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Chapter Text

Contrary to his friends’ beliefs, Harry does not, in fact, have a death wish. He just doesn’t particularly care whether he lives or dies, which is completely different.

Somehow.

Hermione keeps arguing that it’s practically the same, and while she’s usually right about most things, Harry feels like this is one of those times she’s blatantly wrong. Or at least a little wrong. Wrong-adjacent.

Blinking against the endless sea of white, he regrets the fact he won’t get to discuss the different scales of right and wrong with her over a pint again.

Getting to his feet, he patiently waits for the swirling expanse of white to resume the familiar shape of Kings Cross Station, the same way it had last time he was here.

Only nothing happens.

“Oh come on,” he mutters, frowning. “This can’t be all there is.”

His voice melts into the white mist, the sound dissipating until he’s unsure whether he actually spoke at all.

It’s unsettling. The hairs rise on the back of his neck.

Isn’t death supposed to bring peace and acceptance and all that rot? Where’s the train ready to carry him onwards, to the great Beyond where all his dead loved ones await?

“Hello?” he calls out, turning around in a circle.

All he sees is white, white, white. The sound of his voice disappears into the aether, the resulting silence ominous and heavy, pressing against his ears as if miles underneath the surface of the sea. He looks down at his body to reassure himself he has a body, that there is at least one solid thing in this unnerving whiteness.

He stomps his foot, and while it makes no sound, there is indeed something solid underneath him. He takes a tentative step forward, and when the creepy whiteness simply remains, unchanged, he figures he may as well keep moving.

He has no idea how far he walks, nor how long it takes. Time appears to have ceased to matter, which he supposes makes sense; what doesn’t make sense is that his bladder is getting more and more insistent, which it really shouldn’t considering 1, he’s dead, and 2, if time doesn’t matter, surely, he shouldn’t have any pressing bodily functions to attend to.

Alas, he’s forced to stop his wandering eventually, shifting his weight from one leg to the other in the classic need-to-wee-dance all human beings presumably have programmed into their very DNA.

“Hello?” he calls out again, raising his voice a little higher this time, but the sound of it dissipates the same as it had earlier.

A shiver of unease rakes its cold fingers down his spine, the silence pressing in once more. It had been easier to ignore when he wasn’t confronted with the eeriness of how quickly the absence of noise reestablished itself.

He’s torn between his desire to make sounds to break through this awful hush or keeping quiet so that he won’t have to experience the silence forcefully slamming against his eardrums once more.

In the end, a weird sense of propriety forces his mouth open.

“I have to pee!”

A big fat load of nothingness greets his announcement.

“I mean it!” He looks around the rolling, white mist, trying to catch a glimpse of anything that might have reacted to his warning.

Nothing.

So Harry shivers and unzips, takes himself in hand, and paints the white mist yellow. Momentarily, at least, until it disappears the same way all sounds have.

But at least he feels better when he tucks himself away again, bodily needs sated.

Except… if he has this need, it stands to reason others remain as well. Sleep. Hunger. Thirst. He hasn’t come across anything in his wanderings so far; how on earth is he supposed to subsist off of nothing?

Can he die twice? Or will he just go on forever, so thirsty it’s like someone’s shoved a glowing hot iron poker down his throat, so hungry his stomach grows teeth, gnawing and tearing and trying to consume itself?

For the first time since waking up here, Harry feels genuinely afraid.

He may not particularly care whether he’s alive or dead, but to be stuck in this endless void, half-alive, alone, and constantly suffering?

…is he in hell?

Movements jerky, he starts walking again, trying to breathe through the panic squeezing his chest like a vice, nearly as suffocating as the silence relentlessly pressing against his ears.

Is this truly it? The so-called peace at the end of the road?

He’ll go mad within a fortnight. Maybe even sooner. Not like he was all that stable to begin with, if he’s truly honest with himself.

A laugh burbles out of his mouth, the hysterical edge of it melting away alongside the tiny sob that follows.

“Really, Master?”

From one moment to the next, in the blink of an eye, Harry is no longer alone.

The entity in front of him has no distinguishing features and seems to be made up entirely of black swathes of billowing fabric, standing out starkly against the intensely white, misty background. It looks more like a dementor than anything else, except there’s no joy-sucking or intense cold going on. It’s certainly creepy, though, which Harry supposes is oddly fitting in the context.

“What?” he croaks, frozen in place.

“I’d hoped for something a bit more entertaining than a walk, a piss and a meltdown.” The entity appears to tilt its head, though it’s hard to tell whether it actually has a head to tilt. “Honestly, where’s the fire, the defiance, the ‘fuck you world, I’m Harry Potter’? You’re lucky Voldemort never figured out that some mild sensory deprivation and an hour alone was enough to break you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Though I suppose you’ve been broken for quite some time, haven’t you, Master?”

The entity disappears, leaving Harry blinking against the vast expanse of white.

“And let me tell you, it’s been boring.” The voice is right by his ear, so close it’s enough to send Harry stumbling forward to get away from it, skin crawling with unease and not a little bit of fright.

When he twists around, the entity is no longer there, and the voice appears right by his other ear this time, “I’d had hopes for Ginny, for some great, epic love story, but then you went and fumbled that.”

Harry’s spine goes rigid, eyes fluttering shut at the reminder of how his relationship crashed and burned in the wake of war. “Fuck you.”

“Bit better, but still rather tame. I’m not asking for much here, Master.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” Harry demands, opening his eyes.

The entity, right in front of him, makes an unsettling sound; like a knife on aluminium combined with gravel caught in a washing machine. It could, conceivably, be laughter – albeit the most fucked up laughter Harry’s ever heard.

“My, you are slow sometimes, aren’t you? A cloak, a wand and a stone, sound familiar?”

“But… that was just a story! You can’t be serious.”

“I would make a pun about being deadly serious here, but really, it’s beneath me. I suppose I inadvertently did either way by refusing to do so, but I’m sure no one will mind too much.”

Harry looks around in confusion, though wherever he looks, there the entity appears.

No one else, though.

“So you’re actually Death, then?”

“Ding, ding, ding. Potter gets a prize.”

“…I do?”

“No.”

Suddenly, the entity is close enough to fill Harry’s entire vision, and he takes a startled step back.

“You’re dead,” Death says, looming ominously over him. “Dead people don’t get prizes.”

Death doesn’t move the way people do; it merely is, whether that’s right in front of him, behind him, or somehow all around him. It makes his brain hurt trying to make sense of it.

Harry swallows, doing his best to ignore the insistent hammering of his heart. “Why are you doing this? What do you want?”

“How should I know? There's an overarching idea, of course, but they’re mostly making it up as they go along.”

“Who?”

“None of your business. You wouldn’t understand anyway; your brain couldn’t take it. But we really should be getting on with it, don’t you agree?”

Harry tries to take a step back, but finds he’s unable to do so, feet planted firmly on whatever he’s standing on. He’s stuck. His pulse ratchets up another notch.

“Can you please just – send me along? Isn’t there a train or something I can take to the Beyond already?”

“Aw, do you want to see your parents? Your godfather, perhaps?” The mocking tone is oddly terrifying, and Harry keeps his locked limbs from trembling through sheer force of will.

“I – well, yeah.”

“Is that an order, Master?”

Harry swallows, figuring it’s worth a shot. “Yeah. Yes. I order you to take me to the Beyond – the Afterlife.”

It doesn’t work. Death simply laughs that unsettling laugh again.

“How do you know this isn’t it? Maybe this is exactly where souls go when they die. Maybe you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be for all eternity.”

“But I – that can’t be true!”

“Why not? What could mortals possibly know about what happens after Me?”

Panic threatens to snare Harry’s throat shut. “No. There – there’s more. There has to be.”

Death appears to be inspecting its nails, only it doesn’t have arms or hands or even nails.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

Harry’s tongue darts out and wets his dry lips. “Last time Dumbledore said I could go on if I so chose. I want to. I want to go. I’m done.”

“I always wondered about that; why see your old headmaster of all people? Why not your parents, or at least your godfather? Wouldn’t they have made more sense?”

Harry ignores Death’s musings, as he doesn’t really have a good answer, and besides, Death ignored him first.

No matter the horror of his current situation – frozen in place and taunted by some eldritch being hellbent on messing with him – frustration bubbles underneath his skin, nearly bringing tears to his eyes.

“Please. I’m ready to die. Just let me move on.”

Everything turns black. Harry never would have imagined he’d miss the white.

Death’s voice reverberates in his skull until it feels fit to explode.

“No.”

Everything hurts.

His leg is on fire. So is his forehead, and his lungs, and especially his throat. Every gasping breath is agony, every slight movement unbearable torture.

A sob catches in his burning throat as he forces his eyes open, blinking blearily, glasses cutting into his face from how hard they’ve been jammed onto his nose.

What he sees makes no sense.

He’s tied upright to a giant, marble gravestone, slumped over ropes wound tightly over his midsection all the way down his legs. The ropes are red, wet and glistening, yet they have no give; he’s securely anchored to the gravestone. He can only just make out a wand lying useless by his feet.

There’s a soft rustle of scales on grass, and he stifles a whimper at the sight of the snake he last saw cut in two by Neville wielding Gryffindor’s sword, now slithering away from him toward a giant stone cauldron some feet away.

This can’t be happening, not again, not again, please, not again –

But regardless of Harry’s insistent wishing, Wormtail lies on the ground next to the cauldron, sobbing and whimpering, clutching at his stump.

And next to him, leaning over the cauldron, is Death.

“Might wanna close your eyes now,” it says, and hearing it sound so cheerful is enough to make Harry obey.

Even through his lids, the diamond sparks emitting from the stone cauldron are blindingly bright, and he screws his eyes shut further, trembling from head to toe.

He fights against his restraints, unsuccessfully; they’re too tight, the knots too carefully tied. He starts to hyperventilate, far more terrified than he’d been in the white void, and his every nerve ending alight with pain.

This is surely hell. Forced to relive one of his absolute worst memories, his body nearly completely broken, helpless as a child.

Except… he’s not a child. Not any longer.

“Let’s make this interesting, shall we?” Death’s tone remains cheerful.

The bright light disappears, and Harry hesitantly opens his eyes at the same time as loud cracks! reverberate through the night air, too many of them to count, all in short succession. People in dark cloaks and silver masks stride forward, their steps hesitant, as white vapor from the cauldron lays heavy over the clearing.

Harry barely spares them a look. He’s far too busy wrangling his emotions under control enough to get out of this fucking horror show, because he is not actually a helpless child, and he absolutely refuses to go through this ordeal again.

He debates a cutting curse while the Death Eaters inch closer but decides an accio would be simpler; he never did quite get the hang of non-verbal, wandless spells.

He forces magic out of his fingertips and could sob from relief when the wand at his feet wobbles up through the air, and into his palm. His fingers close around the shaft, and the next second, he’s forced out a whispered diffindo at the ropes holding him. They fall away, pooling at his feet.

This, however, has the unintended side-effect of making him topple forward, landing on his face in a crumpled heap on the grass, his leg unable to sustain his weight.

His heart races, blood rushing in his ears loudly enough that he almost misses how a Death Eater speaks.

“My Lord?”

Get away, get away, get away, Harry chants in his mind, forcing his face off the ground, grinding his teeth together at the pain shooting down his leg like liquid fire as he shuffles into a seated position.

The portkey, get the fucking portkey!

A small, insistent voice tries to make itself heard over Harry’s panicked thoughts, as he stares wildly around trying to catch sight of the Triwizard cup that should be close by. He finally finds it, some ways away in the distance, next to what he presumes is Cedric’s dead body.

Look. Everything’s wrong. Look.

He tries to catch his breath, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from the portkey, to pay attention as his brain quickly catalogues and compares what he sees to his memories.

Voldemort isn’t there. No one’s risen from the cauldron. Wormtail is still slumped over next to it, whimpering, cradling his stump against his chest.

So how are the Death Eaters already on site? There’s been no one to summon them.

Except…

Except Death.

Only Death is gone now, too.

Harry doesn’t get any further than that in his analysis.

The cauldron explodes; momentarily lighting up the clearing like fireworks, throwing him and the approaching Death Eaters and Wormtail and even the snake away, into the darkness.

The marble gravestone breaks his fall, but Harry wishes it hadn’t; it feels like his back is broken in two, and he can’t stop a cry of pain from escaping. Similar cries echo in the night, but a lot further away than he is, nearly indistinct.

Harry can barely think, the pain blinding in its intensity.

Shaky fingers are still gripped around his wand, though, and with a distressed whimper he tries to settle his fractured mind enough to think of a spell, any spell, that might help him right now.

What he finds in the dark, exploded corridors of his mind, is a spell mainly used for field healing that he learned in Auror training. One he’s had cause to use so often it’s become nearly instinctual; perhaps that’s why it’s the only thing he can think of right now.

He points his wand at his leg, sobbing the incantation. A splint appears out of thin air, wrapping around his leg, steadying it. The fact he can even use his hands leads him to believe his back is not actually broken, so he doesn’t do anything about the pain radiating from his spine.

Using the marble headstone for support, he finally drags himself upright, wobbling precariously on his hastily bandaged leg. He sucks down a couple of deep breaths before realising it only hurts more that way. He raises his head to take in the situation.

The cauldron is no longer there; presumably exploded into a million tiny pieces.

No one else has yet found the strength to approach, but he knows it’s only a matter of time.

He wants to get away, desperately, but that small voice that implored him to look makes a return, now telling him something that sends a chill down his aching spine.

You could kill him now. For the greater good.

Harry gasps, drawing air that cuts like knives into his lungs, and wonders what kind of fucking masochist he must be to even consider the greater good at a moment like this. He’d lay down and die right here if he wasn’t terrified of ending up in the white void again.

Fuck the greater good.

Fuck Voldemort.

…and yet, when he staggers forward, dragging his near-useless leg behind him, he does so in the direction of the obliterated cauldron rather than the portkey.

He holds his wand out in front of him, a curse ready on his lips, and shoves his panic aside best he can. He needs to be quick. The Death Eaters could return at any moment; he can hear them approach even now.

A small crater has formed where the cauldron once stood, and at the bottom of it lies what is clearly a person in a crumbled heap, clad in dark fabric.

As Harry nears the edge of the crater, the figure at the bottom of it moves, their groan barely audible over the voices of Death Eaters getting closer.

Harry grips his wand so hard his knuckles whiten.

This is it. Just one curse and this can all be over. Quickly! Quickly!

He raises his wand.

Voldemort raises his head.

Only, when their eyes lock, Harry’s not staring into slit-pupiled red.

Tom Riddle, looking the exact same way as he had when Harry dove headfirst into his diary, stares back at him.

Before Harry has a chance to react, Tomdemort scrambles to his feet and hurries up the small slope until they’re face to face.

“What’s going on, what’s happening?”

Harry’s mouth opens and closes dumbly, no sound emerging. No reply, and most importantly, no curse to end Voldemort’s miserable life on this, the day of his resurrection.

Do it, do it now! Don’t think, just kill him!

Then, red spell fire flashes over their heads, lighting up the night.

Harry ducks instinctively, leg nearly giving out under the hasty movement. There’s no more time – he can’t stay here; he has to get away. He’s in no state to fight dozens of Death Eaters on his own.

The Death Eaters are closing the distance fast, black robes billowing in their haste, silver masks glinting off their lit wands.

Tomdemort lets out a shocked sound, going rigid.

Harry barely notices though, too busy trying to envision home in his mind’s eye. He needs to go, needs to regroup, and he doesn’t need a bloody portkey to do it.

Spells start streaking toward them from the Death Eaters –

He lifts his wand, spins on his heel –

Home, home, home –

A hand clamps around his –

Euphoria –

There are anti-Apparition wards over the area –

Fuck –

A scream tears out of his throat as he pushes more magic into the aether, breaking through the wards –

Sucked into a thin tube and then spat out on the other side, Harry falls to the ground. He doesn’t even have the strength to protest when he realises someone’s landed on top of him.

Why doesn’t he ever get to just pass out from the pain? Why must he continue to endure?

“What just happened?”

His uninvited passenger rolls off him, none too gently, and Harry sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. His vision is pulsing, a thin film over his eyes colouring everything red. He can’t recall ever being in this much pain, which, considering the life he’s lead so far, is saying something.

“Are you alright?”

The concern sounds almost sincere. Harry is tempted to go out laughing at this whole absurd situation. His mind is spinning, his reddened vision darkening at the edges, and he realises he’s done it now. He finally reached his limit.

White void, here I come.

Brown eyes, pale skin, and wavy dark hair fills his vision as Tomdemort leans over him.

Cold, tentative fingers gently brush away Harry’s fringe, and it’s with a strange sense of peace that Harry slips away into the blessed dark.

Chapter Text

Tom is not the type easily fazed.

He keeps a cool head under pressure, is excellent at thinking on his feet, and has an encyclopaedic knowledge of many things. Add to this his considerable magical power, his stunning good looks and charming personality, and you’d be hard pressed to find a situation where Tom Riddle doesn’t come out on top.

Circumstances being what they are, however, he can admit (in the privacy of his well-ordered mind) to being, perhaps, just a teeny tiny, miniscule bit… fazed.

First of all, he has no idea where he is, after waking up at what appeared to be a graveyard in the middle of the night.

Second of all, he was under unjustified attack by adult strangers, so he threw his lot in with the only other person his age around.

Third of all, he was Side-alonged through at least three different anti-Apparition wards, by what appears to be a teenager younger than he is.

Fourth of all, said teenager is passed out, covered head to toe in blood.

And on top of all these individually extremely peculiar things there's also the fact that this boy appears to be his soulmate.

So, yes. A little bit fazed would be an accurate description of Tom’s current state of mind.

He finds he can’t stop running his fingers over the boy’s face, even though his skin is red and sticky with blood. The disgust he’d ordinarily feel about getting his hands dirty like this fade to nothing as an overwhelming wave of peace, and rightness, and damn near euphoria washes over him.

All the signs are there. This is his soulmate.

Tom doesn’t understand. The diviner had assured him he didn’t have one – that he never would.

‘Nothing short of divine intervention could bring your tattered soul together with its counterpart.’

Tom, eleven, new to magic and exceedingly confused, had been thoroughly offended at having his soul described as ‘tattered’. It wasn’t until he later found the horcrux ritual that he understood the diviner must have seen quite far ahead indeed.

He tilts his head and rubs his thumb along his soulmate’s cheek, shivering pleasantly at the peaceful feeling – and from what he’s read and heard from others, when both parts of the pair accept the bond, it’s going to feel even better.

It takes monumental effort to raise his gaze from the bloodstained boy and try to figure out where they are.

They’ve appeared on the front steps of a dark townhouse; the only reason he’s able to see his soulmate at all is due to the lampposts along the paved road down the stairs. He squints, and frowns at the strange automobiles parked in a neat row next to the pavement. They look like no automobiles he’s ever seen before.

Twisting around, he looks up at the façade of the town house, with its cracked bricks, dirty windows, and a slight lean that suggests trouble with the foundation.

Why on earth would his soulmate take them here? Is this where he lives? Tom supposes it’s better than an orphanage, but not by much.

He grimaces and reluctantly gets to his feet. They’re too exposed out here in the open, and he’s mildly concerned those hostile people in robes and masks might come after them.

He tries to open the front door, but when he puts his hand on the silver knob, it burns. He yanks his hand away with a hiss, glaring down at the red mark on his palm. He can’t very well use his wand to cast an Alohomora; they’re clearly not at Hogwarts and he isn’t seventeen yet. He could use his soulmate’s wand, but since he’s likely also underage it wouldn’t keep the Ministry off their backs anyway.

(Are they already on their way after that Apparition?)

Peering at the dark, deceptively innocent handle, he concludes that it is most likely tied to the bloodline of whoever owns the house, or a short list of approved visitors.

Tom crouches down and grabs his soulmate’s arm, wrinkling his nose at the disgusting feel of his ruined clothes, then puts the boy’s hand on the doorhandle.

The lock clicks, and the door swings open.

He puts his hands under his soulmate’s arms and drags him inside. He’s surprisingly light, and while Tom is by no means used to manual labour, it’s easy enough to get them both over the threshold and then shut the door behind them.

He gently puts his soulmate down on the floor in a dark, gloomy hallway. Cobwebs hang from unlit sconces, the wallpaper peels off the walls in large, cracked sheets, and dust and dirt clings to every surface like a second or even third skin. There’s an unidentifiable smell, thick in the musty air, and it brings to mind sewers and the mouldy basement at Wool’s, a disgusting combination that he’s hesitant to soil his lungs with.

Salazar, what a wretched place.

He looks down at his soulmate and shakes his head. “What on earth were you thinking, bringing us here?”

His unconscious soulmate makes no reply.

Tom sighs, then lets out a loud curse when someone suddenly starts screaming, sending a whole wall of portraits into hysterics. Resisting the temptation to slam his hands over his ears, he quickly identifies the shrieking banshee as a large, gilded portrait with magically fluttering curtains a few steps ahead.

The woman, who was screeching incoherently about ‘INTRUDERS and ‘MUDBLOODS' and demanding to know ‘WHO’S THERE?’, abruptly falls silent when he steps up in front of her, the other portraits on the wall falling in line, following her example.

The wrinkled witch looks more than a little unhinged with painted spittle flying around her mouth, gaping at him like a fish. “Tom?”

He frowns, wondering how on earth this woman that doesn’t look the slightest bit familiar knows his name.

Then, his gaze snags on the little plaque underneath the portrait, eyes widening in shock. “Walburga?”

“How is this possible? You look exactly the same as in school,” the portrait whispers, pressing closer to the frame.

“You don’t,” he remarks, head spinning.

According to the plaque, Walburga Black died in 1985.

It can’t be.

The portrait appears to be blushing, bashfully smoothing down her voluminous black skirts as she leans back. “Yes, well… time takes its toll on us all. Oh, but Tom, where have you been all this time? And how are you still so young?”

More than a few theories spring to mind, but he has no intention of sharing them with a portrait of his old classmate. Walburga always was a fool, and he doubts she’d have anything of value to offer him now.

“What is this place?” he asks instead.

“Grimmauld Place, my ancestral home,” Walburga replies proudly, puffing out her chest. Why she’d be proud of this foul-smelling ruin is beyond him, but he makes a suitably impressed sound; anything to keep her from resuming her earlier screeching.

“I see. It’s... beautiful. And who are the current inhabitants?”

“Oh, it’s just me and our old elf at the moment. KREACHER!”

He stifles a wince at the bellowing, plastering a genial smile onto his lips. There’s a shuffling sound from the stairs, and an ancient, dirty house-elf, wearing nothing but a disgusting loin cloth, drags itself into view.

It blinks at him, scowls at the blood-covered boy by the front door, then turns an adoring look up at the portrait. “Mistress called for Kreacher? What can Kreacher do for Mistress?”

“Take care of our guest, Kreacher,” Walburga demands imperiously, shooting Tom a simpering smile. “He’s an old friend.”

He merely smiles in response, inclining his head slightly, then turns to the filthy elf. “Set up rooms for us and draw a bath for my – companion. But first, move him someplace more comfortable.”

The elf bows. “Of course, Mistress’ friend, it will be Kreacher’s pleasure.”

He snaps his fingers, and Tom’s soulmate starts levitating.

“There’s someone with you?” Walburga asks, pressing closer to the edge of the painting again, trying to catch a glimpse of the boy. “Who is that?”

“Don’t you recognise him?” Tom asks, keeping his voice carefully level.

“No, not at all.”

“He had access to the house.”

Walburga’s eyes narrow. “Impossible. Only someone of the house of Black should be able to get through the door. And that boy is certainly no relative of mine. I would know!”

Tom makes a noncommittal sound. “I suppose I shall have to ask him when he wakes up. We can chat more later, Wally.”

Her girlish giggle at the familiar nickname is highly unsettling, but he doesn’t let it show – it did the job of distracting her and that’s all he needed.

Following the house-elf and his floating soulmate up the creaking stairs, it soon becomes apparent that the rest of the house is in equally bad shape as the downstairs. Tom keeps his face blank in case any other portraits of old classmates decide to accost him, but it’s something of a struggle when everywhere he turns there are motheaten tapestries, grimy furniture, and the ominous, unmistakable sound of doxies hiding behind dingy curtains.

Eventually, the elf leads them to a room that Tom suspects might have been blue, once upon a time.

His lip curls.

His soulmate certainly has a lot of explaining to do when he deigns to wake up.

The elf unceremoniously drops the boy on the bed, a large cloud of dust wafting upwards.

“Careful,” Tom snaps. “Can’t you see he’s injured?”

The elf mutters something unintelligible in response, then shuffles over to the ensuite bathroom to run the bath as ordered.

Tom glares after the insolent elf, then approaches the bed, gently brushing his soulmate’s fringe away from his forehead. He shivers at the pleasant feeling when their skin makes contact and trails his fingertips down the boy’s bloodied cheek, removing his glasses and setting them on the dusty bedside table.

He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, grimacing at the inescapable dust – but the clothes he’s wearing are already ruined at this point by blood and mud, so what’s some dust in the grand scheme of things? Besides, they aren’t even his; but that’s a mystery for his soulmate to explain.

As he cups his soulmate’s cheek in his palm, he wonders just who is hiding underneath all that blood and dirt.

He’s the other half of Tom’s soul, the one Fate has deemed his perfect fit, so surely, he’ll be exceedingly handsome. Probably clever. Tom already knows he’s powerful, though certainly more than a bit reckless.

What does his voice sound like? What colour eyes does he have? It had been too dark to make out when they were still open, and this sorry excuse for a room isn’t lit by more than the streetlamps’ dim glow through the filthy windows.

He wants the boy to wake up already, but perhaps his unconsciousness is a blessing in disguise, giving Tom time to formulate a plan for how to tie him closer. He refuses to become one of those pairs where one soulmate rejects the other. This is a gift, an act of divine intervention if that diviner is to be believed, and he shan’t allow it to be squandered.

Besides, people are easy. Find what motivates them – which is usually either money, power or love, or a combination of all three – and apply either stick or carrot accordingly, and soon you’ll have an obedient little follower who’ll do anything for you.

And if all else fails, there’s always fear. A simple demonstration of why it would be highly unwise to cross him can go a long way, depending on the circumstances.

Fear works best in a place like Wool’s, for example, where he’s naturally at the top of the food chain and so far above the pathetic muggle orphans wallowing in the dirt that he can barely see them. Keeping the maggots in check requires a healthy dose of fear, and they have nothing Tom could possibly want that he cannot simply take from them, so there’s no point in applying any other methods of control.

At Hogwarts, his place at the top required quite a bit more subtlety. Luckily, cunning runs undiluted through his veins; lies and subterfuge and schemes are his heritage. The face he’s presented to the world has left him universally adored – the only exception that old goat Dumbledore, and that must be excused by virtue of Tom’s inexperienced youth. He hadn’t had need of the other forms of control at Wool’s thus far and so had tried to assume a position of power in their standoff that he had not yet earned.

…and, perhaps, he had been slightly afraid (the way young children get) that Dumbledore had been there to drag him away to the asylum, and had acted rashly in the face of this reasonable concern.

So, yes, one-nil Dumbledore, but that score won't last forever.

Tom, however, will. He has found the means, performed the requisite sacrifices, and will soon be one step closer to eternal life.

And now he’ll have a soulmate by his side.

I’ll use fear only as a last resort, my soul.

He loses track of time as he sits there, stroking his thumb along his soulmate’s cheek, basking in their closeness, and is drawn from his musings about his improbable match by the elf announcing that the bath is ready.

Which presents the next problem; how is he supposed to get his soulmate out of these blood caked clothes and into the bath?

Tom’s nose wrinkles, looking down at his already dirty hands. He has no interest in soiling them further, nor does he have any real desire to care for his unconscious soulmate like that. He considers the elf but quickly discards that idea; a lowly house elf is hardly worthy of stripping and bathing his soulmate.

He tilts his head, regarding the boy.

…is the blood his own?

He holds his hand up against his soulmate’s face. Soft, warm puffs of breath tickle his palm.

He probably should have checked that sooner. Ah well.

Where did all that blood come from? He’s practically bathed in it from the neck down. The splatters (while copious) on his face appear to be just that, likely transferred by his own hands and Tom’s, so it’s unlikely that he’s suffered a head wound.

…does he require healing?

“Elf,” he calls, having quite forgotten the wretched creature’s name. “Are you proficient in healing? Are there any potions around?”

“No potions,” the elf grunts. “No healing.”

“Then I need you to acquire a standard healing potion. And a blood-replenisher as well. Perhaps something for the pain.”

“Kreacher wouldn’t know where to start.”

Ah.

“Kreacher can go to an apothecary. I’m sure the Blacks have a line of credit with most shops, do they not?”

“All accounts were closed upon Mistress’ death.” Kreacher sounds oddly choked up over Walburga’s demise. Pathetic creature.

Tom sighs in annoyance. “Then steal it – I don’t care how you get the potions but get them.”

A disturbing gleam enters Kreacher’s eyes, and a wicked grin twists his ugly features. He takes a bow and disappears, the sound of his Disapparition sharp in the otherwise quiet room. Hopefully he’ll be back, though Tom supposes it’s just as likely the elf will be killed in the heist; he’ll give the elf an hour before he deems it a lost cause and figures out an alternative.

A soft groan sounds from his soulmate, and Tom eagerly grabs his left hand.

“Are you awake? How are you feeling?”

Another groan. His soulmate’s brows knit together, and a small whimper follows the groan. Yes, Tom did the right thing requesting something for the pain; his thoughtfulness will make an excellent start to their relationship.

He leans forward slightly, squeezing the other boy’s hand. “Hello?”

Hazy eyes blink open. He still cannot quite determine which colour they are. Not even when they widen, locked on his face. He leans closer –

Crunch!

Tom lets out a shocked shriek, tumbling back and off the bed from the force of his soulmate’s punch. Pain radiates intensely from his nose and blood starts dripping down his face, tears springing unbidden to his eyes.

“By nobe!”

He watches in shocked betrayal as his soulmate attempts to get off the bed, right arm swinging, trying to make purchase with Tom’s poor flesh anywhere it can. It glances his temple, and even that hurts. He’s forced to scramble backwards – so undignified – on his bottom when his soulmate tumbles onto the floor, dragging himself after Tom with murder writ in every line of his face.

“’tob! ‘tob! No!”

He reaches the wall and uses it for purchase to get to his feet. He is just about to run out the door when his soulmate collapses, panting and whimpering quietly.

Whatever adrenaline got him off the bed appears to be wearing off quickly, the pain making itself known once more.

Tom is tempted to kick him while he’s down.

Out of harm’s way, he glares down at the boy he’s spent considerable effort trying to take care of. How dare he!? Doesn’t he know who Tom is?

Raising his sleeve, he tries to stem the flow of blood, to no avail. It soon soaks through the fabric, leaving the robe in worse condition than before. And his nose hurts – it’s been years since someone last dared lay a hand on him, and he finds he’s no fonder of the experience now than he had been as child. He suspects his nose might even be broken.

His soulmate’s first act upon returning to consciousness had been to break his fucking nose.

“’at id wrong wid you?” he demands, annoyance climbing higher due to his inability to speak properly.

The other boy raises his head slightly where he remains on the ground, and levels a fierce glare in Tom’s direction for a second before his features contort in pain, forcing his face back to the floor.

“Fuck – you,” he pants, the sound muffled against the floorboards, now significantly less dusty from Tom’s frantic retreat.

The urge to kick him grows even stronger.

He’ll never know whether he would have fallen for the impulse, as Kreacher chooses that moment to return. He’s grinning widely, uglier than ever, holding out a bag for Tom.

“Kreacher found sir’s potions,” he declares. Tom yanks it out of his hands and peers inside the bag, seeing three vials.

“Light,” he orders.

Kreacher bows so deeply his nose nearly connects with the floor. “Of course, Mistress’ cherished guest.” He then snaps his fingers, and the sconces on the wall flare to life, finally bathing the horrid room in decent light. It doesn’t much improve things, but at least he can see properly now.

The boy on the floor lets out a pained moan. “Kreacher?”

To Tom’s surprise, the elf barely spares the boy a second glance, and he doesn’t respond to the address.

…is this not his soulmate’s house, then? He certainly doesn’t appear to be the master of the elf at any rate.

“Clean,” Tom orders, the sound a little garbled but not too bad. Luckily, the elf just bows again and then shuffles over to the bed and begins stripping the linen. Perhaps not where Tom would have started since the rest is still virtually a pigsty, but he supposes good help is hard to find when the mistress of the house is a bloody portrait.

Tom digs into the bag and pulls the vials out, inspecting them against the light while his soulmate remains on the floor a few feet away, shuddering intermittently amidst gasps for breath. Seems like his ribs might be broken.

Serves you right.

He recognises the swirling liquid inside each vial, and when he carefully uncorks and sniffs the potions, they all smell the way they’re supposed to. Against all odds, the decrepit elf appears to have carried out at least these orders perfectly.

His nose pulses and aches, and he’s tempted to keep the pain reliever for himself. Still, he supposes he can understand his soulmate’s confusion, seeing as they were under attack right before he passed out – he must be too delirious to recognise their bond, or he never would have made an assault on Tom’s person.

Yes, that must be it. His soulmate is simply confused.

Tom sighs, spitting out some blood that’s made its way inside his mouth. His soulmate is certainly lucky Tom is feeling magnanimous.

He crouches down and puts the vials down one at a time. “Pain reliever. Blood replenisher. Mild healing.”

It comes out far more garbled than that, but he’s confident his point comes across.

His soulmate glares into the floorboards and doesn’t acknowledge either the potions or Tom.

Stubborn git.

Tom clicks his tongue and leaves him there, giving him a wide berth in case the brute starts swinging again, and enters the bathroom, slamming the door behind himself in a fit of pique.

The lights are on in here too, and he grimaces at the horrid large patches of mould stretching from the walls to the ceiling. A large tub sits in the corner, filled to the brim with water, steam curling enticingly from the surface. On a small table to the side rests a towel alongside two bars of soap.

Honestly, after the night he’s had, no one is more deserving of a nice relaxing bath than he. His soulmate will simply have to wait his turn.

He turns the lock with a satisfying click and sheds his clothes, then submerges himself in the tub with a relieved exhale, determined to turn this awful night around.

Besides, he has some thinking to do.

Chapter Text

He isn’t dead.

Yet.

He’s not sure whether he’s happy about that under the current circumstances; lying face down on the dirty floor, in more pain than he can recall ever being before, with Tomdemort in the next room.

Is his life just some great, cosmic joke? Fate’s favourite bitch to yank around on a leash and then kick when he’s down?

Except it would seem Fate has left the room, Death taking its place.

Lifting his forehead off the floor, he’s confronted with the vials Tomdemort left in front of his face, and with a grunt, he moves his right arm up enough to grasp them. He has no idea what’s in them, couldn’t make out the garbled words earlier, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

They’ll either help him or kill him and he’ll take either at this point.

He swallows one. Two. Three. The empty vials roll away with soft clinks.

He lays his head back down and waits to die.

…unfortunately, he feels a little bit better instead. A shame; Tomdemort will likely tire of whatever fucked up game he’s playing soon and come out of the bathroom slinging AK’s like they’re lumoses. Harry would have preferred to be comatose when that happens, if he’d had the choice.

Sounds that aren’t his own blood rushing in his ears begin to trickle back in. Kreacher shuffles around the room, making a surprisingly hearty effort to clean while giving Harry a wide berth. The sconces hiss and spit, the floorboards underneath him creak with every small shift of movement he makes now that he’s semi-capable of them again, and his pained panting is overly loud in the large room.

The brain fog is clearing, piece by piece, and the agony begins to incrementally ebb into something tolerable. With shaky limbs he pulls himself up to a seated position, slowly shuffling backward until his back meets the solid bedframe, then pausing to catch his breath while the room twists and turns around its own axis.

Closing his eyes doesn’t exactly improve matters, but it was worth a shot.

“Oh yes, this is already much better,” comes Death’s pleased voice from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Harry reluctantly opens his eyes. Everything is hazy and blurry, and he wonders where his glasses have gotten to as he squints at the entity hellbent on making his death and life miserable.

Death is lounging in the upper right corner of the room, nothing but a black blob hanging from the ceiling, and an involuntary shiver races down Harry’s aching spine.

“Why are you doing this?” Harry rasps, ignoring Kreacher’s suspicious look as he places new linens on the bed.

“Entertainment,” Death replies from the swirling, writhing mass of darkness. “Speaking of, here’s your wand. Must have slipped poor Tom’s mind when he dragged you inside.”

The holly clatters to the floor by Harry’s right hand. Its familiar warmth provides some measure of comfort and safety, and he uses it immediately to summon his glasses. They don’t have far to travel, only from the bedside table, and he repairs them before shakily putting them on.

Death remains an indistinct black mass, a pulsing black void in the corner of his eye even when he looks directly at it.

“Am I in hell?” Harry's voice sounds strangely calm to his own ears, especially considering he would like to start screaming and then never stop.

“No.”

“Did I time travel?”

Kreacher drops something on the floor with a gasp.

“No-oo?” says Death.

Harry blinks. Once, twice, thrice. He takes a deep breath, filling his burning lungs completely before slowly letting it back out.

“Then what is going on? Where am I?”

“…why is it talking to itself, Kreacher wonders?” Kreacher mutters to himself. “This is Grimmauld Place, home to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black… not that it is worthy of traversing these hallowed halls, oh, is it a mudblood that has made it through the door? It is not Kreacher’s place to question his Mistress, oh no, but why would Mistress’ cherished guest bring a mudblood into the house…”

“You, Master, are in an alternate universe – approximately a skip to the left.”

Harry tunes out Kreacher’s continued theorising about him and his bloodline. “That’s… impossible.”

“Oh, you humans, always so quick to dismiss what you cannot comprehend. There are endless alternate universes. This one was the most convenient at the moment of your death as your vessel had recently been vacated, but there are so many others that would have likely been equally entertaining. I’m currently keeping track of one where you woke up the day before your tenth birthday and are now trying to rewrite history – oh, and one where you’re actually together with that godfather of yours after he came back from beyond the Veil, can you believe it?”

Death’s laugh is no less unsettling this time.

Harry stares incredulously at the swirling void.

“Don’t give me that look, Master. You’re one of the most entertaining humans out there right now. And, well, Tom is a close second. Putting you two together always makes for interesting stories. You just happen to be aware of it this time.”

“Is my life just some big joke to you?”

“…Kreacher does not understand…”

“More like a show, actually.”

Harry takes another couple of deep breaths, the musty air going down a little bit easier now. The exercise serves to slightly calm his racing heart, though not by much.

When he looks back up, Death is gone.

Kreacher stares suspiciously at him, distracted from his cleaning.

“…time travel and hell – is the mudblood crazy?”

“Oh, piss off,” Harry snaps, having quite reached the end of his tether. “Fuck off with that mudblood-shit – I can hear you!”

Kreacher matches him glare for glare before he turns on his heel and gets back to cleaning.

Harry pushes his glasses up his forehead and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms, ignoring the sting of his knuckles on his right hand. He’s quickly reminded of his bloody, muddy condition, as even his eyelashes are crusted with dried blood.

How?

Thanks to his nightmares, Harry remembers the graveyard when Voldemort resurrected. Vividly. And while he’d certainly been in terrible condition then as well, his current circumstances are far worse.

Why?

There’s no wound on his arm where Wormtail would have carved into him to steal his blood for the resurrection ritual. His traversal through the maze for the final task had left him hurt and limping, yes, but here and now he can’t even begin to catalogue his injuries, his whole body feeling like it’s been put through a meat grinder and then hastily put together with careless abandon by someone with a mere passing knowledge of the human body.

Harry blows out a heavy breath.

It doesn’t really matter either way, though, does it? Tomdemort is in the next room, and Harry’s body, while clobbered, has begun to obey him once more.

Death wants entertainment? It’ll fucking get it.

Using the bed for support, Harry staggers to his feet, wand clenched tightly in his fist. Black spots darken his vision, and he can’t say for sure whether its due to the headrush or if Death has found a new way to overwhelm him.

Let’s get this over with.

“Alohomora,” he croaks, and the locked door clicks. It swings open, creaking in protest the whole way.

There’s a splash of water as Tomdemort shoots upright in the bath, staring wide-eyed at him. His nose is crooked and red. Dark, wet hair curls around his temples over high cheekbones that could cut glass. His skin gleams like polished marble in the flickering light, pink, plump lips parted in a slight O of surprise at Harry’s entrance.

Even with a presumably broken nose, the fucker is just as gorgeous now as he’d been when Harry first saw him in the diary; no horrifying snake-features or slit-pupiled red anywhere to be seen.

What went wrong? Or was this the way the resurrection was originally supposed to go?

“Wad a’ yu doin’?” Tomdemort demands indignantly, grasping at the edges of the tub. His voice is garbled and difficult to make out due to his broken nose.

Harry squints at him, as if this might aid his hearing.

(It doesn’t.)

Harry sways slightly on his feet, wand outstretched. “Getting ahead of things.”

Tomdemort’s gaze narrows on Harry’s wand, then he shrugs, raises a hand and points at his nose, water dripping down his bare arm. “Fix id.”

Harry realises he was being a bit too vague and, inhaling deeply, he amends that mistake.

“I. Am going. To kill you. Voldemort.”

“Doubt bin a turd,” Tomdemort scoffs.

Harry blinks. Resists the temptation to scratch his ear. “…what?”

Tomdemort gestures meaningfully at his nose again, perfectly sculpted eyebrows drawn together in a scowl.

Harry doesn’t know what possesses him to actually help fix the nose he just broke so beautifully. Either way, he blames Death for it as he points his wand at Tomdemort’s nose and says, “Episkey.”

Tomdemort lets out a pained groan when the cartilage snaps back into place, brown eyes momentarily closing as he carefully prods the restraightened nose with his fingertips.

Harry shifts his weight from one foot to the other, hissing slightly as fire licks down his bum leg, debating how best to do this.

Could he summon enough hate and cold detachment to manage an Avada Kedavra?

Unlikely. He’s never been able to before.

Sectumsempra? It’s certainly an easy one; simply point and speak and voilà, one teenage Dark Lord bleeding out in the bath.

There’s always diffindo, of course, he’d just have to aim it properly. Right over the jugular should do the trick.

Or maybe just a bombarda or confringo and the bathroom walls would soon be decorated with exploded wizard. It might even be an improvement on the décor.

Just do it! Kill him already!

His arm has begun to tremble. Harry swallows, trying to blink away the black spots still swimming in his vision, palm turning clammy around his wand as he adjusts his grip over and over again.

What are you waiting for?!

No spell makes it across his lips no matter how he tries. He’s no more successful with non-verbal spells.

Defeated, he lowers his wand.

“Finally,” Tomdemort sighs, ostensibly not the least bit worried about his near-death at Harry’s hands. He twists around slightly in the tub, water sloshing with the movement as he crosses his thin arms on the edge and props his chin on them, leaning forward. One curl has fallen down his brow, tickling his long, dark lashes.

Harry wants to punch him again. He barely remembers getting to do it the first time, the only reason he knows it actually happened the stinging of his knuckles. If anyone could do with rearrangement of absurdly symmetrical features, it’s the guy raking his eyes over Harry right now.

Harry leans against the cracked porcelain sink, wand remaining by his side, slightly out of breath.

“You really should take a bath too. You look awful,” says Tomdemort after a moment’s silence.

“Sure, I’ll just drown you first.”

To Harry’s annoyance, his very serious threat merely serves to make Tomdemort smile. He even keeps smiling as he tilts his head, pillowing his cheek on his arm. The only things missing are screaming photographers and bright lights and Harry might think they’re on set for a sleazy photoshoot for Witch Weekly.

Ugh, don’t go there, once was bad enough.

“Are you quite done with the death threats? I’d like to finish my bath before we get into the whole discussion part of the evening.”

“We don’t have anything to discuss,” Harry snaps, overcome with vertigo as he tries to raise his wand again.

Avada Kedavra! Confringo! Sectumsempra! Diffindo! Bombarda!

Just kill him!

Nothing happens. His vocal cords are snared shut. His arm remains stubbornly by his side.

“Of course we do. I’d like to know my soulmate’s name, to start with.”

An incredulous laugh, tinged with hysteria, burbles out of him. Tomdemort just keeps smiling. There’s even a small dimple in his left cheek; an angelic façade hiding the monster within.

“Soulmate? The fuck are you on about, Voldemort?”

His smile dims, the dimple disappearing, nose crinkling slightly. “Another thing we must discuss. How do you know that name?”

“Don’t give me the innocent act,” Harry snarls, letting the sink take more of his weight as his splinted leg begins trembling. “I know exactly who you are.”

One eyebrow arches as Tomdemort sits up straight, water lapping at his hairless chest. “Then you have me at a disadvantage. I ask again, what is your name?”

Harry sucks in a breath, eyes widening when realisation dawns.

He doesn’t remember.

Harry has no idea whether that’s a good or bad thing. It’s not like Tom Riddle was any less dangerous as a teen – he was just better at hiding it.

But… if he doesn’t remember the things he’s done, then… what does that mean?

Can someone who doesn’t remember their crimes still be held accountable for them?

He shudders, head hurting.

Philosophical and moral musings aside, Harry doesn’t appear to be able to take care of business.

(To be fair, he hadn’t really done so the last time they met either; Voldemort killed himself, after all.)

“Well?”

Harry swallows, then confusedly rasps, “Harry. My name – is Harry.”

Tom hums, a glint Harry can’t read sparking in his dark eyes. “Harry,” he says, as if tasting the syllables on his tongue and finding them adequate. “Well then, Harry, please shut the door on your way out. I presume the Ministry’s owl will be here any moment and I would like to be dressed when it does.”

Harry frowns. “Why would they send an owl?”

“…have things changed here in the – future? Are minors allowed to do magic outside Hogwarts these days?”

Harry’s eyes narrow at the casual inquiry. Tom is clearly fishing for information, which he supposes supports the memory loss-theory.

“I’m not a –”

Minor.

He cuts himself off, closing his eyes in mortification.

He is a minor. Again. Fourteen, going on fifteen to be exact.

He turns on his heel and stumbles out of the room, at the last second remembering to shut the door. It makes for a convenient place to lean against as his mind races, puzzle pieces slotting into place alongside the odd, jagged pieces he has no clue what to do with.

Like the fact Tom doesn’t remember who he is or what he’s done.

Like the fact Harry is currently in an alternate dimension, put there by Death.

Like the fact Tom used the word soulmate.

His breaths come faster and faster, the room spins, and there’s an inescapable weight over his chest.

He never would have thought shit could possibly get worse for him; worse than fighting a war as a child, worse than a job he hates, worse than going through his day-to-day wishing he’d told them all to piss off.

(Worse than an aching void in the darkest corners of his soul where something used to reside that he can’t fill no matter how much firewhiskey he pours into the hole or how many people he fucks just to feel something.)

The room appears to be collapsing in on itself. He closes his eyes so he won’t have to witness it.

Who could’ve guessed that dying had been the easy part; that one random lowlife’s bombarda maxima achieved what Voldemort’s Avada Kedavra never managed and it still didn’t mean end of the road.

Because now he’ll have to do it all over again – except the rules appear to have changed.

Inhale. Count one, two, three. Exhale. Open your eyes and keep going.

He pushes off the wall and limps out of the room. His steps unerringly carry him through dim, dusty corridors he knows like the back of his hand, unbothered by the darkness, used to it from his countless midnight wanderings in a different dimension.

Merlin.

He drags himself up another flight of stairs, sweat beading on his forehead from the effort, and he’s forced to pause for breath at the landing before doggedly resuming his wandering, dragging his bad leg behind him.

Once he finally reaches the top floor, he’s dizzied and nauseous, wanting nothing more than to just lay down and pass out for an hour or two, sod teenage Voldemort and sod Kreacher and sod this whole sodding house –

His jaw clenches and his throat works, swallowing down the rising gorge. He gives himself another minute, leaning hard on the rickety railing, just breathing.

Eventually, he pushes off the railing and staggers over to the door bearing the nameplate Sirius, pushing it open.

The large room looks slightly different than he remembers it. Grey silk walls remain plastered with posters of motorcycles and muggle women in bikinis, and large, Gryffindor memorabilia drapes over every piece of furniture, but the rest looks oddly tidy if one overlooks the dust and cobwebs. Books are stacked neatly in the bookcases, the bed is made, the desk’s contents tucked away in their respective drawers, floor free from debris.

Harry has wondered over the years why there are so many items still left in the room, ones that aren’t securely fastened with permanent sticking charms, and even the ones that are – there’s always something to be done about those if one is motivated enough.

(He fondly remembers knocking down the whole goddamn wall just to get rid of Walburga’s portrait.)

Was Sirius simply done with childish things? Did he leave with nothing but the clothes on his back?

Harry shuffles across the floor, heading for the bathroom at the other end that connects to Regulus’ room as well.

And why on earth did Walburga leave Sirius’ room untouched all those years? Did she nurse some distant, flickering hope that the prodigal heir might return one day despite everything? Had Sirius been wrong to describe her as heartless – had Kreacher been right in that it broke her heart when Sirius ran away?

Or maybe the house was simply big enough that she never had to bother going upstairs, who could say.

He waves his wand to light the sconces, then steels himself before looking into the grimy mirror over the sink.

A pale, blood-soaked revenant stares back at him. If he didn’t know better, he’d wonder which freshly dug grave this apparition crawled out of, dirt still clinging to the torn red, black and gold funeral garb.

But perhaps worst of all is that he recognises himself as a teenager, sending his mind reeling.

Part of him, he realises, had been clinging to the hope it wouldn’t be true. That he’d look in the mirror and his twenty-one-year-old self would be looking back, regardless of what his rational mind told him.

He turns his eyes away, lead weight in his stomach. He’ll deal with it later.

Grimly, he performs the necessary spells to freshen up the bathroom and make the warm water flow properly, then undresses with some difficulty, letting the ruined clothes pool on the floor. Under the flickering light from the sconces, augmented by the tip of his wand, he examines his injured leg after removing the splint.

Broken, with fang marks in his calf, the puncture wounds nearly invisible among the red, puffy skin.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

No wonder he can barely move.

He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, points his wand at the break, and speaks the incantation around the knuckles of his left hand. It works well to muffle his scream when the bone knits itself back together.

He slumps over the sink for a few minutes, breathing hard, sweat running down his face. When he has the energy for it, he casts a standard diagnostic charm. Nothing else appears to be broken, thankfully, no matter how his ribs ache, and there are no toxins circulating in his veins; the acromantula that took a bite out of him must’ve been drained of venom before being entered into the maze.

Small mercies.

His blood levels are also climbing steadily – one of the potions was probably a blood replenisher.

All in all, despite feeling like he’s been chewed up by Fluffy and spat out on a pile of sharp rocks, it’s nothing a couple nights of decent sleep won’t fix. Shame he hasn’t slept decently since the war.

Immediate medical needs taken care of, he shuffles over to the bath and carefully climbs inside, keeping the wand with him, accustomed to Grimmauld suddenly spitting cold water at him in the middle of a shower.

He has to hit the pipes three more times over the course of cleaning himself up and is forced to resort to a soap charm rather than the real deal, but when he eventually gets back out, he’s as clean as he can get, blood and dirt swirling away down the protesting drain.

He summons a threadbare towel and dries himself off, then wraps the towel around his hips, far skinnier than he expects them to be.

“So unfair,” he mutters, meeting his own glare in the fogged-up mirror.

His eyes widen and he lurches closer, hand going to his throat.

Slashed right across is an angry, red line.

He stares.

And stares.

And stares.

His fingertips ghost over the clean, healed cut, that looks weeks old rather than the mere hours it supposedly is.

Guess that explains all the blood.

He swallows, eyes glued to the newest scar in his collection.

What was it Death had said?

‘…your vessel had recently been vacated…’

Right.

So, this universe’s Harry Potter hadn’t made it out of that graveyard alive.

Brilliant.

Absolutely fucking brilliant.

He throws up in the sink.

Chapter Text

Harry.

Harry. Harry. Harry.

The more he tests it and tastes it on his tongue, the more he likes it. It’s a common name, a simple name, but Tom knows all too well how appearances can deceive. His soulmate is no common street ruffian, no simple half-wit; Harry conceals something far grander than the name would suggest, hiding exceptional power behind a shroud of simplicity. A lion disguised as a lamb, a snake in the grass.

His perfect match.

Tom can’t help but smile to himself as he finishes his bath, eyes continually straying to the closed door where Harry disappeared.

Poor boy must have been hit over the head quite hard or exhausted himself completely with that Apparition. Tom looks forward to when the confusion finally clears, and Harry recognises their bond for what it is. Perhaps he’ll be more forthcoming with details then, as well.

‘I am going to kill you, Voldemort.’

Adorable.

Tom fondly shakes his head and gets out of the tub, unbothered by the wet footprints he leaves on the tiles. The towel, musty from sitting unused inside some cabinet for Salazar knows how long, is soft against his skin, drying him off admirably despite its unfortunate appearance. He wraps it around his hips, making sure the knot is securely fastened.

He digs through the pockets of the robe he’d woken up in, finding his wand and thoughtfully twirling it slowly between his fingers, considering whether he can risk using it.

Harry has already used magic. Did it without so much as a second thought, uncomprehending of Tom’s speculation that the Ministry would be with them shortly. Have things changed in the future, then?

Tom is under no illusions that he’s somehow travelled in time; Walburga’s portrait and death date had made that clear enough. He just doesn’t understand how, has no memory of the travel itself or the research he must have conducted to be able to pull it off, but he does understand the why – the why being a skinny, blood-soaked teenager with a chip on his shoulder and power rolling off of him in mesmerizing waves.

There’s an unfamiliar small fluttering in his stomach as he remembers Harry’s outstretched wand, his threats, how he tried so very hard to make himself deliver on his promise.

As if one soulmate could ever kill the other.

Still, perhaps his confusion led him to use magic when he otherwise wouldn’t have, and it would therefore be foolish of Tom to risk the Ministry’s censure. At least one of them should remain off their radar.

He leaves the robes on the ground, picks up his shoes, and opens the bathroom door.

The bedroom’s state has significantly improved during his bath. The large, canopied bed has been remade with “fresh” linens, the wooden floor swept, and the dark curtains emptied of whatever had made a nest inside.

Good; the elf isn’t completely useless. The ugly thing is actually climbing slightly in Tom’s regard.

“Kreacher,” he says, and the elf turns around from where it was cleaning the window. “I need new clothes. Either a simple, black robe, or trousers and a shirt. Whole and clean, obviously.”

Kreacher bows. “Right away, sir.”

He snaps his fingers and disappears. He returns a few minutes later, carrying both sartorial options, laying them out on the bed for Tom’s approval.

There’s an unpleasant smell clinging to the fabric, but they do appear to be clean, whole, and in a size close enough to fit him comfortably. He nods, pleased with the offering, and puts the white shirt on, buttoning it all the way to his throat. It’s unfortunate that there’s no underwear, but he isn’t interested in wearing someone else’s pants anyway, so he pulls the black, pressed trousers on after shedding the towel in a heap on the floor. The trousers are a little short, hems brushing right above his ankles, but it’s tolerable.

He picks up the robe as well, one eyebrow lifting at the Slytherin crest. He wonders just who they belonged to – hopefully it wasn’t Walburga. His pride could survive it, though he’d prefer not to suffer that particular sting if he can help it. He shrugs it on, keeping it unbuttoned, and steps into his shoes, grimacing slightly at going barefoot, but determined to bear the discomfort rather than use someone’s cast off socks.

He steps up to the large, oval mirror in the corner, combing his fingers through his hair until it’s as neat as he can get it. The clothes fit him well enough, though he’d certainly never venture into the halls of Hogwarts in them. He’d gotten quite enough ridicule for one lifetime his first year over ill-fitting robes, and he isn’t exactly keen to repeat the experience.

Besides, the only ones currently in residence are him and his soulmate, and he has a hard time believing someone that unkempt will have an opinion on Tom’s clothes.

Eyes narrowing at his reflection, he deems the robe a bit much and takes it off again, hanging it over the side of the mirror.

“Where is Harry?” he asks over his shoulder, tugging at his shirtsleeves before giving it up as a bad job. He’d roll them up to his elbows if he wasn’t concerned about appearing like a common dockworker.

“Kreacher does not know where your companion is.”

“Find out.” Tom grimaces at the slight redness still present over his nose from its earlier break.

Kreacher bows and leaves to do his bidding with only minimal muttering to himself.

I could get used to having an elf.

He passes the time inspecting every nook and cranny of the bedroom where he’ll spend the night, pocketing any small trinket he finds. There isn’t much, only a few sickles and a shiny little comb, but it’s better than nothing.

When Kreacher returns, he does so with the news that Tom’s soulmate is apparently heaving his guts out in the top floor bathroom. Tom’s nose wrinkles at this undignified behaviour. At least he doesn’t run the risk of seeing or smelling it from here.

“Very well. He can join me later. Supper, then, Kreacher.”

Kreacher leads him down the stairs all the way into the basement, where a cavernous kitchen resides.

Soot stains the walls, in some places reaching all the way up to the ceiling, spat out from the large fireplace at the other end of the room that Kreacher has just lit by a snap of his fingers. Pots and pans that haven’t seen a good scrubbing in years hang from the ceiling, and there’s a large, wooden table with mismatched chairs in the middle of the room. The chairs themselves appear to be a motley collection of old dining room sets, too fancy by half to be banished to the kitchen if it hadn’t been for the moth-eaten cushions, scratched legs, and the occasional broken spindle on their painfully straight backs.

Tom picks out the least objectionable one and makes himself comfortable while Kreacher prepares supper.

“So, Kreacher,” Tom asks conversationally as Kreacher oversees a knife chopping carrots, directing its movements with his spindly fingers like a small, ugly maestro. “What year is it?”

Kreacher pauses, the knife hovering uncertainly in the air above the carrots momentarily before resuming its precise chopping. “1995.”

Tom’s eyes nearly bug out of his head in shock. Thankfully, no one is there to witness his lost composure, and he quickly gets his facial features under control.

So, Walburga’s been dead ten years, the house presumably stood empty all that time. No wonder it’s in such a state.

“I see,” he says, clearing his throat. “And Harry – how come he has access to the house?”

“Kreacher is not sure,” the elf mutters, stoking the old iron stove into a roaring blaze, gently closing the lid with a flick of his finger. He places a large pot on the stovetop and continues preparing the food, directing the cubed pieces of meat and vegetables into the pot. “The boy is not a Black.”

Interesting.

“Your best guess, then.”

Kreacher is silent for a few seconds, levitating dishes into the sink for cleaning. When he next speaks, his voice is thoughtful, measured, and surprisingly coherent compared to how he’s conversed so far.

“The boy… he is… familiar to Kreacher. When clean, he bears an uncanny resemblance to James Potter. The blood traitor was… close with Master Sirius. Broke my Mistress’ heart when Master Sirius ran away to the Potters – blood traitors the whole lot of them, utterly unfit company for the Black heir, but Master Sirius never did listen to reason.”

Kreacher shakes his head, muttering something about ungrateful brats under his breath before continuing.

“The Potters, James and that mudblood soulmate he married, did have a son, far as Kreacher recalls, in 1980 – the Boy Who Lived, they call him. Master Sirius was made godfather; it was in the papers after the Dark Lord’s fall... Yes… that’s who Kreacher believes the boy to be. Harry Potter.”

Tom hangs on Kreacher’s every word, starving for any scrap of information he can sink his teeth into. He catalogues everything neatly in his mind, arranging the new bits and pieces alongside the other facts he’s already managed to find out about this time and his soulmate, and the picture is so intriguing he’s nearly vibrating in his seat from excitement and the bone-deep need to know.

Harry Potter. Tom vaguely recalls hearing something about a prolific potion maker by that last name, and the Potters are supposedly an old Light family that’s fallen out of favour in pureblood circles.

Still, a lot can change in fifty years.

“Why ‘the Boy Who Lived’?” Tom asks, turning around in his seat to better watch the elf.

Instead, he catches sight of Harry in the doorway, and his heart jumps into his throat.

The blood is gone, tan skin scrubbed clean, revealing a boy just as handsome as Tom had predicted. A shock of raven, messy hair sits above dark brows drawn into a fierce scowl, and round, wire-framed glasses gleam in the dim firelight, framing brilliant, vivid green eyes unlike anything Tom has ever seen before. Barely visible under his fringe is a strange, pale scar in the shape of a lightning bolt, and slashed across his lovely throat is a vivid red rope, only just knitted together, and Tom realises with a lurch where all the blood must have come from.

Harry's strong jaw is clenched, rosy mouth pressed together in a thin line, his perfect, stubborn chin slightly jutted in defiance, and Tom can practically taste Harry’s magic on his tongue, feels every erratic lash of it like the most thrilling caress.

He's breathtaking. Utterly unique. Perfect.

Oh, well done, Fate.

Kreacher stands to attention, clearly also attuned to Harry’s tenuous grip on his magic, and doesn’t respond to Tom’s question, warily eyeing the boy in the doorway who now begins making his way further inside the room, wand ready at his side.

When Harry gets close enough, Kreacher douses the flames in the stove and teleports away.

Tom barely notices Kreacher’s departure, watching Harry approach in measured steps – no longer limping – that odd, unfamiliar fluttering back in his stomach.

“Harry,” he breathes, resisting (with difficulty) the temptation to hasten forward and bury his hands in that gorgeous mess of hair.

“Tomdemort.”

Tom blinks.

Twice.

Then, he glares, too caught off guard to mask his irritation. “Excuse me? What did you just call me?”

“Tomdemort,” Harry repeats unconcernedly, a wicked gleam in his green, green eyes and a mean little smirk that looks strangely out of place on his face, as if he’s not used to contorting his features into anything but either a scowl or a genuine smile.

Tom grinds his molars together, keeping his voice carefully level when he says, “I don’t like that.”

“Tough.” Harry takes a seat at the head of the table, putting his feet up and leaning back, unbothered by the chair’s ominous creaking. “I don’t give a shit about what you like or not.”

Tom’s eyes narrow before he arranges his face into something confused and sweet that never fails to elicit sympathy. “The death threats were cute, Harry, but why this continued hostility? Have I done something to offend you?”

“Would you like an itemized list?” Harry replies in an overly polite voice.

Tom frowns, genuinely confused, feeling like he’s missing something and hating it.

“…how many things could there possibly be? This is the first time we’ve ever met.”

Harry scoffs. “That’s what you think, Tomdemort.”

“Enlighten me, then,” Tom implores kindly, swallowing his annoyance at the ridiculous nickname.

Harry sucks on his teeth briefly, an irritating sound Tom doesn’t let show how much it bothers him lest Harry continue doing it just to spite him; he’s beginning to seem the type. He doesn’t say anything for nearly a minute, the thick silence only broken by the crackle of the fireplace. Tom can’t get an accurate read on him, so he can’t say for sure, but he thinks Harry appears to be debating how much to share.

When Harry finally does break the silence, he does so in a low drawl, “Think you time-travelled, do you?”

Tom blinks, tilting his head a little to the side. “I – yes, actually. It seems the most reasonable conclusion.”

“You’re wrong.” Harry takes his feet off the table and lets them drop harshly to the floor, the sound echoing between the stone walls. “Dead wrong.”

Unexpected, but very well, he’ll bite, “Is that so?”

It’s like a switch is flipped; gone is the rude, irreverent boy making up nicknames and, in his place, sits something dangerous – a predator poked one too many times, full of fury, loathing emanating from his every pore as he leans over the table, wand clenched tightly in a white-knuckled grip.

A small frisson of fear races down Tom’s spine, and he straightens up to hide it.

“You’re no time traveller. You are a seventy-year-old pathetic wraith grasping at power and failing to keep it at every turn because you’re such a goddamn idiot, stuffing your disgusting soul in precious objects because you’re terrified of death, making horcrux after horcrux to cling to your miserable existence until, lo and behold,” Harry spreads his arms wide, “your resurrection ritual fucking backfires, landing you back as a teenager without a clue or any memories.”

He lets out a hollow, haunting laugh that rings in Tom’s ears, bouncing around his skull alongside the unbelievable words.

Seventy? Wraith? Resurrection?

Horcrux-es?

How many years has he lived and lost? How much of himself is he missing?

“You killed my parents, were directly responsible for the deaths of more innocent people than I can count, and you tried to kill me when I was a baby. You did have your minion kill me earlier this evening,” he grimly gestures at the scar across his throat, “all to claw your way back to corporeal existence. My blood, and that of countless others, are on your hands – Voldemort.”

His chosen name is spat like a curse, Harry’s voice dripping with venom.

Stunned, Tom can only sit there, blinking.

…the death threats are starting to make a bit more sense now.

His soulmate… hates him?

He – he killed his soulmate?

How –

Why –

But –

It doesn’t make sense! He’s spent the past few years, deep down, wishing for that divine intervention – that he’d meet his soulmate despite every sign to the contrary, if he just held on long enough; it’s the one thing that’s stayed his hand every time he’s come close to completing the horcrux ritual.

And now, to hear he met him years ago, as an adult, that he’d tried to kill his fated match –

That he succeeded in a roundabout way tonight –

He doesn’t understand.

What went wrong? How could he have killed his soulmate? It’s not supposed to be possible! Harry must be partially incorrect – if Tom (or his ‘minion’, whoever that is) had succeeded in killing him then they wouldn’t be sitting here; people do not come back from the dead.

But… it seems he did come awfully close in the murder attempt.

“How many times?” he asks quietly.

Harry, still glaring, looks seconds away from launching across the table and throttling him. “What?” he snaps.

“How many horcruxes did I make?”

His soul must have gotten so broken, torn into so many small pieces over the years it was unable to recognise its twin even when it was right in front of him. It’s the only reasonable explanation, provided Harry speaks the truth, and at this point Tom has no reason to believe he isn’t; that hatred is fuelled by something, alright. 

It shouldn’t be possible no matter what, but he can’t think of another reason why he would miss the one thing he’s coveted more than immortality.

Harry shrugs. “Don’t remember.”

It’s an obvious lie, spoken dismissively, as if he couldn’t care less about Tom’s soul.

Presuming it’s true, and Tom is truly seventy, it begs the question how on earth a kid like Harry would even know about all this. Tom would never willingly share information about horcruxes, especially not with an enemy – no matter how misguided their animosity.

(Why would he try to kill a baby?)

“How do you know all this?”

“None of your business,” Harry huffs.

“But –”

“Let me be perfectly clear, Tomdemort,” Harry interrupts coldly, eyes blazing in the dim firelight, “I’d kill you right now if I could. In a heartbeat. Someone like you is better off dead.”

It stings.

Tom lets it show; he suspects Harry will be more susceptible to vulnerability, even though Tom is tempted to lash out in return. But he’s apparently starting from a disadvantaged position in this relationship and can’t afford to alienate Harry further, no matter how it chafes at him to assume a submissive stance.

Like a wounded animal, he retreats slightly, eyebrows drawing together in a hurt expression, shoulders curling inward. “…oh.”

Harry scoffs, seemingly unaffected, and gets to his feet, turning on his heel to leave.

Panic descends at the dismissal and Tom lurches out of his chair, swiftly crossing the room and managing to grab onto Harry’s hand. “Harry, wait!”

Serenity.

Harry inhales sharply, eyes wide behind his round glasses. He jerks his hand out of Tom’s grip, and he immediately misses the peaceful warmth.

“What the fuck was that?” Harry demands, lifting his hand slightly and taking a step back, closer to the doorway, eyes glued to his own palm.

“Proof,” Tom says, clenching and unclenching his own hand, chasing the phantom warmth of Harry’s.

“Of what?”

He stares incredulously at his soulmate.

How many things have changed over the years? Are there no more diviners, or what is going on? The soulmate bond is undeniable; there’s not a witch or wizard alive who wouldn’t understand it should they come across it.

Except Harry, apparently.

“Our bond, of course,” Tom says slowly.

“What fucking bond?”

There’s the smallest hint of fear in Harry’s harsh voice, as if he does know the answer but doesn’t want to accept it.

“Harry, have you truly not realised it yet? I already told you; we’re soulmates.”

The word bounces off the walls, magically enhanced, created by the longing blossoming in his chest. He reels his magic back in, forcing it under control, but it’s difficult when it skitters across his skin, reaching for its mate.

Harry’s gaze flickers away, alighting on something over Tom’s shoulder. His eyes widen, a look of such profound horror descending on his face that it hurts to watch, knowing it has to do with him.

No, he won’t be rejected, he’s waited for too long, despaired of ever finding his perfect match –

“No –”

“We are,” Tom insists, stepping closer, Harry automatically stepping backward like his perfect mirror. “I don’t understand everything that’s going on just yet, but I’m certain of this.” He lunges forward and manages to grab Harry’s hand again, shivering with pleasure the few moments of skin contact he gets before Harry yanks his hand back.

He feels nearly fevered, desperate to make Harry understand, to make him accept the truth.

He notes once more how Harry’s gaze fastens on something behind him but refuses to turn around, even as Harry’s face pales further.

Tom’s voice descends into a reverent hush, “You and I, Harry – we’re inevitable.”

…he really should have seen that second punch coming.

Chapter Text

The punch makes him feel a little bit better, even though it was a mere glancing blow against Tom’s cheek.

He shakes out the pain in his hand with a hiss, ignoring Death’s delighted cackle vibrating against his eardrums.

“Don’t touch me,” he snarls, ignoring the pounding of his heart, ignoring how, for the first time since he took an Avada Kedavra to the chest, that something lacking inside of him was filled. He refuses to accept it, refuses to acknowledge Death’s words still ringing in his ears: ‘it’s true, you know – Tom here actually is your soulmate. I figured it would make for an excellent show.’

Soulmates aren’t real. They just fucking aren’t. Harry may not know much about magical theory, but he knows that much. Hermione would have bloody well told him if she’d ever come across something like that.

It doesn’t matter that his magic is behaving strangely ever since he woke up here. It doesn’t matter that he’s in an alternate dimension with different rules, it doesn’t matter that he’s suddenly a teenager again, and it definitely doesn’t fucking matter that Tom’s touch made him feel whole for the first time in forever.

It doesn’t.

It doesn’t, it doesn’t, it doesn’t.

Because it can’t. It’s too unfair, too much, too fucking awful. His parents’ murderer, his murderer, simply cannot occupy a place of such importance in his new life – he’s already stolen Harry’s childhood and Harry’ll be damned before he lets him steal his future as well.

Pale, slender fingers cradle the reddening mark on Tom’s cheek, brown eyes gleaming chestnut, corners of perfect lips downturned.

And still, he persists.

“Don’t you see, Harry? Can’t you feel it?”

The wild hunger flashing by on his face echoes the gnawing unfurling in Harry’s chest, the hole inside growing sharp teeth, looking for another morsel. He pulls them out one by one, plucks them like the eyes locked on his that he wishes he could.

“I want nothing to do with you.”

He makes to leave.

“Just give me a chance! You seem to know where I went wrong the first time around – help me, Harry!”

The pleading catches him off guard. Despite himself (or perhaps because of), he turns half back around.

Tom, ever the opportunist, seizes Harry’s momentary faltering with both hands and a fervent intensity to his smooth voice.

“I can be better. Do better. I have a second chance now – we both do.”

Flickering firelight paints his face in shadow, turns dark hair auburn at the edges.

“Soulmates cannot kill one another, Harry, we’re both safe from the other. We could be more, you and I. There’s no one else who can ever come close to understanding us the way you and I could – we’re perfect mirrors of one another.”

Tom sways closer, hands outstretched in supplication. With the fire behind him, he looks the very picture of a fallen angel; Lucifer tempting the unfortunate soul to leave Eden and join him in perdition.

Harry hates that he’s actually considering it.

Why is he considering it?

That strange serenity Tom’s touch gave him, when Voldemort’s ever only brought him pain? A fake heartfelt plea for help?

Is he really that pathetic? That desperate to take on yet another burden he never asked for?

Fuck his saving people-thing – some people do not deserve to be saved.

…no matter what his gut is screaming at him right now.

“Do you believe in redemption, Harry?” Tom asks, quietly.

Every hushed use of his name is both a confusing slap and gentle caress.

“Not for you,” he grinds out through clenched teeth.

But… he remembers a trembling, broken, agonized thing, whimpering underneath a bench in Kings Cross.

‘Are you sure we can’t do anything?’

‘There is no help possible,’ Dumbledore had said.

What if he was wrong? Not then, perhaps, but now…

“Please, Harry. We could be glorious, you and I. Have you not always longed for a connection like this? Someone who would stop at nothing to care for you? Someone who will always put you first?”

Tom’s voice is nearly hypnotic, his gaze doubly so.

