AN: Hi everyone! Sorry this took so long. I was initially going to post this around Christmas, but it wasn't quite right. Then life happened. I know I don't post regularly, but I will keep posting for as long as I can. This chapter is one of my favourites. Hope you like it and please review!
Chapter 18
Hogwarts – Christmas Eve, 1996
'This work is beyond abysmal, you realise. It's like a child wrote it," appeared the elegant, perfect cursive. It had been several hours since last it's pages had been anything but blank, and Harry sat alone by the fire of the common room, impatient. At the words, he snorted indelicately, shaking his head in exasperation and picking up his quill.
'A child with a mastership in advanced charms? With an extensive understanding of the thermodynamics of negative-spin magical theory? That sort of child?"
His own handwriting looked like a messy scrawl beneath Tom's, which was at least partly to irritate him.
'Yes. That sort of child,' came the simple reply, and Harry snorted again.
'Let me in," he wrote, simply.
'And if I'm not inclined to the company of lesser beings this eve?' came the reply, playful if Harry didn't mistake it. It was often hard to tell, but he took his chances.
'Then I'll be forced to spend the rest of the evening using this diary to practice my poetry," he wrote back, smirking.
There was a pause, perhaps a minute long, and Harry knew Tom would likely be shaking his head in disgust at the childish tactics of his 'pen-pal'.
'There was once a witch from Persipples, who had the most unusual-"
With a more than slightly aggressive rush, Harry Potter was pulled into the diary.
At some point in the last few months, Harry Potter had accepted that the recent weirdness of his life was something unlikely to stop anytime soon. Left with little alternative but to embrace it, he had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the pursuit of secrets. The niggling feeling that he was playing with fire on too many levels to comfortably think about was something he had grown to ignore.
He considered this as he sat drinking hot chocolate – complete with little marshmallows and whipped cream – inside a quite illusory version of whatever the Slytherin common room had looked like fifty years prior. Before him, sat a handsome boy of about his age, who was currently wilfully ignoring him whilst he read a book on the Dark Arts that he had obviously read before, many times he suspected, given it's presence in what was little more than a magical memory.
"So my latest theory is that you're basically just a portrait," Harry began mildly, taking a sip from the drink that – while tasting delicious – held no nutritious value at all. Land of the fairies style. "A slightly darker version of the fat lady."
Tom paused for just a moment from his reading, to level a glare at Harry, before rolling his eyes. "How many times do I have to tell you that I will not reveal the purpose of my condition before you get it through your remarkably thick skull?" he drawled.
"At least a few more times," said Harry with a shrug. Setting down his cocoa on a small side table and rising to his feet. He walked the short distance to the armchair Tom seemed to prefer, or at least had preferred in his memories, and took the book from his hands. "What are you reading today?"
When he turned the book towards him, the words that had been visible for just a moment disappeared leaving entirely blank pages. Harry shook his head, amused and irritated in roughly equal measure. "The usual then."
He took the book with him back to his own seat, but it had vanished before he'd even set it down.
"It's Christmas Eve, you know," Harry stated. Tom was now watching him carefully, impassively. This expression darkened considerably as tinsel began to appear around the room. "You should be more festive."
"Stop that," said Tom, vanishing the decorations with a thought. "It's a filthy muggle holiday. I'm surprised it's still celebrated in your world..."
It appeared as a statement, but Harry knew better. Tom was fishing for information; on the world outside this place, the developments of the last decades. He even managed it sometimes, but Harry occasionally managed some sort of exchange.
The first days after his procurement of the diary had been uncomfortable for Harry. He was no fool, and it had taken little to convince him of the malicious, dark nature of the object. Still, he was too curious to allow such a thing to ward him off, so with care he had pursued his curiosity with interesting results.
In those first days Tom was attentive, compassionate and kind. He encouraged Harry to open up to him – to trust him – to tell him about his life. Harry, of course, saw through this act. It was impossible to believe the words written when he could literally feel the darkest magic emitting from the thing – it's intent malicious, though difficult to predict. Harry revealed enough of himself to play the game, but only the barest details – his name, age, what subjects he liked the best and what he thought of Quidditch. Tom gave little details of himself, managing to steer the conversation away from such matters. It was on the third day that things had changed. He had felt something – likely undetectable, if not for all his Dark Arts training – spread over him. Like a shadow settling about his shoulders. It was unsettling, and occurred at a seemingly random part of a conversation they were having about Quidditch tactics. It lasted only moments. As the shadow spread upwards, doubtlessly intending to settle in his mind, it suddenly halted. Disappeared entirely. The next moments took him entirely by surprise. The diary – Tom – had halted in it's rambling, fake affability and the words 'Get out.' appeared. The diary fell silent for many days then – refusing to respond to anything he had said.
