Archive of Our Own ^beta

On an early February day, Harry’s scar starts to bother him. At first, it’s just a dull ache that lasts for a few seconds, returning every so often. He’s able to ignore it easily enough.

Then the pain becomes sharper, lasts longer, and Harry starts thinking about drinking some more water. But it’s still not that bothersome, and he’s finally taking the time to polish and care for his broom like he’s wanted to for a few weeks, so he toughs it out.

After a couple hours, he considers whether he has any pain potions in his flat. The ache is now constant, with jarring spikes of throbbing, crushing misery every couple minutes. Is this what a migraine feels like? A quick check of his bathroom cupboard shows that he’s out of general pain potions and headache draughts, so he resolves to go lay down until whatever this is passes.

It’s only at this point that it occurs to Harry that this might be Voldemort-related. His scar has been a non-issue since the battle at Hogwarts, and Harry has grown complacent in the… gosh, just over nine months since Voldemort died. But there are no emotions or visions associated with the pain. There’s no reason to think it’s connected aside from the location, and who knows what kind of lingering effects having a chunk of a madman’s soul stuck in your head might have? The occasional awful headache would be getting off pretty easily, all things considered.

Then any thinking becomes difficult. It feels like his brains and all his other organs are pushing against his scar from the inside, struggling to escape. His eyes tear up uncontrollably and he starts biting down on his blanket to keep from clenching his jaw so hard his teeth shatter. It’s like a localised crucio, turning his nerves inside out, and it’s all he can do not to claw at his forehead and tear it open to try to reduce the pressure.

He realises he’s screaming at one point when the raw agony in his throat makes itself known. He really hopes his general silencing wards hold up; he really hopes he’s not dying of something as mundane as a headache. That would be embarrassing.

The pain becomes so all-consuming that he blacks out eventually, unconsciousness feeling like bliss after the hours of torment.

—

When he comes to what can only be a matter of minutes later – his blanket is still saliva-damp where he’d held it in his mouth – it’s to the sound of another person breathing. 

He sits up immediately, swaying a little from disorientation and after-effects of the pain and possibly blood loss – he has to wipe the tacky, viscous liquid out of his eyes and off his glasses before he can properly see. 

There’s a baby.

There’s a very tiny baby on his bed, covered in a thin sheen of blood, staring back at him with the shocked blue eyes of a newborn.

“Erm.”

Harry feels tremendously out of his depth.

“Hi…?”

The baby continues to stare at him, though – if possible – it looks unimpressed. Its silence is unnerving, but also very welcome. His head still aches, but it’s the aftershocks of the skull-splitting pain from earlier and not some new suffering. Loud noises are the last thing he needs, all the same.

So of course this is the moment when Ron and Hermione choose to come clattering through the Floo, shouting for him.

He calls for them to come to his room, wincing at his own volume. He glances at the baby to see how it’s taking all of this, but it’s still staring at him wide-eyed and silent.

Hermione flies through his bedroom door with no concern for propriety, almost tackling him to the bed in a combination of concerned hug and checking him for injuries. Ron is right behind her, though he settles for looking Harry over and thankfully refrains from the physical assault – Harry has to bat Hermione’s hands away when she starts trying to lift his blood-stained shirt off.

“Not that I’m complaining, but what brings you two over for a visit so suddenly?”

Hermione looks ready to launch into a lecture, but Ron simply holds up his danger detector for Harry, which is flashing red and buzzing angrily.

“Ah.”

“Yeah, ‘ah’,” Ron says. “Care to share why you hit a five, mate?”

Before Hermione had gone back to Hogwarts to finish her schooling, she’d gotten each of them a danger detector – modified with her own spellwork to suit their unusual situations, of course. They functioned a bit like the Weasley family clock, in that they showed a couple typical locations and the status of a person, but each danger detector was keyed to them individually. So, while Ron’s has statuses like “wounded but safe” and “dangerously hungry,” Harry’s has “mortal peril,” “bring treacle tart and films,” and a pain scale from one to five (one being “minor flesh wound or broken bone” and five being “how is he still alive?”).

“Of course we had to come, you numpty, you could’ve been dying!” Hermione chastises, still staring at his body as though she can see through his clothes to whatever injuries he might be hiding.

“You left the school without permission? Hermione!” Harry says, trying to lighten the mood.

His efforts are immediately thwarted when Ron asks, “Merlin, Harry, what the Hel happened to your scar?” His face pales as he looks at Harry’s forehead, causing his freckles to stand out starkly.

Harry looks up, as though he’ll be able to see his own forehead, before reaching up to touch it. The skin is inflamed and hot under his touch, and his scar has definitely been reopened. It feels larger than it had before, like new skin had been torn to lengthen the existing scar.

“Er, yeah, about that–”

“Harry,” Hermione cuts him off suddenly, tone forcibly calm. “Why is there a baby covered in blood on your bed?”

Ron chokes on air, eyes bugging out as he catches sight of the baby. It’s a testament to how focused they are on Harry’s wellbeing that they hadn’t noticed the (literal) bloody baby until now.

“And, uh, about that, too. So, I may have had a headache and passed out and the baby was just there when I woke up?” Harry rushes out as fast as possible in hopes it sounds less ludicrous. From the looks on Ron and Hermione’s faces, it does not.

“Harry–” Hermione says, voice tight with all the thoughts she’s struggling to hold back.

“‘Mione, look–”

“It’s a five, that’s not just a headache!”

“It was a really bad headache!”

“Your scar–”

“Scar baby,” Ron whispers, yet it cuts through Hermione and Harry’s nattering.

“...Yeah, that seems to be about the shape of it,” Harry says wearily, flinching as he rubs his head and catches one of the edges of his raw wound of a scar. Hermione tsks at him and pulls some dittany from who-knows-where, applying it to his forehead with brisk efficiency.

Ron disappears for a moment while Hermione tends to Harry’s scar, reappearing with a damp cloth that he uses to wipe the blood-covered baby down. Said baby continues its silent staring, frowning a little bit at Ron despite the care with which he’s handling it.

“Y’know, mate, you’re probably the last person I expected to be a teenage mother,” Ron jokes.

Harry can’t help that his laughter is a little hysterical. “I haven’t even had sex,” he says weakly.

“You just apparently gave birth through your scar, Harry. I think you being a virgin is not the most unbelievable part of all this,” Hermione says.

Harry groans and drops his face into his hands. After a few moments of strained silence, he reluctantly asks, “So, what are the odds it’s a horcrux?”

“Honestly, ‘he,’ Harry,” Hermione corrects. “What are the odds he’s a horcrux.”

