The cabbie had been an old man. Wise and wrinkled and world-wearied. Unsympathetic, or so it seemed.
All Harry had told him was, "Out of London," and he had obeyed, silent. Indifferent.
It was only when they finally left the city, when Harry had felt the tears dry into the hardened skin of his hands, that he felt safe enough to see the face of his rescuer.
He met the man's eyes in the rearview mirror. They were a startling electric blue, hidden behind half-moon spectacles. A little too curious, a little too knowing.
"Where are you headed, my boy?"
Harry looked away, out of the window, towards the black silk of the sky above. He huffed, an angry, agitated, hopeless thing. "I don't––I don't really know, I'm afraid."
Harry ignored how raw his voice sounded.
The cabbie sighed, a sound drawn deep from within his chest. "I can't take you where you need to be if I don't know where that is."
Harry laughed dryly, leaning his forehead against the cool glass. "I don't even know where that is."
The old man's eyes flitted to his in the mirror once more, a thoughtful look crossing his face. As his eyes held Harry's, though, some sort of certainty overtook his features. He looked younger that way: with a purpose.
"I knew a boy, once."
Harry looked over, simultaneously irritated at and eager for the distraction. "Oh?"
The man nodded sagely, a twinkle deep in his eye as he scanned the near-empty London streets. There was no one, not that late on a weeknight. The city had seemed soulless. Empty.
It filled Harry with some sort of hollow vindication.
"Oh, yes," the man continued, oblivious to Harry's melancholy, "Clever––far too clever, really––with a streak of ambition that would move mountains someday."
"Yeah?"
The man gave an affirmative hum. "Handsome, too, and charming. But you know… he wasn't much for empathy. Or emotions in general, I suppose."
Harry snorted, a bitterly joking tone overtaking his words. "Was his name Tom, by any chance?"
The old man's eyes were grave when they met his. "Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact, it was."
Harry sat up straighter, eyes wide.
The man chuckled at the look on his face. "Bet you didn't expect that, did you?"
Harry shook his head, mute, before narrowing his eyes. He remembered wondering if he should be scared—what were the chances of a meeting like this? His hand settled on the handle of the door.
Still, something held him back. Maybe it was the empathy of those eyes. The calling of another heartbreak. But he hesitated.
"What––Who did you say you were, again?"
"I didn't," the man said, turning the wheel under his wrinkled hands. They went right, down a smaller side street. "I was a headmaster of a school, once upon a time. Hogwarts. Tom was our… prize student, so to speak. He was an excellent student, had charmed everyone, but it was clear to myself that he was something else underneath. A little broken, a little darker, under the polished edges."
Harry still doesn't know why the thought had struck him so at the time, but his eyes had welled with sheer fury and helplessness at the thought. Tom had been deceiving for so long. Would Harry have ever stood a chance?
"I saw that side of him tonight, apparently." Harry's voice came out harsh, a growl, almost, but he couldn't find it in himself to care.
The old man laughed, a low huff of a breath. Like the rustling of old paper. "So I gathered."
Harry sneered, and it struck him, at that moment, that this could just be another mockery. Harry was done with being played for a fool.
"Look, sir, I don't know what game you're playing—"
The man quickly cut him off, calm as anything."I'm not playing a game. Rather… I hoped to give you some advice."
"And what would you know about something like this?" Harry snarled, crossing his arms. "It's not everyday your boyfrie—"
Harry cut himself off, shutting his eyes tightly. He took a breath, and continued, "ex -boyfriend throws your farce of a relationship in your face."
There was a pause, and Harry had thought he'd suitably made his point. He settled back in his seat, content with that one small, stupid victory, when he looked over. The man's eyes were pitifully, painfully sympathetic when they met Harry's again. "You're right."
Harry was about to saw I know, but then the old man continued, "But it doesn't mean it's never happened before."
Harry raised his eyebrows, incredulous. "You can't be serious."
The man shook his head, staring resolutely out of the front windshield. "You'll find that there are very few experiences that have not been shared by someone else."
And the anger, all of it, spewed forth as if from a volcano. "And it's happened to you, has it?" he sneered, leaning forward. "Been made to walk in on him fucking another woman? I fucking hated her, always did, and he told me to 'bear with it.' Do you know what kind of fucking bullshit that is? How fucking humiliating?"
Harry laughed, a cruel, sneering thing. "I'd say you must've been a pretty shitty partner for that to happen, but I adored him. I gave him everything. I fucking adored him. And he loved it, and he still did that to me."
Harry glared at the man's profile. He wouldn't meet his eyes. "I wonder if he laughed with her about it. If he got off on taking me for a fool. Listen to me." And he leaned in close, staring hard at the man in the rearview. "You have no idea what that feels like."
The man's blue eyes were far duller when they met Harry's, then. He was silent for a time.
Then, "No, I don't," he admitted, and his eyes were razor sharp when he said, "But I can still try to give the comfort I would've wanted."
Harry stilled, and something filled the air in that moment. A painful embarrassment, perhaps, or maybe it was a furious shame at himself. He didn't know. He just wanted to feel right, for once, and all he could do was make others feel miserable.
God, he was such a fucking loser.
Harry slumped back into his seat, an irritated twist to his mouth as he glared out of the window. He was irritated at himself, though, and wasn't that just awesome?
All of the righteous anger, all of the bluster, the bullshit––it left him in a breath. He tipped his head against the window, watching his reflection in the glass as the buildings passed by, quiet soldiers marching in an empty parade.
