Previously:
Tom begins to direct his relationship with Harry towards romance. All their regular interactions are now overlaid with tones of intimacy. Harry notices but is reluctant to engage; Tom remains patient. Tom feels possessive of Harry, but he is willing to wait for Harry to come to him. Eventually, Tom's prompting leads to success—Harry initiates and kisses him.
year four
It doesn't take long for Tom to tip their relationship into debauchery. This tension between them has been building on both sides, Tom decides, because when they kiss, the desire in Harry's eyes is plain to see. Tom is aware he is handsome; he has grown out of the boyish features most adults considered 'cute'. His voice deepens, his face sharpens. He flashes Harry a seductive smile and is rewarded with the most beautiful smile in return.
Harry is shy, hesitant to do more, but Tom is charming and nothing if not determined. Tom flirts shamelessly, he goes out of his way to kiss and touch whenever Harry permits him. A kiss to the temple, a touch of their hands together. On evenings where they stay indoors, Tom settles himself on the loveseat next to Harry and tangles their legs together, pressing his face into Harry's soft hair.
Tom makes clear where his boundaries are—namely, that they don't exist when it comes to Harry—and waits. When Harry finally initiates, it is all the sweeter.
After the first night Harry's room goes empty, Tom wakes to Harry curled against him, head resting on his shoulder, arms wrapped around Tom's ribs in a loose hug. They should always share a bed, Tom thinks. It feels nice, having someone with him in the morning. Harry's sleep-softened face blinks blearily in greeting when Tom pecks him on the forehead.
"I didn't take you to be a cuddler," Harry mumbles, but he is happy. He sounds happy.
Tom smiles at his lover—that is a word they can use, now—and strokes sweat-matted strands of hair back from Harry's face.
Harry flops back down, turns his head to the side so he can nose against Tom's neck. Tom caresses Harry's shoulder while Harry goes back to dozing. His room is calm and peaceful, filled only with the rough noise of Harry's snoring. Tom eyes the faint littering of scars that stretch down Harry's back, all of them various levels of faded, and swears he'll memorize them all.
And so it goes: Harry's body is a new field for him to study—there are nerves to tease, skin to touch and taste. Tom likes to leave marks, little proofs of their union's permanency pressed into Harry's tan skin. He scrapes his teeth along the column of Harry's throat and mouths at Harry's collarbones until he sees purple. He knows where all his marks are, and so he knows where to press the next day, even when Harry's hidden them with clothes.
Harry is jumpy to start with. He twitches violently the first time Tom's wandering hands prod lightly at the bruise on this neck. After repeated instances, however, Harry relaxes at Tom's touch. He learns that the touch is not harmful. Then, much to Tom's delight, the negative reaction is replaced with the gorgeous sight of Harry's face flushing whenever Tom wordlessly reminds him of their illicit activities.
They use their hands and mouths, mostly—they've yet to go further, handicapped by their inexperience, but Tom's certain they'll push past that. They'll learn with each other. Tom whispers promises of devotion against the shell of Harry's ear as he works them both to completion, he swallows down Harry's cries of pleasure so that he might absorb the rawness of Harry's voice into his very soul.
Sometimes Harry will catch him by surprise. He'll come up from behind and wrap Tom in a hug. Tom remains unaccustomed to casual displays of affection. Everything he does is deliberate and calculated. If he wants to touch, then he thinks on the best way to go about it.
What will produce the best reaction? What will get him the reaction he wants?
Harry touches freely and smiles whenever Tom so much as glances his way. These are not actions that Harry puts thought behind. Tom is fairly sure of that. Harry does not anticipate any result when he acts; Harry engages on impulse. He tousles Tom's hair and kisses the freckles that line Tom's cheeks and arms. He drapes himself over Tom like a woolen jumper and teases Tom to distraction with his snarky comments.
On lazy afternoons out in the fields, Tom melts like butter under Harry's hand. Harry scratches fiendish fingers against Tom's scalp and takes pride in watching Tom become a boneless puddle.
"Like a giant cat," Harry says fondly.
Tom might not purr, but he does hum in response, and Harry seems to like that, too.
