Harry's lungs were just as scorched and smoke-clogged as when he'd been trapped in the Room of Requirement with Fiendfyre. He could have left overseeing the bonfire to Tom, but it didn't feel right. He knew destroying the paintings was necessary. Each time he thought of that strange creature with its empty eyes and grasping, twitching fingers he felt like he'd been doused in ice water. Tom was right: they didn't know whether it could step down from a canvas and lurch down the halls. It wasn't worth the risk in finding out. Monsters in the Carcerem were more potent and dangerous than any Harry had encountered before, but all the same, the empty walls and bare patches made his heart ache.

Stupid, he told himself, wiping his face free of sweat and reaching for another portrait, the blazing fire so hot he could have been inches from the sun. Stupid to mourn a painting. Stupid to feel as if another part of his life had been ripped away.

All night the pair of them worked, not sharing so much as two words. The bats swooped back to their tower, bringing the dawn along with them. They added the final portrait (Sir Cadogan and his pony) as the sun rose into the sky. Through the thick, hazy smoke it glared like a sickly yellow pustule in need of lancing. It wasn't until late that afternoon that the roaring fire subdued enough to leave it safely. By the next morning, it would be a smoldering mass of ashes.

Harry was exhausted and ravenous (they had eaten little while tending the blaze, grabbing quickly fixed snacks and a few cups of tea) and he was sure Tom was just the same. They were both caked with soot and sweat. Though his stomach craved a hearty meal, Harry couldn't bring himself to cook. There were still a few boiled eggs left over from their speedy lunch. It wouldn't be satisfying, but it was all he was up for.

"I'm going in," he told him.

It wasn't often that Tom was so unkempt. He'd removed his shirt when the fire reached its blistering peak and had not bothered to put it back on. His hair was frizzed and wildly curled and yet still retained a regal flair. In fact, Tom was just as imposing and handsome while covered in grime. Harry's stomach twisted with annoyance and — he was rather ashamed to admit it — envy.

Hands on hips, Tom gave a short nod.

"Yell if you need anything." But Harry knew he wouldn't.

After his meager dinner, he dragged himself up the stairs. He paused by the library and groaned. He'd forgotten how much of a mess they'd made. Books littered the entire floor. Had it really only been yesterday that he'd woken in Tom's arms? The strange creature had chased it entirely from his mind but as he stood in the dim hallway that morning returned with razor sharpness. Shivering, Harry hurried to the bathroom and turned on the tap, hoping the water would wash away the memory of skin on skin as easily as it did soot.

.

.

He woke disoriented, feeling that he'd only slept seconds. The weak light of morning illuminated his drab room. Rising onto his elbows, Harry wondered if he could find paint somewhere. The orphanage gray was getting to him. He didn't bother dressing, pulling his dressing gown over his boxer shorts and shuffling down the stairs, the aroma of bacon leading him on.

Tom looked up the moment he entered. His eyes widened slightly, trailing over him. "Morning," he said.

Harry was too groggy to be embarrassed. He took his seat at the kitchen table and pulled the skillet of crispy bacon and browned sausages toward him. It was rare for Tom to cook breakfast, usually leaving the job to Harry.

Waking slowly, Harry eyed Tom across the table. "You look like you're in a good mood."

"Immensely," said Tom. "Nothing like another threat thwarted to start the day. We'll begin training this —"

Harry, who had taken a bite of sausage, choked.

"No way," he said, shaking his head. "Not today."

"What else do you have to do?"

Was Tom inhuman? He looked downright sprightly, as if he hadn't spent a backbreaking day and night tending a furious inferno.

"I was thinking about sleeping," Harry deadpanned.

Tom rolled his eyes. "I thought teenagers were supposed to be energetic."

"Hey, I was the one carrying all those portraits," Harry pointed out.

"Are you saying you would have burned them on your own," asked Tom, leaning back and crossing his arms, his eyes gleaming in amusement.