"So what's your story, then?" he asked, eventually, when the silence got to be too much. "What was yours like?"
The man paused, and there was something heavy in between the question and when he said, "He decided the dream we built together was better as a solo affair. Stole all of my work, my research, and eventually died in prison. A sad ending for a sad man, I suppose."
"A deserved ending."
"It wasn't just his ending that was sad, really. It was mine as well. Because here I am, prying into a stranger's business."
Harry felt absurdly guilty for making the other man feel guilty, but didn't know how or feel like commenting on it, so he didn't. Silence reigned, and neither made an effort to break it.
And then, suddenly, Harry couldn't have stopped himself if he'd wanted to: he laughed, a little hysterically, but something deep in his belly, because this whole thing was kind of ridiculous. At least it was something warm against the coolness of the night. Against the frozen parts of a broken heart.
What are the chances? he thought to himself. What are the bloody fucking chances?
When Harry finally felt the mirthful blurriness clear from his eyes, he saw how the old man's eyes had crinkled in a smile. Decidedly odd, as Harry had randomly burst into laughter, but Harry stayed silent. Maybe broken hearts made broken people with broken senses of humor.
But the old man's voice was soft when he said, something wistful and happy, "You look so much like your mother when you laugh."
Harry's whole world had stopped in that heartbeat.
"What?" he croaked.
The old man's eyes went back to the road, clouded with memories. "She was my student, too. As was your father. You laugh like him––look like him, too, of course––but when you smile, there is so much of your mother in your face…"
His tone was almost regretful. "I was their mentor, for a time. I am sorry I could not do more for you after their passing. I wish…"
Harry swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. He didn't know what to say, so he settled for a, "I'm very much beginning to think you're a stalker."
The man's eyes were decidedly glassy when they met Harry's in the rearview once more. His brows were set low in his face, as if carried down by some deep grief. "Dumbledore. Call me Albus Dumbledore. If your parents were still alive, you would've known that, by now."
"Dumbledore," Harry said, and the name settled in his head like a bell's echo, clear and hard to forget. Something striking and ancient and important. "I don't much like you, Dumbledore."
Harry could see how the man smiled in the way his glasses lifted, just the slightest bit. They were quiet for a while, as Harry stared out of the front window, watching how the orange light played off of Dumbledore's wizened features.
He probably should've jumped out of that car. It was too much of a coincidence. Too terrifying to consider. But Harry had nowhere else to go, and the only one that would've known where he'd gone was at home with someone else wrapped around him.
When they came to a stop in front of an old pub, on the outskirts of the sleeping city, it was then that Harry realized he had never given Dumbledore an address, and felt that belated spike of fear.
The man tilted his head, a subtle nudge to get out. Harry did, and felt something tense ease in his chest when he stepped into the open air. He stepped onto the curb, and watched as the man rolled down his window.
Harry finally saw him clearly under the street light: he had long silver hair, and a beard to match. His nose was crooked, as if he had been in one too many fights when he was younger. His shoulders sloped, as if from carrying the weight of the world. As if he held up a grief too much to carry.
He realized, then, that even if this man was crazy, he did what he said he would. He gave comfort. Harry wasn't angry, anymore, and felt... calmer, somehow. Clearer.
"I don't have much money," Harry finally admitted, after too long of just cataloguing this face from his parents' past, if the man really was to be believed. Cataloguing the face of a coincidence.
The man's mustache twitched, as if in a rueful smile. "Whatever I charged, I could never ask you to pay, dear boy."
Harry snorted at the statement, stuffing his hands into his pockets, his breath misting on the wind.
"Will I see you again? I'd really have to get a restraining order, then," he said, shifting on his feet.
The man looked away, through the front window. Harry has never forgotten the look on his face, because he still has yet to discover what it means.
When the man eventually turned back, he seemed older than ever before. "We'll let fate decide."
Harry nodded slowly, and he felt the wind, cold against the dried tear tracks, and he felt better than he ever had, in that moment. There was something safe, in letting something bigger than him decide. "Alright."
He shouldered his backpack, and looked at the pub. The Leaky Cauldron, it read. Odd, eccentric, and old, just like this man.
"Goodbye, Dumbledore. It was––well it wasn't nice to meet you, but it was… good, I think." And Harry found he meant it.
"Goodbye."
Harry turned away, heading towards the pub. It was just as his foot hit the front step that he heard Dumbledore call, voice soft and weak with the weight of too many years, "Harry?"
Harry turned, watching how the light made the man's electric eyes seem almost unearthly. "When I was your age, my boy––I knew that boy like Tom. Too smart, too driven––and I feel I must tell you, from one brokenhearted man to another: love always catches up with you. Good or bad, it always takes first place."
Harry didn't know what to say to that. So he didn't say anything at all.
He just watched as the man pulled away into the night, and never had he felt so young as he did in that moment.
It was only when he settled firmly into the mattress up on the second floor did he realize the man had called him Harry.
Harry supposed, as he drifted off, that the man must've known who he was all along. He was well known for his parents, after all, and at that moment it actually seemed believable that Dumbledore had cherished them, in some other time.
It had taken Harry some time to accustom to a new life without Tom. Of course, none of it would have been possible without Ginny, Ron, and Hermione.
They'd opened their homes to him immediately. Opened their arms, and their hearts. They're all Harry could've asked for. Ginny, Ron, and Hermione single-handedly put Harry back together again.
