUARANTEES STUDENTS' SAFETY was visible.

Newly appointed Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, spoke today of the tough new measures taken by his Ministry to ensure the safety of students returning to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this autumn.

"For obvious reasons, the Ministry will not be going into detail about its stringent new security plans," said the Minister, although an insider confirmed that measures include defensive spells and charms, a complex array of countercurses, and a small task force of Aurors dedicated solely to the protection of Hogwarts School.

Most seem reassured by the new Minister's tough stand on student safety. Said Mrs. Augusta Longbottom, "My grandson, Neville a good friend of Harry Potter's, incidentally, who fought the Death Eaters alongside him at the Ministry in June and—"

This was the last actual article, but there in the tiny, dirty room lay a purple leaflet on the ground, sent from the Ministry along with the post.

ISSUED ON BEHALF OF

The Ministry of Magic

PROTECTING YOUR HOME AND FAMILY AGAINST DARK FORCES

The Wizarding community is currently under threat from an organization calling itself the Death Eaters. Observing the following simple security guidelines will help protect you, your family, and your home from attack.

1. You are advised not to leave the house alone.

2. Particular care should be taken during the hours of darkness. Wherever possible, arrange to complete journeys before night has fallen.

3. Review the security arrangements around your house, making sure that all family members are aware of emergency measures such as Shield and Disillusionment Charms, and, in the case of underage family members, Side-Along-Apparition.

4. Agree on security questions with close friends and family so as to detect Death Eaters masquerading as others by use of the Polyjuice Potion (see page 2).

5. Should you feel that a family member, colleague, friend, or neighbor is acting in a strange manner, contact the Magical Law Enforcement Squad at once. They may have been put under the Imperius Curse (see page 4).

6. Should the Dark Mark appear over any dwelling place or other building, DO NOT ENTER, but contact the Auror office immediately.

7. Unconfirmed sightings suggest that the Death Eaters may now be using Inferi (see page 10). Any sighting of an Inferius, or encounter with same, should be reported to the Ministry IMMEDIATELY.

Harry groaned in his sleep, shifting on the rickety old chair. On the sill, an old alarm clock that he'd repaired years ago ticked loudly, showing one minute til eleven. Beside it, held in place by Harry's hand, was a piece of parchment in thin, slanted handwriting. The poor parchment was creased to high heaven and flat as a board, such was how intently Harry had studied it the past three days.

The note read:

Dear Harry,

If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive this coming Friday at eleven P.M. to escort you to the Burrow, where you have been invited to spend the remainder of your school holidays.

If you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance in a matter to which I hope to attend on the way to the Burrow. I shall explain this more fully when I see you.

Kindly send your answer by return of this owl. Hoping to see you this Friday,

I am, yours most sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Harry slept, waiting.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Bile rose up in Harry's throat. He felt sick, almost nauseous.

Ever since the surreal moment when the strange and colourful Dumbledore stepped inside the cold and sterile Number Four, Harry's thoughts wouldn't stop ping-ponging about in his head. He had a headache.

The whole visit—short as it was—Dumbledore made it clear that he knew exactly what type of people the Dursleys were, and he made it clear that he didn't care. He cared more about the bloody protection than Harry's own safety. Not like Tom, who stared at him like a gift, like a prize or a jewel to be treasured and protected. Nothing like that.

The man simply made a perfunctory attempt at getting the Dursleys to treat him better, almost as if he wanted to be able to say, "See, I tried!

Dumbledore looked at Harry the same way he always did, like a kindly old grandfather. But there was something behind those eyes. Something steely and almost sad. Guarded. Harry didn't know what it was.

His head was in the clouds for the whole meeting, and his despair bubbled like acid in his chest with every word spoken. When Dumbledore summoned Kreacher and Harry found that he was Sirius's heir, a sad smile rose on his face, and he asked, "Really? So, does that mean—does that mean I can stay at headquarters next summer?" He gazed up into Dumbledore's eyes for barely half a second before ducking down to look at his chin instead, recalling the man's proficiency in legilimency and his own lack of ability to shield his mind. He doubted Dumbledore would violate his privacy in such a way, but he'd rather not risk him plucking thoughts from Harry's head.

"No, my boy, I'm afraid not." Professor Dumbledore shook his head. "It's far too dangerous. You are young Sirius's heir, yes, and a Black by blood through your grandmother, Dorea Potter nee Black, but the protection granted to you for however long you call this house 'home' is truly invaluable in the fight against Voldemort."

"But—" Harry was about to speak, he was about to voice his questions, but Dumbledore held up a pale, wrinkly hand before standing up with a long groan.

"No buts, young Harry. I'm afraid it's important that you stay. You only have one summer left before you come of age, surely you wouldn't like to abandon your family so quickly, hm?" He smiled, looking for all the world like a genial old man. But the smile didn't reach his eyes, and Harry couldn't believe how he'd never noticed before. "After all they've done for you, even."

Harry shifted, and his eyes grew dull as he looked down. He mumbled a quick "Of course, Sir" as he grabbed his things and followed Dumbledore out the door.

At the man's behest, he put out his invisibility cloak and followed him to the end of Privet Drive. And a few moments later, he was being asked to grab Dumbledore's hand. Then, everything went black and he was forced through an extremely thin tube.

His eyes refused to open, his eardrums were bursting and his skin stretched painfully. He couldn't feel his body and air escaped his lungs. Iron bands wrapped around his chest. Harry tried to scream and then it just—stopped.

I'm finally on solid land again, he thought, his legs shaky until he finally managed to steady himself a few minutes later.

He was now in Budleigh Babberton.

And then an hour later, he was apparated again and was placed right in front of Grimmauld Place.

The meeting with Slughorn went rather well, all things considered. Harry and Dumbledore talked a bit, and Harry felt rather like a silent spectator when Slughorn and Dumbledore were conversing. Then, when Dumbledore exited the room, Harry got the distinct impression it was rather purposeful of the man.

When talking with Horace Slughorn, Harry felt like he was a shiny trinket on display in an auction house, dangled in front of an experienced collector dead set on purchasing him. And that's what Slughorn was: a collector.

Harry felt slimy hearing the man talk about Sirius when he'd only just died less than a month ago. He was talking about wanting to collect a—a matched set in Sirius and his late brother Regulus! He only barely managed to hold in his anger, and he knew he would not look forward to learning DADA from the man. Slughorn just didn't seem the type. He'd be a better politician than a teacher, most certainly.

Finally, he felt like he could breathe once he entered Grimmauld. But then a heavy weight settled on him, and he felt almost like choking.

The place, the entrance hall, had been cleaned up. There were no more mounted house elf heads or troll foot umbrella stands, the dark aura of the room had completely vanished, and Harry could feel something tightening in his chest. He was pretty sure the wallpaper was also redone.

"Merlin," he choked. "Sirius would have loved this."

Harry stood there for barely half a second more, just taking it all in, before his eyes settled near the door to the kitchen. He paused.

"Ron! Hermione!" There they were, camped out in the entrance room and staring straight at Harry with misty eyes. He ran to them.

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry!" Hermione yanked him into a hug, and Ron wrapped Harry up in his thick bear arms. That git, Harry scowled half-heartedly, he got a growth spurt! But it was all for the best, as Harry practically melted into their arms as a part of him purred in exultation.

"I missed you guys. So much."

"We missed you too, mate." Ron ducked out of the hug, his hand clamping on Harry's shoulder. "We really didn't want to leave you like that after—after...well, you know."

Hermione nodded quickly, her bushy hair following along. "Yes! We're so sorry, Harry. Letters just weren't enough. Honestly, you just lost your godfather! You shouldn't have been left with those relatives of yours."

A pang hit him in the chest, and his eyes went all misty. "Yeah, I know, I get it...."

"But we're glad you're here, Harry." A familiar voice said, walking up to Harry. Ginny.

Harry beamed, and when Ginny got close, he was hardly even startled when she swung her arm around his shoulders. "So, everyone...let's all sit. We got a lot to catch up on."

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

It was now late in the evening, and they didn't get much more than a late snack from Mrs Weasley when she forced some light soup and bread down Harry's throat, calling him peaky and raving all about those "terrible muggles, have they even been feeding the boy, Albus?"

Ironic, Harry thought, considering I've been fed the most I've ever been with them this summer.

Afterwards, they were all rushed off to bed. Harry and Ron shared the same room as last time, and Ginny and Hermione had a room a few doors down from theirs.

Harry felt as light as a feather that morning, happy to finally be back with his friends, when the post came in.

Lord Slytherin Proposes New Creature Bill! Chief Warlock Dumbledore Vetos?

Butterflies fluttered in Harry's stomach the moment he saw the paper. He gazed meaningfully at Tom's handsome face for many long moments before Hermione snatched the paper out of his hands.

"This makes no sense!" Hermione cried as she read the paper. Her eyebrow was twitching with consternation, as if she had finally hit a puzzle she couldn't solve.

"What'dya mean, 'Mione?" Ron slurred, chewing on his bacon. Ginny was sat across from them, while Harry was in between Ron and Hermione. Everyone else had already eaten, they were just having a late breakfast. Except for Ron. He was on his seconds, perhaps thirds if he kept filching his mum's heavenly bread rolls.

"Riddle! Slytherin! Whatever he wants to be called!" Hermione's snarl was filled with all the rage of a scorned Ravenclaw, Gryffindor though she was. Harry hadn't seen her that upset since she ragged about missing some of the bonus questions on her Ancient Runes OWLs. "He's—this is—ugh! You-Know-Who is in the Ministry and no one cares!"

Harry hummed, ducking his head. He didn't say anything, not sure what to say even if he opened his mouth.

"He's proposing this new law—about creatures. This law would appropriate Ministry funding to give Wolfsbane potion to every werewolf in need, as well as a mandated three-day paid break around the full moon. It's called the Wolfsbane Appropriation Bill. And it's so—"

"—reasonable?" Harry finished for her.

Hermione gave a dull blink, looking at him in shock before she replied. "I—yes. It really is, and the fact that it's You-Know-Who.... Merlin, Harry, I have no idea how you're so alright when talking about this. I thought you'd be angry."

"I am. Yes. Er...it's just...how are we sure it's even Voldemort? He had a snake face last I saw him. And now some man is in the Ministry, hinting that he's his son? He could actually be..." Harry didn't finish. He couldn't even look Hermione in the eye and he was staring pointedly at a fleck of dust on Ginny's shoulder so as to not have to look at Hermione as he so obviously lied.

Ginny shook her head, aiming a raised eyebrow Harry's way. She looked confused. "No, Harry, it's him. His voice, on the radio, it sounds the same. And I never saw Tom's face but sometimes in dreams...I see him. I used to see him and you in the Chamber together. And this, this is You-Know-Who, Harry." She set down her fork with a clank and pushed her food away. Her eyes slipped down to her clenched hands, perhaps remembering the way they had once been streaked with the blood of innocent roosters.

Harry startled. "Gin—"

"You remember that?!" Ron's shouts echoed in the dining room, his face going pale. "Ginny, I thought you didn't..."

"I do. It's only a little, but whatever magic that Tom took from me, it did return, and so did a memory or two of his. Just of the times he was possessing me. I've been remembering over the years, what happened, and now I remember the Chamber, too." She looked her brother straight in the eyes, daring him to challenge her. Her face was hard, and her expression betrayed nothing.

"I'm so sorry, Ginny." Harry didn't know what he was sorry for. What was he supposed to say? Sorry, Ginny, for fucking the man who almost killed you? But I can't feel sorry because he was the best lay of my life? How pitiful he was.

Harry suddenly felt sick. He wanted to flee the room.

"Harry!" And that's when his saving grace arrived. It was Lupin. He looked rail thin and exhausted, and his tweed jacket had probably seen better days, but his amber eyes were warm when he looked down at Harry. "Can we talk?"

A relieved smile lit up his face.

They quickly fled the kitchen, and they went into the same tapestry room with the blasted-off picture of Sirius on the family tree.

Harry touched it, feeling the rough fabric and tracing the lines. Then he saw Dorea Black and her husband Charlus Potter and he thought, yeah, these are my grandparents.

"I wish I knew more about them," Harry said, filling the silence of the room. The air was stale and dusty, and a few knickknacks littered the old bookshelves instead of books. No one had stepped foot in this room for a while. "I don't think I ever knew them at all."

Lupin collapsed onto a plush armchair. Harry could hear his back cracking painfully at the new position, and he noted how close to the full moon it was. With a blink, he realized the man only had a few days left. No wonder he was so tired....

He waved for Harry to sit on the adjoining chaise before asking, "Do you want me to tell you?" He looked sad, and he gazed down at the ground with a mournful sigh.

"Please...Remus. Moony." Harry had never said it before, always calling the man by his surname, but he and Sirius were close, and a part of Harry wanted that closeness, too. He was willing to grasp it with both hands.

Amber eyes softened, and then Remus opened his mouth to weave a long and impossibly plausible story about his Hogwarts days with Sirius and his dad. Pettigrew was conspicuously left out, and Remus brushed over his mum's part in these stories a few times.

Time stood still in that room, and Harry and Remus would spend many days there together that summer, recalling the Marauders' Hogwarts days and remembering Sirius. Somehow, Harry felt even closer to the man than he ever did in life, just by hearing these stories.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

"This better work," Harry grumbled. He wanted to listen, he was so deadset on it. The Order had been keeping things from him, from them all, long enough.

"Don't worry, mate, Fred and George tested it already. I reckon the blasted thing will work. Just give it a few." Ron gave the device a sharp wack, and then Harry felt the sharp buzz of magic fill the air.

"Huh." Ginny raised an eyebrow. "Well, that worked."

All four of them were camped out in Harry and Ron's room. They'd stolen some chairs and dragged them near a desk on the wall in between Ron and Harry's beds. A device reminiscent of something in between a radio and a muggle walkie-talkie was plopped on the table, and static came out once Hermione twisted the on button. They'd planted the device's double in a cupboard within the meeting room, and they doubted the Order would find it.

"How's it work?" Ron grumbled, fiddling with it and waiting for words to come out. "Blimey, it's nothing like a radio. What's it supposed to be? It's not like one of those fellytones either."

Hermione took it from him with an "It's telephones, Ronald" and placed the listening device next to a pamphlet she'd taken out. It looked similar to an instruction manual, if instruction manuals were a bright, sunny orange with multicoloured words and different fonts that somehow barely managed to toe the line between visually chaotic and migraine-inducing. "Here, I think I've got it...let me see."

She played with it for a few before the static quieted. Then she pressed another button, and they could hear people speak. It was it, now. The Order.

"—mn it, Albus! We need to do something! That monster is in the Ministry and you want us to do nothing?" It sounded like Moody, his voice raspy and familiar as ever with the sheer paranoia dripping like vinegar from his words.

"Not nothing, Alastor. We simply need to bide our time. There's nothing that can be done for the moment," Dumbledore assuaged calmly. Harry could already see the man looking down at Moody from above his spectacles, his features carrying a parental sort of reproachment, the same kind of condescending look Harry had seen him give to even Snape.

"Yes, there is!" Tonks shouted, her voice thick with worry. "I'm an auror, we can do some investigation! We can look into it, find something that links him to You-Know-Who and—"

"—and what?" Said Shacklebolt. "Don't forget, you're hardly out of being a trainee, Tonks. You want to risk your job? And for what—paranoia and investigating without a warrant? You'll have no jurisdiction and you can't use department resources."

"But—"

Remus spoke up. "Think about it, Dora, you really can't. You can't risk yourself like that."

Dora, Harry thought. Since when did Remus call her that?

Tonks grumbled before beginning to lower in volume some, her voice cutting off as she moved away from the receiver to mumble something to Remus. "—know you're worried but—"

"What are we to do, Albus? Do we just...let that monster get away with this? There has to be something we can do!" Mrs Weasley's shouts were high and fearful.

They kept on listening in this way for many long minutes, and the meeting didn't get any better. Basically, it all amounted to this: no one in the Order of the Phoenix knew what Tom was doing, and all Death Eater activity was frozen. No raids, attacks, anything. There hadn't been any sign at all that a war was brewing. The only sign was Thomas Slytherin coming out to the Wizengamot and taking the Slytherin seat. But as far as the public was concerned, Slytherin was perhaps not even related to Voldemort at all. For those who knew, those who were willing to connect the dots, Tom had been hinting at his parentage. He would perhaps say that his father abandoned his mother, or that as far as his mother told him, his father was a powerful, but cruel wizard who died when he was young but whom Tom had never met. This man was who Tom insinuated that he'd inherited his Slytherin ancestry from, and it was clear as day that Tom was pretending to be his own son.

Eventually, Ginny twisted the dial to turn down the volume. There was no more substance in the meeting, but they'd still listen to it in the background.

"So what does this mean?" Ginny asked, looking pointedly towards a pensive Hermione. "To—Riddle's got to be planning something."

"Well...I'm not—" Hermione began.

"Riddle?" Harry blurted before he could think. "Not Voldemort? Or You-Know-Who?" He heard her stutter at the beginning, and a part of him could only think she was about to call him Tom.

He looked at Ginny like he'd never seen her before, and his eyes went wide with confusion. "Why would you, exactly...I mean, isn't he...?"

"It's Riddle." Her words left no room for confusion, her eyes unblinking. "He looks like Riddle, talks like him, probably has his handwriting, too. When I was little, You-Know-Who was always the monster in the closet, a scary story to tell, but Tom...Tom isn't You-Know-Who. He's Tom Riddle."

A pang hit Harry in the chest. Some type of pain was felt at her words. Right. She knew Tom from the Diary a lot longer than he ever did. His chest squeezed.

He was Tom to her, always had been. But he's still Voldemort, Harry knew. He wasn't able to pretend otherwise. He simply couldn't, not after everything.

Not after Harry's surrender. (Because that was what it was)

"Okay," Harry whispered. "Okay."

His thoughts drifted as the other three continued to converse without him, and his throat tightened up. What am I doing?

Chapter Text

Unsurprisingly enough to anyone in their little group, there was a single word that could be used to describe summer holidays this year: boredom. Yes, that seemed rather shocking, considering they were a group of teenagers and it was summer, but considering they weren't allowed to leave the premises, and there was nothing else to do, they truly were rather bored.

For all intents and purposes, there wasn't much to be done at Grimmauld that year. Last summer, they were all dauntlessly drafted by Mrs Weasley into the hellish crusade of cleaning out a dark magic and doxie-infested pureblood manor, but by now all the work had already been done, and most of the space had been cleaned and organised save for a few rooms that the children either weren't allowed in, or were warded so no one other than those with Black blood could enter. Meaning, that no one other than Sirius, Harry, or potentially Tonks if any of those cursed rooms couldn't recognize that her mother had been disowned and so Tonks wasn't technically a Black.

Nevertheless, due to all of this, the four of them—Harry, Ron, Hermione, and now Ginny, having been added to the group as of recently—were extremely bored. They'd finished their chores for the day, which mostly included dusting and organising books in the sitting room and chucking all the dark magic books in the bin to confiscate later. Of course, properly disposing of those books when most of them were extremely illegal, cursed, or both was a hell of a lot harder than one would think, considering they really couldn't just turn them into the Ministry.

So instead of throwing them into the bin, they'd put the books in a sack to organize into a makeshift library and book locker later. It was really just an old broom closet with a weird amount of space considering it was just a closet, but it was good enough.

They finished their chores quickly that day, and they all lazed in the sitting room with tea and snacks. Ginny was munching on some strawberry scones while Hermione thumbed through a thick book in her hands and combed through the study notes she'd laid on the table, and Harry and Ron were embroiled in a rigorous game of chess. Undoubtedly, Ron would win, but Harry was on a good streak. He figured he could do some damage, at least.

"I just don't get it, is all," Ron spoke out, slicing through the terse silence of the room. It was all quiet, but everyone was thinking of the same thing. Lord Voldemort, or his persona as Thomas Slytherin, rather. "What does he get from all this?"

Ron's lips pursed, then he mumbled a phrase and one of his rooks moved a few paces closer to Harry's knight. "He's not starting another war or attacking anyone or anything like that, so I reckon he's got something else planned."

"Like chess, right?" Harry asked. "A strategy in a strategy."

"Something like that."

"Ginny," Harry started, his gaze flicking towards her lax form on the couch. She'd certainly gotten comfortable, he noticed. She was splayed out all over her side of the couch in a display that Mrs Weasley would find unladylike, not that Harry cared overly much. "What do you think? You knew Tom, right? From the diary, I mean. Why do you think he's doing this?"

Ginny stretched her body out before sitting up and taking another bite of her scone. She set it down on her tea coaster before asking, "How'd you figure? What I remember about teenage Tom Riddle is probably different from what You-Know-Who is like now. I doubt it'll matter."

I wouldn't be so sure, Harry thought. Tom was...well, for one, the man had never objected to Harry calling him Tom. He was so much more like Tom from the diary, rather than the inhuman, skeletal creature (that he let fuck him) that was Voldemort. It was the eyes, he realized with a furrow of his brow. Perhaps not the colour, but maybe it was the way that both Voldemort and Tom's gaze could fix on something, the faces they made and their movements. Harry couldn't say he knew the new Tom in any way other than in bed, but...he wasn't much like Voldemort anymore, not really. He was so much more human, somehow. He didn't even know Tom from the diary, considering he was only able to recall him from the Chamber of Secrets, but there was something about him, something so striking, that Harry could hardly forget.

He felt no guilt in calling the man a sadistic git with a fetish for edging him to the brink, but Tom was somehow...comfortable to be around despite that. Shockingly enough, he couldn't call Tom cruel. He took care not to hurt Harry, and he was surprisingly kind and playful, with an arrogant, almost humorous lilt to his ever-present smirk whenever he gazed at Harry. Whenever he looked at him, Tom's features always seemed to carry an undercurrent of a cat that caught the canary. It wasn't anything like Voldemort's cruelty or sadism. And perhaps Harry could see the parallels if he cared to look, but he didn't. And truly, he felt the change in the man was more than just skin deep.

He had no idea how or why, but Harry's Tom wasn't the same Voldemort. He couldn't be. Or perhaps...Harry didn't want him to be, and he was hoping that he wasn't.... He hardly knew Tom at all, now or even back when he still had the diary. But he wanted to, he realized. I want to.

Harry clenched his teeth. He didn't want to think about this. Some things were best left in the back of his mind, lest he drive himself to insanity just by the thought of it all. The way his thoughts were going, the places they were heading, it sounded crazy.

"There are a lot of factors to consider," declared Hermione, her head popping out of her book as she placed it to the side. "What changed him? How? Is he using a glamour or did he get his real face back? Was it a ritual? Or was he undoing the ritual that made him look like a monster?"

Intelligent brown eyes shifted towards him. "Harry—"

He answered her question before she even said it out loud. "He was a monster. He looked like a monster when he came out of the graveyard, and he acted like it. In the Ministry, too. But then...." Then what?

Harry's words drifted off, and he glanced down at fists clenched harshly on the fabric of his jeans. What should he say? He couldn't...he couldn't just tell them. They'd never understand. Blood froze in Harry's veins simply at the thought. Even he didn't understand why he did what he did that day, why he let it keep happening...why he couldn't stop it.

It was like one moment he was all for it, ready to head on into the deep end of a—a relationship with Tom, but then he'd be faced with the reality of it. Over the past few days, he'd be talking with his friends and then it would hit him like a punch to the gut. He'd feel sick, and guilty, like he was a traitor. He felt disgusting, and something slimey itched under his skin.

Harry grimaced, and he didn't speak. He couldn't find the words.

"Then what?" Ron asked, jaw tight and eyes fastened on Harry. "Mate, you were gone for a bit at the Ministry. No one could find you, then we saw you when You-Know-Who and Dumbledore were duelling...." Freckled skin paled rapidly, and his fingers tapped anxiously at the thought of what might have happened.

"I—well that's, we—" Harry stuttered. Achingly, his words caught in his throat. There wasn't much he could say, and he was a terrible liar. He felt like there was a witchlight atop his head, and everyone's attention was fastened on him, ready and waiting to pull an answer out of him. An answer he couldn't give.

"Oh, Harry, did he hurt you?!" Hermione's words were filled with worry, and her eyes softened in pity. "How did you escape? You had no wounds...."

Ginny's eyes shifted to Harry, and her knuckles were white as she clenched the edge of her seat. "Yeah...," she said. "What happened? Are you sure you're okay?"

Harry blurted out the words as Ginny's beckoning gaze pierced him. "I'm fine! It was good—I mean, I'm fine. It's all good." It was good. Merlin, could he be any more obvious? He mentally bashed himself on the head.

"He...he taunted me a bit, but then Dumbledore saved me. I ran off, and he couldn't get a spell in."

Ron and Hermione nodded along, giving him their sympathies and taking the words at face value. But Ginny....she looked at him like she didn't know what to think, like she was trying to look deeper into his head and rip open the truth behind his words. Then, she sighed and shook her head, perhaps banishing any suspicion, Harry hoped.

"That's good," she said. "I'm glad you're alright."

Their conversation fell to the wayside and the room was doused in quiet, but not without Harry and Ginny's eyes meeting awkwardly every few minutes. Unabashedly, she continued to stare.

Harry hoped nothing came of it.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Harry's body was angled towards the small, dusty window of Grimmauld Place's tapestry room. Evidently, the cleaning crew had either not bothered to step foot into the room or perhaps no one cared to clean it afterwards, judging by the thin layer of dust on the sill and the thick brush of decade-old mould on the glass. Despite that, Harry could see the warm orange and pink tones of dusk as the sun began to set. He stood there, watching quietly as twilight peaked out on the edge of the horizon, the sky shimmering in an array of colours.

Harry gave a harsh frown, his body stiffening as he was suddenly struck with the urge to get out, to feel the evening sun on his skin or the moon's pale beams as he looped through the sky. Desperately, he recalled the feeling of wind running through his hair and the clenching of his hands on a broom. His mind paged through the memories, and he was struck with the intense desire to simply flee.

Harry wanted to get out, to fly, to be free, to see the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch and to just never leave. He wanted to fly away from his troubles, to escape from them with those precious few hours in flight. Anything would be better than this, to be stuck in some musty old house with friends whom he had to lie to and Order members who never told him anything.

Was this how Sirius felt? That whole year he was stuck in this place, never able to leave.... He was trapped in a state of misery, forced to return to the source of his childhood pains. If Harry had to do the same, if he was stuck in Privet Drive for that long, he'd go mad. Barmy. Utterly deranged.

His fondness for Sirius grew, fanned by the flames of his grief and the longing for family. But he had none, not anymore. The Dursleys were never his family, and so he had no blood relatives he cared for. None other than Sirius, whom he was related to through his grandmother, Harry supposed, but now he was gone. He wasn't even rotting, for there was no grave to grieve at. He was just gone, and he was possessed by the memory of Sirius falling. Falling.

Falling.

Harry shivered.

The veil curled softly in the air, the curtain of it twinkling just as softly, innocently, as if Sirius hadn't just fallen through it, as if a man hadn't just died there.

Harry stumbled, his body striking the side of the sill and then landing under it. He ignored the harsh stinging of his elbow and ribs, his gaze fixed across the room, on the tapestry, and plastered on what remained of Sirius's name.

Teary green eyes trailed on the edge of burnt s and u and l shapes and he wanted nothing more than for the man himself to be there, to smile at him with that wolfish grin and his unabashed adoration for Harry.

He wanted that. Sirius, his love, his care. Harry wanted someone to care for him. He wanted to be someone's responsibility, and he wanted someone he could rely on. That person for him was Sirius, and he wanted that back with a ferocity he was pained to feel. Every time he looked at Mrs Weasley, every moment he was there to witness her love for her children and every time she aimed even a little of that love towards Harry, he felt a part of himself crumbling.

He hated it.

Without his knowing, wetness dripped down his cheeks, and he wasn't keen to wipe it away. What did it matter? Harry had no one to pretend for.

"Pup," whispered a familiar voice.

"Pup," Sirius said, flashing a warm smile.

Sirius—?

A body settled at his side, and Harry's weight melted against the side of a man wearing a warm, brown sweater over a collared shirt.

Oh, he realized. And the tears began anew.

"I miss him." The admittance fell from his mouth like a confession, forced out of him by pliers and muttered acknowledgements of I'm sorry for your loss and he was a great man and all those other meaningless platitudes that people said but didn't truly mean, not when they didn't know Sirius, not when they didn't mourn him.

"I know. I do, too," the older man whispered, his face stuck in a sad smile before it turned into a grimace.

Harry looked at him, and he noticed the tired dullness in those amber eyes, his gaze catching on the way Remus's eyes were just too close to gold to truly be called amber. The man's body was slumped against his smaller form, and perhaps they were both relying on the other's weight to keep them sitting up.

Green eyes stared intently at Remus, looking him up and down, and he realized that the full moon was the next night. He was planning to keep that realization to himself when another thought came to mind.

Sirius. The Marauders. They became animagi only to be able to spend Remus's transformations with him. Harry's chest panged heavily with the dawning awareness that this was the first full moon since Sirius died.

He grimaced, and then his arm went to wrap around Remus's forearm in an almost hug, a warm weight against him as Harry leaned his head on the shoulder of his one remaining connection to his family.

"It must be hard. Doing it without him." Harry didn't specify what he was talking about. They both knew. Remus's transformations truly would be harder without Sirius around. He still had Wolfsbane, but it did little to assuage the loss of a beloved friend.

Remus was the last of the Marauders now. Sirius and his dad were gone, and Wormtail was a traitor. Merlin, could their fate be any more depressing? Harry knew, now, what their past was like. Remus's stories were handwoven with vivid emotion, and if he closed his eyes, Harry could see it, those four boys, all together and happy and completely unaware of the tragedy that would come.

Remus didn't say a word, he simply glanced at something Harry couldn't see, eyes unfocused. He was gracious enough not to bring attention to the glassy quality of the older man's eyes if Remus wouldn't mention the matching sight in his.

They sat there for over an hour, at least until they migrated over to the couch and Remus had Harry wrapped in his arms. He felt almost like a small child being held by a parent, so delicately the man was holding onto him, but it was infinitely comforting.

Harry hid his face in the crux of Remus's shoulder, and they both pretended not to notice the wet spot on his sweater.

For a long time, it was silent, right until Remus's words broke the peace.

"If you want a way out, I can help," the werewolf croaked, his words sounding pained. "I promise, it's alright."

"I—what, Remus?" No, Harry thought with badly concealed shock on his face, the man couldn't possibly mean....?

"I mean it. Prophecy or not, you're the only thing I have left, and you're still just a pup, Harry, you don't have to fight. No one," he said, eyes glowing perhaps a shade or two brighter, "No one will blame you."

"I—," Harry choked. Merlin, he...Moony. He had no real words for what this meant, only that his eyes had gotten surprisingly watery and he was pretty certain there was dust in his eyes.

But...no one had done this for him. No one had said they'd help him escape. But Remus, he was so willing to just...do it. Could he really? Could Harry just...leave? Could he abandon his friends, the Wizarding World, and whatever precarious new thing he had with Tom? Fuck.

No, of course, he wouldn't. It all sounded nice, but Remus was wrong. Even if Harry did leave, he'd become sworn enemy number one of the Wizarding World, and everyone would brand him a traitor. They'd hate him for abandoning them to Voldemort, and Harry couldn't blame them. Then again, they'd hate him for what he was doing now, but at least he could convince himself that he had...ah, influence with the man. That he had no choice but to do what he did.

Merlin, Harry wanted so badly for the idea to be feasible, to just leave everything. But he couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't. Perhaps the words all had different meanings, but they suited their purpose all the same. It was the truth. He couldn't leave, he shouldn't do it either, but he also wouldn't do it.

So he spoke, his choice made, "Remus....," he said with a soft sigh. The meaning was clear enough.

"I know. I know, Pup. Your parents wouldn't either." Remus smiled sadly, brushing Harry's hair away to gaze at his scar, tracing it with his eyes as if to stamp it in his brain. "They'd be proud of you, Harry, so proud."

He smiled, unsure of what exactly to say, but glad that he had Remus here with him. He couldn't do this without him, and he had a feeling the man felt the same.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

It was late evening now, and Harry was finally beginning to feel the effects of skipping dinner for the tapestry room. Neither he nor Remus stepped out of that room for a little while, and when they finally did, it was for Remus heading to the dining room for the Order meeting. Harry followed after him, both because he could hardly bear to separate from him and because he wanted to head to the kitchen to grab a late dinner.

He was about to take a left towards the kitchen when the whooshing sound of a thick robe flitting dramatically hit Harry's ears. He turned around, only to find, to his ever-enduring horror, Severus Snape, with a dark, searching look on his face along with his patented, ever-present sneer.

Harry stopped in his tracks, awkward and nervous. He didn't look the man in the eye. Seeing a professor outside of Hogwarts was strange enough, the feeling akin to a deer staring at headlights if headlights could stare back, but after last year, he wasn't sure what to say, if there was anything to say.

Snape was a right git on the best of days, and an utter prat on the worst—along with a few other rude words Harry previously felt no guilt in saying, to Hermione's chagrin—but Snape had done something kind for him, something that he wouldn't have done if he truly were evil.

He had listened to Harry's scream "They've got Padfoot, at the place, where it's hidden!" and warned the Order, incidentally saving the lives of Harry and his friends. In the end, it was all for nought as Sirius died, but Harry wasn't able to summon up the well of hatred he usually felt towards the man.

He wasn't sure when it started (actually he was, and it all began with a memory he wasn't supposed to find and a crushing punch to the gut about exactly what type of people his dad and godfather used to be), but he no longer hated Snape. He was bitter, annoyed even, but his features grew relaxed, and then he looked Snape head-on.

"Professor," he gave a respectful nod, to the man's confused eyebrow raise. Snape's face betrayed nothing else, but his look was curious, searching, in a frustratedly confused sort of way.

"Potter." He didn't spit out the word the same way he usually did, but there was a strange tone to it, and then his lips pursed. "I should warn you...." He was awfully pale, and he appeared almost worried, now.

"Be careful, boy, lest you become wrapped up in the hands of those who might use you," he said briskly, dark eyes staring straight through Harry.

His feathers ruffled, and Harry scoffed before shooting Snape a cool glare. "And you think I'm not already in those hands, sir?" Pointedly, he emphasized the term of respect in a way that was very clearly meant sarcastically. This was the only way he knew how to be towards the man, sarcastic, and perhaps a little caustic. He didn't mean it, but if Snape was going to condescend to him, stating the obvious, then he would do it back.

The man gave an inelegant snort, then he gifted him with a set of cryptic words, "Your enemies may not often be what you expect, nor will the danger be the same sort you believe you will face. Be careful, Potter, for that is the only warning I will give you."

Harry gave a slow blink. Okay, that was weird. He had no idea what that meant. Despite that, the words were heavy, and filled with meaning. He was well aware of Snape's spy status, and the fact that he said this...well, it might mean something. Harry had a few ideas of what it meant, none of which he wished to share.

"Of course, sir, I'll take that to heart." Then, to Snape's disbelieving stare, he added, "By the way, thank you for helping me out a while ago. You warned the Order—that I was being stupid, I mean. I'm grateful, and I owe you a lot for saving not just my life, but everyone else. So, thanks."

Snape froze while turning away, perhaps not caring to listen to Harry's words, and then his shoulders suddenly went lax, like a heavy weight was being lifted from his shoulders. In the back of his mind, Harry felt something buzzing in the air, but he ignored it, it was probably nothing.

Harry nodded to Snape, ignoring his gobsmacked face, and then he ambled away to the kitchen. He pushed their encounter to the back of his mind, more than willing to ignore it, but Snape didn't. In fact, the man stared after him, gobsmacked, until he finally found the wherewithal to stalk away, his body feeling the lightest it had been in years.

Later, Harry recalled what happened in the kitchen, and he realized something important.

Strange, he thought. This might have been the first time Snape really looked at him, past his face and his features, but into his eyes. The man looked strangely sad, like he didn't know what to do.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Sleep was a blessed respite from the insanity that was his life, Harry had always thought. Despite the creepy Voldemort dreams—which were decidedly less creepy now—he'd always enjoyed the feeling of quiet, blissful peace that curtained around him the moment his head fell on a pillow. Even back when he was still living full-time in number four, sleep was the only break he could get from the scornful glares and the barked-out chores he'd be given.

Now, he was more than ready to hit the sack when the door creaked open, letting in a slip of light from the hallway. He heard footsteps, and whoever had come in quickly closed the door afterwards.

A groan, and Harry flipped his covers off. He placed his glasses on his nose and blinked his sleepy eyes open. "Hermione? Ginny? What're you doing here? It's late."

Ron grumbled loudly from his bed when Ginny jumped onto the mattress and harshly yanked the covers off him. Then, a yelp was heard when she elbowed him in the gut. "Up you go, Ronnie!"

"Sorry about this, Harry," apologised a bedraggled-looking Hermione with a handwave before she flipped the desk lamp on, leaving the above light off for the moment, and then she took a seat at Harry's desk. Her hair was a mess, frizzy and forcibly pinned into a side braid. She was wearing muggle pyjamas. "We just all need to talk about...him. Ginny and I were thinking earlier, and we thought you might know him best and well..."

"We couldn't find a quiet moment after dinner, what with that Order meeting—mum wouldn't let us slip away! She must have thought we would try to overhear," Ginny complained, flopping onto Ron's bed and kicking his feet off.

Ron, for his part, yanked the pillow off his head and gave Ginny a solid kick to the thigh. "Get off me, woman!" His grouchy voice had no bite at all to it, but his glare was as hard as Harry's ever seen it. He knew perfectly well how bitter the boy could get if his sleep was disturbed, Harry rolled his eyes.

Unsurprisingly, Ginny threw the pillow at Ron's head and they started scuffling like toddlers. Minutes later, their seating arrangements were quickly settled with Ginny getting the lion's share of the bed, while Ron was relegated to sitting with his legs dangled off the edge. As per usual, Ginny won.

"Ugh, why are we doing this so late? I reckon it could've waited till morn...." Ron whined, rubbing at his eyes.

Hermione sighed, and she began nervously messing with her hair. "I know, but I just couldn't wait. Honestly, with Riddle—no one knows what he's up to. The Order's going in blind. They're trying to recruit Light-aligned families to the cause, from what I heard, but they're staying out of this. They don't want to fight You-Know-Who, and they're mostly singing Riddle's praises."

"How'd you figure? No one's saying anything to me about it." Harry tried not to sound overly bitter, but he was pretty sure he failed.

"Isn't it obvious?" stated Ron. "I, er, I dunno, mate, but I was reading the paper and when Abbot started talking about Riddle, playing him up and all that and saying he's all for 'im, Dad got all annoyed—like the twins put another dungbomb in his shoes again, and then he said 'Well I never! If Abbot had even a single lick of sense then he'd have joined the Order, but he'll see, oh, he'll see one of these days!'"

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed. "Yeah, I read that part. Lord Abbot was talking about Riddle's new werewolf bill. I completely agree—er, with the bill, I mean, but I think Riddle has a hidden motive. He looks good from the outside, but he has to be plotting something, I just know it!"

"He might be trying to win the people's favour. You know...politics. If he's voted in as Minister then he can basically do whatever...." Ron shivered at the thought, and he angled his body a few inches closer to Hermione, even though they were already close with Harry's desk being right next to Ron's bed.

Those two continued to bounce ideas off each other for the next few minutes. Harry and Ginny gave each other a conspiratorial look as Hermione gazed at Ron with a type of vested interest she usually only reserved for her books as she brought up a potential motive for Riddle's public persona being palatable to even the Light, mainly that he was attempting to become a legal dictator of magical Britain, which Ron countered by saying, "Well, duh, that's sorta obvious. But why would he do that? I mean, he didn't do it last time. He was a super murdery dark lord, but now he wants to be a politician. No way, I don't buy it. There has to be something else going on." He huffed, and then Ron leaned down to grab something from his drawer.

It was a marble chess piece. A Queen, specifically. It glimmered brightly in the warm, low light of Harry's desk lamp.

"It's like chess," he began. "Every move you make, every play and plan, it's for a bigger purpose. You gotta think a dozen steps ahead."

"So...," Ginny said. "We gotta find out what his next move is. And what his master plan is." She nodded, like that made perfect sense and Harry wasn't looking guiltily down at the frayed hem of his pant leg.

Hermione turned to him, biting anxiously at the inside of her lip like she always did when she was nervous. "What do you think, Harry? You know him better, after all those times you've fought. Did he say anything? Do anything?"

He froze like a little boy caught red-handed in the cookie jar. "Um, I dunno, it's kinda..." He scratched the back of his neck, trying to come up with a good lie. "He didn't say anything. Just the normal stuff. 'I can touch you now' and 'you're not getting away' and all that."

And also 'You can take me, can't you?' and 'You're so wet for me, Darling', but he'd never admit that to them in a million years.

Harry ducked his head to cover his blush.

Their little meet-up went on easily afterwards, but Harry was cursed with the truly exquisite agony that came with having to watch his friends come up with increasingly ridiculous motives for Tom to do what he was doing, despite the fact that Harry knew full well why it happened, and it was all his fault.

But he couldn't say anything, not without dooming himself, not without admitting to the fact that he was a traitor and he hated himself for it.

Tom was the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord! Just that should have been a big old warning sign for why he was bad alpha material, but what did Harry do? He fell into his arms like a silly little lovestruck omega from those gooey romance novels at least three times now.

Harry's head fell gingerly onto his pillow once the girls left, and he spent the rest of that night staring at the ceiling, trying and failing to come up with justifications for the lack of guilt he felt.

He didn't regret sleeping with Tom, specifically. He truly wanted to believe that he could change, that the Room brought out something good in him, something that Harry hoped he could continue to fan. But the thing was, he hated the pins and needles he always felt brimming under his skin, burning with the knowledge that he was a traitor now.

His friends would hate him. The world would hate him. Hell, Harry hated himself. He was completely lost and going in blind. He could only hope he wasn't going to get himself killed.

Harry closed his eyes, then, and he thought of Tom. His eyes, his vicious smile (usually at the sight of Harry laid out and wanting), and his smart mouth. Harry's body grew warm and relaxed. He kind of wanted to hate it.

But he knew this, despite his transformation, despite the room, despite everything, Tom Riddle was still Lord Voldemort. And Harry couldn't allow himself to forget that.

He couldn't.

Then, as a treat, he screamed into his pillow and prayed Ron couldn't hear.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Ginny's eyes flicked towards his. Harry looked back.

Awkwardly, they both looked away.

Harry could see the way she'd been eyeing his neck. The bruises were long gone, the physical touch of Tom having long since faded away—he ignored the faint tang of disappointment he felt—but his skin was still hot with the memory of how it felt. If he allowed himself, he would be lost in his recollections. He'd remember every word, touch, and every hissed-out moan. Even the reluctance and half-hearted disgust he had felt before it faded into vehement pleasure and want.

He didn't allow himself to remember.

But Ginny did—very well, might he add. It was a wonder she hadn't sat him down yet to gossip about his mystery beau. Harry wasn't looking forward to the experience. It was one thing talking to Ginny up in the dorms, pretending he had slept with some classmate of theirs or whatever, but it would be another thing entirely to continue to gossip when he would have to avoid the increasingly perilous landmines that were his dream visions and recent meetups. Merlin, he would hardly be able to do it. He wasn't cut out for this lying shite.

Right now was bad enough, with Ron and Hermione mooning at each other and Ginny staring at Harry over her lunch. He'd think she still had a crush on him if it wasn't for the way she was looking at him like he was some kind of undiscovered Quidditch play she wanted to figure out.

Harry looked back down at his plate. His food was hardly touched, and his fork was just playing around with and mixing his peas and potatoes.

He sighed, putting down his utensils. "I'm going up to my room. I got some homework to do."

Mrs Weasley frowned. "Are you certain, Harry? You look tired, you should take a kip. You look like you haven't slept at all...." She stood up and held her wrist to his forehead.

"Hmm, you're not warm, but you look exhausted, you should go to bed and worry about homework later."

Harry nodded, then he mumbled something he couldn't remember before he headed upstairs and flopped miserably onto his bed, face-first.

He groaned. Long, hard, and slow. "Fuuuuck." He was exhausted.

Every part of his body ached, not just due to chores, but from the ever-growing weight of his sins. He hated it. Harry wasn't a liar, he couldn't lie to save his own skin, but now he was expected to just...lie, lie, and continue to lie. It was weighing on him.

He wanted so badly to tell the truth, to admit everything to Ron, Ginny, and Hermione, but it wasn't that easy. They wouldn't accept it. Harry couldn't either, and he had no reason for why he was doing what he was doing other than that he was a horny teenage omega, and they didn't even know that! He kept even his secondary gender from them and he was now expected to hide the fact that he was sleeping with the enemy from them, too! He was a damn traitor, hardly better than any Death Eater.

But at least Death Eaters were loyal, not...whatever Harry was.

He turned, rolling up to look at the chipped ceiling, and a sigh escaped his lips. What he wouldn't do to tell the truth....

"Harry? You alright, mate?" Ron came into view, and he flopped right next to Harry in bed, leaning his back against the headboard. He looked worried and kinda nervous. He wasn't the emotional type and probably had no idea what to do, but that was the thing about Ron, he was a good listener where Hermione always gave good advice. And right now, Harry just wanted someone to listen. But he couldn't say a single word.

His lips parted, even as his throat choked up and he found himself suddenly unable to utter a single syllable.

He said nothing. There wasn't anything he could say, anyway.

Ron sighed, his lips downturned as his features began to look pained.

"If this is about Ginny—"

"What about her?!" Okay, pipe it down there, Harry, that was too obvious.

"Er, I mean...what do you mean? About Ginny?" Harry jolted up, sitting with his legs folded across from Ron.

"It's cuz you like her, right, mate? I mean, it's sorta obvious.... You keep looking at each other and ugh...yuck," his nose scrunched, "but I won't stand in the way of you two—"

"No, no, no! That's not it, Ron, no!" He denied it vehemently, shocked that Ron would even consider it. Don't get him wrong, he knew on a vague level that Ginny used to like him back in second year (he still shivered while recalling that one poem), but he never returned her feelings. She was amazing, bright, and kind, just as good a listener as her brother and a fun girl to gossip with, but she just wasn't Harry's type.

For one, she was another omega, and while those things were getting more common now, he didn't feel any attraction towards her; their dynamic lacked the same vivid, electrifying intensity he had with Tom. She was just...a friend, kind of like a sister. She was the only other person in the world (other than Tom) who knew his secondary gender now, and he felt affection, but not attraction. He couldn't see her in that light.

"Ron," Harry said with a specific, sharp tone he only reserved for when he really wanted his words to be listened to. "Ginny and I don't like each other that way. This is something else, about...."

Confusion. Ron raised an eyebrow.

"Then what's it about? If you don't like her then why're you both acting all bonkers? It's been like that for a while. You just keep looking at each other until someone else looks away. As if you like each other."

Oh, bless you, Ron. Harry laughed. Ron was observant and smart in his own way, but he was more strategy and general people smart rather than feeing smart. "Actually...how about you bring Hermione and Ginny in here, so we can explain."

Oh fuck. He was gonna do it. Finally.

Even if he couldn't reveal his biggest secret, there was something he could allow himself to reveal.

Once Ginny and Hermione were called in, Harry sat them all down, with Ginny sitting next to him, taking the same seat at his desk Hermione did the other night. She looked at him knowingly.

"Okay, so you all want to know about Ginny and me...it's kind of a long story."

Hermione raised her hand, a long-ingrained habit of hers from years of being a teacher's pet in school. "We can assume you aren't dating, then?"

Ginny snorted, and then she shot Harry a grin. "Definitely not."

Sassily, she gave him a once-over, looking him up and down like she was cataloguing his looks. "Besides, he's not my type. I'm not into that sort of thing."

"Not your type? What, so all those years I listened to you pant after Harry are what—swept under the carpet?" Ron scoffed, unbelieving. "You used to wax poetic about his messy hair and his shimmering green eyes." He emphasized the last part, his tone hard yet teasing.

Hermione's eyes gleamed, then, and she looked at Harry and Ginny, studying them both intently. Sheepishly, Harry ducked his head, staring away from them.

"Yeah, so about that...it's actually because I'm...."

"Well?" Said Hermione. She looked triumphant, like she just had an epiphany, and that's when Harry knew she'd figured him out. She really was too smart.

"This dolt here is—"

"I'm an omega."

"—He's an omega," Ginny said her piece at the same time Harry said his, and their words meshed together. It felt easier, somehow.

Ron stared with wide eyes, his body going stiff as he came to understand what Harry was saying. Hermione, for her part, smiled warmly along with an inquisitive eyebrow raise.

"Oh," said Ron. "Blimey when did you—when did you have the time—"

"I, uh, I presented last summer. Before fifth year. Sirius helped me hide it, he was an omega, too, and I wasn't sure what to do about it exactly...."

It was painful, presenting in that way. He'd woken up one morning after Ron had already gone to breakfast with a body wracked with soreness and a deep ache in his pelvic area. He was burning up and felt utterly incapable of moving. It was terrible, as if he was sick but multiplied times ten. It wasn't a true heat, and he had no alpha so he didn't feel the breeding hormones, but it was utterly exhausting. He remembered a comforting voice, some kind of warmth and being carried, but he nodded off pretty quickly.

Hours later, he'd come to in Sirius's nest and he was being coddled and taken care of. Once he was lucid enough to talk, Sirius asked him what he wanted, and Harry just didn't know what to say. He didn't want anything to change, and male omegas were always so rare (demeaned for their lack of masculinity in the muggle world and prized in the magical world) that he just couldn't put himself through the hullabaloo that was coming out as his secondary.

Harry never expected to present. His mother was an omega and his father a beta. At the very most, he'd assumed he might one day become a weak alpha if he had the gene for it, from a grandparent, maybe, but he'd never once expected to become an omega.

Maybe he should have, it would have saved him from all of this. It would have been easy to confess, and it wouldn't have been a noose on his heart for so long. Perhaps then Voldemort and he would not have ended up in that room, and perhaps Sirius would have...no.

Harry's heart squeezed. Painfully. To go down that road led to madness, he couldn't.

Harry breathed, and he began to weave the story to his friends. He explained it all to them, leaving behind no detail.

After he'd presented, Sirius went along with his wishes and helped him hide it. He showed Harry scent-masking spells and made him practice til he could do it almost unconsciously. Scentblocking was a common enough practice, so the spell was simple and rather easy to cast, but the scentblocking spell Harry used was overpowered, and in his case, it was meant to hide that he was an omega at all and not just to mask the intensity of his scent for propriety's sake.

Then, he explained that by the end of the year, Ginny had somehow managed to figure out he was an omega—he pointedly left out the hows and whys, to Ginny's amusement—and by now, he thought it was time to tell the truth.

As he continued, Ginny stared sadly at Harry, with pursed lips and soft eyes, even she didn't know the full story. Ron and Hermione gazed at him with pity, but he was glad to see there was no anger to be found.

Hermione and Ginny both looked distraught by the end, with Ron right behind them. When he finished, he was glomped down with hugs and warmth.

"Oh, Harry! I'm so sorry I didn't mean to make you feel that way!" Hermione cried into his shoulder, her arms wrapped around his neck.

Ginny had her arms around Harry's side, while Ron was holding onto both of Harry's hands. They all fell into bed together. It was a tight fit, but Harry was small and the four of them managed. His heart felt full.

"We really don't care what you are, mate. You're still Harry," said Ron, his eyes heavy with meaning.

They all whispered words of encouragement and understanding for the rest of that night, and if anyone noticed Harry's pillow had some very mysterious wet spots, no they didn't.

I love my friends was his final thought before falling into sleep.

Chapter Text

When one considers the life of Severus Tobias Snape, there is not one word that can be chosen to define the scope of it. Perhaps unfortunate could be one such term, but that would be misleading. No, many of Severus's 'misfortunes' were due to his own poor choices. His struggles in life were not simply due to misfortune, nor something out of his control (to an extent, it perhaps could be considered as much, but only to an extent), but it was instead his own failures.

He knew that. Damn it, did he know. He'd spent the past decade stewing in his own misery, flipping over and submissively baring his belly to a man—no, a general who'd sacrifice him the moment he saw fit if it suited his plays at peace because, after all, it was for the greater good.

Damn the greater good! What had it ever done for him? For Lily, who'd fought so hard for that damned ideal that it killed her? Everything he'd ever achieved in his life had come from his own blood, sweat, and tears. And not even that. It wasn't simply his blood that was spilt, but Lily's as well.

Dear Lily...his heart gave a pang at the thought of her, and he sighed. Mournfully, he swirled his glass of firewhiskey. He barely kept the dark liquid from spilling off the side.

He hardly ever pulled out a bottle. He saved it for special occasions, meaning any time he had such a great headache that he felt the urge to drink his pains away. He was nothing like his drunken sod of a father, even the idea simply disgusted him, but he understood the appeal of drowning himself in what amounted to a forgetfulness draught, if that draught came in the form of a bottle of Ogden's Finest.

Severus's lips pursed, and he stared longingly at his glass. It would do nothing to ameliorate the situation at hand. It was no saviour, and it would give him no answers to his problems. No, it was simply a way to come to terms with...everything that had happened as of recently.

He wasn't certain how to explain it, even in the safety of his own mind. The world as he knew it had turned upside down ever since earlier that summer, from the moment the Dark Lord had returned to Malfoy Manor post-Department of Mysteries debacle, a light returned to his burning eyes, his magic dark and powerful as ever. Hell, Severus would not be remiss to say the Dark Lord was even more powerful.

Severus was no fool, not like many of those ingrates that sullied the title of wizard. Instead, he was observant. Any Slytherin worth their wands had the ability to adapt to changes at a moment's notice, but more importantly, they must notice those changes. Even down to the way the air shifted, that change must be noted and accounted for, especially in potions making where even such a small detail could potentially change a potion's magical composition, depending on its delicacy.

So when Severus was called in for a meeting only days after what had been posthumously dubbed the incident by both sides of wizards in the war, he noticed that something was afoot from the very moment he stalked into the meeting room, his head held up high but not too high, Salazar knew those pesky little purebloods would have a conniption if a dirty halfblood dared to pretend he was their better, he snarled.

The change was evident, obvious, and transparent in the way the Dark Lord moved and breathed. His form...shifted, almost strangely. A barely there ripple. If one looked past their innate fear at the Lord's inhuman looks and paid close attention, there would almost be a...mirage when gazing into those slitted crimson eyes, or even his serpentine nose. The mirage was similar to the way that hot hair shifted, the sight of it almost wavy compared to the surrounding air, but it was no heat, it was magic. And Severus knew magic. But it was not simply magic surrounding the Dark Lord. Not at all. It was a glamour.

If the Dark Lord wasn't wearing a glamour, he'd drink that blundering Longbottom boy's shrinking solution, damn the risk to his own life at even the thought of drinking such a slop.

Not many would have recognized the glamour. In fact, Severus hardly did, but he'd trained himself to be sensitive to magic from a young age, and it was part of the reason he was such an accomplished spellcrafter. Magical sensitivity was integral to the craft, after all, and there was hardly a thing Severus wouldn't notice. Glamours would not be on that list, even those cast by the Dark Lord.

Perhaps if the glamour was simple, weak, his magic wouldn't have pinged it. His senses would have easily glossed over the spell. But that glamour spell was no weak thing, undoubtedly not. Severus was certain the Dark Lord was hiding something, and with hawk-like eyes, he studied the Lord as much as he dared during the rest of that meeting.

Firstly, while his mannerisms had not changed, he was slightly less free with whom he cursed. Of course, Goyle, the fool that he was, had been crucio'd at least twice that day, but that was not very surprising. No, what was surprising was the Dark Lord's newfound...leniency, Severus could begin to say. The mission had been a failure, prophecy destroyed, and what did the Lord do? Nothing.

Lucius had been perfunctorily cursed for a reason the Dark Lord would not explain to his inner circle, and told to stay afterwards—the poor fool was shaking in his boots, Severus smirked darkly—but the rest of them were let free. Mostly. Instead of granting any of them punishment for their failure, their lord called for Narcissa and another healer associated with the Dark to treat the injuries of those wounded in the battle. He healed them, free of price, and Severus was gobsmacked.

That day, that meeting, gave him many questions. He had no more answers, afterwards. No, he was only granted more questions.

Soon after the meeting, once summer began, Severus was given an order. He was to brew a series of potions, all of them healing or beneficial in some way to an Azkaban-escapee. He wasn't even made to brew many of those potions for the Death Eaters who'd been broken out of that damned prison, so why was he ordered to do so now?

Severus could not understand. Of course, he regularly delivered the potions to his Lord, as requested, but a series of questions had unwisely gathered at the tip of his tongue.

It did not help that only recently, Bellatrix Lestrange had died. She'd been killed by the Dark Lord, they all knew. Officially, she passed away on a special mission in His service, but from the sickening gleam in those crimson eyes and the upward tinge of nonexistent lips, they all knew what truly happened. Bellatrix had finally stepped out of line, her madness too much for even their Lord to handle.

But they knew better than to ask.

He had questions, of course, but he bit his tongue. Severus had not survived this long as a fool. Instead, he sat and watched. And he listened.

And about the Dark Lord's most recent order...well, to say it unsettled him would not fully explain it. Severus downed another gulp of firewhiskey. He was tempted to reach for the bottle once again.

He didn't.

And then came Thomas Slytherin.

When his eyes glanced over the name Slytherin on that blasted article, it took him all his well-honed self-control not to immediately burst into the headmaster's office, a shiver on his spine and eyes burning.

He did not recognize the face, not fully, but there were features he would never not recognize.

The angle of that face, the upward tilt of those cutting cheekbones, and the burning darkness in those eyes. That smirk. The look Slytherin was giving the damn camera.

Thomas Slytherin claimed not to know his father, but every wix worth a damn could read between those lines.

I have come to claim Lordship of House Slytherin. I have no father. My mother left him. She left Britain during the war. I'm the son of Lord Voldemort.

(But he was no son at all, was he?)

A shiver rippled through his spine.

There was a reason why he had approached Potter earlier that day, and it was not simply due to the kindness of his heart. No, it was due to the life debt he owed James Potter and the broken heart he owed to Lily.

But now, the life debt was no more. Harry Potter had freed him from the life debt, by sheer bloody accident.

"Be careful, boy, lest you become wrapped up in the hands of those who might use you," he said briskly.

"Your enemies may not often be what you expect, nor will the danger be the same sort you believe you will face. Be careful, Potter, for that is the only warning I will give you."

His eyes delved into the boy, at the time seeing nothing strange, nothing that could provide an explanation for why the Dark Lord had shifted his orders so much in regards to that child. He still didn't.

And then...and then that boy began to speak.

"Of course, sir, I'll take that to heart." Then, to Snape's disbelieving stare, he added, "By the way, thank you for helping me out a while ago. You warned the Order—that I was being stupid, I mean. I'm grateful, and I owe you a lot for saving not just my life, but everyone else. So, thanks."

The release he felt at hearing those words was akin to nothing he had ever felt in his life. His very bones settled and buzzed and an invisible rope connecting him to Potter was just...gone. Vanished. Turned into nothingness simply at the boy's thoughtless words.

He could finally breathe. He didn't know what to do with himself. He was no longer held to the whims of any Potter, and if he so chose, he could leave. Run. Return to his Lord, escape Britain, or even...do nothing. He did not have to save Potter's life, he did not have to do anything. He could easily turn tail and run, abandoning this whole war altogether. But he didn't. He chose not to, and that was a thought he almost couldn't bear.

The life debt he owed James Potter, having transferred to his son, was no longer the noose over his neck, if it ever was. No, the only thing beholding him to the boy that was Harry Potter was Lily.

Lily. And her eyes.

The way Potter had looked at him, his eyes filled with a sort of steely resolve, that was all Lily. (She looked at him that way in fifth year, when his lips had uttered a slur he could never take back.) And now, Severus feared he may have misjudged him. He may have misjudged everything.

That boy may have been the spitting image of James Potter, but he wasn't anything like him. Severus now doubted he ever was. Back when they first met, all he could see was Potter's smirk and hair and that vicious little gleam in his eyes that spoke of nothing but misery for Severus, and he could hardly bear to look at the boy who carried the face of his tormentor but the eyes of the one girl he had loved beyond all reason.

He wanted for Harry to be just like his father, and he found every damn reason to make the boy out to be the same arrogant little snot as his sire. But he wasn't, was he?

Severus slumped achingly in his seat. He had made a right mess of things, and all it took was a metaphorical slap in the face to realize.

The Dark Lord, his order...what was he to do?

Just days ago, Narcissa visited him. She cried, begging him to save her son. All she wanted was for Draco (her son, his godson) to survive, to succeed in that damned plan and to bring favour to the Malfoy name once more in the eyes of the Dark Lord. After Lucius's failure, the man could only be grateful that he was not dead or in Azkaban, though the same could not be said for his son.

Draco was marked. He was marked, and on a mission. Now, Severus had something to do. He sighed.

He agreed to the unbreakable vow.

"Severus," Narcissa pleaded, her blue eyes watery. Her shoulders were slumped and her face filled with misery. This was the first time he'd ever seen the respectable lady—one who was perhaps a sort of friend to him—so decomposed. "Please, Severus, I need your help. Draco, his mission, it will kill him, I can't...."

He couldn't say no. Draco was his godson, he'd watched that little boy grow up from a cautious child to a spoiled, unruly brat, but despite that, he couldn't simply let him die. He couldn't.

"His mission, I assume it's about Potter? Is He ordering Draco to kill the boy?" He said, making an effort to fortify his mind in an attempt to hide the shiver that ripped up his spine, a memory of a long-gone life debt that Potter had somehow, against all odds, erased.

Horror painted the woman's features, her already pale face blanching. "No! I—no, Severus, no. The Dark Lord, he's—"

"—changed." He finished her sentence for her, not liking what he found. The Dark Lord had been...changed ever since the encounter in the Ministry. He was calmer and more composed, and he gave more leeway to his most trusted, asking for their advice and allowing for their questions. In a way...the man he called lord was strangely settled in such a way that Severus often forgot he was meant to be a double spy. He didn't like it.

"How? What happened?" The last meeting, their most recent Death Eater meeting, he didn't attend. He needed to watch his potions, and the Dark Lord permitted him to miss meetings if so needed to complete His potion's order, but damn it all he didn't think he'd miss something so important....

"The Dark Lord...he ordered...he ordered not a single hair to be touched on Harry Potter's head. He—the boy, I believe me might want—" She didn't finish, not when Severus drew out his wand with a whispered legilimens.

He only said the words to warn her, but it mattered not. Narcissa was an accomplished occlumens and she pushed forward the memories he wished to see.

He took a step back, suddenly feeling faint.

Crimson eyes blazed in the memory, the Dark Lord cold and imposing as ever. His words were hissed, commanding and unyielding. "None of you will dare touch the boy. Potter is mine and if he is harmed, I shall return that pain unto you ten-fold."

There was a quality in those eyes, in the snarl of his thin lips. Severus didn't like it. The Dark Lord had no business feeling so possessive over the boy, he had no business wanting—

Severus felt sick at the memory. Harry Potter was a child. Lily's child.

"Your enemies may not often be what you expect, nor will the danger be the same sort you believe you will face. Be careful, Potter, for that is the only warning I will give you."

He warned the boy. He warned him.

But that may not be enough.

Severus could not say a word. Instead, he swore to Narcissa that he would help her son. Draco would not pay for his father's crimes. (Not in the same way Severus forced Potter to pay for his.)

“Will you, Severus, watch over my son, Draco, as he attempts to fulfil the Dark Lord’s wishes?”

“I will,” said Severus.

A thin tongue of brilliant flame issued from the wand and wound its way around their hands like a red-hot wire.

“And will you, to the best of your ability, protect him from harm?”

“I will,” said Severus.

A second tongue of flame shot from the wand and interlinked with the first, making a fine, glowing chain.

“And, should it prove necessary...if it seems Draco will fail...,” whispered Narcissa (Severus’s hand twitched within hers, but he did not draw away), “will you carry out the deed that the Dark Lord has ordered Draco to perform?”

There was a moment’s silence. Pettigrew, their bonder, watched, his wand upon their clasped hands, his eyes wide.

“I will,” said Severus.

He took a deep breath, abandoning his recollections.

Severus couldn't believe it. He didn't want to. But...the Dark Lord, he was changed. And not in a good way.

Whatever happened in the Department of Mysteries for the short hour that Potter was...missing with the Dark Lord, he did not know. He did not wish to know.

He only prayed the boy would survive.

Severus laid his glass on the table with a clank.

Chapter Text

There was a certain air around him these days, Harry noticed. He was feeling less cautious and more relaxed. He'd never realized the weight of all the secrets he'd been carrying until he finally took some kilograms off.

He stared down at his plate with an uninterested gaze, twirling his fork with lazy fingers. Smiling, he nodded along to whatever Hermione was talking about. He found that he was only half-listening, though for the life of him, he wouldn't be able to remember what she was saying as soon as the words left her mouth. He loved her, really, but he was still groggy from a less-than-peaceful sleep and he wasn't in the mood to talk without accidentally revealing something he shouldn't.

It wasn't perfect, and Harry still had to watch himself to keep from revealing anything, but he was glad.

He hid everything for so long that even so much as revealing his status as an omega was unthinkable. He couldn't trust anyone enough to tell them, but now all his friends knew. And they didn't care.

Harry wondered, now, if it was time to tell everyone else. Mrs Weasley, the twins, Remus...he wasn't all that close with him, but he still cared about Remus and them, and he hated having to keep secrets the way he was doing.

Maybe he wanted to assuage his own guilt by easing the weight of his sins, but he couldn't be faulted for it, not when it meant redeeming himself by even that little bit.

Harry wanted to think they wouldn't care, that his omega status wouldn't change anything between them. It didn't for his friends, and perhaps it was just his own fears. Sirius was also a male omega, and no one cared, but that's because it didn't matter much. It was old news. But Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, coming out as an omega? Preposterous.

Omega rights had gone a long way, and while those things weren't as much of a problem in the Wizarding World (Harry found that folks here were weirdly inclusive, though blood prejudice was still a problem), he still remembered the way people talked about omegas. It wasn't necessarily creepy, and perhaps they didn't mean anything terrible by it, but he couldn't help but remember the times Dean shared some porn mags with the rest of the dorm, and he started commenting about some omega classmate's 'perky tits' like that person was nothing more than an object, or all those comments in the quidditch locker rooms where his alpha—and even beta—teammates gossiped about all the sexy omegas in school.

For the past year, it made him feel like a toy, an object made for an alpha's pleasure when Harry knew he was more than that. He was almost glad there was practically no quidditch last year, not if he had to deal with those comments. He might have broken someone's nose otherwise.

Fear of judgement was majorly the reason Harry hid it for so long, but now that the people he cared about most knew and didn't judge him, did it really matter if anyone else knew?

The sword of Damocles creaked threateningly over his head, inching ever closer with every lie he uttered. Coward, it would say. Your fears will end you. One day, your castle of lies will topple to the ground.

But Harry, Gryffindor as he was, was no coward. There were so many times over the past year that he almost revealed himself, but he didn't. And now, after everything that had happened recently, something itched under his skin at the thought of all his lies. He had so many secrets that it was all he could do to only reveal one of them. And now, when he could, he wanted to. God, he wanted to.

It was as easy as opening his mouth and speaking the words, but could he? How? When? It didn't feel that simple, and while he knew in truth that it was, something in him recoiled at even the very thought. And Harry had been hiding his omega status for a year now. Telling his friends was bad enough, but now everyone in Grimmauld? And then the rest of the world? It was a scary thought.

He'd pass for now, but perhaps he'd ruminate on it later.

(Harry wasn't a coward. He wasn't. But...wouldn't anyone be scared if they were in his shoes? Surely, most certainly, anyone else would be paralysed by the weight of all he had to endure?

If they weren't, then what did that say about him?)

"Harry! Are you even listening?" Hermione chided him, "We're going to Diagon Alley in a few days. Mrs Weasley said we can go!"

"Wait—really?" Harry cheered, coming back to awareness and finally paying attention to the people around him. Finally, some time away from this stuffy townhouse. "Great!"

"That means we need to pick up all our supplies and books and I need some more parchment, and of course, we'll have guards all over us! But we need to stay vigilant—there could be Death Eaters!" Hermione worried, talking mostly to herself as she began unfolding her booklist and looking over all the things she needed.

They'd all gotten their booklists that morning, and Harry had been named Quidditch Captain, while Hermione and Ron were again Prefects. Ginny didn't make Prefect, but she didn't seem bothered, saying she was aiming for the quidditch team this year anyway.

They got their OWL results forever ago, actually, soon after Harry came to Grimmauld. Though his remained unopened for days until Hermione nagged at him enough. Harry's marks were fairly good, and he relished not having Snape this year. Potions was never his best subject, so he was almost proud of his Exceeds Expectations. For Defense, it was even better. An Outstanding, despite Umbridge's best efforts. History was a D, due to Voldemort's interference, but the rest were fine. He had a good amount of OWLs, and while a lack of Potions NEWT meant he couldn't become an auror, he wasn't too upset. Being an auror didn't sound too appealing these days anyway.

Now, Harry was relieved they'd be leaving to pick up their supplies. It felt almost like a late birthday gift. His sixteenth birthday was just yesterday, and it was celebrated modestly with all his friends, the Weasleys, the Weird Sisters' newest music album, and a three-tiered chocolate cake, courtesy of Mrs Weasley. It was nice, but Harry found himself continuously reminded and disappointed that he wasn't able to go out.

He wasn't exactly claustrophobic. In fact, he liked tight spaces when he just needed a break from it all, but it got tiring extremely quickly. He needed air, windows, and open spaces—all things Grimmauld Place lacked with its dark colours, architecture, and imposing Victorian theme.

Harry swore that if he survived till adulthood, he'd move into a cosy, large space with as many windows and as much natural light as he could get away with. He would never feel trapped again.

Then, he leaned his head back against his chair with a sigh. If only he could enjoy this summer without a sour taste on his tongue. He'd been feeling terrible recently, and his eyebags had never been deeper. His skin had gotten paler, and he wasn't naive enough to think it was simply from the lack of sunlight. He'd been so fatigued recently, and he'd hardly been able to sleep. He was too worried if he'd dream or not. Too worried that he might want to dream.

Something was bubbling under his skin, whether it was an itch or a need, he didn't know which. All he knew was that he felt cold and alone at night and when he woke up, he felt unreasonably aroused. It wasn't a very nice feeling, but there wasn't much that could be done about it without Harry touching himself while right across from a sleeping Ron, and he was a little too embarrassed to do that.

There wasn't much he could attribute his state to, but yet...on those nights, he woke up from formless dreams. A handsome face, a wicked smile, and teasing fingers right along with red red red eyes.

Harry knew what this was, there was no way in hell he couldn't.

Bond deprivation, a part of Harry realized with horror. He had all the classic symptoms.

He'd learned this in the health course taught by Madam Pomfrey in third year. She pulled aside groups of students to tell them all they needed to know about biology and presentation and bonds. Harry definitely would never forget what he learned in that mortifying class.

Bond deprivation was a common phenomenon. Basically, if a bonded alpha and omega pair separated for a long period of time, their bond would be 'starved', in a sense. It was even worse if the couple was magical. Their magic would be fighting to return to each other, leading to eventual death if they didn't quickly reunite.

But Harry wasn't bonded, definitely not. He would know if he was, and he held no claiming bite, despite his alp—Tom's best efforts to the contrary. But Tom...a part of him already thought of him as his alpha, and that was the same part of him that shared whatever mental link they had.

Harry gasped. If...if their mental link functioned like a mating bond, then some things would definitely make sense. Like their need for each other, the dreams, the way Harry felt like he wanted to climb inside of him....

Fuck.

Harry was bonded, wasn't he?

That damn Room, Harry seethed. Everything he and Tom did together in the Room of Desire would always come back to haunt him, it seemed.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Bond deprivation, Voldemort violently recoiled when he came to that realization. His shoulders stiffened, and his skin was paler than usual. His eyes held glamoured bags, and he felt unnaturally fatigued. He was a mess, and had been for weeks now. Ever since Harry....

The dreams helped some, but a feverish need coiled in his belly, and he felt strangely empty. He was missing something, and for however long it took to get it, he'd just been getting worse.

He was exhausted, his patience was at its wit's end, and he felt unreasonably tense. According to his dear Nagini, he simply needed to mate, then he'd be fine. He scoffed at the thought, of course, but he didn't realise how right she was.

Harry Potter and himself had no bond, none other than the one shared in their blood. Whatever the consequences of his resurrection ritual were, an effect of it was that he'd been mentally linked to the boy ever since. He'd thought nothing of it, and, in truth, their link was rather useful to trick the boy as it led to their encounter at the Ministry. And after their recent trysts, he'd felt something settle inside of him. Harry Potter was his, he had laid claim to the boy, had been the first to touch him and make him come undone when no other had been allowed the pleasure, and something in him purred at the thought.

Harry was his omega, the alpha in him whispered. There was no doubt, and now...they had a bond as well. That mental link of theirs surely played a part, and while he wasn't necessarily against it, it felt almost...sacrilegious. He wanted to claim Harry himself, bite him and savour in his blood as the boy truly fell from his gilded pedestal and into Voldemort's adoring hands, as soft and moldable as putty.

It felt wrong, that their link was the effect of a ritual and not himself personally biting the boy's neck and permanently cementing their bond.

But he couldn't summon any anger, nor did he want to. Harry was tied to him in a new way, one he would not simply ignore.

It was as it should be, he thought. A beauty for a monster. A sacrifice for the villain. And what a beautiful sacrifice Harry would be, willing and wanting....

Voldemort gave a victorious smile, full of teeth. He did not think he minded this, not fully. Any way to more closely bind Harry to himself was far from unwelcome. 

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Awkwardly, Harry stood near the rows and rows of clothing. They'd finished all the rest of their shopping, and now Hermione and Ginny were looking at new clothes, with Ginny's secondhand, of course. (Harry wasn't going to tell her, but he gave Hermione a bag full of galleons and told her to go mad with buying her and Ginny some clothes.)

Mrs Weasley was in another store, and there were one or two Order guards stationed at the front and back entrances. Though considering Mundungus Fletcher was one of them, Harry doubted he was still at his post. And then Ron was window shopping for brooms at Quality Quidditch Supplies, figuring he'd wait out since he didn't need new clothes anyway.

So now, Harry had no idea what to do. The clothes in the shop, Mr Wixley's Clothing: Superb and Secondhand, mostly catered towards omegas. Which Harry was, but he wasn't about to admit it.

Still, green eyes gazed longingly over the rows and rows of soft, pretty clothes. His fingers twitched, suddenly struck with the urge to touch. So pretty....

He eyed the pretty skirts with soft tulle and the pastel blouses and shiny Mary Jane's, but he didn't do anything about it. He couldn't look.

It...it simply wasn't proper. Before, he was just a beta; he wasn't supposed to be pretty. But now he was an omega and it was supposed to be okay, but Harry startled even at the idea. No one other than his friends knew, and he didn't think people would react well if normal beta Harry suddenly started wearing skirts and dresses.

Of course, Harry never had anything against boys wearing skirts, but as for his aunt and uncle...well, it simply wasn't proper. And so he pretended that he didn't like the thought of wearing a soft blouse, or that he wasn't tempted by the soft swish of a pretty dress.

Could he even buy them now? Those are the types of things omegas wore and they're so nice and he kinda liked the feel of them, but should Harry wear them? He was just plain Harry, all knobbly-kneed with messy hair, altogether not very flattering. His eyes were his best feature, even as he hid them beneath unflattering spectacles.

His whole life with the Dursleys, he'd been relegated to the spot of future beta, considering the uncommonality of male omegas and the fact that he showed no signs of being an alpha, so all of those soft, frilly fabrics were so far removed from what he was that Harry almost felt like a creeper just looking at them. But...he was curious. He wanted to feel them, to wear a soft dress and shiny shoes and jewellery and to just feel pretty.

And his looks of longing at the dresses were very, very obvious, judging by the knowing look Ginny sent his way. And in fact, she was coming towards him, grinning.

"Say, Harry....what'dya think about a makeover? You're very pretty, you know," she said cheerily, looping their arms together. She made a show of pulling his chin this way and that, examining him in the light and quirking her lips at what she saw.

"I—huh?" Harry startled, and then Hermione waltzed up with a frilly top over her shoulders.

"Ginny!" She whisper-yelled, taking care not to get anyone's notice. Harry almost thought she was about to pull Ginny off him when his hopes were doused.

"What about this one? I think Harry would look cute in this."

Harry would have wilted, but...was it really a bad thing? The top Hermione held in her hands looked very nice, didn't it?

He would have thought this was uncharacteristic of Hermione since she was never all that much of a girly girl, but she had been taking better care of her looks post-Yule Ball a few years ago, and her normally bushy hair had been in good shape recently. Truly, puberty was a wonderous thing, he mused.

Harry blinked, suddenly noticing the matching evil grins on both girls' faces.

A shocked smile grew on his features, even as they pulled him away to try on clothes he would never have had the bravery to wear before.

Wow, he loved his friends.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

"Hey, try this on!" Ginny threw a skirt at him through the changing room stall, and Harry barely batted an eye before trying it on. It was pretty. Really pretty.

He smiled, twirling a lock of his messy jet-black hair.

Harry wore a pearly-sheened pale blouse made of some kind of silk, right along with a nice olive green-coloured skirt and pale, thigh-high socks. Shiny, dark Mary Janes completed the look.

He was cute, and the clothes were nice against his petite figure, seeing as he was slightly stocky from quidditch training but not overly so. His hair was messy, but his skin was pale and soft, and his green eyes were doll-like behind round glasses. He'd never seen himself like this before, and his heart gave a little patter. He was pretty in a messy and adorable kind of way, and he found himself entranced with the sight of himself in the mirror in a way he'd never been before.

Harry had never been so happy with how he looked like. He'd never cared to dress up, and he usually only wore his Hogwarts robes or Dudley's best cast-offs. Maybe a few new trousers or shirts, but it was mostly uniform attire and nothing fitting. It didn't flatter him at all, and even his Yule Ball robes left something to be desired in him.

And this was it. All it took was a pretty dress and shoes, and Harry felt like a classically pretty omega. A radiant smile grew on his face, and his eyes watered.

He blinked it away.

"Hey, you decent? We're coming in!" Ginny knocked, and she barely gave him a second before she opened the stall and she and Hermione stepped inside.

Hermione gasped, and her hands clasped at her mouth in shock. "You're gorgeous! Oh, look at you, Harry...."

A squeal, then Ginny made a twirling motion with her fingers. "Well, come on, give us a show. Spin for us."

He did, and Harry could have squealed himself when he felt the swish of his long green skirt. It was nice, and it was actually kind of breezy. Not uncomfortably so, but something felt off.

He frowned.

His legs, he thought, looking down. His outfit looked off, and he felt the breeze against his body hair, even while he was wearing the skirt. He didn't like the feeling.

He propped his leg up against a stool, and he hiked up his skirt, ignoring Ginny's little wolf whistle.

The hair wasn't too thick, since Harry was never the type of boy to develop too much body hair. He likely wouldn't now as an omega, but it was still there, and he found himself annoyed about it in a way he wouldn't have been previously. Harry frowned again.

"Hmm...." Hermione muttered, folding all the clothes they'd chosen for Harry and placing them in the handheld magical shopping cart. They'd gone overboard, just a bit. There were at least a few dozen outfits, probably enough for every day of the month. Luckily, they were just about finished. "Let's go to checkout, then...Ginny, do you know where we can find a salon? Harry needs a makeover."

She looked towards him, picking apart his face and studying his expression. She was always so attentive, Harry smiled.

And go to the salon they did, of course. Hermione handed their spoils to an Order member—Tonks—and asked them to shrink their bags, to be undone later. Rather useful, that. Afterwards, with Harry, unsurprisingly, out of view of any of the Order, they went exploring down Vertic Alley, a side street Harry had never noticed near Diagon. Turned out, all the good food spots and cafés and salons were down there.

"I don't head down here much, but I think there's a salon here somewhere," said Ginny. "We all need a makeover, and we should absolutely do something about your hair, Harry. It's cute, but a little scruffy. No offense."

"None taken," he chuckled.

They found a good salon rather quickly, a small and sweet little spot painted in soft pastel pinks and blues and greens, and Harry quickly relaxed. It wasn't all that scary, just intimidating. He knew Aunt Petunia had gone to these sorts of places, but he'd never been. Salons had always been a nebulous thing, considering he'd never even gone to a barber shop before. Growing up, he often refused to cut his hair, and then Petunia would give him a terrible hairstyle that would grow back out magically within the night. Eventually, he'd learn to do his own hair, awkwardly but passable enough.

Stepping into the place wasn't overly off-putting, but he was certainly nervous. The entrance was a lot more muggle-like than he'd expected, with magical, florescent witchlights and long rows of mirrors and work tables and chairs and a few doors.

They stepped up to the entrance desk, where they quickly got situated. First, a kindly-looking elderly witch began washing his hair, brushing out and massaging his dark curls with creams and conditioners she sold to him afterwards. And truly, his hair was the best it's ever looked. He was religiously following the hair routine they explained to him now. Who knew curly hair care was a thing?

To cut his hair, the strands were lengthened with a potion and then cut semi-evenly in a way that would flatter him. His fluffy curls were draped elegantly over his face, and while the style hadn't changed much, his hair was a few inches longer and neater-looking. He could comfortably hide his scar behind his bangs, and he could probably put his hair up in a ponytail. His scar was hardly covered, and the salon technician didn't even bat an eye. She just smiled and kept working.