Blaise's Mothers funeral, and tending to one of his closest friends in the wake of it, had taken Harry from Hogwarts for almost a week. The emotional storm that had become the personal lives of his friends had been enough to distract him from the odd diary for that time, and it had been almost absent mindedly that he had picked the thing up from where he had left it on a side table of the 'Marauders Room'. Instantly, he had been pulled within, into this very room and greeted to the sight of a furious Tom Riddle – demanding to know who he was, and what the hell was going on in the world outside. Harry had held his own fairly well, though he suspected his wellbeing had far more to do with the locket Tom eyed warily than any care for his physical safety. At least initially. The amiable Tom Riddle from those first days had disappeared entirely, and in his wake left an impossibly cold, powerful and brilliant young man. A young man Harry had spent an extensive amount of time with over the winter.
Initially, their relationship had been one sided. Tom demanded to know things about the outside world; Harry, acting on instinct and believing that what a possessed diary wants is what a possessed diary likely should not get, withheld much of it. Tom would attempt to intimidate Harry, even succeeding on a few occasions – but he always held back. He seemed to have infinite power in this shadowy domain of his, but something about the locket was enough to stay his wand arm on more than one occasion. If there were two things Harry knew definitively about Tom Riddle it was that he had intended to kill whomever picked up that diary, and that for some reason he had lost all interest in carrying out that deed now. And it was related to the locket, somehow.
Harry's refusals to divulge the level of information Tom wanted was met with an equally frosty refusal to reveal details about himself. Perhaps that would have been the end of it, if not for the fact that Harry found Tom Riddle so inexplicably addictive. In the first weeks, Tom said very little outside of attempting to prise Harry's secrets from him, growing increasingly agitated upon realising he was unable to take the information from Harry's mind. Still, there was something about Tom – particularly spending time within the ghostly world of the diary – that filled Harry with a deep-seated contentedness that he could not describe. Even as his social life, his loved ones, grew distant he felt little by way of sadness or loneliness. Something about Tom's quiet, often cruel, company seemed to fill a void in Harry. It was as though his magic, his very core, called him to this place. It was doubtlessly foolish, but he did not resist it's pull. It also became apparent that on some level Tom felt similarly – growing snippy, demanding when Harry's life pulled him away from their conversations for anything more than a day.
The conversations flowed more easily between them as more time passed, as they became so oddly invested in one another. Rarely was it personal, but rather they would talk about magical theory, philosophy, history. He'd not lacked intellectual stimulation before, his friends were all clever and Hermione was a prodigy with regard to theory – but Tom was on another level. Harry was brilliant, remarkable even; Tom Riddle blew him out of the water. Still, they debated, argued even. Tom, whether he intended it or not, was teaching Harry. He was not a patient, or even nice teacher, but he was also rather passionate – when they truly got into a subject, hotly contending each other, the ice around him would melt away. His pale cheeks even becoming flushed with some strange mix of frustration and excitement when they would exchange insults and information at a rapid pace. Tom was doubtlessly smarter than he was, his breadth and depth of knowledge unparalleled in anyone he had ever met, but Harry was a quick learner. He also had the advantage of academic material not fifty years out of date. Before he knew it, Harry was completely fascinated. Only alone, late at night, did it disturb him that he was developing such an interest – platonic or not he had yet to decide – in what may well just be a magical object.
"Tom," Harry began, after a period of silence in which they merely regarded one another. When Tom looked at him like this, he felt like he was trapped with a predator. Only he was too enthralled to look away. "Why did you decide not to kill me?"
It had been weeks since the last time he had asked anything of a personal nature. However, he was aware that this – whatever this was – could not continue forever. He had to understand what 'Tom' was, and much to his deepest apprehension, he had a theory.
Tom's intense expression became dismissive. "What makes you think I was trying to kill you, Potter?"
"I felt it," he said simply.
Tom smiled; an amused, mocking smile. "Lot of experience with the Dark Arts, have you?"
