Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Unused, Amortentia has a shelf life of six months. There is some room at each end — another month if the bat spleens are fresh, perhaps two weeks if the nettles are more carefully dried. Merope’s first few attempts fail, but she perseveres, and she succeeds beyond her wildest dreams. Tom loves her. Tom announces her to the world as his bride, and he forsakes Celia and his awful parents, and he picks her up and carries her away from the hovel in which she grew up. They go to London. London! A city she has only heard of in stories. Tom’s parents do not approve of the match and so they live on Tom’s savings and the kindness of his school friends, layabouts with rich parents. They don’t approve of Merope, either, but Merope makes herself scarce when Tom asks them for money, so they don’t see how deeply she doesn’t approve of them herself.

She tries to put Tom to work, but he’s not very good at it, her darling boy. Too silly, too clouded by love and his upbringing. He’s far better at giving orders than receiving them. Merope adores him, can’t get enough of him, but he’s just not meant for this small life.

Every month, she brews a fresh batch. When used every day, it doesn’t last long enough to expire.

“What is it?” Tom asks.

“It’s for the baby,” Merope says in reply. She has gotten away with many things with this excuse. Is it even an excuse anymore? “Does it smell good to you?”

Tom steps closer, then after a moment, leans in. “I’m sorry, darling. Maybe I’ve caught a cold. I don’t smell anything.” He kisses her cheek while still so close. “What should it smell like?”

Merope’s chest aches, above where the baby sits. “Like your cologne. The one you wore back home.”

“Too expensive,” Tom says, wistfully. “I wasted it, wearing it every day. Father didn’t like it, but it was a gift, so he didn’t tell me off. Do you think you can replicate it? Is that what this is? I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Merope says in reply, and she stirs the the cauldron.

Does she? She must, for she smells his cologne. She loves him. Perhaps she loves the memory of him more, but it is a silly thing, to love without truly knowing a person. Now she knows how he brushes his hair and his favorite foods and which part of the paper he reads. As much as one person can understand another, she understands him.

She wants him to understand her, too. Love isn’t enough. Isn’t that odd? Growing up without love, it meant everything to her to have it one day. But Tom loves her so thoroughly that he doesn’t see her, and month by month, she keeps wondering if this is how she will live the rest of her life. Beloved, unseen. When they have a surplus of money, Tom buys her gorgeous roses, but forgets that this is his idea of love, not hers.

Even as she brews the potion, Merope is sick of roses.

In an act that is more selfish than selfless, in search of a truer form of love, she releases him from the potion. In doing this, she squanders her life in the London flat. It was precarious, to live on the charity of Tom’s friends, but they had food and shelter and music. When Tom flees London, so does Merope’s easy life. Tom’s friends have no interest in supporting her.

At the women’s shelter, some of her belongings are stolen. On the streets, it is cold and raining, and it chills her to the bone. She grew up poor and did not find it shameful; she does now, when begging for scraps. There are no woods to forage for food and to trap small animals. She longs to live near a forest again.

She is miserable for a very, very long time, left alone with herself.

And then:

“Merope? Merope Riddle?”

He finds her on a park bench, this strange man, where she watches the empty pond. The birds have flown south.

“I’m Merope,” she tells him. It has been some time since anyone has looked at her directly. His eyes are very green. “Who are you?”

“My name is Harry Potter. I’m— I’m not anybody, really. I’m a messenger. There was a man here who was looking for you. He didn’t stick around for long, but he paid a few of us to try to deliver this.”

Merope takes the envelope. Inside is— it’s enough for her to breathe deeply and wish again to anyone above and below that she had been smarter.

Divorce papers.

Tom is suing for divorce. An ugly thing, the document, detailing sordid falsehoods that paint Merope in horrible colors. No accusations of magic, but those that are there are damning enough. That she had been unfaithful, treacherous, thieving. That she trapped a good man into marriage and revealed herself to be a person of the poorest character. That Tom had sought to help her, but she couldn’t be helped.

It all but paints her a witch -- but it stops just before magic. Merope would have preferred the full, ugly truth of it, rather than these lies. She treated him well in the half year they were together. They were happy. Who knew if they could have made it one year, ten, twenty, had she simply allowed them both to stay happy? Tom could have learned to love her properly.

"Please, it's alright. Don't cry," says Harry.

It's only then that Merope realizes she is crying. "I shouldn't have done it. I miss him." She had one chance and she let it slip her by.

"I know. I know." Harry sounds awkward, but sincere. "You made a mistake. I— I can't condone it, but… it’s awful, seeing you like this. Seeing anyone like this. Are you hungry?"

"Yes." She always is, even when she eats at the women's shelter. She is hungry, and she is cold, and she is so sad that she aches all over.

"Come on. We'll go—" he looks around "—there. Looks like a nice enough pub. I could do with some pub food, too."

Merope lets him help her stand. She wobbles, slightly, body ungainly with the baby. I used to be graceful, she thinks, because while she was no great beauty, at least she had that. Now there is just... this. This sad, dreary life. At least there is one meal to look forward to. This messenger, Harry, orders her a pie and a cider, and it's hot, and Merope could just about cry.

"Did you know him? My husband?" she asks.

Harry shakes his head. "I didn't. I only met him the once, when he handed out several copies of the document to those around. He wanted the best chance of it finding its way to you."

"But not enough to do it himself." Merope takes another bite, then another. This is Tom to his core: unable to deal the blow himself. A man who runs out on his pregnant wife, on the life they built together. "I scared him. I scared him awfully." To go from a beautiful life together to the shock of nothingness. What had this done to her poor Tom?

Harry doesn't seem to know what to say.

Merope doesn't, either. "Did you read it?"

"Yes," Harry admits.

"It's not true. I didn't cheat."

"You did worse than that."

"But I didn't cheat."

"No, you didn't," Harry agrees.

Merope takes a handkerchief to her eyes. "Do you have a pen? The last page, it wants my signature."

Harry pats down his coat. "I could have sworn—"

"The barman will have one."

As he walks away, Merope takes a sip of her cider with one hand and tugs the stopper off a vial with her other.

It’s not been six months, yet. One drop. That's all it takes. She already made a mistake once; she won't make it a second time. Harry is no Tom, neither in looks or in build, and she doesn't love him. But he's kind, to take a woman he doesn't know to dinner, a woman with the past these papers claim she has, and his eyes are very green, and he looks at her like he sees her.

When he returns, Merope takes the pen, and she signs. The last thing she signed was her marriage certificate. Now, this divorce decree.

She raises her cider. Her mouth wobbles. "A toast. To new endings and to new beginnings."

"All endings are beginnings. We just don't know it at the time." Harry clinks his glass against hers. "Someone wise said that to me. I forget who."

And they drink.

Merope sets her drink down on the table and watches Harry's gaze lose focus just slightly, just enough. It wouldn't be noticeable to anyone who isn't an expert, and Merope can say she is this, now.

"I'm a cad," Harry tells her, quite seriously. "You're still married, technically, and I'm looking at you like— like this."

Merope swallows. Harry is softer when in love. She doesn't mind it quite so much, to be looked at in this way. She grew up in fear of the men in her life. Day in, day out. But there is no fear to be had from a man who is so deeply in love with her.

"You can look," Merope says, quietly, and Harry's soft smile sends her heart beating.

"I don't have very much to offer you," Harry admits. "But all that I do have, it's yours. I swear it. You won't ever have to go hungry again with me. I'm a wizard, you see. I wasn't going to tell you. I didn't want to scare you. But I know now that you will understand."

"A wizard," Merope breathes. A whole new world has opened up to her. A whole new life. Oh, Harry.

She almost falls in love just for this: a chance to be part of a world that she could never broach, for being too poor, too uneducated.

"Did you go to Hogwarts?"

"I did," Harry says, and he tells her.

It's a gorgeous story. Merope listens eagerly as he speaks of learning of magic when he was a boy and being invited to Hogwarts, where he made the best of friends and faced death-defying adventures, before—

Before accidentally falling through time, having nothing to do with himself, and letting himself get swept up in a man's search for his wife, only to hand her divorce papers.

"You've come so far," Merope says, swallowing. "You're all alone."

"Except for you," Harry says.

Merope takes his hand. Suddenly, she can't do anything else. "We'll be together. We won't be alone another day. Isn't that something, Harry? That we could find each other in this way."

"It's fate. It must be. This time, it's only a force of good in my life." Harry shakes his head. "Who could have thought? But I'm so happy, Merope. I'm so happy to know you. You'll let me know you, won't you?"

"Only if you do the same," she replies, and she squeezes his hand.

Oh, it feels so good to be loved.

This time, she knows what a gift it truly is, and she won't let this gift go unthanked.

*

As someone who grew up unloved, Harry can only count himself incredibly lucky to find love now. In childhood, he would peek out through the cupboard's keyhole at Petunia kissing Dudley on the cheek before he left to play with his friends, would watch her go upstairs to tuck Dudley into bed while yelling for Harry to wash the dishes, would watch her and Uncle Vernon embrace before he left for work. No kindness was afforded to Harry, back then.

But now? Now, Harry is loved, and he knows what it is like to exist in a world where he is loved and accepted, where no fault of his is too much for Merope. He takes her with him to the room he rented while he tried to figure out what to do with himself in the past, allowing her the bed while he takes the floor. When the housekeeper comments on his wife having joined him in London, Harry doesn't correct her, so much does he hope that it will become true. When Merope asks, he tells her everything about his life: the good, the bad, the successes, the mistakes.

"I never considered myself one for love at first sight," Harry tells her, shaking his head. "I'm glad I was wrong."

To the world, he acts like her husband. He takes her to St. Mungo's and sits in on her session, as worried as she is, considering what may happen. The healer places her on a potions regimen, which is expensive, considering Harry's lack of funds at the moment.

"You'll need a job," Merope tells him, apologetically. "You'll do this for me, won't you, Harry?"

And how could Harry say anything except, "Of course."