His hair looked stupidly nice, now. Though he was sure it would soon go back to its usual frizzy, fluffy mess. The Potter hair was a generational curse like that.

After all that, they washed him and he bathed with Hermione and Ginny in a nice, big pool area. He stayed a little ways away behind a privacy barrier, and he used a cream he'd been given to dissolve body hair. Very useful, Harry thought, trying to remember to buy some of that as well. He scrubbed it all over himself, including his privates (he resolutely did not think at all about Tom's reaction if he were to see that Harry shaved for him), and took care not to get it near his head of hair.

Afterwards, they were basically done, though there were still the finishing touches. Once he'd gotten dressed in the same outfit he'd worn in the changing room at the dress shop, Harry's nails were cleaned and tidied, with a transparent gloss applied over them when asked what he wanted by the technicians. Hermione got hers in a soft blue, and Ginny declined any polish. And then, there was the makeup.

They didn't want anything too bold for today, just something to accentuate their looks, and Harry...well, he was tempted. He didn't want to feel left out, and he felt so nice and clean and pretty, so he found himself going along with it gladly.

Soft pink gloss was applied to his lips, accentuating what Ginny called his natural pout, and foundation and blush were applied to add a rosy colour to his cheeks. Then, the salon technician applied an amount of mascara and a thin line of dark eyeliner. It wasn't too noticeable, but it accentuated his eyes enough for the green to appear almost luminous behind his glasses.

Now, they were finally done, and Harry couldn't recognize himself in the mirror.

Whoever this was, it wasn't him. He could see a pretty omega with soft, shiny curls and big doe eyes and a heart-shaped face. And however much he liked the look, Harry could hardly believe it was him.

If it wasn't for the green eyes and scar, he'd have been tempted to call shenanigans on sight. Then he looked more closely, and he began to see himself in his reflection. His cheekbones, skin tone, and hair. The curve of his nose and the shape of his eyes. Of course, this was him, but all his natural features were shaped and highlighted, and he looked and felt the best he ever had. He loved it.

This was him. It was really him. This was one of the first times he'd ever seen himself in the mirror and liked what he saw. He wasn't just knobbly-kneed, messy-haired Harry. He was...pretty. Desirable. Right now, he almost felt like what Tom usually made him feel.

Harry's face went red. Tom. What would he think if he saw him like this? Would he like it?

It was strange to admit, but Harry found that he missed him. His last dream was almost a month ago, and he'd been up in his head about it ever since. Did Tom really still want him? He hadn't visited in a while, and while Harry still felt an enormous amount of guilt for his...thing with Riddle, he couldn't bring himself to stop.

Harry knew that if he saw Tom again, he would barely be able to keep himself away from the man. He hadn't been with him in weeks, and he hadn't seen him physically for even longer. He felt really...discontented. Pent up. Horny, he thought, embarrassed.

He rubbed his thighs together, hoping he wasn't noticeably wet. He wasn't, but he dropped his train of thought before he actually was.

He wouldn't see Tom here, he knew. That didn't mean he couldn't wonder, Harry smiled. Either way, today was good. He felt great. He was satisfied with himself.

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The dark fabric of his robes waved dramatically behind him as he stalked out of Gringotts. The sun beamed brightly over the bustling alley, and despite the density of the alley's population, they quickly moved aside to pave a way for Lord Thomas Slytherin. This made him smirk slightly at the clear respect and recognition of his newfound rank as Lord. Finally, he no longer was simply the heir of Slytherin.

Withholding the urge to sigh appreciatively, he continued on his path to the nearest apparition point. Tom had quickly settled his affairs for the day, and he found that there wasn't much else to be done.

The life of a Dark Lord wreaked hell on one's free time, Tom realized, and he couldn't at all find an evening in which to relax as of recently. Right along with his new identity as Thomas Slytherin, there was much work to be done, and little time to convalesce, which was unfortunate.

He regretted that fact, as it kept him away from the omega boy who had beguiled him so strongly, and so quickly.

Harry Potter was an enigma, a beautiful nymph creature from stories of old, and Tom desired him, badly. Had it been up to him, he would have spent every evening with the boy, but fate would not have it, and so he spent the last weeks formulating his plan and setting the pieces. And truly, the pieces had been set, he smirked.

His new identity was put in place, and he'd claimed his rightful role in the Wizengamot. The Wizarding political sphere was rocked off its head, and Tom found himself the main culprit.

What happened that day in the Department of Mysteries was a blessing in more than one way. It began his relationship with Harry, showing him the boy may not be the same arrogant, spoiled chosen one that Severus had always described. That day, Harry defied his expectations severely. Instead of the egotistical braggart he'd heard stories of, Tom saw a strong, stubborn young wizard. Harry stood before him and glared. He wasn't scared one bit, and if he was, he certainly didn't show it. He stood tough as a reed before him, refusing to bend and ready to fight for his life.

That child was the only person in recent memory who didn't cower before him. He was not simply a lucky boy, barely surviving by the skin of his teen and with no magical aptitude to speak of. Instead, he was strong. Tom felt his magic, his scent, and he stared into the depths of that enchanting mind trapped behind those emerald eyes.

His curiosity was piqued, at first. That moment he witnessed Harry Potter torturing his most loyal, ferocious general on the floor of the Ministry should have made his blood boil with anger at the disrespect. But yet, it did not. Instead, he felt nothing but amusement. Shock. Interest.

Pure, wild magic danced in the air, entwining with his own dark aura and matching it in both strength and ferocity. Their magical compatibility was striking, and it nearly made him shudder. And then Harry's scent...it was so sweet. Entrancing. Tom had long ago trained himself in defying the allure of omega pheromones, but to think he could be brought down simply by the scent of that boy? Impossible. But he was.

And his eyes...the way the boy looked that day, with his wand trained on Bella....

Green eyes flashed darkly with wicked satisfaction, his pretty face contorted with anger and a badly hidden sense of enjoyment in the pain of the woman who killed his godfather. Truly, the look of that boy was enchanting, his magic and scent even more so.

Lord Voldemort could only smile cruelly at the sight. Perhaps the boy had potential, he thought at that moment. In fact, he had half a mind to use the clear talent for dark magic Harry Potter wielded. He could mould him. Train him. Sully the Boy-Who-Lived in the eyes of the Light. But his musings paused when the scent of distressed omega made its way to his nose, and he stopped. And smelled.

And then he chased after Harry Potter when he had the gall to run from Lord Voldemort. But he'd always liked a chase, hadn't he? Tom grinned.

And of course, along with all that, Tom roved through Harry's mind and studied what he found there during their...coupling. He was strangely amused. Almost flattered, really. To think the boy also wanted him, didn't want to want him, but was so willing to bend over for him.... Tom was both bemused and amused. He was curious, really. Covetous of the boy before him.

Then, he stepped out of the Room of Desire and found himself struck. His mind screamed, shocked at the events that had occurred. Truly, he had thought, I've bedded Harry Potter? Such an event had never before been a thought in his mind. He'd never been attracted to the Potter boy, and such matters of the flesh had been far from his mind for quite a while, so to think he and Potter had been together in that way...he'd been both enraged and bewildered. That initial attraction had been caused by the Room of Desire, no doubt, considering the unexpectedness of their union. Had it been anyone else, Tom would have killed them. But it was Harry Potter, and then...Tom realized he couldn't. He realized the opportunity he'd been afforded that day in the Room of Desire.

His new strength, his face, and his very sanity, all of it was returned to him by Harry Potter. He could not be angry at him for that.

He stopped on the street, then, and he gazed at himself in the reflection of glass off a shop window. He stared at the curl of his dark hair, and the curve of his sharp nose. He noted the red gleam to his glamoured dark eyes, and, vainly, he almost couldn't stop looking at himself.

Tom would not fault himself for that arrogance as, in truth, his handsome face had been lost to him for quite a while now, and so had the advantages that had come with it. Charm was a weapon he'd long since abandoned, a tool he no longer needed. And yet now, his good looks had returned, and the destroyed piece of his soul had merged with his much smaller fraction.

And wasn't that a shock? Lucius paid dearly for his mistake once Tom had discovered the true source of his returned strength, and the only reason the man had survived was because of the benefits his wealth and connections had afforded his lord.

Then, once the thick hold of madness on his mind had abated, Tom quickly realized exactly where he failed over the years, and he'd raged. All those years, those plans, the entire war, and his destruction that night in Godric's Hollow...that folly, all of it...it could only be attributed to the breakdown of his mind and power. His soul was fractured, weak beyond measure, and only now, once half of his soul had returned, had he realized it.

Tom was foolish, he would admit. He was young and impulsive in his decision to make horcruxes, especially so many. Seven was too much, his soul too broken. Three would have been better, the number a greater stabilising agent in arithmancy. It would have been better, perhaps, to find another method of immortality in the first place, but he would not regret the foolishness of his young self. Regret...it was not a safe thing to feel when it came to making horcruxes, so he abandoned that line of thought.

Once he'd come to those realizations, he went back to the drawing board. He restructured his plans and reinvented his persona. That was when the identity of Thomas Slytherin was born. If he could gain power first as a politician, gaining favour and supporters, his ascension to ruler of the Wizarding World would be much smoother. In the minds of the people, he would be the monster hiding in closets no longer. Instead, he would be a genius. A revolutionary. A handsome political leader. Just like Gellert Grindelwald, he would use his charm to advance, and he would use the identity of Lord Voldemort to sow fear while also gaining power and loyalty as the prodigal son of Lord Voldemort, a man born to inherit his father's legacy and to atone for his mistakes. He would 'defeat' his father, and then all would be well.

Perhaps, he would be with Harry as well. Early on, once he'd realized his newfound advantage, Tom found himself euphoric at the new path before him, and confused about what to do with Harry Potter.

There was need no longer to kill the child. He would not attempt to do so, and Harry would not attack him either. He certainly had never attempted to go on the offence before. So Tom resolved to leave him be. He'd destroyed the poor boy enough, and even his earlier idea of turning him Dark held no merit. He was but a child, one yet to grow into the powerful wizard he could be, and so Tom resolved to ignore him.

He'd already attempted to repay him, resurrecting Black and using Bellatrix's death to do it. He didn't know what to do with the man just yet, but he would return him to Harry one day as a gift. He was in terrible shape at first. Almost death at the hands of the Veil and about a decade in Azkaban before then would do that to anyone. So Tom healed him, kept him safe, and he would soon win his loyalty before returning him to Harry as both a gift and the promise of a truce between them. Tom would no longer attack him, and Harry would stay out of the war. Therefore, prophecy averted, if it hadn't already been fulfilled over a decade ago.

And then...then there was the first dream. Harry wasn't quite aware, his mind was hazy and asleep. But he knew him. He wanted him. He called him alpha, Tom sucked in a breath, and he moaned so prettily for him. And that's when Tom began to desire.

Harry Potter would not be his enemy. His clever boy was born to be more than that; he would no longer be destined to be struck down at the hands of Lord Voldemort, no.

Instead, Harry Potter would be his prized mate, his little husband who'd want for nothing more than to be on his arm and to warm his bed, to be his companion throughout their immortal lives (and yes, Harry would become immortal. One day. He would settle for nothing less). How poetic it would be...the child that once killed him, who'd later resurrected him, and then eventually vanquished the madness within him, would be the only one he would deign to mate with?

And perhaps yes, his initial desire was caused by the Room of that same name, but now...now it was not.

As far above the pleasures of men he was, Lord Voldemort was but an alpha, and even one such as he could be tempted. There was a fire between him and Harry Potter, one that would not be put out once ignited, and he was not one to deny himself.

Tom wanted Harry body and soul. His mind as well. Just by the glimpse of it in Harry's words and attitude, Tom was bewitched. Harry wasn't simply unafraid, he was angry. Sarcastic and mouthy. Ready to tangle both in words and body. Harry was the first to talk back to him in quite a while, and it was refreshing.

When Harry sent him that letter, he laughed. And laughed. And laughed. Had his Death Eaters seen, they would have shaken in their boots.

That's when Tom fully decided on his plan of action. He would court Harry, be with him, dream of and with him. Then one day, they would truly become mates.

And Harry did not disappoint. They would dream together once more, and Tom laughed and smiled and spoke with the boy. They were in bed, yes, but Harry was so utterly himself that Tom couldn't look away. He did not regret his decision to keep Harry. Instead, he only wanted him more.

Tom smiled. He was all too correct in his decision. Now, all that was left was to speak with him once more. Truly, if it would not be such an egregiously terrible idea, Tom would abandon his Death Eaters and ravage Harry for a day, ignoring his work. Wasn't that an idea?

A scent wisped in the air, then, making Tom freeze in his tracks. Embarrassingly, he practically stumbled on the cobblestone road.

That fragrance, the sweetness of familiar omega—honey-like and sweet but with a sharp aftertaste like pumpkin or treacle.

Tom would recognize it anywhere.

He turned on his heel and followed the pull.

Harry.

His feet moved without conscious thought, focused as he was on the idea of seeing Harry Potter once more. He couldn't believe he was here, today of all days. Fate surely smiled upon Lord Voldemort.

Tom's lips quirked up as, before he knew it, he found himself outside a quaint little establishment. A jewellery shop.

Wide, clear windows opened up into the store. On pedestals, rows of diamond rings, jewelled necklaces, and other assorted, colourful jewels gleamed. A few shoppers perused the items, while the shopkeepers attempted to keep up. And there, right there, was the one he was looking for.

Harry.

His eyes widened, and Tom found himself momentarily dumbstruck at the sight before him. His scent grew thick in the air before he remembered himself. Luckily, the density of the crowd kept his state from being too obvious, but he had no care for any of those people, so it mattered not.

Tom stared at the boy in the shop, absorbing the sight before him.

Purposefully messy, coiffed dark curls bounced with Harry's movements, and he smiled with glossed lips and gleaming eyes as he studied a series of simple, not very gaudy but still elegant jewels. Critically, Tom noted his preference. He looked utterly radiant, and that was without considering his clothes. Salazar, his clothes.

A flush grew high on his cheekbones.

A silky and pale, buttoned blouse hugged Harry's body, showing off delectable curves and the small roundness of his chest. The colour nicely accentuated the darkness of his hair and the vivid colour of his eyes, and the green skirt only added to the touch. A skirt, god.... Thick and pleated, it fell to just below his knees, showing off what could either be tights or thigh-highs. His fingers twitched with the urge to check which.

And then, Tom's eyes fell to the dark Mary Janes the boy sported, and as if he was a young schoolboy once more, he was gone.

Harry, he called out, whispering softly into the depths of his mind as he called upon their link. Useful little thing, that was. He was thankful for it, considering it had been a product of the blood ritual that had resurrected him some time ago and another way Harry was bound to him. Look out the window, my darling.

Immediately, green eyes searched, confused, right until they happened upon his form. Tom smiled, waving.

Hello, his lips mouthed.

Chapter Text

Oh.

Oh.

Harry staggered, barely managing to grab onto a glass case as his heart jumped in his chest.

Tom. He was here.

Tom Riddle was here.

He should be terrified. Angry. Disgusted. How dare Lord Voldemort show his face, he should think. How dare he parade around as Thomas Slytherin with all the harm he's caused?

Harry didn't think that.

Instead, unadvisably and mostly thinking with his omega hindbrain, he strolled out of the store with a cheeky, yet anticipant smile on his face.

"Tom," he spoke, eyes wide and drinking up the sight of the man before him.

Black robes hung slightly off his figure, showing off his imposing form in a way that made Harry's heart spasm. The cut was slightly out of fashion, but it flattered the man nonetheless. Dark green, snake-themed filigree lined the edges of his velvet robes, and darker green patterns twirled on his collar and cuffs. Green was such a cliche colour for the Lord of Slytherin house, but it suited him nonetheless.

He couldn't look away. Neither of them could, and they found themselves drinking in the sight of each other right on the street.

"Harry," Tom replied to Harry's earlier call seconds later than was socially acceptable. His eyes gleamed like firey coals, and if Harry looked closely, he could almost see his real, crimson eyes behind the glamour.

He wanted that red. He wanted to stare into Tom's eyes. And perhaps the colour he saw now—reminiscent of dark eyes he'd seen in the much younger memory of the man before him—was actually the one he was born with, but it mattered not. His eyes were now red, and Harry wanted Tom as he was now, not what he pretended to be. It wouldn't stop bugging him, and Harry knew that if he wanted Tom's real self, then his real self Harry would get.

Harry pulled on his wrist. "Come." He pulled Tom away, and the man, smiling softly, followed gainfully without question. He snuck them off a few stores away into a cordoned-off, well-hidden yet cosy alleyway he'd noticed earlier. No one was there, and it suited their purposes perfectly.

Tom waved his hand, and Harry felt the pressure of magic that often came with the casting of spells. It was likely a muffling spell, perhaps along with some kind of privacy ward.

A shiver, and his mind wandered to certain other reasons for why they might need privacy wards.

Then, searchingly, Harry looked up at Tom. He stared deeply into those dark eyes. "Take it off," he demanded, and he could almost shudder at the intensity with which the alpha was looking at him. He felt warm. Hot. Perhaps dizzy. With how close they were, Harry could scent the comforting, almost sensual alpha musk coming from him. It made him want to lean in and bask in it.

"I want to see your real eye colour. Take off the glamour."

"These are my real eyes, darling." Tom's eyes danced in amusement at Harry's obvious shiver at the word darling, but he executed Harry's order promptly, and crimson red eyes were revealed.

Harry's breath hitched. There you are. Unconsciously, he leaned in towards the man, and he grew lightheaded as a spicy alpha scent entered his nose.

Tom Riddle was handsome, of course. That was not a fact to be denied. His dark, deep eyes pierced through Harry like a lance, but those blood-coloured irises made his heart jump in his chest. Perhaps it was an uncanny valley, a natural effect when seeing something so obviously inhuman, but those eyes only made Harry melt.

Before he realized, Harry held his hand up to Tom's cheek, and he rubbed the spot underneath those eyes as he leaned in. "It's been a little while." He said those words in a way that they both knew meant I missed you and where have you been? I haven't dreamt of you.

A larger hand clasped Harry's own against Tom's cheek. Harry shuddered at the warmth. "My apologies, dearest, for being away. I'm afraid there were a few...tasks I had to complete. My work kept me away from you."

They both knew what that work was, and while the knowledge of Tom's highly illegal activities laid heavy between them, they both elected to ignore it.

Harry smiled wryly. "And now, Lord Slytherin," he laughed at the title, "Are those tasks completed?"

A considering hum fell from cupid's bow lips. Red eyes ogled Harry quite obviously. "Well, not quite yet, but I do believe I could make time for you, my Harry."

Harry squeaked as an arm wound its way around his waist and he was pressed against the man before him. His eyes flew up, and he pushed against Tom's chest and pretended he wasn't feeling up the muscles he could feel there.

"Are you...?" The whisper fell hesitantly from glossed lips, and Harry looked up at him through thick eyelashes. His gaze was fixed on the intensity of Tom's features. He couldn't look away from the short twitch of those full lips, the details of his jawline, the slightly dilated pupils....

Harry felt feverish, and the moment his senses happened upon Tom's domineering alpha scent—impossible to deny from their proximity—he knew he wouldn't simply be getting out of this.

Not that he wanted to, he trembled.

He'd be damned, but he didn't want to. He didn't want to escape from the comforting warmth of Tom's arms. He wanted this, he wanted to be here, with Tom, more than he felt guilty for what they were doing. And that thought weighed heavily between them, because they both knew. They knew that Harry wanted this, and so did Tom as well. They both wanted it. Even when they shouldn't.

After all, a Dark Lord had no business in bed with the child of prophecy destined to defeat him. They both knew that.

And they didn't care.

Harry paused that realization by quickly waving his hand, silently releasing his scent-blocking spell with nary a thought. Tom hissed, then, and before Harry knew it the man was nosing against his neck, taking in his scent.

With a hitched breath and a weakening of his knees, Harry angled his neck to let the alpha scent him. Tom grabbed tightly onto Harry's waist, his hands moving to grope his curves and arse as he held him up and scented him. His knees turned to jelly as he was overwhelmed by the feel of it, panting as he was against the alpha's shoulder, and he knew that the very notion of stopping what was happening between then now was a lost cause. His omegan instincts were feral with need, and Tom's own alpha was likely much the same.

Harry felt Tom shiver against him, and he knew then, from his proximity to Tom's own scent gland, that the man before him was just as aroused as he was now.

Something in the man before him relaxed, and Harry felt the bond between them buzz with a comfortable sort of satisfaction as he sensed more than saw Tom's shoulders slump against him as the alpha breathed in Harry's scent like it was his first breath of clean air in months.

Moist wetness grew in Harry's core, and he would have been embarrassed at how quickly he'd gotten aroused if this had been his first time. But it wasn't. In fact, this was their second time—in real life, at least—and Harry was well aware of that little fact.

"I—I want—" Harry's words would have sounded pained to the untrained ear, but to him, they just sounded whorish, too lost in pleasure to really speak. "Please, I want...."

That's when Tom stopped scenting and began kissing at Harry's neck, kissing and lapping at his scent gland and the area around it. Oh—oooh that felt too good.

Moaning, Harry tightly gripped Tom's biceps as he heaved in air against his chest. "Oh god...."

Tom smirked, and he pulled away, making Harry mewl with dissatisfaction. "There is no god here, Harry, surely you realize?"

He was right, Harry did realize. He was never all that religious, but surely, if God existed, then he would be disappointed in Harry, in Tom, in them both. They were damned for this, but Tom would be damned for many more things than besmirching a young omega's virtue, and Harry would already have been damned from the very moment he allowed the Dark Lord to ravage him that day in the Ministry.

"I don't see a god," Harry spoke suddenly. Unbidden, the words spilled from his lips like a gospel spoken within a church by the most pious of believers. Then, he gripped Tom by the collar and leaned the man's head down, their lips inches apart as he coyly whispered, "Instead, I see the devil right before me, offering me a taste of the forbidden fruit."

Harry swallowed, his adam's apple becoming more prominent. "And I want to taste it."

A true devilish grin grew on Tom's face, and crimson eyes gleamed. Yes, a devil this man was. But wasn't Lucifer a fallen angel, before he fell? Even the Lord himself, for a time, must have been tricked by the gorgeous veneer of his once most beloved angel.

The devil was not the little imp the stories told of. If that were the case, then evil would be far less tempting. The true face of evil was, in fact, no face at all. It was the darkness of self hidden behind the mask of beauty, the silky lies that fell from gorgeous lips akin to the sweetest of wines.

And then when one finally fell into temptation, unable to deny themselves any longer, the act of sinning made them fly higher than the clouds, and it was only once one fell back down again that they'd see the truth.

Harry felt like Icarus, now, gazing into the sun and being tempted by its beauty. He was sick with it.

He knew he'd fall, but he didn't think that he cared. He wanted to fly, despite the risks he already knew. (He would care soon. He wasn't dumb. He couldn't give his heart to this man, but he would give his body.)

The alpha before him sucked in a deep breath, and that's when Harry noticed how deeply they'd been gazing into each other's eyes, and how close they were. They were practically chest to chest, body to body, lips almost to lips.

"Darling...," Tom breathed, his pupils dilated as he gazed down at Harry. "Your mind is beautiful."

Harry made an embarrassed noise, and pale gloss shined on his lips as Tom refused to look away. Harry knew his face was now red with not just makeup, but natural blush as well. "Why...do you look like you're going to eat me?"

"Perhaps I'm going to," Tom said, his voice husky. Harry felt his knees go weak again, and he wouldn't have been able to stay standing if Tom wasn't holding him up.

"Well then, what's stopping you?" Because it sure as hell is not going to be me was Harry's unvoiced thought.

Harry jumped, startled as, suddenly, he was pushed against a brick wall and ravished. He moaned as Tom's lips attacked his, and his hands wound tightly around his alpha's neck. He could do this forever, for as long as time suited them. He would never get enough of this.

Harry shook as Tom's tongue flicked against his lower lip, making him part his lips with a groan as the man forced his tongue in with a slick sound and mapped out Harry's mouth, stealing both his breath and balance as he was overloaded with pleasure.

He stumbled, and he might have fallen to the ground if Tom hadn't wound his arm around Harry's legs and gripped onto a thick, corded thigh underneath his skirt. The skin there was newly shaved and exposed, in the spot above where his thigh-highs began and right below his underwear.

Harry shivered at the warmth and feeling of a hand against him, groping the meat of his thigh and inching so close to where he desperately wanted to be touched. He was already so hard, and his hole felt almost slippery with its wetness.

A whimper, and Harry's fingers slipped under his skirt and grabbed Tom's hand, pulling him higher up into his unmentionables. The damp hardness of his underwear would have been almost mortifying if Harry didn't know Tom was probably just as hard.

The tips of Tom's ears went red, and his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "Harry, are you wearing...knickers?" His voice was husky, awed. Like he couldn't believe what he was feeling.

Harry flushed, nodding. Ah...yes, Ginny was most certainly thorough.

"Harry, dearest..." Tom growls in his ear, his eyes rapt on Harry's glossy lips and bright eyes framed with luscious mascara. "Salazar, it's like you were made for me. Do you want me to fuck you, right here and now?"

His eyes pierced right through Harry. "Answer me!"

A moan slipped out in answer, and the scent of aroused omega thickened in the air. Harry flushed at his reaction, but it was an apt one. He wanted this, really. He could admit to missing Tom in those weeks away, and right now he felt unreasonably horny for the man before him. He knew it wasn't right, but how was it wrong when the need to spread his legs for this man felt so right?

Tom growled, and one hand began to harshly palm at Harry's cock as the other fondled his buttocks. "Harry...," he spoke. "How do you want me to do this?"

How, Harry, eyes glazed and holding back his moans, startled, confused by the question. He didn't have any preferences. He just wanted it now. Experience was an asset lost to him as of yet, and right now all he wanted was for Tom to finally claim him, to open him up and thrust inside like Harry knew they both wanted.

"I—well...." A flush grew on already rouged cheeks. He just had a thought while gazing at the curve of Tom's full lips as he perfectly enunciated his words, and his tongue.... Harry remembered how it was the first time. It was forked. It wasn't now, but god did this man know what to do with his tongue. And he'd never felt...Tom had never...but would he?

Fuck it. "Iwantyoutoeatmeout!" His words came out stuttered and quick, rolling into one.

A short smirk grew on Tom's face, and then the arrogant bastard leaned down right into Harry, their faces hardly a breath away from each other. "What was that? Please repeat it."

Harry hissed, eyes darkening in embarrassment at having to actually say it again. That bastard, he was enjoying this. "I...I want you to..." His teeth clenched.

"Say it clearly now," Tom chuckled sadistically.

"Eat. Me. Out." Oh, shit, he didn't mean to phrase it like that, oh good Merlin—

"Hm...bossy. What a feisty one you are." Tom leered down at him, you know, like a pervert. Harry was already as red as a tomato, and now that jerk had to make it worse by just looking at him. Like that. With those eyes.

His stomach flopped madly, twisting upside down and back again with arousal.

It was unfair. Truly, God had favourites. Or a concussion, when deciding to bless the boogeyman of the Wizarding World with looks akin to an angel. His looks fit more with his inner self when he still looked serpentine, but Harry knew, somewhere deep down, that even if Tom still looked like his Voldemort persona, they'd still be in this exact same position at some time or another. After all, Harry was still more than willing to bend down for the snake-like Lord Voldemort, now wasn't he?

A shiver rippled through his body, and Harry wasn't sure if it was a product of his thoughts or from the way Tom stole a quick, toe-curling kiss and then actually lifted him and laid him over a series of long, thick crates. They were laid together, all made of some kind of smooth, dark wood, and Tom had probably used a wandless cushioning spell because the material didn't feel uncomfortable against his back, and the edges didn't seem to poke at him. Harry didn't necessarily care how he was positioned, but god was it hot when he was effortlessly lifted like a sack of potatoes. So, of course, it was completely reasonable for his face to overheat like that and for his stomach to swoop.

Cold, Harry thought, and he would have shivered again if he hadn't realized Tom had rucked up his skirt to spread over his abdomen so as to gently pinch the sides of Harry's pale, plain knickers down against his ankles.

A hiss fell from full lips as he was finally bared to the world, and Harry looked down to study Tom's reaction.

Enraptured was the only term Harry could use to describe Tom's face then. The alpha looked possessed, his pupils shot so big that the crimson of his irises were only thin rings around them. His lips fell open slightly, and Harry would have compared it to a jaw going slack had he not paid...er...special attention to the way Tom flicked his tongue against his bottom lip. From this angle, Harry was halfway sat up and technically still partially leaning against the brick walls of the alley, and he had a perfect view of his lover.

"You shaved?" Asked Tom. His tone was indiscernible, heavy and deep in a way that made Harry's heart patter even as his anxiety grew. "For me?" He sounded breathless.

"Tom....I—yes." Technically, it wasn't exactly for him, but Harry would be lying if he said he didn't think about what Tom's reaction would be to seeing his shaved legs and cunt.

Shyness wouldn't cover what Harry felt right now, nor would timidity. He was slightly embarrassed, considering he never expected Tom to actually see, let alone have this kind of reaction. Did he like it? Was Harry good for him? He kind of wanted to be. Disappointment was something he never wanted Tom to feel for him. "Please, talk to me. What do you think?"

"Think? How could I possibly.... Fuck, Harry, for me?" Tom rasped, and then a finger went down, down, against Harry's folds, and it teasingly rubbed the outer edges of his perineum before it slipped into his slick hole without any further fanfare.

Harry trilled out a moan, and he wiggled his hips a little to get the finger to go a little deeper. It didn't feel like much of anything, despite the way his sex was clutching against the thin finger. He needed more than this. Something bigger. Something he could....

"Oo—ooooh, Merlin please—" Harry whined and began to thrust his hips up as Tom's face came down and warm lips wrapped around his omega cock. Harry's shaft, while undoubtedly smaller than Tom's, was nothing to scoff at either—it was about five or six inches, give or take—and Tom was taking it like a champ.

A moan, and Harry squeezed his eyes shut at the sight of Tom's hollow cheeks, sucking his cock and plunging a finger inside his wet folds. Fuck, it was too good. Harry was sure his cunt just suddenly clenched around Tom's finger, now.

The lips slid off his cock, and Harry would have been disappointed if Tom didn't simply groan slightly at the sight of Harry bare and laid out in front of him before he leaned his head back down and began to invade his hole.

Fuuuuck. God, people did this regularly? If so, and if this did become regular, Harry would die happy. That tongue, it lapped at his cunt and its juices just perfectly, and there was a finger rubbing against his clit, pinching it between two fingers as Tom groaned again and drank from Harry's inner lips like a starving man. On a theoretical level, he knew slick tasted sweet and nice to alphas, but to think Tom enjoyed Harry's taste so much...well, it filled something inside of him.

And then, Tom began to thrust. He wasn't content with simply mapping out Harry's most private parts, oh no.... He was thrusting his tongue inside his cunt, fucking him hard like he would with his cock. And holy shit was that—

Harry screeched, wrapping his legs around Tom's neck and crushing the man's face against his pussy. He cried out in pleasure as that warm, wet, slitted tongue thrust inside of his wet hole, splitting him open deeper than a normal tongue would ever be capable of. His thighs shook, and Harry was tempted to close his thighs even tighter around Tom's face to force him deeper. Fuck, how long was it? How thick? Was this some kind of transfiguration, or could Tom somehow summon back his old traits from before the change?

His thoughts ended up falling to the wayside, though, as the pleasure suddenly grew too much. Somehow, it was only then that Harry realized what they were doing.

He was on a crate. He was halfway lying on it with his legs spread obscenely wide like some two-knut back alley whore as he was opened up for the pleasure of an alpha he had absolutely no business being anywhere near. And Merlin did that filthy thought sound surprisingly hot to him.

Tom's face was in his cunt, and a large hand spread his thighs wide open while another rubbed against his clit, pleasuring him and combining it with the feel of Tom tongue-fucking him, licking hotly at his folds and reaching deep with that insanely sexy forked tongue of his.

Did it make Harry a monsterfucker, enjoying that tongue? Fuck, maybe, but if it did, then that boat had already sailed back when he was perfectly amenable to being fucked by Voldemort back in the Ministry, still snake-like as ever back then.

A whimper, and then Harry suddenly seized. His hole clenched around Tom's tongue, and he pushed down against it, trying to get Tom as deep inside him as possible while he climaxed.

Tom moaned within him, and the vibrations made the pleasure crescendo, with Harry mewling as Tom began lapping at the squirts of cum and slick that just shot out of him. His whole body shook, and his cunt and shaft were still spasming from the aftershocks, even as Tom continued licking and softly nipping at Harry's most private spots.

Harry watched, eyes half-lidded and flooded with a rush of adrenaline as Tom drank down his cum and juices with a slurp. That was way too hot, god.

"You taste delectable, my dear," the man said, eyes bright with satisfaction. His mouth and lower jaw were wet with slickness, but Harry didn't care. He grabbed Tom's shoulders and forced him into a filthy kiss, chasing the taste of his own sticky ejaculate off of Tom's mouth.

The slick was just...slick. Wet and with a slimy texture, but the sweetness wasn't as off-putting as he thought, just a little musty. The cum was salty and bitter, but the taste was bearable against the warmth of Tom's mouth as Harry flicked and rubbed Tom's unfairly hot, still-slitted tongue.

Tom moaned, and Harry grabbed him by the biceps to sink his nails deep into pale skin beneath the silk of dark robes. This just made him moan louder, and somehow Harry knew this was the most Tom had ever let loose during sex.

Harry pulled away. He looked Tom in the eyes, searching for something in those ruby depths. A flush was bright on Tom's cheeks, and his nose and ears were both a ruddy shade of pink that was unnaturally charming on the alpha before him. It only made Harry's attraction to the man all the more damning. Because now he was human, no longer a monster. His heart still pounded.

He switched their positions, suddenly and without any words. Tom was now against the crate, and Harry, still wet and open with shaking legs from his orgasm, dropped to the ground and wordlessly began unbuttoning the man's robes to pull out the extremely intimidating, extremely hard cock he couldn't believe he'd ever managed to get inside him.

Harry and Tom's breaths both hitched, and green gazed at red straight in the eyes with a mischievous sort of look. Harry was nervous, but he wouldn't be letting that stop him. He had this in mind since the moment he saw this dreadfully large cock for the first time, but he never had the chance to actually do it. But now...Harry breathed, attempting to regain his composure.

Tom's cock was long, about nine inches long if Harry were to guess—and he shivered because wow that was impressive—and really thick, too. It jutted out at an angle from the man before him, thick and purple-veined despite its paleness. His knot was there and tempting, right at the hilt, but Harry knew alphas rarely knotted outside of heats or ruts, so he didn't bother with it. The tip of Tom's cock was almost reddish, and the foreskin was pulled back. Pre-cum soaked the tip.

Harry wanted to taste it.

Tom ate him out, so he'd return the favour. (He tried to convince himself that was the only reason he wanted to shove his alpha's cock down his throat, not because he was rapidly becoming obsessed with the idea of this man filling and spilling in every hole Harry had.)

He looked Tom straight in the eyes—with no trouble at all, considering the man himself was eyeing Harry like a hawk about to swoop down on its prey—as he sunk down and wrapped his lips around the hard, leaking erection.

His tongue laid flat against it, and Harry tasted the pre-cum, just like he wanted. Salty, still bitter, but Harry preferred it over his own for some reason. He hollowed his cheeks, and he sucked at the tip. Just the tip. It almost didn't fit in his mouth, but Harry needed to make it fit, he thought, his omega hormones making him feel so dazed he was halfway convinced he was in heat, even if that wasn't the case.

Tom shook with barely concealed pleasure. His mouth went slack and he released a soundless moan as, even then, he tried as hard as he could to keep control of the situation. "Harry...you don't have to reciprocate if you don't—mmm, ah—"

Slurping, Harry took him down deeper, still staring hotly at Tom. He choked around him, but he was determined to take as much down as he could. He wanted this man to fall apart. After all, it was only fair.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Tom moaned, and he would have felt embarrassed at the loss of control if Harry were anyone else. But he wasn't. Instead, he was the only omega Tom would ever want to keep, and oh how badly Tom wanted him now.

Fuck. Harry had never done this before, Tom knew, and that inexperience was clear in the way he tried so hard to suck him down, to take him deeper, but the poor boy couldn't yet go very far, despite his dreadfully arousing enthusiasm. But he certainly made up for it, Tom panted, his hands fisted in Harry's curls as he gently, gently pushed Harry's head deeper.

"Harry, my little dove, relax your throat. Breathe around me, it's alright, let me—h-help you." His words were hoarse and gasped, and the rush of pleasure he felt was simply addicting as he stared down at Harry, their eyes hardly parted as Tom burned the image of the Boy-Who-Lived, saviour of the Light, on his knees for him into his mind.

That face, those eyes.... He would never forget the image of pink, pouty lips stretched around his cock, those vivid green eyes welling up with tears as his throat burst with the size and girth of his thick alpha cock as Harry finally managed to take him deep.

Sweet Circe, his omega was such a fast learner, he thought, dazed. Then, Tom grabbed his hair, pushing him off his cock for only a moment before he thrust back in, starting to fuck his mouth as gently as he could manage in his state. He was so considerate to take his dear omega's comfort into account. Instead of going wild, he wasn't as hard on him as he could be, but he was still so hard, pounding inside him and studying the sight of his shaft fucking in and out of Harry's throat.

And then, Harry moaned around him. The boy looked utterly wrecked, green eyes wide and teary and his face so red and bursting. Tom knew he was no better.

Growling, Tom gave a violent roll of his hips, forcing his cock even deeper into Harry's throat, his arousal bolstered by the vibrations of Harry's sweet sounds. Good lord, the omega was enjoying this—this debauchery.

Tom stared at him deeply, gazing into his eyes and mind. His breath hitched.

Pleasure. Hot. Warmth. Slick. Fingers. Harry was panting, his throat clenching violently around Tom's cock, but Tom could feel his pleasure through the bond, and he saw, he felt—

Oh. Oh. Tom grinned. Oh no, he wouldn't have that, would he?

Harry, the little minx, he was crying, taking his cock so deeply inside that little mouth of his as he pounded himself just as hard on his fingers, desperately trying to recall the feel of his cock impaled in his wet little pussy. But it wasn't enough, was it?

Tom softly crooned, saying, "Oh no, my little one, I won't be having that...." Then, he laughed before he dragged his cock out of Harry's mouth, silently chuckling at Harry's drooly, confused little pout as he gazed longingly at his length, missing it already.

Arms wound tightly over Harry's armpits, and he brought him up and arranged his hips right over Tom's own. His fingers were still inside his cunt, pumping himself full almost mechanically.

He wished he could see it, but Harry still wore his skirt, rucked up and drenched as it was. He quickly fixed that, flipping it back up but still leaving it on because there was something so dreadfully filthy about wrecking his boy while he wore a pretty skirt.

Tom's heart pounded heavily in his chest, and a dark sort of desire coiled in his belly. "My poor, sweet little omega," he said, gently nudging Harry's stubby fingers out of his wet hole with a slick pop. "You want me inside you that badly, hm? Well, who am I to deny you?"

He rubbed his cock against Harry's opening, slow and heavy with a slick sort of sound as the omega panted and shivered on top of him.

"But you have to work for it."

Harry whimpered, his pretty little eyes glazed over with pleasure as drool dried on the side of his mouth. "Wha...?"

"Ride me, darling," he whispered against Harry's ear, leaning against the wall as he tightened his arms around Harry's hips to position him even closer.

He felt it, the way Harry's cunt lips seized around him. He wasn't even inside yet but Harry was already so desperate for it, aching.

So was he.

Only Harry Potter could do this. Only this little omega before him could inspire this sort of want inside him.

Tom, for his part, could hardly believe that he was doing this in an alleyway. What in the world was this omega—this boy doing to him? What sort of power, allure, did Harry Potter have that could leave even Lord Voldemort as lustful and meat-headed as any knothead alpha? He'd never in his life been tempted to have a—a bloody quickie in an alleyway, but Harry. Bloody. Potter enjoyed the distinct fault of being the one that inspired him to such lustful heights, the only one that ever did.

He loved it. They both did—what they were doing. And the debauchery and wrongness of it made it all the sweeter.

The omega above him quaked with pleasure, shivering not from the cold but from the way Tom slowly rubbed his cock through those wet folds. He was teasing, he knew full well, and he enjoyed the sounds falling from Harry's lips. His boy was far too tempting and so easy to tease. Salazar, Tom thought, he was made for me.

And then Harry settled, and he rolled his hips forward and ground down against Tom's leaking shaft, positioning himself so the tip of his cock entered his opening in a short, awkward motion.

Shuddering, Harry did it again. And again. He slipped off Tom's dick over and over again as he, at first, ground himself slightly forward and only allowed the tip to breach him.

Then, before Harry could thrust down again, thick hands wrapped tightly around those beautiful hips and pushed him down and forward enough so a few more inches of his alpha cock could settle into his lover's waiting channel with a rough drag.

The boy above him yelped, and then, eyes rolling back, he ground down again, letting Tom's cock sink deep into him as his knees shook.

Both of them hissed and groaned at the pleasure, and they each ground down or up against each other, meeting halfway. Harry rolled his hips forward and more of Tom's cock slipped into his tight, wet cunt, and it felt so right it was almost like coming home.

Harry was a vision on top of him, cheeks flushed and eyes hazy with lust and delight as he, grinning wryly, held up his skirt to show his sweet cunt off to Tom's eyes as his cock bloomed in and out of his pretty hole. The boy moaned, half for show and half as an expression of the euphoria he felt.

"Oh, my darling, if I knew before that you were such a little cockslut, I would have taken you the same day I returned to power. You would have been so pretty against me, and you already take me so well...."

Harry gave a short moan, flustered and lustful yet still high off hormones and cocksure of himself as he fell apart atop of him. "You're right. I would. I would have enjoyed it so much," he whispered, his lips to Tom's ear as if he was revealing a secret, "and I would have taken as much of you as I could. Your cock in my hole, my mouth, anywhere it would fit, I'd want it. I'd want it so bad."

Growling, he thrust deeper into Harry's cunt, reaching deep inside him in a way only this new angle allowed. Then, his hand shot out to grip Harry's pretty throat, remembering the way his boy took him in that hole, too.

"You little whore," he laughed as Harry's pussy clenched around him, drenched and squirting with his omega's arousal. "You really would have loved it. I would have taken you, right there in front of my Death Eaters and on my father's gravestone. They would have gazed at you, awed, and they'd want for nothing more than to be inside you, fucking you, but only I have that pleasure, omega, only I could bring you to those heights!"

Mewling, Harry panted in a hoarse tone, "Not just me. They would have wanted you, too. I would have enjoyed it because I would know that I was the one you were fucking, and that your devoted little sycophants were never given the pleasure of being your omega. And—" a hiss, "in fact, that was before I presented. Just before. I presented a month after seeing you that time, and I think—I think it was because of you."

Then, coyly, blushing and sounding almost shy, Harry said, "Because...because I wanted to be yours, even then."

Tom's breath hitched, and suddenly, he felt like his blood was sizzling in his veins. God...this little omega.

"How you flatter me, Harry.... To think that I, Lord Voldemort, would be the one to trigger my omega's presentation is one of the sweetest joys I have ever beheld." Crimson eyes glowed with lust, accomplishment, and pride in his own power. Those words were so pretty on Harry's lips, he wanted to hear them again.

"Tell me, my darling, what are you? Tell me!" He gripped Harry's throat again, but then another hand slipped down to massage Harry's clit as he continued pushing forward and fucking into him at an unforgiving face.

"Y-yours, my—aaah—alpha...." Puffing and red-faced, Harry screamed, rolling himself down and forcing Tom's dick even further into himself as his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and then Tom knew he reached his peak.

"Fuuuuck," Harry cried, his pussy and omegan cock squirting against Tom and spasming around him even as Tom wouldn't relent in his thrusts. "God, please—" Smaller hands gripped Tom's shirt collar, likely ripping the material but he couldn't bring himself to care.

Thrusting deep into Harry with every word, Tom said, emphasising, "You. Are. Mine."

The pleasure he felt was strong, and Tom's body was strung tight with it. He was ready, he was almost about to cum in his omega's little cunt, fucking him full with his seed and before, before he would never have enjoyed that thought, never able to feel anything but horror at the possibility of even the risk of a child, but with Harry—

"You will let no other touch you, do you hear me? You belong only to me, only I will ever touch you, fuck you, mate with you, and even when you go to Hogwarts this year, you will dream of me, my little omega, have no doubt." Eyes wild, Tom groaned in pleasure once more as he pumped Harry full with cum in one, two, three thrusts.

And then Harry fell on top of him, panting, right as his boy squirted and came once more. Truly, Tom smiled, cradling Harry closer to him and kneading his hair as pretty green eyes slipped shut with exhaustion, I will never get enough of him.

Tom would be keeping him, but that was never up for debate.

Chapter Text

There is something to be said about the morning after, Tom decided, his mind filled with an unfamiliar array of emotions. Though perhaps, it wasn't a morning after. Instead, it was the few minutes of post-coital brain fog that allowed for this...vulnerability, he frowned, gazing down at the omega before him.

He looked peaceful, his lashes fluttering as his breathing came out in light pants.

Softly, Tom murmured, "How you've bewitched me, Harry Potter...." This was not normal. It could not be so. He wanted this boy with an ardent zeal he'd never been able to summon even for his precious horcruxes, the carriers of his soul. But yet this boy, this omega, could somehow engender...something within him. It was strange. Peculiar. It should be infuriating. And if he was still Lord Voldemort, then he would be angry.

But he wasn't. He was no longer Lord Voldemort, not only. Half of his soul returned to him nought but a few months ago, and, curiously, he'd begun referring to himself as Tom in his mind.

He hated that name. With all of his bitter, cold, shattered heart, he swore he did. But when Harry said it...when his boy moaned that name...it was the sweetest thing Tom had ever heard.

All the others who'd ever spoken his name uttered it with derision, disgust seeming to spill off every syllable. Very few of his followers back in his later years at Hogwarts were given the honour of speaking his name, most often preferring to call him my lord when alone, but when they did, they ached for his attention like dogs. It disgusted him.

But Harry wasn't the same as them. When he called him by that name, it was most often a moan, and it was devotion falling from his lips, an aching sort of sunbeam aimed straight at Tom.

Greedily, he realized he would never get enough of it.

Perhaps that was why he used the name Thomas Slytherin, he chuckled. He was ever so sentimental, and Tom would be the only name he'd want Harry to call him, not a pseudonym he'd only use for political purposes. Though, of course, he'd certainly never reject hearing the calls of alpha or my lord come from his lover's sweet voice.

He realized that he couldn't easily call himself Lord Voldemort anymore, now. His mind was far clearer than it had been in a while, and he'd recently come to recognize that Voldemort...it was never a name. It was a title, a tool utilized in the years of the war as a taboo. Voldemort was never a name to be called by, but Tom...that was, so Harry would refer to him as such. And so far, the diary was a cool balm to the tattered recesses of Voldemort's broken mind, and as his sanity was pieced together, he was no longer Voldemort.

He was Tom Riddle, once again, made whole anew. (Or perhaps Thomas Slytherin now, but that was neither here nor there.)

Tom sighed, and he relaxed at the sight of Harry lying prone and exhausted atop him, his head full of curls tucked underneath Tom's chin. He smelled like treacle and honey. So sweet he was....

He dragged his hand up, shaking from the aftershocks of post-coitus still, and he smoothed out Harry's messy locks. The mussed-up look suited him, and it only ever made Tom want to stroke at the boy's hair and gently brush it down again.

Harry wiggled around, and Tom felt him smiling against his chest. And responding to his earlier words, the omega mumbled, "Mhm...alright...but if I did this to you, look at what you did to me. How the hell am I gonna walk back now? I'm so sore."

Internally preening, the alpha chuckled. "My sincerest apologies, dearest." He was not sorry in the least, but he'd pick his battles. And clearly, Harry wasn't all too upset about his state, sore and aching he clearly was.

The boy rolled over, groaning as he fell beside him and stretched out as much as he could. "I need to go, my friends are worried."

Turning back to Tom, Harry's eyes glimmered with unsaid words. His mouth twitched as if he wanted to say something. "I...."

The alpha sat upright, his feet now against the ground as he wrapped an arm around Harry's waist and pushed his face back into his chest. Tom leaned down against Harry's neck, and he began to softly nose against his scent gland. "Yes?"

Groaning at the scent, Tom began to slowly unwind. The sweet and soft quality of Harry's scent was always so entrancing, and after their recent activities, his alpha musk was tied deeply to the boy's body and scent glands, entwined together in a way that felt undoubtedly claiming, a warning to other alphas.

And it may have been a component of their biologies, but scenting his omega was the best way to release some stress. He almost regretted the dreams, for even despite their almost real quality, they didn't hold the depth the real world had.

Then, a forehead slapped against his peck. Whining, Harry wrapped his hands around Tom's thick shoulders, palms at the back of his neck, and he crawled into the alpha's lap.

Harry's head fell against Tom's scent gland, and he began taking in his alpha scent in deep gulps.

It made Tom shiver, both at the action and at the knowledge that no one had been allowed to scent him before Harry; he had never allowed their filthy hands on him in such a way. But Harry...well, Harry was adept at breaking down boundaries that never seemed to apply to him in the first place.

"Fuck, we got to stop this," his boy whispered, though Tom noted that he still did not pull away, he simply clung tighter. The words were said quickly and suddenly, but they held no true weight, not when they were both still scenting each other and lightly panting from the relaxing pheromones.

Tom would believe Harry when he meant it, but so far, he didn't. "Of course, darling," he answered, before beginning to kiss up Harry's throat, his cheek, his eyebrows and temple, his forehead (very close to his scar, though not yet), and then finally to his lips.

They sighed and they fell back against each other, lost in the rhythm of lips and hands and a warm body against the other.

"We..." kiss "...have to stop—" kiss, then another "—this! Oooh...aah." Tom flicked his tongue against Harry's lips, then his tongue, still forked (he knew exactly how much his omega liked the feeling, and he smirked with the knowledge of how he...ah, took advantage of it at the boy's own order), rubbed against Harry's tongue, his teeth, and the rest of his delectable mouth.

His boy tasted like ejaculate, blood, slick, and perhaps whatever breakfast he'd eaten earlier. Either way, Harry kissed back and they were soon lazily snogging in an alleyway, still mostly naked. Not that either of them cared.

And then Harry pulled away, finally. He gazed at him in the eyes, and he asked, determined, "Why are we still doing this?" His eyes were hard, his lips pursed.

And Tom, he would have spoken, but...he had no answer. What could be said? What should he say? He wanted to court and mate this omega, but he would not coerce or blackmail. He wanted him genuinely, not as a trick or a bargaining chip. Harry would choose him, but did he yet feel the same way?

Tom's jaw tightened, and in lieu of all he wanted to say, he instead said, "I don't understand."

"This!" Wildly, Harry gestured towards the alley, Tom, and even the sky as if to show off the insanity of what they were doing in a world that would vilify them for their actions—or perhaps only Harry because, after all, his Death Eaters would never dare speak of such matters against him, while the Light and the greater Wizarding World would undoubtedly defame and condemn the omega before him.

"We can't be doing this. At all. The first time was...that. It was a spell, or whatever. We were cursed! But then those dreams...and now this. Why are we doing this? It's not...it's not right!"

Cheeks flushed red, Harry knocked his forehead back against Tom's chest, and he groaned dully against him. "This...isn't right." Harry shivered, then, as Tom wrapped his strong arms around Harry's lithe waist.

"How so, my dear? How is this wrong? Is it not natural? Is what is between us not the most natural type of affection there is between alpha and omega?" Sweet words fell like honey from the lips of Lord Slytherin, and he knew, he knew what he was doing, that Harry wouldn't fall for it, but what was he doing if not trying to convince himself of his words?

Tom could've frowned.

"Damn it! Fuck you, fuck you for doing this," Harry cried, his eyes welling up with tears. He looked back up at him, and the boy looked not just sad, but angry. "I hate you for making me want this."

The alpha growled, and he pressed hard against Harry's waist, his hands pressing punishing bruises into the boy's curves.

"And you think that I don't?" Snarling, he continued, "I am Lord Voldemort, child. I should not be...this mad with want for a boy. Ever since that night in the Ministry, my thoughts have revolved only around you. It is—it is distasteful to think of you in such a way—you, the child that defeated me. I have never believed myself capable of being a simple, knot-headed alpha—all for a child like you!"

Angrily, he finished his tirade by saying, "If what you feel for me is in any way a signifier of what I feel for you, then Salazar help us, boy, because this...it won't stop."

Neither of them said it, but it was in the way they looked at each other, their eyes met and they knew as they whispered it in each other's minds.

Because we don't want it to.

Harry looked pained, then, and he sighed miserably as he fell against him. Tom wished he could do the same.

"We're fucked up, aren't we?"

"Yes," he replied.

They stayed that way for many minutes, a long period where they simply held each other and tried to pretend they were not who they were, but they failed, and they knew it, acutely in their souls.

They would never escape it. They were Lord Voldemort and the Boy-Who-Lived. They were not simply alpha and omega, they were enemies. They should never have started this, not when they knew they'd never want to end it.

Tom shut his eyes, bathing in the warmth of Harry against him. Just another minute, and he'd tear himself away.

Eventually, Harry let out a soft exhale and he got off of Tom's lap, where he'd been clinging onto him like a koala bear.

Unbidden, Tom waved his hand, and both of their clothes appeared before them, pressed and washed and cleaned of all incriminating scents and fluids. He hated the starchy and staticky feeling of magically cleaned clothes like this, but it would work well enough.

As they dressed (they both pointedly did not mention the other's eyes on their still naked forms), Tom watched as Harry pressed his hand to his scent gland, and a trickle of magic pushed forward.

He gasped.

A strand of warm, strong, golden magic pressed against his skin, and he could only stand there as Harry wandlessly cast a scent-masking charm and cleaning charm to hide his omega status, the mixture of their scents on his skin, and to clear up whatever remained of his makeup. Tom even noticed Harry's hair curling neatly, and the shimmer of his lip gloss returned.

Oh, goodness.... Tom felt a rush run through his body at the feel of that power.

His lips quirked.

Tom did not deny his reservations towards his relationship with Harry, but he knew he could have chosen worse. This boy was powerful, whether he knew it or not, and he couldn't regret the pull he felt towards him.

Harry quickly finished, and he ran a hand through his hair, grinning lazily without a care in the world (though Tom noted, smirking, that he had a limp).

"We really should be off, it's about time my friends start looking for me—"

Snap.

Instantly, they turned in unison, and Harry flinched back as he witnessed a figure kicking away a scrap of wood.

The figure staggered against the brick wall, and their eyes widened once they realized what they just stepped into.

"Shit."

Harry's words couldn't be any more accurate, he observed.

Shit, Tom's inner voice echoed.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Guiltily, Ginny bit her lip. She didn't mean to abandon Hermione and Ron at Fred and George's shop, but the moment her gaze caught on shiny platinum locks—awkwardly dishevelled as he fidgeted and stared around the alley shiftily—she knew she had to follow.

This happened soon after she and Hermione went to look for Ron, hoping to distract the Order with false intel of Harry's whereabouts once they spotted Emmeline Vance a little too close to the salon. She and Hermione found Ron window-shopping at Quality Quidditch Supplies before snatching him away, and along with Vance, they headed off to Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, telling Vance that Harry should be meeting them there.

Ginny had no idea what they'd do once Vance realized they were having her on, but that wasn't her problem right now.

A certain Malfoy heir was.

Eyes hard, she followed after him, blending in with the crowd a few steps away from his sight. She hardly noticed that she'd entered Knockturn Alley.

Her mum would kill her if she knew where she was, but Ginny wasn't going to tell her. All her attention was on Draco Malfoy, and as she hid in a cordoned-off side street, hidden away from eyes and ears, she found herself peering suspiciously through the big front window of Borgin and Burkes, studying Malfoy's form.

Ginny stared, and while she couldn't hear whatever Malfoy was saying to the owner of the shop (Borgin or Burke, she really had no idea who it was), she found herself trapped in the depths of Malfoy's features. She witnessed the way his blonde hair settled over his face, slightly messy but altogether flattering, and her gaze was caught on his lips, pink and full as he spoke words she couldn't hear.

She truly wished she had an extendable ear when Malfoy snarled something, then, and his face pinched angrily as he angled himself away from the window and did something with his arm. This made Borgin (or Burke?) gasp, and she could make out something on Malfoy's lips.

"Te...anyone...Will be retr....You...Fe...Greyb....attention." He snarled, and Ginny gasped herself as she saw him pull his sleeve down. She didn't know exactly what the owner of the shop just saw, but she'd bet good money (that she didn't have) that Malfoy had taken the Dark Mark.

He was a Death Eater! She had to tell everyone! Merlin, she thought, he could be planning to kill Harry right now!

Well, not on her watch.

And as Ginny came down from her crisis, she cursed, realizing that Malfoy had already left the shop and she'd lost sight of him. Damn it.

Where was he? She twisted around, searching desperately for Malfoy and hoping he hadn't yet noticed her. She was bloody screwed, absolutely and utterly, if he'd realized what she knew. He'd probably ask his Death Eater buddies to kill her, and then her mum would really do her in.

Yank.

Ginny scrambled, about to scream as she was grabbed by the shoulders and pushed back against a wall by large hands. A warm body held her in, a hand on each side of the wall as she realized she was far, far too close to what could only be an alpha.

That scent, that dominating demeanour, and the growl as Ginny tried to escape, it only made raw fear spike through her as she tried to scream but failed as a hand pressed over her mouth.

"Weaslette," a familiar voice sneered, "what are you doing here? You Light folk always baulk at Dark curses, here I thought you wouldn't want to get your hands dirty...."

He laughed as she aimed a stubborn glare at him. "Or are you finally resorting to a love potion to get Potter to love you?"

Ginny kicked him in the leg, and she simultaneously bit his hand. Malfoy yelped, and she would have slipped away if he hadn't yanked her arm and pushed her right back against the wall.

"Oh no you don't! Tell me, what did you hear?" His gleaming grey eyes, the colour of a storm cloud but with a hint of blue, looked mad, almost crazed, just like his bitch of an aunt. "Answer me!"

Fuck, Ginny thought, How do I get myself into these situations?

She was cornered in an alleyway by Draco Freaking Malfoy, Hogwarts' resident pretty petty blond ferret, and he'd finally presented over the summer, as an alpha, no less.

His scent was lime, perhaps with some kind of peppermint or smokey tinge on the edges. It was almost reminiscent of petrichor, or the feeling of victory as she laid face first on the grass and dirt after secretly spending her nights teaching herself to fly and finally managing a new quidditch move.

Ginny felt...something. She wasn't willing to name it.

Instead, she snarled, teeth bared at Malfoy. "I heard nothing! Don't tell me you think I can use an eavesdropping spell with the trace, Malfoy. I'd rather not risk it. But I was definitely tempted."

Suspicion clouded his gaze, and he huffed. His pupils were pin-pricks, and his nose was turned up arrogantly, as he puffed out his chest in a way he probably thought made him look intimidating. (He sort of was, but Ginny's dealt with bigger, badder bullies, so it didn't matter to her much.)

"You better not be lying, Weasley, because if you heard anything, then it wouldn't end well for you." His eyes betrayed nothing as he stared at her in a strange mixture of annoyance and contemplation.

Raising an eyebrow, she questioned him, "What are you, warning me? What for?" Ginny squeezed out of his grip, as she found he wasn't all that intent on boxing her in anymore.

He sputtered. "Of-of course not! I'm saying, Weaslette, that if you knew what was good for you, you'd never have followed me here in the first place!"

"I didn't follow you, I—"

"Of course you didn't," he sarcastically assured her, "you just decided to randomly stroll down Knockturn Alley, like the good little Light witch you are."

She rolled her eyes. "How did you even see me? I thought I did a good job of hiding."

Malfoy smiled, not very menacingly, but the curl of it sent a jolt down her spine as she noticed the mirthful look in his eyes and the broad setting of his shoulders. He wasn't just a boy anymore, she realized, he was an alpha, and he had her in an alleyway. The realization made her pause.

"You have very distinctive hair, Weaslette." He grabbed a curl of her firey ginger locks, twirling it as she stood stock still with her breath stuck in her throat. It was so unlike her brothers' almost orange-coloured hair, and she'd always been proud of it.

Her cheeks warmed, and she was sure they were now redder than her hair. "D-don't touch me!" She pushed him away as her heart began to beat wildly in her chest.

A smirk danced on his lips, and Malfoy's hand drifted down to rest against her cheek as he got closer to her. His eyes glittered, and he breathed, "Like this?" The warmth of his hand on her freckled cheeks made her grow even redder.

Ginny felt warm all over, and something sizzled in the air. But it wasn't just her, she observed. Malfoy was frowning as he leaned down closely to look her in the eyes. He was almost too close, and Ginny could see the moment Malfoy realized what they were doing, what it looked like. Here they were, an omega girl and an alpha boy, in an alleyway. What would naturally occur? What would people surmise to have happened if they heard about this?

He realized it at the exact same moment she did, and she knew that because Malfoy began to stare down at her lips through half-lidded eyes.

Her stomach flipped, and before Ginny realized it, her face inched closer to him, her lips half-parted. What was she doing? Why was she doing it? She'd never actually liked Malfoy...right? She'd always noted he was handsome, of course, who wouldn't? With his shiny blond hair and shimmery grey eyes, she always secretly took a peek at him whenever they bumped into each other in the corridors of Hogwarts. But she had no hidden desire for a Malfoy, she couldn't! What would her parents and brothers think?

She...she wasn't sure what was happening, but she knew she wasn't stopping it.

But Malfoy did.

Right before their lips met, Malfoy recoiled, and he scoffed as his features flipped on their head. A sneer was on his lips, but his eyes betrayed himself by showing something that looked a bit like shock.

"This—you...just go, Weaslette! I'll pretend I didn't see you here, for the sake of your precious daddy's job...you never followed me here."

Nostrils flaring, Ginny fired back, "My daddy's job? What about yours? I'm surprised he still has one, Death Eater." It wasn't just a jab at elder Malfoy, not when she had her suspicions about what exactly was on this boy's arm, and perhaps they both knew it when she saw the way Malfoy narrowed his eyes.

"Why you little—ugh!" Malfoy clenched his fists, and then he twisted around and away from her. "I'm not doing this, not with you."

Doing what?

(There was no name she was willing to give for what almost happened.)

He glanced back at her for just a moment, and Malfoy's lips were pursed as he looked her up and down. "You don't belong here, foolish Gryffindor. Go back to your mother's bosom, it's where you belong." Then, he stalked away.

Ginny was left sputtering and flushed, and she stared at his back until he was far enough away that she couldn't spot him anymore. She found her thoughts in disarray.

What...what was that? The encounter, it was strange. Merlin, what had possessed her? She didn't like Malfoy, did she? He was certainly attractive, but she wasn't attracted.

Probably.

She couldn't safely say she wasn't after today.

Her eyes bulged, and she slapped her cheeks. What was she thinking?! He was a Malfoy! And a Death Eater! She couldn't just...no way.

Ginny shook her head at her own actions, disappointed in herself for her lack of self-control. She was being ridiculous.

She just had to forget about it, yeah.

It didn't matter, she thought. I just have to forget about it. And then, she hiked off, trying and failing to forget about it.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Where was Harry?

Ginny twisted and turned in circles as she looked all around for him. She was in Vertic Alley once more, but she couldn't find him. He was nowhere that she thought he'd be, and she just exited the jewellery store they'd left him at, so he wasn't there either.

Did he already leave? He must have, but she thought she'd have noticed him in Diagon, probably.

Empty-handed, she was just about to leave for Diagon Alley when something happened. A shiver rippled down her spine, and she felt something sickeningly familiar.

A rug was ripped out from under her, and Ginny's fists gouged out crescents in her palms as she dashed like the wind before her thoughts could properly formulate.

That magic...it was Tom Riddle's magic. She would recognize it from anywhere, any source, after her...encounter with his spirit in her first year. And now, unless the diary somehow sprouted legs and walked off from Dumbledore's office, it could only have come from one person.

Riddle. No, Voldemort, or perhaps Thomas Slytherin, considering the alley hadn't yet burst into chaos.

And he must have Harry! Where else could he be? He was probably torturing him right now or performing all sorts of terrible acts on a young, cute omega like Harry...oh dear Merlin.

Ginny snarled. Not on her watch! She would never let it happen. Riddle wouldn't hurt Harry if she had anything to say about it.

She followed the sense of magic in the air, Riddle and Harry's potent mix of magic a lure for all who did or didn't know them; they were distinctive, and those scents were intertwined, meaning they were together and she was right, that bastard kidnapped her friend!

If she was too late, if they'd already left...what could she do? She couldn't bear the thought. It didn't bear thinking of.

And quickly enough, there she was. An alleyway, strangely scentless for its location, but she could still feel the magic in the air, lightning-sharp and like ozone as it zipped through her.

Ginny stumbled, then, and, like an idiot, she gave away her location by stepping on a stray twig.

"—about time my friends start looking for me—" The voice was familiar, and Ginny could have stumbled again in relief, but....

When she witnessed the sight before her, a gasp left her lips.

"Shit," Harry cursed, and it echoed in the silence of the alleyway.

He was a deer caught in headlights—a saying her dad had parroted from muggles a few times—and Riddle...he was no better. His red—bloody red, just like blood—eyes caught on her form, lazily gazing at her as if he was some kind of cat and she a nasty bug, something he didn't want to look at and—

Ginny paused, and the scowl she didn't realize was on her lips faded as her mouth made an oh motion.

Riddle's hand twitched softly on Harry's waist, his fingers rubbing soothing circles as the younger boy leaned in, staring at her with shock and worry and a strange amount of guilt, emotions a kidnappee wouldn't be feeling at that moment.

They were too close, leaning against the other, and the way Harry looked.... She saw the traces, he was debauched. His makeup was mostly gone, the gloss faded from his lips, and his clothes were messed up, as if he'd just hurried to put them on. And Riddle, she noted, was much the same way.

Her first instinct should have been anger. How dare he...how dare Riddle violate Harry?! It wasn't right! But that wasn't it. Not at all.

Instead, a scene from months ago echoed in her mind.

She walked in on him, changing out of his clothes, and she saw the bruises. She flushed, and she couldn't help but interrogate him. They talked, for hours, it felt like. And Harry...there was an ever-present red shimmer on his cheeks.

Harry's new beau, she once said.

Ginny's eyes bulged with horror.

She felt like a fool.

"I—yeah, yeah it was good." The words were true, they sounded honest to goodness true when Harry said it, months ago, and he looked shy, almost happy as his features turned soft.

"This guy isn't You-Know-Who, Harry." She also said, trying to tease him, but looking at them both now, Ginny realized she really was an idiot.

The natural thing would be to baulk at this, to feel revolted at what Harry was doing—with the enemy of all people, but...she couldn't blame him.

Tom Riddle could tempt a nun, his angelic looks a lure to all who basked in his aura, who held his attention. She was tempted, she was lured. She liked him, Tom was her friend. She once trusted him, and while she didn't love him, her younger self held feelings outside of simply friendship for the diary who was supposed to be her friend.

She couldn't blame Harry for falling into Riddle's trap, but she could blame the man himself.

Ginny hissed with rage, magic practically sparking off of her thin frame as she aimed her wand straight at the man in front of her. "You!"

"How could you do this?!" She couldn't look at Harry, her eyes directly on Riddle as her anger reached a boiling point.

The man before her snorted elegantly, something she didn't think was possible, but of course he could do it. "Do not blame Harry for my actions, little Weasley, he had no willing part in our little encounter," he sneered.

He was defending Harry? Why?

With an eye roll, Ginny began to speak but was cut off as Harry cried out, "Don't take the blame for this! I'm the one. I started this and I have to face the consequences."

Harry stared up at Riddle with a decisive resolve, even as the man held him tighter and brought him closer to his chest. Riddle looked...soft, then, as he held Harry close, and Ginny stared in confusion.

The omega stepped out of Riddle's hold with hunched shoulders. "Ginny," he said gently, "I know you have...questions." He said questions in a way that might actually mean accusations or condemnations, but that wasn't what she was here for. She could never blame him.

It was Riddle that was to blame, his looks and aura and charm and tempting quips and eyes like flames, she saw now. The man was nothing short of a picture-perfect alpha, and it was clear in the way he charmed everyone he met, both as Tom Riddle and Thomas Slytherin. It disgusted her.

But he was looking at Harry as if he wanted nothing more than to spirit him away in his arms, to protect him and guide him away from the vilification that was the result of their actions in the alleyway, but not just the alleyway because they...they were together, she realized with shock. This was not the first time.

Harry shivered in front of her, fearful and waiting for her hatred, anger, disgust, anything. She wouldn't give it.

"Oh, Harry...." She lowered her wand, and then she jumped into his arms without any warming.

The boy yelped, but then his arms wrapped around her tightly as he began crying in her hold. "I'm sor-sorry, so so sorry. I shouldn't have lied, I shouldn't have betrayed the Order, I—"

"Do shut up, Harry," she comforted him, then she playfully ribbed him in the gut. "I don't blame you. I knew you were hiding something, but I wasn't going to make you say it. It's okay. It's not your fault."

Harry smiled tearfully, and Ginny could only do the same. She hadn't realized she'd started to cry.

And when she looked past her friend, she saw someone she also once called friend, standing straight but tense, nose pinched and hands clenched. She couldn't exactly tell what he was feeling, but she could tell that he wasn't about to kill her. There was no killing instinct in his eyes, just a sort of awkward, indecisive look as if he wasn't sure what to do.

It made him more human.

That's what made her let go of Harry and step in front of him, a barrier between the omega and the alpha before them.

She felt like a fool, an idiot, every synonym in the book, really. Her brothers and mother and father and the whole rest of the Order of the Phoenix would kill her for what she was about to do, but Ginny didn't care. She just had a question. A very important question.

"So," she started, refusing to nervously bite her lip, "what are your intentions?"

The alleyway was so silent she could hear a pin drop.

That's about when Harry choked, and shocked laughter bubbled out beside her.

Riddle simply stared unflinchingly; she was a bug under his gaze, but she refused to budge.

"I had a question." And the words I expect an answer were just on her lips.

A smile, brilliant and bright and all those synonyms for charming and handsome appeared on Riddle's perfect lips. He looked good, innocent, if she didn't see the monster hidden behind perfect, pin-straight teeth and fearsome crimson eyes. The man was imposing yet charming, a strange combination that made Ginny feel wrong-footed. She didn't like it.

"My intentions with Harry, Ms Weasley, are wholly pure."

Harry snorted.

"—are honest," Riddle corrected with a pointed look. "I wish to keep him, treasure him, and provide for him a life of luxury as I court him and make him mine."

Harry eeped, and from a quick look behind her, Ginny could see a flush building on his cheeks and neck. She also noticed some hickies, but that wasn't her business aside from an eyebrow raise. Merlin, Riddle fucks hard, she thought, though that should have been obvious from Harry's, ah, detailed description of their encounter months ago in...the Ministry, in all likelihood. Harry and Voldemort were both missing for about an hour....

She was utterly scandalised, yet endlessly curious. Good Merlin...just what exactly were these two up to?

Ginny gave a strong exhale, and she pinched her nose with two fingers. These two would give her a heart attack one day.

"Good enough," she glared. "Now, just before you run off and I interrogate Harry, I need you to know a few things...."

He looked amused. "Things? Whatever do you mean by that?" They both knew she couldn't actually intimidate him, and if he chose to kill them both she could do nothing, but fuck that, she thought. She would make her thoughts known. She was a Weasley, and Weasleys never knew when to quit.

She stepped up to Riddle until she was a pace and a half away from him. "You listen here, Riddle.... Harry is my friend, practically my brother, and you will properly court and mate him, I expect nothing less than the proper deference. You will spoil him rotten and treat him like royalty, as he deserves. You won't ever hurt him and most of all, you—will—respect—him. Do you understand?"

Riddle smirked, but he nodded convincingly. "Of course, Ms Weasley, I would do nothing but." He looked serious.

"Call me Ginny, you did spend a year possessing me once." If Voldemort was going to be her brother-in-law, it wouldn't matter much what he called her.

"Ginevra, then."

She scowled, and then Riddle chuckled.

He turned to leave, but before he did so, he stated pointedly, "You are far less irritating at fifteen than eleven, Ginevra, just so you know, but don't push it."

Ginny's jaw dropped, and she would have choked on her spit if her jaw didn't immediately snap shut at seeing Riddle steal a long, deep kiss from Harry and a quick squeeze of his arse before he left.

Harry gave a sappy smile as he stared after Riddle.

Ginny blushed bright red. Wow, those two were something. She could practically feel the pheromones in the air.

For many long minutes, they both stared at the mouth of the alley in silence, at least until Ginny spoke hesitantly.

"Wait so is that...did you really kill the diary? How is this happening?" Her voice was shaking, and she sounded like she dearly hoped it really was the diary Harry was sleeping with.

"Well, about that—" He was flushed, and his eyes looked away guiltily. It was telling.

"Please, Harry, don't tell me that was You-Know-Who that you were...." She couldn't finish, she already knew.

Harry nodded guiltily.

"Oh, good Merlin, Harry, be glad I'm not a rat." Ginny groaned into her palms as she held her face in her hands. She couldn't believe she was the least bit alright with what just happened, but ride or die, right?

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

He was still here. Why was he still here?

Harry stood awkwardly, gazing at the man before him and drinking in his looks as the sun glittered overhead. He was unfairly pretty in the light, and the shine reflected off of his dark brown eyes. Tom smiled lazily, his lips unfurling like a languid cat as he stood with confidence, hands behind his back and his chin held up high; he stood as if he knew he was in control. The sight made Harry's heart thump out of turn for a moment.

And it was only then that he witnessed the horror on Mrs Weasley's face as she stared at the man before her.

They were now in Diagon, right outside WWW, and Riddle was staring at a small group of Order members with an arrogant little grin. He was playing around, Harry realized, antagonising them for his amusement. It was a game Voldemort had always liked to play. He was a snake playing with its food, stringing it along and giving it hope before devouring it whole.

"You...you—" Mrs Weasley snarled, and her expression betrayed the raw fear she felt, but her rage showed itself in what practically amounted to steam coming out of her ears. "Where are my children? Ginny, Harry—what did you do to them?" She screeched.

Oh no, Harry thought, and Ginny stilled beside him. For whatever reason, they didn't step in, they just stared as Mrs Weasley faced off against the darkest wizard of the age, with Order members behind her standing prepped and ready for a fight.

The other denizens of the alley stared confusedly at what they were looking at because, for all they knew, Lord Slytherin was being accosted by the Weasley matriarch for whatever reason. But most simply walked past, considering the event wasn't too out of control yet. No wands were withdrawn and no fight was fought, but tension rippled through the air like a heat blast.

Tom tilted his head innocently, the perfect picture of elegance and confusion. His features were sharp, cold in ways Harry could just barely make out. "Whatever do you mean, Mrs Weasley? Do you mean young Ms Ginevra and Mr Potter? I'm afraid I haven't seen them, but I would be happy to help you look if you'd like...." He smiled charmingly.

Mrs Weasley's face burned red with anger, and she screamed. Before anything could be done, before even Tom could pull out his wand, the usually homely woman crashed into the alpha, battering him with her purse.

"Where are they, you monster?! My children, I know you have them—" She hit him one last time, straight in the face, just as Tonks and Vance only barely managed to grab her by the arms and yank her away from the man, the Dark Lord, she'd just attacked.

Tom stood there, equal parts astonished and offended, as he pressed a hand to his reddened cheek. Harry saw his fingers twitch, itching to release his wand, but he held back. It was too risky, even Harry knew that. They might recognize the yew wood, and Lord Slytherin could not be implicated in some fight with an omega woman in the middle of Diagon.

But then, instead of looking back at Mrs Weasley, Tom turned to look at them. He perked up.

"Ms Ginevra Weasley and Harry Potter," Tom held out his hand in their direction, though why he couldn't just point with one finger Harry wasn't sure. "I do believe you were searching for them, rather viciously, might I add, considering you convinced yourself of my guilt," he said pointedly.

Mrs Weasley gasped, her hands to her mouth, and she ran to them both before enveloping them in a crushing hug. "Oh, thank Merlin, you're alright!"

"A-ah, yes, I—" Harry groaned in relief as she finally let go and stopped pulling on his bruises. He still felt sore just from walking. "Mrs Weasley, it's okay, Lord Slytherin didn't do anything."

Harry looked back at Tom, eyebrow raised. The man himself looked smug.

"You have to apologise to him, please," Harry tilted his head as his eyes followed Tom, gesturing to him without actually gesturing. His voice held a tinge of worry. "You owe him an apology."

Tom wouldn't hurt her, probably, but Harry had his doubts and he wasn't willing to test them. He saw the way Hermione, Ron, Tonks, Vance, and even Hagrid off to the side—where he'd been previously Harry had no idea—stood, prized for a battle as they held out their wands, or, in Hagrid's suspicious case, an umbrella.

The alpha did not hold a wand in his hand, but it made no difference. Harry knew he'd still win against them all if he truly wished.

Harry turned back to look at Mrs Weasley, and he observed the pale blanchness of her face and the way her form rippled on unsteady feet. Ginny and Ron stepped out to hold her up.

"I...my apologies, You-K—Lord Slytherin. I...I'm sorry for bla-blaming you...." She bowed her head, not her body, and she looked down and away from the man who'd already destroyed the Wizarding World once.

It was wrong. Very wrong. Mrs Weasley had never shown this much fear in front of him before, and it unsettled Harry greatly. It only served to remind him who Tom was, cracking the rose-coloured glasses he'd gotten into the habit of wearing.

His lips pursed.

He would do well not to forget.

His and Tom's relationship would never go back to what it was; Harry had no misconceptions, they were no longer enemies. They would one day become mates (he pretended he did not feel a flourish of butterflies in his stomach at the thought), and the question would be on whose terms that would be. Would their relationship be that of equals or a master and his broodmare? Would Harry have a say in anything? They may have been sexually compatible, but could Harry love him? See a life with him? Did he even have a choice in the matter?

He wasn't sure, and he couldn't forget.

Unaware of the world around him, Harry didn't hear the words of hollow platitudes exchanged as Tom bid adieu, leaving for real this time and apparating away.

What he did hear was this, Hermione grabbing him by the arm and telling him they needed to go, now, and pushing his hands to clutch onto a communally held object. A portkey, he noted.

The world turned upside down in a rush of wind.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

"Oy, everyone!" Tonks called out, rushing up to the dining room where some Order meeting was going on. It was nothing official, just a few members that were around fairly regularly conversing with each other, but everything paused as they all marched their way in, exhausted and red-faced at the excursion. "He found us, bloody 'ell, he found us!" Her accent was evident, harder to wade through as the stress she was under made it more prominent, but they could all understand it easily enough.

The Weasleys in the room, Ron, Ginny, their mum, and Bill, who was in the dining room and had picked up on the atmosphere, were waxen and pale, and Remus jumped up from his seat to clamber through the group and take a look at Harry as he crushed him in his arms.

"Harry, pup, what happened? Are you alright? Are you hurt? What ha—wait, what are you wearing?" Remus worried, but by the end, he unwrapped his arms from Harry's midsection to step back and gaze at his attire. He raised an eyebrow.

Harry shrunk into himself, and his eyes darted across the room to catch the confused frowns and looks of disapproval from those in the room. The disapproval came from the older folk, and their looks struck Harry like knives to the heart.

He didn't need them or their acceptance, he had his friends, but that didn't mean it felt good.

He fidgeted with his fingers, and he stuttered and stumbled on his words as he curled inwards, making himself as small as possible, in the face of the crowd before him.

Almost the whole Order was there, save for a few. Perhaps they were off at work, but most were likely on standby in case anything happened. And that made things all the worse for Harry.

For Godric's sake, even Snape was in the room, as gloomy as ever, but he somehow looked paler than usual as he stared at Harry with wide eyes.

Remus leaned in, and he clamped a hand over his shoulder. Smiling warmly, he stated, "Harry, it's okay. I promise, no one will get mad." Then, the man shuddered, his nose crinkling. He stared at Harry with disbelief.

He was about to speak, to say something, and Harry knew Remus with his acute werewolf senses had realized Harry's status under his perhaps less than attentively cast scent-masking charm, but he wanted to say it himself. He had to admit that much. He couldn't crumple under this. He was a Gryffindor. He was brave.

Harry took a deep breath in, and he stood his ground. He stared straight at Remus, though he was perhaps addressing the whole room. "I'm an omega. I presented last summer, and Sirius helped me hide it because I was scared people would look at me differently. Now, I don't care anymore. I...I think Sirius understood, but he always hated how I hid this. I think he'd want me to tell you all."

He exhaled deeply as he finished, and his shoulders fell. Harry studied everyone, noting their expressions and either shrinking into himself or sighing with relief as he saw their reactions.

The Weasleys didn't care. Mrs Weasley was simply staring at him with teary eyes, likely upset for him rather than at him, and his friends already knew. Bill was staring at the wall in quiet contemplation, but he didn't look overly despaired. In fact, most everyone in the room was either uncaring or gazed at him with pitying looks, but there was one person, someone who made Harry stumble back and wrap his arms around himself.

