A/N:
loosely inspired by 'Bridgerton' except i don't like it, so i took the parts that i thought were fun and made an AU out of it. title taken from Taylor Swift's 'Wildest Dreams' because i think it's funny they used that song.
dedicated to the ever-lovely Sanya, who suffered and watched the entire show with me before we produced this trope-filled story.
i'll say it here first: never thought i'd write tomarry omegaverse but first time for everything!
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As It Begins
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Chapter One
Why do we insist on tainting our own happiness? Why must joy have caveats attached? Everything is too childish, too queer, too immoderate. We engage in a society where appearance is valued above all else, where we are all actors on the grand stage of life. Alphas must command, betas must carry on, omegas must comply.
Why must we shame ourselves for our interests? You are a dedicated patron of the arts, of film, of music. Enjoy it freely, liberally. If we do not create to inspire appreciation, then why create art? To construct a masterpiece with the human mind is nothing short of a miracle. To know there is a single measure more of joy in the world is to succeed against the cynics and the nihilists who would see us all drenched in darkness and despair. Shall we sacrifice love in the name of dignity? Happiness in the name of misplaced pride?
Love yourself, first and foremost. Love the arts, partake in them. Relish in the universal experience of gesturing in the direction of something and saying 'This delights me and I would like to see more of it'. There is far too little delight in the world for us to turn our backs when it is offered to us.
Harry had never been one to adhere to proprietary rules. Tom knew this because he knew Harry well, arguably as well as he knew himself—which was quite the feat on its own, given Tom's proclivity to thinking about himself (his pleasant personality, his handsome face, his captivating demeanour). So it was that Tom gave a considerable amount of thought to his own person but also attributed a significant portion of energy to thinking about Harry.
He and Harry were childhood friends, and with that came the knowledge that Harry would never abandon him, not for high society and never for a wife. Harry treasured and valued all those he loved, and he loved with a profound eagerness and devotion, the likes of which Tom had not witnessed anywhere else. Harry's affection was a gem of beauty, a reason for worship. Harry was proof of goodness in the often cruel world they lived in.
Make no mistake, the cruelty of the world was endless, far removed from the forgiving nature Harry possessed. Tom's father had gotten himself killed shortly after his wife's passing. The man's despair, Tom was told, had led to gambling. The gambling had led to debt, and that debt had led to death.
Minerva, Harry's great aunt, had taken Tom in and given him a proper home. She had raised him with strictness and endeavoured to teach him humility, but there were some wild things that could never be tamed, and Tom's desire for greatness was one such thing. He chased the rush of power and envied every crumb of control that lay out of reach. However, society was stacked against him, making the achievement of such desires truly daunting.
For all that Minerva had taught him, for all the pains Tom had taken to mold himself in the image of a lord, he would always be, to most that knew him and many others he did not, an orphan whelp. Tom's mother had been a lady, but she had fallen from grace, her stature soiled by a man whose meaningless surname had fueled the fires of vicious gossip.
Such gossip had ruined Tom's family. It had ruined his life and left him with nothing. No inheritance, no titles, no land. The brightest star in Tom's life was a boy who viewed him as nothing more than a treasured friend.
But the world revolved around cause and effect, around humans acts, acts both moral and immoral. So long as this was true, there was a way for him to achieve his goals. Tom dove into his own study of the human psyche, observed those around him and drew satisfactory conclusions. He gathered knowledge gleaned by gazing through the lens of the past. He analyzed all of his interactions and experiences in the hopes that it would aid him in shaping his future.
Tom watched and waited, feeling an odd mixture of confidence and inadequacy whenever Harry looked his way. He adored Harry. He lived in pronounced terror that Harry would uncover this fact before the perfect moment to announce it arrived. But then again, Tom hungered for Harry's regard and devotion, like a dog after a bone. He dreamed of it, lived for it.
If Harry was to discover Tom's affections and respond positively, it would save Tom the trouble of confessing. Harry's love was boundless, unrestrained by unspoken rules or fear of repercussions. Harry supported him despite his poor social standing, despite his poverty.
