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Chapter Text

The bar at night: pools of red light, the low burble of conversation muffled by long panels of dark wood. The bartender had salt and pepper hair and a startlingly young face, putting on an elaborate show with his magic. 

Harry watched, transfixed, as the vodka twisted like a snake, dancing through the air before diving into the cup without splashing a drop. 

The bartender caught Harry’s eye and winked. Harry laughed willingly, smiling.

A hand touched his shoulder, the faintest brush. Harry knew who it was from magic alone, a swell of darkness like a gathering storm. He turned, mouth going dry. 

“Lord Slytherin,” Harry greeted, standing to shake hands.

“Lord Potter-Black,” Tom Riddle replied in that wry, almost tender way that had Harry falling head over heels at eleven. 

Harry winced at the address.

“No?” Riddle asked softly, squeezing Harry’s hand. “Then shall I call you Professor like your students do? Or Headmaster?”

“Harry is fine. Like you used to,” Harry corrected.

“Then you must call me Tom again,” Tom said, smiling. 

Harry’s breath caught at the expression. Tom had always been unnervingly handsome. He had always been the kind of man who knew exactly how to put himself together—how to carry himself.

No wonder Ginny was probably in love with him.

Tom was dressed in expensive charcoal robes with an emerald silk vest. He was wearing a tailored overcloak that flowed like a glossy dark waterfall around his shoulders. Harry watched as Tom unclipped his cloak, settling gracefully into the seat beside Harry, their knees accidentally pressing together. Harry composed himself. 

“Alright, Tom,” Harry agreed, smiling. “Shall I order you a drink?”

Tom gave Harry an amused look.

“I am nearly six years your elder, dear. I will be buying the drinks,” Tom dismissed, lifting his hand to catch the bartender’s attention.

The bartender turned and Tom’s expression altered ever so slightly, a sudden coldness gathering in his eyes—the way he used to look at most people back when they were at school.

Tom ordered a pitcher of sangria. Harry hadn’t even known the bar had anything but stale beer, tequila shots, and firewhiskey.

“It’s their specialty,” Tom explained, pouring Harry’s glass. “Have you been here before, Harry?”

“No,” Harry admitted. “But it’s very nice.”

“I’m so glad you think so. Cheers,” Tom said, lifting his glass. 

Harry tapped his glass against Tom’s, sipping. The sangria was sweet and rich, the bright notes of citrus and the darkness of the red wine coalescing in Harry’s mouth. Much better than the firewhiskey Harry would have probably ordered if left to his own devices. 

“How was your day?” Tom asked.

How unusual that Tom wanted to do small talk. Harry thought they might go straight to business.

He thought about his Friday, meeting with Dumbledore in the morning to go over the Hogwarts bridge curriculum, working on the garden with the five year olds, renewing the wards on the grounds, teaching the nine and ten-year-olds runes, the endless paperwork, the parent meetings. Most days at St. Hedwig’s were busy, but Harry had made himself even busier after the disaster of last week—trying to get over what had happened.

“Busy. How was yours?” Harry asked.

“Busy,” Tom echoed, mirroring Harry’s inflection. 

Harry’s lips twitched.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice,” he said. 

“Anytime,” Tom said, resting his head in the palm of his hand as he looked at Harry, his elbow on the bar. “My schedule is always open for you.”

“After all this time?” Harry asked, surprised.

“I don’t forget debts,” Tom said smoothly. 

“It’s not a debt,” Harry argued, his words an old refrain. “And if it is, it’s a mutual one.”

“Regardless, you saved my life, Harry,” Tom countered. “So name it and it will be done.”

Was it strange that Harry didn’t like the idea of the debt being fulfilled? That would mean his last tie to Tom would be gone.

“I want a mutual agreement,” Harry said stubbornly. “If you help me with this, I will try to help you in return as long as what you ask for is something I can do. I want this to be completely separate from the past.”

Tom gazed at Harry for a long moment, his eyes like rich dark velvet in the light of the bar.

“Alright, dear. Tell me what you need,” Tom said, pouring Harry another glass of sangria before filling his own cup.

Harry’s face went hot with shame. He wouldn’t have wanted to admit this to Tom of all people, but he was desperate. He couldn’t think of any other way.

He procrastinated for a solid minute, drinking too much of his sangria too quickly. 

“Harry,” Tom said, hand touching Harry’s shoulder. “There is no such thing as embarrassment when it comes to you and me. Just tell me.”

Harry took a deep breath.

“Last week, I proposed to Ginny,” Harry started.

Tom’s face went blank.

“Proposed what?” he asked with no inflection. 

Harry gave Tom a baffled look. 

“Er, seeing as me and her have been dating for the past couple years, marriage?”

Tom’s face stayed expressionless. 

“Oh,” he said after an appreciable pause. “Yes, I see now. You were always one to move quickly.”

Harry gave Tom a half-exasperated, half-fond glance. Sometimes, it was like Tom lived on another planet.

“Are congratulations in order?” Tom asked smoothly. “Shall I order us champagne?”

Harry’s heart twinged. 

“No,” he said, twisting the stem of his glass. “She, er… she turned me down.”

Tom seemed shocked into silence. Harry waited for his reaction, stomach churning. Finally, after a minute, Tom seemed to reboot.

“Oh, Harry,” Tom murmured in a tender, comforting way. “I’m so sorry. Did she say why?”

Harry nodded, face falling.

“She said I lacked ambition, that she needed someone who can help her more with her political aspirations,” Harry explained. He hesitated. “And… well, essentially, she implied she wanted someone more like you.”

“Like me?” Tom repeated, eyes narrowed. 

“Yes,” Harry repeated grudgingly. 

It wasn’t like Harry didn’t understand where Ginny was coming from. Tom was… well Tom. But it did hurt that she had mentioned another man in her rejection, a man Harry still felt inexplicably close to. It wasn’t quite betrayal, but some other feeling.

“I’ll admit, dear, I’m struggling to see where the favor comes in,” Tom said, pouring them both more sangria.

“Well, I thought about it for a while, and I decided I wasn’t ready to give up. Ginny and I have been together for so long,” Harry explained. “I can’t imagine my future without her.”

“I see,” Tom said, lifting an eyebrow. “Does Weasley seem receptive to continued advances?”

Oh god. Now Tom thought he was some suitor spurned who couldn’t take no for an answer and moved on to harassment.

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “I wasn’t going to bother her or keep talking to her or anything, I promise. But I thought, maybe if I tried to improve myself, if I tried to be more like what she needed, she might change her mind and give me another chance.”

“Ah,” Tom said with a knowing look. “So you want me to mentor you. Take you under my wing.”

“Yes,” Harry confessed, embarrassed. “Just some pointers, maybe. I don’t expect anything extensive.”

“Earlier you said Ginny said she wanted someone more ‘like me.’ What does that mean, exactly?” Tom asked, tilting his head curiously. 

“You know,” Harry said, waving his hand inarticulately towards Tom. “Like you. Sophisticated, elegant, worldly. Well-versed in politics and history and literature. Husband material.”

Tom’s expression didn’t change but something in his eyes seemed to light up. He was always such a magpie for praise.

“My, Harry, that’s going to take an awful lot of polishing.” The words had no heat—a nip like a shepherding dog nipped. All play.

Harry scoffed, amusement bubbling in his chest.

“I forgot what a jerk you could be. I know it’s an unusual request—”

“I’ll do it,” Tom interrupted, resting his hand over Harry’s, their ring fingers overlapping. “I’ll make a husband out of you, Harry.”

“You will?” Harry asked, guarded hope fluttering in his chest.

“Of course,” Tom promised, flashing a charming smile.

“It might take a long time,” Harry said pessimistically. “I’m not exactly a great foundation—”

“Nonsense. I have no doubt you’re capable of becoming whoever you want to be,” Tom said, banishing Harry’s worries in an instant.

“Thank you,” Harry said with relief, turning his hand so his fingers brushed Tom’s before pulling away. “What can I do for you in return?”

Tom quirked his lips while refilling Harry’s half empty glass of wine. 

“Let me think about it,” he said.

Harry gave Tom a look.

“Don’t look at me like that, Harry. I won’t ask anything you aren’t capable of,” Tom said with a daring smile. He lifted an eyebrow and outstretched his hand. “So do we have a deal?”

Harry stared at Tom’s hand for a long moment, wondering if he was making a mistake. But wasn’t it better to try and lose again then never try at all?

“Yes,” Harry said, taking Tom’s hand. He thought they were going to do a handshake, but Tom just held his hand for a long moment.

Harry gave Tom a slightly baffled look, and Tom finally let go, clearing his throat.

“To second chances,” Tom said, lifting his glass of sangria.

“To second chances,” Harry agreed, lifting his glass as well.

They downed their cups and Tom stood up, checking his wristwatch. He gestured for the bill, dropping a handful of galleons on the tray with a smooth flick of his wrist.

“I have to head out now, dear, but I’ll come and visit you on Monday so we can plan our schedule. How does that sound?”

“Perfect,” Harry said, also standing. He swayed on his feet, more than a little tipsy. “Thank you so much again, Tom. I know it’s asking a lot.”

Tom frowned, resting his hand on Harry’s forehead like he was checking Harry’s temperature. 

“You’re drunk,” Tom said matter-of-factly.

“Just tipsy,” Harry argued, crossing his arms. “The sangria was stronger than I expected.”

“I’ll take you home,” Tom said imperially. 

“Oh, I’ll be alright, I promise,” Harry waved off.

“Are you still staying with her?” Tom asked, concern in his eyes. 

Harry flushed. 

“No,” he said. “Definitely not. I needed space so I left.”

Tom looked surprised.

“Wasn’t it your apartment?” he asked. “Your first home after Hogwarts if I recall.”

Harry wanted to quip his surprise at how much Tom seemed to recall, but he knew very well there was no faster way to get Tom to clam up. And Harry didn’t mind the asking, truly. He was only bewildered at how interested Tom seemed to be in the minutiae of his life. He couldn’t recall a time when he had ever garnered so much of Tom’s attention.

“It’s not important,” Harry dismissed. “I’m actually going back to St. Hedwig’s. I have a few papers to grade.” Harry was actually living in his office but some things were better left unsaid. “I haven’t had time to start looking for somewhere new.”

“Take my hand,” Tom said, extending it.

“I really will be alright, Tom,” Harry insisted.

What did Tom think of him? When he looked at Harry, did he still see the tiny first-year with mismatching socks and Dudley’s oversized gym shoes? 

Harry was twenty-four now. He could take care of himself. 

“Allow me, Harry. I would feel better knowing that you’re somewhere safe,” Tom insisted. 

“You don’t have to be such a gentleman with me,” Harry complained. 

“Nonsense,” Tom said with a rakish smile. “If I was any less of a gentleman, how could I be your instructor?”

“If this is a lesson, then shouldn’t I be the one taking you home?” Harry countered, raising an eyebrow.

Tom laughed. 

“Just take my hand already, you contrary thing,” he said fondly. 

The last dregs of Harry’s awful no-good unrequited crush reared its head, and just like that Harry gave in.

Tom apparated them out of the bar to the entrance of the gates of St. Hedwig’s. They walked forward, Harry unstitching and restitching the outer layer of wards with his magic. They entered the outer gardens of the school, hedge mazes and whimsically pruned bushes, marble statues of animals hidden in the nooks and crannies to amuse the children.

Tom didn’t let go of Harry’s hand, even though the flare of magic from Harry must have burned. 

“These wards are quite good. Who did you hire?” Tom asked. 

Harry shook his head.

“I did them myself,” Harry brushed off with a dismissive hand wave. “And they could be far better.”

“Still, you’ve improved,” Tom remarked, sending a little thread of his magic to light up the golden net of spell work.