He didn't care about the man, he didn't even like him. He was a crook, a thief, and a poor one at that. But this man represented the Wizarding World and exactly what they would think of his omega status, let alone the rest of his secret, and Harry withered under the weight of his contempt.

The man, Mundungus "Dung" Fletcher, stared at him coldly. His mouth twisted into a sneer as he spoke, "Potter, a' omega? Tha's the most ridiculous thing I e'er heard! How'll he save us from You-Know-Who now? He's just some—"

Mundungus shrieked as his mouth was instantly covered in boils. His tongue, too, considering the way he was waving it out of his mouth. "'y 'ong, 'y 'ong!" He screamed, crying.

A proud smirk flicked across Remus's face, and his features twisted to form an almost animalistic expression. He stuck his wand back into his sleeve. "You say anything about my godson again and I swear to you, Fletcher, you won't be able to say anything ever again."

Mundungus screamed, and he pointed his wand shakily at the werewolf. He shouted, hardly able to form words as he cried. "Ooo, yoooo, aaaah! Fix 'is! Fix!"

Remus blinked, and then he said coldly, "Oh, don't worry, the spell will fade by morning. I didn't put too much magic in it. Just try not to talk too much, it'll make the jinx even more painful." His grin was wild, dark. Harry would never believe the man was capable of such a thing if he hadn't known about his history with the Marauders. Even Remus Lupin had a fierce streak.

Harry smiled, and he leaned in to hug Remus's forearm as he whispered, "Thank you, Moony. This means a lot."

Remus smiled back. Harry pretended not to notice the tears bubbling up as he looked past him at something Harry couldn't see. "Anytime, pup."

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Severus Snape was distraught. No, he was despaired. Frantic. Hysterical. Perhaps a little delirious to add onto that.

His forehead creased, and his nose crinkled in disgust. It couldn't be. Of all things, it couldn't be. Harry Potter was an omega. An omega.

Severus despaired. His lord, the Dark Lord, had grown increasingly...enamoured with the boy; it was the only phrasing he could think of. He recalled the way he'd warned his followers away from the boy, the avaricious gleam in his eyes. And even more recently, he'd spoken at large of their future plans, the changes that would occur in the ranks of the Death Eaters. There would be no more war, not one such as last time, at least. The coup would be silent and certain, and the Death Eaters would only be dispatched at certain points until the time was right.

And as for Harry Potter, he had said, he would not be touched. He would belong to the Dark Lord and the Dark Lord alone.

Severus closed his eyes tightly.

He had failed. Either a miracle would occur, or Potter would end up in the lecherous grasp of the Dark Lord. And as an omega as well, no less. Could things be any worse? Potter's status, should it be revealed (and Severus knew it would), may just speed up the Dark Lord's plans. He would be more certain than ever that Potter should belong to him, and he would, Merlin forbid, mate him. At least if Potter was a beta, the Dark Lord would be unable to do so, but now...Potter might have another connection to the Dark Lord that he never wished for.

Severus could only pray to a higher entity that never gave him the time of day. He desperately wished Potter would survive, for the boy's sake, not just Lily's. He deserved better than that. Potter was a gracious, if reckless, child. He did not deserve the Dark Lord's attention. No one did.

Severus sighed again, and he gulped down a few sips of his firewhiskey. He had been drinking more and more these days, and the burn in the back of his throat had begun to fade away.

Things would end soon, one way or another. He could only wish for a miracle.

Chapter Text

Against all odds (and Harry's own insecurities), the world did not end.

After the dreaded reveal of Harry's secondary gender, time continued to pass. The clock ticked by, and the days continued. The sun rose and fell, and the moon took its place in the sky before the sun rose once more. It was a comforting constant as things began to subtly change in Harry's day-to-day life.

It wasn't anything big; no one hated him, but being an omega was very different from being a presumed beta. First, Harry grew more comfortable wearing the more casual, feminine clothes he'd purchased. He had begun to wear pink and bows and hairclips without shame, and no one gave him any looks. Or, at least, they didn't say anything terrible to him during the adjustment period as they got used to him being an omega. They stayed quiet, with Hermione giving him gentle compliments while Ginny artfully arranged his curls and helped him figure out the difference between foundation and concealer, in case Harry ever wanted to figure out the intricacies of makeup.

Other than that, nothing changed much. Though there was one time when Mrs Weasley sat him down and fingered through his hair with loving strokes, grabbing his simple hairpin and fixing his longer hair into a half-up, half-down style he'd seen on omega girls before. Once she was finished, she kissed his cheek before saying, "You look so cute like this, sweetheart."

Harry felt like he could melt. That sort of maternal warmth wasn't something he'd ever felt. But there Mrs Weasley was, treating him like her own child. That ended up with him recalling something from days ago, back in Diagon when Mrs Weasley did the bravest thing he'd ever seen.

"You...you—" Mrs Weasley snarled, and her expression betrayed the raw fear she felt, but her rage showed itself in what practically amounted to steam coming out of her ears. "Where are my children? Ginny, Harry—what did you do to them?" She screeched.

She assaulted Tom with her purse, and now Harry could laugh at it, even if it was pretty terrifying at the time. Merlin, Sirius would have thought it was hilarious, he chuckled sadly. But then Harry remembered something. Mrs Weasley...she said my children, as in referring to both Harry and Ginny. Both of them.

Harry's chest grew warm when he remembered it, and for the first time ever, he truly felt like he had a family. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, the Weasleys, Remus, everyone.... That was a family. His family. And he would do anything to keep them safe.

Even mating with Voldemort to end the war, if that ended the war, that was.

There was no war yet, no real attacks and no missing people, but if there were, if there were...Harry knew it was his job to end it. And mating with Tom might not be as terrible as it could have been when he was just Voldemort.

He was sane now, and while Harry didn't know why, he could only presume that whatever dark magic or rituals had been cast to turn the handsome Tom Riddle into the Dark Lord Voldemort had since been undone. He was sane, somehow more whole, and Harry could feel that from their connection. It was so different now, and Tom felt almost kind when he was with him. It was such a dichotomous contrast from the way he was before that Harry ended up spending much of his time feeling whiplash just recalling the differences between his earlier encounters with the monster called Voldemort and the man named Tom.

If Harry didn't know better, if he was more naive than he truly was, he'd think they were different people. But he knew they were one and the same, no matter the charm Tom put on, or his new looks.

Tom...he treated Harry like he was worth something, as if he was precious and something to be worshipped. He wanted Harry, and Harry wanted him much the same way, he could shamelessly admit. He enjoyed being with him, very much so. Tom's words and actions, filthy as they were, got his blood pumping. Their sexual encounters were heady to remember, and Harry barely managed to keep the arousal out of his scent now that he'd taken to wearing weakened scent-masking charms, just strong enough so as to not bombard people with his scent, as was proper.

But Tom wasn't suddenly an unassuming Hufflepuff now, absolutely not. Just because he wasn't showing Harry the darker side of himself didn't mean that it didn't exist. He was still Lord Voldemort, and he still had his followers. The Death Eaters had been quiet ever since the Department of Mysteries, but Harry knew that those deranged maniacs were practically chomping at the bit to go out and wreak havoc. Yet they weren't allowed. At the very least, Tom must have ordered them to stay quiet.

Harry could only assume that plans had changed with the creation of the Lord Slytherin persona, but he still didn't really know anything. It wasn't as if the Order of the Phoenix would reveal anything to him, even if they did know. And they didn't know what was going on, anyway. Tom must not have advertised the Room of Desire incident with his Death Eaters, so any intelligence the Order might have been able to gather didn't amount to much. Harry wondered what Snape knew, exactly. He recalled the strange encounter he had with him soon after he came to Grimmauld that summer, and he grew curious. What exactly did Tom tell his followers?

Harry needed to know what was going on. What were Tom's plans now? Was he manipulating him? Did Harry mean nothing to him? He knew, he knew just how likely it was that Tom was just taking advantage of him, but it all felt so real, and he couldn't make himself resist the man. He melted into a puddle just by being around him, and Tom knew that, Harry thought, clenching his fists at his own weakness. He fell into his instincts so easily around Tom. It was pathetic.

But Tom felt the same, somehow. Harry knew how much he affected him, their mind link proved it. So perhaps Tom did have some sort of agenda, but it might not be as nefarious as could be initially assumed. Harry knew Tom wanted him, not just in bed but as a mate. But what else did he want? Could Harry allow himself to not just want him, but to mate with him?

Tom...he could be so kind to him, but what about Hermione? Muggleborns? Muggles? Was he still hellbent on genocide? Harry had to know, and he had to know if there was a way to change it. It almost hurt him to think about it now, but Tom Riddle wasn't suddenly kind, and Tom was still a killer even in his younger days. He murdered Moaning Myrtle and who knows how many other people. He couldn't allow himself to forget.

That's why Harry had questions, and many other things to figure out. He would ask Tom, but they'd often get...distracted, he flushed, so that might take a while. He'd wait and see if he could find some opportunity to do so. But that meant waiting, it meant passing the time along and trying to escape the depths of his own mind.

So far, Harry whittled away his days in Grimmauld, twiddling his thumbs and doing basically nothing as he tried to keep himself occupied. The weeks rushed by, and, idly, Harry noted the changes to his daily life.

First of which was his bedroom assignment, as, due to his omega status, Mrs Weasley was deadset on Harry getting his own room. She was convinced that as an omega, he needed his own space without Ron. And Mrs Weasley wouldn't let him stay with Hermione and Ginny, either, also for propriety's sake, considering they were girls. So Harry ended up commandeering the room of Regulus Black, Sirius's younger brother.

Ron was disgruntled about it at first, confused about why Harry needed his own room when he was just Harry to him. They'd been rooming together in the Hogwarts dorms since they were eleven, after all. Harry's status didn't change that, and he'd still continue to stay in the same dorm after they got back to Hogwarts for the school year.

At that, Mrs Weasley crossed her arms firmly, and she said, "Well, Ron, this is Harry's house—he inherited it, you know. He deserves his own room, and Merlin knows that he, as an omega, deserves his own space. You're a beta, Ron, you just don't understand some things about us omegas. Harry needs privacy, and so do you as well, sweetheart. I'm sure you'd prefer your own room again."

Once she finished, Ron couldn't really argue, she was right. Grimmauld Place was Harry's house, which was still strange to wrap his head around, and Harry would take the opportunity for his own room. He was actually excited about it. He'd never had an actual room to himself before, at least one that wasn't Number Four's dreary, dusty cupboard or Dudley's miserable second bedroom. The dorms didn't really count—they were communal, and no one had their own space unless they closed and warded the curtains of their four-poster bed for some privacy. Harry had courteously turned a blind eye when any of his roommates did so, and they did the same for him.

The move itself was pretty quick; Harry didn't have much to bring upstairs. Regulus Black kept a cluttered but neat and tidy space, which Harry was able to observe even years later. The room was elegant, understated yet opulent, and covered in dark greys and pale greens with hints of dark blue. The space was mostly clean, and it was likely that Kreacher hadn't let it fall into disrepair over the years. The bed was exceedingly comfortable, like a pillow, and within the dark ebony desk drawers, Harry found preserved fancy parchment notebooks and quills and ink sets that would likely last him for the rest of his years at Hogwarts, so he pilfered a few.

He ended up spending a lot of time in that room, taking naps under the cushy silk covers (and the green blanket Tom sent him months ago, which he'd been using every night since he'd gotten it, but no one needed to know) and pretending he wasn't hoping for any...unique dreams. It was a perfectly normal way to spend his time, of course. He was just napping. There was nothing for anyone to be worried about. Of course not, Harry tried and failed to convince himself.

And then one day, in the early evening after they'd all eaten dinner, a knock sounded on the door. He shouted for them to come in, and Harry witnessed as Remus entered his new room. He greeted Harry with a nod, after Harry's slightly awkward welcome, and then he glanced around to take the room in. Observant amber eyes searched the room, stepping close to one of the dark wooden posters on Harry's bed.

After a minute, Remus nodded to himself satisfactorily, and Harry noticed that the man was just about to hop onto the corner of his bed when his amber eyes caught on Regulus's old bookshelf, and Remus found his gaze fixated.

The shelf was dark ebony, similar to much of the room's furniture, including the bed, desk, and armchair in the reading nook near the bookshelf. Earlier, due to Hermione's advice, Harry had looked through (more like gazed quickly at the titles of) each of the individual books on the shelf to see if there were any potentially dark and cursed books he might need to banish, but he only found school books, tomes on minor jinxes and curses, and a few poetry books, strangely enough. The poetry books looked the most weathered, their spines cracked with use and old age.

The bookshelf held nothing out of the ordinary, and so Harry thought that perhaps all the darker tomes remained in the Black library, considering the place was sealed off to anyone not of Black blood. But something on it must have been interesting enough to trap Remus's gaze.

A heavy inhale, and Remus whispered softly, "Is this....?"

Not waiting for an answer, he took a wooden picture frame in hand from its place atop the shelf. He gasped in recognition, and then a smile grew to cover his face.

Softly rubbing the glass, he handed the picture to Harry. "Look," he said. Remus looked so sad, a strange mixture of grief and fondness overtaking him.

Green eyes landed on the frame and the people within the picture. He jerked.

The expression Harry made was more akin to a grimace than a smile, and he felt his heart seize in his chest at the sight within the picture.

"He looks so young." They both did, Regulus and Sirius. Sirius couldn't be older than 12, and Regulus was about a year or two younger. They looked so alike, with similar dark hair and eyes and pale skin. But where Sirius's hair was fluffy and wavy and probably styled with all sorts of creams and gels, Regulus had his hair neatly pulled back, with wavy bangs on his forehead that betrayed his real hair texture, similar to Sirius's.

In the picture, Sirius gave a huge grin, moments before he yanked an indignant Regulus to his chest and messed up his hair, fluffing it up much like his own in the process. Sirius grinned again, triumphantly, before the cycle of the picture began anew and he mussed up Regulus's hair again.

Previously, Harry had already noticed the picture, but he didn't dare to take a closer look. He couldn't. He was trespassing on sacred ground already, taking the sanctuary of the long-gone Regulus Black and remaking it into his own, and seeing this picture, claiming that memory...it was sacrilege, the theft of times long past that would only break Harry even more.

To think of Sirius was painful enough, but remembering his past, realizing that his godfather was once a boy, a young omega boy, just like him...it was a blow to the chest.

Without a word, Harry placed the picture on his nightstand. He wanted to remember Sirius like this, young and carefree, not haggard and hurting. It was a version of the man he'd never gotten the chance to meet, not after the horrors of war and Azkaban.

"It's nice to remember him, you should keep the picture."

Harry nodded, even as he couldn't rip his eyes off of the thing. The contents weren't even very interesting, but the people were, and he couldn't make himself look away.

Sighing, Remus sat next to Harry, and he quickly shifted from his position to sit cross-legged on his new bed to make space for the man.

"So..." he began, awkward sounding, "I just wanted to talk. I know that things have been a lot for you recently, and after you...confessed, I just haven't gotten the chance to talk to you yet."

Ah. Harry's lips formed into a clumsy smile, and he started fiddling with the buttons on his wrist. "Oh, uh, it's alright, really. I just...I know it was a big shock, I've been hiding it for so long and I....sorry. I'm really sorry for springing that on you."

A chuckle, and Remus's hand clamped on his shoulder. He pulled Harry in for a hug, and Harry went limp. He melted into it, soaking in the warmth of familiar contact. "I'm really sorry," he whispered into honourary uncle's shoulder. "I hated having to lie."

Remus hummed, and his hand ended up on Harry's scalp, fingering through his hair and scratching it in a way that made his eyes heavy with relaxation. He always melted into putty at any kind of contact with people he cared for, and Remus was one of the few on that list. "That's okay, I'm not mad. I'm just sorry you felt like you had to hide. I don't care you're an omega, not at all."

Hesitantly, Harry lifted his head. "And you're not mad at Sirius either, for helping me hide it?" His voice sounded weak.

"Never."

A relieved exhale, and Harry wasn't sure what to say for the next handful of seconds before Remus spoke again. "You know...Sirius tried to hide it as well when he first presented."

Harry practically jumped up to attention, flying out of Remus's grasp. "Really?!"

Remus nodded, then he began to explain, "Absolutely, though he was quickly found out. It came on right before winter break—we were in the dorms, and about 13 or 14. We kept Sirius from class for the next few days, and we told Pomfrey he was ill," he chuckled. "We ended up picking a few books from the library about omegas and scent-masking spells—Sirius probably gave you those same books." Remus eyed the books now sitting on Harry's desk with a sense of fondness.

"We pilfered them from the library," he whispered conspiratorially. "Let's pray Madam Pince never finds out."

Harry snorted, and then he asked, "Then what? How did Sirius's parents find out if he had the spells to hide it?"

"Magic. Turns out, Grimmauld used to have anti-glamour wards that instantly removed any scent-masking or glamour spells the moment anyone entered, for safety's sake, of course."

"No!" Harry practically shouted. Poor Sirius. And then he realized, the spells had probably been removed by now, considering Harry's own scent-masking spells hadn't been instantly unravelled the moment he stepped foot into Grimmauld Place.

"Sirius must've had a blast removing those wards last year," he noted.

"Indeed," Remus recalled tenderly. "In fact, he said, 'Never again will a child of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black be made to humiliate themselves so thoroughly! Their secrets shall never again be so easily unravelled.' He made a whole show of it, too.... It was practically a ceremony." His eyes were teary, and Harry was compassionate enough to ignore it.

Harry leaned forward, furrowing his brow. "He really would do that, wouldn't he?" When he closed his eyes, he could see it vividly. Sirius, standing in ceremony in front of those doors, grinning victoriously in that wild, roguish way of his. He missed him desperately, and he wished for more time with the man that should have raised him. It wasn't fair that he died.

"When Sirius came back from break, it turned out that his mother, Lady Black, took his omega status as an opportunity. She had an heir in Regulus already, and so she decided to engage Sirius to a pureblood alpha of a very respectable family," Remus continued to speak, disgusted at the thought. "And you'll never guess who it is...you've actually met his son—you're schoolmates."

Eyes bulging, Harry choked. Engaged? Sirius? Banish the thought! The man had been very loudly proud of being a bachelor and never becoming the omega broodmare his family wanted him to be. But to think that Harry knew the son of the alpha Sirius had been engaged to...who was it?

It was probably a Slytherin, someone who came from a rich and well-known family. Powerful, perhaps good-looking, and very pureblood. Who did he know that fit those descriptors? There was one answer.

"Malfoy," he breathed in shock.

Remus laughed. "Correct."

He was thinking of the wrong person, surely. Perhaps Lucius had a cousin? Maybe? Hopefully? But then again, wasn't the man's wife, Narcissa, born a Black? How did that happen?

"Wait, but isn't Lucius's wife a Black? How did that happen if he was engaged to Sirius," Harry questioned.

"That's the thing. They weren't actually engaged, but there was talk of an engagement, and Sirius knew that. So that summer, Sirius and your father hatched a plan...."

Remus smirked. "I wasn't there, but I was told all the sordid details. The Blacks hosted a Summer Ball, like they did every year for the seasons and a few holidays. All the purebloods were invited, including your father. Now...Lucius—who was six years older than Sirius, mind you, and was 19 then—" Harry's nose crinkled disgustedly, and Remus nodded in commiseration before continuing, "—anyway, he was supposed to escort Sirius the whole night, so they could 'get to know each other', but James and Sirius had a different plan...."

They decided that while Sirius wouldn't be getting married to Lucius, another Black would. At this point, Bellatrix had already married and Andromeda was disowned, but there was their sister Narcissa left, who, coincidentally, was also looking for a husband. She was just a year younger than Lucius, and also an omega. So when Sirius approached her with his plan, she was all for it. Turns out, she'd always liked Lucius, and that whole night, Sirius was attached at the hip to James instead of his supposed 'fiancé', which gave Narcissa all the time she needed to charm her future husband. And it worked. They were really quite taken with each other, actually. It was fraught with scandal for all those in the know, and Sirius was ever so proud of himself....," Remus finished, smiling.

Laughter bubbled out of Harry's chest, and he wiped a tear from his eye. That absolutely sounded like something Sirius would do.

"Before the summer was out, there was a courtship agreement signed and a future marriage already in the works. They wouldn't actually marry for another few years, and their son wouldn't be born for a while yet, but as far as the Blacks considered it, the marriage was a success. Though Sirius's mother was in a right state, from how he put it. She just knew he did something, but she could never prove it."

By the end of the story, Remus was snickering like a little boy, and he looked younger somehow, happier in his reminiscence. The bags under his eyes had all but vanished and his ever-present forehead wrinkles had faded a bit. Harry wished Remus was like this more, and after all the tragedy that he knew had happened to the man, Harry would take whatever happiness the world granted him.

They continued to talk for a while after Remus's story, and Harry ended up leaning against the man's side in thoughtful consideration of everything he said.

Remus was a good storyteller. He wove stories of the Marauders, of Lily Evans and James Potter's love story, and the antagonistic relationship the Marauders had with a young Severus Snape. Though, granted, even Remus seemed aware that he and his friends were primarily the ones that antagonised Snape, he explained guiltily. He regretted it now, even if it seemed like the most brilliant idea back in the day, though he never got around to apologising to the man. No time ever seemed right, and it would be awkward to apologise now after how long had passed.

Eventually, the man left in the late evening, giving Harry a lot of realizations to roll around in his mind. He didn't stop thinking about it all, even over the next few weeks. It was a perspective shift, and it was a new piece to the puzzle that was Sirius's life pre-Azkaban. To think there was a younger Sirius, happy and unburdened, with perhaps a lacklustre family but friends that would die for him...Harry wished it were still true, and that all of it did not fall apart due to a prophecy and one rat's betrayal.

But the days continued to pass, and as Harry continued to interact with the denizens of Grimmauld, he relaxed and began to place his recollections of a past he wasn't alive to witness on the back burner.

Harry still hung out with his friends, playing chess with Ron and gobstones with Ginny and studying with Hermione whenever she wrangled them all into completing their summer homework. Sometimes he brought his friends to his room and they all giggled like children over something or other under the cover of moonlight, and during the days, he spent time with Mrs Weasley in the kitchen, learning spells for cooking and cleaning and listening to her advice and all sorts of old witches tales that mostly sounded like malarkey to Harry, but he still paid attention.

He felt free, even in the prison that was the Order's headquarters. He couldn't leave, he knew, but he didn't want to yet. This place was a shelter from the greater Wizarding World, a safe place away from the vitriol of the same people who'd dub him their saviour just after they finished calling him a mad liar.

He could just forget. He could ignore the soothing warmth of his mental link with Tom, and the dark whispers from the Order meetings every few days. He could just pretend it didn't exist, even as the days marched on and the end of summer grew near on the horizon.

Things were normal, all normal. He would pretend he wasn't feeling a cautious nervousness in his gut at the thought of what happened weeks ago, and he could look at Ginny without a touch of wariness.

She hadn't said anything yet, nothing at all. She didn't give him strange looks, and by appearances, nothing had changed between them. The Order of the Phoenix didn't vilify him, and no one called him a traitor, but a part of Harry could only wonder how long that would last.

Ginny kept his secrets, but if she opened her mouth, then what? What would Harry do? Where would he go? The Order wouldn't kill him, probably, but would they reveal his 'crime' to the Ministry? At the very least, he might be kept from Hogwarts. He would never be left alone, his mind would be raided regularly so he could never use his connection with Tom, and there would always be someone who wanted to 'talk' with him, to try to convince him that Tom was manipulating him while simultaneously calling Harry mad for associating with him in thinly veiled words. The Order would lose all trust in him because of his betrayal, Harry knew, and anytime he looked anyone in the eyes, a heavy emotion churned in his gut. Guilt, but not regret, Harry admitted to himself.

Harry was a traitor. He, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived was a traitor. What a joke.

And worse than that, the Order might assume that instead of being a traitor, Harry was raped. For their own peace of mind, they would convince themselves that Tom forced him, held him down, and took him. It wasn't true, not at all. He knew it was stupid, but if that was what they thought, then Harry would say otherwise. It wasn't rape at all, and he couldn't ever say that that was what Tom did. He didn't, and Harry was sure he would never. He wasn't that sort of monster. Their first time was forced on both ends, and even then, they ended up liking it. Harry had a feeling the Room of Desire would never have forced them together if some part of them hadn't already been amenable, he just knew.

Harry could groan exhaustedly at all these thoughts, dark as they were. Wasn't summer a time to relax? To forget about his worries? Well, not for him. He couldn't relax one bit.

He frowned as a thought crossed his mind. What would Ginny do? She had so much time to reveal him, but she just...didn't. He had no idea why. What should he do? Should he talk to her himself, or let her come to him on her own time? What could he even do if she decided to reveal everything to the Order?

He didn't know. He could only sit impatiently, waiting to see how things would turn out. Harry let an exhausted sigh escape his lips, and he tried his best to push those thoughts away.

It wouldn't do to continue to stress himself out over all this. If it happened, it happened. Ginny would probably come to talk to him soon. That girl was pure Gryffindor, she didn't have an unconfrontational bone in her body. It would happen soon, he just had to wait.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Ginny sat at her desk, chewing on the end of her quill as ink dripped lightly onto the edges of her mostly blank parchment that, in truth, should already be an essay on all the uses of a specific few ingredients and their interactions in potions by now.

But against her will, her mind whirled like a tornado, and she couldn't at all focus on her summer homework. There was a plethora of things to think about, the events in her life too utterly mad to not focus on.

Ginny and Draco. Harry and Tom. A Death Eater and the Dark Lord himself. Merlin, what a pair of friends she and Harry made.

There was nothing between her and Draco. Of course not, she couldn't be so silly. But it was true that she was keeping his secret. She didn't run up to the Order the first chance she could get, and she had no idea why. And besides, what could they do, arrest him? Send him to Azkaban? He was barely older than her and probably had no idea of the mistake he had made, he didn't deserve that place.

At the very least, she had to warn Harry. Who knows what Draco—er, Malfoy, she shouldn't refer to him by his first name and she had no idea why she was doing that—was doing? He could hurt Harry in some way; in fact, he was probably planning on it.

Well, that's what she would think, if it weren't for Harry's scandalous relationship—because that had to be what it was, they appeared too close for anything else—with the big bad Dark Lord himself.

It was...something. She should be angry. She should yell. She should have already told the Order or confronted Harry or something. But she didn't. Why? Well, that was obvious. Harry was her friend, and if there was one thing the Weasleys had always been guilty of, it was their steadfast loyalty to their friends and family.

She may be from a family of Gryffindors, but the sorting hat had made a more than cursory argument for putting her in Hufflepuff. She preferred the red, though, and the hat knew that full well, considering its choice.

But that didn't mean she was any closer to figuring out what to do, or how to complete her essay.

Ginny scowled, then with a frustrated sigh, she stood up and placed her quill in the inkwell to keep it from dripping. She needed to grab a few of Harry's old textbooks. It's not like he was going to be in potions this year anyway.

She trekked to his room, a floor above hers, and she glanced through the crack in the door to check if he was there. When Ginny saw that he wasn't, she went in and searched for her prize.

The room was fairly tidy—unlike her brother's pigsty of a space now that he had his room to himself—and even Harry's trunk was organised neatly enough. It was a simple task to pull out the textbook she needed, and she laughed when she first saw it. It was definitely first-hand bought from Flourish and Blotts, with nary a scuff or a mark on it. She wouldn't be surprised if it was barely touched. Not that she liked to study much either, but that was beside the point.

And then, right in the middle of refolding and replacing all the bobs and things she'd knocked out of place, Ginny spotted something peaking out of a charms textbook. It looked like a newspaper. Hm?

She withdrew the book, pulling out the newspaper, and without a pause, she shook her head, unsurprised. She shouldn't have expected anything else.

Lord Thomas Slytherin Revives Olde House! Reclaims Wizengamot Seat!

It was dated for ages ago, early summer, and she remembered reading that same paper the day it came out. Needless to say, Harry had as well, and the boy had practically framed it. The only thing left was to put it in a scrapbook, she thought, with a raise of her brow.

Goodness, Harry absolutely had it bad. The newspaper was crinkled and creased, as if it had been repeatedly folded and unfolded. Harry had certainly spent quite a bit of time checking it out, and Ginny could certainly understand. Riddle had always been a looker, and whoever took the picture certainly caught his good side. She wasn't even sure he had a bad one, unless Voldemort's snake face counted.

The man smiled charmingly in the picture, almost sheepishly as if the berk was trying to be modest of all things. Ginny scoffed. Modesty wasn't ever a trait she could ascribe to the man. He was arrogant, terrible, yet ignorant of the things that people prized the most. He had no empathy, not if even his sixteen-year-old memory was willing to manipulate and kill her.

But Harry liked him. She knew he liked him without ever talking to him about it. That day in the dorms, months ago, she remembered the look in his eyes. Shy, undeniably feeling guilty for something she didn't understand yet, but somehow fond. He was utterly flustered just talking about...what happened (Ginny couldn't call it 'his first time', but it was and she begged for details, not realizing Harry was literally railed into a pile of putty by the Dark Lord, oh Merlin), yet Ginny soaked up all the details.

She couldn't easily forget the way she blushed when she heard about the way Riddle held Harry down. Harry didn't give every sordid detail, he stuttered through the explanation too much for that, but Ginny gathered enough from the way he flushed so brightly, and how he rubbed his thighs together. She didn't need details about how You-Know-Who himself fucked, but she was undeniably curious. Perhaps she was attempting to live vicariously through Harry, Merlin knows she hadn't gone any farther than second base back when she was dating Michael.

Ginny fanned herself just thinking about Riddle and Harry, and she blushed a bit, just a bit, when thinking of the way Riddle stole a hot and heavy kiss from Harry before he left the alley. She noticed the way Harry leaned in, the dazed look in his eyes, and his puffy red lips that already looked that way when she walked in on them. And Ginny couldn't not observe the clothes Harry had been wearing recently. They were all high-collar, conspicuous, and high enough to cover any...incriminating marks.

(She couldn't resist thinking about them together, just a little. Harry used to be her crush for a reason, and she certainly understood his appeal. Riddle as well. The man was a monster, but he was a good-looking one. And those two...Merlin they would make good-looking babies one day, if her hunch was correct.)

She didn't know how to talk to Harry about it. She knew she needed to, but if she did, what then? Should she just tell everyone? No. She knew she couldn't. Harry was her friend. For a time (well, perhaps most of her childhood, embarrassingly enough), he was her crush, but he was practically a brother to her now, and she would stay loyal to him no matter what.

Perhaps it would turn out that somehow Riddle had changed. He certainly wasn't the snake-like monster he used to be. Maybe there was a good explanation for that. She hoped Harry could explain it to her.

Ginny gently placed everything back where it was meant to be, though she did still keep Harry's potions book for herself. It was from his fourth year, and he probably hadn't even touched it since. He certainly didn't need it. She'd tell him she borrowed it later, probably.

Knock. Knock.

Ginny jumped up, shrieking. Her body froze, and she held the potions book in her hand. She looked at it, then at Harry's unimpressed eyebrow raise.

She'd been caught red-handed.

"So," he started with amused green eyes, though not before laughing at her expression. "Is there anything you want to tell me?"

Channelling her inner Malfoy, Ginny raised her head arrogantly, her nose pointing up in the air. She exaggerated her accent, saying, "Well, Potty, I don't believe there is. Now get lost and perhaps my father won't hear about this."

"Oooh, that's so scary, Ms Malfoy! 5 points from Slytherin."

Ginny's face switched up comically. She made an expression in between a grimace and a snort. "You shut up, Potter! It's Weasley to you, hmph!"

"Alright." Harry rolled his eyes, and he took a seat on his desk after closing the door. He motioned for Ginny to take a seat on the bed.

The mood changed. Ginny felt something chilly creeping up underneath her skin, and tension bubbled quickly in the air.

"We need to—"

"It's time we have a—"

A snort left Harry's lips, and his shoulders relaxed. "—a talk. We need to have a talk."

"Yeah...yeah you're right, Harry," she said with a strained smile. Merlin, how were they going to talk about this?

Ginny groaned into her hands, and the tense atmosphere began to crack as, frowning, she flopped onto the bed.

"This is long overdue, Harry. You know that. I should have talked to you about this ages ago. By Godric, I should have already told the Order!"

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Yeah. The Order. Oh Merlin, the Order. Was Ginny going to tell them? What would happen then?

Harry jumped up. "Ginny—"

"You better give me a good reason not to. Please, Harry, make me understand," she spoke tightly, crossing her arms. "Why him? How?"

Harry sat back down, and with a quiet sigh, he began.

"It started like this...."

He told her everything. Everything. He told her about the Room of Desire and Tom's change, their dreams (without the, ah, more explicit details), the occasional letters, their encounter in Diagon, everything. When prompted, he described Tom's mannerisms and how he acted towards Harry, what he said. He was just so different, and according to him, he didn't want to kill Harry anymore. He wanted to mate him, Harry blushed.

A chortle escaped Ginny's lips, and she grinned, "I think he's already done that, you know. You certainly open your legs for him often enough."

"Ginny!"

"What?" She smiled again, and all the remaining tension in the room bled out. "It's true. Merlin, Harry, you're so easy."

"I am not!" He yelled. But a niggle of doubt remained. Oh, was he? Was Harry easy?

A barrage of memories bombarded him, each more lewd than the last, and Harry realized that yes, he was. Merlin, he'd never even contemplated telling Tom no. He just...he let the man use him. He played Harry like an instrument and Harry let him. Was that terrible of him?

"So...," Ginny began, her face serious. "He sounds so different. What could have changed him that much?"

"I'm not sure, exactly. Maybe it's some kind of spell? Er, Voldemort was always really into dark magic, maybe it made him go mad. And the Room of Desire healed him." Harry doubted his own theory, but it sounded plausible enough.

"Maybe," Ginny mused, "Or...it could have been your wish. I've heard stories of the Room of Desire, but I thought they were just that. Stories. But maybe the Room granted your wish, and it made You-Know-Who sane."

Brown eyes widened. "Harry—Harry I think you changed him. Your wish changed him!"

A grimace. He didn't...he didn't want to think about that. The thought had crossed his mind before, but it felt oily, guilt encompassing him just at the idea. It might be true, maybe Harry did change him.

He remembered quiet nights spent humping his sheets, pumping his dick in his fist and guiltily thinking about a pretty boy with dark, possessive eyes and black curls that he wanted to run his hands through. He wanted Tom. He wanted Tom, and when Voldemort held him by the waist, kissing and pleasuring him, a part of Harry guiltily thought that it would be even better if it was Tom in front of him, but a nicer version, one that didn't want to kill him because that was his deepest wish.

He wanted the handsome, kind, understanding alpha boy that Harry remembered spilling his secrets to. Tom understood him. He got Harry in a way few others did. He remembered talking to him and he remembered killing him and that hurt. He remembered missing him.

And he remembered wanting him as he was with Voldemort. And the Room, it answered. It gave him Tom.

Harry frowned again. Did he force him? Did he take Voldemort's agency and mould him into something else? Was he nothing more than a rapist acting out his own selfish desires on a man that, for all he knew, might be screaming on the inside?

He felt sick.

"Ginny—"

She stood before him, on one knee as Harry was slumped against his desk. "Stop doing that. Stop thinking, Harry."

"Huh?"

"You're thinking stupid thoughts," she nodded to herself.

"What are you talking about?"

"There are stories, about the Room of Desire. Growing up, my mum told me about one. About two people, an omega witch and an alpha wizard. They were old friends, and the alpha was newly mated."

Harry stared at her in confusion, and Ginny continued.

"It all started like this...no one knows the details, but the witch went to the Room of Desire. This witch had loved the wizard for many years, but he didn't love her back. She loved him from afar for many years, and after he was mated, she hated his mate. She wanted them dead and for the wizard to love her, so she decided to make a wish. When the wizard heard of her plan, he followed her to the Room of Desire. Both of them were in the Room at the same time, and they fought. When the witch made her wish, she prepared for everything to change around her, for the wizard to love her and for his mate to die, so—"

"Then what? What happened?"

"Well...," Ginny explained, "It didn't work. Do you want to know why? The Room of Desire responds to the desires of the person within it, conscious or unconscious. And when two people enter, it responds to the wishes of both. Do you understand?"

Harry let out a harsh breath. He was beginning to realize her point. His eyes filled with hope.

"So you didn't force him, Harry, you didn't. He wanted it, too, alright? I promise." Once Ginny finished her story, Harry jumped on her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Ah, Harry!" She shouted, wiggling away as they fell to the ground.

"Thank you. Thank you, Ginny, you don't understand what this means!" He held her tightly, squeezing.

Ginny giggled, and her arms wrapped around Harry in turn. She patted his back. "Don't you worry, Haz. It's alright."

A minute passed, and they both let go without a word. Ginny sat on the floor against the chair he was sitting on, and Harry asked hesitantly, "So, where do we go from here?"

"Well, I just...Harry, do you want it?" Searchingly, she stared into his green eyes. "Do you want to be Riddle's mate?"

The question fell from Ginny's lips like a blade. It would be the reveal of something Harry didn't want to admit, but it would be true all the same. It would be the end of pretending.

He didn't want to pretend, not in front of the only person that knew the truth.

He spoke, and he said, "Yes."

Ginny nodded. "Good, because then this would be awkward."

The look in her eyes was nothing sort of astounded and deeply trusting. Before, Harry was so certain she'd hate him, that she'd go spilling everything to the Order, but he couldn't bring himself to lie. Someone needed to know. He needed to rip that secret out of his chest and finally breathe. And now he did, she let him, and she didn't hate him for it. By Godric, she didn't hate him.

"Harry," she said, smiling sadly. Ginny looked like she wasn't sure what to say, as if her words were delicate and calculated and she wanted to squeeze as much meaning as she could into them. "I trust you, really. I think...if anyone could reform Tom, it would be you. In—in the diary..." she breathed, and her eyes had this look, "Tom was so...well, Tom. Merlin, I trusted him, and he wasn't so bad at all. I don't know whether he still has his claws in me or not, but no one could pretend for that long, right? And I just...wasn't he also trapped? For fifty years? I reckon I'd have gone crazy too." She blinked away tears, and she stared far off into the distance, likely remembering something.

"Harry, I trust you. I want to trust you. So I won't tell anyone. Just, please be careful? Okay? Promise me." She looked resolute.

Harry breathed slowly, and he said, "I promise."

Chapter Text

Unconsciously, Harry fidgeted with his butterfly hairclip, trying to get it to look right. "Ginny, are you sure they won't say anything? I mean, this is all...I'm the Boy-Who-Lived, people are gonna talk."

Ginny rolled her eyes, and she scoffed, "Well, let them. It doesn't matter what they think. Don't pretend to be someone else for them. They can get over themselves."

"If Gin is right about anything, mate, it's this," Ron nodded. "It doesn't matter that you're an omega, and if it matters to them, then they don't matter anyway." He pushed his cart forward, and Ron prepared to head through the walled entrance and towards the express.

Already, Harry had eyes plastered onto his form. He wasn't yet wearing his school robes, and it was clear that he was wearing distinctly omegan clothing. None of the muggles knew who he was, and so none cared what he wore, but he saw some wix gazing at him in confusion. They recognized him, Harry knew. He shivered.

He wore a pale, buttoned shirt, made from a soft fabric that looked more feminine than what Ron wore—probably more expensive as well, actually—and along with his Gryffindor tie and grey, pleated skirt, not to mention his knee-high socks and flats, Harry looked distinctly omega-like. Ginny and Hermione had lent him a butterfly hairpin and a few charm bracelets, and with his longer hair and softer, prettier features, it was evident to all that he was an omega.

Especially without his scent-masking spell. Harry still wore it, just weakened. It was weak enough that if someone was right near him, they'd sniff him out immediately. Harry couldn't bring himself to take it off outright. It would be too strange to go without after wearing it for so long. He'd prefer that not everyone around him would instantly know what he was feeling just based on his scent. He'd witnessed more than a few omegas being coddled by strange alphas possessed by their instincts just because their scents peaked with distress. He didn't want that to happen to him.

The teenage alpha boys at Hogwarts were rowdy and controlled by their impulses, and Harry didn't have to smell the sour scent of distress to know how it emanated off of him already. He wasn't a child to be coddled, omega or not.

Once the wall was clear, Ron rolled his cart forward, and Ginny followed after. It was time to enter the platform, yet Harry's feet were rooted to the ground. He couldn't force himself to move.

He had to go. It was Hogwarts. Every summer, all he'd ever wanted was for it to end and for term to come around again, yet now...he wished he was back at Grimmauld, cocooned and hidden away from the world.

A hand landed on his shoulder. "Harry?" Hermione whispered. She looked worried.

"Just a minute. I'll...I'll follow." His eyes landed on the platform's entrance, and he swallowed a gulp. Was that wall always so intimidating?

Nothing was the same as it was. The last time he went through the platform for the beginning of the year, Sirius was still alive, and he'd just presented. He hadn't yet begun his ill-begotten affair with a murderer, and as far as the Wizarding World knew, Voldemort was dead and Harry was crazy. Things were much simpler back then.

A part of Harry wished he could go back, he realized, clutching tightly onto the handle of his cart. His fists were red, and he half-expected the handle to bend.

Harry inhaled deeply. He had to go. It was time.

He almost expected Hedwig to hoot comfortingly at him, beckoning him on, and his fingers brushed over her cage. She wasn't here. He'd already sent her off to Hogwarts without him.

Stubbornly, Harry swallowed down the bile building in the back of his throat, and he walked through the platform, letting the veil of magic fall over him as he exited on Platform 9 3/4.

Instantly, many pairs of eyes stared directly at him, judging and rude. Harry shivered under the weight of their gaze, trying his hardest to not appear weak. He was an injured rabbit to a pit of snakes, and they were prized to pounce.

"Oooh," Mrs Weasley wrapped him in a hug. "What took you so long? Go on, go on," she pushed him away, "or you'll miss your train!"

Harry quickly hugged her back, and, ignoring the looks of everyone around him, he followed after his friends to get on the train. Hermione waved him on.

He would have preferred to spend the trip with Ron and Hermione, but it was not to be. Those two waved him off apologetically and settled in the Prefects' carriage, while Ginny ran off with Dean. She'd promised to spend the trip with him, and the poor girl didn't look too happy to be doing it.

Instead, he was approached by a surprising, but no less familiar face. Neville Longbottom. He'd filled out a bit, blond hair darkening a little in shade, with thicker arms and a taller stature. The boy before him had surely hit his growth spurt, and, surprised, Harry noticed his distinct alpha scent. It seemed that he'd presented as well, to the shock of all, and Harry huffed when he realized how everyone was towering over him these days. He'd settled at about 167 centimetres, and even Ginny was just his height, if perhaps half an inch taller than him.

"Hiya, mate, how've you been, summer been treating you well?" Neville smiled cheerily while grasping onto Trevor, who'd attempted to make his yearly escape onto the train tracks. Harry wondered why Neville hadn't invested in a cage for him yet.

A barrage of images flashed through Harry's mind. The dreams, his stay at the Dursleys, the visit to Slughorn, his trip to Diagon, Tom. Tom kissing him, running his hands over his body, thrusting in him, and spilling inside of him in an alleyway.

Harry shivered, and he was glad for his scent-masking spell. "Yeah, yeah it was brilliant."

Then, Luna appeared behind Neville's form, her smile as airy as ever and her eyes clear and staring at him. She was clutching a magazine to her chest. It advertised for something or other, Harry wasn't sure.

"So, the Quibbler still going strong, then?" He felt a certain fondness for the magazine, especially after using it to publish that article last year.

"Oh, yes, circulation's well up," she said cheerily.

"Let's find some seats," Harry stated then, staring warily at all the eyes on them. Then, they set off on the train through the hordes of students, and he sighed gratefully once they'd settled in their carriage.

"They're even staring at us," Neville exclaimed, gesturing to him and Luna. "Because we're with you!"

"Because I'm an omega?" Harry sounded peeved, frowning.

Neville laughed. "Doubt it! Nice to see that you've presented, Harry, you look good, but it's not that. Remember what happened in the Ministry? That's why."

“Ah. Well, they're not just staring at me, then. They’re staring at you both because you were at the Ministry too,” said Harry, as he hoisted his trunk into the luggage rack. “Our little adventure there was all over the Daily Prophet, you must’ve seen it.”

“Yes, I thought Gran would be angry about all the publicity,” said Neville, “but she was really pleased, especially after I presented. Says I’m starting to live up to my dad at long last. She bought me a new wand, look!”

He pulled it out and showed it to Harry. He looked awfully proud of himself. "It's cherry and unicorn hair, and I can't wait to practice with it—" His words fell off.

"Oi, Trevor! Get back here!" He shouted, diving down under the seats to grab his errant toad.

“Are we still doing DA meetings this year, Harry," asked Luna, who was detaching a pair of psychedelic spectacles from the middle of The Quibbler.

“No point now that we’ve got rid of Umbridge, is there?" Harry sat down.

Neville bumped his head against the seat as he emerged from under it. He looked most disappointed. “I liked the DA! I learned loads with you!”

“I enjoyed the meetings too,” said Luna serenely. “It was like having friends.”

This was one of those uncomfortable things Luna often said which made Harry feel a squirming mixture of pity and embarrassment.

He quickly changed the subject, talking about Quidditch with Neville and bringing Luna into the conversation. Turns out she knew her stuff when it came to Quidditch; she rather liked the idea of being a commentator. He knew what it felt like to not have friends, and he felt wrong just leaving her out.

They spent a while in the carriage, just talking or perhaps doing their own thing in the quiet spells while the train lurched and shifted and rattled on throughout the countryside. The clouds greyed menacingly, foretelling incoming rain, and chilling mist spread over the windows, the same as it had been all summer.

It was during a clear spell that Ron and Hermione finally showed up. "Wish the lunch trolley would hurry up, I'm starving," said Ron, slumping in the seat beside Harry.

"Hi, Neville, Luna. Guess what?" He smirked. "Malfoy's not doing Prefect duty. He’s just sitting in his compartment with the other Slytherins, we saw him when we passed.”

Harry blinked. That was strange. He had no idea what could be wrong with Malfoy, and even less of a reason to care about the blond git. In fact, he was already preparing for Malfoy's yearly visit to his carriage to say something extra prat-like, per usual. Though perhaps that wouldn't be happening this year. Harry was glad, he didn't want to deal with Malfoy's reaction to his presentation. He'd definitely say something extra prat-like then.

He settled in his seat, staring idly out the window as Hermione began avidly discussing the merits of psychedelic spectacles with a breezy-expressioned Luna.

Ron, he, and Neville quickly started their own conversation, and Harry brought up his new role on the Quidditch team, to Neville's congratulations.

He had so many plans for the team this year. The Hogwarts Quidditch scene was rather lacklustre last year and the year before, considering the Triwizard Tournament and Umbridge's nonsense when banning Harry from the team. Harry would think his instalment as captain was a peace offering from McGonagall if he didn't know for a fact he was one of the best players on the team. He wasn't as smart as Hermione, or strong as—Merlin forbid—Tom, but if there was one thing he was confident in, it was his Quidditch skills.

He and Ginny had already charted out plans for training this year, and poor Oliver Wood would probably cry if he realized the current state of the team. They had their work cut out for them in training. Ginny would definitely join in as Chaser this year, and it wasn't for any nepotism reasons, unlike Malfoy. It was just for her talent after her fairly successful stint as Seeker the year previous. And with at least one trustworthy member of the team, Harry hoped he could gather the rest. He had at least a few of the original players still on, and he needed to prepare for tryouts in a few weeks once classes got into swing.

Harry had just begun discussing all this with Ron and Neville when a knock sounded on the door. "Come in!"

The compartment door slid open and a breathless third-year girl stepped inside. “I’m supposed to deliver these to Neville Longbottom and Harry P-Potter,” she faltered, as her eyes met Harry’s and she turned scarlet. She was holding out two scrolls of parchment tied with violet ribbon. Perplexed, Harry and Neville took the scroll addressed to each of them and the girl stumbled back out of the compartment.

“What is it?” Ron demanded as Harry unrolled his own scroll.

“An invitation,” said Harry.

Harry,

I would be delighted if you would join me for a bite of lunch in compartment C.

Sincerely,

Professor H.E.F. Slughorn

“Who’s Professor Slughorn?" Neville asked, looking perplexedly at his own invitation.

“New teacher,” said Harry. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to go, won’t we?”

“But what does he want me for," asked Neville nervously, as though he was expecting detention.

"Let's go see."

After that, they went out and voyaged to the compartment, where they realized they weren't the only ones invited. Harry recognized a few other faces, namely one dark-skinned boy in his year from Slytherin, as well as Ginny, who'd for some reason been invited. There was this one boy who wore an arrogant smirk like a second skin, and he stared at Harry up and down with a really sleazy expression on his face. Likely noting his omega status, the boy took it upon himself to shove his hand out at Harry, introducing himself while placing a wet kiss on Harry's knuckles.

"Cormac McLaggen, I'm sure it's a pleasure." He gazed at Harry with assured eyes, his hands wiry and rough and unpleasant against Harry's. He pulled his hand away and resisted the urge to wipe it against his skirt.

His omega snarled in the back of his mind, thinking, that boy should not have touched us that way—he's not our alpha—he shouldn't—

Harry stamped that train of thought down. He didn't have an alpha, he didn't. Even if when he thought alpha, only one face came to mind.

Instead of saying anything, Harry nodded awkwardly and took his seat while Slughorn introduced him to everyone. The man had gainfully taken Harry's status in stride, not batting an eye that the Boy-Who-Lived was an omega, and the meeting trudged on painfully slowly.

By the end, Harry was getting the impression that everyone there was only granted an invitation for their family connections or personal talents, though he wasn't yet sure why Ginny was invited. For one, he noted that Zabini had an ultra-wealthy mother who'd been married numerous times, and all her husbands died under mysterious circumstances, coincidentally leaving her mounds of gold. And Harry himself was the Boy-Who-Lived, of course, which was explanation enough. He also had to endure an uncomfortable ten minutes where Neville's parents were explained: two young, powerful aurors who'd been tortured into insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange and some Death Eater cronies.

At the end of Neville’s interview, Harry had the impression that Slughorn was reserving judgment on Neville, yet to see whether he had any of his parents’ flair.

“And now,” said Slughorn, shifting massively in his seat with the air of a compere introducing his star act. “Harry Potter! Where to begin? I feel I barely scratched the surface when we met over the summer!” He contemplated Harry for a moment as though he was a particularly large and succulent piece of pheasant, then said, “‘The Chosen One,’ they’re calling you now!”

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and then he was forced to endure a questioning about the prophecy, he thought, scowling.

“Anyway,” said Slughorn, turning back to Harry. “Such rumours this summer. Of course, one doesn’t know what to believe, the Prophet has been known to print inaccuracies, make mistakes—but there seems little doubt, given the number of witnesses, that there was quite a disturbance at the Ministry and that you were there in the thick of it all!”

Harry, who could not see any way out of this without flatly lying, nodded but still said nothing. Slughorn beamed at him.

“So modest, so modest, no wonder Dumbledore is so fond—you were there, then? But the rest of the stories—so sensational, of course, one doesn’t know quite what to believe—this fabled prophecy, for instance—”

“We never heard a prophecy,” said Neville, turning geranium pink as he said it.

“That’s right,” said Ginny staunchly. “Neville and I were both there too, and all this ‘Chosen One’ rubbish is just the Prophet making things up as usual.”

Harry grimaced as the conversation wore on, and he stared mournfully out the window and prayed for this all to end. He was so not joining whatever this Slug Club was.

He spent a long while ignoring whatever was spewing out of Slughorn's mouth until a familiar name was brought up.

"Lord Slytherin," Ginny suddenly asked, "what do you know of him?" She pointedly looked away from Harry as she asked the question.

Harry sat up straight.

He witnessed Slughorn's face pale, and he stuttered for a moment before saying, "Slytherin, yes! Lord Thomas Slytherin...his face is so familiar, I'm—ah, I'm sure I taught a relative of his. Though ironically enough, he was never a Hogwarts student himself. I've sent a few letters to him and we've been in correspondence, so perhaps he'll visit a few of our Slug Club gatherings!"

Harry turned towards the man, and even though he quickly changed the subject once he was done answering Ginny's question, Harry's green eyes stayed fixed on him.

He must've been a teacher in Tom's time, since he recognized Tom Riddle's features in Thomas Slytherin even fifty years later. Undoubtedly, Slughorn must have known Tom's true identity, judging by the fear Harry glimpsed on his face for a single moment before he spoke. But he was much smarter than to reveal any of it, surely.

But if he knew, why would he say that Tom might visit Hogwarts? And while the thought made butterflies flutter in Harry's stomach, he knew that it was highly irresponsible of the man to allow a Dark Lord near students. Unless he knew about Tom's change. Slughorn said they'd been in correspondence, so maybe he knew how much that time in the Room had changed him, though he likely didn't know the exact details. Or maybe he was also convinced that Thomas Slytherin was the son of Lord Voldemort, though that would still mean he knew of Voldemort's identity as Tom Riddle. But the man was a Slytherin, still, so surely he had his suspicions?

Harry was lost in his thoughts for a long while yet, and then, finally, the train emerged from yet another long misty stretch into a red sunset, and Slughorn looked around, blinking in the twilight. Realizing how late it had gotten, the man ushered them off to change into their robes, and Harry sighed in relief.

He was going to have to join the Slug Club now, wasn't he? Harry grumbled. But Slughorn mentioned that Tom might be visiting, and that thought made something warm in Harry's stomach. He doubted they'd be able to meet at all during the school year, or even if they should. Harry knew it wasn't right, but he couldn't stop what was between them.

“I’m glad that’s over,” muttered Neville. “Strange man, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he is a bit,” said Harry. “How come you ended up in there, Ginny?”

“He saw me hex Zacharias Smith,” she smirked. “You remember that idiot from Hufflepuff who was in the DA? He kept on and on asking about what happened at the Ministry and in the end he annoyed me so much I hexed him—when Slughorn came in I thought I was going to get detention, but he just thought it was a really good hex and invited me to lunch! Mad, eh?”

“Better reason for inviting someone than because their mum defeated a Dark Lord," Harry scowled. "I was a baby, I had no part."

Ginny sighed, and she said, "Yeah, but you are 'the Chosen One', so you're stuck with it all." She gave him a look, and Harry knew what she was thinking of. He was the Chosen One, so why exactly was he fooling around with the man he was destined to defeat?

He said nothing, and instead, he trudged back to their carriage and they all changed into their robes. All too soon afterwards, it was time to get off and find a thestral-drawn carriage to hop on.

Everything proceeded as usual, and Harry was astonished at how mundane this all felt when just back in first year this was the most amazing thing that had ever happened to him. He smiled, breathing it all in again. He ignored the looks pointed his way and relaxed instead. They didn't matter. He should be used to this by now.

Once the sorting was all, well, sorted, Harry was prepared to go through the usual announcements when something unexpected happened.

“...and Mr Filch, our caretaker, has asked me to say that there is a blanket ban on any joke items bought at the shop called Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

“Those wishing to play for their House Quidditch teams should give their names to their Heads of House as usual. We are also looking for new Quidditch commentators, who should do likewise.

“We are pleased to welcome a new member of staff this year. Professor Slughorn—", Slughorn stood up, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight, his big waistcoated belly casting the table below into shadow, "—is a former colleague of mine who has agreed to resume his old post of Potions master.”

“Potions?”

“Potions?”

The word echoed all over the Hall as people wondered whether they had heard right.

“Potions?” Ron and Hermione said together, turning to stare at Harry. “But you said—”

“Professor Snape, meanwhile,” said Dumbledore, raising his voice so that it carried over all the muttering, “will be taking over the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

Harry's eyes widened, and he was dismayed. Snape, really? He thought he'd finally had enough of the git! After what happened with his occlumency lessons last year, especially, he was glad to be rid of him. But now he had DADA with the man?

Hermione started, "But Harry, I thought you said—"

"—mate, I thought Slughorn was—"

Harry withered. Great, he thought. Just great.

After that surprising reveal, they went through the welcoming feast, and Harry noticed an unusually pale-faced Malfoy with dark circles under his eyes glaring down at his plate as if it had offended him. For some reason, Ginny's eyes were locked on him.

"Ginny," he poked her on the shoulder, "what are you looking at?"

"Hm?" She hummed, still staring. "Oh, nothing."

Harry raised an eyebrow, but he went back to his food. Considering the way people were still staring at him, it was surprising that he had an appetite. The gazes of many of his yearmates were fixed on his form, and Harry wouldn't be surprised if an article all too close to home would be published in the Daily Prophet.

Despite everything, he tried his hardest to enjoy the feast, and he especially enjoyed the sight of Hogwarts' familiar, Umbridge-free walls after the wicked woman's downfall.

Things were normal. Things were good. Harry didn't have much to worry about other than Snape, and that was something he'd been dealing with for years. Hopefully, the curse would get him by the end of the year, he thought, scooping up another spoonful of roast potatoes. He was okay, he assured himself.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Things were not good. Not good or normal. He was not okay. Harry scowled.

The sight of the giggling girls before him truly made him entertain the thought of throwing out a cruciatus or two; now he understood why Tom did it so often. They stared at his outfit, unashamed. That day, he wore the butterfly clip again, along with a red cardigan sweater lined with gold thread, and a long, dark red skirt. His cloak didn't really hide it, and it was all the more obvious what his status was considering his scent. If one got close enough, or if they walked past him, they could smell the sweetness of his natural omega pheromones. What he was was all too obvious.

"So, is it true," one of the girls asked. "Are you really...an omega?" She whispered it as if it was something to be ashamed of, or perhaps something scandalous. By Merlin, it was as if she was asking if he was pregnant.

This was why he didn't reveal himself earlier. He didn't want to have to deal with this.

Harry rolled his eyes, and all he said was "yes" before walking off. He didn't have the patience for this.

He held his new schedule in his hands, leaving breakfast with Ron and Hermione following close behind. This was going to be a long year. A really long year. Turned out, he was continuing Potions, so he hoped Slughorn would lend him supplies. And now he had DADA with Snape first thing.

The class itself was...strange, to say the least. Very strange. Snape seemed like a good, if strict DADA teacher—better than how he was at teaching Potions, at least. He was at least better than Umbridge, and every student relished hearing "wands out" from the man. He was teaching about non-verbal spells, which was very interesting. And for the whole period, the man simply ignored Harry, except for when he really couldn't, in which case, he was almost polite. He didn't even give Harry detention for his wit!

“There’s no need to call me ‘sir,’ Professor,” Harry remembered saying. And Snape did nothing! He simply sneered, taking a few points off of him for his cheek before slinking away like a dungeon bat.

Harry noted, idly, that the man wasn't a dungeon bat any longer, considering his new status as DADA professor.

After class, some Quidditch-hopeful who was a Beater on last year's team reported to him with a roll of parchment. Harry grabbed it, telling him that trials would be held in a few weeks, though he privately thought that Sloper would be lucky to get back on the team. He unfurled the letter.

Dear Harry,

I would like to start our private lessons this Saturday. Kindly come along to my office at 8 p.m. I hope you are enjoying your first day back at school.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

P.S. I enjoy Acid Pops.

“He enjoys Acid Pops?” Ron said, who had read the message over Harry’s shoulder and was looking perplexed.

“It’s the password to get past the gargoyle outside his study,” said Harry in a low voice.

What was this about? Harry knew Dumbledore was planning on giving him lessons this year, but he had no idea what those would be. He had privately discussed it with Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, and they came up with grand ideas of secret, superpowered light spells to take Voldemort down for good.

Secretly, Harry hoped that wouldn't happen. He wasn't sure how he could face Tom on the battlefield.

Perhaps, a part of him hoped, there would be another way?

Hours later, they trudged down the familiar path to the Potions classroom, and they prepared for Slughorn's class.

Ron held high hopes for it, specifically, and he crowed on about how things would be so much easier without Snape breathing down their necks.

They waited outside the dungeon classroom only a short while, and when Slughorn opened the door, the dungeon was, curiously, already filled with the fumes and scents of brewing potions on large, bubbling cauldrons. Harry and his friends took a table with a gold-coloured cauldron, and from it emanated a scent that Harry could only describe as alluring. He smelled the polish from a broomstick handle, the warm scent of treacle tart, and something else...it was comforting, warm and spicy and it reminded him of his the alpha that he'd been...spending time with, for lack of a better word. Harry couldn't look away from the potion, staring at its clear, pearly sheen. He felt warm.

"Blimey, woman, you've been using too much of that perfume of yours, have you used the whole bottle yet?" Ron snipped.

"Honest, Ronald, the same goes for you. I can smell your shampoo from a mile away—"

"Now then," said Slughorn, whose massive outline was quivering through the many shimmering vapours. “Scales out, everyone, and potion kits, and don’t forget your copies of Advanced Potion-Making....”

Harry raised his hand. "Sir?"

“Harry, m’boy?”

“I haven’t got a book or scales or anything—nor’s Ron—we didn’t realize we’d be able to do the NEWT, you see—”

“Ah, yes, Professor McGonagall did mention...not to worry, my dear boy, not to worry at all. You can use ingredients from the store cupboard today, and I’m sure we can lend you some scales, and we’ve got a small stock of old books here, they’ll do until you can write to Flourish and Blotts....”

Slughorn strode over to a corner cupboard and, after a moment’s foraging, emerged with two very battered-looking copies of Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage, which he gave to Harry and Ron along with two sets of tarnished scales.

Harry kept his copy of the book close at hand and away from the boiling potion before him. As Slughorn went on to lecture the class about the potions, Harry could almost hear Hermione's pink cheeks and Ron's gaping mouth when they realized that Amortentia was on their desk. And, as per usual, Harry was sure they would ignore their burgeoning feelings for each other, just as they had been doing since perhaps fourth year. He was sure they'd sort it out eventually.

If it were any other class, Harry would be sure to doze off, but Slughorn's teaching was actually rather interesting—when his lectures didn't taper off as he mentioned another of his former students and their recent accomplishments—and when the man told them to brew the Draught of Living Death to earn literal luck potion, well, Harry was pretty interested, and so was the rest of the class, for once.

He didn't think he'd win, obviously—that pleasure would probably go to Hermione, but maybe she'd let him have a sip? Still, he prepared to brew the potion as best he could, and when it came to reading the ingredients, he noticed something strange.

He had opened his book, and he noticed that the previous owner had scribbled notes in the margins as thick and small as the printed words themselves. Harry would have huffed, annoyed at the scratched-out lines of instruction, when he noticed that the notes were instead annotated instructions.

Harry would have ignored the notes, but when he went to ask Hermione to borrow her silver knife, he followed the edited instruction to use the flat end of the silver knife to crush the sopophorous bean so as to better release the juice, instead of slicing it. Amazed, Harry witnessed as the bean exuded so much juice that he was shocked the shrivelled bean could hold that much. Hurriedly, he scooped it into the potion, and it immediately changed to the lilac colour the book said it would.

His annoyance with the previous owner vanishing on the spot, Harry now squinted at the next line of instructions. He followed them to the best of his ability, and when Hermione turned to him, scowling, and asking how he did it, Harry simply said he was following instructions.

He'd tell her about the book later, but right now it seemed as if he had a serious chance of winning Felix Felicis.

“And time’s...up!” called Slughorn. “Stop stirring, please!”

Slughorn moved slowly among the tables, peering into cauldrons. He made no comment, but occasionally gave the potions a stir or a sniff. At last, he reached the table where Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ernie were sitting. He smiled ruefully at the tar-like substance in Ron’s cauldron. He passed over Ernie’s navy concoction. Hermione’s potion he gave an approving nod. Then he saw Harry’s, and a look of incredulous delight spread over his face.

“The clear winner!” he cried to the dungeon. “Excellent, excellent, Harry! Good lord, it’s clear you’ve inherited your mother’s talent. She was a dab hand at Potions, Lily was! Here you are, then, here you are—one bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised, and use it well!”

Harry slipped the tiny bottle of golden liquid into his inner pocket, feeling an odd combination of delight at the furious looks on the Slytherins’ faces and guilt at the disappointed expression on Hermione’s. Ron looked simply dumbfounded.

“How did you do that?” He whispered to Harry as they left the dungeon.

“Got lucky, I suppose,” said Harry, because Malfoy was within earshot.

Once they were securely ensconced at the Gryffindor table for dinner, however, he felt safe enough to tell them. Hermione’s face became stonier with every word he uttered.

“I s’pose you think I cheated?” He finished, aggravated by her expression.

“Well, it wasn’t exactly your own work, was it?” She said stiffly.

“He only followed different instructions to ours,” said Ron.

“Could’ve been a catastrophe, couldn’t it? But he took a risk and it paid off.” He heaved a sigh. “Slughorn could’ve handed me that book, but no, I get the one no one’s ever written on. Puked on, by the look of page fifty-two, but—”

“Hang on,” said a voice close by Harry’s left ear. He looked around and saw that Ginny had joined them. “Did I hear right? You’ve been taking orders from something someone wrote in a book, Harry?”

She looked alarmed and angry. Harry knew what was on her mind at once. Of course, she'd still be affected by what happened with Tom in the Diary, even knowing Harry's...relationship—though he wasn't really sure what to call it—with the Diary's older counterpart.

“It’s nothing,” he said reassuringly, lowering his voice. “It’s not like, you know, Riddle’s diary. It’s just an old textbook someone’s scribbled on.”

“But you’re doing what it says?”

“I just tried a few of the tips written in the margins, honestly, Ginny, there’s nothing funny—”

“Ginny’s got a point,” said Hermione, perking up at once. “We ought to check that there’s nothing odd about it. I mean, all these funny instructions, who knows?”

“Hey!” Said Harry indignantly, as she pulled his copy of Advanced Potion-Making out of his bag and raised her wand.

“Specialis Revelio!” She said, rapping it smartly on the front cover.

Nothing whatsoever happened. The book simply laid there, looking old and dirty and dog-eared.

“Finished?” Harry said irritably. “Or d’you want to wait and see if it does a few backflips?”

“It seems all right,” said Hermione, still staring at the book suspiciously. “I mean, it really does seem to be...just a textbook.”

“Good. Then I’ll have it back,” said Harry, snatching it off the table, but it slipped from his hand and landed open on the floor.

Nobody else was looking. Harry bent low to retrieve the book, and as he did so, he saw something scribbled along the bottom of the back cover in the same small, cramped handwriting as the instructions that had won him his bottle of Felix Felicis, now safely hidden inside a pair of socks in his trunk upstairs.

This Book is the Property of the Half-Blood Prince.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Within the first few days of term, Harry was accosted in the halls by random students asking all about his secondary gender—most often younger years, as they had no concept of tact or boundaries. He found it increasingly hard to hold back his frustration, but the true test of his patience came with the release of that morning's edition of the Daily Prophet.

The Chosen One: An Omega?

The article itself was somehow not written by Rita Skeeter, which Harry awarded to some sort of divine mercy. But it still spewed all sorts of bile. The thing was littered with thinly veined omegist ideals, and the writer couldn't have been any more blunt when they asked, 'How can an omega defeat the Dark Lord'?

Harry's eyes narrowed when reading it, and his grimace grew more displeased with every word he laid his eyes on. And when he paid close attention to the picture right on the front page, his eyebrows shot up. It was of him, walking through the corridors of Hogwarts with his booksack slung over his shoulder as he was angled towards Hermione, speaking to her. There wasn't anything strange about it, unless you were to consider his attire.

Within the picture, perhaps taken just a day after the beginning of term, he wore a grey uniform blouse, a Gryffindor tie, and a red and gold plaid skirt under his cloak. He looked very nice, if he were to say so himself, and it was made very clear that he was an omega.

For a moment, he wondered who took that picture, but then he realized...Colin. Colin Creevey was the only one he could think of that had a camera and would be at least slightly willing to send it off to the Daily Prophet for a bit of money. Harry wasn't upset, per se, but he was disappointed.

He sighed, balling up the Prophet. There was nothing for it. Even if Colin did send the picture off, Harry wouldn't be confronting him. He was just a little annoyed.

His eye twitched. Just...annoyed.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

His days were tiring. Every morning he woke up for classes, and all eyes would be on him. He'd think it was simply for his omega status, but he remembered the incident at the Ministry last year, and the recent infamy of Voldemort's resurrection, and that's when he felt the ever-present dark gloom that had settled over the school.

Every morning when the Prophet would arrive, people would hold their breaths, and sighs of relief would be expelled when the article would simply be another rehash of Voldemort's resurrection and the aurors' failed attempts at weeding out the Dark rather than news of an attack on muggle London or a massacre in Diagon.

Still, Harry knew what people expected of him. He was The Chosen One, he spat. He had no life of his own and no real choice, he had to do what the Wizarding World wanted and vanquish Lord Voldemort, just as the prophecy said he must.

But he didn't want to do that, not really, and his classmates...Harry knew what they whispered to each other. They didn't think an omega could ever beat Voldemort, the most powerful alpha. Harry's friends pulled him away when they came across people talking about it, and every time, he'd clenched his teeth, saying nothing.

He hated it with every fibre of his being. What was he to do—change his status? Harry would be tempted to kill Voldemort himself just to prove them wrong, but...his thoughts drifted towards Tom, and Harry deflated. How could he ever kill him? After what they'd done together, the...vulnerabilities the man gave up, he couldn't stab him in the back. He wasn't that sort of person. It was stupid, he knew. If Tom changed his mind about...mating him (and Merlin, Harry was still trying to wrap his head around all of that), then he'd have no qualms about killing him, he was sure. So they were at a standstill.

And now...after his most recent dreams, Harry couldn't even fathom drawing his wand on the man. They hadn't yet had dreams like the ones previous, he flushed at the thought, but every night, Harry would go to sleep frustrated and bitter at the world around him, and then he'd dream of a warm, cushy bed and silk sheets, and he'd be wrapped in the arms of his alpha. He'd sigh, and he'd curl into the man, smiling. Tom would whisper sweet words of comfort and longing to him, and his large hands would wander to Harry's hips and his thighs, inching lower, and right when Harry's body began to grow warm, wanting for something he hadn't had in about a month, Tom would stop. Instead, he'd move his hands back to Harry's waist and he'd press chaste kisses onto his forehead, neck, and cheeks, and Harry would stifle a giggle.

He missed their intimate acts, and every morning he'd wake up refreshed but buzzing with arousal, and he knew Tom felt the same, just by their connection. He'd be cuddled under his soft green blanket, basking in the warmth of Tom's familiar scent, but missing the real thing. He knew these dreams weren't simply dreams but shared visions within some sort of mindscape, and Harry wondered why Tom didn't go farther. He wanted him to so, so badly, he admitted. But he didn't.

Harry frowned. He knew Tom was still interested in him, their nights together proved it, but he didn't touch him how he wanted, what with their...cuddles being fairly chaste in nature. Harry wanted more, but Tom wasn't doing anything.

Perhaps...he wanted Harry to initiate? Their trysts recently had mostly been Tom initiating, though Harry was willing to admit he'd basically dragged Tom to that alleyway himself last time, he thought, embarrassed. Still, maybe Tom wanted to know that Harry wanted it, too. Maybe Tom wanted Harry to show some initiative.

Well, perhaps he would, Harry realized, chewing on his breakfast that morning. He'd figure something out.

Minutes later, everyone quieted as the mail flew in and owls began to fly to the intended recipient. Harry didn't expect anything other than the Daily Prophet, but when a large, horned owl arrived for him, he grew curious. He pulled a letter and a small package from the owl, and it flew off immediately after, not looking for a reply.

He had a gift. A thin letter with an emerald green, wax seal. Idly, Harry noticed that the colour matched his eyes. Sent along with it was a wrapped box, just slightly too big to fit Harry's palm.

Harry knew who it was from, even as Hermione and Ron gave him looks and asked who sent him a letter.

"Well, come on then, open it," stressed Hermione. She looked even more curious than Harry, her eyes rapt as Harry looked for a suitable knife to break the seal.

"Er..." He didn't want to open it around them, but maybe he could distract them with the box. So, quickly, he opened the note, and he immediately covered his mouth with his palm in shock. Merlin, this man.

Harry wanted to climb him like a tree.

My darling Harry,

In this letter, I make an official request for your hand in courtship, late as it may be due to our...recent rendezvous. But as I am a man of honour, I shall fulfil my promises to you and court you properly, with the intent of mating and marriage one day, my dear.

As a symbol of my sincerity, I have enclosed a second courtship gift. My first gift to you, as is customary in these sorts of proceedings, was a piece of fabric—a blanket in this case—imparted with my scent. I dearly hope that you have been using my gifts, omega.

My most recent gift to you is a bracelet, one that I hope you will wear as a mark of our promise to one another.

I hope to see you soon, my darling.

Regards,

TMR

Simply stating that Harry's cheeks were red was an understatement of the highest degree as to the shade of red that could be found on his face. His face grew crimson, as red as a strawberry, and his heart skipped a beat in his chest. Not even metaphorically, as Harry was certain he'd just frozen in his seat.

Harry gently placed the letter down, and his eyes fell on the little box, freshly unwrapped but unopened due to Ron's careful attentions.

"Harry, Harry I can't read this," Hermione hesitated, frowning. "I think the letter is spelled! Only you can read it...."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, he'd prefer that. If Hermione were to read it.... She was smart, she'd know immediately who TMR was, and Merlin forbid if Ginny were to get her hands on the note. She already knew about what was going on, but Harry still didn't want to actually explain anything.

He thumbed over the box, and slowly, he opened it. He almost couldn't convince himself to actually look at it, his hands clammy.

There, lying on plush, green velvet was a bracelet, as described. But instead of any normal bracelet, as Harry expected, the thing itself was in the shape of a snake, coiling delicately. Dark silver and meticulously crafted, a single ruby eye gleamed.

Harry's breath hitched, and before Hermione could voice her worry that the gift was cursed, Harry slipped it on, unintentionally grinning.

It fit perfectly on his right wrist, and Harry held his hand up to the light, twisting it this way and that and admiring the piece of jewellery. The metal itself glittered, but the crimson ruby eye sparkled. Harry loved it.

He didn't know what to say, but just knowing that Tom thought about him, that he officially wanted to court him...it meant more than words could reasonably say.

"Merlin, Harry, what is that?" Neville asked, looking closely at the piece of jewellery. "Looks like a courting gift!"

"Blimey—courting?!" Ron almost shouted, and he glared at the offending bracelet. "Who—"

"What's this about courting?" Ginny came around, moving from her seat a few spots down to sit across from the trio, right next to Neville. Her eyes widened. "Harry, that looks..."

"Yeah. It is." Harry sounded happy, and his voice came out breathy.

"Harry. This is serious! Who's courting you? We don't know anything about them!" Hermione sounded fraught, her voice frantic.

"I do," said Ginny. She looked resigned, but at least proud of herself. Harry was sure she was recalling the way she told off Tom in Diagon Alley last month, telling him to court Harry properly. Well, looks like she got her way.

"Harry told me about him just before break," she stated.

"Who is it?" Ron asked, looking at Harry. "That bracelet of yours looks expensive. And a snake, really? That's in bad taste."

Hermione clapped him on the back of the head for that last comment.

"Ow! By Merlin, woman!"

"It really is expensive. I only know a bit about courting, from my gran, but that looks serious, like an actual pureblood courting gift. Merlin, Harry, who's this alpha of yours?" Neville looked impressed, almost, and suddenly Harry had eyes on him. Just his friends, mostly, but his Gryffindor yearmates went suspiciously quiet.

"I met him a long time ago, we...uh, don't really talk much, but we write letters. I met up with him in Diagon and I really like him. He says he wants to court me, and I...I sorta want to?" Harry looked down at his plate, apprehensive.

"And you didn't tell us about him, mate?" Ron looked upset, his eyebrows were furrowed.

"No! It wasn't anything serious—besides, he believed me. About Voldemort, I mean. He had a relative who was...involved, and so he knew. But he's not a Death Eater, I promise." If Harry's stomach wasn't currently sinking in guilt, he'd be patting himself on the back for his flawless improvisation skills. Tom definitely believed Voldemort had returned, and he definitely had a 'relative' involved, if you considered him only by his Thomas Slytherin persona. And, of course, he wasn't a Death Eater, he was the Dark Lord himself! So when Harry lied, he wasn't really lying, he told himself. It was for the best, besides.

Ginny hummed, smirking slightly. She looked amused, if slightly disapproving. "I see...so, Harry, when you 'met up' in Diagon, did you two just talk or...?" She sounded smug.

Oh, that little witch! Harry was certain the hat had at least considered Slytherin for the little demon that was Ginny Weasley, because it was certainly looking as if she was trying to get her revenge on Harry for his lies by embarrassing him.

He was inordinately fond of her, so really, he wasn't all that upset.

Hermione was scandalised, and she whipped towards him. "Harry! Tell me you didn't...." She blushed.

Harry looked away. He couldn't exactly lie about this. He'd lied enough.

"Mate...wow. Did you really...go all the way?" Ron whispered that last part as if he was talking about something scandalous, which he was, of course.

Harry nodded. "Yeah, we did." He turned red again. Merlin, just thinking of what he and Tom did...it got him hot again.

Neville raised an eyebrow. "You went all the way? Before initiating a courting contract? Merlin, Harry, I think he's serious. He already...uhm, 'got what we wanted,' but he still wants to court you? That definitely means he's got feelings for you."

Hermione sighed heavily, and she rubbed at her temples. "Yes, yes it does. Please tell me that you at least used protection, right Harry?" She looked resigned to Harry's bullshit, but by the way she was staring at him, he knew he wasn't going to get away without an intensive interrogation later.

Harry nodded, and he picked up the letter again, reading it once more.

"What's it say exactly?" Neville asked, frowning.

"It's a 'formal request for courtship.' The bracelet is his second courting gift."

"Second?"

"What about the first," asked Ginny.

"That blanket I have in my dorm, the green one. He sent it last year in the mail. Right before term ended. He says now that he considers it my first courting gift."

Neville nodded in agreement. "Yeah, that would be it. The first courting gift is traditionally something with the alpha's scent on it, so the omega can see if they're compatible."

"Does the omega send something in return?" Asked Harry. He frowned. He really needed to brush up on his courting know-how, he knew nothing about it all. "I don't really know how this works."

Ron spoke out, saying, "Yeah, sometimes. Years back it used to be only the alpha sent gifts to win the omega's hand, but not anymore. These days a lot of courted like to reciprocate with the courter."

Ron paused. "Why? Do you want to send something?"

"Er...nothing. So the first gift is something with my scent, right?"

"Yes," Ron stared at him in suspicion, eyes narrowed.

"Good, so uhm...it's time for classes, so...." Harry picked up his gifts, quickly slipping the letter back in its envelope and gently placing the letter and gift box inside his booksack. He'd hide them when he got to the dorms for his free period. He still had the bracelet on, unwilling to part from it.

He stood up from the table, and he ran off to class. He'd answer whatever questions his friends had later, but right then, a wicked idea brewed in his mind. He knew exactly what to send to Tom.

Chapter Text

A mischievous grin spilled over Harry's face as he sneaked through the halls of Hogwarts late one evening, long after curfew and deep into the hours when everyone was asleep. The castle itself, even, had been lulled into a deep, drowsy state, and Harry could hear the quiet snores of the portraits.

He should be asleep, he knew, but for what he had planned, he needed quiet and privacy. So he waited all day, ever since Tom's letter of courting and his gift arrived, and the moment when a curtain of sparkling twilight spilled through the windows of Harry's sluggish dorm, he knew it was time.

Quickly and quietly, he gathered the supplies he needed from where he'd stuffed them under his pillow, wrapped in his invisibility cloak. Gathering the items and shrinking them, he spelled his feet silent, and he wrapped himself in the cloak. He wore simple clothing, just a sleep shirt and trousers, and he creeped out of Gryffindor Tower in a pair of fluffy slippers.

He made his way to his destination quickly; he didn't have to worry about patrolling Prefects, or Filch and Mrs Norris—after all, his destination was on the seventh floor, the same as the Gryffindor dorms.

Opposite to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy's foolish attempt at training trolls for the ballet, Harry paced three times over the stretch of space, thinking, I need a private space, a bedroom, somewhere no one can find me.

And then, the moment he stopped, a carved wooden door magically appeared in front of his eyes. Harry opened it, slipping through before anyone could see.

He beheld the room with curious eyes, focused on the four-poster bed with grey silk sheets and a thick crimson blanket. Yes, Harry thought, Just what I wanted.

The blanket itself was likely from one of Hogwarts' store cupboards, and so Harry was certain it wouldn't vanish once taken out of the Room of Requirement, as Hermione once theorised certain magically conjured things would do when taken out of the Room. Just as Harry wished, he could keep it and give it to Tom as his first courting gift, the same as Tom had done with Harry's green blanket, which Harry had with him, shrunken in his pocket.

But of course, Harry had a decidedly different plan than Tom's original gift. Instead of simply sleeping with the blanket to impart his scent on it, he'd prefer for the blanket to absorb a different sort of scent.

Harry smirked, just a little. If he wanted Tom to still pay attention to him, to not suddenly forget about him in favour of the obsessively loyal Bellatrix Lestrange, he hissed, then he needed to do something to trap his interest.

This would do.

(This wasn't very Gryffindorish of him to do. It felt more Slytherin in nature. He ignored that.)

He took the green blanket in hand, and he spelled it back to proper size. Afterwards, he climbed onto the bed and lay directly on the scarlet-coloured blanket. It was curiously similar in fabric and size to Harry's green blanket, which was laid under the red one so both scents could adequately mix.

