Previously:

Now that the threat of Dumbledore is gone, Tom and Harry settle back into their regular routine. They grow closer as friends. They build a treehouse in the forest, play board games, and start painting a mural in Harry's room. Tom wonders what Harry thinks of him, and eventually he gets his answer: Harry sees him as someone worth saving. This realization rounds off thoughts that have been building in Tom for a long time—finally he is in a place where he is safe and can be himself.

year two

Harry's mural finishes in October. Tom can't help but wonder if this is deliberate. Did Harry want this done to celebrate the end of their first official year under the wards?

"How much longer, do you think?" Tom asks. They're peeling off the paper sheets they'd taped up to protect the finished parts of the wall.

More images had been added to the design as they'd gone along—themes from their past year together that Harry has woven into the art like it was all meant to be. Harry had made so many changes that Tom's completely forgotten what the entire wall is supposed to look like.

"Till we're out, you mean?" Harry's brows tug together the slightest amount, then smooth back out. "I really dunno. I guess I'm not surprised it's been a year. I expected we'd be here for a while."

Tom peels off more paper, uncovering the rolling landscape he and Harry had painted together. Individual brush strokes painted by his own hand. Tom remembers making each of them. This mural is Harry's vision, though. Harry is the one who made these images come to life.

"Could be years," Tom muses. "Could be a decade, maybe."

Harry seems bothered by this—instead of responding, he turns to the wall and removes another sheet of paper. On this section of the wall there are tiny portraits of Harry's other friends, of the people Tom has never met but feels like he knows. He knows them by name. Ron Weasley. Hermione Granger. Neville Longbottom. Ginny Weasley. Luna Lovegood. Even Harry's pet owl, Hedwig, has a spot of honour. Before going into the past, Harry had given the owl into his friends' care.

Next, Harry untapes a third sheet, revealing a portrait of Tom sitting cross-legged with Cluckers on his lap.

Tom's immediate reaction is that this is unfair. Harry must have done this when he wasn't around and chosen to spring it on him to catch him off-guard.

"You drew me," Tom says. A neutral statement, his attempt to keep his tone level while he waits to see what Harry has to say. But part of him is already—is already upset. Or maybe it is some other emotion clogging up his throat and chest.

Harry has chosen to put Tom on this wall with all his friends, with all the other things that are important to him. This makes sense; Tom is important to Harry.

So why does it feel so strange?

"Yeah," Harry says.

Tom dislikes the awkward air in the room. There are a number of words on the tip of his tongue, but none of them are right. Most of the thoughts running through his mind are derisive, dismissive—

They're not an accurate representation of what he's actually feeling.

"Do you like it?" Harry asks, nervously so.

Harry is most likely nervous because Tom isn't saying anything. But Tom doesn't know what to say. Maybe Harry only included him because it would be rude not to.

Harry said we're friends. He said that. He cares.

"It looks—" Tom clears his throat. "You did a good job. It looks very nice. I—" His throat stops up again. Tom clears it a second time, then adds, "I like how you did the feathers."

Harry beams. "I'm glad! I tried really hard to distinguish her from the other hens."

The light tone of Harry's voice comes as a strange relief. Tom pushes it from his mind, deciding it's better—safer—not to linger on it.

The basement is dark, lit by one dangling bulb from the ceiling. Tom casts Lumos with his wand so he can maneuver the steep stairs. Harry is just behind him, hand on the railing as they descend. Their goal is to calculate how much food they have left and how long it will last.

The Preservation and Shrinking Charms won't last forever. Eventually, the magic will fade. Then he and Harry will have to periodically refresh the spells. They are only teenagers, not fully-grown adults, which means their spells will fade even faster. Thus the need for checking and calculating.

There are, according to Harry, over twenty years' worth of supplies stored down here. Supplies that will last even longer if they make good use of the chickens and the garden.

Tom counts crates of cans and boxes of non-perishables while Harry goes over his lists and makes notes. Most of the boxes are hardly the size of a shopping basket. It must have taken a long time and a lot of magic to prepare everything.

"We've got Shrinking Solutions in one of these boxes," Harry says. "So we'll aim to use those up first. That way we'll have more time before we have to start using our own magic."

The process is logical. There are reasons for the existence of every item in this basement, as well as instructions on when and where to either use them or open them. Harry parrots what he's been told and provides parchment lists regarding the rest. Tom reads through it all and finds he doesn't have any protests.

It still takes them weeks to get through everything. By the time they are finished, Tom thinks that the prospect of years is now more daunting than it had originally been.

