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Entry tags:
Liminality: Ch 6 [HP]
Title: Liminality
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing/Characters: Tomarry, brief!Harry/Ginny, Harry & Ginny, Ginny & Tom, Harry & Hermione & Ron, Hermione/Ron, Severus Snape & Harry
Rating: M
Chapter Word Count: 5,846
Chapter Count: 6 / 6 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2| Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5
Summary: AU: EWE; MoD!Harry. Harry Potter, saviour of magical Britain, has proved himself to be great at dying and coming back again. He’s just not as good at the bits in between coming back and dying again.
Notes:
---
“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” says Ron.
“Yes,” says Harry.
“As in, You Know Who,” says Ron.
“Yeah,” says Harry.
“As in, He Who Must Not Be Named,” says Ron.
“Yep,” says Harry.
“As in, Lord Voldemort,” says Ron.
Harry looks at Hermione. “I’m running out of ways to give an affirmative,” he tells her.
Hermione doesn’t look up from her book, which she has open on the table to the side of her half-finished plate. “It’s an internal process. He doesn’t really need you to respond.”
“As in, the Dark Lord,” says Ron.
Hermione turns the page. “He’ll wind down eventually.”
Harry shrugs and returns to his meal. “How’s the book?”
“Curiously unenlightening.” Hermione sighs. “If all books on necromancy are like this, I can see why the translation that Ginny and Tom found is so coveted.”
“Yeah.” Harry chews his cottage pie thoughtfully. “I’ve read a fair number, I suppose, and found the theory very interesting. It never occurred to me to notice the gaps in practical information, since I tended to just ask the author when I needed any clarification.”
“As in, the Heir of Slytherin,” says Ron.
Hermione’s eyes flicker up to Harry. “Yes, of course. Why don’t you ask the author of Raising the Dead?”
“No idea who he was,” Harry responds. “Don’t even know who the first few translators were. I found a reference to one translator in another book we have, but it turned out it was a dodgy name.”
“You need the real name to call a shade using the Stone?”
Harry considers this. “Not… precisely. But I need a real something. If I didn’t know their name, but I had their blood, that would be fine. Or if I knew what their soul tasted like. Smelled like? Felt like.”
Hermione makes a face at him. “I’m glad to know you’re finding your inner Dementor.”
“As in, the Father of Darkness,” says Ron.
“No one has ever called him that,” Hermione tells him, returning to her book.
Ron pouts. “You were ignoring me.”
Harry clears his throat. “You’re not… upset, right?”
“Of course I’m upset!” Ron scowls. “It’s not enough that my baby sister was possessed by You Know Who in her first year of Hogwarts, but actually she’s been possessed for eleven years on top of that, and none of us noticed?”
Harry scratches his scar reflexively, looking away.
“And you,” Ron continues, pointing his fork at Harry. “As soon as she’s free of the baggage, you dump her for her sexy tormentor!”
Harry chokes. Hermione summons him a full glass of water without looking up.
“Was it ever even her that you liked? Were you just using my sister this whole time?”
Harry gulps his water, not meeting Ron’s eyes. “I don’t know.”
Ron glares at him.
“And,” says Harry. “And I don’t know that she knows, either.”
That captures Hermione’s attention as well as Ron’s. “What do you mean? Ginny always liked you.”
“She had a crush on me when she was little,” Harry acknowledges. “An obsessive crush. And I’m fairly certain that she really did want to date me in 6th year. My attraction to her was certainly genuine, too. But the… the draw, the rightness that was the basis for our relationship, that had us last so long… I don’t know who that was.” Harry closes his eyes and thinks back to those dizzying emotions that had stricken him so suddenly when he was 16, the switch from fondness for a younger sister to physical desire. Ginny had been so smart, so funny, so strong, so beautiful. But she had been all of those things the year before, too. He’d noticed her coming into her own, and he’d been proud of her, but he’d never looked at her. But then, at 15, Ginny possessed a smirky, easy arrogance that had been absent in the confidence she’d displayed the year before, a smoothness and a grace that lit his whole body on fire. Was it simply the extra year of maturity gained? “They seem to have decided between them that it was Tom.”
“Fit Tom,” says Ron.
“Yes, Merlin, ‘Fit Tom.’” Harry scowls at him. “Can we please stop it with ‘Fit Tom’?”
“How do you feel about that?” asks Hermione hesitantly. “The idea that you may have been attracted to Ginny, but it was Tom you were in love with?”
Harry exhales and tries to ignore Ron miming vomiting. “I don’t know. Voldemort was a sick excuse for a human being, as insane as he was near the end. I can’t imagine… I don’t think I could live with myself for loving him. And Tom Riddle, the one I met in the Chamber of Secrets, was already a murderer who laughed about framing an innocent child… He wasn’t exactly a nice guy, either.”
Ron looks relieved. Hermione simply waits for him patiently.
“But… whoever it is I was with all these years…” Harry licks his lips nervously. “I think that person is… is pretty great. Worth loving.”
“Loveable?” asks Ron.
Hermione snorts.
Harry says, sotto voce, “Yeah.”
Ron and Hermione exchange glances. Ron gives Hermione a very tiny nod.
“Harry,” says Hermione gently. “I’m not saying that we won’t be keeping a close eye on him for awhile, but we support you. If you decide Fit Tom is boyfriend material—”
“Please quit,” pleads Harry.
Hermione smirks at him. “—Then we’ll put up with the awkward double dates and even help you introduce him to Molly.”
“I can’t wait to see Mum’s face,” agrees Ron gleefully.
Harry smiles at them both. “Thanks,” he says softly. He hesitates, then adds, “I told my Mum and Dad. And Sirius and Remus. And… Snape.”
Ron takes a deliberately big bit of food to avoid responding.
“Oh?” says Hermione, voice slightly high. “How did that go?”
Strange, how she’s more comfortable with Harry speaking to long-dead necromancers rather than his own family. But then, he supposes that he’s more likely to cross the Veil permanently for someone he loves than for the author of the 1178 edition of Nekromanteia.
“They were… supportive,” says Harry. “Eerily so. They’re always very… I don’t know, placid? Calm?”
Hermione nods slowly. “Is that a characteristic of the dead, in your experience?”
Harry drinks some more water, considering this. “Not everyone is happy to see me,” he says, thinking of Merope. “But yeah, I think their reactions are always much more mild than they might have been if they were still alive. And ultimately, they have to answer me and my demands.”
“Because you’re their master?” asks Hermione.
Harry shrugs. He doesn’t like thinking about it in those terms, but… “I suppose.”
“So, they’re maybe great for information, but maybe not so great for getting, er, advice? About some things?” prods Ron.
Harry rolls his eyes. “Yes, that is the point I was coming to, Ron,” he snaps. He looks down at his plate, now almost empty. “Sorry. I just…” He straightens, firming himself, and looks up. “I don’t intend to give up the Stone, or to stop using it.”
Hermione opens her mouth to speak, but Ron shushes her.
When neither of them speak, Harry continues, “But… I do think… I mean, I admit that I’ve been depending on it too much. They have their wisdom to share, but… they’re not alive, and they haven’t been for a while. Maybe, when… when it comes to understanding matters of life, the living are the better source.”
Hermione and Ron both look relieved. Excessively so, in Harry’s opinion. “So… moderation?” asks Ron.
Harry raises his water glass in a parody of a toast. “Moderation,” he agrees solemnly, and they all drink in tandem.
They don’t speak as they pick up their dishes and carry them to the kitchen, but once they start the cleanup proper, Ron breaks the relaxed silence.
“So,” he says. “What’re you wearing to your next date with Fit Tom?”
Harry does not let his expression change as he redirects the spray of water from the tap straight into Ron’s face.
---
Harry does not know what he’s wearing to his date with Tom.
He can’t help but fall back on bad habits.
"So, say that you were hypothetically going to go on a date with Voldemort," Harry begins.
"Potter, for the love of all magicks, send me back."
Snape is no help at all.
"Do you think, hypothetically, that Voldemort would prefer the traditional robes with the grey trimming or these green ones with the slanted cut everyone's wearing these days?"
"The Dark Lord would never lower himself to look at anything you've touched with your disgusting, filthy hands," sneers Bellatrix.
"So, how did Voldemort feel about embroidery?"
