"Come in," Harry said.
The door to his office swept open, revealing the thin figure of Scorpius Malfoy. Scorpius was wrapped up in formal robes of emerald green, his Prefect's badge pinned proudly to his chest.
"Uncle Harry," said Scorpius, swinging around into the chair in front of Harry's desk and plopping down in it.
Scorpius had not been made Head Boy for his seventh year, as that title had gone to Goldstein in Hufflepuff. But Scorpius was secure in his own accomplishments, a security that had taken hard work to build and bolster. Harry was proud of him all the same.
"Shouldn't you be somewhere else right now?" Harry asked, amused. "The ceremony's in a few hours."
Scorpius shrugged. "They can do without me."
That brought a smile to Harry's lips. "Making your rounds, then? I did the same thing on my last day."
"Eh." Scorpius rocked back in his chair, swinging his legs haphazardly over the armrest in a way that would have scandalized Narcissa had she been here to witness it. "I said goodbye to most of my professors yesterday. I've just come to hang here with you."
"Consider me honoured," Harry said, hand to his heart, "that you've deemed me worthy of your good company."
"Don't tell Slughorn," Scorpius said, conspiratorial as he leant in, "but you're my favourite."
Harry laughed. "Should you be saying this aloud? I fear your fellow Slytherins might have your head for that."
"Please," said Scorpius, hand waving. "As if you're not their favourite as well. They're just too uptight to admit liking the Head of Gryffindor." The title was spoken in a mocking tone and accompanied by a dramatic eye roll.
"And you're much more advanced than that," Harry said sarcastically. "Emotionally speaking."
Scorpius parked his elbows on the desk, propping his chin on his hands as he grinned. "I learned from the best."
When the school was at last empty of graduates and their families, Tom came to see him in his quarters. As Head of Gryffindor, Harry's room was spacious, more spacious than Harry really cared for it to be.
But his students knew to find him here, which was the important part. Harry had filled this space with photographs, various posters, and gifts from his old students. The gifts he blamed on Horace, really, because the Potions professor had turned the act into something like a tradition.
Harry was in the middle of sorting the last of his belongings while Tom waited for him. He would leave most of his possessions here over the summer; Tom was meticulous about having duplicates of everything everywhere, so there was little need for Harry to pack items that didn't have unique utility or personal value.
"Another successful year," Tom said, musing. He'd spent a good deal of time chatting with the students this year, much to Harry's surprise. Tom called it 'scoping the talent', and now quite a few of the students, most of the top ones, at any rate, were slated for the Ministry.
"Yeah," Harry said. "It always feels really nice, you know? These kids have so much to be proud of." He stuffed his stationery box into his bag and pulled the drawstring shut. "Okay, that's it, I think. We can go home now."
Tom smiled at the word, as he sometimes did when Harry spoke of the place where they lived, and held open the door. Ever the gentleman, Harry thought with no small amount of amusement. A man born and raised in the aftermath of a terrible war; a man who had masterminded and won a war of his own.
"After you," said Tom, all charm as he gestured Harry out into the hallway.
Tom could Apparate them directly out of this room if he wished. He never did, though. Harry knew that Tom liked to linger in the school, tracing those familiar paths of his childhood. They would stroll the halls, wander the rolling grounds, climb the stairs to the Astronomy Tower.
And then, at the very end of the day, they would return home.
Harry and Tom landed in the front hall of the manor, and without pausing they headed upstairs, towards Harry's bedroom. It took Harry a second to realize that, yes, Tom did seem intent on following him all the way there.
Harry kept his pace casual, acted like nothing was amiss, and waited for Tom to say whatever he was currently mulling over.
"How long do you see yourself teaching?" Tom asked. "Now that young Scorpius has graduated," he added.
"I dunno," Harry said, tossing his bag onto his bed. "Until I get tired of it, I suppose."
Tom stepped over to the window and stood a half-meter away from the glass, facing the view of the manor grounds. His reflection was visible in the large pane, the faint mirror image of Tom shifting as he said, "And will you? Tire of it."