“No, I haven’t,” Harry lies, aiming for steely confidence and missing by miles.

Triumph flashes past on Tom’s handsome face. He takes a careful, slow step closer.

Harry clenches his fist so hard it starts shaking. He stays still.

“Soulmates, Harry. Imagine it,” Tom whispers, silky voice scarcely audible above the rushing in Harry’s ears. “I was made for you, and you for me. We’re made to fit – decreed by Fate herself. No one else will ever come close. No one else could ever give you what I can.”

He reaches out a hand. Doesn’t grab this time. Merely waits, a small intermittent tremble making his slender fingers twitch. A slow seduction – no, wrong word, don’t think that, not seduction, it’s simply persuasion.

Harry swallows, gaze locked on Tom’s bare skin.

He must have imagined it. That peaceful feeling, that wholeness he’s never before experienced. It can’t be real, can’t feel that good. A trick of a tired mind pushed to its limit, a dead man’s waking dream.

But fuck, if he isn’t curious.

“Please, Harry,” Tom entreats softly. “Save me.”

It’s a tactic. Manipulation. Harry knows this.

He understands Tom – and Voldemort – down to every scattered piece of his soul. Tom wants something – Harry – and will stop at nothing to get it. The only change this time around is that he doesn’t want Harry dead.

He’ll say anything, do anything, be anything; a leopard painting over its spots just to fit.

Harry knows.

He should call Tom’s bluff. Punch him again. Turn him in to the Aurors. Leave and disappear into the night, start a new life in America or Timbuktu; Britain’s wizarding world can fend for themselves this time around.

It would be so easy. The world at his fingertips.

…he does none of these things.

He has to know.

Inhale. Count one, two, three. Accept, and keep going.

On a stuttered exhale he falls from grace.

He places his palm in Tom’s.

A wave of peace washes over him, gentle and comforting and beautiful. The void inside is banished by sparkling light, every dark corner illuminated in a golden sheen, the notes of a soft lullaby humming in his ears like a long-forgotten melody of love and safety.

When his eyes flutter back open – when did they close? – the kitchen glows in shades of gold and red and green, undulating along the walls, a stunning sunset and an aurora come together indoors to overwhelm and awe.

Harry watches the dancing lights for a moment longer, enraptured against his will, before slowly looking at Tom.

He's already staring back, eyes wide and glowing green-gold, lips twisted in a brilliant smile.

His expression is awestruck. Triumphant. Full of wild joy, looking less, or perhaps more than, human.

Harry extracts his hand from Tom’s grip.

The lights fade and disappear, a small remnant of their brilliance imprinted on the back of his eyelids, the lullaby lingering in his ears.

The void inside returns with a vengeance.

Though… slightly lessened. Its edges a little clearer, more defined, a little less jagged and endless.

One touch from Tom and he’s accomplished what years of binge drinking and random one-night stands failed to.

Fuck.

“I hate you,” he informs Tom around the lump in his throat.

Tom keeps smiling. The glow in his eyes is gone, the dimple in his left cheek back. “You’ll get over it.”

Harry blows out a heavy breath and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, contemplating whether it’s too late to run and leave it all behind. “What was that light?”

“You accepted the bond,” Tom replies in hushed reverence.

Harry stares incredulously at him, limbs freezing, blood going sluggish in his veins. “I did not!”

Tom’s smile widens, turns sharp and wicked. “The magic does not lie, Harry.” His features soften again, sweet and angelic once more. “Do not fret – we are in this together.”

“That’s not as comforting as you seem to think.”

“Give it time.”

Time. What a fucking joke. Time isn’t real; time is a noose around his neck and the tide he drowns in, going backward and forward and around, around, around. Wibbly, wobbly nonsense without meaning. He’s twenty-one and he’s fourteen, Tom is seventy and sixteen, they’re too old and too young, locked together by forces outside their control, kicking and screaming, stitched together in Fate’s tapestry by Death’s sharp needle.

And Harry does not have the energy to deal with any more of this bullshit tonight.

“I’m hungry,” he says, bluntly, breaking their eye contact and going over to the stove.

He lifts the lid off the pot, pleasant steam wafting upward from the stew within. With a flick of his wand, he summons a bowl and a spoon, then ladles himself a large portion, completely ignoring his sodding ‘soulmate’.

Serve yourself, wanker.

“You keep using magic.”

Harry grunts, slamming the lid back onto the pot. “What are they gonna do, expel me? I’d like to see them try.”

He might not even go back to Hogwarts – what would be the point? Been there, done that. Besides, no matter how he hates it, it seems like he’s stuck with Tom, and Tom Riddle certainly has no place at a school run by Albus Dumbledore.

He pushes the confused pang of grief and hurt away, much like he was forced to do in the bath when he realised Sirius is still alive.

Don’t think about it.

“So minors still aren’t allowed to use magic outside of school,” Tom muses.

Harry leans against the warm stove and starts shovelling food inside his mouth. Kreacher has really pulled out all the stops; it’s heartening and delicious. All for someone a fucking portrait has declared a guest.

Although… perhaps his magic recognises Tom. Perhaps, he’s still following the orders given by his late master, and Walburga doesn’t really have anything to do with it.

“What year are you in? How old are you?” Tom asks, resuming his earlier seat, leaning forward, elbows perched on the table.

Harry swallows a piece of carrot and huffs. “Twenty-one.”

Tom arches an eyebrow.

“Funny,” he says, voice tart. “I believe you’re younger than me, but not by much, isn’t that right? If you were born in 1980 like Kreacher thinks and this is 1995… Fourteen? Fifteen?”

Harry shrugs. Not like he’s interested in talking about his bloody birthday right now. He keeps eating.

“Well, I am sixteen, just turned, though I suppose that’s relative to what time of year it is. I’m a Fifth year. Prefect. Slytherin.”

“I know,” Harry sighs.

“So if I didn’t time travel… that means I’ve technically already completed my studies.” Tom tilts his head a little to the side. It’s eerie seeing this particular quirk again, so reminiscent of the Voldemort of Harry’s nightmares. “But we’ll both surely need to go back to Hogwarts regardless. Is it summer right now?”

Harry grimaces. The food turns to ash in his mouth.

Tournament. Portkey. Graveyard. Cedric. ‘Kill the spare’. Barty Crouch Jr.

“Soon. Still a couple days left of term,” he croaks.

Tom nods thoughtfully. As if he isn’t the reason for everything that’s ever gone wrong in Harry’s life and it’s perfectly normal for them to have a chat about school and joint plans in Grimmauld’s kitchen.

Harry is gripped with such vertigo, with such a strong feeling of ‘this can’t be my life’ that he’s forced to set the bowl down only half-finished and leave the room, ignoring Tom calling out after him.

He takes the steps two at a time all the way to the top floor, passing a startled Kreacher on the landing midway up, then barricades himself in his godfather’s childhood bedroom.

As he stands there in the middle of the room, ignoring the twinges of pain throughout his body, he realises he hasn’t managed to outrun the vertigo.

This isn’t his home, not his Grimmauld.

Not his time. Not his world.

It’s not even his fucking body. Just an empty shell Death shoved his soul into.

A soul that apparently has a twin residing in his lifelong nemesis, because why the fuck not.

His skin – not his skin – itches and crawls. Burns. Bites. Too large, too tight, stretching over bones he wasn’t born with, flesh he didn’t grow into.

Another Harry did.

Another Harry died.

Did he get to move on? Did he get to embrace his mum and dad in the Beyond? Or did he take Harry’s place – did he crawl out of the rubble in another dimension, alone and scared and barely fifteen in a twenty-one-year old’s battered body?

Eyes closing, he takes a deep breath. Holds it. Lets it out in a loud whoosh, eyes fluttering back open.

Keep going. Gotta keep going.

Part of him is tempted to open the window and step out into the night. Embrace the concrete. Or aim a diffindo at his wrists and curl up in the bathtub. Anything to get out of this nightmare – maybe Death will let him go if he does it enough times.

But… contrary to his friends’ beliefs, Harry does not, in fact, have a death wish. He’s proven it to himself several times over the past couple of hours, annoyingly enough.

It’s reassuring. In a way. To know he does actually wish to go on, regardless of the absolute shitshow his life has become. He’s not ready to pack it in just yet.

The vertigo lessens. The unreality ebbs away.

Seems Death will keep getting some entertainment out of him, after all.

Harry sighs and gets ready for bed. It’s difficult (to say the least) to wrap his head around the fact that he woke up this morning an adult in another dimension, dragged himself to work, died in the line of duty, spent some time in purgatory, and is now going to sleep as a teenager reliving his life with the added ball and chain of a soulmate in the form of his childhood enemy.

It would surely drive greater men than him mad.

Despite his bone-deep exhaustion, Harry sleeps fitfully, hovering in the liminal space between waking and dreaming constantly throughout the night. When he wakes fully, blinking blearily up at the canopy, he hardly feels more rested than when he went to bed.

His body aches, and his mind immediately starts racing, consumed with thoughts about his new situation.

What is he going to do?

He groans and covers his face with both hands.

It seems a safe bet whatever hold the prophecy had on him and Voldemort has been effectively cancelled, at least. That Harry died last night, his blood used to resurrect Voldemort, who came out of the cauldron as Tom. Harry’s lightning bolt scar is faded and that empty aching inside he doesn’t want to name remains; it’s highly unlikely he’s a horcrux.

Besides – not that he knows anything about soulmates – he has a hard time believing something like what happened between them last night could have occurred had Tom’s soul been in pieces. It stands to reason his soul is whole, untorn, his mind and the state of his soul reset to right before he completed the horcrux ritual for the first time.

Harry sighs and drags his hands down his face.

All this to say Tom remains a murderous, manipulative piece of shit, and prophecy or not, they’re still fucking tied together by forces outside their control.

Which makes Tom Harry’s problem.

Again.

‘There’s no one else who can ever come close to understanding us the way you and I could – we’re perfect mirrors of one another.’

It’s almost funny how right Tom was without even knowing the whole story.

Almost.

Mostly it’s just… typical.

But Harry cannot deny he’s darkly wondered, from time to time, whether Tom Riddle’s story could have turned out differently had some minor changes been affected throughout his life. If Tom hadn’t grown up in an orphanage, surrounded by war. If Dumbledore had been kind instead of intimidating. If Tom’s ambition had been steered toward less harmful goals.

Call it arrogance, call it experience, but Harry is reasonably sure he’s the only one who could keep Tom Riddle on the relative straight and narrow. The only one who does understand him completely.

Not that Harry necessarily believes his influence would be all that beneficial – Merlin knows he’s got his own host of issues – but… maybe it could be. If he gave it an honest shot.

It would probably have to mean fewer punches to the face, though.

…eventually.

With a small grin at that uplifting mental image, Harry gets out of bed.

The kitchen is gleaming. Every inch has been scrubbed clean, a hearty breakfast (enough for two) awaits on the stovetop, and Harry has to rub his eyes to assure himself he’s not imagining things.

Oh, Kreacher.

Harry shakes his head and serves himself some breakfast, taking a seat by the large table.

As he eats, he considers how to go about things. He finds it helps settle his mind somewhat, working out a semblance of a plan, introducing some structure. Not in the neurotic, over the top-way Hermione tends towards, but a rough outline at least.

While they could probably go on the lamb together, Harry thinks it might be safest for Tom (and the world) if he’s confined to Hogwarts for the time being. Not that Harry is all that thrilled about the prospect of going back to school, but at least Hogwarts is familiar for the both of them. He could coast through his studies, keep an eye on Tom using the Map and Cloak, keep his head down –

He huffs.

As if he’s ever managed to keep his head down.

Well, he’s bound to succeed one of these days, isn’t he? Statistically or whatever.

Either way, Hogwarts seems the best option. Surely, Umbridge won’t be there now that neither he nor Dumbledore will shout themselves hoarse that Voldemort is back.

Might even be somewhat nice, get a bit of a break from adulthood. Hell, if he really applies himself in his studies this time around, he could go into a whole different career. One that doesn’t make him want to blow his brains out on a bad day.

Maybe… maybe this doesn’t have to be all bad.

“Good morning, Harry.”

His teeth involuntarily clench together at the sound of Tom’s smooth, low voice.

Plans are all well and good, he supposes, but when he can’t decide between socking Tom in his smug face or hold his hand to make the void lessen, he realises it’s gonna be tricker than he would have hoped.

But, silently watching Tom glide toward the stove to serve himself breakfast, Harry’s gut tells him it’s the right thing to do.

And really, that’s perhaps the one thing he can’t argue with.

(He’d ignored his instincts yesterday going into that condemned building without backup in pursuit of a suspect and just fucking look how that turned out.)

“How did you sleep?” Tom asks politely as he takes a seat opposite. He’s wearing a black button-up shirt that’s slightly too short in the sleeves, tucked into charcoal grey pressed trousers, his wavy hair neatly combed, one curl reaching down toward his eye.

Looks like Kreacher’s been raiding Regulus’ wardrobe.

Harry’s lip curls and his fist clenches under the table without his say-so. He consciously forces himself to relax, releasing the tension in his shoulders by rolling them and doing his best to ignore the desire to reach across the table and –

And what?

Hit or hold?

Would they both give the same result? Would either soothe the hollowness inside?

He hates how curious he is. How he’s already jonesing for another hit. Maybe he would have slept better with that gentle peace singing in his veins.

“Fine,” he grinds out.

Tom tilts his head a little, a pitying expression on his stupid face. “Doesn’t seem like it. Do you generally have trouble sleeping, Harry?”

“No,” Harry lies. “I sleep like a baby.”

“Waking up screaming off and on throughout the night?”

Despite himself, Harry’s lips twitch. He forces them immobile. “Shut up.”

“Not a morning person, good to know,” Tom says, one corner of his lips curling upward.

“Seeing your face first thing in the morning does sort of put a damper on things, yeah.”

The other corner curls upward too. “Oh, Harry, we both know my face isn’t the problem here.”

“Mhm. Just your sparkling, murderous personality. I suppose your stupid face does pale in comparison to that.”

Tom makes a sound low in his throat that might be amusement, though his brow furrows momentarily. He elegantly pushes some pillowed scrambled eggs onto his fork and says, “I find it difficult to believe you were close enough with my adult self to be privy to my… sparkling personality. You seem to be under the impression that you know me, Harry. Why is that?”

“I do know you,” Harry says, watching Tom gently and inaudibly chew his eggs, then the bob of his pale throat when he swallows. “Merlin knows I wish I didn’t, but I do.”

“How, then?”

“Yeah, Master, tell him how.”

Harry startles with a loud curse when Death suddenly appears as a tiny black blob hovering next to Tom’s head.

One of Tom’s eyebrows arches at Harry’s outburst, and he looks far calmer than he should with a manifestation of Death buzzing around his head like an eldritch bee.

“Or, better yet, let me.”

Before Harry has a chance to say another word, Death’s eerie presence right behind him forces Harry’s spine rigid.

Tom drops his fork and screams.

Chapter Text

The chair crashes into the wall as Tom springs to his feet. He draws his wand – sod the Ministry, this is an emergency! – and backs up, assuming a duelling stance.

He has a sneaking suspicion whatever that is won’t be so easily duelled, though.

It’s the most terrifying thing he’s ever seen. Endless eddying darkness continuously collapsing in on itself, compressed in a vaguely humanoid shape with no distinguishing features, resting hands-not-hands on Harry’s shoulders.

Harry, while clearly uncomfortable, mostly looks despondent.

“I sure do love it when they freak out,” the entity muses, its voice bouncing off the walls, echoing in Tom’s skull like anguished screams of the damned.

He flinches, taking another step back, mouth opening but no curse or spell makes it across his lips. He tries a non-verbal spell as well.

Nothing. The magic fizzles and dies.

“Don’t bother,” the entity says dismissively. “Cursing someone who comes bearing gifts? Where are your manners, Tom Riddle?”

Harry closes his eyes but otherwise remains preternaturally still in the entity’s grip. Tom doesn’t know on whose behalf he’s more frightened; his own or his soulmate’s.

Fear sinks its claws in his heart, squeezing and tearing, filling his veins with ice.

“What are you?” Tom asks, a small tremble in his voice that he can’t hide.

“Jag är Döden,” the entity replies ominously in a language Tom doesn’t understand. “Jag har länge gått vid din sida. But don’t worry, I have no interest in playing chess with you.”

Then, a horrifying noise rings out from every direction, piercing his eardrums like an air raid siren mixed with nails on a chalkboard. Despite the panic-inducing sound, Tom gets the distinct impression the entity is… laughing.

He looks to Harry, wanting confirmation he’s not imagining things, wanting some sort of backup in the face of this eldritch horror, but his soulmate’s eyes remain stubbornly closed, his body frozen in the entity’s grip. If it wasn’t for his chest minutely rising and falling, Tom might have thought Harry had been suspended in time.

Tom doesn’t know what to do. He clearly can’t fight it. Make a run for it? Judging by how suddenly it appeared, there’s nowhere he could run it couldn’t follow.

Self-preservation urges him to play along.

Tom takes a deep breath, and asks, “You said you come bearing gifts?”

“I did indeed,” the entity says, sounding awfully pleased with itself, nearly giddy. “Master here will never tell you the interesting bits voluntarily, so I figured I’d do you both a favour and do it for him. I’m the considerate sort, you see.”

Master? Master of what?

Harry’s eyes open, anger flashing past. He stays quiet, though.

Tom adjusts his grip around his (for once) useless wand. “I’m listening.”

“Master is actually from a different dimension. He died at the ripe old age of twenty-one, and I brought him over here for a second chance. Not that he’s said ‘thank you’ yet.” The entity admonishingly squeezes Harry’s shoulders yet somehow doesn’t – Tom can’t wrap his head around it. “He and your counterpart in that dimension have quite the history. War, horcrux-making, horcrux-destroying, severe underlying homoerotic tensions –”

“What the – no, we fucking didn’t!” Harry exclaims angrily, glaring up at the imploding darkness. “There was no tension of any kind! He tried to kill me!”

“Tom-ato, tom-ahto,” the entity says, giving the impression of a shrug. “Either way, a long, sordid history. It made for an excellent story, but not quite what I wanted. So, here you both are – your ritual turned back the clock for you and pieced your soul back together, and I added Master to the mix. I suggest,” darkness engulfs the room, rendering Tom blind and terrified, “you make the most of it.”

Just as suddenly as the darkness descended, it lifts, and the entity has become a small ball hovering in the far corner of the kitchen, buzzing in Tom’s peripheral vision like an annoying but horrifying gnat.

“Don’t you have more important things to do?” Harry spits at it, face contorted in thundering fury that takes Tom’s breath away. How does he dare antagonize it?

Brave, but foolish. Must be a Gryffindor.

The entity lets out that harrowing laugh once more.

“Oh Master, I don’t do anything. I just am. Unescapable. Unavoidable. Eternal. No matter what Tom here might believe – I can only be postponed, never defeated. All are mine, in the end.”

It disappears, its laugh haunting the space long after it’s gone.

Tom’s heart races, his mind struggling to catch up. A lifetime of magic, yet he’s never experienced anything like this before. It came somewhat close to the boggarts he’s faced in Defence Against the Dark Arts-class, but infinitely more overwhelming, no words able to do it justice.

Even though he’s gripped with a bone-deep surety regarding what he just faced and somehow came out the other end alive of, he needs to hear Harry say it, need to hear himself say it. “Was that – Death?”

“In the disturbing non-flesh,” Harry confirms grimly, shoulders still drawn taut with tension.

Jesus Christ.

Tom finally lowers his wand, stowing it in his pocket with shaky hands and, taking a different chair, resumes his seat at the table before his legs give out.

The breakfast looks distinctly unappetizing, even though mere minutes have passed since he last took a bite of it.

Tom’s mind reels, rushing faster and faster, overturning every meticulously placed fact and experience to make place for the world-altering realisation that he just met a manifestation of Death itself, and lived.

Even finding out magic was real hadn’t been quite this disorientating upheaval, but then again, he’d always known he was different. More than his so-called peers. Special.

But this?

His soulmate is an actual dimensional time-traveller, sent by Death, all for… what? A better story?

He can’t decide whether to be offended or flattered.

“Why –” his tongue darts out to wet his lips, “– did it keep referring to you as Master?”

“Hell if I know – not like it listens to me,” Harry mutters.

Tom blows out a breath, inwardly wincing at the mess his mind has become. He’ll need to pick through the debris later, sort everything neatly once more, stack the shelves and close the drawers, but for now he might as well throw more information into the chaos.

“So… you’re actually twenty-one?”

Harry grunts. It sounds affirmative.

“And now you’re… not.”

A one-armed shrug.

“So – you truly do know me, then?”

Harry sighs and nods. “Yeah. I do.”

“Because you knew my counterpart in your – dimension?”

“Yeah.” Harry’s gaze turns to steel, jaw clenched as his chin slightly juts out in defiance. His magic surges, buzzing across Tom’s skin like electricity. He doesn’t even seem aware that he’s doing it, power rolling off of him in careless, uncontrollable waves that makes every hair on Tom’s body stand on end. “He came after me, again and again, and I defeated him after a long, drawn-out war when I was seventeen. I’m an Auror. So don’t fucking try me.”

Tom swallows. Part of him is tempted to accept the gauntlet Harry just threw down, to match his venom drop for drop. To unleash his own power and show he’s not one to be trifled with either.

But this is his soulmate. Brought to him across the universe(s), gift-wrapped by Death itself. It’s too soon to show all his cards like that, regardless of the fact that Harry accepted the bond yesterday.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, softly.

Mechanically, he goes back to eating his breakfast, but his gaze is forced from it at Harry’s angry huff.

“Don’t play the meek lamb with me, Tomdemort,” he snaps, green eyes gleaming enticingly underneath his furrowed brow.

Heart hammering, Tom calmly says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I simply agreed not to ‘try you’, as you so politely asked me to.”

Harry scowls. It looks natural on him.

“Besides, you can hardly blame me for being a little… distracted, after the visitor we just had.” Involuntarily, his eyes dart to the corner of the room where Death last cast its long shadow.

Is it still there? Watching them?

He swallows, unease burrowing under his skin. It takes monumental effort to stay seated when he’d much prefer running out the door screaming his head off.

(Not that he’d ever act that undignified. It’s beneath him.)

“Whatever,” Harry mutters and leans back in his chair, rolling his neck until it softly cracks.

“At least,” Tom swallows again, “I know a bit more about you now, too.”

“Yay,” Harry deadpans. “Exactly what I wanted.”

Tom takes a calming breath. “I understand you aren’t happy about your current circumstances –”

“Furious, but do go on practising some empathy for the crowds.”

“–but they are what they are. We’re both here, and we’re in this together.” He puts his fork down as he’s unlikely to manage another bite. “We’re soulmates, Harry.”

“You keep saying that but,” Harry blows out an annoyed breath, “there’s no such thing where I’m from. Just some lovey-dovey made-up thing in stories, nothing real or magical or anything like – like what happened yesterday.”

Oh. What a wonderful opportunity, then.

“It’s a beautiful thing. A true gift from Fate herself,” Tom explains softly. “Sacred. Magical. It is also a large part of what separates us from the muggles.”

Harry’s confusion morphs into a deadly scowl. “Don’t fucking start with the anti-muggle propaganda. I don’t buy it, and I never will.”

Tom shakes his head. “Not propaganda, Harry, merely truth. Muggles do not have magic and thus haven’t been blessed by Fate, as they cannot find their theorised soulmates. There are no twins for their souls, no perfect match. Some scholars have argued this to mean muggles do not have souls –”

“Getting the urge to punch you again, just so you’re aware.”

Tom leans back a little, out of swinging distance, and keeps talking, “–but there’s no conclusive proof, as muggles cannot perform the rituals to see their soulbond and therefore cannot prove one way or the other whether a soul resides in their body.”

“...there’s a ritual?” Harry asks, eyes narrowed. “What, like a spell?”

“Yes. It’s just a manifestation of what happened yesterday when you accepted the bond.”

Tom can’t help but smile at the memory of Harry’s eyes glowing ruby-gold, a sunset and blazing bonfire, the warmth of it nestling comfortable beneath his ribcage, remaining even now.

“I didn’t accept anything,” Harry mutters, glaring at the table. “Not on purpose anyway. I never would have willingly tied myself to you like that.”

Tom’s temper flares and he’s hard-pressed to force it down. Why must Harry be so antagonistic? It’s not like Tom had anything to do with his unfortunate circumstances in another dimension, nor has he done anything here to warrant such hostility.

It’s not like he slashed Harry’s throat.

“Be that as it may,” he grinds out, “you did, and we are. And like our guest suggested, perhaps we should simply make the best of it.”

Harry appears to be out of wisecracking remarks for the moment, still glaring at the table. Tom can practically hear the cogs turning, see the deliberation happen in real time. It’s excellent entertainment, to be honest, and it’s certainly helpful that Harry’s expressions are this open; it’ll make bringing him around that much easier.

Tom’s confident he’s already figured out the core of Harry, though.

Perhaps not a goody-two-shoes, but definitely a do-gooder. A hero-complex a mile wide, evidenced by how a plea for help was what had finally gotten through to him yesterday, and a soul-deep loneliness that Tom can sympathise all too well with.

He’ll let Harry play the reluctant hero, the martyr for the cause of saving Tom – anything to tie him closer.

Tom will stop at nothing, will shun no method in his quest to have his soulmate by his side forever.

He will have Harry Potter.

(The Master of Death?)

“Fine,” Harry eventually sighs, shaking his head as if he can’t believe what he’s saying. “Fine. I’ll try.”

Tom smiles, heart giving a sharp thump. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Harry rubs a hand down his face then through his wild hair, letting out another heavy sigh, drawn deep from the core of the earth.

“But I can’t stand looking at you for another second so I’m gonna go be somewhere you’re not.”

“You’ll come around,” Tom calls out confidently after him as Harry gets to his feet and leaves the room.

Tom pretends not to notice the rude two-fingered salute.

He doesn’t see Harry for the rest of the day, but he doesn’t mind. Number 12 Grimmauld Place has all sorts of interesting things to discover, and with Kreacher guiding him through the rooms he easily sidesteps the various hazards left by previous owners.

At one point, Kreacher catches him pocket some small trinket and starts up an anguished monologue about property belonging to the House of Black that’s annoying enough for Tom to demurely put the item back.

(He’s more circumspect with the other things he finds, making sure Kreacher doesn’t see when he helps himself.)

By late afternoon, Tom has a decent sense of the house’s layout, the only rooms left unexplored the ones at the top floor belonging to Sirius and Regulus Arcturus Black. He can hear Harry on the other side of the door leading to Sirius’ room, but he’s in no mood to be further exposed to Harry’s sharp tongue and so does not knock or otherwise let Harry know he’s there.

His favourite room is easily the library, and it’s where he tells Kreacher to focus his cleaning efforts now that his room and the kitchen are in decent shape. One title is Darker than the next, and Tom feels more than a little miffed that neither Orion nor Walburga had the decency to share these tomes with him at school.

At least they have no choice in the matter now.

It’s oddly thrilling to pick through their worldly belongings with his half-blood hands, knowing just how much they would have wrinkled their noses at it had they known. They always did act like they were superior to him solely due to the circumstances of their birth and the so-called ‘noble’ blood in their veins, regardless of Walburga’s fawning the past year.

At least Tom isn’t a mudblood like they’d assumed for the first couple of years, throwing it in his face anytime they saw him or felt inadequate in the face of his academic achievements. Tom had always known, of course, that there was no way he could truly be a mudblood; not with his power, beauty, and sharp intellect. Granted, the Gaunts have fallen quite far, but at least they can trace their lineage unbroken all the way back to Salazar Slytherin which is more than any other wizarding family can claim – including the Blacks.

Maybe he should tell Walburga’s portrait about his heritage, just to see her reaction.

The Heir of Slytherin.

He shivers pleasantly at yet another thing that makes him special. This is going to be the year he finds the Chamber of Secrets, he just knows it is.

He can feel it.

Over the next couple of days, he rarely sees Harry. It’s annoying, but Tom is accustomed to playing the long game, and he’s certainly spent time in far worse accommodations. Kreacher bends to his every whim and is slowly but surely wrangling the house under control, so all Tom really needs to do is read and lounge around.

It’s unusual, but lovely. A well-deserved summer holiday spent out from under the disdainful drunken gaze of Mrs Cole, no chores or constant worry about whether the Germans will come flying past and drop a gift over their heads.

(Apparently, the muggle war ended in 1945, and Grindelwald was imprisoned soon after. Good riddance.)

Thankfully, Death makes no further appearances, seemingly content to let him and Harry circle each other’s periphery.

He’s a bit confused over why no Ministry representatives have come knocking, especially since Harry abjectly refuses to stop using magic, but Tom is not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He won’t cast any spells himself, though, deeming it too much of a risk.

And, while he rarely gets to spend much more than ten minutes in the same room as his soulmate, Harry does make an effort to be cordial the few times they find themselves in the same place at the same time.

After about a week of this, Tom is pleasantly surprised to have Harry voluntarily join him for breakfast in the sunny kitchen. He fires off a charming smile in greeting.

It makes Harry scowl for a moment before he takes a deep breath and consciously smooths out his features.

You’ll fall eventually. Everyone does, Tom thinks, watching Harry take a seat opposite him after collecting toast and a cup of tea.

He doesn’t say anything other than a muttered ‘good morning’ which Tom warmly returns.

Tom goes back to his book but keeps an eye on his soulmate while he eats.

Harry chews his food quietly, and deliberately, with his mouth closed. He’s wearing denims and a black shirt with short sleeves, and Tom wonders if this is current fashion, or if Harry is reduced to using someone else’s old castoffs the same way he is.

The scar slashed across his throat remains vividly red. Tom hopes he won’t get the blame for this, too, when he had nothing to do with it. Still, it’s hardly inconspicuous, and is likely to raise some questions about their circumstances that he suspects neither of them is prepared to deal with.

“So,” Harry sighs after finishing his breakfast, tone dripping with reluctance, “we’ll need to go back to Hogwarts in the autumn, I suppose.”

“Indeed,” Tom hums. There’s no world in which he won’t complete his education – just because his older self already did doesn’t mean Tom remembers any of it.

He carefully marks his place in the book and sets it down on the table.

“You can’t go as yourself, though.”

Tom stills. “What? Whyever not?”

Harry makes some vague gesture with one hand, grimacing slightly. “Because Voldemort is a sodding war criminal and universally feared even over a decade after his supposed death.”

“But – I suppose I understand now why you would know that name…” He trails off, frowning. Had something happened to his plans of distancing himself from his identity as Tom Riddle in the future?

(And really, war criminal seems a bit harsh. Surely, it wasn’t that bad. He does like the sound of being infamous, though.)

“Oh, not many people know you’re also Voldemort,” Harry huffs. “But Dumbledore does. He led the resistance against Voldemort in both wars where I came from, and he’s the headmaster.”

Tom’s eyes widen without his permission. He quickly gets his face under control, but the worry remains, sinking like a stone in his stomach.

Dumbledore – the headmaster? With fifty years of building even more animosity, including as the foremost opponent on Tom’s quest for power?

It’s… certainly a hurdle.

“You have no place in a school run by Dumbledore,” Harry continues. “And I’ve been thinking about it, but I’ve no idea how to get around that, to be honest.”

“Your honesty is refreshing,” Tom manages faintly, rubbing at his temples as he tries to come up with a solution.

Polyjuice, perhaps?

He quickly dismisses the idea. It’s untenable. Too expensive, too time consuming to brew, too risky finding someone appropriate to masquerade as, and he’d have to refresh the potion every hour, even at night.

Only… he doesn’t know any other way to disguise himself by magical means. A simple haircut and a fake name are hardly going to cut it.

Does Hogwarts even accept transfer students? Tom has never heard of anything like that happening, though he supposes things might be different these days. But his name won’t be in the Book of Admissions, and he’d have to falsify transcripts from some school he’s never been to and knows nothing about.

The more he thinks about it, the more insurmountable the hurdle becomes.

He’s… stumped.

He’s never experienced the like. He can always figure something out. There’s always something to be done, some new tactic to try, some new spell or idea that’s just waiting for him to discover it, temporarily out of reach.

They both ponder the problem, the kitchen silent around them.

Until it isn’t.

“WHO GOES THERE?”

Tom straightens at the screeching one floor above. “What the –”

“YOU! BLOOD TRAITOR! ABOMINATION! SHAME OF MY FLESH! HOW DARE YOU SET FOOT IN THIS HOUSE AFTER ABANDONING IT!”

“SHUT UP, YOU HORRIBLE OLD HAG!”

Harry’s features contort in shock and panic and something Tom can’t decipher.

“Sirius,” he breathes, staring at the ceiling as if he can see right through it.

“Your… godfather?”

His voice jolts Harry into awareness, eyes snapping to his, widening in panic. “Fuck. Fuck! You need to – hide!”

“Where?” Tom hisses. “Under the table?”

“I don’t know!” Harry exclaims. He stands up, vibrating with barely constrained anxious energy, eyes glued to the ceiling where they can hear scuffling and some grunts of effort, presumably closing of the drapes over Walburga’s portrait.

Tom stands up as well, wondering whether diving under the table is their only viable recourse here despite his apprehensions.

“Oh dear, what a pickle.”

Tom curses under his breath and stumbles away from the sudden appearance of Death right in front of his face.

“If only there was something to be done,” Death muses with a dramatic sigh, hovering like a perfect, eerily symmetrical orb over the table.

Harry’s head swivels around and he lurches closer, hands slamming down on the table. “You! Help us!”

“I could, I suppose. I’m sure our audience has already figured out I’m the only viable option for getting around all these pesky obstacles Tom’s been thinking about. A deus ex-machina, if you will.”

Audience? What?

Harry inhales sharply then exhales, fists clenched. “We need a fake identity for Tomdemort, can you help?”

Hesitant footsteps sound over their heads.

“Of course, Master! All you had to do was ask. I need a new name for Tom and you’ll find all the troubles will have been taken care of. Personally, I’m partial to Gus Dolder –”

“No!” Tom chokes out in horror. “I refuse to be called Gus –”

“You can be Bob Johnson for all I care!” Harry whispers heatedly, following the progression of footsteps with a wild look in his eyes as they descend the stairs, drawing ever closer. He pulls out his wand, hand trembling slightly.

“No –”

“Bob Jonsson it is,” Death trills, and disappears.

Tom stares at the spot it just vanished in disbelief.

Bob!? Jonsson!?

Chapter Text

Sirius enters the kitchen, wand held threateningly in front of him.

Long, dark hair hangs in tangles, framing a gaunt, waxy face. Tattered, dirty clothes drape over a hunger-panged frame, his every skeletal move carrying a tense edge, a perfect match for wild, stormy grey eyes darting around the room before locking on Harry.

Harry can scarcely breathe. The rest of the room, the rest of the world falls away, as his godfather hesitantly lurches closer, mouth falling open in shock.

“Harry?”

“Sirius,” Harry breathes around the agonizing weight of their long separation on opposite sides of the Veil.

All my fault – Sirius – all my fault – Sirius – I’m so sorry, so sorry – oh – Sirius –

Next thing he knows, he’s drawn into a hug so tight it’s like his scattered pieces are almost put back together – warm, and solid, and real.

He digs his nails into Sirius’ bony back and holds on for all he’s worth, burying his face in his godfather’s chest. He can feel Sirius’ breath on the top of his head, his face in his hair, and his godfather’s arms are locked tighter than a vice around him. His heart thumps an erratic rhythm against Harry’s forehead, and he counts the reassuring beats like a lullaby.

“Where have you been?” Sirius draws back slightly and cups his face in his hands, thumbs gently stroking along his cheekbones, fingertips skimming the edge of Harry’s glasses. “Everyone has been worried sick – we feared the worst – what happened?”

It takes Harry a while to even begin formulating a coherent reply to Sirius’ frantic question, too caught up in staring at his living, breathing godfather.

“I – the cup,” he finally rasps, closing his eyes, “it was a portkey.”

“I know, we managed to trace it – we found that other boy…”

‘Kill the spare’. Green light. Cedric’s shade. ‘Take my body back to my parents, Harry.’

“Cedric,” Harry whispers, opening his eyes to see Sirius’ glisten with tears.

“Yes.” Sirius’ trembling hands settle on Harry’s shoulders, squeezing tightly. “And there was a large crater at that graveyard, and ropes, and,” he chokes, “so much blood. Your blood.” One of his fingertips traces the scar on Harry’s throat, face paling. “I thought I’d lost you. Seems I nearly did.”

Harry swallows, hating how his eyes burn as he nods. “It was – a close call.”

Sirius hugs him again, both of them trembling in their joined embrace for entirely different reasons. Sirus nearly lost him; Harry just got him back.

“Who are you?” Sirius suddenly asks over Harry’s head.

Harry momentarily closes his eyes, hiding his grimace against Sirius’ chest, before stepping back, half turning toward Tom.

…who, he now realises, he knows a bunch of fake information about.

Interesting.

“This is my – soulmate… Bob Jonsson,” he says, reluctantly.

Tom smiles stiltedly and inclines his head, possibly to hide the minor eye twitch that Harry nevertheless catches. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Sirius’ gaze darts between them, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “Your soulmate? You’ve met your soulmate?”

“Yeah.”

“And his – your – name is… Bob. Johnson?”

A muscle ticks in Tom’s jaw. “Jonsson, actually. It’s Swedish.”

Sirius opens his mouth, but Harry interjects, “Bob is the reason I survived the graveyard.”

Sirius’ expression immediately turns sorrowful, his hand anchoring on Harry’s shoulder once more. “Tell me about it?”

“It all happened so fast,” Harry begins slowly, relishing the grounding warmth of Sirius’ palm, “it’s… a bit of a blur, really. One moment I’m tied to that gravestone, bleeding out,” Sirius squeezes, “then the next thing I know, we’re far away by a road, and – Bob was helping me walk into this muggle village. I don’t really remember much of those first couple of days.”

“I got him some potions and then we just kept moving, eventually ending up here,” Tom interjects smoothly, features arranged into something angelic and sweetly concerned that Harry wonders if Sirius can see right through the way he can. “I was afraid those people in masks would find us if we stayed still for too long.”

Sirius lets out a sharp curse. “Masks?”

“Death Eaters, Sirius,” Harry confirms, voice low. “The one who – who got me, it was Pettigrew.”

“That fucking rat,” Sirius growls, unconsciously digging his nails into Harry’s flesh. He doesn’t mind, savouring any point of living contact. “I’m going to tear him limb from fucking limb, mark my words. But Harry – how did you two even find this place?”

Harry swallows.

Before Sirius has time to react, Harry raises his wand and presses the tip to Sirius’ temple, then softly incants, “Confundus.”

Sirius’ grey eyes glaze over, and he sways slightly in place. Tom inhales sharply.

“About a month ago, you told me about Grimmauld in a letter. ‘In case of emergency’, you said, and that the wards would recognise me as I’m your named heir. I didn’t know how to contact anyone without magic, and I was scared after the kidnapping, so me and – Bob came here in the hopes of finding sanctuary.”

Sirius blinks, a slow shutting of both eyes which then flutter open, still glazed over.

Harry swallows, guilt burning his insides like acid. “You will take full responsibility for telling me about Grimmauld, and you’ll be proud I listened to your advice. You won’t believe Kreacher or any portraits that may speak of me and – Bob and what we’ve done here for the past week.”

Tom makes an approving hum, the soft whisper of his footsteps drifting nearer. Harry shoots him a glare over his shoulder, making Tom halt in his tracks with his hands slightly raised in front of him.

This is necessary – not enjoyable.

Harry turns back to Sirius. The spell is waning, Sirius’ eyes clearing.

“Thank you, Sirius,” Harry adds, quietly.

Sirius blinks a couple of times, then smiles warmly. “I’m so proud you listened to me, kid. You did the right thing seeking sanctuary here.”

Harry smiles back, ignoring the nausea churning in his stomach. “Yeah. I don’t know what we would have done without Grimmauld.”

“I hope the elf and my mother’s portrait haven’t bothered you too much,” Sirius says, brows drawing together in concern.

“Not at all. They’ve been pretty decent hosts, if one disregards all the ‘mudblood’ mutterings.”

A cross between a grimace and a smile twists Sirius’ features. “Yeah… let’s just say I ran away for a reason.”

Harry nods. “To my grandparents, yeah?”

“I – exactly… did I already tell you about that?”

Harry inwardly curses and shrugs. “You must have. Anyway, what’s um… what’s happened since I disappeared?”

“Well… it’s been a madhouse, really.” Sirius darts a glance over at Tom, hesitating. Frankly, Harry doesn’t really want Tom to hear whatever Sirius has to say either, but he supposes Death has effectively tied his hands here.

“It’s fine, we can – trust him,” he says, every word requiring monumental effort he hopes he adequately disguises.

“Soulmate, huh?” Sirius hums, head slightly cocked.

“Indeed,” Tom says warmly. “However, I understand you two might need some time alone to catch up, so I’ll just… go upstairs. The library, perhaps.”

Harry takes a deep breath of relief and slowly lets it back out. “Thank you.”

Tom inclines his head and edges around them, leaving the kitchen, his footsteps disappearing up the stairs. Presumably. Harry wouldn’t put it past Tom to hover at the top of the stairs and listen in to the conversation regardless of his transparent attempt at being considerate.

“Never would have pictured you with someone so… blonde,” Sirius muses, frowning at where Tom just exited.

Harry chokes.

And in the next second his mind is assaulted with imagines of someone tall, lanky, decently handsome, with thick, honey blonde hair and blue eyes.

Oh, fuck you, Death.

“Me neither,” he mutters.

“Just additional proof Fate has no idea what the hell she’s doing sometimes, I guess,” Sirius sighs, shaking his head before guiding them both to the corner of the table, dragging two chairs close together.

“Right,” Harry agrees carefully, wondering if he’s supposed to know who Sirius’ soulmate is, or if he’s referencing someone else entirely.

“Although he did apparently save your life so he can’t be all bad,” Sirius adds with a small, rueful smile.

If you only knew.

Harry simply nods, lump in his throat. For the first time, he questions what it says about him that Fate has apparently designated his parents’ (and his own) killer as his supposedly perfect match.

Is Sirius right? Does Fate simply get it wrong sometimes?

(Did Death tie a knot with two previously unconnected threads?)

“Have you spoken about me?” Sirius asks.

Harry tries not to let his confusion show. “What, with – Bob?”

“Yeah.”

“Not really? He asked whose house it was once but that was about it.”

Sirius’ eyes narrow. “So, did you happen to mention then that I did not commit the crimes I was accused of? Because he had a very mild reaction to suddenly being face to face with a wanted criminal.”

“Oh, well yeah,” Harry replies quickly. “Obviously, I told him it was really the guy who – slit my throat who did all the… bad stuff.”

Sirius winces, eyes darting to Harry’s new scar. “Right… makes sense. Merlin, kid, I’m so sorry. As if the tournament wasn’t bad enough. I’m so relieved to see you alive and well, you’ve no idea. I just – wish you could have found a way to let us know you were okay.”

There’s no accusation in Sirius’ voice, merely a tired wistfulness, but Harry’s stomach lurches anyway.

It never even occurred to me. Ron… Hermione… They must be worried sick.

“Me too. I’m – sorry.”

“Hey, no, don’t apologise, I didn’t mean to put that on you.” Sirius pats his hand with a warm smile, eyes crinkled at the corners. “You’ve been through quite enough already. And finding your soulmate on top of all that?” He whistles quietly.

“Yeah… so, what’s been happening, then?”

“Well, there’s been a search on, obviously. I’ve joined when I can as Padfoot, but it’s been hard, what with everyone and their uncle turning up to help.”

Really? For me?

Why?

“The Prophet has been having a field week, and Dumbledore is in heaps of trouble.”

“What, why?”

Sirius stares at him. “Harry… he’s the headmaster, and one of the organisers of the tournament. Under his nose, two champions were kidnapped, one killed, one presumed – dead. And, while I hate to say it, you are the Boy Who Lived. The whole nation is in uproar – a lot of people are calling for Dumbledore’s dismissal from the ICW, the Wizengamot, and from Hogwarts. Nothing’s been decided yet but it’s not looking good for him.”

“Bit of an overreaction, isn’t it?” Harry suggests nervously. “I mean, we’ll tell everyone I’m okay and – and he can keep his jobs, yeah?”

“Maybe,” Sirius agrees, though he sounds anything but sure. “Dumbledore is certainly not helping his case though by arguing this whole plot was concocted by Voldemort.”

Harry’s throat snares shut. He forces himself to keep his eyes on Sirius and not looking after where Tom disappeared.

He croaks, “Why?”

“That graveyard? Apparently, the Riddles are buried there, and their grave had been disturbed. It’s also where we found – the ropes, and the blood.” Sirius’ throat works as he swallows, then pushes on, “Turns out, Voldemort was called Tom Riddle before he went and changed it. Dumbledore thinks it was all part of some ritual to bring Voldemort back, using you for it, and that Cedric simply got caught in the crossfire.”

Harry closes his eyes and takes a couple of deep breaths to settle himself.

The worst part is, Dumbledore is right.

And, because Dumbledore is right, a small vindictive part of Harry feels like he deserves to be caught up in the media storm.

Because a Harry Potter was kidnapped out from under Dumbledore’s nose, and a Harry Potter did die at that graveyard. If not for Death’s intervention, they would have found Harry’s corpse – with a resurrected Voldemort in the wind, free to cause all sorts of unimaginable carnage.

The largest part of him, though, is merely worried about what this might mean for the wizarding world, if Dumbledore is completely ousted as an incompetent old man and stripped of his reputation.

Harry is reasonably confident he’ll be able to keep Tom in check, but what if he can’t? The one other person who might be enough to convince Tom to stay his hand needs to be around, as a safety net if nothing else.

“I really do think Pettigrew was acting alone,” he says, carefully.

“I highly doubt that,” Sirius scoffs. “Never had an original thought his whole life, I don’t see why he’d start now.” He shakes his head. “No, that rat was clearly acting on the orders of someone else. Whether that someone was Voldemort or someone we don’t know is unclear, though. That reminds me – your Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Moody? He disappeared the same night you did. We think they got him too, somehow. Only makes sense to go after one of the most prolific aurors if they’re starting to gather in force again.”

Harry’s heart skips a beat, then begins racing.

Barty Crouch Jr.

Fuck.

“Oh,” he says, voice faint. “That’s a shame. You sure he didn’t just… quit?”

“His quarters looked like someone had tossed it, but most of his things were still there,” Sirius sighs.

Must’ve left in a hurry, Harry thinks grimly, remembering the chest Crouch had kept Moody in all school year for easy access to his hair for polyjuice. I’ll operate under the assumption he brought Moody with him.

“But enough of that,” Sirius says, halting Harry’s thoughts in their tracks with a warm smile. “We need to get word to Dumbledore that you’ve been found. Wouldn’t hurt to let the minister know as well.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’m sure Fudge would love to take credit for it.”

Sirius makes a sound of amusement, low in his throat. “Of course he would. And I’m sure he’ll find a way to do so that includes a full page spread in the Prophet. Anyway, I need to find an owl.” He gets to his feet and squeezes Harry’s shoulder with a bright smile that takes years off his haggard face. “You just… hang out. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Harry nods and forces a smile in return. “Sounds good. I’ll be here.”

Once Sirius has left the kitchen, Harry lets his forehead thunk onto the table.

For almost a whole minute, his mind is blessedly blank. Empty. Completely devoid of thought. He’s able to simply bask in the fact that he just spoke with Sirius, that he can feel the lingering warmth of Sirius’ touch on his shoulder, and that all of these things mean that his godfather is wonderfully, gloriously alive.

He’s tempted to thank Death for that one, actually.

(The rest is still up in the air.)

But then the stupid thoughts and realisations creep in, and with them, anger sparking in his veins.

‘You’re the Boy Who Lived.’

He’ll need to act like a kid again and accept the limitations this puts on him – unless he decides to be brutally honest about his origins.

But he doesn’t bloody want to be.

It’s his (second) life and no one’s fucking entitled to information about it. He’ll do his goddamned job with making sure Tom stays somewhat decent, but the rest of them can just piss right off. There will be no war, no prophecy and no camping trip from hell that culminates in his classmates and friends dying in a doomed battle for a sodding school.

He's done. Done being the sacrificial lamb and prophesised vanquisher. Done being the Chosen One.

He’s done his part. He’s followed that path until its unsatisfying conclusion already, and he refuses to do it all over again the same way.

Bare minimum. That’s what he’ll give this time around. The bare fucking minimum.

And maybe this way, Sirius will stay alive.

“So… the outside world’s come a-knocking.”

Harry sighs in annoyance and looks up at Tom where he leans in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. “How much of that did you just so happen to overhear?”

Tom smirks. “All of it, of course. Seems to be the only way to get any information around here.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts, Bob.”

The smirk bleeds away, handsome features contorting into an icy glare. “You need to fix that. I can’t be known as Bob Jonsson for the rest of my life!”

“Better Bob Jonsson than Lord Voldemort.”

“It’s really not,” Tom says, coolly. “Fix. It.”

“Bold of you to assume I have any control over Death whatsoever. I think it should be abundantly clear by now I have no say in the matter of whatever It chooses to do. Besides,” his lips twitch as he taps his temple with a knuckle, “would be a shame to make all this information about Bob obsolete.”

Tom looks as if he’d very much like to make Harry obsolete, the fake mask cracking at the edges. Harry straightens slightly in his seat from the burst of adrenaline.

Finally. There you are.

But Tom disappoints once more. Instead of giving Harry a reason to punch him again, he takes a deep breath and plasters a warm smile onto his face that would look genuine on anyone else.

“I shall simply have to find a way to deal with it,” he says.

Harry rolls his eyes and slumps back in his chair. “You do that. You might be used to it by the time we see each other at Hogwarts.”

“What?” Tom’s arms fall to his sides. “What do you mean ‘at Hogwarts’? We’ll have the entire summer to get through first.”

Harry snorts. “No, we really won’t. The moment Dumbledore hears I’m alive, he’ll send me back to my muggle relatives for the summer. I have no idea what’s gonna happen with you, but I suppose they’ll probably let you stay here instead of sending you to muggle foster care.”

“But – then I’ll come with you,” Tom insists, taking a few steps closer as if unable to help himself. “Your relatives will have to take me in too – soulmates can’t be separated like that.”

Harry bursts into laughter imagining the stroke Uncle Vernon would get at the idea of housing another wizard under his roof. He laughs even harder at the mental image of Aunt Petunia putting Tom to work in the garden, or Dudley trying to rub his few braincells together in an attempt at figuring out whether Tom is another punching bag or not.

“My relatives barely want to take me in, there’s no way they’ll agree to have you around as well.”

Tom is quiet for a few seconds, dark brown eyes narrowed in thought as he drifts closer to the table, gripping the back of the chair Sirius recently occupied.

Harry hates how he can’t help but linger on the sight of Tom’s bare skin where it stretches over his knuckles. He hasn’t touched Tom since the magical light show in the kitchen that first night, and he’s been going a bit mental imagining how it would feel. He doesn’t trust himself around Tom, not completely, and so avoiding him is easier.

Seeing the pale skin taunting him with the promise of peace is its own form of agony.

Part of him relishes their upcoming separation; it’ll give him a chance to screw his head back on straight. Maybe bum some beers down at the local or dig through Vernon’s shelf of whiskey in search of oblivion.

“Where do they live?” Tom finally asks.

The irony of Tom simply asking him where he lives when Voldemort couldn’t figure it out for a decade and a half, is not lost on Harry. Nor is the fact that he actually answers.

“Little Whinging. In Surrey.”

“Where, exactly?”

Harry shrugs. “None of your business.”

“Tell me,” Tom demands, knuckles whitening around the chair.

“Don’t worry,” Harry coos sarcastically, “an owl will find me in case of emergency.”

“Harry, you cannot seriously suggest you’ll be fine for the entire summer without me!”

“I’d be fine the rest of my life without you.”

“Yeah?” Tom shoots back, that annoying hurt expression on his face that unfortunately does manage to instil a modicum of guilt in Harry, no matter how he knows it’s fake. “You’ll be fine without the one person who knows where you’re really from? How old you really are? About Death?”

Harry clenches his molars together, the anger bubbling under his skin spilling over. “How about you shut your mouth before I shut it for you?”

“I thought we were past this,” Tom says impatiently. “Just –”

“It’s been a week,” Harry interrupts in a harsh snap. “You might not look like a snake, or remember everything, but that doesn’t fucking erase all the shit you’ve done over the years!”

“But that’s just it! I don’t remember it! I didn’t do any of it!” Tom cries, throwing his hands in the air in a rare loss of composure. “It’s not fair you’re blaming me for stuff I haven’t even done!”

Harry gets to his feet, the chair scraping roughly against the stone floor. “No, what’s not fair is that I’m somehow tied together with my parents’ murderer. What’s not fair is that I’m gonna be treated like a fucking kid when I’m actually an adult. What’s not fair is I didn’t ask for any of this!”

“Oh boo-hoo,” Tom snaps, brown eyes shooting daggers. “You got a second chance at life; you get to do it all over again! And you should be honoured that I’m your soulmate! Do you have any idea how many people have wished for a soulmate bond with me? Try all o’ focking ‘ogwarts.”

Harry blinks, completely caught off guard by Tom’s sudden shift into a completely different accent. Gone is the posh crispness, replaced by something rougher he cannot quite place despite its distinct twang.

Tom’s cheeks turn rosy, and he takes a couple of deep breaths.

“You heard nothing,” he hisses, accent back to normal, then turns on his heel and leaves the kitchen.

Harry keeps blinking after him.

And then it hits him. Tom grew up in an orphanage in the East End of London.

Cockney. That was Cockney.

Against his will, his lips twitch.

Chapter Text

Kreacher lets him know the godfather has returned with Dumbledore in tow an hour later. Tom stubbornly stays in the library, no matter how curious he is about their impending conversation.

In a stroke of genius, however, he orders Kreacher to eavesdrop on whatever is said in the kitchen and report back, and especially to give him warning should they head upstairs to find him. With a bow and mean little grin, Kreacher leaves to do his bidding, because at least some quote unquote people can be counted on.

Meanwhile, Tom resumes his work on calming down after the row he just had with Harry. He supposes it makes sense his perfect match would be able to get on his nerves like none other, but he wishes Harry wouldn’t be so insistent on blaming him for every single thing that’s gone wrong in his life. Yes, fine, Voldemort may be the cause of much of Harry’s misery, but Tom had nothing to do with any of it! It’s unfair to blame him for something he does not remember doing, nor has any intention of repeating.

He takes one deep breath after another. Rolls his shoulders and his neck, letting his hackles settle, melting into the comfortable leather chair in front of the window.

He just wants Harry to accept and fully embrace their bond, is that so much to ask?

When Kreacher returns with advance warning a half hour later, Tom is significantly more at ease and feels up for a verbal sparring match with Dumbledore.

He spares a begrudging thought of thanks for Death; the backstory it came up with is well-rounded and difficult to verify, but solid enough that not much should need verification. He’s also worked on reinforcing his Occlumency, in case the old man gets any ideas of violating his mental autonomy in pursuit of answers Tom has no interest in giving.

As the steps and voices of three people draw nearer, Tom gets to his feet, smoothing down his clothes and turning his back to the entrance of the room, ostensibly perusing the bookshelves with his hands clasped behind him, posture relaxed.

“Hey Bob,” Harry says, voice carefully level.

Tom blinks his annoyance at his new alias away and turns around with a small smile, widening his eyes slightly at the adults in polite questioning. “Harry? What’s going on?”

Salazar; if he hadn’t already accepted that he’s effectively been fifty years displaced, seeing Dumbledore would have cemented it for him. Silver has replaced the auburn hair, and his beard is even longer – and for some reason he’s wearing the most outrageous robes Tom has ever had the misfortune of witnessing. They’re a violent shade of magenta, with bright blue billywigs zooming around the sleeves and hems, their constant movements dizzyingly distracting.

And he’d thought the suit Dumbledore wore to give him his first Hogwarts letter had been bad.

With effort, Tom lifts his gaze from the distasteful garb to find Dumbledore’s wrinkled face utterly haggard, though he is smiling and that annoying twinkle is present as usual in blue eyes that Tom avoids looking directly into.

Old as dirt. Ancient. Practically on death’s door.

Wonderful.

“Hello, Mr – Johnson, is it? – my name is Albus Dumbledore. I am the headmaster of Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry. I understand we have you to thank for getting our Harry here away safe and sound?”

Tom keeps the smile on his face as he shakes Dumbledore’s wrinkly, spotted hand. “Jonsson, actually. It’s Swedish. And there’s no need to thank me, sir, I’m merely pleased I was in the right place at the right time to help my soulmate.”

He sends Harry an affectionate look where he stands off to the side, close together with his unkempt godfather.

Harry rolls his eyes.

“Ah yes,” Dumbledore chuckles, “Harry did mention a little something about that. While the events of that night are truly horrifying, at least it has one silver lining, as it allowed the two of you to meet.”

“I’m sure we would have met sooner or later even if it hadn’t been for that nightmare,” Tom says mildly. “But yes, I agree.”

“Quite right. It’s a pleasure to meet you, either way. Now, Harry tells me you wish to attend Hogwarts in the autumn, and I am sure we’ll be able to work things out. However, that is a discussion for a later time as Harry and I are needed elsewhere to let everyone know he has been found.”

“May I come with you?” Tom asks quickly, ignoring Harry’s grimace in his periphery. “I mean no offence, sir, but last time Harry was left in your care things didn’t... turn out so well.”

Something flashes in Dumbledore’s eyes, but Tom maintains his mask of innocent concern for his poor soulmate and Dumbledore’s grandfatherly smile doesn’t lessen.

The godfather – Sirius – makes a small sound of agreement that could conceivably be interpreted as a cough.

“Your concern for Harry’s welfare speaks admirably to your character, Mr Johnson –”

“Jonsson,” Tom corrects sweetly.

“– Jonsson, but I assure you we shall simply take a quick trip to the Ministry, and then Harry will return here for a few more days. I will not let him out of my sight; you have my word.”

Tom bites back any further protests with difficulty, adopting a sad but understanding expression as he nods. “I see.”

He glances at a grim-looking Harry who mouths ‘told you so’.

“We’ll talk later about your transfer to Hogwarts, Mr Jonsson, and sort out all the details,” Dumbledore says with finality, then leaves the room with Harry, neither of them looking back.

To Tom’s surprise, Sirius remains.

“Aren’t you going with them?” he asks politely.

“I think getting the Kiss during the press conference might put a bit of a damper on this joyous occasion,” Sirius drawls, eyes narrowing on Tom.

He curses inwardly.

Ah, yes. The escaped convict. Suppose that explains his appearance. He certainly looks the part.

“Right, of course. My apologies.”

Sirius waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it. Frankly, it’s refreshing meeting someone who doesn’t run screaming at the sight of me.”

Tom hums, clasping his hands behind his back once more. “Yes, well, I presume it would be strange to think Voldemort’s supposed right-hand man would be so concerned with Harry’s welfare.”

“You got that right,” Sirius huffs, shaking his head. “I never understood how they got everything that twisted. Voldemort’s right-hand man my arse.”

Tom merely nods in a commiserating way, resolving to look up more information about Sirius Black first chance he gets.

(Kreacher has been somewhat helpful, but everything he’s shared has been woefully out of date, and Tom simply doesn’t see the importance of knowing how Sirius used to get on Walburga’s nerves as a child or that time he slid down the banisters and crashed into a wall headfirst at five years old.)

Sirius may not have been Voldemort’s ally then, but there’s nothing saying he won’t be now. Although, how much use an escaped convict could possibly be remains to be seen.

“Did I understand the headmaster correctly that Harry will not be allowed to remain here for the summer?” Tom asks carefully.

Sirius sighs. “Yeah. I want him with me, of course, but he’s safest with – his muggle relatives.”

Tom grits his teeth at the small pause, the clear unwillingness to share anything further about these sodding relatives. He doesn’t even have their names, just a general location.

How on earth is he supposed to find them solely from that?

“The ones in Surrey?”

Sirius tilts his head, making a sort of ‘huh’-expression that makes Tom feel all kinds of smug.

That’s right – he tells me things. In time, he’ll tell me everything.

“Mhm.”

Sirius doesn’t elaborate.

Tom gives it up for a bad job and changes tactics.

“What’s going to happen to me, then?” he asks, voice soft, with a hint of uncertainty.

Sirius blinks, then frowns in confusion. “Oh, well… I sort of just assumed you’d go… home?”

Tom smiles, a rueful thing he’s had a lot of practice with over the years as a ‘poor little orphan’ on the streets of London. At least that way he could occasionally beg a few coins off a bleeding heart (and pick the pockets of the hardened ones). “Afraid I don’t have one, anymore.”

“Wait, what?”

“It’s the reason I was near Little Hangleton that night. My father… recently passed,” he forces some tears to his eyes and looks away on a stuttered exhale, “and he’s buried in Great Hangleton. I have no other family. Truthfully, I was at my wit’s end as to how I was supposed to go on by myself.”

He sniffs and clears his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that his performance is having the desired effect; Sirius looks crestfallen, his mouth downturned, hand occasionally twitching as if he wants to reach out and place it on Tom’s shoulder in comfort.

Got you.

“I – I’m sorry for your loss,” Sirius says, voice low. “I didn’t know.”

Tom simply nods, as if overcome with emotion.

It works perfectly.

“It’s not much but… you’re welcome to stay here.”

He glances back, hesitantly, injecting some cautious hope into his tone, “Truly?”

Sirius scratches his neck. “I mean, yeah. It’s a big house and it appears to be in decent shape – quite against all my expectations – and you… seem to be alright here?”

Tom takes a deep breath, as if he needs a few moments to settle himself.

“Thank you, Mr Black, I cannot tell you how much this means to me,” he says, with a soft little smile conveying his relief.

(As if he’d ever accept anything less now that he’s got Kreacher to do his bidding. He’ll figure out how to get to Harry later.)

“No problem, kid. Like I said, there’s plenty of space and, well… you’re Harry’s soulmate. That means something, I guess.”

Tom cocks his head, searching Sirius’ skeletal features for any further clues as to why he sounds so disillusioned with the sheer concept of soulmates.

“I am, yes,” he says slowly. “Harry actually accepted the bond a few days ago. I’m sure he told you?”

“He did. Dumbledore wants to test it later, though.”

“What? Why?” He wants to add it’s none of Dumbledore’s sodding business, but he’s already been a tad too critical of the old man for a supposed stranger.

Sirius is quiet for a few moments, the two of them ending up in an impromptu staring competition before Tom averts his gaze for a fraction of a second. “I gotta ask – you are aware of who Harry is, right?”

“Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, Triwizard Champion,” Tom rattles off, something in his chest going strangely warm at the listing of Harry’s accolades.

“Exactly. And we wouldn’t be doing our jobs of looking after him if we didn’t at least double-check that your bond is… real.”

Tom is so offended he can’t find words. He nearly snaps that they’ve already failed spectacularly at looking after Harry – that their Harry was technically killed after being kidnapped and used in Tom’s/Voldemort’s –

(Oh, Salazar, that’s where he got Tomdemort from.)

– resurrection ritual. That the only reason they have a Harry is due to Death’s meddling, and that this Harry is Tom’s.

Oh.

Oh!

Maybe… maybe that explains why Voldemort went after Harry as a baby, though. At least in this dimension.

Yes. Of course.

This dimension’s Harry wasn’t Tom’s soulmate! A soul is unique, no two alike. It makes perfect sense, now that he’s thought of it, that a match for his exceptionality would have to be brought in from beyond the stars – not solely Fate-ordained, but Death-facilitated.

“I understand,” he says demurely, a tad distracted by his heart suddenly racing in his chest at the realisations. “I confess, I would not mind seeing it again. It was beautiful.”

Sirius hums, hands shoved into the pockets of his tattered trousers. “Right, well, we’ll take care of it when they get back, I guess. I’m gonna get something to eat, bring the hippogriff in, and check out the house. Holler if you need anything.”

Hippogriff? What on earth?

“Thank you. Later, then,” Tom says, smiling slightly, keeping any potential questions about hippogriffs to himself.

Sirius nods and leaves the library. When the sounds of his steps have disappeared down the stairs, Kreacher edges inside the room with a sly look on his ugly face.

“Finally.” Tom stalks over and shuts the library door, then turns to the elf. “How much did you manage to overhear?”

Kreacher puffs out his small chest, clasping his hands behind his back. “Kreacher heard all of it, sir.”

Tom can’t help the smile stretching across his face, nor does he particularly care to hide it. “Excellent. Tell me everything.”

To Tom’s everlasting displeasure, almost all of Harry’s time over the next couple of days is monopolized by his godfather. Perhaps worst of all is that Harry seems happy about this – constantly smiling and throwing his head back laughing, and sometimes just staring at Sirius as if he cannot quite believe his eyes.

Tom hates it.

It should be him. Harry should look that way at him. Should be grateful and happy and incredulous at his good fortune that he’s in Tom’s presence and not spend all his time directing those dazzling green eyes at some malnourished convict who laughs far too loudly and unrestrainedly.

The one bright spot was over and done with in the space of five minutes once Harry and Dumbledore returned from the Ministry, and Dumbledore tested their soulmate bond – and even then, Harry squirmed uncomfortably under the gaze of his headmaster and godfather, when proof of their divine bond was showcased all over the room for everyone to see.

As if he was ashamed.

It certainly doesn’t help that his godfather seems less than impressed with soulmates in general for some reason, though he’s quick to assure Harry that his parents, the Potters, were soulmates and perfect examples of a joyous, loving match.

But the few times Tom manages to come across Harry when he’s alone, Sirius soon joins them, as if he can just tell and has appointed himself some annoying kind of chaperone.

Add to this Harry’s imminent departure, and Tom’s temper is becoming increasingly frayed.

How is Tom ever supposed to win Harry over, when he can’t spend time freely with him?

He needs to have access to his soulmate; this isn’t something one handles via letters. Tom will need to use every weapon in his arsenal in conquering Harry’s affections and loyalty, and he knows that his looks and charisma are going to be his best assets, not to mention the sheer physical advantage of the soulmate bond.

Harry craves that peace only Tom’s touch can bring, Tom can tell. He’s seen the lingering glances, the curiosity, the longing momentarily twisting handsome features before they shutter into something blank and indifferent. Why he insists on denying them both is beyond Tom, but he knows it won’t last forever.

Bit by bit, Tom will chip away at his walls, and Harry’s resolve will crumble.

But no number of vows or careful interrogations about Harry’s relatives bring fruit, and so Tom changes tactics the day before Harry is set to leave.

Early in the morning, long before Sirius has woken up and can stick his nose where it doesn’t belong, Tom sneaks up to Harry’s bedroom.

The door is unlocked, and it swings open quietly on newly oiled hinges.

The absence of cobwebs, dirt, and dust is glaring in its contrast with Tom’s memories of how the house looked when he’d first dragged Harry across its threshold. Not that he’s seen the interior of this room before now, but he imagines it wasn’t in any better shape than the rest of Grimmauld.

The walls are plastered with Gryffindor memorabilia, unmoving pictures of scantily clad women and what appears to be motorcycles – the quintessential essence of a rebellious pureblood teenager perfectly captured and frozen in time.

On the bedside table, underneath Harry’s glasses and wand, rests a bundle of letters that Tom longs to get his hands on, having seen plenty arrive since Harry’s survival was announced to the world. He’s heard talk of friends – Hermione and Ron, if he’s not mistaken – and wonders if all correspondence is from them or if there are others in the bunch he isn’t aware of.

Any thoughts of thumbing through Harry’s letters disappear, though, when he hears slow, measured breaths, occasionally hitching, emanate from the bed. A shock of wild, black hair is barely visible against the pillow in the grey dawn, and when Tom drifts nearer, drawn helplessly toward his soulmate like a moth to a flame, he can only just make out Harry’s appealing features soft with sleep.

Tom cocks his head, keeping his own breathing level so as not to wake Harry yet.

Harry looks younger this way. Or perhaps his real dimensional age, more like. Innocent. Rosy mouth parts slightly on every puff of breath, the constant frown between his brows is smoothed out for once, stubborn jaw relaxed, and chin pointed down toward his chest instead of up at the heavens in defiance.

Tom is oddly tempted to stroke his fringe back from his forehead, to trace his fingertips down Harry’s cheek, the way he was allowed the night they first met.

Although… what’s stopping him?

They’re soulmates. Fated. Harry is his, regardless of Harry’s – temporary – misgivings about it.

If anyone has the right, it is Tom.

Tom sits down on the edge of the bed, then carefully reaches out and follows his impulse. Smooths Harry’s hair away. Runs his knuckle along Harry’s soft cheekbone, trails a fingertip down his jaw. Lingers at the corner of Harry’s mouth for a moment, then carefully cups his cheek.

Harry lets out a soft sigh, pressing unconsciously into Tom’s gentle grip on his face.

Tom smiles in triumph. The peace enveloping him is nearly overwhelming, settling pleasantly under his skin and reigniting the incandescent glowing spot beneath his ribcage.

He cradles Harry’s face in his hand, and for the first time in over a week, he feels truly content.

Tom lets out a stuttered exhale and rubs his thumb along Harry’s cheekbone. He knows he oughtn’t, knows he should step away for any sort of productive discussion to occur that doesn’t end with his face being rearranged by Harry’s sharp knuckles, but he cannot quite make himself draw back now that he’s finally gotten his hands on Harry once more.

Not even when Harry’s eyes begin to move underneath closed lids and he lets out a small yawn does Tom manage to withdraw his hand from Harry’s skin. It’s still there when Harry slowly blinks, approaching consciousness, a small, sleepy smile hiding in the corner of his mouth, right by Tom’s thumb.

We could have this, always, Tom thinks wistfully, watching Harry wake up, watching hazy green eyes clear.

Neither of them speaks.

Tom keeps moving his thumb carefully back and forth, up and down, pressure featherlight.

Harry’s voice is hoarse, thick with sleep, when he says, “Get your hand off me before I break it.”

Tom swallows.

And then reluctantly obeys, recognising that the peaceful moment is over.

“We need to talk,” he murmurs, getting to his feet.

Harry puts his glasses on and shuffles up into a sitting position, glaring. “And this couldn’t wait until breakfast?”

Tom shakes his head. “I couldn’t risk Sirius overhearing.”

Harry sighs irritably and waves his hand in a ‘go on’-gesture.

“Harry, I’m worried,” Tom states, bluntly. “I’ve tried to watch from the windows, and I’ve read what newspapers Kreacher has been able to scavenge for me, but times have clearly changed. I am fifty years displaced, and a supposed half-blood who’s lived all his life in the muggle world, yet I know nothing about it.”

Harry yawns and pushes his glasses up his forehead, rubbing at his eyes. “So? What do you expect me to do about it?”

“Teach me,” Tom entreats. “Look at me, Harry. Am I even wearing the right type of clothes? Will I be made a laughingstock should I set foot outside the door?” He throws his arms wide and feels Harry’s ensuing reluctant observation like the gentlest rictusempra over his skin.

“You look fine,” Harry grunts, righting his glasses. “Like a posh twat, but fine.”

Fine. As if Tom isn’t usually the most handsome person in every single room he enters. But he’ll take it.

“Well, I may look ‘posh’ as you say, but how do people our age usually dress, then?”

“Your age,” Harry mutters, drawing one leg up under the covers and resting his arm on it with a sigh. “If you actually want to look like a teenager, maybe lose the button-ups and pressed trousers. Get some trainers and a pair of jeans or something, I don’t know.”

“With what money, hm?” Tom demands, then turns softly pleading, appealing to his soulmate’s do-gooder side. “Harry, you cannot just leave. I need your help, and there’s no one else I can ask without giving us away.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Harry replies mulishly. “Dumbledore made that abundantly clear. And you can just… hang out. Sirius doesn’t know anything about muggles either, you’ll be fine.”

Tom puts his hands on his hips, staring incredulously. “What, stay locked up in this house all summer?”

Harry shrugs. “There are worse prisons.”

Tom grits his teeth, annoyance climbing at Harry’s nonchalance, the conversation not going at all the way he wants it to. “What, like your relatives’?”

“Yeah, the Dursleys aren’t exactly a fucking picnic – if I could trade places with you, I’d do it in a heartbeat,” Harry snaps.

Tom’s annoyance disappears instantly, replaced by giddy triumph. He’s hard-pressed to conceal his smile, settling for a sigh and headshake. “Fine. I hear you, you’re miserable, woe is you – but can you spare even a moment to consider what this is like for me?”

Harry glares. “Oh, I’ve thought about it plenty. Unlike you, I’m capable of this thing called empathy.”