They did more than that, even. They returned to their roots.
Just them against the world, like it should've been.
"Harry, as much as you are my completely platonic soulmate and I don't mind sharing my clothes with you, I can't keep doing laundry every few days. Maybe it's time you consider going back and getting your stuff, yeah? Lord knows that bastard doesn't deserve anything you left behind," Ron said as he leaned against the doorway, watching as Harry rooted through the measly backpack he'd managed to pack before he'd… well, before everything.
He sighed, balling up the two t-shirts he'd managed to snag before he ran away from the stupid apartment. He stuffed them to the bottom in a vain attempt to avoid the question, but Ron only continued to watch him, blue eyes seeing more than they should.
Harry paused, before dropping his head in defeat. He'd been staying at Ron and Hermione's for the last week, and deserved to give them an explanation before he fucked off to Ginny's and hid himself away forever.
"I just…" he began quietly, before clearing his throat. Ridding himself of that residual sadness. He turned away, unable to meet the face of his best friend. How low he'd fallen. "I don't think I can go back there."
It hurt to say it, but it was true. God, leaving had felt like ripping his own heart out; how could he go back there, and risk begging to stay for good?
Harry heard Ron stand, shuffling over so he could wrap an arm around Harry's shoulder, tugging him back to sit on the bed. They stayed like that, leaning into each other, Ron's hand running up and down Harry's arm.
Harry sagged into his friend, releasing his breath in a deep stream of air. Something not quite relief, but close to it.
"We'd go with you, you know that," Ron said, his voice the low and soothing tones of Harry's childhood, when he'd come to the Burrow, bruised and hungry from the Dursleys'. "Go in, even, and do it for you. Give us a list, and we could take care of it. Say the word, Harry; you know we'd do anything for you."
Harry pushed himself closer, hiding under Ron's arm. He knew they would, but didn't know how to explain it. This was his fight, and he'd already asked too much. He was just the coward too scared to finish it.
"No, no, I'll do it," he croaked, finally. He was going to have to face the music eventually, because he couldn't keep doing this to them. Asking them for things, and then disappointing them when it was his turn to hold up the bargain. They couldn't do the healing for him.
He sighed, straightening up, shrugging Ron's arm off of him. He missed the comfort almost immediately, but he knew what he had to do. He took another deep breath, and his voice came out surer than he felt, "I'll do it. Ginny can wait in the car, and we can go straight to her apartment after."
God bless Ginny. Luna had gone off to Switzerland, and would be there with her father for the next couple months, leaving Ginny alone in her apartment. She said she missed the company; Harry suspected it was a lie for his comfort, but didn't have the energy to call her on it.
Harry could feel Ron's eyes boring into the side of his face, concerned, and was struck by how they felt so unbearably similar to Dumbledore's. But then he shrugged, and the moment was broken.
"Alright," he said, and Harry felt grateful that he didn't question Harry's sudden resolve. He stood, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder. "But we're always here for you, you know that, right?"
Harry stood, and for the first time in the conversation, met his friend's eyes. "Yeah," he said, seeing the absolute conviction, the fiery bravery in his friend's face. "Yeah, I know."
Ron smiled, and there was so much chaos in that one gesture that Harry could see a sudden striking resemblance to the twins. He, more than anyone, loved a good hoodwink. "Good. He won't even know you're there."
Hermione smiled as Harry and Ginny made their way out of the door, her whiskey-eyes watching them with a keen focus. Ginny marched on over to the car, and Harry hung back, standing in the doorway. Ron gave them a moment, for which Harry was supremely thankful.
Hermione, too smart for her own good, brushed a lock of hair behind his ear, eyes soft as she looked at him. "Be careful," she said, her hand falling to his shoulder.
"I will," he whispered, and her smile grew smaller, though no less pleased.
"You're so brave, and kind, and lovely, Harry," she said. Her eyes searched his face. "I hope that he never made you forget that."
Harry grinned, and it didn't even feel fake. "How could I? You three always remind me."
And all he could think about was how Tom had only ever made him feel perfect.
And Hermione, too keen, just shook her head, huffing a laugh. "And we will always tell you. We will always be here." Unlike Tom, she didn't say.
"I know," he said, completely honest, voice soft. "I know."
And with that he kissed her cheek, and departed with a wave, making his way out the door and to the rusty red pick-up Ron's father had fixed up that Ginny adored.
When he turned back one last time, he saw Ron and Hermione as they looked at each other, a decade of trust between them, their arms wrapped tight around each other's waists. A love so firm and adoring nothing could shake it.
And in that moment, he didn't even feel resentful. He just felt proud that they could do what he couldn't. They could give each other everything, and they'd let him bask in it.
"Hop in, cowboy," Ginny said, and Harry turned away, stepping through the open car door. She grinned at him, bright and ensnaring as he settled into the seat.
She revved the engine. "Let's fucking do this. We're gonna take your life back right under his nose."
And Harry laughed, delighted.
They'd picked mid-afternoon for a reason; no one should be home. Harry didn't think he could bear to see Tom at that moment, not fresh off of the high of his friends' love and loyalty.
Ginny put the car in park in front of the house, and leaned out of the window as Harry got out. He stood on the front steps, and just let himself take in the old brownstone apartment. It hadn't changed; it was still the same building Harry had lived in for half a year. A short time, to have such a profound effect.
"You alright?" Ginny asked, her voice soft, as if she could feel the somber mood.