With shy movements, Harry undressed and neatly folded his clothes on the dark wooden dresser. Once he was fully naked on the bed, he shivered, and it wasn't from the cold.

He was doing this. He would...tempt Tom. He had never done such a thing before, but he could admit that the idea was strangely thrilling, arousing the omega part of him that yearned for the pleasure of his alpha. Not that Tom was his alpha! Well, not yet, at least. If things went how Harry was planning.

If Harry was wed and mated to the Dark Lord, then perhaps their union would lead to peace in the Wizarding World. Tom had recently begun to show reason, his sanity returning due to the magic of the Room of Desire, and if he could truly be reasoned with, then there might not need to be a war. He already had his identity as Lord Thomas Slytherin, he had his Death Eaters working in the shadows, and along with Harry's political power as the Boy-Who-Lived, perhaps that would be enough for the power-hungry man.

There was no need for bloodshed, no need for war, and if Harry could convince Tom of that...he may just not feel guilty for mating him. Especially if Harry could do it under the guise of sacrificing himself for the Wizarding World. He could only pray everyone else saw it that way, but not everyone would understand his justifications, and Harry simply needed to get used to it. He was saving them, after all. He breathed.

He stared up at the wooden ceiling of the bed, and a sigh escaped his lips. It was time. He had to....

Harry turned bright red, but even so, he took his wand in hand and waved it, muttering a spell. Instantly, his body warmed, and slick began to drip out of him. An arousal spell, meant to ease the way for penetration. He found the spell in one of the books Sirius gave him—he said it would be important to safely explore his body, though Harry doubted the man realized what Harry would do with the spells the books taught him. Let alone with whom.

Putting his wand down next to him, Harry went through the next step of his plan. He raised his hand, subconsciously visualing longer, paler fingers—thinner, but still bigger than Harry's—running over his body. Harry caressed his own skin, stroking at the junction of his neck—his mating gland—and softly feeling the clavicles of his neck before going down to his left nipple and flicking it. He rubbed his nipple between two fingers, and Harry closed his eyes.

He brought to mind visions of Tom, the way he held him down, touched him, and mouthed and sucked against his nipples. Harry hissed in pleasure.

"Yes, my darling, just like that. Be good for me."

Harry moaned, his body buzzing with a familiar warmth. The words ran through his mind, again and again, as his own imagination got ahead of him. Tom, he pleaded. More.

And like a ghost, Harry's hand moved almost by itself, and Harry pretended that it wasn't his own fingers that were caressing him, stroking his skin, and inching down to pump his cock and tease at the slit.

His body arched, and he let out a loud moan. More.

He needed more. More of this. It just wasn't enough without Tom, and now that Harry knew how that man could play his body like a fine instrument, he knew that anything else would simply pale at the pleasure Tom could give him. But then came the matter of Harry's actions, what he knew he was doing and how he would send the crimson blanket to Tom after he was done with it...it emboldened him.

He moaned again, groaning at the pleasure as his hand went down to rub against his quivering folds. He shuddered. His fingers wouldn't be enough. He wanted to be filled. So, he skipped to the finale.

Harry took his wand for a second time, eyes still closed, and he muttered a short spell. He hadn't been sure if he would be using it, but now it seemed obvious.

A cry spilled from his mouth as something rubbed against his dripping cunt, something big. It felt barely lukewarm, nothing like Tom's thick and throbbing cock as it bloomed into Harry's warmth, spearing him whole and filling him up, but the thing was thick and solid, more solid than Harry would think for a conjured, ghostly dildo.

Harry opened his eyes, and he looked down. It...looked like a dick, though it floated against nothing. It was nothing like Tom's. This one wasn't real, and it didn't have veins or anything, but it was almost as long as Tom's and slightly more bulbous at the tip, and for a moment Harry could pretend that it was Tom who began to push inside of him, stretching him open and pulling him apart. Harry's thighs opened obscenely wide as the dildo began to fill him up, inch by increasingly maddening inch.

He whined at the feeling, and Harry balled his sheets in his fist as the conjured dildo began thrusting inside of him, fucking in deeper and deeper into Harry's previously neglected cunt with every motion. He had no part, he didn't control the ferocity or the exact motions—the magic followed his subconscious wants, and Harry certainly wanted.

It wasn't the same. It wasn't Tom. There was no warm body pushing him down, no hands at his waist or alpha scent in his nose or a deep and chocolatey voice whispering indecent things in his ear, but if Harry closed his eyes, he could pretend. He stretched his thighs wide open, meeting the thrusting cock inside of him with a low groan.

And then something shifted, Harry wasn't sure what.

"Are you enjoying this, love? You're being used rather well," a voice chuckled.

Harry's eyes snapped open, and he screamed, "Tom!"

Pleasure blitzed inside of him, and suddenly Harry moaned indecently. "Y-you're here...."

It was him. It was really him, and Harry couldn't keep his eyes from watering as he stared straight at laughing crimson eyes as Tom grabbed the thrusting dildo and shoved it even deeper inside of him with a violent motion.

Harry screamed, and his pussy clenched wetly against the thing inside of him. Was it Harry's imagination, or had the dildo gotten bigger? Was it thicker? It could've been. It was magic, and from the way Tom squeezed it with one hand while his other fondled Harry's thigh and held it open so he could gaze hotly at his opening, Tom may have done something.

"I heard your call, dearest, and I made haste to be here as soon as possible," he whispered, not even looking into Harry's eyes as he continued staring at his sex, watching the way Harry's fluids gushed as he continued fucking the dildo inside of him mechanically. "You're certainly very bold, calling me like this. But I cannot say I'm displeased."

"Merlin, Tom, I—"

Tom smirked, amused. "—missed me? Yes, I did get the message." He looked up at Harry, staring into his eyes with what Harry could only describe as a smoulder. Crimson eyes burned into him. "We simply must continue to meet like this."

Harry was certain the warmth that suddenly fell over his cheeks was a blush, and his face had grown even redder than it already had been. "Tom! You...! So you're...you're really here? But we're at Hogwarts."

"This is but a dream, darling, as per the previous occasions," Tom replied. "I realized your need, and so the moment you closed your eyes, I was able to bring you here with me. Your waking body is still in the same position you left it in."

"Ah." Harry felt embarrassed when thinking that he'd fallen asleep with a dildo jammed up his pussy, but no one would find him, hopefully.

Tom held up Harry's hand, then, and his face went soft, vulnerable in a way Harry knew that Tom would never admit to be. "You're wearing my gift. I am...pleased to see that you have accepted." He rubbed the bit of flesh near the bracelet, and he kissed Harry's knuckles.

"Thank you." He looked pleased.

Harry gave a small, genuine smile, which was a little hard to do with a cock stuck up his cunt, but he managed. "Hey, if you didn't treat me right, then I never would have accepted." He even managed to speak without stuttering, which he was proud of.

Tom looked confused. "But you hardly even know me, just...Lord Voldemort, and all the ways that I've hurt you since your infancy. How could you...?"

"You expected me to refuse?" Harry asked in shock. "Then why did you ask?"

"I wanted you to know of my intentions," he stared straight into Harry's eyes, his expression warm, and he went just a little soft. "And that if you said no, I had no intention of stopping. I would convince you, one day."

Harry's heart began to beat strangely, and his lips flicked up. Tom was genuine, so genuine, and then and there Harry was certain that this man had never before opened up to another in the way he was opening up to him.

"I accept your courtship, Tom Marvolo Riddle," Harry stated, his hand going up so as to press his palm to Tom's cheek. It was the same hand his bracelet was on. The ruby eye of the snake glittered against Tom's skin.

"And I accept the challenge, Harry James Potter." Tom sounded undoubtedly relieved and overjoyed. "Truly, my courted, you spoil me." And then he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to Harry's lips.

Harry sighed into it. The hand on Tom's cheek fell to his neck and Harry's other hand wound around Tom's naked waist. He'd only just noticed that Tom was naked, and the realization got his body warm.

"Tom, please, I need you," Harry pleaded as they broke apart from the kiss. A strand of saliva separated them. "I want your cock, right now."

Tom's eyes gleamed with mischief, and he spoke into Harry's ear. "Gladly."

But instead of removing the dildo to replace it with his own cock, Tom slid up Harry's body, and Harry, confused, whispered "wah?" as Tom's thumb rubbed his lower lip.

"Open up, Harry." And unconsciously, Harry did. His lips parted to make way for Tom's cock in his mouth, and Harry choked as, simultaneously, the dildo inside of him began to move.

Tom grinned, the menace. "You can take it, can't you, Harry?" He sounded pleased.

Harry could. He would take it just to show him, but then he made an eep sound as the cock inside his mouth began to thrust forwards slightly, and Tom raised an eyebrow as if he asking Harry if he could.

A glare. He would, Tom would have no doubt.

This was only his second time with a cock down his throat, but Harry hoped he didn't disappoint as he gently began to suckle on the tip, his tongue going to rub on the underside. He'd positioned his teeth away from the throbbing warmth inside of him, and he tried his best to pay attention to his motions while the dildo inside his cunt continued to thrust, hitting deep inside of him and making Harry spasm with pleasure every time. It was hard to be conscious, really, and Harry felt overwhelmed while being...being spit-roasted and filled like this.

He was stuffed. As if he were in some kind of porn mag. Oh, Merlin.

It was hot—filthy, really, but Harry enjoyed it. He wanted it. He wanted to witness Tom's pleasure as he fell apart inside Harry, and he wanted Tom to know just how much he could take. He didn't want gentleness from this alpha, not now. He wanted everything Tom could give him, even if and especially if that meant the full force of Tom's passions.

He didn't want Tom to go easy on him, and simply the thought of being fucked like an animal made Harry moan with Tom's cock in his mouth as the dildo suddenly began to thrust faster. Harry's lower half was drenched in slick, and his mouth was drenched with drool as Tom began to thrust.

He wanted this, so he was going to take it. He was so certain, but then the dildo began to vibrate, and Harry screamed and writhed on the mattress.

Tom pulled out his dick, perhaps to see the expression on Harry's face.

"Tom, alpha, dear Merlin—please!" Harry cried, and his green eyes went watery. He wasn't even in heat, but he was already out of it enough to call Tom his alpha, he shuddered. The feeling inside him was...unexplainable. It was so torturously good that Harry felt like he could explode.

But Tom didn't let up. Instead, the dildo inside of him continued to vibrate, all the while going faster and thrusting harshly into Harry's throbbing pussy with every second that passed.

Harry whined, and his head fell to the side as he moaned into a pillow. His lower half continued to throb in pleasure, and Harry's thoughts grew hazy. He was speaking, he knew, and he was moaning something incomprehensible as Tom kissed his neck and cheeks, lapping up Harry's moans as he gently kissed Harry on the lips.

"You're alright, I promise, you can handle it. I know how good I make you feel, so be good for me, Harry." His sweet words just made it worse, and Harry moaned again. His mouth fell open, his jaw going slack, and Tom took that opportunity to stick his cock down Harry's throat again.

His fingers stroked Harry's jaw, and he manually closed Harry's mouth. "Now suck. Suck me in, my courted, with your pretty little mouth."

Oh, good Merlin how could he just do that? How could Tom go from sounding so gentle and sweet to being a domineering alpha in moments? It made Harry way too hot for it not to be a criminal offence.

Harry followed Tom's order, trying his best to suck on the thick cock inside of his mouth as if it were a lollipop, all the while the dildo inside of him fucked him stupid. Harry certainly felt stupid, though deciding to tempt Tom might just have been a very good idea, considering it ended up with him pinned beneath the man and experiencing a delicious, filthy pleasure.

He was being speared open. Tom's cock was inside his mouth, filling him with throbbing warmth, while the dildo was vibrating and fucking into him so deep and Harry could feel Tom's magic on it, moving inside of him and keeping the damned thing functioning even though Harry was the one who conjured it. Harry felt used, owned by the alpha before him, and he loved it. Never before did he think of himself as a whore, but Tom might just have made one of him.

"A whore, Harry? Is that what you are? Are you my whore, darling?" He thrust his cock deeper inside Harry's mouth, hitting the back of his throat as he grinned viciously. He relished in Harry's pain just as much as his pleasure.

Fuck. That's right, Tom is a legilimens. Yet Harry couldn't bring himself to really feel embarrassed at his thoughts, considering he was laid open and moaning in pleasure while being the most open he'd ever been, even the last few times they'd done this.

Tom already knew, after everything they'd done and said, that he had made a whore out of Harry, that he was the one that had sullied the Light's omega Boy-Who-Lived. And perhaps Tom had rubbed off on him—literally and figuratively—but Harry felt wicked pleasure at the thought, and he enjoyed knowing that Tom was the only one who could reduce him to this—a moaning, filthy mess.

A moan spilled from Tom's lips, and suddenly his cock began to thrust into Harry's throat in sharp, swift movements. "I simply adore your thoughts, darling—everything about them. You're so filthy, I didn't need to do anything at all...."

Harry barely kept from choking, and he was doing his best to breathe through his nose as Tom sought out his pleasure. He was opening him up so deep, and really, Harry wasn't meant to take Tom's thick cock down his throat from this angle, but that didn't keep the man from trying. Or Harry from taking it.

But Harry knew he could take it. He would, he thought, moaning. The dildo inside of him continued to thrust, and that buzzing thickness inside of him was about to drive him over the edge. He felt utterly mad.

Harry writhed on the bed, silently crying at the feeling. He was overwhelmed and throbbing and he loved every bit of it.

Tom was so thick and hot inside his throat, and Harry felt like he was about to burst at the feeling. He shook with pleasure, and his eyes slammed shut. It was there, he was almost there at the climax of pleasure, and Harry's toes curled, but just as he was about to cum, to finally fall off the edge, it stopped.

It. Stopped.

Harry whined. The dildo had suddenly vanished, leaving his cunt to clench painfully against the air, and Tom's cock had slipped out of Harry's mouth. His body was still aroused, painfully so, but Harry was still about topple off the edge of the tightrope of pleasure. His body shook.

"Oh no you don't, omega. You won't get to cum until I'm inside you. I want you screaming on my cock as I fill you up," Tom growled.

Harry let out a moan. Fuck.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Sweat dripped from Tom's temple, his face ruddy. He took a deep breath, but even still he wasn't able to regain his composure. Oh, Salazar, this boy....

If there was ever any doubt that Harry was the omega for him, this would have cleared it up. He sneaked out of his dorm room in the early morning hours just to...to pleasure himself with thoughts of him, Tom Riddle. Lord Voldemort. He moaned.

And now, just watching the omega writhe and whine beneath him as Tom took his pleasure from Harry's mouth while the conjured dildo fucked his little omega mad...well, that made him go mad himself.

He wanted him. So badly. Tom wanted Harry Potter. He wanted him so badly that he let the boy call him Tom. Not My Lord or Master as his previous paramours had done, but Tom, as this was Harry Potter and nothing and no one would stop him from doing anything.

He was pathetically, truly gone for this omega. He would conquer the known world and beyond for him. He would hold the sun in his hands and blot it if this boy wanted it. He would do anything Harry wished, and Tom felt fear when he realized the full force of this...this obsession for the boy.

Harry Potter was his. All his and no one would take him.

He was the one courting the boy, he was the one giving him pleasure like none ever had before. He was the one Harry chose when he had many eligible suitors already. Yet Tom would be the only one to keep him, to ever have him. He'd tie Harry Potter so heavily to himself that he could never hope to escape, not that he'd ever wish to. Tom would treat him like a prince, as if he were a mortal made God and given all the pleasures that would naturally be afforded to one of his status.

A wicked smile grew on Tom's lips. Yes, he'd keep this omega for himself, there was never any doubt.

He pressed his finger on Harry's mouth, rubbing his bottom lip before he leaned down to press a kiss. He tasted himself on those lips. "Don't you worry, my dear, you will be well satisfied when I'm done with you. None have ever called me a selfish lover."

Harry laughed weakly. "Not a selfish lover but a selfish man, hm? I know—oooh—", Tom flicked Harry's nipple, and he rubbed it between two fingers, "—exactly how...protective you are. You consider me yours, and the moment you can get your hands on me, you'll never let me leave, right?"

"You seem very assured in your assumptions," Tom raised an eyebrow, as if uncaring to the way his hand travelled down Harry's body to cup at his dripping, untouched cock. Harry hissed.

"Y-yeah. I'll be trapped. You'll trap me because you're scared I'll leave you. Well, I want you to know...if you trap me, then I'll really want to leave you. I'm no caged bird—gah, fuck...." He cursed at the way Tom reached down, the way he stroked his clit. "Tru-trust me to—to return to you."

"Trust," Tom toyed with the word on his tongue. It felt strange. "You expect me to trust you? Why ever should I?"

"You trust me enough to fuck me, to be at your most vulnerable." Harry's tone was deadpan. Truthful.

"How am I vulnerable around you, darling, when you are but putty under my skilful hands?" To demonstrate his point, Tom's finger pressed lightly at Harry's clit, then he went down to teasingly stroke his folds before he finally reached Harry's dripping heat. The poor thing was so wet, and Tom had left him high and dry. He smirked, pressing a finger in.

Instantly, Harry arched, screaming at Tom to give him more. "Ple-please, Tom...."

"See? I believe you have proven my point." Smugness characterised his tone.

Green eyes glared at him, though it barely held any weight with Harry wet and needy beneath him.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Harry's mind felt clear, even with his body wrung tight and aching. This was serious.

"Tom," Harry began, almost hesitantly. "When have I ever hurt you—intentionally, I mean? You always started our fights, and I had to defend myself, but when have I ever intentionally tried to kill you?"

Tom looked confused, and he blinked. He was so vulnerable with his expressions around Harry, yet he never realized it. It was almost cute. It was proof of the way some part of him trusted Harry. "You...won't you attempt it? Perhaps I was the one that always hurt you, but don't you want revenge? After all that I've done...." He looked pained to even think of it, almost guilty.

Harry doubted that Tom actually regretted his actions. He probably just felt guilty for hurting him, his future omega, but baby steps. Harry was okay enough with that, for now.

"How do you know what I want? I agreed for you to court me, Tom. I don't want to fight. I don't want revenge or anything, I just want this to end. I want to be finally happy, and I want you, Tom. I...I want you, somehow. I want to care for you, even if it sounds crazy, I just feel this connection with you." Harry sounded and certainly felt stark-raving mad, considering that he had not just entertained but welcomed Tom in his life and body over these few months, but...he didn't regret it, or hate it. How terrible was it, to allow himself to care for this terrible, terrible man?

Harry wanted to be happy. Surely his parents would understand? Tom had clearly changed already, right? Harry hoped it was enough.

Tom's breathing suddenly turned rapid, and before Harry knew it, something hard and hot was pressed length-wise against his cunt. Harry clenched around it, even though it wasn't inside—it was a still pleasure, but it was there. Something was about to fill him. A shiver rocked his spine at the thought.

"Omega, you have no idea just what your words do to me. Truly...do you mean it?" He looked so hopeful, so deeply wanting, and Harry suddenly felt no regret at all for his relationship with this man.

"Yes," he said. Truthfully, without guilt.

Tom growled, and then suddenly he positioned himself and pushed right into Harry's open hole. He didn't need any preparation, he was still dripping with slick down to his thighs and legs, and while he'd been pushed back from the brink of his climax, he was rapidly approaching it again with the force that Tom fucked him.

He was a piston, thrusting inside with one long groan as Harry balled the mattress sheets in his hand and whined underneath him. He bottomed out in moments, and before Harry knew it, Tom had pushed back out and Harry was suddenly empty and dripping again. His cunt clung to Tom's cock, and the head was still there at his cunt hole as Tom pushed right back inside to fill Harry again and again.

The pleasure was blinding, all-encompassing, and Harry felt his scar buzz with pleasure from Tom's end. Their connection had only grown more powerful recently and Harry found that he could feel Tom now, and he moaned.

He was right on the edge. Tom had been playing with him for so long that Harry was about to fall off the edge and cum. It was there, right there, and it was as if Tom knew because he was thrusting harder, faster, deeper, and the moment he hit his cervix Harry moaned. His back and toes arched and he clawed at Tom's arms, holding on as the pleasure became too great and he squirted slick from his clenching cunt and cum from his throbbing, untouched dick.

And that was all Tom needed to thrust inside Harry one more time before groaning lowly and cumming inside of him, filling him up and getting him sticky with warm wetness.

Harry moaned again, and suddenly he felt pleasure buzz once more. He felt dirty, full, and he liked it. He shuddered, still high on the aftershocks. Tom fell against him, letting his weight rest next to Harry as his arm wrapped around his waist. Harry felt Tom's softened cock against his thigh.

"Good Merlin, omega. Do feel free to call on me any day, yes?"

Harry snickered, and instead of replying he began kissing Tom's neck and cheeks. Then, Tom took it into his own hands and tilted his head until suddenly Harry was kissing him on the lips. For the next few minutes, they snogged lazily in bed, relaxed and happy.

"I missed you. I want to see you more," Tom admitted, and it didn't feel like pulling teeth. Harry doubted he'd have said it if he wasn't currently relaxed and in a good mood.

Harry didn't say anything. He suddenly felt choked up. Instead, he kissed Tom again.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

The morning following the day after Tom's rather delightful dream came on rather peacefully, at first. He went on with his day as usual, and it was only in the afternoon—when he was sat down in his study looking over notices from his Death Eaters as well as bills from the Wizengamot—that something unexpected happened.

Technically, receiving a letter wasn't unexpected, but Tom recognised that owl. It was very recognizable as a snowy owl belonging to his courted. He remembered it from the last time Harry had sent him a letter, which was just after their first dream together.

He wasn't sure of its name, but just as he was about to beckon for it, a name crossed his mind. Hedwig.

Hedwig? From wherever did that thought occur? Yet, strangely, it felt right. Hedwig. Yes, that was the owl's name.

The thought came from somewhere inside him, a part of his mind that he hardly cared to occlude against. More so, it was an extension of his mind. A connection.

His connection to Harry was ever so strange to him, wrought as it had been from his resurrection. It was truly a feat of powerful magic, born from a crossing of magical transference from his killing curse aimed at the boy—to his own regret, now—so many years ago as well as his resurrection. Perhaps it had been strengthened some, post their encounter at the Room of Desire. They took each other's magical virginities—his newly constructed body was a virgin, then—in a place of powerful magic, and Tom assumed that's where their link truly grew in power, as well as what allowed for their dream visions on the spiritual plane.

Their link functioned as the equivalent of an Olde Marriage bond—bonds like those were olde, powerful things, not often used these days. But it seemed to explain his bond to Harry. How strange it was, Tom thought. But it is no issue.

Tom preferred it this way. He wanted Harry tied to him in any way he could manage.

Tom smiled, then, fondly recalling the dream vision and the letter Harry had sent afterwards, which was coincidentally hidden in a warded drawer in his study for him to peruse at his leisure. Not that he did so often, of course. That would be pathetic.

The owl flew in with a hoot once he opened the window, and when he opened the letter, a laugh belted out of his chest.

His eyes gleamed with amusement. Oh, Harry, his Harry....

He never failed to surprise him.

Dear Tom,

I'll get to the gist. Since we're courting now, I figure it's only fair that I, as your omega, send you a courting gift as well. I hope you enjoy it. I'm sure you recall exactly how and when it reached its current state.

Also, If you want to court me, you damn Slytherin, you really should have said so earlier. Don't just fuck me on a table or in an alleyway. I want to be properly courted.

Not so respectfully,

Harry Potter

Your courted

The gift itself was familiar, but most unexpected. It was a blanket, coloured deep red, and it smelled...oh, Merlin, it smelled.

Tom immediately brought the fabric to his nose. Harry. It was Harry's scent, as well as his. It was arousal and slick and something spicy and a little too close to home. Harry must have...fuck. Tom remembered fucking Harry over this blanket while in the dream vision. But before then...Harry had been masturbating. He was fucking himself on this blanket, right next to the blanket that Tom had already given to him as a courting gift, and he planned on giving this to him!

His breath hitched in his chest. And was that some kind of dark, wet spot on the fabric?

"Fuck."

He grew hard in his robes.

Tom was rapidly growing more and more obsessed with this omega at every turn. His grin turned vicious. Truly, the things Harry did to him.

He laughed again. Only Harry Potter would have the audaciousness to reply to his proposal of courting in such a way. The utter gall. And his little omega's gift....

Tom wanted him again.

Soon, he thought. Soon, I will have Harry in my arms.

But for now, he had...something to do. In bed. With the blanket. That fucking blanket.

Harry wasn't here with him, and he was a lonely, old man. No one else would be the same, he knew, and so he had to take desperate measures to reach satisfaction.

He would be sleeping with this blanket every night from now on.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

At the same time, in the same manor house overlooking a muggle town, a man paced impatiently in his quarters.

"Where is he?!" He growled out. "He should be here!"

Sirius Black snarled, and he stopped his pacing to groan and fall against a plush armchair.

He felt the best he'd ever felt in years, healthy as a horse and growing in power again, but yet...he wasn't allowed to leave. His only company were house elves, Severus Snape, that one healer that Sirius really didn't get along with, Narcissa who visited once in a blue moon, and a man who—quite literally—could not be named. Not that the bastard had ever bothered to visit past the first day. He never even explained what he wanted with him! Just that he was a 'gift.' To who?!

He groaned again.

"Why is it," he said aloud, and sue him because he was all alone and with nothing to do, "that I am looking forward to seeing Snivellus of all people? James would never believe this...."

"No, he would not," a familiar voice said. "I do believe Potter is rolling in his grave right this very moment." His tone was amused, if perhaps slightly dark.

Merlin, finally, Sirius grumbled.

"Snape."

"Black."

Sirius looked him up and down. "Still the same, then? Haven't used any of those shampoos I recommended? They're really nice for oily hair, you know. I owl-ordered them after I got here—I have free rein, you know, I can't leave, but I can owl-order." He wrinkled his nose.

"My hair was in shambles after Azkaban, but Greg Gamble's Hair Freshening and Hydrating Potions Set is a Merlin-sent gift, let me tell you!" Sirius continued to ramble. He had no other vaguely pleasant company than an occasionally appearing dungeon bat, so he did really did want to let out all of his thoughts.

"Black," Snape grouched. It was likely the same tone he used on his poor, unfortunate students. "Take your potions, then I'll finally leave this place. I have no intention of staying any longer than I have to."

He rolled his eyes. "Really? And miss out on my beautiful face? I look great, a real heartbreaker. Haven't looked this good since before Azkaban...."

"Your attitude leaves much to be desired, despite."

"That means you think I'm handsome, then."

Severus Snape did not say a word.

"Aha!" Sirius grinned roguishly, feeling a little accomplished.

"Take your potions."

He rolled his eyes again. Back to square one. Ah, well, he'd get Snape one of these days. The man was dour as they came, but he was one of the only two pleasant faces—that thought would have made him so sour-faced months ago, but Sirius had already gotten over it—he'd seen in ages, so he'd get them talking semi-amicably eventually. Probably. Once they finally buried the hatchet, at least.

"Fine."

Chapter Text

Imprisonment. Im-pris-on-ment. Four syllables. Twelve letters. Such a funny little word that meant the state of being imprisoned. Well, that certainly described his current situation aptly.

Sirius was trapped. Imprisoned. Held captive. He was a prisoner. He was no inmate because this wasn't Azkaban and You-Know-Who wasn't a warden, he was his jailer.

He'd spent twelve fucking years in Azkaban, that damn hellhole, and now here he was, he laughed sardonically, imprisoned once more.

His whole life had been a prison, hadn't it? Sixteen years of living in Grimmauld Place, twelve years of Azkaban, about a year on the run, and another year of entrapment in the corpse of what was once a grand, pureblood house. And now...

He closed his eyes.

For three months he had languished, suffering through the knowledge that he had fucking died. Everyone who knew him, they thought he was dead. He wasn't even a corpse to them—they had nothing to bury, nothing concrete to mourn—because he had fallen through a freaking curtain. Hilarious, he thought. It was all a fucking joke.

He remembered what it felt like, the cool fabric and the soft, whispering winds. It was like falling through...well, something. But it was quicker and easier than falling asleep. He felt nothing, he was nothing, he simply unravelled piece by piece, but he was...well, the only word for it would be passing on. Sirius was dying. Hell, he would already be dead if it weren't for the oh-so-tender mercies of one Dark Lord. Bastard.

He saved him. You-Kno—Voldemort saved the life of Sirius Black, the last heir to the House of Black, who was Dumbledore's man through and through. He even sacrificed the life of Sirius's dear Death Eater cousin just to bring him back. Why? How? He could not have been worth that much to the man.

He received no answers when he asked those questions.

Sirius awoke one morning, perhaps days after he had died, to find a cloaked man sitting at his bedside. The man was tall, his imperialistic aura commanding respect, and Sirius could only shudder at the feeling of raw, dark magical power that poured out of the man.

Fathomless, blood-red eyes peered at him through the shadows concealing the monster's face through the cloak, and a shiver rippled down Sirius's spine.

In his shock, he fell out of the large, four-poster bed he had been laid on. He meant to stand up, but his limbs had locked up, then, and he fell to the ground with a thump. His heart pumped out of his chest and Sirius panted like he had just spent ten straight hours playing Quidditch.

"You!" He remembered shouting. "What am I doing here?"

The man—he knew who that man was, Merlin, he knew—said nothing. Nothing. He didn't reply to Sirius's questions, and, coldly, he twirled his bone-white wand in his equally pale hand.

His eyes continued to remind Sirius of blood, and he was suddenly reminded of just how much blood this man had spilled personally, and how much had been spilled in his name. Sirius gulped.

The man stood, and suddenly he towered over Sirius, who was still on the ground.

Sirius stood up, flinching as his joints cracked painfully. His eyes fell on the grey pallor of his own skin and the locks of greasy, tangled hair that fell over his face. Breathing didn't come easy, and with each breath that entered his mouth, his chapped lips cracked. He didn't have to look into a mirror to know he appeared just as he had after he escaped from Azkaban. Could a short time asleep really do this? Looking back on it, his thoughts were naïve.

"Black," Voldemort whispered. His voice was deep and unconcerned, and without seeing his face, Sirius couldn't notice any tells to discern his emotions. Not even his scent betrayed betrayed him. The man smelled of nothing, not even his natural alpha scent, which Sirius only knew existed through word of mouth. It was disquieting. "I trust that you are alive and well."

"Well, yeah, despite your Death Eaters' best attempts!" His voice cracked when he tried to shout. Sirius grumbled internally. He felt like he had just escaped Azkaban; all his hard-earned strength had been stolen from his bones. "Now where am I? What is this place? Why am I still alive?"

Sirius knew he should be dead. Capital D, he should be Dead.

Death was real serious business, and Sirius had heard rumours of the so-called Veil of Death. For being within the Department of Mysteries, that thing had a rather illustrious reputation. It had once been used as a method of execution, and Sirius had fallen through. Correction, his cousin Bella had forced him through. Her spell...he remembered it. Bright red—perhaps a stunner—it hit, and he died. He was dead. How was he suddenly back?

"You are here because Lord Voldemort wanted you to be. You have been provided a great gift, Black, and I dearly hope that you shall not take any rash measures."

His words were pointed, and Sirius visualized the man raising an eyebrow under that gloomy cloak of his. Voldemort, fuck, that bastard was bloody fucking terrifying, but Sirius refused to feel fear before him. His Prongs had faced him head-on just to protect Lily and Harry, and Sirius would do so himself with just that same ease. He was a bloody Gryffindor and he was proud of it!

"Gift? Don't you fucking talk to me about gifts—"

A shout ripped its way out of Sirius's throat, and he fell to his knees. The pain was blinding. It was an inferno, fiendfyre under his skin and through his nerves as he screamed.

And then it cut off.

Sirius didn't know how many seconds he was under the curse, but it was short. Four, maybe five seconds. From a man such as Voldemort, this wasn't torture. It was a warning to hold his tongue.

Voldemort's wand hand relaxed, but his wand was still pointed straight at Sirius. "Enough," he said, displeased.

He didn't have to say more, his scent did the work. Suddenly, instantly, it filled the room, as if it had always been there. Sirius couldn't have ever not noticed it, so either he had a spell to spread his scent around the room or Voldemort had somehow developed a notice-me-not charm for scents—

Sirius froze, and he floundered underneath that scent. He clenched his teeth.

Alpha, age-old instinct beckoned him to say.

The dominating scent twisted menacingly in his nose, and Sirius choked on it. Alphaalphaalpha—he was reminded of what this man was. This man was a predator and he wanted utter domination. Scent was a weapon, a tool in his arsenal, and Voldemort would use it for his own gains. Anyone—omega, alpha, or beta—would crumble underneath that scent. It wasn't any kind of sexual thing—Circe, no—but a matter of power, and Voldemort had that in spades.

Sirius quivered under the weight of his own instincts. Not simply due to Voldemort, of course, but even he knew when the fight was lost. (Not yet, he hadn't lost. Not yet. Time, he had time, he would win.) He would surrender for now.

He fell to the ground, kneeling in as disrespectful a manner he could get away with, and he angled his head to show the back of his neck. Sirius didn't speak.

Voldemort wouldn't kill him, Sirius would bet on that. He brought him back from the veil for a reason, he shivered. It wasn't simply 'from the goodness of his heart', or else Sirius would feel the coiling chain of the life debt he owed tightening around his neck like a noose.

He couldn't be grateful, he wouldn't, but Voldemort brought him back, and that meant something. What did the man want? What could Sirius offer him? Sirius would give him nothing, but while he may have been a Gryffindor, he was bred and born and raised in a snake pit, so this would always be the way his mind worked. He just ignored it, often. But he wouldn't now.

He had to act carefully. He had to do what this man wanted, and he retched at the thought. But it would be worth it. For Harry. He had to get back to his Prongslet. He had to let him know he was alive. Sirius breathed, and he tried his best to relax and unclench his teeth. Then, he summoned up as much of his knowledge of occlumency (bare bones, admittedly; he didn't have Regulus or Narcissa's talent in the art, but he was Heir Black, he had to learn) as he could. He wouldn't betray the Order.

Voldemort hummed. Sirius neither could nor couldn't say it sounded pleased, but his scent piqued in some sort of way, he couldn't tell. And then it faded away, including whatever traces of it had been left in the air, and Sirius could finally breathe clean air again.

Voldemort stepped towards him, and, idly, Sirius noticed that he was wearing shoes. Strange. He never did, before, due to his monstrous claws, but now...he already knew this was Voldemort. You-Know-Who. The Dark Lord. There was no room for doubt, despite this strange difference.

The man began to speak, and from his words alone, it sounded like he was conducting a pleasant conversation more than anything else. Sirius didn't know how a man such as this could ever sound normal, but Voldemort managed. "Black, I trust you had a peaceful rest? If so, do get off the floor. It is most unbecoming for Lord Black."

Sirius froze, but he did as the Dark Lord asked. He couldn't afford not to. "I'm not Lord Black, you know. I never claimed the Lordship." He only barely managed to keep from hissing at the man, but yet despite his tone, Sirius's anger had shown through. His shoulders were tense, and his lips curved into the beginnings of a snarl.

"No, you didn't, but you can. That power would be so...useful—to you. I wonder why you never claimed it." Voldemort paused at a strange interval, and then he quieted. He was thinking of something.

Sirius rolled the words around in his head. Useful—to you. What did mean? He paused so strangely.... Sirius would certainly be very powerful as Lord to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, and if that would have made him more useful to the Order, to Harry, he would have claimed the Lordship in a heartbeat. But he was a wanted man, so doing so was impossible. Being Lord Black wouldn't suddenly make him innocent in the eyes of the Ministry.

Was Voldemort planning to use him? Would he Imperius him? Or perhaps kill him and allow Narcissa's son, Draco, to claim the Lordship? No...the boy was too young. Lucius would be Draco's proxy if that were to happen, but he wasn't the heir, that was Harry. His godson had just enough Black blood through his grandmother, Dorea, that he was able to qualify, so if Voldemort thought he could use young Draco as Lord Black, he had another thing coming, Sirius smirked inwardly.

"What do you want with me?" Sirius didn't like the silence. He was fine with it before Azkaban, but...those few moments when Bellatrix's cackles quieted, when the cacophony of screams from the other prisoners was no more...he could hear the waves of a greyed-out sea bash against craggy rocks, the hisses of Dementors looking for prey, and the pained moans of that prey. Silence was never silence, it was the moment where Sirius could think about all the ways he had failed, that single moment of terror before the pain really hit.

"Why am I still alive?"

The Dark Lord took his sweet time before he answered, Sirius grumbled.

"You are here by my order. I brought you back from the veil as a...gift, you could say. But you are not ready yet."

Gift. Gift. Sirius hissed. That's all his life was, a gift?!

"What do you mean," he clenched his teeth, "by 'not ready?' How—how did you even bring me back? I was dead!" Even a man—no, a monster like Voldemort couldn't bring a man back to life. That was beyond his capabilities, surely, and the veil was a literal death sentence, or had been once upon a time.

The Dark Lord held up his hand, and he motioned to Sirius's whole body. "You are ill. Years of Azkaban have done you no good, and the veil has worsened its effects. You will await a healer, and you shall bide your time here until you are deemed ready."

And then Sirius could practically hear a smirk form as the man said, "And as for how you stand before Lord Voldemort now...Death is no issue. The Veil operates on a sort of barter system, you could say. You were not truly dead, as your soul had not yet passed on. The veil is a gateway to the realm of the dead, yet you, Black, had not yet passed through the door. I was able to trade your own soul for that of your kin. An equal trade, and a worthy one, I should hope."

Sirius's eyes widened. He had questions. So, so many, holy shit. "What? Ready? For what! I don't—a healer, what are you talking about? And what do you mean here? Where is here?! And a—a relative? Trade? How?!"

The Dark Lord didn't answer the majority of his questions.

"This is your wing. A series of rooms are available to you. Your quarters, sitting room, library, dining room, and a few others. You are not allowed to leave your designated hall, and if you try, the door shall not allow you passage The healer will report to me, and you shall follow his orders."

"And as for the 'relative'...it was your cousin, Bellatrix. I do hope dear Bella's sacrifice proves to have been worth it. You shall not disappoint me, Black, and if you do...be warned of the consequences."

And then Voldemort stalked out of the room. As the door closed behind him, Sirius screamed. He threw a vase into the wall, and it shattered.

And that was that. He had hardly any answers, he didn't know where he was, and that was his first—conscious—day of imprisonment.

The healer appeared a few hours afterwards. Sirius was provided with breakfast (or was it lunch?) by elves, and he ate because he truly was hungry, and he wasn't willing to starve himself. He knew what good food meant, and Azkaban gruel was terrible and probably drugged with potions just as much as whatever food he was offered was, so he was willing to risk the shepherd's pie and beans on toast he was offered, fuck if it was potioned or whatever. He needed the strength.

The healer didn't say anything Sirius didn't already know. He was already in a sorry state from Azkaban, and it seemed that literally dying and getting brought back was hell on his body. He was put on a strict regimen of potions—strengthening, nutrition, those sorts—and ordered to rest, but Sirius found that he couldn't.

He spent the next few days pacing in anger and taking naps when he'd grown too tired. He stubbornly kept refusing the potions even though he knew what they were and they were useful, and then he found that they'd been spelled in his stomach while he slept.

He hated that. He spent a lot of time in his dog form, sitting on the window sill in the sitting room and looking out at the moon. It was close to full, and that only reminded Sirius that Remus would be missing him this time. But not just missing him, he'd be mourning him. It wasn't even like what happened with Azkaban. That time, Moony was cursing his name, and perhaps that was better because this time...this time Moony was the last of the original Marauders. The last one Harry could lean on.

Sirius croaked out a laugh, then, and he thought, Sorry Prongs, that definitely wasn't what you wanted for our pup, huh?

Sirius cried, and he didn't even know dogs could cry.

How had this all happened? How had Sirius ended up in this situation? He had died, but instead of passing on and finally seeing James, he'd been forced back. Bellatrix had taken his place, and...he didn't know how to feel about that. That bitch had been mad since the cradle, but she was still family, and now she was gone.... He didn't know how to feel.

Days later after that, soon after his anger had faded and he'd begun to come to terms with everything, someone showed up. The doors opened soon after Sirius had finished eating his noon meal, and he stood up with a growl on his lips. It wasn't the healer, he came every week, so it had to be him—

He paused. No, it wasn't him. He didn't have the same crackle of Dark magic against his skin. It was...it was Snivellus.

"You—" Sirius stuttered. He knew the look in the man's onyx eyes. He was shocked. It was as if he already knew, but he didn't believe it. He looked resigned.

"So it's true."

"What are you doing here?" Sirius started, and then he found that there wasn't anything else to say. What was Snape doing here? Was he truly a spy for the Order, would he tell Dumbledore that Sirius was alive? Sirius dearly hoped that to be true. Please, he begged to whatever entity would listen, please.

"As I live and breathe, Black, so do you." He said it with a sigh. As if he was disappointed. "Did you even fall through the Veil of Death, or was that all a ruse?" Snape snapped. That got to Sirius. Was frustration just his default tone of voice, or what?

Sirius would return that energy two-fold. He growled. "Disappointed, Snivellus? I'm sure you hated missing out on the chance to send a severing curse to my throat. Wanted to do me in yourself, hm?"

The man pressed his lips together tightly, and then he reached a hand into his pocket. Sirius's body tensed, fully prepared for a curse to be aimed his way. Instead, Snape pulled out a little potion's chest, and he tapped his wand atop it to return it to its proper size.

"Your potions, Black," Snape spoke. "I shall watch you consume them."

"That's it?" Sirius blinked. "No—no questions, or anything? What are you really doing here? Did you tell the Order where I am? Is there a rescue mission in the works?"

A chuckle escaped him, and a dark smile curled on Snape's lips. "Dare I say you sound hopeful, Black?"

The world froze, and so did Sirius. He was a fool. A no good, idiotic fool. Of course, Snape was a traitor, of course he wasn't actually spying for them, he was spying on them!

"What's your goal here, Snape?" Sirius growled out, and right then, his tone was more animalistic than human. "Are you Dumbledore's man, or are you really just a filthy death eater?!"

"Calm yourself, Black, or else this filthy death eater will slip a little something into your next potion. As far as anyone would know, your heart simply failed on you...." Snape's lips curved into a dark grin, the first one Sirius had seen on the dour man in quite a while. He'd say it looked terrible on him, but, well, he'd be wrong. It suited his face, almost more than a sneer did with the way it twisted his features.

"You wouldn't," Sirius laughed, though it was more reminiscent of a cackle than anything else. He looked mad. Crazed. His eyes were wide and angry. "After all, your lord wouldn't have it! I'm useful to him!"

"Useful...are you truly?" Snape asked, almost darkly curious. He stepped closer, and his eyes picked Sirius's face apart. "What use would the Dark Lord have of you, Sirius Black? Why are you here?"

He repeated Sirius's own question back to him with all the confidence of a man who knew he could leave this damn place whenever it suited him. Sirius balled his hands into fists.

"I think the better question is what use he has in you, Snape. What can you do for him? Other than bullying schoolchildren. What are you? A double—no, triple spy? Who's side are you on, Snape? Or do you just like to string everyone for a fool?" Sirius's eyes hardened, and any hope he had at aid from his old classmate to escape burned away right then and there.

The answer came shortly. "Only what best suits me. That is all."

Anger coated Sirius's voice. "That's it? You—you have no loyalty! You bloody snake!"

"Perhaps not, but just so you know, you would already have been rescued had I been made aware of your presence here earlier." His face was apologetic, almost genuinely, and Sirius could smell the sincerity in what Snape just said.

The scent made him pause. As a dog animagus, he was naturally more in tune with scents than even the average omega, so when he peeled away Snape's alpha scent, he could smell...regret pouring off the man. What?

Sirius had no idea how long he'd been trapped by now. It felt like a month, maybe two? It was hard to tell. But Snape...was he really telling the truth? Would he have really saved him from this place? Why was he here now, suddenly? It'd been so long....

What is he even saying? He never makes any bloody sense, Sirius thought angrily.

"What do you mean? I thought—what are you? Are you a traitor or not, Snape?"

"I am what suits me," he repeated. "But as you know, I have been 'redeemed' in the eyes of Albus Dumbledore for many years now. It is comfortable. Yet now...the Dark Lord has come to me with new orders, and you can be unsurprised as to the shock I felt when I became aware of your presence here, Black. I thought you to be dead, we all did."

"Orders? What orders?" (He ignored what else the man said; he wasn't ready to come to terms with the fact that he was a dead man who wasn't dead.)

Orders, he rolled his eyes. Straight from the big man on high. Voldemort gave Snape an order and of course, he followed it, but yet he also sided with the Order as well? Snape was a snake through and through, Sirius glared. He truly had no loyalties. So why was it that he hadn't completely joined up with his master yet? Surely he'd prefer to torture muggleborns to his heart's content? Sirius's lips curled.

"The Dark Lord ordered me to brew a series of potions—your potions, it seems. Why he wishes for you to be healed is beyond me, but the Dark Lord is not to be questioned. And now...he has told me to meet you here. He believed you would like some company in this place." Even Snape sounded confused at that last part.

A confused, shocked gurgle escaped Sirius's lips. "Company, huh? He cares about that? I have my doubts."

Then with a sigh, he walked them both away from the dining room and towards the sitting room in order to relax. If they were going to talk about painful things, he at least wanted to be comfortable. He planted himself on a comfortable armchair, but Snape didn't budge. He stood, and he simply stared at Sirius. He was a man back from the dead, and even discounting their enmity, Sirius was a novelty, so he couldn't begrudge him for his disbelief.

"I would serve you a glass of firewhiskey, but..." He shrugged his shoulders. There was no alcohol to be found here. He could ask the elves for any food he wanted, but it seemed alcohol was squarely on the no-serve list.

From there, they began to speak. Once Snape finished explaining his potions regimen (Sirius could admit, he could better trust those potions if they came from the man before him rather than anyone else; he was a genius, after all), Sirius explained what he knew about his resurrection, including the thing about Bellatrix, to Snape's shock. It wasn't exactly much, but it made Snape hum in some way.

"Interesting. That would coincide with the time that I noticed a change in the Dark Lord's behaviour," he said.

"What change? Did something happen?" A monster was always a monster in Sirius's books, but if he somehow got even worse....

"He changed, completely and utterly, Black."

"Sirius. If I'm stuck with only you for company, you can call me Sirius."

Snape looked at him unamused, as if he was questioning exactly what sort of potions Sirius was on, even though he was the one giving him those potions.

"No."

Sirius grumbled. Fine, then. We'll play it that way.

"The Dark Lord's...change was marked by a sudden increase in patience. He has never been so lenient with his followers before, and yet now he is. He is no saint, mind, but he is no longer throwing around the Cruciatus like it's candy. His orders have changed, and death and torture have been at a minimum. The Dark Lord's plans for the Wizarding World are now far more long-term than simply blood and carnage."

"Long term, how? And what are his new orders?" This...this didn't sound like Voldemort. Sirius didn't notice anything like this in the short time he spoke to him, but he didn't think he'd changed. Other than the shoe thing. Did the shoe thing count? He was tempted to ask, but he decided not to.

"I'll first begin by answering your latter question, that might be easier. His main order, for now, has been..." Snape was hesitant to say, "hands off of Harry Potter. He shall not be harmed or captured. He is for the Dark Lord only." Snape sounded pained just saying it, and it was as if...as if he wasn't saying something.

Already at those words, Sirius's blood froze in his veins, and suddenly his protective instincts went into overdrive. What could Voldemort want with his godson? His omega godson, dear Merlin....

"Snape. Tell me, what are you not saying? Snape!"

The man looked away. It was telling.

"I...I was not there personally when the order was given, but from what I have witnessed...the Dark Lord's priorities have changed immensely. I can not say for certain what he wants, but Harry Potter...I believe he may have knowledge of the boy's secondary gender. I can only theorize that it is perhaps due to their mental link."

Sirius was in shock. He was terrified. In grief. Horrified. His skin had grown even more pale than usual. "I—how? How do you know? Harry hides that!" He didn't exactly like it, but he couldn't fault him for it. Being an omega wasn't easy, especially a high-profile one. Sirius recalled the barrage of courting letters he was stuck with, including his failed courting with Lucius Malfoy of all people, and the only way he could protect Harry from all of that was by teaching him how to hide, just as Harry had asked.

"Not anymore. He has made everyone in Headquarters quite aware of his secondary status," Snape said, annoyed. Sirius wasn't sure exactly how Harry did it, but he would have wanted details if he wasn't currently fearful for his godson's life right now. "I assume he'll bring it to the rest of Hogwarts' attention as well."

"Okay...fuck, okay. Got it. So...what's happening? With the war? With Harry, how's he doing? What's...what's Voldemort planning? You really don't know what he has planned for Harry now?"

Oh fuck. Fuck, please...Snape had to tell him it wasn't what he thought. It couldn't have been. Even Voldemort wasn't that kind of monster, right?

"We are not certain, but...what you are thinking of may perhaps be the only option. The Dark Lord has never taken a Consort; no omega is worthy of him, in his mind, but the boy who destroyed him once...the boy he wants to destroy...yes, he may choose him for that role, if only to cause him more pain."

Sirius choked. Fuck. Fuck. He had to protect Harry, he had to. But he bloody fucking couldn't! He was stuck in this damn mansion by that same damn monster who was planning on raping his godson and he couldn't do a damn thing about it!

"Promise me something," he asked with a whisper. He sounded desperate. "Promise me. Please."

Snape raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Protect Harry, please. You have to protect him. I—I don't know whose side you're on, but promise me, please! Promise....," Sirius cried. He would have been willing to beg on his hands and knees, Sirius was so desperate. This was his godson, and Snape was the only one who could even remotely keep Harry safe.

Snape didn't say a word for a long few minutes. Of course, Sirius thought. He was so stupid, Snape would never do this. He wasn't...he didn't have any loyalties. He wouldn't save Harry. Not if there wasn't something in it for him.

"I can offer you something! Anything you want...when I get out of here, I can...whatever you want, just please!" He was begging.

A deep, tired sigh escaped Snape's lips, and to Sirius's shock, he spoke, "Yes, I promise. I will protect him."

Sirius scented something like sincerity emanating from the man, and he tried not to be embarrassed at the tears that slipped down his cheeks when Snape's words registered.

Their conversation tapered off after that, and Snape didn't return to many serious topics. He admitted to the oath Voldemort forced him to swear, separate from any loyalty oaths he had previously made (null as they were, considering the loopholes Snape had routinely, thoroughly exploited), about Sirius. He would not be able to admit to anyone that Sirius still lived, nor could he reveal his current whereabouts, so Sirius was stuck, unfortunately.

That made him feel worse, but he couldn't have been surprised. After that, Snape explained some recent developments within the Order, including the—accepting—reactions to Harry's coming out. Remus supported Harry through it, and Snape had actually noticed them growing closer over that time. Sirius asked a bit about how Remus was doing, and it turned out he was talking with Dora a bit, and they were getting strangely close.... Hmm, that would be something to talk to him about when Sirius was freed (when, not if). Dora was a little young for him, wasn't she? She was a grown woman, of course, but perhaps he needed to make sure Remus knew exactly how to treat a woman. When he was able to get out of here, of course.

Soon after that, Snape left. Sirius even smiled at him, saying, "Good talk! I think it needed it. Thanks...for telling me what's been happening."

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

His time in captivity was characterised by one word: boredom. Sirius Black was bored.

He could handle it, Azkaban was worse. Back there, he only had a single, dingy cell, the screams of the other inmates, and an army of dementors to make him miserable. Here, he had spacious rooms, a comfortable bed, and regular food. So really, this place was a vacation, for all that it was technically a prison. But it gave him time to think. Too much time.

He preferred it when he had visitors. Snape wasn't too bad, the few times he'd visited. They were talking a little better, though their conversations were still stilted. But now, Hogwarts term was about to begin and the man had no time for him. He couldn't visit often over the school year, so Sirius was looking forward to...nothing. Absolutely nothing. The healer was boring and kind of painful, so when he did get a visitor, he was pathetically excited for it to be Snape.

It wasn't. In fact, it was someone he couldn't have expected at all.

"Narcissa?" He hadn't seen or spoken to her in far too many years. They weren't extremely close before he got disowned, let alone after, but there was a certain amount of gratitude between them considering he set up her marriage.

She nodded her head, smiling primly. "Cousin. Or Lord Black, if you would prefer?"

He grimaced. "Er, no, just Sirius. You know I hate that Lordship shite. I was never good at it."

She frowned but didn't say anything. When she stood awkwardly for a few minutes, Sirius gave her leave to sit, and he asked the elves for tea. He figured Narcissa would appreciate it, unlike Snape when he visited. He tried recalling what he'd learned about pureblood tea etiquette, if only not to accidentally commit any social faux pas.

"What brought you here today," he asked as if she was visiting him at his home, not the place he was trapped in.

"Severus asked me to—after he was granted permission from the Dark Lord, of course. He believed you would desire some more...variety in company. I believe you had a bit of an enmity when you were younger?"

"That's an understatement," he laughed. "We hated each other, though it was mostly my fault. I was a big, arrogant prat back then. I started it, a lot."

"Have you apologized?" She asked, and then she set down her teacup before her hands fell to rest gracefully across her lap. Perfect manners, that one.

"What's the point? He won't forgive me, it was all ages ago."

"Perhaps. But Severus might appreciate it," Narcissa stated in that little way of hers that made it sound like she knew all and he was better off listening to her.

"I'll keep it in mind." Maybe. He'd toy with it a little.

From there, they talked rather amicably about nothing, right until Narcissa happened upon a bit of a landmine that ended up with Sirius attacking her with a barrage of questions.

"Things have taken a drastic change, recently. I don't believe you are aware of the extent?"

"Snape told me a bit, but I don't really know anything. So tell me, what's been going on these days?" He was undeniably fishing for information, they both knew that, but would she tell him anything?

Her blue-grey eyes gleamed, and Narcissa sighed. "The Dark Lord has taken a new path, one unexpected, yet perhaps desirable."

"Desirable, how?" He asked. Narcissa wasn't one for bloodshed, nor Lucius, for that matter. Lucius joined in with the Death Eaters for power, not the carnage the Dark side had turned to, and if he were slightly braver, he would have turned his back on the big bad long before he died fourteen years ago. Yet the Malfoys had already pledged their loyalty to Voldemort even during Abraxas Malfoy's time, so Lucius might not have had a choice. That still didn't make Sirius all too sympathetic to that twat.

"Look."

Narcissa took something out of her robe pocket and passed it to Sirius. It was a newspaper.

When he unrolled it, it was dated to last week, sometime in late August. Sirius had recently gotten his hands on a calendar after begging the house elves for long enough, so he was aware enough of the date, at least. He'd been stuck in this place for three months, just about. He would have spent more time muttering about that if he hadn't seen the first page of that article.

"Thomas...Slytherin?" He almost yelled. He didn't even really need to ask Narcissa who the man was, it was undeniable. He was already aware that Voldemort's previous name was Tom-something due to Dumbledore's refusal to call him anything else, but those dark, cruel eyes, even hidden by a veneer of charm and a glamour, were too familiar. The angle of that face, the cheekbones, stature, and even the Slytherin last name! It all painted an undeniable picture, a link to one man.

"This is him. How...?" He didn't even have the energy to truly be shocked. He slumped in his seat. This was enough, fuck. He had enough of being shocked like this.

"How long has he been like this?" Narcissa spoke.

Sirius had an idea of the rough timeline of that change, he only needed confirmation.

"Months, since the death of my sister." A trace of pain made its way into her voice, and that begged a question that Sirius had to ask.

"Do you know how she...?"

A nod. "Yes, the Dark Lord told me. It was a sacrifice, from what I was told. He sacrificed her...for you." She looked at him pointedly, sadly.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she replied, and she looked away as she was saying it. "Bella was...uncontrolled, untethered. For the Dark's vision now, she would not have been suitable. She would have made a drastic mistake one day, one that perhaps I and my family would pay for as well, as we were housing her. It was...it was only right that she pass on to further our goals."

Sirius would have laughed. Further their goals? Him? Of course not. But he'd allow Narcissa to believe that, to grant her that peace. Her sister was dead, and he knew how hard that was. His own little brother died, and he still wasn't sure if he'd ever truly gotten the chance to mourn him.

"And now? What are your goals?" They surely hadn't changed much. Despite Voldemort's handsome facade, the way he seemingly had the whole of Britain eating out of his hand, surely nothing had changed? He was a manic, mad, pureblood bigot. That's all there was to it. Whether he was a politician or a Dark Lord, he was still undeniably corrupt and evil. The same went for practically any politician, but Voldemort was different.

Narcissa coughed lightly, and then she began to speak. "Our old traditions, of course. The Dark Lord...he has returned to the version of himself we were told of many years ago as children. He is...so certain of himself, so powerful. His madness is seemingly a bygone era. I cannot be certain if this will last, but the Dark has returned to its old goals of returning our heritage to us, of legalising the old ways and pushing back the Light's influence. We shall have to hide no longer."

"That all sounds nice, but...." Sirius couldn't believe it. He understood it fine, but the old ways.... He didn't like participating. All those rituals he'd participated in as a child...sacrificing rabbits and slitting the neck of a chicken, letting animals and innocents bleed. Sacrifice, and all the Darkest versions of those seasonal rituals. He didn't like it. He never had that choice, and it was always pain for him. He knew the appeal of tradition, and he knew how much the Blacks hated having to hide their connections to the old ways, but for Voldemort to suddenly have regained the old glamour his father had once regaled him of...surely it was impossible?

Sirius had always been certain that the man he heard of as a child was no more, or perhaps he had never existed. Voldemort was a madman, a monster. He looked less and less human over the years, and now...he saw him in the Ministry that day. He was a monster, hardly even human anymore. Surely Narcissa was wrong? After everything that man had done, how deeply he'd delved into Dark Magic...there was no returning.

She didn't know what she was saying, he resolved. She was in too deep. But Sirius knew better. Once a monster, always a monster. He'd prove it to himself, and that little niggle of doubt would leave.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

He was proven wrong, completely and utterly.

One day, completely randomly, a note appeared with his breakfast. It warned that the Dark Lord would be visiting in the early afternoon, and Sirius could hardly believe it. Months of waiting, and finally that man would visit? Why now? Why wait so long?

Sirius entertained fantasies of slitting the man's throat with a dinner knife or smashing his head in with a candlestick—hell, even a muggle brawl would be appealing. Surely Voldemort wouldn't know how to take a punch?

Still, he was nauseous for those short few hours he had to wait. Sirius wore the best robes in his wardrobe, he combed and styled his hair, and he prepared in all the little ways that were meant to distract him from his thoughts. It didn't work. What was he meant to do? Not think about the fact that Voldemort would be coming to visit? How could he possibly resist the urge to strangle the man, wandless or not?

Today could be the day he died. Voldemort might just decide to do him in if he thought Sirius couldn't be useful. Not that he'd ever want to be. That man was a prick, Sirius would never work for him.

And now, hours later, every fact Sirius had ever known about Lord Voldemort was falling under scrutiny.

Was this handsome alpha truly the Dark Lord?

They were sat across from each other in the sitting room. Voldemort—Slytherin? Thomas? He took the plush armchair that Sirius always sat in, like the git that he was, and a smirk danced on his lips. He called for a house elf, and a glass of firewhiskey was poured for each of them, which Sirius could only be satisfied with, considering he hadn't had a drink in ages and he seriously needed it right now.

"Black," he started, and his voice sounded far too velvety for a man older than Sirius's father. "I am pleased to finally meet with you." But young looks aside, he certainly acted old. He sounded almost too polite, and that got his hackles rising.

Sirius resisted the urge to snort. He knew how perilous the situation was, and even he could be serious when he had to be. He clutched his glass tight and downed a gulp for courage. "I find that hard to believe, considering just how long I've been rotting in this place."

The alpha chuckled, and again, Sirius could hardly bring himself to believe this was Voldemort.

This man was nothing like the Dark Lord he had fought. Where Voldemort was mad off his arse and looked like a cross between a snake and a human, this man appeared to be the perfect picture of sanity, and he certainly looked like a perfect specimen of humanity. Sirius would feel free to ogle him if he was just...not himself.

This version of Voldemort was ridiculously handsome, don't get him wrong, but when Sirius looked, he began to find something wrong with him. His cheekbones were just slightly too sculpted to be real, his skin too pale, his teeth too perfect and white and slightly fanged, and there was a certain look in his eyes.... His coal-dark eyes gleamed blood red when the sunlight reflected off of his iris, and Sirius knew that wasn't his imagination. This man felt dangerous, and while Sirius may have usually been unafraid of danger, even he had his limits. All he had to do was look at the man before him and a shiver would ripple down his spine.

Altogether, he felt like he was looking at a demon more than a man. The way Voldemort was staring at him...it made Sirius feel like he was prey, and Voldemort was sizing him up. Sirius resisted the urge to cower before him. There was no time for that.

Voldemort replied to Sirius, "Perhaps so, but I believed you needed time to recover. Have you done well here? I assume that you have, from Narcissa and Severus's reports."

"Their—their reports?" Sirius sputtered. "They've been reporting to you?!"

"Do not worry. They've only relayed your current state, not the actual contents of your conversations. I have no interest in hearing idle pratter, and Severus and Narcissa both know never to betray my faith in them." He waved him off, then he idly swirled the dark liquid in his glass before taking a sip. The bastard was perfectly comfortable. Sirius knew it was all a power-play, but it pissed him off because he knew just how powerful this man was.

Sirius deflated. He should have expected that Voldemort would be hearing reports. Still, that didn't make him feel better.

"How are you...how are you like this? Is it a glamour? Why have you changed up so much? Why Thomas Slytherin? That's—I can't believe any of it." There was no doubt this was Voldemort. His form, even now, was just too close to non-human that Sirius would either assume a glamour or inhuman heritage. Between that and his familiar alpha scent, this was Voldemort, he could feel it in his bones.

Voldemort hummed, and he sat back. Ominous dark eyes rested chillingly on Sirius's form, and he couldn't for the life of him discern what Voldemort was thinking. Was...was he not angry? The Voldemort Sirius had known of would never have tolerated his disrespect, but Sirius wasn't technically aiming to be fully respectful. He was no Death Eater. He wouldn't bow before this man.

"The situation has changed. I am no longer what I once was. The madness of ages past that befell my mind is no longer. It has been healed, and my form has returned in whole."

Merlin, he sounded posh. Sirius focused on that, at first, and then his words settled in. It explained nothing and everything. What, so he was suddenly good now? Hogwash, Sirius laughed. Voldemort was an evil maniac. Perhaps he could claim not to be as bloodthirsty as he was during the tail end of the last war, but evil was evil. He wasn't suddenly a Hufflepuff, and Sirius wouldn't fall for it.

Sirius barely restrained his anger, but he allowed his disbelief to show. He chortled. "So what? You love muggleborns now? Ridiculous. I don't know what show you're putting up...but that Thomas Slytherin bullshit—I'm not falling for it. No one with any amount of sense will." He leaned closer to him.

The man raised an elegant eyebrow. He looked amused, and the expression was so very human that Sirius was taken aback.

"I am not owed your trust, Black, nor do I care to be. Yet...you are an important piece, and so whether you believe me or not, you will hear what I have to say," he commanded, and his eyes darkened.

"I am no longer simply Lord Voldemort. I am far above that wretched madness. I am Thomas Slytherin, the Dark Lord made whole and anew. I am not a madman. I do not desire to drench the streets of muggle London in a pool of blood. Instead, I desire fairness. Our world...it is not fair. Muggleborns can simply walk in and instead of being taught our culture and allowed to assimilate, they are catered to. And over time, our culture has been demonized and desecrated. We are not allowed to observe the Wheel of the Year nor worship Magic as is right. The Olde Rites have been forgotten, and those who practice must do so in the shadows.

"It is not right. So yes, it is true I formed the Death Eaters, and perhaps I did go mad, perhaps I went too far in my ideologies and became a genocidal terrorist, but not anymore. I shall not win this war in blood. No, instead...there shall not be a war at all. I have influence. Power. I will not lead a Civil War, I will lead a revolution."

He finished his speech by setting down his glass, and Sirius did the same as well for fear of crushing it in his clenched fists.

Stormy grey eyes closed shut, and Sirius took in a deep breath. He clenched his teeth, and he enunciated his words as he spoke. "That's it? That's—that's it? You're suddenly a good guy now?! I don't fucking care!" He shouted.

He rose to his feet, itching for a wand. "What about all the people who've died? The people your fucking followers killed! Hell, even all the people who died for your cause? Do you really think your madness can be used as an excuse for all who have suffered because of your hunger for power? What about Regulus, who died serving you? James, who you murdered? Lily, who you killed without a thought? And little Harry, whose life you destroyed over and over again?"

Sirius's shouts grew in volume, and something powerful crackled against his skin. The glasses of firewhiskey cracked and shattered, and liquid splashed over the table and onto the floor.

He couldn't believe this, he just couldn't. Where was this man before? Where was the Dark Lord his family spoke of before? The man who would lead the Wizarding World into a new age? When he was young, Sirius fell for that man. He remembered his father speaking fondly of his old friend often, and while eventually, one day, Sirius stopped falling for those lies, no one else did. His parents didn't, and neither did Regulus or Bellatrix.

The charming, suave-tongued man whom he'd heard of became a monster. He was meant to bring about a new era, yet instead all he was was a monster. He was a terrorist, a maniac, and whatever charm he'd had to get all those people to his side was a thing of the past. Their loyalty was repaid in blood. Sirius didn't believe he'd be any better as a politician than as a Dark Lord.

Sirius knew better than most what kind of monster Voldemort was. Yet now, now....

It wasn't fucking fair. He saw it. He saw it. Right now.

The charming genius that was Tom Riddle—Thomas Slytherin, the Dark Lord, whatever the fuck—was right before him and he fucking saw exactly why all those people fell for his lies. His tongue was made of pure silver.

Yet, were they lies? Sirius deflated, and his hands fell to his side. Was this man telling the truth? Had he truly gone insane? Even if he did, that was no excuse. He was already on a dark path even before the madness settled in. He did terrible things and he revelled in it. Even now, Sirius could tell that he wasn't that different. He was still terrible. So, so terrible. But now...could he be reasoned with? Would he stop going after Harry? Merlin, he could only hope.

Sirius was lost in a sea of confusion, and he choked on the water. It wasn't right. How was it fair? Lily, James...they died at Voldemort's hand. He would never forgive him for that. He had to keep that in mind. Whatever type of bullshit this man spouted, Sirius would never forget the hurt he'd felt because of him.

A monster was a monster, through and through. Even if Voldemort suddenly regained his sanity, which was definitely too good to be true, Sirius didn't care. It changed nothing.

His eyes burned into the man, and it was only then that Voldemort, no, Thomas Slytherin waved at him to sit back down.

"Have you calmed down now?" He was impassive, yet his eyebrow twitched, betraying his annoyance. Then, he waved his wand and the glasses and spilled wine suddenly vanished.

Sirius didn't speak. Slytherin spoke first.

"Very well. As I was saying, Black, before I was so rudely interrupted," he said it as if it was a great favour for him not to have aimed a Crucio at Sirius for the great crime of being a little rude, "my plans have changed greatly. I will walk the path of politics and win the favour of the Wizarding World genuinely. I will achieve the rank of Minister, and—"

"And what, you'll suddenly disband the Wizengamot and declare yourself Supreme Ruler?" Sirius snarked.

"Hmm, tempting but no." He chuckled.

"As I said—"

Sirius blurted. "What about Harry? What will happen to him?"

Slytherin's eyebrow twitched again, and he flicked his wand. "I have been lenient with you, Black, do not take my indulgence as permissiveness."

"Harry," he choked. "Please."

Shock. "You care for the boy...," Slytherin whispered, almost surprised. "Even over your own life?"

"Yes. More than everything. Now please, what—"

What was he planning? Sirius recalled what Snape said and he felt...fear. Lots of it. His precious godson....

Slytherin's scent spiked up in a way Sirius chose not to decipher. "Harry is alright, he shall come to no harm," he began. "Ever, if I get it my way." His eyes went soft for just a moment, and that's when Sirius exploded.

"Harry? Why—why are you so...why do you sound so soft? What the fuck do you want with my godson?!"

"I want everything. Whatever he will give me, I want everything."

"He's underage," Sirius growled. "He's just a boy."

"He's old enough to know what he wants. He's 16, which is the age of consent. He can accept a courting proposal, and he can certainly choose a mate," Slytherin replied with a smirk.

Sirius's vision went red, and he pounded a fist on the table. It rattled threateningly. "What the fuck did you do? He's—he's just a boy! He doesn't know what he wants!"

"He said yes," Slytherin grinned, and then he showed Sirius a letter.

Sirius vomited just at the first paragraph, let alone the second.

Dear Tom,

I'll get to the gist. Since we're courting now, I figure it's only fair that I, as your omega, send you a courting gift as well. I hope you enjoy it. I'm sure you recall exactly how and when it reached its current state.

Also, If you want to court me, you damn Slytherin, you really should have said so earlier. Don't just fuck me on a table or in an alleyway. I want to be properly courted.

Not so respectfully,

Harry Potter

Your courted

No, no, no! What did Voldemort do? What did he do?! He...he raped Sirius's godson. Fuck.

"He doesn't know it's you. He—you lied about your identity. He doesn't know...." Sirius's voice was hollow. He needed an excuse. "He would never want you, not after what you did!"

Thomas Slytherin gave a mad, cruel laugh. "I think he knows," he said, eyes glimmering. "Our connection, it's far too strong for him not to know. And yes, Black, I would say that he wants me—very much so, in fact, considering how often he spreads his legs."

Rage. "Harry would never!" Sirius shouted. "You had to have forced him! He's good! He would never, not with you!"

"Wouldn't he? Your godson isn't exactly Light." His eyes held a cruel gleam. "Did you know what he did after you 'died', Black? He successfully performed the Cruciatus Curse on Bella. I watched, you know, and I applauded him afterwards. Harry looked so...enthralling at that moment that I simply had to have him, and he agreed. Perhaps the little golden boy isn't so golden, after all."

He smiled softly. Fondly. It was so strange but Voldemort looked fond. "Harry is...strange. He is the only one who could ever come to care for Lord Voldemort. And he agreed to my courting him instantly. I was simply kind to him, and he fell apart in my arms. I would call it foolish, but I am grateful indeed for Harry's 'foolishness.'"

"How?" Sirius begged. "How—why? How did it fucking start?"

Voldemort jumped to answer, as if he was just waiting for Sirius to ask. "The Room of Desire. We fought, you see, and entered it together. Yet, something strange happened, and we were brought together by mutual desire. Yes, Black, close your mouth. It was mutual. Yet, I changed. Whatever Harry wished for, it included my old self, my true form and therefore my sanity as well. Harry healed me in ways he could never know...."

"He doesn't want you," he blurted. "He could never! No, it was just...your face! And you, you don't want him! The Room of Desire made you want him—it made you think you could love—"

"You shut your mouth, Black!" Voldemort shouted. "My feelings for Harry are genuine. Despite what you may believe, the Room of Desire never takes away free will, that is one of its rules. This is all genuine, for both Harry and I."

"There is no love in your heart, so how could you possibly love Harry?"

Voldemort froze, especially at the last word, and he released his wand and aimed it at Sirius. "Harry is everything. He is mine and mine alone and he shall want for nothing, whether I am capable of loving him or not."

Sirius froze in horror. Fuck, Circe no. This...this was terrible. Terrible.

Voldemort wasn't lying.

The pieces all fell into place. That letter was Harry's all right, the handwriting was the same and only he'd write something like that, and Voldemort felt so...genuine. His scent piqued up with something Sirius didn't even want to attempt describing when he spoke of Harry, and he...he had fucking feelings, oh god. A grown fucking man was obsessed with his godson. Sirius would even prefer Voldemort still trying to kill Harry over this.

He felt hollow. He couldn't understand why Harry did it. He...he just.... Sirius blushed just recalling the last part of that letter. Merlin, Harry. Harry was just a kid, he probably didn't even know what he wanted. Sirius was so certain he was being manipulated, never mind the fact that Voldemort seemed to have real (if obsessive) feelings for him! Harry would reject him eventually, Sirius hoped, and their courting would lead to nowhere. Things would get better, this was just a little bit of madness, yes.

"What about me? Why am I here? You said I was a gift—for Harry, right?" Sirius's chances of living had just risen greatly. If Voldemort actually was planning on courting Harry, then he needed Sirius alive as Harry's only living magical family. Whether he was an outlaw or not, he was still Harry's godfather.

"Yes," Voldemort said. "I will return you one day, but only when you have fully healed and agreed to my terms. Only then, Lord Black. Even my mercy has its limits."

Sirius didn't like the way this man called him Lord Black. It made his hair rise.

"What are your terms?" Sirius asked, and for once, he truly felt like Lord Black as he sat with his back straight and his head held up high.

"Your loyalty."

"Then mine," Sirius hissed, "is that you will always take Harry's wishes into account. If he says no, back off. I want it in oath."

"Done," Voldemort smirked, and red eyes gleamed in triumph.

Somehow, Sirius didn't think he had the better end of the deal. 

Chapter Text

The morning after, Harry awoke in the Room of Requirement feeling chilly and more than a little sore. With a flush, he vanished the dildo that was still inside of him and hurriedly took a shower in the Room-provided bathroom.

He was lucky, it was still early enough that he could sneak back into the dorms without anyone being the wiser, and as the day passed, it was as if nothing happened. Harry was able to forget exactly what he did last night, even when he sent out the letter and gift to Tom.

Harry could feel it in his scar when the man received his gift. Shock. Confusion. Amusement. Lust.

Looks like Tom liked his gift, Harry smiled, still a touch shocked at his own boldness. He sent his used blanket to Tom, still wet with fluids. But, well, there was no doubt that the man enjoyed it. Harry rubbed his thighs together uncomfortably that whole day, even in class, because of a certain alpha's teenage trigger reproductivity. Harry had no idea what Tom was doing the whole day, but he could certainly feel it in his scar. And Merlin, Harry wished for another dream that night, but it sadly was not meant to be.

He still felt more than a bit barmy for entertaining—hell, for enjoying this. But while Tom was so clearly different now, he was still Voldemort. He still did all the things that he did, and he was still acting in the role of Voldemort, though Harry wasn't fully certain of his current plans. Either way, guilt—if he even felt guilty—did not absolve him of his sins. A new face wouldn't purify him. Tom was Voldemort, and Harry didn't want to forget that.

Could Harry really be selfish? Was it right for Harry to want him? Probably not, but he wasn't getting out of this so easily even if he got cold feet and suddenly decided to back out. Tom would find him, and the only feasible option to escape was jumping across the pond and changing his face and identity. And even then, their link would mean Tom could track him down. So really, Harry didn't have to feel guilty. He had no choice in the matter, he convinced himself, because Tom wasn't going to give him one. There was nothing to feel guilty for, and Harry continued to do his best at ignoring the fact that he instigated their last encounter. He also ignored the snake bracelet still on his wrist, though that's neither here nor there.

Over the next few days, Harry tried his best to fall into a routine. He did, but he kept noticing people eyeing his bracelet, especially Hermione. She looked conflicted, worried, even. One day, she confronted him in the common room and tried to interrogate Harry about his mysterious admirer.

"What do we even know about him, Harry? Ginny said he was older, and that I wouldn't know him," she said as kindly as she could, though it still felt a little accusing. "Is he that much older than us? Did he go to Hogwarts? How did you even meet? I'm worried about you, Harry. What if this man's taking advantage of you?"

She looked so sad. "He's just so much older and you're you, the Boy-Who-Lived! This is all happening so quickly, I fear he might be trying to lead you to Voldemort."

Ron nodded, he agreed with her, though he did tell Hermione to lay off a little.

"You worry too much, 'mione. I trust Harry, and so should you. He'll tell us in his own time. And if his alpha's going to try anything, we'll stop him. Don't you worry."

"Thanks, Ron," Harry said, smiling thinly at him. Then he turned to Hermione. Her worries were warranted, he told himself, he would be fearful for her as well if she suddenly began to be courted by some random he hadn't met, especially if she was in as much danger as him. His boyfriend could have been leading him to Voldemort—if his 'boyfriend' wasn't Voldemort himself, not that he could tell them that.

He understood Hermione's worries, he explained to them. But his boyfriend—and Merlin, using that word was strange but it made Harry feel giddy—wasn't anyone they had to worry about. Harry wanted to keep it private because the man had some...unsavoury characters in his family, he said, and while he did trust Ron and Hermione, he had promised his boyfriend not to tell anyone who he was until he was comfortable revealing it himself.

"It's not you, it's him. Or, well, not in a bad way. I promise you, he's really kind to me. We've been sending letters, and I like him a lot. We met in Diagon Alley already, and he could have hurt me, but he didn't!" He assuaged his friends' worries, and bit by bit, the tense atmosphere calmed down. Hermione's face softened a little.

And then Ron snickered. "Oh, so he didn't hurt you, did he? I don't about you, Hermione, but I noticed that after we came back from the Alley Harry kept wearing turtlenecks and scarves. Anything you wanna say to that, mate?"

Harry looked away in embarrassment, and he'd deny it to his dying day that he blushed.

"Ron!" Hermione sounded as pink as he looked. She cleared her throat, and she looked at Harry while she said, "Harry's...private life isn't any of our business. Don't tease him."

Then she added, "But, it was all consensual, yes? You felt safe? He didn't hurt you? Because if he did I know a few hexes—"

Harry laughed, and soon afterwards that conversation fell to the wayside. There were a few holes in his story, but his friends were kind enough not to poke at them. He just didn't want to reveal anything that would make them hate him. Harry knew they would one day—if he couldn't convince them that this was all for the best. If Harry could end the war without any bloodshed, it might help calm his guilt. He knew not everyone would stick by him, but he hoped Ron and Hermione would.

He wouldn't know what to do if they didn't.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Classes were going well, though it was all a bit strange. Snape wasn't being as much of a git as he usually was, and Ron joked that he finally grew a conscience over the summer.

Harry hummed, maybe that wasn't too far off. After all, Snape kept on giving Harry random spellcasting and duelling tips in the guise of interrogating him in class, and his voice just didn't have the usual Snape-patented sneer. It felt more like an act than anything genuine.

Slughorn was also a fairly good teacher, even if he had a nasty habit of kissing arse. Still, Harry was glad he was able to use the Half-Blood Prince book, which had the unfortunate consequence of Slughorn raving about him. He decided to share some of its advice with Hermione, not wanting to cause any more drama between them, and she studied it intensely after Harry managed to convince her that just because it was 'unofficial instructions' didn't mean it was bad. Hell, it was pretty damn good.

"Merlin, Harry, this is all genius!" She shouted, scribbling away in her notebook. She was almost out of ink. "Who could have possibly written it?"

"I don't know, Snape?" Ron joked. "The man's a terrible teacher but he does know how to make potions."

"Don't be silly, Ron, I doubt he'd leave his old textbook around."

And then, before Harry knew it, it was already Saturday, and he was scheduled to meet with Dumbledore.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

"Acid pops," Harry spoke to the gargoyle, and it leapt aside. He climbed up the spiral stairs and knocked on the door.

"Come in," said Dumbledore.

"Good evening, Sir," Harry said, walking into the office.

"Good evening, Harry, sit down," he said, smiling. "I hope you've had an enjoyable first week back at school?"

"Yes, Sir, it's been alright."

"It must have been, after all," he said, leaning forward conspiratorially and giving him a curious look, "you have received a courting letter, from what I hear."

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn't like this line of questioning. Dumbledore no longer felt like the kindly old grandfather figure he used to be, and right now, Harry could see something behind his eyes. Something steely. Suddenly, Harry got the impression that Dumbledore wasn't happy with him being courted by anyone.

"May I know who it is, my boy?" He asked gently.

He shook his head. "No, Sir. He wants us to be private for now. At least until the war cools down. Some relatives of his...they wouldn't take kindly to him courting me."

Dumbledore raised a pale, hairy eyebrow before saying, "I see.... Would your fellow have connections to the other side, Harry? I understand perfectly—one can't choose their family, after all, but can he be trusted?"

Harry felt like a naughty child under the weight of that stare. He made certain not to look Dumbledore in the eyes. "Of course. He's not a Death Eater or anything. I trust him." No, just the Dark Lord himself, but don't worry, Sir, I can trust him!

"So, Sir, um...I'm here for lessons," Harry asked, attempting to change the subject.

Dumbledore smiled knowingly. "Of course, Harry. I have decided that as you are now aware of what prompted Lord Voldemort to target you 15 years ago, it is time for you to be given certain information."

There was a pause.

Harry's voice was steely when it came out. "You said, at the end of last term, that you were going to tell me everything." It was hard to keep a note of accusation from his voice. "Sir," he added.

“And so I did,” said Dumbledore placidly. “I told you everything I know. From this point forth, we shall be leaving the firm foundation of fact and journeying together through the murky marshes of memory into thickets of wildest guesswork. From here on in, Harry, I may be as woefully wrong as Humphrey Belcher, who believed the time was ripe for a cheese cauldron.”

“But you think you’re right?” said Harry. Honestly, he was still annoyed with the man for keeping things from him, but he needed to know.

“Naturally I do, but as I have already proven to you, I make mistakes like the next man. In fact, being—forgive me—rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger.”

