Paved With the Best Intentions

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/43046889.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Underage
Category: M/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Voldemort, Harry Potter / Ginny
Weasley (brief)
Characters: Harry Potter, Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger,
Ginny Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Original Characters
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Age Regression/De-Aging,
Harry Potter Raises Tom Riddle, Prisoner Voldemort (Harry Potter), De-
Aged Tom Riddle, Magical Bond, Protective Harry Potter, Possessive
Tom Riddle, Codependency, Hurt/Comfort, Animal Death, Moral
Ambiguity, Fluff and Angst, Act I Complete, Act II in progress
Language: English
Collections: Favorite Tomarry fics luvs
Stats: Published: 2022-11-13 Updated: 2024-06-24 Words: 144,223 Chapters:
20/?
 Paved With the Best Intentions
by Ailora

Summary

Instead of dying during the Battle of Hogwarts, Voldemort de-ages into an infant. Until he
becomes old enough to be legally executed, he will be magically bound to Harry.

A perfectly foolproof plan, or so the Ministry believes.

“Someday,” Tom vows, “you’ll love me in every way.”

Notes

Hello everyone, welcome to my take on two tropes: Harry raising child Tom and Voldemort
as Harry’s prisoner post-war. This story been marinating for a while, so the main arcs are
outlined, although chapter-level details aren’t finalized.

I hope that I’ll bring something new to the table and, even if not, you’ll enjoy reading.

See the end of the work for more notes

 Prelude

There’s a baby in Gawain Robards’ arms.

An adorable baby, at that: bright-eyed, pink-cheeked, and currently drooling on expensive

Auror robes.

Harry Potter looks from Robards, to Kingsley Shacklebolt and Professor McGonagall, and
finally, to the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, temporarily presiding from the office of the
Minister for Magic. Though their grim expressions already tell him everything, he has to
make sure.

“This is Voldemort.”

Kingsley winces. “I’m afraid so.”

“But I killed him. I saw him die.” The fallen body of his former nemesis is forever branded in
his mind: shrunken, broken, and frozen in defeat. “This can’t be possible.”

Even as Harry protests, he knows with resigned certainty that it’s very much possible.
Loopholes have always existed between the two of them. Just as he foiled Voldemort’s many
attempts to kill him, so too would Voldemort foil his one attempt to return the favor.

McGonagall sighs. “Please sit down, Harry. Take a biscuit.” She turns to the men.
“Gentlemen, perhaps we could start at the beginning.”

A curious glance passes between Robards and Kingsley.

“We found You-Know — Voldemort in this state when we retrieved his body,” Kingsley says.
“The Department of Mysteries is currently investigating, but the prevailing theory is that he
had created a failsafe prior to your final confrontation, such that instead of killing him, the
rebounded Killing Curse rebooted him to a prior, uncorrupted state.”

The baby waves his fists and giggles, pleased to be at the center of attention. Harry tears his
eyes away.

“Is he stuck like this?”

“Our team is actively trying to reverse the age regression, but has so far been unsuccessful.
This poses a conundrum. While we cannot legally execute anyone below the age of seventeen
—”

“Bloody archaic rules,” Robards mutters.

“Voldemort remains a condemned criminal,” Kingsley continues, after throwing his colleague
a frown. “Therefore, we would like your assistance.”

Harry recoils. “I can’t hurt him. Not like this.”

“Nor do we ask that of you,” Kingsley assures him hastily. “We are asking to bind his magic
to yours.”

“What?”

“The Dark Lord was an extraordinarily powerful wizard, and even in his infant state, he’s
been demonstrating highly volatile magic. As he ages and regains strength, we must take all
possible precautions to ensure he won’t endanger others. Unfortunately, magic-dampening
devices aren’t calibrated for someone so young. Finding a magical guardian is our only
option.”

“Why me? Wouldn’t an Auror be a better choice?”

“To ensure the bond will be strong enough to restrain Voldemort’s magic at full maturity, the
guardian needs to be someone with whom he has existing kinship. As his family and
followers are out of the question…”

Robards’ voice trails off, though he doesn’t need to finish. Who among living wizards is
better suited to the task than the boy marked by Voldemort himself, the boy with whom he
shared blood and soul?

“The bond won’t hurt you. Either of you,” Kingsley amends. “The bond doesn’t affect the
magic Voldemort requires for basic sustenance. Meanwhile, you will not suffer magical
exhaustion and can only draw upon his magic under specific circumstances.

Not reassured, Harry glances again at the baby, at the thumb stuck in his mouth and the dark
curls spilling over his forehead. So unlike the mangled Horcrux under the bench in limbo and
the helpless wraith in the bundle of robes in the Little Hangleton graveyard. So remarkably
normal.

“And once he turns seventeen,” he says quietly, “he will be executed?”

Kingsley’s answer is a beat too late. “Yes.”

“So we are raising Voldemort like a pig for slaughter.”

The statement invites a wave of resentment and an uncomfortable silence. The living adults
avoid Harry’s accusing gaze, while the painted visage of Dumbledore betrays no remorse.

“I don’t deny that this is harsh. Would we have preferred a more humane option? Certainly,
but one isn’t available, and we cannot allow sentiments to cloud our judgment.”

No, Harry supposes not. What is the welfare of one child in Dumbledore’s eternal quest for
the greater good?

“We did not make this decision lightly, Mr. Potter,” Robards says. “The Unspeakables have
reasons to believe that the Dark Lord will regain his memories in step with his biological age.
By the time he reaches seventeen years of age, he’ll be the same person who murdered
Myrtle Warren and his family in cold blood. That alone warrants him a place on the death
row, to say nothing of the slaughter that followed.”
Memories of past mistakes. The markings of a monster. Such an easy equivalence. Harry
swallows the lump in his throat.

“And if I refuse?”

“We prefer that you don’t —” Robards begins, but McGonagall cuts in.

“If you are much opposed, I’m confident that Kingsley and Gawain can find an alternative
arrangement.”

She shoots a warning glare at the men, every bit the imposing headmistress.

Kingsley acquiesces first. “We won’t force you into anything you’re uncomfortable with,
Harry.”

Under pressure from his colleagues, Robards gives a reluctant nod. “Very well, but given the
delicate nature of the situation, we ask for your complete discretion. Please do not share our
conversation with anyone.”

Harry removes his glasses to knead his eyes. When he received McGonagall’s Patronus
summon, he expected to talk about the reopening of Hogwarts. Or discuss logistics for the
war memorial. Or decline the Order of Merlin, First Class and its associated fanfare for the
tenth time.

In retrospect, an Order of Merlin and Harry Potter Day don’t seem so terrible. Hell, he will
gladly take three Order of Merlins and Harry Potter Week to retain the illusion of victory.

He replaces his glasses to find everyone watching him, Kingsley and Robards with hope,
McGonagall with sympathy, and Dumbledore with curiosity. His eyes return to the baby, who
is now peacefully asleep, long lashes fluttering with every breath.

“Let me think about it,” he says.

This time, no one protests.

The late morning crowd in the Muggle tea shop is sparse. A passing breeze rustles the frilly
curtains, scattering the fragrance of late spring. From across the table, Ron and Hermione
gape as Harry recounts everything. After what they’ve been through together, he cannot
imagine keeping this secret from them.

“So you’re telling us Voldemort isn’t actually dead,” Ron says slowly, “and you’ll be his
guardian until he turns seventeen.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Blimey.”

That aptly summarizes the situation. Ruefully, Harry recalls his naïvety a month ago when,
exhausted yet euphoric from victory, he’d told his friends, “I've had enough trouble for a long
time.” Back then, the future shimmered with hope. Hogwarts would be rebuilt, survivors
would emerge stronger, and wizarding Britain would again flourish. All would be well.

The whiplash of reality is painful, to say the least.

“But that’s outrageous!” Hermione exclaims. “You shouldn’t be expected to take care of any
child, let alone Voldemort.”

“I won’t be his full-time caretaker. The Ministry will have a dedicated team of Aurors and
Healers. I’m just guarding his magic. You know, make sure he doesn’t go on a murderous
rampage as a brooding teenager.”

Ron snorts into his tea, but Hermione doesn’t share his amusement. “In case you forgot, you
are still a teenager,” she says, “and we’re talking about seventeen years of your life.”

“Could be less. Baby Voldemort is aging erratically.”

“Can’t erratic mean slower ?” Ron points out.

Harry hasn’t considered that possibility. With a shudder, he entertains a ridiculous vision of
himself surrounded by grandchildren and a perpetually toddler-aged Voldemort.

“It won’t be seventeen years,” he says, hoping he sounds convincing. “Kingsley’s men are
working on reversing the de-aging.”

“Whatever the rate of aging, it’s not a trivial commitment,” Hermione says. “And what are
you going to tell Ginny?”

Harry twirls his cooling mug. That’s a fair question. With the end of the war, he and Ginny
have been dancing around the possibility of rekindling their relationship. Telling her that he’s
becoming a single father to Voldemort would definitely put a damper on things.

“She doesn’t have to know yet,” he replies eventually. “I mean, I haven’t decided.”

“But you want to say yes.” Hermione’s brown eyes bore into his, perceptive for a non-
Legilimens. “Because you think this is your responsibility.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Of course not. You didn’t turn Voldemort into a mass murderer or a baby.” She reaches for
his hand and squeezes, the pressure warm and reassuring. “You can’t keep carrying
everyone’s burden, Harry. You’ve earned the right to live your own life.”

Harry stares down at his teacup. The clumped dregs of Earl Grey have settled, leaving no
discernible pattern. “It won’t be seventeen years,” he repeats more softly.

She purses her lips in a perfect imitation of Professor McGonagall but mercifully changes the
topic. “Tell us more about this binding ritual. How does it work?”
“Kingsley said it originated in the Middle Ages. Something called a commendation
ceremony? Apparently the lords of wizarding manors would bind the magic of their vassals
to ensure their loyalty, in exchange for protection.”

“Oh, I’ve read about commendation, but in the Muggle context. It established the manorial
relationships that stabilized medieval society.” Intrigue crosses Hermione’s face. “Wouldn’t it
be fascinating to study their equivalent in the wizarding world?”

Harry and Ron exchange a smile, used to her enthusiasm about books and learning.

“Imagine the possibilities,” she says, growing more animated. “We can learn more about the
wizarding sociopolitical structure before the International Statute of Secrecy was put in place.
Or how wizarding manors coexisted with Muggle ones. Or how the Enlightenment impacted
the evolution of magic.”

“You’ve done it, mate,” Ron says, chuckling. “We will never hear the end of this.”

Despite his sardonic tone, he’s watching his girlfriend with so much fondness that Harry
averts his gaze, feeling like an interloper in something private.

“Give me a week to do some research,” Hermione says. “Let me make sure that this bond is
safe before you commit.”

“Okay, thank you.” Harry chews his bottom lip. “And if I still agree to do it?”

Less than a heartbeat passes before Ron slings an arm around his shoulders. “We knew when
we became your friends that we were signing up for a lifetime of craziness. If you want to
raise baby You-Know-Who, we’ll be by your side. Just don’t ask either of us to help with the
nappies.”

“Definitely no nappies. Kingsley promised.”

“Well then, there you go.”

They both turn to Hermione, who folds her arms. Nevertheless, she succumbs to their
combined puppy eyes and, with a sigh, shoves forward the untouched plate of scones. “Try
one before it gets cold. This place is known for their lemon poppy-seed scones.”

And this, Harry knows, is as close to approval as he’ll get.

Warmth unfurls in his chest. The silver lining to this mess is the reassurance that no matter
what, he won’t tread the path alone.

Harry takes a scone and grins at his best friends.

In the end, the answer is inevitable. Voldemort has been and will always be his responsibility.
Fate has tied them together from the very beginning. Life or death, monster or baby, it
doesn’t matter.
The Department of Mysteries is much as Harry remembers, its striking appearance a
tantalizing teaser for the secrets hidden behind its black-tiled walls. From the entrance
chamber, he follows Kingsley through an unmarked door into what resembles a dark void.
The chamber is painted entirely in black, with no furnishing or visible delineation between
walls and ceiling. Under the weak illumination of blue-flamed torches, he can barely make
out a ritual circle that takes up almost the entire floor.

A stout middle-aged witch steps forward, the baby in her arms. “Welcome, Mr. Potter. My
team and I are grateful for your assistance.”

She gestures to the five Unspeakables standing around the circle, their faces obscured by
shadows. They incline their heads, but do not introduce themselves. The Head Unspeakable
does not offer her name either. Everyone is aware that their brief acquaintance will cease to
exist outside the chamber.

“Do you have any questions about the ceremony?” she asks. “Once we begin, we will be
unable to stop without aborting the whole effort.”

Harry shakes his head. Hermione has already detailed the results of her copious research.
Nothing seems amiss, other than the reason that the ritual fell out of favor isn’t documented
anywhere. By then, however, his mind was made.

“Very well. Follow me.”

The Head Unspeakable leads Harry to the center of the circle and turns to face him. At her
command, he takes the baby’s hands, soft and smooth and unsoiled by murder.

As small fingers curl around his, Harry is uncomfortably reminded of Teddy, except
Voldemort isn’t Teddy. His godson is full of joy and love for the world, while this baby grew
into a psychopath. And yet, he cannot help a twinge of regret that the ceremony will
effectively cripple his magic, even if it’s supposed to be painless.

As one, the Unspeakables begin to chant. Though Harry has difficulty deciphering Old
English, he recalls Hermione’s translation:

Let us bind you

To your master’s heart
Lest your magic
Shall ever part.

His love and grace

Shall render you whole
To him you entrust
Your immortal soul.

In response, the runes inscribed in the circle glimmer in gold, and the two sets representing
Harry and Voldemort’s names glow with particular luminescence. The commendation
ceremony consists of two parts, Hermione explained. During the first part, called the act of
homage, Voldemort will surrender the control of his magic to Harry.
Not without putting up a fight, as it turns out. The oppressive weight of Voldemort’s magic
floods the ritual circle, thrashing and lashing out like a cornered manticore. Instinctively,
Harry’s magic rises in defense, and the chamber trembles in anticipation of their clash.

It never comes. The bond activates to coil restraining tendrils around Voldemort’s magic
until, with one last struggle, it is subdued. A new presence begins to thrum in Harry’s veins,
displaying the hesitancy of a guest waiting at the threshold of his host’s dwelling.

“And now,” comes the Head Unspeakable’s voice in an echoing and distant whisper, “accept
the offering of your new vassal.”

During the second part of the commendation ceremony, called the oath of fealty, the new
vassal will normally swear loyalty to his lord. Given that Voldemort is too young, Harry will
bestow his benediction upon him instead to signify his acceptance of the proffered magic,
thus sealing their bond and relationship as guardian and ward.

Aware of the attention on him, Harry hesitates. There’s no turning back after this, no freedom
for either of them until Voldemort’s execution. Misgivings overtake him, and in a moment of
clarity, he realizes without a doubt that they are making a grave mistake.

In his grip, the baby’s hands stir, as delicate as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. Guileless
eyes blink up at Harry, hazel without a trace of crimson.

“Do you wish to proceed, Mr. Potter?”

The baby smiles, revealing toothless gums and dimpled cheeks.

“Yes,” Harry answers, and leaning close, he presses a kiss to the downy dark hair.

In a perfect world, the story ends like this: the ritual successfully completes, justice is served
to Lord Voldemort, and Harry Potter returns to his happily ever after.

Except fairy tales don’t exist, and behind every happy ending lurks a darker reality.

The instant that Harry’s lips touch the crown of Voldemort’s head, a draft sweeps through the
windowless chamber, knocking out the torches. In the ensuing darkness, Harry and
Voldemort’s magic, no longer adversarial, weave in intricate patterns until they form a web,
not unlike the aftereffect of Priori Incantatem, only rainbow-colored instead of golden.
Somewhere, someone is singing, the initially faint notes strengthening into a poignant
melody that reverberates through the chamber. It’s reminiscent of Fawkes’ lament at
Dumbledore’s funeral, except this song is full of exuberance, as if the ceremony is a
matrimonial celebration, rather than a criminal’s condemnation.

The web expands outwards until, at last, it shatters. Strands of light crisscross the ceiling, like
meteors bringing meaning to an inscrutable sky. As the music rises to a fever pitch, the light
shines so brightly that Harry shuts his eyes, though he never once loosens his hold on the
baby’s hands.
All of a sudden, the light extinguishes and the song fades, leaving in their wake an eerie
stillness. The bond is complete.

For the first time since the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry’s scar prickles.
 Prison || Patronize
Chapter Notes

Thank you everyone for your support. I’m heartened that you find the premise
interesting :) Two quick notes:

Tom’s aging will be by design non-linear and chapter headings are included to
help keep track.
Harry is fresh out of the war, so his youth and inexperience (compared to
counterparts in other Harry-raises-Tom fics) will be reflected in certain choices
especially in the beginning.

Please enjoy the update!

(Added August 2023: I made some edits, notably a reference to Harry visiting his
parents that has thematic but not plot significance.)

Act I: Prison

From Case Number 31120205

Asset name: Tom Marvolo Riddle
Update : 1st June 1998
Estimated biological age: 2 months

* * *

Another day, another speech.

Harry steps up to the makeshift podium and clears his throat. A hush falls over the bustling
Ministry Atrium and a sea of expectant faces turns towards him. In the beginning, he
demurred from the spotlight, but Kingsley convinced him. “To restore confidence, we need a
human element,” he said. “We need a hero.”

The Sonorous Charmed microphone beeps. “Hello everyone,” Harry says. “Welcome to the
unveiling ceremony for the war memorial. We are here to commemorate everyone who
sacrificed their lives fighting for our future.”
He’s never claimed to be the best public speaker, but with practice, the words prepared by the
Ministry publicist roll off his tongue naturally. It helps that the script doesn’t change much,
generally painting a rosier picture than the unfolding reality.

“At the same time, today is also a celebration of our strength and perseverance. With the
specter of Lord Voldemort behind us, bright possibilities await. However, there remains much
to be done. In order to rebuild Britain, we must let go of past prejudices and work together.
This is not a time for grudges or petty disagreements.”

Zoraida Shafiq, the new Head of the D.M.L.E., scowls in the direction of the Wizengamot.
Her efforts to define a fair trial process for Death Eater have met with resistance from old
pure-blood families, many of whom balk at subjecting family members to public scrutiny for
their roles in Voldemort’s rise.

“We must also remember that many were forced into difficult choices during the war against
their better inclinations. Therefore, we should distinguish between those who intentionally
caused harm, and those who deserve a second chance.”

Dolores Umbridge giggles and adjusts her fuschia bow. Though she’s been demoted from
Senior Under-Secretary to a minor Ministry post, she isn’t prosecuted for running the
Muggle-born Registration Commission due to tearful claims that she’d been coerced.
Fortunately for her, the overworked D.M.L.E. lacked enough evidence to prove otherwise.
Meanwhile, the wands confiscated from innocent Muggle-borns sit in burlap bags in an
overstuffed storage room, waiting for hapless clerks to sort through and reunite them with
their owners.

“The road to recovery will not be short or easy, but united, we will usher in the greatest age
of wizarding Britain. And now, without further ado, please join me in welcoming Acting
Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shackebolt, to commence the ceremony.”

Harry concludes his speech to applause and scattered cheers. In the audience, Ron and
Hermione beam with pride, and Ginny blows him a saucy kiss. Kingsley nods in approval as
he assumes Harry’s place at the podium. Another performance has gone well.

After making his own remarks, Kingsley flourishes his wand to Vanish the silk veil shrouding
the memorial. Thankfully, it’s not a statue of Harry triumphantly looming over a fallen
Voldemort, as originally proposed. Instead, it’s a white marble tablet engraved with the
names of everyone — dead and alive — who defended Britain from Voldemort and his Death
Eaters.

To joyful horn music and hundreds of camera flashes, the memorial is installed in the center
of the Atrium, in place of the destroyed Fountain of Magical Brethren and the removed
Magic is Might monument. Above, the golden symbols inlaid into the vaulted ceiling dance,
casting a kaleidoscope of light upon the tablet and highlighting names at random. Lavender
Brown. Emmeline Vance. Fabian Prewett. Severus Snape. Harry Potter.

He’s reminded of his parents’ headstone, which he visited in the morning. The same white
marble, reducing lives bravely lived to engravings. Though an insurmountable distance
separates them, the dead feel especially close today. Maybe part of him died in the Forbidden
Forest after all and is currently keeping loved ones company beyond the veil.

The unveiling complete, Harry finds himself at the center of much fanfare, receiving
handshakes, hugs, and too many photo requests. Children gaze at him with bright and hopeful
eyes, excited to meet their war hero in person, while recently elected Ministry officials are
eager to ingratiate themselves. Rita Skeeter keeps tailing him in hopes of an exclusive
interview.

As he retreats to a quieter corner, Harry accidentally crosses paths with Umbridge, who
flashes an ugly grin and raises her champagne flute in a mocking toast. He turns away, right
hand tingling with the cicatrix of past detentions.

I must not tell lies.

The Ministry sets up Voldemort’s prison — or safe house, in more tactful terms — in the attic
of Grimmauld Place. The bond is more secure when the ward lives on his guardian’s
property, and protective spells conveniently linger from Grimmauld Place’s past as the
Order’s headquarters.

Despite initial reluctance, Harry acquiesces. After all, even though Grimmauld Place belongs
to him, it has never felt like home. He will be back at school soon, and after Hogwarts, he’ll
share a flat with friends. He won’t cohabit with Voldemort for long.

After his team settles in, Kingsley takes Harry on a tour. Harry expects the attic to be dank
and filthy, but it’s been transformed into a spacious flat consisting of four rooms. The foyer
leads to the kitchen on the left and the living room on the right, and directly in front is a
corridor that leads to the bedroom and the nursery on either side.

Kingsley introduces Harry to Stuart Fawley, a pencil-like man with an austere face and
graying hair. “He’ll be Voldemort’s main caretaker and remain on premise full-time,”
Kingsley says, “but the rest of the team will rotate in eight-hour shifts. We will always station
at least two Aurors and one Healer on premise, all sworn to secrecy.”

“Do not worry, Mr. Potter,” Fawley says. “We want to limit our burden on you to the extent
possible. The attic is warded and soundproof, and the staircase is one-way so that we cannot
exit without your explicit permission.”

“Of course, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to let the team know,” Kingsley adds. “The
fireplace is connected to the Ministry Floo network, so we can respond quickly to any
situation.”

Nodding, Harry surveys the attic. Everything is pristine, like Number Four Privet Drive after
a deep clean. The place even smells faintly of Aunt Petunia’s favorite cleaning detergent,
lavender with a hint of citrus.

A tugging sensation draws him to the closed nursery door. “Is he — is the baby in there?”
“Yes,” Fawley replies. “The Healer is currently running some diagnostics.”

“Can I see him?”

Fawley glances at Kingsley for approval, which is granted. “If you wish.”

The nursery is sparsely decorated, and the only piece of furniture is the crib in the center, its
thick slats obscuring the occupant from view. The Healer sets down her clipboard and bows
in greeting. “Minister Shacklebolt. Mr. Potter. Welcome.”

“Good afternoon,” Kingsley says. “How is he doing?”

“Very well. His indicators are all normal, though his accelerated growth rate is still causing
magical tantrums. Thanks to Mr. Potter, the bond is successfully reining them in.”

Harry peeks inside the crib. The baby is curled on his side in a sea of navy blankets, dwarfed
by his new abode. He turns towards his visitors with some curiosity. Hazel and green eyes
make brief contact before he yawns and loses focus, ejecting Harry from his still-developing
memory.

“Will he be okay like this?” Harry asks.

“Certainly,” the Healer replies. “The crib is outfitted with high thread-count cotton sheets and
muslin blankets, and charmed to be twenty degrees Celsius during the day and twenty-two
degrees Celsius at night. We also follow a strict schedule for his meals and naps. The baby
should be very comfortable.”

“But that’s not enough.”

She blinks in confusion. “What more does this child need?”

Harry’s grip tightens around the edge of the crib. The emptiness of the room bothers him. No
posters or pictures hang on the stark white walls, and no books or blocks are strewn on the
polished parquet floor. No model of the Hogwarts Express whistles its way around a
miniature track, and no magical mobile entertains the baby with reenactments of The Tales of
Beedle the Bard. Like the rest of the flat, the nursery is sterile, lacking the warmth associated
with a home.

The lack of toys rankles Harry especially, because even he had the benefit of Dudley’s
discards. He remembers with special fondness a one-eared bunny. Until it fell apart
completely, it was his loyal companion and protector against the lonely darkness of the
cupboard. He still remembers the texture of the rabbit’s fur, silky soft despite the tangled
mats, and its musty yet comforting smell.

“Voldemort is in good hands,” Kingsley says, noticing if not understanding Harry’s

discomfort. “Mr. Fawley earned his doctorate in magical child development and spent
decades abroad to improve the well-being of young wizards in developing countries.”

“I assure you that I’m a consummate professional, Mr. Potter.” Fawley sounds a tad insulted.
“I know what is and is not necessary for a child’s healthy development.”
Chastened, Harry lowers his eyes. “I understand, that — makes sense.”

Who is he to question Fawley’s expertise, anyway? He doesn’t know anything about raising a
baby. Besides, Voldemort grew up in a Muggle orphanage in the 1930s. Toy bunny or not, his
current situation is practically luxurious.

And at the end of the day, Voldemort isn’t here to live a long happy life. He’s merely another
orphan, foisted upon those who don’t want him by those who will send him to die.

After exchanging a few more words with the Healer, Fawley escorts Harry and Kingsley out
of the room. “We may need you from time to time to run some tests, Mr. Potter,” he says,
locking the nursery behind him, “but we will always notify you in advance. In the meantime,
you won’t even know we’re here.”

Though the words should be reassuring, they sound foreboding. Harry glances once more
towards the nursery door, the image of the lonely figure in the crib twisting his gut.

Kingsley lays a hand on his shoulder. “Do you have any other questions?”

Harry clenches his jaw and stamps away the twinges of guilt. “No, not today. Thank you for
showing us around, Mr. Fawley.”

Quietly, he follows Kingsley out of the attic, leaving the baby behind like a dirty secret.

In the middle of the night, Harry awakens, scar ablaze.

He’s no stranger to nightmares, having long been plagued by visions of Voldemort’s

atrocities, and now, of loved ones he couldn’t protect. Remus and Tonks, hands clasped in
death; Fred, face frozen in laughter; Hedwig, wings crumpled. I’m sorry, I tried, he always
tells them, but apologies don’t sate the dead.

In comparison, this one is tame.

Harry leans his throbbing forehead against his knees. Green light. Four walls closing in.
Screams into a claustrophobic darkness. The dream is familiar yet a little off, a jigsaw puzzle
put together with a few key pieces morphed.

Maybe because the dreamscape featured a room with windows and a bed, rather than the
cupboard under the stairs. Or because the green light was accompanied by a boy’s desperate
shout, rather than cold high-pitched laughter.

Something tugs at his memory, but the shards of remembrance crumble before he can
examine them closely. He’s probably overthinking this, he decides as he climbs back under
the covers. Bad dreams, phantom pain, they’re both a normal part of recovering from war
trauma. Nothing to be concerned about.

Eventually, his heartbeat calms, and he doesn’t remember when sleep claims him again. The
next morning, all that remain are foggy afterimages and a vague impression that he’s
forgotten something important.
 * * *

For all intents and purposes, Harry’s life settles into normalcy. As Kingsley promised,
interactions with The Attic — as he comes to think of Voldemort’s prison — are limited,
though the rare visit, usually to test the strength of the bond, inevitably leaves him feeling
complicit in some terrible crime.

Over mixed emotions, Harry is awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class, an honor that he
stows in the bottom of his trunk. On the bright side, Harry Potter Day doesn’t become a
reality. Instead, he celebrates his eighteenth birthday with former members of Dumbledore’s
Army at a Chinese noodle shop at Cho’s behest. According to her, noodles symbolize
longevity in East Asian culture, and this particular shop is run by a distant cousin unafraid to
magically tamper with traditional recipes.

The group of oddly dressed teenagers fits into the lunchtime crowd at the cramped venue.
Thanks to Cho’s family connection, they are seated at a corner table that affords marginally
more room and privacy. The air is laden with the aroma of exotic spices, and Harry’s mouth
waters at the glossy menu pictures featuring bowls overfilled with unrecognizable
ingredients.

The food doesn’t disappoint. The noodles have the perfect chewy texture, the soup is
generously seasoned, and the meat strikes the right balance of lean and fatty. The one
imperfection is Harry’s lack of dexterity with chopsticks, resulting in few noodles actually
being ingested. To be fair, with the exception of Cho, Hermione, and Michael Corner,
everyone struggles to eat neatly until a passing waitress takes pity and hands out forks.

Conversation drifts from topic to topic. Cho, Michael, and Lee are starting new jobs; Luna
and her father are planning to uncover cryptids in Northern Ireland; Hermione’s parents are
recovering from their Memory Charmed existence in Australia; and the Weasleys have been
restoring the Burrow to order. Everyone refrains from mentioning funerals, of which there
have been too many.

Because of the limited space, Harry constantly knocks elbows or brushes shoulders with
Ginny, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, she sidles closer to brush their thighs together,
and the proximity isn’t unpleasant.

As lunch draws to a close, the waitress returns with their bill and an assortment of plastic-
wrapped biscuits, which are golden-brown, wafer-thin, and shaped into butterflies. Cho
passes them out with a mysterious smile.

Neville squints at his. “What are these, exactly?”

“They’re called fortune cookies. You crack them open,” Cho explains, demonstrating with
hers, “and the slips of paper inside tell your fortunes. Here’s mine: a series of overlapping
ripples form the waves of change. ”
“Bodes well for your dreams of revolutionizing wizarding fashion,” Michael says
supportively, earning himself a quick peck.

Hermione frowns. “I’ve never seen this form of Chinese divination. Based on what I’ve read,
Chinese fortune-tellers specialize in face-reading and astrological charts, or the interpretation
of natural phenomenons.”

“I’m not pretending this is authentic in any way. Michael and I tried them during our trip to
New York last month, and we thought they were fun. Although my cousin and I did enhance
them with a dash of secret Chinese magic.” Cho winks. “Anyone else wants to try?”

“Let me see.” Ron swallows his mouthful of crumbs and reads, “The fresh bloom of young
love is close at hand.” He reddens, to the amusement of his boisterous siblings.

“Let’s hear yours, Hermione,” Ginny urges after teasing her brother.

Still looking somewhat skeptical, Hermione reads, “Nothing provides more freedom than the
pursuit of knowledge.”

“That fits you.”

“It’s vague enough to fit a lot of people, and it’s barely a fortune,” Hermione mutters. “What
about yours?”

“The wings of your dreams will soon take flight.” Ginny nods in satisfaction. “Looks like the
Quidditch Cup will be Gryffindor’s again.”

“Only because I no longer play,” Cho says, and the two former Quidditch rivals share a grin.

Intrigued by their friends’ successful — if controversial in accuracy — fortunes, the others

share theirs one by one.

“The ability to perceive grayness allows men to distinguish truth from falsehoods,” reads
Michael’s fortune, fitting for someone poised to start a clerkship under Madam Shafiq.

“Laughter can heal the deepest of hurts,” reads George’s, a hopeful sign as he prepares to
relaunch Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes without his twin.

“Speak loudly to shed light on the lives of the small and weak,” reads Lee’s, who will
apprentice under the editor-in-chief of the Daily Prophet.

“Pure hearts and keen eyes can unravel the mysteries of nature,” reads Luna’s, a good
premonition for her and her father’s hunt to capture oilliphéists in photographs.

“The sword of justice is best wielded by a righteous man,” reads Neville, drawing
appreciation and amusement alike.

“It knows about the Sword of Gryffindor!” Ron says, slapping Neville on the back.

“Though I wonder if the sword refers to other things,” Lee says, wiggling his eyebrows.
It’s Neville’s turn to blush, once he parses the innuendo. The table erupts in giggles, drawing
curious looks from nearby diners. Harry swirls his spoon through leftover soup, letting grease
bubbles catch and reflect the fluorescent light.

“We haven’t heard yours yet, Harry.” Ginny leans over his shoulder, tickling his neck with
her long hair. “Let me guess. Yours say something about slaying evil.”

“Um, yeah.” He thinks quickly. “ Great evil falls at your hands. Something like that.”

She hums in approval. “Another perfect fit. Looks like those fortune cookies are a grand
success, Cho.”

Cho beams and raises her teacup. “Let’s not forget the real occasion of the day. To Harry
Potter, the slayer of great evil, and Neville Longbottom, the wielder of impressive swords.”

Everyone follows suit.

“To our best friends!”

“Many happy returns!”

“Happy birthday!”

“Cheers!”

Harry grins encouragingly at an embarrassed Neville, happy to share the spotlight that his
friend absolutely deserves. Cups are clinked and tea is drained. Afterwards, festivities move
to a Muggle pub, where Harry is soon forced to mediate an increasingly heated discussion
between Ginny and Cho on the upcoming match between the Holyhead Harpies and Tutshill
Tornados.

Only the crumpled paper in his jeans pocket knows that he’d lied to his friends.

Later, in the privacy of his bedroom in Grimmauld Place, Harry carefully smoothes out the
slip of paper. No matter how he angles it, its message doesn’t change.

His fortune was — is — blank.

It means nothing, he tells himself. Just a misprinting of something with the significance of
Trelawney’s tea leaves.

It still bothers him.

Summer speeds by, and before long, August arrives, bringing school owls and supply lists for
the new year. As a result, Harry spends a lovely afternoon in Diagon Alley to prepare for
school with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny.

After shopping is finished, they visit Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor. Fiona Fortescue,
who took over her late uncle’s business, welcomes the group warmly and insists on treating
them to sundaes on the house.

With heaping bowls, they crowd around a small table outside, under an oversized umbrella
providing shield from both the sun and passersby. Harry takes a huge bite and savors the
bittersweetness of dark chocolate melting over his tongue.

“I cannot wait to go back to school,” Hermione says. Having already unwrapped her new
books, she’s running a reverent hand over their embossed covers. “This is our most
interesting reading list yet.”

Ginny chuckles. “You are going to have everything memorized by the end of the week, aren’t
you?”

“We lost a year of momentum, and we have to be ready for N.E.W.Ts.”

Ron curls his hand over Hermione’s. “Have she told you two that she actually turned down
Head Girl so she can focus on studying?”

“Not just because of that. It’s our last year at Hogwarts, so I want fewer responsibilities for
once.”

“Yeah, think of the freedom we’ll have as eighth years!” Ron says, brightening. “We can go
to Hogsmeade whenever we want, Apparate wherever we want, change Room of
Requirement into whatever we want —”

“And Quidditch!” Ginny chimes in. “Don’t forget we’re winning the Quidditch Cup!”

“Right, and winning all the Quidditch matches. See? A normal school year. Imagine that!”

“I dunno, normal sounds a bit dull, doesn’t it?” Harry deadpans. “And I’ve gotten used to
getting exams canceled.”

Ron and Ginny laugh, while Hermione sputters in indignation.

A shadow falls over their table. Glancing up, Harry’s grin fades. “Malfoy.”

He hasn’t seen any of the Malfoys since the Final Battle. He knows they are technically on
house arrest and can only leave Malfoy Manor for select locations under the surveillance of
Tracking Spells. Outwardly, Draco Malfoy looks well in his tailored robes, yet the expensive
fabric can’t hide the circles under his eyes and the faint lines creeping up the taut face.

“Potter,” he replies. He scans the table and nods at the other three occupants. “Weasley.
Weasley. Granger.”

Hermione manages a polite “hello.” Ron and Ginny are sullen.

Malfoy turns back to Harry. “I need to talk to you.”

“There’s no reason why we can’t talk here,” Ginny says.

“I need to talk to Potter alone.”

“Why should Harry talk to you at all?” Ron demands. “Go away before we hex you.”

He’s already clutching his wand. As far as he’s concerned, Malfoy hasn’t evolved beyond
their schoolboy bully.

Except Malfoy isn’t no longer a bully. He’s defeated, exhausted, and as haunted as the rest of
them. Harry thinks of Crabbe, falling and screaming into the maw of Fiendfyre, and of
Bellatrix, terrifying to her final breath.

“I’m not here to stir up trouble,” Malfoy says, fixing an imploring gaze on Harry. “I only
need ten minutes. Please.”

“Okay,” Harry agrees. He gives Ron and Ginny a reassuring smile to quell their protests. “I
will be fine.”

Hermione folds her arms. “If he doesn’t return in ten minutes, we will come looking for
him.”

Malfoy’s lips twitch. In a past exchange, he may have made a scathing remark, but he only
inclines his head. “Ten minutes is all I need.”

For privacy, they wind through the streets of North Side until they come upon a stone bench
tucked into an alcove. Awkwardly, they sit down on opposite ends. Malfoy doesn’t say
anything, and Harry wishes he’d thought to bring his sundae along so he can do something
other than shift uncomfortably.

“So,” he says, when the silence eventually becomes unbearable. “Are you looking forward to
school?”

“I’m not going back.” Malfoy’s laugh is mirthless. “I don’t think my kind will be welcome.”

Harry understands. There will be students who want vengeance for their treatments under the
Carrows last year, and though McGonagall is fair, she can’t protect someone from the shame
of having fought on the wrong side of the war.

“Besides, I have the Death Eater trials to look forward to. Who knows, soon I may get to
enjoy the comforts of Azkaban firsthand.”

“I will be there. I’ll testify that your mother saved me and we couldn’t have won without her
help.”

“I appreciate that.” Malfoy gives Harry a long, searching look. Then he says, in a strange
tone, “But you don’t think it’s over, do you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Haven’t you heard the rumor about Dark Marks? Skeeter is right, they aren’t fading.”
Malfoy bares and thrusts out his left forearm. The mark isn’t burning black, as it did during
the height of Voldemort’s power, but the outline of the grinning skull with the serpent-tongue
remains distinct. He rolls down his sleeve. “That’s why my uncle and his brother are still at
large. They think he’s out there and want to bring him back.”

Harry’s breath hitches. The escape of the Lestrange brothers is one of the Ministry’s biggest
headaches. Aurors have combed through continental Europe, searching every known
Lestrange estate for their whereabouts, to no avail. Nevertheless, dangerous though the
Lestranges are, the idea that they will resurrect Voldemort is ridiculous when all that’s left of
the Dark Lord is a helpless baby in The Attic.

“Voldemort is gone,” Harry says.

“He’s never gone,” Malfoy snaps with startling viciousness. “You’re his from the moment
you take his mark to the moment he finally takes everything away. He never forgets, he never
forgives, and he will never let you go. You of all people should understand.”

His eyes land on Harry’s scar, which has also refused to fade. Harry swallows and pats down
his fringe.

“We’ve tried scrubbing the whole manor, multiple times, but it’s no use. He’s everywhere. I
go to the drawing room, and he’s there, reading about his latest raid in the Daily Prophet. I go
to the dining room, and he’s there, feeding another dead body to that creepy snake. I go to the
library, and he’s there, holding another secret meeting. Sometimes, I wish I could burn the
Manor to the ground to erase every trace of him. He’s never — fucking — gone.”

By now, Malfoy is trembling with the effort of unleashing months — even years — of
repressed anger. Harry rubs sweaty palms against his jeans. Even as heat rises from the
cobblestones and the sun bakes ruthlessly overhead, a chill creeps down his spine and
burrows into his bones.

Somewhere in the distance, there’s a crack and a shriek of a child’s laughter. Probably
someone setting off fireworks again. Impromptu celebrations on the streets of Diagon Alley
are still regular occurrences.

The noise breaks Malfoy from his trance. “I apologize,” he says in a calmer tone. “I didn’t
mean to carry on.”

Voldemort is gone, Harry wants to say, but the words ring hollow. Much as he wants to, he
can’t exorcize a demon who is alive and breathing in his own home.

“It’s all right,” he says, “but we should head back. I don’t want my friends to send Aurors
after us.”

Malfoy heaves a sigh and rises. “You’re right, we’re way past ten minutes. Let me walk you
back.”

By chance, they pass by Madam Malkin’s shop. Inside, eager first-years are getting measured
for their first set of school robes under the watch of proud parents.
Harry glances over at Malfoy, wondering whether he remembers their first meeting,
wondering how things could’ve evolved given a second chance, when pain jolts through his
scar.

(The shop is like no clothing shop you’ve visited. The shelves are stocked to the brim with
rolls of fabric in dazzling colors, and the attires of mannequins harken back to the era of
chivalry and mystique.

Heart pounding with excitement, you try to stand still as your measurements are taken. This
will be the first set of clothes that are truly yours, and they will transform you from an orphan
into a proper wizard.

“I haven’t seen you before. Are you starting at Hogwarts too?”

The boy on the neighboring footstool is around your age, with gray eyes and hair so blonde
that it’s haloed under the light. His gaze is more assessing than friendly.

You give a tiny nod, intimidated by your first glimpse of a future schoolmate. You’ve never
seen someone so well-dressed, even more so than the couples who come to Wool’s to adopt.
In comparison, your secondhand jumper and trousers feel shabbier than ever.

“What’s your name? Which of the Sacred Twenty-Eight do you hail from?”

Although the question makes no sense, you sense its significance. Answer incorrectly, and
this tenuous gesture of friendship will be retracted.

A man approaches. The same gray eyes, set onto an older yet equally imperious face, skim
over you.

“Come along, Abraxas.” He doesn’t bother to lower his voice as he ushers his son to the
register. “Can you not tell from looking at him? He’s a charity case. You’ll do well to stay
away.”)

“Potter? Potter. Are you all right?”

Harry returns to awareness. Malfoy’s panicked face is inches away and his hands hover just
above his shoulders.

“Sorry. I zoned out.”

“You were catatonic.” Malfoy’s fingers twitch. “Should I take you to St. Mungo’s?”

“It’s the heat.” Harry runs the back of his hand across his forehead, brushing away beads of
cold sweat. “I’m fine.”

“We clearly have different definitions of ‘fine.’”

“No, really, I’m fine,” Harry insists. “And the ice cream parlor is just down the street. I’ll be
fine.”
Malfoy furrows his brows, hearing the implicit dismissal. “Potter, about what I said
earlier…”

Harry tenses, not in the mood for another tirade, but to his relief and mild curiosity, Malfoy
abandons whatever he intended to say and lets his arms fall to his sides.

“Mother sends her regards,” he says. “Take care.”

“Thanks, you too.” Harry pauses awkwardly. “Er, see you at the trials?”

“Yes, see you then.”

With a tight smile, Malfoy turns on his heel and Disapparates.

Harry’s friends snap to attention when he slides back into his seat.

“How was it?”

“What did he want?”

“Why did it take so long?”

“It was fine,” Harry says, opting for a half-truth. “He wanted to make sure that I’ll be there
for their trial. That’s all.”

“The Malfoys will probably do anything to avoid Azkaban,” Ron says. “Pretend they didn’t
host Voldemort for two years and hide prisoners in their dungeons. Or nearly burn us to death
with Fiendfyre.”

“His mother did save me, and that was Crabbe with Fiendfyre.”

“Still, it’d be completely unfair if they get off scot-free after everything they’ve done.”

Harry shrugs. Dying and coming back to life have put many things into perspective, so he’s
not going to begrudge the Malfoys their freedom. Then again, he wouldn’t mind if Lucius
ends up paying a hefty fine.

As Ron and Ginny discuss the Malfoys’ likely sentence, Hermione leans in. “How do you
feel?” she whispers, flicking her eyes to his forehead, which he’s been absently rubbing.

Harry hurriedly drops his hand. “Everything’s fine. Just brain freeze from the ice cream.”

She narrows her eyes, but fortunately doesn’t pry.

Soon, discussion moves from the Malfoys to lighter subjects, and Harry allows his mind to
wander. In retrospect, the whole exchange was bizarre. Why didn’t Malfoy send Harry an owl
rather than seek him out in public? And what was he trying to warn Harry against? Either
Malfoy was intentionally cryptic, or he wasn’t sure himself.

The latter unsettles Harry more than he likes to admit.

A table away, a little girl’s triple-scoop cherry cone has lost its battle against the summer
heat. Morbidly fascinated, Harry watches as the ice cream runs down her chin and arms
before it splatters, bright red and glistening, on the pavement.

On September 1st, Harry lugs his trunk to the front door and hesitates. Should he say
goodbye to The Attic? It would be the polite thing to do as the host.

Outside The Attic, Harry presses his hand against the door. The aged wood is warm to the
touch and, if he concentrates, pulses like a beating heart. For some reason, his chest constricts
with the yearning for something he cannot name.

He pulls away and stuffs his hand in his pocket. It’s foolish sentimentality. Fawley and his
team already know that he’s leaving for Hogwarts, and Voldemort is hardly likely to care that
Harry will be gone for three months.

The doorbell clangs, and Walburga Black reprises her rave against blood-traitors. The
Weasleys have arrived.

Leaving the goodbye unsaid, Harry heads downstairs.

 Protest
Chapter Notes

Hello everyone, and happy Christmas to those to celebrate it. I was hoping to finish this
chapter before the holidays, but a few scenes required several rewrites.

Please enjoy!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Update: 1st September 1998

Estimated biological age: 8 months

* * *

The ceiling of the Great Hall depicts an ethereal night sky, a tapestry in gradations of purple
on which pinpricks of light are emerging. Everything is more beautiful when filtered through
magic, the embodiment of childhood wonder.

Poignancy hangs over everyone. Tonight is the first time they’ve stepped foot inside
Hogwarts since the final battle, after bodies were collected and survivors sent home. Against
all odds, they’ve triumphed, even if two people in attendance know their victory is a partial
lie.

The Sorting ceremony begins with the customary song from the Sorting Hat, who delivers a
more heartfelt rendition of the Ministry’s message of unity and forgiveness. The Ministry
publicist should take note.

Afterwards, the first years step up one by one to the stool. The group is smaller than normal,
and the reason soon becomes clear. Fewer Slytherins are Sorted than in years past, and first-
years trudge to their new house like prisoners marching to the gallows. Existing students,
who are also depleted thanks to a record number of transfers and withdrawals, barely clap. At
the Head Table, Professor Slughorn gazes at his charges with something akin to remorse.

As a first-year, Harry had once thought the Slytherins were an unpleasant lot based on
childish prejudice and begged the Sorting Hat, “Not Slytherin.” How many are telling the
Sorting Hat the exact same thing tonight?

(“Please Slytherin. Please Slytherin.”

From what little you know, this is the house of the serpents, the house of the ambitious. This
is the house where you belong, the house that will lead you to greatness.

The Sorting Hat chuckles. “I can see no other place for you, Salazar’s heir. Go achieve your
destiny in SLYTHERIN!”

Shaking with excitement, you remove the hat and hop off the stool. The applause in response
to your Sorting is lukewarm. Your housemates are largely silent, offering a distinctly different
reception to the back slaps and hand shakes received by other first-years. You’d noted during
the train ride that many students are childhood acquaintances, but you didn’t realize your new
house would be insular to this degree.

As you take a seat at the far end of the table, murmurs drift over.

“Did the Hat say Riddle?”

“I’ve never heard of the Riddles. Are they foreign?”

“I might’ve heard this name on the Continent…”

A voice rises above the chatter, shrill and familiar. “He’s not foreign. He’s a charity case. A
Mudblood . My father said so.”

That’s the first time you hear the word. It will not be the last.)

“Harry?” Hermione nudges his arm. “It’s time to eat.”

Harry hasn’t noticed McGonagall has finished the opening speech and the table has been
populated with overflowing dishes. Next to him, Ron and Ginny are having a good-natured
fight over shepherd’s pie. A little further down on the bench, two first-year girls blush and
duck when their gazes cross.

“You all right?” Hermione peers at him, concerned. “You seem out of it.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking it’s nice to have a year that doesn’t end in a life-or-death
confrontation.”

“I’m telling you, eighth year is going to be amazing,” Ron says, overhearing, “starting with
this shepherd’s pie. You have to try the gravy, it’s sensational!”

He dollops a generous helping on Harry’s plate. Hermione sighs.

“Ron, your judgment can’t be trusted on an empty stomach. Remember how you raved over
Mum’s leftover roast?”

“Every meal is delicious with the right company.”

“I’d appreciate it if you stop quoting Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches at me,”
Hermione says sternly, though her cheeks pinken.
Laughing at his friends’ ridiculous flirting, Harry takes a huge bite of pie. It is indeed
scrumptious.

When Harry was hiding in the Forest of Dean, he thought often of Hogwarts. Happy
memories of school protected him against the harsh reality of the Horcrux hunt and were
replayed so often that they resembled scenes from another person’s life, too bright and too
colorful.

Homecoming is both harder and easier than anticipated. A summer of reconstruction cannot
erase every scar borne by the castle. Fissures in the bedrock require patience and magic to
heal. Old bloodstains linger in abandoned classrooms, darkening and graying with age.
Ghosts of fallen friends and enemies lurk in odd corners, appearing and disappearing like
mirages.

At the same time, it doesn’t take long before Harry settles into the rhythm of school life.
Ron’s prediction comes true: eighth year comes with freedom. The pressure of earning high
grades is eased, since Robards has guaranteed him a place in the incoming class of Auror
trainees. While he still takes the required N.E.W.T.-level courses, shared with Ginny’s
yearmates, he focuses on mastering class materials for knowledge rather than essay length,
which greatly increases his enjoyment.

New professors have joined the staff, bringing unique knowledge and teaching styles. The
formal introduction to different branches of magic in Defense is a revelation. Harry hadn’t
known before that mental magic is more based on natural aptitude and less well-understood
than physical magic, which partially explains his perpetual struggle with Occlumency.

Harry reprises his captaincy for the Quidditch team, after failing to pass the mantle to Ron
and Ginny, neither of whom is interested in administrative responsibilities. Fortunately,
strategizing Quidditch is lower stakes and more enjoyable than strategizing Ministry and
Gringotts break-ins, and coaching the next generation of Gryffindor players is fulfilling,
though his patience is frequently tried by novice errors.

To unwind, he takes to taking nighttime flights after team practice. While his new Nimbus
2005 doesn’t and isn’t expected to replace his beloved Firebolt, soaring in the sky is always a
welcome reunion with an old friend. He loops around the castle grounds, mapping out
seldom-visited landmarks and temporarily escaping his demons.

The war occasionally creeps up on him. His scar hurts regularly, though the pain is far less
debilitating than it used to be. Deep voices and menacing expressions send his hand flying
instinctively to his wand. At night, he casts all the warding spells he’d learned from
Hermione around his bed, as if Snatchers will descend upon him without warning.

The dead still plague his nightmares, but more often, he returns to the dark room. He’s
always by the window, hands pressed against the cool panes as he attempts to glimpse the
world outside. Sometimes, it’s raining, and the pitter-patter of rain against glass accompanies
him into wakefulness. Sometimes, a fire is raging, and he wakes up choking on the acrid
scent of smoke.
One thing never changes. No matter how much he screams, nobody ever comes.

The Quidditch season begins with the customary game between Gryffindor and Slytherin.

To be honest, Gryffindor has won the game before a single goal is scored, before either team
even steps onto the pitch. The stands are drowned in a sea of red-and-gold banners, with only
hints of green-and-silver in the straggly Slytherin crowd. Donald Urquhart, the opposing
captain, barely maintains eye contact as he shakes hands with Harry, in sharp contrast to his
former bluster.

The game itself is painful. The Slytherin players aren’t trying. The Keeper makes token
attempts to block goals, the Chasers and Seeker circle the pitch in listless loops, and the
Beaters can’t seem to handle their bats. Hardly anyone, not even the Slytherins, cheers when
Slytherin scores, whereas huge applause greets anything that Gryffindor accomplishes,
including the occasional foul.

Harry is desperate to catch the Snitch and end this depressing massacre when he spots a glint
of gold above the Slytherin’s center goal hoop. As expected, the other Seeker isn’t looking in
this direction.

Whatever the circumstances, his body knows what to do. He steers his broom and urges it
forward, relishing the thrill of acceleration.

(You’re soaring in the air for the first time, and already you know this is where you belong.
Presiding over the world, with infinite possibilities at your fingertips.

Higher. Faster. Wind whistles in your ears and clouds welcome you into their misty terrain.
The pitch blurs into the distance, along with the classmates watching with envy. They may
have grown up flying, but they don’t command the sky the way you do. If you stretch your
arm, you can almost reach the sun.

The school broom stutters, unable to handle the high altitude, and nearly throws you off. You
manage to stabilize and nudge it into a controlled descent. As soon as you land safely, the
flying instructor stalks over.

“Fifteen points from Slytherin, Mr. Riddle, for ignoring my instructions and flying so
recklessly! You could have hurt yourself.”

“What can you expect from a Mudblood?”

Walking away, the instructor either doesn’t hear or acknowledge the slur. The speaker is the
youngest Black, who circumvented the school rule forbidding first-years from owning
broomsticks by entrusting an older cousin with his Comet 180. It was released only this past
summer, he bragged, and boasts advanced braking as well as aerodynamic stabilization
charms.

Noting your glare, Black smirks.

Let him enjoy his petty victory. One day, you will learn to fly on your own, unburdened by
inferior contraptions.

You will dominate everyone who has ever looked down upon you until they’re forced to
acknowledge your superiority.)

People are cheering.

“We won!”

“Great work, Captain!”

Harry has just enough time to look down at his hand, where the Snitch is struggling, before
half his team slams into him in celebration. They land somehow and he stumbles off his
Nimbus, addled by too many voices.

“What happened? You suddenly froze in mid-air.”

“We thought you were falling, but that was a feint all along, wasn’t it?”

“Everyone was blindsided. Great strategy!”

A blaze of bright red dashes into his field of vision. Ginny throws her arms around him. “You
were amazing!” she shouts, and kisses him.

The kiss is full of passion and fire, encapsulating everything he’s always admired about
Ginny. He tries to relax and be swept away.

When they part, a trace of expectation joins her exuberance as she watches for his reaction.

It’s not just her. Everyone — their teammates, their housemates, passing students and
professors — are watching. Waiting.

Everything has been leading up to this moment. Their kiss in wake of their Quidditch victory
in sixth year. Their goodbye kiss on his seventeenth birthday — I’d like you to have
something to remember me by. The fact that he thought of her fierce eyes, seconds before he
braced himself to die. All he has to do is to kiss her back and bring their fairy tale full circle.

Something doesn’t feel right, and incongruously, he thinks of flying without burden.

Wings flutter feebly in his hand, injecting a well-needed dose of clarity. Ginny is his happy
ending, and if their kiss feels a tad lukewarm, they have the rest of their lives to rekindle their
fire.

Harry releases the Snitch. To enthusiastic whistles and applause, he pulls Ginny close and
kisses her back.

The long-awaited Death Eater trials open with Amycus and Alecto Carrow due to their
notoriety and prominence within Voldemort’s ranks. In the week leading up to their trial,
news publications with the exception of The Quibbler report on practically nothing else.

Half an hour before the start, Courtroom Ten is almost completely full, even as the public
continues to trickle in. Eager reports cram the benches in the press gallery, including Rita
Skeeter, who has claimed a seat in the front row with her Quick-Quotes Quill at the ready.

Harry slips inside the witness stand and takes a seat beside Neville, grateful for the privacy
charms that will shield them until their turn to testify. Draco and Narcissa Malfoy are also
present as part of the deal for a lighter sentence in their own trial. Draco stares blankly ahead
but Narcissa gives him a small nod.

The crowd stirs when the Carrows enter and are shackled to the defense table, then quiets
when Madam Shafiq assumes her place at the judges’ bench. On behalf of the Ministry, she
makes the opening statement, outlining the Carrows’ crimes and the core steps of the trial,
before signaling court officers to administer the Veritaserum.

The trial process proves to be more organized than what Harry had witnessed in
Dumbledore’s Pensieve. Since the Court of Magical Law rather than the Wizengamot
ultimately holds jurisdiction over the Death Eater trials, Madam Shafiq introduced some
reforms despite opposition, including the requirement of Veritaserum as well as legal counsel
for both prosecution and defense.

Nevertheless, for all of her efforts and good intentions, the payoff is questionable. While the
barristers can haggle over the finer details of spellcasting or legal interpretation, the Carrows’
guilt is irrefutable, especially after their thorough confessions under Veritaserum.

As a result, rather than a battle for justice, the trial devolves into a show of sensationalism.
The public eagerly consumes salacious details of atrocities under Voldemort’s reign, content
to experience horrors that happened to other people through the lens of bystanders.

But the victims were real people, Harry wants to shout. Real, innocent people who were
tortured and murdered, who didn’t know their pain would be treated as entertainment.

He’s grateful for Neville’s calming presence, or else he would never calm enough to testify
coherently. In turn, he’s proud of his friend. As much as the public enjoys villainous
confessions, it adores heroic tales. Neville’s account of the brave student resistance draws
applause from the crowd, and Augusta Longbottom lights up with pride.

The Malfoys deliver their end of the bargain. In halting tones with eyes fixed on the floor,
Draco speaks of the Carrows’ cruelty as deputy headmaster and headmistress. Unlike her son,
Narcissa harbors no qualms about condemning former friends. In a cool and emotionless
voice, she enumerates their crimes with precision, artfully leaving out her family’s
involvement where possible.

It’s late afternoon when the jurors finally retire behind their own privacy ward to deliberate.
Exhaustion is settling over the courtroom. Neville may have already dozed off, if the soft
snores are any indication. Harry yawns and checks his watch; he’s never going into the legal
field, that’s for sure. If they reach a verdict and determine a sentence within the next hour, he
won’t have to reschedule tonight’s Quidditch practice.
“You think you’ve won, Harry Potter?”

The question slashes through the lethargy without warning. Harry snaps to attention and finds
Amycus staring straight at him, although the other man can’t see anything other than a
blurred veil.

“Look at you, hiding behind your little shield like a coward,” Amycus says, jowls quivering
on his squalid face. “You’re no hero. Our Lord is worth a thousand of you.”

Amycus’ words don’t actually faze Harry, who’s received many variations of this sentiment
in hate mail. However, the drama-hungry crowd is anticipating his reaction with bated breath,
and the sight of Skeeter’s mock-scandalized smile sends him over the edge.

They want a spectacle? They will get a spectacle.

Harry rises to his feet, gently shaking off Neville’s restraining hand, and lowers the privacy
shield.

“Maybe I’m not a hero, and maybe I’m a coward,” he says. “But if I recall correctly, I
slammed you into a wall and knocked you out with one curse. So what does that make you?”

Amycus lunges but is slammed back in place by magical shackles. As Aurors surround him,
he howls obscenities at Harry.

Alecto is much calmer. “You can gloat now, Harry Potter, but you don’t realize that you are
only a tool to them. They haven’t told you the truth, have they?” She raises her shackled
arms. Her sleeves slide down, revealing the Dark Mark. Like Malfoy’s, it hasn’t faded. “But
you know what it means, don’t you, Cissy? You know what Rodolphus and Rabastan are
capable of.”

Under the onslaught of camera flashes, Narcissa thins her lips and doesn’t respond.

“That will be enough for today,” Madam Shafiq shouts, banging her gavel. “The court will
adjourn. Please take the prisoners away.”

The Aurors are already shepherding the Carrows out of the room. Both resist as much as they
can.

“Mark my words,” Alecto shouts. “The Dark Lord is coming for you —”

A Silencio steals the rest of her sentence, and with a few shoves, the Aurors force her and her
brother out of sight.

The courtroom is left in clamor. Draco’s paleness has almost become translucent. Narcissa
sniffs and turns away, but her hands are trembling.

“Barking mad, the whole lot,” Neville mutters. “Don’t listen to them.”

“I’m not,” Harry assures him, glancing at the prosecution table, where Kingsley and Robards
are having a whispered conversation.
Catching Harry’s eyes, Kingsley offers a smile, but not before unmistakable guilt flits across
his face.

* * *

The Carrows are sentenced to life imprisonment in the Azkaban. Stricter measures are
imposed in subsequent trials, including the controversial usage of Silencing Spells once the
defendants have given statements, which successfully prevent similar incidents.

Most former Death Eaters join the Carrows in Azkaban, with the exception of the Malfoys,
whose sentence merely consists of a one-time fine as well as annual donations to the newly
formed Committee for the Reestablishment Muggle-borns. They have since left the country,
and Narcissa sent Harry an owl of gratitude along with an amulet admitting him to any
Malfoy residence as the guest of honor whenever he wants.

Which, frankly, is never.

The autumn term ends, and Harry spends the first part of the holidays at the Burrow. To
celebrate Christmas, and possibly to exorcize remaining demons, Mrs. Weasley hosts a big
party reminiscent of Bill and Fleur’s wedding, down to the wide assortment of guests and the
white marquee.

In spite of the pall cast by Fred’s death, much healing has taken place over the past eight
months. George has recently reopened Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes, and a romance may be
brewing between him and business co-owner Angelina, judging by a suspiciously
enthusiastic kiss under the enchanted mistletoe. And although Fred’s hand in the family clock
can never be replaced, new hands have been added for Harry, Hermione, Fleur, and Bill and
Fleur’s soon-to-be-born child.

After dinner, the guests enjoy the temperate winter evening in the orchard. It snowed in the
morning, heightening the festive atmosphere with the presence of white-clad trees and mini
icicles. Mrs. Weasley and Fleur pass around trays of plum puddings, mince pies, and
strawberry trifles. Meanwhile, George and Angelina showcase their newest invention, Sweet-
Tooth Sprinkles, a glitter that turns anyone who comes into contact into a random holiday
sweet for five minutes. Soon, the orchard is filled with raucous laughter and human-sized
sweets.

Harry excuses himself from the chaos to entertain his godson. In the tradition of indulgent
godfathers, he gifted Teddy a toy broomstick, so the little boy is currently zooming around
the bushes, shrieking with laughter as he chases after colorful bubbles that Harry is conjuring.

Andromeda joins them. While Harry is still self-conscious around her, their relationship has
improved significantly since its rocky beginning a year and a half ago. He’s made an effort to
visit her regularly and be part of Teddy’s life, and their rare disagreement is usually resolved
by their mutual love for Teddy.
“I haven’t seen Teddy so happy in a while,” she says fondly.

“He’ll be an amazing Chaser or Seeker,” Harry says, grinning. “I hope he plays for
Gryffindor.”

“You’re good with kids. It’s great practice for the future.”

Harry stiffens before he realizes Andromeda is teasing. Everyone has noticed Mrs. Weasley’s
none-too-subtle glances in the direction of her youngest children and Harry after Fleur
announced her pregnancy.

“I’m not ready for parenthood anytime soon,” he confesses.

“Nor should you be. Molly and I see differently on this matter. As much as I loved raising my
Dora, I wouldn’t have minded a few more years without responsibilities.”

The mention of Tonks introduces an awkward pause, so Harry focuses on creating an extra
large and sparkly bubble for Teddy.

A few cracks sound in the distance. If he isn’t mistaken, the gingerbread men being chased
by Crookshanks used to be Neville and Dean.

“My sister wrote to me,” Andromeda says, changing topic. “They’re settling well in France.
She’s grateful for your assistance during their trial. Without your testimony, they would not
have gotten such a light sentence.”

“Well, I owed her a favor.”

“Yes, and my sister never fails to collect her debts.”

Her tone betrays bitterness. Though reconciliation between the sisters has been in progress
since the end of the war, it’s stalled by decades of hurt and grudges. It doesn’t help that the
death of one sister’s child is directly related to the mistakes made by the other sister’s family.

“She’s also concerned about the Carrows’ outburst,” Andromeda says. “What do you think of
the claims that the Dark Marks haven’t faded?”

Harry figures this would come up. The unfading Dark Marks were a topic of much discussion
during the Death Eater trials, and even now, Skeeter is spewing conspiracy theories ranging
from Voldemort’s body double died in his stead (outlandish) to Voldemort is secretly
imprisoned by the Ministry (scarily accurate).

Lying to Andromeda is uncomfortable, but he can’t tell her about the baby in The Attic.
Harry settles for, “They will fade eventually.”

Which will be true. As soon as Voldemort turns seventeen.

Per usual, the reminder makes him a little queasy. He rubs his scar.
“Then you don’t think the Ministry is hiding something?” Andromeda tilts her head to
scrutinize him, and Harry hurriedly ducks his head. “I would’ve expected you to be more
curious.”

“I trust Kingsley. If there’s something we should know, he’ll tell us.”

“I’ve known Kingsley for a long time and trust his character, but it doesn’t mean he won’t
attempt to protect everyone by omitting information. Information that perhaps you should be
privy to.”

Harry chews the inside of his cheek. The only information Kingsley can be hiding is the age
regression, isn’t it? Unless he’s also withholding something else?

Recalling Kingsley’s reaction during the trial, his heartbeat quickens. “Do you think there’s
truth to what Alecto was saying?”

“It’s possible that she was merely trying to spook everyone, but her mention of the
Lestranges is suggestive.” Andromeda turns pensive. “They had always been in the Dark
Lord’s innermost circle. That was the reason Bellatrix married into that family, even though
she harbored no romantic attraction towards Rodolphus. And given the Ministry has yet to
apprehend them, one does wonder what they are scheming.”

Her analysis is logical, especially as Carrows weren’t the only ones to warn about the
Lestranges. Malfoy did as well, though it was dismissed as inconsequential, and the name
came up in other trials. Fenrir Greyback claimed they’d seek vengeance for incarcerated
comrades before he was Silenced.

Is there a connection between their disappearance and Kingsley’s omission? Why does Harry
have the keen sense that he and Voldemort lie at the center of this strange web of
conspiracies?

Noticing the unease on Harry’s face, Andromeda softens. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but I
do want you to be careful. Whether or not the Dark Lord is gone, you’ll be a target as long as
Death Eaters and their sympathizers remain at large.” She rests a hand on his shoulder.
“Please remember that you’re our family. Teddy needs his godfather and I’ve grown fond of
you.”

Harry smiles at her, gratitude and warmth sweeping through him. At the end of the day, she
has his best interests at heart. During his next visit to the Ministry, he will ask Kingsley for an
explanation to set everyone’s mind at rest.

A chubby baby with hair in the pattern of peppermint sticks pops into view, tugging at
Harry’s hand in an attempt to wave his wand.

Andromeda chuckles. “Oh my, I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of my grandson and his
bubbles.”

Harry’s smile broadens. Delegating his concerns about Kingsley and the Lestranges to the
back of his mind, he busies himself with conjuring another series of giant bubbles.
After Christmas, Ron and Hermione travel with the Grangers to Zermatt and the Delacours
arrive from France to celebrate the new year with the Weasleys. Although Mrs. Weasley
assures Harry that he’s welcome to remain at the Burrow, he opts not to overburden his kind
hostess and moves back to Grimmauld Place.

The gloom of the ancient house contrasts with the warmth of the Burrow, and Harry tries to
ignore the specter of his houseguests, even as they literally loom over him. Perhaps due to the
dark atmosphere, his dreams and visions are becoming increasingly vivid, marring the line
between reality and illusion.

To his surprise, a package arrives in the letterbox, decorated in an array of Muggle and
wizarding postages. The handwriting on the label is vaguely familiar.

After detection spells show it to be harmless, Harry unwraps the package to reveal a folded
blanket. Threadbare and faded with age, it carries the musty scent of the trunk and mothballs.

Frowning, he sets it down and picks up the accompanying letter.