Someday, Tom thought angrily, the world will see me as Harry does.
The July before Tom's eighteenth, Harry presented as an alpha. It was unexpected. Harry was gentle, always warm, always with a smile bracketed by rosy cheeks. Only Tom knew the fierceness that raged within, the desire to protect and fight for what was right. Harry was an alpha. This held true in Tom's heart.
So Tom provided reassurance. He held Harry's hand in the dark of night and promised to support him through anything the world threw at them. Harry was worth everything; Tom would stay by his side forever, for as long as he was able to. Now that Harry had presented, there was only Tom's own future that remained unknown.
Tom fretted for a time, anxious for his own nature to make itself known. He had suspicions that he kept close to his chest, but nothing in his life had ever been certain; it seemed absurd to think the way would be clear now. As a young man who was exceedingly private with matters of the heart, Tom's own emotions and feelings often felt distant to him.
To be an alpha was to join the ranks of the loud and boisterous, to pull a measure of respect from the society he despised so much. To be an alpha would ease the way for his future.
But to present as an alpha was to renounce Harry, and so it was a path Tom could not stomach.
On December thirty-first, Tom presented as an omega. With this, he knew the world would be colder to him. Society would look down upon him, would disrespect his intelligence, his ambitions. This did not matter, however, for when Tom gazed into the mirror, he saw only possibilities.
If power was not his for the taking, then he would create a character who could claim it in his stead. This hate-filled society would bend and break, tittering gossip-mongers would quaver at his sharp-witted insights, and the boy he loved—his grace, his Harry—would take notice.
Tom thought of Harry's kind green eyes and generous soul. He thought of the extent he would go to for that lovely heart, how he would carve his way through the stifling expectations of society to make way for their unconventional union.
As the new year rang across all of Britain, signalling the end of Tom's eighteenth birthday, Lord Voldemort was born.
Tom spent the months leading up to the start of his season (and Lady Malfoy's ball) gathering his wits, strengthening his connections, and sowing the initial seeds of his grand plan.
The first few society papers he wrote were unsigned, meant to incite mystery and draw interest to his writing. The topics were varied, the gossip limited to nameless faces and vague, enticing secrets. Tom arranged for the pamphlets to be distributed without cost to encourage readership. Already there were murmurs of who could be the mastermind behind such a scheme, but Tom let them wonder. It would not do for Lord V to emerge without an appropriate amount of fanfare.
For that debut, Tom would require ammunition in the form of scandal—ammunition that could only be acquired at the season's largest gathering of London's elite.
Harry kept busy with his father's estate, and when he was not occupied with that, he spent time in Tom's company. When Harry was engaged in neither of those activities, he would meet with Ron Weasley to play chess. The two were friends, which was acceptable because Ron was a beta. Tom paid the redhead no attention other than to ensure that Harry's spotless reputation would not be tainted by Weasley's impulsive behaviour. The Weasley family was well-known for ignoring societal norms in favour of letting their rambunctious children run wild.
Tom met with Harry on a regular basis. They talked and had tea together whenever possible. While Harry had no need for money, Tom did, but fortunately for them both, Tom's schedule was flexible. As a copy editor, he worked to deadlines and set his own timetable. Lord Malfoy never complained if Tom took a few days extra, and he did not breathe a word when Tom asked to borrow use of the printing press.
A large portion of Tom's respect for Lucius Malfoy stemmed from the fact that the alpha had never attempted to take advantage of him. That this low bar was the standard did not escape Tom's notice, but that did not lessen the value of security—both financial and physical.
"Has Aunt Minerva spoken with you about Lady Malfoy's ball?" Harry asked one day. He was lounging on an emerald settee, his posture relaxed, the sweep of his messy hair half-hanging over his eyes.
"We've spoken at length." Tom felt indifferent towards most of it. He was a handsome omega of disreputable standing. If alphas were to take interest in him, he doubted their intentions would be kind, and even so, he did not care for any of them. The only alpha he wished to be claimed by was the one seated next to him.
"Are you excited?"
