A/N:

this was livewritten in its entirety (save for the explicit content) in my discord server! i was in the mood to write something absolutely wacked and this was the result.

Tags/Warnings: AU - Time-Travel Fix-It, Rape/Non-Con, Pseudo-Incest, Child Abuse/Neglect, Emotional Abuse/Manipulation, Murder, Violence, Forced Marriage, Age Difference, Love Potion

please mind the tags and warnings. they are applicable throughout the story. rape/non-con warning isn't between harry and tom, it is between harry and merope. also note that tom and harry's relationship is intended to be presented as consensual, if morally dubious and very unhealthy.

there will be a second chapter that serves as an epilogue/sequel/bonus scene of sorts, but otherwise this story is a one-shot and considered complete.


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Eudaimonia

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Tom's earliest memory is of his father.

It is not a particularly special or happy memory, but it is one that he will never ever forget.

Tom's mother stands by the front door. She is wearing an expensive dress, one of many that hang in her equally-expensive wardrobe. Her hair is pulled into beautiful curls that take her ages to do in the morning. Tom would know, having sat idly by to watch the process a few times before his mother banished him from the master bedroom for good.

Most of Tom's knowledge centers around the activities that happen in the house. His mother's cooking, his father's lessons, and the few servants that come to clean the rooms and do the laundry. This is his world. This house is his everything. This is space for him to grow, a space that has been provided by his parents.

Most of Tom is content with this. What Tom hates, however, as he hates at this moment, is waiting.

The door opens. Light and fresh air spill through the gap and into the house. Tom's mother smiles and opens her arms, speaking words that Tom is never able to recall. Not that he cares—her words are unimportant to him.

Tom's father enters the house. He is tall and handsome and everything that Tom wishes to be. He smiles at Tom's mother and kisses her.

This part of the memory never fades, no matter how hard Tom tries to forget. Seeing his father kiss his mother, seeing the two of them sway on the doormat. It never goes away.

Tom's father peppers his mother's face with kisses while she giggles like a schoolgirl. He pays her a number of compliments, one after the other after the other. He tells her how much he loves her.

Tom waits patiently for his turn.

Eventually, his parents separate from their loving embrace. Still, Tom's mother hangs onto her husband's arm as they make their way to the sitting room, where Tom is curled on the large armchair.

This, here, is the heart of the memory.

Tom's father draws near. He extracts his arm from his wife and kneels in front of Tom, who has been waiting for his father's attention.

Harry ruffles Tom's hair and smiles. His eyes shine from behind the circular frame of his glasses. He takes Tom's smaller hand in his and squeezes gently.

Usually Tom is asked a question:

How was your day? What did you have for lunch? Were you good for your mother?

But, again, the words are unimportant.

What Tom remembers, what he cherishes, is his father's laughter as Tom is scooped up and draped over his father's broad, sturdy shoulder. Tom never feels as warm as he does when he is with his father. He never feels as safe as he does in his father's arms.

Tom loves his father. He has waited all day for a hug, for a kiss, for the special attention only his father can provide.

From this new height, Tom can see his mother's face. She is watching them, but her eyes never stray to Tom, to her son. Instead, they are fixed upon her husband, the man she adores. She clears her throat. She speaks, and these words Tom hears because he always hears them, he hears them enough to hate them with every fibre of his being.

"That's enough, darling."

That is when Tom is set down upon the floor, both feet sinking solidly into the lush carpet. His father turns away, smile in place, to lavish attention on Tom's mother, and it's as if Tom isn't there at all.

Tom's parents wander off to the kitchen, where the meal that Tom's mother has spent the past few hours preparing is nearly finished cooking.

Tom does not follow. He knows, even at that age, that there is no point. He goes to the dining room, to his assigned chair.

He sits down. He waits.


The summer before Tom is due to turn eleven, he receives a letter in the mail. It is his name written on the front. It is his very first letter.

Tom's mother, with her keen eyes, snatches it out of his hands right away. "This isn't yours," she says.

It is a lie, of course. They both know this.

Growing up, Tom has had his fair share of misdemeanors. He has been scolded by his parents and the staff for lying and for breaking things in the house. He has gotten into shouting matches with his mother, who calls him an ungrateful, spoiled brat.

But Tom's parents never fight. They never argue, they never disagree.

Tom's father glances up to see what's going on. His eyes brighten with interest. "Is that Tom's Hogwarts letter?" he asks, and before anyone can answer him, he pulls the letter out of Merope's hand and tears it open.

Tom tilts forward, on the edge of his seat as his father unfolds the parchment inside. "What is Hogwarts?" Tom asks with a wary glance at his mother, knowing that at any moment she can choose to put a firm end to the conversation.

His father answers, "Hogwarts is a school for people with magic. People like us."

"Magic," Tom repeats in awe. "A school for magic."

Tom knows some things about magic. The servants do not have magic. His parents have magic. Tom understands wands and cauldrons because he's seen his parents use them. He knows he has magic because his parents have told him that some of the things he can do are because of magic.

Tom's mother exhales a low, shaky breath. Then she says, "Tom won't be going," in a steady tone that signals the end of the conversation.

"But this is Hogwarts," says Tom's father, sounding confused. "He has to go."

"I want to go," Tom says, quick to interject with his own opinion before his mother can make one up for him. "Please?" he adds, shifting to face his father. "Please, may I go?"

"He won't be going," repeats Merope. There is a funny little tremor in her voice as she speaks. "Tom doesn't need that place. He can learn perfectly well at home." She fidgets on her chair, her hands moving to finger the heavy locket draped around her neck.

Tom's father frowns. "Hogwarts is the best school for Tom. He'll learn everything he'll need to know about being a wizard."

"I said no!" exclaims Tom's mother. Her face is rapidly reddening. She clenches her shaking hands into fists as she shoves back her chair and stands. "I won't allow it," she says furiously. "And if you love me, you will listen to me!"

As her words ring throughout the dining room, the air around them grows cold. Tom is fixated on his father's expression, on the light that dies in those green, green eyes, their warm glow replaced with the gloom of anguish.

"Of course," mutters Tom's father. His head hangs in shame, his palms flat on the table. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I've upset you. I spoke out of turn." When he looks back up, his gaze is pleading. He pushes away from the table and rushes to his wife's side. He takes her hand and kisses the back of it. "Can you forgive me?"

The impact of his father's flattery is instantaneous. The rouge of anger on Merope's cheeks fades to the softer rose of adoration. "I do," says Tom's mother, her voice now somewhat gentled by her newfound benevolence. "But you must never mention that place again."

Tom's father nods minutely in response.

Witnessing his father's submission squeezes Tom's heart in his chest hard enough to hurt, to bring tears to the corner of his eyes. His hopes and dreams are fading fast in the wake of his mother's ire. There is no escaping his mother's ironclad declaration, and so there will be no Hogwarts for Tom.

No Hogwarts, no school, no magic. Tom's hands tremble underneath the table, but he is helpless. He has no wand, he knows no spells, and his father—

"I will homeschool Tom myself," promises Tom's father, and oh, how Tom soars at hearing those words, how suddenly Tom finds himself filled with joy, with delight, with hope enough to fill an entire trunk and then some. His father loves him. His father loves him enough to say, "And I will teach him everything he needs to know."

Tom looks to his mother for her reaction. She is full of reluctance, this much Tom can tell from simply looking at her. But she has already played her cards. She has already extracted a major promise from Tom's father. If she argues now, Tom thinks triumphantly, there is a decent chance she will lose. She will lose because his father's love for her is not enough to rival his love for Tom. Not when it matters.

"You have your work to think of," she says haltingly. "What about your job?"

"I can make the time." Tom's father rises to his feet. "I'll take him to Diagon Alley this weekend to buy the books."

Merope seems torn. She glances from her husband to her son, her eyes wary, and all Tom can do is pray that she does not demand to take him herself.

"Alright," she says after a moment. Only then does Tom allow himself to relax, to drain the tension from his shoulders. "Alright," she repeats, a hint of anger in her tone. "Then it's done."

"It's done," echoes Tom's father, but his smile is marred with worry as he watches his wife twist her hands together.

"Tell me you love me," Merope demands, her hands balling into fists and dropping to rest at her sides. "Say it."

"I love you," says his father, bewildered. He rushes near, holds her close. "Of course I love you." His hand tucks a stray curl behind her ear as she shudders in his embrace.