“I know what empathy is,” Tom says, unable to resist rolling his eyes. Seems like Harry’s bad habits are already rubbing off on him.

“Could have fooled me.”

Tom clicks his tongue. “Not very cordial of you, Harry.”

Harry opens his mouth to retort something suitably sarcastic, no doubt, but does appear to think better of it. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, he's slightly less aggravated.

“Fine. And yeah, I get it, that it must be confusing for you and all that rot, but I also know you’ll figure it out one way or another regardless of if I help or not. I’m trying here, I am,” he insists at Tom’s disdainful scoff, “but it’s going to take me some time to get over the urge to punch you whenever I see your face.”

“If what you said is true, the face you knew my future self by was completely different,” Tom objects, still riding the high of Harry’s slip-up but feeling increasingly nettled.

“Oh, you managed to be plenty awful to me with this face too,” Harry shoots back. “You stole my wand, gloated about nearly killing my best friend’s little sister, and then set a basilisk on me.”

Tom blinks, meticulously placing these new facts into appropriate shelves and boxes in his mind, and leaves a mental note for himself that Harry has just confirmed he does (did?) manage to locate the Chamber of Secrets – because where else could he possibly get a basilisk?

He wonders what happened to it.

“I’m confused,” he says, honestly. “Did you time travel?”

“No, your bloody horcrux showed me.”

“…oh. I see. I think.” Tom clears his throat, averting his gaze. “I suppose I want you to know that… I haven’t made one. Nor do I intend to do so.”

“Great,” Harry deadpans. “Must be a big comfort to your dad and grandparents, that.”

Tom’s whole body turns to ice.

Impossible. I was so careful – how could he possibly –

Harry huffs. “Thought I didn’t know, did you? Thought I had no idea you’re a murderer? Don’t worry, Tom, I don’t solely despise you because of what Voldemort did to me. You’re awful enough on your own as it is.”

No matter how he tries, no words make it across his lips. No defence. No denial.

Nothing.

In silence, he turns on his heel and leaves the room.

Harry doesn’t ask him to stay.

Chapter Text

Yeah, run away, coward, Harry thinks, watching Tom disappear out the door.

His thoughts don’t carry the usual venomous edge, though, and he blames the lingering peaceful warmth in his veins, caused by Tom’s stolen touch.

The nerve of him. To sneak inside Harry’s room and touch him while he was asleep!

Harry rubs his hand through his hair, blowing out a breath and closing his eyes as his head thunks back against the headboard.

He’d been so close to asking Tom not to move. So close to faking sleep and let Tom continue stroking his face like he’s something precious, basking in the euphoric sense of calm that managed to effortlessly banish the void inside.

Fuck.

His limbs feel nearly jittery. Like on an endless stakeout after having too much burnt coffee reheated five times, thermos traded back and forth with Ron while they both grunt complaints about the quality of the brew around the next swallow.

He already wants another hit.

How do people in this dimension even function? If Harry had actually liked his soulmate, he can’t imagine a world he wouldn’t constantly be in physical contact with them. Does the effect lessen with time and exposure? Or is it just him experiencing the full force of it – are other people, the unbroken ones, simply more at peace in their own skin already?

That’s the one (and only) silver lining of going back to living under the Dursleys' roof: he’ll get away from Tom – before he does something reckless, like hold his hand or something, all in pursuit of the bliss now slowly ebbing away.

He’s done stupider things for less satisfaction, after all.

He inwardly cringes as a memory surfaces of getting blown in a filthy bathroom by Zacharias Smith after they ran into each other at a muggle gay bar. He was so drunk he could barely get it up in the first place, then Disapparated the moment he’d managed to come down Smith’s throat.

He’d stayed sober for a whole month after that low-point.

Just… Zacharias Smith.

Really?

Harry shudders.

And still, Tom would be worse.

A break before he gets serious about steering Tom onto the path of not-evil will do him good.

Maybe he could even take out some of his frustrations on Dudley. Offer himself as a boxing bag and then hitting back might kill an hour or two. It’s been a while since he had to go for quick and nimble rather than sheer brawn – it’s incredible how few Dark witches and wizards expect the Auror to go for a sucker punch or tackle instead of a spell – but he can surely figure it out. Provided this summer works the same, it’s also when he’ll get his second largest growth spurt, and he can’t fucking wait.

Brawling may be a distant third in how he’s chosen to cope with the void over the years, but it does give some measure of satisfaction. Offers a bit of distraction at the very least. And here, over the summer, there’s no risk of Hermione looking disappointed when he shows up bruised, black-eyed and split lipped.

His eyes are involuntarily drawn to the pile of letters on his bedside table. Other than to cobble together brief replies, he hasn’t given them much more than a cursory look. Has barely processed the we were so worried’s or what the hell happened, mate?’s or the we miss you’s.

He wants to confide in them like he usually would. Of course he does. Missing his friends is a permanent ache, occasionally slicing through him like knives when he reads their letters or sees or hears something that reminds him of them.

But they’re just teenagers. His best friends are teenagers.

Not adult war veterans with jobs and bills and their own fucked up shit to deal with while also always making time for his. Not the people he’s been through hell and back with.

Children.

And Harry can’t help but think it would be better for them if he were to leave them out of this one.

“I’m gonna miss you,” he mutters into Sirius’ shoulder as they hug in the foyer.

“Gonna miss you too, kid,” Sirius says, voice overly cheerful. Fake. Clearly only for Harry’s benefit.

Harry draws back and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Write me, yeah? Don’t talk to the portraits, go outside in the garden a little bit every day, and try not to wallow.”

Sirius snorts, shaking his head. “I’ll be fine, Harry. Don’t worry about me.”

“Someone has to.”

Sirius’ face softens and he reaches out to ruffle Harry’s hair, an indignity he silently bears. “Hey, this place is better than Azkaban, at least.”

The empty locket’s phantom burn in Harry’s pocket makes him swallow. At least you’ll have an honest shot of coping, this time.

“Yeah.” He nods, forcing a smile. “Yeah, ‘course it is.”

“And you be good too, alright? If I have to be, then so do you.”

The smile morphs into something genuine, something effortless. “I’ll try my best.”

Sirius returns his grin and pulls him into another quick hug.

“Time to go, Harry,” Dumbledore says gently, the front door swinging open.

Harry nods and follows, throwing one last look back over his shoulder.

Behind Sirius, Tom lurks on the stairs, an expression on his face that Harry can’t read.

Hand on the doorknob, because he can’t – he won’t – go back inside to put it on Tom’s shoulder, Harry says, “Later, Bob.”

He barely hears Tom’s soft reply before the door swings shut, “Later, Harry.”

On the front stoop, Dumbledore reaches out a Disillusioned arm, and the moment Harry’s places his hand on it, they Disapparate.

They reappear on a sunbaked Privet Drive, the street empty, everyone either at work, school, or hiding from the heat in their slightly cooler cookie cut houses.

Harry clenches his jaws together so tightly he absently fears a molar might break.

He can’t believe he’s back here again. That he’s letting himself be guided toward the front door of his childhood prison and merely stands there quietly as he can hear footsteps approaching from inside, watching the distorted form of his aunt grow nearer in the door’s textured glass.

The temptation to run away and start a new life somewhere outside Britain’s borders has never been stronger than when Aunt Petunia opens the door with a polite smile, that quickly turns into an offended grimace when she sees who’s on the other side.

He hasn’t seen his aunt since the day Privet Drive was evacuated on the cusp of war.

He can’t say he missed her.

She eyes Dumbledore’s bright orange robes with distaste, thin lips pressed together so tightly they turn white, pale eyes shooting daggers.

“Good afternoon, Mrs Dursley,” Dumbledore says politely, rocking back and forth on his feet like he’s five rather than well past a hundred-and-five, hands clasped behind his back. “May we come in?”

Petunia’s lips get impossibly thinner, but she does step aside and gesture them through the door, recognising the demand masquerading as respectful request.

Harry troops inside in silence, as Petunia walks further down along the hallway, stopping next to the cupboard where Harry spent the first eleven years of his life.

“Back for the summer, then?” she asks stiltedly. Then, her eyes narrow on the new scar across Harry’s throat. “What happened to you?”

There’s no warmth or concern in her voice, merely a reluctant curiosity.

Heartwarming, truly.

“Someone tried to kill me. Unfortunately, they didn’t succeed, so,” he throws his arms wide, fingertips brushing the wall, “here I am.”

He catches Dumbledore’s concerned glance out of the corner of his eye but doesn’t bother acknowledging it.

Petunia’s eyes widen. Her bony hand flutters upward, as if to grab at her own long throat, then falls back against her side. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

“Harry has indeed had quite the eventful end of year, I’m afraid,” Dumbledore says after another beat of silence. “But as you can see, we recovered him safe and sound, eventually.”

He looks extremely out of place in the Dursleys’ hallway, like he’s headed for a parade down the street but popped in for a quick chat with the most boring people on the planet. It becomes even stranger when he reaches inside his pocket and withdraws a small square, that’s then enlarged with a tap of his wand – Elder, of course – turning out to be Harry’s school trunk.

“Your things, Harry,” Dumbledore says, voice gentle, handing over the trunk as if it weighs nothing. Which, turns out, it doesn’t. “Your friends packed it for you.”

He repeats the process with an empty, sparkling clean owl cage.

Harry’s heart gives a painful thump.

Hedwig.

“Your owl is on her way,” Dumbledore assures him pleasantly, as if he’s read Harry’s mind.

Harry looks up, lump in his throat. He avoids Dumbledore’s gaze, staring instead at his crooked nose. “Thank you, sir.”

“May I have a moment to speak with your aunt in private, my boy?”

Harry can’t help but snort at the polite dismissal. Because why let him hear anything or know something about Dumbledore’s plans? Ever since Dumbledore popped over a few days ago, it’s been a constant run-around that Harry can’t be bothered to fight, knowing full well at this point what’s going on anyway from previous experience.

The only thing he’s unsure about is whether Dumbledore thinks he’s got Voldemort’s horcrux rattling around inside his head or not.

Perhaps not, judging by the amount of facetime he’s gotten with the man so far.

“Have at it, sir.”

Petunia makes an indistinct sound of dismay, but he doesn’t pay her any mind as he climbs the narrow stairs, all his focus absorbed by balancing his trunk in one hand and the large owl cage in the other.

“I will see you on the first of September for the autumn semester, Harry,” Dumbledore calls after him.

“See you then, Headmaster,” Harry replies distractedly.

As he makes it to the smallest bedroom, he nudges the door open with one foot and sets his things down with a heavy sigh.

It looks exactly like he remembers it. Smells like it, too.

He crosses the room and flings the windows wide, glaring at the small holes in the house’s façade where the bars once were. They’re barely visible after all the work the Dursleys have had done on the house, but he knows their placement by heart, wishing he didn’t – just like with everything else in this cramped room. The pale green walls, the dingy offensively orange and yellow-striped curtains, the ratty desk and dresser picked up at a charity shop two towns over.

“Home sweet home,” he mutters, curling his hands around the windowsill until his knuckles whiten.

The air drifting inside is overly warm, barely stirred by so much as a breeze, but he prefers it over the layers of disuse and a year of neglect. He knows Petunia vacuums and gives the room a cursory wipe down when he’s at Hogwarts, but that’s about it.

He’ll cast a cooling charm once Dumbledore has left.

Speaking of – Dumbledore exists the house, turns around with a wave and a smile, then begins walking calmly down the street, robes fluttering around his legs, likely giving the neighbours fodder for a whole month’s worth of gossip.

Harry watches him with mixed feelings the entire way to the curve of the road, where Dumbledore suddenly disappears before a quiet crack! reaches Harry’s ears.

It’s strange, being around Dumbledore again. Knowing what he now does about the man, about the hypocrisy and manipulations and sending Harry off on a wild goose chase with only the slightest chance of success (and survival), it makes the love and admiration he still carries for Dumbledore feel oddly brittle.

With the aid of alcohol and his friends, he’d mostly come to terms with it all. Mostly. But being back here, once more a fly caught in the web spun by his headmaster, he can admit he is a tad… conflicted.

Harry withdraws his wand from his pocket, ignoring the locket nestled next to it, and casts a cooling charm, letting out a soft sigh of relief.

One good thing about his alternate self dying; the Trace was effectively removed. And, fortunately, no one’s thought to reapply it, assuming it to still be in effect. As long as he keeps any magic out of sight, he should be good all summer.

“Now then,” he mumbles to himself, critically eyeing the bedroom. “Let’s fix up this dump.”

Hedwig soars in through his open window sometime in the late afternoon.

He spends the better part of an hour petting her in silence, throat snared tight.

Dinner that night is…

Awkward doesn’t really cut it. But Harry has no other idea of how to reasonably describe Petunia’s alternatingly frightened and angry looks, Vernon’s booming voice as he regales them all about his workday and simultaneous attempt at ignoring Harry’s existence, and Dudley’s piggish eyes flicking between the blaring tv and Harry’s new scar.

None of them comments when Harry helps himself to more food than he ordinarily would, silently daring them to question him, go on, do it, just fucking try me, and then only washing up his own plate and cutlery once he’s finished.

Vernon does open his mouth at this, large moustache quivering in anger, but Petunia puts her hand on his arm and shakes her head.

Harry knows the awkward peace won’t last. It never does.

And he’s fucked up enough that he’s looking forward to when all hell breaks loose.

As June progresses, growing hotter and hotter by the day, Harry takes to spending much of his time outdoors. He haunts the playgrounds and nearby neighbourhoods, disillusions himself onto public transport, and occasionally Apparates to the other side of the country simply for the hell of it.

He steals liquor from corner shops and passes out in the sunny woods, wanks himself raw – because those his mental age interested in fucking teenage him are people that he’d rather steer clear of – and does his level best not to think of Tom or his magic sodding touch.

(He doesn’t know if it helps or hinders the process that he hasn’t heard anything from Tom since he left, nor does Sirius offer much more than ‘Bob’s well, keeping busy’ in his letters.)

For some reason, he’s completely unable to goad Dudley into fights. Nothing works; not nicknames, not taunts about what a mama’s boy he is, not disbelief that a pig like him would ever actually build muscle – nothing.

Harry remains unbruised. He could fight strangers of course, but in case he’s losing and is forced to use magic, he’d rather do so on a muggle who already knows about magic. Less of a mess that way should anyone find out about it.

Alas.

Alcohol and his hand it is.

Returning from one of his excursions, gait unsteady and slightly serpentine, Harry hums tunelessly under his breath as he wanders beneath the underpass.

He’s taken to walking this way nearly every day no matter where he’s spent the rest of it. Keeping watch, he tells himself.

(Hoping for action might be closer to the truth.)

More’s the pity; no dementors tonight either. Unsurprising – it’s only the beginning of July. If Umbitch were to send them, it won’t be just yet – nor does he really believe she will this time around. Dumbledore may refuse to shut up about Voldemort working to get back last Harry checked the newspapers, but Harry’s keeping his head down and staying out of it; she has no real reason to try to remove a non-obstacle for her beloved Fudge.

Harry ceases his humming when he hears voices up ahead.

They sound familiar, and he perks up when he recognises Dudley’s little gang. He lengthens his drunken stride as much as he can, adrenaline immediately pumping at the prospect of goading Dudley’s cronies into a brawl – he can take them without magic, no problem, they’re too stupid to rely on anything other than brawn and numbers – and soon catches sight of them, laughing and talking in a half-circle on the kerb.

Perfect. No chance Dudley will be able to avoid a fight this time unless he’s prepared to lose face with his minions.

“Hey, Big D,” he calls out, grinning madly as he skips up to the other boys. “Does mummy know you’re out this late?”

Dudley swings around, meaty fists clenched by his sides and face contorted into a furious scowl that nearly makes his tiny, watery eyes disappear. “Piss off, Potter.”

“Now, now, Dudders,” Harry tuts, “you haven’t even let me say hi to your friends. Let’s see if I remember the names of you ingrates correctly.”

Said ingrates make offended noises that sound like they’re unsure whether they should be offended – someone is even laughing nervously – and Harry points to the first one.

“Malcolm – how could I ever forget that ugly fucking mug?”

Malcolm draws himself up to his full height, trying to look threatening and failing abysmally, but Harry’s already moved his finger to the next in line.

“Dennis, you really should see a dentist, mate. And oh, Gordon, can those spaghetti-arms even throw rocks at cars these days?”

Dennis and Gordon look to Dudley for directions on how to proceed, but Dudley stews silently, still glaring at Harry who’s having far too much fun to stop now.

Come get me, arseholes.

“And of course, Piers Polkiss, with the face only a mother could love. Except she doesn’t, does she?”

He contorts his features into something vaguely sympathetic, though his shit-eating grin ruins (or perhaps enhances) the effect. Piers’ pimply, pockmarked face gets so red that Harry’s tempted to draw golden stripes across it and turn him into a new Gryffindor mascot.

Any second now.

He blinks, momentarily confused, when he realises that he’s missed one.

He’s standing with his back to the rest, slightly apart yet still in the group, wearing a dark green backwards cap, faded baggy denims, and an oversized black t-shirt he must have been absolutely boiling in during the day. Harry looks him up and down in an attempt at finding something to remark upon but comes up short.

“And what’s this?” he says instead, rocking back and forth, still grinning. “Initiating new blood into your incestuous little gang, Duddykins? What will you have him do? Hold the kids down when you hit them? Pick the rocks up for you?”

The new member turns around, and the magnificent fun Harry’s having is immediately sucked out of the situation.

“Not you,” he groans.

The rest of the gang, who’d been seconds away from advancing on him en masse, hold still, their confused eyes flickering between Harry and their other member.

“‘ello, ‘arry,” Tom says pleasantly around a sharp grin, raising his arms and clasping his hands on the back of his head in a careless, carefree gesture, thin biceps bulging slightly with the movement.

Harry’s eyes nearly boggle out of his head when he realises Tom is speaking in a broad Cockney accent, making no attempt whatsoever at concealing it.

“Yer not being very friendly, are ya?” Tom tilts his head, brown eyes glittering. “Comin’ ‘ere an’ slingin’ insults aroun’? Wha’, ya think yer be’er’n us?”

“Yeah!?” sounds in chorus from the other boys.

All of them except Dudley, who merely begins to smile. Maybe he thinks he’s finally found someone’s who’s a match for Harry’s sharp tongue; not like Dudley himself could ever successfully match wits.

Tom, though?

How the hell did he even get here? And where did he find those clothes? And why the fuck is he hanging out with Dudley of all people?

Harry’s head spins, round and round, with questions he suspects Tom will never answer truthfully. And alcohol. Definitely alcohol, too.

I’m too drunk for this.

“The fuck are you doing here T – Bob?” he blurts anyway, regardless of his doubts that he’ll get a straight answer out of Tom.

Tom shrugs, sharp grin growing wider. “Jus’ ‘angin’ wi’ me mates, ain’t I?”

“Bobby, you know D’s crazy cousin?” Piers demands. He always was the sharpest of them; not that that’s saying much.

“We’ve met,” Tom replies without taking his eyes off Harry.

Harry grits his teeth, barely able to hold back from pummelling his new shadow – his stalker – into the pavement.

(Because honestly, now that his brain is working to catch up, what other reason but Harry could there be for Tom to track down and hang out with muggles of Dudley’s calibre?)

He wants to cuss and yell and forcefully Apparate Tom back to Grimmauld where he can scream and fight some more, but his hands are effectively tied unless he’s up for mass-Obliviating Dudley’s gang.

And he’s not. Frankly, he’s rapidly losing interest in anything that doesn’t involve putting his hands on Tom anyway he can, in violence or tenderness barely matters at this point – the pale skin of his slender forearms looking particularly appetizing, in need of bruising.

And that is simply unacceptable.

Bruises, fine, but simply touching him for the sake of touching? Absolutely fucking not.

Harry turns on his heel and leaves without another word before he can do something idiotic. The boys heckle confusedly after him – Tom’s drawl noticeably absent – but Harry easily tunes them out as he heads back to the underpass and out the other side.

He’ll go the long way ‘round. He needs to clear his head.

And he definitely needs to sober the fuck up.

Chapter Text

It’s incredible what Tom can accomplish when he puts his mind to it. Astonishing, really. He never ceases to amaze himself.

He’s managed to figure out the public transport system from Islington to Little Whinging, the current approximate value of money after fifty years of inflation – which he then acquires by pickpocketing the neighbours and pawning the things he’s picked up at Grimmauld – appropriate clothes for a boy his age, and how to infiltrate a group of imbecilic wannabe thugs through which he’ll have direct access to his soulmate. He mimics their speech patterns, throws some rocks at cars, joins in on kicking some crying kid when they’re down if they fail to hand over their meagre valuables, and sometimes just for fun.

And, he does all this right under his temporary guardian’s nose. Honestly, being “overseen” by a housebound ex-convict isn’t too bad, all things considered. It certainly helps that he merely calls ‘going out’ over his shoulder as he leaves, with Sirius hollering back ‘see you later’. He’s even freer than under the old hag running the orphanage.

It had taken him quite a bit of time to identify the Dursley boy, but once he’d found the right house, it was just a matter of waiting around for Dudley to show himself and then arrange an “accidental” first meeting. He’d managed to catch a few glimpses of his soulmate this way too, and though it galled him to stay away, he kept his eyes on the real target.

He’ll need continuous access to the house, not something temporary that Harry can revoke whenever he feels like it – provided he’d even grant it in the first place.

No, Dudley Dursley is Tom’s ticket inside.

Shame he’s dull and dumber than a pile of bricks. Even bigger shame that Tom was forced to approach him as Bobby, some random bloke from the East End, rather than himself. But the neanderthals in Dudley’s little crew would never have accepted Tom Riddle – or even Bob Jonsson – in his pressed trousers and crisp, proper King’s (no, wait, Queen’s) English.

So, needs must, no matter how it galls him to slip back into the accent he’s worked so hard to get rid of.

At least he can take out his frustrations on whichever unlucky kid crosses their path that day.

Unfortunately, despite his near perfection, he slips up one day by asking one too many questions about Harry. Dudley may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but when his watery blue eyes narrow, it’s obvious he’s made a connection Tom never intended for him to make.

In a rare show of restraint, he doesn’t call Tom on it until later that same evening, once the gang has separated for the night.

“Are you one of that kind, then?” he asks, eyes darting around to make sure no one’s paying attention to them.

“One o’ ‘ho?” Tom drawls uninterestedly, hands shoved in his pockets, one carefully gripping his wand. Just in case. Dudley may only be a muggle, but he packs a mean punch judging by how quickly the kids go down.

“You know. That’s why you keep asking about Harry, isn’t it?” There’s an edge of impatience to Dudley’s voice, but also something far more interesting.

Fear.

A grin slowly spreads across Tom’s face. “Maybe I just wan’ tips for ge’in’ in’o S:t Bru’us.”

Dudley doesn’t respond at first, the two of them merely staring at the other, sizing each other up.

“Or maybe you already go to,” he lowers his voice into a near whisper, “Hogwarts?”

Tom could continue playing dumb, of course.

Or he could come clean.

Legally, it’s a grey area, as Dudley is already aware of the magical world and Tom confirming things shouldn’t raise any red flags.

As to Tom’s plans, though… will it help or hinder, is the question?

He quickly catalogues every minute twitch of Dudley’s expressions, reads his eyes best he can. Recalls the days they’ve spent together and the complaints Dudley’s made about his cousin the few times Tom’s been able to get him talking about Harry.

And decides to risk it.

“Well done, Dudley,” he says calmly, in his proper accent. “I should have known better than to try and pull one over on you.”

Dudley straightens up, a look of triumph flashing across his unattractive features. How he’s so closely related to someone as handsome as Harry is mind-boggling. Must be the weaker muggle genes. “Damn right. What do you want with Harry, then?”

Everything.

Tom shrugs, deciding on the approach most likely to solicit Dudley’s continued cooperation. “Just wanna mess with him, really. He’s kind of a knob.”

Dudley nods thoughtfully, which isn’t exactly a flattering look on him. “You two go to school together?”

“Yeah. He’s always getting preferential treatment because of who he is. The Boy Who Lived,” Tom scoffs. “It’s ridiculous, if you ask me.”

“The Boy Who Lived?” Dudley repeats hesitantly. “What’s that mean?”

Oh Harry, so modest. Your family doesn’t even know?

“He’s credited with taking down some Dark wizard when he was a baby. That’s when his parents died and all that,” Tom replies, shrugging as if he couldn’t care less about Harry’s fame nor his future self being defeated by a baby. At least that baby wasn’t his soulmate.

He really needs to figure out what happened that night, though. Kreacher’s knowledge of the whole affair has been frustratingly minor, and Tom doesn’t dare question Sirius about it yet.

Dudley’s teeth momentarily sink into his bottom lip. “You are one then? A,” he lowers his voice again, nearly whispering, “wizard?”

Tom cocks his head. He could be wrong – unlikely, but possible – of course, but he gets the distinct impression that Dudley Dursley, one of the most boring muggles Tom’s ever had the misfortune of encountering, is awfully curious about magic, while simultaneously fearing it.

And who is Tom to deny him some more knowledge about a world Dudley will never be a part of?

“I am,” Tom confirms slowly. “Scared, Dudley?”

Dudley swallows, throat bobbing harshly. “Piss off, I ain’t scared.”

Tom wants to grin sharply and say ‘you should be’, but the momentary satisfaction he’d get wouldn’t be worth jeopardizing his long-term plans over.

“Of course not,” he says instead, voice calm and somewhat soothing. “So, you interested in helping me mess with your cousin a bit, then?”

Dudley hesitates, gaze fastening on his shoes as he thinks about it. He scuffs his trainer against the pavement, a small pebble clattering away. Tom can practically see the cogs turning in his blonde head, annoyingly slowly. “…maybe.”

Tom clicks his tongue in disapproval. “C’mon, Dudley, he deserves it. Wouldn’t it be funny to pull one over on him? Knock him down a few pegs?”

“I don’t know,” Dudley says, shifting his considerable weight from one foot to the other. He takes a deep breath, brows knitting together, like it pains him to think. “Look – we’re supposed to leave Harry alone, okay? Even if he is a dick like, all the time.”

“Says who?”

“That old guy, the headmaster. Dumblydorr or something, I dunno.”

Tom grimaces.

Dumbledore.

Of-bloody-course that old goat would stick his crooked nose where it doesn’t belong, all to make sure Harry has a good summer holiday with his relatives, far away from Tom.

“Would’ve put him in his place otherwise,” Dudley grunts, drawing Tom’s attention back. “He’s a right prick.”

You’re not completely wrong about that, I suppose.

“Well,” Tom begins, as if he’s thinking aloud, “if I’m the one messing with him, you’re in the clear, aren’t you?”

Dudley nods slowly, expression brightening. “That’s true. How, though?”

“Oh, trust me, simply having me around and underfoot will be enough to drive Harry mad,” Tom assures him, grinning.

Hopefully with love and lust, but I’ll take anger, too.

For now.

Dudley squints, as if his pea sized brain can’t wrap itself around the concept of subtle warfare, but Tom appears to have gathered enough goodwill over the past two weeks that Dudley is willing to do as he asked and actually put his trust in Tom’s superior intellect.

“I’m in. We can’t tell my parents you’re a wizard, though.”

Unexpected. “I… see. Why not?”

“They hate magic.” Dudley shrugs.

Tom is tempted to burn their beige, boring house down.

The nerve! Hate magic!? All these sodding muggles, they have no respect – they’re just as bad as the spineless filth who sired him and then turned his back on the witch who gave Tom life.

(Who looked at Tom with nothing but fear and loathing when he –)

He’s so offended it takes him a few seconds to find his voice again. Another fraction to keep it mild and unbothered.

“Alright. So, we won’t tell them. And I’ll make sure Harry doesn’t tell either.”

“How?”

“I’ll think of something.” Tom waves a dismissive hand. “I always think of something.”

Dudley looks suitably impressed at this.

Look at that, Tom thinks, pleased. My first henchman.

He can work on the quality of his minions later.

“He didn’t seem very happy to see you,” Dudley remarks with a mean little grin after he’s sent his other cronies away, rounding on Tom who’s been waiting for this ever since Harry turned tail.

Tom chuckles, ignoring the small pang of hurt at Harry’s reaction to his presence. They haven’t seen each other – properly – for weeks, yet that was his initial response? Still, any reaction is better than indifference. “No, he didn’t, did he?”

It’s a relief to be able to drop the accent. It’s becoming far too easy to slip back into every day when he spends time with the muggles, and he’d hate to have to work on making it go away again.

“Now,” he stretches, arms high above his head, then grins at Dudley, “how about you invite me round for tea, so I have a chance to make sure Harry keeps his mouth shut about the company you choose to keep?”

They stroll back to Privet Drive in near silence, which exhibits one of Dudley’s few redeeming qualities: he doesn’t need to constantly hear himself speak, nor does he bother Tom with too many questions. Frankly, the stuff he’s asked about so far has barely scratched the surface of the wizarding world, and Tom likes that just fine.

Soon, they reach the right street, and Dudley leads the way up to the front door, letting them both inside.

It’s thrilling, passing over the threshold into Harry’s childhood home. The inside is just as boring as the outside, but it’s clean and tidy, and simply being in Harry’s space is intoxicating.

You call this a prison?

Dudley kicks off his trainers while Tom neatly places his own by the front door and hangs up his cap on one of the hooks, then runs his fingers through his hair. The clothes cannot be helped, but Dudley looks worse in baggy shorts and a silvery t-shirt, so he isn’t too worried.

A tall, blonde woman with an elongated face and pale eyes emerges from the door at the far end of the hallway, smiling widely, displaying horsey teeth. “Dudley, darling! Oh, you’ve brought a friend!”

“Hello, Mrs Dursley,” Tom replies with his most charming smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Bob Jonsson, one of Dudley’s friends from school. I hope I’m not intruding too much on your evening?”

“Not at all, any friend of Dudley’s is welcome here,” Mrs Dursley simpers, looking thoroughly charmed, smoothing down her flowery apron. “Supper is almost ready, I hope you’re hungry!”

“Starving,” he assures her, still smiling.

Over the next ten minutes he’s introduced to Dudley’s walrus of a father, compliments the house and the food, and tells them a little bit about his fictive background as a Smeltings student, and how he and Dudley have been spending their time over the past couple of weeks.

Dudley doesn’t contribute much except by making up suitable activities two upstanding boys participate in with their equally upstanding group of friends, and he keeps a carefully neutral expression whenever Tom weaves another lie, which is all he’s supposed to do. Decent minion material, Dudley Dursley, after all.

It soon becomes clear that there’s no love lost between the Dursleys and Harry; there are no pictures of Harry on the mantle or walls, no mention of him in conversation without an accompanying grimace, and Tom begins to slowly understand why Harry would have preferred staying at Grimmauld for the summer.

Maybe it’s something we can work on for next year.

It doesn’t take long to have the adult Dursleys practically eating out of the palm of his hand; one compliment about Dudley here, one offensive remark about a marginalised group there, and he’s got Vernon chortling and Petunia tittering, watching their son’s new friend with stars in their eyes.

And then Harry stumbles through the front door approximately forty minutes after Tom and Dudley.

The Dursleys are all immediately alert in a way they haven’t been so far. On edge.

Tom pretends not to notice the extremely noticeable shift in atmosphere and merely excuses himself to the bathroom.

He manages to catch his soulmate right when Harry starts dragging himself up the stairs, trainers discarded in a haphazard pile by the front door.

“Fuck’s sake,” Harry says under his breath when their gazes lock, hand tightening on the banister. He’s swaying slightly in place, clearly still under the influence of whatever alcohol he’s poured down his throat.

Tsk, tsk, Harry.

“Harry,” Tom says, warmly. “A quick word?”

Harry opens his mouth, then shuts it again when Dudley presses his considerable bulk into the hallway too, shutting the door to the kitchen behind him and forcing Tom to shift closer to the stairs.

“What?” Tom asks, frowning at his minion.

“Told mum I’d keep an eye on Harry,” Dudley grunts.

“The fuck is going on? What’re you doing here?” Harry demands, making an admirable effort not to let his voice carry into the kitchen.

“Oh, just having tea with my good friend Dudley here,” Tom replies innocently.

Harry’s green, hazy eyes narrow, darting slowly between Tom and Dudley, before a wicked little smile (that, perhaps, makes Tom’s stomach do a somersault) spreads across his face. “Hey Dudley?”

“What?”

“You know Bob here’s a wizard, yeah?”

It’s a struggle to hold in laughter, watching Harry’s face comically fall into something confused and nigh on offended, when Dudley merely grins, “Yeah, so?”

Still, Tom’s impressed with Harry’s cleverness – going on the offensive was the right move, since it would appear being magical is the fastest ticket out of the Dursleys’ good graces.

Alas, no matter how clever Harry might be, Tom is of course one step ahead.

“Harry – a word?” He gestures toward the front door.

This time, Harry grumbles something unintelligible, lurches down the few steps he’s managed to climb and walks outside in nothing but his socks.

“Wait here,” Tom murmurs to Dudley then follows his soulmate out the door, closing it gently behind them.

Harry rounds on him the second he makes it outside, glaring fiercely. He hasn’t completely lost it yet, though; Tom cannot detect any magic reaching toward him in threat.

“What the hell are you playing at, Tomdemort?”

Again with the bloody nickname. Aren’t we past this?

“Never mind that, Harry,” he says. “Just making some new friends and immersing myself in muggle culture.”

“And I’m sure it’s a complete coincidence you chose these muggles.”

“Oh, certainly. Happy coincidence.”

“Fucking stalker,” Harry mutters, shaking his head.

Tom goes conveniently deaf. “Anyway, since I’ve been so warmly welcomed here, I’m going to need you to keep my being a wizard to yourself.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “What possible reason could I have to comply with that?”

He slurs his words slightly, and Tom wrinkles his nose at this undignified behaviour.

“Because I’m asking you to.”

Harry scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Good grief – as if I care. I don’t want you around.”

“Harry,” Tom tuts. “Surely it’ll only be good for me to socialise with muggles, regardless of how tasteless you may find them?”

Harry’s brow furrows momentarily. Tom pushes on, “And this way you’ll be able to keep an eye on me.”

Harry’s eyes narrow.

It’s surprisingly difficult to read him; is it the alcohol?

Still, though, Tom cannot imagine the martyr passing up this opportunity.

And he’s soon proven right.

“Fine, whatever. Be bezzie mates with Dudley. Just – stay out of my way,” Harry mutters, pushing past, swerving to avoid touching Tom’s bare arm, and goes back inside, taking the stairs two unsteady steps at a time.

Tom gives himself a few seconds of victorious smiling before arranging his features into something more appropriate for company and goes back to dinner with the Dursleys.

He can’t very well go around the Dursleys for tea every night but simply dropping by to trade some words with the adults in daytime while keeping an eye out for Harry is certainly appropriate. And Tom is the considerate sort; he picks Dudley up for their daily excursions, giving him a convenient excuse to hang around Privet Drive number 4 in the mornings – which he learns is the time of day he’s most likely to run into Harry.

It's not enough, though. Tom craves more. Craves Harry’s presence in the way he’d had it at Grimmauld; perhaps not on top of each other, but always noticeable, something lingering in the air regardless of if they were in the same room or not. An awareness felt through the walls and ceiling, unhurried and crackling, always there.

He’s finally found his soulmate and he hates that he cannot easily spend time with him.

It’s difficult to achieve when Harry constantly avoids him, staring in one moment and averting his gaze and stride the next. He’s so close to succumbing, every day bringing his surrender closer, but he remains stubbornly steadfast in his denial of the longing Tom can read clear as day on his face.

He needs a push. Right over the edge into Tom’s arms.

Good thing Tom is nothing if not a problem solver.

“Sirius?”

He knocks on the door to the master bedroom.

Harry’s godfather, slightly less unkempt and skeletal these days, opens the door with a small smile. Behind him, the overgrown chicken he’s for some reason letting roost in there cracks open one bright, orange eye. “What’s up?”

“I don’t know the protocol here, really, but… my friend has invited me to have a sleepover tomorrow. Would that be alright?”

Buckbeak loses interest in the conversation and tucks his head under his wing.

Sirius blinks. “Um… yeah? Sure? Wait – what friend is this?”

“His name is Malcolm. He’s a muggle I met a couple of weeks ago.”

Sirius’ grey eyes narrow. “And he’s just a friend, is he?”

Cute. As if I’d ever look at anyone else when I’ve found my soulmate.

“Yes.” Tom nods. “Just a friend. Apparently, there’s a game on and he’s having a couple people over.”

“Game? Of what?”

“Football.”

“Sounds familiar.” Sirius squints, eyes going distant as he thinks. They tend to do that quite often. “Pretty sure Lily mentioned something about it. They just run around kicking a Quaffle, right?”

“A football, but yes, essentially,” Tom agrees.

“Well alright, sounds – fun, I guess.” His grimace belies his words. “Just you and a bunch of muggles, then?”

“Yes. That’s the plan,” Tom lies.

Sirius nods and manages a genuine smile. It takes years off his haggard face, displaying the handsome man Azkaban turned nigh on unrecognizable – Kreacher has been hosting picture time for him some evenings, so he knows all too well what Sirius used to look like once upon a time. Day by day, despite being a complete shut-in by virtue of the price on his head, he seems to be getting back to his old self.

Emphasis on old.

“Alright, well, good on ya for asking permission. Have fun,” says Sirius.

I intend to.

He’d made up some story about his father going out of town, and Dudley had managed the rest, being an expert on playing his parents and getting anything he wants.

And now here he sits in the guest room, one deliciously awkward family dinner later where Harry intermittently sighed and glared at him from across the table. The three Dursleys were on pins and needles waiting for anything out of the ordinary to happen while pretending nothing’s amiss, only for absolutely nothing special to occur. 

It was delightful.

It was especially delightful when Harry reluctantly did the dishes, only for Tom to offer his help, and then stealing not just one but two touches, their fingers grazing when Tom handed Harry a plate or fork to clean.

The clench of Harry’s sharp jaw was wonderful to witness. The sharp intake of breath a symphony, the flash of want in green, green eyes a headrush only rivalled by the soothing peace his skin brought.

It doesn’t matter that Harry escaped out the front door afterwards, only stumbling back inside just past Dudley’s normal curfew, reeking of liquor that the Dursleys pretended not to notice even though Petunia’s nose wrinkled in disgust and Vernon’s moustache quivered in anger.

Dudley simply enjoyed watching his cousin being subtly tortured, going so far as to ask Tom to wake him the next morning should he still be asleep when Harry gets up. Dudley may have misunderstood the real reason why and how Harry’s being tortured, but Tom has no intention of enlightening him.

The clock on the wall goes tick, tick, tick, and Tom watches the hands of it move, eyes adjusted to the darkness by now.

The adults and Dudley went to bed over an hour ago. Sounds stopped trickling out from Harry’s room across the hall only five minutes past.

Tom feels oddly… nervous.

The plan to push Harry over the edge is set, and solid, and he’s confident in his abilities, but at the same time there is the fact he’s never done anything like this before. Never had the interest.

And Harry… well. It stands to reason that he has. Twenty-one, a war hero, a celebrity, and presumably even more handsome than he is now…

Tom swallows.

Silently, he slides out from under the covers and pads over to the closed bedroom door. He eases it open and steps into the hallway, holding his breath, but he cannot detect any hint that the other denizens of the house have heard him.

Carefully, he creeps across the hall to Harry’s bedroom, heart pounding so loudly he fears it might be audible through the door.

His twitching fingers hover over the handle, below the absurd number of disengaged locks, pulse racing.

It’s a kiss. Just a kiss. People do it all the time, there’s nothing to be afraid of. He’s your soulmate. Now get. In. There.

With a deep breath, he twists the handle on Harry’s door and slips inside.

Chapter Text

Everything spins.

He can’t decide if he finds it pleasant or not, but it’s certainly effective. The void’s edges have dulled and his thoughts, while still annoyingly stuck on his supposed soulmate across the hall, have gone syrupy slow and less rage-inducing.

Alcohol. Brilliant invention. Whoever decided chucking a bunch of stuff and water in a barrel and letting it age should win a prize or something. Harry could even present it; it’d be the first ceremony he’d probably enjoy. Does he need to understand the specifics of brewing to present an award? No, surely not, that’d be ridiculous. He could just show up, hand over some silly statuette and go ‘cheers mate, good job’, shake their hand and then have a tipple with them, celebrating their incredible achievement.

The spinning makes falling asleep a bit difficult, but he usually manages eventually. He’s nearly there already, to be perfectly honest.

He almost doesn’t hear the bedroom door easing open over the sound of his own jaw-cracking yawn.

Almost.

The moment he realises those careful steps belong to Tom, the sleepy, drunken haze lifts, replaced by the usual angry desire.

How dare he?

First that fucking dinner where Tom made the Dursleys practically eat out of his hand, then that bloody washing-up that reminded Harry of everything he’s been fighting for weeks, then finagling a sleepover out of them and –

Of course.

This was his plan all along.

Sneaky, selfish, scheming snake.

While Harry’s busy being bombarded with surprisingly clever alliterations (considering how sloshed he is) about Tom’s dastardliness, Tom himself quietly approaches the bed.

A small, barely audible thud sounds as he gets down on his knees, right next to Harry’s pillow, unaware that Harry’s wide awake and watching him from beneath lowered lashes.

His breath, smelling faintly of fresh mint, is suddenly warm against Harry’s face.

It grows hitched when Harry’s hand shoots out and anchors on his neck, gripping tightly like Tom’s a misbehaving cat, keeping him from closing the distance any further.

Despite the peace nearly making his eyes cross in bliss, Harry feels livid.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he hisses, fighting the waves of serenity washing over him as if they were really made of fiery death, stubbornly refusing to embrace the euphoria.

Tom makes a movement – whether he’s trying to get out of Harry’s grip or get closer is unclear – and doesn’t reply at first.

Harry digs his blunted nails into the soft flesh. Tom lets out a small sound, almost like a whimper, the warm exhalation fanning over Harry’s face.

Harry hates what it does to him. Hates the peaceful warmth that makes his thumb involuntarily stroke Tom’s creamy skin, hates how the alcohol becomes obsolete in comparison to how the void completely disappears with Tom under his hand. Hates the void, hates the peace begging him to just give in, and hates Tom. Hates the whole fucking concept of soulmates and how it makes Tom believe that sneaking inside his room is in any way okay. Hates, hates, hates everything about this whole situation.

“Just – it feels so good,” Tom whispers, every syllable tickling Harry’s face. “When we touch. Don’t you miss it?”

Harry tightens his grip around Tom’s neck even more.

He does. He does miss it. Misses it even as he gets it, this very second. He dreads the moment he’ll inevitably let go of Tom and the void will come back, reminding him of the piece he’s lacking, of the fact that he only ever feels whole with Tom’s skin against his.

Weeks. He’s managed weeks. And now here they are, with the third hit of the same goddamn evening, and Harry’s so peacefully angry he barely knows his own name.

“I just want,” Tom whispers, unbearably close to Harry’s face, warm breath puffing softly against his lips, “a kiss.”

It would be so easy to let Tom have his way. To swallow his anger and let it happen.

Harry slowly slides his hand around, from Tom’s neck to his throat, gripping tightly.

Tom’s breath hitches. His brown eyes gleam in the gentle glow of a streetlight slanting through the open window, turning hooded. His tongue darts out and wets his full lips, and Harry can feel Tom’s throat work underneath his palm.

A kiss.

Tom has snuck inside his room – again – for a kiss.

Baby Voldemort wants to kiss him.

He’d laugh if he wasn’t so blindingly angry, the rage overpowering the serenity singing in his veins.

He'll need to do something drastic to drive the point home that Tom is not bloody welcome.

He shuffles into a seated position. Then, with a hard shove, he forces Tom’s face away, pushing him further down the bed and toward his crotch.

“Either put that mouth to use, or get the fuck out,” he snarls.

The moment his hand leaves Tom’s throat, the lack deep inside makes itself known. He relishes its return, for once.

Tom wobbles unsteadily on his knees, hands fisted in the covers for balance, right next to Harry’s leg.

He doesn’t get up. Doesn’t leave. Doesn’t utter a single word.

Instead, he inhales shakily, and then flips the thin covers away, revealing Harry’s bare legs and the black pants where his cock is – hatefully – straining against the fabric.

Another inhale. As if gathering strength. Deciding.

What are you doing?

…it would appear Tom is calling his bluff.

Tom’s slender hands creep up, up, up. One alights on Harry’s hipbone, the other one decisively cupping his erection, rubbing slowly up and down, then squeezing.

Harry is too stunned to speak, to so much as breathe, as one of his secret, most shameful fantasies ever since he was twelve and first laid eyes on a young Tom Riddle, appears to be coming true.

He remembers those first tentative touches far too vividly. Remembers holding his breath in his fourposter, stroking his aching cock to thoughts of a handsome, beautiful boy with a winsome smile and warm eyes. Continuing to do so even after he learned who he’d wanked over, pulling the memories forward and then shamefully tucking them away once he’d found release, doing his best to separate the pretty prefect from the monster he’d become, and being thoroughly disgusted with himself for failing to properly banish Tom Riddle from his fantasies.

And now, here the pretty prefect kneels, head slightly tilted in consideration, denied a kiss but cupping Harry’s hard cock with unbearable gentleness.

Tom doesn’t say anything.

Neither does Harry.

A car passes by somewhere in the distance, the rumble of its engine drifting inside the otherwise quiet bedroom.

The tension lies thick between them, blanketing the room. Harry’s pulse is a roar in his ears, his skin heated and feverish, and fuck it, he wants –

Tom’s fingers hook in the waistband of Harry’s pants and slowly drags them down.

Harry wordlessly lifts his hips slightly to aid the removal of his underwear.

The anger remains, bubbling underneath his skin. He hates how badly he wants this. How the considering look Tom gives his cock makes it twitch and leak.

Do it, fucker. Do it, then.

Tom leans in, warm breath fanning over the sensitive skin. His soft hand hesitantly circles the root. Drifts upwards. Carefully pulls the foreskin down and then lowers his head, tongue darting out to lap, to lave, to taste.

Harry holds his breath, drunken mind unable to comprehend this is actually happening. It escapes him in a whoosh when Tom suddenly sucks the head inside his mouth and then just… holds it there.

It’s warm, and wet, and incredible, and further augmented by the wonderful peace once more sparking in Harry’s veins. This time, he lets it wash over him, the wave dragging him under.

Tom merely kneels there without moving, lips stretched around Harry’s length, eyes fluttering closed.

It’s painfully obvious he has no idea what he’s doing. And while Harry isn’t necessarily opposed to some cockwarming, he’d much prefer to get his, now that he’s idiotically given in to the insanity.

He reaches out and clamps a hand around Tom’s neck again. It takes effort to be somewhat gentle in pushing Tom’s face down, but he manages, and Tom makes a surprised little sound around him that makes Harry sink his teeth into his bottom lip. He brings Tom’s head back up, hissing lightly as Tom’s teeth scrape the sensitive skin, and then forces his head back down again.

Up, and down, and up, and down.

Eventually, Tom figures out how to keep his teeth sheathed and presses his tongue against the underside of Harry’s cock, enhancing the warm, wet slide that makes Harry’s heart race.

So Harry increases the pace.

“Suck,” he orders, voice hoarse and edged with anger.

Tom lets out another small sound, suspiciously close to a whimper, as Harry moves his head faster up and down along his length. He does his best to comply with Harry’s order, and Harry can’t help but groan softly at the incredible feeling of Tom’s silken mouth tightening, coupled with the serenity and bliss of the soulmate bond.

Harry’s head spins. It's difficult to say whether from alcohol or getting the most satisfying blowjob of his life from a person he hates.

This is the high he’s been chasing ever since coming back to life. The fullness he merely glimpses with others or at the bottom of a bottle before it’s yanked away.

Tom tentatively starts moving his hand in synchrony with Harry’s movement of his head, temporarily whitening out Harry’s mind, leaving it blissfully blank and calm for the first time in forever.

One thing remains clear, however.

“I hate you so much,” he rasps, delirious, and Tom makes another whimpering sound around him, the vibration travelling all the way down to his toes, making them curl. “Hate you, hate you, hate you…”

He trails off on a curse, feeling his balls draw up tight and heat zinging along his spine, when Tom merely whimpers again, hollows out his cheeks and sucks like his life depends on it, like Harry’s cock is the source of his oxygen despite depriving him of the very same.

Harry forces Tom’s face down as far as it can go, making Tom’s throat convulse, and comes on a long, drawn-out groan.

Tom swallows around him, nose slightly squished against Harry’s hipbone. He gags, over and over, but Harry can’t find it in himself to care.

He feels amazing. Light, and floaty, and satisfied.

His hand falls away from Tom’s neck, and Tom withdraws from his cock, coughing and spluttering, tears trailing down his reddened cheeks, normally perfectly coiffed hair in disarray.

Harry watches silently in mild fascination from under heavy eyelids.

Even face-fucked to the point of near asphyxiation, Tom remains eerily handsome. Because where’s the justice in this world?

Hopefully this will make you leave me the fuck alone, arsehole.

“Now get out,” he says, pulling his pants up and throwing the covers back over himself.

Tom sends him a look full of betrayal, wiping at his cheeks.

Harry closes his eyes so he won’t have to see it. It makes the pang of confused guilt easier to ignore, too.

“That’s it?” Tom’s voice is hoarse, spoken with effort through a thoroughly abused throat.

Harry turns on his side, facing the wall. “I said get out.”

He can hear Tom get to his feet, using the bed for leverage. He remains there at Harry’s back, looming ominously.

If he tries to climb in, I’m cursing him.

It isn't necessary, though.

Tom leaves the room a tense minute later as silently as he’d entered it, closing the door behind him.

Harry lets out the breath he’d been unintentionally holding and sags into the mattress.

He… just got a blowjob from Tom Riddle.

Teenage Voldemort.

A murderer. His parents’ murderer. His own.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

Eyes squeezed shut, he begs his brain to switch off already because how the hell is he supposed to deal with this?

Not that his brain listens to him; wouldn’t that be convenient?

Harry lays awake for two hours more going over every miniscule detail he can remember, berates himself for it, then does it all over again.

When Harry drags himself downstairs for breakfast, having barely slept a wink, Tom is already seated at the kitchen table having a cup of tea with Petunia.

“Morning,” Harry grunts and beelines for the fridge in search of breakfast.

Petunia doesn’t reply other than a quiet sniff, but when he turns back around after popping some bread in the toaster, Tom’s gaze locks onto his, and he smiles – a small smirk, barely an uptick of the lips Harry last saw stretched around his cock.

Truthfully, Harry had assumed Tom would ignore him after how he kicked him out last night.

“Good morning, Harry,” Tom says, slightly scratched voice full of the usual warmth that always manages to be thoroughly confusing. Tom shouldn’t be capable of it; Voldemort certainly wasn’t. Even when he’d murmur sweet nothings to Nagini, there was no true warmth there. Is it because he’s still fully human, his soul untorn?

Harry nods curtly and continues preparing his toast, thoroughly ignoring how his heart is beating a bit too fast.

It’s probably due to the alcohol still being flushed out of his system, anyway.

It’s annoying how quickly you can get used to seeing someone every day. Even if you dislike them – and Harry well and truly does – they become a sort of expected presence, and it’s no longer quite as jarring seeing them in your regular space. Turning a corner and finding them on the sofa playing videogames or climbing the stairs and hearing their voice in another room becomes strangely run of the mill, more exasperating than shocking, though you know, logically, that it should be completely out of the ordinary.

Tom Riddle haunts Privet Drive, watching and smiling and scheming, and Harry is oddly resigned to it at this point.

He does consider writing Sirius and telling him about it, make him keep Tom at Grimmauld, but he’s reluctant to involve Sirius in whatever fucked up war Tom is waging here. Bob isn’t technically doing anything wrong, and it wouldn’t be good for anyone else to realise why Harry doesn’t want Tom around.

So, he grits his teeth, accepts the situation for what it is, and doesn’t attempt any further ejections of Tom from Privet Drive.

He doesn’t really get why Dudley’s so happy about it, though.

“Bob’s staying over again tonight?” Harry repeats slowly, staring incredulously at his cousin who’s just dropped the news, hurrying into the hallway right as Harry was about to leave the house for the day.

Dudley grins widely. Meanly. “Yeah.”

“Don’t you have any other friends to play with?” Harry can’t quite mask his irritation. It’s impossible to say whether he’s more annoyed with the prospect of Tom’s sleepover, or his own mild interest in if Tom will instigate a repeat of the last time he stayed overnight at Privet Drive.

Don’t bloody think about it, he admonishes himself, as he thinks about it. Remembers far too clearly the sight of Tom on his knees with Harry’s cock in his mouth.

Fuck’s sake.

“What can I say – Bobby’s a new favourite.”

“I’m sure Piers will be heartbroken,” Harry mutters, slamming the door behind him.

An unexpected downpour forces Harry home sooner than he’d planned. He’s barely even tipsy – a far cry from the mind-numbingly smashed he’d been counting on before returning to Privet Drive. Drinking alone in his room isn’t quite as pleasant as drinking alone in the woods somewhere.

(He’s certainly not returning early for any other reason. That’d be absurd and Harry is not the absurd type. The rain is just too heavy on the ground to effectively deter for any flimsy magical shelter he could conjure.)

He grips the bottle of whiskey and Disapparates, landing at his usual spot a few streets over from the house.

It’s a mere drizzle in Little Whinging, so he takes the route through the underpass, but there are no dementors lying in wait for him, no gang nearby throwing rocks at kids or whatever the fuck it is they’re doing these days.

Nothing to delay his return to the house whatsoever.

Harry digs into the brown paper bag, uncorks the bottle and takes a deep swig, then drags himself back to his summer prison, ignoring the scandalised look from the lady of number 7 walking past him under a frilly blue umbrella.

Indoors, he runs his hand through his slightly damp hair and kicks off his trainers, grimly observing that Tom’s are already there, neatly stacked side by side with Dudley’s oversized clown shoes.

Honestly, would it be so much to ask for Sirius to keep Tombob home on occasion? Why does he keep approving these sleepovers? Has he no respect for Harry’s difficulties resisting the siren song of Tom’s skin?

(And now mouth because why should anything go as planned in Harry’s life?)

Harry knows full well Sirius likely believes Tom is somewhere completely different, but it makes him feel a little better having someone to blame for Tom’s constant intrusions. Someone other than Tom himself, that is – though there’s plenty of blame to go around.

Harry blows out an annoyed breath and climbs the stairs before anyone can realise that he’s returned, sequestering himself in his bedroom with his trusty bottle for company.

And Hedwig, apparently, soaring in through the open window the moment he steps foot in the room.

Harry's scowl smooths out, every muscle in his face softening into a smile, annoyance bleeding away.

“Hello, girl,” he murmurs, stroking her head. “Did you have a good time at Ron’s?”

She nips his finger affectionately, hooting quietly in affirmation, then stretches out a leg where a letter awaits. He disentangles it and tosses it onto the desk. He can read it later.

He sets the bottle down on the dresser and takes a seat on the bed, bringing Hedwig with him, and he merely sits there for the better part of an hour, petting her.

Fine, he’ll admit it; it’s not all bad in this dimension. There’s Sirius, and Hedwig and –

Harry sighs, one of Hedwig’s feathers fluttering with the force of his exhale.

And, though he’s reluctant to admit it even in the privacy of his own mind, a teenage Dark Lord is certainly more manageable than the adult version. Less likely to inspire fear, at the very least.

It’s strange; he knows full well that the teenager playing games on Dudley’s console downstairs right now is an actual murderer, and yet it’s sometimes hard to genuinely believe it. How the boy leaving Petunia starry-eyed over tea once looked into the faces of his father and paternal grandparents and killed them in cold blood.

The boy carrying Harry’s tantalizing serenity in his skin wherever he goes is the last person in the world who should be able to grant it.

Harry glances over at Ron’s letter on the desk.

Sighs.

And reaches over to get it.

He frowns at the unusually hastily scrawled note. Normally, over the past weeks, Ron sends him rather long letters as if channelling Hermione, expressing worries and almost begging for reassurance that Harry is fine (no), not doing anything rash (depends how you define ‘rash’), and asking whether he’s keeping up to date with the Prophet (absolutely fucking not).

Mate,

We’re staying with Snuffles for the rest of the summer. Lot of things happening. Dad says they’ll come get you after your birthday. Gotta go.

Harry rereads it a couple more times, frown deepening.

He – doesn’t understand.

Has Dumbledore reformed the Order of the Phoenix despite the lack of obvious threat?

He hasn’t told anyone Voldemort is technically back. Is Dumbledore still going on about it? Even after Harry assured him there was no sight of Voldemort at the graveyard, that the Death Eaters may indeed have been attempting something but certainly didn’t succeed at whatever it was?

He summons the whiskey and takes a deep swig.

If Dumbledore has brought the Order back into action, does that make Harry a traitor to the cause?

Another deep swallow, the warmth of the whiskey pooling in his chest.

Not like that part’s news, he supposes. He’s locked together with Tom whether he wants to be or not – and he doesn’t, just to be clear, in case Death is listening in – but he can’t see any reason for the whole goddamn Order to get involved, even if they did somehow know Voldemort is technically back.

Besides, it’s not like the Death Eaters can cause much havoc without Voldemort leading them, and Tomdemort is busy charming muggles left and right downstairs where Harry can keep an eye on him – certainly not leading his fucked-up organization in a covert war for a government takeover.

The only thing Tom really seems to want is… Harry.

(What else is new?)

Three deep swallows in quick succession. The burn of the whiskey makes his eyes water.

Not like Harry can tell Dumbledore any of that, though.

Oh yeah, it’s Voldemort alright, but we’re soulmates – I suspect Death had something to do with it – and I’ve kept my mouth shut so far and I have no intention of killing him because Death and the soulmate crap won’t let me anyway and honestly, I kinda don’t even want to because touching him is the only thing that makes me feel whole since I died and came back to life in another dimension and he gave me a blowjob the other day that I can’t fucking stop thinking about.

He sighs into the bottleneck, then tips it back, letting the spicy amber trickle down his throat.

“What the hell am I gonna do, Hedwig?” he murmurs.

Hedwig hoots softly and flutters onto his shoulder. Gently nips his ear.

And Harry certainly does not tear up, thank you very much.

Chapter Text

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Tom chooses to take the fact he can hear the clock as a good sign.

Because it means the Dursleys are all finally asleep, and it’s time for attempt number two.

He slides quietly out of bed. His heart is racing, palms oddly clammy. His mouth keeps filling with saliva that he needs to swallow, and he keeps experiencing intermittent flashes of heat, making his limbs tremble.

It’s been happening ever since a week ago when he last did this. When he tried to steal a simple kiss and ended up getting far more than he’d bargained for.

When Harry took control and Tom gladly let him.

Tom inhales shakily, hand on the doorknob.

The taste of Harry lingered throughout the entire following day, even after brushing his teeth. The phantom feel of his hard, silken prick in Tom’s mouth. The noise Harry made when he came all the way down Tom’s throat, the warmth of his hand on Tom’s neck, holding him down.

Tom exhales, just as shakily as the inhale.

‘I hate you, I hate you, I hate you –’

Tom shivers. Another hot flash surges through his body.

Anything is better than indifference. And Harry is most certainly not indifferent to him.

Which has handed Tom the perfect plan for winning him over on a silver platter. He’ll let Harry struggle against the soulmate pull and ostensibly use him – another shiver – so Tom can reel him in, and then, when he’s well and properly hooked, Tom will simply cut the line.

Deny him until Harry comes to him begging for it.

It’s a sound strategy, a good plan.

And it’s not like Tom won’t get anything out of the bargain. He’s been looking forward to this ever since last time.

He slips out of the guest room and into Harry’s. The fact that the door is unlocked is a victory all on its own.

The gentle glow of the streetlamp outside slants through the open window, painting the dim room in hues of rust and amber, the closed curtains stirred lightly by an errant breeze.

“You again,” Harry sighs from the bed.

“Me again,” Tom agrees in a quiet murmur, shutting the door behind him.

He rubs at his tearstained, warm cheeks as he climbs back into bed. His throat aches, and so do the roots of his hair where Harry pulled especially roughly when he came.

Tom exhales shakily at the memory.

Then shoves his hand down his pants.

‘Hate – you – so – fucking – much – ahh–’

Harry’s voice lingers in his ears, the taste of him in his mouth.

It doesn’t take him long to spill over his knuckles.

“Good morning, Harry,” he says warmly from his seat by the kitchen table.

One of Harry’s eyebrows ticks upward. It’s clear he doesn’t know how to handle Tom acting like normal despite being kicked out of his room like a cheap whore again last night.

But joke’s on him; Tom will shy no method in winning his soulmate over. If this is what it takes, then so be it.

“Morning,” Harry replies, cautiously. Suspiciously.

Tom ignores the questioning look Dudley sends him and merely smirks knowingly at his soulmate from over the rim of his teacup.

The fact Harry keeps giving in regardless of his supposed negative feelings tells Tom everything he needs to know.

When he steps through the door to Grimmauld later that afternoon, the sheer amount of noise hits him over the head like a sledgehammer.

Voices. Shouts. Crashes and the cracks! of Apparition and Walburga screaming her head off in her portrait. The hallway is lined with trunks and bags and various other belongings, and Tom stares incredulously at the mess.

What the hell is going on?

Sirius thunders up the stairs from the kitchen, roaring, “SHUT UP!” as he lunges for the billowing curtains on either side of Walburga’s portrait.

“Bob! Help out,” he grunts, wrestling with the black fabric.

Thankfully, Walburga is too distracted yelling insults at her oldest son to notice Tom as he reluctantly helps Sirius close the drapes and then quickly stands to the side, out of view, as Sirius shoots a sticking charm onto the curtains.

He thinks the portrait won’t be able see through Death’s glamour, but he hasn’t tested the theory.

“Merlin,” Sirius says on an exhale, shaking his long hair out of his eyes and tucking his wand away. “What a madhouse.”

“I noticed.” Tom looks pointedly at the belongings scattered all over the hallway.

Sirius grimaces. “Yeah, so… we’ll be playing host to the Weasley family for the rest of the summer.”

Tom supresses the urge to flinch as yet another sharp crack! echoes through the house, followed by a woman bellowing something indistinct. “…why?”

“Dumbledore has reformed the Order of the Phoenix, and I’ve offered Grimmauld as headquarters.”

Tom blinks, quickly debating whether he’s supposed to have knowledge of these things or not.

He doesn’t think he is, and honestly, always better to play dumb in these kinds of scenarios regardless.

“Why is the headmaster of a school forming an order? And what even is the – Order? Why does it require headquarters?”

Before Sirius has a chance to reply, two gangly gingers suddenly appear between them, wearing identical bright grins on their identical freckled faces.

“Ooh, a new face!” the one on the left exclaims, leaning forward, far too closely into Tom’s personal space.

He takes a step back.

“Is this the famous Bob, then?” the twin on the right asks, something far too close for comfort to a leer twisting his not unappealing features. “Blimey, lucky Harry I guess, look at you.”

The compliment does serve to soften Tom’s initial hostility, but not by much, as they’re technically complimenting the blond Swede Death makes him appear as.

“And you are?”

“Fred,” says the twin on the left.

“George,” says the twin on the right.

For some reason, Tom gets the distinct impression they’re lying. “Pleasure.”

“Boys, we were actually in the middle of something,” Sirius says from behind them. “Could you give us a moment?”

“Aye, aye, Mr Infamous Criminal, sir!” The twins salute in synchrony, lift their wands, and then Disapparate with a loud crack!

Tom shares a strangely commiserating look with Sirius.

“They were only told earlier today that I’m not actually a criminal,” Sirius sighs. “But at least those two aren’t afraid of me.” He shakes his head. “Anyway – all you need to know for now about the Order of the Phoenix is that we’re dedicated to opposing Voldemort.”

Tom has a good laugh in the privacy of his own mind about that.

What would you do if you knew Voldemort is standing right in front of you? That he’s already infiltrated this silly little organization without even trying?

It takes effort to keep any amusement out of his voice. “Alright. But I thought Harry said Voldemort wasn’t even at the graveyard?”

“He did,” Sirius agrees. “But just the fact Harry was kidnapped suggests there’s a plot in motion to bring Voldemort back. And, well… it’s possible Harry missed something when –”

He cuts himself off, clearing his throat and looking away.

“Well, when you-know-what happened.”

Tom nods, adopting a sad expression. It’s difficult, considering he’s overjoyed this dimension’s Harry was dispatched to make room for his Harry. Sympathy for the dead kid he never knew is hard to summon.

“And, just so you’re aware, the house will be going under the Fidelius charm. Have you heard of it?”

“I have,” Tom says slowly, recalling the book he’d read on the magical theory just before Christmas – it shouldn’t be obsolete, but he supposes it has been over fifty years…

“Good. Dumbledore will be the secret keeper, but he’ll tell you about the house as soon as the spell has been cast. Oh,” Sirius winks, “how was the sleepover?”

Fingers in his hair –

Hand on his neck –

‘Suck. Harder.’

Salty, tangy, warm cum down his throat –

“It was good,” Tom replies with a smile. “I had a nice time.”

“Glad to hear it, kid. Now, might as well meet the rest of them, eh?”

It takes a surprisingly long time to become fully acquainted with the newcomers, as they’re spread all over the house and tend to move around quite a bit as well. But in the end, Tom has successfully put names to the faces of the entire Weasley family, spending most of his time taking the measure of Harry’s supposed best friend, Ron.

Tall, gangly, freckled and just as ginger as the rest of the clan, there is nevertheless an intriguing shrewdness in his bright blue eyes, suggesting he sees more than he perhaps lets on or is consciously aware of.

It might prove an obstacle in the future. Harry isn’t exactly shy about using Tom’s real name in conversation, and it only takes one slip-up for everything to come crumbling down around them regardless of Death’s meticulously crafted backstory.

At least Harry’s no longer insisting on Tomdemort. Small mercies and all that.

Tom will certainly need to keep an eye on Ron Weasley. And, as the supposed best friend, it wouldn’t hurt to win him over quickly; having someone close to Harry sing Tom’s praises can only be a good thing.

He doesn’t like how the sister looks at him, though. He can’t quite figure out what unsettles him about it, but every time he catches her stare, she has a different expression on her ridiculously freckled face. One moment it’s curious, the next angry, then strangely discerning.

As if she knows him.

As if whatever experience she had in the Chamber of Secrets that Harry told him about has left such an impression on her that she suspects who Tom really is, regardless of Death’s crafted mask.

But he’s being unnecessarily paranoid.

Still, though – better to steer clear.

“I won’t be around for a couple of days,” he tells Harry the next morning, picking up Dudley for the day. He isn’t exactly keen on spending valuable ingratiating time on Dudley, but it wouldn’t do for him to neglect his long-term investment just because a shiny new one has popped up.

Harry gasps dramatically, hand on his chest. “However shall I manage?”

As if Tom didn’t see Harry swallow convulsively and stare a bit too long at his mouth when they first bumped into each other in the carpeted hallway.

“Things are happening at Grimmauld,” Tom says loftily, adjusting the backwards cap he’s become surprisingly fond of. It doesn’t do his stupid blonde hair any favours, but it enhances his silhouette: a decent trade-off. “I’d hate to miss out on the beginnings of the new Order.”

Harry’s eyes narrow, hand falling to his side. “You know about the Order? They told you?”

“But of course. Sirius tells me plenty.”

“And I’m sure Kreacher fills in the rest.”

“Allies are important.” Tom grins. “Speaking of, that friend of yours, Ron? Quite the adept chess player. I had a lovely time with him yesterday.”

And oh, that flash of jealousy on Harry’s face is delicious. Tom doesn’t even care it’s likely about him getting to spend time with Ron rather than the other way around; it’s still there.

He can’t resist poking further.

“Although, I suppose it technically isn’t your Ron, is it?”

A muscle in Harry’s sharp jaw ticks. His magic surges, reaching for Tom in beautiful threat, and Tom is hard-pressed to supress a shiver.

Dudley comes lumbering down the stairs, shoulder-checking Harry with a grunted, insincere apology that nevertheless makes Harry’s magic reluctantly settle back underneath his skin.

Tom winks at his soulmate, wiggling his fingers mockingly in farewell. “La’er, ‘arry.”

Tom stares intently at the chessboard, calculating his moves.

For the first time, he’s met his match.

Reluctantly, he makes the only viable move, even though it’ll lead to check in three moves, and checkmate in another two.

He clocks the second Ron realises as well, a sly grin blooming.

“Well done,” Tom says, injecting enough warmth to hide his irritation.

“It’s not over yet,” Ron protests, gesturing at the board. “You’ve still got a chance!”

Tom clicks his tongue. “Now, now, we both know that’s not true.”

The slyness is replaced with something a little goofy, a little bashful. “Sorry, just… not really used to playing people as good as you.”

Tom takes the compliment and graciously inclines his head. “Best of three?”

Except right then, Mrs Weasley bellows from the kitchen that supper is ready. Ron eagerly gets to his feet at the siren call of food. “After, yeah?”

“After,” Tom agrees, following Ron out of the sitting room and down the stairs to the kitchen, almost as eager as Ron.

While Kreacher’s cooking has been perfectly satisfactory, there’s something about Molly Weasley’s that’s just… better. Tom can’t put his finger on it. He tried observing her cooking the other day – to her clear delight – but she didn’t appear to use any other spices or different culinary practices than Kreacher, really. And yet, without fail, her food turns out even more delicious than Kreacher’s.

(Not that he’d tell Kreacher this – the elf is already up in arms about Grimmauld being invaded by blood traitors and Tom has far more self-preservation instincts than that, thank you very much.)

Nearly all mismatched chairs are already taken when Tom steps into the wonderfully fragrant kitchen. He lets Ron take a seat first, so he’ll have a buffer between himself and Ginny, just to be safe.

At the other end of the table, Arthur and Sirius are having a quiet conversation, heads close together, brows furrowed in concentration as they sketch something out on a piece of parchment. One of the twins keeps trying to get a look at what they’re doing but isn’t covert enough in his attempt so Molly’s swat at his shoulder forces him to retreat. The other twin is busy shovelling food down his gullet, but Tom catches the sly look sent his father and Sirius’ way.

The twins have been the most vocal about wanting part in the Order of the Phoenix, citing reaching majority as reason enough to be included, but their mother staunchly opposes their every effort to take part in the silly, pointless organization’s agenda.

Tom idly wonders, filling his plate, how long she’ll manage to hold them off. They’re determined, and resourceful; their Extendable Ears have seen much use already and are, quite frankly, ingenious.

Not that what they’ve learned is in any way interesting, though, seeing as there’s nothing to learn. The few meetings held in the kitchen have mostly revolved around setting up watches around Harry’s house – annoying – and lamenting that they’re flying blind in regard to Voldemort and the Death Eaters’ current plans.

And, well, it’s not like Tom can tell them that Voldemort’s current plans mostly revolve around getting his soulmate on side. The rest can wait.

After dinner, he and Ron return to the sitting room, annoyingly enough accompanied by the sister, who curls up in one of the chairs with a book.

Ron sets up the chessboard, offering Tom white this time.

“Pawn to e4,” Tom says, and the pawn slides over the board into position.

“Pawn to e5,” Ron says without pause, making himself comfortable. “So, which house do you think you’ll get?”

“Pawn to d4. Oh, I’m not sure,” Tom replies loftily. “I suspect either Slytherin or Ravenclaw, based on what I’ve read.”

Ron grimaces, eyes on the board. “Pawn to d4.” Tom’s defeated pawn troops off the board. “Slytherin? Really?”

“What’s wrong with Slytherin? Queen to d4.” The queen picks up the pawn and throws it off the board.

“What isn’t would be more accurate,” Ron replies. “Queen to f6. They’re all pricks, really. Entitled little Death Eaters in training, if you ask me.”

Excellent, good to know.

“Queen to e3. I see. I suppose I might have a difficult time then, as the soulmate of the Boy Who Lived.”

A quiet little huff sounds from Ginny’s end of the room.

“To put it mildly, yeah. Knight to h6. Honestly, anything other than Slytherin would be better for you. Try asking the hat or something, maybe it’ll listen.”

The whole Weasley family is so annoyingly Gryffindor. Luckily, because they are, neither of them has noticed the Heir of Slytherin in their midst.

“I certainly wouldn’t mind ending up in Gryffindor with you and Harry. Knight to c3. Would be nice to share a common room. I’ve never had something like that before.”

“What, you didn’t go to school at all before Hogwarts? Knight to g4.”

“No. My father,” Tom grimaces, gorge involuntarily rising every time he uses the phrase, “wasn’t overly fond of his own schooling – called it a bunch of propagandic rubbish – and so decided to homeschool me when I turned eleven. Mum took his word wizarding school wasn’t necessary and didn’t push. Knight to d5.”

