A/N:

evermore continues to provide inspiration. this story is planned for fifteen chapters of varying lengths, and will hopefully not take that long to finish...

for those of you who have read 'no body, no crime', you can expect a similar level of emotional impact, but there WILL be a happy ending for this one!

the identity of harry's husband will be revealed later in the story. for now, you may speculate.

an illustrated version of this story can be read on my AO3, under the username 'duplicity'.

tags and trigger warnings:

unhealthy relationship, emotional abuse, manipulative relationship, infidelity, canonical references to child abuse, dream sequences, depression, angst and hurt/comfort, happy ending

(negative tags and dark themes do NOT occur between tom and harry!)


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Evermore

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You know that my train could take you home

Anywhere else is hollow

— willow, track 1

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Chapter 1

my train could take you home.


The Weasleys had asked him to stay for a few more days. They'd insisted, actually, in the kind, compassionate way that only the Weasleys could insist. They treat him like family, like their own. They give him Christmas presents every year and have been doing so ever since his first year at Hogwarts.

Harry loves them like family in return. Ron is his best friend. Ginny is like a sister to him. Molly and Arthur are—not his parents, that is far too much for him to presume, but they are adults he knows he can count on to look out for him. He knows to ask them for help if he ever needs it.

So the Weasleys had asked him to stay a few more days, but Harry had said no.

Harry had said no, thank you, he really had to be going because—because—

Because it is the holidays and he ought to be at home with his husband.

The train clatters noisily down the track, the steady sound of the steam engine monotonous and repetitive. Harry watches the late afternoon roll past the window, watches his own reflection in the glass. He is frankly exhausted from having to wake early to catch the train and then hustle his way through the lines of holiday travellers. But it will be worth it, in the end.

Harry presses a hand to the glass, fingertips spread over the glow of the setting sun. He could have Apparated home instead. It would have been much faster than taking the train for the entire day. It's just that Harry doesn't trust himself over long distances. The compression, the lack of air—there is every chance in the world that he'd freeze up, make a mistake, and Splinch himself terribly.

So: the train.

Harry likes the train. The bump-bump of the moving compartments, the shifting shadows as light passes through the wide, rectangular windows. The train is familiar, it reminds him of the Hogwarts Express. It reminds him of going home.

Soon, Harry will be home. His husband had requested he come home so they could spend the week leading up to Christmas in the manor together. Harry is excited. They haven't seen much of each other lately, what with work piling up the way it has. Not that Harry blames anyone for that. Things happen. Schedules change.

Harry had been listless, puttering around the empty house with nothing to do, which is how he'd ended up at the Weasley's to begin with. Molly had asked him over to help with the garden, and Harry could never say no to her. If she needs help, then he is all too willing to lend a hand. Especially because all the Weasley children have moved out. They have careers and families. It makes the most sense for Harry, who has all the free time in the world, to help out.

So Harry had shown up at the Burrow dressed in Muggle jeans and a ratty sweatshirt, ready to get covered in dirt and bruises. Somehow, one afternoon of de-gnoming the garden had turned into a sleepover. The sleepover had turned into a weekend thing, and the weekend thing had turned into a week-long stay. Not that Harry is complaining—he loves the Burrow.

He loves the Burrow, and he would have loved to stay there for a few more days, but he is going home to his husband for Christmas.

Thoughts of a joyful Christmas, with all the decorations, have been keeping his mind occupied for the majority of the train ride. A large tree covered with colourful baubles and glittering tinsel, a roaring fireplace that crackles and spits sparks into the toasty air, a dinner table set with the prettiest emerald tablecloth and the shiniest silver cutlery.

Harry has not gotten to decorate his own tree in ages. Well, not ages. It hasn't been that long, but some days it certainly feels like it has been.

Molly and Arthur had roped him into decorating their tree early. Harry has gotten his practice with untangling strands of light by hand rather than with magic, with placing the ornaments just right on the right branches, with levitating the seven-point gold star to the very topmost branch. A perfect tree for a perfect Christmas, and then, of course, the main attraction of presents.

There are a number of neatly-wrapped boxes resting in his bag right now. More gifts than Harry had ever expected to get as a child. Over a decade later, a part of him is still surprised whenever a present is pressed into his hands.

Harry had left the Burrow before the real festivities began. All of the Weasley children had come home to celebrate the holiday season with their parents, and so the house had been full and lively once more. Harry had gotten to talk to everyone a little before he'd left—just this morning, Fred and George had stumbled into the living room and deposited one more box into Harry's bag.

"Merry Christmas, Harrikins," George had crowed, smacking a wet kiss onto Harry's cheek. "Please do feel free to open it whenever it tickles your fancy, the sooner the better. In fact, a day-long train ride would make for the perfect occasion—"

"Don't pressure him, Fred!" Mrs. Weasley had scolded.

