Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It was too bright.

That was the first thing he thought when his eyes creaked open. The harsh white light above him was almost blinding, and the odd scent of st. Mungo's filled his nose. Then came the headache—sharp and punishing, as if he’d been struck hard in the skull. His entire body throbbed, aching in places he hadn’t known could hurt.

Then—

A face.

The most beautiful face he had ever seen.

Green eyes, impossibly green, stared down at him, wide with something like relief and panic. His mouth was moving, he had beautiful lips, he noticed, was saying something, but he could barely register it. His ears rang, muffling the sound.

“Oh, thank Merlin—Tom, how are you feeling?”

Tom. That was his name.

Something fluttered in his chest. He liked the way it sounded when he said it. Wanted to hear it again. Over and over.

And more than anything, he wanted to know his name.

He wanted to say it. Out loud.

“What’s your name?” he finally asked. His voice was dry and strange in his throat.

-

“What do you mean he’s lost his memory?” Harry snapped to the healer.

His voice was sharp, tight with something fierce and protective.

Tom—apparently—watched with mute fascination. He had a vague awareness of the pain crawling through his limbs, but it felt distant now, as it faded into the background, it was less important than the man arguing on his behalf.

His husband. That’s what they’d said.

His husband was angry. Furious. And breathtaking.

“Mr. Potter, I assure you, this is all temporary,” the Healer stammered. “These things—head trauma, curse shock—they’re, well, they're quite common side effects—”

“Common? He can’t remember anything!” Harry growled. “You told me there wasn’t anything wrong with him!”

“We didn’t detect any internal spell damage,” the Healer mumbled nervously, fiddling with the charts. “It’s more like... magical amnesia. The curse effect should fade in time—”

Tom, meanwhile, hadn’t heard a word. He was still staring at his husband.

Harry.

That was his name. The healer said so when they entered a while ago to assess him.

Harry Potter.

It suited him. It was lovely. Strong.

Harry, still furious and pacing now, hadn’t noticed the way Tom's eyes followed him, drinking in every movement.

Until he did.

Harry turned back mid-sentence, already gearing up to demand a second opinion, when his voice faltered. Tom was watching him—intently. His gaze was soft but unwavering, unsettlingly calm for someone freshly concussed. Something in it made Harry straighten on instinct.

“What?” he asked warily, arms crossing.

Tom blinked slowly, then smiled. Not a smirk. Not a sneer. A smile.

“I like your voice,” he said.

Harry stared at him. “What?”

“You said my name,” Tom murmured. “Say it again.”

Harry blinked once. Twice. Then turned sharply to the Healer. “He’s delirious.”

“I don’t think so,” the Healer said, sounding far too intrigued. “It’s possible his emotional memory is intact. Sometimes, even when factual memory is lost, the subconscious retains strong impressions—”

“Harry,” Tom said, tasting the name on his tongue.

Harry turned back, annoyed. “Yes?”

Tom’s smile grew. “I thought so.”

“You thought what?”

“That it would suit you.”

Harry blinked again. “You’ve got brain damage.”

Tom laughed quietly. “Possibly.” The Healer, wisely, pretended to be fascinated by his clipboard.

A pink tint bloomed on Harry’s cheeks before he could hide it, and Tom smiled in quiet triumph.

Victory.

The Healer cleared his throat awkwardly, as if remembering he still existed, and Harry’s face shifted immediately, soft embarrassment folding back into practiced irritation.

“Well,” the Healer said carefully, “we can discharge him as early as tomorrow, assuming there are no complications. We’d just like to observe him a little longer—make sure everything’s functioning normally.”

Harry blinked. “He only just woke up—shouldn’t we give it more time? What if he relapses or—”

“I think I’m ready to go home now, darling!” Tom interrupted, far too cheerfully.

Harry choked. “Darling?”

Tom gave him the most infuriatingly innocent look in the world, eyes wide and glimmering with amusement. “Isn’t that what husbands say?”

“No,” Harry said flatly. “Not like that.”

“But we’re married.”

“Yes,” Harry replied through gritted teeth.

Tom raised an eyebrow. “And here I was hoping you’d help me recover. You do seem very concerned for my well-being.”

Harry didn’t respond. He stared at him for one long second, an uncomfortable look flickering across his face. His mouth opened like he wanted to say something—but closed just as quickly.

Tom, watching intently, tilted his head.

Shy, then. Definitely shy.

That must’ve been it, the kind who didn’t like public displays of affection. Which was a shame, really. Tom was feeling particularly affectionate at the moment.

He watched, amused, as Harry's gaze dropped to the floor.

There it was again—barely a flicker, but unmistakable. A soft pink flush rising in Harry’s cheeks.

Tom smiled, quietly delighted.

The Healer coughed again. “Well… the paperwork can be prepared tonight. If he continues to respond well, you can take him home in the morning.”

"Er, right. Yes, paperwork!" Harry turned on his heel, following the healer as they left his room. “I’ll be back in an hour. I need to sort out the discharge papers—and get everything set up.”

Tom leaned back against his pillow, smug. “I’ll be waiting, darling.”

Harry didn’t dignify it with a response. The door closed behind him, a little harder than necessary.

Tom exhaled and looked up at the ceiling, then at the ring on his finger. It gleamed faintly in the hospital light.

Married to him, he thought again. Lucky me.

Chapter Text

Tom remembered basic things—how to cook, read, and the like. His memory might be fractured, but the fundamentals were still there. What he didn’t remember was the life he’d been living with his husband. And yet, as he looked around, he knew this was far from the cozy domestic haven one might expect.

The house itself was imposing. Tucked away in northwestern London, just a twenty-minute walk from King’s Cross Station, stood Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. He had inherited it from his godfather, who now preferred a smaller cottage nestled quietly near the woods.

“It was a wedding gift,” Harry said, cringing slightly as he stepped into the living room.

The house felt dark, even with light pouring through the large windows. It was regal, grand, and heavy with history—and yet, somehow, it felt empty. The furniture was dark, antique, and immaculate, but it lacked warmth. Too large. Too quiet. Too untouched.

Tom took it all in with a pang he couldn’t quite name.

Tom was beginning to uncover some honestly disappointing truths about their married life. The fierce, hot-headed Harry he had seen at St. Mungo’s had somehow transformed into a timid, anxious, and awkward man whenever he was around Tom. Still adorable—but not the Harry he wanted. That Harry stood tall and met his eyes, not this one, all hesitation and flinches. Then again, maybe that wasn’t surprising, considering how much Tom had been staring at him.

Harry was patiently running through the rundown of their daily lives. As it turned out, Harry was a retired Quidditch player, while Tom was an undersecretary, on track to become one of the youngest Ministers of Magic. But as Tom sifted through the limited information available, piecing together scraps from Harry’s casual recounting and what he could find in their shared belongings, it was becoming painfully clear that Harry didn’t know him, not on a deeper level.

It had been glaringly obvious when Harry showed him the way to his room, then pointed down the hall. “My room is at the other end,” he said awkwardly.

Tom blinked, taking it in. “We have separate rooms?”

Harry shifted on his feet, scratching the back of his neck. “Er, yeah. It’s… nice. We each get our own space.” He forced a nervous laugh. “Besides, I’m a total mess, and you’re… well, you’re a neat freak.” He tried to play it off with a grin, but Tom caught the slight hesitation beneath it.

Just when Tom thought things couldn’t get any worse, the subtle signs Harry was giving off began to add up—and the picture they painted wasn’t pretty. At best, Harry was intimidated by him. At worst… he was afraid. And if that were true, then what did that make Tom? A cold husband? A bully? Worse? Tom didn't want to think about the worst. He liked to believe he wasn’t such a terrible husband, except he didn't know, and so far, the evidence of their relationship told a much darker story. And so far, the evidence was stacking up against him.

"Harry," he said.

Harry flinched, visibly. Like he was bracing for something. It left a bad taste in his mouth.

Tom frowned. “Do I… frighten you?”

"er-yes?' Harry replied quickly, standing a little straighter, his smile just a touch too tight.

Then, realizing what he’d said, Harry blinked, startled. “What? No! I mean—no, not really, it’s just—” He let out a nervous laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck again. “You’ve always been a bit intense. That’s all.”

“Intense,” Tom repeated slowly, tasting the word like it might explain everything.

Harry nodded quickly, clearly grasping for neutral ground. “Not in a bad way. Just… very proper. Serious. You liked things a certain way.”

Tom didn’t respond at first. His gaze drifted down the hall, toward the closed door that was supposed to be Harry's room. Separate. Distant.

“Oh?” he said finally, inviting him to continue.

Harry cast his eyes to the floor, then, after a long pause, turned to leave. “You should rest,” he said hastily. “You must be tired. The Healer said you need lots of it.”

And with that, he was gone, retreating down the hall and out of sight.

Tom watched him go, that same bitter taste lingering on his tongue.

Chapter Text

Tom had embarrassingly little clarity about how he ended up in this mess in the first place. An undersecretary—not exactly the kind of role that should involve life-threatening magical accidents, especially not ones that slipped through Ministry safety protocols. Someone should’ve investigated. It all seemed suspicious, too convenient, too quiet.

Harry had told him he was on an absence of leave until his memories returned—whenever that would be. The Healer had warned it could take months. Months of this fog, of not knowing who he really was.

Then, as if summoned by his restless thoughts, there came a knock at the door. Tom wasn’t expecting visitors, but the name that came with the tall figure that entered was one he vaguely recognized: Abraxas Malfoy, his apparent co-worker at the ministry.

Tom’s gaze flicked over the man—long, sleek blond hair falling like a golden curtain, tailored robes, a posture that practically declared old blood. Oddly enough, the sight of that golden curtain of hair sparked a rogue impulse—he wanted to pull at it. Not in malice. Just… to see what would happen. The thought startled him, lingering like déjà vu.

He actually considered it, fingers twitching for a moment.

But then, a slow, amused smile curled on Tom’s lips, and he thought better of it.

No need to start trouble right away.

They were sitting in the garden now, after Harry—still bleary-eyed, hair even messier than usual—had awkwardly answered the door in a bright green jumper and soft, rumpled pajamas. Clearly just out of bed, he’d looked startled to see Malfoy, his face tinged with embarrassment as he blinked into the morning light.

Tom, delighted, had said, “Harry, darling. Good morning.” A bit too cheerfully, if Malfoy’s raised brow was anything to go by.

Malfoy, of course, had looked thoroughly amused. “Ah, Potter,” he’d said with a smirk. “I just need a quick word with Tom—about the—”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Harry said quickly, already flustered. “Come in, I’ll get you some tea.” Then he’d turned to Tom with an unreadable expression—half confusion, half tired resignation—and gestured toward the garden.

Harry returned to the garden a few minutes later, now dressed in something more presentable—casual, comfortable, but decidedly more appropriate than his earlier sleepwear. He carried a tea tray with him, carefully setting it down and pouring for both guests. His fingers brushed Tom’s as he handed him the cup.

Tom accepted his cup with a small, pleased smile. His eyes stayed on Harry a little longer than necessary. "Thank you, darling,” he said warmly.

Harry flushed faintly but didn’t reply.

Across from him, Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Thank you, Potter,” he said with amused emphasis, clearly watching the performance unfold like theatre. Harry gave a strained smile, murmured something polite, and practically fled back inside.

Abraxas took a sip of his tea, then tilted his head. “You’re being weird,” he said. “I haven’t decided if I should be concerned… or absolutely thrilled.”

Tom narrowed his eyes at him. “Whatever do you mean, Mr. Malfoy?” he said, voice cool and clipped.

Abraxas merely smiled wider, clearly entertained. “Mr. Malfoy, is it now? Pfft. You really have lost your memories, haven’t you, Mr. Riddle-Potter?”