"Yeah," Harry said, and it didn't feel like a lie. He took a deep breath in through his nose, getting the old scent again. He found it didn't hurt like he thought it would. "Yeah, I am."
He turned to look at her, at the naked worry on her face. "I'll be fine," he grinned, and let some of the old mischief into his smile. "I'll be out before you know it."
"Okay," she said, uncertain. "Call me if you need me, okay? I'll be waiting outside to help you get stuff in the truck."
"I will," he promised. "And just––thanks, Gin."
She smiled, real. "Anytime, Harry."
He smiled back, and with that, he squared his shoulders, went up the stairs, and pulled the spare key out of his pocket, unlocking the doors.
He wasn't sure what he expected. Maybe the furniture would be changed, moved around; maybe the walls would be repainted, or there'd be more flowers, a distinctly feminine touch to everything.
But it was the same. Even now, he still doesn't know what that means.
He had shaken himself out of it, and quickly set about collecting his things. The apartment was admittedly a little bare, and Harry hadn't had much opinion on furniture (most of it was from Grimmauld Place, which Harry hated, anyway), so he didn't bother with decor.
He headed straight to the kitchen, pulled the trashbags out from under the sink, and got to work collecting his mother's silverware.
It was only when he'd carefully filled up one trash bag that he heard it. A soft squeak––the bedroom door.
The last time Harry had heard that sound, he'd doomed his last relationship.
Slowly, so, so slowly, Harry turned his head. And there she was, in all her black-clad glory: Bellatrix Lestrange. Or, Black, now. She'd changed her name after she divorced her husband.
After she took Tom.
Harry wasn't sure quite what he felt, in that moment. Caught, yes, but also a little vindictive. Make her see that this home wasn't hers. He was still here, his touch hidden in the walls.
Her face was strange. Stuck between shock and satisfaction, and maybe—just maybe—a little fear.
Harry knew exactly what doubt looked like, and wasn't ashamed to say that he felt a surge of triumph at that.
"Well, well, well," she said, finally, something malicious in her tone. A dark smile curved her mouth, and it was only a little strained. "What do we have here?"
Harry stood to his full height, meeting her gaze, unflinching. "Taking back what's mine."
"Oh," and she only faltered for a moment before continuing, malicious and ruthless, "I'm afraid Tom belongs to someone else, now. Best run along now; he has no use for little boys."
Harry sighed harshly, running an irritated hand through his hair. "Do you ever shut up? Or is bitch your standard setting?"
Her grin was downright cruel. "Tom likes to hear me. You'd know that, wouldn't you?"
Harry very nearly snarled at her. The comment stung, but it struck Harry, then, where all this vitriol was coming from: she was scared.
Yes, he could see it now, in her eyes, a little nervous, in her hands, slightly shaking.
She was scared Harry had come back for Tom. And she was scared it would work.
That was an… interesting development.
But not useful. Not now.
Harry turned away, just pulled out another bag. He was extra careful when removing the china; it was from his parents' wedding, and he wouldn't risk breaking it for anything.
Bellatrix wasn't used to being blatantly ignored, apparently.
Her voice was louder, then, "Have you come crawling back? Sorry, but he's moved on. I'm sure you're aware."
Harry nearly snorted. It sounded more like she was trying to convince herself. He almost felt bad for her.
Not the time, he reminded himself. "I just need my stuff, that's it. I'll be gone in less than an hour."
A pause, and the only sound was that of clinking plates. Harry thought maybe she'd left. But then, into the quiet, she said, "Tom's not home until six."
There was an odd note to her voice that Harry couldn't place. He glanced over his shoulder to see her leaning against the kitchen island, her footing suddenly less sure than it was before.
Harry considered her a moment, and felt a sudden bubble of anxiety, of grief well up within his chest. He turned away, bracing himself against the counter.
"I know." His voice was hoarse, and he felt all the old memories, the old joy of seeing him at the end of the day curl at the base of his throat. Clogging what should've been anger and sadness and grief. He hated himself a little bit, for only feeling anticipation at the possibility of being caught. "I don't… He shouldn't see me."
Bellatrix seemed to consider this a moment before she said, "You don't want me to tell him you're here."
Harry sighed, a stuttering breath, squeezing his eyes shut. "No, I don't."
But you do, he thought. You do, don't you?
"I should. I'd love to see him tear into you again." Harry steadfastly ignored the way his heart leapt at the thought. How would Tom react? Would he want Harry? Bellatrix certainly thought so.
He brushed the thought aside. Instead, he listened to her voice, because no matter what she said, she sounded almost… reluctant. Doubtful, it seemed, of how likely it was for Tom to just turn Harry away. For Tom to spurn him once more.
"But you won't tell him?" He asked. He could hardly believe his luck.
"I'm still deciding." But she didn't sound uncertain, and Harry was learning to take the weakness presented to him. Let her feel the pain he had.
He turned around, facing her head on, leaning against the counter. He crossed his arms, glaring her down. She was dressed in rich finery, heels coming to sharp points. She was built to make fools cower, to hurt those weaker than her.
Harry wasn't weaker anymore, and one can learn a lot from observation. Harry had no reservations about tearing his teeth into her.
"I think you're scared."
She sneered, and as much as she tried to hide it behind all the bravado, there was something tremulous about it. "Of what? Your pathetic broken heart?"
He only stared her down, unmoved. "Of yours. You're scared he'll drop you as soon as he sees me again."
It was like flipping a switch.