"Hah, I'm George!" George had nudged his twin, grinning. "Told you they'd think it was you—"

Mrs. Weasley gave an exasperated sigh that her sons ignored, much to Harry's amusement.

"—but seriously, Harry." Fred poked Harry in the forearm. "Give it an open, won't you? We think you'll really like it."

The gift is wrapped up in the bright orange and purple colours of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. A corner of the box peeks out from the top of Harry's rucksack; it is visible because he keeps taking it out to look at. The twins had given him permission to open it, but he hasn't. It seems wrong to open presents before Christmas. Still, Harry is tempted, especially because of the note written on the gift tag.

To make all your wildest dreams come true.

One of the twins' first products for their joke shop had been the Patented Daydream Charm. Harry knows that they've recently been working on an improved version of it, so it stands to reason that he possesses the latest and greatest version in his rucksack.

The weight of said rucksack rests heavily against his left foot. Harry hadn't bothered to put it into the overhead because it is the only bag he has with him. Despite the Expansion Charms on the bag's insides, everyone he knows frequently comments on the fact that he packs light.

Harry is used to living with little, that's all. The essentials boil down to: toothbrush, toothpaste, and a spare change of clothes. Maybe his broomstick, if he's going to be away for a while. But he doesn't need a bag to carry his things, he can shrink them down and put them into the pocket of his cloak. The use of a bag is habitual, a symbol of normalcy. Having his bag is important to him.

Maybe it is ridiculous of him to be so frugal—everything he could ever dream of having is within reach. Anything he wants, he can get it for himself, or he can ask for it to be given to him. He doesn't need to live out of a ratty bag, but he does it anyway, and no wonder people make fun of him for it.

It's just that his bag is his. It is a relic of his younger days, his Hogwarts days. It is a reminder of old adventures, of storming the halls late at night with Ron and Hermione by his side. Those are memories that are important to him.

The strap of his bag is worn down, and the bottom of it has a hole the size of his big toe, the result of a horrid potions accident in fifth year. It is those little details that give it character. It is his bag and he refuses to part with it.

Harry reaches for his present from the Weasley twins and sets it on the table in front of him. His fingers trace the 'W' shapes patterned on the wrapping paper. After another moment of deliberation, he tears the paper off, revealing the box inside. He doesn't have to use it, but his curiosity is killing him.

A bright gold font declares the box to contain six vials of a 'Patented Fanciful Fantasy Potion'.

There are no images of people on the packaging. Instead, it looks like Felix Felicis has been poured all over the cardboard—the entire package is a swirling, shimmering gold. Harry flips the box over to look at the instructions written on the back.

One simple potion and you will enter a top-quality, highly realistic, hour-long lucid dream session on the subject of your choosing. This deluxe package consists of six vials for guaranteed fantasy satisfaction! Not for sale to under-sixteens.

Harry feels his face heat up. He isn't a—a teenage girl who wants to star in some sultry romance novel. He's married and he's fine with his life. Embarrassed, Harry stuffs the box back into his bag. He pulls the flap over the top and buckles it shut. What is he going to do with this? He can only imagine what people would say—

Is he really so pathetic that he needs a fantasy to be happy?

The present has good intentions behind it, but Harry doesn't need a fantasy to get him through the day. He is going home for the holidays, for the best time of the year. He will be seeing his husband very soon.

The train bumps along at its unhurried pace. Harry watches the sun sink past the horizon, drenching the world in darkness. How much longer? His leg is shaking up and down with nerves. Harry checks his wristwatch; two hours left. The sun has been setting sooner lately because of the winter season.

He'll be home in time for a late dinner, hopefully. Then he can get a head start on using the nice silverware.

Harry's leg goes up and down. Two more hours. He checks his watch again, thinks about what to have the House Elves prepare for dinner. Some kind of roast with lots of sauce and vegetables. He thinks about Christmas and presents, a blazing fireplace and a tree covered in dazzling lights. He thinks about the box with six vials that promise to make his dreams come true.

Dreams are for children. All his dreams have already come true. He has someone who loves him. He has a home of his own. He has friends who care enough to give him presents.

Harry yawns. The weight of the day is catching up to him. Combined with the low lighting of the train compartment, it has created the perfect environment for a nap. Usually Harry naps at home because it's hard to get comfortable anywhere else, but there are two more hours to kill, and they won't die easily.

Just a short nap. He'll set an alarm to wake himself in an hour—the same length of time as a dose of Fanciful Fantasy Potion. Harry fiddles with the settings on his watch. Sixty minutes to sleep. He will prove he doesn't need a potion to help himself relax.

Harry conjures a pillow and adjusts his position in the booth. There's nothing weird about sleeping on the train—people do it all the time. So long as he wakes up before the train arrives at the station, everything will be fine.

Harry yawns a second time and shuts his eyes. The repetitive motion of the train lulls him to sleep.