Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harry had been so excited to start school: a whole day out of the house doing no chores, learning new things, and maybe even making friends!

He should have known better.

That night, he bitterly curled up around the fresh bruises painting his ribs. Sweating in the stifling cupboard, Harry wasn’t sure why he ever thought things might change for him. In class, his stained and oversized clothes had made him an immediate target for mockery, and Dudley's built in friends from the neighborhood were delighted to find their favorite victim so accessible. The teacher already thought he was a troublemaker after the group ganged up on him at recess, and her phone call home to Aunt Petunia only cemented Harry going to bed without dinner.

As he fell asleep, Harry resigned himself to the next day being just as miserable, and the last spark of hope in his chest flickered out. Harry’s oldest nightmare kept him tossing fitfully through the night, haunted by screams and green light.

“Hi. My name is Tom.”

At recess the next day, Harry wondered whether he was still dreaming.

It had been a difficult morning in class, in which Harry could tell he already was falling behind, struggling much more than his classmates when copying the letters from the board. It wasn’t helped by Dudley poking him and kicking his chair relentlessly, but Harry knew better than to try to ask Ms. Michelle for help, given the way her eyes and lips already narrowed when looking at him. When they were let out to the yard for break, Harry thought he found a safe refuge behind some bushes at the fence line and squatted down, waiting to hear the teacher call them back inside.

He blinked up at the boy who was still standing in front of him with an outstretched hand, lips now pursed with impatience. Tentatively, he reached out to shake it, and startled when Tom grasped his firmly and yanked him up. Harry stumbled forwards into him, catching himself on the other boy’s shoulders and smearing dirt on his white t-shirt.

“I’m sorry!” Harry blurted out, feeling his cheeks heat. Tom was taller than him, with bright, well-fitting clothes, dark wavy hair, and large brown eyes, framed by long lashes. He was as pretty as someone on a TV show, and Harry felt even uglier and more freakish than usual as the other boy looked him up and down.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. Why were you hiding in the bushes?”

“I wasn’t hiding!” Harry protested, then immediately regretted it. Here was someone who was actually talking to him, and not even being mean yet, and he was already messing things up. No wonder nobody wanted to be his friend. “I mean… I just, I didn’t want to run into my cousin.” He winced; this was even worse. Dudley was already popular in class, bragging about the trampoline he’d gotten for his birthday, and the other kids all wanted invites over. Tom would want to talk to him even less if he knew that Dudley didn’t like him, since he clearly didn’t realize it yet.

“That’s not surprising. I saw him bullying you yesterday. Did his parents punish him?” Harry frowned, bewildered by his response. “Never mind. You’re Harry, right? I want to be your friend.”

“Really?! Why? I mean, thank you!” Harry subtly pinched his arm, just to make sure he really wasn't dreaming.

“I talked with my dad about what happened to you when I got home yesterday, and he was very upset, and said it sounded like you could use a friend. I thought it might happen on its own as the school year passed. But it would be hard to make friends with you if you spent your time hiding in the bushes.” Tom spoke in a strange, matter-of-fact tone, more similar to a grown-up than their other Year 1 classmates, which sounded funny in his high-pitched voice. Harry was definitely not going to offend his first possible friend by giggling at him, though.

“Thank you, I’d like to be your friend too!” Harry awkwardly reached out and shook Tom’s hand, not knowing how you were supposed to act when making a friend, but knowing that adults used the gesture to “seal the deal”, as Uncle Vernon said. “Why was he so upset though? You’d never talked to me before, and he’s never even met me.” Tom frowned.

“It’s offensive and degrading for a child like you to be attacked and defeated by muggles. Especially for the adults to permit it. My dad didn’t even believe me at first when I told him.”

“What does muggle mean? It’s not nice to use mean words for people.” Harry felt a funny warm feeling inside when Tom sounded upset on his behalf, but didn’t want his first friend to be a bully. He knew that he wanted to be a nicer person than Dudley, and not make anyone else feel the same way he did when they called him names.

Tom raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“It’s not a mean word. It describes people who don’t have magic, not like you.”

Harry’s heart pounded, and blood roared in his ears. He felt a mix of terror and rage that Dudley had spread word of his freakishness, when that was the one thing he was never supposed to mention around other people. A painful jolt of betrayal shot through Harry at the realization that this boy had been playing a cruel trick on him, building up his hopes for friendship just to gleefully stomp them down.

“I DON’T have magic! I’m NOT a freak!” He shoved Tom away from him, feeling a flash of guilt as the unprepared boy toppled back onto the ground, and ran to the bathroom. He rushed to the very back and his stall door slammed shut behind him on its own, and Harry burst into tears at the undeniable proof of his freakishness. He sat on the toilet seat and sobbed.

Several minutes later, the bathroom door opened, and Harry’s stomach sunk at the sound of familiar heavy footsteps that weren’t alone.

“Haaa-rry,” Dudley called out in a sing-song. “Come play with us!” He shivered, tucking his feet beneath him on the seat, crossing his fingers and hoping they hadn’t seen him come in.

The footsteps approached, and the shiny red sneakers stopped right in front of his stall. Three knocks sounded. “Little pig, little pig, let me in!” The flimsy plastic lock gave way and Harry’s stall door slammed open when Dudley pounded it with his full weight, and he couldn’t contain the small yelp of fright at the loud noise and sudden reveal of his cousin. The other boy gave a hungry smile, and stepped forward-

“I don’t think you’re the one who should be calling anyone a pig.” Tom’s voice rang out cooly through the bathroom, and Harry heard gasps. Dudley turned red and left Harry’s stall with a sneer, looking to the posh boy.

“Scuse me?”

“Excuse yourself. Cornering someone in a bathroom is unfair, and inappropriate. I’ll tell Ms. Michelle. Harry, come over here.” Slightly dazed, not believing his luck, he walked over to Tom, slipping past Dudley. Piers and Dennis moved to block the door in front of them, and Tom crossed his arms, staring them down unflinchingly.

“So what? She can’t do anything to us, she’s just a teacher.” Dudley regained his bravado and joined his friends, puffing out his chest like Uncle Vernon. “I’m not scared of you or her.”

Tom narrowed his eyes and stepped forward, ignoring Harry tugging back his hem. Tom didn’t seem like someone who had been in a fight before, and Dudley and his gang were pros at roughing someone up in a way that didn’t leave marks after Mrs. Figg kept complaining. Harry had too often been pinned down and smothered, had his limbs twisted agonizingly, had four boys each pull him by a different appendage and compete to see who could make him hurt the most (that one, at least, had stopped after Harry’s shoulder was dislocated). He was deeply grateful to Tom for defending him, but couldn’t let him be subjected to what Harry knew was coming. Tom ignored his silent pleas to stop, though.

“That may be true. She can’t do anything to you, and neither can I.” He paused, and despite the fear he felt, Harry was a bit starstruck by the beautiful boy and the quiet power in his words. It felt almost like a movie. “But you know who can? My father.”

The three boys flinched back at the threat that was almost spat at them, and Harry thought they were about to be able to escape. Dudley rarely backed down from a challenge though, and barked out a laugh, far meaner than a six year old had the right to be.

“Yeah, well your father doesn’t scare me, my father can probably beat his arse. Too bad Harry doesn’t have one to protect him.” He gave a nasty grin, knowing how painful Harry’s open wound always was when jabbed. “No fathers here now, anyway.”

Tom’s fists clenched, and he shoved his hand deep into the pocket of his neat dark shorts. Harry had the wild thought that he was like one of the mad men on the news, and about to pull out a knife. When his hand emerged, it was even more terrifying: a bright green snake coiled around his wrist, less than 2 feet long but hissing furiously at the boys in front of them and baring large, very sharp teeth.

Dennis shrieked and immediately ran from the bathroom, Piers and Dudley hot on his heels. Harry watched them flee with astonishment, still frightened but seeing that Tom seemed to have control of the snake. He turned and smiled at Harry, then lifted the snake dangerously close to his face, and cupped his other hand over his mouth to… whisper to the snake? Harry politely pretended that he couldn’t hear the other boy tell it to wait in the tree outside of school until he was out later, and was incredibly impressed when it slithered down his leg and out the door. Harry knew people trained dogs to do lots of tricks, but had no idea that you could do the same with snakes.

“They’re going to get you in trouble,” Harry warned, worried about how relaxed and satisfied Tom looked.

“How? Nobody’s going to believe them, if we both say that they’re lying.” Harry’s eyes widened. He had long-since learned that the consequences for being caught in a lie were far worse than any benefit he ever could hope to gain, and never even considered it as an option for himself anymore. “We’re friends, right, Harry? If you protect me, I’ll protect you.” Harry’s heart beat faster.

“Okay,” he said, still in disbelief that the other boy had come back and helped him. “I’m really sorry for pushing you earlier, I didn’t mean for you to fall. I just… I’m not a freak, no matter what Dudley told people.” He felt bad for hiding it from Tom, but didn’t want to let his one chance at friendship slip away.

“It’s alright, Harry, but…” Tom chewed his lip, looking at Harry hesitatingly. “Have you ever made something happen that others can’t? Setting fires, or moving things without touching them, or changing someone’s mi–”

“No! I haven’t! I told you, he’s LYING.” Harry glared at Tom and clenched his fists hard to hide their trembling. “I can’t do anything like that at all.”

Tom’s face scrunched hard, then relaxed. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“What?” Tom scowled at Harry.

“I’m sorry for upsetting you. We can talk about something else. Do you forgive me?” Harry blinked.

“I… yeah, of course, it’s fine. I’m sorry for getting upset, it was stupid.” Tom nodded solemnly.

“No apology needed. Let’s go sit outside. What is your favorite animal?”

“-and he said it was a snake! But that might have been because he already guessed mine was too, after seeing Hydra. He looked very pleased when I agreed.” By all appearances, the dark-haired man across the dining table was utterly disinterested in the small child he sat with, but Tom knew his father very well. He had paid more attention to Tom’s words in the last two days since starting school than he had in his entire life until now, and was carefully analyzing each and every one now as Tom recounted the earlier events. Tom tried his best to speak thoughtfully and properly, the way he’d been taught, but couldn’t help but bubble over with the excitement from the biggest day of his life so far.

“I am not happy that you revealed her presence on only your second day of class. You knew that she was only to be used in an emergency.”

“It was! His cousin hurts him, Father, it wasn’t just the one time yesterday. He’s honestly afraid of the boy. There were three of them and two of us and we were trapped inside, I didn’t know what else to do.” His father frowned.

“And you’re completely sure that he’s aware he has magic? Actually, are you sure that he even does at all? It’s unlikely, but it’s always possible he could be like you.” Tom ignored the way his stomach hurt at the reminder.

“I still might have magic develop later,” he muttered at the floor, though he knew his father had been floating over toys from other cribs by age 2, and compelling the children around him by 5. Tom’s father was disappointed that he was likely a squib, but accepted the fact, as it didn’t badly interfere with Tom’s ultimate purpose. “Harry definitely does already, though, but he’s scared of it. He really did not want me to know.”

“That is quite fascinating. Though, I suppose we already know first-hand just how much Dumbledore cares for the well-being of his prophecy children,” he said with a cruel smirk, raising his head to look Tom in the eyes for the first time during the meal.

Tom shifted in his seat, uncomfortable as he always was when his father alluded to the circumstances of his creation. He knew that it wasn’t his fault that he had been strong enough to wrench sovereignty of the infant body he was placed in when his father split his soul, knew that the little boy had been doomed from the start anyways, but he still felt a sense of guilt about the situation that he’d only once tried to explain to his father. Sometimes, Tom wondered whether he really had completely destroyed the other child or not, and speculated(or maybe hoped) that their souls had blended together in some way. After all, his father never felt remorse or sympathy for others, and Tom felt that if he truly was only a split fragment of the man, he’d be the same.