Abraxas Malfoy stares at him blankly. "I do not believe he ever expressed a preference in my presence."
Harry collapses facedown onto his bed, wrinkling the soft fabrics of the dress robes he's thrown down into a heap over his sheets.
He hadn't wanted it to come to this, but… it seems he has no alternative.
He stands up, brushes himself off, and heads down to the fireplace in his study.
"Hello?" he calls out as soon as the Fire Call connects. "Ginny?"
There's nothing for a moment, and then Tom's face appears in the flames. "Harry," he purrs. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
"Nothing!" says Harry. "At all! Just, I need to talk to Ginny. Privately."
Tom looks extremely displeased, but he nods, his fiery lips pressed together in a tight line, and then he vanishes.
A moment later, Ginny appears in his place. "Harry? Everything alright?"
"Yes, just, er… Actually, would you mind coming through?"
Ginny frowns but agrees, and Harry pulls back to make room and lift the wards.
The flames roar green, and Ginny steps lightly through and ends the call.
"Well?" she asks, when Harry says and does nothing.
Harry can see that she's getting increasingly annoyed with him, and he winces. "Why don't we sit," he says, and waves a chair over to her. He clears his throat once they're settled. "I… Listen, I know this isn't really appropriate for me to ask of you, given how close you are to Tom, and how our relationship has changed so recently," he begins, and Ginny stiffens in her chair, her hands gripping the arms so tightly that her knuckles turn white. "I just, I need to know—"
"No, Harry," Ginny interrupts sharply. "As far as I'm concerned, our relationship ended months ago. We're very firmly just friends, now. I've no residual romantic feelings for you to speak of."
"Oh, good," says Harry. He assumed as much, but having the confirmation is nice, if a little off-topic.
Ginny blinks at him.
"So then, maybe it's not too strange that I was hoping you'd help me decide what to wear for tonight?" asks Harry hopefully. "I have no idea what Tom might like. Green, probably, but I have a lot of green robes, and—"
Ginny bursts out laughing at him.
Ginny does eventually help him select an outfit, once she's managed to calm herself down. It's surprisingly fun to dig through his wardrobe with her. When he's done the same with Hermione, he always ends up feeling simultaneously more anxious and very aware of his own sartorial incompetence, but having Ginny laughing at him somehow relaxes his nerves.
"There, that's nice," says Ginny finally, looking him over. "Tom will lose his shit when he sees you."
The mirror tuts disapprovingly. "No need for that language," it says. "But you do look very handsome, dear."
Harry tugs at the high collar, and Ginny smacks his hand away. "Stop, it's perfect." She rolls up her sleeves. "Now your hair," she says grimly as she cracks her knuckles.
By the time Ginny leaves, Harry is a vision, or so she assures him. She's decided to forego the Floo and apparate home instead, so Harry waves her off to the main entrance with his thanks while he heads to the kitchen to check on supper.
He has his head in the oven when he hears Ginny exclaim, "Oh, why hello, Tom!" from the door, and he barely manages to keep himself from banging his head against the hot roof of the oven as he hurries out of the kitchen.
"You'd better appreciate all the time I put into prettying your boy up," Ginny is saying to Tom when he arrives.
"Given his baseline, I can't imagine you needed to do anything at all," Tom says, his lips curled up. He seems to be in a much better mood than he had been when Harry spoke to him during their firecall. He has a bouquet of something leaning across one arm, and he's carrying another case of butterbeer with the other.
"You have no idea, the effort this took," Harry sighs, coming closer so that he's within view of the door. "I'm going to have nightmares of Ginny coming at me with a comb for weeks."
Tom's eyes fall on him and seem to freeze. Harry bites his lip nervously, but Tom says nothing.
Harry feels his heart drop. It doesn't matter, he tries to assure himself. Tom likes him, and Tom thinks he's generally at least somewhat attractive, so if Tom doesn't like him in this particular outfit, that's no big deal. Or maybe it's the hair.
Ginny shoves Tom roughly and raises her eyebrows at him. "Well?" she asks pointedly.
"Beautiful," Tom breathes out in a rush. He flushes very slightly. "Of course, you're always beautiful," he tells Harry smoothly, his charm turned back on to the max. "But this look is very… pleasant. For a formal occasion. May I come in?"
Harry nods, feeling strangely shy.
"Bye, Harry, Tom," says Ginny, trading places with Tom in the entrance way. "Be good, boys," she says, winking, and then Tom and Harry are alone together, staring at one another.
"You do," says Tom abruptly. "Look very nice, I mean."
Harry smiles nervously. "You do, too."
Tom clears his throat. “I brought these,” he says, passing over the bouquet. “Not quite flowers, in case you had concerns for your masculinity. A variety of wild grasses native to Southeast Asia. They’re supposedly very powerful protective plants.”
“Thanks, that’s very thoughtful.” Harry takes the bouquet. For “grasses,” the bouquet is an incredible mixture of plants of different colours, shapes, and textures. The scent is divine. “I’ll just put these in water.” He leads the way into the kitchen, knowing that Tom is following him by the feeling of his eyes burning into his back. His hands are shaking slightly as he levitates a tall vase down from his highest cabinet, but he manages to get it to the counter with no mishap. “I’m surprised you were concerned with how I might react to flowers,” Harry says, filling the vase with water with a swirling motion of his wand, trimming the grasses with a slash, and finally placing them inside. He lets his finger linger on a bright blue, curling leaf. “I never complained about Gin—you, you two, I never complained about you two bringing me flowers before.”
“That was when the person bringing you flowers was a woman,” says Tom. “I was worried that it might feel different, coming from a man. And I didn’t want to… imply anything about our respective gender roles.”
Harry hums, still stroking his fingers through the soft tips of the leafy grasses. “But it was always you?” he asks.
Harry hears Tom swallow behind him. Perhaps Harry isn’t the only one who’s nervous, after all. “It was always me,” Tom agrees. “I—I wanted to bring you flowers. I wanted to bring you beautiful things. And Ginny liked the thought of the woman treating the man, so she was happy to… indulge me.”
“Well, they’re lovely,” says Harry. His hands are still shaking, so he lowers them both to the edge of the counter to steady himself.
Tom steps in close behind him. “So are you,” he says, breathing the words into Harry’s ear, and Harry trembles against him.
“I—” he begins, but Tom is turning him gently and leaning down, and Harry can’t remember what he was going to say.
Kissing Tom doesn’t feel like kissing Ginny.
There are elements that are the same; both Tom and Ginny are rather taller than him, though Tom is more so, so the tilt of Harry’s head feels familiar. And Tom is just as playful and teasing as Ginny was. He runs his tongue along the seam of Harry’s lips, requesting entrance, and then, as Harry’s lips part, he turns instead to suckling and nipping at Harry’s bottom lip while Harry lets out an embarrassing whine.
But the feeling of Tom’s lips against his, their shape and their texture, it’s all different. Tom tastes different, he smells different. And when Harry grows impatient with waiting and takes the initiative for himself, sliding his tongue into Tom’s mouth—the places that make Tom respond are different, and the noises he makes are different.
Tom’s arms are braced against the counter behind Harry, but Harry’s hands are free, and he lets them wander curiously along the broad shoulders and down to the tapered waist. He teases his fingers lower, and Tom growls softly and pushes further into Harry until they’re pressed tightly against one another.
When Tom takes back control of the kiss, Harry feels like he’s drowning. The similarities to kissing Ginny are all gone. It’s only Tom, Tom, Tom’s mouth, Tom’s tongue, Tom’s hands sliding up his back and burying themselves in Harry’s hair.
There’s a noise from behind Tom, and Tom pulls away, gasping, but Harry yanks him back down again. “Don’t stop,” he pleads. “Don’t ever stop.”
Tom’s eyes flicker across Harry’s face. Harry doesn’t want to think about how he must look right now, given how wreaked Tom looks.
“Never,” Tom breathes, and then his lips are back on Harry’s.
Harry is pawing at Tom’s clothes, trying ineffectually to unbutton his irritatingly complicated dress robes, while Tom mouths at Harry’s neck, murmuring things that are alternately sweet and filthy, when a loud crack sounds and Tom is suddenly pulled sharply away from him.