“I’ve had to,” Harry confessed, brushing his hand over a marble lion in a facsimile of petting.

St. Hedwig’s had many enemies, mostly pureblood radicals leftover from the war, furious that a magical primary school for Muggleborn children existed. There had been a number of attacks and Harry, as headmaster, was the primary vanguard.

Tom’s eyes went dark. 

“I know,” he said. 

Harry’s mind flashed back to the last time he’d seen Tom outside of the annual Ministry Christmas ball. It was two years ago—Harry’s first year as Headmaster—and the original St. Hedwig’s had been bombed by a coven of blood supremacists. That was before Harry had moved the academy to the old Potter manor. Not the home of his long-deceased parents but the estate of his also long-deceased grandparents. 

He didn’t have much in the way of family these days.

Back then, Tom had arrived at the scene of the explosion first. Harry had been near magical exhaustion by that point from holding the shield around the children for so many hours while simultaneously doing his best to support them. His memories of that day had turned blurry like spilled ink, and it was hard to lay a sequence to the aftermath. He remembered the piles of rubble bearing down on them from all sides, the children growing quieter and quieter as the oxygen supply dwindled. He remembered the hopelessness that had overtaken him. And then the burst of Tom’s magic like the first drop of water on a parched throat.

It had taken everything to stop the school from closing back then. 

“I’ll see you on Monday,” Tom reminded. 

Harry nodded his agreement. 

“I’ll send the floo details through Hedwig,” Harry said.

Tom’s lips twitched.

“What?” Harry asked.

“Merely amused that you named your school after your owl.”

“I did not,” Harry argued, annoyed. “You know I named my school and my owl after the same person. Hedwig’s the patron saint of orphans.”

“Of course, Harry. That’s what everyone thinks,” Tom teased, eyes glinting.

Harry scowled fiercely.

“Good night, Tom,” Harry said, turning away.

“Good night, Harry,” Tom replied smugly, apparating away with a brush of wind to the nape of Harry’s neck that tousled Harry’s curls.

_

Chapter Text

First Year

Hogwarts was beyond anything Harry could dream of. A palace of stone where he never went cold, never went hungry, never disappeared. The first time a classmate greeted him in the hallways, patting his shoulder—Harry’s eyes had burned. It was mortifying. Such tiny acts of human kindness overwhelmed him. He was touched by everything. He spent his first couple months at Hogwarts in a tumult of sentimentalism, experiencing normal human things that he had only ever read about: first friends, first bedroom, first time having enough to eat, first time doing his homework when it was bright outside, first time his body didn’t ache from endless chores. 

He was a year younger than his classmates, a fact Headmaster Dumbledore had told him not to mention very much. Harry didn’t care for the reason. He was only happy to have escaped the Dursleys earlier. One year closer to emancipation.

Tom Riddle was only a whisper in the corner of his ear. A fifth-year who half the school was in love with. 

Harry didn’t have time for gossip. He was behind his classmates, academically and developmentally—his powers hadn’t condensed into anything remotely malleable so he lacked the fine motor control his peers had. His magic was brittle, unwieldy, and difficult to handle even on a good day. 

But Harry kept working with it, practicing spells again and again like pulling jagged rays of sun into molten taffy until his magic eventually fell in line.

Professor McGonnagall said once that his magic was too powerful for his 10-year-old body and that he would grow into it soon enough, but Harry feared deep down that she was just being nice. She was more fond of him than he deserved—she saw his father’s ghost when she looked at him.

In Harry’s eyes, he had been given one sole opportunity to make something of his life—to become someone the Dursleys couldn’t subjugate anymore. And he would not squander it. 

He imagined having a nice job he loved. Warm meals. A home of his own. Being the kind of respectable adult who would never ignore a child in need. 

That was all he wanted. Ambition was a privilege. Love was a privilege. 

It was winter break, Hogwarts glazed in a sleek coat of ice, and Harry was walking through the corridors idly. There was nothing he had to do for once, so he was passively exploring, letting his feet lead. He went down a set of stairs. Then another. He must be near the dungeons.

He turned a corner, tripping on air and Dudley’s old gym shoes. His momentum took him down and he nearly collided into a much taller boy, who caught him, barely. Must be a fifth or sixth year.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry apologized, straightening up.

The older boy was beautiful and naturally expressionless. Thick dark wavy hair with eyes like amber and cheekbones sharp enough to cut. His magic felt like a force of nature. Harry’s own magic surged like a sudden summer storm to match it.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” the older boy said, curling his lip. 

Harry’s heart shriveled at the expression. 

“I’m Harry…” Harry said quietly. “Harry Potter.”

The older boy’s face smoothened at the edges, like his irritation had been ironed out.

“Oh. You’re the other orphan,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Other orphan?” Harry questioned. 

The older boy didn’t respond. 

He lifted his wand, carving out a fluid shape in the air.

And in a sweep of magic, one of Harry’s ugly gym shoes transformed into a black loafer with a short heel. The kind of shoes the other, more well-off boys wore. 

“Good shoes will take you good places,” the older boy said cryptically, already turning away.

“Wait,” Harry said, hand stopping an inch before catching the older boy’s sleeve. “I didn’t catch your name.”

The boy turned back, lifting an imperious eyebrow.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

“Well, Tom Marvolo Riddle,” Harry said, crossing his arms with an unimpressed scowl. “You’ve left me with mismatched shoes.”

Tom looked deeply amused.

“Did I?” he asked, smirking. “God helps those who help themselves, Harry Potter. Good day.”

And then he walked away, his robes sweeping behind him.

14 years later

What Harry liked best about gardening was the feeling of dirt against his fingers—the feeling of shaping another life. He had created these gardens from the ground up, no mistrusting aunt to hold back its potential—and in it he had carved out his own personal paradise. 

Harry’s most precious garden was in the heart of the house. The Potter manor, Elkwood, was structured like one of those old Roman homes with an enormous courtyard in the middle. By the time Harry inherited it, the courtyard had fallen into disrepair, but that only gave Harry more freedom to rebuild it.

The children adored it and took their classes outside as often as they could persuade their instructors. They had gotten some say on the design. The younger years had wanted a butterfly garden, swings, and fountains to play in. Harry had also wanted water features so he had enlisted Neville’s help to craft intricate shallow pools, gargling fountains, waterways, and basins bordering the marble walkways, filled with water lilies and fairy moss. Protection charms had been carved to make every body of water safe from drowning. Harry had also figured out how to cast weather-controlling charms so the courtyard always stayed temperate.

Strange, living here like this now. 

He had been raised for war. Had known it for most of his life. 

And now he planted flowers and taught children their ABCs. 

Harry was weeding the bed of snapdragons when Dobby popped behind him. Dobby was in his sweater vest phase. The elf had accessorized with a purple bow tie with orange spots along with a beanie.

“Headmaster Harry,” Dobby called. “Your guest be waiting for you in your office.”

Had it already gotten so late? Harry cast a quick tempus, surprised to see it was nearing 6 AM. The children would be arriving in another two hours. 

“Shall I be finishing up with the snapdragons?” Dobby asked, outfit changing to gardening attire with a snap.

“Thank you, Dobby, you’re an absolute dear,” Harry said with relief, pecking his bald head before taking off his gardening gloves. 

Dobby flushed bright red, pooh-ing and pah-ing.

There was no time to change his own clothes, of course. Tom never liked to be left waiting.

Wiping a smudge of dirt off his face with the back of his hand, Harry ascended the long set of spiral steps leading to the top floor, where his office was. He took a second to catch his breath so he wouldn’t be panting like a dog. 

“Sorry to make you wait,” Harry said, walking in.

Tom was sitting by the window, looking smug and regal in silk as usual.

Harry halted for a moment, overcome by the roiling way their magic reacted to each other. It had seemed more muted in the club, surrounded by so many others, but here alone, Harry could feel his magic singing out of his skin. Lightning to Tom’s dark thunderheads.

Tom released a shaky exhale and Harry knew he must be feeling it too.

“You were gardening,” Tom said, gesturing to the window. 

“Yes,” Harry agreed, turning the kettle on.

“Don’t you hire someone?” Tom asked curiously.

“I like doing it myself,” Harry answered briskly. 

The school didn’t have the resources to keep hiring this person and that to take care of things around here. They were not particularly well-funded by the Ministry. Harry, Dobby, and his teachers handled the brunt of repairs and warding. Harry would use his personal funds, but Hermione had forbidden it, promising that she would increase his budget as soon as she could. In the meantime, there was the labor and meager craftsmanship of their own hands. It was an awful lot of work, but Harry was proud of what they had built. 

“Neville helps when he has time,” Harry added. “He wants to come teach here when he’s done with his mastery.”

“I see,” Tom said, not looking particularly interested in Neville’s life. “And do you always kiss your house elves?”

Harry laughed, shooting Tom an amused look that Tom didn’t return.

“Only when they are particularly loveable.”

Harry handed Tom his cup of tea. Harry had picked the green mug for him, knowing it was Tom’s favorite color. He reached for his own scarlet mug with dancing snitches, coming to sit beside Tom on the window seat.

Harry rested his head against the glass, sapped from the heat of the sun.

“Do you want a biscuit?” Harry offered, summoning the jar. “I baked them yesterday. They’re still pretty fresh.”

Harry had made them for the children. They were all provided breakfast and lunch every day. If Harry had his way—which he would—they would never know hunger or thirst a single day they played and studied under his roof.

“A man of many talents,” Tom praised, accepting one.

“I think you’re confusing us.”

Tom bit into the biscuit, making an appreciative sound.

“Do you want cream or jam?” Harry asked. “I think I have some honey too.”

Tom covered his mouth with his hand like he was trying not to laugh.

Harry elbowed him hard, embarrassed at his own fussiness. It was not his fault he had become an old lady in his retirement. 

That only made Tom laugh for real.

“This is perfect just as is, Harry,” Tom said warmly. He checked his watch. “I hate to hasten us, but we have much to do. Shall we get to business?”

Harry nodded. 

“Let’s begin with our schedules. I’m mostly free in the evenings though I am free sporadically through the day,” Tom said. “I can do weekends as well.”

“That’s all good with me,” Harry agreed. “I can work around your schedule. I have to be here while school’s going on, but otherwise I’ll try to schedule my meetings so it won’t interrupt us. And summer will be here in a couple of weeks so classes will be out.”

“Perfect,” Tom said. “Wizengamot will be adjourning for the summer soon as well, so I should have significantly more time.”

Tom reached into his briefcase for a notebook and quill. 

“Now let me examine you,” he said.

“Huh?” Harry asked, confused. 

Tom opened a blank page, scribbling something in a language Harry didn’t know so he couldn’t decipher what it said. It was most likely a Western European dialect. Tom had spent a couple of years traveling the world right after the war was over.

“I have to see how much work needs to be done,” Tom brushed off, giving a critical look to the way Harry was slouched over. “Stand up for me, dear.”

Harry half-wanted to argue, but figured he shouldn’t antagonize the man who was doing him a massive favor. He set down his mug of tea, standing up. 

Tom stood as well, circling Harry like a shark, making further incomprehensible notes in his book.

Harry felt the brush of Tom’s hand on his back, gently pushing him to stand up straighter. 

Tom reached for Harry’s glasses, pulling them off before examining the fracture of the frame at the nose. Harry wore the same spectacles Dudley had broken an uncountable number of times before. 

Tom clucked his tongue. 

“Why do you still have this old pair, Harry?” Tom asked. “And the clothes you’re wearing—why do you still put them on?”

Harry stared down at his outfit, an old pair of joggers and a ragged tee from his cousin.