“I am proud of you. You have done well.” Tom knew there probably wasn’t much genuine sentiment behind the words, recognizing the positive reinforcement his father regularly doled out as an effective parenting technique (one he had explained to Tom in detail, after devouring a book on operant conditioning in toddlers), but the praise still warmed him. He appreciated that his father made sure to meet all of his needs and put effort into raising him to be successful, despite not loving him the way most parents would. He knew it was with a self-serving purpose, but he still was happy to have a comfortable life, especially knowing how much better it was than the childhood his father had told him about. Tom was happy to already be accomplishing his purpose, so soon after first getting the chance to.

He thanked his father for the compliment, and they finished eating in silence, Tom clearing the table and loading the dishwasher afterwards. He paused before heading to his room for his nightly reading.

“Father? Are we going to help Harry?” The man looked up from the news he watched for exactly 90 minutes each evening.

“Help Harry? How do you mean?” A small smile twitched across his mouth, and Tom worried. It wasn’t one of his nice smiles.

“I mean, I’m meant to be his friend, and become his most trusted person, right? Then we can take him away from the muggles that are treating him so poorly.” His father’s smile widened.

“Very good, Tom, that’s right. As long as you do well, I promise that Harry won’t be living with the muggles for long.” Tom knew his father liked to play twisty word games, and didn’t like how his eyes sparkled as he spoke. He knew there was no chance of finding out more about his plans until he decided to tell him, though, and headed upstairs.

Thinking back on the day, he couldn’t stop himself from grinning. Harry was awkward, and scruffy, and pretty uneducated, but something about the gangly boy made it impossible for Tom to look away from him. He was glad he’d already had the opportunity to prove himself valuable to the other, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the way those green eyes had shined when he defended him. He could tell that Harry would have the most important trait in any relationship, according to his father: loyalty.

Thrilled at his fast progress so far, Tom snuggled into his covers, and hoped that Harry was feeling comfy and cozy in his bed too. He couldn’t wait for another day with his destined best friend.

Chapter Text

Harry woke up with his stomach cramping even worse than the morning before, from a mix of both deep hunger and anxiety for the day ahead.

Dudley and his friends had kept quiet about Tom’s snake at school, but as soon as Aunt Petunia began driving the two home afterwards, the boy started to wail. Harry felt some true guilt, knowing that while strategically timed, the fear and helplessness Dudley blubbered about were very real. He felt even guiltier for getting some enjoyment from his cousin’s tears, but tried to reassure himself that Dudley deserved it for starting the fight, even if it didn’t feel too true.

Aunt Petunia nearly drove right back to the school to confront Ms. Michelle as soon as she pieced together his story about a very real snake in the bathroom, but Dudley was trembling so hard in his seat that she decided he needed to be taken straight home for love and care. Harry was trembling too, for a different reason, as they neared the house and Uncle Vernon.

“Boy! What do you have to say for yourself!” Aunt Petunia’s eyes snapped to Harry through the rearview mirror, and he couldn’t move. Her face hardened, and Harry knew he was condemned, as usual: always guilty without even the chance to plea innocence. He couldn’t speak out against Tom, though, not after the other boy was the first person in his life to ever want to spend time with Harry, and had gone so far to protect him. He stayed frozen and silent, and stared down at his tightly clasped hands.

Aunt Petunia didn’t even look at Harry when exiting the car, slamming her door shut and bundling Dudley close to her. She fussed and inspected his arms and legs closely for any bites, and kissed his cheeks and head over and over, smoothing his hair and the wrinkles in his clothes. Harry felt tinier and uglier than one of the spiders in his cupboard, and wished more than anything that he could just disappear.

For a second he felt a little fuzzy and sick, but it stopped when his aunt grabbed his wrist and yanked him towards the house, causing sharp pain to shoot through his previously dislocated shoulder. Harry bit his lip to stay quiet and blinked back the tears that tried to grow in his eyes, knowing any reactions would only make things worse. He was almost relieved when she dragged him straight down the hall, past Uncle Vernon in the living room, and bodily shoved him into the cupboard. A sickening crack rang out when his head smacked the wall, and Harry briefly saw her lips part in surprise, and the smallest hint of concern crossed her face before it closed down. She flung the door shut and flipped the lock, and her footsteps quickly left in Uncle Vernon’s direction.

Harry laid himself down on his thin mattress and felt nauseous as he heard a deep voice begin to bellow and rage, working itself up in a familiar pattern. He knew that at any minute his uncle’s fury would need a physical target to lash out on, and curled up smaller, hoping that just one or two good smacks or kicks would be enough this time. Harry reminded himself that he couldn’t be hurt too badly now that he was going to school, and things really hadn’t been that bad for him since Dudley was told off after going too far last year. He’d be okay. He just desperately wished he wasn’t locked in the cupboard and could escape for at least a few hours until his uncle’s anger had dimmed, lessening the impact of the tornado before it hit.

Heavy footsteps pounded down the hall, and the tiny bit of calm Harry had tricked himself into feeling disappeared immediately. He bit his lip hard, and his nails dug into his palms as he clenched his fists hard enough to bleed. Harry desperately wished that his uncle wouldn’t be able to get in and get him, and closed his eyes to avoid seeing the seething purple face.

The lock clicked open, and the handle turned, but his cupboard door didn’t move. Uncle Vernon cursed and yanked again, but the door didn’t budge one bit. Harry heard him start to kick, each thud louder than the previous, and though the thin wood beams should have started to crack with the force, they held firm.

“BOY!” the man roared, louder and more threatening than Harry had ever heard him before, and he panicked – this was far worse than if he had just been taken out of the cupboard and taken the blows. He hated himself and his freakishness for ruining his life, and making everybody hate him this much. (Everybody except Tom.)

“Please, please, please, just leave me alone for now, please,” Harry whispered quietly and hopelessly, the taste of copper bitter in his mouth. To his dismay, he felt his energy sink away from himself, draining quickly, and he could barely keep his eyes open as his body loosened and collapsed fully on the mattress, too exhausted to hold its tension any longer. He felt doomed as he slipped helplessly into sleep.

Harry was shocked when waking up to find that he had been left alone by his family the entire night previously, and anxiety and dread set in immediately. He knew anything that seemed to be too good to be true, probably was (did that apply to Tom, too?), and getting comfortable was the quickest way to get hurt. He quietly checked the handle and found it opened easily, and tiptoed out to the kitchen to start cooking breakfast. He figured that acting normal would be the best way to alleviate his waiting punishment.

Harry’s fear grew as his family one by one came down and sat at the table, unusually silent. He served up their eggs and bacon, taking a single slice of toast for himself and sitting quietly at the edge of his seat. He knew it was a risk to serve himself at all, but was truly starving after the back to back days of deprivation.

After a couple minutes, Uncle Vernon cleared his throat.

“You are both going to stay away from that Tom boy. Your aunt arranged a meeting with the school and his parents this afternoon to see if he’ll be kicked out or moved to a different class, but if that doesn’t happen, I don’t want to hear about you talking to, looking at, or even thinking about him, you understand me?”

He glared at Harry, whose heart had sunk at the words. There was no way Tom wouldn’t hate him now. The best he could do for his friend was to follow his uncle’s instructions, and not give his family any more reasons to cause problems for him. He nodded quietly and finished his small meal, starting the washing up and letting himself drift into a comfortable and familiar state of misery. He knew he should be feeling immense gratitude for escaping yesterday's incidents relatively lightly, especially whatever happened in the cupboard, but Harry couldn’t remember ever feeling worse than now, having had such a magical connection so cruelly yanked away. His loneliness hurt so much more now after he’d experienced a day without it.

Tom was already in class when Harry and Dudley were dropped off, and the other boy looked up expectantly when they came in. Harry couldn’t help giving him a small smile, but Dudley elbowed him hard in the side, and he dropped his gaze. He felt even worse when he sat down across the room from Tom and Dudley took the chair directly beside him, and dreaded a whole day next to his cousin.

Harry startled when the empty chair on his other side scraped back, Tom plopping himself down in it. “Good morning, Harry.” Harry didn’t look up, but his stomach twisted at the confused tone.

“Leave us alone, freak!” Harry flinched at the insult usually hurled his way, that he humiliatingly had previously thought was his name until he made the mistake of saying so to the cashier at the grocery store. That had been a truly horrible day.

In his peripheral vision, Harry saw Tom’s hands tighten on his thighs.

“What did you just say to me?” Somehow, in that moment, he was almost as scary as Uncle Vernon. Dudley was too stupid to realize, though, or maybe he was just braver than Harry.

“I said. That you need to leave us ALONE!” Harry glanced up and around, looking for their teacher, but she must have been talking to one of the parents outside the room as they dropped off their child. He lowered his sight again.

“Harry? Do you want me to go away?” Though just a moment ago Tom’s voice had been cold and flat, now it slightly wavered with a tremble of insecurity, and underlying deep hurt. The pain in his friend’s voice made Harry realize he hadn’t actually thought about whether Tom had any other friends. The other boy was so beautiful and well-spoken and confident, Harry hadn’t imagined anything could really bother him, but he could tell now that he had been very wrong. His guilt grew so much that for a moment, he thought it might literally rise up in his throat and choke him.

“Yes, please don’t come near us. I’m sorry,” he nearly whispered, not able to look up. He saw Tom’s nails dig into his legs so hard that they must have left marks, then he let go and stood up, nearly knocking his chair over in his abruptness.

“Fine.” Tom’s voice was tight and hard, reminding Harry now of Aunt Petunia and the way she would pinch herself closed from him. He stiffly walked away, Dudley’s snickers filling the air around them, and Harry had never hated himself more.

The morning passed painfully slowly, with Harry’s tormentors relentlessly quietly harassing him. He knew there was no use in complaining to their teacher about the constant pokes and prods, and that she wouldn’t believe that the messy scribbles defacing the margins of his worksheets weren’t his own. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Tom hunched rigidly over his work, not looking up at all or talking to the children at his sides. Harry hadn’t noticed before how the boy was like an island, completely separate from those around him, and felt a pang of relatability. He’d take Tom’s position over his own current one now though, nearly the exact opposite as he remained the uncomfortable focus of the group of boys who were pressing claustrophobically close and just having too much fun messing with him, confident he would never fight back. He felt like the trapped gazelle he’d seen once on a nature show: wide-eyed and trying to stay calm and find some hopeless way out, while a pack of hyenas lunged and nipped at its flanks, reveling in the game with their prey foaming and helpless. Each minute felt like it lasted longer than the last, and Harry was utterly exhausted.

He hoped to slip free to eat alone at lunch, but had no luck, with Dudley deciding that Harry was to stay at his side and join his friends at a table. A small piece of him wondered whether it was due in part to his cousin being afraid of Tom, and guessing he’d be safer at Harry’s side than away. Whether or not that was true, Harry was skilled in self-preservation, and knew better than to go against his cousin today.

He opened his lunchbox and couldn’t contain an audible gasp. Instead of the plain cheddar sandwich that Aunt Petunia reluctantly allowed him to pack for school, there was a thick croissant, stuffed with slices of turkey, all kinds of different vegetables Harry hadn’t seen before, and different colored cheeses. A juice box, an orange, and a carefully wrapped brownie were placed alongside it. He double checked the top, terrified he’d accidentally stolen somebody else’s food, but H. J. Potter was still written carefully in black sharpie on the lid.

“Hey!” Harry yelped as a meaty hand grabbed his lunchbox handle and yanked it away, spilling the contents on the table. “That’s mine!”

“Nope.” Dudley smirked, scooping up the croissant sandwich in one hand and the brownie in the other. He bit into the dessert with vigor and moaned with exaggerated enjoyment at Harry. Harry lunged for his remaining snacks, but Piers was faster, with a smile rivaling Dudley’s in meanness. Dennis at least looked uncomfortable, shifting in his seat and avoiding looking at any of them, but it was no consolation to Harry, who had just seen the most beautiful food he’d seen in real life snatched right out of his grasp.