Harry steeled himself for the next words before deciding he had little other options. "It's taught at Hogwarts. I'm their best student." It was the most revealing thing he'd said, about himself or the current political climate, in all the time he'd been here.
Tom raised an eyebrow. Clearly disguising surprise. "I see."
"Why did you decide not to kill me?"
Tom held his silence for a long moment, before rising to his feet. He walked over to where Harry sat, movements fluid and graceful, and Harry ignored when his heart rate picked up. Warily, he stood up too as Tom regarded him with cool assessment.
"You already know why, don't you?" Tom asked crisply. Tom was taller than Harry, and Harry had to keep his chin high to maintain eye contact.
Harry didn't think he could lie to the young man if he wanted to, his gaze too penetrating to hide from. "I have my theories."
Harry glanced away, only to have his chin grabbed roughly by the young man, forcing him to hold his gaze. It was a gesture he recognised, only seeming to confirm his suspicions. His heart beat harder, and there was a heat inside him that seemed to coil around his chest. Nothing magical, but the product of rapid emotions; physical reactions quite out of his control. Tom appeared to notice this, and his mouth quirked in vicious delight. Harry threw him a poisonous look. He was not quite afraid, and it was suddenly very important to him that Tom knew that.
Tom leaned close to him, his voice just above a whisper, close to his ear. However ethereal the boy's presence, he felt very real. The warmth of the boy's body now perceptible, even through his crisp prefect uniform. "Tell me your theories, Harry Potter," came his quiet demand.
Harry met his eyes once more, expression fierce. He wondered at his own fool-hardiness, wondering if Tom had finally succeeded in driving him quite mad. "Or what, my Lord?"
A delighted smile was almost disturbing on Tom's face. The boy threw his head back, and laughed.
Malfoy Manor – Christmas Eve
Draco Malfoy sighed deeply as he heard his bedroom door quietly open, his visitor pausing at the threshold. He was stood before a mirror, trying to decide which cloak he'd be wearing tomorrow. He chose the silver carelessly; he found himself less interested in the finer details of his appearance these days.
"There is still time to change your mind, little Dragon," came the voice of his Mother from the doorway. Draco closed his eyes briefly; the emotion in her voice palpable. Whilst it was not impossible for him to visit whilst studying his mastership in Potions, it was not looked upon favourably. It was likely Draco would see little of his Mother over the next years.
Turning towards her, he admired his Mother's composure. Although as her son, he was quite aware that the woman was a short step away from begging her only child not to go – she was outwardly calm. He gave her a sad, apologetic smile; not bothering to disguise his own emotions. It seemed there was little merit to it now.
"I'm afraid this is just something I have to do, Mother. I need… space, from everything. I'm not a child anymore, but-" he trailed off, unable to find the words.
His Mother smiled in the same sorrowful way, coming into the room fully and perching at the edge of the bed. It was something she did only rarely. She motioned for Draco to join her and he did so, bemused. He was only more confused when his mother put her arm around him forcefully and squeezed him, kissing the top of his head. It was an unusual display of overt maternal warmth, completely out of place and utterly comforting.
"I understand, my love. You have to go out into the world and become your own wizard. It's just hard on my heart to know that you're very nearly a man now. It's as though only moments ago I held you in my arms for the first time."
His mother would never cry in front of him. It was not who she was. But this was the closest she had ever come to it, and he leaned against her saying nothing, merely bathing in her comfort. He felt very young, very suddenly, but it did not change his resolve. His mother and father had attempted to change his mind over the last weeks. His friends were also upset. He knew he had to do it, though. He'd see Blaise and Harry tomorrow for the final time for quite some time, and then he'd be gone. Three years would surely be enough time to figure out who he was, what he wanted, and his feelings on one Hermione Granger.
He hoped.
Gringotts Bank – Christmas Eve
Blaise paced impatiently in one of the many offices of Gringotts bank. It was after hours on Christmas Eve, and the place was almost totally silent. The denizens of Diagon Alley were gone, left for the evening to begin celebrating Christmas with their families. Blaise Zabini had no such concerns; he had no family. Not unless the next hour proved far more fruitful than he was expecting it to.
