In the Daylight Again Chapter 9: year three, a harry potter fanfic

Previously:

Everything about Harry calms him. The sound of Harry's voice at the end of the day, its syllables slurred with mild exhaustion and softened by uninhibited fondness. The cheerful presence of Harry in the forest as they chase each other, his wild laughter setting Tom's heart aflame.

year three

The curious thing about time is that every day feels similar. Without the regular schedule of classes and exams to guide him, Tom feels adrift. Sometimes he imagines he is walking on a long road that slopes upwards by the tiniest of degrees. He can walk for kilometers and not notice a difference. It is only when he looks back does he realize the point where he had begun is no longer in sight.

This metaphor also applies to how Tom feels about Harry. Their gradual ascent to friendship has been hardwon. Tom struggles with managing his thoughts and impulses even on a good day, but with Harry it's easier. Harry is so open with him, so honest. Tom has no reason to lie or manipulate with ill intentions.

On one of Tom's good days, he and Harry set their blue picnic blanket out in the middle of the field and watch the clouds. They tend to fall asleep under the warmth of the summer sun. When Harry's breathing has dropped off into the slow, deep pace that signifies sleep, Tom will reach over and settle his hand atop Harry's so he can feel the soft skin and sturdy bones. Today may present that opportunity if Tom is attentive enough. If he is patient enough.

Tom never had much reason to touch other people before arriving here. Handshakes and shoulder grips made up a majority of his physical interactions. There had certainly never been an urge in him to hold hands with anyone. Harry has woken up this odd feeling in him, this strange inclination towards physical contact. In Tom's mind, caring has always been a weakness, but this is no longer wholly true.

At Wool's, wishing for parents to adopt him had never led anywhere—if Tom wanted something for himself, then he had to fetch it by himself. There were no friends or adults or parents who would do it for him. Now, however, he can see the value of reciprocation. He understands the appeal of caring about someone who cares for him in return. Not an action that ought to be taken with everyone, but again, Harry makes it easy.

Their night on the rooftop had opened the gate that was previously shut; Harry now talks about his time at the Dursley's. Harry talks about his cousin, his aunt, his uncle. He talks about chores and threats and never having anything of his own. Tom listens with a sympathetic ear, but his imagination is running amuck in his mind's eye. If given the chance, he would destroy Harry's relatives. He would leave their house a smoldering wreck, the cupboard under the stairs burnt to ashes while he cradles a trembling Harry in his arms.

"I wish we had met sooner," Tom says. "When we were younger." He picks at a loose thread on his trousers, then frowns. He's been outgrowing his clothes faster than he can catch it happening—his ankles are currently visible in the gap between the hem of his trousers and the start of his socks.

Harry stretches out, leaning on his elbows as he stares at the sky. Even now, Harry is rather skinny for a seventeen year old. He's not much taller than Tom is; Tom suspects he will catch up with Harry very soon.

If they were at Hogwarts, would Harry be the Head Boy? Dumbledore must have favoured Harry, who is, by most standards, a golden Gryffindor. Tom finds that this favouritism doesn't bother him anymore because he knows, now, that they both distrust Dumbledore. It doesn't matter what Dumbledore thinks of either of them so long as they are united in their dislike.

"Imagine if we met at Wool's," Harry says. "Do you think we would have been friends?"

"Yes." They would have discovered each other no matter what. "We'd both still be wizards, wouldn't we?"

"Oh, hm. That's true. But if we weren't wizards, then would we?"

"Of course." Tom squints. "We're not friends because we have magic. Don't be stupid."

Harry hums in response. Tom lets the silence hold and flops back down onto the blanket, clasping his hands over his chest and closing his eyes, allowing the sun to heat his face. His breathing goes slow and steady as he lies there, warm and comfortable. Tom indulges himself in a daydream, in a fantasy where Harry lives with him at Wool's and they are roommates. They talk to the snakes in the yard and play toy soldiers in their room. They grow up together.