Harry gives and gives and gives, sweet and endless with the richness of his virtuous heart. Tom is eager to take, to possess that which has ensnared him so entirely. He wants to see Harry dressed in his clothes. He wants to see the beautiful cloak Harry had gifted him resting on those sloping shoulders and nothing more.
Harry covered in his bedsheets in the golden hour of early morning is perhaps the loveliest vision in the world. Tom burns the memory into his mind, commits to learning every curve of the navy sheets draped over Harry's spine and hips. All the dips and shadows that form the body he sleeps with every night.
Tom murmurs into Harry's skin, hoping his words will stay there as he presses them in with the warmth of his lips, traces the syllables with his tongue—
Mine. Forever.
Now that they are close, as close as two people can be, Tom feels confident enough to pester Harry with more personal questions. Everything he has only ever analyzed and speculated over can now be confirmed into reality.
"What did you think of me when we first met?"
"What I thought?" Harry's forehead wrinkles up. His eyes scrunch, too. "I sort of knew about you before I met you, Tom."
"Yes, yes." Tom waves it off impatiently. "But that is not the same as meeting in person."
They are standing on the porch bench staring out at the chicken coop. Hyperion is scouting the perimeter of the fence, ostensibly looking for 'predators', though Tom is certain the snake's true intention is to frighten the chickens. Not that many of the chickens are afraid of him anymore; most of them have grown used to his presence and are doubly reassured by the way he fawns over Cluckers.
"Well," Harry says, lips pursed, "I thought you were fussy. Like an angry cat. Or maybe an angry chicken is a better metaphor here, now that you've convinced me of their hidden capacity for evil."
Tom narrows his eyes, then decides to take Harry's statement as a compliment. He sidles over and tucks Harry into his embrace, brushing his lips against Harry's cheek. "Capacity for evil?" he asks in a low voice.
Harry huffs, but he squirms in Tom's grasp, obviously flustered. "Yes."
"Hmm." Tom noses along Harry's jaw, pressing his hand down on Harry's hip, pinning him in place. "What does that say about you, love?"
Harry's chest strains against Tom's arm. The moment stretches on long enough to become awkward, long enough for Tom's heart to thump loudly with worry.
"Harry?"
Harry slowly rotates and plants his face into Tom's shoulder. His hand settles on the nape of Tom's neck, pressing down, smoothing the hairs there. The gesture is unexpectedly tender. Tom swallows down the sudden apprehension that bubbles up in his throat.
"Sorry," Harry mumbles. "I just—" He shakes his head once, then lifts it so he can meet Tom's eyes. "Sorry," he repeats.
Tom frowns, drawing his arms tighter around Harry, wanting to chase the melancholy from that soft voice. Harry has not experienced many nightmares since they began sharing a bed, but sometimes he wakes with a strangled scream. Tom goes to comfort him, of course. He holds Harry through the tremors of terror and tells him it is alright. He tells Harry that he understands the fear. The world is a cruel, terrible place, but they are safe now. Harry is safe with him.
Tom exhales slowly and unlocks his jaw. "You've nothing to be sorry for."
If anyone ought to be sorry, it's him. Had he said something wrong? Had he inadvertently triggered some reminder of Harry's past? Tom doesn't like not knowing. If there are bad memories left, Tom wishes to vanquish them. He will purge every vile event of Harry's past and pour himself into the resulting void until all Harry thinks about—all Harry needs—is him.
Tom gathers Harry closer to his body, determined to uncover the source of Harry's discomfort. His hands feel cold and clammy, not quite shaking, but he smooths his palm over Harry's back, spreading his fingers along the line of Harry's spine. Harry will not notice his unease. Harry will accept the affection offered and feel happier because of it.
"You are safe here," Tom says quietly. "I will never hurt you, Harry. I swear it. You've nothing to fear from me. I will cherish you as you deserve to be cherished." He kisses the crown of Harry's head. "This is our home—when we are with each other. Even when we leave this place, that will never change."
Harry ducks his head a second time. "Tom, I—"
When Harry doesn't continue, Tom prompts, "Yes?"
Harry looks back up. His gaze is troubled, but after a moment's focus, it clears. "I just… I want you to know that I love you."
Tom breathes out, lets the statement sink into his bones.
