Chapter Summary: Harry wonders if the question will be about this weird longing he feels— does Tom feel it too? Did he feel empty until they found each other again? Did his soul cry out for its previous home, for the spot that it made its own enclosed in and amongst Harry's own soul during the years it resided within him? He could feel the blush crawling up his neck to his cheeks as he realized with a vague sense of dread that Tom must have heard him talking earlier.

Notes: First, I just want to again thank everyone who gave kudos, bookmarked, subscribed, and/or commented! Y'all are so amazing and I'm grateful for your kind words and for all the love you've shown.

Second, I just wanna say that lmao I struggled to finish this chapter because 1) this past month and a half has been absolutely wild and distracting and I just could not focus for the life of me to just get it done until now; and 2) Imposter Syndrome is awful and I struggled with that and my own sense of perfectionism. Managed to get bits and pieces written here and there, some editing done when I could focus, and this is the end product. I'm content.

Hope y'all enjoy this as much as I ultimately enjoyed writing it.

Chapter Three

It's in the split second after recognizing Tom that Harry feels it. The soul-deep warmth, the fullness, the pure beacon of belonging that his soul has been yearning for these last few months. It confuses Harry, because it makes absolutely no sense to him— this longing he's felt and tried his best to ignore and avoid.

Tom, Voldemort— they're one and the same, and he's caused so much pain and heartbreak and destruction. There's no dismissing this or ignoring it or waving it away. People died. Families were torn apart, Harry's included. But as Tom floats closer to him now, Harry can't help but feel relieved at seeing him.

The ghostly form in front of him is not Voldemort as Harry knows and remembers him. He instead resembles the Diary version of Tom, but older. Perhaps what he would've looked like in his thirties if he hadn't messed around with splitting his soul.

Short, neat black hair parted on the right— Harry's eyes linger on the hair and his brain feels like it's just tripped because 'He has hair' is now repeating in his mind; dark brown eyes that Harry knew would look somewhat red in the light due to the amber flecks amongst the brown— eyes that would later turn scarlet once he continued to split his soul; smooth, pale skin; high, sharp cheekbones and an aristocratic nose— seeing him with a nose in person, and not in a dream or a memory from the pensieve, was jarring to Harry's senses, perhaps more so than the fact that he has hair, can he just say; tall and long-limbed; and those damned thin, long piano fingers that drove Harry crazy in those dreams that he never likes to think too much about. All recognizable features to Harry, but they're under the ghostly, translucent sheen that tells him that Tom isn't alive in the flesh, but has come back as a ghost.

He hurries to stand up from his seat on the cold ground in front of Tom's headstone, and his heart feels like it's stuck in his throat. "Tom? Tom, is it… is it really you?" He has to ask. He knows already, but he's baffled as to how Tom is here in front of him right now. Harry was under the impression that Tom's soul was doomed, unable to move on to whatever true afterlife there was yet unable to come back as a ghost, because of how damaged and torn his soul ended up. Was he wrong? Was Dumbledore wrong?

Tom stops floating three feet away from Harry. His arms are by his sides but his fingers fidget aimlessly every few seconds like he doesn't know what to do with his hands as if he's nervous or uncomfortable. But his face is clear, blank, like the best of the traditional Slytherins that Harry went to school with or met after the war.

"Potter, obviously it's me. But don't—" He pauses, frowns slightly, then gives a great sigh. It's more emotion shown in this moment than Harry's seen in the last few. Tom moves to run a hand through his hair— he has hair, Harry's brain pointlessly tells him again— but stops, dropping his hand back to his side. "Nevermind. It's not important right now. I have a question for you."

Harry wonders if the question will be about this weird longing he feels— does Tom feel it too? Did he feel empty until they found each other again? Did his soul cry out for its previous home, for the spot that it made its own enclosed in and amongst Harry's own soul during the years it resided within him? He could feel the blush crawling up his neck to his cheeks as he realized with a vague sense of dread that Tom must have heard him talking earlier.

"Were you the one to conjure this headstone? The one to bury me? Did you cast any wards here?" Tom asks one question after another in quick succession with a demanding tone, but there's a sense of knowing to it; like he already came to the conclusion that it was Harry that did these things— he just needs confirmation.

