A/N:
thank you to Coral for the beta on this chapter, and for listening to my numerous #JustWriterThings complaints.
more thank you's for me to deliver:
to Drowsy, Elene, Kate, Maddy, and Moth for encouraging me through the last leg of this story,
to Dutch, for the vibe check,
to Lea, Maddy, Matthew, Minryll, and Pan for providing beautiful illustrations (mostly of our distinguished Lady Cluckers) along the way,
to the people in my discord server who helped elevate Cluckers from a simple bird to a mythical legend,
and of course to all of you, for reading. some of you have been regular readers from the start, or even from the middle, or perhaps you have only joined us at the end. know that i appreciate the time you take out of your day to share your thoughts with me.
epilogue: daylight (three years later)
Harry wakes to his shoulders jerking this way and that of their own volition, the upper half of his body tossed about like a life preserver set adrift in the midst of an ocean storm. Then his heart rate settles, and though his body continues to move, the world shifts into focus around him.
"Harry. Harry!"
The rough handling stops—Harry can't quite recall how long it had been going on—and the near-painful grip on his forearms makes itself known. Tom's hands are holding him upright, slender fingers digging into Harry's biceps.
"S-stop shaking m-me," Harry manages to get out.
"I wasn't. You were screaming. You wouldn't stop—" Tom grits out, teeth clenched tight, hands gripping like vices. Is that concern that Harry hears?
Harry concentrates on Tom, on feeling and listening. He feels the quick puff-puff of Tom's anxious breaths against his face. He hears the falter in Tom's proud voice that betrays high-strung nerves.
"I'm f-fine." Harry lets Tom pull him into a sitting position. Then he lets out a loud groan. It startles him, the way the sound slips out without conscious effort on his part. All Harry feels is a stabbing throb of pain in his head, pounding like hooves on concrete. "What happened?"
"You started—you were—" Tom breaks off again, and that is how Harry knows that Tom must have been truly terrified.
"I'm okay," Harry says slowly, determined not to stutter. If he speaks with care, he can speak despite his headache, a headache which is now beginning to recede. "I'm okay, Tom."
The feeling of Tom's breath vanishes entirely. He must be holding it. He stares Harry down, dark eyes drawing him in. There is a small crease between his brows, the only hint of emotion on his otherwise expressionless face.
Harry's hand falters once as he raises it to Tom's cheek, a gentle caress, and then pokes Tom in the forehead. "You'll get wrinkles if you keep worrying like that."
Tom exhales all at once, the tension sliding from his face. "You are impossible."
Harry smiles, fond. Then he tries to stand, but Tom pushes at his shoulders and scolds him for moving too fast, too soon. "Everything is fine," Harry says. When the world spins, Tom will hold him steady. "I'm fine, see?" Harry repeats. "Nothing wrong with me."
Tom scowls and says nothing, once again too concerned to be truly irritated. "That was hardly nothing."
Harry hums. There is something special about having Tom fuss over him like this. It doesn't happen often—god knows that if it did, Harry would throw a fit—but in small doses, it is endearing. A gleam of besottedness behind that cold exterior. A mark of pride for Harry, knowing that he is the only person who sees this side of Tom Riddle. The version of Tom that exists now, exists only with Harry, only under these wards.
Tom still has both hands on Harry's shoulders. The weight and warmth of them is so familiar, so natural. They could stand like this for days, until the season had changed and the leaves had fallen from all the trees, leaving their branches bare.
"We'll go back inside," Tom says decisively. "And you're not to do anything strenuous for the rest of the day."
Harry gauges Tom's possible response to a blunt 'no, thanks', then decides it's likely not worth the time and effort to argue. One day of imposed rest won't drive him too barmy. If Tom insists on repeating this tomorrow, then they'll have to have words.
Tom makes lunch and dinner, washes the dishes with magic, and sends Harry up to bed early. Harry's quiet concession earns him a strange look from Tom, but neither of them comment on it. Harry slips into the warmth of his bed with a sigh and falls asleep quickly.
In the morning, Harry struggles to wake up after a strange dream. His consciousness fights valiantly against falling back asleep, kicking through the waters of exhaustion until it surfaces. When his eyes open, he feels different.