"I love you, Harry."
He says the words with ease, without pause for consideration of their truth. For Tom, the logic of the situation is clear: Harry loves him, and so this is what he must say in return. Regardless of his feelings, regardless of the love he may or may not house inside of him, Harry deserves better than hesitation. Harry deserves reciprocation and reassurance.
Harry's breathing stutters with heaviness, with the devoutness of his heart presented in its entirety to Tom. The heart Tom now holds is the most precious of all that he owns. The love that shines in those green eyes is irreplicable, irreplaceable. Tom takes care of what belongs to him, and he takes care of Harry, too. In this way, he will look after the heart he has been so beautifully given, for there has never been a moment where he considered doing otherwise.
"I love you," Tom repeats. He pulls off Harry's glasses, setting them carefully into the front pocket of Harry's shirt. Then he kisses Harry's closed eyelids, the tip of his nose, the soft, open part of his lips.
Harry starts to cry. Silent, shaking tears that stream down his face as he clings to Tom's shirt, burying himself away, soaking the fabric with tears and snot. Tom is alarmed and confused, but Harry is not pulling away, so the problem here is not him. The problem must be something else.
"Everything is fine," Tom tries, frustrated. "I'm here. I love you."
Harry doesn't respond. Tom sinks them both to the ground so he can cradle Harry properly in his arms.
"I'm sorry," Harry says, the watery tone of his voice is miserable. He takes his glasses back out of his pocket and shoves them clumsily onto his face. "You must think I'm overreacting."
"I don't know what's upset you. How can I judge it as an overreaction when you won't tell me?" Tom hears the accusatory edge of his own words before his sentence finishes.
Harry winces at the harsh tone. Tom doesn't blame him.
"Sorry," Harry repeats. He rubs at his face and starts to pull away.
Tom tightens his grip and blows out a gust of air in an attempt to dispel his irritation. "Stop saying that."
"I—I need some space. To think." Harry stands up anyways, sliding his hands along Tom's outstretched arms. "I need to be alone for a while." His hands halt on Tom's wrists, holding them in midair.
The rejection hurts more than it should. On some level, Tom is aware of the dependence they have on each other. They are the only two people here; Harry is all he thinks about. It follows that he should be the center of Harry's world, too. He wants to live in Harry's waking thoughts, in his dreams.
"This doesn't change anything between us," Harry says into the silence. He releases Tom's hands and takes a step back. "This is just me."
Harry is upset and suffering. Harry is shutting him out.
"Harry, I can help you. If you simply tell me what's bothering you—"
"No, Tom, just—not right now, okay?" Harry grits his teeth and breaks eye contact.
Tom feels something shrivel up inside of him. His head is pounding so loudly that he can hardly hear himself think. He is angry, he realizes. Anger is an emotion he has not felt this strongly in months. It takes long, long seconds for him to steady his breathing, for the urge to grab his wand to die. "Fine. Go, then. Enjoy your time alone." Tom pulls himself to his feet, shaking off the indignity of kneeling on the floor. "I'll be in my room."
His room, not theirs. He ought to remember that. Tom stalks back into the house and up the stairs, leaving Harry behind on the porch. He does not look back.
Once in his room, he sees the bedsheets are unmade, rumpled from the morning they had spent together. Tom fastidiously tidies it all. He flattens the sheets and tucks in the corners. Then he stares at the bed, knowing that if he lies down upon it, he'll be assaulted with the scents pressed into the cotton. His wand sits heavy in his pocket. One Freshening Charm would vanish it all away, only his arms refuse to move.
Perhaps coming here had not been the best idea after all. There are too many reminders of Harry's mark on his life, too many memories of their time together.
Tom scowls. The melodrama of the situation is not lost on him. Here he is, acting out the role of the spurned lover, made desolate over his wounded feelings. He has given Harry so much of himself, and for what? Harry still hides things from him. After all this time, Harry still pulls away.
Though Tom's methods may have been less than honest, his intentions are pure. Regardless of the machinations behind his honeyed words, their meaning is truthful. He says he loves Harry because he wants to say it.