Tom’s jaw twitched. For reasons he couldn’t quite name, he suddenly wanted to strangle him.

“Charming as ever,” Abraxas drawled, utterly unfazed. “Though I must say, this new version of you? Almost likable. Almost.”

Abraxas leaned back against the iron garden chair, crossing one leg over the other with elegant ease. “Though I must say, for someone who’s just survived an assassination attempt, you’re rather chipper.”

Tom’s gaze sharpened. “Assassination attempt?”

Abraxas lifted a brow. “Oh, come now. Surely someone’s mentioned it? No? Merlin, Potter really is coddling you.”

Tom didn’t answer, just stared, waiting.

Abraxas sighed, long-suffering and indulgent. “Well, the culprit was some no-name half-blood radical—anti-Ministry, frothing at the mouth about revolution and magical anarchy, et cetera, that sort of rot. Thought taking out the Ministry’s golden boy might spark a revolution. Dramatic little thing. Didn’t work out for him.”

He sipped his tea again, clearly enjoying himself. “And since you’re the youngest, brightest, most insufferably competent undersecretary in decades, and practically guaranteed to be Minister within the next few years…” He gave Tom a pointed look. “You were the obvious target.”

Tom’s fingers curled slightly against the teacup, but he kept his tone smooth. “And this is all being handled, I assume?”

Abraxas waved a hand airily. “Oh, of course. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement swept it all under the rug faster than you could blink. Can’t have public panic, can we? But make no mistake, Tom. It was serious. You almost died."

There was a moment of silence between them.

Then, “So it wasn’t just an accident,” Tom said softly.

“No,” Abraxas replied. “You were targeted.”

Abraxas studied him for a long moment, then tilted his head with a small, curious smile. “You’re different.”

“And you're very irritating,” Tom replied automatically. Though with less bite than intended.

“Yes, but charmingly so.” Abraxas chuckled.

“Honestly though, if this memory loss is permanent, you might actually make a decent politician. People like husbands who flirt with their spouses in public. It’s very humanizing.”

Tom rolled his eyes, but his voice was quiet when he spoke. “Do you think I was a bad one?”

Abraxas blinked. For once, the teasing fell away, but he still had an amused glint in his eye. “Husband?”

Tom nodded.

Abraxas was silent for a beat longer than expected. “Let’s just say,” he said at last, "you weren’t always someone I liked being in a room with. And Harry...well. He tried. That boy always tries. But you weren’t built for soft things, Tom.”

Tom didn’t answer. He stared down at his teacup, where the steam had begun to curl into nothing.

“But then again,” Abraxas added, “he still said yes. So maybe there was something there, after all.”

Tom sat quietly, the words lingering.

And for the first time, he wondered—what exactly had Harry said yes to?

And who had Tom been that he would’ve let him say yes to that?

Chapter Text

There were many things Tom was beginning to learn about Harry. And by extension, he was learning pieces—fragmented, frustratingly elusive pieces of what their life must’ve looked like before the amnesia. What frustrated him most was how impossible it was to get Harry to talk. Tom would try polite questions, casual conversation, gentle prodding. But Harry always seemed a step ahead in awkwardness, as if afraid of giving too much away. He only ever revealed what Tom already knew, or what was too harmless to matter. Still, Tom got the distinct impression that Harry didn’t know much more than he did. That whoever Tom had been before, the real husband Harry married had kept himself tightly locked away.

The house wasn’t much help. If anything, it confirmed the worst of his suspicions: they had lived parallel lives, orbiting around each other without ever fully colliding. Separate rooms. Separate routines. Separate everything.

But the kitchen… the kitchen was different.

Often, Tom found Harry there more than once, sleeves rolled up, hair pushed back, hands dusted with flour. He didn’t use magic—not even for the dishes. He chopped herbs with a muggle knife, stirred batter with a wooden spoon, and moved with a rhythm that suggested muscle memory and comfort.

It wasn’t that Harry loved cooking, Tom thought, it was that he loved doing something with his hands. Something quiet. Something that didn’t require being seen.

Tom found himself watching Harry, more than once, from the doorway.

He remembered the first time vividly, Harry standing at the counter, back turned, sleeves pushed up, hands working dough with care. Tom hadn’t meant to stare, but there was something oddly grounding about the sight. Harry looked peaceful like that. Unaware, unguarded.

It only lasted a minute before Harry turned and caught him. He startled a little—eyes wide, as if spooked—then quickly masked it with a smile.

“I was making some tarts,” he said, voice light, like he was trying to make it normal. He stood there, waiting, maybe hoping for a response. For something to happen. Tom had only smiled at him. Said nothing. And after a beat, Harry turned back to his work.

Meals were a similar ordeal. Tom would never forget the surprised look Harry had given him when he came to sit at the small kitchen table. There had only been one plate prepared. Clearly, Harry had been expecting to eat alone.

There was a beat of silence—awkward, sharp—before Harry quickly stood and began assembling another plate, movements flustered but efficient. He didn’t say anything. Just glanced at Tom occasionally, like he was still trying to figure out what this version of him wanted.

Tom hadn’t wanted to make him nervous. But he also didn’t want to leave. So he stayed. Ate quietly. Let the silence settle between them like dust.

“This tastes wonderful, darling,” he said at last.

Harry froze for a moment, like the word had landed in the center of his chest. Then he nodded, eyes still on his plate, and hummed, “Thank you.”

That was all.

But it stayed with Tom longer than he expected.

It had taken three days before Tom came down again, and this time, there were two plates already set on the table. He didn’t say anything about it. Just smiled at Harry as he took his seat. And Harry, after a brief pause, smiled back. But something was different. This time, it felt real. Not polite. Not forced. There was a warmth in it, hesitant but sincere—like he’d lowered something invisible between them, just a little.

They ate in silence, like before. But it was no longer uncomfortable.

Something had shifted. Minuscule. Fragile.

But it was there.

-

Harry didn’t eat breakfast. He usually slept in until half past ten, padding into the kitchen with messy hair and bleary eyes. He drank his tea with two sugars, always from the same chipped mug. He cooked at lunch. Again at dinner. And every evening—quietly, without comment—he prepared breakfast for Tom, placing it under a stasis charm before going to bed. From what Tom could gather, he had done so from the very beginning.

Every morning, Tom would find the plate waiting for him. And every morning, when Harry eventually wandered in, sleep still clinging to his limbs, Tom would smile and say, “Thank you, darling.”

And Harry—still half-asleep, hair sticking out in every direction—would blink, flush faintly, and murmur, “You’re welcome,” like it surprised him every time.

Tom had started spending more time in the kitchen—partly because there was nothing else to do, and partly because Harry was there. His room was bare, save for scattered parchments from work, and he hadn’t been surprised to discover he had no hobbies to speak of. The library had offered some distraction, but most books bored him to tears.

But watching Harry in the kitchen was different. He had found a kind of peace there, a rhythm in the way Harry moved—calm, deliberate, almost meditative. At first, Harry had seemed unnerved by the intensity of Tom’s gaze, catching him staring more than once. Yet, he hadn’t said a word about it.

Tom noticed how little Harry spoke overall. He felt like a background fixture in Harry’s life—present, tolerated, but never truly seen. And somehow, that stung more than he wanted to admit.It wasn’t surprising, considering Harry’s calm acceptance when Tom hadn’t known about the assassination attempt until Malfoy mentioned it. Maybe it was Tom’s fault for not asking—but really, did he have to inquire about something so grim?

This morning, like many others, Tom watched Harry pull out the chipped mug he always used and carefully brew his tea.

“Good morning, darling,” Tom said, voice low and warm as he approached the counter.
Harry glanced up, surprised, a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks.

“Morning,” he replied, voice quieter than usual.

Tom reached out, brushing a stray curl from Harry’s forehead with an absent-minded smile. “You know, I think this kitchen is starting to feel like the best part of my day.”

Harry blinked, looking away shyly. “It’s just… peaceful here.”

“Peaceful. Much like you,” Tom said, teasing, but quiet—like he meant it more than he let on.

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

-

Exasperated. Confused. Baffled. That seemed to be Harry’s default reaction to nearly everything Tom did lately. Which, frankly, Tom found mildly offensive. Was he really so dreadful before the memory loss that a simple “good morning” earned Harry the expression of a man watching someone dismantle a bomb?

He didn’t want to know. Probably.

Still, he persisted.

“This is nice, isn’t it, darling?” Tom said casually, standing in front of the tall sitting room window. The light outside was soft and golden, and the air had that particular early-autumn crispness to it. “A perfect day for a picnic.”

From the kitchen, Harry paused mid-stir. “Picnic?”

Tom turned, brow raised. “Yes. You know, blanket on the grass, basket of food, romantic outing with your very charming husband?”

Harry blinked. “You… want to have a picnic.”

“I do,” Tom replied, watching as Harry hesitated, spoon hovering over his tea. “It would be a shame to waste such lovely weather.”

Harry glanced at him, skeptical. “With me?”

Tom pretended to be scandalized. “Well, I am married to you. I thought it might be considered appropriate.”

Harry looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or flee. “Why?”

Tom gave a slow shrug and took a sip of his tea, eyes watching him over the rim of the cup. “I didn’t realize I needed a reason to spend time with my husband.”

The word still thrilled him a little. Husband. He liked saying it.

Harry, however, looked like he might disintegrate on the spot. He busied himself adding sugar to his tea with great concentration, though Tom could practically hear the gears grinding in his head.

Eventually, Harry said, “We don’t really do that. Picnics. Or—spending time.”

Tom smiled. “Then maybe we should start. First time for everything.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Harry said lightly, offering him a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We’re not… like that.”

“Well, I want to,” Tom said softly, eyes never leaving him.

Harry looked at him, wary.

“And you can say no, of course,” Tom added, playful again, tone easy. “I’m not in the business of forcing reluctant husbands into sandwiches and scenic parks. Although…” He tilted his head. “I do make excellent company.”

Harry snorted, despite himself. “You’re being odd.”

“And yet, you haven’t said no,” Tom pointed out, grinning.

Harry bit his lip, then looked away, embarrassed but not entirely displeased. “I’ll think about it.”

“I’ll take that as a hopeful maybe.”

“You would.”

Tom raised his teacup. “To hopeful maybes, then.”

Harry let out a sigh. And Tom, quietly, considered that a win.

The weather held true. By midday, the sun had climbed just enough to warm the skin without burning it, and the breeze carried the smell of grass and late-blooming lavender. Harry had picked the location in the house garden, quiet, green, slightly shaded by an old oak tree that leaned as if it too was eavesdropping. Tom brought the blanket, a thick tartan one he found tucked away in a forgotten cupboard. Magic wove itself gently into the edges, keeping the ground dry, the wind calm, the air pleasantly cool.

Harry arrived with a picnic basket that looked older than both of them combined.
Tom had not expected much, but Harry had packed carefully. Sandwiches, chilled pumpkin juice, an entire box of those flaky cheese tarts he’d caught Tom eyeing, and even a small tub of sliced apples with a little pot of honey for dipping.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” Tom said, reclining on one elbow as he watched Harry arrange things like a soldier organizing rations.

Harry shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “Didn’t have anything better to do.”

Tom took a bite of a tart and groaned a little too dramatically. “Merlin, this is divine.”

Harry chuckled, amused despite himself. “You always say that.”

Tom looked up. “Do I?”

“You used to eat all of them when I left them out. I stopped making them for a while just to see if you’d notice.”

Tom grinned. “Did I?”

“You left a note that just said: ‘Where are the tarts.’ No punctuation.”

