A/N: Title taken from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet.
I wrote this fic because I wanted to see five things:
1. Tom reconciling with his father.
2. Harry bonding with Tom Riddle Sr. aka her future father-in-law.
3. Ministry!Tom and Harry being both proud and completely unimpressed with his shift.
4. Fem!Harry being a BAMF in a pretty dress and diamonds (next chapter onwards).
5. Tom being a simp for Harry.
Was debating making this a one-shot but decided to break it up into three parts (to symbolise the three Deathly Hallows making Harry the Master of Death). Hope you enjoy!
Chapter 1: A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
It's past curfew when Riddle catches Harry in the Restricted Section without permit.
It's past curfew when Harry summons the ghost of Tom Riddle Sr. to mess with the Head Boy.
Moonlight filters through the lancet windows, casting gleams across the ancient tomes and mahogany tables. Harry ducks under her Invisibility Cloak before he can identify her, silvery fabric concealing her from the world. She holds her breath, remaining silent as Riddle stalks the library in search of her.
It's always been hide-and-seek for them, no matter what universe.
He passes extremely close to her, scanning the area with sharp eyes. Her heart races and her palms are sweaty, but she manages to stay still. Her muscles are taut as the air crackles with tension. From the way he lingers, tilting his head almost menacingly, she's convinced he knows where she is.
She flicks her finger, making a book fall from a different aisle in the library, hoping to lure him away from her current spot. Fortunately, it's loud enough to distract him. Harry sees Riddle walk away to investigate, practically feeling his frustration from missing her. She continues holding her breath and remains still, waiting for him to leave the area.
Deciding to mess with him a bit more, Harry conjures a phantom in front of Riddle that looks a lot like his dead father. An illusion , she tells herself.
"Did you think you could escape, son?" the phantom says in an eerie calm, emerging from the darkness, leaning against a bookshelf.
(Harry thinks of the diary horcrux– blurred around the edges, casually leaning against the pillar in the Chamber of Secrets, exuding a strange misty glow. She feels like laughing.
Like father, like son.)
Riddle stops dead in his tracks, staring at the phantom in shock and disbelief. Harry has to suppress a smug smile; it seems her spell worked better than she had originally planned.
A flash of green illuminates the library. Harry doesn't need to see Riddle's raised wand to know that he's attempted to kill his father again. A volley of different spells make their way across the room. But his efforts remain futile as the phantom stands invulnerable.
"You've destroyed yourself," Riddle Sr. says, completely unfazed by his son's bloodlust. "And you will continue to destroy yourself if this is the path you take."
There's a sense of finality and inevitability in his words, leaving no room for negotiation. He reaches down to touch the ring on Riddle's finger, but it passes through like cold air, not making any real contact. The Head Boy shivers.
"Your mother forced herself on me," Riddle Sr. continues, slightly accusatory. "Held me captive with a love potion for over a year. Do you still blame me for leaving her when I came to my senses?"
Riddle stares at the phantom, trying to make sense of the situation. His father merely stares back at him with the same neutral expression.
"Yes," he answers quietly. "I hate you."
Harry feels a small twinge of pity for him.
"You would have me make peace with my own rapist?" the phantom says in a cool tone. "Would you have done so in my place?"
It's a stark reminder that Riddle's mother raped his father. Riddle is stunned into silence, looking conflicted and uneasy. Harry senses that this revelation causes some internal turmoil within Riddle, forcing him to grapple with his mother's guilt.
"I wonder if you would be so quick to judge me if the genders were reversed," Riddle Sr. murmurs.
It's a hard-hitting question, this time related to the double standards of misandry and gender discrimination. The phantom's words cut right through Riddle's hardened facade. His eyes glimmer with tears as he struggles to fight back his emotions; it's a bizarre sight to behold.
"Magic destroyed my life once," Riddle Sr. says quietly, almost melancholic. "You only justified my hatred for it by killing me."
A wail of pure agony escapes from Riddle's throat, like the sound of someone's heart being ripped into shreds. Harry knows it all too well– it's the same sound she made when she watched Sirius being pushed into the Veil.
It rips her heart into shreds.
"Perhaps we could have been family," Riddle Sr. says softly, "if you had tried harder to break my walls down."
Harry hears the slight hitch and break in Riddle's voice as he replies to his father, this time speaking in a more vulnerable tone.
"Perhaps…" he whispers, "you should have tried harder to connect with me."
A beat of silence elapses as Riddle turns, walking away from the phantom, the trauma of his past likely flooding his mind again. Harry watches from a distance as Riddle quietly leaves the Restricted Section of the library. After a moment, he finally exits, leaving her to consider the events that have just unfolded.