Dear Harry,

I hope this finds you well. I don’t have your new address but Mrs. Figg helped — I can’t
believe it took me so long to learn she’s one of them! She also told me that you defeated the
evil wizard, just as I knew you would. Congratulations.

As for us, we moved back to Little Whinging. Dad got his job back at Grunnings and I started
at the University of Essex this autumn to study business. It took a while for Mum to come to
terms with me being so far away, but now she enjoys bragging to all the neighbors that I’m
going to revolutionize drills. (Which I have no intention of doing, by the way.)

Anyway, you’re probably wondering why I’m writing. While we were cleaning up the house,
Mum found the baby blanket that came with you when you first arrived. She kept it all these
years because it belonged to your mother, and she thought you might want to have it.

Happy Christmas! I hope the new year brings you many happy tidings.

Best,
Dudley

P.S. Let me know if you ever want to visit for lunch. I know we haven’t been the kindest to
you, but Mum’s been telling me a bit about Aunt Lily, and I think she misses her more than
she admits.

Harry hugs the blanket to his chest, biting his lip to fend off tears. This is something tangible
that once belonged to his mother. Even though Aunt Petunia hid it from him all these years,
he’s grateful she didn’t throw it away.
He rereads the letter, lingering on the postscript. While it’s surreal seeing Dudley refer to his
mother as Aunt Lily and suggest that his aunt missed her sister, the two little girls from
Snape’s memories make him think that Dudley isn’t lying.

Still, he’s not yet ready to respond to Dudley’s entreaty. One blanket given too late can’t
atone for a childhood of neglect, but it could be a start. Someday.

Harry carries his newfound treasure to his bedroom and tucks it carefully under his pillow.

On New Year’s Eve, Harry ventures to Hog’s Head to celebrate with Ginny and a few
Hogwarts friends. The pub is full of seasonal cheer and Aberforth insists on treating the
group to unlimited free firewhiskey. At midnight, as enchanted fireworks blaze across the
sky, he exchanges a pleasant kiss with Ginny, feeling that 1999 is off to an excellent start.

After the rowdiness of the pub, Grimmauld Place echoes with the absence of people,
heightening his loneliness. Ginny would’ve come home with him if he’d asked; she wanted
to, what with her lingering touches and none-too-subtle suggestions that her parents have
retired to bed.

Except Harry knows what’s supposed to follow if she spends the night. It’s not that he’s
repulsed by the idea of physical intimacy. They’ve snogged plenty of times and fooled around
in the Room of Requirement. It’s just that he’s not ready for this next step. Yet.

In the middle of the night, he wakes up, disoriented from an especially lurid dream featuring
fireworks and explosions. His heart is thudding at an elevated pace and he is panting, as if
he’s been running from danger.

Harry slips out of bed, intending to get a glass of water from the kitchen. He doesn’t realize
he’s headed instead to The Attic until he’s raising his hand to knock. He hasn’t visited at all
during the break, yet as he stands at the threshold, he cannot resist an urgent tugging
sensation.

A young towheaded Healer opens the door and blinks in surprise. “Mr. Potter. I didn’t expect
you at this hour.”

“Happy New Year. I apologize for bothering you so late but…may I come in?”

“Oh. Of course.” The Healer pulls the door open wider. “Please do.”

The Attic is eerily calm and dimly lit. The main source of illumination comes from the lamp
by the couch, where an Irsus Pius book lies facedown on the cushion. The Healer must be the
person standing guard tonight.

“How is the baby?” Harry asks, taking an unconscious step towards the nursery.

“The baby is doing fine.”

“Can I see him?”

The Healer twists his hands, eyes darting towards Fawley’s room. “Mr. Fawley is in bed. If
it’s not urgent, tomorrow would work better.”

The tugging sensation strengthens. Harry struggles to keep his pulsing magic under control.

“I want to see him,” he blurts and adds, politely yet firmly, “Please.”

Before the Healer can find another excuse, he skirts around and pushes open the door to the
nursery.

The room is completely dark, every light extinguished and the curtains tightly drawn.
Turning on the ceiling light, Harry makes his way to the crib and peers inside.

The baby is crying.

Not just crying. The baby is wailing, mouth open and fists waving and tears gushing out of
eyes squeezed tightly shut. Only he doesn’t have the relief of hearing himself scream,
because he’s been placed under a Silencio.

“Mr. Potter —”

Harry spins around. “What the hell is going on?”

“Oh, um, he tends to fuss at night.”

“He’s not fussing,” Harry says incredulously. “He’s in pain. Why aren’t you helping him?”

“We checked everything,” the Healer stammers. “His nappies are clean, he’s been fed and
burped, and the monitoring spells don’t show anything amiss.”

With a slash of his wand, Harry dismisses the Silencing Spell. Wailing floods the room so
loudly that the sound echoes in his bones.

“Listen,” he demands. “Does it sound like he’s okay?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know.” The Healer stumbles backwards and scrambles for the door. “Let
me fetch Mr. Fawley.”

As his footsteps fade, Harry returns his attention to the baby. “Hey,” he whispers, stroking the
dark curls, damp with sweat. “Hey. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

His magic reaches out, coiling protectively tendrils around the baby. The wailing eases into
sniffles, and brown eyes spring open.

As soon as they make eye contact, Harry is assaulted by images in such quick succession that
he grabs the edge of the crib to retain balance.

A dark room. A raging storm. Endless green light.

(You are screaming but no one is listening.)

Unfriendly orphans. Scornful housemates. Distrusting adults.

(You are running but you can’t find an escape.)

Fireworks. Explosions. Debris everywhere.

(You’re stumbling through the street but smoke is everywhere.)

In an instant, everything comes together. His nightmares, his visions, they are memories. As
if submerged in an immersive Pensieve, Harry has been reliving snapshots from Tom
Riddle’s life.

Voldemort disappears, and in his place is a boy who grew up with nothing but the faith that
destiny awaited him. Who stumbled into a new world, desperate to belong, and was rejected
at every turn. Who craved recognition, yet shouted into the darkness without ever receiving a
response.

Pity the living, his late headmaster once said, and above all, those who live without love.

Yet who had ever shown Tom Riddle an ounce of affection or a wisp of kindness? Must
history repeat itself?

“Mr. Potter.” Stuart Fawley enters, clad in sleeping robes. “I do apologize for the disturbance
—”

“How could you?” Harry snarls.

The ingratiating smile disappears. “Pardon me?”

“How could you mistreat a child?”

“Mistreating a child,” Fawley repeats, tone turning cold. “That is a strong statement, Mr.
Potter.”

“How else would you describe silencing a crying child?”

“Children cry by nature, and speaking from experience, we cannot answer their every whim.”

“Well, I also speak from experience. And I know he just wants to be held. He just wants to be
heard.”

“I refuse to indulge my charges.”

“This isn’t about indulgence.” Harry flings out his arm towards the crib. “This is — this is
negligence.”

The atmosphere chills further. Fawley’s mouth twists. “I don’t believe you understand the
difference between not indulging a child and neglecting him.”

“Don’t you think —”

Harry chokes, something hot and heavy climbing up his throat, stifling the words before he
can finish.

Don’t you think I would know the difference?

Part of him is and will always be the little boy under the stairs. Every detail of the cupboard
stands out in stark detail. The scuttle of spiders and the occasional mouse foraging for scraps.
The fraying strands of cobwebs in the corners. The flickering lightbulb affixed to the
crumbling ceiling, providing the most precarious brand of hope.

Freak.

Devil’s spawn.

Your parents never loved you.

Nobody will ever want you.

What more does this child need?

As it turns out, too many things that neither he nor Tom Riddle were privy to. He thought
he’d overcome his unhappy childhood. Press on a wound often enough, after all, and it will
eventually cease to hurt.

It takes only one neglected child to dislodge the scab, to reveal the pus festering underneath.

And he’d allowed this to happen under his own roof because he had trusted.

You won’t even know we’re here.

Harry draws a shuddering breath and tries to ignore the sting of hot tears. “I’m taking him
with me.”

“Mr. Potter, this is highly irregular —”

“I don’t care! He deserves better!”

Bending over the crib, Harry scoops up the baby. Though initially they’re both stiff, unused
to the physical contact, their magic recognize kindred spirits and intertwine. The baby —
Tom, his name is Tom — relaxes, and with a contented sigh, settles against his shoulder.

An overwhelming peace spreads from the center of Harry’s chest. He tightens his arms.

Fawley blocks their path to the door and brandishes his wand. “Please put the asset back, Mr.
Potter.”

Harry raises his own wand, careful not to dislodge Tom. “He’s not an asset. He’s a child.”

“Not a child. A criminal.” Fawley spits the last word. “Do you know the name Maria
Fawley?” Harry shakes his head mutely. “She was my niece and the sweetest little girl you
could imagine. She was celebrating her third birthday with a unicorn-themed party when the
Death Eaters attacked her village. Would you like to guess what happened next?”

Bile rises. Harry can guess the story’s ending well enough.

“She burned to death in Fiendfyre. There wasn’t anything left of her or her family to bury. Do
you think Voldemort mourned Maria? Do you think Voldemort repented her death?”
Breathing heavily, Fawley jabs his wand in Tom’s direction. “Why should he deserve any of
my pity?”

Harry half-turns to shield Tom. “I’m sorry about your niece. I’m sorry about your family. But
you can’t blame a child for something he hasn’t done.”

“He has done that and plenty more. He’s a monster, and the sooner you accept that fact, the
better. I’ll ask you one last time. Put him back.”

“No, I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

Fawley shakes his head pityingly. “This is how monsters are made, Mr. Potter. Created by
fools who misplace their faith, who imagine humanity where there has never been any. I’ve
seen this all too often.”

“I don’t care. Let us go.”

“I’ll need to alert the Ministry.”

“Go ahead. And I’ll tell Kingsley I never want you to set foot in this house again.”

They hold each other’s gaze, neither relenting. It’s difficult to tell who is more furious. But
there’s no point in reasoning with men of Fawley’s ilk, men who are so convinced of their
righteousness that they are blind to their prejudices. Harry has made the mistake of trusting
adults too many times. He will not make it again.

Fawley’s knuckle whitens, and Harry readies himself to utter Expelliarmus.

To his surprise, the older man lowers his wand. “Very well. If you insist, I cannot stop you.
But I can guarantee you will regret your choice, Mr. Potter. Sympathy for monsters is a
dangerous thing.”

Ignoring Fawley’s final remark, Harry strides out of the nursery. He passes the Healer,
cowering by the fireplace with a canister of Floo powder, and the Aurors on duty, huddled by
the wall and uncertain whether they should intervene. Unleashing a burst of wandless magic,
he flings open the front door. Before stepping out, he swivels to face Fawley.

“He isn’t the monster here.”

With that, he leaves The Attic and kicks the door shut.
 By the time Harry returns to his bedroom, the adrenaline is wearing off, forcing him to
acknowledge he hasn’t thought through the logistics of removing Tom from The Attic. For
starters, he has nowhere to put a baby, since he didn’t have the foresight of transporting the
crib, and he refuses to see Fawley again.

In the end, he sets Tom on his bed next to the wall and wraps him up in his mother’s blanket,
tucking in the sides as best as he can. His clumsy movements betray his inexperience, but at
last he manages an untidy swaddle. For good measure, he casts a Motion-Sensing Spell
before he lies down facing Tom. If Tom wriggles out of the swaddle during the night, at least
he can’t leave the bed without waking Harry.

Tom has stopped crying, though tear tracks remain visible on his cheeks. Harry thumbs away
the wetness gently, heart clenching when Tom nuzzles into the touch and grace him with a
dimpled smile.

No, not a monster. Just an orphan who deserves the love and kindness he never received in
his first life.

Harry will not allow history to repeat itself.

“You have me now,” he tells Tom. “I’ll take care of you.”

Though the baby doesn’t understand what he’s saying, his words seem to have a lulling
effect. As small fingers grasp his forefinger, Harry’s eyelids begin to droop.

“Happy New Year, Tom.”

Long after Harry has fallen asleep, brown eyes watch intently.

Chapter End Notes

This fic has a slow start as plot threads need to be set up, but I hope the ending of the
chapter helps to reassure everyone that there will be plenty of interactions between
Harry and Tom. If nothing else, Tom will make sure of this!

Take care and I’ll see you in the new year.

 Pamper
Chapter Summary

The boys bond.

Chapter Notes

Happy 2023 everyone, and happy year of the water rabbit (or cat)!

I had recently wrapped up another WIP and took a brief writing break, but I’m excited to
dive back into this fic.

Thank you so much for your patience and continued support, and please enjoy the
update!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Update: 1st January 1999

Estimated biological age: 1 year 4 months

* * *

Kingsley arrives early the next morning to make peace. “I’m terribly sorry about the
inconvenience we caused,” he tells Harry. “Stuart’s behavior was most uncharacteristic. I’ll
straighten out the misunderstanding immediately.”

“Misunderstanding?” Harry snorts. “With all due respect, there’s no misunderstanding in

Silencing a crying child.”

“Stuart has been under much stress as a result of this assignment.” Kingsley holds up a hand
to intercept Harry’s protest. “That’s no excuse, of course. He will be disciplined and this
situation will not recur.”

“No, it won’t, because he’s not allowed to come near Tom ever again.”
“Harry, I acknowledge that you’re upset, but Stuart is the most qualified caretaker we have
—”

“I don’t care about his doctorates or accolades. I want someone with basic human empathy.
Someone who’s not going to treat a baby like a criminal because he has a bloody vendetta.”

“Please understand —”

“No. I want both him and his team out of the house.”

Kingsley pinches the bridge of his nose and a tense silence settles over the drawing room.
Harry glances down at his mug of black tea, hastily brewed from Tesco tea bag and too
scalding to drink. Overhead, the chandelier flickers, doing little to dispel the dreariness left
by the overnight downpour. Not an auspicious start to the new year.

“Very well,” Kingsley says, after a few excruciating minutes. “However, it will take time to
find a new team. As you can imagine, not many are champing at the bit for this position.”

“I can be Tom’s caretaker in the meantime.”

“You will take care of a baby?”

The faint smile playing at the corner of Kingsley’s lips raises Harry’s hackles. He folds his
arms defensively. “I take care of Teddy, who’s around the same age.”

“And doing a wonderful job, from what I’ve heard,” Kingsley agrees. “But being a godfather
is quite different from being a full-time caretaker, and what will happen once school starts?”

Those are good points. Dropping out of Hogwarts just months away from finishing to babysit
would be ridiculous, and reading Teddy bedtime stories or chasing him around don’t compare
to Andromeda’s responsibilities.

The idea of interacting with Fawley again still disgusts Harry, but he’s probably too harsh
with the young Healers and Aurors who could’ve been coerced into following orders from
superiors.

“Fawley needs to leave, but his team can stay,” Harry says.

“Thank you,” Kingsley says in relief. “That should ease the transition greatly.”

“And Tom is not going back to The Attic.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“Why not? There’re plenty of bedrooms available.”

“There are extenuating factors —”

“Tell me then. Please.”

Kingsley sets down his mug with a clink. His shoulders are tense and face is tight, betraying
the vestiges of an internal battle.

“I was hoping to avoid troubling you with the knowledge until the mission is complete, but
under the circumstances…” He waves his wand, encasing them in a shimmering privacy
shield. “What I’m about to share is highly confidential.”

Wondering whether he’s about to regret his curiosity, Harry nods and forces himself to
maintain eye contact with the older man.

“What do you think of the news coverage on the unfading Dark Marks?”

Harry blinks, caught off-guard. “Well, it’s not so surprising, is it? From what I understand,
the Dark Mark reflects Voldemort’s magic and health, and since he’s not dead, they aren’t
fading.”

“Very true, and this has unfortunate consequences. When you reduced Voldemort to a wraith
on Halloween 1981, the fading Dark Marks convinced Death Eaters of his defeat and led to
defections.”

“Do former Death Eaters believe that he escaped?” That would align with Draco’s outburst in
Diagon Alley and the Malfoys’ response to Alecto Carrow’s threat.

“It’s more complicated than that, I’m afraid. Some Death Eaters know for certain that
Voldemort is still alive.”

Harry digs nails into the moth-eaten couch. “How?”

“When we were collecting Voldemort’s body, we narrowly stopped two Death Eaters from
doing the same.”

“The Lestranges.”

Kingsley nods grimly. “It’s highly likely that as Voldemort’s most trusted lieutenants, they
knew of Voldemort’s failsafe should your final confrontation go awry and trigger the age
regression. Take the baby to a pre-arranged safehouse and raise him, for example, or worse,
restore Voldemort to his adult body with his memories and magic intact.”

The implications slowly sink in. The Lestranges have known all along that Tom is in the
Ministry’s hands and are actively looking to take him. If they succeed and manage to reverse
the age regression…

Harry gives an involuntary shudder, but on whose behalf, he’s uncertain.

“Thus, it’s critical that we secure Voldemort’s location. An attic directly linked to the
Ministry is much safer than a wizarding house with likely unsecured means of ingress. If the
Lestranges succeed in retrieving Voldemort, which they have every intention of doing, the
consequences will be devastating.”

“Tom isn’t Voldemort,” Harry protests. “Tom is just a child.”

“Perhaps,” Kingsley says, “but until we fully understand the intricacies of Voldemort’s age
regression, we cannot take the chance that he will revert to his former self under the right
conditions, or that he will attempt to contact his former followers once he’s older. We cannot
afford another war.”

Harry squeezes his mug. Despite the soundness of Kingsley’s arguments, he cannot reconcile
the child who slept so sweetly by his side with the monster waiting to return to his former
glory.

For the Ministry, however, the Lestranges’ involvement clearly cements Tom as a future
Voldemort. Someone to be feared, someone to be eliminated at first opportunity. How can he
still leave Tom in their custody?

Kingsley reads his mind. “Harry, I know we’ve breached your trust, and I apologize again.
But given the complexities involved in Voldemort’s care, the Ministry is the best possible
option.”

Possible option are the operative words here, aren’t they? Harry doesn’t have better ones.
He’s not ready to be a parent, nor can he entrust Tom’s care to Mrs. Weasley and Andromeda,
who bear their own resentments towards Voldemort. In fact, that is true for everyone
impacted by the war.

Seeing Harry wavering, Kingsley softens his tone. “I promise we will do better. You can
personally interview and handpick Stuart’s successor. I will also ask my team to run all future
decisions regarding Voldemort’s care by you first. Whatever will restore your confidence in
our arrangement, we will do our best to provide.”

Kingsley truly is trying, and at the end of the day, Harry has been complicit himself ever
since he learned of Voldemort’s survival and agreed to the bond. Who is he to question
anyone’s morality?

“Fine,” Harry relents. “But Tom is still leaving The Attic.”

“Security-wise —”

“Set up whatever wards the Ministry deems necessary. Staff however many Aurors you need.
Tom needs to grow up in a proper house.”

Kingsley exhales loudly, his thoughts practically visible.

What difference would it make?

Nevertheless, he nods, accepting Harry’s condition. “All right, I will ask the team to relocate
Voldemort and reassess existing wards. In the meantime, I’ll initiate the search for Stuart’s
replacement. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Exhaustion is etched in the lines of his face. No doubt he’s waiting for their meeting to end so
he can sort out the mess upstairs. They are both expected at the Burrow later for New Year’s
Day lunch. On top of all that, having been recently confirmed as the official Minister for
Magic, he has a country to rebuild.

Therefore, even though he’s still bursting with questions, Harry shakes his head and offers
the older man a final refill of tea.

Kingsley keeps his promise, so Harry spends the rest of winter holiday searching for Tom’s
next caretaker, which ends up being a grueling affair. Some candidates have limited hands-on
experience with children, some cannot dedicate their full schedule to only one child, and the
rare ones who meet the first two criteria recoil upon learning the identity of their new ward.

Harry can imagine Fawley’s smugness growing with every failed interview, but he refuses to
give up. He will find someone to take care of Tom, even if it means he has to raise Tom in
Gryffindor Tower.

While the interviews are ongoing, Harry sets up Tom’s new nursery in Regulus Black’s old
bedroom. Though it’s smaller than Sirius’, its east-facing windows receive ample sunlight in
the mornings, and its existing emerald and silver palette matches Harry’s imagination of a
Slytherin dorm room.

Some adjustments are made. The bed is shifted to make room for the crib. Existing furniture
is deep-cleaned and child-proofed. The Black family crest and the collage of newspaper
clippings on Voldemort are removed. Toys are still missing, which he’ll rectify later. He also
decides to let Tom keep his mother’s blanket. Even though Tom has plenty of beddings and
linens, the blanket in particular seems to bring him comfort.

Initial attempts to bond with Tom are unsuccessful. Unlike Teddy, who’s a few months
younger but already blubbering gibberish and craving inclusion in activities, Tom observes
the world without the urge to participate. He shies away from physical contact and never
speaks.

By chance, Harry notices Tom paying attention when he’s verbally puzzling over a new
Potions formula. Therefore, he begins reading excerpts from his textbooks out loud, and Tom
seems to enjoy that, though it’s hard to be certain without explicit feedback.

“Is it normal that he doesn’t talk?” Harry asks a Healer during one of Tom’s daily exams.

“Children usually say their first words between 12 and 18 months,” she replies. “He’s on the
later side, but his other development markers are normal, so I wouldn’t be too concerned.”

Harry trusts her expertise. Aside from Teddy, his exposure to babies is limited to vague
memories of Dudley. Well, he was also around Tom’s age when Voldemort murdered his
family, but he tries not to dwell on that.

At last, as winter holiday draws to a close, they find Elinor Kent, a Healer by training who
transitioned to and ascended in the ranks of the D.M.L.E. Calm and steady, with a
straightforward manner of speech, she’s a cross between Professor McGonagall and Narcissa
Malfoy. While she doesn’t look upon Tom with affection, she also doesn’t look upon him
with disgust. There’s a blankness about her, which somehow works for her new role.
Moreover, since she has no close family members or friends in Britain, her life is dictated by
her job, so she’s able to start right away.

On the morning Harry returns to Hogwarts, Tom displays signs of distress for the first time
since New Year’s Eve. He blocks the front door with outstretched arms, preventing Harry
from leaving, and Kent’s cajoling falls on deaf ears.

As heart-wrenching as his reaction is, part of Harry is comforted by the first concrete sign
that Tom cares.

“I’m sorry I have to go.” Harry touches Tom lightly on the shoulder, mindful of his
discomfort with physical contact. “But I’ll come back, and in the meantime, I will write to
you.” He turns to Kent. “Miss Kent, if I send Tom letters, will you please read them to him?”

“There is no need for formalities, please call me Elinor,” she replies crisply. “And certainly, I
will.”

“See? I’ll tell you all about my life at Hogwarts, and the next time I visit, I’ll bring presents.”

Tom lowers his eyes, bottom lip trembling. Elinor slips an arm around his shoulders, and this
time, she’s able to lead him from the door, though he cranes his neck to keep Harry in sight.

“Bye Tom,” Harry calls after him. “I’ll see you soon.”

The little boy whimpers, and the pitiful sound accompanies Harry to the Apparition point.

On the Hogwarts Express, Harry has a happy reunion with his friends. Ron and Hermione
share anecdotes from their ski trip, including an encounter with what Ron insists was a yeti,
and Ginny reenacts Mr. Delacour’s well-meaning but disastrous attempts to help his wife and
Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen that resulted in a sentient fruitcake.

While Harry’s own news weighs on him, he says nothing in front of Ginny. While he dislikes
being dishonest with his girlfriend, he doesn’t want to divulge his secret life with Tom.

An hour into the ride, a group of seventh-year girls summon Ginny to discuss a summer
backpacking trip. As soon as the carriage door slides shut behind her, Harry leans towards
Ron and Hermione. “I need to tell you something.”

The events of the past week spill out in a jumbled mess. His friends react with appropriate
dismay toward Tom’s Silenced wailing and glee toward Harry’s confrontation with Fawley.
However, they become subdued upon learning Harry’s conversation with Kingsley and Tom’s
living situation.

When Harry finishes, Ron shakes his head. “We were gone for one week,” he says, tone fond
yet brows furrowed in concern, “and look at the trouble you’ve gotten into.”

“You don’t approve?” Harry demands. “The Ministry was mistreating an innocent baby.”
“We’re not disapproving at all,” Hermione says, exchanging a look with Ron. “We absolutely
agree that Fawley should be dismissed for his inappropriate behavior towards Voldemort. But
Kingsley is right that Grimmauld Place isn’t secure. We’ve seen that ourselves multiple
times.”

“Exactly,” Ron says. “If the Lestranges are coming after Voldemort, they are also coming
after you. You’re putting yourself in danger.”

“I can’t just leave him in The Attic. And let’s be honest, the Lestranges are coming after me
regardless.”

“Harry,” Hermione says gently. “You’re a kind person, and we love you for that.” Harry folds
his arms in anticipation of a but. “But should you be so — invested ?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We’re not telling you to throw baby Voldemort into Azkaban, but think about what helping
him is costing you. You’re housing someone who could grow up to be very dangerous, and
who could try to hurt you once he remembers his past.”

“Tom isn’t Voldemort.” Harry is getting tired of repeating this.

“And we want to believe that, but mate, think about what Kingsley told you,” Ron says. “If
the age regression was planned all along, it doesn’t sound like Voldemort plans to change for
the better.”

“Tom wasn’t always like this.”

Hermione sighs. “How would you know?”

“There’s something else I have to tell you.” Harry twinges with guilt as his friends visibly
brace themselves, but he may as well bundle the bad news. “My scar has been hurting again,
and I’m getting these visions that seem to be Tom’s memories.”

Ron frowns. “Like what?”

“Like flashes of him at the orphanage or at school.”

“How long has this been going on?” Hermione asks.

“Since the bond, I think.”

“And you wait until now to tell us?” She claps her forehead. “I knew the bond was a terrible
idea. Once we get back to Hogwarts, I need to do more —”

“Research, sure, but does it even matter?” Ron says. “Whatever this bond is, Harry needs to
break it.”

“I can’t. I won’t,” Harry says. “And this isn’t why I’m telling you about the visions.”
“You’re going to tell us the visions made you sympathetic to Voldemort, aren’t you?”
Hermione sounds resigned.

“It’s not just about sympathy. It’s about experiencing what he’s gone through. No one’s ever
shown him kindness before. He never had a chance to learn to do things the right way. But if
someone can be there for him from the beginning…”

“You think you can be that someone.”

“I can try.”

Harry falters at his friends’ sympathetic yet disbelieving expressions, echoing Kingsley’s
reaction whenever he advocates on Tom’s behalf. What difference would it make?

They don’t understand. They both had happy childhoods with loving families. They don’t
know that rejection accumulates into resentment, that a single misstep in an ambitious pursuit
can lead someone down the path of no return.

The carriage door slides open. “I found Luna and sweets,” Ginny announces, depositing an
armful of snacks on the table. She cocks her head. “Why do you all look so serious?”

“It’s the nargles,” Luna says. “There’s a big infestation because of the unstable winter
climate.”

“Hermione’s trying to get us to study more,” Ron says. “Even though Harry and I are already
doing our best.”

“Oh c’mon, Hermione, you should know by now that these two are hopeless.” Chuckling,
Ginny slides into the seat beside Harry. “Anyway, you should all try those pumpkin patties. I
bought a fresh batch so they’re still warm.”

Harry takes a pastry, welcoming the distraction, though he knows the conversation is only
deferred.

As the Scottish countryside speeds by, he glances out of the window, only half-listening to
Ginny and Luna’s overview of their continental European summer adventure. Everyone sees
Tom as a foregone conclusion, a prelude to Voldemort, a danger to be eradicated.

However, everything he’s learned over the past few days has increased his sympathy for his
houseguest. He understands only too well the agony of being defined by a destiny for which
he never signed up.

Resolve hardens. Whatever the rest of the world believes, Harry is not going to give up. He’s
already failed to save too many people during the war.

Perhaps he still has a chance to save Tom.

* * *
A few weeks pass before Harry obtains Professor McGonagall’s permission to visit Tom.

Instead of heading straight to Grimmauld Place, he stops by the shopping district on Regent
Street. While he could go to the same wizarding toy store he frequents for Teddy, he figures
Muggle toys would be safer for Tom given his restrained magic. Besides, this way he can
fulfill childhood dreams of his own.

Growing up in suburban England, Harry and his schoolmates considered Hamley’s the holy
grail. However, he’d only visited the famous toy store a few times, on rare occasions when
Aunt Petunia couldn’t foist him upon Mrs. Figg for family London trips. He was never
allowed to purchase anything, of course, but being able to see and touch the toys was a
privilege.

Even as an adult, he can’t help being dazzled. Shelves are filled with toys of all sizes in
colorful packaging. Science kits that can recreate volcanoes, Lego’s that can become a pirate
ship, board games with intricate apparatuses. Each floor is a different wonderland, and Harry
can spend hours here exploring.

Drawing upon childhood memories, Harry fills his shopping basket with a plush rabbit with
floppy ears, a model of a racecar similar to one Dudley received and abandoned, and a few
hardcover picture books he enjoyed as a child.

On his way to the checkout queue, he passes a display of chocolates, boxed with clear covers
to showcase the gold-foiled contents. He recognizes this brand, having had them on rare
occasions at school.

(You shouldn’t be here. There’s nothing you can afford.

But you like exploring London. You like imagining that one day, everything will be yours.
The fancy boutiques, the high-end restaurants. Every place who denies you entry will beg for
your endorsement.

The toy store is one of your favorites. It’s far from the orphanage, and you have to walk the
entire way, but it offers the perfect escape from the drabness of normal life.

You pay more attention to the sweets than the toys. While the orphanage gets secondhand
toys, sweets are rare and reserved for children high on the matrons’ favored list, of which you
will never be a part.

There’s a shelf of chocolate truffles, featuring dark chocolate shells and caramel fillings.
Mouth watering, you dig your pockets for coins you won’t find.

An older boy snatches a box, and as he passes, shoves you into a little girl. The mother’s nose
wrinkles in disgust.

“Come along,” she says, shooting you a glare before tugging her child behind her. “Let’s get
away from the tramp. For a store of this caliber, they really need better security…”)
“Pardon us, sir.”

“I’m sorry.”

Harry steps aside to let the mother and daughter pass. He’s acclimating to the visions now.
While they’re still disorienting, he can better distinguish between memory and reality. He
even embraces them as a rare peek inside the inner world of the silent child.

After the other shoppers finish browsing, Harry picks out the largest box of chocolates and
skims the nutrition label. Young children aren’t supposed to have too much sugar, he’s
learned from Andromeda, who has always limited Teddy’s intake of sweets. And yet,
childhood will already be abbreviated for Tom. Why not indulge a little?

He adds it to his shopping basket.

Elinor Kent greets Harry at the front door. “Welcome, thank you for visiting,” she says,
taking his coat. “We have tea waiting inside the drawing room.”

Harry thanks her and steps inside, feeling a little odd to be treated like a guest in his own
home. “Where’s Tom?” he asks, seeing no sign of the boy on the ground floor.

“In the drawing room. He’s been expecting you.”

Harry hurries through the entrance hall, careful not to awaken Walburga Black, and ascends
the staircase. While not much has outwardly changed about Grimmauld Place, its atmosphere
is less oppressive. The continuous presence of humans definitely helps.

Sure enough, he locates Tom on the windowsill of the drawing room, knees drawn to his
chest and eyes fixed on the door. For a moment, they stare at each other. Even though he has
kept up with Tom’s progress through daily owls, he still experiences a small shock upon
seeing him again in person. Tom has grown taller and his features more defined, deepening
his resemblance to the orphan in Dumbledore’s memories.

“Uh, hello again,” Harry says. “Do you remember me?”

When Tom doesn’t respond, he feels disappointed and a little foolish for forgetting that
babies have limited memories. Although Elinor mentioned a period of sullenness following
Harry’s departure, and although he’s been regularly writing to Tom as promised, the few days
they spent together at the beginning of January have likely long evaporated from Tom’s
consciousness.

No matter, they can start afresh.

“My name is Harry. I’m your friend.” He holds up the shopping bag. “And I brought you
presents. Would you like to see them?”

Tom’s eyes flit to the bag. Meeting Harry’s eyes again, he bobs his head and climbs down
from the windowsill.
Harry leads him to the couch and starts emptying the contents of the bag. “Here’s a toy
rabbit. Feel how soft his fur is. Here’s a racecar model. It will look like the picture on the
box. Here is The Tale of Peter Rabbit, one of my favorite books in primary school. We can
read it together.”

With a serious expression, Tom receives each item with both hands and examines them —
fluffing the head of the rabbit, tracing the outline of the racecar box, flipping pages of the
picture book — before he sets them on the floor in a neat pile. Detecting no sign of
excitement or disappointment, Harry hopes at least one of the presents hits the mark.

He has reached the bottom of the bag. “And here.” As he opens the box of chocolate, the
aroma of cocoa wafts over, leading Tom to visibly perk and move closer. Harry takes one out
and unwraps its golden foil. “Would you like one?”

Tom’s hand twitches, but while his eyes latch onto the chocolate with curiosity, he doesn’t
move.

He doesn’t understand the concept of sweets, Harry realizes with a pang. After all, how often
did he have them in his first life? They must’ve been a luxury at the orphanage, and a rarity
for him even at Hogwarts. Honeydukes, in spite of its wonderful selection, isn’t known for
random charity.

“This is called a chocolate.” Harry sets it on Tom’s hand and gently closes his fingers around
it. “Here you go, try it. It tastes yummy.”

Tom rolls the chocolate between his fingers and takes a hesitant lick. Wonder brightens his
face, and he plops the whole thing in his mouth and chews slowly.

Smiling at his rapturous expression, Harry thumbs away the smear of chocolate at the corner
of his mouth. “Do you like it?”

Tom gives a small nod and glances at the open box.

“Would you like more?” When he nods again, Harry nudges the box towards him. “Go on,
it’s all yours.”

“You’re very kind, Harry,” Elinor says from her corner armchair.

The subtle disapproval in her compliment doesn’t mar Harry’s pleasure at seeing Tom’s
contentment. “It will be fine,” he says evenly. “He won’t eat them all at once.”

Tom pats Harry’s arm. He has picked out another chocolate and is holding it out. Thinking he
needs help with the wrapping, Harry unwraps it and places it on his palm.

To his surprise, Tom’s arm remains extended and his expression turns expectant. It takes
Harry a few moments to understand Tom’s intention.

“Do you want me to eat it?” he asks.

Nodding firmly, Tom presses the chocolate against Harry’s lips.

In Harry’s mouth, the chocolate melts, creamy and bittersweet, and the flavor is richer and
deeper than he remembers.

Tom is observing him, a faint furrow appearing between his brows, so Harry makes a show of
chewing and swallowing. “Thank you, Tom. It’s delicious.”

For the first time during the visit, Tom offers a rare smile.

Taking no additional chocolate for himself, he sets aside the box, scans his other presents,
and chooses a picture book. He hands it to Harry.

“Would you like to read it together?” Tom nods and settles on the couch, his thigh grazing
Harry’s. “All right.”

Harry flips open the book and angles it so Tom can view the illustrations and follow along.
“Once upon a time,” he begins, “there were four little rabbits, and their names were Flopsy,
Mopsy, Cottontail, and Peter.”

With rapt attention, Tom listens as Peter Rabbit sneaks into his neighbor’s garden to feast on
vegetables. However, as Peter Rabbit’s adventures progress, his eyelids begin to flutter shut,
and by the time the story finishes, he has dozed off against Harry’s shoulder.

Harry eases him down on the couch, mouthing a “thank you” when Elinor comes over with a
blanket. After tucking it around Tom, he checks his watch. If he wants to squeeze in a visit to
Andromeda and Teddy, he should leave soon.

The shifting of the couch awakens Tom, who sits up and scrambles for Harry’s arm in panic.

“I’m sorry, I have to leave.” Harry lightly rests a hand on Tom’s head, and when the boy
doesn’t flinch, cards it through the silky dark curls. Tom relaxes and leans his cheek into
Harry’s palm, eyelashes tickling Harry’s skin. “But I’ll be back. Just like last time.”

Tom nuzzles Harry’s hand and allows him to pull away. Without fuss, he watches Harry
gather his belongings and bid goodbye to Elinor.

“Goodbye Tom,” Harry says, turning to him. “Miss Elinor will take care —”

Tom jumps to his feet, startling both adults.

“Tom,” Elinor says in a placating tone, but he ignores her as he grabs a big handful of
chocolates and presents them to Harry.

“No, Tom,” Harry says, heart squeezing. “They are for you.”

Tom shakes his head and holds them out more insistently. A chocolate slips through his
fingers and drops to the ground.

Harry hurriedly picks it up and accepts the offering. “Thank you. I’ll be back, I promise. And
I’ll bring you more presents. Be good, okay?”
In response, Tom raises his arms, as if seeking a hug, before wrapping them around himself
instead.

Harry has to tear his eyes away before his resolve crumbles and he ends up staying.

He heads down the stairs and towards the front door, acutely aware of Tom’s gaze until he
disappears into the shadows of the entrance hallway.

Back at Hogwarts, Harry stows Tom’s chocolates in the top drawer of his nightstand. It will
be a long time before he can bring himself to eat them.

* * *

Green.

Tom’s head is full of green. Green light, green flames, and a pair of green eyes, shining in the
darkness.

He was in the little room then. It was dark and so small he couldn’t move around much. He
didn’t like it at all. His new room is much bigger. He can see the sun through the windows.
He even has a little bed and his own drawers. So he feels much happier.

The house is big too, with lots of other rooms. Tom lives here with the woman with the blank
face. She’s much nicer than the man, but she hardly ever smiles, so she probably doesn’t like
him either. That’s okay, she’s old and boring.

There are other people, but they change, so he doesn’t try to remember them. They wave
wooden sticks at him, which makes him feel funny even though nothing hurts. They also talk
to him very slowly and try to get him to respond. He never does, because he has nothing to
say.

Most of the time, though, everyone leaves him alone. He prefers that. He learns to use the
stairs and explores the house. Funnily, it seems to know him, because it shares its secrets.
Maybe he lived here before and forgot. There’s a hidden door under his bed with yellow
paper inside. Someone wrote on them, but he can’t read anything. There’s a doorknob that
hisses if he tries to turn it. There’s a big glass window that shows Tom when he stands in
front of it. Tom doesn’t like looking at himself. He doesn’t like to be reminded that he’s a big
person with big thoughts who’s trapped in a very small body.

He finds things dropped by the people who visit. Some are shiny and round, some are long
and soft. He doesn’t know what they are, but if he likes them, they belong to him now. He
takes them back to his room and hides them in the door under his bed.
The only place where Tom isn’t allowed to go is the lowest floor. One day, when the woman
is busy talking to the other people, he sneaks over. There’s a scary hallway. There’s a door
that leads to a big room with a big table and sparkling lights overhead, and there are portraits
on the walls that don’t move.

As Tom peeks here and there, he accidentally moves a curtain and discovers another portrait.
The woman inside is very ugly and very mean, because she starts screaming at him. “Where
is my son? Where is my son? ”

He doesn’t understand because he didn’t do anything, so he screams back, until all of a

sudden, the ugly woman stops screaming and the curtain falls over her again.

The woman is here. She takes Tom away with an unhappy face, but she doesn’t yell. She just
tells him to not break her rule again. That’s easy to do, because he doesn’t want to see the
mean woman anyway.

At night, when he closes his eyes, he sees a man. Sometimes he’s tall. Sometimes he’s small.
Sometimes he’s scary, because his face is white and his eyes are red. He looks even meaner
than the man who put Tom in the small room. Somehow, Tom knows the red-eyed man won’t
hurt him, although he still doesn’t like seeing him.

When Tom doesn’t want to explore, he stays in his room to play by himself. The woman
brings him some toys, but his most favorite thing is his blanket. It is soft, and warm, and he
sleeps with it every night.

The woman doesn’t like the blanket. She says it’s dirty and tries to take it away. Tom doesn’t
care. He hugs the blanket and screams until she gives up. He won’t let her or anyone touch it,
because it smells like the boy with the green eyes.

The boy with the green eyes is different from everyone else. He rescued Tom from the dark
room. He protected Tom. He talked to Tom differently.

You have me now.

I’ll take care of you.

Tom likes hearing the boy’s voice, so sweet and gentle. Tom likes hearing the boy read to
him, even though he doesn’t understand most of the words.

When the boy left, Tom was sad. The boy promised to come back, but Tom doesn’t believe
promises. The boy writes to him, but the woman has to read them to Tom, and that isn’t the
same.

He still keeps the letters and hides them under his bed.

And then, the boy comes back for Tom. “Do you remember me?” he asks, and what a funny
question! Even if he’s gone for a long, long time, Tom will never forget him. The boy is
important to him. He is important to the boy. This is a simple truth. Like the rising of the sun.
Like the chiming of the clock. Like the flowing of water.
“My name is Harry,” he tells Tom, and Tom knows that too.

Harry. A beautiful sound. A familiar sound. It’s as important to him as his own name.

Unfortunately, he can’t curl his tongue around the word yet, so he tucks it away carefully in a
secret place in his head where he keeps all the important things. Things he will never, ever
forget.

Harry. Tom.

Tom. Harry.

They belong to each other.

Tom looks forward to Harry’s visits.

The presents change every time. There will be new sweets, or a new book, or a new game.

Tom likes learning and playing games. Harry always smiles whenever Tom wins, which is
almost all the time. Tom doesn’t understand why he’s so happy. Winning is much better than
losing. But if Harry is happy, Tom is happy too.

Sadly, every visit ends, no matter how well Tom behaves.

“I will see you again,” Harry always says, and even though Tom knows Harry will return,
again isn’t enough.

Tom wants to see him now.

Tom wants to see him always.

He watches Harry leave through the window. One second, Harry is standing on the doorstep,
and the next, and he’s gone. Where does he go? Does he have friends who aren’t Tom?

Imagining Harry reading to other little boys, or worse, touching them, makes Tom angry.
Harry is his friend. No one else can have him.

A big hole grows in his chest and dark clouds hover in his head. He wants to cry and scream
and destroy, but he doesn’t, because he knows those things won’t bring Harry back.

It will be all right, he tells himself. He won’t be small and helpless forever. Every day, he
feels himself growing a little older, a little stronger.

One day, he will shape the world the way he shapes his clay.

One day, Harry will not leave.

An animal lands on the windowsill. It has beady eyes, and a round head, and a brown and
black body.
It’s called a bird, he learned from Harry’s books. It can fly, because it has wings.

Tom hates birds, hates them. He hates that they are free, while he’s trapped inside. He hates
that they are so happy, even though they are so simple.

He raps on the window. The bird caws and flutters its wings. It’s making fun of him.

Tom clenches his hands. He hopes it’s cold outside. He hopes its wings will freeze and break
so it won’t fly ever again.

“Fall,” he mutters. “Die.”

Something stirs inside him, something that can hurt the bird, something that makes him
sweaty and shivery at the same time. He tries to grasp it, but he cannot. There are walls
surrounding that mysterious power, and no matter how hard he tries, Tom can’t break
through.

But why ? It’s his.

In frustration, Tom throws his new book on the ground. It lands with a thunk and he
immediately feels bad. He scrambles off the windowsill and checks each page. Nothing is
broken. He huffs in relief and hugs it to his chest. That’s good. He doesn’t want to break
anything from Harry.

“What are you doing?”

The woman is frowning at him. Tom shows her the book. She narrows her eyes, but goes
back to her newspaper.

He turns back to the window.

The bird is gone.

Harry continues to visit Tom throughout the spring term. Hermione always greets his return
from Grimmauld Place with a concerned frown, but thus far, her research on the bond hasn’t
yielded conclusive results.

Even though Hermione’s concerns are well-intentioned, she doesn’t understand that in Tom’s
company, Harry finds solace from the pressure of being a hero. Instead, he can simply be
Harry and derive joy from giving another orphan a better childhood than he or Voldemort
had.

He’ll also not admit that he’s growing attached with every visit. He’s learning Tom’s body
language. Even the smallest scrunch of a nose or the barest tilt of a chin can be used as
ciphers with which to decode the reserved child.

Tom likes bitter dark chocolate and dislikes sugary candy floss. He likes books on nature and
dislikes books with cartoon humans. He likes modeling clays and building blocks, and
dislikes jigsaw puzzles and pre-assembled models.
He also has a fascination with the outside world. Often, Harry finds him perched on the
windowsill in the drawing room, entranced by something only he can discern.

Today, they are in the garden. Now that the weather is warmer, Harry wants Tom to get some
sun, disliking the contrast between his unnatural pallor and Teddy’s healthy glow. Elinor
initially voiced objections due to security concerns, but Harry convinced her and Kingsley, or
rather, he stubbornly wore them down.

Winter has drained the garden of colors, not that anything about Grimmauld Place has ever
been particularly vibrant. Against this gray backdrop, Tom stands out in his bright green
winter coat and Gryffindor-colored scarf. He sits cross-legged on the heated blanket, face
tilted towards the sky as usual.

“I wonder what he’s looking at,” Harry says.

“Birds, I imagine,” Elinor replies, in her usual flat tone. “He’s quite fascinated by them, from
what I’ve seen, and there’s not much else to look at.”

“Maybe I can get some books on birds for him. He might enjoy that,” Harry muses aloud, and
Elinor shrugs.

“If you wish.”

She thinks he spoils Tom, though she accepts it with her usual placidity. And maybe he does,
a little. Not that he plans on stopping.

Harry approaches and kneels beside Tom. “Do you like birds?”

The boy greets his question with the intent gaze he’s come to recognize but not always
interpret. Harry supposes that’s a confirmation.

“I can bring you books on birds,” he offers. “Would you like that? We can read it together.”

Tom gives a small nod and looks away, but not to the sky. Harry follows his gaze to a plot of
soil in the corner that may have once been a flower bed, but is currently overgrown with
weeds after decades of neglect.

With magic, it can be salvaged. Some weeding, some rejuvenation of soil, and they can plant
seeds to bloom in summer or autumn. A flourishing garden can definitely alleviate the
gloominess of Grimmauld Place.

“That’s called a flower bed. Do you like flowers?” Using his forefinger, Harry traces a
generic six-petaled flower on the soil, still crusted with slush from a recent snowfall. “We’ve
read about them, remember? They’re pretty and have different colors. When it gets warmer,
we can plant some together.”

Tom traces his own finger through the flower.

“Or we can plant something else. Maybe berries or tomatoes? One of my aunt and uncle’s
neighbors used to grow cherry tomatoes, and they’re lovely during summers. Vegetables can
be nice too. I’ve heard carrots and beans are easy to grow.”

A crooked tomato, and then a skinny carrot and some sharp-angled beans, join the flower.
Harry is reaching the limits of his artistic ability. As before, Tom traces his finger through the
new drawings.

“Mrs. Weasley might have some seeds we could use, although I still don’t recognize half of
what she grows. Surprises can be nice, right?”

Harry pauses for breath. He has a tendency to ramble around Tom, because he’s never sure
how much the little boy actually absorbs.

“What do you think?” he asks, gesturing at his drawings. “What would you like?”

Bending forward, Tom studies each drawing once more. He raises his head.

“Harry.”

The sound is so soft that Harry blinks, unsure whether he misheard.

Tom repeats, very solemnly, “Harry.”

His enunciation is nearly perfect. His tongue rolls with determination over the r sound that
troubles even adults and his cheeks flush with effort.

“That’s his first word.”

Elinor has joined them, wearing a curious expression on her usually emotionless face.

“Your name,” she elaborates. “That’s his first word.”

Harry’s breath hitches and a tingling sensation sweeps through his body. He’s heard his name
spoken countless times, but never like this, never like it holds the meaning of the entire
universe and beyond.

He savors the sound of these two simple syllables from Tom’s lips as much as he savored his
first taste of chocolate.

“Harry.”

Shifting closer, Tom cautiously lays his head on Harry’s shoulder. Uncertainly, and then
tightly, Harry curls an arm around him.

“Yes,” Harry says. “My name is Harry. And you’re Tom.”

Sighing softly, Tom buries his face in the crook of Harry’s neck, his breaths releasing in little
puffs. Harry presses his lips to the brown curls and inhales that sweet, fresh scent.

Distantly, he’s aware of Elinor’s scrutiny, but she and the rest of the world are fading away. In
this moment, only two people matter.
 Harry.

Tom.

Between them, something flickers, warm and glowing like a candle flame.

Chapter End Notes

Credit: Harry reads to Tom from The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter, which can
be found on Google books.

I initially wrote parts of Tom’s POV in a non-native language to capture the voice of a
precocious toddler and the disjointedness characteristic of childhood memories.
However, I still had to take some creative liberties with his grammar and vocabulary so
the narrative is coherent. Hopefully everything came across successfully and you
enjoyed the first (but definitely not last!) glimpse inside baby Voldemort’s head.

See you next time!

 Plant
Chapter Notes

Thank you everyone for your support! I’m glad you enjoyed the boys bonding. Lots
more to come on that front :)

The animal death tag comes into play in this chapter. It’s brief and not meant to be
graphic, but please take care if you think it could be triggering.

I hope you enjoy the update!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Update: 1st April 1999

Estimated biological age: 1 year 10 months

* * *

As Harry’s tenure at Hogwarts nears its end, time seems to speed up, and the nebulous
concept called “the future” looms menacingly on the horizon.

Just ahead of the Easter holiday, the Heads of Houses begin career conversations. For some,
the conversation is a formality. Hermione is entertaining job offers ranging from graduate
programs at foreign universities to senior positions in the Ministry, Ron is deliberating
between the Aurors and a business partnership with George, and Ginny has already accepted
an offer to play reserve Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies.

Judging by Headmistress McGonagall’s smile as he takes a seat in her office and accepts a
biscuit, Harry is expected to fall into this category as well.

“I know that you’re technically supposed to have the conversation with Hestia, since I’m no
longer your Head of House,” she begins. “However, I sentimentally want to finish the
conversations that we started in fifth year. Do you remember?”

Harry does, quite distinctly. He’d told McGonagall that he wanted to be an Auror, only for
Umbridge to declare that he had “no chance whatsoever” of achieving his goal.

“I think Umbridge will have to eat her words,” he says.

McGonagall chuckles. “Indeed, Gawain hasn’t been so excited about a new trainee in years.”
How much does she know about Tom’s treatment at the hands of Gawain and Kingsley’s
team? How would three years of Auror training and Ministry turmoil transform him? He
plasters on a smile. “I’m excited too.”

“Of course, while you’ll make an excellent Auror, you have other options. For example, now
that the curse on the Defense position is broken, Hestia can take you on as her apprentice. I
heard you did a wonderful job of teaching fellow students as the leader of Dumbledore’s
Army.”

Harry does enjoy teaching, and a professorship at Hogwarts does sound enticing. However,
this year has shown him that the war has done little to heal the fractures that date back to the
era of the founders. The fault lines have merely shifted to reinforce centuries of prejudice
against Slytherin, some of which Harry once perpetuated.

He doesn’t want to pick sides for the rest of his life.

“And I see many other possibilities.” McGonagall taps the stack of pamphlets on her desk.
“Curse-breaking, Quidditch, and even a university program are all within the realm of
possibilities.”

“Right.” Harry wets his lip. “Those all sound, er, great.”

McGonagall regards him for a moment before pushing aside the pamphlets. “Harry, is
something the matter? I would’ve expected a tad more enthusiasm.”

“I am enthusiastic. I just…” Voice trailing off, Harry averts his eyes from McGonagall’s
expectant face to scan the office. On the wall, the portrait of Albus Dumbledore appears to be
dozing, for once not contributing an opinion. Harry isn’t sure whether that’s comforting or
alarming.

“Harry, I’m speaking as both your headmistress, and as someone who cares for your
happiness.” McGonagall waits until their eyes meet again. “There is no need to rush into a
decision, no obligation to commit to anything.”

“I know. I still have two months.”

“No, not even then. You’ve been under far more pressure than anyone should bear. It is
perfectly fine if you want to take some time off after Hogwarts.”

“It’s nice to have something to do,” Harry admits. He hasn’t thought of taking time off as an
option, but the idea to just be isn’t unattractive.

“Having witnessed your escapades over the past eight years, I have no doubt you will manage
to entertain yourself.” McGonagall gives him a kind smile. “Think it over the holiday and
please do not hesitate to let me know if I can help in any way. I will make a note to reprise
this conversation later in the spring.”

Relief and gratitude wash over Harry. “Thank you, professor.”

“Of course. I’m confident you’ll come to the right decision for yourself.” For a moment,
McGonagall seems poised to say more, but she only rises to escort him to the door. “Happy
Easter.”

Harry spends the first half of Easter holiday with Teddy and Andromeda. As always, the
Tonks household is a maelstrom of chaos. Having learned to run, his godson is constantly on
the brink of mischief, and it doesn’t help that George keeps him supplied with child-friendly
products from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, resulting in several incidents that cover the house
— and its inhabitants — in feathers and paint.

However, Harry can never stay annoyed with Teddy. The little boy gives his affections
openly and freely, whether in the form of tight hugs, warm cuddles, or sloppy kisses. In turn,
Harry is determined to fill Teddy’s childhood with all the happiness in the world to make up
for the parents he would never know.

Harry’s week at the Tonks’ ends with a grand celebration for Teddy’s first birthday, where
Harry has the privilege of witnessing both Teddy’s first word — “Gran’ma!” — and
Andromeda’s tearful reaction.

As always, it’s difficult to say goodbye to Teddy, who clings to him tearfully at the front door.
“Why not stay another week?” Andromeda asks, and Harry mumbles an excuse about
studying for N.E.W.Ts. Despite his immense guilt over leaving Teddy, another little boy also
needs him.

Tom greets him at the front door, as if he’s been waiting for a while.

“Hello again,” Harry says, always a tad self-conscious under intense scrutiny. “Have you
been waiting for presents?”

“No, for Harry,” he replies, and leads Harry inside.

The return to Grimmauld Place highlights the personality differences between the two boys in
Harry’s life. If Teddy is the morning sky, full of sunshine and fluffy clouds, then Tom is the
ocean, harboring a universe of secrets below its still surface. He’s amassing new vocabulary,
according to Healer reports, but remains laconic, responding to most inquiries with “yes”,
“no”, or “okay.” He can walk and run, but prefers the company of books and toys. He likes to
watch Harry, but rarely seeks physical contact.

Despite Tom’s aloofness, Harry suspects he is far more attached to him than Teddy.
Strangely, he’s not averse to the fact that his de-aged enemy apparently imprinted on him.
Likely because, aside from the parents he barely remembers, he’s never come first for
anyone. Ron and Hermione have each other, Teddy has Andromeda, and Ginny is too
independent, too self-assured.

Not that he expects this attachment to last; most childhood attachments don’t, and this one is
rife with baggage. But he doesn’t want to think that far ahead.
With the arrival of spring, Harry decides to start planting their garden. A proper garden
normally requires several weeks of preparation before seeds can be sown. The soil needs to
be weeded and enriched, and the beds need to be located somewhere with ample sunlight, an
impossible demand on Grimmauld Place.

Fortunately, as with many things, magic offers the solution. Hagrid gifted Harry some
specially enhanced compost guaranteed to ready any soil for planting within three days, and
Harry purchased a few magical sunlamps from Dogweed and Deathcap that will provide
enough sunlight in gloomy weather.

Tom joins Harry outside. Though he studies the proceedings with curious eyes, he shies away
from kneeling in the dirt and opts to sit primly on a lawn chair, ever mindful to keep his
appearance immaculate.

Harry, on the other hand, isn’t worried about getting dirty. Nothing a Scourgify or a shower
can’t fix, and after all, he spent his childhood tending to Aunt Petunia’s flower beds. For
Tom’s benefit, he explains everything he’s doing.

“This is called compost,” he says, opening the bag. “This will be food for our garden.”

Tom wrinkles his nose, and Harry can’t blame him. While Hagrid won’t reveal what’s in his
secret formula, in Care of Magical Creatures he’d once touted the ability of thestral manure
to kill weeds and enrich soil.

“I know it smells bad, but our garden will think it’s delicious. And we want to make it happy,
right?”

Tom folds his arms, unimpressed.

Chuckling, Harry pulls on gardening gloves. “You can just watch me.”

Muscle memory takes over. While gardening is hardly glamorous and he could use magic,
he’s always enjoyed its physicality, even as an undersized child. It used to be his solace from
his stifling cupboard and, briefly, his only opportunity to spend time with Aunt Petunia.

Tom spreads open a book on his lap, but his attention remains fixed on Harry, soaking up
everything he’s doing. It doesn’t take long before his aloofness cracks and he squats down
beside Harry.

“I help Harry,” he says in a grave tone, reaching for the compost bag.

“Are you sure?” Harry teases. “It’s smelly and dirty.”

“I help Harry,” Tom repeats, reaching a look of resignation that’s rather comical on his young
face.

Hiding a fond smile, Harry resizes his spare pair of gardening gloves and helps Tom put it on.
Soon, Tom is attacking his new task with the same intensity and meticulousness he bestows
upon everything, taking care to ensure his layer of compost is perfectly even, and shaking his
head at Harry’s more careless approach.
They finish in the late afternoon, just as the sky is beginning to darken. Harry pulls off his
gloves and stretches. His body is sore, but pleasantly so, and he’s definitely going to sleep
soundly tonight.

Beside him, Tom is fluffing his curls off his sweaty forehead, though he only succeeds in
smearing more dirt. Affection wells in Harry’s chest.

“Here, let me,” he says, thumbing away the dirty spot and tucking Tom’s curls behind his ear.
“Better?”

Tom stares back, mouth half-open. Waking from a trance, he traces over Harry’s cheekbone,
before he brushes back Harry’s hair and lets his hand linger at the nape of the neck. The
gesture is so intimate that Harry shivers. Not even Ginny touches him with that amount of
care, like he’s something to be treasured, to be admired. And to have it come from this child
—

It borders on inappropriateness.

“We should go inside.” Harry eases Tom off his lap over a whine of protest. “It’s getting dark
and we should get ready for dinner. Here, I’ll clean us up.”

Unfortunately, even after multiple cleaning spells, Elinor doesn’t deem them presentable.
Shaking her head in part disapproval and part amusement, she forces both of them to take a
bath before she would allow either inside the dining room.

Their hard work pays off. Two days later, the soil is ready for planting.

“Look, it’s perfect.” Harry grabs a fistful, which forms into a loose ball before crumbling.
“Not too dry, not too wet.”

Tom pokes at the soil delicately with his finger, not fully convinced.

“Now will be the fun part,” Harry says, retrieving the seed packets. “Let me show you what
we will be growing.”

He’s given this a fair amount of thought, and consulted Hagrid and Mrs. Weasley for advice,
before landing on cherry tomatoes and marigolds. Both would mature for a summer harvest.
Cherry tomatoes would make a delicious addition to soups and salads, while marigolds will
deter pests as well as adorn the garden with bright colors.

Admittedly, growing them together is relatively ambitious, and Harry would hate to
disappoint Tom. However, between his gardening experience, Herbology knowledge, and
magic, he’s somewhat confident everything will turn out fine.

Tom examines the packets curiously. “This is a tomato,” Harry tells him, pointing at one.

“Tom-ato,” Tom repeats, perking up. “ Tom -ato.”

“Exactly, tom-ato.” Harry points at another. “And this is a marigold.”

“Mary-gold.”

“Right, mary-gold. And this,” Harry says, taking Tom’s hand and turning it over, “is what
they look like.”

He lays a few seeds on Tom’s upturned palm. Tom’s eyes dart between them and the pictures
on packets, the furrow between his brows deepening.

Harry laughs at his obvious skepticism. “They look different, don’t they? That’s because
they’re not plants yet. They are seeds.”

“Seeds?”

“Yes. Seeds are baby plants, and they’ll grow a little every day.”

Like you, he almost adds, but his smile wavers at the thought of Tom growing towards his
doom.

Alarmed by the change in mood, Tom tugs at Harry’s sleeve.

“I’m okay. I’m happy. See?” Harry gives Tom an exaggerated smile. “Come on. Let me show
you what to do.”

The garden has already been organized into three beds. Selecting one, Harry divides it into
alternating rows of tomatoes and marigolds, and further parcels out each row into mini plots.

“Each seed will become a big plant, so it needs lots of room,” he explains as he demonstrates.
“Now, I dig a small hole and put the seed inside. We cover it up with soil to keep it warm, so
it can sleep comfortably. And once it’s ready, it will wake up and sprout. Do you want to
try?”

This time, Tom has no qualms about kneeling and getting dirty. He copies everything Harry
did with his trademark precision, which earns him the honor of being entrusted with planting
the entire bed. Harry takes on the remaining two beds.

Under the caress of the mild spring sun, they work in parallel. Before long, the seeds are all
sown, bringing them closer to transforming the barren wasteland into a sea of flowers and
fruits.

For the final step, Harry hands a watering can to Tom, shrunken so it won’t be too heavy to
lift. Running his hand over the aged metallic surface, Tom tilts his head in question.

“Plants get thirsty just like us,” Harry says, “so we have to feed them water. This is like their,
uh, cup.”

This is the wrong explanation. Tom lifts and almost upends the can, and Harry manages to
divert the downpour at the last second. “Gently, Tom, gently,” he says, steadying Tom’s
hands with his own. “You have to be gentle with living things.”
It isn’t until Tom scrunches his face in open confusion that Harry realizes Voldemort has
likely never learned to be gentle with anything. He’ll need to teach him.

“Let’s do it together.” Harry moves behind Tom to more securely guide his hands, and
together, they send a light drizzle over the seeds. “This is what I mean by gentle. If we try to
make the plants drink the water all at once, they’ll drown.”

Tom gazes down at the watering can and nods. He moves to water the next row on his own,
and this attempt goes smoothly.

“Gentle,” he announces.

“Great job!”

Pleased, Harry fetches his own watering can to tend to the other beds. Tom’s attentiveness to
the garden is causing hope to blossom. In this life, perhaps he can be known for creation,
rather than destruction.

A strong gust of wind whips through the garden, followed by a soft gasp from Tom.

“What happened?” Harry asks, hurrying back and worried that Tom cut himself on a stray
rock.

Tom points. On the newly watered bed, a bee is lying on its side, its translucent wings twisted
at an unnatural angle. The wind must’ve blown it off-course to collide with the ground.

“Careful!” Harry pulls Tom towards him. “It can sting.”

As it turns out, he doesn’t need to worry. The bee is completely still. Harry kneels next to the
sad little body and pulls out his wand. Though his gut twists with the inevitable truth, he has
to try.

“Rennervate. Rennervate.”

Red light bursts from his wand and dances over the bee. However, nothing happens. Magic
cannot revive something beyond help.

Tom exhales audibly. His hands clench and unclench.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, slipping an arm around him. “I think it’s gone.”

“Gone,” Tom says dreamily.

“We can bury it in our garden, so its spirit can watch over our plants. Want to help me?”

With visible effort, Tom tears his eyes away from the bee’s broken body. He relaxes into
Harry’s embrace. “Okay.”

They bury the bee with the marigolds. Harry whispers a prayer he vaguely remembers from
the Dursleys’ brief churchgoing stint. Despite having never known the bee, he aches for the
innocent life lost too soon, and hopes its spirit will enjoy the fragrance of flowers and
sweetness of fruits come summer.

As they head back inside the house for dinner, Harry catches Tom sneaking glances at the
bee’s grave, expression thoughtful and mouth curved upwards.

Tom enjoys gardening with Harry, because Harry knows so many things and teaches him so
patiently. He doesn’t even mind getting dirty, because that makes Harry smile, and Tom likes
Harry’s smile.

Harry says they did a good job planting the garden, but at first, nothing happens. Tom is
getting impatient. He wants to see the seeds become seedlings and the seedlings become
flowers and the flowers becoming fruits, just as they do in Harry’s books. He squats as low as
he can on the garden bed, but he doesn’t see anything but dirt.

“This isn’t Jack and the Beanstalk,” Harry says, scrubbing Tom’s nose playfully.

Tom scowls. He can tell Harry is teasing him, but he leans into Harry’s touch anyway.

One morning, something finally happens. Instead of only dirt, Tom sees little green leaves
curving on little stalks. Delighted, he starts to poke one with his finger, before he stops and
shoots Harry a questioning look.

“Go on,” Harry says. “You can touch it. Just don’t hurt it.”

Tom touches it, reminding himself to be gentle. He’s surprised by how soft it is, how delicate,
how alive.

Harry crouches next to him. “You grew those sprouts. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Yes, it is wonderful. Tom beams at Harry, who beams back.

Unfortunately, Tom doesn’t stay happy for long, because later that day, Harry tells him that
he has to leave. There’s a big hole in Tom’s chest. Harry stayed for so long that Tom was sure
he would stay forever.

He clings to Harry, forcing himself not to cry. Harry tilts his chin so they are looking straight
at each other. “Can you do something for me? When I’m not here, please take good care of
the garden. I don’t trust anyone else to do it.”

Tom nods firmly. He won’t let Harry down.

They take one last look at the garden together. Harry shares final advice. He shares that plants
have memories, so they grow better when they know they’re loved. He also shares that
sometimes, they need to break off sick leaves, even though that’s sad, so the healthy leaves
can be happier.

“I can’t wait to see the garden when everything’s fully grown,” Harry says.
Tom is excited too. He’s excited about eating the cherry tomatoes, which sound yummy, but
he’s even more excited for the marigolds. In Harry’s pictures, they look like little balls of fire,
like little suns. He wonders whether they’ll burn him.

(The marigolds are budding. In addition to the usual yellow and orange varieties, there are
ones that will be red and gold. To make sure they’d be extra healthy, you had germinated
them indoors before transplanting them outside. You cannot wait to see them in full bloom.

Feeling accomplished, you give Aunt Petunia a tentative grin. Because Dudley prefers the
comfort of indoor air conditioning over outdoor humidity, gardening time always translates to
private time with Aunt Petunia. Which is nice, because she becomes more patient and kind.

But you’re afraid to let her know how much you like gardening with her, because she will
stop immediately. You never get to keep anything you like.

Aunt Petunia gives you a curt nod, which is the closest you’d ever get to praise from her.
Thrumming with pleasure, you turn back to your marigolds to see a grubby hand pull one out
by the root.

“Dudley, don’t!” you yell. “You’re killing it!”

Your cousin snorts and throws it on the ground before stamping on it. “You’re such a pansy.
Real boys don’t like flowers.”

“Stop! Please, just stop!”

You don’t care if you’re a pansy. Dudley can call you any name he wants if he’d stop hurting
the flowers.

Heedless of your begging, Dudley rips out a few more marigolds and stamps on them as well.
The nascent buds shred under the assault. When you try to pull Dudley away, you get shoved
to the ground and kicked in the leg.

Eyes stinging, you turn beseechingly to Aunt Petunia. Her pinched expression gives you
hope. Surely she will stop Dudley. This is her garden too.

When your gazes cross, she presses her lips together and looks pointedly away. She says
nothing.

Eventually, Dudley loses interest and, with a last kick in the flower bed that showers you with
dirt, goes back inside the house.

Aunt Petunia follows, slamming the door behind her and leaving you to clean up the
carcasses of your flowers alone.)

Tom trembles. Who are the skinny woman and the fat boy? Why are they being mean to
Harry?

And why is Harry so small? Does he have enough to eat?

The power inside him is crashing and churning. It wants to burst free and punish. But as
before, it’s locked behind walls that he can’t break through, and he stomps his foot in
frustration.

Harry needs him.