Harry reaches instinctively for his wand, and then he hears the alarm. “The oven?” he asks groggily. But no, it’s—
“The Auror Alarm, Master,” says Kreacher. “Kreacher was saving the supper earlier. This is why wizards shouldn’t be allowed in Kreacher’s kitchen, Master,” Kreacher continues pointedly.
“Er, right, thanks,” says Harry, still out of breath. His mind takes a moment to parse what Kreacher just said, and then he straightens sharply, his eyes widening. “Oh, fu—the Auror Alarm. I have to—”
“You’ll splinch yourself if you try to Apparate now,” says Tom urgently. Harry is slightly offended, but Tom probably has a point, given that his knees are currently too weak to hold him up. “Let me take you there.”
“No, it’s a—a portkey,” says Harry. “It activates when we turn off the alarm.” Harry brushes back his hair with his fingers. It must have been one of his teams that responded, or he wouldn’t have been specifically alerted. “I’m fine, now, I just—” Harry looks up at Tom, and then he says, “You know what, fine. It probably has to do with your stupid books, anyway.”
Tom smirks at him and reaches out to grip his elbow.
“Thanks, Kreacher,” he tells the elf. “Could you let Ron know to raise the alarm with the team? He’ll know what to do.”
Kreacher sneers at him and disappears.
“Ready?” asks Harry.
Tom nods at him. He’s standing unnecessarily close, and Harry has to look away to get his blush under control. “Ready,” he replies.
Harry turns off the alarm, and with a violent yank and blink of the eyes, he’s somewhere else.
Harry’s heart twists when he takes in the scene. They’re in what he assumes is the Everett family home. Everett is standing in front of two women—his mother and sister?—and an older man—Everett’s father?—is collapsed against the wall. Jakobs is facing them, snarling and brandishing her wand.
A series of pops sounds, and Peters and Burnes appear. They barely seem to take in the scene before they’re rushing to stand in front of Jakobs, wands drawn in shaking hands against her.
Harry silently raises anti-apparation wards.
“Anyone want to tell me what’s happening?” asks Harry mildly.
“She appeared out of nowhere and started attacking us!” gasps the woman who is probably Everett’s sister. “I don’t even know who she is!”
If Jakobs has the rest of the team under the Imperius Curse, why are they all standing against her? Did it fade?
“You know damn well who I am and why I’m here,” snaps Jakobs. “And I didn’t start attacking you. I came to place you under arrest!”
Harry raises his eyebrows. “Sounds like this’ll make for an interesting story.”
“Interesting enough to make up for crashing your date?” asks Greengrass as she walks in through the open front door just behind him; Jakobs had broken it open when she entered, he assumes. Ron, Nott, and Patil follow her. “Nice hair. Oh, and you must be Fit Tom.”
Tom looks at Harry, visibly intrigued.
Harry just barely manages to keep himself from trying to smooth out the disaster that Tom must have made of us previously unnaturally tidy hair. “This is Tom, here to consult with us about the books,” says Harry.
Greengrass smirks at him. “My mistake.”
“Jakobs,” Harry barks out. “Clarification on your reason for the attempted arrest of a fellow auror?”
Jakobs’s eyes are slightly wide, but she doesn’t let them move from her target. “I’m not here for Everett. Well, not our Everett.” Despite all the wands pointed at her, her voice remains steady. “Vivienne Everett, I’m placing you under arrest for 3 counts of the Imperius Curse, invasion of the ministry, theft of ministry property, and—”
“Liar,” screams Everett’s sister. Beside her, her mother looks on with wide eyes. “Where is your evidence?”
“Give me your wand, and I’ll show you the evidence,” says Jakobs in a low growl.
“Give me all of your wands,” says Harry, “Or I’ll take them by force. Yes, you too, Jakobs.”
“Sir, I swear to you—” Jakobs begins desperately.
Harry stares her down. “Wand. Now.”
Jakobs is slow to lower her wand and hand it over. The grudging despair in her eyes makes it clear that she can’t read Harry’s internal plans for her promotion. He should get an acting award. Are there acting awards in the magical world? There should be, and he should get one.
Vivienne Everett tries to slink away, and Harry snaps up her wand with a quick twist of his wrist. She goes still and pale. Many of the witches and wizards that Harry’s met seem stunned and even frightened at easy displays of wandless magic, which is why Harry typically tries to avoid them in public. He suspects that’s not the only reason that Vivienne looks so terrified, though.
Harry hands the wands to Patil, who begins muttering, “Priori Incantatem,” under her breath, going over the seven wands one-by-one.
Harry turns back to the watching audience. “I have to agree with Miss Everett,” he says. “Jakobs, how exactly did you come to the conclusion that the Imperius has been cast and that Miss Everett is behind the curse and the thefts?”
Jakobs swallows. “The whole team started acting strangely when we went out for lunch, sir,” she tells him. “I had just joined the team maybe half an hour before, so I thought maybe they were just upset at me for taking over. But the whole day after that, it seemed that everyone was tripping over themselves to avoid making progress. And then, Everett made this big deal over being the one to seal up the lockboxes at the end of the day, and I let him. I didn’t remember until a few days later, but when I was checking to make sure that everything had been sealed correctly, I saw that a record was kept of who did the sealing. And when I remembered that, I thought maybe a record was kept of who did the unsealing. Sure enough, when I checked, there was a record right there stating that Everett unsealed and emptied the lockboxes!”
Everett’s mother gasps, shaking her head. “No, Pierre is a good boy! He works so hard at his job, he would never—”
“I don’t think he did it willingly,” says Jakobs. “And I don’t think you do, either, sir, or you would have arrested him already. You had to know about the lockbox record. So he must be controlled by something.”
“And you jumped to the Imperius Curse?” asks Harry skeptically. Behind him, he hears Ron murmur, and Vivienne Everett freezes into a full body bind from where she’d been trying to sneak away.
“It’s a well-known curse,” says Jakobs, flushing.
“Stop picking on her, Potter,” says Greengrass. “You jumped straight to the Imperius Curse, too.”
Patil interrupts. “She must have renewed the casting recently. How convenient for us. There are three casts of the Imperius Curse on her wand.”
Vivienne whimpers from where she’s frozen on the ground.
Harry looks back to Jakobs. “Well? How did you decide on Miss Everett?”
Jakobs is more relaxed now that the magical evidence points in her favour. “Everyone on the team was acting strange, not just Everett, so I started looking into people they’d all come into contact with. Then I remembered that the whole team had gone down to meet Everett’s sister when she dropped off his lunch that day. And when I looked into her, things kept coming up. She’s been skipping out on work, but she’s still been coming by the ministry, things like that.” Jakobs shrugs uncomfortably. “When I approached her with questions, she spooked. I think she had some of the stolen property on her person at the time.”
“Let her up,” Harry tells Ron. Ron removes the body bind, allowing Vivienne to speak, but he adds magical cuffs to her hands and feet. “Miss Everett, do you have anything you’d like to disagree with or add to Junior Auror Jakobs’s statement?” Vivienne looks away. “Third Circle?” he prods. “Or Returning Reign?”
Vivienne mutters something.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” says Harry pleasantly.
“Returning Reign,” she growls out.
Harry sees Tom relax beside him out of the corner of his eye.
“And whose reign did you intend to return?”
“It’s just temporary!” she snaps. “You idiots don’t know anything! The amount of knowledge that has been lost as you purge your way through our world! Returning Reign is just a summoning spell.”
Harry fights not to roll his eyes at her. “I’m aware of what the Returning Reign is and does, Miss Everett, thank you. I apologise for my play on words. Whose soul were you summoning?”
Vivienne’s chin turns up stubbornly. “You Know Who’s,” she says definitely.
Everett’s mother starts crying.
“Not to hurt anyone,” insists Vivienne, speaking more to her mother than to anyone else, now. “But he was so powerful. He was immortal, really immortal! I was going to ask him how!”
Greengrass sneers. “Wow, Potter. At least you were right about the MUTANT having a six-year old’s motivation.”
“He became immortal by hurting people,” says Tom cheerfully to Vivenne. “I’ll happily demonstrate, if you like.”
Harry kicks him.
The arrest goes smoothly after that. The books and artifacts are found, the Imperius Curses are lifted, and everyone is taken into the ministry to give their formal statements. Vivienne Everett is locked up, pending trial.
After the Everetts and juniors are sent home, Harry collapses into his chair in his office. Everyone else crowds in after him.