Harry bit his tongue. Tom laughed.

"Eat. I'll be on the beach."

By the time he'd finished his breakfast and changed clothes, Harry finally felt awake. The moment he stepped onto the front porch, he was hit with the stench of charcoal. He walked around the house and came upon the large bed of ashes. Metal and gold frames littered the area like skeletons. Harry turned to the beach, scowling. Tom's overzealousness might have saved them from the Carcerem's latest danger, but that didn't mean Harry had to like it. Rolling his shoulders, he stepped onto the path that led down to the ocean. He would get the best of Tom this time.

.

.

He didn't. Try as he might, he never got past Tom's defenses.

"You favor your right side too much," Tom told him as Harry retrieved his fallen sword yet again. "You're leaving yourself open. You're smaller. Use that to your advantage."

Why, Harry wanted to say. Why was it so important to Tom that Harry learned to fight as well as he did? Harry didn't believe any of that battle-to-rival-all-battles rot. Tom played dirty. If he wanted Harry dead, he wouldn't beat around the bush ever again. The man had finally learned that lesson. Harry doubted he'd even bother to have witnesses. All he'd need was Harry's head on a spike. But Harry took his stance in the ring Tom had drawn in the sand without comment.

.

.

They were gifted a stretch of sunny skies that tanned Harry's shoulders and arms and made sweat run down his back while he tended the vegetables in the greenhouse. He was right to have feared planting the pumpkin seeds, a spontaneous what-the-hell decision shortly before the boggart attack. One morning, he walked in to find the greenhouse completely taken over, great orange jack-o-lantern boulders peaking up through the foliage. He spent three days harvesting, stacking the pumpkins around the house's back door and then uprooting the vines, making room for cucumbers, more tomatoes, pole beans and, after noticing how Tom always chose the strawberry jam, a patch of the red fruit.

"What are you going to do with all those?" Tom asked, spotting the pumpkin mountain.

Harry shrugged. "I'll think of something."

'Something' became four monumental attempts at soufflé before Harry settled on a sunny patch of grass and carved half a dozen. Seasons did not exist in the Carcerem, or if they did, the current one was lasting a very long time, but that was no reason to not make one if he wanted to. A night of candle-filled pumpkins would be fun.

Tom did not join him in his Halloween inspired activities, but he brought him tea and watched his progress.

"Is that a cat?" he asked.

Harry paused in his cutting. "It's an owl."

"Ah."

"Those are the wings."

Tom cocked his head to the side. "And where is the head?"

"Piss off," Harry said with a laugh, flicking pumpkin seeds at him.

The pumpkins glowed around the house for half a week before they began to rot. Perhaps it was the fact that his wounds had healed or that his lopsided creations added a touch of whimsy to the house, but Harry felt light on his feet. He knew it wasn't true, but somehow he felt that they had reached the other side. The ashes from the burn pile blew away and Harry liked to think that the danger had flown with them. He didn't say any of this to Tom. Tom would have rolled his eyes and pointed out how utterly moronic such thinking was.

And Harry knew such thinking was dangerous in and of itself. Nearly seven years in the wizarding world had taught him to never let his guard down, but he savored this unexpected spell of calm all the same. He would hold onto this feather of tranquility until the wind chose to whip up and carry it away.

.

.

Unlike Harry, Tom did not brown like a nut; instead the sun kissed him a light, honey gold that Harry imagined only the Greek Gods could have achieved. Nor, Harry noticed with that familiar twinge of envy, did he get sun-burnt, even when he removed his shirt when their spars grew fierce and the sun blistered hot overhead. Harry tried to picture Tom with the flu or hives. Splattered with dragon pox. Surely he'd gotten sick sometime while at Hogwarts. It was impossible not to. Harry bit back a laugh, envisioning steam pouring out of Tom's ears from the winter rounds of Pepper Up potion.

