"I still look like a Death Eater," Harry said with a frown as he drew his travelling cloak about himself. He grimaced at his refection. Although for the most part he'd gotten used to the monotony of the same black outfit he was expected to wear day after day, all of a sudden the conformity grated. "I look ordinary," he wheedled, knowing that to Tom, being 'ordinary' was the ultimate crime.

"We can make a stop at Twilfitt and Tatting's. I think something in—"

"Don't say green to match my eyes, for Merlin's sake. Everyone always says that. Besides, I like the colour red."

Voldemort's mouth quirked to a lopsided, lipless grin. "To match my eyes?"

Harry rolled his eyes, then spun around and patted Tom's cheek. "No. Red for Gryffindor. But perhaps we should get our wedding robes while we're there. How, er, big is this thing going to be? We won't need invites, will we? I want something small."

"Then something small it shall be. Just you, me, all my followers, and of course we will need to invite the Magical heads of the various states I've been -"

Harry kissed him to make him shut up. "Thirty. That's it. We can each choose…well, you can choose them all, I suppose. I don't have anyone to invite but Draco and Luna, and they'd be coming anyway."

Voldemort murmured, "We'll talk about that later." He tugged Harry from the mirror and, with a quick warning, Apparated them to the courtyard of the Leaky Cauldron. The lone elderly witch who was waiting there with an armful of parcels dropped them all and darted into the pub.

Harry stooped to pick up one of her fallen packages, calling out, "Here, let me help—" but jumped back when the package in question started barking at him. He pulled out his wand instead and levitated everything through the doors after her. "You're welcome!" he yelled out in answer to the frightened cry that came from within.

Tom steered him over to the brick wall. Harry watched the Dark Lord tap out the proper sequence of bricks. "To think even the most powerful of Dark Lords still has to do that."

Voldemort raised a hairless brow. "I could have Apparated us to the shops directly, but I thought you might prefer this. I wasn't willing to stoop to taking us first to Muggle London and walk through from there. I do have some standards."

Harry wasn't paying attention, though. He was watching as the bricks barring their way into Diagon Alley shifted and danced, rearranging themselves to grant them passage. The sights, the smells, the sounds of the Magical street hit Harry with a host of memories. He was eleven again with Hagrid towering over him and gesturing with his pink umbrella. And it was as amazing as it had been then.

"The war is really over," Harry said, watching over the hurried crowds coming and going. Not hurried from fear, though, not like when he'd been here last and the taste of despair was thick and pungent. Now the stores were full of jostling, cheerful shoppers, and Diagon Alley was once again a joyous and prosperous place.

Or it was joyous and cheerful until the first person caught sight of Lord Voldemort.

In the sudden stillness, the banging chorus of Apparation was louder than cannon-shot. A wail of a small child and the subsequent hush from an older woman who seemed unable to magic themselves away was easily heard in the aftermath of the crowd's dispersal.

"That's better," Tom said, glancing around with a thin smile. "I hate crowds."

But Harry knew the lie for what it was. Tom had been revelling in Harry's happiness at being here again, which had been ruined in the wake of the everyone's fear. He reached for Tom's hand. The longer fingers stilled in his, and Harry felt the slight tremor of Tom almost pulling away. He realized at once that he'd been too presumptuous, that the ruler of Wizarding Britain might not want to be so publicly affectionate.

But as Harry began to pull away, Voldemort's grip tightened before loosening to a casual hold. "Do you wish to shop for wedding rings first, Harry? Or a winter wardrobe?" Voldemort's voice was too loud to be for him alone. From the corner of his eye, Harry could see the few remaining shoppers relax their bracing postures and look curiously towards them.

"The wedding rings," Harry said, playing along—but that was why they were here, and he was also anxious that shops might close up in the face of the potential shoppers if they waited too long.

"This way, then, my dear. I know a place just down this side-alley. If one has a discerning eye"—and whose eye was as discerning as Tom's?—"and is willing to look past the tawdry and often cursed items, then there is no better place."

