We could call it even
Even though I'm leaving
And I'll be yours for the weekend
'Tis the damn season
— 'tis the damn season, track 4.
.
Chapter 4
remember how you watched me leave.
"—bad! Bad Crookshanks! Take that out of your mouth this instant—"
Harry is halfway through a burst of laughter before he thinks to stall the sound with a hasty cough. "Everything alright, Hermione?"
"Fine," Hermione huffs. There is a pause as she switches the phone to her other ear. "He's just been extra difficult today. But enough about my cat! How are you, Harry? I feel as if we haven't caught up in ages. Ron and I have been following your progress in the papers. It's very exciting, isn't it? Everyone's rooting for you to make the finals."
It takes Harry longer than he would like before he responds. "Everything is great," he says. "Quidditch is great, and the team is fantastic."
"I'm so glad." Hermione's voice is full of warmth. "And I'm so happy for you. You've worked so hard for this! I've always known you had the potential to do amazing things. You should hear the way people talk about you now—like you're some kind of celebrity." Harry can practically hear her rolling her eyes. "Isn't it the strangest thing to think about? I only ever think of you as Harry, but so many others see you as this flashy, famous Quidditch star."
"Er, well. I am just Harry?" He rubs at the back of his neck. "I guess some days it hasn't sunken in yet. That people know my name, that they even care about knowing my name."
"The next thing you know," Hermione says teasingly, "there'll be people banging down your door for merchandise deals. Imagine Harry Potter sunglasses! Harry Potter scarves! Harry Potter pants!"
The ridiculousness of it successfully does him in; Harry snorts, then chortles, then dissolves into full-belly laughter while Hermione joins in on the other end of the line.
"You've gone mad," Harry says once he's calmed enough to speak. "I'd sooner fall from my broom at five hundred meters than allow anyone to put an image of my face on someone's pants."
"All in good fun," Hermione says with a hum. Then her voice sombers as she adds, "Now, there is something that I wanted to ask you. Definitely more serious than the pants thing."
"Uh huh. Go on."
Hermione pauses before she speaks. This in itself explains a great deal about whatever it is she is about to ask. If it is as serious as she claims it is, then she has planned what she is about to say. If she has planned it, then she has it memorized. If she has it memorized, then there is no reason for her to hesitate unless she is nervous. Harry can only hope that he can give her an answer that will help.
"There is... a Ministry function. A simple New Year's Eve celebration, nothing too big or too fancy!" Hermione says hastily. "Ron and I have been invited, and well, we would both really like to see you. It would be very nice if you could come, Harry. We missed you so much at Christmas. Surely you can get away for a little while?"
"I—" Harry says, but it appears that Hermione has not finished with her prepared speech because the start of his sentence is quickly barreled over by several more of Hermione's sentences.
"I promise you won't have to stay long. I know you don't like large social gatherings. But just for a little while, to catch up?" she pleads. "Afterward, you can come stay the night with Ron and I. We can all leave together whenever you like, even."
"I'll see if I can come," Harry says. What she's asking of him is neither impossible nor unreasonable. It's only a matter of if he wants to or not.
"So many other people would love to see you again!" Hermione continues in a pitched voice. "Arthur and Percy will be there! Neville and Hannah, too. And—and Tom will be there, as well—"
The stumble in her speech gives her away. Harry feels his stomach twist into knots, feels his heart leap into his throat. It has been two years, but Tom's name still drops a shiver down his spine.
For the past twenty-four months, he and Tom have done nothing more than exchange cordial birthday and holiday cards. Harry's not even sure what Tom is doing these days. Is he still at the Ministry? He must be if he's attending this Ministry party.
"Just... if you can," Hermione finishes lamely, "please come. It would mean a lot to Ron and I. We missed you at Christmas."
Harry feels guilty. He's been avoiding London because of Tom. He'd used Quidditch as an excuse, not only with Tom, but with his friends.
It's not as if he's enjoyed staying away. Harry misses the heartwarming atmosphere of the Burrow. He misses the way Crookshanks bites everything in sight. Most of all, he misses having the people he cares about by his side. He may be famous and successful, but his life is far from feeling complete.
Playing for the Lancashire team was meant to help him forget, but it has only done the opposite. When Harry thinks of Tom, all he feels is guilt, regret, and longing. Does Tom still care for him? Does Harry want him to? It's difficult to say, but Harry can't help but wonder what Tom thinks of him now.
"I'll come," Harry says before he can talk himself out of it. "Tell Ron I'll come."
"That's wonderful!" Hermione exclaims gleefully. She claps her hands together. "I'll send you the details right now! Or do you have a quill handy? I can recite it for you, you can write it down—"
Her enthusiasm is catching. Harry summons a bit of parchment and a quill. He lets Hermione recite the time and location from memory. He promises her that he'll arrive on time, that he won't show up dressed in casual robes, that he'll try to wrangle his hair into a reasonable style.
After she finally says goodbye, Harry heaves a loud sigh. He's committed now. He's told her that he's coming so that he can't chicken out of it. For better or for worse, his fate is sealed. Harry leans back in his chair, stretching his arms and legs out.
