A/N:

here we see the reason for tom and harry's abrupt return to britain, as well as the conclusion of character development over 110k words in the making. 😔❤️

edit 5/29/20: updated this chapter with additional content.

Chapter 34: Vow

Outside there was less reprieve from the summer heat. But the balcony rail was cool marble beneath his fingertips as he dragged a slow hand across the surface. He could sense that Harry had just departed the room. He was as attuned to Harry's presence as he was to the wards of his own manor.

When Harry was near, he knew. And when Harry was gone…

Tom Riddle turned his face to the skies above.

He did not believe in prophecy. His life was built around self-determination. Fate could not be bribed or coerced or threatened—it could only be conquered.

Or so he had thought.

So he had sought to accomplish.

Only now, thinking back on that first night, when Harry Potter had been delivered and deposited at his feet, did he acknowledge how foolish he had been.

Age brought wisdom, and this was true. But age also brought time, and with time came new understanding of the world around him, of the heart he had sought to own.

If Harry died—

If Harry died. Then what? What would become of this empire he had constructed for himself, for them both?

His eyes fell shut, blocking out what little illumination the stars and moon provided.

If Harry died, what would he do?

He would stop it from happening. He would claw Harry back from Death's clutches at any cost. The laws of the universe would crumble under his power, his will. He had already achieved his own immortality, and to secure Harry's had not been as difficult as he'd originally feared.

Decades of research and labour had culminated in success: three solutions to his hellish dilemma.

A weapon, a shield, and a stone.

A weapon to defeat Death—the use of murder to create a Horcrux. Though Voldemort would have named it an impossibility, the Horcrux from Harry could be removed, given the correct frame of mind. Remorse could be called upon in this instance, for Dumbledore's death had caused Harry much harm and distress, harm that haunted to this day.

Following the removal of the Dark Lord's Horcrux, Harry could create his own.

But Harry would never raise his wand against another, not to murder in cold blood, and that made this solution unsavoury at best.

A shield to evade Death—a ritual that would drench the body in powerful magic, trapping the soul inside even after the decay of the physical form.

From there, the soul (and its attached Horcrux) could be transferred to any other container. Another body, if one was prepared sufficiently in advance. It would be simple from there to imbue the new body with magic to keep the soul properly alive; a few sacrifices to give the form power, and it would be practically indistinguishable from its original.

A stone to cheat Death—the infamous Philosopher's Stone created by Nicholas Flamel. A secret lost to time and mystery. The completed alchemical substance that would grant eternal life through the consumption of its Elixir.

The creation of the stone was a work in progress, a project run in the Department of Mysteries. News of a minor breakthrough there was what had driven him to take Harry back to Britain.

Given enough time, the puzzle of the Stone would be solved. The Elixir would extend Harry's life long enough to find a stable, permanent solution. Beyond that, there were other benefits to this alternative.

With the Stone, all those Harry loved could be saved if so he wished.

This would provide an incentive for Harry to stay. A solution to the pain of loss that Harry feared. The pain that he had witnessed in Harry's mind, vivid and feral, worse than the Cruciatus, worse than the torture of creating a Horcrux.

It was unfathomable. How Harry could feel such loss so keenly, so deeply?

If Harry died, if Harry left him—that would be his fate. To suffer that agony forever. He was more certain of this than ever.

Their relationship had originally centered around bargains, around promises from Harry. Promises of loyalty, of faith. Of trust and absolution.

But between them, there had only been one promise of the heart.

You would try to save me?

I am trying.

Tom opened his eyes. The sun was now creeping up along the horizon. It was not visible through the border of trees surrounding the manor, but the sky was tinted with the telltale signs of sunrise.

There were three options.

1) Present Harry with the first two options. Harry would choose the second of the two, likely, and in that case he could age his appearance the way he liked, and so he would no longer appear eternally youthful. Harry would disapprove of the sacrificial aspect, especially as the process would be repeated again in another three centuries, but it was the safest option in that it could be managed without external reliance.