Tom's eyes narrowed. He shifted to the right, dodging Harry's thrust. With the quick strike of cobra, he darted forward. Harry barely whipped up his sword in time to block the blow.

"Am I boring you?" Tom asked.

"No," Harry grunted, his arms quivering with the effort to hold Tom back. "Just wondering if you've ever had the flu."

That surprised Tom. "Why in the world—"

Utilizing Tom's weight, Harry jumped to the left; their blades slithered apart. Tom overbalanced. He raised his sword, but Harry had already moved. With a swift swipe, Harry's blade slipped past Tom's and came to a rest at his neck.

"Gotcha," Harry breathed.

Tom froze and then a smile, wide and shark-like spread over his face.

"Excellent, Harry."

Harry couldn't keep the stupid grin off his face. He lowered his sword and stepped back.

Twirling his own weapon, Tom moved back to his starting place.

"Now do it again," he said softly.

xXx

Voldemort sat on the couch in the common room, a book open in his hands. Harry was in the kitchen. He could hear him moving about across the hall. To an outsider, Voldemort appeared to be engrossed in his reading, but he was not taking in a word of it, too busy replaying their latest session. Harry came alive when he dueled. He had improved immensely. He was a natural. The last few sessions had become true challenges for Voldemort and he relished it. It really was enraging that the Carcerem would not gift them magic for a day. The spells he could teach Harry …

"YES!"

Voldemort looked up from his book. He rose and crossed the entrance hall. Speckled with flour, Harry stood in the center of the kitchen with a loaf of bread hoisted above his head, golden-brown and perfect.

Voldemort leaned against the door frame. "About time."

"Says the bloke who never bothered to try," said Harry, though he was grinning more broadly than Voldemort had ever seen him. He set it on the table. "I'm not waiting until dinner. Get the butter for me?"

Voldemort pushed off the frame. As he passed Harry, he paused. Reaching out a hand, he brushed away a streak of flour from Harry's cheek. Harry stiffened, his eyes widening behind those comical glasses. Voldemort watched as a curious blush spread over Harry's face. He hastily wiped his cheek on his sleeve and Voldemort, with a slip of a smile, descended the cellar steps.

xXx

Harry knew something was wrong the moment he entered the kitchen next morning, but it wasn't until after lunch, as he loaded the boiler with fresh wood that he realized what it was: Tom had put cream out. Tom never put cream in his tea, but Harry did. The tromp down to the ice box was second nature by now, but he hadn't needed to today for the jug was already on the table, waiting for him. If someone else had done it, perhaps Harry wouldn't have felt immediately on edge, but this was Tom. Such a simple act was loaded with implications.

Tom had shifted yet again. If the man wasn't so fond of snakes, Harry would call him a chameleon. He had always been quiet and he had always stared, but now the silences — the gazes — felt different. They felt dangerous in an unfamiliar way. Harry, who'd found himself relaxing around him, grew tense whenever the man was near. He wondered if Tom's strange behavior had anything to do with the uncomfortable night they had shared weeks ago — a night they both pointedly refused to bring up. If Tom continued to have nightmares, he kept them to himself. Harry had not been woken since, but sometimes he lay in bed pondering what he would do if Tom did. Would he go to him, like he had that time? Would Tom do the same for him if Harry got lost in one of his own hellish dreams? Before, he would have known the answer. Now he wasn't so sure.

Tom seemed to find excuses to touch him. Though there was plenty of room in the kitchen, their elbows brushed more often than not as they prepared meals. Their duels grew discomforting. But touch was necessary for dueling, just as it was for dancing. It was natural — it was normal — for goosebumps to rise where the pads of Tom's fingers pressed against his skin when he corrected his movements. It was normal.

