A/N:
this story is dedicated to the lovely, intelligent, and talented minryll. a very happy birthday to you!
thank you for always being so encouraging. you make the universe a better place with your art and your ideas; never stop creating new things, because the world needs to see them!
this story is part of the professor/vigilante universe, and it will make not a lot of sense if you haven't read the previous installments.
Someone Who Loves You
.
September 1995
.
Harry trailed behind his friends as they boarded the train. Meeting at the platform had been awkward, to say the least. Not because of Ginny, but because of literally everyone else around them. His and Ginny's break up had been mutual, but people were determined to tiptoe around as though one of them was about to snap and start tossing insults.
Summer with Ginny had been nice. It was just that 'nice' was the only word that really described it. They had a good time and got along well, but Harry hadn't felt anything more than fondness for her. Ginny had agreed, and so they'd broken it off together.
And really, everything would have been perfectly, completely fine if Harry had not gone and told his friends about it.
So Harry was partly to blame when the entire Weasley clan found out about his and Ginny's 'whirlwind summer romance', but the real problem had come from the fact that, for some unfathomable reason, all of their friends and family really wanted him and Ginny to keep on dating. Like if the two of them could only have a conversation and talk things out, all of their supposed problems would go away despite Ginny's vocal protests that there had not been any problems to begin with.
All that had led to Harry being in a rather anti-social mood as they got on the train.
Luckily, Ron and Hermione had picked up on this fact and were letting him sulk. Unluckily, this meant that they were only interacting with each other. Though they were dating, Harry felt that not much else had actually changed about their relationship other than the fact that they now sometimes ended disagreements in snogging rather than silent treatments.
"There's plenty of compartments, Hermione," Ron said, exasperated. "Or we're going to be late. Come on! It doesn't matter where we sit."
"I just want it to be accessible!" Hermione said, tugging at where her hand was joined with Ron's. "So students know where to find us later on if they need help."
"It's not like we'll have a sign on the front that says 'Gryffindor Prefects Here'!"
Harry tuned out their bickering and veered into a compartment, pinching Ron's robe sleeve and dragging him along. As expected, this had the effect of dragging Hermione along as well. Harry set his bag up on the top rack and sat down, gazing at his two best friends expectantly.
Hermione huffed, clutching her satchel close, and made no move to sit. "This one will do," she said, after a moment.
"Sure," Ron said. "It's perfect. Harry has great taste in train compartments."
"We'll finish our rounds as soon as we can, and then we'll be back," Hermione said haughtily, brushing at her sleeves.
Harry snorted. "Yeah, no worries. See you guys later."
Ron's expression turned sympathetic, and he reached over to squeeze Harry's shoulder before departing. As the compartment door slid shut, Harry sighed. His friends were amazing, but they were a bit dense. He didn't mind that they'd both gotten the Prefect positions. Merlin knew that he'd need all the time he could get to study for his OWLs.
Speaking of which—
Harry stood back up and retrieved a book from his bag. For once in his life, he had decided to start on his readings early. Time to see how long that determination would last.
.
Present Day
.
As the school term draws to a close, Harry is greeted with the seasonal spectacle of Tom trying to mark all of his long-answer exams in the space of two weeks.
They've been working here for over a decade, and Tom has yet to change his ways. Harry has given up on trying to put a dent in the behaviour and has resigned himself to two weeks of a grumpy, mildly-stressed husband.
All Harry can really do during this trying time is keep Tom's tea mug full, and drape Sirius' ugly quilt over Tom's shoulders when he inevitably falls asleep on the couch.
One evening, Tom's head is slumped over on his desk as he snores. Harry debates on waking him—the hour is early, and it can't be comfortable to sleep hunched over like that. The problem is that if Tom does wake, he'll insist on going back to work, and Harry doesn't want that.
Harry watches as Tom twitches, hair falling onto his face as his head turns to the side. The wholesome simplicity of this movement is what prompts Harry to step over and place his left hand on Tom's shoulder.
"Hey," Harry says. "Tom?"
Tom stirs to wakefulness immediately, eyes blinking open as he sits up, leaning back against Harry's hand. "Mmmm? What time is it?"
"Time for you to change into some pyjamas, maybe," Harry says, rubbing his hand across Tom's shoulder blades. "Sleepyhead."
Tom coughs. Harry suspects he might be holding back a yawn.
"I have marking to do," Tom says.
