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Chapter Six: A Different Kind of Freedom. Part 2

In the end, it all came down to a linear plan of actions.

To survive this separation, he had to prove himself to Harry. To prove himself, he had to repeatedly impress him with his sincerity and dedication. For that, he had to keep doing something new and awe-inspiring or undoing something old and unsavoury every other day. The more he worked, the sooner Harry would return.

Having a system like this gave him stability. His days weren't meaningless anymore — each gave him a chance to win a little piece of Harry's trust back, and finally, Tom began to look forward to the future.

He decided to start with minor things, namely, with Alice Whinterly.

After Harry had tried to protect her from the rib-breaking spell and then spent the entire day with her at Mungo's, she developed some sort of infatuation. At first, Tom tried to ignore it. Whinterly wasn't the only person charmed by Harry, even though she was the most obvious about it. But the more it went on, the more irritating it got.

Whinterly was actually making an effort. She started doing her Defence homework rigorously; she was active during lessons and insisted on having private meetings with Harry at least several times a week. She was absolutely pathetic in her belief that if she worked hard enough, he would look at her twice, and Tom's patience ran out very quickly.

She acted like a whore? She deserved to be treated like one.

That very night, he and Avery broke into the Potions classroom and brew Amortentia; Avery spiked Whinterly's food with it the next morning.

Watching her pant after him was hilarious. It also gave Tom a deep sense of satisfaction because she forgot all about Harry, and her presence wasn't poisoning his classroom any longer. Avery consumed her every thought — she couldn't be less of a nuisance if she tried.

Well, for him, at least. Avery would have disagreed.

He had no idea what happened to her afterwards. Had the effect worn off or was she still affected? Knowing Mulciber and Lestrange, they could make a potion of their own and give it to her to prolong the fun.

So, Tom sent a brief note to Mulciber. Then he grabbed his half-written letter to Harry and added a new passage to it.

There is something I have to tell you, he wrote. I believe you remember Alice Whinterly? She developed quite an interest in you. Well, it never stopped. She also never fell in love with Avery. I had her doused with Amortentia to put an end to her obsession with you. I cannot apologise for this because I don't feel sorry, but I'm going to rectify this situation immediately in case she is still not herself. I already sent an owl to Mulciber and Lestrange. I assure you, nothing like this will ever happen again.

It wouldn't happen largely because of the ritual and the certainty it brought, but even Tom found this justification disturbing. These days, he preferred not to think about what he'd done and focus on what he could correct instead.

He didn't think the letter was complete — there was still so much to say, but he couldn't wait. He wanted to see Harry's reaction as soon as possible.

Apophis was sunbathing on his windowsill, for a change. A red ribbon was tied to his leg, and Tom muttered a spell, transforming it back into green. At this point, it was a ritual he and Harry shared whenever they sent a new letter to one another. There was little sense in it, but still, Tom enjoyed it with every fibre. Apophis and this ribbon were the most physical link he had with Harry, and every time he saw the red colour, a ridiculous smile bloomed on his face.

Soon, his home-changing bird was gone, and he apparated onto Hogwarts' territory. This was one of the perks of his new hero status: the teachers didn't insist on him living in the castle all the time. Somehow, pretending to kill Grindelwald meant that he was considered an adult now, and Tom twisted it to his advantage in every possible way he could think of.

The walk was pleasantly quiet. When he entered the Slytherin Common Room, Mulciber's grim voice caught his attention.

"…again. So if something goes wrong and Potter—"

Tom's magic instantly filled the room, crackling in a warning. A deep silence followed. Mulciber sent him a surprised stare, flinched, and ducked his head in shame.

"I meant… Him," he muttered awkwardly. Lestrange gave him a glare.

Ignoring them both, Tom walked inside and took his seat in front of the fireplace. Despite his absence, the chair remained empty, and that soothed the flickers of slow-burning anger in him.

Hearing others say Harry's name was… intolerable. He didn't know why. When it came to saying it himself, he thrived on it — this was the purest and the most beautiful sound in the world. But coming from the lips of others, it made something in his chest coil tight, filling him with possessiveness so fierce, it knocked the breath out of him.

Harry's name was one of very few things he had left right now. And it belonged to him. No one else had the right to say it.

Tom would prefer for his followers to simply never discuss Harry again, but if they insisted, he supposed 'Him' was better than 'He Who Must Not Be Named.' He didn't need any more parallels than he was already forced to live with.

"How is the alliance between the Malfoys and the Weasleys going?" he inquired. Black, his most controversial ally, straightened his back.

"Gradually," he replied. His voice was quiet but commanding, and it reminded Tom why he rarely gave him orders. It seemed like Black was too much of a black sheep to obey anyone: he followed Tom because he wanted to, but if he ever stopped or didn't like some request, Tom had a feeling that there wouldn't be much he could do about it.

Not that he was particularly invested in the first place.

"And?" he asked when nothing else followed.

"Alcyoneus and Audrey are now aware of each other in a more positive context," Black added carefully. Lestrange and Mulciber burst out laughing.

"Well, that does sound inspiring," Mulciber said a moment later, a grin still twisting his lips. "When can we expect the wedding Tom is so interested in? Next century?"

"Could be sooner," Black said calmly. The other two idiots dissolved in their laughter again, and Tom heaved a sigh. They were effective when needed, but outside of work, observing them was exhausting.

"That satisfies me," he said before someone had a chance to add more nonsense. "Lestrange, Mulciber, any progress with the Muggle-borns?"

Lestrange grimaced. This was to be expected — prejudice couldn't be eradicated in several short years, but to Tom's surprise, Mulciber suddenly flushed.

…Well. This was surprising for sure.

"No!" Lestrange gasped. He must have noticed the strange reaction, too. "You couldn't!"

"He definitely couldn't," Black agreed. He was also gaping at Mulciber, and Tom rolled his eyes.

He'd left his and Harry's home because he thought he was needed here. Apparently, it was a mistake. He had no desire to listen to Lestrange and Black trying to get Mulciber to talk about his new girlfriend.

Then again… Mulciber and a Muggle-born. Interesting. And very beneficial in a long-term perspective because if one of his closest pureblood allies was married to someone with a status like this, it could significantly facilitate the implementation of his ideas and policies.

"Calder," Tom drawled. Mulciber jumped, giving him a wary look, probably startled by the use of his name. "Tell me more."

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Harry didn't reply for over a week. After nine days and four hours with no answer, Tom brought out the Pensieve, put one of his memories there, and dived inside.

It was one of the earliest moments in his and Harry's life together. At this point, Tom couldn't remember how it happened, but shortly after he started to call Harry by his first name, he got sick. It was some common Muggle infection that gave him a fever and filled every bone in his body with screeching ache. His limbs felt like they weighted a ton, and even the soft clothes he was wearing chafed against his back uncomfortably.

But the most important thing was, Harry was with him. He spent every minute by his side, leaving only to cook, make new potions, and take quick showers. This went on for two days. He read to him, stroked his hair, slept in the chair next to him, and Tom had no idea what to think or how to feel about it. Back at the orphanage, when he got ill, he coped with his failing body by himself. Such days were an absolute nightmare, but his magic helped him to recover sooner than other children. What Harry was doing became a wholly new experience, and the only thing he could do was stare.

The memory he'd managed to extract was more vivid than anything else he could recall from that period. In his mind, the images had strange colours because his fever altered his perception a bit, making it hazy, but the Pensieve showed an objective picture. And it was his chance to explore his past with Harry anew, noting down every additional detail and storing it, then using them all as a fuel to sustain himself. The gaping hole in his chest could only ever be filled with one person, and if memories was all he got, he would rely on them until Harry himself returned.

"Is it better now?" Harry from the memory was saying. His features were drawn tight with concern, and Tom's heart swelled at the sight. Harry hadn't changed at all — the same lovely youthful face he'd be seeing years from this distant moment.

"No," Tom's younger version grumbled. "Stop talking."

Tom gave him a quick look. The boy was sweaty, dishevelled, and frustrated, but the way he followed Harry's words and movements… He might have wanted Harry to shut up, but he was also worrying that he would. Because no matter how much he refused to admit it, he found Harry's attention and his gentleness bewitching even then. He didn't understand it, but he wanted more of it. And this was just the beginning.

"It'll work soon," Harry told him. He looked doubly concerned now. Instead of using a spell like any self-respecting wizard, he picked up a piece of cloth soaked in water and began to brush it against Tom's face. His movements were soft and slow, and the genuine care in them clearly perplexed the younger Tom. He stared at Harry with wide eyes, captivated despite his pathetic physical state.

"This must be a particularly nasty infection," Harry murmured. "Even my potion making skills aren't that bad. The thing I've brewed had to start working already."

"The thing," Tom managed to cough out. "Well, that explains why it didn't work. You don't even know how it's called. You're a lousy potion maker."

Harry paused before snorting with laughter.

"And you're an excellent critic even when you're bed-ridden," he said dryly. "I should have known."

"'Course I am," Tom mumbled. His eyes started to close, but then he suddenly jerked, seeking Harry out with panicked gaze.

"Shhh," Harry whispered. "It's okay. I'm with you, I'm not going anywhere."

His hand slid up Tom's forehead, pushing the wet strands of hair away. Instantly, the tension left his body. He relaxed into the touch, watching Harry with sleepy eyes.

"You need to rest," Harry told him quietly. "Sleep. I'll watch over you. When you wake up, you'll feel much better. I promise."

"Why would I trust your promises," Tom grumbled. He didn't sound genuinely suspicious, and Harry must have felt it, too, because a warm smile touched the corner of his lips.

"I haven't lied to you yet, have I?" he asked. "I even brought you those insane ingredients you wanted."

"Haven't expected you to," Tom replied. At this point, his eyes were shut, and the memory began to darken. "Didn't like seeing you hurt. Strange."

Tom caught the surprised look on Harry's face before everything faded entirely. He was thrust back into his room. Blinking, he stared at the Pensieve, and the familiar combination of warmth and sharp longing twisted his gut.

Watching all these scenes was both a gift and a curse. It took a while for him to recover, but week after week, he chose one of the memories and watched it. It made him feel closer to Harry for those precious minutes he spent inside, yet once he found himself in the present, Harry's absence felt like a fresh wound that no spell could mend.

Yes. A gift and a curse simultaneously. And something Tom was incapable of giving up.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Harry's reply came two days later. By that time, Tom could barely focus on his studies, so when Apophis barged in during one of the lessons, he stood up and left without bothering to ask for permission. His hands were shaking as he tore the envelope open and fixed his unblinking stare on the letter.

Dear Tom,

There is not a moment of rest with you, is there? Every time I think you won't be able to surprise me, you prove me wrong.

Amortentia? You gave Alice Amortentia and left her in this state for months? Over what, a completely innocent interest in me? I wrote a long letter telling you what I think of your overblown, completely inappropriate reactions, but then I discarded it because what's the point? You already know everything I think about it.

I was extremely angry at first, but after I gave myself several days to cool off, I realised how important it is that you decided to tell me about it. You didn't have to. I would have never found out otherwise and I wouldn't have one more reason to be upset with you. But you told me, and it means something. Actually, it means a lot.

Addressing your other points: yes, I saw your interview. Your photo, too — the Prophet seems half in love with your image, with how often they plaster it all over the front page. Or is it the reporter you're speaking to?

I wonder what they all are going to think when they figure out that you don't get older. Good luck explaining why the future minister looks sixteen!

I miss you too. You know it.

I'm sending that memory of my fight with Grindelwald you asked for. And no, I don't need his wand, but thank you for offering. I didn't think you'd ever want to part with it after learning what it represents.

Please don't skip lessons. I might not be a Hogwarts teacher any longer, but I still expect you to graduate like you had to. Your alleged victory over Grindelwald doesn't mean you're above such things now.

When is the next interview? And who'll be interviewing you this time?

Yours,

Harry

Tom released the breath he'd been holding. Giddiness erupted, and he grinned, raising his burning face up and enjoying the wind blowing from the open window.

Who knew that telling the truth could feel so rewarding? Maybe Harry had felt angry at first, but he got over it quickly enough. Everything was all right between them, and Tom had definitely scored some points for being sincere and confessing.

For a minute, he simply enjoyed the moment. Then he looked through the letter again.

Harry had a point about his age. He completed the ritual when he was sixteen, and it meant that his body froze in its youthful shape just like Harry's. He looked a little older — older than Harry, actually, but in several years, people would start noticing.

He didn't mind explaining why he stopped aging — when others learned of his immortality, his reputation would take yet another boost. But Harry was right. A minister who looked sixteen? The mere idea of it was ridiculous. No, he had to think of something.

The vial with Harry's memory was small and cool to the touch. Tom clenched it in his hand carefully. He wanted to go out, apparate home, and look into the Pensieve right now, but one of the last passages in the letter caught his attention again.

Please don't skip lessons.

What was he, twelve?

Still… Harry asked him. And it meant that Tom had to honour his request.

With a sigh, he pocketed the letter and the vial. Then, after putting the most apologetic smile on his face, he re-entered Slughorn's office.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Hogwarts had its share of Pensieves, but for some reason, Tom wanted to view this particular memory in the safety of his and Harry's home. In the evening, after most students went to sleep, he slipped outside and did just that.

Initially, he wanted to see what had truly happened in case he'd made a mistake when sharing his fake story with the public. If someone noticed some inconsistency, he wanted to have an answer prepared, and for that, he needed to witness what injuries Harry had inflicted on Grindelwald step by step.

But when the memory started, all thoughts about his political plans and worries about his lies dwindled to nothing. Harry and his fight consumed every part of his mind, and even though he knew, he knew Harry was safe, terror still gripped his heart.

It was close. It was unacceptably close. Harry moved like a whirlwind, but Grindelwald was far more powerful. His spells were all deadly, his shields so strong that Harry could slip only the tiniest curses underneath them.

Granted, it was a brilliant strategy, one Tom would have never thought of using. He would be enraged by the challenge and he would throw every ounce of magic he had to prove his superiority and break the shields in their entirety. Harry used a sneakier way.

A very Slytherin way.

"Incredibly average," Harry from the memory mocked when one of his spells cut Grindelwald's shoulder almost in half. "Seems like killing children is all you're good at. And you thought you could handle Tom? Please. You can't defeat even an insignificant, mediocre Hogwarts teacher."

A startled rush of warmth swirled inside Tom's chest. He grinned as the feeling of pride tickled him, reminding him of how ridiculously pleasing it was to receive Harry's praise, especially in the context where he never expected his name to be mentioned.

But his smile died in the very next second. Grindelwald threw another spell, and this time, Harry couldn't fight it. He crashed into the wall, his wand slipping from his fingers, and Tom gasped before he could stop himself.

No, no, it couldn't be right. If Harry was disarmed, didn't it mean that he was no longer the Master of Death? Maybe he was going to overpower Grindelwald in turn?

But without his wand? It was impossible. So how…

The next crash proved to be fatal. Tom jerked forwards as Harry's consciousness blurred and faded, replaced by a cold state of darkness.

Long after Tom was thrown out of the memory, his heart kept hammering violently, almost making his ribcage creak.

Experiencing death, even in someone else's memory, even for the second time, was eerie. His own body was filled with buzzing tension now, trying to instinctively recoil from the shadow of mortality he had just witnessed. But even the echoes of death paled when compared with the fact it was Harry who died. It was Harry who had experienced it, whose mind went still before some higher power restarted it.

Maybe watching this memory wasn't a good idea.

Trembling, Tom licked his dry lips and clenched his hand around the letter. The familiar comforting motion instantly soothed him, so he tried to focus on something else before the memories repeated their assault.

How could Harry still be immortal? Did he even know it himself? Or had he thought he was dying for good in that moment?

Maybe he should ask about it. Writing his thoughts down would help — it would take his mind off the disturbing images and sensations.

With self-enforced calmness, Tom left the room, his fingers still wrapped around Harry's letter. Then he grabbed the quill and began to write his own.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

In between attending lessons and waiting for Harry's response, Tom went to the cemetery. Now that Whinterly had been successfully unenchanted, he had to do something else — something small and insignificant that Harry could appreciate. Bringing Charlus Potter's ring back to his grave seemed like a good next step.

A part of Tom despised this necessity. He had procured this ring for Harry — he had set up a brilliant plan and succeeded in executing it despite being twelve at the time.

On the other hand… this ring had been bought by another person for some nobody. None of it was directly connected to Harry. Certainly he deserved better than this. The ring was Tom's murder trophy — it was proof of his brilliance, not his devotion.

He would have to get another ring for Harry. And this time, it would have to be meaningful — it would have to be something Harry would like.

He was still thinking about it when he approached the grave. It hadn't changed from the last time he saw it, and just like before, it was empty. With a smirk, Tom took the ring out of his pocket, then hesitated. Its weight was familiar, and regardless of the circumstances, it was still a link to Harry. Harry had spent years wearing it, so was it really a good idea to give it up, to leave it here…

It didn't matter. He had to keep his eyes on the end-goal. Whatever steps he took to get there were worth it — he had to remember this.

Carefully but insistently, Tom pushed the temptation away. The grip of his fingers loosened, and he put the ring down, some distance away from other toys and flowers.

He hoped Harry would see it here. He would visit this grave again, Tom didn't doubt it — chances were, Harry had been here more than once already. He had probably noticed that the ring was gone, and if he saw it now, he would know what it meant.

His job was done here.

Pleased with himself, Tom turned away before stopping again. A new reckless idea shot through his mind, and his breath stuttered from the onslaught of sudden excitement.

He knew Harry well. He knew Harry would return to this place — maybe not today, not tomorrow; maybe not even this week, but he would return. He would be visiting Charlus Potter and his grave, and if Tom waited here, he would get a chance to see him.

For a moment, his long-term plans for the future bled into the background. The perspective to see Harry in the flesh, to see him soon, without having to wait, flooded him with exuberant excitement. The adrenaline pushed him forwards to other graves aimlessly as the web of plans and hopes began to weave itself in his mind, but the moment he actually envisioned reuniting with Harry, it broke apart. Resignation came in, and Tom growled quietly, frustrated with himself.

If he placed his people here, then tracking Harry down wouldn't take long. The moment he appeared, someone would notice him. But then what? They would attack Harry and try to incapacitate him to deliver him to Tom? It would destroy everything between them, and this was something Tom would never let come to pass.

But maybe he could play the game of chance. He would visit this cemetery from time to time, waiting somewhere in the shadows, and he would watch Charlus Potter's grave for any signs of Harry. If their paths crossed here, it would be fate. Tom would announce his presence and… and they would talk. They would talk face to face. Perhaps he would pretend that it's a coincidence and that he came here without expecting anything.

This plan was much better.

With this compromise, Tom turned back to take one last look at the grave. It was still empty, so with a sigh, he apparated away.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

The thought of seeing Harry in some new context, not in the memories he'd already lived through, was rapidly unfolding into obsession. Hunting him down directly would be counterproductive, but giving up altogether wasn't an option either, not when Tom needed it so badly.

The first thing he did was send another short note to Harry.

I would like to see some memories about your new everyday life, he wrote. Would it be possible for you send me at least several of them? I don't care what they are, even if it's just with you cooking. I miss you.

When the Hogwarts owl left, Tom began to search for Black. Predictably, he was sitting in the library, staring into one of the Astronomy books with a look of utmost consternation. It changed into unacceptable annoyance when Tom interrupted him, but the more he talked, the more intrigued Black started to look.

"You want me to find the Mirror of Erised?" he clarified. "Are you certain it exists?"

"It exists," Tom confirmed laconically. "I need you to find the likeliest starting point and outline the approximate locations. I'll do the rest."

"That's fine with me," Black was already not looking at him, his gaze brightened by the upcoming possibilities. "Will I be able to take a look once we find it?"

"Of course," Tom agreed. He wouldn't leave Black in the presence of the mirror for more than five minutes, but some reward was due if he managed to help. Interesting, what would someone like Black even see there? What did he dream about?

Tom had a good idea about what he himself would see — and he couldn't wait.

He just hoped he'd have enough strength to look away.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Dear Tom,

It's difficult for me to answer your question because the truth is, I'm not sure what happened myself. I expected to die after Grindelwald disarmed me. Later, when I had time to think about it, I came up with numerous possible explanations, but I have no way of testing them.

If I had to settle on one, I would say that my appearance in your time created a paradox. I came here as the Master of Death. After I changed things irrevocably, my world disappeared along with the Hallows that gave me immortality. The Hallows that exist in your world are still there, but they aren't mine and they aren't tied to the ones I collected before. There are two sets of them. So, maybe I'm trapped in this state? Even if someone defeats me, my Elder Wand isn't here — technically, it doesn't exist anymore, so it cannot change its alliance. After what you did to Charlus, I myself shouldn't be here since I can never be born now. I'm like a ghost held here by the things from the past that is long gone.

The current Hallows seem to recognise me, but they aren't mine. I can feel it. If someone else collects all three of them, I suppose there will be two masters of death walking around — not counting you, with your inane ritual.

I'm sending you a vial with a couple of memories like you asked. There is not much there, just the things I do on a daily basis. I can send you one every week. I would love to see some of your memories, too. I miss you so

Harry

The last three lines were crossed out so thickly that Tom managed to read them only with the help of a spell. A wide grin spread across his lips when he did, and he took the vial gently, staring at the liquid inside.

Exchanging memories with Harry every week. It could be their new routine, something for Tom to look forward to. Harry might have felt embarrassed about his suggestion or even changed his mind about it, but he'd still written it down, and Tom wasn't going to let it go. He'd raise this topic himself if he had to.

It was one more way to stay sane until the day Harry came back to him.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Months walked by, gradually bringing his sixth year at Hogwarts to completion. They were tolerable, so they didn't crawl at an excruciating pace, but they also didn't fly by as Tom would have preferred.

He'd given quite a share of interviews to British as well as international newspapers. His circle of allies widened even further, and he'd managed to make progress in exploring the components of wolfsbane potion and the potential cure against lycanthropy. Slughorn was so excited about the idea that he gave him permission to use his classroom and his supplies. Sometimes they worked together, and while Tom disliked company, he had to admit that the man was an impressive potion maker. Together, they worked faster than Tom would by himself.

His search for the Mirror of Erised was almost over, too. By all accounts, its final location was a small Muggle museum in Finland, so as soon as the Hogwarts year ended, he would go and continue his search there.

But of course, the highlight of every week was letters and memories Harry kept sending him. Tom watched and re-watched them more times than he could count, and each of them made him greedier.

Harry's new house was small, but it was cosy enough for Tom to easily imagine them there together. It had two bedrooms, a bathroom, a big kitchen, and a garden; the curtains and wallpaper were a combination of green and gold, which was a step up from the purely Gryffindor colours Harry used to prefer.

Several books, a stack of newspapers that mentioned Tom; a few flowerpots and ten photos decorating the walls. One of them was of Weasley and Granger. One displayed Harry's parents. The rest depicted him with Tom, and the pleasure from this fact warmed Tom so much that it bordered on genuine happiness. It was a rare feeling these days, so he drank it in, and whenever his longing for Harry sharpened, he submerged himself into these memories again, clinging to this small piece of comfort.

Still, when summer commenced, his restlessness intensified. Lessons served as a source of distraction, and without them, Harry began to occupy an even bigger part of his mind. To continue making small steps towards earning his acceptance, Tom visited war-ravaged Muggle parts of Britain as well as several other countries. He helped some meaningless people, rebuilt some disgusting houses with magic, and placed protective charms on a couple of red zones to soften the potential impacts. Naturally, he described each of his trips to Harry, but to his frustration, Harry's replies remained sceptical and unimpressed for a long time.

It doesn't matter whether I'm doing it for you or for them, Tom wrote finally. The fact that I'm doing it is the only relevant thing. And I cannot say I learn nothing there or that I'm wasting my time. Every time I see how destructive the Muggle war is, I understand how much I don't want to see the repeat of it among our population. It strengthens my resolve to shape my future political campaigns in a way that minimises protests and pleases the majority.

After this, Harry's responses got warmer, so Tom doubled the number of his visits to Muggle areas.

In the middle of June, he finally tracked the Mirror of Erised down. As promised, he let Black stare into it for about ten minutes before pulling it away. Black looked dazed, and out of sheer curiosity, Tom brushed against his mind, searching for the most recent images.

He caught a glimpse of Black in the company of a small boy. Since Black looked much older than he really was, the boy could be his son — their similarity was striking. They were laughing and pointing at the star-lit sky on the top of some ridiculously tall building. It was a senseless image, so Tom retreated before Black collected himself and noticed his presence.

He expected many things, but this? As always, Black's mind was incomprehensible. Why would he want to have a child this badly? And to study the stars together, of all things? How underwhelming and redundant. Couldn't he look at them by himself? A dream like this made no sense.

Ignoring Black's pleading stares, Tom muttered a spell, diminishing the mirror in size. Then he apparated home with it. He brought it to Harry's bedroom and fussed over where to place it, ignoring the way his heart was accelerating until his breathing turned into panting. Excitement made him twitchy and impatient, but at the same time, he was strangely concerned about taking the first look.

What if he turned into one of those idiots who sat before the mirror and wasted away, too caught up in what they were seeing? His self-control was good — in fact, when it came to everything unrelated to Harry, it was a source of pride to him. But whichever fantasy he saw, Harry was going to be an inevitable part of it, so who knew how he was going to react?

His heart jumped in impatience, and Tom shuddered.

All right. He would look now. And no matter what he saw, he would find the strength to look away because no fantasy could surpass the reality that was waiting for him and Harry in the future. Maybe he could start small — just one short look and…

His thoughts stopped as soon as his eyes connected with the murky surface. For a moment, there was nothing, but then the images began to entwine, painting a surprisingly clear picture.

The first thing he saw was two big, richly decorated thrones. Harry would immediately complain about how over-the-top they looked: all gold and silver, with intricate designs, silk, and gems everywhere. Tom's lips began to curl in automatic distaste, but then he hesitated.

The thrones did look alluring. Harry would hate them, no doubts, but if Tom could choose, he wouldn't mind sitting on something like this. He wouldn't mind the clothes he was wearing either — they appeared to be more princely than even the things he had tailor-made for himself. Harry was dressed simply, but the Slytherin's Consort cloak was wrapped around his shoulders, sparkling with all kinds of Tom's magic.

Their heads were decorated with crowns — Tom's was embarrassingly large, Harry's much smaller and more refined. They were conversing quietly, their eyes on each other, their half-smiles so private and intimate that Tom ached just from looking at it.

Harry was holding his hand. Tom, in turn, was brushing Harry's unruly hair from his face, curling on the left side of his throne to cut the distance between them. And the world around them….

It was dead. But it also wasn't.

The thrones were almost floating, elevated above the rest of humanity. There were people standing beneath them — completely silent. Their faces were blank, and they didn't move unless spoken to directly. They had no chance to interrupt his and Harry's conversation, to steal Harry's attention from him, to interfere and create annoying obstacles Tom would have to tackle down. They were there, but they weren't alive. Not really. Brainwashed puppets, maybe, alive technically to please Harry, but also obedient and unobtrusive enough to satisfy Tom.

It was fascinating. It was like a breath of fresh air. Tom stared, absolutely consumed by the quiet conversation his and Harry's images were having, the unshakable, palpable bond that united them. Harry looked at him not as if he were simply his world — this much Tom was used to. Right now, his eyes were filled with open desire, and the love there was much rawer than Tom had ever seen before. It sent a rush of something hot through his body, arousing his own desire and pushing him closer in a mindless attempt to enter the world he was seeing.

Harry laughed at something. He was unbothered by the strange half-dead world around them — Tom was his sole focus. He seemed happy and carefree, and it was such a sharp contrast to the way he had looked when Tom saw him last that it left him breathless with longing. Without noticing it, he dropped to his knees, drinking in every change in his and Harry's postures and trying to understand what they were telling each other.

The more he listened, the clearer the voices seemed to become. At some point, Harry stretched and grumbled at the arm of the throne that separated them; Tom removed it, and they wrapped themselves around one another. Harry was the first to lean in, covering Tom's lips with his own.

The picture began to spin a little. Then it started darkening, and with a start, Tom realised he hadn't been breathing for some time now. He quickly inhaled some air, and when it soothed his burning lungs, he forced himself to look away.