Some minutes or hours later, Tom wakes to Harry's hand shaking his shoulder. Tom blinks several times, disoriented. Harry's face is looming over him, eyes crinkled and the corners of his lips tipping upwards into a smile. The collar of Harry's shirt is a little crooked, Tom notes. It is folded poorly.

Without thinking, Tom reaches for Harry's shirt collar and tucks the flap down. Harry freezes at the sudden touch, but he stays close, close enough for Tom to gaze into the flecks of hazel that dot Harry's eyes. Harry's body heat radiates across the space between them, more potent than the sun. More addictive. Tom wants to pull Harry on top of him and feel the solid weight of Harry's body against his. He covets. He hungers.

"We should go in for dinner," Harry says, embarrassed.

Tom is fifteen. He will be sixteen come December. He's not of age but he knows what he wants—his conviction carries him, sustains him. Tom sits up, bumping into Harry as he does so. Tom is purposeful, determined. Harry jolts back, confused, blinking rapidly.

"Sorry," Tom says. He's not sorry. He'd meant to do it. He places a hand on Harry's chest to steady himself, then shuffles back, putting a bit of space between them. "You're right. Let's go back inside."

Harry doesn't comment on the physical contact, but Tom catches flashes of Harry's questioning gaze throughout the remainder of the evening. It means something. It means—

It means Harry notices him. Harry watches him, pays attention to him. Maybe that is what it means to be happy. All Tom wants is for Harry to look at him forever.

Tom has read through nearly all the books in the house, including the Muggle ones. In a few more months, he will be finished with Hogwarts' seventh year curriculum. Lately, Tom has even slowed his pace so he can work in synchrony with Harry. Harry moves through topics with his usual, unhurried methods, but Tom understands Harry better now, so he can acknowledge Harry's desire to work through subjects at a regular rate. Tom can even understand Harry's insistence on 'fun' breaks.

At Wool's, fun consisted of playing tricks on the other orphans, putting them in their place, watching them dance to his machinations. Here under the wards, spending time with Harry is fun. Harry is plenty interesting. Tom doesn't mind the board games or the idle chatter. He likes to add bits and pieces of knowledge to the construct of Harry in his mind. He likes the moment when an action or kind word falls into place in his mind.

Tom is learning much about the subject of Harry Potter through observation and experimentation. Harry is very complex, which is fine. Once Tom does run out of reading material, all he will have to occupy his mind is Harry.

Well, no. That is not entirely true. Tom also has ideas for magical experimentation. After all of his voracious reading, Tom has drawn up endless concepts for new spells and potions he plans to create. It is exciting, certainly, but what is most important is that he is no longer afraid of stagnation. There are new ways forward, new things to discover.

Unsurprisingly, Harry proves to be a beautiful fount of encouragement. Tom explains what he wants to do, and Harry provides him feedback. Harry provides valuable resistance, provides a counterweight to Tom's arrogant, impulsive nature. Their banter is an effortless flow that sparks Tom's inspiration into overdrive. Tom loves it. He loves how they make each other better.

How easy would it be to conquer the world with Harry by his side? How perfect are they for each other?

Spurred by this, Tom convinces Harry to practice spells with him out in the large field. The familiar rush of their combined magic runs through him, swirling elation in his chest. He wonders if there are more limits to push, more tests to try. Harry obliges all his requests, anyhow, so they can take their time with it all. It certainly feels as though they have all the time in the world.

Tom wishes the two of them could stay like this forever, wrapped up in each other, together for all of eternity. They won't be here forever, though. When they leave the wards, Harry might leave him, but Tom can't bear to think of that. So he doesn't, he doesn't think about any of it.

When Tom lies in bed, unable to sleep, he pushes aside the fear and finds comfort in his fantasies—he dredges up his old dreams of wealth and power and drowns his mind in them. Dreams that used to involve only him have been carved out to make room for two.

In these dreams, he and Harry are unstoppable. Tom secures their place at the head of magical Britain so that Harry can have everything his Muggle relatives never gave him. Everything that Tom also went without, they will share because they deserve it. Everything they accomplish, they will do so together.

Tom trims with precision and delicacy, watching as the dark tufts of hair fall to the tiled floor.