Dudley was right, though: it wasn’t his food, and never had been. He didn’t deserve it, and it had only appeared as a mistake–

Sudden movement derailed his thoughts, and Harry looked over to see Tom abruptly stand, a few tables away, and storm from the cafeteria. His face was absolutely furious, and worry gripped Harry, though he wasn’t sure whether it was for his friend(was he still allowed to think of him as his friend? Probably not) or for whoever he was angry at. Even though Harry felt a flash of fear at the thought that it very likely might still be him that was the target of Tom’s rage, he couldn’t help himself from standing to follow the boy when he didn’t return a few minutes later. If Tom was getting into trouble, he had to help, and somehow he didn’t think the boy would hurt Harry, even if he hated him. He muttered that he had to go to the bathroom and thankfully was able to leave without a shadow, Dudley and his friends still enthusiastically enjoying their stolen treats.

Harry walked through a couple of halls, but when he didn’t see Tom, he decided he didn’t want to get lost in the still unfamiliar building, and turned into a bathroom. He walked to the sink and looked at himself in the mirror. Impossibly messy hair, crooked glasses, brown skin peeling from the sunburn he got gardening, sharp bones poking through his sloppy clothes. He watched tears fill his eyes and start to roll down his ugly face, and wondered how he ever could have thought he deserved something like a friend. The way he had ruined everything so fast was only proof.

“What is wrong with you?” Harry spun to the side, furiously swiping his tears away. Tom had stepped out of one of the stalls and was staring at him with his arms crossed. His face was still closed, but a slight furrow in his brows hinted at either curiosity or concern – Harry couldn’t tell, and wasn’t sure which would be worse.

“Nothing,” he hiccuped embarrassingly, and felt more wetness slide down his cheeks. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.” Tom tilted his head, and stepped closer, brows furrowing further.

“But… do you still want to talk to me?” Harry broke at the slight hopeful tremble in the question, and couldn’t hold back his sobs any longer.

“Yes! Of course I do!” The words were heaved out between gulps and gasps, as Harry couldn’t help his body collapsing under the weight of the week’s emotional rollercoaster. “You’re my best friend, Tom, I’m so sorry I told you to go away.” Tom inhaled sharply, and Harry was terrified he’d messed up again. He had probably gone too far by saying Tom was his best friend already, didn’t people usually wait until they’d known each other longer before saying that?

The other boy stepped closer into Harry’s personal space and grabbed his hands, staring hard into Harry’s eyes with his deep intense brown ones. Harry was reminded of one of the hawks he’d seen on TV, completely focused on whatever was in front of them, gaze so sharp it could look right through to your soul.

“You’re my best friend too, Harry. I forgive you.” He squeezed his hands painfully hard then, so hard that Harry felt his bones creak against each other. “But you’re not allowed to do that again, okay? If I’m your best friend, you have to let me be there for you, no matter what.” Harry knew it wasn’t a question but an order, and nodded his head. This wasn’t an order that made him feel icky or bad, but warm and cozy inside, and he was selfishly perfectly happy with listening to it. Part of him still felt awful knowing that Tom would be pulled into the trouble that always seemed to follow Harry and his freakishness, but he was so happy to finally not be alone that he couldn’t push him away. It had been hard enough to try earlier, and he wasn’t strong enough to do it again.

Their moment was interrupted by a familiar loud laugh echoing in the hallway outside, Harry reflexively stiffening at the sound. Tom’s hands slipped up to circle his wrists firmly, and he tugged Harry into a stall behind him, quickly locking the door. Harry missed the warm grip when he let go, and wondered if friends held each other like that a lot; he definitely looked forwards to it if so.

“Up!” Tom whispered urgently, stepping onto the toilet seat and motioning Harry up after him. He stumbled as he did and Tom grabbed his arm, saving Harry from falling backwards and pulling Harry close to his chest just as the bathroom door opened. Harry was frozen, overwhelmed in the sensation of his first real hug– even if it was standing scared on a toilet seat, with Dudley lurking just feet away.

He let himself slowly relax into the warm sensation of Tom’s arms around him, chests pressed close together, breaths matching and twin heartbeats pounding so fast that Harry couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began. Tom was slightly shaking, but lifted a hand and softly petted Harry’s hair, thin fingers at first unsure, but slowly stroking steadier. Harry absolutely melted at the feeling, and let himself sink further into the other boy. For a dreamy minute he let himself imagine that he’d been born instead as Tom’s kitten, and not Harry the freak boy. He would give anything to feel Tom’s hand running gently on his scalp forever.

Harry realized after a few minutes that they were alone again in the bathroom, but still standing together on the toilet, Harry held tight in Tom’s arms. The other boys must have just ducked down to check that there weren’t any feet in the row of stalls, and left without investigating any further. He knew they really should go back to the cafeteria now, but didn’t want the hug to end, and wasn’t sure when he’d next get another. Maybe for Christmas, if that was something friends did?

“Harry.” Tom’s hands rubbed his back comfortingly. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Yeah,” he admitted with a small and grateful smile. “But–I didn’t even get the chance to tell you, Tom–there’s going to be a meeting today, with your dad, and they’re going to try to get you in trouble, and–”

“Shhh. I know. It’s going to be fine.” Harry shook his head, his earlier fears coming back in full force.

“No, Tom, they’re so angry, you don’t understand. You haven’t met them, you don’t know what they’re like. They hate you now.” It sounded absurd even as Harry said it, for his aunt and uncle to hate the little boy in front of him, but he knew it was true, though luckily they didn’t hate him nearly as much as they did Harry(who it at least made sense to hate).

Tom shook his head back at Harry and finally let him go, stepping down and offering him a hand to help. Harry blushed when he took it, and held it for a couple seconds longer before letting go, enjoying the comfort and warm glow he felt on the inside whenever touching his friend.

“I’ve met your cousin, I can imagine what they’re like. I hate them too.” His eyes flashed dark, and even more than Harry couldn’t understand his relatives hating Tom, he was utterly baffled by how much the boy despised his family, without ever meeting or knowing anything about them. “And you’re the one who doesn’t understand, Harry. You don’t know what my father's like.” He now grinned confidently at Harry, whose lips twitched up involuntarily to return it. “We’re going to be just fine.”

“If you say so,” he responded dubiously, fighting the hope that threatened to spring up in his chest. If Tom really was so sure about wanting to be his friend, if his father really did have the power to fix this and make things okay, Harry couldn’t even start to think about what that might mean for his life. He would just take things one day at a time, appreciating the nice moments that he was lucky enough to have, and would stay ready for whenever everything eventually fell apart around him. For now, he’d let himself enjoy Tom at his side.

“I do say so, and besides, the two of us can handle ourselves pretty well too.” His grin turned mischievous. “After all, we’ve escaped trolls in the bathroom twice now together, haven’t we?”

Harry burst out laughing at the accuracy of the comparison, and Tom’s smile grew as bright as the stars. Harry hoped that he would get to see it every day, and crossed his fingers for the meeting ahead.

Chapter Text

Voldemort grimaced as he walked through the offensively bright hallways of St. Gregory’s primary school, breathing lightly through his mouth to avoid the stench of muggle that surrounded him. He was thankful none of his followers were aware of the indignities he was currently suffering, unsure whether he would command the same terror if they were able to picture him sitting in a plastic chair for a parent-teacher conference. It was a humiliating and frustratingly slow undertaking, but he could conceive of no other way to currently go about defeating his prophesied foe, not without another breakthrough.

He reached his destination right on time, five minutes after the scheduled start of the meeting at 2 o’clock. The first year students were visiting the school library to end the day, and the classroom now held only the muggle teacher, the school principal, and Harry Potter’s odious relatives. Voldemort was pleased at the visible reactions to his appearance on entry, as he often was since acquiring this resurrected body of his, an eerie near-mirror image of the father he had killed at 16. Though he mourned the loss of his visible trophies from dark magic, the changes he had worn in honor of the heights he had transcended, he couldn’t deny some pleasure in seeing how attractive he would have been if permitting his body to continue developing naturally. Tom Riddle had never pretended to be a humble man, after all, and he grinned at the scowl Vernon Dursley was giving to his wide-eyed wife.

The reactions to his body reminded him of the man who had developed it, though, and Voldemort had to fight a new rush of anger for his traitorous prodigy, helpful as he was.

Severus Snape was still weeping an entire week after the attack on the Potters when Voldemort had found him, and the young man’s response was violently hostile: first attacking, then attempting to call for Dumbledore when nothing affected the wraith. His Patronus failed, of course, and with nearly all of his remaining strength, Voldemort was able to temporarily subdue him enough to begin a conversation.

Severus was entirely resistant to any bribing or bargaining, to his great displeasure. Voldemort would have much preferred to continue mentoring the young man and nurturing his rare talent, but he was weak enough to have been entirely broken by the death of Lily Evans, and no longer had any greater vision. Reluctantly, he eventually switched tactics, and it didn’t take very much bluffing or threatening at all for him to be convinced. At the suggestion that Voldemort would instead focus his entire energy on killing or possessing young Harry, Severus finally folded, and agreed to aid his resurrection.

Unfortunately, due to his physical condition, and the true mediocrity of potions masters throughout Europe (Voldemort tried not to think about the two he killed in a fit of rage years ago, who might have been much more helpful right now), Voldemort was entirely reliant on the grieving, guilt-ridden man, and had to acquiesce to at least a few of his wishes. The ritual and potion that would restore him to a body with full physical and magical strength required the complete consent of both parties involved to work, and Severus refused to create the body without a blood oath that would fully bind him against certain actions, an old piece of dark magic that was rarely used anymore due to the multiple human sacrifices required.

Voldemort absolutely fumed at the thought of his will bound in any such way, but knew that without Severus’s assistance, he may stay as a wraith for years, or even decades, and the outcome from any other wizard would likely be subpar. He finally agreed, deciding that if the conditions ever truly were too unbearable, he would simply kill the body to release the blood-bound oath and return to his weak wraith form, and start planning anew.

In the young man’s grief-stricken, broken state, he was amusingly lax with specifications for Voldemort’s actions in the world, and the conditions they settled on after a couple days of argument left him many loopholes to continue his mission to take over wizarding society: do not kill or attack muggles or wizards indiscriminately, do not try to harm muggle-borns as a group or target them individually because of their heritage, do not kill any children under the age of 10 unless immediately necessary for his own survival. Voldemort bluffed that he would leave immediately to attack Harry Potter when Severus tried to limit him any further, and the man ultimately agreed to the negotiated terms, showing Voldemort that he did not truly oppose his ideals. The boy was still very young and the mudblood’s death was quite recent; there was a good chance that he would return to his side in time.

Much, much less amusing, however, were the specifications that Severus had surrounding Harry Potter. Voldemort had already discovered that he was unable to physically or magically harm the wretched infant or any family members living in his maternal relatives’ household, a surprisingly impressive bit of dark magic that Evans must have prepared in advance for this exact situation, and was not initially worried when Severus wanted him to swear not to harm him. For this oath, though, the youth focused, and his conditions became absolutely maddeningly restrictive, the sharp boy shutting down all of Voldemort’s previous ideas.

Not only could Voldemort not hurt or kill Harry Potter, but he now could not alert his followers by any direct or indirect means to Harry Potter’s location, nor share any information he learned regarding him that could possibly be used to find him. Neither could he use magic, threats, or bribery to cause any other person, animal, environment or object to harm the boy.

He raged, and fumed, and did his very best once more to convince the angry little boy to come back to the only person who had ever believed in him, but Severus’s conviction only grew firmer with every attempt to change his mind. He considered finding another follower to help kill Harry Potter instead, but worried over all of the protections Dumbledore would have in place. If they attempted and failed, Harry Potter could easily then disappear for decades until trained and powerful enough to fight him, and possibly succeed (not that Voldemort could be killed, of course, but this wraith-like state was awful and to be avoided if at all possible). Desperate to exit this horrid state of existence, feeling his sanity starting to fray at the edges in this ethereal form, he finally agreed and finished by binding the distraught boy to silence. It would be tricky, but Voldemort was confident in his ability to eventually find a way to his target.

This way may be painfully slow, he thought, smiling politely and shaking the hand of the pink-cheeked teacher, but the reward would be worth his patience. Voldemort clenched his teeth at Vernon Dursley’s crushing grip, despising Evans’s magic that kept him from squeezing back hard enough to hurt the man, but kept his expression even. Someday, they would all pay for this, for the years of tedious child-rearing and coexisting among the unworthy. They would all pay.