The impact was drastic. Every little part of his body protested, urging him to look into the mirror again and immerse himself into the amazing world there.

And he wanted to. Oh, how much he wanted to. This was more than he had hoped, more than he had expected to see, but still… Still, it wasn't real. He had to remember it. The real Harry, his Harry, wouldn't appreciate it if he suddenly dropped dead from forgetting to eat or breathe.

A nervous laughter escaped his chest. With an uncertain smile, Tom took several steps in the direction of the door. The mirror called him back, its illusory voices whispering promises of happiness and devotion, but even though his body tried to shift and face it, Tom continued to push it forwards.

It was a beautiful picture. A mesmerising one. But it wasn't real, and staring at it for hours would bring him nothing but failure.

On the other hand, if he tried hard enough, he could make it reality. Turning people into brainless puppets was out of question: even if he figured out how to do it, the real Harry would never accept it. But perhaps he could get some inspiration from the image he'd seen.

Holding everyone under Imperio indefinitely wasn't productive or feasible. But what if he made people think that they wanted what he wanted? Memory charms could be a powerful weapon. If he managed to modify them…

The new idea lit up a fire of excitement somewhere in his brain. Tom finally succeeded in leaving the room, and this time, he didn't even have to fight the temptation to look back.

He had something more real to prepare to.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

He worked. He wrote letters to Harry. He charmed, joked, spoke with people whose names he didn't bother to remember, and sent more letters. At the end of each day, he sat near the Mirror, absorbing the images of a shadowy fantasy it kept offering. Strictly thirty minutes later, he was thrown out of the room by his own magic, and the door sealed itself shut until the next evening.

Tom knew he would be able to cancel the spells and break in there if he wanted to, but his determination to build a future prevailed over the childish impulse to dedicate himself to watching the Mirror indefinitely.

Yet still, he couldn't stop visiting it entirely. No matter how much time passed, the whispers of a dream didn't lose their power — on the contrary, they got increasingly addictive.

As the summer flowed into autumn and his seventh year started, Tom settled on the position he'd be taking right after his graduation. Being the heir of Slytherin in addition to a vanquisher of Grindelwald came with its advantages, and he and Minister Spencer-Moon struck a potentially good deal.

"I like your attitude," Spencer-Moon told him. He was blunt beyond what Tom would describe as appropriate, but his morals and most philosophical stances seemed to coincide with Harry's, so talking to him and earning his approval was easy. "I know you must be aiming for my place, but even you have to admit that you're a little bit young for it. Still, people like you — all people, not just Slytherins and purebloods, which is frankly an impressive feat. So how about this: we'll create a new position for you. It'll be temporary, and if everything goes well, you'll be able to try your luck with my place after I retire."

"I agree that my age is an obstacle," Tom conceded peacefully. "What position did you have in mind?"

"An overseer," Spencer-Moon picked up a folder and offered it to him. "An independent entity that observes the way all Ministry departments work and makes his suggestions. You'll be able to influence all decisions made in this building provided that the public supports you and you can prove it. How you do that, through voting or gatherings or whatever, is up to you. What do you think?"

"I'm interested," Tom said. He barely managed to hold off a triumphant grin that threatened to split his lips open.

A new position created exclusively for him. It was a great start and he was already looking forward to it.

He couldn't wait to let Harry know.

He was just on his way to the Owlerly when he ran into Dumbledore. Something dark stirred in him, but Tom still smiled.

"Good afternoon, professor," he drawled. "A lovely day, isn't it?"

"It is," Dumbledore agreed. He wasn't smiling. His eyes were shrewd, and Tom would have liked nothing better than to squash them out and test how many new potions he could come up with.

How could Harry tolerate this man? Despite his explanations, Tom refused to understand it. Anyone who knew Harry and still wanted him dead didn't deserve to live — it was that simple.

"How did your meeting with the Minister go?" Dumbledore inquired. There was an implicit wariness in his voice, and the desire to gloat became unbearable.

"Extremely well," Tom said. "He offered me a position at the Ministry once I graduate."

"Oh?" Dumbledore looked relaxed, but Tom sensed his magic and the way it tensed. "I thought you were looking into becoming the youngest minister yourself?"

"I was," Tom agreed, his grin widening. "And one day, I will be. However, for now, I'll be overseeing the way the Ministry performs its work. It'll let me get acquainted with the procedures and understand what people will expect once I take the office."

Dumbledore's half-smile became visibly strained.

"And the Minister is fine with this plan of yours?" he asked politely.

"He was the one to suggest it," Tom bared his teeth a little. He didn't care about acting or the fact that he sounded gleeful — he deserved recognition. This Dumbledore knew practically nothing about him, and yet he still drew his prejudiced conclusions.

Tom would love to erase him from this world for what a version of him had done to Harry. However, Harry forbade it, and if he were honest, he was pretty much willing to leave Dumbledore alone and to avoid crossing paths with him again. The old man wasn't interested in politics — becoming a headmaster was the biggest role he could expect. He also had no evidence to support any of his theories, so he wasn't a threat, just an annoyance. Nothing Tom was going to bother himself with except for occasional snide remark or two.

"If you don't mind, there is someone I'd like to share the news with," he added. Dumbledore looked like he'd bitten into the sourest of lemons, but after a pause, he nodded. Whistling, Tom resumed walking, the letter to Harry safe in his pocket.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Tom,

I'm so excited! I was certain that you'd be taking some respectable (and boring) position as soon as you graduated, but to have one created just for you? Your head must be the size of the Giant Squid now. No, seriously, please try to control the boasting you'll be inevitably doing in the upcoming months. Even your letter to me was overly… over-enthusiastic, and I imagine this was you trying to play it cool — you had to know I'd never let you live this down. So I can just imagine the face you're wearing now for everyone to see! Someone might actually curse you. (My bet is on Dumbledore.)

But yes, all right, I'm excited. And I'm so proud of you. I knew you wanted to work in the Ministry for years, but hearing about it is one thing. Seeing how it actually happens is a whole new experience.

You'll be an excellent overseer. I know it. It'll be a start that'll give you experience, knowledge, and probably a clearer understanding of the goals you want to follow. If you ever need anything, no matter where I am, I'm always here to listen.

Your Harry

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Tom woke up in an excellent mood, the lines from Harry's letter still dancing fresh in his memory. For a while, he stayed in his bed, mouthing them and enjoying the rush of pleasure doing so gave him. When he finally got up, he was met with tense faces of Lestrange, Black, and Mulciber. They were sitting on their beds silently, seemingly waiting for him to awake.

"What happened?" Tom asked sharply. His first irrational thought was that Harry got hurt, but rationality kicked in before panic spread, reminding him of how impossible the notion was. Even in the unlikely event that something happened, he'd be the first to feel it — in every sense of this word.

No one said anything. Instead, Lestrange gave him a newspaper. He looked so enraged that Tom was surprised he managed to stay silent.

The first thing he saw was a huge title with shaky letters: "The Heir of Slytherin — Or Is He?"

His heart twitched uncomfortably. Pursing his lips in preparation for what might be coming, Tom skimmed through the article.

Tom Slytherin is undoubtedly a rising star in the Wizarding Britain. His views are finding support among all kinds of wizards and witches, and that's because he managed to occupy a middle ground between old pureblood ancestry and progressive pro-Muggle-born attitudes. An heir of Salazar Slytherin who believes in equality irrespective of one's blood status; a prodigy in dark arts who became a vanquisher of the Dark Lord. Now he's about to join the Ministry by taking a position that was crafted specifically for him. But is he really who he says he is?

Few of you know that Tom Slytherin was previously known as Tom Riddle. A half-blood himself, it's barely surprising that he chose to appeal to both purebloods and Muggle-borns in his agenda to take power. His talks about equality and his claims that people grossly misinterpreted Salazar Slytherin's beliefs are certainly inspiring, but are they true? Or is Tom Riddle a liar?

He can speak with snakes, that much is certain. It means that at least at some point, Tom Riddle's bloodline was mixed with that of Salazar Slytherin. However, this alone does not give him the right to call himself his heir and even more, make statements about what Slytherin wanted and which ideals he supported. As reliable historical sources indicate, Slytherin built a Chamber of Secrets somewhere in Hogwarts for his heir to unseal. The question is, if Tom Riddle is indeed his heir, why hasn't he done so yet? Where is the Chamber of Secrets and is the boy even aware of its existence? He told us that his knowledge about Slytherin's true aims came from the unique books he has in his possession. Ignoring the fact that no one has ever seen these books personally, do they not mention anything about the Chamber? It doesn't seem likely. In fact, it seems downright impossible. And if Tom Riddle lied about Slytherin's beliefs to increase his popularity among the population, what else has he lied about?

No one has witnessed his alleged victory over Grindelwald. When asked to share his memories about it through the Pensieve, Tom Riddle refused. An anonymous source close to him confessed that the boy is highly manipulative and prone to exaggerations. He is indirectly linked to the murders of Charlus Potter and a Muggle woman who lived in his neighbourhood. So is he a hero? Or is he an impostor with delusions of grandeur who deceives everyone and ruthlessly disposes of people who do not support him?

One lie leads to another, and before you know it, Wizarding Britain will be ruled by a new Dark Lord who tricked us all by his alleged vague connection with Salazar Slytherin. Before giving him power, we have to find who he really is and what he is hiding.

"Dumbledore," Tom said. His voice was toneless, but rage was trembling under his skin, trying to pour outside through his magic. "He's behind this article."

"Are you sure?" Mulciber frowned. "Why would he do this? He should be thrilled that his precious Muggle-borns are finally being treated with respect. All interviews you've given paint you as their supporter, so why would he—"

"Because he doesn't trust Tom," Lestrange snapped. He was pacing now, his face agitated. "The bastard always hated him — all of us. I just didn't think his hatred would be stronger than his own hopes for equality."

"Neither did I," Tom replied distantly. His eyes went back to the paper.

He'd been going out of his way to meet Harry's ideals and shape his political aims around them. In many ways, Dumbledore's ideals matched Harry's. Mulciber was right, he should have been pleased to see them promoted. But Lestrange also had a point — Dumbledore's reservations happened to be stronger. He must believe that Tom was playing a long-term game, and that as soon as he got the real power, he would reveal his true goals. Whatever Dumbledore imagined them to be, it must have been terrible enough to make him step up and try to tarnish Tom's reputation.

"Is it true, though?" Black asked. Tom slowly looked up at him just as Lestrange whirled around in outrage.

"How can you even—" he started, but Black interrupted him.

"We never saw those books. We never really discussed the Chamber of Secrets. Do you know where it is, Tom?"

"I've visited it once," Tom replied. He wasn't lying — he saw the Chamber of Secrets in Harry's memories. The only problem was that he had no idea how to enter it because Harry hadn't trusted him with this information.

"You have?" Lestrange exclaimed. His ridiculously eager eyes lit up. "So you do know where it is!"

Mulciber began to grin. Black alone remained unmoved, watching him with furrowed brows.

Perhaps he sensed it was half-truth and was trying to understand what it could possibly mean. Black was smart, probably smarter than Lestrange and Mulciber combined — smarter than Tom had ever given him credit for. And right now, this was the last thing he needed. To have even his closest circle doubt him… just because Dumbledore felt threatened and wanted to be petty…

His rage darkened, turning into something vicious and vindictive. A hundred of possible counter-plans shot up in his mind, but they all crashed against one simple truth.

He had no clue where the Chamber of Secrets was. And now that the idea was planted in people's heads, they would not let it go. He'd have to prove he knew its location or have everyone doubt him.

If Harry could just tell him…

No. He wasn't going to bother Harry with it. What they had was more significant than any rumours or doubts that would circulate around him. Tom would rather be known as a liar and an impostor than risk stretching the trust he and Harry had been building all this time. If Harry wanted, he would tell him, but he wasn't going to ask or rely on this possibility.

He'd have to find the Chamber by himself and make Dumbledore choke on his 'anonymous' testimony.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

In the weeks that followed, Tom did as much damage control as he could manage. He gave several vague interviews, he spoke to everyone in school who wanted to talk to him, and he organised several meetings with key families whose support was vital.

The only thing he didn't do was write to Harry. A strange feeling was nesting in his insides — his experiences with it were few in number, but most of them were recent, so he successfully identified it as shame.

He was ashamed to contact Harry knowing that he had read Dumbledore's article. Rationally, he understood that it made little sense: it's not like any of that information was news to Harry. But it was still a reminder of Charlus Potter and that unworthy Squib, and with everyone talking about it and trying to make guesses, Harry might be reliving it all anew.

The timing couldn't be worse. Even worse was the fact that Harry wasn't in a hurry to contact him, too, and the silence from his end was more disheartening than any rumours surrounding him at the moment.

Finally, after fifteenth day of silence, Tom wrote a quick note.

Are you angry with me?

He brooded and paced in the Slytherin bedroom up until Apophis returned an hour later. The first thing he saw was the red ribbon — if Harry took his time to change it from green, then he couldn't be too annoyed or disgusted, right?

This calmed him a little. Tom hastened to unwrap the note, and when he saw Harry's response, tension bled out of him, leaving only bone-crushing relief.

I am angry. But not with you. He shouldn't have done that.

"Tom?" Lestrange called. He must have stepped into the room at some point. "What is it? Good news?"

"The best," Tom confirmed. He turned to face Lestrange absent-mindedly, a beaming grin still dancing on his lips.

"Oh," Lestrange deflated. A scowl twisted his already unpleasant face. "That kind of news. Of course."

Without saying another word, he walked out of the room. If Tom felt any less pleased, he would have brought him back here by wrapping a magical leash around his neck, but with Harry's letter in his hands, he couldn't care less about insubordination.

Harry was on his side. This was everything he could hope for. With this knowledge, putting a stop to speculations and making his way back to the top would be easy. A day or two, and he'd come up with something to restore his reputation and strengthen it. He was certain of it.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

It wasn't a day or two. Gradually, autumn cooled into winter, and he still hadn't come up with any semblance of a believable plan.

The newspapers kept gossiping. More students than he was comfortable with were staring at him strangely. Spencer-Moon had written him a letter, encouraging him to speak with the press and be "honest" with them, and no matter how hard he looked, he couldn't find the Chamber of Secrets.

Showing off his locket and his ring wasn't enough. People clung to the idea of the Chamber, seeing it as some ultimate proof of his trustworthiness, fuelled by the Prophet's printing of various legends about it. No one said it directly to his face, but the requirement was clear: if he wanted the scrutiny to cease, he had to either admit he was a liar with no access to Slytherin's books or prove he had them along with the access to the Chamber of Secrets.

Tom would never do the former. The location of the Chamber was a mystery, so creating books and passing them off as something written by Slytherin was his only option. The problem was, it was a sound plan only in theory. In reality, he wasn't certain he could write something and make it appear ancient enough to trick people whose job lied in establishing the authenticity of old objects. And they would be involved no doubt, considering how invested every single wizard seemed to be in the proof of him being a legitimate heir of Slytherin.

With his status in doubt, armies of people tried to investigate the murder accusations and the circumstances in which Grindelwald was killed. The talks didn't stop, and until he could give these imbeciles something they wanted, every word he said had no meaning.

Tom never thought being famous could feel so distressing. The only bright spot in this continuous disaster was that he now had a new way to relate to Harry.

I believe I understand how burdened you were by the weight of being a Chosen one, he wrote in one of his letters. This kind of fame is soulless. Even with the evidence that I defeated Grindelwald and with my clearly population-friendly plans, people were quick to turn their backs on me. I don't understand it. I am the heir of Slytherin with or without the Chamber. I have family heirlooms and I talk to snakes. But it's not enough for them because the newspapers said it's not enough. It's beyond my comprehension. Whatever doubts they have about my past or my bloodline, did I not rid them of the Dark Lord? Yes, you were the one to actually do that, but no one knows, so the point stands. Are the policies I talked about wishing to implement not tolerant enough? I know they are disgustingly moral and rooted in equality. You were the inspiration behind them, after all. But people are still dissatisfied and eager to see my downfall. It's… disappointing. This isn't how I imagined it.

Harry's reply was so simple and sweet that it quickly became his biggest source of comfort.

If following this path no longer makes you happy, just leave it, Harry told him. These people need you more than you need them. They will always love the idea and the image of you, not you as a human being. They want gossip, they don't want the truth. I never understood why you'd want to associate with masses this actively, but it's your choice.

Keep fighting and become a politician if you want. Or change your course and do something else. You are smart, you are powerful, you are ambitious — I don't doubt that you'll succeed in anything you set your mind on. Or maybe one day, you and I will live together away from it all, in some place where no one will know us, just enjoying the peace. I think the old you might have hated this, but I hope that maybe now that you feel the weight of strangers' expectations

The last two sentences were crossed out to the point where nothing could be seen, but Tom cleaned them up in seconds. It had become another unspoken game he and Harry played together: Harry would write something and then scratch it out, and Tom would use a spell to restore it. At first, he wasn't fully certain if Harry knew he was doing this, but after he repeatedly replied to the crossed out bits and Harry said nothing, it became obvious.

And now, now he had not just encouragement, but a promise. Another one. When Harry was imagining the future, he was thinking of the two of them together. He wanted the same thing Tom did.

He wasn't sure he was willing to sacrifice all his plans and be content with a quiet, obscure life, but if Harry really wanted it, if their future relationship depended on it… he supposed he would agree.

In a heartbeat. Being with Harry mattered more than establishing his empire and charming all these fools.

Ideally, though…

Tom stared into the Mirror of Erised, at the alluring picture it was painting. He and Harry on top of the world. Hordes of mindless, obedient people who might as well not be real beneath them…

It was too early to give up. He would fulfil his goal and become a Minister. And Harry would return, and they would rule this world like they were supposed to — together and indefinitely, with no one being strong enough to tear them down.

He just had to be a little more creative. And most importantly, he had to be honest.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

When Christmas came, Tom packed the Mirror of Erised, put tens of protective spells on it, and sent it to Harry as a gift. He'd broken a piece of it for himself beforehand, but it was so small that he was certain Harry wouldn't even notice. With the mirror, he sent a letter that had just three sentences in it.

I need your help. You can say no. I'll understand.

It was undoubtedly a gamble. Harry knew about his situation and his difficulties, yet he had never volunteered any information about the Chamber of Secrets. He clearly preferred to keep it to himself. Tom didn't want to think if this was because Harry didn't trust him, was worried about the consequences, or something else — he just took it as a fact and discarded the idea of asking for help.

But he'd exhausted all his other options. The ugly speculations didn't die down — they were still flaring around months later, and the more Tom avoided answering questions about the Chamber directly, the shakier his position got. This brought him back to Harry.

Harry knew him. He would understand why he sent him the mirror and what his note meant. The whole gift practically screamed, "I'm desperate. I'd appreciate help. I hope that whatever you see in the mirror will give you faith in our future, that it will move you enough to give me this little piece of trust and tell me where the Chamber is."

If he didn't attempt to hide his intentions, was it still manipulation? Tom didn't know.

If Harry refused to tell him, so be it. His heart would take a hit, but he would move on and never raise this topic again. He'd work on the books or think of something else. It wouldn't change anything because he understood Harry's hesitancy and he accepted it. He just still hoped for a miracle.

After Apophis left with the mirror, Tom did what he was already used to: he waited. He didn't think he dared to breathe or blink at all — he just sat at the table, silently looking through the window.

Apophis returned three hours later. He was carrying a note, and Tom's heart began to beat faster, and faster, and faster. By the time the note was in his hands, it was galloping so violently that it almost broke his ribcage. Everything else was a blur: Tom didn't remember how he unwrapped the note and read it, how his mind slowly began to recognise the words staring at him. When it happened, he inhaled abruptly, and then he read it again.

Girls' bathroom on the second floor. Check the broken sink tap. It has a tiny snake engraved on it.

For one more moment, there was nothing. And then the giddiness overtook him, raising him to the very top of everything he'd hoped to achieve, to the imagined thrones that were waiting for him and Harry. Absolute happiness bloomed right in his belly, drawing laughter of joy from his chest.

Harry trusted him. He didn't just love him, he trusted him. He trusted him again. It took more than a year, but it finally happened — Harry finally started to believe in him like he had before.

And Tom would cherish this trust. He would use the knowledge Harry had given him only to lead himself out of the deadlock, not for anything else, even if the temptation would be strong.

He would prove himself worthy. No matter what it took.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

At night, Tom left the Common Room and walked into the girls' bathroom on the second floor. It was quiet — everyone was celebrating in their rooms or outside, and even the ghosts seemed to disappear in their physical dwellings.

The bathroom didn't differ from others within the school: it was equally old and clean, and Tom would have never considered the possibility that the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets could be here. It was brilliant of Slytherin to hide it in this place.

The snake was just where Harry had told him. Tom's breathing quickened in excitement, and he had to clear his throat before commanding, "Open."

It didn't take him long to find himself in the middle of the chamber itself. It looked like it had in Harry's memories: vast, moist, dimply lit, with greenish shadows filling every curve and passage. Standing here should have felt empowering — it was a victory that was finally going to restore his reputation, letting him move forwards in his plans. But instead, it felt eerie, and tension kept coiling in his muscles, preparing him for a fight.

He couldn't see the grandeur and enjoy the knowledge that all in here belonged to him, whether Slytherin would have wanted him for an heir or not. All he could see was flashes of a 12-year-old Harry fighting for his life, with Tom's sullen shadow mocking him and trying to kill him.

A shiver ran up his spine. Tom licked his suddenly dry lips, trying to focus, but it wasn't working. The memories were too sharp, too oppressive, and his magic found them threatening enough to start to crack angrily.

The basilisk had nearly killed Harry. She was the reason why Harry had hesitated for so long before finally disclosing the location of the Chamber — he had to be haunted by the same memories, wondering what Tom would do if he had something as powerful as a giant basilisk at his command. And Harry's concerns were justified: if he wanted, he could sic her on the entire school and then the world. Someone would stop her at some point, but the destruction could be catastrophic. In fact, he could use it to his advantage, terrifying everyone and then becoming their saviour once again, this time for real.

The thought was appealing, but not something he could afford. With a sigh, Tom shook it out of his mind and focused on the place where he knew the basilisk had to be sleeping.

Having a giant deadly snake as his ally could be extremely beneficial. It was a unique weapon he might need one day — for example, for getting rid of Dumbledore. No one would realise how he died, they would think the cause was natural. Tom would be able to proceed without having to concern himself with what other cunning scheme the old man was concocting.

What Dumbledore had done was unacceptable. It cost him months of time and efforts; it made him risk his progress with Harry. Even if Tom was willing to let the slight go, he couldn't ignore the potential danger.

Dumbledore would have to be dealt with. But alas, not now. Any direct actions against him would push Harry away, and this was an absolutely unacceptable outcome.

No, this would have to take place later, likely years from now. At the moment, he had to prove to Harry that his trust was warranted, and he had make Dumbledore back off in milder ways.

For this, the basilisk had to die.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Tom hadn't woken the snake up. She deserved to suffer for harming Harry in the future that would never happen, but something in him rebelled against the idea of hurting a magnificent creature like this. After a brief battle with himself, he intensified the Parseltongue-based sleeping charm and then cut her head off. It took him more than an hour, and though he kept re-applying the cleaning charms, he still ended up covered in blood.

As a final touch, he cut out the fang that had nearly killed Harry and placed in his pocket. This would serve like a nice gift for Harry for the New Year, and it would be an affirmation of his loyalty and devotion. It would prove that he was putting Harry's concerns over any potential benefits he could have gotten.

The next step entailed giving an interview to a reporter he trusted and addressing every rumour that had been poisoning his life to this moment.

At the thought of the reactions it would evoke, Tom smiled.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

The Heir of Slytherin Finally Talks

Rumours about Tom Slytherin and his controversial claims have been keeping every wizard in Britain glued to the Prophet. Everyone wanted to learn just who this young man is and whether his statements about the goals and intentions of Salazar Slytherin are true. He was reluctant to talk — until now. Today, he will finally open up, addressing and refuting every accusation thrown by the so-called anonymous source close to him.

"I didn't feel inclined to share the details of what I know because I never believed it was important," Tom Slytherin says. He's sitting in front of me with a warm smile, and his tranquillity is something to be envied. I would never be able to tell that this earnest young man has been experiencing duress for the last several months. "Telling the world where the Chamber is would negate my ancestor's wish to keep this place secret. As for other accusations stemming from my allegedly unproven status, I never bothered to refute them because I didn't think anyone could take them seriously. Rumours comprise baseless gossip that surrounds every person the public is interested in. If I was truly involved in something as gruesome as murder, do you think the Minister would give me the position instead of sending me on trial?"

According to the mentioned anonymous source, Tom Slytherin could be responsible for the tragic deaths of Charlus Potter and unidentified Muggle woman from his neighbourhood. When I tell him this, he laughs ruefully and shakes his head.

"When Charlus Potter died, I was eleven years old," Tom says dryly. "Do you think I was capable of murdering someone and successfully setting a man like Grindelwald up for it at that age? While I appreciate such faith in my intelligence, I can assure you that I wasn't that cunning, Slytherin heir or not."

Put like this, the claim indeed seems laughable. But what about a Muggle woman?

"She was a Squib, not a Muggle," Tom explains. A shadow of sadness mars his beautiful face. "I remember how it happened because my guardian and I were friendly with her. Indeed, she was murdered back when I was 14, but I was at school at that time. The holidays were long over. From what my guardian told me, she was attacked by a Muggle who wanted to rob her. She died instantly. It upsets me to think about her, and to be accused of her murder… it's ridiculous and highly offensive."

Out of curiosity, I looked deeper into this matter. Beth Logan was indeed a Squib, and she died on February 13 in a fatal stabbing incident. As you know, classes at Hogwarts resume in January, so Tom Slytherin was busy studying. He couldn't apparate at that age and there are no records of him being absent on that day. Moreover, Muggle law enforcement caught the murderer and there were never any mentions of a child involved. Frankly, I'm astonished that my colleagues didn't look into this matter closely before spreading these silly speculations. There is no way Tom Slytherin could have killed any of these people, and anyone could see that just by checking a few basic facts.

Sadly, Tom had to become a killer last autumn, when he was forced to battle Grindelwald himself.

"I don't understand how my victory can be in doubt," he comments, brushing his hair off his face. "There were four people in that building when the help arrived: me, my guardian, my friend, and Grindelwald. My friend and Grindelwald were dead. I was holding Grindelwald's wand; my guardian confirmed that I was the one to put an end to him. It wasn't easy, but I had to do it because by that time, Avery was dead and my guardian was lying unconscious. I had no choice.

"As for me refusing to share my memories publicly: I'd expect most wizards to know what a breach of privacy this is. Pensieves aren't used even during most trials — the circumstances have to be truly remarkable for a person to be requested to let others enter their memories. Baseless speculations aren't remarkable in any way. It's traumatic for me to remember what happened, and I do not wish to make an even bigger spectacle out of it."

But what interests you most is the Chamber of Secrets and the books Tom Slytherin claims to possess. And here, finally, comes the confession you all have been waiting for.

"Of course I know where the Chamber is," Tom drawls, and I must admit, I can hardly contain my excitement. "I have known from the start. I hoped that all the doubts and rumours would cease, but now I understand I made a mistake. I should have been clear from the start. Yes, I know how to get inside the Chamber, just as I know how to read Slytherin's books. But I cannot show it to everyone."

The obvious question arises: then how can Tom prove that what he's saying is true?

"I will take you and two other reporters chosen by the Prophet," Tom clarifies. "I will also take one representative of each House with me. I will select them myself. Naturally, certain measures will be taken to make sure none of you understands where the entrance is, but you will see the Chamber itself. Just set the date."

I am so thrilled that I almost forget a crucial question: what about the monster that Slytherin allegedly placed in his Chamber to guard it from intruders?

"This part of the legend is true," Tom replies. "The Chamber was guarded by a basilisk. I love snakes, and the basilisk was one of the most wonderful creatures I've ever seen. But unfortunately, she was too dangerous even despite my attempts to command her. I was forced to kill her when I first ventured into the Chamber. Those who'll come with me will be able to see her body — I preserved it because it could be vital in preparation of some potions. I'm sad I had to resort to this, but I didn't feel like Hogwarts was safe as long as a snake this deadly was around."