Without any qualifications in this wizarding world, Harry's opportunities are nowhere close to the ones he enjoyed in the future. While he studies to take his OWLs, having forgotten much of the material, Harry works full-time on janitorial duty at St. Mungo's, some hours at a muggle shop, and a few more hours in the ministry's mail room. The work is tiring, thankless, but Merope's continued good health is reward enough. She gives birth in St. Mungo's, surrounded by a care team and Harry, and she survives. It's enough for Harry to cry with joy — that his beloved has survived and brought her son into this world. And oh, he recalls the damage Tom Riddle will one day do to the world, but this is Merope's son, and how could Harry not love him? Merope's own flesh and blood, her hopes and dreams given life. Harry cradles him to his chest and knows he will protect him with his life, as he would Merope.

His darling Merope, who becomes his wife a few months after Tom's birth.

"I'm tired of waiting," Merope says to him. "I signed his documents. I don't need anything else to know that in my heart, he is no longer my husband. Besides, the legal systems — they're different, aren't they? Wizards don't concern themselves with muggles. They won't ever have to know, no matter how the muggle courts decide. Who knows — maybe the divorce was already processed, anyhow."

Harry presses a kiss to her hand. "Are you sure you want to marry me? You know my feelings. Of course you know; I tell you every day how much I love you. But you could have anyone in the world and you'll settle for me?"

Merope laughs — a sound Harry has quickly grown addicted to. "I don't want anyone else. Just you."

"Not even Tom?"

There is a touch of wistfulness to Merope's smile. "Not even Tom. I understand now that we were wrong for each other. My little Tom needs a proper father. A wizard father, who will teach him to walk in this world with his head held high. And teach me, too."

"If you don't deserve this world, then no one else does, either," Harry assures her. "You're as magical as anyone here. Just look at your skill with potions."

"I only hope the OWL board will agree." Merope takes a breath. "Let's marry on Wednesday, shall we? After your mail room shift."

"You don't want a proper wedding?"

"I had one already. It didn't last. I would much rather do it simply, this time." Merope hesitates, and says, "I'll wear my blue dress. You— you like me in it, don't you?"

"You look gorgeous in it," Harry assures her. "It brings out your eyes."

No matter how many times Harry assures Merope that he thinks she's perfect, gorgeous, the loveliest creature he has ever seen, she checks again and again. Harry's heart aches, knowing that her childhood is reflected in her insecurities. Like him, Merope grew up without love, without anyone to assure her that she is perfect the way she is. It's a good thing that now Harry is here to assure her of her beauty, intelligence, and grace.

A small courthouse wedding is what Merope wants, and so it is what Harry wants, but a part of him is wistful at the idea of a larger wedding. He would have wanted to marry Merope in full style. The moment he heard that Hogwarts hosts weddings in the summers, when students are out of school, Harry had known that he wanted to get married at Hogwarts. A wedding at the first place he ever thought of as home — what can be more perfect than that? But now, without the funds that such a wedding must cost, and without the connections that would allow him a spot, it wouldn't be possible anyway, even had Merope wanted it.

He thinks of it for a while. The wind sweeping through Merope's hair as they walk together on the Hogwarts lawn, a veil in her hair. An exchange of vows on the banks of the lake — or maybe in the Forbidden Forest itself, surrounded by lush foliage. No giant spiders in this time period to ruin it.

Then he shakes his head and gets back to work. Between three jobs and a newborn, there is hardly enough time to sleep, let alone daydream.

*

True to his word, Harry marries Merope that Wednesday in her blue dress and considers it to be the happiest he's ever been in his life. For witnesses, Harry invites two of his janitorial coworkers. Stuart is older, in his fifties, and rarely has anything to say other than to gripe about the job. Mort is sixteen, a Hogwarts dropout who is distinctly high most of the day.

"From the way you described your Merope, I had her pegged as Aphrodite herself," Stuart says under his breath as Merope approaches. "Is she... she cooks well?"

"I do most of the cooking at home," Harry replies, and waves his bouquet of flowers in her direction. In the rush of folks heading home, he wouldn't want Merope to miss their little group.

She's holding Tom and hands him to Harry before heading to speak with the marriage official. She ignores their witnesses, and Harry says, awkwardly, "She's very shy." Her voice rises with the marriage official. And argument of some kind. He adds, "But who isn't?"

His coworkers exchange a look.

Stuart claps him on the back. "It's your marriage. I got nothing to say. Cute little fella."

"Tom, meet my coworkers. Coworkers, Tom Marvolo Gaunt," Harry says, proudly.

"Is that why?" Mort asks, looking down at Tom with visible confusion. It’s as though he’s never seen a baby before.

Harry waves Tom's hand in hello.

Holding Tom in his arms, Harry Potter becomes Harry Gaunt, husband of Merope. He promises to be her faithful, loving husband for the rest of their days, and to love her more every day. It's the happiest day of his life. Stuart takes several photos, which Harry frames immediately upon returning home.

It's an evening like any other — but also the first evening of Harry's married life. Harry takes his time putting Tom to bed. It's a small flat, the best that he and Merope have been able to rent. Two bedrooms. One Tom's, with a cot to the side for Harry, and one Merope's. Now, Tom will sleep alone.

"Shall we?" Merope asks.

Harry's heart beats with joy. He can feel it sparking within him every time he looks at Merope, this plethora of love. Like a wave crashing down on him, sending him further into the ocean each time.

"We shall. My wife," he says, still a little shy about it. He's never been married before. Maybe he's thought about it, previously, but those feelings would have never matched the way he feels now. "Merope, my wife."

If there is a blush to her cheeks, he can't tell. It's dark in the room. "Harry," she says, quietly first, then louder. "Harry, do you hate that I've been married before?"

"I could never," Harry tells her, honestly. "How could I hate your beautiful son? Your past has made you the strong, capable woman I fell in love with. I wish you wouldn't put yourself down. Not when I adore you."

She kisses him, then.

It's their second kiss. The first, at the wedding altar, in front of witnesses. The second, private, just for them. This part, Harry knows well. He's kissed his share of people. There was a time directly after the war when he hadn't been able to bear to be alone. It helped, to be with others. There was no shortage of people who wouldn’t mind a night with the Man-Who-Conquered.

To Harry's shame, sex with his wife, at its core, isn't too different from those previous meaningless times. There's something broken in him, perhaps. Something that even peacetime couldn't fix — even marriage. That part of him that keeps longing, and longing, and can't quite stop. Like there is something out of reach even now, when he should be at his happiest.

He doesn't mention it to Merope. How could he? His wife doesn't deserve it. All Harry can do is continue to try.

After, Merope kisses him sweetly, and gets out of bed.

“I don’t want another child yet,” she says, uncorking a vial. “Please — forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. Tom is young, yet. Let’s wait.”

In many ways it's a relief that Merope has made this choice. Harry adores Tom, both as the cute child that he is and as Merope's child, specifically, but nothing had prepared him for how hard it is to raise a child. How there is always something that Tom needs, how Harry keeps looking to books and neighbors for information, and how he can only hope he's doing the right thing. Merope tells him he does well, but her parenting style is more hands off. Neither of them have much experience in this.

When Merope returns to bed, Harry curls around her, resting his face against her hair.

"I still miss him sometimes," Merope admits, ever so quietly.

"You loved him and you were hurt by him. You're still healing." He presses a kiss against her shoulder. "I don't care. Just as long as you love me."

"I do," Merope says. "I surprised myself. I thought I could never love anyone the way I loved Tom, but I do love you."

"Then I have the rest of our lives to win your entire heart," Harry assures her.

When she laughs and accuses him of folly, Harry can only laugh with her, and kiss her, and think how lucky he is.

*

Merope passes her OWL in Potions with flying colors, then a year later, her NEWT. It's enough to qualify her to apply for a standard potions shop license, which is less intellectually arduous than it is financially arduous.

Harry doesn't begrudge her. Never mind that she never went to Hogwarts — Merope has studied hard to catch up and even surpass those who had proper instruction. At night, when they lie in bed together, Merope tells him of her dreams of opening a small potions shop, and Harry dreams of the two of them running it together. Merope behind the cauldron, Harry behind the counter, Tom running about with a snake wrapped around his arm.

Outside of destroying Voldemort, which was more of a calling, a prophesy, than anything Harry truly chose to seek, Harry never had a great many ambitions. The end of the war, then the end of his schooling, left him floundering without a plan. It's a good thing then that Merope loves a plan. That she knows what she wants from life and that Harry can help her in any way he can.

He can barely brew a potion to save his life, let alone the deathly boredom that is helping her study for her exams. But he can work to finance the fees and set aside a sum each month for that little shop of their dreams, and he can care for Tom when she studies and brews.

In late fall, months after applying for the license, an owl arrives at breakfast. Merope's hand wavers over the letter. She doesn't hurry to open it.

"You're brilliant," Harry tells her, kissing her cheek. "They must know it."

And they do — Merope Gaunt receives her potions shop license that very day. Harry takes her out to dinner to celebrate. They don't go out often, but it's a day of celebration. A glorious new phase of their lives.

*

The first few years Gaunt Potions exists solely as a mail order business out of their small Knockturn Alley flat. It presents some challenges — logistical ones, mainly. With most surfaces covered in potions ingredients, four cauldrons in their bedroom, and three raised beds of ingredients growing in the kitchen, there isn't quite so much space for the human inhabitants of the flat. Plus the pet snake that Tom brings home from the playground at age three, not wanting to part with his new best friend. Harry can only coo at him, in all his adorableness.

Five years into their marriage, Harry’s still a part of the St. Mungo’s janitorial staff. He’s moved up some, now supervising two guys and a team of house elves, but there’s not a day when his robes aren’t rolled up to do the necessary work.

It’s a different life than he would have expected. It’s not that Harry thinks himself too good for the work. Work is work after all. Money’s got to be earned. But he doesn’t have the means he once did, and that pains him sometimes. If he had the Potter vault or the Black fortunes, he could shower Merope with gold, could give Tom a better sitter, could maybe finally re-take his OWLs, something that he’s still never been able to make time for.

He doesn’t yearn for much. How can he, when thoughts of Merope are an expanse in his mind, when there is hardly room for other dreams? But sometimes, when the days are long, he wishes it had been Merope who fell through time, not him.

One day, Harry’s coworker mentions his grandmother's intent to retire and sell her Hogsmeade house that has Harry looking up from his cleaning efforts.