What has he done? He had promised Tom that he would return in two years, and now those two years are up. Tom will expect an answer from him. It is an answer that Harry feels horrifically unprepared to give.
How he feels about himself has not changed. He is not a good choice for Tom. Any sane person would look at all of Harry's baggage and run screaming in the opposite direction. Tom might think differently, but that's only because Tom is a more tolerant person than Harry deserves, especially after Harry has spent the past two years being a coward.
Harry lowers his head onto his desk, planting his forehead down upon the flat wooden surface. Despite all that, he is excited to see Tom again. He knows he's been lucky to have Tom in his life, even for a short period of time. Harry misses Tom so much. He misses Tom enough to be selfish for one night, which is why he will go to this party, to see Tom again. He will allow himself to reconnect and fantasize, to remind himself of what could have been. It will hurt in the end, surely, but the promise of temporary bliss is too good to pass up on.
One final farewell, he thinks wistfully. One last night with Tom Riddle.
The day of New Year's Eve, Harry's body is a giant, twitching bundle of nerves. It takes him five tries to put his cufflinks on. He fastens his bowtie with magic so he can avoid using his shaky hands, but even then the bow looks vaguely lopsided.
Harry sighs. He can only hope that Hermione will take pity and fuss over him when she sees him.
Looking at the clock reveals his cab will be here soon. Harry summons his cloak and his robes, folding them neatly and shrinking them down to the size of a pocket square. Since he'll be travelling the Muggle way, he'll have to put them on once he arrives at the Ministry.
Harry takes the lift down to the lobby. He'd promised Hermione he'd be on time, which means he is leaving early. He has allotted plenty of time for getting himself to the Ministry's visitor entrance.
The cab ride through London is quiet. Harry responds to the cabbie's questions with polite, monosyllabic answers until the conversation dies. Truthfully, he's too nervous to concentrate on talking to anyone. His thoughts swing back and forth between good and bad like a pendulum.
Is Tom seeing someone else, like Harry had predicted he would? Does Tom miss him? The cards they'd exchanged had not implied anything other than platonic affection and admiration. At least, that was how Harry had read them to be. He's been told before that he tends to be a bit oblivious about these things.
But Tom knows him so well—if Tom is interested, if Tom is still in love with him, surely there must have been some sign of it?
Unless Harry had scared him away from that type of behaviour altogether. Normal people didn't have a panic attack when their boyfriends proposed to them. Maybe Tom thought it best not to pressure him into anything. Maybe Tom has been trying to give him space. Or maybe Harry is right and Tom has moved on.
Too many thoughts. Harry squeezes his eyes shut for the remainder of the cab ride. When the cab stops, Harry pays the driver and exits swiftly, nearly stumbling over the curb as he does so. The cab pulls away, leaving Harry a short walk from the red telephone booth that serves as the visitor's entrance for the Ministry of Magic.
Harry retrieves the invitation Hermione had sent to him via owl post, then checks the time. He is half an hour early. Great. Usually Hermione is the one who pulls this kind of stunt. Harry stuffs the invitation back into his pocket and hopes that Hermione's over-preparedness means she and Ron are already waiting for him.
The cramped interior of the phone box is uncomfortable, but not overwhelming. Harry dials the passcode—62442—and is greeted by the operator. After informing the operator of his name and purpose, he is given a visitor's pass. With a gentle creak, the phone box begins its descent to the Atrium.
Harry's foot taps out an impatient beat on the floor as the Muggle world fades from view. He is anxious all over, but regardless of what happens tonight, it will lift his spirits to see his friends again. Ron and Hermione are his best friends. He loves them dearly and regrets neglecting them during his two-year Quidditch contract period. Work is a poor excuse for his absence, he knows. Ron and Hermione are better friends than he deserves.
The phone box releases Harry into the Atrium, which is deserted save for the two Ministry workers who are departing for the day. Oddly enough, there are no signs on display to direct Harry to the ballroom he's supposed to go to. Harry forces himself to ask for directions before the Atrium empties entirely and winds up giving Reginald Cattermole a hasty autograph in exchange for the location of the Gamp Ballroom.
Harry tugs on his dress robes then makes his way to yet another lift. Perhaps he should have gotten over himself and requested to Apparate or Floo here; then he could have arrived on time rather than absurdly early. His nerves could have done without all this fuss of taking a cab and asking for directions.
The lift jerks to a shrieking halt when it arrives. Harry enters and descends all the way to the eleventh floor. He has never gone so many levels down in the Ministry before. While he walks, he wonders how the air circulation here works when magic is involved, but the thought is quickly shoved aside as he nears the ostentatious, peacock-blue velvet curtains that bracket the doorway leading into the Gamp Ballroom. Harry is nearly blinded by the brilliant glow of golden light that pours through the opening, but he steels himself and steps towards it.
