A/N:

thank u to dutch for beta'ing this chapter for me !

Part 2

V.

There was a bruise developing on the right side of his leg. Harry prodded at it with an index finger. It did not hurt unless he touched it. He was fine. He was.

With a morbid sigh, Harry rubbed at his face with the sleeve of his jumper. At school, P.E. class was the absolute worst. The bruise from being kicked wasn't even the problem. What bothered Harry the most was the embarrassment of being humiliated and knowing that people were laughing at him.

"I need you to take care of yourself, Harry. If I was there, I would protect you—"

"But you're not here, Tom," Harry said, harsher than he'd intended. "You're not! And I'm not about to start—I'm not like that. They're rotten people and they deserve it, but you don't understand. I'll get in trouble. They'll tell the teachers and put me in detention."

"Then let them. If they suffer enough, they'll leave you alone. They'll learn not to hurt you. By doing nothing, you're letting them win."

Harry wrenched the open compact out of his pocket so he could stare into its depths. Tom's crimson eyes gazed back from underneath the tumble of dark curls that shadowed his forehead.

"I want you to be safe," Tom said quietly. "Do you know how much it hurts me to be trapped in here, unable to do anything? Unable to help you?"

"I—" Harry didn't know. What he did know was that it had been unfair of him to say that Tom wasn't here for him. Tom had not chosen to be stuck in a mirror. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. You've done nothing wrong." Tom sighed, stepped closer to the glass that separated them. "You are special, Harry. You just don't see it because you spend your days surrounded by idiots. But I promise I will get you away from this place somehow. Away from your relatives and away from this nasty school."

But how?

Harry breathed in and out. His lungs felt too small, squashed tight in the cavity of his chest. In his hand, the compact trembled.

Tom's gaze saddened. "Don't you trust me, Harry?" he asked softly.

A sharp pang of regret shot through Harry, a jolt straight to the heart. "Yes," Harry said, as quickly as he could. "You know how important you are to me, Tom. I trust you."

Tom smiled thinly. In the dim light of the overcast skies, his eyes looked nearly black. "So long as that's true, then everything will work out in the end."

That summer, Dudley came home from Smeltings and resumed his favourite pastime of picking on his cousin. Harry had learned from experience that it was better to be out of the house rather than in it—the neighbourhood was large enough for him to avoid Dudley's gang if he was clever enough and fast enough.

Harry was used to running as fast as his feet could take him if it meant avoiding a beating. If he was caught, it was the result of poor luck, or else the result of his being vastly outnumbered. In that case, there was likely nothing he could have done to prevent himself from being caught.

So when Harry found himself hightailing it down the street the summer of his fifteenth birthday, it was not surprise that filled him when he was caught and shoved to the ground—it was a resigned disappointment.

"Had a good school year, freak? A nice vacation?" spat Dudley, a vicious smile spreading across his face. It did not make him look very menacing. Dudley smirking was the visual equivalent of a blob of dough with a mouth shape stamped into it.

Harry's forearms smarted, scraped raw by the unforgiving pavement, but he scrambled to his feet with some effort—just in time for Dudley's shoe to connect with his ribs. An awful wheeze rushed out of him, knocked loose from his lungs like a pebble tumbling off a tall cliff. Then Harry was rolling backwards, using the momentum from Dudley's kick to gain some distance.

"Harry?"

To Dudley, Harry said, "Shut up," spitting the words out from between gritted teeth. With one arm wrapped around his chest, Harry kicked his legs outwards and managed a solid knock to Piers' shins.

But no matter how hard Harry kicked and punched and scratched, there was no advantage to be gained against four boys who were bigger and stronger than him—especially because he was already on the ground.

Harry's teeth rattled in his skull as he was hauled to his knees by two of Dudley's friends.

From Harry's pocket came Tom's distorted shouting, full of enough despair for the both of them.

Dudley was still fucking talking, unleashing insult after pathetic insult. Harry could hardly hear him over Tom's vengeful tirade. Tom was spewing vitriol at Dudley, at Dudley's friends. Tom was raging at the injustice and lamenting his inability to do anything about it.

"Shut up," Harry said, this time with a wince as the weak split in his lip stung with the movement. "Shut up!" His head was spinning and he was starting to feel nauseous, his insides churning like an ocean in the midst of a storm.

"Or else what, Harrikins? You going to go crying to yourself in your pretty mirror?"