“Tom?” The familiar voice cuts through the haze of panic and warm hands grab his
shoulders. “Tom, are you all right?”

With a cry, Tom throws himself at Harry and holds him as tightly as he can. He’s safe, and
he’s big again, and the skinny woman and the fat boy are nowhere to be seen.

“What’s wrong?” Harry sounds confused and a little worried, so Tom squeezes him harder.
After a few seconds, Harry squeezes him back.

“I’m sorry I can’t stay,” he says, misunderstanding why Tom is upset. “But I will still visit,
and soon I’ll be done with school, so I can see you every day.”

“Every day, soon?”

“Yes, very soon.”

Soon isn’t now, but soon also doesn’t sound very far away. Soon may be good enough. For
now.

Tom still doesn’t let go of Harry. He presses his ear against Harry’s chest, listening to the
thud-thud-thud of Harry’s heart, and silently makes a vow. When he becomes big and strong,
nobody will hurt Harry ever again.

Soon, Tom will take care of Harry.

Soon, Tom will protect him.

* * *

Easter holidays did bring clarity. Harry sends a letter to Robards, declining his place in the
incoming class of Auror trainees. The minute the school owl disappears into the clouds, he
feels as though a burden has been lifted.

The reception to his decision is surprisingly positive. McGonagall reiterates her support for
taking time off. Robards assures Harry that a place will be available should he ever change
his mind. Ron confesses he’s been leaning towards joining George and Angelina at the joke
shop. And Ginny jokingly offers Harry a role as her personal — and unpaid — assistant.
Only Hermione frowns. “It’s normal to feel a bit directionless right now, but you should still
consider the next stage of your life.”

“Oh I dunno.” Harry shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind just living off my ‘I saved the world’ fund.”

“I’m serious. You need to have a plan.”

“Blimey, let Harry be!” Ron says, setting down his butterbeer. “He deserves a rest from
chasing down evil wizards.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve a rest. A lot of people end up wasting their gap years
when they could be doing something productive.”

“I’m growing a garden,” Harry says truthfully. “That’s productive, isn’t it?”

The Weasley siblings chuckle in appreciation. Hermione crosses her arms and leans forward.
“Does that mean you’re going to be cooped up at Grimmauld Place?”

“No, of course not. I’ll still see you all the time, because there’s something called
Apparition.”

His attempts at levity are clearly frustrating Hermione. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I know.”

“And you know the situation is meant to be temporary.”

“I know. I’m not pretending otherwise.”

“Sometimes I wonder.”

Ron and Ginny look between them. Ron can probably guess what they’re referring to, but
Ginny is blissfully ignorant. “What’s there to fight about?” she asks. “As Harry said, we’ll
still see each other all the time.”

“I just don’t want Harry to commit to a bad decision.”

“I’m not, Hermione,” Harry snaps. “I can take care of myself.”

There’s a jagged edge to his voice and an angry flush on Hermione’s cheeks. Ron coughs.
“Seems like we’re all done here. Shall we head to Honeydukes?”

“Yeah, let’s go,” Harry says, getting to his feet before Hermione can interject, before he can
second-guess himself.

For the rest of the afternoon, he’s careful to avoid Hermione, and she doesn’t bring up the
topic again. And yet, as he picks out hazelnut chocolates at Honeydukes and children’s books
at Tomes & Scrolls, he can feel the weight of her stare, exacerbating the dull throbbing in his
forehead.
Every time he’s brave enough to meet her eyes, she shakes her head, disappointment and
concern palpable.

On May 2nd, Hogwarts hosts a commemoration of the one-year anniversary of the Battle of
Hogwarts. In the morning, a vigil of silence is held for the victims and heroes of the war. In
the afternoon, speeches are made by survivors of the final battle, Harry among them. And in
the evening, a ball is held in the Great Hall to celebrate the future.

Personally, Harry thinks dancing in the very hall where so many have died is an odd way to
commemorate the war. He also can’t ignore the presence of Aurors, juxtaposing oddly with
the otherwise celebratory atmosphere. Nevertheless, he tries to enjoy himself. At the very
least, this ball is much less awkward than the Yule Ball, thanks to the lack of agonizing over
dance partners. He follows Ginny onto the dance floor, passing Ron and Hermione on one
side, and Neville and Hannah on the other.

Maybe he’s had too much champagne, or maybe his aerial coordination will never translate to
grace on solid ground. No matter the tempo of the music, he keeps stepping on Ginny’s foot.
Waving away his apologies for being a rubbish dancer, she says with a laugh, “Maybe we just
haven’t found the right song.”

After the ball concludes, the former members of Dumbledore’s Army retreats to the Room of
Requirement for private commemoration. Over smuggled firewhiskey, they sit around the
conjured fireplace and reminisce on their Hogwarts experience, from ranging from
lighthearted, such as Harry saving Neville’s Remembrall and earning a place on the
Quidditch team, to solemn, such as the stormy night when the Death Eaters broke into
Hogwarts and Snape was forced to kill Dumbledore.

Harry glances around the room, overcome by a strange mixture of bittersweetness and
reassurance. No matter what happens after Hogwarts, they will always be bound by the mere
fact of having survived the war together.

At last, conversation and firewhiskey run out. Yawning, the group begins to disperse. By
chance, or perhaps not, Harry and Ginny are the last two people in the Room of Requirement.
They reach the door at the same time, and the instant their gazes cross, Harry knows they
won’t be leaving tonight.

Around them, the cozy firelit cabin disappears, replaced by a grand bedroom decked in
Gryffindor red and gold. Ginny takes Harry’s elbow and guides him to the canopy bed in the
center. She removes his glasses, blurring her face and their surroundings, and giving Harry a
necessary injection of calmness and courage.

He can do this.

The act of physical intimacy is a dance in itself, an unfamiliar one composed of bare skin,
warm breaths, and erratic heartbeats. They both fumble, but their bodies figure out what to
do.

(You come with a grunt, then collapse beside the woman.

Or rather, the girl. One of those orphans who’s never managed to get adopted due to her
sickly constitution, desperate for affection and easily seduced by sweet words despite your
reputation.

“Tom,” she whispers, winding her limbs around you. “That was incredible.”

You hum, carding fingers through her hair in a faux display of tenderness. In truth, you’ve
already forgotten her name. Probably something like Chastity or Prudence, something generic
and bestowed upon her by matrons trying to instill salvation in poor lost souls.

It doesn’t really matter. Though she’s not bad-looking and the sex was passable, she’s just
practice, an outlet for bodily needs. You’d never commit to someone who can offer you
nothing, someone who cannot support your soaring ambitions.

The instant that the girl’s breathing deepens into soft snores, you shove her sweaty body off
your chest and rise.

“Obliviate,” you say, and before the glow of your spell has faded, Disapparate.)

Harry slides his glasses back on and stares up at the canopy, counting the folds in the silk
hangings. The sex was okay, not quite the revelation Ron and Dean promised, nor does he
feel any more complete.

But it wasn’t terrible, and it was only their first time. There will be — there has to be more
opportunities.

A hand creeps into his. Illuminated by candlelight, Ginny’s face is happy and content. “How
do you feel?” she asks, threading their fingers together.

“Good,” he says, inadequately.

“Only good?” She laughs. “Guess we’ll have to do better next time.”

“Right. Next time.”

They fall into a brief silence. Are people supposed to talk after sex? Harry always assumed
they’d go to sleep, but they’re both clearly wide awake. He racks his fatigued brain for
something interesting to say, but he can’t think of anything unrelated to the war.

So Ginny talks. She talks about her anxiety and excitement for the end of school and the
beginning of real life. About her dreams of captaincy for the Holyhead Harpies. About
someday finding a little house — “Just like the Burrow, but less lopsided!” — where she
would raise her family.

Harry listens and hums in the right places. It’s a nice future, and he can absolutely see Ginny
achieving everything she wants.

She touches his cheek. “What about you?”

Harry digs fingers into the silky sheets. No matter how much he yearns, he can’t unfog his
own future.

Shoving away the memory of his empty fortune cookie, he lies, sketching with amateur
strokes an idyllic life that sounds appropriately compatible with Ginny’s. He talks about
traveling the world. About owning a bookshop that sells only out-of-print books. About
retiring to a cottage with a garden and a pet or two; he never did find out what happened to
his parents’ old cat.

Ginny squeezes his hand. “I love it.” Yawning, she tucks herself against him, nuzzling the
crook of his neck. “I love you.”

He takes a deep breath. “Love you too.”

She presses a good night kiss to his chin and settles under the covers. Shortly after, her
breathing evens out. Overhead, the candle-lit chandelier flickers out, dispersing the faint
smell of burnt wax. Their hands remain joined.

Harry closes his eyes, mind swirling with images of rustic cottages with back gardens and a
bed meant for two and Ginny greeting him in the kitchen every morning and kids and
itsgettinghardtobreathe —

Stop. Stop overthinking. Everything will turn out fine. This is his happy ending, this really is.

They just need to find the right song.

The house is strange today.

Tom pauses outside the dining room. He always eats breakfast with Miss Elinor after the big
clock strikes nine times. But the food isn’t on the table, and she’s talking to two women he
doesn’t recognize. Their voices are low, and not everything they say makes sense.

“…celebration at Hogwarts, Kingsley is worried…”

“…they think the Lestranges might try…”

“…spotted near Stratford two days ago…”

Tom inches closer to hear better. Unfortunately, the floorboard creaks, and when the women
see him, they stop talking.

Breakfast is late. Tom finishes eating and goes to take care of the garden, just as he promised
Harry. Miss Elinor offers to help sometimes, but he always tells her “no.” The garden doesn’t
belong to her.

He waters the plants and pulls the weeds. He checks that the sunlamps are giving enough
light. He adds a little plant food, though he still thinks it smells terrible. He likes being in the
garden, because it changes every day. The plants will have more leaves, or they will be
bigger, or there will be colorful buds. And everything is happening because of him.
It’s not fair that they seem to grow so much faster though. They are almost as tall as Tom.

Tom doesn’t stay outside for long. There are unfamiliar men with wooden sticks. They don’t
disturb him, and they don’t touch anything, but they make Tom uncomfortable because their
eyes keep following him.

He goes back inside the big room.

Miss Elinor is reading the newspaper, which is usually not interesting to Tom because it has
lots of words and not many pictures. But today, Harry is on the front page in a big
photograph. Next to him is an equally big photograph of the man with the red eyes, the man
Tom sees at night.

They don’t seem to like each other, because even their pictures are glaring at each other.

Who is the man? Why is he with Harry? Tom desperately wants to know, but he doesn’t
know how to ask. When he moves closer for a better look, Miss Elinor notices and folds the
newspaper.

The house is cold and unhappy all day. Tom is relieved to finish dinner, take his bath, and
return to his room. After Miss Elinor turns out the light and shuts the door, he hears her
talking to the other people downstairs.

Tom takes out Harry’s latest letter from under his bed and recites it in his head, falling asleep
to Harry’s words.

Dear Tom, I hope you enjoy the new chocolates. They are from a store called Honeydukes, in
a village called Hogsmeade…

Tom is in a giant room that has the sky for a ceiling and lots of bodies on the floor. The man
with the red eyes is there, and so is Harry, and they are fighting with lights from their wooden
sticks.

There’s a terrible shriek, and there’s green everywhere, and air is popping around Tom as he’s
squeezed out of his body. And everything around him is dark, and he’s drifting, and he can’t
move, and he can’t breathe —

Tom wakes up with a stifled scream.

The sky is exploding. His room is flashing. Rain is rattling his windows. Tom is scared, but if
he cries, only Miss Elinor will come, and she’s not the person he wants, so he doesn’t make a
sound.

Clutching his blanket, Tom crawls out of bed. He pads out of his room, and after hesitating,
pushes open the door to Harry’s room.

The familiar scent fills his nose, and right away, he feels calmer. He loves the way Harry
smells, fresh and sweet like the way the air smells after rain.
Harry’s bed is neatly made. Tom swallows and glances over his shoulder. He’s doing
something he shouldn’t do, and Miss Elinor may scold him tomorrow, but tonight he doesn’t
care.

He lifts and crawls under the covers. Hugging his blanket, he closes his eyes, imagining he’s
safe and warm in Harry’s arms.

When he falls asleep, the man with the red eyes doesn’t come back.

* * *

Tomorrow, Harry will board the Hogwarts Express for the last time. The Quidditch final has
been won, the N.E.W.T.s are done, and his dorm room of seven years looks as though a
tornado has torn through after the mad rush to pack belongings and mementos into trunks.

Before joining his friends for celebratory drinks in Hogsmeade, Harry takes a walk around
Hogwarts, filled with a possessive desire to say goodbye to his beloved school alone.

The grounds are expansive, and in theory, he can take a broom, since no one is going to
deduct House points at this point. Yet it somehow feels more meaningful to do his final tour
on foot, to stitch each step more securely onto the fabric of memory. He may visit — in fact,
he knows he will — but it will be as an alum, a parent or maybe as a professor. Never again
as a student. Hogwarts won’t be his home the way it has been for seven wonderful years.

He passes by the front lawn, where he’d spent sunny afternoons lounging with his friends.

(Where he drew support for his anti-Muggle campaign, setting the foundation for his
ascendance in the house of his ancestors.)

He passes by the Quidditch pitch, where he found reprieve from his responsibilities as the
Boy Who Lived.

(Where he crafted the magic that would one day allow him to take to the sky unassisted.)

He passes by the Forbidden Forest, where he’d witnessed a man drink from a unicorn, heard
cryptic predictions from centaurs, and escaped from acromantulas.

(Where he spent hours exploring after patrolling, in order to catalogue and study the magical
creatures and plants that could further his power.)

At last, Harry stops at Black Lake, where he and Tom Riddle caught their first glimpse of
Hogwarts as orphans newly inducted to the wizarding world. They’d trodden the same
grounds, taken many of the same steps, but embarked on two different paths, two different
lives. One not fully begun, one derailed too soon, and both imbuing Harry with an
indescribable melancholy.
He looks across the water. Night has fallen, and the calm surface of the lake reflects the sky
so faithfully that the glittery tapestry of stars seems to stretch on without limit. A vastness of
possibilities. Of uncertainties.

It’s frightening.

Hermione wasn’t wrong when she accused him of being directionless. He doesn’t know what
will come next, or what should come next. Perhaps it’s because he was raised to sacrifice
himself for the greater good, and that north star no longer exists. Or perhaps not all of him
came back from limbo, and like Voldemort, he was reborn into someone who doesn’t wholly
belong anywhere.

Footsteps rustle the grass. “There you are,” Ginny says, sidling up. “How was your walk?”

He doesn’t turn. “It was nice.”

She wraps her arm around his waist and rests her chin on his shoulder. They study their
entwined reflection.

“Hey,” she says, “we had a good time here, didn’t we?”

Harry nods, throat tightening.

“But there are better times ahead, you’ll see.”

He nods again. Ginny kisses his cheek.

“Everyone’s waiting at Hog’s Head. Are you ready?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

She slips her hand into his. He lets her.

Harry is coming home today.

Tom sets down the watering can and surveys the garden. The tomato plants have yellow
flowers, and some of the flowers are turning into baby tomato fruits. The marigolds are
blooming, and their bright orange flowers do look like little suns, although he’s disappointed
they don’t burn.

Everything looks perfect.

He turns to leave, then catches something moving out of the corner of his eye. There is
another bee.

It’s in a puddle, except it must not know how to swim because it’s fluttering around, trying to
get out.

Tom’s lips curl. Why is it so stupid, so weak ?

 He sneaks a glance at the door. Miss Elinor isn’t here. Good. He doesn’t want her to wave her
wooden stick to help the bee, the way Harry tried to do.

He bends. The bee is still struggling, desperate to survive. How annoying. Weak things don’t
deserve to live.

“Drown,” Tom whispers. “Drown.”

The powerful feeling stirs inside. Tom tries to grab it so he can push the bee deeper into the
water. But the bee is still alive, because the walls won’t let him hurt it.

Wait. What if the bee hurts itself?

Tom recalls the diagrams of animals in Harry’s books. He recalls the structure of a bee’s
body. He imagines he is the bee.

He imagines having antennas and compoundeyes and legs. He imagines fluttering delicate
wings to stay afloat. He imagines giving up and letting the water carry him away.

The bee shivers and stops moving. It sinks to the bottom of the puddle.

Tom studies the body. He waits until he’s sure it won’t ever move again and begins to smile.
This is even more satisfying than growing a garden.

“Tom!”

Tom jumps and spins around. Miss Elinor is right behind him. Has she seen? Is she going to
tell Harry?

But she’s looking at the marigolds. “Such lovely flowers. Are you picking some for Harry?”

Tom shakes his head and almost rolls his eyes. What a stupid question. Hurting the flowers
will make Harry sad.

“Well, come inside to clean up a bit. Harry is on his way.”

“Okay!”

As soon as she’s out of sight, Tom begins filling the puddle with fistfuls of dirt. It doesn’t
take long, and he pats the top of the pile, just to be extra sure. Unless Harry looks very
carefully — and Tom will make sure he doesn’t — he won’t be able to tell that there was a
puddle with a dead bee.

Pleased, Tom dusts his hands on his trousers. Then he runs inside the house.

He simply can’t wait to show Harry their beautiful garden.

Chapter End Notes

The bulk of the time I spent on this chapter went into gardening research. I hope the
result is realistic! If anything’s amiss, let’s chalk it up to magic :P

I agonized a bit over whether Harry should join the Aurors, but the plot needs him to
garden with Tom. Which certainly makes Tom very happy :)
 Play
Chapter Summary

The boys begin living together.

Chapter Notes

Thank you everyone as always :)

In the last chapter, I wasn’t clear about whether Harry saw Tom’s memory during his
first time with Ginny. He did see it, but he wasn’t reacting to it partly because he was
used to these visions, and partly because he was a bit detached. Hope this helps. I may
edit in the future for clarity.

Please enjoy the update!

Update: 1st July 1999

Estimated biological age: 2 year 6 months

* * *

For the first two weeks of July, Harry and his friends embrace the freedom of adulthood.

London, with its diverse neighborhoods, proves to be the ideal playground. They search for
the best bakery in Hampstead, admire the overpriced boutiques in Mayfair, and grab pints in
grimy Shoreditch pubs, where Harry and Hermione laugh at Ron and Ginny’s uneven
attempts to fit in with Muggles. Sometimes, they take day trips, trading the urban skyline for
picturesque Cotswolds villages, where Harry never fails to find esoteric souvenirs for Tom
and Teddy.

Inevitably, the outings end, with Hermione and Ginny returning to Camden, Ron to
Hogsmeade, and Harry to Grimmauld Place. Fortunately, Grimmauld Place is no longer the
gloomy abode of the past. It has transformed into an actual home, thanks especially to
Harry’s new housemate.
Living full-time with Tom is different from visiting, and from the week they spent together
over Easter holiday, because Harry can witness firsthand the little boy changing every day.
Physically, Tom is tall for his biological age, with long but not coltish limbs. Personality-
wise, he is inquisitive, absorbing everything like a sponge. Increasingly, Harry senses the
presence of Tom’s magic, entangled with his own, as well as Tom’s occasional attempts to
access it. So far, the bond has easily held firm.

Elinor is unsurprised by the development. “Tom’s magic is strengthening as his body grows,”
she explains. “Thus, you may notice him tugging on his magic, and you may notice that his
aging is speeding up.”

Harry has. Despite being “born” around the same time, Tom’s development has far outpaced
Teddy’s.

“Is that cause for concern?”

“Not at the moment, although we should monitor him to see whether his memories are
returning. Have you seen any indication that they are?”

“No.” Harry’s response is immediate, defensive. “I haven’t.”

“I suppose it’s too soon to tell.”

Elinor’s tone is clinical, as if it’s a foregone conclusion that Tom will remember. Which, in
Harry’s opinion, is completely unfounded, because Tom hasn’t changed. He’s the same little
boy who enjoys reading and tends to the garden with care, who showers Harry with affection
and follows him like a shadow.

Harry will preserve Tom’s innocence for as long as he can. He won’t lose Tom to the ghost of
Voldemort.

The time has come for tomato harvest.

In full bloom, the garden is awash with vibrant colors. The yellow and orange of the
marigolds, in conjunction with the red of the ripening cherry tomatoes, contrast beautifully
against the green leaves and vines. Harry brims with pride at the thought that he and Tom
created this mini paradise.

Ever mindful to avoid using magic around Tom whenever possible, Harry uses a pair of
kitchen shears. “We have to make sure they’re ready first,” he tells Tom, who’s in charge of
the basket. “First look at the color. If it’s still a little green, it’s too young. Then you squeeze
it. It can’t be too hard or too soft. Look, this one is perfect.”

He snips the tomato in question and sets it in the basket.

Frowning in concentration, Tom inspects a few tomatoes before he points at one that meets
these specifications.

“This is perfect,” Harry praises, harvesting it as well. “You have a sharp eye.”
Glowing, Tom sets to work, and the basket fills quickly. Soon, he has to lift it with both arms
to maintain balance.

Noticing, Harry chuckles. “It’s heavy, isn’t it? You can set it on the ground. And here.” He
picks out an especially plump tomato from the basket and wipes it on his shirt. “Try one.”

With undisguised eagerness, Tom takes the proffered tomato. After examining it from every
angle, he sinks his teeth into the flesh, causing juice to dribble on his chin and stain his shirt.

“Do you like it?”

Rather than answering, Tom picks out another tomato, redder and plumper than the first, and
holds it up. Harry shakes his head with a smile and guides it back into the basket.

“I’m all right. We should save the rest of them for dinner.”

Put out by Harry’s refusal, Tom glances down at his half-eaten tomato with a scrunched nose.
Before Harry can urge him to finish it, he presses it to Harry’s mouth. Taken aback, Harry
eats it, reveling in the explosion of sweetness and tartness.

Tom doesn’t look away until Harry has finished swallowing his last bite and tells him it’s
delicious. Only then does he pat the basket, signaling his readiness to continue the harvest.

Hiding a smile, Harry obeys.

For dinner, Harry tests a simple garlic roasted tomatoes recipe shared by Mrs. Weasley. He
hasn’t cooked in years, so certain parts — like mincing garlic — are a struggle, particularly
without kitchen spells and the proper Muggle tools. Nevertheless, he improvises, and once
the ingredients are ready, Tom stirs them together in a mixing bowl and spreads them neatly
onto the baking sheet.

The end result looks appetizing, even if Harry may be a tad biased. Roasting darkened the red
of the tomatoes, while garlic and olive oil lent them a golden hue and a mouthwatering smell.

While the tomatoes cool, Tom perches on the kitchen counter, as if he can change their
temperature by sheer force of will. When he’s not paying attention, Harry casts a covert
Cooling Charm so he doesn’t have to wait too long.

“Here you go.” He offers Tom a big spoonful. “But be careful not to burn yourself, okay?”

Tom eats the tomatoes in one bite, and as he chews, his eyes widen and cheeks twitch.

“Does it taste okay?” Harry asks anxiously, unsure how to parse his reaction.

“Yes!” Tom replies in a loud voice and licks his lips.

Curiously, he doesn’t offer any to Harry, and monopolizes the tomatoes at the dinner table,
which is rather uncharacteristic of someone who generally has great table manners.
Supposing Tom must really enjoy the dish, Harry doesn’t mind. They still have half the
garden to harvest, so he can always make more. However, Elinor views it differently.

“Good boys should share, Tom,” she admonishes. “Harry worked hard to make the dish for
everyone. Won’t you please let us try some?”

Tom throws her an assessing look and, begrudgingly, nudges the baking pan towards her.
Elinor spoons some tomatoes onto her plate, takes a dainty bite, and almost immediately,
coughs into her napkin.

“Harry,” she says after recovering, “I absolutely think you should try some of the tomatoes.”

Bemused, Harry looks from Elinor, whose mouth is quivering, to Tom, whose jaw is set in
defiance.

He’s not that bad of a cook, and Tom ate so many of them. What could go wrong?

Harry almost spits out his own bite. It’s so salty that it’s borderline inedible. He must’ve
somehow mixed up tablespoons and teaspoons.

Swallowing painfully, he lowers his fork. Across the table, Tom has barely blinked, and his
knuckles have whitened around his own fork.

Harry makes a show of smacking his lips. “It is delicious,” he announces. “We should
definitely make more!”

Elinor audibly winces.

Meanwhile, Harry flashes a grin at Tom, who visibly relaxes and returns the grin, cementing
their pledge as co-conspirators. His spirits rise. There’s nothing to worry about. Tom is
definitely the same Tom.

Dinner concludes peacefully, and nobody reacts when Harry bins the remaining tomatoes.

Harry’s idyllic holiday doesn’t last. By mid-July, he’s lost his friends to their new priorities.
Ron and Hermione start work, he at the joke shop and she in Unspeakable training. Other
friends travel; Ginny and Luna embark on their grand European adventure, while Andromeda
takes Teddy to visit his grandparents in Dover.

At Grimmauld Place, he’s becoming restless. Outside of Tom and Elinor, the only people he
sees are the visiting Aurors and Healers, but their interactions are by design limited. And
Tom, though clever, cannot hold a proper conversation yet.

Nor can he take refuge outside. Now that the tomatoes are harvested and the marigolds
grown, there isn’t much to do in the garden until late summer. And while he can and does
explore London on his own, he keenly feels the absence of his friends. Sometimes, he wishes
he stuck to the original plan of sharing a flat with friends.
Honestly, he’s not sure how Tom survived nearly a year of this monotony. A child should get
to play with others his age, not be stuck in a house of indifferent strangers. Harry enjoyed
tagging along with Aunt Petunia and Dudley to the local play park. Sometimes, he would
play with other ostracized kids. Other times, he would play on the swing, learning to propel
himself into motion from stillness so he could pretend to fly.

The rickety swing of his childhood inspires a crazy idea that he pitches to Elinor, anticipating
pushback. He’s not disappointed.

“Take Tom to the park so he can socialize,” she repeats in a tone that suggests Harry
proposed setting a manticore loose on unicorn foals. “I mean no offense, Harry, but I cannot
see how this will be a good idea.”

She does listen, albeit with obvious skepticism, as Harry outlines how such an outing would
work. At least, she says, “I appreciate the thought you’ve put into this, though I retain my
doubts. Ultimately, I’m not at liberty to decide. You will have to appeal to the minister.”

Kingsley’s initial response to his request is equally unenthusiastic. “This is not a trivial
request, Harry,” he says heavily. “There is the issue of public safety, first of all. You
remember what Voldemort has done.”

“ Tom hasn’t done anything,” Harry argues. “He’s never shown any sign of aggression at
home, and besides, isn’t the whole point of the bond to keep him in control? We can even
make sure he has to remain within a certain physical distance of me.”

“There’s also the possibility that his existence will leak, not only to the public, but to former
Death Eaters at large.”

“The Lestranges were last sighted in May. If they are still near London, wouldn’t the Aurors
have caught them by now? I know they’ve been patrolling.”

Kingsley purses his lips, unimpressed by the jab at his colleagues’ competence.

“We will go to a Muggle play park and wear disguises,” Harry adds. “Nobody will recognize
us.”

“Please help me understand, Harry.” Kingsley pinches the bridge of his nose. “What purpose
are you trying to achieve by taking Voldemort to the park?”

“Tom needs to spend more time outdoors.”

“Was that not the intent of gardening?”

“But gardening isn’t the same. Tom needs to socialize with other kids for his development.”

“You want Voldemort to socialize with other kids for his development,” Kingsley repeats.
Like Elinor, he makes the request sound ridiculous. Harry can practically see the tired refrain
flashing above his head: why does it matter?

Indeed, why does the childhood of a condemned man matter?

Fortunately, it works the other way too. If Tom’s childhood doesn’t matter, why not take the
humane route?

“Please.” Harry is growing a little desperate. “Could we try just once? If it doesn’t go well, I
won’t ask again.”

“I’m not sure we can risk the consequences of it not going well,” Kingsley says dryly.
“However, I can recognize a stubborn opponent, and I do admire your dedication in pursuing
your cause.” Harry holds his breath as he pauses. “Well, I can think of one possible
arrangement. Do you know St. James’s Park?”

“Yeah, it’s right near Buckingham Palace, isn’t it?”

“Precisely. Because of its location, Aurors are staffed in the vicinity at all times to protect the
royal family. If I recall correctly, it has a nice children’s play park. If we enhance the wards,
and staff additional Aurors, and you both wear disguises —”

Harry nods eagerly. “That sounds perfect!”

“Of course, I will need to talk to Robards first, and even then, I can only promise you an
hour.”

“That’s all I would need,” Harry says, grateful and relieved. If it goes well, maybe they can
find a longer-term arrangement. “If it’d be helpful for me to talk to Robards —”

“It’s best if I do. In exchange,” Kingsley says, leveling their eyes, “I am asking you for a
favor.”

Harry tenses. He’s always considered Kingsley to be too noble for backroom deals, but he
may have been naïve. No one can ascend in the political mire of the Ministry while remaining
pristine. Then again, Harry is asking for a sizable favor, and knowing Kingsley, the request
probably won’t be unreasonable. Another speech, at worst.

“What is it?”

“You may have read in the Daily Prophet that we have been working on a bill to reform
Azkaban.”

Harry nods. Kingsley has been pushing for the abolition of dementors, though progress has
been stalling. There always seems to be something — a new arrest, an unexpected
opposition, a riot in the prison — that forces a fresh negotiation of the terms.

“It’s been escalated to the Wizengamot, with a final hearing next month. We need to convince
them that dementors pose a real risk to public safety, so we have been looking for witnesses
to testify to that effect.”

“You’d like me to be one of them,” Harry realizes.

“Yes, hearing your perspective would be immensely helpful, given your past experience and
your, well, status.”
The mere thought of dementors sends chills down his spine, forcing him to fight back
shudders. Nearly getting his soul sucked out multiple times was certainly an experience. As
was hearing the echoes of his parents’ final moments. And Kingsley is asking him to be
vulnerable in front of the Wizengamot, with whom he hadn’t the best experience, and using
his status as the Boy Who Lived to seal the deal.

He feels tainted already.

Nevertheless, reforming Azkaban is the right thing to do. More meaningful than making
another speech to christen a new restaurant or something, that’s for sure. If helping Kingsley
means putting his inner demons on display for an afternoon, then fine, he can handle it.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I will help.”

Somewhat to his surprise, Kingsley regards him for a few beats too long. The signet rings on
his clasped hands gleam, the refracted light piercing. He exhales loudly.

“Thank you, I appreciate your collaboration. We’ll be in touch with the details on both
fronts.” Kingsley extends his hand. “It’s good seeing you, Harry. I hope you have a good
day.”

Harry shakes it, discomfited by subtle note in the older man’s tone that sounds uncomfortably
close to disappointment.

Harry tells Tom that they’re going to a play park.

“What’s a play park?” Tom wants to know.

“It’s like a giant garden with different equipment that you can play on with other kids.”

Tom isn’t sure what “equipment” means, or whether he wants to play with other kids, but he
trusts Harry. Because of Harry, this summer has already been the best summer of his life.
Well, he can’t remember other summers, but he knows it’s true. If going to a play park means
they spend time together, then he’s happy.

To get ready, Harry says they need to wear disguises. “We have to be safe from bad people,”
he explains, “and it will be our game! We can pretend to be other people for an hour. Won’t
that be fun?”

Tom doesn’t think so. His disguise has blonde hair and blue eyes, which makes him think of a
prince, and he doesn’t want to be a prince, because princes don’t do anything other than ride
horses and eat feasts and save princesses. That’s so boring.

But he doesn’t like Harry’s disguise even more. With red hair and brown eyes and freckles,
Harry looks like a stranger. Tom misses his Harry already. At least Harry still sounds the
same, and an hour isn’t very long.

Holding Harry’s hand, Tom leaves the house by the front door for the first time. Miss Elinor
holds out an umbrella and tells them to grab on, even though it’s not raining. When Tom
touches it, a strong gust of wind tugs him into the sky and far away from the house. Only
knowing Harry is right next to him keeps Tom from screaming.

The wind stops. They’re behind a big bush. Still clutching his hand, Tom follows Harry out
of their hiding place. The first thing he notices is the people. They are everywhere, in all sizes
and colors, talking and walking and laughing and shouting.

“Would you like to see the sandpit?”

Harry is pointing somewhere, but Tom can’t respond. He’s having trouble breathing and his
heart is racing. There are too many bodies, too many sounds, too many feelings. He squeezes
his eyes shut and claps his hands to his ears, refusing to let them sweep him away.

Arms surround him and pull him against a solid chest. Harry’s chest. “I’m here,” Harry
whispers in his hair. “Breathe, Tom. Breathe.”

Tom tries to breathe in sync with him. In and out, in and out. The rise and fall of Harry’s
chest are steady and soothing. The other noises quiet. They were never important.

“I’m so sorry.”

Tom raises his head. Harry is kneeling so he’s only a little taller. His face is sad.

“I didn’t think about how a play park could be overwhelming for you,” Harry says, and his
voice sounds sad too. “Would you like to go home?”

Part of Tom does want to go home, where everything is safe and peaceful, but part of him is
curious about this new world. Most of all, he doesn’t want Harry to be sad because he thinks
he made Tom unhappy.

He shakes his head. “Stay.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asks. Tom nods firmly, and Harry’s eyes crinkle again. “Then let me
give you a tour.”

Now that he’s calmer, the park is less scary. It is like a huge garden, except instead of plants
and flowers, there are trees, tall and green, and in the center, there’s a big round area filled
with yellow.

“It’s called a sandpit,” Harry says, leading Tom inside. “What you’re stepping on is called
sand. Because the sand is soft, you won’t hurt yourself if you fall.”

Sand is strange. It looks like little stones but flows like water. When Tom touches it, it feels
hard, but when he crunches it under his feet, it feels soft.

Harry points out other things and names them for Tom. There are stone bridges and rope
bridges. There are climbing walls and slides. There are levers that can move the sand. There
are swings that fly high in the air.
There are also lots of kids. Some of them are chasing each other. One or two look at Tom.
Tom stares back.

“Do you want to play with them?” Harry asks.

“No,” Tom replies immediately. “Play with Harry.”

“Okay, then how about we make a sandcastle together?”

Harry shows Tom how to move clumps of sand together and pat on them so they don’t lose
their shape. It doesn’t look too different from gardening, and sand feels nicer in Tom’s hands
than soil. It’s smoother and warmer, and his hands feel less dirty after touching it.

Sadly, sand isn’t as easy to mold as clay. It doesn’t stay together, and if Tom presses too hard,
it collapses. In the end, what they built doesn’t look like a castle. It looks like a group of
lopsided mountains. No one will want to live in that.

“Well, that’s good enough for now,” Harry says. He doesn’t sound disappointed. “Do you
want to try something else? We still have time.”

Tom glances around the play park again. He’s curious about the swings, but they are all full,
and there’s a woman who has been looking at Harry a lot.

He tugs Harry’s hand and points in a random direction. “Go there.”

“There” is a lake, silvery and shimmery under the cloudy sky. On the other side, Tom sees a
huge, beautiful house, which Harry says is the palace where the queen lives. Tom didn’t
know that queens existed outside storybooks. Maybe he can visit someday.

In the water, birds are swimming. They are bigger than the birds Tom sees outside his
window, with gray, striped feathers and big beaks that make quacking sounds. Occasionally,
they flap their wings and fly a little bit before they land in the water again. Tom has never
seen birds that can swim and fly. Impressed and jealous, he stares at them — hard — but they
don’t come closer.

They don’t spend too long by the lake before they have to go. They return to their hiding
place behind the big bush. Miss Elinor is waiting with the umbrella. This time, the wind is
less scary, and a few seconds later, Tom is in front of the house again.

“Did you have fun?” Harry asks as he leads Tom inside.

“Yes,” he says hesitantly.

“Would you like to go again?”

“With Harry?”

“Of course. We can try the bridges or the swings next time, and maybe we can bring some
bread for the ducks. You want to see them better, right?”
Tom thinks about it. While he still prefers home, the sandpit was pretty fun, and he’s
definitely interested to learn more about the birds called ducks.

Most importantly, Harry is chewing his lips, so he must be worried that Tom didn’t enjoy the
park. It’s a good thing Tom knows how to make him happy again.

Tom gives Harry a big smile. “Yes!”

Sure enough, Harry smiles back, and Tom basks in its brightness.

* * *

It’s Harry’s birthday. On birthdays, according to Miss Elinor, people turn a year older, and
everyone else has to be extra nice and give them presents. That’s why she makes treacle
sticky buns for breakfast. Harry is always excited to eat them.

Tom can’t bake. Well, he can’t make any type of food yet. So he draws Harry a picture. In it,
he and Harry are in the garden, surrounded by red tomatoes and orange marigolds. It’s not a
great picture, because the picture Harry doesn’t look like the real Harry. No crayon has the
same beautiful green as Harry’s eyes.

However, Harry is happy to see the picture. “You drew it for me? That’s a lovely surprise.”

Tom can tell Harry isn’t lying, because Harry notices all the details. Such as Tom dressing
their picture selves in matching jumpers, or including the funny-looking scar on Harry’s
forehead. When he finishes admiring it, he places Tom’s drawing carefully inside a large
book so it doesn’t wrinkle.

“Thank you,” he tells Tom. “This is a great birthday present. I’ll always treasure it.”

Tom beams. “Harry,” he says, leaning against him, “do I have a birthday?”

He’s just curious. He doesn’t need a birthday because Harry is nice and buys him presents all
the time.

“You do. It’s…in the winter.”

Tom doesn’t understand why Harry stiffens, why his voice turns funny, and why his mouth
droops. Maybe that was a bad question, so he swallows his other questions. He won’t upset
Harry on his birthday.

For lunch, they have soup and salad that Miss Elinor made with Tom and Harry’s tomatoes.
Her dishes taste delicious because she’s a better cook, but Tom will never tell Harry that.
After eating, Tom follows Harry to the drawing room, where they usually read together until
naptime. They have been reading a book about a boy who goes to a magical chocolate
factory, which always leaves Tom feeling hungry.

For some reason, reading today makes Tom feel dizzy and his eyelids feel heavy. Even sitting
straight is hard, so he rests his head on Harry’s lap and whimpers.

Harry stops reading and presses his hand against Tom’s forehead. It’s cool and soothing, and
Tom leans into it.

“You’re a bit warm,” Harry says. “Let’s stop here so you can rest. Hopefully you’ll feel better
after your nap.”

Tom mumbles a response. His eyes are already closing, and he’s only vaguely aware of Harry
laying him down on the couch and pulling a blanket over him.

When his eyes open again, he’s in his bedroom. A lot of time must’ve passed, because it’s
dark outside his windows. However, Tom doesn’t feel better. In the morning, only his head
hurts. Now, everywhere hurts: his throat, his arms, his legs.

Next to his bed, Harry and Miss Elinor are talking. “He’s running a temperature,” Miss Elinor
says. “He may have picked up a bug from the play park.”

“I shouldn’t have taken him outside.”

“Please do not blame yourself, Harry. It’s normal for kids to frequently get sick at this age
while they build up their immune system. He’ll recover in no time, and you should enjoy
your birthday party.”

The birthday party! Tom has forgotten that Harry has a party with his friends. There’s always
lots of food at a party, Harry told him, and he promised to bring back cake and sweets for
Tom. But that means Harry will leave.

“Don’t,” he mumbles, struggling to sit up. “Don’t.”

Harry immediately turns to him. “Tom, take it easy.” He helps Tom to lean against the
headboard. “How are you feeling?”

“Bad.”

Miss Elinor holds out a mug. “Drink this, it will help you feel better.”

Tom wrinkles his nose. Whatever is in the mug smells a little like plant food. But Harry is
watching, so he takes a few sips before he can’t stand the terrible taste anymore.

“You can finish the rest later,” Harry says, setting the mug aside. “Lie down again and get
more sleep.”

“Harry is leaving?” Tom whispers.

“Yes, but I’ll be back very soon. And remember, I will bring cake for you.”

Tom doesn’t care about cake right now. He only wants Harry to stay with him. Don’t go, Tom
tries to say, but he’s feeling tired again.

Harry tucks him snugly under his blankets and tells him goodbye. Then he and Miss Elinor
are gone.

Hugging his favorite blanket close, Tom stares up at the ceiling, where shadows are dancing
against the green paint. He can make out a branch, which turns into a claw, which turns into a
scary smile.

The room blurs.

He’s in a different bed, and the air smells sharp, like someone used too much soap. (“The
doctor doesn’t think he will make it through the night,” Mrs. Cole says. “Perhaps that will be
a mercy.”)

He’s lying in a cupboard, a bitter taste on his tongue. (“Please don’t leave me!” he begs, but
the darkness swallows his words. The door slams shut behind Aunt Petunia and the lock
clicks into place.)

He’s under the stars, surrounded by dead bodies. The man with the red eyes isn’t here, but
Harry is, and he’s pointing his magic wand at Tom, looking furious.

“Don’t, it’s me, it’s me!” Tom pleads.

“Avada kedavra!” Harry shouts.

Green flames burst out from his wooden stick, and everything is on fire, and Tom is in the
center, burning, burning, burning…

Tom screams.

His room starts screaming too and the walls tremble. His door slams open and Miss Elinor
bursts inside, followed by two strangers.

“Tom, are you all right?” She hurries over to feel his forehead. “You’re burning up again.”

Tom twists away. “Harry!”

“Harry isn’t here right now, but —”

“No, I want Harry. I WANT HARRY.”

“Tom, please, Harry will be upset if you misbehave,” she says, reaching for him again. “You
need to lie down.”

Normally, the wish to not upset Harry would calm Tom down, but that doesn’t matter right
now, because Tom has already upset Harry. That’s why Harry isn’t here anymore. That’s why
Harry wants to kill him.

Tom starts sobbing. He needs to see Harry. He needs to make sure that he isn’t hurt and isn’t
angry with Tom.

“Harry,” he chokes out. “I want Harry.”

“Harry will be back soon. Drink this, it will help you feel better.”

Miss Elinor presses a mug to his mouth. Tom flings it away so that it shatters against the
wall.

“Tom!”

Tom cries harder. “Harry, please, I want Harry. I want him now!”

“Miss Kent, maybe we should put him to sleep —”

“That’s not an option.” Miss Elinor’s voice is sharp. “Have you forgotten what happened to
Fawley?”

“Then what should we do?”

“Floo the Burrow and ask for Mr. Potter. Now. ”

Someone runs out of the room.

“Don’t worry, Harry is coming now. Harry will be here soon.”

Miss Elinor moves to tuck Tom under the cover, but he snaps his teeth at her. She takes a step
backward, and Tom notices more people have come into his room. Everyone is standing far
away, and a few of them duck their heads when they catch him looking.

They’re scared of him, he realizes with a thrill. Such useless, weak creatures.

His power is crashing against the walls again, but they feel different, because someone is on
the other side, talking. Tom concentrates, feeling along the walls to hear the voice better.
There! There it is. He can hear Harry, and hear him so clearly that he can imagine he’s right
here.

I’m coming, Tom.

Tom isn’t sure why Harry would be outside his walls, but he doesn’t care. The important
thing is that Miss Elinor wasn’t lying. Harry truly will be here soon, and then everything will
be all right.

Tom holds onto that promise.

I’m coming.
The atmosphere at the Burrow is festive. Mrs. Weasley has prepared Harry’s favorite dishes,
including an elaborate triple chocolate cake topped with a miniature Quidditch pitch. All of
Harry’s closest friends have come, including Ginny and Luna, who Portkey from the Black
Sea Coast bearing Bulgarian fruit brandy and banitsa.

Yet, as he blows on his birthday candles to a chorus of Happy Birthday, he can’t stop
worrying about Tom. It hurts to see the normally alert boy lethargic and helpless. If Mrs.
Weasley hadn’t spent so much effort preparing and some of his friends hadn’t traveled so far,
he would’ve stayed at Tom’s bedside.

It will be fine, he reassures himself. The party will last at most one or two more hours, and
when Tom wakes up in the morning, he’ll be delighted to have birthday cake.

The dull thrum in his forehead doesn’t cease.

After dinner, while everyone lounges in the orchard, George and Angelina showcase the
newest Harry Potter-themed firecracker collection from Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes,
already a top seller thanks to legions of schoolgirl fans, to Harry’s chagrin. Teddy has fun
chasing after the Snitches that zoom in zigzags before disappearing into golden puffs of
smoke, and baby Victoire claps in delight as a miniature hippogriff fires off a sequence of
somersaults before turning into candyfloss.

“Harry, dear, there’s someone from the Ministry who needs to talk to you.” Mrs. Weasley,
who headed into the kitchen to retrieve a new batch of desserts, emerges with a frown. “It
sounds quite urgent. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, thank you!”

Harry practically dashes into the kitchen. The head of a harried Healer is waiting in the
fireplace. “We’re sorry to disturb your evening,” she apologizes, before updating him on
Tom’s condition. His fever has worsened and he’s throwing a tantrum, asking specifically for
Harry and refusing help from anyone else.

“Please tell Miss Kent I’ll be right there,” Harry says without hesitation.

“Thank you very much.”

As soon as the Healer disappears, Harry reaches for the canister of Floo powder on the
mantel. It would be rude to depart without saying goodbye, but time is of the essence.
Hopefully a Patronus message will suffice for now, and tomorrow, he will give the Weasleys
a proper apology.

“You’re skipping your birthday, mate?”

Harry whirls around. He hasn’t realized his best friends have followed and possibly
overheard the conversation. Well, there’s no point lying, even if they will disapprove.

“I’m sorry. Tom’s sick, so I have to leave.”

Hermione frowns. “Doesn’t Voldemort have Healers to take care of him?”

“He does, but he only wants me.”

Ron and Hermione exchange a look. Realizing how that must sound to them, Harry braces
himself for battle.

“Regardless,” Ron says slowly. “You can’t leave without saying anything to Mum.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I’ll make it up —”

“So let us help with that,” Ron finishes.

“Yes, we will come up with an excuse. It will probably be better than anything you come up
with.”

At Hermione’s wink, Harry slumps in relief. “Thank you. Thank you. You’re both amazing.”

“Think you can come back later?” Ron asks. “George wants to do a pub crawl in your honor.”

“Maybe,” Harry says, although he doubts he’d join. Tom will know if Harry leaves him
behind a second time, and he refuses to betray that precious trust.

Hermione seems to guess as much. “We’ll distract George. You take care of yourself.”

She gives him a hug, and Ron joins in, so the three of them hold each other before they break
apart, exchanging sheepish looks at the impromptu display of affection.

“Happy birthday again, mate,” Ron says. “Hermione and I better get out there before Mum
starts to worry.”

“Keep your Floo open,” Hermione adds. “We’ll come visit tomorrow.”

We need to talk, Harry hears, but he doesn’t have time to unravel her words. Tom needs him.

After giving his friends one last grateful smile, he throws a handful of Floo into the fire.
“Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place!”

I’m coming, Tom. I’m coming.

The Healer wasn’t exaggerating. Harry can feel Tom’s distress the instant he stumbles out of
the fireplace, and it continues rolling towards him in waves as he rushes up the stairs.

Tom’s room has the eerie stillness of a tyrant’s court. Elinor and the Healers stand in a circle
around the bed, most of them cowering in poorly disguised terror. The floor is littered with
glass shards, the air permeated with the cloying scent of medicinal potion.

“Thank you for coming on short notice,” Elinor says. Everyone else, looking relieved,
shuffles to make a path.

Harry gives her a quick nod and kneels beside the bed. “Tom, I’m here.”
To his surprise, Tom bursts into tears. “Harry!” he chokes out, his ragged voice betraying
prolonged screaming. “Don’t hurt me!”

“Hurt you?” Harry whips his head over his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

His tone is more severe than intended, as the confrontation with Fawley is still raw. While
Elinor knows better than to mistreat Tom, her team may not.

The older woman is unruffled. “He’s most likely had a bad dream. Children at his age have
trouble distinguishing between dream and reality, and fevers can render dreams more lurid
than normal.”

That makes sense, as Harry can relate too well to the terror of nightmares. “You’re safe,” he
tells Tom, grasping his hands. “You’re safe with me.”

“Don’t hurt me!” Tom digs fingernails into Harry’s skin. “Don’t kill me. I’m sorry!”

“I won’t hurt you. I would never hurt you. You know that.”

“But you’re angry.” Tom’s nails are leaving angry scratches, but Harry doesn’t pull away.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”

“It’s just a bad dream,” Harry says soothingly. “It’s not real.”

“But I see you. You hate me. You kill me.”

“Tom, look at me.” Harry pulls Tom into his arms and leans so that their foreheads graze.
“Please look at me. I would never —”

Their eyes meet, and in that instant, Harry sees what Tom saw.

The Great Hall, smoldering from wayward curses.

Two prophesied enemies, circling each other in a final confrontation.

A rebounded spell, bathing everything in green light.

He remembers.

Panic seizes Harry. All of a sudden, the body he’s holding becomes the dried up husk of
Voldemort. An inhuman face peers up, pupils blown wide with hatred and feral grin forever
frozen.

Then Tom stirs, and Voldemort disappears. A young boy remains, eyes red-rimmed and
cheeks flushed, seeking comfort in Harry’s embrace.

“Harry,” he hiccups, hugging him.

Harry hugs him just as fiercely, just as terrified to lose him. Tom has only seen Harry’s
memories, he tells himself, the same way Harry can see Tom’s. It doesn’t mean Voldemort is
back.

“I don’t hate you, Tom,” he says. “I can never hate you.”

The second part slips out unbidden, a promise too heavy to make in the heat of the moment,
and yet, a promise Harry will not retract.

“Never?”

“Never,” Harry replies firmly, and their entwined magic settle over them, resonating with his
sincerity. “I want you to be happy. I care about you.”

To prove his point, Harry presses a kiss against Tom’s burning forehead. With a soft gasp,
Tom burrows closer, seeking to mold their bodies completely. Harry buries his face in Tom’s
sweaty hair and strokes his back until the boy’s tremors cease.

At long last, Harry pulls away. “Do you believe me now?” Tom nods. “Do you trust me?” He
nods again. “Then let me take care of you.”

Meekly, Tom allows Harry to put a cool compress on his forehead and feed him a fresh mug
of potions. After finishing every last drop, he lies back on the bed, never once moving his
gaze away from Harry’s face.

“Thank you, Harry,” Elinor says. “We can take it from here —”

“No!” A small hand shoots out and clasps Harry’s wrist with astonishing strength for a
toddler. “Don’t go.”

“Tom, Harry needs to rest —”

“No! NO!”

“It’s all right,” Harry cuts in, not wanting to agitate Tom again. “I’ll stay with him.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. You and your team must be exhausted yourselves. I can watch over him.”

To underline his point, Harry moves to sit in the bedside chair formerly occupied by Elinor.

“No! Not chair! Harry stays here.” Imperiously, Tom pats the space beside him, invitation
clear.

Harry hesitates, sensing he’d cross a line if he joins Tom in bed, a line for which there exists
no return. But he’s too exhausted to deny Tom anything, and deep down inside, some part of
him doesn’t want to.

Slowly, self-consciously, he perches on the edge of the bed. When Tom’s dark expression
doesn’t clear, he swings his legs onto the bed as well. When Tom still looks unsatisfied, he
lowers himself down until he’s lying on top of the covers.
Even with the blankets as a barrier, there’s no question that some part of this is inappropriate.
Harry sneaks a glance at Elinor. Her face, as always, is inscrutable. However, her eyes linger,
clearly noting the way Tom has scooted to Harry’s side of the bed and thrown an arm over his
midriff to cage him in place.

He doesn’t want to imagine what everyone else in the room must be thinking.

“We will be fine,” he tells Elinor, hoping his faked nonchalance is somewhat believable.

“Very well.” She refills Tom’s mug with a tap of her wand. “I’ll leave additional medicine
here in case Tom needs it during the night. Is there anything else that I can do for you?”

“No, thank you.”

“Please do not hesitate to alert me at any point. Otherwise, I shall see you in the morning.
May I turn off the light?”

“Yes, please. Thanks.”

She extinguishes the light and, after a last gaze, ushers her team out of the room. The door
shuts gently behind her.

At once, Harry feels Tom relax.

“You’re okay now,” he says softly. “Go to sleep. I’ll be here.”

“No leaving?”

“No, I won’t leave. Go to sleep.”

However, Tom appears to be wide awake. Haloed by moonlight and wearing a faint smile,
he’s content to watch Harry.

“Story,” he says. “Tell me story.”

“Story?” They don’t normally do bedtime stories. “Which book should we read? Should we
continue the one with the chocolate factory?”

“Not book. Want story.”

“Er, all right. Let me see. Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess —”

“Not princess. Want boy.”

Fair enough. It’s probably hard for Tom to identify with the likes of Cinderella. Harry
restarts. “Once upon a time, there was a boy named Jack —”

“No. Not Jack. The boy.”

Now Harry is truly perplexed. “Which boy?”

“The boy in cup-board.”

Harry gives Tom a sharp look. However, Tom’s eyes are guileless and earnest. “I see the boy
in cup-board,” he explains, pronouncing cupboard with deliberation. “Want to know him.”

Another dream, then. The constriction in Harry’s chest eases. Tom has probably seen the
cupboard in dreams and become curious, the way children are prone to do.

In general, Harry doesn’t enjoy looking back on his memories from Number Four, Privet
Drive. He doesn’t enjoy reopening wounds that no amount of time can heal. Yet somehow, in
this moment, in this little sliver of the universe, with no one to bear witness but each other,
the past doesn’t seem so awful.

“Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived in a cupboard under the stairs,” Harry begins.
“For some reason, curious things always happen around him…”

Harry has stopped talking. Tom will have to learn about the friendly giant another time.

He cranes his neck to see Harry better. Asleep, Harry reminds him of an angel, except more
gentle, more beautiful. Gently, Tom reaches up to brush his face. For once, he doesn’t pull
away, and the softness of his skin makes Tom’s stomach flutter.

The mean and scary Harry wasn’t real after all. There’s only Tom’s Harry, who came back for
him, who would never hurt him. Who even kissed him. Tom touches his forehead,
remembering how Harry’s lips warmed him from inside out, but in a pleasant way, like
drinking hot chocolate.

It means Harry loves him, doesn’t it?

He wants more kisses from Harry. Lots more.

A big yawn escapes him. Oops. He claps a hand over his mouth, but luckily, Harry doesn’t
stir. However, he doesn’t look comfortable sleeping like this. His glasses must be digging
into his face, and what if he gets cold? Tom doesn’t want Harry to be sick too.

Putting the glasses away is easy. Keeping Harry warm isn’t. Tom tries to tug him under the
covers, but he’s not strong enough. He spreads his favorite blanket over Harry, but it’s not big
enough. Finally, he decides to use Harry’s chest as a pillow. Hopefully, he and the blanket
together will be warm enough.

Tom nestles close and tucks his head under Harry’s chin. “Good night, Harry,” he whispers
and, safe and comfortable at last, welcomes the darkness.
 Proclaim
Chapter Notes

Thank you everyone as always for your patience and support! Between real life and the
ever growing chapter length, this update took a bit longer than anticipated. I did the final
edit pass on four hours of sleep but hopefully caught all the typos.

Hope you enjoy :)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Update: 1st August 1999

Estimated biological age: 2 year 9 months

* * *

Harry awakens to the radiance of sunlight and the croon of birdsong. Another beautiful
summer day has dawned. Yawning, he tries to stretch before realizing Tom is draped over
him like his personal blanket, head in the crook of his neck and one arm curled around his
waist. At Harry’s movement, he whines and burrows closer.

Overcome by a dizzying wave of affection, Harry relaxes into Tom’s embrace. He’s never
slept in someone’s arms — not even Ginny’s — and the cocoon of warmth feels comforting.
Even if it’s inappropriate.

With some difficulty, Harry frees a hand to grab his glasses. His world returns to focus and,
as it often does nowadays, centers on Tom, his cherubic innocence heightened in slumber. His
eyes traces the curve of his cheeks, the curl of his eyelashes, the pout of his lips. Tenderly, he
brushes back Tom’s hair and feels his forehead. While it’s damp with sweat, the fever has
receded. Hopefully recovery is imminent with a few more potions and light meals.

As much as Harry wants to bask in this intimacy, he needs to be physically and mentally
ready for Ron and Hermione’s visit. He would’ve preferred not inviting them to Grimmauld
Place, but he didn’t have the presence of mind last night to suggest an alternate location.

After managing to disentangle from Tom without waking him, Harry returns to his own room
to shower and dress, and finishes in time to receive Hermione’s Patronus message that she
and Ron are on their way. Shortly after, the Floo in the drawing room flares to life, depositing
best friends who come bearing leftover cake, presents, and too much curiosity.
Harry leads them to the dining room, ostensibly to serve them breakfast, but also to distance
them as much as possible from Tom. Over Elinor’s rosemary scones, Ron and Hermione
update him on the rest of his birthday evening. They told Mrs. Weasley that Kingsley needed
help with a last-minute amendment to the dementor bill.

“Of course, she sent an angry message to Kingsley that you had to work on your birthday,”
Ron says, chuckling, “but he corroborated our story.”

“I still need to thank your mum for all the work that went into dinner,” Harry says.

“You can take her out to afternoon tea,” Hermione suggests. “I bet Mrs. Weasley hasn’t had
Muggle high tea before, and Claridge’s has a great menu.”

Harry agrees readily. Taking Mrs. Weasley out to fancy tea can’t begin to repay her kindness
over the past eight years.

Throughout their conversation, it doesn’t escape Harry that Ron and Hermione have been
looking around the neatly kept dining room, where the presence of a child is evident in the
high seat, the child-sized utensils in the cabinets, the little bibs hanging on the walls.

His friends linger after breakfast. Though their ulterior motive is evident, Harry can’t dismiss
them, so he takes them on an extended tour of the garden and peppers them with random
tomato trivia (“Did you know tomatoes are fruits and not vegetables?”). Maybe they’ll get
tired of hearing him prattle on, and leave before Tom wakes up.

No such luck.

Midway through a monologue on tomato varieties, the garden door slams open and a small
figure dashes out. “Harry!” Tom cries, flinging himself into Harry’s arms.

“Tom!” Harry says, automatically returning the hug. “You shouldn’t be outdoors when you’re
sick.”

“I apologize.” Elinor is following behind. “Tom was upset when he couldn’t find you, and I
could not convince him to stay in his room.”

“That’s all right.” Harry runs a soothing hand down Tom’s back. “Don’t worry, I’m here.”

By now, Tom has noticed Ron and Hermione, who are staring in open curiosity. He doesn’t
move away from Harry. Rather, face clouding with suspicion, he shifts to use his body as a
barrier between them and Harry.

“Tom, it’s fine. They are my friends.” Glancing over at Ron and Hermione, he clears his
throat. “Um, this is Tom, and this is Miss Kent, his caretaker.”

“It’s a pleasure meeting you,” Elinor says with a smile. “Harry has said wonderful things
about you both.”

“And Tom, meet Ron and Hermione. They brought us cake. Isn’t that nice?”
Ron is still gaping, but Hermione recovers. “Hello, Tom,” she says, half-raising her hand.
“Nice to meet you.”

Tom says nothing and ignores her invitation to a handshake. Hermione’s friendly smile
wavers.

“He’s, um, shy,” Harry says, though shyness is an excuse. Tom is merely treating Hermione
with the same indifference he directs to everyone who isn’t Harry.

She lowers her hand slowly. “Right.”

For a moment, no one moves or speaks, creating an odd stalemate that Elinor mercifully
ends. “Well, Tom, you’ve seen Harry and met his friends,” she says briskly. “Let’s get you
washed up and ready for breakfast.”

Tom tightens his hold on Harry. “No!”

“Tom, please listen to Miss Elinor.” Harry kneels to his eye level and presses their foreheads
together. Instantly, Tom’s tension melts away, though his petulance remains. “Ron and
Hermione need to talk to me, but I’ll come to find you very soon. Then we’ll spend the rest
of the day together. Okay?”

“No leaving?”

“I won’t leave. I promise.”

Tom swallows and, to Harry’s relief, releases him. With one last look at Ron and Hermione
through narrowed eyes, he allows Elinor to lead him away.

Ron and Hermione stare after him, Ron’s jaw still half-dropped.

Harry exhales. It’s inevitable that his two worlds must collide, but that doesn’t reduce the
surreality of the situation.

“Shall we go to the drawing room?” he asks weakly, and once there, collapses onto the couch,
resigned to an incoming deluge of questions.

The cushions dip as his friends join him on either side.

“So,” Ron says. “That’s Voldemort.”

“Tom,” Harry corrects.

“Riddle, then. He seems so normal. Like some kid you’d push around in a pram or
something.”

“Tom is normal.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, mate.”

Harry winces at the slight edge in Ron’s tone. He didn’t mean to be insensitive about the loss
of Fred and so many other innocent lives, but he also refuses to recant his statement.

Ever the peacemaker, Hermione steps in. “He does seem normal. And quite attached to you,
Harry.”

Harry can’t help a small flicker of pleasure, even though that’s not Hermione’s intent. “Isn’t it
normal for children to get attached to their caretakers?”

“Maybe,” Ron says, “but I don’t see him caring much for Miss Kent.”

“You’re also very attached to him,” Hermione observes.

His friends’ judgmental undertones rankle Harry, as if there’s something abnormal at play. “I
don’t treat him any differently from how I treat Teddy,” he says, answering a different
question.

“Is that a good idea though? Riddle isn’t Teddy.”

“Exactly,” Ron says. “Riddle is Voldemort. What if he tries to hurt you despite everything
you’re doing when his memories come back?”

Harry clenches his hands, forcing his mind away from Voldemort in their past encounters.
Towering over him, terrorizing him, torturing him.

“What if his memories don’t come back?” he demands. “What if he makes better choices?”

“How would you be able to tell?” Hermione retorts. “Riddle was a skilled liar and
accomplished in mind magic.”

Unbidden, Harry sees the face in the back of Quirrel’s turban, extending an invitation with
the knowledge they were prophesied enemies who could never coexist; he sees the wraith in
the Chamber of Secrets looming over Ginny’s prone body, handsome and devastating as he
confesses, my newest target has been — you.

“I’ll cross that bridge when it comes,” he replies, unable to disguise the wobble in his voice.

Used to his stubbornness, Ron and Hermione do not pursue the subject, and instead steer
their conversation to safer waters. Hermione shares tidbits from her Unspeakable training in
soul magic and Ron previews upcoming joke shop products. Soon, they excuse themselves
for an upcoming luncheon with Hermione’s parents.

Harry sends them off with promises of meeting again soon. After they are gone, he curls up
on Tom’s favorite window seat, his mood shrouded in gloom. Everyone sees Tom as a
monster, but what exactly makes a monster? Are memories of atrocities committed in a
previous life sufficient? Is cruelty hard-wired into Tom’s psyche, waiting for the right
opportunity to emerge no matter the circumstances of his upbringing? Is Tom forever doomed
to be Voldemort?
For all of the unknowns, Harry is certain of one thing: Tom’s affection for him is real. He
sees it whenever he looks into Tom’s brown eyes, clear and open and sincere. He feels it
whenever they are together, flowing between them in a constant stream.

Will it be enough for his salvation?

The chiming of the grandfather clock rouses Harry from his thoughts. Tom is waiting.

Gathering himself and hoping the seams don’t show on his grafted smile, Harry heads
downstairs to find Tom.

Tom seems to have put Ron and Hermione’s visit out of his mind. At least, he makes no
mention of their visit.

Between naps, he and Harry spend the day on more sedentary activities, such as reading and
drawing. He’s starting to express the desire to read on his own, and Harry makes a mental
note to pick up a set of alphabet blocks during his next trip to Muggle London.

Night falls. After Elinor bathes and feeds Tom Fever-Reducing Potion, Harry tucks him into
bed, taking special care to fluff Tom’s beloved baby blanket. They really need to wash this
blanket, Harry thinks fondly, especially now that it will have germs from Tom’s fever. Maybe
he could convince Tom.

“Harry,” Tom says, his eyes bright and intent. “What’s a friend?”

“A friend?” Harry repeats.

“You said Ron and Hermione are your friends.”

“Oh.” Harry considers. “Friends are people who care about you, who will make you happy.”

“Make me happy?”

“Yes. Like telling you jokes, or spending time with you, or teaching you new things.”

“Are friends good ?”

Harry chuckles. “Absolutely. Without friends, we would be very lonely.”

Tom’s expression clouds as he grapples with the concept, one that was no doubt foreign to
Lord Voldemort.

(“Abraxas, your father said a curious thing at dinner.”

They are in the drawing room. The elder Malfoys have retired to bed, leaving them to sip
Dom Pérignon under the pretense of studying.

“What did Father say, my Lord?” Abraxas asks, posture stiffening at the undisguised
disapproval.
“He referred to me as your friend. I wonder where he might’ve gotten that impression.”

“But…are you not my friend?”

“No,” he says without hesitation. “Lord Voldemort has no friends. He has followers, of which
you are one of many.” He sets the champagne flute on the table and curls a finger over the
handle of his beloved wand, smirking as Abraxas cowers. “Do you understand?”

“Yes — yes, my Lord.”

“Do not forget your place.”

“No, my Lord, it won’t happen again.”

Abraxas is flushing with injured pride. However, he does not fear retribution from someone
so spineless, so lacking in magical prowess.

They all are, those pure-blood heirs who joined the Knights of Walpurgis to serve the lord
once scorned as a charity case. They’ve missed their chance to be his equal, not that they
have ever been worthy.

Lord Voldemort needs no one but himself.)

Tom grabs Harry’s hand. “Harry is my friend?”

“Of course.”

“And I’m Harry’s friend.”

“Yes.”

The beginning of a smile appears on Tom’s face before it sours into a scowl. “But they are
Harry’s friends?”

“They are.” Harry is amused that Tom finds the notion Ron and Hermione could also be his
friends offensive. “We can and usually should have more than one friend.”

“But I’m Harry’s best friend.”

“Yes, you absolutely are.” Grinning, Harry rises from the bedside chair. “And now, my best
friend, it’s time to say good night.”

Tom tightens his hold on Harry’s hand. “No sleeping here?”

“Not tonight. You’re a big boy, Tom, and big boys are brave enough to sleep on their own.”

Tom’s lower lip juts out, but he fortunately doesn’t press the issue, because Harry isn’t sure
he can enforce his boundary otherwise. Sharing the same bed isn’t something of which he
wants to make a habit.

Tom still hasn’t let go of Harry’s hand. “Kiss.”

“What?”

He points at his forehead. “Kiss me.”

Harry hesitates. The kiss last night had been an impulsive act to calm Tom, rather than the
intentional start to a daily ritual. Then again, a forehead kiss is quite innocuous, and no one is
here to judge.

“All right.” Harry presses a kiss to Tom’s forehead, letting his lips linger for a few seconds.
“Good night, Tom.”

Wearing a blissful expression, Tom finally releases Harry’s hand. “Good night.”

Harry extinguishes the light and slips out of the room, lips still tingling with the sensation of
the kiss.

* * *

As Elinor predicted, Tom recovers quickly, in part thanks to his growing reservoir of magic.
Out of caution, Harry keeps him indoors. In addition to their usual activities, he’s teaching
Tom to play with alphabet blocks. A quick learner, Tom has already mastered most of the
letters and is learning to spell short words.