“I dunno, Har, I reckon we made damn certain we’d gotten them all.” When he looks up, Ron has the baby in his arms and is bouncing it– him gently. “The sprog doesn’t feel like any of the other horcruxes, that’s for sure.”

“But maybe–” He still doesn’t like to think about this, let alone talk about it. “The horcrux. That was… in me–”

“But you left it behind,” Hermione says, voice wobbling just a little. “You said you left it behind when you died.”

“I did,” he rasps, staring at the baby.

“Well, there’s really no point in worrying about it too much now, is there?” Ron says. “I dunno about you two, but killing newborns isn’t something I ever want to be okay with.”

Which, fair.

“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Hermione adds. “Whether he is or he isn’t, maybe nothing will come of it.” She sounds doubtful even as she says it.

Harry exhales heavily. “Okay, that works.”

They all stare at the baby sitting silently in Ron’s arms.

“Uh… Do either of you know how to take care of a newborn?” Harry asks, the enormity of what’s happened finally starting to sink in.

“Nope,” Ron says. “But I know someone who does.”

—

Before they pile through the Floo to the Burrow, they ensure that both Harry and the baby are wiped clean of blood and presentable. That doesn’t really keep Molly Weasley from being suspicious.

“Harry, dear,” Molly says almost cautiously. “You have a baby.”

“Er, yes,” he says, glancing down at the child in his arms as if to verify he’s still there. “I do indeed.”

“It’s your baby?” At his nod, Molly asks, suddenly stilted and chilly. “You found the time to meet up with some girl while on the run?”

“Uh, nope. No dating, no nothing. I haven’t been with anyone.”

“So… How do you have a baby, then?”

And that’s the real question, isn’t it? 

“–Stork,” is what blurts out of his mouth. He can both see and hear Hermione violently face-palming behind Molly’s back. Beside her, Ron merely looks bemused.

“A stork?”

“Yes, stork.”

“...Are you saying a large, long-legged bird brought you an infant?”

“That’s how it happened,” Harry lies like a (terrible) liar.

Molly looks briefly stumped. “Well, it’s been a couple hundred years since a stork bringing a baby to someone was last recorded in England, but it’s not unheard of. It must be meant to be.”

Harry nods and hopes the smile on his face doesn’t look too manic. 

—

Harry struggles a bit with naming the baby.

Merlin knows Voldemort hated his birth name, whether for its commonness or the connection to his muggle father. And it would better disguise the boy’s (probable) origins if Harry chose a different name than Tom. But… honestly, Harry can’t think of the boy by another name. So, Tom he is until he grows up enough to choose otherwise, if he wants to. Harry does go through the Black Library at Grimmauld Place to find a middle name – if Tom wants the history, Harry could do worse than giving him an astral connection to one of the oldest magical lineages. And thus, the baby becomes Thomas Vega Potter.

—

Ginny breaks up with him when he decides (well, to him, it’s not much of a decision) to keep Tom. 

(Not that their relationship had been much of one after the adrenaline of survival had abated, but… Well, neither of them had expressed a desire to break up in the months since they’d gotten back together in a rush of survivor’s guilt and hormones following the final battle. So, technically, they had been in a relationship for months, but Ginny calling an end to it was practically a formality. A task they’d both been too preoccupied to complete.)

He can’t blame her for wanting to have some time to heal and live and experience the freedom of adulthood before taking on the responsibility of a child after living through the war. It’s no longer an option for him, but he’s in full support of Ginny choosing that path.

(Harry refuses to let Tom be raised as he had been, or as Tom Marvolo Riddle had been. Maybe it won’t have any impact on who the child will become, but. There’s something to be said for breaking cycles, he hopes.)

He doesn’t think too hard on how much better he feels for having a mission, a purpose, again. He’s justified how he’s pulled back from friends and the world since the final battle as getting some much-needed space from the sudden influx in attention, a breath to come to terms with the past few years. He’d lost so many people dear to him – Hel, he’d died. But the truth is he’s felt unmoored, adrift in the dark without a constant crisis to handle.

Not that the baby is a crisis, exactly. But learning how to care for a newborn on the fly takes all his attention and energy. Looking after Tom’s needs means he has to wake up and get up and do things every single day. No more stretches of time where he loses track of night and day, not knowing what month it is. Now he has appointments with paediatric healers and trips to the shops and Floo-calls with Molly with questions about raising a baby at all hours.

(No one talks about it directly, but Molly seems to have regained some part of herself she’d lost since Fred died in helping Harry take care of the baby. The Burrow becomes more than a shadow of its former self for the first time in nearly a year and, while Fred’s absence still hangs heavy over them all, they begin to move through the grief. Sometimes they can even speak of Fred without crying.

Harry will never tell them who Tom was.)

—

Staring at Tom, Harry isn’t sure how he hadn’t predicted something like this. Of course the weirdest possibility would happen – this is Harry’s life, after all.

He supposes he hadn’t considered that Tom would be anything other than the physical manifestation of the horcrux that had lived in him for the better part of two decades. It was a part of Voldemort that, separated from the whole, would grow into another Voldemort – like a starfish breaking off parts of itself to form new starfish. If any human could find a way to reproduce asexually, Harry wouldn’t be surprised if it was Voldemort.

But as he looks into the boy’s bright green eyes – perfect matches to Harry’s eyes – he has to accept that maybe, maybe the child isn’t a tiny Voldemort clone. Maybe the boy he calls his son is far closer to that than he’d previously thought.

—

Harry has caught Tom babbling and making word sounds while alone for a couple weeks at this point. He takes his son hiding his efforts to talk in stride as much as he can, but hopes Tom won't wait until he has a full vocabulary before he starts speaking in front of Harry.

“Can you say ‘dada’?” Harry asks one morning as he plays on the floor with Tom and some blocks.

Little Tom stares at Harry intently, brow scrunching up a little bit. He opens his mouth and very carefully intones, “Fa– fa–”

Harry blinks. ‘Fa’?

Tom continues, eventually getting out a clunky “Faw-ver.”

Harry stares. Tom stares back, almost glaring, cheeks taking on a flush of embarrassment.

It figures Tom would be a bloody overachiever even as a toddler. Honestly, “father,” when Harry would much rather be “dad” or “papa” – something less stodgy. Where had Tom even heard father?

All the same, it’s Tom’s first word, and Harry makes a suitably big deal out of it, crowing and cuddling his adorably mortified child. Tom pretends he doesn’t like the attention, but his little hands clasp at Harry’s shirt and his frown loses its seriousness before long.

—

Tom discovers the joys of the word “no” shortly thereafter. He wields it like a weapon whenever he thinks Harry is being excessively silly or coddling. Once Tom realises that saying ‘“no” will actually make Harry stop whatever he’s doing, no further negotiation necessary, he’s much more judicious in using it.

