Harry awoke to the distant sound of Tom yelling at someone.

He rubbed at his face, stretching his body out across his large bed, luxuriating in the heavenly feel of the silk sheets. The sun was only just visible through the thick curtains on the right side of the room.

Harry forced himself up anyways and searched for his glasses. If Tom was yelling at someone and Harry could hear it, that meant that whoever it was had gotten Tom angry enough that he'd forgotten to cast sound-muffling charms.

Placing his glasses on his face, Harry reached for his wand next. A quick Tempus revealed that it was, in fact, absurdly early.

Harry stumbled through his morning routine, eschewing a shower in favour of speed, and made his way towards the living room where the Floo was.

"What's going on—?"

Harry cut himself off. The living room was empty.

Harry scanned the fireplace, then the mantle, and sure enough, the lid of the Floo powder pot was ajar.

Whatever had happened, it was officially too late for Harry to intervene. It had been over fifteen years since he'd worked at the Ministry, anyways. Anxiety rationalized, Harry went to their tiny kitchen to prepare some breakfast. The familiar motions of preparing food would help distract him from his worries.

Tom returned while Harry was in the middle of stacking pancakes.

The Dark Lord was fully dressed, not a hair out of place, the lines of his robes clean and pressed. He smiled as he caught sight of Harry in the kitchen.

Tom may not have looked like he'd just come back from committing murder, but Harry wouldn't put it past him to have done so anyways.

"Pancakes?" Tom asked, stepping forward. He pulled close, leaning just over Harry's shoulder.

"Yep," said Harry. "And I've got blueberry syrup."

Tom made a dismissive sound. He didn't care much for excessive sugar; he claimed it was the result of a childhood weaned on bland foods.

"There's butter on the opposite counter," Harry said lightly, still focused on his task.

Tom's hand settled his shoulder for a brief second, fingers pressing down in a gentle gesture, and then he drifted away.

"So, who was it this morning?" Harry asked, once he'd gotten two plates full of pancakes and sliced bananas all sorted, one dish balanced in each hand.

Tom took one of the plates without asking and led them to the small wooden round table just outside the kitchen. "No one important," he said curtly, and then he changed the subject.

Harry let it go. If it was important, then Tom would tell him. Otherwise… otherwise he was likely better off not knowing.

They did not stay in one place for long. Harry liked to explore, to wander new areas and admire nature, culture, and people alike. He had never nursed such an urge before, but now he found that he looked at the world with new, curious eyes. Time slid by in a blur as the seasons changed wildly depending on where they travelled.

Tom knew a little bit about everything, and he was happy to impart this knowledge whenever Harry asked. The topics that Tom did not know, they would learn together.

Harry practiced new spells and new languages everywhere they went. He picked up new skills. His palms had never been truly soft before, but now that they were travelling, Harry insisted on doing many things by hand. And so his palms rebuilt their previous roughness, the roughness that was the result of calluses crafted by war.

Only now there was no war. There was only the solid sense of creation that came from making things without magic. Harry had not raised a wand at anyone in decades. He hoped he would never have to do so again.

Whenever Harry wanted to move, Tom would arrange their accommodations. There were beautiful villas, expensive hotel rooms, and an expandable tent for when they ventured into less-populated areas.

Harry learned that he liked it best whenever there was a kitchen, for he had grown fond of cooking in a way he'd never done before. There was a soothing element to preparing a meal, knowing he had all the ingredients and following all of the correct steps to produce the proper result.

Harry had also decided that he liked the constant change of environment, the shifting landscapes and the roaring ocean waves and the cold, high mountains. Their planet was beautiful and vast, as Tom had described it to be. Sometimes, Harry felt he was becoming one with the world in a strange, wonderful way.

He was not certain if he was content, but he was sure that this was the best choice he could have made. The travel kept him busy, kept his mind occupied.

There was only him and Tom and the splendour of humanity around them. There was less need for Harry to linger on his own personal troubles.

Especially one trouble in particular.

Harry would always turn the other way when Tom asked locals for lore regarding death.

