A/N: You wonderful, wonderful readers. Here's the promised morning after.

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Harry woke. The soft, diffused glow of predawn was just bright enough for him to make out Tom's blurred shape beside him. Harry stared at the outline of his face, his arm, his bare shoulder, before gently rising. He slipped on his glasses, donned some clothes from the floor and quietly left the room, easing the door shut behind him.

His mind was blank. Shock, he deduced as he exited the house, crisp morning air hitting his face. He was in shock.

He felt that he'd fallen into a dream. A spell. Any moment, he or Tom would shatter it, would realize the night's frenzy was due to some poisonous pollen and return to the safety of their separate corners.

Without a destination in mind, Harry made his way around the house and into the orchard, the dew-covered grass chilling his toes. He took stock of himself. There was a tenderness deep inside him that elicited a memory of Tom's fingers touching him there … slipping inside him … moving against a part of him that made fireworks explode. At the time, Harry had felt that Tom had dipped his other hand straight through his chest cavity, taking hold of his heart and clenching it so he could not breathe. Could not think. Could only feel.

His whole body tingled with the ghosts of Tom's kisses. He had placed them everywhere — ankles, knees, the line of his spine, each knuckle of each finger. Harry never would have believed Tom Riddle would be so very good at kissing.

He had been overwhelmed. Overpowered. Barely staying afloat as sensation after sensation rendered him breathless. His voice deserted him completely when Tom flashed a wicked grin, that mouth descending down onto his —

Harry clutched the orchard wall for stability, legs quivering.

Get a grip, Potter.

Hands on knees, Harry focused on breathing. How had this happened? How had he spiraled into the tornado that was Tom Riddle?

Fingers tugging. Heart racing. "Upstairs."

Harry was shaken. The more he looked upon the memory of last night, the more terrified he became. Why, a voice shrieked inside his head. Why? Harry had no answer for it. He was fifteen again, trembling before the Wizengamot except it was himself who glared down upon him from the raised benches. Himself demanding an answer. He wished for the stunned numbness to return. He wished to forget, but the tenderness inside him wouldn't let him. Now that he'd noticed it, he felt that he would never be rid of it, every shift, every movement a reminder of what he'd done. What he'd let be done to him. What Tom had done.

Tom.

The stares. The silences. The sly touches that lingered on the skin long after fingers moved away. The banter that now didn't resemble banter at all but flirting. How long had Tom wanted him that way? When had it begun? When, in the deep recesses of Harry's own mind, had a matched longing sparked into life? A longing he would have sworn had never existed and yet the moment Tom's lips were against his Harry melted, a door seeming to open inside him, releasing a person Harry did not recognize, a person who'd taken charge of his mind and body with a euphoric, drawn out yes.

He'd moaned.

He'd clung.

He'd kissed and kissed and kissed.

Harry blushed down to his roots. Memories flooded him, demanding attention. He stumbled back against the garden wall as if they were physical fingers, poking and prodding. But Harry didn't want to think. He didn't want to think about why or how or with whom it had been with. He turned to the beach.

A walk was all he needed. A walk would put this insanity to rights.

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Two circuits of the island and Harry was no less wired. This was how he felt after a hard-won Quidditch match – heart pumping, blood electric, fingertips tingling. But instead of a death-defying dive, it was Tom who kept him from settling.

The wind on the beach tore at him. Harry sought sanctuary in the boathouse. He sat, watching the sunrise color the open water in ripples of magenta and not taking in any of it, too consumed with how Tom's lips felt against his own.

If Harry could have sprung up a tent and camped out on the beach, he would have. His stomach gave a traitorous grumble and he knew he couldn't put off the encounter any longer. There was no hiding from Tom forever. Not on such a small island. Not in a house without locks.

When Harry entered, he lingered in the doorway, listening intently. No sounds of movement greeted him. The lamps and candles in the entrance hall, kitchen and common room remained unlit. He saw to the boiler and when it was blisteringly hot, he cautiously climbed the stairs, holding his breath. When he reached his bedroom, he paused; the door was still shut.

Harry felt sick with nerves. Why had he let it happen?Why had he pulled Tom close instead of push him away? Why hadn't he been revolted? Horrified?

Upstairs.

Harry shivered.

One kiss. One kiss had turned into a thousand.

Maybe Tom would pretend it had never happened, Harry thought as he shut himself into the bathroom, the possibility both attractive and sour. He had no idea what he would be like now. The man Harry thought he'd known so very well was suddenly a stranger. Lord Voldemort would never have looked at Harry the way Tom had last night. He never would have kissed him and Harry …

Harry had kissed back. He wanted to laugh and rage at the same time. He didn't even know himself. If he'd been told a month ago that he'd happily snog Tom Riddle, he'd have punched the messenger in the face.