What is strange is that this odd feeling lingers well into the morning. Harry feels physically fine. His head is pain free and his body responds the same as ever. However, all he can focus on is his preoccupation with the mysterious force messing with his senses.
He is unable to pinpoint exactly what is going on; there is nothing overt, nothing concerning. Harry catches himself wondering about the sky, about the trees in the distance, about the fields on the far side of the house.
Is he listening for something? Looking for something? He feels detached from his own senses, unable to trust his perception of the world around him.
Harry passes the morning in a haze of dissociation. The world's axis is slightly off-kilter, as though a crucial part of it has gone missing. Something has gone missing, but only for him. If Tom has noticed anything different, he's done an excellent job of keeping his insights to himself.
Harry does his best to hide his worries from Tom, but it doesn't work—Tom knows him too well. By the time they finish tending to the chickens, Tom's gaze has burned trails into the back of his head.
"Something the matter?" Harry asks stubbornly as they enter the house.
"I should be asking you that."
"I'm fine."
Harry is fine. There is nothing wrong with him, only that sense of oddness that is following him around. Only his mind whispers to him that something has changed, something is off.
"If you say so," Tom replies, his tone perfunctory, a sign that his mollycoddling will soon return in full force.
Harry sighs. "I promise, Tom. I feel fine. Maybe I'm just a bit stir crazy today, you know?"
Tom frowns at that. There had been days when the enclosure of the wards grew to be too much. Harry had once run off into the woods in the dead of night, desperate to see something other than the same skies and the same house and the same plant life, but to his despair, the forest was unshakably familiar, even in the dark.
Eventually, Tom had found him there, limbs splayed out on the damp, earthy ground. Flat on his back and staring up at the starry night sky, lost in useless thoughts on the meaning of the universe, Harry had not moved for at least an hour. Tom had been angry at him for leaving without saying anything, angry at him for lying on the ground in the cold and the dirt where he could get sick.
Harry had been unable to explain, but after a desperate, embarrassing moment in which he'd broken down crying in Tom's arms, he'd thought that maybe Tom understood.
Tom places a hand on Harry's shoulder, grounding him back in the present. "Let's do something different today."
"Okay," Harry says. He hopes that whatever they do will settle the peculiar disturbance in him. A new activity will help him feel normal again, will pull him out of the murky waters of his own head and lead him to shore.
Tom squeezes down once, and then his hand withdraws. Harry misses the unspoken sentiment that lurks behind the touch: Tom's promise to take care of him. Tom's promise to care for him, a distinction made with his heart rather than any sound logic.
They have made many promises to each other. Harry may not know them all, may not have heard those promises leave Tom's mouth, but he feels them regardless. He holds them in his heart. Tom has never been an open book, and he may never be, but that's alright.
Harry often thinks of the first time Tom said 'I love you'. Shock had rolled through him then, alongside guilt. Tom's words had been full of tenderness, full of truth.
Nowadays, that tenderness exhibits itself in different ways. Neither of them have spoken of love in a long time. But even if Tom never says those words again, it doesn't mean that Tom doesn't feel that way. Even if this is all Harry has—careful touches and half-smiles—he can be content.
Surprisingly, the task Tom has in mind for them is to bake bread. Tom recites a recipe he once knew, as accurately as he can remember it, and sets about gathering the ingredients. They have plenty of yeast, and there are fresh eggs from just this morning.
Harry peels and dices apple bits to toss in. They mix in applesauce and honey and oatmeal. They add a dash of cinnamon and inhale the peaceful, fragrant scents that Harry has come to associate with cooking and baking.
Long gone are the days when Aunt Petunia had forced him to prepare family meals in the spotless, blinding kitchen of Number 4, Privet Drive. Now when Harry thinks of meals, thinks of preparing food with his own hands, he thinks of Tom standing next to him. Tom by his side, sleeves rolled up over the elbows, a curl of hair dangling loosely over scrunched brows.
Tom does that when he's faced with something he doesn't know, something that interests him enough to distract him: his face creases up, his mind deep in thought. Sometimes Tom even runs the tip of his tongue over his front teeth. It's endearing, and Tom used to—well, he used to do it a lot more often.
Tom used to do that while looking at him.