"Good," she says, eyes closed, lashes fluttering. "Good. Let's go upstairs."

Tom's parents head for the stairs. Merope does not spare a glance for her son, who is but an afterthought in the wake of her tantrum, but Harry pauses to look over his shoulder, to acknowledge the boy seated patiently at the dinner table. It is a brief moment of lucidity that vanishes around the corner as Merope drags her husband to bed, but Tom remembers it. He remembers.


On some level, Tom has always known that he and his father are different from his mother, but visiting Diagon Alley changes things. His introduction to proper society enables him to make comparisons and draw new conclusions.

The more Tom learns and sees, the clearer the extent of his mother's isolation from the magical world becomes.

"Has mother ever been here?" he asks.

"I don't think so," his father answers absently. "I ought to take her someday."

It explains why she had not insisted on accompanying Tom here. Tom attempts to pry for further information, but his father grows oddly tight-lipped, refusing to speak more about Merope's past.

Privately, Tom thinks that his father forgives too much when it comes to his mother. Certainly Tom is not permitted such an allotment for his wrongdoings, though he has noticed his mother avoids scolding him too harshly in his father's presence.

Still, Tom has enjoyed having an entire day with his father. Having his father to himself. They buy everything on the Hogwarts booklist and a few extra items that Tom gets to pick. They buy Tom a wand made of yew and phoenix feather. Before they go home, they visit an ice cream shop, where Tom's father orders an entire sundae for them both to share.

It is the best day of Tom's life. The golden summer sun warms his pale skin and the taste of chocolate and vanilla sits sweetly on his tongue. He has his father's undivided attention without fear of it being snatched away.

Tom's lost count of the touches and pats he's gotten today. A hair ruffle whenever he asks a question, a steadying hand on his back when he nearly takes a tumble on the uneven cobblestones that lead up to Flourish and Blotts. He doesn't want it to end.

When their dessert is finished, Tom's father gestures for Tom to take his hand so they can Apparate home. Tom rises slowly on wobbly legs, his upper teeth digging into his bottom lip hard enough that he feels a brief sting of pain.

"Don't let your mother know we've ruined ourselves for dinner," Tom's father says brightly. "She'll be upset with me."

Tom nods. "I won't tell," he swears. He'd never betray his father like that.

"Come on then." His father beckons with his large, calloused hand, a hand that Tom has gotten used to the privilege of holding today.

Tom wants to cry. He wants to scream and beat his fists and kick up a fuss the way he'd seen another boy do in the joke shop when his parents had refused to buy him dungbombs. He wants to, but he won't. It would hurt his father to see him behave that way, so he won't.

Instead, Tom runs forward and buries his face against his father's chest.

There is a rough noise as the air is knocked out of his father's lungs. Then those large, calloused hands come to hold Tom securely by the shoulders. Tom and his father stand like that for a while, enjoying one of the longer hugs Tom thinks that they've ever had together, warmth seeping out of his father's arms and into Tom's body.

Tom feels his father rub his back in slow circles. "This must have been a lot for you to take in at once," his father muses. "I remember my first time here... Ages ago, mind you, but disorienting to do on my own. I'm glad we got to do this together."

A number of replies fly through Tom's mind—he doesn't need help, he could have come here on his own if only he was told how to—but they're all wrong. They don't matter. Tom inhales a ragged breath and holds tight, hoping his father understands.

There is a brief pause in which Tom feels the full weight of his father's attention, and then the arms around his waist squeeze down and lift up, draping him over his father's shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"You're getting a bit big for this," his father jokes, his mouth brushing against the shell of Tom's ear, "or maybe I'm getting too old."

The position is definitely awkward now that Tom is grown. Tom figures people are probably staring at them. However, the familiarity of this embrace tugs on something deep inside of him, soothing the endless ache carried over from the early stages of his childhood.

Greedy to drink in every second of this moment, Tom noses at his father's neck until the sensation of Apparition bears down on them, funneling them home.

After that day, Tom stops thinking of his mother as his mother. He thinks of her as Merope instead because that is all she is to him: a name.

When Tom looks in the mirror, he sees her eyes, her pale skin, but the rest of him belongs to his father. Dark haired and masculine. Still, Tom pinches and pulls at the roundness of his cheeks and wishes his eyes were green instead.


As Tom learns magic from his father, it becomes clear that his mother knows very little magic, if any at all, and though Harry refuses to comment on this, soon enough Tom finds the word to describe her: Squib.

She has magic strong enough to do simple tricks. She can see what Muggles cannot, can banish and summon objects at will, but she will never obtain the level of magical ability that Harry has achieved. The level that Tom will be able to achieve if he works hard enough.

Tom relishes in her dismay when she sits in on their lessons only to fail miserably with each spell she cannot cast. His father is an excellent teacher, kind and encouraging, but Merope's patience is non-existent, which bodes well for no one.

Eventually, Tom's father suggests they hold separate lessons: lessons for Tom and lessons for Merope. Tom is happier for it, and his joy is multiplied when her lessons drag and fizzle out altogether. Her failure confirms to him that she is an outsider in this family. She cannot fathom the connection that Tom shares with his father.

However, it is not a victory that comes without cost. Merope is determined to steal her husband away from Tom whenever possible. She plies Tom's father with request after request, taking up time that is rightfully Tom's, and what's worse is that Harry never says no.

When Tom expresses his confusion, he is met with frustrating answers.

"What your mother and I have is very special. You'll understand when you're older."

Tom doesn't believe that more years will close the gap of missing knowledge, but he lets it go. Whenever his parents are occupied with each other, he reads. He reads his textbooks. He reads his father's books. With no one around to stop him, he even reads the books that Merope reads, and from those books he pieces together the puzzling image of what a marriage ought to look like.

Of course, it looks nothing like the marriage that his parents have, but Tom is smart enough to know that books are not necessarily comparable to reality.

For his birthday, Tom asks for more books. For Christmas, he asks for more books. He constantly begs his father to take him to the bookstore and Merope always agrees, likely thinking to herself that Tom with his nose in a book is preferable to Tom in her husband's line of sight.

Tom reads about everything he has been forbidden to experience, which means he reads plenty of books that are inappropriate for his age. It is an inappropriateness he picks up from context rather than from anyone telling him anything, but the thrill of wrongdoing excites him a little.

All the while, Tom puts up with Merope's constant demands for his father's attention. He puts up a false front of agreeableness whenever Harry tends to Merope instead of spending time with Tom. He pretends everything is fine. After all, it has always been this way, and Tom has gotten good at waiting.


When Tom is thirteen, he decides that his parents need a divorce. Not for Merope's sake, or even for his own, no, but for his father's.

Divorce is an ugly stain, a mark of shame for both parties, but it is also a key to freedom. Harry is oblivious to his own unhappiness, but Tom sees it plainly, and he can no longer wait for his father to come to his senses on his own.

Over time, the little offenses have piled onto each other: the way his father capitulates to Merope's every whim, the cruel indifference with which Merope regards her son, and Tom's own misery at being trapped in this terrible household. It is Tom's dearest wish that his horrible mother be banished from the house for good, so that he may flourish under his father's loving guidance and perhaps even attend Hogwarts, that place which Harry never speaks of directly but often hints at with great fondness.

However, the suggestion of divorce must be approached with care. Tom knows that his father's love for Merope has the strength of steel bars. It will not be shattered so easily. So Tom compiles his evidence and bides his time. It would be unwise to hold such a conversation with Merope in the house, but unfortunately, she rarely sees fit to leave it.

Then, one day quite out of the blue, an opportunity drops itself in his lap. Merope will spend Saturday afternoon at the shops being fitted for new dresses. Her figure is no longer what it used to be, Tom thinks with no small amount of cruelty, never mind that no dress could distract from her poor excuse for a face.

Merope's excitement at obtaining new, luxurious dresses successfully bolsters her good mood in the hours leading up to her departure. She even deigns to acknowledge Tom in her farewell.

As soon as she is gone, Tom turns to address his father.

"I want to talk to you about something. It's important."

How quickly his father's concern reveals itself, affection for Merope melting away in the face of Tom's sudden seriousness. "Let's go to my office," he says calmly, and his hand is soon on the small of Tom's back, guiding him forward.

When they seat themselves, Tom is sorry to feel his father's touch retreat, but he tells himself it is but a temporary loss.

"What did you want to talk about?" Harry asks.