Harry would have laughed if not for the fist that collided with his stomach. Dudley spent more time admiring his reflection in the mirror than Harry did.

"—is nothing, Harry, do you hear me? He is nothing. Listen to me, focus on my voice. Do not listen to him—"

"I'm trying," Harry wheezed with a gasp. Then horror washed over him, freezing him in place as he realized he'd spoken aloud. Even the boys holding him paused, as though they were also questioning his sanity.

"I—" Harry spluttered in response to the blank look on Dudley's face. "I'm trying to g-get away."

"Harry?"

Dudley was watching him closely, too closely for Harry's liking. Those beady eyes narrowed, squinting as Harry panted for breath. "You're always talking to yourself," Dudley said slowly, the words slurring together. "I hear you. In your room, late at night. And to that stupid mirror you carry with you."

"No!" Harry denied, renewing his struggles. "No, I don't!"

"He's starking mad," Piers said, sounding awed even as he kept a firm grasp on Harry's right arm. "He's fucking gone round the bend."

Dudley was still watching Harry with a mixture of detached disgust and wonder. "Search him," Dudley said, "I bet he's got it on him."

Harry thrashed harder, a wild panic overtaking his mind as rational thought fled, replaced by an all-encompassing conviction that he must not lose his compact—Tom's compact—to Dudley. If he did, then terrible things would happen.

If he did, then—then he would be a failure.

Piers found it first. He tugged the plastic compact loose even as Harry knocked his head back into the other boy's face.

"Fucking hell," Dudley growled, "hold him still, I said!"

Harry jammed his elbow backwards and was rewarded with a pained gasp from the boy to his left. Piers tossed the compact to Dudley, who caught it with both hands.

"What's so special about this, huh?" Dudley asked, turning it over in his hands. He ran a finger over the jagged crack on the right side. There was glue holding it together. Harry had mended it after Dudley's first attempt to destroy the thing. "It's just a mirror."

"It's mine," Harry bit out, still panting, still struggling. "Give it back."

Dudley's eyes snapped over to him. "Or what?"

Or nothing. A wave of hopelessness crashed over him. Harry had asked himself that question his entire life: or what? What could he do? Where could he go? His options were limited and his only hope at happiness took place in the distant future.

Tom had given him a reason to enjoy life, as dismal as it was; Tom had given him more than just hope for the future. With Tom, Harry had the promise of a better future, one with Tom by his side.

"Harry. Listen to me. Fight back."

It did not matter that everything sucked at the moment. It would get better. Just because everything seemed hopeless right now, it would not stop him from trying to get away. If Dudley and his friends were going to do this, Harry was going to make it as difficult and painful for them as possible.

With that in mind, Harry lifted his foot and stomped down hard.

Piers gave a shout, his arms slackening enough for Harry to pull loose and starting hitting. They all fell into a tangle of limbs on the pavement, wrestling and smacking at each other. Harry's head was spinning again, his vision blurry as his glasses were knocked askew.

"Oi, I'll break it," Dudley roared. "I'll break this, Potter, if you don't stop—"

Even from paces away, Harry could hear Tom. He would know that voice anywhere, would recognize the tone and the beautiful ferocity of Tom's anger. Anger that stoked a similar rage within Harry's chest.

"Let him. Don't stop."

Harry kept fighting.

Later that evening, Harry sat in his cupboard, his body aching and sore, his lip split and his right eye puffing. He had not been forced into this space in ages. The nooks and crannies were unfortunately familiar. However, there were more cobwebs than he remembered there being—a further sign that he had not occupied this room for some time.

Harry closed his eyes and winced at the sting as the motion pulled at his face. It was a miracle his glasses hadn't broken. Not that he cared much about that—if they had been broken, his relatives would have been forced to buy him a new pair. Harry wouldn't have been able to do his schoolwork without them.

In Harry's hands was the smashed compact. The mirror was half-gone, chunks of the reflective surface lost to shattered splinters. The piece of mirror that did remain was cracked. Tom's face was hardly visible in it.

Some time ago, Tom had ceased his raging and gone silent. Harry slumped against the sidewall of the cupboard. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. If he ate anything now, there was all the chance in the world he would throw it up anyway.

"Harry?"

Harry forced his good eye open. "Yes, Tom?" he asked, mindful to keep his voice low. That was what had gotten him into trouble in the first place, after all.