But right now, with forearms exposed and mind fully engaged in the process of making apple bread—if that's what this is called, Harry isn't actually sure—Tom is a vision of perfection. Harry itches to sketch charcoal lines, to capture the angles of Tom's face and body into smudges and shadows on a page. Everything else gets boring, but Tom never does.
Once their hard work is rising in the oven, Harry starts the process of tidying the kitchen. It's easier than it used to be. Some days, Harry doesn't even need to use his wand.
The bowls and utensils dance their way into the sink, soaping and scrubbing themselves under his direction. Tom watches silently, the weight of his gaze brushing lightly against Harry's face.
"It smells good," Harry says cheerfully.
Tom smiles, a soft upward curl of the left side of his mouth. Then he moves closer, closer, stepping around Harry's immobile form until he reaches the window. Then Tom unlatches the metal lock and shoves it open.
A sudden breeze rushes in. The chill of it is a shock; Harry sucks in a lungful of air, thinking that it might help dispel the stupor that is clouding his mind. The rush of air does feel refreshing, which is nice.
Then a bird lands on the windowsill; a small blue thing with a cute round head and a tiny beak. Harry stares. Tom stares too.
In all their years together here, they have only ever seen the same wildlife: rabbits and squirrels. Then those had vanished, likely wiped out over time due to the small numbers. Nowadays, the ecosystem of the forest outside hangs by a thread, kept alive by Tom and Harry's careful applications of magic.
But now there is a bird.
Never has Harry seen a bird so blue, so vibrant, except in photographs and diagrams. It's been years since he's laid eyes on any animals other than their chickens and their snake. Looking at this bird, Harry thinks that he's forgotten too much of the outside world. He's forgotten the beauty of it that exists outside of his blurry, semi-realistic dreams.
"A bird," Tom says, reaching out. He seizes the tiny thing, his magic holding the protesting animal in place while his hand closes around its squirming form.
For a brief second, Harry feels a horrible jolt of fear strike him. But Tom doesn't hurt the bird. He merely lifts it and holds it up to his face so he can examine it.
"A mountain bluebird," Tom adds, factual. "Uncommon for this area."
Harry empties his fear in a loud exhale. He says nothing. He is listening to the quiet, to the soft thrum of the bluebird in Tom's grasp. And then he realizes what's been driving him mad ever since yesterday.
It is the absence of sound, the lack of heavy magic suffusing the air around them. The fresh air is crisp. The world outside is new.
"The wards. The wards must have—" Harry can barely get the words out. He feels dizzy all over again, swaying in place. "The wards are gone." Harry says.
Tom goes motionless. He tracks Harry's expression with careful eyes, then releases the bird back out the window. "You're more sensitive to magic than I am. It must have caused your incident yesterday."
Harry hadn't pieced that together yet, but he can agree it makes sense. "You think so?" Then he shakes himself of his confusion. There are more important things to be doing right now, he thinks furiously. Things like—
"We can leave now," Harry declares. The words ring in his ears; he must have spoken louder than he'd meant to.
"I don't doubt you're right. The bread has another hour, though."
Harry twists to face the window. He has the sudden urge to tip the entire top half of his body out of it. To look, to see, to breathe the clean, fresh air.
"We can leave," Harry repeats, awed. "We can leave!"
Tom drags his hand along the inside of the windowsill before he turns his back on it. "I'll go pack."
Harry's not sure how to feel. They've been here nearly seven years, now. They have no idea what the outside world will look like, but they will go to meet it.
Tom leaves the kitchen. The oven is on, the apple bread baking away inside. Harry squats and peers through the glass; mild waves of heat waft against his face, warming his cheeks.
It occurs to him that he should be doing something useful. But what? Tom's gone off to pack. Harry bites down on his lower lip. His mind is both sluggish and jittery—two contradictory sensations vying for victory. The wards have come down. They are free to leave.
Soon, Harry hopes, he will see his friends again. He will see his family. He will see Sirius and Lupin. And only seeing them will be enough. It has to be, not only because he's had years to resign himself to that, but also because—
A solid thunk coming from the ceiling yanks him out of his thoughts. Tom must have dropped something or knocked something over. Harry's instinct is to go upstairs and see what has happened, to check if Tom's alright, but his feet are rooted in place.