Harry traced a lazy circle in the sand with the wooden staff he had made from a large branch on the beach. He had found and carved it himself, just something to occupy his hands while they had sat by the water.

Tom had made fun of it, saying that staffs were for wizards much older than he was. That comment had rubbed Harry the wrong way, and now his mood was melancholy at best as he trailed along the sandy path that led up to the cottage they were staying in.

As they set foot on the part of the path that was made of rocks, Tom began to talk about something else, going on and on about it, but Harry was only half-listening to the conversation.

Once the cottage was in sight, Harry transferred his staff to his other hand. He didn't much like having it now, but to get rid of it would be to cave and admit that Tom's joke had bothered him, and so he was going to have to keep it.

Harry prodded the front door open and set the staff in the umbrella holder where he could avoid looking at it.

"Harry?" asked Tom.

"Yes?" Harry answered, looking over.

Tom was still in the doorway. He was backlit by the golden sun behind him, meaning his face was mostly cast in shadow. His silhouette was traced by a soft glow that looked, from this distance, as though it ought to be tangible.

Harry was once again reminded that Tom would always look this way, chiselled and painfully handsome. That no matter where they went or how long they stayed there, neither of them would ever age.

"You're distant today," Tom said. The sentence lacked inflection, which only meant that Harry didn't understand the context that Tom wanted him to pick up on.

"Maybe?" Harry shrugged. "I think I might go and take a nap."

Tom frowned and took a few more steps into the cottage, the door shutting automatically behind him.

Harry did not move. He waited for Tom to approach him.

Tom drifted forward, grasping Harry's forearms and pulling them close to his chest. His gaze was searching, measuring, as it washed over Harry's face. The scrutiny was not uncomfortable; Harry was used to Tom treating him like an enigma to be solved.

There was even a gentleness to the way Tom regarded him, like Tom thought a stern glower would be too much for him to handle.

Harry tried to smile, to reassure. Tom's hands slid to Harry's wrists, still holding them at chest level. The slender fingers wrapped around like shackles. Harry could feel Tom's magic beneath the skin, a low hum of unspeakable power that existed purely at the point where their hands made contact.

Then Harry felt Tom's thumbs sweep over the inside of his wrists, over the delicate skin and veins there. This, too, was familiar and comfortable.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked. Because while all these actions were habitual on their own, the combination of all these things—Tom's odd expression, the cautious way Tom was holding him, the sudden comment on his demeanour—did not add up.

"I'm fine," Tom said. The words were tense, but then Tom's shoulders unlocked from their harsh lines into a softer slope as he said, "Let's go to the back porch."

Harry's concern increased. "Okay," he said.

Tom stared for a second longer, then took Harry by the hand and began to move. Harry allowed himself to be directed through the cottage, unsure what was going on.

The porch was home to two simple wooden chairs and a small wooden bench. Harry liked to sit on the bench and watch the sunset. Tom preferred one of the chairs to the bench, but sometimes Harry could convince him to sit with him on the bench, a large blanket draped over them.

This time, after they stepped onto the sturdy wood of the back porch, Tom led them straight to the bench.

Harry sat down. Tom sat next to him, slid an arm around Harry's back and shoulders, and Harry tilted over, leaning into the position, shuffling closer despite the warm weather.

The view was enchanting. Only a few paces down, the ground dropped away to a sheer cliff face, revealing an unobstructed stretch of seascape that went on for as far as the eye could see.

A breeze ruffled at their clothes and hair. Harry tore his gaze from the waters and looked tentatively up at Tom. Tom, surprisingly, still had his head turned towards the view. Whenever they usually sat out here, Harry would watch the water and the birds while Tom watched him.

Maybe there was something off about Tom today, and Harry's concern had not been unfounded.

Harry turned his eyes back to the bewitching scenery before them, wondering if Tom was seeking answers in the hypnotic toss of the waves.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked again, quiet.

Tom's body tensed at this, then slowly relaxed. Harry could feel the slight pull and tug of muscle where they were pressed together. Such a human thing, that. The rush of blood pumping in his chest, and the careful flex of Tom's arm wrapped around him.