“Sir,” said Harry tentatively, “does what you’re going to tell me have anything to do with the prophecy? Will it help me...survive?” Harry knew, of course, that Tom wouldn't kill him any time soon, but he was still in danger from Death Eaters who wouldn't listen to orders, and just in general if he was ever found out.

“It has a very great deal to do with the prophecy,” said Dumbledore, as casually as if Harry had asked him about the next day’s weather, “and I certainly hope that it will help you to survive.”

Dumbledore got to his feet and walked around the desk, past Harry, who turned eagerly in his seat to watch Dumbledore bending over the cabinet beside the door. When Dumbledore straightened up, he was holding a familiar shallow stone basin etched with odd markings around its rim. He placed the Pensieve on the desk in front of Harry.

“You look worried.”

Harry had indeed been eyeing the Pensieve with some apprehension. His previous experiences with the odd device that stored and revealed thoughts and memories, though highly instructive, had also been uncomfortable. The last time he had disturbed its contents, he had seen much more than he would have wished. But Dumbledore was smiling.

“This time, you enter the Pensieve with me...and, even more unusually, with permission.”

“Where are we going, sir?”

“For a trip down Bob Ogden’s memory lane,” said Dumbledore, pulling from his pocket a crystal bottle containing a swirling silvery-white substance.

“Who was Bob Ogden?”

“He was employed by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” said Dumbledore. “He died some time ago, but not before I had tracked him down and persuaded him to confide these recollections to me. We are about to accompany him on a visit he made in the course of his duties. If you will stand, Harry....”

Dumbledore tipped the silvery contents of the bottle into the Pensieve, where they swirled and shimmered, neither liquid nor gas.

“After you,” said Dumbledore, gesturing toward the bowl. Harry bent forward, took a deep breath, and plunged his face into the silvery substance. He felt his feet leave the office floor; he was falling, falling through whirling darkness and then, quite suddenly, he was blinking in dazzling sunlight. Before his eyes had adjusted, Dumbledore landed beside him.

Harry watched with curious eyes as they made their way through the memory. And it wasn't until they reached the decrepit building that things got interesting.

One of the windows to the building was thrown open with a clatter, and a thin trickle of steam or smoke issued from it, as though somebody was cooking.

Ogden moved forward quietly and, it seemed to Harry, rather cautiously. As the dark shadows of the trees slid over him, he stopped again, staring at the front door, to which somebody had nailed a dead snake.

Then there was a rustle and a crack, and a man in rags dropped from the nearest tree, landing on his feet right in front of Ogden, who leapt backwards so fast he stood on the tails of his frock coat and stumbled.

“You’re not welcome.” The voice had a strangely hissy quality to it.

The man standing before them had thick hair so matted with dirt it could have been any colour. Several of his teeth were missing. His eyes were small and dark and stared in opposite directions. He might have looked comical, but he did not; the effect was frightening, and Harry could not blame Ogden for backing away several more paces before he spoke.

“Er—good morning. I’m from the Ministry of Magic—”

“You’re not welcome.”

“Er—I’m sorry—I don’t understand you,” said Ogden nervously.

Harry thought Ogden was being extremely dim; the stranger was making himself very clear in Harry’s opinion, particularly as he was brandishing a wand in one hand and a short and rather bloody knife in the other.

“You understand him, I’m sure, Harry?” said Dumbledore quietly.

“Yes, of course,” said Harry, slightly nonplussed. “Why can’t Ogden—?”

But as his eyes found the dead snake on the door again, he suddenly understood. Parseltongue, the man was speaking parseltongue. Slowly, Harry began to piece together who this man was. Could he be a relative of Tom's?

Tom certainly didn't inherit this man's looks, luckily for him, but Harry was curious about exactly what type of family could have given birth to someone like Tom. He found himself already sympathetic to Tom, as he already knew about his status as an orphan, but now he was curious, ravenous to know more about the man he was courting. His boyfriend, technically.

"He’s speaking Parseltongue?”

“Very good,” said Dumbledore, nodding and smiling.

The man in rags was now advancing on Ogden, knife in one hand, wand in the other.

“Now, look—” Ogden began, but too late: There was a bang, and Ogden was on the ground, clutching his nose, while a nasty yellowish goo squirted from between his fingers.

“Morfin!” said a loud voice.

An elderly man had come hurrying out of the cottage, banging the door behind him so that the dead snake swung pathetically. This man was shorter than the first, and oddly proportioned; his shoulders were very broad and his arms overlong, which, with his bright brown eyes, short scrubby hair, and wrinkled face, gave him the look of a powerful, aged monkey. He came to a halt beside the man with the knife, who was now cackling with laughter at the sight of Ogden on the ground.

“Ministry, is it?” said the older man, looking down at Ogden.

“Correct!” said Ogden angrily, dabbing his face. “And you, I take it, are Mr Gaunt?”

“S’right,” said Gaunt. “Got you in the face, did he?”

“Yes, he did!” snapped Ogden.

“Should’ve made your presence known, shouldn’t you?” said Gaunt aggressively. “This is private property. Can’t just walk in here and not expect my son to defend himself.”

“Defend himself against what, man?” said Ogden, clambering back to his feet.

“Busybodies. Intruders. Muggles and filth.”

Ogden pointed his wand at his own nose, which was still issuing large amounts of what looked like yellow pus, and the flow stopped at once. Mr Gaunt spoke out of the corner of his mouth to Morfin.

"Get in the house. Don’t argue.”

As Harry continued to watch, he found himself more and more disappointed. Perhaps a little sad. Was this was where Tom came from? Merlin, it was terrible. Yet somehow, Harry wasn't surprised that people such as them—hateful and cruel and perhaps a little too proud of their heritage and not all too aware of the legacy they were creating—created the Tom he knew, or was getting to know.

Soon afterwards, and the moment Harry's eyes fell on poor, unfortunate-looking Merope, his eyes widened. Yes, this was her. This was Tom's mother.

It was the eyes, he thought, deep coal-grey, strangely like charcoal. The brown flecks in her eyes were embers, glowing red in the light. She and Tom looked almost nothing alike other than the eyes, yet Harry could see Tom in the hollowness of her cheekbones, and the sharp angles of her face. It made for a prettier picture on Tom's handsomer features than her sad-looking face.

“M’daughter, Merope,” said Gaunt grudgingly, as Ogden looked inquiringly toward her.

“Good morning,” said Ogden.

She did not answer, but with a frightened glance at her father turned her back on the room and continued shifting the pots on the shelf behind her.

“Well, Mr Gaunt,” said Ogden, “to get straight to the point, we have reason to believe that your son, Morfin, performed magic in front of a Muggle late last night.”

There was a deafening clang. Merope had dropped one of the pots.

“Pick it up!” Gaunt bellowed at her. “That’s it, grub on the floor like some filthy Muggle, what’s your wand for, you useless sack of muck?”

“Mr Gaunt, please!” said Ogden in a shocked voice, as Merope, who had already picked up the pot, flushed blotchily scarlet, lost her grip on the pot again, drew her wand shakily from her pocket, pointed it at the pot, and muttered a hasty, inaudible spell that caused the pot to shoot across the floor away from her, hit the opposite wall, and crack in two.

Morfin let out a mad cackle of laughter. Gaunt screamed, “Mend it, you pointless lump, mend it!”

Merope stumbled across the room, but before she had time to raise her wand, Ogden had lifted his own and said firmly, "Reparo.” The pot mended itself instantly.

Gaunt looked for a moment as though he was going to shout at Ogden, but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he jeered at his daughter, “Lucky the nice man from the Ministry’s here, isn’t it? Perhaps he’ll take you off my hands, perhaps he doesn’t mind dirty Squibs....”

Without looking at anybody or thanking Ogden, Merope picked up the pot and returned it, hands trembling, to its shelf. She then stood quite still, her back against the wall between the filthy window and the stove, as though she wished for nothing more than to sink into the stone and vanish.

Harry thought it was sad, almost too sad of a picture. This was her? Tom's mother? Harry's heart ached for both her and her son. He wished there was something he could do about it, but it was too late, this was a memory.

All three of the Gaunts were unfortunate in their own way. Mr Gaunt was elderly and bigoted, stuck in his ways. Morfin was violent and likely to take after his father. But Merope, Harry could feel a kindred spirit in her. She was like him, spoken down to and treated badly by her supposed family.

Harry began to contemplate what it could mean to be born into a family like this, while the memory went on. And then when Gaunt whipped out the golden locket, Harry couldn't stop staring at it, and he knew what it meant.

He already knew that Tom was the Heir of Slytherin; it was another thing entirely to see it.

Harry was lost in his thoughts for a time until he heard someone new within the memory.

"My God, what an eyesore!” rang out a girl’s voice, as clearly audible through the open window as if she had stood in the room beside them. “Couldn’t your father have that hovel cleared away, Tom?"

Tom? As in his Tom? No, they weren't....

Harry looked at the man's face. Oh. Yes, Harry could see where Tom got his looks from. He took after his father, and he had his mother's eyes. Like Harry.

It was another parallel that marked them. Harry wasn't sure how to feel about that.

“It’s not ours,” said a young man’s voice. “Everything on the other side of the valley belongs to us, but that cottage belongs to an old tramp called Gaunt, and his children. The son’s quite mad, you should hear some of the stories they tell in the village—”

The girl laughed. The jingling, clopping noises were growing louder and louder. Morfin made to get out of his armchair.

Harry felt cold. It was becoming more and more clear that there was one thing that did separate the births of Harry and Tom, something one had that the other didn't. Parents who loved each other. Because after all, how could a man like Tom Riddle Sr fall for a woman like Merope Gaunt? Harry didn't want to know how they could have possibly made Tom, but his curiosity got the best of him.

And then Morfin began to taunt poor Merope, his face flushed crimson with anger. Harry felt angry himself. Her love for Tom Riddle Sr wasn't something to be discouraged. Harry understood it. She probably saw him sometimes, him and the pretty girl on his arm and the nice carriage and the wealthy clothes and thought I want to be her, I want to be the girl on his arm because who wouldn't? She was Cinderella and Riddle Sr was her Prince Charming. Harry could understand.

Afterwards, when Gaunt strangled his daughter for the simple crime of having a crush, things went mad. Ogden fired a spell, and Morfin tried to go after him. And it was as Ogden narrowly managed to make his escape that the memory ended.

“I think that will do, Harry,” said Dumbledore. He took Harry by the elbow and tugged. The next moment, they were both soaring weightlessly through darkness, until they landed squarely on their feet, back in Dumbledore’s now twilit office.

“What happened to the girl in the cottage?” said Harry at once, as Dumbledore lit extra lamps with a flick of his wand. “Merope, or whatever her name was?” Harry had a few ideas. If she were to become Tom's mother, then something would have led her to Riddle Sr eventually, though he still had his questions on how they ended up together. Somehow, he didn't think the story was very romantic.

“Oh, she survived,” said Dumbledore, reseating himself behind his desk and indicating that Harry should sit down too. “Ogden Apparated back to the Ministry and returned with reinforcements within fifteen minutes. Morfin and his father attempted to fight, but both were overpowered, removed from the cottage, and subsequently convicted by the Wizengamot. Morfin, who already had a record of Muggle attacks, was sentenced to three years in Azkaban. Marvolo, who had injured several Ministry employees in addition to Ogden, received six months.”

“Marvolo?” Harry repeated wonderingly. Tom was named after his grandfather?

“That’s right,” said Dumbledore, smiling in approval. “I am glad to see you’re keeping up.”

“That old man was—?”

“Voldemort’s grandfather, yes,” said Dumbledore. “Marvolo, his son, Morfin, and his daughter, Merope, were the last of the Gaunts, a very ancient Wizarding family noted for a vein of instability and violence that flourished through the generations due to their habit of marrying their own cousins. Lack of sense coupled with a great liking for grandeur meant that the family gold was squandered several generations before Marvolo was born. He, as you saw, was left in squalor and poverty, with a very nasty temper, a fantastic amount of arrogance and pride, and a couple of family heirlooms that he treasured just as much as his son, and rather more than his daughter.”

“So Merope,” said Harry, leaning forward in his chair and staring at Dumbledore, “so Merope was...Sir, does that mean she was...Voldemort’s mother?” He needed confirmation, but it already seemed obvious to him.

“It does,” said Dumbledore. “And it so happens that we also had a glimpse of Voldemort’s father. I wonder whether you noticed?"

“The Muggle Morfin attacked? The man on the horse?” Harry whispered. "That woman—she called him Tom?"

“Very good indeed,” said Dumbledore, beaming. “Yes, that was Tom Riddle senior, the handsome Muggle who used to go riding past the Gaunt cottage and for whom Merope Gaunt cherished a secret, burning passion.”

“And they ended up married?” Harry said in disbelief, unable to imagine two people less likely to fall in love. Though Harry knew now, after his encounters his Tom, that love had nothing to do with it. Perhaps something else brought them together, something more...sensual than love. Merope wasn't very pretty, but maybe she had an especially alluring scent, if she were an omega rather than a beta. He couldn't exactly tell through the memory.

“I think you are forgetting,” said Dumbledore, “that Merope was a witch. I do not believe that her magical powers appeared to their best advantage when she was being terrorized by her father. Once Marvolo and Morfin were safely in Azkaban, once she was alone and free for the first time in her life, then, I am sure, she was able to give full rein to her abilities and to plot her escape from the desperate life she had led for eighteen years.

“Can you not think of any measure Merope could have taken to make Tom Riddle forget his Muggle companion, and fall in love with her instead?”

“The Imperius Curse?” Harry suggested. “Or a love potion?”

Harry didn't like where this was going. It only made his heart pang for Tom. Was this the life he was born into? A product of...of rape? Harry knew it happened, he just didn't know anyone who'd been assaulted in such a manner. Just the thought made him shiver.

As he and Dumbledore continued to talk, with the man continuing to explain Tom's past and how he ended up alone and orphaned and in the care of an orphanage, Harry tried his best to keep a poker face. Throughout it all, Harry suddenly felt as if he'd gained a new perspective of the man he'd been courting. Tom hadn't been a monster to Harry in a long time—not with the way he touched him, held him, kissed him—but knowing more about him, seeing his past, it was as if Harry was suddenly seeing the backdrop of a gorgeous painting. He saw the night sky behind a gorgeous face, the foundations and past that made Tom the man he was today. Harry felt a kind of kinship with him now; they were both alone and unwanted, orphaned at a young age. They really weren't all that different, and perhaps that drew them closer together.

He turned to go, then another question occurred to him, and he turned back again. “Sir, am I allowed to tell Ron and Hermione everything you’ve told me?”

Dumbledore considered him for a moment, then said, “Yes, I think Mr Weasley and Miss Granger have proved themselves trustworthy. But Harry, I am going to ask you to ask them not to repeat any of this to anybody else. It would not be a good idea if word got around how much I know, or suspect, about Lord Voldemort’s secrets.”

“No, sir, I’ll make sure it’s just Ron and Hermione. Good night.”

Harry was conflicted. He'd probably end up telling Ron and Hermione about the memory, but could he tell Tom? He would undoubtedly be angry; Harry would be, if his past was being poked and prodded at by his enemy. Harry didn't like keeping secrets, but he wasn't sure how to bring this up to him, or even if he should.

What he was learning in the memories were things that Tom would likely never tell him, and Harry wanted to know more about him. So maybe he could keep this from him for just a bit longer? Who knew when they would see each other next. Maybe Harry would tell him then.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Unsettled as he was after that lesson with Dumbledore, Harry fell back into the routine of living his days at Hogwarts. Classes were good, and Snape continued to be an effective, if strict, Defense professor.

Then one day, Harry was eating dinner when a package came in. It had no note, and Harry would assume it came from Tom had the package not come from a Hogwarts owl.

"It came from inside the castle," Hermione exclaimed. "Who could have sent it?"

Harry didn't know, but when he opened the package, there was a thick, leathery book with the title on the spine: Mind Magicks: The Fundamental Theory.

It was a book on occlumency, and only one person would send it. Harry pretended not to notice the way Snape was pointedly facing away from the Gryffindor table. It was telling.

Still, after that, Hermione drew up study guides and lesson plans and they all studied the book together. Truly, it explained the basics of both occlumency and legilimency so much better than whatever Snape had been attempting last year. Many people can learn occlumency by instinct, the book had said, by having their minds invaded and instinctually kicking someone out of their mind.

Yet Harry was not that type of person. He often learned in a hands-on way, but without even the barest idea of what he was meant to be doing during his lessons with Snape, Harry floundered. Perhaps Snape now realized where he went wrong, and that's why he sent the book. He was never the best at explaining things.

Harry took what he learned into practice. He meditated often and began to focus on his forehead, on the...the feeling he got from it. He'd hardly realized before, but it was as if there was a dark, heavy feeling centred around it. Before, where it had been ominous and vaguely headache-inducing when he'd focused on it, it now felt warm and comforting, grounding.

Harry felt fuzzy when he realized it was his link with Tom, and he explored it. He poked and prodded it with mental feelers, and he almost jumped when a big mental question mark was sent to him in return.

Tom? He spoke in his mind.

There wasn't a reply, not one with words, at least. Instead, Harry felt a big bundle of warmthwantneedlonging and missyouwhereareyouwantyounow.

Harry gasped, and he blushed as red as a strawberry, his scent twisting with the beginnings of arousal. Oh.

He pushed his similar feelings of longing and want back through the link, and Harry ended up with the impression of him and Tom being long-distance lovers who longed for each other's presence. It wasn't technically incorrect.

For the rest of that night, Harry and Tom were stuck in a mental feedback loop of longing and want. And when Harry finally slept, he dreamed of Tom cradling him in his arms. His head was against the crook of Tom's neck, and Harry's body was tucked into Tom's side as large arms wrapped around his waist. He sighed warmly.

Miss you, he thought, as his mouth wouldn't form the words. Tom replied with a thick alpha rumble that sounded from his chest, and Harry relaxed, the omega in him purring back. Yes, this felt right. More right than anything. How could Harry ever not want this?

They spent that night cuddling. Harry wasn't sure how or why their dreams were sometimes lucid and sometimes not, but he still liked this dream just as much as the rest. Perhaps more, if he were being honest with himself. He loved it when Tom touched him, sexually or otherwise, but there was something different about holding each other for the night, when he and Tom had never gotten the chance to before.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

The day before Gryffindor's Quidditch tryouts, Stan Shunpike was arrested. Harry spent that day clenching his teeth and ranting about the Ministry's pet hobby of imprisoning innocent men—because undoubtedly, Stan Shunpike was innocent, and even the idea of him as a Death Eater felt ridiculous—to all who would listen, which was just Hermione, while Ron and Ginny were bickering under the guise of playing gobstones.

Quidditch tryouts themselves were...something. As the new Quidditch Captain, Harry, along with Ginny and Ron—who were both planning on participating in the tryouts—spent time strategizing for the year: how they'd train, when, and all of that.

When the tryouts officially came, it was all the usual stuff, except for what happened with McLaggen. Harry remembered him. He crossed paths with him a few times over the years, but it wasn't until they met on the train that the arrogant boy reintroduced himself. He had looked at Harry so sleazily back then, as if he was nothing other than a hole he wanted to get inside of, and he instantly knew that he didn't like him.

That was probably why Harry didn't question it when he realized what Hermione did. Hermione confounded McLaggen, and while he became reserve Keeper, Ron was the one who got the role.

Harry wouldn't complain. He didn't want to share a locker room with McLaggen any more than necessary. Already, the alpha boy was trying to 'impress' Harry with his lacklustre flying skills during training, and that just got on his nerves.

That was the one minor, negative aspect of his time as Quidditch Captain, but Harry could easily handle it. He ran his team like a ship, and as time passed, he realized exactly why Oliver Wood was always such a hardass. The need to win was overwhelming, and Harry would enjoy rubbing the Quidditch Cup in Malfoy's face.

His omega status didn't matter, Harry realized. He usually just ended up showering after the guys did, or with the girls if they were alright with it, and Harry enjoyed being Captain greatly.

Some time later, Harry and his friends ended up visiting Hagrid, where they learned Aragog was dying. Somehow, Harry wasn't all that upset. Still, he comforted his giant friend, and, per usual, pretended to eat his rock cakes.

Then the first Slug Club dinner happened, and Harry spent the whole, retched dinner pretending that he wasn't disappointed at not seeing a familiar, red-eyed figure in attendance. Slughorn mentioned that the man might visit, but Harry should have known better. Dumbledore knew full well who Thomas Slytherin really was, of course he would never let him visit Hogwarts.

Still, Harry grumbled to himself about it. At least the food was good, though he was hardly able yo to enjoy it with Slughorn parading him around like an auction piece. He kept waxing poetic—Harry this and Harry that, and did you know that Harry is also Quidditch Captain? He laughed boisterously. By the end, Harry wasn't able to recall a single name out of everyone he'd met, and once he'd finally made it back to Gryffindor Tower for the night, he passed out like a light.

He felt a familiar warmth brewing within him. Tom, he thought.

Harry, was the reply. And Harry sighed into Tom's warmth, feeling his skin as the man rubbed at his back comfortingly.

Missed you.

Tom purred, and while neither of them was really in control—this dream was one of the less vivid, more hazy ones—they relaxed into each other, cuddling for the rest of the night.

Yes, this is perfect. More of this, please, he thought.

Tom chuckled. Anything for you, my dear.

Tom kissed his forehead, right where his scar was, and he pressed kisses into Harry's head, cheeks, and neck until he was giggling. They spent the whole night relaxing in that same manner, and while it wasn't anything sexual, Harry was satisfied, as he always was.

All he needed was Tom, and his alpha would wash away the rest of his troubles. He hoped Tom felt the same way about him.

Chapter Text

For many weeks after Harry's 'training' session with Dumbledore, he avoided Hermione and Ron's eyes when talking about it. He spoke of the lesson in vague, un-opinionated facts and neglected to tell them of his feelings about the memories he'd witnessed.

Sure, Harry knew that he was allowed to confide in his friends, but what should he say, that he felt sympathy for Tom? Absolutely not. Ginny might have understood, but she was doing her own thing. Harry often caught her staring strangely at Malfoy and dropping everything to go and chase after him whenever it seemed like he was doing something suspicious. She often gave some stupid excuse and ran off after him. That was strange in its own right, but he hadn't yet gotten a chance to ask why she was doing it.

He was stuck right where he was. He couldn't stop thinking about Tom and his childhood and their current relationship, and he couldn't stop staring at the bracelet on his wrist. He felt like a fool for accepting it—it could have been cursed, Tom might have just been masterfully pulling the wool over his eyes this whole time and Harry was a little lamb who dutifully followed after him. But he wasn't. Tom wasn't.

He knew he was foolish, he was such a Gryffindor, and he was a stupid bleeding heart for thinking that Lord Voldemort could ever change, but he was already in too deep and he was seeing it, he was feeling it. Every night.

Ever since Harry's knowledge of occlumency began to grow, he had been able to reach into his connection with Tom more and more. Their dreams recently were strange and hazy in an unreal way, nothing like the visions they'd had before, but just because these recent dreams weren't entirely physical didn't mean they weren't real. They felt emotional, a tie soul-deep. In those dreams, Harry and Tom were both bare and lying against the other. Their hearts were open to each other and they could feel what the other felt. They didn't have to speak because their minds were one, and their bodies were entangled in a way so deep that Harry swore he could feel it in his soul.

It felt like healing, as if something small and hurting in Tom was piecing itself back together through Harry, as if Harry's magic was the glue filling in the cracks in Tom's consciousness. He wasn't sure how he knew that, but he felt it. And with every dream, Tom seemed more solid, more real and whole.

He had no idea what it was, and neither did Tom. And every morning after their shared dreams, Harry expected another letter from Tom. Or a vision. Or maybe a secret rendezvous in the Forbidden Forest if Harry's prayers bore fruit. It had gotten to the point that Harry, who was feeling rather pent up, started to make good use of his hand under the cover of darkness and silencing charms. His wrist felt rather sore these days.

It was stupid, really. Harry had never had this much of a sex drive before, the virgin that he was, but now that he knew the joys of sex, he found himself thinking of it more and more, and he was masturbating more than he'd ever done in his entire Hogwarts career, which was a lot, considering he was still a teenage boy, presentation or not. But he was an omega, and he had felt a slight increase in his sex drive after his presentation, considering the influx of new hormones at the time. Now, it was simply...more. He pointed his finger at Tom for that.

Anyway, in lieu of actually being with Tom, Harry had begun to pay more attention to both the Daily Prophet and Ginny's copies of Witch Weekly (turns out Tom had won the Weekly's most charming smile award, what a surprise that was, Harry had thought sarcastically), to the point that it was getting unhealthy.

Hermione assumed it was because he was feeling embittered and rageful that Voldemort was able to fool the masses.

She did her best to reassure him. "I know it's hard, Harry, but don't worry! He can't stay hidden as," she scrunched her nose, annoyed, "Thomas Slytherin for very long. The Wizarding World will realize how mad he is! I know his policies seem good, but he's just trying to fool everyone—"

"Is he?" Harry interrupted her. "His policies are weirdly...good. As in, he's been lobbying for an earlier introduction into the magical world for muggleborns, and increasing the Hogwarts supplies funding for the students who can't afford it. Isn't that strange to you?" And then, seeking the shocked surprise in her expression, he added, "Also, when was the last time the Light side passed any pro-creature or muggleborn laws? Slytherin's trying to do that, and the Light just...isn't. They're too concerned with keeping up the status quo, and even Dumbledore is going against pretty reasonable bills, just because Slytherin was the one behind them."

Hermione looked dumbstruck at that. "I've never thought of it that way."

A sigh, and then Hermione slumped on the couch to fall beside him. "Honestly, you're right. Yes, it's so strange. I just don't get it. I-I didn't want to say anything—to make you angry, I mean, but how are we so sure that Lord Slytherin is really You-Know—er, Voldemort, I mean?" She looked away from Harry, across the room to the fireplace, as if she couldn't bear to look him in the eyes.

"You saw Riddle's face back in second year, but Voldemort's face is so different now, and glamours can't easily anchor themselves to a face that...inhuman, and a transfiguration just can't be convenient, and it wouldn't work long-term. The Ministry would also pick up on that sort of magic. So how can we be certain that Thomas Slytherin really is Voldemort? I wanted to trust you and Headmaster Dumbledore, but it's...Slytherin isn't a pureblood maniac, from what it looks like, and he isn't publicly aligning with those sorts of people either. I'm just confused. Harry, is there any chance that maybe...maybe Thomas Slytherin isn't Voldemort, but a relative? A cousin—or a son, grandson, perhaps?"

She appeared regretful just for suggesting it, as if Harry would suddenly blow up at her for airing perfectly reasonable thoughts.

Harry said nothing. His throat suddenly felt dry, and he began to pay attention to the curling orange flames of the fireplace, just to have something to look at other than Hermione. What could he say to that? Should he just lie again?

Thomas Slytherin was undoubtedly Voldemort. He couldn't be a cousin, as the Gaunts looked nothing like the Riddles and Harry doubted Morfin would lower himself to sleeping with Riddle Sr's sister if he had one, and the Riddles had no Slytherin heritage themselves, so Thomas Slytherin must either have been Voldemort or directly related to him, especially for that Lordship to hold.

His lips pursed, and before he could really think about it, he spoke. "He could be. He looks so much like Riddle did, but he doesn't act like him. At all." Before Hermione, who had a suspicious gleam in her eye, could say anything, Harry added, "I—I don't know him, obviously, but Voldemort is—" Harry silently sent an apology off to Tom, "—insane. He's utterly mad, and I'm not sure if he's Slytherin. I'm not sure of anything right now. I'm...not sure what to believe."

Harry ducked his head. At least the last part was true.

"Harry...," Hermione whispered, leaning her head on his shoulder. She rubbed his arm comfortingly.

"I know it's hard, but Ron and Ginny and I, we're here for you. I promise. You can talk to us, we'll understand."

Will you? Harry thought.

He closed his eyes and tried to relax.

Harry sighed. He truly was becoming a rather prolific liar.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

After that encounter with Hermione, Harry sent off a wave of relaxed warmth towards Tom, who had mentally sent a barrage of worried question marks towards him.

It's okay, I'm alright, he tried to convey in feelings, not words, as his scar throbbed comfortingly. It didn't feel like a headache anymore. It was more like a second heartbeat. It was soothing, and the more often it happened the more closely it felt like Tom and Harry were tied. He couldn't exactly summon up any feelings of reluctance at that, even if he should have.

Their link wasn't so one-sided anymore. Harry and Tom were both paying attention to it and sending things through it, and now that Harry was aware of how to work the link, it had gotten so much stronger. Tom certainly didn't mind, for how often he was checking in on Harry and mentally 'talking' to him.

The link hadn't yet progressed to them sending words across to each other, if it ever would, but sometimes Tom would unconsciously project stresstirednessfrustrationannoyance and can'tthosefoolsdoanythingright? and Harry would respond with warmthcareloveaffection.

Tom would stumble back mentally. Just a little. And then he'd send a mental exclamation mark and ask what the lovewarmthcare was that Harry sent over, from which Harry would send another barrage of it towards him. Harry wasn't ashamed to admit that he'd almost teared up at the thought that Tom didn't know what love was. So obviously, he—randomly and throughout the day—opened up their link to send affectionlovewarmth at Tom.

A bit of time would pass before Tom would actually try to send something back, but he did. Harry was in Potions class with Slughorn, and when he felt hesitantlikeanunfurlingflowercareaffection, he'd stumbled and almost dropped his silver knife into the cauldron. It was only due to his quick Seeker reflexes that he'd caught it.

"Woah, there...be more careful next time, my boy," Slughorn started with a boisterous chortle.

Sheepishly, Harry said, "Sorry, Professor."

Then, he sent back another wave of love towards Tom. (He consciously did not attempt to ruminate over what it meant that he sent love towards Tom; he was better off not thinking about it.)

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

One day, about two weeks after the start of October, Harry was lying in bed as he read the Half-Blood Prince book. There was a strange spell scribbled in the margins along with a scrawl of 'For Enemies.'

Sectumsempra, the spell was. He was awashed with a wave of curiosity, but he didn't dare attempt the spell in the dorm room. He kept it in mind, though. It might be useful.

He whittled away some time reading the book, and before he knew it, he was travelling down to breakfast with Ron and Hermione. They ended up on the topic of the Half-Blood Prince.

"I'm not sure about that spell, Harry. 'For enemies?' We have no idea who this Half-Blood Prince could be! He could be a Death Eater for all we know. That spell could be dark," she whispered.

“I don’t see where you get that from,” said Harry heatedly. “If he’d been a budding Death Eater he wouldn’t have been boasting about being ‘halfblood,’ would he?”

Even as he said it, Harry remembered that his father had been pureblood, but he pushed the thought out of his mind; he would worry about that later....

“The Death Eaters can’t all be pureblood, there aren’t enough pureblood wizards left,” said Hermione stubbornly. “I expect most of them are halfbloods pretending to be pure. It’s only muggleborns they hate, they’d be quite happy to let you and Ron join up.”

“There is no way they’d let me be a Death Eater!” said Ron indignantly, a bit of sausage flying off the fork he was now brandishing at Hermione and hitting Ernie Macmillan on the head. “My whole family are blood traitors! That’s as bad as muggleborns to Death Eaters!”

“And they’d love to have me,” said Harry sarcastically.

“We’d be best pals if they didn’t keep trying to do me in.”

This made Ron laugh; even Hermione gave a grudging smile, and a distraction arrived in the shape of Ginny.

“Hey, Harry, I’m supposed to give you this.”

It was a scroll of parchment with Harry’s name written upon it in familiar thin, slanting writing.

“Thanks, Ginny.... It’s Dumbledore’s next lesson!” Harry told Ron and Hermione, pulling open the parchment and quickly reading its contents.

“Monday evening!” He felt suddenly light and happy. “Want to join us in Hogsmeade, Ginny?” he asked.

"Oh, no thank you. I...er, have something to do!" She blurted, and then she looked suspiciously away from them and towards the Slytherin table. "I might join up with you all later, though. For a drink at Rosmerta's." Then she left.

Huh, thought Harry. Weird. He of all people knew better than to ask, though. He'd rather let Ginny keep her secrets until she was ready to come to him.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Ginny felt just a smidge of guilt. She didn't really have an errand to run, she was just suspicious. Dra—Malfoy had been acting so strange all year, and she'd spent more of her free time than she was willing to admit simply watching him. She didn't speak to him, of course, not ever since the incident during the summer, but Malfoy was somehow off all this year. His habits had changed, and he looked so tired. Ginny didn't like it.

Then, when she heard he was going to Hogsmeade, she wondered what he would do. She doubted he was up to anything, but she still wanted to keep watch. Malfoy was so clearly a Death Eater, and while she didn't have Harry's Marauders' Map, she could make do with her own investigative skills.

So, when she found Malfoy wandering around the rough area of the Three Broomsticks, about to enter, she pushed her way through the crowd of students.

"Malfoy!" She shouted. "Malfoy! Can we talk?" She had no idea why, but when she saw the hard set of his jaw and the dark and determined gleam in his eyes as he prepared to enter the establishment, she knew he had to stop him from whatever he was planning. Whatever it was, Ginny had the feeling that it would be terrible.

He startled. "Weasley—"

She grabbed him by the arm, and she dragged him a few paces away to a darkened alley. (What was it with her, Malfoy, and alleys? She had been in too many of them recently, she could admit.)

He pushed her hand off him once she succeeded in getting him away. "What do you want—it's so uncouth, Weasley, dragging me around like an animal...." He huffed, but he didn't sound very angry. Just...relieved? His hands had stopped shivering. She thought it had been from the cold, but he was wearing gloves, she noticed.

She had no idea what to say.

Then, looking around and seeing something poking out of his pocket, she blurted. "I—I know your secret!"

Malfoy paled.

"What do you know?" He hissed.

She stood tall, and she doubled down on her story. "A lot. I know that you've been sneaking around often, you're later to your classes than usual and you almost got detention with McGonagall for not turning in your homework, and—and...you look scared."

"Scared," he said, more a repetition of what she said than a question.

"Yes. Scared," she continued. "You just...you look so sad all the time. You broke up with Parkinson—" (Not that Ginny noticed, she certainly didn't care) "—but while she was broken up about it, you weren't. You just kept your head down and you haven't bothered Harry all year! Then that time in Knockturn Alley. You did something with your sleeve and—"

"I'll cut you off right there," he interrupted her with a snarl. He backed her into a corner, and with a dark look, he whispered into her ear. "I know where that thought goes, Weaslette. Don't finish it."

Ginny stared up at him. She smirked. "Finish what? I know your secrets, Malfoy. Aren't you angry? Upset?"

He raised an eyebrow, then he chuckled, whispering, "Weasley, you stubborn girl...."

Her stomach swooped, then, because of his words and the deep, velvety tone he used.

Malfoy was suddenly too close to her and his rainherblimelemon scent danced in her nose. "No, actually, because I know you've been watching me. You know about my breakup with Pansy, but it wasn't big or dramatic—that means you paid attention to me."

He noticed the way she looked at him, the slight o-shape to her half-opened lips, and he uttered lowly, "See anything you like, Weaslette?"

Her heart skipped a beat.

Then, she flushed bright red. Not in embarrassment, but anger. He was turning this back on her. He was—he was using his status against her. Obviously, she would react to his natural alpha musk if he were to just suddenly wave it in her face! She was an omega, and he was a desirable alpha.

Her brain shorted. Oh, Godric. What were they doing in this situation? Her mother would flay her alive if she knew she was being pinned to an alleyway in a rather suggestive position by a Malfoy.

In a sudden fit of sanity, Ginny pushed him away, flustered.

"Shut up! That-that doesn't matter!"

"It doesn't? My, Weaslette, judging by that blush on your face it looks like you're embarrassed. Hm, who knows, maybe you're just jealous." He grinned, like the peacock he was. "Do you want to date me, to have been in Pansy's place?" He stepped closer to her, and Ginny's scent peaked in a way she wasn't going to unpack.

Malfoy's hand reached out to grab one of her curls, twirling it in a way all too reminiscent of their last meeting. "If I did date you, I can assure you I wouldn't have broken up with you like I did with Pansy. That girl—she's a friend more than a lover. But you..." He smirked playfully.

He brought the lock of hair up to his nose, and he smiled. "Strawberries. You smell like strawberries." He sighed.

Ginny's nose scrunched. He was cornering her, playing with her like a cat would with its food. She snarled.

"Step away from me. Now."

Instantly, his hand shot away from her. At least he can listen to orders, she thought.

"I'm not some toy, Malfoy. Don't just—don't just do that! You hear me?" She got close to him and poked him on the chest to emphasize her point. Their faces were far too close and she got an up-close view of the way his pupils blew.

She huffed, and before he could say anything, she stomped out of that alleyway.

Then, she dashed all the way back to Rosmerta's before she realised Malfoy wasn't following her.

It was packed. Too packed for Malfoy to do whatever he was planning. Rosmerta herself was having a time trying to cater to everyone. Ginny sighed in relief.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Harry split up from his friends. Ron was loyally following Hermione, but Harry said he had an errand to run and he skipped off to a curios and antique shop to buy just a little something he thought he might need.

For weeks now, he kept looking at the stunningly made, elegant snake bracelet that Tom had sent as his first official courting gift, and Harry just wanted to send something back. Sure, he'd sent the blanket, but Tom had sent one of his own already, and Harry wouldn't be outdone by Tom.

So, he purchased a few books on magical metallurgy and a kit for it. Just a few pieces of metal and some gems he'd hopefully transfigure into something much nicer. Perhaps a ring to match the bracelet on his wrist? He'd send it to Tom as a gift of some sort, perhaps for Christmas.

He just wanted to do something in return for him. He wanted to prove himself to Tom, that he'd be a good mate. And it wasn't the omega in him talking either. Harry wasn't explicitly against being given affection and spoiled as an omega—not that he'd ever say that out loud, but Tom seemed exactly the type of alpha to spoil his mate rotten—but he wanted to spoil Tom as well. He wanted to prove himself.

So he would. He would craft an excellent gift for Tom. He wasn't half bad at Transfiguration if he said so himself, so hopefully he'd be able to make something good.

Harry took a deep breath in. Hopefully.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

It was a short wait til the second meeting Harry had with Dumbledore, and he spent that time thinking. What was Professor Dumbledore even doing? How was he fighting against Voldemort? (Not that he was technically Voldemort anymore, but that was complicated) As of the current moment, all he'd been doing was spending a strange amount of time outside of the castle, and now he was showing Harry memories of Tom's childhood.

Not that the memories were unappreciated. He certainly approved of having access to the past that Tom would never in a million years reveal to him of his own will, but it just didn't make sense to show Harry this. What would it change? All of it had already happened, so how would this defeat Voldemort?

Not that Harry would. Just the thought was treasonous, but he wouldn't fight in the coming war. He'd be ending it, just not through battle. He'd thought long and hard about it, and perhaps Dumbledore was right—the power Voldemort knew not, it was love.

Or perhaps, more likely, desire.

Tom desired Harry just as much as Harry desired him, it was mutual, and if they were to mate, Harry may just become the linchpin in ending the war. That's all he wanted. In a perfect world, Tom would end all of his Dark Lord nonsense and they could just be together, without any of the drama, and Harry would be free of guilt.

But this wasn't that world, and Harry was coming face to face with the realization that he wanted to stay with Tom. He'd grown far more fond of him than he had any right to. It was stupid, but Harry's bleeding heart cared. Just the smallest show of affection and Harry began to fall.

To be fair, so did Tom. He hadn't yet realized, but Harry knew. No one would be able to falsify those feelings through the link, even Tom, and it felt genuine. Tom cared. Tom could love. Tom worried for Harry.

He kept that close to his heart.

After Harry scaled the staircase to Dumbledore's office, when he looked at the man, his gaze was centred on his crooked nose. Dumbledore could never know.

Their meeting began, and it wasn't any different from the last. Just more elucidating.

“I was wondering whether you could tell me anything of Tom Riddle’s history? I think he was born here in the orphanage?”

Harry's gaze was pinned to the woman—Mrs Cole—the moment he realized this memory was directly about Tom.

“That’s right,” said Mrs Cole, helping herself to more gin. “I remember it clear as anything, because I’d just started here myself. New Year’s Eve and bitter cold, snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn’t the first. We took her in, and she had the baby within the hour. And she was dead in another hour.”

New Years, Harry thought. Tom's birthday. He would remember that.

Mrs Cole nodded impressively and took another generous gulp of gin.

“Did she say anything before she died?” Asked Dumbledore. “Anything about the boy's father, for instance?"

“Now, as it happens, she did,” said Mrs Cole, who seemed to be rather enjoying herself now, with the gin in her hand and an eager audience for her story. “I remember she said to me, ‘I hope he looks like his papa,’ and I won’t lie, she was right to hope it, because she was no beauty—and then she told me he was to be named Tom, for his father, and Marvolo, for her father—yes, I know, funny name, isn’t it? We wondered whether she came from a circus—and she said the boy’s surname was to be Riddle. And she died soon after that without another word.

“Well, we named him just as she’d said, it seemed so important to the poor girl, but no Tom nor Marvolo nor any kind of Riddle ever came looking for him, nor any family at all, so he stayed in the orphanage and he’s been here ever since.”

Mrs Cole helped herself, almost absentmindedly, to another healthy measure of gin. Two pink spots had appeared high on her cheekbones. Then she said, “He’s a funny boy.”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “I thought he might be.”

“He was a funny baby too. He hardly ever cried, you know. And then, when he got a little older, he was...odd.”

“Odd in what way?” asked Dumbledore gently.

“Well, he—”

And then Harry heard the rumours. Billy Stubbs and his rabbit, Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop and the cave—the incidents.

He sighed. He couldn't be surprised. In that environment, no wonder things were...off. Tom wasn't a very kind boy, and neither was the orphanage he was raised in. Somehow, Harry got the feeling that whatever Tom had done, it was a retaliation to what had been done to him.

He couldn't exactly support what Tom did, but Harry couldn't bring himself to be angry. He understood. If he had known of his magic at a young age, he'd have used it against Dudley and his goons. He'd even trapped Dudley in a snake exhibit once, and that was cruel as well. Tom was a child, could he really have been at fault for that?

To an extent, yes. But he also should have been disciplined by his caretakers, and he wasn't. The matron who was meant to do so clearly didn't want to, nor did she really care about the children under her guardianship, judging by the gulp of liquor she just took. And she was already talking badly about Tom as well, as if she wanted to close the door to a great opportunity for him.

“Tom? You’ve got a visitor. This is Mr Dumberton—sorry, Dunderbore. He’s come to tell you—well, I’ll let him do it.”

Harry and the two Dumbledores entered the room, and Mrs Cole closed the door on them. It was a small bare room with nothing in it except an old wardrobe, a wooden chair, and an iron bedstead. A boy was sitting on top of the grey blankets, his legs stretched out in front of him, holding a book.

There was no trace of the Gaunts in Tom Riddle’s face. Merope had got her dying wish: He was his handsome father in miniature, tall for eleven years old, dark-haired, and pale. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Dumbledore’s eccentric appearance. There was a moment’s silence.

Harry took in his features. It was so clearly Tom, but he was all cherubic looks and chubby cheeks with gangly little limbs. Harry smiled. He was an adorable child.

“How do you do, Tom?” said Dumbledore, walking forward and holding out his hand.

The boy hesitated, then took it, and they shook hands. Dumbledore drew up the hard wooden chair beside Tom, so that the pair of them looked rather like a hospital patient and visitor.

“I am Professor Dumbledore.”

“‘Professor’?” repeated Tom. He looked wary. “Is that like ‘doctor’?

What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?”

He was pointing at the door through which Mrs Cole had just left.

“No, no,” said Dumbledore, smiling.

Then, while Dumbledore tried to explain who he was and what he was doing in the orphanage, Tom looked fearful. He grew more angry, then, and he shouted, "Tell me!"

Harry's heart ached. It was clear the boy thought he'd be sent off somewhere, just as the Dursleys had once threatened to send him off to an orphanage. Tom was so scared, and Harry could see that in his dark grey eyes.

And then, when Dumbledore finally explained, Tom's eyes widened. Harry could see it in his face, hope.

"Magic?"

“That’s right,” said Dumbledore.

“It’s...it’s magic, what I can do?”

“What is it that you can do?”

“All sorts,” breathed Tom. A flush of excitement was rising up his neck into his hollow cheeks; he looked fevered.

“I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.”

Harry understood. He understood exactly what Tom meant, but then he saw the look in the younger Dumbledore's eyes. He didn't take that well. What Tom said...it was cruel, but Harry understood. To orphaned children such as them, magic was a tool, both a shield and a sword.

His legs were trembling. He stumbled forward and sat down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head bowed as though in prayer.

“I knew I was different,” he whispered to his own quivering fingers. “I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something.”

“Well, you were quite right,” said Dumbledore, who was no longer smiling, but watching Riddle intently. “You are a wizard.”

Tom lifted his head. His face was transfigured: There was a wild happiness upon it, yet for some reason it did not make him better looking; on the contrary, his finely carved features seemed somehow rougher, his expression almost bestial.

“Are you a wizard too?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Prove it,” said Tom at once, in the same commanding tone he had used when he had said, “Tell the truth.”

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts—”

“Of course I am!”

“Then you will address me as ‘Professor’ or ‘sir.’" Tom's expression hardened for the most fleeting moment before he said, in an unrecognizably polite voice, “I’m sorry, sir. I meant—please, Professor, could you show me—?”

Flames. The wardrobe, Tom's wardrobe, burst into flames.

Harry balled his fists. Of all the god-awful ways to be introduced to magic—

Never before had Harry ever felt this much rage towards Dumbledore. He set flames to Tom's wardrobe, and even though it wasn't real, Harry couldn't simply forget the heartbroken look of loss on the face of a young Tom.

And then, embarrassment. As all the stolen items made their way out of Tom's wardrobe, as Dumbledore's dressing down made Tom shy away from the man's unforgiving eyes, Harry could see the utter humiliation in Tom's expression.

And again, Harry was angry. How could this be a good way to discipline a child? All it did was make Tom angry, embarrassed, and hateful of the man who humiliated him. No wonder Voldemort always hated Dumbledore. So would Harry!

Harry slowly calmed his breathing as the memory continued. It wouldn't do to have Dumbledore ask why he was so angry. Then, Harry noticed Tom's lips flicker downwards.

“You dislike the name ‘Tom’?”

“There are a lot of Toms,” muttered Tom. Then, as though he could not suppress the question, as though it burst from him in spite of himself, he asked, “Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle too, they’ve told me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” said Dumbledore, his voice gentle.

“My mother can’t have been magic, or she wouldn’t have died,” said Tom, more to himself than Dumbledore. “It must’ve been him. So—when I’ve got all my stuff—when do I come to this Hogwarts?”

“All the details are on the second piece of parchment in your envelope,” said Dumbledore. “You will leave from King’s Cross Station on the first of September. There is a train ticket in there too.”

Tom nodded. Dumbledore got to his feet and held out his hand again. Taking it, Tom said, “I can speak to snakes. I found out when we’ve been to the country on trips—they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?”

Harry could tell that he had withheld mention of this strangest power until that moment, determined to impress.

“It is unusual,” said Dumbledore, after a moment’s hesitation, “but not unheard of.”

His tone was casual but his eyes moved curiously over Riddle’s face. They stood for a moment, man and boy, staring at each other. Then the handshake was broken; Dumbledore was at the door.

“Goodbye, Tom. I shall see you at Hogwarts.”

“I think that will do,” said the white-haired Dumbledore at Harry’s side, and seconds later, they were soaring weightlessly through darkness once more, before landing squarely in the present-day office.

With the memory complete, Harry and Dumbledore were free to discuss it.

Harry spent the discussion deep in thought, asking questions automatically and pretending as if he wasn't still reeling from the shock of seeing a young Tom be made a joke out of by Dumbledore. Undoubtedly, Tom was not innocent, but what Professor Dumbledore did—it felt too harsh.

“His powers, as you heard, were surprisingly well-developed for such a young wizard and—most interestingly and ominously of all—he had already discovered that he had some measure of control over them, and begun to use them consciously. And as you saw, they were not the random experiments typical of young wizards: He was already using magic against other people, to frighten, to punish, to control. The little stories of the strangled rabbit and the young boy and girl he lured into a cave were most suggestive...'I can make them hurt if I want to....”

“And he was a Parselmouth,” interjected Harry.

“Yes, indeed; a rare ability, and one supposedly connected with the Dark Arts, although as we know, there are Parselmouths among the great and the good too. In fact, his ability to speak to serpents did not make me nearly as uneasy as his obvious instincts for cruelty, secrecy, and domination."

And then, Dumbledore went on to speak of Tom's dislike of his name, something Harry could understand considering that as far as Tom knew, he was named after the man who abandoned his mother to give birth to an infant alone.

He spoke harshly of Tom, of his personality and habits in ways Harry certainly understood. Tom wasn't kind. He became Voldemort. He was cruel, and what Dumbledore said made Harry hesitate.

Could someone such as that change?

“And lastly—I hope you are not too sleepy to pay attention to this, Harry—the young Tom Riddle liked to collect trophies. You saw the box of stolen articles he had hidden in his room. These were taken from victims of his bullying behaviour, souvenirs, if you will, of particularly unpleasant bits of magic. Bear in mind this magpie-like tendency, for this, particularly, will be important later.

"And now, it is time for bed."

Harry got to his feet, and as he left, he eyed Dumbledore once more. He felt hollow as he glimpsed into twinkling blue eyes once more—not deeply, he instantly stared back at the man's nose—and he realized something.

Dumbledore was not the innocent man he portrayed himself to be. And at the same time, Voldemort—Tom, wasn't the fully evil man Harry was always told he was.

If good was bad and bad was good, could any option be truly good?

Harry wasn't certain, but that thought still put a horrid taste in his mouth. It didn't make him feel any better about his choices.

He chose Tom, undoubtedly. He stared at the bracelet on his wrist. He had only ever taken it off to shower or for Quidditch practice ever since Tom had given it to him.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

The day after Harry's lesson with Dumbledore, he couldn't keep his mind off of things. He made sure to fill Ron and Hermione in about his recent lesson before they got to Herbology that day—to their surprised stares and shock about a boy You-Know-Who—but his thoughts just wouldn't stop. He still wasn't sure why Dumbledore was showing him all of this, and it didn't help that what he was seeing was tilting his whole world off its axis.

There was so much to think about and all he could remember was the way Dumbledore spoke of Tom, as if he were a monster since birth. He was a boy, once, just like Harry. He grew up unloved and abandoned by those who should have cared for him, yet unlike Harry, he did terrible things to survive. Tom wasn't kind or good by any means, but Harry wasn't certain that that was solely Tom's own fault. How could he have known any better if no one taught him? If he was never given a guiding hand?

And instead of being that hand and teaching Tom, Dumbledore humiliated and chastised him. What Dumbledore did wasn't discipline, and it didn't make Tom feel guilty for his crimes. All it was was a man using his power and authority over a child who did the only thing he could do to save himself.

Harry didn't know what Dumbledore could have done better, but surely there was something else he could have done. Harry wasn't certain. Perhaps, had things been different, they wouldn't be here now and Tom wouldn't have ever become Voldemort....

Somehow, that thought did not fill Harry with much joy. (He refused to think about why.)

"So, mate, whatcha think about Slughorn's Christmas party," Ron asked from beside him.

"Huh?" Harry jolted a bit, still deep in thought. "What party?"

"It was on the house bulletin this morning. Professor Slughorn's hosting a ball!" Hermione looked overjoyed, if a little stressed. "Only members of the Slug Club can go, along with anyone else Slughorn's invited, of course—Ron can even go; he was invited because his family's on the Sacred 28 list," she rolled her eyes, "but...I've heard there will be other well-connected adult wix that are coming!"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Really, just for some stupid school party?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes! Professor Slughorn is very well-connected, you know, so he'll be inviting some former students and other close friends of his. It'll be an important networking opportunity. I'll be able to promote SPEW! And also gain important Ministry contacts. That's rather important, you know, as I am a muggleborn and don't have those pureblood connections like Malfoy does—"

Ron coughed, then he said, "I don't know about you, Hermione, but remember—it's still a party, I'd worry less about connections and more about who I'm asking out. Remember the Yule Ball?" He shivered in remembrance. "Terrible time, that."

Hermione froze. "Ah, yes...so about that, who are you talking?" Her voice was pinched as she stared at Ron, and Harry suddenly got a faint whiff of beta displeasure.

A sigh left his lips. These two....

"I dunno yet," Ron shrugged his shoulders. "Lavender has been acting really nice since this morning, though...maybe I'll chance my luck with her?" He sighed adoringly. "She's so gorgeous...I doubt she'll actually—"

Hermione frowned as she stared back at her plant. They were still in Herbology class, after all, just in the practical portion. They were meant to be taking care of their plants at the moment, but they had time to talk. "I see...I'm still trying to figure out who I'll go with. Maybe I'll get asked."

Harry elbowed Ron in the side. At Ron's 'ouch', Harry gave him a look.

At that, a flush lighted the boy's cheeks and he looked away. "Um—I, we'll see! So—anyway, isn't there some super special guest coming?"

Hermione perked up, and Harry found himself glad that they were finally finished with the last topic of conversation. He had absolutely no idea who he'd take. He was an omega now, so maybe it was expected that someone would ask him out? He wasn't sure and he wasn't ready to chance it. He could just choose to go stag. It wasn't as if he had to share a champion's dance with anyone. Though if it were with Tom...Harry wouldn't have minded. His stomach swooped at the thought.

"Yes! I overheard Professor Slughorn in the hallways talking about it. Some Lord is coming!"

"Like from the Wizengamot?" Harry asked. "Who?"

Hermione couldn't say, and even though that was all she knew, Harry's heart sped up. Surely.... No, of course not. He couldn't be silly. He shook his head.

Harry's scar twitched. It was just his imagination, he was sure.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Quidditch practice that evening wasn't exactly awful, but it was certainly a bit of a mess. It first began with McLaggen being a complete and utter—well, Harry would probably get smacked on the head by Hermione for using that language, but McLaggen was such a knothead alpha dying for an omega cunt that Harry was so instantly turned off by it. Even if Harry wasn't already being courted—which practically the whole school knew about by now, but clearly McLaggen cared not about it—he still wouldn't have entertained the boy's advances. He was all too cocky with too much bravado and no real talent to show for it. If he really wanted to impress Harry, he should have purchased better flying skills.

He rolled his eyes at the alpha boy's antics but ignored them. Instead, he focused on Ron, whose anxiety was not at all helping the cohesion of the team during practice.

"Sorry, sorry!" The boy shouted, as he failed once more to keep the quaffle out of the goal. If this were an actual game, the enemy would have scored thirty points by now. Ron should have been glad Harry liked him more than McLaggen, because if he didn't, McLaggen would be the primary Keeper.

Ron was talented, though. He knew how to fly with good reflexes, he just kept second-guessing himself.

Harry sighed. So this was what the weight of leadership felt like. It was too much. He suddenly felt glad he wasn't a Prefect, even if he felt a bit jealous the previous year. He infinitely preferred Quidditch over late-night hallway patrols.

Once practice finished, it was late evening and Harry and Ron took a shortcut to get back to the common room. Halfway there, they happened across an interesting sight.

They heard voices shouting at each other first before they could make out the faces.

"Damn it, Weasley, would you just stop following me!" The boy hissed, grabbing her by the arm.

Ginny slapped him off, shouting, "You jerk! Damn it, Draco, I know you don't want this. It's hurting you, I know, I can—"

"What? What can you do, Weasley, that won't kill you, too?!" A familiar male voice, he sounded pained. It was...Malfoy?

They saw them, Ginny and Malfoy, in a compromising position. Malfoy had her to the wall, and they were far too close for Harry's first guess to be that this was an innocent encounter.

Harry raised a shocked brow. That was all of his reaction, but Ron? Well, he was fuming.

"Get off of her!" He shouted, snarling. Malfoy immediately backed off with a wince, suddenly brought back to perspective with the realization that he was caught with the daughter of the house his family was still in a blood feud with.

Ginny hissed back at him. "It's fine, Ron! Don't mind me!"

Ron twisted around and turned to her. "And you! A Malfoy, really? He's a slimy, hare-brained little ferret!"

Malfoy bared his teeth. "Oh, a ferret, am I?" He bared his wand. "I'll show you—"

Ginny got between them. "Stop! Both of you!"

She faced her brother with unusually flushed cheeks and a stern demeanour. "We weren't doing anything! I cornered him! It's fine, Ron, just ignore it."

"Ignore it?! He was besmirching your honour!"

Ginny gave him a side-eye. Her voice turned cold. "Besmirching my—ugh! This is not the 1600s anymore, Ron! You don't need to protect your innocent, omega little sister's honour anymore! I can make my own choices, including who I hang out with!"

"You can make your own choices just as long as they're good ones!" Ron's glare was firey-hot on Malfoy.

"Oh, just as long as they're approved by you, you mean?" She rolled her eyes. "I'm so clueless, aren't I? So clueless that I need my dumb older brother to tell me what to do with my life. Well, screw you, Ron!"

She flicked at the air with her wand, and, suddenly, Ron screamed, pushed back into the wall by a huge gust of wind.

Harry gave an oof. That must have been painful.

Ginny huffed as she stomped away. Malfoy didn't follow after her, as he was going in a different direction. But he did chuckle a bit, though he received a glare from Ginny in return.

Harry was left to pick up the pieces after that mess. He sighed. The things he did for his friends.

Well, at least he knew that he wasn't the only one in an ill-begotten love affair with a Slytherin. He gave a small smirk. Ginny certainly had some things she neglected to share with him.

Chapter Text

Simply at the thought of a Christmas Ball, the whole school was in a buzz. Of course, the guest list was rather select—only the members of the Slug Club as well as other exceptional students would be invited. Invitations were still going out, and Harry had only just received his.

Most students, of course, either aimed to be invited or to snag a date from those of the student body who were. This meant that students paid much more attention in class—especially in Potions—and the points system had never gone through this many points before. Each house had about fifty more points by the end of the day. Minus five from Gryffindor, at least after Snape got his hands on poor Seamus, who had somehow managed to explode a shield charm. Snape's glare was truly frigid.

And for those students who hadn't a hope in hell of making the invite list, they began to twirl their hair and giggle and twiddle their thumbs waiting to be asked out. For example, Lavender Brown and her clear dedication towards becoming the future Mrs Weasley.

Harry raised an eyebrow at her antics. He'd hardly ever spoken to the pretty omega girl, but even he had blushed and stammered a bit at seeing her a few times over the years. Especially after third year, when everyone had suddenly either presented or had a growth spurt.

Lavender was very obvious about her feelings. She giggled and preened and smiled at all of Ron's mostly unfunny jokes, and to that, Hermione fumed.

Ron wasn't exactly in a good mood himself, not after the incident they would not speak of, but Lavender seemed to unconsciously dedicate herself to becoming a balm for that frustration. The boy turned as red as his hair the first time Lavender walked up to him, said, "Oh, you're so~ funny," and kissed his cheek.

Hermione snapped her books closed and stomped away in a huff from where she was trying to help Ron with his homework.

Harry gave a snort, all the way from up the staircase to the dorms when seeing this. It was as if everyone had collectively gone mad, including his friends. No one really needed a date (Harry pretended he wasn't still cradling hope beyond hope that Tom might suddenly visit), and his annoyance over seeing the entire castle devolve into a mound of teenage hormones wasn't quite legendary yet, but Snape's certainly was. It was the only thing tying them together. Silently, Harry agreed with Snape's lecture during class on the naivety of youth and their obsession with getting dates over paying attention in class when a pair of students were caught slipping notes to each other.

Harry mildly thought that Snape had never gone on a date in his life—the very idea was somehow discordant with his view of the man—but then Harry remembered his own failed date with Cho. He shivered. Now that was terrible. He had gotten much more...experience since then, but Tom and he had never actually....gone on a date.

He flushed. Not for the first time, Harry got the impression that he was a bit of a slag for that. But either way, a sigh escaped from his lips. Truly, it was as if the whole world but Harry had gone mad.

Except for maybe Ginny. She wasn't going on an actual date. She'd be going with Neville as friends. He would be her plus one. He wanted to go because of some famous herbology specialist who would be attending.

Harry raised an eyebrow, which he had done very often recently, he realized.

Ginny dragged him away, all the way off to the corner of the common room where no one could hear them. They were near the rarely-used bookcase. Unsurprisingly, hardly anyone ever stepped near it other than Hermione.

Before Ginny could begin to speak, Harry took out his wand and incanted a simple spell, "Muffliato. There, no one should be able to hear us now." A buzz fell over their shoulders like a cloak, not visible or audible, just...there.

"Huh. Smart."

Then, Harry gave an awfully cheeky smirk before saying, "So, Gin, got anything to tell me?"

Ginny glanced away for a moment, towards Ron, who was still flirting with Lavender. Hermione was nowhere to be seen.

Her shoulders slumped. "Honestly, Harry, I don't know."

"What do you mean?" How could she not know, when she had clearly been engaged in...something with Malfoy?

"I shouldn't even be explaining this to you! But...oh, it was all so sudden! And then, and then...." Ginny, embarrassed, began to explain.

It all began when Ginny was returning from the Ravenclaw common room—she'd been hanging out with Luna, she explained—and she crossed paths with Malfoy. He was just returning from the seventh floor, which she thought was strange. Slytherins had no business on that floor. She figured he might have been trying to bother Harry or something like that, and she confronted him.

"What are you up to, Malfoy? What are you doing here?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Can't a man walk in peace? Or does a little girl like you have to follow me around so as to settle your paranoia?"

Ginny got angry at that. She got closer to him, then, and that's when she recognized the bitter scent of hopelessness and abject misery coming off of Malfoy. She floundered.

Then, she began stumbling on her words. She paid closer attention to his features, and he looked exhausted. His hair wasn't as neatly combed as he usually preferred it (Harry didn't ask how she knew to pay so close attention to his hair), his lips were dry and cracked, and he had eyebags for days.

She asked if he was alright. Of course, he didn't take that well. He got upset, and he began to yell at her.

"It's none of your business what I feel, Weasley. I'm not some little charity project like your boyfriend Potter!" He snarled, yet Ginny noticed the way his scent hardly spiked with anger, just...misery.

She got closer to him, and, against the advice of her survival and self-preservation instincts, she wrapped her arms around his waist and allowed her head to settle on his shoulders. Malfoy froze.

Harry shook with hidden laughter, and he leered down at Ginny. "How forward of you, Ms Weasley."

Ginny eeped. Then, she smacked him on the shoulder. "Shut up! He was just...he looked like he needed a hug." She looked down.

And it worked, she explained. Malfoy melted in her arms, and while no tears dripped down his cheeks, his arms twitched at his sides, as if he wanted to hold her but couldn't. He took in her calming omega scent with a deep inhale.

"I didn't know what to do, Harry!" She exclaimed. "It was as if I'd gone mad! He looked so...so sad, and I just wanted to comfort him."

Ginny stared into Harry's eyes. "Is...is that crazy? He's a Malfoy, and-and a Death Eater for all I know, and our families hate each other! I don't know what I'm doing."

"And you're really asking me that?" Harry's lips flickered upwards. "Ironically, Tom and I's relationship is more...stable than whatever you have with Malfoy."

Harry sighed. "I don't think it's a problem, Ginny. Start whatever you want with Malfoy, I don't care. He's a prat and a stuck-up, stubborn bully, but I don't think he's evil. He doesn't have it in him to be a real Death Eater." Harry remembered the Quidditch World Cup, the graveyard, the Department of Mysteries...those were real Death Eaters. Malfoy wasn't that.

"But what about you?" She asked, her brown eyes warm and worried. "You say Malfoy isn't a real Death Eater, but you're shacking up with the man who created the Death Eaters. Are you okay, Harry? Really?"

He didn't know how to answer. Harry froze up at her question, and for a few long moments, all he did was stare down at his wrist and fiddle with his bracelet. Ginny's eyes fell down to stare at it as well.

"I made my choice, Gin. I can't take that back," he answered her.

"Would you want to?"

He shook his head. He made his bed, he'd lie in it.

(What he didn't explain was that if he could go back and change things, if he could instantly kill Voldemort and destroy the Death Eaters and end the war, he would hesitate.

Because somehow, the thought of killing Voldemort, the Dark Lord, was not much easier than killing Tom, the man he liked. They were one and the same, after all.

Harry didn't move from his spot for a long time after that. The realization terrified him.)

He didn't ask Ginny to explain any more than that. She didn't have to. Harry could easily figure out what must have happened afterwards. Malfoy must've come back to his senses, then he and Ginny got into an argument. And that's when Harry and Ron showed up. It was all cut and dry.

Ginny bit her lip after Harry answered her question, and her head bumped into the side of his shoulder. They weren't all that different in height, with Harry just barely taller than her with his 168 centimetres.

"I'm pretty sure that before, I wanted to call you an idiot, Harry. I didn't understand. Now, I think I do."

She didn't have to explain what she meant. Harry was a great big fool for his feelings, and Ginny was as well.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Ron's sour mood only worsened over the next few days. He fumed and huffed and hissed, and even Lavender's careful attentions and flirtations could hardly get through to him. Hermione, for the most part, wasn't speaking with Ron—which he hadn't actually noticed yet, considering he spent his time ranting at Hermione but not realising that the girl refused to reply.

It got to the point that during their final Quidditch practice before the match against Slytherin, Ron dug himself into his worst performance yet. He failed to save every single goal the Chasers aimed at him, but bellowed at everybody so much that he reduced Demelza Robins to tears.

“You shut up and leave her alone!” Shouted Peakes, who was about two-thirds Ron’s height, though admittedly carrying a heavy bat.

“ENOUGH!” Bellowed Harry, who had seen Ginny glowering in Ron’s direction and, remembering her reputation as an accomplished caster of the Bat-Bogey Hex, soared over to intervene before things got out of hand. “Peakes, go and pack up the Bludgers. Demelza, pull yourself together, you played really well today. Ron...,” he waited until the rest of the team were out of earshot before saying it, “you’re my best mate, but carry on treating the rest of them like this and I’m going to kick you off the team.”

He really thought for a moment that Ron might hit him, but then something much worse happened: Ron seemed to sag on his broom; all the fight went out of him and he said, “I resign. I’m pathetic.”

“You’re not pathetic and you’re not resigning!” Said Harry fiercely, seizing Ron by the front of his robes. “You can save anything when you’re on form, it’s a mental problem you’ve got!”

“You calling me mental?”

“Yeah, maybe I am!”

They glared at each other for a moment, then Ron shook his head wearily.

“I know you haven’t got any time to find another Keeper, so I’ll play tomorrow, but if we lose, and we will, I’m taking myself off the team.”

Nothing Harry said made any difference. He tried boosting Ron’s confidence all through dinner, but Ron was too busy being grumpy and surly with Hermione to notice. Harry persisted in the common room that evening, but his assertion that the whole team would be devastated if Ron left was somewhat undermined by the fact that the rest of the team was sitting in a huddle in a distant corner, clearly muttering about Ron and casting him nasty looks. Finally, Harry tried getting angry again in the hope of provoking Ron into a defiant, and hopefully goal-saving, attitude, but this strategy did not appear to work any better than encouragement; Ron went to bed as dejected and hopeless as ever.

Harry lay awake for a very long time in the darkness. He did not want to lose the upcoming match; not only was it his first as Captain, but he was determined to beat Draco Malfoy at Quidditch. He didn't exactly like the git, and he wanted to pay him back for being a prat towards Ginny. Yet if Ron played as he had done in the last few practices, their chances of winning were very slim....

If only there was something he could do to make Ron pull himself together...make him play at the top of his form...something that would ensure that Ron had a really good day....

And the answer came to Harry in one, sudden, glorious stroke of inspiration.

The next morning, breakfast was its usual excitable affair. The Slytherins booed and hissed at the Gryffindors, and Malfoy personally replied with a mean little sneer to Ron's snarl of sheer beta rage.

"Ron—come on, drink something. Pumpkin juice, water, anything?" Harry held a cup to Ron's face, also hiding a little phial behind his back, still corked.

Distractedly, Ron took the glass and was about to drink from it when Hermione's eyes narrowed in on Harry. She was just passing by the table and, as her first words to Ron in days, she shouted, "No, don't! He spiked it—Harry put something in your drink!"

"Excuse me?" Harry asked.

Ron twisted around in his seat. "Mate—"

Hermione glared. "I saw it! You just tipped something into Ron's drink! It's behind your back!"

Harry hurriedly stowed the little phial in his pocket, but it was too late, Ron's eyes had already narrowed in on the potion's golden gleam.

His eyes widened. "Blimey, mate, was that Slughorn's luck potion?"

Harry nodded.

"And you were going to...give it to me?" He looked shocked, almost tempted.

Then, Ron shook his head, steeling his expression into something determined. "No! I won't do it!" His fist landed on the table. "I'm not going to cheat with some stupid bloody luck potion! I'll win the damn game and sock Malfoy in his bloody face myself! No potion needed."

Then, Ron sighed, and he faced Harry again. He pushed the glass back into Harry's hands. "Thanks, Harry. I appreciate it, but I don't need it. Save the potion for something else."

Beaming, Harry chuckled, "Sure, Ron." Then, he pulled out the potion and showed it to Ron. He swished it in its phial. It was still full.

Ron's jaw dropped.

"I never thought you needed it anyway."

Teary-eyed, Hermione sat down next to Ron. She looked proud of him. She rested a hand on his, nodding. "We know you can do it, Ron. We believe in you. Now it's time you believe in yourself."

As one could imagine, by the time the actual match rolled around a few hours later, Ron performed brilliantly.

He didn't second guess himself or rethink his actions, he just did it. Harry couldn't watch the whole thing himself, due to his role as Seeker, but he did have eyes on Malfoy's little scowl.

The match ended once Harry caught the snitch, and by that point, they were fifty points ahead. Once they were off their brooms and making their way out of the pitch, Ron shouted in Malfoy's face. "Hah! That's for my sister you little—"

Harry yanked him by the collar. Being the responsible one really shouldn't have ever fallen onto him by any means, but he wouldn't let Ron score a detention right after he kept the other side from scoring those goals. He'd rather they bask in their win with the rest of Gryffindor House.

And they did.

Just an hour later, they celebrated their victory with a raucous party in the Gryffindor common room. Ron basked in the victory, and he spent a long while regaling the younger years with tales of his gruelling training under a vicious captain (thanks, Ron) and his long-shot win.

Ron's third, highly-embellished retelling of his win was interrupted by a certain omega girl with swaying hips and blonde curls. Standing behind him, Lavender curled her hands around his neck from where he was on an armchair.

Giggling sweetly, she began, "Oh, Ron! I knew you could do it! You did so great today." She rested her chin on his shoulder.

Harry stood close by, and he stared obviously at the scene. So did Hermione. From across the common room, her dark eyes and pinched face made it clear what she thought of Lavender's flirting. Harry winced. Those two girls were roommates, this was not bound to go well.

Ron patted Lavender's hand awkwardly as his eyes searched the room. "Thanks, Lav—"

"Oh, Lav!" She interrupted, grinning. "You should call me that, you know. It would be so cute. Matching nicknames! I would be Lav and you would be...hmm, Ronnie? Won-Won?" She was likely saying Ron-Ron, but in her voice, it sounded more like Won-Won.

Harry hid a snort behind his elbow, pretending it was a sneeze. Everyone around him saw through it, and by now, quite a few students were chuckling at the scene before them.

Hermione's eyes narrowed, her hands twitching for her wand. Harry was about to make a move towards her when something strange happened.

Ron's eyes zeroed in on Hermione from across the room. He jerked in Lavender's grasp. "Um, actually, Lavender, I really can't—"

"Oh, why not?" She pouted. "We've been chatting all week, isn't it about time to do more?"

A dark cloud arose over Hermione then, and Harry was about certain lightning would crackle over the common room when Ron did something unexpected.

He pushed Lavender's hands off of him, and then, with a determined look, he said, "I can't. I don't like you like that, Lavender. You're nice and pretty, but you're not my type."

Before Lavender could react, Ron pushed his way through the stunned crowd and stood in front of Hermione. "I know this is late, and I've been a big, stupid, emotionally stunted teaspoon like you said before—but will you please attend this Yule Ball with me, even though I didn't have the balls to ask you last time?"

Harry was sure Hermione teared up a bit as she nodded. "YES! Finally, I—yes, Ron, I would love to go with you." Her smile was so wide, and so was Ron's. They grinned awkwardly together, right until Ginny elbowed Ron in the side and broke the mood.

"You sure about my brother here, 'mione?" She nodded to him. "There are no takebacks."

Hermione giggled wetly, and she nodded. "I'm sure."

And then the party continued. Harry, for his part, congratulated the lovely pair. It was certainly about time.

He had gotten tired of their nonsense, and he was glad they had each other. Now to find his own date, Harry sighed. If only the one he wanted could go with him.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

The hours ticked by into days and weeks, and Slughorn's Christmas party was quickly approaching. The invitations had long been sent out, and dates had been secured for the invitees. Ron and Hermione were batting their eyes at each other, and, personally, Harry was just waiting for the chance to catch them doing something 'inappropriate' just so he could tease them for it the same way they teased him for Tom.

Harry spent more time with Ginny now, since Ron and Hermione were spending a lot more time together, and it was enjoyable. He didn't care about being a third wheel now; he had his own responsibilities with Quidditch and classes and a certain pet project of his.

It wasn't exactly easy, what he was planning. It was delicate work and he needed to borrow some of Hermione's Ancient Runes notes multiple times. He actually regretted not studying it in the first place, due to how useful it was, but there was nothing for it now.

And then, just a week before the party itself, Harry found himself holed up in the library with Hermione.

All he had left to do was put the finishing touches on his gift, and it was almost done. He was proud of his work, if he could say so himself, and he was sure it would be ready to be sent out by Christmas. Or perhaps New Year's, Tom's birthday.

Sighing, Harry lamented not being able to get Tom two gifts. By the time of his second lesson with Dumbledore, their last Hogsmeade trip had already passed and when he realized the date of Tom's birthday, he couldn't get him another gift, and nothing in his owl order catalogues fit. He bit his lip. There wasn't anything else Harry could think to get him anyway, so it was probably for the best.

It still didn't sit right with him, though.

"Harry," Hermione started, peeking her bushy head of hair up from her book before she set it down, "this...project you're working on, you said it was for your boyfriend? You've been awfully secretive about it, you know, and him."

Harry exhaled deeply, and he rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, it's...well, he's really private. I already told you why. I can't tell you about him yet." As far as any of his friends knew, his boyfriend—the phrase was still heady on his lips, and he prayed Tom would never hear of it—came from a dark family that wouldn't accept them together, and so they kept their courting private. Very private.

Hermione wasn't moved, still curious as she was. She often poked and prodded at Harry for details, and he couldn't find it in himself to fault for her it. He would do the same thing to her if she suddenly had a dangerous, dark, pureblood, alpha boyfriend. Lucky for her that Ron was her type, Harry thought bitterly. If only the same was true for him, then his life would be less complicated.

"Alright, then," she said, nodding gently. "How did you meet? When? You don't let people in easily, Harry, trust comes hard for you—" ouch, Harry thought, but it wasn't untrue, just hard to hear "—so I want to know what exactly you know about this alpha. What do you talk about? How long have you known each other?"

Then, she joked, "If this man is about to be all but my brother-in-law, I want to know about him."

Harry snorted. "Brother-in-law, huh? Don't worry, 'mione, I'll make you godmum when I have kids." Preferably with Tom, Harry blushed, and the idea made him feel strangely giddy, he found himself almost hopeful.

"Good. So...my questions?" You're not getting out of this easily, her hawk-like expression seemed to say.

A sigh, and Harry began to weave his tale. "Well, we first met during the Triwizard Tournament. It was a very...once-in-a-lifetime thing, you know? I just couldn't look away. We started talking, and we hit it off. But we only really got together during OWLs. Remember how I acted just before term ended? Yeah, that. And then we officially started courting when I got that letter." There, he thought, satisfied. That wasn't technically a lie, was it? It's all mostly true.

Her eyes widened, and Harry saw how her brilliant mind worked behind those brown irises. "Is he not a student? Or does he go to another school? You said you met up at Diagon Alley over the summer. I'm sure you must have sent a lot of letters—I can't believe I never noticed!"

"Er, he's British, born and bred, I'm pretty sure," he said awkwardly. "But he doesn't go to Hogwarts."

"Homeschooled, then?" She asked.

"No....?"

She gasped in realization. "If he's not a classmate, then...Harry! How old is this man exactly?"

Harry looked away, shy. Old enough to be my grandfather, he didn't say. He was pretty sure his grandfather was a bit older than Tom, actually, from what Sirius once said.

"Not that old. He barely looks a day over twenty." Well, that's a bit generous. Tom's face held a general ageless quality, but he could have been anywhere from mid-twenties to early-thirties. Perhaps not twenty, though. Harry didn't mind; he didn't realize he had a thing for older men until Tom, and well...he really didn't mind then. He turned red.

Hermione gave him a look. She sighed disappointedly. "Honestly, Harry. No wonder you didn't tell us. You must've thought we would overreact. And, Merlin, of course! Are you sure he really likes you? What could a man that age possibly see in a sixteen-year-old?!" She looked fraught. "The age gap isn't that bad, but you're so young, what could you possibly have in common?"

A roar of emotions flared, then, and Harry barely kept a snarl from his lips. He didn't like her insulting Tom like that, but he inhaled deeply to calm himself. It wasn't her fault. Hermione was right, really. But he and Tom...they were something else. It was complicated. Harry wouldn't say what was going on was healthy or even remotely advisable, but Tom hadn't hurt him since they began their...relationship. He had changed, and it was clear as day that he prized Harry for whatever reason. He wasn't some monster preying on a young, naive omega. But Hermione didn't know that. Yet. He would make her understand.

"We have a lot in common," he said calmly. "We were both raised by terrible muggles, we're orphans, and we both have responsibilities to the people around us. He understands me. He cares for me, and I care for him. I can admit that we're a bit...non-traditional in our courtship, but I really like him. He's kind to me, Hermione, and, well...it really does help that he's awfully pretty. He can be a bit of a berk, sometimes, but he's not that bad." Harry chuckled at the end, and he gave a fond smile.

Hermione rubbed the bridge of her nose before sighing heavily. "Well, if you're sure.... I can't force you to leave him, and I've never met this man myself. Ron and I better get a chance to meet him one day, though. I'd like to have a little talk with him." The face she made was positively vicious, and Harry almost wanted to see it happen. Dark Lord against angry teenage girl, who would win?

"We'll see," he laughed. "Thank you, Hermione."

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

The winter chill settled heavily in the air, and as the end of term loomed closer, Harry grew pensive. He spent the days after his conversation with Hermione simply thinking, lost in his thoughts. Tom and he were no joke; they were serious. They were courting with the intent to be married, and with Tom's legal identity as Lord Thomas Slytherin, it was all too possible that they could be. Hell, Harry could become a Lady. He didn't know much about all that pureblood stuff, but he knew he was the heir to House Black, so he could have two Houses to rule. He wasn't exactly happy about that, but it was something else on the list of things he had to contemplate. It was definitely a strange thought to be Lady Slytherin, though, the Gryffindor that he was.

Just the thought of Tom as his husband and Harry as his...husband? Or was it wife? He blushed. Anyway, it made something in Harry flutter. And he never really considered himself a romantic, but now he felt like some omega girl just thinking about marrying Tom. It was almost embarrassing how giddy he was at the thought.

But he had to be logical for once. Harry couldn't simply think with his heart. Would he really marry the Dark Lord? Tom wasn't Voldemort anymore, not like he used to be, but he was still a Dark Lord. Harry had hardly heard a thing about the Death Eaters for a while now—to the point that the Prophet had been manufacturing conspiracy theories on par with the Quibbler for why that was—but he couldn't just ignore them. They still existed, and Tom was at the helm. Every day, he read the paper cover to cover, and Tom always seemed to be on it.

Werewolf bill this, tax cut on small, struggling business owners that, and Harry could hardly believe Tom was supposed to be some evil blood supremacist. The dark side wasn't exactly happy with the change in order, but they couldn't do anything. Tom was in charge, and just by their link, Harry could tell he still ordered his Death Eaters around. What he told them so they wouldn't revolt, Harry had no idea, but they didn't.

And so he kept on thinking.

But it didn't matter, he realized. Even if he suddenly decided on breaking off the courtship and throwing the courtship bracelet in Tom's face, he couldn't. They'd gone too far already. Tom had changed so much, but he'd probably devolve if Harry left him. And they still had their mental link as well, which would make things awkward between them.

And if, against all odds, either of them moved on, Harry would seethe if he ever saw some pretty little thing on Tom's arm. Tom would do the same if Harry was that pretty little thing on someone else's arm, and he didn't want to be the cause of someone's death.

Besides, he knew that he and Tom had no self-control when it came to each other. If Harry left Tom because he suddenly got cold feet, he was sure they'd end up in bed again soon enough. He remembered the time in Diagon Alley, and, well...enough said. Hell, Harry was sure he'd initiate again after he left the man and then got around to fucking him in this potential reality, further proving he had no self-control around Tom.

He felt a bit pathetic.

He sighed, and he put his book down. Again, he was in the library, and Hermione was going through the shelves, looking for some book or another. He couldn't focus one bit, he groaned. His head fell on the table.

"You alright there, Harry?" A condescending-sounding voice said. Harry could groan again. McLaggen, the one boy on the team—substitute keeper though he was—that couldn't respect Harry's authority as Captain because he was an omega.