Her eyes grew black and hot with hatred, her hair seemed to almost rise with electricity. Her nails seemed more like claws, her beauty turning monstrous. She bared her teeth like fangs, her blood-red lips almost bloody.
"You're delusional," she spat, grip vicious on the counter. "He never loved you. He planned to use you and leave you broken before he even met you. He told me he'd humiliate you, he'd build himself up and leave you in the dirt. And he did! And where am I? Where am I?" She laughed, and it was more a witch's cackle, more a maniac's than hers. "I am at his side. I'm his, and he's mine. He'll never love anyone like me! Your entire relationship was fake, but he and I will rule the world together," she snarled, voice almost guttural.
Harry didn't flinch, because as much as it hurt, it wasn't like he hadn't suspected. He knew Tom, and even if he didn't know the true Tom, he knew that he planned everything. He was intelligent in a way that was almost incomprehensible to Harry, and there's no way you can fake intelligence like that. And so Harry knew that if he had been left behind in such a way, it could only have been orchestrated.
Their romance was no romance. It was Tom's twisted design.
And so, despite the abuse hurled his way, the ugly truths... he felt in control. Harry felt powerful in his cold indifference. Is this how Tom felt?
Silence, and maybe Bellatrix thought she had won. But then Harry said, "He doesn't love anyone," and relished in the way Bellatrix flinched. He continued, ruthless, "I know you're smarter than that, as much as I hate to admit it."
And like a puppet whose strings were cut, all of the hatred drained right out of her. She was pathetic.
But Harry had always had a strange empathy for pathetic things. After all, he had been one of them.
But not any more. Let others be the ones to suffer; let him come out on top. So what if he acted like Tom? Tom didn't get hurt in the end, and it sounded like a nice change.
In the ensuing silence, her voice was grating and harsh, as if the words were dragged out of her. "I am," she admitted, like it pained her. And her voice was that of a wounded animal, cracking when she said, "But I don't care."
At that moment, Harry wondered if she felt as foolish as she knew herself to be.
Harry watched as she slumped over the kitchen island, as if all the fight had gone out of her. Who knew it was so easy to tame a beast, when you showed yourself to be just as vicious.
Too bad Harry didn't care much for empathy right about then. "Will you tell him?" he said, set on his own ambitions.
She looked up at him, and her eyes still burned with that bloody violence, but Harry could now see that toxic jealousy that was there all along. He saw the moment she recognized him as something to be afraid of.
"I won't say anything. Erase yourself from here."
Harry smiled, and it felt good. "It'll be as if I've never been."
She nodded. She looked away. "Good."
It wasn't long after that moment that Harry brought out the kitchen bags to the truck. He set them in the back carefully, and went to head inside when he was stopped.
"Harry."
He turned to the car window, and wasn't sure what the issue was until he saw how Ginny's eyes kept flitting to the apartment steps, where Bellatrix Black was watching them.
"Do we need to leave?" she said under her breath.
Harry shook his head. "She won't do anything. It's sorted."
She seemed uncertain, but soon steeled her gaze. "If you say so. Do you want me to deal with it?"
Harry cracked a smile. He'd love to see who would come out on top in that fight. But he only said, "She's fine. Just stay in the car, alright? It won't take long. I didn't have much, anyway."
She shifted in her seat, hands flexing on the wheel as she looked at him. "Are you sure? It'll go faster if it's both of us, and I don't…" Don't want to leave you alone with her.
"I'll be fine. Besides," he said, and his grin took on a twisted edge, "Let her be useful, for once."
They took care of his clothes in record time. And Harry noticed, in a moment of twisted, petty satisfaction, that his clothes were exactly where they'd been. There was hardly a trace of Bellatrix in the apartment.
But he didn't comment on it, and Harry thought she was resentful of being grateful for it. She was humiliated enough.
The only moment when Harry faltered was when he emptied the bedside table. He didn't have much in there; some books, a spare pair of glasses. But on Tom's side…
There was a new picture frame. It was face down, which was unusual on its own, but perhaps it had been knocked down.
And Harry, ever curious, had picked it up. He wished he hadn't.
Harry would have faltered if it had been Bellatrix in the photo, but he wouldn't have lingered on it long. It would have made sense.
But this… this didn't.
Because there, blatant and hopelessly confusing, was a picture of Tom and Harry he'd never seen before. It was clear it had been taken at Ron and Hermione's, on Ron's birthday, a month or so ago. Harry had had to drag Tom to that party.
Harry was laughing, in the photo. He was seated in Tom's lap, one of Tom's hands braced on his thigh, the other linking their hands together, messy with cake. Harry had icing on his nose.
But the absolute worst part, the thing that made Harry's heart jerk painfully, was the absolutely, undeniably wondering look Tom had on his face. As if he'd never seen Harry before.
As if he was falling in love for the first time.
Harry remembered that, now. He'd called Tom his soulmate that night, in a hushed confession. It felt like years, since then. Since that kind of blind happiness.
He wondered if Tom laughed about it, later, when he was alone.
When he left the room, the frame was in pieces in the trash can, and the photo was tucked shamefully into Harry's pocket.
"Potter."
Harry turned from where he was on the steps, making his last trip to the truck. Bellatrix's face was unreadable, in that moment.
Harry had had no idea what was going to come out of her mouth, and was taken by surprise when she said, "I have a nephew; I know you know him. Draco Malfoy. You hated each other, but if Tom ever comes looking…" and she had swallowed hard, her voice thick when she continued, "he'll never find you there."