Tom had assumed they would spend some years here. A few years. Not more than that. But there are over two decades' worth of goods stored down here. Items meant to keep them healthy and alive.

Twenty years of his life here with Harry. Twenty years longer than he would have had otherwise, but twenty years nonetheless. In twenty years, he will be in his thirties. Tom cannot fathom how it will feel to be twenty, let alone thirty.

What will he and Harry be doing here in twenty years? Tending to the gardens and watching the sunrise over the fields and the forest. Minding the chickens and spending long afternoons holed up in the treehouse.

Life has slowed in a comical way. Tom's grown used to lazy afternoons and long evenings. The ruthless ambition that once fueled him has given way to other desires—desires Tom had once dismissed as the fruitless wishing of children who were too young to know better.

Desires for a simple life. A silly, happy one. A life where his birthday is spent playing board games and watching the stars.

In the safety of this space, Tom is growing older.

He is growing.

"Tooooom!"

Tom rises from his chair in his room. "In a minute!" He's gotten used to Harry calling for him throughout the day. Harry only does so with good reason; Tom is usually willing to stop what he's doing if Harry needs his help for something important.

When Tom arrives downstairs, he is greeted by the sight of Harry, Hyperion, and Cluckers all covered in flour.

"What—" Tom begins, then cuts himself off. If he finishes his question, his neutral expression will splinter and his mirth will break through.

"I was baking," Harry says, matter-of-fact. "Then these two came to bother me."

Hyperion is loosely wrapped around Cluckers' fluffy white body. He looks very smug for a snake with white powder splattered all over his black scales.

"Partners in crime," Tom says. His comment has the anticipated effect—that is, it makes Harry laugh.

"They're criminals, alright." Harry glares, with fondness, down at their pets.

Cluckers waddles towards the back door, taking Hyperion with her. Tom watches with heavy amusement as she retreats, tail feathers brushing against the makeshift cat flap that he and Harry had installed some months ago. "Did they get onto the counter?"

"No," Harry says. "They kept walking around me. I was worried I would trip, and then I dropped the flour."

Harry's face is scrunched into the most put-upon expression Tom has ever seen. Add on that Harry is covered almost entirely in flour, and it is a delightful view.

Tom's lips quirk as he holds back his laugh. "Did you call me here to clean you off?"

Harry scowls and brushes at his clothes. "No! I called you here to kick them out. But seeing as they've already left—"

Tom interrupts, uses his wand to vanish most of the mess. His magic sweeps over the area, leaving the counters and floor spotless. The only flour-covered thing left is Harry.

"Alright," Harry says with dignity, straightening his shoulders and deliberately looking Tom in the eyes. "I'll just go and change, then. Could you mind the oven?"

Tom nods and smiles at Harry's retreating back, then walks over to the oven. Two trays of muffins are baking inside. Tom knows without checking that one of them will be chocolate chip and the other will be banana. That this tidbit of information occupies space in his mind is a wonder all on its own.

Harry comes back a few minutes later. He is wearing a flannel that is several sizes too large and hangs like a tent on his skinny frame. The sleeves are rolled up past the elbow, though Tom has no idea how the cuffs stay in place on those bony arms.

"All good?" Harry asks. He means the muffins, Tom knows.

"Everything is perfect," Tom says. Things can only get better.

Months blend into each other. Tom is only vaguely aware of time because of its relation to the changing weather. The tree leaves fall, the snow blankets the fields, the flowers in the garden bloom into beauty.

Tom's prior experiences with nature have been few and far between—jaunts around the parks of London, and Wool's annual trip to the seaside. Now, though, he finds he has a greater appreciation for it all. Life that grows on its own. Plants and trees that survive year after year despite the trials of climate and human interference.

Tom does not survive here under the wards; he lives, and he lives well. He is well-fed and healthy. His mind and hands are busy with learning and gardening. There are times when his reflection looks foreign to him. He is taller, his limbs longer, his face more angular. His clothes are casual, if neatly ironed and clean of dirt, and his hair is longer than he used to keep it.

One fine afternoon many seasons ago, Harry and Tom had taken scissors to each other's heads. They had hemmed and hawed for long enough, putting the task off until even Harry had to admit that it was becoming a problem.

Neither of them had any idea what they were doing, and although there was no one here to witness them, there remained an underlying fear of looking awful for however long it took for the damage to grow itself out. Tom decided he would stick to trimming and instructed Harry to do the same. The task had proven easier than expected, much to his surprise.