It’s not Stuart, who doesn’t talk to his family, nor Mort, who moved on from the job a long time ago. Harry tried to keep in touch, but Mort hadn’t been the type. Irving, who’s been increasingly late to his shifts, seems to be going Mort’s direction, but he’s cheerful enough, and he tells Harry of the house. It used to hold a pet store on the first level and lodgings on the upper two stories.

"You interested?" Irving asks. "It's... run down is the best I can say. It needs more renovation than any of us are interested in doing ourselves. It's not on the main street of Hogsmeade, either, so don't expect the Hogwarts students to bother. The first floor and backyard look like a menagerie of animals lived there — because they did."

"Can I see it?"

"If you want. She's showing it off on Saturday. If you come in the morning, you'll skip the line."

Harry arrives as early as can possibly be considered proper. Irving’s grandmother is sprier and younger than he would have thought, given the young man's stories of her preparations for retirement. The house is perhaps less charming than Harry's excitement had him envisioning it. It's even more off the beaten path — on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, off in the direction away from Hogwarts. The first floor of the house has been aired out, but the smell lingers, and the cleaning could do a better job. The pet shop made its mark.

But there is room enough for a proper storefront, and for three small rooms of cauldrons in the back, and for living quarters upstairs, and for a large garden of potions ingredients. Unable to help himself, Harry tells Helena about Merope's dream of owning her own shop, and of how hard it has been to both live and work in a small confined space for the last few years.

He loves his wife — adores her — but by Merlin are they both ready to upgrade.

"I hope you consider us," Harry tells Helena, shaking her hand at the end of the tour.

He doesn't have the same means as perhaps another buyer, but Harry thinks his little family would treat the house well. Would grow with it, around it.

He doesn't tell Merope immediately, not wanting to get her hopes up. But when a missive comes, asking for Harry to make an offer, Harry gathers up his last Gringotts statement and the best loan the goblins will give him, and he and Merope both present it to Helena.

They get the house.

After a flurry of packing and some tears from the five-year-old Tom, who isn't used to big changes, they arrive in Hogsmeade. Harry grins from ear to ear, unable to help himself. Sure, there's still years to go to pay off the loan, but it's all theirs, every floorboard and shutter and squeaky hinge.

He carries Merope through the entranceway, twirling her around. Then he does the same with Tom, as demanded.

"It's all ours," Harry says, looking around.

"It's a lot of work," Merope cautions.

Harry is undeterred. "I've never been afraid of a little hard work. Neither have you, my love. We'll do it together."

And first things first — they'll open the windows again.

Chapter Text

After some consideration, Harry quits one job. He stays on at St. Mungo’s for the night shift and stays on at the clockmaker’s when the business needs him, but he’s never liked working at the ministry despite the steady work. Merope’s shop can only do better with more room to grow — but it will take hard work and then some before customers can step foot. It’s not even connected to the floo network, with changes necessary to the fireplace before it meets the system’s standards.

It can be said that Harry initially underestimates the amount of work that needs to go into renovating the shop. His Gryffindor enthusiasm carries him through the first week, when one of the cabinets falls off the wall and he needs a break.

He ventures out to explore Hogsmeade. The decades between now and Harry's true time ostensibly change the town little. There's still the Hog's Head, perhaps newer and cleaner, and the Three Broomsticks. A few different restaurants. The same quill store that Harry stocked up mid-year at when he attended school. The candy shop is still a restaurant, which sends a pang through Harry. But he can survive without peppermint frogs.

He ducks into the Hog's Head, not wanting to recall the many times he and Ron and Hermione and Ginny sat at the Three Broomsticks together. It's a fond memory, but it stings, even now. He's never had friends as good as them. Truth be told, he doesn't have many friends at all these days. Family and work fill his hours, and this is proper, but sometimes Harry thinks of his carefree school days and sighs.

"You're new around here," the bartender says, and Harry resists the impulse to do a double take.

"My wife and I bought Helena's old shop," Harry explains. "The former menagerie."

Aberforth raises an eyebrow. "How's it holding up?"

"Better than I am," Harry admits with a snort. "I'm good with my hands. I haven't done renovation before, as such, but I worked for years on the ministry and St. Mungo's custodial teams."

"Did you now?"

And that's how Harry learns that Hogwarts is hiring for another hand to help with the grounds. In the castle proper, the house elves have it in hand, with occasional direction from the caretaker, but the grounds grow wild if not taken in hand by a wizard or two.

Dippet, the headmaster of Hogwarts, doesn't do the interviewing himself. Something about the position not being so important. It's not as though the assistant groundskeeper has a place at the head table.

“Slughorn,” yells out Aberforth toward one of the booths in the back. He points a thumb at Harry. “He’s applying for the groundskeeper’s assistant.”

Harry didn’t realize he is until now, but he gamely shakes a much younger Slughorn’s hand. “I wasn’t ready for this, sorry.” His best robes are in a box somewhere, the current ones with a few splatters of paint, and he has a sneaking suspicion that the smell of cleaning supplies is coming from him.

“Aberforth makes the rules here. Look — he’s even decided what I’m drinking.”

“None of your nonsense about cocktails. Take it to the Three Broomsticks.”

“Yes, sir,” Slughorn says, cheerfully. To Harry, he says, “Five years above me at Hogwarts and he’s never let me forget it. Anyway — Gaunt, you say?”

And so the ensuing conversation is less about Harry’s skills and more about Slughorn’s fascination with wizarding genealogy. Not for its own sake, but for what he can do with it — little, with the Gaunts, without wealth or status. Harry references the family’s falling on hard times, not getting too much into it, and Slughorn makes some noise about the position, as though remembering it again.

“Fifteen hours a week or thereabouts, that’s what he told me,” Slughorn says of it. “Can you spare them?”

To be at Hogwarts? Even on the grounds, instead of inside the building? “Of course,” Harry says.

“Good man. Let’s get you to Calder.”

Slughorn takes his beer glass along with him up to the castle, mentioning the charm that’ll ensure it’ll find its way back to Aberforth. The groundskeeper’s hut is barer than Hagrid’s. No barking from Fang. But the man inside is still gruff, still welcoming in his own way, even if he’s not the groundskeeper Harry grew up with. Used to Hagrid, Harry does a double take at the current groundskeeper’s comparatively short height.

Calder tells him the job’s his if he wants it. “Slughorn’s not the worst judge of character — all he does is go around judging, so he’d better be good at it.”

He takes him around the Hogwarts grounds, showing what needs some tuning up and what needs constant attention.

“If you’re scared of that forest, turn the job down now,” Calder advises. “It’s as part of Hogwarts as the castle and the lake is.”

“I’ve been there before,” Harry says, shaking his head. “It’s no trouble for me.”

“Then you’ll be here tomorrow at eight. Albus Dumbledore, he’s the deputy, he’ll take you through the paperwork. You got any terrible secrets?” At Harry’s expression, he laughs. “Don’t we all.”

By the time Harry returns home, it’s evening. It’s not a St. Mungo’s night, so he wraps up on the first floor, banishing the cabinet that had broken to pieces when it fell, and takes his dinner with Tom. Noodles tonight — after a long day, he’s not up to cooking anything strenuous. Tom doesn’t seem to mind. Merope doesn’t join them, still in the brewing chambers.

“What do you think of me working up at the school?”

Tom makes a face. “Are you following me to school?”

“You’re not even there yet, twerp,” Harry says, fondly. “More like, you will be following me there. Unless you end up going to Durmstrang.”

“Is that an option?”

“Depends on how much your mum’s business takes off. We can do Hogwarts — there’s a scholarship we can apply for — but Durmstrang is a stretch.”

And hadn’t that been a surprise, that education isn’t free in this time. Harry doesn’t know when or how it changed, but he assumes Albus had something to do with it. Dippet doesn’t seem the type, from the limited knowledge Harry has of him. It’s a hard world, in this time, not that Harry’s own can be called soft.

There is another five years until Harry and Merope will have to send Tom to school. It’s not as far away as it used to be, but not too soon, either. It’s a bittersweet thought. Harry will miss him. His hope is that with a mother and father’s love, Tom has grown up happier, and that his future will be happier, though it can be hard to tell. Tom’s a prickly kid even on his best days. There’s no doubt that the Sorting Hat will send him into Slytherin, even as Tom Gaunt.

After dinner, Tom plays the foreman to Harry’s simple worker and surveys the renovations. He has thoughts on the color scheme and the keeping of the wallpaper, which features snakes. Harry ruffles his hair but can’t make any promises — it’s peeling in many places and may be holding in the old smells of the menagerie. And grime. Grime which Harry hasn’t spent too long thinking about.

Ah, hell. It’s definitely going to be coming off.

They stop to wish Merope goodnight, each receiving a kiss on the cheek before she returns to her cauldron.

Tonight, Tom is too old for a bedtime story, but he deigns to read one to Harry, who assures him he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep without one.

“I love you,” Harry murmurs as he tucks Tom into the covers, book set aside on the nightstand with the one leg missing.

He wants to give Merope the world, but he wants it for Tom, too. In a few years, maybe all his robes will be bought new. His parchment, his quills, his books. Definitely his wand.

It doesn’t scare him to think of Ollivander placing the yew wand into Tom’s hands. Not when Harry held those tiny hands when Tom was a newborn — when they wrapped around his fingers like a wand.

“I want to brew with Mum tomorrow.” Tom’s eyes are closed, his words half-muttered. He’s well on his way to sleep.

“You’ve got it,” Harry says, feeling ever so indulgent. So happy.

He carries that feeling into bed — the sensation of everything in his life slotting into place. Love, family, home, Hogwarts. Just as long as Albus Dumbledore agrees. He falls asleep before Merope turns in, but sees his wife in the morning, when she makes the coffee and heats up a simple breakfast.

It’s the sweetest of Merope’s family rules — that they should all breakfast together as a family every day, no matter what. On days when he works the night shift, Harry returns home to breakfast with Merope before turning in. On those days, she makes him tea instead of coffee. Chamomile, which isn’t to Harry’s taste, the scent always a bit strong. But he’s never been one to turn down something made with love.

He tells her of the job then, with an invigorating sip of his coffee.

“The extra money will be good for us,” Merope agrees. “Besides — the skills you learn can be applied to the yard one day.”

Harry has to laugh. “Before the vines take over the house, too. Who knows what we have underneath them. I’m meeting Albus Dumbledore in an hour.”