2) Convince Harry to accept the third option as a compromise, sharing the secret of immortality with others in order to keep Harry surrounded by his friends and family. Surrounded by reasons to live. This would also serve to buffer the dwindling Pureblood population, an issue which had become more prominent over the past decade.

Hands braced firmly on the balcony rail, the Dark Lord exhaled a soft sigh.

Then, the final option:

3) Relinquish the choice entirely.

This thought had chased him across continents, across decades. It lived in his dreams and died in his nightmares, nightmares where Harry's corpse, monochrome and lifeless, nothing more than a spectre, pointed the finger of blame at him.

His Harry had asked to be set free, to be given over to Death's hands when the time came.

There was every reason in the world to refuse. All parts of him screamed in accordance that Harry must not die. He needed Harry here with him, fulfilling the empty ache in his life that must have existed for years prior to the utterance of any prophecy.

To fail in this was a blow to his pride. A rejection of the only other desire he had known since he'd first coveted an eternal life.

To fail was to renounce the very core of who he was.

If Harry died, that would be his failure.

It would ruin him, as he had said. It would crush the heart that had only begun to feel, to appreciate the truth of what it meant to love.

But to do the opposite, to deny Harry what he so dearly wished?

That would kill his love in another way.

He could not bear to see the light in those eyes fade to a distant dullness, to never hear the joy of Harry's laugh again, to bear witness to the death of everything that made Harry who he was.

And so, in the end, there was no choice.

There was one path left to him, a path dictated by that which he had sworn to never abide by.

If they had been destined to find themselves here, wrapped up in each other, souls woven like the threads of fate, then this choice, too, was a result of predetermination

If he would fall to ruin either way, then he would choose with his heart.

Harry was willing to die for Tom Riddle.

This fact, a result of the connection between them, was special.

Harry had walked with the Dark Lord for three decades, and had gazed, undeterred, into the darkness. During that time, their relationship had altered irreversibly.

Voldemort had sought to bind Harry to him. Harry had traded away pieces of himself, mind and body and soul, in exchange for protection and clemency granted to innocents. But even though Harry had given up so much of himself, his ability to care had never wavered.

The heart was not something that could be taken. The heart could only be given.

After the death of Nagini, the dynamic between him and Voldemort had shifted. The possibility of Harry's death had become real to them both in a way it never had before. Thus began a journey that Harry could not have anticipated—a descent to a level of intimacy that was strange and frightening to them both.

One final journey. One final vow.

The vow Harry had made on bended knee, swearing that he would remain by Tom's side for as long as he lived. A vow that had come from the heart.

If Tom held him to this promise, Harry would not protest. He would permit Tom to keep him. But he would be miserable, hating every second of it, his sense of self withering and wasting away.

Would they survive that? Could they survive it?

Harry had no insight on this.

There was no prophecy to guide them here. There was no hope of future answers. Harry had placed his faith in Tom, and so there was only the certainty of Tom's will, indomitable and immovable. The final enemy of Death.

Harry rose shortly after dawn, too nervous to fall back asleep. Last night's revelations had kept his mind preoccupied for most of the evening, ruining any chance of a full night's rest. The few hours he had managed were fleeting, snatches of restfulness that slipped away whenever he attempted to draw upon them for strength.

After twenty minutes of his usual, bleary-eyed morning routine, Harry was half-dressed and staring at himself in the mirror, white collared shirt draped over his arm. The scars on his chest appeared pink and irritated; they would never fade to the silver-purple of other curse scars.

Harry traced over the shape with his index finger. There was no pain, no phantom twinge. He could almost forget when and how he had gotten this scar. This permanent reminder of who, exactly, his life belonged to.

Harry pulled his shirt on, did up the buttons, and smoothed the fabric across his chest until it was wrinkle free. Then he tucked the tails in, methodically working his way around until everything was perfect, picturesque.

Turning his attention to his hair, Harry summoned his comb from across the bathroom and ran it through a few times, just to ease any tangles.

Grooming complete, Harry set the comb down on the counter, leaving it there, and departed his room for the office downstairs. The weather was warm enough that there was no need for robes, and a jacket would have only been another layer for him to sweat through.