Harry doesn't know what he felt, in that moment. Lingering resentment. Shock, definitely. Jealousy. But at the heart of it, hidden under all the rest… Empathy.
He'd been vindictive, and he didn't regret it. It was due revenge. But maybe… maybe he and this woman had more in common than he and Tom ever did.
So he tipped his head, and there was more than acknowledgment there.
The truck pulled away from the apartment at 5:59 pm, Bellatrix Black cold and alone on the front steps.
And as that rusty red truck turned the corner, a black sedan came into view, and Bellatrix Black turned to greet Tom Riddle, home from work.
He would find all traces of Harry Potter gone from that home, and Harry wondered if Bellatrix would be able to make up the empty space.
Somehow, he doubted it.
Harry thinks that the funniest, most heartbreaking thing about this whole fiasco is that he met Cedric the same day he jumped out of a window to avoid Tom.
The motorcycle wasn't even his, not really; it was Sirius's, an old birthday present that Harry had never gotten out of storage. It seemed like he was just borrowing; he had to be, because he can't live with the thought that Sirius may never ride it again.
He didn't even want to ride it, just out of respect for what it meant if he did. But then… well. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
He'd been heading for Draco Malfoy's flat, after he'd left Ginny's. He'd come back for his clothes later.
Harry and Draco may have resented each other, sure, but it was one place that Harry knew Tom would never look. Not to mention he had someone else subverting Tom's attention from the hideout, should things ever come to that.
It was that evening, just as the sun was setting and Harry was making one last stop for dinner before Malfoy's flat, that Harry met Cedric Diggory.
Their meeting had been similar, and yet so, so different to Harry and Tom's.
Funnily enough, this one happened in a bar––The Leaky Cauldron, a dark, secluded place, a stark contrast to the lighthearted atmosphere that had surrounded Harry when he first met eyes with Tom.
Harry had settled in a corner booth, attempting to calm himself from the close call at Ginny's. He watched from behind a mug of coffee as people went in and out. There were hardly any couples; just lonely hearts, drifting through this place, like ghosts of what they once were.
It had been months, and even then, Harry had felt a kinship with them.
Harry remembers distantly wondering if Dumbledore had known what he was doing, when he dropped Harry off at this place. Maybe this is where he had gone, when his heart had been broken.
Harry doesn't know how long he had sat there, staring into his mug, like it held the secrets to happiness. It didn't, of course, but it held comfort, and Harry had taken what he could get.
The swing and subsequent creak of the front doors hardly caught Harry's attention as he contemplated how he came to be at this moment. What had caught his attention, however, was the shape of the newcomer from the corner of his eyes.
Harry's head had shot up like a bullet, his heart beating a mile a minute. There's no way that's who he thinks––
And it wasn't. But by god, for a moment, Harry had sworn it was.
No. This man was roughly the same height, with a similar build as Tom, but he was softer, somehow. His hair was a honeyed brown, his eyes grey and warm. And his smile––there was something unbearably sweet about it. Something kind and loving and precious.
And even from here, Harry could see the mirrored traces of a love gone wrong.
When their eyes had met, Harry had felt a bizarre wave of deja vu. Like he'd been in this moment, but on the wrong side of the window.
The man's eyes had gone a little brighter in intrigue, his cheeks a little flushed with want.
And Harry knew, with every beat of his heart, that this was a bad idea.
But if it made him happy, he thought that maybe he didn't much care. Who cares if it was reckless? Who cares if it was too soon?
Besides, now… it all seems to be working out, so far.
"Mmmm," Harry sighs, slipping into awareness. The sun is a gentle warmth upon his shoulders, accompanied by the deep ache of a nice, deep sleep. He stretches out his arms, arching his feet and lengthening his spine like a cat, before settling deeper into the covers.
A deep, warm chuckle echoes somewhere behind him, and Harry forces himself not to smile as soft lips press to the tail of his spine, before slowly travelling up his back. Cedric's lips are light as feathers, sweet as honey as they trace the length of him. It's only when he finally presses a long kiss to the nape of Harry's neck that he speaks, sleep-sweet and warm.
"Good morning, Harry."
Harry can't help it; he breaks out into a smile, pressing his arse up into the cradle of Cedric's hips. He grins harder when he feels a hardness there.
"Good morning to you, too."
Harry can feel Cedric smiling against his neck, and he revels in the rarity of this moment. Going to the summer home was a good idea; it's not often they get mornings with the entire house to themselves.
And that's all this month is going to be. Just them, as they let Cedric's parents fret about wedding decorations and guest lists.
Harry pushes the thought away, pushing up even further until Cedric is forced to brace his hands on Harry's hips. Cedric groans, low in his throat. "You're insatiable."
"You love it," Harry retorts, quicker than anything.
Harry doesn't have to see him to know that Cedric is giving him that megawatt grin. "Lord help me, but I do."
And he proceeds to prove it throughout the morning, until the need for breakfast forces them from the bed, both with bright smiles and newer, darker bruises.
Harry has an amazing feeling about today.
What's even funnier than meeting Cedric is that, well, Harry never would've gotten with Cedric if it wasn't for the single most irritating prat on the entire planet.
At the time, Harry had just left from the pub, breathless from panic and thrill when he knocked on Draco Malfoy's door.
Seeing Tom at Ginny's had shocked him, truly, and seeing that stranger at the bar had only heightened that panic, but he felt excited, too. He felt wanted.
The man at the bar gave him his number.