A second passed. Harry debated asking a third time, but then Tom shifted, his shoulders angling.

Tom's head dipped, and then Harry felt a soft press against the side of his head.

A kiss.

Harry blinked, not daring to move. He was curled against Tom's side, wedged under Tom's arm. He couldn't breathe. The rolling waves, previously pleasant to watch, were now making him feel dizzy.

The breeze picked up. Neither of them said a word.

Eventually, Harry's breathing evened out.

They sat together as the sun died in a blaze of fiery, extraordinary glory.

After that day, Tom took them to more populated areas. If there were a lot of people around, then they would alter their appearances slightly, just so no one would recognize the Dark Lord Voldemort and his aide, Harry Potter.

Harry didn't mind the sudden change, though it did leave him feeling curious. What had brought this on?

Tom led them to museums and plays, to charity galas and local parties. For Harry, socializing too much could become draining, and eventually Harry had to beg off some of the events Tom tried to rope him into.

That didn't make Tom very happy. Harry knew that Tom expected his company wherever they went, only it was often exhausting for Harry to try and keep up.

Harry didn't feel like socializing most of the time, and Tom did most of the talking at those things, anyways. Harry didn't really need to be there at all. But he could endure some of it for Tom. He would try his best.

Harry tugged his blanket tighter around his shoulders. The Muggle television was playing a black and white film on low volume while Harry dozed in and out of wakefulness. Not many magical hotels had Muggle technology in them, so Harry was taking full advantage of the telly while he had access to it.

Tom was downstairs sorting payment with the front desk. They would be extending their stay here in Montreal for a few more days because Tom had discovered some compelling information on Dementors at a local magical research facility.

The door pushed open, creaking softly. Harry glanced up as Tom stepped into the room.

"Harry?" Tom asked as he shed his coat and hung it up. Then he strode over to the bed where Harry was lounging. "Are you feeling any better?"

"I'm fine. Just tired." Though the fussing was appreciated, it wasn't really necessary.

Tom eyed Harry speculatively for a moment.

"We will head out for dinner tonight," Tom said, decisive. "There's a recommended restaurant a few blocks down that we can walk to."

"Okay," Harry said. If Tom wanted to go, then they ought to go. "That sounds nice," he added on, hoping he sounded suitably enthused.

Tom's eyes narrowed in suspicion. Harry dragged his gaze back to the television, embarrassed by how easily Tom could read him.

The mattress dipped as Tom settled next to him and pulled one of Harry's hands onto his lap. "Did you want to stay in again?" Tom asked carefully. He was frowning, his thumbs rubbing circles on the back of Harry's hand.

Harry pushed himself up a bit, adjusting his posture. "No," Harry said. "We can go, really. I'm sure the food will be great."

The frown lines on Tom's face deepened. Harry struggled to contort his expression into a more eager one, but he must have failed because Tom's grip on his hand tightened.

"The walk will be nice," Harry said, now anxious.

Tom raised a hand to brush at Harry's forehead, sweeping aside the bangs there as his cool palm touched against warm skin. Harry let his eyes fall shut, relishing in the intimacy of the touch. He felt safer when Tom was around. There was comfort in knowing that Tom was nearby, a calming aspect that helped to calm his body and clear his head.

"If you want to stay in, then we can," Tom said, his breath fanning the words softly across Harry's cheek. "I have no plans for the rest of the evening."

Harry clutched at Tom's free hand, unwilling to open his eyes. His chest felt so heavy. He had none of the answers that he wanted to have. None of the right answers that he could offer.

"Harry?" Tom asked, concern strung tight in the stiffness of his voice. "What do you want to do?"

Harry had asked himself this question many times.

What did he want?

And though his impulse answer had always been the same—that he did not know—the truth of it was not so simple.

Harry did know what he wanted, and it was not something that Tom was willing to give him.

"Let's go out," Harry said, opening his eyes. "The fresh air will help."

Tom seemed reassured by this. He gave Harry's hand another squeeze before he straightened. "Excellent. I will wait for you downstairs in the lobby while you get dressed."