In the throes of his anger, Tom stays in his room well past supper time. Harry does not come to knock on his door, and Tom does not hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
It is the first meal together they've missed in years. This does not sit well with him, but what choice does he have? There is no pride to swallow here. Harry has asked for space, then fine. Tom will give him all the space in the world.
That night, Tom sleeps alone in his room, curled on his side, eyes squeezed shut. The absence on the other side of the bed does not matter. He had never needed anyone before; he does not need anyone now.
In the morning, he thinks, Harry will come to his senses. Harry will see that life without Tom is miserable and empty. Harry will come back, and everything will be as it was.
Rays of sunlight pull Tom into wakefulness. He does not move at first; he is exhausted from a restless night of tossing and turning. Slowly he rolls over, stretching his limbs out and covering his face with his forearm. He feels out of sorts. Is it because he'd spent the night alone?
Long minutes slip by before Tom can pin the source of his unease. Harry likes the curtains open so he can wake with the sunrise. Therefore as part of their typical routine, Harry shuts the curtains before he leaves for the washroom.
Tom rises, his arms like wooden logs as he forces himself to his feet so he can shut the curtains. The fields outside look as they had the day before. Even from this distance, he can make out the flattened patch where he and Harry have their picnics.
Suddenly, Tom hates everything. He hates how everything is the same here. He hates how he knows what every nook and cranny of this house looks like to the point where he can navigate it in the unbroken darkness of a cold winter's night. What good does this tranquility do for him, if one sour moment can ruin him so completely?
He has grown used to the slow pace of this life. The lack of pressure has weakened him. Tom clenches his hands, biting his nails into the palm of his hand to sharpen his senses, to restore his clarity. He must push harder. He must meet his limits and challenge himself so he can be prepared for the world that awaits him. The world he will crush before it can crush him.
Tom rushes through his morning, intent on going outside for some air. Perhaps today is a good day to re-landscape the forest. Herbology is not his best subject, practically speaking, but years of gardening with Harry have taught him to appreciate the art of tending to plant life. Tom's jaw tenses, the motion so subtle he nearly misses it. Thoughts like that will not help him. He must forget them.
After exiting his room, Tom takes the stairs two at a time, prepared to make a direct line for the door. He does not hear Harry rushing into the entrance hall from the kitchen.
"Tom?"
Tom nearly misses the bottom step, a disastrous failure that would have seen him landing face first onto the floor. Instead he pinwheels, his right arm flailing out to grasp the railing for balance. The varnished wood is cold underneath his palm.
"Shit, sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
"You didn't," Tom snaps out, irritated. He moves down the final step and pivots at the foot of the stairs to look at Harry.
Harry is wearing a collared shirt. This is the very first thing Tom notices; it sends an awful feeling tumbling into the pit of his stomach. Next is the chagrined expression on Harry's face. Tom wants to shove Harry into the wall and kiss him. He wants everything to go back to normal. He wants—
"Right, um." Harry rubs at the back of his neck and exhales sharply. "I'm sorry for just up and leaving yesterday but… I had to do some thinking. Is it—is it okay if we talk?" His voice is rough at the end, tinged with a hint of desperation.
For a moment, Tom is tempted to refuse, but his curiosity burns deeply. Tom knows himself well enough to predict the agonizing outcome if he turns Harry down. If he ignores Harry's request, he will be worse off in the long run. The discontent of uncertainty will consume his every waking thought and drive him to distraction.
"Let's go out onto the porch." They will not do this here inside. Tom will escape the confines of the house, and he will have the option to leave if he wants.
The porch is as they'd left it yesterday. Harry sits down on the left side. Tom sits, leaving a decent gap between them. Harry glances at the space but says nothing. Does he care? Does it hurt him as much as it hurts Tom to do it?
"Well?" Tom asks. Time to get this over with, whatever it may be. "What is it?"
Harry is staring out at the garden. He inhales deeply, closes his eyes for a short second. Then he turns, and Tom is struck by the gravity of dread in Harry's eyes.
Ridiculously, he wonders if Harry is going to break up with him.
"I've been lying to you," Harry says. "About why we're in here."
The words are simple, their meaning plain as day. Tom doesn't understand them. The entire concept of this is wrong. Absolutely, wholly wrong. His mind protests the very basis of it—Harry would never lie to him. Harry is here because Harry cares about him.
