Ron, Hermione and Tom would not hear of Harry being alone, and he was grateful. Even after a long bath, he could still feel the Leech's gaze like oil residue on his skin. An exhaustion unlike any other plagued him. He nearly fell asleep in the tub, his eyes as heavy as sand bags.
Harry's house contained only one guest room, which Ron and Hermione claimed at once. That left Tom on the couch. Much to Harry's surprise, he did not voice a complaint, but then again, as Harry crawled into bed that night, Tom had most likely already transfigured it.
Though tired beyond reason, the moment his head hit the pillow, his brain lurched into action, agitated and frightened, Braff's damning speech playing on repeat. What if he found out the truth? What if Tom's identity was unearthed? Would the Ministry's clearance hold against the tsunami of rage that was sure to follow? The dementors had been removed from Azkaban, a highly charged motion that Kingsley had pushed through shortly after the war, but if Tom was arrested would the dementors be brought back? Would the Wizengamot sentence him to a kiss? Would Harry be able to stop it? Would he be able to make the wizarding world see what he now saw? What Ron and Hermione and Kingsley and Robards now saw? That Tom was Tom. Arrogant and controlling and at times emotionally detached, but not evil. Not a monster. Not Voldemort.
Voldemort had been a choice, a choice Tom purposefully opted, day after day, not to repeat.
Sleep eventually came, but fretfully. Harry jerked from one dream to the next: faceless wizards and witches sending Tom to the dementors; Braff raging, "Take them both, the traitor!" Arms grabbed Harry and Braff smiled, his orange bow tie spinning round and round; his smile kept growing until it was a giant, gaping mouth. His eyes sunk away into his skull and Harry could do nothing as the Leech descended upon him, swallowing him whole.
.
.
The fact that the Ministry was hastily relocated overnight to an abandoned factory outside of London caused massive headaches for everyone involved. The Daily Prophet scrambled to catch up. Nott's attack during the Halloween Party was on the front page the next morning, but all witnesses had fled before the Leech's arrival and much to the Prophet's frustration, the Ministry maintained a very tight lip as to why the building was in sudden lock down.
"No change yet, I'm afraid," Rolf told them over lunch. He'd been allowed to stay and study the Leech. "It's unlike anything I've ever seen. I wish I could tell Luna about it, but it's 'classified'. Braff pretty much threatened Azkaban if I so much as sneeze."
"I wouldn't be surprised if she already knows about them," said Ron, taking a large bite of ham sandwich. "With all the things she believes in, this one would fit right in."
"How many of these Light Leeches do you think there are?" Hermione wondered.
"Dunno," said Ron. "The way Braff was going on, he made it seem like they can't die. Just shrink 'em down to size and shove 'em back through wherever the hell they came from. I hate the bastard, but that's the sort of logic I'm good with."
Though Harry did not say it, as Rolf was present, he felt confident that this Leech was the same one who'd stumbled toward him in the Carcerem, shrunken and starved, grasping and aching. What might have happened on that day if Tom hadn't appeared when he had? What if he hadn't been there to yank Harry back? What if Harry had reached out a curious hand and touched the Fat Lady's frozen portrait, touched fingertip to fingertip the creature on the other side? Would it have reached straight through the canvas, wrapped its spindly fingers around Harry's wrist and tugged him inside the portrait with it? Would it have been able to enter the Carcerem just as Tom had initially feared? The same fear that had made them burn every painting within the prison, just to make sure that very thing did not happen?
He had no proof, of course. No solid reason to aid him in this theory that the two Leeches were in fact one in the same. Only his gut. Perhaps there were hundreds of them. Millions. But somehow Harry didn't think so. Something told him that it was a creature entirely separate from everything else — unique and alone — and for some reason, out of every being in the multiverse, it had latched onto Harry. He shivered. He didn't like having a target on his back.
"Harry?" said Hermione, noticing his discomfort. "You okay?"
"Yeah," said Harry, quickly masking his unpleasant train of thought and jumping to a different topic. "Does Robards want me back yet?" he asked Rolf. The coin in his pocket had been cold all morning.
Rolf grimaced at Harry apologetically. "They really want you to stay put, Harry. Sorry."
"But they have it contained," Harry argued. "It's locked up. What's the harm in me going back to work?"
"Harry, you were nearly killed twice in less than ten minutes," said Hermione hotly. "Robards wouldn't clear you for duty after that, even without Nott running loose and a highly dangerous creature after your magic. And did you sleep at all last night? You look terrible."