(Harry tries not to think about what it means that Tom hadn’t expected him to take “no” seriously.)

—

The day an eight-year-old Tom comes back from primary school with a black eye and scuffed hands and knees, Harry realises something.

He remembers from the Pensieve memories that the orphanage matron and Dumbledore had been convinced Tom was hurting and frightening the other orphans. So, Harry had put some thought into preparing to deal with a sadistic streak in his son – just in case, though given what Tom Marvolo Riddle had grown up to be, it wouldn’t be beyond belief.

What he hasn’t prepared for is seeing his son injured.

The rush of boiling anger in his gut makes Harry want to go hex whoever touched his Tom. He’s never dealt well with the people he cares about being hurt, and that protective instinct is even stronger with Tom.

How is he supposed to react in this situation? 

He doesn’t know what to do. 

And now Tom is looking at him warily, as though he’s afraid of Harry’s reaction, and that’s something he’s never wanted. Tom is his first priority, and he needs Tom to know that. Everything else can be figured out later.

Harry takes a deep breath and kneels down in front of Tom so they’re almost of a height. “Oh love, that looks like it hurts. Can I see?”

It takes a couple moments of hesitation, but eventually Tom lets Harry tilt his face up to get a better look at the purpling bruise around his left eye. Harry winces a bit in sympathy.

“Can I put some healing salve on it?” Harry asks. It’s tricky with Tom going to a Muggle primary school – he can’t heal too quickly or that might raise questions. But at the same time, he’s not going to leave his son in pain. 

Tom nods and follows after Harry as he looks through their medicine cabinet, which is more of a closet, given Harry’s penchant for injury didn’t end with the war.

“Don’t you want to know what happened?” Tom asks abruptly.

Harry pauses in his rummaging, blinking owlishly at his son. “Of course I do. But I don’t want you to be in pain any longer than you already have been.”

Tom seems to accept this answer and his shoulders loosen a smidge. As Harry seats Tom on the washroom counter and opens the salve pot, he asks, “Tell me about it?”

Tom’s face takes on a mulish expression (which he likely got from Harry, but Merlin knew Voldemort could probably be a stubborn arse as well). “A couple of the older boys were poking a snake with a stick – they were going to hurt it. I told them to stop, but they wouldn’t listen. So I made them.”

Harry freezes up, trying to hide it as best he can. Wait, wait; maybe it’s not the same as in the memories, wait. He forces his hand to remain steady as he applies the salve.

“I made the stick disappear and pushed them away, but one of them hit me in the face and I fell down. They ran away to tattle to the teacher on duty. They said I told the snake to attack them,” Tom says, getting agitated. “But I didn’t! I just told it to go hide!”

The thrum of magic in the air rises with Tom’s temper. “The teachers all told me I was lying about talking to the snake, and that I shouldn’t tease my classmates like that, but I wasn’t lying!” 

Harry’s breath catches, and Tom immediately notices. “You believe me, don’t you?” he asks a little desperately.

“I do, Tom, I believe you,” he says, hesitating briefly before he continues, “I wasn’t sure whether you’d inherit that or not.”

“You can speak to snakes, too?” Tom asks, breathless with the possibility.

Harry admits, “I used to be able to, but now I can only understand it, not speak it myself.”

“Since I was born.” Sometimes Tom is too smart for his own good; he’s certainly too smart for Harry’s good.

“Yes.”

“Can only one person speak to snakes in a family at one time?”

“Not exactly,” Harry hedges.

“Most children have two parents,” Tom says offhandedly while giving Harry the look that he has learned means Tom won’t stop asking until he gets an answer. “You’ve never told me about my mother, you know.”

“Haven’t I?” Harry says, delaying the inevitable.

Tom is unamused. “Where is she? What happened to her?”

Ah bother, he’d hoped this talk could be put off until later, if not never. More fool him.

“Uh, so, I suppose in a technical sense… I’m your mother,” Harry says, though it definitely comes out more like a question.

Tom stares at him, first at his face to make sure Harry’s not playing a trick on him, and then that analytical gaze trails down his body, as though he’ll be able to see how his father is also his mother. Harry can feel the blood flood his cheeks as he burns with embarrassment.

“It was, uh, not a typical birth. There are some things I want to explain to you when you’re older,” Harry says, adding quickly when Tom looks ready to argue, “because they’re too much for even me to understand, frankly.”

Tom still looks like he wants to demand answers, but eventually asks, “But you will tell me eventually?”

“Yeah, of course,” Harry says with a relieved sigh, too happy for the stay of execution to note the calculating look on Tom’s face.

“I suppose it doesn’t really change anything,” Tom says. “You’re still my father. And no one else needs to know anything else.”

“Er, right,” Harry agrees. 

“So, where’s my other father, then?”

Eep. “How do you know there was anyone else? Maybe you were an immaculate conception.”

Tom gives him a flat, unimpressed look. “Was I?”

“Not… exactly?” Merlin, this is such a messy thing to half-explain to an eight-year-old.

“So?”

“He, uh…” Harry clears his throat. He’s not sure why this is so hard to say. “He died in the war.”

His son stares at him for a long moment. “You miss him,” Tom says, tone a touch flat.

“I really don’t.” And that makes Tom narrow his eyes at Harry; oh rats, what has he given away this time?

“Then I’m glad he’s not here,” Tom says, dismissing the existence of a parent he’s never known with as much emotion as throwing out a candy bar wrapper. “You’re all the family I need.”

Feeling a little choked up, Harry hugs Tom close, dropping a kiss on his forehead above the healing bruise. “Same here. You’re the only family I need, Tom.”

—

The thing Harry hadn’t known about Magical Britain’s political system is that the Minister for Magic is elected by popular vote – but it doesn’t matter whether the candidate agreed to be nominated or not.

He wishes this had been explained to him before he’d been forcibly shoved into the minister’s seat.

“But I don’t want to be minister!” Harry whines.

“Well, that is unfortunate, but the people of Magical Britain have spoken, and they want you.” Zelma Rowntree, nine-year veteran Senior Undersecretary and the person with the unenviable task of getting Harry up to speed on his ministerial duties, says firmly.

Harry groans into his hands. “Why can’t one of the people I was running against be the minister instead? Can I just not accept the job?”

“That won’t really go over very well. You won ninety-five per cent of the vote.”

That makes his head snap up. “You’re kidding. Who were the others?”

“Dolores Umbridge and Gilderoy Lockhart.”

“Lockhart?” Harry says. He isn’t even going to bother to comment on the other candidate, who somehow wriggled out of a life sentence. “Isn’t he still in St. Mungo’s?”