Tom takes a second to steady his breathing. "It's about mother."

"What about her?" His father's voice is full of a different kind of concern now, a concern that pains Tom to hear.

"I don't like how she treats me," Tom says bluntly. He knows if he attacks the relationship outright, he will get nowhere, but if he speaks only of himself then it will be harder for his father to refute him. "I don't like how she's always interrupting our lessons. Or when she steals you away after dinner and I don't see you for the rest of the evening."

His father's mouth flattens out, brows knitting together. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Tom. Your mother loves you very much and I'm sure she doesn't mean to upset you. I understand if you want to spend more time with her—"

"I don't care to spend time with her," Tom snaps angrily, then sucks in a sharp breath as he realizes his grip on his temper has already slipped.

Harry, by contrast, releases a weary exhale. "Tom," says his father, "your mother... She didn't have the easiest life. Growing up, she experienced a great deal of abuse and hardship. I've done my best to care for her, and for you, to help repair those old wounds. If she reacts badly, it's never because she means to or wants to harm you."

Tom does not care. He does not care the slightest bit, and it takes a massive amount of self-restraint to refrain from saying so. "She never listens," Tom says. "To you or to me. It always has to be her way. She didn't want me to go to Hogwarts, remember? She forbade you from even mentioning it."

"Merope never got to go to Hogwarts," Harry says in a tone that's meant to imply reasonableness, only it isn't reasonable at all. None of this is reasonable. "Talking about it upsets her. I know you were disappointed, Tom, and I'm sorry for that, but it's a small price to pay to make her happy, don't you think?"

Is this all his father cares about? Merope does not deserve any happiness, not when she has made Tom's life so difficult and miserable. "What about my happiness?" Tom demands, struggling to maintain his composure. "What about mine?"

His father's face fills with shock and dismay. It twists Tom's stomach to see it, but it is a necessary evil.

"This is my fault," Harry says after a lengthy pause. "This is my fault, Tom, I'm so sorry. I haven't been paying you enough attention lately, I see that now. You've been keeping all these worries to yourself with no one to tell."

Tom wants to cry in relief. "Yes," he says, "yes, that's it."

Harry makes his way around the desk and pulls Tom into a hug. It feels as wonderful as it always does, warm and safe. Tom buries his face against his father's neck and lets contentment settle over him like a thick winter cloak.

When they pull away from each other some minutes later, Harry's eyes are wholly lucid, bright and green, and Tom feels secure enough to ask his question.

"So you'll leave her?"

"Leave her?" His father's soft, loving gaze gives way to bafflement. "Leave your mother? No, Tom, why on earth would I do such a thing?"

It's as if the floor has dropped away and all the air from Tom's lungs has gone with it.

"But you—" Tom tries, struggles, fails to come up with the words to explain his horror.

"Tom," says Harry, his voice firming the longer he speaks, "I will speak to her about the three of us spending more time together. I will make right the wrongs I have caused by neglecting our family bonds. But you must know that I love your mother and I will not be divorcing her just because you're experiencing a fit of teenage rebellion."

The end of the sentence is a slap in the face. Tom stumbles back without thinking, thoroughly shaken.

His father raises a brow at him. "Have I made myself clear?"

"No," Tom says hoarsely. "No, you're wrong." He shakes his head, scrambles to pull himself together. This is his final chance to convince, to persuade. He has to keep trying. "She is a bad mother," he says, willing his father to believe him. "She is a worse wife! You may think you're happy with her, but you're not."

The atmosphere changes abruptly. Tom notices a beat too late.

"You have no right to speak about my wife that way," Harry says, seizing Tom by the wrist. "I will not let you disrespect her! Merope is a good person and a good mother, and I'm terribly sorry that you seem incapable of seeing it, but it's the truth."

Tom has never witnessed his father's anger before. It is as if someone else has taken over his body. Harry never raises his voice, not at his wife, not at his son. But now? How angry he is, his jaw drawn tight with its severity, his eyes burning with an emotion that must be close to hatred. How angry Harry is, with all of its awful ugliness directed at Tom.

Despite everything, despite knowing better, Tom wilts, the pain of his father's disgust and disappointment too much to bear. His father shakes him, roughness where there had once only been tenderness, his grip on Tom's wrist painful enough to leave a mark behind. Tom swallows back a sob and drops his eyes to the floor.

At the sight of his son's despondency, Harry relents, releasing his hold and kneeling to regard Tom with a stern expression. "Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

"Yes," Tom lies, because what choice does he have? "Yes, I'm sorry."

His father pulls him into another hug, but it's not the same. It doesn't feel the same. Tom knows his father would never want to hurt him without reason, but this hurts. It hurts so much.

"I think you ought to sit in your room until it's time for dinner," Harry says when he draws back to look Tom in the eyes.

Although kindness has returned to his father's voice, Tom tastes bile in the back of his throat. "Okay."

His father ruffles his hair and kisses his forehead. "You're a good boy, Tom. I know you don't mean any harm, but you have to know that this is the way things are, and they're not going to change simply because you want them to."

Tom goes to his room. He shuts and locks the door. He has no idea what to do. He's no longer sure if there is anything he can do, and that thought somehow hurts more than the dull throb of pain that circles his left wrist.


Dinner that evening is a stilted affair. His father's anxiety does not mix well with Merope's cheerful mood after her day of shopping. When their meal is done, Tom's father pulls her aside, to his office, for a private conversation.

Tom follows quietly and listens at the door.

"I spoke with Tom while you were out," Harry says tiredly. "He's been unhappy lately."

"About what?" Merope asks. She isn't pleased that her good day has been overshadowed by this dour conversation. "We give him everything. Everything a boy his age could ask for! All the books and toys he wants."

"He's expressed that he feels left out. He feels that you take up too much of my time."

Tom can picture his father holding Merope's hands in his to reassure her, and his mother's bland expression that reveals her lack of interest in Tom's plight.

"Ungrateful boy," Merope says, dismissive. "He doesn't know how good he has it here. You don't believe him, do you?"

"Tom doesn't have any friends his own age," his father says in a placating tone. "All he has is us. I can't spend as much with either of you as I'd like to, and that isn't his fault. It's only natural for him to feel jealous."

"Jealous?" repeats Merope. "Jealous of who? Of you?" Her voice has an edge to it that tiptoes the line between disbelief and horror.

"Well," Harry says haltingly, "no. Jealous of you, actually."

Silence reigns in the office. Tom hears his pounding heartbeat like drums in his ears.

"I will fix this," his father says hurriedly. "I will fix this, don't worry."

Tom cannot see Merope's expression, but his imagination supplies an accurate version of it: creased brow, bulging eyes, red face. Her fury has never been subtle; the few times Merope tasked herself with distributing Tom's punishments, she always chose to yell and hit him.

"You better," she says, voice tight. "I won't have Tom acting this way. We raised him better than this. I won't have him turn into—into something he shouldn't be."

"I know." Harry sounds defeated, but Tom is curious about the 'something' that Merope refers to.

"I'll speak to him myself," Merope says after another pause. "I'll talk to him."

Tom's stomach twists with fear. He hardly hears his father's response—"Are you sure? I can talk to him again"—as he turns on his heel and runs for the stairs, for the sanctuary of his room.

It doesn't take long for Merope to find him there, seated at his writing desk, Transfiguration book laid out on the table. "Tom?" she asks, so quietly that it sends a tremor down his spine.

Tom shuts his book. Exhales deeply. "Yes?" he asks, polite as you please, shifting to face her.

"I had a talk with your father about your behaviour," she says, plucking at her skirts as she settles on the foot of his bed and pats the space next to her.

Reluctantly, Tom joins her, careful to leave a gap between them. "I already said I was sorry," he tells her, hoping that she'll leave.

"That's not why I'm here."

Tom waits for more, but Merope says nothing. "Then why are you here?" he asks through gritted teeth.

Her eyes, plain and brown like his, search his face. "Your father," she says at last, "is mine. He isn't yours and he never will be." The delivery of her statement makes it clear that she is quite serious.

Well, she's wrong. Harry is his father, is Tom's in that way. "He wants to spend time with me," Tom says coldly. "He likes it when we spend time together. You just don't want to accept that we have more in common than you do!"

Merope glares at him. "You think you're so smart," she spits. "You think because you have all these books that you're so smart, but what do you know? You don't know anything. Harry isn't your father. He isn't your real father! A man as great as him? Don't make me laugh." She sneers, her teeth bared in a mockery of a smile. "Your real father was nothing. A nobody. A Muggle!"