"I'm going to go for a moment. You must stay here and wait for me."

"Go?" Harry sat up, alarmed, and pried his other eye open so he could stare with incredulity at the boy in the mirror. "Where are you going?"

"I'll be back," Tom promised. He laid a hand against the mirror's fractured surface. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes. Always. I do, Tom, but—"

"Then wait for me."

Harry couldn't argue. His eyes met Tom's red ones, those crimson eyes so full of affection, affection for Harry, and he knew that there was no one else in the world who he could imagine a future with.

Harry touched the tip of his index finger against the mirror. Tom's hand pressed back, an unnatural heat emanating from the glossy barrier between them.

And then Tom vanished, pulling away from Harry and disappearing from the confines of the mirror. Or, at least, from the bit of Tom's world that Harry could see.

They had not spoken much about the place where Tom lived. Tom did not like to speak on it; he seemed uncomfortable when the topic was broached, and so Harry had left it alone. Tom was there when Harry went to bed, and he was there when Harry woke up. That was all Harry needed, and he wouldn't dare to ask for more.

Unsure when Tom would return to him, Harry stared at the mirror until his eyes grew tired of staying open. Then Harry carefully set the compact on the floor and shuffled back against the wall, shutting his eyes. Tom would call out when he came back; Harry just had to be patient.

With a careful hand, Harry felt at his chest, prodding and pressing tenderly against his ribs. Nothing seemed too out of place. He was just going to bruise something awful come morning.

In the morning, Harry would be let out of the cupboard to help with meal preparations, and then he might be permitted to return to his room. His room, which he had begun to take for granted—though in fairness he had never expected to be sent back to his cupboard.

Perhaps that was his own idiocy, then. Harry sighed. He should have known better. Tom would berate him for thinking like that, but Tom was no longer here.

Was no longer here right now, Harry reminded himself. Tom was going to come back.

Harry shivered and curled up, gingerly wrapping his arms around his knees. He did not like to dwell on his own misery; it made him bitter and angry. Harry didn't like feeling that way, did not enjoy the taste of bile that rose whenever he thought of how his relatives treated him. If not for Tom, he might have come to accept the poor treatment, to weather it as though he deserved it, but with Tom by his side, he knew better.

Tom helped him believe in himself.

Harry licked at his chapped lips, then swore colourfully as the split smarted. He'd forgotten about that. With the mess of everything that hurt at the moment, this injury had slipped his mind. At least it was summer, he thought to himself. At least no one else had to see him. Making up excuses to tell the faculty at school was a constant pain.

A yawn bubbled up in his throat; with some difficulty, Harry suppressed it. Stretching his mouth out would be a bad idea. The indication of his weariness was not lost on him, however. The hour was growing late, and Harry was frankly exhausted after the day's events. Really, his silver lining was that he'd given as good as he'd gotten. Dudley would probably cry for days about his boo-boos while Aunt Petunia fussed over him.

The mental image of Dudley crying and sniffling while Aunt Petunia cooed and fretted was amusing. Harry entertained himself with this scenario for a while, half-dozing while he did so. Without any conscious effort on his part, he dropped off to sleep.

Some time later, Harry woke to his name being called. Harry made an unintelligible noise of incoherence, bumping his head against the sidewall as he jerked upright.

"Be careful, Harry. It's only me."

Harry stretched without thinking and let out a soft noise of pain.

"Harry?" came Tom's worried voice.

"One moment," Harry mumbled. He touched lightly at his face, rubbing at his good eye with the back of his left hand. He still ached all over, but the throb of it was duller now.

Tom was waiting in the mirror, his lips pressed into a frown.

"Where did you go? If I can ask." Harry was curious; Tom had never spoken of going places before.

"Around the house," Tom said dismissively. Then he paused and added, "I discovered something. While you were sleeping, that is."

"Oh?" Harry felt hurt upon hearing that Tom had been doing things and trying things without him.

"At first I thought that I could only exist in surfaces that you can see. But a while ago, I realized that was not the case. I visit any reflective surface in the house, even if you aren't there."

Harry wasn't sure what to make of that. His mind wasn't fully awake, and he was fairly sure even if he had been awake, he still would have had trouble following the conversation. "So you've been going for walks?"

"There's not much point. Other people are boring. No one can see me or hear me except for you, and I'd much rather be here with you." Tom smiled, a little curl to his lips that tugged at Harry's heart. "So I didn't bother with it anymore. I want to be here when you wake, which means I can't go very far."

