If it's all in my head tell me now
Tell me I've got it wrong somehow
I know my love should be celebrated
But you tolerate it
—tolerate it, track 5.
.
Chapter 5
everything you do or don't do.
When Harry wakes, his pillowcase is stuck to his face. It takes several seconds for him to realize why—the cotton material is damp with tears and has plastered itself to his cheek.
Clarity filters into his mind the way sunlight filters through the curtains covering the bedroom window. As he regains wakefulness, the moments he'd spent with Tom return to him in flashes: the comfort of Tom's arm wrapped around his waist as they'd danced, the pleasure of their bodies joined together, and the happiness he'd felt when they'd woken up in the same bed.
He had loved Tom wholly, unconditionally. The strength of that emotion is difficult to shrug off. The ache of it is fresh. Harry remembers kissing Tom goodbye and wishing he could stay, the phantom pressure of Tom's lips on his fading fast.
It's upsetting. Harry takes a moment to remind himself that the dream is not real. Life with Tom is complex in different ways. It is a dream; it is not comparable to reality. Comparing Tom and Victor will only cause problems.
Harry rubs at his tired eyes and massages his temples. It is time for him to get up and face the music, so to speak. Victor doesn't like it when he comes down late for breakfast.
When Harry at last staggers downstairs and into the dining room, he is a quarter hour later than normal. The table settings are already laid out and Victor is seated at the far end of the room, his hands folded neatly on the table top.
"Good morning," says Victor. The greeting is pleasant, cheerful.
Harry pauses at his end of the table. "Good morning," Harry says cautiously. "Did you… did you sleep well?"
"I did, thank you for asking. Did you want tea? Coffee?"
"Just some orange juice, please."
A glass appears on the table, courtesy of the House-Elves. Harry closes his lips over the 'thank you' that threatens to spill out and sits down. He isn't used to asking for his morning drinks; he prefers to fetch them on his own. "How did the rest of your evening go?"
"Well enough." Victor smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
Breakfast appears on the table: omelettes and melon slices. Harry picks up a fork and pokes at his plate. "That's good."
"You had a bit of a lie-in this morning," Victor says as he divides his own omelette into bite-sized portions. He takes his time lifting a portion of egg to his mouth, chewing, and swallowing it. His gaze, when it finally resettles on Harry, is piercing. "I sent Keepey to wake you. She said you had taken something and it would be unwise to disturb you."
Dread pools in Harry's stomach. A vast number of excuses and explanations flutter through his mind, but he can't seem to spit one out. "I—"
"Sleeping potions are unhealthy," Victor continues calmly, as if Harry isn't currently frozen with irrational terror. "The last thing we need after your dramatic departure last night is rumours that my husband is a potions addict."
What?
"It was just the one."
"You'll limit your intake," Victor instructs. "And if the problem persists, I will contact a private healer."
"I don't—I don't have a problem!" The fork in Harry's hand trembles; whether it is the result of nerves or anger is unclear. Harry sets the utensil down on the table and attempts to regulate his breathing. "It was just the one. It isn't a big deal."
Victor eyes Harry's hand and raises a brow. "You're stressed, darling. You aren't thinking clearly."
"I'm fine."
Victor smiles without humour. "You say that far too often, my love. Even your friends agree. Trust me, I know you. This will pass, but only if you learn to accept help."
Harry wants to deny this but that means admitting the truth—a truth he is not willing to share.
If they had not argued, if Victor had not upset him, he wouldn't have taken anything. They would have slept together and the box of fantasy potions would have gone unopened.
Harry wants to say that. He wants to lay the blame at Victor's feet, but he knows that it won't do him any good. It won't do their marriage any good. Harry may not know how to fix this problem, how to fix himself, but starting another argument definitely won't fix anything. It is better to keep quiet, to let this pass as Victor had suggested.
They take the rest of their meal in silence. Every scrape of their utensils on porcelain sets Harry's teeth on edge. He doesn't understand how Victor can be so calm.
After breakfast, Harry is at a loss for what to do. He doesn't want to hear a rehash of last night's politics, which is what will happen if he stays. Normally, Harry enjoys playing the role of sounding board, listening to Victor's plans for magical Britain, but at this moment, he wants to be alone.