Harry breathes out into the silence, a shuddering exhale that shakes his shoulders with violence.
"In my time, in my past, Tom Riddle grew to become Lord Voldemort, the greatest Dark Lord of the century. Voldemort and his followers ran their campaign across magical Britain, slaughtering Muggles, eliminating those who stood in their way." Harry pauses, then, to take in Tom's expression. Harry is definitely shaking now. His shoulders are trembling, and his hands, though clasped firmly in his lap, are quivering. "Voldemort murdered my parents. He murdered them and so many others, and he probably murdered Sirius, too."
Waves of frenzied magic are broiling around them. Harry is losing composure, his emotions spilling over into their environment. Tom can feel the hairs at the nape of his neck standing on end. He can feel his innate sense of self-preservation telling him to draw his wand and move away from the danger.
Harry continues, his voice unsteady, "Voldemort tried to kill me in my first year of Hogwarts. And my fourth year. There is—was?—a prophecy. It said that we were destined to defeat each other. That neither could live while the other survives. But I don't—I don't want that. I never wanted it, any of it."
Finally, finally, Tom seizes control of himself enough to speak. "Is that all?"
Harry stares vacantly, eyes unseeing as they gaze upon Tom's impassive face.
"I went back in time to save you, Tom, but I also went back to stop you."
Tom stands up. There is no purpose in mind as he does so, only the wild urge to get as far away from the source of his discomfort as possible.
"I'm sorry," Harry says. "I'm sorry, Tom. I really am. But this doesn't—it doesn't change anything between us unless you want it to. It—it doesn't have to. I meant it when I said I wanted to help you. I meant it when I said I wanted to save you. When we leave here, Tom, everything will be different. We can be whoever we want. I don't believe in fate, or destiny, or prophecies. I believe in people, Tom. I believe in you."
The pleading edge to Harry's voice is palpable. Tom's throat clogs up at the sound of it. The instinct to seek comfort surges in him like a battering ram. Every beat of his heart is a painful reckoning—a thud, thud, THUD that threatens to burst through his ribcage.
"You said nothing bad would happen to me here," Tom says finally. "You said I was going to die if I stayed at Wool's."
"Voldemort did kill you. He took everything that was good in you and twisted it."
Tom thinks about that. Thinks about what it means to be a Dark Lord, to be so powerful that all of Britain will fear him, will fear his name, will bow down before him. "Maybe so," Tom says, so calmly that it takes him by surprise. "But you took that choice from me and you've justified it with the greater good."
His words hit their mark; Harry flinches back. The smallest of motions, but not one that escapes Tom's notice. Grindelwald's rhetoric spans fifty years? Well, Tom plans for his own legacy to last even longer. He does not plan to lose; not here, not when they leave this place.
Before him, Harry looks so helpless. His eyes are so sad, his body curled in, his arms wrapped around his chest. He's hurting, Tom can tell, and this mere fact hurts him, too. It would be so easy to fix this—to smile and reassure, to forgive and forget and let the past remain in the past. To lose himself in the affection Harry had so freely given him.
"I trusted you. I trusted you more than I've ever trusted anyone, and you lied to me."
Tom takes a moment to think about what he's said. It is not a lie. It is not a manipulation. It is the honest truth, for once, and Tom has to blink back sudden moisture as he realizes the depth of betrayal he feels.
Harry reaches out; Tom pulls away, steps backwards from the porch bench. Harry's face crumples, and Tom suppresses a violent urge to console him.
"You don't care about me," Tom says, testing the words out. They are ashen, numb on his tongue; he regrets saying them if only because of the way they echo in his head, a mantra that deepens the wound inside of him with each repetition.
"That's not true, Tom. I swear I do care about you. I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe in you."
Tom can't stand here and listen to Harry speak that way, can't watch as Harry looks at him that way. The yawning pit in his chest gapes wide, a black hole, a heavy sensation that threatens to drag him under. He has to—he has to leave, to get away, to find time and space to figure out what the hell it is that has happened to him, why he's feeling this way, miserable and distraught, his emotions robbing him of his ability to think coherently.