The long indoor spell soon renders both of them restless. After catching Tom staring out the
window with growing frequency, Harry convinces Kingsley and Robards to let him take Tom
to the park again. They grant the request surprisingly easily. Perhaps they want the extra
incentive for Harry’s cooperation during the upcoming hearing, or perhaps they know Harry
will keep pestering them until they give in. Whatever it is, Harry won’t look a gift thestral in
the mouth.

The play park is more crowded than last time, given the pleasant weekend weather. They
briefly tour of the sandpit and try out some of the bridges, but Harry can tell that Tom still
finds the presence of other kids overwhelming. Since he doesn’t want to overexert Tom, they
go to the lake to see the ducks.

Harry has brought a loaf of bread, remnants of an underproofed and overbaked attempt at
sourdough baguette. Tom tears and tosses them with his usual methodicalness, and the ducks,
with their less discerning palate, tussle for every morsel.

A smile grows on Tom’s face as the ducks fight for his attention, and Harry can see him
favoring specific ducks, usually the ones that are especially colorful or aggressive. Harry
diverts his train of thought before it can delve too deeply into the parallel to Voldemort
presiding over his Death Eaters, deriving satisfaction by bestowing scraps of favor.

Nearby, a boy around his age tugs his mother’s hand. “Mum, can I have some bread?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think to bring any.”

“We can give you some,” Harry offers. “Can’t we, Tom?”

Clearly unwilling, Tom puffs his cheeks and tears a tiny morsel that’s hardly enough for a
duckling.

The boy receives the morsel, wrinkling his nose in bemusement, but the mother doesn’t
appear to mind and nudges her son. “Say thank you.”

Tom doesn’t react to the boy’s mumbled “thanks.” His eyes remain fastened on Harry until,
abruptly, he turns to the boy again.

“More bread,” he announces, tearing off a much larger piece and shoving it towards him.

“Oh, you’re such a thoughtful boy,” the mother says, smiling. “Say thank you.”

“Thanks,” the boy says, much more sincerely this time.

Praise again falls on deaf ears. Tom has returned his attention to Harry, tilting his head in
expectation.

Harry wraps his arm around him. “I’m proud of you,” he whispers, and he is. Hope is
blooming inside, as it did during gardening. Little by little, he can and will nudge Tom onto a
better path.

Tension seeps out of Tom at Harry’s praise. He leans against Harry to watch the mother and
son feed the ducks, until something in the grass draws his attention away.

Harry turns to Elinor, who has been knitting on a nearby bench, hoping she’s caught Tom’s
act of generosity.

She has indeed been watching, though her expression is unreadable, and her knitting needles
continue to move without missing a stitch.

Tom enjoys learning to read. Miss Elinor thinks he’s too young, but Harry practices with him
every day and says he’s doing a great job. That just shows how stupid Miss Elinor can be.

Reading isn’t easy though. There are so many letters in the alphabet. Each letter has a unique
shape and sound, and when they combine into words, they can look and sound different. It
will be a long time before he can really read, but he will work hard, because he wants to read
everything that Harry can.

The first thing Harry teaches Tom is his name. T-O-M. Tom likes the way it looks, orderly
and powerful. T looks like a tree. O looks like a circle. M looks like a bridge. Each letter
looks the same from the left and the right. According to Harry, that means it’s symmetrical,
and Tom decides he likes symmetrical things.
He learns Harry’s name next. H-A-R-R-Y. Harry’s letters aren’t symmetrical, because R
doesn’t look the same in the mirror, but they fit Harry. H reminds Tom of Harry’s hugs; A
and Y reminds him of the plants in their garden; R reminds him of Harry’s gentle voice.

Then Tom learns to spell other words. He learns words he can see, like cup, bed, and room.
He learns words he can do, like walk, run, and sleep. He learns words that he can feel, like
happy, sad, angry. He learns words that Harry has trouble explaining, like life, death, and
dream.

As his confidence grows, he starts rearranging the letters to spell words without Harry’s
guidance. Most of the time, according to Harry, he doesn’t make actual words.

“You can’t put any letters together and make a word,” Harry explains. “Well, you can, but it
won’t be an English word.”

As a result, he teaches Tom rules, like the fact that some letters are called vowels and some
are called consonants, and almost every word needs both kinds. Or the fact that certain types
of consonants need to be doubled when they are at the end of words.

While Tom tries to remember those rules, sometimes he ignores them. Why does he have to
follow rules all the time? What’s wrong with creating his own words? He can have his own
language someday.

Tom really likes the word he makes today. M-A-G-I-C. He loves that the curves and straight
lines flow naturally into each other. He also loves that it uses letters from both his and
Harry’s names.

“Look!” He claps his hands to draw Harry’s attention. “Look at my word!”

Harry looks up from his newspaper with a smile. “Let me see,” he says, but his smile
disappears when he sees the blocks. “Oh.”

“Is it a word?” Tom asks.

“Yes, it’s a word.” Harry’s voice is quiet. “You spelled magic.”

Magic. Even the sound is beautiful, but more than that, it’s familiar. Tom knows this word,
the same way he knows Harry.

“What’s magic?” Tom wants to know.

“It’s something very powerful. Something that can do things that seem impossible.
Something that can make us very happy or very sad.”

Tom’s breath catches. “Do I have magic?”

“You do. Everyone has their own unique magic.”

Tom frowns. That can’t be right. While it’s obvious that Harry is full of magic, how can Miss
Elinor and the silly children in the park have magic?
“Can you show me magic?” he says.

“You’ve already seen it. Magic is all around us.”

“But I want my magic.”

“When you’re older.”

Harry’s eyes are sad again, a sadness that has larger teeth than usual, and whenever Harry
looks like this, it’s time to stop asking questions.

However, as Tom turns back to his blocks, his body is singing with excitement. He has
something called magic. What will it look like? What will it feel like?

He’s looking forward to learning more.

Tom studies the big clock. Even though he can’t read the time yet, because it’s written in
what Harry calls ‘Roman numerals,’ the clock just chimed seven times, so he knows it’s
dinnertime.

Sure enough, Miss Elinor comes inside the drawing room. “Tom, it’s time for dinner. We
have shepherd’s pie tonight.”

Tom can smell it and his mouth is already watering. He loves Miss Elinor’s shepherd’s pie.
But he shakes his head. Harry isn’t home yet and will be hungry if they eat first.

“Wait for Harry,” he tells her.

“Harry won’t be joining us. He is eating dinner with his friends, remember?”

Tom crosses his arms. Of course he remembers. Harry said he’s going to a friend’s birthday
party and will bring back sweets. That doesn’t mean Harry won’t have dinner with Tom…
does it?

His stomach growls.

Miss Elinor is waiting. “Your food will get cold,” she reminds him.

With a sigh, Tom gets up from the couch and follows her into the dining room. She cuts him
a huge slice of pie stuffed with meat, but he can’t concentrate on enjoying it because he keeps
listening for Harry.

Harry doesn’t come.

After bathtime, Tom sits on his bed, yawning. He’s sleepy, but he tries to stay awake for
Harry’s good night kiss.

His door opens, but only Miss Elinor enters. “Harry won’t be coming home tonight,” she
says. “Would you like me to tuck you in?”
Tom frowns. “Harry is coming.”

“I’m afraid not. He just sent me a message and asked me to tell you that he’s staying with his
friends tonight.”

Tom stares at her in disbelief until tears sting his eyes. Then he looks away because he
doesn’t want her to see him cry.

“Are you all right, Tom?” Miss Elinor says. “Do you need anything?”

“I need you to leave!”

Her expression doesn’t change. “Very well, then. I wish you a good night.”

As the door closes behind her, Tom curls into a ball and buries his face in his pillow, quickly
soaking it with tears. In his head, he feels along the walls, searching for a sign of Harry, but
tonight, there is no one on the other side.

(You stand by the window. Night is falling over Wisteria Walk, but there’s no sign of Aunt
Petunia.

Where is she? She’s usually not this late. Surely she wouldn’t forget about you.

Worse yet, what if something happened to her and Dudley and Uncle Vernon? They’ve never
been kind to you, but they’re still family.

Mr. Tibbles rubs against your leg and yowls, but you’re in no mood to pet him.

“There you are,” Mrs. Figg says, although you’re not sure whether she’s addressing you or
the cat. “It’s time for dinner.”

You hide a groan. Mrs. Figg’s cooking isn’t terrible, but there are always cat hairs in the food
and cats underfoot demanding scraps. You prefer the meager but peaceful portions at home.

“I should go,” you say. “It’s late and I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Did your aunt not tell you? You’ll be staying here for the weekend.” Mrs. Figg is herding
you into the dining room, where dinner and more cats await. “Camping trip to Exmoor, she
mentioned.”

That’s right, your aunt and uncle have been talking about a trip to Exmoor National Park,
only you thought you’d come along. You were looking forward to it.

Despondently, you sit and accept a bowl of casserole. Almost immediately, Mr. Tibbles
jumps on your lap and meows meaningfully. You feed him and bite back a sigh.

It’s going to be a long weekend.)

Tom opens his eyes. It’s bright outside. Morning is here.

He gets out of bed and pads over to Harry’s room. The bed hasn’t been slept in, which makes
him want to cry again. Harry has abandoned him without even saying goodbye. He tries
again to find Harry on the other side of the wall. Still nothing. He’s all alone.

Tap tap tap. An owl is outside Harry’s window, a letter in its beak. Tom walks over. “Harry
isn’t here,” he says. “Go away!”

The owl tilts its head, its dark eyes unblinking. It taps on the window again.

“Go away!” Tom says more loudly.

He wants to grab the bird and fling it far away, but he knows by now that he won’t be able to.
So he imagines he’s the owl. He imagines having wings made of hollow bones. He imagines
stiffening the joints that connect these bones together, so he can no longer flap his wings to
stay in the air.

The owl is resisting. It tries to flap its wings harder.

No, listen to me, Tom thinks furiously as he jerks on the control of the owl’s body.

The owl freezes in midair and starts to fall, hooting helplessly as its wings hang uselessly.
Right before it hits the ground, it unsticks its wings and catches itself. Hooting, it flies off
without a backward glance.

Tom watches it disappear into the clouds. He’s panting heavily, feeling as if he has been the
one fighting for its life. But he doesn’t feel tired. He feels powerful.

Very slowly, he smiles.

* * *

Harry awakens to piercing sunlight and the drone of city traffic. The bed is too soft and the
sheets are too silky. Blindly, he grabs and slips on his glasses, bringing into focus a room
that’s not his bedroom at Grimmauld Place.

Then he remembers: he spent the night in Hermione and Ginny’s Camden flat. He didn’t plan
to do so. After Ginny’s birthday dinner at the Burrow, George had proposed an East End pub
crawl, and being the lightweight of the group, Harry was feeling lightheaded after their
second pub.

His friends convinced him to stay. “If you stay with us, you could commute with Hermione
tomorrow to your hearing,” Ginny suggested, and Harry agreed. They hadn’t seen much of
each other due to her European trip, and he still felt guilty over departing his own birthday
party early.
Thus, instead of Flooing home, he sent a Patronus message to Elinor and accepted another
shot.

In retrospect, that was a terrible idea.

The girls greet him with twin amused grins as he staggers into the dining room.

“Well, good morning,” Ginny says, as he drops into the seat beside her. She’s already dressed
in her uniform and reading the newspaper. “You look well.”

Harry rests his head in both hands. “I have Cornish pixies playing Quidditch in my head.
Badly. Please remind me never to touch Polish vodka again.”

“My poor dear,” Ginny teases, patting his back.

“Here, this should help.” Hermione sets a mug in front of him. “Black tea with two doses of
Hangover Potion.”

“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.” Harry takes a long sip, and the throbbing in his head eases. “Oh,
much better.”

“Of course, I imagine you’d need your wits for the hearing.” Hermione sits and gestures at
the paper. “What’s new?”

“Well, I just finished a very interesting article,” Ginny says. “Is there anything you’d like to
tell us, Harry?”

Harry nearly chokes on his tea. The first thought that rushes through his mind is that the
public has found out about Tom.

But Ginny is grinning, and the paper she’s waving is not the Daily Prophet but Behind the
Cauldrons, a tabloid to which she subscribed on a whim. Whatever article she’s referring to
can’t be that incriminating.

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense.” Ron joins them. “What’s the article?”

“The Secret Agenda of the Boy Who Lived, by the esteemed Rita Skeeter,” Ginny says
dramatically.

“I’m excited to hear the rest already,” Harry says drily.

“It’s pretty long, but let me pick out the best parts. ‘Despite Mr. Potter’s supposed desire for
privacy, he has remained visible in light of the Dark Lord’s defeat, most notably in defense of
former Death Eaters. Who can forget his impassioned defense of the Malfoys, which
garnered them a heavily reduced sentence and a ticket to freedom? He has claimed many
times that he is doing this for justice, but what is the true reason?’”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Do enlighten us.”

“‘It is widely known that our boy hero had a complicated and adversarial relationship with
Mr. Malfoy while at Hogwarts, but could it have blossomed into something more? This
reporter, among others, was witness to a particularly intense exchange between the former
school rivals in Diagon Alley, where the atmosphere sizzled with longing and sexual tension
before they parted with the promise of meeting again.’”

“Sounds like you’ve got tough competition, Ginny.” Ron is continuing reading over her
shoulder. “‘According to inside sources, Narcissa Malfoy is fully supportive of their union
and eagerly awaiting the official announcement of her son’s relationship.’ Make sure to invite
us to your wedding. Although I don’t fancy being groomsmen with Goyle.”

“You know, I’ve never decided whether I like Rita Skeeter,” Harry says lightly. The article is
ridiculous, but it could’ve been much worse, so he’s not that annoyed.

Ron chuckles. “Reckon she’s fishing for her next big scoop to stay relevant.”

“You’d think she’d pick something more productive to talk about,” Ginny says. “Such as the
whole shenanigan over Lucius Malfoy’s donation. Dad and Percy said that the Ministry still
hasn't decided how they’d use it for reconstruction.”

“Maybe she’s trying to discredit Harry ahead of the hearing on dementors. Or someone is
telling her to do so.”

Harry stiffens at Hermione’s suggestion.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,” Ginny reassures him, patting his arm. “Nobody believes that
cow anyway.”

Harry isn’t as confident. What makes reporters like Skeeter dangerous is that they are adept
at striking the right balance of truths and lies to engage their audience. He’s certain a
nontrivial percentage of readers now believe that he and Malfoy are romantically linked.
Whether that hurts the hearing remains to be seen.

“It’ll be fine,” Ron says, clapping Harry on the back. “Whether you’re Harry Potter or Harry
Malfoy, you saved the bloody world. The Wizengamot can’t ignore you.”

“I have an idea. Why don’t I come over to Grimmauld Place afterwards? We can cook
together to take your mind off the hearing.” Ginny flutters her eyelashes in an exaggerated
show of coquettishness. “You know, you haven’t invited me to your place yet.”

“Er…” Harry scrambles for an excuse. It’s one thing to have Ron and Hermione meet Tom.
It’s quite another to have Ginny meet the younger version of the man who possessed her for
nearly a year, and to know that Harry has been taking care of him without telling her.

Hermione jumps to the rescue. “There’s a pretty high chance the hearing might run late.
Didn’t you mention having early practice tomorrow morning, Ginny?”

Ginny groans. “I do, Jones is a bloody tyrant. Last time I was late, she made me do twenty
laps around the pitch. On foot. Can you imagine?”
“Sounds like she and Oliver would get along,” Harry says. “Why don’t we plan for this
weekend instead? Wasn’t there a restaurant on Brick Lane that you wanted to try out?”

“Yes, Neville and Hannah recommended a new Italian place, though I do want to see what
you’ve done with Grimmauld Place sometime.” She rises. “Speaking of Jones, I should head
to practice before she goes bonkers on me again. Good luck, love. Don’t let these fogeys
intimidate you. I’ll see you this weekend.”

Ginny leans over to kiss Harry. Then, with a wave to Ron and Hermione, she grabs her gear
and Disapparates.

“I know, I know,” Harry says, as soon as she’s gone. He doesn’t need to look up to see his
friends’ disapproval. “I will tell her eventually.”

“We’re not telling you what to do,” Ron says. “But knowing Ginny, she won’t be thrilled to
know you’ve been keeping this secret from her.”

“I don’t want to lie to her. I just need time. There’s a lot going on.”

As if to underline his point, a jolt of pain sears through his forehead and reignites his
headache. Harry bites his lip so he won’t cry out.

“Are you all right?” Hermione asks. “Your scar looks more inflamed than usual.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Harry replies through gritted teeth. “Probably just the hangover and the
stress over the hearing.”

Hermione clucks her tongue in sympathy. “I’ll make some more tea.”

Ron ladles a few freshly-made crumpets on Harry’s plate. “And eat. Sugar and butter will
also help.”

“Thank you both,” Harry says. “Look, I’m sorry you have to be caught in the middle. I’ll sort
it out soon, I promise.”

“Don’t mention it.” Ron squeezes his shoulder. “Listen, mate, we don’t always agree with
you, but we will always be here for you. If we can help with anything, let us know, yeah?”

Mouth and heart too full to speak, Harry smiles at his friends, hoping he can nonverbally
communicate his gratitude.

At the end of the day, they are right. He can’t lie to Ginny forever. However, there is too
much on his mind right now, so he’ll have to stretch the definition of soon.

But everything will be okay. After all, there’s still plenty of time.

The hearing is grueling from the start. Simply stepping into Courtroom Ten evokes
unpleasant memories of sitting in a lone chair while indifferent strangers deliberated on his
fate.
In the sea of plum-colored robes, Harry spots familiar faces. Some are welcome, such as
Dumbledore’s old friend Elphias Doge, whereas others much less so, such as the dumpy
wizard who voted for his expulsion from Hogwarts and whom both Mr. Weasley and
Kingsley had warned about in particular. Humphrey Dunbar has taken advantage of the
splinters within the post-war Ministry to gain prominence with promises of restoring
wizarding Britain to the old world order. He led the opposition to every major reform bill and
was responsible for the defeat of several, including reparations for Muggle-borns impacted by
the Muggle-born Registration Commission. No doubt he’ll be a tough opponent.

Initially, Harry is relieved that the hearing is off-limits to the press, lest Skeeter writes about
the forbidden romance between him and Dunbar. It doesn’t take long before he realizes the
restriction is a double-edged sword. Without public accountability, gloves come off, revealing
the friction among the various factions in the Ministry. Despite Kingsley and Madam Shafiq’s
efforts to uphold procedure, the hearing devolves into a farce, relegating the participants to
collateral damage.

Dunbar is clearly in his element as he browbeats the witnesses for the prosecution,
questioning the expertise of magizoologists and the honesty of victims, often ignoring
Shafiq’s attempts to curtail his interrogations. Multiple witnesses are reduced to tears, and
some refuse to testify altogether.

When Harry’s turn comes, his patience has all but evaporated. If every reform bill must
survive this process, it will be decades before true changes can take root.

“Mr. Potter,” Dunbar says, pale eyes glittering. “How interesting that you’ve chosen to take a
personal interest in this hearing.”

“Harry is here at my behest, Humphrey.” Kingsley is barely disguising his annoyance.

“Please remain professional.”

“Actually, I do have personal interest,” Harry says. “Our penal code has long allowed for
abuse, considering my godfather was wrongfully accused and sentenced to Azkaban for
twelve years without trial, and considering the Ministry sent dementors to attack me when
they refused to acknowledge the return of Voldemort. Incidentally, that led to my own
hearing, because apparently I needed to choose between being expelled from Hogwarts or
succumbing to the Dementor’s Kiss.”

The benches stir with unease. Dunbar does not retreat. “I don’t simply mean your experience
with dementors, Mr. Potter,” he says. “I also mean your general support for the welfare of
former Death Eaters. Most of us in this room remember your valiant defense of the Malfoys.
One can’t help but wonder.”

Harry’s face tightens, and suddenly the sponsor behind Skeeter’s article may not be so
mysterious. Well, he won’t give him the satisfaction.

“I suppose you haven’t heard then,” he replies, keeping his tone pleasant. “Draco Malfoy is
my lover.”
The elderly court scribe, who has been thus far stoic, wheezes. Kingsley shakes his head,
posture disapproving but expression amused. Even Shafiq rolls her eyes.

Dunbar’s face reddens. Before he can make another remark, Shafiq interrupts. “That is
enough, Humphrey. Please allow Mr. Potter to give his testimony so we may stay on
schedule. Thank you.”

Harry delivers his testimony, aware the entire time of Dunbar’s burning glare. Afterwards, as
he debriefs with Kingsley in the Minister’s office, the distastefulness of the whole affair is
still clinging to him like kitchen grease.

“Your testimony was effective,” Kingsley says. “Zoraida is feeling optimistic about the
verdict.”

“That’s great. I’m glad I could help.”

Kingsley’s face remains grave. “I must say, however, that it was not wise of you to cheek
Dunbar so blatantly.”

Harry crosses his arms defensively. “He was picking a fight.”

“He was, but he isn’t someone you’d want as an enemy. Neither Zoraida nor I are fond of
him or his philosophy. Nevertheless, we still show him respect because of his influence.”

“I don’t care about his influence.”

“No, I don’t imagine you do,” Kingsley says with a wry smile. “And I hope you never have
to, either. In any case, thank you for your help today. As always, please reach out to me if I
can be of assistance.”

“Thank you. Have a good day, then.”

Harry rises to leave, eager to leave messy Ministry politics behind. Cheekiness aside,
Kingsley’s foreboding undertone has rattled him. He’s looking forward to a short foray in
Muggle London to buy sweets for Tom and Teddy, and then he can go home to Grimmauld
Place.

A quiet evening spent with Tom will be the best palate cleanser.

For once, Tom isn’t there to greet Harry at the front door. In fact, Harry doesn’t see Tom until
dinnertime, when he sullenly slides into his usual seat, barely sparing him a glance.

“How was your day, Tom?” Harry asks.

Staring determinedly at his plate, Tom stabs at his meatloaf and shrugs.

“I brought your favorite chocolate toffees. Would you like some for dessert?”

“No thanks,” Tom says flatly.

Harry’s head is beginning to throb again. He’s currently not in the right mental state to
decipher Tom.

“How was your day, Harry?” Elinor asks, clearly trying to diffuse the awkwardness. “How
was the hearing?”

Harry gives her a short summary, leaving out his confrontation with Dunbar, all the while
sneaking glances at Tom, who doesn’t ask questions, the way he normally would. Once Harry
is done, Elinor makes an offhand remark about the Wizengamot, and the table descends into
silence once more.

In the past, there were times when Tom’s attention felt overwhelming. Only after it’s gone
does Harry realize how deathly quiet the house can be, how bland dinner can be without the
condiment of a child’s affection.

The sense that something is wrong becomes increasingly acute until Harry has to ask Elinor,
“Is everything okay with Tom?”

She lifts her eyes from her salad, looking mildly surprised by his question. “You weren’t
home last night.”

“But Tom, I told you that I was celebrating my friend’s birthday, remember?” When Tom
glares without responding, Harry turns back to Elinor. “Did he get my message that I
wouldn’t come home?”

“Yes, I conveyed it. However, message aside, last night was the first time you did not tuck
him —”

“Shut up!” Tom bursts out. His tone is full of vitriol, every drop directed at Elinor. “Shut up!”

“Tom,” Harry says in consternation. “You don’t talk to Miss Elinor like that.”

“I don’t care! She’s stupid!”

“Tom!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees a frostiness spreading over Elinor’s calm veneer. His
stomach churns with horror. Tom is too young to understand the precariousness of his fate,
but Harry does. Unlike normal children, Tom can’t afford to misbehave. The Ministry is
already so wary of him that any misstep will confirm his transformation into Voldemort until,
at some point, all the backroom deals in the world won’t save him.

Terrifying visions flash through Harry’s mind. Of Tom sitting in the center of Courtroom Ten
under the Wizengamot’s leer. Of Tom being dragged into the rotting hellhole of Azkaban. Of
Tom suffering under the torment of dementors.

Panic surges, sharpening his tone. “Tom, apologize to Miss Elinor right now!”

Tom shoots him an injured look. “No, I won’t!”

“You will, or I will — I will —”

Before Harry can think of an appropriate threat, Tom bursts into tears. “NO!” he screams,
jumping to his feet. “I won’t! I won’t! ”

And, hopping off then knocking his chair to the ground, he stomps up the stairs.

Harry is shaken, having never seen Tom lash out in this manner. Has he been too lenient with
Tom? Has he over-indulged him?

Elinor seems to read his mind. “It’s the terrible twos. Most toddlers have trouble controlling
their impulses and emotions at this age, and a powerful magical one especially so.” She dabs
her mouth with a napkin and moves to rise. “I can talk to him.”

“No, I will go. I should make sure he’s all right.”

“As you wish.” Elinor sits back down and reaches for the soup. “Please let me know if I can
be of assistance.”

Harry rushes up to the fourth floor, taking the stairs two or three at a time. Unsurprisingly,
Tom’s door is locked. Although it’s nothing an alohomora can’t handle, Harry knocks. “Tom,
it’s me.”

No answer.

“Tom, please open the door.”

“No! Go away!”

It hurts to be on the receiving end of Tom’s ire, but Harry has to persist. He presses his cheek
against the door.

“Please let me come in. I want to talk.”

He holds his breath until he hears movement inside. The door opens. Though Tom’s eyes are
puffy from crying, his face is cold.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” Harry says. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”

Tom gives him a long, harsh look, so reminiscent of Voldemort that Harry almost wavers. He
steels himself.

“I didn’t mean to disappear.” His voice drops. “I really missed you last night. Please forgive
me.

A tear rolls down Tom’s cheek, followed by another. Harry aches at the heartbreaking sight.

“You were mean,” Tom chokes out. “You yelled at me.”

“I was. I did. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He’s barely finished before Tom throws himself at him, winding limbs around his body.
Harry gently maneuvers them inside and closes the door behind them to preserve the privacy
of this moment. He slides to sit on the floor, providing Tom with a comfortable position on
his lap. While Tom cries into his shoulder, he rubs his back and murmurs soothing “it’s
okay”s and “I’m here”s until Tom’s tears at last subside.

“Tom,” he says softly, waiting until Tom lifts his tear-streaked face. “I’m sorry. For last night,
and for just now. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“So you still like me?”

Harry nearly laughs at the notion that it could be otherwise, but knows better than to do so
when Tom is feeling vulnerable.

“Of course I do,” he reassures Tom, thumbing away the lingering tears. “You’re my best
friend, remember? But sometimes, I want to see my other friends.”

At that, Tom stiffens in his arms, and Harry nuzzles his hair until he relaxes once more.
“Don’t leave me again,” Tom implores.

“I will never leave you,” Harry promises. “I will always come home to you. And if I ever
can’t come home before you sleep, I’ll send a message directly to you. This way, you won’t
have to find out from Miss Elinor. Is that all right?”

Tom considers, then nods slightly. “Okay.”

“But you have to behave and be nice to Miss Elinor. Otherwise…”

Harry’s voice catches, and he can’t bring himself to finish. Otherwise they’ll take you away.

Tom is studying his face. “Will bad things happen to me?”

“No.” Harry’s arms tighten. “I won’t let them.”

“Because you love me?”

Harry blinks, uncertain whether he’s misheard, but Tom’s expression is serious. Does Tom
even know what the word means beyond fairy tales? The true concept of love is too abstract
for most children.

Tom’s eyes, too perceptive for his age, seem to be searching for Harry’s face for something
he eventually finds.

“Because you love me,” he repeats, satisfied.

While Harry struggles to find an appropriate response, Tom is already pulling away.
“Dinner?”

“Yes,” Harry says, recovering. “We will finish dinner, but first, you will apologize to Miss
Elinor, okay?”
 “Okay.” Tom holds out his hand. “Let’s go.”

Powerless as always in face of Tom’s bright smile, Harry takes his hand.

Elinor accepts Tom’s apology with graciousness and the rest of the evening passes without
further drama.

At bedtime, Tom receives his good night kiss and settles down under the covers. Reassured
by Harry’s close guard, his eyes flutter shut and his breathing evens. His slumber is
untroubled, enabled by the security that Harry never had as a child.

Do you love me, Aunt Petunia?

Who could ever love a freak?

Love was a foreign concept to Harry as a child, rather ironic for someone who supposedly
wielded it as his secret weapon. Even now, it’s not a sentiment he feels comfortable
expressing. Not to Ginny, not to Ron and Hermione, and in theory, definitely not to someone
who murdered his parents in a previous life.

And yet, is Tom wrong? What else captures this strange mixture of magic and kinship that
binds them so closely that the end of one existence flows into the beginning of the other?

In some not-too-distant future, if everyone else is to be believed, he will cease to distinguish

between Tom the boy and Voldemort the monster. They will again stand on opposite ends of a
battlefield until only one survives.

In the present, however, Harry sees only a child, earnest and vulnerable and doing his best to
make sense of a world that may never give him a chance.

Harry smooths the soft brown curls, chest constricting as the sleeping boy instinctively scoots
closer. He bends and brushes his lips against the shell of Tom’s ear.

“You’re right,” he whispers, the confession eliciting in equal parts guilt and relief. “I do.”

Chapter End Notes

The dumpy wizard who voted for Harry’s expulsion in Book 5 is canon, although he was
unnamed. I named him Humphrey Dunbar because it seemed to fit :P
 Promise
Chapter Notes

Thank you everyone as always for your support, and hope you enjoy the update!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Update: 1st September 1999

Estimated biological age: 3 years

* * *

September brings a moment of crisis for Harry. Other than the would-be seventh year that
was derailed by Horcrux hunting, he’s always defined autumn by his return to Hogwarts: to
friends, classes, and often, near-death experiences. He feels bereft to wake up on September
1st and realize he won’t be headed to King’s Cross.

Part of him envies his friends, who are all making progress in their adult lives. Yes, he has
freedom, but his freedom is that of a boat set adrift at sea, unmoored and aimless.
Fortunately, with two little boys under his care, he easily occupies his days, though not with
the productive pursuits Hermione would’ve preferred.

At home, Tom has biologically aged another year since the start of summer, and both his self-
assurance and thirst for learning have grown exponentially. He enjoys mastering the puzzles
recommended by parenting books and has begun reading on his own, although Harry isn’t
completely sure whether he’s recognizing words or has an amazing memory. He is also more
talkative, employing a posh R.P. accent — no doubt influenced by Elinor — that would earn
Aunt Petunia’s approval and envy.

Beyond the walls of Grimmauld Place, Harry has Teddy, who is now old enough to
accompany him on explorations of Muggle London. In opposition to Tom’s clinical curiosity,
Teddy greets the world with open enthusiasm and a smile that can melt the hearts of the most
indifferent Londoners, and discovering London through his eyes is magic in itself. They visit
exotic animals at the zoo, sparkling crown jewels at the Tower of London, and eerily realistic
wax figures at Madame Tussauds, but it is the Museum of Natural History that becomes their
favorite haunt, though for different reasons.

Teddy adores the dinosaur exhibits, particularly Dippy, the famous Diplodocus carnegie
skeleton that presides over the central hall. In fact, Andromeda teasingly predicts Teddy will
learn to say Dippy before Harry. On the other hand, Harry likes the exhibits that showcase
Muggle advancements in understanding human evolution, from the earliest days of the
universe to the rise of far-reaching empires to the present. His own science knowledge is
limited to what little he remembers from primary school, and Astronomy classes at Hogwarts
hardly scratch the surface of mysteries that populate the vast universe. The mere idea that
alien civilizations may exist light years away is incredible.

Sometimes, Harry notes with a pang that Tom would’ve loved the museum. He did, once
upon a time, and memories of his past life blend with Harry’s reality as Harry wanders the
halls. Before his ambitions gave rise to disdain for Muggles, Tom Riddle fawned over the
fossils, the excavated artifacts, and the meteorites recovered from outer space. Before he
descended into darkness, he entertained the idea of becoming a scientist.

Unfortunately, there exists a limit to Kingsley and the Ministry’s leniency. Therefore, buoyed
by the desire to share his wonder with Tom, Harry places a custom order for a telescope.

Cooler temperatures means it’s time to replant the garden. First, they have to clear the
existing plants, which have wilted. While Harry is sad to uproot their tomatoes and
marigolds, Tom has no qualms and attacks them with fervor.

Funnily, there’s a corner of the garden that he refuses to let Harry approach. “You didn’t bury
a dead body there, did you?” Harry jokes, to which Tom responds with an emphatic “no”
before steering him far away.

To decide on the new plants, Harry and Tom look through garden catalogues together. Tom is
drawn towards flowers with unusual petals or colors, such as dahlias or delphinium, but even
with magic, they tend to be difficult to cultivate and ill-suited for cold weather. Eventually,
they land on chrysanthemums, zinnias, and — in a burst of ambition — carrots.

As it turns out, planting three varieties of seeds takes much more effort than planting two,
particularly as each has different needs. Carrots prefer raised rather than in-ground beds and
high soil moisture, zinnias prefer low soil moisture and close spacing, and chrysanthemums
prefer well-drained soil and ample space.

After planning out the garden and preparing the soil, Harry and Tom dive in. Tom is put in
charge of two garden beds, something he takes to with aplomb. Nevertheless, the physical
exertion during an unusually warm autumn day takes a toll on his young body. Mid-
afternoon, concerned about Tom’s flushed cheeks and heavy breathing, Harry offers, “Why
don’t you take a rest? I can finish for you.”

Tom sends a longing look at the nearby chairs, but asks, “Are you resting?”

Harry shakes his head. “It’s better to sow all the seeds on the same day.”

“Then I’m not resting either!”

True to his word, Tom only consents to a short water break before returning to his task. His
perseverance pays off in rows of neatly planted seeds, which he displays to Harry with
obvious pride.

“You did an amazing job,” Harry says. “Look at how nicely spaced the flowers are.”

Tom beams, soaking Harry’s praise like a seedling absorbing nutrients.

“But you’re all messy now,” Harry adds fondly, noting the streaks of dirt on Tom’s pale face,
likely the result of attempts to wipe off sweat without degloving. “Let me clean that up.”

Unfortunately, he forgets to take off his own soiled gardening gloves, so he ends up spreading
the dirt further, which makes for such a comical effect that he can’t help snickering.

Scowling, Tom tries to smear some dirt on Harry’s face, but Harry uses his height advantage
to sidestep, so Tom only manages to reach his trousers. Undeterred, Tom tackles Harry head-
on, who tumbles to the ground in surprise. Tom crawls triumphantly onto Harry’s lap, his
proximity for once not borne of affection, but the desire to dominate.

A tinge of fear plays at the edge of Harry’s consciousness as he gazes up at Tom’s ominously
raised fist. Tom is obviously not going to hurt him, but is it normal for a child to be so
focused, determined to win something as trivial as smearing dirt?

To diffuse the tension, Harry unleashes the secret weapon that has never failed to subdue a
misbehaving Teddy: he tickles Tom under the armpits. Immediately, Tom dissolves into
indignant yet helpless laughter. Losing balance, he grabs the front of Harry’s jumper. They
topple backwards in a heap.

As Harry braces his elbows on the ground to avoid crushing Tom, he becomes aware of the
way he’s splayed over Tom, the way their bodies are pressed together lengthwise, the way
their faces are mere inches apart. He’s played tackle Quidditch with the Weasley boys and
play-wrestled with Teddy, but roughhousing with Tom feels different. Inappropriate, yet
again.

Harry sits back on his heels. “You win, we’re both messy now.”

Tom stares up at him, unmoving.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks, growing worried. He scans Tom for injuries and finds none.
“Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Tom mumbles. He allows Harry to help him to a sitting position and climbs again onto
his lap. This time, he’s content to cuddle, his meekness a sharp contrast to his earlier
aggression.

Harry smoothes Tom’s hair. “Looks like tickling is very effective on you.”

“’S not,” Tom grumbles, voice muffled against his neck.

“There’s your attitude.” Relieved he didn’t accidentally break Tom, Harry pulls him to his
feet. “Let’s get cleaned up for dinner. Race you?”
Puffing his cheeks, Tom accepts and beats Harry inside.

The dementor reform bill passes, albeit with the addition of clauses catering to Dunbar’s
faction. Nevertheless, Kingsley considers it a victory, so Harry leverages it to earn Tom more
time in St. James’s Park.

Security remains tight, given the ever-present rumors of the Lestranges’ return. Robards
gives Harry a token to coordinate with the Aurors, not unlike the fake Galleons that
Hermione made for Dumbledore’s Army, and emphasizes several times that alarms will be
triggered should he or Tom breach the perimeter of the park.

In Harry’s mind, the hassle is worth it as Tom is making progress. He’s becoming
comfortable enough with the play park that he no longer needs Harry to hover nearby, and on
occasion, even interacts with other children. Not in the sense of playing together, but in the
sense of responding when he’s addressed, or not scowling when someone tries to correct the
way he uses the sand levers.

No matter what he’s doing, he’s always looking over his shoulder to make sure that Harry is
there, that Harry is still watching.

It’s a chillier Wednesday than usual, so the park is rather empty. After feeding the ducks,
Harry and Tom find a vacant swing in the children’s play park. Tom has been itching to try
swings for sometime, and luckily, the experience doesn’t disappoint. Delighted to soar into
the air, he urges Harry to push harder, and harder, so he can soar above everyone else. Harry
obliges as best as he can with aching arms.

“Hello, nice to see you again.”

The speaker is a girl with dirty blonde hair that reminds him of Luna and dimples that remind
him of Cho. Harry remembers seeing her during past visits. In a sea of parents and
grandparents, someone his age stands out and makes him feel less self-conscious.

“Uh, hello,” he says. “Nice meeting you.”

“I’m sorry. I know we’ve never properly introduced ourselves.” She holds out her hand. “My
name is Sophia.”

“Oh, um, my name is Harry,” Harry replies, unable to think of a fake name offhand. He stops
pushing the swing to shake her hand, earning both him and Sophia a dirty look from Tom.

“Hello there.” Sophia gives Tom a friendly smile before turning back to Harry. “Is he your
little brother?”

“Uh, yes, his name is Tommy.” Harry hides a grin when he earns another glare. Tom has
never taken to the diminutive of his name.

“I wasn’t sure,” Sophia says. “You don’t look alike.”

Ironically, they can believably pass for brothers with their original appearances, but Harry
didn’t put much thought into their disguises, not expecting anyone to pay attention.

“We take after different parents,” he explains.

“Well, look alike or not, you two must be extremely close. I can tell by the way Tommy looks
at you.” Tom tenses, and Harry puts a steadying hand on his shoulder. “I come here often
with my little sister Penny. There she is.”

Sophia points at a little girl currently tearing across the sandpit with two other kids. She looks
to be a year or two older than Tom, and a miniature version of her older sister. Harry waves;
Tom doesn’t react.

“So, do you go to uni here?” Sophia asks.

“No, I’m taking a gap year.”

“That sounds nice, I wish I could do that. I’m studying literature at UCL and it can be such a
bore sometimes.”

“I think studying literature sounds really interesting.”

“You think so? That’s kind of you to say.” Sophia’s smile turns coy. “Anyway, I was
wondering…would you like to get a drink sometime?”

Harry rubs his neck. Is she asking him on a date? It’s flattering, though obviously, he’d be
disingenuous to accept. He has a girlfriend, for one thing, and he’s not even wearing his own
appearance. He’s going to have some explaining to do if his red hair turns dark in the middle
of a date.

As he racks his brain for a polite way to decline her invitation, there’s a crash. Somehow,
Tom has fallen out of the swing. Immediately, he abandons his conversation with Sophia to
ease the boy into his arms.

“Are you all right?”

Tom raises his elbow, and Harry winces at the blood seeping out of scraped skin. “It hurts.”

Nearby parents make sympathetic noises. Sophia joins them on the ground. “Is he all right?”
She hands Harry a packet of tissues. “I’m sorry I don’t have any bandages, but tissues should
help.”

Tom whips his head to glare at her, not an ounce of gratitude in his countenance. She flinches
and retreats a few feet.

Harry thanks her. Focusing back on Tom, he dabs delicately at the wound, mindful not to
worsen his pain. Tearless, Tom watches in fascination as his blood soaks the tissue.

“Good thing that the cut isn’t too deep,” Harry tells him, examining the cleaned wound. It
should be easily fixed by an episkey. “Are you able to stand? I can fix the rest at home.”
“Kiss it.”

Harry raises his head. “Kiss what?”

Tom shakes his elbow. “Kiss it.”

Strangely, he’s looking at Sophia, who laughs uncomfortably under his gaze. “I kiss Penny’s
scrapes sometimes. She does say that makes her feel better.”

Now that she mentioned it, Harry recalls Aunt Petunia kissing Dudley’s scrapes and bruises,
though never in public. Well, if it helps Tom feel better…

He gently grasps Tom’s elbow and brings it to his lips.

Tom stiffens and sucks in a sharp breath. For a moment, Harry is worried that he accidentally
aggravated him.

“You kissed it,” Tom says, cradling his elbow like a treasure. “You kissed it.”

“I did,” Harry says. “Do you feel better?”

Tom beams. “Yes!”

Harry’s chest flutters. While he still feels awkward about kissing Tom’s cut, he doesn’t
begrudge the radiance on Tom’s face one bit.

He helps Tom to his feet and hands the unused tissues back to Sophia. “Thank you again. I’d
better take him home now.”

“No problem. Maybe I’ll see you here another time?” Her tone is hopeful. “I’m usually here
on Wednesdays and Fridays.”

“Oh, um —”

“Go home,” Tom says, clutching Harry around the waist. “Want to go home. Now. ”

“Maybe another time,” Harry tells Sophia vaguely. It doesn’t take a Legilimens to see that
Tom feels threatened by Sophia. Irrationally so, but Tom is probably extra vulnerable after his
painful fall. Unless…

A strange thought crosses Harry’s mind. Could Tom have fallen on purpose because he didn’t
want Harry to talk to Sophia? But self-preservation has always been paramount to Voldemort,
and by extension, Tom. Harming himself to prevent Harry from talking to a stranger would
be ridiculous…wouldn’t it?

Tom flashes a smirk at Sophia’s disappointed face, chillingly reminiscent of Voldemort.

An involuntary shudder passes through Harry. Whatever the truth may be, he makes a mental
note to switch their disguises next time they come to the park. Today will be their first and
last encounter with Sophia.
Once they are home and seated on the drawing room couch, Harry touches Tom’s elbow with
the tip of his wand. “Episkey.”

Harry’s magic washes over Tom, cool and soothing, fading his cut to a small white mark that
he can barely see.

“You fixed me,” Tom says in awe. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Yes, my magic is protecting you. And just to be extra safe…” Harry takes something out of
Miss Elinor’s medical box and pats it over the faded cut. “There, the bandage will keep it
clean, and you should be all better by tomorrow.”

He starts to rise, but Tom seizes his wrist. “You are hurt too.”

“I am?”

“Yes.” Tom points at the thin white scars on the back of Harry’s hand, which look like letters,
except they’re curvier than the letters on his blocks.

“Oh, this.” Harry tries to pull away, but Tom won’t let him. “Don’t worry, this happened a
long time ago.”

Tom traces the scars with gentle fingertips. “What does it say?”

Harry hesitates. “It says, ‘I must not tell lies.’”

“What are lies?”

“They are — er, they are things you shouldn’t say.”

Tom frowns. “Why is it on your skin?”

“I made someone angry.”

The scars do feel angry and unfriendly, which Tom doesn’t like. “Do they hurt?”

“No, not anymore —”

Tom jerks on Harry’s hand, forcing Harry to meet his eyes —

An ugly toad-like woman. A black quill glistening with blood. A sugary sweet voice cooing,
“As long as it takes for the message to sink in.”

— until Harry pulls away.

“Who was that?” Tom demands.

“No one.” Harry rolls down his sleeves. “No one important.”
That’s not true. Tom knows with certainty that the ugly woman has something to do with the
scars. Why is he protecting her? Is she a friend ?

Anger burning, Tom fists his hands. The world begins to turn red.

“Tom?” Harry peers at him, looking worried. He squeezes Tom’s shoulders. “Tom, can you
hear me?”

Tom blinks away the red haze and forces his hands to unclench. “I’m okay!” He gives Harry
a big smile and jumps to his feet. “Can we play the new puzzle? The one with the big castle?”

Harry agrees, but for the rest of the afternoon, he’s a little tense and distracted. However, he
seems relaxed by dinnertime, probably because he has realized Tom isn’t going to ask him
any more questions.

And he’s right, Tom isn’t, because he won’t get any answers from Harry. He has someone
else he can ask instead.

Tom waits until Harry is visiting his friends to approach Miss Elinor. “Miss Elinor,” he says
in his most polite tone, “may I ask a question?”

She lays down the newspaper, looking surprised since he usually doesn’t talk to her. “Yes,
you may. Go on.”

“What is a lie?”

“A lie,” she repeats, squinting a little as if he’s trying to trick her. He widens his eyes
innocently. “A lie is something you say that you know is wrong.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Well, perhaps you have a secret, something you don’t want to tell anyone, and you want to
protect it.”

That’s interesting. Do the scars mean that Harry lied to protect a secret? What was his lie?
What was his secret? And most importantly, why couldn’t he tell Tom?

Then again, Tom has secrets too. For example, he’s never told Harry that he saw a snake in
the garden and understood its hisses as clearly as he understood English. Even more crazily,
the snake understood him when he told it to go away. This has never happened with birds.

Or that two nights ago, Harry left his wand — Tom knows that’s what the wooden stick is
called now — on Tom’s desk when he went downstairs to talk to Miss Elinor. Unable to fight
against his curiosity, Tom touched it and caused green sparks to fly out.

Or that he’s been noticing a beetle with funny markings around its eyes following Harry
around at the park. He first saw it by the lake, when they were feeding the ducks. Then he
saw it at the sandpit, when Harry was encouraging him to play with the other kids. And a few
days ago, he saw it at the swings, listening to Harry’s conversation with the annoying woman.
“Does that answer your question?” Miss Elinor asks.

Tom gives her a big smile. “Yes, thank you.”

Miss Elinor returns to her paper and Tom returns to his puzzles. He doesn’t like that Harry
has secrets, but Tom doesn’t want to share his secrets with Harry just yet.

So he won’t let Harry keep his secrets. For now.

* * *

At the beginning of October, Ginny invites Harry to the Holyhead Harpies’ quarterly
pilgrimage to Cardiff. In addition to being the capital of Wales, Cardiff is home to the largest
and most exclusive Quidditch pitch in Britain. Having grown up there before relocating full-
time to Holyhead, captain Gwenog Jones has inside connections.

Harry is looking forward to the trip. It’s his first holiday with Ginny, a milestone in their
relationship, and he’s never visited Wales, even though it featured in childhood Muggle
fantasy novels.

As expected, Tom isn’t pleased. “You’re leaving me,” he says in an uncharacteristically

pathetic whine that’s probably manipulative but nonetheless effective.

“Only for three days.” Harry raises three fingers to illustrate, but Tom wrinkles his nose.

“Three is too long,” he declares, crossing his arms. “You can’t go.”

Harry almost laughs at Tom’s not-so-subtle presumption that he needs to grant Harry the
permission to travel.

“Three days will pass very quickly,” he says, “and we’ll still say good night every day.”

“How? You will be gone.”

“Let me show you something.” Harry leads him to the fireplace in the drawing room,
crackling merrily with emerald green flames. “You’ve seen people come out of the fireplace
before, right?”

Tom nods. The majority of the Aurors and Healers under Elinor’s command travel to
Grimmauld Place by Floo rather than Apparition due to the house’s extensive wards. Harry is
the lone oddball who opts for the inconvenience of Apparition, having never gotten over his
initial dislike of Flooing, though he made an exception on the night Tom was sick.

He will happily make more exceptions now.

“This is called the Floo, and it allows people to travel long distances quickly,” Harry
explains. “Every night that I’m away, I’ll come here to tell you good night.”

“You will? You promise?”

“I will. I promise.”

Tom leans closer to the fireplace, bathing his pensive face in its soft glow. Whereas the green
hue would’ve rendered other faces sickly, the color of his ancestors complements Tom’s
patrician features, currently drawn tight by inner conflict.

Harry can tell that Tom wants to believe him. Rationally, Tom knows that Harry has never let
him down, but reason is no match for the primal nature of his insecurities, born from a
lifetime of abandonment and disappointments.

“I know,” Harry says, struck by inspiration. He curls his pinky around Tom’s, in an imitation
of what he saw other kids do in primary school. “I will make a pinky promise.”

Tom’s breath catches. “A pinky promise?”

“Yes. When our pinkies touch like this and I promise you something, I am making a pinky
promise. That means the promise is extra special, so I can never break it.”

“Never?” Tom stares at their entwined pinkies in awe.

“Never, ever.”

A smile spreads over Tom’s face. “Okay!” He squeezes their pinkies together. “Then I pinky
promise I’ll wait for you every day.”

Harry grins. Even though there is no actual magic backing either promise, they will without
doubt be more binding than the most powerful of Unbreakable Vows.

Compared to London, Cardiff is more laidback and allows Harry the anonymity to wander
around both Muggle and wizarding districts with a mere glamor over his scar.

Welsh Muggles and wizards are historically less segregated, so hints of magic are present in
every major tourist attraction. The paintings and statues of Cardiff Castle surreptitiously wink
at discerning visitors; the arcades feature wizard-only entrances to the Cardiff equivalent of
Diagon Alley; museums have hidden exhibits featuring Welsh wizards and witches; and
Cardiff Market serves delicacies that are made — according to the witch overseeing the stall
— from spreading bellflowers and griffin fur.

After a full day of sightseeing, Harry finds a secluded spot at Cardiff Bay to watch the sunset.
The view, between the fiery sky and the azure water shimmering with orange, is breathtaking.
He wouldn’t mind moving to Wales someday.

Before dinner, Harry Floos to Grimmauld Place to see Tom, whose stiff limbs bely his
protests that he hasn’t been waiting that long. Nestled by the fireplace, they update each other
on their respective days until Harry’s hotel card glows, signaling that Ginny is on her way
back.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he tells Tom and presses a big good night kiss to Tom’s forehead. He
Floos back to his Cardiff hotel room just as Ginny enters.

“Hey there,” she says, greeting him with a kiss. “Were you Flooing someone just now?”

“I was making sure it works, so we can Floo to the restaurant later.”

“Aren’t we going to a Muggle place tonight?”

“It’s, uh, for tomorrow night.” Harry dusts off the soot. “Anyway, how was practice?”

“Intense but good. The pitch is amazing. I can’t wait to show you.” Ginny sets down her gear.
“How was your day?”

“It was great! I really like Cardiff.”

“Yes, I can see you’ve kept yourself busy.” She gestures to the bed, which is covered with
Harry’s souvenirs, including a fire-breathing Common Welsh Green plush for Teddy and a
huge box of local artisan chocolates for Tom. “Oh, which Quidditch team is that?” She holds
up the Cardiff City Football Club kit that Harry purchased on a whim, even though Tom has
never expressed athletic interest of any kind.

“It’s a football uniform, actually. I liked the logo.”

“Hmm, it’s nice, but you should exchange it for something closer to Teddy’s size. It’s going
to be a while before he can wear it.”

“It was the smallest size I can find,” Harry fibs, hurrying to shove the offending uniform into
his trunk, along with a few other souvenirs that are clearly meant for an older child than
Teddy.

“Well, Teddy is lucky to have such an indulgent godfather,” Ginny says, looping her arms
around his neck. “And I think I’m very lucky too.”

Harry clears his throat. “Why don’t we go to dinner early? I can show you around a bit.”

“Sure, that sounds nice. Just let me change into something nicer for our fancy dinner.”

Ginny swipes his shoulder playfully, but her hand stills. Slowly, she lifts her eyes to give him
a probing look, at odds with the smile still lingering at her lips.

“Uh, Ginny?” Harry prompts, puzzled by her reaction.

The strange expression doesn’t disappear. “Of course. Give me a moment.”

She Summons a dress from her trunk and disappears inside the bathroom. The lock snaps into
place with more force than necessary. As the tap runs, Harry checks his appearance in the
wardrobe mirror and, with a jolt, realizes what she must’ve noticed.

A strand of Tom’s dark hair lies on his shoulder, stark against his pale T-shirt.

The next day, Harry is invited to open practice, which Gwenog Jones holds to increase
exposure for the Holyhead Harpies and solidify her status as the hometown favorite. While
the initial drills are interesting, the exciting part comes at the end, when she separates her
team into two, each with a mix of reserve and main roster players, and have them play against
each other.

Open practice is highly anticipated and well-attended by local Quidditch fans, a testament to
Jones’ and the Harpies’ popularity. As the green-clad players dash across the sky, Harry can’t
help feeling a stab of envy. Puddlemore United was recruiting a new reserve Seeker last year,
and according to Oliver Wood, Harry would’ve had a great chance. He could’ve been flying
on the pitch as a player instead of sitting in the stands as an observer.

After the game, which Ginny’s team won by a small margin, Harry meets Ginny outside the
locker room to congratulate her. “You were amazing,” he says, and she was. Despite being
the youngest on the team, she offset inexperience with speed and fearlessness, and a strong
rapport with fellow reserve Chasers.

“Thank you, I felt amazing,” she says with a smile. Her good humor is largely restored,
thanks to a good date night and now a great practice. With luck, they’ll end their holiday on a
positive note.

Jones joins them. “Ginny is one of our rising stars. We expect great things from her.” As
Ginny flushes with pleasure, Jones gives Harry a firm handshake, a good reflection of her
prowess as a Beater. “Hello, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too.”

After giving Harry a onceover, Jones turns back to Ginny. “We’re headed to the pub. Are you
ready?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Ginny says. “I’m sorry, Harry. We’re going to Gwen’s favorite pub, but
I’ll see you later for dinner.”

“That’s okay, you have fun,” Harry says, guilty that he doesn’t feel disappointed to have the
evening free up. He can spend more time with Tom and take a long stroll through Bute Park.

“Why don’t you come along?” Jones says.

“Oh, no, I’d be intruding. I can entertain myself, it’s fine.”

“Nonsense. My wife is traveling from Holyhead and a few of our local friends are joining, so
I guarantee you won’t be the odd one out.”

Harry shoots Ginny a questioning look. She shrugs. “Since Gwen doesn’t mind, come along.
The pub is supposed to have great food so we can even eat dinner there. Unless there’s
somewhere else you need to be,” she adds.

Harry swallows. The idea of socializing with so many strangers is stressful, but a refusal
would reflect poorly on Ginny, not to mention bring her simmering suspicion to a boil.

“All right,” he agrees.

The pub is located off Cardiff’s popular Taff Trail and boasts a great view of the surrounding
mountains, though its menu is the bigger draw. Jones orders a wide selection of classic Welsh
pub fare, all of which Harry enjoys, particularly rarebit and glamorgan sausages. He also
enjoys the rich flavor of the signature dark ale, though he restricts his drinking, not wishing
to relive his hangover.

The atmosphere is collegial. Nobody fusses over Harry’s fame, so Harry is free to debate
Quidditch strategies or laugh over silly comparisons between Wales and England that
generally conclude at England’s expense. The lively conversation obscures the passage of
time until his watch buzzes with a preset alarm spell. It’s almost Tom’s bedtime.

“I have to go to the loo,” he murmurs to Ginny, and deep in a debate about the best female
Quidditch player in the European league, she pats his knee absently.

Harry weaves through the crowd, mind whirring. He has at most ten minutes before his
absence becomes conspicuous. However, a Muggle pub won’t have a Floo fireplace, and he
doesn’t trust himself to Apparate in a semi-inebriated state.

The ruckus of the pub fades as he steps out into the cool night air, and as his head clears, an
idea occurs to him.

Harry turns into an alley that’s half-obstructed by rubbish bins. He takes out his wand and
concentrates, rummaging through memories for something related to Quidditch, or day trips
with friends, or —

A chocolate presented with earnestness.

Colorful tomatoes and marigolds swaying in the breeze.

A child nestled in his arms, whispering, “Because you love me.”

— “Expecto Patronum!” Harry shouts.

A majestic silver stag materializes, shining in the darkness like a beacon.

“Prongs, it’s good seeing you again, I’ve missed you.” Harry embraces his Patronus, who
touches its snout to his cheek in acknowledgement. “Can you deliver a message for me
please?”

Prongs blinks its knowing eyes and nods.

“Good night, Tom. I’m sorry we can’t Floo tonight, but I’m thinking of you and we’ll see
each other again very soon.”
Harry stops speaking, but Prongs merely tilts its head and waits, still and patient, until he
drops a soft kiss on its forehead.

“Thank you,” Harry whispers.

With a dip of its antlered head, Prongs canters into the night.

Tom waits by the fireplace. His body is sore from sitting cross-legged, but he doesn’t move.
The clock tells him that it will be bedtime soon, except he can’t go to bed, because Harry
isn’t here yet.

He lied and he’s not coming, a mean voice says in his head. No one ever comes for you.

Tom tries to ignore it, yet the words ring true. He sees himself standing by the window of a
small room, watching another set of kids leave with their new parents, while he’s doomed to
be forever and always unwanted.

No.

Taking a deep breath, Tom touches his pinky. Harry promised, and he came yesterday, so he
will be here today. Tom just needs to be patient.

“Tom,” Miss Elinor begins, then stops.

The windows are glowing. Something large and silvery is approaching. At first, Tom thinks
it’s a cloud, but as it comes closer, he sees that it’s an animal. A big animal with antlers. A
deer.

Miss Elinor has drawn her wand, but Tom isn’t afraid. The deer is singing with Harry’s
magic; the deer is a friend.

Tom extends his hand, and the deer lowers its head for him to stroke. He’s surprised it feels
solid. “Who are you?” he asks.

The deer meets his eyes. “Good night, Tom,” it says in Harry’s voice.

Tom gasps. “Harry?”

“I’m sorry we can’t Floo tonight, but I’m thinking of you and we’ll see each other again very
soon.”

The deer finishes speaking and touches Tom’s forehead with its snout. Tom shivers with the
gentleness of the kiss, and inside his head, the walls tremble. For the first time, he realizes
they aren’t walls, but tightly-woven webs, each strand singing with the strength of his
connection to Harry.

Reassurance washes over Tom, as comforting as summer rain. He is loved, so very loved.

“Thank you,” Tom whispers. “Thank you.”

He wraps his arms around the deer’s neck and holds it as tightly as he can until it dissolves
into a shower of silvery sparkles.

* * *

The weather grows chilly as London ushers in monsoon season. Having received his first
raincoat and pair of wellies, Tom doesn’t mind the never-ending drizzles. It gives him an
excuse to stomp around in puddles, and occasionally, Harry indulges him in splashing wars,
to the bemusement of bystanders and resignation of Elinor.

In celebration of the upcoming Halloween, Harry purchases two jumbo pumpkins, one for
Teddy and one for Tom, to make jack o’ lanterns. Teddy, too young to grasp the concept,
scribbles randomly on his for Andromeda to enhance and transform into a proper face.

Meanwhile, Tom designs his pumpkin meticulously, refusing to allow even Harry to peek
until he’s done. He has drawn a face with pupil-less eyes, snake-slitted nose, and a toothy
grin, which adds to the whole terrifying effect. Once Harry carves it and inserts an ever-
burning candle, the jack o’ lantern lends the house a festive air.

On Halloween morning, Harry attends a memorial service at Godric’s Hollow. While he

doesn’t mind visiting his parents, and has done so regularly since the end of the war, he’s
grown allergic to Ministry-sponsored war memorial events, which are overly self-
congratulatory and ignore the endless roadblocks in reconstruction efforts.

Furthermore, he hates having to extol his late parents, as if he has unique insights into two
people he’s met only through photographs or as shadows summoned from beyond the veil.
It’s not that he isn’t proud of his parents’ bravery and talent. It’s that he prefers to think of
them as people rather than idealized heroes. Maybe his father sang off-tune in the shower;
maybe his mother regularly mixed up salt and sugar. Quirky anecdotes from their brief life
together would be far more meaningful than another dramatized retelling of their face-off
against the Death Eaters.

Fortunately, the rest of Halloween is more palatable. In the afternoon, Harry takes Teddy —
adorably dressed as a badger in honor of his mother’s house — to Diagon Alley for Spooky
Spectacular, a launch event for Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes’ new product line centered on
“terrifying pranks.” Bombs and fireworks abound, but to Harry’s mild surprise, everyone
survives the event unscathed.

In the evening, he and Tom bake pumpkin pie using the flesh scooped from their jack o’
lantern. After many mishaps and successes over the past several months, their partnership in
the kitchen is nearly seamless. While Tom mashes together the butter and flour to make pie
dough, Harry combines pumpkin with cinnamon, sugar, and eggs, double-checking each
measurement lest he mixes up tablespoons and teaspoons again. Soon, the kitchen is filled
with the aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg.
The pie turns out well, to Tom’s excitement. As Harry watches him dig into his slice, he
reflects on the contrast of this domestic Halloween night to the one eighteen years ago, when
Voldemort marked him as his equal and set into motion a sequence of events that nobody,
least of all Voldemort himself, could have foreseen.

“What are you thinking?” Tom asks curiously.

Harry thumbs a few crumbs off his nose. “I’m thinking you did a great job with the crust,” he
replies, and to illustrate, takes a giant bite of pie.

He’s on top of a lightning-struck tower. Dumbledore stretches out a withered hand as he

topples backwards into the ether, white hair fanned by the wind. When he grabs for his
headmaster, he falls as well —

He’s on a cobblestoned street, surrounded by smoldering ruins of tenements. Overhead, a

rocket whines, low and menacing. Don’t stop, don’t stop, he prays when all of a sudden,
silence reigns. Then, an explosion obliterates everything in the vicinity and rocks him off his
feet —

He’s in an underground chamber, screaming as his soul splits for the very first time —

He’s in a deserted graveyard, struggling in futility as a knife slices into his arm —

He’s on the second floor of a small cottage. Downstairs, the husband lies dead, and the wife’s
pleas are cut off as she, too, crumples lifeless to the floor of the nursery. He aims his wand at
the baby in the crib and prepares to utter the deadly words that will finally end the chase,
only to have his own world dissolve in a sickly green —

Harry’s eyes fly open to streaks of lightning followed immediately by claps of thunder. A
thunderstorm is raging directly overhead.

He rises and walks to the windows, which rattle but hold strong in face of the violence
unleashed by the sky. The remnants of fractured dreamscapes are fading, though adrenaline
continues to thrum in his blood. He hasn’t had nightmares in a while, though he’d be naïve to
think that he can escape his demons at a place like Grimmauld Place. The old house, rife with
regrets of former inhabitants, is the ideal breeding place for ghosts.

Security wards whine. A silhouette appears in the doorway, face too shadowed to discern.
Harry instantly grabs his wand off the nightstand. “Who’s there? Lumos.”

Tom stares back, pale and barefoot and clutching his beloved blanket to his chest.

Harry rushes to enfold the boy in his arms. “What are you doing out of bed? You’ll get a
cold.”

In answer, thunder rumbles. Whimpering, Tom buries his face in Harry’s chest, his terror so
visceral that Harry feels its echoes.

Were those nightmares his or Tom’s? Does it even matter?

“It’s just a storm,” Harry says, stroking Tom’s back. “It’s just warm and cold air clashing and
making noise. It won’t hurt you.”

Tom’s trembling lessens, though he doesn’t relinquish Harry’s arms.

The responsible action would be taking Tom back to his room to back to sleep. Harry glances
uncertainly at the dark corridor that connects their rooms. Before he can second-guess
himself, he says, “Why don’t you stay with me until the storm passes?”

He receives a squeeze in response.

Taking Tom’s cold and clammy hand, Harry leads him to his bed. “You slept here once,” he
says, settling Tom under the covers. “You were a baby then, so you probably don’t
remember.”

Tom’s eyes drift to the nightstand, where the birthday picture he drew for Harry is framed and
prominently displayed, ahead of pictures of Harry with his friends. With a smile, he tucks one
hand under his cheek.

Harry extinguishes his wand and, unlike the last time they shared a bed, joins Tom under the
covers. They lie facing each other on the same pillow, their bodies separated by scant inches
and the thin materials of their pyjamas. Tonight is a special case, Harry tells himself, forcing
away misgivings with a litany of excuses: Regulus’ room is too drafty, Tom’s blankets aren’t
warm enough, Elinor and the Healers are asleep. In the end, however, the truth is simple.
Tonight, they both need comfort.

Another flash of lightning illuminates the room. So slowly that his movement is trancelike,
Tom reaches out and presses his forefinger to Harry’s scar. Harry resists the urge to flinch —
(a cold finger on his cheek, a soft laugh, a triumphant declaration of I can touch him now ) —
as Tom traces out the jagged shape, conferring no pain, only a tingling sensation.

“Lightning,” he says.

Harry shivers. “Yes.”

Tom drops his hand and curls it around Harry’s. “Tell me about the boy. The boy in the
cupboard.”

He hasn’t mentioned the boy in the cupboard since the night of Harry’s birthday, exactly
three months ago. Harry is somewhat surprised he remembers the story, given he was
feverish and half-delirious.

“All right,” he says. “Where were we?”

“The giant,” comes the prompt reply. “The giant on his birthday”

“Well, on the midnight of the boy’s birthday, a giant knocks on the door of the hut…”

Tom listens in absorbed silence as Harry talks about Hagrid changing his life forever with the
simple words, Harry — yer a wizard. He talks about his first ever birthday cake, chocolate-
flavored and decadent. About his trip to Diagon Alley, with its marvelous shops and colorful
characters. About receiving a snowy owl named Hedwig, the first time he’s had anything to
call his own. Tom’s hand tightens.

Thunder and lightning have calmed, although rain continues to pelt against the windows in an
oddly soothing rhythm.

Noting that Tom’s eyes have slipped closed, Harry pauses his story. “That’s all for today.
Let’s get some sleep.”

Tom doesn’t respond. Figuring he must’ve fallen asleep, Harry is about to drift off himself
when Tom says, quietly, “Harry?”

“Yes?”

“What was the cupboard like?”

“The cupboard?”

Tom nods, and Harry can practically feel the heat of his intense stare. Does he know the boy
in the cupboard is Harry? Does Harry want him to know?

“The cupboard was very dark,” he replies cautiously, “and the boy was very small for his age.
So most of the time, it was quite comfortable. It did have spiders, but they were usually pretty
friendly.”

His attempt at facetiousness has no impact on Tom, whose disapproval deepens. “Why was
he there? Why didn’t he have a room?”

“Because — well, because his family didn’t like him.”

“Why not?”

“Because he was different. Because they didn’t like magic.”

“That’s stupid.”

Harry cracks a small smile. “I don’t disagree.”

“I think…I think the boy must be sad a lot, because no one loved him.”

“You’re right,” Harry agrees, unable to prevent his voice from cracking a tad. “He was.”

In a rustle of sheets, Tom pushes off his covers to loom over Harry. Their eyes meet, and for a
panicked moment, Harry remembers their tussle in the garden. Images from his nightmares
flood his mind, full of bones and blood and —

Soft lips brush his scar in a caress and linger in a kiss.

 No one has ever kissed Harry there, avoiding it as a mark of taint. Yet Tom’s kiss feels right,
feels healing, feels like an absolution and a benevolence, all at once.

Harry doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he doesn’t. Nor does Tom offer any explanation as he
lies back down and snuggles closer.

Outside, the rainfall continues. Inside, their demons are quiet.