Tom refuses to believe it. "You're lying," he says, and he's trembling from head to toe as he scrambles away from her. "You're lying! Harry is my father! He is my father, and you're nothing but an ugly liar—"

Merope's palm hits his face with a sharp sound, shocking him into silence. Tom falls backward and onto the floor without meaning to, his cheek red and smarting from the blow.

"You shut your mouth," she tells him furiously. "You shut your stupid mouth, you brat! I knew I should have gotten rid of you when I had the chance. I should have left you on the streets or put you at one of those dirty Muggle orphanages!"

Tom feels hot, wet tears begin to roll down his face. "You're lying," he repeats in a shaky voice. "Take it back!"

"Shut up, I said!"

Merope seizes him by the ear and drags him down the hall and into the spare room, where she shoves him into the dusty, unused wardrobe.

"Don't you dare make a sound," she breathes, nostrils flaring, "don't you dare. If you do, I'll tell him to get rid of you. Don't think I won't."

She slams the door and locks it with her magic before she goes.

For a long time, Tom is too shocked to move, to breathe. He tells himself his father would never leave him, would never abandon him on the streets, but he—

He's not sure. He isn't sure.

Harry's footsteps come running up the stairs. Tom hears his father ask after him, hears Merope give some excuse or another before she convinces her husband to take her to bed.

Tom slides his knees up, wraps his arms around them. The wardrobe smells like moth balls and old cloaks. There is very little light in the spare room to illuminate the cramped space. With no one to see him, Tom rubs at his teary face until the skin is raw. He slumps against the side wall.

Eventually, he falls asleep.


The next morning, Merope comes and lets him out.

"Get up," she snaps, smacking the creaky wood with the flat of her hand. "I hope you've learned your lesson."

Tom blinks watery eyes at the sudden influx of light but wisely keeps his mouth shut as he gets to his feet.

"Your father belongs to me," she continues in a low, angry voice as she grabs him by the shoulder and shakes him. "You won't touch him. You can't have him. I won't have you ruining this family with your sickness. You might have his face, but I know. I know you're just like them." Her face twists with disgust, distorting her irregular features even further.

"So you leave him be, you hear me? He's good people who doesn't need the likes of you." She gestures sharply to the wardrobe, adding, "This isn't the worst I'll do if you don't watch yourself."

Tom's insides feel empty, but he nods once. Merope releases him, frowning. "You'd best get yourself cleaned before breakfast," she instructs. "Be quick about it."

Tom runs for his room. He barely makes it into the bathroom before his nausea slams into him and he expels last night's meal into the porcelain bowl of the toilet, the awful taste of acid mixed with tomato soup burning his mouth on the way out.

He's cold and sweating by the end of it, his hands clammy as they grip the rim of the porcelain to steady his body through the dry gasps that wrack his lungs.

Merope wants him to go to breakfast and pretend everything is fine. She wants him to pretend for the rest of their lives, or at least until Tom is old enough for her to evict him from the house without too much of a protest. Because Harry would protest. He would. While Tom remains a child, he has his father's protection.

His father. Tom squeezes his eyes shut tightly enough to see blurry colours, oranges and reds. He doesn't know what to think. He is afraid to ask and uncover the truth. If Harry is not his father…

Then what? Tom loves him. The rest doesn't matter. What matters is Merope wants him to stay away.

Tom doesn't think he can bear to be alone, to watch as Merope ruins his father's life, but he must. He must if he is to have any hope of beating her. If he acts out, if he misbehaves, Merope will convince Harry to abandon him. She will wail and plead and guilt Harry until he gives in. So Tom must not give in.

Tom cleans himself up. He changes his clothes, tossing his dirty, dusty ones into the laundry bin. He wipes his face with a damp cloth, erasing the traces of tears and snot that linger behind. He practices his smile before he goes downstairs.

Merope is at the table serving toast and eggs. Her hand curls around the nape of Harry's neck as she plants a kiss on his cheek.

"Good morning, Tom," says Harry. "Did you sleep well? Your mother told me the two of you talked things over last night."

"Yes, thank you." Tom coughs, dislodging a lump in his throat as he sits down. His wrist throbs, a pointed reminder of yesterday's events. "And we did." He glances at Merope, who smiles and gestures for him to sit down.

"I'm glad." Harry shoots his wife a fond look. "The last thing I want is for us all to fight."

"Of course," Merope demurs, her hand settling delicately on his shoulder. "Now drink your tea, won't you? Before it gets cold."

Harry drinks his tea as instructed. "We'll have our lesson after you finish eating," he says to Tom. "There's a spell I want to teach you that's not in the curriculum."

Despite himself, Tom perks at the mention of a new, special spell. He picks up his toast and hurriedly begins to butter it. "What spell?" he asks, ignoring the twinge in his wrist as he sets the knife down and reaches for the little pot of strawberry jam.

"The Patronus Charm," Harry says, then goes on to explain how it works, how it requires the happiest of memories to conjure a corporeal protector.

"No lessons at the table," Merope says briskly, cutting him off. "And I need your help," she adds. "Out in the gardens. There's a crack in one of the pavement stones that's getting worse."

"I can wait," Tom says immediately, and it's hard to tell who is more surprised by his response: Harry or Merope.

"If you're sure," Harry says, smiling, only too happy to give Merope what she wants.

Tom smiles back. He loves his father more than anything. "I'm sure."

When his parents are finished with the garden, Harry will come back to teach him the Patronus Charm and they will have their special moment together.

Tom eats the rest of his breakfast alone. He waits.


Allowing Merope to monopolize Harry's attention means Tom has more free time than usual. When he isn't studying, he mills around the house, glaring at the photographs on the walls and wondering how long it will take his stupid mother to die.

Merope has not left anything to chance. Outside of lessons, Tom's wand is taken away and locked in her bedroom. She does not permit Harry and Tom to be alone together for long and she takes her husband to bed with her every night. She's even convinced Harry to put protections on the door to the master bedroom; powerful spells that Tom has no idea how to break and likely never will, given the fact that she insists upon looking over every book he buys.

Tom dreams of creeping into the room and slitting her throat while she sleeps. But Harry wouldn't thank him for her murder, no, and Tom has not forgotten Harry's anger and disgust when Tom dared to insult his perfect wife.

The three of them are the only people who live in the house, and Tom is not yet clever enough or powerful enough to fool his father. If Tom kills Merope, he will lose his father in the process, if not from the act of betrayal, then from the all-consuming agony of grief, for Tom suspects that Merope's death would ruin his father's poor heart forever.

It is the idea of this unacceptable loss that stalls his hand. He must figure out how to sever his father's affections for Merope before he kills her.

Tom observes his parents' interactions, searching for weaknesses. Most of what he sees sets his teeth on edge. Merope constantly bullies Harry, demanding he prove his love for her by doing whatever she asks, when she asks.

Harry's life is not easy. He works full time for a modest salary and tutors Tom on evenings and weekends. He manages their estate, keeps his wife bathed in luxury, and pays their servants on time.

When Merope suggests they purchase a summer home, Tom is the one who asks about the cost.

"We have savings," Harry says kindly. He pats Tom's shoulder. "There's no need to worry."

Tom knows little about finances, so he seeks to remedy this immediately. He buys new books, this time second-hand. He practices his numbers. He notes the amounts that Merope spends on fine food and drink, on jewelry and gowns. He pages through the records kept in Harry's study and comes to the conclusion that their lavish lifestyle is not sustainable. In fact, it is even less sustainable in the middle of a war. The wealth Harry had owned prior to meeting Merope, it will run out soon enough.

Still, they spend the summer by the sea, far away from the bombs, in the way that only the privileged can afford to do. Harry promises that his magic will keep them safe, but that is the least of Tom's concerns.

"There isn't enough money to afford all this," Tom says, though he's sure Harry must know this already. "Not forever."

"I know." Harry stretches his legs out on the porch of their new summer home. "I'll figure something out."

Anything to keep Merope happy. Let her keep her pretty dresses and gold jewelry, let her keep her summer home. Let her take advantage of her husband, too, while Tom is powerless to stop her.

"I may take on some extra hours," Harry says after some moments of watching his wife frolic by the shoreline, collecting seashells and interesting stones. "At work, that is."