Harry sat up properly, peeling his head off the table. "McLaggen, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"No need to be so rude," the boy rolled his eyes. He fell onto Hermione's seat, and he rudely pushed her books aside. "Please, call me Cormac."

Harry would if this boy were any other team member, but well.... He sighed. "Sorry, just...long day."

McLaggen mussed up his dark blonde hair with a smirk. "Ah, I feel you. Old Sluggy's party is coming up, and I couldn't help but hear, you don't have a date?" He grinned arrogantly, and Harry couldn't help but feel as if this boy was pushing his chest up as if he was preening, as if he was expecting Harry to swoon. His aura of teenage alpha arrogance was overwhelming, and Harry resisted the urge to plug his nose.

He wasn't amused. He wasn't at all attracted to McLaggen, and even if he was, he wouldn't go out with him to that party. He was being courted. Going on a date with another alpha would be rude. Surely McLaggen knew nothing would come out of asking him out? Everyone at Hogwarts knew about Harry's alpha boyfriend, and even Witch Weekly had published a piece about Harry Potter's mysterious paramour and oh, look at that bracelet on his wrist! Is his alpha a, gasp, Slytherin?

His alpha was a Slytherin alright, but not only in the way they thought. Harry smirked, he was an actual Slytherin. The lord, even. Unfortunately, he couldn't yet admit to that.

Still, McLaggen clearly didn't get the hint by Harry's raised eyebrow and the way he brought attention to the elegant, eye-catching bracelet on his wrist.

"McLaggen, who says I don't have a date?"

He blinked. "You do?" McLaggen stared as if he didn't believe him. "Well, I'm sure—"

"I'm not interested. You're my teammate, not my boyfriend. Sorry, McLaggen." Harry turned him down with minimal guilt.

The boy jumped to his feet. He went around to loom over Harry, pressing his hand on the table.

Harry froze.

"You sure? Because I'm sure that I'm way better than whatever beta male you're getting down on your knees for—"

Harry twisted to his feet and pushed McLaggen off of him. He fell against the shelves.

"I. Have. A. Date. If you wanted to go out with me, maybe don't wait until five days before the party!" Then, when the boy stumbled to his feet, Harry kicked McLaggen's feet out from under him and he fell to the floor again with a crash.

Harry pointed his wand at the boy, green eyes glowing dangerously. "Stay away from me."

"Now get out."

The boy snarled, but he ran off with his tail between his legs, shouting, "You'll regret this, you little—"

Hermione coughed, her own wand pointing at him before he could finish.

McLaggen ran.

"So," Hermione started as she got back towards Harry. She raised an eyebrow. "You have a date?"

Harry smiled. "Nope."

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

The night before the ball, Harry stared at his wardrobe. His...dress was in there. It was one thing to dress feminine these past few months, but wearing an actual dress? Wow. Harry tried it on when he'd first bought it from the tailor in Hogsmeade after a shopping trip with Hermione and Ginny, and he felt something fluttering in his stomach. He felt pretty. The beautiful silk was wonderful on his skin, and he couldn't help but feel excited to try it on.

Heavy anticipation sizzled under his skin, and Harry couldn't wait for the ball. Another wave of excitement passed through Harry from the link, and he smiled. Tom.

Something important was going to happen, and he couldn't stop thinking about it. It wasn't just the ball, Tom was planning something, too. Soon, the link seemed to say, and Harry sighed. He couldn't ask Tom what was going on, and he only wished he could control the dreams enough to see him again properly.

He felt sad Tom couldn't see him wear the dress, but perhaps a picture of Harry would make it onto the Daily Prophet? It was certainly the first time Harry ever hoped for such a thing, but well...he missed Tom quite a bit. To be fair, Tom missed him as well.

Their hazy dreams together hadn't happened in a few weeks, and while they still communicated with emotions, Harry missed him a ridiculous amount. Often, he caught himself looking out a window and sighing wistfully before he snapped out of it. Hermione called it heartsickness. It certainly felt apt. A mix of homesickness and heartache...yes, that was right. Tom felt like home, as if he was a cozy hearth against Harry's frozen skin.

Their shared longing ached through the link. Truly, the school year was too long.

He didn't have Tom, and so he didn't have a date for the ball. He'd been asked out often enough, and while he was flattered, he refused every time. Ron would have called him barmy for rejecting all those handsome alphas and kind betas, but he knew about Harry's boyfriend, so he didn't say anything. But Hermione did ask, jokingly, if Harry's boyfriend was attending the ball, and he sighed longingly, saying, "I wish."

And perhaps that longing was exactly why Harry did something stupid.

He was sitting in the common room with Ron and Hermione when a package arrived for him.

Ron spoke, "Hey, that looks like—"

Chocolate. A small box of premium Honeydukes chocolate. Instantly, Harry's heart sped up. Tom!

There was no note, but that didn't ring any alarm bells in his head. Instead, he opened up the package and popped a chocolate into his mouth. It tasted sweet.

"Wait, Harry, who—"

He swallowed.

And instantly his thoughts began to blur.

His vision took on a pinkish filter, and Harry sighed romantically in a way he never did normally.

Tom? Who was Tom? He didn't matter. But, oh, Cormac.

He giggled. "It's from Cormac! Wow, he sent me a gift! That's so sweet."

"Why was I so rude to him before?" Harry blinked before standing up. "I should apologise." He meant to go before Ron grabbed him by the wrist.

"Oh no, you don't!" Ron gasped. "Love potion, bloody hell. Hermione, what should we—"

"On it! Accio!" She shouted, waving her wand. A small blur made its way into her hand. She pushed it into Harry's hand, forcing it up to his mouth. "Take this!" It was a bezoar.

Harry gagged, but he forced it down.

His vision cleared, and his thoughts unhazed. "Huh? What-why was I...?"

His eyes widened.

McLaggen, Harry thought angrily. That little—

Harry hissed, clenching his fists at his side.

There was nothing for it. Harry wouldn't do anything the night before the ball. But afterwards...the boy wouldn't be getting away with it.

Hermione and Ron agreed.

Chapter Text

Excitement buzzed warmly in Harry's gut the whole night and all of that day. The ball hadn't yet begun, and it wouldn't until early evening, as the violet hue of twilight dawned over the mountains. Yet Harry, and, undoubtedly, the rest of Hogwarts, could hardly wait. It seemed as if patience escaped all those who had remained stationed at Hogwarts over the break, such was the chaos that erupted that morning over preparations.

Those who would not be attending the ball had already left the school for winter break in a slump of regret at not being invited—before instantly recalling that it was holiday break, and they had better things to do than stay in school for some old sod's play at a 'cool' party for teens that was in truth some networking event—and as for the few dozen of them who stayed behind...they rejoiced. Invitations had been sent out, dates had been procured, and robes had been tailored. All that was left was the ball itself.

And now, it was finally time.

Harry ended up preparing with the sixth-year girls in their dorm. As it happened, omega males could get through the spell on the staircase. It was only beta and alpha males that couldn't go through. Hermione—in her Hermione way—went on a tangent, stating it was rather sexist of the founders to assume the innocence of an omega male before saying to Harry that she was sure he would never do anything terrible, of course.

And of course, he would never. Still, he was attracted to women and omegas all the same, even if that attraction was technically frowned upon in some circles. Harry never exactly thought about his type after his presentation (other than tall, dark, and handsome/beautiful, a binary into which all his crushes coincidentally fit into), and he really should have realized the thing with Cho would never have worked—she wasn't interested in omegas, and Harry was slightly more interested in Cedric than he was in her.

As for the housing system, it was a product of its time, Harry thought, and if an omega male did abuse his ability, Harry hoped the staff would handle it. Still, his access to the girls' dorm meant he could prepare for the ball with Hermione, Ginny, and Lavender. It was a rather fortuitous time to discover his ability to traverse their dorms; he could never have dressed up with the boys in his usual dorm. Harry would have gotten a bit embarrassed, and it wasn't as if any of the boys could help him with his makeup. Harry was still figuring out that specific ability himself, though luckily the girls could help him with that.

Lavender Brown—for all that she had wanted to go with Ron—would be attending the party with some Ravenclaw alpha girl. When asked, she began to giggle, and with a flush, she said that she'd already gotten over him. Turned out, that girl had liked her for a long time, and she'd invited Lavender out once she realized the girl didn't yet have a date.

Good for her, he thought. On occasion over the years, Harry noticed the girl, Nana Beck, making eyes at Lavender quite often—he thought they shared divination, actually, and they paired up often. He was glad they ended up together. Those two would be meeting at the portrait door once Lavender finished getting ready, so she was in a bit of a rush.

Their group gathered together early that evening to prepare for the ball. Separately, they had all showered and shaved—due to the nature of Harry's dress, he thought it would only be appropriate to use a generous bit of that shaving cream he purchased months ago—and they spent a few hours preparing together.

Ginny had done Harry's hair up in a pretty half-up, half-down style. A section of his hair had been taken and braided alongside a pretty green ribbon, and his curls were tidied with a few healthy dollops of Hermione's sleekeazy potion. He pulled on his dress afterwards; it was a swathe of gorgeous, emerald green silk, smooth to the touch, with a slit in the side covered by a wrap of green fabric acting as a sort of cape on the skirt of the dress. The neckline was off-the-shoulder, and Harry wasn't used to showing off that much skin, so it was all a bit new for him, but simply exhilarating.

When Ginny laid eyes on him, she grinned brightly, saying that a shimmery diamond or pearl necklace would be just the thing to show off his 'cute collarbones.' That was when Lavender jumped in, saying she had just the thing.

She came back with another ribbon in hand, from the same set she had lent Ginny the ribbon for Harry's hair, and she tied the thick black ribbon to Harry's neck with a flourish.

Stepping away to gaze at his figure, Lavender gave a shocked gasp, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. "Oh, Harry! You're so gorgeous! I can't believe—oh, here, take this!"

She passed a potion into his hand, and without any further ado, she forced it down his throat. "There, that should last the night!"

"Wait, huh?" Harry said, confused. In moments, his vision began to blur, and once Lavender plucked his glasses off his face, he understood. "My glasses?"

"You're so beautiful, Harry—where were you hiding that cute face of yours all this time? The glasses just don't match the look. Don't worry, I'll give them back," she winked, then giggled. "Oh, I could just eat you up!"

Harry blushed, "Thank you." Then, he looked into the mirror. He really did look pretty, with his gorgeous dress and hair and the courting bracelet at home on his wrist, the glimmering ruby eye a brilliant offset to the elegant green fabric. The white silk gloves were also a nice touch, and he felt almost like royalty. And, silently, he even admired the shimmering black ribbon on his neck. With the way Lavender tied the bow, he was reminded of a gift box. He thought it would feel demeaning, but it somehow wasn't.

"Makeup!" Ginny shouted, "He needs makeup! Lav, hand that brush over!"

Well, it seemed as if the makeover wasn't done yet. Truly, the girls were putting more attention to dolling him up than themselves. He guessed they just liked the chance to make up his 'cute face', as Lavender said.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

The party was almost in full swing by the time they arrived. Ginny made them a bit late doing his makeup; she paid special attention to his eyes, curling his eyelashes and using mascara, eyeliner, eyeshadow, and so much eye makeup that he wasn't sure actually existed. Especially the glitter, which he first thought was a little too much but now admired for slightly too long in the mirror.

He barely resisted patting his face; he wanted to check and see if it was really him, but somehow, it was. Even if he looked way prettier than he was ever used to looking. He really, really liked it.

Hermione and Ron swept in first in matching red. Hermione looked even nicer than she did for the Yule Ball years before, and the rose-red of her dress complimented the chestnut brown of her hair. She wore an adorable rose choker that Lavender lent her as a sign of apology for not realizing Hermione already liked Ron, and the bridge between the two girls was quickly rebuilt.

Ron's outfit, on the other hand, was bought with Harry's money—Harry would have no less, he personally told Ron he had too much money and not enough things to spend it on, and he practically forced the coins into Ron's hand. The suit Ron wore was suitably charming, and the shade of red on his waistcoat didn't offend his ginger hair too much.

Then, Ginny and Neville, as friends, came in hand-in-hand. They looked great, and Neville's dark bronze tuxedo suit suited him, matching with Ginny's yellow-gold dress.

Ginny's dress had originally been a flowery, cheap thing she'd previously had in her closet, and when she presented it to Lavender—who was surprisingly good at tailoring charms, and actually intended on opening her own store one day—the girl performed a miracle on the ancient thing, according to Ginny. The dress glittered in a shade of pretty gold, and the flowers acted as beautiful accents. The fiery red of the girl's hair was brought out by the shimmery gold of the dress, and Harry couldn't help but notice the charmed flowers braided into her hair.

Neville and Ginny did not separate quickly. While the boy went out to search for the herbologist he had spoken of, Ginny stayed by his side. Yet Harry was seemingly the only one who noticed the dark look Malfoy wore and the intermittent clenching of his jaw, right across the room. The dark liquid in his glass swished as Malfoy held it in a painfully tight grip.

He surreptitiously followed after Ginny and Neville through the throng of people.

Harry averted his eyes. Not my business. Ginny would probably bring it up if it turned out to be important, and he doubted Malfoy had the balls to do anything. While he was a berk on the best of days, Malfoy wasn't that sort of alpha, and Ginny could handle herself if Malfoy tried anything. And it wasn't as if Neville would sit back and watch, either.

A sigh left his lips. Quickly, he was left alone by the snack table. Hermione—with Ron at her side—was conversing with some Ministry employee who Harry had seen in the paper once or twice, while Ginny and Neville were already gone. And of course, as Harry was attending stag, he had no one to fall back on.

His eyes fell on the sight of his classmates, all of them right besotten with their dates as they enjoyed the party. Not for the first time, he felt miserable over the knowledge that he couldn't just settle for any of his classmates. Of course he just had to be courting a literal Dark Lord, he sighed. Tom's beautiful face did help him feel better about it, but as he wasn't actually there....

Maybe it was a bad idea to come alone; his friends didn't even stick around to accompany him. For once, Harry actually did feel like the third wheel, knowing they were all enjoying themselves right now. Ron and Hermione had gotten so sweet recently; they still bickered the same way they always did, but now they gave each other sweet little looks and soft sighs and it just made him groan.

Harry swirled a glass of pumpkin juice in his hands, sipping on it. He sighed. Loneliness was a—what was that?

His stomach swooped as a familiar scent danced in his nose. Harry breathed it in, disbelieving.

Was that—

It was faint, dimmed by all those in attendance, but Harry could swear....

"Hello, my dear," said a very familiar voice from behind Harry. His tone was buttery thick, syrup on chocolate and rich as cream. He sounded like the cat that caught the canary.

Harry's heart sped up in his chest, and something like elation fluttered through their link, stronger than it had been in months. He wasn't sure who it came from.

Harry twisted on his heels.

A grin spread on his face like a blush. "Tom," he breathed.

The man's answering smile was nothing short of dangerously beatific, if such a thing was possible. Or maybe it was the length of Tom's barely noticeable fangs that added a touch of danger to it? Harry shivered.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Tom's heart froze in his chest.

His darling omega was a vision.

He'd seen him from behind, and he did a double take. His hair was a bit longer, curled and styled, yet it was the same shade as a raven's wing, and no amount of pomade could ever take away the wildness of those locks. He recognized him immediately. After all, how could he not recognize the slope of curves he'd touched and held so many times? The shade of that sun-kissed skin? It was inconceivable not to.

Yet he was entranced, his vision caught by the sight of that long, green fabric and the figure wearing it. A dress, his omega was wearing a dress.

And then, Harry turned, and Tom's breath was stolen away.

Good lord, he thought. He'd never known true beauty before today. The concept of it was just untrue without the vision of Harry's beauty to cement it.

If he thought Harry was alluring during their dalliance in Diagon Alley—a time he often recalled fondly, and perhaps a little too closely with that damned blanket his dearest sent and his hand near a very pleasurable place—then he was a fool.

This outshined it all.

Harry grinned brilliantly, and Tom's eyes narrowed in on that mouth. The colour of his lips was deep red, a shade akin to blood, and Tom couldn't help but wonder what sounds his dearest would make if he leaned down now and stole those tempting lips, plundering the caverns of Harry's mouth with his tongue and pulling him closer by his waist.

But it wasn't simply his mouth. Tom basked in the loveliness of his omega's nymph-like form, with his dark eyes studying Harry's makeup. It accentuated his allure and brought out the emerald gleam of his eyes, and without his glasses, he looked simply enchanting.

And the glitter, oh Merlin. The glitter. What Tom wouldn't do to figure out how far it went.

Golden flecks glittered against Harry's skin like a divine temptation—on his cheeks, eyes, neck, and collarbones. Tom wanted nothing more than to lave his tongue against the sinful stretch of Harry's shimmering, petite collarbones and make his lover shiver and twist. He wanted to see just how much his omega could take this time; maybe he'd fuck him through that dress, denying his orgasm until after Tom's own?

Hungrily, he eyed the open plains of his dear Harry's creamy neck and collar, unveiled due to the thin slip of Harry's sleeves. Even his shoulders glittered, Tom noticed. Truly, he was a gift presented before him.

A black ribbon was tied in a bow on Harry's throat, and Tom—in a way akin to unwrapping a gift—wanted to undo it slowly, teasingly, while Harry turned into goo in his hands.

Or perhaps he would yank at the ribbon and watch Harry's head be forced back as Tom took his pleasure? He would bite the omega's neck, then, so temptingly close to his mating gland, and he would utter that single, spine-chilling word, soon.

Soon couldn't come fast enough. Unfortunately, tradition must be observed, for fear that the blade of societal judgement be cast upon them. Lord Voldemort was never known to care for those sorts of societal rules, but Thomas Slytherin...he was society, the Lord of an ancient house once thought dead, but even he was beholden to the rules they all followed, Tom clenched his fist.

But if he wasn't....

Harry would be mated here for all to see.

But Tom had some semblance of self-control, so he settled for this.

He held out his hand, palm first as was tradition, and in a half-bow, he greeted his dearest in a way far more formal than their relationship dictated. Tom smirked, the masses would surely eat this up. The Chosen One and Lord Slytherin, seen getting along? Well, Tom wasn't unaware of what that would do for his currently murky standing with the Light, but it didn't matter as much as finally seeing his omega in the flesh.

"Well met, Heir Potter-Black. It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I am Lord Thomas Slytherin."

Softly, Harry's gloved hand curled against his, and Tom gave him a secretive wink. Tradition dictated that he would kiss the omega on the back of the hand, but temptation won out, and instead.... Tom turned Harry's hand around, and slowly, his plush lips landed sinfully on Harry's wrist, right against the silk gloves he wore.

Coal-dark eyes burned into Harry, and Tom was given a first-hand view of the way his gorgeous future mate turned red as a strawberry, eyes fluttering.

Tom's gift to Harry glittered on the wrist he still held in his hand. His eyes were fixated on it, and he rubbed the silky gloved wrist it laid on. This was the first time he'd seen Harry wear it outside of their shared dreams, and the alpha in him rejoiced. It was a claim, it said, even though no one knew what they were to each other, except for the youngest Weasley girl, Ginevra, the nosy girl that she was. (It was strange to think that he'd only ever formally met her once, yet he had faint memories of his diary self befriending the girl before attempting to kill her, and then being killed by Harry in the process. He didn't blame him, of course, he never would.)

After a too-long pause, Harry began to speak, stumbling as he said, "Well met. It's—it's a pleasure to meet you as well, Lord—Lord Slytherin." Harry forced his hand back, and he looked almost pained at having to do it.

His hand fell back against his side, and, barely visible, Tom noticed a slit beyond the length of green fabric making up a short cape. He spied a glimpse of Harry's creamy thigh, and his mouth began to water, but he swallowed it down.

He'd never thought himself to be particularly lustful before, not any more than any normal, healthy, red-blooded alpha, but Harry made a beast of him. If he were any younger, he would have been almost worried at how quickly he had been ensnared by the omega.

But he could only think this: gorgeous, his darling was gorgeous, and that word alone would not be enough to truly encapsulate the allure of the enchanting creature before him. He was a nymph, a fae of old who meant to entrap him, because surely...what else could make his heart beat so swiftly in his chest if it wasn't mortal fear?

Tom held out his arm. "Walk with me, my dear."

The dance floor wasn't open yet. A shame, he thought. He'd have liked to twirl Harry in his arms in a mimicry of the sinful dance they'd already partaken in many times.

The dance floor wouldn't be open for a few minutes yet, at least until all the guests had arrived and old Horace was given enough time to cosy up to and collect every single one of them. Once upon a time, many years ago, Tom had been counted among those poor fools, but now Horace would rather walk barefoot through molten hot coals than attempt to 'collect' him once more.

Horace knew who Tom was, and the knowledge of it hung heavy in the air between them, yet he was still able to secure an invitation to Hogwarts when he asked for it. How strange it was, Tom smirked.

Horace's fear was palpable when they met, and he did so enjoy it. The man was always so slippery, almost slimy in character, and it seemed as if time had not weathered those particular traits of his. Horace's Slytherin survival instincts had won over his loyalty to Hogwarts, and Tom was invited to this ball with due haste, despite the danger he could so very easily have posed to the students. And somehow, Tom was certain Dumbledore had no idea he was here today. He wouldn't until it was already in the papers, he smirked again, and he toyed with the thought of asking Severus for the memory of Dumbledore reading the next day's morning paper.

(He rather enjoyed things going according to plan.)

On any other occasion, Tom wouldn't have cared much if news of Lord Slytherin visiting Hogwarts made it into the papers, but right now...Tom wanted to show Harry off. He wanted everyone to know, and damn the consequences.

The world would see Thomas Slytherin side with Harry Potter, against his father, but his followers...they would see Harry as his. It would be undeniable when he had the Chosen One hanging off his arm with a look of pure enrapturement inscribed on his features.

Of course, optics weren't the only reason. After all, even Tom wasn't immune to the pleasure of having a pretty omega on his arm. And it was even better that this was an omega he liked, which was a first.

Click. It was faint, and he wouldn't have heard it if he didn't have enhanced senses as an after-effect of numerous rituals, but it was there. He smirked, all according to plan.

On the edge of his vision, he witnessed a mousy-haired boy squirrelling away with a camera in hand.

Suddenly, "Why have you come?" Harry asked as they made their way through the crowd to an alcove, arm in arm.

A few pairs of eyes followed them, but they quickly lost interest and looked away after he silently cast a privacy spell of his own invention. No one would hear what they had to say to each other, and unless they were directly looking for them, no one would see them either. Discretion was perhaps required at the moment, and they would reveal themselves to the public eye in due time; for their dance, perhaps.

After all, while Tom did wish to showcase an amicable relationship with Harry Potter in order to show off his lack of loyalty to his 'father', it couldn't yet be known that Harry Potter and Thomas Slytherin were courting. It would damage his dearest's reputation rather than clear Tom's own, and he had already taken lengths to clean up Harry's image after the mess he'd made of it during his earlier smear campaign. He frowned, thinking about it still. Something almost like regret sank in his gut whenever he thought about all the ways he had hurt his Harry, and he didn't like it.

Shielding his thoughts, he said, "I'm not allowed to come to visit you, dearest? I'm hurt." Tom smirked, suddenly yanking Harry closer to his chest and surreptitiously wrapping a hand around his waist. He revelled in the warmth of Harry's body against his.

Harry gasped, and his cheeks turned an adorable shade of red. "Tom," he scolded, "be serious. Why are you...?"

"I am being serious. I wanted to visit you." He stared deeply into those jewel-green eyes, and he felt the way Harry went through a flurry of shock and worry and embarrassment and...oh. Oh, Tom laughed internally. His dear Harry was flattered. How sweet.

But he didn't think he was worthy of Tom's attentions, he sensed through their link.

Tom wasn't sure how far this mental link with Harry went, but as they were physically close to one another, it was seemingly stronger as well, and he could feel the emotions hidden in the depths of his lover's mind, including his insecurities.

That wouldn't do. Instantly, he pushed all that he felt for Harry into the link. Awelustwantcare and a flurry of that...obsessive feeling of affection and care that he couldn't exactly bring himself to name. It must have been a product of their link, of his obsession with the boy before him.

Harry stumbled into Tom's arms as an awkward sound ripped from his throat, and Tom caught him, holding him close to his chest as Harry settled his chin on his shoulder breathlessly.

Harry's hands wrapped around his neck, then, and Tom enjoyed the feeling of his hands on Harry's warm curves. If the hand on Harry's back wandered a little too far down, then no one was the wiser, and Harry certainly wouldn't be the one to scold him for it.

"Oh, oh." His darling was out of breath, deliciously flustered and simply...awed. He sounded as if they'd just finished a round of more pleasurable activities, and Tom wasn't the only one whose scent spiked with arousal. In fact, Harry was beginning to smell deliciously sweet.

"That's what you feel for me? How long have you...?"

Painfully, Tom peeled Harry off of him. It wouldn't do to take the omega here and now, despite the temptation before him. "A long time, ever since Diagon Alley, or perhaps the time during the summer. I can't tell exactly how long I've felt...." Protective? Affectionate? Caring? Not of it could fully explain the depths of his feelings, but he knew he'd decided on keeping Harry long ago, and these...feelings had come around that time.

Tom sighed. "You are a strange child, Harry," he said then, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "You don't fear me, you never have, and you were so quick to..." fuck me "...lay with me. I don't understand it."

He was grateful, so grateful that Harry was willing to give him a chance, but it was hard to understand.

He eyed the bracelet on Harry's wrist. He still didn't.

It was already hard to admit that he didn't understand something, but he was quick to admit that with Harry, everything was confusing. In the matters of...courting and omegas genuinely, not with any darker intent in mind, he was blind.

A chuckle escaped from Harry's mouth, and his red lips formed a gentle smile. "I do," he said. "You've changed, and you're continuing to prove it. Voldemort wouldn't be here with me now, would he?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I am Voldemort, as you seem so keen on forgetting, my dear." Warningly, his eyes flashed crimson. "A pretty face doesn't change that."

"No, it doesn't. But you have changed. You're here, with me, and you let me call you Tom! You haven't gone on raids and you haven't started a real war yet, even though everyone expects you to! You ordered your Death Eaters not to harm me, and you're courting me, your worst enemy! That's a really big—"

A little grin. "I would hardly call you my worst enemy, my dear, that honour belongs to the headmaster."

Harry slapped him on the arm, and Tom flinched more from the sheer audacity than the pain. If this boy were anyone else...

"Still," Harry glared, "you have changed. Don't deny it. Whatever happened in that room, neither of us came out the same, not with this...,everything." He said, standing resolute. Then, his voice turned maudlin, wistful, as his eyes glazed. "My wish...it was for Tom Riddle. I—I know it's stupid, but your diary...." Harry looked away. "I trusted him. I liked him. We only talked for a little while, but he made his impression."

Harry laughed wetly. "I'm not ashamed to admit that I fell for him, in that short while, and...I wanted him back, that boy I liked and trusted. And now...I think the Room responded to my wish. It healed you." Harry stared up at him with adoring eyes. "I know it sounds crazy, but I like you, Tom, and I'll stick by you."

Tom's heart skipped a beat. Scratch that, it straight up flatlined in the face of Harry's words. He could feel it through their link, and Harry...he was genuine. Oh, Salazar....

"You're not kidding."

Harry shook his head. He blushed so sweetly, looking up at him through the curl of his eyelashes as if he was trying to tempt him.

Tom wanted to ravish him. For once, his cheeks warmed, and he ducked his head, his hand falling over his mouth as he swallowed down the urge to whisk Harry away into some abandoned classroom.

He didn't recall anything too special about his interactions with Harry through the diary, but if he could look back...his diary self thought the boy to be foolish, willing to risk his life for a girl he hardly knew. Tom still thought Harry was a bit foolish, but it served his purposes so he really couldn't be all too upset.

But also... "My diary thought you were brave—foolhardy, yet brave. He thought it was a shame he would kill you."

Harry froze. His mouth went slack. "I—what? What are you—?"

"He liked you, Harry. He didn't want to kill you. In fact...," Tom continued, letting out a little chuckle, "he thought you were cute—young, but cute."

"You remember that?" Harry looked awed, if perhaps a touch raw. He ducked his head in embarrassment at the last part of what Tom said.

"Yes. Ever since the Room of Desire, my diary self's memories have returned to me." He was wading into untred territory now. Tom had never gotten this close to telling anyone of his horcruxes, but...it was hard to lie to Harry.

"How? I'm assuming the diary wasn't just a memory, then? Or was it my wish?" Harry asked. "Did the Room do anything weird...?"

There was an easy way out, so easy. Tom could lie, say it was Harry's wish and not anything else that allowed Tom to inherit his old diary's memories when the thing was barely more than a memory...yet, Tom always was a little foolish, wasn't he?

He sighed, what a pair he and Harry made.

"No, it wasn't. My diary was...a part of me, imparted with my own essence."

"How does that work?" Harry scrunched his nose. "I don't get why you'd do that."

"It was mostly because I could; it was all too easy to do, you see. But it was an experiment, one that I was pleased to see had worked." He was spilling more truths than he'd ever in such a very long time, and it was thrilling, if a bit worrying how easy it felt.

Harry sighed, he likely picked up on him not being willing to say any more. "Alright." He leaned up against him, to Tom's chest once more. "Hold me?"

He missed this. They both did. There likely wouldn't be any time to do anything real, but Tom was fond of simply holding Harry almost as much as ravishing him.

Uninterrupted, they relaxed into each other's embrace. Tom enjoyed wrapping his arms around Harry slightly too tight, and they would have stayed in that position for just a little while longer if they weren't interrupted.

The turgid, incoming scent of displeased alpha ruined the mood. Instantly, Tom straightened to meet the figure. His chest puffed out.

"Harry?" A boy yelled, sounding shocked. "What is this?!" He sounded angry.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Bastard, Harry sneered. Just when he was in Tom's arms! He was so close to just asking Tom to sneak away with him somewhere when bloody McLaggen just had to show his stupid, smarmy face.

He should have already handled him. Screw the Christmas party, Harry should have marched up to McLaggen's dorm and smacked him in the face that very night. He should've thrown him straight out of Gryffindor Tower, damn it.

In a great show of restraint, Harry clutched tightly onto Tom's arm instead of shoving McLaggen's head up his arse. He wasn't scared of McLaggen, not at all. It might have been more apt to say that he was scared for him, instead. Harry would have gotten his pound of flesh, undoubtedly, but Tom...he would not be so merciful if he knew what the alpha boy had done.

It wasn't for McLaggen's sake, of course, Harry just didn't want McLaggen's death on his conscience. The boy wasn't worth going to Azkaban for.

"Tom—"

The alpha's jaw clenched, and Harry could see veins bulging slightly as Tom struggled to keep himself from snarling. A yelp escaped him as he was yanked by the waist into Tom's side.

An overwhelming aura of alpha dominance, the sort only released in the face of competition, was released into the air. Tom's voice was strained as he demanded, "Who is this, Harry?" Except his eyes weren't on Harry at all; his piercing glare was aimed straight at McLaggen.

McLaggen's eyes fell on them both, and his eyes widened in realization. "You—no way! You're not supposed to be with Slytherin! How are you even—those chocolates were supposed to work!" He shouted, stomping on the floor like a child.

The boy's face twisted, displeased and disgusted all in one. Tom's expression was much the same, except for an entirely different reason.

Harry's lips curled as well. He hated when alphas like McLaggen felt entitled to omegas like him.

And then...rage. The wide breadth of it washed over Harry like an ocean, and instantly, Harry knew that Tom knew.

Tom's frigid stare pierced through McLaggen and if Harry saw right...shit. Tom had already used Legilimency on McLaggen. He probably didn't even need to do more than a surface scan of the boy's thoughts before realizing what he had done.

Long, pale fingers twitched from where his hand was wrapped around Harry's waist.

"Tom! Please don't do anything you'll regret," Harry pleaded. He kept a tight grip on Tom's wand arm on his waist, and if it wasn't for that, his wand would already have been drawn.

"Oh, my darling, I can assure you, there is nothing I will do to this little brat that I will regret," Tom ground out with a snarl. "Now get out of my way."

Harry could feel anger coming off of Tom's form in waves, no link needed, yet there was more than that, something deeper, he could tell. He jumped head first into the swirling sea of their link, and waves of emotion lanced through him.

It was a maelstrom of fearworryrage and he could have been taken from me and a punch to the gut of and I would never have known.

A gasp. Harry knew now, what Tom thought. He was afraid. For the first time that Harry knew him, Tom was truly terrified. And it was of losing him.

Despite himself, something in Harry melted at the situation.

"Tom!" Harry twisted and stepped in between him and McLaggen. "I'm right here, okay? I'm not leaving you, it didn't work! What he did...I'm fine, I promise. We can handle this."

"What exactly did he do?" Tom demanded. "I didn't see all of it." It wasn't a question; somehow, Harry knew Tom meant show me, and without question, he did.

Tom didn't even have to use Legilimency. All Harry had to do was open their link and push his memories through it, and that was enough.

Chocolates in the mail. Harry thought they were from Tom. Unthinkingly, he ate them, and instantly, his vision fogged.

An alpha growl escaped Tom's lips.

Woosh.

Faster than light, Tom had McLaggen up by the collar, eyes blazing crimson and inhumanly fanged teeth bared in a snarl as the boy was paralysed in his grasp. Harry didn't even see Tom pull out a wand.

With his body frozen, McLaggen couldn't even make an expression, but his eyes widened with fear, and his scent turned sour. Tom released his wand, and with a silent flick, McLaggen began to float in the air.

Somehow, whatever privacy ward Tom had cast was still holding up; no one was looking their way.

"Give me a reason, Harry," the alpha ground out, his eyes a fiery scarlet. "Give me a reason not to vanish this wretched little boy out of existence."

Tom—no, Voldemort turned back to him. "For what he did to you, there is no worthier punishment than death."

Harry stood still, his jaw slack as Tom studied his features for any sign of, well, anything.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. "Put him down, Tom. He isn't worth it." Harry stepped closer to him, and he wrapped his hands around Tom's wand arm, pleading.

Now wasn't the time to yell or be angry. Tom wouldn't take it well. There was nothing Harry could do, not if he continued to act like a Gryffindor. He couldn't let his temper take over.

Softly, Voldemort—Tom whispered, "You expect me to let him go unpunished? For what you are to me, my courted, it is only my right to see him dead."

A dark laugh ripped from Harry's chest, one crueller than he ever thought he could make, and then he said, just as softly, "No." His face was inches from Tom.

Harry wouldn't have let him go unpunished. He was merciful, and he preferred to see the goodness in people, but what McLaggen had done...he couldn't either forget or forgive it.

He would have found a way to punish the wretched boy himself.

Tom inhaled sharply, eyes focused on Harry's form. He looked enchanted. Idly, Harry noticed their link was wide open, and his expression portrayed his emotions quite aptly.

"How? How will you punish him?" He asked, his voice going deep.

Harry leaned his head on Tom's shoulder, the action taking attention off of him slowly pulling Tom's wand down and to his side.

McLaggen fell to the floor with a silent groan; he twitched in pain, but couldn't yet move.

"In the best way, the right way," Harry spoke, and he took notice of the way Tom straightened and puffed out his chest as Harry explored Tom's chest with his fingers. His eyes followed Harry's explorations. "We will find evidence, figure out who else he's hurt. We will destroy his life and reputation, and he'll have to watch his family turn against him and his future crumble. Cormac McLaggen will be brought to trial and sentenced to Azkaban, and if he ever gets out...he'll have nothing left. Isn't that a far more painful punishment?"

Tom's throat bobbed as Harry leaned against him, as the silk of his gloved arms closed around his neck. Harry's hips swayed against him, a mimicry of a dance.

"Yes," he croaked out. "That...is a far worthier punishment. It seems you are correct." His thick arms wrapped around Harry's waist.

Harry smiled sweetly. "Good." Then, he pulled away, ignoring Tom as the man reached back for him almost on instinct.

"So, what should we do about him?" He leaned down and poked McLaggen in the face. He twitched, but he still couldn't move. His eyes were focused, though, and he stared at Harry with pure hatred.

Harry raised an eyebrow. Then, he smiled before patting McLaggen on the cheek.

"So?"

Tom smiled, "Allow me, dear."

Tom aimed his wand at McLaggen's prone form, and Harry wasn't sure what spells he used, but within minutes, the boy got up, dusted himself off, and trudged away. Strangely, his eyes seemed to fog over the moment he stared at Harry.

"There," Tom finally said, accomplished. "He'll have forgotten what happened here; he won't be disturbing you any longer. For however long it takes to prepare for his arrest, this spell will be in place. I doubt he'll easily break through it."

Harry gave a relieved little grin. "Thank you, Tom. I know this couldn't have been easy."

Tom shook his head, eyes full of mirth. "You've made me soft, Harry Potter."

Harry laughed, and then he pulled Tom's hand. "Come on," he motioned him forward, "The dance floor's open, you know, we should go—oh."

He yelped, falling into Tom's hard chest for the nth time that night as the man led him forward. Already, Tom held him close as they walked up to the dance floor, and the moment whatever miraculously powerful privacy ward Tom had cast vanished, eyes fell on them.

Chapter Text

The lights dimmed to a twinkle, and Tom and Harry were among the first few to sweep into the dance floor. The music was something soft, sweet, and just the right sort of romantic that Harry and Tom had nothing against sinking into each others' gazes for the whole time they were locked together, swaying to the music.

Harry stared into Tom's irises, searching for any trace of the familiar ruby that pierced through him when Tom growled in McLaggen's face at Harry's defence. He couldn't say that he wasn't flattered—because he was, and honestly, what omega wouldn't be? Tom was the perfect alpha, protective and strong, not to mention hot—scary but hot. Merlin, Harry wanted Tom to bite him with those fangs, and something warm pooled in his gut just at seeing the dangerous look on his face as the light sparkled on those fangs of his.

He looked terrifying—inhuman, with too pale skin and eyes like bloody gemstones, and bloody hell Harry wanted.

He knew it was fucked up, but by now he couldn't bring himself to care. He wanted Tom, and he wanted to marry him, too. Like an idiot, he'd probably agree to be mated now if Tom asked, so he was almost glad that he hadn't yet.

He was already past the point of no return, he thought, restraining a short little squeak as Tom dipped him just farther than he could handle. He was left breathless, inhaling deeply against Tom's chest as the man held him comfortingly. He'd never felt safer than when he was in Tom's arms, and wasn't that fucked up, after all that the man had done?

It was clear to see that they'd already passed the point of no return many times, from the way Tom felt no shame at sinking the hand on Harry's waist almost to his bum and from how Harry eyed Tom's chest, admiring the delicious way his suit squeezed him in all the right places. What he wouldn't do to peel him out of that green and gold drape of fabric.

The green suited him, and of course it would; Tom was the Heir—no, Lord of Slytherin House. How fitting it was, then, for Harry to choose that same shade of green for his dress? Ron, when he first saw it, thought the dress looked 'too Slytherin', whatever that meant, but Harry didn't care.

When he first tried it on, the first thing he noticed was the way that the dark shade of green made his killing curse eyes almost glimmer, and Ginny elbowed Ron in the side because that dress Harry wore was her choice—she was the one who presented it to him, and wow was Harry grateful to her now, when he noticed the lustful way Tom was staring at him still.

The moment Harry first laid eyes on him that night, he admired Tom as well, and he was stunned to see that they unintentionally matched. They were a matching pair, clad in the same shade of green, and what a pair they made, people would begin to think, their eyes following Harry Potter and Thomas Slytherin as they swept across the floor, arm-in-arm and eyes focused only on each other. They looked like a couple.

A couple, them, he could laugh. If someone came up to him last year and told him where he'd be now, he'd have recommended them to St Mungo's—such was the strangeness of fate.

It was something to laugh at, now, the irony of all this.

(Fate was strange, Harry thought, somewhere in the depths of his mind, crafting a prophecy that said I would kill him.

He couldn't have ever done it before, and now he wouldn't, a grammatical change that made all the difference.

The prophecy didn't matter anymore, if it ever did. Harry didn't think anyone had ever understood it properly. After all, did it ever say that he had to vanquish the Dark Lord, or just that he could?

Well, he didn't see the Dark Lord now, he smiled, gazing up at Tom.

Prophecy accomplished.)

Harry tried not to focus too much on where his feet went, and he instead followed Tom's lead, relaxing with one hand somewhere on Tom's shoulder and the other hand in Tom's as they danced some magical version of the classic waltz.

The music seemed to vanish into the background as they swayed against each other, relaxing into the intimacy and sighing at the closeness; they'd been apart for too long, truly. Neither of them noticed the little giggles and the shocked gasps aimed their way, or the whispers....

"Oh, good Merlin, is that Harry Potter?"

"It is! It's the Boy-Who-Lived—with Lord Slytherin!"

All of his attention was focused on the alpha before him, and surely, Tom's was as all. Harry realized he wasn't very good at dancing when he was the one in the lead, considering how much smoother it was with Tom, and that explained why he had disliked it so much before. Dancing was so much more enjoyable when he was cradled in Tom's arms, as the man twirled and romanced him while giving him heated little looks.

Romance. God, romance, Harry blushed.

He didn't know what to think, but he couldn't bring himself to regret any of this.

"This is nice, isn't it," said Tom, shooting him that peculiar little grin of his. His face looked softer, his wrinkles less prominent. Harry was starting to notice his tells now, and he could tell that Tom was satisfied, relaxed now that Harry was in his grasp. It was a nice look on him, and Harry was somehow certain that Tom was never the type of person to feel relaxed often.

Harry nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I'm glad you found the time to come. I thought you'd be busy, Lord Slytherin." He laughed.

"Yes, you'd think, wouldn't you, my dear?" The man responded in turn, knowing exactly how much Harry always seemed to get flustered at his pet names.

"Oh, stop it," he laughed. "Okay, but seriously...that title, it makes you sound like a proper pureblood arse. I don't know how you can stand it." He rolled his eyes. "They must infuriate you—I know they do, I can feel it," he gave him a cheeky look, "but I think you enjoy making them kiss your boots, don't you?"

Tom knew exactly what Harry meant, and Harry knew that he knew. Tom enjoyed making his pureblood followers bow to him, a halfblood, who wasn't all that much more 'pure' than the muggleborns they so despised.

The song was coming to a close, now, and they were more swaying against each other than dancing. Granted, Harry was fairly certain they'd already danced to two songs, maybe three....

Tom raised an eyebrow, clicking his tongue. He looked fond. "You know me far too well, don't you? Never like the others, are you, Harry Potter?"

He played with a stray strand of Harry's hair, placing it behind his ear. Harry twitched in his arms, lost for words.

Tom's eyes flashed a dangerous, slitted crimson, at an angle hidden from prying eyes as he began, "Oh, and Harry—to answer your question...," he leaned in close, then, his warm breath wafting into Harry's ear. "I do quite enjoy it—the purebloods kissing my boots, as you say." He gave a slightly toothy smirk, showing off a glimpse of too-sharp teeth.

A gleeful snort, and Harry shook his head. "You would, wouldn't you, you sadist?"

"You would know best, dearest. After all, you know quite well what I enjoy." He retaliated, whispering into Harry's ear. His lips brushed against Harry's reddening cheek.

Harry pulled away, and he cleared his throat, embarrassed. "Ah, yes...well...," he looked for a distraction, "the dance is about over, we should...." We should leave, he couldn't bring himself to say, before I jump you right now. Their mental link could illustrate his meaning well enough.

Tom clearly understood, as shown by the way he shot out his arm a little too eagerly, saying, "Shall we?"

Once they made their way back into the greater floor, they were immediately accosted by an unwelcome figure who was, unfortunately, their host.

Harry had the sudden urge to hide behind Tom at the sight of Horace Slughorn, grinning widely in that simpering way of his.

Oh, Merlin, Harry recoiled, realizing that not only his teacher, but quite a few of his classmates and friends must have seen him dancing with Tom. Including Ron and Hermione, who knew full well who Tom was. Shit.

Harry's bad habit of entertaining his impulsive thoughts would be the death of him, and he had no idea how he'd be getting out of this.

While he was in the midst of that realization, his teacher waltzed up to them, grinning merrily with just a hint of hesitation behind his eyes.

"Ah, Tom! The man of the hour and his...blushing date." Slughorn's eyes did a double take at Harry, staring at him up and down as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. He gazed especially long at Harry's scar.

Tom stepped forward, and Harry took the opportunity to hide behind him as Tom stole the attention off of him.

"Horace, it's been quite a while since we last met, how have you been?" Tom's charming grin was media-worthy, a facade seemingly genuine enough that no one realized the falsity of it. No wonder he made Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile award, including their Most Handsome Bachelor award most recently, to Harry's chagrin at the latter. Bachelor, he thought, frowning. They wish.

"I'm quite well, my boy," Slughorn responded.

Harry did a double take, slightly shocked that anyone other than maybe Dumbledore had the gall to call Voldemort 'my boy.' He wasn't sure if Slughorn knew who Tom was or not, but that slightly strained expression on the man's face...it felt like he knew. After all, wasn't Tom his student, many years ago? No way he'd buy the lie that Thomas Slytherin was Riddle's son when they looked exactly the same. Slughorn was smarter than that, or maybe he just liked playing dumb. If it meant his continued survival, Harry doubted there was much the man couldn't be convinced to look away from.

"I've been doing rather well for myself, but you...well, you and your date seem to be enjoying yourselves," he chuckled. "An...unorthodox couple, I should say, but you make for quite a stunning pair."

Then, he frowned, as if debating whether or not to say, "I don't mean any offence, but Harry is so very young. Are you two taking the proper steps?"

By steps, he meant in courting. Sixteen was young, but it was the magical age of consent, and young wix could begin to court and be courted. (After learning he was being courted, Hermione sat him down with a few etiquette books and made him study—he was ever so grateful.) Harry had already received more than his fair share of courting letters, which he appropriately burned. He wasn't interested in cheating on Tom, even though technically he could be courted by more than one person at a time, according to courting etiquette, Hermione mentioned.

But it often felt as if the courting was a false curtain, hiding what Harry and Tom truly were to each other. Harry wanted no other, and neither did Tom, he hoped.

Tom gave a tight smile, nodding as he said, "It would be the only appropriate thing, no? Mr Potter here is a rather charming thing, undoubtedly."

"Of course, of course. Ah, well, I'll leave you two to it," he spoke, looking away for a moment as something caught his attention. "Ah! I must go speak with an old student of mine—she's a chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, you know! Please, do enjoy the party."

Harry sighed once the man made his escape, and he groaned into Tom's shoulder. "Well, that was a mess. By tomorrow night, the whole Wizarding World will know about us!"

"That isn't exactly a bad thing, dearest," Tom brought up. He sounded almost hesitant.

"Oh? What do you mean?" Harry asked, cautious yet curious.

"Well, as far as everyone will know, Harry Potter and Thomas Slytherin shared a rather romantic dance at a Hogwarts Yule Ball," he smirked, "and so, if a romance were to spark off from that, who would be surprised? The foolish masses would eat it up—a star-crossed romance between the Chosen One and the Dark Lord's only son? The story will write itself."

Harry's eyes bulged. He whisper-shouted, "Tom! I—what about the Order? They know who you are, and that would be...." They'd call me a traitor, he didn't say.

"Stay with me, then," he said, staring straight at Harry. "After Hogwarts, I mean. Stay with me. Anyone who doesn't understand simply isn't worth it."

Harry hesitated. The idea sounded tempting, almost too tempting, but was he truly ready to give up all that he knew? He would be considered a traitor, vilified by his family, friends, and all those who he knew and cared for.... It wasn't an easy decision to make, and the weight of it hung like a noose around his neck, or perhaps a ticking time bomb. He had to think about it, so he said as much.

Tom nodded, sighing deeply as he deflated. "Of course, I—I understand...it's a lot to drop on you all at once. We have time, quite a bit of it. But know this, I truly do wish to be with you, Harry. This time apart, it takes a toll." His eyes burned into Harry, and he didn't need their link to feel the sincerity dripping from Tom's words.

Harry's eyes softened as he stared at Tom. He sounded genuine, and his eyes were so affectionate. Harry always knew he'd wanted to marry someone who loved him, and who he loved in turn. For a time, he didn't think Tom could be that, but maybe, just maybe....

(Tom was offering him a home, he realized. Harry wasn't simply a passing fancy, Tom wanted Harry to stay with him, and that did more to convince him than any pretty words ever would.)

And then, the moment was shattered by a familiar voice.

"Harry James Potter!" The voice shouted, and Harry quite literally jumped. It was Hermione, red-faced and worried as her eyes jumped wildly from Harry to Tom. "You—you!"

Harry could barely look her in the eyes, stumbling over his words as he said, "Hermione, I know this looks bad, but—"

"Looks bad?!" Ron almost shouted from beside Hermione. "Looks bad? Harry, mate, you know who this is, don't you?" He looked at Harry as if he thought he was mad for being anywhere near Tom. "You danced with—with...." Ron could hardly even look at Tom, scared away not simply by his imposing figure, but by the thick alpha pheromones the man exuded like a cloak.

Harry stood tall, then, bolstered by the feeling of Tom's hand against his. Tom's scent was actively calming, and he breathed it in. "Yes, actually," he breathed. "I do, and I did."

The truth was sweet on his tongue, and a heavy weight lifted from his shoulders despite himself.

Hermione's eyes widened in realization. She gasped in shock. "So this is the boyfriend," she uttered.

The group was silent for a short few seconds. Harry turned beet red at her words, and then Tom laughed a syrup-deep, humorous thing.

Harry's stomach gave a swoop when hearing it. The alpha tilted his head so he could whisper into Harry's ear. "Boyfriend, hm?" Harry shivered.

He cleared his throat. "Yeah, is that a problem?" He looked Tom in the eyes, daring him to say anything.

The man gave a little snort, and for a moment Harry was so shocked by the human gesture that he stood ice-still. It was...unreasonably cute.

"No," he said softly, "There's no problem."

Harry turned back to his friends, and it was only then that he saw the look of rapturous understanding on Hermione's face as she looked at them, wide-eyed, staring at the too-obvious bracelet on Harry's wrist and the soft look on Tom's face. Ron was the same, except his brow furrowed in confusion. He looked afraid—for Harry, more than anything, and just a tinge hurt.

"Ron...," Harry began, pursing his lips. "I didn't mean to hide this, but...."

"How long?" He demanded, looking straight at Harry, at his locked hands with Tom. "How long have you been lying to us?"

Harry couldn't lie.

He just couldn't.

The truth was a fountain, bursting from his lips.

"Ever since that day in the Ministry. Something happened. Something changed him. I'm sorry, I was going to tell you—"

Ron laughed, eyes wet. "Were you, Harry? When?! You're shacking up with—with him, after everything he's done? Are you on some potion? Under a spell? Tell me! Make me understand!"

Harry couldn't say anything.

"Please, Ron, give me some time, there's a lot to explain—"

Hermione interrupted them. "Ron, wait—"

A head of fiery red hair burst into Harry's vision, and without preamble, Ginny yanked Ron by the ear. "Oh no you don't, Ronnie! Don't get ahead of yourself. Listen to Harry first, then you can yell at him if you're still angry."

The boy twisted on his feet. "You're in on this! Ginny!" He was scandalised, and betrayal coated his features.

"Yes," she sighed in both exhaustion and relief as her shoulders went loose. "I saw them together, in Diagon. Harry explained it afterwards. And I...I can't say I'm okay with it, but I think I understand."

"You've been lying for him," Hermione realized. "You helped cover it up."

Ginny nodded.

Ron gagged. "Oh, Merlin, in Diagon—you two—you—" He couldn't say it.

Harry looked down, embarrassed. He and Tom had been intimate, not for the first or the last time. And it looked like Ron wasn't taking that well.

Finally, Tom stepped in. Harry was waved behind him, and Tom—with his cold eyes and even colder smile—cut an intimidating figure, and it wasn't simply for his height, a solid thirty centimetres or so taller than Harry.

"Frankly, Weasley, I don't think you have the right to judge us. Ginevra is correct, you must listen to Harry state his case first, then make your decision," he cautioned. "But know this, Weasley," his eyes flashed dangerously, "do not ever think to hurt my courted in any way. This stays between us, and no one gets hurt. If either you or Granger let anything slip...."

Tom bared his teeth, danger practically dripping from his form.

Ron visibly shivered, and even Hermione, who always stood firm, swallowed down her fear. Ginny simply raised an eyebrow, unaffected.

Harry grabbed onto the alpha's arm. "Tom, don't threaten my friends!" He inhaled deeply, a desperate attempt to draw in strength. "I can do this."

Tom deflated, reverting to his doting, affectionate alpha demeanour. "I know you can, my dear, but these people...they can very easily hurt you, my omega...."

"I'm not yours yet, so until then, I can fight my own battles." Harry stood firm.

Tom twitched, ears honing in on the yet aspect of Harry's sentence. Of course, so did everyone else.

The alpha allowed a smirk to grow on his face. He leaned in close to Harry. "So that means one day, you will allow me to fight your battles?"

Harry squirmed, cheeks growing warm. "I—yeah, sure, one day. We'll see!"

Tom chuckled.

Ron swallowed something down audibly, perhaps bile or his own questions.

"Merlin, Harry—what?" The boy deflated, too tired to be angry after seeing his best friend flirt with his meant-to-be mortal enemy. He let out an exhausted sigh, shaking his head. "I can't—Merlin. Well, you never do anything by halves, I'll give you that."

Harry laughed wetly. "Don't I know it. I don't even know how this all happened! It was an accident."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. She glanced between Harry and Tom, paying especially long attention to the thick hand securely on Harry's waist and the smaller hand on Tom's arm. "Accident, hm?"

Harry exclaimed, "You know what I mean!"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "You don't know what I've seen, guys. Seriously. These two are so ridiculous for each other."

"Ginny!"

She gave him a challenging look. Harry looked away.

"Well," Ginny got in between Ron and Hermione, yanking on both of their arms. "We really got to go. You two can just—go do whatever, I guess." She shooed them away.

Harry blinked.

"Well, off with you, these two and I need to have a little chat." She glanced tellingly between Ron and Hermione, and Harry instantly relaxed. He knew what she was doing.

Thank you, he mouthed as he and Tom left the ball entirely.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Tom stole him away, taking him up from the dungeons and to the grounds around Hogwarts. It was a bit of a walk, but the courtyard was secluded, and Tom had put up that same privacy spell for extra security. As it happened, that same spell was also active during their encounter with his friends, which was for the best, really.

Harry could finally breathe, and his head fell onto Tom's shoulder as they sat on a bench. Harry was halfway sitting on Tom's lap, and it definitely looked like Tom didn't mind if the way his arms were wrapped snugly around Harry's waist was any indication.

"Well, that didn't go too terribly, did it?" Tom commented, still a touch smug after hearing Harry release a bone-deep sigh once he snuggled into Tom's arms.

"You tosser! 'Didn't go too terribly' my arse!" Harry groaned into his chest. Then he came up to look him in the eye. Their faces were a touch too close. "I can't believe you today."

"What can't you believe?"

"I—you—everything! Everything's falling apart," Harry mumbled. "It's..."

"Terrifying?"

"Undoubtedly," Harry answered.

Tom began to curl his hand through Harry's hair, playing with the strands. "Well...in my experience, sometimes things have to fall apart, for all the good to enter our lives."

"What do you mean?"

Tom huffed out a laugh. "I'm the prime example, darling. My life...whatever happened in the Room of Desire...everything fell apart afterwards, and I was left to pick up the pieces. But I have to admit, I do particularly like the good that came out of it. My life is...far more satisfying now."

Harry smirked, and his hands went up to wrap around Tom's neck as he angled himself over Tom's thighs. Immediately, Tom's hands came to secure Harry even closer to him, as if by instinct.

"More satisfying? In what way," Harry breathed.

"This way."

And then, their lips met, and they both melted into it.

Harry's scar sizzled strangely, lighting up with an electrifying sort of arousal as Tom's soul linked with his.

Harry let out a moan when Tom brought them chest-to-chest, letting his hands feel up Harry's thighs through the slit in his skirt. The feeling of Tom's thick hands on him made Harry quiver, it was so close yet not close enough to the area he most wanted Tom to touch.

And then Harry did something impatiently with his teeth and Tom's lower lip, pushing his tongue into Tom's mouth to deepen the kiss while rubbing himself against the alpha's chest. More, he tried to say. He couldn't ever get enough of this man.

Tom groaned, a heady sound that made something like victoriousness pierce through him. Tom was never the most vocal during sex, and Harry wanted to hear more of his sounds.

And then, as if communicating to Harry that he knew exactly what he meant, Tom's hand pumped the fat on Harry's inner thigh, and then he went deeper, palming at a spot that made Harry whimper.

The sweet, honey scent of aroused omega flooded the air, and so did the scent of slick. Tom's scent piqued with aroused and excited alpha.

"Tom!" Harry was left breathless as he pulled away, struck by the realization that he was forgetting something. "Wa—wait!"

Tom was equally as breathless as Harry, but he wore it far more elegantly. His curls framed his face so prettily, and the shade of pink dusting his cheeks made him look almost cherubically beautiful.

"Harry?" Tom asked, palming at Harry's bum through the thin fabric of his underwear. Harry whimpered.

"There—there's something I'm forgetting. Wait a second."

Painfully, Harry forced himself to stand, and he had to individually peel each of Tom's fingers off of him, such was the way neither wished to be parted. He stumbled on his feet, still flushed.

Harry pulled out his wand from where he'd hidden it on a thigh strap. Tom's eyes bulged, and his throat bobbed at the sight. Evidently, he hadn't felt the wand when he was feeling Harry up. Maybe it was the wrong thigh.

"Accio," he incanted, visualising a little velvet jewellery box that he had painstakingly transfigured, let alone the little gift inside of it.

The window in Gryffindor Tower was still open, Harry hoped. Neville kept it open some nights, as some of his plants on the sill needed moonlight.

It took almost two whole minutes for the box to show up, and when it finally shot into his hand—akin to the way his firebolt did during the tournament years ago—Harry relaxed.

He rubbed the box with the pad of his thumb. Finally, he could present his gift.

He turned to Tom, and he took a steadying breath once he saw the man lean down to look at what Harry had in his hand.

"Harry, what is this?" Tom asked, curious.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

The angelic smile that grew on Harry's face defied all of Tom's expectations, and the boy stepped closer to him. "Take a look," he said shyly, and he flipped open the box, presenting it to Tom with hopeful eyes and a face that expected the sword of Damocles to swoop in, exacting judgment.

Tom's heart skipped a beat, and his breath was stolen by the sight before his eyes. The ring was familiar, its craftsmanship excellent. But the problem was that it shouldn't exist.

The bracelet he crafted for Harry was of his own design, painstakingly and delicately crafted ever since he planned to make Harry his. It took time to make, and he was rather proud of it. But this...he couldn't believe.

The ring was a matched set to the bracelet on Harry's wrist, and judging by the familiar feeling of Harry's magic pulsing from both the metal and box, Harry crafted it himself.

Again, speech was lost to him, and he stood there with his jaw dropped like a fool, in disbelief. No one had ever done something like this for him before. It was a gift, given only for personal reasons, not to curry favour or as a bribe.

In lieu of speaking, he allowed Harry to slip it on his finger. His left, middle finger. Not his ring finger, he mourned to himself, but soon.

The ring was beautiful and elegantly made. The dark silver was just the same shade as Harry's bracelet, but the single jewelled eye glittered in a shade of emerald, akin to the killing curse, rather than the bracelet's ruby red. It was the same shade as Harry's eyes, Tom slowly realized.

"It's an early Christmas gift. Or a courting gift, if you want to take it that way," he smiled cheekily.

Already, Tom was enchanted by Harry's strength. A permanent enchantment on metal and gem to form a ring...that took a lot of power and especially precision. It was a great accomplishment. Never mind that Tom, an experienced wizard, had already done it. This was Harry, a schoolboy. Tom could physically feel the magic that Harry soaked into the ring, and he loved it all the more.

But Harry's words...he made the ring specifically with me in mind, he breathed, as a gift. And suddenly, he wanted to eat him.

"You are a blessing, Harry Potter," Tom rasped, barely able to keep his eyes away. The omega was ever so enchanting, with his face and body and words and actions. That ring, by Salazar, and the dress.

"You vexing, enchanting creature...."

His words earned him a blush and an awkward shuffle from the omega, and Tom found himself struck with the urge to make him finally his, right then.

The moment he saw him in that dress, he was half-tempted to rip it off of him just so he could ravage him for all to see, akin to the public matings of old. He should have grown used to the feelings the boy could incite in him by now, but truly, he couldn't. Whatever beast inside of him that was roused by the sight of Harry Potter simply couldn't be tamed, he realized as his heart thumped wildly inside his chest.

"So..." Harry whispered, his head tilted so he could gaze up at the taller man. "Sorry for only giving you the one gift, but I figure...do you want an early birthday gift?" His lips formed into a cheeky smirk, and Tom's heart practically thumped out of his chest.

"My birthday?" No one ever remembered his birthday. Tom would have forgotten it himself if Harry hadn't seen fit to remind him.

"You're turning seventy, you perverted old man. You can't have forgotten, hm?"

Ah. He did, evidently. How fitting that Harry wished to remind him.

"A gift?" Tom replied. He could have smirked. He had a feeling he knew exactly what his birthday gift would be, judging by the sight of that bow tied around Harry's neck—as if his boy was a gift to be unwrapped.

Harry's throat bobbed when Tom pulled him closer by the waist, and when his hand came up to delicately cradle the omega's glitter-coated cheek, the boy shivered. Pretty red lips fell open in expectation, and Tom stole them for his own.

Their lips finally locked as they clicked together, falling into each others' arms so easily. Finally.

Tom and Harry both felt it, that burning intimacy. The passion between them didn't rage; it wasn't yet fanned into a forest fire; it was a gentle shower of rain, ready to turn into a hurricane at a moment's notice. Their kiss wasn't simply an expression of passion, it was warmth and care and—

He sighed into Harry's mouth, and his hands wandered around the omega's body, from his waist to his arse, all the way down to his thigh where Tom slipped his hand through the slit in Harry's dress. He just wanted to feel his skin.

They didn't have to do more than this. He was fine with just kissing; the sizzling furore of arousal he felt hadn't quite reached boiling point, no matter the beast being roused inside of him.

And then Tom, with both hands, began palming his buttocks, making Harry groan and arch into him, and he knew kissing wasn't all they were about to do. Not that he minded, of course. It's been far too long.

Tom groaned when he felt a certain wetness gathered tellingly in his Harry's thighs. He could smell it faintly, something sweet and aroused. It was Harry's slick, and he was already leaking.

Good Merlin, Tom could not be expected to control himself, no red-blooded alpha could.

Instantly, he took Harry away. The privacy ward moved with them, and no one noticed Harry's yelp as Tom bridal-carried him with no effort at all, or the flush on his wide-eyed face as he hitched out a moan of "Alpha."

He simply couldn't wait, his cheeks and neck warmed. He had to have Harry again as soon as physically possible. It had truly been far, far too long.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

The moment Tom dragged them both to an abandoned classroom, he set a dazed Harry down before casting a set of quick privacy wards, and then he transfigured the dusty old desk into a four-poster, elegant monster of a Slytherin green-curtained bed with grey silk sheets. It wasn't quite the same as his own bed back at the manor, but it would do to see Harry laid bare against it.

Tom pushed Harry onto the bed with hardly a word, and the glamour he wore fell away just as silently. Instantly, his skin began to pale, his eyes burning red. And his teeth, from where he laved his just too-long tongue against Harry's glittering neck, sharpened the slightest bit.

He bit Harry on the Adam's apple of his throat, groaning at the sweet honey scent wafting off of the omega's scent glands. How badly he wished to bite him where it mattered most, on the spot right there at the junction of his neck and shoulder. Harry would moan so sweetly for him, he knew. He would want it just as much as Tom.

Instead of finally marking him, he settled for leaving his omega with bite marks and hickeys that he couldn't ever hope to cover. He may not have been able to mark his dearest in the way that mattered most, but he could, assuredly, leave him marked in other ways.

He gazed at Harry's scar, then, and he smirked ever so slightly. He hadn't yet mated and marked the boy beneath him, but that lightning scar...it proved that Harry was his almost as much as a bond mark would.

Harry whimpered underneath him, his cheek rubbing on the silk sheets of the bed as he presented his neck to Tom. That little black ribbon of his glimmered in the dim light of the abandoned classroom.

"Oh, God—Tom, please."

"I'll make you see God," he uttered, his voice hoarse, "Just give me the word."

"Please," he cried.

And to that, how could he ever refuse?

Moments later, Harry's soft skin was bared. Tom didn't remove his dress, oh no, he laughed. Instead, he slipped delicate sleeves down from Harry's shoulders, and he allowed the fabric of the gown to gather at his abdomen as Tom folded the skirt up from Harry's thighs.

He found himself slightly obsessed with Harry's bare legs and the tease of thick, corded thighs through the slit of his dress. He was, in general, obsessed with every part of Harry's body, but he had a particular fondness for his omega's strong thighs, perhaps born from the memory of those thighs squeezing him almost painfully in as he fed from Harry's warmth.

The sight before him was deliciously salacious, a perfect appetiser to the main course. His Harry, laid out and moaning, cheeks flushed and hair in disarray as he lay half-naked in bed with Tom atop of him.

He could do this every day; he would do this every day, one day.

Tom's fingers twitched with the urge to delve deep into Harry's thighs, to see the wetness gathered, but he knew that if he took a closer look, he wouldn't be able to force himself away. So he didn't, yet. What a bastion of self-control he was.

The glitter didn't end on Harry's neck, Tom swallowed. He could see the little golden flecks sparkle against Harry's dainty collarbones, his chest, and just a fleck or two on his stomach and navel. And, most temptingly, there was just a little speck that fell on the pink nub of Harry's perky nipple.

How filthy. He should clean it up.

He began sucking at Harry's pectoral, biting and licking his chest while listening to the breathy sounds of Harry's pleasure.

"Oh—oh," he moaned when Tom finally sucked on that little nub. He flicked the other, rubbing it in between two fingers and rejoicing in the way that Harry squirmed and quivered beneath him. How practical of him to not neglect Harry's other.

"Oh, fuck, Tom, wow. This is, you know—" he struggled to breathe out, "—this is the first time we're doing it in a real—oh, ah...real be—eed!" His little squeak at the end was caused by the way Tom bit Harry's nipple, and then he moaned as Tom rubbed his hot tongue soothingly against it.

"Is it?" Tom asked, smirking. "Well, we aren't 'doing' anything yet. We've hardly gotten to the good part."

His eyes gleamed dangerously. "Turn around, my dear. On your belly. I wish to see you."

Harry didn't question it. He didn't say anything at all. Instead, he began to turn, ready to lay properly on the bed as Tom asked before—

"Oh no, my dear. I'll take this off first," Tom clicked his tongue.

He got up behind Harry, from where the omega was almost kneeling on the bed. His imposing, warm frame was flushed against Harry's naked back, and he was fully aware of the effect that had on the omega. The power...Harry knew he had none of it. And he liked that, Tom could feel it through the throbbing furore of arousal clouding their link. He liked that Tom was in control; it was arousing for him, Tom smirked.

And then Tom's eyes fell on the dark slip of ribbon on Harry's neck, and his lips kissed the back of Harry's throat as he peeled it off teasingly, untying the thing by pulling a single string at a time. He threw the little ribbon away. "I'll take the dress off as well, dearest. You won't be needing it."

The alpha stripped it off of him, bit by bit. Already, he could see the stickiness gathered in Harry's thighs, and he breathed in the scent with a satisfied groan.

As Harry lay there in bed, bared except for his underwear, he moaned indecently after hearing Tom's groan. "Tom!" He cried. "What are you...?"

The alpha peeled off Harry's underwear, inch by inch to reveal the round curve of Harry's bum. It was wet with slick, both the fabric of Harry's underwear and the little bud of his perineum.

Harry whimpered into the pillow, flushed red as Tom eyed his pucker. That hole of his looked so sweet, the flesh of his bum so round, and really, when could Tom ever resist playing with every part of Harry?

He palmed Harry's buttocks, spreading him open. "I think I'll play with this today. I'll make you beg for it."

"I—I don't know what you mean," Harry begged. His confusion was surely genuine, but his body betrayed him.

Harry's cunt squirted, and his bum pushed up just a little bit at his attentions, presenting.

Tom smiled gently. "Don't you worry, dear. I'll take care of you. It will feel good, I promise."

"Tom...." Harry breathed. He eyed the alpha impatiently. "You can...you can do whatever you want to me. Just promise you'll make me feel good, yeah?"

"I always do."

Whatever I want, hm? A part of him, something dark and possessive, laughed. Harry would regret saying that soon enough.

His boy shivered beneath him, and Tom knew he'd felt his dark glee flowing through their link. Harry answered with a responding wave of please.

The alpha kissed Harry on the small of his back, reassuring him. Then, he began to remove his clothes. He was quite over-dressed for the occasion.

He stood up—purposefully in view of Harry's vision—before he shrugged off his coat, letting it fall to the floor as he kept his eyes on Harry's dilated pupils.

He made a show of it. He removed each article slowly, teasingly, undoing each button of his waistcoat with a little smirk.

He wanted to tease Harry just as much as the omega teased him the whole night with his sexy dress and sensual body and the pretty shade of red painting his lips. He wanted to rip that dress off of him and it was a conscious effort not to.

When Tom finally shrugged off his trousers and underwear all in one swoop, Harry whimpered at the sight of his bulge, the thick and throbbing length he'd pierced Harry with more than once. It was almost painfully red, and hard.

"Bloody hell, Tom, you've just been waltzing around with that thing the whole night? It's so...." Harry blushed, and then he pushed his face down into the pillow, embarrassed.

Tom let out a little chuckle, amused at the way his omega was still so shy, even after they'd already been together quite a few times.

He climbed over Harry's body, his naked form pressing against the omega's, including his hard cock against the small of Harry's back.

"Don't be so shy, Omega. You've seen it all before," he whispered into Harry's ear, his hot breath wafting into it. The tips of his ears were red, Tom realized, such was the depth of Harry's blush. He wanted to see more of it.

"I know, but...it's been so long, I've almost forgotten," Harry breathed, turning his head to lightly kiss Tom's cheek. "Please take care of me."

Tom stole another kiss, delving his tongue into the depths of Harry's mouth to claim his lips as Harry let out a hot moan. "You have nothing to fear, my dear, I always do."

Harry whimpered when Tom made his way down his body, and he let out another strained sound when Tom split his cheeks open, and then another when he spat inside to lubricate the dry, twitching hole.

The omega tensed. "Please! Be—be careful, I've never...never done this before...."

"Never? Not even once? You've never thought to explore your hole, Harry?"

The boy turned away at Tom's lewd words, he stuttered, "N-no."

"I'll be careful," Tom comforted. And he was, mostly.

He delved his tongue into Harry's twitching arsehole—after casting a wandless cleaning charm, of course—and he savoured the sound of Harry's shocked keen as he clenched against him, his sweet pussy pulsing and letting out a squirt of slick.

"Oh fuck, that feels...that feels so good. It's weird—I didn't think—oh Merlin fuck."

Tom let out a satisfied alpha rumble at Harry's words, and while his tongue was inside Harry's hole, lubricating it as he spread his cheeks open, he allowed one of his hands to fall away so he could press a finger into the folds of Harry's cunt.

He took his index finger and teased the edges of Harry's twitching warmth, his labia and then up to his clit. He rubbed it between two fingers.

Harry screamed a wet sound, and he clenched so sweetly against him that Tom had to do it again.

He continued licking Harry's arsehole, all the while spreading his cunt with his fingers and fucking him with those digits. He allowed the wetness to gather on those fingers, and while Harry was busying himself with moaning and quivering around him, presenting his arse for Tom's perusal with a wet little sound, Tom drew his fingers out from Harry's pussy.

He couldn't resist the urge to jerk Harry's weeping prick, fondling it as Harry wheezed into the pillow and let out stuttered moans.

Still sufficiently lubricated, he resisted the urge to lick the sweet slick off his fingers and instead slipped a single finger first, then two, into Harry's hole.

He stretched him manually, knowing that his omega wasn't ready to take him in full yet. But he would have all of Harry's holes, one way or another.

Harry cried out when Tom's fingers pulled out from inside his cunt, and his little pussy clenched at the emptiness. When Tom's fingers entered his arsehole instead, the alpha laughed when the boy got up to present on all-fours, begging him to "Please, please touch me, I need it, alpha."

And truly, how could he ever resist?

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Harry was in paradise, or perhaps a very strange, very pleasurable form of hell where the punishment was eternal, achingly good, too-pleasurable and teasing sex to the point he couldn't take it anymore.

Tom had spread his cheeks wide open, to Harry's shock, and declared that he would use him there, too. And really, how could Harry ever say no? Because he also wanted it. Some part of him, he flushed, also wanted Tom to use him, to stretch and fill every part of him until Harry begged him to stop.

Harry didn't know what kind of monster he was turning into, but he blamed the alpha on top of him for that. It was all his fault.

And now, he'd licked Harry's arse and made him feel a filthy, unimaginable pleasure while he fucked his cunt full with either two or three fingers, making him moan and shout and beg Tom to fill him properly, before pulling his fingers out to fuck into Harry's hole instead.

And of course, what else was there to do but get on his hands and knees and beg Tom to "Just fuck me already, dammit!"

It was too good, too much, too pleasurable. And Harry wanted more of it.

So of course, the alpha spread him wide open. He speared Harry's hole open with one, two, then three fingers, and he scissored inside of him, stretching him quickly.

Harry whimpered at the feeling. He'd never played with himself there before and he didn't know it would feel so...so good. Omegas didn't do that there. They couldn't be bred through their arse, and what Tom wanted to do to him...that wouldn't be able to breed him. Forgetting the contraceptive potion (which Harry would take later, of course), Tom couldn't breed him through his arse, he was going to use him, Merlin. And that was almost too hot for Harry to handle.

And then finally, finally Tom rubbed something inside of him that made Harry see stars. He screamed, "Tom!"

The man laughed a dark little chuckle. "That would be your prostate, my dear. It's very pleasurable, isn't it?"

Harry clenched and shivered as Tom pressed it again. The man kept fucking him with his fingers, almost neglecting to stretch him as he watched Harry fall apart with pleasure with keen, eagle eyes.

"Alpha!" Harry shouted, almost in tears. He needed Tom inside of him already. He just—he just wanted it, couldn't his alpha tell? He was so pent up, and so he said as much through their link. "Please, I want you—I want you to—aaah!"

His alpha knew, Harry moaned. He felt the way Tom turned to ice against his back, the way his scent piqued with arousal, the twitch of a hard length against Harry's leg. He felt it through their link, and Harry could feel Tom's answer.

He didn't even really need their link, all he needed to do was listen to the squelch of Tom's fingers pulling out of his wet, stretched hole and the clenching of his arse against nothing as Tom moaned.

Harry presented, he knew what was coming next.

Quickly, the alpha was on his knees between Harry's legs and a hard length rubbed against Harry's wet cunt.

He knew Tom wasn't about to put it in, that all he was doing was lubricating himself before fucking into Harry's other hole, but he couldn't stop himself from letting out a little moan and clenching against it, almost trapping the hard length in his folds.

The alpha moaned at Harry's movements, and then he pulled his cock away, ready to sheathe himself inside of Harry's arse.

Already, the head poked at Harry's rim, and he inhaled a deep breath, doing his best to relax as the thing slid inside of him with a thrust of Tom's hips.

He clenched around it unconsciously, whimpering as Tom's cock bottomed out inside of him. His cunt was wet, so wet, and he almost cried at the feeling of emptiness inside of his pussy hole as his arse was filled.

He pushed back, meeting Tom as he jerked into Harry's hole. It was starting to feel good, the fullness. It was electric, and warmth pooled in Harry's gut.

Tom's thrusts earned him strangled sounds of pleasure from Harry's lips, and the moment Tom thrust against his prostate, it was all over.

"Fuckfuckfuck!" Harry screamed. "Oh fuck, Tom, please." He thrust his arse back against him, meeting Tom's cock as it just kept moving inside of him.

It was feeling too good, and at every spark of pleasure from Harry's arse, he could feel the throbbing of his dick, the emptiness inside his cunt. "M-more, please I want more." Harry hitched out a sob, tears staining his cheeks.

It wasn't enough. He wasn't being filled enough. He needed something else, it just wasn't—

It was too much, but not enough. He couldn't take it.

Tom snarled against him, and then before Harry knew it, the man fucked impossibly deeper into him with a hitched-off groan.

Harry whined. And then, and then—oh fuck.

He could hear Tom whisper something, it was a hiss, but Harry's mind was too fractured to really understand. Something wrapped around Harry's thighs, both of them, something warm and long and vaguely snakey. He angled his neck to look, and wrapped around his thighs was something made from magic.

It was rope, but not. Something green and made of magic glittered from where two sets were wrapped around his thighs. He could see the vague outlines of scales, and then he heard an unintelligible hiss near his warmest spot.

For a moment, Harry froze. He couldn't understand what was happening. But when he did, when he did begin to understand—he whined at the feeling of two small, conjured snakes formed from pure magic each barely the thickness of two fingers rubbing against his folds.

He panted like a dog at the feeling of it. It was—

He swallowed, gazing into Tom's smirking red eyes as the man rasped "Is that enough for you?" at the same moment the two snakes slid into Harry's cunt.

He bared down, quivering around the feeling of pure magic fucking into him.

Just one was too much, he whimpered. It was electric pleasure inside him, rubbing and making its way deeper as Harry sobbed. He could feel the tight coils around his thighs stretching like rope, wiggling around him, and then the second one forced its way in.

It was too much too big and Harry screamed. The pleasure was—oh fuck.

And then Tom was fucking him again. He'd paused briefly, allowing Harry to get used to something in his cunt while Tom was still inside of his arse, but now all bets were off.

Harry howled when his climax finally came, his fists clenching against the sheets. He was going mad, surely. And Tom was still using him, the alpha's end nowhere near in sight.

His entire body was pure pleasure, and he was being filled. Tom's cock was fucking his arse, and then two—two magic snakes were fucking his cunt. He was too full and he just—he loved it.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

What a little slut his darling omega was turning out to be. Already, he was being pleasured with Tom's cock, but that wasn't enough for him. No, he begged for more. And like a kind and generous alpha, Tom provided.

He conjured twin snakes made from pure magic to fuck into Harry's cunt, and his audacious little omega enjoyed it. He was plugged full, impaled thrice over, yet he was still moaning and begging for it.

Tom breathed in the exquisite scent of Harry's pleasure, and before he knew it, he was plumping thicker inside of him.

Ah, he thought as he realized what was happening. His knot. He was knotting Harry.

It hadn't happened since their first time together, and it wasn't a full knot. He'd plumped just slightly thicker from the rush of it all, the adrenaline of pleasure from his first time with the little vixen below him. They weren't locked together, and he was hardly given a chance to really breed his omega, but now....

"A‐alpha," Harry clenched around him. "You-your knot," he whined, wide-eyed and pleading. "I can feel it...."

So he noticed. Tom smirked, then he jerked deeper, uncaring of the way his thickening knot filled Harry even more. "Yes, my dear? What of it," he asked, perfectly leisurely.

Harry sobbed into the pillow, inhaling deep breaths of air. "It's—how? I'm not in—in heat, and you're not in rut—oooh...."

That would be true if he were a normal alpha. The presence of breeding hormones started a knot, so heat and rut were the most likely times for a knot to pop and lock them together. But he was no normal alpha. He was far greater than that.

"I am not like other alphas—I am usually in control of who I give my knot to, and how many times they take it," he smirked lasciviously. "But the first time...I can admit that my knot formed all on its own from the pleasure of having you sit on my cock."

He breathed into the back of Harry's neck, whispering, "I am far greater than other alphas could ever hope to be, Omega. Over the years, I have performed rituals to enhance my mind and my body," he revealed, "and as a very positive consequence, mind you, I can knot whenever I wish, no heat or rut needed," he revealed. "How very lucky you are, my darling, for ensnaring an alpha who can breed you whenever. You. Wish." He punctuated those last words with deep, spine-tingling thrusts.

Tom knew what his omega liked, what got him quivering and whining for it. He was always a quick learner, and he knew just how much Harry wanted to be bred. He could see through his heart, down to his very soul. Harry wanted this.

Tom thrust forward, and the knot at his dick was just about to pop inside of Harry. "Beg," he ordered, savouring the sound of Harry's hitched whines, "beg for me to breed you, for me to fuck you full with my seed."

Harry gasped out a keen, crying out, "Alpha, pleasepleaseplease give me your knot, I need it, oh please!"

He browsed through their link, savouring it. Waves of arousal almost swallowed him into its depths, from both himself and the omega. Harry was mad with wantneedmore, and it was delicious. Tom let out a pleased hum.

And then he thrust into Harry's arse once, twice, thrice more, and he was fucking him full. His knot was already so thick as it popped into Harry, stretching his pucker wide, and Harry breathed in thick, heaving gasps.

He clenched around him, wanton and wanting, tears staining his cheeks as he moaned. Harry's lithe body stretched, and his arse pushed up farther into Tom's dick. "Oh, fuck me, I need it, please more. F-fill me up, breed me, Alpha," he whined, staring into Tom's eyes.

The alpha could see the redness staining Harry's face, the glitter sparkling on his skin, and it wasn't the sheer debauchery of it all that got him. It was Harry's wide, green doe eyes, begging for it.

