And if you're ever tired of being known
For who you know
You know, you'll always know me
—dorothea, track 8.
.
Chapter 6
you'll go on with the show.
"Go on then," Molly says. She's beaming from ear to ear, gesturing with a flap of her hand. "Ask!"
Everyone turns to look at Harry.
Harry doesn't know what they want him to ask. He doesn't know, but then he does, because Molly is not speaking to him, rather—
She is speaking to Tom.
Tom, who has pushed back his chair and is sinking down to one knee in front of everyone, the most affectionate look in his eyes.
"You are the love of my life," Tom says earnestly. "You complete me, you see me as I am and accept every part of me. I trust you with my life, with my heart, with my soul. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Harry. If you'd have me."
Tom raises a glittering diamond ring into the air. It dazzles, each facet shining with the light of a thousand sunlit days. "Harry, darling, would you do me the honour of becoming my husband?"
"Yes," Harry says. Then, louder: "Yes, a million times, yes."
The light of Tom's smile, Harry thinks to himself as he is swept into a passionate kiss, it could rival the sun.
He and Tom have a summer wedding. At Harry's request, it is a simple affair. Friends, family, and vows to love each other for the rest of their lives. Harry is deliriously happy throughout the entire ceremony. Even after months spent coming home to Tom's arms every night, he can't believe that Tom really wants him. Wants to spend the rest of his life with him.
The wedding day is a dream come true. Harry never drifts far from Tom's side. He doesn't want to. When Tom is next to him, everything is wonderful and amazing.
As the evening progresses, a few people—plus ones mostly—come up to ask for Harry's autograph. Harry is embarrassed every time, moreso because Tom has to stand around and wait for him to scribble his name on a Transfigured scrap of paper for whoever it is.
"Sorry," Harry says repeatedly. "I know this isn't ideal."
Tom only smiles. "You're influential, darling. I could hardly fault you for it."
"It's inconvenient, is what it is."
Tom deserves more recognition than Harry does. As the Minister's Undersecretary, Tom contributes a great deal to society. All Harry does is fly around and catch a golden ball.
Tom tucks an arm around Harry's waist. "If you like, I can glower at anyone who dares to approach you."
It is not a serious offer. At least, Harry doesn't think it is. Tom has a reputation to uphold. He can hardly afford to offend people by glaring at anyone who asks for Harry's autograph.
"I'm fine," Harry says. "Really." It isn't as if the problem will go away any time soon.
"My husband, the famous Quidditch star," Tom says fondly. He studies Harry's face for a moment, then says, "Let's dance. People won't interrupt if we occupy ourselves with each other."
It is an excellent plan. They ditch their glasses and step onto the ballroom floor just as a slow song starts to play. Tom holds him close and sways them in time with the music.
Harry feels better right away. He feels happy. Tom's eyes are warm and filled with flecks of brilliant gold reflected from the surrounding lights.
"I love you," Harry says, not for the first time today and certainly not for the last.
A fond smile curls the corner of Tom's mouth. "And I love you," he replies, and isn't it funny how Harry's heart still lurches at the words?
Harry buries his face against Tom's shoulder to hide. Tom traces the side of Harry's jaw with just the very tips of his fingers, like Harry is made of porcelain.
Tom loves him. Repeating this in his mind gives Harry courage to raise his head and say, "I'm not fragile, you know."
"Oh, believe me, I know." Tom's brows rise partly up his forehead. "You certainly enjoy reminding me of that fact with every death-defying Qudditch stunt you pull."
Harry wants to roll his eyes at that. "It's hardly that dire."
Tom grins and pulls Harry into a spin. "Shall I worry about something else instead? The handsome men who will vie for your magnanimous attention? Seekers tend to have quite the fan followings, you know."
Harry blushes scarlet, heart squirming in his chest. "Not me."
"No, no, it's perfect," Tom insists. There is a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he continues, "The world is ours for the taking. Ugly orange merchandise and never-ending autographs... Pointless paperwork and vital conversations about newt tails..."
"I think you forgot about the thickness of cauldron bottoms," Harry teases. "Or has that issue finally been sorted?"
"I will be elected Minister for Magic before Percy Weasley is satisfied with cauldron safety laws," Tom remarks flatly, and he looks so miffed that Harry can't help but laugh. He loves this man. He loves Tom.