Tom's face twists in obvious regret. I can sympathise with the decision he had to make, but I also agree it's for the best. Personally, I don't think I'd feel safe going into the Chamber and knowing that a basilisk resides there. On the other hand, Tom is a very capable young man, and if someone could protect the world, he would be my first choice. Brilliance, intelligence, beauty — he has it all, and I cannot wait for the accomplishments he's going to impress us with in the near future. I certainly feel dazzled already.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

The reactions to his interview were instantaneous. The whole school was in the uproar, with students from all houses fighting to talk to him and persuade him to choose them for a trip to the Chamber of Secrets. Lestrange, Mulciber, and Black were quiet, but their hopeful gazes kept following him whenever he walked in the vicinity. Feeling both pleased and fed up with it, Tom finally said.

"I suppose being my closest allies should warrant you some perks. I'll take all of you down there. And unlike those other eager idiots, you'll get to see where the entrance is."

Excited exclamations intensified the pleasure lazily coursing through him, and it solidified more when Black jumped several times in his enthusiasm. It was surprisingly easy to manipulate even someone like him when the bone he threw at him was particularly juicy.

Spencer-Moon wrote him an appreciative letter with a plea to be taken to the Chamber. Most Hogwarts professors didn't say a word, but Tom could see it on their faces: they were all dying from curiosity and would gladly jump at the chance to be invited. Slughorn went further, inviting Tom to his office and singing him praises until Tom modestly promised to take him there, too.

The situation got funnier every day — it looked like he could make visits to the Chamber a wholesome business as people were ready to pay a fortune just for a brief excursion. This was what Tom told Harry. What he didn't tell him was that Dumbledore kept his silence but followed him with a grave stare, watching him like Tom turned out to be an even bigger threat than he'd expected. It was exasperating, and if Tom didn't have a distant plan in mind, he might have considered cursing him just out of spite.

He wondered if Dumbledore would like to visit the Chamber of Secrets and what his face would look like if Tom suggested it.

He mentioned this in his letter, too, before finally getting the courage to send it. The chaos buzzing around him was delightful, but Harry's reaction to the interview worried him too much to let him relax completely.

He'd tried not to sound overly conceited, but what if Harry didn't share his opinion? What if he took offense at how dismissively Tom referred to Charlus Potter and Beth; what if he thought Tom's invitation was in bad taste? These questions plagued him with increased intensity, and by the time Apophis brought him a letter, he could barely focus on anything or anyone else.

Stopping his conversation with Mulciber halfway, Tom grabbed the letter, stood up, and left the room. His heart kept skipping more and more beats as he walked, throwing him into a breathless, panicked state. Barely controlling his nervous movements, Tom tore the envelope and stared at the written words.

My Tom,

Why am I not surprised? Only you would think of something as crazy as offering trips to the Chamber in exchange for favours or money. I'm fairly certain Salazar Slytherin is rolling in his grave. And I have to admit, this thought made me laugh more than is probably acceptable in a situation like this. The only thing funnier was the image of you offering to take Dumbledore down there. I probably shouldn't grin so much, but I'm still upset with him, and imagining his speechlessness is hilarious. If you end up doing it, send me the memory.

Your article was full of lies, so I'm not sure what you want to me to say about it? Congratulations on being such a good liar that you made the truth look ridiculous? I'll be surprised if someone still believes you did any of the things you were accused of (even though you absolutely did them).

By the way, why did you choose the reporter who's obsessed with posting your face on every surface again? I didn't need to even see her name to instantly recognise her style. She paid more attention to you than to what you were saying. "A shadow of sadness marred his beautiful face? "Brushing his hair off his face?" "I certainly feel dazzled already"? I'm surprised she heard a word you said if she was so busy monitoring your every movement. And you'll be taking her to the Chamber? I'm not sure it's a good idea. She sounds half in love with you already, and the last thing you need is an obsessed reporter stalking you when you least expect it.

Keep me updated on what's happening. I had my reservations when I told you about the Chamber, but somehow, you managed to turn my fears into laughter, and it's one of the best things that happened to me lately.

I miss you.

Harry

Tom blinked at the letter before reading it again. His confusion didn't lessen — it increased right along with a timid hope and startled wonder.

Harry's longest paragraph was the complaint about the reporter. In fact, he spent more time on it than on subtly berating him for his lies, a part that Tom had been waiting for with dread because he knew Harry would hate it no matter how carefully he phrased everything. But Harry… seemed more concerned about the reporter?

This was too ridiculous to even consider. Tom laughed hesitantly, convinced he must have gotten it wrong, but his laughter quietened when he re-read Harry's lines once again.

No, he couldn't be wrong. The proof was right there, in Harry's snarky comments and his caustic suggestion.

Harry was jealous, it was undeniable. Harry was jealous because of him.

Harry was jealous.

An astonished warmth unfurled in him, sending a skittering of gentle touches through his stomach. The sensation was light, tickling, and so pleasant that Tom smiled even as a flood of blood heated his cheeks.

Before, Harry had only shown jealousy to Lestrange, and it was too insignificant and brief to really count. But this… this was different. Harry knew the nature of his feelings, and yet he still felt jealous over him. Did it mean that something was changing? That Harry was getting closer to returning everything Tom felt for him — probably even more?

The euphoria from the thought alone was heady. Tom swayed on his feet, clutching the letter more tightly and grinning, his mind running in thousands different directions.

What was Harry thinking? What was he feeling?

And more importantly, what had he seen in the Mirror of Erised and how it affected him?

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Turning 18 meant that he was bound to start looking older. Maybe not immediately, not even in the next several months, but the process had to begin at some point. Tom wasn't thrilled with the idea of being stuck in his 16-year-old body, and if he wanted to change his appearance in the nearest future, he already had to start thinking of the ways to do it.

To his surprise, it didn't take long. He shared his goal with Lestrange, the only person who knew of his immortality, and before he knew it, a vial of purple potion was put in front of him, accompanied by a detailed set of instructions.

"Where did you find it?" Tom asked, studying the recipe. Lestrange sent him an embarrassingly shy smile.

"My uncle invented a potion that allowed him to look younger," he said. "It knocked just a couple of years off every time he took it, and because of side effects, he couldn't use it often. It was rather useless, but he still kept the recipe. I changed it and made it work in the opposite way. If you take one sip, you'll look older by about a year, maybe two."

Happiness and eagerness to please were emanating from Lestrange in thick waves. Tom's face twitched in an instinct to sneer, but he managed to hold it off at the last moment. No matter what he thought of Lestrange's pathetic need to gain his approval, he couldn't deny that it brought results. He had little time to research and brew an aging potion, and having one given to him freely deserved some recognition.

Swallowing an annoyed sigh, Tom forced his lips to smile.

"Thank you," he said. Lestrange lit up before dropping his gaze to his shoes, his expression getting even more timid.

Rolling his eyes, Tom took the potion and turned away, examining it closely.

He'd have to test it to make sure Lestrange wasn't trying to poison him or evoke some disgusting infatuation in him. If everything was good, he'd take it, and he'd keep taking it every year until he was pleased with his looks.

Tom wondered if Harry was going to notice any change in him.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

The potion turned out to be real, so soon, Tom was enjoying its first results. People couldn't tell the difference between now and then, but they sensed that something had changed. If he was getting compliments before, now their number tripled. Still, Tom barely paid attention to this. The only thing that mattered was if Harry would notice anything. He knew him better than anyone, surely he had to see the change? With the global level of excitement about him taking selected people to the Chamber of Secrets, Tom's photos kept decorating various newspapers and magazines. He also quickly got the first place in a list of the most desired bachelors in Britain.

On the one hand, receiving bags of love letters from strangers was annoying, but on the other, he couldn't help but puff up with pride at the thought of Harry seeing it.

Although he doubted Harry ordered any issues of Witch Weekly.

Still, there was a reaction, he just didn't know what to make of it. Immediately after the first photos with his new look started appearing, Harry went quiet. He didn't write or respond to his letters in two weeks, and when he finally reappeared, he sent just a short, strange note.

You look… differently. Why?

Just four short words. Tom cradled the note, dissecting it bit by bit, but in the end, he couldn't come up with any idea of what Harry might be thinking, whether he was pleased or angry. Deciding to be just as careful, he wrote, "Lestrange helped me to acquire an aging potion. The difference is slight because I want it to be believable. Do you like it?"

He was the one to deliberately cross out the last question this time. If Harry wanted to know what he said, he would use the spell to see it; if not, he didn't have to know how concerned and hopeful Tom felt about his reaction.

To his disappointment, Harry disappeared again. This atypical silence continued for another week, but on Tuesday, Tom got another unexpected note.

Tom,

I miss you. I wish I could— Can you describe your day to me? Maybe not minute by minute, but action by action, at least. It doesn't matter which day, I just want to be able to imagine it. I miss you.

It was… empowering. Liberating. Intoxicating. For Harry to send something so raw, so pleading, to acknowledge his own wistfulness, to prove that Tom's desperate longing wasn't one-sided and he returned it fully — it gave him wings. For a moment, Tom was certain he'd be able to climb up the air from these feelings alone.

But also, the letter was more than concerning because it wasn't like Harry. Harry never wrote him something this open and emotional, not in years. Was he drunk? What happened?

"Tell me where you are," Tom whispered, pressing the letter to his face and closing his eyes, inhaling its scent. "Tell me where you are and I'll come to you."

If he wrote this down… if he sent a Patronus to Harry with these words, Harry might take him up on his offer. In this strange state, Harry might cave in, and then they would finally, finally reunite. It was time. Tom was tired of being lonely, of waking up and thinking of how impossible it was that there had been time when Harry was in his life indefinitely. Some nights were worse than others, and stupid tears burned his eyes so harshly that it took him every effort to hold them back.

Sometimes it didn't work.

And now, with Harry saying these things… what if this was his chance? He could take advantage of this opportunity and…

No. No. He wouldn't.

Something inside him cried in protest — the same thing that lived in the void Harry had carved, but Tom steeled himself, preparing to drown himself in his own magic if he had to.

Harry wanted to see him change. To become worthy of him. The Tom from before would have jumped on the chance to get what he wanted. That's why the Tom he was now had to act differently.

It was excruciating. Even his muscles seemed to protest, refusing to move when he commanded it, but Tom kept pushing until his wand was clenched in his hand.

"Expecto Patronum," he said hoarsely. His eyes were glued to the letter that he was still holding in his other hand, to Harry's handwriting that shaped the most beautiful words he'd ever read.

The dragon soared, and Tom cleared his throat.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly. "Your letter worried me. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help. And of course I'll send you the description of my day. I'd love to. I'll spend it with a quill and a piece of parchment in my hands if I have to."

Harry's Patronus appeared ten minutes later. It spoke in a shaky, hoarse voice: "I love you."

It jolted Tom from his place, but when he raised his hand aimlessly, the dragon disappeared. Letting the air out of his lungs, Tom collapsed back into the chair, clinging to the letter with both hands.

If he didn't know that Harry couldn't die, he would be going crazy now. As it was, he was confused and worried, but he could hold himself together.

Whatever was happening to Harry wasn't permanent. He would feel better, and he would contact Tom again to explain what this strangeness was about.

He just had to be patient. He just had to wait.

Still, Tom found himself entirely useless for the rest of the day. He didn't manage to get up from his chair — he sat there up until Apophis crashed inside, the oversized red ribbon looking ridiculous on his leg. Harry kept finding bigger and bigger ribbons, and Tom didn't know whether he should laugh or feel offended on his bird's behalf.

Apophis stared at him curiously. He didn't move, and Tom took a deep breath, calming himself down.

"Don't tease me," he warned. "I'm not in the mood. Give me his letter."

With a derisive sound, Apophis dropped the letter on the floor and turned his back to him, focusing on his feathers. Tom lurched forwards. As soon as the second letter was in his hands, he tore it open and began to read it hastily.

My Tom,

I'm sorry for worrying you. I wasn't feeling my best. Nothing serious, just had a nightmare, then wallowed in self-pity and almost drank myself to death.

But I would still love to hear about your day in the smallest details. And I do miss you.

Harry

Tom released the breath again. Holding the letter closer, he read it again and then curled up against it, a little frustrated, but mostly satisfied.

Not knowing what exactly happened to Harry and what dream he'd seen was maddening. But Harry's words made it tolerable. He could live with this.

Maybe this new emotional openness wasn't just a sign of drunkenness. Maybe Harry was finally starting to react to changes that Tom had worked so hard on implementing.

Just a little longer, a voice whispered. Tom listened, tightening his grip around the letter possessively. You have to hold on for just a little longer. He'll come back soon. He will.

Tom fell asleep right in the chair, with the letter, feeling strangely and deeply comforted.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Months swirled together, and all of a sudden, graduation was almost upon him. Leaving Hogwarts was surprisingly uneventful. All Tom could think of was how Harry was supposed to be here and wasn't, so he walked out of school in a fool mood, ignoring the gazes Lestrange, Black, and Mulciber kept exchanging. He needed distraction. No, he needed Harry, and if he couldn't have him… maybe he could simply go to him.

Putting a disillusionment charm on himself, Tom apparated to the meadow. He didn't want Harry to see him and to think he was still breaking his boundaries, but he couldn't stay away either. At least today, he could afford to give himself a gift like this — Harry would never have to know.

The meadow was quiet and warm. Tom sat under one of bigger trees and spent the next four hours in this spot, comforting himself with the thought that Harry was physically nearby even if they couldn't see each other. His thoughts moved sluggishly, but the more time passed, the bitterer they became.

This was supposed to be the day when Harry gave him his answer. He was supposed to decide whether he would be willing to take their relationship to a new level. Tom had all but marked the date when he first received this promise, but now it was meaningless. Harry was gone, and it didn't look like he was coming back. No matter what he did, how hard he worked, Harry didn't return. Maybe he never would.

Depression settled heavily in his bones. Tom shut his eyes as its gloomy tentacles wrapped around his heart, pressing further and further down on it until breathing became a struggle. The hateful feeling of vulnerability crawled up, and the need for comfort suddenly became so overwhelming that it took him everything to keep his lips closed and not to cry out Harry's name in the desperate hope to be heard.

It wasn't fair. Why was he not enough? He might not have fulfilled every promise he'd given, but he was well on his way there. He kept working on realising everything he and Harry had talked about, but even a year and a half later, Harry stayed gone — even despite his graduation.

Tom hadn't realised how many hopes he'd placed on this date until now. But it came and went, and nothing changed — Harry was still out of reach.

His lungs shrivelled even more, refusing to let any air in. The trees started closing in on him, and Tom bit his lower lip hard enough to bleed to shake this oppressive daze off himself.

He needed to do… something. He needed to talk to Harry. If he could just shout his name until Harry came out…

But if he didn't come out and deliberately left him alone and abandoned, Tom wasn't sure he could cope with it. No, personal meeting wasn't an option, no matter how much every cell of him craved it.

Taking small sharp breaths, Tom tried to focus his magic on the things he found in his pocket instead. From the second try, he managed to transform them into a quill and a thin piece of paper. Lighting his wand, he scribbled, I miss you so much that I forget my own name sometimes. It's bursting out of me — the longing, the need. Nothing changed, Harry. I still need you like I needed you a year, two, five years ago. I want you with me. I'm prepared to wait for as long as you want me to, but can you give me at least some idea of how much more it'll take? I can't— I need you. I need you more than anything. I don't think I can live without you. At all.

Muttering a spell, he began to wait for Apophis. His treacherous bird emerged a minute later from the invisible barrier, chewing something right in the middle of the flight. The sight of it was funny enough to make Tom smile weakly.

"Harry is spoiling you, isn't he?" he murmured. "Soon you'll be—" His voice trailed off. Speaking Harry's name aloud set off a small explosion in his chest, sending floods of gone, beloved, not here through his body. Tom flinched and shied away from Apophis, not even bothering to change the colour of his ribbon to green.

"Take it to him," he asked hoarsely. "Please."

Apophis tilted his head but grabbed the letter obediently. Seconds later, he disappeared again, and all Tom could do was wait.

He couldn't tell how much time had passed — his mind was drifting off to familiar numb greyness, but Apophis suddenly returned. He was carrying a vial along with a letter, and Tom reached for them, a pang of hope and gratitude jolting his heart.

A memory. Harry had sent him a memory, even if there were still five days to go until their weekly exchange. Was it a graduation gift? Or something he had done just now in response to his pathetic pleas?

And Harry knew he was here now. He had to notice that Apophis came back too quickly. He knew and he still didn't…

No. No. He wouldn't think of it. He wouldn't.

Tom put an additional protective layer of magic on the vial, stroked the ribbon on Apophis' leg affectionately, and apparated with a crack.

Minutes later, he was diving into the memory, his eagerness briefly supressing his melancholy.

Harry looked… radiant. There was no other fitting word to describe him. He was wearing clothes Tom had never seen before — a mix of blue pants, green shirt, and a new green robe. He was smiling, his hands quickly working to put some dish together.

"You're graduating today," Harry said. As always, his voice sent a shiver of pure want down Tom's body. "I don't have to learn the results of your exams to know that you passed them all with flying colours. Congratulations."

There was a pause: Harry focused on kneading the dough.

"I cannot be there with you," he said abruptly. "Not now. I'm sorry. But I still wanted to do something to celebrate, so I thought of making you a cake. You'll find it packed after you finish watching this — I used a special surprise spell for it. It should pop up right next to the vial. Anyway…" Harry poured something green into the dough before kneading it again. "This is the closest thing I could think of to us sharing something without me being there, so here it goes. A boring half an hour of me cooking and talking to myself. How does that sound?"

It sounded amazing. It sounded like a dream come true. Tom stared at Harry greedily, taking in his every movement, every turn of his head.

"So, I racked my brain trying to think of what to cook, and I finally decided on a mint-and-jam cake," Harry kept saying, his green eyes fixed on his working hands. "You loved those mint-and-jam cookies, remember? We barely made them during the last years, but I'm sure your little craving for them is still there. You went to absurd lengths to sneak out at night and eat some. It was ridiculous — even if I didn't wake up from your tiptoeing, I'd still see the missing cookies in the morning. I told you that, but you kept slipping out in secret as if this one time, something would be different."

A smile on Harry's lips grew tender, lighting his face up even more. For some time, he kept working on a cake, looking lost in his memories.

"I can't wait for you to start your work at the Ministry," he said finally. Now he was mixing the greenish thick substance with brightly coloured jam, and Tom licked his lips, already anticipating the taste. "Will you harass everyone to make them do what you want or will you stick to your charming act? I can see you doing both. Don't know what would be more effective. Being an overly demanding, big-headed overseer will probably cost you some supporters, but if you continue acting like you do during your interviews, no one will get any work done. They'll all just follow you around, hoping to get you to look at them and—"

Harry fell silent abruptly. A light blush flared up on his cheeks, and for the next several minutes, he stayed silent.

Knowing he couldn't be heard, Tom laughed. The sound was so joyous that it briefly stunned him, but then happiness took control, supressing everything else.

Harry was jealous. He was jealous like he had been with Lestrange and with that reporter whose face was so unremarkable that Tom could barely remember it.

This meant something. This had to mean something. Harry might not want to see him as something more, but he was still possessive enough to consider all Tom's attention his own, even those parts he felt awkward about.

And they were his. It was surprising that Harry even bothered to feel any jealousy when he had always been the only one Tom saw.

The smile didn't leave his face for the entirety of the memory. When the cake was done, Harry cut it in several slices, wrapped most of them up, and sat down with a plate of his own.

"I hope you like it," he said, his voice very soft. The second chair was standing right next to his — it was empty but inviting, and something in Tom's chest swelled with an intense rush of longing.

This place was supposed to be his. Harry had created it for this occasion specifically — Tom had seen his kitchen repeatedly in other memories and there was only ever one chair.

Harry wanted him there. Maybe even as much as Tom wanted it.

Fluttery warmth enveloped him in its gentle embrace. A moment later, the memory spat him out, but even after the room regained its contours, Tom continued to beam. His eyes fell on the vial, and with a low pop, a wrapped container appeared right next to it. He peered inside, grinning wider when he saw the familiar greenish-red slices. His stomach growled. Tom caressed the package, feeling ridiculously happy and light-headed.

With no hesitation, he opened the letter that was still lying on the table. Harry had written it hastily, so it had to have happened in direct response to Tom's own note.

If it means anything to you, the reason why I don't come back now differs from the reason I left. I can't tell you more, not until I make sense of everything for myself, but you have to know that you are not to blame. Not in a negative way, at least. I'm proud of you, Tom, and I need you, too. Always. I'm sorry that I can't tell you more. This time away from you has been eye opening for me in many ways.

When I come back, we'll talk about it. We'll talk about everything. Until then, please be patient. I know what I said before, but…I would want you to wait for me. A lot.

Tom read it several times before pressing it to his lips, closing his eyes when the slightest whiff of Harry's cologne tickled his nostrils.

He didn't know what Harry meant. But he said, "When I come back." When, not if.

This was the only thing that mattered to him.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

The first months of work at the Ministry were hectic but exciting. It delighted Tom to see how it operated from the inside and develop his range of opinions and recommendations. Importantly, it gave him firmer ground to proceed with his plan against his potential opponents in general and Dumbledore in particular.

Reprogramming the undesirables, as Voldemort from Harry's world had called them. There was no need to dispose of someone — it was too dangerous, and if Harry ever found out…

No, this was not an option, not at all. So Tom had to take another route.

He wouldn't be able to charm everyone into liking him. Some people would still hate him, Dumbledore being the biggest illustration of this unfortunate reality. He had to make them change their minds, and things like bribery, lies, and concessions were ineffective and fallible.

Tom needed something more permanent and solid. And for that, he had to start a powerful Memory Charms Department.

Tweaking people's minds was one thing. He could do it freely after spending years studying Imperio and the way it affected the brain. But reshaping them entirely while still preserving their personalities? It was a challenge, and he needed help. Recruiting Black for the department was a good start — the problem was, Black was too much of a flight risk to trust him with such an incriminating information. Besides, Black alone wouldn't be enough. Tom needed a team, not one person.

There was much to plan and many people to find. This consumed him almost entirely, so Tom was barely aware of the time passing.

When he had a free day, he visited Harry's meadow under the disillusionment charm, spent hours in the memories Harry had sent him over the time of their separation, or paid visits to Charlus Potter's grave.

That was where he found himself on one of the Wednesdays. At this time of the day, the cemetery was quiet. There were a couple of people present, but they were standing far enough for Tom to know that they wouldn't be able to recognise him even if they looked his way.

Sighing, he leaned against one of the marble columns, watching the specific grave. It was a bit funny: Charlus Potter had lived so little that it seemed like few people cared about his death. The flowers and small toys remained the same no matter how often Tom came here, so clearly, no one bothered to replace them or add something new. Over the years, he'd seen Charlus' parents several times, but that was it. No friends, no other relatives. The boy was so unremarkable that in a few short decades, no one would even remember him — he'd be a pale shadow on the Potters' family tree.

Tom and Harry, in turn, would live forever.

A pleased smile curled his lips upwards. Tom closed his eyes briefly, basking in the afterglow of Harry's name. The wind threw a strong gust of cold air at him, but he didn't move.

Every day, every month, every year, Harry was closer. He had almost made his decision, Tom could feel it in his bones. A few more efforts, and everything would be over, everything would fall into its rightful place.

Yet despite his complete confidence, sometimes he regretted giving the Mirror of Erised to Harry. Spending even one more day with it was something he would pay dearly for — but then again, he had known he'd feel like this even before he wrapped it up as a gift. That was the reason why he spent almost six months with it before deciding to fulfil his original plan and send it to Harry.

At least he had a Pensieve and could watch his own recollections again and again. In fact, he would do just that when he came back home today.

Pleased with his decision, Tom straightened, brushing his hair off his face. His eyes fell on Charlus Potter's grave… and the world stopped. The wind ceased its icy attacks. People in the background disappeared. The whole planet had to have stopped moving — or maybe Tom's body entered stupor and lost its ability to register the surroundings properly. All his attention, all his focus snapped to one cloaked figure that was slowly making its way towards the grave.

It was Harry. Tom could only see his back, but it was him. It was his unruly, wild hair, his proud back, his perfect height and his gait — smooth, stealthy, shaped by years of Quidditch and participations in duels.

It was Harry.

For a moment, Tom was certain that he was seeing things. He'd just been thinking about the Mirror of Erised — it wasn't surprising that his starved mind conjured the image of Harry.

But the figure didn't disappear. It stopped next to the grave, knelt down, and touched the headstone.

Harry. It was Harry. Only Harry would do this.

The shock rocked him back a step. Something hot welled up in his chest, and a second later, his whole body was on fire. His lungs, his heart, his face — everything was burning. A strange weightlessness replaced his bones, forcing him to grab the edge of the column to keep himself on his feet.

Harry was real. He was real, he was nearby right now. If Tom wanted… he could approach him. He could see his face. He could speak with him and hear his voice. No fantasies and no recycled memories would ever be enough, how could they even compare? The tangible, real Harry was here, so why was Tom still hiding?

The longing hit him so hard that he almost doubled over. He was trembling — he barely managed to keep his hand on the column. Time transformed into a particularly merciless entity because it felt like only several seconds had passed, but Harry was suddenly getting up and turning, preparing to leave.

His face. Tom could look at his face now.

Even from the distance, he instantly caught every small detail, each little change. Harry looked thinner. There were greyish circles under his eyes, and the light stubble covered his chin. He looked calm, peaceful even, and he was absolutely, entirely mesmerising.

He continued to walk to the apparition point: the more he approached it, the stronger panic began to break through Tom's shock.

He had to move! This was the chance he'd been waiting for, this was why he visited this cemetery every week for two years — to catch a glimpse of Harry. Granted, it had been an empty dream that Tom didn't put stock in, but now it suddenly came true, and he was still staying rooted to his spot like an idiot.

With a hoarse gasp, he took a step in Harry's direction… and then he froze again.

Harry didn't want to see him yet. This was the whole point of their separation. Tom never stopped trying to catch him, but not because he actually planned to do it — it was just a game, a way to distract himself from grim thoughts.

Harry didn't know he was here. He wasn't back, not officially, which meant that Tom had to respect his decision. He promised he would, and going back on his word now… what if Harry took one look at him and apparated away? What if this encounter made him stay away for several more years, nullifying the progress they'd made?

'Get him!' something roared at him. 'Get him now, before he leaves!'

Tom took one more step before stopping again.

But… he didn't want to "get" Harry. He wanted Harry to come back. Ambushing him now would only be damaging, it wouldn't change anything, not really. It would undo Tom's restless efforts to make Harry want to be with him.

He couldn't do it. He wouldn't.

His body went into shock for the second time in minutes. It couldn't understand his inactivity — his brain was at a loss, too. Harry crossed the barrier, and Tom's mind dissolved into silent screaming. Still, he remained motionless. Because despite the violent protests of his magic, despite the crazy urge to grab Harry and never let go of him again, doing nothing felt strangely right.

If he had to choose between eternity and this one moment… he would pick the eternity. And so he would wait. He would restrain himself magically if he had to.

Harry hesitated suddenly. A small frown appeared between his brows, but his expression cleared quickly.

With a small, wistful smile, he apparated away.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Tom might have managed to wait. But he couldn't possibly stay silent.

The moment he came home, he grabbed the quill and began to write, his hands shaking so badly that he could only hope Harry would be able to understand his handwriting.

I saw you today. I saw you at the cemetery. I visit it from time to time, but I never really expected to meet you there.

You looked beautiful. I thought I missed you before, but it's nothing as compared to what I'm feeling right now. It's not just a craving or a want, it's a need so powerful that I can hardly breathe in the fear that it'll break me from inside.

You were there. I was almost close enough to touch you. Then you hesitated and smiled, and I almost jumped out of my skin. Did you sense my presence? I hope so. But then again, I also hope for the opposite because it would mean you didn't just apparate away, you fled to avoid seeing me.

I know it's probably too early for you. I know you will return when you feel like it. But seeing you… I want to see you again. I would give anything to talk to you face to face. Sometimes it's difficult for me to believe that I had you with me all the time and could see you whenever I wanted.