“But he went to Hogwarts, right?”

Tom shakes his head. “Durmstrang, actually.”

“Blimey! Guess I can see his point, then.”

Tom raises an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with Durmstrang? I mean, I know what my father thought, but why do you think so?

“They teach Dark Arts, don’t they?” Ron shrugs. “Their headmaster actually ran off at the end of the Triwizard tournament – he used to be a follower of You-Know-Who. And I dunno, the students are just… clomping in and taking things that don’t belong to them. Queen to c6.”

Tom blinks.

What?

“They stole from you?”

Ginny snorts but doesn’t otherwise engage.

“Well, no, not technically, but… you know.” A small blush spreads underneath Ron’s freckles.

“Clearly, I don’t,” Tom says, injecting some levity into his voice.

“Never mind,” Ron mutters, embarrassed, blush spreading all the way up to his hairline and merging with the ginger. “Your move.”

Tom lets it be, for now. “Queen to f4. Anyway, I’m really looking forward to Hogwarts, no matter which house I end up in.”

“That’s good. Do you play Quidditch, by the way? I’m thinking of trying out for the team this year. I’m not sure which spot will be available, though. Wood graduated so I guess Keeper would be open… I wonder who’s gonna get the captaincy – it could go to Harry, but I think McGonagall will pick Angelina. She’s older and has seniority and all that rot. No one in their right mind would pick Fred or George for it. Could go to Alicia or Katie though, of course, but I have a feeling McGonagall would still go for Angelina. Pawn to… d6 – no, wait, bloody hell.”

It’s too late, though – the pawn has already slid forward.

Tom smiles, thankful for how inane Quidditch talk so successfully distracted his opponent.

“Bishop to b5. Checkmate.”

Ron groans, then lets out a small laugh, shaking his head ruefully. “Good game. Another?”

“Set it up. And no, I don’t play Quidditch.”

Ron sets up the board, the inherent magic of the chessboard repairing the few broken pieces, though some of them are looking slightly chipped still. Must be getting old. “But you watch it, yeah? Harry’s our star seeker; it wouldn’t do for his soulmate to miss the games.”

Tom chuckles. “I suppose I could be persuaded. For Harry.”

Out the corner of his eye, he catches Ginny scowl into her book.

Interesting.

“Good. Black or white?”

“I’ll let you have white this time. Give you a fighting chance.”

Ron scoffs, smiling. “Your funeral.”

Tom decides he’s given Harry enough time to miss him after a week and makes the journey back to Little Whinging.

It took effort to shake the Weasleys who were all inordinately interested in his muggle friends, and even more effort in finding out where the bloody guards are stationed around Privet Drive so he can avoid them, but Tom managed like he does everything else – with guile and cleverness.

(Honestly, that Mundungus Fletcher fellow is nothing but a liability, and Tom cannot comprehend why he’s been given such an important role in the Order. Far as they know, Voldemort and his Death Eaters are out there, planning another kidnapping attempt of Tom’s soulmate, and Fletcher doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in any interpretation of the word.)

Before he gets on the final bus, he stops inside a public bathroom and changes into his muggle clothes, pulling the cap down over his eyes to disguise his face. With the Bobby-walk, he’s confident the casual observer will be none the wiser who is visiting Privet Drive this morning, even if they have met him at Grimmauld.

He catches the bus right before it’s due to leave, and climbs the stairs, taking a window seat at the front, getting the whole row to himself for once.

He’s especially glad of it when he catches sight of a very familiar mop of black hair two stops earlier than he normally gets off. He slams the button and hurries down the stairs, moving with the swaying bus as it pulls into the stop.

Harry hasn’t noticed him yet, and so Tom makes it nearly all the way to his side before Harry turns around, eyes narrowed as if he can feel Tom’s gaze at the back of his neck.

Harry sighs, green eyes glowing in the sunlight. “You again.”

Tom grins, stomach doing an odd little flip. “Miss me?”

“Like an ulcer.”

But the harsh swallow and darted glance at Tom’s mouth does not lie.

“Well, I’ve certainly missed you, Harry. Headquarters simply isn’t the same without you.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’m sure they keep you entertained.”

“Oh, most certainly. The Weasleys are quite the entertaining bunch. But it lacks a certain… energy only someone of your disposition can provide.”

“Yeah? Here’s a taste; piss off.” With that, he lengthens his stride and continues on his way.

Tom watches him go with a smile and decides that there’s no need to visit Privet Drive today after all.

Two days before Harry’s birthday, Tom is in the sitting room playing chess with Ron, debating whether to contact Dudley for a sleepover on the thirty-first.

It would be his last chance before the plan to bring Harry over to Grimmauld is put into action, but he’s not sure he can swing a visit to Privet Drive on such short notice. He could call Dudley, of course, he does have the number to their residence.

Ron hides a large yawn behind his hand as he directs his next piece, shaking his head to clear it. It’s only just past dinner, but the roast Molly made has left all denizens of the house pleasantly drowsy. Even Tom is feeling its effects.

He’s in the process of deciding his next move as well as deliberating whether to jaunt down to the corner where he’s seen a phonebooth, when Sirius enters the sitting room.

His face is grim, and there’s a barely constrained energy to his steps that makes Tom sit up straight in alarm. Ron copies him the moment he notices too.

“…Sirius?”

“Harry’s been attacked.”

Chapter Text

The swing chain keeps creaking. Round and round he goes, twisting the chains almost all the way to the top, reaching toward the endless lilac sky.

Then he draws his feet up, and releases.

Spin, spin, spinning, keeping pace with the earth’s orbit around the sun for fifteen glorious seconds.

The deserted playground wobbles and twists in his vision as the swing comes to a stop, his trainers scraping the scorched dirt.

Harry lets out a heavy sigh, leaning his head against the chain as his head slowly settles.

Bored doesn’t even begin to describe how he’s feeling.

For days now, he’s been nothing but a bundle of impatience, a restlessness creeping and crawling underneath his skin like a million ants. No amount of alcohol or wanking seems to settle his mind – nothing helps.

He idly swings back and forth, one foot anchored to the ground, staring unseeing down at the dirt.

Merlin, but it’s been a long summer already. He’s over it. He craves distraction, even if that comes in the form of boring classes he’s already suffered through once before and teenage, incomplete versions of his best friends; anything is better than this beige hellscape –

Voices.

More importantly, voices he recognises.

Reluctantly, he perks up and glances over his shoulder.

It doesn’t take long to assess that Tom isn’t with the gang tonight, and Harry quickly loses interest again.

“See you tomorrow, Big D!”

“Tomorrow, lads!”

Harry snorts to himself, swinging idly back and forth for another second before lurching off the swing, stretching. Might as well head back to Privet Drive, too.

It doesn’t take him long to catch up to his lumbering cousin.

“Evening, Big D,” he drawls, hands in his pockets.

Dudley cuts him a sharp look then utters a small grunt in reply, leading the way down the underpass, their steps echoing faintly off the graffitied walls.

“Eloquent as ever,” Harry remarks when no other reply to his polite greeting is forthcoming.

“Piss off, Potter.”

“Ooh, I stand corrected. Smeltings has really improved your diction, Diddykins. Or maybe it’s all that time spent with Bob, eh?”

Dudley huffs.

Casually, Harry asks, “Aw, did you two have a falling out? I haven’t seen him around for a while.”

Dudley frowns. “Me and Bobby are good. He’ll drop by soon enough.”

“Or, and hear me out,” Harry says, “he’s sick of being around a meathead like you.”

For the first time all summer, it appears that Harry has successfully struck a nerve without even trying.

“Why do you always have to be such a dick!?”

Harry blinks, coming to a confused halt and turning around once he realises Dudley’s stopped walking.

Dudley stands still, clenching and unclenching his meaty fists, glaring.

“Me!?” Harry exclaims incredulously, voice bouncing off the concrete walls. “I’m the dick!? You’re the one who brought another wizard around just to mess with me!”

“Because – you were being – a dick!” Dudley furiously hacks his hand in the air, punctuating his words.

“Yeah?! Well if I’m a dick, then it’s only because you’ve always been awful to me! You and your fucking parents are the worst people I’ve ever met, and that includes the sodding arsehole who sold out my parents and SLASHED MY GODDAMN THROAT!”

Harry isn’t sure who’s more shocked about his sudden screaming, him or Dudley.

“Wait…” Dudley says, brows knitting together. “Someone actually tried to – to kill you?”

“Did you think I got this scar by accident?” Harry snaps, gesturing at his throat. “Someone always tries to kill me. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve nearly died at this point.”

The times I’ve actually died is an even two, though.

They stand there, eye to eye in the dim underpass, something like understanding passing between them for the first time.

“…there’s been more?”

There’s something suspiciously close to concern in Dudley’s voice, and Harry has no idea how to deal with it. He can’t recall ever hearing something like it from his cousin before, at least not in regard to himself with anything approaching authenticity.

Except… once.

There was that one time: trying to usher the Dursleys out the house, and Dudley objecting, wondering why Harry isn’t joining the exodus.

‘I don’t think you’re a waste of space.’

He – hasn’t thought about that in years. Why is he doing so now, at the mere hint of concern?

Am I truly this pathetic?

“I – well, yeah,” he says, lamely.

“Is it because you’re, um, ‘the Boy Who Lived’?”

Harry blinks. “Now how the hell did you hear about that? Actually, never mind,” he sighs, shaking his head, “it was Bob, wasn’t it?”

Dudley nods, still looking rather stunned by the revelation that someone regularly tries to kill his cousin.

“And yeah, most of it’s because of… that,” Harry mutters, neglecting to mention that Dudley’s precious friend is the one responsible for the stupid moniker, the one most often behind the attempts on Harry’s life.

Or he used to be, at least.

Dudley opens his mouth, but Harry never does find out what he’d been about to say.

Because his breath billows out from between his lips like it’s the middle of winter.

The electric lights flicker then completely go out, plummeting the underpass into unnatural darkness. The whole area is blanketed with intense cold that makes the hair on Harry’s arms stand right up, skin breaking out in goosebumps.

He curses and pulls out his wand.

“What did you do?” Dudley asks nervously, a small thud sounding as he backs right up into the wall.

“Nothing – it’s dementors,” Harry replies distractedly, shivering.

Someone is screaming. Several someone’s, in fact. Their voices are hard to make out, blending into an amalgamation of terror and despair, interspersed with high, cold laughter he recognises all too well.

He tries to push it aside, focusing on happy memories of Ron and Hermione sitting around the table at their local, laughing over a pint and a silly quiz where they somehow managed to get every single answer wrong.

“Expecto Patronum,” he says, raising his wand. The tip glows.

But that’s it.

He’ll never see them again. Never sit around the pub after a shift, talking shit, complaining about their jobs, and laughing.

They’ll go to his funeral.

Mourn him, probably.

‘You need to be more careful, Harry.’

‘I’m always careful, stop worrying about me, Hermione.’

‘She’s right, mate – you’re being reckless.’

‘Good thing I’ve got you to watch my back then, eh?’

He shakes his head, trying to free it of the depressing thoughts and memories, which grows even more difficult when the first dementor swoops in from the other end of the underpass, heading right for them.

Dudley whimpers and starts running in the opposite direction.

Straight into the path of a second dementor.

“Dudley, no! Stop!”

Dudley trips and goes down, screaming, covering his head with his arms and curling up into a ball, his terrified sobs loud and distraught –

The dementor hovers above him, getting closer and closer to Dudley’s half-covered face with a rattling, disgusting inhale –

Fuck, he’s gonna get the Kiss if Harry doesn’t get his shit together –

Happy thoughts, happy thoughts –

Hedwig. Sirius.

Hedwig’s soft coo and affectionate nips. Sirius, heart beating a reassuring rhythm, his barking laugh echoing in Grimmauld’s kitchen.

A flash of Tom’s smirk right before he put his mouth on Harry’s –

“Expecto Patronum!”

Prongs finally bursts forth, the whole underpass exploding with bright, brilliant light. Harry doesn’t even need to use his wand to direct the patronus – it’s as if they’re mentally connected, easier than ever before, and Prongs lowers his horns, barrelling into first the dementor hovering over Dudley and then charging the one closing in on Harry.

The screaming in his head ebbs away, the high, cold laughter disappearing into the aether. The electrical lights come back on, the blanket of darkness lifting with the dementors’ retreat.

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly when Prongs trots up to him, emanating warmth and peace and joy before quietly dispersing into flecks of starlight.

“Harry!”

Harry frowns and stumbles over to his cousin, and it takes him a moment to realise it wasn’t Dudley calling his name.

Confusedly, he turns his back to Dudley and realises there’s someone by the other end of the underpass, rapidly approaching, running frantically toward them.

He raises his wand, crouching into duelling position, years of battle instinct taking over.

“Halt,” he commands, and the person nearly trips in their haste to obey, lifting their hands, palms facing him. They’re not holding a wand.

“Harry, it’s me! Remus Lupin!”

Harry blinks.

And then blinks some more.

Lupin?

Slowly, he straightens back up and incrementally lowers his wand. Lupin, looking shabby and ragged and still rather frantic, hesitantly approaches a bit more, stopping a few meters away right next to one of the lights so Harry can get a good look at his scarred face.

Another dead man walking. Another ghost from his past.

I can’t deal with this right now.

Harry has no idea if any security question he could pose would work in this universe.

So he doesn’t bother.

He lowers his wand without another word and crouches down next to Dudley.

His cousin is paler than snow, breathing fast and light, cheeks covered in tears. Small, whimpering sounds keep making their way across his lips, but his eyes are faraway and blank, trapped in his own personal nightmare.

“How is he?”

Harry glances over his shoulder. Lupin remains a few meters away, though he’s finally withdrawn his wand from wherever he’d been keeping it, ostensibly keeping watch. It’s strange, seeing him again. Unreal, almost. Last time, Harry had been walking to his death, Lupin already gone, remaining by his side as a mere shade.

Harry swallows and looks back down at Dudley. “He’ll live. They didn’t Kiss him.”

A tiny bit of drool dribbles out the side of Dudley’s mouth.

Harry watches it in morbid fascination, only drawn from the inspection by Lupin casting his own patronus and talking to it.

“Harry’s been attacked by dementors. I’m taking him back to the house. He’s fine.”

The big, spectral wolf lopes away.

“We should go – in case they come back,” Lupin says.

Harry hums in agreement. With a flick of his wand, he transfigures a pebble into a stretcher and rolls Dudley onto it, then sets it floating.

“Harry! You can’t use magic!” Lupin exclaims, horror twisting his features. “The Trace!”

Harry looks between the floating stretcher and Lupin and frowns.

Oh, bother.

He cancels the levitation, carefully easing Dudley back onto the ground, and steps closer to Lupin.

Lupin’s pale green eyes widen, muscles tensing, wisely recognising the threat. A second too late, but still. “Harry, wait–”

“Obliviate.”

Once he’s sure the past few minutes have been erased, he sincerely thanks Lupin for coming to their rescue, expressing his relief that Lupin’s patronus drove the dementors off.

Lupin blinks slowly, smiling dopily, slowly coming back to his senses. “That’s – what I’m here… for?”

And that’s when Harry realises why Lupin is around in the first place.

Of course.

I’m being watched.

He can’t believe he hasn’t noticed it before. That it completely slipped his mind that obviously he would be watched after the kidnapping and his subsequent disappearing act.

As he watches Lupin hesitantly – with a confused frown and jerky movements – start levitating the stretcher Harry made, a litany of curses floods his mind.

He’s been careless.

How much have the Order seen without his knowledge? Just how fucked is he?

When he and Lupin starts back toward Privet Drive, though, Harry realises that if the Order knew he’s been regularly disappearing and using magic, surely, someone would have spoken up before now.

Maybe they only recently instituted the watches. He has been keeping rather close for the past week, come to think of it.

(Not because he's been hoping Tom will come around or anything.)

I hope that’s it, he thinks, shuffling along the pavement, hands on his end of the stretcher. It doesn’t weigh anything, courtesy of the levitation charm, but they keep it up for appearance’s sake.

Lupin remains a tad confused from Harry’s spell, and his steps keep veering a little to the side before he corrects course. He's quiet, which suits Harry just fine, as he has no idea what to say to his old professor. To the man who made him a godfather and then died in a war waged by the monster whose laugh still rings in Harry’s ears.

A shiver trails down his spine that has nothing to do with the dementors’ lingering chill.

They set the stretcher down outside the front door, and haul Dudley up between them, dragging him over the threshold into the warm house.

Dudley whimpers pathetically, swaying on his feet, face growing greener by the second. Harry grimaces, overcome by a sense of déjà vu.

“Dudley?” calls Petunia from the living room, steps drawing closer. “Diddy darling, it’s late, why are you – Diddy!” she shrieks, hurrying forward, eyes locked on her son, who chooses that moment to expel the contents of his stomach on the dark green carpet.

Lupin winces, trying to move away, but some of the vomit splatters onto his shoes.

“Diddy! What’s the matter with you? Vernon! VERNON!”

Harry sighs, ducking out from under Dudley’s arm, as his uncle comes galloping from the living room. Lupin carefully follows suit, keeping one steadying hand on Dudley’s broad shoulder that Vernon forcefully throws off, assuming Dudley’s full weight onto himself instead.

“What is it son, what happened?”

“Diddy, darling, tell mummy what happened to you!”

“Were you mugged, son?”

“VERNON! Phone the police! Oh, my darling, oh my poor boy!”

“He wasn’t mugged,” Harry sighs, but his aunt and uncle are working themselves into hysterics, unable to hear him as they tow Dudley into the living room.

Harry shakes his head and trades a look with Lupin. “You might want to get out of here while you still can.”

“I – no, I’ll… I’ll stay,” Lupin replies, sounding rather dazed. He looks down at his vomit-splattered shoes with a grimace. “Someone needs to – to explain what happened.”

Harry shrugs. “Your funeral.”

“Harry.” Lupin’s hand shoots out and anchors on Harry’s shoulder. Harry’s whole body stiffens.

“What?”

“Are you alright?”

Harry glances back at Lupin’s worried face, and then carefully steps out from under his grip. “Peachy.”

In the living room, Vernon is pacing back and forth between the kitchen table and the sofa, where Dudley is hunched over in Petunia’s arms, still green in the face and making indistinct sounds of discomfort.

The moment Vernon lays eyes on Harry, he roars, “You! You did this to my boy!”

He can feel Lupin at his back, but the presence of another adult does absolutely nothing to dissuade Vernon from furiously advancing on Harry, both hands reaching for his throat, fingertips grazing Harry’s skin.

It isn’t on purpose, is the thing.

Going back over the events of the night later, Harry will swear that he hadn’t meant to.

But much like when he blew up Aunt Marge all those years ago, his magic acts independently of conscious thought.

It’s pure instinct.

Magic bursts from him in a red-gold wave.

It washes over Vernon, sending him flying into the table with a deafening CRASH, reducing the table to kindling.

He goes down, landing hard on the linoleum floor amidst splintered wood and a fluttering tablecloth.

Petunia screams.

Dudley moans.

…Vernon doesn’t make a sound.

The white tablecloth turns red.

“Harry,” Lupin breathes.

Fuck.

Harry stares at the spreading red pool on the tablecloth.

Did I just kill him?

He inhales sharply and lurches forward, falling to his knees by Vernon’s prone, unmoving form.

His eyes are closed.

The blood appears to be coming from the back of his head.

But his massive chest is slowly rising and falling, large moustache quivering with every breath.

With a shaky exhale, Harry withdraws his wand and casts a diagnostic spell – which confirms that the life-threatening wound is located on the back of Vernon’s head – and then the spells for field healing he’s had to use numerous times before, on both colleagues and himself.

At least this one will live.

He works quickly and in silence, tuning out Petunia’s continued shrieks, Lupin’s huffs – who is restraining Petunia – and the slurred words from Dudley on the sofa.

Finally having mended and cleaned up the mess he made, Harry sits back on his haunches, releasing the breath he’s been holding for the past minute. His limbs are trembling, and his head is spinning slightly.

“He’s fine,” he says, soon proven right as Vernon starts to come to.

Harry staggers to his feet, backing away a little, and flicks his wand to repair the table, simply vanishing the ruined tablecloth.

Listening to Vernon’s grunts as he also stands up on wobbly legs, Harry makes a split-second decision.

Pointing his wand at Vernon’s already confused face, he says, “Obliviate.”

“Harry!” Lupin exclaims in horror, arms still around Petunia who’s shrieking hysterically about ‘murderer’ and ‘ambulance’ and ‘VERNON’ and trying to get away.

“It’s for the best,” Harry says grimly, turning around, pointing his wand at Petunia next. “Obliviate.”

She slumps over in Lupin’s arms, face blank, shrieks abruptly cut off.

“Harry, don’t –”

“Obliviate.”

He helps Lupin and Petunia onto the sofa opposite Dudley, who’s staring confusedly at Harry, lips moving but the sounds out of his mouth are impossible to decipher.

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmurs, wincing at the prospect of scrambling his cousin’s brains even further. “Obliviate.”

He tucks his wand away.

“What’s going on?” Petunia slurs, blinking. “Ve–Vernon?”

“I’m here, Pet,” Vernon grunts, stumbling over, leaning on the back of the sofa and staring at Lupin. “Who’re you?”

One of Lupin’s eyes flutter shut, but not the other.

Guilt sinks like a lead weight in Harry’s stomach. He should have taken more time with the spells, been more careful. There’s a reason the Aurors usually call an Obliviation-squad the times there are muggle bystanders on a case.

“This is Remus Lupin, he’s an old professor of mine,” Harry explains quietly. “Me and Dudley were attacked but Lupin helped us drive the creatures off.”

“Attacked?” Vernon demands, turning his pale face toward Harry. Not much he can do about the blood loss without potions, nor would Vernon be able to handle potions anyway. “ATTACKED!?”

“He’s going to be fine.”

“What happened, popkin?” Petunia asks shakily, switching sofas and placing her hands on Dudley’s arms. “Tell mummy what happened to you.”

“Petunia,” Harry says, raising his voice to be heard over Vernon gaining steam again, “Petunia.”

“What?” she snaps over her shoulder.

“It was dementors.”

She sucks in a breath, eyes widening in recognition.

“Dementy–what?” Vernon demands.

“De–men–tors,” Harry enunciates, gaze still on his aunt. “I know you know what they are. Dudley’s going to be fine, just a bit out of sorts.”

“OUT OF SORTS?” Vernon thunders, but Harry’s had quite enough of him.

“I’m leaving,” he says, abruptly, then does just that, taking advantage of everyone’s shock to make his escape up to his room.

His hands are shaking. He forces them still. There isn't much he can do about his racing pulse, though.

He throws the few scattered belongings – mostly clothes – that he’s removed from the trunk back into it, grabs Hedwig’s empty cage, turning both it and the trunk pocket-sized, and then thunders down the stairs a mere minute after climbing them, wand in hand.

He ignores his relatives and stalks over to Lupin, who confusedly blinks up at him.

Harry sighs.

“You’re in no shape to Apparate, are you?”

Lupin blinks again, brows knitting together in a frown. “Ha–rry?”

“I’m really sorry for all this,” Harry says softly, small lump in his throat. “Stupefy.”

Lupin falls forward, unconscious, into Harry’s waiting arms.

“DON’T USE MAGIC IN THIS HOUSE!” Vernon shouts.

Harry contemplates another Obliviate, but seeing Vernon’s erratic gaze, and Petunia’s pale face, he decides it doesn’t fucking matter at this point.

He raises his wand, keeping a tight hold of Lupin, and Disapparates.

They reappear in the dark alleyway he’d usually aim for in a different dimension, relieved to find it just as abandoned and hidden here.

He lowers Lupin carefully to the ground, then follows him down, legs giving out.

Shakily, he draws his knees up and forces his head between them, taking deep breath after deep breath, wrapping his arms around himself.

He has no idea how long he sits there on the hard ground, trembling like a leaf all over, with his parents’ friend lying unconscious beside him. Could be a minute, could be an hour; time ceases to matter as the adrenaline wears off.

At least I’m not bored now.

The hysterical laughter is muffled by the crook of his arm.

It feels good to laugh, though. Freeing.

He laughs some more, until the last remaining tension finally drains out his body, leaving him oddly lethargic.

Tiredly, he clambers onto his feet.

“Rennervate,” he says, quickly followed by Lupin’s third Obliviate of the night.

“You’ve expended a lot of energy tonight, driving off two dementors, taking care of me and my cousin, and then Apparating us here. Thank you,” Harry says, voice soft.

Lupin blinks at him, one eye closing slower than the other.

Harry winces and casts a silent diagnostic spell when Lupin just sort of sags onto the ground.

He should be fine with some rest. The only problem is getting him to the Order headquarters in one piece, and then Harry'll simply have to cross his fingers the others don't ask too many questions.

Harry rubs his hand down his face and blows out a heavy breath.

They can’t very well stay here, either way.

“Come on, Lupin, up you get,” he says, throwing one of Lupin’s arms around his neck, and staggering upright. “We gotta get inside.”

“Inside,” Lupin mumbles, leaning heavily on Harry, but managing to walk on his own.

“Exactly, sir,” Harry grunts, shuffling along the pavement, turning the corner onto Grimmauld Place. “Gotta get off the street.”

Only, when they get to the place he could swear he used to know like the back of his hand, there’s no sign of a house.

Strange.

He frowns up at number eleven and thirteen.

This doesn’t make any sense. Neither of those houses are correct.

Why is he even here?

He glances at Lupin, whose erratic gaze sometimes fixes on something Harry can’t see.

Harry opens his mouth, but instead of the question he’d meant to ask, it turns into a confused exclamation of, “Ron!?”

From nowhere, his best friend appears so suddenly it startles him.

“Harry!”

Ron barrels into him, forcing the air out of Harry’s lungs. Probably a good thing, as his eyes start burning, and he might have burst into overwhelmed sobs if he'd had the oxygen to do so.

He wraps his free arm around Ron and buries his face in his best mate’s neck, his tired body beginning to shake once more with the force of held-back tears.

Ron.

Teenage and gangly and skinnier than he remembers, but so undeniably Ron that Harry clings to him for all he’s worth.

He feels such a profound sense of loss he must swallow repeatedly and forcefully keep his arm down when Ron pulls away to shove a note in his hand.

The Headquarters of The Order of the Phoenix
may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.

Harry exhales deeply, looking up at the familiar sight of his house.

Sirius’ house.

Whatever.

“Help me out, mate,” he says, voice a little garbled, and Ron ducks under Lupin’s other arm without comment.

Together, they make it up the front steps and into the house, where they’re met by what appears to be the entire Weasley family, hovering in the foyer.

The next few minutes is a whirlwind of greetings, worried exclamations, and being chivvied down the stairs into the kitchen, where he’s dragged into Sirius’ waiting arms. Harry hides his face against his godfather’s chest and breathes him in, more exhausted than he’s been in a long time.

He’s gently deposited into a chair, a cup of tea set in front of him, quickly followed by some homemade scones, and he’s so overwhelmed by the sheer number of concerned people crowding around him he can barely hear anything they’re saying.

He stares confusedly at them, able to see their mouths moving, but their voices blend into something indistinct and indecipherable.

“Harry.”

One voice cuts through the noise, and his head turns around as if tugged on a string.

Tom hovers by the entrance to the kitchen, brown eyes blazing, handsome features contorted into something that seems like genuine worry to Harry’s slightly addled mind, and he suddenly craves the peace only Tom’s skin brings.

“Hey,” he manages, longing searing through him like wildfire.

His own voice serves to break the bubble, and the others’ become clearer, and finally understandable.

“Oh, Remus,” Mrs Weasley clucks, pressing the back of her hand against Lupin’s forehead while he sways in his seat over on the kitchen sofa. “Dementors truly are foul. Thank Merlin you were there to help Harry.”

Mr Weasley is frantically writing a letter at the head of the table, not bothering to hide the parchment from the twins – oh, Fred, it’s so wonderful to see you – looking over his shoulders. Sirius’ gaze is darting between Harry and Lupin, brow creased. Ginny looks worried, and Harry quickly averts his eyes, not up for interacting with the teenaged version of his ex-girlfriend.

“Mate, you look exhausted,” Ron says, stealing one of Harry’s scones, nibbling on it.

“Yeah,” Harry replies, voice faint. “I am.”

As if summoned, Mrs Weasley immediately appears by his shoulder, gently patting it. “Oh, you poor thing, you really should go to bed. Some rest will do you good. You can share a room with Ron.”

Harry’s gaze is drawn to Tom, who’s still leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed.

He’s already staring back.

“I’d prefer my own room,” Harry finds himself saying, eyes locked on Tom. “I have – nightmares. Wouldn’t want to wake Ron up. I’ll just take Sirius’ old room at the top landing.”

Tom’s lips curl upward into a far too familiar smirk.

Chapter Text

An hour never felt so long.

From Sirius’ announcement to Harry stumbling inside the house, Tom experienced something that took him embarrassingly long to identify.

Worry.

He was worried.

He doesn’t understand why he was worried, though. Not really. Sirius and the Order may be under the impression that Harry is a mere (almost) fifteen-year-old, but Tom knows better. He knows his soulmate has emerged victorious in a drawn-out war against his own alternate, adult self, and had a successful – if short – career as an Auror.

Harry Potter is an adult, powerful wizard – the Master of Death – and nothing as relatively run of the mill as dementors would ever get the better of him. Sirius had even offhandedly told him, after reiterating for the fifth time what Lupin’s patronus had conveyed, that Harry managed to cast a corporeal patronus all the way back in third year, and sure, that might not have been Tom’s Harry, but he’s confident his Harry managed the same feat back in his old dimension.

But no matter how he tells himself this, over and over, there’s still an icy pit in his stomach, and an insidious voice whispering that his adult, powerful Harry, still died. It’s the whole reason he’s here in the first place.

So, yes, when the first person catches sight through a window of Harry stumbling into the street outside and looking around confusedly whilst propping up the shabby werewolf, Tom is flooded with such a profound sense of relief he can feel it permeate his very bones. He’s too busy sagging against the window he’d rushed over to, to even mind that Ron is the one grabbing Dumbledore’s note and going to help Harry inside.

What is wrong with me?

He blows out a heavy breath, momentarily fogging up the window, listening to the Weasleys all loudly greet Harry one floor below.

For some reason, he’s gripped with the urge to stay put. He can’t tell if it’s because he wants Harry to come looking for him, or if he’s not ready to face his soulmate yet after needlessly worrying about him.

Embarrassing either way, really.

Which is what serves to steel his spine and send him out the room, down the stairs, and into the kitchen.

Harry sits at the table, surrounded by well-meaning but loud Weasleys, looking dazed and strangely blank. Pale. Barely present.

Another bout of worry slices through him, and he can’t help but call out, “Harry.”

Immediately, Harry’s head swivels toward him, and it’s like seeing him come back to life.

Green eyes turn focused and for the first time, Harry makes no effort to hide the longing in them.

Had they been alone, Tom would have gone to him then and there.

Would have laid his hand upon Harry’s cheek, offered the peace of the soulmate bond with no ulterior motive, and cradled him in comfort. Just this once.

But they are not alone.

And so, Tom remains on the fringes of the room. Watching. Waiting.

…and wondering why on earth the werewolf is in such a state.

What did you do, Harry?

Mrs Weasley sends them all off to bed not long after, and it’s with a final, lingering look Tom bids Harry goodnight, disappearing up to the blue room.

He feels the sear of Harry’s gaze upon his back the entire way.

Harry is vulnerable. Ripe for manipulation.

Tom’s mouth waters at the mere thought, and he adjusts himself in his trousers as he shuts the bedroom door behind him.

However.

Grimmauld Place is not Privet Drive. Harry is no mere shuffle across the hall. Here, Harry is the prince at the top of the tower, and the path to his side is a veritable minefield of nosy weasels, a suspicious godfather with a terrifying horse/eagle-steed, and more creaky steps than one could reliably avoid, any one of them capable of sounding the alarm at a single toe out of line.

Tom is no stranger to challenges or overcoming adversity. He will put in the work, and he will come out on top more often than not.

But part of coming out on top is recognising the importance of playing to your strengths, and that there are no rules in the war to win over Harry.

Sometimes, cheating is okay. Necessary. So imperative that it can hardly even be called cheating; it’s more like a strategic manoeuvre where you lull the enemy into a false sense of safety, thinking the minefield between the opposing armies is an effective enough deterrent, that they don’t notice when you send decoys onto the field while the true threat takes the long way ‘round, sneaking right up their rear.

Anything is fair in –

Well.

In winning over his soulmate, of course.

Once the house is quiet, most people soundly asleep, Tom sits cross-legged on the duvet.

And softly, he calls, “Kreacher.”

A few seconds later, the elf pops up by the side of the bed, turning bulbous, adoring eyes up at him.

“What can Kreacher do for sir?” he asks, eager as ever to do Tom’s bidding. It’s his best quality, really. It’s also endlessly amusing that Kreacher so happily does whatever Tom asks, but only the bare minimum to fulfil any of Sirius’ orders, often while grumbling and glaring with a generally unhappy disposition.

“Take me to Harry’s room,” Tom orders.

Kreacher nods and reaches out a spindly hand. A moment later, they appear in Harry’s dark bedroom at the top of the stairs with a quiet pop.

Obstacles expertly circumvented, minefield conquered.

Harry shifts on the bed, and there’s a soft intake of breath when Kreacher leaves with a bow and another quiet pop.

Harry doesn’t say anything, though.

Tom swallows, salivary glands already working overtime in preparation as he drifts over to Harry’s side, eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness.

Harry remains silent.

His breaths betray him; too slow and even. There’s a small frown between his brows, his jaw remaining clenched.

This sleeping beauty is awake but pretending not to be.

Tom cocks his head, deliberating.

He slowly sinks onto the side of the bed. Harry still doesn’t say anything.

Carefully, he reaches out and gently strokes Harry’s fringe away from his forehead, the wild hair soft and tamed between his fingers.

Harry swallows. Remains quiet, eyes stubbornly closed, frown slowly smoothening out.

There’s a rasp of skin against fabric, and then Tom feels Harry’s knuckles against his thigh.

Oh. I see.

Very well.

Tom shifts on the bed and gently grasps Harry’s hand, pulse racing.

A soft sigh escapes from between Harry’s lips.

Tom swallows. Rubs his thumb along the back of Harry’s hand. Slowly intertwines their fingers.

Harry lets him.

Tom has no idea how long he sits there. Time ceases to matter in the darkness of Harry’s bedroom, with Harry’s calloused hand in his, the peace of the soulmate bond enveloping him like the softest blanket. Tom stares, and stares, and stares, eyes roving hungrily over his shadowed soulmate now that they can freely do so, and he makes sure to savour this moment, this evidence that his strategy is working.

Eventually, Harry’s breaths become naturally slow and steady, hitching occasionally as he relaxes fully into deep sleep.

Tom remains a few minutes more, unwilling to return to his own bedroom and forgo the soulmate bond and this newfound closeness. But there is not a single doubt in his mind that Harry would be furious if he found Tom still there in the morning, once the moment of vulnerability has passed.

And so, he leans forward and risks a careful kiss to the faded lightning bolt scar on Harry’s forehead, a whisper of lips, in goodnight.

One day, he vows.

He quietly calls for Kreacher, extracts his hand from Harry’s, and goes back to his own bedroom with Harry’s soft breaths echoing in his ears.

“Going out,” he calls over his shoulder. No one hears it over the screams of Walburga’s portrait.

It’s quite the relief shutting the door behind him, effectively cutting off all noise. He lets out a tired breath, shakes his head, and troops down the concrete steps to the pavement.

This morning has been more of a madhouse than normal, with Molly fussing over a steely-eyed Harry, the twins being more clownish than usual in an attempt at cheering Harry up, Ron constantly trying to steer Harry away from the hubbub, and Sirius sticking to Harry’s side like a barnacle.

Tom will let them have this, for now. It’s enough to be under the same roof as Harry again, and he’ll be savouring the memory of last night for a long time. He’s polished its blurry edges and placed it in a prominent position on a desk in his mind, where he can freely revisit and admire it, regardless of how Harry chooses to treat him in the daytime.

It did sting a little when Harry refused to meet his gaze all morning, though.

But no matter. Time is on his side.

It’s a hot, sunny day, and the short walk over to the streetcorner to the nearest phonebooth has small drops of sweat beading on his forehead.

He crowds inside the cramped booth, leaving the door open so he won’t boil to death, and puts the receiver between his ear and his shoulder as he digs around his pocket for the number Dudley gave him. He puts some coins inside the slot and slowly but surely dials the number, watching the traffic outside as he waits for someone to pick up.

“Dursley residence, this is Petunia speaking.”

Tom frowns. Petunia sounds tired, not at all her usual perky, trilling self.

“Good morning, Mrs Dursley, this is Bob Jonsson, how are you?”

“Good morning, Bob. I’m well, a bit tired, I suppose. How are you, dear?”

Strange. It’s like she’s reading lines off a script, barely any feeling in her voice, which is highly unusual. It could be the phoneline, of course, but Tom doubts it.

What did you do, Harry?

“I’m alright, thank you. May I speak to Dudley, please?”

“Of course, just a moment. Take care.” She puts the receiver down and Tom can only just make out the sounds of her steps as she walks away to call for Dudley.

Tom impatiently puts in another coin when Dudley takes his sweet time getting to the phone, tapping his foot against the floor. Finally, there’s the sound of the receiver being picked up, and Dudley’s grunt soon follows.

“Dudley?”

Dudley grunts again.

Tom frowns. It’s eleven o'clock, and Dudley normally gets up around nine. Sure, he’s not a great orator at any time of day, but there’s usually a couple more words than that coming out of his mouth when he’s not stuffing it with food.

“Alright?”

Another grunt.

Tom takes a deep, calming breath as a flash of annoyance surges through him.

What did you do, Harry?

“Look, I’m just calling to say I won’t have time to come ‘round anymore this summer. I didn’t want you to think I’m disappearing on you. We’ve had fun, yeah?”

There’s silence on the other end for a few seconds. Tom’s hand tightens around the receiver. He pops another coin in when the annoying little beep reminds him to.

Finally, Dudley resignedly says, “I don’t have an owl.”

Tom stares out the window at a passing car, uncomprehending of where Dudley’s brain has taken him this time.

“O–kay…?”

“That’s how your lot stays in touch, isn’t it?”

Tom feels so absurdly paranoid about Dudley speaking openly about their agreed–upon–secret where at least one of his parents can likely overhear, that it takes a second for him to understand what Dudley is saying.

“You… want to stay in touch over the school year?” Tom asks slowly, to make sure he’s understood Dudley correctly.

He can practically hear Dudley shrug through the phone.

“Yeah? We’re friends.”

As if it’s obvious. As if their whole relationship isn’t based on a mutual agreement to mess with Harry.

“Of course we are,” Tom agrees smoothly, expertly pivoting in the face of this unanticipated request. “There is a way for muggles – sorry, that’s our term for non–magicals –”

“I know.”

“– to send letters to Hogwarts via other means than owls.”

He explains the process of how a regular letter gets sorted at the post office into the bunch bound for Hogwarts, with Dudley interjecting occasionally with clarifying questions and sounds to show he’s paying attention, and by the end of Tom’s explanation, he’s confident even a dud like Dudley could manage to send him a letter.

Whether he actually will is a whole different matter.

He’s about to hang up when Dudley asks, “Have you seen Harry today?”

Tom frowns. He hasn’t told Dudley he’s staying with Harry’s godfather, nor any truths about his actual situation with Harry. Reluctantly, he pays for an additional few minutes of time.

“Why? Did something happen?”

He can hear Dudley’s harsh swallow through the phone.

Instead of answering Tom’s question, he lowers his voice and asks another: “Have you ever heard of – dementors?”

He says the word slowly, enunciating carefully, like he’s been introduced to the term only recently.

“Well, yeah. What about them?”

“They’re real, then?”

“Of course they’re – oh.” Realisation dawns. Dudley must have been with Harry when he was attacked last night. “Yeah. They’re real. But… muggles can’t see them.”

Dudley blows out a breath he must have been holding. “Can you – tell me about them?”

Tom rubs a hand down his face and leans against one of the phone booth’s walls, switching the phone to his other ear. Pre-emptively, he puts another three coins in.

“Dementors are, quite literally, soul-sucking monsters. When they’re near, everything turns cold, and dark, and miserable – the effect is usually described as if you’re never going to feel happy again. They can administer something called a Kiss, which is far more horrible than the name suggests. They attach to your mouth and literally suck out your soul, leaving you nothing but a husk. And, for some reason, the Ministry of Magic uses them to guard the wizarding prison, Azkaban.”

Which begs the question; why on earth were they in a muggle neighbourhood last night, attacking Harry? Supposedly, they’re under Ministry control. Were these dementors rogue, or is something far mor sinister going on behind the scenes over at the Ministry?

And what was a dementor doing, attacking a muggle? Does that mean muggles have souls, after all? Has he inadvertently stumbled upon an answer to the scholars’ questions regarding the existence of muggles’ souls?

He shakes his head, shelving his questions until he has a moment to speak to Harry without weasels or the Order overhearing, then carefully gentles his voice.

“Even most adults struggle with driving a dementor off when they’ve locked onto a target, because there’s only one, incredibly advanced spell that’s able to do it.”

“Harry did it,” Dudley says, so quietly Tom almost doesn’t hear him.

Pride swells in Tom’s chest. It’s something of a struggle to keep his voice neutral, unsure whether Dudley merely stated fact or if he’s somewhat coming around on his cousin.

Still, though; this does not match with Harry’s barebones account of last night’s events, where he claimed it was the werewolf who drove off the dementors.

“He learned to cast it last year, apparently,” Tom says carefully. “What actually happened last night, Dudley?”

“It’s like you said,” Dudley replies, still quietly. “Everything turned… dark. And cold. And… like I’d never be happy again.” He swallows harshly. “I was awake but – it felt like a nightmare. Only, it wasn’t dreams. It was – memories. I think.”

“Dementors are right nasty,” Tom says when Dudley falls silent, tone kinder than he perhaps intends it to be.

“Mhm. But Harry – he cast one of those… spells.”

“He saved you?”

“…yeah.”

Tom smirks, absently tracing the outline of some crude graffiti on the glass with a fingertip. “He has a tendency to do that.”

“…he does?”

Tom hums in affirmation. “Part of what gets him so much special treatment. I suppose not all of it is… unjustified.”

“Huh.”

They both fall silent. As no more questions or crisis of conscience seem to be forthcoming, Tom clears his throat, wiping at his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand.

“Anyway, I really need to go. Have a good rest of summer, Dudley.”

“You too, Bobby,” Dudley grunts.

Tom hangs up with a grimace.

Stupid name. As if being named for that filthy muggle wasn’t bad enough.

Back at the house, the Weasleys and Harry are hard at work sorting through the library, tossing tomes even tangentially related to Dark Arts, thoroughly ignoring Kreacher’s lamenting at how they’re treating property of his old, beloved masters.

Luckily, they’re only the books Tom wasn’t interested in or has already read, and no one seems any wiser to the ones he’s got stashed in his bedroom, so he leaves them to it, choosing instead to retire to one of the drawing rooms.

Unfortunately, even that is occupied.

The shabby werewolf sits slumped on one of the sofas, staring blankly into space. He appears a bit more conscious of his surroundings than he’d been last night, but not much.

Tom tilts his head in consideration. If he didn’t know better, he’d say –

Oh.

Of course.

He tamps down a smile.

Someone is showing signs of at least one sloppy Obliviation. He wonders if anyone else has cottoned onto this fact yet, or if they’re still blaming the dementors.

Getting careless, Harry.

He sinks down on the other end of the sofa, Lupin making the barest twitch and welcoming noise in acknowledgement of his presence.

There’s an Order meeting in the evening. Several members turn up right after dinner, effectively ending it as Mrs Weasley ushers them out, and Tom crowds in with the other teenagers at the top of the kitchen stairs when Mrs Weasley decisively closes the door.

Only Harry seems disinterested in the goings on of the Order, clearly just faking enthusiasm at eavesdropping so his friends don’t get suspicious.

Living through it once already must take a bit of the fun out of things.

Tom sends him a knowing look over the head of Ginny when their gazes accidentally lock, and one corner of Harry’s lips twitches before he resolutely goes back to ignoring Tom the way he has all day.

Twin one – probably Fred, judging by the appreciative once-over he’d given Tom earlier – unspools two of their Extendable Ears, sneaks down the stairs to plug them under the bottom of the door, then tiptoes back up so they can hear what’s being said on the other side. It’s difficult to make out, and Tom reluctantly leans in closer to Ginny to hear better.

“…would do such a thing? The Ministry controls the dementors!”

“Do we think You-Know-Who is behind it?”

“It’s possible, but unlikely, considering how quiet he’s been – which suggests it’s someone at the Ministry.”

The others gasp at the information Tom has already figured out.

Tom shoots Harry a look, but he’s grimly staring at the floor while listening in. Tom keeps one eye on his soulmate regardless.

“Have the Death Eaters infiltrated so far, then?”

“Perhaps. I’d say it’s far more likely than some unknown player sending dementors after Harry.”

A muscle ticks in Harry’s jaw.

He knows, Tom realises. Or at least suspects who’s behind it.

“But who would do such a thing, if not You-Know-Who or his followers? Harry’s just a boy!”

“A boy who’s had a target on his back ever since he was born.”

“But a Ministry-worker? That’s – has it truly gone that far so soon?”

“They’ve already gotten rid of Mad-Eye – it wouldn’t surprise me if the Death Eaters are deeply rooted at the Ministry already, just watching and waiting for the opportunity to sow some mayhem.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s put more watches on the ones who were around last time and take them out!”

“Typical – that’s your answer to everything. Charge in like an idiot and recklessly show our hand without anything to gain.”

Harry closes his eyes as if he’s in pain. Tom doesn’t recognise the low drawl of the person who just spoke, but it seems Harry did.

“Without anything – of course there’d be something to gain! One less Death Eater on the streets, for one!”

“We don’t have any proof, Black. I didn’t sign up for taking out possibly innocent people without so much as probable cause.”

“Or maybe you’re just trying to protect your old mates, hm? What’ve you got to hide, Snivellus?”

“I know it comes naturally to you, but do please try not to be an idiot.”

“Hardly idiotic to question the one person in the room who once willingly joined up with that maniac.”

“Enough!”

To Tom’s surprise, Sirius and whoever Snivellus is both fall silent at the sharp command. Tom hadn’t realised Dumbledore was even here – he must have come through the fireplace in the kitchen.

“As I’ve said before, Severus has my complete trust. And so do everyone else around this table. Now, I do not have the answer as to who sent the dementors to attack Harry, but I will, of course, use whatever limited influence remains to me at the Ministry to make inquiries. We are most fortunate you were there, Remus, and able to fend them off – any underage usage of magic from Harry’s end would have been terrible. Cornelius would have pounced on the chance to weaken the one potential witness to Voldemort’s return.”

“It’s true then, what the Prophet said?”

“I’m afraid so, Arthur. I have indeed been relieved of my position as Chief Warlock, in addition to Supreme Mugwump. I am still on the Wizengamot, however, and no matter how Cornelius may wish otherwise, they have no authority over my position as Headmaster. So, while worrisome, it is not the end of the world. At least I am still on the chocolate frog cards.”

Dumbledore chuckles, and Tom grimaces for a moment before he gets his features back under control.

The Weasleys are all wearing identical expressions of worry on their freckled faces.

Harry remains stoic. Resigned, almost.

But most importantly: unsurprised.

Tom can’t wait to question him about it.

Chapter Text

While Grimmauld may be loud, and overwhelming compared to Privet Drive, it also offers excellent distraction.

Sure, he dodges Ginny and Tom like his life depends on it, and Molly’s overbearing care is a tad suffocating, but experiencing Fred alive and well, and being around Sirius – who’s looking far more at ease and comfortable than this time last… time around – more than makes up for it.

And Ron.

Oh, Ron.

Seeing him in the teenage flesh really brings it home how much Harry has missed his best friend. It doesn’t even bother him that this isn’t his Ron.

At least, not much. Only a little. A smidge, perhaps.

It is a teeny tiny bit annoying having to watch his words, and that the few times he’s let an inside joke slip, Ron hasn’t picked up on it because they haven’t established that joke yet – if they ever will.

This Ron may not be his partner in law-enforcement (and crime, if one wants to get technical about it), but… he’s close enough.

Bit of a shame he’s been completely taken in by Tom, though.

“He’s not so bad,” Ron says with a shrug, directing his queen to brutally massacre Harry’s bishop. “Good at chess, and pretty funny. He does… read a lot, though. Might give Hermione a run for her money once we’re back at school – he told me he might actually get Ravenclaw, can you believe it?”

No. He’ll go to Slytherin, no doubt about it.

“Cool.” Harry studies the chessboard intently, then ends up directing his knight right into the path of Ron’s queen anyway.

He groans.

Ron grins.

Harry’s fifteenth (twenty-second) birthday passes with far too much fuss and fanfare.

In the morning, it’s not just Tom invading his room – it’s everyone. The whole Weasley family, and Sirius, and Tom, though Tom blessedly stays on the fringes. Even Lupin is there, looking a little out of it but far more present than the past day, hovering in the doorway right behind Tom.

After the singing, and the release of some loud Zonko’s product by the twins which has Mrs Weasley bellowing and chasing them out of the room, Harry is finally left alone again to get ready for the day. He seriously contemplates jumping out the window instead and hightailing it out of there, ears still ringing, but morosely drags himself into the shower in the jack-and-jill bathroom between his and Regulus’ old room.

Down in the kitchen, Mrs Weasley has prepared a feast and won’t take no for an answer. The food is delicious, as always, but when it feels like his stomach is about to burst, finishing his overflowing plate becomes torture rather than pleasure.

At least the resulting stomach-ache gives him a reason to hole up in his room with Hedwig for a few hours before lunch. Thankfully, Mrs Weasley feels guilty over the fussing at breakfast and lets him escape with an apple.

As it is his birthday, they take the day off from cleaning. Though why they’re cleaning at all is beyond Harry; Grimmauld is looking pretty decent these days, with Kreacher having already done the bulk of the work on behalf of Tom, and it’s not like the Order members are there all that much – they usually come through the front door or the fireplace, and then never leave the kitchen.

(It’s exhausting being confronted with so many faces he’s missed and mourned, just over the past day.)

To his surprise, Ron steals away with him after lunch, sequestering them in his room, and shoves Harry onto the bed.

He experiences a brief moment of panic that perhaps something was going on between this universe’s Harry and Ron, but it’s mercifully short-lived when Ron stares him down and demands, “Tell me everything.”

Harry struggles upward into a sitting position, adjusting his shirt after it’s become uncomfortably twisted around his torso. “About?”

Ron waves his hand in an all-encompassing gesture. “Everything. What happened at the final task? What happened at the graveyard? Why did you come here? Why didn’t you tell anyone you were alive?”

“Lot of questions, that,” Harry jokes faintly, but it unfortunately doesn’t land as intended.

“I’ve plenty more,” Ron threatens. “And Hermione probably has dozens.” His voice softens, turns pleading. “C’mon, mate, we had to think, for days, that you were… you know. That you were dead.”

Harry winces. Ron looks equally as uncomfortable, even though he’s the one who brought up the subject in the first place.

Harry is, naturally, tempted to tell Ron everything the way he asked, the way he always has.

About his other life in a different dimension, about being Death’s master (read: bitch). About Tom and his true identity, and how Harry desperately misses his Ron and Hermione. He wants to share, and he wants to ask; wants to know everything about soulmates and all the other things in this universe no one’s telling him about because they assume he already knows.

But the gangly teenager in front of him, no matter how closely he resembles Harry’s ride-or-die best mate, hasn’t been through the same things over the years right by Harry’s side, and definitely doesn’t deserve to get sucked into Harry’s shitshow.

So, Harry complies with Ron’s request of telling him ‘everything’. He also makes so many edits that the tale is barely recognisable even to himself. But by the end of it, Ron seems placated (if a bit dazed), and Harry can only hope he’ll drop the subject going forward.

The guilt, nestled in his ribcage, is familiar like an old wound, reopened and scabbed over countless times.

After a far too lavish dinner, the house’s occupants crowd inside the largest drawing room for presents. There’s the Weasleys, Sirius, Tom, and a markedly less confused Lupin, adding up to a raucous crowd, all focused on Harry.

Harry wants to run and hide and not resurface until next winter.

Instead, he plasters a smile onto his face – the one he perfected for the bloody cameras that took to following him around after the war, in the hopes his boring cooperation would dissuade them (it didn’t) – and makes appreciative noises for the absurdly large pile of gifts placed on the table in front of him.

Books, and sweets, and Quidditch paraphernalia; thoughtful presents that turns his smile genuine. It doesn’t matter he’s already read the books, would prefer a bottle of whiskey over the chocolate frogs, and doesn’t particularly like the Chudley Cannons anymore. He would have appreciated these gifts immensely at fifteen, and he recognises that well enough at twenty-two.

“Thank you,” he says, sincerely, once he’s opened the lot.

Except then, Mrs Weasley slaps her forehead in remembrance, waves her wand, and even more presents come soaring out from a cabinet, that have apparently been sent by owl. Harry sighs inwardly and plasters the smile back on for the next round.

There are packages from Hermione, Hagrid and even Gabrielle Delacour along with a heartfelt note of gratitude for saving her life at the second task.

He can’t help but notice there’s nothing from Tom anywhere in either pile. Probably burnt all his money (wherever the hell he got it from in the first place) on stalking Harry in Little Whinging.

The small smirk whenever Harry accidentally looks his way suggests otherwise, though.

Not that Harry cares.

He’s not intentionally staying awake. He’s not. It’s just regular old insomnia, likely induced by the absurd amounts of sweets he ingested over the course of the evening even though he tried to foist most of it off on the Weasley siblings. A sugar high, augmented by his regular issues.

He is trying to fall asleep. Actively. Eyes closed and everything.

He’s certainly not waiting for the quiet pop of Kreacher’s new and discreet Apparition. Definitely isn’t listening for soft footsteps on the stairs.

Nor is he adjusting himself in his pants, forgoing any other nightwear in the hot summer evening. It’s not like he wanks every single night. Keeping his hand out of his pants isn’t all that strange or out of the ordinary, especially not at Grimmauld where the house itself sometimes feels like it’s staring at him; something like that would kill anyone’s erection.

That he currently has an erection is irrelevant. He could take care of it if he wanted to. He just… doesn’t. And that’s perfectly fine and normal and –

Pop.

You’re such a fucking liar, he thinks deliriously ten minutes later, coming down Tom’s throat.

Coughing, Tom wipes at his tearstained cheeks, shakily getting to his feet.

Involuntarily, Harry’s gaze is drawn toward Tom’s tented trousers, proving Tom isn’t unaffected by what they’re doing (despite Harry’s every intention not to).

His mouth is certainly not watering when he tucks himself away and gruffly says, “Get out.”

Tom sighs, beleaguered, as if Harry’s reaction is too tiresome to address properly. He drags his hand through his dark hair, the waves arranging themselves neatly, spilling softly like water over his forehead.

“Happy twenty-second birthday, Harry,” he says, low, silken voice emerging scratched from Harry’s use of his throat.

Harry turns over without reply, onto his side, blinking burning eyes into the darkness, dragging a pillow into his arms and hugging it tightly to his bare chest.

“Thank you,” he whispers, once Tom has been whisked away by Kreacher.

“Open it mate,” Ron laughs, shoving a poorly wrapped present across the table, Hermione letting out a loud shriek when it serves to knock over the nearly full pitcher between them.

“Ronald!”

“Sorry, love.” He flicks his wand and successfully vanishes the spilled beer by the second try, then signals the barman for a refill.

Hermione’s already forgiven the transgression, too busy turning large, slightly unfocused eyes at Harry, who’s snickering at the chaos.

They’re all a bit too plastered already, having indulged handsomely at the dinner party in Harry’s honour that they just escaped from, and Harry’s feeling blessedly floaty and relaxed for once in the company of his two best friends.

He drags the gift the rest of the way, wiggles his finger underneath three layers of tape at the end, and tears it open, then lifts the lid off the large, white box the wrapping paper concealed.

He inhales, in shock.

Then nearly falls off his seat laughing.

“It’s just a joke!” Hermione exclaims swiftly. “Just a joke!”

She repeats it over and over again with burning cheeks, voice turning shrill as it climbs in volume with each repetition, barely audible over Ron’s howls where he’s bent over the table.

Harry wheezes, unable to catch his breath. Tears run down his cheeks, stomach hurting from the force of his laughter, and he folds over on the bench, hugging his aching sides.

What else can he to do at the bizarre sight of an inflatable sex doll?

“Interesting choice of gift,” Tom comments, silken voice amused but less so than the rest of them.

Harry grins up at him from his position on the bench, heart fluttering at the delicious glint in Tom’s mahogany eyes that signals how completely unnecessary the doll will be later.

“Don’t – be – a – spoilsport,” Ron pants, struggling to catch his breath through the force of his glee.

“I just don’t think it’s funny,” Tom says icily, any trace of amusement blown away, along with every hint of promise contained in his normally warm eyes.

Harry drags himself upright, no longer laughing.

“Well, I do,” he snaps.

Hermione and Ron both grimace and pretend not to, as Harry stares Tom down.

“I would have thought it’s funny,” Tom says, soothingly, the icy demeanour turning molten again, sending Harry’s thoughts right down the gutter.

His swift changes in disposition don’t make any sense.

Except… they do.

Right.

Tom was never there.

It was Ginny the first time around. Back when they’d already broken up but thought they could remain friends.

(They couldn’t. Harry fucking anything that moved might have had something to do with it.)

Harry sighs, deflating.

“This is a dream, isn’t it?”

All of a sudden, Tom’s lips are right by his ear. Harry can feel the warmth of him, pressed against the whole length of his body in the booth, sending his heart racing and setting his blood aflame, all the while enveloping him in the peaceful gentleness of the soulmate bond.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Tom breathes, hot breath coasting over the left side of Harry’s face, voice like sin and salvation both. “We could have this. Always. You and me.”

Harry turns his head, away, looking at Ron and Hermione.

They’re smiling at him.

His Ron. His Hermione. The originals. The ones who’d thought it funny to get him an inflatable sex doll just so he wouldn’t go through the available dating pool too quickly.

“I miss you,” he says, lump in his throat hotter than a piece of coal.

“We’re right here, Harry,” Hermione says.

“Yeah, mate, we haven’t gone anywhere,” Ron grins.

“You’re the one who died,” Hermione says, admonishing in the same way she’d harangue them about their unfinished homework at school.

“I didn’t mean to,” Harry protests, eyes burning. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You need to let go of them, Harry,” Tom murmurs, putting his hand on Harry’s face and turning it back toward himself. His eyes are large and dark and endless, drawing Harry in and drowning him in their lurid depths. Leaving him no choice but to surrender.

Perhaps it’s the kindest gift he could ever offer, if Harry could only find it in himself to genuinely accept.

“I don’t want to,” he manages, and he isn’t sure what he’s talking about anymore.

Tom’s thumb strokes his cheek, and he helplessly leans into the soothing touch.

“You don’t have a choice.”

Harry wakes, eyelids slowly fluttering open. He can still feel the phantom serenity of the soulmate bond from Tom’s touch. Can still hear his best friends’ laughter.

He curls in on himself, tucking his face into the pillow he’s hugging to his chest.

His eyes remain stubbornly dry.

“Harry!” Ron calls from downstairs, barely audible over the screams of the portraits. Bloody nuisances.

“What?” Harry hollers back from his room, as silence is apparently not required.

“Get down here!”

Harry rubs the towel over his wet hair. “Be there in a sec!”

A minute later he’s tromping down the stairs, beyond tempted to conjure a pair of earmuffs or something to cut off the ruddy screaming. When he’s almost all the way down, the screaming blessedly stops, making the quiet susurration of voices more easily detectable.

He moves down the last staircase to the main floor and breaks into a large grin.

“Hermione!” he whisper-shouts.

She’s already beaming at him, vibrating in place in front of Walburga’s closed off portrait, next to a smug-looking Ron and her Hogwarts trunk.

She rushes up the few steps between them to throw herself at him. He catches her easily, used to her effusive greetings, and hugs her tight.

After his nightmare/memory, seeing her – even if it is her teenage, alternate self – is just what he needed.

He breathes her in – she actually smells the same – hiding his face momentarily in her wild, voluminous hair, then sets her back down with a smile.

“Happy belated birthday, Harry,” she whispers, squeezing his arms. “I wanted to get here sooner, of course, but we didn’t get back from France until late last night.”

“I’m just happy to see you,” he says in a matching whisper, and her smile grows even wider.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Ron suggests and they all troop back the way Harry just came, veering off into the smaller drawing room, shutting the door behind them so they won’t wake the portraits back up.

Immediately, Hermion whirls on Harry, and smacks his arm.

It doesn’t hurt, but out of reflex, he says, “Hey, ow!”

She smacks him again, and again, and again, wherever she can reach, and every subsequent smack punctuates her words, “Why – didn’t – you – tell – us – you – were – alive – have – you – any – idea – how – worried – we’ve – been – about – you!?”

He lets her get it out of her system, silently and stoically bearing the smacks, not protesting as he can see her eyes welling over.

Just as expected, she eventually breaks off on a sob and wraps her arms around him like a vice, burying her face in his chest.

He awkwardly pats her back and trades a long-suffering look with Ron over Hermione’s bushy head while she cries and hiccups into his previously clean t-shirt.

“Hey, I’m okay, everything’s fine,” he says, lamely.

She draws back eventually, wiping the tears away, face swollen and red. Her glare is something fierce though, and he nearly takes a step back in instinctual alarm.

“And your letters!” She throws her hands in the air, knuckles missing his chin by a hairsbreadth.

“What about them?” he asks, taking that half-step back after all; the wise man retreats when Hermione gets up in arms about something, no matter her age.

“They can barely be called letters, Harry! Honestly, would it have killed you to –”

Her brain catches up to her mouth, and she winces, eyes glued to the new scar on his throat.

He pats her shoulder. “Well, we’re all here now, yeah?”

“Yes,” she agrees, rallying, jamming her finger into his chest, “and you owe us some answers!”

Harry sighs and gestures for all of them to sit, rubbing at the spot her finger just jabbed. “Alright, alright. I already told Ron yesterday, but here’s what happened...”

Another rendition of his extremely edited tale later, Hermione can’t seem to decide between yelling or crying.

He pats her shoulder again in a hesitant attempt at comfort. It doesn’t seem to do the trick, as her gaze turns laser sharp on his face. She opens her mouth, but before she can say anything, the door to the sitting room makes a softly creaking sound.

Their heads all swivel toward it, and in troops Lupin.

He’s smiling, but when he lays eyes on them all, the smile freezes, and so do his limbs. It looks exceedingly awkward, and Harry frowns at the strange behaviour. Honestly, an Obliviate shouldn’t have this type of lingering effect, no matter how poorly he cast the charm (three times).

He glances at his friends, and Ron looks thoroughly amused and uncomfortable at the same time, while Hermione’s gone beet red, hands tucked away under her thighs.

He turns back to Lupin, and since no one else seems able – or willing – to talk at the moment, he politely asks, “Did you need something, sir?”

Lupin appears to shake himself free of his stupor, muttering something that sounds like ‘no, nothing, not a thing’, then exits the room, leaving a decidedly odd silence in his wake.

“What the hell was that about?”

Hermione immediately smacks his arm. “Don’t be a pillock.”

Her reaction certainly doesn’t help his confusion. He sends Ron a helpless look but only receives a grin in response that doesn’t exactly clarify matters.

“Anyway,” Hermione says briskly, “I can’t wait to meet Bob. Is he around?”

“Somewhere,” Harry replies, immediately assaulted with memories of last night’s birthday present and forced to shift in his seat.

Get a grip.

“Let’s go find him then!” She stands up and is almost at the door when she turns around and offhandedly says, “When I packed your trunk, I didn’t read it, you know. The diary.”

What diary?

Before he can ask the question out loud, she’s through the door, Ron right on her heels.

What diary!?

He curses his own reluctance to properly go through his Hogwarts trunk as he chases after them.

‘Your friends packed it for you’, surfaces Dumbledore’s words from when he dropped Harry off at Privet Drive, and Harry can’t believe he hasn’t bothered to check if they left him something, perhaps tucked away underneath the clothes folded neatly at the very top.

Is the Marauder’s Map even in there? His invisibility cloak?

(Some bloody diary?)

As he follows behind his best friends on their hunt for Tombob, he gets more and more restless, suddenly anxious beyond belief to get his hands on the diary that his alternate self apparently kept. He envisions all kinds of information about this universe hidden between its pages, and the promise of answers is far more appealing than facing Tom.

They eventually find Tom in his room, reading on the bed. He’s looking artfully casual, gently closing the book and sitting up after admitting them, a warm and welcoming smile on his face that sends Harry into a minor crisis of conscience over his behaviour last night before he remembers just who Tom is.

“Harry,” Tom greets, with that ever-present warmth in his smooth voice. “Ron. And… might this be the famous Hermione?”

He gets off the bed in one fluid motion, coming to a halt right in front of the trio still hovering at the entrance of the room.

“And you must be Bob,” Hermione says, reaching out a hand. Tom shakes it without so much as a pause, winsome smile never wavering.

It’s strange sometimes, seeing his real face, when – if Harry focuses – he can also perceive the Bob-face Death crafted, layered over his true features like some strange, translucent mask. He wonders what Tom sees in the mirror, whether it’s Bob or Tom staring back at him.

Is that innocent enough conversation material for the future, when he isn’t torn between the desire to punch or force Tom to his knees?

(His cock does not twitch.)

“Are you also staying here for the rest of summer, or are you just visiting for the day?”

“The summer,” Hermione replies while Harry shifts a little on his feet, surreptitiously adjusting his underwear. “Mr Black was kind enough to agree, and my parents didn’t mind. I’m rooming with Ginny.”

It’s odd, seeing his own suppressed wince mirrored in Tom, flashing past so swiftly he doubts anyone else could detect it.

He really needs to stop watching Tom so intently. It’s doing his head in.

“Good! I’m glad we’ll have the chance to get to know each other before Hogwarts.”

Hermione tilts her head in consideration. “So am I.”

There’s a shrewd look in her eyes that Harry, having plenty to hide, does not appreciate.

It isn’t until late afternoon Harry finally has the chance to sequester himself in his room.

He shoots a locking charm at the bedroom door for good measure and opens the trunk with a flick of his wand, stalking forward and getting down on his knees.

He impatiently throws out the clothes, letting them lay in haphazard piles where they land, including the sock in which he’s tucked away the empty locket horcrux. The hefty sack of prize money for winning the Triwizard Tournament that Fudge pressed into his hands at the press conference back in June is set aside with a wince and a mental note to gift it to the twins as soon as possible.

He spares a brief moment of longing for his Firebolt that someone (probably Hermione) kindly minimized before packing, then sets it aside. Books, blank sheets of parchment, ink wells and ragged feather quills end up all around him as he digs deeper.

He breathes a sigh of relief as he gets his hand on first the invisibility cloak, then the Marauder’s Map right after.

Once he’s reached the bottom of the trunk without seeing trace of what he’s actually looking for, he goes through the smaller compartments on the inside of the lid and finally emerges victorious.

He almost drops it, recognising the diary immediately.

Dark, and simple, with a hole right through the middle.

…what the actual fuck was his alternate self thinking?

Harry dazedly goes over to the bed and sits down, eyes glued to yet another ruined horcrux in his hands.

Heart racing, he flips it open.

Chapter Text

Harry claims a headache and doesn’t come back down from his room for the rest of the day, not even for dinner.

Textbook suspicious behaviour.

Still, it gives Tom the opportunity to subtly question the full set of best friends without Harry’s looming presence, and it’s wonderful how much information they let slip.

They’re extremely protective of Harry, especially the mudblood who he hasn’t had time to work on yet, and fairly resistant to direct questions, but it’s all in what they don’t say and the small, seemingly insignificant details that together serve to piece together the mosaic of his soulmate.

…or at least the version they know.

It soon becomes clear that the mudblood has an impressive mind and is a fount of all sorts of knowledge. She’s also annoyingly aware of this and takes any available opportunity to throw information in his face, even when he already knows it.

Clearly, she’s used to being the smartest person in the room.

He can’t wait to prove she isn’t.

One look at Harry’s vacant eyes the next morning is all it takes to identify that there’s something off. The rest haven’t noticed yet, too busy with breakfast, but Tom keeps a watchful eye on his soulmate’s mechanical participation. He raises the toast to his lips, takes a small bite, then sets it back down on the plate, and rinse and repeat, staring down at the table, lost in his own head.

Tom is dying to know what’s going on. And he’s been patient for long enough.

He leans in, and in a quiet murmur asks, “May I have a word with you after breakfast?”

Harry blinks, a small frown forming between his brows. His gaze is still far away. “Why?”

Tom gives him a meaningful look.

Harry blinks again, uncomprehending.

Tom widens his eyes momentarily in a wordless suggestion that Harry take the hint.

Verdant green finally clears, and Harry sighs.

“Must we?” he mutters out the corner of his mouth.

His reluctance to spend time alone with Tom, even after everything they’ve been through, stings.

“Yes,” Tom insists quietly from behind the rim of his teacup.

Harry takes a few seconds to deliberate, and Tom keeps the suggestion of a post-breakfast blowjob at the ready should it be needed as further enticement, but Harry eventually sighs and agrees to his completely reasonable request for a chat without further negotiation.

Tom adds it to his mental tally of wins.

Shaking Ron and the mudblood takes some effort, but they eventually close and silence the door to Harry’s room behind them. They don’t lock it, to avoid sending Sirius’ guardian senses tingling.

Harry hastens ahead further inside the room and probably thinks he’s perfectly discreet with how he nudges a little black book underneath his pillow before whirling back around, arms crossed.

“What is it?” Harry asks impatiently.

All Tom can think of for the moment is how to get his hands on that book.

“You wanted to talk, so talk.”

Tom clicks his tongue, focusing back on his soulmate rather than whatever he’s hiding underneath his pillow. “Always so hostile, Harry. You could do to be a bit kinder, you know.”

Harry lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“May I have a seat?”

Harry sighs again, in annoyance this time, but does gesture toward the edge of the bed.

Tom makes himself comfortable, leaning against the wooden bedpost, drawing one leg up on the bed and twisting his torso so he’s still facing Harry, who takes up a spot opposite, leaning against the other bedpost but remaining standing with his arms crossed over his chest.

It’s irksome, having to crane his neck slightly to keep those bright green eyes in sight, but Tom doesn’t let it show. If only he could use his wand…

Soon, he soothes himself, looking forward to just how easily he’ll be able to dip into Harry’s mind once they’re at Hogwarts together. Although… easily might be pushing it, considering Harry rarely meets his eye these days unless Tom’s mouth is on his cock, and that requires quite a bit of focus too, much like Legilimency.

But it’ll at least be possible in a way it simply isn’t right now.

“So, Harry,” he begins pleasantly, “what did you do to your relatives?”

Harry simply looks bored. To the casual observer, or to someone who doesn’t already know most of the story, Harry’s uncaring attitude would probably fool them into thinking he has no idea what Tom is on about. Tom is rather impressed with his soulmate.

Seems you can lie if you put your mind to it.

“My relatives?”

“Mm. I didn’t have the chance to chat with Vernon, unfortunately, but Petunia and Dudley were markedly… out of sorts.” He cocks his head. “Any ideas as to why?”

Harry shrugs. “How should I know? In case you haven’t noticed, I tend to stay away from them as much as I can. How’d you talk to them, anyway? You’ve barely left the house since I arrived.”

“Keeping tabs on me, Harry?”

“You wish.”

Tom bares his teeth in something too sharp to be called a grin. “Perhaps. But that’s neither here nor there. In any case, I simply took a jaunt down to the corner and phoned their residence.”

“You used the phone?”

“Yes, Harry, the phone. It's an ingenious technological marvel, I'm sure you've heard of it.”

“Of course I've heard of a bloody phone. Why were you on it?”

“Why should me being on the phone with my good friend Dudley be any stranger than me being at his house?”

Harry grimaces. “How do you even know what a phone is? Were they around in the '40s?”

Tom lets out a small, incredulous laugh. “Goodness, you really don't know your history, do you?”

“I've been a bit busy with other things,” Harry snaps, then mulishly continues, “and it's not like history is part of the Hogwarts curriculum – except magical history, but you know, Binns is… Binns.”