“Mr. Oliver, thank you for joining us, my name is Mr. Roberts,” started the principal as he sat down on top of one of the small desks. Voldemort smiled at the alias, enjoying his little private joke. “We’re here to discuss a concerning phone call that we received yesterday from Mrs. Dursley.”

“Of course, I appreciate you calling me in,” he lied. “Please call me Tom. Has my boy done something wrong?”

“Your boy set a goddamned snake on my son, that’s what he did wrong!” Vernon snarled, face red. “I won’t have him in this school!”

“A snake?!” Voldemort affected a look of mild surprise and disbelief. “My goodness, is he okay? Has the creature been caught?”

“You –”

“Ms. Michelle and I have spoken with the involved students, and have received two different versions of events,” Roberts interrupted Vernon to explain. “Dudley Dursley and his friends claim that Tom brandished a living snake at them, and they fled before it could bite. Tom and his friend claim the other boys are lying. None of the children were injured, and we have not seen any snakes on the premises since hearing this and searching for one.”

“The boy’s always been a liar,” sneered Petunia, and Voldemort gave an offended gasp. He had to admit that some parts of this playacting were quite enjoyable.

“My son is an incredibly honest child,” he gleefully lied again, “And I find it quite hard to believe that a 6 year old child was able to tame and conceal a snake for hours, especially without the knowledge of any staff at this school.” He cast an appraising, judgemental look towards the teacher and principal as he finished, relishing the worry he saw flash across Roberts’ face.

“My sister’s son, not yours. Parent to parent, I recommend encouraging your son to find better taste in friends. That boy is nothing but trouble.” He couldn’t believe his luck; his horcrux had insisted that Harry Potter’s family was not a nurturing one, but this was even better than he had hoped. Gaining more access and influence over the boy would be easier than he suspected if they truly despised their own kin so much. Voldemort resolved to kill them painfully as soon as he was able to do so, once Harry Potter was dead; they could not expect to behave in such a way and continue to live, breathing his same air.

“Tom has described Harry so far as a quiet and polite little boy. I appreciate the warning, but I do not intend to impede any friendships at his young age; I hope for his childhood to be less lonely than mine was. I will be sure to watch for any concerning behavior, however, and thank you for the advice.” Voldemort repressed a smirk as the school staff visibly warmed to him during the exchange. Vernon was furious, still red and fuming, and Petunia watched him with narrowed, assessing eyes. He continued, “Given that there is no evidence of a snake being present, I can’t agree with my child or his friend facing disciplinary consequences for this incident. In fact, I hesitate to bring it up, knowing that the start of school is difficult for all children, but from what Tom has told me, there is already bullying in their classroom, and Harry is in fact a victim, not a perpetrator.”

“It is very early in the school year,” Roberts agreed, smoothly cutting off Vernon’s noise of outrage at Voldemort’s words. “Conflicts between the children will likely settle down soon as they become more familiar with their new routine and expectations. It is normal and expected for there to be difficulties in adjustment, and I would like all of you to talk to the children in your care about the importance of friendship and kindness with others. At this time, unless Ms. Michelle recommends otherwise, we are not planning to remove any of the boys from the classroom.”

The teacher shook her head, looking apologetically at the displeased Dursleys. “I understand your worry, and I don’t believe Dudley or his friends were lying– at the very least, they do believe that they saw a snake, even if one wasn’t there. Tom and Harry seem like good boys, though, and if the children did get in an argument yesterday, I believe they will be able to all be friends before long.” Voldemort considered killing her for the groveling. It didn’t go against any of his restrictions, but every book he’d read recommended against unnecessary instability with the presence of a child’s caretakers, so he reluctantly decided to let her live for now. At least she already had a positive opinion of him and his horcrux already, despite the boy’s impulsive actions with his snake.

“Perhaps Tom and Harry can sit separately from Dudley and his friends for the time being?” suggested Voldemort. Petunia squinted suspiciously, but Vernon nodded with a huff.

“If that’s the best we can get,” he said grumpily, and the school staff visibly relaxed with relief. “Dudley’s here to get an education, and I’m not going to be happy if I hear about any more snakes in class.” He glared fiercely at the teacher. “You need to keep better control of that classroom. Don’t forget our taxes are paying your salary.”

“I’m glad we’ve all come to an agreeable solution.” Voldemort felt his typical rush of exhilaration at the victory, fighting to keep his smile charming and not vicious as he reached out for another round of handshakes. “I’m looking forward to seeing you all more over the coming year. If there is nothing further to discuss, it’s almost the end of the school day, and I would like to retrieve my son.” At the teacher’s nod, he swept from the room before anyone spoke further, finally allowing his face to break once in the hallway into the full-toothed grin he’d been fighting throughout the meeting. He shook his head as he walked towards the library, quietly laughing to himself.

Dumbledore really, truly did not care about the well-being of children. Voldemort had always known it despite the world’s protests, but here was undeniable proof. Harry Potter was neglected, likely abused, utterly unloved and unwanted. Perfectly vulnerable to predators, and honestly, Voldemort was just saving the boy from an even worse fate: he would have inevitably run into a true monster, eventually.

While Voldemort was bound on several levels to cause no harm to Harry Potter, his beautifully dark little blended-soul horcrux had no such restrictions. Once in his resurrected body with the full powers of his magic and mind, it had been no trouble at all to make careful adjustments to the horcrux ritual to ensure that his soul was splitting off in its purest form, essentially a newly born being, containing only his essence and no experiences. When he placed it into the screaming abducted child, he used a complex diagnostic spell and eagerly watched as his much more magically powerful soul piece battled and overcame the weak one existing already in the body, reducing it to a tiny, barely pulsing little thing, entirely consumed and surrounded by Voldemort’s horcrux. The infant’s hair darkened and cheeks narrowed, and he was triumphant.

As time went on and he watched it grow in his mirror image, interacting with the world in that familiar deliberate and calculating way, he knew with certainty he had succeeded: this child was entirely Tom Riddle, and nobody survived being close to Tom Riddle. The boy was already grasping and possessive, full of spite and hungry with want. Voldemort was fascinated and proud to watch the same traits emerge in the boy, even while fulfilling all of his needs and providing a perfectly lovely childhood. Not one hint of Longbottom remained.

Eventually, it may very well grow to become a threat to him, at which time he would transfer it to a more appropriate inanimate object and destroy the original vessel, but first, his horcrux would eliminate Harry Potter. It might not even need much nudging to do so from Voldemort; knowing himself, it wouldn’t take long for Harry to upset or offend it enough to do so. He never had been able to tolerate defiance, and the horcrux already believed he practically owned the other child: if Harry enraged him enough, it would only take one impulsive second for the horcrux to order its snake to bite. Tom Riddle had always been quick to anger and quick to act, and Voldemort had high hopes that this could be over soon.

He stopped in the door of the library, taking a minute to observe before entering the room. He recognized many of the other children, from years of careful observation in the nearby playgrounds, and was not impressed by the intellectual level of the cohort. He knew not to expect much better from such a stiflingly conformist suburban area, but it truly ached at him to be surrounded by the absolute dullest of muggles. If only the Dursleys lived in Copenhagen or Istanbul… No, here he was surrounded by starch and khakis, housewives and salesmen, pointless existences everywhere he looked. It was suffocating.

His horcrux looked unbothered by the mundanity surrounding him, however, a startlingly joyful look on his face as he leaned next to Harry Potter and scribbled on a page with him. Voldemort preened at the sight of their bare arms in contact: he had discovered years earlier that if concentrating hard to not intend harm, he could touch the boy’s relatives, but it was entirely impossible for Voldemort to make physical contact with Harry himself, repelled by an invisible barrier even if trying to do so indirectly. His heart sang at the proof that his horcrux had no such issue, and excitement coursed through his veins.

He entered the room quietly, giving a small smile to the librarian who looked at his horcrux and gave a nod back. He made his way over to the table where the two boys sat alone, mildly annoyed at the lack of safety measures in this school: he did look almost exactly like the child, but they still shouldn’t just let him walk in here without asking further questions. For all that woman knew, he may have been an imposter or the horcrux’s disgruntled uncle coming to kidnap it! He reminded himself again that it would be inefficient and suspicious to start killing the staff here, and sat across from the two boys who were still hunched intently over their work.

“Father!” His horcrux looked up with a beaming smile, and Voldemort was struck as always by the look of carefree joy and innocence on the face. How had none of those families ever adopted him, when he looked like this as a child? Darkness lurked beneath the darling face, but they wouldn’t have known that – how had nobody wanted him, when he smiled at them like that? He fought the urge to sneer at the deceitfully bright thing before him, and forced his face into the stern yet approachable expression he usually maintained around it.

“Hello, Tom. Is this your friend?” He gave a kind smile, and took the opportunity to examine the boy in front of him, closer than he’d been in years.

Harry Potter was visibly unwell, and Voldemort felt a rush of even further distaste for the staff of the school. Was nobody concerned by this? He was even skinnier than Voldemort had thought, large green eyes in a sunken hollow face, and wore a hideously baggy shirt that draped to reveal sharp collarbones. There looked to be a real possibility that the boy might very well starve to death and solve Voldemort’s problem on his own, and he briefly considered just letting such an event pass. For some reason though, the thought twisted his stomach, and he decided that since Dumbledore would probably step in if things grew truly dire to move the boy, it wasn’t worth risking such a slow method. Feeding him would help build his trust with the Riddles, or “Olivers”, after all.

“Yes, he’s who we talked about! This is Harry. Harry, this is my dad, his name is also Tom!” Harry gave a shy smile, only briefly making eye contact, before ducking his head back down, fidgeting in his seat: poor manners, but understandable given his circumstances. He did not try to shake his hand, to Voldemort’s relief.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Harry. You boys should both be happy to know that everything went just fine, nobody’s in any trouble for yesterday.” Tom turned triumphantly to his friend who now gaped up at Voldemort, astonished.

“See! I told you. Nobody messes with my dad.”

“Just do me a favor, and don’t let anyone else imagine that they saw a snake here at school. Outside of it, though…” He gave a playful wink, and Harry’s mouth dropped further open in shock, turning his head rapidly to look back and forth between the two. He had to admit that others would have probably found it quite endearing, then dismissed the thought, refocusing.

Voldemort leaned closer, voice serious again. “Harry, do you know how to use the telephone at home?” The boy nodded, and Voldemort reached into his pocket, carefully sliding the prepared scrap across the table to him. “This is the phone number for our house. You can call whenever you’re not at school, if the hour’s not too late, and chat with Tom if he’s home and available. I also want you to call it at any time if you ever don’t feel safe, or need help, no matter from what or who.” The boy looked confused but grateful, pocketing the paper then biting his lip.

He debated the wisdom of this again, knowing how simple things would be if the boy simply passed away at the hands of his relatives, but the lack of control he had made him too uncomfortable. Harry Potter’s death was his own to orchestrate. It was unacceptable for it to be fumbled and potentially stopped half-way at the hands of incompetent muggles, who wouldn’t even understand its significance.

“Thank you very, very much. I don’t think I probably will be able to call very much, but next time I’m home alone I will!” His horcrux turned to the boy, aghast.

“You’re left at home alone? You’re only six years old!” Voldemort silently thanked his younger self for the prescient purchase of a loyal house elf, knowing he truly would have gone insane if he’d spent the past years constantly at the horcrux’s side. Tom may be much more tolerable than the average child, being his own self and raised to his standards, but he still was a six year old boy.

“I… um…” Harry was visibly hesitant and unsure, glancing nervously across the room at Dudley. The conditioning his relatives had accomplished with him was truly impressive, though disgusting. He would need to remind his horcrux that the easily spooked boy was going to take a long time to start opening up to him. This small version of Tom Riddle didn’t understand a life with nobody to trust.

Just then, the door opened and the Dursleys entered, Petunia rushing straight to her beast and swooping down to hug him tightly. Voldemort watched Harry stare enviously, then flinch at his uncle’s booming call.