Tom scrutinized Harry's expression, searching for a deeper meaning. Was this attentiveness the result of something more, or was it a simple matter of curiosity? "Social events fail to move me. Surely there are better ways to pass the time." He would rather spend an evening with Harry than be forced to simper at the unwanted touch of another alpha.
"Society dictates we must," Harry mused. "Regardless, I'm sure you'll have your fair share of callers, Tom."
Will you be one of them? Tom did not ask. Harry's naivete was sweet, but it was also maddening.
"No alpha would tempt me," Tom remarked with confidence. "I would be expected to run the household, to birth children. They would not respect me. You know I do not care for that."
"You exist in the upper echelons of omegas," Harry teased, shifting forward the slightest bit. "Most would prefer to be doted upon, you know."
Tom's breath caught in his throat in response to the sudden proximity. Ignoring the rush of exhilaration that swept through him at receiving Harry's approval, he slid a genial smile onto his face and took care to steady his voice as he spoke. "If I am to be doted upon, then let it be by the hand of my choosing, a hand dictated neither by society nor gender roles."
"Well spoken." Harry smiled back. "But then again, you always are."
Tom knew he was. He told it often to himself, he heard it often from others. Still, hearing these words from Harry was kindling fed directly into the cozy fireplace that lived in Tom's heart. It urged him to lower his gaze, to bare his neck, to kneel at the feet of the man he adored and demand the wrongness of the world be put right, to request that Harry would stay by his side not only as a friend, but as a partner.
They were together in all ways but one, in all ways except the bareness of their skin, unmarked, unsigned.
Soon, Tom thought, soon. They would attend the ball together—
No, not quite true.
They would not be together in the way that Tom wished for them to be, but they would arrive together, which counted for something. With the right guidance, Harry's feelings for him would graduate from platonic to romantic.
Surely the sight of Tom surrounded by so many alphas would awaken the possessive urge that Tom knew existed in Harry. Even Harry's impeccable control, strengthened by years of friendship and claims of having grown used to Tom's presence, could not hold in the face of the disrespect Tom was sure to suffer at Lady Malfoy's ball.
"You'll save me a dance, won't you?" Harry asked, cutting through the haze of Tom's thoughts like a sharp gust of wind.
"Of course." And a second, if the mood felt right.
Harry nodded once. "Should you require my assistance—"
"I would ask no other," Tom demurred. He hated to be seen as weak; the idea of submitting to another alpha filled him with disgust. But for Harry, Tom could pretend to be weak in front of others. Tonight, Tom would dream of Harry's stubborn, fiery intervention. He would imagine a possessive claiming that would see the restless omega inside of him settled and satisfied.
"Your season will be perfect," Harry said reassuringly, hand braced over Tom's knee, the largeness of his palm a warm weight that bled through Tom's trousers, straight to the bone. "I will do what it takes to ensure your happiness."
As good friends did for each other. Tom dipped his head and swayed closer. The pull was natural, magnetic. It had existed long before they had presented. Tom waited to see if Harry would touch him further, if Harry would bestow a friendly pat or tender caress upon him.
But Harry only smiled wide and withdrew his hand, leaving Tom bereft and wanting. Tom could not conceive of a world where anyone else invoked such a response in him. There was no world without Harry, no cure for the endless affliction of love in his heart.
Tom was no ordinary omega. He was unique in all aspects; he would not be made docile by marriage, would not cater to the whims of just any sneering, domineering alpha. Luckily for him, Harry was no ordinary alpha. He was, in fact, an alpha perfect for Tom—
And Tom, a man of his own making, would ensure his destiny would be his to control.
As a child, Tom took to solitude, to the company of his parents. His father, the artist. His mother, the muse. When they both passed on, Tom's world shrunk, caving in on itself. He was alone, unmoored and unbalanced. Tom had befriended loneliness before, but that was nothing compared to being made an orphan. He draped himself in black, breathed in the scents of freshly-dug dirt and dreary autumn rain. He had not known then where his life would lead him, but he had known that he did not want to live the life that his father had. If that meant he would partake in solitude, then he would.