The two of them dance for another song, then another. Harry lays his head on Tom's shoulder and relishes in the safety of his husband's embrace. The world turns at a perfect speed, and Harry has never felt more joy than he does when he looks into Tom's eyes.
"Have you given the Cannons an answer yet?" Tom asks eventually.
The question is kindly delivered. It leaves room for a gentle rebuff. Despite that room, Harry finds it difficult to speak.
"Not yet," Harry admits. "I've still got another season to ride out with Lancashire, anyway." But he knows he's been stalling. He is afraid to commit. Playing for the Cannons is a step up from playing for Lancashire. If he signs this contract, he will be ushered into a new level of celebrity.
"Whatever you decide," Tom says, "I support you. But this is a wonderful opportunity for you and for your career."
Harry knows this already. Tom knows that he knows this already.
"Ron would be thrilled," Harry jokes.
"He would."
Tom would be thrilled, too.
"I'll tell them after the honeymoon is over," Harry finally says. He wants to be worthy of marrying someone like Tom. This is a way of securing that worth. "Let's just enjoy the night."
Tom kisses his forehead. "Of course, love. My wish is your command."
The Cannons are a rowdy bunch, more boisterous than Harry's old team by far. The job of Seeker doesn't require loads of interaction, but Harry still feels out of place for the first several practices. He sits in on strategy sessions so he knows when to stay out of the team's way, and eventually cobbles together a cheerful, funny version of himself that blends in with the rest.
It isn't all for show—there are times when he forgets and enjoys himself—but it is a lot of effort.
Then Ron buys an ugly chartreuse Lancashire jersey for Tom as a joke, and for some unfathomable reason Tom wears it to all of Harry's home games. It fills Harry with joy and something close to pride when he sees his husband dressed in Lancashire's hideous team colours.
Tom frets over Harry at the end of every match, scowling at the Healers and glaring at the opposite team with enough animosity to kill. Harry is embarrassed to death by all the fussing, but he still wouldn't have it any other way.
While Harry plays Quidditch, Tom rises through the Ministry. He has friends everywhere, in high places as well as low ones. He works closely with Percy to reform the laws around cauldron standards. He leaves Hermione's research papers on the Minister's desk. There are photographs and postcards from Harry's away games that Tom pins to a board in his office.
To keep their new marriage strong, Tom visits as often as he can, braving the discomfort of long-distance Apparition that Harry is never able to stomach. When Tom can't visit, he writes letters full of sweet words and reassurances.
Tom has been his sanctuary for so long. Tom would give him anything in the world. It's just Harry doesn't know how to ask for it. He doesn't know how to ask and he thinks he never will. Marriage is a commitment that sometimes he feels unprepared for. Sometimes he is terrified that they will fall apart. Because he falls apart. That is what he does. He falls apart.
But Tom loves him. Tom loves him so much that Harry thinks it can work. They can conquer anything so long as they're doing it together. Harry wants this to be true more than he wants anything in the world.
So when the doubts creep in, Harry holds them off. He holds them off with Tom's affirmations— I miss you, I'm thinking of you —and memories of Tom's warm, affectionate smile.
But the distance is unbearable. More so when Tom is a constant feature in the papers, just as famous as Harry is. Tom will be Minister someday, Harry has never doubted that, but now the whole world agrees with him.
It's silly. He shouldn't feel jealous that other people want to support his husband. He shouldn't be angry at other people for taking so long to see what he's known all along. It's just… Harry saw him first. Harry saw Tom first. He knows, has always known, that Tom was destined for greatness. Greatness that miraculously includes Harry.
That is where the rot begins. That is where it digs its brutal claws into his ribs and tears him up with insecurities. If the world adores Tom, if Tom has the world at his feet, if Tom can have anyone he wants—
Why the hell does he want Harry?
Tom is so busy and important and Harry…
Harry just plays Quidditch.
I'm busy this weekend, Harry writes. Booked solid with practices. Don't waste your time.
He'd never manage to say these words to Tom's face, but on parchment, the words look alright. They are the right words to say.
If you need me, Tom writes back, I am always here for you.
He always needs Tom. He needs Tom so much that it is a sickness in him. A sickness of needing. If Tom knew how pathetic he was, desperate for scraps of attention from his own husband—
It is too much. Harry hates himself. Without Tom around, it is easier to remember why he hates himself.
Once the season is over, Harry writes. Another flimsy excuse that Hedwig carries off into the sky. Another day of stalling.