Harry smiled. "Okay."

Tom hovered for another second, and Harry got the impression that they were one impulse away from another, more overt gesture of affection. Harry slipped out from underneath his blanket and scooted to the edge of the bed so he could wrap both arms around Tom's waist.

"Thank you for being patient with me," Harry said, pressing the side of his face against Tom's torso.

Tom made a quiet noise in response. His hand came to rest upon Harry's head, his fingers burying themselves in the tangle of curls there, stroking slowly. It felt nice; it always did.

Harry sighed a little. He knew this momentary peace would not last, no matter how hard he fought to keep it. All Harry could hold onto was the hope that no solution would be found.

Only then would Tom be forced to surrender him into Death's waiting arms.

Just before the end of July, Tom took them home.

Harry went willingly. Part of him was glad for the familiarity of their manor, of his room and its decor. For the welcome sight of the well-kept grounds that he had once loved to walk when he had the time.

The high arc of the entrance hall stretched over their heads, leading down to where the staircase and the sitting room existed.

Tom's arm was firm around Harry's waist as they stepped inside. Harry glanced around at the coat rack and decorative paintings, which were clean and dust-free, just as he and Tom had left them.

"Welcome home," Harry said. His voice echoed like a phantom gasp in the large, empty space of the hall.

"Welcome home, Harry," Tom murmured in return.

Harry twisted around so he could gaze at Tom's face. "Do you have work to do?" he asked.

Tom paused, clearly deciding how much he wanted to say. "Nothing that cannot wait."

Harry didn't believe that. Tom had claimed that they needed to return for Ministry business. There was little that could call Tom back to Britain with such urgency.

"Alright," Harry said. If Tom wanted to keep him company, then that was fine.

The rest of their evening passed quietly. Tom made no mention of why they had returned, and Harry did not ask.

Living in the manor did not alleviate Harry's poor mood. If anything, the reminder of how easily things could revert to normal made him feel worse. Harry caught himself gazing listlessly out the window, and sometimes Tom would be the one reaching into his sphere of melancholy and dragging him back to reality.

While Tom busy was at the Ministry, Harry sulked around the manor, avoiding those who wanted to see him. Weeks passed with Harry making repeated excuses to his friends. Harry knew if he saw them, if he was to be confronted with how they looked—older and grey-haired in a way he would never accomplish—he would spiral further.

It was not a sustainable way of life, and therefore Harry was not surprised when Tom came to corner him about it.

"You're upset."

"Yeah," Harry said. "I'm upset."

They were at an impasse. Harry was tired of fighting, and Tom was unwilling to give in. If Tom did not want to talk about it, then Harry had little to say to him.

Tom's jaw flexed, his eyes flashing in anger, but Harry felt no fear at the sight.

Tom would not hurt him.

"You once said that all lives were worth saving," Tom said in an even tone. "Does this not apply to yourself?"

Tom still did not understand. Harry shook his head. "That is not what this is. I don't need saving."

"Someone must save you from yourself," Tom said harshly, striding forward and seizing Harry by the arm. "You value yourself too little. If you saw yourself as I do, then you would not be so eager to depart from this world."

Harry shook his head again, more vigorously this time. He did not pull his arm away from Tom's severe grip. "I see myself perfectly fine, thank you. I know what I want, and you aren't willing to give it to me."

Tom inhaled a ragged breath, nostrils flaring, eyes aflame. His hold on Harry's arm loosened, then fell away entirely.

"You want to die," said Tom.

Harry met Tom's gaze evenly, an unexpected serenity flooding into his veins.

"I want the choice."

Tom did not speak to him for days.

Harry was torn between feeling grateful for the respite and feeling hurt by the distance. He couldn't bring himself to hate Tom for it, either. He couldn't hate Tom for any of it.

How could you hate someone who only wanted you to stay with them?

A/N:

this chapter was originally gonna be longer, but i have benevolently decided to move the suffering to the next chapter, thereby also extending the chapter count by one (who woulda thunk it?).

enjoy your brief respite while it lasts, i promise the bitter end is coming soon.