But was it normal that Harry noticed the soft curve of Tom's mouth? The sharp line of his jaw? That his eyes were the perfect mixture of gray and blue? Was it normal that while struggling to find sleep, Harry's mind conjured visions of bare skin, wet and glistening from swims in the cove? Was it normal that his fingers itched to run through Tom's hair, longing to muss the lazy, wayward curls into something not fit for royalty? On the occasions when they both lounged in the common room by the crackling fire, reading or playing chess, Harry caught himself stealing glances. Tom had a habit of tapping his middle finger against his book while he read. He furrowed his brow when he thought, a thin line appearing between them. Sometimes he bit his bottom lip.

The days ebbed and flowed like the tide and with each new dawn Harry felt the unsettled atmosphere grow. Wherever Tom was, the walls closed in. Meals became as tortuously awkward as dueling. No matter where Harry put his feet, he somehow always found himself bumping up against him under the kitchen table. The damn tent had felt more spacious than this monster of a manor house. And all the while, Tom stared. Stared at him as if he'd never seen him before. Harry began to wonder if the man was planning his murder again, the intensity of his gazes became so extreme.

"What?" Harry blurted over his plate, finally having enough. "Do I have something on me?"

Tom didn't blink. It was unnerving how long he could go without doing it. The tingling in the air — like static electricity — hung about them. Tom didn't speak.

"You okay?" Harry asked, wondering if he had even heard him. "Tom?"

A faint shiver traveled over Tom. He blinked then, quick and rapid.

"Yes, Harry," Tom answered quietly. "I'm perfectly well."

xXx

When had he become Tom?

Instead of fury, when had his given name sent sparks of something shooting down his spine? When had it become a goal to make Harry laugh, the sound as intoxicating as wine?

When had Potter become Harry?

He couldn't remember.

The warmth that spread from Harry's skin had become an addiction. He knew he shouldn't. He knew Harry noticed, but he couldn't stop. He didn't want to stop. Simple touches — the bumping of fingers when passing the salt … brushing a fallen leaf from Harry's hair — were quickly becoming not enough, the biting, blistering ache in his chest demanding more.

He had always taken. Through force or flattery, he always got what he wanted. So if he wanted Harry, why did he stay rooted in his seat when the boy, stretching, rose for bed? Why did he not grab him by the wrist and … and …

And what?

What do you want, Tom?

He felt overwhelmed. That same buzzing energy that sent his blood pounding when he did magic was with him whenever he thought of Harry … whenever he looked at Harry. When had that happened?

What do you want, Tom?

Harry paused in the entryway. He looked over his shoulder. "'Night," he said quietly. He did not wait for a reply, leaving the common room and heading up the stairs. Tom closed his eyes and counted each step. Each creak of floorboard.

What do you want?

He knew exactly what he wanted and it was too terrifying to utter in the safety of his own mind.

xXx

The moon was so full and bright it was like being back on Privet Drive with the lamppost outside his window. Harry couldn't sleep. He could blame it on the moonlight shining on his pillow, but he knew that wasn't the reason. He hadn't felt so on-edge in a long time. He knew, deep in his bones, that something wasn't right.

But the portraits were gone. That creature — whether dead or barred from the Carcerem — could not attack them. The boggart had not been seen in ages. While cooking, Harry barely even noticed the nailed-shut door with its golden doorknob. There was no reason for this agitation. And yet…

Harry got out of bed. Tossing and turning wasn't doing him any good. He tugged on a t-shirt and slipped down the dark stairwell. He'd make himself a mug of hot chocolate and sit in front of the fire until his nerves settled. It would be a bed of glowing coals by now, but that sounded pleasant to Harry. It put him in mind of Hogwarts when he and Ron and Hermione stayed up too late on Christmas, eating cream-filled chocolates and scheming of ways to get Malfoy expelled, each as ridiculous as the last.

The kitchen was dark, but Harry knew his way around it. He rustled the coals in the stove and added a fresh log. The stove top was still warm from dinner. It wouldn't take long to heat a pot of milk.

"I'm sorry."

Startled, Harry whirled around. Tom stood in the doorway, his form just visible in the dark. His voice had been so soft that Harry wasn't sure he'd heard him.