“I guess I should probably do the paperwork,” he says mournfully. “At least you have paperwork, too.” He flicks his wand and float stacks of scrolls over to the other aurors, feeling somewhat mollified. Misery loves company, and all that.
“Drink this,” says Tom, appearing with a steaming cup of tea.
“Oooh, fit and sweet,” says Greengrass, eying up Tom with interest. “Where did you say you found him?”
Tom smirks at Harry, smug. “There was some confusion over an old book,” he says. “Ginerva was the one whole introduced us.”
“I can’t believe she was willing to give you up,” says Patil. Her gaze is lingering on Tom just long enough to make Harry twitch, especially given the way Tom is preening at the attention.
Ron makes a disgusted face in the background.
Harry shrugs at him, helpless.
A tapping on the window interrupts them, and Harry frowns and lets the owl in. “Is that your parents’ owl?” he asks Ron dubiously. Then he sees the bright red envelope clasped in the owl’s talons and winces. “Er… Please tell me that’s for you.”
Tom leans his hip against the desk, grinning. “We can also see your name on it, love. Open it up.”
As Harry reaches out tentatively to untie the letter, he sees Nott mouthing ‘love,’ at him. Harry makes a rude hand gesture in response, scowling, and the owl nips his fingers to chastise him.
“Sorry, sorry,” Harry mutters. “So, if you could all excuse me?” The letter is starting to vibrate in his hands.
“Oh, Potter,” says Greengrass pityingly. “We wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
Harry sighs. He opens the letter.
“HARRY JAMES POTTER,” Mrs. Weasley’s voice screeches. “HOW DARE YOU? I THOUGHT WE WERE FAMILY, BUT APPARENTLY I WAS MISTAKEN.”
Harry flinches. Tom reaches out to pull Harry into his arms, and Ron shakes his head. She doesn’t mean it like that, his eyes are saying, but Harry can’t help the hurt. It’s a sore spot for him.
“HERE I FIND THAT YOU AND GINNY HAVE BEEN BROKEN UP FOR WHO KNOWS HOW LONG, AND YOU’RE ALREADY SEEING SOMEONE ELSE, AND DID ANYONE BOTHER TO TELL POOR MOLLY? DID ANYONE THINK I MIGHT WANT TO KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON IN MY OWN CHILDREN’S LIVES?”
Tom huffs a laugh against Harry’s hair.
“I EXPECT YOU AND YOUR YOUNG MAN FOR BRUNCH TOMORROW. NO EXCEPTIONS.”
Harry peeks at Tom, who’s now laughing in earnest. So is everyone else in the room, apparently.
“AND I MADE TREACLE TART, SINCE IT’S YOUR FAVOURITE, DEAR. SEND ME A LIST OF SOME THINGS YOUR YOUNG MAN LIKES SO I HAVE THEM READY.”
“She never makes me my favourite,” says Ron, pouting.
“ALL MY LOVE, MOLLY.”
With that, the Howler burns to ash.
When the echoes of Molly’s voice have faded, Harry becomes aware of another tapping at the window. He pulls away from Tom to unburden this owl as well.
Hi Harry (and Tom!)—sorry to interrupt, but mum stopped by, and it slipped out. Expect a very loud invitation to brunch coming your way. Hannibal ad portas, and all that! —GW
“A little late, Ginny,” mutters Harry. “Rome has already fallen.”
“Well,” says Greengrass. “I don’t know about you, but I’m filing the absolute minimum and saving the rest for Monday. Sorry about your date, Fit Tom.”
“Oh, I had a perfectly lovely time,” says Tom, evidently still enjoying his appellation way more than he should.
“That didn’t come from me,” Harry feels the need to point out. “I never called you Fit Tom.”
Ron snorts. “You never needed to, mate. Your eyes said it all.”
That’s worse, isn’t it? That’s worse. Harry flushes bright red.
“It was very nice to meet all of you,” says Tom. “And to see you again, Ron. But if you wouldn’t mind, Harry needs to finish his paperwork very quickly so that we can get back to our date.”
“Scat,” says Harry.
The team files out of the room, laughing at him and shooting him obnoxious thumbs up signs.
“Quickly, now,” says Tom, trailing his finger down the back of Harry’s neck. “Or I might get impatient.”
Harry shivers and gets to work.
---
EPILOGUE
---
Harry is ready for brunch. Tom left to get clean clothes, but he’s set to come back so that they can go to the Burrow together.
Harry hesitates, looking at the clock, but he thinks he has time. “Sorry to bother you, Professor Dumbledore,” he says. “I just had a few more things… er… hello?”
“Insolent children,” says the shade of Gellert Grindelwald. “Calling for shades carelessly without any attention to the time differences or what we may be doing at the time.”
Harry stares. “Er… There are time differences?”
“No, Harry,” says Albus, coming into view beside the Dark Lord Grindelwald. “I’m afraid he’s only teasing you. I hope you don’t mind that Gellert tagged along. He was rather insistent.”
“Er,” says Harry. “Not at… all? Sorry, I didn’t realise that was possible.”
“Lazy,” sighs Gellert, shaking his head. “Unambitious. No interest in pushing the boundaries of knowledge.”
Harry scowls at him.
“You had some words you wanted to share with me, Harry?” prods Albus cheerfully.
Harry grins at him. “Yeah, I did. And they are: Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak.”
Albus laughs while Gellert rolls his eyes exasperatedly.
“I wanted to ask you about the Stone again, sir,” Harry continues, smirking at Gellert. “See, now that I’m dating a resurrected Tom Riddle—”
“Come again?” asks Albus weakly.
“—I was wondering if it’s, you know, okay that I’m keeping his family heirloom from him. I don’t really want to give it up, but…” Harry shrugs, looking down. “I feel like I should.”
“Whomever it belonged to in the past, it’s yours now,” Albus tells him, recovering himself and visibly making the decision not to ask. “But perhaps this is something you should discuss with him, and not us.”
Harry nods, sighing. “Yeah, I suppose so.”
Albus smiles at him. “There’s no need to be so forlorn, my boy. You may find yourself less in need of the Stone than you previously thought.”
Harry flushes. “I mean, I’m working on being less emotionally and socially dependent on it,” he tries, realising that this current conversation probably does not present his case in the best possible light.
“What he means, child, is that the Stone is merely a tool. A crutch.” Grindelwald looks down his nose at him. “Surely you’ve progressed beyond it, by now.”
Harry blinks in surprise. “I can call beyond the Veil without the Stone?” he asks. The idea had never occurred to him.
Albus smiles at him. “My boy, think to yourself: how did you call us here today? What precisely did you do?”
“I…” Harry tries to think back. “I just… called?” Did he channel the call through the Stone? He doesn’t remember. The whole process just feels automatic these days.
“The Stone is precise,” says Grindelwald. “Its call is ordered and controlled. I would never have been able to hitchhike my way here if you had called for Albus and only Albus using the Stone. I imagine you haven’t been truly depending on the Stone to call your dead for some time.”
“...Oh.”
The door chime sounds. Tom must be back.
“Master best be answering the door for hisself!” yells Kreacher. “It being Kreacher’s day off!”
“I’m going, I’m going!” Harry looks back at the two old men. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you around, then.”
“At decent hours!” Gellert insists, smirking.
Albus shushes him, smiling. “At any time,” he says, and they both fade away.
Harry opens the door to find that Tom has brought back more flowers. A lot more flowers.
“Are those all for me?” he asks, grinning.
Tom rolls his eyes. “Of course not, love. This one,” he hefts up the larger, more absurdly overdone of the two bouquets, “is for Molly.”
Harry smiles at him. “I see you’re aiming to impress.” He waves Tom in and goes to find another vase.
“It’s not just for you,” says Tom quietly. “They’ve been my family, too, for the past eleven years. Irritating as they are, I don’t want to lose them.”
Harry reaches out to grip his hand. “You won’t.”
Tom tugs him in close and wraps him in his arms. “I don’t want to lose you, either,” he says.
Harry stretches up to press a kiss against the bottom side of Tom’s jaw. “You won’t.” he repeats softly. After a long moment, Harry pulls away. “Well, let’s go,” he says, reclaiming Tom’s hand. “We have our lives to live, you and I.”