“I was gardening,” Harry defended weakly. “I don’t want to wear anything nice if it’ll just get filthy.”

“They make gardening robes, Harry. Robes specifically designed for working with magical plants, which you have in abundance in your garden.”

Harry deigned not to reply, giving Tom an annoyed look. Why would he spend all those galleons on gardening robes of all things? He didn’t plant anything dangerous here, except in the locked greenhouses for potions and healing. It wouldn’t be safe with all the children underfoot.

Tom’s hand suddenly grasped Harry’s chin, turning Harry’s face one way before the other. He made an approving sound in the back of his throat.

“Your eyes are as exquisite as always,” Tom murmured with a note of admiration in his voice, his gaze dark and warm as cognac.

“Ginny always said they were my best feature,” Harry said self-deprecatingly, brushing off the praise.

Tom scoffed.

“Your most striking feature? I suppose. But one cannot discount this—” Tom said, touching Harry’s jaw “—or this,” he said, running his thumb up Harry’s cheekbone and brushing Harry’s eyelashes “—or this,” he said, twisting Harry’s messy curls around his fingers.

“You flatter me,” Harry mumbled disbelievingly, avoiding Tom’s eyes. 

He felt on edge. What was Tom playing at? When had he ever complimented anyone so directly? Much less Harry of all people. Was he trying to build Harry’s confidence with platitudes?

“I am not. You are simply unaccustomed to praise,” Tom noted matter-of-factly, making another note in his book.

It was like he had enlisted a psychiatrist. Harry rolled his eyes.

Tom caught the gesture, dragging a nail down Harry’s cheek in punishment, not hard enough to scratch. 

Harry scowled and Tom smirked at him.

“Walk,” Tom instructed. 

“Where?” Harry asked. 

“In a line,” Tom said like it was obvious. 

Harry grudgingly complied, wondering if recruiting Tom’s help was more trouble than it was worth. Tom had always been an extreme kind of perfectionist and Harry had just offered himself up on a silver platter to be grinded down to grist.

“Now again without slouching,” Tom instructed, balancing something heavy on Harry’s head. 

“Is this a book?” Harry asked, incredulously. 

“Yes. Your reading assignment for this week,” Tom mentioned off-handedly. “Now walk again.”

His reading assignment? What was this? School?

Harry stilled trying to figure out how to move without unbalancing the book. He tried a few tentative steps, growing more confident when he realized it wasn’t going to fall. 

“You always had good balance,” Tom noted approvingly. “Now bow.”

“Bow?” Harry questioned. “With the book?”

Tom didn’t answer, giving Harry a challenging smile. He was so annoying.

Harry glared into Tom’s eyes, carefully doing a half-bob. The book nearly slipped off but stayed barely, Harry having to hold his head at a tilted angle so it wouldn’t fall. 

“Straighten your head, Harry. Without dropping the book preferably,” Tom ordered, smirking like a twat. He had always loved torturing Harry. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Lord Slytherin,” Harry said with a soft, dagger-like tone, still glaring. “Why don’t you demonstrate yourself?”

Tom laughed, moving forward. Harry thought he was going to show off how well he could bow with a book on his head but instead, he reached for Harry’s chin, fixing the angle before rebalancing the book. 

“Like this, Harry,” he said, gently nudging Harry’s feet apart. 

Tom cast a spell with a circular twist of his wand, changing Harry’s sweaty gardening clothes into rich silk emerald robes. Harry flinched in surprise.

With one hand, Tom guided Harry to hold the hem of his robes out, his other hand on Harry’s waist like they were dancing. 

“This leg behind the other,” Tom instructed, nudging with his foot. “Rotate both your feet out. And lift your other hand up and curve it in. Now drop vertically, straight down, Harry.”

Harry complied, legs feeling strangely unsteady at the new odd angle. Tom didn’t let go of his waist, helping to balance him.

“Now back up, Harry,” Tom murmured, squeezing Harry’s waist. 

Harry rose wobbly, but the book didn’t drop. 

“That is a wizarding bow, Harry. It’s how we greet one another. Not handshakes,” Tom said.

“You sound so condescending,” Harry snapped, feeling hot and embarrassed. He had never learned any of this.

“I’m not,” Tom countered, eyes narrowed. “I was in your shoes once too, Harry.”

That was true enough. Harry briefly regretted his curtness before figuring Tom could handle it.

Tom let go of Harry’s waist. 

“Now do it again.”

Harry tried to repeat what Tom had told him, bending his legs and arm, feeling like a wooden ballerina. 

“Hold that position, Harry,” Tom ordered when Harry had reached the lowest point. 

He circled Harry again, adjusting Harry’s hands and feet, lifting Harry’s chin up.

“Now rise.”

Harry rose up, muscles trembling. 

“Again,” Tom ordered. 

Harry gave Tom a look. 

Tom raised an eyebrow back. 

“Any day, dear.”

Harry bowed and rose.

“Too fast,” Tom complained. “Again.”

So Harry did it again, slower. The book nearly fell from his head, muscles twitching from the pose. He was surprised at how weak they were at these new movements. He played quidditch every weekend and fenced twice a week.

“Too coltish,” Tom complained. “You looked like a newborn stag getting used to its rack of antlers.”

Harry frowned, attempting the bow again.

“Much better,” Tom said approvingly. “Again.”

Harry bowed, Tom circling him again, making minute adjustments.

“Again,” Tom repeated.

Was this a test? If so, how was Harry meant to pass it? By bowing perfectly?

Harry’s mind flared with determination. He knew this game of Tom’s—it was old to him. Harry would not be defeated. If Tom was trying to scare him off, it wouldn’t work.

Harry bowed and bowed, motions slipping closer and closer to fluidity until it reached the limits of his body’s capacity for grace. His focus contracted to Tom’s judgment, all other channels of thought growing dim.

“Perfect,” Tom finally uttered, the word filling Harry with a strange kind of euphoria. “Again.”

Harry bowed. 

Tom made him repeat it five more times before he was finally satisfied. 

Harry’s legs trembled as he stood. Tom retrieved the book from Harry’s head, floating it over to the window seat.

“If bowing is not suitable, such as in cases when we are greeting a witch or an important ally, we kiss the back of the hand,” Tom instructed, lifting Harry’s hand and brushing his lips over Harry’s knuckles. “Your turn.”

Harry tentatively reached for Tom’s hand, bowing over and grazing his lips over pale skin before letting go. Tom’s hand was not cold but not warm either—and soft, like he used moisturizer.

“Good,” Tom said, nodding. “And if we are greeting an important ally or a close friend in public, we use a closer greeting.”

Tom leaned forward, touching his cheek against Harry’s. 

“Now you,” Tom instructed. 

Harry bent towards Tom, trying to match the airy quick way Tom had touched cheeks. He accidentally turned too fast as he withdrew, lips brushing Tom’s face. 

“That’s also acceptable,” Tom said, a sly smile aimed at Harry. “Though rather intimate.”

“Sorry,” Harry said, embarrassed.

“Lesson one, Harry. No unnecessary apologies,” Tom chastised.

“I thought lesson one was bowing?” Harry teased. “Or was it apparating drunk people home?”

Tom cast his eyes to the sky like he was either begging for patience or hiding his amusement.

“Let’s sit, Harry,” Tom said, guiding Harry back to the window seat. 

Harry picked up his cup of tea, reheating it with a charm. He reheated Tom’s tea too, out of courtesy. Tom raised his cup with an appreciative smile, picking up the book with his other hand. 

“Thank you. You will read this for me by Saturday, dear,” Tom said, handing Harry the thick tome Harry had balanced on his head. “We will have tea and discuss it together then. I’m very curious to hear your thoughts.”

Harry stared at the book, dark blue with intricate gold designs. The Origins of Magicke by Gibb Goodwick.

“Do you have any complaints, Harry?” Tom asked in a silky voice. 

“No,” Harry said stubbornly, even though he was still reeling from his first lesson with Tom. The endless bowing. Tom’s critique of his clothing, his glasses. The stupid book on his head the whole time. His bloody reading assignment!

“No?” Tom repeated in a sotto voice, eyes lit up with amusement. “Very good, Harry. I think I should warn you, though, now that you have given yourself to me, I am utterly incapable of letting you reach anything other than your full potential. I will complete you.”

“That’s what I want,” Harry grumbled, keeping his gaze fixed on his lap. 

“Good,” Tom said. He reached for Harry’s chin again, lifting Harry’s face so their eyes met. “I only push you because I know what you’re capable of, Harry.”

Harry stayed quiet, not knowing what to say. He thought Tom would be giving him a few pointers in his free time. He didn’t expect this level of involvement. 

“After tea, we’ll work more on your posture and elocution.”

Harry nodded, overwhelmed. This was sort of a lot.

“Are you fully committed to this, Harry?” Tom asked. 

“What… what do you mean?” Harry asked hesitantly. 

“I mean will you trust me?” Tom asked, blowing the steam from his tea. “Because if this is going to work, you need to give yourself to me completely. You’ll need to put your faith in me and obey me, even when you’re uncomfortable or uncertain.”

“But how can I when I still don’t know what you want in return?” Harry questioned.

Tom nodded. 

“There’s a ball planned for next April,” Tom said. That was nearly a year away. “I would like you to attend with me.”

“Why?” Harry asked, blindsided. 

“That’s all I can tell you for right now, Harry.” 

“How is attending a ball on one day the same as you helping me out for weeks, potentially months?”

Tom lifted an eyebrow.

“You forget your own power, Lord Potter-Black,” Tom reminded gently.

“So you want me to help with some political thing,” Harry concluded. “I’m willing, but only if you tell me about it first. And if I don’t agree with it, you’ll have to pick something else”

“Very well,” Tom said. “Shall we shake on it?”

Tom outstretched his hand and Harry reached out to clasp it. 

“Do you really think this will work?” Harry asked quietly. “That Ginny will reconsider my suit?”

Tom’s eyes darkened.

“I think when I’m done with you, there will be no one in this world who doesn’t covet you. She will reconsider. Or more likely, she will spend the rest of her life regretting what she could have had.”

“There’s no need for that,” Harry said, mortified at Tom’s pronouncement. Why was he so bloody dramatic? “If things don’t work out and she falls in love with someone else, I would hope she would be happy. And that they’d take care of her.”

Tom gave him a disbelieving look. 

“How long were you two dating again? Two years, was it?”

“Five years on and off,” Harry corrected self-consciously. “Is it really so odd?”

Tom’s eyes narrowed, dark pinpricks. 

“You are far too noble, Harry. If the person I loved was with anyone else, I wouldn’t rest until they were mine. I would take their heart, chamber by chamber, until they couldn’t imagine belonging to anyone but me.”

It was a drastic change from Harry’s memories of Tom.

“Even if they were already happy?” Harry challenged. 

“Whatever meager happiness they were feeling before pales in comparison to what I could give them—what I could make them feel.”

So bloody arrogant. 

“Well, you said you don’t do love anyway,” Harry pointed out, annoyed. “So I don’t think you know how it works, Tom.”

Tom quirked his mouth with amusement. 

“That was so long ago, Harry. And I was very foolish back then.”

“But has it changed?” Harry asked, disbelieving. Tom had always been such an unrepentant Casanova

“Oh, yes,” Tom said solemnly. 

“You’re in love with someone?” Harry asked, utterly shocked. “You?”

Tom didn’t answer, drinking his tea.

Oh, this was too good.

“Let me help you,” Harry said eagerly, burying the mischief that threatened to seep out of his smile. “It can be part of our exchange.”

“How can you help me, Harry?” Tom asked reluctantly. 

“I’ll be your wingman! Just tell me who they are and I’ll talk you up to them. Also, well…” Harry cleared his throat, wondering how to put it delicately. “You’re sort of bad at feelings.”

