WARNINGS:

World War 2 holocaust references, mature language and suicidal themes. READER DISRECTION IS ADVISED.

A/N: so, a few things to mention:

- bare research, i am a lazy fuck so i shifted the timelines a bit

- tom doesn't murder anyone before his fifth year

- he's also overpowered

- no, it is NOT my intention to idealize or romanticize fucking WW2.

- romanitcizing abusive/manipulative relationships is also not my cup of tea so yes tom will be OOC

- i don't own harry potter. JK Rowling does.

- this is a crack fic taken seriously. enjoy!

Venice, Italy. 1947. The second World War had ended. Celebrations and festivities hung in the cold, nocturnal air. There was crowd of chatter and ease among the people, despite knowing that peace negotiations weren't easy. The fascist Prime Minister was dead and these people of Italy rejoiced. The allies had already begun rebuilding. The people were happy, relieved that there was no more fighting, no more hiding.

There was no longer the reeking scent of death and gunpowder in the air, no longer were the dried paints on protests and signs and marching, it was over.

A young handsome man clad in a cloak weaves through the crowd holding a bouquet of flowers, he ignores the stares of young women as he hurries up the Ponte de Rialto bridge over the Grand Canal. Despite the sea of crowds, he spots someone immediately, as if seeing her for the first time again all those years ago. But she's not leaving this time. She's here, waiting for him—leaning against the railing of the bridge, staring at the night sky.

The corners of his lips twitching upwards, sauntering over and hugging her from her back, the flowers on her face.

The woman doesn't look back, she doesn't flinch or break away—instead, she lets herself melt in his arms and coffee-scented coat and flowers, all too familiar with him and every inch of him, she knows him, and he knows her.

"Those for me?" she asked, giving a lop-sided grin, the bouquet now in her hands.

"Who else?" his muffled voice asked, his head burying on her neck.

The woman laughed, setting the bouquet aside and turning around, his hands on her hips, their lips almost touching, warm eyes stare with nervous smiles on red ears and cheeks. They're not used to this. But they can learn to be. And they want to.

"Where to next?" she whispered.

The man merely mused, taking his time to reply as he watches her stare up at him, with the glistening canal behind her and the light of the moon with a distant lamp silhouette her. His love.

She stared up at him seeing his goofy smile and contemplating eyes as she awaits his answer. Her love. They'd travel around the world together, see the magic in different countries. They could go anywhere as long as they are with each other. Though he knows she'd always been dreaming of seeing the aurora borealis.

"Maybe Norway, I hear the northern lights are beautiful this year," he says, knowing she knows he planned that.

She pauses. For a moment. A wave of déjà vu flooded her senses. "I…"

Immediately, he knows. "Is there something wrong?" he asked, concerned as he pulled back. "Hey, look at me."

He placed his hands on her cheeks, "If you don't like the cold, it's fine. We can go to Asia next it you'd like."

Always so caring over the so little details.

She shook her head, "No, no, I can handle the cold. I survived that one blizzard in sixth year, didn't I?"

The man pursed his lips, hiding a smile with the prickling red on his cheeks and ears.

"Yes, I do remember us cuddling for the first time," he reminisces.

There were distant memories of emerald curtains and cushioned seats, of mahogany wood desks and cushioned seats and prickling fire, of parchment and ink under the musk of dust and old books.

The smile returned to her face, "So, Norway it is?"

"If anything ever happens, stay with me always. Even though I know you're capable—you're so needlessly reckless. Understand?"

His concern is so touching, it tugged the corners of her lips.

"As you wish, my lord," she playfully teased, holding his soft and gentle hand.

He gently pushed her. They laughed to themselves, their foreheads touching and barely seeing each other through fluttering lashes. They share a small kiss. A memory engraved in their hearts and souls.

He murmurs. Oh so quietly but so loud her heart would thrum in mellifluous melody. Three little words with big meanings.

"Happy birthday, Andrea."

"Thank you, Tom

Neither believe that they deserve this idyllic joy, but relish in doing whatever they can for other. For their beliefs be it known that the other deserves the world—not knowing they already have it.