"I have a bit of a headache," Harry lies, pushing back from the table. "I'm going to go back upstairs and lay down for a while."
"Hangover?" Victor asks idly. "Or perhaps a symptom of your potion intake?"
Harry doesn't want to do this right now. "I'll see you at dinner," he says. The House-Elves will try to feed him lunch, but he has the feeling he won't be very hungry.
"Do try to come down early," Victor instructs. "The Karkaroffs do not look kindly upon lateness."
"The Karkaroffs?"
"We will be hosting them tonight, along with the Poliakoffs."
Harry's momentary disbelief is rapidly replaced by outrage. Does Victor even plan for them to spend any time together over the holidays? It seems to Harry that Christmas has become nothing but another work vacation—one he doesn't need to be here for.
Not for the first time, Harry regrets leaving the Burrow. Merlin forbid Harry spend Christmas with the Weasleys when people might talk. If the Minister fails to spend the holidays with his husband, rumours will abound, but it isn't as if he and Victor have done more than exchange meaningless pleasantries since reuniting.
"Fine," Harry says in a clipped tone. The acidic aftertaste of orange juice lingers on his tongue, but he holds his bitterness back and leaves the room without a second glance.
Back in the master bedroom, Harry shuts the door and casts a spell on the door to warn him of approaching visitors. Then he goes to the far wall and opens up all the windows. The crisp winter air is a welcome presence in the dark, empty room. Harry rubs at his temples and flops backwards on the bed, spread-eagled, to stare up at the ceiling.
It's as easy as breathing, the way his mind wanders away from him, slipping into the comfort of not here, not now. If he closes his eyes, if he pretends, he can be somewhere else. He can imagine whatever he likes, be the person he wishes he could be. Someone who knows what to say and do, who never feels embarrassed or finds themselves wrongfooted.
Today, Harry's fantasies take on the form of Tom Riddle.
Harry feels some twisted satisfaction from this. Though he would never cheat on his husband, his dreams are a different story, a different world altogether.
Tom is what Harry needs right now. He may not be real, but he is kind and patient and loving.
This thought is heavy and sickly, sugary like syrup. Suddenly anxious, Harry rises from the bed and goes to check on his bag. The vials are where he had left them, tucked safely in their box. Harry fiddles with the box lid, running his fingers over the embossed letters. This is his. The vials are his Christmas presents.
Victor's assertion of his potential potions addiction is ridiculous and unfounded. One potion does not constitute a need for—for an intervention.
Harry draws out a vial and holds it up to the light. Their golden contents, so similar to Felix Felicis, shimmer brilliantly.
Determined not to have this taken from him, Harry retrieves his mokeskin pouch—a coming-of-age present from Hagrid—and gently feeds the potions into its mouth. The pouch swallows and burps five times before it goes silent once more. Harry feels better knowing the vials are secure. He can't imagine what he'll do if Victor demands to see them. The idea of being interrogated over these potions is absolutely mortifying.
Hopefully with time, Victor will forget all about this morning's incident. Harry plucks the empty box out of his bag and turns it over to check the expiry date. He has two whole years to use the potions up.
Harry sets the box down on the side table. Two years is a long time.
After a moment, he draws his wand and aims it at the box.
"Evanesco."
The box vanishes. Harry releases a low, shuddering breath of relief. Guilt lingers in the back of his mind like a looming shadow, but he ignores it. He shoves it down until it is nothing but a muffled whisper.
There are hours and hours to go before he'll be expected downstairs for dinner. Part of him wants to swallow down another vial, just to piss Victor off, but that is not what Harry needs right now. What he needs is time to cool off; that is why he had made his excuses and gone upstairs. If he had stayed, he would have lost his temper. He would have said something he would later regret.
Harry knows he can be irascible at times. Quick to anger, quick to jump in when it's unwanted. There are certain behaviours and actions that get under his skin like nothing else. He hates bullies and cowards. He hates liars. He hates arrogance.
Victor is…
Victor is particular. He takes preventative measures to an extreme; everything is planned, everything is under control. In the past, this inclination towards taking initiative has made Harry feel safe. No matter what happens, everything will work out. No matter what happens, Victor has a plan.