While watching Tom's movements, Harry's eyes had been open and curious, but eventually he had grown sleepy and his eyelids had drooped. Tom rubs his fingers into Harry's scalp, dislodging any loose hairs, taking his time to make the experience enjoyable… pleasurable, even. Harry now has his eyes closed and is breathing deeply while Tom works.

Despite its perpetual disarray, Harry's hair is soft under Tom's touch. Tom can bury his hand in the fluff of it, the strands coiled around his fingers like silken vines.

"Nearly done," Tom murmurs. He doesn't want to stop, and he wonders if Harry feels the same. When the deed is done, the extent of this intimate contact will also be finished, and Tom will have to resume his restraint. He'll have to pause, to hold himself back from reaching out without plausible reason.

Brushing a few stray hairs aside, Tom examines his handiwork. He is nothing if not a perfectionist. He has learned from his previous errors, and he has honed his craft to an art form.

"Perfect," Tom declares, reverent, and sets his hand down upon Harry's shoulder, close to the neck. Tom tucks his fingers into the hollow of the collarbone, warmth pulsing against this hand.

"Thanks." Harry's voice is rougher than usual. His eyes are fixed on the mirror, on where they are touching.

Tom wishes they would touch more often, but Harry is so cautious, so fragile—like a butterfly or a moth. If Tom presses too hard, he will crush those delicate wings. He will ruin his chance.

So Tom must be patient. He must wait. He will court Harry to his side in all other ways, so that when the time comes, there will be no doubt in Harry's mind what they can become together.

Tom forgoes use of his magic more and more during their games of pursuit. His magic is used only to mislead and to disguise his presence. His intention is no longer to incapacitate. His new goal is to subdue. Tom crafts battle plans so he can catch Harry off-guard, tackle him to the ground, and whisper in his ear—

"Got you."

It's a mockery of possession, of ownership, but Tom purrs inwardly all the same. He revels in the heat of contact, in the erratic noise of Harry's panting breaths and the staccato of their wildly-beating hearts. The firm feel of Harry's chest under his hand, the press of Harry's hips against his own. The urge to roll their bodies in unison.

Harry suspects Tom's intentions. How could he not? Tom has been almost crude with his advances. The flush of dark colour across Harry's face speaks to the attraction Tom knows is mutual. Harry has feelings for him. Harry wants him. There is only the matter of leaping over the flimsy boundary of friendship and pushing past the propriety that prevents Harry from succumbing to his desires and consummating their bond.

Tom has never been patient, but Harry is… worth waiting for. The slow build of their relationships satisfies something deep inside of him. Tom likes knowing that Harry's affections have been gently teased out, that the smile on Harry's lips is something he has worked for. Harry would not be nearly as interesting if he was easy to court.

Harry shies away from a lot of the physical contact Tom tries to initiate. He jerks backwards, his motions hesitant, like he's a skittish kitten and unused to being touched. All this is also new territory to Tom, but Tom has never been one to deny himself. In this case, his momentary discomfort is far outweighed by his pleasure.

Pleasure comes in many forms, some of them smaller than expected. Every morning, Tom adjusts Harry's shirt collar. The first morning he had done so, Harry blushed so hard that it spread down to his neck. The day after that, Harry made a point to wear a shirt without a collar. Tom did not comment on it, did not even raise a brow—he was, as he had decided to be, patient.

The next day, Harry went back to wearing a collared shirt. His lips were set into a mild pout as Tom approached him, but he did not move away or tell Tom to stop. So Tom continued with his delicate ministrations, enthralled by the non-explicit permission he'd been given.

Now the tender adjustment of clothing is a habit. It is a normal part of their routine. Harry blushes every time; Tom doesn't tire of it. Tom plucks leaves out of Harry's hair and bumps ankles with Harry under the table. He has never felt more alive. His entire body thrums with energy when he is in Harry's presence.

It is no longer only their magic that harmonizes, he decides. They have grown beyond that. Sometimes, Tom feels as though their souls are aligned.