“Fascinating,” Tom drawls, and he even means it, because how on earth is that ghost still around, and teaching at that? “Now, I did get some information out of Dudley,” he savours how this makes Harry’s jaw tighten before he consciously relaxes it again, “but I would like to hear your version as well. The unedited one, if you please.”

“I don't owe you anything.”

“We could argue about that six ways till Sunday. But,” he adds softly, ignoring Harry’s fierce glare, “I thought you might like to talk about it with someone who understands. Who knows who you really are.”

It takes Harry a while to respond. Tom simply waits patiently, keeping his expression calm but expectant under Harry’s searching gaze as he deliberates.

In the end, he isn't sure what, exactly, makes Harry answer his question when he’s been resistant so far. Perhaps it's being constantly surrounded by people who do not truly know him. Perhaps, compared to the well-meaning imposters downstairs, even someone he claims to hate becomes a worthy confidant.

Harry sighs, an exhalation of weary defeat, unfolding his arms and dropping down on the bed. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and momentarily cradles his head in his hands.

“It was a complete shitshow,” he says, words muffled against his palms before he raises his head, leaning it against the bedpost instead, staring down at the floor. “Those fucking dementors got way too close before I could drive them off, and then Lupin showed up and I – I don’t know, I didn’t think, I just used magic in front of him…”

He groans, falling back on the bedspread, the mattress shifting underneath them from his movement.

“You Obliviated him,” Tom states matter-of-factly, not a single doubt in his mind.

“Yeah,” Harry sighs, gaze fixed on the ceiling. “Had to do it three times, and I’m not exactly proficient with that fucking spell. Bloody wonder I didn’t turn him into a vegetable. I keep waiting for someone to ask me about it.”

“I’m sure no one noticed.”

Harry turns his head, their eyes locking, sending a thrill down Tom’s spine. “You did.”

Tom smirks. “Don’t compare them to me, Harry, it isn’t fair to them.”

A shadow of a genuine smile flits across Harry’s face.

Tom can barely believe it. Before he has a chance to process, Harry turns away again.

Tom feels lightheaded.

Progress, starts blaring in his mind like a siren, bright lights flashing up and down the corridors, banners dropping from the ceiling.

“And when we got back to the house,” Harry continues, “they just refused to fucking listen. Went all hysteric, and Vernon… he came at me.”

Vernon Dursley, your days are numbered.

“I threw him away and he went down, and for a moment…” Harry swallows, throat bobbing with the harsh movement. “I thought I killed him. The blood…”

Tom holds his breath, heat surging inside at Harry’s quiet admission. He wants to tip forward and get closer and lick and bite and –

“I didn’t mean for it to happen. I don’t understand it. My magic’s so… unpredictable? Sometimes, it’s like I can feel it, like a physical thing. And I can see it! What’s that about?”

Tom reluctantly gets his thoughts out of the gutter at this interesting revelation. Does magic work differently in Harry’s original universe, then? He supposes it isn’t all that strange, considering they apparently do not have soulmates, but the implications…

“You can’t normally?”

“Of course not! Is it… normal, here?”

Tom lets out a breathy laugh, shifting in his seat to hide how affected he became by Harry’s admission of near avunculicide, doing his best to focus on magical theory instead of instigating a blow job.

“Depends how you define normal,” he says, though the words come out far too closely to a purr. “Ordinary people generally do not have visible magic. Powerful people, however…”

Harry closes his eyes, handsome features twisted into grim defeat. While Tom cannot relate to the feeling, it’s painfully obvious Harry does not view yet another thing that makes him special as something positive.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Harry,” Tom murmurs, digging his fingers into the bedspread so he won’t reach for his soulmate. “There is nothing wrong with being powerful. It’s why we’re such an excellent match, after all.”

Harry scoffs but doesn’t otherwise disagree. Tom counts it as another win.

“So, what happened next with your uncle?”

“I fixed him up. Obliviated him and the others. Stunned Lupin and Apparated here.” He stretches one arm over his head, crooking it, using his hand as a pillow. The movement serves to drag his shirt upward slightly, revealing his midriff, just a sliver of tanned skin.

Tom does not stare.

…much.

His eyes are certainly not fixed on Harry’s stomach when he asks, “Do you know who sent the dementors?”

Harry exhales sharply through his nose. “I have my suspicions.”

“Did it happen the same way last time, then?”

Harry takes a moment to think about it. Slowly, he says, “Almost… but not quite. It’s been so long, I…” He falls silent, brows knitting together. “It happened… later. After my birthday. Strange, that.”

“What do you think changed?”

“I mean… I did? But that’s just it – last time, I was the one who tried telling people Voldemort had returned and getting dragged in the fucking press. I’ve kept my mouth shut this time around. She shouldn’t even have a reason to –”

“She?”

Harry makes a derogatory noise deep in his throat. “Dolores Umbridge. She’s a secretary or something to Fudge.”

“The new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor?” Tom asks in surprise.

Harry groans, rising on his elbows from his supine position. “You’re joking!”

“No, it was in the paper a few days ago. You really didn’t know?”

Harry thumps back down on the bed. “Of-fucking-course she is. Fuck.”

“What’s her motivations for sending dementors after you? Is she one of… Lord Voldemort’s followers?”

It feels odd talking about himself in third person, as if completely divorced from his own identity – especially when he essentially is. Whatever his older self got up to over the years doesn’t really have any bearing on Tom, and yet… it does. Because he’s the one who has to (unfair though it may be) live with the consequences. If his older self recruited Umbridge, and she attacked Harry because of his orders…

Then –

It means –

No.

He finds he does not care for the thought.

“No, not a follower. Not of Voldemort, at any rate. Just an opportunistic, evil bitch.”

“Then why…?”

Harry frowns up at the canopy. “I don’t really know. Last time, she wanted me out of the way because I made things awkward for her beloved Fudge. Honestly, she was so far up his arse I’m surprised she ever managed an independent thought.”

“So… political motivations.”

“Maybe. They did use my case of underage magic as a pretext to expel me from Hogwarts. Held a hearing in front of the entire Wizengamot and everything.”

“For a case of underage magic?” Tom asks incredulously.

“Mm. I don’t really get why – it’s not like anyone but Dumbledore was even listening to me.”

Tom takes a moment to think about this unprecedented behaviour and idly wonders just how many more of these types of cases he’ll get to learn where Harry is involved.

Slowly, having arranged his thoughts somewhat, he says, “I’m sure they feared your power –”

Harry scoffs.

Tom clicks his tongue and continues, “Your political power, Harry.”

“I’m not in politics,” Harry says, rolling his eyes.

Tom is tempted to slap him over the head. “Are you being wilfully obtuse?”

Harry gets back up on his elbows to meet Tom’s gaze. Tom spares a moment’s lament for the shirt once more hiding Harry’s skin from view. “Excuse me?”

One look at his face makes it abundantly clear he has no idea whatsoever what Tom is talking about.

Salazar, help me.

“Harry, you’re the Boy Who Lived.”

“I’m aware of this, thank you,” Harry drawls.

“Even I know how special that is, solely off of the articles I’ve read about you. Everyone knows your name. Based on how they talk and write about you, they don’t even consider you a real person.”

“Still not news,” Harry interjects bitterly.

“Whether you like it or not, your word carries weight. You’re a hero – a legend, to most – and that inherently means power. Power to affect change. Power to make people think. It’s no wonder this country’s leaders are terrified of you – if the Boy Who Lived speaks, the people will listen. They might not agree with your message, but they will listen, regardless.”

Harry grimaces and lays back down, arms behind his head. One part of Tom’s well-ordered mind rejoices at this further reveal of Harry’s skin. “You sound just like Hermione. My Hermione.”

Tom grits his teeth at being compared to the mudblood but doesn’t protest. Presumably, the one from Harry’s universe is comparatively clever to the one here; it isn’t meant as an insult.

“I’m surprised it hasn’t managed to sink in, then, if you’ve heard it before.”

Harry sighs. “Because it doesn’t make sense. Yeah, fine, I’m the sodding Boy Who Lived – but I’ve been through people calling me a liar, and not believing anything I say, enough for one lifetime, let alone two. People are too busy projecting whatever the fuck they want me to be to actually listen. That’s not power, that’s just… being singled out and shat on for things out of my control.”

Tom lets out a long, slow whistle. “You sure are jaded, aren’t you?”

Harry makes a sound, somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “Hard not to be at this point.”

“Be that as it may… you shouldn’t underestimate the effect you have on people,” Tom says, tone softer than the velvet hangings around the bed. “And you shouldn’t be surprised when less… principled people want to either use you for their own gain… or discredit you in an attempt at furthering their own agenda. You may not wish to involve yourself with politics, but you must be mindful of how other people view you, Harry, as your very existence is political.”

Harry makes a noncommittal hum.

“Either way, presuming you’re right… I suppose we’ll have an interesting year with Umbridge as our Professor.”

“That’s one word for it,” Harry replies, grimly, and Tom privately agrees, as their new teacher has apparently already attempted to assassinate the most famous boy in the entire country. “At least you’ll be safe from most of her shite.”

Tom’s pulse flutters. “Why, Harry, are you concerned for my welfare?”

“That’s not – whatever. I just meant, since you’ll obviously be in Slytherin… she left them alone, far as I know.”

“I see.” Tom tilts his head slightly. “I suppose I am curious to see how my future housemates will react to our soulmate bond. Ronald intimated they likely won’t be pleased.”

“Yeah… I’m not exactly popular with those gits,” Harry agrees, and he has the audacity to sound pleased about this.

“Lovely,” Tom drawls. “Your sympathy for my potential plight is heartwarming, truly.”

“You’ll be fine,” Harry says dismissively. “I’d be more inclined to worry about them than you in this scenario.”

“Flatterer.”

Harry makes an indistinct noise in the back of his throat but no further reply, eyes fixed on the canopy above.

Tom goes back to (not) staring at Harry’s stomach. Swallows. Feels that peculiar heat surging inside, the one he’s learned signals arousal.

The silence soon becomes oppressive. Slightly charged, and heavy, like the air before a thunderstorm.

They could find some time, surely? They haven’t been alone long enough for anyone to come looking just yet…

Tom swallows again, mouth filling with saliva.

“Anyway, Tomdemort, if that’s all –”

Tom lets out a heavy breath, instantly annoyed, like a switch flipped from aroused to irritated. No one tap-dances across his buttons quite like the boy – man – now getting up and scooting forward onto the edge of the bed.

“Don’t call me that. Or Tom. Much as I loathe being Bob, you need to be more mindful of using that name,” Tom says. “Or we’ll never get away with this ruse.”

Harry scoffs. “Good grief – if I slip up then we’ll just tell people your middle name is Tom or something, who the hell cares. It’s such a common name, no one will think twice.” He stands up and stretches, but not even the sight of his skin is enough of a distraction from his laissez-faire reaction to Tom’s extremely reasonable request.

Voice dripping with venomous sarcasm, Tom says, “Right, because your soulmate showing up out of nowhere at the graveyard when Voldemort supposedly tries a resurrection ritual, and then you calling me Tom, is a completely normal coincidence. Absolutely nothing suspicious whatsoever about that. No chance someone like Dumbledore will ever see through it.” He gets to his feet, using his slight height advantage to loom over his soulmate, and snaps, “Use your brain, Harry.”

Harry glares up at him, fists clenching by his sides.

For a moment, Tom wonders if he’ll soon be on the receiving end of punch number three.

The air stretches between them, growing taut with tension. Harry appears to be holding his breath. Tom does the same.

Harry’s blazing green eyes remain fixed on Tom’s.

Tom’s dip to Harry’s mouth.

Just one –

Harry takes a step back and snarls, “Fine.”

Disappointment sinking like a lead weight in his stomach, Tom gives a curt nod. “Good. Glad we straightened that out.”

“We done?” Harry slowly uncurls his fists, half turning away.

Tom blows out a heavy breath, trying to ignore how his heart is still racing in his chest. “For now.”

Harry turns his back completely. “Then get out.”

Tom’s eyes slant to the side, to Harry’s pillow.

Unbearable curiosity slams into him, forming an itch underneath his skin.

After a split-second decision, he circles the bed and digs the book out with nimble fingers.

It’s a simple, black diary, and intimately familiar – except for a hole through the middle.

The diary he purchased at Vauxhall Road in 1942 slips through his fingers, landing on the floor with a quiet thump, when Harry’s stinging hex catches him on the wrist.

Harry summons the diary, face furious.

But it’s nothing compared to how enraged Tom feels.

“That’s mine! Why do you have it? Give it to me!”

“No,” Harry snarls, holding the book protectively to his chest, wand in other hand, aimed right at Tom.

“GIVE IT TO ME!” Tom lunges forward in sheer desperation, limbs moving before logical thought, vision narrowed on his diary in Harry’s grasp. “IT’S MINE!”

A wave of electric scarlet and gold throws him away.

Before his back hits the wall, a protective cocoon of acid green envelops him, setting him gently on his feet.

A heartbeat passes.

Another.

Through his solid shield, he sees ruby red lashing out irregularly, whipping against his magic without rhyme or reason – powerful, but directionless.

Instinctual, yet aimless.

Their magic clashes, the red aggressor versus the green protector, again and again, sending sparks away into the room at large, fizzing and hissing like a roaring bonfire.

Their eyes meet through the magical havoc.

Tom almost doesn’t hear Harry’s sharp voice over the calamity, and yet it slices through him like a knife.

“No. It is not yours. This was the horcrux that opened the Chamber of Secrets, and you do not have a claim to it any longer.”

“It’s still mine,” Tom hisses.

Slowly, Harry’s wild magic recedes, trickling gently down the sides of Tom’s shield and drawing back toward him, like spilled ink in reverse.

“No,” Harry repeats in a low voice in the ringing silence, knuckles white around the spine of Tom’s diary. “Not anymore. There’s nothing left of you inside.”

Tom lets his defences settle in tandem with Harry’s withdrawn threat.

Lethal green flickers out, emerald flames doused.

Then, guiding his magic with the precision and deadliness of a scalpel, he cuts a line over the back of Harry’s hand.

Harry sucks in a shocked breath, tinged with pain, but doesn’t relinquish his grip. Drops of blood well from the small wound.

Tiny, precious rubies, dripping soundlessly onto the hardwood floor.

“There you are,” he breathes, as if to himself, green eyes blazing even brighter than his magic had.

Tom bares his teeth, tempted to sink them into Harry’s neck like a rabid dog. Tear, wreck, shake, until more blood splatters on the floor and he finally gives in to Tom’s will, beaten into submission. The one made to yield, for once.

Only the fact that Harry appears to expect something like it from him serves to send him out the door instead.

An Extendable Ear, impotent in the face of Harry’s silencing charm, crunches underneath his shoe. Tom digs his heel in and crushes it even further, not sparing the fucking blood traitors more than a livid glance as he storms past them on the landing below.

He will get his hands on that diary if it’s the last thing he does.

Chapter Text

August passes in a blur of cleaning, time spent with his friends and Sirius, practising wandless magic, and avoiding Tom by mutual, unspoken agreement.

Tom doesn’t sneak into his room again for any ill-advised rendezvouses, and Harry is perfectly fine with this.

Honest!

He does not toss and turn at night or debate sneaking down to Tom’s room under the invisibility cloak. That would be crazy. And Harry is entirely sane, thank you very much. Drinking himself stupid every evening with smuggled liquor works just fine. He’s used to the void inside, and any relief Tom might be able to offer isn’t worth having to spend time alone with the insufferable git.

Especially not after their clash over the diary. The same diary Harry’s now read through so many times he can practically quote every scrawled note.

(After Tom and Kreacher’s third unsuccessful attempt at stealing it, Harry took to carrying it with him everywhere he goes.)

Harry can’t stop cursing his own weakness; he’d actually confided in Tom. Willingly. Uncoerced. And it had felt… nice.

…maybe he isn’t entirely sane, come to think of it.

Maybe it’s a Harry-thing, regardless of universe. Because this one certainly had his issues, too.

Unable to sleep on the last day of August, he leans against the headboard, diary balanced in his lap. Hogwarts looms large in his mind, morning approaching fast but not fast enough.

He takes a swig out of the whiskey bottle Mundungus smuggled in for him for an exorbitant number of galleons, then flips the diary open to the first page spread.

stupid evil git

evil ugly wanker

Harry snorts faintly at the angry scrawls of his alternate pre-pubescent self, taking up most of the two pages, scribbled around the hole in the middle. The ink has bled, and small stains blot the pages.

In smaller script, likely added at a later date, as it’s fitted under and around the large two sentences, reads:

why can’t I stop thinking about you

lord arsehat

I hate you

fuck you tom

arsehat

I almost wish you could still write back so you’d know how much I hate you.

All because he’d been haunted with dreams and memories of a teenage Tom Riddle, handsome and kind and nothing at all like the monster he turned out to be. No wonder alternate-Harry couldn’t stop writing in the diary; it provided the most direct connection to his ghost.

He wonders why Dumbledore let him keep it. Although, to be fair, he wouldn’t be surprised if alternate-Harry had simply nicked it.

He skips past the next couple of pages of random vitriol against Tom and his plans, then lingers on the first proper diary passage – the one where a young Harry hesitantly starts penning his thoughts about other subjects than Tom, treating the diary as his own.

Ron met his soulmate today. He isn’t happy about it. I can’t even tell him how much I’d like to trade places. Anyone is better than no-one. Even if it is a Slytherin.

Harry sighs, shaking his head. The poor bloke really got dealt the worst hand. No soulmate at all, in a world where every other magical person gets one, and then dying at fourteen.

I wish I could talk to someone about what the diviner said. But I can’t find anything in the library, and it seems I’m the only one who ever got such a cryptic message. Or everyone else is lying.

Like I am.

“At least we’ve got that in common,” Harry mutters, turning the page.

While the diary has indeed offered quite a bit of information and insights about this dimension that would have taken him years to accrue on his own, it still falls woefully short.

One thing is extremely clear, though; alternate Harry nursed quite the unhealthy crush on Tom Riddle. It’s all there, reading between the lines. The constant references and returns to the subject of Tom, even if it’s in a hateful tirade, or mockery, or those few, shaky sentences, written after waking up from yet another dream about him.

It’s far worse than what Harry himself experienced growing up. Sure, there had been the occasional dream and shame-filled wank, but nothing at all like this… obsession.

This longing.

My scar hurts sometimes. I get flashes of a once grand house on a hill, and I see you, sitting by the fire. You speak in Parseltongue to that snake, but when it gets close enough, it’s some weird, ugly baby reflected in its eyes. But I know it’s you. I know it’s you, Tom. Voldemort. Sometimes, I find it hard to believe you’re really the same. I killed you, but you’re alive. Again and again. How is it even possible? How could you be a ‘memory’ and also this… thing? What happened to you? I don’t understand.

It isn’t until the middle of the diary, penned sometime during Harry’s third year, that he finally reveals what the diviner had said, in full, after a Divination class that had left him annoyed enough to go back to that first time he’d ever encountered a prophecy.

‘You are your own and there will be none other in this world. Nothing short of divine intervention could bring your tattered soul together with its counterpart.’

What does that even mean? How the hell can I be my own? My own soulmate, is that what they meant? Is my soul really tattered? What did I do? And what kind of divine intervention? I don’t understand. I wish I could talk to Hermione about it, I’m sure she could figure it out. Or maybe Ron has heard something. But I can’t. I’ve got enough to deal with without them looking at me like I’m some freak. A soulmate-less freak.

Harry sighs again. He could be wrong, of course, but he suspects the splinter of Voldemort’s soul stuck in his scar must have messed things up. That, and the fact poor alternate Harry was doomed to die at fourteen.

Part of him wants to call Death and ask. His prevailing sliver of sanity shoots down that idiotic notion, though. Better not kick the hornet’s nest unless absolutely necessary.

He finishes the bottle, both his head and vision swimming, continuing to skim through the haze.

Ron complained about his soulmate again today. Hermione said that at least his soulmate is the right age. I didn’t think she’d be so bothered by it, considering her crush on Lockhart last year. But I suppose there’s a difference between a crush and actually knowing a teacher is your soulmate.

Harry grimaces and closes the diary, tucking it underneath his pillow. He vanishes the empty bottle, yawns, and prays for oblivion.

His prayers aren’t answered.

Sirius is sulking.

But, he’s in decidedly higher spirits than Harry can recall from the last go-around, so he doesn’t begrudge his godfather his bad mood.

He leans back in his chair, opposite a brooding Sirius, leisurely eating his breakfast; the others are rushing around doing their last-minute panicked packing, but he completed his last night, wise from experience.

“It’s gonna be so quiet without you lot around,” Sirius mutters, glaring into his coffee.

Harry hums in agreement around his toast, glancing at the back of Mr Weasley as he leaves the kitchen to help his offspring. It’s just him and Sirius now.

“I wish you didn’t have to be stuck here, in hiding,” he says, pitching his voice low. “Any leads on Pettigrew?”

“None,” Sirius replies grimly. “Rat’s slippery.” He rubs a hand down his face. “But I’ll be fine.”

Harry opens his mouth to agree, but Sirius continues, “Question is, will you?”

Harry frowns and puts his toast down on the plate. “What do you mean?”

“Harry… I’ve tried to give you your space. Let you come to me if there’s something on your mind. But since you haven’t…” Sirius sighs. “What you went through, both at the graveyard and with those dementors… I understand it must have been harrowing. It’s fucked up and you didn’t deserve any of it. It’s understandable that it’s… changed you. But alcohol? Drinking?”

Harry doesn’t know whether to laugh or cringe.

Changed me, huh? You’re right about that, at least.

In the end, he makes a weird sort of noise in the back of his throat that not even he can accurately describe. His cheeks heat up, and it’s extremely uncomfortable having this type of talk with someone who considers himself Harry’s guardian.

At least Hermione and Ron had had the good grace of turning a blind eye to the vices he’d developed after the war.

“I’ve got it under control,” Harry finally says after clearing his throat.

“Harry…”

“I’m fine,” he insists, avoiding Sirius’ concerned gaze. “It’s not a problem. It just… helps me sleep.” Sort of. “I don’t even drink all that much.”

“You shouldn’t be drinking at all at your age, kid.”

“What, like you never did?” Harry fires back. To his annoyance, his cheeks keep flaming, and he wants to sink through the floor. “Like you never do?”

“This isn’t about me,” Sirius argues, still calm but temper clearly fraying. “And a cheeky drink with your mates is worlds away from getting pissed on your own, alone in your room.”

Harry contemplates an Obliviate just to get out of the conversation.

Instead, he mutters, “I’m fine. I’ve got some more packing to do.”

He gets out of his seat, chair scraping loudly against the stone floor.

“Harry! We’re not finished,” Sirius barks harshly, also getting up, palms coming down on the table with a loud slap that makes Harry involuntarily flinch and reach for his wand with twitching fingers. Sirius’ voice and countenance gentles in response, silver eyes warm with that same heartbreaking concern, “I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be,” Harry snaps, skin prickling from the minor adrenaline burst. “I’ve done just fine on my own so far – don’t play the concerned parent now.”

Sirius’ face falls.

Harry turns away so he won’t have to see it and leaves the kitchen before Sirius can stop him.

He nearly trips over the massive amounts of luggage on the main floor, dodges the other people rushing around the house, and shuts himself in his room on the top floor, locking the door for good measure.

Anger and embarrassment still crawl underneath his heated skin.

He turns around and slams his fist into the door.

Again.

And again.

And again.

He blows out a heavy breath. Absently inspects his scraped, bloodied knuckles.

They hurt. But it’s preferable to whatever else it is that’s got his heart in its tight grip, squeezing relentlessly.

He leans his forehead against the door with a sigh.

Nice going, Potter.

Hermione and Ron are already wearing their robes as they crowd inside the Ministry cars outside, polished prefect pins pinned to their chests.

Harry experiences a vicious sort of satisfaction when he remembers how Tom’s face had twisted in anger once everyone’s letters arrived. No prefect privileges for the displaced Bob Jonsson.

The vitriol is short-lived, though, melting away when he turns toward where Sirius leans against the wall, hands in his pockets.

Part of Harry is tempted to just mutter a quick bye and escape out the front door. But, since he’s not actually fifteen and he remembers all too well what it’s like living without his godfather, he steps closer, wilting slightly under Sirius’ considering gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, fiddling with the bandage around his right hand that a scandalised Mrs Weasley had insisted on once she’d caught sight of his scraped knuckles. “I’ll – think about what you said.”

Sirius’ face softens. He pulls his hands out of his pockets and opens his arms. Harry steps inside them, burying his face against his godfather’s chest, listening to the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat.

“I’m just worried about you, kid,” Sirius murmurs into his hair, hand on Harry’s neck. Harry nods, face still hidden in Sirius’ shirt. “Alcohol on a growing body can have pretty severe consequences. Just… wait till you’re older, please? Speak to the matron if you need help sleeping.”

Harry nods again. He doesn’t do either of them the disservice of lying out loud.

“I’ll write you,” he says, drawing back.

Sirius smiles, but it’s something rueful. Sad. Likely envisioning the lonely months stretching ahead. “See you for Christmas?”

“Of course,” Harry manages around the lump in his throat.

There’s the sound of footsteps on stairs, and Harry’s gaze is involuntarily drawn over Sirius’ shoulder.

Tom lingers a few steps up, watching them. He’s also wearing his robes already, the pretentious twerp; the brand-new robes Sirius’ money bought him in Diagon Alley a week ago, crestless and perfectly tailored to him, that’ll soon be emblazoned in green and silver.

Harry focuses back on his godfather. “See you, Sirius.”

Sirius reaches out and ruffles his hair. “See you around, kid.”

Harry does his best to sear Sirius’ face into his memory, then leaves, and definitely doesn’t strain his ears to hear the warm goodbye exchanged between Sirius and Tombob.

Everyone rushes to get through the barrier between platforms nine and ten. On the other side, steam billowing, awaits the Hogwarts Express. Not even Harry is immune to the wave of nostalgia washing over him, carefully manoeuvring closer to the sleek train, moving through the throng of people crowding onto the platform.

He bids the older Weasleys farewell, confirms with Ron and Hermione that he’ll be fine without them for a bit while they go to their prefect meeting, tells Ginny without looking at her that he’ll see her later, and ignores Tom’s searing gaze on his back as he gets onto the train.

He does not appreciate the trip down memory lane as he hunts for an empty compartment; far too many faces are ones he’s seen between his sheets.

(Or in public loos, or in a Ministry cupboard or – in one memorable case – in the Hogwarts library after a fundraising event. What was he supposed to say, ‘no, I don’t want you to suck me off as an apology for trying to hand me over to Voldemort’? Grow up.)

The only saving grace is that none of these people are aware of their entanglements in another dimension.

After traversing most of the train without finding an empty compartment, he finally stumbles into one with a familiar face he has not seen contorted in ecstasy – and bless her for making sure it never happened that one time he’d been drunk (and stupid) enough to suggest it.

“Hey, Luna,” he says, relief as heavy as the bag he forces up on the rack next to Hedwig’s cage. He throws himself into the window seat opposite her and smiles, chest overflowing with fondness at the sight of her necklace of Butterbeer corks. “It’s so good to see you. Have a good summer?”

She lowers her upside-down magazine and blinks large, luminous eyes at him.

“Hello, Harry,” she says, voice soft and dreamy. “Yes, it was quite enjoyable. How about yours? Did it turn out better after that unfortunate start?”

Harry snorts. “Unfortunate – that’s one word for it, I suppose. And yeah, it got better. Spent most of it with my relatives, which was horrid, but I’ve been with –” he catches himself just in time, and continues, “– the Weasleys for the past month.”

“That’s nice.” She adjusts the wand tucked behind her ear slightly, securing it.

Oh, how he’s missed her. She had been away on research trips and wilderness expeditions nearly constantly after the war, working as a magizoologist, so any time he got to spend with her was even more precious for how rare it was. Going to the same boarding school where he’ll get to see her often feels like an unexpected treat that he hadn’t counted on, and all the sweeter for it.

“What about you and your dad? Do anything fun?”

She smiles warmly, pale eyes getting a faraway look. “Oh, yes. I helped daddy with some research for this edition.” She raises the Quibbler, tapping the upside-down headline with a slender finger. Harry cocks his head all the way to his shoulder, trying to read it. Luna helpfully turns it the right way up.

“Sirius – Black As He’s Painted?” Harry reads aloud, and he can’t help but grin. “Oh yeah, there was a – witness or something, wasn’t there?”

Luna nods solemnly. “Mrs Purkiss. She’s adamant that the fugitive known as Sirius Black is actually Stubby Boardman, lead singer of The Hobgoblins.”

Harry’s grin widens. “Oh right, yeah. I remember now.”

“You read the Quibbler?” Luna asks, the dreamy quality of her voice turning into curiosity.

“It’s the only paper worth a damn these days. I’m a few issues behind, though. I’ll need to set up a subscription.”

“I could help you with that,” Luna offers, beaming right back at him.

“Sounds great, appreciate it,” Harry says, then turns toward where the compartment door has just slid open, smile never wavering. “Neville! Great to see you, mate.”

“Hiya, Harry,” Neville replies, round cheeks turning rosy, clearly taken aback by Harry’s effusive greeting. He’s balancing a horrid-looking plant in one arm and hauling his trunk behind him with the other. “W-would you mind terribly if I join you?”

“You’re always welcome,” Harry admonishes, restraining the urge to coo at Neville’s young face that’s so unlike his battle-hardened, bearded visage that Harry remembers, and gets his wand out. “Let me help you with that.”

A minute later, Neville’s trunk is stowed away, and he’s nervously fidgeting with his plant under Luna’s scrutiny. “I’m Neville – Longbottom, by the way.”

“Luna Lovegood.”

“H-how do you two know each other?”

“Oh, we don’t, really,” Luna replies dreamily and it’s like she’s just dumped a bucket of ice water over Harry’s head. “We’ve never spoken before.”

“We – but – I’m sure –” He falls silent again, breaking off his own nonsensical stammering.

He can’t think of anything to salvage the situation.

Luna simply smiles at him.

“Oh,” he says, resigned. “Uh…”

“It’s alright, Harry,” she says gently. “We can be friends if you’d like to be.”

Harry nods slowly, awkwardness melting away once more, disarmed the way only Luna ever manages. “That, er… Yeah. I’d like that.”

Neville looks between them, clearly confused but doing his best to hide it.

Harry clears his throat. “So, er, Neville – tell us about that plant?”

Neville obliges.

A rather eventful hour or so later – where Harry’s managed to be sprayed with sap from the Mimblus Mimbletonia just as Cho Chang with gang came by to say hi, and bought a bunch of sweets from the trolley lady to share with his friends – Ron and Hermione join them, fresh off the prefect meeting.

Unfortunately, they also bring Tom, unfairly handsome and put together as always. Not even his presence is enough to budge Harry’s good mood, though.

“Give us a frog, mate, will ya?” Ron drops onto the bench next to Neville after a quick ‘hello’ to the compartment at large. Harry tosses him one, watching Tom out the corner of his eye as he takes a careful seat next to Hermione, closest to the door, with a studied casual air about him.

“How was the prefect meeting?” Harry asks, and doesn’t miss the slight stiffening of Tom’s shoulders, the muscle ticking in his sharp jaw.

“Boring,” Ron sighs deeply, as if he’s had the most exhausting morning of all time already.

“There are two prefects from each house,” Hermione says, irritated as she smooths down her robes. “One boy and one girl.”

“Guess who the Slytherin ones are,” says Ron, with another beleaguered sigh.

Harry can’t resist sending Tom a look. “Malfoy and Parkinson.”

“Yes, actually,” Hermione says, surprise edging out her irritation. “Good guess, Harry.”

Tom meets his eye, one brow raised.

Harry pinches his lips together to keep from smiling, glancing away.

“And the Hufflepuffs are Ernie Macillan and Hannah Abbott, and the Ravenclaws Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil,” Hermione rattles off.

“You went to the Yule Ball with Padma Patil,” Luna says to Ron.

Harry ducks his head to hide a smile.

Ron stares at her in disbelief. “Yeah, I know I did. Who are you?”

“She didn’t enjoy it very much,” Luna says instead of introducing herself. “You didn’t treat her well or dance with her at all.”

Ron goes slightly red in the face. “That’s – I um…”

“Were you distracted by your soulmate? He went with that handsome boy from Durmstrang, didn’t he?”

“Okay, seriously, who are you?” Ron asks, irritation creeping into his voice. “Why do you even know who my soulmate is?”

“This is Luna Lovegood,” Harry says, then adds decisively, “she’s my friend.”

Both Hermione and Ron look at him in surprise. Luna beams.

“I wasn’t aware the two of you knew each other,” Hermione says carefully.

Harry shrugs. “You could say it’s… new.”

Luna bursts into laughter, and before he knows it, he’s drawn right in alongside her while the rest of them look confusedly at the spectacle. Only Neville merely smiles, pleased about being in on the joke.

Just as their laughter starts ebbing out into the occasional chuckle, the compartment door slides open again, and Harry grimaces at the sight of Draco Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.

Great, the unevolved version.

Malfoy’s eyes immediately zero in on the scar on Harry’s throat, and a delighted smile spreads across his pointy face.

“Merlin, Potter, someone really did nearly do you in, then?” he says, in lieu of any other greeting. “I didn’t dare believe the good news when I heard!”

“Piss off, Malfoy,” Ron says, sharply, fists curling as he stands up.

“How dare you sound so happy about that!?” Hermione cries simultaneously, also getting to her feet, wand drawn.

Crabbe and Goyle draw themselves up to their full, not insignificant heights, but Harry is too distracted by his best friends reacting with such immediate fire to care, and he is, once more, reminded of what they’d gone through, thinking he’d been killed and disappeared without a trace at the beginning of summer.

They’re teenagers. Not the two people he’s been through hell and back with.

But still undeniably his best friends.

Affection swells in his chest.

“How about we all calm down,” Tom suggests smoothly as the tension continues to rise.

Malfoy directs his sneer toward him instead. “Who the hell are you, then?”

Tom flashes a winning smile, and Harry hates how the sight of it makes his stomach flip. “Bob Jonsson.”

Malfoy eyes him up and down, frowning, thoroughly ignoring Crabbe cracking his knuckles and Ron’s death stare. “Where are your house colours?”

“Oh, I’m new,” Tom says smoothly. “Haven’t been Sorted yet.”

“Word of advice then; don’t throw your lot in with these people,” Malfoy says with a disdainful sniff.

“Bit too late for that,” Harry says, heatedly, before he can think better of it. “Bob’s my soulmate.”

Malfoy grimaces and says something scathing that Harry doesn’t even hear.

Because Tom smiles knowingly at him, and when their eyes lock, it’s like an electric charge is set off all along Harry’s skin.

“Disgusting,” Malfoy mutters and leaves the compartment.

Harry keeps staring at Tom, and the longing he’s suppressed to the best of his abilities for the past month rears its ugly head once more, straining inside his chest, desperate to reach out and touch the last person he should want to.

With enormous effort, he drags his gaze away and turns his attention to his recently seated best friends instead.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says.

And while the words may be directed at himself as well, the fondness certainly isn’t.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy has none of his grandfather Abraxas’ grace. Or charm. Or looks.

Tom isn’t sure about the money yet, but either way, not even a fully stocked Gringotts vault would be enough to redeem this pathetic, yapping lapdog, convinced of his own superiority, when both his bark and his bite carries less sting than an apple-drunk, sun-drugged bee.

His only use would appear to be an innate ability to get underneath Harry’s skin.

‘He’s my soulmate.’

The furious possession in Harry’s voice, now a mere memory, hours old but replayed on a loop, still manages to send a thrill down Tom’s spine.

It’s almost enough to distract him from the resentment at Harry’s dogged refusal to give Tom back his diary.

Almost, but not quite.

However, Tom can recognise when he’s (temporarily) beaten. Not that he’s told Harry, of course, but he retreated from their war over the diary a week ago and intends to wait, patiently, for the opportunity to take back his (!) rightful property.

Besides, ignoring Harry the way he has been for the past month has gotten… boring.

He may, perhaps, have been wishing Harry would fold first for once, though. Thankfully, it isn’t such a stretch of the imagination to count this claiming, this reassertion of their soulmate bond before witnesses, as Harry folding.

In the face of this, Tom feels generously inclined to throw his soulmate a bone and resume speaking to him.

Let it not be said he is unreasonable.

Stepping off at Hogsmeade station, it swiftly becomes clear that news about Harry Potter and his soulmate have spread like wildfire through the train. Whispers, glances, and shameless gawking dog their steps as they head over to the carriages.

Ron and Hermione (sometime over the past month, he got tired of referring to her as ‘the mudblood’; calling her Hermione simply saves time) glare at the ones they see before setting off to help guide the confused first years toward the female professor calling for them at the end of the platform.

Harry’s gaze is fixed straight ahead, his expression drawn into disinterested boredom. The tightness around his shoulders gives him away, though; he’s clearly aware of everyone’s uncouth behaviour but chooses to pretend he isn’t, keeping up conversation with Luna and Neville.

Tom, meanwhile, smiles demurely and inclines his head in greeting to the few curious and bold enough to wave or otherwise say hello.

And then comes to a halt right by the carriages.

He blinks. Once, twice.

But the creatures remain, skeletal and horrifying – like ominous steeds of Death. Or perhaps harbingers of the very same; and isn’t that a terrifying notion, being beset by Death when they’ve gone so long without seeing it.

“You can see the thestrals,” comes a dreamy voice to his side. There’s no question in it, no doubt about what’s thrown his composure right off the side of the road.

He briefly glances down on the blonde, strange girl Harry’s claimed as a friend, and mutely nods before returning to the creatures waiting patiently in front of each carriage.

What happened to the horses? Who allowed this terrifying display of mortality and its fickle nature in place of good old-fashioned horsepower?

“You’re holding up the line,” Harry sighs, nudging him in the back. Tom jolts into movement, though his gaze remains glued to the thestral’s milky-white eyes until he’s clambered inside the carriage, the way one keeps a crouching predator in sight lest they catch you by surprise.

He lets out a shaky breath as silently as he can, trying to will himself back under control, but something akin to genuine fear keeps hold of him, making his limbs intermittently twitch with the urge to run.

They’re just ugly horses, he admonishes himself, and you’ve read plenty about them.

He begins reciting the passage from his Care for Magical Creatures-textbook, and it does eventually serve to settle his mind, just as the carriage starts moving toward the castle.

He feels Harry’s gaze upon him, and he determinedly ignores it, not knowing what would be worse to see in those green, green eyes; pity, or ridicule.

When they step off at the castle’s front gates, Tom is once more fully in control of himself, and neither the shiver down his spine nor anxious spring in his step has anything to do with the thestral’s quiet huff before it leaves.

(They don't!)

“They’re gentle creatures, really,” Luna says, walking backwards next to them, keeping the horrid beasts in sight.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, voice softened in a way Tom has rarely, if ever, heard before. “They are. Brilliant, too.”

Luna smiles as him and turns the right way around.

“What are you two even talking about?” Neville asks, the curiosity having finally gotten the better of him.

“The thestrals. They pull the carriages,” Harry explains.

Nervously, Neville looks back over his shoulder. “Thestrals? Really? I-is that new?”

“Nah, mate. Hagrid trained them to do this years ago.”

Tom’s step falters momentarily. He recognises that name – it’s the half-giant who’s always hiding dangerous animals underneath his bed or in semi-abandoned cupboards around the castle. He supposes it does make sense someone like that would get the bright idea to train deadly omens to pull carriages.

“They get an undeservedly bad reputation,” Luna sighs, sounding extraordinarily sad. “All because one must have seen death to be able to see them. It’s not their fault.”

Neville merely stares at her, making an odd noise that’s neither agreement nor disagreement, then lengthening his stride somewhat, disappearing inside the wide, wooden doors of the castle ahead of them.

Harry, meanwhile, sends Tom a meaningful look, full of admonishment.

He briefly narrows his eyes in response, a purposeful twitch, clearly communicating ‘what?’

If Harry is waiting for Tom to feel remorseful about removing the stain upon his family tree, he’ll be waiting for a very long time indeed.

Harry huffs and turns away, realising the same.

It is unfortunate that Harry is aware of Tom’s… legal misdeeds. Tom imagines he would have had a far easier time winning his soulmate over had that knowledge been kept from him.

“Mr Johnson!”

Right outside the doors flung wide open to the Great Hall, Tom is quickly approached by an aging witch, black hair in a sleek bun underneath a pointy, green hat.

Harry hovers for a moment, but visibly relaxes at the sight of the witch, even trading a nod and small smile with her, before continuing on his way with Luna inside the Great Hall.

“This way, please,” says the witch – who is presumably a professor – directing them away from the tide of students, off to a small side chamber.

The door has barely shut behind them when she starts talking. “Mr Johnson –”

“Apologies, Professor, but it’s Jonsson,” Tom interjects as politely as possible.

A quick blink is the only reaction she gives to his interruption. “Jonsson, you will be sorted along with the first-years. Has anyone told you about the sorting process?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Good. Then please remain here until it’s time.”

Just as swiftly as she’d intercepted him, she leaves him alone.

Merlin forbid you introduce yourself properly, you hag, Tom thinks, neatening his robes and hair for lack of other things to do.

He does appreciate the chance to have a moment to himself, though. To soak up the atmosphere, and relish his return to Hogwarts’ hallowed halls, albeit as a supposed transfer student. The sound of hundreds of students’ echoing voices and footsteps drift inside where he waits, and the familiar start of year-excitement bubbles just underneath his skin, even though he has, overall, had a better summer than ever before.

But Hogwarts is his domain. His true home.

No matter the year, no matter the decade, Hogwarts is his.

He has climbed to the top once before and he will do so again, and being Harry Potter’s half-blood soulmate in the den of snakes shall prove an interesting challenge if nothing else. He reckons it’ll be easier though, to be honest, than being an unknown mudblood in that same den.

Memories of his first year threaten to surface, and he quickly shoves them back in their requisite box, unwilling to linger on those early embarrassments. He is no longer young and foolish, and those mistakes will not haunt him, nor have any bearing on how he proceeds going forward.

After close to fifteen minutes, he is finally joined by the first-years, staring wide-eyed at their surroundings, although some – presumably purebloods – do their best to be discreet about their fascination.

The professor – McGonagall, as it turns out – runs through the spiel about the houses, and Tom listens politely. He doesn’t understand why they’re going through the fuss of sorting him with the first-years when a quick ceremony in the headmaster’s office should have sufficed, but he’s determined not to let his annoyance show.

At least this way all eyes will be on him, and for now, this suits him fine.

He’s relegated to the back of the queue when they enter the Great Hall, towering over the children shuffling ahead in a semi-neat line. He sees Harry next to Ron, Hermione and Neville nearly at the front of the Gryffindor table, spots Luna among the Ravenclaws, and barely manages to supress an eyeroll at Draco Malfoy’s disdainful sneer from the Slytherin crowd.

It will take time to learn more names, but he will be diligent. There is power in knowledge, and even the most insignificant, vapid first-year Hufflepuff could turn out useful at some unknown point in the future.

As they come to a stop in front of the head table, Tom briefly comes eye to eye with the bitch who dared attempt an assassination on his soulmate earlier this summer. He’s rather glad to be allowed to turn his back on her, if only for how dreadfully ugly she is; large, pouchy eyes protrude out of a pallid, toadlike face, and she’s dressed from head to toe in fuzzy pink, which somehow manages to make her an even bigger eyesore than the velvet, plum-coloured robes (and matching hat) that Dumbledore is sporting.

Tom lets his gaze travel over the assembled students as he stands there, calmly, hands loose at his sides, hidden in the folds of his new, beautiful robes. He locates the twins near the door, and Ginny somewhere between the two groups Tom knows, among her own peers.

Good.

He doesn’t like how she watches Harry when she thinks no one is looking.

Then again, he doesn’t like how she watches him, either.

Tom entertains himself with fantasies of plucking those doe eyes right out of her skull while he waits for McGonagall to place the sorting hat on the stool. The fantasies abruptly turn to smoke, however, when the hat starts to sing.

What the…?

He listens attentively to the history lesson and the warning hidden inside the song, to the urging for the houses to unite and stand together in the face of ‘external, deadly foes’.

He wonders what foes the hat could possibly be referring to. Did Dumbledore put the hat up to this? A quick glance over his shoulder shows Dumbledore looking troubled, but then again, the old goat could be acting for the crowd’s benefit.

Tom lets his mind drift during the sorting, idly rebuilding and double-checking his Occlumency. Once ‘Zeller, Rose’ has been announced as the newest Hufflepuff, McGonagall turns to him and waves him forward after calling out ‘Jonsson, Bob’.

Tom gracefully steps up to the stool and sinks down, ignoring the murmurs breaking out across the hall. He relishes the necks craning to see him better, the flashes of interest across countless upturned faces, and lets a small smile curl at the corner of his mouth.

The hat comes down on his head.

“Curious…” the hat mumbles in his ear, or perhaps inside his mind; it is surprisingly difficult to tell. “I cannot see clearly…”

Slytherin, Tom thinks.

“Slytherin, you say? Perhaps… I couldn’t possibly make that decision without taking a peek inside your thoughts, though…”

Slytherin, Tom repeats, sternly.

The hat doesn’t reply.

Seconds stretch into a full minute. Then another. And another. The students' whispers grow louder. “Go on then, pick a house already!” comes a shout, and it might have been one of the twins, his voice familiar. Some laughter breaks out.

The attention he'd relished a few minutes prior turns suffocating.

Hesitantly, Tom minutely lowers his Occlumency shields.

The hat screams.

And then everything freezes.

Everything, from the flickering candles, to the students, to even the sounds – it’s all cut off, the absence of noise almost as loud as the presence of it had been right before.

Tom inhales, eyes cutting away to Harry.

Who is still moving, looking around in confusion, before closing his eyes in resignation.

“No, I don’t like that,” comes the far too familiar voice of Death, appearing right before Tom in a vaguely humanoid shape made up of endless, eddying darkness, continuously collapsing in on itself.

Already on edge from the failed sorting and the hat’s screams, Tom’s heart starts racing as if it could tear out of his chest and run away without him.

“What’s happening?” he croaks through a snared-up throat, trembling from head to toe and trying not to show it.

His memory of Death hasn’t done the real thing justice. It’s even more horrifying than he remembers. Indescribable. Terrifying. The stuff of nightmares where one cannot wake no matter how one tries.

While he’s been absently aware that he has met Death, that Death is always watching, being confronted by it once more makes his fear response to the thestrals look pathetic. Why fear the steed, the omen, when the real Thing is beyond compare?

“The hat saw who you really are,” Death muses, giving the impression of cocking its head. “It was about to tell everyone. And at first, I was going to go along with it… but frankly, I think it would make for a boring story. They’d cart you off to Azkaban, and Master over here, well… I’m not so sure he’d lift a finger to save you at this point.”

Tom can’t help but send Harry a look full of the betrayal he feels, even though he doubts Harry can accurately decipher it over their physical distance.

His silence, however, is telling.

“So, you… froze time?” Tom asks carefully, focusing back on the eldritch horror, barely managing to keep the tremor out of his voice.

“I sure did! Impressive, isn’t it? There’s nothing I can’t do,” Death says, sounding awfully smug about it. “I’m not smug!”

Tom blinks, glancing at Harry once more in confusion, receiving no clarity back.

Swallowing, he asks, “What now, then?”

“Well… it took you two ages to get here, to Hogwarts, and I kind of want to see how it plays out. Can’t really do that if that hat tells on you, now can you? So I suppose I shall have to step in once again and save you from the consequences of your own actions.”

Death cracks its knuckles, and also doesn’t, because it doesn’t have knuckles to crack. It makes Tom’s head hurt trying to make sense of it.

“Wouldn’t it be funny to put you in Gryffindor?” Death lets out a sound that, no matter how grimly horrifying it is to Tom’s ears, is undeniably laughter.

“No.”

It’s the first thing Harry has said since Death burst onto the scene.

In less than a blink of an eye, Death disappears from before Tom and reappears by Harry, hovering over the table. “And what, Master, makes you think you have any say in the matter?”

Harry tilts his head back, and even from afar, Tom can tell he’s glaring.

At the personification of Death itself.

Stubborn, brave fool.

“Put him in Slytherin where he belongs,” Harry says through gritted teeth.

“But then how could we possibly make use of those delicious tropes? One bed? Forced proximity? Having to be really, really quiet so you won’t wake your dorm mates up when you first start those less-than innocent touches?”

“What the – are you a teenage girl or something?”

“Not for a very long time, actually. Also, don’t be rude, Harry. I’ll remind you that one of your best friends is a ‘teenage girl’.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Harry mutters, shooting a quick, guilty look over to Hermione where she sits completely frozen beside him.

“Thoughtless,” Death tsks. “As if enjoying romance and decent writing has a gender or age restriction.”

“You never make any sense! What do you mean writing?”

“None of your business. You just worry about the romance aspect. It’s been a bit dry on that front lately.” The admonishment in Death’s otherworldly voice sends another bolt of fear through Tom. He almost blurts that he’s trying, that Harry is simply being stubborn, but terror keeps his mouth cinched shut.

Harry, on the other hand, simply keeps glaring at Death. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“Wrong,” Death trills. “Wrong, wrong, WRONG, wrong, wrong, little Master.”

The darkness expands, growing, filling the entirety of the Great Hall from floor to cloud-covered ceiling.

Death’s voice rings out, clear as a bell and ominous as thunder, the very walls reverberating from the sound, “YOU. OWE. ME. EVERYTHING.”

Tom claps his hands over his ears, dislodging the sorting hat whose mouth remains open in a silent scream. Death’s voice lingers, resonating inside his skull, forcing a sob of pain and fear over his lips.

“YOU’VE MADE YOUR POINT!” Harry's sharp voice is barely audible over the echoing sound of Death.

Silence descends. The noise is cut off just as abruptly as it started.

“Good,” says Death, unbothered, once more back in front of Tom who sits shaking upon the flimsy stool.

Death reaches out a hand-not-hand, picks up the sorting hat and gives it a once-over, then places it back on Tom’s head.

Death winks but doesn’t, then disappears.

Sounds crash over Tom like a massive wave, the sheer intensity of it nearly sending him to the floor. The candles start flickering as if they never stopped. The students crane their necks to see what’s going on with this drawn-out sorting.

And the hat yells, “SLYTHERIN!”

On shaky legs, Tom stands up, removes the hat and hands it over to Professor McGonagall, then heads over to the Slytherin table to half-hearted applause. He sinks onto the bench by Malfoy and his cronies, only noting their sneers in an absentminded kind of way, too distracted and emotionally bruised by Death’s intervention to pay them any heed.

He can barely keep himself from shaking like a leaf, all his focus going toward remaining seated instead of crawling under the table and collapsing into a whimpering puddle of fear.

He only just escaped Azkaban.

Thanks to Death.

Merlin, but he wishes they’d serve something stronger than pumpkin juice right about now.

A lavish feast that turns to ash in his mouth later, Tom is finally starting to feel like himself again.

Thankfully, he’s been able to play off his discomfiture as calculated observations, something the Slytherins at least understand, no matter how they might comment snidely upon his silence and drop venomous little hints about what they think about his soulmate and, by extension, him.

And it isn’t as though Tom hasn’t observed them. He may not have been diligent about it the way he pretends, still too rattled by Death’s appearance, but he has made quite a few mental notes.

Malfoy remains a braggart and a fool. His cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, are dumb as trolls and just as ugly. Nott, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Tom’s old Knight – son or grandson? – is the quiet, bookish sort. The only interesting Slytherin fifth year boy appears to be Blaise Zabini, who is handsome, quick with a witty joke, and displays an intriguing shrewdness in those dark eyes.

He is also the only one attempting any genuine sort of connection with Tom, which further speaks to his discerning nature. A true Slytherin, who does not immediately alienate the new kid simply because of their newness or previous entanglements, willing to wait and see which way the wind blows before making their judgement call.

“I suppose we, as prefects, have to show the first-years the way to the common room,” says Malfoy with a beleaguered, self-satisfied sigh, puffing out his chest where the polished prefect pin gleams.

“Right you are, Draco,” simpers Pansy Parkinson, a pug-faced girl who hangs on Malfoy’s every irrelevant, obnoxious word.

How these two became prefects baffles even a brilliant mind like Tom’s. Had prefects been chosen for academic merit, there’s not a single doubt that honour would have been his. As it stands, Bob Jonsson does not yet have academic merits, nor even a House when the prefects were chosen, so it makes perfect sense that his old position would go to someone else.

He can’t seem to reason himself out of the persistent eye-twitch, though. Annoying, that.

“Let me show you the way, Jonsson,” says Blaise in a mild voice, and Tom graciously accepts the unnecessary offer.

Anything to get away from Malfoy and Parkinson’s smug faces.

Chapter Text

Their first potions lesson is being led by a dead man.

Former dead man. Not yet dead man?

Still a dick, though, Harry thinks, watching one of the final casualties in the war against Voldemort lecture them about O.W.L.s with the usual sneer and obvious contempt.

Gaze drifting over to the aforementioned teenage genocidal maniac, he finds Tom currently taking diligent notes wearing his fancy Slytherin robes, one unruly curl falling perfectly over his deceptively innocent, focused face. If Harry concentrates, the Bob-mask descends, and the lock of dark hair disappears completely, replaced by a blonde coif where not a single hair is out of place.

He isn’t ugly as Bob, per se… but his actual face is far superior.

Not that Harry will ever tell him that, of course. But he is strangely thankful to Death for letting him keep seeing the original. Makes it easier to remember exactly who he is.

When they’re set loose to begin brewing the Draught of Peace, Harry immediately detours toward the back of the room instead of the ingredients’ cupboard. After a quick rummage, he emerges triumphantly with the Half-blood Prince’s old textbook and returns to his station, shoves the book in his satchel, then hastens away to gather ingredients.

The Draught of Peace is a finnicky potion, and Harry is grateful for the distraction it offers. Thankfully, he’s had some practice with it over the years. With steady hands, he prepares the ingredients, keeps track of the flame, and stirs the potion at the precise intervals he’s meant to, and with ten minutes to go, a light, silver vapour rises enticingly from his cauldron right when it should.

Glancing over, it’s clear that Tom has also managed this feat. He even appears to be murmuring helpful instructions to Blaise Zabini, whose potion is a little off but getting there. Those two have become inseparable in the few days since start of term, much to Ron’s chagrin – he’s been obsessing about that almost as much as Quidditch.

Honestly, Harry has yet to hear a single valid complaint about Zabini that doesn’t involve his House, and when he’d asked Ron last night why he’s so opposed, Ron hadn’t been able to offer much besides stammering, some scowls, and a face redder than a ripe tomato.

Sure, Harry had been shocked, and even a little sad, when he’d read the diary and found out that Ron and Hermione aren’t soulmates here, but if this bloke is anything like his counterpart in Harry’s original dimension, he’s a decent enough sort. Ron could do a hell of a lot worse.

Speaking of doing worse; Ron’s potion is emitting sparks.

Harry winces. Probably should have helped.

Snape drifts through the classroom, passing Hermione’s cauldron with a sneer but without comment, and comes to a halt by Harry’s.

Seeing his face twist in disgusted disbelief when he can’t find any fault with Harry’s potion has Harry hard-pressed to keep his expression neutral instead of crowing in triumph.

“Granger,” Snape snaps. She startles and looks up, hair frizzier than usual from the potion fumes. “Have you been helping Potter despite my instructions that this potion is to be brewed individually?”

“No, sir,” she squeaks, eyes growing rounder in surprise as she darts a glance over to Harry’s perfect potion.

“I hardly need to ask if Weasley has been extending a helping hand,” Snape then sneers, sallow face momentarily illuminated by the bright blue sparks emitted from Ron’s cauldron.

Harry’s jaw clenches, hand tightening around the stirring rod.

“Mark my words, Potter,” Snape says, silky voice nearly inaudible over the hissing of unattended flames underneath cauldrons. “If you cheated, I will find out, and the consequences will be dire.”

“I simply followed your instructions, Professor,” Harry says through gritted teeth, gesturing at the blackboard, keeping a scowl off his face by sheer force of will.

Snape doesn’t bother replying, merely swooping away like an overgrown, dramatic bat, off to find more susceptible prey.

Dick.

Only the memory of seeing Umbridge shackled and led away for Azkaban while screaming ineffectually about ‘following orders’ manages to keep Harry in his seat in the face of her ridiculous cardigan and grating ‘hem-hem’s.

This bitch tried to have him killed. She wasn’t the first, and Harry isn’t naïve enough to assume she’ll be the last.

But damn it, why?

Did she see an opportunity to test the Boy Who Lived-epithet for herself? Was it just plain old dislike? It definitely wasn’t because Harry had been running his mouth and telling the truth – for once.

Was it political, the way Tom had theorised?

Is this toad actually a viper?

Throughout her extremely boring, borderline offensive lecture about course aims, Harry keeps mum, merely watching her, fist clenched underneath the desk, nails digging into his palm until he draws blood.

There’s not so much as a twitch whenever her protruding eyes drift over him. No hint of recognition or guilt or even glee, just the same vapid expression and saccharine smile that fools absolutely no one.

The spiel is the same, though, from what he can remember. Less of a focus on painting him a liar, for obvious reasons, but clearly still Fudge having a pissing contest with Dumbledore, with Umbridge holding his prick and doing the aiming.

…and that’s an image he promptly ejects from his mind because what the actual fuck.

He shudders.

“I think we’ll try that again,” says Umbitch with a sickly-sweet smile when the class didn’t respond the way she wanted them to.

Harry mimes the requisite ‘yes, Professor Umbridge’, but he’ll be damned before those words make it across his lips.

He opens his book as directed and pretends to read the desperately dull text for the next few minutes, turning the page occasionally for appearance’s sake. Though why he bothers is anyone’s guess.

When Hermione starts a discussion about the course aims, and whether they’ll actually learn defensive spells (of course not), and several of their classmates join in, Harry morosely resigns himself to restarting the DA.

“I repeat, as long as you have studied the theory hard enough, your exams will be a breeze.”

“What about in the real world?” Ron asks, heatedly. “Fat load of good theory is gonna do us then!”

“This is a school, Mr Weasley, not the real world,” Umbridge replies, voice gone dangerously soft.

Over the next minute, Ron lands himself in detention for daring to contradict Umbridge.

Harry’s palm starts bleeding again. So does his tongue from how hard he’s biting it.

It should be easier than this.

Hogwarts was, and remains, his first ever home. The castle took him in when no one else wanted to, sheltered him inside her walls and kept him (relatively) safe under her roof. He knows the twisting corridors like the back of his hand, has mapped the ever-changing landscape of her numerous floors and cheeky staircases faithfully, both with and without the Marauders’ guidance.

And yet.

His bed in the Gryffindor dorm is too narrow, the walls of the buzzing common room too close, the constant press of children on all sides too stifling. He no longer fits within the confines of his old life, alternate reality or not, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

Give it time, he tells himself in desperation, shuffling from one meaningless lecture to another.

You will get used to it again, he thinks morosely, haphazardly tying his Gryffindor tie and feeling like an adult playing at dress-down.

But Hermione is already stressing about O.W.L.s that do not truly matter. Ron argues about Quidditch and their chances against Slytherin in the Cup as if it’s life or death. Professors assign homework that might as well be a lesson in futility, and the teenagers around him go on and on about things that bear no relevance upon life outside these ancient walls.

Harry feels the imposter more than ever, unable to twist himself back inside the mould that formed him.

And all the while, Death’s voice lingers in his ears. Mocking him. Taunting him. Serves to turn his head toward the Slytherin table at every meal, makes him seek out dark curls and mahogany eyes at every shared lesson, and listen for the telltale sound of a smooth voice that does far more to him than it should.

Without the distraction of alcohol, every night becomes a battlefield where he fights a war against his better judgement.

But the want snaking underneath his skin is poison, filling his veins with twisted desire and whispering insidiously in his ears that no one would have to know.

Who would judge him for giving in? Who would care if he were to seek out relief from this aching void any way he could? No one else knows who Tom is. They wouldn’t raise so much as an eyebrow if Harry were to give an inch, or a mile for that matter. Tom’s true identity remains a secret, and he’s doing an admirable job of pretending to be both sane and a decent human being, which would make Harry’s reluctant interest not only justifiable, but understandable.

For fuck’s sake, Ron’s only gripe with Tom is that he got sorted into Slytherin – Hermione’s that Tom keeps beating her to answers in class.

But the voice blending with Death’s is suspiciously close to Tom’s, and Harry learned long ago that that voice cannot be trusted.

No matter how he might wish to in the dark of his fourposter, blinking tired, burning eyes up at the crimson canopy while teenagers snore a distorted, annoying symphony around him.

Harry stares into the fire while Hermione does some extracurricular reading next to him. Ron is off at his detention with Umbridge but should be back any second.

When he does return, clambering in through the portrait hole, Harry practically bolts out of his chair.

Ron’s blue eyes widen, and he takes a startled step back when Harry lunges for his hands, turning them over and peering intently at them.

“Oi, mate, since when do we hold hands?” Ron laughs nervously. “Miss me that much, eh?”

Harry doesn’t respond.

But he does relax and let go of Ron’s hands when there’s no trace of injury on them. He doesn’t know what he would have done had there been so much as a mark on them.

“Just had to check,” he mumbles, returning to his chair.

He doesn’t miss the baffled look exchanged between Hermione and Ron, but he doesn’t comment on it, and the evening calm soon reestablishes itself.

The first Quidditch practice is on Saturday, only a week into term. Weatherwise, they couldn’t ask for a better start; warm, lightly overcast and not so much as a breeze. No distracting sunlight, no rain, no harsh wind blowing them off course. Perfect conditions.

Harry can’t remember the last time he played anything other than a quick scrimmage at the Burrow and is oddly excited about the prospect of spending a couple of hours out on the pitch, no matter that he’s out of shape and rusty.

Keeper try-outs will be held in the afternoon, and plenty of students are taking advantage of the decent weather, so they actually have a bit of an audience as they kick off the ground.

Before he knows it, his cheeks hurt from smiling as he pushes the Firebolt as fast as it can go. He does a couple of loops and spirals and daring dives, and the wind steals the sound of his delighted laughter.

He’s missed this.

Why hasn’t he realised before? Why hasn’t he gone flying, when it clearly brings him joy?

Hovering in front of Angelina as she reminds them of their respective duties on the pitch – a rehash of the strategy meeting held in the changing rooms earlier – he’s grinning from ear to ear.

“Let’s see if you’re all still up to snuff, then, or if we’ll be holding try-outs for more than Keeper!” Angelina finishes, to the boos and laughter of the rest of the team, the twins both clutching at their hearts and lamenting her cruelty before flying off.

Angelina kicks open the trunk, sets the Bludgers loose, throws the Quaffle over to Katie, and then lets the Snitch free.

Harry zeroes in on the fluttering wings and winking gold immediately and sets off at a breakneck pace that only his Firebolt is capable of. His fingers soon close around the struggling ball, and he whoops loudly, turning swiftly to the side and circling back toward the middle of the pitch before throwing the Snitch free again, letting it race ahead. As it leaves, he closes his eyes, creating more of a challenge.

He goes high, chasing the clouds, and circles from above as he keeps an eye out for the telltale glint of gold.

This high up, with Hogwarts in the distance towering above the glittering lake, and the Forbidden Forest stretching out for miles in the other direction, Harry finally feels remarkably close to being at peace. Happy.

It niggles at him, though, in the back of his mind, that it still isn’t quite as good as when Tom’s skin is pressed to his. But as he tips over into a steep dive, nothing but the sound of the wind rushing in his ears, it’s easier than ever to tune it out.

Until he shoots past the stands and sees Tom.

Head tipped back, dark eyes fixed on Harry’s every movement, and a look of profound, wild hunger on his unbearably handsome face.

Harry swerves out of the path of a Bludger and thanks it for the distraction.

Ron tries out for Keeper.

It doesn’t go well. But everyone else sucks even worse so he gets the position anyway.

“You were brilliant, mate!” Harry slings his arm around Ron’s shoulder, a little miffed he can’t quite reach. His growth spurt hit right on schedule this summer, but he knows he’s got another one coming before he’ll reach his full height.

Ron, slightly green in the face and more than a bit dazed, grins incredulously. “I can’t believe I got it.”

“Neither do I, frankly. That last catch was pure accident, Weasley.” Appearing out of thin air, Blaise Zabini tilts his head and smiles in challenge.

Tom is right next to him and tuts in admonishment but doesn’t otherwise engage.

He’s not even looking at Harry, and he doesn’t understand why this irks him.

“Oi!” Ron sputters, eloquent as ever.

“You looked good doing it, though,” Blaise purrs, smile turning wicked, sending Ron’s face into tomato-territory.

And then he’s off with a casual wave over his shoulder.

Tom follows.

Harry stares after them, disbelieving that Tom hadn’t so much as said ‘hello’ to him, after ostensibly coming to the Gryffindor practice to watch Harry play – because he definitely wasn’t there for Quidditch.

Not that he cares. It’s just weird, that’s all. Out of character.

His eyes narrow on Tom’s back.

Suspicious.

Late that night, curtains drawn around his fourposter, Harry opens the Marauder’s Map with a tap of his wand and the whispered passphrase. Spidery lines of ink rush across the pages, revealing every denizen in the castle.

He immediately hunts for the Slytherin common room.

The tags for Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle and Theodore Nott are all close together in their dormitory. Blaise Zabini is an inch to the way off, presumably in the common room.

Neither Bob Jonsson nor Tom Riddle is anywhere to be found.

Harry nods to himself. This is definitely suspicious behaviour, alright.

Unfolding the Map further, he begins the painstaking task of locating his errant –

Tom. Bob. Tombob. Tomdemort. Evil, teenage murderer baby-Voldemort.

…who just so happens to be his soulmate. Whatever. It just serves as further proof that Harry needs to keep an eye on him, now that they’re at Hogwarts and surrounded by innocent, impressionable children.

There’s no sign of him on the second floor near the girl’s bathroom. Not that there’s a basilisk for him to unleash – alternate Harry saw to that alright – but it probably wouldn’t be a good thing if Tom were to locate the Chamber of Secrets. Or at least not without Harry knowing about it beforehand. Could get up to all sorts of bad things and mischief down there, unsupervised.

It takes him a few minutes, but eventually, he finds the tag flickering between Bob Jonsson and Tom Riddle leisurely making its way through a corridor toward the Astronomy tower. As he creeps out of bed and pulls on the invisibility cloak, he wonders whether the Map is showing Tom’s name because it’s Harry looking, or if it would give their secret away to anyone. Nudging the dormitory door open and making his way downstairs to the common room, he resolves to keep the Map to himself, just in case.

The castle is quiet around him, the prefects having already finished their rounds, and the professors have turned in for the night. Other than some ghosts and Mrs Norris, only Tom and Harry appear to be awake, or at least out and about.

When Harry reaches the Astronomy tower, he double-checks the Map, and Tom is indeed at the top, his dot unmoving.

“Mischief managed.”

Harry tucks the Map away, and quietly makes his way up, muffling his steps with a spell for good measure.

Moonlight bathes the open platform in silver. Tom is leaning against the railing, arms folded on top of it, head tilted back.

He’s just standing there. Watching the night sky.

Harry frowns at this lack of suspicious behaviour.

“It was right, then,” Tom murmurs, soft voice scarcely audible with the breeze passing through. He glances over his shoulder in Harry’s general direction, dark eyes never quite focusing, as Harry remains invisible. “Death.”

Harry lets out a sigh and removes the cloak. “Right about what?”

Tom smiles, but it’s oddly… rueful, and turns his head forward again. “That you’re watching me, somehow. That you’d come, if you thought I was… up to something.”

“Are you?”

Tom exhales sharply through his nose. “Must be. I’m evil, aren’t I?”

Harry hesitantly moves forward, unsure how to behave in the face of Tom’s subdued melancholy, so unlike anything he’s exhibited before.

The moonlight paints his pale face in stark relief, one half shadowed and the other bright. His dark eyes, their normally brown shade undistinguishable, trace the constellations above, a small frown between his brows.

“Why are you out of bed? Why are you here?” Harry leans against the railing too, gaze still fixed on Tom.

“Maybe I hoped you would come.”

Harry scoffs.

“We haven’t spoken for… a while,” Tom continues, not acknowledging Harry’s derision, though his frown deepens at the sound. “And I’ve been… thinking.”

“About?”

“You. Us. Death. What it wants from us. What you refuse to give.”

“Well, excuse me for not running into the arms of a fucking murderer just because Death told me to.”

Tom turns his head, fully bathed in moonlight that makes his eyes gleam. When he speaks, his voice is heated, the intensity aimed and piercing to the very core of Harry like a venom-tipped arrow.

“Do you think me unfeeling, Harry? That your cruelty and loathing does not affect me? You haven’t even tried to get to know me. I have not done the things you despise me for, and yet, I must carry the sins of another man – committed in another dimension, when all I want,” his voice breaks, face falling, “is my soulmate.”

Having been on the receiving end of Voldemort’s emotions, Harry remembers all too well that unfeeling could hardly be used to describe him even at the end of his life.

“No… I know you… feel things.”

A wet-sounding laugh bursts from between Tom’s lips. He nods, once, twice, then shakes his head.

“Wonderful,” he says, resignation heavy in his voice. “Then you simply enjoy making me suffer, is that it? Seeing me brought low, begging for crumbs of your affection? Letting me suck you off and then kicking me out like a cheap whore? I haven’t even kissed anyone, Harry, and yet you’ve used me, repeatedly, without any regard to that.”

Harry’s whole body heats with shame. He’s never considered that Tom was that inexperienced.

Oh Merlin, he really is just sixteen…

He’s used a teenager to get off. Repeatedly. Nausea churns in his stomach.

“No, that’s not – I don’t…”

Tom’s sad eyes keep him locked in place, limbs frozen while he burns with shame.

“You promised to save me,” Tom reminds him in a whisper.

“We both know you only said that to make me accept the bond,” Harry counters, but his voice has gone almost as soft as Tom’s.

A shadow of a smile flits across Tom’s despondent face.

“Perhaps,” he allows. “But you did accept the bond. You did promise you’d help me. And yet, you continue to avoid my company. You shun my touch, when we both know it’s the only thing that brings you comfort and a semblance of peace. Why do you insist on being miserable, Harry?”

He sways incrementally closer to where Harry remains rooted to the spot, his heart hammering.

“No one knows who I am but you. No one knows what I’ve done – who I could become. You persist in this charade for a crowd who does not care. The only one standing in the way of your happiness,” his voice cracks again, and Harry can’t tell if it’s a performance or genuine emotion breaking through, “in the way of our happiness… is you.”

Harry swallows around the burning lump in his throat.

Much like in his dream, Tom’s eyes lure him in, drowning him in their endless depths. Harry’s breathing has become ragged, his body intermittently heating with shame and the longing he tries so very hard to keep contained.

Is Tom right?

Is he depriving himself of Tom’s touch and their bond because he doesn’t want Tom, or simply because he feels like he should?

He hasn’t tried to get to know Tom, convinced he already knows everything he needs to. Is there more to him than meets the eye?

If Harry could find it in himself to empathise with Voldemort, the actual one from his universe, why should the teenage, alternate version of him be any different?

Could he… be happy? Content, at the very least? Could the void finally lessen and disappear if he just – gave in?

He has accepted the bond, however unwittingly, and has kept Tom’s identity a secret. Has used Tom, repeatedly. Treated him like rubbish because he felt justified in doing so. Still feels justified, in a sense – Tom may not be Voldemort or have his memories now, but he is a murderer.

…but does Harry truly care about it?

His heart and stomach sinks.

No.

He doesn’t.

He should, he knows he should, but looking into Tom’s eyes, feeling the heat of him this close, he realises that whatever crimes Tom may have committed in the forties, Harry simply does not care anymore.

And while there’s a world of difference between deliberate murder and self-defence, Harry’s hands aren’t exactly squeaky clean either.

And… he could keep Tom from ever harming anyone again.

At his side.

Somewhere along the line, being exposed constantly to Tom’s presence, he stopped wanting to kill him. Hurt him. Stopped receiving satisfaction from the act of crushing Tom underneath his boot, again and again. While he isn’t blind to his vengeful streak, Harry has never relished cruelty. Not really. And at some point, it stopped being about penance.

Can someone who does not remember their crimes still be held accountable for them?

Perhaps. Perhaps not. Perhaps… it isn’t Harry’s responsibility to hold Tom accountable for past crimes.

Harry swallows, and his eyes drift down Tom’s handsome face, and come to rest on his slightly parted lips.

Tom holds his breath, the warm puffs of it cut off.

‘I haven’t even kissed anyone.’

It would be the least he could do, really.

Harry swallows, again.

Better make it a good one.