Chapter End Notes

Is it even a Harry-raises-Tom fic without Patronus and bed-sharing? More seriously, I’ve
been waiting for the right emotional beats to incorporate both, and hope you enjoy the
occasional domestic fluff :)

A quick note on Harry’s nightmare: even though Tom was at Hogwarts during the
London Blitz, he was back at Wool’s for the German V-1 and V-2 rocket attacks during
the summer of 1944, which killed many in East London. I imagine it would’ve made a
large enough impact on his psyche to bleed into Harry’s visions.
 Propose
Chapter Summary

Holiday fun and surprises.

Chapter Notes

Thank you as always for your support! Something rather distressing occurred in real life
so I was not in the best headspace to write, hence this chapter is behind schedule. I’m
hoping I can get back on track as I’m excited to share what’s to come.

As always, please enjoy the update!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Update: 1st November 1999

Estimated biological age: 3 years 6 months

* * *

As soon as Halloween is over, London plunges into the Christmas season, decking streets and
shop windows in elaborate decorations, and erecting booths in squares throughout the city in
anticipation of outdoor markets.

Since this will be the first holiday season that Tom can remember, Harry resolves to make it
memorable by filling it with everything he wanted but couldn’t enjoy as a child. Such as
baking gingerbread and sugar biscuits, or decorating Grimmauld Place, even if the gothic
house will take to cheerful holiday decorations about as well as Severus Snape took to
Augusta Longbottom’s stuffed vulture hat.

And of course, presents abound, stashed in his bedroom. Aside from toys and books, he
enjoys buying clothes, a silly choice when Tom outgrows them quickly and the Ministry
already supplies the basics. Nevertheless, Harry never got to wear clothes that fit growing up,
so he draws vicarious pleasure from dressing Tom nicely. Besides, what’s Christmas without
garish holiday jumpers and wooly socks?
One morning, London awakens to the first snow of the season. Tom is bursting with so much
excitement that he could hardly stand still to be zipped in his jacket before he dashes into the
garden. Harry can empathize. When he first saw snow, he found it more magical than its book
illustrations, an ethereal force that managed to lend mystique to drab Little Whinging.

Today’s snow has already dusted the garden in white and freshened the air. Tom inhales
deeply, then yelps in delight when his breath crystallizes into visible puffs. “I’m a dragon!”

“A very terrifying dragon,” Harry agrees, laughing.

The snowflakes drift lazily and sparkle like crystals under the mild sunlight, and take detours
to tango with the wind until they at last land on Tom’s raised mittens. He carefully raises one
mittened hand to his eyes and squints. “They’re so pretty,” he marvels.

“They are, aren’t they? Did you know that no two snowflakes are the same?”

The fact impressed Harry as a child, but Tom frowns and scoops a handful of snow in an
unsuccessful attempt to compare snowflakes. “Really?”

“Really. Snowflakes are all special, just like people.”

“Everyone is different,” Tom corrects. “Not special.”

His childish honesty unsettles Harry. Not wanting to ruin the mood, Harry nudges the
discussion to a happier topic. “There are lots of things we can do with snow. Why don’t we
build a snowman?”

Building a snowman is easier said than done, as this morning’s snow is too dry and flaky.
With persistence and a few Sticking Spells, however, they stack three snowballs on top of
each other to create a crooked snowman.

To complete the ensemble, Harry Summons a carrot from autumn harvest for its nose and two
marbles from their Gobstones set — bright green at Tom’s insistence — for his eyes. Over
time, he has become less cautious about doing magic in front of Tom. At the end of the day,
magic is Tom’s birthright. Even if he isn’t allowed to wield it, he should be allowed to
experience its wonders.

A cold gust passes, causing Tom to shudder. “Let’s go inside,” Harry says, noticing. “Mr.
Snowman will be okay by himself.”

“Not yet,” Tom says. “We have to make another one.”

“Another snowman will take a while, and you’re cold.”

“But Snow-Harry needs a friend so he won’t be lonely.”

Warmth settles in the pit of Harry’s stomach, rendering him unable to fault Tom’s logic. He
adjusts Tom’s hood to be more snug. “All right. Let’s make Snow-Harry a Snow-Tom.”
The second snowman is faster to build, both because it’s smaller and because Harry uses
magic more liberally. Nevertheless, by the time they finish putting in brown marbles for
Snow-Tom’s eyes, the snow has intensified. Tom is shivering, cheeks reddened and nose
running.

Harry cups Tom’s cheek to wipe his nose with a tissue. “We should go inside now. Snow-
Harry and Snow-Tom will take care of each other.”

Tom acquiesces readily.

Inside the kitchen, while Tom warms up by the fireplace, Harry makes two mugs of hot
chocolate. The cocoa is a Honeydukes holiday special that infuses rich dark chocolate with
toffee, a combination particularly favored by Tom. For good measure, Harry adds snowman-
shaped marshmallows on top.

Tom wrinkles his nose. While the smell is intoxicating, the liquid inside his mug is an
unappetizing brown. “It looks yucky.”

“It’s called hot chocolate. I promise it tastes better than you think.”

Hesitantly, Tom pokes out his tongue to lick the drink. Expression clearing, he takes a sip,
followed by a big gulp.

“Careful, don’t burn yourself,” Harry says. “Do you like it?”

“Yes!” Tom raises his head, eyes shining. “It’s just like liquid chocolate!”

“I told you,” Harry says, hiding a grin. The white foam from melting marshmallows has
gathered on Tom’s upper lip, giving him a fuzzy little beard.

Tom resumes his gulps. Harry watches, so entranced that he nearly forgets to drink any of his
own.

“I’m asking Hermione to marry me.”

The din inside the busy pub seems to freeze. Harry swallows a mouthful of half-chewed pie.
“Er, come again?”

“I’m going to ask Hermione to marry me,” Ron repeats, ears turning pink.

“Wow.” Ron mentioned he wanted to share news over drinks at The Hog’s Head, but this was
unexpected.

“I’ve even bought a ring. What do you think?”

Ron takes out a box from his inner pocket and opens it. Though Harry knows nothing about
jewelry, he can see at once that this ring belongs to Hermione. Its gemstone is periwinkle
blue, the exact shade Hermione wore to the Yule Ball, and the delicate silver band is carved
with intricate symbols that would appeal to her appreciation of arcane languages.
“I had it custom-made at a goblin-owned jewelry shop Bill recommended,” Ron says,
stroking the ring with an achingly fond expression. “The runes are supposed to protect the
wearer, if the goblin didn’t have me on. And the color — well, I’ve always thought Hermione
looks amazing in blue.” He has turned completely pink.

“This ring is beautiful,” Harry says. “It’s perfect for Hermione.”

“You think so?”

“Absolutely, she’ll love it.” Harry twirls his tankard. “But you don’t think it’s, I dunno, too
soon?”

“Is it? I suppose we’ve only dated a year, but we’ve known each other since we were eleven.
And plenty of people marry straight out of Hogwarts, like your parents.”

“That might’ve been because of the war.” War gives everyone a free pass to do something
crazy, something romantic.

“We just survived a war. And sometimes, you just know.”

Sensing Ron is getting defensive, Harry holds up his hands. “Look, I’m happy for you.
Honestly. And I volunteer my services as best man for free.”

Ron relaxes. “Wouldn’t dream of anyone else for my best man than the Boy Who Lived,” he
says, and they grin at each other.

“So, when’s the wedding?”

“First of all, she hasn’t even said yes —”

“She’s going to say yes,” Harry says, rolling his eyes.

“And even if she says yes, we’re not getting married right away. We both want to be a bit
more settled first. The ring, it’s more like a declaration, you know? I want the whole world to
know that Hermione is mine and I am hers.”

“Wow. Who are you and what have you done with my best friend with the emotional range of
a teaspoon?”

Ron jabs him with an elbow. “Enough about me and Hermione. How are you and Ginny?”

“Great!” Harry’s chipper response is overly loud. “We had an amazing holiday in Cardiff.”

“Yeah, Ginny mentioned. Have you two ever talked about marriage?”

“No! Not yet,” Harry amends hastily. “We’re still figuring out this adulthood business, but I
can’t imagine marrying anyone else.”

And it’s not a complete lie. Harry can’t imagine marrying anyone else because he can’t
imagine marrying anyone at all. Not when navigating his life sometimes feels akin to
struggling to stay on top of his jinxed broomstick in first year.

Ron takes his words at face value. “I understand, there’s no rush. Although Mum will be over
the moon if she gets to plan a double wedding. Just saying.”

He winks, and Harry grabs his scarf to loosen it. “Er, yeah. Maybe.”

“Anyway, I’m glad I could share this with you, and who knows? You might have good news
yourself soon.” Ron raises his tankard. “Cheers!”

“Cheers!” Harry echoes, trying to match his friend’s enthusiasm.

They finish their drinks, and Ron leaves with Harry’s assurances that he’ll help plan the
proposal.

As soon as Ron is out of sight, Harry slumps over his empty tankard. What was supposed to
be an evening with his best friend certainly went off the rails. He should be happy for his
friends, and the majority of him is. But a small part of him feels left behind. Would he
experience this for himself someday? Would he have the certainty to pledge himself to
someone for life? Or would he be that odd uncle who always has to be invited to Christmas
dinner because he’d otherwise be alone?

This is ridiculous, he admonishes himself. He has Ginny, so he will have his own family, his
own happy ending. He simply needs to try harder to break their current holding pattern, that’s
all.

On the way home, Harry stops by a jewelry shop on Old Bond Street. An eagle-eyed
saleswoman notices him immediately and comes over to introduce herself, though Harry is
too flustered to remember her name or offer his.

“How may I help you?” she asks.

“I’m here to look at rings.” Harry clears his throat. “Engagement rings.”

“Of course.” She adopts a knowing look. “Do you have anything particular in mind?” He
shakes his head. “No matter, I can talk you through some of our more popular settings. Please
come this way.”

He follows her to a large display case filled with glittering rings. She retrieves two from the
case.

“These are two of our popular styles. The solitaire prong setting is a classic and sets off the
stone, but the halo setting adds a unique touch.”

Harry hums, noncommittal. Either would look beautiful on Ginny’s slender finger. He
imagines the two of them standing together at the altar, exchanging vows and rings.

Calm down. Breathe. He’s only looking at rings. Perfectly harmless.

“We also have a wide selection of stones. You certainly can’t go wrong with diamonds, but
emeralds and rubies are also excellent choices.” She retrieves a few more rings from the
display. “Tell me about your girlfriend. That can narrow down the choices.”

“She’s beautiful and brilliant and funny,” Harry begins. “She’s a great athlete and full of fire
and never backs down from a challenge.”

The saleswoman nods in approval. “Your girlfriend sounds like a superstar,” she says,
echoing Jones’ word choice. “Perhaps she would want a piece that makes a statement. A non-
traditional stone in a bold color, I’m thinking. Let me grab our catalogue…”

She continues to speak, but Harry’s vision has blurred. The room is spinning, and the light
has become too bright, too harsh.

“...do you have any questions, sir?”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I — I forgot something. I will come back another time.”

He backs away, crashing into another couple browsing rings, but he only mumbles a “sorry!”
without stopping. Upon exiting the store, he breaks into a run, and he doesn’t slow down until
he’s a safe distance from Old Bond Street, where he almost collapses on the pavement,
gasping for breath.

* * *

In the middle of the night, Harry shakes Tom awake.

Tom must’ve been in the middle of a happy dream, because he curls up more tightly under
his blankets.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Harry says, pulling the covers off his face. “I have something to
show you.”

“Show me tomorrow,” Tom grumbles, words slurred. “Let me sleep.”

“It will be good, I promise. Don’t you like secrets?”

At the word secret, Tom cracks open an eye. “A good one?”

“A very good one.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Tom throws off the rest of his covers and allows Harry to wrap
him snugly in his winter jacket.

As they follow the glow of lumos to navigate out of Tom’s room, Harry feels as if he’s back
at Hogwarts, sneaking out of Gryffindor Tower after hours under the Invisibility Cloak. His
giddiness infects Tom, who becomes more animated with every step.

They reach the stairs that lead to the attic. Harry gauges Tom’s reaction before proceeding.
Initially, Tom seems unaffected, but as they ascend, his grip on Harry’s hand tightens and he
shifts closer. Whether or not he remembers the attic, his time with Fawley left unhealed
psychological scars.

“You’re safe, I’m here,” Harry whispers. “And look.” He throws open the attic door.

Tom gasps. “We’re in the sky!”

The door reveals not Tom’s prison of seven months, but Harry's approximation of Astronomy
Tower. The furniture and inner walls of the former flat have been removed, leaving behind a
wall of enchanted glass that enwraps the attic in the night sky.

Harry prepared the attic for the telescope, which isn’t ready yet. Luckily, they won’t need it
tonight. He leads Tom to the largest window.

“The stars look bigger from here,” Tom remarks.

“The stars are actually much, much bigger,” Harry tells him. “But they are so far away that
they look tiny.”

“How far away?”

“So far away that their light can take hundreds or thousands of years to reach us. The stars we
see right now started sending their light before either of us was born.”

Although The Attic is heated, goosebumps erupt along Harry’s arms. It always humbles and
renders him a little melancholic that he and these ancient stars are doomed to never share a
timeline, that their connection is limited to the light emitted from long ago.

Tom flattens his palms against the pane, round eyes and parted lips betraying his own
wonder. Harry’s mind wanders another boy who stood in a similar position five decades ago.
A boy who came from the slums of London to the highlands of Scotland. A boy who finally
saw the grand night sky after a lifetime of smog. A boy who swore, even then, that he would
earn his throne among the stars.

“It moved!” Tom shouts. “The star moved!” He points in excitement. “There, another one!
And another!”

“We’re watching a meteor shower,” Harry explains. “The moving stars are called meteors,
who are very special stars that visit us from outer space.”

“They disappear so quickly. Where do they go?”

“Nowhere. They burn up before they reach the ground.”

“Like fire.” Unlike Harry, Tom is unperturbed to realize he’s witnessing the meteors’ final
burst of brilliance before they are forever extinguished. Rather, he cranes to get a wider view
of the sky. “Do they come every night? I’ve never seen them before.”

“Meteor showers don’t happen every day, and they are very hard to see usually because cities
are too bright. When I was younger, my aunt’s family went to Exmoor National Park to watch
them.”

“What’s that?”

“Exmoor is a big park a few hours away from here. It’s very dark at night, so it’s perfect for
stargazing.”

Tom breathes, impressed. “Did you have fun?”

“No, I didn’t get to go.”

Though Harry kept his tone light, his childhood disappointment must’ve slipped through.
Tom shifts from the window to wrap his arms around Harry’s waist.

Harry squeezes him in reassurance. “It’s all right. Watching with you is much better, and this
is a very special meteor shower called a meteor storm. That’s why there are so many
meteors.”

“We’re lucky!” Tom claps his hands.

“We are very lucky,” Harry agrees. “The last storm was over thirty years ago.”

Indeed, the meteors are coming at greater frequency now, streaking in all directions and
gilding the night with their ephemeral light. For a fleeting moment, Harry is reminded of the
commendation ceremony, when crisscrossing light bound his and Tom’s magic for eternity.

“You know what else makes a meteor special?” Harry says. “You can make a wish.”

Tom tilts his head. “What’s a wish?”

“When you make a wish, you ask for something you really want.”

“Like what?”

“Can be anything. Toys. Books. Friends.” Harry swallows. “A family.”

“And do all wishes come true?”

While Harry wants to answer with a resounding yes, would it be preferable not to set
expectations too high? He recalls his own excitement after wishing upon his first star (“I
want to meet my parents!”), and the crushing disappointment that followed when nothing
happened.

Yet he cannot ignore Tom’s expectant face, his obvious desire for Harry’s reassurance that
wishes won’t be made in vain.
“Eventually, they do,” Harry says, surprised by the truth of his answer.

Tom bounces on his feet. “Then I want to make a wish! How do I make a wish?”

“Clasp your hands.” Harry demonstrates, and Tom follows suit. “Close your eyes. Now, you
can tell the stars what you want to wish for.”

“I wish —”

“Shhh.” Harry presses his forefinger to Tom’s lips. “You can’t say your wish out loud. If you
do, it won’t come true.”

Tom squeezes his eyes shut and clasps his hands harder. Even though he isn’t using magic,
the bond vibrates with the force of his desire.

What does he want so badly? Harry is tempted to ask, but he doesn’t want to sabotage the
wish’s chance of coming true.

“Okay, I made a wish!” Tom announces, opening his eyes. “Now you make one too.”

Harry obeys. Uplifting his face to the starry sky, he closes his eyes and clasps his hands.
There’s no question what he would wish for. Without effort, his mind floods with images of
Tom: smiling, playing, shining.

He opens his eyes to Tom’s expectant face. “Did you make a wish?” Tom asks, his voice
theatrically hushed.

Harry runs his fingers through Tom’s soft curls and nods. “I did,” he replies softly.

I wish I could keep you safe forever.

Christmas is coming, but Tom has never celebrated it before. “Is Christmas a good thing?” he
wants to know.

“Absolutely,” Harry says. “Christmas is a holiday that’s been around for thousands of years.
It celebrates love and kindness, so there will be lots of pretty decorations, yummy treats, and
everyone will be extra nice. And best of all, Santa Claus will visit.”

“Who’s that?”

“Santa is a jolly man who lives in the North Pole, very far away.” Harry points to the top of
Tom’s globe. “He has a big workshop where he makes every toy we can imagine with his
elves. Then, on Christmas Eve, he gets on his sleigh, and his reindeer take him to deliver
these presents to all the boys and girls in the world.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone who is good, and you’ve been very good this year.”
“But the North Pole is so far away,” Tom says. “How does Santa have enough time to give
everyone a present?”

“Magic, of course,” Harry replies. “Santa is a very powerful wizard.”

Tom crosses his arms. “How will he know what I want?”

“You’ll write him a letter. That way, you can tell him exactly what you want.”

Something about Santa Claus still doesn’t make sense. Why would a powerful wizard devote
this much time to making children happy? Why wouldn’t he use his magic to do more
impressive things?

However, Harry believes in Santa, just as Harry believed in making wishes on stars, so Tom
will believe too.

Since Tom can’t write many words yet, Harry helps him with his letter to Santa. Harry takes
his job very seriously and asks Tom to describe each present in detail, such as the size of
blocks or the type of books, and the final letter fills two parchments.

To deliver the letter to the North Pole, Miss Elinor lends them an owl. It happens to be the
same one that Tom almost sent to its death and it remembers, because it’s jittery and only
allows Harry to approach it. Eventually, Harry charms it with a few treats, and it flies off with
Tom’s letter. Now Tom will have to wait until Christmas to see whether Santa is truly as good
as Harry promised.

In the meantime, he helps Harry decorate the house. He doesn’t think all the decorations
match the house, but he does like wreaths, which are round and hung on doors, and garlands,
which are long and hung on staircases. They both have green leaves and red ribbons, and
Tom has always thought the two colors look beautiful together.

Harry isn’t done. One day, he comes home with four bulging shopping bags and a big tree.
Tom has never seen a tree with needle-shaped leaves and wooden cones. He leans close and
sniffs. It smells nice and fresh, a little like Harry’s shampoo. He touches a leaf gingerly and is
surprised it doesn’t hurt him.

“Is it for our garden?” he asks.

“No, it’s for the drawing room,” Harry says. “It’s our Christmas tree.”

“Why do we need a tree for Christmas?”

“This is a pine tree that stays green in the winter, so it brings good luck. When we decorate it,
it will look like it’s wearing stars.”

Still somewhat skeptical, Tom helps Harry carry the tree and shopping bags into the drawing
room, where Miss Elinor is reading the newspaper. She looks up and her face twitches, as if
she’s struggling not to laugh.

“Good gracious, Harry, did you buy the whole store?”

“Er, just a shelf or two,” Harry says. “Maybe I went a little overboard.”

“I like all of them,” Tom says loyally, shooting Miss Elinor a dark glare.

“That’s the spirit.” Harry beams at Tom. “Shall we decorate?”

The tree is full of potential, a blankness to be molded, and it must be perfect because it
obviously means a lot to Harry. But the possibilities are overwhelming. Ornaments come in
all varieties, between round baubles, stringy tinsels, tinkly bells, and funnily-shaped sweets.
Not only that, every ornament on the tree has to be meaningful and represents something
Tom and Harry did together. Finally, the ornaments need to look nice together. For example,
it wouldn’t make sense for a snowflake to hang next to a black boot.

Soon, Tom realizes no number of ornaments can capture his vision, even if Harry does buy
the whole store, as every ornament can be tied to his life with Harry. Like snowmen that
remind him of Snow-Harry and Snow-Tom, or pumpkins that remind him of their jack o’
lantern, or castles that remind him of their sand castles at the play park.

A long time passes before Tom decorates all the branches he can reach to his satisfaction. For
the higher branches, he instructs Harry, who patiently does everything and doesn’t complain
when Tom keeps changing his mind about what looks better.

Finally, the branches are done. Only the top of the tree is left. After Tom selects a silver-and-
gold star with a bright red center shaped like a heart, Harry lifts him up so he can crown the
tree.

“We’re done!” Tom announces, as Harry sets him down.

“Thank you, Tom. The tree looks wonderful.”

With a wave of his wand, Harry levitates and sets the tree by the windows, next to the
fireplace. With another, the ornaments light up and tinkly music plays. Tom is very pleased.
The tree has turned out better than his original vision.

Even Miss Elinor rises to admire it. “How beautiful,” she praises.

“Yes, beautiful,” Tom agrees, but he’s no longer admiring the tree. Harry is gazing at the tree
with a longing that reminds Tom of the night of the meteor storm. Maybe he’s making a wish
on this star too.

Tom’s cheeks heat and chest flutters. He wants to sneak inside Harry’s head and know
exactly what he’s thinking. Does it have to do with him?

Harry catches him staring. “Everything in order?”

“I’m fine!” Tom ducks hurriedly and spots something peeking from a shopping bag that looks
like a giant red-and-white sock. He fishes it out curiously. “Is this a sock?”

“Oh yes, I almost forgot.” Harry takes it. “This is your stocking.”
Tom glances down at his feet doubtfully. “It’s way too big for me.”

Chuckling, Harry hangs it over the fireplace. “It’s not for you to wear. It’s for Santa to fill
with presents.” He taps it with his wand, and the letters TOM appear in gold letters. “Now
Santa knows this stocking is yours.”

No wonder it’s so big. It will fit lots of presents inside, probably more with magic. Tom
reaches out to stroke the stocking’s fuzzy surface.

(“Don’t touch that!”

You jerk your hand away, scalded by your cousin’s glee. “I’m not ,” you protest. “It was
crooked so I was fixing it.”

But it wasn’t crooked. Aunt Petunia has always made sure that everything looks perfect for
Dudley’s Christmas, from the fancy tree to the largest stocking you have ever seen. It’s the
one household chore that she doesn’t trust you to do.

Your lie doesn’t fool Dudley, who sneers. “Are you wondering where your stocking is?”

“No,” you lie again. Ever since the nice substitute teacher assured you that everyone will get
presents, you’ve been wishing you could hang something up. Even a hand-me-down sock
would do, since Dudley’s foot is huge. What if Santa never brought you presents in the past
because he didn’t know where to put them?

Dudley guesses exactly what’s running through your mind. “You don’t actually think Santa is
going to bring you presents, do you?”

“Well, why wouldn’t he?” you demand, driven over the edge after days of enduring Dudley’s
taunts. “If he can bring presents to you, he can bring them to me. Unlike you, I’ve actually
been good.”

“He’s not going to bring you presents, and I’ll tell you why.” Your cousin leans over, filling
your nostrils with the putrid smell of garlic crisps. He adopts an ugly grin. “Santa doesn’t
bring presents to freaks .”)

Tom spins around. “Where’s your stocking?” he demands.

“My stocking?” Harry blinks. “I don’t need one. I’m too old to get presents from Santa.”

“But you deserve them.”

“Don’t worry. My friends will get me presents.”

His friends? Tom stomps his foot. “You need a stocking, or else — or else I don’t want one
either!”

“Tom, why —”

“I mean it,” Tom insists. “I’ll take it off now!”

“Hey, calm down.” Harry squeezes his shoulders before Tom can grab the stocking. “You
have a point. Your stocking looks lonely on its own. I’ll buy two more so Miss Elinor and I
can each have one. Does that sound good?”

Tom nods. Miss Elinor can have a stocking if Harry insists, but the important thing is that
Harry will have a stocking, because Tom is going to give him the very best present.

Finding “the very best present” is a challenge. Tom doesn’t have money, and even if he does,
he can’t go to shops, so he has to make a present himself. But whatever he makes must be
better than Harry’s birthday present, and definitely better than the presents from his other
friends.

What could that be?

Tom studies his arts and crafts supplies. There’s colored paper, modeling clay, and all sorts of
paints. Drawings, sculptures, paper animals — nothing is jumping out. They aren’t terrible,
but they aren’t special enough.

With a sigh, Tom slumps on the floor. His eyes wander under his bed and land on the glossy
shoe box that contained his wellies.

Of course. This would be perfect. Tom pulls it out, ideas already racing through his mind. He
can’t wait to give the present to Harry.

Except he has to make the present first, and making it is even more difficult. Everything has
to fit perfectly together, so whenever he makes a mistake, he starts over. Sometimes, he
would redo a whole day’s work because a line is too squiggly or the clay is too lumpy. As a
result, he also ends up wasting some of his best supplies.

A few times, Tom almost wants to give up, but he refuses to lose against stupid clay and
paints. Besides, he wants to earn Harry’s brilliant smile.

Keeping such a big secret from Harry is the final challenge. Tom can work on small bits of
the present when Harry is around, but working on anything bigger would draw his curiosity.
For the first time, Tom is glad Harry has other friends. Whenever Harry is away, he can make
real progress. He just needs to remember to hide his work before Harry comes back, but
that’s easy using the hidden door under his bed.

Harry is gone for most of Christmas Eve, giving Tom the chance to put the finishing touches
and ask Miss Elinor to wrap the present. She may be boring, but she can keep secrets, and the
wrapped present looks quite nice tied up with a striped bow.

Tom tucks it inside Harry’s stocking only seconds before Harry tumbles out of the fireplace
with an armful of boxes.

“You should be in bed, Tom,” Harry says, surprised. “Otherwise, Santa Claus won’t come.”
“I wanted to make sure you get home safely,” Tom says, and tugs Harry away from the
stockings before he can notice the big lump in his.

Excitement keeps Tom awake for most of the night. Eventually, he gives up and lies in the
dark, counting seconds until he cannot wait anymore.

“It’s Christmas!” he shouts, bursting into Harry’s room.

“Happy Christmas,” Harry mumbles. It’s his turn to hide under his blankets. “Sleep for
another hour, it’s too early.”

“But it’s Christmas!” Tom grabs Harry’s hand and shakes it. “It’s time to open presents!”
Harry groans. “Please?”

“All right, all right.” Yawning, Harry sits up and slips on his glasses. “Let’s go open some
presents.”

Tom only allows Harry enough time to pull a jumper over his pyjamas before he drags him
out of the room and down the stairs. He doesn’t mention that Harry put on his jumper
backwards.

The drawing room is twinkling with colorful lights. There are presents everywhere: piled in
wrapped boxes under the tree and stuffed to the brim in Tom’s stocking. While Tom cannot
wait to see what he has received, he doesn’t move.

“What’s wrong? Too many presents?” Harry teases. “Do you need help picking which to
open first?”

Tom shakes his head and gestures at Harry’s stocking. “You first.”

“Me? I have a present?” Harry’s eyes widen at the lump in his stocking. “Is it from you?”

“Yes!” Tom hops from foot to foot. “Open it, open it!”

A smile brightens Harry’s face. He pulls out the box and unwraps it carefully on his lap.
“Tom,” he breathes, “it’s beautiful.”

Tom made a diorama. He glued the shoe box to its lid to create both a background and a
bottom. For background, he painted a blue sky with fluffy clouds cut out of white paper and a
smiling sun out of red paper. At the bottom, he cut slivers of green colored paper to look like
grass, and glued them with the prettiest chrysanthemum and zinnias harvested from the
garden to make a meadow.

The best part is the figurine in the center.

“Prongs,” Harry whispers, lifting the diorama to get a better look at the clay deer.

It took Tom many, many tries to get the details of the deer perfect. The antlers especially
were hard to shape, and the silver paint wasn't shiny enough, so he had to sprinkle silver
glitter. Although the deer is still not as neat as he’d like, he’s proud of what he’s done.
“Do you like it?” Tom asks.

Harry sets down the diorama and turns to Tom, his misty eyes chasing away Tom’s anxiety.

“I love it,” he says quietly. He wraps Tom in a big hug and rests his chin on Tom’s head.
“Thank you for the beautiful present. It must’ve taken you a long time to make.”

“Is it the best present?” Tom asks. “Better than everyone else’s?”

“Absolutely. This is by far the best present.”

Approval won and victory confirmed, Tom hugs Harry back. Then he wriggles out of Harry’s
arms to attack his presents. Santa did a good job and got him exactly what he wanted. He also
got many other things from Harry, and he especially likes a fluffy jumper with a picture of a
red-nosed reindeer and a new book about the wild cats of Africa.

There are so many presents that he’s only halfway through the pile under the tree by the time
Miss Elinor appears and flicks on the drawing room light. Tom tenses, expecting her to frown
at the mess of crumpled wrapping paper, but surprisingly, she laughs.

“Happy Christmas!” she says, and presents a tray of hot chocolate and iced buns.

Maybe she’s in a good mood because she got presents too; Harry gave her a shawl and a set
of yarns. Or maybe Christmas really is that magical.

By the time Tom finishes unwrapping presents, the sun has fully risen. He climbs onto the
couch and settles beside Harry, who is half-dozing but still holding the diorama. In fact, the
diorama hasn’t left Harry’s lap since he unwrapped it.

Harry ruffles his hair. “Did you have a good Christmas?”

“Yes! It’s my best Christmas,” Tom says. “Was it your best Christmas?”

To his pleasure, Harry nods right away. “It is. Thank you for making it so special.” He strokes
Prongs again.

“Good. It will be even more special next year.”

“I believe you. Christmases tend to get better and better every year.”

Sadness is flashing on Harry’s face, a sadness Tom wants to someday understand, but nothing
will ruin his mood today.

Tom crawls onto Harry’s lap, settles into his arms, and flips open his new book. He smiles to
himself when he feels Harry press a kiss to his hair. Inside, he makes a vow.

Their Christmases together will get better and better; he’ll make sure of it.
 * * *

After Christmas, Harry travels to France with the Weasleys. The trip is ostensibly a family
holiday to visit the Delacours, but in reality pretext for Ron’s surprise proposal, something to
which everyone but Hermione and Mrs. Weasley are privy.

Caught up in a whirlwind of activities and lacking privacy at the Delacours, Harry sends
Prongs to Tom every night. He can always identify the precise moment when Prongs gives
Tom a good night kiss. Their bond will flow with Tom’s contentment, more gratifying than if
it’s his own.

Naturally, Tom insists on learning all about his trip when he returns. He listens intently as
Harry describes the village in southern France where the Delacours live, with a tree-lined
creek meandering through its center, and Paris, whose lavish gardens, quaint architecture and
hidden corners earned it the moniker “city of love.”

When he finishes, Tom sets down the half-eaten box of macarons. “What else happened?”

“That was all.” Harry has been mindful to keep mentions of his friends to a minimum. “It
was a short trip, so we didn’t get to see too much of France.”

Tom shakes his head. “You only talked about happy things, but you’re sad. So something else
happened.”

Taken aback by his perceptiveness, Harry says, “Well, I suppose the main event of the trip is
that Ron and Hermione got engaged.”

“What’s engaged ? Is it a present?”

“Not exactly. It’s a promise. A promise you make to someone that you’ll get married.”

He manages to confuse Tom even more. “Is married a present?”

“Married is also a promise. When two people love each other very much, they get married so
they can be together forever.”

“Why does that make you sad?”

It doesn’t, Harry starts to answer, but his lie fizzles before Tom’s probing gaze that seems to
glean his darkest confessions. That his throat closed as Ron bent on one knee and a shocked
Hermione clapped a hand to her mouth; that his eyes prickled with tears as Ron slid the
sparkling ring on Hermione’s finger; that wistfulness crept into overwhelming joy as his best
friends kissed for the first time as an engaged couple, lost in a world that admits no other.

That he avoided eye contact with Ginny for the rest of the afternoon.

“It’s a sad type of happiness,” Harry admits. “I am happy for them, but I’m also sad because
things will change.”
Tom furrows his brows in thought. Eyes lighting up, he pats Harry’s knee. “We can get
married.”

The statement startles Harry into a laugh. “You want to get married?”

“Yes, with you,” Tom says seriously. “I want us to be together forever.”

The idea is absurd, yet Harry doesn’t have the heart to outright refuse a marriage proposal
made with such sincerity. He loops his arm around Tom’s shoulders and draws him close.

“You’re too young to get married,” he says gently, selecting the most innocuous reason out of
a long list.

Tom deflates. “Can’t you wait for me?” he pleads. “I won’t be ‘too young’ forever.”

Unfortunately not, Harry thinks grimly. “There are other ways to be together than getting
married.”

“Like what?”

Like magic-binding rituals, for one. Harry runs his fingers through Tom’s hair until the
soothing motion wipes away his frown.

“When you’re older, I’ll tell you.”

Tom accepts the non-answer with a grave nod. “And if I still want to marry you?”

“We can decide then.”

“Promise?”

Tom’s earnestness elicits a stab of sorrow. “I promise,” Harry says, but he does not extend his
pinky.

As the world ushers in a new millennium on New Year’s Eve, Grimmauld Place celebrates
Tom’s birthday.

Harry debated whether it’s a good idea. It feels macabre to celebrate Tom’s biological age
edging closer to the dreaded seventeen. Yet, at the same time, how many birthdays would
coincide with his real birthday? How many birthdays would he get to celebrate in total?

After the lavish Christmas holiday, the birthday celebration is a simple affair. Present consists
of arts and crafts supplies, since Tom used his best clay and paints for Harry’s diorama, and
cake is triple chocolate, the same that Harry had for his birthday minus Mrs. Weasley’s
elaborate decorations.

Tom counts the candles that Harry is arranging on the cake. “One, two, three, four. I have
four candles.”
“That’s right, because you’re four years old now.”

“So last birthday, I was three?”

Harry stills. “Actually,” he says after a pause, “you were one.”

“I thought everyone turns one year older on their birthday.”

“For most people, yes, but you’re special.”

Tom smiles, liking the sound of that. “How old would I be next birthday?”

“I — I don’t know.” Harry forces himself to smile back. “It will be a surprise.”

Fortunately, Tom doesn’t notice the wobble in his voice.

Harry lights the candles and, in spite of his incurable tone-deafness, begins a terrible
rendition of Happy Birthday. Tom doesn’t seem to mind. Hanging onto every word, he locks
their eyes and leans toward Harry.

Something flashes; they both turn to see Elinor holding a new camera. “I thought it was a
good occasion to christen my new camera,” she says. “You may wish to see the photograph
later.”

(She’s partially right. Harry would find the picture much later, under different circumstances,
and recall this moment.)

The song complete, Tom hovers over the cake and puffs his cheeks.

“Wait,” Harry says. “You should make a wish.”

“Another one?”

“Everyone gets to make a wish on their birthday.”

Tom chews his bottom lip. “Won’t wishes cancel each other out?”

“Not at all,” Harry assures him. “In fact, making more wishes helps them come true more
quickly.”

Tom perks. He clasps his hands and closes his eyes, in perfect imitation of what Harry
showed him during the meteor storm. A strange realization suddenly comes over Harry:
somehow, he and Tom — and even Elinor — have become a family in all but name, bound
initially by duty and responsibility that have transformed into mutual fondness and reliance.

Who would’ve imagined that storming into The Attic to rescue Tom exactly a year ago would
lead to this tender moment in the bowel of Grimmauld Place?

“Harry?” Tom’s brown eyes are expectant. “Can I blow the candles now?”

“Go ahead.”
Tom takes a deep breath and blows out the candles, never once moving his eyes from Harry.

2000 opens to an auspicious beginning.

Muggle Britain survives its panic over Y2K and wizarding Britain witnesses promising signs
that reconstruction is coming to an end. Most recently, Kingsley and Dunbar’s factions
collaborate on the implementation of several reforms that include the transition of Azkaban
from dementors and the payout of Muggle-born reparations, ending months of impasse.

Harry’s friends are also doing well. Ron and Hermione have started wedding planning at
Hermione’s insistence, even though the wedding itself is a few years away. Ginny is
establishing herself on the Holyhead Harpies and will soon play in her first real game. Both
Tom and Teddy are thriving in their respective households.

And while Harry is still waffling over what he wants to do after his gap year, he has started
exploring post-secondary education. For instance, University College London offers a
program for wizards and witches who want to supplement their Hogwarts education with a
Muggle curriculum, which sounds intriguing and allows for a flexible class schedule.

Over a year and a half after the Battle of Hogwarts, all appears to be well.

In retrospect, Harry should’ve recognized this to be the calm before the storm.

This morning’s weather is unusually temperate. In the afternoon, Harry will accompany
Ginny to Holyhead for a game where she has a high chance of subbing for an
underperforming Chaser. Knowing he won’t be home until late in the evening, Harry decides
to take Tom to the park for the first time since the previous autumn.

They first go to the nearby lake to feed the various water fowls that continue to fascinate
Tom. At the play park, Tom heads to the sandpit, having developed an aversion to the swings
after Sophia. A group game is underway, and a boy invites Tom to join. Despite being the
reluctant newcomer, it doesn’t take long before Tom is bossing everyone else around.

Harry watches with pride. Tom is a natural leader, willful yet charismatic. Despite his mousy
disguise, he retains that spark that eclipses other children. He has so much potential, if only
he uses his natural gifts towards nobler pursuits.

It happens in a split second.

An explosion slams Harry to the ground. Before the smoke clears, he’s already scrambling to
his feet, a singular goal in mind.

“Tom! Tom!” he shouts, desperately clinging onto a shred of hope as he scans and re-scans
the mass of terrified parents and children, despite the claws of cold realization sinking in.

Tom has disappeared.

Chapter End Notes

I’m sorry to interrupt our regularly scheduled fluff. We’ve been building toward this arc
for sometime and I hope you will enjoy the payoff.
 Panic
Chapter Notes

Thank you everyone for your response to the last chapter! Your support means the world
to me, and hopefully this 8K+ chapter makes up for the cliffhanger and subsequent wait.
Please hang on — although the ride will be bumpy, I have the boys’ best interests at
heart.

The date format on AO3 seems to be giving the impression that this fic hasn’t been
updated since 2020. Don’t worry, while I’m hardly the fastest writer, I currently have no
plans of abandoning this fic, nor (knock on wood) do I plan to take a three-year hiatus.

Hope you enjoy the update!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Update: 1st January 2000

Estimated biological age: 4 years

* * *

Aurors descend upon the scene. While most set off to calm and Obliviate panicked Muggles,
a small group — headed by someone who’s likely the team lead — reports to Elinor. She has
risen from her seat, wand at the ready.

“We had a breach in security,” the lead Auror tells her. “Wards were temporarily disabled and
intruders were on the premises.”

“The Lestranges,” Harry says, certainty solidifying with each passing second. “The
Lestranges were here and took —”

“The asset,” Elinor cuts in, shooting him a meaningful look. The Aurors on duty aren’t privy
to the identity of the person they’re protecting, for good reason.

The Auror frowns. “The Lestranges haven’t been spotted near London since last spring.”

“Never mind the details,” Elinor says. “The important thing is to recover the asset as soon as
possible. Have you reengaged the wards?”

“Yes, no unauthorized Apparition and Portkeys are possible within the park.”
“St. James’s isn’t large enough to contain the intruders for long. We need to extend the wards
further.”

“We’ve already combined them with the wards around Buckingham Palace in three
directions, and we’re working on closing vulnerabilities on the east side. In the meantime, we
have barriers preventing anyone with a magical signature from leaving the park.”

“We’re wasting time.” Harry doesn’t have the patience for their deliberation. “We need to
find T — the asset.”

“Do not worry, Mr. Potter. My team is actively searching every corner of the park and we will
alert you as soon as we have a lead.”

“Let me help.”

“For your safety, we don’t advise —”

“Let him go,” Elinor says, briefly meeting Harry’s eyes in acknowledgement. “Assign your
best team members to shadow him. I’ll help you seal the eastern wards.”

With a grateful smile at Elinor, Harry takes off. Terrible possibilities race through his mind.
What if the Aurors aren’t fast enough? What if the Lestranges have already left the park or
even London? What if they are hurting Tom at this very moment? Panic — both his and the
distant echo of Tom's — renders him dizzy. He’s bumping into random people, startling
others, and earning judgmental stares as he examines everything from strangers’ faces to
rubbish bins for clues.

Nothing.

He takes a deep breath and tries to focus. Given the size of the park, searching blindly will
only waste precious time. If he can reach Tom somehow —

The bond. They had moments of connection through the bond before. Maybe he can leverage
it.

Closing his eyes, Harry concentrates. Tom? he tries.

There’s no response, other than the echo of his own voice.

Tom?

His scar tingles. Is it his imagination, or is someone tugging at his magic? Harry holds his
breath. Can you hear me, Tom?

Harry?

Harry exhales. Tom, it’s me. Can you hear me?

Harry! Even from a distance, Tom’s relief floods the bond. Come and get me. I’m scared.
I will. I’m looking for you. Harry tries to loosen the bindings on Tom’s magic. Where are
you?

I don’t know. There are trees everywhere.

Can you show me?

Harry has no expectation that his request is possible, but to his surprise and amazement,
images appear. Bare trees. A blue sky turning gloomy. Muggles passing unseeingly by a
shimmering barrier. And the shadowy figures of two men whom he recognizes straightaway.

Harry gives the bindings one final tug, and the channel between him and Tom bursts open.
The entire park is rendered in a gray palette, save for a trail of yellowish orange that increases
in vibrancy as it leads into the distance, creating a heatmap with Tom at its focal point.

Please come soon.

The vision fades and the landscape returns to normal. Everything Harry just saw could well
have been an illusion, but for better or for worse, he has always trusted his intuition. This
time is no exception.

Tom is still in the park. He is close by.

Don’t let them leave the park. I’m coming.

“Mr. Potter, where —”

“Keep up,” Harry throws over his shoulder, and continues running.

It happened so quickly. One minute, Tom was frustrated with the other children’s inability to
follow his instructions, and the next minute, he was seized under the armpits and carried
away by two scary men.

Two scary, smelly men, who must not have showered or changed clothes in ages.

He kicks wildly. “Put me down!”

The men continue running. Even though they’re crashing into or shoving people aside, no
one stops them. It takes Tom a while to realize that other people can’t see them. These bad
men must have magic too.

“Put me down!” Tom shouts again, struggling to free himself with no success. He’s thrown
over the taller man’s shoulder and pinned in place with an ironlike arm.

“What’s taking you?” the man snaps at his companion. “Activate the Portkey, dammit!

“It’s not working. They must’ve repaired the wards.”

“That’s faster than expected. Let’s head to The Mall. Over there!”
They run towards the nearest gate, which exits into the big road that leads to the queen’s
palace. When they try to cross over, they bounce back, as if they tried to run headlong into a
trampoline.

“Again!” barks the first man, but they bounce back again. An invisible trampoline seems to
be stopping them, and only them, from leaving. Other people are entering and leaving the
park without trouble.

“Fuck,” says the first man.

“There’s another exit down the street,” says the second man, pointing.

“We can try, but I doubt it will let us through.” The first man is staring intently at something
Tom cannot see. “The Aurors must’ve set up barriers.”

“Then we can Confound them.”

“Yes, we’ll have to do that. Let’s find a temporary hideout.” The man shifts Tom to his other
shoulder. “I will need both hands free.”

The men retreat to a corner, where Tom is set on his feet, to his surprise. He soon realizes
why. The minute he tries to run, he hits a shimmering shield. He cannot move past it, and
when he knocks on it to attract the attention of people passing by, nobody responds even
though they’re right there.

Frustrated tears spring to Tom’s eyes. This must be magic again, bad magic that’s keeping
him in this corner with the men. On the other hand, there’s good magic that’s preventing the
men from taking him out of the park. At least, until they succeed in doing whatever they’re
doing.

Tom can’t let that happen. He knows what a Portkey means. A Portkey can take him
anywhere, hundreds or even thousands of miles away from home.

No, Tom needs to stay until Harry saves him. And Harry will.

He blinks back his tears and reminds himself to be brave. He turns to the men, who are
muttering to each other in low voices. “Let me go!” he demands.

They look up. Tom has the strong impression that they’re scared of him for some reason.
Maybe he can use it to his advantage.

“Let me go!” he repeats more loudly.

The man who carried Tom, and who looks older, bows his head. “My Lord, please be patient
—”

“I’m not Milord!

“You don’t remember us yet, but we are trying to keep you safe —”
“I don’t care! Let me go!” Tom stomps his foot for emphasis.

The younger man runs his hand through scraggly hair. “Are you sure we’ve got the right boy?
He looks nothing like our Lord.”

“That’s because Potter put a disguise on him. Watch.” The older man points his wand at Tom.
Light flashes, and Tom is tingling as his face and body shift back. “There.” The man sounds
triumphant. “Do you recognize your Lord?”

The younger man peers at Tom, still uncertain. “He’s…small.”

“Fucking hell, Rabastan, that’s how de-aging works. Don’t you remember he was a baby?
Give me your arm.”

He grabs Rabastan’s arm and pushes up his sleeve, revealing a picture of a skull with a snake
for its tongue. Although it looks terrifying, Tom can’t look away.

(Sitting cross-legged in the Chamber of Secrets, a mere wall from his slumbering basilisk,
you glance down at the stack of parchments on your lap. They sport densely scrawled runes
interspersed with preliminary tattoo designs.

Close, you’re extremely close. If you can modify Protean Charm so it can be inscribed in
human skin, you can bind others to your will for eternity.

You point your wand at the dead rat. “Morsmordre!” )

Tom jumps as the man pulls his arm. “I apologize, my Lord,” he says, before he presses
Tom’s hand to the picture.

The picture glows and burns black. It doesn’t hurt Tom, but it seems to hurt the men, who
both wince until the first man lets go and Tom snatches his hand away.

“Now do you recognize your Lord?”

“You’ve made your point, Rodolphus. Crazy wanker.”

“Forgot how much it hurts, didn’t you? Hopefully that will warn the cowards who betrayed
us.” Rodolphus takes out his wand again. “Come on, we’ve wasted enough time. Please
excuse us, my Lord.”

With two bows, the men return to fiddling with their wands. Tom gives a longing look at the
world outside the barrier. Where is Harry?

Tom?

Tom sits up. Did he just hear Harry calling him?

Can you hear me, Tom?

The web in his head is trembling. Tom touches it. Harry?

Tom, it’s me. The web is loosening, and Harry’s voice is growing clearer. Can you hear me?

Harry! Tom almost shouts out loud in relief, but he claps his mouth so the men won’t notice.
Come and get me. I’m scared.

I will. I’m looking for you. Where are you?

I don’t know. There are trees everywhere.

Can you show me?

How is he going to show Harry when Harry isn’t here? It doesn’t matter, Tom is determined
to think of something. He takes in his surroundings and tries to mentally picture everything in
detail: the tall trees, the blue sky, the unseeing people, and finally, the awful men.

Please come soon, he begs.

Don’t let them leave the park. I’m coming.

“My Lord? Is everything all right?”

Tom’s eyes snap open. Both men flinch, even Rodolphus, who has no problem being mean
and impatient to Rabastan.

Tom draws himself up. Harry is coming, so he must distract the men. “No, everything is not
all right!” he announces. “I’m hungry! I want to eat!”

“Once we get out of the park —”

“No, I want to eat now!”

Tom slams his hand on the ground and gasps as power curls over him. The same power that’s
always hidden behind webbed walls is free and flowing, lighting up every nerve.

He jumps to his feet and stomps on the ground. It’s not his imagination: the air is crackling
with electricity and the wind is picking up.

A thrill jolts through him. Is this what having magic feels like?

The men look even more scared and Rabastan asks, “What would you like to eat, my Lord?”

What would be a food that’s hard to find? “Ice cream,” Tom says. “I want ice cream.”

Rodolphus and Rabastan look at each other. “We passed by a shop earlier,” Rodolphus tells
Rabastan. “Go get some ice cream. Make it quick.”

“Aurors are everywhere. Why don’t we transfigure something instead?”

“No!” Tom knocks the grass out of Rabastan’s hand. “I don’t want grass. I said I want ice
cream!”
“Or we can Summon something,” Rabastan suggests, but Rodolphus gets to his feet with an
impatient sigh.

“You’re bloody hopeless, afraid of stealing ice cream. Watch our Lord. I’ll return shortly.”

He fades the barrier and steps through, leaving Tom alone with Rabastan. That’s a good start.
Rabastan seems weaker than Rodolphus and will be easier to intimidate. Sure enough, he
shifts uncomfortably under Tom’s glare and, importantly, forgets to restore the barrier.

Now Tom needs to distract Rabastan. Something that can buy him a few seconds. And he
needs to do it fast, before Rodolphus finds ice cream.

Someone drops a half-eaten slice of bread nearby. A goose waddles over to investigate.
Sensing Tom’s stare, it raises its head and stares right back with round dark eyes.

Peck the man, Tom tells it. Peck him in the eye.

His unblocked power gathers around him. Unlike the last time with Miss Elinor’s owl, he
doesn’t need to fight the goose’s mind. Rather, he cuts through its resistance as easily as a
knife cuts through softened butter to command its body.

The goose spreads its huge brown wings and flies into Rabastan’s face. With a yelp of pain,
he throws out his arms and barely shields his eyes from the sharp beak.

Tom seizes his chance. “HELP!” he screams as he dashes towards the biggest group of
people he can see. “Help me!”

Confused people stop and turn. A few Muggle policemen come forward, but they are tossed
aside by blasts of light. Tom doesn’t need to look behind to know that Rabastan is chasing
him.

Spells are coming at Tom, but Tom’s own magic is helping. He has never been so nimble
before. Duck, roll, switch directions — none of the spells touch him. Still, Tom knows he
can’t outrun Rabastan for long. Rabastan has much longer legs and a stronger body. Besides,
Rodolphus will be back soon, and then Tom will be trapped.

Tom! Is everything okay?

Please come soon, Tom begs. I can’t keep running forever.

I’m close. Please hold on!

Harry isn’t lying. Tom can feel him close by, and getting closer. It’s as if they are each
holding half of a giant magnet, pulling them together no matter how many people or things
are in the way.

Tom’s legs hurt and feet hurt and everything hurts, but he urges himself to run faster and
faster. He won’t stop until he finds Harry.
And there Harry is. He’s no longer wearing his disguise, and Tom almost starts sobbing at the
sight of the beloved familiar face.

Finding one last spurt of energy, he runs towards Harry with outstretched arms. Harry does
the same, and just as he is about to reach Tom, Rabastan drags him back.

“No! Let me go!” Tom struggles and screams and kicks, but the arm around his neck is too
strong.

“Get away from him!” Harry shouts.

“Stay back!” Rabastan shrieks. “Stay back, Potter!”

“Are you using a child as your shield? Are you using your lord?” Even though Harry is
taunting Rabastan, he doesn’t move closer. He must actually be afraid that Rabastan will hurt
Tom.

Instead of answering, Rabastan slashes his wand and shoots an ugly red spell. With a wave of
his own wand, Harry stops it in its tracks and sends a spell of his own, a rope of light that
tries to rescue Tom from Rabastan. Before Tom can grab it, Rabastan slashes his wand and
splinters it.

“Stay back!” Rabastan sounds hysterical.

“Not until you let him go!”

They are both shouting funny words and shooting colorful lights. Tom can tell Rabastan’s
magic is powerful and his spells are dangerous, because the air heats up as they fly by.
However, Harry is much faster, so no matter what Rabastan throws at him, he dodges it and
sends something back. His spells are sneakier and creative, such as ice that makes Rabastan
slip, or flying leaves that makes him stumble, and he looks so beautiful, with his green eyes
blazing and dark hair flying.

Tom silently cheers, proud of his Harry. One day, he wants to use magic just like him.

“Potter!”

A new red spell whizzes by and Tom’s glee disappears. Rodolphus is here. As strong as
Harry is, two against one isn’t fair.

Sure enough, Harry begins to struggle. It’s difficult for him to shield himself against two
attackers and make sure he doesn’t accidentally hit Tom at the same time. His movements are
slowing down. Tom has to help him, but how?

An ugly purple spell hits Harry’s arm, causing a huge cut to appear and blood to spray out
like a fountain. Harry cries out and crumples to his knees.

“No!” Tom screams, and without thinking, sinks his teeth into Rabastan’s arm with all his
might.
Rabastan screams and drops his wand. He tries to shake Tom off, and Rodolphus is also
tugging at him, but Tom ignores them. His teeth have broken through skin to draw blood, and
the blood tastes good.

There’s lots of shouting and screaming and lights are flashing all around him. Tom squeezes
his eyes shut and clamps his teeth down harder. Let Rabastan suffer for stealing Tom. Let him
suffer for hurting Harry.

Suddenly, Rabastan’s arm disappears and Tom drops onto the grass. The next instant, he’s
caught in a crushing hug. He struggles, but the arms tighten.

“They’re gone,” Harry whispers. “You are safe. You’re with me.”

It’s Harry. It’s really him, warm and solid and safe. Tom squeezes him back and at last bursts
into tears. At first, he’s only sniffling, but it doesn’t take long before he’s full on crying. He
tries to hide his face in Harry’s shirt, not wanting anyone else to see him being weak.

The world fades. There’s only Harry’s hand rubbing gentle circles on his back, and Harry’s
voice murmuring in his ear, “You’re all right. You’re safe.”

“Is this the asset?” comes an unfamiliar voice.

“Yes, this is the asset,” Miss Elinor answers.

“We’ll need to run some tests —”

“Tests?” Harry demands, arms tightening around Tom. “Can’t you tell he’s terrified?”

“We need to make sure that the Lestranges didn’t put anything —”

“You can bloody well see they didn’t!” Harry’s chest is rumbling in anger. “They didn’t have
time to do anything.”

“Protocol states —”

“Tests can wait,” Miss Elinor says. “First, Mr. Potter and I will take him home to recover. We
can schedule a more suitable time.”

Everyone murmurs some more. Ignoring everyone else, Tom leans harder against Harry and
realizes his jacket is becoming soaked.

“You’re still bleeding.” He touches Harry’s cut gently, but pulls away when Harry grunts in
pain. The red droplets glisten on his finger, horrifying yet entrancing. Unlike Rabastan’s
blood, Harry’s smells sweet, and Tom wonders whether it would taste as sweet.

“We should get a Healer to look at it,” Miss Elinor says, noticing. She taps her wand against
Harry’s arm. The cut heals a little, but the bleeding continues.

“I’m fine, it doesn’t hurt,” Harry says. “Let’s get Tom home first.”
He is lying, and Miss Elinor clearly can tell, but she doesn’t argue. “The Portkey is ready
whenever you are.”

Harry rises and lifts Tom with him. Normally, Tom would protest that he’s a big boy and
doesn’t need to be carried. However, right now he doesn’t mind. He loops his arms around
Harry’s neck and presses his cheek into the crook of Harry’s shoulder.

“Ready?” Harry asks, and at Tom’s nod, the Portkey whirls them home.

At home, after a long bath, Tom settles into bed, clutching his baby blanket and plush rabbit,
despite never having taken to the latter in the past. As Harry tucks him in, the boy studies his
newly bandaged arm with a mixture of concern and, oddly enough, satisfaction.

Harry pats his blankets down one last time. “All snug. Now get some sleep, you must be
tired.”

Despite his obvious exhaustion, Tom is fighting to keep his eyes open. “You won’t leave?”

“I won’t.”

“Not secretly when I’m asleep?”

Harry’s heart squeezes. “Of course not. I’ll stay right here.”

What about your friend? Tom asks, slipping into mental conversation as his physical strength
falters. Aren’t you seeing her?

“I’ll stay right here,” Harry repeats out loud, conscious of the nearby presence of two
Healers.

Tom curls his hand around Harry’s and squeezes. The bond wraps around them, flaring with
gratitude and trust. Before long, his eyelids close, his grip loosens, and his breathing softens.

True to his word, Harry does not leave his bedside, mirroring Tom’s unwillingness to let him
out of sight. What transpired in the park has profoundly rattled him. If they didn’t recover
Tom, where would he be now? Would Tom still exist, or would the Lestranges succeed in
restoring Voldemort?

Harry tightens his grip on Tom’s hand, eliciting a small wince from the sleeping boy.
Everything is fine, he forcefully reminds himself. Tom is here, Tom is safe, and the
Lestranges cannot break into Grimmauld Place.

On that note, it is time to close their connection. Opening it in the first place was breaking
protocol, but Harry was desperate, and it did help. He hadn’t expected the rush of shared
power and understanding to be this intense and addictive.

Which is all the more reason he can’t let it linger. It may corrode his hold over Tom’s magic,
not to mention incite the Ministry into finding a stricter alternative.
I’m sorry, he tells Tom, before he re-tightens the binds around Tom’s magic. Instantly, his
keen awareness of Tom’s feelings disappears, leaving a gap akin to a phantom limb.

“Harry?” Elinor appears in the doorway. “Could you please come to the drawing room?
Kingsley and Gawain would like to speak with you.”

“Can you tell them to come here instead?” Harry says without moving. “I promised Tom I
wouldn’t leave him.”

“Very well.” She turns and beckons the Healers to follow.

Moments later, the men enter. With open curiosity, they survey the room, taking in the safari-
themed decor, the toy chests on the floor, and the boy on the bed, before they settle into
chairs.

“How is he doing?” Kingsley asks.

“All right. Not different from any child who just had a traumatic experience.”

“Good. That’s good.” Kingsley clears his throat. “I hope you understand that we still need the
Healers to do a comprehensive examination.”

“That’s fine.” Harry also wants it for his own peace of mind. “What about the Lestranges?
Did you catch them?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Robards says with a heavy sigh. “They managed to Confound the wards
and escape. There are a few leads that we’re investigating, and part of my team is
interviewing witnesses, but I’m not optimistic. They were careful to Obliviate anyone who
crossed paths with them.”

Harry figures as much. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“We appreciate that,” Kingsley says. “For now, staying out of the public eye is best until we
ascertain that this morning’s events are contained.”

“Forgive my impertinence, Mr. Potter, but it was unwise of you to take Voldemort to Muggle
London,” Robards says. “Even with safeguards, there was always the risk that Voldemort’s
existence would leak to his surviving Death Eaters.”

Harry nods, accepting the blame. He chose to take a risk and miscalculated. He was lucky
that things didn’t devolve further.

Nevertheless, one thing has been troubling him. “How did the Lestranges recognize Tom?”
he asks. “There were many children at the play park, and we were both wearing new
disguises.”

Kingsley and Robards exchange a look. “We have some theories,” Kingsley says hesitantly,
“but I’d focus on our main oversight, which is allowing Voldemort to leave the safehouse.”
“Hang on, there’s something else, isn’t there?” Harry glances from one man to the other.
“There’s something that you’re not telling me.”

“We don’t want to trouble —”

“Trouble or not, if it concerns Tom, I need to know. What is it?”

A few tense beats pass before Kingsley caves. “We think there’s a mole.”

“A mole?”

“Someone who knows about Voldemort and has been feeding information to the Lestranges,”
Kingsley elaborates. “That would explain how the Lestranges recognized Voldemort under
disguise and entered the park without detection.”

Harry’s spine tingles with alarm. Kingsley’s theory implies that the mole is someone he’s
interacted with, someone who frequents Grimmauld Place. “I thought everyone was sworn to
secrecy.”

“Everyone was, but there may be ways of circumventing the vows or divulging the truth that
we didn’t account for,” Robards admits reluctantly. “Rest assured, we will question the staff
thoroughly under Veritaserum.”

Harry isn’t assured in the least. “Do you have any suspects?”

Another meaningful look is exchanged. “Yes.” The admission seems to pain Robards.
“However, until we have conclusive evidence, we’re not at liberty to make staffing changes.”

“Why? Isn’t Tom’s safety paramount?”

“There are intricate logistics involved with staffing Voldemort’s caretaking team. It will be
difficult to substitute an entire new team on such short notice.”

“Elinor is more than capable of filling a short-term gap. She —” Harry’s breath hitches in
blooming horror. “You think it’s her.”

Kingsley rubs his face in silent admission.

“But it can’t be her. It doesn’t make sense.” Why would Elinor betray the Ministry? Why
would she betray Harry and Tom? She’s practically family, for Merlin’s sake. If he can’t trust
her, who can he trust?

And yet, the more Harry considers the possibility, the more it does make sense. As the lead
caretaker, she has purview over incoming and outgoing communication, so she can easily
leak information to the Lestranges. Furthermore, she never disguises herself during park
outings, so the Lestranges only need to recognize her to identify Harry and Tom.

Harry rakes his hair. “What are you going to do?”

“To Gawain’s point, the current evidence is at best circumstantial and not enough to act
upon.”

“So you’re going to keep her here?”

“We will monitor her actions closely. In fact, we are hoping that you can do the same and
report to us anything abnormal.”

“I can’t. I won’t be able to act normally around her.”

“You must try. Elinor Kent is an intelligent woman, so she’s likely already aware of our
suspicions. She’ll need to either prove her innocence or slip up.”

There’s a delicate knock.

“Tea is ready in the drawing room,” Elinor says, opening the door. Her tone is perfectly even.
“Kingsley and Gawain, if you’ve finished, I propose that we allow Harry to rest and heal
from his injury.”

“Certainly. My apologies.” Kingsley rises and gestures for Robards to follow suit. The
privacy bubble dissipates. “Thank you again for your help and cooperation, Harry. We will be
in touch.”

The door shuts behind him, leaving Harry alone to marvel at the manner in which his world
was completely upturned.

Tom awakens with a scream. “Harry!”

Immediately, arms surround him. “I’m here,” Harry murmurs into his hair. “You’re safe.”

Relieved that his rescue from the bad men wasn’t a dream, Tom clutches him tightly. Harry
must be terrified too, because his arms are hugging him just as tightly and his heart is beating
just as quickly.

“I thought they were going to take me far away,” Tom whispers. “I thought I would never see
you again.”

“That would never happen,” Harry says firmly. “Even if they do steal you, I will never rest
until I find you.”

Tom is comforted. Harry is right. No matter where they are, they will find each other through
their web. Inside his head, he reaches out for Harry and, to his dismay, discovers the familiar
webbed walls.

He grips Harry’s hands. “I can’t feel you in my head anymore.”

Shadows pass over Harry’s face. “No. Our connection — it goes away when you’re not in
danger.”
“But I liked having it. Why can’t we keep it?”

“Because — because you’re too young.”

“Everything has to wait till I’m older,” Tom complains.

“I’m sorry.” Harry truly looks sorry. “But we don’t need it anymore when we’re together,
right?”

Tom pouts. He isn’t only sad over the loss of his connection to Harry. He’s also sad over the
loss of his magic. It isn’t fair that he only got a small taste and lost it before he could explore
it more.

But asking about his magic will make Harry act funny, so he asks instead, “Who were they?
The men who took me? They have funny names. Like reindeer.”

Harry cracks a small smile. “Rodolphus is unfortunately much meaner than Rudolph. He and
Rabastan have done many terrible things, and the Ministry has been trying to catch them for
ages.”

“Why did they want to take me?”

“They — they want you to help them do terrible things.”

“What terrible things?”

“Hurting innocent people. Hurting yourself.”

Hurting himself or Harry would be terrible, and Tom definitely doesn’t want that. Hurting
other people is probably bad too, judging from Harry’s reaction, though he’s curious why the
men wanted his help. Because of his magic?

Out of nowhere, Harry laughs. “I can’t believe you bit him. Rabastan was completely
helpless against you.”

Tom giggles. In the moment, he was focused on saving Harry, but remembering Rabastan’s
pained yowls, he feels rather pleased with himself. “I hope they learned their lesson!”

“I’m sure they did. Even with magic, Rabastan’s arm will probably never be the same again.”

They grin at each other. Downstairs, the grandfather clock chimes eight times.

“You must be hungry,” Harry says. “We kept supper warm for you. Would you like to eat?”

Tom has many more questions. Why were the men scared of him? Why could he hear Harry
in his head? Why was his magic blocked in the first place? But Miss Elinor mentioned in the
morning that she was making his favorite pie, and he hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast.

His stomach growls loudly, cementing the decision.

“All right,” he says and, as he has learned to do, tucks his questions away.

* * *

Harry spends the weekend after Tom’s kidnapping putting away holiday decorations.
Originally, he kept them after the holidays because they made the house cozier, but they feel
at odds with the heightened tension inside Grimmauld Place.

Tellingly, Elinor doesn’t offer to help. A perceptive woman, she’s not blind to Harry’s
increased scrutiny, but thus far, she’s shown no suspicious behavior nor sign of discomfort.
She continues doing what she’s always done: taking care of Tom, corresponding with the
Ministry, and directing her team of Aurors and Healers.

Guilt consumes Harry from multiple directions. He put Tom in danger by taking him to the
park. He’s alienating a possibly innocent woman who has been a pillar of dependability. And
he missed Ginny’s Quidditch match.

After Tom’s rescue, he immediately sent Ginny a Patronus message to tell her he’d miss her
match due to an emergency, and Flooed her later that night to apologize. She’d been in the
middle of a celebration with her teammates and didn’t seem too upset, though Hermione
hinted a grander apology would be necessary.

Therefore, upon Ginny’s return from Holyhead, Harry invites her to her favorite Mayfair
restaurant. While half of him is worried she wouldn’t show up, the other is dreading the
dinner conversation.

Ginny does show up, appropriately attired in a lovely turquoise dress. Everything seems
normal: she pecks him on the cheek, teases him for wearing a Muggle suit, and admires their
table setting, replete with roses and scented candles.

As she peruses the menu, Harry sneaks glances. They last saw each other merely a week ago,
yet he has the distinct impression of dining with a stranger.

After the waiter comes and takes their orders, Harry clears his throat. “I’m so sorry I missed
your match.”

Ginny twirls her unfilled wine glass and shrugs. “You would’ve enjoyed the game. The
opposing Seeker did a cool variation on the Wronski Feint.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to keep apologizing. There will be other games. What happened, anyway?”

“There was a Death Eater attack,” Harry says, trying to be as truthful as he can. “Kingsley
asked me for help.”
“But you aren’t an Auror. You aren’t even a trainee. He has no right to put you in danger.”

“I was happy to help. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal. He’s encroaching on your life. Don’t you remember he did the same thing on
your birthday?” Ginny sets down the glass. “I will ask Dad to talk to him.”

“Please don’t. Kingsley means well.”

“No, Kingsley is taking advantage of you.” She reaches for and squeezes his hand. “You need
to learn to set boundaries, Harry.”

Lies are coiling around him, strangling him. “Really, please don’t,” Harry says. “It won’t
happen again. And I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Their drinks and appetizers arrive, thankfully diverting their conversation. The garden salad
has a perfect blend of vegetables, the soup is rich without becoming heavy, and the wine
strikes a good balance of dryness and sweetness. They share a toast and the mood lightens.

“Valentine’s Day is coming up,” Ginny says. “I have another game in Holyhead the Friday
before. Do you want to come up for the weekend?”