The large calendar in the living room is running out of empty days. Harry says he has another one for when this one is finally done, but Tom doesn't care much. His list of reasons for counting the days is short. Birthdays are one reason. Taking care of the preservation spells is another. But the meaning of time is so distant from them now—Tom suspects that Harry is only fastidious with tracking out of misplaced anxiety rather than an actual desire to know that it is a Tuesday.

"Four years is next," Harry says as he flips through the paper calendar. His voice lifts up at the end as he rubs at the back of his neck; a tick that Tom recognizes as a sign of suppressed worry. "Can you believe it?"

"I can. Think of everything that has changed, Harry."

Harry sets the calendar back on the mantle. Tom takes that as his cue to step closer so that he is standing just behind Harry's shoulder. "You're right, I reckon. It just feels strange to say it aloud. Four whole years."

Tom would shrug if Harry was facing him, but he isn't, so Tom can only settle for a vague noise of agreement. "I imagine it is strange for you, given your schooling is complete." Harry is going to be eighteen soon enough. If not for the wards, if not for Tom, he would be a Hogwarts graduate.

Harry drops his eyes to the empty fireplace. "Yeah." The word is soft, sad.

Tom curses silently and takes one last step in Harry's direction so that his chest is mere centimeters from Harry's back. They are the same height, now. Tom imagines himself pulling Harry into his arms. Harry would find comfort in his embrace, would forget all about the sadness of missing his old friends and his old life. They have a new life here together that they can enjoy; Tom's greatest wish is for Harry to accept that.

"Harry?" he asks.

Harry goes still, like he can sense the hidden urgency in Tom's voice. Just like that, the moment becomes charged. The air between them is full of all the unspoken hopes and dreams Tom has nursed in his head over the past two years or so.

Tom drifts closer. He presses his front against Harry's right shoulder blade. He leans in under the guise of examining the messy rows of black ink Harry has scrawled over the days that have gone by, then says, "You're not upset with me, are you?"

Harry whirls around in confusion, bumping into Tom as he does so. "What? No! Why would you say that?"

Tom had planned his manipulation in advance. He had thought long and hard on how he would convince Harry to leave the past behind. Harry will feel bad about upsetting him. Harry will feel bad that his fixation on the past is harming their current relationship. Harry will repent, even if it is painful.

The pain won't last, anyways. Tom will soothe it away. If he can give Harry enough, then Harry will never have a reason to leave him.

Tom knows what he needs to say to make his vision come true, but why is it suddenly so hard? His throat is as dry as sandpaper. His hands are sweating uselessly at his sides. Harry is watching him with those wide, concerned eyes. He must, he must say it.

Tom clears his throat and forces his lines out. "I know you miss your friends and your godfather. I know you are only here because of me."

Harry's face falls, the shadow of guilt passing over it like a dark storm cloud. Tom's stomach twists and clenches at the sight.

"I—I don't mean for you to feel that way, Tom. I'm sorry. It's nothing to do with you, I promise."

Oh, but it has everything in the world to do with him. Tom sees their situation clearly: so long as Harry remains attached to his past, he will never look to his future. His future with Tom. Perhaps his words to Harry have a grain of truth to them after all. Even after everything they've been through together, Harry has yet to choose this life. Has yet to choose Tom.

Harry had agreed to saving Tom's life, had gone to the past out of moral obligation, had continued on this path because it was easier to. Harry's godfather is dead, and so Harry had committed to Tom out of grief and desperation. Harry might care for him, might feel affection for him, but it is nowhere near the level that Tom feels in return.

This is the fear that Tom does not acknowledge—that for all their talk of friendship and compatibility, the center of his relationship with Harry is based only on circumstance. If there were any other options, Harry would have gone another route, any other route. He would not have chosen to be here otherwise.

"Harry," he tries to get out the words, avoiding the heavy weight in his chest, "I understand that. I do. I would understand if you were mad at me."