“Yes,” says Tom wonderingly. “We do.”
-END-
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing/Characters: Tomarry, brief!Harry/Ginny, Harry & Ginny, Ginny & Tom, Harry & Hermione & Ron, Hermione/Ron, Severus Snape & Harry
Rating: M
Chapter Word Count: 5,846
Chapter Count: 6 / 6 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2| Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5
Summary: AU: EWE; MoD!Harry. Harry Potter, saviour of magical Britain, has proved himself to be great at dying and coming back again. He’s just not as good at the bits in between coming back and dying again.
Notes:
“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” says Ron.
“Yes,” says Harry.
“As in, You Know Who,” says Ron.
“Yeah,” says Harry.
“As in, He Who Must Not Be Named,” says Ron.
“Yep,” says Harry.
“As in, Lord Voldemort,” says Ron.
Harry looks at Hermione. “I’m running out of ways to give an affirmative,” he tells her.
Hermione doesn’t look up from her book, which she has open on the table to the side of her half-finished plate. “It’s an internal process. He doesn’t really need you to respond.”
“As in, the Dark Lord,” says Ron.
Hermione turns the page. “He’ll wind down eventually.”
Harry shrugs and returns to his meal. “How’s the book?”
“Curiously unenlightening.” Hermione sighs. “If all books on necromancy are like this, I can see why the translation that Ginny and Tom found is so coveted.”
“Yeah.” Harry chews his cottage pie thoughtfully. “I’ve read a fair number, I suppose, and found the theory very interesting. It never occurred to me to notice the gaps in practical information, since I tended to just ask the author when I needed any clarification.”
“As in, the Heir of Slytherin,” says Ron.
Hermione’s eyes flicker up to Harry. “Yes, of course. Why don’t you ask the author of Raising the Dead?”
“No idea who he was,” Harry responds. “Don’t even know who the first few translators were. I found a reference to one translator in another book we have, but it turned out it was a dodgy name.”
“You need the real name to call a shade using the Stone?”
Harry considers this. “Not… precisely. But I need a real something. If I didn’t know their name, but I had their blood, that would be fine. Or if I knew what their soul tasted like. Smelled like? Felt like.”
Hermione makes a face at him. “I’m glad to know you’re finding your inner Dementor.”
“As in, the Father of Darkness,” says Ron.
“No one has ever called him that,” Hermione tells him, returning to her book.
Ron pouts. “You were ignoring me.”
Harry clears his throat. “You’re not… upset, right?”
“Of course I’m upset!” Ron scowls. “It’s not enough that my baby sister was possessed by You Know Who in her first year of Hogwarts, but actually she’s been possessed for eleven years on top of that, and none of us noticed?”
Harry scratches his scar reflexively, looking away.
“And you,” Ron continues, pointing his fork at Harry. “As soon as she’s free of the baggage, you dump her for her sexy tormentor!”
Harry chokes. Hermione summons him a full glass of water without looking up.
“Was it ever even her that you liked? Were you just using my sister this whole time?”
Harry gulps his water, not meeting Ron’s eyes. “I don’t know.”
Ron glares at him.
“And,” says Harry. “And I don’t know that she knows, either.”
That captures Hermione’s attention as well as Ron’s. “What do you mean? Ginny always liked you.”
“She had a crush on me when she was little,” Harry acknowledges. “An obsessive crush. And I’m fairly certain that she really did want to date me in 6th year. My attraction to her was certainly genuine, too. But the… the draw, the rightness that was the basis for our relationship, that had us last so long… I don’t know who that was.” Harry closes his eyes and thinks back to those dizzying emotions that had stricken him so suddenly when he was 16, the switch from fondness for a younger sister to physical desire. Ginny had been so smart, so funny, so strong, so beautiful. But she had been all of those things the year before, too. He’d noticed her coming into her own, and he’d been proud of her, but he’d never looked at her. But then, at 15, Ginny possessed a smirky, easy arrogance that had been absent in the confidence she’d displayed the year before, a smoothness and a grace that lit his whole body on fire. Was it simply the extra year of maturity gained? “They seem to have decided between them that it was Tom.”
“Fit Tom,” says Ron.
“Yes, Merlin, ‘Fit Tom.’” Harry scowls at him. “Can we please stop it with ‘Fit Tom’?”
“How do you feel about that?” asks Hermione hesitantly. “The idea that you may have been attracted to Ginny, but it was Tom you were in love with?”
Harry exhales and tries to ignore Ron miming vomiting. “I don’t know. Voldemort was a sick excuse for a human being, as insane as he was near the end. I can’t imagine… I don’t think I could live with myself for loving him. And Tom Riddle, the one I met in the Chamber of Secrets, was already a murderer who laughed about framing an innocent child… He wasn’t exactly a nice guy, either.”
Ron looks relieved. Hermione simply waits for him patiently.
“But… whoever it is I was with all these years…” Harry licks his lips nervously. “I think that person is… is pretty great. Worth loving.”
“Loveable?” asks Ron.
Hermione snorts.
Harry says, sotto voce, “Yeah.”
Ron and Hermione exchange glances. Ron gives Hermione a very tiny nod.
“Harry,” says Hermione gently. “I’m not saying that we won’t be keeping a close eye on him for awhile, but we support you. If you decide Fit Tom is boyfriend material—”
“Please quit,” pleads Harry.
Hermione smirks at him. “—Then we’ll put up with the awkward double dates and even help you introduce him to Molly.”
“I can’t wait to see Mum’s face,” agrees Ron gleefully.
Harry smiles at them both. “Thanks,” he says softly. He hesitates, then adds, “I told my Mum and Dad. And Sirius and Remus. And… Snape.”
Ron takes a deliberately big bit of food to avoid responding.
“Oh?” says Hermione, voice slightly high. “How did that go?”
Strange, how she’s more comfortable with Harry speaking to long-dead necromancers rather than his own family. But then, he supposes that he’s more likely to cross the Veil permanently for someone he loves than for the author of the 1178 edition of Nekromanteia.
“They were… supportive,” says Harry. “Eerily so. They’re always very… I don’t know, placid? Calm?”
Hermione nods slowly. “Is that a characteristic of the dead, in your experience?”
Harry drinks some more water, considering this. “Not everyone is happy to see me,” he says, thinking of Merope. “But yeah, I think their reactions are always much more mild than they might have been if they were still alive. And ultimately, they have to answer me and my demands.”
“Because you’re their master?” asks Hermione.
Harry shrugs. He doesn’t like thinking about it in those terms, but… “I suppose.”
“So, they’re maybe great for information, but maybe not so great for getting, er, advice? About some things?” prods Ron.
Harry rolls his eyes. “Yes, that is the point I was coming to, Ron,” he snaps. He looks down at his plate, now almost empty. “Sorry. I just…” He straightens, firming himself, and looks up. “I don’t intend to give up the Stone, or to stop using it.”
Hermione opens her mouth to speak, but Ron shushes her.
When neither of them speak, Harry continues, “But… I do think… I mean, I admit that I’ve been depending on it too much. They have their wisdom to share, but… they’re not alive, and they haven’t been for a while. Maybe, when… when it comes to understanding matters of life, the living are the better source.”
Hermione and Ron both look relieved. Excessively so, in Harry’s opinion. “So… moderation?” asks Ron.
Harry raises his water glass in a parody of a toast. “Moderation,” he agrees solemnly, and they all drink in tandem.
They don’t speak as they pick up their dishes and carry them to the kitchen, but once they start the cleanup proper, Ron breaks the relaxed silence.
“So,” he says. “What’re you wearing to your next date with Fit Tom?”
Harry does not let his expression change as he redirects the spray of water from the tap straight into Ron’s face.
Harry does not know what he’s wearing to his date with Tom.
He can’t help but fall back on bad habits.
"So, say that you were hypothetically going to go on a date with Voldemort," Harry begins.
"Potter, for the love of all magicks, send me back."
Snape is no help at all.
"Do you think, hypothetically, that Voldemort would prefer the traditional robes with the grey trimming or these green ones with the slanted cut everyone's wearing these days?"
"The Dark Lord would never lower himself to look at anything you've touched with your disgusting, filthy hands," sneers Bellatrix.
"So, how did Voldemort feel about embroidery?"
Abraxas Malfoy stares at him blankly. "I do not believe he ever expressed a preference in my presence."