"I suppose," Harry said. "I don't know when or how it'll happen, but I think eventually I would like to try something else."
As of right now, there were days when teaching felt brand new to him. A student's question could prompt an entire class discussion on the pitfalls of using a Shield Charm in an enclosed space. Or a particularly well-written essay could send Harry to the Hogwarts library for further reading. Or he could take a wrong turn and wander down a corridor he'd never seen before.
There was so much newness that existed within Hogwarts; Harry figured it would take decades for him to truly learn everything there was to know.
"When that does happen," Tom said, still facing the window, "you are to let me know."
Scorpius started working at the Ministry. He was working under Theodore, which was unexpected. Was Scorpius' assignment a coincidence, or was it intentional? Or did such things no longer matter, because Harry worked at Hogwarts?
Harry had kept up a distant correspondence with Theodore over the years, and while Harry did not think they would ever be close again, they were comfortable. Cordial, even. So maybe it was not too much to hope that Tom could learn to accept death, because he had proven he could grow from his previous ways.
Tom had changed in many, many little ways that Harry took great pleasure in tallying. A mental count of the things Tom did that could be classified as genuinely good. And though the actions were small, they added up.
The plague of Tom's ego was satisfied with the iron-handed ruling of a peaceful magical Britain, with the simpering of his subordinates and the subjugation of a population. Similarly, the restlessness of Tom's brilliant mind was occupied fully with the minding of Harry Potter and with the task of re-conquering death.
While there would always be darkness within Tom Riddle, would always be that deep, horrible capacity for cruelty—that darkness had been lessened. Time had tempered the Dark Lord, and Harry's gentle hand had guided the rest.
Life was fulfilling. Harry saw the Malfoys regularly, spent the occasional holiday with Remus, and attended social gatherings with his coworkers.
Someday, Harry might find himself unsatisfied with this. But for now, he simply could not imagine anything else.
Harry was slumped against Tom's side on the long couch in the sitting room while Tom paged through a book on potions. They did not spend much time in this room, but lately Harry had been itching for a change in scenery, and so he'd convinced Tom to make use of the furniture in here. Now Harry could sprawl out, long-limbed, over the comfortable surface of the couch.
Tom carded a hand through Harry's hair, his fingertips brushing at the scalp. Harry tilted his head to allow better access. The sensation was nice, bordering on pleasurable. Did cats feel like this when they were petted by people? Had Nagini?
Harry was a bit like a pet, wasn't he? He had started out as Voldemort's pet, as a trophy to be paraded about at the Ministry. And then he'd gained value outside of that, as a worker and a confidante. And now… now he was something else entirely.
Now they were something else to each other, too.
Tom shifted the arm Harry was laying against. Harry was loath to break the quiet sanctity of the moment, but the timing felt right, and so he had to ask the question that had simmered in his mind for some time now.
"Tom," he said.
"Hmm?"
"Why don't you want me to die?"
Harry felt Tom shift beneath him, and so Harry reluctantly sat up so that they could look at each other properly. The book on potions was set aside as Tom refocused, a hint of a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Why do you not want to live?" Tom said in return, tone measured.
"It's not like that," Harry said. "Living forever—that's not something I want for myself." He paused, trying to gauge how well the question would be received, then asked, "Do you believe in an afterlife, Tom?"
Tom's face closed off, a blankness shuttering over his expression. "There is no such thing as an afterlife."
This was jarring to hear. The idea of an afterlife was so firmly rooted in the way that Harry viewed the world that to hear such a firm denial caused a minor wave of disorientation to wash over him.
"But there are ghosts!" Harry protested. "We have ghosts, how can you say that?"
"You may call them ghosts, but I fail to see how they could compare to their deceased counterparts. Look at Binns: tethered to Hogwarts for decades, and not a single speck of self-awareness within him," Tom said, adopting the voice he typically used for teaching. Only his tone was more distant, more detached than usual, which was worrisome.
Tom continued, "What people believe to be ghosts are merely caricatures of the dead. Personalities exaggerated and memories distorted by time and magic. Ghosts are magical images that linger because of traumatic incidents, incidents which trigger the release of unintentional magical energies. Without a physical form, the magic is contained in the form of the spirit. Much like the reverse of a Horcrux, in a way."