So Tom does not speak, does not look back. He turns away from Harry and walks straight for the forest, for the cover of trees that will shield his view of the house. Once there, he can gain some distance from this. He can settle on the earthy ground and inhale the fresh scents of pine and spruce and sycamore.
At this early hour, the ground is damp. Tom drags his shoes in the dirt, kicking up clumps and pebbles. His shoes are black, unmarked by the dirt, but there are bits and pieces of earth that cling to the toe, sullying it.
When he is certain of his solitude, when he feels he has walked far enough into the expanse of trees that he will not be followed or overheard, he closes his eyes. His head is throbbing with the beginnings of a headache. Tom breathes out through his nose to calm his racing heart, to ease the discomfort in his chest.
He misses Harry. The truth of that statement is unshakeable. It has barely been a day and already he feels unanchored, set adrift in a foreign body of water without a map to guide him.
Who is he, now? Tom Riddle had always been assured of his place in the world. He was the best, the brightest, the most ambitious. Now he has none of that. There are no comparisons to make, no grand goals to achieve. The one achievement he had set for himself—earning Harry's affection—has soured itself with betrayal.
Despair creeps in, the anguished counterpart to his helpless anger. He knows without looking that his hands are unsteady. Weak.
Who is he, here?
Here amongst the trees. Here under the glittering wards.
Tom walks further, right to the edge, right to where the boundary cuts through the green growth, all of it humming faintly with power. The barrier is nearly invisible, discernible only to those with magic in their veins. It feels fainter, though that may be only his imagination at work. Has the magic begun to settle? When it does unwind, relaxing into the air without a trace left behind, will he be truly free?
Questions without answers. So many things unknown to him.
"Lord Voldemort," he says aloud, tasting the syllables. The name is bitter on his tongue, a reminder of the life he has left behind. The future he had torched with his decision to come to the future.
Lord Voldemort is a Dark Lord, is the man who murdered Harry's parents.
Tom Riddle is...
He is not that. Not yet. He has the choice. Not the choice that has been stolen from him, but a new choice. A choice to move forward with. The ultimate unknown that awaits him on the other side of these wards.
Tom has built himself from nothing. First at Wool's, then at Hogwarts, then here with Harry. The reinvention of himself is familiar, comforting. A veil of protection to pull on like a well-worn coat. To do so now may be a monumental task, but it is not one that he fears. He knows what he wants, power and prestige, and he knows he is capable of achieving those goals.
The foundation he had built for himself at Hogwarts is long gone. He has moved on from that time. A new world awaits him, a world that knows nothing of Lord Voldemort or Tom Riddle. In fact, the only person who knows him at all is—
Tom shuts his eyes a second time, an attempt to shut out the—the pain. He had given everything to Harry and now he is reaping the consequences. The ruin of caving to his weakness, the agony of accepting the humanity he originally sought to avoid. The cost of taking Harry into his confidence.
Harry has lied to him.
Harry claims to love him.
Dumbledore had once cited love as magic's most powerful force. Tom had scoffed at the notion then, discarding it as another one of the man's useless platitudes. Yet he had fallen for it, in the end. He had convinced himself that Harry was an exception, a kindred soul worthy to be his partner, his equal.
Tom has spent years learning about Harry. All of the intricacies that make up Harry Potter have been burned into his mind. Habits and hobbies and likes and dislikes, all of them glittering gems shelved in deep within his heart. Treasures that are not so easily thrown away. Facts that exist in his mind as surely as the sun rises and falls every day.
It is humiliating. All along, Tom had feared he was only second choice, that Harry would leave him if given the option to do so. Now he has been handed the proof of that fact. His life is only a means to an end. His existence is a pawn to be moved across a grander chess board. Tom has been saved so that Harry can save his parents and his godfather, can save countless others from a new, distant war that Tom has yet to cause.
The truth of this feels worse. Harry sees him as a murderer, as a Dark Lord, and yet—and yet—
Here they are. On a fucking farm in the middle of nowhere. Tom's ambitions brought to heel, his connections uprooted, his past eradicated in favour of a beautiful, peaceful future. Tom had thought himself in control of the situation; he believed that Harry belonged to him, that their cherished relationship was a result of his determined efforts to attract Harry to his side.