A moment of insanity. That's all it was.

As steam rose from the tub and he slipped into the water, Harry decided that he very much wanted them both to forget the entire night. Didn't that sort of thing happen all the time in movies and books? He'd spied enough daytime dramas at the Dursleys during summer break to know that people were constantly falling in each other's beds and then striding off without a second thought the moment the sun rose. People had sex. No big deal.

He was now someone who'd had sex.

With Tom.

He'd had sex with Tom.

Perhaps if he repeated the fact often enough, he'd accept it and forget it. Just like a startled fall from a well-practiced Quidditch maneuver, mistakes happen; dust yourself off and move on. Move on. There wouldn't be any more training sessions, that was for damn sure. No more late night chess matches in front of the fire with a half-finished bottle of wine, either. No more meandering walks around the island. No more swims in the cove. No more chats. They would go back to cool indifference. That was safe. That was —

A soft knock sounded on the door and Harry's head jerked around.

"May I come in?" Tom asked through the wood.

Harry blinked like an owl, his throat suddenly constricted. "Why?"

"I wish to see you."

Harry shut his eyes and counted to ten.

"Please," Tom said softly.

Harry stared up at the crown molding. The elephant in the room wasn't going away.

Get it over with, a voice urged him. Bite the bullet. Yank off the band aid.

The quicker he faced this the quicker he would move on and the quicker a night of the most incredible, mind blowing sensations would fade away like a shirt left out in the sun, colors bleached to a dingy, washed out hue.

Harry took a shuddering breath.

"Okay."

Tom entered. He wore Harry's dressing gown. He undid the cord and let it slither from his shoulders, pooling around his ankles. Harry averted his eyes, his neck growing hot. More memories flashed, causing his stomach to flip – lying together, legs entangled; Tom watching silently as Harry's fingers explored his collarbone before, hesitantly, reaching up and running through his hair. He'd been right. The curls had felt like silk.

Tell him. Tell him it was a mistake.

But Harry could not unstick his throat. The bath water sloshed as Tom stepped in. There was just enough room in the tub for the both of them. With Tom at the opposite end, Harry didn't know where to put his feet. The awkwardness was not helped by how Tom stared. Harry wanted to shrink. He wanted to dissolve into nothing.

"Say something," he blurted, unable to stand the silence.

Tom was perfectly composed, but the intensity of his eyes was scorching.

"Did I hurt you?"

Already flushed, Harry went beet red.

"No," he said a little too quickly. "I'm fine."

But he wasn't fine. He was so very far from fine. None of this was fine.

Just as he was trying to rally his courage to convince Tom that they should forget last night, Tom leaned forward and hooked his hands behind each of Harry's knees. Gently, he pulled Harry to him until Harry sat in his lap, straddling his hips. At once, Harry stopped breathing. In the bright light of the bathroom this felt far more intimate than any of the activities they had done in his dark bedroom. He could see each tiny speck of blue in Tom's storm-cloud eyes.

"Did I hurt you?" he repeated.

Harry shook his head. "No," he said, meaning it this time.

"You will tell me if I do."

Harry stared, thinking of all the times Tom had hurt him. Physically, mentally, emotionally. All the man ever did was hurt him. But not last night. Tom had touched him with the delicateness of handling blown glass.

Around the lump in his throat, Harry replied, "Same goes for you."

Slowly, Tom smiled. It made the hollows of his cheeks even more pronounced. It made him even more beautiful.

"Okay," he said against Harry's lips.

By the time they drew apart, the water had grown quite cool.

xXx

The hours muddled together in a pleasant laziness. Tom had never been lazy. He'd never, not for a single day in his life, allowed himself to relax so fully. The idea of spending the whole day in bed with Harry was so tempting Tom contemplated how he might achieve it. But Harry, curse him, was too set on his chores. The furnace was tended to, tomatoes and carrots harvested, a fresh batch of dough proofing on the kitchen table.

And all Tom wanted to do was push Harry up against the wall.

As Harry thought of more activities to fill the day (topping up the oil in the lamps, cleaning the Owlery, choosing the most labor intensive, complicated recipe in his Aunt's cookbook for dinner), Tom began to wonder if Harry was purposefully busying himself to keep that very thing from happening. He didn't shy away from Tom, but the moment a stolen kiss grew too intense, Harry pulled away, mumbling something about the boiler and disappearing down the cellar steps.