Most days, Victor is infallible, capable of doing absolutely anything he sets his mind to. The world knows that the British Minister for Magic is an incredible man who chases what he wants, who possesses a rate of success that leaves those around him in awe.
Harry is lucky to know him. He is blessed to know Victor as his husband, as a man with flaws and feelings.
Harry doesn't want the two of them to fight. The time and energy that goes into a fight is exhausting, it isn't worth it. What Harry truly wants is to curl up in his husband's arms and never let go. Swallowing his pride will fix this, he knows, but doing so will also drain him in an entirely different kind of way. Still, his desire to put an end to the terrible tension between them may win out.
Harry sets an alarm for three hours from now and collapses on top of the bed. At best, he'll manage to pass out for at least some of that time, but it's all too likely that he will simply lie here, stewing in his pointless thoughts until it is time to return downstairs.
With a sigh, Harry lets his eyelids slide shut, shuttering his world into darkness as relaxes his body, one muscle at a time. Eventually, his consciousness slides into slumber.
When Harry stirs to wakefulness some time later, he does not feel well rested. If anything, he feels more tired than he did before. A glance at the clock on the side table shows that he's woken well before his alarm was due to go off. Harry stretches, limbs unfurling as he reclaims the entirety of the bed, his arms and legs passing over the cold, untouched parts of the bedspread.
A mug appears on the side table. Bemused, Harry sits up to examine its contents. Some type of floral tea. The House-Elves must have prepared this specifically for him. Harry scoops up the mug with both hands and takes a careful sip. It is chrysanthemum tea with honey mixed in, sweet but not too sweet.
Harry empties half the mug before he slides off the bed and gets to his feet. His legs are stiff after lying in a curled position for so long, but some more stretching will fix that.
"Keepey?"
There is the tell-tale pop of House-Elf Apparition before Keepey says, in a low voice that matches Harry's own volume, "Yes, Master Harry?"
"Is Victor busy?"
"Master Victor is in the study room. He has asked not to be disturbed."
Harry won't send her to interrupt; he'll go do it himself. "Alright, thanks."
Keepey blinks her large eyes at him, her smile frozen in place, and that's when Harry remembers he isn't supposed to thank her. Of course, his next instinct is to apologize for the faux pas, which is an utterly unhelpful impulse.
"Dismissed," Harry says after a pause.
Once he is alone, Harry finishes the rest of his tea, savouring the taste of it. Then, when the mug is empty and he has no more reasons to stall, he makes his way over to the study.
Victor is seated at the far desk, work papers stacked in neat piles. Harry hovers in the doorway, unsure whether or not to interject. While he deliberates, he observes his husband's profile: handsome even with brows furrowed and eyes slightly squinted, regal even with the strain of running a nation resting upon his shoulders.
Victor's hand flies over sheets of parchment, dashing off lines in his elegant, looping script, articulate sentences that will raise magical Britain into a monolith. Now that they are no longer surrounded by magical Britain's upper class, Harry sees faint purple shadows under his husband's eyes. Has Victor been here since breakfast ended? Has he taken breaks to eat and drink water?
Harry misses the days when they shared everything together, every errant thought, every little detail that made up a day. Lately, Victor has been working so much, and Harry had assumed this was because Victor didn't want to spend time with him. But that isn't true. It can't be.
Victor takes pride in a job well done. He deserves every bit of praise delivered to his doorstep. It isn't his fault that Harry is so sensitive, is constantly on edge for reasons that barely make sense to himself. There are moments when he feels like a young, foolhardy teenager, especially when he and Victor stand side by side.
"Hey," Harry says softly.
Victor glances up, regards him with mild surprise. "Harry. I wasn't expecting you so soon."
Harry detaches from the door frame and walks over to the desk. "I missed you," he says, placing a hand on the flat wooden surface, his fingers resting inches from Victor's own.
After a second, Victor reaches out and tangles their hands together. "You know I dislike it when we argue."
"I know."
"I never mean to upset you. I care about you very deeply and I respect your opinions."
"I know."