“That sounds like me. Succinct. Goal-oriented. Passionate about pastry.”

Harry laughed. The sound startled both of them a little. It wasn’t a polite chuckle. It was real.
Tom let the silence settle for a moment. They were both seated now, cross-legged, their knees barely brushing.

“So,” Tom said gently, “how long have we been married?”

The warmth ebbed just slightly from Harry’s face. His hand stilled on the edge of the basket.

“Three years,” he said after a pause. “Almost.”

“So,” Tom said, nudging a grape toward Harry’s side of the blanket, “how exactly did we meet? Was I dazzling from the start?”

Harry glanced up, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Dazzling? More like intimidating. My parents set it up. So not exactly romantic. It was political, at first.”

“At first?” Tom echoed.

Harry didn’t meet his eyes. “It was always political.”

“And yet here we are,” Tom said, gesturing between the blanket and the tarts, “eating cheese pastries in a field like a proper couple.”

Harry gave a faint smile. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I already am,” Tom said cheerfully. “In fact, I’m planning our next romantic getaway. Candlelight. Dangerous magical creatures. Possibly a dragon.”

Harry huffed a laugh, biting into an apple slice. “You’re not nearly as smooth as you think.”

Tom pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I’ll have you know, I used to be very smooth, I think. You were no match for my charm.”

Harry raised a brow. “You mean intimidation.”

“Same thing.”

That made Harry smile again—really smile, the kind that reached his eyes. Tom felt it catch somewhere in his chest.

Harry shook his head. “On our first date, you just stared at me. For a solid ten minutes. Didn’t say a word.”

“I was being mysterious,” Tom said breezily.

“You were being terrifying.”

Tom grinned. “And yet… you still married me.”

“You were charming eventually,” Harry said, squinting at him. “In a calculating sort of way.”

“I’m still charming,” Tom said.

“You were… at first.”

Tom feigned offense. “Ah, so I wore you down. How tragic.”

He hesitated for a beat, watching Harry’s expression soften with the fading laughter. Then he said, more quietly, “But I suppose I have a second chance now.”

Harry looked over at him, cautious.

Tom smiled. “Would it help if I told you I remember how much I like your smile?”

The words seemed to strike something in Harry. His eyes widened, something like disbelief flickering in them. He met Tom's eyes.

“You never said that before,” he murmured, almost accusing. A beat. As if the words meant something more than they should have. As if they hurt a little.

Tom’s voice was low but certain. “Well, I’m saying it now.”

A long, quiet beat.

“I think I’ve been wasting a lot of time not saying the things that matter,” Tom added, barely above a whisper.

Harry didn’t look away. Not this time. And Tom, heart unsteady, felt something bloom in the silence between them.

Chapter Text

Tom was leaning against the kitchen counter when Harry walked in for his morning tea, which didn’t surprise him anymore. It had been nearly a month since the accident, and somehow, he and Tom had settled into a routine. Predictable. Comfortable. Too comfortable.

Tom smiled at him, as always, and offered the same greeting he did every morning: “Good morning, darling.”

That was another thing that had become a habit—Tom calling him darling. It wasn’t something he used to say. In fact, before the memory loss, Tom hadn’t really called him anything at all. No pet names. No warmth. Just Harry, when necessary. If that. And now—this new Tom, the one who woke up without memories—he played the role of a husband with startling ease. Too well, Harry thought. Far too well.

It was almost too believable, the way Tom had stepped into the shape of someone he’d never been. A loving, doting partner. Harry soaked it in anyway.

He stirred sugar into his tea, watching the granules vanish one by one. Tom was humming something tuneless under his breath—off-key but content—and still leaning against the counter like he belonged there. Like he always had.

There was something disorienting about seeing Tom be so… domestic.

Harry didn’t say anything. He never did—not first. It had started as a habit. Now, it was something else. A kind of silence he didn’t want to break. The moment felt too fragile, too suspended, as though one word might send it crumbling.

He glanced down at the chipped mug in his hands. The same one he used every morning. Another small thing that hadn’t changed.

It was strange. Tom had lost everything—his past, his memories, the sharp, cold edges of the man Harry had married—and somehow, what remained was soft. Too soft. Like someone Harry could’ve… maybe worked with, in a different world. A different life.

He took a sip of tea, let the warmth settle behind his teeth, and didn’t look at Tom.

People said memory loss was tragic. A loss of self. But sometimes Harry wondered if it wasn’t also a kind of mercy. He wasn’t sure what that said about either of them. But just as he let himself settle into the moment, as his shoulders loosened and his breath came easier, he felt it. The pull. The reminder. That it wouldn’t last.

The sitting room was absurdly large for two people. Afternoon light poured through the windows, pooling gold on the ornate rug. Harry sat curled in the corner of the long velvet couch, knees tucked up, a mug balanced on his thigh. At the opposite end, Tom was sprawled out like a cat, tea in one hand, dramatized boredom clinging to him like silk.

Tom sighed, long and theatrical. “This much space between us is dreadful. Entire galaxies could fit in this gap, darling. Tragic, really.”

Harry didn’t look up from his book. “Well, you’re the one who chose this house. I prefer something smaller. Modern. Less… castle-adjacent.”

Tom gave a mock gasp, placing a hand to his chest. “You wound me. And here I thought I’d been considerate.”

Harry arched a brow. “You chose this place like a man picking wine. Looked nice. Sounded important.”

Tom leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming. There was something different in his face—lighter, almost playful. A version of him Harry had never quite seen.

“Surely I must’ve taken your tastes into account, darling,” he said, smooth as silk. “I’m very attentive. Exceptionally so.”

He shot Harry a wink—lazy and devastatingly practiced.

It shouldn’t have done anything.

But it did.

Harry rolled his eyes, careful not to smile. “You wouldn’t know ‘attentive’ if it danced naked in front of you.”

Tom tilted his head, tone suddenly grave. “Would you be willing to demonstrate? For science, of course.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you,” Tom said, grinning, “are adorable when you’re annoyed. Did I ever tell you that?”

“You’re flirting again.”

“Yes. And?”

Harry snorted, but didn’t answer. He turned back to his book and tried not to smile, which only encouraged Tom more. He shifted, crawling dramatically closer on the couch, draping his long limbs over the cushions like a cat that knew it was beautiful.

Harry didn’t flinch when Tom’s knee bumped his.

“Admit it,” Tom said, voice low, teasing. “You like me better this way.”

Harry’s throat tightened, but his mouth worked faster than his thoughts. “Better than what?”

“Than, however I was before,” Tom said. “Which, frankly, I’m starting to think was a real bastard.”

Harry took a sip of tea to stall. It burned his tongue. “You weren’t… horrible. Just difficult.”

“Ah, a charming euphemism.”

“You were cold.”

Tom blinked at him. For once, he looked unsure. “And now?”

Harry remained silent. The truth sat heavy on his tongue, unsaid. Because the truth was cruel. The truth was you’re lovely now, but this isn’t real. This is the version of you that only exists because you forgot who you were.

Tom kept going, light as ever. “I do like this version of me. I’m devilishly handsome and devastatingly kind.”

“And humble, too,” Harry muttered.

“Modesty is overrated.” He was close enough now that their shoulders almost touched. 

“Although, if you do prefer something smaller,” he said, nodding toward the room, “we could always just stay closer together. Spatial economy, and all that.”

Harry laughed, despite himself. “So now you care about spatial economy.”

“I care about proximity. Specifically to you.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You keep saying that,” Tom said, and leaned in a fraction more, “and yet, you haven’t moved away.”

Harry looked at him then—really looked at him. The way his hair curled slightly at the ends. The slope of his cheek. The way his lips curled when he thought he was being clever, which, to be fair, was often.

And then, for a moment, Harry let himself forget.

Forget how temporary this was. How borrowed. He let himself laugh when Tom made some joke about how tragic it would be if they spilled tea on the velvet. He let himself feel Tom’s hand brush his when they reached for the same biscuit. Let himself be part of this odd, lovely little dream. It felt like a distant dream then—because the last time Tom had touched his hand like that, it had been to stop him from leaving. Not to hold him still, but to remind him of power.

They stayed like that—close, comfortable—for longer than Harry realized. Light turned to dusk. The corners of the room glowed warm and golden. Their feet tangled on the floor.

Then Tom said it. Offhanded. Easy.

“When my memories come back, I’m sure it’ll be just the same.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t want to move. If he moved, he might remember this was all temporary.

Tom didn’t even notice. He was still smiling at him like this was their forever.

Harry smiled too.

What else could he do?

That was Harry’s life now.

He smiled and said nothing. Let the silence speak for him.

Because it wouldn’t be the same. It would never be. This fairytale Tom—the one who said “darling” and smiled for no reason, who lounged on couches and flirted like it was breathing—was already fading. Like the light in the room.

Harry leaned his head back against the cushion and closed his eyes.

And said nothing at all.

It was unfair, really—how charming he was without even trying. Memory loss had apparently knocked the cruelty right out of him, leaving behind a rendition so absurdly likeable that Harry wanted to punch something. Or maybe kiss him. It was hard to tell lately. There was something inherently suspicious about Tom smiling without ulterior motive, like watching a venomous snake knit a sweater. And worse—Harry was falling for it. Not the smile, exactly, but the ease of it. The fantasy of a life where they fit. Where domestic silence meant peace and not punishment. But it was a lie, wasn’t it? All of it. A beautifully wrapped, cursed gift. And Harry—idiot that he was—kept pulling at the ribbon like he didn’t already know what was inside.

Maybe the worst part was how easy it was to let Tom touch him now. Not physically—well, that too—but the other kind of touch. The knowing you , the looking at you like you’re made of something precious and terribly breakable kind. The kind that slipped under your ribs and made a home there without asking. This Tom, with his casual charm and his tragic sincerity, had no idea he was borrowing someone else’s life—no idea that the man he used to be would take one look at this whole domestic dream and recoil. And Harry? Harry was just here, playing along, letting himself drown in it like a fool with a fondness for borrowed things.

-

All things must come to an end.

Harry sighed, the parchment limp in his hand, thumb smudging the ink at the corner. He’d been avoiding this. Pretending, for as long as he could, that maybe they’d forget. That maybe, if he didn’t reply, they’d take the hint. But there was no getting past his parents—not when they’d made a sport out of persistence. Lily and James had wanted to visit for weeks. Months, even. But they’d put it off with the usual excuses—Tom needs rest, Tom is still fragile, let him recover properly, dear. Harry had explained the situation in exhausting detail, rewritten and resent the same letter so many times he feared his owl would develop a personal grudge. Still, the reply came. And of course, it was dramatic. Painfully so. His father’s doing, most likely. The parchment all but sobbed: “our precious son,” and “our most beloved son-in-law,” and “the pain of separation grows unbearable.”

They were coming. Harry folded the letter with careful fingers, pressing the crease down like it might change something. He wasn’t ready. Tom certainly wasn’t.

Harry’s parents, Lily and James Potter, had meant well when they set their only son up to marry Tom. They vehemently argued it wasn’t an arranged marriage—“Arranged marriages are so posh-posh, it’s not the olden times, dear,” Lily had laughed once—but in principle, it had been exactly that. No matter how much James insisted, they only nudged the two of them together; the intentions were pretty clear. 

James had introduced Tom to Harry like a prized Quidditch card.“Tom’s on his way to Undersecretary, did you know that, Harry?” he’d said, eyes gleaming with pride. “And Harry here, playing for Puddlemere this year — the best Seeker they’ve ever had! You must’ve heard!”. It had all been painfully transparent. Harry could barely keep a straight face through the whole thing, offering polite smiles and neutral replies as if he weren’t being sold like a broomstick at auction.