Harry glances down at the desk. It's not a stack of student exams, as he'd expected. It's the journal he'd gotten Tom for Christmas two years ago. The date is marked clearly on the top of the page, followed by a blurry photograph of the two of them from their fifth year.
Most of Harry's fondest memories of studying at Hogwarts had taken place that year. This particular photo holds a lot of personal meaning, which is why Harry had chosen to keep it despite its blurriness.
Upon closer inspection of the journal, Harry realizes the date at the top of the page is not actually today's date. This is Tom's entry for September first, this year, which means that Tom must have opened to this page to look at the photograph.
.
September 1995
.
Harry was dozing in his seat when someone rapped smartly on the compartment door, startling him onto the floor, his glasses going askew. While Harry grasped for purchase on the floor, he heard the door opening and someone stepping into the room.
"Harry, I didn't mean to startle you—"
Hands clasped gently around Harry's forearms and pulled him up. Harry fumbled with his glasses and brought Tom's face into focus. "Tom?"
"In the flesh."
Harry straightened up, adjusting his jumper, knowing that his cheeks were likely aflame. A shy glance revealed that Tom was taller, lankier than Harry remembered him being. Much like the result of Ron's growth spurt, only Tom's shoulders were not as broad, and there was a certain elegance in the way that Tom carried himself, straight-backed and proud. Tom had also changed into his Hogwarts robes, and there was a shiny Prefect's badge pinned to his chest.
"You're a Prefect," Harry said without thinking.
"I am." Tom preened a bit, his head tilting back, but then he quickly sobered, his expression serious as he added, "I saw Granger and Weasley. It's unfortunate. You should have gotten the position, Harry—"
Harry had to interrupt before Tom got carried away. "It's fine, Tom. I wasn't looking to be a Prefect, honestly. Everyone seems to think it's something I should be sad about. I'm happy for Ron, and I think he really deserves it."
Tom appeared to mull this over for a second, and then he went back to smiling. "Then I'm glad my condolences are unnecessary."
"Don't you have rounds to make?" Harry asked, eyeing the badge pinned to Tom's robes.
"I thought I'd come by and see you," Tom said, raising a brow. "Making rounds involves all students, you understand."
Harry couldn't help but grin at that. "I see. Wouldn't want to be shirking our high and mighty Prefect duties on the first day. For all you know, I could have maybe, I dunno, fallen onto the floor like an idiot and needed a hand up."
Tom laughed. The sound was warm and friendly and familiar, and Harry was suddenly very glad that he'd been half-asleep when Tom had come in, because otherwise he would have missed out on making the stupid joke that Tom had found funny.
The atmosphere sobered as Tom's face fell back into its usual composed expression, his eyes dark and serious. Tom could be so attentive with his gaze, it was almost unnerving.
Tom licked his lips, then said, "On a more serious note: you're hardly an idiot, Harry. I think you're a good deal smarter than you give yourself credit for."
Harry was sure he was failing to hold back his blush, because Tom smiled at him and added on, "But if you do happen to fall on the floor again, I believe I could be convinced to lend another hand."
.
Present Day
.
Harry has managed to wrangle Tom into his pyjamas. Harry has not, however, convinced his darling husband to come to bed. Tom refuses to move away from his desk.
"Ten more exams," Tom says.
"No."
"It won't take me long, Harry. An hour or so, and then you can have as much of my attention as you wish." Tom smiles, sugar sweet, and runs his hand down Harry's arm.
"No."
"...Five exams."
"No exams!"
Tom pouts and plants a kiss on Harry's cheek. "Three exams. Then I will be finished with my second-year students."
Harry deliberates, does the mental math, figures that Tom had probably worked his way down to this specific number because he knew that it would be more palatable.
"No," Harry says. "And if you try, then you're sleeping on the couch. You've been at this all week, Tom. You need to take a break."
"Fine. A short break, and then I'll finish those exams." Tom takes his hand and laces their fingers together, then drags Harry towards the couch.
Harry smiles, lets Tom curl his taller form behind him so they can cuddle. Tom clings like an octopus, long arms tucked around Harry's waist, fingers tickling at the ribcage.
"Your hands are so cold," Harry complains, squirming.
"Put on more clothes, then," Tom retorts. Then he places his entire left hand, palm flat, against the thin fabric of Harry's t-shirt.
Harry makes an undignified noise at the chill of it and feels Tom laugh into his hair. "Evil git," Harry says, twisting around so he can glare in Tom's direction.
"Hmm. You wanted me to take a break," Tom murmurs. "I'm just enjoying myself like you wanted me to."