A holiday in Holyhead is the perfect opportunity to make up for his absence at Ginny’s first
real game. However, as much as Harry wants to patch things with her and revisit Wales, he
cannot leave Tom when he’s been having regular nightmares and the Ministry hasn’t
completed their investigation on the mole.

“I’d love to,” he says, “but now isn’t a good time.”

Ginny frowns. “Why not? More business with Kingsley?”

Technically, yes, but Harry can’t say that when he just told Ginny that it wouldn’t happen
again. At the same time, he can’t think of a decent excuse.

“Maybe we can do something else to celebrate,” he suggests. “We can have, er, dinner.”

Ginny raises her eyebrows and glances around the dining room pointedly.

“A fancy dinner,” Harry clarifies weakly.

She heaves a long sigh. After waging what appears to be an inner debate, she sets down her
fork. “I’ve felt for a while that things haven’t been the same since the end of the war. Is it —
us?”

“No!” Harry says, immediately and instinctively. While their relationship hasn’t been perfect,
he hasn’t thought about breaking up with her. He loves her.

Relief flickers on her face. “Then is it — the war?”

“The war?” he repeats, puzzled.

“I’ve been thinking for a while that you’re having trouble moving on. That’s why you’re still
making speeches, or attending hearings, or chasing down Death Eaters.”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“That, and you’re hanging on to what feels familiar to you.”

“I’m the Boy Who Lived. It’s all part of the package.”

Harry’s attempt at humor falls flat. “It’s not healthy,” Ginny says. “The war is over, and you
have to move on.”

The rest of us have, she doesn’t say, but Harry hears the words anyway.

“It’s not as if I haven’t tried. Do you think I want to relive the war?” Ginny has hit upon his
worst insecurities, causing frustration to spill over. “But you don’t understand. It’s so much
easier for you, because you weren’t there.”

And she wasn’t. Not in the forest, freezing and starving. Not in the Ministry, witnessing
corruption at its worst. Not at Malfoy Manor, witnessing one friend’s torture and another’s
murder. She has no right to judge him.

It’s Ginny’s turn to recoil. “I wanted to be there for you,” she chokes out in a harsh whisper,
eyes brimming with tears. “I wanted to be part of everything. But you never asked me to. You
never wanted me there. To you, I was always the princess in the tower, never a partner.”

They glare at each other, months of hurt and regret coalescing between them. Harry breaks
eye contact first. Ginny is right. He never shared his deepest secrets with her. He never
thought about what she wanted versus what he felt was best for her. He never saw her as an
equal partner.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve been a rubbish boyfriend, haven’t I?”

“You’re far from rubbish, Harry,” Ginny says. “You’re the kindest person I know. I only wish
you could be more honest with me and let me help you.”

“I’ll try, and I’ll explain everything to you. It’s just that…”

The truth is at the tip of his tongue. He can tell her and clear up this misunderstanding. She
will be furious, but at least the deceit won’t continue, and they can rebuild their relationship
from a more solid foundation.

She’s leaning forward with expectant brown eyes — the same shade as Tom’s, only warm
and inviting rather than dark and secretive.

Harry loses courage. “It’s complicated,” he finishes lamely.

His stomach knots as her anticipation visibly curdles into sadness. In his head, a chorus of
she deserves better plays.
“Sometimes I wonder —” Ginny bites down hard on her lip. “All right. Let’s have dinner.
You pick the restaurant.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says yet again. I love you, he tries to add, except his throat tightens and
lets out a funny squeak instead.

She doesn’t respond.

The waiter brings their entrees and re-fills their wine glasses. Though the dishes smell
amazing, Harry has little appetite. Across the table, Ginny fares little better.

The rest of dinner elapses to the clinking of cutleries against plates, the sound of two paths
irrevocably diverging.

Tom curls up on his window seat. Even though it’s another dreary day, he misses being
outside. After the bad men almost kidnapped him, he hasn’t been allowed to leave the house.
Not to the park, and not even to the garden on his own. Most of the time, it’s okay, since he
wants to stay close to Harry, but sometimes, the house feels too stuffy and unhappy.

Harry and Miss Elinor barely talk these days, and Tom notices Harry giving Miss Elinor
strange looks. He must blame her for what happened, which is strange because she didn’t
kidnap him. Harry also seems more tense and hardly ever smiles. On the bright side, he stays
home almost all the time.

Visitors come to the house a lot more. They wave their wands at Tom, then murmur at each
other or Miss Elinor with serious expressions. They say the word test a lot, along with
unfamiliar words like benchmark and anomalies.

“Why are there so many tests?” he asks Harry. “Is something wrong with me?”

Harry presses his lips into a thin line, the way Miss Elinor does when she doesn’t want to
answer Tom’s questions. “They are worried something happened to you at the park,” he says,
and adds immediately, “But don’t worry. Nothing happened. Nothing is wrong with you.”

Tom isn’t as sure as Harry. Maybe something did happen and is the reason he’s been having
strange dreams. In them, he is surrounded by people dressed in dark robes and wearing white
masks. Rodolphus and Rabastan are among them. Sometimes, they are outside, half-hidden in
darkness. Sometimes, they are inside a house even brighter and grander than his real house.

Tonight, he is back in the house, sitting at the head of a long table.

“My Lord,” Rodolphus says, “preparations are complete.”

“Good,” Tom hears himself answer in a thin, high voice. “Make sure to carry out my
instructions exactly as given.”

“Understood, my Lord.”
Across the room, there is a fancy gold mirror. Tom heads towards it and freezes. The face
inside has glowing red eyes and papery white skin and a flat nose, the same face he’s seen in
past bad dreams.

His reflection grins. “Hello, Tom,” it says, and Tom sits up on his bed, panting and trembling.

It’s just a dream. The red-eyed man is not real. Tom is not afraid.

The floorboards creak, the door swings open, and a shadow looms over his room. Tom
screams and throws out his arms. “Go away!”

“Tom. It’s just me.”

The light flickers on. Harry comes to sit on the edge of Tom’s bed and wrap an arm around
his shoulders. As usual, Tom calms to his steady heartbeat.

“Another bad dream?” Harry asks, after he’s stopped shivering.

“Sort of.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

Tom is never able to explain why his dreams upset him so much. He knows they aren’t real,
but they feel so real, like they actually happened. Fortunately, Harry never pushes him to
share anything he doesn’t want to.

“Can you stay here for a while?” Tom pleads. “I don’t want to go back to sleep yet.”

“Of course. Would you like to read? Or hear a story?”

Tom shakes his head to both. While he does want to continue reading about Narnia, a book
series he and Harry recently started, or learn more about the boy in the cupboard, he’s too
shaken by his terrifying reflection to focus.

Harry hums and falls quiet. Just when Tom starts to worry that he’s upset him by being
difficult, Harry says cheerfully, “I’ve got an idea. Let’s visit the attic again.”

Tom agrees eagerly. Once upon a time, the attic reminds Tom of the tiny room without
windows or light. Now, it has become his and Harry’s secret corner, a place where they can
hide from the world and make secret wishes, except Harry has been too distracted recently to
take him.

Full of excitement, Tom hops the last few stairs and flings open the door. He gasps. There’s a
funny object at the other end of the attic that looks like a tube on top of a three-legged stool.
He’s never seen it before. “What’s that?”

“It was meant to be a surprise,” Harry says, leading him closer. “This is a telescope. It’s what
we use to look at stars.”
“But we see stars already,” Tom says, pointing out the window.

“Let me show you.” Harry guides Tom to look through the round glass at the end of the tube.
“This is called the eyepiece, which magnifies the stars so we can see them better.”

“Everything’s blurry.”

“Keep looking. I’m going to adjust the finderscope.”

Harry twists some knobs, and before Tom’s eyes, the blurry dots sharpen into stars. “Wow, I
see them!” he says. “They all have different sizes! And different colors! There’s green…
blue…orange…yellow!”

“Different stars have different temperatures,” Harry explains, “and different temperatures
become different colors.”

Tom leans into the eyepiece. The sky is so pretty, sparkling like a giant box full of jewels.

“Want to see something else interesting?” Harry asks. Tom nods eagerly. “Do you notice that
some stars are very close together?”

“Kind of? But they’re all close together.”

“Some are closer than others. See, over there?” Harry tilts the tube and adjusts the knobs
some more. “The stars are tracing out a lion. Do you see it?”

Tom squints. Maybe he can imagine a lion there, if he tries really hard. Not a real lion
though. A paper lion.

“That’s a constellation, which is formed by a group of stars. It’s called Leo, which means
lion.”

Tom pulls back from the telescope to frown at Harry. “Why is there a lion in the sky?”

“Well, a very long time ago, there lived a very special lion. Its claws were sharper than
swords and could tear through armors, and its fur was golden and protected it from attacks.”

“Oh, I like this lion. It sounds strong!”

“It was indeed a strong lion, but unfortunately, it was not a nice lion. It kidnapped girls so he
could lure people to his cave and kill them.”

Reminded of his own kidnapping, Tom shivers. “Then what happened?”

“A brave man named Heracles came along, and he was determined to defeat the lion to save
innocent lives. It was a difficult battle. The lion was clever, and Heracles’ weapons couldn’t
pierce through its fur. However, he didn’t give up and tried many different tactics. Eventually,
after a long fight, he succeeded.”
“So the lion’s dead?” Tom feels sorry for the powerful creature. Even though the lion sounds
awful, he would’ve liked to meet it.

“Yes, until Heracles’ father, who was the leader of the gods, placed the lion in the sky so we
can always remember Heracles’ accomplishment.”

Tom looks through the eyepiece again. Thanks to Harry’s story, Leo looks a bit more like a
real lion. “What about Heracles? What happened to him?”

“He went on to have lots of other adventures. He has his own constellation, but we can’t see
it tonight.”

“Does every constellation have a story?”

“Many of them do. Humans have always liked inventing stories about stars.” Harry strokes
Tom’s hair. “If you are interested, I can teach you more about stars and constellations.”

“Yes, I want more!

“All right, then to conclude our first lesson, do you see the brightest star in Leo, at the bottom
right?” Tom nods. “That’s Regulus, the heart of the lion. Your bedroom used to belong to
someone named Regulus Black.”

“Really? Does that mean our house is as old as the stars?”

Harry laughs. “No, the Regulus who lived in your room was named after the star. His family,
the Blacks, liked to name themselves after stars and constellations. My bedroom belonged to
Regulus’ big brother, Sirius. Sirius is the brightest star in another constellation.”

“Did you know them? Were they your friends?”

“They were. Sirius especially meant a lot to me.”

Tom already hates Sirius. “Where are they now? Are they going to visit?” He hopes not. He
doesn’t want Harry to spend time with Sirius and Regulus, and he doesn’t want to give his
bedroom back to Regulus.

“No.” Harry gazes into the night, his expression far away. “They’re both gone.”

“You mean…dead?”

“Yes. They’re both dead.”

That means Tom doesn’t have to worry about Sirius and Regulus after all, but he feels more
unsettled than comforted. When he looks at the sky again, he no longer sees the brightness of
the stars, but the darkness between them.

Everyone is gone: the heroes in Harry’s stories and the Blacks who lived in their house. Will
death happen to Tom one day? Will he be swallowed by the darkness, never to be found
again?
Terror rises. “I don’t want to disappear!” Tom bursts out, throwing his arms around Harry’s
waist.

“You won’t,” Harry says, squeezing his shoulders. “I won’t let you.”

“But what if you disappear?” The idea of Harry dying is just as distressing.

“I won’t ever leave you, I promise.” Harry kneels to Tom’s eye level, his expression
completely serious. “Remember, nobody is truly gone.”

“You mean, nobody really dies?” Tom asks hopefully.

“Everyone dies, but we will always watch over the people we care about. My parents and
Sirius helped me when I most needed them, so even though I miss them very much, I know
they’re still here for me.”

No, that’s not enough. Tom doesn’t want either himself or Harry to ever die. He wants both of
them to endure like the stars. To outlive the stars.

I want forever, he thinks, and it isn’t until Harry nuzzles his hair that he realizes he spoke the
words out loud.

But Harry misunderstands. “Me too,” he says. “I wish we can stay like this forever.”

Tom turns to the window. The stars twinkle, but no matter how hard he searches, there are no
meteors to be found.

Life doesn’t return to normal. As expected, the Lestranges’ kidnapping attempt marked the
end of their play park trips, and Harry doubts that Tom will ever get to step foot outside the
wards again.

Tension hangs over Grimmauld Place, born from the threat posed by the elusive Lestranges
and the festering frustration with the lack of progress in the Ministry investigation. The
Healers come frequently to run tests, still concerned that the Lestranges activated some latent
trigger that would transform Tom into Voldemort. Harry reads each medical report, afraid of
what he would and wouldn’t find. So far, there’s nothing concerning.

“Ginny is worried about you.”

Harry extracts himself from his contemplation on what to grow in the garden come spring.
“I’m fine.”

“We’re worried too,” Hermione continues. “We’ve barely seen you lately.”

“That’s not true. I saw everyone at the Burrow two days ago.”

“Two weeks ago, and Ginny practically dragged you there,” Ron says.
 “And according to Andromeda,” Hermione says, dealing the final grievance, “it’s been a
while since you stopped by to see Teddy.”

His neglect of Teddy pains Harry the most, though he’s also staying away for Teddy’s safety.
Out of habit, he glances at the house to ensure that Elinor isn’t within earshot.

Hermione notices. “The Ministry still hasn’t found anything?”

“They’ve questioned everyone who’s ever visited Grimmauld Place and everything is a dead
end.” Harry sighs. “I can’t feel settled until we catch the mole and the Lestranges.”

“That can take months, if not years. Are you going to stay a hermit until then?”

Per usual, Hermione has a point. Harry stretches out his legs and crunches his heels into the
frozen ground. It snowed again yesterday, but the snow was of the miserable slushy variety.
This winter has been endless, miring him in its depths while spring remains a remote mirage.

Sometimes, he feels as though a storm had descended into his life and ravaged everything in
its path. At least they weathered it, he tries to remind himself. Things could only improve
from here on.

Right?

“Anyway, on a different note,” Hermione says, “After you told us about what happened with
Riddle, I’ve been researching the bond again. I recently got a permit to visit the Department
of Mysteries archives —”

She’s interrupted by the opening of the garden door. Elinor appears, and instinctively, Harry
checks on Tom. Nothing is amiss. The boy is reading on his heated picnic blanket, blissfully
oblivious.

“Harry, I apologize for the interruption,” Elinor says, addressing Harry directly for the first
time in weeks. She holds out what appears to be this morning’s Daily Prophet. “You need to
read this.”

One glance, and Harry’s blood runs cold. Splashed over the front page is the headline, The
Secret Ward of the Boy Who Lived: an exclusive tell-all report by special correspondent Rita
Skeeter. Beneath the article is a blown-up picture of Harry hugging Tom in St. James’s Park,
fresh off their ordeal with the Lestranges. Both of them are undisguised, and Harry’s hair is
swept off his sweaty forehead, revealing the famous lightning bolt scar.

Slowly, Harry glances up from the newspaper to meet his friends’ eyes in horrified
understanding.

The storm hasn’t passed; it has intensified.

Chapter End Notes

A lovely rendition of Tom and Harry's stargazing scene from delineate-creates -- thank
you for your lovely work!
 Polarize
Chapter Notes

Thank you everyone as always for your support! I know it’s been a rough couple of
chapters for the boys. We’re nearing the end of Act I (two more chapters left, including
this one) so we’re at the crest of a rollercoaster. I hope our destination will become clear
very soon.

Please enjoy the update :)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Update: 1st February 2000

Estimated biological age: 4 years 3 months

* * *

The atmosphere in the drawing room is tense. Skeeter has delivered a damaging mixture of
truth and speculation by weaving Harry’s post-war activities, already a favorite tabloid topic,
with popular conspiracy theories. Even the Daily Prophet cannot pass up setting a hermit
hero against the backdrop of rumored Death Eater uprisings and Ministry ineptitude.

“We don’t know how it happened,” Kingsley admits. “We’ve reached out to the Prophet and
Rita Skeeter, but it’s unlikely they’ll divulge their sources. And pushing too hard will
essentially be an admission of guilt.”

“Maybe the Lestranges snitched to Skeeter,” Ron suggests, but Kingsley shakes his head.

“They have little to gain from doing so. If anything, the article has put Riddle in danger.”

“Besides,” Hermione reasons, “she must’ve been working on this article for some time. She
mentions Harry and Riddle feeding ducks and playing on the swings during past visits.”

“True, she’s probably been tailing Harry since the end of the war. Remember that article
about him shagging Malfoy?”

“I should’ve reported her as an illegal Animagus after Dumbledore’s stupid biography.”

“Do not blame yourself, Hermione,” Kingsley says. “You couldn’t have predicted her
growing boldness.”
Harry listens to his friends and Kingsley with an odd detachment. While Skeeter’s article is a
huge violation of his privacy, he’s far more concerned about its impact on Tom. Will anyone
recognize him? What will the Ministry do to him?

The room has fallen silent. Harry startles from his thoughts to find everyone waiting for him
to speak. Having lost the thread of the conversation long ago, he voices the main thing
bothering him. “What does she mean by the Dark Marks?”

“The Dark Marks?” Kingsley repeats, blinking too rapidly.

“She wrote, ‘Prisoners at Azkaban have reported their Dark Marks burning on at least one
occasion, leading many to rejoice that the Dark Lord will return.’”

“Yes, about that.” Kingsley glances at the door to ensure it’s closed. “We have reason to
believe the Lestranges activated the Dark Mark during their kidnapping of Riddle. Whether
or not that was intentional, it had the consequence of inciting unrest at Azkaban.”

Harry jumps to his feet. “Why haven’t you mentioned this before?” There’s only one way in
which the Dark Mark could’ve been activated, and the idea that the Lestranges manhandled
Tom is disturbing.

“I apologize for not doing so. We were trying to prevent leaks while we investigated —”

“Well, you haven’t done a very good job!” He’s practically shouting. “This so-called
investigation has been underway for ages. We still don’t know who the mole is, we don’t
know how the Lestranges broke into the park, and we don’t know who leaked everything to
the press. What’s it going to take for the Ministry to actually do its job for once?”

Kingsley heaves a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I assure you this is far from
enjoyable for me.”

“Harry,” Hermione says in a placating voice. “Let’s calm down and let Kingsley speak,
okay?”

Her tone holds a note of warning, a reminder that taking out his frustration on the Minister
for Magic is a poor idea under any circumstance.

Forcing his temper under control, Harry allows Hermione to tug him back onto the couch.
“Sorry.”

Kingsley waves his hand. “No matter, I understand your frustration and apologize that we’ve
caused you so much inconvenience, despite intentions otherwise. However, at present, we
don’t have the luxury of blame assignment. We must focus on damage control.”

“How?” Ron says. “It’s too late to retract the article. Everyone in Britain must’ve read it by
now.”

“We will make a statement on the identity of Harry’s ward. Not the real identity,” Kingsley
adds hurriedly, before Harry can explode again. “To the public, we will say that Riddle is
Rigel Lestrange, the son of Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange who was conceived shortly
after their escape from Azkaban.”

“I’ve never seen a Rigel Lestrange on the family tapestry,” Harry says, frowning.

“No, he does not exist. But the only people who know for certain are either imprisoned, on
the run, or hiding abroad at the Ministry’s mercy.”

“This could work,” Hermione says. “Age- and appearance-wise, Riddle could pass for their
child.”

“And this would also explain why the Lestranges were trying to kidnap him,” Ron says.

“Precisely. Of course, this will not address the issue of the burning Dark Marks, but with
some orchestration, we can pass that off as the wishful thinking of desperate prisoners.”

Hope is flickering, but Harry’s anxiety has not completely eased. He’s not convinced that the
public or the rest of the Ministry will be markedly kinder to Rigel Lestrange than to Tom
Riddle.

Hermione reads his mind. “Will this be enough to spare Riddle?” she asks. “And wouldn’t
this impact your and Harry’s credibility?”

“Very good questions, Hermione,” Kingsley says. “In theory, children of convicted criminals,
who have no other family members, become wards of the Ministry. They would grow up with
vetted foster families under regular monitoring. In other words, not dissimilar from
Voldemort’s current arrangement. There may be a need for additional progress reports, which
Robards and I can arrange.”

“But Tom doesn’t age like a normal boy,” Harry points out. “We won’t fool anyone for long.”

“It is my hope that after the initial scrutiny, the Ministry will cease to monitor Voldemort
closely. At worst, papers can be, shall we say, modified.”

Lowering his eyes, Kingsley takes an exaggerated sip of tea. He doesn’t anticipate having to
fool the Ministry forever, Harry realizes. Tom is meant to be a temporary problem.

“As for Hermione’s second concern, yes, this will negatively impact my and Harry’s
credibility, though I will assume all responsibility to shield Harry. My polls likely won’t ever
recover,” Kingsley adds, half-joking.

Everyone is looking at Harry again, waiting for his reaction and approval. Kingsley’s
proposal is far from perfect, but Harry is tired, desperate, and already caught in the quicksand
of past decisions. The more he struggles, the faster he sinks.

“What do you need me to do?” he asks quietly. “Make another speech?”

“My hope is that you will not need to. I will work with Public Information Services to draft
something on our behalf for publication. At most, we may have a private interview with a
trusted reporter. Would that be all right?”
“Yes. Whatever you need.”

“Thank you, Harry. I promise, we will get through this.” Kingsley claps Harry on the
shoulder. “I must warn you that this is not something that will blow over in the matter of
days. Please stay out of the public eye and do not, under any circumstances, interact with the
press.”

Clenching and unclenching his hands, Harry nods.

“Ron and Hermione, you will also be negatively impacted. Please take care and proceed with
caution.”

“We will,” Hermione promises.

The room brightens with the unexpected arrival of a silver horse. It stops in front of Harry
and says in Ginny’s voice, “We need to talk. I’m Flooing over.” Even transmitted through a
Patronus, her reproach is evident.

Ginny’s Patronus dissipates to a weighty silence. “I presume Ginny has not been privy to
your responsibilities,” Kingsley says mildly.

“No, and now she must’ve seen the article,” Harry says, stomach churning. “I can tell her
now isn’t a good time.”

“No need.” Kingsley rises. “My presence is overdue at the Ministry.”

“Let me come with you, I can help —”

“Harry.” The older man’s demeanor assumes that of a gently chastising parent. “Stay and talk
to Ginny.”

Chastened and robbed of excuses, Harry watches Kingsley throw a handful of Floo powder
into the fireplace and disappears in a burst of emerald flames.

Ron and Hermione rise as well.

“We should go,” Ron says. “I don’t reckon my sister will be delighted to have us here.”

Catching Harry’s beseeching look, Hermione gives him a reassuring hug. “You’ll be fine, and
we will come back later.”

Another toss of Floo powder later, his best friends are also gone, leaving Harry alone to face
judgment.

Ginny is still dressed in Quidditch attire. That’s not a good sign, coming from someone who
has braved hailstorms to finish practice.

“Tea?” Harry offers weakly.

“No, thank you. Doesn’t look like there’s much left for me.” Her eyes sweep over the half-
drunken mugs to the Daily Prophet lying beside them, still open to the headline article. The
enlarged photograph starts yet another loop of Harry hugging Tom. “Makes for unexpected
locker room reading,” she remarks. “My teammates kept asking me whether I knew about
your secret child. Gwen had to end practice early because nobody could focus.”

He flinches under the oppressive weight of her reproach. Today, there’s nowhere to hide.
“I’m sorry.”

“The ironic thing is, I should have known. You’ve been acting so strangely the past two years
that it was obvious you were keeping a secret. But I thought you were cheating.” She gives a
bitter laugh. “I think I would’ve preferred that.”

She may as well have slapped him. Harry’s cheeks heat and eyes blur, yet he cannot find a
single word to say in self-defense.

As if things can’t get worse, Tom bursts into the drawing room. “Harry!” he shouts. “Are
they gone? I’ve been waiting forever.”

He stops, noticing the newcomer.

Any hope of tricking Ginny into believing Tom is Rigel Lestrange evaporates at her sharp
inhale. While Tom has yet to grow into his adult looks, the features are already taking shape:
the dark eyes, the aquiline nose, and the thin lips currently twisted in a scowl.

“So I was right,” she says. “Tom Riddle.”

She almost spits out the name, and Harry hurries to step in front of Tom. “Please don’t scare
him.”

“ Scare him?” Her countenance is full of hurt, anger, and worst of all, betrayal. “He’s not
scared.”

She has a point. Not once has Tom flinched in the face of her fury. Nor does he budge when
Harry tries to pull him further behind him. Rather, he stares straight back at Ginny, not with
the begrudging respect offered to Elinor, or the careless indifference directed at Ron and
Hermione, but with an unadulterated vitriol that perfectly matches her hatred.

“Miss Kent. Elinor. Please.” Mole or not, Harry needs her as an ally at this moment. “Can I
have some time alone with Ginny?”

“No!” Tom cries, clinging to Harry. “I want to stay!”

“Just for a little while.”

“I won’t leave!”

“Tom. Please. This is important.”

Harry’s desperation must’ve finally registered. With a loud huff, Tom allows Elinor to lead
him away, though he continues to glare at Ginny over his shoulder until Elinor pulls the
drawing room door shut.

Ginny sinks onto the couch and lets out a long sigh. Harry takes a seat beside her, keeping a
half-cushion’s width between them. Both face the cooling mugs rather than each other.

“When were you planning on telling me?” she asks. “When darling Tom shows up for
Sunday luncheon?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” Harry says. “The Ministry asked me to keep it a secret.”

“It didn’t stop you from telling Ron and Hermione.”

He has no rebuttal to that.

“You owe me an explanation,” she says, still not looking at him.

“During the final battle,” Harry begins, “Voldemort was de-aged.”

“How?”

“No one knows for sure. We think that he prepared a failsafe to reset himself in case the
battle doesn’t go well. But something must’ve gone wrong because he can’t be re-aged, and
laws don’t allow the Ministry to execute anyone who’s under seventeen years old.”

“So they have to wait until he’s old enough,” Ginny says, catching on. “But why are you
raising him?”

“The Ministry needed someone who could control Tom’s magic, and they figured I’d be the
best candidate because of our past connection. We performed this medieval ceremony so I
became his guardian.” Harry turns to face Ginny and waits until she mirrors. “Look, I didn’t
choose this.”

“Yet you always, always say yes,” she says. “You always let someone foist their
responsibilities on you. You always have to give everything you have.”

“I had to help —”

“I’ve heard of magical guardianship from Bill and Charlie before. As far as I understand, you
guard your vassal’s magic, but you don’t need to be involved in their life.”

“But I have to!” Harry exclaims. “They locked and silenced him in a windowless room.”

“And thus you came galloping to the rescue.”

Harry is stung by the hint of scorn. “Wouldn’t you have done the same?”

“I don’t know.”
“Ginny, he was — he is innocent.”

“Innocent?” she repeats incredulously. “Have you conveniently forgotten that he possessed
me for the better part of a year and tried to eradicate Muggle-born students? Or that he started
two wars that left thousands of people maimed or dead? Or that he condemned you to death
when you were only a baby?”

“Of course not, but this Tom is a different Tom. He still has a chance.”

“Fucking hell, Harry.” Ginny slams her hand on the table so hard that the mugs rattle. “Tom
Riddle is not you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You see yourself in him, don’t you? You see an orphan and think that if you shower him
with love, if you give him every bloody thing he could wish for, you can reform him.”

Her words hit too close to the truth. “Why shouldn’t I think that?”

“Because he’s not you, and he will never be you! You’re noble and kind and gentle, and
Riddle is none of these things. He murdered people in cold blood, Harry. He murdered your
parents, for Merlin’s sake. How can you suggest that you’re alike?”

“Tom is just a child. You can’t blame him for what he hasn’t done.”

“But he has. Don’t you see?” Ginny seizes Harry’s shoulders and shakes hard. “Morality
doesn’t work the way you think. Otherwise, let’s feed Age Regression Potions to everyone in
Azkaban so they’re innocent children once more!”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“That’s exactly what you’re saying. Your affection for this monster has made you
delusional.”

“Stop calling him a monster.”

“He is a monster —”

“He’s not any more than you are!”

Ginny snatches her hands from his shoulders as if scalded. They glare at each other, both
panting for breath. Somehow, they’ve lost the ability to talk without fighting.

Unlike their last fight, Ginny turns away first. “I see.”

Her disappointment chills Harry to the bone. He reaches for her hand. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t
have yelled.”

She jerks away and stands. “I should head back to Holyhead. Maybe Gwen will let me give
practice another go.”
“Ginny, listen, I’m so sorry —”

“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

Without a backward glance, she strides to the fireplace. As she prepares to toss Floo powder
into the flames, Harry realizes with devastating conviction that their relationship will never
recover if he lets her leave without proper resolution. This is his chance to fight for them, to
show her that he wants and needs her.

Unfortunately, shame roots him in place and stays his words, even as he catches the brief
hesitation before she yells her destination.

“Holyhead Stadium!”

In a burst of green flames, Ginny is gone.

The voices in the drawing room have stopped. Tom peeks inside. The red-haired woman is
nowhere to be seen, and Harry is alone by the window.

He slips inside before Miss Elinor can stop him.

“Harry!” he calls, but Harry doesn’t move. In fact, he doesn’t seem to notice Tom’s presence
until he hugs him from the back.

“Tom!” Harry turns and wraps his arms around Tom. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

“Is she gone?” Tom asks. Harry’s nod is slight and sad. “Who is she? Is she your friend too?”

Tom hopes not. He doesn’t like the way the woman looked at him, but he hates the way she
looked at Harry, as if Harry belongs to her.

“Yes, she’s my friend,” Harry answers. “Her name is Ginny.”

“Ginny,” Tom repeats and decides it’s an awful name.

He wants to hear more — how does Harry know her? Does he like her? Does he like her
more than he likes Tom? — but Harry doesn’t say anything else. And he’s so stiff in Tom’s
arms that there’s no use asking questions.

It’s a strange day. Harry and Miss Elinor are talking to each other again, although in the same
cold, careful way they use with strangers. There are lots of owls flying in and out of the
house. Some of them carry newspapers and others carry letters. Tom notices pictures of
himself in some of the newspapers, sometimes alone and sometimes with Harry. However,
Harry or Miss Elinor always snatches them out of sight before he can try to read the titles.

There are also more people at the house. Most of them are dressed in red robes, which means
they aren’t here to run tests but to stare at Tom, which is worse. In the afternoon, Harry’s
other friends — without the annoying Ginny, thankfully — come back, and Tom has to leave
the drawing room again so they can talk to Harry in secret. He ends up reading in his
bedroom so he can hide from the strangers.

Finally, it’s nighttime, and almost all of the visitors are gone. A few of the red-robed people
are sleeping at the house, but their rooms are on the second floor, so Tom doesn’t have to see
them.

Harry comes to tuck him in. There are dark circles under his eyes and his smile is droopy. He
must be tired, and while Tom wants him to rest, he also wants to feel that Harry is his again.

“Can we look at stars?” Tom begs Harry. “Just for a little bit. Please?”

Harry takes a moment to respond. “All right,” he agrees. “Just for a little bit.”

Tom is comfortable with the telescope now, so he doesn’t always need Harry to adjust it for
him. He has also learned quite a few constellations. There is Canis Major, which has the star
named Sirius. There are Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, which are a pair of bears that remind
Tom of Harry and himself. Most recently, there is Orion, which has the brightest and colorful
stars that range from blue to orange.

Tonight, Harry teaches him Gemini, which is named after twin brothers whose father was
Zeus, like Heracles. They rode white horses and had lots of adventures in the sea, but that is
all Harry remembers about this constellation.

Voice trailing off, Harry seems lost in thought. Tom never likes having Harry physically close
but mentally far away. He abandons the telescope and grabs Harry’s hand. “Harry?”

“Hm?”

He takes a deep breath. “Why does Ginny hate me?”

It’s a fact, and it doesn’t bother him, though it clearly bothers Harry, because he stiffens
immediately. Tom doesn’t let him pull away. He clutches Harry’s hand more tightly until, at
last, Harry lets out a small sigh.

“You remind her of someone who hurt her.”

“Who?”

“A very powerful wizard who did very terrible things,” Harry replies in the same manner he
described the lion in the sky.

Tom must remind Ginny of a grown-up then. She wouldn’t be scared of a little boy. “How’d
he hurt her?”

“It doesn’t matter now. That person is dead.”

“Did someone kill him?”

“Yes.” Harry averts his eyes. “I did.”

“You did?” Tom has some trouble imagining Harry, who is so tenderhearted towards every
living thing, killing anyone. But then he remembers the way Harry blazed with fury and
power when he fought Rodolphus and Rabastan, and it is less difficult.

“I did,” Harry says softly. “Multiple times.”

“Wow,” Tom breathes. “What did it feel like to kill?”

“Awful. I wanted to save him.”

Harry’s face scrunches, as if he’s reliving the pain of killing someone. On impulse, Tom
reaches up to stroke Harry’s scar. Images flash in his mind, crisp and clear even though he
doesn’t understand them.

(A sharp tooth stabbing into a black book, and ink spilling everywhere to the sound of a
terrible scream.

A golden crown falling into a sea of fiery claws.

A burst of green light piercing through a dark-robed body.)

The images fade. Tom is trembling, not from fear or disapproval, but from excitement. He’s
proud that his Harry was strong enough to kill a powerful bad wizard.

Harry watches him with wide eyes, as if waiting to be scolded. Tom nuzzles his chest. “I’m
glad you killed him,” he tells Harry. “I’m glad he died instead of you.”

Making a sound that’s both a laugh and a sob, Harry slides down to the floor of the attic. Tom
climbs onto his lap and tucks his chin under Harry’s head. He presses his palm against
Harry’s chest, reassured by the steady thumps.

“Will you ever kill again?” he asks.

Harry winces. “I hope I never have to.”

“But what if you have to save someone?” Tom presses. “What if — what if you have to
protect me?”

Though Harry doesn’t respond, he tightens his arms around Tom.

* * *

Extract from an exclusive Daily Prophet interview with Minister for Magic Kingsley
Shacklebolt and Harry Potter.
DP: To recap, Minister, you do not regret taking Rigel Lestrange under the Ministry’s wings
in spite of his parentage.

KS (with a benevolent smile): None whatsoever. Sins of the father should not taint the son’s
childhood nor deprive him of his future. We will raise Rigel with kindness and ensure he has
every opportunity to succeed.

DP: Mr. Potter, you’ve been awfully quiet. What is your opinion on the Ministry’s
arrangement?

HP (with a tight smile): I concur with everything the Minister said.

***

The interview with the Daily Prophet calms the media frenzy around Rita Skeeter’s article,
although Harry is still advised to remain at Grimmauld Place. He makes an exception when
he receives Andromeda’s owl. It has been a while since Teddy saw his godfather, she writes.
We would love for you to stop by.

To Harry’s confusion and relief, Andromeda waves away his apologies for being a delinquent
godfather and makes zero mention of Skeeter’s article nor any of its follow-ups. Instead, she
talks of Teddy, a local tulip competition in which she came third place, and other innocuous
matters. Meanwhile, Teddy enlivens the atmosphere with random interjections. Everything
feels cozy and normal.

That is, until lunch ends. Andromeda leads everyone into the living room, ostensibly to relax
and digest their meal, but she stops Teddy from climbing onto Harry’s lap. “Teddy dear,
Grandma and Uncle Harry have something to discuss. Will you go play with your new train
set?”

Teddy pouts. “But I want to play with Harry!”

“I’ll play with you very soon,” Harry says, giving him a reassuring smile and ruffling his hair.

Whereas Tom would’ve kept protesting, Teddy is far more agreeable. With a happy nod, he
skips over to his trains.

“Tea?” Andromeda says, and without waiting for Harry’s response, pours. Her movement is
deliberate, drawing out each second.

Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Harry takes the plunge. “Look, Andromeda, about
the article…”

The teapot returns to the tray with a crisp clink. Andromeda hands Harry a cup and settles
back into the cushions, her expression serious. “Yes, it was a most enlightening read,” she
says. “I was surprised to discover that I have a long lost nephew. I do wonder how my darling
Bella even managed to conceive, considering she and Rodolphus stopped sharing the same
bed after she took the mark.”

To buy some time, Harry takes a sip of scalding tea and almost burns his tongue. “It was
definitely a surprise,” he says lamely.

“Enough with the charade, Harry.” Andromeda sets her teacup on its saucer. “During the war,
you trusted me with your life, yet now you do not trust me with the truth. When were you
going to tell me that you were raising your parents’ murderer?”

Harry gulps under her unrelenting gaze.

“Are you wondering how I know?” Andromeda smiles grimly. “My sister wrote me a
peculiar letter last month. Not many things can reduce cool-headed Cissy to hysterics. Would
you like to venture a guess as to why?”

“The Lestranges threatened her?”

“Of a sort. Her husband’s and son’s Dark Marks burned. Very briefly, but long enough for
them to fear the Dark Lord’s return. Rumors have been circulating since the end of the war,
but a burning Dark Mark tells a much more convincing story than a paparazzi scoop.”

Harry curses his own oversight. He should’ve realized as soon as Kingsley mentioned the
Azkaban unrest that the Malfoys would’ve felt their marks burning.

“Initially, I thought she must’ve been mistaken. Lucius is prone to paranoia. Imagine my
shock upon seeing the photograph of your ward. Most people do not know the man behind
the Dark Lord, but I remember Tom Riddle. One does not easily forget the charming visitor
who seduced most of my family to ruination.” Her gray eyes harden into flints. “I ask you
again, and please do not insult my intelligence this time. Why are you raising your parents’
murderer?”

Digging nails into thighs, Harry repeats the explanation that he gave to Ginny. Unlike Ginny,
who expressed indignation and disapproval throughout his recounting, Andromeda’s
expression is inscrutable.

“We couldn’t tell anyone,” Harry finishes. “There would’ve been backlash.”

“That evidently worked according to plan,” Andromeda says drily. “Well, everything makes
sense now. I expected better of Kingsley, but I suppose there is a politician in him after all.”

Harry drops his eyes to the folded hands on his lap. “I’m sorry I kept such a big secret from
you.”

“I don’t blame you. You were merely trying to help. And in a way, it’s good that the truth is
revealed. It gives you the perfect excuse to extract yourself from the mess the Ministry has
created.”

“Extract myself?”
“Why yes. Surely you will no longer need to partake in this farce. Let the Ministry take over
the care of Tom Riddle, as they should’ve done from the beginning.”

“But I can’t leave. Tom is bound to me.”

“Magical bonds can be broken and remade.”

“I can’t,” Harry insists. “Tom needs my protection.”

Andromeda’s eyes narrow. “Have you grown attached to him, despite everything he’s done?”

The lack of empathy from someone normally thoughtful and kind unsettles Harry. “He hasn’t
done anything. He’s a child.”

“Yet because of him, I lost mine.”

Harry flinches. The similarity of this conversation to his confrontations with Fawley and
Ginny makes him feel as though he’s trapped in a never-ending nightmare.

“I’m sorry we have to disagree on this,” he says. “But I won’t change my mind.”

I can’t.

Andromeda regards him with resignation and sorrow. “You have a misguided sense of honor.
Just like Sirius.”

“Please, I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to lose you and Teddy.”

“You will not. Teddy has already lost too much. I will not deprive him of a loving godfather.”

Harry sags in relief. “Thank you.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that your decision can and will have negative consequences.”

He should end the conversation here, but he has one final plea to make. “I know I’ve made a
controversial decision, and I know I have no right to ask you for a favor —”

“You want me to feign ignorance to Tom Riddle’s survival.”

Harry nods, appreciating the older woman’s directness and perceptiveness. “If anyone finds
out Tom’s true identity, the consequences will be terrible.”

Andromeda’s face is taut, and with every beat of silence, Harry grows certain that she will
refuse. Her gaze moves to Teddy, toot-tooting with his train, and her face softens a smidgen.

“I will keep your secret,” she says gravely. “I do not and will not betray family.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, offering her a tentative smile.

She does not return it. “I only hope that you, too, will remember where your loyalties lie.”
With that, Andromeda picks up the tea tray. Even though Harry has barely sipped his tea, he
understands he’s being gently but firmly dismissed.

At the beginning of March, a new wrench is thrown into Kingsley’s plans.

“A hearing,” Harry repeats dumbly. “You said the interview with the Prophet would be the
end of it.”

“I apologize,” Kingsley says wearily. The past month has exacerbated his wrinkles, visibly
aging him. “The Wizengamot is insisting on hearing our statements firsthand. My hope is that
this is a formality, but I will have my counsel prepare a defense all the same.”

Harry doubts that it will be a mere formality, more like another waypoint on Kingsley’s trail
of broken promises, but he has no choice but to play along.

Ron and Hermione absorb the new development with matching frowns. The three of them are
in the garden, which has become their new meeting spot now that winter is yielding to spring.
With the warmth of the sun on their faces and chirping of birds in the distance, it could be a
simple friendly gathering if not for the presence of patrolling Aurors nearby.

“It’s because of Dunbar,” Ron says. “Dad told us he’s been raising a huge stink at the
Ministry about the Shacklebolt administration endangering the public, and he’s also
questioning whether you should be involved.”

Harry groans. Turns out Kingsley was right. His impertinence during the dementors hearing
did come back to haunt him, and the timing couldn’t be more inopportune.

“Last I heard, the Wizengamot hearings are backlogged until April,” Hermione says, “so at
least you have time to find legal precedents.”

Harry and Ron exchange a look. “Er, come again?” Ron says.

“Law is full of gray areas, so a court often refers to historical cases with similar
circumstances to extrapolate a decision on the current case. Remember how we helped
Hagrid prepare a defense for Buckbeak? If we can find past hearings or trials in which the
child of criminal parents grew up to be an upstanding citizen, we can prove to the
Wizengamot that Harry and Kingsley made the right decision.”

“Buckbeak’s hearing didn’t exactly turn out well,” Harry points out.

“No, but that was due to Lucius Malfoy’s meddling and the Ministry’s prejudice against
creatures. We also have more experience now.”

Harry doesn’t share her confidence. In the eyes of the Wizengamot, the child of a tainted
family is probably not different from a hippogriff. Furthermore, based on his observations,
law in the wizarding world is nowhere as orderly as the version depicted in Aunt Petunia’s
telly programs.
Nevertheless, he agrees. Despite everything else imploding in his life — the media debacle,
the impending hearing, the frosty relationships with Ginny and Andromeda — Harry is
grateful that his best friends have remained steadfastly by his side. And at the very least,
researching will make him feel more productive than helpless.

On Hermione’s recommendation, they go to Bodleian Library at Oxford University.

Technically, it’s off-access to the public, but thanks to its cross-lending program with the
Department of Mysteries, Hermione manages to obtain guest passes for everyone.

“Before I knew I was a witch, I used to come here every weekend with my parents because I
wanted to attend Oxford someday,” Hermione says, giving them a brief tour. “Reminds you a
bit of Hogwarts, doesn’t it?”

She’s right. The city’s quaint atmosphere, along with the castle-like colleges scattered
throughout, is pleasantly reminiscent of Hogsmeade and Hogwarts. Harry hopes he’ll visit
under better circumstances in the future.

Hermione leads inside a courtyard surrounded on all sides by Gothic buildings. “Here we
are,” she says. “This is Bodleian.”

“Blimey,” Ron says, and Harry is similarly amazed as he admires the ornate façades and the
arched windows. No other place is more appropriate to house centuries of human knowledge.

The interior of the library is even more impressive. Though the aboveground portion already
rivals the scale of the Hogwarts library, the bulk of its collection is underground. The
wizarding wing extends so far down, in fact, that a special lift is required to access it.

“There must be millions of books here,” Harry marvels, taking in the rows of massive
bookshelves.

“Over ten million Muggle books, I believe, and tens of thousands of wizarding books,”
Hermione says. “It can take Oxford students hours to find the book they’re looking for.
Fortunately, I’ve owled ahead to reserve ours.”

“There’s our Hermione, always prepared,” Ron says.

Hermione rolls her eyes, but her cheeks redden. “Go find a table, will you? I’ll pick up our
books.”

As she heads to the librarian’s desk, Harry and Ron settle at a corner table. Despite the
subterranean space, enchanted windows along the wood-paneled walls reflect the weather
outside, ushering in plenty of sunlight.

Ron cranes his neck to make sure Hermione is out of earshot before he leans forward
conspiratorially. “Want to hear the latest from Lee?”

“Always,” Harry replies with a snort. “Whose child is Tom this week?”

An apprentice at the Daily Prophet, Lee Jordan has taken to sharing the conspiracy theories
that readers have been owling. As expected, the vast majority of the conspiracy theories as of
late concern Tom’s identity, since not everyone believes — or wants to believe — that he is
Rigel Lestrange.

Ron grins. “Yours.”

“Mine?”

“Yeah. The prevailing theory of the week is that Riddle is the love child of you and
Voldemort.”

Harry splutters. “Love child? How is that even — no, actually, I don’t want to know,” he
amends, holding up his hands as Ron dissolves into snickers.

However, his best friend’s mirth is infectious, and Harry can’t help joining in, grateful for
some levity to counteract the anxiety. Thus, they giggle like a pair of schoolboys until the
librarian descends upon them, shushes them, and threatens to throw them out all in one
breath.

“He and Madam Pince ought to get acquainted,” Ron mutters, just as Hermione returns with
an armful of books, having witnessed the exchange.

“Honestly, I can’t ever trust the two of you to behave, can I?”

“Never,” Ron agrees, and Harry adopts a wide-eyed stare of innocence he learned from Tom.

Clucking her tongue, Hermione sets the books on the table and begins sorting them into three
piles. “We only have these books until the end of the day, so let’s get reading. Remember,
note down any example that can be a good precedent. We will discuss them together.”

“All of the books?” Ron says, staring at the ten books in his pile. “That will take forever.”

“It will take even longer if you waste time complaining,” Hermione says severely, and makes
a show of flipping open her first book.

“Barmy,” Ron mouths at Harry, but he obeys his fiancée’s directive.

They read, their silence broken only by the flipping of pages and scratching of quills. Harry
tries to concentrate as best as he can, but eventually his hand starts to cramp and the letters
starts to bleed into each other.

Ron gives up first. “I’m beat. Can’t read another word.”

Hermione yawns. “I could use a break too. Let’s check in on progress. Anything interesting,
Harry?”

“Uh, I found a few examples of ancient Romans raising children from conquered cities,”
Harry says, glancing through scrawled notes. “Some ended up as slaves or gladiators, but
others were successfully integrated into Roman society. One wizard adopted by a wealthy
childless couple ended up fighting against his birth family and slaughtering his blood
brothers.”
“That last one is too morbid, but the other examples are promising. Ron?”

“Most of mine are pretty close to Harry’s. You know, there was a war, children were left
orphaned, the conquerors adopted them, and everyone lived happily ever after. Or medieval
vassals gave up their children to their lords so they could be groomed into knights.”

“What’s this about a manticore?” Hermione asks, peeking at Ron’s notes.

“Oh yeah, I was in the middle of a really interesting one. In the fourteenth century, a farmer
came upon an injured baby manticore and nursed it back to life.”

“Sounds like Hagrid,” she comments, jotting down a few notes. “What happened?”

“It stung the farmer to death and burned down his farm.”

“Never mind.” Hermione crosses out the notes in thick strokes. “Raising a beast isn’t the
same thing as raising a human anyway. Anything else?”

“No, that’s all I’ve got so far.”

“I have a few cases, but they’re all variations on someone taken in by kind foster families and
raised into upstanding citizens,” she says. “Workable, but not particularly notable, although if
we spin them the right way...”

Harry gazes at the illustration of the manticore destroying its foster father’s farm. Ginny and
Andromeda’s betrayed visages surface, along with an unwelcome past warning: sympathy for
monsters is a dangerous thing.

Feeling queasy, he rests his head on his hands to fight the urge to throw up what little lunch
he had. He must’ve made a sound, because his friends stop talking.

“Hey.” Ron pats him on the back. “You all right, mate?”

“You look pale,” Hermione says. “Let’s take a longer break. Should we head outside and
maybe get a snack? Even with ventilation charms, this place can get stuffy.”

“No, I’m all right. It’s just that —” Harry takes a deep breath. “What if I’m wrong?”

“You won’t be, once Hermione has you prepped —”

“No, I mean, what if I’m wrong about Tom?” It’s the first time he’s allowing himself to voice
his doubt. “What if everyone else is right, and I’m naïve to think I can make a difference?”

Ron twists his hands, evidently torn between saying “We told you!” and offering support.

Hermione sets her books and parchments aside. Expecting her to tell him that he is wrong,
Harry is caught off-guard when she says, “Have either of you heard of the Ship of Theseus?”

Harry and Ron shake their heads, and Ron gestures for her to continue.
“It’s a philosophical debate based on a thought experiment. Theseus was a mythical king of
Greece who slayed the Minotaur of Crete. In commemoration, the ship he used to sail from
Crete back to Athens was kept in the harbor for many centuries. As the ship decayed, the
Athenians replaced the older components with newer ones.”

“Okay…” Ron says, expressing Harry’s confusion.

“Now let me ask you: is the repaired ship the same ship as the original one?”

“Well, of course it is,” Ron answers immediately. “They were only repairing it, not replacing
it.”

“Even if every plank of wood on the original ship is replaced?”

Ron hesitates. “Even then,” he answers, although he sounds much less certain.

“Let me ask a different question, then,” Hermione says. “Let’s suppose the Athenians
replaced every plank on the original ship, and used these old planks to construct a brand new
ship. Is this ship the same as the original?”

This time, Ron has no response, and Harry doesn’t know where to even begin dissecting this
question.

“Therein lies the paradox. Which ship is the Ship of Theseus? Either, both, or neither? The
same can be applied to people. Philosophers have long argued over what defines a person. Is
it their memories? Is it their physical bodies? Is it their souls? Or is it something else
altogether?”

Harry leans forward. “What was the conclusion?”

“There is none. Nobody knows what, if anything, must change before a person ceases being
him- or herself.”

Of course not. Harry should’ve known better than to expect a straight answer. Life was easier
when good and evil were as distinct as black and white, rather than a complex canvas layered
with highlights and shadows that blend into one other.

Frustration builds. Growing up is supposed to make things easier, not bloody more difficult.

“So we may never know whether Tom is Voldemort,” Harry says.

“Certainly not right now, as none of us knows enough about Riddle’s de-aging. But at the end
of the day, this isn’t a question of right or wrong. This is a question of whether we can afford
to be wrong.”

Can they? Harry recalls the burning scarlet eyes of Voldemort, juxtaposed against the brown
eyes of Tom watching him with trust and affection. He recalls the Dark Marks floating above
rubbles, juxtaposed against the well-tended gardens and the lovingly made artwork.
He heaves a sigh. “Thank you both for helping me save him, despite your very legitimate
reservations.”

“We’re not trying to save him,” Hermione corrects him, tapping his wrist lightly. “We’re
trying to save you.”

Harry gives her a wan smile, which she returns. Then she gestures at the unread books. “We
have less than two hours left. Do you want to continue?”

Resolve hardens. “Yeah, let’s,” Harry says, and to the sound of Ron’s mock grumbling, they
return to their books.

The sun outside the enchanted windows is turning a fiery orange when Hermione shuts her
book and rubs her eyes. “That will be all for today.”

“I thought you’d never say that,” Ron says, slamming his own book shut and kissing the side
of her head.

“We can come back next weekend.” Hermione gathers their notes and stacks them in a neat
pile. “I’ll organize these at home, summarize the key points, and walk you through how you
should present them in court.”

“Thank you again,” Harry says. “I’m sure studying in an underground library isn’t your ideal
Saturday.”

“Don’t be silly, this is her ideal Saturday.” Ron grins. “Besides, what are friends for, if not to
save you from the Wizengamot?”

Harry looks from one friend to another, his throat too tight to express his gratitude. Ron
winks and Hermione squeezes his arm. “Ron and I are going to try out a bistro near my
parents’,” she says. “Would you like to come?”

“Maybe next time. I’m going to walk around Oxford a bit to clear my head.”

Brightening, Hermione gives him a few recommendations as they leave Bodleian. He hugs
his friends goodbye and starts towards Covered Market, but he’s barely taken a few steps
when the bond flares with alarm. He claps his hand to his searing scar and almost doubles
over, one persistent thought in mind: Tom needs me.

“Are you okay?” he distantly hears someone ask, but he has no time to answer. Blindly, he
rushes into the first alley he can find and Disapparates.

Grimmauld Place is eerily quiet, and instead of Tom, an ashen-faced Elinor greets him at the
front door. “We need to get to the Ministry,” she says. “They took Tom.”

All the rights and wrongs disappear in a maelstrom of fear. “Where?” Harry demands.

“Courtroom Ten. The Wizengamot wants to try him today.”

Harry’s heart sinks. “They can’t do that without warning!”

Elinor smiles wryly. “Unfortunately, the Wizengamot doesn’t always play by the rules, as
you’ve seen yourself.”

“I need to alert Kingsley —”

“Kingsley will be there, but you cannot count on him to save Tom.”

“He was preparing a defense.”

“Yes, but you cannot appeal to the Wizengamot with reason. No legal interpretation of
archaic laws can change the biases of the old guard. Your only recourse is to bargain based on
their emotions. Think about what they want. What they fear.”

“What they fear,” Harry repeats, musing.

Elinor glances at the grandfather clock. “We don’t have time to lose. We should Floo to the
Atrium and I’ll bring you inside as my visitor. I don’t think the guards will be privy to a
weekend hearing, so I don’t expect them to stop us. If they do, I can delay them.”

Harry gapes, unable to reconcile the woman who could be a mole with the woman who’s
putting her job on the line to help him.

“And Harry?” Her soft tone belies the seriousness of her entreaty. “It wasn’t me. The mole
who talked to Skeeter and the Lestranges wasn’t me.”

“Elinor, I didn’t — I don’t — I —”

Her expression has returned to its usual serenity. “We will discuss this later.” She grabs the
canister of Floo powder off the mantel. “Are you ready?”

“Wait.” Harry draws his wand, and the comprehension dawns on Elinor’s face before he
yells, “Expecto Patronum!”

His Patronus appears and paws the ground restlessly, sensing his turmoil.

Harry brushes its snout. “Tell Tom I’m on my way.” Sending a Patronus ahead of their arrival
is a poor tactical decision, but Tom will appreciate the reassurance.

Once Prongs has cantered out of sight, Harry nods at Elinor grimly.

“Let’s go.”

“Where are we going? Where are we going?”

The strangers continue to drag Tom down the dark corridor without answering. He tries to dig
in with his heels, but it’s no use. His throat is raw from screaming, but he doesn’t stop even
after magic has taken his voice away.
 Even Miss Elinor didn’t know what to do. When the strangers came out of the fireplace, she
actually looked scared, which terrified Tom. He hopes with all his might that she has found
Harry and told him what happened. He hopes that Harry is on his way. He’s been calling for
Harry, but he can’t hear Harry’s response.

A door opens and they step into a tiny room that begins to sink. Tom’s stomach drops and he
squeezes his eyes shut. It’s just a lift, he tells himself. He’s read about lifts in books. He
won’t die.

The lift opens and they step out into another corridor, even darker than the one earlier
because it has no windows. The only light comes from the flickering torches and the only
sound comes from their footsteps.

“Come along,” snaps one of the strangers as she leads Tom down a set of steps.

Everything is becoming a blur and Tom has lost track of how long they’ve been walking
when they stop in front of a heavy door with a huge lock. On it, ten is spelled out in huge
letters.

One of the strangers turns the door handle and opens it. People, lots of people inside.
Terrified, Tom tries to resist entering, but as before, he’s not strong enough.

The room is dimly lit. There are rows and rows of benches, surrounding a small chair in the
center that Tom is forced onto.

As soon as he sits, chains wrap around his wrists, chest, and ankles. They bind him so tightly
that he can hardly wiggle. The scream inside him is building again — he’s locked in a small
room without windows, he’s hiding under a bed listening to the explosions outside — but
Tom forces himself to calm down. He has to stay strong until Harry comes.

To distract himself, he squints into the benches. Unfriendly faces stare back. Even though
their features are too shadowy to see, Tom can tell that everyone in the room hates him.
Everyone wants to hurt him, just like the man who lived with him in the attic.

Right in front of him is a desk. A woman leans over a pile of paper, her toad-like face
vaguely familiar.

“Oh my,” she says with a giggle. “We are going to have so much fun.”

Chapter End Notes

I’m sorry, I normally hate cliffhangers, and we’ve had three in a row.

On the bright side, we have just one more chapter left in Act I (and I promise it will not
end on a cliffhanger). Please stay strong everyone! Harry and Tom need your support.
 Pacify
Chapter Summary

The conclusion of Act I and a preview of what’s to come.

Chapter Notes

Hi everyone, welcome back for the finale of Act I. I was grateful to hear from many of
you even though I updated right before AO3’s DDOS attack.

There was a lot of frustration in the comments towards almost all the characters, which
fit the chapter title of Polarize. I hope you can understand where the characters were
coming from, even if you don’t personally agree with them. A goal of Paved is
exploring Tom’s impact on Harry’s closest relationships, and the reactions run the gamut
because — as Harry is realizing — the world isn’t black and white.

Thank you as always for your support. I hope you’ll enjoy how everything comes
together. And finally, happy birthday to our favorite Boy Who Lived :)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Update: 1st March 2000

Estimated biological age: 4 years 6 months

* * *

“What’s your name?” asks Toad Woman.

Magic washes over Tom, releasing the bind on his voice, but he presses his lips together. This
question is obviously a trick. Why should he share his name, when no one else has shared
theirs?

“What’s your name?” she repeats, growing impatient. “It’s easier if you cooperate.
Otherwise, we can feed Verita —”

“Dolores, what a surprise to have you join us.”

A dark-skinned man and a stern-looking woman enter. Tom recognizes the man as Harry’s
friend, Kingsley. Maybe Harry sent him to help Tom. Hope surging, he tries to catch
Kingsley’s eye, but Kingsley is looking at Toad Woman.

“You’ve certainly regained social capital quickly,” he says. “I don’t recall reinstating you to
the Wizengamot or inviting you to the hearing.”

“I’m here to serve as court scribe on Mr. Dunbar’s personal invitation. People with my
experience are in short supply at the Ministry.”

Kingsley wrinkles his nose and the stern woman snorts. Tom guesses they don’t like Toad
Woman either.

“So experienced that you’re planning to run the hearing without Zoraida and me, I see,” he
says, and Toad Woman flushes.

“We were simply getting niceties out of the way.”

The woman named Zoraida frowns at Tom’s chains. “That’s a loose definition of niceties.”
With a snap of her fingers, most of the chains slide back into the chair, and only the ones
around Tom’s ankles remain. “Allow me to also remind you that Veritaserum is expressly
forbidden for anyone under the age of five. Now, let us not waste any more time. Shall we
begin?”

As she takes the center seat in the front row, right above Toad Woman’s desk, the room
brightens. Tom can make out the people formerly in the shadows. Everyone except Toad
Woman, Kingsley, and Zoraida is wearing purple robes with a silver W on the chest.

Instead of following Zoraida to the front row, Kingsley creates a chair out of thin air and sits
beside Tom, although he still doesn’t look at him.

“This is the hearing of Rigel Lestrange,” Zoraida says. “Interrogator: Humphrey Dunbar.
Witness for the defendant: Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt. As for the charges, why
don’t you enlighten us, Humphrey, since you insisted on expediting this hearing?”

“I will be direct,” says the man named Humphfrey, whom Tom nicknames Egg Man because
of his round body and bald head. “I do not believe that this boy has been handled properly.”

“Handled properly in what sense? While I agree that the Minister should have been more
forthcoming” — she sends Kingsley a disapproving look — “I have no concerns about the
arrangements he made for young Rigel.”

“On the contrary, we are being too lenient.”

“We are following the terms of the Salisbury Accord of 1778,” Kingsley says, “which states
that a child cannot be held accountable for his parents’ crimes.”

“The Salisbury Accord does not apply when the Minister has not told us the full truth,” Toad
Woman says.
“As court scribe, please remain silent, Dolores,” Zoraida says sharply. Toad Woman scowls.
“Kingsley, have you been obfuscating something?”

“Actually, I’d like to hear from Humphrey,” Kingsley says. “Please explain how and when I
have been dishonest.”

Egg Man exchanges smug looks with the people seated around him. “I made a visit to
Azkaban last week. I intended to speak with the Carrows regarding the confiscation of their
properties in Northern Ireland, but afterwards, I had an interesting conversation with the
guards. Multiple prisoners reported their Dark Marks burning at the beginning of February,
leading them to believe that the Dark Lord was returning.”

“That sounds like wishful thinking. The more likely explanation is that the prisoners are
suffering from phantom pain.”

“If reported by one or two prisoners, that may be the case, but when reported by everyone at
the same time, that merits scrutiny, especially when there has already been speculation as to
why the marks didn’t fade after the war. Furthermore,” Egg Man adds, leaning forward, “the
date of the occurrence is curious. It is the same date that the Lestranges reportedly attempted
to kidnap the boy.”

“Skeeter is hardly the most credible source. You will also recall that former Minister Fudge
wasn’t convinced of the Dark Lord’s return when presented with similar evidence.”
Kingsley’s voice is calm, but he’s fidgeting with his rings.

“You are being intentionally obtuse, Minister. If you refuse to provide an explanation, I shall
venture one.”

“Please do.”

“This boy activated the Dark Marks because he is the Dark Lord’s magical heir.”

Kingsley sucks in a breath. “A magical heir. That’s — preposterous.”

“Hardly, there are plenty of precedents in history. Ancient warlords often created magical
heirs ahead of high-stakes battles, so that their heirs could carry on their wars and exact
revenge in the event of their demise.”

“While that may be true,” Zoraida says, “why would the Dark Lord choose a child to be his
magical heir? It would make far more sense to choose the adult Lestranges.”

“There are two possible reasons. The Dark Lord’s magic may be such that only a child, who
has not fully developed his own, can be a successful vessel. As for the second…” Egg Man
smiles, displaying yellowed teeth. “The Dark Lord may be banking on our sympathy to allow
his magical heir to thrive.”

Kingsley’s jaw tenses. Tom has a bad feeling about how the conversation is going.

“That changes things, won’t you agree?” Egg Man sweeps his arm towards Tom. “The boy is
not so harmless after all.”
“As fascinating as this theory is,” Kingsley says, “you will need more convincing proof.”

“I’m working on that, except the Unspeakables have thus far been uncooperative.”

“Then Teshima is doing her job by preventing her department from being embroiled in petty
drama.”

“Hardly petty, given what’s at stake. In any case, she doesn’t have the monopoly on experts,
and until we complete a full examination of the boy, we must ensure he’s kept under close
observation. Not under care of an inexperienced wizard who is barely of age and has a history
of insubordination.”

“I have full faith in Harry’s judgment and abilities. Moreover, Rigel has been under the care
of a highly trained team.”

“So highly trained that the Lestranges almost succeeded in kidnapping him.”

Tom itches to wipe the sneer off Egg Man’s face. How dare he badmouth Harry?

“This scrutiny on Rigel seems to be a distraction and a poor use of Ministry resources,”
Kingsley says.

“Surely, Minister, you wouldn’t mind if we take a look for our peace of mind?” says a frizzy-
haired woman sitting beside Dunbar. “If we learn that he is harboring the Dark Lord’s magic,
we must take him away before he can endanger others, Harry Potter included.”

“It sounds to me, Constance, that you are trying to push forward your own agenda.
Unfreezing your investments in Knockturn Alley real estate, is it?”

People start arguing. Some raise their voices and others murmur. Tom can’t keep up with the
different threads, but one terrifying phrase keeps being repeated.

Take him away.

They can’t take him away. Where will he go? What will happen to him? Will he ever see
Harry again?

His magic is fighting to escape and save him, but as usual, the webs are in its way. More,
Tom urges himself. More. His magic slams against the webs again and again with the
desperation of a drowning bee. The room is trembling, and darkness is closing in, tinged with
red at the edges.

The courtroom stirs.

“What’s going on? Is there an earthquake?”

“It’s magic. Abnormal magic.”

“Is it coming from the boy?”

The voices sound scared, but Tom can’t take pleasure because he’s more scared. His heart is
pounding and he’s gasping for air. Painful pressure is building inside, and he’s sure he’s on
the verge of exploding into pieces.

“Rigel, please calm down,” Kingsley says, but Tom curls into himself and squeezes his eyes
shut.

Blood dripping. Soul ripping. Power whipping through his body, accompanied by pain, so
much pain…

“No,” he mutters. “No no no. Don’t take me away. Help me. Help me!”

His last words burst out in a scream.

The world becomes deathly still. Tom feels light, so light that he can practically float away.
Am I dead? he wonders, but he doesn’t feel dead. Warmth is spreading through his body,
lessening the pressure in his head and making it easier to breathe.

He cracks open his eyes. A silver deer — Harry’s silver deer — is circling his chair, shielding
him.

“Prongs,” he whispers.

The animal comes and nuzzles his cheek. He buries his face in its neck. Even though Prongs
doesn’t speak, he understands its message. Harry is on his way. Harry is coming for him. Tom
won’t be alone anymore.

“Is this a Patronus? It’s protecting the boy.”

“It is,” Toad Woman spits. “It is Harry Potter’s Patronus.”

“If so, we have to stop him,” Egg Man says, half-standing. “Dispatch someone —”

The door slams open with such a loud bang that Toad Woman’s papers and a few pointed hats
flutter to the floor. Harry steps inside, wand raised and smoking.

“Harry!” Tom cries out.

Harry gives him a brief smile, but before he can approach Tom, he’s blocked by two big men.
His face hardens. “Let me through.”

“You’re not supposed to be here, Mr. Potter,” Egg Man says.

“I am part of this hearing,” Harry says. “Rude of you to start without me, as a matter of fact.”

“Plans have changed, and you’re disrupting court proceedings. Officers —”

Tom whines in distress as the men move closer to Harry, but Harry doesn’t look scared and
his wand is steady.
“Will you let me through, Minister?” he asks, locking eyes with Kingsley. “I don’t believe
this is an appropriate place for a duel.”

Kingsley swallows, but it’s Zoraida who gestures with her hand. The men blocking Harry
lower their wands.

Immediately, Harry shoves past them to come and kneel in front of Tom’s chair. “I’m so sorry
it took me so long.” He takes Tom’s hands and runs gentle fingers over the red marks from
the chains. “I’m here now.”

Tom wants to speak, wants to tell Harry that it’s all right, but he can’t control his body, which
is still shaking violently. He only manages a choked “It hurts.”

“It’s okay. You’ll be okay.” Harry presses one of Tom’s hands against his chest. “Breathe
with me. Remember how we did this at the park? In and out. In and out.”

Tom does his best to follow. In and out. In and out. His headache slowly begins to disappear.

“You’re here, you’re with me,” Harry murmurs. “You’re safe now.”

The rest of the courtroom fades, leaving the two of them bathed in the golden glow of Harry’s
magic, with Prongs guarding them both. Listening to the lull of Harry’s breaths, Tom feels
safe and protected. His world is no longer black and red, but again full of colors.

“There, you’re doing great.” Harry presses their foreheads together. “I’m proud of you.”

“They’re taking me away,” Tom says. “They’re taking me far away.”