Was Tom referring to…?

He was. Knockturn Alley looked far better suited to the pair of them, anyway. The hag that had terrified Harry when he was twelve and desperately lost seemed to be still rooted to the same spot, though it was hard to tell as she was but a tumble of dirty clothes and a cackle of madness. She held out a hand to them as they passed, perhaps hoping for a handout.

Borgin and Burkes seemed to have done well through the war, if the stuffed window display was any indication. Before they entered, Voldemort turned Harry aside and said, "Remember not to touch anything. From your memories, I know you've been here before. Lucius's warning to his son was not only to keep his spoiled spawn from badgering him for a new toy. A good many items on display will prove detrimental to the curious touch."

"Why are we shopping here then?"

"I seem to be becoming sentimental in my old age," Voldemort said with a small smile. "Besides, we are not interested in the worthless items on display. I know where Burke stowed away his most treasured acquisitions, and he was thief enough to pay for them out of the shop's treasury yet keep them from his partner."

Harry couldn't help the smirk that pulled at his lips. "And you didn't take off with them when you stopped working here?" He wasn't expecting the firm hand that covered his mouth halfway through his question.

"I hadn't the opportunity. Besides, I was trying to not draw more attention to myself. Even now, the Ministry's records on Tom Riddle are spotless. And no—I see that look, Harry—not because I wiped them clean myself. I always kept open that avenue for re-establishing myself, should the need arise. Of course, I hadn't expected Dumbledore to live so long and ruin any use my birthname might have held." Tom had to take a deep breath to expunge his sudden anger.

"It's supposed to be a happy day. Don't think of that old fool," Harry said before pushing his way into the shop. The tinkle of the bell above the door was the same. The skulls in jars were the same. The foul-looking man stooped behind the counter was the same. Borgin's beady eyes were staring at Harry with displeasure as he watched him step insides.

"Come in and close the door if you have business here," he said, his voice more snarled than the oily one Harry recalled him using with Lucius Malfoy.

"Oh, I'm not alone." Harry watched the man carefully as Voldemort stepped in behind him. Borgin looked like he was tempted to Disapparate like nearly everyone else they'd come across.

Voldemort turned immediately to tap the filmy shop window, and all the blinds shuttered at once and the door locked itself. "Now we won't be disturbed," he explained quietly.

Harry watched as Tom spun slowly on his heel, taking in his surroundings. He wished he was talented in Legilimency, too. Was Voldemort seeing things as they were now? How they'd been back in the 1940s and early 50s, when he'd last worked here? Harry rather thought the dust was a new touch. He couldn't imagine the immaculate Tom Riddle working anywhere so…well…filthy.

Finally, Borgin regained his voice. "My good sirs," he began, his voice disgustingly obsequious. He faltered as Voldemort swung around to survey the pale shopkeeper. "My Lord. My most benevolent Lord. He turned to Harry. "And Mr Potter, if my eyes don't deceive me. How might I serve my most gracious…my most generous Masters?

Voldemort ignored the bootlicking and strode behind the counter. Silently, he gestured for Harry to follow. Borgin, who looked like he was almost brave enough to object this invasion, watched the two of them disappear into the shadows of the shop's storeroom. A creaky staircase led upstairs. They'd nearly reached the attic when Voldemort stopped. He motioned for Harry to take a look at the second to last step. "Do you notice anything peculiar?"

Harry didn't, not at first. It seemed much like the other steps with its peeling paint. Harry examined it still closer, trying to see anything that set it apart from its brothers. "It has an extra nail?" he finally said. "Other than that…"

"You have a better eye than Borgin, then." With his wand, Tom traced the five nails in an almost feathery pattern. "This forms the rune Fehu." What that meant in this context was clear, as with a click the step released upwards, revealing a hidden cavity. Harry couldn't help but remember his own secret stash tucked beneath the loose floorboards in his bedroom at Privet Drive.