“Yes, he is.”

Harry stares at Zelma. Zelma stares knowingly back.

“Fucking– Fine! Fine, I’ll be the bloody minister. And you’ll all rue the day.”

“I’m sure we will, Minister Potter,” she says evenly.

He can’t help but feel he’s being condescended to; he also can’t help but feel it won’t be the last time.

—

There appears to be an unofficial crusade going on to get Harry a girlfriend.

It’s nothing new, exactly. Molly Weasley had quietly (and then not-so-quietly) been trying to set Harry up with “friends of the family” since shortly after Tom arrived, stating that a child needed a mother and a father. Others had commented over the years on how close Harry and Tom were, and sometimes not with positive implications. So what if they were maybe a little codependent? They were the only family the other had, and that was fine by both of them. More than fine.

But now that Harry has to at least pretend to care about being the Minister for Magic, people are popping out of the woodwork to tell Harry he needs to find a mother figure for Tom. Molly suddenly has an abundance of accomplices in her mission to get Harry married, since he already has a child. The worst of it is, he’s wondering if maybe they’re right. 

Harry had waited a few years after Tom’s, uh, ‘birth’ (still weird, will never not be weird) before he’d even thought about dating. Between his own struggles dealing with a post-Voldemort world and the added fame, and the unexpected challenge of suddenly parenting a newborn who was also (probably?) his former mortal nemesis, Harry felt like he had his hands pretty full already. His previous attempts at dating weren’t exactly glowing successes, either. There was also the fact that Tom might end up being evil – easier to handle without extra people involved.

And Harry’s loath to say as much, but he wasn’t exactly disappointed that he didn’t have the time or energy to dedicate to finding a partner. It wasn’t something that felt necessary to him. He had Tom, he had his friends – he was happy as he was.

The few times he did try to date, he just didn’t click with any of the women – Harry’s life experiences weren’t something most people could relate to, and he didn’t have a lot of patience for people handling him with kid gloves or expecting him to be some heroic figure. It seemed more trouble than it was worth, so he shelved the pursuit of romance.

Now, however, he’s away more than he’d like to be and Tom deserves to have more love and attention than Harry alone can provide. And maybe having someone else to rely on and care about would be nice.

After his third relationship ends with the other person breaking up with him after seeming to develop a fear of Tom, Harry has to concede there’s something afoot. He waits until they’re both having dinner together the next evening to broach the subject.

“So,” Harry starts. “Pia broke up with me.”

Silence.

“No words of sympathy for your heartbroken father?”

Tom snorts. “You’re hardly heartbroken, you only knew her for three weeks.”

“Maybe it was love at first sight,” he says lightly.

“It was not,” Tom replies. “Don’t lie about that, father.”

Harry sighs. “Fine, you’re right, it wasn’t. But I’m starting to get the feeling none of them will stick around long enough for it to become love.”

“What a tragedy that would be,” Tom mutters sarcastically.

“Do you know why I feel that way?” Harry asks, to no response. “It could be because the women I date mysteriously seem to fear you.”

More silence, though Tom begins to saw through his vegetables with unnecessary vigour.

“Any thoughts on why that could be?”

“It’s a testament to their self-preservation instincts,” Tom says coolly. “I’m pleasantly surprised they’re intelligent in at least one way.”

“Tom!”

“You asked.”

“You’re not even going to bother denying it?”

“Deny what?” 

Harry grits his teeth. “That you scared away the women I was dating!”

“Why would I deny that when it's exactly what I wanted?” Tom says, blasé as you please.

“Why would you do that?” Harry demands.

“Because someone needs to watch out for you!” Tom shouts, finally breaking composure.

Harry isn’t certain, but he could swear he’s meant to be the parent between the two of them. And yet this isn’t the first instance of this happening. The one time Tom had walked in on him kissing one of his dates, he’d somehow felt like he was the child getting caught doing something he shouldn’t. His son’s disappointed stare is formidable. Sylvie, his date, had clearly agreed, breaking up with him on the spot.

“I understand that you’re lonely, father, but at least choose someone tolerable. Not those insipid, fawning creatures hoping to get photographed on your arm.” 

“I– excuse me?” Harry feels like he might need to have a talk with Tom about his opinion on women, if that’s what he thinks of Harry’s dates. “They weren’t as bad as all that. You’re not being fair, Tom.”

Ignoring that remark, Tom continues on. “None of them were good enough for you, father. If you must keep someone around for company, at least find someone who can carry on a conversation–”

“But.” Harry is at a loss. “But I was doing it for you!”

“For me?” Tom says, frowning. “You were dating strange women for me?”

“Well, yeah, but it sounds really weird when you say it like that,” Harry mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Ever since I was made minister, I haven’t been able to spend as much time with you. I just don’t want you to feel neglected.”

“That’s stupid. Why would I want to share you with some other person when we already spend less time together?” Tom asks, before staring wide-eyed at Harry in a fashion he’s almost certain is designed to make Harry give in to whatever Tom wants. (And damn the boy, it works.) “You’re enough for me, father. Aren’t I enough for you?”

Oh, that’s dirty pool. His kid knows exactly how to play him. 

“Of course you are, Tom,” he says, folding like a one-knut robe.

And that’s the end of Harry’s ill-conceived attempts at romance, at least for the moment.

(He can’t honestly say he minds.)

—

Harry tries to keep it together on the day Tom leaves for Hogwarts. But as the time for his son to board the Hogwarts Express nears, he can’t stop himself from swooping Tom into a tight hug and quietly crying a few emotionally complicated tears. 

(Merlin, to think he once couldn’t get himself to cry over anything. He’ll take it as a sign of growth.)

“Father,” comes the muffled utterance from where Tom’s face is mashed against Harry’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to embarrass you, I’m just going to miss you,” Harry says damply.

“No, it’s not that.” Tom hesitates, and that alone makes Harry quiet down and listen. “I’ll miss you, too, you know. And I don’t want you to be lonely without me. So…” His son takes a deep, fortifying breath and says, “I won’t be upset if you decide to see someone.”

Harry blinks. “...You’re giving me permission to date?”

“Yes,” Tom says magnanimously. Harry can feel his eye twitch. “I’m sure you’ll be lonely without me, and if spending time with some woman would help you manage in my absence, I will accept the necessity of it.”

“Tom…”

“No need to thank me. Just ensure that she knows you’ll be spending the Christmas break with me.”

Harry pretends to be relieved. “Oh thank Merlin, now I won’t have to hide my harem of lovers from you.”

Tom shoots him a sharp, unimpressed look.