“Am I?” Tom asked, raising his eyebrows. 

“Yes,” Harry said, patting Tom’s thigh consolingly. “But I can be your advisor.”

Tom stared at Harry for a very long moment.

“I can’t tell you their name,” he said firmly. 

“That’s alright,” Harry waved off. “I don’t need it. It’ll make talking you up a little harder but we’ll work with what we have.”

“You’re determined to do this?” Tom asked, furrowing his brow. “To be my counsel in matters of the heart?”

Harry nearly burst out laughing at the way Tom said it, but he held it in. 

Tom Riddle, in love for the first time! How absurd! 

How strangely delightful.

“Absolutely,” Harry said, struggling to keep a straight face. 

He was relieved to find very little jealousy in his own heart. He once believed he would never get over Tom. 

How time altered everything.

Tom caught their fingers together before letting go of Harry’s hand.

“You help me win back Ginny, and I’ll help you win over your love,” Harry said warmly. “As well as help with the other ball thing you mentioned.”

“Very well, then,” Tom agreed, his lips twitching. “Let our deal be set.”

It still felt a little unequal to Harry, but much better than what they’d started with.

They shook their hands together, making it official.

Tom drained his teacup before checking his wristwatch.

“What time is it?” Harry wondered.

“Nearing eight,” Tom answered.

“The children will be here soon,” Harry sighed.

He frowned. Strange as it was, he was enjoying spending time with Tom again. 

It was a little like rereading a favorite book. There were the parts you remembered loving, and the parts you loved now that time had passed and you had gained the experience to appreciate them better.

Not that Tom was anything so static as a book. He had transformed so much from their youth, it almost made Harry feel a little lonely.

But Harry had changed too. 

He wondered if he was as unrecognizable to Tom as Tom was to him. The thought was unexpectedly comforting.

“I missed you,” Harry confessed, the words slipping out only half-voluntarily. 

He stiffened, unsure of how Tom would react to the confession. Harry was the one who had put the distance between them back then. The one who had cut off first.

“And I, you,” Tom said intensely, meeting Harry’s eyes. “Now, beyond the pale of prophecies and destiny, shall we be true friends?”

“Yes,” Harry said, squeezing Tom’s hand. “I would like that very much.”

Tom’s eyes lit up. He brushed his fingers over Harry’s palm before detaching. 

“Until Saturday, Harry,” Tom said, summoning his outer robe. “I’ll send the floo details.”

“Bye, Tom.”

The flames of the hearth spilled bright green and Tom vanished in a curl of smoke, one last long glance back at Harry like he was trying to by-heart something.

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, there was a prophecy.

But before there was a prophecy, there was a sword. 

And the sword was called Death.

___

Present Day

Evening light spilled over the marble walkways of the hallway to the library, sticky and golden—seeping through tall panes of glass like caramel squares. St. Hedwig’s had a firm no broomsticks indoors policy, but all of the children had been picked up already, and Moony was too busy grading the ten-year-olds’ runic composition assignments to catch Harry breaking the rules.

Harry floated the stack of paintings in the air, the pages stiff and creamy thick, to spread out in a collage around him, rearranging the order until it was as pleasing to the eye as a bunch of flowers water-colored by eight and nine-year-olds could be—which was to say absolutely perfect. 

He was just going through row by row, fastening them on to the wall with a sticking charm, when he heard his name echo through the stone.

“Harry! Mate!” 

Ron.

Harry sucked a breath in, ignoring the toss-tumble of his heart. 

Did he have time to hide?

“Harry!” Ron called out. 

Harry peeked down, jerking his face back up almost immediately. Ron was right below him.

“Harry?” 

Harry steeled himself with a deep breath before guiding the broomstick down.

“Hey, Ron!” Harry said in an extremely normal voice. He attempted a smile, his lips glued to his teeth.

Ron winced.

“I talked to Ginny,” Ron said immediately, going for the throat—not giving Harry the grace of small talk. 

Harry let his pathetic smile slide off his face. 

“Oh,” Harry said. 

Ron gave him a look.

“Come here, mate,” he said exasperatedly, throwing his arms around Harry. 

And Harry deflated like a bubble, going limp in Ron’s arms.

“I was worried you wouldn’t want to speak to me,” Harry confessed, face pressed into Ron’s shoulder.

“Are you crazy?” Ron asked, eyes wide and wild. “You’re my best friend, mate. Nothing could change that.”

“But Ginny’s your sister,” Harry pointed out.

“And? I have no clue what’s gotten into her, mate,” Ron said, shrugging his shoulders. “Mum and I have both talked to her. We want you to know that you’re always a part of our family, Harry. Even if you and Ginny never spoke to each other again.”

“Wouldn’t that be awkward at Christmas time?” Harry pointed out despondently.

“It would be even worse to not have you there,” Ron said obstinately. “Anyways, Hermione and I were talking, and we’re thinking of canceling the trip.”

Ron and Hermione hadn’t gotten to go on a honeymoon the year they had gotten married. It was the year after the war had ended, and Ron had been in the middle of Auror training while Hermione was frantically busy in her new job at the Ministry. Now that everything was a bit more settled, they had finally saved up enough money and days off to go on a belated three month-long anniversary trip to Australia and New Zealand. They’d be leaving as soon as Wizengamot and most of the Ministry closed session for the summer.

“You’re not canceling the trip,” Harry scolded. “You’ve been waiting too long to go.”

“But how can I leave when you’ve just been broken up with, mate,” Ron said miserably. “I’ll be worried about you the whole time.”

“Don’t,” Harry insisted. “I promise I’ll be fine. I have a plan.”

Ron raised his eyebrows, confusion swirling in his eyes.

“A plan?”

Harry glanced both ways down the hall before dragging Ron into an empty classroom.

“I’ve asked Tom Riddle for help,” Harry explained. “He’s going to give me tips. Teach me how to be all polished and proper, so I can help Ginny better with her career.”

Ron choked on his spit.

“Tom Riddle?” he barked, still coughing. “Harry, are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“He’s changed, Ron,” Harry said desperately. “I swear. The bloke’s even in love with someone.”

“Riddle? In love? With who?” Ron demanded, looking increasingly alarmed. “God, that poor sod.”

Harry jabbed Ron with his elbow.

“Be nice,” Harry scolded. “Tom and I are going to be friends again.”

Ron shot him a look of despair.

“Friends? Are you sure you want to do this to yourself?”

Harry shuttered closed a bit, not wanting to be reminded of old wounds. 

“Yes, Ron,” Harry said carefully. “It’ll be different this time.”

Ron cast his eyes to the ceiling in a God-help-me expression. 

“I’m canceling the trip.”

“Absolutely not!” Harry snapped.

Ron threw the classroom door open, running away.

“I’m canceling it!” he shouted over his shoulder.

Harry chased after him, gaining on Ron with a burst of speed.

“You are not!”

The argument continued all the way to the end of the anti-apparition wards, Ron ultimately bullied into going though he gave Harry several reluctant looks until he finally left with a reminder that Harry had dinner with him and Hermione that night.

And that was just half of the Weasley-Granger household. 

Hermione was going to throttle him.

But in the end, Harry knew she would agree. 

Ron and Hermione had been waiting too long for their honeymoon for Harry to be the one to take it away again.

Back then, much as they cited the other reasons for putting it off, Harry knew his on-and-off relationship with the hospital wing after the war ended had played a much bigger role than either Hermione or Ron would admit to him. He had heard them talking about it when they thought he was asleep.

He wouldn’t let his problems get in the way of their marriage again. 

Harry was an adult. He could make his own bad decisions now.  

___

Summer After Second Year

Harry’s mouth was so dry, he couldn’t swallow his own spit. 

He was caught in the sunlight, his skin burning like it had been set on fire, but he was too weak to move.

Uncle Vernon had broken his arm and leg. The consequence of a release of accidental magic unlike any other of Harry’s previous slips. The provocation had been unlike any other before as well, but no one cared about that part.

He didn’t know if he had meant to hurt Dudley or not—it had all been a blur of wrath and righteousness. 

God, the bleeding hadn’t stopped for ages. 

And the sounds Aunt Petunia had made, her mouth pressed to Dudley’s heart. Wrenching guttural sobs. 

And all Harry could think in that ugly moment was that he would go his entire life and never know what being loved like that felt like. 

Not even for one day.

The regret had built and built, searing Harry’s eyes and pooling in his throat. No matter how much he hated his cousin, he still didn’t want Dudley to die.

When he thought about what he wanted to happen with the Dursleys, it wasn’t defined in such simple terms as forgiveness or condemnation. He only wished that they were here and he was there—somewhere far away where he never had to think of them again.

Dudley was in the hospital now, set to make a full recovery. 

And Harry was praying for a quiet, painless ending in the garden.

He had crawled out here to escape, not looking forward to the rest of Vernon’s punishment when the Dursleys returned home, but he hadn’t been able to move any further.

Maybe he deserved it. 

Harry closed his eyes.

He felt paralyzed, mentally and physically. 

Where would he go? What would he do?

He was nobody’s child. 

He never would be.

“Why are you lying here like a little turtle, Harry Potter?” Tom asked, sounding bored. “Did you fall asleep or trip?”

Harry lifted his bruised, battered face, coursing with fury.

“Leave me alone, you prat!” Harry snapped, his weakened magic crackling with his heightened emotions to violently push against Tom. Tom’s magic abruptly rose to match the force.

Tom stilled, his eyes widening. 

“What happened to your face?” he asked, his voice freezing to a dark pitch.

“That’s none of your business,” Harry hissed.

Tom had made his life utter hell last year. After Dumbledore had spoken to them about the prophecy that tied them to the dark lord, something hard had come over their relationship, Tom pushing Harry to the breaking point over and over again. 

Harry still could not forgive the unending small cruelties every time he fell short of Tom’s unreachable expectations. Every dismissive word and gesture and cold look. The look of disgust that sometimes came over Tom’s face when Harry made another mistake—another failure.

Deep down, Harry knew he wasn’t good enough. He half-thought there was another child of the prophecy that had been overlooked. He had this unshakeable feeling that it wasn’t supposed to be him.

“Harry Potter,” Tom hissed, crushing Harry’s chin in his hand. “Tell me now. Who did this?”

Harry winced, his bruised skin screaming. Tom imperceptibly loosened his grip.

“Was it your foster family?” Tom spat.

“I don’t have a foster family,” Harry said honestly. “I live with my aunt and uncle.”

Tom reeled back and hissed something in Parseltongue that made the hair of Harry’s skin stand up.

He let go of Harry’s face, walking away.

Harry watched Tom leave, his heart breaking. He let his face fall, pressing his cheek against the grass. His eyes were heavy and sharp like cuts. 

He should have known. 

This was just another weakness for Tom to use to destroy him.

The pain seeped through his vision like blood, blurring Harry out of consciousness.

A small eon passed before his head was being lifted again, a bottle pushed to his lips. Harry drank before being fully aware of it, his throat screaming for something to break the drought.

Agony burst through his whole body. He screamed.

The potion scalded through his arteries. His leg and arm shifted back into place, the bones welding back together.

“Get up, Harry. I can’t figure out which bedroom is yours,” Tom said, checking his pocket watch. “I don’t have all day.”

Trembling, Harry rose to his knees.

“I don’t have a bedroom,” Harry said emptily.

“Then where do you sleep?” Tom asked, his eyes like blackened embers, tracing Harry’s ataxic movements with something white-hot in his gaze.

Harry finally stood, walking past Tom into the house he had grown up in the shadows of.

He threw open the doors to his cupboard.

Tom stood next to him, a look of revulsion on his face. 

Harry’s cheeks burned.