Tom let him go. In the solitude of the common room, he inspected the mark on his wrist. The burn in his chest returned without Harry's touch to soothe it, and Tom focused instead on the gentle warmth radiating from the tattoo. It had bloomed into life during the night and all day it remained. Was this another sign that luck was turning his way? He glanced upward. The gleaming, golden design on the ceiling turned and swirled just as smoothly as ever, but did it feel different? Was there a new hum to it, deeper than before? Was it just his imagination or were the two rotating halves closer together?

Harry must have forgiven him. Surely he wouldn't have welcomed him into his bed if he hadn't. Tom covered the tattoo with his hand, hiding it from sight, the lightness of his mood dampening somewhat. He had not forgiven the boy. It didn't matter what delicious sounds Harry made in the night, Lord Voldemort did not forgive. He did not forget.

But if he did…

If he did then they would return. His army was in tatters, his Death Eaters in shambles, but that was merely a setback. He would rebuild.

And Harry?

Harry wouldn't like it, of course, but he would see in time that Tom was right. Muggles were a danger to wizarding society. Why must wizards hide in the dark while their inferior cousins lounge in the sunlight? Why must the strong bow down to the weak?

The plan was vivid in its details. The moment the Carcerem released them, he would flee with Harry. Malfoy Manor was compromised but Tom had a safe house no one knew about, the location hidden from even his most loyal of followers. He would tuck Harry away there. He would teach him — he would show him — that he was right. And with Harry by his side no one would stand in their way.

Patience, he told himself. Harry was a wild thing, flighty and wary with a will far too stubborn. With care and time, Harry would be his, utterly and completely.

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The lamb was excellent, but Tom was too preoccupied with watching Harry to pay it much notice. Night fell outside the window. They tidied up. Tom topped up their wine glasses and they retired to the common room as they always did. Harry headed to his usual armchair by the fire, but Tom took him by the hand, directing him instead to the couch without a word.

Harry immediately retreated behind a book — Quidditch Through the Ages. They would need to discuss his reading choices. Tom flipped open his own, but it wasn't long before he abandoned it in favor of kissing Harry. All those years at Hogwarts and walking the streets of London where couples materialized out of thin air, wrapped around each other, snogging and groping. When the Muggle war ended, the entire city turned into a cesspool of them. And here he was, stretched out on a couch with Harry beneath him. He couldn't go ten minutes without tasting those lips. Harry was magnificent and he told him so.

That beautiful blush spread over Harry's cheeks again. "Awkward, you mean. You're the one with the looks. You could compete with Fleur."

"Who's Fleur?" Tom asked, his tongue teasing a spot beneath Harry's ear. "Your Muggle-born friend?"

Harry laughed; the vibration made Tom's lips tingle. He rose onto his forearms, staring down at him. Salazar, he was stunning.

"They really never told you who they are?" said Harry. "Snape or Malfoy? They knew, you know."

Tom tucked a wayward lock of hair behind Harry's ear. Their night together had turned it even more rumpled and after the hour in the bath, it became a goal to dishevel it even further. Harry's eyes were brighter than emeralds, almost electric. They were an impossible color. How had he never noticed that before?

"To be honest, I never really cared about your companions. It's always been about you. Only you."

A stillness came over Harry. In the fireplace, a log popped.

"Hermione," he said. "Their names are Hermione and Ron."

"The Weasley boy? He had spattergroit."

Harry grinned. Tom fought the urge to take it for himself.

"That was what you were supposed to think. They transfigured the ghoul that lives in their attic—"

"A ghoul?"

"Yeah. Put him in Ron's pajamas and everything. He was really excited. The ghoul, I mean."

"Clever," Tom conceded. "Spattergroit's highly contagious. And the fungus disfigures a person to extreme proportions."

"Ron was pretty proud of it," said Harry, who couldn't seem to stop grinning now that he'd begun. "He was the one who taught me chess. He'd give you a run for your money. Hermione's awful at it. Incredible at everything else, but awful at chess. Ron and I always felt it was good for her."

"And they've been with you? Through everything?"

"I'd go to the end of the world for them," said Harry. "And they'd do the same for me."

Tom continued to run his fingers through Harry's hair; only a spell would have stilled his hand. When Harry had done the same to him in the night, his heart had quite literally quivered.

"Perhaps I should have made it a point to find out more about them," he admitted. "You surround yourself with such loyalty. That's a powerful force to underestimate." He was thinking of the battle, when Harry had played dead and the entire castle refused to join him, regardless of the powers Lord Voldemort could gift. The loyalty Harry inspired would assist him immensely when they returned.