"I believe in an afterlife," Harry said. "There is more waiting for us after death. And even so, I wouldn't want to spend the rest of my life here, watching the people around me die."
"People do die," Tom said off-handedly. "And you will meet new ones."
Tom still refused to assign emotional value to others. Harry would have thought that, over the years, some progress had been made. And maybe it had, only Tom would not admit it, and he would certainly not admit it in the middle of this discussion.
Seeing that this tactic was not one that would work, Harry decided to redirect his argument. "Time gives things meaning. If you had all the time in the world, then you would never need to do anything, because there would always be more time to do it in."
"I find it hard to believe you would ever lack work ethic, Harry. You work because you enjoy it, not because you find it necessary."
"You'll get bored," Harry said. "You're already bored of the Ministry. You spend more time on research than you do thinking about the educational budget or mending goblin relations."
This had been apparent to Harry from the beginning of his time at the Ministry. While Tom excelled at everything he did, his real enjoyment was derived from exacting control, from seeing the submission of others. All because of Tom's exaggerated sense of self-importance, his firm belief that the people around him were worthless and below notice. Tom worked best when there was someone to beat, something to conquer. Be it Albus Dumbledore, or Death, or the immovable willfulness of Harry Potter.
"I am not bored," Tom said, his tone dropping dangerously. "I am perfectly satisfied with the ruling of Britain."
Harry didn't quite believe that. There was satisfaction wrought from a job well done, but for someone like Tom, who insisted on knowing everything that went on within the Ministry, it could grow tedious. There was only so much paperwork that Harry was willing to look at, and Tom had piles of reports from all areas of the Ministry.
Even though Tom was lying, this was far from the only argument Harry had to offer. There were other matters Harry had thought about, beliefs he held close to his chest, cradled like tiny birds in the nest of his heart.
"My parents are waiting for me," Harry said softly. "And Sirius. And many others, I'm sure. I want to see them again someday, Tom. I don't want to spend forever here. I want to move on."
Tom said nothing, only gazed down upon Harry with an inscrutable expression. Was he mad? Harry knew that his words could be interpreted as a desire to leave despite the number of times he had promised to stay with Tom for as long as he lived.
Reassurances never seemed to be enough. Tom was always fearful of death, of Harry's departure, even if he never said so.
"You are entitled to your beliefs," Tom said at last. "But you will live, Harry. This is not a negotiation, I hope you understand. There is no afterlife. You are safer and more protected by my side than anywhere else."
Harry opened his mouth to argue more—
"Enough," Tom said sharply. "I am not entertaining this discussion any further. You have sworn yourself to me, and my mind is not to be changed. I am sorry if this fact upsets you, but you will accept your fate as I have decreed it, and that is my final decision on the subject."
Tom stood up, his face still fixed in that chiselled, arrogant mask, and left the room.
Harry sat there, alone, suddenly out of sorts now that Tom was gone.
He felt strange. Like he was adrift, no longer tethered to the couch, or even to his own body. Harry suspected that was because he was so used to Tom being around; Tom's abrupt departure had left the room uncomfortably empty. Tom had a presence that naturally drew the eye, a magnetism that was amplified when he spoke, voice smooth and rumbling. It was hard not to notice his absence.
Disgruntled, Harry glanced over at the book that Tom had left behind. Potions book. Harry snatched it up, went to reshelve it. If not for the House-Elves, this entire mansion would be a mess of books and parchment scrolls. This fleeting thought was met with some level of amusement as Harry slid the book into its proper place. He knew Tom. He knew Tom better than anyone else, but only because Tom had let him in. Had let them grow closer to each other.
He and Tom had reached some odd accordance of affection. Tom liked it when they held hands, when he could place a possessive touch on Harry's waist or shoulder. When they sat on the couch, side by side, limbs brushing. Sometimes they would hug. It was nice. It was not anything Harry could have ever imagined happening, all those years ago, but it was where they were now.