He steps forward, closing the distance. He tangles his fingers in Tom’s silken hair, the brief contact with his skin serving to fill his veins with incandescent, beautiful serenity.

Tom’s eyes flutter shut.

Harry closes his own, enraptured.

Then, he presses his lips to Tom’s, gently, carefully, slotting their mouths together.

He could weep from the relief of it. The kiss is unlike anything he’s experienced before, defying description or comparison, because nothing else could ever compare.

Tom inhales shakily and hesitantly begins moving his lips when Harry does, mirroring best he can. When Harry’s tongue licks at the seam, Tom inhales again and opens his mouth, and at the same time curls his fingers in Harry’s shirt, pressing closer with a small sound that might have been a whimper.

Harry tightens his grip on Tom’s hair, swallows the sounds he makes, and falls fully into the dizzying kiss.

He’s resisted long enough. He won’t stand in the way of whatever happiness he can scratch out of this miserable existence any longer.

The world owes him, damn it, and he’s ready to collect.

One touch at a time.

Chapter Text

So he’d rehearsed a bit. Written down bullet points. Gotten some suggestions from a thoroughly invested eldritch being.

So what?

Anything is fair in – this war they’re waging.

Besides, it doesn’t mean he was being any less sincere, no matter how it’d made his skin crawl to be that vulnerable with someone who’s previously made it clear just how much he despises Tom.

Still does, unfairly enough.

‘I still don’t like you very much,’ Harry said, voice hoarse, eyes darker than the deepest part of the Forbidden Forest, mouth a little swollen from where Tom lost his composure and bit into his lips. “But I’ll… try. Try more, I mean. We can – spend time together. Talk. Properly.”

Curling into a ball underneath his covers, lips still tingling – however imaginary – from Harry’s kiss, his first kiss, Tom congratulates himself on a job well done.

And adds it to his mental tally of wins.

When he enters the Great Hall late that Sunday morning, next to Zabini who’d also stayed up past an advisable hour last night, he unerringly finds Harry slumped over his breakfast at the Gryffindor table, poking listlessly at a bowl of porridge.

Then all of a sudden, his head lifts, and their eyes meet, as if Harry could feel his presence.

It’s a heady experience. It becomes even headier when Harry doesn’t look away.

“Get a room, you two,” Zabini murmurs in amusement, tugging him along to the Slytherin table, inadvertently breaking the staring contest.

Tom makes some indistinct sound in response, and lets out a quiet, oddly stuttered breath as he starts filling his plate. He shouldn’t be giving people ammunition with which to undermine him, but… he relishes being on the receiving end of Harry’s attention, and making it clear to everyone that their legend, their hero, is all Tom’s.

(It’s only a matter of time until Harry realises it as well.)

“Enjoy your wandering last night?” Zabini asks, leisurely pouring a cup of coffee.

“It was… productive,” Tom allows, unable to quell a small smile at the memory. It had even been worth being woken up by Death near midnight and sent out of bed still choking on terror, half-convinced he was trapped in a nightmare.

“I’d agree, solely based off of Potter still staring at you.”

“Is he, now?”

“Mm. For once, he’s not glaring while looking over here. Highly unusual.”

“Perhaps he simply slept well.”

“Perhaps. Pleasant dreams, I’d wager.”

“How nice.” Tom’s stomach flutters, imagining Harry dreaming about him, no matter how silly it makes him feel. “And what about Weasley?”

“Oblivious as ever,” Zabini sighs. “He eats as though someone is going to take that food away from him.”

“He does have quite a number of siblings. I hear it’s not uncommon behaviour.”

Zabini’s lips twitch into a smile. “Fair enough. You wouldn’t know either, then?”

“Only child.”

Some of the children at the orphanage took to calling themselves siblings, if only to stave off the loneliness. Tom was never one of them, too far above their useless existence to want to claim any of them as family. Circumstances may have placed them together, raised under the same roof, but that was all there ever was.

Besides, so many of them died like flies from one thing or another, it was hardly worth the effort getting to know them.

“I always wanted siblings,” Zabini muses, sipping at his coffee.

“And now you’ll have a whole clan of them.”

“Joy.”

“As soon as Ronald gets his head out of his arse, that is.”

Zabini laughs.

After double Potions the next day, he invites Harry for a walk.

Harry doesn’t even sigh before agreeing. He really is trying.

They bid Ron, Hermione and a perpetually amused Blaise goodbye, then meander out of the castle in silence, heading toward the greenhouses. The sun is out and it’s uncharacteristically warm, which Tom doesn’t mind taking advantage of. Normally, he’d prefer to retire to the library, but he is laughably ahead of the curve in his studies, having already completed the first half of fifth year so recently.

“Snape really doesn’t like you much, does he?” he asks once he’s confident there are no other students around.

Harry lets out a shocked bark of laughter, and Tom draws another little mark in his mind in the ‘win’-column.

“Hates me, actually.”

“What’s the story?”

Harry exhales sharply through his nose, also throwing a look around to make sure they’re alone. “Supposedly, he had a thing for my mum and can’t stand the fact she ended up with my dad. Me looking so much like him is just salt in the wound, I guess.”

“You do look fairly similar, I suppose.”

“How would you know?”

“Kreacher is rather fond of saving pictures and cut-outs from magazines. He’s also got a strange affection for hosting picture nights, no matter the short guest list.”

(He’d even put out hors d'oeuvres and done dramatic retellings of decades old Black family gossip.)

Harry snorts, clearly in amusement. “I certainly never pegged the two of you becoming friendly.”

“He’s a good elf,” Tom admits, shrugging off his robes and folding them over his arm, overheated in the sunshine. “A staunch ally.”

“He’s a loyal little bastard, I’ll give him that much,” Harry mutters, darting a glance at Tom before following suit in taking off his robes. He goes a step further, rolling up his shirtsleeves, and Tom certainly doesn’t mind the view.

“He excels at following orders,” he says, momentarily distracted by the play of sunlight on Harry’s white shirt and the red and gold tie around his neck.

“You do understand he only follows your orders because Regulus told him to obey Voldemort, right?”

Tom blinks, with effort dragging his attention away from his soulmate’s attire. “Regulus? No, Walburga –”

“Is a portrait,” Harry interrupts dryly. “Kreacher does what she says most of the time, but he’s not obligated to.”

“Fair enough, but it’s more likely than him following decades old orders of a dead man. He’s not obligated to those either.”

“That’s –” Harry frowns, adjusting the strap of his satchel from where it’s slipped down his shoulder. “…a good point, actually. Weird.”

A class of younger students pour from the closest greenhouse at that moment, and they both fall silent waiting for the curious little gremlins to pass, staring unabashedly at the boy hero and his soulmate.

Tom finds himself glaring at an exceptionally stupid one when she gawks open-mouthed at Harry’s throat scar, and tugs on Harry’s arm to turn onto a different path, annoyed by the attention.

Harry, in contrast, doesn’t seem to care. Too used to the fawning masses at this point, presumably.

When they’re finally out of hearing from others, Tom asks, “Were you this famous where you come from, too?”

“Yup,” Harry says, popping the ‘p’, kicking a pebble ahead on the path, hands in his pockets. The edges of his robes trail on the ground but he’s either unknowing or uncaring about this. “Got even worse after the war, somehow. I’d thought the Boy Who Lived was bad, but it was nothing compared to the fucking Man Who Conquered.”

Tom lets out an incredulous laugh, privately ecstatic Harry is sharing so much information freely with him. Perhaps he’s simply glad to be able to speak unguardedly with someone for once. “How gauche.”

“Mm. The wizarding world is rather obsessed with coming up with slapstick names and weird monikers.”

“Oh, so you’re doing it to fit in, then?” Tom asks pointedly.

Harry turns his head, and his grin is more blinding than the sun. “You have so many names, how could I not, Tombob?”

“Salazar,” Tom groans, unable to resist shoving Harry’s shoulder. “That’s the worst one yet!”

Harry laughs, and for once it doesn’t carry an edge of anything but genuine amusement. No veiled insult, no mockery, no derision. Just pure, unadulterated joy at a shared joke between –

Friends isn’t quite the word he’s looking for… but it’ll do for now.

Either way one looks at it, though, it’s progress.

Determined to keep the conversation light-hearted, Tom says, “I never knew you were so talented at Quidditch, Harry. Ronald said something about it, but seeing it for myself…”

Harry rolls his eyes at the praise, no matter how earnestly meant. “I’m alright. Haven’t played properly in years though, not since,” he grimaces, “school, actually. The first time around.”

“One would never be able to tell,” Tom assures him, voice gone soft quite without him meaning to. “You’re a wonder on a broom.”

Harry makes a noncommittal sound in response, then reluctantly says, as if imparting some great secret, “I’ve missed it.”

“Then I’m glad you have a chance to play again.” Tom clears his throat to get rid of this confusing gentleness, and adds, “Just don’t expect me at any more of your practices. Dreadfully boring, Quidditch.”

“Boring!?” Harry exclaims, arms twitching as if he’s tempted to shake Tom until some decent opinions fall out of his ears, and then promptly launches into a rant about why Quidditch is the greatest sport ever invented, why Tom is a blind, stupid knobhead for not seeing it, and heatedly vowing to personally see to Tom’s education on the subject.

Tom plays along, affecting boredom and rolling his eyes near constantly, but he’s unable to completely tamp down his smile at getting to see this unguarded, excited version of Harry for the first time.

He could probably be convinced to attend the matches simply for the joy of watching Harry fly. Not that he says this, of course. One must retain at least a shred of dignity in the quest of winning over one’s soulmate, after all.

Though, frankly, seeing Harry smile at him like this, Tom dazedly believes there’s nothing he wouldn’t give for the continued privilege.

On Wednesday a week later, Harry drifts inside the library in the late afternoon, long after classes have finished for the day.

Tom, sitting in the mezzanine, looks up from his reading as if a bell has gone off in his head, directing his attention to his meandering soulmate. The bell appears to go both ways, though, as Harry’s gaze lifts from his immediate vicinity and locks on Tom instead.

He hesitates, then straightens nigh imperceptibly in resolve, and climbs the circular staircase, heading right for Tom’s table.

Wordlessly, Tom clears a spot for him, pulse fluttering in his throat.

“Hey.” Harry drops into the seat opposite, rifling through his satchel until he finds the book he’s looking for.

“Hello, Harry.”

“Alright?” A ream of parchment, a quill and ink join the textbook on the table.

“Yeah, alright. Is that the essay for Charms?”

“Mm. Figured I’d get it out of the way.”

“Admirable work-ethic.”

Harry snorts. “I try.”

Tom lowers his voice further. “Probably goes faster when you’ve already suffered through it once, hm?”

“You tell me,” Harry murmurs back, small smile at the corner of his mouth.

Tom ducks his head in acknowledgement, effortlessly mirroring the smile.

Harry gets started on his essay, and Tom goes back to his reading, with some difficulty, distracted by his soulmate’s easy presence.

It isn’t the first time they’ve spent an afternoon together since Harry’s promise to try. It is, however, the first time Tom didn’t initiate it, and he’s feeling practically giddy from the progress.

Perhaps their next kiss isn’t so far off. While the memory of it hasn’t grown stale by any means, Tom is rather eager to add more to his collection. He’s hesitant to push for more though, as they’ve only had brief skin contact so far during their tête-à-têtes, and Harry hasn’t tried for anything beyond it, even though he clearly wants to.

Is Tom’s strategy of guilting him for taking advantage working too well? Is Harry trying to play some sort of honourable gentleman here?

He darts another covert look at Harry’s face, handsome features drawn in concentration, scratching his quill on parchment.

When Tom had pointed out Harry’s use of him, he hadn’t meant he wanted that to altogether stop. He just… wanted more. Granted, he’d succeeded in wrangling a kiss out of Harry – a rather spectacular one at that – but…

Could he simply ask?

Salazar, how mortifying. His cheeks heat up at the prospect of pathetically laying himself bare, opening himself up to another round of rejection.

He returns to his book.

Harry continues with his homework, completely oblivious to Tom’s inner turmoil.

“What do you see when you look in the mirror?”

Tom slowly tightens the scarf around his neck, an unexpected wind having picked up, reaching them where they sit in a secluded corner of the clocktower courtyard. “What I see?”

“Bob or Tom,” Harry clarifies, lowering his voice slightly at Tom’s name.

“Both. At first glance, myself. At a second,” he sighs, “Bob.”

Harry hums. “Same for me.”

“You… see me?”

Harry turns his head, frowning. “Well, yeah. I already told you that.”

It takes him a moment, but the memory eventually resurfaces. “Right… the first time I –”

“Snuck into my room,” Harry finishes the sentence, voice tart, apparently not over it yet.

Tom waves a dismissive hand. The details aren’t important. What is important is that he’s completely overlooked this advantage.

What it means.

All those times Tom has put his mouth on Harry, the times they’ve spent together the past couple of weeks at Hogwarts – all along, Harry has been seeing him. Not something that is, to him, more palatable. Not the lie, not the mask.

Tom.

And he’s been letting it go on regardless.

Kissed Tom. Not Bob.

Tom swallows, glancing down. Harry’s gripping the edge of the stone bench, curled hands pinkened from the cold.

Slowly, Tom lets his right hand fall from his lap, onto the chilly bench. He hooks his pinkie through Harry’s, the soulmate bond sparking joy and serenity in his veins.

Harry lets it happen, staring straight ahead, shoulders lowering slightly with his quiet exhale.

Ministry Seeks Educational Reform
Dolores Umbridge Appointed
First Ever High Inquisitor

Tom stares at the Prophet headline, yanking the paper right out of Zabini’s hands.

Zabini clicks his tongue. “Rude. Where are your manners, Jonsson?”

“Left them with your soulmate,” Tom replies distractedly, finding the article detailing Umbridge’s appointment.

Zabini harrumphs, then silkily suggests Malfoy keeps his overgrown ears to himself while Tom scours the article.

“I just don’t understand why you’d tell him of all people and not me,” Malfoy mutters, returning to what might generously be described as conversation with his overgrown goons.

“Because unlike you at least Jonsson – normally – has some discretion,” Zabini replies loftily, and Tom looks up from the paper long enough to roll his eyes.

“So, Umbridge is going to start inspecting the other teachers,” Tom murmurs after a while, folding the paper back up, finished reading. “As some sort of quality assessment.”

Malfoy sniffs. “About time, if you ask me –”

“Alas, no one did,” Zabini interrupts mournfully, shaking his head. “Such a tragedy. Come on, Jonsson, let’s leave him alone to contemplate his irrelevance in these difficult times.”

Tom smiles, wiggling his fingers in a mocking goodbye in Malfoy’s affronted direction.

Perhaps it’s unwise to so staunchly pick a side this early, but being Harry's has already sort of cemented Tom’s position on the outskirts of Slytherin, and frankly, Tom doesn’t care for this yapping Malfoy.

Besides, from what Tom has been able to gather so far, not only do the purebloods not hold the same position of power as they had back in his day, but Zabini expertly occupies the neutral faction of Slytherin; sticking close to him and staying above the fray is an excellent strategy. And it doesn’t hurt that Zabini is rather entertaining company.

Not even Harry had had anything negative to say about him when Tom has posed the question. He’d merely shrugged, said ‘decent enough bloke where I come from, didn’t know him very well though’.

While Tom sees the merit of staying on good terms with those whose families have been linked to Voldemort in the past, he also… doesn’t like them. Crabbe and Goyle can barely string a coherent sentence together, and Malfoy is a pompous git with nothing to show for his arrogance besides mediocre grades and a prefect badge he’s completely unsuited for.

Not that Tom has ever truly liked any of his peers. His Knights were decent enough company, much like Zabini is turning out to be, but he wouldn’t categorise them as friends, remembering all too well how they’d treated him in first year. The disdain, the hexes, the annoying pranks; it all remained with him, influencing more than one lesson in civility in later years once he had them in the palm of his hand.

Still, the Knights had far more decorum than the current crop of Slytherins, Zabini excluded. Jury’s still out on Nott; he’s so unobtrusive Tom genuinely forgets he’s there most of the time.

“What’s the real reason you haven’t told Malfoy who your soulmate is?” Tom asks, leading the way to the Transfiguration lesson.

Zabini arches one elegant, sculpted brow. “What makes you think there’s another reason than what I told him? He is indiscreet. Not all of us are so keen to flaunt tradition, Jonsson.”

“How do you mean? What tradition?”

Zabini exhales sharply through his nose in amusement, dark eyes glittering. “Careful, your homeschooling is showing.”

Tom grits his teeth, keeping a carefully neutral expression. “Just tell me.”

Before he knows it, Zabini has ushered them through a semi-secret shortcut, away from the main thoroughfare. They’re alone in the narrow corridor, a small door up ahead, the walls lined with tapestries of goblin rebellions of yore.

“Normally, if people find their soulmate before graduation, they still wait until graduation to accept the bond, if they choose to do so at all. You and Potter doing it this early, so soon after meeting each other too, is highly unusual.” Zabini peers curiously at Tom, who’s absorbing the information with a mixture between embarrassment and glee. Things have changed quite a bit since the forties, then. “How’d you get him to agree, anyway? I mean no offense, but Potter doesn’t seem to… like you very much.”

“I did save his life,” Tom points out mildly, though for some reason it gnaws at him to take credit for Harry’s powerful display of clear-headedness in the face of danger even after dying and resurrecting in a different dimension, back to being a teenager. Strangely enough, remembering the bloodied, broken state of Harry now impacts him far more than it had at the time. He pushes the memories aside, though an odd desire to make sure Harry is okay lingers.

“Fair enough,” Zabini allows, holding the door open. “It’s just surprising, is all.”

“Ah. So that’s why Ronald’s reticence doesn’t bother you all that much?”

“Precisely. He’ll get over himself eventually. There’s still plenty of time.”

“And you’re not worried he’ll want the bond to be… platonic?”

Zabini laughs heartily, ignoring the curious looks of the other students hastening toward their respective classes. “Platonic? I wasn’t aware you’re blind, Jonsson. I’m a vision and a half.”

“Zabini of Troy,” Tom drawls.

Zabini’s answering grin is rather blinding, not a single crooked tooth in sight. “Oh, I’m stealing that one. Ta ever so. And do start calling me Blaise already, will you?”

“Blaise of Troy, then,” Tom amends, amused.

Blaise shivers exaggeratedly. “Ooh, even better.”

“Mm. And you may call me,” he sighs, “Bob.”

“Bob is a fine name,” Blaise tuts, clapping a hand on Tom’s shoulder.

Then, he blinks, getting a faraway look in his eyes, and withdraws his hand again.

“Though it doesn’t suit you very well,” he says, voice gone eerily quiet, barely audible over the chatter and footsteps of the other students.

Tom’s pulse immediately starts racing.

“Tell that to my parents,” he says loftily, keeping his voice carefully steady.

Blaise hums, gaze searching.

Tom ignores it, lengthening his stride somewhat. “Come on already, we’ll be late.”

It’s nonsense; if anything, they’re early. But he can’t think of any other diversion tactic right this moment, so it’ll have to do.

“Such a swot,” Blaise says, sounding more like himself.

“And you’ll be eternally grateful for that come O.W.L.s.”

Blaise snorts but doesn’t disagree, hurrying to keep pace.

After Potions, suffering through the usual bout of being ignored by his new Head of House –

the ungrateful, greasy bat should be thanking his lucky stars he’s got a prodigy like me in his house and class, at least Slughorn was the discerning sort –

Tom manages to catch up to Harry after both have deposited perfect strengthening solutions on Snape’s desk.

“A walk?” he asks in a quiet murmur, receiving a curt nod back.

When class is dismissed, they join up outside the classroom and leave together. Tom lets Harry pick the route, and for once he keeps to the castle, albeit by secret corridors; some of which not even Tom is familiar with.

Feeling bold, Tom hooks his pinkie in Harry’s. Harry’s jaw clenches, step faltering momentarily, then he tightens his own pinkie around Tom’s.

Savouring the victory, Tom asks, “Did you read the paper this morning? About Umbridge?”

Harry grimaces. “Yeah. Happened the same last time. She’s been... more circumspect this time around, though. I suppose that could be because I’m keeping my head down, but I don’t really know.”

Tom frowns. “I see. Still, you know more about her and this new role than anyone else. What can we expect?”

They come to a halt by the end of the corridor, the soft echo of their footsteps fading into the aether.

It takes Harry a while to reply, but when he does, his voice is grim.

“Trouble.”

Chapter Text

The void doesn’t have defined edges.

It’s not as if there’s a hole inside Harry where something (someone) once resided, like a cartoon where one character has just burst through a wall or window, leaving a clear outline behind.

And it’s not necessarily that he’s missing something, really, since that fragment was more of a parasite sinking its poisoned tendrils wherever it could – growing alongside him – than a defined little piece hanging onto the edges, but… yanking something out by the roots leaves a mark regardless of whether it was supposed to be there in the first place or not. Like tearing ivy off a building’s façade, the marks remaining long after the plant itself has been burned to ash.

Souls are dynamic. Subject to change. Flickering edges and undulating loops – not some puzzle where the missing piece will slot into place provided you just pick the right goddamn one.

And yet.

With every lingering touch, every innocent drag of Tom’s skin against his, he can feel the emptiness, the scars left behind by that-thing-he-doesn’t-want-to-think-about, shrinking. Bit by miserable bit.

It’s like something out of a cheesy romance novel that Mrs Weasley loves to read, where the protagonist swoons and sighs about how the hero completes them.

Except Harry’s the extremely reluctant protagonist, dependent on the villain of the piece.

Death is probably creaming its non-existent pants right about now.

The first and second Divination lesson went much like Harry remembers – which is to say he doesn’t because it was the usual woo-woo – albeit with a couple more faces than he can recall taking the useless elective in his dimension; even Hermione is there.

The third one, however…

Climbing through the trapdoor a few minutes before the lesson is due to begin, the first thing that becomes visible is the ridiculous bow in her curly hair. Then, the toady face, followed by an explosion of fuzzy pink and a large, flowery handbag.

Harry briefly entertains fantasies of pushing Umbridge back down the hole. It’s a decent enough height – would her skull crack on the stone floor below? Probably. Sure would save him quite a few headaches this year.

He reluctantly focuses back on reality when Umbitch – after a short conversation about the impending inspection – takes up position behind Trelawney’s desk with a clipboard, and expectantly looks around the room, waiting for the lesson to start.

What follows is… strange. Much of it gives the familiar sense of déjà vu Harry’s starting to get used to, but there are some moments that make alarm bells go off in his head, that old voice inside telling him to pay attention.

Like when Trelawney hands him a copy of Dream Oracle and gives him such a spearing look it feels as if she’s just flaked him open, digging into the very heart of him, before shaking her head, frowning, and heading over to Parvati and Lavender’s table.

Or when Ron and Hermione take the dream interpretations seriously, forcing Harry to share an actual dream he’d had the other night where he’d been in the middle of a battle – though he stops his retelling when the screams and bloodbaths and corpses calling out for help started.

And then by the end of the lesson when Umbridge, sickeningly sweet, asks Trelawney to tell her future, and Trelawney delivers.

Jaw hanging open despite himself, shivers racing down his spine, Harry watches as Trelawney reluctantly grasps Umbridge’s pudgy hand, eyes growing misty. Her voice turns raspy and dark and ominous; the way he recalls from her only two real prophecies in his universe.

“Bloodied mark…honest liar…you…are in grave danger…falling…falling…falling…”

Umbridge wrinkles her nose, retracting her hand.

Trelawny blinks confusedly, then sweeps her many shawls tighter around herself, a glare behind her oversized glasses. “I hope you’re satisfied with this inspection, Professor Umbridge.”

Umbridge hums noncommittally, writing something down on her clipboard, face gone carefully blank, and then leaves the classroom.

The second the trapdoor shuts behind her, whispers break out.

Harry sits stunned on his poof, barely hearing Ron and Hermione joining in on the theorising about what the prophecy could possibly mean, feeling slightly nauseous.

It had just been a harmless fantasy of pushing her off the ladder. He hadn’t meant it. He wouldn’t.

…right?

Hermione sits fuming in the common room that same day after another one of Umbridge’s lessons in testing Harry’s patience – he managed to keep himself from any murderous imaginings, though, just in case.

“At this rate, we’ll never learn proper Defence Against the Dark Arts,” Hermione complains, face lighting up with a familiar sort of fervour that Harry recognises all too well.

Harry hums tiredly, putting his quill down from where he’d been busy doing some homework, devoting his full attention to the upcoming discussion.

Ron looks up from his own essay, brows drawn, a small smudge of ink on his long nose.

“Yeah, well, what can you do,” he says, grimacing. He had another detention with Umbridge the other day, and just like last time, his hand thankfully remained unhurt. “I suppose we could look up jinxes in the library…”

“No,” Hermione says, decisively. “We’ve gone far past the point of learning defence through books. We need a proper teacher, someone to show us how to cast the spells and correct us if we’re wrong.”

Harry braces for what he knows is coming. Just because he will agree to another round of the DA doesn’t mean he’s overly enthusiastic about it. Makes keeping his head down and passing by unnoticed far more difficult.

Although, it could be fun. He always did enjoy those meetings.

“What, like Lupin?” Ron teases.

Hermione levels a death glare in his direction. “No, not – him. Besides, he’s far too busy with,” she lowers her voice, “the Order to spare time teaching us.”

“I’m sure if you asked though –”

“Ronald, I swear to Merlin, if you don’t shut up right this second –”

“I’ll do it,” Harry interrupts gruffly to cut the bickering off before it gets properly started.

Hermione beams at him, thoroughly distracted. “I was just about to suggest that!”

“That’s… an idea,” Ron says, blue eyes turning calculating. “You do have quite a bit of experience with practical Defence…”

That’s one way to describe my career. And the war. And defeating Voldemort.

Harry grunts noncommittally, resignedly cleaning the nib of his quill so it won’t leave blots on the parchment. It’s annoying enough to do this bout of homework again without having to revise it for a third time.

“I have to admit, I thought you’d be more difficult to convince, Harry,” Hermione says.

Harry shrugs. “It’s our O.W.L.s, innit? Can’t have everyone falling too far behind just because Umbitch won’t teach us.”

Ron snorts. “Umbitch, good one.”

Hermione sends them both disapproving looks but doesn’t otherwise comment, likely agreeing though she’d never be crass enough to say it out loud. “Well, you’re not wrong, it is our O.W.L.s. A study group simply makes sense. And you do have the most experience out of all of us fighting,” she swallows, “V-Voldemort.”

Harry bites the inside of his cheek so he won’t burst out laughing at the sheer absurdity of the conversation.

Actually, last I checked, ‘V-Voldemort’ was doing homework in the Slytherin common room, and I haven’t properly ‘fought him’ in over a month. We even held hands yesterday.

“You know we don’t have any proof he’s back,” Harry reminds her.

Frustratingly enough, his best friends completely believe Dumbledore’s assertion that Voldemort has returned, and that Harry was simply under so much stress at the resurrection that he missed the obvious. He’d be offended if he wasn’t lying through his teeth to them.

“But Dumbledore says –”

“Either way,” Ron interrupts, shooting Hermione a glance that makes her snap her mouth shut, “while I’m not exactly happy about extra work, I guess a study group would be alright.”

It’s a bit strange, the way they’ve been walking on eggshells around him for the past two months – it took Harry a while to crawl far enough out of his own head to figure out why they so often diverted conversations or abruptly broke off discussions in favour of lighter topics. But then he’d catch one (or both) of them staring at his throat scar and wincing, and their subdued care and overprotectiveness made a lot more sense.

They’d been the same post-battle of Hogwarts, after all. Much like they had back then, Harry believes they’ll get over it with time; there’s only so much fussing any one of them could stand.

“It’s settled then,” Harry sighs. “Just you two or are we involving other people as well?”

“Oh, well, I…” Hermione begins, surprised. “Well, to be honest Harry, I haven’t really given it that much thought. I thought I’d have to work harder to convince you. But, now that you mention it, it wouldn’t really be fair of us to keep this to ourselves… Frankly, our whole year could probably benefit from some tutoring –”

“Whoa, no way! That’s way too many people,” Ron exclaims, a look of sheer horror twisting his features. “And we don’t really want to give the Slytherins that kind of advantage, do we?”

“Like your – our – soulmates?” Harry drawls.

A small flush appears underneath Ron’s freckles. “I – look, they probably wouldn’t even want to join, would they? And,” he adds hastily, “I wouldn’t trust them not to blab to Umbridge! Sure, Bob would probably keep his mouth shut, but the rest of them? No way.”

“That’s… fair,” Hermione says, grimacing.

Harry idly wonders whether an official, inter-house study group might be easier to swallow for Umbridge and the Ministry, leaving them free to conduct their meetings in peace without Umbridge trying to constantly shut them down.

However, he also remembers her glee at ruining every single thing that made life at school bearable. He’s confident she’d find a way to sabotage an innocent study group the same way she did the DA.

Which is why he says, “Fine, let’s keep it a secret study group, then. Only invite people we already trust. I’ve got a couple of ideas on who could join…”

“Hey, Luna,” he calls out, lengthening his stride to catch up to his friend.

She turns around and breaks into a wide smile when she realises who’s stopped her. “Hello, Harry!”

The corridor is nearly empty, but there are a few curious passersby he thoroughly ignores. “Do you have a moment?”

“Of course, I’m not busy, I was just looking for my shoes,” she replies happily, drawing his attention to her bare feet.

He goes nearly lightheaded from anger. “Someone stole your shoes?”

“I suspect nargles. They’re fond of pranks like that,” she replies dreamily, then cocks her head with a thoughtful expression, “or it might be my classmates, it’s difficult to say.”

Harry solemnly vows bodily harm to whomever has dared mess with her. In the meantime, until he can get his hands on them, he withdraws his wand and duplicates his own shoes, makes them a bit smaller, and then hands the new pair over to a delighted-looking Luna. “This is the best I can do, unfortunately.”

“Oh Harry, this is wonderful,” she says, eagerly putting on the slightly too-large shoes. “And very impressive too; those spells are part of the sixth- and seventh-year curriculum, aren’t they?”

“Uh, not sure. Anyway, come on.” He covertly opens a nearby secret passage by tickling the broken gargoyle behind its left ear, and ushers her inside.

Luna gasps and looks around in clear delight, thoroughly distracted despite it only being a small landing and a curved staircase leading downward.

“Brilliant,” she breathes, peering over the railing. “I had no idea this was here!”

Harry smiles, his anger from earlier slowly bleeding away at her reaction. “It’s convenient, at the very least. Look, Luna, a couple of us are starting up a sort of… study group for Defence Against the Dark Arts, and I was wondering if you’d be interested in joining?”

She glances over her shoulder – hands curled around the railing – and smiles back. “Of course, Harry, I’d love to.”

“It’s a secret group, though,” he cautions. “We don’t want Umbridge getting wind of it, or she’d shut it down. And it’s mostly just fifth years, but… well, I want you there too.”

Luna beams. “I won’t tell a soul.”

“Brilliant,” Harry grins. “Now, let me help you look for your shoes.”

He misses the blowjobs.

There. He admitted it.

He fucking misses seeing Tom on his knees, lips stretched wide around his cock, brown eyes crossing in bliss as if having Harry down his throat is the best thing he’s ever experienced. The big bad Dark Lord, offering pleasure when his adult counterpart has only ever brought Harry pain.

That shit’s addictive.

And Harry hasn’t gotten a hit for a month and a half.

The worst part is probably that now, with regular access to Tom’s skin by way of hand, it becomes increasingly obvious that Harry cannot solely blame the soulmate bond for why he keeps fantasizing about Tom sucking him off. For why he let him do it in the first place.

One time’s an accident. Two times… a coincidence. But three times? That’s a pattern.

Frustrating, to say the least. Downright horrifying at worst, when he thinks about it too hard.

So he doesn’t.

All he can do is accept this bonkers, outrageous situation for what it is, much like he has for most of his life, and keep going.

“We’re doing something,” he says, abruptly, dragging his eyes away from Tom’s mouth that would otherwise lead him to suggest something utterly unsuitable for the library.

Unless –

Tom looks up from his homework, one eyebrow quirked. He absently runs his thumb along the back of Harry’s hand under the table. “We, as in…?”

“Ron, Hermione and I.” Harry lowers his voice, leaning a bit closer. Tom’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, only visible for how close Harry’s gotten. “A study group, of sorts.”

Tom blinks. Once, twice, thrice. Whatever he’d been expecting, it likely hadn’t been that. “A study group?”

Harry nods. “For DADA. Since Umbridge can’t be arsed to teach us anything properly.”

“Is this… a new thing? Or have you done it before?”

One corner of Harry’s mouth quirks upward before he can stop it at Tom’s sly tone. “I might have some previous experience with the concept, yes. Are you in?”

Tom cocks his head and doesn’t respond for a few seconds, stroking his thumb over Harry’s hand while deliberating, which is a tad distracting, leading to a resurgence of Harry’s desire to make Tom crawl under the table for other things.

“What would it entail, exactly?” he asks eventually.

Harry shifts lightly in his seat. “Me teaching you Defence. And some other people. But… secretly.”

“Interesting,” Tom murmurs into the short distance between them, the warm puffs of his breath gently coasting over Harry’s face. “Seems we’re racking up quite the number of secrets together, Harry.”

“Is that a yes?” He keeps his eyes locked on Tom’s through sheer force of will.

Tom smirks as if he can tell. “Yes.”

A second goes by. Another.

Harry swallows.

And then leans back. “We’re having a sort of… introductory meeting the first Hogsmeade weekend, at the Hog’s Head.”

“Very well, that’s…” Tom trails off, handsome features twisting into something dumbstruck that Harry doesn’t understand.

“What?”

“I don’t have a guardian!”

“O–kay, we won’t be drinking if that’s what you’re –”

“I don’t have permission to go to Hogsmeade!”

Harry bursts into laughter.

Tom looks torn between socking him in the jaw and what Harry can only describe as wonder.

“Harry!”

“Oh, relax,” Harry chuckles, unable to resist squeezing Tom’s hand. “I’ll get you to Hogsmeade.”

“How?”

“Secret passage, of course.”

“You’d share that with me?”

Harry’s nose wrinkles. “Don’t make it weird. You need a way to Hogsmeade that the professors aren’t aware exists, and I know one.”

“Very well… but even if I get there unnoticed, I’d certainly run into people in Hogsmeade, especially if there’s a meeting.”

Harry grits his teeth. “I’ll just disillusion you.”

“It would hold up from afar, perhaps, but enclosed in a pub? People all around?” Tom shakes his head. “I couldn’t possibly risk it.”

Harry’s jaw works, and he can’t believe the words he’s forcibly keeping down right now.

He trusts Tom about as far as he could throw him. Tom doesn’t need to go to the meeting; he’s already agreed to join the new DA. The meeting is only a matter of convenience, rather than seeking out every individual person they’ve tapped for joining, a place for Hermione to hand out the galleons she’s already charmed after a subtle nudge from Harry in the right direction.

Tom doesn’t have to be there.

And still, Harry says through clenched teeth, “You could borrow – my invisibility cloak.”

For Hermione’s birthday, he shows her and Ron the Room of Requirement, modelling it after their cosy sitting room in another dimension, complete with butterbeer and cake served on the sofa table.

Ron smacking his forehead on one of the low-hanging beams and Hermione giggling before apologizing profusely and asking if he’s alright, makes it feel just like home for a minute.

Tom is already waiting by the statue of the humpbacked witch when Harry gets there, looking aloof and put together in dark grey trousers, and a brand-new black wool coat, Slytherin scarf wound around his pale neck.

Hardly inconspicuous, but certainly handsome.

“Harry,” Tom says, his name practically a purr.

Harry nods in greeting, and for a moment it’s oddly awkward; like on a first date when you don’t know whether to hug or shake hands, so you end up doing neither, standing there with your hands in your pockets and a constipated smile.

Except this isn’t a date.

It’s a covert smuggling operation with the sole purpose of attending a clandestine meeting of an underground defence group.

Not a date.

…but maybe he should have made that clear to Tom, too, judging by his charming smile and hungry eyes.

Harry clears his throat and withdraws his wand. As there are no people around, he edges around Tom, and taps the statue, murmuring, “Dissendium.”

Soon enough, they’re making their way down into the tunnel, only Harry’s wand lighting the way.

“And this leads where, exactly?”

“Honeydukes’ cellar.”

“Strange location for a secret tunnel.”

Harry hums in agreement.

“Do you know who built it in the first place?”

The back of Tom’s hand brushes his.

Harry keeps his gaze forward and intertwines their fingers, slightly lightheaded from the serenity unfolding under his skin. “No. No clue, actually. The twins showed it to me my original third year, when Vernon wouldn’t sign my permission slip.”

“Knowing Vernon, I already have an inkling, but why wouldn’t he?”

“Oh… I blew up Aunt Marge. Like a balloon. I think the Ministry found her floating somewhere over Bristol.”

Tom’s bright laughter echoes between the tunnel walls.

“You never cease to amaze me, Harry Potter,” he says, voice laced with both warmth and amusement. “Did this infraction result in a hearing as well?”

“Nah, they still liked me at that point. I ran away, thinking they’d snap my wand for sure, but it was right around the time Sirius broke out of Azkaban, so Fudge told me it was fine and then let me hang about Diagon Alley for the rest of the summer.”

“Wait, the Minister for Magic personally came to see you, for a case of underage magic, and there were no consequences?”

Harry grins. “Fame has gotta have some perks, eh?”

Tom shakes his head, chuckles, and squeezes Harry’s hand. “See, preferential treatment isn’t always so bad, is it?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’ve already told you about the flipside of it. It’s not all getting off scot-free and Ministry-approved jaunts down Diagon Alley, you know.”

To Harry surprise, Tom sighs, and softly says, “I do. I do know.”

Harry cannot come up with a suitable reply to what appears to be a genuine show of empathy, head spinning from the shock.

“You handle it admirably, though,” Tom continues, still in that soft, understanding voice that doesn’t exactly help Harry’s confusion.

“…right.”

“I’m serious.”

The back of Harry’s neck starts to heat, and the earnest praise is making him uncomfortable.

“Don’t let Sirius hear you say that,” he jokes, aiming for carefree and missing by miles.

Tom exhales sharply through his nose, then shakes his head. “He sure does love that pun, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah. Apparently. Although maybe that’s something particular to this Sirius.”

“Yours didn’t make that joke?”

“No. And he um… died.” He clears his throat, unsure why he’s sharing as much. “At the end of my fifth year, actually.”

Because of Voldemort, he doesn’t say, but it hangs in the air between them.

“I’m – sorry to hear that.”

Tom looks confused by his own words.

Harry chooses to believe that means he’s being sincere.

“Look,” he says, changing the subject, “since we’re gonna be in Hogsmeade anyway, is there anything you want to check out before the meeting?”

“Oh Harry, I wasn’t aware this was a date,” Tom teases, and Harry can’t help but let out a bark of laughter.

“You wish.”

But he squeezes Tom’s hand to take the sting out of his words, because maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Chapter Text

Their walk through the dirty tunnel comes to an end far too quickly for Tom’s liking. Ambling along with his soulmate, hand in hand, talking and laughing and teasing, is such a simple and rare pleasure that he’s loath to give it up.

Despite being sorely tempted to ask Harry to blow off the meeting, he manages to swallow the request and not let his disappointment show as they halt underneath a trapdoor.

“Okay, so… the cellar is right above us.”

Harry starts digging through his satchel and withdraws a square of fabric that’s been folded improbably small, the improbability becoming evident as he shakes it out, revealing a cloak of an appropriate length for a grown adult. The faint light of his wand trails down the cloak, rippling like water, bringing to mind sunlight dancing across glittering waves.

Tom reaches out, mesmerized by the sight, and the beautiful material feels just as wonderful as it looks, silken and light when he rubs it between his fingertips. It had been lovely in moonlight as well, back at the Astronomy tower, but seeing it up close reveals what a truly exquisite garment it is.

“This is unbelievable,” he breathes, barely able to keep a lid on that itch he sometimes gets to take. “Where did you get it?”

“Heirloom. Dad’s side of the family.”

From what Tom has heard, standard invisibility cloaks behave nothing like this, nor do they keep their efficacy over years the way this one apparently has. Harry lets him inspect the cloak for a little while longer, and there’s a small smile at the corner of his lips when Tom reluctantly lets the textile slip through his fingers.

“What’s it made of? Demiguise hairs?”

“No.” Harry’s smile morphs into a grimace. “If the story is to be believed, it’s actually made from a piece of Death’s own cloak.”

Tom shudders, darting a glance over his shoulder in case Death is lurking somewhere nearby. It probably is, but he can’t see it, so he determinedly forces himself to ignore the paranoia.

(Although, can it even be called paranoia when you’re right? Death is always watching.)

Harry sweeps the cloak over Tom’s shoulders, pulling the hood over his head. “There. Invisible.”

His first instinct, hidden the way he is, is to steal a kiss. His gaze locks on Harry’s lips that he’s only gotten to taste the once, before flickering up to the green, green, green.

His second instinct is to grasp his wand and dive into those pools of emerald and parse through every single one of Harry’s thoughts.

He could. If he’s quick, and quiet, Harry would be none the wiser to the intrusion until after the fact.

His fingers twitch, drifting toward his pocket.

“Just stick close to me,” Harry says, that small smile back, green eyes gleaming before he douses the light at the end of his wand.

Tom’s hand falls to his side. “Of course.”

Harry shimmies up the slope, and then a small crack of light appears over their heads, slowly growing as Harry fully opens the trap door when the coast is clear. Tom follows him up, and then continues following the distorted, Disillusioned form of his soulmate through a busy Honeydukes. Unable to resist the temptation, he snatches the occasional sweet when they pass, stuffing it inside his pockets.

If they didn’t want people to steal their product, they really should have implemented some sort of anti-theft measurements. He’s only teaching them a valuable lesson, really.

The moment they’re outside, around the corner from Honeydukes, Harry drops his Disillusionment and casually starts walking toward the Hog’s Head.

Hogsmeade is bustling with casually dressed students, the crisp autumn air filled with the sound of chattering voices, and laughter, and the tinkling of numerous bells over doors as people file in and out of whichever shop has caught their fancy.

Tom looks around hungrily, comparing every detail to his memory, and finds that – aside from the people – most of everything in the village is exactly the same. Its cobbled streets and whimsical storefronts may as well have been frozen in time, preserved in amber, and the realisation is oddly comforting.

A different decade, but still part of home.

Tom sidles closer to Harry when they reach the dingy old pub, unable to resist running his finger down Harry’s spine as they enter, curling his hand in the back of Harry’s marine blue hoodie. Harry cuts him a glare over his shoulder but doesn’t say anything, then heads over to a secluded corner where Ron and Hermione are already waiting.

Tom reluctantly lets go of Harry’s shirt to take a seat while the others trade greetings, unwinding his scarf with minute movements and unbuttoning his coat. Harry withdraws his wand and quietly intones something that Tom doesn’t catch, telling the others it’s a privacy spell that will keep them from being overheard by the pub’s patrons.

“Bob’s here too.” Harry inclines his head in Tom’s direction, toward what to the others appears as empty space.

“I thought we said no Slytherins?” Ron immediately hisses, affable expression morphing into outrage.

“Oh, none taken,” Tom mutters, kicking Ron under the table.

“Ow – I didn’t mean –”

“I invited Blaise too, by the way.”

Ron chokes. “W–what? Why?!”

“I didn’t say you could do that.” Harry levels Tom with a disapproving glare.

Feeling nettled by Ron’s reaction to his presence, Tom innocently says, “Here I thought it was an inter-house study group, but you’ve completely excluded one of the four? Seems a bit unfair.”

“We can’t trust him,” Ron insists, an angry flush spreading across his cheeks. “I know you’re new to Hogwarts, but Slytherins are –”

“Evil, slimey snakes?” Tom asks, voice deceptively mild.

“Well, yeah!”

“Again, none taken.” He kicks Ron harder this time, making him fold over the table, freckled face contorted in pain.

“Oi would you quit it with –”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Hermione interjects nervously, chewing on her bottom lip. “If it’s just Zabini then… it should be alright. He wouldn’t do anything to purposefully hurt Ron, would he?”

“I’m being ‘purposefully hurt’ by a Slytherin right now!”

Tom kicks him again, just for fun, then says, “Ah, but I’m not your soulmate, am I?”

“Quiet!” Ron cries, rather loudly, the only reason it passes by unremarked by the pub at large being Harry’s silencing spell. “Did he tell you!?”

“Which is it, am I to be quiet or…?”

“He told you.” Ron starts nodding, grimly, to himself. “He did. He told you even after we agreed to keep tradition and not tell people about it.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong here, but didn’t you tell Harry and Hermione?”

“That’s different – they’re my best friends! You’ve known him for, what, a month? How long until he told you, huh? How long?”

“That’s – not important.”

“The hell it isn’t! Tell me!”

“Ron,” Harry says, voice sharp, when Ron looks seconds away from lunging across the table at Tom, to shake forth answers if necessary. “The others will be here any minute. Can we save this discussion for later?”

Ron scowls, his jaw working overtime to keep down whatever comment he’d rather make than submit. In the end, he throws himself back in his chair, crossing his arms and giving a curt nod, still scowling, but at the floor.

“And you should have bloody well asked first,” Harry mutters out the corner of his mouth to Tom.

“My apologies,” Tom murmurs back. “I genuinely did not think it would be a big deal.”

Harry sends him another disapproving look, eerily focused on Tom’s eyes, as if he can see straight through the cloak and knows the expression of contrition is a fake one.

“Bad enough that Loony Lovegood figured it out,” Ron mutters to himself. “And now he’s just going around telling people…”

Harry’s eyes narrow in Ron’s direction, presumably at the nickname Luna’s known by to the ones who’s had the misfortune of ever getting trapped in a discussion with her.

(Tom has steered clear so far, but he’s heard the gossip.)

“Don’t call her that.”

Right on the money.

Ron huffs.

“Since this was my idea,” Hermione says, voice going a little shrill to be heard over Ron’s grumbling, “I suppose I’d better do the talking.”

Harry shrugs. “Be my guest. Though do refrain from mentioning Voldemort,” Tom twitches involuntarily, “would you? Looks like they’re starting to arrive.”

The cracked bell above makes a half-hearted tinkling noise as the door opens, and over the following five minutes lets in a steady trickle of Hogwarts students carrying various bags of purchases.

They all share a confused expression that morphs into suitably impressed ones when Harry adds them to the privacy spell, and Tom falls for the temptation to put his hand on Harry’s lower back, reminding Harry of his presence even if the others can’t see the claim.

Harry lets him.

Tom recognises all students from their shared classes, with the sole exception of Luna Lovegood, the only fourth year student there, and some people he thinks might be on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Either way, they’re not fifth years, and he’s a little miffed Harry kept this detail from him.

When Blaise arrives, hands tucked in his coat pockets, Ron demonstratively doesn’t look at him. His covert glances and slight facial twitches give away his interest quite clearly, though, should one care to pay attention – and Tom definitely does.

After drinks have been ordered and served by the disgruntled barman – as if patrons at his miserable pub is something to be upset about – Hermione clears her throat, forced to do it quite a few times in order to be heard over the anticipatory chatter. In the end, she stands up, and that silences the rest more effectively than her throat clears had.

“Um, hi. Welcome.” She takes a deep breath, smiling hesitantly.

She’s immediately interrupted as the front door swings open again, and Ginny comes trotting inside.

“Hi, sorry I’m late!” she chirps, taking a seat next to Michael Corner who puts an arm around her shoulders, then swiftly retracts it again at the Weasley twins’ identical narrowed eyes.

Tom lets out a quiet, hissed breath through clenched teeth, scowling at her. From his hand on Harry’s lower back, he can tell Harry tenses up too, albeit without letting it show on his carefully neutral face.

It makes Tom relax, this proof that Harry certainly hadn’t extended an invite to the youngest Weasley.

Although… why Harry’s so uncomfortable with Ginny remains an irritating mystery. At first, over the summer, Tom had chalked it up to some generic discomfort with hanging out with the best friend’s younger sibling. Understandable, if out of character.

But Harry’s avoidance and general awkwardness whenever Ginny’s nearby is beginning to seem like something – else.

Surely Harry isn’t… interested in her?

Toms curls his fingers harder in Harry’s shirt, nails digging into the tight muscles of his back, making Harry twitch slightly.

No. That would be preposterous. If Harry had been interested in that freckled chit, he wouldn’t have hesitated to throw it in Tom’s face before now.

Must be something else, then.

“Well, erm… well you know why we’re all here – Harry had the idea – no, sorry, I did, that um, a study group for our O.W.L.s – and N.E.W.T.s,” Hermione adds hastily, “wouldn’t be such a bad idea what with,” her voice gains in strength and confidence, “the atrocious excuse for Defence Against the Dark Arts Umbridge is spouting,” a few agreeable whoops break out, “so um, I – or we, actually – figured we’d take matters into our own hands.”

She gulps down a couple deep breaths, apparently heartened by the keen interest and generally curious atmosphere despite her lacklustre public speaking skills.

“We’re going to be learning how to actually cast spells, and such, and Harry’s going to – to teach us. So, um… that’s the plan. If you want to join –”

“What makes Potter uniquely suited to teaching others? Especially those here in years above fifth?” Corner asks, surreptitiously edging away from the Weasley twins who are still looking a tad murderous.

“Harry has always gotten top marks in DADA, and, well… he’s been in more situations than the rest of us combined where Defence was extremely important –” Hermione straightens her back, fists loosely curled at her sides. “– like the Triwizard Tournament.”

The mere mention of the tournament acts as a magnet, everyone’s gazes drawn like iron fillings to the scar on Harry’s throat.

Hermione keeps going as if she doesn’t notice it, “The older Champions, Krum especially, were very impressed with Harry, and said that not even they knew some of the spells Harry did.”

“Because you helped me look them up,” Harry interjects.

“Yes, but you mastered them,” Hermione says dismissively. “Either way –”

“What actually happened at the final task, Potter?” another boy calls out, a blonde Hufflepuff. Smith, if Tom isn’t mistaken, though he has no clue about the first name.

“Exactly what I told the Daily Prophet,” Harry replies irritably, his back remaining tensed under Tom’s palm. “I suggest you read it, because I’m not going to rehash it here for your entertainment.”

Tom can’t blame Smith for looking disgruntled at that; the Daily Prophet, while rife with speculation, had been comparatively sparse with facts. Harry had given a somewhat true account, that Tom still remembers vividly, having read it countless times.

‘As we’d reached the trophy at the same time, we agreed to a joint victory for Hogwarts. But the trophy was a portkey. Cedric was killed immediately at the graveyard where we arrived, and I was Stupefied and tied to a gravestone. I lost my wand and couldn’t defend myself. Some sort of ritual was going on, and Peter Pettigrew – no, he isn’t dead, he was working for Voldemort all along and faked his death, Sirius Black had nothing to do with it nor the betrayal of my parents and you can quote me on that – anyway, Pettigrew slit my throat. As you can probably understand, I don’t really remember much after that as I thought I was about to die. Luckily, a boy my age happened to be close by, and when Pettigrew was distracted, the boy helped me escape. He saved my life.’

Reading it the first time, Tom had been thrilled with this mention of his fictive heroic effort. Upon recollection, however, he feels… unsettled.

Even on the brink of death, Harry had been so powerful. Impressive. Downright awe-inspiring. And it feels – strange? wrong? – to take credit for his rescue, when the truth is that Harry had rescued his own damn self, and taken Tom along for the ride, Apparating through three different anti-Apparition wards without so much as a fingernail splinching.

Why Tom cares is a whole different matter. But he supposes if he was ever going to feel – bad? odd? – about taking credit for someone else’s deeds, it makes sense that it would be for his soulmate. His equal. His Fate-ordained match.

His hand drifts lower on Harry’s back. Steals underneath the hem of his hoodie, and then the t-shirt, fingertips finally alighting on Harry’s bare, warm skin, the soulmate bond singing between them. Some of the tension seeps out of Harry’s shoulders.

“If you’re just here for gossip, or if you aren’t interested in being taught by a fifth year – then there’s the door.” Harry gestures in its general direction, broadcasting loud and clear that he couldn’t care less whether Smith – or anyone else, for that matter – were to get up and leave.

Everyone stays seated.

The first one to curiously break the silence is a Hufflepuff girl with a long plait down her back, Bones or something, “Is it true you can cast a corporeal patronus?”

“Yes. Professor Lupin taught it to me my third year.”

“What animal is it?”

“A stag. And I’d be happy to teach the lot of you how to cast it, too.”

Excitement sparks on everyone’s faces like Harry just lit a whole bunch of fuses with a single match.

“And is it true you used that sword in Dumbledore’s office to kill –”

“Anyway,” Harry says, volume raised to be heard over the Ravenclaw boy (Boot?), “we’ll be meeting once a week, and we’ll work something out around the Quidditch practices. We already have a location in mind, that few people know about and where we’re unlikely to be disturbed as the person looking to get in would need to know exactly what to ask for.”

The other students pay rapt attention, and Tom is rather impressed with how effortlessly his soulmate commands a room, everyone hanging on his every word.

“However, before I tell you where it is, we have some paperwork for you to sign.”

Some laughter breaks out at his apologetic tone.

Hermione, with steady hands, produces a roll of parchment from her bag, and places it on the table, unfolded.

“This is a standard confidentiality contract,” Harry explains calmly. “And if you choose to sign it, you will be bound to secrecy. Should you attempt to divulge anything about what we’re doing to anyone uninitiated, you will be struck by a tongue-tying curse, and something else rather nasty that I hope no one will be tempted to try for themselves. I will also be made aware exactly who tried to break it, where, and when.”

The underlying threat is delicious. Tom even shivers.

“What if we don’t sign it?” Smith asks, like a complete and utter idiot.

Harry smiles, something sharp and predatory that makes Tom’s heart flutter. “Then I’ll be Obliviating you before letting you leave the pub today.”

“But that’s – that’s illegal!” Ernie McMillan sputters. Tom knows his name quite well, as the pompous fool had been first in line to introduce himself their first day of classes.

“Oh no,” Harry deadpans.

Quite a few of the students start snickering at that.

“I could just thump you on the head instead, Smith, until you can’t remember your own name?” one of the twins suggests sweetly.

“I’d be happy to just smack your face into the table a couple times, no trouble at all,” the other twin offers just as sweetly.

Tom grins, stifling laughter, charmed against his will. Those two are rather entertaining, when one doesn’t live under the same roof as them and constantly has to dodge their incessant pranks.

“I’ll sign it,” Smith hurriedly says when the twins start cracking their knuckles with maniacal smiles.

“Form a line, please,” Hermione calls out, and the students hurry to obey, and the air is thick with both nervousness and excitement. Harry remains seated, though he keeps careful track of whether anyone tries to make a run for it to avoid signing the contract and the obligatory Obliviation.

But everyone signs the dotted line, including Hermione and Ron, who’d gone redder than his house colours when Blaise sauntered up with a wink and charming smile. Everyone who signs also gets an ingenious way of communication; a galleon, through which Harry can send them dates and times for when the next meeting will be.

All in all, for a school study group, everything is remarkably well organized and thought out.

As this goes on, Tom idly traces small patterns with his thumb on Harry’s back, enjoying how the muscle occasionally twitches minutely underneath his touch. It isn’t beyond the realm of possibility Harry will make him pay for this later, so Tom takes full advantage of the situation while he still can.

Once everyone has returned to their seats, Harry clears his throat before Hermione has the chance. “Right, so. I’ve also had some ideas on what to call this group –”

“The Death To Umbridge Group,” one Weasley twin calls out to some appreciative nods and laughter.

“Underground DADA,” the other suggests, a bit more seriously.

“So UDADA?” Ginny drawls, leaning over and flicking her brother on the forehead. “How about Dumbledore’s Army, DA for short?”

“Believe it or not,” Harry says, loudly, to be heard over the rest as they express their appreciation for Ginny’s suggestion. “I already had a name in mind.”

Ginny holds up her hands in a placating gesture and smiles. “Sorry, Harry.”

“And while Dumbledore’s Army is a fine name,” Harry adds diplomatically without looking at Ginny, “it could land Dumbledore in even more trouble with the Ministry should we be caught. The name we’ve decided on is along the same lines though.”

His following pause has everyone leaning closer, and Tom shivers pleasantly at his soulmate’s theatrics. Honestly, he didn’t know Harry had it in him.

“Henceforth,” Harry says with a grin, “we shall be known as Fudge’s Favourites.”

After the meeting, once Ron and Hermione have said their goodbyes as well, Harry gets to his feet, dislodging Tom’s grip on his back.

“Come,” he says, and Tom cannot get an accurate read on his tone. He rises and follows Harry out the door in silence.

They halt by the same alley they’d paused in earlier, and Harry Disillusions himself again, then leads the way back into the Honeydukes cellar without anyone the wiser to their repeated intrusion.

Reluctantly, Tom folds down the hood of the marvellous invisibility cloak, blinking into the darkness once the trap door shuts above them, waiting for Harry to light his wand.

When he finally does, Tom nearly takes a startled step back for how close Harry’s gotten without him noticing.

The expression on Harry’s handsome face has him bracing for a punch.

What he gets, however, is a hand tangling in his hair and Harry slamming their mouths together.

Tom squawks in surprise, but he quickly surrenders – adapts – to the situation. His eyes flutter shut, hands going to Harry’s shirt to pull him closer, and he does his best to mimic the movements of Harry’s lips.

Kissing. Harry’s kissing me! We’re kissing –

Then Harry’s tongue touches his, and Tom ceases thinking. His mind remains blissfully blank as Harry crowds him up against the wall, caging him in with his body, and Tom might have melted into a puddle on the floor if it hadn’t been for Harry’s support.

The kiss isn’t soft, or gentle, or careful. It’s a burning, tearing passion, searing through his body like a wildfire, making his hands rove greedily over Harry’s body before coming to a stop on his neck, fingers flexing, nails digging into the skin to keep Harry close. And Harry gives as good as he gets, small needle pricks dancing all across Tom’s scalp from the force of Harry’s grip on his hair, lips turning swollen from the bites Harry lavishes upon them.

He's set on fire, Harry stoking the flames higher with every swipe of his tongue, and he deliriously wants to thank Harry for the privilege of being burned.

Because kissing Harry is like cupping sunshine in his palms; searing and blinding and glorious.

Chapter Text

Forcing himself to let go of Tom, rather than push him to his knees, had taken every piece of Harry’s precariously tilting self-control, the remaining sliver almost wavering upon seeing Tom’s blown-out pupils and swollen lips, looking snogged to within an inch of his life and still panting for more.

But Harry somehow managed, dragging his hands down Tom’s arms and then finally stepping back, and now, alone in his fourposter, he’s cursing his own restraint. So stupid. He could have had Tom on his knees without issue; he’d clearly wanted it. Harry could have even reciprocated for once, if that’s what it took to alleviate his conscience about having Tom suck him off in a dirty tunnel.

A shiver travels slowly through his body, the chill of it doing absolutely nothing to combat the persistent heat. Shifting against the soft sheets, Harry inwardly groans. How on earth is he supposed to go to sleep under such conditions?

With a resigned sigh, he turns onto his back, wiggles out of his pants, and wraps a hand around his hard, leaking cock, the first stroke making him moan quietly in relief, biting his lip to keep any further sounds from escaping.

As he starts to stroke, images of Tom fill his mind. For once, they carry no edge of shame.

Tom, mouth hot and desperate on his –

Tom, carefully wrapping his lips around Harry’s cock that first time –

Tom, eyes crossing in bliss with Harry shoved deep in his throat –

Tom, swallowing around him while maintaining eye-contact –

Tom, moaning wantonly, legs wrapped around Harry’s waist as he pounds into him relentlessly, one hand tightly gripping Tom’s throat, Tom’s cock bobbing against his stomach and leaking continuously, their eyes meeting and Tom hoarsely begging for more, more, more, Harry, please, I need it so bad, need you, harder, please –

On a long, drawn-out groan that he can’t stifle in time, Harry comes, spilling over his knuckles, vision momentarily blackening before everything rushes back in full colour.

Heavy breaths escape through his wide-open mouth, and he blinks incredulously up at the ceiling, hand still loosely wrapped around his softening prick.

Merlin.

That’s… new.

“Potter.”

Harry looks up from his breakfast, drawn from his fantasies of stealing away with Tom to a broom closet later. “Yes, Professor?”

“The headmaster wants to see you in his office when you’ve… finished.”

For a brief moment, he fears McGonagall might have read his filthy mind. Merlin, but he’s really falling into the teenage boy-persona far too quickly, except this is worse than when he was an actual teenager, because now he knows exactly what he’s missing out on.

She means after you’ve finished breakfast, you ingrate, he admonishes himself, and nods. “Of course, Professor.”

“The headmaster is currently partial to liquorice snaps.” With that, she gives him a curt nod and sweeps away.

Once Harry finishes breakfast, without additional imaginings of what he could do to Tom in a broom cupboard, he tells Hermione and Ron that he’ll see them later, then reluctantly steers his steps toward the headmaster’s office.

He would have done almost anything to be allowed entrance into Dumbledore’s office in his original fifth year, stressed and strung out from all the nightmares of that bloody ministry corridor, wondering if he was going mad and desperate to know what the hell was going on. Now, though, it is with a sinking feeling of dread that he gives the password to the gargoyle and steps onto the revolving stairs as they head upward, wishing he could just go to Potions instead of braving Dumbledore’s presence.

Lifting his hand, he knocks, twice, waiting until Dumbledore’s ‘come in, Harry’ to push the door open.

Dumbledore is standing by Fawkes’ perch, absently petting the phoenix, but looks up once Harry’s shut the door behind him. He’s smiling, blue eyes alert behind his half-moon glasses, but Harry can’t help thinking he looks… tired. Old.

In a bout of nonsensical paranoia, he inspects Dumbledore’s hands, but neither of them has any hint of necrosis, and he rolls his shoulders minutely, consciously relaxing. There are no more horcruxes, for crying out loud, and thus no curse for Dumbledore to fall victim to even if he had for some reason taken a field trip to the Gaunt shack. Everything is fine.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Dumbledore hums and gestures for them to have a seat by the desk, making a small sound of fatigue as he sinks onto his chair.

Harry sets his bag down on the floor and leans back, keeping his gaze somewhere around Dumbledore’s forehead.

“How are you, my boy?”

Harry lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “I’m alright. Sir,” he adds, as an afterthought.

Dumbledore smiles, blue eyes twinkling in a familiarly comforting way that sets Harry a bit more at ease. “I’m happy to hear that, Harry. You’ve had quite the tumultuous few months, after all.”

Harry hums.

“First that whole ordeal at the graveyard, then finding your soulmate in the aftermath…” What is probably a sympathetic expression on Dumbledore’s face instead has the exact opposite effect on Harry, making his heart race and palms turn clammy.

Please don’t let this be a conversation about Tom.

“Yeah,” he says, glad his voice doesn’t betray his discomfiture. He carefully shutters his expressions for good measure, the way he would during interrogations with suspects, playing the stoic Auror to unsettle them into blabbing.

“Tumultuous indeed,” Dumbledore repeats. “No wonder you and – Mr Jonsson chose to break with tradition in light of those events.”

Harry merely makes a noncommittal but agreeable sound, forcing a small smile. Luckily, Dumbledore moves on with the niceties without lingering on the subject Harry desperately doesn’t want to talk – and therefore lie – about.

“And your classes, how are they?”

“Fine, sir.”

“Even Defence Against the Dark Arts?”

Harry’s eyes narrow momentarily, and he carefully says, “Could be better, I suppose.”

Dumbledore sighs, his smile disappearing. “So I’ve been led to understand.”

A silence falls, and Harry isn’t sure what Dumbledore expects from him here. Ranting and raving about Umbridge’s incompetence as a teacher? Whining and begging for Dumbledore to bloody well do something about it? Commiseration about how the Ministry has him over a barrel so effectively that Dumbledore can’t do anything about that toad?

In the end, Harry simply clears his throat after a few seconds more of that uncertain silence, and asks, “What was it you wanted to talk to me about, Professor?”

Dumbledore’s gaze turns searching, and Harry frantically slams up his wobbly Occlumency walls, keeping their eyes from locking just in case.

“Well, Harry… as a matter of fact, I wanted to ask you whether you’ve had any more dreams about Voldemort?”

Harry blinks. “No, sir.”

“Not even once?”

“No, sir. Nothing.”

Dumbledore hums, and it sounds sceptical to Harry’s ears.

“Nothing more about that house, or the baby, or anything of the sort?”

“No, sir.” Harry frowns at the unusually blunt questioning. “Professor, I know you think what happened at the graveyard means that Voldemort is back, but… I don’t think he is. If he was, surely, we would have heard something from him by now?”

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore acknowledges, inclining his head. “Or he is simply laying low, gathering strength.”

No, he’s getting ready for classes, we have Potions in a bit.

“Either way, should any more dreams occur, I would greatly appreciate it if you would let me know as soon as possible, Harry.”

Part of Harry, the one that still loves and respects his headmaster, no matter how brittle that part has gotten, fervently wishes to unburden himself. To tell Dumbledore everything, to confide that there is no horcrux connection between him and Voldemort anymore, because there are no more horcruxes at all. That Voldemort is once more only Tom Riddle, and Harry is somewhat confident he’ll be able to keep a tight leash on his homicidal tendencies, and that Dumbledore can simply stop trying to convince the world that Voldemort has returned.

He doesn’t, though. Because the largest part of him hisses in his ear that Dumbledore wouldn’t understand. Dumbledore let this universe’s Harry Potter die in that graveyard. Failed to protect him.

Dumbledore may also have been entangled with a Dark Lord once upon a time, may also have stepped briefly in a world painted grey, but he didn’t stay there the way Harry intends to.

Dumbledore gave his Dark Lord up for the greater good, while Harry’s starting to realise and accept that he never will. Never could. He has a responsibility to keep Tom close, and sane, and law-abiding. Honestly, the soulmate bond is secondary in the face of that; it merely makes the responsibility a bit more tolerable.

“Of course, Professor.”

A beat of silence passes, where Harry isn’t sure whether he’s dismissed or not.

Voice low, blue eyes attempting to catch his own, Dumbledore eventually asks, “Is there anything else you would like to tell me, Harry?”

Sirius sits to his right, stalwart and calm and so gloriously alive, haggard face full of comfort. Dumbledore, face almost as haggard as Sirius', leans slightly on the notched table opposite, and it’s strange seeing him in Grimmauld’s dark kitchen, beyond the fact he died years ago, like he and his bright yellow robes don’t quite fit inside the gloomy rooms of this house.

“Please, Harry, tell us what happened. Every detail you can remember.”

Best he can, Harry recounts the final events of the maze, where he and Cedric reached for the Cup together.

“Then a voice said ‘kill the spare’, and Cedric was just… dead. I was Stupefied, and tied to a gravestone.”

He proceeds to recount the ritual best he can, and Dumbledore asks him to repeat every detail several times. Unfortunately, it’s the sort of thing that sticks with you, and Harry has no problem reciting every word, forever burned into his memory by virtue of both the trauma itself and the repeated nightmares he’s had since, even though it was seven years ago from his perspective.

But then he gets to the part where he has to start lying.

“And then Pettigrew slit my throat.”

Sirius’ hand shoots out and anchors on his own. Harry doesn’t mind the contact, only grateful for every reminder that his godfather is right there next to him.

“He recited ‘blood of the enemy, forcibly taken’, and then… well. I’m afraid I don’t remember much after that.”

Harry winces as Sirius’ blunted nails dig into his skin, and a quick glance at his godfather’s face tells him Sirius isn’t aware he’s even doing it.

“He’s dead. I’m going to kill him. He’s dead,” Sirius whispers, more to himself than anyone else, and it sounds like a solemn vow.

Harry idly wonders if perhaps he already is; Voldemort wasn’t there to staunch the bleeding and bestow a silver hand upon Wormtail’s worthless stump. It’s a comforting thought, aside from sparking worry that they’ll never get Sirius exonerated without presenting Pettigrew to the Wizengamot.

“Do you remember when – Bob? – saved you?” Dumbledore asks, drawing Harry’s attention back.

“No, sir. Not really. Only flashes.”

“Did you see Voldemort rise from the cauldron?”

“No, sir. Nothing came out of the cauldron. It just exploded. I think that whatever they were attempting failed.”

“I see. And it was at this time Bob got you away?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sirius’ nails come out of his skin, leaving small red crescents behind. He recoils, guilt flashing across his face when he sees the marks on Harry’s hand. Harry shoots him a small smile to show he doesn’t mind.

“Was anyone attacking you at the time?” Dumbledore asks.

“I – think so. Bob said there were people in masks. Death Eaters. I recognised his description from the Quidditch World Cup.”

“But Bob didn’t recognise them?”

“His parents aren’t from around these parts, and I don’t think it came up in his homeschooling. I mean, his mum was British, but a muggle. And his dad was from Sweden – he went to Durmstrang.”

“Of course, it’s understandable he wouldn’t have recognised them,” Sirius says, soothingly.

Harry nods, privately amazed at the fake biography Death created for Tom/Bob that he can crack open inside his head like a book.

“We’re lucky Fate ordained for the two of you to meet there and then,” Dumbledore says with a note of finality to it.

Harry starts to stand up, but Dumbledore’s voice turns low, his eyes attempting to catch Harry’s. “Is there anything else you would like to tell me, Harry?”

Harry sits back down, fastening his gaze on Dumbledore’s forehead, mind racing ahead with a million thoughts that he doesn’t voice. A thousand ways to confess who he really is, a hundred ways to prove Bob is Tom Riddle, a dozen ways to change this awful story Death has made him an unwilling part of.

“No, sir. Nothing.”

Harry swallows, keeping his expression neutral, mind blank and calm. “No, sir. Nothing else.”

Disappointment flashes across Dumbledore’s wrinkled face, so quickly Harry is unsure whether he may have imagined it. “Very well. Run along, then, my boy.”

Harry manages a small smile, picks up his bag, and leaves Dumbledore’s office, haunted by the uncomfortable feeling that he just took a test and failed.

It doesn’t take much more than seeing the back of Tom’s dark hair curl from the potion fumes for every dirty thought Harry’s ever entertained to come rushing back. They become increasingly distracting when he catches sight of a small bead of sweat on Tom’s temple, slowly sliding down the side of his handsome face, tracing his long neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his white shirt.

He blames teenage hormones, augmented by actual experience. First time around, he didn’t know. Had no clue what it felt like to kiss someone, or have them put their mouth on his cock, or seeing them all mussed up from his hands and lips and teeth, wearing a necklace from his fingers. Now, though, if he concentrates, he can practically hear Tom’s gasps and small whimpers, can taste him on his tongue, feel his heated skin underneath his fingertips, all of it further enhanced by the memory of a singing soulmate bond.

No wonder he can barely concentrate on bloody Potions.

Thankfully, Snape’s icy glare keeps him from popping a semi.

After class is let out, Harry intentionally bumps into Tom as they leave.

“Come with me,” he breathes in Tom’s ear, having no reason for being so weird about it other than an incessant need to be as close as possible. He’s glad of it, too, when it helps him catch Tom’s small shiver, a certain smug satisfaction unfolding in his chest at the proof Tom isn’t unaffected by him, that whatever else one can say about Tom, it’s obvious he does want Harry.

“Alright.” Despite his reaction, Tom’s voice is even and calm, though Harry is certain he’s not imagining the hunger sparking in those dark eyes.

They barely spare Ron, Hermione and Blaise a goodbye before slinking off, Harry leading the way, having a very specific broom closet in mind. It’s out of the way, down here in the dungeons, and while he’s never utilised it to its full potential, he did once hide from Peeves inside after stumbling upon it like a mini version of the Room of Requirement.

“Where are we going?”

Harry glances back over his shoulder with a grin and a wink, grabbing Tom’s hand and intertwining their fingers, soulmate bond humming pleasantly in his veins. “You’ll see.”

“I have some reading I need to get done before Transfiguration –”

“Swot.”

“– and I don’t really have time to traipse all about the castle with you if I’m to get that done.”

Harry opens the door to the blessed broom cupboard and drags Tom inside, ignoring his grumbling, because it’s abruptly cut off when that annoyingly brilliant mind of his finally understands where Harry is going with this.

“Oh,” he manages, eyes growing wide when Harry locks the door behind them and sets a small globe of light hovering over their heads.

Harry winds Tom’s green and silver tie around his hand and tugs him closer. “Just shut up already.”

Tom isn’t perhaps the best kisser, but he’s definitely improving, and the sheer enthusiasm he brings to the table is tough to beat. Perhaps the soulmate bond gives him a bit of an unfair advantage, but Harry can’t find it in himself to care at this point; it feels too good to waste effort trying to resist.