“If you call me weak again right now, I’ll bite you,” he threatened hoarsely with bared teeth, putting on the bluster of pride to hide how carved open he felt—that Tom was seeing this: the broken remnants of his miserable childhood. That Tom was judging him for it. Probably thinking about how he would have subjugated the Muggles from his evil cradle.

Harry would never be anything like Tom. Some days, the thought filled him with despair. Other days he was inexplicably grateful.

He stole a glance at Tom, the expression on Tom’s face unnerving him. It wasn’t pity or revulsion or anything in between. 

And he thought Tom couldn’t surprise him anymore.

“There is nothing weak in survival, Harry,” Tom muttered, his face now perfectly blank. His voice wavered unexpectedly and Harry’s heart wavered with it. “I have lived at their mercy before, just like you.”

“You have?” Harry asked wide-eyed, unable to wrap his mind around the thought of Tom at anyone’s mercy.

Tom pursed his lips, nodding tightly.

“I survived six months once on apple peel and bread crust,” Tom said, hesitance coloring his voice. Harry wondered if he had ever told anyone that before.

“I used to burn food, just so I would have something to eat from the dustbin later,” Harry confessed back.

Tom didn’t visibly react, but Harry read what might have been a hint of shock in a twitch of his ears. 

“They’re nothing to me now,” Tom whispered. “And one day this will be nothing to you.”

Harry stared for a long moment at Tom’s face, stiff and angled away from him.

You baffle me, Harry thought, half-resentful, half-tender.

He reached out and squeezed Tom’s hand in his own, too brief for Tom to scold him for trying to comfort him even though that was the intent.

Tom froze, staring at his hand with an odd expression on his face before he turned away and stalked off to the kitchen.

In minutes, all of Harry’s stuff was in a single cardboard box, including his school things which had been locked up in another wardrobe upstairs, and Tom was summoning the Knight Bus to take them back to his apartment in Knockturn Alley. 

It was a bare one bedroom flat: a tiny kitchen with a stove that leaked gas, a mosaic of chipped floor tiles, a supply closet repurposed to a desk space buried in books, and a bathroom with a flickering light. 

Tom made a bed for him on the lumpy sofa.

It would be where he would spend the rest of this summer and the summer after that until he went to the Weasleys instead.

A pillow was tossed his way. It was soft and clean.

“Will you be comfortable here?” Tom asked idly, surprising Harry yet again.

“Why? Do you suddenly find yourself caring about that?” Harry sniped, raising a petulant eyebrow.

Tom looked utterly amused at Harry’s prickliness.

“Not really,” Tom answered, honestly this time. He rested his elbows on the couch, leaning over so he was looming over Harry, watching him fuss over the bedding.

“As I thought,” Harry muttered under his breath, punching the pillow. 

“Beggars can’t be choosers, little one,” Tom teased, dangling a healing potion in his outstretched hand. He pulled it out of reach the first time Harry reached for it, only offering it when Harry scowled darkly enough to amuse him. “It’s not much, but better than a cupboard, I suppose.”

“Oh? Are you congratulating yourself for raising my standards?” Harry inquired tartly. 

Tom burst out laughing, looking just as startled as Harry at the sound. He shut down almost immediately, cutting his laugh off mid-sound and drawing his mouth flat like he was trying to make himself frown. He took a step back.

“Goodnight,” Harry said carefully, like he was speaking to a wary animal. 

Tom didn’t reply, turning off the living room light with a flick of his hand. Seconds later, Tom’s room door slammed shut.

__

Harry woke in the weak light of pre-dawn. He stared up at the cracked ceiling, disoriented for a long moment before he remembered he was at Tom’s place. 

He snuck out of bed to the bathroom, brushing his teeth with his fingers and splashing ice cold water on his face. His black eye hadn’t fully faded yet. 

Harry pushed down on the puffy skin, pulling away with a wince. He glanced at the towel suspiciously before drying his hands on his shirt. Tom’s apartment could do with a good clean, top to bottom. The space was small enough Harry could probably get it done in a day. Maybe if Tom let him stay another night... 

He closed the bathroom door behind him quietly, tip-toeing to the kitchen.

All of the cupboards were empty, save for one that held a dusty kettle, a pair of empty mismatching cups, and a half-full box of tea bags. What did Tom even eat? 

Harry washed the kettle before filling it, brewing two cups of tea. He drew a rune on the saucer of the other cup, placing it over the top to keep the tea warm. He took his own cup of tea and his Defense Against the Dark Arts book to the sofa to read quietly, setting the cup down on a tall stack of books by the foot of the sofa.

An hour later, he heard the soft pad of Tom’s footsteps. They paused at the kitchen counter. Harry held very still, not breathing or moving. He heard the clink of the saucer being lifted.

After a moment, the steps moved away, other sounds breaking the quiet: the sink running, the rustle of robes, the crinkle of Tom’s leather bag being slung over a shoulder.

The front door opened and shut.

After a minute, Harry got off the sofa very slowly and approached the kitchen, almost expecting there to be some trick.

The tea cup he had left on the counter was gone. 

It was in the sink, dregs forming some inscrutable fortune. 

Tom had finished the tea.

Harry hid his mouth with one hand, smiling despite himself. He felt warm all over, like he’d sat in the sunlight for too long.

He was a fool. 

He had always been such a fool. 

____

13 years later

Sylvie’s was a sun soaked parlor in the Charms District of Diagon Alley. 

Harry nervously gave his name at the door to an older wizard who was dressed leagues better than him. Harry was hustled back immediately, taken through bright corridors of marble. The walls were painted navy, scattered with dark branches and pale petals that moved as they walked like vibrations spilling over a lake.

“What a pleasure to have your presence here at Sylvie’s, Lord Potter-Black,” the waitwizard—Gregory according to his badge—said in a ridiculously posh accent, giving Harry a genuinely warm smile.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Harry said, trying to sound natural instead of awkward. “And please call me Harry.”

They found Tom at a private table on the second-floor balcony, tea service already laid out. The whole stone pavilion was spilling with flowers, their perfume heavy in the air. Harry felt the pulse of Tom’s magic like a cloud of damp breath against his skin. As always, the sensation rode on the knife’s edge of irritating and pleasurable. Tom stood as they arrived, leaning against the table like a bloody model.

“Here we are Lord Harry,” Gregory said, smiling serenely.

Harry gave Gregory an exasperated glance. That wasn’t what he had meant and Gregory knew it. Tom raised an eyebrow like he suspected what Harry had tried to do.

“Thank you, Gregory,” Tom said, eyes not leaving Harry’s face. “You may see yourself out for now.”

“Of course, Lord Slytherin,” Gregory said. He bowed towards Harry. “Goodbye, my Lord.”

Gregory shut the door behind him, abandoning Harry on the empty balcony.

“Well? Aren’t you going to greet me?” Tom asked imperially. 

Harry scowled, dropping into a bow.

“Greetings, Lord Slytherin,” Harry muttered petulantly.

Tom’s hand caught Harry’s cheek as he rose. When had he approached so near?

“Why so formal?” Tom asked, sounding disappointed. “Aren’t we friends now?”

“Aren’t you testing me on what you taught me last time?” Harry countered, not budging. 

Tom made a displeased face.

“Since I’ve taken you under my wing, I consider myself your closest ally, and you mine,” Tom murmured, looking down through his eyelashes. “As I recall, I told you last time that allies occasion a different greeting than a standard bow.”

Harry rolled his eyes before leaning in and roughly dragging his cheek against Tom’s. Just as quickly, he drew away, taking his seat at the opposite side of the table. 

Tom laughed, a warm rasping sound that made Harry’s spine tingle.

“What’s so funny?” Harry asked threateningly, lifting his butter knife. He gave Tom a pointed look before reaching across the table for the toast.

“Do you remember when we first met?” Tom asked fondly, taking his seat. “How you scolded me for messing up your ugly little shoes. And after that, every time you looked at me, you would glare so viciously I could feel the heat of it across the Great Hall.”

“You deserved it,” Harry said stoutly, hiding a smile while steadily buttering his toast. 

“I was trying to inspire you,” Tom said with a sigh. 

“Inspire what exactly?” Harry teased. “Violence? Because you managed that quite nicely.”

Tom laughed, his eyes warm. Why did that sound still fill Harry with such delight?

“My word,” Tom remarked, teasing back. “I would’ve never taught you to fight if I’d known you were imagining having a go at me the entire time.”

“Oh, you knew,” Harry said, more familiar than he’d meant to be. “That was part of the fun for you, I think. Not that you had much of a choice in the matter.”

Tom didn’t deny it, still smiling enigmatically.

Harry dropped a cube of sugar into his teacup with a satisfyingly uncouth plonk (that he hoped had slipped Tom’s notice) before lifting it to drink.

“With the saucer, dear,” Tom corrected gently, gesturing to his own arrangement. “The cup and saucer are a married couple. You can’t separate them.”

“What? Will they get too lonely if I do?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Tom said. 

Harry chuckled at Tom’s deadpan before picking up his saucer, studying Tom’s hands to figure out how to hold them.

“How was your week?” Harry asked.

“Surprisingly uneventful. Yours?” Tom asked.

“It was good,” Harry said, surprised to find it was mostly true. 

“What have you been teaching?” Tom asked.

Harry spent a few minutes describing the Defense lesson he had just given on Friday, trying to keep it brief. Ron sometimes got restless with school talk if it went on for too long. But Tom seemed genuinely interested the whole time, asking follow-up questions and looking engaged through Harry’s replies.

“Did you ever want to be a teacher?” Harry asked curiously. “I always thought you did, since you did that whole stint assisting Merrythought after graduation.”

“That was just Dumbledore devising a way to keep me close because of the prophecy,” Tom said, sounding oddly bitter. “He never truly intended to give me the position. He was just leading me on.”

“Really?” Harry asked, shocked. “But Merrythought loved you.”

“It didn’t matter in the end,” Tom said, shrugging. “And I’m glad for it. The older I get, the more I realize how ill-suited I am for teaching. I like where I am a lot better now.”

“Tom…” Harry started uncertainly, not knowing what to think. Did Tom really mean it? Or was he hurt and hiding it with pride?

“Shall we talk about the book?” Tom suggested briskly, in that infuriating way of his that made it obvious it wasn’t actually a question.

Harry went quiet, setting his tea on the table before pulling the tome out from his satchel. He had managed to finish it earlier in the morning but the majority of it had flown over his head. He had no idea what to say.

“How did you and Goodwick get along?” Tom asked.

“Fine,” Harry said stiffly. 

Tom made an amused face.

“Fine? What did you think of his theories? Which one was your favorite?”

Harry stared into his cup of tea, feeling stupid and illiterate.

“Oh, you know,” he said vaguely. “The one.”

“Which one?” Tom asked.

Harry bit his lip hard, not replying. What should he say? 

The one where Goodwick thought Muggles had fucked magical creatures to produce the first Wixen offspring? That was the only bloody theory he could think of at the moment. And funnily enough, it was the only one Harry had suspected could be valid.

“Did you read the book?” Tom asked.

“I did!” Harry snapped. “And I hated it.”

Tom smirked.

“As I knew you would,” he said, calmly sipping his tea. “What did you hate about it?”

“Everything,” Harry complained. “Goodwick can’t write for shit. He goes on for six hundred pages about what could be said in twelve if he stopped going on pointless tangents about one-upping his wizarding rival, Flobgust. It was the most obtuse thing I’ve ever read and every moment was pure agony. I don’t know what you saw in it.”

“You did well finishing it,” Tom praised, wandlessly floating the teapot and tilting it to fill Harry’s teacup again. “I thought you might not like it. Goodwick is an exceptionally awful writer.”