Victor pushes back in his chair and rounds the corner to gather Harry into his arms. "I love you," Victor says, lips brushing against the shell of Harry's ear as Harry melts into the embrace. "I want what's best for us both."
Harry can't bring himself to respond a third time. He lays his head to rest on his husband's shoulder and shuts his eyes.
Victor's hand rubs slow, comforting circles over his back. "Did you want to rest tonight? I can make excuses to our guests, postpone the evening or put it off altogether."
All at once, Harry's chest is suffused with great affection. He loves this man. Harry lifts his head to gaze into Victor's eyes. "No, you don't have to do that. I know that these dinners are important to you."
"Not as important as you are."
Upon hearing those words, Harry feels so much better. "I can sit through another night of politics. I just—" He falters, the words resting on the tip of his tongue but unable to make themselves known.
"Yes?" Victor asks, large hands resting on Harry's waist, holding him close.
"I just want us to have some time together," Harry finishes lamely. "Just us."
Victor kisses his forehead. "Of course, darling. I'm sorry that work has gotten in the way of our time together. I know we've hardly seen each other lately, and the fault is mine—"
"I understand, though," Harry blurts out, determined to reassure. He doesn't want to hold Victor back—he couldn't bear to know that he'd dampened Victor's illustrious career with his own shortcomings. "You're the Minister. You have so much to do."
"We shall do something together very soon," Victor assures him. "It is the holidays, after all."
The relief that floods Harry's body is unparalleled. This is all he needs, to know that his presence is wanted. "I'd love that."
Victor smiles and smooths a hand over Harry's unruly hair. "Are you feeling better now? Did the nap help?"
"Yeah," Harry lies. "It did."
"I'm glad." Victor presses a light kiss to Harry's cheek. "Tonight should be relatively painless. I will do my best to keep you uninvolved."
"Okay," Harry says on automatic, but there is a lump forming in his throat. He'd love to—to stand proud by Victor's side, to keep pace with the constant rush of events that fill Victor's calendar, but he can't. It's too much, and that makes him feel as if he's disappointed Victor somehow, that maybe they aren't as suited for each other as he'd originally believed.
Victor smooths a hand across Harry's shoulder. "If you are feeling better, could you possibly do something for me?"
"Of course," Harry says at once. "Anything. What is it?"
"Would you mind rearranging the decorations downstairs? I find that the House-Elves, though well-intentioned, are lacking creativity. They mentioned how you adorned the manor in my absence and I was hoping you could do the same here."
Harry is only too happy to help. "Sure. Yes. I can do that, absolutely. Did you—do you have something in mind?"
"Whatever you think is best. I have the utmost faith in you, darling."
Harry warms all over at the endearment. "Okay. I'll do my best."
It takes less time to decorate Pleiades Landing than it had to decorate the manor. Harry applies his previous ideas, this time adding gold-rimmed shells and pearls to the mix. The end result is clean, elegant, and vaguely reminiscent of the ocean.
Photo frames on the mantelpiece glitter and glisten under twinkling fairy lights, and the roaring fireplace reflects in all of the golden trinkets scattered around the sitting room. Harry is tentatively pleased with his work, and he hopes Victor will like the arrangement as well.
With less than an hour to go before dinner, Harry returns to the master bedroom to shower, change his clothes, and tidy his hair. There are clothes laid out for him on the bed, likely left there by the House-Elves under Victor's direction. Harry readies for the evening then sits downstairs and waits for his husband.
Victor does not appear until their guests arrive. He is dressed handsomely in fine charcoal dress robes with beautiful silver trimmings. His hair is coiffed to perfection, framing his intelligent eyes and striking angular features. He kisses Harry on the cheek before he moves to the door, his politician's smile firmly in place as the House-Elves take heavy winter cloaks from their visitors.
The rest of the night is predictable. Victor dazzles the room, compliments the women and flatters the men. He drinks in the admiration of their guests with a carefully controlled air of deference. It's impressive how well Victor can charm a crowd, big or small. He wears their attention like a flattering cloak, much better than Harry ever could.
Harry exists on the periphery—he never wants to be the center of attention, never wants the pressure or scrutiny that comes from being a public figure—and cheers his husband on. Aside from their guests' occasional attempt to include him in conversation, Harry is, as promised, uninvolved in the evening's festivities. He blends into the luxurious surroundings he had so painstakingly arranged.