“Did you know him? Before?”

“I don’t know how well anyone truly knew him.” Harry looks down into his cup. There’s a swirl of milk gathering at the top. “Sometimes I thought I only knew him after he passed.”

“Then you have a second chance now,” Merope offers.

“You’re right, as always. I doubt I’ll see much of him from the grounds, but at least today… I’ll see the hair he claimed to have in his youth.” Mirth fills Harry at the thought.

Footsteps, and then there is Tom, sleepily joining them.

“What’s on the classroom agenda today?” Harry asks, sliding eggs onto his son’s plate.

“Pepper Up.”

Tom turns to his mother with a mutinous expression. “Pepper Up is boring. I can make Pepper Up already.”

“An idiot could make Pepper Up, but most wizards are idiots, sweetheart.”

Harry coughs. “Or are too tired to brew.”

He just barely remembers to swap hung over for tired; judging by Merope’s secretive smile, she knows what he means. Certainly Harry hadn’t picked up a cauldron between Hogwarts and Merope. He kept some enterprising potions shop in business with his purchases at what he now understands to be exorbitant prices, considering the minor cost of Pepper Up ingredients.

He can only be relieved that Tom seems to have inherited Merope’s brewing skills. Harry can follow instructions, when precise and not too difficult, but he’s no potions master.

The coffee’s gone in ten, Merope and Tom in twenty. Harry takes a stroll around the village before making his way up to the castle.

Belatedly, he realizes he’d never asked where Albus keeps his offices these days.

But he shouldn’t have concerned himself — there he is at the main entrance, Harry’s one-time mentor, in his confusing glory. Albus is less eccentric than Harry is used to — dark robes, though they have a burgundy sheen, and not yet wearing glasses. Handsomer, too, with a neat beard and hair not yet gone gray.

Harry must admit he now understands the fond recollections he’d once overheard between McGonagall and Sprout of the headmaster as a young man. He must only be in his mid-forties, and it shows; Harry can’t quite reconcile the lack of gray hair.

This can’t be Albus Dumbledore, really, a part of him thinks, even as he greets the man with a handshake.

“Calder tells me you’re joining our staff,” Albus says. “Welcome, Harry. Have you applied at Hogwarts before?”

“No, never.”

“Well, we’re a little more involved than other employers. We have to be, given that we take the protection of our students very seriously.”

“As long as it doesn’t involve an Unbreakable Vow,” Harry jokes.

Albus’ eyes twinkle just fine without half moon glasses. “Some people have said they would have preferred one.”

At Albus’ office, which is on the ground floor to Harry’s surprise, the process begins. His signature on boilerplate letters to his three current or previous employers, requesting their honest opinion of Harry’s character. The staff rulebook is an inch thick. Most of it doesn’t apply to Harry, Albus is quick to assure him, but he goes over what does. And then there is the list of written questions and answers, on enchanted paper that shrivels at first sign of a lie.

Harry finds no problem in answering truthfully — he has no grudges against castle or student. No malice in his heart towards children — not even toward the child who once grew up to kill his parents. Not that the paper needs such a detailed response.

“How did I do?” Harry asks as Albus reads over the paper.

“Your handwriting is—”

“A mess,” Harry agrees.

“—reminiscent of my muggleborn students’,” Albus says instead, though Harry must be correct. “Of learning the art of writing with quills later in life.”

It’s not a question that has come up yet — Harry noticed when Albus deliberately didn’t ask. It’s not against the law now as it is in the future to ask and make employment judgments based on blood status. But while from someone else, it would have left him on edge, Harry is aware of Albus’ particular history with this question. Of how his opinions have changed, of the world he tried to create where any wizarding child could live and learn freely. Of how he fought Voldemort again in again, in all forms.

“I’m a half-blood, if that’s what you’re asking. Raised in the muggle world.”

“Was the transition to our society—” Albus stops. “No, that’s none of my business. My apologies.”

Harry can’t help but huff a laugh. At any age, Albus Dumbledore is a nosy bastard. “You can ask. I don’t mind.”

“Well. Perhaps later.” Albus takes another scan of the paper. “You asked how you did — I gather, you spoke of the content of your answers, which spoke to honesty and good character. Not always do applicants finish as successfully or as quickly. It leaves me in quite a pickle in those times.”

“Do they debate with you about their teaching philosophy?”

“I don’t consider it teaching so much as methodical disregard for the generations that slowly replace us old-timers.”

Harry wants to say — you were a full hundred years old the first time I met you. To call yourself an old-timer at not even fifty, my god! “You have too few gray hairs to count yourself replaced, yet.”

“I’ve been told that those are well on their way, the more time I spend around the children.”

Certainly, Harry has no doubt that students gave Albus more than a few of his gray hairs. There would have been hellions even before James and Sirius began their Hogwarts careers.

It’s another four days until Harry’s previous employers finish replying to Albus. They must have given him the green light because Calder owls him for some help with renewing the flowerbeds lining parts of the castle exterior. It’s not a bad job, not at all. The pay is solid — mostly going towards house renovations — and the company is good. Calder isn’t as taciturn as Harry first assumed; he takes a while to warm up, then is a veritable chatterbox in the late afternoon sun. The castle itself is quiet in summer, with occasional sights of professors and the sheen of a ghost poking out into the sun.

Before long, Albus welcomes Harry to eat meals in the Great Hall, saying it gets lonely in the great big castle in the summers. That’s when Harry first meets Headmaster Dippet, who neither shakes his hand nor holds his gaze for longer than a second.

“He’s very traditional,” Albus explains, with an undertone. “Especially. Well, he said we had no record of you at Hogwarts.”

They’re alone at lunch that day, but still Albus speaks it not too loudly.

Harry shrugs. It’s hard to feel ashamed of not having a Hogwarts education when he’d in fact had most of one — with even not too shabby grades, Exceeding all Expectations in Defense. But in this time, it must be an anomaly for one to not have OWLs on record, with how hard it is to find a job without them. More than anything, it feels like wearing an outfit he doesn’t own, to say he’d never attended Hogwarts. This school is in his bones and here he is, disclaiming it.

“I had thought your thorough review of my background would flag it,” Harry says, in lieu of anything else.

“This would be true for a professor’s role, yes,” Albus agrees. Left unsaid is that the screening for trimming bushes is less scrupulous. “I hadn’t realized. I assumed you entered shortly after I left school, based on our respective ages. You’ve never given indication that the school is new to you.”

Harry shrugs. “My wife and I, we grew up poor and on the fringes of magical society.”

“You worked very hard to be here.”

Harry doesn’t want to take credit for a life he didn’t live, but at the same time… who other than he was sorting mail and disposing of trash for years? Who helped an aging clockmaker with the fiddly bits of his clocks? Who had dirt under his fingernails even now, even after what he’d thought was a thorough enough wash of his hands?

Maybe he wasn’t born into this, but he joined Merope in love and in marriage, and this is what it means. Maybe someone might say he fell to her level, but that’s not it — Harry had fallen in love. That’s all it is, as simple and as complex, as ordinary and as beautiful as that.

And yet, it stings. There’s a part of him, usually buried under the adoration, that remembers another dream. “I did intend to take my OWLs,” he says to the man who, in another life, was Harry’s headmaster. “I wanted to make a life in this society, even without graduating from Hogwarts. But then there was Merope, and Tom, and work, and the business. I helped Merope through her OWLs and NEWT and potioner’s license — but there’s never been the time for me to do the same. Now there’s the house. I keep thinking, maybe after Tom goes off to school.”

He’s not embarrassed. Can’t be, really, not when he knows how far he needs to make the family budget stretch, and how that doesn’t include much room for preparation or the OWL testing fees. Maybe it’s just the echo of the Dursleys, who would have laughed themselves silly to know that he never graduated from school.

“Well, that’s hardly something that can’t be overcome,” Albus says, with enthusiasm. “Can you spare one hour a week?”

Harry remembers Hermione’s color-coded planners and year-long preparation for the OWLs. The way stress would only fire her up and make her more determined. He almost laughs — almost cries.

“I could spare an hour,” he agrees, not quite knowing what he’s getting himself into.

“Splendid. I’ll draw up a plan.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to. Please, let me.”

And maybe it’s selfish of him, but Harry agrees.

It starts as one hour, then becomes two, then three. It stays at three — truly, Harry can’t spare much more than that. He’s tired, mentally and physically, by the demands of work and family, but for three hours a week, he can sit down with Albus. They start in the library, then after a few weeks transition to Albus’ quarters at Hogwarts. There’s something hesitant in Albus about it, the way he insists in the utmost propriety at first. Harry reckons it’s instilled self-defense against underage students becoming interested in more than just the teaching content. In his early thirties himself, Harry can only find it funny, and not particularly applicable.

By winter, Albus is coaching him over tea and snacks, and they are by the fireplace. Albus in an armchair, Harry sprawled out on the couch, his books all over the coffee table.

When Harry studies, the struggles of his daily life seem to fall away. The quiet warmth of Albus’ chambers, the expectation of only study, not work.

Sometimes the quiet in turn falls away — they talk first as acquaintances, then as friends. Harry is no longer used to having friends. He has to work at it. Haltingly at first, remembering how, then growing better at it.

“You’ll be ready to take your OWLs by May,” Albus says with satisfaction, checking Harry’s work. “Your foundation is better than I would have thought. You hardly needed me.”

Harry shakes his head. “I wouldn’t have set aside the time if not for you. It never seemed important enough. Selfish.”

“If education is selfish, then surely we can all use more selfishness in our lives. Learning doesn’t end in school.” Albus holds up the transfiguration magazine he was reading while Harry took a mock exam. “Have you given thought to what you’ll do after your OWLs?”

“I was going to be an auror, once upon a time. But… I’d never met an auror I’d want to work with, at any of my jobs. Not one of them treated me as though I had a mind of my own.” He shakes his head. “I’ll help out at Merope’s business instead.”

Albus nods. He’s silent a moment, as though gathering his thoughts. “Is this what you want to do?”

“I can’t think only of myself. I have a family.”

“Of course, yes. I only meant—”

“I know.” Harry wipes a hand over his face. “I’m not the most rational, when it comes to family. I never had a proper one, growing up, and now that I do— I know I sometimes become subsumed into the role of husband and father.”