Once the season is over, Harry writes, but misery curls in his chest whenever he catches sight of Daily Prophet headlines with Tom's name in them. Tom at extravagant charity events. Tom aiding the Minister with progressive legislation. Tom without Harry by his side.
Harry takes longer and longer to write back. He uses different excuses to put it off. He is busy. Tom certainly is busy.
Days go by and each day feels harder than the last. Harry sinks into his isolation and it feels like coming home.
Barely a week passes before Tom shows up unannounced. Harry is both terrified and irritated. Terrified of what Tom will say and irritated that Tom has seen through him so easily.
"You can't just show up," Harry says after Tom kisses him in greeting. Then he winces at his own thoughtlessness.
Tom raises a brow. "You stopped writing."
"I've just been, you know," Harry says, fumbling the words before they even leave his mouth, "I've been busy with practice. Coach really thinks we have a shot at the cup this year." He smiles, tries to look excited.
"Harry." Tom levels him with a look of pure reprimand. "Is there something you're not telling me? Is something the matter?"
"There's nothing wrong."
Tom goes quiet for what feels like ages. Then he removes his cloak and hangs it on one of the hooks next to the door of Harry's hotel room.
"Let's sit down," Tom says.
Harry doesn't have much of a choice. He follows Tom to the couch. "I said nothing's the matter."
Tom's mouth flattens. Harry feels bad. He feels bad for lying and he feels terrible that Tom came all the way out here to spend time with a miserable person.
"I'm fine," Harry insists. He reaches for Tom's hand and gives it a squeeze. "Really. And the team has home games coming up soon. Time for us to spend together."
"I know," Tom says. There's a hint of irritation to his tone that sets Harry on edge. "I know your schedule," he amends, expression softening. "And I know you, Harry."
Harry lifts his lips into a smile. "You do." He shifts forward, a tiny meteor pulled into Tom's orbit. "So we'll make plans," he says with levity. "We'll go for a walk or something. If you have the time, that is."
"I always have time for you." Tom frowns. "You know I would come to see you whenever you asked."
Harry does know that. What he doesn't know is why it's so hard for him to ask.
"You're busy," Harry mumbles. "I don't mind it."
It is a stupidly-transparent lie. Tom makes time for him. It's one of the many reasons why Harry loves him so much.
"You don't have to mind it. Why don't we go for dinner right now?" Tom offers a patient smile. "Or we can order in. Whatever you like."
"Let's order in," Harry says before he can overthink it. If he stops to consider the options, he'll end up agreeing to go out, which is the last thing he really wants.
"Sounds wonderful." Tom kisses his cheek and pulls away. "I'll just pop out to consult the hotel staff. I'll be back shortly."
Harry waits on the couch. His brain is too full and too empty all at once. Full of the endless worries that torment him and empty of… everything else. He feels drained. He loves Tom, but some days it feels like he only holds the worst parts of love inside of him. Love that hurts and maims. Love that burns and ends in ashes.
Tom returns with a menu in hand. "What do you think?" he asks, setting the brochure on Harry's lap. "The concierge assured me that this is the best local restaurant in the area."
Harry skims through the options and narrows his choice down to a simple pasta dish. "It all looks great, but, um, maybe this one? For me. And we can split some appetizers."
"That sounds perfect."
Tom picks up the hotel phone and places the order. Listening to the conversation helps Harry relax. He slouches against the couch cushions and takes deep, steadying breaths. By the time Tom is done ordering, Harry feels almost normal. He thinks can get through the rest of the night without ruining it.
Tom sets the phone aside and turns back around. "Do you want to sit with me?" he asks.
Harry knows what the question means. There's a lump in his throat that stops him from answering right away. He does want to sit with Tom, but also… he doesn't.
"Okay," Harry says anyway, because Tom probably wants them to, he wants them to sit together because they're married and that's what married people do.
Harry shuffles across and lets Tom pull him close. His legs drape over Tom's lap, his head nestles against Tom's shoulder. It's a comfortable position. Harry's fallen asleep like this a dozen times before. So he tries to be calm and enjoy it, but his mind won't shut up.
"I'm tired," Harry blurts suddenly, without really thinking about what he's saying or even why he's saying it.
Tom's hand moves to cover Harry's. It squeezes down. Grounding. "Did you want to go to bed early?"