He crowds Tom against one of the shelves, supplies clattering down onto the floor by their feet, and with his free hand he grabs onto Tom’s neck, tilting his head just so to get a better angle, swallowing the small gasp Tom makes in response.

Tom’s arms wrap around him and tug him closer, and Harry willingly goes, their chests pressed together so tightly he’s unable to say which heartbeat is which. Much like their snog in the Hogsmeade tunnel, it isn’t gentle or sweet or anything of the sort. It is heated, tinged with a hint of desperation and mild violence, using their teeth and nails as much as their lips and fingertips, and it’s addictive unlike anything he’s ever experienced before.

Harry has always liked it a bit rough, and part of him is reluctantly grateful to Fate for giving him a soulmate with matching claws.

He licks inside Tom’s mouth, sucking on his tongue and biting down gently. Tom makes a sound that’s somewhere between a growl and a whimper, and it vibrates all the way down Harry’s throat, spurs him on, travelling faster than lightning down to his cock and making it swell until his trousers feel three sizes too small.

He detaches briefly from Tom’s mouth to bury his teeth in his neck instead, sucking and licking, hands fumbling with his belt and zipper, Tom’s moan making him clumsy and forcing him to detach from his skin with a final nibble and lave.

Trying to think through the fog is difficult, but another biting kiss from Tom’s swollen mouth makes up his mind, and his hands go to Tom’s belt next, sure and steady.

Tom inhales sharply, and Harry can’t resist looking into his eyes at the sound, finding the mahogany completely subsumed by black, his pupils blown wide with lust.

It’s a good look on him, Harry thinks deliriously, shoving Tom’s pants down over his arse.

“Harry,” Tom says, sending a shiver down Harry’s spine. Fuck, but he loves how Tom says his name – always with that hint of wonder and awe and something so infuriatingly sexy and warm. “Harry.”

He doesn’t even tell Tom to shut the hell up, merely slams their mouths together again and presses their dicks together, wrapping his hand around them.

And then remembers he didn’t even get a proper look, so he takes one while Tom is busy remembering how to breathe.

It’s rather unfair how pretty Tom’s cock is, slender and pink and standing straight up against his stomach for the fraction of a second Harry lets go of it. This is also about the time he realises he’s probably the first ever person to lay a hand on it that isn’t Tom, and some hypocritical caveman part of his brain goes ‘good’. No one else should get to see this pretty cock. No one else should get to touch it, or twist their hand around it, or hear the punched-out sounds Tom makes, scrabbling for purchase on Harry’s shoulders and pressing kisses wherever he can reach. Only him. Only Harry.

Mine, that caveman part of him grunts and snarls, basking in the soulmate bond confirming it with every soft sparkle in his veins.

“Yours,” Tom moans, and oh, he must have said that last part out loud, but whatever, he’s too far gone to care, the slightly too rough friction as their pricks slide together distracting him, the glide aided just enough by their combined precum to keep it from being painful and he’s close, so close –

“’arry,” Tom gasps, and then he’s coming, pretty cock spurting all over Harry’s hand where it keeps shuttling over their dicks, and with a deep moan Harry’s pushed over the edge as well, making even more of a mess between them.

Tom tugs his face closer and presses their lips together, and Harry lets him for a spell before wrenching his face away, tucking it into Tom’s bruised neck where he works to catch his breath.

Eventually, their breaths turn less laboured, and their joint spend starts to dry, so Harry reluctantly draws back and mutters a cleaning spell, absently proud that he manages to clean them up without his wand.

In silence, they set themselves to rights, though Harry can feel Tom’s gaze on him the entire time like a brand, and he doesn’t… hate it.

When he’s finished tucking his shirt back inside his trousers, he looks up and does indeed find Tom’s eyes on him. There’s a question in them he doesn’t understand.

“You okay?” He straightens his tie, dragging a hand through his hair.

Tom nods slowly. “That was… um…”

Harry can feel a grin slowly bloom on his face when Tom seems to be at a loss for words. “What, first time?”

Tom swallows and doesn’t respond other than a small nod, apparently unaware the question had been rhetorical.

Harry sighs, grin softening into a smile, and he presses a slow, lingering kiss to Tom’s lips.

“Let’s go to the library then. You had some reading to do?”

Tom blinks, hazy eyes slightly unfocused, before he visibly pulls himself together and nods. “Yeah, that… yeah.”

Harry opens the door, and the corridor is mercifully deserted as he waves Tom ahead. “After you.”

And if his ego swells a bit in response to Tom’s continued daze, well… no one will ever have to know.

Chapter Text

He’d had a plan. Let Harry use him, get him accustomed to it and to Tom’s touch in general, and then deny him until he came begging on his knees, swearing eternal faithfulness and devotion, fully surrendered to the soulmate bond.

However.

Sometimes plans need amendments. Small tweaks and changes that will nevertheless lead to the same end goal.

Why cut off Harry’s supply, when he’s starting to get such an excellent time out of their rendezvouses too?

He hadn’t even had to ask. Harry had chosen to unbuckle Tom’s trousers and take him in hand, all on his own. Any good strategist would tell you such initiative should be rewarded, not punished.

And Tom is an excellent strategist.

So, when Harry starts up this new mission of snogging Tom senseless in every broom cupboard of the castle in the span of a week, Tom goes along with it – for the plan, of course.

Sometimes, he drops to his knees on the hard stone floors and sucks Harry off. It makes Harry’s green eyes gleam like precious gems and Tom sort of loves the rough grip Harry gets on his hair, loves how utterly helpless he is when Harry’s just about to come down his throat and holds Tom close enough to tweak his nose against Harry’s sweat-slickened hip bone.

Anything for the plan.

What the plan is may currently be a bit… murky. But it’s there. A plan. The Plan. With steps and everything. A rough outline, at least.

(Salazar, but sometimes it feels like his brain is ready to pour out of his ears when Harry jerks him off, which happens every time they steal away now, so… progress.)

Whatever. Plan or no plan, Tom is clearly the winner either way. Fate’s favoured and –

And Harry is watching him again, with that hooded look in his eyes that spell either trouble or a hand down Tom’s trousers. Trousers that incidentally feel a bit too tight all of a sudden, but judging by the jerk of Harry’s head in the direction of one of their new favourite cupboards outside the library, that particular issue is going to be resolved soon enough.

Musings about plans can wait. He’s got a soulmate to snog.

Educational Decree Number Twenty-four

Tacked on the notice board in the common room, sprawling over the various notes about second-hand schoolbooks for sale, offers of trading chocolate frog cards and a reminder of the gobstones league’s rankings, a new, official-looking parchment with a curly seal at the bottom, pronounces that all student organizations are now officially disbanded.

Permission to reform may be acquired from the High Inquisitor.

Tom raises an eyebrow and reads it all the way through, Blaise doing the same next to him.

“You understand what this means, don’t you?” Tom murmurs out of the corner of his mouth once they turn away and leave the common room together, heading for breakfast.

“That Umbridge threatens expulsion if the Quidditch team decides to so much as practice without her giving the go-ahead? Yeah, I got that part.”

“Yes, and no. It means she knows.”

Blaise frowns, absently tugging at one of his cuffed sleeves before dropping his hands and affecting a casual walk for appearance’s sake. “How, though? What with the spell and the… contract, I highly doubt anyone told.”

Tom waits for one of the older Slytherins, returning from breakfast with dark circles under her eyes, to pass them by before he replies, “Fair enough – she may not know but she definitely suspects.”

Blaise hums in acknowledgement, granting him the point, and they walk the rest of the way in contemplative silence.

They come to a sudden halt just before reaching the Great Hall.

It feels almost like an omen when they both reach into their burning pockets and withdraw their respective galleons, eerily in sync.

Harry’s set a date for the first meeting.

“What are you plan–mmph–ing for the – ah – first… oh god, right there… Harry!”

Harry grins at him, all mischief and smug satisfaction that Tom can’t even get mad about, because Harry’s hand is twisting expertly around the head of Tom’s prick and he keeps stealing nipping kisses to interrupt whatever Tom is saying, being a general nuisance and so infuriatingly attractive that Tom’s mind stalls like a malfunctioning engine.

“First what?” Harry’s tone is mild and polite, at odds with his wolfish grin.

“First – ah – meeting,” Tom says, trailing off on an involuntary whimper when Harry squeezes around him and simultaneously dives in to briefly sink his teeth in Tom’s throat.

Harry chuckles against his wet skin and picks up the speed, moving his hand faster along Tom’s shaft, sucking bruises into Tom’s bared neck.

Don’t think Tom isn’t noticing the lack of response to his question; he’s simply preoccupied with chasing orgasm at Harry’s expert hands. Although chasing might be too generous a word – it’d be more accurate to describe it as helplessly barrelling toward it at breakneck speed, urged on by every relentless tug and biting kiss.

When he tips over the edge, Harry’s even got the audacity to amusedly whisper ‘good boy, Tom’ in his ear, but Tom’s too blissed out to care, slumping against Harry, chin hooked on his shoulder as he comes down from the spectacular high.

He'd tried to be slick; get Harry off first and then start his line of questioning, but Harry had seen through it, taken it like a game and promptly set about blowing Tom’s mind. His pants aren’t even pulled up yet, for crying out loud; Tom can see the white globes of his arse from this vantage point.

It’s a rather nice arse, to be fair. A lovely view. His fingers twitch but his arm refuses to move. Oh well.

He pouts ineffectually as Harry gently pushes him off and struggles back into his pants, pulling up and buckling his trousers. Tom reluctantly follows suit, mind still spinning a bit but coming back in increments, and he leans in to steal a kiss simply because he can, humming against Harry’s lips.

Harry draws away first, he always does, but he does so with a smirk and the smallest ring of green around his pupils, so Tom can’t get too mad about it.

“What was it you wanted to ask?” Harry tilts his head, eyes a bit too wide and innocent, smirk just the right shade of teasing.

Tom exhales sharply through his nose, setting his hair to rights, ignoring Harry’s amused look. “I’m merely curious about the first meeting.”

“Meeting? What meeting?”

The faux innocence is growing old quick when Tom’s cock isn’t doing the thinking. “The FF-meeting.”

“Oh, that,” Harry chirps, waving a dismissive hand. “You’ll see.”

“Harry.” It is most certainly not a whine.

Harry mimes zipping his lips shut.

“Harry!” It still isn’t a whine when Harry slinks out of the broom cupboard without a single look back, leaving Tom in complete darkness as the globe of light Harry had summoned winks out.

When Tom and Blaise hesitantly enter the room – summoned by pacing three times past the narrow strip of wall opposite a tapestry of a wizard and three trolls in tutus – there’s no trace of the teasing, impish Harry.

What they see, in this large gymnasium filled with targets for practice and soft mats, is a serious Harry, waiting quietly at the front of the room, hands clasped behind his back, expression neutral and grave with legs slightly apart.

It’s a like a whole different person.

This is the Auror, Tom quickly realises, breath catching in his throat. This is the man with actual battle experience, who by some twist of fate has agreed to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts to a bunch of teenagers.

He can’t believe he’d forgotten. That he, who knows full well what lurks beneath the surface, has been fooled by the teenage visage hiding the adult, taken in and believing that the boy grinning at him and getting him off in secluded corners of the castle isn’t actually fifteen.

Their eyes meet with a crack, heedless of the other students drifting around the room, and arousal curls at the bottom of Tom’s spine.

That man is his.

Harry’s gaze flickers away, alighting on whoever’s come in behind Tom and Blaise, and Tom moves aside toward the edge of the room, released from the hold a mere sliver of Harry’s attention has on him.

It’s still part of the plan, he tells himself, watching the room fill up yet remaining airily spacious. He’s mine; it’s natural that he’s distracting.

The Weasley twins are the last ones through the door, and somehow, it seems everyone knows it, as the room falls silent, everyone focusing on Harry.

“Hello, everyone,” Harry says, voice level and mild. There’s no hint of him being the least bit uncomfortable speaking in front of a crowd. “Glad you could make it. Before we start today’s lesson, I would like to take a moment to talk about this new educational decree.”

One of the twins boos. Nervous titters break out.

Harry’s lips twitch into an almost-smile. “Yeah. That one. Despite our precautions, it would appear Umbridge has gotten wise to what we’re doing here. Not the details, of course, but enough to make her try to crack down pre-emptively. Anyway, with that in mind, I figured I’d give you the option to bow out. This group is completely voluntary, and if you’re uncomfortable keeping it a secret and would prefer to wash your hands of it, you’re welcome to do so.”

A few people inhale, some of the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws glancing at their friends, arms twitching in aborted raises. Predictably, none of the Gryffindors move a muscle.

Harry voice gentles, though his expression remains calm and neutral. “No hard feelings if you want out.”

“I thought this was just a study group,” Zacharias Smith calls out.

“It is. But the secrecy of it, and the potential consequences should we be caught out, might be too much for some of you to bear, and I would understand that.”

Harry’s eyes trail every single face in the room, lingering for a fraction of a second on each, though Tom believes Harry grants him almost a full two seconds before drifting over to Blaise.

No one says they want out.

A small, pleased smile blooms on Harry’s face. “Very well, then. For our first lesson, I figured we’d go back to duelling basics, and not whatever the hell Lockhart tried to foist on us a couple years ago.”

A couple of amused sounds. Tom doesn’t understand the joke and is extremely put out by this.

“Tell you later,” Blaise murmurs out the corner of his mouth, and Tom nods, grateful. At least his homeschooling background has some perks, like information being freely offered without him having to ask.

“This means I want you to live, breathe and think nothing but Protego,” Harry continues. “Because that, or dodging the hell out of the way of a spell, should be your first instinct in any battle. We’ll work on the dodging as well,” he gestures toward the mats, finally revealing their purpose, “but as I said, Protego comes first. I know you may think it’s simple, or even beneath you – such an easy spell, right? But imagine yourself out of a classroom for a moment.”

Harry’s voice takes on a strange quality, almost hypnotic in the way it demands their undivided attention, and Tom isn’t the only one shifting closer to hear him better.

“You’re running. Battle rages all around you. There’s smoke obscuring your vision. Spells fly, fizzing past, missing you by a hairsbreadth through sheer dumb luck. Someone fires a spell at you, friend or foe doesn’t matter because you can’t tell through the haze. You can’t breathe, can’t think, working solely off instinct. What do you go for? Something fancy? Something complicated? Do you transfigure them into an animal? Do you calmly lean to the side, letting the spell pass you harmlessly by while you run through your mental catalogue of counterspells? No. You react. And that reaction had better be either dodging far out of the way – or a wordless Protego. Just a snap of your wrist, barely a conscious thought – that’s how you survive.”

Tom holds his breath, eyes growing wide without his say-so.

Because he can picture it. Vividly. Harry didn’t just pluck that example out of thin air; he lived it. Fought his way through a battlefield, through war, unable to distinguish friend from foe in the heat of the moment, urged onwards by his relentless task.

Tom carefully doesn’t think about the reason Harry had to.

Harry’s expression morphs into something a little bashful, a small smile curling his lips. “Or, you’ll become adept at avoiding annoying stinging hexes at the very least.”

The whole room seem to take a collective breath, any potential arguments quashed before they could be uttered.

“Now, spread out and pair up, and simply practice Protego, the one not casting Protego sticking to simple jinxes and hexes. I’ll walk around.”

Tom turns to Blaise. They are already at the fringes, the only Slytherins present, so the pair seems rather obvious.

They draw their wands. They don’t do anything like bow to each other; this isn’t a proper duel, there’s no need for protocol or custom.

Tom fires off the first hex.

“Protego!” A small, shimmering shield springs into existence in front of Blaise, barely distinguishable but enough to stop Tom’s spell in its tracks.

“Protego,” Tom says after Blaise has fired a tickling charm at him, and his solid, green shield effortlessly swallows the jinx.

Blaise lets out a slow, impressed whistle. Tom smirks. Always nice when someone has an appropriate reaction to his power.

They trade spells back and forth until Harry, back at the front of the room, demands their attention once more.

“Great job, everyone. Seems like you’ve got this one down pat in controlled settings. Now, I want us to kick it up a notch. This next bit is going to be a free-for-all. Go nuts. Stick to stinging hexes but fire them wildly, everyone is fair game. Dodge and shield, and learn to do it in the chaos.”

“Are you fair game too, Professor?” Ginny calls out, voice tinged with teasing.

“Yes,” Harry answers without looking at her. He waves his wand and the mats spread out all over the room in an impressive display of non-verbal magic that has more than a few of the others eyeing him appreciatively. “Begin.”

There are a few moments of hesitation before anyone obeys, but when they do, mayhem quickly breaks out.

Tom’s heart jackhammers in his chest, his every nerve ending on edge, adrenaline surging through his veins as if it’s suddenly life or death, reminiscent of when he’d scrambled to grab onto Harry in the graveyard while spells flew over their heads.

It’s impossible to keep track of everyone at the same time. He dodges and shields and casts, dodges, shields, and casts, over and over again, soon having migrated all the way to the other side of the room.

He appears to be the only one taking it quite so seriously, though. The room is full of laughter and gasps of shock when a stinging hex connects, grins spreading wide on almost every face he sees. Well, he and Harry, who’s on the other side of the room next to Blaise, trading spells back and forth. Harry’s face is set in grim determination, eyes flickering around wildly, cataloguing whenever a rogue spell is incoming and hurriedly shielding against it or spinning out of the way.

He looks almost like he’s dancing, his magic tangible in the air, and it’s distracting enough that a hex actually manages to catch Tom on the neck.

He swears and goes back to his own shielding and dodging, but his gaze keeps snapping to Harry without meaning to, a sense of awe unfurling in his chest at the sight of his soulmate in his element.

He must have been a formidable Auror. It’s like he’s got a sixth sense for whenever a spell is headed his way, and more than once Tom sees him simply twist a fraction out of the way or silently conjure a strong shield that absorbs the hex.

Natural. Breathtaking. Built into his very bones.

How could someone like that ever be defeated? What happened to him? How did he die?

A stinging hex catches him on the shoulder. Tom curses and focuses back on his surroundings, dodging out of the way of Ronald’s spell, firing one right back, pleased when it hits.

When Harry eventually calls a stop to the exercise, they’re all breathing hard, faces flushed from exertion, those still in robes looking especially red around the edges. This, unfortunately, includes Tom, who surreptitiously casts a cooling charm down the front of his robes while pretending to stretch.

Harry’s beaming, green eyes blazing, and it looks like he just had the time of his life.

Coincidentally, it’s almost identical to how he looks after he’s come in Tom’s mouth and made him swallow every drop.

Something clenches around Tom’s heart, and he nearly blacks out from the sudden wave of jealousy bowling him over, screaming like an air raid siren in his head that no one else should get to see Harry like that, ever.

Unable to hear through the sound of static in his head, he misses whatever Harry is saying to the group and remains rooted to the spot as the room slowly empties.

What finally gets him moving, all systems back online, is the sight of Ginny sauntering over to trade a few words with Harry, smiling widely at him. The only reason he doesn’t kill her then and there is the fact Harry is barely paying attention to whatever she’s saying.

“Oh, hey, Bob,” she says, startled by Tom’s appearance by her shoulder.

Tom isn’t sure when exactly he decided to move closer, but apparently, he’d been drawn in without conscious thought.

“Ginny.” His voice is far more level than he expects it to be.

“Just think about it, yeah? Later, Professor.” She amicably cuffs Harry on the arm, and with a final grin she leaves them alone.

“Think about what?” Tom immediately asks, after a quick glance over his shoulder confirms he and Harry are the only ones left.

“Oh, she just wondered if I could teach some spells that’ll come up for the fourth years,” Harry replies unconcernedly, one hand reaching toward Tom.

“Why does she always hang around you anyway?” Tom demands, stepping out of Harry’s reach, rather abruptly judging by Harry’s confusion.

“What? No, she doesn’t, what gave you that idea?”

“She’s always looking at you.”

“Looking and hanging around are two wildly different things. What the hell’s gotten into you?”

Excellent question, and had Tom been of sound mind, he likely would have backed down. Alas, his mind seems to have left on a holiday without him.

“Maybe you like having her look at you,” he hisses, crowding closer once Harry’s arm falls to his side. “Is that it? Is that why you won’t tell her to get lost?”

Harry’s eyes widen behind his glasses, and a shocked little laugh punches out of him. “What the – are you jealous?”

“No!” The shrill tone unfortunately doesn’t do him any favours in acting unbothered.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Calm down. It doesn’t matter if Ginny wanted anything anyway – been there, done that, it crashed and burned.”

“What!?”

“Not here, obviously, but where I came from…” Harry shrugs, as if he hasn’t just reached inside Tom’s chest and shredded his insides to little pieces. “We dated for a couple years –”

“Years!?”

Harry’s eyes narrow, jaw clenching as he’s clearly getting irritated, but Tom can’t stop himself, nothing but furious static between his ears – because now, confronted with the truth of it, that there was something between Harry and Ginny, he realises that he’d never truly expected there to be.

Ginny had been with Harry, Ginny had gotten to kiss Harry, Ginny had gotten to put her mouth on Harry and Ginny had gotten to see Harry’s blissful just-came-face. All the parts of Harry that were supposed to belong only to Tom.

Eyes prickling – with fury – Tom shrilly asks, “Who else!?”

“I’m not going to answer that,” Harry says, voice clearly laced with irritation now. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“The hell I don’t!” He shoves at Harry’s chest. Harry doesn’t move an inch. “Who?”

“No,” Harry snarls. “You don’t get to fucking ask me that! It’s none of your business!”

“I’m your soulmate!” Damn it all to hell, but his eyes are really burning now. With rage. Nothing else.

“Yeah, fine, and as your soulmate, I’m telling you – you don’t want to know! Nothing’s happened here anyway.” Harry’s hands clamp down hard around Tom’s arms. “Now drop this.”

“How many? How many, Harry!?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake – I might be your first, but you sure as hell aren’t mine,” Harry snaps.

Tom inhales sharply and wrenches himself free from Harry’s grip.

He barely hears Harry calling after him as he leaves.

“Wait – no, shit – I didn’t – I didn’t mean that – Tom!”

Chapter Text

The door slams shut with an air of finality Harry doesn’t appreciate.

Typical Tom. Picking a fight and then running off when he can’t handle the resulting confrontation.

Harry groans and runs a hand through his hair, gripping the back of his neck, sinking his blunted nails into the sweaty skin.

He did the right thing; Tom didn’t know what he was asking for. Nothing good could come of telling him how many people Harry have gotten off with over the years – especially not when the memories of those encounters exist solely in Harry’s head.

The guilt churning in his stomach is misplaced and will simply have to go the fuck away.

Tom doesn’t so much as look at him throughout the next day.

Or the next.

Or the one after that.

It pisses him off to no end.

Harry stabs at his dinner, glowering at the roasted chicken. Ron and Hermione are having some sort of stilted conversation over his head, but he’s not paying attention and couldn’t begin to guess what the hell they’re talking about.

Going from getting off at least once a day with Tom to nothing has him beyond frustrated. What kind of bullshit is that anyway? They’d had a good thing going! And now Tom wants to stop and ignore him just because Harry wouldn’t tell him about all the other people who’ve gotten him off in the past in another dimension? Ridiculous. Such a fucking teenage move.

Would serve him right if I went to someone else.

Inspired by the thought, Harry reluctantly looks up from his dinner and sweeps over the Great Hall.

Unfortunately, what he finds are nothing but children. Round faces, baby fat clinging to features that won’t solidify for another couple of years, sparse hair growth if any, with eyes still wide and innocent.

Harry cringes and returns to his dinner, dejection at the lack of dating prospects only adding to his frustration.

He doesn’t quite understand why he finds Tom so attractive when their peers are anything but. Must be his original formative years or perhaps the soulmate bond muddling things again.

Harry frowns, fork halting halfway to his mouth.

The soulmate bond.

Slowly, he lowers the fork, metal clinking inaudibly against the golden plate.

Will he ever want someone else? Can he want someone else? What, exactly, does it entail that he and Tom have accepted the bond?

Against his will, his gaze flickers up and over to the Slytherin table on the far side of the Hall, unerringly locking on the back of Tom’s head.

Is this a ‘forever’ kind of thing?

Are they as good as married already?

The whole world tilts and twists around him, the only fixed point the back of his soulmate’s head.

No, that’s… that can’t be. Accepting his responsibility to curb Tom’s murderous, megalomaniacal tendencies and preventing him from going down Voldemort’s path is a far cry from swearing eternal devotion to him, to forsake all others until Death finally lets them part.

Harry swallows, unable to think through the persistent buzzing in his skull. He clambers to his feet, shakes his head in response to what is likely a question from Ron and Hermione, then leaves the Great Hall on unsteady legs.

He has no idea where he’s going, no true awareness of his surroundings.

He’s only twenty-two. He’s never, not once, seriously entertained the idea of getting married. Sure, perhaps sometime in the far distant future, he could see himself with some faceless partner that supposedly makes giving up on the single life worth it, who’s with Harry for him and not because of who he is to the wizarding world. Someone to come home to at the end of the day, to sit at the kitchen table with and fall asleep next to. Maybe a kid or two, or not – he isn’t too fussed either way.

But not yet. Not already.

And it sure as hell wasn’t ever Tom’s face he pictured the few times he idly mulled it over.

Harry stumbles, catching himself against a wall. He leans against it, blindly tugging at the tie that’s suddenly too tight around his throat, gulping for air.

He can’t do this. It’s too much, too soon. He’s only just gotten around to not minding Tom’s company, he can’t –

He won’t –

“Harry? Are you alright?”

A hand on his arm forces his eyes open – when did he close them? – and Luna’s concerned face swims in his vision.

Harry swallows a couple of times, trying to dislodge the lump in his throat. He nods.

“How about a walk?” Luna suggests, smiling tentatively when he doesn’t say anything else.

Harry nods again and staggers back into movement by her side.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

Harry’s head swivels around, but Luna’s looking calmly straight ahead.

“No,” he manages.

“Alright then.”

They keep walking. Harry works on wrangling his panic back under wraps. He wouldn’t even be in this situation if it weren’t for Tom cutting off his stress-relief and –

He’s not thinking about Tom.

He’s not.

Eventually, awareness of his surroundings starts to trickle back in, just when they step outside of the castle.

Harry gratefully gulps down a lungful of the crisp evening air, eyes fluttering closed. The mid-October chill is a soothing balm in his burning lungs, and his shoulders slowly creep down from their position by his ears.

“Oh,” Luna says in a tone of mild surprise. “Look, there’s smoke coming out of Professor Hagrid’s chimney.”

Still a bit out of it, Harry doesn’t really register their trek down to Hagrid’s hut, only coming back to himself when he’s suddenly lifting a hand to knock on the door.

After a few seconds, it’s slowly pushed ajar, about a third of Hagrid’s face visible through the crack.

Then, the door is flung wide open, and Harry’s dragged over the threshold with an indignant squawk, into Hagrid’s crushing embrace.

“Harry,” he wails, rocking from side to side, keeping Harry’s face mushed in his scraggly beard. “Oh, tae see ye a–alive a–and well – oh!”

The top of Harry’s head soon gets wet from Hagrid’s tears, and he resigns himself to the hug, relaxing his muscles from where they’ve coiled tight, keeping a leash on his magic as well from where it surged in anticipation of a threat.

When Harry is finally set on his feet so that Hagrid can blow his nose with a handkerchief the size of a tablecloth, he winces at the new pain in his ribs, then promptly winces again at the sight of Hagrid’s face, one big eye swollen shut and every inch of skin covered in a kaleidoscope of bruises.

“Merlin, Hagrid, what happened to you?”

Hagrid blows his nose again and waves his other hand dismissively, turning away. “Never mind tha’, Harry. How about some tea?”

Harry sighs.

A few minutes later, he and Luna are seated side by side opposite Hagrid, sipping at their scalding tea from mugs the size of bowls.

“I didn’t know the two of you were friends,” Hagrid says. His genial tone is a bit of an odd contrast to the giant raw steak he’s got pressed against one half of his face.

“To be fair, neither did Luna.”

Fang whines over in the corner, eyes locked on the bloody steak, great globs of drool pooling on the floor underneath him.

“It was a pleasant surprise, though,” Luna assures him.

Hagrid frowns but doesn’t comment on the oddity.

“Where’ve you been, Hagrid?”

“Oh, France and thereabouts,” Hagrid replies evasively, smiling in what is probably meant to be a carefree way that ends up making him look rather unhinged. “For me health. Fresh air and such.”

Harry’s eyes narrow. “Because fresh air is so hard to come by around here.”

Searching his memory when Hagrid merely shrugs, keeping that unhinged smile on his bruised face, it finally dawns on Harry what Hagrid is hiding.

He groans before he can think better of it, rubbing his temples.

Hagrid has been off, presumably with Madame Maxine, on a fool’s errand to recruit giants for the Order of the Phoenix.

Is Grawp in the Forbidden Forest right now?

“What’s the matter, Harry?” Luna’s hand on his arm is gentle, the pressure negligible.

While Harry trusts her, telling her about the Order isn’t up to him, and he understands why Hagrid is lying so blatantly.

“Nothing, just a bit of a headache,” he sighs before changing the subject. “Are you going to get back to teaching, then?”

“First thing in the morning,” Hagrid confirms, switching the steak over to the other side of his face then back again when he realises that he can’t actually see out of the swollen-shut eye.

“Have you heard about Umbridge? She’s inspecting all the teachers – she can get you sacked if she doesn’t like what she sees.”

Some red meat juice tinged with green drips onto the table and Harry is having a hard time keeping what little dinner he’d managed down.

“It’ll be fine,” Hagrid says, unconcerned. “I’ve some great lessons planned, ye’ll see.”

Harry opens his mouth to maybe protest, or further explain about Umbridge, or simply to point out how teachers normally don't show up for lessons beaten black and blue, but Luna speaks before he has a chance to.

“You’re a wonderful professor.” How she manages to sound so sincere should be studied in a lab. Although, knowing Luna, she probably means what she’s saying.

Hagrid beams at her.

Harry lowers his forehead to the table and takes a deep breath – he simply doesn’t have the energy to properly caution Hagrid against Umbridge. His friend will find out soon enough what Umbridge thinks about his teaching methods and lesson plans, and then it’ll be stuffing flobberworms full of salad for the rest of term.

“Did something happen between you and Bob?”

Harry reluctantly lifts his forehead from the desk, squinting at Ron’s overly nonchalant face.

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know, mate, maybe because you’re attached at the hip for weeks and then suddenly, you’re back with us at all hours?”

“Didn’t realise my presence was such a burden.”

“You know that’s not what he means, Harry,” Hermione says, voice pitched low.

He puts his head back on the desk, praying for McGonagall to arrive already and save him from his friends’ prodding into his affairs.

“I’m fine. Bob’s fine. Everything’s peachy.”

Ron snorts. “Liar.”

Harry glowers into the table. But since he is lying, he can’t very well make a fuss.

It’s been a whole goddamn week at this point. Loath as he is to admit it, he’s miserable. Umbridge is breathing down everyone’s necks, issuing decree after decree, one more ridiculous than the next, and his favourite stress-relief still refuses to spend time with him.

The one time Harry had stopped Tom in the corridor in an attempt to talk it out (and maybe duck into a nearby hidden alcove together), Tom had just levelled him with an icy glare, stuck his nose in the air and marched away. Harry had been too stunned at the dismissal to even contemplate chasing after him.

What really messes with his head, though, is the fact he not only misses fooling around with Tom, but that he keeps wanting to… talk to him. Hear his voice, see his smile, laugh at his surprisingly good jokes. Do homework together, discuss their lessons, argue about Quidditch.

It’s appalling.

(And kind of terrifying.)

He doesn’t even like Tom. They’ve been brought together by forces outside their control, and Harry is simply enduring Tom’s presence in his life out of responsibility to the Wizarding world, nothing more.

…because anything else is simply inconceivable.

He just needs a blowjob and a bout of snogging, and he’ll be right as rain again.

He will.

Tom somehow manages to not even look at him during the second FF-meeting.

He does glare daggers at an oblivious Ginny, though.

Harry can’t decide whether he’s amused or irritated. He eventually settles on exasperation, which is further enhanced when Tom ducks out of the Room of Requirement before Harry has a chance to talk to him.

After a round of midnight wanderings underneath the invisibility cloak, Harry steers his tired steps back to the Gryffindor common room.

He ignores the Fat Lady’s admonishment about what time it is after giving the password, and clambers slowly through the portrait hole, yawning so widely his jaws crack and his vision swims.

The common room isn’t empty. Harry stumbles to a halt, blinking owlishly at a familiar bushy head of hair. Hermione is curled up on one of the sofas in front of the fire, tears trailing continuously down her cheeks as she stares unseeing into the flames.

Harry winces, wondering if it’s too late to throw the invisibility cloak back over his head.

Don’t be a coward, he immediately admonishes himself, steeling his spine. His friend is in some kind of distress, and he will not ignore that. No matter how uncomfortable he gets at the sight of tears dripping off her chin.

“Hermione?” he calls out softly, moving closer.

She sniffs, wiping haphazardly at her cheeks.

There’s a crumpled, tearstained letter on the cushion beside her, and he carefully picks it up before sitting down.

“What happened? Are you alright?”

The sheer misery on her face makes his stomach drop and he quickly scans the letter, wondering if perhaps something’s happened to her parents, gaze snagging on the signature at the bottom.

My warmest regards,

RJ Lupin

Harry frowns and looks back up.

Hermione’s bottom lip wobbles, a fresh round of tears springing to her red-rimmed eyes. “It’s not fair.”

Tempted to read the letter in full instead of dragging answers out of her, he sets it aside with utmost reluctance. “What isn’t fair?”

Hermione nibbles at her lip, opening her mouth a couple of times without any sound coming out. Then, from one second to another, it’s like a dam has burst.

“Why am I the only one to get such an old soulmate?” she cries. “Why don’t I get someone to – to hold my hand between classes, or – or snog in a broom cupboard? He’s old enough to be my dad!”

She wipes furiously at her swollen face, but more tears just keep falling and she gives up, collapsing into Harry, winding her arms around him.

“And he doesn’t even want me,” she wails into his neck that’s already soaked with her tears.

Harry winces, carefully disentangling one arm to wrap around her shoulders while she hiccups and cries.

Once she’s calmed down enough that he thinks she’ll hear him, he reluctantly says, “Lupin is a bit of a coward.”

She nods furiously in agreement but doesn’t otherwise interrupt.

“But honestly, it would be way weirder if he did want you in… that way. He’s, what, thirty-five? You’re only sixteen, Mione. I get that it doesn’t feel like it, but him putting the brakes on is a good thing.”

Her annoyed, wet huff tells him exactly what she thinks about that argument.

“It is,” he insists, resting his cheek against the top of her bushy head. “You’ve got the rest of your life to figure stuff out with Lupin.”

“You don’t get it,” she mutters, pulling away from him, eyebrows drawn together in a scowl. “You already have your soulmate. You can’t understand what it means to be rejected by them.”

Harry ignores the pang of hurt caused by remembering Tom’s icy glare.

“Hermione… he hasn’t rejected you. He’s just being cautious.”

She shakes her head, crossing her arms over her chest, gone mute with anger.

Picking the letter back up, Harry quickly goes through it. While it does contain a polite declining of a meeting at Hogsmeade the next weekend, there is also a clear undercurrent of warmth and curiosity, judging by the discussion of some magical theory that makes Harry’s eyes glaze over in disinterest.

“This doesn’t mean he’ll want the bond to be platonic,” he says quietly, folding the letter carefully and setting it on the sofa table. “Who knows what will happen in the future? Date around until then – I’m sure you won’t have any problem finding someone to snog in a broom cupboard if that’s what you want. Just… enjoy your time at school, yeah?”

Hermione’s shoulders slump, head hanging dejectedly.

Harry scratches at his neck, unsure what else he can say that might cheer her up.

“If anything,” he suggests hesitantly, “you dating other people could show him what he’s missing?”

Slowly, Hermione raises her head, a thoughtful expression on her tearstained face. “That’s… true.”

He claps a hand on her shoulder in relief that the conversation seems to be over and gets to his feet. “Atta girl. Come on now, time for bed. It’s late.”

Hermione blows out a heavy breath, rubbing her hands down her face, fingertips grazing the underside of her eyes. “Yeah, I’ll – go up in a minute. Goodnight, Harry.”

He bites back a sigh, and leaves her alone, glancing over his shoulder as he reaches the stairs to the dormitories, but she remains by the fire, its light flickering over her shadowed form.

While he does feel bad for her, he’s glad Lupin is being responsible for once.

Besides, knowing what he does about who Hermione grows up to be, she’ll eat that man alive; Lupin might as well pick out his own collar. Here’s hoping he’s into being walked like a dog.

Something’s gotta give.

The main reason he actually went back to Hogwarts instead of escaping Britain was to keep close to Tom.

Harry doesn’t even understand why Tom is so set on ignoring him. Yes, fine, playing back their conversation in his head, he supposes it’s a reasonable assumption that Tom has inferred Harry slept with quite a few people back in his dimension, regardless of him offering a number or names. And sure, it had been a bit mean to throw Tom’s lack of experience back in his face, but he hadn’t said anything untrue. He is Tom’s first.

(And he’s getting rather good at ignoring the pleased caveman part of his brain, thank you very much.)

Either way, he’s done with this ridiculous teenage melodrama, and more than ready to get back to their regularly scheduled program.

Which is why he’s currently skulking outside the Slytherin common room, hidden under his invisibility cloak. Unfortunately, he’d come up with this idea somewhat late in the day – when the persistent itch under his skin in the shape of Tom’s alluring mouth got too much for him to bear – and the foot traffic isn’t exactly ideal.

He’s just about ready to pack it in and try again tomorrow when Malfoy returns from prefect rounds.

Harry can’t tamp down a grin. While he hasn’t bothered resurrecting their rivalry – to the clear confusion and impotent frustration of Malfoy – he can’t deny that it gives him a thrilling sort of satisfaction to know his entry to the Slytherin common room will be facilitated by none other than that slimy git.

Malfoy drawls the password, and Harry slinks in behind him, steps muffled with a spell he learned during his Auror days.

There are still a few people up, hunched over tables studying or reclining on sofas, but a quick sweep determines Tom isn’t one of them. Harry sticks to Malfoy, ignoring the déjà vu of it all, and follows him as he leads the way to the Slytherin dorms.

To his credit, Malfoy does look over his shoulder a couple of times wearing a confused frown, steps faltering before he shakes his head and keeps walking. If Harry hadn’t been on a mission, he would have probably used the opportunity to mess with him a bit.

Alas.

When they finally enter the fifth years’ dorm, Harry’s gaze unerringly snaps to where Tom reclines on the bed closest to the windows. He paints a lovely picture among emerald and silver, the flickering light from the sconces playing in his ebony hair and painting it auburn at the edges, the dark lake a pitch-black backdrop.

Tom looks up from the book he’d been reading, sees Malfoy, and promptly goes back to his book.

Harry quietly moves closer to Tom’s bed, pulled in like gravity, world narrowing down to the sight of his soulmate’s relaxed, handsome face. He hungrily traces the sharp cheekbones and the plush mouth with his eyes, recalling vividly the feel of them under his fingers and lips.

Soon.

There’s a small frown between Tom’s elegant brows, and he keeps glancing up from his book, gaze travelling the length of the room, never settling for long. The others are all safely ensconced in their fourposters, green velvet drapes drawn, only Tom and Malfoy awake, with Malfoy in the shared bathroom.

Tom shifts on the bed, attempting to read, annoyance becoming clear when he can’t focus. Eventually, he gives up, right around the time Malfoy exits the bathroom and heads to his bed without any conversation occurring between them. Tom gingerly puts the book on his nightstand and draws the drapes, and Harry briefly laments losing sight of him.

He hasn’t really thought the next part through – probably should have done so instead of ogling his soulmate.

Frowning, he contemplates a strategy as the room plummets into darkness after Malfoy douses the sconces with his wand.

He finally settles on a plan, and non-verbally starts casting the spells they’d used during the camping trip from hell, placing them all around Tom’s bed, creating a perfect bubble of privacy.

Pleased, he removes his cloak, swishes the drapes open by the foot of the bed and clambers inside.

Tom immediately shoots upright, and when Harry casts their usual globe of light, he gets the pleasure of seeing Tom go slack jawed and wide-eyed with shock.

Harry grins. “Hello, Tom.”

Tom shushes him, out of habit more than anything, as he seems a bit too thrown by Harry’s sudden appearance in his bed to function properly.

“What the hell are you doing?” Tom hisses, drawing the covers higher up his chest when he remembers he’s angry at Harry.

Harry tilts his head. “Sneaking into your bed, of course. I’d thought that obvious.”

Tom’s handsome face goes through so many expressions it’s difficult to put a name to them all, but Harry believes there’s shock, outrage, interest and – if he’s not mistaken – flattery.

“Don’t worry,” Harry coos, pulse picking up speed at finally being this close to Tom again, “I’ve set up loads of privacy charms. The others can’t hear even if you scream.”

“Reassuring,” Tom snaps, his fierce glare merely serving to widen Harry’s grin.

“We need to talk, and since you refuse to do so anywhere else, I figured I’d take a page out of your book.”

“By sneaking into my dorm!?”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

Tom exhales furiously through his nose, making some indistinct sound of garbled annoyance in his throat, moving to throw his covers off.

He freezes when Harry raises his wand. “Don’t make me stun you.”

Tom slowly lets go of the covers. “Do you hear yourself?”

Harry shrugs. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it. You’ve begged for my attention ever since I woke up in this dimension. Well, congratulations. You have it.” His voice deepens momentarily, turning heated when he pictures what he could do to Tom in the privacy of this fourposter. “All of it.”

Tom exhales heavily, shaking his head, slumping back against the headrest, not bothering to deny Harry’s assertion.

“Fine.”

There’s definitely a flush creeping onto Tom’s cheeks, a clear win if there ever was one.

“Now, let’s have a chat, yeah?”

Chapter Text

Tom’s hand curls in the sheets for a moment before he consciously relaxes his grip. “About?”

“You need to stop ignoring me.” Harry’s tone is so patronizing and demanding it makes Tom bristle, managing to fight through the arousal that’s been clouding his mind ever since he sat up to find Harry in his bed.

“Oh I do, do I?”

“Yes, you’re being ridiculous.”

Tom opens his mouth to protest this completely unfair accusation, but Harry barrels on, “Nothing has ever happened here. I’ve been with no one but you. Whatever happened in that dimension – it doesn’t count.”

“And yet you’ve kept me at arm’s length for months because of what happened in that dimension,” Tom snaps, pulling the sheets tighter around his body, bunching them over his lap to hide his rapidly hardening prick. “Which is it, Harry, does it count or not?”

Harry’s gobsmacked face is its own meagre reward. He sits curled up at the foot of the bed, lips parted under wide green eyes, and the temptation to kick him out wars with the part of Tom who delights in the fact that Harry tracked him down, snuck inside and ambushed him like this.

But he’s spent days, over a week in fact, watching every student in the castle, wondering did you have him, too? and curbing the impulse to kill them all, and so he isn’t feeling particularly magnanimous toward his soulmate right now, no matter the arousal skittering across his skin like electricity.

The fact Harry hasn’t been with anyone else in this dimension is a bit of a balm to his stinging pride, but not enough to absolve him of the insanity Tom’s had to go through.

“Those things are… vastly different,” Harry eventually manages, expression shuttering.

Tom scoffs. “Looking awfully similar to where I’m stand–sitting.”

Harry’s lips twitch and Tom’s cheeks heat without his say-so.

“Look,” Harry says, moving past Tom’s small slip-up without mention, “I can’t change what happened back then. And in case you haven’t noticed, I have tried to move past what you were to me there too. Though you trying to kill me and them just – actually, no that’s not important. What is important is that you and I are… what we are now, and I haven’t been with anyone else. Okay?”

Tom stares incredulously at him. “Is that supposed to be an apology?”

“No, because I haven’t done anything wrong,” Harry shoots back.

“You were with other people!”

“In another dimension!”

“For now, maybe,” Tom snarls, picturing Ginny’s covert glances, and God damn it, there’s that incessant thing he’s had to grapple with all week again. That squeezing, chilling pressure around his heart, bearing down on his chest and colouring his vision red, filling his mind with screeches of make them pay and kill her before she takes him –

“For fuck’s sake,” Harry cries, throwing his hands in the air. “I don’t want anyone else; will you get that through your thick skull!? I want you, you boneheaded, evil piece of shit!”

Every thought in Tom’s head grinds to a halt.

Harry is glaring at him. Despite his less than poetic words of everlasting devotion – the culmination of Tom’s carefully laid and executed plans – he looks about ready to throttle Tom.

But at least he’s finally admitted his desire out loud.

“Well, maybe I don’t want you anymore,” Tom says, but his mouth has gone dry and for the first time since their confrontation after the first FF-meeting, that icy pit in his stomach has thawed completely.

“Tough,” Harry growls and from one blink to the next, he’s in Tom’s face. “Because you have me.”

Tom doesn’t even try to stop Harry as he closes the last few inches and seals their mouths together in a furious clash of teeth and tongues.

Salazar, he’s missed this.

He anchors his hands on the back of Harry’s head, digs his nails into his neck and keeps him close, Harry doing the same to him until neither of them can pull back more than half an inch at a time to draw breath before diving back in.

“Drive me – fucking mad – arsehole,” Harry grunts between kisses, heavy breath warm against Tom’s lips, calloused hands dragging down the sides of his face and his arms, digging into his sides and settling on the top of his hipbones.

The incessant throb of his cock, and the feel of Harry straddling him, makes it difficult to formulate a coherent thought, let alone a verbal reply.

But Tom has always been a bit of an overachiever.

“Prove it,” he pants, levelling his soulmate with a challenging stare.

The verdant green of Harry’s eyes is practically black, just the thinnest ring visible around the blown pupil, and he has no doubt that if he were to dive into them now, Harry’s mind would be filled with thoughts of nothing but him.

“I am.” Harry levers himself upward on his knees and throws the covers off Tom’s lap before sinking down again. Why he thought wearing jeans was a good idea is beyond Tom, though he does rather appreciate the hard bulge at the front of them, straining against the zipper as he rubs against Tom’s equally hard cock, harder with every ground out word, “I’m – fucking – here – aren’t – I?”

Tom goes slightly cross-eyed from the rough friction, head tipping backward on a moan, and Harry’s mouth finds his pulse point, sucking and biting, conducting the rush of it with his lips like a particularly demanding maestro in charge of the melody of Tom’s blood. It’ll bruise; it always does.

Good. Let them all see we belong to each other.

Tom paws ineffectually at Harry’s belt, fingers twitching with every move of Harry’s hips, their heavy breaths overly loud in the closed fourposter. Harry finally detaches himself long enough from Tom’s burning skin to remove his jeans, his underwear and then his shirt, and Tom’s brain short-circuits at the unveiling of so much skin. Their quick sessions in various secret nooks and crannies of the castle haven’t exactly lent themselves to careful exploration, so being confronted with the wide expanse of his soulmate’s skin is an overwhelming treat.

He's so distracted by Harry’s naked body, exquisitely and mouth-wateringly toned from all those hours of Quidditch, that he doesn’t notice Harry tugging his pyjamas off until it goes over his head, momentarily stealing his eyesight.

And now, here they are, eyes locked and breathing in tandem, with Tom’s underwear the only remaining scrap of clothing between them.

Tom knows what he looks like. Knows that he’s handsome, even beautiful, and that a bad angle is something that simply does not exist in any conjunction with Tom Marvolo Riddle.

So he doesn’t quite understand why he suddenly feels… shy. Why his arms twitch upward as if to cover himself from Harry’s heated gaze.

The anger and frustration that led them to this moment has bled away, dropped on the floor with Tom’s nightshirt, leaving in its wake something Tom cannot name, something completely unfamiliar. The soulmate bond continues to sing softly between them, gentle and warm, and all of a sudden it all feels too much. He wants to go back to the clawing and the biting, the urgency that always accompanies their couplings, away from this… this…

Tom needs –

This isn’t –

He needs lessmorelessallofiteverything –

With trembling hands, he removes Harry’s fogged glasses. He sets them aside, then cradles Harry’s face, and when he gently tugs, Harry falls forward again, sealing their lips together.

The softness of the kiss makes it feel almost like that first time, bathed in moonlight at the top of the Astronomy tower, as if their every frantic encounter since never happened, or happened to two completely different people. Tom doesn’t get it; he’d enjoyed those times immensely, so why does it feel like they suddenly don’t matter?

Harry keeps kissing him and carefully maps his skin with his fingertips, the slow drag of them leaving fire in their wake, but not the normal uncontrollable blaze, more like the soft flickering of candlelight.

It isn’t… unpleasant. Merely unfamiliar. Intimate. Saying all the things neither of them can find the words for.

‘Because you have me.’

Tom is starting to believe it.

Harry’s lips trail away, along his jaw, down his neck, over his collarbones. Tom makes some indecipherable sound in response, that grows in frequency when Harry slowly moves backward on the bed, laying himself out on his stomach, briefly sucking on Tom’s nipples, mouthing along his ribs, heading downward.

Harry’s hoarse voice, after neither of them have spoken for the past while, is jarring in the silence.

“Lift.”

Tom silently obeys, lifting his hips, and Harry slides his underwear off. Tom’s cock bobs up against his stomach, flushed and leaking, and Harry looks at it as if he’s never seen anything more appetizing.

Is he really…?

Tom holds his breath, but it promptly whooshes right out of him when Harry lowers his head. He tongues at the slit, swirling, lapping up the precum and swallowing.

Tom’s normally brilliant brain can’t wrap itself around what he’s seeing. He may have entertained fantasies of this moment – of course he has – but it pales in comparison to the reality of seeing Harry’s lips stretching around his cock, and his head beginning to bob up and down in a slow but expert rhythm, engulfing Tom in the wet heat of his vicious, beautiful mouth.

(No wonder Harry fell for him so completely; he’d inadvertently stumbled on the perfect strategy by way of mouth.)

Harry takes him even deeper, the head of Tom’s cock slipping down Harry’s throat proper, and Harry swallows, the muscles fluttering around him –

It’s over far too quickly after that. One moment Tom is gasping Harry’s name, the next he’s emptying himself down Harry’s throat, nearly passing out from the force of his orgasm.

When he comes to, the world no longer spinning quite so wildly, Harry has moved up his body again, capturing his mouth, and Tom tastes himself on Harry’s tongue. It’s weird and not at all what Harry is supposed to taste like, but he finds he sort of likes it anyway, if only for what it represents.

Harry grabs his hand, spits into his palm – which somehow makes Tom’s spent cock valiantly twitch – and then guides it down to his straining erection, wrapping Tom’s fingers around it. Even when Tom starts moving his wrist, thumbing at the slit with every stroke, Harry doesn’t let go. They bring him off together, trying to kiss but mostly just breathing deep into each other’s mouths, trading sounds of pleasure back and forth.

It’s oddly perfect, and Tom’s chest swells with affection, almost leaking out of his eyes.

Harry’s dick pulses in their shared grip, his groan vibrating all the way down Tom’s throat, and some of his cum lands on Tom’s stomach, rapidly cooling against his bare skin.

A few seconds later, there’s a fizzy, tickling sort of feeling, and Tom is clean once more, courtesy of Harry’s magic.

Someone’s been practicing.

With a huge yawn, Harry falls onto his side heavily enough to make the bed rattle, dragging Tom’s boneless body completely horizontal next to him.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, yawning again, nuzzling against Tom’s neck. The soulmate bond thrums gently between them, as comforting as a long-forgotten lullaby no one ever sang, and Tom’s eyes slowly slide shut of their own accord, wrapped in Harry’s arms.

“Turn the light out,” he mumbles, already half-asleep.

Harry sighs, deeply, as if Tom has just asked him to run three laps around the Lake. “Need to go soon.”

Tom huffs, reluctantly cracking one eye open in an effort to stay awake. “Why?”

“Ron’ll notice if I’m not in my bed tomorrow morning.” Every movement of Harry’s lips presses featherlight, unintentional kisses against Tom’s skin that makes him shiver.

“So?” But even as he asks, he knows Harry must leave. He’s already taken a monumental risk sneaking inside the Slytherin common room – if anyone were to find out he spent the night in Tom’s dorm, the consequences would be astronomical. With Umbridge at the helm, Tom doubts even Dumbledore could save Harry from expulsion.

Whatever Harry replies is swallowed by another huge yawn. He groans and rolls his forehead against Tom’s neck, presses a kiss to the warm skin, then sits up, rubbing at his face. With slow movements, limbs heavy with the same lethargy coursing through Tom’s body, Harry fumbles for his clothes and puts them back on, unfortunately concealing his lovely skin from Tom’s view.

Quietly, he watches through hooded eyes as Harry struggles back inside his jeans, listening to the small grumbles of mild annoyance.

Tom bites down on his tongue, hard, so he won’t ask Harry to stay anyway, sod the potential consequences.

Eventually, Harry’s fully dressed, wand in one hand and invisibility cloak in the other.

“See you tomorrow, then?”

Tom swallows. Nods. He’s over ignoring Harry, anyway. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

Harry’s small smirk is nothing compared to the flash of relief in his eyes. He leans down, and they share a long, languid kiss before he slides out of the bed with a whispered, “Good night, Tom.”

He listens for the sound of footsteps or an opening door, but there’s nothing. Probably for the best; would be a shame if Harry were to be discovered when he’s almost home free.

Tom yawns and rolls over on his side, burying his nose in the pillow where Harry’s head was a minute ago, inhaling deeply, too tired to quell the emerging goofy smile.

‘Because you have me.’

He’s asleep in seconds.

Since it’s the middle of October, Tom wearing a scarf the next day isn’t all that strange, even indoors – the castle is frightfully cold. Doesn’t stop Blaise from teasing him about it, though.

“I’m just saying, if you did sneak out last night for a little tête-a-tête with the Gryffindor golden boy, you can tell me all about it. Preferably in great detail.”

Tom merely smiles like a cat that got the canary and carefully makes sure not to come into physical contact with Blaise lest he inadvertently trigger a vision of Harry’s ambush last night. He isn’t sure yet how evolved Blaise’s Sight is, but he’s experienced enough strange moments at this point to practice caution.

Honestly, being close with a budding Diviner is not as fun as he might have thought. But then again, perhaps that’s because he’s got so many things to hide. He even dropped Divination, just to be safe; there’s an annoyingly large portion of the population in this decade who can boast at least a partially cracked open Inner Eye. It means one fewer O.W.L. but he’ll manage.

“Living the dream, Jonsson,” Blaise sighs dramatically, clutching at his chest as they meander down the stairs into the common room. “Least you could do is share some details with the rest of us.”

Tom rolls his eyes, about to retort when his gaze snags on yet another new educational decree.

Frowning, he steps closer to the notice board, and bites back an annoyed groan at what he finds.

Inquisitorial squad? Really?

It’s something of a relief not having to ignore his instincts any longer. Whenever he feels Harry’s gaze upon him, he can freely look back. Whenever he’s gripped with the urge to reach out and touch, he may.

They resume their walks, their chats and their covert meetings in Hogwarts’ various hideaways, and Tom manages to mostly ignore the voice screaming inside his head that Harry’s been with other people.

At least none of those other people know what they’d had and lost, and clearly, Harry doesn’t have eyes for anyone but Tom – he’d snuck into the Slytherin common room just for a chance to talk to Tom, for crying out loud.

They’re soulmates. Even Harry acknowledges that freely now.

‘Because you have me.’

He won. No one else matters. He won.

So why can’t he ignore the insistent voice whenever he sees Ginny that says the game isn’t over yet?

Believe it or not, Tom is not naturally inclined towards violence.

He isn’t.

It’s simply another tool, useful in some instances, and he’s not afraid to utilise it, much like the others at his disposal. Violence falls somewhere in the same realm as his charm, his good looks, or his genius – a way to twist someone around his finger or make them bend to his will.

But he really, really, wants to deck Malfoy in the face right about now.

The little twerp – puffing out his chest with a silver I-badge fastened above the golden P – is lucky Tom hasn’t been around Dudley’s gang for a couple of months, because Bobby certainly wouldn’t have smothered the impulse to punch his teeth in.

“None of your business, Malfoy,” Tom says, voice carefully level.

Malfoy taps the I-badge with a mock sympathetic expression. “I think you’ll find this makes it my business, Jonsson. So, fess up. Where have you been, this close to curfew?”

“Close to curfew is not past curfew.”

The tacked on ‘idiot’ is heavily implied.

Malfoy’s pointy face – seriously, is he actually related to Abraxas? – contorts into indignation at Tom’s reticence, two spots of red appearing on his cheeks, lending him a splotched, sickly appearance.

“Just tell me where you were,” he growls, trying to look intimidating.

“No, thank you,” Tom drawls.

“Were you with Potter?”

Yes. And the rest of the FF. Though they weren’t there for the last part, thankfully.

“Oh, is that what this is about? Got a little crush on my soulmate, do you?”

“What? No,” Malfoy sputters, flush spreading even further across his face. “I don’t want that speckled git!”

“Mhm,” Tom hums sceptically. Honestly, people’s buttons are so easy to push.

“I don’t!”

“Right.”

“Just tell me where you were, Jonsson, or – or –”

“Or what?”

“Or you’ll get detention!”

Tom stares incredulously at him. “Excuse me? I haven’t done anything to warrant detention.”

“Take that up with the High Inquisitor,” Malfoy sneers, having found his footing again now that he’s got something to lord over Tom. His triumphant smirk is as unattractive as it is infuriating. “Detention, Jonsson!”

With that, he turns on his heel and heads further into the common room.

The idiot doesn’t realise Tom never did say anything about his whereabouts.

“Malfoy gave me detention,” Tom mutters to Blaise a minute later, sitting down on one of the sofas over by the largest window.

Blaise looks up in surprise. “For what?”

“Doubt he knows that himself. I wouldn’t tell him where I’ve been, and he lost his mind.”

Tom hasn’t gotten a single detention during all his time at Hogwarts. He can’t say he’s looking forward to whatever Malfoy cooks up with Umbridge for him, but he refuses to consider it a valid detention; it doesn’t count. His record remains spotless.

Blaise grimaces, eyes flickering over to the other end of the common room where Malfoy is holding court with his usual sycophants. Tom idly wonders whether Blaise would have been one of them had he not shown up at Hogwarts offering a better option.

“He’s always been a bit of a twat,” Blaise says, a small frown between his sculpted brows. “But it only seems to be getting worse with every year.”

“I almost feel sorry for whoever ends up with him,” Tom huffs. “But I suspect they’ll be just as bad as he.”

Blaise shrugs. “Possibly. Or they’ll set him straight. Only time will tell.”

Tom sighs. “Yeah. Whatever. A round of chess?”

“He gave you detention?” Harry asks incredulously, eyes wide. “For nothing? That dick!”

Harry’s outrage on his behalf is heartwarming. Makes him feel all nice and fuzzy inside, actually.

“At least it’s only scrubbing cauldrons with Snape,” Tom sighs, heart all aflutter.

Harry winces. “Better you than me, mate.”

“Unless you put ‘soul’ in front of it, please don’t call me that. I have your prick in my mouth far too often for you to call me ‘mate’.”

Harry bursts out laughing, green eyes crinkling at the corners.

That nice, fuzzy feeling grows.

Once a week, since start of term, a letter arrives for Tom at breakfast. It’s always by a different owl, but always from the same sender. Sirius takes his unofficial guardianship of Tom rather seriously – who’d have thought? – and checks in with him as often as with his godson.

This morning, however, the owl arrives disgruntled, feathers in disarray, and the letter it bears has clearly been opened and sloppily resealed.

The contents aren’t important. What’s important is that someone has read his mail.

Tom’s hands shake with impotent rage, and he stalks over to the Gryffindor table before he’s had a chance to think things through. Harry looks up in surprise from his toast, as does Hermione from her porridge. Ronald keeps shovelling food down his gullet, though he does appear mildly present in the moment.

Tom takes a seat and slaps the letter down on the table.

“She’s monitoring our mail now,” he hisses.

“Oh. She only just started with yours?”

Harry’s mild reaction jars Tom right out of his anger. Where’s the outrage? The indignation?

Wait –

“Are you saying yours has been intercepted for longer?”

Harry nods. “About two weeks now. Hedwig lost a couple of feathers over it.”

“It’s appalling,” Hermione says quietly, though her voice is laced with the same impotent rage Tom’s set down for the moment. “She has no right. None! You really should tell Dumbledore about it, Harry, especially if she’s going after your soulmate now too.”

“Dumbledore can’t do shit about it,” Harry says, rolling his eyes.

“He’s the Headmaster –”

“And if he could actually act like it, Umbridge wouldn’t be here in the first place,” Harry interrupts.

“I still think –”

“Please either return to the Slytherin table, or leave the Great Hall, Mr Jonsson.”

They all jerk in surprise at the sudden appearance of McGonagall’s grim visage.

“He’s not doing anything wrong,” Ron, of all people, say defensively to his head of house, having swallowed enough of his breakfast not to spray crumbs all over the table.

“No fraternising between houses allowed at mealtimes,” McGonagall reminds them of the latest ridiculous educational decree.

“I’ll go,” Tom says hastily when Ron seems to be gearing up for a needless defence of Tom’s right to a seat at the Gryffindor table.

McGonagall inclines her head in a curt nod when he stuffs the letter from Sirius in his pocket and stands up.

“See you guys later,” he says over his shoulder.

To his surprise, Harry clambers to his feet and follows him out.

“What’d Sirius say?” he asks quietly once they’ve cleared the Great Hall.

“Oh.” Tom frowns and digs the letter back out, unfolding it. He scans the contents, then shrugs. “Nothing serious or incriminating. Didn’t even sign it, see?”

Harry looks it over then hums. “Good. Look… I’m sorry you’re getting caught in the crossfire here.”

Tom snorts and shakes his head, feeling strangely melty at the consideration. “It’s fine, Harry. I suspect this is due to my refusal to roll over for Malfoy. Honestly, his grandfather Abraxas was a much more agreeable sort.”

Harry shoots him a look Tom can’t decipher. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true. He had the sense to recognise his betters – after some mild convincing.”

“There it is,” Harry sighs, but it sounds rather… fond. “Were you in the same year, then?”

“No, actually. He was a year above, but we had mutual – friends.”

“Friends,” Harry drawls, infusing the word with enough disbelief you’d think Tom had just told him he could fly unaided by a broom.

Tom grins. “You wound me, Harry. I’m a very friendly sort. You’ve seen firsthand how easily I make friends.”

After a beat of silence, Harry reluctantly says, “You do have a knack for nestling your way into people’s good graces, I suppose.”

“Don’t worry, Harry,” he says, though his voice comes out closer to a purr, “you’re the only one worthy of my special attention.”

Harry snorts, rolling his eyes. “Charming. How about some special attention over there, then?”

He jerks his head toward a semi-secret alcove they’ve made use of once or twice before. Arousal immediately pools in Tom’s belly, heating his skin.

“I suppose I could spare some.”

Chapter Text

The two weeks before the first Quidditch match of the season are rather intense. McGonagall even holds off on assigning homework the last week, grimly informing Harry that she’s gotten used to seeing the cup in her study and therefore expects him (and the rest of the team) to make sure it stays there for another year.

Harry grins and salutes in reply.

Ron, however, looks vaguely ill.

“Maybe I should quit,” he says, once McGonagall has ended the lesson and they’ve left the classroom, so pale that his freckles stand out starkly. “Let someone else be Keeper.”

“Hey, no one’s gonna do a better job than you,” Harry assures him, and not solely because there were literally no other viable people trying out for the position. Ron is a good Keeper. Great, even, when he forgets about his nervousness. “Slytherin don’t stand a chance.”

Ron makes an indistinct sound that makes it seem he’s barely managing not to vomit.

Unfortunately, his distress isn’t exactly helped by the relentless campaign from the Slytherins, doing their best to shake his confidence with taunts and jeers. Harry couldn’t care less about the childish comments – hadn’t cared the first time around either – but Ron isn’t used to the heckling, especially not when it’s directly referencing his ability to stay on a broom, or to catch the Quaffle, or questions about whether he’s booked a bed in the hospital wing yet.

“Ignore them.” Harry gently jostles Ron’s shoulder. “They’ve got no idea what they’re talking about.”

“Yeah,” Ron replies, voice faint, but some colour is starting to creep back into his cheeks at Harry’s steadfast confidence in his abilities. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Harry had not counted on ‘Weasley is our king’.

The chant, the large placards – all of it designed specifically to unsettle Ron.

And it does the job.

Ron misses goal after goal, becoming increasingly flustered with every shot he lets in, and then lets in a couple more. It’s a vicious cycle, and while Angelina, Alicia and Katie do an admirable job of wrestling the Quaffle from the Slytherin team to score goals of their own, the Slytherins become practically frenzied, sharks scenting blood in the water.

At this rate, there’s no way Gryffindor will win.

Better start looking for the Snitch in earnest, then.

“What do you think, Potter?” Malfoy calls out, circling below Harry. “Like my chant?”

“You’re a right poet,” Harry calls back, zooming closer in a feint to unseat Malfoy from his broom, enjoying the startled look on Malfoy’s face when he zips past.

“I should thank you, really, for letting Weasley on the team.” Malfoy closes the distance again, more focused on taunting Harry than looking for the Snitch. “Did us a solid, there!”

Harry ignores him, gaze flickering over the pitch.

It snags on a quick gleam of gold; the Snitch has caught the sunlight at an angle, giving away its position.

He’s off before Malfoy has even realised what’s happening. Malfoy catches on quick – he isn’t a terrible Seeker – but he doesn’t stand a chance; his Nimbus 2001 is no match for the Firebolt.

Harry dodges a Bludger sent by Goyle, swerves around Katie heading toward the Slytherin goal posts, stretches out his arm, just… a bit… further…

‘WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN

HE ALWAYS LETS THE QUAFFLE IN

WEASLEY WILL MAKE SURE WE WIN’

Harry’s fingers close around the struggling ball, and he jams his arm into the air.

“HARRY POTTER HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH! GRYFFINDOR WINS!”

The stands erupt in cheers for Gryffindor’s victory –

Something prickles at the back of his neck.

At the last second, Harry banks a hard left, and watches a bludger soar past where he’d been a moment ago. He turns a furious glare at Crabbe, and he isn’t the only one. Boos and jeers at the unsportsmanlike behaviour ring out across the stadium, blending with the shrill sound of Madam Hooch’s whistle.

The team lands, one by one, but Ron dismounts over by the goalposts, turning toward the changing rooms alone.

Harry flies over without a second thought and dismounts next to him. “Hey, c’mon, let’s go celebrate with the team!”

Ron barely looks at him. “You go ahead.”

“Don’t let them get to you. They’re arseholes, yeah?”

Out the corner of his eye, he can tell something is happening at the centre of the pitch, a blend of Gryffindor red and Slytherin green, but he doesn’t really care in the face of Ron’s dejection.

“They’re right, though. I let in every single shot,” Ron says, voice hollow. “No one’s ever been a worse Keeper in the history of Hogwarts.”

“Oi!” Harry’s hands are occupied by his broom and the Snitch, so all he can do is jostle Ron’s side with his own shoulder. “Even great Keepers have off days, and those twats were focusing solely on psyching you out. Do you know what happened Wood’s first game?”

Ron shakes his head, but he’s stopped walking at least.

“He was hit by a bludger to the head in the first five minutes, fell off his broom and woke up in the hospital wing a week later.”

Ron frowns, finally turning fully to face Harry. He opens his mouth, but promptly closes it again, looking over Harry’s shoulder.

“What?” Harry turns around and then curses loudly to himself.

Fred and George are pummelling Malfoy into the ground. The girls are screaming, and the rest of the Slytherin team flock toward the huddle, but it’s Madam Hooch who uses a spell to knock the twins off of Malfoy while yelling at them.

It takes every bit of Harry’s willpower to let go of the Snitch and grab onto Ron’s arm when his friend starts moving toward the brawl. “Don’t get involved.”

“I – but – Malfoy…” Ron trails off, looking more than a bit confused, but clearly prepared to join his brothers in whatever’s just gone down with the ferrety git. It’s only the thought of another round of detentions for Ron with Umbridge that makes Harry hold back from rushing over there himself.

“C’mon, mate, let’s just – let’s head to the showers, yeah?”

“But – something’s happened –”

“And they’re gonna be in a world of trouble as is, without us adding to it,” Harry interrupts, pulling lightly at Ron’s sleeve. “Changing rooms, come on.”

With utmost reluctance, Ron goes with him.

It certainly puts a damper on the victory celebration in the common room when Fred and George reveal they’ve been ‘banned for life’ from Quidditch by a gleeful Umbridge.

Katie and Alicia are crestfallen at the news they’ve just lost both their Beaters in one go. Angelina looks seconds away from tearing her hair out.

But at least it serves an adequate distraction for and from Ron – who’d done his level best to simply stay in the showers all afternoon, wishing to drown in a suitably melodramatic fashion – and Harry will take anything that manages to get that miserable look off Ron’s face.

He pushes a celebratory butterbeer into Ron’s hand, but it soon becomes clear there’s nothing Harry can really do to lift Ron’s spirits above grim neutrality, so after they’ve silently finished their respective butterbeers, Ron disappears up the stairs to the dorm.

There’s still an insistent buzz under Harry’s skin, though, and he’s in the mood to actually celebrate the achievement he pulled off today, securing Gryffindor’s win.

“Oi, Harry, your soulmate’s looking for you.”

Harry’s stomach flips over on itself at Tom’s excellent sense of timing, and he grins at Seamus who’d just come in through the portrait hole after securing more butterbeers for the subdued party. “Cheers.”

Since the team is in various stages of frustration despite their victory, Harry has no qualms about abandoning them in favour of fooling around with Tom for a bit.

He leaves the common room and does indeed find Tom waiting for him on the other side, leaning casually against the wall, slowly rolling the yew wand between his palms. He looks up when Harry gets closer and tucks the wand away with a smile.

As the corridor is empty, Harry gives him a quick kiss in greeting. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Well, the atmosphere was a bit hostile down in the dungeons. Figured I’d be better off congratulating you on the win instead,” Tom says, looking awfully pleased with himself. “Wanna steal away for a bit?”

Harry hums and pretends to think about it, cocking his head. “What’s in it for me?”

Tom rolls his eyes, then opens his robes slightly. It isn’t a come-on, however; there’s a silver flask peeking out of his pocket.

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up to his forehead, and his mouth immediately waters. “Is that –”

“Your drink of choice? Yes.”

Harry lets out a slow, impressed whistle, and Tom looks even more smug. He’s handsome enough that it’s actually rather endearing.

“The Room?” Harry suggests and Tom nods.

“Grimmauld?” Tom asks, looking around the sitting room with a confused frown.

“Mm. The way it looked where I came from.” Harry drops onto the dark brown leather couch he’d found at a muggle furniture store, spreading his arms over the backrest.

He can’t say exactly what possessed him to ask the Room for this, but it feels… right.

It’s odd seeing Tom in this context, though; a look of hunger flashing across his features as he takes in the room Harry decorated in another reality for a few seconds before joining Harry on the sofa, so close they’re pressed up against each other.

Harry finds he doesn’t mind the invasion of his personal space. Not in the least.

“I suppose the star of the show should get first sip,” Tom declares magnanimously, extending the flask.

Harry grins and unscrews the cap, taking a sniff of the cheap firewhiskey. “No argument from me.”

Tipping the flask back, he takes a deep pull, closing his eyes in satisfaction as the liquid trickles down his throat, warming him all the way until it pools in his belly. He hasn’t had a drink since the summer. While it’s undeniably enjoyable, he does find it a bit strange he’s managed without it for so long. Yes, his sleeping schedule has been… not great, and he has gotten admirable distraction from Tom, but…

It still feels like he should have missed it. More than he has, that is. It was only really a struggle the first week back, wasn’t it?

Then again, why look a gift horse in the mouth?

He takes another swallow and passes the flask over to Tom.

Tom takes a tiny sip, and immediately starts coughing, smoke billowing out of his mouth.

Harry laughs so hard he bends over at the waist.

“How – how could you e-enjoy this?” Tom sputters, staring indignantly into the flask as if expecting an apology from the firewhiskey.

“You get used to it,” Harry chuckles once his fit of laughter has calmed down.

Tom’s nose wrinkles. “Doubtful.”

Despite his words, he dares another tiny sip, shuddering afterwards.

“Disgusting,” he mutters, passing the flask over to Harry. “You keep it.”

“If you insist.” Harry grins, head already spinning a little.

“So,” Tom begins after Harry’s had another swallow, looking around. “Is this the second floor sitting room?”