Tom would see even less of his father then. He turns his face to the sun, to the warm rays that freckle his skin with spots. Merope will not change her mind about anything. She will drive their family to ruin because Harry will give in to all of her requests without question. It is up to Tom to save them.

"Let the servants go," Tom says to the blue skies above. They would have to be let go eventually, so it's best to rid themselves of the crutch now. "I'll manage the house." Merope, esteemed lady of the household, will never lower herself to such rough work.

Harry frowns. "You're too young for such tasks, Tom. I can't allow that."

Unless a miracle occurs, Tom suspects they'll be moving into a smaller place soon enough, one that will be easier to clean. "I'm bored," he says. "Books aren't enough to occupy me. I'll look after the house so we can keep this place. It'll give me something to do."

Judging by his expression, Harry remains unconvinced, but any potential protest is stalled by Merope's return. She runs up to them, seashells in hand. Her gaze settles briefly on Tom, eyes sharp and assessing as she sits by her husband's feet and rests her head against his thigh.

Tom stands up. "I think I'll head inside." He leaves them there together on the porch, but the ugly sound of Merope's high-pitched, delighted laughter follows him into the house. Tom's hands ball into fists, nails cutting into his palms deeply enough to draw blood. He imagines strangling his mother to death with his bare hands. This thought calms him.

That night during dinner, Merope praises Tom for putting himself to good use. Tom sits through her cheap flattery, clearing his plate as quickly as possible while ignoring the way she shamelessly drapes herself over her husband.

"I'm finished," Tom says once his plate is empty. "I'll start on the dishes."

Merope isn't paying attention to him anymore, but Harry is.

"Did you want help?"

"No," Tom says. "I'm fine." It is the furthest thing from the truth, but it is all he has to offer.

As he leaves, he catches a few lines of his parents' conversation. Tom stops in place, just out of sight of the dining room, so he can listen.

"I don't know about letting Tom do the housework. He's so young."

"Rubbish," Merope says. "It'll be good for him to learn hard work. You spoil him too much."

"When I was his age..." Harry trails off. "I don't know. It doesn't seem right."

"It was his idea! You aren't forcing him to do it. You worry too much. Let the boy help out."

"We'll see," says Harry.

Tom feels a surge of affection for his father. Harry may put Merope first, but he also wants Tom to be happy and looked after. He cares.

A few minutes go by. "I know what will help," Merope declares softly. Her voice lowers, then, adopting a sweet, sugary tone that never fails to make Tom feel ill. "Take me to bed."

Tom walks away after that, unable to listen any longer. He does the dishes and retires to his room.

Unfortunately, the walls of the summer house are thin, and Tom, lost in the throes of anger on behalf of his own altruism, rises from bed to look in on his parents.

Merope's soft pants and gasps filter through the closed door, the door that she must have forgotten to shut in her haste to trap her husband in bed. The room is dark, but moonlight highlights the sweat-soaked lines of Harry's back, muscles flexing as he covers his wife's body with his own.

Tom is transfixed and horrified, frozen in place as his parents rut on the bed. He has never paid much mind to the concept of sex, but witnessing Merope in the midst of unspeakable pleasure, it repulses him. Worse yet, when his father reaches completion and calls her name, touches her face with kindness, kisses her so sweetly that Tom, sick to his stomach, at last breaks free of his stupor and stumbles away from the door.

Heart pounding, Tom collapses on his bed and buries his face in his pillow, trying to erase the image from his brain. He never wants to see Merope like that again, he'd sooner gauge his own eyes out. But his father—

For a split second, he pictures himself in his mother's place, pinned by his father's loving hands, moaning his name. Tom feels the dull throb of arousal below the waistband of his pants, then trembles and shakes the thought away.

Sickness, Merope had called it. She had warned him not to touch his father. Is this what she'd meant?

Tom curls up on the thick cotton sheets, tosses and turns all night. Sleep evades him. All he can think of is Harry.


When their family returns home, Tom takes on the task of running the household, as promised. He purchases groceries for the pantry, special plants and flowers for his mother's herbal teas, and brand new cleaning supplies for his own use. There is much to do, busy work that keeps his mind and hands occupied, but it is not enough.

No distraction is powerful enough to prevent his attention from straying to thoughts of his father.

Each and every morning without fail, Harry kisses Merope with single-minded devotion while Tom seethes in the background. When Merope is in the room, Tom is but an afterthought. Harry only has eyes for her. It's beginning to drive Tom mad.

None of this is right. Tom's hatred of Merope and his sexual impulses are enough to keep him awake late into the night. Even his lessons with Harry, his most treasured hours of any given day, are no longer restful.

It is impossible for him to sit politely across from his father knowing that Harry deserves so much better than Merope. Harry should have someone who will respect him and care for him the way he deserves. Someone like Tom.

Tom has always dreamed of the day when their family would be composed of two people instead of three. He convinces himself that this is still all that he wants, to live alone with his father for the rest of their days. They would be a proper happy family, just the two of them.

He spends a great deal of time trying to convince himself of this, but truthfully, he has not forgotten Merope's warning. Her words are a poisonous seed that grows in the innermost depths of his mind, drenching his every thought in sin.

It is very clear that Tom loves Harry the most, the best, far better than Merope could ever hope to accomplish with her callous cruelty and constant need for control. Tom doesn't like to linger on this thought for too long, but he can't seem to forget it either. How awful is it that he fantasizes about himself as a better spouse for his father than his own mother? What makes it worse, Tom thinks despairingly, is that it is the truth. Tom would be a better spouse than Merope will ever be.

Tom has yet to revisit the subject of divorce with his father. They may have gone about it the wrong way the first time. Tom had suggested Harry cut ties with Merope, but he had not provided any alternatives. Harry's pity for Merope blinds him to her negative traits, but he has no reason to leave her. He believes he loves her, but he does not understand what love is, what it should look like.

Tom will prove to his father that Merope is an unnecessary addition to their lives. Her love is lesser, damaged and twisted, and is therefore replaceable. Then, once she is removed, Tom will see about taking her place.


After reviewing his parents' lengthy marriage, Tom comes to the troubling conclusion that their singular disagreement centers around a school he knows nothing about. This school, he thinks, is a weak point. Something about it had convinced his father to argue on his behalf, which makes it important enough for him to find out more.

Tom picks a cozy winter afternoon to ask his father about Hogwarts. They are studying goblin wars in the library; both father and son are nursing cups of hot cocoa with tiny marshmallows. Harry says History of Magic is a boring class, but Tom likes it. The textbooks provide him a glimpse of the magical world that exists outside of their house, a world free from the torture of Merope's incessant company.

"Let's take a break," Tom suggests when they reach the end of the chapter.

Harry smiles indulgently at him. "We started hardly ten minutes ago," he says, but he lounges back in his chair anyway, stretching his arms out.

Tom watches the flex of his father's arms, licks his lips, then wisely occupies himself with his hot drink to calm down before he speaks. "I was wondering, father, if you could tell me about Hogwarts?"

"Hogwarts?" Harry sets his mug aside with an unsteady hand. "Your mother asked us not to talk about that place. You know that."

"I do," Tom agrees quickly, "but it was so long ago. And she isn't here now, so she won't be upset by it." He sighs loudly and drops his eyes to the table. "It's just that I wish I had gotten to go. I know I won't and that's fine, but..." He pauses and glances up at his father to gauge his reaction. "You could tell me about it and then it would be like I had gotten to go, you see?"

Harry fiddles with the corner of Tom's history textbook. "I don't know, Tom."

"I promise I won't tell her," Tom pleads, latching onto his father's hesitancy. "Besides, Hogwarts is an important part of magical history, isn't it? I've read mentions of it in my books. Just treat this like one of my lessons."

"Well, alright," Harry says reluctantly. "I suppose telling you a little bit wouldn't hurt..."

Tom learns about the majesty and splendour of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the first place Harry had ever called home. To Tom, whose world revolves around his love for his father and his hatred for his mother, such a fantastic place sounds too good to be true.

But the way Harry speaks of Hogwarts and its hallowed halls, his voice full of reverence, it paints a beautiful picture in Tom's mind. He wants to believe that such a wonderful place exists.

Harry loves Hogwarts. Tom knows this without even having to ask. The lush, loving descriptions, supplemented by the bright sparkle in Harry's eyes, give it away. Tom has rarely seen his father so excited and impassioned—with little prompting from Tom, Harry adopts a new habit: every lesson, he shares an interesting fact or a fun story from his time at Hogwarts.