“No, this is perfect, we’ve been waiting for you to leave to have an orgy on your bed. And now that I have your permission–”

Tom starts to chase him across the train platform as Harry cackles and details how he and his imaginary partners will make use of the whole house for their liaisons now that Tom won’t be around to catch them. Harry is quickly tackled to the ground, Tom abandoning his pride to sit astride his laughing father and put his hand firmly over Harry’s mouth. The look of disgust when Harry licks Tom’s hand sends Harry into another burst of giggles.

“Are you quite finished?” Tom grumbles.

Harry nods.

“Honestly, aren’t you supposed to be the adult between us?”

Harry shrugs.

“You have to make sure you eat while I’m away,” Tom says, a stern look on his face. “Healthy foods, not just boxed mac and cheese and hot dogs or the like.”

Harry makes a muffled sound of affront. That was one week!

“And take breaks and get enough sleep. Zelma will tell me if you’re staying at work too late.”

“Traitor,” Harry grouses into the hand over his mouth.

“I will find a way to send you a howler if you don’t take care of yourself; don’t test me,” Tom threatens.

Harry wraps his arms around Tom’s shoulders and draws him down into a tight hug, which Tom returns almost immediately. “I’ll be fine, Tom. I’ll miss you something fierce, but I’ll be fine. You just focus on having a fantastic time at Hogwarts, okay?”

“You’d better be,” Tom says into Harry’s shoulder, ignoring the second part.

“Owl me to let me know how it all goes?”

“Of course.”

“That’s my boy.”

They both ignore the intrusive stares as they get up and once more bid each other goodbye for now. As Harry watches Tom wave from the window as the train pulls away, he hopes that Tom’s time at Hogwarts is peaceful. He hopes it’s miles better than Harry’s or Voldemort’s years at school, but that Tom also finds a home-away-from-home for himself there.

—

Dear Father,

Hogwarts is as magnificent as you said it would be. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the view from the rowboats, or how the Great Hall looked.

I know you’ve told me many times that all Houses have their good qualities and that I shouldn’t worry about where I’m sorted. I hope it’s not too disappointing for you that I ended up in Gryffindor. It was the House I wanted to be in most, even if it’s a little predictable, what with you being a Gryffindor and all.

Harry has to take a break in reading Tom’s letter at this point to wipe the happy, bewildered tears out of his eyes. Tom’s not a Slytherin, like he’d expected; Tom hadn’t even wanted to be a Slytherin.

Maybe things will turn out alright.

—

One early morning, a couple weeks after Tom starts Hogwarts – on what is likely to be one of the last warm autumn days of the year – Harry leaves his house to find what appears to be a younger, less scaly, nose-and-hair-having Voldemort standing outside the gate.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” he sighs.

“That is… not the reaction I expected, I must admit,” maybe-Voldemort says, brow furrowed. “Is this a bad time?”

“No, this is great,” Harry says. “Either I’m hallucinating or you’re here to try and kill me. Either way, I won’t have to attend that meeting on whether to make people get a licence to apply runes to wardstones.”

“Runic application is a serious topic–”

“Okay, nope, even I wouldn’t hallucinate that,” Harry says, casting a stunner and dodging preemptively behind the elder shrub.

After they’ve exchanged a few spells, neither really putting forth a serious effort, Harry pauses in his casting to ask, “Is there a reason you’re not using the killing curse?”

The other man also stops. “Might I remind you that you’re the one who attacked me unprovoked?”

“Is it really unprovoked when you were trying to talk about rune licences?”

The look this earns him is so similar to Tom’s exasperated face that it draws Harry up short. Probably-Voldemort says, “How on earth were you elected minister?”

“Against my will,” Harry admits. “Also, I feel like you’re giving too much credit to previous Ministers for Magic. The last few at least have been shite, I’m not exactly lowering the bar here.”

“Well I, for one, feel better about the state of our government,” Voldemort says dryly.

“Glad I could address your concerns,” Harry says, one of the stock phrases he uses when speaking to the public. “Why are you outside my house?”

“You and I need to have a conversation, Harry Potter–”

“Absolutely not,” Harry says, and apparates away immediately.

Hopefully that won’t come back to bite him in the arse or anything.

—

In the face of the apparent return of Voldemort, Harry seeks out some emotional support. He brings Chinese take-away in hopes of softening the blow for his friends.

As she passes Harry the fried rice, Hermione says, “So, just to clarify: instead of one unexpected Voldemort remnant – shush, you know I think Tom’s wonderful, but it’s true – there are now two.”

“Uh, yeah, that sums it up pretty neatly.”

“Was that year we spent horcrux-hunting a group hallucination?” Ron asks a piece of sesame chicken he has speared on his fork.

“It’s really starting to feel that way, isn’t it?” Harry says, digging through a take-away dish to find a shrimp, because he’s had a rough day and deserves a delicious, saucy shrimp for his troubles. 

“What did he want?” Ron says.

“I dunno, he was there when I left the house, and started talking about runes licences–”

“Runic application is a serious topic–” Hermione begins.

“Oh Merlin, not you too,” Harry groans. “He said the exact same thing, then asked how anyone would elect me Minister–”

“No offence, mate, but you’re still wondering that yourself,” Ron chips in.

“Yeah, but I don’t need to take that from him,” Harry mutters.

“And then, what? You just apparated away?” 

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Harry!”

“What?”

“You left Voldemort alone, by your house, free to wander around and cause mayhem?” Hermione says, sounding stressed.

“Uh. Whoops?”

She stares at him. “That’s all you have to say? ‘Whoops?’”

He shrugs. “I mean, yeah. He’ll be back, after all. He wanted to talk – he won’t do anything until he’s done monologuing at me. That’s how it always is.”

Hermione turns to Ron for support. Ron shrugs and eats another piece of chicken. She huffs and steals the whole container of Singapore noodles for herself, muttering about a complete lack of survival instincts.

—

As predicted, Voldemort is once again outside Harry’s house the following morning. Harry decides to take the Floo, even though it’s probably his least favourite method of travel.

Staring down his third morning of using the Floo, Harry decides that potential maiming and unpleasant conversations can’t be worse than coughing up soot for another day. When Voldemort snaps around to face him, he briefly rethinks this. Black lung can’t really be all that bad, can it?

“And here I thought you were a Gryffindor,” Voldemort calls from the edge of the property. “Hiding behind your wards and taking the Floo to avoid a conversation? Rather cowardly, don’t you think?”

Harry grits his teeth and resists the urge to slam his door and take the Floo, courage be damned. Instead, he sends a flock of songbirds straight at Voldemort’s smarmy face and apparates away before the other can start trying to talk to him again.