Harry collapses facedown onto his bed, wrinkling the soft fabrics of the dress robes he's thrown down into a heap over his sheets.
He hadn't wanted it to come to this, but… it seems he has no alternative.
He stands up, brushes himself off, and heads down to the fireplace in his study.
"Hello?" he calls out as soon as the Fire Call connects. "Ginny?"
There's nothing for a moment, and then Tom's face appears in the flames. "Harry," he purrs. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
"Nothing!" says Harry. "At all! Just, I need to talk to Ginny. Privately."
Tom looks extremely displeased, but he nods, his fiery lips pressed together in a tight line, and then he vanishes.
A moment later, Ginny appears in his place. "Harry? Everything alright?"
"Yes, just, er… Actually, would you mind coming through?"
Ginny frowns but agrees, and Harry pulls back to make room and lift the wards.
The flames roar green, and Ginny steps lightly through and ends the call.
"Well?" she asks, when Harry says and does nothing.
Harry can see that she's getting increasingly annoyed with him, and he winces. "Why don't we sit," he says, and waves a chair over to her. He clears his throat once they're settled. "I… Listen, I know this isn't really appropriate for me to ask of you, given how close you are to Tom, and how our relationship has changed so recently," he begins, and Ginny stiffens in her chair, her hands gripping the arms so tightly that her knuckles turn white. "I just, I need to know—"
"No, Harry," Ginny interrupts sharply. "As far as I'm concerned, our relationship ended months ago. We're very firmly just friends, now. I've no residual romantic feelings for you to speak of."
"Oh, good," says Harry. He assumed as much, but having the confirmation is nice, if a little off-topic.
Ginny blinks at him.
"So then, maybe it's not too strange that I was hoping you'd help me decide what to wear for tonight?" asks Harry hopefully. "I have no idea what Tom might like. Green, probably, but I have a lot of green robes, and—"
Ginny bursts out laughing at him.
Ginny does eventually help him select an outfit, once she's managed to calm herself down. It's surprisingly fun to dig through his wardrobe with her. When he's done the same with Hermione, he always ends up feeling simultaneously more anxious and very aware of his own sartorial incompetence, but having Ginny laughing at him somehow relaxes his nerves.
"There, that's nice," says Ginny finally, looking him over. "Tom will lose his shit when he sees you."
The mirror tuts disapprovingly. "No need for that language," it says. "But you do look very handsome, dear."
Harry tugs at the high collar, and Ginny smacks his hand away. "Stop, it's perfect." She rolls up her sleeves. "Now your hair," she says grimly as she cracks her knuckles.
By the time Ginny leaves, Harry is a vision, or so she assures him. She's decided to forego the Floo and apparate home instead, so Harry waves her off to the main entrance with his thanks while he heads to the kitchen to check on supper.
He has his head in the oven when he hears Ginny exclaim, "Oh, why hello, Tom!" from the door, and he barely manages to keep himself from banging his head against the hot roof of the oven as he hurries out of the kitchen.
"You'd better appreciate all the time I put into prettying your boy up," Ginny is saying to Tom when he arrives.
"Given his baseline, I can't imagine you needed to do anything at all," Tom says, his lips curled up. He seems to be in a much better mood than he had been when Harry spoke to him during their firecall. He has a bouquet of something leaning across one arm, and he's carrying another case of butterbeer with the other.
"You have no idea, the effort this took," Harry sighs, coming closer so that he's within view of the door. "I'm going to have nightmares of Ginny coming at me with a comb for weeks."
Tom's eyes fall on him and seem to freeze. Harry bites his lip nervously, but Tom says nothing.
Harry feels his heart drop. It doesn't matter, he tries to assure himself. Tom likes him, and Tom thinks he's generally at least somewhat attractive, so if Tom doesn't like him in this particular outfit, that's no big deal. Or maybe it's the hair.
Ginny shoves Tom roughly and raises her eyebrows at him. "Well?" she asks pointedly.
"Beautiful," Tom breathes out in a rush. He flushes very slightly. "Of course, you're always beautiful," he tells Harry smoothly, his charm turned back on to the max. "But this look is very… pleasant. For a formal occasion. May I come in?"
Harry nods, feeling strangely shy.
"Bye, Harry, Tom," says Ginny, trading places with Tom in the entrance way. "Be good, boys," she says, winking, and then Tom and Harry are alone together, staring at one another.
"You do," says Tom abruptly. "Look very nice, I mean."
Harry smiles nervously. "You do, too."
Tom clears his throat. “I brought these,” he says, passing over the bouquet. “Not quite flowers, in case you had concerns for your masculinity. A variety of wild grasses native to Southeast Asia. They’re supposedly very powerful protective plants.”
“Thanks, that’s very thoughtful.” Harry takes the bouquet. For “grasses,” the bouquet is an incredible mixture of plants of different colours, shapes, and textures. The scent is divine. “I’ll just put these in water.” He leads the way into the kitchen, knowing that Tom is following him by the feeling of his eyes burning into his back. His hands are shaking slightly as he levitates a tall vase down from his highest cabinet, but he manages to get it to the counter with no mishap. “I’m surprised you were concerned with how I might react to flowers,” Harry says, filling the vase with water with a swirling motion of his wand, trimming the grasses with a slash, and finally placing them inside. He lets his finger linger on a bright blue, curling leaf. “I never complained about Gin—you, you two, I never complained about you two bringing me flowers before.”
“That was when the person bringing you flowers was a woman,” says Tom. “I was worried that it might feel different, coming from a man. And I didn’t want to… imply anything about our respective gender roles.”
Harry hums, still stroking his fingers through the soft tips of the leafy grasses. “But it was always you?” he asks.
Harry hears Tom swallow behind him. Perhaps Harry isn’t the only one who’s nervous, after all. “It was always me,” Tom agrees. “I—I wanted to bring you flowers. I wanted to bring you beautiful things. And Ginny liked the thought of the woman treating the man, so she was happy to… indulge me.”
“Well, they’re lovely,” says Harry. His hands are still shaking, so he lowers them both to the edge of the counter to steady himself.
Tom steps in close behind him. “So are you,” he says, breathing the words into Harry’s ear, and Harry trembles against him.
“I—” he begins, but Tom is turning him gently and leaning down, and Harry can’t remember what he was going to say.
Kissing Tom doesn’t feel like kissing Ginny.
There are elements that are the same; both Tom and Ginny are rather taller than him, though Tom is more so, so the tilt of Harry’s head feels familiar. And Tom is just as playful and teasing as Ginny was. He runs his tongue along the seam of Harry’s lips, requesting entrance, and then, as Harry’s lips part, he turns instead to suckling and nipping at Harry’s bottom lip while Harry lets out an embarrassing whine.
But the feeling of Tom’s lips against his, their shape and their texture, it’s all different. Tom tastes different, he smells different. And when Harry grows impatient with waiting and takes the initiative for himself, sliding his tongue into Tom’s mouth—the places that make Tom respond are different, and the noises he makes are different.
Tom’s arms are braced against the counter behind Harry, but Harry’s hands are free, and he lets them wander curiously along the broad shoulders and down to the tapered waist. He teases his fingers lower, and Tom growls softly and pushes further into Harry until they’re pressed tightly against one another.
When Tom takes back control of the kiss, Harry feels like he’s drowning. The similarities to kissing Ginny are all gone. It’s only Tom, Tom, Tom’s mouth, Tom’s tongue, Tom’s hands sliding up his back and burying themselves in Harry’s hair.
There’s a noise from behind Tom, and Tom pulls away, gasping, but Harry yanks him back down again. “Don’t stop,” he pleads. “Don’t ever stop.”
Tom’s eyes flicker across Harry’s face. Harry doesn’t want to think about how he must look right now, given how wreaked Tom looks.
“Never,” Tom breathes, and then his lips are back on Harry’s.
Harry is pawing at Tom’s clothes, trying ineffectually to unbutton his irritatingly complicated dress robes, while Tom mouths at Harry’s neck, murmuring things that are alternately sweet and filthy, when a loud crack sounds and Tom is suddenly pulled sharply away from him.