An usually stern-looking goblin entered and Blaise paused in his pacing to regard the creature imperiously. It didn't do to show emotions with the goblins; they didn't respect it, and neither did he. He'd been kept waiting for a significant amount of time since he'd first taken the expensive blood ritual earlier this afternoon, and he was growing impatient. He raised an eyebrow expectantly as the goblin took his time moving from the door to the desk, and seating himself.
"Mr Zabini – or would you prefer Black?" began the creature.
"Zabini is fine," he said quickly, flustered. The blood test had come out positive then.
"Mr Zabini, you are indeed the son of Sirius Black. In fact, you are his only child. What's more, it appears that your Father and Mother married privately some months before your birth. I am sure you're aware of what this means."
Blaise nodded absently, his carefully controlled demeanour faltering slightly in wake of the news. Assuming he was not disinherited, he was the rightful heir to the House of Black. As much a little lording as Draco. His inheritance would likely be complicated by his Father's status as a war criminal, but the assets of House Black were never seized. As much as it was to take in, it had not been the primary purpose of such a test. The purpose had been to call on his Father.
It was a complicated bit of magic. Goblin in nature, and dark. Apparently it had been forbidden for two centuries before the rise of the Dark Lord. The Goblins had been very pleased to add it to their repertoire once more, given it was a very profitable business. Especially in a world that so valued blood status. It used the blood bond between close family members to call one to the other. It was his first attempt at contacting his Father since his Mother's death. After spending much of the last two months sitting alone in Zabini manor, sorting through his emotions in silence punctuated only by the visits of his closest friends and Daphne, he had decided to seek out his Father. Not out of loneliness, but curiosity; he had too many questions to go unanswered. He did not hold out much hope that his Father would answer the call – even if he could identify it as legitimate – given his title as fugitive. Still, it was worth a try.
"I'm sure you have a lot to discuss," said the Goblin, his tone all business. "Mr Black arrived ten minutes ago and has been very...demanding, about arranging an immediate meeting between the two of you. I must say, it's the quickest response we've ever seen to the ritual."
Blaise' eyes closed, letting out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. Sirius Black – the Father had had never known, was here. The Father he was yet to tell a single living soul about. What's more, he had come immediately. He nodded, squeezing his hands into fists to avoid the slight tremor that had appeared there. Much to his ire, Blaise was an emotional man.
The goblin left swiftly, and Blaise waited, gathering himself. The plan was to behave in a calm, professional manner with the man. After all, he didn't know him. And he was a blood traitor.
Moments later, the door of the room burst open with animal ferocity. The man Blaise assumed to be Sirius Black entered as though he had done so at a dead run, and when the man locked eyes on Blaise, he stilled completely. Blaise too took him in. He was well built, and pale - unexpectedly pale, given Blaise's own dark complexion. His hair was long and dark, and his features aristocratic. His eyes were warm, and brown. He was well dressed - better so that Blaise expected, given his status.
"You. You're… You're my son?" asked Black, his voice cracking slightly on the final word. "Andorra's son?"
Blaise, completely taken aback by the man's reaction, merely nodded numbly. In a flash, he found himself being embraced heartily by the man. "My son," he repeated, drawing back and holding Blaise's face in his hands, staring at him. "Christ. You've got my eyes."
It was not the interaction that Blaise had been expecting, or prepared for. He drew back, not unkindly. "I- I was informed of your paternity by my Mother shortly before her death, a couple of months ago."
Sirius' eyes flashed, a darkness – a deep-seated grief – flashing over them for a moment. But they held no surprise. He had known, then.
"I thought it best you be informed," Blaise continued. He'd not expected the instant affection, the informality, and it was proving too much. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to leave the room.
"We have much to discuss," began Black, gently.
Blaise had unconsciously backed away. He wondered if he looked as suddenly skittish as he felt. "Yes. Another time though. I just thought… I just thought you ought to know. I don't expect anything from you."
"Don't expect…?" Sirius asked, frowning for the first time. "Blaise, you're my son. My son. You'll have anything I can give you! I can't believe I've missed so much of you growing up… I'm not just going to let you go, now I know you exist."
Blaise backed off almost to the door, shaking his head. It was too much. He had never had a Father in his life, just victims. His Mother, his only blood family, had died just months ago. It felt wrong.
"Another time. Write me a letter. I'm… I'm at Hogwarts. Just… You can write. I just thought you ought to know."