Not the questions Harry expected right then, especially not from Tom. He never thought he'd have the chance to talk to Tom or Voldemort ever again except in his dreams, but he figured he'd have to answer these questions at some point. Might as well be now.

He brings a hand up and scratches his scruffy cheek. 'Knew I should've shaved before going to the gala.'

"Well… After the battle and the dust settled, some of the Order had ideas of what to do with your corpse. None of it felt right to me. Some of it felt like something you or one of your followers might do, no offence. It was such a hypocritical thing, and I just…" Harry groans in frustration as he drags his hands into his already messy black hair. It was difficult sometimes trying to express why he does things. He just did them, he didn't know all the why's sometimes, at least not all of them.

"I couldn't let them do that. I couldn't let them further the violence. I'm sure they would have wound up displaying your corpse somewhere public as proof of your death, or maybe my panic convinced me of this... I just… couldn't let that happen. It would have been disrespectful and— Merlin, hasn't there been enough brutality in this world already?"

Tom stares at Harry unblinkingly, his face blank from emotion— and he realizes that Tom likely doesn't need to blink, or breathe, anymore. But Tom does give a slow blink before he unnecessarily clears his throat once before saying in an overly serious, formal voice, "Thank you, Harry."

Harry's brain short circuits. He blinks three times in quick succession as he comprehends A) the gratitude, and B) Tom using his first name. It settles quickly, and oh, those butterflies fluttering around in his stomach kick up a fuss as Tom saying his name plays on repeat in his mind.

"You… You don't have to, uh, thank me. It was the right thing to do." He pauses before nervously pushing on. "I know you wouldn't have done the same for me, at least not how you were at the time of the Battle. Dunno about now either, but you seem… calmer?" Harry stares at Tom, holding his gaze for a beat, as if trying to suss out how or why Tom seems calmer in death, before lowering his eyes to the bridge of Tom's nose. "Uh, but I understand that you would have done things differently than me. I knew that when I did what I did. I just… I still needed to do it."

Tom floats closer, just a few inches, and his face looks pensive, contemplative. His stare holds Harry frozen in place; in the back of his mind, Harry contemplates all the ways he could describe Tom's eyes. Saying they're brown just doesn't do them justice. If he had the time he feels like he could write poems about the man's eyes, and likely write line after line about the amber flecks within them, but perhaps only after he wrote one or three or seven about the man's hands.

He's never written poetry before, and it probably wouldn't be award winning, but it'd be true— the feelings that Tom, and his piece of soul that once wound around, and burrowed amongst Harry's own, evokes in him and the ways he catches himself staring in awe at the beauty the man holds. Privately, he remembers this beauty and what it turned into. Harry shakes his head, as if to shake the thoughts from his mind, and concentrates on what the man in front of him is saying.

"You are right. I wouldn't have done the same for you. Even now, I don't know what I would have done, but I can't pretend I would have been kind or generous or insufferably noble. So, in this, you are wrong. I do have to thank you, Harry. For being noble enough to give your enemy a burial."

Harry swallows heavily before he rubs the back of his neck as he looks away from Tom for the first time that night. It is so difficult not to stare at him, the handsome bastard, and to see that he's really here in front of Harry. He glances down at the headstone, folds his arms against his chest, then says, "Alright then, I accept your thanks. But, yeah, I put wards up. Around your casket, your headstone, and this yew grove. Some were to protect the area from wild animals, insects, and weather. Some were to protect from outside interference from people, preventing people from coming across your headstone to damage it or the area. Mostly protection wards. Why?"

"I am unable to leave." Tom floats agitatedly in front of Harry, and his hands fidget again. He frowns, his brow furrowed, as he continues to stare at Harry. "I have tried since I materialized here, but the wards are preventing me from leaving."

A large part of Harry is relieved that Tom wasn't able to leave. If he had, Harry may not have ever known that Tom came back as a ghost. But in any case, he had no idea how Tom was stuck in this grove.

"I have no idea how you're stuck here…" Harry glanced around the small clearing within the grove, as if by looking around he'd find an answer. "I don't know if one of the wards maybe messes with ghosts or, uh, incorporeal beings? Most of them were just wards we used on the run, some were ones I picked up from the Black library. I don't think they were ever tested with ghosts. Maybe Hermione knows..." Harry looks back to Tom. 'I could try removing them…' He thinks but doesn't say. Not yet.