He knotted him, filling Harry and locking against him. His cum filled Harry's arse, and Tom moaned long and hard. It was so long since he'd truly knotted someone. He'd resisted it in their shared dreams. He wanted it to be real the first time he fully knotted Harry, and now...it was far better than his imaginings.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Harry could only barely recall the first time he took Tom's knot through the thick haze of pleasure and desire that was their first time. Now, he knew it wasn't the full thing. This was. The fullness, the stretch, the pleasure. Harry was dazed.

The thick gush of cum inside of him made his stomach swoop, and Harry could only barely keep still as his arse was bred. His cunt and arse were sore, but clenching. And through it all, the electric pleasure in his cunt wouldn't pause.

The snakes were still there, burrowed in his warmth. They wouldn't stop fucking him. He'd already cum twice now—the second time was when Tom's knot popped and locked them together—and he shivered from the aftershocks and bared down as he was fucked again.

Tom stilled inside of him, but the snakes certainly weren't, and Harry squirmed on the twin lengths. There was no relief, and it was so good that Harry almost didn't care. He wanted more. And that's what he got.

And finally, he clenched again, wheezing from it all as he squirted and cried against the sheets.

Finally, Tom was finished, and he fell beside Harry.

The warmth in his cunt settled, and the little snakes as well were locked inside of him. Harry was warm, so warm, and with his alpha bare against his back, with his arm slung over Harry's waist, he let out a satisfied purr.

The alpha breathed in Harry's scent, and Harry shivered at the feeling of Tom nosing around the scent glands on his neck. "You take me so well, my Harry. You're so warm."

Harry blushed. "Th-thanks. You're good at this, too, you know. I really missed it." I missed you, he almost said.

They were quiet for a few minutes, and then the alpha sighed before positioning them more comfortably. The wetness on the sheets and between Harry's legs was quickly growing awkward, so Tom cleaned that as well. It was so nice.

He was cradled with his back against the alpha's chest, and his arm was wrapped around Harry's waist. He wanted to stay that way forever.

Harry angled his neck, and then he breathed in Tom's spicy and thick alpha scent from his shoulder. He brought his own hand up, and he rubbed his wrist against the alpha's scent gland.

Tom twitched warningly against him. "Harry?" He asked. "What are you doing?"

"I'm scenting you," he responded.

"Why?" Tom asked, confused.

"Because I want you to smell like me. We spend so much time apart, I don't want anyone else getting any ideas."

Tom huffed out a laugh. "Someone's getting a little jealous, I see." Possessive was more like it. If Tom was possessive of him, then Harry could afford to be possessive of Tom. It was only fair.

"Maybe, but I don't want anyone like Bellatrix Lestrange sniffing around you when you're with me."

Tom paused, tensing at Harry's words. "About that...."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, tensing as well.

"Bellatrix is dead," he revealed. "I killed her."

Instantly, Harry twisted around to face him. It was uncomfortable, and Harry squeaked as he saw stars from where Tom's knot pressed deeper into him, but once he positioned himself correctly, his hand cradled Tom's cheek as he looked at him with pleading eyes.

"You...you killed her?" Harry breathed, awe-struck as he stared into his eyes. "But isn't she your most loyal?"

"Not after what she did to you," Tom rasped. "Bella had her uses, but she wouldn't have approved of my new plans—she had a need for spilling blood, and so...her death was the only option. I sacrificed her for the cause." He looked away, still grumbling. Harry knew it couldn't have been easy to kill a follower of his, and he knew he should have felt disgusted at hearing about a woman's death, but....

"How did she die?" He asked.

"I returned to the Ministry soon after the battle," Tom began, "And I pushed her through the Veil."

Harry's breath hitched. Merlin, this man was perfect.

He jumped him, planting a kiss on his lips, right then and there. Teeth and tongue and everything.

Tom moaned against him, writhing as he tried to take control of the kiss, but Harry wouldn't let him. He groaned into Tom's mouth, pushing his hips down and grinding deeper onto Tom's thick knot. The twin snakes inside of his cunt twitched warningly.

"Fuck," Tom groaned when Harry finally released his lips. Harry was on top of him, and Tom was lying on the bed, dazed. "What a sight you are, beloved."

Harry blushed on top of him. "Beloved? That's a new one."

The alpha raised an eyebrow. "Do you like it?"

Harry nodded. Very.

(Beloved, he toyed with it in his mind. Did that mean Tom loved hi—)

Harry quickly grew embarrassed on top of Tom like that. His arse was still flush against Tom's dick, and his cunt was still speared full of two magical snakes. It was a bit embarrassing how horny he still felt, but he ignored it.

He fell next to Tom again, this time with his head against the man's chest. "Thank you," he said. "For everything."

The man paused, and then he wound his hand through Harry's hair. "Anytime."

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

It wasn't easy to say. Tom had no idea how to say it. But after Harry brought up Bellatrix....

"Harry," he began, "I have a gift for you."

Harry eyed him, raising an eyebrow. "What gift?" He was staring at his chest now, drawing shapes into it lazily.

"You'll need to wait; it's still being prepared, you see, but you will know it when you see it."

"But I want it now," Harry whined into Tom's shoulder, wiggling in his arms in a manner no follower of his would ever be comfortable doing. Truly, what the boy did to him.... He held no fear of him at all. He was almost too relaxed around him. If Harry were simply a follower of his, he'd have thrown him out of his bed with a Cruciatus, but Harry was no follower, no. He was far better than those simpering fools could ever be.

"You must wait. I understand you are impatient, but it will be worth it. You will receive your gift before the New Year, but I wanted you to expect it, so do keep a lookout for the Prophet."

Harry breathed deeply, and from his relaxed sigh, Tom knew the boy was breathing in his scent. Quickly, he was growing dazed against his chest, likely from a mixture of Tom's pheromones and the soporific properties of knotting. "Uh huh, m'kay. Got it," he sighed.

He smiled at the sight. Then, slowly, he pressed his lips to Harry's scar. "I will be forever grateful to you, Harry Potter. Know this."

Harry squeaked. "Tom....!"

And then the omega looked back at him, sleepy eyes gazing at him curiously. He opened his mouth before closing it again. "I—can I...can I ask something?" He yawned, resisting the urge to sleep.

Tom nodded.

"Back then—in the room," Harry asked, his finger lazily drawing shapes over Tom's chest. "Why exactly were we pulled to each other? How?"

He bit his lip. "I think about it sometimes," he yawned, then he blinked his eyes, "and it doesn't make sense. A part of me wished I didn't have to fight you, that Tom Riddle wasn't evil, that we could understand each other, but...the wishes have to be mutual, right? So if you didn't, then....how?"

Tom sighed softly, and his fingers danced around Harry's waist as he pulled him closer. "Desire, Harry. Mutual desire."

Chapter Text

Ginny clicked her tongue; she shook her head at the sight. Harry and Tom were truly ridiculous. They spent the whole party gazing into each others' eyes and dancing and hanging onto each other like they were magically attached at the hip and really—were they even trying to be subtle?

Surely the whole Wizarding World had caught wind of them by now....

Either way, the moment she spotted Harry and Tom being accosted by—an unfortunately well-meaning but mistaken—Ron and Hermione she had grabbed those two by the hand as if they were small children that needed to be led along. Then, with all the stubborn Gryffindor impertinence she could muster, she shooed Harry and Tom away to probably do extremely private all-too arousing things that she really shouldn't dwell too deeply on.

And sue her, Harry and Tom were both pretty. She'd had a bit—and that's an understatement—of a crush on Harry growing up only by hearing stories about him. And then she met him, and she saw that he was cute and mousey with jewel-like doe eyes and he was all that she wanted and more. She wanted him to like her. Badly. But he didn't, so Ginny sojourned on and got over him.

And then Tom (handsome, kind, understanding Tom) came along, and while she never really saw his face, she dreamed of him—vague glimpses of coal-dark, red-speckled eyes and sharp features and an unruly curl on his forehead. And he was handsome, almost unnaturally so. Seeing him now, even as Thomas Slytherin, he truly had grown into his good looks. So of course thinking about her two childhood crushes together would be a bit...arousing for her. She was a red-blooded teenage girl, it was only natural.

Either way, she resolved not to think of it.

Right now, she'd trapped Ron and Hermione in a secluded corner, away from most of the partygoers, and she gave them the stink eye for intimidation purposes more than anything else.

"What is wrong with you?" She reprimanded. "Damn it to hell, Ron, you practically called Harry a traitor without even hearing him out!"

"And then you!" She turned to Hermione, who already looked suitably chastised, with thoughtful, regretful eyes aimed at the ground. "You're smart, aren't you? You can see it, right? How much they care about each other? I didn't believe it either at first, but even a blind man could see it. The way Slytherin looks at him...even my Mum and Dad don't look at each other that way, not exactly."

Her parents loved each other, undoubtedly, in an abiding sort of weary, habitual love that came with having been married so long. But Harry and Tom...there was something new and bright and sizzling hot simply buzzing in the air between them, and Ginny had no doubt neither of them knew about it. But it was love, all she had to do to see it was observe the way they acted around each other.

And of course it would be Harry bloody Potter who did it. Of course he was the only one who could make the Dark Lord Voldemort fall in love, that utter prat. She shook her head fondly. He certainly was something. Ginny sure knew how to pick them. She was almost glad she'd lost feelings for Harry years ago. If she had to compete against Tom now, she knew she wouldn't make the cut.

When she first found out about the mess that was Harry's relationship with his meant-to-be worst enemy, she was angry. Mostly at Tom, considering she thought he was taking advantage of a young omega, but then Harry told her the truth, and she didn't know how to feel. Frustration, exasperation...none of those words truly encapsulated the whole of what she felt.

But Ginny wasn't angry at Harry, not anymore. She was tired, and she didn't want a war. And maybe she still had a bit of that childhood star-speckled hope coursing through her veins that made her believe Harry Potter was some divinely chosen hero who could do no wrong, but she just wanted to trust Harry. She wanted to believe he was doing what he thought was right because that's what he always did.

The only reason she trusted him now was because Harry was one of the most unabashedly good people she had ever had the pleasure of meeting. He always wanted to do the right, good thing. If Harry didn't see hope in Tom, if he didn't think being with him was the right, good choice, then he wouldn't be with him. But he did, and Ginny wanted to see it, too. So she made the hard choice to trust Harry and keep his secret.

She only prayed Harry's friends would as well. If Ron and Hermione trusted Harry, they would hear him out at least.

"He lied to us," Ron ground out. He was glowing red with anger and betrayal. "He's shacking up with that monster and you're okay with it?! Ginny!"

Ginny took a deep, grounding breath. "I don't care. I trust Harry, Ron. Really. I deeply trust him. He isn't betraying us. He thinks—he thinks he can change him." She closed her eyes in preparation for their response.

"He really thinks that?" Hermione asked. Her eyes were red, and Ginny could see the tear tracks running down her cheeks. "I—he could be under a spell, a potion, maybe he's manipulating Harry through their link—"

Ginny shook her head, and then she pondered Hermione's words for a moment before speaking, "He isn't. They've been together since summer, I think? And he couldn't have put Harry on any potions either, not over the school year. And I don't think their link works that way—besides, aren't you all learning occlumency?"

Hermione looked away. "I—is Harry really...why didn't he tell us?" She looked deeply sad. "We're his friends, doesn't he trust us?"

"He does trust you, but he also trusts that you would have run to Dumbledore the first chance you could get. He didn't want to risk it. He just...he kept it all a secret. He wouldn't have even told me if I didn't see them together."

Hermione sighed. She couldn't refute Ginny's words. And Ron, for his part, looked away. His shoulders fell lax as if the tension had drained itself from his body, and he looked like he was deeply considering something.

When Ron finally spoke, his words were quiet yet carefully measured. "I...I really want to trust Harry. He's my best mate—I dunno what's he doing, or why, and I still think he's gone utterly mental—but I'll hear him out first." Ron still looked a little peeved, but for once, he didn't let his temper get the better of him.

Ginny wondered if part of the reason for that was what happened in their fourth—her third—year. Ron was still deeply ashamed of abandoning Harry that time, without even listening to him, and maybe he chose to take a different approach now. She hoped so. She didn't want to have to cut out her brother in favour of Harry if Ron chose to be a berk.

Then, hesitating, he said, "You said you saw them together? What are they like? Is it all...," he tilted his head back to the now listless dance floor, "like that?" Even Hermione looked curiously at her once Ron asked his question.

"All lovey-dovey, you mean?"

Vaguely green, Ron visibly swallowed down his vomit, and he nodded. He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. "Yeah. It was...weird. Slytherin didn't act like You-Know-Who. At all."

"Harry said Voldemort changed," Hermione finally interrupted. Her still-puffy eyes held a certain gleam to them now, as if she'd stumbled on something important. Frantically, she continued, "He said—at the Ministry, that day...something happened. What was it?"

Ginny froze. Then, her words came out in a barely comprehensible stumble as she waved her arms. "I—well, I'm not sure—it's really—ugh." She groaned with her face in her hands. "I'm sorry, I can't really explain it all. I'll let Harry do that, but firstly...have you ever heard of the Room of Desire?"

It was mostly a rhetorical question, an icebreaker. She already knew Ron knew, from the stories their mum used to whisper about at night, the same stories that magical children often traded around in hushed voices under the cover of darkness. The Room of Desire was one of those tales—a myth, really. And the story she'd told Harry about—the one about the witch and the wizard—it was an old, old tale by the name of the Witch, the Wizard, and the Room. But perhaps it held some truth, if the Room truly did exist.

Ron's eyes bulged wide, and even Hermione let out a deep gasp of understanding.

"No," Ron started in shock. "Seriously?! It's real?"

Ginny nodded. "Harry told me he and Tom got caught up in it—in the Department of Mysteries, and...well...yeah." She shrugged.

"What wish did he—they make?" Hermione asked urgently. "I've read about it, before, but I thought it was only a legend!"

"You should ask Harry about it, but it had something to do with Tom—from the diary. Either way, Voldemort is Tom now. You can ask Harry for the details." Harry told Ginny practically everything months ago now, and most of those details were very private. She'd let him explain everything to Ron and Hermione; it wasn't her place to do it.

Hermione still looked like she reframing her views on the entirety of existence, but Ron finally snapped out of whatever shocked trance he'd gotten himself into.

"So you're saying my best mate's gone and—and bloody reformed You-Know-Who? Seriously?" He looked disbelieving. Then, he shook his head. "We leave him alone for five minutes and he gets into—"

A relieved smile grew on her face just at listening to him rant on about Harry's trouble-making tendencies. Ron had a point, at least. Harry never asked for trouble, but he somehow always ended up jumping head-first into it.

Harry was so ridiculously lucky he had such understanding friends. She felt heartened.

Finally, Ron and Hermione ended up leaving the party early. It wasn't as if they could enjoy it after everything that happened. Ginny would leave as well, but she had Neville. While he wasn't her 'date' date, it would be rude to go without him.

She hiked up to him. He was by the snack table, making eyes at Hannah Abbott, of all people. Ginny raised an eyebrow.

"Hannah, hmm?" She asked pointedly.

Neville jumped up. He was blushing. "Ginny! I—sorry that was—I really didn't mean—"

Ginny rolled her eyes, grinning. She squeezed Neville's arm comfortingly. "It's alright. Go talk to her." She beckoned him off. "She's all alone right now."

Strangely, the back of her neck began to prickle. She got the weirdest feeling, as if she was being watched. She chanced a quick glance behind her.

Neville looked at Hannah, who was standing near the window and nursing a glass of pumpkin juice. Then, he turned back towards Ginny. "I shouldn't. You're my date. It's bad manners...."

"You like her, though," she said half-heartedly, her attention already pointed at something else. She glimpsed towards the door, where a certain blond Slytherin had just made his way through. "Besides, I need to go—I have an errand to run."

"An errand?" Neville asked in confusion.

"Mhm." She patted Neville's shoulder. "Go get her, Nev. I've talked to her a few times—she's very sweet. Just make her smile and she'll like you."

Neville's throat bobbed, and he awkwardly adjusted his tie. "Alright, yeah, I'll...okay."

He made his way across the room, while Ginny...she made her way out.

For some reason, Malfoy had stormed out of the party, his face an angry shade of red with eyes glittering darkly as he stared at her and Neville, and she was going to find out why.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Ginny followed him. She took a few turns she wasn't sure of, but she wasn't completely insensitive to scents, so all she had to do was follow the faint smell of frustrated, lemonlimeherb-scented alpha.

She tried to follow as silently as she could, and it seemed to have worked because the next thing she knew, she was just outside a deserted boy's lavatory, and Malfoy had just gone in. Shit, she couldn't follow him through.

That's what she would have said if she were a coward.

She wasn't. Her parents raised her right.

The door banged open, and her eyes fell on a stormy-faced Draco Malfoy. He was clutching the sink as if it were a lifeline.

His eyes caught on her form through the glass, and he clenched his jaw, scowling. "Why have you come?" He ground out.

For once, Malfoy looked less than immaculate. Messy blond hair framed his face handsomely, if unintentionally, and his expensive, elegant black and green robes were almost in disarray. His sleeves were scrunched up, folded up to show his lower arms, and for a reason Ginny refused to determine, her heart skipped a beat. (She noticed the way his right arm was deliberately angled away from her. She pursed her lips.)

"Draco," she called. The name fell from her lips as naturally as anything, and she cursed on the inside. What was that? He was a Death Eater, not her friend! (Then again, her friend was dating the Dark Lord....)

Malfoy gave a short chuckle before turning to face her. His stormy silver eyes burned into her as he raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "That's rather forward of you, Ginny."

His words made her flush in embarrassment. Instead of letting him cow her, though, she held up her head with a huff. "Does it look like I care?"

He was standing so close to her, almost towering over her form. Her head barely made it up to his chin, and she would have had to hold up her head anyway just to look him in the eyes.

"Weaslette," he finally snarled. "Why are you here? Or have you already forgotten your little date?"

Ginny gave a broad smile. "Oh, you mean Neville?" She flipped her curls back and off of her shoulder, and her eyes fell on the way Malfoy's eyes caught on the charmed flowers braided into her hair. "You don't have to worry about him, we only came here as friends."

"I'm not worried," Malfoy stated. His words came out a little too quickly.

Bullshit. Did he think she was a fool? She noticed the way his shoulders fell at her words, the little unclenching of his jaw, the soft sight of relief he let out.

"You were staring at me all night," Ginny said confidently, smirking. "I noticed. You wouldn't stop staring. Why ever would that be?"

"I don't know, why ever would that be?" His lips flickered upwards, but his eyes leered down at her, staring at her chest.

Ginny turned bright red, and almost too obviously, her arms went up to cover her...well-endowed chest.

She aimed her nastiest glare straight at Malfoy. Eyes up here, the look on her face practically said.

"Don't change the topic, Malfoy. You were staring at me, you always have been. Why?"

She couldn't not notice. All year—and especially after that one Hogsmeade trip months ago and whatever it was that happened between them in that deserted corridor—he stared at her. She stared at him as well, and often their eyes met awkwardly for long moments as they silently dared the other to look away.

It kept happening. And Ginny...well, she didn't know what to think.

They avoided each other as much as possible after she stupidly hugged him. She had no idea what got into her. But he...he needed it. He looked like a kicked puppy and she knew things probably weren't easy for him. The stuck-up, pureblood little prince was finally realizing first-hand that the world wasn't all sunshine and roses. And she should have been happy about that. But she really, really wasn't.

Malfoy was supposed to be her enemy. His family worked for Voldemort, and he was probably a Death Eater himself. (Ginny stared suspiciously at Malfoy when he less than surreptitiously rolled down his sleeves without letting her take a look at his arms.) And even though that last part wasn't completely a dealbreaker anymore, he was a blood purist. He was still a Malfoy, and they had long been in the midst of a blood feud with the Weasleys. That whole business was multiple generations ago, but there was still bad blood between them.

And really, not even considering all of that, Malfoy was a right prat, so they couldn't—

Couldn't what? Ginny turned red. What was she thinking? Where was her thought process even going?

"Does it matter?" Malfoy answered. He looked confident, assured, as he leaned down just slightly to take a good look at her.

He was so close to her, practically a hairsbreadth away. Ginny blinked. When had he gotten so close?

"Malfoy...." She breathed.

"Ah. You just called me Draco, didn't you? Where's all that confidence, Ginny?"

He gave a pleased smirk at seeing the look on her face, her flushed cheeks and clenched jaw. His face was mere inches from hers, and his palm came up to gently cradle her cheek. The soft pads of his fingers danced gently on her skin.

His scent twirled in her nose, wafted up from the scent gland on his wrist. She'd never gotten so close a taste of it before. Her stomach swooped, and her heart was beating faster.

Oh. Oh.

They were...she blinked slowly, her eyes falling shut. She breathed the scent in. They were compatible.

She'd heard before that the scent of a compatible alpha could have an effect on the omega, and oh Godric did he have an effect on her.

No! Her eyes opened wide. She wouldn't fall to this, she wouldn't! She knew better, surely—

She squeaked. Malfoy's face was so close, and his pupils were dilated. His mouth had fallen open, and his pink lips were so tempting....

She kissed him. Damn her and her lack of impulse control, she kissed him.

A moment later, he kissed back.

His hands cradled her face gently, and Ginny's arms went to wrap around his waist as she fell apart on his lips. Molten silver seeped itself into her skin, through her veins and into her sizzling blood as something in her came alive.

She did her best to breathe through her nose, taking in his scent as she kissed him deeply. It was...it was like nothing else. She'd kissed Michael before, and he was an alpha, but the tension between them wasn't anything like this.

Malfoy kissed like he was trying to mimic a dementor, sucking all the soul and breath out of her as she was pressed close to his body.

He let out a sharp groan, and Ginny's hold on his waist tightened as the heart in her chest stuttered. It was something silver, bright and luminous and coiling deep in her soul and she fell to pieces on those lips. Oh, Merlin.

And then she came back to sanity.

Oh, Merlin.

She tried to get away, but all she accomplished was letting a little whimper escape through her as Malfoy bit lightly on her bottom lip. Ginny's scent was turning sweet, and Malfoy's scent was turning richer and darker with his own ar-arousal and she—she couldn't....

Ginny pushed him away with a shout.

"We—fuck, what are we...."

Ginny stole deep, steadying breaths. She glimpsed into the mirror. Her face was so red, her lips puffy, and her curls were in disarray after Malfoy coiled his hands through her hair, she realized.

Malfoy was much the same, but he was staring at her. He had a look of dawning awe and fear on his face, but Ginny almost didn't realize that because of his damn lips—he had lipstick marks on him. On his lips. His lips were tinted a shade of pretty, dark red, and Ginny brought her hand up to cover her reddening face because fuck was there ever a more beautiful sight?

Ginny ran. She ran because she couldn't handle the thought of what he, or anyone might say. Fuck.

What was she doing with her life?

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Everyone was talking. Everyone. A shiver rippled down Harry's spine whenever he spotted his classmates gazing at him and giggling before looking away. Was he so obvious? Surreptitiously, he rubbed his glamoured neck, remembering the sight of those bruises in the mirror. He had them all over his body. He never could escape Tom's greedy hands without a few bruises and love bites. Harry blushed.

It seemed as if the whole school was in a buzz the day after Slughorn's Yule Party. People just kept staring at him, more so than usual, and it only made Harry grow more and more paranoid. No article had been released yet, but the rumour mill was working overtime, he could feel it in his bones. The truth had finally burst free, and Harry couldn't keep it hidden anymore. He couldn't keep lying. Everyone would know.

He felt naked; the cloak of his lies was finally ripped off of him and he was now bared to the world. It was as if everyone was seeing right through him. Harry wouldn't be able to successfully tell a lie if he tried.

That whole first day, he'd avoided talking to Ron and Hermione. Instead, he finished his packing in awkward silence and before he knew it, he found himself sitting in a compartment seat on the Hogwarts Express with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. The silence was audible. (Most of the students not attending the ball had already left days previous, but for some reason or another, the students attending got the option to leave another day—perhaps the teachers wanted a break after the party? Harry wasn't sure.)

They didn't say anything to each other. Any conversations amongst each other died off before they could even start. Harry couldn't force his mouth to move if he tried. Instead, he spent the entire trip staring wistfully out the window and pondering his life decisions.

Tom fucked Harry stupid last night. He could still feel the soreness in his lower half, and the bruises on his skin ached like a brand. He enjoyed it immensely. (Should he be embarrassed? He felt as if he should be.) He rubbed his thighs together just at the memory of what they did that night. The whole party was now a rose-coloured haze in his memory, overshadowed by the culmination of that night, he shivered.

Once Tom's knot finally unlocked from Harry's arse (technically, his arse couldn't lock it in like his cunt would have, but the length of it was just too much to reasonably pull out of his body), Harry couldn't help but wiggle back into Tom's hold again and start rubbing against him. He just felt so warm and relaxed and all the pheromones got to his head, and before Harry knew it, Tom had pushed him face-first into the mattress and pressed his dick into Harry's aching warmth.

Tom moaned softly as Harry clenched against his length. It was just so good and Harry was already overstimulated. And even when Tom directed the magicked snakes to plug his soaked arse, Harry couldn't help but push backwards with a little whine. He was plugged up again, and Tom was well and truly stuffing him. Harry let out a short little wheeze as he adjusted, his face red and teary.

Fuck, he had thought. Harry was dying on Tom's cock, and even though his physical body was protesting with the impossible mixture of pain and pleasure, something swooped in his stomach, and he was suddenly floating on a high of moremoremore and ohfuckthisisamazing coming from their mental link in a feedback loop of lust and pleasure.

He squirmed with Tom's cock in his pussy and those snakes writhing in his arse, moaning, but Tom wouldn't let him move. Instead, he whispered softly into Harry's ear. "Let me use you, my dear. Just this once," he had said with such a hoarse and raspy needy tone that Harry's voice cracked when he responded.

"Yes," he breathed. God, he wanted it. So, so much.

It scared him how much he wanted to be destroyed by this man. Merlin....

Once Tom had found his release, his knot had locked into Harry's cunt. They were well and truly locked together for what was technically the first time (the first time Tom fucked him, the knot wasn't technically a full knot, but now it was and that made it so much more intense). Tom ground his cum deeper into Harry's twitching warmth, and Harry couldn't help but squirt just a little more at the fullness and stretch and the filthiness of it all. Something warm washed over him and he squealed and wriggled when his end came once more.

He laid there in bed, crying and moaning and plugged with those snakes and Tom's knot. It was overwhelming.

But then Tom moved them around so Harry could lay against his chest, and he let out an alpha rumble so soothing that Harry's eyes began to grow heavy. His quick breaths began to deepen, and Tom's scent made him sleepy and warm.

Tom cleaned him up of most of the, er, stains. Harry knew he did because when he awoke, he was clean and warm and he felt safe. Tom was just about to pull his length out of him, and Harry squirmed as he did so, especially once thick globs of cum and slick began to drip out of him.

The alpha stared at Harry, wide-eyed and breathing heavily, and Harry wasn't sure what he was about to do. Instead of doing anything remotely normal, such as using a spell to clear him out, Tom instead popped two fingers inside of Harry's cunt.

Harry let out an overstimulated groan and a cry of "Oh fuck" before he wrapped his hands around Tom's neck and rubbed his front against him.

Tom didn't stop. Instead, Harry quivered in his lap as Tom used his fingers to wandlessly cast a cleaning spell from inside of him. Harry breathed heavily the entire time. It didn't make him cum again, but he was squirming on Tom's fingers all the same.

He liked it. A lot. Harry was sure his entire body was flushed and aching and bruised and used.

It was the best sex of his life. It was somehow even more passionate than what they did the last few times. Though, granted, their first time together was probably something for the history books. (It actually would be if Harry wasn't a coward who'd spent months lying about it. Harry Potter, the Dark Lord's Willing Whore would make a great newspaper article, wouldn't it?)

By the time Harry, bare-faced (his makeup was gone) and shaky on his feet, returned to the dorms it was very late.

Ron was still awake. He took one look at Harry and then looked the other direction. His cheeks were as red as his hair. He coughed into his fist.

"Had a good night?" Ron asked conversationally, not even looking Harry in the eye. He stared pointedly at his bed's red curtain.

"Very" was all Harry said.

They didn't talk about it.

Early that morning, a box of chocolates arrived for Harry. With a note this time, he checked.

They were fancy Italian chocolates, a whole set.

My dear Harry,

Please take this gift as my apology for not protecting you. McLaggen shall be dealt with the legal way, as I have promised you.

TMR

The letter also went on to ask Harry to send witness statements from his friends as well as whatever remained of the box of chocolates McLaggen sent him. Harry figured he'd ask them later, but he made sure to send Tom the box of leftover poisoned chocolates.

He chanced a quick look at McLaggen during breakfast that morning, but for some reason, the boy wouldn't look at him. It was as if his eyes went straight through Harry. Strange, he thought. But Harry certainly wasn't angry.

Harry was exhausted.

Even now, another day later and settled at the Burrow peeling brussel sprouts with Ginny, a sense of fatigue had settled deep in his bones.

On the outside, it looked as if nothing had changed. Something did.

The unforgiving noose of the scandalous Prophet article that had yet to be published hung loosely over Harry's neck, ready to be tightened. And even besides that, what about Ron and Hermione? They'd barely spoken to him since the disastrous party, and he was going mad. They were giving him looks and then looking back at each other as if asking the other one to say something to him. It was getting ridiculous.

Did they hate him? Were they going to leave him? Did they think he was mental for falling for courting Voldemort? For letting him in his bed?

Harry almost skinned his finger when peeling those damn sprouts. He groaned suddenly, pushing the damn peeler and the bowl of vegetables away. "Fuck, I hate this."

"Hate what?" Ginny asked with an eyebrow raised. She kept peeling her brussels sprout, but her eyes were on Harry.

"This!" Harry shouted. He stared longingly out the window where Ron and Hermione were being Mrs Weasley's helpers while she was de-weeding the garden.

"Do you think they hate me?"

"Do you think I hate you?" Ginny replied.

"It's rude to answer a question with another question."

"It's also rude to fuck a Dark Lord, but here we are." Ginny rolled her eyes. Then, she sighed. She popped her peeled brussels sprouts into the bowl and washed her hands in the sink. "I don't hate you, Harry. I just needed time to think. And so do they." She nodded out the window.

Harry pursed his lips. "Yeah, to think. But what if they decide to hate me? They're not you, Ginny. You're...," he made a face and pointed to all of her, "you. And they're definitely not."

"Should I take that as an insult?"

"Take it for what you will."

Ginny let out a soft smile. "Just give them time."

Harry grumbled about it, but he agreed. Their conversation tapered off for a while, but eventually, Harry broke the silence.

He coughed. "Thank you, by the way, for helping me out the other day. I wasn't sure what to say to them...."

Ginny hummed. "You wouldn't have had to say anything to them if you and Tom weren't so obvious." She laughed. "Seriously, if you and him are supposed to be a secret, why were you hanging onto your Dark Lord boyfriend like a niffler to gold?"

"Would you believe me if I said I didn't know he was coming?"

She snorted. "You didn't know, but I know damn well Riddle planned it. He was trying to surprise you. He probably didn't think about how anyone else would react to Harry Potter and Thomas Slytherin together. That berk put you in a real spot, you know."

"Don't I know it," Harry sighed. "By the way, sorry for making you ditch Neville. I saw him—he was looking at you weird when you dragged Ron and Hermione away."

"It's fine. Besides, he was staring at Hannah the whole night, so I don't think he cared."

"Abbott?" He asked in shock. "Huh. I didn't realize he liked her."

"He definitely does. I told him to talk to her, and then I ditched him. I had something important to do."

Harry raised an eyebrow. He was curious. "Oh? Do tell?"

Ginny turned bright red. She looked away from him. "So...what do you think about Malfoy?"

Harry gave her a look from beneath his glasses. "Interesting subject change, that." He chuckled. "Does this have anything to do with a few months ago? Did you give him another hug, Gin?" He teased her.

Ginny smacked him on the arm. Her cheeks were red and puffed out like a squirrel. "Shut it!" She bit her lip. "Besides, it doesn't matter anyway. It's—it's fine. Just ignore it...."

"I know that face." Harry's eyes widened in realization. That's the same face he often made when thinking of the first time he slept with Tom. Aroused, but ashamed by that arousal. "Did you...did you sleep with him?"

Ginny squeaked in shock. "Circe, no!" She shook her head wildly. "I didn't! I really didn't!"

"But you did something." Harry knew it had to be something.

Ginny nodded her head guiltily.

"I...yeah, we kissed. I followed him out of the party, and well...."

Harry hummed. "Things just happened?"

"Definitely," she sighed.

"I get it. It's just...it can be hard to control yourself. Malfoy's a looker—nowhere near Tom, though—but it's hard to control yourself when you just want to jump—"

"Harry!" Ginny was scandalised. "Malfoy is just as good-looking as Riddle! He's...he's so handsome! With his eyes and his hair and stupidly pretty little waves when he doesn't gel his hair to hell and back...." By the end of her tirade, her words fell off, and her face was shocked still in realization by the time Harry started laughing.

"Oh, wow. You got it bad, don't you? Don't worry, Gin, I'm experienced in the art of liking terrible Slytherins that definitely aren't good for you. Just ask me whatever you need to."

Ginny elbowed him in the gut.

"Oof!" Harry cried. He rubbed the spot, then glared at her. "Okay, fine. Got it. No advice. You just wanna talk, then?"

She let out a sigh. "I don't know what to do. I just...I don't get why I...why I like him. He's a jerk."

Harry hummed in agreement. "It's 'cause he's really fit. Makes you ignore the terrible attitude. These types are also weirdly charming."

Ginny giggled. "Definitely!"

"Who's charming?" A female voice butted in before a head of bushy hair tamed into a messy braid came into view through the door. Hermione. Her clothes were covered in garden muck and the knees of her trousers were skinned and green, but it was her.

Harry jerked to attention by the cabinets. "Hermione...."

"Harry," she said awkwardly. Ron came into view behind her. He looked just as unsettled.

"We need to talk!" Ron blurted.

Ginny took that as her cue to run off. "I think I heard Mum calling for me. See you!"

They stood there awkwardly. Shit.

Chapter Text

Harry was going to have words with whatever almighty, all-powerful being that existed one day. It wasn't enough that his life was a master class in misery and torture and stringing some poor kid along with just a little piece of love that was all that's right, keeping going—he just had to be in basically the same spot twice over.

Last time this happened, he had a nice, long, not very fun talk with Ginny, who had seen him and Tom together, but she also knew him from the diary and almost understood Tom's appeal. Then, against all odds—against all common sense, even—she chose to trust Harry. But would Ron and Hermione do the same?

They knew who Tom was, and they were rightfully upset and worried. But more than that, they were angry. Because if Harry really did enter into a relationship with that man while knowing who he was, what did that mean for him? What type of person was he? He was a traitor. A false hero. He was no Chosen One at all, and it was a hard pill to come to terms with.

Now, though, he was being confronted by his two friends, and they had questions. Questions that he couldn't answer without saying something along the lines of 'But he's hot~' and 'I have no idea why I did that, please don't judge me.' (In the aftermath of each and every one of his encounters with Tom, Harry did, in fact, judge himself. Gods, he was always so lewd—)

Harry clenched his teeth and bared them in what he hoped was a smile, but was probably more like a grimace. Fuck my life, he was thinking.

He found himself feeling a bit cross, and he was sure it was visible in the tensing of his shoulders and the fakeness of his awkward smile.

Ginny had committed the ultimate betrayal: abandoning Harry to an awkward conversation. How could he ever explain any of this? Tom and he...they weren't exactly normal. Harry still didn't know how it all happened. It just sorta did. What questions did they have? And how could he answer? He wasn't sure.

They ended up sitting at the dining table. It was a big, empty expanse of table meant for a whole family, but only the three of them were sitting. Harry plopped his foolish arse at the head of the table, while Ron and Hermione were at either side of him. None of them looked at each other.

The silence was stifling, and the tension in the air could be cut with the flat end of a knife.

In the end, Harry took the initiative to speak, just to get it over with. He swallowed down his dread and trepidation, and he took a long, steadying breath. "You can ask me anything. I'll answer you the best I can." His words didn't sound very confident coming out. In fact, it sounded more like he was desperately trying to get this over with. He shivered, it felt like ants were crawling all over his skin.

Ron huffed. Sarcastically, he began, "The best you can, huh? Does that mean you'll tell the truth? I call dragon dung. You've been lying to us for months!" Ron slammed his fist down on the table. The veins in his neck popped out aggressively, and his face was red with emotion.

"Ron—" Hermione interrupted.

"No," Harry shook his head sadly. "He's right. I've been lying, I can't excuse that. I've been lying to you every day for months, ever since the Department of Mysteries." He closed his eyes, not wanting to look either of them in the face and see the betrayal coating their features. Even worse, he knew they were right. "I hated it. The whole time. I didn't know what to say to you...."

Hermione's expression softened, and then she said, "I understand. And...there was something that Ginny said—it's been bothering me. Did you really think we would have gone to Dumbledore? You're our friend, Harry!"

Harry looked at her, sighing. "Yeah, I thought you would have. I mean—you've done it before, Hermione. With the Firebolt and stuff. But this is so much more than that. So I didn't know if I could trust you. If you thought I was being controlled or forced, then...."

"...then I would have told Professor Dumbledore." She ducked her head, ashamed. Little brown curls poked out of her messy braid, and the girl chewed on her bottom lip. "I'm so sorry if I made you feel that way, Harry. I'm your friend, I would have wanted you to come to me, this is all our fault!" She cried.

The sound Harry let out was something in between a snort and a chortle. He was disbelieving, not happy. "No. You don't get to blame yourself for it. You would have been right to tell Dumbledore. What's going on...it really is mental. I...I don't really know how it happened. I didn't know how to stop it at first...."

"But you kept doing it? You could have asked us for help! Instead—instead you stayed with that—that monster! Is he hurting you, mate? Forcing you? Blackmailing you? I just want to understand why—" Ron sounded pained, hurt, as he let out all his words in a single breath.

Harry smiled sadly. They were both trying so hard to take the blame off of him, to make it seem like he was being forced. He wasn't.

That was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? Harry was choosing Tom. He was choosing to betray all that the Order, his friends, Sirius, and even his parents stood for. For what? An imagined chance at peace?

(Was he lying to himself? Was peace just the facade he used to cover up his own selfish desires?

Deep down he knew the truth. He wanted Tom, and the facade of 'ending the war' was just the reasoning he used to keep himself from feeling guilty.)

Harry shook his head. "No, Ron. It was...it was weird at first. The Room of Desire—it brought us together. But then we stayed together." He bowed his head down.

"But Harry....," Hermione began delicately, "Ginny—she told us all about the Room of Desire, but I've done my own research. Your wish...it had to be mutual, so how would it....?"

Harry's cheeks grew warm, and he rubbed the back of his neck, looking out the window. "Heh. So about that...it really was mutual. I...I had a big crush on Tom from the diary—he's how I realized I was into blokes—and then I saw Voldemort and I just wished—I wished for Tom again. He was so smart, he could have been so much more than a monster.... He could have been better."

Ron looked ill, and Harry attributed it to the fact that he was crushing on the same teenage boy from the diary that almost killed Ginny. "Okay, so that's how you feel, but him—how does he....?"

"He didn't explain it. But I guess...I think maybe Voldemort's obsession with me wasn't simply hatred. After what I did to Bellatrix, he looked at me like...." Harry's breath hitched simply at recalling it. The look in his eyes, Voldemort wanted him. He probably hadn't yet realized it himself at that point, but then he became aware of Harry's omega status, and, well, the stunned look on his serpentine face spoke for itself that day.

"Alright, mate, that's enough, please don't talk about your sex life with You-Know-Who," Ron shivered. He looked a bit less green this time, so that was a win. Maybe. "I saw you after the ball, and you were—ugh." He looked green.

Kindly ignoring the latter part of Ron's words, Hermione spoke, "Bellatrix? Lestrange?" She gasped, keying in on his words. She looked at Harry strangely. "Harry, what happened? What did you do to her?"

Harry froze. Oh shit, he thought. He didn't mean to say that.

He hadn't told anyone what he did in the Ministry that day. He...he tortured Bellatrix Lestrange, and he enjoyed it. He didn't feel even a single iota of regret, and when he found out that Tom killed her, he was grateful. Grateful enough to straddle him and snog him into the next life, at least.

In truth, the reason he hadn't told his friends wasn't because he was afraid of a lifetime sentence in Azkaban (though that was a part of it), but because he didn't want to face their judgement. What sort of person was he? He tortured a woman, and then he fucked her evil boss. And kept fucking him. And if he was being honest, he almost forgot about the woman in the face of his blossoming relationship with Tom. But sometimes, deep in the corners of his mind within the depths of nighttime, the thought of her crazed laughter and manic dark eyes—so like and unlike Sirius—lingered.

He could not, would not forget. No matter the way he did it, he avenged Sirius. That woman was dead, Harry snarled internally.

So he said as much. He didn't explain all the sordid details, but Harry told them. Sirius had just fallen through the Veil, and Harry took chase after her. He was just so angry, and he fired a cruciatus at her. The first one didn't work, but the second one did. He held her under the curse, let her suffer, and then Voldemort appeared to witness it. And, well, they could surmise the rest of the story from there.

"She's dead now," he blurted. "Tom killed her that same night—threw her through the Veil. I'm not upset."

"People like her deserve nothing less," Ron spat, not unsurprisingly. He held no love for Bellatrix, Harry observed. After all, she, as Voldemort's top enforcer, must have been something like a boogeyman to the Wizarding World. Especially after what she did to Neville's parents. It wasn't widely known who the couple was, but most people seemed to know she, the Lestrange brothers, and Crouch Jr tortured an Auror couple into insanity after Voldemort died the first time, and that's how they were caught. It was relieving to know Ron didn't mind Harry's lack of guilt.

Hermione didn't say anything about Bellatrix. Instead, she let out a weary sigh. "So that's what happened. We were so worried. No one could find you, and Voldemort was gone as well. We thought you might have been...." She pursed her lips, and she wasn't able to bring herself to finish her sentence.

Ron snorted, vaguely amused. "No, instead of being killed by him, he was shagging him. Bloody hell, mate, I don't understand this one bit." The redhead shook his head, and the anger on his face fell away, to be replaced by deep sadness.

"Harry," he started, "I really don't understand. You couldn't have chosen anyone nicer? Really?"

"He's it for me," Harry said, unashamed. He pulled up his hand from his lap, casually showing off the bracelet he'd worn for months now. He usually covered it with his sleeve, and he was still sort of glad no one in the Order had questioned it yet. Some gave him weird looks, but they held off on saying anything, fortunately. Turns out the news of Harry being courted hadn't gotten out of Hogwarts yet, and if it did, it was simply rumours for now. He hoped it would stay that way. He didn't want the Daily Prophet messing with his love life.

Ron's gaze fell on it, and his eyes widened slightly. "Bloody hell, mate," he groaned. "How did I not realize? A snake bracelet? Come off it! It's so obvious!"

Almost tellingly, the snake's single ruby eye glittered on Harry's wrist. They all chuckled, and suddenly, the tension in the air began to bleed away.

And then just as quickly, it returned.

"Are you sure about all this? Do you want to be with him? Ginny told us—she said the Room changed him, made him saner. Mione reckons it undid a bunch of dark magic stuff, but I don't believe it. He's You-Know-Who. After everything, how can you be with him?"

Harry sighed, and he tapped his fingers on the table. "I didn't have a choice at first," he explained, pondering Ron's questions. "It sorta just happened, but I wasn't exactly against it, neither was he. It was impulsive on both our parts. And then—then we had dreams together. The link...it makes us share some kind of mindscape. I'm...er, not complaining." He ducked his head, pretending not to notice Ron gagging. "It helped us get closer."

Ron made a face, but he motioned for Harry to continue. Hermione looked intrigued at hearing about the dreams, and Harry figured she'd interrogate him more later.

"I know what I want," Harry breathed. "I feel mental for it—absolutely stark raving mad, but yeah...I want this. And I trust him. Ever since he changed, he hasn't hurt me. He can't even imagine it. We can't block the link, so I always know how he feels. He lets me into his head. So I trust him. And he...he trusts me. Somehow. He can't believe it either," he awkwardly tangled his fingers through his messy hair, chuckling.

Ron clicked his tongue. He looked pained. "Damn it, mate. You make it so hard to be angry at you."

"Are you? What do you think? Both of you. I can take it." Harry shut his eyes, prepared for a shitstorm of epic proportions.

Hermione's hand came to fold over his own comfortingly. "Don't be ridiculous, Harry. We're on your side, no matter what. We don't really get it, but we trust you."

"Yeah, yeah...what she said." Ron looked away, and then he took a deep breath. "I'm still sorta upset, like really. I don't get it one bit. I still think Vol—Thomas Slytherin, whatever is a lunatic, but I guess that's why we have to meet him."

Harry looked up, eyes widening. "What?" He started.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "What, did you think we'd just take your word for it? We're going to meet him sooner or later."

Feeling light-hearted, Harry suddenly got the urge to joke. "Er, thanks but no thanks. We aren't at that stage yet," he laughed. "Meeting the family? No way."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Haz, mate, you're courting. That train has left the station. We're meeting him."

Harry winced. Okay, he could handle this. Probably.

Two opposing worlds were colliding, and somehow, impossibly, instead of destroying each other, his two worlds were merging into one.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

The world was not kind to Severus Tobias Snape. Quite the opposite, in fact.

He was born into an irreparably broken home to a drunk father and a loving mother who, unfortunately, lacked the spine necessary to leave the man who hurt her out of some misplaced sense of love and duty. His only saving grace was Lily, and his Lord killed her.

Then there was her son. He was life debt-bound to protect him. And then the blasted boy suddenly undid the debt. Potter had no idea what his words truly meant, but it released him from it all.

It was only a few, simple words. Yet it caused all this trouble for him....

"By the way, thank you for helping me out a while ago. You warned the Order—that I was being stupid, I mean. I'm grateful, and I owe you a lot for saving not just my life, but everyone else. So, thanks."

It was nothing. It was meant to be nothing, simply Severus doing his job by warning the Order of the Phoenix that Harry Potter was planning to do something infinitely reckless.

It was nothing. And then, then—

"I owe you a lot."

He could almost hear the cracking of a weighty chain he'd carried with him for close to half his life. It released him from his debt, and suddenly, he was free.

That's all it was. The life debt that Harry Potter inherited from his father was broken when he admitted that he owed Severus a debt, which fulfilled the conditions needed to break the chains of submission coiled in his spirit.

He hadn't realized the weight he carried until it chafed no longer, and finally, he could breathe unburdened.

Or he should have, at least.

He could have found a way to leave. Without that debt, he could have found a way to run. If need be, he could cut off his own arm and then regrow it without the Dark Mark so the Dark Lord couldn't track him. Severus could have jumped ship a long time ago to enjoy life under an alias while relaxing on some Spanish beach, even. So why didn't he?

Potter again.

He kept watch over him, and then he re-evaluated every interaction they had ever had over the years. What he came up with was...less than favourable of himself.

Harry Potter was his mother's spitting image. He had her eyes and smile and kind demeanour and temper, and really, that boy didn't strut through the castle in any way, shape, or form. He wasn't what Severus thought he was.

And it was all Severus's fault. He saw what he wanted to see, his vision tinted red with age-old bitterness. He convinced himself that Harry was just like his father: arrogant and reckless, prone to causing harm all in the name of merry fun without ever pausing to consider the consequences of his actions.

He was not. Harry Potter wasn't at all like that, not in the way Severus used to convince himself that he was. How could he have been so foolish? He was ashamed to admit that it took him so long to realize.

And now, only now, when he'd fully thrown himself into protecting the boy whom he'd failed, the Dark Lord had ideas.

Severus grew even paler simply remembering. He was there that night, at Slughorn's Yule Ball. Unfortunately, as one of the chaperones and a former member of the Slug Club, he couldn't say no. Instead, he spent that night a fly on the wall, observing more than interacting.

He would have been far better off not attending in the first place, blast the threat of Horace's disappointment.

He couldn't stop recalling the way Potter gazed at the Dark Lord, with rosy, glittery cheeks and a quality of enamourment in his eyes. There was that little smile dancing on his lips, and something in it reminded Severus of Lily on one of their good days, when she was happy and nodding along to something he had said, and they could just enjoy each other's company without blood politics having to play a part. (Before Severus foolishly brought blood politics into their friendship.)

Severus's first thought was love potion. Because surely, surely it could be nothing else?

Incorrect. That couldn't be it. There was no way.

His visits with Black had slowed down over the months, but he knew that the Dark Lord had sworn an oath to Sirius Black. He didn't know the exact wording, but it was something along the lines of "He can't hurt him or kill him as long as I agree to his terms; I have to be loyal, and Voldemort will have to always respect Harry's wishes, and his consent."

Black was half-drunk (courtesy of some smuggled fire whiskey) and blabbering on about everything. Severus could hardly understand it all, but he got the gist. The Dark Lord wanted Potter for a mate, and the moment Severus happened upon the rumour that Potter was being courted, he hoped it wasn't what he thought it was.

It was.

He wondered what the boy had been promised. He knew who Thomas Slytherin was, and the wording of the oath meant that Potter could not be bewitched or manipulated by the Dark Lord. Surely the boy would not betray the Light on his own accord? Right?

Severus didn't know. He was stranded in a sea of confusion, with differing perspectives and knowledge that didn't make any sense.

It didn't get any easier no matter how many times he replayed that memory over in his head. If anything, the moment his eyes fell on the handsome features of the Dark Lord, his heart froze in his chest.

If Potter was enamoured, the Dark Lord was enchanted, almost bewitched.

Not once in his life had he ever seen such an expression on his Lord's face. He would have believed Potter to have enchanted the man himself had he not known the boy would—could never.

Severus had many pieces in his hand, but none of them made sense whenever he tried to puzzle them together. He knew he didn't have all the facts. He was missing quite a few pieces to the puzzle, and he would drive himself mad trying to piece it together.

Just a day ago, he visited Black again, and he came back more confused than ever.

"He said I'm getting out soon," Black said. There was no need to explain who he was. "Very soon."

Severus was glad. Black may have been a...character, but he wasn't the same arrogant, raucous teenage boy he once knew. As two mature adults, only now had they finally begun to engage in civil conversation, and he found that the other man wasn't as intolerable as he used to be. Perhaps James Potter was simply that bad of an influence, he mused, or Black had just matured over the years. Either way, Severus did not wish for Black to remain trapped in the Dark Lord's home. It would be a fate far too cruel for him, who had already spent his best years as a prisoner and then as a fugitive. He would have helped him escape, but he had sworn an oath not to reveal his current location.

"I must offer you my regrets," Severus said. "I apologise for not being able to get you out myself."

"Eh, don't worry, Severus. It's all for the best. If...if Harry is safe, we'll be fine. I'm getting out of here."

They both wondered how Black would be returned. Would be simply be dropped off in London, or what else? What would he tell the Order to keep their suspicions at bay?

Either way, it didn't matter. The Dark Lord had no reason to go back on his word.

But then again, he had once before, hadn't he?

Severus's fingers twitched.

A tired sigh escaped his lips, and he swirled the drink in his glass. "Potter may not be...how you think he is."

Black's head twisted up sharply, and his eyes held a keen awareness, despite his lack of sobriety. "What?"

"Horace hosted a Yule Ball this year, and the Dark Lord attended under the persona of Thomas Slytherin. Potter attended as well, and from the moment the ball began, they were attached at the hip," he blurted uncharacteristically. "They even left the party together."

Black almost fainted. Severus was forced to elaborate in explicit detail, and Black was not happy.

"Fuck," the man paced around the room, his cheeks flushed with drunkenness even as he suddenly managed to sober up. "He can't—I know he can't hurt him, so how are they...?"

Black twisted on his feet to stare back at him. Crazed eyes peered into him, piercing through his skin. "You said they were courting?"

"Perhaps," he nodded. There was no perhaps about it, only wishful thinking. That snake bracelet with a ruby eye could only have come from one place, and it was an obvious sign of courting. And if Potter wore it, that meant he accepted it.

Black stumbled to sit back down in his armchair. "Bloody fucking fuck. Harry, Prongslet, why would he ever—"

As one could imagine, Black did not take it well. He was confused, in mid-crisis, and so was Severus. Neither of them understood Potter's actions, and Severus could not simply wring the foolish child's neck and force the answers out of him, he grumbled. Perhaps Black could, but he was not yet freed.

It was a curiously terrible situation, and Severus doubted there would be a satisfying answer. He could only hope Potter had a good explanation for all of this. He'd prefer him to have done it on his own accord rather than for the Dark Lord to have discovered a loophole in his oath so he could bewitch the boy. Perhaps it was even rather clever of him. The Dark Lord had shown a remarkable increase in sanity over the past months, and if Potter took advantage of that, then perhaps the boy was far more intelligent than anyone had ever given him credit for.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Rita Skeeter was up to her old tricks again, was Harry's first thought when he stared at the morning's paper.

And then there was his second thought: oh shit.

That was him on that paper. Him and Tom, swaying to the beat of some silent music as they gazed into each other's eyes. From the way the picture was taken, the sides of their faces were visible, illuminated by a flickering torch in the space between them. Merlin, were Harry's eyes and cheeks glittering?

They leaned into each other, with Tom's hand wrapped indecently low around Harry's waist while Harry, flushed with rosy cheeks, stared up at him with something like breathless ardour to match Tom's intense gaze.

It could have been the lighting, the way it made Harry's eyes sparkle and the glitter on his cheeks all the more apparent, but if he was being honest, Harry was wholly focused on Tom. His hair was ink-black, with the light bringing out the dark shade of his curls, and something in his eyes flickered. Harry could only imagine it to be a shade of red, but, unfortunately, the picture wasn't coloured. The light brought out Tom's sharp features, and the paleness of his skin brought to mind an ancient Greek sculpture.

Harry's breath hitched. Tom looked resplendent, and the version of Harry in the picture fluttered his eyelashes every few moments as Tom whispered something into his ear on a loop. Harry wracked his mind trying to remember what Tom said.

They looked perfect together. Arm in arm, dancing and holding each other so close that undoubtedly, anyone could see they were a couple.

Shit. Shit shit, shit.

Boy Saviour and Lord Slytherin, Star-Crossed Lovers?

Rita Skeeter outdid herself this time. Just staring at the paper made Harry twitch, both with the urge to burn the damn title off and to send a letter to the Prophet asking for an original, coloured copy of the picture on the front page. (Maybe he could ask Tom to get his hands on one? He had connections....)

Already, everyone was staring. Breakfast was just about finished, and the owls had arrived at the tail-end of their morning meal. Hedwig flew in with a hoot and dropped the letter in Harry's lap, while Errol, the Weasleys' old pet owl, huffed and puffed with exhaustion, and when he dropped the mail, he instantly fell into Mrs Weasleys' lap.

"Oh, dear me, Errol...." Mrs Weasley fretted, petting the poor thing as she whisked him into her arms. "He must've exhausted himself."

Harry wasn't listening, but he was decently relieved that no one thought to open the paper just sent by Errol. Already, Harry had opened his own, and he didn't like what he saw. Or perhaps he did, just a bit too much, but he couldn't stomach anyone else seeing the paper.

He did his damn best to hide it. He slipped his copy under the table and tried to stuff it into his pocket, but already, Mr Weasley was opening the copy dropped by Errol.

"No!" Harry shouted. But it was too late, Mr Weasley was already unfolding the Prophet.

The man's eyes bulged wide, and he spat out a mouthful of tea. "What in Merlin's name—"

Harry winced, and he slammed his eyes shut. Too late.

He wasn't going to have a fun time with this.... He'd only had a few days to relax at the Burrow (just about long enough for someone, say, Colin Creevey to send off a picture to the Daily Prophet and then give them an interview before the article was written and sent to print), but now they'd all know. They would call him a monster, a traitor, he'd be strung up and tried and-and—

That evening, they were to have an Order meeting. And guess what was the first thing on the roster?

Harry shuffled awkwardly outside the closed doorway, head down and cheeks red. He listened in to murmured shouts and a bad, bad argument.

"—that's You-Know-Who," shouted Mad-Eye, "and our Boy-Who-Lived, all cozied up and dancing!" He scoffed. "He's a traitor, I tell you! Mark my words!"

Mrs Weasley shouted angrily, "Don't be ridiculous, of course he isn't! He's just a boy! And even if, Merlin forbid, he was, what would you have us do, Alastor? Shove Veritaserum down the poor boy's throat?!"

"Yes, actually, that would be—"

A familiar voice coughed. "Now, now, everyone, please be calm," Dumbledore pleaded. "I'm sure young Mr Potter has a good explanation for all of this—"

"So should you, Albus!" Started Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt. "The Dark Lord at the school, under your watch, do you have an explanation for that?"

Harry winced, and Ginny rubbed his shoulder comfortingly. At least he wasn't alone. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were right here with him, standing quietly and waiting for the ball to drop.

Dumbledore sighed, and Harry could imagine his eyes glittering regretfully, if that was possible. "As you should know, Kingsley, I was away on an important mission. I simply didn't realize exactly who would be invited to Horace's party. That was remiss of me. I'll have to talk with him soon...."

Harry's heart stuttered in his chest, and he started shivering. He yanked at his collar. Was it hot? He was feeling hot. His breath was shaky.

He was zoned out, deep in his thoughts as he kept listening in to the meeting, but he didn't internalize any of it, so when the kitchen door creaked open, it came as a shock.

"Harry," Remus said, looking at him warmly. He looked exhausted. "You're up."

Harry pretended he didn't see the way Remus stared at him, confused and a little betrayed.

The bracelet on his wrist burned like a brand. Harry couldn't bring himself to look at it the whole day.

Ron clapped him on the shoulder, giving him a little nod. You can do it, he said silently.

They came in after him, one each at his side with Ginny at his back. They wouldn't let him do this alone. Harry could have smiled. What did he do to have so many good friends?

He could feel judgeful gazes burning into him, even as Harry's eyes were turned down to the floor.

Harry stopped right in front of Dumbledore, awaiting his sentencing. Imaginary shackles twinged at his hands, neck, and feet, and Harry couldn't move. The sword of Damocles swung menacingly above his head, waiting to exact his punishment.

Harry looked up.

Would he be strung up on a cross and nailed? Hit with a Killing Curse? Locked up in Azkaban, even?

No. No, of course not. His imagination was running away from him...but right now, he was faced with a monster he hadn't even a hope of winning against.

(He would run away. If he was found out, he would run away, beg Tom to come save him, and wasn't that a heady thought?)

"Harry, my boy," Dumbledore began, and suddenly he looked old and weary. Strangely, despite his aged skin and grey hair, he had never appeared old to Harry, but now his looks carried the weight of every one of his years. "May I ask you a few questions?

Harry nodded. He couldn't say anything, his words got stuck in his throat.

"I must know...what happened the night of Horace's Christmas Party?"

Harry spoke. He couldn't remember all of what he said, but he wove lies like he was born for it. Hermione and Ron were at either side of him, guarding him and giving him strength. Somehow, that gave him the resolve to stare firmly at Dumbledore's nose, not his eyes, and to call up his nascent occlumency shields to centre himself.

"No, sir, I wasn't bewitched. It was so strange, Lord Slytherin wasn't anything at all like Voldemort! He was charming and considerate—he asked me to dance, and he apologised for what happened to my parents. He was really very kind and—are we sure that he's really Voldemort? Maybe Voldemort does have a son?"

His lies made Ginny twitch at his back, and Harry was almost certain the girl was holding in her laughter. He would have laughed as well, if he didn't feel so utterly wrung out and petrified.

Mad-Eye Moody rolled his eyes, his magic eye going a little wobbly. He had never been so cold to Harry before, but maybe right now he wasn't looking at Harry, but a possible traitor. It wasn't exactly surprising, there was a reason the man had survived so long. Constant vigilance echoed in his mind.

"Doubt it. If that old monster could father a child then it'd be just like him, no doubt about it," he shook his head disappointedly. Then, after everyone stared at him, he continued, "What? I'm right! You've been fooled, Potter, by that handsome face of his! Good looks and charm mean nothing. I've felled many a Death Eater who was handsome," he spat out the word.

Harry shuffled awkwardly, gazing down. "Y-yeah, of course. I—I know, it's just...."

"It's difficult to face the truth of things?" Dumbledore finished. He looked sad, as if lost in age-old memories. "I can understand. Men like Tom—they can be so very charming. It's how they trick people into following them in the first place. They show you all the best sides of them at first, and then when you displease them...you begin to see the monster under the mask. Please keep that in mind. Do be careful, dear boy, and do try not to fall for that man's tricks again." A wrinkly hand rubbed his shoulder. It should have felt comforting. In another life, it would have. This was not that life.

For many hours after that, Dumbledore's words echoed in his mind.

When you displease them...you begin to see the monster under the mask.

When you displease them.

Had he ever displeased Tom? Not Voldemort, not the man he was when they were enemies, but Tom? Has he ever made Tom angry? Harry wracked his brain, and he came up empty.

Was Dumbledore right?

His words echoed in Harry's brain, and suddenly something throbbed in his chest. It was all so good now, Tom was so attentive, but did that only apply when he was in a good mood? How would he treat Harry when he was in a mood? When Harry frustrated him?

Something warm pooled in his chest. "Hello?" A familiar voice spoke.

Harry almost jumped up in fright. He was in bed, under the covers and attempting to sleep, and that was Tom's voice. He didn't imagine it.

"Hello," he replied, feeling a little giddy. They were talking, in their minds. Was their bond truly so strong?

"Hello, my darling, I can feel you. Are you alright? You felt...scared." That warmth pooled through the link again, and Harry recognized it as a cool balm, a ball of comfort and fuzzy emotions, meant to loosen his limbs and help him relax.

"Tom," he sounded breathless in his own mind. "You—you won't ever hurt me, will you?"

The man recoiled. "No! Why ever would you think such a thing?"

Harry felt it. Tom's emotions bubbled and boiled over, shock and disgust crawled up the man's spine at the very idea he would ever hurt Harry—in any way other than in bed, at least, which Harry couldn't find himself minding.

"Harry...where did this line of thought come from?"

He told him. Harry explained the arrival of the day's paper, and his confrontation with Dumbledore. It was...it got to him.

"I would never hurt any of my lovers, Harry, especially not you, the one who I am so devoted to," His dark and comforting voice whispered. "You are mine, mine to take care of, not to hurt." He sounded soft, and Harry let out a sweet sigh.

He pushed his face into his pillow, and he cuddled the long and thick pillow he held in his arms tightly. He wished Tom were really here. He had a blanket with Tom's scent on it, but it wasn't enough anymore. Harry was feeling something like gloom, and he really wanted Tom at his side.

"I would never," the man said, and his emotions translated through the link more readily than they would have through words. "I would never think to harm you again, Harry. I can't. You put your trust in me, my courted, I shall not ever break it."

Harry felt warm, dazed. He took in a deep breath of Tom's scent on the blanket and he cuddled deeper. "Keep talking to me, please. I miss you."

He felt more than saw Tom's fond smile, and the man obliged. He kept speaking about everything and anything. He spoke of his school days and his travels throughout the world, and Harry grasped onto every bit of information like it was a little treasure.

And before he knew it, Harry fell asleep. He was still smiling.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

The rest of Christmas Break was awkward. It was now the date of, and it was fun. They spent it blasting Celestina Warbeck's best Christmas hits on the radio, and the presents were really very nice. Harry got the classic Weasley sweater, in a pretty shade of emerald this time, with gold stitching on the 'H', and Mrs Weasley's fudge was always to die for.

He also got some things from his other friends, most notably a home-brewed skincare kit from Neville that he specifically managed to produce through a magical breed of aloe he had grown. Turns out Nev was much better at Potions when Slughorn was teaching, who would have thought?

Tom hadn't sent him a gift. Instead, he told Harry to wait until Christmas morning; something would come up and that would be his gift. Tom had specially prepared it. He smirked as he said it, and giddy, childish anticipation bubbled through both ends of their link. Harry raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

And while it was closer to afternoon than morning now, something did show up.

Remus visited earlier, which was very nice. They hadn't gotten a chance to talk in a while. They'd exchanged a few letters over the past few months, and Harry was left with the impression that Remus was looking a little better than he had when Harry had seen him last. When asked, the man simply blushed and switched to another topic. Harry grew curious, but he moved along.

It was only around lunchtime that something happened. Minister Scrimgeour showed up at the Burrow, with newly minted Junior Assistant to the Minister Percy Weasley following at his heels. Strangely, Scrimgeour carried a thick piece of rolled-up parchment in his hand. Harry could see a little engraving on it, but he couldn't make out anything else. The Daily Prophet? They had already received the paper today, but that's what the thing in his hands looked like. There was nothing new today, though, so it probably wasn't that day's paper.

Percy, awkward and straight-backed, showed no interest in talking to his family, and Harry felt a little bitter. Twat. He had such a loving family, and what did he do? He just left them!

To his chagrin, he ended up going on a little stroll through the yard with Minister Rufus Scrimgeour, and the entirety of their interaction was a thing of misery that he would remember for many months to come.

He wanted to know what Dumbledore was doing, why he'd been leaving Hogwarts so often and what he was up to. Did he seriously think Harry knew anything? He snorted. Dumbledore never told him anything. Even their 'lessons' were a sham. Learning about Tom's childhood was nice, but how would that defeat him? Not that Harry wanted to, but he simply didn't understand Dumbledore's logic.

And then there were the obvious attempts to get Harry to side with the Ministry in the 'upcoming war', which there likely wouldn't be. Tom wanted the least amount of bloodshed possible, which was why he'd gone the Lord Slytherin route.

Harry was ticked off for that entire conversation. Chosen One this, Chosen One that, did anyone ever see him as just Harry? Really, it was only his friends, but even he knew that they had expectations of him. They thought of him highly, and sometimes he knew he wasn't just Harry to them, but a leader and someone they greatly respected.

Tom was the only one who really cared for just Harry. He didn't care about the Chosen One bullshit, if only because it was Tom's fault he was the Chosen One in the first place. But it was relaxing. With him, there were no expectations. They could both simply be for the short trysts they had together.

And then, before he left, Scrimgeour used his last trap card. He waved the paper in front of Harry. "Look at this," he exclaimed with a triumphant smirk. "See? Tomorrow's paper. We're trying! Your godfather can be free now, and he can come out of whatever hidey-hole he's crawled into—"

Harry froze, and then he yanked the Prophet out of that man's hands. Sirius?!

He was dead, dead and gone, yet it seemed like the Ministry had never gotten the memo if they were holding a posthumous trial now that they finally had Peter Pettigrew in their grasp.

Harry's mad laughter was drowned out by the buzzing in his ears. Tears dripped down his cheeks. This, this was Tom's gift?

He was incandescently happy, overjoyed, even.

Sirius.

The article went on about how Pettigrew was captured by Lord Slytherin (and at that, Harry laughed, because really) when he crawled up to the man, begging for a place back in the Dark Lord's ranks after betraying him again or some such rot. Supposedly, Lord Slytherin took him down easily and reported him to the Auror department, as he was 'in no way, shape, or form a supporter of Lord Voldemort.'

Harry laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

This was too easy. Why couldn't Tom have regained his sanity earlier? Maybe then Sirius would still be alive, and he would be free.

He felt like the carpet was ripped out from under him, and Harry was stumbling on his feet. He didn't notice when Scrimgeour made his way out, or when he staggered back to the Burrow with tear-strained cheeks and a crumbled paper in his fist. Either way, it had gotten dark.

Sirius's trial had a set date, and it was very soon, set in a few days. Harry would go, and so would Ron and Hermione. They were witnesses to Sirius's escape, after all. It would be a sham of a trial without Sirius, but Harry owed it to him to go. Remus and Mr Weasley would escort them. Dumbledore would already be there as Chief Warlock. Perhaps Tom would be there as well since he was a member of the Wizengamot.

No one in the Order of the Phoenix understood why or how this had happened. They all assumed Tom was using this to bolster his career somehow and make himself seem more trustworthy, especially to gain the favour of the other side. After all, Sirius was dead and Pettigrew, due to his animagus form, made for a useful spy. Why else would he sacrifice him if not for some sort of political gain?

Harry knew why. This was his gift.

"Thank you, Tom," he whispered through the link. The man returned his thanks with a burst of affection, something bright and fizzy that always warmed Harry from his crown to his toes.

Harry thought he might love him.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

The expediency of Sirius's trial made something dark roll in Harry's stomach. Sirius was dead, he couldn't ever get his freedom or the rest of his life back, but there Wormtail was, shivering and curled up in a ball in some Ministry cell. Traitor, Harry hissed.

He kept staring at the Prophet, at the picture of Wormtail on the cover. It was a pathetic sight, and it should have felt satisfying, but it didn't help him one bit. His anger was reaching great, new heights, and Harry was frothing with it.

This entire sham of a trial felt demeaning, almost ironic. It was too little and too late. Pettigrew had no qualms about betraying his parents and leaving Sirius to take the fall, and only now, years after it all happened, did the little rat have the decency to finally be captured. Not that it mattered anymore. Sirius wasn't around to enjoy it. His name would be cleared, but he'd already lost his life. Harry also lost his childhood and any chance of being raised by Sirius. He wondered, sometimes, what would have happened if he were still thirteen and Sirius was declared innocent then. Would he have gone to live with him? Would they have lived in Grimmauld, or somewhere else? What would his life have been like? Would he have ever fallen for Tom? That last one was probably a no, and for some reason, he felt his heart squeeze in his chest.

He crumpled the paper in his hands. It wouldn't do to dwell on those thoughts.

Still, a part of Harry was glad for this. Because Sirius and his parents would get justice, as close to it as they could get, at least (because Tom was sure as hell never going to trial, and boy did Harry have mixed feelings about him). And sure, technically this was actually Wormtail's trial, not Sirius's, but it would be something like a dual trial. He'd been told by a pale lavender-haired Tonks that even though Sirius wouldn't be there, he'd likely be acquitted of all charges if Pettigrew was found guilty, while Wormtail would either get saddled with a lifetime in Azkaban or the Dementor's Kiss—whichever best suited Scrimgeour's goals, she supposed. It was probably why this was a 'dual trial' in the first place; Scrimgeour wanted it to be a spectacle. The man was far too concerned with the Ministry's image, which Harry could almost understand. They were meant to be in a war, but that didn't make him feel any better. After all, was there any war to fight?

Still, this sham of a trial was all for public perception. Scrimgeour wanted it to seem like the Ministry had everything handled, that the war was well in hand and Voldemort a non-issue. That's the only reason this was happening—because Wormtail was a good scapegoat, the same way Sirius was when he was blamed for the mass Death Eater breakout last year and whatever else the Ministry got a kick out of pointing the blame at him for.

Politics fucking sucked, he was quickly finding out.

Now, it was a few days post-Christmas and he still had about a week and a half of break left. The trial would be today, and Harry was not ready.

He was dressed in an elegant and soft, dark blue drape of a robe. The cut was distinctly feminine, and it cinched in Harry's waist. There were these silver buttons he couldn't help but fiddle with, and he ended up having to ask Hermione to help him do the buttons on his wrists.

He'd combed his hair and tied it back in a little ponytail using a familiar black ribbon that he hadn't actually returned to Lavender yet and probably never would. He turned red when he remembered the way Tom untied it, as if he was unwrapping Harry, like he was a gift. The thought of returning it to Lavender sounded almost unappealing in light of that.

Harry looked something in between handsome and pretty. His green eyes gleamed with something like resolution, a steely determination to see this day through, for Sirius.

"Are you ready yet?" Hermione poked her head into his room. He was sharing it with Ron. Mrs Weasley had finally relented earlier in the break, realizing that it was perfectly fine for them to stay together. After all, they already shared a dorm, and Hermione and Ron being together had distracted her from Harry and Ron. The Weasley matriarch had spent practically the whole break policing their interactions, Harry held in a snort.

"Yeah, yeah, just a minute." Harry took a deep breath. It was time.

Mr Weasley and Remus would be coming with them. Remus was a witness to what happened that night in third year, and despite his being a werewolf, the Minister was still willing to use his testimony. Ron and Hermione would also be coming with them, and they were planning to go many hours early. They'd hang out in the tiny Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office until the trial began. That way, there would be no chance the Ministry could pull something like what they did for Harry's trial last year.

They left quickly, flooing into the Ministry atrium through the Weasleys' fireplace. They went up to the front desk and got their badges, and Harry's gleaming guest pass saying 'Harry Potter, Trial Witness' made something sink in his gut. It all felt so much more real. It was actually happening. Sirius was finally going to get a trial, but he wouldn't be here to witness it.

Mr Weasley's office was small and cramped, with memos flying in from other departments and rolls and rolls of parchments scattered right alongside different muggle trinkets, likely enchanted in some way. Harry eyed a teapot that had something like a mouth and a nose, but no eyes. Strangely, a thick haze of steam seemed to escape its nozzle even though Harry could see there was no liquid in the teapot itself through its open mouth.

Ron and Hermione took their seats, and Ron immediately started messing with some random knick-knacks. "Look, Mione, is this one of those—whatdya call them—telly...fellytones?" He was holding up a brightly red-coloured brick phone. The colour of it strangely matched his hair.

"Telephones, Ronald. This one here looks like it's broken," she frowned. Then, she took it from Ron and stared at the back of it. She rubbed the plastic casing. "I think it needs new batteries. Or maybe the magic is just messing with it...."

Harry left them to it, and if he was being honest, he was a little bored. Mr Weasley had left to 'see to some business', which was probably code for going to the cafeteria to get one of those apparently to-die-for corned beef sandwiches being served today that some witches were chattering about in the elevator. Remus also stepped out soon afterwards, and Harry took notice of the way he went straight for the Auror department right after telling them to stay put, he'd be back soon.

Harry scrunched his nose in confusion. Remus was getting very close to Tonks, wasn't he? Harry had always seen them standing together in Order meetings any time he was allowed in, which was rare and only for a short while. Hm....

Anyways, he quickly grew bored. Ron and Hermione were doing their little back-and-forth flirting thing, and it was getting a bit awkward. He didn't like feeling like a voyeur. He exited the little room with an "I'll be right back, just a minute!"

Instantly, he was better able to breathe. He didn't realize how stuffy it had been in there. How could Mr Weasley handle it all day? He could hardly breathe. He started walking, sightseeing a bit now that he was finally on his own. Had he ever been in the Ministry by himself? He always had someone with him, even during the Battle.

Without even really thinking about it, Harry went a bit farther than he intended. He ended up going straight left and waltzing through a few hallways. It was strange—his feet walked before his brain said to, and it was as if something was pulling him there. His scar felt weirdly tender, and something like anticipation buzzed through him.

Harry knew where he was going, now, and something like anxiousness sizzled in his gut. How could he face him now, after what he'd realized?

He was in a deserted hallway, someplace where it looked like most people never visited. Next to an old, painted-white wooden door, a copper plaque gleamed dully with the words 'Cleaning Supplies.'

He idly wondered why there was an entire closet dedicated to cleaning supplies. It didn't make much sense considering most messes could be cleaned up magically, he thought.

For a while, he found himself silently staring at the looming door, and he gulped. Fuck it.

Bravely, Harry twisted the doorknob, and the moment the door creaked open, he was yanked inside before the door slammed shut behind him.

He was pushed back against the door and pulled up by greedy hands at his thighs and a warm body against his. Before he could even think, let alone formulate a sentence, he was accosted by a pair of familiar, hungry lips and searching, gluttonous hands.

He let out a short little shriek before melting against those lips. Tom, he thought, grinning into the kiss. A jolt of excitement shot through him. He couldn't help it, not really. He just wanted him. He missed him. He lov—

"Mmm! What are you doing?" Harry breathed into the kiss.

"This. Keep quiet, Harry. We don't want anyone to hear us." He smirked something smug, and Harry would have wanted to punch that look off his face if he wasn't already dreadfully aroused.

They spent a good few minutes pawing at each other, and they only parted so they could breathe in some air. Still, Tom didn't let him go, and Harry tightened his legs around the man's waist. He turned red, bloody hell was this man fit.

The man was dressed in the Wizengamot's traditional plum-purple robes, and while the robes themselves were likely intended to look as unflattering as possible, he looked very good. Nothing looked bad on Tom, Harry was quickly finding out. Especially not arousal, and definitely not that little gleam of voracious want that Harry could see glimmering in the alpha's blood-red eyes.

Those same eyes burned into Harry, and his cheeks were flushed from the kiss. "Harry, I'm glad you came." Tom's voice was a velvet suede, rich and hot and with a quality that made Harry want to follow every order that came out of that delectable mouth—not that he would, he wasn't so naive, but the urge was there.

Something about him now felt so new, as if every moment was a precious gift and something to be treasured, far more than it had been before. But Harry was seeing Tom in a new light now that he knew he loved him. He loved him, he thought, his heart pattering.

Something like exhilaration seeped through his skin. It was molten lava, burning through his blood. He tasted nectar on Tom's lips, and Harry gulped it down in reverence as he stole another kiss. The rush of it made him feel dizzy, but the rest of him couldn't help but brighten with effervescent joy.

"Thank you," he pulled away for a moment before returning to kiss him again, "Thank you, Tom—" he pressed another devouring kiss to his lips, "—god, I can't thank you enough. Sirius—" He couldn't stop kissing the man, it was a reflex, pure instinct, and he was finally able to express all of his gratitude and care and love and it was burning through their link and crashing against the rocky edges of Tom's mind like the roiling waves of a sea storm.

A short, amused laugh escaped Tom's lips, and something in his eyes was so soft, so clearly vulnerable, but another part looked almost mischievous. It would have made Harry stumble all over himself had he been standing up, but he wasn't, so he was left with the distinct impression that he was missing something. "Oh, my dearest, you haven't even seen the half of it yet. Just you wait." Tom kissed him on the forehead, right on his scar.

Harry startled. It was a physical shock, a sensation not dissimilar to a shock of pleasure. It was a little spark on his skin, riveting through him.

"Tom?" Harry asked breathily, a moan on his lips. The man in question palmed Harry's thighs and arse, jiggling the fat and stroking Harry's cheeks through his robe. Harry was bright red, flushed with arousal and he was pretty sure he was leaking slick. His legs were wrapped around Tom's waist, and he was pressed to the door. Tom was strong, and Harry's stomach flip-flopped from the knowledge that if this man wanted, he could probably break him in half.

He didn't look it, he was tall and broad and well-built, but he was no bodybuilder, although neither was Harry. The difference in strength and power between them should have been frightening to think of, but instead...he felt a shudder rip up his spine. It was a thrill, it was dangerous, and despite himself, Harry found himself getting hotter. Fuck, what was wrong with him? He already knew he wasn't sane by any means (would any sane person ever start up a relationship with the Dark Lord?), but this was just getting silly.

Tom hummed against Harry's neck, and he began laving his tongue around Harry's collarbones. "You smell so sweet for me, so darling, lovely." The alpha breathed in Harry's scent like he was gasping for air, and Harry was struck with an interesting mixture of affection and arousal. Fuck it.

He was so, so grateful, and wasn't it only right to show his gratitude in such a manner?

(And if, in truth, all Harry wanted was for Tom to stick his cock down his throat and ruin him, then no one would ever know.)

He unhooked his legs from around Tom's waist, and he dropped down to the ground. Tom was confounded for a moment before Harry dropped down to his knees and started pulling at his robes. "Ah—let me...?"

Tom's eyes were so wide, his cheek so pink, and his lips were parted in something like amazed stupefaction.

His pupils dilated, and he breathed, "Yes."

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Harry Potter was a truly vexing creature, there was no other like him. What former enemy of his would so readily kneel for him? Care for him? Court him?

The little omega had a greater capacity for love and forgiveness in his pinky finger than the average Wix carried in their whole body. It was a trait as endearing as it was worrying.

There was no one like Harry Potter.

He was never an avid believer of fate—the singular prophecy aside—but Tom felt an immense amount of gratitude towards whatever power allowed them both to find each other in the Room of Desire. Were it not for that singular moment, he would have made the greatest folly of his life, forfeiting Harry Potter.

He knew better now, of course. Far better, he took in a deep gulp of air, the gasp of it heavy in his chest.

He stared into gleaming, green green eyes, and he was left in wonderment as Harry pushed down his trousers and pulled up his robes to kneel in between his legs. A little smirk danced on the lips of his little nymph right before he took out Tom's throbbing cock.

The smug look on his face vanished almost instantly once Tom's hard length was in his hand, instead replaced by something like covetous desire.

Harry's entire face was glowing red with bashfulness, but his eyes were so dark only a sliver of green was visible, and he betrayed himself by licking his lips.

Slowly, shyly, as if he'd never done this before—which was a bald-faced lie, as he absolutely had—Harry licked the slit of Tom's cock. He pressed the flat of his tongue against the head, and Tom let out a hiss.

"Fuck, Harry," he startled. His breath was coming out in pants, and he could hardly keep his balance. He was wrong-footed, out of control in a way only Harry Potter could make him feel, and it was addicting. He always felt more alive around Harry; the boy added colour to his dreary, black-and-white life.

Tom's breath hitched the moment Harry sucked his cock in deeper, letting it slide right to the back of his throat. "I live and breathe for you, Harry Potter." His eyes burned into Harry, and the omega visibly shivered beneath him.