Harry reaches instinctively for his wand, and then he hears the alarm. “The oven?” he asks groggily. But no, it’s—
“The Auror Alarm, Master,” says Kreacher. “Kreacher was saving the supper earlier. This is why wizards shouldn’t be allowed in Kreacher’s kitchen, Master,” Kreacher continues pointedly.
“Er, right, thanks,” says Harry, still out of breath. His mind takes a moment to parse what Kreacher just said, and then he straightens sharply, his eyes widening. “Oh, fu—the Auror Alarm. I have to—”
“You’ll splinch yourself if you try to Apparate now,” says Tom urgently. Harry is slightly offended, but Tom probably has a point, given that his knees are currently too weak to hold him up. “Let me take you there.”
“No, it’s a—a portkey,” says Harry. “It activates when we turn off the alarm.” Harry brushes back his hair with his fingers. It must have been one of his teams that responded, or he wouldn’t have been specifically alerted. “I’m fine, now, I just—” Harry looks up at Tom, and then he says, “You know what, fine. It probably has to do with your stupid books, anyway.”
Tom smirks at him and reaches out to grip his elbow.
“Thanks, Kreacher,” he tells the elf. “Could you let Ron know to raise the alarm with the team? He’ll know what to do.”
Kreacher sneers at him and disappears.
“Ready?” asks Harry.
Tom nods at him. He’s standing unnecessarily close, and Harry has to look away to get his blush under control. “Ready,” he replies.
Harry turns off the alarm, and with a violent yank and blink of the eyes, he’s somewhere else.
Harry’s heart twists when he takes in the scene. They’re in what he assumes is the Everett family home. Everett is standing in front of two women—his mother and sister?—and an older man—Everett’s father?—is collapsed against the wall. Jakobs is facing them, snarling and brandishing her wand.
A series of pops sounds, and Peters and Burnes appear. They barely seem to take in the scene before they’re rushing to stand in front of Jakobs, wands drawn in shaking hands against her.
Harry silently raises anti-apparation wards.
“Anyone want to tell me what’s happening?” asks Harry mildly.
“She appeared out of nowhere and started attacking us!” gasps the woman who is probably Everett’s sister. “I don’t even know who she is!”
If Jakobs has the rest of the team under the Imperius Curse, why are they all standing against her? Did it fade?
“You know damn well who I am and why I’m here,” snaps Jakobs. “And I didn’t start attacking you. I came to place you under arrest!”
Harry raises his eyebrows. “Sounds like this’ll make for an interesting story.”
“Interesting enough to make up for crashing your date?” asks Greengrass as she walks in through the open front door just behind him; Jakobs had broken it open when she entered, he assumes. Ron, Nott, and Patil follow her. “Nice hair. Oh, and you must be Fit Tom.”
Tom looks at Harry, visibly intrigued.
Harry just barely manages to keep himself from trying to smooth out the disaster that Tom must have made of us previously unnaturally tidy hair. “This is Tom, here to consult with us about the books,” says Harry.
Greengrass smirks at him. “My mistake.”
“Jakobs,” Harry barks out. “Clarification on your reason for the attempted arrest of a fellow auror?”
Jakobs’s eyes are slightly wide, but she doesn’t let them move from her target. “I’m not here for Everett. Well, not our Everett.” Despite all the wands pointed at her, her voice remains steady. “Vivienne Everett, I’m placing you under arrest for 3 counts of the Imperius Curse, invasion of the ministry, theft of ministry property, and—”
“Liar,” screams Everett’s sister. Beside her, her mother looks on with wide eyes. “Where is your evidence?”
“Give me your wand, and I’ll show you the evidence,” says Jakobs in a low growl.
“Give me all of your wands,” says Harry, “Or I’ll take them by force. Yes, you too, Jakobs.”
“Sir, I swear to you—” Jakobs begins desperately.
Harry stares her down. “Wand. Now.”
Jakobs is slow to lower her wand and hand it over. The grudging despair in her eyes makes it clear that she can’t read Harry’s internal plans for her promotion. He should get an acting award. Are there acting awards in the magical world? There should be, and he should get one.
Vivienne Everett tries to slink away, and Harry snaps up her wand with a quick twist of his wrist. She goes still and pale. Many of the witches and wizards that Harry’s met seem stunned and even frightened at easy displays of wandless magic, which is why Harry typically tries to avoid them in public. He suspects that’s not the only reason that Vivienne looks so terrified, though.
Harry hands the wands to Patil, who begins muttering, “Priori Incantatem,” under her breath, going over the seven wands one-by-one.
Harry turns back to the watching audience. “I have to agree with Miss Everett,” he says. “Jakobs, how exactly did you come to the conclusion that the Imperius has been cast and that Miss Everett is behind the curse and the thefts?”
Jakobs swallows. “The whole team started acting strangely when we went out for lunch, sir,” she tells him. “I had just joined the team maybe half an hour before, so I thought maybe they were just upset at me for taking over. But the whole day after that, it seemed that everyone was tripping over themselves to avoid making progress. And then, Everett made this big deal over being the one to seal up the lockboxes at the end of the day, and I let him. I didn’t remember until a few days later, but when I was checking to make sure that everything had been sealed correctly, I saw that a record was kept of who did the sealing. And when I remembered that, I thought maybe a record was kept of who did the unsealing. Sure enough, when I checked, there was a record right there stating that Everett unsealed and emptied the lockboxes!”
Everett’s mother gasps, shaking her head. “No, Pierre is a good boy! He works so hard at his job, he would never—”
“I don’t think he did it willingly,” says Jakobs. “And I don’t think you do, either, sir, or you would have arrested him already. You had to know about the lockbox record. So he must be controlled by something.”
“And you jumped to the Imperius Curse?” asks Harry skeptically. Behind him, he hears Ron murmur, and Vivienne Everett freezes into a full body bind from where she’d been trying to sneak away.
“It’s a well-known curse,” says Jakobs, flushing.
“Stop picking on her, Potter,” says Greengrass. “You jumped straight to the Imperius Curse, too.”
Patil interrupts. “She must have renewed the casting recently. How convenient for us. There are three casts of the Imperius Curse on her wand.”
Vivienne whimpers from where she’s frozen on the ground.
Harry looks back to Jakobs. “Well? How did you decide on Miss Everett?”
Jakobs is more relaxed now that the magical evidence points in her favour. “Everyone on the team was acting strange, not just Everett, so I started looking into people they’d all come into contact with. Then I remembered that the whole team had gone down to meet Everett’s sister when she dropped off his lunch that day. And when I looked into her, things kept coming up. She’s been skipping out on work, but she’s still been coming by the ministry, things like that.” Jakobs shrugs uncomfortably. “When I approached her with questions, she spooked. I think she had some of the stolen property on her person at the time.”
“Let her up,” Harry tells Ron. Ron removes the body bind, allowing Vivienne to speak, but he adds magical cuffs to her hands and feet. “Miss Everett, do you have anything you’d like to disagree with or add to Junior Auror Jakobs’s statement?” Vivienne looks away. “Third Circle?” he prods. “Or Returning Reign?”
Vivienne mutters something.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” says Harry pleasantly.
“Returning Reign,” she growls out.
Harry sees Tom relax beside him out of the corner of his eye.
“And whose reign did you intend to return?”
“It’s just temporary!” she snaps. “You idiots don’t know anything! The amount of knowledge that has been lost as you purge your way through our world! Returning Reign is just a summoning spell.”
Harry fights not to roll his eyes at her. “I’m aware of what the Returning Reign is and does, Miss Everett, thank you. I apologise for my play on words. Whose soul were you summoning?”
Vivienne’s chin turns up stubbornly. “You Know Who’s,” she says definitely.
Everett’s mother starts crying.
“Not to hurt anyone,” insists Vivienne, speaking more to her mother than to anyone else, now. “But he was so powerful. He was immortal, really immortal! I was going to ask him how!”
Greengrass sneers. “Wow, Potter. At least you were right about the MUTANT having a six-year old’s motivation.”
“He became immortal by hurting people,” says Tom cheerfully to Vivenne. “I’ll happily demonstrate, if you like.”
Harry kicks him.
The arrest goes smoothly after that. The books and artifacts are found, the Imperius Curses are lifted, and everyone is taken into the ministry to give their formal statements. Vivienne Everett is locked up, pending trial.
After the Everetts and juniors are sent home, Harry collapses into his chair in his office. Everyone else crowds in after him.