When you come back, I will never take it for granted.

It was barely coherent, and his skin was burning like he had a fever, but Tom didn't care. He had to get these words out, and he had to send them to Harry.

He didn't want to wait for Apophis, so he summoned the owl closest to him and tied the note to its leg. Then, without losing time, he dashed to his Pensieve and put the memory there before diving into it and watching it again. Again. Again.

He hadn't just seen Harry do something, he was near him. He was so, so close. The idea still seemed impossible. If not for the memory, Tom would think it was a vivid dream — he'd had so many of them during this time that it wouldn't surprise him.

Several hours passed in a blur. Excitement, shock, and strange desperate giddiness continued to overflow him, so Tom couldn't settle. He sat down, jumped to his feet, paced the room, re-watched the memory, and only the owl's arrival finally stopped him.

It was holding a letter in its claws. Blood rushed to his head, and Tom hastened to tear it open.

Tom,

I'm sorry, I don't know what to say to this. My first reaction was thinking you had me followed somehow and that you were lying me, but almost immediately, I knew you wouldn't do that. And understanding this, plus understanding that you saw me and still didn't try to come into contact with me… It makes me happy, but it also scares me because it means too much. I'm not ready to think about it.

Maybe later.

Yours

This was the first time Harry had written "yours" without adding his name. Somehow, it looked more intimate this way, and while the note was confusing, "Maybe later" was one of those sweet promises Tom plucked from each letter and buried under his skin, relying on it to sustain him until another promise was given.

Perhaps Harry meant that he was just starting to believe that Tom had changed and wasn't planning on suddenly reverting back to his previous self. And perhaps this knowledge scared him — because it meant that there were no reasons for him to stay away.

Harry was going to return to him soon. Maybe even this year.

This time, Tom would bet his immortality on it.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Turning nineteen was an entirely unremarkable affair. It seemed like the entire Ministry decided to throw a party for him, but Tom slipped away as soon as he could and apparated to the meadow. Using disillusionment and warming spells, he conjured a chair and sat under his tree, comforted by the thought of being a walking distance away from Harry.

Harry was gone for 791 days now. Two years, 61 days.

It didn't seem much, but it still felt like eternity.

His other plans were going well. Spencer-Moon approved of his request to create a separate Memory Charms Department, and Tom tentatively selected the first people who began to work there. He prepared a couple of ridiculous projects about Muggle-borns that Harry would love; he started talks about improving Quidditch safety and increasing Hogwarts funding. He and Slughorn were close to finalising the wolfsbane potion, and his ratings kept climbing up and up, with more and more people expressing their support.

It was wonderful, but without Harry, even these victories tasted sour.

A month later, Tom took the next dose of Lestrange's aging potion. To his concern, right after the first photos of him with his new look appeared in some random articles, Harry disappeared for five days. He didn't return his letters and said nothing to his Patronuses. On the sixth day, it was time for their memory exchange, and when Apophis flew inside with a vial, the roiling tension finally bled out of his body. Allowing his shoulders to droop in relief, Tom smiled. But his smile died as soon as he submerged himself into the memory.

It was unlike anything Harry had sent him before. He was fussing over himself, trying to comb his hair, changing his robes a few times with a concerned look on his face.

"I'm sorry for doing this in such a haste — I completely forgot that today's the memory day!" he said. He sounded distracted. "I'm meeting a friend, I'm actually late already. I'll send you a better memory after I come back, would that be all right? And sorry for not replying, I was busy these last couple of days."

That was it. The shortest and coldest memory Harry had ever given him.

For a moment, Tom stared at the vial. A current of a dark, toxic emotion began to swirl in his insides, pumping poison into his blood so quickly that it reached his heart, his lungs, and his brain almost instantly. His magic reacted, hissing menacingly and crawling closer to his skin, ready to pour its deadliness out.

Harry was meeting a friend. In the evening. A friend who was so important that he had sacrificed the ritual they shared for so long.

Unacceptable. If he saw Harry with someone else, if Harry thought he could act like—

Oh.

Tension was still flooding him in waves, but this time, Tom managed to control it. Slowly, he willed his muscles to relax, and though it didn't work entirely, the haze of rage retreated.

This was a test. It had to be. Harry might have friends, and he might even meet some of them in the evening; he might dress up to look particularly stunning and he might forget about their memory exchange day, but he would never do all these things at the same time. More than that, he would never think that sending him a visual demonstration would be a good idea.

No, Harry was testing him. It meant something that Tom wasn't sure he understood, but what he knew was that he had to act in a way that he normally wouldn't. Throwing a fit and sending threats would only push Harry away from him. So… he had to go in the opposite direction.

It's all right, he wrote, trying hard not to break the quill in his stiff fingers. I understand. I look forward to a more wholesome memory and I hope you'll have a good time this evening.

I miss you.

Tom

Harry didn't respond, but he did send a memory, and Tom quickly dissolved himself in it, trying not to think about anything else.

He hoped he had passed the test, whatever it was.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

The next month was so busy that it was almost a blur. Tom barely had time to sleep — it felt like all his projects required his most urgent attention at the same time, so he kept running between different departments and locations until his feet were about to fall off.

To top it off, the reporters refused to leave him alone. He was normally pleased at being the centre of positive articles, but sometimes they dived into rumours that sent a low thrum of annoyance through his veins.

Like today's article with the title, The Heir of Slytherin and His Loyal Ally: A Romance Is Blooming? If it was merely a dump of generic speculations, Tom could live with it, but the offensive words were placed on a large photo of him and Lestrange. They were standing close, caught in a discussion. Tom's face was predictably inscrutable, but Lestrange was gazing at him with his usual adoring stare. With it displayed for everyone like this, it was no wonder the reporters chose to print their rubbish.

All morning, Tom was subjected to curious stares and irritating giggling. Lestrange knew better than to comment, but he was practically glowing with happiness while Mulciber and Black, the idiotic traitors, laughed their heads off.

"Stop this," Tom snapped at Black when his patience reached its limits. They were having a confidential meeting with all six Memory Charms workers, and the imbecile couldn't hold himself back for some twenty minutes. Wasn't he supposed to be an epitome of quietness?

"Sorry," Black muttered. However, he was still sniggering, so Tom sent him a glare.

"Like I was saying, preserving the name of your department is of key importance even if it doesn't reflect its essence properly," he uttered coldly. "If we start calling it Mind Charms, which would be more fitting, it would cause concerns all over the country. No one wants to think that the Ministry is working on the ways to control and reshape the wizards' mind. Memory Charms is a safer option."

"It would keep the Minister out of our business, too," Abraxas Malfoy noted. Tom had never liked him much, but his talents with Mind Arts were impressive. Malfoy could also be discreet, so recruiting him for this campaign had been a rewarding idea.

"Indeed," Tom replied. "And that brings us—"

"You cannot just barge inside during a private meeting!" the indignant voice of Yvonne Silverstone, his assistant, suddenly flooded the room from behind the door.

"Let him pass," Lestrange's voice replied. It sounded emotionless, almost dead, and Tom raised an eyebrow in mild interest. Who could spoil Lestrange's excellent mood on a day like this, and what would make him cancel the soundproof charms?

"But—"

"Let him pass. Tom will want to see him."

Black gasped quietly, and Tom's gaze snapped to him. What was happening? How could Black arrive at an answer sooner than he did it?

The door opened, and the first thing Tom sensed was a powerful wave of his own magic. It was warm, loving, and protective, and for a moment, his brain fixated on it, trying to understand how this could be real. His actual magic was tucked safely under his skin, so why would it emanate from some other person so strongly? The newcomer had to be either his twin or someone in possession of an artefact Tom had made. And that was the thing — he'd never made any artefacts, and he had certainly never given them to anyone. Except for—

A silvery-green mass of fabric. This was the second thing his brain registered. A combination of cashmere with silky trimmings and magic — magic that made the entire thing sparkle.

It was a cloak. A painfully familiar cloak, one that only the Slytherin's Consort had a right to wear. The cloak Tom had spent months on, weaving it together and trying to make it perfect, back when his head was filled with dreamy images of the future where Harry wore it proudly, happy to be seen and acknowledged as Tom's partner.

This wasn't how everything had gone, and it'd been a while since Tom had given the cloak any thought. It felt too much like another failure, and as the thoughts of Harry's face at the party only made him miserable, he tried to erase it from his memory entirely.

Until now. Because now the cloak was displayed right in front of him — in front of everyone, and there was only one single person who could wear it.

But it couldn't be real.

Blood rushed in his ears, drowning out every other sound. His chest compressed. This stopped his lungs mid-work, but in the next second, any thoughts about air faded away — the need to breathe turned into something inconsequential and irrelevant. His vision narrowed down to the figure standing next to the door, to every feature it had and every little sigh it was making.

Him. It was him. He was here, in Tom's Ministry, wearing his cloak.

This had to be a dream.

Tom didn't remember standing up. Someone might have said something, but this wasn't the voice that mattered, so his brain discarded it before it fully reached his ears. He took one unsteady step in the direction of the figure, his mind vibrating with just one thought: Harry. Harry. Harry.

His skin felt numb. White mist swallowed everything but Harry, and Tom took a couple of more steps hastily, suddenly terrified of blinking and having everything disappear.

Could this really be happening? Could Harry be here? The day he came back was supposed to be special. Grand. Tom had never expected it to take place on a random Tuesday, when a series of typical meetings was the most exciting thing he had planned.

And if he was here… was he here to stay? Because if this wasn't some elaborate hallucination, if Tom got a chance to touch him, to inhale his scent, to speak with him, he wasn't certain he would be able to let go. No progress and no desire to prove that he'd changed would be strong enough to make him willingly return himself into the abyss.

The initial daze of shock began to dissipate. At last, Tom managed to focus on the immediate details of Harry's face.

It looked pale. Much paler than he remembered and than Harry appeared in all the memories they'd exchanged. He was wearing new glasses that actually flattered the shape of his face, and the look in his eyes was arrogantly confident. He was holding himself like royalty, and it was so unusual that Tom swallowed, unable to take his eyes off him.

"Get out," someone said. With difficulty, his mind recognised Lestrange's flat voice. "All of you."

Harry consumed his every thought, so Tom barely noticed how everyone left. As soon as the door closed after the last person, Harry deflated. The confidence vanished, replaced by even stranger hesitancy.

"Hello, Tom," he uttered. His voice was delightfully hoarse, but with the same note of uncertainty, as if Harry wasn't sure of his welcome. How could he even…

This time, Tom didn't know who moved first. He threw himself forwards, and Harry met him halfway, grabbing him into an embrace so violent that their bones crashed, sending startled ache through Tom's body. Aching was good — it made this dream real, so Tom clung with all his might. He was panting harshly, but he wasn't the only one. Harry's quiet gasps were scorching his ear, filling it with the most desirable sound in the world: his breathing.

For the next few minutes, Tom's mind drifted off. All he could sense was Harry in his arms, Harry with his arms around him, Harry's heartbeat that created a song he would be content to listen forever to. And the smell — the familiar aching smell of turmeric, sawdust, and lilacs. Safety and home; home and warmth; warmth and love.

Harry was here. Harry came back to him.

Tom jerked him closer, destroying the last hints at a distance between them, but it wasn't enough. Nothing was. Harry was here, and all he wanted was to consume him, to breathe him in and carry him inside. He needed more — more touch, more scent, more closeness. With a wild growl, Tom wrenched himself away from Harry and wrapped his hand around his throat instead. As Harry blinked, he pushed him against one of the walls and kissed him, forcefully tugging at his chin to gain more access, tightening his grip in case Harry tried to get away from him.

Harry didn't try. His hands didn't even attempt to push him away — on the contrary, they slid up Tom's shoulders greedily before burying themselves in his hair and pulling him closer.

Harry was kissing him back, and this time, there was nothing slow and hesitant about it. He met Tom's lips with equal force and fervency, melting into the shape of his body with such ease, as if he'd never left. The kiss was hard and bruising to the point where it was unclear whom of them was trying to claim the other more. They kept stealing the air from each other's mouth, and when Tom's head became so light that bright spots started dancing even beneath his eyelids, he finally pulled back. Harry was already staring at him — had he closed his eyes at all? Maybe Tom shouldn't have done it either. Maybe he should have watched every flash of emotion of Harry's face, memorising it and feeding on these memories every day and night that followed.

Then the enormity of what he'd done crashed into him, sending chills down his spine. He grabbed Harry's shirt in sudden panic, holding for dear life.

"I didn't mean to kiss you," he blurted out. Harry squinted and Tom flushed. "I mean… not without your permission," he tried to explain awkwardly. "I was just overwhelmed. You won't leave over it, will you?"

At this, Harry laughed, and the sound was so lively and beloved that it brought every remaining deadened part of him to life. Tom shuddered when Harry brushed his fingers against his face in a caress.

"No," he said softly. "I'm definitely not leaving. I'm home."

Tom never thought the feeling of happiness had such a crushing power. His face twisted in a myriad of emotions, unable to settle on one.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to conjure a thousand Patronuses and to shout his happiness at everyone and everything at once. He wanted to grab Harry and kiss him again, and he wanted to just stand here and stare at him for eternity.

If he could bottle this feeling and make a potion out of it, the world would willingly give itself up to him for the chance to experience something this precious.

But what was the world when he had Harry? A pale copy, nothing more.

His mind finally chose the most fitting reaction. Tom laughed, and the purity of this happy sound kept echoing in his ears for long hours that followed.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

He didn't remember leaving the Ministry well. He said something to pale-looking Lestrange, talked briefly to a couple of people who dared to approach him, and then he apparated home, never once loosening his grip on Harry's hand.

The moment they found themselves in the house, Harry stepped away from him, slowly walking across the living room and observing it.

"Nothing changed here," he said, surprise colouring his voice. "Everything is the same I remember it."

"Everything is the same," Tom echoed. He couldn't stop looking, his eyes tracking every Harry's movement. Hearing something in his voice, Harry turned to face him again, his lips curled in a warm smile.

"I'm glad," he murmured. Their gazes held. A shiver rocked through Tom's body, and an insistent urge to be physically closer drove him forwards, forcing him to break into Harry's personal space again.

Fortunately, Harry didn't seem to mind. He continued to re-explore their house, looking relieved every time he checked the room and saw that it remained exactly the same it had been on the day of his departure. Tom followed him closely, content to just bask in his presence. The bedroom was the last place Harry went to, and when he dropped himself onto the bed with a pleased sigh, Tom hesitantly took the spot nearby. Once again, Harry didn't protest. He curled on his side, and when Tom mirrored him, he put his hand on his shoulder, pulling him closer so that their foreheads touched.

For a while, they shared their breaths in silence. When more time passed and Harry didn't disappear, remained just as warm and real, Tom finally allowed himself to whisper, "Why did you come back? Why now?"

Harry sighed again. When he spoke, his voice was low and self-deprecating.

"You might not find my answer meaningful."

Tom snorted in disbelief.

"I find everything you say meaningful," he commented dryly. "How is it that you still doubt it?"

Harry laughed, although the sound wasn't particularly happy.

"A lot of time passed, Tom," he uttered. "Exchanging letters or even memories is one thing, but to have me back in your life — it's different. I wasn't fully certain how you'd react. I wasn't certain I still had a real place here."

"Unbelievable," Tom shook his head before inching closer, until his nose was buried in Harry's cheek. "I always made it clear that you are my priority. You always have been. How is it even possible for you to doubt it?"

He knew Harry was insecure. After watching his memories, he could also easily guess that Harry craved being loved even more than he craved loving someone. Privately, Tom thought this made them perfect for each other, and he certainly made his feelings clear in every possible way. His adoration and devotion were displayed openly in every letter, in every one of myriad actions he was undertaking just to please Harry. But if even this wasn't enough…

Harry chuckled, his eyelashes fluttering under the brush of Tom's lips.

"It's one of the reasons I came back," he said. The look on his face got distant, and Tom burrowed his fingers into his hair, alarmed at Harry slipping away from him again, even in thoughts only. "At first, I was so angry at you that I didn't want to even think about you. So I didn't. I tried to distract myself — I started furnishing the house, wanted to make it feel like a new home. I kept hoping I'd be able to start a new life there."

"Where did you find it?" Tom asked quietly. He'd imagined so many different scenarios over this time — he obsessed over them. Finding out the real answer almost felt sacred.

"It used to belong to Dumbledore," Harry said. He sounded embarrassed, and only this stopped Tom from bristling.

Dumbledore. So it was him. He was Harry's Secret Keeper. He helped him to escape and he gave him a safe place to stay at.

A hiss of anger seared through his brain, but Tom didn't let this reflect on his face, forcing it to stay expressionless.

He knew it was likely. Knew it from the beginning. There was no need to work himself into anger over it now. Dumbledore might hate him and want Harry away from him, but he would never get his wish. Harry was here, with him, and he would never leave again. Tom wouldn't give him a reason to.

"I bought some things for it, tried to start a garden, but it was November and my charms weren't working properly," Harry continued. "I think I was too bitter for anything to grow around me. So I focused on cooking, but then I couldn't make myself eat it, and it quickly became pointless, too. And you…" Harry fell silent. His expression darkened, and Tom had to control his sudden burst of panic.

He didn't want Harry to get angry. Not with him, not again. It was too risky — what they had right now was so shaky that he kept thinking it would slip through his fingers the moment he looked away.

"Your emotions," Harry murmured. "Your grief. What you were doing to your body — it wouldn't let me distract myself. And I know I couldn't sense your real feelings, your ritual works in a physical way, but it still felt like that. It drove me crazy."

The memory of those dark first months briefly overshadowed the happiness. Tom flinched before he could still himself. Madness stirred, whispered under his skin gleefully, but then Harry dropped a quick instinctual kiss on his forehead, and in a blink, it was gone.

He had to keep himself calm. Those days were in the past, they would never happen again. Harry was here to stay. He was here forever.

Repeating this several times helped. Gradually, Tom relaxed, and Harry, probably sensing it, continued.

"I was so determined to start building a new life, but for the most part, I felt numb. It was as if I was waiting for something to happen. I started to finally breathe only when we began talking again," Harry shook his head, wrinkling his nose like he always did when embarrassed. Completely charmed by this, Tom pressed his lips to it, his heart singing when it startled a laugh out of Harry.

"I was still angry then," he murmured. "Every time I got your letter, I didn't know if I was going to open it or tear it to pieces, but either way, they were the highlight of my days. When you finally watched my memories… that was when things finally changed," Harry licked his lips, briefly distracting Tom from his words. "I didn't believe it at first. You seemed so earnest in your regret, but you always felt earnest to me, and then it turned out to be a lie, so I couldn't trust my own perceptions. Not again. I decided to give it time. I know you wanted me back — I wanted to come back to you too, but I was certain that this distance would do both of us good. And you know what, I don't regret it. I still think it was the right choice."

Tom made a disgusted sound. He couldn't help it — everything in him protested against this idea violently.

Being separated from Harry could never be right. It was the worst nightmare of his life, and he would do anything to never live through it again.

"It was," Harry insisted, his chin set stubbornly. "Look at you. You've achieved so many things. You chose a course and you built a strong position for yourself without my interference. Do you understand how important it is?"

"Not entirely," Tom said with a sigh. He knew this wasn't what Harry had hoped to hear, but he had no desire to lie to him. "Everything I did, everything I do and will do — it's still shaped by you."

"But you are interested in what you're doing? It's not like you're doing all of it for me, right?"

Yes and no.

Saying it aloud didn't seem like a good idea, so Tom chose to shrug and stay silent. He hoped Harry would interpret it as he pleased, so when he snorted and rolled his eyes, Tom frowned.

"What?" he asked suspiciously.

"Whatever you convinced yourself of, you aren't doing what you're doing just for me," Harry stated, calm certainty of his words so convincing that Tom almost nodded without bothering to think about it. "I've read all your interviews. I've seen your pictures. You are passionate when you're discussing your plans. Your eyes are shining — you can fake politeness but not excitement, Tom. I know you, I know how you look and sound when you enjoy something."

"I think… probably?" Tom muttered. Confusion and doubt collided in his brain, distorting the picture he'd believed he was seeing clearly.

Harry did know him. He knew him better than anyone whether he was here or miles away. So if Harry believed he was following all these goals out of self-interest…

Well. Maybe he was. It was fascinating to see how each part of the Ministry functioned. It was fulfilling to charm groups upon groups of people and get them to support him even when a day ago, they spat at the idea of allying themselves with a Slytherin.

And naturally, exploring the intricacies of a human mind and finding ways to transform it was empowering. It was one of the most captivating projects Tom had ever worked on.

"You are right," he said, genuine astonishment in his voice. "I enjoy it."

The smile Harry gave him swiftly erased every rational thought in his head. Tom smiled back instinctively, and when Harry began to talk again, he stared at him without blinking.

"I did a lot of things for myself, too. I made myself go out at least three times a week to different places. I became an instructor at a Quidditch club in Lynton and made some friends there. Still…" a self-deprecating smile that Tom was rapidly growing to hate crossed Harry's lips. "I can't say I felt happy. These people — I couldn't tell them anything about myself. They weren't Ron and Hermione. They weren't you."

Tom tried to twist his face into compassion, but he couldn't fight the victorious grin that trembled on his lips.

Harry was bad for his self-control.

To his embarrassment, Harry caught his grin, but instead of getting annoyed, he just chuckled and shook his head fondly.

"Don't let it go to your head," he told him. "There were many reasons that stopped me from getting comfortable with those people. What kind of friendship can you build when every word you say about yourself is a lie? The more time I spent with them, the sicker I felt. I hated myself more and more after each our meeting. Flying was the only time I felt free, and you can't exactly limit your friendship to the sky. So it was more of a burden than the distraction I hoped for. When I realised I try so hard to be friends for the sake of it, not because I want to, I stopped forcing myself. We still see each other, but not as often, and with the pressure gone, at least I can enjoy myself more. And that's pretty much it."

"But…" Tom frowned, squeezing Harry's hand tighter. "You were gone for so long. This couldn't have been the only things you did, there must be a lot you are still not telling me."

Harry lowered his eyes for a moment.

"It's not that I'm not telling you," he murmured. "It's that I don't find it worth telling. I had a house with a garden, I had people who cared about me, I was working a great job, but my heart was never really in it. Something was missing. No matter what I did, this feeling didn't go away."

Elation lit Tom up from inside, and it was so dizzying that he briefly buried his face in Harry's collarbone, breathing in his scent.

"I thought you said distance was good for both of us?" he teased, his voice muffled. Harry shivered under his touch before moving away slightly, his face surprisingly red.

"I did," he said stiffly. "And I meant what I said about you — it was good for you. But me… I was mostly…" Harry stopped talking. The redness faded from his face, replaced by paleness and misery that had Tom's heart in a knot before he fully registered it.

"What?" he demanded, pushing himself up. "What is it?"

Harry grimaced, still not raising his eyes.

"I disappointed myself," he said finally. "There is some irony in it. Without me, you learned how to be independent. But I — I learned that I'm more dependent on you than I ever realised. No matter what I did, how much I tried, I couldn't build a fulfilling life. I couldn't talk myself into being happy, not without you in the picture. That's why I came back — I couldn't stay away any longer. I felt like if I waited some more, then I'd never be able to return at all… that I simply wouldn't belong. So…" Harry laughed mirthlessly, rubbing his face. "I don't know what it says about me. That I'm pitiful? That my own lesson didn't work on me? I keep fluctuating between certainty that you need me and belief that I no longer have a place in your life. I can't begin to tell you how upsetting and frustrating this is."

Confidence and hesitancy. Two conflicting emotions that Tom had noticed the second Harry walked inside.

Maybe Harry's acknowledgement was supposed to please him. Before, he might have felt thrilled at the idea of Harry helplessly admitting his own dependency. And in a way, he was thrilled — he was elated. Harry needing him was all he could ask for, all he had ever wanted. But at the same time, this underlined how wrong Harry was in his assessment.

"I don't think you understand," Tom said. His voice was flat, and Harry looked up in surprise. He was here — he was here with Tom, the real him. Not a vision, not a nightmare. And yet it was almost like he was a ghost. His essence was the same, but everything else felt different, Tom could sense it now that the initial rush of dizziness started to dissipate.

This Harry was tired and disillusioned. He was more fragile than Tom had remembered, but the steely core was in place just like it'd always been. And that was the difference between them.

"You may find it hard to live without me," he spoke. "But you can survive without me. You proved it by leaving and you proved it by staying gone for so long. This was your choice, one I would have never made. Because unlike you, I can't handle it. I can't survive without you."

Harry began to scoff, but Tom shook his head sharply.

"I can't," he repeated. "I built an illusion of life, and yes, I suppose I enjoyed parts of it. But it was always founded on the hope that one day, you would come back to me. It was the only reason why I forced myself to keep functioning and doing something — I was keeping myself busy and biding time. It was my goal to create a world where you would have liked to live with me, so I did everything in my power to achieve it. I thought you understood it from my letters, but maybe what I did with that ritual ruined far more than I imagined."

In retrospect, Harry had expressed the same feelings in one of his first letters. He hadn't been certain whether Tom bound them out of love or out of desire for immortality. It was illogical, but this was the idea Harry had seriously considered, and it said everything about his state of mind.

Tom had assumed that everything that followed was enough evidence of his devotion, but now he could see how wrong he was.

Harry was a mess. A mess that could leave him any time unless Tom made it right. This was the key difference: no matter how difficult it was, Harry was strong enough to abandon him. Tom would rather kill himself and the world around him than survive something like this again.

"I spent every holiday huddled up under one of the trees near your house," he said. The words were clinging to his tongue, unwilling to be pushed outside, so he had to make an effort to speak them. It became easier when Harry's eyes widened incredulously. "Sometimes I felt so badly that I couldn't move for hours," he continued, reluctant. "I kept forgetting about the warming charms and my magic was the only thing keeping me alive. Exchanging letters and memories with you was one of those few things that helped me to keep going. I imagine that no matter how unsatisfying your life was, you never stooped this low."

"It's not stooping low," Harry protested, just like Tom knew he would. "You missed me. It's completely—"

"No," Tom interrupted him. Making him understand was vital irrespective of the consequences. "I was dying without you. In many instances, I was dying literally. It's very different from simply missing you. 'Missing' doesn't even begin to cover it."

"Oh," Harry murmured. The sound was quiet and soft, but so significant that Tom held his breath, his heart pounding against the trap of his bones.

Harry dropped his head again, but then he raised it, and his smile was so genuine that Tom instantly wanted to kiss it off his lips.

"Okay," was all Harry said.

"Okay?" Tom blinked. He expected an argument or another bout of hesitancy, definitely not this easy acceptance.

"Okay," Harry confirmed, still smiling at him. "I understand. There are other things I'll have to tackle if I want to restore at least a modicum of respect for myself, but right now, it's enough."

"What things?" Tom asked warily. Harry cleared his throat, another blush staining his cheeks.

"Maybe I'll tell you later. Just, some of the articles about you, and what I saw in the Mirror of Erised… my mind is playing tricks on me. I need some time to figure it out."

Tom opened his mouth to demand more, but after Harry's warning look, he quickly snapped it shut — a habit so familiar that slipping back into it felt like second nature.

He wanted to know what Harry had seen in that mirror. When he allowed himself to think about it, the intense need to find out scalded him, pushing him to imagine scenario upon scenario to lessen the burn of curiosity with fantasies. Now Harry was back, but he still wasn't willing to talk.

Frustrating, but tolerable. As long as Harry was by his side, everything else could wait.

Harry laughed, and with a start, Tom realised he must have spoken the last line aloud. It was his turn to flush now, but instead of teasing him, Harry just pulled him back into bed, back into his arms.

For a while, they said nothing, listening to each other's breathing.

"What are you going to do now that you're back?" Tom wondered quietly.

"I don't know," Harry hummed, stroking his hand. "I still have my job as Quidditch instructor, but it's only three times a week for several hours. Maybe I could go back to Hogwarts. It would be strange to be there without you, but I enjoyed teaching. Not sure Dumbledore will like this idea, though. He and I haven't been seeing eye to eye lately."

Tom bit his lip so hard that it sent a sharp sting of pain to his brain.