Harry felt giddy. He felt like he was on the cusp of something new.
And there was nothing newer than living with his schoolyard rival. It would never have been his first choice, but he didn't have any options left, and truthfully, he'd take Draco Malfoy over Tom Riddle any day.
The apartment was more penthouse than anything. It was on the top floor; Harry would expect no less from a Malfoy.
Harry heard a muffled curse, and then the door opened on the fourth knock. Harry's hand almost connected with Draco Malfoy's forehead, it was so sudden.
And then everything happened very quickly.
"Already trying to punch me, were you? Glad to see being dumped hasn't changed you one bit," Malfoy sneered. Harry didn't even have a moment to breathe, let alone retort, before Malfoy was sticking his head out of the room, looking side to side, and, deeming the coast clear, grabbed Harry's arm and dragged him inside.
He locked the door behind them, and then spun to face Harry. He looked harassed, almost. Harry supposed he'd feel the same way if he had an aunt like Bellatrix. He idly wondered if she threatened him into doing this, and can't help the amused smirk from stealing over his face.
"What can I say? I wouldn't miss a chance to set you straight any day of the week." The remark lacked any real fire, but Malfoy glared at him anyway.
He huffed, agitated, before brushing past Harry. "Good luck with that," he spat, and gee, someone was grumpy.
But then the back half of that statement clicked.
Malfoy looked over his shoulder, and rolled his eyes at the dawning realization on Harry's face. "Yes, yes, laugh all you want. Just figured I'd let you know before you got your knickers in a wad."
Harry was almost in shock. His head spun with it; it was like walking into a fresh rendition of his school days, passing Malfoy in the halls and spitting insults the entire way. Except, they had an entirely new context.
Had Malfoy been pulling his pigtails for over a decade? And he hadn't even noticed?
No wonder Hermione and Ron had rolled their eyes whenever Harry got particularly paranoid about the git.
Malfoy, however, treated this as if it was all perfectly normal, and marched straight on down to the back. The kitchen and living room were a completely open floor plan, but he pointed out the bathroom, and then the guest room.
Then he turned, eyeing Harry up and down. Harry hoped he wasn't doing what he thought he was. "Suppose you didn't bring any clothes, did you?"
Harry shook his head, blinking back into the present. He felt the tips of his ears go pink. "I––uh, no. Left in a rush."
Malfoy rolled his eyes again, and Harry wondered how many times he would have to do that before they rolled right out of his head. "You're about my size; you can use some old pajamas. We'll get Weasley down here to sort out out later."
And he continued on with the tour.
Harry thought that maybe being roommates with Draco Malfoy wouldn't be that bad, putting aside the weird and mind-boggling new context of Malfoy once having a crush on him.
And honestly… he though he'd probably kind of enjoy the entertainment.
Go figure.
Two weeks later found Harry drunk on the floor of Malfoy's apartment, Draco even worse off on the couch. Harry didn't remember how they got there, or why; just that they were.
"Do you believe in soulmates?" he blurted, because apparently he had no self control. And oh, that's right. Tom was invited to the palace for some stupid fucking reason. He was so succ––successful, so happy. Probably slept with the queen, or some bullshit.
That's why they were drinking. Or, why Harry was. Honestly, Draco (and he was Draco, now) would probably take any reason to get pissed.
"Eh, no," he said, somewhere above Harry. His voice was soft, the syllables hazy and all blurred together. All Harry could see was his hands, as they gestured wildly with the bottle of vodka above him. "And who cares, anyway? Not like love lasts forever."
Harry hummed in blind agreement, staring up at the spinning ceiling. "You don't––don't think so?"
Harry could see how the couch cushion moved with Draco's over-exaggerated head shaking. "'Course not. Cert'nly didn't for my parents, leas' not for dad. An' I only liked you for a li'l while, so. Lasts a while, maybe, but it wears off eventually." He paused, and then hiccuped, "Like booze."
Harry laughed, even if it wasn't that funny. He got quiet, then, as he struggled to think it over. He wasn't surprised at the confirmation of Draco's feelings; didn't worry about it, either. The men he'd brought over made it abundantly clear he was over Harry.
After that stray moment of clarity, though, Harry's thoughts were simultaneously moving too fast and too slow for him to read them properly. Eventually, he came up with, "Thought I'd love Tom forever."
Draco groaned. "Riddle's a man––manip––fuck, a little bitch."
Harry would be mortified to know he giggled at that, but he sure fucking did, because a.) Draco said fuck a little bitch, and b.) well? It was true. Tom was afraid to love Harry, wasn't he? He was a little bitch.
Too bad he's not Harry's bitch.
But whatever.
Draco kept going, though, even despite Harry's sudden melancholy. "And anyway, love––gah, I cannot believe you got me on this topic, this is why sex is better––should be enjoyed. Don't have to be long––just have to enjoy it. Tha's the point. How long doesn't matter––oh, that was funny. Can last a day, maybe a dick––a decade, ha. Just as long as you like it. Kinda like sex, I guess. Too alike, 'ey are. Shame. Sex's easier, but love's... Love's better."
Harry found himself nodding, slowly. He struggled with himself a moment, but eventually made it to a sitting position. His eyes met Draco's over the couch seat. They stared at each other.
Draco's eyes were half-closed, near drifting off. "Besides, Harry, you could be bad. Who cares who ya hurt? Fuck who ya want. Hurt peep––people that hurt you. Do what ya want. Be a bad bitch. Fuck 'em… fuck…"
And he passed out. It was kind of hilarious.