Harry's eyebrows knitted slightly. "It's called friendship, Tom. You should try it."

Tom smirked. He kissed him, running his tongue along Harry's bottom lip, biting it gently.

"Or," he whispered, moving his hips just so, "I can see how many times I can make you shiver."

xXx

What am I doing?

He shouldn't be doing this. He didn't want to do this.

Did he?

Day in and day out, Harry kept asking himself why, but the moment Tom wrapped his arms around his waist, the answer diverted. When Tom placed open mouthed kisses along his neck, rational thought sprouted wings. Harry was confident that today would be their last and yet he found himself entangled again and again, another morning leading to another night, another night leading to another morning.

What am I doing? What am I doing?

But there was no space left in his brain when Tom's hands moved up under his shirt or slipped into his jeans … when his tongue did the most extraordinary things. Lips and teeth. Hips moving with minds of their own. Harry craved Tom. The man was a drug. Harry could not form a coherent thought in the rushing high that was Tom. It was only afterward, when Harry lay awake at night, Tom spooned up against him, that rational thought returned, carrying self-disgust in its beak.

Am I … in love with Tom?

No, Harry thought harshly. Emphatically.

Then what was this? Harry had never been in a relationship that was purely physical. Ron had. An image of Ron and Lavender leapt into Harry's brain. Was that what he and Tom were? Two hot-blooded addicts who, after having the first hit, couldn't keep their hands off each other?

Tom shifted behind him, the arm draped around Harry's middle drawing him closer. His nose nuzzled the nape of Harry's neck and that feeling that his insides had been replaced with butterflies returned. Whenever Tom looked at him, whenever Tom touched him, whenever Tom said his name, they were there, turning him into a blushing, stammering idiot.

This was so … domestic. This was what couples did. Boyfriends. Girlfriends.

Lovers.

Rational Thought cawed sharply.

He isn't Voldemort anymore, Harry argued. He's changed.

Rational Thought ruffled its feathers and gave Harry one beady eye. Like a television that he could not turn off, Harry saw them all over again. His mother. His father. Sirius, Lupin, Tonks, Fred, Dumbledore, Snape, Moody, Colin. Neville's parents tortured into insanity. All acts traced back to the man whose breath was soft against Harry's neck.

This was wrong. This was so horribly wrong.

But Harry didn't want it to stop. He didn't want this — he shut his eyes, finally admitting it to himself – he didn't want this pleasure to stop. But pretending Tom and Voldemort were not the same person was not helping Harry eradicate the guilt that ate at him day in and day out. It did not rid him of the feeling that he was letting everyone down. Or worse, spitting on their graves. He wished he could talk to Dumbledore. Dumbledore would know the turmoil that twisted Harry's insides more than anyone. How many nights had Dumbledore laid awake, asking himself these same questions?

Unable to stand it anymore, Harry sat up, his legs dangling over the side of the bed. The movement jostled Tom awake.

"Harry?"

He gripped the edge of the mattress. The springs creaked slightly as Tom shifted behind him.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Go back to sleep."

Harry could feel Tom's smile as he placed a kiss on his shoulder. "You're usually better at lying."

Eyes squeezed shut, Harry whispered, "We have to stop."

Tom stilled and then arms encircled Harry. In one slow, fluid motion, he ran his tongue up Harry's neck. Harry's whole body quivered, electricity shooting down his spine.

"I will," Tom said softly in his ear, "when you mean it."

Harry's nails bit into the bed. "I do."

Tom chuckled and the sound went straight to the pit of his stomach.

"So many lies, back to bed," he coaxed. "You can tell me how much you hate me in the morning."

Harry allowed himself to be drawn back under the sheets, a new, aggravated, nettled feeling joining the plethora of others in his chest. He didn't love Tom … but did he hate him?

He hated what Tom had done. He hated what he stood for.

But did he still hate him? Did he feel hatred toward this man who'd knocked him off the pier that morning in a rare fit of playfulness? Spitting water, Harry had yanked Tom in after him and they'd tackled each other, their laughter scaring the seagulls away. In those moments it was hard to spot Voldemort's shadow in Tom's face.

Beneath the self-disgust, the guilt, the confusion — beneath the should nots and the how could yous — rested happiness.

For the first time since being trapped in the Carcerem, Harry was happy. The past was the past. There was nothing he could do about it, but the future was an endless sea of possibilities. He and Tom had been handed a new life — a fresh start — so why was Harry so frightened to take it?

He tucked himself under Tom's chin and asked himself a new question.

Why not happiness?