This goes on for the rest of the work week, though Harry freely admits he’s taking advantage of Voldemort’s inability to cross the ward line. It feels a bit like baiting a half-feral dog tied back by a fraying rope. So, on Saturday, he decides to finally listen to whatever the other man feels is so important that he’s haunting Harry’s doorstep.

“You need a hobby,” Harry says as he leans against his doorway, sipping a cup of coffee in his ratty bathrobe and wilder-than-usual bedhead. No one said he had to stand on ceremony for this. “Why are you even here?”

Voldemort’s apparently in a bit of a mood from being ignored. “It took you a week to ask that? You–”

“Shucks, you caught me, I don’t really care–”

“–impudent nuisance–”

“–if anyone’s a nuisance, it’s you! Leave me alone!”

“Not until we discuss the horcrux you’re raising,” Voldemort says, right before he’s forced to duck and dodge the barrage of curses Harry sends at him. Harry wasn’t serious about getting rid of Voldemort before, but if he tries to bring Tom into it, Harry will end him.

“Do I have your attention now?” Voldemort says, only a little out of breath. Harry is breathing heavily in contrast, but that’s more from the rage he can feel burning through his chest.

“Talk,” Harry demands.

“Shall we go inside? This is a sensitive to–”

“No. Talk,” Harry repeats, sparks forming at the tip of his wand as his magic seeks an outlet. He throws up an overpowered muffliato that deafens the world around them. “Now.”

“You have a horcrux,” Voldemort says.

“Well spotted, Captain Obvious – get to the point.”

“How do you have a horcrux? And how did it gain a body? I doubt you’ve been feeding it souls.”

“Not an ‘it’ – ‘he.’ His name is Tom,” Harry says, taking grim amusement from the way Voldemort’s mouth twists in irritation at the name. “As for how I have him: not a clue, he just showed up one day.”

“Ah, yes. Brought to you by a stork,” Voldemort says wryly. “How convenient and difficult to disprove.”

“Magical, baby-distributing waterfowl are unpredictable.”

“Hmm.” Voldemort sounds unimpressed; Harry doesn’t care.

“How are you still alive?” he says, before Voldemort can ask about Tom again. “I saw you die.”

“You saw a piece of the whole die. The active part – the piece you’ve interacted with most often as Voldemort,” not (?) Voldemort says. “Just as your son is another piece of the whole, so am I.”

“But, how? We destroyed all the remaining horcruxes.”

“I certainly believe you thought you did,” Voldemort says, relishing Harry’s confusion. “But Helga Hufflepuff’s cup had been empty for decades before you reached Bellatrix Lestrange’s bank vault.”

Harry receives this news like a punch to the gut. Shite. If they hadn’t destroyed all the horcruxes before Voldemort died in the battle, what’s to stop him from coming back, too?

“While it isn’t beyond the realm of belief that the Voldemort you knew could return under certain circumstances, neither I nor your horcrux were present at the time of his demise to ensure he remained tethered to the realm of the living.”

“Could you stop casually reading my mind?” Harry says, feeling a little violated.

“Why read your mind when your face displays your thoughts just as clearly,” the bastard says. He gracefully dodges a hex Harry sends at him. Berk.

Moving on. “What do you mean, you weren’t present?”

“I discovered and refined a method of long-distance time travel in the late 1960s,” Voldemort says with pride. “However, it could only travel forward, and it seemed unwise to sacrifice what I had accomplished in favour of a possibility. So, the main part brought me back to a physical form and had me conduct the ritual – as something of a contingency plan.”

“And you were okay with that?” Harry blurts. “I mean, you might have died, which–”

Voldemort cuts him off quickly with a dark look. “I am an exceptional wizard, and the risks were minimal. Besides, it was magic that hadn’t been practised in centuries. I have always sought to push the boundaries of what is possible, magically. Why would I shy away from travelling further in time than any other person on record?”

Fair enough. “Okay, so. How long have you been lurking around?”

Voldemort gives him a look. “I have not been ‘lurking.’ I reappeared in January of 2009, roughly forty years after I performed the ritual–”

“So you’ve been lurking for over a year and a half?”

“Silence,” Voldemort hisses. 

“Wait, ‘contingency plan?’” Harry says, finally having processed that detail. “Are you–”

“I have no intention of repeating the mistakes of the other piece,” Voldemort says firmly. “After observing the world as it has become, that would be possibly the most counterproductive action I could take.”

Harry feels a little relieved, but more like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“No, I do believe I will take after the piece of myself in your care and seek power in a different way.” From the pointed look in Harry’s direction, he can guess what that means.

“No, absolutely not.”

“I look forward to working with you, Minister Potter.” This smug bastard.

Harry groans.

—

It happens when Voldemort decides to follow him into the Ministry one morning, continuing to talk about something or other – he’d stopped listening to the other man’s rambling a while back.

A quiet but clear voice cuts through the ambient noise. “Uh, Minister Potter? Do you need some help?” the witch on security duty asks hesitantly. 

“Yes,” he says, relieved. “Don’t let this man in, he’s bothering me.”

There are times where his lack of ego about his reputation is incredibly helpful, and asking a person at least five years younger than him who clearly feels a little hero-worship to toss someone out on his behalf doesn’t even phase him at this point. And thankfully this one clearly takes pride in being asked to assist the Man Who Conquered or whatever nonsense they’re calling him (he tries not to listen, it’s demoralising). She puffs up and gets ready to confront an offended Voldemort and – maybe this is a bad idea, she doesn’t deserve to die because Harry wants to irritate a chunk of former dark lord.

“On second thought–” he starts, about to put himself between both of them, even though Voldemort doesn’t have his wand out yet.

“Oh!” Harry’s head snaps around at the surprised exclamation, but the witch – Perkins? Perks? He thinks he went to school with her older sister briefly – isn’t upset. She looks, if anything, a little starstruck. Which… yeah, okay, he can’t blame her. He’s seen Voldemort’s face, it’s an understandable response. Except then she starts glancing between him and Voldemort, and… there’s no way she would know Voldemort’s younger face, is there?

“Why, Minister Potter, it’s a bad joke to get me involved in your relationship squabbles!”

What.

“Excuse me?” he asks weakly.

“I’ve never met Tom’s father– well, I guess ‘other father’ might be more accurate. But I’m so glad to see you two together!”

Silence greets this beaming declaration, until Voldemort coughs into his hand. Harry whirls on him with a pained wheeze to find the other man stifling his amusement. Poorly.

“I think there’s been a mistake–” he says, feeling more than a little desperate.

“It’s great that you’re trying to make it work,” she continues without noting his despair. Her enthusiasm would be admirable if it were about any other topic. “I’m sure little Tom will be so happy to have you both around.”