“I guess I should probably do the paperwork,” he says mournfully. “At least you have paperwork, too.” He flicks his wand and float stacks of scrolls over to the other aurors, feeling somewhat mollified. Misery loves company, and all that.
“Drink this,” says Tom, appearing with a steaming cup of tea.
“Oooh, fit and sweet,” says Greengrass, eying up Tom with interest. “Where did you say you found him?”
Tom smirks at Harry, smug. “There was some confusion over an old book,” he says. “Ginerva was the one whole introduced us.”
“I can’t believe she was willing to give you up,” says Patil. Her gaze is lingering on Tom just long enough to make Harry twitch, especially given the way Tom is preening at the attention.
Ron makes a disgusted face in the background.
Harry shrugs at him, helpless.
A tapping on the window interrupts them, and Harry frowns and lets the owl in. “Is that your parents’ owl?” he asks Ron dubiously. Then he sees the bright red envelope clasped in the owl’s talons and winces. “Er… Please tell me that’s for you.”
Tom leans his hip against the desk, grinning. “We can also see your name on it, love. Open it up.”
As Harry reaches out tentatively to untie the letter, he sees Nott mouthing ‘love,’ at him. Harry makes a rude hand gesture in response, scowling, and the owl nips his fingers to chastise him.
“Sorry, sorry,” Harry mutters. “So, if you could all excuse me?” The letter is starting to vibrate in his hands.
“Oh, Potter,” says Greengrass pityingly. “We wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
Harry sighs. He opens the letter.
“HARRY JAMES POTTER,” Mrs. Weasley’s voice screeches. “HOW DARE YOU? I THOUGHT WE WERE FAMILY, BUT APPARENTLY I WAS MISTAKEN.”
Harry flinches. Tom reaches out to pull Harry into his arms, and Ron shakes his head. She doesn’t mean it like that, his eyes are saying, but Harry can’t help the hurt. It’s a sore spot for him.
“HERE I FIND THAT YOU AND GINNY HAVE BEEN BROKEN UP FOR WHO KNOWS HOW LONG, AND YOU’RE ALREADY SEEING SOMEONE ELSE, AND DID ANYONE BOTHER TO TELL POOR MOLLY? DID ANYONE THINK I MIGHT WANT TO KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON IN MY OWN CHILDREN’S LIVES?”
Tom huffs a laugh against Harry’s hair.
“I EXPECT YOU AND YOUR YOUNG MAN FOR BRUNCH TOMORROW. NO EXCEPTIONS.”
Harry peeks at Tom, who’s now laughing in earnest. So is everyone else in the room, apparently.
“AND I MADE TREACLE TART, SINCE IT’S YOUR FAVOURITE, DEAR. SEND ME A LIST OF SOME THINGS YOUR YOUNG MAN LIKES SO I HAVE THEM READY.”
“She never makes me my favourite,” says Ron, pouting.
“ALL MY LOVE, MOLLY.”
With that, the Howler burns to ash.
When the echoes of Molly’s voice have faded, Harry becomes aware of another tapping at the window. He pulls away from Tom to unburden this owl as well.
Hi Harry (and Tom!)—sorry to interrupt, but mum stopped by, and it slipped out. Expect a very loud invitation to brunch coming your way. Hannibal ad portas, and all that! —GW
“A little late, Ginny,” mutters Harry. “Rome has already fallen.”
“Well,” says Greengrass. “I don’t know about you, but I’m filing the absolute minimum and saving the rest for Monday. Sorry about your date, Fit Tom.”
“Oh, I had a perfectly lovely time,” says Tom, evidently still enjoying his appellation way more than he should.
“That didn’t come from me,” Harry feels the need to point out. “I never called you Fit Tom.”
Ron snorts. “You never needed to, mate. Your eyes said it all.”
That’s worse, isn’t it? That’s worse. Harry flushes bright red.
“It was very nice to meet all of you,” says Tom. “And to see you again, Ron. But if you wouldn’t mind, Harry needs to finish his paperwork very quickly so that we can get back to our date.”
“Scat,” says Harry.
The team files out of the room, laughing at him and shooting him obnoxious thumbs up signs.
“Quickly, now,” says Tom, trailing his finger down the back of Harry’s neck. “Or I might get impatient.”
Harry shivers and gets to work.
EPILOGUE
---
Harry is ready for brunch. Tom left to get clean clothes, but he’s set to come back so that they can go to the Burrow together.
Harry hesitates, looking at the clock, but he thinks he has time. “Sorry to bother you, Professor Dumbledore,” he says. “I just had a few more things… er… hello?”
“Insolent children,” says the shade of Gellert Grindelwald. “Calling for shades carelessly without any attention to the time differences or what we may be doing at the time.”
Harry stares. “Er… There are time differences?”
“No, Harry,” says Albus, coming into view beside the Dark Lord Grindelwald. “I’m afraid he’s only teasing you. I hope you don’t mind that Gellert tagged along. He was rather insistent.”
“Er,” says Harry. “Not at… all? Sorry, I didn’t realise that was possible.”
“Lazy,” sighs Gellert, shaking his head. “Unambitious. No interest in pushing the boundaries of knowledge.”
Harry scowls at him.
“You had some words you wanted to share with me, Harry?” prods Albus cheerfully.
Harry grins at him. “Yeah, I did. And they are: Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak.”
Albus laughs while Gellert rolls his eyes exasperatedly.
“I wanted to ask you about the Stone again, sir,” Harry continues, smirking at Gellert. “See, now that I’m dating a resurrected Tom Riddle—”
“Come again?” asks Albus weakly.
“—I was wondering if it’s, you know, okay that I’m keeping his family heirloom from him. I don’t really want to give it up, but…” Harry shrugs, looking down. “I feel like I should.”
“Whomever it belonged to in the past, it’s yours now,” Albus tells him, recovering himself and visibly making the decision not to ask. “But perhaps this is something you should discuss with him, and not us.”
Harry nods, sighing. “Yeah, I suppose so.”
Albus smiles at him. “There’s no need to be so forlorn, my boy. You may find yourself less in need of the Stone than you previously thought.”
Harry flushes. “I mean, I’m working on being less emotionally and socially dependent on it,” he tries, realising that this current conversation probably does not present his case in the best possible light.
“What he means, child, is that the Stone is merely a tool. A crutch.” Grindelwald looks down his nose at him. “Surely you’ve progressed beyond it, by now.”
Harry blinks in surprise. “I can call beyond the Veil without the Stone?” he asks. The idea had never occurred to him.
Albus smiles at him. “My boy, think to yourself: how did you call us here today? What precisely did you do?”
“I…” Harry tries to think back. “I just… called?” Did he channel the call through the Stone? He doesn’t remember. The whole process just feels automatic these days.
“The Stone is precise,” says Grindelwald. “Its call is ordered and controlled. I would never have been able to hitchhike my way here if you had called for Albus and only Albus using the Stone. I imagine you haven’t been truly depending on the Stone to call your dead for some time.”
“...Oh.”
The door chime sounds. Tom must be back.
“Master best be answering the door for hisself!” yells Kreacher. “It being Kreacher’s day off!”
“I’m going, I’m going!” Harry looks back at the two old men. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you around, then.”
“At decent hours!” Gellert insists, smirking.
Albus shushes him, smiling. “At any time,” he says, and they both fade away.
Harry opens the door to find that Tom has brought back more flowers. A lot more flowers.
“Are those all for me?” he asks, grinning.
Tom rolls his eyes. “Of course not, love. This one,” he hefts up the larger, more absurdly overdone of the two bouquets, “is for Molly.”
Harry smiles at him. “I see you’re aiming to impress.” He waves Tom in and goes to find another vase.
“It’s not just for you,” says Tom quietly. “They’ve been my family, too, for the past eleven years. Irritating as they are, I don’t want to lose them.”
Harry reaches out to grip his hand. “You won’t.”
Tom tugs him in close and wraps him in his arms. “I don’t want to lose you, either,” he says.
Harry stretches up to press a kiss against the bottom side of Tom’s jaw. “You won’t.” he repeats softly. After a long moment, Harry pulls away. “Well, let’s go,” he says, reclaiming Tom’s hand. “We have our lives to live, you and I.”
“Yes,” says Tom wonderingly. “We do.”