Just outside the window, birdsong floats through the air, an eerie addition to the usually peaceful atmosphere of the farm. Harry's never given much thought to the rhyme and rhythm of chirping. The chickens in the yard squawk and cluck however they like, and Hedwig had always been a refined, elegant companion. At Privet Drive, Harry had certainly never woken to anything as pleasant as bird music.
The song fades eventually. The bird must have flown off. Harry checks the oven again, then stands awkwardly in the kitchen, waiting for Tom to return.
When Tom does return, he has his trunk with him. A trunk that has not been filled for seven years, not since Harry went back in time to Wool's orphanage and convinced Tom to run away with him.
"I left the rest for you," Tom says. He drags his trunk into the dining area and sets it down so that it leans against one of the table legs.
Did Tom pack everything? Does it make sense to take everything? Their entire lives are scattered around this house. All of their things, all of their memories. To pack it all into a trunk… that seems like an impossible task.
"Harry?" Tom is looking at him funny.
Harry nods, works his jaw open to speak. "I'll go up," he says, then puts actions to words, dragging his feet out of the kitchen and into the main hall. Past the living room and up the stairs. Step by step, his hand on the railing. He knows where to step to avoid the creaks, but today he lets his feet go where they want. The stairs groan under his weight, protesting.
At the top of the stairs, Harry pauses. The door to Tom's bedroom is open, but he walks past it and goes into his own room. Some of his things are laid out on the bed: his broomstick, his father's cloak.
The cloak is folded in a neat bundle; Harry picks it up and drapes it over his shoulders. It smells faintly of Tom. Some nights, he and Tom sit on the back porch, huddled underneath the warm fabric. There's no point in being invisible here, but the material of the cloak is durable and warm. Tom says that the hum of magic in it is comforting, in a way. It is a type of magic older than they are, magic that is unique.
Harry is used to the sensation of Tom's magic surrounding him. Once upon a time it had felt foreign and dangerous; it had been difficult for Harry to dissociate Tom's magic from Voldemort's magic. Now, though, Harry feels just fine around Tom and his magic, and it has been this way for years. Tom's magic no longer raises the hairs on the back of his neck; Tom raising a wand in his direction no longer invokes the primal urge to run. All of those fears had passed on in the wake of their friendship. Their relationship.
Tom is very powerful—of course he is, even as a self-taught adult wizard. His magic has grown exponentially over the past few years. If not for Harry's familiarity with it, the aura of Tom's power would be stifling, suffocating. Even up here, Harry can feel the subtle shift in the air as Tom cast spells downstairs in the kitchen.
At the foot of Harry's bed sits his empty school trunk. Tom must have gotten both of their trunks out of the attic, and that must have been the reason for the loud noise.
Harry pulls his clothes out of his wardrobe and starts to put them into the trunk. He grabs his favourite books, his best paintings. It takes him some time to ensure everything is protected and organized the way he likes. He does it by hand, the way Tom sometimes makes fun of him for. Harry doesn't mind. The items he cares for are too precious to be handled by magic.
Deciding to err on the side of caution, Harry takes most of his belongings with him, pausing here and there on various items that may or may not prove useful. He should have thought to ask what Tom had packed. They will come back here, Harry knows. Tom has said before that he won't abandon this place. It means too much to the both of them for that. Still, Harry worries. A silly worry, maybe, but a worry nonetheless.
Once he is done packing, Harry closes his trunk up and hoists it into the air with magic. He can't help but wonder if this is the last time he'll see his room for a while. His eyes catch on the details he knows so well; the mural that has yet to chip or lose vibrancy, protected by spells that seal the paint in place, the scattered bits and pieces of art projects he'd started and never finished.
On his desk, there is a half-finished sketch of a new, larger treehouse. He and Tom had planned to expand their old treehouse into a connected series of treehouses suspended above ground. Maybe now they'll never get to doing that. Harry is saddened by that thought. He resolves to make sure they revisit the idea.
Lastly, Harry goes to the desk and opens the middle drawer. Inside of it, buried under piles of old letters from Ron and Hermione, is an envelope.