The inside of Harry's mouth was delectable; it was warm and wet, and truly, Harry was far too talented at this despite having done it so few times, because why else did Tom find himself on the brink in seconds? It was almost embarrassing. He was no schoolboy.

So, of course, he took control of the pace.

His hand reached out to grab Harry's throat, and purely for his own pleasure, he felt the way his lover's throat strained against the stretch of his cock as Tom slowly pushed deeper. The wet sound of himself thrusting down Harry's throat emboldened him further, and he smirked.

Harry was choking on his dick, but his eyes burned with determination, and he breathed through it. Tom could already see Harry's thoughts painted on his sweet face, but he ended up surrendering to his curiosity, and he opened their link.

Hot. Warm. Sucking. Choking. Too-too much. Like it.... Want more so bad. Inside. Now.

Harry was wet. Tom could feel it, smell it, he knew it. His little omega was already drenched from a bit of light snogging, and he was even further aroused by the feeling of his alpha's cock down his throat. Tom's lips flickered upwards.

He'd play with Harry's mouth just a little longer, of course. And what of it? He greatly enjoyed the sight of Harry's reddening cheeks, the flex of his throat as he struggled to take him down, and his wet little sounds as he sucked and licked at his shaft. The scent of his omega's desperation was sweet and sour, a rich taste on Tom's lips. Cruelly, he decided he wanted more of it.

He rocked his hips forward in long, slow thrusts. He so badly wanted to savour the feeling, the pleasure of having his omega on his knees gagging for a taste of his cock. The memory of that evening at the school stayed with him. He'd unashamedly whipped out his pensieve quite often just to look back on that night, so he was rather frustrated, one could say.

That was his reasoning for why his orgasm came by almost embarrassingly quickly. He'd been planning this for days. Originally, he wasn't going to spirit Harry away like this—on the day of Black's trial, no less—but the idea was ever so tempting, and his impeccable self-control always faltered in the face of Harry Potter, the single chink in his armour. It would have angered him, had he not already been convinced that nothing and no one could ever force him to part from the omega before him. Harry was his.

Groaning softly, he thrusted with a jerk of his hips once or twice more, obsessed with the wet little sounds of Harry choking, the sight of his cock bursting in Harry's throat...and then his climax was upon him.

He came down Harry's throat, choking him, but he wouldn't let Harry spit it out.

"Swallow," he ordered into Harry's ear. He witnessed the way Harry's ear turned red, the way his flush went down his neck, and impulsively, he wandlessly banished all of Harry's clothing to get a better look. All of it.

His Harry was naked in his arms. And Tom was very clothed, now that his robes had slipped down again. A smirk danced on wicked lips.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Harry shivered as the chill began to seep through his bones. He was suddenly unclothed and sat on Tom's lap with his front pressed right against the man. Tom's aroused, alpha scent wafted into Harry's nose, and Harry was dizzy with it, dazed by the richness and intensity. He was panting against Tom's collarbones, and by Godric was it humiliating. Would it be a little too desperate of him to tongue at the soft and buttery skin of Tom's neck, just to feel him?

Liquid evidence of his arousal seeped down his thighs, staining Tom's robes. Humiliatingly enough, that only reminded him of the fact that he was naked, while the alpha before him was decidedly not. A thrill zipped down his spine.

He squeaked. "Tom—" He wiggled on his lap, and he would have moved, but the man's hands around his waist were chains pressing them chest-to-chest. "I'm ruining your robes!" His wizengamot robes. How were they going to clean this up?

"Don't care," the man rasped, pulling him closer. He nosed at Harry's neck and his throat, and he gasped a deep breath, inhaling Harry's scent like a starving man. And if that wasn't enough, if that didn't already make Harry squirm, he pressed his tongue flatly against Harry's mating gland, and then he licked.

Something like a broken, wounded moan escaped Harry's lips, and in between hitched-out breaths, he exclaimed, "I'm—I'm going to smell like you!" Tom's scent would stick to him now, at least until Harry took a shower and scrubbed himself raw a half-dozen times. Even a scent-scouring spell wouldn't remove the scent in its entirety, and if any of his friends wanted to get into especially close quarters with him, they'd be assaulted with the scent of a claim. Hell, Tom might as well have already marked him by now if this was how it was going to go.

Tom groaned against Harry, and his lips pressed again to Harry's scent gland, kissing it. "Does that upset you, lovely? Because I assure you, it does not upset me."

He pulled away from Harry's neck, and, as an adequate showing of Harry's lacklustre self-control in the face of such a pleasurable assault, he started whining in disappointment. He was quivering with the want for moremoremore, already slick with it.

"Please, ah, let me...." He squeaked when Tom laved his tongue against his collarbones, letting the warm flesh slide against the line of it and leaving a trail of saliva.

"Your arousal tastes so sweet, my dear," he laughed. "I can taste your desperation on your skin. Don't you worry, I can help with that."

Tom conjured a soft blanket before setting Harry to the floor. He climbed over him, eyes hungry, and Harry whimpered in want. "Please," he whispered. Fuck, he was so hot. He had gotten so needy, so sensitive within the past few weeks, and he couldn't count the number of times he'd resorted to pleasuring himself in the privacy of the shower without anyone around. During those times, their bond grew agitated, heavy with the weight of their combined arousal, and often it would be the raging sea of Tom's want for Harry that made him finally reach his peak and cum, all under Tom's watching, frustrated senses.

Perhaps that was why Tom was so eager to get his hands on him again, Harry realized. He must have been a bit pent-up after seeing Harry bring himself to completion one too many times.

Harry couldn't pretend that didn't make him feel good about himself. It was he who did this to Tom, the Dark Lord himself, and perhaps the power was getting to his head a bit, he was quickly finding out.

The weight of Tom atop of him was a grounding, heady thing, and Harry was made all the more aware of Tom's hard length pressed against his thigh. He shivered, he was intimately familiar with Tom's inhumanely quick refractory period. He felt almost too desperate, and if even a single moment more passed by without Harry getting his satisfaction, he was likely to push Tom onto his back and plunge down onto his cock himself.

"Quiet your noises, lovely," he whispered into Harry's ear, and bloody hell was Tom's husky voice doing things to him. "We don't want to get caught."

Bullshit. If Tom didn't have this room warded six ways to Sunday, Harry would shoot himself with the Killing Curse.

Something like liquid adrenaline burned through Harry. It was a rush. Despite the wards, they could so easily be caught, found. And then Harry and Tom could be strung up in so many ways. It was a scandal. It was far too titillating to think of, he thought with embarrassment. The thought of being found...

And then, while Harry was lost in his mind, Tom took that as an opportunity to press a finger into Harry's quivering warmth. He was disgustingly wet, dripping. Tom didn't care, he relished in it.

His pussy clamped around the finger, and he sucked it in deeper. Harry would have felt embarrassed if he didn't see the pure enrapturement on Tom's face, if he didn't already know his alpha enjoyed seeing him shudder with pleasure.

The man's mouth was parted, and he licked his lips. He looked down at Harry and said, "Are you so desperate for me, my dearest?"

And what other answer was there than yes?

At his words, before Harry could even think, Tom's face went down to lave his tongue against Harry's chest, his pecs, and then his little omegan breasts. His mounds were small, hardly anything like a woman and barely noticeable, but his nipples were big and dusty pink and perky with arousal, and if the way his alpha stared down at them was any indication, he was tempted.

He took one mound in hand, lightly fondling and squeezing it in a way that made Harry squirm. The pressure wasn't too much, or too little, it didn't hurt, but he could feel Tom squeezing his nipple before popping it in his mouth.

He tongued against Harry's nipple with a moan. He swirled it with the tip of his tongue, and there was the barest tinge of teeth against the edge of Harry's nipple. "A—ah!" Harry cried, pushing his chest up against Tom's mouth.

His nipples had never been especially sensitive before, yet neither had the rest of his body before Tom learned to play him like a fiddle. Every part of his body and heart burned for this man.

Harry wanted him. Harry cared for him. Harry desired him. Harry loved him.

But could Tom ever love Harry?

Would passion forever remain the only shape of love this man could give him?

He let out a short cry as his alpha bit his nipple, all while pressing his middle finger deep inside Harry's warm folds. Harry's lower half quivered around him.

"Pay attention, my darling. Keep your pretty eyes on me." Red, dilated irises burned into Harry, and was it his imagination or was there a slight slit to Tom's pupils? And then there were his canines, sharp and lightly fanged. That was—wow.

Harry wanted Tom to bite him. Would he bite his nipple again? Would he bleed? Would Tom finally bite and claim him? In all honesty, Harry wouldn't be able to oppose the alpha if he decided to claim him right now. If anything, he'd be completely on board. (He chose to pretend that was purely the hormonal, omega side of him speaking.)

Then, a moan escaped Tom's lips, and Harry pretended his stomach didn't flop at the sound.

"One day," the man breathed heavily against Harry's skin, slowly pumping him full with not just one but two fingers now, "you will make the sweetest milk for me and our pups. Before our pups are born, I'll sup from you every night, and I have no doubt you will taste delectable."

One day.

You will.

Those words made him internally grin.

It was a done deal. Tom chose him, he would mate him. Even if Tom didn't love him, did that really matter?

(Harry didn't want it to. He didn't want to ever have to leave Tom. He wanted him. He loved him. He would stay with him. No matter what.

He pretended his heart didn't break just a bit at the thought of Tom never loving him.)

Harry went to press his hand against the back of Tom's head. He pressed his head closer, letting him suck deeper into Harry's chest. He pushed his lower half deeper onto Tom's fingers. "I—please give me more, I want more, Tom, oh fuuuuuck." His little whimpers turned into hitched-off whines as Tom pressed his two fingers impossibly deeper into him.

"Alpha!" He cried. He wriggled harder, grinding his hips down with a short little sob. Pleasure hung low in his gut, and his omega cock was red and weeping. His cunt was sopping wet and he didn't know how much more he could take without reaching completion.

Tom was still leisurely sucking on his nipples, absent-mindedly thrusting his fingers inside Harry's hole. But the moment Harry called him alpha, he came back to attention. It was instinct, a call, and before Harry knew it, Tom's long fingers withdrew from inside him.

He sobbed at the feeling of his clenching hole. He was empty, dripping, and he needed—oooh. He needed that.

The familiar length of something thick and throbbing pushed inside of him. It carved something deep inside, filling him in a way he'd almost forgotten he could be filled.

He let out a satisfied sigh, a little wet sound, the moment his alpha bottomed out. He ground down against that length, silently begging Tom to go faster, harder.

He got the point.

Then, before Harry knew it, Tom was jutting into him with sharp, deep thrusts.

Harry was left shivering, letting out long moans against Tom's ear after he wrapped his hands around the man's neck. He panted against him, and he thrusted his lower half down to meet Tom's cock.

It was a warm, throbbing weight inside of him, and he savoured every thrust, every wet sound and squirt, and soon the euphoria he felt began to crescendo.

Something grew tight in Harry's belly, and the moment Tom realized Harry's end was near, he began pushing slower and deeper. Each thrust was torturous, but it meant something. Tom released a long groan as he carved himself deep inside Harry's body, and even without their link, Harry understood his message.

Mine. You're mine. All mine, he was saying. Mineminemine.

Harry couldn't help but agree.

And when his end finally came, Tom's followed soon after, and he released his essence in Harry's insides with a hitched-off sound.

Harry belonged to Tom, that was no question. Tom held Harry's heart in his hands, whether he knew it or not, but did Harry hold Tom's heart?

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Embarrassingly, Harry came stumbling out of the janitor's closet on shaking legs. Tom held him up with a fond chuckle, and Harry pretended like he wasn't feeling up the muscle of Tom's bicep, while Tom pretended like he didn't know Harry was feeling him up, the git. Harry wasn't exactly looking at Tom's face right now, but he could vividly imagine the smirk dancing on his lips.

No matter the cleaning and healing spells he cast after the...events in the closet, Harry suddenly turned into a clumsy fawn the moment he was released from Tom's hold. The place between his thighs was sore and aching, and his legs were strained and trembling, he was hardly able to carry his own weight. He felt dazed, still, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed, preferably cradled against Tom's chest with a pair of arms wrapped around him. Unfortunately, that was not going to happen anytime soon, he grumbled, but a man could dream.

That was...intense. Harry needed it. Any iota of anxiety and fear he'd had for today had bled out, replaced by a bone-deep satisfaction. Any worries he had were far away from his mind, and perhaps that was why his mind-to-mouth filter decided to abandon him for the day.

"This is nice," he breathed into Tom's arm, his vocal cords still raspy from earlier. He was almost saddened that Tom had to heal the conspicuous bruise on his throat, though he'd allowed the ones that could be easily concealed to stay on his skin. Harry didn't mind. "I like it when you hold me." The words slipped from his lips before he could stop himself from saying them, and the moment he realized what he just said, Tom was already grinning like the cat that caught the canary.

Tom's arm came down to settle at the small of Harry's back, pushing them chest-to-chest. He was smiling wide, wider than Harry was used to seeing from him, and he couldn't help but notice the crinkle in his forehead or the way the light made those glamoured, coal-dark eyes of his glimmer red like flickering charcoal. His heart was beating fast in his chest, and already, Harry was feeling butterflies. Was this what love felt like? It was something precious, a little golden light in his heart, a shimmering—

"Ahem," a familiar, feminine voice echoed in the empty hallway.

For a moment, fear shot up Harry's spine, and he was reminded of Umbridge, but it was not to be. That would almost be better because then Tom could be his usual broody alpha self and intimidate the old toad, but no...instead, he was faced with a stern-faced Hermione and a green-looking Ron.

A putrid shade of green painted Ron's face as he looked back and forth between Tom and Harry. "So that's what you were doing.... Bloody hell, mate."

Hermione was unamused, her skin unusually pale and her lips pursed tight. Not even a single bit of fear showed itself on her face, even though Harry knew she must have been terrified. "Lord Slytherin," she greeted politely, emphasizing his name in a way that made it clear she knew who he was. "It's a pleasure."

Tom didn't move away from Harry, there was no point. Ron and Hermione had probably already seen Harry stumbling out of the closet with unsteady legs like a newborn kitten, including the way Tom was steadying him with a hand on the small of his back.

The alpha began to speak, and his words held no trace of malice, simply a sort of cold aloofness. Too late, Harry thought. The memory of that grin on Tom's face a moment ago was probably still making the rounds through Ron and Hermione's brains. "It's an honour to finally meet you, Ms Granger, Mr Weasley. Harry's told me quite a bit about you both."

"All good, I hope," she replied disinterestedly. She was more concerned with studying the possessive arm Tom had wrapped around Harry's waist than actually speaking to him, it seemed.

Ron wasn't about to let Hermione dominate the conversation, though, which was made clear when he stepped up and glared straight at Tom with all of the summoned courage he could squeeze out of himself. "Slytherin," he said, head held up high, "I know who you are, and I know what you did." Ron sneered. "How can I know you won't do it again? How can I know this isn't a game and you aren't just playing with my best mate's heart?"

Heart.

My best mate's heart.

Was Harry being a bit too obvious? Did his friends know he was in love with Tom? Did Tom know he was in love with him? Harry was horrified at the thought. He couldn't have been that apparent in his feelings, could he?

He forced himself to push back those thoughts. Now was not the time.

Tom let out a deep exhale, and Harry settled himself at the man's side, as if reminding him that he was here, that he wanted to be at his side. He smiled up at Tom, nodding. Hermione's eagle eyes instantly clued in, and her eyes narrowed.

"I am...deeply regretful of my previous actions. I did not have full control of my mental facilities, which was purely my own fault. Now that I have become aware of the irrationality of my previous actions, I shall endeavour to make amends to the one I wronged the most," he finished, this time looking straight at Harry. Those last words were for him. He looked truly regretful, sad, and that made something twist inside Harry.

"Making amends doesn't mean courting your once enemy," Hermione pointed out, arms crossed. "What's in it for you? Harry is so young, I can't imagine you have much to talk about."

Harry coughed. Yes, talking. They didn't exactly talk much...they were too busy with things. That was a good enough basis for a healthy relationship, right? At the very least, they had good banter...which was usually flirting and led to other, very delicious things. Okay, he got her point, but he and Tom were really good together!

"We were brought together by magic itself," Tom stated with a commanding finality, which was a fun little way to say they got spelled into fucking each other by a perverted magic room, even if it was for the better, "and it was a gift, one that I could not have ever foreseen. How could I not have accepted it? Henceforth, our courting soon began, and now...I cannot ever see myself parted from Harry Potter." He cradled him more closely, looked at him even more softly, and Harry eyed the glint of emerald from the ring on Tom's finger. He'd replaced the other ring, the one he'd used to prove his Slytherin heritage, with Harry's own gift. That made him feel strangely warm.

Still, if Harry noticed Tom's ring, there was no way Hermione and Ron hadn't. After all, it was a matching set to Harry's own bracelet.

As if proving his point, Hermione raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him. Harry blushed, looking away.

"How romantic," Ron snarked. "I still don't see why you should be allowed anywhere near that close to Harry after all that you did—", Tom's eyes flashed, and Harry was certain a murder was about to happen if he didn't stop him, "—but if Harry trusts you, then I'll trust Harry's judgement. I'm onto you, though, so be warned." His glare was frigid, and Harry actually felt a speck of fear for Tom. Not that it was rational, Ron wasn't actually able to do anything to hurt Tom. He was probably imagining it.

From there, Ron and Hermione's impromptu shovel talk came to an abrupt end. Tom had to go meet with someone—who it was, he didn't say, it was probably for the trial, though—and Harry had to go back to Mr Weasley's office with Ron and Hermione.

"Remus came back, he was looking for you," Hermione said on the way back. "He was worried sick, and we had to tell him you were at the loo. It took us ages to find you! We'll say you got lost...."

Ron looked uncomfortable, and then he blurted, "Are we not gonna talk about what happened?!"

Harry's blood turned to ice, and something sad weighed down his soul. "Ron...." Was his friend going to leave him? Was this too much for him?

"I never thought I'd find out what fucked out looks like on a Dark Lord," he joked, though it sounded somewhat pained. "And you—bloody 'ell, Harry, you're...," he looked Harry up and down, "he got you good."

"Wait, what? Do I still have—"

"No, you're alright," Hermione laughed, "though you're a bit...how should I put this, frazzled. It's the hair." She nodded, and Ron agreed with a hum.

Sheepishly, Harry did his best to finger-comb his defiant locks before the trial. They had a bit of time, and he didn't want it to be obvious what he'd just been up to. Remus could probably smell it on him, and Harry could only pray his scent-masking spells held up.

Bloody hell, he suddenly realized, I just fucked Voldemort on Sirius's trial day. That was all sorts of disrespectful and even more fucked up, but not any worse than fucking Voldemort the day Sirius died. Oh.

Yeah, that was...that realization tasted like ash on his tongue. And suddenly, his bad mood was resurrected, he sighed. Great.

Chapter Text

As suddenly as his worries for the day faded, replaced by the high of Tom's greedy touches and Harry's ever-growing urge to be touched, they returned with a vehemence.

Tom had gone on ahead to do whatever he was meant to do, and Harry was left in the unfortunate company of a not-so-oblivious Ron and Hermione who knew exactly what he'd been up to. He knew they knew what he'd been up to. They knew he knew they knew what he'd been up to.

There was nothing to be said. The conversation that resulted on Harry's walk of shame back to Mr Weasley's office was short and stilted, characterised by redness on the high of Ron's cheeks every time he gazed at a perhaps still slightly-dazed Harry as well as an unamused Hermione who shook her head disappointedly when looking at him.

"In the Ministry, Harry, really?" She sounded too tired of his bullshit to be aghast at his actions.

Harry had nothing to say to that. He turned bright red, sheepish, and he looked down guiltily. He wasn't going to mention that this was the second time they had sex within the Ministry's walls, the first time being their first time together. How romantic, he could already imagine her saying sarcastically before delving into a short rant about proper precautions and contraceptive spells as well as there being a time and place for these sorts of things—honestly, Harry. He was glad to be spared of it, for now. Perhaps she decided to give him some grace, considering the later events of the day.

Or maybe she was still a little salty he'd lied. She was angry at Tom, she definitely didn't like him, and Harry had the feeling that Hermione was convinced Tom was taking advantage of him, a young, vulnerable omega. Not that he could blame her, he sighed, he knew what this all looked like. But Tom never pressured him into anything, and Harry was a perfectly willing and, er, active participant.

Either way, her smothering worry—and occasional judgement—was better than her scorn. Hatred. Contempt. He was infinitely relieved Ron and Hermione had it in their hearts to at least try to understand, even if that did mean they would attempt to give the Dark Lord the shovel talk. He was still trying to wrap his head around that, even.

Once they made it back to Mr Weasley's office, they were immediately stared down by an unamused Remus and a disapproving Mr Weasley. The resulting interrogation could in no way be described as fun. It was very embarrassing for all involved when Mr Weasley demanded to know what they were doing sneaking away into the Ministry when "You-Know-Who and his followers are after Harry's hide!" and Ron grumbled, replying, "he sure is."

Harry turned strawberry red once realized what Ron meant. He ducked his head when Remus raised an inquisitive eyebrow at his reaction. He refused to elucidate the reasoning behind his embarrassment to the man.

The trial wouldn't be held for another hour, so they were cooped up in Mr Weasley's office for a while yet. No one said anything, and Harry was just glad Remus's keen werewolf nose couldn't pick up on any compromising scents. He was fairly confident in his spellcasting skills by now, but who knows what could happen.

The wait was torturous, and it stretched out irritatingly long. He was on the edge of his seat the whole time, staring at the clock and begging it to move. He just wanted to get this over with.

And then like magic, before he knew it, it was time.

Last he checked, he was just about to leave the Burrow, and now, suddenly, he was sitting in the witness area of the trial room, one of those courtrooms far within the bowels of the Ministry. Harry weakly remembered seeing this exact courtroom in the memory of Dumbledore's that he peaked into back in fourth year, the one of the Lestranges and Crouch's trial.

The room's atmosphere was not quite as stifling as it was then, but it was still oppressing, heavy with the promise of justice finally being served.

Quietly, groups of people made their way in. The trial was open court, with a jury and reporters and witnesses and far, far too many people. Harry spotted Rita Skeeter, even, and that only made him silently fume. Of course she'd be here. What kind of shit would she spout? Would she say Pettigrew and Sirius were secretly working together the whole time? Or that Harry was secretly helping Pettigrew hide away as Ron's rat for his entire school life, and that he aided in his escape? He could almost laugh, that sounded like something that terrible woman would say.

Not that she could, he remembered, or else the Ministry would find out about a certain secret of hers.... He snickered silently to himself, smirking. It was a little cruel of him, but Harry didn't have it in himself to care anymore. Skeeter had always been a nuisance who cared more about a good story than the people she was hurting. The only reason she helped them out last year by getting an issue out into the Quibbler was because they knew her secret. She was pretty self-serving, otherwise.

The room was packed full, now. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Remus, and even Hagrid, for whatever reason, were in the witness area, with rows and rows of people sitting in the bench seats. There were jurors, random people who probably snuck in—he wouldn't be surprised due to the lax security and far-too-relaxed auror guard—and the press.

There were also the Wizengamot members, all sat in their raised seats—thrones, he idly thought, considering the way Tom lazed in it, like a god entertaining his mortal followers—and staring haughtily down at them. There was Dumbledore, as the Chief Warlock, and Scrimgeour sat in the Minister's seat.

Harry glared up at the Minister, doing his best to ignore a strangely smug-looking Tom. Scrimgeour knew what he was doing, he wanted this to be public, and that was the only reason this trial was happening in the first place. After all, Sirius was a great scapegoat with a rather illustrious reputation as a Death Eater—despite the fact that he'd have rather died than side with Voldemort, which was exactly what happened in the end, Harry thought sadly—so there had to be a good reason to acquit him now.

He pursed his lips, and he sat back, watching and waiting. Pettigrew would be brought in soon, and he would watch with satisfaction as the little rat was found guilty. He could find no positive feelings in his heart for him, although he might have been almost grateful that he helped resurrect Tom. (Almost—he hadn't fully forgiven Tom for Cedric, he simply tried to forget, now.)

Idly, Harry wondered if Wormtail would try to escape. He was sure he wouldn't manage it, not with this packed courtroom. Harry himself would jump down and strangle Wormtail with his own bare hands if he tried. He was also certain that Tom would never allow it, not after the pains he took to bring in Pettigrew. Harry was certain it was an entire event, and he probably had to obliviate the man of incriminating evidence. Not that Harry minded, any pain endowed unto the rat was well-deserved.

And then there he was. He was brought in, his limbs bound with chains and boy clad in tattered Azkaban robes. He was made to sit on that prisoner's seat like the criminal he was, and he was chained down to it.

He looked ragged, terrible. His hair was thin and oily, unkempt, and his skin held a sickly yellow pallor. Harry couldn't see too far ahead of himself, glasses or no, but he could see that the past, thick-bellied Pettigrew was definitely something of the past. He was sickly thin, and now that Harry was looking more closely, Pettigrew had lost that silver arm of his. He only had a single arm bound with a cuff—perhaps a magic suppressant cuff—because he had no other.

He smiled cruelly. Tom must have taken it away, he realized. Not that he had anything against it, he was rather glad, actually. Pettigrew lost his right arm, his wand arm, likely. It was the least he deserved, and anything that made the little rat more defenceless, more pitiful, was something he supported wholeheartedly. That man deserved what he'd gotten and more.

The trial began, and Harry ended up tuning out most of the legal, technical jargon. He was too interested in the harsh shivers that befell Pettigrew's frame, the way he couldn't look anyone in the eye, and the fact that he didn't even have a lawyer because he was so undoubtedly guilty. Whenever he was called to defend himself, he could hardly speak, stuttering, and his defence fell flat. The Wizarding World differed from the muggle world like that, and while it was definitely a violation of all sorts of muggle law, Harry couldn't bring himself to mind in Pettigrew's case.

Harry didn't feel any guilt in admitting that he relished in the rat's pain. He wouldn't spare any kindness or mercy for that traitor, not after what he did. And, seemingly, Tom agreed. He sent something soothing, warm, understanding towards Harry, and his body went lax, soft. A little sigh escaped his lips and he loosened a little. He didn't realize how stressed he had gotten. "Thank you, Tom," he sent off to the man through their link. It pulsed back with a wave of warm magic.

And then the witnesses began to be announced. They were to be brought to the witness stand, meant to give their accounts of whatever they needed to.

First began the witnesses from Pettigrew's first crime over a decade ago, not that there were many.

Hagrid went up to the stand, and he bawled and blubbered on about going down to Godric's Hollow that night, how Sirius handed Harry to him, even gave him his motorcycle, telling him to keep Harry safe. "Isn't that strange?" The persecutor asked. "Why would a truly guilty man—a Death Eater, supposedly loyal to You-Know-Who, not take the opportunity to do away with young Mr Potter?"

And just by that, even then, it was clear to see for anyone with half a brain that Sirius wasn't guilty. Why would he have been? The Potters took him in after he ran away from home, he was all but legally disowned, and he was loyal to Harry's dad more than his own blood, everyone knew that. James Potter and Sirius Black were auror partners together, for goodness's sake! It was mad that they believed he would betray his friends in the first place!

Sirius appeared shell-shocked, disbelieving according to Hagrid, and he looked angry—not at Harry, though, Hagrid stated. "He was properly angry," the half-giant recalled, "Young Sirius said he'd wan' Harry back soon, o' course, tha' he'd be back, but then tha' whole mess happened and e'eryone thought...." He dropped off at the end, and he blew his nose into a blanket-sized tissue, still sobbing. "Poor Sirius, poor James and Lily...we did 'em wrong!" He cried.

And then came the old witness statements collected after the explosion caused by Pettigrew, years ago. They were read aloud for the convenience of the Wizengamot and the jury—and likely the press as well—and things only got worse and worse for poor, pitiful Pettigrew.

The only piece that was recovered of his 'body' after the explosion that killed twelve muggles was a single finger, which didn't make much sense to Harry, now that he was thinking about it. That explosion likely left those muggles' bodies intact enough for the Ministry to tell there were twelve people killed, and despite Pettigrew being at the explosion's epicentre, it still couldn't have been hot enough to burn all of his body except for a finger on his wand arm, for some reason. The very idea was ridiculous to him now, and people fell for it, too.

Then came Ron. He went on about how Wormtail had been adopted into the Weasley family after Percy found him one day—the man wiggled uncomfortably in his seat near the Minister, with a discomfited look on his face—and then he'd been a Weasley pet for years. He lived strangely long for a rat, but perhaps he was a magical breed, none of them were sure.

And then there was third year.

Remus was called up to the stand, and he trudged to his chair with slumped shoulders and eyebags for miles, but there was a shadow of something like guilt in his eyes, regret, hidden behind an impressive poker face.

And suddenly, as if he was just cursed in the back, Harry was reminded that maybe, perhaps, Remus blamed himself for what happened that night—either one, the night at Godric's Hollow or Pettigrew's escape. He could already imagine what the man might be thinking. If James and Lily trusted me more, they would have told me they switched to Peter. If I trusted Sirius more, I would have fought for him. If I remembered to take my potion that night, then—

Harry turned away and he breathed in harshly through his nose. He would talk to Remus later, remind him that none of this was his fault. He'd just seen Pettigrew's name on the map—although Remus was right now bald-faced lying about what happened in front of the entire Wizarding World, saying that he'd spotted Ron's pet rat and realized instantly who it was, right after explaining that the Marauders became animagi to help him manage his transformations—and his dead friend was suddenly not dead and everything he knew might have been a lie. He deserved a bit of slack for forgetting to take some potion.

Then Remus finished off his statement nicely by more or less gift-wrapping it with the words, "Merlin, we should have known," he choked out a humourless laugh, "Peter—he was a rat, a cowardly rat who'd leave us for dead and Sirius was a dog, he was as loyal as one could be. It was so obvious," he said, fighting off tears. It was the weakest Harry had ever seen the man, head bowed and eyes glassy with tears.

He was the last of the Marauders, now. His dad was dead, so was Sirius, and Wormtail was no Marauder anymore, not after what he did. Hell, Harry had half a mind to strike the rat's name from the map.

Remus's words punched Harry right in the gut. He hadn't made the connection before, but Pettigrew really was a cowardly rat, wasn't he? His lips curled into a snarl, and he balled his hands into fists. He wanted nothing more than to waltz right up there and strangle Pettigrew, to give him a piece of his mind and make him hurt. It was an evil, disgusting thing to feel, that malice that rooted itself in his heart, but he couldn't deny it.

It was the same thing he felt within this very building the same night Sirius died. Bellatrix killed him, and he wanted to make her hurt. And he did. The same went for Pettigrew. He deserved to suffer, but Harry would settle for Azkaban. Death was a mercy a coward like him didn't deserve. He ought to suffer, to be dealt the same hand Sirius had been dealt.

Finally, the trial was reaching its natural conclusion. The witness statements were complete. All of the witnesses had gone up, including Harry himself, to give their testimony. He did it in the only way he could, glaring daggers into Pettigrew's eyes and summoning up the warmth within the gossamer strand that was his bond with Tom. It was a shield he cloaked around himself, and Tom sent him waves of encouragement, support.

He explained all that he knew of Pettigrew and his crimes, and he did his best not to regurgitate what had been covered by Ron and Hermione and Remus already. Instead, he was made to explain the events of Tom's resurrection that night in the graveyard. Scrimgeour ended up asking a few clarifying questions about the entire incident—after all, it was most certainly not properly investigated under Fudge's administration—and the court gasped, shuddering and shivering in unison once Harry began to describe what happened.

An impression of something like an amused eyebrow raise fluttered through the bond once Harry began to explain Voldemort's monstrous stature, his too-pale skin and noselessness and very bald head. He definitely emphasised the baldness, just to be a little petty to Tom. (He was still a bit angry about what happened that night, even though he'd resolved to put it behind them now that things had changed.) He knew how much that man loved his hair; Harry had hardly ever seen it mussed up, and only after their 'escapades' had he seen that man's soft curls in any state of disarray.

By the end of it, suddenly charges of dark magic, necromancy, kidnapping, and the murder of Cedric Diggory—and probably multiple other things, Harry wasn't exactly paying a lot of attention to the super legal jargon—got slapped onto Pettigrew.

Harry's stomach dropped when he spotted Mr and Mrs Diggory sitting on the benches. Mrs Diggory was sobbing quietly into her husband's shoulder and the man was trying his best to comfort his wife while holding back his own tears. Harry turned away. He couldn't bear to face them. He had no right to do so, he knew. After all, while Pettigrew had done the deed, Voldemort made the order.

"Kill the spare," he had rasped that night. And here Harry was, struggling with the knowledge that he was that same man's willing bedwarmer.

Sometimes he was reminded of who Tom used to be, of what he did, and he was faced with the knowledge that while he had changed, it wasn't as much as one would think.

He clenched his jaw, looking down again. He wouldn't think of this right now. Tom wasn't the same, things were different, and Harry had the chance to end the war. He had the chance to be happy for once, and it was so much easier to forgive Tom for what he had done than to let the anger burn away Harry's very self. Perhaps Tom wasn't as regretful as he should be, but he was no longer the same, and if he could go back, Harry knew that he wouldn't do things the same way. He had regained his sanity, his humanity, and he was doing better. Harry wouldn't just suddenly dredge up the past, he realized. And to his horror, he found that he didn't want to. He wanted to be with Tom, he loved him, fuck everything else.

(Harry wondered what that meant for him. What kind of person was he, to not want to care? Was he selfish? Evil?)

And then there was the last witness. Not that he would be here, Harry thought depressingly. He was back in his seat now, and he couldn't help but look up again. Tom sat up even straighter than he usually did, and his gaze fell towards the door. Waves of anticipation rolled through the bond, and Harry couldn't help but follow the man's gaze. What was he staring at?

"Sirius Black, Lord to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, I hereby call you to the floor as a witness to the trial of Peter Pettigrew," Rufus Scrimgeour called out, and he banged his mallet for good measure.

In an instant, the whispers stilled and the room quieted. No one moved an inch, and everyone stared around the room as if expecting the man in question to just pop out. But surely no one actually expected him to be here. He was a known fugitive! A dead fugitive, too, not that they knew.

He wouldn't come. Harry knew better. Sirius was de—

And then, loudly, the large double doors to the courtroom burst open.

Gasps filled the room as a handsome figure cloaked in velvet, dark purple robes strode through without a care in the world. He held his head up high, and he had a roguish grin on his face.

It was one, two, three beats where Harry didn't recognize him. His hair was about the same length, but it was cut neatly and styled. It was silky soft and tied back into a short ponytail, akin to the hairstyle many other pureblood men wore, Harry had noticed. His skin was pale, but not too pale, and it shone with a vitality Harry had never seen in him before. His eyes, a familiar steel grey, were bright and full of life. The man, Sirius Black, gave a familiar, full-of-himself smirk as he sat on the witness stand. For all to see, he looked the part of Lord Black, not a soon-to-be-cleared fugitive.

"Excuse my lateness, Minister, it took some time to get all my affairs in order," Sirius spoke his words with all the elocution of a proper pureblood heir, or Lord, rather, and he certainly looked the part of one. Groomed as he was and dressed in rich, handsome robes, Sirius looked the best Harry had ever seen him.

Harry could have broken down in sobs right then and there. Surely, this couldn't be, it just couldn't. He was sure he'd gone mad, he was probably in the Janus Thickey ward right this very moment!

And then a voice whispered softly into his head, "What do you think of your gift, my dear?" Harry shivered. It sounded like Tom was right there next to him, breathing the words into his ear.

And then his brain finally turned back on and he realized what Tom had just said.

Harry was suddenly possessed with the intense urge to crack open Tom's still-beating heart just to crawl inside and see what made him tick.

Harry gave a huge, wide-eyed grin. He gazed straight at Tom, and they shared a long, meaningful look. He nodded his affirmation, still grinning. He felt like his heart was about to burst.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

The Order—nay, the entirety of the Wizarding World was in an uproar. None of the general public had quite realized the fantasicalness of Sirius's appearance at Pettigrew's trial, but for those that knew, they knew.

Sirius was made to swear an oath on the stand, just as they all were. He took out his wand and held it in the air. He declared his name and swore that he wouldn't lie or provide false witness for the duration of the trial. There were loopholes, ways to get around the oath, of course—just as Remus did by not explaining the Marauders' Map—but you couldn't swear an oath in another's name. The man before them had to be Sirius.

Oh god, Harry choked once they were finally out of there and back to the Burrow. He breathed in heavily, and he could barely hold in his tears. Sirius. It's him.

He jumped into the older omega's arms, sobbing and blubbering, "You were dead! You fell—I saw you!" He cried into his shoulder, uncaring of what anyone else would say. This was his godfather, the only family he had left, and he was alive.

Harry had mourned him for months. And now, finally, Sirius was back. He was alive again and he was a free man for the first time after so many years. The Ministry was even compensating him with an absurd amount of money thanks to Scrimgeour wanting to seem like a magnanimous leader, probably. Still, this felt too good to be true.

"Not everything is as it seems," Sirius said cryptically, holding Harry just as strongly. There was a wet patch in Harry's robes now, but he didn't care, there was a wet patch on Sirius's finely-tailored robes, too. "I missed you, Prongslet, so much."

While Harry and Sirius's reunion was full of tears and hugging, Sirius's reunion with everyone else was full of tears and yelling and interrogations. An Order meeting was called, and for once, Harry was allowed to stay. They couldn't have made him leave if they had tried. Hermione and Ron were on either side of him, comforting and congratulating him.

Sirius ended up transforming into his animagus form to prove he was himself without a shadow of a doubt for all those who hadn't attended the trial. Still, they had their questions.

(The chaos was to such an amount that Harry almost forgot to take his contraceptive potion, which he remembered last minute, luckily. He researched the thing previously, and you had to take it within twenty-four hours post-intimacy, so he felt he was alright.)

And then once Sirius got to explaining, everyone quieted. "I did die," he said. "I fell through the Veil of Death, but it didn't stick."

He woke up in some strange manor a few days after he died. He had no idea what happened; all he knew was that he'd fallen to his death, and now he was suddenly alive again. It was a split-second sort of thing.

To his horror, he was quickly faced with Voldemort, and as it turned out, the man decided to bring him back. Bellatrix was no longer needed—she was too mad after Azkaban to have a real use—and the Dark Lord sought to replace her in his ranks. He wanted Sirius for whatever reason, so certain that he had chafed under Dumbledore's wing, at the hands of the Order who'd treated him like garbage because of course they would, Sirius was a Black, and one such as him would undoubtedly not be able to withstand the Light's ilk forever. Voldemort's arrogance got the best of him, said Sirius, and he used that against him.

He pretended to side with Voldemort. He used all the meagre Occlumency skills he had at his disposal to do so, to lie because he had to get back to Harry. And it worked.

As far as Voldemort was concerned, Sirius was now one of his spies in the Order, and that's why he was finally allowed to return.

Harry knew it was utter horse shit. He knew that every word out of Sirius's mouth was a lie, but it didn't matter to him. He would pry the truth from him eventually, just not now.

Dumbledore hummed wisely, nodding along to Sirius's words. He welcomed him back, first, and then he said, "We can use this." There was no suspicion in his gaze. The rest of the Order baulked at first, and Moody was undoubtedly suspicious, but even he trusted Sirius. He trained him, as it turned out, back during the first war and when Sirius and James were auror trainees. And so, as it happened, the entirety of the Order welcomed Sirius back.

They had a party that night. Mrs Weasley prepared a cake, and everyone celebrated well into the morning. Harry and Remus seldom left Sirius's side the whole night, and they grinned broadly the entire time. It was a dream, unbelievable. Harry had half a mind to marry Tom that very day—if he could wrangle him to a courthouse, he laughed to himself, but the man probably wanted a big wedding, purely to parade Harry around and enjoy having the Boy-Who-Lived on his arm. He would certainly relish in seeing Dumbledore's face when that happened, at least.

(When did Harry become so certain he would marry Tom? He wondered.)

Once Sirius and Remus finally had a chance to reunite, Sirius turned into his animagus form and jumped into his old friend's arms like they were still young men. "We're not teenagers anymore, Padfoot! Get off!" Remus yelled, laughing the whole time even though Sirius was attempting to lick his face like a real dog. His amber eyes were warm, and he smiled brightly.

Well, Harry thought, Remus isn't the last Marauder anymore. He was grinning ear to ear. And suddenly, everything was perfect.

The only thing that would make this better was if Tom was here for Harry to properly thank.

Chapter Text

To the delight of Sirius, once things had finally settled with the Order, he was allowed to return to Grimmauld Place with Harry. Remus said he would be following along soon once he got some affairs settled. Sirius raised an eyebrow at that, as he was almost certain the 'affairs' in question revolved around a certain metamorphmagus with a habit of changing her hair every time you looked away. He was no fool; he knew how they looked at each other even before his untimely, albeit temporary, demise. He was definitely going to rib Moony about it eventually, but now wasn't the time. Not when he finally had his godson back.

Still, that left him and Harry alone in Grimmauld for an undisclosed amount of time, and he wasn't sure how to approach a certain very sensitive subject that hung in the air like a ghost between them.

Harry didn't question his resurrection as much as he should have, and while he was surprised, he wasn't exactly surprised in the way Sirius was expecting. It was a gut instinct, one born from a few years on the auror force, but he just knew.

He remembered the way Harry stared at him, with shock and joy colouring his features. He didn't question it, he didn't doubt him, he simply looked grateful, and that set off alarm bells in his mind.

Harry didn't question why Voldemort would bring him back, he didn't stare at him in horror the same way the rest of the Order (his old friends, his friends who were so easily convinced that he could betray James and Lily) did when they found out he was forced to swear fealty to Voldemort in return for his life.

A part of him knew why. It nagged at him in the back of his mind. Perhaps Voldemort wasn't lying. Sirius tried his best to deny it to himself. Maybe Harry was just easily fooled. Right? But he wasn't naive, he knew better than that.

He needed to know for certain, and every one of Sirius's finely honed instincts begged him to pick apart Harry's lies, to confront him, to discover the truth.

He almost couldn't bring himself to do it. Perhaps he was scared of what he would find. (He already knew what he would find, he just wanted to hear it from his godson's lips.)

Sirius was loathe to bring it up, to break apart the joy they both felt at being reunited, but he knew that he had to. Secrets couldn't stay buried forever, and he couldn't lie to Harry about what he'd been doing either. So, he sat Harry down in the townhouse's smaller, less formal sitting room the evening after their arrival, and he opened his mouth to begin what was probably the most emotionally charged encounter of his life, which was saying something—he'd had a lot of emotionally charged encounters before.

"Harry," he began delicately, "there are some things I need to say to you. It's about...well, I think you might already know. It's about him." He emphasised the last word ominously, as if the taboo was still on and if Sirius even dared to say Voldemort anywhere other than in the privacy of his mind he'd be captured and eviscerated.

"I know about the two of you, Harry." He finally said, turning away. And Merlin, there were some things he did not want to know about his godson, but he'd been painfully told about it months ago. He clenched his jaw at the memory.

Harry's eyes fell to the side as if he couldn't bear facing him, and his hands balled themselves into fists on his thighs. "I...I'm sorry," he whispered. Still, the line of his shoulders was straight and his jaw was clenched hard, unashamed.

Anyone else would have wondered how guilt and remorselessness could co-exist in a single person like this, but he knew how.

That expression was a familiar sight to Sirius, and he recognized instantly what it was. It was shame, guilt, yet there wasn't a tinge of regret to be found. There was just a boy awaiting recrimination saying the words he thought Sirius wanted to hear.

(It was a familiar sight to see. He wore that same face and said those same words so many times. His broken engagement to Lucius Malfoy, the night he ran away from home, the day he had to look Regulus in the eye and apologise for leaving him behind. He was guilty of it all, but he didn't truly regret any of it. And that's what he regretted the most.)

Oh.

Sirius didn't want to know what that meant. He didn't.

(Harry knew what he was doing, didn't he? He knew who Thomas Slytherin was and he didn't care. Why didn't he, why—)

"Tom brought you back, didn't he?" Said Harry, smiling at Sirius sadly through his lowered gaze. "He...he told me he would give me a gift, I didn't realize it would be you. But I guess I'm not surprised. I'm just...Merlin, I'm so happy you're back."

Tom. Sirius choked in realization. Merlin, Harry was on a first-name basis with him, the man whose very presence could silence a room, whose crushing magical aura and dominating alpha pheromones could crush another alpha's ego with unthinking ease. And he called that man by the common name of Tom.

But of course he would, Sirius realized. He recalled that letter between them, the one Voldemort taunted him with. He had the urge to vomit just thinking about it. Every word of it was burned into his mind and it haunted his memory every waking moment. There were some things about his godson that he didn't want or need to hear. And those were exactly the same things he couldn't bear Harry to have done with the man who killed his parents.

That letter, Merlin. That slip of parchment was undoubtedly in Harry's handwriting, and it was all innuendos and courting and fucking and—

"I would say that he wants me—very much so, in fact, considering how often he spreads his legs."

Sirius forcibly swallowed down the bile that had crawled up his throat.

Sirius saw red when he first heard those words. He almost fell prey to the Gryffindor part of himself, and he would have attacked Voldemort right then and there, but he didn't. He couldn't. Some part of him—the Slytherin part—knew it was a fool's errand. He didn't have a hope in hell of succeeding, so he did the only thing he could do, the one thing he could do to protect Harry. He bargained himself and his loyalty away, in return for Harry's life. He used every iota of Slytherin resourcefulness he possessed, combined with Gryffindor gall and self-sacrifice, and against all odds, he made it.

They did not swear an Unbreakable Vow, no. Instead, they signed a magical contract, bound in blood and signed via Black Quill. Sirius was only half-surprised when Voldemort's blood came out a natural, human red as he signed his name in neat and cursive penmanship with a little smirk on his face, as if he'd gotten exactly what he wanted.

The contract was rather short considering how those things usually go, yet even if it wasn't, Sirius was certain he would remember the terms exactly. (He purposefully refused to think about how the contract he was signing reminded him more of a marriage contract than anything else.)

I, Sirius Orion Black, hereby swear myself to the service of Lord Voldemort, aka Tom Marvolo Riddle, aka Thomas Marvolo Slytherin, as long as he abides by these terms.

1. He will not seek Harry James Potter's death or permanent, fatal harm, including imprisonment and torture. 2. He will not compromise Harry James Potter's mental integrity and/or free will via spells, potions, or any usage of magic or manipulation. 3. He will protect Harry James Potter's life as if it were his own, and should Harry James Potter be killed, vengeance shall be swiftly exacted upon the guilty party. At once and upon the death of Harry James Potter, Sirius Orion Black shall also be freed from the terms of this contract.

It was mad, utterly mad to think this was the contract they signed. It was too good to be true, and, in fact, Voldemort was the one who offered up most of the terms! He didn't even bat an eye when Sirius decided to see what he could get away with by adding that Voldemort would have to protect Harry, and, in fact, he only smirked smugly and agreed. Sirius couldn't even begin to believe it at first, but those words, those little words—

"There is no love in your heart, so how could you possibly love Harry?"

Voldemort froze, especially at the last word, and he released his wand and aimed it at Sirius. "Harry is everything. He is mine and mine alone and he shall want for nothing, whether I am capable of loving him or not."

Maybe that was why Sirius wasn't angry at Harry. Just...just disappointed. He didn't understand. But at least he was comforted (or, hell, maybe not because Harry chose it) in knowing that Harry wasn't being raped, that Voldemort physically couldn't hurt him without the magic of the contract enacting vengeance in the form of instant loss of magic, aka death. Not that Sirius was fully convinced that that would actually do anything against the Dark Lord, but at the very least he would be disembodied again if he tried anything.

And Sirius doubted he would. If there was anything Sirius trusted, it was his instincts. And his instincts said that Voldemort, against all odds, somehow cared for Harry in some twisted way. And Harry did as well. After all, why else would the Room of Desire bring them together, if Lord Voldemort's words were to be believed?

Maybe that was why he wasn't so angry, because there was real affection between them, twisted and strange and impossible as it might have been, but he had months to wrap his head around it. Still, he needed to speak with Harry, see if this really was what he wanted. He was still so young, and Sirius only hoped Harry would change his mind. (He knew he probably wouldn't. Harry was a Potter alright, and if there ever was anything that rang true about the Potters it's that when they fell in love, they loved forever and would never let go.)

Dark grey eyes fell to stare at the serpentine bracelet adorning Harry's wrist, a perfect match to the ring he'd seen on the finger of Lord Voldemort—or rather, Thomas Slytherin—just that day. Harry had a habit of playing with it unconsciously, he had noticed.

Love.

Just the thought of Harry falling in love with Voldemort of all people would have been unthinkable just half a year ago, and Voldemort falling for him back would have been even more unfathomable, yet....

Harry had so much love in his heart, Sirius sighed.

Courting, Sirius reminded himself, My godson is being courted by the man who killed his parents. His expression began to twist, but he simply couldn't summon the effort, and an exhausted sigh escaped his lips instead. He leaned back into the armchair, his father's old favourite, and he thought, When did things get so complicated?

He couldn't bring himself to be angry anymore. The Sirius Black of the past—that vibrant, headstrong young man...he was gone. He died a lonely, miserable death after all those years spent in Azkaban. And now, finally built back up after he'd been broken down, he had to choose what pieces of his old self to keep.

And he chose to stay by Harry's side, no matter the choices he made, even if Sirius's heart couldn't bear it. After all, what right did he have to judge Harry—he, a now marked Death Eater when he once swore to his parents within these very halls that he'd never become one?

Still, he had to hear from his godson what happened and how it started. "How did it happen, Harry? How did you and him...how did it start?"

Harry gave him a sad smile before looking down thoughtfully. "So he told you.... I figured." He played with the bracelet on his wrist, and the fond way he gazed at it didn't escape Sirius. He clenched his jaw. Deep breaths...deep breaths....

And then Harry started explaining. His words didn't make any sense, but Sirius already knew at least part of it from Voldemort's explanation months ago. Not that Sirius ever believed in the veracity of that man's words because how else would the Room of Desire, a myth, factor into things? The idea was purely fantastical to him.

But that was wrong. The Room of Desire held a huge part in what happened because that's how it all began, according to Harry.

The Room of Desire, a magical room oft spoken of in Wizarding mythos, was within the Department of Mysteries. And Harry and the Dark Lord went through it. And the Room...it brought them together, according to Harry. Sirius wouldn't quite use the same words, considering the way Harry wouldn't meet his gaze once he'd gotten to that point in the story, but he could guess what happened, and he didn't like it. His face pinched. He didn't like thinking of his godson and the scourge of the Wizarding World doing things together, he shivered, but they had, multiple times at that. And he really didn't want to know. Was Harry forced? Sirius thought. Did he cry? Did Voldemort hold him down and— Just the thought was sickening, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. He'd already done all he could do with that blasted contract.

What was he supposed to do? Bust down the Dark Lord's door and demand an honour duel for besmirching Harry's honour? He knew he couldn't, he'd be struck down before he could get a proper hit in. The idea was folly, but that didn't make it any less appealing. And he couldn't order Harry away from him either. Sirius doubted he'd listen. He never cared what his parents said at that age either. Teenagers always thought they knew better, he sighed, and in Sirius's case, he did know better than his blood-supremacist parents, but that was something else entirely, of course.

Harry was just a boy, a young omega being taken advantage of. He didn't know any better.

Or did he? Sirius remembered the contract, and Harry couldn't be hurt or controlled or manipulated by Voldemort in either the magical or muggle way. Voldemort couldn't manipulate Harry, and again he was struck with the realization that Harry chose it. He wanted it, and—

Harry continued to explain the start of their courtship. How, eventually, 'Tom' sent him a letter of courtship and a gift, and he accepted, with no qualms at all!

Sirius asked, of course, he asked why it was so easy to forgive, and the answer was truly telling of Harry's naivety.

It was because 'Tom'—and Sirius referred to that man with air quotes—had changed. He was no longer a murderous maniac, he was kind to Harry, and Harry wanted to believe in him. If he could join up with him now, there would be no need for a war to be fought. Even now, the existence of the Thomas Slytherin persona had almost completely negated the likelihood of another Wizarding War. So, of course, Harry decided to take up Tom's offer, to make sure he stayed on the straight and narrow. And he already had. Who had mysteriously vanished? Where were the raids? There was no sign of a war on the horizon, all because the Room of Desire had truly brought Voldemort back from the depths of insanity.

Sirius couldn't fault Harry's reasoning, to his dismay. Voldemort truly had changed, but perhaps not as much as Harry hoped. After all, even the fact that Voldemort had gone insane from delving into Dark Magic showed exactly what sort of person he was. The type of magic one had to perform for it to show physical and mental effects on their person was terrible, Sirius shuddered.

Voldemort had never been a good person, but perhaps...perhaps he could become better, a part of him thought.

Then, Sirius laughed. He laughed so hard he began to tear up. That's ridiculous, he thought. Of course not. Men like Voldemort could never change.

Right?

(But he was changing. Sirius had seen it. Voldemort saved his life when he could have left him to die. It wouldn't have mattered if he didn't because, clearly, he was able to woo Harry anyway. And if what Harry said was true, if he did treat him kindly and kept the contract, then what?)

"He can do better, Sirius!" Harry exclaimed, face red with passion. He jumped up from his seat and balled his hands into fists. "I know it's silly, and I probably sound like a lovestruck fool, but he's not the same anymore. Whatever the Room did, it granted my wish. It brought him back, and now he's changed. He's not Voldemort anymore. You've seen it, haven't you?"

And the strangest thing was that he did. He did see it, and the first time he saw Voldemort—or should he say Thomas Slytherin—wearing the visage of a preternaturally handsome man with eyes that burned like embers, something in him scarcely recognized the man as Lord Voldemort. But who else could it be?

Sirius remembered the Lord Voldemort of the first war, the madman who handed out the Unforgivables like they were candy to friend and foe alike, the master strategist who had no qualms killing whoever opposed him, the one who killed James and Lily due to a half-heard prophecy. Even if he changed, could those sins be forgiven? Sirius didn't want to forgive. A part of him burned with that same rage still.

No matter how much he had supposedly changed, he was still the same man who'd done all those terrible things. Voldemort changed in more ways than just his looks, that was for certain, but he wasn't suddenly some innocent rabbit. He dripped danger from every pour, and his eyes held a mad cruelty that he'd seemingly never shown Harry if his godson could think so highly of the man.

Still, he was intelligent, and he was more rational than he'd ever been. Sirius remembered what Severus said about the man, how he'd grown almost more lenient with his followers, and less prone to aiming Crucios at those who've failed him.

The Dark Lord wasn't the monster of before, that much was evident, so was the fact that he never allowed Harry to see that side of him now. Harry's eyes were firey in the defense of the alpha he cared for, and something in either Harry's face or his stature was so deeply reminiscent of James that he just couldn't keep fighting him.

There was nothing more he could do, Sirius realized. He was powerless, and his godson was slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. He couldn't let that happen. He'd stay by Harry's side no matter what; through thick or thin, they'd make it through, despite Harry's less-than-stellar taste in alphas.

Damn it all if that made him a monster, but he could never bring himself to abandon Harry. Even if this all turned out terribly, he was sure that either Harry would see reason and abandon this courtship one day or Sirius would turn out wrong, and it would be all for the best. He could only hope, now.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Only a single day had passed since their argument, and already the house felt as if it was bursting at the seams with tension. They could hardly look at each other; they both tried to pretend things were normal, but all their conversations were stilted and awkward with the memory of their discussion hanging over their heads like a blade.

There was a vast chasm separating Harry and him, and Sirius didn't know how to bridge the gap, or even if he could. What had changed? How had this happened? Sirius couldn't fathom how it was that things turned out this way, with him trying to talk his godson out of...out of fucking the murderer of his parents.

Sirius knew he was powerless. He could not defy his lord, after all, and he couldn't make Harry stop, either. He'd just find a way to meet up with him anyway, and Sirius's actions would only push his godson away. His lips pursed with dissatisfaction, and he turned back to look deeply into Harry's eyes.

They'd both changed so much, these past months. No longer was Sirius the hot-headed youth of the past, or the broken-down Azkaban escapee who wished to relive a youth stolen from him. No, he was so far removed from that. He was Sirius Black, Lord Black and a marked Death Eater. Mother would be so proud, he thought bitterly.

And Harry wasn't the same boy that he left. He used to be so scared of himself, yet so angry at the world and the Dark Lord that had broken him down over and over again. Sirius could still recall the look on Harry's face when he came stumbling into his room, panting with a flushed face and a new, burgeoning omega scent. "Sirius," he had pleaded, "Please help—I...I don't know what's happening to me."

Sirius helped him, of course. He helped Harry settle into his nest, and he gave him all the pain and nausea potions he needed for his presentation heat, the time when his body changed so much that Harry, as a male omega, couldn't even feel the proper symptoms of a heat, namely mindless lust. His poor godson was addled with hormones he could barely understand and pain that wracked him like a whip. He looked so much younger than he actually was, and Sirius was reminded of Harry's time as an infant. He could still see that chubby-cheeked little boy who called him Unca Pads, but he wasn't that same little boy anymore.

What could a half-year have done to him? Sirius stared closely at Harry with squinted eyes. He stood taller, his eyes were brighter, and despite it all, Harry was more assured of himself. He knew what—or was it who he wanted, and even though he awaited vilification, he withstood it nobly, with a fortitude none could have reasonably expected from a boy his age.

Sirius was angry. Not at Harry—Circe no, never—but at the world that wound the threads of fate into an inescapable tapestry. They'd both been caught in a web they didn't realize they were running into, and it ticked him off like nothing else.

Sirius knew he was a damn hypocrite. He faulted Harry for being with Voldemort while at the same time he wore that man's mark on his arm. What right did he have to try to talk him out of things? He already signed Harry away, after all. That contract didn't keep Voldemort from approaching Harry, it simply kept Voldemort from hurting him. And Harry, he jumped into that man's arms out of his own free will. Sirius couldn't stop him, not if he wanted to be in Harry's life still. It rankled him, it gnawed at something deep in his soul, but he made his choice.

I'm so sorry, Prongs, Lily.

Harry inhaled deeply as he looked at him. "Spit it out," he said rudely. "If you have something to say to me, you can say it. I understand. I know what you think about him."

"What I think about him?" He started, trying to speak in as level a tone as he could. He choked out a bitter laugh instead. "It's what you thought about him, too. He's a monster! He destroyed your life and killed James and Lily! Why do you—why do you defend him?" He just wanted to understand. How could Harry be with that man? What did he see in him? Sirius couldn't fathom what sort of common ground they could have found that made Harry care for Voldemort so much.

Harry's cheeks were flushed with anger, and he visibly clenched his teeth. "Because I love him!" He screamed.

His words were cacophonous in the bitter silence of the room, and instantly, he backtracked. Harry's face contorted with shock and alarm. His eyes bulged.

"Sirius, I didn't mean—wait!"

Sirius turned around. With a deep, calming breath, he turned right back around and tried to walk out of the room. He...he wasn't strong enough. He couldn't do this. He couldn't. But the choice was taken from him either way, he couldn't simply storm out.

The moment he crossed the threshold of the door, he was faced with two familiar figures. Bewilderment painted their faces.

Oh fuck.

Of course they'd appear now. Just his luck.

"Love? Love who?" Remus asked, raising a puzzled brow. That was the better reaction. Severus, for his part, paled as if he'd seen a ghost. He'd be clutching his pearls if he was any less composed.

And of course, of fucking course it would be both of them that appeared.

─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───

Harry's skin was simultaneously ghostly pale and strawberry red, while previously he would have been certain that such a thing was impossible. Why did he say that? What possessed him to say those words? And in front of Remus and Snape, no less! He wouldn't be able to escape this with some ridiculous lie. They'd never believe it.

He was left with no choice, he knew what he would have to do, and just the thought...it left him in shambles. Snape could see into his mind, and no amount of ducking his head away would be able to keep that man from sniffing out his lies like a niffler scented gold. Hell, even Remus would be able to tell. His keen werewolf nose could sense even the most minute changes in scent.

He couldn't lie to them, not just because he didn't want to, but because they would be able to tell. Hell, Harry doubted Sirius would lie for him either. Remus was his best mate, and Snape was...well, Harry didn't know why he was here, but it didn't make things any easier for him. He really didn't want to talk about his romance/sex life with the professor who hated him and also worked for his...boyfriend? Lover? Alpha? Harry still needed to find the right term to use.

In the end, they all sat down. Harry gulped down his fear and stumbled his way onto an armchair. Not so coincidentally, it was the one closest to the door. He could make a quick escape if he needed to. In the back of his head, he was already planning how to get a message out to Tom to come rescue him if needed. The safety net he had soothed him, but it didn't make him feel any better. He just hoped Tom wouldn't suddenly decide to check in through their bond. He really didn't want him to see this. He would die of embarrassment.

And then it started. Remus had questions, while, strangely enough, Snape faded into the background of their discussion. The man sat there with a clenched jaw and a displeased countenance, which wouldn't have been at all a unique appearance if it wasn't for the fear Harry could spot in his gaze. He would look at him, then look away, and Harry would glimpse something like deep sadness in his expression.

He didn't understand where it came from, unless, perhaps...Harry froze.

"Did you know?" Harry blurted out, interrupting Sirius's attempts to frantically explain to a doubtful Remus that he was just talking to Harry about the alpha courting him, of course, that was all. "Did he tell you?" His eyes were aimed straight at Snape, and there was no doubt who his question was aimed at.

The man looked away from him, and that very action was proof enough for Harry. He felt numb. Of course, Snape would know, it wasn't all that surprising. The man was intelligent, and Tom had already ordered his Death Eaters not to touch Harry, and Snape had seen them at the Ball (Harry could almost vaguely recall seeing the man hanging around the edges of the gathering, and he almost baulked because how could he have hung onto Tom's arm like that when Snape was right there as witness?), and—and of course he would have figured it out!

"How long have you known," Harry uttered, paling. Remus stared at them both, and he said something, but Harry didn't hear because fuck, how easily he could have been ruined by now. Why didn't Snape say anything? Was he truly a Death Eater? Was that why he didn't alert Dumbledore the moment he found out the truth between Harry and Tom? But if he truly was loyal to Tom, then he never would have called for back-up at the Ministry all those months ago, and he would never have saved Harry back in first year, either, or sent him that Occlumency book.

No matter how hard he tried to wrap his head around it, none of this made sense. What was happening? Did Snape laugh at his expense? Or worse, did he pity him?

Harry repeated himself through gritted teeth. "How long?"

Snape began to speak. "I have had suspicions of the Dark Lord's...affection for you for many months, Potter, yet..." he stared searchingly into Harry's eyes, "I did not realize it was reciprocated until I saw that bracelet on your wrist, and then at Slughorn's party...it was unavoidable."

He'd always known.

He'd always known.

Pure fear gripped Harry's heart. Was he always so close to discovery? Why did Snape never tell anyone? Harry couldn't understand it, not one bit.

"Harry, Sirius...," Remus barked out, eyes wide. Shock and distress flooded his features. "Explain. What is this? Is...is what Severus saying true?"

The dam of lies Harry had built to keep his secrets at bay cracked, and from it, the truth was forced to spill out. There was no avoiding it now.

Snape and Sirius and Harry, they were all in the know, it seemed. But not Remus. He had no idea what was happening, and Harry almost couldn't force himself to listen as Sirius began to explain his side of things.

Sirius wove his tale; he explained what he hadn't told the Order. The only reason Tom—though Sirius called him Voldemort—brought him back was because of Harry. Sirius was meant to be a gift, but it took him a lot of time to heal. So he spent months recovering from his short time in the Veil and even the effects of his stay in Azkaban. He was given free rein to mostly do whatever in his wing, but he couldn't leave, not until Tom allowed him to. Snape was able to visit him sometimes, but he was under oath and couldn't reveal Sirius's whereabouts. Eventually, Sirius was able to confront his 'saviour', and that's when he found out what was going on, more or less.

Harry got the feeling Sirius glossed over a few things, judging by the way he stuttered over a few details, but he got the feeling he didn't want to know why Sirius was stammering so hard when he explained that Tom revealed his and Harry's relationship, including what part the Room of Desire played, and that Sirius would be freed, but only at a price.

Sirius explained the contract he and Tom signed, including all the clauses. It would protect Harry, and Tom could no longer hurt him. Harry really would have appreciated knowing this earlier, and while the knowledge that this contract existed should have comforted him, he suddenly felt cold. Why did Tom not tell him? He deserved to know. He resolved to bring it up to him eventually.

Remus exploded. "How could you—he's our cub, Sirius! And you what, bartered him away like cattle?" He grew red, enraged. "What would James and Lily think? You-Know-Who is a monster!"

Harry jumped in between the two men even as Sirius stood there, defeated. "No one bartered me away, I chose this!"

He glared at Remus. "I. Chose. This. Sirius did nothing wrong. He protected me. Don't get angry at him."

Remus stepped back. His amber eyes were sombre and clouded, and his face was twisted with grief. "Harry...how could you...? You know what he did, how could you be with Voldemort?"

Harry smiled sadly. "That's the thing. He's not Voldemort anymore. Whatever happened to make him go mad, the Room of Desire fixed it. He even has his face back, not just his mind. And he changed his plans, too. We can end the war, Remus. No one needs to die. That's why he became Lord Slytherin. He's realized how terrible his old plans were."

"But why does it have to be you?" He asked, staring searchingly at him. "Why do you have to sacrifice yourself for...for peace?"

A snort. It was jarring against the mood of the room, and all eyes turned to Severus Snape. He stood before them with a single raised eyebrow, and he breathed out, "Don't you realize? It's not much of a hardship, or a sacrifice, as you put it." He turned towards Harry, eyes wide with realization.

Remus looked back at him questioningly. Harry ducked his head, flushing. "I—I made my choice," he mumbled.

The werewolf froze, and his eyes went wide. "You love him," he said, as if he'd only just recalled Harry's words from earlier. It felt like a century ago now.

Harry nodded.

Remus took a step back, then another. "I—I need some time," he said. And then he turned tail and ran.

"Well, that could have gone worse," said Sirius. No one said anything. Harry couldn't think of any worse ways this could have went. He bit his tongue to keep from saying something he'd regret.

Chapter Text

A little over a week passed by in a flash following the confrontation that Harry could only deem to be disastrous, and the words uncomfortable and awkward didn't do well enough to encompass the tension bubbling through every crack and crevice of Number Twelve. The air felt heavy, and sometimes Harry felt like he could barely breathe while stuck in a house with both Sirius and Remus.

After their confrontation, Snape vanished back to the dungeons of Hogwarts from whence he came, and Harry didn't want to waste time thinking about that man and how he knew, all this time he knew, so he didn't. He'd cross that bridge when he got to it at the end of the break.

Remus, for his part, stayed with them in the old townhouse, and it was mostly from his end that the tension came from, not that Sirius and Harry weren't also doing their fair share of brooding. Despite his misgivings, Remus refused to leave. Idly, Harry wondered if he had anywhere left to go. He already knew Remus couldn't easily hold a job, and his work with the Order was not particularly conducive to working a nine-to-five. He left every once in a while, and Harry doubted it was to an Order meeting. Whenever he returned, it was always with a smile on his face, although it quickly faded due to Grimmauld's tense atmosphere. Harry assumed he was meeting a friend of his, maybe Tonks? He did recall that they had been getting closer recently....

All of the house's occupants were at a standstill these days (not counting Kreacher, he was usually on bad terms with everyone, including the painting of Walburga Black that the elf treasured so dearly). Remus and Sirius barely talked, and when they did, their conversations were stilted. Both of them refused to bring up the glaring elephant in the room, and Harry wanted to, but he couldn't find the words. Breakfasts and dinners were especially draining, although luckily everyone usually did their own thing for lunch.

Remus exploded. "How could you—he's our cub, Sirius! And you what, bartered him away like cattle?" He grew red, enraged. "What would James and Lily think? You-Know-Who is a monster!"

Those words hung in the air between them like a miasma, slowly sinking its poison into Sirius and Remus's relationship. A part of Harry wondered, perhaps a bit pessimistically, if their friendship would be able to survive this. Neither of them had anyone left, after all—they were alone. Maybe that was why Remus didn't just storm out days ago. Harry could understand. Ron and Hermione were some of his first and only friends. Maybe that was why it was so easy to forgive Ron after he acted like a berk back in fourth year. Just like Remus now, he prized their friendship too much to sacrifice it.

Harry also began to wonder why there weren't any more Order meetings in Grimmauld. Now that Sirius was back, surely Grimmauld Place would become the headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix once more, wouldn't it? He was wrong, of course. No one ever visited Grimmauld. They got letters, Harry communicated often with his friends and the Weasleys and Neville and Luna who'd sent a few cards congratulating him for having Sirius back, but there were no Order meetings, no Weasleys moving in, nothing. There was no one to keep watch over them, except for maybe Remus. That was probably his job, now that Harry was thinking about it.

He built up the courage to ask Sirius why Grimmauld Place wasn't headquarters anymore, and, gently, as if it was supposed to be obvious, he responded, "You wouldn't want any more people here, would you? Not when we would have to lie to them day in and day out. So I told them to sod off. It's my house anyway. I just want some peace, without them all around."

And that was that. Embarrassingly, Harry realized Sirius was correct. It would be very stifling to have to keep lying like he usually did, these days. It was like balancing on a tightrope, or trying to walk through glass without stepping on it. If he ever made a wrong move, he'd be done for.

Eventually, things fell into a rhythm. Remus did his own thing, while Sirius spent his afternoons putting the finger up to the interior design choices of long-dead members of House Black by ripping apart and practically rebuilding the house in its entirety. He might as well have torn down the foundations while he was it. From what Harry witnessed, Sirius was really having fun tearing down the dreary wallpaper and transfiguring uncomfortable, leather furniture that was meant more for aesthetics than proper use into something actually useable. It was therapeutic for the man.

Harry was left alone to entertain himself except for in the mornings and evenings, where they took their meals together, although Remus would often abstain from breakfast. He said he didn't like to eat that early, although Harry wasn't naive enough to believe it; he knew Remus was trying to avoid them as much as possible. He just didn't know what to do about it, or even if he should. If Remus couldn't accept things then that was his problem. In truth, Harry hardly even knew him. He disliked the idea of Remus hating him, but it was unavoidable. If it was between Tom and Remus, he'd choose Tom any day.

Sirius was visibly unaffected by current events, at least in appearance. Turns out, his attempts to take advantage of his new lease on life by doing a complete rehaul of the house took up so much time out of his day that he didn't have any time left to think about anything else, including the sorry state of his interpersonal relationships.

He also finally went out to claim his lordship. And now that he was officially Lord Black, Sirius had power over the house itself, and he finally removed Walburga's portrait and stuck it in the attic, much to Kreacher's displeasure. Sirius said he'd get over it. Eventually.

Harry had just about a week or so left to spend with Sirius after his dramatic return to the land of the living (he pointedly ignored every single Prophet article he could; he wasn't in the mood to entertain that rubbish), and while it wasn't as easygoing as he could have wished, he did enjoy the time he spent with the man. Even if that meant getting sat down and interrogated about his relationship with Tom or, awkwardly enough, having to listen to Sirius give him the sex talk, as if Harry wasn't already intimately familiar with the topic multiple ways forwards and backwards, quite literally. They both knew he was, of course, although Sirius seemed keen to ignore that fact.

The moment Sirius first started up on that embarrassing topic, Harry stood from his seat and prepared to flee the room, but it was not to be. Remus, who, after a little while, had finally come to grudging terms with the main feature of Harry's love life—namely the Dark Lord himself—stopped him from escaping a conversation he decided was dead useful, in his words. Harry just thought the man was trying to punish him. He wasn't fooled by the shabby-looking, innocent academic look Remus sported, he knew there was a mean streak hidden underneath that facade.

Remus still didn't like the thing between Harry and Tom, he said (Harry was paraphrasing, he knew Remus wouldn't ever be able to bring himself to call Voldemort Tom of all things), but he couldn't bring himself to turn against Harry either. Just like Sirius, Remus wanted to be by Harry's side in all that he did, even if his decisions were unpalatable to some (aka Remus). He couldn't understand why Harry even liked Tom in the first place, but he wouldn't hate him for it. He couldn't bring himself to abandon Harry again, he said.

Again, Harry wondered idly. That was rather telling. Perhaps Remus felt guilty for abandoning Harry his whole childhood. He could understand. He didn't blame Remus for not being able to raise him—being a lone werewolf without a support system with a baby was like asking for something terrible to happen, and that was even if the Ministry would have allowed Remus to take him, which they wouldn't have—but Harry wondered what would have happened if Remus had ever visited him growing up, if Aunt Petunia would have allowed it, at least. Things would have been different, that was for sure, but he couldn't bring himself to wonder. He couldn't dwell on what couldn't be changed, there was just no point.

After studying Remus a bit more, Harry got the impression that even though his loyalty to Harry won out over his hatred of Voldemort, Remus was waiting for the moment he could say "I told you so" about Harry and Tom's relationship. Remus still believed he was right and that this would all come crashing down on their heads one day, and that he and Sirius would be there to dry Harry's tears. He was so certain that Harry was some naive kid and that he'd one day regret everything with Tom.

(No, no he wouldn't.)

Harry wasn't exactly happy about what he'd discovered, but there wasn't anything to do about it. He'd get it eventually; Tom really had changed. Remus hadn't met Tom yet, and Harry wasn't too keen on introducing them, but if he could just see how Tom acted around Harry then, well, maybe it would be easier for him to understand. And even if he never did, Harry thought he'd be okay. Sure, it sucked, but he'd gone through worse.

Still, even his grudging acceptance did make Harry—who hadn't expected Remus to be so understanding—tear up a bit. He could admit that he was a little scared that Remus would go tattling. And even having to listen to Sirius explain contraceptive spells and potions to him—he, who had a whole chest full of them up in his room—didn't dim his spirits. The whole sex talk thing got seriously awkward when Sirius finally got into the actual meat of the matter—namely talking about Tom's meat—and Harry just had to make his escape. He just could not keep listening. He walked out with no hesitation. Why did he even entertain this again?

He was absolutely certain that Sirius was taking pleasure in his embarrassment. Maybe that was the whole point in sitting him down and trying to explain things that Harry clearly already knew. Sirius was trying to get back at him, Harry grumbled. Not that he could blame him, Harry was certain that Sirius just about had a heart attack when he first found out about his relationship with Tom. Knowing the other man, it couldn't have been pretty. Harry doubted Tom broke the news to Sirius gently. He was glad he wasn't there to see it.

Nonetheless, Harry soldiered on with life. He spent much of his days simply hanging around the townhouse. Living there without a coterie of Weasleys hanging off every corner was strange, but surprisingly nice. He liked the privacy. He never had much of it before. With the Dursleys, he barely even had his own room and he mostly stayed out of the house to avoid them. He didn't have his own space at school either, not with the dorms. Harry had never had much privacy, and it was nice to be on his own for a bit. So he did what he did best: he let his curiosity take the reins, and he began exploring in order to stave off boredom.

Grimmauld Place had a ton of interesting sights. A lot of the weirder decor was torn down by Sirius, but there were so many random objects that Sirius wasn't able to make as big a dent as he would have liked in cleaning the place up.

There were a few paintings, although none were of people (Harry assumed the Order had taken them down, none of them wanted the paintings to spy on them if they had corresponding portraits that the Death Eaters could access, after all), and the old wallpaper was faded and peeling, which gave the place an almost decrepit vibe. He went into a whole bunch of rooms, and while most were old guest rooms with moldy sheets, he also found a music room with rusty instruments that looked like they had never seen a day of use as well as a wide, stone room with chalk dust on the ground as well as suspicious, rust brown-coloured stains whose origin Harry adamantly refused to theorise about.

His discoveries fed his curiosity, and after a time he became pretty confident in his way around the townhouse without Mrs Weasley shooing him away from the 'darker' areas that none of the kids were allowed in.

It was just two days before the end of break that Harry came upon something special. Hidden within a glass case, in a forgotten room within the depths of a forgotten, shadowy corridor, there laid a golden locket with a thick chain. A snake made of gleaming emerald gems curled into the shape of the letter S on the locket, and Harry could swear it was looking straight at him. There was an odd energy filling the air, buzzing, and it was as if the locket was calling out for him. But that was silly, wasn't it?

He didn't know what possessed him to do it, what made him throw caution to the wind by completely ignoring every single thing he'd ever learned about potentially cursed dark artefacts and how one should under no circumstances put it on, but he easily plucked the locket out of the display case and slipped it around his neck.

And it felt—

It felt—

Familiar.

For a short moment, he couldn't place where that familiarity came from. Instead, he basked in the warm, smokey, dark magic radiating off of the locket. It curled around his shoulders like tentacles of magic, and it felt like coming home, like something he didn't know he'd been missing. A puzzle had finally clicked into place. It rested on his heart, and there was an impression of something, a little wave of curiosity and a nudge at his mind—

Harry's eyes opened wide. He gasped, both hands clutching at the locket and bringing it up to eye level. This was Tom's magic!

His mental bond with the man buzzed slightly, akin to the flicking of a guitar string. The locket warmed.

He gazed at the gaudy thing; he couldn't call it ugly or old or rusted because how could he? This was Tom's. It pulsed warmly in his hands, as if recognizing Harry's thoughts.

Oh.

Did Tom spell the locket somehow? Harry got the feeling it recognized him. Or maybe it recognized the bit of Tom's magic in Harry's scar? Either way, he didn't get the feeling it would hurt him. More like the complete opposite.

He didn't know how the locket ended up in Grimmauld Place, but since it was here, it had probably been in that display case for many years. The Blacks used to be Voldemort supporters, after all, although not many were marked Death Eaters, he was pretty sure. Still, he doubted Tom knew his locket was here, in the Order's former headquarters. Just by the look of it, even Harry knew it was some kind of family artefact. In fact, it was a Gaunt artefact, wasn't it?

His eyebrows raised, and he gaped down at the locket in shock. He remembered now—he first saw it months ago when he was shown the memory of the Gaunt Shack by Dumbledore. The elder Gaunt showed off a rather peculiar locket, and it looked exceedingly alike to the one Harry wore now. The emerald eye of the snake, a shade so alike to Harry's own, gleamed brilliantly.

Why would Tom give it away? Harry clutched the locket protectively against his chest. Was the locket taken somehow? Or did he lose it? He was almost certain it was the former rather than the latter. Tom would never simply lose track of his possessions, not like this, not if it was something so precious. It must have been stolen from under his nose. Harry himself would hate it if his dad's invisibility cloak was taken. He wouldn't rest until the perpetrator was found. So Tom must have been looking for his locket, if it really had been stolen. But there was no sign that he was, so maybe he just didn't know where it had gone, especially if he thought it was still safe.

That raised the question, did Tom even know where his locket went? For all he knew it was still safe, yet here was Harry, having stumbled upon it.

But why would the Blacks ever take something of Tom's? Weren't they loyal? Or maybe.... Harry was reminded of Lucius Malfoy with Tom's diary. It was likely that Tom really had given the locket to the Black family. He very well could have, but if that were the case....

"Hey, uh, locket...," he said dumbly, "you aren't some kind of cursed artefact that will try to kill me, right? Right?"

The locket gleamed innocently.

Harry relaxed. He was probably being silly. Probably. He squinted down suspiciously at the locket.

He wouldn't put it past Tom to curse a locket, but he also wouldn't put it past him to specifically put in a failsafe so that it wouldn't hurt him. And since Harry had Tom's magic in his scar....

He would survive, probably. (Harry didn't want to consider why he was so willing to wear a potentially cursed locket. A part of him was certain the one and only reason would be it's Tom's.)

Harry's lips curled into a smile. It was a bit pathetic of him, but he missed Tom, even though they'd seen each other just recently. These past few nights, the scented blanket Tom gave him just hadn't been enough, if it ever had been. The pain of separation had been getting to him more and more recently, and so when he slept that night, he had the fluffy blanket Tom sent him wrapped around himself, and he unconsciously clutched the golden locket.

And if he had a very strange dream that night, then he surely didn't remember it the next morning.

He drifted off to sleep with Tom on his mind. Tom, and his impending day of birth. Harry wished he could spend it with him.

(It was Tom's birthday soon. Very soon, Harry thought as he fell asleep. He wasn't sure how old the man was turning, but he wished he could send Tom a letter, at least, although technically the ring he gave him might have been a gift? But he didn't want Tom to properly question how Harry knew his birthday, so he stayed his hand. It was all for the best, anyway. Harry was still a bit mystified that Tom didn't question how Harry knew his birthday. Maybe the man was just too shocked at seeing the ring? Harry resolved to figure out something special for next year.)

Darkness. It was so dark, lonely. He floated in nothingness, on the edge of something. He felt stifled. He couldn't breathe, but he got the feeling he no longer needed to.

Goosebumps rose on the back of his neck, and just by that, Harry could tell there were eyes on him. There was something strangely familiar about that gaze, yet he couldn't place it.

"Strange child...," an ominous voice called out curiously. "Just who are you to Lord Voldemort?" If Harry could see what the voice looked like, he was sure the face beyond it would be tilting its head at him.

Harry didn't speak, he wasn't sure if he even could. His body felt too heavy, relaxed. Strangely enough, he wasn't scared. He felt like he was floating. There was nothing to fear, not when the magic surrounding him felt so familiar, so comforting.

There wasn't anything he needed to say; he was submerged in wonderfully familiar magic, and with a single nudge of that power, old memories arose to greet him.