Harry hums, tipping the flask back further. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“…why what?”

“Why pick this room?”

Harry shrugs, shifting in his seat, taking another sip. He should probably slow down, but he isn’t sure the entire contents of the flask will be enough to get him more than lightly buzzed unless he speeds the process up. “Dunno. Just… wanted to see it, I guess.”

“Feeling homesick?”

“No. Just… ugh, shut up.”

“How eloquent.”

Harry snorts but doesn’t protest, and a few moments pass in silence before Tom turns to him, fully, with a far too casual expression to be genuine, raising Harry’s hackles.

“How did you die, Harry?”

Harry lets out an incredulous sound, a little too loud in his shock. “What?”

Tom lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, tilting his head to the side. “You never told me exactly what happened. I’m curious.”

Harry grimaces, looking away from Tom’s eager eyes. “I thought this was meant to be a celebration.”

“Well, yeah but…” Tom inhales deeply. “Please?”

“Fuck’s sake,” Harry mutters, taking another deep swallow, dismayed to find the flask nearly empty already.

He almost accuses Tom of spiking the whiskey with Veritaserum. Because why else is he seriously considering telling Tom about his final death in another dimension?

He toys with the idea of simply refusing. Tom has no right to those memories, not really – his uncharacteristic ‘please’ notwithstanding. And it’s not like Harry’s been wanting to talk about it or anything; why would he? He fucked up, ignored his instincts, and paid the price without caring much about it one way or the other. Doesn’t exactly require extensive dissection.

He’s over it.

He is.

But… since he is over it…

“Not much to tell,” he sighs eventually once the silence has stretched into uncomfortable territory. “I was pursuing a suspect. Didn’t wait for backup the way I should have. Fucker got me with a Bombarda Maxima or something. All I remember is that I looked up and then the whole goddamn building collapsed on top of me. Next thing I know I wake up in – purgatory or whatever, and Death decides to chuck me over here.”

As Tom digests the information, Harry finishes off the flask, disappointedly screwing it back shut.

“Why didn’t you wait for backup?”

Harry sighs again, heavier this time. Sure would have been nice to be able to blame Veritaserum for loosening his tongue.

“Look… I wasn’t… doing too hot. Over there. Back then. I don’t know.” He runs an agitated hand through his hair, surprised to find it trembling when it drops back into his lap. Must be the alcohol. “I took some stupid risks. Usually, it worked out. This time… it didn’t. Obviously. It’s not like I wanted to… die, or whatever. I just… didn’t particularly care one way or the other what happened to me.”

Tom’s face is carefully neutral, but his eyes gleam with some emotion Harry can’t decipher.

“…why not?”

Harry lets out a sound that might have been a laugh if one was feeling generous. “That’s the thousand-pound question, isn’t it? Shitty job, too much fame, coming back wrong from my first death – take your pick.”

The void where a piece of Voldemort once resided that never fully healed no matter what I did. That thing that causes your touch to bring me higher than any drug. The hollowness I barely feel these days, all because of you.

Out the corner of his eye, he sees Tom’s mouth fall open in shock. “Your first death? You’ve died more than once? Seriously?”

Harry groans and lets his spinning head fall back onto the backrest, staring miserably up at the ceiling. “This celebration sucks, FYI. And yeah, I died during the war, briefly.” He sends Tom a scowl. “Voldemort killed me.”

“You – how – I don’t…” Tom trails off, struck dumb.

Suspecting what is throwing him, Harry elaborates, “I came back because I’m the Master of Death.” He rolls his eyes at the empty title. “Duelled Voldemort. Won the war.”

Tom clears his throat a couple of times, still looking rather dazed. “You… killed him?”

A memory surfaces, of Voldemort’s corpse being levitated into a side room off the Great Hall, just as ordinary in death as the rest of them.

Harry tilts his head in a so-so motion. “He killed himself, really. His AK rebounded.”

“But that’s… impossible?”

Harry can’t help a small, grim smile at the clear question mark at the end of Tom’s statement. “You’d think, huh? I’ve no explanation for you. Seriously. Weird shit just tends to happen to and around me. My presence here? Exhibit A.”

“…fair point.” Tom inhales deeply, then hesitantly continues, “You said – purgatory?”

An involuntary shudder courses through Harry’s limbs at the reminder of that terrible place. At the memory of the endless sea of white and that horrifying absence of noise, the way the silence seemed to slam against his eardrums after he’d dared disturb it.

“The less said about that place the better.”

“But –”

“I don’t want to talk about it, alright? I don’t want to even think about it.”

“Was it truly that bad?”

“Yes,” Harry snaps, crossing his arms over his chest, skin crawling. “It was, okay? So fucking drop it.”

“I – of course. Sorry,” Tom mumbles.

Harry nods curtly in acknowledgement of the apology.

“I just… I want to know everything about you, Harry,” Tom continues, voice gone soft and sweet.

Harry sighs, briefly closing his eyes, letting his arms drop from their defensive position across his chest and doing his best to push the memories of the white void away. They feature enough in his nightmares without devoting waking time to it as well.

Tom’s gentle hand on his is grounding, the soulmate bond sparkling between them, and Harry’s discomfort finally bleeds away completely, letting him relax into the cushions.

“Tell me something else,” Tom entreats after another few seconds, thumb rubbing along the back of Harry’s hand. “Something nice. Or something you miss?”

“Merlin, you’re greedy tonight,” Harry mutters, but the words are without any real heat. While the soulmate bond isn’t quite as overwhelming these days as it had been when he first arrived, it is still distracting in its gentle euphoria, and he finds it hard to summon even a thread of anger.

In for a knut, in for a galleon.

“Well… I miss my Ron and Hermione,” he sighs, staring blankly straight ahead, absently squeezing Tom’s hand. “The two here are still my best friends, but… I don’t know. I just miss them. We’ve been through so much together, it’s – hard, sometimes, that these two don’t know about it.” He clears his throat. “And I miss not being a goddamn teenager.”

Tom lets out a small chuckle at that, and Harry’s lips twitch upward despite himself.

“Seriously, I’ve still got another serious growth spurt coming, I’m normally taller than this.”

“Is that so?” Tom murmurs, looking intrigued as he leans a little closer.

“Yeah. Oh, and – ugh, it’s weird, but,” he shakes his head, smile widening, “I miss my beard.”

Tom sucks in a deep breath, and when Harry glances at him, Tom’s pupils have noticeably dilated.

Like that, do you?

“I can imagine you with a beard,” Tom breathes, face closing the distance, his warm breath coasting over Harry’s – regretfully – bare cheek.

“Yeah?” Harry murmurs back, the thread of amusement unspooling into a low thrum of arousal.

“Yeah.”

Tom’s lips are warm, and he tastes faintly of fire and smoke from the whiskey, but also something sweet that Harry immediately wants more of. He chases the sweetness with his tongue, unlacing their fingers to tangle them in Tom’s curls.

For some reason, there’s no urgency to their kissing, no race to the finish line. Harry feels perfectly happy to just sit there, exploring Tom’s mouth, intermittently tracing the sharp edges of his handsome face with his lips. He can’t remember the last time kissing wasn’t just a means to an end, except…

Except with Tom. Where the slow tangle of tongues and gentle nips is somehow its own reward, its own event.

Harry’s head spins from the alcohol and the taste of Tom, with the soulmate bond glimmering inside, and feels… content.

Of course, Tom then has to go and ruin it.

Lips swollen and glistening, dark eyes hooded, Tom draws back incrementally to whisper, “Harry… will you give me my diary?”

It takes Harry’s brain a moment to wrap itself around the words and make sense of them, but when he does, he leans back, incredulous at the dogged audacity.

“What?”

Tom raises his hand and trails a fingertip down Harry’s jaw, lips twisted in what he might think is something bashful, that Harry only sees as a smirk. “You’ve had it for some time now… I’d like it back.”

“What – no.”

Tom’s eyes flash. “It’s mine.”

“What the fuck is your problem?” Harry demands, annoyed to hear himself sound more baffled than anything.

“I just want what’s rightfully mine.”

“Oh for…” Harry bats Tom’s hand away from his face. “I already told you – there’s nothing left of you in it. Okay? Not the horcrux, not anything you might have written in it. Nothing. The only way it might be yours is the fact that you bought it originally, but I swear that that’s it.”

Tom frowns, head tilted at an angle.

“Seriously,” Harry groans. “I’m not bloody lying to you, Tom. Other Harry used it as his diary, after the horcrux was destroyed. I get that you might be curious, but it was his, and therefore it is mine. Will you please, for the love of magic, just drop it already?”

Tom slumps back a bit with a thoughtful expression, his torso angled away from Harry, though their thighs remain in contact.

Harry is tempted to get up and leave but… there’s still a chance Tom will see reason and they can get back to kissing. Maybe even more than kissing if Tom doesn’t have another hissy fit.

He’ll give it another five minutes but that’s it –

“I believe you,” Tom says, quietly.

“Well good,” Harry huffs. “Because I’m telling the truth.”

Tom nods.

“So, you’ll drop it?”

Tom sighs, a sound of utmost reluctance. “Yes. I’d still like to read it at some point but… if it truly doesn’t contain anything of me anymore then…” He trails off on a shrug.

It’s almost eerie, the way he truly does seem to capitulate fully, waving the white flag over their drawn-out battle for the diary. Not that Harry had realised they were still fighting – he hasn’t even opened the diary in well over a month – but he should have known Tom hadn’t managed to let it go.

Before now, that is.

“I – I’m not saying no,” Harry begins, for some reason he can’t put into words, “and I’m not saying never, but… I don’t know, it’s – personal?”

“I understand.”

Harry believes him. How novel.

“So… can we get back to the snogging now?”

Tom’s eyes grow heated, lips quirking upward into a smile.

It tastes like a ceasefire.

Chapter Text

It’s the end of November when Tom gets caught in the girls’ bathroom on the second floor.

Luckily, the catcher is Harry, so it isn’t too bad, but this hardly makes him look good; sneaking around the castle when most everyone else is at dinner, checking every stall and light fixture and sink, all in the hopes of stumbling upon something that might prove his hunch correct.

Tom blinks, conspicuously too much like a deer in headlights, and forces a smile that he suspects is more of a grimace. “Harry! You – what are you doing here?”

Harry tucks some parchment into his pocket and closes the door behind him, lock snicking shut in an impressive display of non-verbal, wandless magic. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Tom straightens up from where he’d been bent over a suspiciously broken sink, nervously smoothing down his robes. “The… boys’ bathroom was… out of order?” He pauses, then adds triumphantly, “Peeves!”

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, raising one eyebrow, and Tom idly wonders if this is what being questioned by Aurors would be like. He’s normally quite the accomplished liar, able to think up stories on the spot, weave his web of misdirection effortlessly and talk circles around whoever happens to have stumbled too close to the truth, but… he hasn’t been caught red-handed like this in ages, and finds he’s annoyingly rusty.

“Wanna try that again?” Harry asks in a tone of faux politeness.

Tom’s shoulders slump in defeat. “…no.”

Harry’s lips twitch, and a smile blooms on his face, bright green eyes gleaming with fondness.

Tom sighs, cheeks heating with embarrassment. “How’d you know I was here?”

“Magic,” Harry deadpans, then saunters closer. He bends down slightly, squinting at the faucet, and makes a low hum in his throat. “Finally found it, then?”

Tom’s heart begins racing at the tacit confirmation he’s close to everything he’s been working toward since he found out about his heritage. The excitement carries a tinge of annoyance with it, though. “How do you even know what I’m looking for?”

Harry rolls his eyes, straightening back up. “I know you, genius. You’ve been in far too many bathrooms at odd times over the past month to not be looking for the entrance.”

Tom scowls at his soulmate, petulantly crossing his arms then immediately letting them drop again. “You’ve been spying on me?”

“Yes.”

Harry’s grin is utterly unrepentant. Any annoyance Tom felt melts away, and he’s afraid his answering smile might be a tad on the stupid side. Honestly, only Harry –

“Who’s there?” comes a shrill voice from a stall he definitely checked earlier. The discrepancy makes sense a moment later when the ghost of a teenage girl comes floating toward them, and Tom’s eyes widen in recognition.

He’s heard of the ghost Moaning Myrtle, of course, but he hadn’t realised he was currently occupying the bathroom she haunts.

He also hadn’t realised that Moaning Myrtle is (was?) Myrtle Warren, a girl from his time that, last he checked, had been very much alive. Ravenclaw, if he isn’t mistaken, often the target of ridicule by Hornby’s little clique.

Oh, right, and a mudblood.

Thankfully, she spares him no more than a cursory glare before her eyes alight on Harry, and if ghosts could blush, he’s sure that’s what she’d be doing right now.

“Oh! It’s you, Harry,” she giggles, which grates heavily on Tom’s nerves, and Tom scowls at the obvious pleasure in her annoying voice. If she hadn’t already been a ghost, he would have been tempted to kill her for her obvious infatuation with his soulmate.

“Hi, Myrtle.” Harry sounds both gentle and exasperated at the same time. “How’ve you been?”

“Dead,” Myrtle replies with another giggle, drifting closer.

Good, Tom thinks viciously. I hope your death was violent.

“You haven’t visited in so long,” she pouts, floating into Harry’s personal space. “It’s not like I get a ton of visitors, you know.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Myrtle. I’ve been a bit busy.”

Judging by another one of her giggles and the way she twirls one pigtail around her finger, Myrtle doesn’t pick up on the insincerity of Harry’s placating tone the way Tom does.

“And, actually, we’re a bit busy right now too,” Harry continues. “Any chance you could give us a few minutes alone?”

The switch in Myrtle’s disposition is instantaneous. She puffs out her chest, eyes welling with spectral tears, voice climbing a full, shrill octave that could cut glass. “Oh, sure, let me just leave two boys alone in my bathroom! Not like Myrtle has a claim to the place where she died, of course not!”

Harry merely stands there with an apologetic expression.

Myrtle wails something incoherent and flies off, diving into one of the toilets with a forceful enough splash Tom can see the water arcing over the stalls.

“Quickly!” Harry tugs on Tom’s arm, pointing at the sink he’d been inspecting when Harry first came in. “Just hiss ‘open’ at it in Parseltongue, before she comes back!”

Of course he bloody knows about the Parseltongue.

Tom huffs, then hisses at the sink as bid, unwilling to stick around to see if Myrtle returns. It promptly slides back and down, revealing a deep, dark tunnel. His stomach flips, chest feeling a bit tight with the surge of joy his discovery brings.

This has to be it – he found it! The Chamber of Secrets! His birthright, his heritage, his –

“Excellent.” Harry puts his hand on Tom’s lower back. “After you!”

Tom’s scream echoes all the way down.

“Oh, will you stop sulking? You’re fine.”

“You pushed me!”

“It’s a slide! And I cast a cushioning charm on you first, what’s the big deal?”

Tom shoots his soulmate a murderous look and stomps ahead, small bones crunching underneath his shoes, the ominous sound bouncing off the dripping, slimy walls.

He’s forced to stop, though, when he reaches a large cave-in, blocking the path forward.

“What the –”

“Oh, right,” Harry says from right behind him, and Tom can hear him scratch at his temple. “Forgot about this.”

“What happened?”

“Lockhart tried to Obliviate us with Ron’s wand, except the wand was broken, and so it just sort of… exploded? Made the roof fall in and stuff. Looks like we should be able to squeeze through, though.”

Tom stares incredulously at the narrow opening in the rockfall. He can’t exactly say he’s tempted to force his way through it. His robes are already filthy from the slide down into the sewers; he’d hate for them to end up torn as well.

“I’ll make it a bit bigger, go on, move.”

Harry places his palm on Tom’s hip and gently encourages him to shift to the side, and Tom’s anger at Harry’s earlier shove starts to dissipate. He’s far too excited about the fact they’re this close to the Chamber of Secrets to hold onto his – no matter how righteous – indignation.

With a few muttered spells, the hole widens, and the cave-in stabilises after an initial rumble. Harry nods, gesturing toward the opening. “After you.”

Tom grits his teeth at the repetition of what he’d heard moments before being pushed down a dark hole, and glares at Harry’s amused expression – because of course the imp did it on purpose – then carefully moves to the other side of the rockfall.

Harry follows him easily, then flicks his wand at Tom which leaves his robes sparkling clean once more. Tom rolls his eyes at the gesture but when they resume their walk, they do so side by side.

Another minute or so later, Tom lets out a breath of awe at the sight of a huge, dried-out snakeskin, that he suspects would be almost of a height with him if it hadn’t been desiccated and discarded. He crouches, bringing his wand closer to see better, and runs a fingertip along the dark, dry scales.

“A basilisk,” he says without meaning to, the sense of wonder he feels evident in his low voice.

Harry clears his throat. Tom reluctantly drags his gaze away and lets it rest on his soulmate.

“What?”

“It’s… you know it’s – dead. Right? The basilisk?”

He’d suspected it, of course. With Harry having been down the Chamber before, and the mention he’d made months ago about Tom’s horcrux setting the basilisk on him, he’d known it was a distinct possibility the snake had perished in the confrontation. Still, the disappointment at having it confirmed stings.

Eyes downcast, he nods. “I figured. What… what happened, exactly?”

“I, er… killed it. With the sword of Godric Gryffindor.” Harry’s shoe scuffs against the floor.

Tom stands up, shaking his head, lips pulling into a small smile despite himself. “Of course you did.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Harry says as they resume walking deeper into the tunnels, “it bit me.”

Tom nearly stumbles in his shock. “Why would that make me feel better? Also, how on earth are you alive if you were bitten by a basilisk?”

Harry shrugs. “Phoenix tears have pretty amazing healing properties.” He rolls up his sleeve to show a jagged scar on his forearm.

“…please tell me the full story, from the beginning.”

Harry chuckles and obliges.

“Wait, I killed Myrtle?”

Good. Shame I didn’t know.

“Yeah, don’t you remember? Oh. Wait. No, that’s…” Harry frowns in confusion. “Hang on, the timeline… I’m fairly certain you killed Myrtle before your relatives…”

Tom’s eyes drift to the side and he shrugs as the memory of last summer unfolds.

How he’d managed to hitch a ride with a military convoy almost all the way to Little Hangleton, nervously wondering if the soldiers, barely older than him, could tell what he’d been grimly preparing for. How he’d confronted his maternal uncle, hoping against hope he’d be a decent sort. (He wasn’t.) How he’d disarmed Morfin and dejectedly continued on his way, up to the grand house on the hill where he’d come face to face with the muggles who’d looked at him with nothing but fear and disgust, like he was beneath them, when it was the other way around. How he’d lost control and killed those muggles who’d given him up without a second thought and then framed his imbecilic uncle for the crime, getting rid of all his relatives in one fell swoop.

It hadn’t been what he’d planned or hoped for, but what’s done is done. Erasing their stain on the world was practically an act of charity.

He waves the memories away, focusing back on Harry as he continues speaking, moving past the discrepancy of what he believes should be the correct order of things.

Harry describes his frantic cat-and-mouse chase with the basilisk, and the diary’s taunts, and how he’d eventually slayed the beast. How it had bitten him in the process, and how a twelve-year old Harry had resigned himself to dying alone in the sewers below Hogwarts, only to be saved at the last moment by Dumbledore’s phoenix.

“So, yeah, Lockhart’s in S:t Mungo’s, presumably here as well, and I’m fine. Hey, this wall needs some more hissing, when you’re ready.”

As Tom isn’t quite ready yet, actually, after Harry’s finished telling him the story of his second year, he indulges the impulse to wrap his arms around Harry, clutching tightly at the fabric of his robes. The curve between Harry’s neck and his shoulder is perfectly sculpted for Tom’s face, made just for him, soft and curved and ideal for hiding away for a while, to inhale and breathe in his very much alive soulmate while cradled by his skin.

Harry awkwardly pats him on the back. Tom holds on, trembling slightly.

“I’m fine,” he repeats quietly into Tom’s hair.

Tom nods, mute.

The awkward pats eventually become the welcome weight of Harry’s arms, and they merely stand there for a few minutes, hugging in front of the two intricately carved snakes on the wall. When Tom finally draws back, Harry’s gleaming eyes have gone soft, and they share a quiet kiss before letting their arms fall in synchrony.

After a deep, steadying breath, Tom hisses ‘open’ at the wall.

They walk into the dimly lit Chamber of Secrets hand in hand.

“This is actually pretty cool.” Harry’s voice echoes faintly between the pillars towering over them. “I didn’t get much chance to explore last time.”

Tom hums in agreement, tracing the carved snakes with his fingertips, hungrily devouring every detail he can, committing them to memory. As they slowly drift around the waterlogged Chamber, exploring every nook and cranny, he ignores the giant corpse of the basilisk over by the imposing Slytherin statue. On the one hand, he remains disappointed he didn’t get the chance to see it in its full glory, but on the other, he’s glad that the damn thing that tried to kill his soulmate is dead.

(He carefully doesn’t think about the reason the basilisk went after Harry in the first place.)

Yes, technically this basilisk attacked a different version of his soulmate (which wasn’t even his soulmate to begin with), but the lines between dimensions have begun to… blur. Harry still carries the scar, after all, and from what he said, the other version of Harry went through the exact same experience.

“Probably shouldn’t stick around for much longer, though,” Harry muses, gaze drifting over to the basilisk the way Tom’s resolutely doesn’t. “Curfew’s coming up.”

“Yeah, I suppose –”

“I COME BEARING EXPOSITION!”

The words crash against his eardrums. Tom bends over at the waist, slamming his hands over his ears, a scream escaping before he can stop it.

The room rumbles, the ground trembling violently as if an earthquake has struck. Darkness descends, edging out and swallowing the green tinge to the already dim light.

“That’s ENOUGH!”

Harry’s sharp voice somehow, miraculously, makes the room stop shaking and the darkness lift.

Hesitantly, Tom straightens up to find Harry in front of him, shielding him from Death where it leans-but-doesn’t against one of the large columns.

“You’re no fun, Master,” Death pouts, inspecting its non-existent nails. “Can’t a girl make a dramatic entrance without a scolding?”

“What do you want?” Harry’s voice remains sharp, not distracted by Death’s nonsensical words the way Tom would have been in his position. Only his tight shoulders and the way he’s slipped into a defensive stance gives away his discomfiture, and Tom is glad that Harry stands between him and the terrifying eldritch entity of Death; Harry’s instinctive protectiveness strangely enough makes Tom’s fear lessen.

Death, from one moment to the next, appears right in front of them. It waves a hand-that-isn’t-a-hand in a circle in their direction. “This? Oh, I approve. Well done, Master! Knew you’d be able to find some sweet emotion if you dug deep enough.”

Harry’s back goes, somehow, even more rigid. He doesn’t dispute Death’s claim, though, and Tom’s chest flutters. Rather inappropriately considering their circumstances, but still.

“As for what I want…” Death spreads its arms-not-arms. “I figured it’s time for a little trip down memory lane. Doesn’t seem quite right neither of you actually know what went on right before all of,” it makes another vague gesture in their direction, “this happened.”

“What are you –”

The room spins and twists around its own axis and then begins to rearrange itself in a blur of movement.

Tom squeezes his eyes shut, hand shooting out to grab at Harry’s for both emotional and physical support, and when he eventually summons enough courage to peek, he only does so because Harry gasps.

They are no longer in the Chamber of Secrets.

Instead, they have appeared in the graveyard where they first met.

Tom blanches, tightening his hold on Harry’s hand, stepping closer so that he’s pressed against Harry’s back.

No, this – no – he’s only just started trusting me – I don’t want to –

Harry squeezes his hand, reassuring even as he glares at Death where it hovers before them, an eerily perfect square. It immediately changes shapes into a wonky star, something simple like a child might draw.

“I am here, so a square wasn’t really appropriate,” Death explains in response to the unasked question. “Anyway, have fun!”

Death disappears.

Something akin to a frightened squeak escapes before Tom can stifle it.

“Did – did we time-travel?”

Harry takes a step forward, dragging Tom with him by the hand. “I don’t think so. The air is… weird.”

Now that Harry mentions it, the air is strange. Stagnant, somehow. There isn’t so much as a breeze, despite the small ruffle in the grass underneath their feet, caused by something both unseen and unfelt.

“I think it’s more like a memory, like in a pensieve,” Harry continues, grazing a nearby headstone with his fingertips. They pass right through the cracked, moss-covered marble, and Harry nods to himself. “Yeah. Doubt anyone will be able to tell we’re here. Looks like we don’t have a choice but to let things play out.”

Tom swallows, throat tight with nervousness. His heart is thudding frantically against his ribs, and he keeps experiencing intermittent chills, every cell of his body screaming abort, abort, abort! Nothing good can possibly come of seeing whatever happened the night Voldemort performed the ritual that ended Harry’s alternate self.

They slowly drift further inside the graveyard, Harry all but continuing to drag Tom, and finally come to a halt by a giant cauldron where someone stands hunched, adjusting the flame underneath and adding ingredients to the smoky liquid inside while muttering to themselves.

“Wormtail,” Harry spits.

“Wormtail,” a high, reedy voice cries.

It is the second mention of the man’s name that sends him scurrying away from the cauldron and toward a bundle on the ground. The man who betrayed Harry’s parents to Voldemort, the man who framed Sirius for their murders, kneels by the bundle, hands fluttering as if he’s unwilling to touch whatever cried out for him.

“My lord? W-what is it?”

Tom goes stock still, eyes blown wide in shock.

No – it can’t be –

“Nagini,” the bundle hisses in Parseltongue, and a snake that – even with the basilisk in fresh memory – looks huge, slithers closer, making Wormtail squeak in alarm though he stays kneeling by Voldemort’s side. “Mustn’t lose focus… so close now… the boy – the boy – blood – I WILL – Dumbledore – Nagini, my sweet… THE BOY! KILL HIM – make him bleed – the BOY!”

Tom stares, appalled, as the bundle flails its skeletal arms. As it whispers, and hisses, and screams, and moans, and then screams some more, barely able to catch its breath between words.

That’s –

That’s him.

Tom. Lord Voldemort.

And he’s insane. Stark raving mad.

Oh, Salazar, he’s going to be sick –

“He’s way worse than I remember,” Harry muses, head tilted, and eyes locked on the pathetic, rambling bundle. Through a darted glance that becomes a tether, Tom realises Harry is practically relaxed; shoulders down, expression curious as he listens to Voldemort’s ranting and raving. “He was never stable, you know? But he wasn’t this bad. I used to dream of him, when he was like this. Even then he could use magic to some extent, and made plans, and seemed… aware, I guess?”

As Harry speaks, Wormtail gets off the ground when no actual orders are forthcoming.

“I wonder if it’s because…” Harry trails off, eyebrows furrowing in thought.

Wormtail casts a tempus, then strides away from the cauldron.

“Never mind, come on.” Harry tugs Tom with him, following Wormtail’s decisive steps, and come to a halt just a few paces away –

Right when two people appear out of thin air, tumbling to the ground. A shiny trophy bounces away through the grass, and groans of pain ring out from the boys where they lie in crumbled heaps next to each other.

Tom’s breath catches at the sight of alternate Harry’s pained expression; his clothes are torn, his glasses cracked, and his leg is bent at an unnatural angle, clearly broken.

“Avada Kedavra,” Wormtail intones, almost bored, and green light flashes, instantly killing the other boy.

Harry curses, calm demeanour shattering as he looks at the corpse of Cedric Diggory.

Tom, however, is preoccupied with Wormtail stunning alternate Harry, eyes glued to the other version of his soulmate, who looks exactly like he had when they first met.

It’s a memory.

All of this has already happened.

Tom knows that.

Alternate Harry dying made room for his Harry, and the newly stunned Harry isn’t Tom’s soulmate.

There is literally nothing he can do to alter the course of events.

None of this, however, stops him from lurching forward through sheer instinct, desperate to get the disgusting rat-man away from his-soulmate-that-isn’t-his-soulmate. Launching forward with an incoherent battle cry –

He tumbles through Wormtail to the other side, watching as alternate Harry – but it’s Harry! Harry! HARRY! – is tied to a gravestone carrying his filthy muggle father’s name.

Harry’s head lolls forward, over the ropes wound tightly around his thin, beaten body. The wand he’d been gripping tumbles uselessly onto the grass by his feet. He looks so small. So young. Not even turned fifteen yet –

Wormtail darts a glance over his shoulder toward where the bundle is still screaming intermittently (‘the BOY, kill, kill, blood, need the blood, THE BOY, KILL HIM, WORMTAIL’), nearly inaudible over Tom’s own pleading to ‘let him go, please, don’t do this – Harry – not Harry – please – not Harry – no’.

The large snake is slowly moving closer, tongue flickering in and out of its mouth, scenting blood on the air from the numerous wounds on both boys’ bodies.

“No – please – don’t,” Tom whimpers, throat snaring shut, eyes blurring with tears as Wormtail brandishes a silver knife, speaking some ritualistic incantation that Tom can’t decipher over the roaring in his head and the sobs wrenching free of his lips.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Wormtail whispers shakily, only heard at all because Tom is standing right by him, trying fruitlessly to knock the knife out of his hand –

No – no – no – no – not Harry, please – not Harry –

“Tom,” Harry – his Harry but aren’t they both his Harry? – says softly, coming closer.

Tears fall freely down Tom’s cheeks. He gasps for breath when Harry’s hand cups his chin, the warmth of his palm almost scorching, turning his head around.

Green, green eyes gleam with sadness and wonder and understanding.

“Don’t look,” he whispers, thumb rubbing against Tom’s cheekbone, wiping away tears soon replaced by more. “Don’t look, Tom.”

But he has to. He needs to, no matter how his heart is breaking or how this will haunt his nightmares forevermore –

It’s – it’s Voldemort’s fault –

It’s his fault –

Harry –

Forcing his head back around, he sees the moment Wormtail slides the silver knife across Harry’s throat, almost gently. The skin parts around the blade and an endless flood of red, red, red spills out without a sound, without so much as a gurgle.

Tom looks on, powerless and broken.

And Harry Potter dies.

Chapter Text

Look, Harry has seen some fucked up shit in his days.

Being an Auror was somehow less disturbing than what he went through his first go-around at Hogwarts – you know, with the whole singled out for destruction by a madman and war stuff – so it’s safe to say he’s experienced quite a bit of bullshit over the years that make all his nightmares and resulting insomnia perfectly valid, no matter how irritating.

But seeing his own throat get slit by a man he hates is insane with a capital I, even for him.

And yet, he barely pays attention, too distracted by Tom having a breakdown about the whole thing.

Tears run freely down his face, he’s begging for Wormtail not to go through with it, and the sobs wrenched from somewhere deep inside him leave Harry reeling.

He’s not an idiot. He knows Tom cares about him, however much he’s able to do so (which… appears to be a whole lot). They’re soulmates, and that means something to Tom beyond the whole proprietary thing of having a claim on Harry.

But this?

Watching him fall apart completely over the death of alternate Harry?

Something soft and unbearably painful unfolds in his chest, and it’s so strong that it chokes him for a moment, as the pieces fall into place and he understands in a blaring panic what it means.

Instead of watching his alternate self quietly bleed out, Harry thrusts his realisation aside, wraps his arms around Tom and tugs him close, holding him against his chest tightly enough that his arms begin to tremble from the strain.

Now is not the time.

Tom sobs, endless repetitions of Harry’s name into his neck, and his desperate grip matches the strength of Harry’s as they cling to each other.

“I’m here, it’s okay, I’m fine,” Harry mumbles into Tom’s hair, wanting to comfort but unsure how to do it. He’s always hated it when people cry, but he especially hates it when they cry because of him. “It’s over, I’m okay.”

Tom hiccups and gasps for breath, but Harry’s assurances appear to have minor effect at least, the violent sobs tapering off bit by bit.

No one could ever accuse you of being unfeeling.

Over Tom’s head, he sees Wormtail collect his blood and then begin making his way back to the cauldron. Nagini remains for now, circling the headstone, tongue flickering in and out of her mouth as she scents the blood still pouring sluggishly out of Harry’s throat. There’s a phantom ache in the scar the wound left behind, and Harry swallows tightly around it.

“Hey, Tom, come on,” he croaks, clearing his throat a couple of times, ignoring the way his brain tries to fool him that his scar is burning and reopening to match alternate Harry’s. “Let’s – let’s see what else happens, yeah?”

Slowly, he loosens his grip, letting his arms fall, and Tom lets out a shuddering breath, wiping at his face as he steps back and turns to the side. He won’t meet Harry’s eye, but that’s okay, because Harry feels all kinds of torn up inside at the sight of his distress anyway and would much prefer if they both pretend nothing’s happened.

(There’s a voice in his head telling him they won’t be able to, because this, like it or not, will change everything. Has already changed everything. He will never be able to unsee Tom shattering into pieces, a fragmented mosaic of pain and loss and lo–)

“THE BLOOD – the boy – I WILL RISE – all shall kneel –”

Harry jolts at Voldemort’s gleeful screeches, and Tom does the same.

“…what a fucking psycho.” Tom’s voice emerges faint and scratched, sounding as rough as he looks.

A few months ago, Harry likely would have said something along the lines of ‘yeah, you are’, unable, and unwilling, to distinguish between Voldemort and Tom.

Here, now, darting glances between his soulmate and the broken homunculus over yonder, they’ve never been more different.

“Yeah… he is.”

Tom nods distractedly, and fumbles for Harry’s hand. Harry intertwines their fingers without a second thought, and they move a few paces, stopping somewhere midway between the cauldron and Harry’s corpse.

Voldemort keeps babbling and wheezing all sorts of insane things, all focused in some way on the boy, blood, and how Lord Voldemort will rise again, the rambling interspersed with Wormtail’s name without offering any actual orders.

How the hell this thing managed to wrangle obedience and veneration out of anyone, let alone several people, baffles the mind.

Harry tilts his head slightly, returning to the thought he’d had a few minutes ago, before his alternate self and – a pang of sadness – Cedric tumbled onto the scene only to die upon arrival.

“Do you think it has anything to do with the horcruxes?”

Tom frowns. “Does what – what do you mean?”

“His condition. I don’t know, it just… feels like it would be even worse, somehow, to shred your soul when there’s all this… soulmate stuff.”

Tom sighs, tiredly rubbing his free hand down his face. “I – maybe? Probably. If… he was more stable in your dimension even though he did the same things, then… yes. That theory makes a lot of sense.”

It’s hard to say for sure, but Harry gets the feeling Tom is embarrassed by the whole thing. Willingly distancing himself from the writhing, crazy bundle on the ground is also fairly telling.

“Why did y-he go through with it in the first place, you think?”

Tom lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, gaze slanting to the side in avoidance, mumbling something Harry doesn’t catch.

“What was that?”

“The diviner…” Tom trails off on a deep sigh, shoulders curling inward as if he’s trying to hide. “My first year, they told me – ‘nothing short of divine intervention could bring your tattered soul together with its counterpart.’ Felt like a foregone conclusion then, when I found the horcrux ritual.” He swallows, throat bobbing harshly with the movement. “What else could make my soul tattered? The way I saw it, either I would live forever, or I would at least live long enough to find my soulmate, provided that divine intervention happened.”

Harry sucked in a sharp breath when Tom quoted the diary, then slowly let it back out as Tom kept talking, voice growing in strength yet remaining subdued. Ashamed, almost, if Tom was capable of it – which Harry is starting to believe he actually might be.

Guess this supports my theory Harry’s reading got all sorts of messed up from the horcrux.

“Dunno if Death dragging me across dimensions counts as divine intervention,” he jokes, in an attempt at diffusing the tension – creepy surroundings, two corpses and one fucked-up resurrection ritual nearby notwithstanding.

Tom’s face snaps up, staring incredulously at him. “Are you serious? Of course it counts. You’re here, aren’t you?” Brown eyes burn with familiar fervour, boring into Harry’s. “We’re here.”

Harry can only manage a dazed nod in reply, heartbeat hammering against his sternum.

“–rty? WORMTAIL!”

Wormtail scurries away from the cauldron, falling to one knee by Voldemort. Except when he does, Voldemort switches over to Parseltongue again.

For fuck’s sake.

Harry never imagined he’d miss the language, but he definitely does now without a clue whatever Voldemort is hissing about.

Although, judging by Tom’s disinterest and the disdainful curl of his lip, he’s probably not missing much.

“It is time, my Lord.”

Wormtail, heedless of the hissing, scoops up the bundle, features twisted into disgust at having to touch the homunculus, though there’s also a clear look of awe in his beady eyes that Harry can’t recall seeing before.

“Summon them,” Voldemort wheezes in a sudden bout of unexpected coherence, spindly fingers coming up to cradle Wormtail’s face like a particularly demanding, skeletal baby. “Quickly. The plan, Wormtail. Follow the plan. Ba–” he breaks off into stuttered coughs, shuddering so violently that some of the dark fabric slips away to reveal papery, almost translucent skin.

“I will, my Lord,” Wormtail assures him, soothingly.

Then, he unceremoniously dumps Lord Voldemort into the steaming cauldron with a quiet splash.

Tom’s nose wrinkles.

Wormtail pulls a wand – Tom’s wand, Voldemort’s wand – out of his robes, raises his left arm and inhales three times in quick succession without exhaling, then presses the wand to the Dark Mark, mousy features contorting in pain at the contact. The wand gets tossed into the cauldron after its purpose has been served, and Wormtail produces the silver knife once more, the sharp edge still darkly stained with Harry’s blood.

After panting like a dog, tongue all but lolling out of his mouth, Wormtail recites the next part of the ritual, whimpers, and, in a surprising show of strength, slices clean through his wrist, hand and knife both tumbling into the cauldron, the splash unheard over Wormtail’s pained scream.

Right about the time Wormtail falls to the ground, whimpering and clutching at his severed stump – Harry’s corpse sucks in a gurgling breath.

Tom’s hand squeezes his so hard the bones grind together painfully, eyes snapping to past Harry.

Current Harry, meanwhile, is more focused on glaring at the sudden reappearance of Death, leaning over the cauldron, from which bright diamond sparks are starting to emit.

“Might wanna close your eyes now,” Death says cheerily, and it’s impossible to tell whether this truly is just the memory of Death, or if the entity itself has returned to the scene, unrestrained by the confines of recollection.

Either way, it doesn’t matter; Harry obeys the suggestion and can only hope Tom does the same.

“Let’s make this interesting, shall we?”

Harry sighs at the theatrics.

When the diamond sparks disappear, he opens his eyes, eerily in sync with the first loud crack! of an Apparating Death Eater, soon followed by so many appearances he instantly loses track.

Frowning, Harry attempt to count them and says, “That’s… way more than there were in my dimension. And that was awfully quick – I’m sure they were a lot slower last time…”

Tom isn’t paying attention to what he’s saying, though, too busy focusing on other Harry, which really shouldn’t make jealousy prickle underneath his skin but whatever – plenty of shouldn’t’s going around here at the moment, what’s one more?

Stubbornly, he does another quick head count of the approaching Death Eaters – yes, far more than the ones who’d turned up at Voldemort’s summon his original go-around – and believes he can recognise quite a few of them even with their masks on and hoods up.

“My Lord?”

Oh yes, that is definitely Lucius Malfoy’s voice.

Serves the git right when the cauldron explodes. The grin twisting Harry’s mouth feels too savagely pleased to be called a smile when the explosion flings the Death Eaters away into the darkness. It fades when he recognises his own cry of pain, and Tom makes a low, worried sound beside him, limbs twitching as if he’s about to go over to the other Harry.

Harry squeezes his hand. Tom stays put, radiating torn reluctance, and Harry idly reflects that it’s sort of strange to feel jealous of your own damn self – because it is him this time, not alternate Harry, just him – before he’s forced to focus on the chaos in front of them.

“That leg… it looks broken,” Tom whispers, gaze tracking other Harry wobblily getting up and dragging his leg behind him as he inches closer to where they’re standing, toward the crater.

Distractedly, Harry hums, “It was.”

When he glances at Tom, his face has paled.

Other Harry, drenched in his own blood and looking two seconds away from passing out where he stands, makes it to the lip of the crater. He’s soon joined by Tomdemort, and it’s a tad amusing seeing himself look that shocked, but not enough to distract from the spells beginning to streak toward them. Now that he has the time to properly study the magic, Harry realises that they’re mostly stunners and a couple of body-binds; meant to incapacitate, not harm.

Interesting.

The Death Eaters are closing the distance rapidly, firing spells wildly in Harry and Tomdemort’s direction, desperate to keep them there by any means necessary.

As they watch Harry and Tomdemort Disapparate, the Death Eaters begin shouting.

Harry cocks his head, watching at least thirty grown men collectively lose their minds.

“My Lord!”

“Potter! Wasn’t he supposed to die!?”

“FUCK!”

“How the hell did he get through the wards!?”

“They can’t have gotten far! Potter’s only fourteen – there’s no way he’ll be able to bring them all the way back to Hogwarts!”

“Potter somehow got through the bloody wards! They could be anywhere!”

“Our Lord will never forgive us –”

“JUST SHUT UP AND GO LOOK FOR THEM!”

They start Disapparating, one by one, until only a sobbing Wormtail remains, clutching at his stump, receiving no aid from his compatriots. Harry impatiently drags Tom closer, to see if Wormtail will produce anything intelligible, but all he can make out through the sobs is ‘not the plan, he’ll kill me’ –

And then, from one moment to the next, they’re back in the Chamber of Secrets.

Reeling from the shock of their shifted surroundings, Harry stumbles into a nearby pillar, dragging Tom with him by accident until they’re both leaning against the wet, slimy stone.

“Field trip over, kiddos,” Death chirps from a few feet away. “Wasn’t that fun? Saw some sights, had some realisations, got some exposition. Did you catch all of it? No? Don’t worry, it’ll all make sense soon enough.”

With a demented cackle that nearly pierces Harry’s eardrums, Death disappears.

“I really,” Tom’s voice emerges faint, “really hate that thing.”

Harry snorts and lets his head fall forward onto Tom’s shoulder. “That makes two of us.”

A few seconds later, he reluctantly peels himself away.

In silence, they begin making their way back across the Chamber, past the basilisk skin, and climb through the rockfall until they finally end up at the bottom of the cistern, bones crunching underneath their feet.

“How…” Tom trails off, face pinched with confusion and a bit of worry as he peers up the giant, slanted pipe.

Harry ushers him up, off the floor, then withdraws his wand and casts a spell on the bottom of their shoes that will allow them to stick to whatever surface they’re in contact with.

They hold hands as they trek upward, but neither of them makes any effort to speak over their echoing footsteps.

Before they climb out into the bathroom, Harry takes a moment to surreptitiously examine the Map behind Tom’s back. Thankfully, there’s no one around, and their emergence in the second-floor corridor goes unwitnessed.

Harry checks his watch and lets out a curse. Their exploration of the Chamber of Secrets and subsequent foray into memories has left them only ten minutes to return to their common rooms before curfew hits.

“Curfew,” he explains shortly at Tom’s questioning glance. He’s still looking a little out of it after what they’ve just been through, and it causes Harry a strong pang of worry, exacerbated by the recollection of Tom’s earlier breakdown. He wraps his arms around his soulmate and tugs him into a deep, hopefully soothing kiss, then draws back with his hands cradling Tom’s face. “We’ll talk about all this tomorrow. Okay?”

Tom blinks, hazy mahogany clearing slightly, and nods.

Harry presses another kiss to his soft lips, lingering despite the urgency. “Hurry. Don’t give Malfoy an actual reason to give you detention.”

After another dazed nod, Tom turns and goes, and Harry watches him walk away, even though every fibre of his being is crying out not to leave Tom alone right now.

The spell on his shoes has been removed, and yet, his feet remain glued to the ground instead of turning toward the staircases and the seventh floor.

Tom just watched Harry die. Sure, alternate Harry if one wants to get technical about it, but they look the same. And to top that off, he was confronted with his own madness and resurrection. That has got to be messing with Tom’s head.

And what kind of soulmate would Harry be if he just let Tom stew on that all alone?

Mind made up, Harry withdraws the invisibility cloak from his pocket, throws it over his head, and practically flies down the corridor as he catches up with Tom.

Tom’s head twitches to the side in recognition of Harry’s presence but his hurried stride doesn’t falter when Harry falls into step.

The small smile blooming on his beautiful face looks almost shy.

When they finally make it to Tom’s dorm – having successfully dodged both the Inquisitorial squad and a curious Blaise in the common room – Harry meticulously sets up the privacy spells while Tom disappears into the bathroom.

Tom emerges clad in navy pyjamas, the top button undone, collar gaping open enough to display his collarbones. He’s paler than normal in the flickering candlelight from the sconces, and looks positively exhausted, eyes still slightly red-rimmed and puffy as he shuffles closer to the fourposter and slides under the covers, barely acknowledging the rather impressive feat of magic in creating a perfect bubble of privacy around it beyond a tired hum of appreciation.

That damned painful softness unfolds in Harry’s chest again, practically choking him with tenderness that he has no idea what to do with.

His hands are trembling when he undresses, takes off his glasses, and joins Tom in the bed. He draws the drapes, and while it isn’t pitch black, it takes a while for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The first thing he sees when they do is Tom’s hollow-eyed stare up at the ceiling.

That won’t do.

Before he can second-guess himself, he follows the impulse to wrap his arms around his soulmate and tug him close.

Tom melts into him completely, pillowing his cheek on Harry’s bare chest, one of his hands coming up to rest against Harry’s heart as he lets out a heavy, contented sigh that Harry echoes when the soulmate bond starts gently thrumming between them.

Harry, after a brief moment’s hesitance, lifts his hand and starts carefully running his fingers through Tom’s hair, scratching at his scalp.

Tom tenses.

“Is this okay?” Harry murmurs, oddly shy about touching Tom like this despite everything they’ve done together at this point.

Tom relaxes again, turning boneless and pushing his head into Harry’s grip with a low hum. “Yes.”

The warmth of his exhale across Harry’s stomach makes him shift a little, but he wills his tentative erection away.

Not the time.

They spend a few minutes like that, and Harry settles deeper into the mattress, the stress of the evening slowly starting to unwind from his muscles. He hasn’t decided yet whether he’ll sneak back out or not, but with how comfortable he’s feeling and how his instincts are screaming at him not to leave Tom alone, he suspects he’ll end up staying the night. Ron will cover for him, somehow; he’s a good friend.

Despite the relatively early hour, Harry’s eyes are starting to droop. It would be heavenly to succumb to sleep’s tantalizing pull and put off whatever talk they should have until tomorrow (or never), but… the voice he likes to snarkily call his inner Hermione has begun huffing at him, and he knows she’ll soon start harping on about how ‘it’s important to talk about your feelings and worries, Harry, every single psychology book I’ve read on the subject is adamant that bottling your experiences up will only lead to the detriment of your mental health and frankly, you have enough issues between you already to fill a whole course book so you really ought to –’

Bollocks, too late.

He sighs and keeps up the scratching at Tom’s scalp, increasing the pressure which makes Tom push even harder into his grip.

Harry snorts, able to tune out Hermione’s imaginary lecture for the moment. “Like a cat.”

Tom stills, making some garbled noise of affront in the back of his throat.

“Tomcat,” Harry murmurs, amusement and delight edging out his fatigue at his realisation, especially when Tom rolls his head to glare half-heartedly at him. “Bobcat. Amazing, isn't it, how both your names are also types of cats?”

“Why do I put up with you?” Tom mutters, but when he returns to his previous position, he’s hiding a smile against Harry’s skin.

“My sparkling wit, obviously.”

Yes, definitely a smile.

“Obviously.”

Before they can lapse back into silence, Harry gathers his not-insubstantial courage, and says, “So… are you okay?”

Tom tenses up again, but Harry keeps adamantly scratching at his scalp until he reluctantly melts back into Harry’s side. “Yes. No? I don’t know.”

“Those are indeed the commonly used options.”

He can practically hear the eyeroll.

“It was… a lot,” Tom eventually mumbles, keeping his face hidden, which Harry suspects makes this easier for both of them. “First the basilisk… what if there hadn’t been a phoenix there? You would have died, by my hand – because that diary wouldn’t yet have been him, it would have been me – and then actually… actually seeing it, seeing you –”

He breaks off on a gasp, starting to shudder as he relives the events of the evening.

Harry lets his hand slide lower, gently gripping Tom’s neck, rubbing circles on the tense muscles he can reach.

“I saw you die,” Tom whimpers, clutching at Harry. “You died. And I couldn’t – there was nothing I could do –”

“Shh, I’m alright, I’m okay, I’m right here.”

With sudden movements that catches Harry by surprise, Tom jerks upward, turns, then lays himself out all along Harry’s body, tangling their limbs and digging his fingers in, tucking his nose against Harry’s throat.

He’s shaking. Harry’s skin turns wet from tears.

Harry holds Tom through it, murmuring assurances, stroking Tom’s back with one hand and holding his neck with the other, keeping Tom’s face pressed against him.

Time ceases to matter as Harry offers what comfort he can, relying on his physical closeness to do the job for him where he knows he won’t find the words, and tension slowly seeps out of Tom’s muscles.

When next he speaks, Harry almost doesn’t hear him, his voice is so raspy and thick.

“I didn’t get it. Why you hated me so much for so long. But I – I get it now. I do. I killed you, all so I could… live again. If I could do it all over…”

Harry’s eyes widen in shock, mouth falling open, but Tom isn’t done.

“I don’t think I would,” he whispers. “You… you are dearer to me than myself, Harry Potter.”

Harry’s throat works, but no matter how he tries, he cannot form words.

A shaky exhale is about all he can manage. He presses a rough, lingering kiss to Tom’s forehead, and closes his burning eyes.

They fall asleep like that, so close and tangled together that it’s impossible to tell where one boy begins and the other one ends.

For the first time in forever, Harry sleeps soundly through the night.

Chapter Text

When Tom wakes the next morning, he does so slowly to a symphony – bordering on cacophony – of sensations, and his sleep-addled mind needs time to parse through them all.

There’s pressure all along his body; legs twined with another’s; arms banded around his torso tightly yet slack with sleep.

There are two heartbeats; his own, and what he comes to realise belongs to Harry. They’re beating in perfect synchrony, which is why he has some difficulty narrowing down which chest the sensation originates from.

When he inhales, his nose is filled with the overwhelming, comforting scent of his soulmate, tucked as it is against the hollow of Harry’s throat. Harry’s own breaths are quiet puffs to the top of Tom’s head, lightly ruffling his hair with every exhale.

All the while, the soulmate bond hums gently between them.

Tom lays there for a few moments longer, basking in the contentment of waking up in his soulmate’s embrace, and relishes the fact that he no longer feels quite as raw as he had when they went to sleep.

Scraped through and hollowed-out, he’s unsure what would have become of him had he gone to bed alone last night, and he carefully doesn’t theorise on the hypotheticals.

Instead, while he does feel a bit out of sorts when the memories of the graveyard try to intrude, there is also a sense of peace, and bone-deep surety that he and Harry will come out the other side stronger for the experience they shared.

Tom presses a featherlight kiss against the scar along Harry’s throat, enjoying the tiny vibration against his lips when Harry makes a low, questioning sound in response to his touch, nearly awake but not quite.

That changes when the alarm on Tom’s wristwatch goes off.

Harry groans, tucking himself impossibly closer, burying his face in Tom’s hair.

“Wha’ time’sit?” he mumbles, almost unintelligible.

“Six,” Tom whispers back, hiding his untameable smile against Harry’s warm skin as he switches off the alarm. “The rest will be up soon.”

Harry grumbles something actually unintelligible and tightens his grip around Tom’s body, nosing along his scalp and wrapping himself around Tom like an absurdly warm python.

Tom’s stupid smile widens.

There are definitely worse ways to wake up.

Unfortunately, the moment Tom is no longer in physical contact with Harry, the memories crash over him in an uncontrollable tsunami.

What normally works – tidily tucking them away in neatly arranged boxes – has no effect; it’s too fresh, too harrowing, and Tom spends the entire day on edge, only soothed by the sight and touch of his soulmate the few moments he’s able to get it.

The castle has never felt so big, its corridors so endless, as when he’s hunting for confirmation that Harry’s alive and well somewhere in its depths.

Harry quietly asks him right after lunch whether Tom wants him to postpone the FF-meeting this evening. His green, green eyes are worried, and seeing the obvious concern on his handsome features is enough for Tom to gracefully say that no, there’s no need, but perhaps they can spend some time alone after the meeting is over, before curfew? Harry immediately and enthusiastically agrees.

And then they snog in the secret alcove they’d ducked inside for their chat, because why waste a perfectly good rendezvous when they’ve still got a few minutes before afternoon classes?

Over the course of the semester, Tom has learned quite a bit under Harry’s tutelage.

(No, not that – his mind is a gutter-free zone at the moment, please and thank you.)

Protego has become second nature. They’ve practiced expelliarmus, various body-binds and stunning spells, learned a plethora of neat tricks for incapacitating one’s opponent in as few syllables as possible, and mastered diffindo and confringo and reducto.

Harry has not only done his level best to teach them how to survive; he’s taught them how to win.

“Anything is fair in battle,” he’ll grunt when someone questions the morality of using a particular spell on a living opponent. “You wanna stay alive? You win. By any means necessary – snap their bloody wand if possible. Kick them in the bollocks, deck them in the face; whatever you need to do to fight another day.”

He’s stopped pretending he’s not preparing the FF for a world that would otherwise take one look at them, chew them up, and spit them out in pieces. It won’t be Voldemort threatening them this time around, but there are plenty of morally corrupt Dark witches and wizards out there who’d gleefully maim and kill an unsuspecting victim for a galleon and a laugh.

More than one person has expressed whispered discomfort and a small bit of fear when Harry launches into rants about ‘what’s out there’ (complete with harrowing examples) and that they need to be ‘prepared for anything’.

But no one openly objects. No one leaves. No one does more than shuffle uncomfortably on their feet for a moment before their shoulders square in determination.

Harry is a natural leader, and they his willing disciples.

Except Tom. Tom is his equal, of course. The only one who knows what drives Harry to make those speeches, the only one who can hear the undercurrent of desperation in Harry’s attempt at toughening up these naïve children so that maybe, just maybe, they won’t trip over their own feet and meet an ignominious demise at the hands of the first person who even looks at them sideways. Tom is the only one who understands that Harry has seen more than one of the students in this room die once already and is trying to do anything in his power to keep that from happening again.

Roots now planted firmly in this dimension, Harry has clearly decided to offer at least these people a chance at salvation.

Tonight, however, there are no fiery speeches, no battle-hardened Auror barking orders at the baby-faced recruits. There is only Harry, at ease and smiling, gaze lingering on Tom, before he lets it sweep over the assembled FF.

Ron and Hermione are at the front per usual, Luna hovering at Ron’s shoulder and making him dart frowns at her, still uncomfortable in her presence. The twins are somewhere near the back with the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and Ginny’s on the fringes, halfway between her brothers and Tom and Blaise, notably on the opposite side of the room to Michael Corner, her boyfriend. Although, with them resolutely not looking at each other, perhaps that title now has an ‘ex’ before it.

Tom ignores the worried swoop in his stomach, soothing himself with the memory of waking up entangled with Harry this morning. It doesn’t matter if Ginny’s suddenly single; even if she did want Harry, she wouldn’t be able to get him.

“I’m sure you all remember the dementors a couple years back,” Harry begins pleasantly and there are a lot of grimaces in response. “What I’m not sure about is whether you remember that I had… particularly adverse reactions to their presence. This led to Professor Lupin offering to teach me how to defend against them, to make sure I didn’t keep passing out whenever one was near.”

An eyeroll and a self-deprecating smile before he continues, “For those of you who don’t know, the only way to defend against a dementor is with the Patronus charm. Casting the Patronus is difficult, to put it mildly. Even most adult witches and wizards struggle with it and rarely have the opportunity to learn in the first place as it is not part of the standard curriculum.”

Harry’s matter-of-fact tone makes it clear that while he acknowledges that the charm is difficult, and thus managing it at only thirteen impressive, he will treat it as just another lesson rather than an impossible mountain to climb.

“It requires you to give yourself over completely to a happy memory, to let it fill you up with happiness until there is no room for anything else. Perfect happiness. Nothing less than that will do. Naturally, dementors’ sheer presence makes this stupidly hard. But, with enough practice, you’ll be able to manage a patronus even if you’re surrounded by a hundred dementors – that’s the Potter guarantee.”

He winks exaggeratedly to take the gravity out of the situation, and it has the desired effect, everyone’s shoulders lowering, excitement mounting at trying their hand at such a demanding spell.

“Now, take a few moments to find a memory. It needs to be perfect happiness – so maybe not being let out of class a few minutes early. Eventually, you’ll be able to use an amalgamation, a mix, of memories to get the desired result, but to begin with, focus on a single memory and picture it clearly. When you have it, the incantation is Expecto Patronum. Repeat after me. Expecto Patronum.”

“Expecto Patronum,” rings out all around the room in synchrony. They do it a couple more times until Harry nods, satisfied, and tells them to have at it.

Tom closes his eyes, turning his focus inward. The boxes from last night rattle where he’s barely managed to close the lids, and he winces, shifting toward the shelves instead.

Perfect happiness.

Perfect… happiness.

Perfect – happiness?

It’s far more difficult than he’d expected to think of something. Something untainted, something pure.

Starting from the first flickers of memory, there is, unsurprisingly, nothing from the orphanage.

Then, he considers when he learned that he’s a wizard. But that memory is marred by Dumbledore setting his wardrobe on fire, and the bright burst of triumphant happiness from the confirmation of his specialness is quickly subsumed by fear and anger and loathing.

Perusing the shelves of his mind, he reaches and comes to linger on the first time he saw Hogwarts. Yes, that ought to do the trick.

He focuses on how it had felt to sail over the lake in the darkness, the castle rising tall and proud ahead, its twinkling lights warm and inviting, beckoning him home.

He opens his eyes.

“Expecto Patronum.”

His voice is confident, and so are his wand movements.

…but all he manages is a faint, white vapour.

Dismayed, he glares at it. He’s an exceptionally powerful wizard – surely, he ought to manage more than some pathetic mist!

However, glancing around, he’s confronted with a fat load of nothing from his classmates – not so much as a single wisp.

And he feels a whole lot better about his fairly impressive little cloud, actually.

Warmth fills his chest when his and Harry’s eyes meet, and Harry grins widely at him from Hermione’s side, clearly fit to burst with pride at Tom’s achievement. Hermione, on the other hand, looks annoyed enough at her own failure to stomp her foot, and snaps something to redirect Harry’s attention to herself. Her reaction serves to further enhance Tom’s satisfaction with his own accomplishment; she’s the only one truly able to challenge him academically, so emerging victorious in a situation where they’re equally ill-prepared tastes all the sweeter.

Unwilling to give up on the memory just yet, he focuses harder on it, letting it fill him up completely until he’s practically fizzing with happiness and belonging, then casts the spell again.

The same indistinct mist erupts from the tips of his wand, but nothing more than that.

Still, his sense of accomplishment only grows with the others’ impressed glances and jealous stares.

Throughout the meeting, Harry drifts between everyone who struggles, and more than once he manages to encourage them enough that a few more people also produce a light silver vapour. To Tom’s surprise, Ron is one of the first ones to get it, soon followed by Luna. A couple of the Hufflepuffs follow suit, and by the end of the lesson, Ginny also succeeds. For some reason, she’s migrated closer to Tom and Blaise’s side of the room, and her proximity is annoying enough to keep Tom from improving on his initial mist.

“Great job, everyone,” Harry praises by the end, grinning widely at them. “You’ve made incredibly impressive progress. Keep practicing and trying different memories, and we’ll be overrun with corporeal patronuses in no time.”

“Can we see yours?” one of the twins calls out, and excitement ripples through the assembled students.

Harry smiles and withdraws his wand. “Only fair, I suppose.”

Harry’s gaze travels first to Ron and Hermione and Luna, then comes to a stop at Tom, and Tom can’t help but beam back once he understands why.

He’s part of Harry’s happy memories.

“Expecto Patronum,” Harry incants confidently.

A giant, blindingly bright stag bursts forth, standing tall before them. It’s huge; its antlers scrape the high ceiling when it tosses its glowing head. The stag then prances slowly but proudly around the room as if well aware of everyone’s open-mouthed stares.

Out the corner of his eye, Tom sees that even Harry looks shocked at how the ethereal stag appears to fill up the entire room, practically sparkling, painting everything and everyone silver.

When will your power cease to surprise you, my soul?

Harry clears his throat and tucks his wand away, and the stag fades back into the aether, dispersing in flecks of starlight. Everyone blinks at the sudden lack of monochrome; colour having crept back into the room to replace the gleaming silver.

For a few seconds, no one says anything.

Then, applause break out. Someone even wolf-whistles, and the whole room surges forward as if on cue to surround Harry, and the FF cheer, chanting his name and behaving like it’s the triumphant end of a Quidditch game rather than an illicit DADA-tutoring club.

Harry goes beet red, laughing awkwardly at the effusive attention, rubbing at his neck self-consciously.

Tom watches him hungrily from the sidelines, the display of Harry’s power successfully having calmed his inner turmoil, soothing the anxieties born yesterday in the memory of a graveyard.

His Harry would never be so easily incapacitated. His Harry is too powerful to be caught off guard like that. His Harry would never suffer such a mortal wound –

“Pretty impressive.”

Tom frowns, looking askance at Ginny. He hadn’t noticed her creep close enough to talk to him.

“He is,” he agrees slowly, as the others finally calm down and say goodbye for the night, leaving the room either alone or in chattering pairs.

“You’re lucky,” she says, eyes on Harry, voice soft and quiet, but it does nothing to keep his hackles from rising.

“Yes,” he says shortly, keeping a scowl off his face through sheer force of will.

His skin is crawling at being so near the youngest Weasley. Knowing she’d gotten to have Harry, even for a limited time in a different dimension, is enough to make him want to push her off the Astronomy tower.

“You’re good for him. I wasn’t so sure at first, but…” She shrugs.

Of course I am – I’m his soulmate, you ignorant twat.

Tom grits his teeth but doesn’t reply.

“I care about him, you know? We’re obviously not as close as he and Ron, but… I’ve known him for years. I look out for him, best I can. I – well, honestly, I kind of owe him. He saved me from Voldemort, a couple of years back. Did he tell you about it?”

Since she actually seems to expect a response this time, Tom hums affirmatively, barely keeping a lid on his irritation. He’s got far better things to do than discuss his soulmate with the chit who has an obvious crush on said soulmate.

“I was so foolish, writing in that diary…” Trailing off, she huffs a small, self-deprecating laugh and shakes her head.

The room is emptying fast now. Blaise looks questioningly at him. Tom nods, moving his hand in a ‘go on’-gesture, and Blaise leaves on the heels of Ron and Hermione.

Harry puts the room to rights while shooting curious glances at where Ginny still traps Tom in conversation.

“Right, well, if you don’t mind –” He takes a step away from her, wanting to get away, wanting to seek solace from this stressful day in Harry’s embrace.

For some Salazar-forsaken reason, she grabs his hand to keep him there.

Ginny gasps.

The raspy, otherworldly voice coming out of Ginny’s mouth next is enough to snap Tom’s head around so fast his neck cracks.

“Tom.”

For a moment, they simply stare at each other.

Her wide, brown eyes are glazed over and hazy, and he recognises, with dawning horror, the signs of a diviner in a trance.

Then, her eyes clear.

She jerks her hand away and fumbles for her wand.

“Harry!” she cries, stumbling closer to Harry, face contorted in fear.

Tom draws his own wand. There’s nothing but static in his head, terror gripping his heart, turning his insides to ice.

“He’s – he’s Voldemort!”

Ginny’s scream bounces off the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Tom’s skull reverberates with the sound.

She knows –

He needs to move –

Why can’t he move –

SHE KNOWS!

Move!

MOVE!

KILL HER!

KILLHERKILLHERKILLHER –

Ginny stumbles into Harry, then turns so she stands shoulder to shoulder with him, wand steadily pointed at Tom. Her breaths come fast and shaky. Erratic.

So do Tom’s.

Despite knowing how precarious their situation is, reliant solely on Death’s goodwill, he never truly imagined their ruse would be discovered. That he would be discovered.

And now that it’s happened, he doesn’t know what to do.

His limbs are frozen. Unmoving. Heavier than lead.

Like it always is, his gaze is inevitably drawn to Harry, seeking guidance.

Harry wouldn’t want him to kill her –

KILL HER ANYWAY –

Harry will know what to do, Harry always knows what to do –

Harry’s shoulders are slumped, curled inward. His face shutters, eyes closing for a moment before he opens them once more, grimly steeling his spine as he raises his wand.

…to Ginny’s temple.

She jerks, head turning in shock, comprehension and betrayal crashing over her features. “Harry –?”

“Obliviate.”

“Later, Bob, Professor,” Ginny calls over her shoulder with a grin as she leaves, the door swinging shut behind her.

Tom crumples to the ground, grasping at his chest, gulping down air.

Through the panicked haze, he nevertheless notices Harry approach, and tips forward gratefully into Harry’s arms when he wraps them around him. Tom rests his forehead against Harry’s chest, bunching Harry’s shirt in his hands. Harry hooks his chin on Tom’s shoulder and lets out a heavy sigh.

Neither of them speaks for a while. They merely sit there, quietly, calming down from the adrenaline rush of discovery.

“She’s a Seer, then,” Harry eventually says, breaking the silence.

Tom’s breath hitches. He nods, reluctantly drawing back from Harry’s chest to look up at him.

“It wasn’t very common where I’m from,” Harry goes on, staring off into the distance. “Only really know about Trelawney, truth be told. And she, well… she made a couple of accurate prophecies, but they were few and far between. Nothing like what goes on here.”

“It’s –” Tom clears his throat when it comes out faint and too raspy to be heard. “It’s more common now, too. Than in my time, I mean.”

“Not the best circumstances for two people looking to hide quite a few secrets, then?” Harry’s gaze flicks downward, and one corner of his lips curl upward in a grim smile.

Tom swallows. “No. No, not really.”

Harry nods. Leans down and presses a gentle, comforting kiss to Tom’s mouth.

For some reason, it feels like the beginning of an end.

After a restless night, sans soulmate, Tom’s mood isn’t exactly improved by a double Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson.

He hides a yawn behind his hand as he takes out the insufferable book and his barebones notes. Blaise keeps shooting him worried looks that he would adamantly deny are worried, and Tom ignores them the same way he did over breakfast, too wrapped up in his own head to offer Blaise reassurance that would be a lie anyway.

They’d gotten lucky with Ginny last night. Had she touched Tom earlier, or in a crowded place, everything would have come crashing down around them. The discovery drove home just how precarious their situation is, how their house of cards could come tumbling down at the merest innocent touch from someone with an open Inner Eye.

Tom is, simply put, terrified.

Best case scenario, he’d end up in Azkaban. Worst case, he’d end up dead.

As if that isn’t enough, the memories of the graveyard are rattling insistently against their confines, threatening to spill out at any moment no matter how he tries sealing them away.

“Good morning, class.” Umbridge, a nightmare in pink, smiles at them from her place at the front.

“Good morning, Professor Umbridge,” everyone replies by rote. Only the Inquisitorial squad sound genuinely happy to see the toad.

Tom straightens his back and tries to wake himself up enough to pay attention, putting aside his frayed nerves for the moment.

Despite his best efforts, though, he quickly zones out when Umbridge starts going on about something highly irrelevant and uninteresting.

Mind wandering, it isn’t until there’s a mention of Harry’s name that Tom focuses back in on the room. Blaise has gone ramrod straight next to him, face shuttered into blankness, but his eyes have narrowed slightly in anger, and his hand is curled into a fist underneath the desk.

With horror, Tom realises they’re discussing the graveyard. The very subject he’s doing his damndest not to think about.

“While I am not denying something happened to Mr Potter in that graveyard…” Umbridge trails off meaningfully, insinuating quite clearly that she has no faith in the official narrative.

A darted glance over at Malfoy reveals a gleeful expression masquerading as saccharine concern. “What about his throat scar, Professor?”

“Well, the Ministry has found no corroboration with Mr Potter’s statement that Peter Pettigrew is alive, let alone that he was present in that graveyard –”

“He was.”

The snarl emerging from Tom catches him by surprise. The vivid memory of Pettigrew slashing Harry’s throat despite all of Tom’s begging to the contrary crashes over him, and his hands tremble with remembered helplessness.

Umbridge clearly hears him yet chooses to ignore his interruption.

“What with the stress of the Tournament, it isn’t outside the realm of possibility that Mr Potter simply sought a more permanent way out –”

The frayed strands of Tom’s control snaps.

Before he knows it, Tom is on his feet, hands slapping down hard on the desk.

“He didn’t do it to himself! He was fucking kidnapped! They tried to kill him!”

He can smell the graveyard, the overturned earth and metallic scent of blood. Hears his own desperate cries. Sees the flood of red, red, red pouring out of Harry’s throat.

His breaths become erratic, frantic, and he barely notices Blaise’s attempts to make him sit back down.

“I was there,” Tom goes on, still shouting, unable to regulate his tone. “I saw it! He was bound to the gravestone!”

“Sit down, Mr Jonsson, and cease with these outrageous lies –”

“I’M NOT LYING, YOU INSUFFERABLE COW!”

Tom bares his teeth in a snarl, longing to sink them into her pudgy flesh, to rip and tear and watch the bitch who’d tried having his soulmate killed bleed out on the floor.

His magic curls tight underneath his skin, eager to be let forth, craving destruction.

“DETENTION, MR JONSSON!”

One of the windows explodes inward in a shower of glass, shouts erupting from the other students as the shards tinktinktink against the stone floor.

With shaking hands, Tom shoves his things in his satchel and leaves the room.

Before he kills someone.

Chapter Text

In the days following their field trip down memory lane, something settles inside Harry.

Something he has fought for so hard for so many months that it is discombobulating to no longer resist; a constant awareness of Tom, threaded through every minute, every second, of every day – urging Harry’s head to turn at a mere glimpse, for his ears to perk up at the sound of Tom’s melodious voice, for his breath to catch when their eyes inevitably meet and his heart to race when proximity allows their skin to brush.

Nothing has ever felt like this before. No one else has ever come close.

The void has become nothing but a bad memory, the scars Voldemort’s horcrux left behind healed by Tom’s touch.

Even Ron and Hermione comment on his newfound ease in his own skin at dinner mid-December, their expressions fond in a way Harry cannot recall seeing in this dimension before.

“You seem happier, Harry,” Hermione remarks, leaning over the table, perching on her elbows, the book she’d been reading pushed to the side.

“Do I?” Harry reluctantly tears his gaze from where Tom has just left the Great Hall alongside Blaise, off to detention for an infraction he’d refused to share the details of. Harry has heard rumours of an outburst during Defence Against the Dark Arts, but nothing specific, and he’s curious what could have made Tom lose his composure enough to land himself in detention.

“Much,” Ron agrees, pushing mashed potatoes onto his fork. “You’ve been in a right state ever since – beginning of summer, really. Kinda miserable. Different.”

“We’ve been worried,” Hermione goes on before Harry can protest. “It’s only natural you’d change from everything you’ve been through, of course, with the Tournament, the… graveyard, and then the dementors over the summer, but – don’t you roll your eyes at me, Harry Potter!”

He halts the motion, smiling bashfully at her admonishment. “Sorry.”

Hermione lets out a sceptical hmph, but continues, “As I was saying, changing after all – that, makes perfect sense. It’s just nice to see you happy again.”

“Bob’s influence, I’d wager,” Ron says, waggling his eyebrows and nudging Harry’s side with his elbow.

Harry exhales sharply through his nose in amusement, not disputing the point.

Hermione’s voice goes lower so as not to be overheard by their peers, her eyes entreating. “You know you can talk about it with us, though, don’t you?”

Not for the first time, Harry considers doing so. Bare his soul and past experiences, commiserate on being an unwilling actor in Death’s show, and tie them closer using nothing but the truth.

Would they react differently to how Ginny had? Would they remain friends with Bob, knowing that he is actually Tom – knowing that, before Harry burst onto the scene from a different dimension, he was the Lord Voldemort everyone still fears? Would they understand how Harry had fallen for him regardless, and that he has no intention of casting Tom aside?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Maybe one day he will give in to the temptation to tell them everything and see their reactions for himself beyond hypotheticals.

But it won’t be today.

“I know,” he replies, gently. “You’re my best friends.”

Hermione beams back. Ron smiles around his fork.

Harry can’t (and won’t) pretend it’s a coincidence he’s dawdling close to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom when Tom’s detention is meant to end. They barely had any time together all day and he’s envisioning stealing away to the Room of Requirement for the couple of hours they’ve still got left until curfew, provided Tom is up for it.

Likely, he’ll crave distraction after spending a whole detention with Umbitch, and who is Harry to deny him?