He really didn't want to hear anything about Dumbledore. Not when every mention of his name started a cold simmering of rage in his blood.

"Is that because of me?" he asked. It took every ounce of power to keep his voice even.

"He's wrong about you," Harry said, his words so hard that they punched a hole through Tom's wall of fury. "He has his reasons, I know, but he's acting like you're the same child he suspects of murdering Charlus. He has no real evidence of even that, he can see with his own eyes what policies you're working on, but he still dared to release those stupid rumours and…" Harry took a deep breath before letting it out slowly.

"What?" Tom asked, dread twisting his organs into one bleeding knot. "What is it?"

"He was very against me coming back," Harry muttered angrily. "You should have heard the things he was saying. I know he means well, but his habit to make everything his business… I can't stand it. He acts like he's grasped the mystery of the world or something, like he's above everyone else with his knowledge. But he doesn't know half of the things I'm aware of. I don't understand. If I can give you another chance, why can't he—"

"You are not particularly unbiased," Tom drawled teasingly. He was amazed that he managed to keep his voice light when everything in him was overflowing with cold rage.

"Maybe not. But you never did anything to Dumbledore personally. The forgiveness is not his to give."

The ferocity in Harry's voice took Tom aback. A smile twisted his lips, and he nuzzled Harry's neck, shivering as he took a lungful of familiar smell.

"I'm so glad you're back," he whispered. Anything louder, and his voice could have wavered — he didn't want Harry to hear it. "I thought it would happen on some big day. I never thought you would just… stroll in like that."

Harry's touch was achingly gentle.

"I didn't know I was going to come back today either," he murmured. "It was spontaneous. But today or tomorrow, or in a week… it would have happened soon."

"I'm glad it's today," Tom said. Enveloped by Harry's warmth and his scent, his eyes began to flutter shut. "If I fall asleep, will you still be here when I wake up?"

Harry placed a long, wonderful kiss to the corner of his lips.

"No other place I'd choose to be," he replied. He looked tired himself, but his crooked smile was as beautiful as Tom remembered.

A part of him didn't want to sleep anyway. The fear was there, brushing against his mind with careful but insistent whispers of it cannot be real, he's not here, he'll be gone before you blink, you'll see, he'll never come back. But Harry's presence was too solid, too physical, so Tom allowed himself to close his eyes.

He dreamed pleasant dreams, but none of them could compare to the blissfulness of his new reality.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

He and Harry took turns waking up during the night. Whenever Tom opened his eyes, Harry was watching him, his gaze warm and thoughtful. When Harry opened his eyes, Tom was staring at him, unable to trust his vision — not yet.

They made fun of each other. They talked. They teased and laughed, cuddled close and slept just to wake up again. It felt like Harry had never left, but at the same time, everything felt new and unfamiliar.

Something changed. Something tangible that Tom couldn't put his finger on. And whatever it was, it wasn't threatening — it was exciting. His heart kept skipping irregular beats every time he looked at Harry and saw some new unidentifiable emotion in his eyes.

When the morning came and he woke up for the tenth time, Harry was still sleeping. His face looked slack, his lips parted under the weight of relaxation, and all Tom wanted was to stay here and keep looking at him. Alas, he couldn't discard his job entirely, not after he missed the entire day yesterday.

For a second, he was gripped by the urge to rouse Harry and tell him he had to leave at least for several hours. He'd just spent half of the night staring into Harry's eyes, but somehow, he was already missing their greenness with intensity that concerned even him.

He'd survived two years without seeing it. He could live for several more hours.

Still, leaving without saying a word didn't feel right. After short hesitation, Tom grabbed a piece of parchment. It was strange, writing something when Harry was in the same room, but if the situation was reverse, if he woke up and Harry was gone, leaving no proof of his presence behind…

Tom shuddered, his mind going blank at the simple idea of it.

No. He would leave the note. And he would fill it with sweet nonsense that Harry might laugh at, but ultimately, after the way he'd admitted his insecurity and doubt yesterday, he'd appreciate it. It would be worth it.

Tom didn't even have to think — his hand began to move on its own.

Dear Harry,

It feels odd to write a letter to you when I can see you napping just a few feet away. I have to go to the Ministry for a while and I didn't want to wake you. This is just to let you know that what happened yesterday is real — you are back. You are home. I think I also need a reminder. On my way there, I might convince myself that I made you up, but I will remember writing this note.

Everything I told you yesterday is a mere reflection of everything I still want to say. I still need you beyond what I could express in words. You have always and will always have a place in my life — you are the reason why I want this life at all. Without you, it would have little meaning, not when it comes to things that matter. I wouldn't be who I am now.

I don't care who thinks what. Let Dumbledore hate me, let my followers gossip behind my back about my weaknesses. When I have you, I don't need anything else: it is just a bonus.

I already miss you.

I love you.

Eternally yours,

Tom

He'd only written about love once before. It made him strangely unsettled — he still wasn't certain this was an appropriate word to describe the powerful, twisted storm of feelings he had for Harry, but if Harry needed to hear it…

Placing a letter on his pillow, Tom allowed himself to bend over and inhale Harry's sleepy scent for the last time. It wouldn't be enough to get him through the day of absence, but it was something.

He had to leave now. If he kept standing here and looking, he would never force his legs to move.

This thought might have been annoying before, but now Tom just grinned.

Harry would be home when he came back. He finally had someone to return to.

The smile stayed on his lips for a very long time.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

The official year-long plan was simple. Increase funding for Hogwarts' less fortunate students. Implement country-wise system of improvements for Quidditch gear, one that the Sports Department had finally finished developing. Take three selected territories from Muggles and adjust them for wizarding population. Establish inner control over Muggles' military and make memory wipes policies harsher.

The last two points were likely to lead to some resistance, but Tom already had counter-plans in motion. This year would be a test in several ways, and particularly for his elite Mind Charms department. The potential points of contention weren't severe enough to provoke a huge scandal even if his efforts failed, but they were mildly controversial — just enough to gauge how many people would be against them and how difficult it would be to manipulate their minds into accepting them.

"I know what we can do about the Muggles' military and memory wipes," Mulciber was muttering, his eyes glued to his own report. "We can use their war and polish some statistics on casualties among the wizards to prove that they have to be monitored. I don't think many would be opposed to guarding our secrets better either. But the territories? How are we going to persuade anyone that they should be stolen?"

"By appealing to wizarding pride, of course," Tom said. Focusing on reading was difficult when he knew that Harry was just one apparition away. "Lestrange is already working on it. We will spread information that these lands have a vast historical value for wizards and that we'll be reclaiming them, not stealing them. There is a difference."

"There still might be opposition," Mulciber warned him. "Not everyone is going to agree with this."

"Naturally," Tom replied lazily. His eyes were slowly studying the outlined strategy prepared by Lestrange, pausing at the section titled 'Potential unrest'. "If someone starts posing a problem, we'll handle it."

Mulciber's silent hesitation somehow managed to be so loud that Tom sighed, raising his head again.

"Any questions?" he inquired coldly.

"It's just…" Mulciber looked uncomfortable. "If all your opponents start disappearing, rumours will spread. To control them all, we'll need—"

The immediate protest rose up from the very depth of his chest, sending a rush of fear-induced adrenaline through his blood.

"No one will be disappearing," Tom interrupted sharply. Mulciber froze, probably catching the dark warning in his tone. "We will not murder anyone," Tom continued, and though he wanted to soften his words, they still came out harshly. "There are many other ways in which we can control our opponents. Or did you think I set up the Memory Charms Department randomly?"

For a moment, Mulciber stared at him blankly, but then a flash of realisation lit up his face.

"You want to Obliviate them all?" he guessed carefully. Tom smirked.

"If a bunch of my opponents turn up as drooling idiots, it's bound to attract attention. No, I'm more interested in modifying their memories. Reprogramming the undesirables, if you prefer this concept. Shaping them as I personally see fit."

A stunned look in Mulciber's eyes rapidly grew into an awed one. He opened his mouth to say something else when the door to Tom's office opened.

Tom stiffened, sending an unwelcome intruder a cold stare, but all thoughts promptly left his head when he realised who it was.

Harry.

His lips immediately stretched in a happy, excited grin, and he jumped to his feet, taking one involuntary step closer.

"Hello," he greeted softly. Harry rewarded him with an amused smirk.

"Hello to you too," he drawled. "Am I interrupting something?"

Mulciber cleared his throat, giving Harry a tight smile.

"You are," he said. "If you could return in—"

"Not at all!" Tom blurted out. "Please come in."

With the corner of his eye, he saw how Mulciber gaped at him in shock, but it didn't matter. Tom could feel a blush staining his cheeks as it filled them with an absurd amount of blood. Perhaps it was embarrassing, but his grin stayed glued to his face nonetheless. Happiness was rapidly spreading, making his nerve endings tingle, and he couldn't stop looking — couldn't let himself blink in the irrational fear that he might miss a movement or a sigh Harry would make.

"Get out," Tom said. The words sounded very warm since his mouth was smiling, but the message itself was clear enough.

Mulciber looked at Harry, probably thinking it was him Tom had addressed. When Harry stared back, an eyebrow raised, he snapped his gaze back to Tom incredulously.

"Yes, you," Tom growled. Forced to temporarily lose his focus on Harry, he gave Mulciber a glare. "Get out. I'll summon you later and we'll finish our discussion.". "Get out. I'll call you later and we'll finish our discussion."

He didn't bother to watch whether his order was followed: right away, his gaze returned to Harry, who was watching him again. And something in his stare… it was lingering. More intense. Tom couldn't decipher what had changed, but whatever it was, it affected him on a physical level. His legs felt shaky, his mouth went dry, and the longer Harry stared, the more erratic Tom's breathing grew.

Distantly, he noted the sound of the door closing. Harry must have heard it, too, because he slowly walked forwards, stopping mere inches from him and tilting his head, his expression inscrutable.

"I love your new look," he said thoughtfully. He was standing so close — too close. Tom's head was spinning. It took him every effort to catch his breath and murmur, "What look?"

Harry let out a small chuckle. Raising his hand, he traced Tom's hot face with his fingers, his touch so gentle that Tom shuddered in delight.

He didn't entirely understand what was happening. All he knew was that Harry was gazing at him in a way that made coherent thinking impossible.

"You look older," Harry muttered. His fingers were still moving, stroking Tom's face like he was mesmerised. Enthralled by him. "The pictures I saw didn't do you justice."

Tom blinked.

"What… what does it mean?" he asked hoarsely. Harry's resulting laughter echoed in his bones. It poured so much warmth into them that Tom was quickly starting to feel on fire.

He didn't know what Harry could have seen on his face, but his look suddenly grew more solemn. He leaned even closer, briefly brushing their noses together, and then his lips touched Tom's cheekbone, caressing it in one lingering movement downwards. When he finally pulled back, Tom barely stopped a pathetic noise of protest from escaping.

"You are beautiful," Harry said quietly. His thumb grazed the contour of Tom's lips, and this time, Tom let out a small gasp. His heart was beating so wildly that he thought it might break his ribcage.

A part of him worried that making a sound would snap Harry out of this strange, reverent state, but it seemed that he'd done something right because the next moment, Harry was cradling his face.

"What you wrote to me in your today's letter," he uttered. "Did you mean it?"

"Yes," Tom breathed out. His eyes were fluttering shut — the combination of Harry's warmth, his smell, his proximity was intoxicating. Unwittingly, his own hands rose to clutch at Harry's forearms, making sure he wouldn't move and wouldn't break the touch.

Harry smiled at him. It was a magnificent, blinding sight, and Tom could get drunk on it alone.

Then, unbelievably, Harry leaned forwards. Another second that lasted for eternity, and his lips covered Tom's, soft and warm and wanting.

His mind promptly shut itself down. Kissing Harry in general tended to have the same effect, but being kissed by him? For Harry to initiate it?

Impossible. Unbelievable. Somehow even more addictive and wonderful than any other touch they had shared so far, each of them seared on the back of Tom's mind.

He heard a strange, weak sound, and only a second later, he realised he'd been the one to make it. His knees weakened so rapidly that if he wasn't so certain of his magical potency, he would have assumed someone cursed him. With another moan, Tom snaked his arms around Harry's waist and jerked him closer, swallowing his startled sigh.

Too fast, his brain warned him. Be careful, he might not like

But Harry matched his pace perfectly. His own hands entangled themselves in Tom's hair and his lips moved just as greedily, consuming him as completely as they let themselves be consumed.

The sense of time disappeared. Tom was only dimly aware of it passing. It could be five minutes or an hour, but when he and Harry broke apart, his lungs were burning in their desperate urge to breathe.

Harry looked as dazed as Tom felt. His pupils were blown wide, his lips red and swollen, and he was so ethereally beautiful that Tom had to fight to stop his hands from grabbing him and pulling him into another kiss.

And not just a kiss. This time, the kiss wouldn't be the end of it; the kiss wouldn't be enough. He wanted more. His body wanted more — it felt taunted by the whisper of closeness and its quick withdrawal.

His skin was so hot, it was burning. Tom licked his lips, staring at Harry with glassy eyes.

"What was it?" he managed to ask. "Not that I'm complaining, but… I didn't see this coming."

"I did," Harry replied. His determination and fervency were suddenly replaced with weariness. "I saw it coming for at least a year, ever since you—" he fell silent, and Tom instantly stepped closer.

"Ever since I what?" he demanded. "Tell me."

"I can't," Harry wrinkled his nose, his embarrassment so palpable that it infused Tom with even more heat. "It will sound ridiculous and I'll never be able to look at you again."

For a moment, these words froze him. Panic surged forward, carrying a threat of separation and abandonment, and Tom clenched his fists, trying to will himself to stay calm.

Harry, probably surprised by his silence, looked at him and did a double-take.

"I didn't mean it literally," he said, alarmed. "What's even… Tom!"

The sharpness of his voice broke through the thickening surface of panic. Tom shook his head, trying to fold his lips into a semblance of a smile.

"I know," he murmured. Harry didn't appear convinced — if anything, he looked even more concerned now.

"I'm sorry," he uttered. "I forgot how… I'm sorry. What I meant is, your letters. For a long while, they were different."

The shift of a mortifying topic to something he would give half of the world to know about pushed the remaining bits of self-control back into his body. Tom straightened, brushing his hair off his face impatiently.

"How so?" he inquired. With another grimace, Harry dropped into Tom's throne-like chair, watching his feet and avoiding raising his eyes.

"Some time after I left, you began to write differently," he murmured. "I don't know how to describe it. There was… maturity, maybe. Maybe wisdom — I don't know, but I've never seen it from you before. I felt like you've crossed the threshold to adulthood, and I was upset because no matter how often we wrote to each other, I was missing all those crucial moments and transitions. Sometimes I didn't even recognise you. And then when you started drinking that potion…"

Harry faltered. Tom watched avidly as he licked his lips and tried again, his voice growing quieter.

"It was a blow. A blow I wasn't expecting. Thinking that you sounded different and that I wasn't there to witness how it happened rattled me, but seeing these changes physically — it was harder. You said the difference is supposed to be small, just a year or two, but it was there, I could see it clearly. It's like you turned into a different person, someone I didn't really know. But at the same time, I did know you. You were still you. And I wasn't certain at first, but the feelings I had…" Harry stumbled once more, his face reddening in its embarrassed misery. "They felt differently, too," he explained awkwardly. "I looked at so many photos of you, I watched all the broadcasts, and it was almost like… almost like…"

Harry fell silent, and Tom could growl in frustration. He opened his mouth, but suddenly, something clicked. Something that made his blood run hotter, that pushed his heart into an overdrive.

Harry blushing so often. Harry raising the topic of the aging potion repeatedly. Harry calling him beautiful, kissing him, and giving this rambling speech that he couldn't bring himself to finish.

There was only one logical conclusion.

"Are you trying to say that you felt attracted to me?" Tom asked carefully. Harry jumped like from a stinging spell. His wide eyes met Tom's… and there it was. That new emotion Tom had been unable to identify because he'd only seen it in the Mirror of Erised, never in reality.

Harry was attracted to him. And it had obviously sent him spiralling because of a moral crisis, stubbornness, or something equally ridiculous.

He was attracted to him. Now, when Tom wasn't even expecting it.

But it made sense. Even before these two hellishly long years, Harry's answer had never been "no" — it was, 'I need time. You are too young. I don't know what I feel.' And now, after separation, he was implying that something had shifted for him, brought him from "maybe one day" to "yes."

Whether it was Tom's heartbreak, his graduation, or Lestrange's aging potion, it happened, and it was real. Harry wanted him in a way Tom hadn't been certain he ever would.

Granted, whenever he thought of their future, this was a big part of it. Tom allowed himself to imagine and hope, but for at least several years now, it was nothing more than a distant hypothetical possibility. He was prepared to move the earth and the sky just to rebuild the trust between them and return to the stage they had been at before that damned ritual, and having this, now… it was more than a gift. It was a dream coming true — a dream he hadn't dared to seriously consider for a long time.

The joy that bloomed in him was so powerful that his magic sang under its touch. Tom grinned, and the grin was so wide that his lips hurt. It didn't fade even as Harry sent him an unimpressed stare. His eyes were wary, but a moment later, his lips also twitched in a hesitant answering smile that made Tom's heart stumble.

"Why is that a bad thing?" Tom asked. His voice came out breathless, so he cleared his throat. He had to hold himself under control — no need to scary Harry away with all the urges that suddenly raised their greedy heads and demanded a more direct approach.

"I didn't say it's a bad thing," Harry replied. He was still grimacing like he was discussing something unpleasant, and that dimmed the soaring happiness in Tom's chest. "But I don't feel comfortable with it either. The only problem is, I don't know what makes me nervous. It could be that I know how wrong these feelings are—"

"They aren't wrong!" Tom growled before he could stop himself. Harry shook his head.

"I've been raising you since you were eight years old, Tom," he said dryly. "Of course it's wrong. No one will ever consider it appropriate."

The frustration on Harry's face was upsetting, but then his words registered, and the joy flared again, just as brightly.

"That's what it is about," Tom murmured. "You aren't worried about it yourself. You are worried about others. Like Oakwood. You don't want to be judged again, and you think this is bound to happen now that both you and I will be in front of the public."

Harry startled, like he hadn't thought Tom would guess it. The wrinkles marring his forehead slowly faded, and he sighed, this time softer.

"Actually, your letter helped me with accepting it a little," he said. "When you said that you don't care who thinks what, that anything other than us is a bonus… it resonated with me. But you are wrong if you think I don't have personal worries about it. My head is clear, I know what's wrong and what's right. But I think I stopped being able to feel this difference." Harry let out a low laugh, rubbing his face harshly. "It's absurd. I understand all the arguments, I know what makes this situation unacceptable, but I still—"

Harry was overthinking it. That's where the problem lied. When left to his own devices, he was winding himself up, and the worries piled up until he couldn't take a breath without obsessing over one thing or another.

This problem had a solution, and it was the opposite of talking.

When Tom moved, there was no hesitation. He grabbed Harry by his shoulders and pulled him close, his lips already closing over Harry's greedily.

He didn't know how long this kiss lasted. He only knew that they both ended up on the floor, clinging to each other like they hadn't seen each other for a century — and it certainly felt this way. Harry was flushed, his eyes shining with need and dizziness that Tom himself was experiencing.

"What I said in my note is true," Tom uttered, his voice so hoarse, it was barely recognisable. "Nothing else matters. If you want this, we will deal with all the obstacles until none of them is left. I promise you."

"This better not involve what I think it does," Harry muttered. Despite the words, he was smiling, and Tom smiled in return as a new wave of giddiness filled him.

"No murder," he promised solemnly. "Ever again. Just you and me. Forever."

Harry rolled his eyes.

"You can be such a sappy romantic," he said, but while his tone was teasing, his face was alight with genuine pleasure.

"You like it!" Tom exclaimed, surprised and delighted. "You like me being romantic."

Predictably, Harry's face reddened, but he just shrugged.

"It's strange," he admitted. "Maybe it's because I know that normally, you don't have a romantic bone in your body. I don't think I ever understood the complete appeal of it before — it used to feel bewildering. But now—"

Tom threw his arms around Harry's neck, crushing their lips together. The fact that he could do this freely, that he didn't have to count seconds because the kiss could go on and on still seemed surreal. It toyed with his mind, blurring the lines between the fantasies and the present. Everything in him sang as Harry laughed right into his mouth before leaning into his touch willingly.

If this absurd, never-ending happiness was the reward for the terrible two years he survived, he wouldn't regret them. Maybe one day, he would even learn to share Harry's perspective on them and accept that they were worth it.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Before, Tom had allowed his mind to wander. It stopped at various heated places that made his body flush and come to life even if he was simply lying in bed at the time. Over the years, he'd conjured thousands of images of himself and Harry together — kissing, biting, licking, moving against each other, entwined together in possible and impossible ways. Sometimes his need for these images to come true was so blinding that it scorched him, infusing his blood with liquid fire that quickly spread to his every cell.

But now? These images became redundant. They were still at the back of his mind, breathing desire into his body, but the urgency faded. Harry was nearby. Tom could enjoy the warmth of his embrace and the sweetness of his kisses any time he wanted, and this was surprisingly, satisfyingly enough. For now.

The days blurred together again, but this time, it was a blur of bliss. Slipping back into their old routines felt as familiar as moving, and Tom enjoyed every second of it.

He got up earlier to fix some quick breakfast for Harry and leave a note for him. Then he went to the Ministry, and when he rushed home, there was always a platter with his favourite snacks waiting. Usually, it was cookies, so Tom ate them all slowly as he waited for Harry to return from his Quidditch job. When he did, sometimes they went out somewhere, but for the most part, they snuggled up together in the bedroom or in the living room and did nothing but talk. Occasionally, they watched a film, and after it ended, they started another round of conversations.

Some were meaningless. Others were important.

"So those times you ignored my letters and didn't reply to them were because of the aging potion and your crisis over it?" Tom asked incredulously. He never connected the two, but now that Harry mentioned it, it suddenly made sense.

"You can say that," the corners of Harry's lips twisted up in self-irony. "I needed time to think."

"You were already away! You could think all you wanted! Why would you need to take a break from writing?"

"Stop it," with a groan, Harry buried his face in the pillow. "It's embarrassing, I don't want to talk about it."

Smirking triumphantly, Tom rolled onto Harry's back and slipped his fingers between his ribs, tickling him. It seemed like forever had passed since he'd last done it, but going back to it now felt like second nature.

Predictably, Harry tried to throw him off, grabbing at him from behind and hissing through his laughter when Tom dodged and intensified the pressure. For several seconds, they kept wrestling, but then Tom bent down and pressed his lips to Harry's nape. The fight went out of him instantly: his body relaxed and he melted into the touch.

"That feels good," Harry murmured.

"It does?" Tom planted another kiss, grazing Harry's skin with his lips lightly. "Wonderful. I've found a way to win all our fights."

Just as he thought, Harry instantly resumed his efforts to break free with an indignant gasp, and Tom had to concentrate to win this round. He couldn't help laughing, and for the countless time these days, he noted that he enjoyed this sound. It was so refreshingly genuine that he could only marvel at it.

But it was Harry's laughter that stole his breath and made his heart beat faster.

He never wanted any of this to end.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

On the days Harry didn't have to work, he either stayed home or visited the Ministry with Tom. Granted, this was more of Tom's wish, but Harry didn't mind. Maybe he was curious about how the older Ministry looked like compared to the version he knew from the future — he wandered into different departments, and Tom was more than happy to explore them with him.

Today, he spent almost two hours in a meeting with his Memory Charms Department members. Their preliminary tests went well, so they could finally try something a little more complex.

"Is there anything specific you would like us to do?" Malfoy wondered. Tom turned to the window, hiding how his lips curled in a pleased smile.

He knew Malfoy would ask this question. He had been rebellious and haughty only until his defences were broken — afterwards, he turned into a putty with the desire to please.

It felt good, reaffirming that he could predict his followers to such a degree.

"As a matter of fact, there is," Tom replied. All attention instantly snapped to him. "My relationship with Harry is going to become public very soon. There are already speculations, but for now, they are contained. When containing them becomes impossible, there are chances that the reaction of people won't be favourable."

"Is there anyone who still doesn't know the two of you are involved?" Black uttered disdainfully. "He dressed up in the Consort robe twice now. And besides, you have been making eyes at each other for years."

Tom faced the table, levelling Black with an unimpressed stare.

"People can be surprisingly unobservant," he said. "But at some point, unless you are willing to make an effort, they will start paying attention. I'm not interested in hiding our relationship, so sooner or later, everyone will know. Harry doesn't like this idea. He's worried about what others will think. I want you to start working on the minds of every person you see: your co-workers, family members, everyone you encounter. Plant the speculation that my bond with Harry is an unexpected but interesting development in their heads. I don't need passionate enthusiasm — neutral curiosity would be a good start."

"You want us to mind-wash every person we see?" Black repeated, blinking. Tom shrugged.

"It's not a topic that the majority would feel very strongly about either way," he said. "You also won't be reprogramming them entirely, you'll just replace any potential negativity with curiosity. It won't be hard. If you follow the formula, it'll take you four seconds, so yes, I want you to do that to everyone you meet. The more, the better."

"Interesting," Black's face was rapidly becoming slack, his gaze getting distant. He was already planning how to fulfil his request — that was good.

"Any other questions?" Tom asked. No one spoke, so he nodded and walked towards the door. "Then get to work. We'll meet in three days to discuss your success."

A semi-excited murmur followed his words. Satisfied, Tom went in search of Harry. At this time, he was likely in Tom's office, studying some of the documents curiously. He claimed he didn't really care about politics, but he did seem interested in studying the papers, projects, and plans Tom was preparing.

As long as Harry didn't break into his safe, he wouldn't see any incriminating information, and Tom wasn't worried about that happening. The protective spells he used were strong enough to repel the strongest of wizards — the most Harry would be able to do is sense an unusual amount of his magic and ask him about it.

Tom quickened his steps, giddy at the prospect of spending the rest of the day together. He was already reaching for the door handle when Lestrange's animated voice broke through, halting his motions.

"…to understand it! The moment he does something your pathetic system of morals doesn't like, you'll run again, and where will that leave him?"

"None of it is your business," Harry replied. As opposed to Lestrange, he sounded calm and bored, but Tom easily recognised the notes of stiffness in his words.

"Of course it is!" There was a loud sound like Lestrange had knocked something on the floor. It'd better not be anything from Tom's table. "Who do you think is going to watch him and pick up the pieces when you disappear, you fool!"

Surprise was rapidly boiling into anger. Tom narrowed his eyes and raised his hand again, intending to put a stop to this circus once and for all. Who did Lestrange think he was, speaking to Harry like this? Tom's personal attack dog? He should know better than to allow himself to throw such tantrums by now. Tom hoped Lestrange had learned his lesson, but apparently it was wistful thinking.

Harry's laughter was what stopped him this time. It was a strong and confident sound, and it lacked any trace of hidden uncertainty Tom had quickly learned to recognise.

Harry seemed to be genuinely amused. This was good. It meant he could delay his entrance for several more moments and listen.

"If anyone picks up Tom's pieces," Harry uttered, "then it's me. It has always and will always be me. I'm sorry, but I think you're overestimating your importance."

Lestrange's furious hiss was so loud that Tom heard it with perfect clarity.

"You listen to me—" he started, but Harry interrupted him.

"I've listened enough. Now it's your turn."

To Tom's delight, Lestrange actually kept his mouth shut. Perhaps Tom wasn't the only one affected by Harry's commanding tone.

"Your infatuation has lasted long enough," Harry said. He sounded calm, but his words were coated in barely traceable regret. Even now, after being cornered and shouted at, Harry pitied Lestrange.

How very him.

"You've been by Tom's side for years," Harry continued. "Are you telling me you still haven't understood what kind of person he is? He has no feelings for you. Maybe some fondness, but no appreciation and definitely no love. Don't you think it's time for you to let go of whatever illusions you harbour and grow up? Tom did. You have to do the same."

"You know nothing about me," Lestrange spat. Contrary to his aggressive words, he sounded wounded, and Tom's lips quirked in a smirk. "I don't expect anything from him, serving him is already an honour. But you!.. You don't understand him and what he stands for."