Harry had accepted Voldemort. Or had at least come to accept Voldemort enough to exercise some measure of empathy and compassion.
And then—and then there had been Tom.
A name reborn out of Harry's desire to save the world, or some insanity like that.
Perhaps it had been a mistake to give the monster a name. Harry had separated the 'then' from the 'now', had closed the door on the past that was painful to look at.
He had convinced himself that Tom could be saved, that this was not necessarily the right path, but the best path he had available to him.
Perhaps they would have found themselves in this situation anyways: bound through prophecy and led on by fate's wicked decree. Voldemort had attempted to conquer fate, had defied the laws of the universe with his evasion of death.
Such hubris wrought punishment, and this punishment lay in the potential Harry had to die. Because Tom cared, and this change of heart was as irreversible as the fact that their souls were now tied together.
Perhaps Harry would have, in every other variation of this universe, still gazed upon the man who had fled from death and decided to help him.
So maybe there was affection. Maybe there was something else.
Or maybe, Harry thought, it was just the soul piece inside of him, longing for the whole.
Harry continued to teach at Hogwarts. The students came and went, the years wearing on, the world around him shifting so rapidly that Harry felt that his own pace was rather glacial in comparison. He and Tom, tectonic plates that moved slowly as one, did not follow the well-worn path of others.
Because Narcissa's hair was a shining, delicate silver, and Astoria had fine lines around her brilliant eyes, and Scorpius was a fully-grown young man with a lovely fiancee.
And so it came about that Harry had not tired of teaching, but rather…
But rather, it had become painfully obvious to him that if he was to remain here forever, a fixture in the castle, a ghost amongst the ever-changing staff, there would be no recourse for his heart as the world continued to age rapidly around him.
Harry was having tea with Remus in Potter Cottage when the thought slipped out.
"I've been thinking about leaving Britain."
Remus set his cup of tea back down on the tray with a steady hand. "I'm not surprised to hear that, Harry."
Harry stared in shock. He had been sitting on this thought for some time now, but this was the first time he'd seen fit to vocalize it. To him, the notion seemed utterly absurd. Leave Britain? And go where?
Voldemort had once spoken of travelling the world. And they had done some of that already, only it did not feel like enough to last a single lifetime, let alone several of them. There were days where Harry despaired over his potential eternity, when everything felt cold and devoid of meaning, when he could fill hours by gazing out the window of his office, listless and aching.
"There are too many memories tied here," Remus continued, shaking his head. "And you've never been good with lingering."
Harry wasn't sure what about him had given off that impression. He was even less sure if it was true. Was it not a necessary part of life to leave the past behind? There were parts of his old life that he missed. Parts that he revisited, when he had the courage to do so. But mostly he tried not to think about it; it was easier, and safer, not to.
"I just… I don't know what to do," Harry admitted. "I feel—maybe not restless—but that being here isn't the right choice anymore?"
Remus exhaled slowly, not quite like a sigh, and sat back in his chair. "What is the right choice for you, Harry? Not the one for him. What do you want for yourself?"
There wasn't an answer to that question that Harry could articulate easily. Everything between him and Tom was complicated. There were no right choices here. There were only vague options. There were vague options Harry could choose from, but one bad choice could send them all tumbling into disaster.
"It's more complicated than that," Harry said awkwardly, unsure how many of his problems he wanted to share. "My choices aren't just about me."
Remus made a negative noise in response. "Harry. Your choices are supposed to be about you. When was the last time you did anything for yourself?"
Harry would hear the implication. When was the last time he had done something that was not for Tom?
"I teach at Hogwarts," Harry said. "That was my decision. I was… I was only supposed to stay on for just the one year." He had asked Tom to let him stay on, and Tom had given in despite his reservations and his pride.
There were times when Tom commented idly on how he missed Harry's presence at the Ministry. Harry knew such statements were meant to lure him back, to affect some measure of guilt. But Tom had never pushed too far, and eventually the comments had died away altogether. Harry supposed that Tom at last felt secure enough in Harry's desire to remain at home that he no longer worried about Harry ditching him for Hogwarts.