“And you are a credit to those roles,” Albus says, gently. “I hope you don’t forget the man you are outside of them, too.”

“Harry, just Harry.” Harry smiles crookedly. “You seemed so proper when I first met you. I didn’t think I would be adding bourbon to our drinks a few months later.”

It came as a surprise to him, how much he likes Albus’ company, though perhaps it shouldn’t have been. He’d once liked his headmaster very much, for all that Dumbledore was wily and secretive and frustrating. Here, the stakes are low, their fields even. There is nothing for Harry to be manipulated into except for another cup of tea and a meandering conversation about the youth of today.

Albus’ latest anecdote wraps up, another story of teenagers making professors’ lives almost unlivable. “It almost makes me regret going into teaching, but it’s too late for me now.”

Harry can’t help but smile. “You remind me of Tom. Or maybe Tom reminds me of you. He’s so studious. I have to remind him to have fun once in a while. Don’t you remember being young and stupid?”

“I was Head Boy,” Albus says, coughing slightly. “I did always take myself too seriously at school. I don’t suppose you shared the same affliction.”

“I lived for other people until I was seventeen, though no one can say I was on my best behavior even then. After… it was like a chain had snapped.” Harry shakes his head, sheepish. “I suddenly had all this time and all these poor decisions I could make. I can’t say I carried myself well.”

With Voldemort newly dead and the strings of fate cut, Harry was lost. In daytime, he gave it his best go at auror training, and at night he attended whichever party’s invitation landed in his lap. In the end, his dreams of the auror department buckled under his disregard for authority. He quit before he was asked to go. He traveled, drank more than he should, won and lost in gambling, until winning a strange object whose magic he didn’t understand, but had deposited him in the past, penniless and quickly sobering. He was so lucky to meet Merope soon after. What would he have done without her?

“I have my own regrets from my time directly after Hogwarts,” Albus says. He passes the bottle when Harry reaches for it. “It’s my hope that, as the years pass and take me further from that time, it will become easier to carry the regret.”

“Falling in love helps.”

Albus huffs, a short, surprised burst of laughter.

Harry leans forward, drink in hand. “No, really, it does. I didn’t find myself until I met Merope. It’s been… it must be six years now since she and Tom changed my life.”

Bemused, Albus replies, “The strength of your marriage is admirable, but not for me.”

Are you still carrying that torch for Grindelwald? Harry thinks, but doesn’t say. The alcohol is a pleasant warmth; he would have to be absolutely sloshed to even broach that hornet’s nest. And yet something like it slips out: “You would make a great father if you chose that path. You’re compassionate, patient, dependable. Whatever regrets you carry, they’ve left you more capable, not less.”

“Thank you. That’s— I haven’t often let myself think that way.”

“That’s a shame. You should be kinder to yourself,” Harry says, both to the man in the armchair and to the headmaster he once knew.

He used to wish he’d understood Dumbledore better as a teen — but it’s only as an adult that Harry truly can, that the weight of time and responsibility and people relying on him has settled him into the man he is today. This Albus is younger, less weary, but the foundation of his character has settled. Harry can only hope that perhaps with one more friend, Albus’ life will be the slightest bit lighter.

“I’ll make a valiant effort,” Albus replies, eyes bright. “But only if you do the same. Apply some of your kindness to yourself — Harry, just Harry, needs it just as much as Merope and Tom.”

And Harry promises to try.

Even as he says it, he thinks it’s quite a bit easier said than done. It’s too easy to be swept up in the push and pull of life’s demands. He walks home slowly in the darkness, looking back at the castle on occasion. He would have liked to spend more time with Albus; a few hours a week never feels like enough, and he’s very aware of the fact that the time will come to an end eventually. He’ll take his exams, then that will be it. No matter how much he enjoys it, he’s on borrowed time. And besides — such friendship is a distraction from Merope, which leaves him uneasy. Harry hardly remembers a time when Merope wasn’t at the forefront of his thoughts; the idea of her having even platonic competition is absurd.

It’s late, but the lights are still on when Harry returns home.

Merope sits at the kitchen table, a potions workbook open and the tea set out. She pours him a cup.

Chamomile, which Harry isn’t fond of and doesn’t need — he’ll fall asleep easily enough, warm with drink and tired from a full day’s work and his studies. He takes it anyway.

His darling wife watches him finish the cup, and the fact that she cares enough to provide it for him leaves him overflowing with love, before she says, “I don’t want you to be angry or worried. Tom had an accident this morning and ingested one of my in-progress potions by mistake. He’s fine now. He’s in bed.”

Harry’s throat doesn’t seem to be working. He swallows, and again. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I would have—”

“I took him to St. Mungo’s. They fixed everything so quickly that there wasn’t any time to contact you.”

“It’s evening.”

“I didn’t want to worry you.” She reaches for him and Harry goes to her, pressing into her in a hug.

“He’s alright? You’re certain?”

“Yes.” Merope is quiet for a moment. “It was an accident. It won’t happen again. We’ll all be more careful.”

And what is there to do except agree? They sit together for a time, evaluating the current ways Merope stores her potions and ingredients, and ways they can child-proof the house. It has never been a concern before. Tom is an exceedingly bright child. Inquisitive, too. He always wants to know what something is, but he’s content once he receives an answer. Harry has to wonder if Tom purposefully did something he wasn’t supposed to. Still, he’d learned his lesson. A costly lesson, judging by the St. Mungo’s bill, which doesn’t specify the potion. It must have been an in progress one, not resembling the final product much at all.

When Harry stops by Tom’s bedroom, Tom is still and quiet, but he stirs when Harry sits on the edge of his bed.

“I sipped Mum’s potion. I didn’t mean to,” Tom says. It sounds rehearsed.

“It’s okay,” Harry tells him. He presses a kiss to Tom’s brow. “You’re okay. I’m glad you weren’t hurt badly. I love you.”

A noise. It’s dark, but it sounds like a sob, and then Tom’s hugging him tightly. “Dad.”

Harry holds him close. He might sob himself — Tom doesn’t often call him that. He and Merope shared Tom’s origins with the boy early on, letting him decide how he wanted to relate to Harry.

“Shhh, it’s alright. You must have been scared.”

The shakes end after a while, along with the tears. Tom quiets into sleep. Harry’s heart rate takes its time to settle. He can’t imagine losing Tom; can’t imagine a life without him. Maybe he hadn’t anticipated this life, but he’s chosen it day in and day out, chosen this little life with Merope and Tom. He thinks of Albus in his lonely Hogwarts rooms — thinks of how lucky he is to have a family. What could have become of him had he slipped through time and had no one at all? Instead, he’d met Merope, and that was that.

Before Merope, before Tom, Harry had been selfish, careless. Not yet a man, even as the years since his seventeenth birthday passed and passed. No career, no steady partner.

It’s his family who has made him who he is today. His family, who Harry can’t bear the thought of losing.

Harry turns in. Merope joins him. She doesn’t every night, but he’s so grateful for her presence tonight. He doesn’t want to be alone.

It’s clear that she doesn’t want to be, either. “I want to feel close to you. I want— I want to feel you, Harry. Let me. Please.”

And how can Harry ever deny his wife? He kisses her gently, then matches her when she presses harder, when she doesn’t want to wait. She’s impatient, his wife.

Afterward, when she doesn’t take her customary contraceptive, Harry offers it to her.

Merope holds it in both hands, not lifting it to her mouth. “Should we begin trying, don’t you think? To have a baby?”

“Nothing would make me happier,” Harry promises. “But we should make our baby out of love, not fear. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

She nods. For a moment, in the darkness, her shape almost feels foreign, and then things click back into place in Harry’s head. The remnants of fear playing havoc on Harry’s mind. He kisses her with the taste of the potion on her lips.

In the morning, Merope curls into him and says, “I don’t think I meant it. Oh, that was so silly of me.”

Harry presses a kiss to her brow.

“Thank you. I— I love Tom, of course you know, but with the shop and Tom still with us instead of at school… I’m not ready for the changes a baby will bring. I wasn’t ready for Tom. I want to feel truly ready, next time.”

“I know. I understand.” Harry sits with his thoughts for a moment, then two, then, “Is anyone ever ready to have a child?”

“I don’t know.” She huffs. “You were. You were so good with Tom from the very first moment of his birth. I don’t know how you did it.”

“Bolstered by my love for you, I’m sure. Plus more than one sleepless night.”

“You loved him on my behalf then, but now…” She trails off, as if in prompt.

“I couldn’t imagine our lives without him,” Harry says without hesitation. “Our house will be a poorer place once he is at Hogwarts. Maybe then, we can revisit the topic.”

It’s years away, which Merope accepts with visible relief. A part of Harry’s heart pangs — he would have liked more children. Especially now, when Tom is young enough to grow up with siblings instead of visiting them only during his school breaks.

Two more, that would have been ideal. One to banish the loneliness of being an only child — not that Tom has ever admitted to anything of the sort — and one more, just for a fuller house.

But if it’s not to be, then it’s not to be. Harry loves his little life with Merope and Tom. When it comes to whether any children are being carried, it’s Merope’s choice.

Before breakfast, Harry visits Tom’s room, sitting on the side of his bed.

He smooths the furrow of Tom’s brow. Even in sleep, Tom is troubled. Poor kid. His first serious illness. They had been lucky so far.

After a while, Tom’s eyes open. He blinks several times, his gaze groggy.

“How are you feeling? Good enough to eat breakfast?”

Tom nods. “I’ll eat. Mum’s… mum’s cooking?”

“Just eggs.”

“And coffee.”

“Not for you, kiddo.”

Tom swallows. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m not the one who took a trip to St. Mungo’s.” But perhaps Tom saw his share of sick adults too and grew scared. Ah, Harry wants to hug his fussy, precious boy. “I’m feeling well. Completely, entirely well. I had a good night’s sleep and I’m looking forward to my day.”

In truth, what he imagines to be his caffeine addiction is acting up, but he’s not about to worry Tom with that. Reality always feels a little too malleable between waking up and that first cup of coffee.

“Oh.”

Harry waits, but Tom says nothing more. He looks a little lost. A little young. The hospital must have shaken him more than he realized.

“Say, how about we go out for ice cream this afternoon? Just the two of us.”