"Everything with you is secretly a nefarious plot," Harry says with a sigh, slumping back against Tom's chest, grabbing Tom's cold hand and rubbing it with his thumb and fingers. "I should know better by now."
.
September 1995
.
Tom eventually left the compartment to tend to his Prefect duties. Harry couldn't stop thinking about him.
It was unfair, Harry thought, that the one time he'd tried to actually read ahead, not only had he fallen asleep, but he'd been utterly distracted by Tom's random arrival.
Tom was… handsome. And he had a nice smile, when he saw fit to use it properly. A real smile, not the bland one he flashed at Professor Slughorn, or the sneering one he used amongst his fellow Slytherins. The smile that Harry liked seeing was the one Tom wore when they were looking at each other, as corny as it sounded.
It felt special, seeing that smile. Knowing that Tom felt comfortable enough to be himself when they were together.
Someone in the compartment across the way gave a sudden shout, drawing Harry's attention. But whatever was going on there, it wasn't anything to do with him, so he ignored it.
It was then he noticed that Tom's scarf was in a heap on the seat across from him. Tom must have put it down when he'd gone to pull Harry up from the floor.
Harry scooped the scarf up. Green and silver stripes, the Slytherin patch adhered on one of the ends. There was a vestige of warmth in the fabric, and Harry wondered idly if it carried any scent. He'd been too dazed and embarrassed earlier to notice if Tom was wearing cologne. Usually they weren't close enough for Harry to be able to tell that sort of thing, and Tom likely didn't wear it all the time. The last time Harry remembered smelling it had been the night of the Yule Ball last year.
Last year. It seemed like ages and ages ago, now that he thought about it. He'd danced with Tom that night, only the one time. And… and Harry had always wished that they'd gone for another one, because Tom had been wonderful, had danced so well, and he'd smelled so nice, and—
Harry bit down on his lip, hard enough that there was a tiny jolt of pain to distract himself from the daydream of dancing with Tom Riddle under the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall.
Harry wished, mostly, that he had not said yes to being Cedric Diggory's date. Because then he could have gone with Tom, and they could have had every dance together that night instead of just the one.
The scarf hung limp in his hand as he rubbed his thumb over it. Maybe… maybe he ought to go and return this to Tom. It would be the right thing to do, after all. The Gryffindor thing to do. The train was rather chilly, and if Tom got sick, he wouldn't be able to tend to his Prefect duties. Harry knew that being Prefect was important to Tom. Tom had talked about it all the time last year, how he was going to snatch the title away from Malfoy.
Tom did deserve the title. He had excellent grades and never set a foot out of line in public. Tom did get up to other things that Harry did not quite approve of, but Harry did understand that Slytherin house was not the same as Gryffindor house. That Tom had a deep-rooted need to prove himself to his peers, no matter the cost.
But studying dark magic wasn't the same as using it. At least, this was how Harry justified it. If he did ever see Tom doing such things, he would tell Tom to quit it. Sirius had lectured him extensively on the perils of dark magic, on what it did to the soul, and Harry wouldn't ever let Tom fall down the violent path that so many of Sirius' relatives had succumbed to.
.
Present Day
.
Lying in Tom's arms is making Harry sleepy. Which is not the desired result, because if he falls asleep, then Tom will go back to his marking. So he has to stay awake.
Tom, jerk that he is, is humming softly under his breath and scratching soothing patterns into Harry's scalp. A gigantic jerk. Harry is married to a horrible, evil jerk.
"I know what you're doing," Harry says. He will not yawn, he will not yawn. "This is another evil plot, and it will not work on me."
"Do tell," Tom says, sounding amused. "What am I being accused of this time?"
"Trying to lure me to sleep, obviously."
"I believe that is what you were attempting to do," Tom says. "You made me change into pyjamas."
"It's called association," Harry mumbles. "Associate pyjamas with sleep."
"Clever of you," Tom says. "But I am far above succumbing to sleep simply because I'm dressed in my pyjamas."
"Lame." A yawn rises up in his chest, and Harry is unable to stop it from escaping. It comes out sounding kind of funny because of his half-aborted attempt, like he's a dying Blast-Ended Skrewt rather than a reluctantly sleepy wizard.
"Maybe you should go to bed," Tom whispers, and Harry can feel the subtle vibration of the words passing over the top of his head.
"Nope," Harry says, making a point to raise his voice. "Only if you go to bed with me."
Tom presses the side of his face against Harry's head, exhales a soft sigh. Harry likes these moments of intimacy. They're calming, like he's floating away on a Tom-shaped cloud.