After his father's funeral, however, Tom's world re-expanded—to include Minerva, to include Harry.
Minerva was the one who took him in. Tom could not complain; he was too young to care for himself and was wise enough to realize there were worse places to live.
Months after they had grown used to each other, Tom remained wary of Minerva, of the potential for harm she could cause him. She could choose to abandon him, if she wished. She could choose to leave him with other, less kindly strangers. Minerva had been close to his mother, and this was why she had taken Tom under her wing, but how far did this kindness extend?
"You will socialize with children your own age," Minerva said to him some time later. It was not a request.
Tom was not stupid. He knew he was difficult at times, that others his own age found him unsociable, unlikeable. He could play the role of the innocent, bumbling child, but he would hate it. Minerva treated him as she would treat a small adult, which he liked, but if she expected such a dynamic between himself and another child, she would be sorely mistaken.
Despite their differences, Tom could respect the way Dowager McGonagall ran her estate. She was fair-minded and had high expectations for those she called friend or servant. He did not, however, trust her judgement on the subject of his own potential companions, and so he became recalcitrant, swearing to run off whoever the dowager foisted upon him.
Then Tom met Harry. Harry, who blinked wide eyes and flashed a dimpled smile. Harry, who presented Tom with excited babblings about random topics and offered to share the tarts his mother had packed. Harry, who listened to Tom's long-suffering complaints with studious care and always told Tom he was brilliant. Tom did not like tarts, but he decided he liked Harry.
They ran circles in the gardens, laughing and sullying their trousers with dirt. Harry picked dandelions (Aunt Minerva would have never permitted them to touch her precious flowers) and wove them into a crown for Tom's head.
Tom grew up with Harry by his side. The two of them passed through childhood like bear cubs in the winter and emerged as two young men who were, and always had been, rather fond of each other. Harry emerged with confidence, with a firm sense of self that Tom adored more than words could describe. Harry was brave, purposeful with all that he did. He loved deeply and delighted in helping others.
For Tom, his journey to manhood was not nearly as simple. Tom emerged with the fresh bloom of love beating wildly in his heart, with the blazing, undying certainty that there could be no other more suited for him than the beautiful boy whose smile shone brighter than the sun.
To Tom, the prime of his life, the springtime of all young men—all of that was only worth experiencing so long as Harry was there to illuminate the way.
"You will keep your head raised, your eyes straight ahead."
Tom resisted the urge to snap at her. "Yes, Auntie."
Minerva frowned at him and gave the lapel of his suit jacket a hard tug. "You will behave. You will not prostrate yourself before the Queen in an attempt to curry favour."
This time, Tom could not help but raise a brow at her. "Why, I had no idea you thought so highly of me, to be able to charm the Queen so easily."
"You will not be able to." She gave his chest a smack. "This is why I advise you not to attempt such a foolhardy thing. If I have raised you with a lick of sense, you will do nothing and say nothing unless otherwise told."
"As good omegas should?" Tom sneered. Already he had begun to draft a persuasive essay on the degradation that omegas in their society suffered. As Lord V's power grew, so would Tom's influence over the hearts and minds of those who stood in his way. When the time was right, when enough people would be willing to listen to him, he would publish it.
Minerva was not shaken by his disobedient tone. "As good young men should."
"I will not embarrass you," he told her flatly. In fact, he was rather offended that she thought so. "Do you think I hold no respect for you?"
Minerva's deadly gaze did not falter, but she did pat his shoulder in a conciliatory sort of way. "Your sense of respect and your impulsive desires are not in agreement, Tom. I know you very well, and that is why I know I shall be very lucky indeed if I am to see you matched this season." She shot him a knowing look. "Perhaps to a certain great nephew of mine?"
Tom held her stare. "You must be growing old and senile, to have such fanciful ideas of matchmaking."
Minerva scoffed and rapped her cane once on the floor, sending vibrations across the wooden panelling. "And to think we were speaking of respect not a second ago," she said disdainfully. Her lips flattened out. "Now, promise me you will not cause any trouble today."