"I know you do love teaching, Harry. But you teach for your students, not as much for yourself. Because you care about them." Remus paused, fondness apparent in the tone of his voice as he continued, "And that's part of what makes you such a wonderful teacher. But that doesn't also mean you don't deserve to take care of yourself first."
Harry felt his insides churn uncomfortably at the words. This was not something he knew how to do. Most of his life revolved around the care of others, the duty he took upon himself to bear. Where would he be, if not for the prophecy? If not for Voldemort?
Harry knew how to live a life for others, and while he worked at Hogwarts, he had gotten a taste of living life for himself. But for whatever reason, it was still not enough. Harry failed to feel content with it, and because of that he felt guilty.
"Don't—don't be like me, Harry," said Remus. "You told me that the past was gone and done with. You have the world at your feet. Eternity at your fingertips. Go and see what it has to offer."
Harry found Tom in the study. He was staring down at a parchment scroll hovering in the air before him. The parchment was facing Tom, which meant that Harry couldn't see what was written on it.
"Hey," Harry said, hovering in the doorway.
The parchment rolled itself up and vanished. Harry took that as his cue to enter the room and settle into his usual chair. Tom was calm, from what Harry could both discern with his eyes and feel through the tenuous bond that existed between them.
They had not utilized this bond often over the years. Harry found it odd that Tom never saw fit to exercise control over this aspect of their relationship. If Harry had to guess, he would say that Tom was afraid of looking too closely lest he find something upsetting.
But sometimes, Harry was subject to dreams that were not quite his own.
What did Dark Lords dream of?
Harry didn't know; he would always wake with little to no recollection of his mental excursions into Tom's mind. There was only Tom's faint presence in his head, always familiar to him, even during the confusing state between sleep and wakefulness. And even if Harry had not immediately recognized the essence of Tom in his mind, who else could it be?
Harry felt Voldemort's impact all over: on his scar-marred forehead, on his frozen, ageless body. His mind was just another piece of him that bore the fingerprints of the Dark Lord.
"You have something on your mind," Tom said. It was not a question, but it was also not a directive, which Harry was thankful for. He was having difficulty approaching this conversation already. The additional pressure to respond would have made it harder.
Harry clasped his hands together in his lap. "You once told me that if I got tired of teaching at Hogwarts, I should tell you."
The calm expression on Tom's face vanished, replaced almost instantly by the cold, unfeeling mask. Harry was alarmed by the sight of it. What was Tom thinking? The mask was a shield, an impenetrable one, and the use of it never gave away its cause. Harry doubted he would ever be able to read it, to predict what was going on in Tom's head.
"Yes?" Tom said, and the tone could have been described as warm if not for the odd, almost calculating look in his eyes.
"I'm—" Harry faltered, unnerved by Tom's sudden change in demeanour. It seemed on some level he would always be concerned with what Tom thought of him.
Tom waited, motionless, for Harry to gather himself.
Harry swallowed. He wanted to try and speak again, but his heart was pounding too fast and his hands felt numb. The guilt came in waves, he thought. Guilt over being discontent with his life. Guilt for what he was about to ask for.
Hogwarts should have been the perfect place for him. He should have been happy to work there, to live there, to help as many students as he could. In another world, it would have been the perfect life. Only Harry's life was far from perfect, and beyond that, his life did not belong to him, but to another.
"Harry," said Tom, gentle but insistent.
Harry glanced up. He had been unaware that, in his anxiety, his head had dropped and his gaze had pulled away. Tom was watching him closely now, his brows pulled ever-so-slightly together and his mouth tilted around the edges.
Harry recognized this look. Tom was worried. Tom was worried about him, only Tom didn't know why Harry was upset, let alone how to remedy it, because Harry still wasn't saying anything. That made Harry feel even worse.
"Sorry," Harry said automatically. Then he winced at his own apology. He'd made an effort to pull back from apologizing for things outside of his control. It never failed to irritate him when he slipped up.
Tom said nothing for a moment longer, only staring, deciding. Then Tom lifted a hand and beckoned Harry forward.