Harry took his time walking. It was early, not even seven yet, and Tom had asked for nine sharp. No doubt the office would be empty at this hour. If Tom was there, it was likely that he would be busy with another task. Then Harry would have to wait and watch as Tom went about his Ministerial duties.

Truthfully, sometimes Harry missed working at the Ministry.

Harry had originally exchanged his influence at the Ministry for a professorship at Hogwarts, a decision he did not regret making in the slightest. But eventually that, too, had grown difficult for him. His students had aged into fully-grown adults, had become parents with children, achieving milestones that he would never manage.

It had become clear that no matter where Harry worked, it would involve caring too much, investing himself in ways that would inevitably end up being painful.

Life would lose its meaning, the days washing away with the eternal tides and the repeated setting of the sun. Love would numb with time, wounds opened and opened again, all of it scarred over until it was barely recognizable. And during all this, Harry would lose his humanity, the joys of living soured by the anguish of loss.

During the war, Harry had been most fearful of losing his loved ones. He knew very well how time could be cut short, how regret could fill a heart with pain worse than any physical torture. Some losses would always hurt, regardless of how much time passed.

Harry could only imagine how visceral this fear was for Tom, who had chosen only one person to care for.

Giving up Ron and Hermione had truly been the most agonizing decision of Harry's life. But he had made that decision out of love, and his friends were better off for it. They were safe and happy, which was more than he ever could have dreamed possible for them.

Pausing in his thoughts, Harry came to a halt in the corridor.

The door to Tom's office was open. Harry raised a hand and knocked. This action reminded him of last night, of Tom's declaration of devotion and affection.

The door swung wide, inviting him in. Harry grasped firmly at his confidence and stepped forward.

"You're early," Tom said from behind his desk. With a casual gesture, Tom wandlessly waved over a chair and set it infront of him. "Did you wish to sit down?"

"Should I be sitting down for this?" Harry asked, then winced at the bluntness of his own question.

Tom gave no sign of apprehension, but he did hesitate before speaking. "I think it may be easier if you are."

Harry sat down.

Tom opened a drawer, retrieving three parchment scrolls from it. Each scroll was tied off with a strand of black ribbon, signifying its importance as a personal document of the Minister for Magic. Tom raised a brow, offering the scrolls out.

Harry took them, cautious, and set them down upon the desk. "What are these?"

"They are yours."

Another gift? Anxious, Harry chose a scroll at random, untied it, unfurled it, and began to read.

He only managed the first paragraph before the meaning sunk in, and then he was reaching for the second scroll, discarding its ribbon and unravelling its contents.

His eyes scanned the words, unseeing, the concepts trickling into reality.

Immortality. Eternal life. The destruction of Death.

Harry did not pick up the third scroll. Instead he placed his hands on the desk, watched with a detached fascination as his fingers trembled as he attempted to throttle his panic.

Tom's hand, steady and larger than Harry's, covered Harry's hands like a blanket.

"Only two of the options are wholly viable at the present moment," Tom said calmly, as though he had not just delivered the antithesis of a death sentence. "The third may take some time yet, but it has potential for mass production. The choice is yours."

Harry's next breath passed with a wheeze, high and strangled, his view of the room rapidly deteriorating as everything faded to white noise, to the violent static of terror.

"Harry? Harry, breathe." Tom's voice, urgent, stripped of composure, was very far away.

There was a scraping sound as Harry's chair dragged backwards, and then Tom was in front of him, holding him, cupping his cheek with a worried touch.

Harry choked on his fear, dry heaved a gasp, flooding the air with hysteria.

Tom's eyes were wide and distracted, scanning Harry's face for invisible injuries. "Harry—"

Harry tried to speak, his mouth moving, soundless air passing through his lips.

"Harry, please, calm down. It's not what you think—it's not—I'm offering you a choice."

The world went still.

Harry focused on Tom, whose deep red eyes were distraught with concern, his expression pained. Tom was kneeling on the ground, his hands now clasped atop Harry's knee.

Tom's next words were slow, agonized.