His name is written on the front: Harry J. Potter. And then, underneath it: Tom M. Riddle. The handwriting, of course, is Albus Dumbledore's. This was what Kingsley had left for him all those years ago.
Harry tucks the letter away and goes downstairs. He opens up the closet by the front door. The top shelf is empty. Harry grabs his usual cloak and folds it up before depositing it into his trunk.
"Tom? Are you still in the kitchen?"
"In here."
Tom is in the dining room, arms folded over his chest as he stares through the glass door. On the kitchen counter, the bread is cooling. Harry can smell the cinnamon and apples.
On the counter next to the bread, Hyperion is settled in a large coil. He's gotten too big for Cluckers to carry him comfortably. Most often, Harry finds them piled up together in various spots around the house, snoozing.
"I've frozen all the chickens," Tom says. "I'm not certain how long it'll last, but I've left them a few days' worth of food and water as well."
Harry sets his trunk on the ground; it lands with a noisy thump. "You know they'll eat it all as soon as they wake."
"One can hope they exercise a modicum of intelligence." Tom relaxes his arms and turns around. "Is everything in order?"
"I wasn't sure how much to pack."
"You won't need much." Tom eyes Harry's trunk. "We won't be gone too long."
Harry trusts that Tom knows what's best. "Are we taking food with us?"
"We'll buy what we need. No sense in wasting anything here."
Harry has to mentally smack himself a few times. "Right. I'll go get that." What he means is, he'll fetch the store of Muggle and magical money they've kept in the basement alongside the rest of their supplies. Money that has had no worth to either of them for the past seven years. Money that Harry is probably unused to handling now.
When Harry comes back to the kitchen, he finds Tom wearing the cloak that Harry had given him for his first birthday under the wards. It suits Tom now more than ever; Harry can't help but admire Tom's handsome silhouette, the way the rich fabric settles on Tom's shoulders like it belongs there.
Harry enjoys buying presents for people. He pays attention to what people like, when he can. There's something especially nice about fitting the right gift to the right person. For Tom, who values appearances and social standing, a rich cloak like this one is what he deserves. This cloak represents the way Tom wants people to see him: influential, attractive, and powerful.
"Where's your cloak?" Tom asks.
Harry blinks. "It's in my trunk." Then it occurs to him why Tom is asking this question. "I'll just… grab a coat, then. It's not a big deal, it isn't that cold out."
It happens all at once. Tom unfastens his cloak and whips it around, draping it over Harry's shoulders like a shroud. The weight of it is startling—a shiver runs down Harry's spine. Tom's hands smooth the fabric, pressing warmth through the cotton of Harry's shirt and into his skin, heat seeping straight to the bone.
"There," says Tom. "I'll wear something else."
The kindness of Tom's gesture ignites a landslide of affection in Harry's chest. It is so sudden and overwhelming that Harry discards his hesitation and leans right in, slowly enough that Tom could shove him away, and kisses Tom's cheek.
Tom does not push him away. Instead, Tom's hands hold him in place, fingers curling in. When Harry does retreat, embarrassed at his lack of composure, there is an indescribable emotion in Tom's eyes. They've darkened over the years, those irises. Lighter brown to darker brown; no hints of red to be seen.
As they stand there, Harry's face warms. "Um. We should go, now?"
Harry has been good. He hasn't asked for more, despite what he wants. What he misses, what he aches for. Tom is here with him, even if it is in a different way than before, and that is more than enough—more than he deserves. He'd meant it when he'd said that he didn't expect Tom to forgive him. It's hardly fair to either of them if he kicks dirt at the trust they've built back up.
If he feels lonely sometimes, that's not Tom's fault. It was bound to happen with just the two of them here. Tom can't be everyone for him. Tom can't be Ron and Hermione and Sirius. Harry knows that he and Tom are lucky to even have each other, and so he has learned to find solace in solitude. In some ways, his lonely days in the cupboard on Privet Drive had prepared him for life under the wards with Tom.
"If you like, Harry." The sound of his name on Tom's lips is rougher than usual.
Harry waits for Tom to release him, to put the distance between them again, emotional and physical, but Tom lifts a hand to touch Harry's forehead. Tom's fingertip presses down upon the raised skin; he looks contemplative. Harry's scar serves as a reminder of what connects them. At least, what connects them aside from the ties they've woven together on their own.