Harry removes the Invisibility Cloak from herself, slowly approaching the phantom of Riddle's deceased father. She waves her hand to cancel the spell, expecting the phantom to disappear.
But to her surprise, the ghost of Tom Riddle Sr. remains, continuing to gaze at her with a look of mild curiosity. Her eyes widen as she gets closer to the phantom, realising that it's somehow become sentient, even though she created it herself. A sliver of trepidation runs through her at the unexpected development.
"You're not real, are you?" Harry says, quiet and tentative.
The phantom remains still for a moment, as if pondering her question before answering. "Not in the traditional sense," he replies. "I am but a product of the magic you wield. Perhaps the strongest magic of all: human emotion."
Riddle Sr. pauses for a beat, gazing into her eyes. It's unsettling– too uncanny– how similar he looks to the Head Boy. His words feel like they come from deep beyond the physical realm, like he's trying to reach something within her soul.
"Let me rephrase," Harry says in a firmer voice. "Are you Tom Riddle Sr. himself?"
The phantom chuckles, wearing a smile she's seen too often on Riddle Jr.'s face.
"Yes," he says, "and no."
Her eyebrows furrow. "Explain."
"I am simply an amalgamation of your memories, fears, and desires combined to create a soul. In a way, I am Tom Riddle Sr., but you have brought me here on your own terms– I hold none of the anger and bitterness he felt before he died, nor the lingering resentment and longing for a second chance at life. I am his legacy; I am the manifestation of his feelings, his trauma, his secrets. And you have unleashed me unto this library to torment his son, have you not?"
Harry stares at him uncertainly. "So I didn't somehow replicate the effects of the Resurrection Stone?"
"But of course you have." The phantom raises an eyebrow. "You have brought life to the dead that is not meant to be alive– you have brought all of my thoughts and feelings to life. Do you truly believe your spell to be a frivolous conjuration? Mere illusion magic?"
Riddle Sr.'s gaze remains fixed on her, like he's trying to convey something important.
"You're a muggle," Harry says, not out of spite but rather confusion. "How would you know?"
"Wizard or muggle– human or creature– there is no such distinction in the Afterlife," Riddle Sr. says calmly. "We are all souls ferried and united by Death.
"And you, my dear, are its Master."
She freezes, jaw dropping slightly. "That can't be right. I–"
She thinks about how she united the Hallows before travelling back in time. But she didn't think– it was supposed to be a myth–
But then, the Hallows themselves are supposed to be a myth… yet here they are.
"No?" Riddle Sr. says, raising another dry eyebrow. "So tell me, girl, how does it feel to play god? Do you feel in control?"
Harry swiftly regains her composure at that.
"Disturbing," she says casually. "But fascinating." She studies the phantom's form closely, which is far more vibrant and animated than conventional ghosts.
"You're significantly less of an arrogant prick now than when you were alive."
"Death humbles," Riddle Sr. says lightly. "I am what Tom Riddle Sr. really felt deep inside, not what he wanted his son to believe he felt. And you are correct, girl; I do not feel entitled to the power you have given me; I am merely the expression of the things he could never acknowledge."
His lips curl into a crooked smile. "My time as an arrogant prick has ended. I believe you have my son for that now."
Harry lets out a snort, throwing her head back in laughter. "So it is genetic."
She walks over to a desk, the polished oak floors creaking under her footsteps. Riddle Sr. follows her as she takes a seat, but he remains standing behind the chair across from her, hands clasped behind his back. He looks almost regal.
Harry sighs. "I only wish you two could have had a happier life together," she says solemnly.
The phantom remains silent for a while, his eyes dropping to the floor, sombre and contemplative.
"Unfortunately, history never remembers the people with happy lives," he finally answers, before meeting her gaze again. "But in the few minutes we have spent together, I cannot help but feel a connection with you. I admire the strength and determination you possess to get what you want and the willingness to play god for that very goal." His voice grows softer and wistful; his dark eyes are knowing. "Perhaps, in a world where the Riddles lived a happier life, I might have called you 'daughter'."
A few tears roll down her cheeks. Her face grows warm at the implication.
"Daughter, huh?" Harry says with a tremulous smile. She's amazed by how easily she's earned this man's paternal care– unlike Riddle Jr. who was shunned at first glance. She thinks about the unfairness of life and death– about wasted opportunities.
(She thinks about being tied to Riddle Jr. and his annoying arse in matrimony– and finds herself strangely amenable to the idea.)