"I will not keep you here with me if it will make you unhappy. I will respect your wishes, Harry, even as the mere thought of it wounds me beyond measure. If this is what you want, truly, then I swear I will find the means to let you go."

Harry had been born into a war, had been raised in the midst of it. He had been taught to value what limited time he had, to cherish the present moment above all else. There was little reason to linger; dwelling on the past brought pain. There was only the end to look forward to, a release from the burdens of life, a release from grief.

Everything in Harry's life was transitory, one event to the next—a slow funeral march.

It was why Harry had never cared much for having possessions. There were few items he genuinely valued. His father's cloak, his trusty broomstick, his holly and phoenix feather wand. The photo album his parents had left behind. The baby blanket that he'd grown up with. Practical items, items with sentiment attached.

Tom enjoyed spoiling him, but Harry asked for little. It was a habit carried over from ten years of expecting to die. His life was temporary, and therefore he had no need for excess. It felt wasteful to spend money on extravagance he would not keep with him when he passed on.

Nothing was built to last. Not Rome, not Voldemort's reign. Not him.

"Harry?" Tom asked. His voice was threaded with apprehension.

Harry took a moment to come back to himself, to reacquaint his body with the rhythm of his breathing, the subtle pulse of his heart. "I—I'm fine. I'm okay."

Tom scoffed, but the noise was mild. He did pull back, however, balancing himself against the side of the desk while he regarded Harry with a rapt expression.

"Thank you," Harry said. The statement sounded odd, not quite devoid of inflection, so Harry tried again and said, "Thank you, Tom."

Tom smiled, wan, and reached out.

Harry offered his hands, palms up, and let Tom pull him to his feet.

Tom was telling the truth. He had to be. Tom would not lie, not about this, never this.

Harry slipped his arms around Tom's waist, inhaling the reassuring top notes of soap and aftershave that masked the natural, familiar scents that lay underneath.

Tom held him closer. Harry settled his head upon Tom's shoulder and savoured in the feeling, in the relief now pervading every cell of his body.

"Is this enough, then?" Tom asked quietly, uncomfortably.

Harry shifted, lifting his head. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Tom adjusted his hold, his thumbs brushing across the width of Harry's forearms. "You will live much longer than an average wizard."

Harry mulled that over for a moment. The vastness of eternity was now condensed to a matter of centuries. Three hundred years or so, and then his time on earth would be complete.

"It's alright," Harry said softly. "This already means… means a lot to me. It means so much." His cheeks warmed, shyness burning inside of him as he added, "I'm very happy. I'm really, really happy you're letting me choose."

Harry tilted back so he could stare up at Tom's face, to make sure that Tom knew he was grateful.

Tom smiled again, charming and bright, a flash of white teeth. The politician's smile. Harry could tell that it wasn't wholly genuine.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, contrite. "I know this is hard for you. Is there… is there anything I can do to make it easier?"

Tom wavered, his hands going still, his expression once again impassive as Harry waited for him to speak. Then Harry felt a cool touch to his forehead that traced over his lightning scar.

"I'm releasing you from your promise," Tom said. "You no longer owe me anything."

"I know," Harry said.

Tom loved him. If he never said so, Harry would know it regardless.

"I know," Harry repeated. A new vow. A new promise. His heart in his hands, open and trusting. "But I'm offering anyway."

A/N:

as we approach the end, i'd like to list a few acknowledgements:

to waitingondaisies, who has been my long-suffering sounding board. thank you for embarking on this journey with me. this story would never have been the epic it has turned out to be without you.

to minryll, whose essay-length comment on ao3 prompted what i highly believe to be one of the best chapters in this story. thank you for your insight and the inspiration you provide.

to my regular commenters (and my lovely discord readers), you make writing this story worthwhile. it would not have been nearly as long without your support and encouragement. thank you for your time and your kind words.

and to everyone who has read this story, i thank you for deciding to click on 'til death do us part' and follow through to the bitter end.

the epilogue is next. three hundred years later, from scorpius malfoy's pov. i'll save my personal thoughts on the story for that chapter. thank you all!