Harry and Voldemort look at each other, and Harry tries to telepathically demand Voldemort not kill Perky for being a busybody. 

Voldemort gives him a grin that is not at all reassuring. “Thank you for your support. I didn’t know what I had with Harry years ago and decided to pursue my own ambitions,” he says, and Harry can see Perky’s eyes fill with hearts. He can barely keep from gagging at this saccharine schlock. Then Voldemort turns to him and does a terrifyingly accurate impression of being smitten. “But my wilder days are behind me now, and I’m trying to convince dear Harry to give me another chance.” As he says this, he curls an arm around Harry and draws him into his side.

Harry can feel his blood pressure rising and starts shooting wandless, wordless stinging hexes at the man beside him, damage control be damned. To Voldemort’s credit, his smile doesn’t budge an inch, though his fingers dig into Harry’s shoulders in retaliation.

Harry hears the dreaded click, and looks over in time to see the gleam of Rita Skeeter’s gold teeth beside her cameraman, camera aimed directly at him and Voldemort.

Fucking Hel.

—

Of course their photo is in the Daily Prophet the next day, accompanied by a suitably fluffed-up version of the story Perky had assumed and rambled off.

“This is all your fault,” Harry grouches. He lets the other man into his house to yell at him in privacy, and Voldemort makes himself immediately at home, using Harry’s kettle to make tea like he owns the place. As he takes a sip, Harry grudgingly admits that Voldemort knows how to make a good cuppa. It’s the least he can do, under the circumstances.

“I think you’ll find that Ms. Perks’s imaginings are what is printed in those pages, with some rhetorical flourishes from that Skeeter woman.”

“And you basically confirmed their misunderstanding!”

“I did no such thing,” Voldemort says primly. “Nor did I tell any lies. If they chose to take my words in any particular way, that’s their fault.”

Harry hums judgementally and slurps at his tea noisily, taking satisfaction in the irritated twitch of Voldemort’s brow.

“So, your wilder days are behind you, are they?” Harry snarks.

“I’m not actively trying to assist in a traditionalist uprising, nor am I plotting to overthrow the government – I’d say that fits the bill,” Voldemort says, taking a delicate sip of his tea. Harry wants to smack the cup out of his hand and shake him.

“For one, that wasn’t actually you–”

“I’m fragmented, but each part of me is still me–”

“–nope, you don’t all have the same memories–”

“–that’s irrelevant.”

“And for another,” Harry says with force. “Are you saying you have no intention of doing either of those things? Decided you’d like the quiet life of normal people?”

“I will never be anything but exceptional, whether I’m the leader of Magical Britain or a parsnip farmer,” Voldemort announces haughtily. “And you forget, darling, that you are the current leader of Magical Britain. There’s power to be had in associating with you.”

“Don’t you ‘darling’ me, you can’t butter me up that easily!” Harry snaps. Voldemort looks pained – ha, thwarted that power grab. “And I’m barely the minister – I just distract people so Zelma and Hermione can get the important work done. It’s honestly a mystery why no one’s tried to have me assassinated yet.”

Voldemort stares at him. “Out of curiosity: have you ever looked at your administration’s approval numbers?”

“Maybe?” Harry says. He vaguely remembers something like that on his desk, but he hadn’t wanted to know, and Zelma or Hermione would tell him if he needed to know. “I dunno, it’s not really important, is it? People generally don’t like what the Ministry does, do they?”

Voldemort’s stare turns shrewd. “That’s what I thought.”

Harry might’ve pressed for answers on that, but another thought hits him. “You also said you wanted me to give you ‘another chance.’ I don’t recall giving you a first chance, nor you asking for one.”

"That might have been a bit of a stretch,” Voldemort admits. “But from what I’ve read of your duel with my other self, you offered him mercy – try for remorse, you said. You even cast to disarm, rather than kill. What is that, if not offering me a chance?”

Harry stills. He doesn’t often think of what passed between them during that fight – never has. It’s true that he hadn’t actively tried to kill Voldemort… ever, really. And seeing the horcrux in that in-between space had affected him, certainly. But they were just words. He hadn’t meant it as mercy, or a second chance. Had he?

“You are unbelievably kind, Harry Potter,” Voldemort says, with a knowing look that makes Harry wonder how much of his thoughts had played across his face just then. “And somehow it doesn’t make you weak.” 

“It’s not… That’s nothing special,” Harry says, wriggling in his seat in discomfort. This conversation has taken a strange turn. “I’m not kind.”

“You offered a hand to the man who had destroyed any peace you might have had in life,” Voldemort says, standing from his chair and walking towards Harry. “You are raising a horcrux and love him as your child. You speak with me, allow me into your house. How do you not see what a rarity you are?”

Harry is starting to feel cornered, hunted. They’ve deviated too far from the script their interactions follow and he doesn’t know how to proceed, or what will happen next, and he doesn’t like it. “I’m nothing special,” he repeats with a rasp, shaking his head.

Voldemort stops a mere foot in front of him, staring down at him with an unreadable look on his face. “I disagree.”

A firm tapping at the window breaks the moment, sending Harry skittering back almost over his chair, though he manages to catch himself on the table before he ends up in a sprawl on the floor. When he looks over, he sees the imperious face of Tom’s owl, a particularly feline-looking Eastern Screech owl named Magnus. 

Ah, shite. He’d hoped Tom wouldn’t see the paper. Which, in retrospect, was rather stupid of him. His son has a subscription, after all.

When he looks back at Voldemort, the man is watching the owl with a sour twist to his mouth, though it disappears when he notices Harry’s eyes on him.

Harry hurries to the window and lets Magnus in, accepting the letter and some stern grooming with equanimity.

“Dear Father,

“Have you decided to dabble in necromancy without me? I was under the impression my other father was deceased…”

Harry groans and lets his head drop onto the table. He hears Voldemort refill the kettle and turn the hob back on and thinks, bleakly, at least he doesn’t have to make his own cup of tea for dealing with this mess.

—

Of course Voldemort follows him to King’s Cross to pick Tom up when he returns for the Christmas hols. Harry has given up trying to shake the man off. He justifies accepting Voldemort as his shadow with the knowledge that keeping an eye on a dubiously reformed megalomaniac is probably a good idea. Especially since everyone else seems to buy into his charm and isn’t the least bit suspicious. (Sheep, honestly.)

Once again, he has every intention of being restrained and not embarrassing his son with emotional displays. And once again, this lasts until the crucial moment – as soon as he sees Tom, he starts bouncing and waving, smiling widely. Tom even smiles back at him, looking quietly pleased instead of uncomfortable, as Harry feared. He scoops Tom up in a hug as soon as he’s within reach, swinging him around, much to the amusement and disgruntled murmurings of the people around them.