Her smile is returned by Riddle Sr., although his expression is filled with sadness. "You could be the daughter I never had," he murmurs, as if talking to himself. "And perhaps in another life, I could be the father with whom you could share your successes or your woes, the father who would have watched your wedding with pride and who would have walked you down the aisle, passing you over to my own devil-spawn. But we do not live in that another life, do we, my dear?"
She imagines herself in a lovely white gown, crystals dripping from her bodice and silhouette, hooking arms with Riddle Sr. as he walks her down the aisle. Tom stands at the altar, proud and infuriatingly beautiful. Ron and Hermione are cheering for her in the crowd– Ron and Hermione, who don't even exist yet–
And her parents.
She imagines her parents. Sirius. Remus. Everyone else who perished in the war against Voldemort. They're waving happily at her as she gets married to the man who caused (or has yet to cause?) their demise.
"And you would have raised your son with the love and care he deserves instead of leaving him to suffer," Harry says quietly, indulging in the fantasy. "Instead of allowing him to be ostracised for his magic in an orphanage during the war."
Riddle Sr. smiles sadly. "Yes, my dear. In a better world, I would have told Tom how proud I was of him. I would have been there for him when he was scared, insecure and alone. I would have given him the love, warmth and guidance that was so cruelly stolen from him. He would have told me secrets he never dared to reveal to anyone else– his fears, his hopes, his dreams– and I would have been there to support and protect him. He deserved so, so much more."
"And you would have loved him regardless of your trauma– regardless of your fear of magic," she says even quieter, leaning back to gaze at the arching ceiling, watching the occasional sparkle of dust particles reflecting the moonlight. A life that could have been. A life that will never be.
"Indeed, my dear," Riddle Sr. answers, the sorrow in his voice causing her own heart to ache. "Regardless of my trauma and fear of magic, I would have loved my beautiful son with all my heart. I knew that he was innocent in this. It was not his fault that he was conceived under the influence of a love potion. He was always so smart, strong, and full of potential. I saw myself in him, and in another time–"
His voice drops to a whisper.
"–We would have been so close."
Something falls to the floor with a resounding thud. Harry turns her head quickly before freezing in place.
Tom has returned to the library, his wand lying on the floor next to him. He must have overheard their conversation; his gaze is piercing, trying to process the situation– and likely the shock from hearing his father's ghost speak about him in such affectionate terms.
Harry sighs, averting her eyes and wiping away her tears. There's no use hiding from him anymore. When she finally looks up again, she can see the perplexity on his face.
Tom steps forward, his eyes locked on her. She senses a deep pain and sorrow behind them, although the emotions are too strong and complex to fully grasp.
She looks towards Riddle Sr.'s ghost again. He looks as resigned as she feels.
"Is there anything else you believe he deserves to hear, Mr. Riddle?"
"Yes," he says, his voice turning emotional. "There is one thing I believe Tom should know. I want him to know that I forgive him. I want him to know that in his heart, deep down inside, he is not the monster he believes himself to be. And I want him to know that I love him more than words can express. I am proud of the boy he was and the man he has become."
His smile is bittersweet.
"I am proud to call him my son."
Harry watches as Riddle Sr. lets out a soft, contented sigh. He reaches out to touch his son's forehead gently before shimmering into nonexistence, leaving nothing but the faint smell of fresh linen in his wake.
Tom's eyes are filled with a mixture of anguish and relief as he stares off into the distance, contemplating what he just heard. His face is wet with tears and he seems utterly overwhelmed. Harry can sense that Tom's mind has been changed forever, and she wonders what he will do with this newfound knowledge.
Her gaze drops to the tabletop, her throat and chest feeling tighter with each breath. She stares at the space behind the chair across the table, feeling the weight of the exchange she just had with the ghost of Tom's father. She feels a profound sense of sadness and tragedy, knowing that Riddle Sr.'s life was cut so short and the pain he endured from a young age. She also feels overwhelming empathy towards Tom, whose pain and trauma had been made manifest, finally finding the closure he always wanted. She hopes that this encounter will open up a new chapter for them both, one filled with compassion and understanding.
Harry swipes away another tear from her eye, conjuring a pile of napkins to blow her nose. She looks up from the table.
Tom is still watching her, with a sense of vulnerability and openness she's never seen in him before. His expression is hard to read, his face still wet with tears. She watches as he slowly approaches, taking a seat across the table. She shifts awkwardly under his gaze, wondering what it is that he wants to say.
She offers him a napkin and he accepts it with a slight nod of gratitude.
Harry and Tom sit in silence for a few moments, both of them feeling the enormity of the moment. She notices him wipe away another tear from his face.
"You did... this," he whispers shakily. "You brought back my father. Do you realise what this means? I can finally... forgive him. I can finally let go of my anguish and... hate... and... and..." Tom's voice trails off as he tries to find the right words for what he is feeling.