"What?"

Tom entered the kitchen. "I'm sorry I took them from you," he said, softer still. "I'm sorry I cannot bring them back. But if I hadn't—" He stepped right before Harry. "If I hadn't," he whispered, "I never would have known you."

Harry swallowed around his suddenly dry mouth.

"That's a horrible thing to say."

"Yes," Tom agreed. "It is."

Without warning, Tom's lips were against his, soft as petals at first and then pressing harder. Growing insistent.

"I'm sorry," he repeated between kisses, their lips brushing, their breath mingling. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

With each utterance the kisses grew in intensity, as if Tom was trying to draw out Harry's forgiveness through his mouth. Harry's head swam. His fingers clutched Tom's sweater, not shoving him away, but drawing him closer. He was pushed back against the sink. Tom's hands slid down his waist.

Not here, he wanted to say. Not here in Aunt Petunia's kitchen.

xXx

Harry pulled free of their kiss and Tom pushed him more firmly against the sink, their bodies flush. He'd never let Harry go. Never. Not even if Harry told him to stop. Tom felt out of control, his whole body quivering, wanting, needing. They'd fallen over the precipice. There was no going back now. He attacked Harry's neck, tasting his skin, making Harry's breath hitch. His hand traveled further down to Harry's hip, his fingers slipping inside the waist band of his boxers.

Harry grabbed the wandering hand, fingers closing around the wrist, and Tom steeled himself. What he wanted he got. He would face the consequences of his actions later, but Harry whispered a single breathless word that froze Tom's brain.

"Upstairs."

Blinking like a niffler caught in a miner's light, Tom stood stock still. Clutching his hand, Harry led him out of the kitchen, up the staircase with its mounted heads, past the library and into the bedroom at the end of the hall.

Harry's room.

He took in the Gryffindor house banner draped above the headboard before he found Harry's lips again. Needing more contact, he pushed up Harry's shirt and in reply Harry lifted his arms. The moment the fabric was free, their mouths crashed together again. It was enraging to have to pull away to undress. Buttons and zippers. Tom yanked his sweater over his head as Harry undid his belt buckle. Off, off, off! Clothes scattered until there was nothing but skin. Glorious, smooth, tingling skin.

They fell into bed, coiling around each other like snakes. Hips. Legs. Tongues. Tom's fingers wrapped around Harry's cock and he swallowed Harry's startled gasp. Every sharp intake of breath — every moan — was like drink to Tom. He had wanted to kill him, had spent years imagining ways to do it: hanging, slit throat, suffocation. Even as Lord Voldemort, when he'd been trapped without a body, when he'd traveled farther than anyone into the depths of magic, his past betrayed him, his mind turning Muggle.

They were all outrageous to him now. Harry groaned, his back arching up into him, his fingers twisting the sheets, as Tom finally eased inside him. Knives and poisons … Avada Kedavra … Kill Harry? Kill this?

The room was so hot Tom was sure he'd burst into flame. They moved together, awkward at first before finding a rhythm, their bodies slick with sweat. Harry clung to him, clutching him so tight Tom felt scratches appear on his back, but he didn't care. Not when he was so wrapped up inside Harry. Not when Harry was gasping, arching …

Harry came down from his high and Tom watched in open fascination, memorizing every rapid rise and fall of his chest, the hollow of his throat. A tear quivered on the dark lashes. Tom captured it with his lips. Slowly, he trailed kisses across his jaw, down his neck, his chest, his stomach, leaving goosebumps in his wake, every quiver of Harry's skin delighting him.

As if a feather teased the inside of Tom's wrist, the half-moon tattoo shivered and a smile, sharp and broad, spread over his face. Placing his lips to Harry's navel, he hid his grin from sight.

.

.

A/N: First love scene ever written. Nervously awaiting your reactions.

(p.s. Don't be fooled by Tom's and Harry's confidence that they've seen the end of the monster in the portrait.)