"You're ridiculous," Tom says.
"It's my job to look after you," Harry says. "It's in the job description of being married to you. I should know because I'm the one who wrote it up. I wrote the book on—" Harry has to pause to stifle another huge yawn. "On being your husband."
"You would be the expert," Tom says fondly, and resumes stroking a hand through Harry's hair. "You're the one who knows me inside and out."
Harry pulls Tom's other hand back onto his lap so he can hold it. "Lots to know," Harry says.
How Tom looks while he sleeps, how Tom speaks when he's passionate about a subject. What Tom's favourite foods are (fruits, ripe and sweet, bursting with flavour; oranges, mostly, but also grapes), what Tom's comfort foods are (oatmeal with a sprinkling of brown sugar; slightly-burnt toast with butter; mildly self-flagellating, reminiscent of his time at the orphanage). The people Tom loves, aside from him: their family, their friends. Their students and their coworkers.
How Tom had once claimed to never love anything or anyone else, only Harry, and how Harry knows that's not true, because the real truth of it is that Tom has always been afraid to love other people.
Tom had lived with rejection his entire childhood: unwanted by his father, who had abandoned him; ignored by the adoptive parents, who had never chosen him; hated by the other orphans, who had shunned him.
So Harry had gone out of his way to look at Tom, to really see him, to be kind and to acknowledge the person that Tom was, the person that existed outside of the house of snakes and the unremarkable surname.
During their years together as students, Harry had been upset and disheartened to realize that he was probably the first and only person who had ever done this, who had treated Tom like a person to be loved, and so he'd made it his mission to ensure Tom would never go without that feeling ever again.
.
September 1995
.
Harry was having a hard time finding Tom. The train was long and crowded, and Harry had never made a habit of walking around on it by himself when it was in motion. He could have knocked on some compartments and asked if anyone knew where Tom was, but that just seemed awkward for reasons that Harry could not quite name. He would find Tom and return his scarf, and he would not need anyone's help while he did so.
"Did you need help, Harry?" asked Colin. "I can come with you!"
"Um, thanks, Colin. But I think I'll be fine on my own."
"Okay!" Colin's wide eyes were round, like dinner plates. "Just let me know if you need anything at all! I got a new camera this summer, do you want to see—?"
"Later for sure," Harry said hastily. "I need to find Tom, yeah? Thanks, though."
Colin was nice enough, but he was a tad nosy at times. Harry didn't mind when Colin tagged along to his Quidditch practices and things, but it was odd to be the subject of such hero-worship when Harry didn't feel he'd done much to deserve it.
"Tom's scarf?" Ginny asked when she saw him. Her face was fairly neutral, but there was a mischievous glint in her eyes that Harry recognized all too well.
"Yeah," Harry said. "He left it in my compartment by mistake. So I'm going to return it to him."
"How chivalrous," Ginny said, smiling. "Be sure to tell him I said hello."
And so Harry's journey had continued on. If he was being honest, he expected to find Tom in a compartment full of people because Tom was rather popular and had a good number of friends, even if Tom said he didn't really consider them all to be his friends.
Which Harry didn't quite understand, because friends were friends, and they all seemed to get along very well. It was okay, though, because Tom said that the two of them were friends, said it very often, and that made Harry feel special, to be considered a friend by someone who claimed to not have many.
So it was a surprise when he ran into Tom in the middle of one of the open sections of the train, standing by himself.
"Harry," said Tom as their eyes caught. "Did you need something?"
Harry held out the Slytherin's scarf. He'd been holding it this entire time, actually. It was now warm for different reasons than before...
"Ah." Tom stepped forward, placed a hand on the scarf. Their hands were touching as Tom's fingers closed around the wooly fabric. "Thank you. I hadn't realized I'd forgotten it."
Harry hesitated a moment too long in letting go; Tom tugged on the scarf, and Harry stumbled a step forward. Now they were only a short distance apart.
"Sorry," Harry said, feeling that familiar blush rising to his cheeks. But his fingers wouldn't unlock from the scarf—he was frozen in place, pinned under the weight of Tom's gaze.
Gently, Tom pried the scarf from Harry's hand, unravelled the loop of it, and draped it carefully around Harry's neck and shoulders, keeping hold of one end in each of his hands as he did so.
"Harry?" Tom asked. "I wanted to ask you something."
Harry had heard this question before. He'd heard this very question last year, before the Yule Ball. Tom had said this before asking Harry to be his date, and Harry had been forced to say no.