Harry tried to smile back, albeit nervously. This still did not explain why Tom had left so suddenly. "Where did you go just now, then?"

Tom's smile shifted, morphing into a sharper, meaner version of itself. "You see, Harry, because I decided that leaving your side wasn't useful to me, I had forgotten all about it. However, now we can touch each other, and touching is not the same as seeing and hearing."

The point of this was still lost on him. "You went and touched something else?"

"I've done much more than that," Tom promised. Then his eyes darkened, the red irises thinning out around endless black pupils. "Your cousin will think twice before trying to harm you again."

Harry was not let out of the cupboard until just before lunch the next day. He was given leftovers from the night before and told to stay in his room. This suited Harry just fine; at last, he could see Tom properly and find out exactly what had happened with Dudley.

As Harry tromped up the stairs, he noticed that the door to Dudley's bedroom was slightly ajar. Tom's compact was in Harry's pocket; Tom said nothing even as Harry slowed his ascent towards the top of the stairs.

In the crack of the doorway, Dudley's face appeared. Harry was pleased to note that his cousin's portly face did have some nasty bruising marring it.

Dudley blinked once, twice, the movement sluggish. Then he said in a rough voice, "Y-you keep your freakishness away from me!" and slammed the door. Harry stood there, dumbfounded, as he heard the sound of the lock clicking shut.

Tom's muffled voice emerged from his pocket. "Keep going, Harry."

Harry walked to his room in a daze. He closed the door softly behind him, then walked over to his dresser so he could shove it towards the doorway. The exertion of doing so aggravated nearly all of his injuries, but Harry endured it. He did not want to be interrupted. Harry pushed the dresser over until it blocked the doorway, then set Tom's compact on top, making sure that the cracked mirror was facing the door. An alarm system of sorts.

"I'm going to change," Harry said aloud as he went and pulled out a new set of clothes from his dresser.

Tom had already migrated to the vanity mirror. "Take your time."

Harry stripped his clothes off. The t-shirt with blood specks. The jeans stained with dirt. Both items tossed into a pile on the floor while Harry struggled into a fresh shirt. He was well aware of Tom's watchful gaze. It had never embarrassed him before; in many ways, he had grown up with Tom. But it had been a while since he'd had injuries this bad. Harry was conscious of each mottled bruise on his body as he tried to dress as quickly as possible.

"Slow down," Tom said, voice gravelly. "You'll hurt yourself. Breathe, Harry."

Automatically, Harry took a deep breath. His head cleared enough for him to realize that his panic was not helping him. Harry raised his arms and finished working his way into his shirt. It hung loosely on his frame, clinging with static in some places. Harry picked at the fabric in a morose manner.

Here he was, dressed in a worn grey shirt with a hole on the shoulder and a plain pair of blue boxer briefs. His legs were skinny and spotted with purples and yellows. "I'm a mess," Harry said without thinking. It was the truth.

"Don't say that."

Harry inhaled slowly, summoning his courage, and glanced at the vanity mirror on his side table. Tom's eyes were intent, deadly serious. His face was handsome as ever, free of flaws, unharmed and untainted.

There was a tightness in Harry's chest, a twisted shame that stemmed from both his appearance and his situation. He felt inadequate even though Tom was only an image in a mirror.

Tom's face softened. "Come here, Harry."

Harry opened his mouth to protest. He wasn't finished dressing. But something in Tom's expression told him not to argue. Regardless, Harry could never refuse Tom a request like that. Harry shuffled around his bed and sat down on it, wrapping a gentle arm around his lower ribs. "Yes?" he whispered.

"Bring me closer."

Harry obeyed, reaching out and angling the mirror so it sat at the very edge of the table. So that they were looking at each other.

The way Tom was looking at him—it made Harry feel exposed. Like he was being pried open, all his thoughts and feelings laid bare. Tom saw him, saw all of him. The good parts and the ugly parts. Tom cared about him despite everything. Despite ugliness. Harry wanted to look away, to drop his gaze and wallow in his shame and negativity, but he found that he could not.

Tom raised a hand. Harry was familiar with this motion; he raised his own arm to mirror the action. Then Tom clicked his tongue in a negative way that made Harry flush and lower his hand. He'd wanted for them to hold hands, only—

"Harry. You're overthinking again. Please wait for a second. Soon you will see what I mean."