Tom nods. “Diagon Alley?”

“You got it.”

They eat breakfast together, all three of them. Tom doesn’t take a drink until Merope places one in front of him, and Harry ruffles his hair, telling him not to be silly. There’s nothing to be afraid of. They’ll be more careful, that’s all. They’ll do better by Tom. Harry spends the morning working on the house, Tom occasionally helping, but mostly reading a book nearby. The ice cream is sweet — vanilla and fudge. Tom is hesitant in a way that makes Harry think he’s on the verge of saying something, but he doesn’t, and his boy is stubborn, as Harry knows. No use in pushing him until he’s ready. Tom’s like Merope in that way — patient until it’s just the right time, like a snake watching a mouse.

With fondness, Harry can only shake his head at himself. Marrying into a family of Slytherins truly has ruined his metaphors — snakes all over the place.

Chapter Text

Tom Riddle, Merope’s first husband, is in some ways a specter that haunts Harry’s marriage. Harry loves his wife like none other; he works hard to treat his wife like a queen and he refuses to even consider the possibility of their marriage ever ending. They’ve built a life together year by year. They have a son together, a house, a business.

Harry once hoped that Merope’s feelings for Riddle would settle, but there’s a wistful set to her lips when she looks upon Tom on occasion, and in his gut Harry knows the cause. He holds her closely those nights, hoping against hope that Merope continues to love him as much as he loves her. Truly, he doesn’t know what he would do in this world without her.

“I’m sorry,” Merope says, quietly. The darkness is all around them. Tom’s sleeping soundly in his own room.

Harry closes his eyes. “I know you love me, too. He was just there first.”

“If it helps, I hate him just as much as I love him.” Merope strokes Harry’s face. “I see him sometimes. He doesn’t see me. I make sure of it. I only want to know how he’s doing.”

Eyes open, Harry looks at her, and wonders who she sees. “Is he happy?”

“No,” Merope says. “I’m much happier than he is.”

Her smile lingers with Harry as he falls asleep.

*

As a student, Harry hadn’t been aware of how intently the Forbidden Forest aims to encroach on Hogwarts’ grounds. Whether the forest has a spirit of its own or if it is simply nature taking its course, he cannot tell, but the moment one looks away from the tree-line, it has edged forward toward the castle.

Every few days, Harry eyes the marker dug into the ground and digs up some overly enthusiastic shrubbery. To one particular tree, he says, “You are this close to being chopped down for firewood. Not another step. Take over the lake if you yearn for conquest.”

“Do they listen to you?”

Harry sticks his wand in his back pocket and brushes the dirt from his hands. It’s evening, but still light enough. He wonders if Albus is taking one of his evening walks or returning from an off-campus meeting.

“Likely as much as your students listen to you,” Harry replies with a final glance at the tree.

“Only when my back isn’t turned.” Albus eyes the encroaching tree line. “Please note that the closer one gets, the more likely that students may begin to use you for target practice. You should see the crimes committed against the flowerbeds.”

Harry, who practices his skill at regrowing flowers on the weekly, only nods. “Terrible creatures, adolescents. Professors try to keep them in the castle, but they break free on the regular to cause havoc. How are you, Albus?”

“Excellent. A small mishap in the lab with the dragon’s blood. My mustache is only lightly singed.”

Harry glances over Albus’ face. “Ah, there it is. May I?”

“Yes?”

“I learned more than my fair share of hair care charms as a teenager. Some against my will. The girls had some thoughts about what could be done with the rat’s nest on my head.”

“Hardly a rat’s nest,” Albus replies. The timber of his voice is quieter as Harry steps forward to press his wand against the singed area.

One spell and Albus’ mustache has returned to its former glory, surrounding his pert lips alongside the beard. “There. Now it’s as it should be.”

“Thank you.” A cough, a step back. “I was hoping to take a moment of your time. Mr. Evensworn, our Defense professor, has requested the staff’s aid in locating a boggart for his seventh year students. Have you seen one?”

“There’s one in the north shed. I hadn’t bothered to banish it. I’ll show you.”

As they walk, Albus asks after Harry’s family, and Harry proudly mentions Tom’s success in Merope’s lessons. His boy is so bright, so darling, that Harry is sometimes unable to contain himself. Those pureblood heirs won’t know what hit them once Tom Gaunt has entered Hogwarts. Merope too is easy to praise; her hard work in her potions shop has brought in enough funds to redo the plumbing at home, something the house sorely needs. Harry may be handy with his spells, but a proper plumbing wizard is worth the money.

“My friend Hermione went on this crusade once about the ethics of using boggarts in class. Called it creature abuse. Her teacher attempted to dissuade her of the idea — explained boggarts cannot be born or die, or feel pain or joy, that their existence in this world is both permanent and ephemeral at the same time.” Harry pauses at the entrance of the shed. “I don’t mind them so much.”

When he opens the shed, he finds Merope’s dead body.

Albus’ breath is sharp. “You don’t find it unnerving?”

“It’s not real. The details are all wrong — her ears are different in reality, the shade of her eyes isn’t quite right. I should know, with how often I can’t look away from her.” There is an odd sensation in his chest when he stares at the boggart. Harry hasn’t been able to explain it. Each time, he waits for grief or terror to overtake him at the sight of his beloved in death, and each time, it doesn’t. “My boggart was a dementor until I learned the Patronus charm. It must have changed after my marriage; there is no charm to learn to rid myself of this fear. Stay back if you mind being targeted.”

“I don’t mind. I know what it will be.” The set of Albus’ lips is certain as he steps forward.

No Grindelwald emerges from the depths of the shed, but then, it isn’t as though Albus has ever been a straightforward man. Neither is his fear.

Harry almost sighs as he watches a clone of Albus himself appear. His robes are finer, his hair slicked back in a style that reminds Harry of a younger Draco Malfoy. Clean-shaven, no glasses. Harry must admit, he prefers the mustache and beard. Plenty of Order of Merlins hang from Albus’ trendy black robes, alongside the pendant of the Minister of Magic.

Above all, a pendant hangs from Albus’ neck, shining. Two drops of blood twirl within the glass.

Albus watches the boggart for a long moment. “I suppose it is vain to be afraid of oneself.”

“Terribly,” Harry replies, and his tone is enough for Albus to chuckle. “We hold so much power as wizards. More of us could stand to worry about the damage they can do with a single word.”

Albus reaches out to grasp the pendant in hand. “In reality, this has recently been destroyed — as has this version of myself. It will never be.”

Whether he is trying to convince himself or Harry, it doesn’t matter. “I believe you.” He gestures at the mirage. “What’s the use of any of this? It wouldn’t make you happy. I’ve seen how you get when one of your students succeeds in a difficult charm or when a professor takes your teaching technique suggestion and it works, and then has to admit it to your face.” And there it is, that hidden smile, the way Albus’ eyes all but yearn for the half-moon glasses to twinkle behind. “Your passion and intellect would take you far in politics, but it would be nowhere near as gratifying.”

“I do wonder at how you see me,” Albus replies, his gaze steady. “I worry that one day I will disappoint.”

“You will,” Harry replies, wryly. “I’ll do the same. It’s part of being human. Hopefully, we won’t do it at the same time; gets messy that way.”

With a sharp gesture, Albus tugs the pendant from the boggart’s neck. Its robes unroll to a gaudy red and gold layer underneath. A wide-brim sun-hat finds its way to the boggart’s head. Under scrutiny, the boggart’s form wavers, and Harry is ready with a conjured shoe box. Turning to smoke, the boggart swirls around them once before entering the box.

Harry snaps it shut. “For Professor Evensworn. I hope his lesson is successful.”

“Thank you, Harry.”

*

In May, Harry sits his OWL exams. There is a whole group of them on the seventh floor of the ministry, all latecomers to the OWLs. Harry takes his time, running up the clock while he thinks about his answers.

The test is hard, but not harder than going through life without his OWLs.

When he exits the exam, there is Albus, talking to one of the exam officials.

“I was in the building,” Albus says, as though Harry cares, as though he’s anything but delighted to see a friend after a grueling exam. “I thought you might like a drink now.”

“I might die if I don’t have one. I can’t believe we subject fifteen year olds to that. I feel as though my brain’s been put through a noodle-making machine.”

Albus nods as though he has any idea what that is and Harry appreciates him for it. It’s been fifteen years since he sat for the OWLs the first time around; he will be happy to now forget how long newt eyes must be steeped before being used in a potion. This is why one marries an expert potions-maker; so that knowledge like this can be kicked to the curb.

“The Three Broomsticks?” Harry asks, giving one last look at the scrolls on the exam prompter’s long table. It’s too late to change his answers now. Really, it is.

“I have just the place.”

At the apparition hall, Harry offers his arm to Albus. “Lead on.”

Albus’ grip is gentle first, then firmer. A man who won’t lose Harry in the midst of apparition. There’s a stability to Albus that Harry has grown to appreciate in the almost full year that Harry has worked at Hogwarts. Not the steel-gripped resolve of a man leading a war effort nor the constancy of a headmaster only rarely seen, but the professor and friend who has never failed to make Harry feel welcome.

When Harry opens his eyes, it’s to the doorway of the Hog’s Head, and then Albus is guiding him inside to a table of Harry’s companions: from Stuart to Irving, Slughorn to Calder. Tom must be with a babysitter for the night. With a laugh of delight, Harry joins them, pressing a kiss to Merope’s cheek.

“It’s too early to celebrate. I don’t know if I passed.”

“Of course you did,” Merope assures him. “You spent so much time studying. It will be good to have your Saturday afternoons back, won’t it?”

“I’ll never again open another textbook.” The relief is overwhelming. OWLs are quite enough for him; enough to get a foot in the door. Harry doesn’t even want to contemplate NEWTs. To Albus, Harry has to ask, due to the location, “Can you stay?”

“I’ve been allowed three hours as long as I do not speak directly to Aberforth.”

To Harry’s humor, this doesn’t mean that Aberforth can’t speak to Albus. Albus takes it with good cheer, saying—once Aberforth is out of earshot—that it’s Harry’s night. It’s a rare treat, having almost everyone he cares about in one room, enjoying dinner and drinks. Harry’s happiness runs deep with Merope on one side and Albus on the other. Giddy with the release of stress, with the hope that he truly has passed his OWLs, with good beer and even better shepherd’s pie. 