“BOY!” rang out through the quiet room, hushed mutters and giggles stopping as all heads turned to the door. Vernon seemed to remember he was in a library and flushed slightly, catching Harry’s eye and jerking his head at the door. The boy slumped and pushed himself up, eyes now dull, transformed alarmingly fast from the shy yet lively boy who was in front of him just seconds earlier. Now, he could have easily passed for an Inferius.

“Bye, Tom. See you tomorrow. You can keep the picture.” Without looking back, the defeated child slipped over to the door, head lowering even further as he went. Voldemort turned back to see a disturbingly distressed look on his own young face as he watched the boy leave, seeming nearly on the verge of tears. He’d seen the expression before, of course, when the boy had fallen down, or felt emotionally injured after a conversation with Voldemort, but it had never been shown for another human being before. He was momentarily concerned, but remembered that Tom already considered Harry as one of his possessions, so of course he was distraught when seeing him poorly cared for. Needing to distract the boy before he actually went as far as crying, he tapped the paper on the table before them.

“What’s this, then?” His horcrux pushed it over, pouting and now glaring at the Dursleys. Ah, this expression was much, much better: familiar, delicious hatred.

“Let’s go home, I’m not staying if Harry’s gone.” Amused at the sullen, petulant demand, Voldemort agreed, and told the boy to grab his lunchbox. He wondered what Harry’s reaction had been to the sandwich brought for him, and made a note to ask if he liked any of the vegetables in particular. He doubted Vernon and Petunia were serving very many.

Voldemort stood to leave, remembering to grab the “art” that the children created together. He felt an unfamiliar wrench as he looked down at the two stick figures holding hands, next to a taller man and a squiggly green line, unevenly drawn and brightly colored flowers surrounding them. He resisted the urge to crumple the useless paper, and instead folded and tucked it into his coat, knowing his horcrux would ask for it later.

The sentimentality of children. Absolutely pathetic.

Chapter Text

Each day that week, Harry arrived at school nervous, deeply worried that Tom had decided overnight that he no longer wanted to be friends with him. He adored sitting with Tom during class and lunch, but it still felt too good to be true. Harry knew that he had to be boring the other boy, not knowing anything about the books, TV shows, movies or news stories he mentioned, to Tom’s continued embarrassing astonishment. It felt like only a matter of time before Tom understood that the rest of the class was right: Dudley was a much better friend to have than Harry.

To his happiness and surprise, though, Tom greeted him with a warm smile every day, grabbing Harry and pulling him over to the table they shared. He secretly loved the feeling of the other boy’s warm hand in his own, especially the times that Tom would forget to let go, and they would end up holding hands for minutes. Harry had never, ever experienced somebody wanting physical contact from him before, unless it was to hurt him. Harry had often imagined (but never really believed) that somebody would someday treat him gently and affectionately, and frequently now pinched himself to make sure it was truly real. He basked in the glowy warm feeling that filled him every time Tom touched him, but did his very best to not show his reactions, terrified that the other boy would stop if he knew how strongly Harry was affected.

Every day in class, Harry was shocked and impressed by just how smart Tom was. He could already read and write perfectly, and hid a small chapter book under their desk to read while the other children practiced their letters. Harry was deeply grateful for the way Tom would take his paper without asking and fix any mistakes, showing Harry what he did wrong and telling him how to do it better. As the two boys consistently finished their work quickly and quietly, Ms. Michelle’s opinion of them seemed to rise, and on Thursday, Harry even got a sticker for his excellent progress on handwriting. Dudley ripped it off as soon as they were in the car, but Harry still felt like he wore the gold star all night long.

School with Tom was wonderful, and Harry clung fiercely to the happiness it brought him, trying his very best to bring it back home where his situation had only worsened.

The Dursleys were not happy with the outcome of the conference at school. While initially happy that Dudley was separated from bad influences, they quickly had grown upset when talking about just how much time Harry would now be spending with ‘that awful boy’. They were especially displeased to hear that Harry was now receiving large lunches from Tom; when Dudley had spitefully let it slip at dinner after the meeting, Uncle Vernon smashed Harry’s small serving against the wall, then dragged the boy from the dining room and threw him in his cupboard. The man had raged, reminding Harry of how expensive it was to care for him, and made sure he understood that since Harry wasn’t appreciative enough of the food at home, he’d no longer have the privilege of it.

Harry still was in charge of cooking breakfast and dinner, and usually able to sneak a few small bites for himself, but mostly now ate food from Tom. Though he would still be very hungry by morning, for a few brief hours after lunch, Harry would be fuller and more satisfied than he could ever remember. Tom always brought him a large stuffed sandwich, a carton of juice or milk, a fruit, an extra snack, and a sugary treat. It would all be too much for Harry to eat at once, so Tom would encourage him to bring some home for later. While the extras were usually swiped by Dudley on their way home, Harry once managed to sneak a string cheese, and eating it late at night felt sweeter than any dessert.

Harry’s food situation had been easily managed during the week, but now it was Friday, and he worried about the weekend. Though had gone two days without eating before and knew that he could handle it, Harry was terrified that with so much time apart after being together all week, Tom would realize his life was much better without Harry and his problems. He didn’t even want to think about how expensive all of the fancy lunch food must have been, and hated the thought of Tom getting in trouble with his dad because of him. He couldn’t stop thinking about how Tom really didn’t benefit in any way from being his friend, and how it was stupid of Harry to expect him to stick around.

“What’s wrong with you today? Why are you pouting?” Tom elbowed him during recess, and Harry looked up from the ground into dark and concerned eyes. Tom was reading out loud next to him on their bench, but Harry hadn’t heard a thing, lost in his troubles.

“I’m not pouting!” Harry frowned, realizing that he probably was. “I just wish we had school every day.” Tom raised his eyebrows.

“You’re not excited for the trampoline party tomorrow?” Harry shrugged.

“I’m probably not going. Besides, trampolines are overrated.” He tried not to think about the day after Dudley got it, when he and Piers had worked together to see how high they could ‘pop’ Harry into the air. He’d blacked out after landing on the nearby pavement, collar bone crunching as it slammed into the concrete, and done his best to avoid the awful bouncy thing ever since.

“What do you mean you’re not going? It’s at your house!” Harry smiled at Tom’s outrage, never tiring of how the small boy puffed up indignantly on his behalf at any smallest slight.

“I’m not usually invited to Dudley’s parties. I’ll either be doing chores or they’ll send me over to the neighbor.” Tom narrowed his eyes.

“I’m guessing that there aren’t ever any parties for you?” Harry burst out laughing at the thought, and before either boy could say more, they were called back into class.

Tom was concerned about the upcoming weekend. Harry did his best to dodge any questions that Tom raised about his treatment at home, but after seeing the way the boy’s eyes lit up at the food each day, even more than they did from seeing Tom, he was very worried. His father was less concerned, promising that as long as Harry was eating as much as Tom claimed during lunch, his calorie needs were being met sufficiently, but he still hated thinking of him being poorly fed all weekend. Tom had seen the tiny plain sandwich Harry brought for lunch before, and was sure that his food at home was just as unflavored and insufficient.

He wondered whether he could threaten Dudley into inviting him to the party so he could spend time with Harry, but didn’t want the other boy to get more upset with his cousin. Petunia sneered hatefully at the small boy when dropping him off and picking him up, and Tom had the sickening feeling that when he had tried to help Harry earlier in the week, he might have made things even worse for him at home. Forcing his way into their house when Harry’s family already hated him was sure to only cause more problems for his friend.

Finally, an idea came to him at the end of the day, and Tom couldn’t help but grab Harry’s hand in excitement, grinning at the puzzled boy. He was thrilled to see his father was one of the first parents to show up for pickup, and pulled Harry along behind him as he ran across the yard.

“Father! Hello! You remember Harry, right?” His father of course remembered Harry, but Tom knew that he didn’t want anyone to know of their family’s special interest in him. Muggles didn’t understand anything, and it was easier for all of them if Harry didn’t know how special he was yet.

His father smiled at Harry, who blushed and gave him a small wave. Tom hoped he wouldn’t scold him on his manners; obviously, nobody had ever taught Harry how to act correctly, and his behavior wasn’t his fault.

“Of course. Did you boys enjoy your first week of class?” They both nodded, and Tom jumped in before Harry could open his mouth to speak.

“Father, may Harry and I have a playdate tomorrow? At our house?”

The man’s eyes flashed oddly, and his lips curled up further.

“If his family agrees to it, then I don’t see why not. Though, perhaps a park or playground would be better than our house, to start.” Tom could have kicked himself for forgetting all of the magic visible at home; of course Harry couldn’t come over yet, not without seriously reorganizing the place, or telling him first about being a wizard.

Tom felt Harry wilt slightly beside him, and squeezed the small hand he was still holding.

“I… I don’t know if they’ll agree, it’s okay though. Thank you so much for asking me.” Tom’s father frowned.

“Nonsense, of course they will. I’ll ask your aunt myself; it’s Petunia, right?” Harry gave a small, hopeful nod, and the man returned a confident wink, then focused his gaze behind them. “Speak of the devil…”

“Bo– Harry! Let go of that boy right now!” Harry flinched as soon as the shrill voice reached them, instantly dropping Tom’s hand.

In that moment, Tom completely understood what his father meant when he spoke about the hate needed for an Unforgivable curse. He was sure that if he had had magic, the woman would be writhing under a Crucio in front of him right now, begging Tom for forgiveness for the equally grievous offenses of daring to hurt Harry, and of separating him from Tom.

“Hello, Petunia. I was actually hoping to speak with you, if you had a moment.” Tom felt his father’s comforting hand on his shoulder and gave Harry a reassuring smile as Petunia neared.

“Yes, is everything well? Has the boy given you any trouble?” She glared at Harry, and Tom wished he could pluck out her eyes.

“Not at all; in fact, Tom and I were wondering if he would be available to join us for an outing tomorrow?” Petunia grimaced, and Tom worried that his father would not be able to convince her. He had heard his many complaints over not being able to use magic on the Dursleys, and had never agreed with him more than now. Tom so badly wished his father could just command them to treat his friend kindly and feed him well!

“I’m not sure…” Her face twisted, and Tom guessed that she was deciding whether it was worse for Harry to be at home with them, or out of sight yet under Tom’s influence. Noticing other parents nearby, he decided to use a tactic his father had taught him, and raised his voice.

“Oh, please, Mrs. Dursley, please?” Tom felt his father twitch behind him, suppressing a laugh at his son’s high-pitched plea, and Tom delighted in seeing Harry’s lip quirk up at him. A couple other nearby parents glanced over, and Tom stuck out his lower lip. He let it tremble slightly, hoping nobody would look close enough to see his dry eyes, and continued, letting his voice break at the end. “Harry is my BEST friend, I don’t want to spend the whole weekend without him, and Dudley gets to have all of HIS friends over tomorrow. Please Mrs., please?” Petunia shifted and looked away with an unpleasant grimace, and Tom resisted the urge to smirk.

“Fine!” she snapped. “Would you like us to pack him a lunch?” Fury rose in Tom at the question, and his father’s hand tightening on his shoulder only barely held him back from an outburst.

“There is no need for that. Providing for a child is easy, and is only the obvious thing to do.” Tom’s father’s voice was chillier than usual, and Petunia stiffened. “I’ll expect him to have eaten breakfast before we leave, of course.” The woman’s jaw worked for a moment, muscles twitching beneath the skin.

“Of course,” she responded, her voice just as cold. “Our address is 4 Privet Drive, do you need directions?”

Tom could hear the grin in his father’s voice when he replied.

“Don’t worry, I know exactly where you live. We’ll see you at 9am tomorrow; have a good evening, Harry.”

He knew to follow the squeeze on his shoulder as his father pulled them away, and gave his friend a thumbs up as they left. Harry had started to look worried again, but Tom was rewarded with one of his lovely shy smiles, and warmth rushed through him at the accomplishment. He felt even better when thinking of how he and Harry would get to spend an entire day together with his father, no annoying muggles or Dursleys to bother them.

Tom let himself skip for just a few steps as they left school, overcome with excitement for his upcoming playdate. His father was in a good mood too, not even reprimanding him for the undignified behavior, and there was a feeling in the air that nothing could go wrong. This had been the best week of Tom’s life so far, and tomorrow was sure to be even better. He couldn't wait!