As they worked, they made occasional eye contact in the mirror. Harry had trouble holding the gaze, but Tom didn't mind it. Admittedly, the feeling of Harry's fingers combing through his hair was nice, almost comforting. If Tom had not been so stressed about the final result, the experience would have bordered on relaxing.

Even so, the relaxation would not have lasted long: Cluckers had trampled into the bathroom and eaten their hair trimmings, much to Tom's amusement and Harry's dismay. The rest of the afternoon devolved into a disastrous mess of chicken puke strewn all over the upstairs floor as they tried to chase down their erstwhile pet.

After the mess was wiped away, they had wound up on the couch in front of the empty fireplace, exhausted and out of breath. Harry's new haircut was plastered to his cheeks and forehead in sweaty clumps while he rubbed at his eyes.

Tom thinks about that night often. More often than makes sense. He thinks about the times they bump hands, the times Harry smiles at him, and—

It's all strange and new, to feel this way about such mundane things. It's a newness that warms him to his bones, a gentle familiarity that settles his restless mind. Tom closes his eyes and recalls the smell of freshly-baked muffins and acrylic paints, relives the quiet summer afternoons spent watching the azure skies, remembers the day Harry came to Wool's to save him.

His entire world is Harry, now. And Harry's entire world is Tom Riddle.

Even putting their proximity and circumstances aside, there is something special here. Tom wants to ask more questions. He wants to ask questions all the time, though his recent questions are directed at the past and present instead of the future. The future is nebulous, distant, and unknowable, but Harry is here with him, a puzzle begging to be picked apart.

Who knows how long they have here together? Tom has a finite amount of time to enjoy Harry's undivided attention. He will monopolize it while he can.

The first time Tom's voice cracks, Harry says nothing. He flashes a tiny smile, eyes crinkling, then averts his gaze to the window and acts like nothing is amiss. Tom's face begins to burn, but he ruthlessly shoves the emotion down, unwilling to let his embarrassment show.

Tom assumes Harry has already passed much of the awkward transition from adolescence to adulthood. Harry has the gangly limbs and the deeper voice and the clean-cut jawline. That's alright, though. To Tom it is fitting, in a way, that Harry witnesses his transition. So much of their time together has shaped them—this will be one more experience that ties them together.

Harry might have chosen him, might have decided to save him—but now Tom has chosen Harry in return. He has accepted Harry into his life, into his trust. Harry has proven himself worthy of Tom's regard. Rarely has Tom bestowed such an honour on anyone; most others he hated, and those he did not he could never trust their motivations wholly.

In Slytherin, they looked to blood status first. They expected greatness from blood, and they did not think to expect otherwise. They only looked at power when they were forced to, and so Tom had forced them. He had made them look at him, acknowledge him, admire him.

Harry has done all of those things without any encouragement. He has Tom's respect for that.

As the weather warms, they invent new games to play. They chase each other through the woods, launching sparks through the damp air. A magical game of tag, Harry calls it. Tom likes this game. It has dueling and strategy rolled into one without a high risk of their magic interacting. They can anticipate each other's actions and react in kind.

Slowly, Tom learns how Harry thinks in the context of war. Harry thinks best on his feet, with decisions made at the drop of a hat. Harry does not tend to think past the moment at hand; he relies on his instincts and his agility to see him to victory. It works, though. Tom sees that Harry's instincts are exceptional—many times Harry has caught him off-guard with an unexpected twist of direction or change in strategy.

It pleases him to know that Harry can challenge him this way. It assures him that his impressions are correct, that Harry is worth his time and energy and more. They may be playing the waiting game under these wards, but the future is ages away. Tom will greet that as it comes. In time, he will secure Harry as his ally. As his friend. As his partner.

"We work well together," Tom says, "like we're connected. You know how I think, and I know how you think. If we were outside, we would be unstoppable."

They are walking towards the treehouse after an afternoon's worth of tromping through the woods. Tom has the paths memorized now. He knows which roots to leap over and which trees are best for climbing. He and Harry have talked about re-landscaping the area to make their matches more exciting.

Harry pauses mid-step and pivots to face him. Tom sprinkles in comments like these here and there, but lately he's been firmer. More bold. "Outside the wards, do you mean?"

"Yes." Tom folds his arms across his chest, then unfolds them, trying to loosen the sudden tension in his shoulders. "Don't you agree? You said before that you agree: we make a good team."

"I did say that," Harry admits.

"We built the treehouse," Tom continues, "and we work the gardens and care for the chickens." They do everything together.

"We do," Harry agrees. His bemused expression fades away to something softer.