Harry’s mouth fell open with surprise.

“You couldn’t have given me a nice book to read?” he asked incredulously. “Why would you do that?”

He already knew why. Tom had always liked testing him. Oh Harry wants to improve himself? Let’s give him a 600 page book to read in six days and see how serious he is about it. 

“You’ve always thrived under challenges, Harry,” Tom praised.  “And I wanted someone to commiserate with. Every introductory evolutionary magic course includes his writings but he’s outdated to say the least.”

“It’s bollocks that those courses include Goodwick but won’t include any of the cross-studies published by wixen academics in Muggle studies,” Harry complained. Hermione had vented to him about this before and then made him read a journal article about it for her book club (which was only him and Ron at the moment since Hermione as a rule only picked the driest works she could find), so at least he had some knowledge on the topic. “Hermione tells me they're doing ground-breaking work in combining magic with genetics and evolutionary biology but the Wixen community won’t hear of it.”

“Fascinating,” Tom said with real interest. “Have they come up with anything worthwhile?”

“They’ve sequenced a bunch of wixen genomes and found that wixens have certain exons that Muggles don’t. Differences in protein expression and even extra glands.”

“I’ll have to read more about it,” Tom said, summoning his diary to make a note of it. It looked like the same diary he carried everywhere in Hogwarts. Harry bet it probably was. Tom had always been loyal in the strangest of ways. 

Gregory returned wordlessly clearing their plates before bringing out a new pot of tea and a platter of freshly baked scones. 

“I’ve been thinking more about your request,” Tom said, once they were alone again. “And I have a few more questions.”

“What kind of questions?” Harry asked nervously.

“Well, there are two ways we could do this,” Tom said. “One in which I pull you around at my whim, doing my best to fulfill your abstract expectations of what being a gentleman means based on what you think Ginny Weasley wants. Or one in which you tell me exactly what you want so I can give it to you.” 

Harry bit his lip.

“I don’t know what to say,” Harry admitted. “What are you looking for?”

“How about I give you a quiz?” Tom suggested, opening his diary to a fresh page before summoning a quill. “We can start from there. It’s okay if you don’t have all the answers.”

“Okay,” Harry agreed reluctantly. 

“You mentioned wanting to change your sense of style. What exactly do you think needs to be changed about it?” Tom inquired, pen poised to write.

Harry’s mind went blank.

“Er… that’s a good question… I suppose, I haven’t really cared much about what I’ve been wearing till now…” Harry confessed, trailing off. 

“So what do you want to feel when you look in a mirror?”

“I don’t,” Harry denied. “Look into mirrors, generally.”

Tom gave him a subtly exasperated look which made Harry feel almost guilty.

“Okay, well you mentioned wanting to learn a foreign language,” Tom said. “What language do you want to learn and why?”

“Er… not sure yet,” Harry admitted.

“Do you want to learn any new hobbies?”

“Maybe? I keep myself pretty busy with fencing, dueling, and Quidditch, so I don’t know how much time I would have,” Harry offered, relieved to have something to say. 

“Who do you fence with?” Tom asked, glancing up with surprisingly intense eyes.

“Mostly Cedric Diggory. Sometimes Draco,” Harry answered.

Tom scribbled something darkly in his notebook.

“You said last time you wanted to help Weasley with her political ambitions. Does that mean you want to be more involved in politics?” 

“Yes…?”

“How involved do you see yourself being?” Tom asked.

“Well, I usually vote absentee for issues I hear about from my friends now,” Harry offered hesitantly.

“Are you aware, dear one, that you have two Wizengamot seats? The minute you show any desire to be more involved in politics, you will be inundated with others trying to persuade you to their side on every possible issue. And these matters will not be black and white. There will be the potential for real harm on both sides.”

“I know,” Harry insisted, bunching up his napkin. “That’s why I’ve been so cautious about getting too involved.”

“I’m not trying to warn you off, Harry,” Tom said, softening his voice. “Since you’re under my wing, I’ll protect you from the relentless demands of our peers. I only want you to know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“What’s your point?” Harry asked, looking up. “For all of this? Why are you asking me all these questions?”

Tom put down his quill, staring at Harry’s face for a long moment.

“I believe in unconditional love, Harry,” Tom said in a disarmingly sincere voice. “In enjoying someone exactly the way they are instead of for the version of themselves they could be.”

“Okay, but you’ve only believed in love for like a year tops,” Harry pointed out, annoyed. Knowing what he did, he couldn’t believe Tom would wait on someone any longer than that.

“Make it eight,” Tom corrected. 

Harry’s eyes went wide. He did the math in his head. That would’ve been when Harry was sixteen. Which meant when he had still been pining for Tom Riddle with every fiber of his being, Tom had gone and fallen in love with someone else. Maybe somebody he had met during his extensive travels. Harry couldn’t figure out why this irritated him. 

“Unconditional love is important,” Harry agreed. “But I also think love should be transformative. I want to become a better version of myself so I can be a better partner for Ginny. There’s nothing wrong with that. Even if we didn’t get back together, I would still be better for myself. And I would be reassured knowing I did everything I could for us to have a chance together.”

“That’s reasonable,” Tom said, tapping the table in a staccato pattern that Harry had long back decoded to mean that Tom was deliberating about saying something. 

“Just tell me,” Harry prompted. “I won’t mind.”

Tom’s eyes shifted up, a look of unguarded surprise gracing his face. 

“I know you’re mostly doing this for Ginny Weasley,” Tom started. “But if you will allow it, I would like to show you what your life could look like. Who you could be and the things you could do if you wanted to. That’s what I want for you.”

Harry went still. Tom had never been the kind of person to say such things. Ever. 

He wondered for a delirious moment if Tom had gotten possessed by some sentimental ghost in Romania or Albania or whatever other place he’d gone after the war. 

“You’re so different now,” Harry blurted out, embarrassed as soon as he’d said it. “It’s hard to wrap my head around it.”

“A good different, I hope?” Tom asked, his eyes honey whiskey in the sunlight.

Harry nodded reluctantly. It was technically true. Only bad in the sense that Harry didn’t know how to handle Tom anymore now that their past dynamic had been upended.

“Will you think more about the questions I asked you?” Tom asked.

“I will,” Harry said. “But, I would also like your opinion on things—there’s a reason I came to you of all people, you know?”

“Because I’m husband material,” Tom said, with a sly smile. 

Harry laughed, covering his face with embarrassment at what tipsy Harry had carelessly confessed.

“Well, yes. But you also know me fairly well,” Harry explained, still flushed. “I don’t think you’d ever make me wear or do something that didn’t suit me.”

“I wouldn’t,” Tom confirmed. 

Harry smiled, looking down into his cup of tea.

“So what else are we working on today?”

Tom cast Harry a lingering up-and-down glance.

“Your posture,” Tom said finally, sipping his tea. “I’ve noticed this ever since you were little, but the way you sit, the way you walk—it’s like you’re trying to take up as little space as possible.”

“Is it?” Harry said, self-consciously. He sat up a little. 

“Yes,” Tom said. “But I have something that should help. Are you free now?”

“I’m available until dinner,” Harry said. 

“Then come with me,” Tom said, offering Harry his hand. 

Harry slipped his hand into Tom’s, rising up. 

“Where are we going?” Harry asked.

“Home,” Tom replied simply.

Chapter Text

They walked to Tom’s place from Sylvie’s.

Harry nearly turned down Knockturn Alley out of muscle memory when Tom caught his hand, laughing.

“I’ve moved out of that old place, dear,” Tom said kindly.

Harry flushed.

“Oh, yes,” he said, a little embarrassed. “That’s right. Didn’t you break your lease when you left the country?”

“Yes,” Tom said, ruefully. “The owner didn’t let me off very easily.”

“Did he charge you an exorbitant fee?” Harry asked curiously.

“He would have, but I negotiated another way to pay,” Tom said simply.

Harry raised an eyebrow. Oh, so it was like that.

“For god’s sake, Harry,” Tom hissed. “No, I didn’t sleep with him.”

Harry burst out laughing.

“I didn’t say anything,” Harry pointed out.

 “Yes, but you were thinking it,” Tom said, miffed.

“I’m very sorry,” Harry said, smiling contritely. “But just so you know, I don’t shame.”

Tom lifted an eyebrow cheekily.

“Oh? Do you do casual sex?” he asked, very casually.

Harry shook his head.

“It’s not really my thing,” Harry said with a shrug. “Besides, I’ve only ever been with Ginny.”

“I see,” Tom said pensively. “And you were satisfied with just that?”

“Yes,” Harry said, offended. “Not everyone centers their relationships around sex, Tom.”

“I’m not shaming either,” Tom said softly. “Only trying to understand how you and her worked.”

Harry crossed his arms, defensive. 

“We worked,” Harry said. He scrunched his face, trying to find words that could capture their entire relationship. “She was my… family. The Weasleys have always been...”  He paused, not quite able to say it. 

Home. 

It was almost like a foreign word. Was it a cupboard under the stairs? Hogwarts? A couch in Tom’s rundown apartment? The Burrow? Sirius’ smile? Ginny’s arms?

Had Harry ever said those long-coveted words out loud to someone dear? 

Let’s go home.

Not even to Ginny.

“We’re here,” Tom said, citrine eyes meeting Harry’s.

Tom’s front door was a dark emerald green, a pattern of runes and snakes painted in gold over top. An array of ward magic was embedded into the entrance. 

With a quick flick of Tom’s wand, the door silently hinged open. 

Harry moved to take a step forward. 

Tom caught him with a quick hand across the waist.

“Careful,” Tom warned. “It won’t let you in yet.”

Harry scrunched his eyebrows, parsing the patterns of glyphs. 

“Well, can you disengage the wards then?” he asked, confused why Tom hadn’t done so already.

“Unfortunately not,” Tom confessed with an apologetic, embarrassed smile. “See, the wards are a little finicky.”

Tom explained further.

“You have to carry me?” Harry asked, mortified. 

“It’s a feature of the wards,” Tom said. “It would take too long to key you into them properly right now.”

“So, what? Your wards register whatever you carry in as safe?” Harry asked.

“It’s more like they see whatever I’m holding as an extension of myself,” Tom explained. “You would be automatically keyed in after that. It’s the most efficient way, Harry.”

Harry silently wondered if Tom carried everyone into his apartment, the idea both humorous and strangely irritating.

“Okay,” Harry said with a sigh. “Let’s just get this over with then.”

Tom lifted him up easily—too easily—one arm secured around Harry’s waist, the other sliding into the crook of his knees. He pulled Harry’s arm around his neck into a more secure hold.

Harry didn’t like the way this made him feel. Something about it was disquieting. 

“Watch your head, dear,” Tom warned, 

“This is terrible,” Harry complained, tucking his head closer to Tom’s, dark strands of hair tangling together.

And then the door was swinging even wider open, and Tom carried him over the threshold into his house. 

They were in a long hallway, painted a dark mossy green. A large mirror covered the wall. It was rimmed in gold—tempered branches of gold heartstring lilies adorning the border.

Harry gasped at its beauty.

“Can you let me down?” Harry asked.

“The wards haven’t settled yet,” Tom said vaguely, slipping off his shoes and exchanging them for fleece slippers. “I just need to pop into the study for a minute.”

Tom nudged the double set of emerald doors open with his hip so they could walk in easily.

A giant mahogany desk carved with intricate patterns of stags and serpents was in the center of the room, bare like an altar after a ceremony. Light streamed in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, bouncing off of creamy white walls and the intricate ceiling tiles. And most importantly, there were finally enough bookshelves to hold Tom’s collection.

Tom stood in front of one of the bookshelves, angling his head towards one of the books.

“Can you grab that one for me?”