Harry squirmed in place. He wanted to suck in his lower lip and worry at it, but with his injuries, that was out of the question. So Harry could only tremble as Tom's palm met the glass, pushing outwards. Slowly, the mirror stretched to accommodate the extrusion, the glass warping and thinning out like chewing gum, like molasses. Tom reached further and further, his hand extending.

It was a shock when his palm met the side of Harry's cheek, soft and featherlight, like Harry was made of fine porcelain. Tom had his entire arm outside of the mirror frame. He was cupping Harry's face with palm and fingers, stroking with his thumb over the bruise that marred Harry's cheekbone.

The hand was bare, almost real, touching him—

Harry's heart was racing, faster than it had when he'd been running for his life, faster than when Dudley had been laying into him with kicks and punches.

"T-Tom? What—"

"Shhhh." Tom's voice was strained. "Just relax, Harry, and let me take care of you."

Harry trusted Tom more than anyone in the world; more than himself, even. He responded to Tom's directive immediately, allowing the tension to drain from his shoulders as he narrowed the noise of the world to only Tom, to the hand that cradled him with kindness and the eyes that gazed upon him with—with love.

Harry thought it was love.

Tom traced patterns over Harry's face, dragged fingers through Harry's unruly hair. The shine of the mirror pulled and tugged, stretching thin until it clung like a second skin, giving Tom's arm an unnatural sheen.

Harry leant into Tom's touch, passing himself into Tom's care, knowing that Tom was the only person in the world he cared about, the only person he loved, could ever love, would ever love.

"I will keep you safe," Tom whispered. "My Harry."

Harry breathed out, let his worries dissipate, let Tom's caress lull him into sensations he had never experienced before—the joy of knowing physical contact that did not bring harm, the touch of a hand that passed over his skin like he was someone to be valued, to be adored.

Tom's finger danced across Harry's lip, mindful of the wound there. "These will heal," Tom murmured. "And you will never know harm at their hands again. I won't allow it. They can try to hide from me all they like, but I exist everywhere. You will never be without me."

Harry felt wetness stain his cheeks, but Tom wiped that away, too.

"Do you trust me?" Tom asked, more alluring than the softest melody. His voice was rich and enchanting, the perfect cadence to fill Harry's heart with hope and longing.

"I do," Harry said. "I trust you with everything." Everything and anything, including his life.

Tom brushed his thumb against the opening of Harry's mouth, pressing down with the pad of his finger as though they were sharing a kiss. "Then wait for me."

Harry was boneless, his mind fuzzy and satiated by Tom's act of comfort. "Okay."

The arm withdrew, the hand vanishing back into the mirror, flattening into an image once more.

Tom lifted his hand a final time, touching his fingertips to his mouth. Then he pressed those same fingers against the glass between them. "Do not leave this room, no matter what. Do not leave until I come back. Keep the dresser in front of the door."

"Okay." Harry slid backwards on the bed so he could pull his feet up off the floor.

Tom smiled. He looked as beautiful as an angel. "Wait for me, and I will come back to you."

Harry nodded. The mirror emptied of Tom's presence; only Harry's reflection remained. Harry eyed his messy hair and splotchy face, wondering what Tom saw in him.

The quiet was nerve-wracking, but Tom would come back soon. Harry shut his eyes, as he had before, and focused on the memory of Tom's touch, on the sensations that lingered in delicate trails all over his skin.

Outside the door, Harry heard screaming. Screaming and shouting and cursing and crying—not from Dudley, surprisingly, but from Harry's aunt and uncle. Tearful pleading and shrieks of pain. The sounds ought to have stirred some deeper emotion in him, but Harry did not feel present in his body, did not feel as though the reality of what was occurring around him mattered.

What mattered was Tom. Tom was protecting him. Tom was taking care of him.

Harry had never been able to save himself from his abusers, but Tom could. Tom could do what Harry could not, and Harry would let him.

VI.

Tom had the entire upper portion of his torso extended out of the mirror, his elbows and forearms braced on the wooden surface of Harry's dresser. There were large glass panes all over Harry's room. Propped against the walls, sitting on the furniture. Tom could be anywhere he wanted, exist on any surface, be as close as he could to Harry.

"Seven years," Harry said, fervent, "it has to be, Tom. Smashing a mirror gives you seven years of bad luck and—and we've known each other almost six years now, haven't we? You get stronger all the time! It has to be. It has to."