Tom had been a bachelor then—ambitious, graceful, dangerous in that way where he never quite said what he meant, but still made you feel like you missed something. If he played his cards right, he'd be the next Minister, something that seemed increasingly inevitable. And Lily, like any mother, had only wanted what was best for her son. She thought Harry needed someone competent by his side—someone who could keep up, who could handle the politics. James shared that hope, too, even if his way was more about blunt encouragement and less about subtlety. 

They never told Harry this directly, but they already knew how reckless he could be. How messy. How bad he was at choosing for himself. After the mess with Ginny, after the press circus, after the complete lack of direction—well. They took things into their own hands.

To this day, Harry doesn't know how they managed to land Tom Riddle; after all, many families had been vying for him, circling him like vultures. But somehow, James and Lily succeeded. Tom worked at the Ministry, starting in a small but quickly ascending position. Harry, who barely kept up with politics, hadn’t even registered Tom’s rapid rise. He met James there, as head of the Auror Office, and somehow Tom charmed him with an inexplicable allure—the kind of charm that disarmed everyone Tom met. It helped that Tom’s reputation as a powerful Muggle-born who climbed the ranks quickly was built on genuine competence. Harry never stood a chance.

But enough about that.

He still had to tell him.

Harry braced himself, walking into the kitchen where Tom was—unsurprisingly—whistling and making tea like a picture out of Witch Weekly: Domestic Bliss Edition.

He cleared his throat. “My parents are visiting.”

Tom turned, brightening instantly. “Oh! Dear mother and father-in-law, you say?” He sounded delighted, like it was a novelty rather than a slow-motion disaster. Harry felt a crack behind his ribs. Tom had never sounded so eager. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or run.

Harry sighed. “Yes. And, feel free to let me know if this is something you don’t want or aren’t comfortable with. I can—” he gestured vaguely toward the window “—figure something out.”

It was a feeble attempt, and he knew it.

Tom just smiled, boyish and easy. “Why wouldn’t I be comfortable? I’d love to meet them properly.”

Harry opened his mouth, closed it again. He wanted to say: You already did. Because… he had met them. Many times. And the version of Tom who had sat at their dinner table all those times before hadn’t liked them much. Hadn’t disliked them, either, but he hadn’t smiled like that. Hadn’t looked excited. Hadn’t acted like someone eager to impress a pair of people he once treated as political allies, not family. But this version was smiling at him like it was the first time. And Harry—stupid, aching Harry—wanted to see how far that smile could go. 

And Harry? He didn’t know how he was supposed to survive watching his parents fall for this soft impostor. Just as magnetic—just as dangerous—but easier. Softer. Lovable in a way the real Tom never tried to be. The one who laughed without biting, touched without flinching, and held Harry’s hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The one who wasn’t real.

Chapter Text

The weather was great — the breeze just right against the warm sun — and the day had been absolutely perfect, in stark contrast to what Harry was feeling. Lily and James were… a lot, for lack of a better word. Overbearing, really. It was a miracle he’d turned out even remotely normal. Harry cringed at the thought of his parents, remembering the time Lily had waved at him — embarrassingly — across the schoolyard after a tumble at his Muggle school.

“Harry, dear! Your mama’s right here!” she’d called. He’d wanted to disappear.

Lily had insisted he go to a Muggle school before Hogwarts. And Harry — who’d always had a knack for getting into trouble — hadn’t exactly made it easy for them. Lily had been the worst of the two. James tried to reprimand him now and then, usually failing spectacularly. Harry sometimes pitied them. That is, when he wasn’t busy turning on the puppy eyes and pulling out a few well-practiced antics to melt their anger away.

James and Lily were always weak for their own son. Pathetically so. All it took was a wobble in his voice or a dramatic sigh, and Lily would be cradling his face, checking for bruises that weren’t there, and James would ruffle his hair with a grin like Harry had just won the Quidditch Cup.

It was ridiculous. Endearing, sure — but ridiculous.

Tom, on the other hand, could not have looked more excited. He was flitting around the house with barely restrained energy, fussing over a space that barely needed fussing. They hadn’t really personalized the place — neither of them was sentimental — but today, Tom had apparently decided it needed “brightening up.”

“I’m telling you, Harry, wouldn’t some lilies go well right here ?” he asked for the third time, gesturing vaguely at the dining table.

Harry didn’t even look up. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Darling, that’s the problem.”

Harry didn’t answer. Everything was perfectly fine. Or at least, it had been.

His parents — the Lily and James — were visiting today.

All Harry could think was: This is a spectacular disaster waiting to happen.

Harry sat still for a moment, watching Tom pace the room with a handful of lilies, debating vases as if it were a matter of state. And quietly — without meaning to — the words began turning over in his mind. "They’ve always been good to him." Lily and James had never been anything but kind to Tom. Overeager, maybe. Soft in the middle, unbearably sentimental at times — but kind, unwaveringly so. And Tom… Tom had never been cruel. Never dismissive. He’d been polite. Perfectly proper. Courteous in the way that made dinner feel like a press conference. He answered questions. He brought wine. He smiled, small and clean and precise. But warmth? No, not exactly. Tom didn’t give warmth the way Lily wanted to receive it — open arms, fluttering words, a hand on the cheek, a fussing over hair and freckles and half-empty plates.

Harry remembered how Lily, in the beginning, had tried to treat Tom like she treated him. The same insistent affection, the soft touches, the endless mothering. She’d tried — bless her — to fold him into their chaos like a second son. But Tom’s demeanor had been a wall: not harsh, just immovable. He didn’t flinch, didn’t protest, but the polite smile never wavered, and his hands stayed at his sides, never reaching back. Eventually, Lily learned. She accepted the unspoken boundaries. She stopped trying to kiss his cheek, stopped scolding him for working too much, though she still sent him sweets he never ate. Still called him Tom, dear with that fond little laugh. Still adored him, in her way. Just… from a little further away.

James, though — James had understood. Or maybe he’d sensed something the way only James could, with that strange intuitive wisdom hidden under all the jokes. He never tried to hug Tom. Never teased him, never made a show of affection. He spoke to him plainly, as if to a colleague — or maybe a soldier. And once — Harry remembered this sharply — once James had clapped Tom on the back, firm and proud, and said, "That’s what makes you such a successful man, Tom. You’re not like us. You’re serious. Diligent. You get things done." Tom had blinked at him, surprised, maybe even a little moved, though he’d never said a word.

And Harry had just stood there, watching the two of them. Watching his father see something in Tom that wasn’t softness or sentiment, but something solid. Something worthy. 

Maybe that was why they thought Tom loved him — fiercely, silently, in the way of men who don’t say much but mean it all. Maybe that’s what comforted them: the idea that Harry had ended up with someone steady, someone who took care of things, someone who loved him in a way that didn’t need translation.

They never said it outright. But he saw it in the way Lily looked at them during dinners, soft-eyed and smug, as though she knew some secret truth. In the way James clapped Tom’s back a little too hard and said, “Look at you two,” like they were something proud and settled.

And Harry never corrected them.

He never told them the truth — that Tom wasn’t affectionate, wasn’t warm, wasn’t particularly loving. That he was polite, yes. Present, mostly. Attentive in ways that could be mistaken for love if you didn’t look too closely.

Harry let them think what they liked. Let them believe that Tom loved him — deeply, quietly, in that noble, tragic way that looked good in stories. He let them believe that Harry was cared for, chosen, adored. He let them carry that comfort home with them like a box of leftover cake.

Because what else was he supposed to do? Tell them the truth?

Tell them that love, if it had ever lived here, had faded into habit? That affection had become a ceremony, repeated without meaning? That sometimes, in the silence between them, Harry felt lonelier than he ever had in an empty house?

No.

He let them believe in Tom.

Because sometimes, Harry wanted to believe in him, too.

-

Harry, meanwhile, was mortified. He tried to hide it — the slow-building anxiety, the grim sense of doom — but it curled tight in his stomach anyway. He knew how this could go. He remembered how it had gone before. Would they be surprised? Would they take one look at Tom — the too-perfect clothes, the reserved smile, the vaguely aristocratic posture — and feel again just how utterly not them he was? Would Tom behave just as he always had? Cordial, distant, politely amused? Would he give them that impenetrable smile and play the part of a gracious but ultimately indifferent host?

Or worse — worse — would he try?

Would he lean in and try to be the son-in-law they’d always wanted? Laugh at James’s jokes? Let Lily fix his collar? Would he play along just enough to seem warm without actually meaning it?

Because that — Harry thought — that might just break him.

Because that would mean the real Tom could do it. Could offer the performance of affection, of belonging, of being part of something soft and silly and loud — and just chose not to . Not with Harry. Not in their quiet, too-tidy house. Not when no one else was watching.

And yet, as he looked at Tom now — legs crossed, eyes focused on nothing in particular, lips parted in what almost looked like nervousness — Harry felt that familiar, stupid tug in his chest.

He looked like a man waiting for his in-laws.

He looked like he cared .

And Harry, fool that he was, let himself hope — just a little .

When the Floo flared to life with a rush of green flames, Harry barely had time to steel himself before his parents stumbled through — Lily first, bright and fluttering as ever, followed by James, who hit the ground with his usual ungraceful thump.

Tom shot to his feet so fast he nearly lost his balance. He bumped the edge of the table, muttered something under his breath, and took a quick, almost frantic moment to straighten his clothes. He brushed invisible dust from his sleeves, adjusted his collar, and exhaled slowly — a breath that seemed to steady him, if only barely.

Then he looked at Harry.

Harry, already halfway bracing for impact, caught Tom’s eye and offered him a small, reassuring smile. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A quiet I’m here. You’ll be fine that hung between them like a thread.

Across the room, the Potters were dusting themselves off with a casualness that came from years of tumbling out of fireplaces and into other people’s lives. Lily swatted soot from her coat and tugged at her sleeves like she was preparing for a duel, while James ran a hand through his hair — out of habit more than need — and gave a short whistle at the room.

“Well, look at this,” he said, squinting around with exaggerated approval. “You’ve finally done the place up proper.”

Lily elbowed him. “Don’t be ridiculous. They always does. Hello, boys!”

She turned her full attention to Harry first, of course — arms outstretched, face lit with delight — and pulled him into a tight hug before he could say a word.

“Hi, Mum,” he murmured into her shoulder, a bit muffled. She smelled like cinnamon and fresh parchment. The way she always had.

Then came the moment — the one Harry always watched too closely, always dreaded just a little.

Lily turned to Tom.

Then, oddly—almost too eagerly—he moved forward, shoulders squared, lips twitching in something like a nervous smile. Like he was waiting for his turn.

Harry blinked. That wasn’t… typical. Not even close.  James brushing off his sleeves when Tom suddenly stepped forward—too close, too quick—and opened his arms.

Harry’s soul left his body.

“Lily,” Tom said warmly. “It’s truly a pleasure to meet you.”

There was a silence, sharp and immediate, like the breath before something fell.

Lily, caught mid-swipe, froze.

Her wide green eyes flicked to Harry, confused, then back to Tom, who was still holding his arms open .

She blinked. Once. Twice. Then, as if afraid the moment might collapse if she waited too long. And then, very slowly— hesitantly —she stepped into them.

“Tom… dear,” she said carefully, laying a single hand on his back like she wasn’t sure if this was a trap or a miracle.

The hug was brief, a strange thing that ended almost as soon as it began, and when they pulled apart, Harry could practically hear the unspoken questions buzzing behind Lily’s eyes.

“I heard what happened,” she said gently, still studying him. “I can’t imagine what it’s been like.”

Before Tom could respond, James—far less subtle—stepped forward and slapped a firm, half-joking hand on his shoulder.