“No, they are not. I won’t let them.”

“But I heard them. They hate me. They’re taking me away from you.” Drawing a shuddering
breath, Tom twists his hands into Harry’s jumper. The words rush out. “And I’ll disappear.
I’ll die. I’ll never see you again.”

“That will never happen. I promise.” Harry’s pinky curls around his. “I pinky promise.”

Harry’s voice is gentle and determined, matching his expression. Once again, fear sinks its
sharp claws into Tom’s chest, only this time, it’s not for himself. He knows, with absolute
certainty, that Harry is going to do something brave and dangerous to save him.

“Wait,” Tom says, clutching Harry as he tries to stand. “Don’t — don’t.” He stops, unable to
express what he wants to say.

“Everything will be okay, I promise.” Harry cups his cheek. “Do you trust me?”

Tom does trust Harry with his whole heart, but he’s also worried for him. Egg Man and his
friends are glowering at Harry, who looks so small and alone in comparison.

Eventually, reluctantly, Tom lets go. Harry is too stubborn. Not even Tom can stop him. “Be
careful,” he pleads.
Harry’s mouth curls in a small smile, as if he understands Tom perfectly but can’t or won’t do
anything differently. “I will.”

With that, Prongs fades into a shower of sparkling mist, and Harry rises to face the
courtroom.

The Wizengamot is growing impatient, but Harry takes the time needed to calm Tom.
Nothing matters more than ensuring Tom knows that he isn’t and will never be alone.

But now, the reckoning begins. Something happened before he joined, something that
alarmed the Wizengamot and triggered Tom’s near breakdown.

Harry nudges aside Tom’s worry, filtering through the bond in a haze, and glances around the
room. He’s not thrilled to see the trio of Dunbar, Constance Selwyn, and Bernard Wentworth,
who have earned notoriety for filibustering. Umbridge as court scribe is another unpleasant
surprise. At this rate, it won’t be long before she finds a way to reinstate herself in the
Wizengamot.

“If it’s all right,” Harry says to Madam Shafiq, “I’d like to learn what I’ve missed.”

“Madam Shafiq, this is highly irregular,” Dunbar says, but Shafiq waves her hand
impatiently.

“We were discussing the best course of action in light of the accusation that Rigel Lestrange
is Voldemort’s magical heir.”

Harry has never heard of a magical heir before, but he can guess what it means. This explains
why the Wizengamot suddenly became convinced that Rigel Lestrange is dangerous enough
to warrant an expedited hearing.

Unfortunately, magical heir comes too close to the truth. He has to deflect somehow. “That
seems unlikely,” he says. “If anyone were to be Voldemort’s magical heir, it would be me,
since I defeated him and all that.”

“This is no joking matter, Mr. Potter,” Dunbar snaps.

“I only want to understand. Where’s your proof?”

“Was that not a display of the Dark Lord’s power just now?” Selwyn demands, pointing an
accusing finger at Tom, who stiffens. “It’s inadvisable to allow a child with such dangerous
magic to run free.”

Harry moves closer to Tom. “Magical children have bouts of accidental magic all the time.
You teach them to control their magic, not lock them up. Besides,” he adds, jabbing his
thumb at Umbridge, “ she is still free and preying on children.”

Umbridge’s ugly smile slips.

“Harry, please.” Kingsley’s chiding carries a clear message: no matter how angry Harry is,
alienating the Wizengamot is not a good idea. “Humphrey, Constance, I don’t deny that your
concerns come from a good place. However, Rigel’s above average magic is likely the result
of his Lestrange bloodline, rather than being the Dark Lord’s heir.”

“Is that a risk that we should take?” Dunbar says. “Is it not better to nip an infection in the
bud before it becomes a plague?”

“Precisely,” Wentworth says. “The forfeit of an innocent life is regrettable, but it’s sometimes
necessary to guarantee the safety of thousands.”

Forfeit? Heart pounding, Harry forces himself to speak evenly. “From what I understand, the
law does not allow for the capital punishment of anyone under the age of seventeen.”

“Laws are not set in stone,” Dunbar says. “More importantly, the public does not always need
to know the full truth. Isn’t that correct, Minister?”

They can’t be serious, Harry thinks in horror. They can’t actually be suggesting that Tom
should be imprisoned or even executed. How deeply does the Wizengamot’s fear of the Dark
Lord run?

Think about what they want. What they fear.

Harry throws caution to the wind. “The public doesn’t need to know the full truth,” he says,
“but they will.”

Dunbar’s smirk wavers. Harry takes a step forward, ignoring Kingsley’s barely perceptible
head shake.

“Imagine if word gets out about what you’re proposing,” he continues. “Deciding to punish
an innocent child through a secret hearing, that would run counter to the Ministry’s recent
statement on leniency and forgiveness, which earned favorable ratings.”

“We are proposing this in the interest of public safety —”

“But you wouldn’t want this to be exposed either. Not with the upcoming reelections.”

He’s playing dirty, but he can tell from the uneasy hush that he’s on the right track. The
Wizengamot want to remain in power, and in order to do so, they need control over the post-
war narrative. They need everyone to believe that reconstruction has gone smoothly under
their guidance, that nothing could threaten their hard-won peace.

“Imagine the outcry that would result if the Daily Prophet learns that the magical heir of the
deceased Dark Lord has been under Ministry protection for two years, with all of you being
none the wiser.”

“That was the Minister’s decision,” Dunbar says, slapping his table. “It has zero bearing on
our competence.”
“It does when your reelection platform is built on your collaboration with the Minister,”
Harry says, recalling what Elinor shared during their dash to the Ministry. “All the bills that
passed around the beginning of the year only passed because you and your friends wanted
bipartisan support for lifetime appointments to the Wizengamot. You would’ve blocked them
like you did the other reform bills otherwise.”

Dunbar’s face reddens. “Do you truly believe that the Daily Prophet will believe the words of
an attention-seeking wizard?”

“If they believe Rita Skeeter, they will believe the Boy Who Lived.”

“Not if you’re silenced.”

“Go ahead and try,” Harry retorts, noting the man’s fingers twitching around his wand. “I’ve
already prepared vials of memories to be sent to the major newspapers in case I don’t leave
this room safely.”

Dunbar and his allies believe his bluff. “You dare to threaten us?” Wentworth snarls. “Do you
want blood on your hands due to your obstinacy?”

“Blood on my hands?” Harry bristles. “Where were any of you when Voldemort was using
the government to terrorize innocent Muggle-borns? When innocent students died at the
Battle of Hogwarts? You were hiding behind the safety of your privilege and invoking
Voldemort’s name to further your own interests. Don’t talk to me about blood on my hands,
because I already do, thanks to politicians like you.” He holds up his scarred right hand,
eliciting a gasp.

He’s gone too far. He can see it in the pinched expressions of Madam Shafiq and Elphias
Doge, who were sympathetic to him in past hearings. A teenage wizard berating the
Wizengamot is out of line, no matter how righteous he may be.

Sorry as he is to lose the goodwill of respected elders, Harry has no choice. Sympathy
doesn’t translate to support. He’s not even sure whether he can count on Kingsley, who looks
both disapproving and, strangely, guilty. Something Dunbar said struck him: the public didn’t
need to know everything. Nobody knew Voldemort survived the final battle. Thus, nobody
would know if the de-aged Voldemort was illegally executed. Did Kingsley and the Aurors
spare Tom out of kindness or respect for the law? Or is the truth more nefarious?

Although Harry doesn’t have the energy to unpack that at the moment, he can draw one
conclusion: Kingsley wants Tom alive and under his control, which means he can be
bargained with.

“Enough. Everyone, enough.” Shafiq slams her gavel and sends a series of red sparks,
forcefully restoring silence to the courtroom. “You’ve made your position quite clear, Mr.
Potter. What do you want from us?”

“I want to make a deal. I want this child to grow up in peace. Somewhere far away from
London, under Fidelius.” Harry pauses, letting Kingsley absorb the subtext of his proposal.
He’ll retain control over Tom’s magic as long as Tom resides in his property. “The Ministry
can have Aurors and Healers visit as before.”

“Given your unnatural attachment to the boy, what’s our guarantee that you won’t run away
with him at first opportunity?” Selwyn demands.

“I don’t want to run away,” Harry says, answering her but addressing Kingsley. “I don’t want
to go behind your back.”

He’s delivering another low blow by not-so-subtly reminding Kingsley that he’s gone behind
the backs of authorities plenty of times, including masterminding multiple Ministry break-
ins. One way or another, he’s going to save Tom, and the only question is whether the
Ministry intends to stand in his way.

Kingsley clenches his jaw, but Dunbar misses the nuance. “Forgive us if we don’t trust your
promise.”

“Put Tracking Spells on us. Or — or a vow,” Harry suggests, in a stroke of inspiration. “I can
make an Unbreakable Vow.”

Ignoring the rest of the courtroom, he locks eyes with Kingsley. This deal exists between the
two of them, the only people in the room who know the truth about Tom. They need each
other to continue the charade. He’ll beg if he has to.

“Kingsley. Minister.” Harry wills his voice not to crack at this crucial junction. “I’ve done my
duty, haven’t I? I’ve always said yes to your requests, and I’ve never asked you for much in
return.”

“No.” Kingsley’s smile is resigned and somewhat pitying. “And whenever you do ask for
something, it’s on behalf of someone who has done you no favors.”

“I’m doing what I feel is right.”

“At great cost to yourself. You will be far from friends with limited contact. You will not be
able to move freely. Are you absolutely certain this arrangement is worth burning bridges
with everyone in this room?”

“To be frank, Minister, I’m not sure a bridge has ever existed.”

Dissent erupts.

“Minister, surely you cannot agree to such a ridiculous demand.”

“It’s excessively cheeky of Harry Potter to think he’s in a position to bargain.”

Harry keeps his eyes trained on Kingsley. This is his last gambit. He’s played every card he
has. If he can’t save Tom now, if this is how it will end —

Kingsley exhales loudly. “You understand that we cannot let him roam free.”
“I do, and I’m not asking for his freedom. I’m only asking for his childhood, in exchange for
my cooperation.”

My life for a scrap of his, he thinks but does not say. A poor trade, but there’s no time for
second thoughts.

A minute drags by, during which Kingsley’s involuntary facial spasms betrays the burden of
his mental calculus. “Very well. I agree to your terms.” He raises his voice. “If Harry Potter is
willing to make an Unbreakable Vow, then we have no reason to doubt his sincerity.
Furthermore, in absence of evidence, I see no reason to subject Rigel to harsher treatment.
What do you think, Zoraida?”

“I agree,” Madam Shafiq says. “This hearing has outlived its original intent. Let us conclude
with the Unbreakable Vow and adjourn.”

“Wait,” Dunbar begins. “An Unbreakable Vow can have loopholes —”

“Would you like to be our Bonder, Mr. Dunbar?” Harry offers sweetly. “That way, you can
ensure the vow is properly done.”

“I will be your Bonder,” Shafiq interrupts. “Unless Humphrey questions my integrity.”

Dunbar wisely stays quiet. “Dolores, you don’t mind if we borrow your desk, do you?”

Umbridge scowls, but she doesn’t dare to refuse. With a huff, she flounces off.

Harry moves to follow Kingsley to the newly vacated desk, but Tom grabs his wrist. “What
are you doing?”

“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.” Harry squeezes Tom’s shoulders. “The magic will
look a little scary, but it’s perfectly safe.”

“But —”

“Just watch, okay? As soon as I finish, we can go home.”

Clearly unconvinced, Tom juts out his lower lip but nods. “Okay.”

Despite his outward confidence, Harry’s stomach twists with misgiving as he approaches the
court scribe’s desk. Unbreakable Vows are no child’s play, and an oversight could mean
eternal condemnation. Then again, he’s already bound to Tom, body and soul, via a medieval
ceremony nobody understands. What’s one more chain?

Harry and Kingsley settle into position. Shafiq lays the tip of her wand over their clasped
right hands. “Ready?”

After giving Tom one last reassuring smile, Harry tells Shafiq and Kingsley, “I’m ready.”

In a low, steady voice, Kingsley begins. “Will you promise to accurately represent the
development of your ward and report any instance of abnormality?”
“I will.”

A tongue of fire emits from Shafiq’s wand and wraps around their clasped hands. Despite the
bright red color, it doesn’t burn, though the pressure still causes Harry to flinch. At Tom’s
soft cry of alarm, he forces his shoulders to relax.

“Will you promise not to run away with your ward?”

This clause is almost a relief. It frees Harry from potential temptation so he can focus on
making a home for Tom for as long as possible.

“I will.”

Another tongue of fire joins the first, and they intertwine to form a chain. The temperature is
rising, evoking the atmosphere of an inferno. Harry hears the thud of Tom’s chair as he tries
to run to Harry’s aid, only to be stopped by the constraints around his ankles.

Though Harry aches with the instinctual need to comfort Tom, he must concentrate on the
exact wording of the Vow. Their future depends on it.

The stress of the Vow is taking a similar toll on Kingsley, whose forehead is beading with
sweat. He wipes his brow with his free hand.

“Will you promise, if the occasion ever arises, to take up arms against your ward to preserve
the best interests of the wizarding world?”

Take up arms?

Kingsley’s eyes bore into Harry’s, steady and searching. Harry grinds his teeth together. “I
will.”

A final tongue of fire appears, further thickening the chain wrapped around Harry and
Kingsley’s hands. In that instant, Harry is reminded of the commendation ceremony in the
Department of Mysteries, of the brilliant display of light before his and Tom’s fates were
irrevocably sealed.

The flames extinguish to a deafening silence. Harry releases Kingsley’s hand and lets out a
shuddering breath. Moments later, Tom dashes into his arms, his chains having disappeared
with the Vow’s conclusion. Hugging the little boy back, Harry closes his eyes and feels the
vestiges of the vow sink into his magic.

He hopes he made the right choice.

Initially, Harry and Kingsley disagree on the location of the new safe house. Harry would like
to leave Britain or Europe altogether, but Kingsley does not budge. “Your new home needs to
be under our jurisdiction to avoid the interference of extradition laws,” he explains.

They eventually agree on Wales. Although it falls under the purview of the British Ministry
of Magic, it otherwise functions independently, with its own rich wizarding history that
harkens to the era of King Arthur and Merlin. It also fulfills Harry’s casual fantasy of
someday living in Wales, albeit in a roundabout way.

As the search for a house commences, Harry has the unenviable job of telling his friends that
he will be moving, starting with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. They take the news about as
well as he expected.

“What’s wrong with redecorating Grimmauld Place?” Ron asks, only partially joking. “Why
does it have to be hundreds of miles away?”

“There’s too much baggage here.” Harry glances around the dim drawing room, which feels
especially oppressive nowadays. “The Lestranges also know where we live because of the
mole, so it’s less safe.”

“But Wales is farther from the D.M.L.E.,” Hermione points out.

“Robards will station Aurors locally, and Elinor will continue living full-time with us.”

“How long will you be gone for?” Ron asks.

“Until…you know.” Harry steals a glance at Tom, who’s playing with blocks in the far
corner. His hands clench on his lap.

“Could be a while, then.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Hopefully. “But I’ve got money saved up, and the Ministry will subsidize
living expenses.”

“It’s not about the money. It’s about your life,” Hermione says. “Will you put everything on
hold again? You were looking into university programs.”

“I can self-study or take classes by owl. The Wizarding Institute of Gwynedd has an
interesting catalogue. And I’ll find other things to do. You know I can’t stay idle for long.”

Hermione folds her arms, but the promise of classes has slightly appeased her.

“And you can visit! I can show you around Wales.” For now, Harry won't mention that visits
will need to be pre-approved by the Ministry. He’ll fight that battle later.

Ron perks. “I’ve heard lots of great things about Snowdonia and Gwynedd. And this could
work out nicely for you, couldn’t it, Ginny? You already spend a lot of time in Wales for
Quidditch.”

Ginny looks up. She’s been silent since arrival, and even though Harry was heartened she
came at all to offer support, he’s been dreading her reaction the most.

“You’re giving up your freedom for Riddle, Harry,” she says, ignoring Ron’s question.
“You’re giving up your future. Why?”
Before Harry can come up with a good response, a childish voice pipes up. “Because he loves
me.”

Harry winces. He hasn’t thought to cast a privacy bubble, since they aren’t discussing
anything sensitive, but he should’ve known better. Tom is always paying close attention
where it concerns himself or Harry.

Ginny flinches. “What?”

“Because he loves me most,” Tom repeats clearly.

She stands abruptly. Harry grabs her wrist. “He’s just a child. He doesn’t mean it.”

“But is he wrong?” she shoots back, and when he can’t answer, she throws off his hand and
runs out of the drawing room.

Unperturbed, Tom stacks another block on the turret of his castle.

Hurriedly excusing himself, Harry races after Ginny. They emerge into the garden, chilly and
gloomy under dusk’s fading light. Ginny’s shoulders are shaking, but her face is determinedly
tearless.

“Ginny,” Harry whispers, and stops himself before he can deliver another meaningless
apology. This isn’t a fight anymore, he realizes. They’ve long since graduated from cathartic
arguments into a full-on cold war between two people unable to find the correct words to
bridge a growing chasm.

“It’s over,” she says, softly and regretfully. “But you already know that.”

He does, but some part of him aches to hang on. “I love you.”

“I know, just not enough.”

“What if —”

“Harry. Be honest with yourself. There is no what if for us anymore. Not when he is the one
you always go home to.” The fire deserts Ginny, leaving behind an uncharacteristic dullness.
“It was horrible enough that Tom Riddle spent a year sharing my body. I won’t spend the rest
of my life sharing you as well.”

The sky is almost entirely dark, illuminated only by the first of the night’s stars. Harry casts
his mind back to his sixth year, when the two of them spent happy evenings in the Quidditch
stands, alternating between snogging and chatting about anything and everything. Even as his
death loomed as an ever-present threat, life was much simpler.

Ginny’s breath frosts in the air. Her face is shadowed, though the sad curve of her mouth and
slumped shoulders indicate that she’s reliving the same memories, and wondering where
things had gone off the rails. Despite the pain clawing at his heart, Harry knows with
bittersweet certainty that even if he could rewind time and remake choices, he won’t change
anything.
“I never intended to choose between you,” he says, a last plea for forgiveness, for
understanding.

“Maybe you didn’t intend to,” she says, “but the truth is, you’ve chosen a long time ago.”

There’s nothing Harry can say to that.

Ginny kisses him; a chaste kiss on the cheek, followed by a lingering hug. She steps away.
“It’s getting cold. Don’t stay out for too long, all right?”

Without waiting for his response, she walks back into the house.

Tom stares at the ceiling. It’s way past bedtime — the clock chimed ten times — but a
niggling worry keeps him awake. He’s worried that he upset Harry during his friends’ visit,
because Harry has been sad and withdrawn the whole evening. Was it his imagination, or did
Harry’s goodnight kiss feel shorter than normal?

Images of Harry’s distant face replay in Tom’s head until, eventually, he can’t stand it
anymore. He climbs out of bed and pads barefoot to Harry’s half-open door. The light is still
on, so Harry isn’t asleep yet.

He nudges the door to open a little wider. Harry is sitting cross-legged on the floor with his
back to Tom.

“Harry?”

“Tom?” Harry turns, surprised. “You should be in bed.”

“But I want to see you. I don’t want you to be angry with me.”

“Angry with you?” Harry holds out his arms and Tom rushes into them. “Why would I be
angry with you?”

“Because — because I told Ginny that you loved me most.” A little ashamed, Tom wants to
hide his face in Harry’s chest, but he forces himself to meet Harry’s eyes. “That made her
mad, didn’t it? That’s why she left without saying goodbye.”

“Maybe a little,” Harry admits, “but she was already unhappy with me. It’s not just what you
said.”

Tom isn’t completely reassured. “You also told Ginny not to listen to me. Was I wrong?”

He sees conflict on Harry’s face before green eyes soften and a gentle hand smooths back a
stray curl from his forehead. “No,” Harry says quietly yet firmly. “You weren’t wrong.”

The taste of triumph is delicious. Tom buries his face in Harry’s shoulder to hide his smile.
He’s won over Ginny. She’ll never bother them again.
From this new angle, he can see that Harry has been looking through his trunk. He’s never
seen it open before. “What are you doing?”

“Just rummaging through some old things. Since we’re moving, we need to start packing.”

Tom peeks inside the trunk curiously. It’s full of clothes, books, and funny looking trinkets,
such as a spinning top, a shiny medal, and a broken mirror. At the top is a photograph album,
flipped open to a picture of a baby hugged by a man and a woman. The baby waves his little
fists and blinks his brilliant green eyes. Tom’s breath catches.

“Is that you?” he asks, pointing.

“Yes.” Harry picks up the album and hands it over. “It’s me with my parents.”

Tom studies the picture. Parents has always been a strange concept to him. Kids in books
have parents to love and protect them, but neither he nor Harry have or need parents since
they have each other.

In any case, Harry’s parents look nice enough. His dad has his messy hair and his mum has
his bright green eyes. And they are dead like Sirius Black, so they can’t steal Harry from
Tom.

He flips through the pages. The older pictures are of Harry as a baby or of his parents, and the
newer pictures feature an older Harry with his friends. Tom itches with jealousy as Picture
Harry hugs Ginny or laughs with Ron and Hermione, reminders of Harry’s life outside Tom.
He wants to use Miss Elinor’s camera so he can fill up the album with pictures of him and
Harry instead.

Unlike Picture Harry, who looks full of joy, Real Harry looks full of sadness. Tom sets down
the album. “Are you going to miss your friends?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“Then why do we have to move somewhere far away?” Tom doesn’t want to move either. He
likes their house. He likes his bedroom that has big windows and is right across the hall from
Harry’s. He likes the garden that becomes so colorful during harvest.

Harry sighs. “It’s complicated.”

“Is it my fault? Do we have to move because the bad men almost took me away?”

“No, of course it’s not your fault.” Harry’s answer is immediate. “Sometimes, things change,
whether we’re ready or not.”

Relief sweeps over Tom. Even though he doesn’t think it’s his fault, he needs to hear it
directly from Harry.

He squeezes Harry’s hand. “No matter where we go,” he says, “you’ll always have me.”
That’s the one good thing about moving. Harry’s friends won’t be able to steal his attention
anymore.
“You’re right, I’ll have you,” Harry agrees. “And we will grow to like our new house.”

“And we can plant a new garden!”

“Exactly.” Harry tucks the album carefully inside an old, faded jumper and shuts the trunk.
“All right, it’s really late. Let’s get you back to bed.”

“Will you tuck me in?” Tom asks hopefully. “With another good night kiss?”

Harry chuckles. “Of course.”

Back in Tom’s room, Harry tucks Tom in a second time. As Tom gazes up at him, at the way
his brows are furrowed in concentration to ensure the blankets would be extra tight, his heart
bursts with affection.

“I won’t forget,” he starts to say, but a large yawn cuts him off, so Harry doesn’t hear.

“Good night,” Harry says, kissing Tom’s forehead. “See you in the morning.”

Once Harry is gone, Tom settles into his pillow and hugs his blanket. “I won’t forget,” he
says into the darkness, and he won’t. Not how helpless he felt when he was chained to that
chair, or when Harry faced the purple-robed people on his own, or when Harry bound himself
to fire to save Tom.

He will become stronger and free his magic so that he’ll never be helpless again. So that next
time, he can stand by Harry’s side if anyone tries to hurt them.

As for the people who hurt them — one day, they’ll pay.

* * *

The rest of April passes in a blur of farewells, each a stark reminder of the life Harry is
leaving behind.

He makes peace with Andromeda, or as close to peace as he can manage after dropping the
twin bombshells of his secret ward and his imminent departure. Though her manners remain
cool, she embraces him goodbye and wishes him well. Teddy, too young to comprehend how
Harry’s move differs from his usual departures, is easily appeased by promises of new toys
and sweets.

To everyone else, Harry shares that he's doing a university program in Wales, which requires
him to live abroad. The former Dumbledore’s Army throws Harry a farewell lunch at the
same noodle shop where they celebrated his eighteenth birthday. Almost two years have
passed, and he twinges with envy as he reflects on his friends’ growth. In contrast, he’s
stagnated or even regressed. With a smile on his face, he promises mementos, such as cryptid
sightings for Luna, rare herbs for Neville, and local apparel for Cho. When nobody is
looking, he tucks away his new fortune without reading.

The Weasleys also prepare a grand farewell dinner. Mrs. Weasley frets over Harry living on
his own so far away and promises to send weekly care packages; George and Angelina try to
enliven the atmosphere with jokes; and Mr. Weasley and Percy keep giving Harry concerned
looks and thinly veiled advice, leaving Harry to wonder whether they suspect a link between
his move and recent Ministry tension.

Harry’s final goodbye is to his parents. He hasn’t visited their tombstone in some time, yet it
is pristine and covered with fresh flowers, courtesy of kind neighbors in Godric’s Hollow.
Leaning his cheek against the white marble, still moist from the morning’s drizzle, he tells
them everything. It’s easier to be honest in the peaceful churchyard, where the dead will
never betray the confessions spilling from his lips.

“Isn’t it mad?” he asks aloud at the end. “He killed me, and yet, I’m willing to give up
everything for him. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s worth it.”

Later at home, he happens upon the unread fortune. This one isn’t blank.

It could be better, it reads, but it is good enough.

On his last day in London, Harry visits Kingsley at the Minister’s office, where they have
been meeting nearly daily throughout April. A noticeable strain has come over their
relationship in the aftermath of the hearing. Their discussions are business-like, with few
attempts at friendly small talk. Harry will be relieved once the meetings are no longer
necessary, and he strongly suspects Kingsley shares the sentiment.

Most of the loose ends have been tied. The safe house has been purchased in a seaside town.
Harry has never heard of it, but it looks welcoming in pictures. The house itself also looks
cozy. It once belonged to a Welsh wizarding family, reportedly descended from a distant
relation of Helga Hufflepuff, and while it’s smaller than Grimmauld Place, it boasts a much
larger garden and bright windows that offer unobstructed views of surrounding mountains. Its
location and structure also lends itself nicely to a plethora of protective wards.

To Harry’s mild surprise, the Ministry identifies the mole to be the young Healer who was on
duty the night Harry rescued Tom from The Attic. According to the investigation report, he
was frustrated to be relieved of duty and desperate to make easy Galleons. Thus, he fell easily
under the influence of the disguised Lestranges and Skeeter. Two junior Aurors, with whom
he’s friendly, are also implicated, because they unsuspectingly passed along intel about Tom.

Harry privately suspects that all three are scapegoats, and the Ministry either doesn’t know
the true culprit or wants to sweep the whole affair under the rug. However, he’s too drained to
delve into the matter further. He simply wants to leave everything behind.

Today, he and Kingsley review travel logistics. Owing to the amount of luggage and security
concerns, a specially chartered train will take Harry, Tom, and Elinor to their destination from
King’s Cross Station.
“Robards will station Aurors from platform one to platform ten,” Kingsley says, marking out
the locations on the animated map. “At precisely eleven o’clock, we will open entry into
Platform 9¾ for two minutes, which should be enough time to — please excuse me.” He
frowns at the memo that has just sailed into his hand. “I apologize. A matter with a foreign
dignitary requires my immediate attention. I’ll be back shortly.”

“That’s all right,” Harry says. “Take your time.”

The office door locks behind Kingsley. Harry sets aside the map of King’s Cross and
stretches. He’s so intimately familiar with the logistics that he can probably recite it word for
word.

“Hello, Harry.”

Harry jumps. Dumbledore has appeared in an empty portrait frame that hangs between
Kingsley’s Auror certificate and a framed photograph of him shaking hands with the Muggle
queen.

“Hello, professor,” he says. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

“Kingsley commissioned a home for me in his office so he can regularly consult me,”
Dumbledore says cheerfully. “Traveling is far more convenient as a portrait. One of the few
perks, I must say.”

“I see.” It makes so much sense that Dumbledore has been eavesdropping that Harry can’t
muster much annoyance.

“On the other hand, my influence isn’t what it used to be.” Dumbledore’s smile fades. “I
warned Kingsley and Gawain not to bind Tom to you.”

“You did?” Harry always imagined it was Dumbledore’s idea.

“Yes, I knew it would be a mistake to let you cultivate an attachment to him.”

Harry lifts his chin defiantly. “Because I wouldn’t turn a blind eye to Tom’s mistreatment?”

“Because your kind and forgiving heart is your greatest strength and weakness. Because you
believe that raising a child with affection and indulgence will nudge him onto a better path.”

That sounds awfully like Ginny’s accusation. Harry’s temper flares. “I suppose that leaving a
child with uncaring relatives who are scared of magic is a much better idea,” he says bitterly,
“since I managed to avoid becoming a homicidal maniac.”

Pain clouds Dumbledore’s painted visage. “I greatly regret your childhood, and if I can do it
again —”

“Well, you can’t, but I can still make a difference. And I’m going to try, even if you think I’m
making a mistake.”
“My dear boy, I know you are.” Dumbledore holds up a hand to staunch Harry’s retort.
“Worry not, I have learned that it is futile to interfere with fate, and who knows, perhaps
kindness will achieve the impossible. However, Tom Riddle is not a simple man, even in this
incarnation, and I fear that rather than saving him, you will lose yourself. After all…”

The old wizard’s blue eyes seem to pierce through Harry, just as the doorknob twists to
announce Kingsley’s imminent return.

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

Platform 9¾ on May 1st bears no resemblance to its bustling self on September 1st. Owing to
security concerns, only pre-selected non-Ministry guests are allowed on the platform, so Ron
and Hermione alone make the trip. The train itself is different as well. Though it’s scarlet like
the Hogwarts Express, it has fewer carriages, only enough to transport Harry and Tom, along
with Kingsley’s team and equipment.

Nevertheless, Tom’s excitement is palpable. He admires the scarlet train and bounces with
eagerness to get inside, filling Harry with wistfulness that Teddy — with his adoration of
trains — couldn’t be here.

Elinor and the Auror entourage tactfully give Harry the privacy to say his final goodbyes.

“We’ll take care of the house for you, mate,” Ron says. “You go and have — um, well, you
go,” he finishes, after a jab from Hermione’s elbow reminds him that Harry isn’t exactly
leaving on a holiday.

“Thank you. And please also visit Teddy and Andromeda for me.”

“Of course,” Hermione says. “And we’ll write to you every week so you won’t miss
anything. You’ll have to write to us too, and tell us everything.”

“I will, and you know I won’t miss your stag parties and wedding.”

“You’d better not,” Hermione sniffs, tone stern yet voice wobbly.

Unsynchronized, they end up in a tight three-person embrace until Elinor coughs delicately.
“I’m afraid we must go. They need to lock down the platform.”

Harry releases his friends. “Guess this is it,” he tells them, trying to smile. “I’ll see you
soon.”

Whatever soon entails.

Elinor leads the way, with Tom following closely behind and Harry taking up the rear. Once
inside the carriage, Tom explores everything with delight, running his hands over the
upholstered seats and peering into the various compartments. Harry sits by the window to
locate Ron and Hermione. They wave.
 The train gives a long, shrill whistle and begins to move. Harry waves at his friends and
cranes to keep Platform 9¾ in sight for as long as he can. Taking the Hogwarts Express
always filled him with anticipation; taking this train fills him with foreboding mixed with a
cautious optimism.

Seated beside him and clutching his hand, Tom thrums with quiet contentment.

Chapter End Notes

From the beginning, readers have suggested — quite reasonably — that Harry should
run away with Tom, but Harry wasn’t ready to give up everyone and everything else in
his life. Act I was about getting him to this point so the fun can begin.

Before Act II, I’m taking a brief hiatus, because writing 80K+ words in 8 months is
quite tiring and real life isn’t always kind. To help with the wait, here are three things to
look forward to:
• We will visit a setting that I researched for my very first (unpublished) slash fic years
ago
• Tom and Harry’s relationship will heat up in multiple ways
• Just as Act I is named Prison, Act II will be named Paradise

In addition, there will be no major time skip between the end of Act I and beginning of
Act II. Tom is aging nonlinearly, so that will naturally be reflected in the pacing.

Thank you everyone so much for your support, your kudos and comments are invaluable
in helping me battle through writer’s block and motivation loss! If all goes well, I’ll see
you again soon, but in the meantime, I’ll be around on AO3 and Tumblr so please feel
free to reach out.
 Paradise || Process
Chapter Summary

A new beginning for the boys in Wales.

Chapter Notes

Welcome back everyone! Thank you for your support, encouragement, and patience. It
was nice to take some time away to revise Act I, update the outline for Act II, and write
for other fandoms. But now I’m back and eager to share Act II with you.
Hope you enjoy the start of the new arc!

A recap of Act I for anyone interested:

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Act II: Paradise

Update: 1st May 2000

Estimated biological age: 5 years

* * *

They arrive at their destination in the late afternoon. Despite mentally preparing during the
long train ride, Harry is struck by the unfamiliar landscape of his new home. A coastal town
in North Wales, Barmouth is bordered to the west by Cardigan Bay, shimmering blue under
the sun, and to the north and east by a series of mountains, textured by lush green treetops.
The air is fresh and salty with the imprint of the sea.

Local Aurors greet them outside the station and drive them through town in an impromptu
tour. The streets are cobblestoned, flanked by stone buildings with handsome façades and
ornate windows. Commercial districts are interspersed with squares where locals and tourists
can lounge. Signs are written in both English and Welsh, a language that brings to mind
Hermione’s Ancient Runes homework, and many buildings proudly display the Welsh flag,
featuring a red dragon on a green-and-white background.
At the foot of the mountain, they begin a steep ascent on a roughly paved road. As the
altitude increases, the views become more breathtaking, rousing Tom from his afternoon nap.
“Sheep!” he exclaims, pointing. “So many sheep!”

Sure enough, a flock of sheep is grazing on a nearby pasture, and a little beyond, Harry can
see the faint outlines of a farmhouse. He learned from his Cardiff trip that Wales has more
sheep than humans, but it’s his first time seeing a sheep farm in person.

The car finally veers onto an unmarked road and pulls to a stop. “If you could please recall
your Secret Keeper’s message,” prompts the driver as she gestures for her passengers to
disembark.

Harry visualizes Head Unspeakable Ayako Teshima’s delicate cursive. The safe house
belonging to Harry James Potter is located at Number 7½, Cader Idris Lane.

With acknowledgement from the Fidelius Charm, a gate appears and swings open in
welcome. Harry leads the way inside, and beside him, Tom lets out a gasp of amazement.

Whatever gripes Harry may have with the Ministry, Kingsley’s team has done a fantastic job
finding the safe house. The cottage, built in a cozy, classic style with gabled roofs and
decorative chimneys, would not look out of place on a postcard. Vines creep along its slate
walls, softening their angles and adding splashes of color. There’s both a front patio, which
offers a view of the sea, and a sizable back garden, which offers a view of the mountains. A
cluster of apple trees, already bearing pink blossoms, marks the entrance.

“Wow!” Tom is swiveling his head in every direction to absorb everything. “This is a
fairyland. Hidden far away, just for us. What’s its name?”

“It doesn’t have one yet.” The previous owner called it Badger’s Nest, but that doesn’t sound
appropriate given the house affiliations of its new occupants. “Do you want to name it?”

“Okay! Then let’s call it…Paradise Kingdom!”

Harry hides a grin of amusement. Such grand words from a five-year-old child, and yet, very
much on-brand. “Paradise Kingdom definitely has a nicer ring than Grimmauld Place,” he
says, puffing Tom with pride. “Should we take a tour?”

Inside, there are three floors, plus a magically extended attic. The ground floor features a
large kitchen with an attached dining room, a living room, and a washroom. The bedrooms
are located on the first and the second floors, each well-proportioned with large glass
windows that usher in natural light and scenic views. Elinor will occupy the first floor with
visiting Aurors and Healers, while Harry and Tom will live on the second floor. The attic will
be used for storage and a direct Floo connection to the Ministry.

The cottage has only one major flaw, which Tom identifies as soon as they step foot on the
second floor. “Our rooms aren’t together,” he says, staring in dismay at the long, L-shaped
corridor that separates the bedrooms.
To be honest, Harry would’ve also preferred their rooms to be closer, but he puts an arm
around Tom’s shoulders and affects an optimistic tone. “It’s not that bad. I’m only a few extra
steps away.”

Tom folds his arms, unimpressed.

“Why don’t we look at your new room?” Harry suggests, nudging him forward. “I bet you’ll
like it. It’s much larger, and we can decorate it, the way we decorated our old house for
Christmas. That was fun, wasn’t it?”

Harry’s cajoling drags a reluctant nod from Tom, who trudges into his bedroom. They spend
the rest of the afternoon unpacking and organizing Tom’s belongings. Harry finds every
opportunity to extol the room’s virtues — the mountain views! the bay windows! the sloped
ceilings! — but he can tell that Tom remains unconvinced by the way he surveys his new
abode with a set jaw.

Downstairs, the Aurors have departed, Robards’ team to London and the local team to the
Ministry outpost in Bangor, a city north of Barmouth. Elinor is cooking dinner and Harry
hurries over to help. The kitchen is another pleasant surprise. It’s outfitted with both Muggle
and wizarding appliances, convenient for future culinary adventures, and the fridge and
cupboards have been stocked with basic necessities, including fresh produce from local
markets. The walls are painted in eggshell yellow, a tribute to the previous owner’s
Hufflepuff roots, whereas the cupboards are painted in teal, providing a nice contrast. From
the west-facing windows, Harry watches the sunset spread its dusky fingers across the sky, a
sight he rarely got to admire in London.

Dinner is a quiet affair, with everyone lost in their own thoughts. Even after their
reconciliation, Elinor has been reticent, a sign that trust has not been fully restored. Tom is
sulking over the single shortcoming of his new room. And while Elinor’s tomato pasta and
cucumber salad taste wonderful, Harry chews mechanically, overcome by the surreality of
not eating in Grimmauld Place. It’s not that he misses the gloomy dining room, more that he’s
plagued by the keen sense he isn’t where he belongs.

At night, Harry and Tom set up the telescope in the garden. The clarity of the star-studded
sky, unaffected by light pollution, reminds Harry of the Great Hall’s enchanted ceiling. He
stares into the darkness. What are his friends doing right now? Ron and Hermione would be
enjoying a nice dinner after busy work days, Andromeda would be getting a reluctant Teddy
ready for bed, and Ginny would be in the pub with her teammates, discussing upcoming
games or good-naturedly trash-talking Quidditch rivals.

Meanwhile, he’s thousands of miles away, unable to join them. The forlornness assails him
with a vengeance. Kingsley warned him that he would be giving up his old life, and while he
can’t afford to regret his decision, he has little control over pain.

Tom has finished peering inside the eyepiece. “The stars look the same,” he remarks. “Does
that mean we aren’t that far from London, even though the train ride took forever?”

“We are very far away, actually. But the stars are so high up that the distance we traveled
doesn’t make a difference.”
“Oh.” Tom tilts his head in contemplative silence, then slips his hand into Harry’s. “Do you
miss them?”

There’s no need to specify whom them refers to. “Yes,” Harry answers, unable to disguise the
heaviness of his tone. “Very much.”

“But you have me.”

“Yes, I’m very glad I do.”

“And I will take care of you,” Tom says solemnly. He pauses, then adds, “I will be everything
you need.”

Throat tightening, Harry strokes the boy’s hair. Tom is too young to understand that one
person cannot be the entire universe of another. Nevertheless, he appreciates the reassurance.
“Thank you.”

Tom loops his arms around Harry’s waist, and they hold each other. Above them, the Milky
Way glimmers, flowing infinitely onwards and charting unknown paths.

“Teach me a new constellation?” Tom whispers.

“Okay, let’s see…do you know what a centaur is?” Tom shakes his head. “It’s a creature
that’s half-man, half-horse, and I was lucky to be friends with one. Tonight, I’ll teach you
Centaurus.”

The house is almost completely dark by the time they return. The Aurors on duty have
already retired to bed, and Elinor emerges from her room only long enough to help Tom take
his nightly bath.

Tom makes all sorts of excuses to delay bedtime, but eventually, he climbs under his covers
and receives his good night kiss with a long-suffering sigh. “Don’t turn off the lights,” he
begs, and Harry obliges by leaving a small jar containing the bluebell fire that he learned
from Hermione.

In his own room, Harry occupies himself by unpacking, taking special care to set framed
pictures of his friends and Tom’s gifted artworks on his nightstand. Once done, he curls in the
window seat and leans against the cool panes. It’s peaceful, but eerily so. The only noise
Harry can hear, if he concentrates, is the distant murmuring of the sea. Paradise Kingdom is
indeed a hidden fairyland. In contrast, Grimmauld Place is restless, haunted by the quirks of
the old house, remnants of Black family magic, and London’s distant energy, palpable
through layers of wards. Harry would almost prefer his old ghosts over the new solitude.

There’s a whine on his wards and a knock on the door. Harry is unsurprised to find a small
figure clutching a blanket and a jar of blue flames in the doorway.

“I’m scared,” Tom says, eyes unusually large and dark. “Can I stay with you? Just for
tonight?”
Harry is well aware that by agreeing, he’s setting a dangerous precedent. However, he’s spent
many nights alone and scared in his cupboard to refuse a little boy, even if said little boy is
milking his empathy to some extent.

“Just for tonight,” he relents.

A brilliant smile lights up Tom’s face. Without further invitation, he scoots under the covers
and settles in. Against misgivings, Harry joins him and curls protectively around the small
body, tucking Tom’s head under his chin. For a while, they lie in the cradle of shared body
heat, watching the blue flames flicker in its glass cage.

Tom shifts. “Tell me about the boy in the cupboard.”

It’s been a while since they last visited the story. Tom seems to mention it specifically
whenever they are snuggling in Harry’s bed.

“All right,” Harry says. “Where did we left off?”

“The boy got his school supplies and an owl. He’s about to go to Hogwarts.”

“That’s right. Well, on September 1st, the boy goes to King’s Cross Station to take the train
from Platform 9¾.”

“Like us!”

“Exactly, and in fact, the Hogwarts Express looks very much like our train, except it has
many more carriages to fit all the students. In the beginning, however, the boy isn’t sure
where to find the platform…”

Harry talks about getting rescued by the kind Mrs. Weasley, who showed him the secret of
the hidden barrier. He talks about the train ride into the Scottish highlands, where he first met
Ron and Hermione, prompting Tom to look at the framed bedside pictures. He talks about
sailing on a boat across Black Lake and glimpsing the castle in its glorious beauty.

By the time Professor McGonagall is ushering the first years inside the Great Hall to be
Sorted, Tom is snoring softly. Harry tucks the blanket more securely around them both and
closes his eyes.

He wakes up panting and shivering. A draft is passing through the windows he’s forgotten to
close, but fortunately, Tom is shielded from the chill by Harry’s body. Mumbling something
unintelligible, he buries his face in Harry’s chest and does not wake.

Harry sits up long enough to grab his wand and shut the window. Then, nestling against Tom,
he falls into a dreamless sleep.

* * *
Tom likes their new home. It’s brighter than the old house, so he never feels as if he can’t
breathe. The garden is larger, so he and Harry won’t have to limit themselves to three garden
beds. The front patio is a nicely shaded spot for reading, and he’s looking forward to
harvesting apples in the autumn.

He even likes his new room, though he wouldn’t admit it to Harry. It’s much bigger, which
means lots of space for his toys, a full-sized desk where he can work on fancier art projects,
and comfortable window seats for bird watching. But none of these makes up for the fact that
his bedroom is far from Harry’s. He can no longer peek into Harry’s room by turning his
head, or hear Harry shuffling around by cracking open his door.

On the bright side, he slept in Harry’s bed last night. Maybe he can convince Harry to let him
sleep there every night. That way, he will basically have two rooms: a room all to himself
during the day, and a room he shares with Harry at night.

The plan puts Tom in a good mood, and his mood improves further when Harry says they’ll
explore their new town without wearing disguises.

Miss Elinor drops them off at the carpark and will meet them after her grocery shopping.
Harry wants to see the beach first, and Tom does as well, because it sounds magical in books.
Plus, Harry said Barmouth is supposed to have dolphins, which are some of the smartest
animals.

Sadly, the first beach they visit isn’t magical at all. It’s tiny and smells awful, like the time
Miss Elinor accidentally left out uncooked fish for too long. Harry laughs when Tom tells
him so. “We’re not at the beach yet,” he explains, pointing at a sign. “This is Barmouth
Harbor, and I think it’s quite nice even if it’s small.”

Disappointingly, neither he nor Harry finds any dolphins, only boring seagulls, which aren’t
prettier or smarter than ducks, and which spend their time cawing at each other and fighting
over food. Still, Tom wants to return and study them.

They continue onwards, crossing streets, bridges, and train tracks. Finally, when Tom’s legs
are getting tired, Harry stops. “Now this is the beach,” he announces.

This is more like it. The beach is so big Tom can’t see where it begins and ends. Beneath his
feet, the sand is soft and golden, unlike the mustard-colored sand in the park, and keeps a
clear map of Tom’s footprints as he follows Harry to the edge of the shore.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Harry says, smiling softly.

Tom nods. The sea is beautiful, though strangely, it looks blue from far away and almost gray
up close. While he still doesn’t see dolphins or other marine animals, he does see ships,
floating and swaying with the waves. They remind him of pirate ships. Who are the people
inside? Where are they going? Will they find islands full of treasures?

(“We’re here!”
As the other orphans cheer and run towards the sea, a hand pulls you aside. “Don’t cause any
trouble, Tom,” Mrs. Cole warns. “I’ll be watching.”

“I won’t,” you say and flash her a big smile. You have no intention of causing trouble, but
you can’t be blamed if trouble finds you instead.

While the other kids run around on the beach or play in the water, you build a sandcastle and
decorate it with scraps of glass and seashells. You’re digging a small moat when a foot
crushes the highest tower and collapses the whole structure.

Amy and Dennis giggle. “Why are you building a castle, freak?” Dennis demands. “You’d
never live in one.”

You almost roll your eyes. The other orphans have such little imagination that you won’t
bother explaining, and while you would normally be annoyed by the destruction of your
beautiful castle, today it’s only bait. And the prey have bitten.

“I have a castle because I found a cave full of treasures,” you reply. “Once I collect them all,
I’ll be king.”

“You’re lying,” Dennis says, sneering. “There are no treasures.”

“Of course there are. They are beautiful and sparkling jewels. I saw a butterfly brooch that
would look pretty on your dress, Amy. You like bright purple, right?”

Amy nods eagerly. Everyone knows she’s obsessed with colorful butterflies, even though the
closest things at the orphanage are disgusting moths that chew holes through their beddings.
“Can you show us the treasures?”

“He’s lying, Amy. Don’t fall for it.”

You shrug. “Since Dennis thinks I’m lying, I guess I won’t show you.”

With that, you glance down, presumably to mourn over your ruined castle, but really to hide
your smile. You’ve successfully intrigued Amy, and Dennis always does everything Amy
wants to do.

Sure enough, Amy tugs at Dennis’ arm. “Come on, don’t you want to see? I’m sick of this
stupid old beach anyway. We come every year.”

“Fine.” Dennis sighs. “Lead the way, freak.”

You cross your arms. “I don’t want to share my treasures anymore. What if you steal them?
What if you tell other people?”

“We won’t,” Amy says quickly. “We promise. Don’t we, Dennis?”

Dennis nods, curiosity winning him over at last. “We won’t if you’re not lying.”
With an exaggerated sigh, you dust your hands and stand. “Fine then. Follow me,” you say,
and lead the way down the shoreline.)

“A cave,” Tom murmurs.

Harry turns. “What was that?”

“A cave in the sea. A cave full of treasures.”

“A cave full of treasures,” Harry repeats, stiffening. “What cave? What treasures?”

The dark shape beyond the ships wavers and disappears. Tom shakes his head. “I thought I
saw something, but it’s not there anymore.”

“Sometimes you can see things that don’t exist because the sea reflects things in the
distance.” Harry is watching Tom closely. “They are called mirages.”

“Oh.” That makes sense to Tom. Too bad he didn’t actually find a cave of treasures then. He
stirs the water with the toe of his trainer. “Can we go into the water and explore?”

“No!” Harry answers so severely that Tom flinches. Noticing, Harry says in a softer tone,
“No, the water is too cold right now.”

“But I want to find dolphins.”

Unexpectedly, Tom’s pout relaxes Harry, who breaks into a chuckle. “We can play a little, if
we stay on the shallow end. And when the weather is warmer, I’ll teach you to swim, and
we’ll look for dolphins together. How about that?”

“Okay!”

Harry helps Tom roll up the legs of his trousers and lead him into the sea until the water
reaches his ankles. It feels pleasantly cool and Tom wiggles his toes happily. He can’t wait to
learn to swim. Then he can explore the whole sea for secret treasures!

Without warning, Harry kicks the water, causing a splash. He grins at Tom’s yelp of surprise,
and then it’s his turn to yelp when Tom splashes him back.

After both their trousers are drenched, Harry dries them with magic and they return to the
beach. They spend the rest of the morning building a sandcastle. It’s fancier and grander than
any of the ones they built at the park, because there’s more sand and more space.

A few kids come to admire it. Tom gives them a smug grin. It’s too bad that he must leave it
behind to be swept away by the waves, but it’s okay. One day, he’ll build a castle that lasts, a
castle that’s even more impressive than Hogwarts, a castle that will hold his most precious
treasures.

Humming, Tom crowns his castle with the prettiest seashell he found.
After the beach, they find Miss Elinor and go shopping. Tom has never gone shopping
before, and it sounds almost as exciting as the beach. Each shop is a little house, filled with
wondrous things. Best of all, before they enter the first one, Harry hands him colorful papers.

“This is called money,” he says. “If you find something you like, you can use money to buy
it.”

Tom tucks the money carefully in his pocket. He has no idea that paper can be so powerful,
and he’s excited that he will get to buy something himself. However, after visiting three
shops, he hasn’t found anything interesting enough. Many things, like books and sweets,
aren’t different from what Harry bought him in London. There are sections dedicated to
Wales-specific items, which Harry calls souvenirs, but they usually have Welsh dragons,
which are more cute than ferocious, or sheep, which are meek and silly. Meanwhile, Harry
and Miss Elinor are filling their shopping baskets. How can they be so fascinated by shirts
and socks?

Just as Tom decides he may as well buy some chocolates, he comes upon a wall of strange
spoons. They are larger than the spoons he eats with and made of wood instead of metal. The
handles are carved with pretty designs.

He picks one and studies it curiously. “Look, Harry,” he calls. “I found pretty spoons!”

“Hmm, they are pretty,” Harry agrees. He picks out a spoon himself and admires it. “But I’m
afraid the ladles are too shallow to be practical.”

“They aren’t meant for eating,” Miss Elinor says, overhearing and joining them. “These are
Welsh lovespoons.”

“What are love spoons?” Harry asks, looking interested.

“Traditionally, it’s given to young women by their young men to demonstrate they are
capable of providing for their future families. The carvings along the stem have specific
meanings, though I only recognize some of them.” Miss Elinor taps one. “This spoon has a
cross, which means faith. Tom’s has a lock, which means security. And yours has a heart,
which means love.”

Harry’s face flickers. “I see. What a lovely tradition.” With a sigh, he brushes the handle of
his spoon before putting it back. “Too bad there’s no one to buy it for.”

“Perhaps it can be a good present for your engaged friends.”

“That’s a good idea, thank you.” Harry tears his eyes away from the spoons. “Anyway, I’m
about to head to the register. Have you found anything you wanted to buy, Tom?”

Tom shakes his head and hangs his spoon carefully next to Harry’s. “No, I don’t want
anything here.”

“Any interest in ice cream after this? I’m a little hungry and could use some sweets.”
“That’s a lovely idea,” Miss Elinor says. “I passed by a local favorite on my way to the
greengrocer.”

“Sounds perfect. Tom?”

Tom gives the lovespoon display one last look. He turns to beam at Harry. “Okay. Let’s go!”

Harry buys everyone giant triple-scoop chocolate cones, and since there’s a bakery nearby, he
also buys everyone Welsh cakes. Tom is disappointed that the cake, despite resembling a
giant biscuit, tastes dry and flavorless. When Harry and Miss Elinor aren’t paying attention,
he pockets his unfinished cake to feed the seagulls.

On their way to the carpark, they pass a shop with lots of plants in the windows. The door has
a large sign, and while Tom doesn’t recognize every word, he does recognize one. “Garden!”

“Great find,” Harry says. “Elinor, can we stop by? We can get inspiration for our garden.”

Inside, the garden shop reminds Tom of a mini forest. There are wooden shelves and benches
everywhere, filled with plants of all shapes and sizes. Some look like little trees. Others look
like giant flowers. Some have giant leaves as big as his head. Others are squat and round like
snowmen, except they are green and covered with needles.

Neither Tom nor Harry recognizes most of them, and whenever they come across a
particularly interesting one, Harry reads the label out loud, because otherwise the words are
too complicated for Tom. But Tom suspects Harry doesn’t know all the words either, because
he stumbles over them himself.

Plants aren’t the only things in the shop. There are also fancy books with pictures of gardens,
flower pots and watering cans shaped like animals, and even cooking ingredients, which
immediately interest Miss Elinor.

Deeper inside the store, the air becomes wetter and warmer, and the plants become stranger.
A delicate-looking plant, whose leaves are made up of small leaves, catches Tom’s attention.
He pokes it and gasps when the leaves close like the wings of a butterfly. “This one moved !”
he says in an awed hush.

“Careful, Tom,” Harry warns, gently pulling Tom’s hand away. “I don’t want you to get hurt,
and I don’t want you to hurt the plant either.”

“Don’t worry, the plant is perfectly safe, and I can tell that Tom was being very careful.” A
man in blue overalls, who must be the shopkeeper, comes over. “This is the mimosa pudica,
and as its name implies, it can be shy around strangers.” The corners of his bright blue eyes
crinkle. He seems friendly enough.

“I didn’t know plants could move on their own,” Tom says.

“Plants can be quite clever. Have you heard of the Venus flytrap? It’s capable of trapping
bugs inside its leaves so it can eat them.”
“Really? Can I see it?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t sell them, but I can find a picture for you.”

Harry cuts in. “Thank you, but we don’t want to trouble you. I can find Tom a picture later.”

“You’re not troubling me in the least,” the man says, turning his attention to Harry. “My
name is Tristan. Welcome to my shop. Can I help you find anything other than carnivorous
plants?”

“We are just browsing for ideas for our garden.”

Tristan’s eyes glint in interest. “Are you local, then? I haven’t seen you around before.”

“Oh, er, we recently moved here.”

“In that case, welcome to Barmouth. I hope you enjoy living here as much as I do.” Tristan
holds out his hand. “I know our little friend is named Tom. What’s your name?”

“Harry.” Harry takes the hand hesitantly. “My name is Harry.”

Tom tingles with alarm at the pinkness in Harry’s cheeks, and he decides he doesn’t like
Tristan very much after all.

“Harry. Great name.” Tristan releases Harry’s hand. “We don’t have many Harrys around
here.”

He winks, and to Tom’s horror, Harry’s cheeks darken even more. Unacceptable! Tom hates
this man.

“What type of plants are you considering?” Tristan asks.

“Um, we haven’t thought about it too much yet. We used to live in London, so what worked
there might not work here.”

“North Wales has a cooler and wetter climate than London, that’s true, but many garden
staples thrive here as well. For example, marigolds and tomatoes are excellent choices for
summer.”

Harry brightens. “We planted marigolds and cherry tomatoes last summer, and they turned
out well. Didn’t they, Tom?”

“I guess,” Tom says, making sure to sound extra grumpy. Why must Tristan keep talking to
Harry? He glances over at Miss Elinor, but she’s absorbed with some glass jar, and no one
else is around. Why can’t more customers show up?

Unaware of Tom’s annoyance, Tristan adds, “I have a section of the store dedicated to seeds
that are particularly popular with customers for the summer season. I can show you, if you’re
interested.”
“We’d like that, wouldn’t we, Tom?”

“No,” Tom says. “I want to go.”

Harry blinks. “You don’t want to look at seeds?”

“No, I want to go,” Tom says more loudly, eyes stinging with angry tears.

“What’s wrong?” Harry cups Tom’s cheek, and his confusion shifts to that of concern. “You
are a little warm. Maybe we got too much sun earlier. We should go home and let you rest.”

The feel of Harry’s cool fingers somewhat soothes the fire in Tom’s chest. He shoots a
triumphant look at Tristan, who unfortunately is only paying attention to Harry and doesn’t
notice.

“Is everything all right?” he asks.

“I’m sorry, Tom isn’t feeling well,” Harry tells him. “We’ll have to look at the seeds another
time. Thank you for your help.”

Mean pleasure rolls over Tom at Tristan’s obvious disappointment. “Of course, it was nice
meeting you both. You’re welcome back anytime.” Tristan smiles at Tom. “I hope you feel
better soon, Tom.”

Tom glares and doesn’t reply, refusing to give the impression that he finds Tristan tolerable in
any way.

It works. Tristan straightens, looking uncomfortable.

Harry clamps his hands on Tom’s shoulders. “I’m sorry. Tom isn’t feeling his best, but he
appreciates your help.”

“That’s no problem.” Tristan is smiling again. “I look forward to seeing you again. Please
take care.”

“Hurry,” Tom urges, dragging Harry towards the door. He can sense Tristan staring after
them, and when Harry tries to turn, he tugs harder at Harry’s arm. “Hurry!”

Miss Elinor, noticing them leaving, abandons the glass jars and follows them outside. “Is
something the matter? You seemed to be having a good conversation with the shopkeeper.”

“I was, but Tom is feeling unwell.”

“I see.” Miss Elinor’s eyes rake over Tom. “Perhaps a light heatstroke. No matter, the carpark
is just around the corner.”

In the car, Harry straps Tom’s seatbelt. Instead of taking the front passenger seat as he did in
the morning, he stays in the back and rests his hand against Tom’s forehead. “Your
temperature has gone down.”
“I feel better.” Tom lays his head in the crook of Harry’s shoulder and sighs in contentment.

Harry turns stern. “You know, you weren’t very polite to Tristan earlier. He was trying to help
us.”

Tom crosses his arms defiantly. “I don’t like him.”

“Why not?”

“Perhaps Tom was being cautious around strangers,” Miss Elinor suggests lightly, as she
guides the car onto the main road.

Harry stares at her, then at Tom. “There was no need to be cautious. Tristan is a Muggle. A
very friendly Muggle.”

“He was too friendly.”

“How is that a bad thing?”

Tom huffs, but he doesn’t have a good answer. Surprisingly, Miss Elinor comes to his rescue.
“Whatever Tom’s reasoning may be, he has averted a future inconvenience,” she says. “It’s
not a good idea for us to become too friendly with locals, given the circumstances. Barmouth
is too small of a town and people inevitably gossip.”

“I didn’t think of that.” Harry sighs and slumps his shoulders. “I guess we’ll have to wear
disguises next time we visit town, won’t we?”

“That may be for the best. I’m sorry.”

Tom narrows his eyes at Miss Elinor. He strongly suspects that she knows he was jealous, not
cautious, so why did she help him? She stares back evenly through the rearview mirror,
betraying nothing.

Clenching his jaw, Tom turns and stares out of the window glumly. He thought that he would
have Harry to himself in Barmouth, because Harry’s friends are in London, but he
underestimated Harry’s friendliness. And unfortunately, strangers seem to like Harry. Like
the woman at the park, and now the storekeeper.

Tom needs to figure out a way to protect Harry from undeserving people, but he doesn’t
know how yet. Until then, he’ll have to pretend to tolerate them if he doesn’t want to upset
Harry. That shouldn’t be too hard. He just needs to practice.

In the car window, Tom's reflection arranges his mouth into a smile.

* * *
Harry adjusts to Barmouth surprisingly quickly. The small town is charming in a distinct way
from the fast-moving London, whether it’s the lilting local accent, the constant spring drizzle,
or the laid-back pace of life. Nor has the novelty of living so close to the sea worn off yet.
Sometimes, as he’s watching the sun rise or set over the water, he feels as though he’s living
in his favorite childhood fantasy series.

He does miss his friends, but luckily, Ron and Hermione write regularly to update him on
loved ones in England. He especially appreciates receiving care packages from Mrs. Weasley,
which he shares with Tom and Elinor, and pictures of Teddy, which he’s careful to hide from
Tom. At the end of July, pending Kingsley’s permission, Ron and Hermione will be here to
celebrate his birthday. Harry is already looking forward to their visit so they can properly
catch up. Otherwise, he isn’t allowed to share much in his letters, lest they be intercepted by
the Lestranges. Their most interesting epistolary discussion to date was on wizarding
university classes, thanks to Hermione’s enthusiasm.

Barmouth has also wrought positive changes in Tom. So far, he’s displayed no sign of
homesickness, and is thriving in his new environment. His increased freedom definitely
helps, since he no longer needs permission to leave the house, as long as he remains within
the boundaries of Paradise Kingdom. The front patio has become one of his favorite spots to
read and bird watch. In addition, he enjoys visiting the beach and the town — with the
notable exception of Tristan’s shop — so Harry takes Tom there on walks whenever the
weather is nice. Over time, Harry even hopes to convince Elinor to let them venture outside
Barmouth.

At night, Tom continues to sneak into Harry’s room and fall asleep to tales of Harry’s
childhood. Elinor has noticed, though aside from a few veiled remarks, she hasn’t asked him
to stop Tom, nor has she reported it to the Ministry. Harry knows he’s encouraging a terrible
habit, yet he doesn’t have the heart to chase Tom away. Tom is still adjusting, and besides, at
the rate that Tom is aging, he’ll tire of sharing a bed soon anyway. Oddly, the thought renders
Harry a little wistful.

One late afternoon, they arrive at the beach to watch the sunset, only to find that it has been
partly cordoned off for a wedding. Two clusters of folding chairs are arranged in neat rows,
leaving a path in between that leads to a lovely arch decorated with june roses in shades of
pastel. The guests are seated, while the wedding party is waiting to make their entrance on
the side.

Harry, Tom, and Elinor join the crowd of curious bystanders. “A beach wedding,” Elinor
remarks. “I suppose it’s the season.” Her calm voice is belied by a quiver.

“What’s a wedding?” Tom asks.

“A wedding is a big party that people have to celebrate getting married,” Harry says.

“A party! With cakes and sweets?”

“Well, that depends. Let’s watch, this one is about to begin.”

Music begins playing, a harp and strings rendition of a song that Harry vaguely recalls from
primary school music class. The groom and his groomsmen take their positions by the arch
and a trio of bridesmaids in matching lavender gowns glide down the aisle. As the music
swells into a crescendo, so does the anticipation, until at last, the bride appears in a flowing
white dress on the arm of an older gentleman. The guests stand, and a hush descends over the
beach.

“Oh,” Tom breathes. He clasps his hands, so overcome with childish wonder that Harry’s
heart twinges. Both for Voldemort, who never understood the concept of romance, and for
Tom, who would never know its joy firsthand.

“Let’s go take a closer look,” he says, startling both Tom and Elinor.

“Can we?” Tom’s excitement is palpable. “Won’t they notice us?”

“Not if we hide ourselves with magic.”

“Harry,” Elinor says with a sigh.

“We’ll try to stay out of trouble,” Harry promises, and she shakes her head but makes no
attempt to stop them.

Harry and Tom, secretly and successfully Disillusioned, sneak to the side of the arch as the
ceremony gets underway. Under the supervision of their officiant, the bride and groom face
each other, each reciting from a piece of paper.

“I promise to always be by your side…”

“I promise to always share your burden…”

“I promise to always treasure you…”

“I promise to…”

“They are making a lot of promises,” Tom observes.

“Those are wedding vows. They are a special type of promise.”

“But they aren’t pinky promises.”

Tom sounds so smug that Harry chokes back a laugh. “That’s true, they aren’t. People usually
don’t make pinky promises at their weddings.”

Vows complete, the officiant pronounces the bride and groom husband and wife. To much
applause, they embrace and kiss. “More!” someone shouts, and as the crowd erupts in
laughter, the newlyweds oblige by kissing again. And again.

Tom jerks Harry’s hand. “Why are they touching their mouths?”

“They’re kissing to show they love each other.”

“That’s a kiss?”

Harry doesn’t get a chance to answer. Muggle stereos have begun playing pop music,
transitioning the intimate ceremony into a beach celebration. By the arch, picnic tables are
being set up for a buffet, while the folding chairs are moved aside to create a makeshift dance
floor. Sharing a wide grin, the newlyweds remove their dress shoes and step barefoot onto the
sand for an upbeat first dance.

Neither are professional dancers, which is reflected in the clumsy movements and the
unsynchronized steps. But their mutual adoration is tangible, and their playful dancing earns
whoops and cheers. Imagining Ron and Hermione in their place, Harry’s eyes well up, and
unconsciously, he grips Tom’s invisible hand.

A strong rhythmic beat starts thrumming over the beach. To Harry’s surprise, the newlyweds
wave and invite everyone — wedding party or not — to partake in the festivities.

“What are they all doing? Why are they moving funny?” Tom asks as more and more dancers
join the fray.

“They’re dancing. We’re in the middle of a grand ball, don’t you realize?” Harry grins at
Tom’s audible scoff. The dancing they’re witnessing bears no resemblance to illustrations of
fairy tale ballroom dancing. “Should we join them?”

“I don’t know how to dance.”

“I’ll teach you. Come on.”

Harry ends their Disillusionment Charms and leads Tom onto the dance floor. He takes both
Tom’s hands. “Copy what I’m doing,” he says, and starts to sway their arms. Not quite to the
music, which is too fast for his laughable dancing abilities, but to some predictable rhythm
that Tom can replicate. Once Tom gets the hang of swaying, Harry teaches him to shift from
one foot to another.

They probably make quite a sight, thanks to their height disparity and shared clumsiness. But
any self-consciousness melts in face of the smile growing on Tom’s intensely focused face,
and the smile blooms into an outright laugh when Harry twirls him like a princess.

“Do it again!” he says, and yelps in delight when Harry obeys.

At some point, Elinor succumbs to the festivities, and alternates between snapping pictures
and giving pointers to salvage their terrible dancing with limited success. In a brief display of
magnanimity, Tom relinquishes Harry so she can demonstrate a few partnered steps, before
he reclaims Harry.

The sun sets, casting a golden glow over the beach and dancers. Across Barmouth, lights are
turning on, illuminating buildings and enhancing the impression of a fairy kingdom. More
entrancing than the scenery is Tom’s joy, so pure and raw that it eclipses everything else.
Despite his obvious fatigue, he doesn’t want to stop dancing, not even for chocolate cake.
An indescribable ache settles in Harry’s chest. Is he being unintentionally cruel to show Tom
the beauty of a world that will soon be taken from him?

Catching Harry’s gaze and misinterpreting, Tom offers an uncharacteristically shy smile.
“Can we keep dancing for a while longer?”

“Absolutely,” Harry replies without hesitation. He threads their fingers tightly. “We can
dance for as long as you want.”

That night, Tom is bouncing with energy. For once, he’s not interested in bedtime stories, and
even after he’s in bed, keeps asking questions about weddings and dancing. At last, Harry
puts his foot down.

“That’s enough excitement for today. It’s time to sleep.” He tucks Tom’s baby blanket under
his chin and kisses Tom on the forehead. “Good night. See you in the morning.”

Before he can pull away, Tom grabs his wrists. “Kiss me.”