Chapter Text

Harry bounced his leg nervously, resisting the urge to look up again to check the clock. He could feel Uncle Vernon’s glare burning into him, and just hoped he wouldn’t change his mind about letting him out with Tom. The man had been furious when Aunt Petunia told him about the playdate, but reluctantly decided that it would be more trouble to change the plans, and it was convenient enough to have Harry out of the house anyway.

(Harry was aware that his family hated being stuck with him, and very occasionally used to wish that Uncle Vernon would follow through on his threats of leaving him at an orphanage. He knew how wicked and ungrateful he was for thinking that way, though, and did his very best to instead appreciate what he had.)

The doorbell rang, and Harry jumped to his feet.

“I can get it! Unless… should I do the dishes before leaving?” Harry glanced anxiously at the table, kicking himself mentally for not thinking of them earlier.

“Just go, you’ve done more than enough.” Aunt Petunia flapped her hand at Harry, not looking him in the eye. He hurried to the front door, excitement building with each step. He could hardly believe this was actually happening, and Harry’s cheeks hurt with how hard he smiled.

He stood on his tiptoes to unlock the door, and when he opened it, his grin stretched impossibly wider at the beautiful sight of Tom and his father. Without thinking, he launched himself at his best friend, arms locking around his waist in a tight hug before Harry even realized what he was doing.

Tom momentarily stiffened, and horror briefly rushed through Harry, but slim arms then pulled him closer into their second ever hug, and all was right in the world. Tom felt so warm and solid against him, and his shirt was impossibly soft underneath Harry’s cheek. He wished they could stay hugging forever, but after a few seconds reluctantly pulled away (with some difficulty, as Tom didn’t seem to want to let go either).

“Good morning! Thank you both for coming to get me,” Harry said, slightly shy as he looked up at an amused Mr. Oliver. The handsome man smiled back at him.

“Good morning, Harry. Shall I come inside to speak with your aunt before we leave?” He quickly shook his head.

“No sir, she said I’m fine to leave!” Tom’s father let out a scoff, and his smile twisted up at the side.

“Well, I suppose that today she’s lucky it’s me here, and not somebody with poor intentions for you. In the future, Harry, there should always be an adult with you when answering the door.” He resisted the urge to giggle at the sheer absurdity of the idea, unable to imagine actually requesting something like that of his family, and agreed politely instead. The older man had helped him a lot so far, and it was only proper for Harry to show him respect.

Harry closed the door and followed the two to their nearby car, secretly thrilled when Tom slipped his hand into his. A pang of anxiety shot through him when he noticed the tell-tale fluttering of their living room curtain, but he hoped his aunt would be too busy stewing over the vehicle they were entering to notice the affection between the two boys. Harry didn’t know much about cars, but the shiny dark green one they were about to enter was clearly fancier than the Dursleys’, and he could easily picture the pinched and jealous expression Aunt Petunia probably had.

Harry turned away from the house, and found that Tom’s father was frowning at his feet.

“Those are the best shoes you own?” He felt his face heat in embarrassment despite the man’s neutral tone, and didn’t need to look down to confirm the pathetic sight. The rubber was barely hanging onto the bottom of Dudley’s old trainers, loose flaps smacking against the pavement with each step he took, and the laces were too frayed and ragged to be tied at all anymore, instead tucked tightly underneath Harry’s feet inside the shoes. He didn’t actually wear them very much, usually slipping his feet free under the table during class, and Harry wished that Tom’s father knew their poor condition wasn’t entirely his fault; if he knew how to care for them any better, he would!

The man opened the back and ushered the boys inside, not waiting for Harry to answer. He followed Tom into the car, and startled when the other boy hooked an arm around his waist after sitting down to yank him closer.

“You’re the smallest, so you sit in the middle!” Harry was very sure that he had blushed more in the last week with Tom than he had in his entire life before, but it was definitely worth spending time with his friend. He only hoped it would happen less frequently soon.

Tom’s father chuckled and agreed, and looked back to confirm that they were both buckled in. A strange grimace flickered across his face afterwards, but passed too quickly for Harry to pay much notice. He just felt incredibly warm inside to be included in the automatic safety check, having watched Aunt Petunia do the same with Dudley many times before while ignoring Harry. The car started with a quiet purr, and as they drove away from Number 4, it felt like an invisible weight lifted from his back.

Harry leaned his head against Tom’s shoulder and watched the suburbs pass by through the window, enjoying the feeling of his hand in the other boy’s again. The BBC newscaster on the radio soon faded to the background as Harry closed his eyes for just a second.

Voldemort shook his head bemusedly, watching the boys in the rearview mirror. Potter’s rapid trust in his horcrux was baffling, but undeniably helpful. It was hard to understand, as at his age, Voldemort would have never, ever allowed himself to fall asleep so easily in the presence of strangers. He supposed Potter had reason enough to feel safe, though; Voldemort watched the way Tom clutched the boy proprietarily, and knew just how fiercely his horcrux would fight anyone who tried pulling him away in that moment.

Remembering how his own possessive and obsessive tendencies had intensified with age, he hoped again that the problem of Harry Potter would be solved in a matter of months, rather than years. He did not look forward at all to Tom’s inevitable epic tantrum after the boy’s death, but at least it would be much less of a headache to manage while the horcrux was still young and weak.

Voldemort’s attention shifted to the radio, and he listened intently to the latest updates in the Iran-Iraq war. Though he would never admit it to anyone else, he had come to understand in the last few years that his initial revolutionary movement had been deeply flawed, both structurally and logistically. He regretted the knee-jerk distancing of his younger self from all things muggle; in retrospect, his war efforts had been embarrassingly poorly planned, with little progress actually made towards his goal of becoming leader of Wizarding Britain. Voldemort’s new plans were very, very different after much careful study of the latest decades of muggle conflicts.

He had initially purchased a television solely for the purpose of children’s shows to help with teaching and entertaining Tom. When visiting on a whim, Voldemort had been reluctantly impressed by the local muggle library’s collection of educational VHS tapes, and with the enthusiastic and well-informed librarian’s recommendation, he decided to incorporate 2 hours of carefully selected programs into his horcrux’s daily routine.

He was shocked by the immense improvements in televisions over the decades since he had spent time in the muggle world, and somewhat surprised that wizards hadn’t yet begun to adapt a version of the technology for themselves. He was even more astounded when flipping through the channels one day, and landing on the BBC news program: it was absolutely jarring to realize just how ignorant he had allowed himself to become of the world, recognizing almost none of the current conflicts and world leaders that were being spoken of.

Voldemort also couldn’t ignore the massive discrepancy in the quality of the reporting from what he was accustomed to, though he didn’t want to believe it at first. He ordered several different newspapers, and watched various news programs over the coming days, all of which verified his first impression: wizarding journalism was horrifyingly, and very obviously inferior.

The muggle programs weren’t perfect, of course, a couple of them just as sensational as the Daily Prophet; but overall, their sourcing, fact-checking, and presentation of facts all led to provide a far more informed reading experience. He dove into learning about recent conflicts and how they interlinked with each other, and his initial humiliation at his previous failures faded with the vast amounts of knowledge that he accumulated, and reading of so many others’ tactical failings as well. He grew more and more excited to put his new knowledge to use, and felt confident that not even Albus Dumbledore had anything close to the comprehensive understanding of warfare that Voldemort now did.

(Voldemort tried not to think too often about the all-consuming blind terror that had struck him when first realizing the extent of the current muggle Cold War. He hoped that his impulsive secretive imperios on the American and Russian muggle politicians still were effective, and that if not, the countries’ aurors really were keeping a close watch on the perilous situation like they claimed.)

He turned his attention back to the children in his backseat as he pulled into the department store parking lot, and saw green eyes startle open as he turned off the car. Potter looked outside with some confusion, and subtly nudged Tom.

“Father, where are we?” Voldemort felt a quirk of irritation at how quickly his horcrux acquiesced to the other boy’s silent request.

“We are making a brief stop to purchase Harry more suitable clothing.” The small child’s mouth predictably fell open in dismay, and he quickly objected.

“Thank you, sir, but it’s okay, you don’t need to do that. Please, it’s fine–”

“Nonsense,” he cut him off firmly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “You are in my care today, and you will be clothed properly.”

“But, Aunt Petu–”

“Child, your relatives’ opinions are of no importance to me.” His voice sharpened with impatience. “Your appearance reflects on both Tom and myself while you are with us, and I intend for any impression to be a positive one. There is no reason at all for you to wear items of such poor quality, and I refuse to consider any arguments otherwise. Now, the longer you protest, the less time you both will have at the park; are you ready to go inside yet?”

The small boy shrunk into himself as he spoke, and very quietly replied, “Yes, sir.” Tom glared at Voldemort fiercely through the rearview mirror, and he suppressed a sigh as he exited the car. Children…

Voldemort had hoped that Potter would show some initiative when entering the building, but should have expected that he would be immediately overwhelmed, grasping Tom’s hand tightly and huddling behind the other boy. Voldemort quickly assessed the store and formed a plan, lamenting the ridiculous urge that had led him to initiate this errand at all.

“Tom, take Harry to the back wall and assist him with finding trainers that fit. You’ll likely need to teach him how to, and you can take a clean pair of socks from the rack for him to wear while doing so as well; we’ll purchase them afterwards. You know to find me if an associate gives you any trouble.” Potter’s eyes widened even further, and his horcrux gave a confident nod. “I’ll select a couple things for him to try on, and we’ll be finished here shortly.”

Tom’s lips pursed, and Voldemort narrowed his eyes at him. The child loved to put together outfits, and he was sure that the boy was currently dreaming of dressing up Potter like his own little doll, and upset with his father for stealing the best part of a shopping trip. Voldemort, however, had no interest in sitting through such a lengthy process at the moment.

Thankfully, Tom gathered together his usual maturity and agreed, pulling the other boy along behind him over to the shoes. Voldemort felt a glow of satisfaction at how much Harry Potter had come to trust Tom, happily allowing himself to be tugged and yanked around by the other child so easily. It was definitely odd and somewhat unsettling to watch a small version of himself behaving so physically affectionately with another human being, but Voldemort supposed that it was similar enough to the way he used to drag his snakes around the orphanage with him, keeping them clutched close to his chest.

Voldemort efficiently made his way through the store, selecting a couple t-shirts, pairs of shorts, and a light jacket, in sizes that Tom had worn approximately 2 years ago. Thinking further, he grabbed trousers as well; Tom had mentioned that his friend had worn long pants despite the hot weather all week, and Voldemort suspected that further bruising was likely (in addition to what Tom had already reported glimpsing at Potter's shirt hems). Noting the sale on winter clothing, he shrugged and added a coat too; it seemed likely enough that the boy would still be around, and needing one by then. Hypothermia took too long to kill a person; it was more likely that if Potter ever neared death by cold, either muggles or Dumbledore would intervene in time, and keep a closer watch on him in the future. It made much more sense for Voldemort to invest in a doubtlessly effective, longer-term murder plan. He added a set of warm thermal underwear to his basket as well.

Satisfied with his choices, Voldemort set off towards the back to find the boys. Thinking about the upcoming winter, it took him a moment to register the sound of his horcrux shouting, loud and upset but not frightened, and he hastened his strides.

“-to approach young CHILDREN without their PARENTS and not LEAVE when they ask, YOU ARE A CREEP, SIR! How dare you!”

“Young man, please, I simply wished to express my gratitude-”

“You need to step away from my children, right now.” Voldemort’s voice was far colder and more menacing than it had been in years, and even Tom looked shaken to hear it. The Dark Lord suspected that if any of his followers had been present, they would have been able to recognize him simply from the aura of pure menace and rage that radiated as he stalked forward.

He was gratified that the short wizard in the ridiculous top hat backed away immediately at his approach, but still considered killing him for the audacity of nearing the boys at all. Voldemort hadn’t felt any emotion so intense since inhabiting this body, and marveled at how angry magic seemed to be sparking out of his every cell, ready to consume and destroy this sudden threat that had appeared before him.