Voldemort then performed a complex series of disenchantments. "Burke was a bit mad in the end. Paranoid of everything, and especially of his partner. All that exposure to cursed artifacts," he said as he withdrew a honey-coloured chest, "is not beneficial to one's health."

There were more curses woven into the box that Voldemort had to remove, but finally he lifted the lid and peered inside. "Do you see anything you like?"

The chest was straight out of a fairy-tale, filled to the brim with jewelled necklaces, bracelets, and broaches. "You're sure they're safe to touch?" Harry asked, remembering the lovely opal necklace that Borgin had sold Malfoy in sixth year, the one that had nearly killed Katie Bell on the walk back from Hogsmeade.

"Better safe than sorry." Tom brought them back to the landing and dumped the whole box of treasures onto the floor. More detection charms were cast. This time, at least five items began to glow a sickly pink colour. Voldemort levitated those few up and carefully inspected them. "It seems as if these ones had been hexed at some point, though those enchantments have faded enough from time alone that with a few counter curses they should prove benign."

Harry leaned in, taking care not to touch any of it. Only one of the objects floating in front of him was even reasonably wearable. Everything else was hopelessly gaudy, a mishmash of oversized jewels in horrific settings. "The golden bracelet with the blue stones is nice. It's not exactly a ring though, is it?" He supposed there was still the pile of uncursed items to check.

Tom set the bracelet aside, then he flicked his wand to send the rejected items to the front desk. "I do hope Borgin junior isn't so fool as to touch anything without a careful inspection. In this business, you would think it would be prudent, but it only takes one moment of carelessness. And, of course, certain curses incorporate compulsions to touch."

Like Tom's family ring. "The best curses," Harry agreed with a wicked smile.

"Nothing present in that collection was so affected, so Borgin should be fine." Tom wrapped the gold bracelet in a handkerchief and pocketed it. "I can have this forged into two rings, should nothing else prove worthy."

Harry rummaged through the pile. "How old are all these?" he wondered. The few silver pieces were tarnished, and it was hard for Harry to imagine them in their full glory in such a state. Another quick spell from Tom and everything was gleaming.

"Most were here while I was working, so well over fifty years…and remember they were considered antique then. This is where Burke would have stashed my mother's locket before he sold it to that bag Smith. There are likely other prizes waiting here."

Too many to count, really. Harry sifted the jewellery back and forth, searching for the perfect choice. It would be ideal to find two identical rings, already forged and waiting, but that seemed unlikely. And just as he'd almost given up, he caught a nearly burning white glimmer of something half-buried in the pile. Harry picked up the small ring—for ring it was—and could almost feel it throb with power in his palm. Harry bit his lip and showed it to Tom. "This one," he said softly. But he was scared, suddenly, that Tom would say no. That it wasn't suitable, that it wasn't safe. That he wanted it for himself.

Tom did pluck it from his hand, and Harry had to stop himself from yanking it back with jealous fingers. But Tom only picked up Harry's left hand and slid it onto his ring finger. "Platinum ringed with sapphires and diamonds. It looks lovely on you, my darling."

Harry leaned up and kissed Tom on the lips, then pulled back with what he knew was a goofy grin. "But what about you? I want our rings to match."

Tom nudged the pile carefully, and Harry's jaw dropped. There, nearly hidden behind a hideous tiara, was an identical ring. There was no way…Tom must have…

Harry picked it up, weighing it and judging it. It seemed the same as the other ring, exactly. "You didn't come here earlier just to plant these, did you?"

Voldemort's eyes widened, and he gave Harry a look as if to say, 'Who? Me?' He didn't say anything at all though, but held his left hand out, watching intently as Harry took it up and slipped the matching ring onto his finger. Before he released Voldemort's hand, Harry said, "Aren't we supposed to wait until the ceremony to give the rings? That whole, 'With this ring, I thee wed?'"

Voldemort sniffed. "That's the Muggle way. Wizarding folk wear their rings from engagement to the wedding ceremony, imbuing them with magic from their core. Then they exchange them at the matrimonial ritual, thus symbolizing the sharing of magic and life."