Harry sat there for a while, watching as drool slowly slid down Draco's cheek as he thought it over.
He looked fucking dumb, but maybe he was right. Harry'd already showed Bellatrix. He could show Tom. He could be a bad bitch. He could be fucking vicious .
Maybe it was time he lived like a bad bitch.
He called the man from the bar that night, leaning up against the couch as Draco snored away. Cedric was his name. He was sweet, and kind, and thought Harry's drunk thoughts were funny.
He didn't regret it. Not the day after, and not a year or so later, when Cedric asked him to marry him.
And that night, Harry had made the decision to be happy to spite Tom, instead of despite of him. It's good motivation. And you know what?
It's fucking working.
Five years later, and Tom isn't quite ready for the sight of Harry.
Still, he stands, arms behind his back, tall and proud as he waits for them in the front hall of the summer home. A butler had let him in, under orders from Amos Diggory; he and Lucius were good friends, after all, and Tom was eager to congratulate the newly engaged couple. How could Amos deny Lucius a favor for a friend?
Something like excitement, a nervous anticipation, curls in his gut.
Ridiculous, he thinks, to be nervous for something like this. Harry has never made him nervous before, and Diggory is nothing more than an irritation. Nothing to fret about.
He hears them before he sees them. Harry's laugh drifts into the room like a phantom. Something that's haunted Tom for years, now. And then the man himself is racing into the room, right out of Tom's dreams, and he's breathless, a bright smile on his lovely face, and it's as if the room lights up. The world tilts on its axis, set right, after so long tilted.
It's enough to take Tom's breath away. Enough to make him think that joy is for him. The eagerness of a love reunited.
Not so.
Because the moment is ruined almost immediately by Diggory's appearance, and Tom can feel something that might have been his heart drop like a stone.
The man himself enters the room at a run, his laugh echoing throughout the hall as he scoops Harry's joyful form into the air. "Found you!" he exclaims over Harry's shriek of surprise, spinning him like he's lighter than air, and Tom resists the urge to flinch at those words.
Karma hits like a slap in the face, it seems.
Tom closes his eyes, bracing against it, and he knows exactly when Harry notices him.
Harry's laugh, so sweet and full, stutters to a stop, and Tom opens his eyes to meet Harry's. Harry's feet settle on the ground, and Tom can't even hear it. It's as if the world freezes.
Tom was wrong. Those eyes are greener than he remembers.
Or maybe it's just because he's so happy.
What a load of bullshit.
Tom stares at Harry across the stillness. His chest aches, his lungs freeze. He pretends he doesn't know the nasty taste of guilt. Of longing .
Those eyes… Those eyes…
What is wrong with him?
He hadn't felt guilty a moment before this. Hadn't regretted any step he'd taken; all necessary to ensure his success. He'd made a mistake, only, and could rectify it; what was the use in feeling bad about it?
Distantly, he thinks, he should've known that everything would only sink in when he's finally in Harry's presence. Isn't this why he's here? Isn't Harry what makes the world finally feel real?
Harry's mouth falls open, eyes wide. In shock, most likely. I know the feeling, Tom thinks wryly.
"T-Tom?"
And the moment shatters like glass, shards spraying across the floor.
Diggory releases Harry, placing him fully, firmly on the ground, his face going dark. His hands, though, still rest, tight and squeezing, on Harry's hips, as if he is resisting the urge to stand in front of him. Shielding him from Tom's gaze.
Tom's eyes, though, are trained on his hands, something violent zipping through his veins.
He forces his eyes back to Harry's face.
Who is no longer looking at him.
No, no, his face is turned away, looking up at Diggory, eyes besotted and placating. Diggory meets Harry's eyes with equal fervor, a liquid affection and fierce protectiveness broadcast for the world to see.
Had Tom once looked at Harry like they now look at each other? Surely not, he thinks. Surely he is not so weak. But a creeping doubt wraps cold fingers around his throat. But a picture comes to mind.
But you followed, something whispers. But you came.
Isn't he here, now? Desperately clinging to a thing of the past?
No, he tells himself, fiercely. No, I am here to reclaim what is mine.
And yet…
He pushes it away. Now is not the time for doubt.
When he comes back to himself, focuses on what is in front of him, he finally clocks what he'd been missing. That silent conversation, that silent plea; Harry is holding this dear old aristocrat back.
As if he could hurt me.
Tom's mind is a whirlwind he can't calm. Damn Harry. Damn how he makes Tom lose his mind.
"I'll take care of it," Harry whispers, not looking at Tom, and it burns. He ducks into Diggory's line of sight, bringing a hand up to cradle his face, tilting his head up. His gaze is unbearable. "I've dealt with him before."
Diggory's gaze bores holes into Harry's. And then something must give, because he relaxes, full body sagging as he covers Harry's hand with his own, leaning into the touch. "Alright," he returns, hushed. He glances quickly at Tom, before saying, "But I won't leave you to him on your own."
Harry smiles. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
Tom flinches, and Harry turns his way. His eyes are still that vibrant green, but there's something new, there. Something like malice. Something like vengeance.
Harry's smile takes on a sharp, cruel edge, like that of a knife (a knife in the back, perhaps, except Tom's not wielding it, this time), and his gaze turns cutting.
Tom's breath leaves him all at once.
"Hello, Tom."
Harry spells doom in that sentence.
And all Tom can think is, This… This is new.