“Your children, sir?” The somewhat familiar man looked from Voldemort to Tom, then to Potter, then back to Voldemort. “But that’s Harry Pot–”

“Leave us alone immediately or I’ll call the police. I don’t know who you are, but you are incredibly out of line right now, and need to leave.” Voldemort’s blood pounded, and he rapidly debated the pros and cons of murdering the man, obliviating him, screaming ‘pedophile!’ in the store, running away, and calling the actual muggle police.

The wizard solved his dilemma on his own, giving a low bow to Potter despite Tom’s loud scoff of protest, and leaning forward for a few last words. Voldemort finally placed his high-pitched voice, identifying him as (relatively incompetent) Order of the Phoenix member Dedalus Diggle.

“I only wished to thank you for your great service, young man. Many will be very happy to hear you’re doing well, and we are very excited to meet you again. Have the very best of days!” He brightly grinned and spun to walk away, thankfully not Apparating – Voldemort truly would have killed him, then.

“You will NOT meet him again or we will get a RESTRAINING ORDER!” Tom shouted after the man with fists clenched, bright red spots high on his cheeks. Potter looked between Voldemort and Tom with awe, clearly confused and concerned by what had just happened, but grateful for their presence. Heart still thumping, he looked sternly at the boys.

“I’ll be right back, and then we’ll leave – get in line to pay now. If anything doesn’t fit Harry, we’ll just return it later. Do not speak with anyone else.” Voldemort handed Tom his shopping basket and wallet, Potter’s eyes widening as he did, and set off after Diggle to obliviate him.

It took only a moment for Voldemort to surreptitiously cast the spell and remove the past ten minutes from the other wizard’s memory. It was far too likely that the man would run straight to Dumbledore, who would instantly recognize both young and adult Voldemort in a pensieve. Diggle’s survival grated, but as it seemed unlikely that he was in Surrey by coincidence, it would be much too suspicious if the wizard vanished entirely after last being in Harry Potter’s vicinity. Not many people would recognize the Dark Lord with this face, but Voldemort resolved to be much more observant and cautious in the future if other wizards were lurking nearby.

He returned to the children, ignoring Potter’s protests at the (relatively low) total cost. Voldemort rarely paid at muggle stores, but spitefully enjoyed having a paper receipt with proof of his purchases for the prophecy child. He was quite sure that he now had more evidence of providing care for the boy than his actual family did, after nearly 5 years of housing him.

Potter kept staring up at him as they left, green eyes staying fixed on Voldemort’s face. The scrutiny was awkward, and he lifted his eyebrows at the child who was again tightly gripping his horcrux’s hand. “Yes?” he asked brusquely.

“Just– thank you so, so much, sir. For everything. I really appreciate it.” Tom beamed sickeningly at his friend, and Voldemort forced a smile of his own.

“You’re welcome,” he said stiffly. “Now, are you boys ready for the park?” Tom bounced on his toes eagerly, and Potter nodded with excitement. Ignoring the clench in his gut, Voldemort directed them into the vehicle again, and the three set off once more.

Chapter Text

“Found you!”

Any annoyance Tom felt from so quickly losing the game vanished as soon as he looked up into Harry’s bright green eyes, crinkled from his wide smile. He crawled out from his hiding spot under the slide, brushing the sand from his knees as he stood up.

“Okay, it's your turn to hide.” Harry bit his lip and hesitated, and Tom pivoted without missing a beat. He had started to realize that the other boy would rarely vocally disagree with him if he thought it might upset Tom, and it was up to him to read his friend’s tone of voice and body language to understand what he actually wanted. This had initially frustrated Tom, until his father suggested looking at it more like a special puzzle to unlock; a secret language of Harry’s own, that only Tom could learn with careful and dedicated study. “Or, we can play on the monkey bars instead? Or maybe the swings?”

All trepidation disappeared from Harry’s face, replaced with an excited grin, and a warm glow filled Tom’s chest.

“Yes, the swings! Let’s go!” Harry pulled Tom across the playground eagerly, his small calloused hand holding Tom’s in a firm grip. He followed along happily, content to trail behind the other boy for the rest of his life as long as Harry never let go.

Tom’s bubble burst slightly when he looked over to see his father watching them, displeasure etched into the lines on his face. He worried for a moment, but shook it off, knowing that his father wanted him to be close to Harry; there was no reason for him to be unhappy with their behavior together right now. His father must still be unhappy about the creep at the department store earlier, or perhaps he was bothered by the muggle woman sitting too close to him on the bench and trying fruitlessly to make conversation. Tom wasn’t sure why so many muggle women thought that Tom’s father was a good choice for friendship, but they were always inevitably rebuffed.

His attention returned to Harry as the boy’s steps slowed in front of the swing set, tentatively sitting on one, testing the rubber seat as if unsure it would hold him, even as skinny and small as he was. He glanced up at Tom, mouth curving up on one side in a shy smile.

“So… I’ve never actually been on one of these before. Will you show me how?” The warmth in Tom’s chest grew so fierce and strong that he thought it might burst open, cracking his ribs for his heart to explode right out of him. Absolutely nothing in the world felt as good as helping Harry, and making him smile. He treasured every single sign he received that his timid friend was growing to trust him, and would do anything and everything the other boy ever asked of him, as long as he kept gifting Tom with his trust and his joy.

Tom sat on the swing next to Harry’s and showed him how to kick off and pump with his legs, leaning his torso forward and backward to build up more momentum. Harry watched intently, then tried himself, only to immediately discover a problem: the shorter boy’s legs weren’t long enough for his feet to reach the ground all the way, and his tiptoes just weren’t able to get enough leverage on their own.

“It’s okay, Tom.” His voice was filled with badly disguised disappointment, and it was absolutely unacceptable. “I’ll just wait until I’m a bit taller, it doesn’t really matter. Let’s go to the monkey bars.”

“No, wait!” Tom dragged his heels in the sand, grinding himself to a halt and ignoring the jarring in his ankles. “I’ll push you!”

“What? But– Tom– your swing–”Harry stammered incoherently, a lovely rosy tint rising in his brown cheeks, and Tom moved to stand behind him.

“I’ll just give you a little help to get started, then we can swing together!” He laid his hands on Harry’s back, and frowned when feeling how sharp his shoulder blades were. He was pretty sure his own didn’t feel that pointy when he washed them.

“But Tom, I want you to have fun, you don’t need to waste your time on me.” Tom’s frown deepened, a bad and twisty feeling pulling in his stomach. He pushed Harry forward, harder than he meant to, and the other boy yelped, tightening his hands on the metal chains and barely hanging on. For a second Tom felt horrible, thinking that he had hurt or scared his friend, but the yelp then turned into a whoop of joy with Tom’s second push that sent him flying out further, legs now pumping instinctively with the momentum. He breathed out in relief, pushing Harry again firmly and taking a moment to appreciate the soft green cotton shirt he was wearing. It suited him much better than the ragged orange polyester rag they had picked him up in, not just in color but quality too; Harry deserved only the finest.

“You’re never a waste of time. Besides, it’s more fun for me if we’re both having fun,” he replied, simply and honestly, and watched the red tint creep back to Harry’s ears. He pushed him a couple more times, savoring the unique feeling of his friend’s bones beneath his hands, but Harry now was well able to sustain his swinging on his own. He didn’t have a good reason to continue further, especially with how self-conscious Harry was about being the center of attention, and somewhat reluctantly moved back to his own swing. He caught sight of his father watching them when doing so, and wondered why he still looked so unhappy; that muggle woman must really be irritating him.

With his longer legs, Tom quickly caught up to Harry’s height, and looked over to see a look of utter bliss on his face. It was a purer joy than Tom had ever seen on another person before, and he didn’t think he’d ever even felt anything that strongly before himself. Instead of the rush of jealousy he half-expected, he felt his face breaking into a wide smile to match his friend’s: if anybody in the world deserved to feel as ecstatically happy as he looked, it was surely Harry.

Harry let out a whoop of joy, and though Tom knew it was undignified, he couldn’t help but do the same. His friend’s head snapped over, startled as if he’d forgotten Tom was even there, but he couldn’t even get offended; the delight that radiated from Harry when meeting Tom’s eyes was more than worth it.

“This is amazing!” Harry shouted, leaning out further and kicking his legs harder with each swing, inching himself higher than Tom thought he’d be able to reach with his light weight. “I can’t believe that grown-ups don’t do this all day long!” Tom couldn’t help but laugh, and thankfully Harry could tell it wasn’t meant in a mean way, and joined in. Tom felt a surge of pride at the achievement, after days of carefully never giving his sensitive friend reason to think he was the butt of a joke. He wished nobody had ever hurt Harry enough to make him so sad and mistrustful, but selfishly loved knowing that he was the only one to make him feel this good so far. He couldn’t imagine how painful it would be to see Harry looking at anybody else with the adoring, appreciative gaze that was just for Tom.

He resolved then and there that while Harry could have other friends if he really wanted them, he and Tom would always be the most important person to each other, no matter what. He had already intellectually known that to be the case, with his father’s talk of them being each other’s destined best friends, but Tom felt it now as a truth in his bones. Harry’s smiles, and trust, and blossoming: all of it belonged to Tom, just like Tom belonged to Harry. Nothing would be able to tear them apart.

“Tom, I feel like I’m flying! Do you?” He smiled over at his silly friend, pushing down the sadness at the knowledge that it had taken him until such an old age of six before getting to enjoy a swingset. It honestly didn’t feel a thing like flying, not at all like when his father had flown with Tom in his arms to let him decorate their Yule tree, but Harry couldn’t know about that yet.

“Yes!” he lied, and kicked his own legs harder to try to catch up to his friend’s height. He was higher than Tom had ever seen anybody swing, even the older kids. He had thought before that heavier people could swing higher, but supposed it might actually be the opposite.

“Really, Tom, I feel just like a bird!” Amused, he looked over again, to see Harry now up so high that he was nearly level with the top of the swingset. Concern shot through him suddenly, and as the other boy’s swing rushed backwards, he called over.

“Maybe we should get down now, and take a break for a bit!” Harry grinned, and an unfamiliar mischievous look crossed his face as he swung forward again, up past Tom.

“Okay!” Harry said, and at the top of his arc, he let go of the chains, leaping off into the air in front of him, at least ten feet high.

Tom’s stomach plummeted at the sight, dread instantly coursing through his body with the sudden terror that his friend might seriously injure himself, or even worse. A second later, he realized that in his shock he’d let go of his own chains, and his stomach wasn’t the only thing dropping. A sick crunch sounded under his left leg, and worse pain than he could ever imagine wracked his body before he even fully understood that he had fallen.

He had a last glimpse of Harry still soaring through the air like an angel above, not even aware that Tom was on the ground behind him, before blackness seeped over his vision and the pain blessedly began to fade away. His last thoughts were not for his leg, but instead fervent wishes that Harry wouldn’t be too worried about him, and that his father wouldn’t be too furious.

Chapter Text

Voldemort glared at the young X-Ray technician. She returned a nervous smile, shifting her weight and gripping her clipboard with white knuckles.

“You’re absolutely certain that there are no alternatives? He can’t wear one of those casts for a few weeks to keep the leg aligned while it heals?”

“I am so sorry sir, but as you can see from these print-outs, his tibia is fractured in two places. Surgical intervention is unfortunately necessary for Tom—but please be assured, our team is one of the very best in the country.”

He exhaled hard, not bothering to hide his frustration, and wished once more that he had followed his initial instinct to abandon Potter at the park—or at least dropped him off with his atrocious relatives. Voldemort could have simply then given his horcrux a heavy sleeping potion, procured Skele-Gro, vanished the bone, and solved the matter at home. For whatever reason, though, Voldemort had given in to his horcrux’s insistent pleas to allow Potter to accompany them to the local A&E (though somewhat disturbingly, it was unclear whether the request had been made for Tom’s own comfort, or for the sake of the incredibly distraught and guilt-ridden Potter. Neither option had good implications, and he put it out of his mind for now; there were more pressing issues to deal with.). That had still been his plan, after completing this exhausting charade of a muggle hospital visit and leaving with Tom in a basic cast, but the irritatingly insistent technician seemed determined to foil it.