"You should give me a book so I can read up on it," Harry decided. He was beginning to feel nervous in the face of his ignorance. "I don't want to embarrass you by saying or doing something I shouldn't. The Prophet will have a field day if I bollocks this up. I don't want to be the reason Skeeter starts running her, er, pen off."

Voldemort's face morphed into something sinister, and Harry was amazed that where once that evil grin had riddled his nightmares, now it just went straight to his groin. He licked his lips as Tom's eyes gleamed with malice and at the promised, "Then I will enjoy squashing her like the irritating bug she is."

Harry was about to fall to his knees to show exactly how Tom's words were affecting him when Borgin interrupted their fun by poking his greasy head round the corner of the landing. "Are my Lords quite finished?" he dared ask. A raspy gasp told Harry exactly when the shopkeeper noticed the jewels and precious objects heaped upon the floor.

"Congratulations on your newfound acquisitions, Mr Borgin." Voldemort stood towering over the terrified shopkeeper. "I have selected several items as a finder's fee. I trust you have no issue with that?"

Borgin bowed low. "No, of course not, my most generous Lord." His eyes kept darting towards his new wealth, his eyes becoming somehow more and more beady in his avarice. "Thank you for frequenting this most unworthy of establishments. Is there anything else I might help you with? I am always on the lookout for heirlooms, should you find the need to part with any unwanted artifacts."

Voldemort chuckled. "Yes, I am well aware of the shadier services you offer, Mr Borgin. I doubt I will ever require your help with such matters, as I prefer to keep my treasures close." And with that, he took Harry's hand and led him down the stairs and then out the door and back into Knockturn Alley.

Harry breathed deeply as soon as they were outside the grimy shop, though the alley was little better. The air was arguably worse, especially considering the thick plumes of smoke issuing from a squat wizard holding a nasty looking pipe. Voldemort glared at the poor man, who dropped the pipe in terror and shuffled into the shadows.

"We'll see to your clothes now, my darling." Voldemort pulled him down the alley and into the tidier, brighter Diagon Alley. Harry let himself be led down the street, which was starting to fill again. The other shoppers and salespeople still gave them fearful glances and stepped unfalteringly out of their way, but they'd obviously decided not to flee.

As they passed by Madam Malkin's robe shop, Harry noticed a shadowy figure behind the window. It was just as well that they didn't want to do their clothes shopping there, for as soon as they'd passed the door, the curtains drew sharply closed and the 'open' sign flipped viciously to 'closed.'

The clothier Voldemort brought him to was upscale, nothing Harry would ever have thought to frequent on his own. An impeccably dressed wizard welcomed them both in: "Welcome to Twilfitt and Tatting's, My Lord and my dear Mr Potter. Please find yourselves at home in our most humble establishment." Clap. Clap. "Sidsy, please escort our Lords into the shop, then ensure they are seen at once by our most skilled tailor." And then a low, courteous bow, all polish and perfection.

"You can see how Narcissa has easily ravaged Lucius's vault here," Tom whispered into Harry's ear. Harry had to agree. Everything was a casual elegance, and though there wasn't a price-tag to be seen, the entire store seemed to suggest that with a willing wallet, this graciousness could be one's own for but a few spare Galleons.

Harry let his hand glide over a bolt of heavy silk. The winter fabrics were on display now, and darker, warmer colours dominated the well-lit tables and shelves. Voldemort was eyeing a display of various greens. "I think this emerald would suit you well."

"I said I didn't want green," Harry returned, but he did walk over to take a better look. There was no use in turning his nose up, especially if it was something that could so easily please Tom. "I suppose this shade isn't so bad."

A saleslady was standing nearby to whisk the material away. Voldemort selected another, more olive tone, murmuring, "Just let me have it made up. You don't have to wear it if you don't think it suits you."