The floor is polished brown wood covered in faint gold symbols that flicker in and out of existence like twinkling stars. Harry's shoes tap smartly across the surface as he walks over to the open bar. Above him, the ceiling is a mix of white and pastel blue cloud shapes drifting about in nonsensical patterns. Everything about this ballroom feels dreamy, ethereal.
At the bar, Harry asks for ice water. The cold, condensation-covered glass pressed against his hand helps to ground him. Harry takes small sips from it while he waits for Ron and Hermione (and Tom) to show up.
Slowly, the ballroom fills with partygoers. A few people recognize him—they want to talk to him, they want his autograph, they want to know if he can introduce them to someone else. Harry smiles through it as best he can. He'd never wanted to be famous. He'd chosen Quidditch because it is the only thing he is any good at, the only thing he truly enjoys.
Thankfully, Harry doesn't have to wait long before Hermione is striding over to him, Ron at her heels.
"Harry! Oh, I'm so happy to see you—"
Harry finds himself enveloped in a bear hug with no time to brace himself. His immediate reaction is to stiffen up, to hold his body like a statue. But this is Hermione. Hermione is safe. Hermione is family. Harry lifts his arms and hugs her back, presses his cheek delicately against her fancy updo.
"I missed you," he tells her. His heart hurts with the truth of his own words. He's missed her so much. He's missed Ron so much. He's done them and himself a disservice by staying away.
"We missed you, too." Ron hugs them both in the warm, all-encompassing way that makes Harry feel every bit like the one who is five months younger. It is nice to be held. Harry wants to curl up with the both of them, like they had as children, and never let them go. "You'd best not go this long without saying hello ever again."
"I'll try," Harry croaks out, embarrassed by the way his voice cracks in the middle. It takes everything he has not to tear up in the middle of the ballroom. "I'll try my best not to, I promise."
"Good," Hermione whispers softly, like she's giving him a secret. Her hand touches the nape of his neck, smoothing the tufts of hair there. Then she smiles, wide and bright and toothy. No one smiles like Hermione does. She smiles like a smile is something that can be shared, like joy can be held in the palm of a hand and offered up for free. "Good, because we won't hesitate to hunt you down, Harry James Potter."
"Full name," Ron says, grinning. "You're in for it now."
Harry laughs. It's only a little watery. The love he has for them fills him right up. He could burst from the intensity of it.
Hermione and Ron pull back, giving him space to breathe.
"How are you?" Hermione asks him. Her tone is kind, welcoming. "How are you, really?" She gently smooths her hand down the sleeve of his left arm as if to calm him further.
Harry can't bring himself to lie. "I don't know, honestly. I'm not sure." He's never sure, not of anything. Surrounded by strangers in this grand, unfamiliar ballroom, he has even more doubts about himself.
"That's alright," Ron says. His eyes crinkle around the edges; it reminds Harry of Arthur. "There's plenty of time to figure it all out."
Time is not on Harry's side. His time has officially run out. Harry glances past Ron and towards the entrance. Tom has yet to arrive, but soon he will. Tom is not the type to arrive much later than Hermione does.
The direction of Harry's attention does escape Hermione's notice. "He ought to be here soon," she says. "Is there anything we can do to help?"
Harry very nearly says no, but for once in his life he stops and takes a moment to think and put himself first. "Is there anything I should know? What's gone on while... while I've been away?"
Ron and Hermione exchange a look. Harry feels his stomach sink.
"He's not seeing anyone," Ron says quietly. "I can tell you that. I know he's been waiting for you, Harry—"
"But?" Harry demands, unwilling to prolong his agony. There is always a catch, isn't there? There is always something.
"Bellatrix has been flirting with him," Hermione says with a grimace, like she's swallowed a lemon.
A pause. Harry doesn't know what to make of that. He doesn't know Bellatrix Black very well, so Hermione's comment means little to him. "Flirting?"
"She's very persistent, from what I've seen," Ron adds. "But Tom hasn't been showing any interest! You have nothing to be worried about."
"Tom loves you," Hermione says insistently. She takes Harry's hands in her and gives them a firm shake. "If you asked, he'd be more than willing to try again."
Harry wants to believe her. "I'm going to get some more water." He pulls his hands away from hers and reaches for his glass of water. Anything to escape the weight of Ron and Hermione's kindness, a kindness that is now suffocating.
Even with his drink to steady him, his hands are shaking. Harry stares at them, wills them to stay still. He's terrified. He's terrified of seeing Tom again. Tom has had two years to move on, to adjust to a life without Harry in it. Harry couldn't bear to see Tom happy and smiling, acting as if the love they'd shared was merely a footnote in the autobiography of future Minister for Magic Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Harry gets his second glass of water and shifts his attention to the biting cold of the glass pressed against his palms. He can block out the lights and the sounds of the party if he narrows his focus enough.
That is how Tom finds him, of course. Lost in his own head, breathing faintly in and out as he attempts to get his anxiety under control.
"Harry?"
Harry startles violently but somehow manages to keep a firm grip on his drink. His gaze jerks upwards, and oh, isn't it like a gut punch, the way Tom takes his breath away? Kind eyes and handsome smile, perfectly pressed suit and dress robes. Harry's heart flutters at the sight.