Tom commits the look to memory, greedy for the sight of it. Perhaps that's why his next words emerge in a rush. "We're at our best when we work together. I've never gotten along with anyone the way I get along with you." This is the truth—Tom isn't ashamed to admit it. If the truth also helps win Harry over, then that is merely an additional benefit.

Harry smiles but doesn't say anything right away. What Tom wants is to hear that Harry thinks the same way about him. He wants confirmation that he is the most important person in Harry's life, that he is held high above the rest.

After a moment, Harry speaks. "That means a lot to me. I know it wasn't easy for you to agree to come and live here with a total stranger. I—I'm glad you said yes."

It's not exactly what Tom wanted to hear, but he's not disappointed. The words are heartfelt. They are nice to hear, if only because Tom knows Harry is being truthful.

"I'm glad I said yes, too."

One warm spring night finds them sitting on the roof with apple slices and peanut butter. Tom likes the mild breeze and the open skies. His legs stretch out, the heels of his shoes bumping against the rough tiling. Harry, conversely, has his arms wrapped around his legs, back slightly hunched.

Harry does that a lot. He curls up, makes himself small. The instances where Harry seems truly comfortable few and far between. It's hardly noticeable on most days. Most days, they are both worry-free and content with themselves, and Harry can mask his troubles with an easy-going attitude and careless half-smiles.

Still, Tom can see the toll of those invisible weights that hold Harry down. He can only guess at what they are, what they mean, so he makes note of what he sees and bides his time.

Harry is at his best when his adrenaline is flowing, when he is on his broomstick and flying through the air, or running through the forest with spells blasting by him. Harry at his best is a blazing inferno of mischief and confidence. Delighted laugher and cheerful, witty insults at Tom's expense.

Harry at his worst? Tom has only ever caught glimpses of that. Shadows of the past that steal the joy from Harry's eyes. Memories that bring pain and regret.

There is no nice, easy way to direct conversation towards those topics. From experience, Tom knows that reciprocation is the best tactic to use on Harry. However, to accomplish that requires a level of intimacy Tom remains reluctant to engage in. Harry already knows so much about him. All that he was, all that he is now. The history of Tom Riddle, Heir of Slytherin.

What Tom knows about Harry is separated into two categories. There is the Harry he lives with, the boy that he knows as his friend. There is also the Harry of before, the boy with ghosts of the past that haunt him.

Harry is skilled with Silencing Charms and keeping his door locked, but he is not perfect. Tom has caught snatches of those high, gasping screams that call into the night. If Tom was to ask about them, Harry would claim they were nothing because that's who Harry is. Harry is not someone who burdens others on his own behalf. Harry thinks of others first, then himself.

"Harry?"

Harry holds out an apple slice slathered in peanut butter. Tom smiles. Though it's not what he meant, he takes it anyways and asks, "What is your favourite part of living here?"

"Oh." Harry's head cants to the side, like he's listening for something. "I'm not sure. The quiet, maybe?"

Tom chews on his apple slice and wipes his sticky fingers on a napkin. If he's patient, Harry will say more. Harry takes his time before he speaks on serious matters, and his words are worth the wait.

"Hogwarts was my favourite place in the world to live," Harry says after a moment. "I called it my home because I felt at home there. I'd never had anywhere else to call home, not really. I'd never had a place where—where people wanted me there. So Hogwarts was a school and a home. Hogwarts was safe." Harry's gaze goes misty, distant. He looks out at the fields and the forest, at the star-sprinkled sky above their heads. "It was safe. And even when it wasn't, it was worth fighting for."

Tom rubs his palms over his trousers. "And will you go back there, after all this? If you can."

"I'd like to. I'd like to finish and graduate." Harry leans back onto his elbows, face tipped towards the moon. "But Hogwarts isn't the only place I think of, anymore, when I think of home." The moonlight glances off Harry's glasses, blinding Tom from the sight of green eyes. "This place is my first real house. My first real home."

Tom feels drawn to those words. His chest is aching. Harry knows how he feels. Harry knows exactly how he feels and is able to put it into words. Hogwarts had been their home for so long; it is a place Tom had felt he truly belonged in. But how much of the world have they seen? Is Hogwarts the best, or is it merely the best of what they've known? The expanse of the world is massive. The scope of the universe is endless. More than five decades of time had kept him and Harry apart. Tom never could have predicted this life for them, yet here they are.

"I do, too," Tom says. "I think of this place as our home." It is theirs. They've called it home over the past year or so, but this is the first time they've acknowledged the meaning of that word, the significance of what it means to have a home.

"When I lived with my relatives…" Harry's voice falters. "They weren't the best people."