Tom sighed as if it pained him to do so. "I promise." He would behave when he met the Queen. Afterwards would be a different story. While his presentation to the Queen was cause for excitement and celebration, Tom's thoughts only revolved around Harry and tonight's ball.
It would be hours later when Minerva brandished a paper at him, flapping it in an extravagant, obtrusive manner that amused Tom to no end. "This—this Lord Voldemort has declared you the season's incomparable," she told him. "A diamond of the first water."
"The Queen would agree with that assessment, would she not?" Tom said dryly. "You need not sound so surprised." The woman had taken one look at him and declared him ambitious. It was a word rarely applied to omegas; Tom had relished in his newfound superiority, in the jealous stares from the other omegas. He was better than them all in ways they did not yet know. In ways that would become clear very soon.
"All eyes will be on you tonight." Minerva's eyes were sharp and discerning as they roamed over his face. "I have no doubt you will use this to your advantage, Tom, but do keep in mind that it is quite possible for you to make mistakes. In fact, I may go so far as to call it an inevitability."
Tom swallowed his pride long enough to give her a polite response. "I will be cautious."
"Good." She nodded at him. "Harry and his father will arrive shortly to escort us."
That was what Tom liked to hear. "I shall go prepare, then." There were hours to go, time for him to spend brushing his hair until it shone in glossy waves, time for him to agonize over the angles of his face, the miniscule imperfections and the pallor of his complexion. Then he would turn his attention to the layers of his outfit, an outfit purchased weeks ago and currently covered by a protective bag while it hung in his wardrobe.
There was a marked difference between this process of dressing and the process of dressing he had undertaken before meeting the Queen. Tonight, he would be dressing for Harry. All that he did now would be for the precious smile that lit the surrounding world aglow, for the beautiful laugh that sent warmth pooling in the pit of his stomach.
Tom traced absent fingers over the back of his right hand, over the pale column of his neck, imagining that it was Harry's touch that lingered instead.
Soon, he promised himself. As soon as Harry realized what lay between them, as soon as Tom was assured that his affections would not be rejected, he would act.
The carriage ride to Malfoy Manor was filled with lively conversation between the Duke of Gryffindor and his aunt. Tom was glad for their distraction with each other, for it permitted him the freedom of talking to Harry without interjection.
"The season's incomparable," Harry teased, the impish smile that Tom adored dimpling on either side. "Did I not tell you that you were destined for greatness?"
"I had no doubt." Tom resisted the urge to lean forward, to drift into the pull of Harry's magnetic presence. "I knew I would be recognized above the rest."
Harry's smile grew impossibly wider. "Alphas won't like that tone, as I'm sure you already know. I look forward to watching you squash the swine underfoot."
Tom grinned in response, enthused by Harry's words. "It will be fun, won't it?"
"So long as you are careful," Harry conceded, concern leaking into his voice as the mirth faded from his lips. "If any of them attempts anything untoward, you will come to me, won't you? Or to my father if I'm not around."
"Nothing bad will happen, I promise."
Harry shifted back—when had they gotten so close to each other?—his hand lifting from his knee to ruffle his hair. "I worry about you."
Tom wanted to hear more. "Why? You know I can look after myself."
"We look after each other," Harry corrected. His brows pulled together briefly; Tom committed the motion to memory, gently laid it down next to the heartfelt words that fell from Harry's lips. "I would—I would never let anyone hurt you."
Tom would tear the arms off anyone who touched Harry without permission. "I would do the same for you."
"I know." Harry held his gaze for a long moment, then blew out a heavy sigh. Tom watched as Harry's eyes drifted to the carriage window. From this angle, Tom could make out Harry's profile more clearly. The lively curl of his hair, the slope of his nose, the sharp set of his jaw, and the dark line of his brow. If—no, no, when he had the funds to do so, Tom would commission endless paintings of Harry for their home together.
"Nearly there." The low tenor of James Potter's voice pulled Tom out of his daydream.