“Well, that was different,” he said with a grin. “Didn’t think I’d live to see the day you went for a hug first.”

Harry groaned internally.

Tom, ever the picture of composed confusion, just smiled pleasantly. “I take it I wasn’t the hugging type?”

“No,” James and Harry said at the same time.

Tom laughed— laughed! —soft and a little sheepish.

Lily smiled, but it was a stunned sort of smile, like she didn’t quite know what to do with any of this. She looked again at Harry, brows faintly lifted, asking without asking : What’s going on with him? 

Harry didn’t answer. He couldn’t. 

Because he didn’t know what was going on either.

They had expected the amnesia — the confusion, the hesitations, the forgetting — but not the shift in who he was. Not the way Tom smiled so easily, hugged without calculation, or looked at Lily and James like he genuinely wanted to be part of something. And for one brief, disorienting moment, Harry felt understood. Not through words, but through the stunned expressions on his parents’ faces — the way Lily hesitated, the way James stumbled over his usual jokes — as if they, too, finally saw what Harry had always known but never said aloud: that the Tom from before had been cold, distant, polite but unreachable. That love, for him, had been a quiet absence Harry learned to work around. But this Tom — soft-edged and startlingly open — made that absence visible. And in that moment, when their eyes flicked to him, silently asking if this was how it had always been, Harry felt seen. Not pitied. Not questioned. Just seen. And maybe it shouldn't have mattered — maybe it should have frightened him more than it comforted him — but for that one second, in the middle of the mess, he felt a quiet flicker of something dangerously like relief.

They settled into the sitting room, the faint scent of lilies still lingering in the air. Tom stood up with careful deliberation and busied himself making tea, his movements precise but somehow softer than Harry remembered.

James, breaking the brief silence, smirked and shook his head. “Well, I’ll be damned. Tom’s entirely different. Next thing you know, he’ll be cracking jokes and actually enjoying himself.”

Tom poured the tea with a kind of careful grace — one hand steadying the pot, the other adjusting cups with delicate precision. He didn’t seem particularly bothered, though Harry could see the faint crease between his brows: focus, not worry.

James took the cup Tom offered him,  “Still taking yours without sugar?” he asked casually.

Tom smiled politely. “I’ll defer to your expertise on how I used to take it.”

“Right,” James said, with the air of someone circling a point. “Lot you don’t seem to remember.”

Tom poured another cup, this one for Lily, who accepted it with a quiet thank-you. Then finally he poured Harry’s, passing it over with a look that said I’m trying — and Harry, gods help him, gave the smallest nod back.

“And what about the attempt on your life?” James said then, voice light but too direct to be mistaken for casual.

Harry’s hand froze halfway to his cup.

Lily gasped, appalled. “James!”

“Dad!” Harry hissed.

Tom, however, didn’t flinch. He set the teapot down with care and glanced at James with that same polite expression — just slightly more knowing.

“Ah,” he said. “That.”

Lily shifted in her seat. Harry could hear the air leave her lungs. He didn’t look at her.

“So you do know,” James said, not quite a question.

“Abraxas Malfoy, he visited me and kindly filled me it” Tom said smoothly. 

Harry finally looked up. Tom met his eyes. The expression was unreadable — calm, but with something sharp glinting beneath it, like a knife hidden under a napkin.

“Didn’t think it was worth mentioning?” James asked.

Tom raised a brow. “Would it have changed anything?”

James smirked. “You’d think they’d handle it with a bit more fanfare. Too quiet makes me suspicious.”

Lily slapped his shoulder lightly. “James Potter, you are not at work.”

 “What?” James shrugged. “I’m just saying it’s been quiet. That’s all. Too quiet. You’d think someone would’ve made more noise about it, considering the potential target was—you know—a highly influential public figure with a reputation for… let’s say, complexity.”

Harry was red now. “Dad, stop.”

“It’s alright,” Tom said calmly, lips curving into something polite, serene. And then faced James, perfectly composed. “Discretion is often preferable. Besides Malfoy said they are keeping it under wrap to prevent panic.”

“Hmm,” James said, eyeing Tom, like he was assessing him.

“Sure. For now,” James said, but his tone had softened, even as he leaned forward, more serious now. “Look. I know it’s not my job to meddle—”

Harry made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a cough. Lily didn’t even try to hide her laugh.

James glared at them both. “ As I was saying , I know it’s not my job. But I’m not thrilled that no one’s following up on this. Someone tried to kill you, Tom. That’s not just a bad day. That’s not something we brush under the rug with tea and lilies.”

Tom’s eyes flicked briefly toward the vase on the table — the one he’d insisted on that morning. He looked almost amused with himself.

Then he said, quietly, “If I died, I would’ve liked lilies.”

James looked at him. Really looked at him.

“All in good time, love,” James said, stretching out his legs. “Let me poke around a bit more and I’m sure I’ll find something else to worry about.”

Harry buried his face in his hands.

Tom, ever composed, sipped his tea. “I look forward to the updates, Mr. Potter.”

“Please,” James said. “Call me James.”

Tom’s smile deepened. “Very well. James.”

There was a long pause.

Then James muttered to Lily, under his breath but not quietly enough, “Honestly, it’s the voice. He sounds like he’s about to sentence me to ten years in Azkaban, and I still like him. It’s disorienting.”

Lily laughed. “That’s because he’s charming.”

“Exactly,” James said, pointing a finger at Harry. “That’s how they get you.”

Harry groaned, but his lips twitched despite himself.

Tom simply sipped his tea again, eyes glinting. “It’s nice to know I’m so well received.”

Chapter Text

Tom Riddle was in the Restricted Section of the library.

The dark settled thickly around him, broken only by the soft, steady glow of a conjured yellow lamp. Shadows stretched long across the spines of books too dangerous for the average student. The smell of old parchment and secrets clung to the air.

Albus Dumbledore had, in all his sanctimonious wisdom, predictably denied his request for access. Too dangerous , he'd said, with that condescending twinkle in his eyes.

Just you wait, Albus , Tom thought bitterly, weaving between the shelves with careful steps. You think locking the door keeps out the inevitable?

He was meant to be alone. Meant to have the silence, the space, the secrets all to himself.

Then came a loud thud, which cracked through the silence. 

“Oh shit—” someone hissed in the dark, followed by the unmistakable scrape of shoes on stone and the groan of someone who’d clearly fallen on their own face.

Tom nearly hexed him on instinct.

Instead, he stopped. His lamp illuminated the figure crumpled on the floor just ahead. Ridiculous mop of hair. Ridiculous Gryffindor jumper.

Of all people, it was Harry Potter.

Slouched on the floor, elbow sore, half-crushing a book like he hadn’t just shattered the silence of one of the castle’s most dangerous corners. Tom stared. Of course, he knew of him—he was a Potter, after all. Well-off, vaguely well-liked, mostly unremarkable. Average at best. Except for Defense Against the Dark Arts, which he was strangely good at. But Tom had never paid him any serious attention.

He certainly hadn’t expected to find him here, of all places.

When he looked up, his eyes lit with casual relief. “Merlin, you scared me. I thought you were Filch.”

He stood up, dusting off his jumper like this happened all the time. He grinned, unbothered, like this was normal. Tom blinked, stunned by the sheer casualness.

Tom wanted to walk away. Wanted to vanish into the stacks and pretend he’d never been here, never seen… whatever this was.

But Potter was looking at him now, squinting through the dark with that open, annoying curiosity.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Research,” Tom said crisply.

Potter tilted his head. “You snuck out of bed. In the middle of the night. To research ?”

Tom gave him a thin-lipped look. “Yes.”

Potter grinned, clearly unconvinced, but not the least bit deterred. He fell into step beside Tom like they were study partners. Tom resisted the urge to hex him. But then, to Tom’s irritation, he started walking alongside him like this was a perfectly reasonable development.

“What kind of research?” Harry asked, hands shoved in his pockets, tone light.

Tom didn’t answer.

“I might be able to help,” Potter said cheerfully.

Tom nearly told him to leave. But something about the boldness in his step, the openness in his voice, made him pause.

Tom scoffed. The Potters were old blood — descended from some respectable potioneers — but this one had a famously poor reputation in class. Still, Tom knew it had more to do with his spat with Professor Snape than actual incompetence. And… well. It couldn’t hurt to talk. Not yet.

“Horcruxes,” Tom said finally.

“Hor—what? Horus? Like the Egyptian god?”

“ Horcruxes ,” he repeated, irritated. “It’s an advanced magical theory. You split your soul and hide parts of it in objects. If your body is destroyed, you don’t die. Not really. You come back.”

Harry’s face twisted immediately. “That sounds incredibly stupid.”

Tom stopped walking. 

His hand had just brushed the spine of a worn, leather-bound volume — one that buzzed faintly under his fingers — when those five words made him stop cold.

He turned, slowly.

“What did you say?”

Harry shrugged. “ I mean… splitting your soul? On purpose? That sounds like… the worst thing you could do. I’d rather just die. Why would anyone do that? I mean—splitting your soul? That’s dark magic, right? You’re not supposed to mess with your soul. You only get one. It’s meant to stay whole.”

Tom’s lip curled. “Clearly, you don’t understand the value of survival.”

“No, I get it, but… survival like that ?” Harry shook his head. “  I just think… if you have to destroy yourself to stay alive, then what’s even left of you? What’s the point? That’s not living. That’s just… refusing to die. What’s the point of coming back if there’s nothing left of you?”

He said it so simply. Like it was obvious.

There was a long silence.

And Tom couldn’t look away. Something shifted in Tom’s core.

The golden light flickered across Harry’s face — too open, too unbothered by the dark. There was no guile there. No calculation. Just honest disbelief. And it shook something loose in Tom, something he didn’t like to name. His eyes were round and honest in the lamplight, wide with curiosity, not fear. He meant it. He wasn’t playing at morality—he believed it. That death was better than mutilating your soul.

He’d never given the soul much thought. Not beyond what it could offer. He wanted power. He wanted immortality. He wanted more than what life naturally allowed. What use was a soul, anyway, if you could carve it up for a higher purpose? He had spent so long alone with his ambition, with his hunger for more. He had never once questioned the price. Power was worth anything.

And yet here was this boy, standing in the dark, stupidly earnest, saying something so naive it should have been laughable—

But Harry looked at him now with wide, absurdly bright eyes — curious, unafraid, and so stupidly pure.

And Tom felt it — the hunger.

It wasn’t like anything else. It wasn’t power. Or knowledge. Or the thrill of control.

It was Harry .

His honesty. His purity. His maddening inability to fear what should terrify him. Tom wanted to possess it, to swallow it whole, to corrupt it and cradle it at the same time. He wanted Harry close enough to touch — to ruin — and yet untouched, preserved, like something sacred.

And Potter didn’t even know who he was.

That was the part that sank deep under Tom’s skin — lodged like a shard of glass.

It was dark. The lamp cast more shadow than light. He could feel it — the way Harry squinted slightly at him, never quite seeing. Never really seeing .

Tom knew — with a sharp, cruel certainty — that Harry didn’t recognize him. Not just in the literal sense. Not in the soul-deep , world-tilting way Tom had started to recognize Harry. He was just another student in the shadows. Just a quiet voice in a quiet corridor of a very old castle.

It was absurd.

And utterly addictive.

He didn’t even know why Potter was here. Probably another one of his mischief nights, sneaking around for no good reason, blissfully unaware of how dangerous the world — or Tom—could be.

And somehow, that made it worse. Because Potter didn’t know what he was undoing with those words. Didn’t realize that in dismissing Horcruxes like they were beneath him, he had planted something in Tom that Dumbledore never could: doubt .