Tom's gathered that much based on the way Harry talks around the subject. Harry hates talking about his Muggle relatives. He shrinks away from it, averts his eyes, does anything he can to redirect the conversation.

"You won't have to live with them ever again. Never again," Tom says with vehemence. Such vehemence that Harry's head snaps in his direction, eyes wide. "Just like I won't have to go back to Wool's. Even after the wards fall, we will have each other. We will have this house. No one else can take this from us, Harry. I wouldn't let them."

Harry's mouth drops open, just a little. He struggles with his words for a long minute. Then he says, "I didn't realize. I didn't realize that I wouldn't have to go back." Harry's voice is full of wonder. "I mean, I knew but—" He breaks off and gives his head a shake. "It never felt real."

Tom feels smug. "You don't have to go back."

"I don't," Harry repeats. His limbs unfurl like a blooming flower, expanding into the space around him. "I don't have to go back."

Tom watches with interest as Harry's hands tap a restless pattern on the roof tiles, a soft tap-tap that is hardly audible over the gentle winds blowing by them. Tom wants to grab those fingers, to still their anxious movements with his own hand.

Harry breathes out. A silver mist passes from between his lips and into the air. "What was it like at Wool's? What… what were the rooms like?"

"They were small. We had to share. It was horrible and I hated it." The rooms at Hogwarts are a violent contrast to the coarse, uncomfortable bedding at Wool's. No doubt Tom was expected to be grateful for it, but he could not help his bitterness. If his magical heritage permitted him the luxury of Hogwarts, then why was he forced back into poverty every passing summer?

Harry nods as though the answer is expected. He breathes out again, slower this time. "When I was a kid, my aunt and uncle made me sleep in the cupboard under the stairs. I didn't get my own room until I was twelve years old."

Harry speaks so plainly that Tom is stunned for a passing moment. Then Tom recalls, vividly, the start of their time together here. He had accused Harry of being a pureblooded brat. "I'm sorry, Harry. You didn't deserve that. You're better than they are, worthless Muggles." Tom clenches his fists, then forces his hands to relax. "They deserve to pay for what they did to you, then."

Visions flash through Tom's mind like a hazy waking dream. A dream where he arrives at Harry's relatives and steals a younger Harry away from the cupboard. Tom will be the older one, of course. He'll be able to do magic, he'll have money, and he'll be well-dressed. This is a dream where Harry looks to him as the saviour. Tom imagines Harry's eyes wide with surprise and admiration, gazing up at him with adoration and worship—

Harry shrugs. "It's over now. I think that's the best outcome I could have asked for, really."

Normally, Tom would suggest revenge. Surely once they're free of these wards they can hunt Harry's relatives down and make them hurt for what they'd done. Only what Harry has said is true. They are here together. They don't need any other people. They have left the past behind. Harry has saved him, and in doing so, Harry has saved himself, too.

"This is the best outcome," Tom agrees, and this time he caves to his impulse, sliding carefully across the ceramic tiles and placing his hand atop Harry's. Harry's fingers twitch, jerking as though to pull away, but Tom presses down, gently, holding Harry in place like a moth to a board.

In the near-darkness, it is more difficult to make out the expression on Harry's face. Is Harry's flushed face a result of the breeze, or is it from the touch of Tom's hand?

"Tom?" Harry's voice is a whisper.

"Thank you for saving me," Tom says, just as softly. "I promise you that you won't regret it."

Harry yanks his hand away, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. Then he seems to regret his hasty action as he glances down at the gap between them. "I—sorry," Harry says, stumbling over the words. "You don't have to thank me for that. I would have done it because it was the right thing to do."

Tom is impassive to Harry's stuttering. "You didn't have to, but you did. I'm still grateful." Should he reach out again? Would Harry still pull away from him?

Harry smiles, hesitant, ducking his head down. Then he gives Tom's hand a quick pat. "Don't feel like you owe me or anything, though."

Tom eyes the fringe of hair that hangs across Harry's forehead. The slope of his nose and the curve of his jaw. The way Harry's shirt collar hangs open at the neck, exposing the warm skin there. Tom isn't the only one changing under these wards. Harry is changing, too. Harry is growing confidence here. Harry is safe and happy here with him.

He doesn't owe Harry anything, but Harry will soon understand what it means to have Tom Riddle on his side.

A/N:

next chapter will (possibly) cover years three and four. we'll have to see how it goes while i write it. thank you again to everyone following this story! i really enjoy this tom and harry together. your thoughts and love are greatly appreciated 3

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