Tom looked out the window. Malfoy Manor was extravagant, the entrance draped in ivory and gold decorations. Lucius had boasted about some new style of dazzling lights that Tom found himself admittedly interested in seeing.
As the carriage pulled to a halt, Tom waited to see if Harry would offer him a hand. Tom preferred independence, but the omega in him craved the touch and support of an alpha. It was only because his desired alpha was Harry that he felt the urge was not only permissible, but preferable.
Harry did not disappoint; he offered his arm out. "Would you like a hand, Tom?"
If Tom refused, he knew that Harry would respect the decision. "If you insist," Tom demurred. As their hands touched, Tom dropped his gaze, instead glancing up through the fringe of his lashes to gauge Harry's response. A faint flush of colour spread across Harry's face. Tom dared to hope that the cause of it was affection.
The ballroom was stunning. Tom had rarely attended such luxurious events in the past, and so he was reluctantly dazzled by the splendour of it all. There was the fine attire worn by society's wealthiest, the delicious spread of high-class foods, and the tasteful selection of expensive alcohol.
Some weeks ago, Tom had asked after the guest list, and Lord Malfoy had delivered quite beautifully. Tom now knew the name and title of every person in this room. There were alphas to charm, omegas to intimidate or befriend. He had grand plans for the portion of his evening that was not occupied with Harry.
Harry. If Harry danced with another, Tom would intervene, unable to hold back. He would wield his words like a sword, cleaving through anyone who dared try latching onto his alpha.
"Anyone catch your interest?" Harry asked genially as they made their way around the edge of the dance floor.
"No." This answer would never change.
Harry hummed thoughtfully and cast his gaze about. "Lord Diggory?"
"Boring and unwilling to commit. Plans to travel the globe starting this summer."
"Lord MacMillian?"
"More interested in his own reflection than anyone else. Also known for his gambling debts."
"Lord Black?"
"Surely you jest."
Harry's lips quirked into a smile as his eyes slid back to Tom. "You've done your research. Can't say I'm surprised."
Tom held Harry's gaze, trying to convey all that he felt with the weight of it. "I'd only ever accept the best."
Harry's response was stalled by further announcement at the door—something had caught the attention of the crowd. When Harry turned to look, Tom did as well, with reluctance.
"Miss Luna Lovegood and Miss Ginny Prewett, all presented by the Right Honorable Lord Lovegood."
The Lovegood girl was blonde with a distant expression, but standing just beside her was a freckled girl with flaming red hair. Her gown was a vibrant green that complimented her pale skin. She was, in a word, beautiful.
Tom was not moved by such beauty; Harry was by far more precious to him than any other pretty face. Tom refocused on Harry, intent on resuming their previous conversation, but Harry's expression gave him pause.
Harry was looking at Miss Prewett with nothing less than undisguised admiration and fascination. Eyes wide and dazed, lips slightly parted. He had never looked at anyone like this before. Not his parents, not Minerva.
Not Tom.
"Excuse me, won't you?" Harry murmured distractedly, placing a hand temporarily against Tom's forearm. "I'm going to ask her to dance."
Tom's hands clenched into white-knuckled fists as Harry led a blushing Miss Prewett to the dance floor. Suddenly, the lights of the ballroom were too bright, the temperature of the room too hot. He could barely breathe around his own seething rage. This could not stand. He would not permit some—some nameless harlot to steal Harry away from him.
Harry was not a wealthy prize to win or a trophy to be toyed with. Other omegas would look at Harry and wish to become his beloved, to be pampered and spoiled with the titles, land, and riches that only the Potter family could provide, but Tom cared little for those things. He was perhaps the only omega in Britain who did not care for those things. Tom cared for Harry, plainly and simply. Harry was his to dance with. His to adore.
As an omega, Tom had few avenues for recourse. To publicly compete for an alpha's attention was a disgraceful display of desperation that Tom would never reduce himself to. There were cleverer ways to get what he wanted, the first of which began with the use of his quill and inkwell.
Tomorrow's society paper, penned by the elusive Lord Voldemort, would be quite the page turner.