"Yeah, mate," said Ron. "We know Nott's got a supply of Polyjuice Potion."
"Not to mention the fact that he successfully captured an Auror and impersonated him," Hermione continued, unrelenting. "He's willing to take extreme risks to get hold of you. Anyone who would attempt murdering you in the midst of a crowd of Ministry officials has nothing to lose."
"So I'm supposed to stay cooped up until Nott's finally caught or the Leech is sent back where it came from?" said Harry furious.
"Yes," said Hermione, pleased he'd caught on.
"That's ridiculous! If I'd stayed boarded up every time someone tried to do me in —"
"For once in your life, Harry, would you let other people handle this?" Hermione raged.
"Do you agree with them?" Harry demanded, addressing Tom, but any hope he had an ally dissolved as Tom turned from the window overlooking the back garden.
"You have not recovered from the Leech's attack. Until you have, leaving the house would be idiocy." And he returned to gazing out the window.
Rolf awkwardly cleared his throat.
"I'd better be getting back," he said, leaving the last of his sandwich but plucking a pickle form the jar. "Thanks for lunch."
Harry rose. He was so annoyed with the lot of them that he had no interest in keeping them company. "I'll see you out."
But the moment they reached the front door, Harry grabbed Rolf's elbow.
"Do you think you could get hold of a few documents — studies, reports — about portals or Leeches?" he asked in an undertone.
Rolf blinked in surprise and then frowned in disapproval.
"Come on, Rolf," Harry pleaded. "I'm not going to go chasing after the thing, but if something like this happens again, I want to know more about what I'm dealing with. Braff certainly isn't going to share."
"You think that might happen?" Rolf asked.
"Better to be prepared than ignorant."
Rolf's eyes searched Harry. "Hermione's right, you know. You look like shit."
"I feel like it," Harry agreed.
"I'll see what I can do," said Rolf. "No promises."
"Thank you," said Harry, grateful.
Rolf nodded. He walked out of the house, down the garden path and with a sharp crack, Apparated away.
.
.
Harry suspected that even when he did get back to full health, no one would let him leave the house until either Nott or the Leech had been dealt with. The Ministry was strained, forced to operate in an unsuitable environment, much to the confusion and frustration of its employees and officials. As Rolf had said, the Leech was confidential information. If Harry was Nott and looking for the perfect opportunity to strike, it would be now with everyone thoroughly off kilter.
But that was neither here nor there. Another day passed and Harry was little better than before, hit with spells of fatigue so great, he could barely go fifteen minutes standing.
"I don't get it," he grumbled to Hermione and Ron as he lay limp on the couch. "Last time I was fine overnight."
"Last time you were only with that thing for a few seconds," Hermione pointed out, "and this time it was much larger. You were doing everything you could to keep your shield up."
"How fast do you think it can drain someone?" Ron asked, trying to appear nonchalant, but failing. "If it touched you?"
Harry remembered the sensation of magic being sucked from his wand. From his very being. He sank more into the couch.
"Not long," he said.
.
.
It was unsettling to be under the same roof, day after day, with Tom. Like an upended bucket of worms, Harry's mind teamed with memories, déjà vu striking again and again. Though they sat next to each other at meals, chatting politely and passing the time as they waited for word that the Leech was gone or that Nott had been arrested, they hardly made eye contact. An undeniable strain had appeared between them. Or maybe there was nothing wrong. Maybe Harry, unable to relax, was the one who kept imagining the unspoken tension. He kept trying to think of something to say, something to help return them to their easy-going camaraderie, but whenever he tried he pictured Tom and Maybelle and his insides felt that they'd been scooped out.
Harry believed Tom when he said he felt nothing toward her, but what if that changed? What if when all of this was over – the Leech gone and Braff's accusations swept under the rug – what if he found someone? What if there was a day when Tom chose to be with someone?
Whenever this thought occurred, Harry always removed himself from Tom's presence, vanishing into his bedroom and not reappearing again for hours.
.
.
An owl tapped on Harry's bedroom window late at night, a bundle of journals clamped in its beak, but that was the only contact he received from Rolf. Four days since the lock down and Kingsley and Robards still remained mute, and Harry, desperate for some sense of normality, managed to convince Ron and Hermione that all three of them did not have to keep watch over him twenty-four-seven.
"You can still go to work," he pointed out. "I'm a lot better now."
"I don't know," said Hermione, biting her lip. "I'm just not comfortable leaving you alone."