Tom's brow is still furrowed and his lips are now pinched in frustration. Harry could understand why— being stuck here alone for the foreseeable future would distress him too.

"Bring the wards down." Tom demands, his arms now crossed in front of his chest. He is solid in body language where he isn't in physical form. It tells Harry that he's stubborn and willing to fight on this.

Harry arches an eyebrow at the demand. But before either of them reacts further, Harry gets an idea that is objectively terrible but the fact that the emptiness, the yearning he knows is from his soul, is all but gone in Tom's presence gives him the courage he needs to suggest it. He knows that were he to leave now without the other man that the emptiness would return, the yearning strengthened to a fever pitch now that he's been in Tom's presence once more.

"Here's my offer. I take the wards down, but once you're free I'll put them back up to keep this place safe." Harry pauses nervously, glancing quickly at Tom's face before looking back down at the headstone. "Then you come back with me to my home and stay with me there."

There's a long, significant pause. "And why would I do that?"

"Because you, too, feel relief with me here, don't you?" Harry asks, the hope evident in his voice as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his robe, and fidgets with a loose thread, as he stares up at the other man from beneath his eyelashes.

"I don't know what you mean." He says haltingly, defensively. All of his practice as a Slytherin, as a Leader, falters and his emotions are plain on his face. His sharp eyebrows raised, his eyes widened slightly, his stare intense.

"You do. I know you do. But you don't have to say it. I'll be honest for the both of us." Harry has no idea what he's doing now. 'Why am I saying this? This isn't right. How I'm feeling isn't right. This is stupid, what if he's not even experiencing it too? He almost definitely heard me earlier talking to his headstone, he already knows, I shouldn't mention it again.' He thinks to himself before recklessly, impulsively, bravely going for it anyway.

"I've felt empty since you killed the Horcrux in me. I've felt empty since your spell rebounded on you and you died. I've not felt right, or whole, or stable since the battle. Until I felt your presence here tonight. I shouldn't feel like losing the Horcrux was like losing a part of myself, shouldn't feel like your absence made the emptiness grow, but I do. We're enemies. We've always been against each other. But I feel such relief, deep within my soul, knowing and seeing and hearing you here in front of me. I don't understand it at all. And if you feel anything similar, you probably understand it less than I do. So... Let's figure it out together."

It felt like something of a love confession, Harry realizes after he finishes speaking as his dread spikes and blood floods his cheeks in embarrassment.

Tom's body language was stiff, frozen, with an expression so blank Harry had to silently congratulate him on being able to fix his expression so quickly and keep a straight face in the face of a monologue like that. He looks back down at the ground as he starts to panic. 'This was stupid, I should never have come here, why did I—'

Tom clears his throat and gains Harry's attention once more. As Harry drags his gaze up from the ground to Tom's face he can see now that he's disarmed the man with his words once more. It's in the cracks of his mask, the cracks in his stance, the parting of his lips.

He begins to speak stiltedly, pausing every so often as if to gather his thoughts and his own courage all at once. "...I must admit that I...I, too, have felt… a… a longing that makes no sense to me intellectually. It has only worsened in the months since I have been stuck here amongst these trees, but I did not understand what my soul was longing for or why. But... then I sensed your arrival the minute you walked into the grove…"

Harry's heart feels like it'll beat right out of his chest, that the butterflies in his stomach will surely gnaw their way out to make themselves known, and he's almost entirely sure that he MUST be dreaming because what? What is Tom saying to him right now?!

Tom pauses longer, tilting his head to the side slightly as if contemplating whether he should continue speaking. He catches Harry's wide eyes and holds his stare with his own narrowed eyes. He must have decided to continue because he gives a little nod then he says, "There is relief, yes, but Harry, it has been screaming for me to be close to you and I don't rightly understand it at all except... that perhaps the piece of my soul that resided in you— my Horcrux, and wasn't that a discovery? Learning that you were mine for all that time— yearns to be close to your soul again. Perhaps... your soul wishes to be close to mine once more as well."