Tom's hand is partly outstretched, his brow furrowed with concern. Harry is familiar with the way Tom holds himself when he wants to help—to steady, to hold close—but is unsure of how Harry will take it. Tom is always so careful with him. Harry doesn't feel he deserves to be treated with such delicacy, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't crave it.
Tom had been his rock for so long, the only person who knows how to piece him back together when he is falling apart. Harry wishes he could throw himself into Tom's arms and never leave, but he can't. He can't, not anymore.
"Tom." Harry offers a weak smile and sets his glass aside. "It's nice to see you again. Happy Birthday."
"Nice to see you," Tom repeats in a low voice. His words are suffused with affection that warms Harry from head to toe. "It's been... too long."
Harry swallows. "Two years," he says. They both know what that means.
Tom steps closer, his eyes shining under the glittering lights of the large chandelier. Harry wants to fall into Tom's eyes, to lose himself in them until there is nothing left of him to lose at all. Until he is nothing but an abstract collection of molecules clinging to the man he loves the most.
"Two years and not a day goes by where you fail to cross my mind." Tom takes one of Harry's hands in his. Careful, like always. It causes a lump to form in Harry's throat. "Tell me honestly," Tom says, hardly above a whisper yet a thousand times louder than the sound of Harry's heartbeat, "has there been anyone else?"
"No. Never."
Tom brushes his thumb over the ring finger of Harry's left hand. Harry can't dare to hope that marriage remains a possibility between them, but he yearns for it. This realization surprises him. He wants to say something, anything, but it seems no words are forthcoming.
"Let's dance," Tom says abruptly, tearing his gaze from Harry's hand. He looks to the dance floor, then back at Harry. His smile is impossibly soft. "That is, if you want to?"
Harry can't say no. He doesn't trust his voice, however, so he only nods and allows Tom to lead him away.
Tom sweeps them both around the ballroom as if dancing is effortless, as if Harry doesn't have two left feet when it comes to waltzing. Harry is secure in Tom's arms; there is no chance for misstep or embarrassment.
It is because of Tom's skill that Harry has plenty of attention to spare. Should they be talking? The idea of small talk makes him nauseous. Dancing with Tom feels so easy, so right. Harry doesn't want to ruin the moment with an awkward question about the weather.
"Did you hear that Bill Weasley is getting married this summer?" Tom asks casually, slipping into the silence and cracking it open like it's easy.
"No?" Harry blurts before he can think better of it. "Married? To who?"
Tom guides them through another turn. "Fleur Delacour. I believe you're familiar with her sister?"
"Oh." Harry frowns, thinking back. Gabrielle plays Seeker for the French team. "I didn't know she had a sister. How did they meet?"
"I'm not entirely certain, but Molly... you know her." Tom smiles. "She's either supremely thrilled or prepared to gauge the eyes out of anyone who dares pry one of her sons away from her. In this case, I daresay it's closer to the latter."
"Sounds like Molly," Harry admits. Molly has always loved Tom, though. The Weasleys had been more than ready to accept Tom as one of their own. Harry had let them all down by turning Tom down.
The song that is playing comes to a close, but Tom does not release him.
"How... how has work been at the Ministry?" Harry asks. "Hermione told me you've been busy with the upcoming election."
"It has been busy," Tom says. "Fudge certainly makes everything a thousand times more difficult than it needs to be. I look forward to the day when I will see my own name on the ballot."
Harry smiles. "I'm sure you will, Tom."
"Of course." Tom's hand tightens on Harry's waist, causing Harry's cheeks to flare with heat. "You have always given me the gift of your unwavering support," Tom says. "I would have never gotten this far without you."
"That's not true," Harry protests. "You've done just fine for yourself without me, Tom." Look at you, he doesn't say. And look at me.
Tom needs someone by his side who can help him achieve his goals and dreams. Harry is not that person. He is not a good person for Tom.
The second song is much slower. If anything, Tom is holding him even closer. Harry could rest his head on Tom's shoulder, if he wanted to. He wants to.
Tom sighs. "Harry, is there nothing I can say to convince you how much you mean to me?"
Harry doesn't need convincing. He already knows too much. He knows how much he loves Tom, and he knows what Tom thinks of him: that he can be loved, that he can grow into someone who can stand tall and proud by Tom's side.
Harry wants to be that person for Tom, and maybe he can, maybe—
"Just... just for tonight," Harry says quietly, eyes downcast. "I'll be here for tonight."
Tom's breath catches, his step faltering. Harry sways awkwardly before Tom catches them both and steers them back into place.
It's selfish, Harry thinks, it's selfish, what he's doing to Tom right now. Offering hope where there is none to be had. Giving Tom what he wants despite planning to take it away later.
"Tonight?" Tom asks breathlessly. "Only tonight? Harry—"
Harry lays his head down on Tom's shoulder, inhales the comforting scent of Tom's cologne. Tom goes quiet, his arm tightening around Harry's waist, holding steady as he always has.