“Which one?” Harry asked, reaching out to skim his hand across the spines. Surprisingly, he recognized a couple of the books he had gifted Tom back in their youth. He hadn’t known Tom had held on to them. 

He almost pulled another one out with a longsword painted on the spine before he caught himself. He shouldn’t be acting so familiar in a place he’d never been before. He still had the instinctual feeling of having free reign in Tom’s house, but that was no longer the truth.

“The one with the red spine.”

Harry pulled it out, staring at the cover with interest. 

“What is this?” Harry asked.

“Our next book club read,” Tom said.

“It’s poetry,” Harry said, excited they weren’t just going to read a bunch of theoretical magic tomes.

“While poetry is not as popular in the Wixen world as it is in the Muggle one, there are still a few classics to be read. This is my favorite.”

“Cosimo,” Harry read, tracing the letters. 

Harry opened to the first page, flushing at the romantic words that greeted him.

“It’s a series of poems that Tristan the Magnificent wrote for his great love, Cosimo,” Tom said casually. “I thought you might enjoy it.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, cradling the book. He’d never read poetry before. “Have the wards settled now?”

“Almost,” Tom said, whisking them out of the study.

They walked down the hall into the surprisingly well-equipped kitchen, before going through an arched doorway into the living room. 

Tom finally set Harry down on a jungle green velvet loveseat. 

His sitting room was like his study, sophisticated but understated—enormous windows with dark foliage spilling outside, high ceilings with a glittering crystal chandelier, a marble fireplace, exquisite carved wooden furniture, plush armchairs and rugs and couches. It felt unnervingly cozy for how posh it was, like somewhere Harry could imagine himself spending hours. 

“Can I take your shoes?” Tom asked, already bending down.

“No, you don’t have to do that,” Harry protested. “I can take them.”

But it was too late. Tom was already slipping Harry’s loafers off, leaving Harry’s bare socks behind. Harry sent a silent prayer of thanks that he had worn matching ones today. His only excuse was that the children thought it was hilarious when he mismatched, and he so dearly loved making them laugh.

Tom sent Harry’s shoes presumably to the front door with a wave of his wand.

“I’ll be right back. I’ll just get us some tea.”

He left before Harry could tell him that too was unnecessary. 

The area between the couches and coffee table was covered in a soft Persian rug. Harry traced the mane of a lion with his toe. He felt strangely vulnerable, deposited here on the couch, now shoeless.

He opened Cosimo again to a random page, tracing his fingers against the words.

“My love does not spill light, but blood. / It is a gaping wound you have left me with. / The dark croon of your eyes, / And the pale crook of your thighs: / Shepherd's hooks to my wayward heart. / Your magic sets my soul alight / Like a thousand rejoicing suns. / All praise your name, / Cosimo.”

Tom returned sooner than expected. He set a tray down on the coffee table before taking the seat beside Harry on the sofa, his thigh only a palms-length away from Harry’s. Harry shut the book, face flushed.

Tom handed Harry a red and gold teacup, tea steaming inside with just the right amount of milk. Harry set the book down on his lap before reaching for the cup.

“Thank you,” Harry said.

“There is no need to thank me for such things,” Tom dismissed gently.

Harry ignored that.

“Your house is beautiful,” Harry mumbled with real admiration. It wasn’t gaudy like the Malfoy manor or even Neville’s family house. It had a more classical kind of beauty that Harry preferred. The kind of home he’d dream of living in if he hadn’t had frugality beat into him from a young age. 

“Oh? Is it to your taste?” Tom asked conversationally, setting the teapot on a coaster.

“Yes,” Harry admitted hesitantly. “I… I love it.”

Tom smiled brilliantly. 

“I’ll admit, I’m still adjusting to it,” Tom confessed, sipping tea from his matching emerald and gold teacup.

“How long has it been since you’ve moved here?” Harry asked.

“Almost two years now,” Tom answered. “It took a while to build.”

Huh. That wasn’t a short length of time.

“You haven’t made it your own yet?” Harry wondered.

“I have, but it’s still missing something,” Tom explained, drinking his tea.

Like what? Harry wrinkled his eyebrows, curious despite himself. He didn’t want to give Tom the satisfaction of asking though.

“I hope it feels like home soon,” Harry offered.

“Oh, it will,” Tom said with an opaque, sly smile. Like he knew something Harry didn’t.

Harry lifted his teacup, resolute in not inquiring.

Once they had finished their cups in a strangely comfortable companionable silence, Tom turned to him.

“I would like you to keep an open mind,” Tom announced.

“Oh, that’s a wonderful start,” Harry teased. 

“I know what your reaction is going to be, which is why I’m preemptively warning you,” Tom said, smiling.

“You’re making me nervous,” Harry said, surprisingly not nervous at all.

“Follow me,” Tom said, offering his hand to Harry.

Harry took it, following Tom to one of the bedrooms.

“Is this yours?” Harry asked, surprised. 

The room was lovely: a canopied bed carved from sandalwood with gauzy curtains, airy sheets of crème and dark red silk, windows pouring in soft light, and a cozy armchair with lion’s feet and separate desk area near the fireplace for reading or dozing. 

“This is the guest room,” Tom said. “I keep some extra clothes here.”

“You’re putting us bachelors everywhere to shame,” Harry complained. 

“Well if all goes well, neither of us should be bachelors for much longer,” Tom said, brushing his arm against Harry’s.

“That’s true,” Harry agreed.

Tom opened the intricately carved sandalwood cabinet, pulling out a dark cherry-red vest that had laces running down the back and something stiff along the seams that made the piece almost stand up on its own. 

“What’s this?” Harry asked curiously. 

Tom gave him a calculating look.

“It’s a posture corrector,” he explained simply. “You wear it over your inner robes, then, depending on what look you’re going for, you layer either your trousers or over-robes on top.”

“It looks like a corset,” Harry said bluntly with narrowed eyes.

“It’s very similar,” Tom said, with a smile like a salesman. “But many people in the Wixen world opt to wear one, both men and women. I sometimes wear one myself.”

“Oh, really? You wear one?” Harry asked suspiciously, raising an eyebrow. He couldn’t ignore the feeling that Tom was trying to get one over him.

“Shall I prove it to you?” Tom asked with a raised brow, reaching for the buttons of his robes. He started undoing them one by one.

Harry’s heart jumped like it had been shocked.

“Stop! Why are you undressing?!” Harry yelped, turning away fast. His face blazed with embarrassment, prickling with an unbearable heat.

Tom laughed behind him, the sound reverberating in the column of air between them. 

“Calm yourself, Harry,” Tom said mildly. “I hardly meant to scandalize you, chaste thing you are.”

Harry crossed his arms, shooting a dark glare at the cabinet. He hoped Tom could feel his displeasure through the crackle of his magic.

“Didn’t you play Quidditch back in school?” Tom asked in a smooth, unaffected voice, redoing the errant buttons from the sounds of it. “With all that goes on in the locker room, I wouldn’t expect you to be so shy.”

Harry spluttered.

“‘With all that goes on in the locker room?’ Exactly what do you imagine goes on in there?!” Harry scolded. 

Tom laughed, a warm breath near Harry’s ear.

“I would tell you, but I imagine that would only garner more of your disapproval, Professor,” Tom teased. “I wouldn’t want to get on your bad side so early.”

There was an uneasy feeling racing through Harry’s rib cage that was rather unpleasant. 

“You’re shameless,” Harry accused, finally turning. 

“I’ve never really seen the point of shame,” Tom replied with a wicked smirk, only a breath away. “Why should I feel bad for teasing you when you make it so much fun?” 

Harry kissed his teeth with a sharp huff.

“I’m going home.”

He made it two steps before Tom caught his wrist, dark eyes widened with alarm.

“Wait, Harry. Don’t mind me. I… I forget myself.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Harry accused, still glaring.

“Yes,” Tom agreed immediately, a hint of a relieved smile in the corner of his lip. “And very contrite about my incorrigibility.”

“You can make up for it by telling me about the person you fell in love with,” Harry said sharply, hoping it would remind Tom that he shouldn't be saying such provoking things to Harry when he had someone else to woo.

Tom’s smile only widened, crocodilian. 

“What do you want to know?” he asked.

“How did you fall in love with them?” Harry asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

He still couldn’t understand the timeline of Tom meeting them. It must have been that year after the war, when Tom was working at the ministry and Harry had completed his last year of school. Maybe another member of Wizengamot?

Tom’s face drew closed, taut like a bow.

“It was extremely painful,” he admitted quietly. “I resisted it with everything I had. I felt like an animal caught in a trap that would chew even its own leg off to escape. But everything in me was drawn to everything in them. It was like trying to go against gravity. Utterly futile.”

That wasn’t as romantic as Harry had thought.

“Why were you so hesitant?” Harry asked, concerned despite himself. “Were they a bad person? Did they treat you poorly?”

“No,” Tom denied. “The exact opposite. I… I wouldn’t have been good for them back then. Now shall we try this on?”

Harry frowned. He had already pushed Tom enough for today, he supposed. But he so badly wanted to know more.

Tom left the corset for him on the bed, along with a set of maroon under-robes and pearl silk over-robes.

Harry slipped out of his shirt and trousers, throwing the inner robes on. There was a loose pant with a drawstring tie and a sleeveless, flimsy, v-neck shirt that Harry tucked into the former. The material was light and slightly translucent. What were they woven from? Harry had never had anything so soft against his skin in his life. 

He reached for the vest, balking at the complicated lacing mechanism. With a grimace, he undid the loops in the back before undoing the vest’s front buttons and putting his arms through. He rebuttoned the vest in the front, before reaching in vain behind his back to do the laces. While he could easily reach the fasteners, he couldn’t criss cross the strings with the required adeptness. 

It reminded him of the time Ginny had complained to him about the many problems of witch’s robes. 

“Tom,” Harry called, giving up. 

“Yes?” Tom answered innocently from the hallway. 

Harry frowned, angry at the way a vest could make him feel so weak in front of the one person he never wanted to show weakness in front of again.

“This isn’t working,” he huffed. 

“May I come in?” Tom asked. 

Harry sighed deeply.

“Yes.” 

Tom entered, shutting the door behind him. His eyes caught Harry and stayed there for a long moment, utterly still. Harry’s skin prickled at something opaque and dark in that gaze.

“You’re still wearing it,” Tom said.

Harry’s hand flew to the gold chain around his neck. He had worn it for so long he had forgotten it was there.

“Oh yes,” Harry said, forcing casualness into his voice. “I wore it to remind me to give it back to you, actually. I’m sure you can agree it’s time it came home.”

A long moment passed, Tom’s eyes burning into Harry’s.

“It’s home now, Harry,” Tom said quietly. “And I was never planning on taking it back.”

Then, briskly:

“Turn around and place your arms overhead on the wardrobe,” Tom instructed. “We won’t do it too tight for your first time. You’ll need to adjust to it over time, until you can wear it for as long as you want.”

Wrong-footed, Harry stumbled as he turned. Why was Tom giving the locket to him? Was it repayment? Did the locket carry some bad memory Tom didn’t want to be reminded of anymore? 

Tom stepped forward, hands reaching for the vest. 

It wasn’t right. Harry would need to convince Tom to take it back eventually. What could he mean dragging the inevitable out like this?

“There are runes on the side here that you can use in the future,” Tom said, tracing a hand down Harry’s back.

Harry’s back flexed in surprise at the touch, skin prickling over. The inner robes were gossamer thin—it felt like Tom had touched bare skin. 

“You couldn’t have mentioned that before?” Harry scolded.

“Some people don’t need them,” Tom defended, criss-crossing the laces slowly, his hands cool against Harry’s back as he adjusted the fabric. “I thought you were flexible.”