But this time, he could say yes. Harry could say yes to whatever Tom was about to ask him. His breath caught in his chest, pinned there along with his silly daydreams and silent yearnings. If Tom asked, then Harry would choose him; it was that simple.
"Yeah?" Harry said, not quite daring to hope lest he be sorely disappointed.
But Tom did not disappoint.
Tom asked, in a low tone that carried only to Harry's ears, "Would you do me the honour of being my boyfriend?"
.
Present Day
.
The good thing about being the little spoon is that if Tom tries to move and leave, there's a decent chance that the sudden motion will cause Harry to wake up. So Harry just has to splay himself out like a particularly stubborn starfish on top of Tom's body and hope that the multiple points of physical contact will serve to keep him wide awake.
"I only want to finish three more exams," Tom says. "It's not that much to ask for."
"No more argument," Harry tells him. "Cuddles only. That's my new rule. Only cuddles on the couch. No talk of work, no doing work. This is a work-free zone." He secures Tom's arm more firmly across his chest to punctuate his sentence. If Tom's arm falls asleep in this position, then all the better.
"You work on the couch all the time."
"And now I won't! Because of the new rule! Honestly, Tom, at least try and keep up."
"I'll just do them once you fall asleep," Tom says.
"I knew it," Harry chants. "I knew it, I knew it. Evil scheme. Nice try, but I'm not going to go to sleep."
Tom brushes his knuckles against Harry's collarbone. "If you insist."
They lie there a while longer. Harry can feel the gentle rise and fall of Tom's chest, can hear the soft sound of Tom's breath in his ear. A special lullaby just for him. It is then that Harry decides it's better to keep talking so his mind can stay engaged in wakefulness.
"Least it's only two more weeks," Harry says with a grumble. "Then we'll have all summer off."
"Sirius keeps telling me he has plans again, whatever that means," Tom complains. "I'm worried he's going to send us to Australia and abandon us there to the local wildlife."
"Are you a wizard or not?" Harry asks rhetorically.
"I am sensible, " Tom says in return.
Harry scoffs. "I'll tell Sirius that you're afraid of the honey badger."
"Ah, but you've only uncovered my nefarious plot," Tom says in his most officious voice. "When we arrive, I plan to feed you to the honey badgers. The perfect murder, as no one will suspect the distraught, grieving widower."
"Yes," Harry says. "I can imagine you crying many convincing tears at my funeral."
Tom presses a kiss to Harry's head, his embrace tightening just a fraction. "The performance of a lifetime would be if I were to try not to cry."
Harry hums in agreement, touched by the words. "Aww. I knew you would miss me! That's really sweet, Tom."
Tom snorts and says nothing, then extricates his arm from Harry's grasp and waves a lazy hand in the direction of his desk.
"Hey! I said no work!" Harry protests, struggling to sit up so he can intercept the object flying towards them.
"Relax. It's just my journal." Tom pulls Harry back down on top of him, then catches the journal mid-flight after it floats over to them.
Harry settles back down, watches as Tom opens up the cover and flips idly through the pages. "I saw you were looking at September first."
"It was a special day," Tom muses, dropping the journal onto Harry's lap, holding it open to that very day so many years ago. A day that Harry would hold dear for the rest of his life.
.
September 1995
.
"You want me to be your boyfriend?" Harry asked, dumbfounded. Because while that had been what he'd wanted to hear… he hadn't expected to actually hear it.
Tom maintained eye contact, but his face flushed faintly with colour. "Yes, Harry. You heard me quite correctly."
"I—yes," Harry said, stumbling over the words. "Absolutely, yes." The 'yes' he wished he could have given last year.
"Yes?" Tom repeated, blinking, and then his brows lowered from their mild incredulity, his eyes glinting with pride as his lips stretched out into the most beautiful smile.
"Yes," Harry said fervently, closing the distance, grasping Tom by the shoulders and pulling him in for a kiss.
They were both smiling, and so their teeth knocked together a little awkwardly at first, but it was the best kiss Harry had ever had. When they drew apart, Tom's hands dropped the ends of his scarf and held Harry by the waist.
Some of the other people in the compartment had started to cheer, and Harry saw rather than heard the brilliant flash of a camera.
But pulling away to turn and look was the last thing on his mind, because Tom was watching him with the most profound expression, with such fondness that Harry blushed at the intimacy of it. Tom had never looked like that before, not at him, not at anyone.