His eyes are locked on Harry's and she senses the sheer magnitude of emotion inside him. She's struck by a sense of surrealness, since Tom Riddle never struggles with words. But then he's never been the best with feelings.
(She thinks of Voldemort, trying but failing to possess her that night when Sirius died. Because he couldn't handle the sheer grief she felt over her godfather's death– the sheer love she held for him– for all her friends and family.
Because he was emotionally inept.)
She continues to stare at him in silence, giving him room to verbalise his thoughts and emotions if needed. Perhaps the return of his father's ghost would help him heal from years of trauma and pain.
"I feel... different," he says at last, sounding weary and defeated. "I feel as though a large weight has been lifted from my shoulders. For so many years, I have been consumed with anger and hatred, unable to forgive my father for abandoning me as a child. But now… I feel a sense of resolution and peace. And for that, I am... grateful."
Harry reaches forward, placing her hand on top of his, attempting to offer comfort.
Tom glances down at her hand and his eyes soften as he stares at Harry. The contact seems to startle him momentarily, before he regains his composure and looks back up at her. "Thank you," he whispers, quiet and sincere. "Thank you so much for giving me the chance to say goodbye to my father and to reconcile our past. I don't think I have ever felt so much gratitude as I do in this moment."
She smiles faintly. "I'm sorry I can't do more."
"What you have done already is more than enough," Tom replies firmly. "For years, I was consumed by my hatred and anger and I believed I had no other choice. But thanks to you, I've discovered that I have a choice. I can choose to hold onto my past or I can choose to move forward. And I choose to forgive my father for what he did. I finally understand why he felt the way he did. I've learned that no one is truly a lost cause; we all deserve a chance at redemption and forgiveness."
Harry's grip over his hand grows slightly tighter. "For that, I am glad."
"As am I," Tom murmurs, his fingers interlocking with hers, warm and grateful. He studies her hand almost absently, gently brushing a thumb over her knuckle. "I only wish I had known this sooner," he says quietly. "If only I had known my father and his suffering so many years ago, I could have helped him. Perhaps things would have turned out differently. But alas, the past is the past and we cannot change it."
"Indeed," Harry agrees softly. "The only way now is to move forward and avoid repeating such mistakes."
Her finger traces the black stone of his ring.
"Love yourself more too," she adds, thinking about the horcruxes– driven to madness and desolation in their eternal prisons, so cold and dark and very lonely. In her brief encounters with them, she had felt their deep yearning to be whole again, as much as they would've denied it. "It's one thing to cause others suffering. But to torture yourself beyond repair?"
Tom glances down at his ring, his expression filled with sorrow and regret.
"I know now that I have a duty to myself and to society," he answers quietly. "I need to heal myself, to love myself and to accept that I deserve happiness. I cannot let myself become consumed by hate and anger anymore. I must not lose myself for I will destroy myself and everyone around me. I need to find a way to become a better person so that I can serve the Wizarding World in the best way possible."
"And perhaps in time you will come to love your own name," Harry says with a slight smile. "No longer resenting the fact you share the same one as your ' filthy muggle father' ."
Tom offers her a wry smile.
She gives his hand another squeeze. "You can live and succeed as Tom Riddle. Perhaps Lord Gaunt. But never Lord Voldemort."
His smile fades at that; he's silent for a long while, his gaze inscrutable as he considers her words. She finds it only fair– she is, after all, suggesting the demise of his raison d'etre .
"You're right," Tom finally says. "I must learn to embrace my name, not resent it. I must be proud of who I am and what my name means. As for Lord Gaunt, it is a possibility; I have not considered that name before. But Lord Voldemort has no place in my future; he is simply the manifestation of my hate and shame– a cruel and bitter man who has lost his soul."
Pride and relief blossom through her chest.
"What's in a name?" Harry says liltingly, tilting her head slightly. "That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."
A small smile spreads across Tom's face. "Shakespeare," he muses, his voice filled with an odd sense of nostalgia. "Yes, I suppose that is true. Our names do not define us nor our destiny. But they can influence us and mould us in a certain way. From now on, I will not be a slave to my name but rather a master of it."
His eyes are solemn and determined.
"My name is Tom Riddle, and it is mine to bear and shape as I see fit."
History changes, but with it comes the capricious storms.
It takes Harry seventeen years to notice.
A/N: Woohoo. My very first (official) tribute to the Tomarrymort fandom. Thank you so much for reading! Any reviews would be lovely- been craving validation from the internet lately, lmao. Next chapter coming very soon, featuring Politician!Minister!Tom and some romantic waltzing at a gala.