By this point, Harry thinks his face must be the exact shade of red from his old Gryffindor tie. 'Who just says stuff like that. Does he hear himself? Does he understand the— the implications?' But Harry supposes he started this, he offered up his honesty first. He just didn't expect honesty back. At least, he's almost eighty percent sure Tom is being honest with him. He's definitely different from before, it's painstakingly obvious the man in front of him is no longer Voldemort and it's not just because Harry's heart trips over itself every time his eyes linger over the man's features.

Harry rubs one of his warm cheeks then drops his hand down to his side. He nervously looks away, before clearing his throat and glances back at Tom. "Uh. Yeah. That, uh… That does sound like what I'm feeling. It makes some sort of sense. That piece of your soul was tangled around mine for so long... there must have been, I don't know... a… a bleed-through effect maybe? My soul's effect on yours, and vice versa?"

There's a pause, as Harry thinks for a moment. "How… Do you know… How are you here? I'm assuming your soul… Is it whole again?"

Tom grimaces as he looks away from Harry. "It is hard to describe, and I don't know for certain how I am here as a ghost. But my theory consists, impossibly, of the epitaph you engraved in the headstone you conjured for me. You wished, hoped, so fervently for my soul to be whole and at peace. And while I was… nothing and everything, one and many… I remember. I remember as my pieces were dragged through the nothing and hand-stitched back together. I remember the agony of it. I felt everything despite being nothing. But once it was done, I felt at peace. The peace was grudgingly given. It was brief and once it ended, I awoke here in this grove."

"Who… What… What do you think put you back together again?"

"Death. Unquestioningly. It was Death, from the stories about the Deathly Hallows. Fear beyond imagining, such an incomprehensible being that I couldn't see because I was not a being with eyes at the time, but I could still sense them. I cannot describe in a coherent way what they feel like but I knew. I knew what they were. You told me. You told me that it wasn't Snape, nor Draco, nor Dumbledore who was the Master of the Elder Wand. It was you. You had the cloak, too, didn't you? Potter family heirloom, yes? Did you have the stone? Did you hold all three?" He asks in increasingly demanding, implicating, tones.

Harry balks. "You can't be implying…"

"When I killed you— or, rather, when I killed my Horcrux in you… Do you remember the inbetween?"

"Well… Yes. It… It was King's Cross Station, at least that's what it looked like to me. I met… Well, I met with who I think was Dumbledore… I saw the… the… your Horcrux wailing, curled under one of the benches… I tried to help it, but Dumbledore said there was no way to help… I see now that he lied. Again. Or perhaps he didn't think it was possible… I was given a choice. I could Go On, and die for good. Or I could Come Back, and wake up from the floor of the forest and keep fighting." Harry pauses, a frown forming on his face. The dark bags under his eyes tell the story of countless sleepless nights. His shoulders slump as he drags a hand down his face and over the scruff of his cheek. "I was so tired. I wanted to see my parents, Sirius, Remus. I wanted to be at peace. But I had to keep fighting. Everyone was relying on me…"

Harry pauses for a long moment, his eyes darting quickly around the grove then back up at Tom. He sighs, and there's exhaustion clear in the heft of it. He feels like he's eighty in this moment instead of eighteen. "You think I became the Master of Death. That my… That my wishes for your soul, but my soul's longing for the piece of you that resided in me, is what made you whole. That Death was obligated by that to put you back together. That the peace given grudgingly, and briefly, was their response to my wishes. And bringing you back to this plane of existence was the cherry on top."

Tom gives a heavy nod, his gaze darting from the ground then slowly back up Harry's form until stopping at his eyes. "I do. It's the only fathomable explanation, no matter how utterly ludicrous it sounds…" He pauses, then floats closer to Harry. He's right in front of him now, perhaps too close. "If it's true, then I owe you. I owe you much already. So, to answer your earlier question, once you bring the wards down I suppose I will go with you to your home."

Harry swallows heavily. He hasn't considered the ramifications of having Tom as a housemate. What if Hermione or Ron or Ginny visit? Sure, Hermione and Ginny are at Hogwarts right now, but what about Ron?

But his soul is content in his presence. He feels whole, settled, complete. He can't let Tom go free and not go with him, so the only option is to have Tom come with him to Grimmauld Place.

He gives a small, shaky grin as he looks up at a Tom. Green eyes lock onto brown.

"Then let's go."

Thanks for reading!