“I demand a second opinion. I will collect my son, and we will be leaving this facility immediately for another emergency room.” Voldemort stood, towering over the shorter blonde, and made for the door his horcrux’s stretcher had been wheeled through, Potter hurriedly rising to follow behind. The woman gulped, but infuriatingly stepped closer, blocking their path.

“I’m sorry, sir—I understand that this is very upsetting news to hear, and would be happy to bring in a doctor to confirm the assessment for you.

"However, we can not allow Tom to leave this building without proper treatment for his injury. Without surgical intervention, breaks this severe may quickly lead to permanent disability, or even, in the most dire case, loss of life.” A small, terrified gasp sounded from behind, and he fought the urge to scoff. As if a mere broken limb could risk the existence of Lord Voldemort’s own human horcrux.

This entire situation was absolutely infuriating; had the Potter boy not been present, he could have simply imperiused the staff and been done with it. Unfortunately, the boy’s current ignorance of magic was to Voldemort’s great advantage, and he wasn’t yet ready to give up any possible edge over his prophesied nemesis. Severus’s grating restrictions meant he couldn’t cast even the gentlest confundus or obliviate on the child either—and the boy had proved himself to be aggravatingly observant so far. No, he would be forced to carry out this farce in full.

Voldemort gritted his teeth.

“Fine. Please bring me to my son, now.”

The woman nodded with obvious relief, and finally opened the door, ushering the two through from the waiting room with a simpering smile for Potter.

Voldemort spared him a glance, and felt no small amount of satisfaction at the anxiety and concern filling those wide green eyes. Good—at the very least, for all of the day’s trouble, the child now carried heavy guilt for his only friend’s injury. He would likely be easily compelled to do anything that Tom asked, in hope of atonement.

Voldemort steadfastly refused to acknowledge the sour feeling that had risen in his own stomach when hearing that scream, and understanding the drastic consequences of his momentary distraction. It was merely an uncomfortable reminder of his own mortality, to see his horcrux in such an injured state, and all the more upsetting that the entire population of the park had witnessed such a weakness of his. He had never been more grateful to be surrounded by clueless muggles.

If Potter hadn’t been present, he could have easily eliminated the memories of each witness… though, of course, if he hadn’t been present, the incident never would have occurred at all. He couldn’t help but feel thankful that the boy was too ignorant to feel triumph over the temporary crippling of his greatest enemy, and instead was suffering (amusingly ironic) regret in its place.

Tom’s face brightened when they entered the X-Ray room, seemingly unbothered by the sickeningly twisted leg outstretched on his bed. Thankfully, Voldemort’s satchel had been packed with a standard child’s dosage of pain relief potion, so he didn’t suffer the appropriate agony the injury merited (much to the confusion of the muggle doctors, who ultimately decided that it was due to shock).

Voldemort fought back an immediate, unfamiliar wave of nausea at the sight of the incorrectly bent limb. He had inflicted similar damage (as well as much worse) on countless wizards and muggles over the course of his life, never blinking twice at the gruesome, unnatural formations human limbs could be twisted into, but it was entirely different to see it on such a familiar body, one whose pain he could vividly imagine as his own.

And how unsettling it was, to see eyes that had once blinked stoically back at him in a mirror, now bright and joyful when landing on Potter, filled with sincere affection and adoration that Voldemort was quite sure he had never felt so strongly himself. He supposed it was a good thing that he had never had a true pet of his own pet to dote on; it was difficult enough to allow his horcrux this embarrassing indulgence.

“Harry!” he cried out, far too happily for the circumstances. Potter was unaffected by the horcrux’s joy, however—the smaller boy rushed forward to the stretcher, and as he reached his friend, his unsteady breathing collapsed into outright sobs.

Tom’s smile dimmed, brows furrowing in concern as he reached out to clasp Potter’s hands with both of his, stroking them with his thumbs in a disgustingly tender gesture

“Tom, I’m so, so sorry,” Potter hiccupped, looking down miserably. “I didn’t think—I just—”

“What are you sorry for? It wasn’t your fault, Harry, please don’t cry! You shouldn’t feel bad!”

Voldemort nearly hissed aloud, barely restraining his displeasure at his horcrux’s foolishly easy forgiveness. Hadn’t he taught him better; drilled into his mind that any possible advantage over another should be cultivated, that any opportunity to have somebody in your debt must be exploited, especially individuals with any importance? How could his own flesh and blood be this lax and forgetful?

Tom glanced over nervously, chewing his lower lip. Voldemort narrowed his eyes at the child, willing him to understand and correct the mistake he had just made. Rather than making any attempt at mollifying his father, his horcrux instead turned his attention fully back to Potter, squeezing his hands harder as the boy responded between stuttering sobs.

“It is, it is my fault! You don’t understand, Tom, bad things always happen around me, I should’ve known better. I’m so, so, so sorry.”

“It’s not—”

Thankfully, the display of excessive sentimentality was interrupted by the entrance of another muggle, this one introducing himself as the facility’s pediatric surgeon.

Voldemort supposed that his pleasant smile and calm voice may have been comforting to a muggle family, but it was nothing less than condescending for a man as capable and knowledgeable as himself. He struggled not to bare his teeth when the man politely informed him that while Voldemort could sit with Tom until the anesthesia had set in, he would then be forced to remain in the waiting room until the procedure was complete.

His unease only worsened as he read through the disclosures he was expected to sign, particularly the one enumerating the various potential complications and dangers from the anesthesia. He once more considered imperiusing and obliviating the hospital staff, then absconding with the boys. But no—if Potter went home speaking openly of magic, if Petunia Dursley then contacted Dumbledore… the possibility was much too high that the boy would vanish into the night, and all of his efforts over the last half decade would have been for nothing.

No, he would be forced to play along with this charade today. In the end, it was just one more thing that Potter would eventually pay for, when the time for his reckoning finally came. His horcrux being injured so severely was unforgivable, and the responsible party would not avoid punishment for long.

Voldemort did not flinch at the unexpected small tug on his sleeve, but came close.

“When Dudley had up—up—up-and-a-cytus last year, Aunt Petunia was really scared about the sleeping part, too. But he was completely okay afterwards, and the doctor said they use it on hundreds of people every year.”

He sneered down at the insolent brat, its audacity startling him out of his focused state.

“I’m not frightened, child,” he retorted, unable to keep the biting edge from his voice. “I am merely reading over the paperwork in detail, as–” He cut himself off before explaining that one should always carefully read any documents, magical or otherwise, before providing a signature. There was no reason to encourage Potter to be preemptively wary, in case his horcrux ever convinced him to sign a magical contract or anything of the like. “I’m merely reading the disclosure forms closely.”

The muggle surgeon reached out as if to pat his shoulder, then seemed to think better of it, offering Voldemort another infuriating smile instead. The fool would never know how close to death he had come today.

“Your son is right, Mr. Oliver. In fact, millions of people across the world have surgical procedures and experience no complications from the anesthesia; though it is always possible, it is much less likely than you are probably worried about.”

“He is not my son!” he protested, surprise pitching his words harsher than intended. Voldemort wasn’t sure whether he was more offended at the assumption, or amused at the thought of how James and Lily Potter must be rolling in their graves. “And I am not worried!” He wondered whether it might be best after all to simply kill the man and leave.

“My apologies,” the surgeon responded, raising his eyebrows. “Are you ready to proceed? I can give you a few moments alone first, but I do recommend that we begin as soon as possible.”

“Yes, just a minute,” he replied, forcing a smile. He knew it must appear strained, but the muggle seemed unbothered. He was probably well-accustomed to similar expressions on his usual hapless patients and their families. “Please wait outside, P– Harry.”

The boy nodded, and before leaving the room, stopped to embrace Tom tightly across the shoulders, taking obvious care to not jostle his lower half. As soon as the surgeon closed the door behind them, Voldemort let out the sigh he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. He pulled out his wand, and began casting.

He absently noted that Tom was biting his lower lip again, and wondered whether he had ever had the habit himself. Certainly it would have been gone by this age; the orphanage had taught him early just how dangerous it was to show any insecurities so openly.

“Father? I’m really sorry for falling, and causing all of this trouble.” Voldemort snorted despite himself.

“Did you fall on purpose?” Tom shook his head. “So you don’t need to apologize.” He finished the complex monitoring charm that would alert him to any concerning changes in Tom’s vitals, and pulled out the pain relief potion for one last dose, which would have the additional benefit of soon putting him to sleep.

(One disturbing line in the hospital’s paperwork had indicated a chance of regaining consciousness, yet still remaining helpless and immobile during the surgery. That was not a risk he was willing to consider.)

“If I’d been more careful, though, it wouldn’t have happened! I was just so distracted by Harry’s flying—that was magic, right? He was so high, I couldn’t believe it!” He accepted the potion, swallowing the bitter concoction with a grimace. Voldemort’s mind flashed to its brewer, and a similar sight he had once seen when legilimising the young man.

“You are correct, I believe that flight from a swing set is not an uncommon form for early accidental magic to take. It’s a pity that your own fall didn’t trigger anything similar.” Tom didn’t respond, fixing his gaze on the floor, and Voldemort had to remind himself that his horcrux’s squib status was still a sensitive topic. It truly didn’t matter much to him as its creator, but the child was not yet of an age where Voldemort could expect him to be pragmatic regarding perceived personal failings. There was no purpose served by triggering one of the boy’s fits of melancholy, and he regretted raising the topic.

Not wanting to leave his horcrux so despondent before something as vulnerable as surgery, he sat on the bed next to the child, taking a hand into one of his own. He ran his other through the boy’s soft curls, reluctantly allowing Tom to lean into the touch, not unlike a kneazle. Physical affection is crucial to the development of a healthy child, Voldemort reminded himself, and stayed next to him, packing his discomfort away into the back of his mind.

“It was an unfortunate incident, but nothing for you to feel poorly over. Besides, your friend will now feel an even stronger personal attachment to you. Shared traumatic experiences are known to deepen relationships, and you have the opportunity to further his own emotional reliance on you now.”

Tom didn’t look nearly as comforted by the words as Voldemort had expected.

“Harry feels so terribly about what happened, I can tell—it's almost like I can feel his own guilt inside me. I hate it. He shouldn’t feel this way because of me.”

“I believe that’s called empathy,” he said with a slight smirk, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “It’s a quality that is very conducive to friendships. However, if the discomfort is too great, you must remind yourself that his feelings are his own, and not your responsibility. You’re a smart boy; if you remember clearly that it is illogical and unhelpful to feel poorly on another’s behalf, the emotions will stop.” Tom’s frown deepened, and Voldemort held back another sigh.

“Will you let him wait with you during the surgery? And tell him that everything will be okay?” At this, he couldn’t help his exhale of annoyance. He lightly squeezed the hand he held, hopefully reassuringly.

“Well, I certainly wasn’t planning to leave you alone with all of these muggles for such a non-urgent errand. I daresay that the boy’s muggle family wouldn’t care if he spent the entire weekend with us—not that that will be happening any time soon,” he hastened to add, conscious of just how quickly his horcrux’s face lit up at the idea. “We will both wait here, and will be present when you wake up. You needn’t worry about any harm coming to pass while you are unconscious; I will be monitoring your health closely throughout the procedure, and will not hesitate to intervene if needed.” Tom smiled, and leaned into Voldemort’s side.

“Thank you, Father. I wasn’t worried; I know you’ll take care of me.”

Voldemort had never felt more gratitude than when the surgeon returned then, Potter in tow, and negated the need for any reply.

His chest felt hot and painful, and his mouth had suddenly become unbearably dry. Voldemort had no desire to continue the conversation any further; the reminder of his human horcrux’s inherent fragility must have caused enough unease to manifest itself physically. The bodily pains that resulted from basic emotional discomfort had to be one of the worst downsides of this human body.

The surgeon clapped his hands together, startling Voldemort and unknowingly bringing his useless muggle existence close to an end once more.

“Alright! Let’s get started.”