When Tom's hand retreats, Harry's breath unsticks in his throat. He wonders if it's only Tom who will ever make him feel this way—so exposed, like he could crawl out of his own skin, raw and bleeding, yet still find comfort in Tom's arms.
"Do you feel any different?"
Harry has an answer ready for this: he feels fine. But something about Tom's tone gives him pause, so he scans Tom's face for answers. Smooth brow, steady gaze, patient smile. Despite Harry's years of experience at reading Tom's microexpressions, Tom remains a flawless actor.
As a result of years spent with Tom, Harry has learned tricks that work beyond his often futile attempts at reading that impassive face—he looks for the reasons behind it. A lack of a reaction can mean just as much as an explosive one. Doubly so for Tom, who hides feelings behind long monologues and dismissive comments. Human nature is complex, but it is not unknowable. As a whole, Tom Riddle is an enigma, but parts of him can be solved.
So instead of giving his usual answer, Harry asks, "Why are you asking?"
"Your scar," Tom says, with all the gravitas of a solemn confession, "is no longer a Horcrux."
Harry's lips part of their own accord. Questions swim through his head, one after the other. How does Tom know this? How did it happen? Why did it happen? And then, most importantly: what does it mean for the two of them?
For the past few years, there has been little to no reason for Harry to feel fear. Now, somehow, the emotion is very real. Painfully so. Fear digs into his chest with sharp claws, fear snatches the breath out of his lungs. Harry flounders, the air around him no longer a steady
Tom is still holding him. Tom's hands are wrapped around his arms, grounding him. Tom is with him.
Harry exhales, lets the burn of distress and anxiety die in his chest. So many mornings have passed since his initial fear of lost love, since the terror of being abandoned seized him by the throat and left him gasping. The horrible wound in his heart had gaped wider with each day the other side of his bed went empty, but over time, it has mended. Months and years have eased his pain into peacefulness, and have warmed Tom's resentment into a semblance of tolerance, if not acceptance.
There is distance between them, but it is a distance that Harry can reach across, and for that he is thankful.
"I think that," Harry croaks out, "deserved a little more warning."
Tom cracks a grin that melts Harry's heart down to the core. He gives Harry's bicep a squeeze. "But that would ruin all the fun."
Fun. As if any of this is fun. Harry is eager, certainly, to at last step out into the world beyond their tiny bubble. But as he takes a moment to consider this new information—no Horcrux, no soul piece—he realizes the import of what Tom has told him.
The world outside has moved on without them. There is no Voldemort in the world beyond, no blood sacrifice from Lily Potter to leave her son an orphan and a war hero. There is nothing that tethers them to this world. They are free from the past, free from the future.
Suddenly, Harry doesn't want to leave. The idea of what he may await them is daunting, unbearable. Lives have been saved, and people are doubtlessly happier in a world free of Voldemort, but it is not… his world. It is not the world where Harry Potter was raised by the Dursleys. It is not the world where his best friends are Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger.
Dumbledore's letter sits in his pocket with the weight of a thousand stones. Harry wants to burn it without reading it. What do those words matter, now? What could Dumbledore possibly have to say to either of them? Nothing that matters, surely. Nothing that changes the way Harry feels, or the awful way he aches when he looks back on his mistakes.
Mistakes that no longer exist. His past is gone, eradicated as efficiently as Voldemort has been. Harry no longer worries about survival, about living to see another year at Hogwarts. He is not the Boy-Who Lived anymore, and he never will be. He is not a Horcrux. He is just Harry Potter.
Tom's hand squeezes again, softly this time. His eyes are wide and full of attentive concern. "Harry?"
Harry gets lost in his own head rather easily. Tom does the same, though he's admittedly better at doing it when they're not in the middle of a conversation. Harry gives his head a shake and breathes out slowly. He lets his lungs expand in his chest, relaxing his body. "I'm not a Horcrux anymore."
Tom's lips press together as he nods. Does this change anything? Should it change anything? Tom had once said that they weren't friends because they both had magic. Harry doesn't think that his existence as a Horcrux is responsible for their feelings for each other but—but he wonders.