Blaise fled the room even as Sirius called him back. Preparing his Father had been far more overwhelming than he was prepared for. He apparated back to Zabini manor as soon as he was clear of Gringotts wards.
Malfoy Manor – Christmas Day
A strange atmosphere hung over Christmas Dinner – Yule Feast, as Lucius insisted on calling it, though it had never really stuck with the magical community – at Malfoy Manor. Harry observed his friends and their families with obvious concern; it was not the first Christmas he had spent at Malfoy Manor, but it was the first time he had felt out of place. Between Bellatrix, Hermione – his sister in all but blood – sat stiffly. Her face was missing it's natural warmth as she took small, delicate bites of the food she was obviously uninterested in. She appeared pale, uncomfortable even. Across from her, Draco appeared equally stiff. Something had happened between the two, they had returned to Hogwarts weeks before and said very little to each other, or anyone else for that matter. Try as he might he had been unable to pry what had happened from either of them; he knew Nymphadora Tonks, their kidnapping cousin, had something to do with it however. Flanking Draco were his parents, with Lucius sat at the head of the table. Both were behaving quite coldly, devoid of emotion in a way that spoke of concealing emotion. It was very clear that they were anything but happy with the imminent departure of their unhappy son. Bellatrix, sat by Hermione, was throwing the both of them irritated looks as though she wanted to knock their heads together. He made a mental note to try and get the information out of her, although he had been a little wary of each other since the incident in the Dark Lord's home where Harry had thrown the woman to the ground after she had threatened him.
Further down the table was Blaise. The boy too had been quiet, expectedly he supposed, since the death of his Mother. He'd seemed to recover somewhat in the last weeks, but today he looked particularly ashen. His eyes were far away, lost in thought, through much of the meal. Harry wondered if he was thinking of his Mother, given this would be the first Christmas he had spent away from her. He had been invited by the Malfoy's, who could be very compassionate to people they liked, in almost equal measure to the cruel apathy they showed people they did not. The House Elves appeared to be trying to cheer everyone up by piling more and more food onto the table, of a standard that was over the top even for a Malfoy Christmas. Only Harry seemed to take any real enjoyment in it, though he too was less chatty than he usually was at such occasions. His mind was occupied by the sense of loss, that his friend was going away for such a long time. Of course they would write regularly, but it wouldn't be the same. It was almost enough to make him forget the events of the night before. Almost.
He had departed the diary of his own volition shortly after his suspicions of Tom were confirmed. He wasn't afraid; truly, despite the brilliance of the young man, his power was limited to the diary. He had no access to Voldemort's immense power, just the memory of it. No, it was more that his mind was reeling that he had spent months in the company of a teenage version of the Dark Lord; argued with him, baited him even. The sensible thing to do would be to never go near the diary again, and never mention what he had done, but he already knew that would not be his course of action. Just twelve hours had passed and he was already missing him; that in itself was alien and concerning. It wasn't precisely that he was attached to the boy; the young lord. He was just, quite obviously, the most fascinating person he had ever met. He needed to know him; how he came to be what he is, what he was. His mind was like a fortress that he wanted nothing more than to penetrate, and find the secrets therein. The young Dark Lord did not precisely make him feel how his older counterpart did; he did not radiate power and self-confidence to the same degree. He did not make Harry feel like falling to his knees with a look. He could see how that could develop from this young man, but it wasn't there yet. There was, on some level, something softer – more human – about Tom Riddle. There was also rage, bubbling just beneath the surface, something raw that Harry needed to understand – his older counterpart would likely never let such emotions show so easily.
The rest of the meal passed in the same uncomfortable quiet, with only Lucius and Bellatrix occasionally engaging in brief conversation, and even then only about current political events. The main front of the war was now in Asia, and there were some difficulties presented there that Harry was too distracted to pay attention to. When the meal ended, they wished each other a half-hearted merry christmas and moved to the parlour. Lucius offered to let Harry stay the night, but knowing Draco would leave before him was a little too much. Blaise too seemed to have snapped out of his reverie to the reality of one of his best friends leaving for a very long time. Hermione merely wished Draco a 'useful endeavour' and left. Whatever had happened between them, it was rather cold.
Harry hugged Draco, and Draco didn't even pretend he thought it improper. Harry felt with a deep certainty that things were changing rapidly now, that they would never all be happy, mischievous adolescents with little concerns again. Draco's departure marked the beginning of a new era, one that Harry was not entirely certain he was prepared for.