True to his word, Tom keeps this information to himself. These are important secrets, pieces of his father's heart that he will love and protect. Listening to his father speak tenderly about Hogwarts, it is the closest that Tom has felt to him in a long time.

For a few weeks, Tom loses track of his goal, content to have this special connection with his father, a connection that Merope knows nothing about.

Then one evening, Harry breaks the bad news.

"We have to move." The words are grim, delivered into the living room with a note of finality.

"But why?" Merope asks, bewildered. "What's wrong with the house?"

"We can't afford it any longer," Harry says. He removes his glasses to rub at his temples. Tom has never heard him sound this tired before. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I've arranged for the sale and we'll have to be out by the end of the month."

"But where will we go?" Merope demands indignantly. "Where will we live?"

"I've purchased us a smaller place to stay, and this summer's trip will have to be postponed. I've rented the house to bring in more income."

There is no point in dragging this out. "I'll start packing right away," Tom says agreeably. "I'll start with the attic."

"This is ridiculous," Merope says, standing. "We have money! We do!" She pins Harry with a glare. "You promised to look after us, to take care of us. Was that a lie?"

"I'm trying," Harry says desperately, "I swear I am, but this was the only way. You have to believe me."

Tom can't bear to watch his father grovel at her feet. "What's done is done," he says, directing his comment to Merope. "If we can't afford the house, there is nothing that will change that."

As expected, Merope whirls to attack him instead. "That's easy for you to say! You don't do anything. Maybe if you got a job, your father wouldn't have to work so hard to support us," she snaps.

"He's only a boy," Harry says with a frown. "There's a war going on out there. It's our job to protect him."

Tom's heart lurches with affection, with love for his father, who is trying to shield him from Merope's ire. Harry is a good person. Merope is not.

"No, no," Tom says loudly, "she's right. All our problems are my fault, isn't that it? I'm ungrateful and need to do more to earn my keep."

"Tom..." The heartbreak in his father's voice is torture to hear, but Tom ignores it.

Merope is speechless. Perhaps she is unsure what to do with his sudden aggression. Perhaps she is finally afraid of him, as she should be.

"What should I do?" Tom asks, goaded by her lack of response. "Go onto the streets and beg for money? Or should I sell myself instead? Maybe get myself blown up by a bomb! Because that's what you want. I know it is. You want me to die and finally leave you and father alone."

"Tom, that's enough," Harry says, the words strangled. "Stop it. Stop it."

Tom stops. He is breathing heavily, chest heaving, forehead damp with sweat. "I'm going to the attic," he says roughly. "To start packing."

As he leaves, Merope dissolves into tears, releasing gross, ugly sobs that force Harry to comfort her. Tom doesn't wait to hear what she has to say. He doesn't want to know.


Some hours later, Harry joins Tom in the attic. He looks as tired as before, only now there are large damp spots on his shirt.

"Your mother is very upset," is the first thing he says.

Tom shrugs. He has worked his way through several boxes, but it's slow going. "This would be faster with magic," he says pointedly, gesturing around them. It would be faster with the wand he is not permitted to keep on him.

"Let me help," Harry says after a pause.

Tom expects his father to use magic. He does not expect Harry to drop to his knees and open up the nearest box.

"How upset is she?" Tom asks as they begin their work together.

"It's a shock for her, that's all. She's gone to bed now. I think she's upset with me as well." Harry sighs, sounding positively miserable, and Tom grows angry all over again. "But don't worry, Tom. I'm going to fix this. I know what your mother wants and I'll do my best to give it to her."

That sentence does not bode well. "What do you plan to do?"

"Don't worry," Harry repeats, the line of his shoulders suddenly tense and agitated. "It will all be fine." His hands are quivering as he speaks.

"Okay." Tom swallows his fear, swallows his grief. He must be strong. "Okay, father." He reaches over and takes Harry's shaking hands in his. "You are doing your best," he says quietly. "You are doing everything you can." It isn't Harry's fault that Merope is a monster that cannot be satisfied.

"It isn't enough," Harry says, shaking his head, his eyes squeezing shut. "It's not enough." When he reopens them, they are so full of agony that Tom can't help but flinch. "I would do anything for your mother. Anything at all. I would give anything to make her happy. Why can't I make her happy?"

Tom is the wrong person for this. He has no idea how to comfort his father, not when Merope is the source of his misery.

"I'm useless," Harry gasps, tears flowing freely now. "I'm not good enough for her." He grips Tom's arm like a lifeline, hard enough to bruise, only this time Tom feels pain for different reasons.

"You're not," Tom says, baffled and distraught to see his father in such a state. "You're too good for her. She doesn't deserve you."

"No, no, no." Harry struggles to his feet, nearly knocking his head against the low ceiling of the attic. "I have to do better. I love her so much. I need her to understand."

Tom is terrified. "Where are you going?" He hurries to follow his father back down to the second floor, fear cutting through him like a hot knife when Harry's foot almost misses the bottom rung of the ladder.

"I'm going out," Harry says distractedly as he lands on the ground and makes haste for the stairs. "I have a plan."

Tom tries to stop him. When that fails, he tries to follow, but his father can Apparate whereas he cannot, and Tom knows better than to interrupt an Apparition attempt. He cannot risk hurting Harry.

Upstairs, Merope sleeps soundly in her bed, unaware of her husband's departure. Downstairs, Tom sits in the entrance hall and waits for his father to come home.


When the front door opens, it is some ungodly hour in the morning. Tom only wakes up because he'd propped himself next to the door frame, his unconscious body an obstacle for Harry trip over upon entering the house.

"Tom?" Harry asks, bewildered. "Did you spend all night here?"

Tom is exhausted, but his relief is strong enough to force lucidity upon him. "Where did you go?" he demands in a hoarse voice. "You were the one who was gone all night. I was scared." His sentence cracks precariously in the middle; he is holding back tears before it finishes.

"Don't worry, Tom. I've fixed everything," Harry says breathlessly as he pulls Tom to his feet and envelops him in a hug.

Tom wants to know how that can be true when there are deep purple shadows under his father's bloodshot eyes. Harry hasn't been eating and sleeping properly for the past week, and Tom is more certain than ever that his father's love for Merope is slowly but surely destroying him from the inside out.

"Is she awake?" Harry asks, withdrawing to hold Tom at arm's length. "Your mother. I want to tell her the good news."

"She's sleeping," Tom says, monotone. "You shouldn't wake her."

Harry fidgets in place. "Yes, yes, you're right." He bounces on the balls of his feet, then tugs Tom towards the sitting room. "Come, let's sit down."

Tom settles cautiously on the loveseat. "What is the good news?" he asks.

Harry beams. "I've gotten us a house."

"A house?" Tom repeats. "But you said you'd bought one already, a smaller one—"

"Not that!" Harry waves him off. "A different one. A better one. A house fit for a lady like your mother. Here—" Harry reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out a thick wad of paper. "I have the deed, look!"

Tom takes the paper and unfolds it. "Riddle Manor," he reads. "Where is this?" Then, as the implications of the deed sink in, he adds angrily, "And how much did it cost?"

"Yorkshire," Harry says, leaning forward. "And it didn't cost a cent."

Tom's worry intensifies. "What did you do?" he cries, horrified. "Father, what did you do?"

Harry is smiling, but the relief doesn't seem to reach his eyes. "Don't worry, Tom. I promised you everything would be fine, and now it is." He ruffles Tom's hair with a gentle hand, then springs to his feet. "You know what? I think I will wake your mother up after all. She's going to be so happy when I tell her who the house belonged to."

Tom remains seated on the couch. His father's physical presence isn't the only thing he feels slipping away from him. It's as if he's been speaking in a foreign language to a complete stranger.

Things have gone too far. This can't continue. When they move houses, Tom will have to act. Cause an accident of some kind, or else use the distraction of packing to grab his wand and kill his mother outright.

It no longer matters if Harry hates him forever; at this rate, Tom fears the worst for his father's health and sanity if Merope continues to inflict her demands upon them. Having Harry alive is better than not having him at all. If Tom must restrain him, must keep his own father prisoner in their new house until he understands the truth, then so be it.


As Harry had predicted, Merope is overjoyed with their newly-acquired property. Her delight resets the delicate equilibrium of their little dysfunctional family, and for a time, everything goes back to normal.