And Tom would remember this.

Remember the way the shadows fell across Harry’s lashes.

Remember the ridiculous fall. The golden light. The wide, unguarded eyes.

Remember the words from the mouth of someone who didn’t even know they mattered.

Harry wouldn’t. But Tom would.

He would remember it long after the boy had forgotten.

-

Tom’s head buzzed fiercely; he didn’t know what had happened. One moment, he was standing in his bedroom, preparing for the day ahead. Next, a hammering pain struck the center of his skull, sharp and relentless. A memory flooded in — vivid, jagged shards racing through his mind like gunfire.

When Tom finally steadied himself, it was already morning. Harry was moving through the kitchen, surprised to see Tom still in his sleepwear.

“You woke up late,” Harry teased, sunlight catching the edges of his hair, the same golden glow as that night—his eyes still honest, clear, impossibly green.

Tom couldn’t look away. His memories hadn’t fully returned — not yet — but it was enough. He was unbearably happy. He had managed to snag Harry Potter, after all.

The memories only confirmed what he’d long suspected: there was something dark in him. Something vile. Something that hadn't gone away — only been kept at bay.

And now Harry was here. His.

Tom had been piecing it together. His former self must have believed that keeping Harry at arm’s length was the only way to protect him — to keep him from seeing what Tom really was. A mistake, clearly. All it had done was drive a wedge between them.

Thankfully, Harry hadn’t given up. He still wanted something with him — a connection, a chance. Intimacy. A relationship they hadn’t had before.

It was an easy fix. Tom would make him fall in love. Irrevocably.

Love was just chemicals, anyway. He wasn’t interested in it for its own sake — it wasn’t the goal. But if that’s what it took to keep Harry close, to bind him to his side where he belonged, then he’d give him every illusion of it.

His old self had clearly missed that step. But Tom wouldn’t.

Tom had been having fun with Harry. More than he’d expected.

Harry made things lighter. Easier. Even without his memories, some deep, animal instinct told him to stay close — that if he drifted too far, something heavy would drag him under. The fact that Harry was his husband? A convenient detail. Useful, but not essential.

Still, he was undeniably drawn to him.

They were good together. Comfortable. Alive in a way Tom hadn’t known he’d missed.

Too bad his old self had been too arrogant, too afraid, to see it.

Though — Tom supposed — he understood the impulse.“Harry didn’t need much to stay. Tom saw that now — it was duty. Steadfast Gryffindor loyalty. Something he once found dull, now oddly fascinating. He was loyal to a fault, bound by strange personal rules and moral codes Tom had always found unnecessary. Boring, even.

It wasn't love he wanted from Harry — not really. Love was fickle, fragile, and often deluded. What Tom needed was permanence. Something deeper than vows and softer than trust. Something that couldn’t be shaken by memory or history. And if Harry had to fall in love to stay, then so be it. Love could be arranged. Orchestrated. Grown like a vine twisting toward the sun. He could make Harry love him. The rest would follow.

Because clearly love — would make him stay happily. Willingly. That made all the difference.

Harry in love was brighter. Lighter. He teased more. Touched more. Looked at Tom like he mattered.

The Harry who was on his way to falling in love with him? Already wonderful.

But a Harry who was fully, irreversibly his? A Harry devoted, heart and soul?

Now that would be exquisite.

Tom slipped behind him, arms curling around Harry’s waist, chin resting lightly against his shoulder. He could feel the smile before he saw it — the way Harry relaxed, the way his body leaned into the touch like it was second nature.

Harry kept humming softly, still stirring his tea, like being held by Tom was just part of his morning routine.

“What’s gotten into you?” he asked, amused, glancing down as Tom wrapped tighter around his back.

Tom leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Nightmare,” he murmured. “You weren’t in it.”

Harry huffed a laugh, elbow nudging his ribs in that affectionate way of his. “Aww. So now you want comfort.”

“Yes,” Tom said simply. “I need a lot of this.”

He trailed his fingers up through Harry’s hair, brushing it gently away from his forehead, almost reverent in the motion. His hands were steady, warm — he made sure of it. Gentleness could be crafted like anything else. And Harry leaned into it so easily.

Tom didn’t know who he used to be — not completely. The memories came back in flashes, jagged and sharp. But what he did remember? He hadn’t been kind. He hadn’t been soft. He had kept himself locked behind walls, too careful, too proud. He’d mistaken distance for control. He believed affection was weakness — that Harry didn’t need love to stay, only obligation. Only loyalty.

Foolish.

Because now, Tom understood something deeper. Something his past self — clever as he was — had overlooked.

It wasn’t enough for Harry to stay. He had to want to. He had to need to.

And maybe that was the worst part — or the best. That Tom wanted him to. Not out of strategy, not even for safety. But because when Harry looked at him like this — soft, warm, open — Tom felt real . Solid. Not just a thing built from shadows and ambition. Not just a memory of what he’d been.

Harry could make him better. Or at least make him feel better. That was almost the same thing.

He wouldn’t say it. He couldn’t. But somewhere deep inside — the part of him that still ached with the sting of that memory in the library, of Harry dismissing Horcruxes like they were nothing, like Tom was still worth saving — he wanted to deserve it. Or at least keep pretending until it didn’t matter.

He would craft something beautiful out of this. Something lasting. If love were what Harry needed, then Tom would give it to him. He’d mold himself into whatever shape it took to keep Harry beside him.

And slowly, carefully, Harry would fall. He already was.

And Tom… Tom would catch him.

Of course, he would.

And never let go.

Chapter Text

It came like the crack of glass: sudden, sharp, and blinding.
One moment, Tom was standing still. The next, the world fell away — swallowed by memory.

He sat behind a polished desk at the Ministry, wand in hand, fingers ink-smudged from contracts and secrets. Power clung to him like a second skin — quiet, unquestioned. The room was tall and spotless, furnished in oak and cold brass. His name gleamed on the door.

Tom Riddle. Department Head.
Respected. Feared. Almost there.

He didn’t glance at the Daily Prophet until after the meeting. Headlines were usually beneath him — Quidditch nonsense, Ministry drama. But today, a photograph caught his eye.

HOLYHEAD HARPIES TAKE THE CUP — POTTER SCORES WINNING CATCH

A moving photo stretched across the top. Harry — windswept and beaming, dirt smudged on his cheek, eyes shining like he’d never known loss — holding the trophy high above his head.

Beside him, Ginny Weasley leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

The image looped endlessly. Kiss. Grin. Wave. Repeat.

Tom stared.

Not at Ginny. At Harry .

Laughing. Radiant. Surrounded by celebration, adored by the world, and oblivious. Oblivious to how easily things could be taken from him. To those who were watching.

Tom’s hand curled over the paper, crushing the edge.

After everything — the games, the silencing spells, the blackmail (and that wasn’t even the worst of it) — this was what the world gave him? A headline and a happy kiss?

No.

Tom had clawed his way from rot and ruin to polished marble.  From nothing. From orphanage rot to marble floors. He had built his future with the bones of others — whispered threats, rewritten records, silenced names. Every step is calculated. Every rival crushed.

And it had worked .

He was going to be Minister. Soon. Very soon.

And when he was — when every law bowed to his voice — he would take what he wanted. What he had always wanted.

Harry.

Ginny would be irrelevant.  An echo.  A footnote. She could keep her little team, her little victories, her brief moment of glory.

Tom would have Harry .

Not for revenge. Not for politics. For him . For the way he burned. The way he laughed. The way he had once spoken of souls like they were sacred, whole.

Tom reached for the photo — ink and motion and memory — and whispered, Just a little more. Almost there. Then he’ll be mine.

And as that thought took shape, sharp and triumphant—

The memory cracked—

—and more came flooding in.

-

Ginny.

Of course. How could he have forgotten?

The biggest obstacle. The sweetheart. The scandal.

Tom remembered now — vividly — the chaos that had knocked her clean off her pedestal. It had been everywhere, impossible to ignore. The Daily Prophet splashed it across the front page: Ginny Weasley caught kissing Luna Lovegood in a back alley pub. Drunken. Careless. Caught on camera.

And it happened right before the finals.

The next day, the Holyhead Harpies played anyway. Harry had caught the Snitch — of course he had — but the game had been a mess. There’d been shouting in the stands. A brawl. Ginny bloodied someone’s nose. The fallout spiraled.

The press. The disgrace. The whispers.

And then the heartbreak.

Harry had quit. Just like that. Walked away from Quidditch. From Ginny. From everything.

Tom couldn’t have been more pleased.

It had made everything easier .

He had been biding his time, laying the groundwork, waiting for the perfect moment. Once he became Minister — and he would — Harry would be his. Pulled in by power, influence, and carefully placed strings. That had been the plan. Slow, patient, precise.

But this?

This had been a gift.

The universe had offered him Harry on a silver platter — brokenhearted, disillusioned, ripe for the taking. And Tom? Tom was nothing if not opportunistic.

Why wait to reap the rewards when they were already at his feet?

His patience, already worn thin by ambition, had snapped. He had moved quickly. Calculated every word, every step. He approached James first, all charm and careful restraint. James hadn’t suspected a thing.

Of course not. Few people ever did.

He saw only what Tom allowed him to see.

And so Tom had swooped in.

Carefully. Quietly. One subtle nudge at a time. Befriending James. Orchestrating connections. Pushing himself closer.

He hadn’t just wanted Harry. He had planned for him. And it had worked.

These memories unsettled Tom more than the rest. Not because they were dark, but because they tasted of victory . His old self had succeeded.

He had Harry .

But not like that.

Not like Ginny did. Not the way Harry had loved her — truly, painfully, openly. Ginny had been real to him. Genuine.

Tom wasn’t there yet.

Not in the heart. Not where it mattered.

He had Harry’s body, his home, his trust — but not his soul. Not his love . Not tet.

And that would not do.

Tom felt the pressure mounting. The ache of it, behind his eyes, in his chest. He was maneuvering everything blind. Carefully pretending the memories weren’t returning. Not yet. Harry couldn’t know. Not until he loved him. Not until it was safe. Not until even the ugliest truths would be forgiven — or irrelevant.

But now Tom couldn’t stop wondering:
Did Harry still love her?

He thought about going through Harry’s letters again. Old photos. Memories. Digging for ghosts. Tracing every crack Ginny had left behind.

He remembered vaguely: Ginny had married Luna not long after he and Harry had married. There’d been a strange, hesitant friendship between them, once. He remembered laughing stiffly at her jokes, remembered her odd calm.

Harry had never gone back to playing. Ginny had asked — he’d declined.

But none of that meant the feelings were gone. Heartbreak could be buried, not erased. Tom knew this.

He hadn’t cared before. Not really. As long as he had Harry, what did love matter?

But now…

Now he wanted all of it. Not just Harry’s presence, but his devotion . His heart. His everything .

And if Ginny — even now — remained a shadow in Harry’s thoughts, then she was still in Tom’s way.

He caught himself thinking: Should I remove her?

Permanently. Quietly.

But no. Not yet. It would be messy . Too risky, especially now. He needed to keep his hands clean, his face soft. Harry couldn’t suspect.

Still, the idea itched.

-

Tom found a Daily Prophet left on the table. A recent one.

Another Quidditch match. Another win.

Ginny Weasley, captain, soaring across the page — wind in her hair, winking boldly from her broom.

He stared at the photo with a poorly veiled expression of disgust.

Behind him, Harry walked into the kitchen, still sleep-ruffled. He followed Tom’s gaze, smiling.

“That was a pretty good match, I read. Ginny was brilliant.”

Tom hummed — light, neutral — then casually flicked his wand. The paper curled in flames, turning to ash in seconds.