"If you ever need me, Draco, you know how to contact me. I could get there inside twenty minutes, and damn the potion dwellers," Harry said, firmly. Draco smiled and nodded.
"Please don't tear the potions lab apart stone by stone just because you miss me," Draco said, resting a hand on his friends shoulder.
Blaise too, in a display of warmth that was not unusual with his closest friends, hugged Draco.
"You'd better be the best damned Potions Master there is," Blaise warned. "If you spend three years away from us just to be mediocre, I'll turn you into a potions ingredient myself."
Draco rolled his eyes. "By the time I return, I'll make Severus Snape look like a first year."
Harry snorted. "Just don't let him hear you say that."
They talked a while longer, expressing their affections in the best way teenage boys could manage, through gently insulting each other. There was a rather tense moment where Draco apologised for not being there for the both of them, what with Blaise's recent bereavement, and Harry's tournament. There was nothing to forgive, however. The two boys knew their friend well, and knew he wouldn't be going if he did not feel he had to.
"You will write? Everyday?" Harry asked.
Draco rolled his eyes. "You're not my Mother, Potter. But I promise, no mischief will happen without your prior knowledge and consultation."
Harry smiled. "As it should be."
Harry and Blaise left with heavy hearts. Harry offered Blaise a drink, and Blaise a place for Harry to sleep. Both were relieved when the other refused, with their respective secrets to return to. Harry just hoped the cracks appearing in his world would heal, rather than widen.
Hogwarts – Midnight, Boxing day
Unusually, it was Harry who entered the diary, rather than Tom granting him entrance. By the look of surprise on the boy's face, and the unusual setting of the gardens of a rural manor, he had not expected it.
"Is this where you grew up?" asked Harry, intrigued.
"No," came the terse reply as the scene faded around them, replaced by the Slytherin common room once more.
"Where did you grow up then?" asked Harry, laying down on the sofa and making himself comfortable much to the obvious ire of the young Dark Lord. Tom stood over him, menacingly.
"How did you get in here?" he demanded.
Harry shrugged. "I just wanted to be… and pushed."
Tom narrowed his eyes, seizing Harry by the wrist in an impressively strong grip, and pulled him up from the sofa to come clumsily to his feet.
"Were you actually that strong, or can you just make yourself so here?" asked Harry again, a playful expression on his face.
"What's gotten into you?" questioned Tom, always angry to be out of the loop or taken by surprise.
"I'm sad," said Harry with a shrug. "Unsure of myself, a little lonely, and bored."
It was the first time Harry had ever said anything personal. He was showing vulnerability. It felt roughly like baring his neck for a vampire, but if he wanted things to change, he would have to be the one to push it. If he wanted to know this young man – he'd have to be showing his belly to the wolf to do it. The unnatural urge to know Tom was going nowhere, and things couldn't remain as they were.
Tom scoffed, seeming to find the vulnerability repulsive. He was even more uncomfortable with emotion than his older self, it seemed. "What makes you think that I would tell you anything about my past? You know who I am, Potter."
Harry showed no fear, even as Tom kept his grip on his wrist. It might not have meant to be so but the extended physical contact was filling his body with an intense version of the contentment he had when he came here. He saw Tom's eyes flicker to his wrist, and knew he felt it too. Definitely magical in nature, and unexplained.
"Because you have nothing better to do. You can spend eternity trapped here reading the same books over and over – or you can learn to read something you've never read before."
There was a charged silence between them. It seemed to go on for too long, the scrutiny too intense, and Harry was sure the young Dark Lord would curse him, or strike him, or something. Something. Instead, the man merely rolled his eyes and released Harry's wrist.
"You think you're so interesting, don't you?" came the exasperated tone, from where Tom had returned to his seat.
Harry sat up, grinning. "I might be. You should find out."
Tom watched him for a moment more, an unidentified expression passing over him for just a moment. "I grew up in an orphanage in London. It was disgusting, and muggle, and you will never mention it again."
Harry, though mildly shocked to have been answered, responded quickly. "I grew up in an orphanage too. You visited once. You even gave me sweets."
The look of bemused horror was enough to make Harry laugh so hard that he fell off the sofa entirely. Tom threw a pillow at him, and it only made Harry laugh harder.
It was definitely going to be a weird year.
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