Harry can only marvel at the changes the past year has brought: the stability of owning a home over the frustration of small apartment life, the satisfaction he feels at his Hogwarts job, the love of his family, the friends all around him.

There’s no Ron here, no Hermione, no Weasleys, but it’s the closest Harry has felt to a Weasley family Christmas, and there’s a catch to his breath at the thought that he might one day be able to host his own holiday celebrations, and fill the house with people he loves. That what was once could be again, different but not worse.

Toward the end of Albus’ three-hour allotment, the party has started to break up for the evening. Old farts, the lot of them, Harry included. When Harry returns from the bar, he stumbles upon Albus and Horace preparing to leave. For a moment, Harry hangs back, looking around for Merope.

“Oh, boy, Albus,” says Horace under his breath. 

There is the sound of a scuffle. Harry looks back at the group just as Albus is putting away his elbow.

He just barely catches Horace saying, “You don’t do it by halves, do you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Albus tells him. “If I buy you another bottle for the road, will you shut up?”

“For today.”

“I’ll buy,” Harry tells him, and almost laughs at the way Albus and Horace look sharply in his direction. Maybe he’s further down from tipsy than he realized. “Aberforth won’t serve you, anyway.”

Albus’ expression is fond, wry, and Harry has a momentary thought — that Horace is right. That Albus Dumbledore doesn’t do a single thing by halves, whether it’s blowing up his own life spectacularly at age seventeen or it’s leading the war effort against a Dark Lord. Harry can only assume he’s a spectacular professor.

There’s a chill in the air as Harry and Merope walk home. Harry takes it as his excuse to wrap an arm around his wife’s shoulders, waving to Albus and Horace as they take off in the opposite direction towards Hogwarts.

“Thank you for tonight,” Harry says, holding Merope close. “I haven’t had such a good time in…” He struggles to think of a time. It’s rare that he’s had a night for himself. In his late teens and early twenties, in the future, he would party with the fervor of one desperately trying to heal from the war, but it’s been years since then. “A long time.”

Merope rests her head on his arm. “You’ll have to thank your professor. It was his idea. I wasn’t sure about it at first, but… it was nice.”

Amusement bubbles. “My darling is a solitary creature. I’ve never made a friend you approved of.”

“What is the use for friends? You have family.”

“That I do,” Harry confirms easily.

There’s an argument he can make about how a multi-faceted life brings forth the soul, that it doesn’t take anything away. That he’s a better man with more people he cares about. Even with the extent that Harry adores his wife, he’s never been able to quiet the part of himself that yearns for the deep friendships he once had. Now that he might be on his way to creating them, there’s a buoyancy that shines through Harry. He has everything he could want in life: the love of his life, a son he adores, friends to share the burdens of life with.

“It’s over now at least,” Merope says, and Harry takes her words to mean the night is over, because he can’t bear the thought of anything else.

*

Two weeks later, an owl carries the news of Harry’s eight OWLs to him, and Harry’s dinner for Merope and Tom is elaborate. A private celebration just for them. It’s as though a whole world has opened up to Harry: pages of the Daily Prophet’s jobs section now available to a man with OWLs under his belt. Later, Harry celebrates again with Albus and Horace, who also delight in the end of another school year. A well-deserved break for the two professors shepherding anxious students through their year-end exams.

Merope turns her attention to the Hogwarts calendar as well, though her interest is more entrepreneurial: a line of Hogwarts potions kits is released that summer, each ingredient hand-picked and prepared by Merope. She’s gone a lot that summer, working hard to prepare the kits for the upcoming school year.

A month after his OWL results, Harry appears at Albus’ door with a NEWT preparation book, and he is welcomed inside. His resolve not to pick up another textbook again only lasted until he remembered a long-forgotten dream: to teach at Hogwarts.

“It’s a long shot, I know,” Harry says immediately after revealing the dream to Albus. “Merope tells me I should be sensible.”

Albus strokes his beard, a gesture reminiscent of his future self. His beard is short, auburn-brown, not yet the long white beard Harry first saw on him. “Defense, I assume?”

“I suppose I haven’t been subtle.”

“Neither has your skill set,” Albus replies, warmly. “You’re experienced in both the theory and the practical aspect of it. More so than the average wizard, I would say. Do you have dueling experience?”

“Knockturn Alley’s dueling dens,” Harry admits.

“Not quite applicable to a resume.”

No, not with them being illegal, but Harry had too much energy and not enough sense, and a need to fund Merope and Tom’s medical needs when Tom was very young.

“Is that where you received your scar?”

Unconsciously, Harry runs the pad of his thumb against the raised surface of the lightning bolt scar. “No, this happened when I was a baby.” Curse scars don’t happen by accident, but there’s not much Harry can say — Voldemort doesn’t exist in this world. Not now, hopefully not ever, with the good, quiet life Tom lives. “I wasn’t meant to survive, but here I am. It’s what drew me to Defense originally.”

“Then let’s see about a path forward. Your choice of Defense is better than, for example, Herbology. Defense has a higher turnover than other positions at Hogwarts; our Defense instructors are often far too active to remain here for long.” Albus hums thoughtfully. “After your NEWT in Defense, you’ll qualify to compete in official dueling tournaments.”

“The cost—”

“Plenty of scholarship opportunities. We’ll cross that bridge upon arrival. As a veteran of the dueling circles, I can pull some strings myself.”

“I never wanted to ask for special treatment.”

“My influence simply takes you to through the door of the dueling stage. Whether you take first place or are thoroughly trounced, that will be up to you. A few years in the dueling circuit, perhaps a mentorship? Doors will open themselves at that point. Even Headmaster Dippet would have to consider you for the spot, should it open up.”

“Alright,” Harry says, huffing a laugh. “Alright, what the hell. Let’s try.”

Even if he fails, what a wonder it will be, to duel the very best wizards and witches of this time. To duel Albus Dumbledore himself in his prime, the only man Voldemort was thought to fear.

It’s enough to inspire Harry to crack open the NEWT textbook and not flee for his life at the table of contents.

*

In the fall, Tom attends a prep school for Hogwarts, one his parents are proud to be able to afford. Funded by the potions kits, which were a hit with the students, there’s a little more money for the non-essentials. Harry boasts of Tom’s grades at breakfast, claiming that Tom has been inspired by Harry’s own path of education, while his taciturn son grumbles and avoids the attempted hugs.

“They grow up so fast,” Harry says, pretending to wipe a tear. “No more hugs. No more breakfasts with Dad. I’ll blink and he’ll be seventeen and pretending he doesn’t know me.”

“I already don’t know you,” Tom tells him. He reaches out as if to steal Harry’s toast, then seems to think better of it, grabbing his lunch box before fleeing out the door.

“Do you think he’s making friends?” Harry asks Merope, watching as Tom turns the corner. “He doesn’t talk about friends. I can’t tell if that’s because he has none or because he doesn’t want to share.”

“I don’t know. I never had friends as a child.”

“Me neither. Maybe we aren’t such great role models after all,” Harry jests, and Merope smiles at him in reply.

“Maybe,” she says, shaking her head, and there’s a ring of truth somewhere in her tone. 

Harry wants to ask, but she’s brushed him off a few times already. That she’s simply busy with the potions kits, but the peak season has passed. That she’s tired, but Harry hasn’t been able to determine a cause. That everything is fine, but if it were, she wouldn’t be vanishing so much. Even with Harry’s hectic work schedule, he’s noticed the empty spots where Merope should have been around.

They don’t have the type of marriage where Harry is obligated to know her comings and goings, but—

But he misses his wife when she’s gone and he doesn’t quite understand her absences, and it weighs on him over time.

“Not my business?” Harry asks, ruefully.

Merope presses a kiss against his lips. “It’s nothing, really. It will be over soon.”

*

In his worse moments, Harry thinks it’s an affair.

In his worst moments, Harry tries not to think at all.

*

Two aurors knock on Harry’s door in the night. Harry takes them to the kitchen, silences the room, and receives the worst news of his life: that the love of his life is no longer within the realm of the living.

The story is pieced together by the aurors from Morfin Gaunt’s account, and they themselves note that Morfin Gaunt is not a reliable witness.

Merope Gaunt visited Little Hangleton often, this much the aurors know for sure. Several times per year for several years, eating at the local pub and asking after Tom Riddle each time. She would disappear, going up the road to the big house on the hill, assumed by the townspeople to be lurking around for a sight of her ex-husband.

She never got over him, they claimed, and Harry can’t disagree. He’s known it all throughout their marriage.

Her visits grew in frequency during this past summer. That, Harry can’t argue either.

“Did you know where she was going?” an auror asks.

Harry shakes his head. “I thought it was business taking her away. At worst, that she was having an affair. Was it that? An affair?”

“No. By all accounts, the obsession was one-sided. She was chased out many times by the townspeople and by Riddle’s parents. Several times, she and her brother had loud rows about how she was shaming the family by hanging around a muggle. Riddle had moved on and refused to speak with her. He was supposed to be married tomorrow.”

Harry swallows. “Supposed to be?”

“He’s alive. St. Mungo’s will handle the curse wounds.” The auror grimaces. “It seems when Merope could no longer believe he could be convinced, she turned to magic, and he turned to his shotgun. Her death would have been fast. She didn’t suffer.”

A breath missed, then another, and for moments Harry struggles to breathe. He barely gets out, “What happened next?”

“Her brother heard the shot and used a spell that was outside of his parole instructions; aurors swarmed the scene almost immediately. He’ll be back in Azkaban for it, though his sentence won’t be as long as his previous one.”

The aurors are sympathetic, but firm, and caution Harry against doing anything rash in his grief.

“Do you have a friend you want to floo?” one asks, kindly.

Harry shakes his head. His eyes are still dry, but barely. The news can’t seem to penetrate. “I need to tell our son. I need to— I don’t know how.”

“He doesn’t need to know the full details,” the auror tells him.

Harry rubs at his eyes. “You don’t know Tom.”

By the time the aurors leave, the emptiness in Harry’s chest is almost unbearable. He loves Merope to the end of the earth — but what now, now that she is no longer here? The shock of it, the grief, it’s overwhelming. All he can do is hang on to the part of her that still lives: her son.