"I won't be alone," Harry assured her. "I'm talking to you two about this because I know Tom would laugh in my face."
"It would be helpful to be in the office," Hermione agreed, eying the folders she'd snatched from her office before it had been quarantined. "Just for a few hours," she added, apologetically.
"There's been a giant surge in purchases for our Defense line," Ron admitted. "What with the Ministry going dark, it's gotten a lot of people worried. George could do with another hand."
"Go," Harry urged. "I'm fine, really."
"You're sure?" said Hermione. "But we'll be back for dinner, okay? And we're staying the night."
But with Ron and Hermione no longer there filling up conversation, Harry grew tenser. Suddenly, he didn't know how to be in the same room with Tom. If Tom noticed Harry's agitation, he kept it to himself, browsing Harry's bookcase or scanning the windows for approaching wizards.
It was a relief when Ron and Hermione returned that evening, only allowed entrance once Tom made sure it was them. That nervous agitation never dissipating, Harry had fallen into his old habit of cooking and he'd spent much of the day in the kitchen making a god awful mess – kneading bread, concocting a vegetable soup, marinating chicken breasts. Partway through making the spinach filling it dawned on him that this entire dinner had been a frequent one in the Carcerem, Tom even once going so far as to request it. That had been right before the first time they'd slept together. Right before restlessness had driven Harry out of his bedroom, unable to sleep, unable to name what it was he wanted until Tom pushed him against the sink and with a single kiss, made everything clear.
"This is delicious, Harry!" Hermione praised. "Even better than last time."
"Yeah," said Ron. "You could beat Mum at this. But where're the peas?"
"Tom hates peas," said Harry.
Ron snorted, but at Tom's flat glare, quickly turned his attention to his plate.
"Just don't ask him to cook pasta," Tom said, buttering a roll.
For the first time in four days, their eyes met.
"Why?" asked Ron.
It was like pulling away from a magnet, but Harry broke the connection.
"I can't get the sauces right. They're always watery or burnt."
Under the table, Tom's foot rested an inch from his own. Just one shift to the left and they'd touch.
.
.
They cleaned up dinner and Harry, desperate to stay busy, made a pot of hot chocolate. He hadn't felt so out of sorts in a long time, not since August when Tom had marched back into his life. It's just him being here, he told himself. Soon everything would go back to the way it was before. Surely it wouldn't take much longer for the Leech to shrink down to a manageable size. And Nott … there was no way he'd be able to dodge the Aurors. The entire force was looking for him.
Rain rolled in as they all sat around the fireplace, drinking their cocoas, but instead of being calmed, Harry felt even more disturbed, as if everything had turned upside down. Tom Riddle was sitting in his family room, drinking hot chocolate and discussing which Quidditch teams had the best chances of winning the league.
"You don't follow Quidditch," said Harry, wondering just how more surreal this night could become.
"I don't," Tom agreed, "and yet…"
"The Cannons are going to make it this year," said Ron with conviction. "They've recruited that new chaser — Bonnie Johnston."
Tom looked as if Ron was joking. "You support the Cannons?"
"Yeah," said Ron, stoutly.
"They will never win the league."
"Any more cocoa?" Hermione asked, overly brightly as Ron's jaw tightened and his ears pinked.
It was near midnight when Ron and Hermione said their good nights, retreating to the guest room. Harry put the mugs in the sink, telling himself he would clean them in the morning. On his way to the stairs he paused in the family room. Tom had moved to the couch. He'd stripped off his sweater, a simple button-down shirt underneath.
"If you'd rather sleep in a bed, you can spend the night back at your hotel," said Harry. "Ron and Hermione are here in case anything happens."
Tom's glare was steel.
"Or not," Harry backtracked.
"I can make it comfortable enough," Tom replied.
"Right." Harry swung his arms awkwardly. "Well, night, then." He turned for the stairs and Tom's voice was a caress.
"Good night, Harry."
Harry hesitated, one foot on the bottom step, one hand clutching the banister. Did Tom feel it? This unrelenting heat between them? This prickling on the skin like static?
He pushed the feelings down into the pit of his stomach. Without looking back, he climbed the stairs, entered his room and shut the door, leaning up against it. Taking deep, steadying breaths, he closed his eyes. Just a few more days. Just a few more days and then …
They would go back to work.
Together.
Harry's hands covered his face. He couldn't do this. He couldn't keep this up. But he had to. He had to because —
Because why?
Harry tried to bring back his reasons, but they slithered from his reach. They'd been good, solid reasons. Hadn't they?