So Harry stares, willing Tom's indecipherable gaze to unlock itself, to explain, to provide the truths that he now desperately needs. He needs to be certain that Tom's care for him extends beyond the wards and into the world that awaits them. He needs to know he is not alone.
Tom stares back, his eyes like dark pools of liquor, swirling, swirling. There is affection there, Harry knows. But affection is not enough. Time has proven that truth to the both of them.
Then Tom leans forward. His lips touch upon Harry's forehead, the gesture a mark in its own right, a devout brand that scalds.
"We will face this together, Harry."
The words are familiar; it takes a moment to place them. Then Harry remembers another conversation, years ago, when Tom had uttered those words the night before they had faced Dumbledore in the field.
That is just a memory, now. There is no more Dumbledore in their lives. There is no more prophecy, no more Voldemort. Harry's life had always been shaped by Voldemort. The prophecy had buried him underneath labels and expectations. Tom is the only person who had known him as Harry first rather than as the Boy-Who-Lived.
Tom may carry the consequences of his future self for years and years to come, but because of Tom's decision to go to the future, the original path that led to Voldemort has vanished entirely.
Harry startles as Tom's hand slips down his arm, down and down until their palms meet and their fingers lace together. Strength courses through his veins, a rush that hardens his resolve. Years after his Hogwarts graduation would have been, he remains a Gryffindor. He will face his fears, he will conquer them proudly.
"I know we will." They are together. Tom will not abandon him.
They shrink their trunks down to pocket size. Tom walks the two of them to the front door. Hyperion is waiting there, his tail draped over Cluckers' back like a scaly scarf. Harry bends over to stroke the bird's skinny neck, patting the downy feathers. Then he scoops her into his free arm, ignoring Hyperion's hissed complaints.
A funny pair he and Tom will make, walking into the future with a snake and a chicken by their sides.
The air outside is brisk. Tom casts a few spells on the doors and windows, but there isn't much reason for them to worry about someone breaking in. The house already has protective spells on it.
Harry stifles a yawn as he looks around. The sky is brighter than he remembers, unfiltered by the wards. It is filled with long, scraggly clouds that cover up the sun. Harry wraps his arm more securely around Cluckers, wondering if they ought to put her in a harness or a sling of some kind.
How long until they reach the closest town? It's been so long since he'd walked this way. The knowledge is distant, tucked away like an old childhood toy in the farthest crevice of his mind.
Tom tugs at their joined hands, pulling Harry towards the long dirt path. The ground beneath their feet is rocky and unfamiliar. Everything is bright and new. Seconds pass in peaceful silence, and even their familiars are unusually hushed.
Then Tom says, voice firm and hand steady, "Tempus."
Harry turns to see the spell burst forth from Tom's wand.
It is May 2nd, 2002.
The meaning of the date sinks in. Given their indefinite time under the wards, Harry has forgotten the significance of years, has discarded the meaning of time. Everything in his life is in relation to Tom: how many years since they met, how many years they have been—had been under the wards.
Harry remembers ringing in the new millennium, remembers the burst of colourful sparks from his wand and the delighted laughter that had followed. Just him and Tom greeting the sunrise from the rooftop.
Tom's wand vanishes into his pocket. His free hand remains tangled up with Harry's, their palms brushing together. In the eyes of the outside world, no doubt they are a bit old for holding hands, but they have some time yet before they rejoin that world. They have time.
For now, they can be themselves, away from the pressures of society. Away from those people who had given Harry to the Dursleys and left Tom in an orphanage. Because Tom has always been great, has always been worthy of a good life and a good home. Harry has tried to give Tom those things, and if he's succeeded even a little, then this has surely all been worth it.
Harry can't help but wonder what Tom thinks. Despite the plans they've made together for the future—a bare-bones scheme to reach the nearest town and ascertain how different this future is from the one Harry had known—they've never talked about their feelings on leaving the wards. Harry had mourned his losses in private and reached the conclusion that if he was to emerge in a world where no one remembered him, he could accept it.
By aligning himself with Tom, he has left the past behind. Harry has separated himself from that life. He has laid to rest those memories pressed into images on the wall, painted stroke by stroke. They are faces and names and characteristics that now exist only in his heart. Harry misses his friends often, thinks of them with fondness, but it is with a softer longing than before.