No one entered Harry's room without permission. No one looked directly at Harry unless he talked to them. It was an odd experience after years of tiptoeing around Number 4, Privet Drive, but Harry had adapted to it. He was used to his relatives gazing at him with disgust and hatred. Adding fear to the mix only made sense, didn't it?

Besides, it was not him they were truly afraid of. It was Tom who struck fear into them. It was Tom who kept Harry safe. At first, the Dursleys were not able to see or hear Tom, which meant that Harry had to function as Tom's mouthpiece. But recently, things had changed again. Tom's voice was now audible to all members of the house.

It was satisfying to hear the Dursleys' shrieks of fear about a strange silver man who emerged from their entrance hall mirror to punish them. Now that Tom could speak, he took great pleasure in berating them for their past treatment of Harry. Now that Tom had power, the Dursleys were the ones held captive in their own home.

Tom pursed his lips, then unfurled his arms, laying his palms flat out. Harry got up and walked over, placing his hands into Tom's. Tom's hands were larger than his; long fingers curled around Harry's wrist. "So once the seven-year mark has passed, you think I will be able to leave?"

"I don't see why not." Harry flushed, wondering if Tom knew something he did not.

Tom sighed. "The last thing I want is for you to get your hopes up, Harry. You understand why, don't you? If I could be certain—"

"I know," Harry said quickly. "I know." Tom would not let anything stop them from being together.

"If I could be certain," Tom repeated patiently, "then I would make plans for us. But we don't know what will happen. I won't risk what we have here."

The tentative peace that Tom had established using threats and violence. Harry swallowed, nerves aflutter in the pit of his stomach. "How long will we be here, then?"

"As long as it takes. If nothing happens at the end of our seven years together, then I'll find another way." Tom grimaced. "We will take what's owed from your relatives and go somewhere else together, if that's what you need."

Harry regretted his hasty question. He hadn't meant to make Tom upset. "I'm sure everything will work out, Tom. I have faith. You'll figure something out. I—I don't mind if we have to wait here while you figure that out. What's most important to me is that we stay together."

Tom trailed his hands up Harry's forearms and gave them a gentle squeeze. "I knew you'd understand, Harry. You're so kind to me."

Harry reddened further. "I want you to be free. You deserve that."

Tom shook his head. "I take care of you, don't I? And you help me in return."

Tom tugged Harry towards him until they were nearly chest to chest. One of Tom's hands curled around the nape of Harry's neck while the other rested on his shoulder. Physical contact never failed to send a thrill down Harry's spine. He relished in each touch that Tom gave him. Every touch… every kiss.

Tom smiled charmingly and canted his head to the side. "Harry? You haven't answered me."

"Sorry." Harry let out a huff of air to try and get his head on straight. "You do. Take care of me."

"I do." Fingers tangled themselves in Harry's hair, guiding Harry's head closer still. "I always do."

Harry's breaths stuttered. "You do," he repeated, hardly louder than a whisper.

Tom kissed him. It was gentle at first, sweet and warm against Harry's lips. Tom was always careful with him. Careful not to go too fast or take things too far. Still, Harry found kissing to be awkward, as much as he enjoyed it. He never knew what to do with himself, and so it was a relief when Tom took charge.

But even with that, there was an undercurrent of oddness when they kissed. It wasn't normal to kiss someone with only half their body resting on top of your dresser. Sometimes, Tom tasted faintly of glass and metal. Harry felt guilty whenever he was reminded that Tom was not quite with him. Despite the progress of their relationship, they were not properly together.

Harry often worried over what would happen between them if Tom was never able to leave the mirror. Already they had discovered that Tom could not spend prolonged periods of time outside. It drained him to do so, not that they would ever tell the Dursleys that. Tom claimed he was building a tolerance for it, and Harry didn't doubt this, but it was still not a permanent solution.

Tom nipped at Harry's lower lip. A tiny bite of teeth that carried Harry back to reality. To the way Tom looked at him with desire. Tom wanted him. No one had ever wanted him before.

Harry loved Tom with all his heart, but if Tom could not leave the mirror, they would be forced to continue on like this—with only a taste of what a full life together could look like. Tom would not be content with that. It would break Harry's heart to know that Tom's brilliance would be forever lost. Life in the mirror was not enough. Not for someone like Tom, who had aspirations and the talent to achieve them.