A small tap on his door made him freeze. Heart pounding, he opened it, already knowing who he would find on the other side. Tom did not speak. He simply stared at him.
Tell him to go, a voice said urgently in his head. Tell him.
Tom raised a hand, placing the pad of his thumb against Harry's bottom lip, the rest tucking under his chin. A shiver ran down Harry's spine. Their eyes locked and Harry's rules crashed around his ears. He didn't know who moved first. Perhaps they moved at the same time. They kissed and it felt like two pieces fitting perfectly back together. Two steps backward and Tom prodded the door shut with his foot. Two kisses and Harry steered Tom to the edge of the bed. The backs of his legs hit the mattress and he sat. Harry clambered up on top of him, his knees straddling Tom's hips. Three kisses. Tom's hands slid down his back, coming to a rest on his thighs. Four kisses. Five. Harry pulled off his shirt and fumbled with his jeans, noticing for the first time how badly his fingers shook. In the low light of the room, Tom saw the tremors. Long arms scooped him up, turning him, and Harry found himself on his back, Tom looming above him. He removed his own shirt and a breath later, so was everything else.
Harry couldn't speak. His heart pounded so loud he was sure Hermione and Ron would hear and come barging in, worried a stampede was on the way. Tom slipped Harry's glasses from his face and placed them on the night table. His lips pressed whisper-soft against the lightning bolt scar, his eyelids, the bridge of his nose, before returning to Harry's mouth. Had they ever kissed so deeply? Their mouths never parting, Tom's hands moved down Harry's sides. He rolled up his hips, allowing Tom to work his pants down. Wriggling his legs, Harry finally freed himself.
Lack of oxygen had him breaking the kiss, but Harry had hardly taken a shaky inhale before Tom moved, their erections grinding together in a fashion that made Harry's toes curl. His legs fell open. He lifted his hips upward, wanting more of that friction, but Tom's hand pushed down on his pelvis, stilling him.
"Do you want this?" he whispered.
Harry was flushed. Already a thin sheen of sweat covered his skin. Arousal coursed through him, but he forced himself to be immobile.
"Because if we do this," Tom continued, his eyes so dilated they appeared black, "there's no going back to being colleagues or acquaintances or friends or whatever the hell we've been trying to be. I won't go back to that. I want to kiss you whenever the urge strikes. I want you beside me in bed every night. I want everyone to know you're mine. So do you want this?"
Harry took Tom's face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones.
"Yes," he answered. "I want this. I want you."
xXx
Tom drifted out of slumber, savoring the feeling of Harry's sheets against his skin. Without opening his eyes, he reached out one arm to pull Harry close.
His hand found nothing. He opened his eyes, blinking away grains of sleep.
"Harry?"
He was alone.
Tom dressed and as he descended the stairs he heard voices issuing from the kitchen. Granger and Weasley were at the circular table, tucking into breakfast. Harry stood against the sink, cradling a cup of tea. They all looked around the moment he entered. He had a feeling Granger wished him good morning, but all his attention was on Harry. Tom didn't realize the tension he carried in his gut until Harry smiled at him. It was small — so small — and yet warmer than the summer sun.
"Tea?" Harry asked.
"Yes. Thank you."
Still with that gentle air, as Weasley and Granger chatted, Harry poured him a cup from the pot set on the table. He passed it to him and their hands lingered against each other before Harry moved away, pulling out a chair. Tom sat beside him.
Though he'd told Harry he wanted everyone to know they were together, as he watched Harry scoop eggs onto his plate, Tom was struck with a powerful urge to keep it secret. Protect it. He wanted to lock it away, preserved and untainted by any outward opinion, only seen and touched and cherished by the two of them.
"Jam?"
Tom blinked, his mind jerking back into focus.
How was it possible for a face — for a voice — to be everything?
"Jam," Harry repeated, offering the jar.
Did Harry have the faintest idea what his quiet smiles and soft eyes were doing to him? He took the jar and feeling his own secretive smile play on his lips, reached for the toast.
A rapid knock on the front door had Harry turning. "Wonder who that is?" he said, frowning. He made to rise, but Weasley jumped up.
"I'll get it!"
Harry rolled his eyes. "I really don't think Nott's going to knock," he said in annoyance as Weasley disappeared into the family room. They heard the door open, Weasley's voice of concern and then Rolf appeared in the kitchen, disheveled and short of breath.
"Braff's dead," he cried. "The Leech broke free. It's escaped!"