Harry stood on wobbly legs and stumbled over without thinking. A few steps brought him over to Tom's chair, and then he was once again at a loss for what to do. What did Tom want from him? What was he supposed to do now?
But Tom reached for him, fingers clasping around Harry's wrist, and Harry was drawn in like a tide to the shoreline.
They were nearer than was normal for a conversation like this. Harry could see the darker flecks of crimson in Tom's eyes. The neutral mask was melting away to reveal a mixture of concern and contemplation.
"You want to leave Hogwarts?" Tom asked quietly.
"I—" Harry took a deep breath, tried again, "I think that I want to leave Britain, too." He scanned Tom's face for signs of displeasure, concerned about Tom's response. "With you," Harry added, in case that hadn't been clear. "Because you once said that we might leave someday, that you couldn't claim to know the future or what it would hold."
Harry's wrist was still encased in Tom's hand, those long fingers cool and solid like the bars of an iron cage. But the touch was light; the grip was not hurtful. Harry moved his arm backwards so that Tom's thumb slid down, caressing his palm, and left it there.
"I had assumed that would be a day far in the future," Tom said. "That you would be content to remain here for some time yet."
Harry lowered himself to the carpet, sinking to his knees, knowing that this position would resurface memories of another night, of another request that Harry had once made.
"I can't stay here," Harry said, lifting his head up just enough to make eye contact. "I can't watch the world age around me while I look like—while I look like this. The same. The longer I stay here, the more people I meet—" The more people he grew to care for, the more of them he would have to watch age and die. "—I can't do it. Please… please don't ask it of me."
Tom froze. Harry blinked at him, wondering if his pleading had been too much and Tom was about to deny him on the basis of emotions being useless.
"You care too much," Tom said, but his tone was not unkind.
Harry's hand trembled where it lay within Tom's. He did care too much. He cared so much that the feel of it was going to burn him alive. Harry did not fear death, but he did fear oblivion. He did not want to live so long that people lost meaning to him. He did not want to live so long that life lost meaning to him.
Harry could only think of that white room, of being nothing and having nothing. Of lying on the cold stone altar as the Horcrux potion had consumed him. That was what Harry imagined eternity would feel like, and he did not doubt that Tom would make good on his vow to keep Harry alive.
"I have promised to take care of you," Tom said solemnly, when Harry did not speak. "And all I have asked is that you remain with me. If you wish to leave, then we can. Together."
Harry tilted back in surprise, steadied only by Tom's grip, which by now felt like the only real thing holding him in place. Tom's gaze was serious. Harry found himself leaning back in to observe it, to soak up the heavy attention.
"It will take me some time to sort the affairs of the Ministry to function in my absence," Tom continued, "and I will expect to be able to return when necessary. I have major projects underway, and there is still research to be done. I have the Unspeakables working on the task of keeping you alive, though they know little about the real aims of their assignment."
Harry didn't like hearing that last part, but he swallowed it down anyways. It made sense that Tom would begin to outsource the problem, to gather the brightest minds from Hogwarts and set them to work on keeping Harry alive. What was one bitter pill in the face of the gift Tom was offering him? Harry could accept this. He had already promised to accept this.
"We can go?" Harry asked, just to hear the words again, to be sure they were true.
"We may," Tom confirmed. His hand contracted, squeezing, and his eyes did not leave Harry's face. "Would you like to choose the destination? I do recall you enjoyed our time in Greece…"
Dizzy with relief, Harry settled against the armchair, pressing his cheek against the lower part of the armrest, and listened as Tom began to lecture on the benefits of living by the ocean. Tom's voice was soothing, and his hand slid to caress Harry's head, fingers stroking idly through his hair.
Harry allowed his eyes to slide shut. He would let his worries vanish for the time being. He could focus on the fact that soon his gilded cage would expand to include the entirety of earth, and he would not think of what would happen to him once that, too, began to feel stifling.
A/N:
longest chapter yet, at well over five thousand words. evidently these two still have quite a bit more story left in them lol. thanks for reading, thoughts are always appreciated in the form of reviews