But who, here, has been seducing whom? Has Harry not led him on in the cruelest of ways, with promises of understanding and security? Harry has lied to him, has brought him here to save the lives of others, has domesticated him with pledges of love and intimacy.
Tom rubs at his face and is not surprised when his hand comes away damp. He is angry. Everything hurts so badly. All he has ever done here has been for Harry. For them. His efforts are unappreciated, made miniscule by the vast breadth of the dreadful truth.
A strange noise drags itself out of him, torn from his lungs and expelled into the air. It sounds like grief. Tom sits down in the dirt, heedless of the filth, and buries his head in his hands. He breathes through his exhaustion. He forces it from his body. He is angry. He is angry. His hands are so cold, but he can warm them if he clenches them up.
He would have done anything for Harry. He would have reduced the world to ashes if it made Harry happy. He would have changed himself, would have done anything to be better, to earn the adoration he has grown to crave.
Harry has lied to him. Does Harry even love him? If Harry truly cares, if Harry really does love him, what does that look like?
Not like this, surely.
Tom drags a weary hand across his face to clear the moisture there. It would be so very easy for him to let Harry's betrayal slide, to pretend all is well until he even believes it himself. But Tom has never in his life settled for easy. He does not hide from his problems, he does not cower from his enemies. He formulates his arguments and hones his skills. He succeeds where others would have failed. This is no different.
This is no different, he tells himself. There is no difference. What he feels for Harry does not matter. If necessary, he will empty himself of those memories. He will purge the associations of Harry and happiness from his heart. Now that he knows his death is a lie, he can try to break free of these wards and return to his own time. He can return to Hogwarts and resume his life…
No. Not exactly. He is older than he was when he left. Even if he was to continue from the time of his departure, he is no longer the same person. The thirteen-year-old boy who had fled from death no longer exists. Tom Riddle will never become Lord Voldemort. He will not kill Harry's parents. How could he bear to, knowing what he does? Harry has his mother's eyes and his father's face. To see them at the end of his wand, to watch the light fade from those features… it would ruin him.
Tom Riddle has a dead, unreachable past. He has an uncertain, inescapable future, and—
He has the boy he loves waiting for him at home.
However damning that love may be, it is true. Tom rises on steady legs and vanishes the dirt from his clothing. He straightens his shirt and trousers. He will confront Harry. He will get his answers. He will not think about what will happen if those answers are less than satisfactory.
When Tom re-enters the house, it is silent. The living room is empty. The kitchen is empty. Tom draws his wand and whispers 'point me'. He watches as the tip of his wand spins towards the stairs.
Tom takes the stairs one step at a time, lets his footfalls echo ominously in the quiet of the house. His eyes trace the walls he knows so well. He takes in the wallpaper pattern he can recall in his mind, wherever he is, with perfect clarity. He clutches the railing that feels familiar under his hand, listens to the creak of each step beneath his feet.
Harry is in his own room, sitting on the bed, and staring at the mural on the wall. His head turns towards the door as Tom comes to a pause in the doorway. Tom exhales, forces himself to stare directly into Harry's eyes. Eyes that had drawn him in from the very beginning; eyes so sincere, so wide and innocent.
"You were selfish," Tom says, monotone and flat, devoid of everything he ought to be feeling. "You didn't do this for me. You did this to save your parents. To save your godfather."
Harry opens his mouth to protest, but Tom cuts him off.
"Don't deny it, Harry. You didn't do this only out of some pure, saintly urge to save me. You did do this for yourself, and I want you to acknowledge that."
Harry swallows. "Okay," Harry says. "Okay. You're right. I'm sorry. But that isn't the only reason why I did that, I promise—"
"Stop. Just stop." Tom grits his teeth. He doesn't want to hear this. Not now, not yet. Not when the pain of it all is poignant, fresh. Whatever honeyed words Harry has to offer him, they have lost their meaning in this moment.
"Tell me everything," Tom says, tone brooking no room for argument. "All of it, from the very beginning."
A/N:
i am Big Nervous about this chapter because really most of the story has been building towards this point. i hope it lives up to the expectations!
also, happy thanksgiving if you're in canada :)