Tom pulled away and lifted both hands to Harry's face. "Are you alright, love? You seem distant today."

Harry pried Tom's hands off of him and held them, rubbing his thumbs over Tom's knuckles. "Sorry. I was lost in my head again."

Tom tsked lightly. "I suppose I shall endeavour to distract you better, then." He leant across to nuzzle against Harry's jawline. Harry could feel the ghost of Tom's breath waft down his neck and collarbone.

Suddenly, Harry had an overwhelming urge to crush their bodies together, so much as was possible for them to do so. So he wrapped Tom up in an awkward hug, burying his face into Tom's hair. This could not end badly between them. After all of the tragedies they had suffered, this could not end badly.

"I love you, Tom. I love you no matter what happens."

Tom went still. Then he folded Harry into his embrace, one of his hands holding Harry's head against his shoulder, cradling it. "I will always be with you," Tom promised fiercely. "Even if it is only like this."

As Harry's seventeenth birthday neared, the Dursleys grew restless. Anytime Aunt Petunia entered a room to find Tom there, she looked like she wanted to faint.

Harry didn't care anymore. He had lived in fear for nearly fifteen years of his life in his house. Whatever Tom did to keep them in line, whatever injury he inflicted, it represented only a fraction of the abuse that Harry had endured. The endless chores and insults from his aunt, the beatings from his uncle, the bullying from Dudley and his friends.

Tom's existence at Privet Drive grew bolder with each passing day, week, and month. He worked tirelessly at pushing his limits, determined as he was to be free of his prison.

Then, one day, Tom emerged from the mirror entirely.

"It's too early," was the first thing Tom said as Harry stumbled into his arms.

It took Harry far too long to squash his joy down. There was moisture building up in his eyes. "What? What do you mean? Tom, you're free—"

"It hasn't been seven years yet." Tom paused, his arms tightening around Harry's waist. "When you broke the mirror in the entrance hall, it was in the middle of winter. It's hardly July."

Tom was right. Of course, he was right. "Maybe it's early?"

"I can feel the pull. I'm still connected." Tom planted a kiss atop Harry's forehead, right over the messy bangs. "But I'm grateful to have you in my arms all the same."

Harry hid his face against the side of Tom's neck. Breathed in the sterile scents that he associated with Tom's embrace. "I am, too."

Tom's hand swept up and down his back, rubbing slow circles. "Why don't we head downstairs and visit your lovely relatives? I think such a momentous occasion ought to be shared."

Harry lifted his head enough to stare into Tom's deep red eyes. "The Dursleys?"

"Yes." Tom was staring over Harry's head at one of the many mirrors in the room. He was smiling at their reflections, joined together at last in a real embrace. "Won't they be so pleased to see me in a corporeal form?"

Harry didn't answer, but he did cling to Tom, squeezing Tom's waist and snuggling close.

"I've been limited in many ways until this moment," Tom continued, "but now, I believe we can have some real fun." He leant back so he could trace the tip of his index finger down Harry's cheek. "I promised you they would pay for your suffering, Harry. I keep my promises."

"You've done plenty," Harry assured him. He bumped his nose against Tom's jawline. "You've done a lot for me, Tom."

"It will feel good," Tom crooned. "I promise it will. You won't have to lift a finger, my love. I'll do all the work. You need only watch and take pleasure from their misery." He kissed Harry's cheek, then the corner of his mouth. "The delivery of justice by my hand."

Harry shivered, his hands balling in the stiff fabric of Tom's shirt as anxiety knotted in his chest. "People will notice, won't they? People will hear them."

"I'll be careful. No one will know except for us. Isn't that how it goes for them?" Tom's voice went cold. "No marks in visible places, nothing serious enough to require the hospital. Isn't that what they did to you? I'll cover my tracks, Harry. I'm much cleverer than they are. Nothing bad will happen. Don't you trust me?"

"Okay. I trust you." Harry tucked his face back into Tom's shoulder and breathed in.

Tom's hand threaded through Harry's hair, petting gently. "Perfect. Let's go downstairs."

Harry was released from Tom's embrace. Their hands joined, their fingers woven together. Tom led Harry to the door.

Everything was going to be fine.

A/N:

yeah yeah a third chapter. no one here is surprised except for me, in a perpetual state of surprised-ness over my inability to keep things short ha