Harry blinked. “Hey! I wasn’t done with that— What was that for?”

Tom smiled, slow and sweet.

“I didn’t like the headline.”

-

That night, Tom had been particularly anxious.
Everything was coming back to him—memories, desires, truths he’d buried deep—and it felt like a typhoon building in his chest. It was brash, unsure, too fast. He knew that. But he couldn’t hold back.

After a lovely, uneventful day—chess in the sunroom, books passed between them, Harry humming softly while tending the garden—they’d gone upstairs together. Normally, they'd greet each other a goodd night and part ways at their doors.

But that night, Tom had gently caught Harry by the wrist.

“How about tonight… You stay with me, darling?”

Harry looked dumbfounded. Then he smiled—bright, foolish, breathtakingly happy.
Tom’s chest ached. It felt like sunrise.

They lay in bed together, side by side. Nothing happened.

After a long silence, Harry spoke.

“This is the first time we’ve ever slept in the same bed, Tom.”

There was the soft rustle of sheets as he turned toward him.

“You’ve never done this before.”

Tom arched a brow, trying to keep it light. “Do you think it’s because I snore?”

Harry chuckled, then grew quiet. “I would’ve still liked to sleep beside you, even if you snored like a pig.”

“That’s nice, darling,” Tom murmured. He reached out and wrapped an arm around Harry, who melted into him like he belonged there.

Harry studied him in the dim light. Then he kissed him—long, slow, and unbearably sweet. Like it meant more than it should. Like it had waited too long.

When it ended, Harry tucked his head against Tom’s chest.

He would do this every night if it meant Harry stayed soft like this.

Tom stared down at him in the darkness.

He didn’t look away.
Not until Harry’s breathing evened.
Not until sleep found him, too.

-

The morning began like any other.
Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, soft and golden. Tom woke first.

But this time, Harry was pressed against him.

His cheek rested on Tom’s chest, one arm flung carelessly over his stomach. He was warm. Solid. Real.

Tom didn’t move. He just stared.

There was a strange sort of pleasure in watching Harry sleep. His mouth slightly ajar. The quiet huff of a snore. His nose twitched once. His chest rose and fell in that slow, rhythmic way — steady, trusting.

Tom’s eyes traced the slope of his nose, the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the edge of his jaw. He wanted to kiss him — his forehead, his eyelids, anywhere.

He didn’t.

Harry twitched in his sleep.

And then — the memory hit.

—

He had been waiting in a private corner of a café. A romantic one — soft lighting, warm wood, quiet music. It could’ve been perfect if it hadn’t been arranged by James bloody Potter.

Their first date.

Tom had arrived twenty minutes early. Of course.
Harry, naturally, showed up half an hour late.

He came stumbling into the café, harried and flushed, looking exactly like someone who had dressed in a panic. His hair was slicked back with too much gel, sticking oddly at the sides. His shirt was wrinkled. He looked everywhere but at Tom, until he did — and then hurried over like he might trip on the air.

“Erm, sorry, Riddle,” he began, breathless, already mid-ramble. “My mum made a fuss, and then I realized I hadn’t picked out an outfit, and my hair— Merlin, it took hours — oh, and apparently I had the wrong location at first, maybe next time we should just talk to each other instead of letting my dad set things up — I mean, this is a bit much for a first date, right? Anyway, I’m late. Really late. I’m so sorry, I haven’t even apologized, have I? How long have you been waiting?”

He finally stopped, panting slightly. Expectant.

Tom just stared at him.

Unblinking. Silent. Unreadable.

Harry shifted awkwardly, then said again, quieter, “Tom?”

A pause.

“Are you mad at me?”

Still nothing.

Tom was simply breathing him in — the nervous gestures, the flushed cheeks, the way he fidgeted with the napkin.

It had been years since they’d been in the same room. Not since Hogwarts. And now here was Harry — an adult, golden and unpolished, all heart and clumsy honesty.

He’d grown into his body. Quidditch had left him lean, muscled, sharp.

Beautiful.

Tom couldn’t stop staring.

Harry wilted under the silence. Sat back in his chair, head bowed slightly in shame.

Tom spoke at last. “Let’s order, shall we?”

Like nothing had happened.

Harry blinked. Confused. “Uh. Yeah. Sure.”

—

Back in the present, Tom exhaled softly.

He looked down. Harry hadn’t moved — still curled against him, lips parted, breathing warm against his skin.

Tom smiled, just faintly.

He hadn’t needed to charm Harry. Or impress him.
Just wait.

And now, he had him.

Almost.

Chapter Text

It felt weird, odd, and fragile. Everything was.

Harry’s days had turned into a picture-perfect fairy tale—which is exactly why he knew it couldn’t last. The mornings before had been cold, bleak, lonely; now here he lay in Tom’s bed. Their bed. Together. The morning sunlight filtered through half‑drawn curtains, warming the sheets, and Tom’s arms held him close. Sometimes they stayed like that for a long time. Other times, they kissed. Or more.

Life had never been better. It felt lightyears from the time when even in his fantasies, Harry thought he might never laugh, kiss, or sit under a blanket with Tom Riddle and still feel like the only person in the room. But now it was different.

This Tom kissed him. This Tom smiled at him. This Tom cared exactly as Harry had wanted. This Tom’s warmth engulfed him entirely. Harry had never thought himself capable of believing that Tom could love him—fully—but it felt close enough now.

He basked in it.

The warm hand creeping across his cheek. The kiss sliding behind his ribs—intense, unrelenting—like something had finally broken inside. If old‑Tom had loved with any urgency at all, he’d buried it so deeply Harry wondered if it’d ever existed. But now—now he knew.

Almost real. Almost full. Almost.

It was frightening how quickly the tenderness had exploded between them. Harry felt guilty: the worst thing that happened to Tom—losing his memories at the height of his ambition—was the best thing to happen to Harry. And he didn’t want it to end.

He wished he could pull away. That he still had it in him to lie.

He didn’t just want these little moments anymore—he wanted them to mean something. The fear that Tom might slip back to being cold and distant, where love was optional and loyalty compulsory, made his hands tremble under the blankets.

This Tom looked at him with such open devotion. Touched him with inevitability. Kisses pressed against every inch of skin. It was a stark contrast to the husband who’d barely even looked at him before. The husband who said Harry only had to stay—and nothing more. The old Tom didn’t hold him like this. He didn’t need to. His words were knives, and Harry bled for them gladly

It hurt—because Harry had once clung to the hope that maybe, beneath the distance, Tom had felt something. That marriage had meant something. But now he saw how Tom loved—and how deeply that love ran beyond all the rules and armor. And he knew: old‑Tom had chosen not to feel. Not even a taste of it.

What happened now? Tom’s memories could snap back at any moment. And with them, this fragile dream might shatter.

Harry closed his eyes, pressing his cheek into Tom’s chest, breathing in his familiar scent. The tension in his chest flared: he didn’t want it to end—not like this.

A pleasant warmth nestled in Tom’s chest, the kind he knew he’d never grow accustomed to—no matter how often it happened. Every kiss Tom stole from Harry, or every time Harry brushed his lips against Tom’s, carried that exhilarating buzz: reckless, sweet, and sharp with knowing they weren't built to last.

It was always familiar, yet never the same. Here they were again—grown men with trembling teenage hearts—bound in their shared bed, hands roaming free, lips pressing deeply: Tom’s fingers lingering against Harry’s cheek, sliding into his hair, drifting like living promises across his chest.

Tom had always consumed Harry, even at his most subtle. But now… Tom burned for him. And Harry had fallen. Deep. Forget regrets when breathing felt like surrender. Not when Tom’s smirk lingered in his vision, Tom’s wink called him closer, or Tom’s gaze made him soft and dizzy.

Tom had become… relentless. The floodgates opened, and there was no turning back.

Tom kissed him—slow, sure—hands cradling his cheek, brushing through his hair, trailing across his chest. Every touch claimed Harry a little more. It felt dangerous, how deep he’d fallen, how willingly he let himself drown.

Tom had always consumed him effortlessly. But now… Merlin, Harry realized, he had fallen irretrievably.

if digging his own grave felt like heaven, then Harry would go gladly. Even though he knew it would shatter.

Because it hadn’t happened yet.

“What’s in that pretty head of yours, darling?” Tom whispered at his ear, voice low mid-kiss.

Harry angled up, meeting Tom’s gaze, a single smile before he pulled him into another kiss—deeper, hungrier. He tasted Tom’s smugness against his lips.

“Can’t have you distracted,” Tom murmured.

And for a moment—just a breath—Harry let himself forget everything. It was just them, weightless and present. Tom’s warm mouth, his firm hands, the pull of him shredding all resistance.

But somewhere beneath every devastating kiss, Harry’s breath caught—not from desire, but dread. Because he knew. At any moment, memories could come back. A slip. A flicker. Then the dream would turn to ice again.

Harry didn’t want to believe it, but he had grown far too familiar with those moments. He’d even dare say he knew them better than Tom now.

There were times—just a flicker—when Tom’s eyes would go cold. Suddenly devoid of warmth. A subtle shift in the air. Harry would freeze, a fleeting panic lancing through his chest, bracing for the end. And then, like nothing ever happened, Tom would smile, press his lips to Harry’s cheek, whisper “darling,” and the tension would dissolve in a tide of relief.

Back to soft kisses. Gentle murmurs. Laughter in the dark. But the memory lingered. Like a bruise beneath the smile.

Has his memory returned? Harry wondered. When? Every kind glance, every brush of lips against skin was punctured by that aching question: if the memories came back tonight, would everything collapse?

He couldn’t escape it—couldn’t outrun the painful terror that clung to him, no matter how sweet Tom’s touch. Even as Tom wrapped him closer, Harry’s fingers tightened on Tom’s waist, a silent plea to stay— stay this way.

He looked up at Tom, voice small. “You… sometimes your eyes feel different.”

Tom paused, mouth lingering near Harry’s ear as they lay tangled in the sheets. He whispered, “Which eyes?”

Harry swallowed. “When you look at me. Just for a second. It’s like… I don’t know who’s behind them.”

Tom’s breath hitched. Then he smiled—soft but brittle. “I’m right here, love. All of me is still yours.”

Harry closed his eyes, letting Tom’s reassurance wash over him. But even as he drifted closer, he held his own heart at a distance, because he knew it wouldn’t last. Not if the memories came back.

-

It had been like that for a few days, though—until it wasn’t.

Harry doesn’t know how he knew. Just that something in Tom had shifted.

The night before, he’d held Harry close, whispering his name in that soft, coaxing voice. Fingers in his hair. Lips against his temple. Safe, warm. But by morning, something in Tom’s eyes was already slipping away. And even the way he kissed Harry, greeted him, said “Darling, good morning,” was—off.

Off in that unmistakable, bone-deep way. Like the echo of a dream fading from memory. Like instinct.

Harry just knew . Like he’d known the first time—that Tom wouldn’t love him the way Harry loved Tom. Like he’d known from the beginning that it was hopeless. Like some dreadful, unshakable truth had always been waiting in the marrow of him.

"Your memories came back, didn’t they?"

The words left his mouth before he could stop them. And saying it out loud made it feel real. Final. Like now, it couldn’t be undone.

Tom had been in the middle of taking out mugs for their morning tea. He paused, still holding one, before gently placing it on the counter. He turned to Harry, face unreadable.

Harry didn’t know what expression he wore, only that his heart was pounding.

Tom looked at him for a moment, cool and analytical. Then, with perfect composure, he said, “Yes.”

And Harry—Harry felt the air knocked right out of his lungs. “For how long?”

“A while,” Tom said with a shrug, too casual, too light. As if he were talking about the weather. As if Harry’s world wasn’t falling apart.