In between work and lessons, Harry aids Tom in packing up the contents of the house. Tom is relieved to see the healthy flush of colour return to his father's face.

Merope takes to crafting lavish plans for Riddle Manor. She describes opulent draperies and golden statues that Tom pays little mind to because they won't matter in the end.

At Tom's prompting, Harry goes back to telling stories about Hogwarts. There is the three-headed hound that guards a magic mirror. There is the ghost known as Nearly-Headless Nick. There are a lot of Quidditch matches. There is—

"Ron had eaten the entire box," Harry says with a half chuckle. "You should have seen the look on his face. On my face! I was sixteen and scared out of my mind. Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't stopped him..." Harry pauses and shakes his head as if to rid himself of the bad thought.

Tom is curious. "Stopped him from what?"

"It was Amortentia." Harry makes a loose drinking gesture with his hand. "Ron had eaten an entire box of chocolates laced with love potion."

"You never taught me about that one," Tom says, scrunching his brows together. "You never taught me about Amortentia."

"Hm." Harry grunts. "I suppose I didn't. Maybe it's not in books yet..."

"So you learnt it at Hogwarts," Tom deduces. "But what does it look like?"

Harry shifts around in his chair like he can't quite get comfortable. "Well, let me see... The first thing you notice is the smell. It's meant to smell like whatever attracts you the most."

That does sound interesting. "What do you smell?"

"What do I smell?" Harry laughs. "I haven't smelt it in ages, though I suppose if I was to do it now, I'd smell your mother, and maybe the tea we share in the morning." He sighs. "It was such a funny, stupid thing back then. People were embarrassed to admit what they smelled. I know I was."

Hearing Merope mentioned causes Tom to lose interest in Harry's answer. "What of the colour? The symptoms? How long does it last?"

Harry pins him with an amused smile. "You'd have done well in Ravenclaw, Tom. I don't think I ever expected that out of you, but it's true."

"You're not answering my questions," Tom says pointedly, but he smiles back anyway, pleased with his father's comment.

"Give me a moment to remember," Harry chides. "The colour... It was pearl-like, you know what I mean? It gleamed."

"And how did it work?" Tom asks.

Harry frowns. "Amortentia is the most powerful love potion in the world, but it doesn't create love. You can't create real love! That was what they made sure to tell us. It has a swirling sort of steam to it." Harry makes a spiral gesture in the air with his finger. "And then the smelling bit, like I said. Very potent stuff."

Tom doesn't understand. "If it doesn't create real love, then what does it do?"

"It creates... obsession. Yes, an obsession, I think that's the best word to describe it." Harry nods sagely. "Now, the potion that Ron took, that had been sitting around for ages and ages. It had gone bad. So when he ate it, he was off to the races."

Harry leans back in his chair, looking thoughtful. "Couldn't stop talking about this girl like she'd hung the moon and the stars and the entire goddamn sky. He would have done just about anything I told him to do if I said she would like it, never mind that she wasn't even around to see what was happening."

Something about this story makes Tom feel uneasy. "You said you stopped him?"

"Yes, yes, of course I did. I took him straight to the potions master for the antidote. Took a fair amount of lying through my teeth to make that happen, but once I mentioned her name, it was as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist."

Harry shakes his head. "Ron was mortified afterward. Had trouble sitting at the Gryffindor table for weeks. Though that might have been because he broke up with his girlfriend the day he was released from the Hospital Wing." Harry pulls a face, but there is humour in the lines of his face that implies levity. "But enough about that. You know what story I haven't told you? How he and Lav-Lav got together in the first place..."

Tom only half-listens to the next story. He is too busy puzzling through the new information that Harry has given him.

For years, Tom has compared his father's love for him to his father's love for his mother. Now he finally has an answer as to how they differ and why.

Obsession is the best word to describe the way his father acts around Merope. It is the best word to describe his father's sudden, outlandish urge to obtain an expensive manor. It explains why Merope's happiness must always come first, before everything else, logic be damned. It explains why Tom feels invisible whenever she enters the room.

Until this moment, Tom has never found it odd that they had hired servants to clean but not to cook, that his mother would insist on home-cooked meals and herbal teas when there were perfectly good restaurants up the street. He had incorrectly attributed this preference to the bubble they all lived in, to the lifestyle he was used to, but now it all makes sense. It all makes so much sense.

"It's in the tea," Tom mutters. "It's in the food."

"Pardon?" Harry asks, bemused.

"Sorry," Tom says on automatic. "It's nothing." It is everything.


Tom watches Merope very closely over the next week. She is so pleased with the recent turn of events, and her sense of indulgence makes her sloppy. It is easy for Tom to piece together her morning habits, the way she prepares her tea. He narrows down the timing to a gap of three days.

At the end of the month, their family moves into Riddle Manor. Merope parades around the rooms, dragging her fingertips over the mantle and laughing in that tactless way she has, lawless and undisciplined.

"Look at us now," she says, smugness dripping from every word. "Look at me now!"

Harry is dazzled by her delight, eager to please, to provide for his wife all that she desires for their new home. He listens to her tittering comments with empty adoration in his eyes and promises her everything.

Tom lets it go. Soon, she will no longer be a threat to him or to Harry.


One afternoon, Tom excuses himself during his lessons to use the bathroom. When he returns, his hands are scrubbed clean and his wand rests snugly in the holster attached to his arm. As he sits back down, he looks at the calendar. Three days.


Merope pouts at the curtains that cover the sitting room windows as Harry leaves for work. He had been absent-minded during breakfast. He'd barely listened to Tom's casual request for access to his wand before granting it. Tom expects clarity will return before the day is out, which gives him plenty of time to deal with his mother.

Tom has planned his ambush carefully. Merope is not skilled with magic, but she is dangerous, so Tom stuns her from behind with Petrificus Totalus. Then he gags her, ties her to a chair, and leaves her in the middle of the sitting room with a good view of the front door.

He expects his father home midday, but it doesn't happen. Harry arrives at Riddle Manor at quarter past five, as he usually does. He stops dead in the entrance hall when he catches sight of his wife and son.

Merope makes a noise. Tom silences her with his wand, knowing that if there is any trace of potion left in Harry, she may order him to attack.

"What... what is going on?" There is doubt in his father's voice, doubt that Tom will use.

"She's been drugging you," Tom says, his entire body burning with apprehension and desperation. "She's been feeding you love potions. She's been lying to you. To us."

Merope is shaking her head, denying Tom's accusations, but Tom only has eyes for his father.

"She's been doing this since the start. You have to believe me. I have her things—" Tom draws out a tiny stoppered bottle from his pocket, holds it up. "See? It—it smells. You can smell it."

To Tom, it smells like Harry. Harry, vanilla ice cream, and fresh parchment.

All the colour has drained from Harry's face. His eyes are full of slow-dawning horror, mouth gaping with soundless words.

"You don't love her," Tom says fiercely, glad now that the truth is out in the open, that the poison of Merope's presence will be banished for good. "You don't. So we don't need her, we can get rid of her. I can get rid of her."

Harry's hand rises to cover his mouth. He looks ill. "I can't," he stutters. "God, I can't—" He sways in place like a cornered animal, then lurches backward and flees through the door.

Tom is too shocked to call after him. The adrenaline is fading from his body. He feels lightheaded. He hadn't expected Harry to leave, but he knows, he knows he cannot lose his father.

Tom looks at Merope. His mother. Her brown, tear-filled eyes. Her twisted, hateful expression. She does not deserve Harry. She does not deserve to live.

Tom raises his wand at her. She does not matter.

"Diffindo."

Her body convulses, thick, red blood soaking into the collar of her expensive gown, but it is otherwise a clean, silent death.

Tom leaves the house and runs after his father.


Down the winding path that leads to the door, Tom's father has fallen to his knees by the front gate, his trousers sullied with dirt and mud and bits of grass. His head is buried in his hands and there are strange noises coming from the back of his throat.

Tom hurries to his side, stifles pain and disappointment when his father flinches away from him.

"It's over," Tom says. He is unsure what to do, what to say. "It's done. She can't hurt you any more."

There is nothing worse than Harry's distraught keening, the way he shivers and shrinks in on himself, his eyes unfocused. Tom shifts closer, wishing to comfort, wanting to help.

"D-don't touch me."

Tom whimpers. Harry's rejection is too much. Tom is nothing like his mother, he is nothing like her. He refuses to be.