"Oh trust me, I understand him better than you ever could," Harry chuckled. Some dark amusement held his words together. "And I understand what he stands for. He stands for me. That's a big reason why I'm willing to leave my comfort zone and do things I would have never let myself even think about. But what are you getting out of your blind servitude? Where do you see yourself in ten, fifteen years? Do you want Tom to keep defining your life until you grow old? Because that won't be a life, just a parody."

"It's not for you to decide!" Lestrange spluttered. However, his magic withered palpably, so Harry's words had to be hitting their target. "And maybe Tom stands for you, but you don't! You don't even bother to plan your future together! You look younger than him, do you realise it? What do you think people are going to say when they see the two of you? If Tom matters to you, then make an effort to prove it, don't just leave it all to him like you are a passive observant!"

Harry must have been taken aback because for a while, he said nothing. This was Tom's cue to enter.

He pushed the door open, letting his gaze settle on Lestrange first. The way he cringed away was immensely satisfying, but it wasn't enough.

"Get out," Tom said shortly. Lestrange pursued his lips tightly. Throwing him a hurt, pathetic look, he obeyed.

The moment he left, Tom turned to Harry, raising his eyebrow. Harry shrugged. There was only a small shadow on his face — for the most part, he looked relaxed. He was sitting in Tom's throne like he belonged in it, and the picture was so mesmerising that Tom stared silently, his thoughts gone.

"I don't know where your head is, but bring it back," Harry murmured, amused. "I still need you here."

Tom started, his lips already folding into a big smile.

"I liked what I heard," he confessed. "Lestrange doesn't listen to me, but it seems you've managed to get to him."

"I'm not sure anything can get to him," Harry said dryly. "But here's to hoping."

With a grin, Tom stepped forwards, enclosing Harry in his arms.

"I want to dance with you," he stated. Harry's eyes studied his face intently, dropped to his lips, then went up again.

"To dance?" he repeated. "Here?"

"No. In a real place. How about a restaurant? I know a place you've never been to before. I think you'll enjoy it."

"Today?"

"Actually, I was thinking in about four days?" Tom shrugged sheepishly, but Harry hummed, his eyes narrowing.

"And what is it that you're manipulating me into this time?" he asked. Tom's grin widened, but he remained quiet, watching how Harry's gaze turned thoughtful. "Hmm. A restaurant, so probably a place with many haughty wizards. You want to dance with me there. If I had to guess, I would say that you want rumours about us to spread the moment we step inside. Am I right?"

Before, this conversation would have made him tense. He would expect wariness and disappointment, but Harry had said all this calmly, those wonderful sparks of amusement still dancing in his eyes. At some point, even manipulations of this level had turned into a game, and Tom couldn't delight in it more.

"You may be," he granted generously. Harry let out a laugh, leaning closer to kiss his cheekbone affectionately.

"Thought so," he murmured. "You could never contain your excitement for long. I understand why you want others to know, but I'm not sure now is the time. I've just come back. What we have is new, and then there are potential problems…"

"I'll take care of it," Tom swore. When Harry was so close, his mind was working at a limited capacity, but thankfully, he knew what he had to say. "I have everything under control — you have to trust me."

Harry snorted in disbelief.

"I do trust you," he said. "But even you cannot claim to have the entire population under control. Our relationship is too strange and too new for people to accept it easily."

"It won't be a big deal," Tom insisted. Per his calculations, in four days, a big part of Ministry workers would be ready to accept him and Harry positively. He himself would work on other key players, including the reporters — many fools chose how to react after reading newspapers. This scheme would continue up until everyone accepted them cordially. "You overestimate the morality of wizards as applied to relationships. No one will care. Those who do will get used to it quickly."

Harry gave him a sceptical look but said nothing. For several moments, they shared comfortable silence, Harry's fingers playing with a curl of hair on Tom's forehead.

"I guess I don't understand your need to make a performance out of everything," he admitted finally. "Our relationship is our own. Why do you want to announce it to the world so badly, especially when we're still in the process of figuring it out?"

Tom wasn't figuring anything out — he hadn't been for a very long time now, but if projecting made Harry more comfortable, then so be it.

"Look at it this way," he tried. "You might know that Lestrange is a hopeless fool, but you didn't enjoy seeing that article about me and him, did you? It's not a coincidence that you chose that day to come back."

Harry tensed briefly. Tom waited with bated breath, releasing it only when Harry's lips twitched in a smile.

"All right, you got me here," he said. "It cannot be worse than I imagine. So… dancing? In four days?"

"Dancing," Tom confirmed. His lips hurt from smiling so much, but he never wanted to stop. "Four days. A restaurant of my choosing."

The way Harry stared at him… like he was absolutely ridiculous but simultaneously charming. Like he wanted to laugh at him and kiss him at the same time.

Tom decided to let him do both.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

The restaurant he selected was in Bristol. It was an impressive place bathed in starlight that flowed inside through several magical enhancing tubes. The interior looked in a similar manner: the tables and the decorations would look alien in a normal world, but here, they were perfectly fitting. Everything sparkled in purple and pink, and privately, Tom thought it was a beautiful place.

He wasn't as certain about Harry's opinion.

"The Galaxy? Harry read with a snort. He was wearing the Consort cloak again, and Tom couldn't absorb this image of him for long enough. "Certainly fits this weird lighting."

"What do you have against the lighting?"

"It's heavy-handed. The whole place is."

Tom couldn't help but gape at this.

"You're a Gryffindor!" he exclaimed. "Since when do you not like heavy-handed? Shall I remind you of the lion monstrosity that's still mutilating your bedroom?"

Harry sniffed disdainfully.

"There is nothing wrong with my statue," he announced. "This place, on the other hand… I don't know. Maybe I would have liked it better if there weren't so many arrogant faces here. Look at these people! Even when they are eating, they manage to hold their chins up — under such angles, it's got to be uncomfortable."

Tom glanced around, and to his surprise, he realised Harry was right. The majority of the visitors did look like they were about to break their necks. How had he never noticed this before?

An inappropriate giggling tore from his throat, and he hastened to mask it with a cough. It didn't fool Harry, though — he squinted before chuckling.

"Told you so," he muttered smugly.

"Don't ruin my moment," Tom warned him. The next second, an oddly dressed man approached them. With a saccharine smile and countless bows, he led them to their table.

"What are the waiters here wearing?" Harry asked, spinning in his seat to observe the servers.

"This place represents an imagined world," Tom explained. With a curt nod at their host, he opened the menu. "The clothing is supposed to reflect it. The food is diverse as well. The owner has collected recipes from every slice of wizarding population, including centaurs, goblins, and even trolls, then adapted them to humans."

"Adapted?" Harry frowned, peeking into the menu curiously. "And if the actual centaurs, goblins, and trolls want to eat here?"

Tom shrugged.

"They can," he said. Harry dropped the menu, staring at him.

"What?"

"Well, trolls don't really have the brains to understand the concept of a restaurant, but most magical creatures have clearance to eat here. I thought you followed my policies closely? This one was among them."

The look of confusion on Harry's face was so lovely that Tom smiled and put the menu down, preferring to stare instead.

"I've outlined my plans to you before, haven't I?" he asked. "I'm lobbying against the discrimination of magical species. And since I do have some power, I managed to push my law forwards. It went active four months ago, on January 15th,, just two months shy of your return. This was around the time The Galaxy opened."

Harry stared at him. Then he leaned across the table and pulled him into a quick sudden kiss that knocked all the breath out of his chest.

When it was over, Tom remained in the exact same position, his hair dishevelled, his eyes wide. He knew people were looking at them — this was a good thing, this was what he'd wanted, but currently, he couldn't even attempt to focus on them.

"I'm glad your law passed," was all that Harry said. With a badly hidden smile, he ducked behind the menu, and Tom had to blink several times to shake off the trance.

"Yes," he said belatedly. Then he looked at his own menu, knowing that everyone who was looking at him right now wouldn't recognise him.

He was happy. And it was quickly becoming a habit, one he hoped he would never be forced to break.

They placed their orders, and Harry went back to studying the interior. Tom went back to watching him.

"Would you like to dance with me?" he asked. Harry faced him again, clearly taken aback.

"You still want to dance?" he inquired. "I thought I've helped you to achieve your goal of announcing our relationship to everyone interested with that kiss."

"True," Tom brushed his fingertips against his lips briefly, hoping to recreate Harry's touch. "But I want to dance with you in any case. It's not about announcing anything to anyone."

Harry's green gaze went soft. He looked ethereal in this lighting, like he himself was from some other planet — like he could be whisked away any second, and something inside Tom tightened painfully.

No. He wouldn't allow it. Harry would stay with him forever, no questions, no doubts. They belonged together.

His magic echoed this promise soothingly, calming him down. But the strange urgency was still there, so he jumped from his chair and held a hand to Harry.

"Dance with me," he asked again.

The smile Harry gave him was of that sweet kind that made all protective instincts in him roar to life. Silently, he accepted his hand, and they joined another couple in the special dancing area.

They hadn't danced properly for years, yet their bodies were so attuned to one another that it wasn't a problem. They instantly found the perfect pace, melding together so well, as if they were meant to be one whole entity.

Harry's cloak reflected the colours of The Galaxy in the most fascinating ways, so if people hadn't realised Tom's identity, they still looked at them alone. The thought filled Tom with sharp smugness, and from the look on Harry's face, he knew he failed to hide it.

Come to think about it…

"Why did you wear this cloak?" Tom wondered. "On the day you came back."

Harry groaned, pressing his face into Tom's shoulder.

"Don't remind me," he muttered. "It's one of the most embarrassing things I ever did."

Now Tom had to know, although he already had some ideas.

"Tell me," he insisted.

"I didn't like that stupid article about you and Lestrange." Harry's voice was muted because he still refused to look up. "I didn't like feeling like life was passing me by while I remained locked in my house. I already told you that I kept jumping between confidence that you'll always need me and certainty that my importance to you is going to fade soon. So… I wanted to make my return loud."

"My Gryffindor," Tom uttered, putting his head on top of Harry's and closing his eyes. It felt nice. It still felt like a dream. "And you've been calling me pretentious."

"Oh, you are," Harry finally raised his head, mischief dancing on his face. "Never doubt that. If anything, you rubbed off on me and made me join your group."

"Yes, blame the Slytherin," Tom kissed a small mole on Harry's ear, revelling in how he shuddered from the contact. "Gryffindors always do."

"Slytherins delight in corrupting us," Harry countered teasingly, and Tom laughed, openly and unabashedly, before swirling them around.

In moments like this, the heavy weight of misery that had haunted him for two years felt barely real. It was there, its ominous presence silent and expectant, but it lied on the very bottom. And when Harry was by his side, forgetting all about it was the easiest thing in the world.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

The next morning, their photo was printed on the front page of the Prophet under the title, An Unexpected Couple Caught Together: Exciting Turn in the Life of Tom Slytherin! Its tone was curious and light, with no accusations or negative implications, just as Tom thought.

As soon as he got it, he rushed to show it to Harry, but this proved to be difficult.

"Go away," Harry complained. "I don't want to see it no matter what it says. Besides, I'm trying to sleep."

When Tom insisted, he got a pillow thrown into his face for his efforts. It took ten minutes of coaxing and threatening for Harry to grow fed up and snatch the newspaper out of his hands with a growl. He briefly scanned it, grimacing at some points and snorting at others, but when he out it down, he couldn't hide his surprised pleasure.

"It… isn't terrible," he said carefully.

"Of course it isn't. You are thinking in Muggle terms. Wizards don't care when relationships start and what connections people involved have between one another."

"Wouldn't say so after Oakwood and Dumbledore," Harry muttered. But he accepted Tom's kiss and even tugged him into bed, pressing him into the pillows and kissing him until they both were breathless.

It was a wonderful start to the morning. And the day got even more wonderful when Harry agreed to accompany him to the Ministry. He tensed a little when they entered the building, but everyone they met smiled at them; some congratulated them, so gradually, Harry began to relax.

"See?" Tom murmured, squeezing his hand reassuringly. "I told you it would be fine."

The naked relief on Harry's face continued throughout the morning before changing into simple happiness. He snooped around Tom's office and read reports as well as proposals; when Tom called for Mulciber, Harry relocated to his throne with a stack of papers, looking through them slowly.

His presence was the most beautiful thing in this office, but it was also a source of distraction. Tom kept gazing at him every minute — concentrating on anything else seemed next to impossible.

"And of course, there is a matter of territories," Mulciber announced, ruffling through the pages. "We prepared all we needed for the relocation of Muggles from St Davids. After your signature, we can task our team of Obliviators with starting the operation. If everything goes well, then in two weeks—"

"What was that?" Harry suddenly shifted, turning to look at Mulciber. Tom's eyes followed him.

"What was what?" Mulciber asked warily.

"That thing you've said about relocation. What kind of relocation? Are you moving Muggles somewhere?"

An awkward silence filled the room. Tom could feel Mulciber's imploring stare crashing into his back, but with the way Harry looked right now — sunlit, relaxed, stretched in Tom's chair lazily, his eyes slightly narrowed, his hair in its usual disarray — turning away was beyond the realm of possibility.

Tom was transfixed. Contentment and joy were twirling around his mind in perpetual loops, and they chased away every thought not related to this one image. Talking was completely unnecessary as long as Harry wasn't the one to say something to him.

"We are moving them from St Davids to the neighbouring regions," Mulciber replied at last. He sounded stiff. "This city will be given to the wizarding community instead. It's small, so it won't be a significant loss."

"If it won't be a significant loss, then it won't be a significant gain either. So why move them?"

"We need new territories. We decided to start with the smallest cities to alleviate the impact of—"

"Has our community become so big in the last several years that we need more space?" Harry removed his legs from the arm of the chair, facing Mulciber fully now. His shirt stretched from the way his arms moved to accommodate his new position, and a dizzying surge of desire shot through Tom's body, making him tremble from the mindless impulse to touch.

"No," Mulciber said. The first notes of despondency began to distort his voice. "But it's a part of Tom's plan. St Davids is a city that is perfectly fitting for wizards, and we need to start expanding our community if we want to increase our influence. It's a new policy. Would you like to read it? I have all the drafts here."

Harry hummed before turning to Tom. The shock of receiving his direct stare triggered a new wave of delight, and Tom grinned, light-headed from the simple but overwhelming happiness of this day, this minute, this second.

"Tom?" Harry asked. His eyebrows were rising slowly, and everything in Tom longed to trace their movement with his fingers. With his lips. "We are not moving Muggles anywhere."

There was an indignant gasp from Mulciber's direction. Tom didn't bother looking at him.

"We are not," he agreed. "It can wait."

Harry smiled, and the happiness in Tom's chest exploded in the rays of blinding light.

He would make this concession to keep receiving this smile. He would do more.

He would do everything.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Luckily for him, Harry didn't raise the topic of relocations again. He seemed more interested in lycanthropy cure research and Tom's notes on turning discriminatory words into curses. So he focused on reading those, and Tom focused on other things. In a week, eight more magazines published articles about their relationship, and all of them ranged from neutral to positive. His plans were flowing smoothly, and Tom hoped it would stay this way.

It didn't. Another week later, he got a visit from the person he never wanted to see again.

"Dumbledore is here," Lestrange hissed. He was wild-eyed, his robes in disarray — he must have lowered himself to running just to warn him. "He wants to see you. Silverstone is distracting him, but she won't last long. What do we do?"

"What can we do?" Tom snapped. His blood pressure was rapidly rising, but with an effort, he brought himself back to calmness. "Let him in. Let's see what he has to say."

"But—"

"Do it."

Lestrange bit his lip but nodded jerkily. A few moments later, there was a knock on his door, and after Tom's terse permission, Dumbledore walked inside.

"Good afternoon, Tom," he said. His voice was carefully indifferent. "Thank you for agreeing to meet me."

"I didn't," Tom said coldly. "You burst inside without bothering to make a prior appointment. What do you want?"

"You wouldn't mind if I took a seat, would you?" Without waiting for permission, Dumbledore took the chair on the opposite end of Tom's table, folding his hands together. His expression was peaceful and his magic was still — very still. Unnaturally so.

Not so calm, after all. Forcing himself not to betray his tension.

"I'm not here to exchange pleasantries," Dumbledore said. "I have been following your rise at the Ministry for a while now, and I remained silent. But now I'm growing concerned."

Tom stared, knowing that his face must be contorted in disbelief.

"And I'm supposed to care about this why?" he asked. Dumbledore smiled with his lips, but his eyes were cold.

"I'm aware of your Muggle relocation plan, Tom. Perhaps this could stand… but your Memory Charms Department has to be disbanded."

Coldness shot up his spine, sending a cluster of goose bumps across his skin. Tom said nothing — he couldn't get a word out. He knew his silence was getting more and more incriminating by the second, but shock was too powerful to override it easily.

How did he know? How could he know? He had only six people in his department. They were all bound by very powerful charms. None of them could betray him, not even if they wanted to. So where could Dumbledore get any information on it?

"Excuse me?" Tom uttered slowly. He needed time to think, to plan, but he lacked knowledge for building a credible lie.

"Like I said, I'm not going to exchange pleasantries with you," Dumbledore tilted his head, observing him. "Your plan to interfere with people's free will is deplorable and I will not allow it to progress. For some time, I was not interfering because your machinations brought some good to our community. But bending everyone's mind to justify your relationship with your guardian? It is a self-indulgent trifle. Planning to force the wizards to agree with your relocations is dangerous. This is going too far. You cannot proceed."

How did he know? his mind hissed. It was pulsing in panic, reviewing and discarding hundreds of scenarios per second. How did he know when you discussed everything during private meetings with several layers of anti-eavesdropping charms? No one could hear it. No one could know. So how did he do it?

His brain almost tripped in its haste to arrive at a believable answer, and suddenly, there it was.

Dumbledore had spies. But not of human kind.

The portraits. Tom had taken care to remove every painting from the discussion room, but he didn't pay specific attention to it. He could have easily missed a small picture that was listening to everything and reporting back to Dumbledore. He'd been doing the same thing to Harry when they were both at Hogwarts — he had a painting track his movements to learn his passwords and break into his room. Dumbledore went further than that.

"I see how it is," Tom said. He knew his answer was belated, but it didn't matter. "Are you aware of the illegality of spying? I could have you arrested by the end of this day."

"I suppose you could," Dumbledore shrugged. He didn't seem surprised that Tom had figured it out. "Unless of course you try to find the evidence and learn that there isn't any. No one can trace a painting when they have no idea whose image it depicts."

If Dumbledore commanded the subject of the painting to hide… Perhaps. But perhaps not — Tom was fairly certain Dumbledore was underestimating what magic could be capable of.

Still, right now, it was irrelevant.

"Your insinuations are baseless," he said aloud, and as he spoke, his body began to relax. Dumbledore could try to intimidate him, but he was all talk. He was powerless when it came to pressing charges and going public with his accusations. "Even if, hypothetically, you believe you have evidence of me intending to manipulate anyone's mind… how are you going to prove it? If you confessed you spied on the Ministry workers, you would face more risks than I would. I will find an explanation to fit the scenario. Will you?"

His lips were waiting for Dumbledore's acknowledgement of defeat, for a moment of triumph when they could twist in a smug smile. But it didn't come. On the contrary, Dumbledore smiled at him, and Tom's heart lurched in his chest at the sight.

"Probably not," Dumbledore agreed easily. "This isn't something I would be willing to go on record with."

"Then why did you come here? What makes you think I would have any interest in obliging you?" It took some effort, but Tom still smirked. "You have nothing to use against me."

"Ah, that's where you are wrong," Dumbledore leaned forwards, placing his elbows on the table. "I know for a fact that you did not kill Gellert Grindelwald. I cannot announce what your little department is doing no matter how much I wish for it, but this? This I can prove."

Another lurch. Keeping a smile on was starting to become painful, especially as anger set in.

"I thought you already tried pushing this accusation forwards," Tom spoke icily. "It didn't work."

"Contrary to what you and your guardian might think, Tom, I didn't intend to ruin you. You are a bright young man and I wanted to give you a chance. What happened when The Prophet first published its accusations was a warning for you, but I can see you did not heed it. Your latest plan for brainwashing the entire population is unacceptable and has to be stopped."

Keeping a frustrated growl inside was rapidly becoming impossible.

If only he had been a few steps ahead… if he had managed to figure out how to link mind alterations and create a system where one mind-washed person could unknowingly affect the other; if he'd come up with a way to overcome strong Occlumency shields and took Dumbledore under control…

But he didn't come up with all those things yet. And so he had to find a different approach.

"You cannot prove something like this," Tom drawled. "You're bluffing."

"Am I?" Dumbledore's reddish eyebrows rose. "Do you remember the interior of the Three Broomsticks? The mirror behind the bar?"

A muscle twitched in his jaw. More frustrated anger flared up, and he barely succeeded in putting it back under control.

The mirror. Yes, he remembered the mirror. He'd never paid much attention to it — it was an inherent part of that establishment. What, it was another way for Dumbledore to spy on people? How was he doing it — why was he doing it? How could have Tom underestimated his reach so thoroughly?

As if intercepting his thoughts, Dumbledore shrugged.

"This is a precaution Headmaster Dippet organised ten years ago, when yet another fight between students in the Three Broomsticks led to serious injuries and urgent hospitalisation," he explained. "A monitoring mirror that preserves the echoes of the events that took place. The Headmaster wanted to assist the Aurors in determining who the initiator is and whether alcohol plays its role in case of future incidents. This is helpful information, and we did a lot to make the Three Broomsticks as safe as possible. There hasn't been an incident for at least five years now."

When Tom said nothing, Dumbledore allowed himself the first real smile.

"I'm relatively certain Armando forgot all about it," he added conversationally. "In fact, I barely remembered it myself, but when Gellert chose that place for his attack, it came to my mind. What I saw in the mirror was captivating, and interestingly, it went against the story you and your guardian have told everyone."

"Stop referring to him as my guardian," Tom snapped. His skin was crawling, and his fury was too strong to keep it in check any longer. "This isn't who he is anymore and he hasn't been for several years."

"Yes, he is something else entirely now, isn't he?" Dumbledore pursed his lips briefly. "I tried to warn him against putting his trust into you again, but he wouldn't listen. I don't pretend to believe that my exposing your lies about Gellert's death will turn the tide, but it won't leave your reputation intact either. And if I tell Mr. Potter about what you're intending, I don't think he will take it lightly. Unlike the public, he won't need strong evidence. My word will be enough."

Rage that crashed into Tom was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. It muddied his thoughts, filled him with half-forgotten, maddening thirst for violence and destruction. His magic tightened around him, trembling and waiting for his command, and if he lost the remaining spark of consciousness, he knew he would attack Dumbledore right here, consequences be damned.

"Leave him out of it," he snarled. If Dumbledore dared to do anything to interfere in his and Harry's relationship, he would willingly subdue this last grain of rationality. He would tear into this meddling, infuriating obstacle with his bare hands. "Contact him, do anything to him, and I will dedicate my very long life to devouring you piece by piece."

"That's a bit presumptuous of you, don't you think?" Dumbledore wondered. The angrier Tom felt, the calmer he looked, as if he found Tom's display of magic amusing.

Fury spiralled up higher. A vase with carnivorous flowers Harry had picked for him a few weeks ago exploded, one piece grazing Dumbledore's cheek, but even bleeding, he didn't flinch. Didn't make a sound.

He thought he could come here to blackmail and manipulate him. And maybe this could have worked — Tom could have been forced to back down and think of something to fight against Dumbledore's demands. But threatening him with Harry? This couldn't stand. The very idea turned his vision red.

"I'll tell you how it's going to be," Tom said. His voice was a low dark hiss. "You can go babbling to the tabloids all you want. You will never prove I wasn't the one to kill Grindelwald because I will be able to counter any of your accusations. Do you want to know why?"

Dumbledore stiffened. It was barely noticeable, but Tom still took it as a victory.

"I'm immortal," he spat, satisfaction heavy in each word. "I can't die. You can kill me right here, and I will be back in an hour."

Finally. Finally, the reaction. Dumbledore's eyes widened in obvious shock, his face losing its colours.

"It's impossible."

Tom smiled a vicious smile, his elation entwining with glee, bursting outside in sporadic sparks of magic.

"Look at me," he ordered. "And tell me if I'm lying."

Dumbledore stared. He didn't attempt to break into his mind, but the force of his gaze was still overwhelming.

Whatever he saw, it was enough because he recoiled, his lips parting in another bout of shock. Tom's victorious grin widened.

"Yes," he drawled. "How I achieved it is irrelevant, but if you force my hand, I will tell everyone the tale of the Deathly Hallows. I will tell them that Grindelwald had the Elder Wand, which is true. I will tell them that I found the Invisibility Cloak that he'd extracted from the Potters after killing their son Charlus, and I will show them my ring — the ring I got as the heir of Slytherin. I will die and come back to life right in front of them. No one is going to care about the details after this performance. Are you willing to go there?"

Not a word. Dumbledore was completely silent.

"That's what I thought," Tom curled his lips derisively. "The only thing you can threaten me with is saying something to Harry. But even then, what will you say? I am not killing people, which was always his requirement. I am not planning a genocide. My intentions are rather small-scale. Yes, he will hate it, but not for long. We will find a solution together and you will not be able to do anything about it. And yet…" Tom took a step closer, his magic lashing out once again, wrapping Dumbledore in its threatening hold. "If you do try to interfere with our relationship, I will destroy you. I already gave you a promise. And not just you, but everything you hold dear, too, be that a loved one, a pet, favourite students, even Hogwarts itself."

Dumbledore's own magic bristled, and the overpowering touch of it sent a shiver down Tom's body. He wasn't sure if it was from wariness or delight.

He loved magic. All magic, even when it belonged to his enemy.

"I have eternity ahead," he whispered. "So don't tempt me. You will not like the consequences."

Dumbledore refused to react. He just looked, the shock in his eyes slowly fading into something more restrained. There were plans and ideas spinning in his head right now, Tom was certain of it — but he lost this round, so he had no choice other than to retreat.

He did. Holding his head high, Dumbledore turned and left, his hunched shoulders being the only thing indicating his unease.

The door closed, and Tom let out a breath.

This wouldn't last long. He might have intimidated Dumbledore for now, but it wasn't indefinite. Dumbledore would come up with something, something terrible, undermining everything Tom had been building for such a long time.

And he had no idea how to stop it.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

He barely remembered getting home. What he did remember was Harry's surprised, concerned face, and it only made him feel worse.

"What happened?" Harry demanded to know. Tom opened his mouth to come up with some answer but then snapped it shut. Fury was still boiling in him, urging him to let it out and scalding him the more he resisted it.

What could he tell Harry? Not the whole truth. Harry couldn't know about the real purpose of Memory Charms Department. And without it, what was the point? He didn't want to lie to him, so what, using half-truths again? Tom was sick of it. Why couldn't he have his happiness at least for as long as he'd suffered in misery?

He growled in frustration, and something glassy burst in the living room.

"Hey!" Harry said sharply. "Stop destroying our house and look at me. Tell me what's wrong."

His voice was so strong and commanding that Tom automatically raised his head, trying to focus. The threat of Dumbledore was hovering nearby — all he wanted was to wrap Harry in himself and never let him go, but if Harry wanted to talk… He could talk. Or at least he could try.

"Dumbledore," Tom hissed. "He came into my office and threatened me."

Harry's demeanour changed instantly. He drew in a sharp breath, and his own face contorted in the first resemblance of anger.

"Threatened you with what? What did he say?"

For a moment, Tom hesitated. Lying was dangerous; saying the truth was impossible. He needed to settle on something that posed the least amount of risks to his and Harry's relationship. What was the right answer here?

Harry was waiting, he had to decide now.

"It's about Grindelwald," Tom said. This was the truth, wasn't it? So what if it wasn't complete? "Apparently, Dumbledore and Dippet spy on Hogwarts students who visit Three Broomsticks. There is a mirror there that saves the reflections of what happened, and I assume Dumbledore saw that you killed Grindelwald. Also…" Another thought stopped Tom cold. "He also saw your resurrection," he said slowly. "Dumbledore knows you're immortal."