"I'm not," Harry protests, frowning. "I'm not mad, Tom, really I'm not—"

Harry cuts himself off mid-sentence. His eyes remain wide with shock. Tom takes a step back, unthinking; he is sick with distress at the idea of Harry rejecting him. Leaving him behind when the wards fall. There are subtle tremors in his limbs and complicated knots buried deep in his chest. Tom wants Harry to turn around again. He doesn't want Harry to witness his weakness and his lack of self-control.

The careful script Tom had planned has fled from his mind. Tom holds his body still, stops the conflicting emotions from affecting his nerves. He is withdrawing from the situation. He is finding safety inside of himself. He is drawing his mental shields up in an attempt to escape those beautiful green eyes—

Harry stumbles half a step forward, braces his hands on Tom's shoulders, and kisses him.

The world spins. Tom gasps against Harry's mouth. It is his first kiss, messy and wet. His teeth bump against Harry's in a clumsy collision that vibrates through him right down to the soles of his feet.

Tom seizes Harry's arms and walks them backwards until Harry is pressed against the wall, breathing hard and blinking rapidly at him. His glasses are slightly askew. Tom licks his lips and reaches up, adjusting the frames, then leans slowly in to brush his mouth against Harry's in a light, open-mouthed kiss.

Harry makes a soft sound of surprise and clutches at Tom's waist, his thumbs pressing into Tom's sides, anchoring him. Their foreheads touch. Tom allows his eyes to fall shut as he inhales deeply, the familiar scent of Harry's sweat and skin calming him. His kisses Harry again. Harry kisses him back, but it still doesn't feel like enough. Tom is burning inside, heat flushing his face and stirring unnameable emotions in his gut. He kisses harder, determined for Harry to understand the depth of what he feels.

They kiss for some time. Tom savours every second of it, nuzzles against Harry's cheeks, brushes tender lips against the bridge of Harry's nose and the line of Harry's jaw. He keeps his eyes mostly closed, afraid to open them, afraid to dispel the surreality of the moment. Harry says nothing, only holds him the entire time, hands sliding up to cradle Tom's back in a firm embrace.

When Tom has finally exhausted himself, he pulls back enough to open his eyes and focus on Harry for the first time in… minutes? Hours? Harry is a vision: lips slightly swollen, cheeks stained with red, hair dishevelled from Tom's touch.

"You're crying," Harry murmurs, breathless and full of wonder.

Tom opens his mouth to ask Harry what that is supposed to mean. He touches at his cheek to refute the statement, but his fingers come away damp. Tom blinks and his vision clears somewhat. The moisture is mostly dry, but—

"I'm… not."

Harry smiles, a light tilt of the corner of his mouth. "It's okay. I won't tell."

Tom stares at Harry, waiting for the laughter, waiting for the punchline of the joke.

Harry's eyes are crinkled on the sides, so fond that it hurts. Tom feels the awful ache of his heart in his chest, a pounding affliction that beats his insides black and blue. Harry reaches out and threads their fingers together. The callouses on Harry's hand are rough but grounding. The turbulence in Tom settles, the violent ocean waves now a serene expanse of clear blue water.

"I want you here with me," Harry says. His voice is off. Emotion is creeping in at the edges. "And I want to be here with you."

Tom hesitates with his response. This is everything he's hoped for, only now he doesn't know what to say.

A second passes. Tom's throat is clogged with the severity of what he feels, with what he doesn't know how to feel. He doesn't know what to say, but he must reply somehow, so—

Tom lifts their joined hands and brushes a kiss against the top of Harry's knuckles, dragging his mouth along the soft skin there. It is a stark contrast to the warm, dry palm pressed against his hand.

Harry's breath catches in his throat, but he does not pull away.

Harry does not pull away the next day, either.

Or the next.

Or the next—

Tom kisses Harry every day. He is ridiculously, stupidly happy. One of the caretakers at Wool's used to say that hands were meant for holding. Tom wonders, idly, if his hands had simply been waiting for Harry's all along.

A/N:

hhhhhhhhhhhhh i lost my shit several times while writing this chapter, so i expect y'all to do the same thing -squints-

if harry seems a bit passive towards the end it's because he's drowning in guilt haha

hope you are all doing well!