Victor occasionally nods and smiles in his direction but otherwise keeps his focus on Karkaroff and Poliakoff. This is what Harry had wanted, what he'd asked for, but—
It is unsettling. It is a reminder of how much he does not belong. Harry usually feels like a stranger at these parties, navigating unfamiliar political waters, but tonight the distance is more pronounced.
By the time the evening has drawn to a close, Harry is more than ready to retire to bed. They head to the door, they smile and shake hands. Harry thanks their guests for attending with what he hopes is a passable amount of enthusiasm.
When the front door finally shuts, Harry breathes a silent sigh of relief.
"To bed?" he asks as he turns to Victor.
"Tonight has been rather exhausting," Victor agrees, tucking an arm around Harry's waist. "But I think we've made some wonderful progress tonight."
It's telling that Harry's not entirely sure what progress Victor is talking about. "It went well," he settles for saying.
Victor continues to talk about the evening while Harry listens, half-attentive. Some of the context goes over his head, but he does his best to keep up. Victor walks them down the hall and towards the stairs. Harry spares a glance in the direction of the sitting room. His hard work, fancy tinsel and twinkling lights, have served their purpose as the backdrop to his husband's successful dinner party.
Upstairs, Harry and Victor change into pyjamas and wash up in the bathroom together. They tuck themselves under the covers, Harry on the right side of the bed and Victor on the left. They kiss goodnight, as is their habit to do. Were this any other night, they might have made love, but Harry is knackered from all the socializing and he's sure his husband feels the same way.
They go to sleep. Harry cuddles up to Victor's chest and rests well for the first time all week, a deep sleep free of dreams.
When he wakes the next morning, the left half of the bed is cold and empty.
It is with a sinking feeling in his stomach that Harry scans the room for signs of his husband. There is the bathroom, where the lights are off; the vanity, which is tidy and bare; the hooks attached to the door, missing Victor's suit jacket; and lastly, the side table, where a neatly-folded note awaits.
Harry lies back down on the bed. He shuts his eyes, suddenly exhausted, and goes back to sleep.
.
My darling Harry,
I have been called away to deal with an emergency at the office. I shall do my best to return soon, but unfortunately it seems very unlikely that I will be able to share Christmas with you this year. In my absence, please make use of the house as you see fit.
For what it is worth, I am sorry.
Yours,
Victor
.
Harry orders the House-Elves to strip the house of its decorations. He has the pine trees removed from the front yard. He burns strands of popcorn in the fireplace and, after a moment of stone-faced contemplation, tosses Victor's letter in there as well.
The parchment blackens and curls, crumbling to ashes on the hearth, grey smoke drifting up the chimney.
Harry leaves it to burn. He spends the next few days mostly in his room, sitting morosely on the balcony or lying face down on the bed. He reads 'Quidditch Through the Ages' for the thousandth time. He places all five remaining vials of Fanciful Fantasy Potion into the side table drawer and tries in vain to forget how he felt in Tom Riddle's arms.
Victor's absence makes him angry. Couldn't anyone else be called to the Ministry to deal with this very important emergency? Half the things Victor deems necessary to handle personally are because he doesn't trust anyone else to do them. If he wanted to, he could set aside the time. He could delegate. He could make room for Harry in his life, the way he used to.
Harry has made plenty of excuses on Victor's behalf, but enough is enough. Victor's abrupt departure, him leaving nothing but a note behind, is the last straw.
If Victor would rather rub noses with the likes of Malfoy and Karkaroff, then fine. Fine. If this is what it takes to run a nation, then it's become quite clear that Harry has no place in it. More and more recently, Harry feels like he isn't enough, and Victor's note is proof of that delivered in the cruelest, most distant of ways.
On Christmas Eve, Harry uncorks his second vial of fantasy potion and swallows it down. He feels nothing but vindication as he imagines the dream world he wants.
A world where Tom proposed to him and he said yes.
A/N:
next up: we take a look at the world where harry and tom got married. i'd love to hear any thoughts or predictions you have!