And now with Tom's revelation, he would know that Harry shared his immortality with him. Would it change his approach? Maybe it would make Harry untrustworthy in his eyes, so he wouldn't bother poisoning him with the truth.

Tom allowed himself to hope.

"Oh," Harry frowned. His body tensed further, and then his eyes flashed with fury — fury on Tom's behalf. A wave of familiar magic washed over the room, and it erased Tom's dismay almost forcefully, leaving only yearning behind.

"He hopes to control what policies I push forwards with this," he said, softer now. "He doesn't agree with everything, and I don't expect him to, but the fact that he holds this above me and that he could use it any moment…"

"I know," Harry's lips were thin with displeasure. He got that distant look, like he was planning something, and this brought Tom right back into the state of panic.

If Harry decided to protect him in some way and go confront Dumbledore about it… It would make the situation worse. Tom had to get it under control, and he had to do it immediately.

"Don't worry about it." He forced his lips to move, though the sounds weren't particularly convincing. "I don't like him blackmailing me, but I understand why he's concerned. You heard Mulciber and that Muggle relocation plan. You hated it; Dumbledore hates it too."

"Then he had to talk to you!" Harry spat. His magic whirled again: he began to pace, the air around him crackling with tension. "Blackmailing you without even knowing… wait." Harry stopped abruptly. "How did he even know about it? It wasn't in any official proposals. Unless you went behind my back to push it for legislation?"

"No!" Tom raised his voice. Panic gripped his lungs so tightly, he could scarcely breathe. "I wouldn't do it. Dumbledore is spying on me through the paintings — I will have to deal with this, too, at some point. But later. I just need… I need to think. I need to calm down. And I need you."

Harry's expression softened. He crossed the distance between them and wrapped his hands around Tom's shoulders, tucking his head under Tom's chin.

"Let me make a suggestion," he murmured. His voice was quiet and soothing, quickly taming the fire that was devouring Tom's mind. "Can you take several days off the Ministry work?"

"Yes," Tom replied before he had time to think about it. If Harry planned something, it meant more that any tasks waiting for him to complete them. "Why do you ask?"

Harry leaned back a bit, his face alight with mischief.

"I have an idea," he said.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Harry packed one bag for the two of them. Then he held Tom's hand and apparated three times, bringing them… somewhere.

Tom's first reaction was panic. He really, really disliked heights, and he was standing on the edge of Merlin-knew-what, with absolutely nothing to separate him from a sharp descent down.

But then Harry's hands grabbed him, tugging him to safety, and melodic laughter filled his ears.

"Sorry, I didn't mean for us to end up on the very edge," Harry said apologetically. "And don't worry, there are charms in place. You won't fall, and if you would, I would find a way to catch you. I promise."

"This is ridiculous," Tom stepped away reluctantly, annoyed with himself. "It's not like I could die even if I did fall."

"Fears don't have to be logical," Harry squeezed his hand in a familiar reassuring motion. "Though I still hope you will grow to love this place as much as I did. I wanted to wait until some special occasion, but…"

"Where are we?" Now that his fear retreated, Tom could finally concentrate.

They were in a… tree house? A very big, very obviously enchanted tree house. Beneath them, there was a sea of green, which, in turn, was surrounded by the ocean. The water was so transparent, Tom thought he could recognise different kinds of fish from here if he focused hard enough.

The house — or rather, a living area Harry had brought them to, was located on top of a huge, tall tree. It was expanded significantly, with a bed, a sofa, even a bookshelf and a fridge scattered across the wide wooden surface.

"When… when did you do all this?" Tom asked, bewildered. Harry shrugged, the corners of his lips twitching in an embarrassed half-smile.

"I found this place by accident," he said. "I don't think anyone knows it exists at all because it's completely empty. Sometimes, when I was feeling overwhelmed, I needed to do something to stop myself from thinking. So I apparated randomly until I felt too exhausted to even breathe deeply. That was—"

"Why would you do that?" Surprised delight was quickly drowned by a powerful and sickeningly familiar flood of fear. To imagine Harry alone, vulnerable, apparating to places he didn't even know and couldn't visualise… "You could have been splinched to death!"

"If I was, you would be too," Harry remarked, an attempt at teasing that Tom wasn't in the mood for. "Imagine what your followers would think if you suddenly lost a limb during your meeting."

"Who cares about my limbs!" Tom shouted, his magic swirling around Harry anxiously, itching to protect him. "You didn't tell me you were busy doing something this foolish! Why didn't I feel it?"

Harry's teasing smile fell, exposing the void that Tom caught glimpses of at times. It was a flat, empty look that made his heart clench because he didn't like what it meant. At all.

Was Harry still struggling with accepting his new feelings? Was he still foolishly labelling his inability to find happiness alone, away from Tom, as a failure? Why did he insist on being so stubborn and self-deprecating about it?

Tom cut the space between them, putting his hand on Harry's cheek in determination. It worked miracles because Harry startled and melted right away, a more genuine smile warming his face.

"I guess your ritual bound us physically," he replied belatedly. "My exhaustion was magical, although if I died or got splinched from it, you would have probably felt it."

Tom frowned at this, swallowing down more angry words.

"Never do that again," he ordered, and Harry gave him an amused glance.

"I won't," he promised solemnly. "In any case, I was letting my magic fling myself aimlessly, and one time, I found myself here. The tree house was abandoned and smaller than this, but it was such a beautiful place, and no one else seemed to even visit it. I started coming back here sometimes when I needed distraction — watching the storms from such a height…" Harry gazed at the ocean, his face gaining a wistful look. "It feels like flying."

Tom wasn't certain he was fond of the idea, but even he had to admit that this place was beautiful. Mesmerising, really, if not for his wariness towards the heights.

"So I had an idea to remodel it a little and make a small, private source of holiday harbour for us," Harry continued. "I bought a few essentials and charmed it to be bigger. I also placed protective charms around so you wouldn't worry about falling over. There is not enough territory for a proper beach because of the forest, but still—"

"I love it," Tom interrupted him. Harry lit up.

"Really? Because I know that flying is more of my thing, and maybe you won't be comfortable here despite the charms—"

Kissing was the most efficient way of shutting him up.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

In total, they would have five days until Tom was forced to go back to the Ministry and Harry had to return to his flying job. It seemed like too little, so Tom was determined to make the most out of them.

To his surprise, thoughts of Dumbledore didn't bother him often. Here, so far away from civilization and everyday triviality, the problem seemed irrelevant. If Tom were to ask Harry, he was certain they could stay here forever, and whatever Dumbledore held over his head would never mean anything again.

The weather was warm and sunny, so they swam a lot. Harry had brought his broomstick — naturally — and after lengthy persuasions, Tom finally agreed to go for a flight with him.

Harry jumped right from the edge of the tree house, removing the charms for several seconds. The fall down was so swift and terrifying that Tom let out an embarrassing yell. He didn't shut his eyes, though, not even when a strong wind filled them with moisture, whipping his face enthusiastically.

As they both explored the territory, they saw that it was indeed an abandoned island. It was difficult to establish in what part of the world it could located even despite the abundance of various trees and wild life, but this was nowhere near England, that much Tom could tell for certain.

Harry was right — storms were frequent here, although the water remained picturesque blue and the waves weren't bad enough to stop them from swimming. At night, they slept in one huge bed right under the stars, protected from the wind and insects only magically.

It felt strange — living without any walls, with the sky as a ceiling, but on the second day already, Tom began to warm up to the idea. On the third day, he was genuinely enjoying the opportunity to listen to the sounds of crashing waves and stare at the star-lit sky as Harry was sleeping on his right, curled around one of his arms.

From this position, the skies looked endless, ready for being conquered. Tom didn't know what he'd need them for, but it was nice to let his thoughts turn into vague dreams, lulling him to sleep.

On the fourth day, Harry tasked himself with making a wholesome breakfast. It was a disastrous idea, considering that they had little food and no desire to apparate into the city, but he insisted on it being a special occasion.

"What's the special occasion?" Tom asked, exasperated. Harry hummed, his eyes intent on the frying pan. "It's June 4th. What happened on June 4th?"

"You'd want to know."

He shouldn't have found this transparent attempt at diversion charming, but alas, he did.

"I would and I do, so tell me. What's so special about today?"

Harry finally graced him with a long, thoughtful look.

"A day and a half before our departure," he said finally. Tom went temporarily speechless, and then he rolled his eyes so hard that it almost hurt.

"You are entirely ridiculous," he huffed. "Fine. Cook your breakfast from nothing. I'll go to the beach — join me if you give up or call me if you miraculously get an idea of how to make food out of air."

"There is no beach in here," Harry called after him. Tom snorted.

"Whatever!" he shouted back.

Harry was technically right, this island didn't have a normal beach, but a stripe of rocky land was wide enough to walk alongside the ocean. So he did, watching the myriad of big, small, and tiny stones together with shells crunching under his feet.

Harry's tendency to turn ordinary into memorable, meaningless days into a cause for celebration must have been catching because here Tom was, contemplating doing something that he was supposed to do on July 31st, not earlier.

When Harry was packing their things, he had picked Tom's clothes randomly. Curiously, he'd included a long sleeveless shirt with pockets, probably thinking it would be a good fit in a place like this. What he didn't know was that Tom was storing the tiny piece of the Mirror of Erised in it.

For a long time, he didn't know why he'd taken it before sending the mirror to Harry. It had been a spontaneous idea, a half-formed hope that maybe he'd be able to see what he craved in a mere shard. He never tried it, though, first deliberately, then because his mind was occupied with other things. He'd stuffed it in his pocket and forgotten about it… until yesterday, when he wore his shirt and found the shard there.

He'd been right. It did show the subject of his deepest longing. The image itself hadn't changed, but what Tom felt now was different from how he'd treated it then.

He had a real Harry with him. Not even the sweetest dreams could compare to it.

The moment he'd seen the shard, he suddenly knew what he wanted to do with it.

Many years ago, he murdered Charlus Potter and stole the ring he'd prepared for his little girlfriend. This ring was decorating Harry's finger for a long time, and only after he returned it to the grave, Tom realised how in bad taste this whole thing had been.

Taking someone's leftovers and gifting them to the man who meant the world to him was pathetic. Harry deserved the best — something designed and developed exclusively for him. Second-hand things weren't worthy of him, no matter how expensive or new they were.

At the same time, the idea of Harry wearing his ring made something primal in his chest purr in possessive satisfaction. It was a physical sign of ownership, a claim of affection, and a promise of devotion. Tom just needed to find a worthy ring, and what was worthier than a ring with a shard from the Mirror of Erised?

It could mean so many things. It wasn't only about possession, it was about a choice, too, something Harry had to appreciate. Every time he looked at his ring, he would see the reflection of his deepest desires. He would know if Tom was still what he wanted or if his wish began to change.

The idea of the latter sent a hot trickle of anger down his body, and Tom squared his shoulders, trying to ignore it.

This would never happen, he was certain, but still, the implication that he would be willing to consider it counted too, didn't it?

Although, what would he do if Harry woke up one day and changed his mind?

Warily, he allowed his mind to imagine this scenario. And then… nothing. Void. The same void he had felt and seen during the first terrible months of Harry's absence.

It wasn't a normal void either. It was a living thing, a dangerous thing, and the second Tom probed it, it began to stir. Even in half-awakened state, it instantly absorbed every positive emotion that kept him in his human shape, so Tom recoiled from it violently, pushing it down the layers of confidence and calmness.

No need to waste his time on such things. He should concentrate on the present, not on improbable possibilities. If Harry did decide to leave him at some point… he would deal with it. But until it happened, he wouldn't think of it, and he'd still give him the ring.

He had decided to make one for Harry's birthday just yesterday, but Harry choosing to make this day special infused him with the same reckless enthusiasm. Suddenly, the need to do something Harry would love right now, right here, lit a fire of excitement around his heart, so Tom continued to scrutinise the stones and the shells with intense, searching stare.

Ideally, he would like to get the best metal for a shard from the mirror. Gold would be beautiful — it would also echo the Gryffindor in Harry, but if he purchased it, it would make his gift less special.

He'd spent a lot of time on weaving his magic into the Consort cloak, and Harry's reaction still warmed his face whenever he thought of it. So how about creating the base for the ring manually?

Grey, blue, yellow. Orange, brown, black. There were many worthless treasures comprising this so-called beach, and yet nothing seemed appealing yet. Tom examined each of them briefly before moving his attention forwards.

Ten minutes later, he stopped. Between several large shells, a curve of something green was peeking. He bent over, picked it up and brought it closer to his eyes, studying it critically.

It looked like a piece of green glass that had had a long and adventurous journey. At some point, it could have been a part of a bottle, but once it found itself in the ocean, it was re-shaped and re-designed time and time again, up until it was washed ashore. Right now, it was a thick half-circle of dull green colour, with traces of colourful seaweeds entwining inside.

Tom could work with this. He could turn it into a ring and put the shard in the centre, making a colour brighter — making it match Harry's eyes. No other person in the world would be able to boast of having a ring like this, and Harry would feel a sense of his magic wherever he was.

Encouraged by this thought, Tom focused his power and slowly directed it at the dull surface. It let out a strange echoing sound and began to expand, growing inch by inch until both of its ends collided. A perfect circular shape was hot with Tom's magic, and this was only the beginning.

Kneeling right among the greedy licks of waves, Tom concentrated on lightening the colour and turning it more vivid. His power was diminishing, but not quickly enough — it would be sufficient for completing his task and returning back to Harry.

Ten minutes later, it was done. The shard from the Mirror shone its ethereal light, and the ring itself sparkled with the rays of the sun peeking from behind the clouds. Exhaustion weighted on him, but his joy was stronger.

With a tired smile, Tom made the last effort and apparated back on the top of the tree, where Harry was still fussing over their breakfast.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Their final day was as exhilarating as each one that preceded it. They had their meal, then went to the improvised beach. Harry stayed there; Tom went swimming, but his magic supplies were still low, so a few minutes later, coldness began to creep up his body.

Shivering, he walked out, right into the waiting towel. Harry put it around him and hugged him, letting out a pleased sound as Tom readily pressed closer. A moment later, Harry used a warming charm on him, and they sat together for a while, just watching the water.

When the sun disappeared, they made a fire. It hissed and cracked, throwing golden shadows on Harry's already tan skin. It was peaceful, warm, and Tom never wanted to go back to England. Harry probably shared his feelings — he certainly acted more carefree and more physically affectionate than in London, and the thought of losing it loomed above Tom, trying to cajole depression out.

But they still had this day, this night, so he wasn't going to bother himself with worries about the future. He had a ring; Harry was right here, relaxed and happy — what better moment would there be for putting it on his finger?

Nervousness wasn't something Tom felt often, not outside of his life with Harry. Now his heart was trying to force itself up his throat, and his stomach had turned into one tight knot of trepidation.

It was just a ring. It wasn't a proposal or anything; he hadn't murdered anyone to get it. Harry had no reason to dislike or reject it.

Still, his mind refused to calm down. Adrenaline kept spiking: the more he kept waiting, the more jittery he felt. Taking one deep breath, Tom pulled the ring out, closed his fist around it, and offered it to Harry.

"I made something for you," he murmured. Harry reached for his fist, trying to peer inside.

"What is it?" he asked. Tom didn't reply at first, and the light in Harry's eyes flared in impatient curiosity.

"What is it?" he repeated, trying to pry Tom's fist open. "Give it to me, don't be such a tease! Tom!"

Waiting would bring him nothing, so Tom loosened his grip. Harry pounced on it instantly, but as soon as he saw what it was, he grew still. His lips parted in a surprised "oh." He stared at the shard glistening with his most sacred wish, and Tom found himself speaking before he could stop himself.

"I wanted you to have a replacement. A proper ring, one created with you in mind. I took a piece out of the Mirror of Erised and put it as a gem. The band itself is just some glass I found here, but I put my magic in it and transformed it. It has the same shade as your eyes now, so I thought it would—" Tom paused, suddenly embarrassed. The way Harry was watching him was making his face grow warm — there was such an intensity in it, he didn't know what to make of it.

"I thought it would be fitting," he mumbled, his hands hanging by his sides loosely. "When you look at it, I want you to see whatever it is you're seeing there. I understand that you don't want to tell me about it, but I know… I hope… that it involves me. And if it does, then I want you to be certain that by staying with me, you're following your deepest wish instead of— settling or feeling sorry for me or—"

Tom didn't get a chance to finish. He didn't get to see what Harry did with his ring either because everything suddenly exploded in the whirlwind of movements and sensations. Harry lurched forwards and kissed him, deeply and overwhelmingly, snaking his hands around Tom's neck. Tom's lips responded greedily before his brain could catch up, and then there was nothing but heat and want.

Harry's kisses were always dizzying. They always turned his brain to mash and expelled everything other than mindless desire from it. Tom catalogued them all: slow kisses, quick kisses; lingering and shallow, deep and teasing kisses.

But this time, the way Harry was kissing him differed from everything he knew and remembered. It was more urgent, more primal. It pushed Tom's vague thoughts into a territory he had forbidden himself from entering because their relationship wasn't at that stage, not yet. Harry was dictating the pace, and Harry…

Harry seemed to be following the train of those very thoughts Tom had refused to entertain. For a moment, he tightened his grip on him, pushing them both off the ground, and in the next second, he apparated them into their tree house. There was urgency in how he held Tom, in how he moved against him and kissed him, and it gave birth to a flame so bright that Tom found it blinding. It erased every reservation he had, devoured every precaution and boundary he had tried to maintain.

With a needy half-growl, he shifted them, changing his hold on Harry and using his height to his advantage. His lips travelled from Harry's lips to his cheekbone, his temple, and then downwards, leaving a moist trail along his neck. Harry's fingers on his shirt tightened, and the sound he made was so full of open pleasure that its echoes trembled somewhere in Tom's belly.

He wasn't thinking clearly when he jerked Harry's ridiculous sweater up, pulling it off and throwing it away. He wasn't thinking clearly when he sent his shorts the same way, and he wasn't thinking at all when he pushed Harry into the bed, following him and pressing him down with another kiss.

But the thing was, Harry didn't seem to be thinking either. Or if he did, he didn't care about rationality, his principles, or whatever it was that made him look at Tom like he was the most beautiful human in the world yet shy away at the prospect of doing something other than kissing.

Right now, he matched Tom's movements with enthusiasm. His hands and lips were just as greedy and demanding, his hands just as exploratory. He freed Tom from the shirt he himself had wrapped him in only several hours ago, and despite the heated rush that clearly engulfed them both, his touches were achingly gentle. Sometimes Tom thought that Harry couldn't touch him any other way — it was something pre-programmed, an inherent part of him that covered every his movement with layers of affectionate softness.

And each time, it was Tom's undoing.

His lips latched onto the warmth of Harry's neck, and when Harry let out a weird endearing sound, Tom's teeth sank into his skin, leaving their mark. This rewarded him with another sound, and then Harry pulled him up roughly and kissed him again.

After that, the remaining flickers of Tom's thoughts died out entirely. The red haze swallowed him down, and his body continued to operate based on the most primitive sensations only.

Touch. Feel. Scent. Lick the flushed skin; kiss the breaths, the moans, and the smiles off Harry's lips. It was everything and nothing he'd imagined before; it was too much and not enough. Every movement he was allowed to make felt overwhelming, like a gift he craved but never deserved.

At some point, Harry parted his thighs, and it nearly pushed Tom over the brink. Somehow, he managed to hold on, and so he stretched above him — weightless, feverish, and wanting.

The first careful push, the first sensation of gripping, astounding heat. Shock that shot through his body was nothing in comparison to the toe-curling pleasure that crashed over him immediately afterward, burying him under the waves of the sensations he'd never experienced before.

The sound Harry made was full of delighted wonder. He rocked forwards, wrapping his legs around Tom's thighs and tightening the grip of his hands around his neck. He didn't look away, he didn't even blink — his green stare was fixed on Tom, like the world started and ended with him, and this, too, thickened the radiant fog of bliss. Tom succumbed to it gladly, losing himself in those precious— seconds? Minutes? Hours? He didn't know. It wasn't important.

It was much later, when he and Harry were lying entwined, sated and exhausted, that the first glimmers of rationality flickered back to life. He tried to focus, but the images and memories of what had just taken place were too fresh in his memory. They dragged him into their depths stubbornly, so Tom focused on something simple first. He snuggled up even closer and began to kiss the trail down Harry's face, licking the salty traces of sweat where he found them. Harry chuckled, wrinkling his nose and trying to twist his face away.

"That tickles," he complained. Tom couldn't find his coherency, so he simply nuzzled into Harry's neck and continued his ritual, his joy singing in every part of him he could still feel.

This had been more than a union. He had never felt this complete, like absolutely everything in his world made perfect sense. It was akin to discovering the biggest and most sacred revelation he hadn't even been aware he was looking for, akin to accomplishing his life goal and basking in the knowledge that he was finally on the top of the universe.

Nothing else mattered. Tom knew it before, but it was a pale shadow in comparison to the understanding unveiling in front of him now.

His followers, his enemies, his political goals… they were only distractions. They were toys he could play with while the only other real person in the world was busy doing something else. But when they were together, the distractions faded, and Tom could barely remember why he'd need them in the first place.

At this moment, he understood three important things.

Harry was his.

He was Harry's.

He would reshape the world and every toy in it around these notions, and he wouldn't stop until it's done.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

The languid magic of the night continued deeply into the morning. The trance of dreaminess, desire, and happiness still held Tom in its thrall, but it fractured when Harry said, "I think I'll talk to Dumbledore tomorrow."

They were both getting dressed in comfortable, peaceful silence, and now Tom stood frozen, his shoe clenched in his rapidly whitening fist. For a moment, he was certain he'd misheard. There was no chance Harry had actually said this, plunged him into one of his deepest nightmares. Not now, after this wonderful, unforgettable night; preferably not ever.

"Don't," was all he managed to utter. But apparently, his voice was too hoarse to be heard because Harry didn't even pay attention.

"I don't think it will change much, but it can't hurt either, right?" he continued, buttoning his shirt. "It would help if you told me what other policies of yours he might have problems with so that I would know which facts to operate. Maybe if I say—"

Tom could envision it easily. Harry asking Dumbledore for a conversation. Dumbledore graciously agreeing and then slowly divulging everything he knew, carefully descending into exaggerations and overreactions. And after that… after that, everything would shatter to pieces. For a week, or a month, or a year — or maybe Harry would lose his faith in him entirely.

The mere thought made his blood run cold. Before his mind could comprehend his actions, Tom stepped to Harry and slammed him against the nearest surface, gripping his shoulders as tightly as he could, already terrified of the idea of letting go.

"You will not speak to Dumbledore," he growled. His heart was beating so fast, he could barely breathe. "You won't step foot in Hogwarts, do you understand? Just forget about it!"

Harry's shocked look and sudden stillness were like a bucket of cold water. Tom recoiled, horrified, putting his hands behind his back, but it didn't remove the terrible expression from Harry's face.

No. No. Why had he done this? He'd just made everything worse. Why did it keep happening?

"I'm… I'm sorry," he blurted out. He knew he sounded desperate, but it didn't matter — he would take this and more if it meant his words had a power to change at least something. "I didn't meant to— do that. It wasn't on purpose."

Slowly, very slowly, Harry pushed himself back, rubbing his right shoulder. His wary, piercing gaze bore into Tom's, and its force was powerful enough to make his heart freeze.

"What the hell was that?" Harry asked. Each word was colder than the previous one. Tom opened his mouth. Closed it.

"I… I don't know," he said honestly. All he knew was that Harry was slipping right through his fingers, and the thought was maddening. Even considering it was pushing him to the brink of insanity he'd worked so hard on walking away from.

"You don't know." A flat statement, not a question. He had to give Harry something — some excuse, some justification… but it meant burying himself in even more lies, and he couldn't do this. Not after everything he'd done to mend their broken relationship.

"I'm sorry," Tom repeated. He didn't recognise his own voice. A terrible gnawing sensation kept ripping through his insides, so he turned away and did the last thing he'd ever expected to do this morning.

He apparated away from Harry.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

He had trapped himself. Now he saw it clearly.

The walls of his office that had seemed so liberating a week ago now felt oppressive. And yet there wasn't any other place Tom could hide inside, considering that now he was also hiding from Harry.

It wasn't about his Memory Charms Department. It wasn't about Muggle relocations. It wasn't even really about Dumbledore.

No, it was about Charlus Potter. It was about Beth. It was about the ritual. All those decisions he'd made years ago and which shaped his current path, leading him to this specific moment.

If he'd never given Dumbledore reasons to be wary of him, Dumbledore would not think to interfere in his plans. If he hadn't broken Harry's heart in so many ways, he would preserve his right to making a mistake.

Manipulating the minds of people was such a small and irrelevant thing. In a bigger perspective, it was nothing. Several years ago, Tom would have been able to reason with Harry, but now? Now he had no idea what was going to happen. Anything could be the last straw. He'd disappointed Harry so many times that another lie, no matter how minuscule, could have disastrous consequences, and there was nothing he could do to stop it — nothing that wouldn't bury him even deeper.

Memory Charms Department was a genius idea. It was fun, it was exciting, and it was a good way to distract himself during the months and years of Harry's absence. But now, compared to what this could cost him, the idea seemed ridiculous.

Why had he decided to implement it? Dumbledore manipulating public opinion on him had been bothersome, but he could have found another way to stop it from happening again. A way Harry wouldn't mind and one Tom wouldn't need to hide. Now he was risking everything — and over what? How had things gotten so far when for the first time in his life, he didn't even mean to do anything inherently bad?

Nausea twisted his stomach, and Tom pressed his forehead to the cool surface of his desk, trying to gather his rapidly disintegrating control over himself.

Maybe he was overestimating the potential impacts? Even in the worst case scenario, what could happen? It's not like his little department had done much. If Harry was vehemently against the idea — and he would be — Tom could simply swear to throw all his plans down the drain. He was willing to comply with anything Harry asked, and surely it counted for something?

The little hope in his chest was illuminating enough to chase away some of the darkest shadows. Encouraged, Tom raised his head, trying to follow this more positive train of thought.

He was right in thinking that his past trapped him. But why not leave this trap? Why not break the pattern and do something he had never done before?

He could come clean.

The thought was so unconventional that his mind instantly tried to reject it, but Tom clung to it, dragging it back to the forefront.

He could tell Harry everything, and he could do it first, before Dumbledore or anyone else had a chance to outpace him. Harry always appreciated honesty — the rare times Tom confessed to something, Harry supported him. So why not try it now? If it worked, there would be no secrets left. They could go on like they had been doing, with nothing to stop or hinder them.

Hesitation was quickly dissolving under the wave of intense, reckless hope. Tom stood up, closed his eyes, visualising their home, and apparated right there.

He could do it. He could be honest. He would tell Harry everything and this dark cloud wouldn't be hanging over his head, filling him with the dread of anticipation of something he couldn't control.

As soon as the familiar walls materialised around him, Harry's face came into focus, too. He was already home, standing in the living room, still wearing the same clothes he had on the island. Tom's lips twitched in an uncertain smile, but it died when Harry didn't return it.

Harry looked… unusual. He was so pale that if not for the full-colour clothes, Tom would think he's a ghost. He was unsteady on his feet, and his expression instantly threw Tom back into that worst day of his life, when Harry packed his bags with the intention to flee from him.

His heart sank, and with it came the realisation.

He had made another mistake by leaving the island the way he did. By leaving Harry alone with thousands of questions.

Harry must have headed to Dumbledore right afterwards. Of course he had — he was stubborn and lived to defy people. The moment Tom ordered him to stay away, Harry went out of his way to do the opposite. And now he had knowledge that possibly extended beyond Tom's scope of comprehension because surely the simple fact of the existence of Memory Charms Department wouldn't put this terrible expression on his face? There had to be something else. Something more.

"I don't know what he told you, but I'm almost certain that it's not true," Tom said hastily. Harry's lips moved. The sound he made was as frightening as the look on his face, and it took all Tom's willpower to stay on his feet.

"I will tell you everything," he swore. His voice was low with his fear, but he hoped it was still clear enough to penetrate the barriers Harry was rapidly constructing around himself. "This is what I came here to do. I decided to tell you what Dumbledore blackmails me with. If you would just listen—"

"Stop."