They dance for several more songs. Harry shuts his eyes, not daring to open them lest the spell of this perfect evening be ruined. He's missed this, all of this. All of Tom. He's missed Tom more than words can describe. There is a hole in his chest that is knitting itself back together, a hole that will be torn back open when he wakes in the morning, alone.
Harry's legs are beginning to give when Tom at last guides them off the dance floor and towards the bar. "Water?" Tom asks.
"Yes, please." Harry's mouth feels so very dry.
Tom fetches two glasses and hands one off to Harry. Harry busies himself with sipping at his water and watching the crowd. Where are Ron and Hermione? He'd meant to spend more time with them.
"Do you have somewhere to stay for the night?" Tom asks from somewhere behind his shoulder.
Hermione and Ron had offered to let him stay with them. Harry turns around and opens his mouth to say so, but there's a hopeful look in Tom's eyes that causes the words to die in his throat. It's not fair that Tom looks at him like that, with so much love.
"Before you say anything else," Tom says, coming forward and grasping Harry lightly by the elbow, "listen to me. You said only tonight, I know, but you promised me, Harry. You said you would come back to me."
"I didn't," Harry says weakly. He is weak, unable to twist his arm out of Tom's grasp, unable to look away. "I said I didn't know. I wasn't sure."
"Then permit me the opportunity to convince you." Tom is so close, so magnetic. His presence is everything, everywhere. Harry can't escape it. "Let us be together, let us just be us together," Tom pleads, tugging Harry towards him. Harry stumbles closer, leans into the sturdy warmth of Tom's chest.
"Stay with me for the weekend," Tom says quietly. "Let me remind you of what we had. After that, if your answer is still no, then..." His voice falters, then firms with resolve. With confidence. "If it is what you truly want, then I will let you go."
Harry is weak. Of course he says yes.
It is the beginning and the end of everything when Harry goes home with Tom that night. Tom offers wine, which Harry accepts. The alcohol will lend him the courage he needs to stay.
Easy banter between them returns with a vengeance. Harry longs for the old days, when they were younger and things were simple. When he'd been content to lie in Tom's arms without a care for the future.
Will they ring in the new year without a kiss? Harry wonders if Tom is hoping for one, then tells himself he's being stupid. Tom hasn't pressed him for more. He doesn't look to Harry's lips with longing, doesn't stray past the gentlest of platonic touches, but—
Harry aches. He aches for what they'd had, for what they still have, for what he will never permit himself to keep. He aches and he is selfish.
He and Tom talk late into the evening, until the fireplace in Tom's modest flat dies a natural death, until Tom's arm tucked around his shoulders feels at home once more. When the fire burns to ashes, when the lights dim down, Harry touches Tom's jaw with the tips of his fingers and guides their mouths together.
Just for this weekend, as Tom had promised. Harry can pretend.
Tom kisses him sweetly, delicately, with the tenderness of a comfortable lover. Harry sheds his robes onto the couch and lets Tom take off the rest. The room is very warm, there is moonlight pooled on the floor. Harry gives himself to the man he loves and trusts that Tom will be there to catch him should he fall.
"I missed you," Tom whispers against the column of Harry's neck, a bruising secret that sinks into Harry's skin like slow-acting poison. It is the only time Tom will utter those words this evening, but it will not be the last. Tom will always be missing him, Harry thinks as he arches up, seeking Tom's skin against his own, fitting his hip into the palm of Tom's hand.
"I missed you, too," Harry whispers back. Tom leans down and kisses the words away, swallows them up like he wants to keep them. It is a greedy thought, but Harry likes knowing that there is a part of him that may live on in Tom forever.
Tom directs them to his bedroom and lays Harry down upon the bed like he's made of glass, precious and breakable. Harry promises himself he won't say it again, that he misses Tom. He promises himself that he won't give Tom any false hope for a future together. He kisses Tom without words and hopes it will be enough.
In the past, Tom has showered him with praise and compliments. Now, however, Tom holds back his silvertongue in favour of running reverent hands over Harry's body, his fingertips teasing out a soundless melody against Harry's ribs. His hands dance across the litter of faint scars that line Harry's skin in silver and pink. Harry hardly dares to breathe; Tom's quiet, demure examination of his nude form unsettles him in a powerful way. He feels laid bare in more ways than one.
"I love you," Tom says some moments later. He kisses Harry's forehead with tenderness, with seriousness, with devotion. His eyes, nearly midnight black in the dim lighting, bore deeply into Harry's own. "Do you want me to stop?"
Guilt sits like an atomic bomb in the pit of his stomach. Still, Harry licks at dry lips and says, "No."
Tom kisses him again. Harry allows his anxieties to fade away. Tom has always loved him best and this night is no different. This night, too, will be full of love. Harry will enjoy what they have together while it lasts.