Harry makes hot chocolate for something to do with is hands. It doesn’t taste the same as when Merope would make it, but even that thought has him almost in tears.

He wakes Tom.

It’s the last thing Harry wants to do, but he knows that if he were in Tom’s place, he would want to know.

They sit on Tom’s bed together, Tom half in Harry’s lap, and Harry tells him the story as best as he knows it. A softer story than the aurors told, but what he believes to be an honest one, despite working on little knowledge with all participants dead or raving mad.

Tom cries soon after Harry tells him the news. It would break Harry’s heart if it weren’t already in pieces.

“Why would she do that?”

“You know your Mum was married once before you were born.”

“Tom Riddle Senior. I’m named after him.”

“Yes. He was your Mum’s first love, you know. She always wondered what could have been, had things worked out. You mustn’t blame him, Tom,” Harry says, and he stops because he doesn’t know how else to say it. How else to describe it without slandering a woman just dead — who was Tom’s beloved mother, Harry’s beloved spouse. “She cursed him awfully and he did the only thing he could do in return to defend himself. He wanted to stop her. I don’t think he meant to kill her.”

Tom doesn’t say that his Mum would never. He doesn’t say anything at all, until, “She took me with her once. I didn’t like it. I said I wanted to go home.”

“When was this?”

“July.”

“Oh, Tom,” Harry says, pressing his chin against Tom’s hair, holding him close. “I’m sorry.”

“Mum said it was our secret. Like— like the rest.”

And then he’s crying, and Harry’s crying, and it’s all Harry can do to say, “It’s not your fault. Your Mum— she had a hard life.”

Tom’s grief hurts more than his own. He’s a child, innocent in ways that Harry barely remembers being. Harry grew up in the shadow of his parents’ murder; for Tom, this is his very first encounter with death.

The next day, Tom is quiet, subdued. He chooses to go to school, but Harry tells him he can return home at anytime.

Harry takes the day off work and does odd jobs around the house, his mind everywhere and nowhere.

He can’t seem to find his way to wakefulness, like the coffee’s had no effect. His mind blurry, it feels as though Merope is just gone for a trip, rather than forever. It feels as though his head is splitting open.

When Tom returns home, Harry sits with him to look over his homework, then dinner. Dissociation, he eventually thinks, that’s what this must be. In the night, he throws up, and in the morning his heart is racing, and Tom looks at him as though Harry has grown a second head.

“I’ll take another day,” Harry says, blinking hard to work through the wooziness.

Tom’s in two in front of him. For the first time in Harry’s life in the past, he thinks in earnest of the man Tom might one day become. It makes no sense, no sense at all. His love for Merope used to dull Harry to the knowledge of his son’s possible future; it’s as though now that she’s gone, he can look at him with eyes wide open.

Harry goes to throw up again.

It’s the flu. It has to be.

The chills, the headaches, the throwing up.

When he returns to the kitchen, Tom’s gone off to school.

There won’t ever again be a coffee or chamomile tea left on the kitchen table for him.

Condolences come via owl. There are knocks on the door. Harry ignores them all.

In the afternoon, when the chills finally fade, Harry’s mind feels like his own again. He thinks back on his life with Merope, and he thinks, and he thinks—

He thinks he’s never been the type to fall in love at first sight. He stares at their wedding photo, where he’s smiling from ear to ear, and he doesn’t remember why. He’s been a devoted husband for years. It’s the cornerstone of Harry’s personality.

Sitting on the bed, photo frame in hand, Harry’s hand wavers for a moment.

It’s grief. It has to be.

Grief turning his mind around, splitting memories in two, distancing him from the love he feels for his wife. Anger, too, at the way she acted cruelly toward Riddle, a man she already harmed once. Denial of how easily she could leave their marriage to stalk a man who wouldn’t give her the time of day. How could she do it to Tom? To Harry?

It’s late afternoon when Harry makes his way downstairs. A day of stewing in his thoughts.

He takes the kitchen apart.

It’s not well-hidden, is the thing. Pantry drawer that holds the snacks Merope prefers, where Harry never cares enough to look other than to check if she’s low on anything, so that he can pick it up at the grocery store. Unlabeled, but many of Merope’s homemade sauces are.

He pours a splash into the sink, then heads to Merope’s potions studio. A drizzle of the potion onto a bezoar and there it is, the tell-tale fizzle. There’s only one class of potions this happens with and Harry’s finished his OWLs not too recently; the knowledge is fresh in his mind.

He sits there with the realization. Hears Tom return from school, then hears him leave. The kitchen must look like a hurricane went through it. Harry means to stand up, then doesn’t. Some times passes. How much — he isn’t sure. He hasn’t heard sounds in a while when a knock comes on the door.

Harry’s first thought is that it’s the aurors again. That this time, something has happened to Tom.

A silly thought. Tom is too sensible to get himself into trouble with the aurors. Much too sneaky, his kid.

Harry still hurries to the door.

It’s Albus, who carries what smells like Leaky Cauldron takeout. “Harry—”

“I need to find Tom. I’m sorry.” Seeing Albus, it’s too much, it’s not enough. Harry takes the takeout, but drops it just inside the house. Harry wipes the palms of his hands over his eyes. There’s no tears there, just the need to make his head work. Pressure helps. The nausea hasn’t gone away. Whether it is psychological or physical, a symptom of withdrawal, Harry doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter now. “I heard him leave, but it’s been hours, and— I need to find him.”

“Of course. Let’s try the school first.”

Harry breathes in. He nods. The panic quells, then rises again when Tom’s teachers say he hasn’t been at school since Merope’s death. Hogsmeade isn’t a large town, but it’s enormous when searching for a lost young boy. Harry checks the house again and finds no one.

It’s not until another hour passes that Harry has a hunch.

There’s a spot just inside the Forbidden Forest. Not too dangerous, but educational. A place Merope took Tom sometimes to teach him about different plants.

Harry’s hunch pays off. Albus falls back while Harry goes on ahead, taking a seat next to Tom on a log that’s seen better days. He’ll be laundering mold and dirt out of both their trousers.

“Hey, kiddo,” Harry says.

Tom’s flinch when Harry pulls him to his side speaks more than Harry wants to know. Ah, fuck. Nothing more to do than to turn toward Tom, to hug him properly and despite the way Tom can’t relax.

“Stop it. Stop pretending. You don’t care about me.” Despite his words, Tom doesn’t move. “Mum, she— she. And if you don’t care and Mum’s gone and Senior hates magic and Uncle Morfin is in prison, where am I supposed to go?”

Harry remembers when Tom was just beginning to talk. He remembers the first words Voldemort ever said to him, too. But oh, is there anyone weaker to a child’s tears than their parent — Harry can’t name a time when he hasn’t been undone.

“False premises lead to false conclusions, isn’t that how our potions book taught us, hm?” Slowly, Harry strokes Tom’s hair. “It’s harder with humans than with mushrooms, but it’s not too different. No one tied me to a chair to read you bedtime stories. No one held me at wandpoint when I said I loved you. Let’s give me a little credit.”

Tom all but collapses into the hug. “I knew. I knew about the potion.”

“It was hard for you, wasn’t it? Knowing.”

And there are those tears. “It’s your fault. You’re— you’re a bad wizard. You’re weak. You would leave if Mum didn’t make you stay. Just like Senior.”

One breath after another. That’s all there is to it. “Is that what Merope said?”

A nod into his shoulder. “I don’t want to go to him.”

“I’m not sending you away.”

“Why?”

“Love,” Harry says, and he can barely get the word out, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

“You’re stupid. You’re so stupid.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

He waits until Tom cries himself out, murmuring nonsense. There’s more conversations to be had, but none that can happen with a traumatized and exhausted kid. Never mind Harry’s own mental state. Holding Tom steady is the only thing keeping the rest of it at bay.

By the time Tom falls from tears to sleep, evening has closed in.

“Can you levitate him for me? I’m not in any shape to carry him,” Harry says, quietly.

Albus casts the spell. Barely above a whisper, he says, “I should have left. It was a private conversation.”

“It’s alright. You can stay.”

Maybe if Albus hadn’t overheard, Harry would have never revealed the truth of it to him. For Tom’s sake, for the shame of it. Maybe it would have stayed something clenched behind his teeth, like so many things have to a man who lost his way in the streams of time.

At home, Harry tucks Tom into bed. He kisses him on the forehead. He checks on Tom’s pet snake.

Downstairs, Albus has placed both tea and firewhiskey on the table, and Harry takes both. The kitchen has been tidied.

“I met Merope seven years ago.”

“It wasn’t love at first sight, then,” Albus says, carefully.

“Not the real kind.” The firewhiskey burns, but doesn’t warm him. “She was living on the streets, in bad shape. I took her to dinner. I felt sorry for her. She didn’t need to… I would have helped her anyway.”

“She took advantage of your kindness.”

“Tom’s right. I’m stupid. Seven years of my life, gone just like that. I don’t even know who I am anymore. I don’t know what to do.” Harry looks up from his drink. “I should go to sleep.”

“Do you have a guest bedroom set up?” When Harry shakes his head, Albus says, “The next best thing, then.”

There’s an unused room next to Tom’s that’s full of storage items. Harry stands listlessly while Albus transfigures items into a simple bed, then a mattress for the bed, complete with bedsheets and a blanket, and all in Gryffindor red. Harry blinks, and then he’s in the bed, and the ceiling is above him.

“You’re not stupid,” Albus tells him. “Or if you are, then we all are, every person who has ever been led astray. There are cruel people in this world — ones whose motives cannot be truly understood, not when the suffering they cause outweigh any claimed motives. She harmed you irreparably — and for that I am so sorry, Harry.”

Harry nods, unable to speak. If he moves, says a word, he may cry. He doesn’t want to, not in front of Albus.

Once Albus leaves, there is no longer anyone to stay strong for — least of all trying to stay strong for himself. Harry barely recognizes this man anymore. Surely these aren’t his hands, calloused not by quidditch but by years of labor. Surely this isn’t his house, bought with a dream in mind. Surely not a past he must reconcile if he intends to have a future.

But the bed is warm and Albus’ tone lingers, kind without a note of blame or scorn, and Harry falls into sleep.