Harry's giant bed at Peverell Manor was so much softer than Tom's bed at Nott Manor. He could get lost between the sheets, a sea of blood-red silk that felt like he had become a king. The pillows were finer than anything he ever imagined on those long, dark, lonely nights he spent in the orphanage. A fire warmed the hearth, but the ever-present heating charms removed any trace of a chill in the air.

Most people would think silk sheets were cooler, but the sheets seemed to warm by themselves. Whether it was magic or some sort of natural quality to it, he found he enjoyed it greatly. Against his bare skin, it felt luxurious in a way he never would have thought he could have afforded.

The sheets felt nice when shared with another person. Harry liked to sleep with his legs against his, their bodies pressed together. The silk felt like water wrapping around his body, draped over his sides.

Tom liked how it felt when Harry ran his fingers along Tom's back, tracing the scars that remained there. Years of punishment meant they would never disappear and he had always done his best to hide them. It felt strange, being this open around another person, and it won't last. He held himself still, careful to continue breathing as if he was still asleep. If he didn't move, Harry would get up eventually and go about his day.

The lips against his spine made him squeeze his eyes shut tighter. Some desperate, lonely part of him begged him to pretend for just a moment that this was real. That Harry actually wanted him, liked him, planned to keep him. And Merlin, did Tom want it to be real.

It was best to just enjoy it while it lasted. It was temporary, but that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy it while it lasted.

"I know you're awake," Harry whispered before his lips met the base of his neck. A hand ran over his shoulder. The calloused fingers spoke of years of hard labor. "What are you thinking?"

"Nothing." He kept his eyes closed.

Harry wrapped himself over Tom, sliding over him in a boneless manner that reminded him of a cat. He landed in front of Tom; Tom could feel Harry's breath against his face.

"I'm a crappy Legilimens, but I do know when someone's lying to me."

Tom opened his eyes. Perhaps it was time to face the music.

Those green eyes, as bright as the killing curse, stared at him. There was no playfulness to them, no lightheartedness, and Tom couldn't help but wonder is this the end?

"I can't read your mind, Tom. I don't know what you're thinking." A hand reached out and touched his brow, which had furrowed without him noticing. Harry's expression was utterly serious. "What's wrong? And for the love of Merlin, do not say 'nothing.'"

The words felt stuck in his throat though. All the thoughts had had, all the words he wanted to say, refused to come out. Maybe it was for the best. Rather than ruin anything

"You're upset," Harry surmised anyway, with a frown on his face. "Did I do something?"

Something inside him gripped tightly at his chest. Hand held tightly around his heart, his lungs. Having a heart was a liability to getting anything done, it seemed.

Get up. Get dressed. Leave now before you hurt yourself more.

He didn't want to listen to it, but staying wasn't an option. Not when he was about to lose everything. It was better to go back to his plan. He was Lord Slytherin now, too. He probably had same castle or manor or broken-down hovel that he could live in until he could emerge as something better. Less fragile.

He didn't anticipate that moving from the bed would only set off Harry. The words came in a broken sound. "I did do something then."

He froze.

"I'm sorry."

The hurt, the desperation in Harry's voice made him draw short.

"Please." The word a raw whisper. "What did I do?"

"Nothing." He didn't need to turn to know that Harry stiffened. "This is all too good." He swallowed. His voice felt stuck in his throat. "And good things don't happen to me."

The bed creaked. Footsteps echoed across the floorboards, their sound only amplified by the quietness of the room.

That knotted, tangled mess of hair pressed against his back. Arms wrapped around him, he flinched, and it took longer than Tom would ever care to admit to realize that Harry was giving him a hug.

He shifted and Harry loosened his arms so Tom could face him. Perhaps, while he was saying truths, he would give one more.

"I've been waiting for you to realize that I'm no longer useful to you. I don't have any political power yet. I don't plan to be the dark lord of your future. There's nothing for you to prevent."

Harry's expression was odd. Brow furrowed, frowning, but those eyes glowing with something. Something soft. Something furious.

"You've thought you were here to be useful?"

Tom swallowed. Perhaps that was worse. If he hadn't been useful, if he hadn't served some purpose in the greater scheme of whatever Harry's plan was beyond preventing this future, and now he messed up whatever this was between them by assuming Harry wanted something from him. His stomach twisted.

"When Dumbledore showed me all those memories, I saw someone who was as alone as I was. When I wound up here, I planned to just see that you were okay and leave you be. And when you weren't, I wanted to do something about it." His hand touched Tom's cheek. It wasn't a lie. "I didn't want you to be alone."

Truth.

"I like you. You're bloody gorgeous, the sex is fantastic, and I enjoy the time we spend together. Usefulness has nothing to do with it."

Truth.

"But your bill—?"

"I only created that bill because of us."

Tom blinked.

"Because of the childhoods we had. And we weren't the only ones. There was a professor when I was in Hogwarts, his father was Muggle and abusive and his father killed his wife, who was a witch. And a bill like that's a gateway for other laws. Ones that would help your friend. My godfather and his brother would have benefitted from a law like that. So would a lot of others." His lips quirked. "Turns out you don't have to be a Muggleborn to have a shit childhood."

He caught a flash of someone with blood hair in Harry's mind. The boy, blond and dressed as a Pureblood, younger than both of them, screaming "Father, I didn't do it! I didn't know!"

A young man with Black eyes—those grey storm cloud eyes— smirking as he drank from a cup in a cave.

A man, with dark scraggly hair and emaciated cheeks, laughing madly, "I did my waiting! Twelve years of it, in Azkaban!"

Tom broke eye contact and the scenes ended. Harry watched him and he knew that it hadn't been an accident. He had let his walls down just enough for Tom to see in.

"You carry a lot of people with you," Tom said softly. Those memories made it clear. Harry cared about the people in them, useful or not, just because he cared. Despite everything he had been through, he chose to care, to love.

A smile flicker across Harry's face as if he could read Tom's thoughts in the moment. "You're stuck with me, Tom Riddle."

Truth.

It made his chest hurt with something that felt painfully like hope.