"How much further, do you think?"
Harry glances up. Tom's eyes are warm; they reflect the sunlight.
"I don't know," Harry answers honestly. "I'm not sure."
Tom hums in response, a patient, mindful sound. His fingers wrap tightly around Harry's. Tom's palms are worn rough with calluses from climbing trees and repairing the chicken coop, from stirring cauldrons in the basement and from teaching Harry how to tie rope knots that would hold their weight.
Their joined hands swing back and forth while they walk. The two of them rely on each other. Harry's life may revolve around Tom, but the reverse also holds true. Tom needs him, too.
"I wonder how much of the world has changed for you," Tom comments. When Harry doesn't respond, he elaborates, "It's been seven years."
Seven years that have changed the world. The monumental impact of what they've done slams into Harry with a damning lucidity—he and Tom have delivered this current timeline into existence. In choosing each other, they have chosen a new world for tens of thousands of people.
"I'm sure a lot has changed," Harry says. "We'll figure it out."
All other constants in Harry's life have faded with the unyielding passage of time, but one remains eternal.
Tom Riddle is his past, present, and future. Tom is the man who had haunted Harry's nightmares for years, is the boy who Harry has loved as a friend and partner. The spark of ambition inside of Tom lives on, and it is capable of both extraordinary and dreadful things, but to obliterate that spark would alter the core of who Tom is. That spark makes Tom who he is, and to extinguish it is something Harry could never do.
"We will," Tom replies, in a steady tone that fills Harry with certainty. Harry has lost many things over the course of his life. Even now, his past only exists in the form of distant memories. But the relationship he and Tom once had has not been wholly eradicated, and this is what gives him the courage to move forward.
Tom's hand rests in his, the calluses on his palm rough and real. This is the most important thing in the world: Tom's hand in his. Harry remembers the first time their hands touched, on the day they'd met, how he'd stuffed the handkerchief Portkey into Tom's unwilling grasp. They have come a long way since then.
Eventually, all the clouds drift off, leaving the sky empty and blue. Harry breathes in the clean air of the countryside, feels the weight of the past at last slide off his shoulders.
He and Tom step down the road, sunlight warm on their faces. They are no longer enemies and they are no longer lovers, but they are not simply friends, either. The world around them is new and uncertain, but there is safety to be found in the way Tom's hand settles in his, like it has always been there, like it will always be there. There is solace to be found in the line of Tom's posture, straight and proud, a silhouette Harry knows by touch.
Light touches everything, eventually. It exposes all; it brings out the good in the world as much as it does the ugly.
Now that the sun is above them, unfiltered rays glancing off the shimmering fabric of Tom's cloak wrapped around his shoulders, Harry thinks that he has never seen the world look so bright.
.
END.
A/N:
it has been just shy of a year since i started this story. it has, the way stories and characters often do, grown a life of its own. there have been a lot of topics explored in regards to harry and tom's relationship, and that has been both frustrating and rewarding to write.
i had a lot of thoughts following the previous chapter that i wanted to include in this final author's note, but now that i have finally sat down to write it, i feel that it's more valuable to leave some parts of the story vague.
so here i will give you some food for thought rather than me rambling on for paragraphs and paragraphs about the characterizations and motivations.
a thread of this story has been tom discovering himself outside of the environment he was canonically raised in; who is he outside of that context, as a person, at his core. removed from all those things, is he still voldemort?
in considering voldemort, we must consider tom. voldemort is a culmination of tom's choices, but voldemort is also a product of the environment around him. recall dumbledore's words in chapter 5, taken from canon: it matters not what someone is born, but who they grow to be.
it is only under the safety of the wards, with harry, that tom is allowed to separate himself from that environment. harry views him how he has tried to be seen for his whole life, as someone smart and powerful. someone who is a good person, someone worth saving.
in accepting harry, tom also accepts that potential for himself—the potential to be someone good.
with that statement, i think, i have hit the end of this story.
thank you for reading, thank you for letting tom and harry occupy space in your mind, even for a brief period of time. i am wishing you all the very best for a brighter, happier 2021. someday, i hope, we will step freely in the daylight again.