Harry wakes to sunlight warming his face. Tom's body is curled tightly around his own, and the world is safe and cozy, hazy with the golden high that tends to follow after a pleasant dream. Harry feels giddy, like his body is full of light and laughter, like he could float away. His heart thumps a steady beat in his chest as he listens to the deep sound of Tom's breathing.
"Good morning," Tom murmurs. His hand sweeps across Harry's brow, brushing the stray hairs aside. The palm of Tom's hand skims the sensitive shell of Harry's ear before it pulls back into their cocoon of blankets. "Did you sleep well?"
Harry doesn't trust himself to speak. Instead, he makes a vague sound of agreement, and after further deliberation, squirms in place, shifting his weight until he is able to roll over and plant his face into the crook of Tom's neck. He is not prepared to face the consequences of his actions, but he is also unwilling to let Tom go.
"There is nothing I like more than waking with you by my side," Tom adds softly, in a delicate tone that tugs at Harry's heartstrings.
Harry represses a shiver. It feels safer to say nothing. Happiness is foreign to him, but whenever Tom is near, he thinks he might be getting to know it better. Happiness is an old acquaintance of his, someone he had once known well enough to call by name. He doesn't anymore, but he maybe could if he gave it a chance.
Tom's hand trails down the nape of his neck. It settles there like the heavy hood of a thick woolen cloak. Harry swallows, wishing he could burrow closer. It's dizzying to lay next to Tom in such an intimate way. Without the darkness to shield him and his insecurities, Harry feels exposed and vulnerable, his flaws flayed open by the sunlight.
"Shall we have breakfast?" Tom asks. "Or would you like to stay here a while longer?"
There is no avoiding a response this time. "Whatever you'd like," Harry mumbles. "I don't mind."
"A few more minutes, then." Tom's lips press against his forehead, and that appears to be the end of the conversation.
Harry lays there in the quiet, savouring the way that Tom holds him, committing to memory the grounding sensation of Tom's embrace, of Tom's arms wrapped tightly around him. They used to do this often, lay about until noon, chatting about everything and nothing. They used to lay together nearly every night.
Harry tries to memorize every second of this moment even though he knows it won't be enough. His memory pales in comparison to the real thing, to the warmth that infuses each cell of his body where Tom is touching him. He loves Tom so much that it is a physical pain in him, a pain that will only grow worse when they inevitably part ways.
Tom loves him, but it won't last.
Precious minutes slip away as Harry dozes off in Tom's arms, wishing to stall the rush of depressing thoughts that threaten the sanctity of their perfect morning.
Several minutes or hours or sunlit days later, Tom's hand squeezes his shoulder. "Breakfast?"
Harry has to blink several times before Tom's face comes into focus. "Okay."
Tom rises from the bed and pads off to the bathroom, still fully nude. Harry watches him go, unsure of what to do. Should he follow? Should he wait here? These kinds of questions used to plague him constantly—what to do, what not to do. He had been terrified of fucking things up by doing something wrong.
Tom understands his irrational fears. In the past, Tom had gone out of his way to be accommodating, to offer choices and make suggestions. Harry had gone along with whatever Tom wanted, relieved and strangely comfortable for the first time in his life. This hasn't changed. Tom knows him. Harry trusts Tom with everything; it is himself that he does not trust.
The sound of running water drifts into the bedroom. Harry sits up and ruffles at his hair. He'll wait here, then. That seems to be what is supposed to happen.
While he waits, he goes back to thinking. It's odd for these old doubts to suddenly resurface. Two years ago, a decision would have come more easily to him. He would have known what to do, what to say. Tom is not a stranger to him and never will be, but parts of their relationship feel distant in a way that they haven't in years and years.
When Tom emerges from the bathroom, he has a towel wrapped snugly around his waist. "Your turn," Tom says, not unkindly. If he's surprised that Harry hasn't moved an inch, he doesn't show it. "I'll go start on breakfast while you wash."
Harry hurries to stand. This is a mistake—the rapid motion makes his vision swim. He sways slightly and grasps at the bedpost. "I'm fine," he says before Tom can express concern. "I stood up too quickly."
Tom frowns as Harry approaches the doorway. When Tom fails to move, Harry places a palm on Tom's damp shoulder and gives it a little push. His cheeks warm at the act of touching, at the intimacy he's gone without since they'd broken up.
"Be careful," Tom says seriously. His eyes search Harry's face for a second before he adds, "Feel free to use whatever you need. There's an extra toothbrush below the sink." He dips his head to brush a kiss to Harry's flushed cheek, then steps away, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts once again.
Harry washes and showers quickly, mindful of his hot water usage. When he re-enters the bedroom, there are clothes laid out on the bed, which has been made tidy in his absence. Harry lays a hand down on the baggy navy shirt Tom has left out for him. The material is soft and worn and perfect for a lazy Saturday morning.
Harry tugs the shirt on before he can overthink it and is immediately assaulted by the scent of fresh laundry layered with Tom's cologne. The familiarity of it stings. It's stupid. It's stupid that he has to fight back tears over something as simple as a shirt. Harry pulls on the rest of the clothes and wanders back into the bathroom to blindly fuss with his hair. His fingers comb through the damp tangles until it reaches some semblance of order. The nice thing about wet hair is that the weight of the water holds the worst of the mess down.