Harry let out an offended gasp, coming back to himself.

“I am flexible.”

“I’m sure,” Tom teased, suddenly tightening the laces of the corset. Harry held his breath for a moment before realizing it wasn’t so bad actually. Tom touched his waist for a moment, making some inscrutable measurement. Harry blushed to the roots of his hair, not used to so much… fussing.  “How does it feel?”

Harry wiggled around trying to determine his range of movement. 

“Fine,” Harry concluded. 

Tom laughed. 

“But that’s not the point.”

“Oh?” Tom asked, spinning Harry back around to tie the laces in the back. 

Harry turned back around once Tom was done, crossing his arms. 

“You’ve insulted my flexibility,” Harry pointed out.

“That wasn’t my intention,” Tom said, trying and failing to suppress a smile.

“No. You’ve spit on my honor as a former athlete,” Harry continued, shaking his head disapprovingly. “And now I have no choice but to polish it off and prove it to you.”

“How will you do that?” Tom asked.

“Dealer’s choice,” Harry said, elbowing Tom.

Tom cleared his throat.

“Would you perhaps like to put on your robes first, dear?” he asked.

Harry laughed.

“What? Am I scandalizing you?” he teased. “Dressed only in my inner robes and offering to show off my flexibility? You poor, chaste thing.”

Tom broke into a sharp cough, his face bright red.

“I see how condescending that sounded now.”

“Good,” Harry said firmly. He reached for the over robes, donning them carefully. They looked expensive. The trousers flowed loosely to his ankles, while the shirt was vest-style, letting his bare arms be exposed. The buttons were carved from wood.

Tom made a strange face, his eyes fixed on Harry. 

“So?” Harry inquired. 

“How does it feel? Do you like it?” Tom asked, summoning the mirror.

Harry stared at himself, frowning. His mess of dark curls. His wild green eyes that the Dursleys had always called defiant. His glasses, the frame still taped at the side.

“It’s comfortable,” Harry said, pushing the mirror away with his magic. “Now give me a challenge.”

Tom cast a sideways glance, something unspoken in his eyes before they went clear.

“Splits?” Tom suggested.

“Too easy,” Harry dismissed. “Something else.”

Tom cleared his throat. 

“Can you do a scorpion?” 

Harry’s eyes lit up. 

“Yes.” Harry looked around for floor space. “Here?”

“I actually have a home gym,” Tom said. “Shall we go there?”

Surprised, Harry nodded. 

Tom took them back down to the hallway to the office room. They walked slightly past the door and curved left in a short semi-circular hallway.

Tom opened the door for Harry.

Light streamed in from a circular dome of glass. The room was set up for both dueling and sworcery. There were practice swords hung on the wall, along with complex circles of runes on the floor that could be activated when sparring.

Harry’s mouth fell open. Excitement tinged up his spine.

“You have a whole room just for training?” he asked excitedly.

Tom smiled warmly. 

“What? You don’t?” he teased. “The World Champion himself?”

Harry blushed, mortified.

“Ex champion,” Harry corrected. “Now Du Lac is number one.”

Tom snorted.

“He has nothing on you,” Tom said. “You’ve best him three times previously if I recall.”

Something squirmy twisted in Harry’s stomach.

“You’ve watched me?” Harry asked uncertainly. 

“Yes,” Tom admitted easily. “I followed your career closely.”

A strange clamminess came over Harry’s hands.

“I… I didn’t think you would,” Harry confessed.

Tom shot an ambiguous glance Harry’s way.

“Why not?” Tom asked, lifting a brow. 

Did Tom really want to talk about it now?

“We didn’t part on the best of terms,” Harry said simply. “I thought you wouldn’t want anything to do with me after that.”

Tom turned abruptly to Harry.

“That was my mistake back then, Harry,” he said, a regretful look carved onto his face. “I— What happened—”

“Let’s not,” Harry said, cutting Tom firmly off. “That’s not what I intended by mentioning it.”

He had gotten past everything that had happened back then long ago. Having Tom bring it up like it was fresh was unexpectedly awful. He didn’t want to hear anything about it. What had happened, had happened. And it was all for the best. 

Was that what the locket was about too?

“It was so long ago, I hardly remember it to be honest,” Harry dismissed. “And we started our friendship anew so it’s all irrelevant now.”

“I see,” Tom said, completely still. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” Harry said. He attempted a smile and it came out weaker than he wanted it to. “You requested a scorpion?” 

Tom nodded.

Harry got to his knees, going into a forearm stand before lifting and extending out his legs and arching his back. He worried the corset would get in the way, but it melded over his body like a second skin, bending where he bent. He took an extra moment to balance before contorting his spine even further, making sure his gaze was forward. 

“Incredible,” Tom commented softly. 

“My teacher during my sworcery apprenticeship made me practice every day,” Harry explained, a little embarrassed now. He pressed up into a handstand. “I keep it up.”

“Madame Elvira Archaki,” Tom said. “She was famous in the ballet world wasn’t she? Before she transitioned to sword fighting.”

“She was,” Harry said, surprised Tom knew about her. 

Harry’s sword fighting style had been a mess before she had worked with him—a jagged, toothy thing mainly birthed from instinct and desperation. She had given him the gift of discipline, helping him refine his style into something that completely belonged to him. She had helped shape the techniques that he had used to construct his thesis on Defense Magic and sworcery.

Harry backbent out of his handstand, standing back up.

 “Are you still in touch with her?” Tom asked.

“Yes,” Harry said briefly, a hint of smile sneaking onto his lips. “Do you still practice?” 

“Not as often as I should,” Tom admitted. 

“Even with this beautiful room?” Harry said, surprised. “I would give anything to have a private space like this.”

“You’re free to use it,” Tom offered. “I’m usually home over the weekends. You can come whenever you want and stay however long you like.”

“Be careful,” Harry teased. “If you make offers like that I might never leave.” 

“Oh no,” Tom said with a sphinx-like smile. “Whatever would I do.” 

Harry laughed, bumping Tom’s shoulder with his own before walking back towards the door. Tom trailed after him.

“What else are we doing today?” Harry asked curiously. 

“I thought a good framework for our history discussions would be through the lens of policy,” Tom explained. “There are three bills up for debate this week. I was planning on explaining the historical precedents behind them and the arguments each party is proposing. That way you can attend the Wizengamot session with me this week. Does that sound good?”

Three didn’t sound so bad. 

Harry nodded, determined. 

“Sure. Let’s do it.” 

.

.

.

8 hours later.

“It sounds to me like this is just a power play,” Harry snapped, angrily waving his chopsticks. Tom had ordered them take away from an obscenely good Thai restaurant in Diagon Alley. “The wandmakers don’t want more trees. The broom makers want more trees, but they’re idiots who care more about profit than conservation. And the other members know this! All they want is to threaten the centaurs and show them who’s boss and they’re trying to capitalize on this issue to do it.”

“Harry, I agree with you. All I am saying is you cannot call Lord Crenshaw and Lord Avery little bitches in front of the Wizengamot assembly.”

Harry laughed, delirious. 

“But wouldn’t it be hilarious?”

“Undoubtedly,” Tom said, something almost fond in his voice. “Maybe a little risque for your Wizengamot debut.” 

“It’s not exactly my debut,” Harry said, tucking one foot under his thigh. “I’ve been there before.”

“This time will be different,” Tom said. “You’ve never come to a full session before.”

“That’s true,” Harry mused. “Where should I sit?”

“Next to me,” Tom said immediately. 

“What? A physical wall?” Harry teased. “I know you’re sworn to keep me safe, but I didn’t know you’d take it so literally.”

“I’ll do whatever needs to be done,” Tom said, meeting Harry’s eyes with baffling intensity.

Harry laughed.

“We’ll see about that.” 

He stacked the papers Tom had given him in the beginning of their very long conference before handing them back to Tom with a flourish.

“I ought to get going,” Harry said, smiling. 

“Oh?” Tom checked his watch. “It’s rather late, Harry. You’re free to use the spare bedroom if you’d like,” Tom offered, tucking the papers away. “I fear it’s my fault. I should have minded the clock better.”

“Oh no,” Harry declined immediately. “That’s okay. I was enjoying myself.”

“Where are you staying now?” Tom inquired.

Harry paused, biting his lip. He decided to be honest.

“At St. Hedwig’s temporarily,” he admitted. “But I actually have some apartment tours lined up for tomorrow. I’m trying to find a new place.”

The folder slipped out of Tom’s hands and he bent to pick it up with a quiet curse under his breath. Harry crouched down to pretend to help him pick it up for courtesy’s sake.

They both stood, righting themselves.

“Can I come along tomorrow?” Tom said as they walked towards the fireplace. “We could go to the tailor afterwards to pick an outfit for your Wizengamot session.” 

“Are you sure?” Harry said hesitantly, wondering how he could turn Tom down. “I think it might be a little boring.”

“Oh no, I love apartment tours,” Tom said, smiling with his teeth. “And we can continue to speak about the upcoming Wizengamot session afterwards. Or about the first few poems of Cosimo if you get any time to read.”

“I suppose I do have some free time tomorrow… Do I really need a new outfit for the session?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Tom said point blank. “You absolutely do.”

Harry frowned.

“Oh! That reminds me—” Harry said, glancing down at himself. “I need to return these clothes to you.”

“There’s no rush,” Tom said. “Why don’t you give it back to me tomorrow? When’s the first apartment tour?”

“The Lucky Galleon at 9 AM,” Harry offered hesitantly. 

“Perfect. I’ll meet you there.”

“Okay…” Harry said with a sigh. “I’ll meet you there.”

They stood in front of the fireplace, Harry reluctant to get Tom’s nice clothes all sooty. He had never really gotten used to the floo system. One would’ve thought the wixen world would have better means of transport by now. Sometimes, Harry missed driving. It had been his primary means of transport during his Sworcery Mastery.

Tom examined Harry’s face closely.

“Oh dear, how could I forget!” Tom said abruptly. “The floo doesn’t quite work properly with the wards right now. I'll need to get it repaired. Let me apparate you home. I’ll just grab a cloak.”

“Tom, wait! I can go myself—” 

But Tom had already disappeared into the master bedroom. Harry buried his face in his hands. He hadn’t even said anything!

Tom returned in moments, whisking Harry to the front door before carefully draping a burgundy cloak over Harry’s shoulders, matching his own charcoal. How many coats did this man own? Tom pulled Harry out of the apartment, guiding them far enough away from the anti-apparition zone so they could pop outside of St. Hedwig’s wards. 

The wards slipped around them as Harry, in return, dragged Tom into the grounds of Elkwood. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry informed him as he pulled Tom through the gardens, the thick perfume of jasmine and lotus in the night air. “Come upstairs and take the floo back home.”

“I only wanted to make sure you’d get back safe,” Tom said innocently. “The world is so dangerous after all.”

“Not half as dangerous as you,” Harry pointed out under his breath.

“Exactly,” Tom said with a self-satisfied smirk. “So who better to keep you safe?”

Harry looked back at him in the moonlight, dozens of memories spilling between them like a spool unfurling.

It was just another game—this overbearing, tender act. Now, when the only danger present was the chill in the air.

What a pretty pretense. 

Harry did not hate it, though he half-wished he did.

This game would end him. 

Harry had always been alone in the world, and that's how he would always be.

He had loved, he had clung, he had Ginny, but nothing could really change that immutable fact. When loneliness was part of your life longer than it wasn't, it became less of a state, and more of a way of being.

And for Tom of all people, who Harry had already ripped apart pieces of himself for, he couldn't risk getting any closer.

"I’m not a child, Tom,” Harry replied, ribbed and steely. “I can find my own way.”