"It was her, it was her doing! I never—" Tom chokes on the words, willing Harry to trust him, to believe him. "I would never hurt you. I swear, I promise, I wouldn't. Never." Harry may not be his biological father, but Harry is his father in the ways that matter. Tom loves him more than anything.

Harry doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge Tom's declaration. After some time, Harry's tremors ease to the occasional shudder, and his breathing, while still unsteady, regulates enough for him to sit back and remove his hands from his face. He looks at Tom.

Cautiously, Tom sinks to his knees and lays a hand on his father's shoulder.

"Let's leave this place," Tom whispers. "Let's go home."

Harry shuts his eyes and Apparates them away.


They go to the small house that Harry had purchased many months ago. Tom clears out the dust with his wand and opens up all the windows. They have nothing with them except the clothes on their backs, but they will make do.

Tom returns to the manor long enough to dispose of the body and retrieve the deeds to the manor and the summer home. He spends the next few days arranging for their sale. He keeps the house in order. He lets his father prepare his own meals, which is not nearly often enough for Tom to feel reassured, and he pawns Merope's jewelry to make ends meet in the meantime.

Harry is quiet. He does not return to work, though of course Tom does not expect him to. Tom understands that his father needs time to recover from his ordeal.

His patience pays off. Slowly, his father emerges from his haze of depression. Harry takes over the task of tidying the house. He takes his meals in the dining room with Tom and listens to Tom's running commentary on the progress of the estate sale.

They graduate to short conversations. Tom is overjoyed. He is ready for their life together to begin. He surrounds his father with comforts, with soft blankets and treacle tarts and fond recollections of Tom's childhood, all the precious hours they spent together without Merope to cast her ugly shadow over them.

When the manor finally sells, Tom is excited to bring the good news to his father. Closure at last, he hopes. An end to that chapter of their lives.

Harry stares blankly at the paperwork that Tom presents to him. All he has to do is sign. Tom could have done so in his stead, could have forged his father's signature like he has been doing for many weeks now, but it feels right for Harry to have this honour, to be rid of this stain upon their family.

Harry picks up the pen that Tom has laid out for him and scribbles his signature on the appropriate lines. Then he sets the pen down, shoves the papers away, and looks up at his son.

"You've done so much," Harry says. He runs a hand through his hair, long and sloppy without Merope to nag him into cutting it. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to," Tom reassures him. "I'm glad to be rid of the place. The money will keep us afloat for some time. Soon I'll start looking for work."

Harry frowns. "You're too young to work," he says distantly, and the familiar sentiment tugs at Tom's heart.

"I'll be seventeen soon," Tom reminds him. "Of age in your world." Harry's world, the world that includes Hogwarts.

Harry hesitantly rises to his feet. Tom stays where he is, holds as still as he can, watches his father round the corner of the desk. After a pause, Harry reaches out and touches Tom's forearm.

"Thank you," he says. "Thank you, Tom."

Tom smiles. He loves his father so much. "Of course," he says. "I'd do anything for you."


Despite Tom's protest, Harry begins looking for work. Tom is not happy about this, but Harry's desire for normalcy is important, a positive sign of improvement, so he keeps his displeasure to himself.

Harry makes friends at his new job, friends that he'd never had when Merope was alive. Harry comes home to Tom every day and accepts the meals that Tom makes for him.

They establish a comfortable routine. Harry takes home a salary and Tom takes care of the house. He takes care of Harry. Together, they are leaving Merope's influence behind. There are nights when Tom wakes from nightmares, from visions of his father's hand wrapped around his throat at Merope's request, but they are only nightmares.

Everything is wonderful. Tom's dreams of a better life have come true. They do not need to worry about money and they are free to do as they like. No matter what happens, they will have each other. It is during this beautiful transition into peace that Tom's other, more complicated desires begin to resurface.

He loves his father. It is a love that Merope had declared a sickness, but what does she know? She is dead. Tom has killed her. Her ignorance can no longer harm him.

All Tom wants is to give Harry the love that he deserves. There is nothing wrong or sick about that. And now that Harry is once again comfortable with touching him, the possibility for that love is there.

Tom has done his best to support his father through this difficult period of their lives. He has exercised every measure of empathy and kindness, but it is hard to hold back what he feels when he feels so much. Tom holds his impulses at bay because the notion of inflicting unwanted affection upon Harry sickens him, but when Harry walks through the door after a long day at work, Tom wants to throw himself into those strong arms. He wants to press his face against the soft, warm column of Harry's neck and pepper it with kisses.

Of course, Tom knows that Harry loves him. Harry is his father.

But that is the problem, then. For Tom, the line that separated familial and romantic love had gotten muddled long, long ago, and there is no going back from it now.


It happens by mistake. Tom doesn't mean for it to happen. He doesn't mean to do anything. Harry's hand cups his cheek and it's as if Tom is the one who has ingested a love potion—his love for his father is all he can think about. It is all-consuming.

He is ready. Harry is ready, or so Tom thinks. Or maybe he doesn't think it, maybe he isn't thinking and Merope was right after all, that love is a sickness, that Tom will never have his father's love the way he wants to have it.

It happens by mistake: Tom surges forward and kisses his father on the mouth.

Harry shudders and gasps. He pushes Tom back firmly by the shoulders and says, very clearly, "No."

Tom flushes, mortified, and pulls away. He lowers his head, blinking back tears. He will never force Harry into anything. He had sworn this to himself.

Harry stares at him for what feels like ages. Tom doesn't dare speak or breathe or move. Eventually, Harry seems to relax.

"Don't do that again," he says.

Tom nods, relieved. He can accept this. He will wait for Harry to come to him.


That night, Tom wakes from his latest nightmare in a hysterical panic. Half-awake and feverish, he staggers down the hall, bare feet stumbling over the cold hardwood floor, to his father's bedroom. He hesitates for all of a second before he unceremoniously shoves the door wide open.

His father's bed is cold and empty. Tom is alone.


Tom stares down at his wand. Of all the abilities in his repertoire, conjuring a corporeal Patronus is not one of them. The best he can manage is a bright burst of light. His memory is not strong enough. His happiness is not strong enough.

But if he wants to find his father, then he must find something. He must have something.

Tom tries every happy memory he has. He uses the memory of his initial trip to Diagon Alley with his father. He uses the thrill of casting his first successful spell in the library. He uses Merope's death, her sightless eyes and the ugly, gaping wound in her neck.

None of them work.

So Tom picks a new memory. It isn't exactly a happy memory, but it's the most content he remembers ever being.

Light and fresh air pouring through the door. Waiting for his father to come to him, waiting for his turn to experience his father's love. Knowing that the waiting pays off, that it makes their moment of reunion more sweet than bitter.

Tom lifts his wand and focuses on that feeling, that feeling of love before he had known what love truly was.

"Expecto Patronum."

A large animal bursts forth from the tip of his wand and dances around the room. Its presence brings Tom comfort. It makes him feel safe. Tom gives his instructions and watches the ethereal creature vanish through the wall.

This will work, he tells himself. This will work. He just has to wait.


"Father, I love you. Please come home."


Harry arrives on the doorstep in less than an hour. Tom is too relieved to say a single word—he collapses against his father and buries his face against Harry's chest. Harry also says nothing. He rakes trembling fingers through Tom's curly hair.

Tom doesn't need words, doesn't care for them. He glances up at his father through damp lashes and swears that he'll never ask for more again.

Harry traces the tear tracks on Tom's face with the tip of his finger. His eyes are conflicted; they stray to Tom's quivering lower lip. With one arm still wrapped around Tom's body, Harry draws his wand and casts a spell while Tom watches.

His father's silver stag circles the sitting room once, twice. It returns to nuzzle Tom's face before it fades away.

Tom knows what his own stag Patronus means. It means his happiness is irreversibly tied to Harry. What he is less sure of is what his father wants from him.

Then Harry kisses Tom's temple. He kisses Tom's cheek. His lips ghost the corner of Tom's mouth, then stop moving. His breathing is ragged, unsteady, but his eyes are full of clarity.

Tom shivers. He has waited his whole life for this. He knows what he wants. He will cherish his father with all that he is.

With this in mind, Tom turns his head the rest of the way and seals their fate, brings their mouths together in a soft, innocent kiss.

Harry holds very still, but he does not pull away.

Tom retreats and rests his head on Harry's shoulder. He is happy. His father loves him. His father loves him enough to stay.

.

END.