"No," Harry says. He pauses, mouth dry, and then stumbles over the next thing he says, which is: "I'm—I'm tired."
This time, the emphasis isn't lost on Tom. His embrace tightens the slightest bit, his arm curving protectively around Harry's waist.
Harry doesn't want the arm there anymore. He wants to get up and walk away. He wants to go to the bedroom that isn't his bedroom because this isn't their flat and this isn't who he is or who he wants to be. He wants to get through one fucking meal with Tom without these random waves of exhaustion wiping him out, but he can't.
Harry shuts his eyes and tries not to cry.
Tom's hand settles on the nape of his neck. It is, by all means, a gentle touch. Tentative, though Tom is never tentative. Soft, though Tom's heart is a closed-off thing that beats warmth only for Harry.
Then Tom says, "Why didn't you tell me you were unhappy?"
And Harry feels like he's been stabbed.
A sob claws its way up his throat. Harry keeps his lips pressed shut, keeps the noise inside. It's not Tom's fault. It's not Tom. But Tom's words sound like an accusation. They bounce around in his skull and echo other things back at him.
Why didn't you tell me?
Why don't you say anything?
Useless.
What is wrong with you?
Freak.
But Tom isn't blaming him. Tom doesn't do anything wrong. It's Harry who is wrong.
Harry struggles to get a grip on his guilt. He beats it into submission, stuffing it into a box for later. Later, once Tom is gone. Once Harry has convinced him everything is fine. But as Harry sits up, denials flood into his mouth and they taste like bile. He's so tense he can barely breathe.
"I'm—" he starts, stops.
Tom's eyes are so sad. They're so sad, and that hurts Harry more than any blunt words could have.
Harry drops his gaze to the couch cushions. He wishes things weren't this way. He wishes he wasn't here at all.
"Sorry," Harry says, when he's brave enough to glance up.
Tom shakes his head.
Tom should go. He should go and not look back. But Harry could never tell Tom to leave him. The time for that passed long, long ago. Harry has trapped Tom in this marriage and now they're both suffering for it.
"You're doing your best, Harry."
"Well, it's not fucking enough," Harry snaps back.
To his credit, Tom doesn't flinch. But it's not like Harry expects him to.
"You're doing your best," Tom repeats. He glances at Harry's hands—balled fists pressed knuckle-first into the thighs. "The only other thing I'd ever ask of you," he says quietly, "is that you do so by my side. That you stay by my side, forever, the way we promised each other we would."
Harry wishes that could be true. He wishes he had more time. Time to force a sunny laugh and fake a proper smile. Time to make himself a good husband for Tom.
"I am always here for you," Tom continues. "In here—" He steps close enough to rest his palm over Harry's heart. "And in here." He raises his hand to Harry's forehead, fingertips touching once.
Harry doesn't understand. At least, he doesn't think he understands. His heart pounds at a ridiculous rate, stricken by irrational fears he can't seem to shake.
"I know things aren't easy right now. I know you're hurting. But I promise, Harry, I swear it won't be this way forever. Do you believe me?"
Harry really wants to believe him. He really, really wants to.
"I want to," Harry says, and there, he's being honest for once. He's being honest about what he wants.
"Then trust me." Tom reaches for his hands and holds them so tightly that it ought to hurt.
"I just want to be happy with you," Harry says in a small voice. "I want to be happy with you forever." Tears slip down his face, heavy, sticky drops that soak into the collar of his shirt. Harry feels like he's boiling over.
Tom kisses his forehead. "You don't need me to be happy, Harry," he says. "You can be happy on your own, too. You just need to remember that."
"I don't—" Harry falters. Tom is smiling, but it's a sad smile. And his eyes are rich and warm, like molten dark chocolate. Harry can't bring himself to look away.
Tom presses his lips to Harry's forehead a second time, but Harry feels nothing. Not even a hint of pressure. It's like he's been kissed by a ghost.
"I'll see you soon, my love," Tom says. Now his eyes are so dark they look nearly black. "Take care of yourself. As best you can. I'll be waiting for you to come back to me."
"Where—where are you going?" Harry says the words, but his voice is distorted, like he's speaking through several layers of glass, and the world around him is so, so dark.
The last thing Harry hears before he wakes up in his bedroom, cold and alone, is Tom's gentle voice:
"I'm not the one leaving, Harry. You are."
A/N:
happy new year! and happy belated birthday to tom :')