Once he's done worrying over that, Harry braces both hands on the edge of the sink counter and takes several deep breaths. Time for breakfast with Tom. He can be normal for two days, can't he? He can be the boyfriend—the fiancé—that Tom deserves. He can do that for the both of them.
Harry goes downstairs. He smells burning pancakes and hears the crispy sizzle of batter on a frying pan. Tom is in the kitchen with an apron on, muttering curse words under his breath. It's a horribly domestic scene that Harry wants to wake up to every day for the rest of his life.
While Tom fusses over his pancake, Harry approaches the stove and leans over to examine the damage. To be fair, there is a small stack of lumpy pancakes sitting on a plate off to the side, but whatever's happening in the pan at the moment is not so lucky. "Need a hand?"
Tom seems reluctant to tear his gaze away from his scorched mess. "It's fine, Harry. Why don't you sit down? I'm nearly done."
Harry doesn't really believe him, but it's like Tom says: it's fine. One burnt pancake is no big deal. He leaves Tom in the kitchen and goes to the dining room as instructed. There is a pile of boxes on the table there. Birthday presents, Harry realizes. For Tom's birthday. Tom must not have gotten to opening them yet.
Harry pulls out a chair and sits down. He doesn't want to be nosy, but it's hard not to look when the presents are right there. He can see the names on most of the tags. There is a gift from Minister Fudge, a gift from the Malfoys, a gift from Hermione and Ron.
One present stands out from the rest; it is wrapped with silver paper and a vibrant green ribbon. The ribbon is curled beautifully and the shiny silver wrapping paper is smooth and free of ugly creases. Harry feels inadequate. He and Tom have only been exchanging cards for the past two years, but he should have gotten Tom something.
Impulsively, Harry reaches for the tag and flips it over. The name 'Bella' stares back at him. This gift must be from Bellatrix Black. All at once, the room shifts and blurs into shades of grey. Harry isn't moving, but the walls are moving on their own, wobbling around like they are made of jello. Harry's fingers go slack, releasing the gift tag. It dangles in place, swaying back and forth.
Harry leans back in his chair, subconsciously determined to put as much distance between him and this gift as possible. He barely notices when Tom enters the room and slides a plate in his direction.
The smell of pancakes fills the room, banishing Harry's desolate mood. "Here," Tom says. "Tell me what you think?"
"Thank you," Harry says automatically. He tears his gaze away from the silver box, but not before Tom notices the subject of his attention. Harry busies himself with pouring syrup over his pancakes as noisily as possible, hoping that Tom will let the moment pass.
Tom's eyes flicker from the box to Harry. "It doesn't mean anything," Tom says bluntly, dashing Harry's hopes of a stress-free conversation. Tom places his hand over Harry's and curls his fingers in, squeezing gently. "We're only friends, she and I."
"Friends," Harry repeats. This makes sense. Tom is very popular, of course he has many friends. Harry picks up his fork and stabs at his food, trying to shove off his dismay. He wants to relax and enjoy breakfast. He knows Tom would never lie to him, so why is he focusing on this gift from a woman he doesn't know?
As if sensing the direction of Harry's thoughts, Tom does not sit down. Instead, he clears his throat and waits until Harry looks up at him. "I told her that I'm not interested in anything. I told her I was waiting for you."
Harry drops his eyes to his plate, to the faint glisten of syrup that covers the fluffy pancakes Tom has prepared for him. "Well, maybe you shouldn't have," Harry says without thinking. Then he winces. He doesn't need to look up to know that he should not have said that.
Tom goes quiet. Harry hates himself for ruining the moment, but he can't say he's surprised. This is why he shouldn't stay. Why he can't stay. Bellatrix would be a better choice for Tom. She would be all the things that Harry isn't. She would not forget to bring a birthday gift and she would never hurt Tom the way that Harry has.
"None of that," Tom says sharply. He sets his own plate down on the table with a solid thunk. "You promised me, Harry. You promised me the weekend and I intend to hold you to that promise. There is no one else for me. There never will be."
Harry has the urge to apologize, to say or do something that will rid him of the illogical sense of shame he feels upon hearing Tom's reprimand. It feels like a direct response to his unspoken thoughts.
He is certain, however, that regardless of how Tom feels now, it won't last. Tom may mean these words now, but that's all it is—emotion. It has no basis in reality. Tom has spent two years pining for a dream that will never come true, building up in his mind the ideal of them together. If Tom knew the truth, he would understand why nothing can happen between them.
Tom's expression of consternation fades as he blows out a frustrated breath. He sits down and picks up his fork. "My apologies. I let myself get carried away. Let's eat. I want this to be a good time for the both of us."
Harry nods and tugs his hands off the table and down to his lap. His hands feel colder now. He doesn't like that. If he raises them to eye level, it's all too likely that they'll be trembling.