The nonchalance burned. It hurt —cut sharper than a knife. How could he be like this? So calm? So distant? How could he take this so lightly .

“Why—” Harry’s voice shook. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you—” But the rest died on his tongue.

Tom tilted his head slightly. He looked genuinely puzzled, like this was all a minor misunderstanding. “It wouldn’t have changed anything, darling,” he said. “And it wouldn’t have mattered.”

He turned back to the tea.

Harry stared at his back, hands trembling, fury and grief rising in him like a tidal wave. “I would’ve stopped all this, Tom. I would’ve—”

“Exactly,” Tom said calmly. “And I told you, darling. It wouldn’t be the same anymore. It won’t be like before.”

No. No—this is wrong.

“ Stop it! ”

“Darling,” Tom called gently, “the tea’s ready.”

“ Tom, stop it! ”

“I made it just the way you like it.”

“Why are you like this? You’re always—always so—”

“Now, now, Harry,” Tom said, still smiling that infuriating smile. “Don’t ruin a perfectly lovely day.”

Harry slammed his palm against the table, the sound sharp and loud.

“ Tom! ”

“You’ll hurt yourself, darling.”

“Why are you playing with me like this?!”

Tom turned slightly, concern on his face, like Harry was being unreasonable. “I’m not. I told you, didn’t I? Things will be better this time.”

“No—no, they weren’t before, so why would they magically just be better now?!”

“I love you,” Tom said simply. “And obviously you love me. So now we can live happily.”

This isn’t real , Harry thought. This is wrong.

“That’s not love. That’s not—” Harry’s breath caught. “I think we… I think this has gone on long enough. And I think—we need to end this.”

Tom’s hand, which had been reaching for the sugar, froze midair. His fingers curled slowly into a fist.

Then he turned.

There was a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes—something dark, something ancient and awful.

His grip on Harry’s wrist came suddenly, too hard, too fast.

He chuckled, low and humorless. “Oh, my darling. Whatever do you mean?” His voice was light. Too light. “Surely you don’t mean what I think you did?”

“I’m serious.”

Tom’s smile dropped. His pupils dilated. His magic was a hum in the air.

“ No. I will not allow it.”

His voice cracked with something furious, something desperate. “After everything I’ve done—after I was so close—now you want to throw it away? For what? Because you can’t accept it? Because you won’t be content with what I gave you?”

He took a step closer, and Harry instinctively stepped back.

Tom followed. “You think I would just let you walk away, Harry?”

“You know how we were before. Clearly, you weren’t happy—this marriage was—”

“Why does it matter if I was happy?” Tom snapped. “I did this for you. I knew how I’d been before, I knew I made mistakes—and now I’m fixing it. I’ve been charming, I’ve been patient, I’ve been everything you wanted , haven’t I? I’ve been kind. I’ve been loving. And you still want to leave?!”

“Tom—”

“I was going to give you the world, Harry!” he shouted, now crowding him against the counter. “I was going to be everything for you. I just needed you to stay.”

Harry flinched.

Tom’s breathing was erratic now. “You don’t get to leave. I’ve come too far. I was going to make it right. You were supposed to finally love me.”

Harry said suddenly. “If you loved me… you should’ve just told me.”

Tom froze.

He pulled back, eyes narrowing slightly. “I—” He faltered. “I don’t…”

He doesn’t . Not in the way Harry means. Need and love had always been different things. But the line was so blurred now he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Maybe needing Harry more didn’t cancel the fact that he loved him, too.

“Merlin, Tom,” Harry said, voice cracking. “I’ve been in love with you since fourth year. And now—now you tell me all this?”

Silence. Thick and echoing.

Tom blinked. His expression shifted—from surprise to suspicion, to disbelief, to something jagged and bitter. “You’re in love with me?” he repeated. Slowly. Mocking.

And then—his hand rose, slowly. Deliberately, controlled. It hovered in the air for a moment, trembling—and then came down gently, resting on Harry’s neck as if testing him.

Harry’s breath hitched.

Tom’s fingers curled around him. Not tight, not yet—but possessive.

His eyes met Harry’s. And there was something terrible in them. Something hungry. Something true .

“This is me, Harry,” Tom whispered, voice deadly soft. His grip began to tighten—slowly, like the shifting of tectonic plates. His grip tightened—just a little. Just enough to feel Harry’s pulse, thrumming beneath his palm. “This is who I am.”

Harry gasped slightly, but didn’t pull away. He stared into Tom’s wide, dilated eyes—like the admission had broken something loose inside him. Something monstrous. Something ecstatic. And suddenly Harry understood. Understood what Tom had been hiding behind charm and flirtation and tender domestic lies. This was the real him—the truth of him. The part of him that needed to dominate, to possess, to consume .

“I could hurt you,” Tom said. “I will hurt you. I could tear your soul apart, leave you hollow, remake you in my image. And you’d still love me, is that it?” Tom asked, voice soft, voice trembling, voice hoping .

Harry’s hands rose shakily—not to push him off, but to hold Tom’s wrist. Not fighting. Just… being there . Steady. Real.

Harry—gods, Harry should’ve run. Should’ve hexed him. But instead, his hand rose and gently cupped the arm around his neck. His touch was soft. Tender.

Like he hadn’t just been threatened. Like he wasn’t terrified.

“I do,” he whispered. “Yes, Tom. I love you.”

Tom’s eyes widened—something almost like awe flashed across his face. Because for one breathless moment, with his hand on Harry’s throat, he could feel it: the steady thrum of life beneath his palm. That fragile, vital pulse.

And his grip loosened, fingers uncurling with slow reverence, as he stared into Harry’s eyes—so green, so devastatingly honest. So unbearably pure . Eyes that looked at him not with fear, but with something far worse. Devotion. Willingness. A quiet, stubborn love that refused to die.

With a slow, possessive motion, Tom slid his arms around him—pulling Harry in, claiming him like a man anchoring a dream. His head rested against the crook of Harry’s neck, his lips brushing skin. There, he could feel everything: Harry’s breath, warm and shallow. His heartbeat, still racing. His body, pliant in his arms.

He wrapped both arms around Harry, possessive and heavy. His.

And Harry let him.

Tom closed his eyes. “You love me,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Even now. Even like this.”

Especially like this , Harry didn’t say. Because he wasn’t sure what he meant anymore. Only that Tom was terrifying and beautiful and that he could destroy him and he still wanted to stay .

His pulse. His warmth. His breath.

All his.

Tom smiled—a real smile, unguarded and terrifying.

So alive.

And somehow, impossibly, it felt like Harry’s heart was beating just for him .

And for Tom—for all he’d done, all he was —the feeling of Harry’s pulse under his hand, his breath in his ear, felt like triumph. Like ownership.

Like home.

Chapter Text

The Daily Prophet lay sprawled across the table, its headline bold and shameless:

MINISTRY OF MAGIC’S TOM RIDDLE HAS A DAUGHTER WITH QUIDDITCH COACH.

Sunlight poured in through the windows of Grimmauld Place—bright, warm, almost offensively domestic. The curtains stirred with the breeze, soft and easy, as the house itself had finally decided to behave.

A baby girl lay in her bassinet.

Lily leaned over first, James just behind her, both of them hovering like she might disappear if they blinked.

“Oh, look at her hair,” Lily cooed, brushing a gentle hand over the soft red strands. “She must have gotten that from me—well, from Gamma, I suppose.”

“And those eyes,” James added, smiling widely. “That’s all, Harry.”

Bright green. Unmistakable.

She looked almost entirely like him—like a miniature, slightly wrinkled Harry, all messy red hair and familiar features. A Potter through and through.

Nothing, at first glance, of Tom Riddle.

Which was—frankly—offensive.

But Harry could tell. It was in the way she scrunched her face before crying—not impulsive, but *decided*. Intentional. Strategic. Already discovering cause and effect and using it to her advantage. That, she got from her father.

Tom watched from the couch, draped in soft pajamas with a blanket thrown over one shoulder like a deeply inconvenienced aristocrat.

He looked… terrible.

There was no dignified way to phrase it.

His hair, usually immaculate, was in mild disarray—clearly the victim of small, grabby hands. There were faint shadows under his eyes, the unmistakable mark of interrupted sleep. His posture had lost some of its usual sharp precision, softened by exhaustion and the quiet resignation of someone who had been awake at unreasonable hours for reasons beyond his control.

He looked like someone who had been taking care of a baby.

Because, unfortunately—

he had been.

All the unpleasant parts, specifically.

The crying at night.

The endless pacing.

The deeply undignified negotiations with a creature that could not speak but somehow always won.

And yet—

miraculously—

Whenever Harry held her, she became perfectly content.

Smiling.

Quiet.

Practically angelic.

Tom narrowed his eyes slightly.

Suspicious.

His gaze flicked to Harry.

Harry, who was smiling.

Harry, who had not stopped smiling.

Harry, who—until recently—had directed that particular expression exclusively at him.

Ah.

So this was how it was.

A child.

His child.

He had never planned for that.

Children were, historically, inconvenient. Loud. Irrational. Entirely too dependent. Not particularly useful until much later, and even then—questionable.

And yet.

Well.

It wasn’t entirely terrible.

An heir, for one.

Someone to pass things on to—his magic, his name, his… considerable legacy. There was a certain logic to it. A continuity. A quiet kind of victory in ensuring something of him endured.

(Preferably something more competent, eventually.)

His gaze drifted back to the bassinet.

Harry Potter had simply… acquired a new favorite.

And Tom—

Tom had been replaced.

He looked back at the bassinet.

The culprit slept peacefully, one tiny hand curled near her face, as if she had not single-handedly ruined his sleep schedule and his position in Harry’s affections.

Tom stared at her.

She did not stir.

He stared harder.

Still nothing.

Insolent.

He had been the one taking care of her, mostly.

Not by design—but necessity. There were times when she was being fussy and cried whenever Harry held her.

And only stopped when Tom did.

Her small, pudgy hands would fist into his shirt, or tangle in his hair, clinging with stubborn insistence until she settled, as if she had claimed him.

Which felt, increasingly, like a calculated move.

Tom was convinced she disliked him.

And loved Harry.

Which Harry, unhelpfully, seemed delighted by.

“Oh, she loves you,” Harry had said earlier, far too amused, watching as Tom attempted—unsuccessfully—to disentangle her fingers from his hair.

“Clearly,” Tom had replied, as she tightened her grip.

Now, from across the room, Harry glanced over again—soft, fond, *distracted*—and Tom felt something sharp and deeply petty twist in his chest.

Right.

Well.

If Harry insisted on having a favorite—

then Tom would simply have to adjust.

Strategically....

His gaze dropped back to the baby.

She shifted slightly in her sleep, making a soft, unimpressive sound.

Tom exhaled slowly.

So this was his role now.

Caretaker.

Attendant.

Servant, effectively, to a very small, very manipulative tyrant—

who had, somehow, secured Harry’s complete devotion in record time while delegating all undesirable responsibilities to him.

Impressive, really.

Annoying.

But impressive.

“Well,” Tom murmured under his breath, adjusting the blanket over his shoulder with quiet dignity, “if you insist on being his favorite…”

The baby made a small sound, as if in agreement.

Tom narrowed his eyes at her.

“…then I suppose I’ll have to tolerate you.”

A pause.

“…for now.”

She did not wake.

Which was, perhaps, her only redeeming quality.

Still—

She was his.

His and Harry’s.

And if that meant ensuring she was safe, comfortable, and—regrettably—happy, then that was simply… necessary.

Not affection.

Certainly not.

Even if she woke in the middle of the night—

again—

and reached, without hesitation, for him—

he would still take her.