Harry nodded his agreement. That seemed fair. As fair as him picking up bolt of supple crimson silk. "And have this one made up for our Lord. Something easily removed."

The shop lady blushed nearly as bright as the eyes the silk was meant to match. "Anything else, my Lords?"

Voldemort managed to stop grinding his teeth (and Harry knew that was all for show, for he could feel the playfulness dancing in his scar even now) long enough to tell her his ideas for their matching ceremonial robes. Harry listened idly. He'd already discussed the cut and colour with Voldemort enough to trust that he'd look dashing, regardless of his input now.

The fitting was tedious. The only highlight, so far as Harry was concerned, was that Voldemort was forced to put up with the tailor's dancing tape measure flitting about his inseam the same as regular, mortal folk. The measuring tape did canter off when Voldemort finally got near to blasting it, but that wasn't until the thing had begun trying to measure the distance between his flattened nostrils.

"And I thought only Ollivander bothered with these dratted things," the Dark Lord muttered with a scowl.

"They probably measure by hand normally," Harry said as he stood still, trying not to disrupt—and thus delay—the charmed tape that was zooming about his torso. "But I imagine the shopkeepers were a little nervous about actually measuring up your leg. Speaking of which, send this one off, too. Hey, you don't need that measurement." In the end, the measuring tape got far more information than Harry was happy sharing outside the bedroom. He hoped the shop wouldn't sell the information to any Wizarding publications. He'd seen his name in print far too often as it was.

"Discretion is one of the benefits we are paying for," Voldemort reassured him.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief, first for Voldemort's words, and then because the fitting was at last done. A dapper middle-aged man sauntered over to them, betraying no fear in the face of who his clients were. After offering them a small bow, one that Harry suspected was practiced enough that it was used for all patrons, the man haughtily told them to expect their new garments by the end of the week. When Voldemort's eyes flashed with annoyance at the delay, the man pressed, "Ordinarily, my Lords, I could not guarantee delivery within a fortnight."

Harry placed a hand on Tom's wand arm. It's good enough, he though. I don't want a scene.

Tom still scowled down at the poor man, who looked close to cringing back in fear and was only still standing tall due to his training. Harry didn't want to be like all the other rich snobs who demanded everything be dropped for them just because they happened to live in a manor and have mounds of gold lining their vaults.

Still, Voldemort seemed to think that the shop would take advantage if they didn't apply some sort of pressure. "My consort and I will be performing a hand-fasting rite this Saturday. If our ceremonial robes aren't ready by then, you can be certain the public will know exactly who delayed the order."

The clerk nodded, professionally. "They will be delivered no later than Friday morning; that should give plenty of time for any necessary alterations. And my Lords, please allow those robes to be a gift. Twilfitt and Tatting's is most pleased that we were your first choice when it came to finding suitable attire for such a blessed day."

Voldemort inclined his head in acknowledgement. Harry smiled broadly at the man. He stuck his hand out. "Thanks."

The man stared down at the proffered hand, then back up to Voldemort; he was clearly not sure what he should do. Tom's terrible glare made the clerk pick Harry's hand up awkwardly by his white-gloved fingers. "The pleasure is all mine, Mr Potter. I hope to see you here far more often. I don't remember seeing you previously, and you must forgive me for noting that you are rather recognizable."

Harry shrugged. He didn't think the man would think much of the ratty clothes he'd typically worn under his Hogwarts robes, and he didn't think Tom would appreciate him revealing that Muggle jeans and shirts had comprised the bulk of his wardrobe until only recently. "I've enjoyed my shopping experience," he said, which was pretty much a lie, but whatever. "I'm sure I'll be back again soon."

With that came a far more reverent bow, the beneficiary of which seemed to be this future promised patronage. "Until then."

And then Harry and Voldemort were ushered out of the shop. Tom muttered something under his breath about how they'd order via owl from now on. Harry risked one last look through the shop window to see the well-dressed clerk slump into one of the chaises near the dressing-rooms, already with a tumbler of hard liquor in his hand.