The rest of breakfast is thankfully calm. Tom sends all his presents floating up the stairs and out of sight. By the time the dishes are washed and put away, Harry feels slightly better. Better enough to crack a joke just to see Tom smile.
"What do you want to do?" Tom asks him. There's an undercurrent of eagerness in his voice. "We could go flying—"
Tom doesn't like flying. That he's even suggesting it at all makes Harry think that this entire weekend is a terrible idea. Tom will do anything to keep him, but Harry can't stay.
"Let's go for a walk," Harry suggests instead, which is how he finds himself bundled up in Tom's spare coat, swaddled in heavy wool fabric and the rough scents of pine and smoke.
Outside is cold. Harry's breath fogs up his glasses for several minutes before he has the sense to cast the Impervius Charm on the lenses. He can't afford to miss a moment of the time they have together.
"Are you cold?" Tom asks again and again. Each time, Harry shakes his head and smiles. His hands are stuffed in the deep pockets of Tom's coat. He'd like to swing his arms back and forth, just to see if he can brush against Tom's hand with his own, but he's too nervous to do so.
Tom would like it if they held hands. Tom would like for them to do a lot of things, undoubtedly. Harry sighs. There is so much he wants to say. They'd talked all evening and it still isn't enough to close the two-year gap.
Tom's life has moved forward in ways that Harry's has not. Tom will become the Minister for Magic someday, as he should, and he will never want for anything. Not money, not power, not companionship. Harry will play Quidditch until his muscles give out, and then he'll retire to an empty house of luxuries. There is no happy ending where their two worlds will meet.
"What," Tom says, interrupting Harry's internal monologue, "must I do to pull you out of your own head, Harry?"
The question takes Harry by surprise. "I don't know."
"I've asked myself this question for years," Tom muses. "Where you go when you stare off into the distance. What mysteries turn the wheels in your mind. Why you sometimes turn away from me when I know you don't want to."
Harry doesn't want to have this conversation. Not right now. He tugs his left hand out of his pocket and reaches for Tom's. He laces their fingers together and hopes this concession will get Tom to stop.
They continue walking. Twigs and snow crunch beneath their feet as their path winds through the woods. Harry waits for Tom to speak again and is both relieved and unnerved when he doesn't. This discomfort between them is Harry's fault.
Harry wants to enjoy himself and he feels guilty that he can't. If he could only go back and fix things—fix himself, be a better person—he would do it. He would do it for Tom.
"Do you miss the way things were?" Harry asks bravely. The answer to this is suddenly very important to him. "Do you miss how we were before?"
Tom's hand gives Harry's a gentle tug. "I miss you," Tom says softly, almost like he's disappointed. "If you promised me your future, I would have no need to revisit the past."
In this little bubble they've made out here in the woods, Harry can admit that he is greedy for Tom's acceptance of him. When Harry thinks of their past, a past that is warped and distorted by regret, he wishes he could go back and make a different choice. Change his own mind, tell Tom 'yes' instead of 'no'.
"You keep telling me that you don't want this," Tom says roughly. "You keep telling yourself that you don't want this. But I think you know what you want, Harry. You want to stay. You want to because you were happier when you were here..." Tom shuts his eyes tight, squeezes Harry's hand like it is all that tethers him to the earth. "You were happier here with me. Tell me that isn't the truth."
It is the truth. Harry is happier with Tom than without. When the cacophony of doubt and negativity in his head quiets enough for him to live in the moment, he is euphoric. He is over the moon to be in love with Tom Riddle. He is happier here than he is with anyone else, and Tom is the one who makes him feel this way. Tom makes him happy.
It seems silly to deny himself this happiness. To ruin what is so precious to him. He is happier here. He is happier here, but he cannot stay. He cannot stay—
"I have to go," Harry says. The crisp colours of the forest are fading to dullness. The details of the pine trees are slipping away from him. He would like to stay, but he can't. He has to wake up.
Tom doesn't seem angry. He seems resigned. His grip on Harry's hand still feels very real, but it won't feel that way for much longer. "I'll be here. I'll be waiting for you. You'll come back to me, won't you? Like you promised before?"
Harry can't tell if his vision is blurring from his tears or from the slow death of this dream. "I will," he promises. This is a promise he means, a promise he plans to keep.
"Good." Tom smiles, half-wistful. "Kiss before you go?"
Selfish, Harry thinks to himself. It's selfish of him to kiss Tom. But what are dreams for, if not to be selfish?
Tom is very close. Harry tips forward and eliminates the gap between them with ease. The agony of goodbye is tempered by the surety of Tom's affection for him.
They kiss, warm like summertime, gentle like a spring breeze, but Harry hardly has a chance to lose himself in it before his consciousness is wrenched from the dream and sent tumbling back into a colder, emptier reality.
A/N:
i hit a bit of a slump with writing lately. turns out getting back into this story was what i needed to pull out of it. i hope you all enjoy this chapter! one of the concerns i have is that harry's self-depreciation may be too off-putting. however, it is an integral part of the plot so i can only promise that it will improve as things progress.