One single word in that tone instantly injected Tom with ice. He froze helplessly, unable to do anything but stare. Because Harry looked…

He looked like he was dying from the inside. He almost looked older physically, his face contorted in a harsh, miserable grimace, as if his worst fears and suspicions had been confirmed. What could have Dumbledore possibly told him? And why? Wasn't the truth bad enough that he needed to make something up?

"All this time, I couldn't understand why… but now it's clear. Of course it is. I should have known."

In a movement echoing that awful moment years ago, Tom raised his hands, trying to project calmness.

"Don't do anything rash," he murmured. "We have to talk. You need to listen to me and tell me exactly what Dumbledore told you."

Contrary to his hopes, Harry's lips parted in a snarl.

"Why?" he spat. "So that you could brainwash me again? Make me act the way you want me to? Why bother having a conversation when you can just take what you need?"

Tom took an involuntary step back. His own thoughts were so jumbled, he couldn't begin to get a grip on them. The accusation was like a blow, ripping something right out of his gut and leaving a sense of acute wrongness behind. Outrage and disbelief clashed, and for a moment, he couldn't bring himself to speak.

This was what Dumbledore had said? That he had… that he would…

He wouldn't. Maybe before, but not now.

"I never brainwashed you," Tom said. He didn't sound nearly as steady as he would have liked. "I never made you do anything."

"Stop lying to me!" Harry yelled. The lights flickered under the impact of his wounded, furious magic. "I know all about your mind manipulation department — I watched Dumbledore's memories! What you showed me from your policies, what I kept reading about, it was just a façade! All this time, you were planning to turn people into your puppets, to turn me into your—"

"This was never about you!" Tom shouted. His heart was hammering wildly, but after the words left him, he realised how absurdly they sounded.

He was the one to tell Harry again and again that everything was about him. He had violated his potential consent repeatedly on this very principle. What could he say now to prove the opposite?

The whole situation was surreal. He wasn't even at fault, not really, not for what Harry was accusing him of. And yet no words seemed sufficient — nothing seemed powerful enough to rectify what was happening, rendering him a helpless, self-condemned observer.

Harry laughed, but this laughter bordered on madness.

"I should have known," he muttered. His hands dug into his hair, dishevelling it frantically. "When I came back, I felt so lost and uncertain, but every time I was with you, this uncertainty vanished. I couldn't understand half of what I was feeling, and now I know why. These were never my feelings, this was what you wanted me to feel."

"It's not true!" Tom raised his voice, aware that it was quickly venturing into the territory of hysteria. This couldn't be happening, not again, not over something he'd never done. "I never used any of what my department accomplished against you. We aren't even at the stage of brainwashing anyone! All I did was shift the public reaction to our relationship — I made sure it's either neutral or positive depending on people's pre-existing ideas. I can show you my own memories, or the documents, or—"

"The safe," Harry said. It was like he hadn't even heard what Tom was trying to say. "That's what you were keeping in there. I knew it had to be something you didn't want me to see, but I never imagined you would stoop this low. I suppose it's pathetically naïve of me. You tried to put Imperio on me; you spent years devising a ritual to take away my right to choose. It's the same pattern. I should have—"

"But I learned from that!" Tom bellowed. He tried to breathe, but it was difficult when all he wanted was to fold over. "I learned from my mistakes, you know I did! I proved it in every way I could! All right, yes, some of my policies aren't something you'd approve, Memory Charms Department included, but even that is not serious! It was my political side project, a way to ensure that Dumbledore and people like him wouldn't use my past against me. It was never about you, why won't you believe me!"

For one endless second, he hoped his frantic shout was heard. Something flared in Harry's eyes — a doubt? A hope? But then it was lost in the storm of hurt and disappointment, and once again, Tom was standing motionless, paralysed by shock and disbelief.

Maybe it was a dream. A nightmare, one of those many he'd been having for more than he remembered now. It couldn't be reality, he couldn't lose Harry again, so soon after he'd got him back. Maybe, if he closed his eyes, this room would disappear, and he would wake up on the island, with Harry by his side, giving him a sleepy smile.

So he did. He closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, Harry was still standing across the room, his body fraught with tension and heartbreak.

"Because every time I believe you, you manage to sneak a lie in there," Harry said bleakly. "And this lie is so deadly that it destroys everything I thought I knew and understood about you."

"Not this time," Tom said. It was a miracle that he could still force himself to speak, with how badly his throat was burning. "This time, I'm not lying. I wouldn't."

A moment of hesitation, and then, slowly, Harry shook his head.

"I need time," he said, the words so familiar that they instantly sent a flood of bitterness through Tom's blood. "Don't contact me. I have to think and I can't do it here."

This, too, was familiar. He'd heard it after Harry found out about Beth. He heard a variation of it after Harry fled following the ritual. Whenever it happened, Harry abandoned him and returned months, years later. The only difference was, this time, Tom didn't deserve it. And so it wasn't supposed to happen.

He opened his mouth to say it. To say, You can't leave me over something I didn't even do. But his mouth was too dry, his tongue too heavy. Something dark and ugly was rapidly spreading through him, growing from a seed to a palpable physical entity that stepped on every trace of light it encountered, grinding it to dust.

It. Wasn't. Fair. After all his efforts, after so many terrible months of loneliness and hopes for the future… To get what he wanted at last and to lose it the very next day? It was incomprehensible. His mind refused to reconcile with it.

Harry threw him the last look. Desperate panic flooded Tom anew, but before he could push the words through his uncooperative throat, Harry disappeared. Melted away with a loud crack, like he'd never been here in the first place — like everything they had shared, those wonderful short several months, were an illusion of Tom's despondent mind.

Perhaps they were. Perhaps he had gone mad at some point during Harry's absence and everything he'd experienced was an elaborate hallucination. Because there was no human way this could happen to him again. He'd survived Harry's departure once. He couldn't do it again. Especially not after last night.

His mind went quiet. The room darkened to one misty spot until he couldn't tell the contours of objects in it apart. Every thought and process in his body shut down, and even in this deadened state, he recognised it for what it was.

Self-inflicted mind wipes. The measure his brain resorted to in an effort to save him from going crazy. Only this time, it didn't work very well — even under the blanket of blankness, a persistent dark whisper was present, brushing against his mind repeatedly. Tom couldn't decipher what it was saying, not yet, not as long as his body refused to work properly, but he still listened to it, staring at nothingness.

He had no idea how much time had passed. Slowly, gradually, something began to wake up in him. It rose from the depths, burning its way through his organs and leaving scorches of half-forgotten bloodthirstiness under his skin. His mind was still empty, but his body came to life, twisting and coiling in its hungry pursuit of destruction. He could recognise what the whisper was telling him now — just one word.

Dumbledore.

Something else was swelling in his chest, too. Something weaker, an echo of another name, one that brought soothing coolness with its syllables.

Harry.

Tom's body jerked on instinct, his magic reaching out, searching for the only presence that could bring clarity to him. Whether it was a consequence of their strengthened bond or the old tracking spell he'd placed on Apophis, but after a moment, he found it. The link was there, although it was strange, too dim to be instantly followed.

Harry must have returned to his harbour. To Dumbledore's house in the woods, one Tom could never even see because of the Secret Keeper charms.

Away from civilisation, away from Tom and their relationship. To a source of poison that was determined to keep them apart.

Dumbledore.

This time, the name seared his nerve endings, turning his vision red and washing away every other thought or idea.

Dumbledore had to pay.

Tom's legs carried him into the kitchen, towards the counter. His hand wrapped around the knife and put it into his pocket. His mind pictured the barrier near Hogwarts. His body turned, then apparated.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Dumbledore wasn't at school. He was in the Forbidden Forest — his magic glowed like a beacon, or maybe now that Tom wasn't burdened by anything other than instincts, he simply became more sensitive to things like this.

Robotically, he followed, walking through the trees until he came across a clearing. And there he was — bent over one of the bushes, studying the white flowers there with scientific interest. As soon as Tom stopped, Dumbledore shifted, facing him. His obvious surprise lasted for a second only: it was quickly replaced by wariness, then calm acceptance.

"Good evening, Tom," he said quietly. "I admit, I didn't expect to see you today."

Tom smiled. Right now, it was easy. All turbulent emotions were in a slumber, leaving only hunger for vengeance and strange excitement in their wake.

"You should have," he noted. "After filling Harry's head with your lies."

"Were they lies?" Dumbledore asked. He moved casually, taking a place behind one of the smaller trees, probably planning to use it as temporary shield. "I haven't told Mr. Potter anything I myself haven't considered and deemed to be true."

This didn't warrant a response, so Tom said nothing, circling Dumbledore to get a more beneficial position.

"You always have plans upon plans upon plans," Dumbledore continued. He didn't appear to blink — instead, he watched Tom unwaveringly. "I know far more about your school activities than you can imagine. And I do not believe for a second that when you set up your department, your intention was not to manipulate Mr. Potter into doing what you wished."

"I don't care what you believe," Tom replied. Twelve seconds. Eleven. Ten. "And I know more about you than you know about yourself because I saw one of your futures." Seven. Six. "As long as you convince yourself of your righteousness, you will blindly destroy everything on your path. Today you destroyed something that was never yours to touch." Three. Two. "You will pay. For that and for so much more."

Now.

He flicked his wand, putting a thick circle of fire around Dumbledore. It took Dumbledore almost a whole second to put it out, and Tom used it to send an array of smaller curses his way. He'd watched Harry's duel with Grindelwald — the element of creativity it had was impressive. It wasn't the approach Tom himself favoured, but in this case, it could prove to be beneficial. Dumbledore would expect brutal force and raw power, but he wouldn't get it. At least not from the start.

Just like it had been for Harry, several of Tom's curses hit their target. Dumbledore managed to block most, but not all of them. The expression on his face said everything: he recognised the style Tom was using from his own observations of Harry's duel, and he was instantly wary, probably uncertain as to what to expect.

Good. Because he wouldn't see what Tom had planned coming.

Dumbledore's own spells were surprisingly deadly. His knowledge of Tom's immortality must have played its part: it was in his best interest to dispatch him as swiftly as possible and retreat into the safety of the castle. And, well, that wouldn't be happening.

Tom ducked from a yellow unfamiliar curse; bypassed a red beam; shielded himself from a purple light. Dumbledore's magic was heady, powerful, and he clearly knew more spells than Tom could envision. However, the imperfections of his style were quickly becoming apparent, too.

Dumbledore wasn't agile enough. He preferred to stand immobile, moving very slightly and very rarely. He relied on the sheer force of his power, like Tom usually would; he followed his target with his eyes while trying to preserve his initial position. This could be of benefit in some cases, but not here. Not now.

One of Tom's curses thrown sideways broke through Dumbledore's shield and cut a piece of his ear off. To his credit, Dumbledore didn't make a sound, but his retaliating spell was so strong and precise that Tom didn't have time to move away. One of his ribs cracked, puncturing something and sending a taste of blood up his throat.

In his detached state, this wasn't a hindrance. He barely noticed it, following his pre-planned trajectory and narrowing the distance between them inch by inch.

To the left. Duck. To the right. Complete the half-circle and step closer. Feign a misstep; use the element of surprise and throw a curse. It was a dance, beautiful and deadly, and whether Dumbledore knew it or not, he wasn't going to finish it.

When there were a few feet separating them, Tom commanded, "Mutua Expelliarmus!"

Dumbledore's eyes widened in astonishment. He conjured a shield instantly, but while it swallowed Tom's spell, it missed the non-verbal command he had sent. Both his and Dumbledore's wands were torn out of their hands with a rush of magic, and this was his cue.

Using Dumbledore's obvious confusion, Tom attacked him physically, dragging him to the ground and pulling out his knife. A brief struggle — Dumbledore tried to push him off with non-verbal spells of his own, but Tom's shields countered them. Such physical proximity had to be bewildering for someone used to duelling at a distance, and this opened a whole new world of opportunities.

Dumbledore half-turned in an attempt to break his hold, and Tom took his opening. The knife went into the accidentally exposed throat with only minimal resistance. Tom pressed on the handle, carving a path through the vocal cords, trachea, and cartilages, grinning when a small fountain of blood splashed him in the face.

Dumbledore struggled, grabbing at his hand reflexively, but the damage had already been inflicted. Blue eyes stared at him with horrified resignation, and Tom watched how the magic in them slowly began to fade.

He'd found Charlus Potter beautiful in his death all those years ago, but it was nothing in comparison to what he was witnessing now. This body had much more magic in it — magic that fled it with every gurgling sound, with every broken breath and stream of blood. A sense of triumph stretched its fiery wings in him, and for a moment, Tom felt dizzy.

This was a victory. Finally, finally he won — the only person standing between him and Harry would be gone within seconds. He would never become a hindrance again, and the next time Harry wanted to run, he would truly have nowhere to go. From now on, Tom would always be able to find him.

The bloodstained lips trembled, probably trying to summon some air, and Tom laughed unabashedly. On an impulse, he leaned close and pressed his mouth to the half-torn ear.

"You should have never underestimated the Muggle means of destruction," he whispered mockingly. "Magic isn't everything. Aren't you glad that I've learned this lesson? Perhaps they and I will become friends yet."

Predictably, there was no reply, so Tom yanked the knife to the side roughly, finishing the curve. The body beneath him twitched, let out another raspy sound, and froze.

At this very moment, the barriers somewhere miles away fell. His magic rose in a powerful, anticipatory wave, and Tom jerked his head up, listening and trying to pinpoint the location.

He apparated without a second thought, dragging the body with him as a precaution. When his feet touched the solid ground, he dropped it immediately, holding onto the knife and squinting into the darkness.

He didn't have to wait long. The lights flared right before him, revealing the shape of a small house. It was situated at the far end of the meadow, surrounded by the trees from three sides. He would have scrutinised it further if new sounds didn't break his concentration.

There was a bang, then footsteps. Then the front door opened. Harry walked outside, and Tom's breath caught in his throat, a familiar sizzle of desire burning through his body.

Harry's beautiful face reflected genuine confusion. It shattered the moment their eyes met, shifting into shock, incomprehension, and wariness.

"Hello again, Harry," Tom purred. The blood kept dripping from the knife, and he detected the exact second Harry looked down and realised what had happened. His eyes grew wide with horror, and despite the gleefulness and the simmering rage, Tom couldn't help but admire how expressive they were.

Harry backed away, stumbling and falling, and still trying to crawl somewhere. With a smile, Tom followed. Thoughts and images were whirling in his mind, changing into one another so rapidly that he couldn't identify any of them, couldn't make sense of much.

But it didn't matter. What mattered was what he knew, and he knew enough.

He knew that Harry had left him over something he hadn't done. He knew that Harry had tried to hide from him. He knew that the man who caused this was dead now, and so they were safe. He would explain, and they would pick up right where they left off.

"Stop running from me," he called. "If I found you here, I will find you anywhere. You must know it."

To his delight, Harry obeyed. He stopped, freezing in his half-crouching position, but the way he stared at him… his eyes held so much horror that it darkened Tom's cloudless perception.

What was… oh, the knife. It was redundant now. The knife was for Dumbledore and Dumbledore alone, never for Harry. Tom would sooner cut off his hand than lift it against him.

With a sniff, he dropped the knife and took another step in Harry's direction.

"There is nothing to worry about," he soothed. "It'll be all right."

"No," Harry told him. He still looked as pale as he had during their last conversation, his skin almost translucent in the dim lights coming from his house. "It'll never be all right. You are… you are mad. You've lost your mind."

Tom tilted his head, thinking about it. He didn't feel wholesome at the moment, that much was true. But he'd already lived in such a state before, and eventually, it had passed. This time wouldn't be any different.

"I suppose this is what you get for leaving me," he drawled. "You did it before and now you did it again. I think if I wasn't immortal, it would have killed me, but it's not the case, so here I am."

Harry shook his head. Then, slowly, he got up, his eyes sliding behind Tom's shoulder. A shudder jolted his body and he pressed his hand to his mouth, his breaths tearing out in harsh, wheezing exhalations.

"Why," he rasped. His voice was barely audible, and Tom had to focus to catch it. "How could… why."

It seemed that Harry lacked the strength to produce complete sentences or even make them sound like questions. The monotonous quality of his words was unpleasant, and Tom frowned.

"I did what I had to," he said defensively. "Dumbledore had it coming. He had no right to come between us with his lies. And you… you had no right to leave me."

In his mind, this made sense, but Harry suddenly hid his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking — too slowly to be from crying but too hysterically to be from laughter.

"No," he rasped. This time, he didn't sound like himself at all, and something tore through the forced calmness of Tom's mind. Something dark and real. "No, there is another problem, isn't there? A forever kind of it. I leave you, but then I come back. Because I can't leave. I can't stay away. You can murder the world and I will still find myself wanting to believe your excuses. In ten, fifteen years? I will probably stop caring about it altogether. Because for me, everything starts and ends with you."

Tom's mind liked it. Tom's mind purred in pleasure, but it was quickly pushed aside by a cold stream of sudden clarity.

He was treading on dangerous ground. Nothing good ever came out of Harry looking and sounding like this. When Harry felt hopeless, he lashed out, and it usually took Tom years to deal with the consequences.

Beth. Self-harm. The ritual. Over and over again, a broken record he couldn't stop, a toxic cycle he couldn't step out from.

"When I returned, I hoped that we could start everything from the beginning," Harry whispered. His whole body was shaking so badly that Tom instinctively reached out, wanting to comfort. He stilled when Harry jerked away from him violently.

"Don't touch me," he warned. "Not again."

Another burst of clarity. This time, Tom shivered, suddenly cold and unsure.

"I believed we could leave everything that happened behind," Harry continued. His voice was getting stronger, but something was still wrong with the way he looked. The apathy seemed to engulf him, making him as vacant and detached as Tom had been feeling for a while now. "I was so happy that it was easy to do it. But the doubts never left entirely. Sometimes I looked at you and I knew, I felt that something else was happening. Because with you, something always is."

Nothing was happening, Tom thought. His magic was stubbornly repressing the strong emotions writhing in him, but little jolts from them still tore through his body. For the first time, nothing was happening.

"You spent years methodically planning to bind us," Harry said emptily. "You could smile at me and hug me and spend nights in my bed, but all this time, you were planning to betray and manipulate me. So even after this was over, after we were supposed to be over this, I couldn't relax completely. I was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. And it did."

"No, it didn't," Tom retorted. For some reason, his heart rate was accelerating, as if sensing that something big and terrible was coming. His vision dimmed further, plunging him into an even deeper darkness. "I never brainwashed you. I never intended to."

A broken laughter escaped Harry's throat.

"Well, it doesn't matter now, does it?" he grated. "It's all over anyway. You haven't changed at all. You always, always respond with violence. You keep destroying every link I have to my past without a second thought. If you really loved me, you would have thought of me, not of… you would have thought of me."

There was some strange, eerie finality in these words. Everything in Tom tightened, triggering warning bells and making him grab for his wand to do… he didn't know what. Something.

But his wand wasn't there. It was lying abandoned on Hogwarts territory, next to Dumbledore's wand.

"I'm sorry," Harry told him, and somehow, this was the scariest thing Tom could imagine him saying in these circumstances. More layers of detachment shattered, and he twitched, suddenly aware of what a terrible trap he had led himself into. "I just… I don't see another way out of this. I can't kill you. I wouldn't even if you weren't immortal because I love you more than I ever loved anything. I can't kill myself either. Maybe I could summon Death, like in those fairy tales, but dying would mean taking you with me, and I can't do it. I can't stay with you and I can't stay away because now I know that it won't work. Sooner or later, I'd come back to you because I don't know how to live without you. I don't want to live without you."

This was supposed to sound comforting. Tom would have killed to hear these words before, but now he'd give anything to never hear them again because... Because something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

But what could Harry do? Not die. Not kill him. Not leave. Surely these were the scariest possibilities.

And yet, the way he was looking at him… there was so much love, so much heartbreak in his gaze that Tom's heart jumped to his throat. His hands shook when he raised them, a familiar calming gesture that he already knew would be meaningless.

"As long as I'm myself, I will keep coming back," Harry murmured. All of a sudden, there was a wand in his hand, and he was raising it — slowly, reluctantly, but steadily. "I will keep justifying myself, my feelings, you, and everything you do. My mind is already trying to do it even as I'm speaking. But if I was someone else… if I didn't remember you…"

Suddenly, Tom understood. Suddenly, dread pooling in his stomach shot forwards, knocking the breath out of his lungs and clearing the confusing fog in his mind. He had clarity now — cold, icy clarity, but he desperately wished he didn't. Everything that had happened, everything that had brought them here today suddenly looked like a trifle, and the chill that poured down his spine was like nothing he'd experienced.

"You can't," he found himself muttering. The voice almost didn't belong to him. "You can't just erase me. Memories about me are everywhere, they are inseparable from your mind. You'd go crazy."

Harry sent him a smile. Bitter, hopeless, and endlessly sad.

"At this stage, I will welcome it," he uttered. "It might feel like freedom."

All his senses were waking up. The ones that had gone numb from the second Harry left him again, which stayed in slumber as he was killing Dumbledore — they were awakening now. His vision sharpened to an extent that shouldn't have been possible, making the world suddenly bright, making Harry's tired, resolute face stand out like a beacon. The ice shackled his bones so tightly that he couldn't move, not even when terror kicked into his stomach. His chest compressed, compressed, compressed, and as the edges of his consciousness blurred, he pushed out the only sentence, one last plea.

"I love you."

Harry's hand paused, but the letters of the spell were already slipping from his lips.

"Obliviate."

Green light flared, swallowing his conflicted expression. His body softened, and as he fell, the ice holding Tom paralysed finally melted. He threw himself forwards — too late, too late, too late, his hands wrapping around Harry, holding him up.

"What have you done?" he whispered. The reality around him was burning and shrivelling, its falling ashes tasting like death. Worse than death. "What have you done?"

Harry didn't reply. The silence was growing more deafening by the second. It pressed against Tom's mind, against his magic, pulling every possible feeling and sensation to the surface.

His bones ached. His head was spinning. His heart didn't seem to beat at all — and this could explain this strange breathlessness that was suffocating him, burning through his mental and physical defences. The shock was caked around him, holding his broken pieces together, and when it passed, Tom knew what would happen. These pieces would fall into a shattered heap, and his sanity would follow. He would turn into no one. Into nothing.

But right now… while he still had a semblance of coherence… he could try to change things.

If he undid what he'd done, Harry would wake up with his memories intact, with a smile that he smiled only for Tom. Everything would be good. Everything would go back to normal.

The thought was absurd, but in the world that couldn't be real, it made perfect sense. It was the straw he needed to pick himself up and fight for his survival.

On his shaky, boneless legs, Tom stood up. Cradling Harry in his arms, he moved towards Dumbledore's nearly decapitated body and lowered himself nearby.

If Dumbledore would just… come to life… Harry would come back to him. The certainty of it was so overpowering that Tom finally managed to breathe, his lungs making the last effort to cooperate. Hope was a dangerous thing, but it was all he had. If he made things right, the universe would align itself with the way it was supposed to look like — it was that or nothing.

Avada Kedavra was a deadly spell. It didn't simply destroy the body, it killed the magic inside, severing every source of life within a person. Most dark spells followed a similar principle when used to kill someone — they all affected magic.

But this wasn't how he'd murdered Dumbledore. He used a Muggle weapon. It meant that the magic was still there, in its initial shape, likely still functional.

Tom knew every healing spell ever mentioned in the books. He'd spent years polishing his knowledge and practising, wanting to be prepared in case Harry ever tried to hurt himself again. The things he'd done with those spells, the damage he'd managed to heal despite not having predisposition to this branch of magic… It was all there, in his head, and suddenly, this knowledge was pushed to the forefront of his mind.

Tom put his hands on Dumbledore's torn neck and began to chant.

Time had no meaning. The needs of his aching body were also of no relevance — everything inside him swelled into one intense urge to rectify what he'd done no matter the cost. So he murmured, switched between the spells, and healed. Inch by inch, the terrible wound began to close; the skin started to change from white to something more coloured. There were no charms to replace Blood Replenishing Potion, but Tom had poured as much energy and life into the body as he could find in the depths of his magic.

He didn't notice any other changes, and Dumbledore's chest didn't seem to be moving, but all of a sudden, there was a quiet noise. Harry's little house disappeared along with its garden, melding with the night air.

The Secret Keeper Charm resumed its work.

He did it. His goal was accomplished. Dumbledore would live.

The relief that flowed through him was blinding. Tom sagged, feeling how his hope flared brighter, filling him with bone-deep bliss.

It would be all right now. Dumbledore was alive, and it meant that Harry would come back to him. He would open his eyes, look at him, and grin. He would tell Tom he's proud of him. He'd berate him for letting things go this far, but it wouldn't matter because they would be together again, leaving the worst behind, continuing their story from that night on the island. Nothing but them, the peace, and their happiness.

Gently, Tom pulled Harry closer, brushing his face with shaking fingers, trying to ignore the blood they were spreading across his skin.

"Open your eyes," he murmured. "Please. Open your eyes."

He did. The moment he saw the heart-stopping greenness, Tom's mind dived inside, searching for a spark of consciousness, for memories that comprised their life together.

But there was nothing. Nothing but vague shapes and unclear echoes. Nothing but the broken shards of what had been bright and vivid just a while ago.

Nothing.

"No," Tom said. It had to be a mistake. Maybe Harry was tricking him — any person knowing Occlumency could shield their mind and offer a collection of generic images instead of their real memories.

But Harry was terrible at Occlumency. There was no way he could withstand Tom's probing and hide his real mind.

Which meant that…

"No," Tom repeated. He could hear the hope that had replaced his shock cracking, its remnants falling into a shattered pile. Nothing was holding him together any longer, and so he could feel it — the defeat. The madness breathing on the hinges of his mind, ready to start its deadly march.

Harry was gone. Not physically, but in each way that counted. The person Tom loved, the person who loved him no longer existed.

Gone. Gone forever.

"What have you done?" he whispered. He didn't know whom he was addressing, Harry or himself. The words were living their own life. "What have you done?"

Blankness. Blankness. Blankness.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!" Tom screamed. His hysterical howl tore through the silence, making some bird hoot at a distance. Tears were burning trails down his face, hot, thick, and endless. "I fixed it! I fixed him, do you see? You were supposed to come back! Come back! COME BACK TO ME!"

There was no one to answer him. No one to comfort him. No one to love him. And so he collapsed, drowning in his own screaming sobs, letting his sanity slip far, far away.

A/N: One last chapter to go.

Replies:

Hestia-san, wow, thank you so much for such an amazing review! I'm so happy you liked this chapter so much, though I'm sorry it have you a headache... this is so relatable! I once ended up in a hospital with a severe panic attack because of reading a particuarly intense story, lol. And hah, this new chapter one ended up being even longer :D Honestly, I have no idea how things like this happen. I also think you'll have even more intense negative feelings for Harry at the end of the update, but no worries, everything will fall in its places eventually. Thank you again, your review made my day when I first got it and every time I re-read it. I hope you'll stay tuned for the conclusion!

I'm not ofreakingkay, thank you for your wonderful words! I was grinning so much when reading them. I'm happy you enjoyed this chapter, it was crucial for Tom's growth, and I'm glad it was convincing enough. More growth is still waiting to happen. As for Dumbledore, I actually like him and understand his approach, but I cannot relate to it on a personal level because in the end, everything depends on a perspective. Thank you again! 3

florene22, ah, thank you so much! I hope you'll enjoy the new chapter and the final one after it.

CakePhoenixMeeks, thank you for your question! This is ultimately a fantasy setting, and I'm not a specialist, but I personally see Tom as a psychopath, and a lot from his behavior is meant to reflect this.

CIELO-BL, hi! Thank you 3 Harry could never stay away from Tom for long, even if only in terms of correspondance.

KitKats0108, thank you so much, your words mean a lot! I also enjoy stories about unhealthy relationships, both reading and writing them. These Tom and Harry started out as completely different people, but slowly, they've been approaching each other. Here's to hoping that they can find a middle ground that will allow their bond to be... less explosive :D

JaiJayce, thank you, I'm glad you liked Tom's journey! Some more of it is still left))

Yasumim, here it is!)