When Tom looked upon him like that, like Harry had hung the moon and the stars and dragged the very sun into the sky above them, Harry felt that they were the only two people on this entire train, if not in all of Great Britain.
And his heart felt full. It felt right. Like his heart had been meant for Tom all along, and it was now settling into place while Tom's hands slid to grab his, holding them together.
It was the perfect moment.
Which was, of course, followed by Colin's loud declaration of—
"I got the photo, Harry! Tom! I caught it with my camera, do you want to see it?"
Tom's face went grumpy at having the moment interrupted, and he withdrew partially so he could glare over Harry's shoulder.
Harry moved to intervene before Tom committed murder, but even so, Tom's hands held tight to his, and Harry couldn't help it as his mouth curled into another brilliant, sappy smile.
.
Present Day
.
Though the photo had been taken on the crowded, moving train, Colin had actually done a swell job of catching the correct moment. The angle was a tad lacking, meaning that more of the back of Harry's head was visible rather than his face, but he and Tom were obviously in each other's arms, and even more obviously were in the middle of a pretty amazing kiss.
"You weren't the one facing the camera," Tom grouses. "I was blinded by the glare."
"We're lucky Colin was there," Harry says, unimpressed. "And to think I told him not to help."
Tom shifts in place. "We could have stored the memory in a Pensieve."
Harry ignores Tom's lame attempts at excuses and holds the journal up so that Tom is forced to look at it. "Any particular reason you wanted to stroll down memory lane of that day?"
Tom makes a neutral sound. "No particular reason."
A sudden urge for sentiment, maybe. Harry knows his daft husband can get into sulky moods where extra care and attention is needed. What Tom often forgets is that all he needs to do is ask.
Harry sets the journal aside and squirms, rolling over until he's on his side, peering up at Tom's face. "I want to go to sleep now," Harry declares.
"Wonderful. I'll see you off to bed, then."
"You're coming with me," Harry says pleasantly. Patiently.
Tom squints, likely to gauge Harry's seriousness and see how much pushing he can get away with. Which will not be much because Harry now has his mind set on his current course of action.
"I want," Harry says, breathing out the words, placing his hand flat against Tom's pyjama-clad chest, right where the heart beats, "to go to bed with my husband's arms wrapped around me."
Tom's face struggles with its composure, flickering from hesitation to pride to desire.
Harry doesn't play coy very often. Tom certainly does it enough for the both of them. But what Harry does know is that if he pouts enough, if he flirts and charms Tom's ego well enough, then he'll get his way. Because Tom has a hard time saying no to him when they're intimate, regardless of if the intimacy is physical or emotional.
It's a very dangerous weapon to wield, but Harry never uses it often, instead preferring to coax and persuade in other ways.
Tonight, however, Harry feels like indulging.
"Please?" Harry asks, eyes wide. And then he juts out his lower lip, just a little, just enough to draw Tom's gaze.
Tom grumbles something unintelligible.
Harry shifts up and presses a kiss to Tom's jawline. "See? Sleep can have its rewards."
That tugs forth a reluctant smile. Tom's eyes crinkle slightly around the edges, his gaze warm, his amusement clear in the way he cants his head to the side.
Harry beams, pleased by the reaction, and plants a quick kiss on Tom's lips before he sits up, tugging on Tom's hands as he does so.
"Bed time," Harry says, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.
Tom sits up, lets Harry pull him to his feet. Then he pulls at their joined hands until Harry is close enough for an embrace. Their arms slide around each other, like puzzle pieces locking into place, and Harry rests his head on Tom's shoulder.
They sway slightly, almost like they're dancing, and Harry reaches up to card a hand through Tom's hair.
Harry is the only person in the world who gets to do this, who gets to hold Tom like this, tender and trusting.
Harry knows that Tom has all the room in the world inside of his heart, room for loving other people. It was a room that Harry had helped open up: clearing the cobwebs and filling the space with cozy rugs and armchairs. Making a home in the heart that Tom had always been afraid to use.
Their lives are full, and Harry will never want for anything. There is nothing that Tom wouldn't provide for him, if he were to ask.
And though Harry counts his blessings in all the little moments of their beautiful life—mentoring their students, having luncheons with their friends and family, pranking Sirius through the Floo—it's moments like these, the two of them just wrapped up together, when Harry is glad that the largest piece of Tom's heart will always be his.
.
END.
A/N:
thank you for reading! these two always have a soft spot in my heart :')
happy birthday again to minryll, hope this was suitably fluffy!
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