He sets a flushed Tom down, ready to start asking about the train ride and all manner of things just to hear his son’s voice, when he’s cut off.

“He’s a Gryffindor,” Voldemort says, face blank and voice even.

Right, he’d momentarily forgotten about his uninvited guest. “Yes…?” He’s surprised Voldemort hadn’t known that, given all the odd things he mysteriously did know.

“Yes – the same House my father was in,” Tom replies, and if Harry’s not mistaken, there’s a bit of challenge to his tone. Living up to the Gryffindor reputation already, good lad.

“As your other father–”

“You haven’t earned the right to call yourself my father yet,” Tom says firmly. “You are the strange man who keeps hanging around my father until further notice.”

Harry disguises his laugh as a cough, which is almost immediately ruined by a series of quiet giggles when Voldemort gives him a look of mild betrayal.

“Ah, I’ve missed you so much, Tom,” Harry says, a touch breathless and unspeakably proud, as they make their way off the platform. Tom holds his hand the whole way.

—

It doesn’t take long for Harry to feel like a particularly favoured chew toy caught between two dogs. Tom is, of course, his priority. He spends as much time as possible with Tom, and brings him to the office when he’s forced to go in to sign documents or preside over Wizengamot meetings. Tom, Zelma and Hermione catch up over tea, and Harry is almost certain his son is the puppetmaster behind Harry’s ministership, along with Harry’s terrifyingly competent support staff. He should probably be more concerned about that, but. Well. He thinks they’re doing a bang-up job, so he lets them do as they please.

And while Tom isn’t exactly welcoming of Voldemort’s presence, he’s at least not actively trying to drive him out, as he’s done with other people in Harry’s life. But he hadn’t realised that he and Voldemort had begun to develop routines over the months they’d been orbiting each other. Like their verbal sparring. Or, as Tom calls it…

“Will you two stop bloody flirting with each other,” Tom hisses, slamming his book shut.

“Wh– flirting?!” Harry chokes on the bite of bread he’d been chewing.

“And why would I do that?” Voldemort says, being his helpful self.

“Father is clearly too oblivious for such an approach, and my patience for your awkward mating rituals has already run out,” Tom says crossly. 

Harry wheezes, pounding his chest. The bread finally dislodges, but alas, that doesn’t stop the conversation. Though at least the other two glance over to ensure he’s not dying, ta. 

“What would you have me do, shove my tongue down his throat?” Voldemort says, nettled. 

“At least that would get results!”

“There’ll be no shoving of anything down my throat!” Harry shouts. Voldemort looks over at him with a leer, and Merlin dammit. “Don’t think those thoughts at the dinner table in front of Tom!”

“So I can think about that at other times?” Voldemort replies with a shark-like grin.

“This is pathetic,” Tom says, pinching his nose like someone thirty years his senior might. “I can’t believe this is the level of seduction you’re capable of.” And that is directed at Voldemort, at least.

“These things take time, little Tom. I’d rather not rush this when I’m so thoroughly enjoying the process.”

“Could you please not violate my father with your eyes, you lech?”

“Didn’t you say you were willing to share Harry?”

“And I was, since it’s you – and we’re essentially the same person. But you’ve faffed about so long that I’m starting to think you don’t deserve him.”

Harry gets the distinct feeling he’s missed some rather important conversations. And that he’s been completely outmanoeuvred.

“Tom, you’ve only been home for six days!” he exclaims. “When did you two talk about all this?”

“Obviously we’ve been exchanging letters,” Tom says. “Ever since I saw that photo in the Prophet.”

“He wanted to know my intentions,” Voldemort says, amused. “Towards you, if that wasn’t clear.” 

“You’re my father, so I want you to be happy,” Tom sniffs. “So, if you must date someone, why not an alternate version of myself?”

“That’s… kind of weird, Tom.” It’s extremely weird, but Tom (and Voldemort, by extension) has never been normal.

“You can’t deny you enjoy spending time with him more than you did those other women you dated,” Tom insists.

And fuck if he’s not completely correct. Several puzzle pieces slot into place in Harry’s mind all at once.

Huh. Maybe this is why none of his previous relationships had gone anywhere. Or been the least bit interesting to him romantically or sexually. They were all a little bit too… well, female. And nice.

Harry faintly thinks that thirty is too old to be discovering his sexuality, especially when it’s his pre-teen child guiding the realisation.

Harry opens his mouth, but all that makes it out is a sad croaking sound.

After a couple moments of silence, he gathers himself enough to say, “You do realise the flirting won’t stop if we get together, right?” This has Voldemort lighting up like Christmas has come early.

From the look on Tom’s face, he had not, in fact, realised that. “I’ve changed my mind, you’re never allowed to date anyone. I will be enough for you, whatever it takes.” The grim determination with which he says this is a bit concerning.

“Please don’t,” Harry says. Looking over at a smug Voldemort, he asks, “And you want to date me?”

“Yes. Date,” Voldemort says. “That is exactly what I want.”

“Father, I would not be surprised if he has a ring for you tucked away somewhere,” Tom says.

“Take all the mystery out of it, why don’t you,” Voldemort mutters.

“Merlin’s earlobes,” Harry curses quietly, head in his hands.

—

Later that night, after Tom has gone to bed, Harry finds Voldemort lingering in the living room, waiting for him.

“So,” Harry says, leaning against the doorway. “Your nefarious plot was to woo me?”

“I never said my plot was nefarious,” Voldemort corrects, turning to face him from the fireplace. “You merely assumed it was.”

“You’re fond of letting other people assume things and not correcting them when it’s convenient for you.”

“What can I say, it’s a talent.”

Harry pushes off the door frame, walking towards the other man. “So, just so I don’t make any other mistaken assumptions – what do you want?”

“A great many things,” Voldemort says. “But the relevant ones would be to use your influence to shape the Magical World as I like, to find another method of immortality that is more effective than horcruxes for myself, Tom, and you–”

Harry gives him a look. “Well, at least you’re honest about it.”

Voldemort gives him a look in return. “And – as I was saying, though the effect has been entirely ruined – to take you to bed, tonight and every night.”

That shuts Harry up. “Oh.”

“Is that a yes?”

“I mean, those first couple things definitely deserve more discussion, but, uh,” Harry says, flushing to his ears. “That. That last one is– yes.”

And it’s a testament to how much Voldemort wants to kiss him that he declines to mock Harry’s lack of eloquence in favour of tipping Harry’s head up and pulling him into a really very lovely kiss.

Absently, Harry thinks that maybe things will continue to turn out alright. Then Voldemort deepens the kiss and pulls their bodies together and Harry stops thinking for a while.