“I just did,” Harry says, puzzled.

“Kiss me on the mouth. Like the bride and groom.”

Harry is grateful for the darkness that hides the flush creeping over his face. “I can’t kiss you
on the mouth.”

“Why not?” Tom seems innocently unaware of the gravity of his demand. “You said people
kiss each other to show love.”

“I did,” Harry says slowly, recognizing yet unable to avoid the impending trap.

“And you said you love me.”

“I do, but kissing on the mouth requires, er, another type of love.”

Even to his own ears, the explanation sounds ridiculous, and Tom clearly thinks so. “What
type is that?” he demands.

Harry thinks of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley smiling at each other across the dinner table, of Fleur
floating down the aisle to join Bill in matrimony, of Ron and Hermione locked in an embrace
in the aftermath of their engagement. He has no adequate words to describe a concept at once
so grand and so unassuming.

“A different type,” he says lamely. “You’ll have a different type of love with everyone who’s
important to you, and you can’t have every type at the same time.”

“Why not?”

“Because — because that’s not how love works.”

 Tom furrows his brows, pulsing with unmistakable disappointment and a hint of betrayal. A
lump lodges in Harry’s throat. Tom wants to understand love. That’s a good thing, isn’t it? He
should be encouraging him, not dismissing him with unsatisfactory answers.

“Here.” Harry presses a light yet lingering kiss to Tom’s cheek. It’s the first time he’s ever
done so, and Tom’s skin warms under his lips. “I can’t kiss you on the mouth,” Harry says,
pulling away, “but I can kiss you on the cheek. Cheek kisses are very special too. What do
you think?”

Tom touches his cheek, mouth half-open. “It’s nice.” He drops his hand and stares at it. “I
like it. A lot. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Harry isn’t sure why he’s blushing. They haven’t done anything illicit. A
cheek kiss isn’t that different from a forehead kiss. He clears his throat. “Now go to sleep,
okay?”

Tom snuggles under the blankets without protest. Once Harry lies down next to him, he grabs
Harry’s hand. “Good night,” he whispers, pressing it to his chest, directly over his heart.

“Good night,” Harry whispers back, and is soon lulled to sleep by Tom’s steady heartbeat.

Long after Harry has fallen asleep, Tom studies his face, gently glowing under the bluebell
flames. He imagines waking up with Harry in his arms every morning. He imagines dancing
with Harry every night as meteors crisscross overhead. He imagines making pinky promises
to Harry under an arch of flowers.

His breathing quickens and, before his courage can fail him, he presses his mouth against
Harry’s. It isn’t a bad kiss, because Harry’s lips are soft and taste faintly sweet. However,
something is missing.

Tom breaks the kiss, disappointed. He doesn’t want to kiss Harry when Harry isn’t kissing
back, when Harry won’t even remember it. He wants to kiss Harry when Harry is awake and
willing, even if he has to wait a long time.

He settles against Harry and tenderly strokes his face, tracing his cheek before resting fingers
at Harry’s lips. His other hand finds Harry’s and curls their pinkies together.

“Someday,” Tom vows, “you’ll love me in every way.”

Chapter End Notes

I’ve been waiting to use Barmouth as a setting for some time. Hopefully you’ll also
come to love Harry and Tom’s Paradise Kingdom.
In addition, I’ve had Tom’s final line in the chapter planned for some time as well.
Having Tom’s love for Harry evolve without Harry’s awareness (or even Tom’s own
awareness) is one of the arcs I’m most excited to explore in Arc II, and one of the
reasons I’m writing a Harry-raises-Tom fic. I hope everyone is ready for more
possessive Tom!

Side note: you may have noticed that Harry and Tom’s flashbacks are now in second
person POV. I found my original approach of writing it in unnamed third person POV
(to highlight the perception of shared memories) can lead to some confusion if there are
other characters in the scene, so hopefully this reads more smoothly.
 Practice
Chapter Notes

Hi everyone, thank you as always for your patience and support. I’m happy you share
my excitement about the new arc in the boys’ lives. Note that I have adjusted the
summary -- the last line of the previous chapter was always meant to be the outtake, and
I'm glad we finally reached that point.

I hope you enjoy the update!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Update: 1st July 2000

Estimated biological age: 5 years 8 months

* * *

Barmouth comes alive in summertime. The town is awash in vibrant colors, between the
blueness of the sea, the greenness of the mountains, and the bright attire of tourists. Every
day brings a new experience: an outdoor market by the pier, a concert in the square, a
carnival at the beach.

As promised, Harry teaches Tom to swim. Never the best swimmer himself, he only manages
to teach a serviceable doggy paddle, but that suffices for playing in the water. They finally
spot a dolphin, to Tom’s great delight, and start keeping a dolphin tracker. So far, the number
of sightings is stuck at two.

Occasionally, on especially sunny days, they explore the hiking trails on the outskirts of
Barmouth. While they aren’t allowed to venture far, they can admire the local flora and
fauna, as well as the distant sweeping views from lookout points.

One imperfection mars Harry’s idyllic life in Barmouth, and it’s that he disappears into non-
existence the second he steps outside Paradise Kingdom. Initially, Kingsley seemed open to
negotiations on disguises, but once Harry expressed intentions to frequent the town, he said
in no uncertain terms that disguises were required. Not just for him and Tom, but for
everyone in their company outside the safe house, such as Elinor and potential visitors. Even
their car isn’t exempt and is charmed to resemble a different Muggle rental each time they
head to town.
Although wearing disguises is a small concession for the safety of anonymity, Harry longs for
the ability to build deeper connections than the ephemerality of smiles shared between
strangers. Nothing drives this home more than the occasional visit to Tristan’s shop for
gardening advice. Tristan, to his credit, is helpful and kind no matter what appearence Harry
is wearing, but his eyes lack the teasing warmth of Harry’s first visit.

At the end of July, Ron and Hermione visit. Since Harry’s birthday falls on a Monday, they
will stay the weekend and celebrate early on Sunday night before returning to London. For
security reasons, they can’t come to Barmouth, so instead they stay in Bangor. While Harry is
disappointed to not host them at Paradise Kingdom or show them around Barmouth, he is
grateful to see them and excited to explore a new city together, a callback to early post-
Hogwarts days.

Early on Saturday morning, he meets them at their hotel. After nearly three months, their
reunion feels a tad like seeing each other at the end of Hogwarts summer holiday, when they
needed to overcome awkwardness introduced by distance and time before easing back into
each other’s company. Their disguises don’t help.

Hermione dispels the awkwardness by throwing her arms around him. “Harry! How have you
been? What have you been doing? What do you think of Wales?”

“Blimey, Hermione, let him breathe,” Ron says, rescuing Harry from Hermione’s grasp only
to hug him tightly himself. “Good to see you, mate.”

Hermione tearfully joins in, and clutching his friends, Harry blinks away the wetness in his
eyes. He shouldn’t get so emotional — they haven’t been separated for that long — but he’s
truly missed them.

Fortunately, their sentimental reunion doesn’t last long enough to get sappy. Having done
ample research, Hermione planned out a packed schedule, so she’s soon ushering everyone
out the door.

“Without exaggeration, she spent the past two weeks planning,” Ron warns. “You’d better get
ready, Harry.”

“It’s a shame we can’t do a fraction of what I researched,” Hermione sighs, brandishing her
heavily annotated guidebook. “If only we have access to a Time Turner.”

In spite of the lack of a Time Turner, strategically placed Apparition allows them to cover
much ground, which is fortunate as there is much to see. Bangor is the oldest city in Wales as
well as a nice blend of Barmouth and Cardiff. Like the former, it boasts proximity to the sea,
which grants it a wealth of lovely outdoor spots, but like the latter, it is cosmopolitan, with
magic woven into its attractions.

Having practically memorized the guidebook, Hermione acts as tour guide, with Harry and
Ron obediently in tow. They start with Bangor University. Unlike Oxford, whose buildings
are spread throughout the city in clusters, this university has a parklike setting, and its hilltop
location offers breathtaking panoramic views of Bangor and its surroundings. It is also the
location of the Wizarding Institute of Gwynedd, where Harry will be taking classes part-time
in the autumn under the name Henry Dursley. Near the Pontio Arts and Innovation Center,
which houses a theater and lecture halls among other facilities, they find a secret entryway to
the magical campus, and at Treborth Botanical Garden, a gorgeous reserve associated with
the university, they discover hidden plots of rare magical plants that would not look out of
place in the Hogwarts greenhouses.

After a relaxing lunch at a seaside café, their tour continues with Penrhyn Castle, which was
built as a Victorian country house and later converted into a Norman castle in the nineteenth
century. Its opulent décor and vast collections of art, however, contrast with its dark history
of slavery and exploitation. Bangor Cathedral, whose architecture is equally impressive, has a
wholly different atmosphere with its stained glass windows, arched doorways, and Bible
Garden. It offers a brief reprieve from the bustling streets outside, and Harry is able to find
calmness along with a connection to a power beyond human comprehension.

Of course, no trip to a new place with Hermione is complete without a visit to at least one
local museum, in this case Storiel Museum and Art Gallery. Through its exhibits, they learn
the history of Bangor, from its Roman occupation to the Norman invasion. Impressed by
what he learned and bemoaning his lack of Muggle history education, Harry buys a few
books to read with Tom.

As the day wanes into late afternoon and a drizzle begins, they end up at High Street, famous
for its array of shops that showcase works by local artisans, including postcards of the Welsh
countryside, hand-made jewelry, and freshly baked bara birth generously slathered in butter.
Harry is browsing an aisle of yarns, thinking of buying some for Elinor’s endless knitting
projects, when Ron calls him over.

“Look at these, mate. Think Mum would like a few for her kitchen?”

Like Tom, his friend has discovered a display of Welsh lovespoons, and these look even more
intricately made than the ones in Barmouth.

“I’m not sure they would be appropriate for Molly,” Hermione says, before Harry can explain
what the spoons are. “Welsh lovespoons are not meant for eating.”

She goes on to give an in-depth history of lovespoons, citing multiple textbooks that she
came upon in Ancient Runes and Unspeakables training. As she launches into the connection
between sailors and naval symbols, Ron holds up his hands in mock surrender. “If I buy one
for you, will you stop lecturing us?”

Hermione glares, but her mouth twitches. “Only if you pick a good one.”

The three of them spend the next half hour consulting Hermione’s handy guidebook to
decipher the carved symbols. Alternating between mutual sniping and tender looks, Ron and
Hermione eventually pick out the perfect spoon. Rendered from mahogany rather than the
traditional limewood for a richer hue, it bears alternating carvings of vine, symbolizing the
growth of love, and bells, symbolizing their impending marriage. Harry can imagine the
spoon displayed in their new Cotswolds house, bearing witness to the start of their married
life.
His friends step up to the counter, teasingly jostling each other for the “honor” of paying.
Averting his face, Harry excuses himself to buy souvenirs for Tom and Teddy.

By dinnertime, everyone is relieved to rest their sore legs. Hermione chooses a restaurant
known for seafood, although Harry’s unrefined palette can’t discern the difference between
its signature dishes and his favorite pub grub.

Once they have satiated their hunger and thirst, Hermione leans across the table. “So, how
have you been?”

While she already asked the question in the morning, this time it’s loaded. Harry twirls his
fork, uncertain where to start. He can highlight how happy he is, in order to not worry his
friends, but that would be overcompensating. Ron and Hermione are two people with whom
he should always strive for honesty.

“I feel as if I’m on an extended holiday on Ministry funds,” he confesses.

“You do look tan,” Ron jokes. “Been at the beach much?”

However, Hermione catches the melancholy behind Harry’s blithe remark. “It’s the least they
can do, honestly, given the lack of viable alternatives. And this is not a holiday, more like
witness protection. It must’ve been difficult to adjust.”

“No, honestly, it hasn’t been too bad,” Harry assures her. “But I do miss London, and I wish I
don’t have to be so secretive about every bloody thing. I wanted to show you around my new
town.”

“We’ll get another chance,” Ron says. “It’s only been, what, two months?”

“Three.” Three months out of Merlin knows how long. Appetite lost, Harry drags his fork
through his fish pie in meandering circles. “How’s everyone at home? What have they been
up to since your last letter?”

His friends update him. George and Angelina have taken Teddy under their wings to be
groomed into the next prankster, to Andromeda’s amusement and alarm. Percy and Mr.
Weasley have been dealing with fresh tensions at the Ministry, related to the unraveling
relationship between Kingsley and Dunbar. Ginny continues to be a rising star on the
Holyhead Harpies, and something bittersweet twinges in Harry’s chest at Ron’s offhand
remark that she’s a little too close with her teammates. However, he shoves it aside. What’s in
the past will stay in the past, and hopefully they’ll find their way back to friendship.

“And Bill and Fleur are expecting their second baby,” Ron says. “Mum is helping them out.
Otherwise she would’ve forced us to take her on this trip. You know how protective she can
be.”

Harry nods, touched. It makes perfect sense for Mrs. Weasley to spend time at Shell Cottage
with her grandchildren. He had worried that he had upset Mrs. Weasley with his and Ginny’s
breakup, but to his relief and gratitude, she reassured him under no uncertain terms that he
would always be part of the family.

“I’d love to take her out to dinner in Bangor sometime,” he offers. “Her and Mr. Weasley.”

“I’m sure they’d love that.” Ron pauses and lowers his voice. “How are things going with,
um —”

He doesn’t complete his question, though it’s clearly one that he and Hermione have been
itching to ask.

“Good,” Harry replies, and he isn’t sugarcoating the truth. Tom has been on good behavior.
This morning, for example, he calmly accepted that he couldn’t join Harry and his friends
rather than throwing a tantrum.

Then again, he’s probably putting the finishing touches on Harry’s birthday present. He’s
definitely making something, judging by the way he hides in his room during the day with
the door tightly shut. Warmth wells in Harry’s chest as he recalls Tom’s past presents. He’s
looking forward to the newest addition.

“Everything going well then?” Hermione peers at him.

“Yes, quite well. You’ll see for yourself tomorrow.”

Harry can tell his friends aren’t convinced and want to pry further. Just then, a server drops a
stack of laden plates nearby. Restaurant staff swarms the area, scrambling to clean up
shattered china and reassure curious diners.

By the time everything has settled, half-formed questions have been temporarily forgotten,
and the tense interlude set aside.

Unsurprisingly, despite the late hour, Tom is wide awake and waiting for Harry. Today is the
longest they’ve spent apart since arriving at Barmouth.

Though he is delighted by the presents Harry brought back, he refuses to sleep and insists on
hearing all about Harry’s trip. Feeling guilty over abandoning him, Harry obliges. Tom’s eyes
light up at the grandeur of the castle and the cathedral, his mouth waters at the new food
Harry tried, and his young face fills with wistfulness upon the mention of Snowdonia
National Park, which Harry will be visiting tomorrow.

“Snowdonia, that’s such a magical name,” Tom breathes. “It must be very pretty.”

“It is,” Harry says. “There are pictures in your new books. We can look at them together.”

“Pictures aren’t the same. I wish I could come with you.”

Tom’s voice is small with the anticipation of refusal. Harry’s chest tightens, as it usually does
whenever Tom expresses an innocent desire that he can’t fulfill. He forces a smile. “Maybe in
the future. Don’t forget, you’re joining us at dinner tomorrow. That will be fun.”
“That’s true,” Tom agrees, distracted from one disappointment by a new excitement. “I can’t
wait to try Italian food!”

Since it’s quite late, they skip the bedtime story and go directly to their nighttime routine.
Harry kisses Tom on both the forehead and cheek, a change that Tom insisted upon after the
wedding in June. And after over a month, cheek kisses ceased feeling unnatural.

“Good night,” Harry says. “See you in the morning.”

He tucks the blankets around Tom, turns off the bedside lamp, and exhales quietly.
Unbeknownst to Tom, taking him to Bangor tomorrow has been a logistical nightmare, and
Kingsley almost refused to give permission in the first place. In befuddlement, he’d why
Harry couldn’t simply celebrate his birthday with Tom at the safe house.

It’s a fair question. Harry is not blind to the potential risks, to say nothing of the burden
imposed on the Aurors in Bangor. But eating at home is different from dining at a proper
restaurant. Tom deserves to have that experience, and more selfishly, Tom deserves to have
the opportunity to show Ron and Hermione that he is different from — and better than — the
Tom Riddle they knew.

The sea is roaring, waves crashing one after another with increasing frequency and power.
From the water, the Inferi are reaching up, dragging Harry under with cold hands. He clings
desperately to the shore, scrabbling for purchase, but his struggles are futile, and he’s
sinking…sinking…sinking…

Harry jerks awake, gasping and shivering. Another nightmare. Counterintuitively, his dreams
have become increasingly restless at Paradise Kingdom, at odds with the peaceful setting. He
hasn’t told anyone yet, but if the nightmares continue, he will need to look into Dreamless
Sleep Potions.

Tom hums and curls his hand around Harry’s, chasing away the clamminess of the Inferi’s
touch. Harry squeezes Tom’s hand and relaxes. Settling back under the covers, he is soon
swept away by calmer dreams of the sea.

* * *

Tom fidgets in front of the mirror. An unfamiliar boy with brown curls, gray eyes, and ugly
freckles stares back. Behind him, Miss Elinor is adjusting his white shirt, ironed so crisply
that it feels like stiff cardboard.

“Please stop moving,” she says in exasperation. “At this rate, we’ll be late for dinner.”

“But the collar itches,” Tom says, tugging at it. “And I can’t raise my arms.”
“I’m afraid Harry’s friends picked a place with a strict dress code. Even little boys are
expected to wear suits.”

Tom understands being formal, but why did Muggles invent clothing that’s so
uncomfortable? No wonder wizards are superior.

Nevertheless, he forces himself to remain still and stop complaining. He wasn’t supposed to
go to Harry’s birthday dinner at all — he overheard Harry arguing with Miss Elinor and
Kingsley — so he doesn’t want Miss Elinor to get annoyed and convince Harry to change his
mind.

Finished with Tom’s shirt, Miss Elinor moves on to his tie. “Remember to be polite to
Harry’s friends,” she says, tightening the knot. Tom resists the urge to gag at her. “It was kind
of them to invite us and we must show appreciation.”

Tom feels conflicted about Harry’s friends visiting. On the one hand, they are distracting
Harry, but on the other, they are making Harry happy. Harry has never said anything, but Tom
can tell he has been missing them because he’s caught him on the patio, staring into the
distance with a sad smile. Last night, however, Harry was practically shining, as if he had
been reenergized.

That’s the frustrating thing about Harry. Tom can be perfectly content if they just have each
other, but Harry needs other people in his life. Tom may be Harry’s best friend, but he’s not
Harry’s only friend. And what if Harry changes his mind? What if Harry decides he prefers
Ron and Hermione because he misses them so much? Even with strangers, why is Harry
often just a friendly “hello” from slipping out of reach?

What would it take for Tom to be the only person who matters in Harry’s world?

“Tom? Did you hear me?” Miss Elinor sounds slightly impatient.

“Yes, I did,” Tom says, putting on a meek smile even though it never fools her. “I promise I’ll
be polite to Ron and Hermione.”

“Remember also to not call anyone by their names. Especially not Harry.”

“I remember. I won’t.”

“Very good.”

Miss Elinor slips Tom’s blazer over his shoulders and nods in satisfaction. After checking her
own appearance in the mirror and adjusting her hat, she hands Tom the umbrella Portkey,
which whirls them away.

At once, Tom likes Bangor. Unlike Barmouth, which is pretty but sleepy, Bangor is vibrating
with energy. It reminds him of his first trip to St. James’ Park, when his senses were
overloaded by the presence of people. He was scared then, but now he is excited. Though the
walk to the restaurant is short, Tom turns his head in every direction, trying to memorize the
sights: the tall buildings, the busy streets, the roaring cars.
Harry and his friends are waiting in the lobby of the restaurant. Despite Harry’s silly disguise,
Tom recognizes him right away, but stops himself from shouting Harry’s name in time. He
stands rooted in place, torn between waving and running over.

Luckily, Harry sees him and comes over, a familiar smile on his old man face. “I’m glad
you’re here.” He gestures to the man and woman beside him. “Do you remember my
friends?”

Tom doesn’t actually recognize them due to their disguises, but he’s determined to be polite.
He flashes the biggest, most brilliant smile he can find. “Good evening. It’s wonderful to see
you again.”

Neither Ron nor Hermione responds immediately. Ron opens his mouth slightly and
Hermione widens her eyes. Then Hermione says, with an uncomfortable smile, “Good
evening. We are glad that you can join us.”

She elbows Ron, who coughs. “Right. Exactly.”

They aren’t being honest, because they have never liked Tom, either here or in London. Then
again, Tom isn’t being honest either, so it’s fine.

Ron and Hermione greet Miss Elinor, more warmly and genuinely, and then a tall woman
asks them to follow her. Tom has never eaten at a restaurant, aside from the outdoor café by
the beach, and the fanciness is dazzling. Shimmering lights made of crystals hang overhead,
large windows look out into the sea, and everyone is dressed as formally as Miss Elinor
predicted, with stiff suits and colorful dresses and so much shiny jewelry.

They reach a round table laid out with white tablecloth, silver utensils, and a vase of flowers
in the center. To Tom’s relief, Harry gestures for them to sit together, rather than sitting
between Ron and Hermione, and leaving Tom with Miss Elinor. Under the table, Tom finds
and grabs Harry’s hand. Harry smiles at him reassuringly.

“Let’s take a look at the food,” he suggests, handing over the heavy menu.

Strangely, Tom can’t read anything, when he can read the menu at the Barmouth café. As it
turns out, the menu is in Italian, and Harry and Ron can’t read anything either. Hermione and
Miss Elinor end up ordering food for everyone.

The server pours the drinks and starts bringing out the dishes. Tom recognizes salad, fish, and
pasta, but the names given by the server sound like gibberish. He’s not the only one confused.
Ron keeps asking Hermione questions until she sighs and translates the server’s Italian for
everyone, and Miss Elinor has to correct the way Harry uses the forks and knives a few
times.

Tom eats quietly while the others talk. The conversations are moving too quickly to follow,
and he wants to focus on the delicious food anyway. He’s impressed that the ingredients are
the same as what they use at home, but the flavors are completely different. However, as the
dishes get cleared away, his heart begins to pound. He brought Harry’s present because he
wants Harry to open it in front of his non-best friends, and never considered the possibility
that the present might not be fancy enough. What if Harry’s friends gave him something as
nice as the restaurant, and Harry finds Tom’s present silly in comparison?

When it’s time for dessert, the server comes over with a huge chocolate cake and ten bright
candles. Ron, Hermione, and Miss Elinor clap and sing, causing Harry’s cheeks to turn pink
and his eyes to sparkle. Even behind his fake wrinkles, he looks so glowingly beautiful that
Tom forgets to sing himself.

Harry thanks everyone and blows out the candles. He then cuts and passes out the cake,
insisting on giving the server a slice to enjoy. Tom takes a forkful of his extra-large slice,
exposing neat layers of chocolate and cream. Normally, he would adore this cake, but his
mouth is too dry.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks, frowning. “I thought you liked chocolate cake.”

“I do, but…”

“Are you not feeling well?”

“No, I’m fine,” Tom says hurriedly, not wanting Harry to worry. He drops his voice to a
whisper. “I brought a present for you.”

“You did?” Harry breaks into a grin. “I can’t wait to see it. Would you like me to open it
now?”

Tom’s eyes dart to Miss Elinor, who has the present in her handbag. He takes a deep breath.
“Okay.”

Everyone falls quiet to watch and anxiety twists Tom’s stomach. Harry takes off the wrapping
and peers inside the box. “Oh, this is incredible,” he says softly, lifting out the lovespoon.

Tom made it out of construction paper, because he doesn’t know where to buy wood or how
to use it, and he spent a long time figuring out the perfect design. He eventually chose a
dragon — a ferocious rather than cute dragon — curled around intertwined chains that end in
a sunflower at the top. Instead of using only brown paper, he used his favorite colors so the
spoon would look more interesting. There is green for the dragon, red for the sunflower, and
gold and silver for the chains. He also accidentally made the tip of the ladle too pointy, but it
sort of looked like a heart, so he decided not to fix it.

“It’s a little sticky from the glue,” he says, embarrassed. “I used too much and it wouldn’t
dry.”

“It’s perfect. I love it.” Harry carefully sets the spoon inside the box before he wraps his arm
around Tom’s shoulder and squeezes. The webs sing with his sincerity and appreciation.
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome!” Tom hugs Harry back and sneaks a glance at the others. Ron looks
puzzled, while Hermione and Miss Elinor wear small frowns that look funny with their small
smiles. Harry definitely likes Tom’s present the most!
Happily, he takes a big bite of the chocolate. The dark chocolate paired with hazelnut cream
is perfect.

Dinner finishes soon after. Tom puts on his jacket and looks at Harry expectantly, but Harry
lingers behind with Ron and Hermione. “Go home without me, I’ll come later,” he says.
“And bring the extra cake back. We can have it for breakfast tomorrow.”

“But you’ll come home soon?” Eyeing Harry’s friends, Tom adds, “The bed gets cold without
you.”

Harry’s smile wavers a little. “I’ll come home soon.”

Miss Elinor tugs Tom away, but not before he sees Ron and Hermione’s faces change, just as
he intended.

Garth Pier glows at dusk. The fiery sky is emblazoned in the teal water of Menai Strait,
gilding the ripples, and on the opposite shore, the hillside houses seem tantalizingly within
reach.

They lean against the railing, but Harry knows they aren’t here to enjoy the view. Not
bothering with the pretense of small talk, he tells Hermione, “Go ahead, you have something
to say about Tom.”

She doesn’t deny it. “What do you think of tonight?”

“I think he behaved well,” Harry says cautiously. “Don’t you?”

“Yes, he behaved very well tonight,” Hermione agrees, with an undertone of too well that
makes him bristle. “What do you think of the gift?”

Harry touches the paper lovespoon, nestled in the expanded pocket of his jacket. The ideation
and execution are an incredible feat for a not-yet-six-year-old, but something about the
design alarmed Hermione and Elinor. At the moment, he doesn’t want to dwell on the reason.

“He’s always made me gifts by hand,” he says. “It’s a good outlet for his creativity.”

“Creativity,” Ron repeats. He sounds as if he wants to comment on it, but thinks better of it.

Hermione’s tone remains grave. “He’s very attached to you,” she says. It’s a sentiment she
shared previously, following her first meeting with Tom, only the warning undertone has
sharpened.

Harry stiffens. “That’s a good thing, wouldn’t you say?” he says, failing to temper his
defensiveness. “That means he listens to me.”

“He listens to you now.”

A cold gust stirs, rustling the edges of their jackets and rippling the water, distorting the
reflections. Harry tightens his grip on the railing. He and Hermione each understood what the
other left unspoken, yet they remain at an impasse, teetering too closely on the edge of
another rehashed argument.

“I agreed to a bond and swore a Vow,” Harry reminds his friends, glancing from one to the
other. “There are safeguards.”

“Speaking of which,” Hermione says. “Have you noticed the bond changing?”

Harry blinks, taken aback, but Hermione looks serious, and he recalls she’s been researching
magical bonds at the Department of Mysteries.

“No. You have?”

“I thought I picked up something. A change in magical frequency, possibly.” Her brows

furrow slightly. “But without precise measurements, I cannot be sure.”

“Is it becoming less effective?” That’s Harry’s greatest concern.

She’s silent for a moment, then shakes her head almost reluctantly. “No. If anything, it feels
stronger.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“In theory, but magical bonds aren’t always about strength…” Cutting off her thought,
Hermione rakes her hair. “I’ll have to consult my books. Maybe run experiments at the lab.”

“The Ministry has been keeping an eye on the bond,” Harry says, thinking of the litany of
tests to which Tom is routinely subjected. “They would say something if something is amiss,
wouldn’t they?”

“In theory, sure,” Ron says. “But they don’t exactly have the best track record where you and
Riddle are concerned.”

The truth of Ron’s observation stings. The Ministry has long ceased to be an ally, if it ever
was.

It is closing hour for the pier. The rustiness of the setting sun has given way to the monotone
glow of the rising moon, shrouding Menai Strait in shadows and inviting the onset of evening
chills. The dreaded time has come for them to part and return to normal lives.

They walk to the nearest Apparition point, which is located behind a gift shop at the end of
the pier, offering respite from the wind and prying eyes to say goodbye.

“Take care of yourself, mate,” Ron says. “We’ll see if we can visit again before the holidays.
Stay out of trouble until then, yeah?”

“And write more,” Hermione adds. “We know you can’t write about a lot of things, but tell us
about your classes. I’d love to hear how the post-secondary education system works in
magical Britain.”
“I will, and you both take care too,” Harry says. “And look, I really appreciate your concern,
but I’ll be fine.”

“We know you’re doing your best.” Hermione squeezes his arm gently. “But not everything is
within your control. And remember, we aren’t the ones you have to convince.”

Harry slides his gaze away, a painful lump lodged in his throat. “Yeah. You’re right.”

They share one final round of hugs, and all too soon, twin cracks take his best friends away,
leaving empty darkness behind.

The clock chimes ten times before Harry returns to Paradise Kingdom. Tom lies still while
Harry showers and brushes his teeth. As soon as Harry slips into bed, he nestles against him.
“Harry?”

A kiss drops on his forehead, and another lands on his cheek. “I’m sorry I woke you,” Harry
says. “Go back to sleep.”

“I wasn’t sleeping. I was waiting for you. Are your friends gone?”

“Yes.”

“When will they visit again?”

“I don’t know. Not for a while.”

That’s the response Tom wants to hear. He throws his arm over Harry’s waist and nuzzles his
shoulder. In turn, Harry rests his cheek on Tom’s head. “Did you have a good birthday?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Because your friends came?”

He feels Harry smile against his hair. “Because they came, and also because you were there
to celebrate with me. Thank you for the beautiful present. Your artwork gets more impressive
every time.”

Tom looks over at the dresser, where the spoon has joined the picture and the diorama. He’s
proud of it, but he’s also regretful. “I wanted to make you a real spoon,” he admits. “Like the
ones in the store.

And he could have, if he could use magic to transform paper into wood. The spoon would’ve
looked truly incredible! Of course, he could have asked Miss Elinor for help — she likes
Harry, so she would’ve agreed — but he wanted the present to be completely from him, even
if it’d be less perfect.

“It’s absolutely a real spoon,” Harry says firmly. “It’s beautiful and I wouldn’t want anything
else.”
Flattered, Tom tucks his head in the crook of Harry’s neck. “And I was good tonight, right? I
was nice to Ron and Hermione. And I said ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’ to our server.”

“You were. I’m very proud of you.” Harry taps Tom’s nose. “Did you enjoy dinner?”

“Yes! I didn’t get to see much of Bangor, but it looked nice. The restaurant was fancy, and the
food was yummy, even though everything had funny names. But I really didn’t like wearing
the suit.”

Harry chuckles. “No?” he teases. “I thought you looked quite handsome in it.”

Tom’s cheeks heat from the conflicting annoyance and pleasure. “It was so uncomfortable
and took forever to put on and take off. Why do Muggles wear it?”

“Muggles don’t wear suits all the time, only for special occasions.”

“I think wizarding robes would be better.” The robes worn by their visitors look flowy and
comfortable. Another reason why Tom is relieved he’s a wizard and not a Muggle. “Can I
wear robes?”

“There’s no reason to wear robes right now. Maybe when you’re older.”

“When I go to Hogwarts, right? Like the boy in the cupboard?” Tom raises his voice eagerly.
“And that’s when I would get my own wand so I can do magic?”

Harry tenses, and he takes so long to speak that Tom almost doesn’t expect an answer.

“You’re too young,” Harry says slowly. “The boy in the cupboard didn’t get a wand until he
was eleven, remember?”

“Oh. How old am I now?”

“Six. Almost six.”

His birthday is in the winter, and it’s currently the middle of summer. Tom tries to calculate
the time between being six and being eleven, and finds that he can’t. For some reason, his
age is too confusing to keep track of. “I won’t turn eleven for a long time,” he complains.

“No, but there are lots of things you can do without a wand. Magic isn’t everything.”

Harry is wrong. Magic is everything. Harry said himself that magic was all around them. But
it’s obvious that Harry isn’t changing his mind anytime soon, so Tom changes the subject.
“Can we do storytime? I know it’s late, but the boy in the cupboard is about to have his first
flying lesson at Hogwarts.”

Though Harry is still stiff and his face looks troubled, he strokes Tom’s cheek and nods. “All
right. We can have quick storytime. On the day of the boy’s first flying lesson, he was very
nervous, because he’d never flown before. At least, not that he remembered…”
As always, Harry’s story sucks Tom in. He imagines the boy soaring into the sky for the first
time. Imagines the joy and the freedom of being high above everyone else. Imagines the
excitement of diving and catching the Remembrall against all odds.

Harry’s voice trails off and he shifts to check to see whether Tom is asleep. As usual, Tom
slows his breathing, so he would think so. Sure enough, Harry tucks the blankets around
Tom, turns off the lamp, and lies back down.

In the darkness, Tom listens to Harry’s breaths slow into soft snoring. He likes to fall asleep
after Harry and wake up before him. Sometimes, he even checks in the middle of the night
that Harry is still here. He finds this reassuring, except when Harry is thrashing and
whimpering. Harry must have terrible dreams, and it scares Tom that he doesn’t know how to
help other than to hold him.

But tonight, Harry is calm. Hopefully, he’s having happy dreams, preferably dreams featuring
Tom.

Tom rests his hand on Harry’s chest. His Harry. His boy in the cupboard. He hasn’t revealed
that he knew Harry was the boy in the cupboard all along. He has the feeling that Harry
would stop telling the story if he did.

One day though, he would tell him and show Harry that he doesn’t have to hide from Tom.
Not his childhood, or anything else. One day, secrets would stop existing between them, and
they would be able to share everything with each other.

The clock chimes twelve times. It’s midnight. “Happy birthday,” Tom whispers, and curling
around Harry, he closes his eyes.

* * *

Ron and Hermione’s departure weakens the dam keeping homesickness at bay. Chances are,
Harry won’t see them until Christmas, when he may visit England briefly. Once again, he’s
back to his peaceful yet lonely reality with only Tom, Elinor, and laconic Ministry visitors for
company.

At least classes are starting in mid-September, which should occupy him. In the meantime,
summer continues with the usual activities: visits to the town and beach, and projects at
home, such as gardening. At the beginning of summer, they chose to plant sunflowers,
lettuce, and spinach, as Harry heard warm weather is good for growing salad greens.
Originally, Harry wanted to include tomatoes, but Tom refused to consider anything
recommended by Tristan. The garden is now flourishing, and along with apples in early
autumn, harvest will be lovely.

Often, when Harry’s mind is quiet, his friends’ warning and Tom’s request surface, planting
seeds of their own. Much less benign ones, spreading fear and darkness instead of flowers
and greens. At the rate Tom is aging, he would be eleven soon. His innocent demand to wear
robes and own a wand is merely the beginning of his fascination with magic. Sooner rather
than later, he’ll want to know why he’s still not old enough to use it, and why he cannot
attend school like the boy in the cupboard. Inevitably, he will uncover the truth beneath
Harry’s white lies.

Harry doesn’t want to imagine the fallout.

At the same time, he’s boarding a dangerous train of thought. As much as Tom is young
Voldemort in appearance, nothing indicates that he’s becoming the vindictive, mean-spirited
boy from Albus Dumbledore’s memories. To be fair, he’s by no means perfect. Like other
six-year-olds, he’s expressing strong opinions, testing boundaries, and seeking independence,
even from Harry.

However, he’s shed the rough edges of toddlerhood. Possibly enabled by the anonymity of
rotating disguises, he socializes well with strangers, particularly with the other kids at the
beach. He joins them in building sand castles, playing in the water, and spotting dolphins.
Granted, he does everything with the air of a king humoring his subjects, but the progress is
nontrivial.

Harry isn’t unaware of his own biases towards Tom. But suppose he isn’t overlooking
something. Could Tom’s path be diverging from Voldemort’s? If that’s the case, does Tom
deserve the same condemnation in his second life?

Obviously, Harry isn’t delusional enough to believe that Tom can ever lead a normal life.
Integrating him into wizarding society would be a huge can of flobberworms no one would
want to open. Yet is some measure of leniency out of the question? Can the impending death
sentence be commuted into something less permanent?

The hypotheticals take root and plague him until, at last, Harry crumbles and approaches
Elinor. Per usual, she’s in the living room, knitting while reading a Levitated newspaper.

“Elinor, do you have a moment?”

The knitting needles pause and the Evening Prophet flutters to the nearby table. “Certainly.”

“I’ve been reading Tom’s recent progress reports. Aside from accelerated aging, test results
are all normal.”

Her eyes flick from the half-done jumper. Although she’s probably guessed the objective of
the conversation, she waits for him to continue.

“In the beginning, the Unspeakables thought Tom would recover memories in pace with his
aging, but that hasn’t been the case.”

“Are you hoping we may conclude that Tom is distinct from the Dark Lord?”

“Can we?”
“I’m afraid that it’s not quite so simple.” Elinor sets down her needles, which clack against
the marble tabletop. “Tom has been recovering memories, just not in the manner that the
Unspeakables expected.”

“He has?”

“Yes. Have you ever wondered why he’s able to reach or exceed all developmental
milestones, despite aging at four times the normal rate?”

Harry has indeed wondered. The simple and preferable answer would be that Tom is smart,
but there are certain things that intelligence can’t achieve without time.

“And have you ever noticed Tom can access knowledge that neither of us taught him?”

Again, examples abound. Such as Tom spelling out magic without being taught. Or staring in
enthrallment into the sea in search of phantom caves. Or even making the lovespoon imbued
with meanings. Sure, they can be coincidences, but how many coincidences will it take to
become a pattern?

“You think memories of his past life are manifesting as latent knowledge,” Harry says. Latent
knowledge might even be putting it kindly. Harry has been having visions of Voldemort’s
first life. Who’s to say that Tom isn’t also reliving them, given the mysterious bond between
them?

Elinor inclines her head. “Precisely.”

Harry fists his hands, as if that would somehow exorcize the phantom of Voldemort lurking
beneath Tom’s innocent smile. “But drawing upon imprints of past knowledge doesn’t mean
he’s going to become Voldemort.”

“Perhaps not, but what Tom remembers about his previous life will shape his current world
view and principles. Learning and forming judgment are intricately linked.”

“Is there a point at which we can know for sure?”

“Anything is possible, but my personal opinion is that we will never know with absolute
certainty. We’ve never dealt with magic of this nature, and it’s dangerous to base conclusions
on incomplete knowledge.”

That was what Hermione said at Oxford, which remains unsatisfying to hear from Elinor
months later. “I see.”

“Consider this as well.” Elinor’s gray eyes are piercing, reminiscent of Dumbledore’s. “What
is borne out by evidence is that Tom's aging will continue to accelerate until a certain
stopping point is reached.”

“His original age,” Harry guesses, heart sinking.

“That is the leading theory, yes. Therefore, I invite you to think through its full implications.”
Harry nods tightly. “I will.”

Elinor’s smile is sympathetic. Too sympathetic. “If I can be of further service, Harry, please
let me know.” She reprises her jumper. “Thank you again for the yarns, by the way. They’re
absolutely lovely to work with.”

The knitting needles begin moving again.

In the garden, Tom stretches his legs. From the open windows, he smells the peach pie baking
in the kitchen. Harry was so excited to find white peaches at the market that he started
making the pie as soon as they got home. Tom helped, but he didn’t have the patience to wait
for the pie to finish baking.

He’s been feeling restless ever since Ron and Hermione left, which is odd. He should be glad
that peace has returned to Paradise Kingdom. Only…why is peace so dull? When he first
arrived in Barmouth, there was so much to see and so much to do, but he’s seen and done
practically everything. Dinner in Bangor was the most excitement he had recently, and the
glimpse of the city makes him realize that there’s a whole world that he can’t explore.

Something is waiting for him, he’s sure of it. Something that will change his life forever. But
will is the keyword here. Will means it happens in the future, which can be tomorrow, or next
week, or even years from now.

If only the future could come right this instant. Tom wants to be the Tom of the future, an
older and stronger Tom, a Tom who will be able to use magic.

He huffs in frustration. Harry rarely says “no” to him, so why must he be so strict about
magic? True, Harry had to wait until he turned eleven to have a wand, but he didn’t know he
was a wizard and didn’t have anyone to help him. Tom does.

What if he can prove to Harry that he can handle magic earlier than normal boys? He’s aging
faster, after all, and he’s smart. What if, just as he practiced being friendly to strangers, he
practices magic?

The idea ignites a spark of excitement. He can impress Harry with his control of magic, the
same way he impressed Harry with his perfect manners in front of Ron and Hermione. Now
the question is, where should he start? Aside from the park, Tom could only use magic in
random bursts. Well, except when he drowned the bee and almost caused Miss Elinor’s owl
to fall. The webs didn’t react then. Maybe that’s the key. Maybe the webs don’t block his
magic if he’s using it to control animals.

Tom glances around. The only animals currently around are butterflies, who like to visit and
laze about in the sunflowers. What could he make them do? Fly around in patterns? That’s so
boring.

“The sun feels nice today.”

Tom jumps. “Who’s talking?” The voice has a funny, hissing quality, not like Harry or Miss
Elinor or anyone he’s met before.

“A human speaker. How interesting.”

“Who’s talking?” Tom demands again. If he’s not mistaken, the voice is coming from below.
Whoever is speaking is either shorter or on the ground.

Dropping his eyes to search the garden beds, Tom discovers to his surprise that it wasn’t a
human who spoke, but an animal. A snake, to be precise. He’s seen one before, in their old
garden, but it was small and disappeared before he could approach it.

This one is larger and remains still when Tom bends down for a closer look. It contrasts
nicely against the plants with its green scales and black markings, and Tom likes the bright
yellow scales around its neck that resembles a scarf.

“You’re beautiful!” Tom has never understood why people don’t like snakes. Stories always
make snakes into villains, and characters are always scared of them.

His praise seems to please the snake, who moves closer, its body coiling and uncoiling
gracefully, and its scales shining under the sunlight. “They call me He Who Glitters Most
Under the Sun,” it says, and Tom detects a hint of smugness in its strange voice.

“That’s a very long name. Do other snakes actually call you that?”

“Those who are worth my attention, yes. You humans have such short, boring names.”

“Mine isn’t,” Tom says, offended. “Tom isn’t boring.”

“It sounds boring. What does it mean?”

Tom has never considered the meaning of a name. Tom is Tom, just as Harry is Harry. “I’m
not sure,” he admits.

“See? Your name is boring,” the snake yes, “but you are interesting. I’ve never met a human
who can speak.”

“Of course I can talk. I’m smart. I don’t usually meet animals who can talk.”

“That’s because humans are short-sighted. They speak only their own language, but never the
language of other creatures, and certainly not the sacred language of snakes.”

“We’re talking to each other right now,” Tom points out.

“That’s why I said you’re special. You speak our language perfectly.”

That doesn’t clear up Tom’s confusion. Lots of languages exist, but he only speaks English.
That’s why he didn’t understand Italian at Harry’s birthday dinner. Why would he be
speaking anything else?
Still, he likes the word special. Maybe speaking to snakes is another sign of his magic!

“Tom?”

Tom turns, recognizing Miss Elinor’s voice.

“Is another human coming?” the snake asks. “Then I must leave.”

“Wait,” Tom calls. “Will you visit me again?”

Already slithering away, the snake twists its head. “There are many green places to visit.
Why must I trouble myself with this one?”

“Because I can talk to you.”

“I can talk to other snakes. I don’t lack your company.”

“Because — because I can feed you.”

“I’m not interested in human food.”

“If you tell me what you eat, I’ll find it for you.”

The snake pauses to consider, flicking its forked, black tongue in and out of its mouth. Its
dark eyes stare unblinkingly, and Tom realizes that it hasn’t blinked once since they started
talking.

“Very well,” it says. “I will visit once more.”

It disappears behind a garden bed seconds before the door opens to reveal Miss Elinor. “Did
you hear me calling earlier, Tom? Harry is taking the pie out of the oven. He wants to know
whether you’d like some.”

“Yes, I do!”

Tom is in high spirits. He has a new plan to impress Harry and a new animal friend. An
animal friend who is interesting and who told him that he’s special.

(“Heir of Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four, how may I serve you?”

“The legacy of my ancestors has been tainted by the admission of unworthy blood. Eliminate
them.”

“Yes, master. I shall help you cleanse your esteemed school of impurities.”)

Tom spins around. He’s hearing mysterious voices again. Has the snake returned? But the
garden is still, and the only sound is the wind ruffling the plants.

“Is something the matter?”

“No.” Tom gives Miss Elinor a quick smile. “I thought I left my watering can. But I didn’t.”
 “I see.” She scans the garden slowly before nodding at him. “Come on then.”

As Tom follows her into the kitchen, he has the sense that he’s being watched. Meanwhile,
the hisses echo in his head, harsh and vaguely familiar.

Chapter End Notes

A key to Tom’s lovespoon: chain = linked destinies, flower = growth of affection,

twisted stem = two lives coming together, and dragon = strength. Our boy can be very
heavy-handed with his expression of affection :P
 Percolate
Chapter Summary

Domestic slice of life. (Ish.)

Chapter Notes

Hello and welcome back! I can’t believe we’ve hit the 100K word count mark. When I
was a young teen learning to write fanfics, this milestone was a faraway dream, so it’s
amazing to have reached it with more than half the story to go. Thank you all for your
support on this journey.

You may have noted that updates have slowed down. The chapters have been growing
longer, and I have health issues that forces me to dial back writing when real life has
other demands. I’m concentrating most of my energy on this fic over other writing
projects in hopes of updating at least monthly, but I can’t make any promises and
appreciate your understanding :) If all goes well, there should be one more chapter
before end of the year.

As always, I hope you enjoy the update! Please note there are brief mentions of blood
and animal death.

Update: 1st September 2000

Estimated biological age: 6 years 4 months

* * *

After an aimless summer, the start of university restores structure to Harry’s life. For better
and for worse, the Wizarding Institute of Gwynedd is not a replacement for Hogwarts. Its
teaching staff and students hail from across Europe, bringing different backgrounds and
perspectives. In addition, everyone lives off-campus and classroom time is limited to once or
twice a week depending on the subject, so camaraderie among students is harder to develop.

Some of Harry’s classmates connect through evening pub visits and intramural sports. Harry
is initially tempted by the Quidditch league, especially after learning that a Seeker position is
open. He hasn’t flown since winning the Quidditch Cup over a year ago, and while he
brought his Nimbus to Barmouth, he hasn’t used it out of security concerns.

In the end, he opts not to participate, resigning himself to a lonelier student life. His limited
ability to lie won’t stand up to sustained scrutiny from potential teammates. Thus far, he’s
managed to slip under the radar. The other Hogwarts alums in his class hail from higher years
and treat Henry Dursley with distant politeness, a welcome change from the intrigue lavished
upon Harry Potter.

Since Harry is in no rush to earn a degree, he settles on a light course load of three classes:
Advanced Charms, Advanced Magical Theory, and — on a complete whim — Muggle
History. Having never been an enthusiastic student, he discovers that he enjoys university. To
start, the style of learning emphasizes self-studying over demonstrations by the professor and
essays that are thinly veiled regurgitations of lectures, allowing students to internalize and
individualize class material. The freedom is refreshing.

Furthermore, each subject is interesting and tests Harry’s fundamental understanding of

magic. To his chagrin, the non-Hogwarts graduates absorb the material with visibly more
ease, as if they are already familiar with many concepts. Maybe Fleur and Krum had a point
when they found Hogwarts education lacking.

Advanced Charms introduces the concept of spell creation, starting with spell enhancement
to lay the groundwork. Harry has had some exposure to the subject in the past, such as the
usage of Maxima to magnify the effect of certain charms, and looks forward to building upon
this foundation.

Advanced Magical Theory delves into the intricacies of magic that Hogwarts deems too dark
for its curriculum, such as ritual and blood magic. Apparently, the rules that govern
conventional branches of magic, such as Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration, have
exceptions for these obscure branches, leading practitioners of the latter to expand the realm
of what’s possible.

Muggle History is the biggest revelation. While Harry had learned basic British history in
primary school, he forgot mostly everything after seven years of Professor Binns’ droning on
goblin wars. Thanks to the engaging lectures and readings, he finally understands why
Hermione chose to take Muggle Studies in third year. It’s satisfying to fill in glaring gaps in
his knowledge, such as the rise of the British empire and subsequent evolution, and
fascinating to explore the parallel development of Muggle and wizarding societies, which are
unquestionably intertwined despite conflicting perspectives of respective historians. For
example, the instability that followed the fall of the Roman empire in part led to the founding
of Hogwarts, while the medieval witch trials led to the International Statute of Secrecy. There
are also uncomfortable parallels. Gellert Grindelwald rose to prominence against the
backdrop of dangerous nationalism in Muggle Europe, whereas Voldemort similarly
expanded his influence as wizards and Muggles alike struggled with the modernization that
upset the old world order.

No wonder his friends are so enthusiastic about their careers, whether it’s decoding ancient
tablets, as Hermione is doing, or inventing new fireworks, as Ron is doing. While Hogwarts
undoubtedly gave them a solid foundation, for which Harry will always be endlessly grateful,
there’s something rewarding about exploring the endless avenues that lie beyond the
boundaries it set. For the first time, he feels that he’s truly coming into his own as a wizard,
enhancing his capabilities beyond the haphazard training he relied upon to survive
Voldemort’s war.

Of course, no matter the subject, it’s difficult to squeeze material that would take decades to
master in a few terms. As a result, the Institute’s library is quickly becoming one of Harry’s
favorite haunts in Bangor. While it’s not at the scale of Bodleian or Hogwarts, the space is
full of cozy corners and comfortable chairs, less a university library than a tea shop that
happens to be filled with books. Another nice plus is that it’s staffed by student volunteers, so
the librarians are more approachable. Harry finds a few quite attractive, though he keeps his
distance.

Harry’s unlikely enjoyment of school is marred by the guilt of embarking on an adventure

that leaves Tom behind. Though Tom is outwardly calm, his dark eyes brim with the yearning
to partake. He is bursting with questions about the Institute, and sometimes Harry catches
him flipping through his textbooks, even though the text is too complex for him to decipher.

Not for the first time, Harry wonders whether he was mistaken to tell Tom about magic and
Hogwarts, to present him with a kingdom for which he will never have the keys. But with his
intelligence and curiosity, Tom is bound to know eventually, and Harry wants to be honest
with him wherever possible. At least, Tom currently accepts — however grudgingly — that
he’s too young to learn magic.

In the meantime, he seems to have found ways to entertain himself, whether it’s alone in his
room or in the garden, though he never offers any explanation and diverts the subject
whenever Harry probes. According to Elinor, this is normal behavior for Tom’s age group, a
claim that doesn’t completely reassure Harry.

One night, struggling with a difficult charm enhancement, Harry loses track of time. When he
finally succeeds in creating a multi-colored version of Lumos, most of the lights in the house
have been extinguished. Only Tom’s bedroom remains lit.

He knocks on the door. “Tom? It’s almost nine o’clock. Are you ready for bed?”

There’s a loud crash inside. Burning with curiosity, Harry fights the urge to unlock the door
and awkwardly lingers outside until Tom peeks out. “It’s bedtime already?”

“Yes. Everything okay in there?”

The door widens. Over Tom’s shoulder, Harry sees his desk has been hurriedly cleared away,
its contents on the surface swept into bulging drawers in a sharp contrast to Tom’s usual
neatness. Sadness stabs him at yet another reminder that Tom is seeking his own identity and
shedding his childhood dependence on Harry.

Harry’s gaze lowers, catching a sheet of paper missed by Tom that has fluttered to the floor. It
appears to be Tom’s rendition of the diagram of a seagull’s skeleton, meticulously traced out
of a book by pencil and annotated with childish scribbles.
Following Harry’s line of sight, Tom lets out a squeak. He shoves the paper into a drawer and
bangs it shut, before he turns to Harry with a guilty expression.

“Those are nice drawings,” Harry says, trying to relax him. “Very detailed. I couldn’t draw
this well.”

Tom’s look is wary. “I…I like animals,” he mutters.

“Hey.” Harry rests his hands on Tom’s shoulders. “I’m glad you’re enjoying reading, and I’m
sorry that I’ve been so busy. Maybe I can get some new books for us to read together. Would
you like that?”

“Yes, but…can we get books on snakes?”

“Snakes?”

“My books don’t have much about snakes. People don’t seem to like them. Do you?”

Harry is hard pressed to say yes. He’s only known three snakes, and that’s defining know
leniently. There was the boa constrictor at the zoo whom he accidentally set free on Dudley’s
birthday, the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets whose teeth marks he still bears, and Nagini.
He can’t say he’s particularly fond of any of them. Definitely not the latter two, whom he’ll
forever associate with Voldemort. Nevertheless, he refuses to taint Tom with his prejudice.

“I don’t know enough about snakes yet,” Harry replies. “I’d like to learn about them with
you. Would that be okay?”

Tom’s reticence transforms into unadulterated enthusiasm. “Yes!”

Without further resistance, he follows Harry into their bedroom to get ready for bed.
Meanwhile, Harry makes a mental note to check bookshops in Bangor for good books on
snakes, ignoring the uneasy feeling that clings to him.

Harry keeps his promise. After his next trip to Bangor, he brings back two books on snakes,
along with a set of new crayons and sketchpad. “I notice you are running out of paper,” he
explains, “and this crayon set has new colors.”

Tom tries to ignore the guilt churning inside. He doesn’t want to lie to Harry, but isn’t it
partly Harry’s fault that he has to keep secrets at all? Harry told Tom he’s too young to learn
magic, and Harry chose school over time with Tom.

On the bright side, Harry’s busyness means Tom can practice magic in secret more easily.
He’s proceeding with the plan to control animals, and luckily, there are lots in Barmouth. At
the beach, there are seagulls waddling around and cawing for food. In the town, there are
dogs accompanying their owners to shops and restaurants. And at Paradise Kingdom, there
are bees and butterflies, and occasionally small birds, visiting the garden.

In general, animals have simple minds, and studying diagrams of their bodies helps Tom to
figure out how to make his commands more precise. Sometimes, they fight back, which
becomes a more interesting challenge, but he always wins the battle.

He is careful to never make them do crazy things. That would draw attention. Instead, he
focuses on simple things like making seagulls dive at boats or dogs bark to surprise their
owners. If the animal is pretty, like colorful hummingbirds and robins, he tries to get it to
trust him. This turns out to be much harder than controlling them outright. Animals don’t
seem to naturally trust him. But it’s okay.

Animals don’t seem to naturally trust him. But it’s okay. One way or another, they will break
and obey his command.

One animal is the exception, and he happens to be Tom’s favorite. The snake came back a
few days after his first visit. While Harry and Miss Elinor cleaned the kitchen, Tom fed him
leftover meatloaf from dinner. Cooked meat wasn’t part of the snake’s normal diet, but he
liked it enough to keep coming back. Now he visits at least twice a week, and Tom has
started calling him Glitter, to his displeasure and reluctant acceptance. His real name is just
too long.

Neither Harry nor Miss Elinor knows about Glitter, and Tom wants to keep it that way. Harry
may not dislike snakes, but he would probably be concerned about Tom playing with a
strange animal. And Miss Elinor never approves of Tom and is always following him with
sharp eyes, so she would definitely tell Harry if she suspects Tom is up to trouble.

To hide his secret, Tom brings his books out to the garden every time Glitter visits, so Harry
and Miss Elinor think he’s reading. That’s working, and as a bonus, Glitter enjoys learning
about snakes and offering his opinions when he feels that human books are wrong. Tom
enjoys learning about snakes too. They truly are the most amazing animals. Such as the fact
that they always feel cold even though they can feel heat. Or that they see the world in
limited colors and never need to blink. Or that they sniff with their tongue and communicate
by smell rather than words.

Yesterday, Harry bought Tom a new book on poisonous snakes from rainforests, and Tom
eagerly shows Glitter his favorite pictures. “Look at these beautiful scales and big teeth! How
come yours are so small?”

Glitter lets out an unimpressed hiss. “Because I don’t need poisonous fangs. I have better
ways of subduing my meals.”

“Oh yeah?” Tom likes challenging him whenever he gets too arrogant. “How?”

“I grab them and swallow them alive!”

Glitter goes on to tell Tom about how he tricked a giant rat last week into becoming his
dinner, without needing to bite it. Tom listens breathlessly. Somehow, although Glitter has
only been alive for as long as Tom has, he’s experienced way more adventures, and is full of
stories about the animals he’s met and places he explored around Barmouth, animals and
places that Tom hopes to see for himself someday.
In turn, Tom tells Glitter about his life. Glitter is curious about human life, so he’s fascinated
by Tom’s description of what’s inside the house, like refrigerator and toilets, and of Tom’s
visits to the park in London and the restaurant in Bangor. In addition, Tom shares secrets with
Glitter, secrets that he can’t ever share with Harry. He shares his thirst to learn magic, his
distaste for Miss Elinor and the visitors who come to Paradise Kingdom, and his jealousy of
animals with wings.

“It’s not fair that they can fly,” Tom says. “Sometimes, I wish I could take away their wings,
so they could never fly again.”

“Take away their wings?” Glitter flicks his tongue. “How would you do that? You can’t catch
them.”

“Magic, obviously.”

“Show me.”

Annoyed by Glitter’s skepticism, Tom glances around the garden and spots a lone butterfly
circling around a small bush. Insects are easy for him to control. Concentrating, he forces the
butterfly to land on a blade of grass and remain still.

“There!” Tom grins proudly at Glitter. “I made it freeze!”

He doesn’t expect what happens next. Glitter lunges forward, snaps open his jaw, and gobbles
up the butterfly. In a few seconds, aside from the shaking of the grass, there’s no trace that it
was ever fluttering around.

“Why did you do that?” Tom demands.

“Wasn’t that the magic?” Glitter stretches his neck. “You were feeding me.”

Tom puffs his cheeks and crosses his arms, but his annoyance is fading, replaced by
admiration. He’s never witnessed Glitter hunt, and he can practically hear the crunch of
delicate wings under Glitter’s sharp teeth. This is nature, isn’t it? Books taught Tom that there
are predators and prey, and Tom decided then that he’d never want to be prey. Well, Glitter
just proved that he and Tom are powerful predators.

An idea surfaces in Tom’s head. With Glitter around, Tom can practice stronger magic, and
Glitter can clean up the evidence. Before, he hasn’t tried because he knows Harry wouldn’t
like dead bodies. Harry wants to make the world beautiful, and death isn’t beautiful at all.

Tom breaks into a grin and pats Glitter’s head. He’s sure that they will have a great
partnership.

* * *
It’s starting to get cold, which means Tom needs to wear jackets and jumpers again. However,
after Harry helps him unpack his trunk of winter clothes, he realizes none of them fits
anymore, not even the nice ones from Harry. That means he’s stuck with the ugly and boring
clothes from Miss Elinor.

Noticing Tom’s disappointment, Harry uses magic to enlarge them so that Tom can still wear
his favorite Christmas jumpers, except the sleeves are too baggy and the neckline is too
round. Tom scowls at his reflection. He looks dorky.

“I’m sorry, I can’t get the proportions correct,” Harry says. “Maybe I can ask Miss Elinor to
try —”

“No!” Tom says immediately. He won’t allow Miss Elinor to touch his jumpers.

Harry sighs. “Then you’ll have to wear them like this for now. Once my exams are over, I
will buy you new clothes.”

Tom has no choice but to agree. Luckily, he has other things on his mind. He’s been waiting
for the apple harvest and starting to lose patience. For weeks, Harry keeps insisting they
aren't ripe enough, even though they are already bigger than the cherry tomatoes they
harvested. A few times, Tom is tempted to steal an apple when Harry is in Bangor, but stops
himself — just barely — each time.

Finally, the apples are ready. Tom is so excited that he can’t concentrate on breakfast, even
though he usually likes Miss Elinor’s crumpets. As soon as he’s done and Harry gives
permission, he dashes out to the patio. The wait is worth it. The apples are nice and round,
and their skins are a nice blend of yellow, green, and red. He takes a deep breath. They smell
amazing.

Harry follows him outside with a basket, and Miss Elinor joins them as well with a camera.
“I haven’t picked apples since I was a child,” she remarks. “My grandparents owned a small
orchard in Worcestershire, and I used to spend every autumn eating my grandmother’s
homemade apple jam.”

“You’re lucky,” Harry says. “I only got to pick apples once, on a school trip, and I made sure
to eat as many apples as I could because I couldn’t take any home. Wound up with an awful
stomachache.”

To Tom’s relief, Harry and Miss Elinor don’t continue sharing memories about apple picking.
After taking a few pictures, Miss Elinor returns inside the house to knit, leaving Tom with
Harry’s undivided attention.

“Picking apples is easy,” Harry says, cupping an apple to demonstrate. “You just twist and
pull. Not too hard, or you’ll hurt the tree.” His apple falls from the branch and into his palm.
He places it in the basket. “Would you like to try?”

That looks easy enough, but there is a big problem. “The tree is too tall for me,” Tom points
out.
Harry chuckles. “You’re right. Let me give you a boost.” He lifts Tom up in his arms, but
when he tries to lift Tom higher, he grunts and stumbles back a few steps. “Oof, you’re
heavier than I expected.”

“Because I’m growing!” Tom is going to reach Harry’s shoulders soon, and his newest pair of
trousers already feels too short.

“You certainly are.” Harry steadies them and tries again. He succeeds, and Tom reaches eye
level with the branches. “All right, your turn.”

Tom searches and picks out the biggest apple he can see. He copies what Harry did. Cup,
twist, and pull. The apple falls in his hands, its skin lovely and smooth. Mouth watering, he
raises it, ignoring Harry’s warning of “Careful, don’t bite down too hard.”

His teeth sink into the apple, but instead of sweetness, metallic tang fills his mouth. Blood, he
realizes in horror. He’s bleeding. And one of his teeth, which has been loose for a while, is
gone.

Tom stares down at the blood staining the apple’s yellow flesh. He’s never lost so much blood
before, not even when he fell off the swing at the park. Animals die when they bleed too
much, don’t they? Tom sees it happen whenever he feeds Glitter. They would struggle in his
jaws, but their struggles would slow and weaken, until Glitter finally swallows them in one
gulp.

Is this what’s happening to him? Is he dying?

Vision swimming with red, Tom starts shrieking. “I am bleeding! I’m going to die!”

At once, he’s set on the ground and pulled against Harry’s chest. Lips press against his hair,
then his forehead. “You are not going to die,” Harry says firmly. “You just lost a baby tooth,
and losing baby teeth is normal for little boys.”

Tom blinks at Harry through his tears. “It is?”

“Yes. A new one will grow back to replace your old tooth. A better and stronger permanent
tooth. See?”

Harry grins to show Tom his teeth. Tom touches one. It does feel stronger than his old tooth.
That isn’t so bad then. He’d prefer strong permanent teeth rather than his weak baby teeth.
Reassured, he stops crying.

With a tap of Harry’s wand, soothing magic flows over Tom. The blood in his mouth
disappears, and although Tom’s tongue can tell there’s a gap between his teeth, the pain is
gone.

Harry picks up the fallen tooth and taps his wand again, turning it white and glinting like a
pearl. He hands it to Tom. “You can put it under the pillow tonight. My cousin used to do
that, and he would always wake up to find a few pounds under his pillow.”

“Why? Because of magic?”

“Sort of. A fairy who really likes teeth would come and take everyone’s old tooth, in
exchange for money.”

The money sounds nice, but Tom doesn’t like giving away something that was part of him.
“Did the fairy take your teeth as well?”

“No, I kept my old teeth in a box instead, until my cousin — never mind.” Harry shakes his
head, though shadow creeps up on his face.

“Then I want to keep it too!” Tom decides. He’s not sure what he would do with a box of old
teeth, but he’ll figure out something.

Harry nods. “In this case, we should find a nice box to keep your teeth safe.”

“But after we finish picking apples? I haven’t even gotten to taste any.”

“You’re right, I almost forgot. Here.” Harry waves his wand and the rest of Tom’s apple
slices into small pieces. “Be careful this time.”

Tom sighs in contentment as he finally tastes the apple. It’s sweet with a hint of sourness and
floweriness. “It’s so good!”

Smiling, Harry wipes away the juice dribbling down Tom’s chin. “I’m glad. If we finish
picking apples early, we can bake a pie. No chance of breaking a tooth then.”

Reenergized, Tom happily agrees.

“Your Harry was right,” Glitter says.

They are lounging in the garden, enjoying the late afternoon sunlight. Crumbs from the apple
pie are still sticking to Tom’s lips. He had snuck out a small piece for Glitter, who decided
after a bite that he didn’t like the sweetness, so Tom finished the rest.

“You have to lose the old to welcome the new, my mother always said,” Glitter continues.
“That’s why we snakes shed skins so often.”

“Shed skin? What does that mean?”

“We get rid of old skin so our bodies can grow strong and beautiful. Haven’t you noticed I’ve
gotten bigger since we first met?”

Tom actually hasn’t, but he nods so he wouldn’t offend his friend. “You are bigger, but
getting rid of your skin sounds painful.”

“Not at all. It actually feels very satisfying. Old skin that doesn’t fit is so constricting.”

Tom can certainly understand that. He often feels too big for his small body. “Well, I’m glad I
can grow without losing skin.”
“You are growing fast for a human,” Glitter agrees, cocking his head. “Every time I see you,
you are noticeably bigger. The next time I see you, you will be quite big.”

Tom, who was puffing with pride, deflates. “Why do you say next time? Are you going
away?”

“I am. Now that the mountain is bare and the wind is cold, I’m going to live underground
with my family and friends.”

“That sounds awful.” Tom would never allow other kids to come live with him and Harry.
“You won’t have any space for yourself.”

“I will be asleep, and this will keep me warm and safe until the sun again shines and the
leaves regain their colors.”

Tom chews his bottom lip. He’s come to like Glitter’s company. Without him, Paradise
Kingdom will be dull again, and winter is so long. “What if you live with me?” he asks, in a
burst of inspiration.

“You want to live underground?”

“Not underground, silly! You’ll live with me in my room. It’s always warm there, and I can
feed you yummy food.”

Glitter’s silence means that he isn’t convinced. Tom tries to think of other reasons. “While
the other snakes are sleeping, you will be eating and growing. You can impress them in the
spring with how fast you grew!”

His argument is working. He can tell by the swaying of Glitter’s tail.

“I will make a nice little nest for you,” Tom adds. “I have some big boxes that I can fill with
dirt and grass, so it’ll be just like your real home.”

Glitter hisses. “The other humans would never approve.”

“They won’t know. Not even Harry goes into my room. And even if Harry finds out…he
won’t do anything.”

“Is Harry the man who talks to you a lot?” Tom nods. “He does look kinder than the others
who live with you.”

“Harry is kind. Harry is the kindest person in the world! And he loves me very much, so if he
knows you’re my friend, he won’t chase you away.”

Tom is stretching the truth a little. He doesn’t know how Harry would feel about a snake in
the house, but he’s confident that Harry won’t hurt Glitter in any way.

“I have a question I’ve been meaning to ask. You speak of your Harry a lot and you look
alike. Is he your father?”
Tom scoffs. “Of course not. I don’t have a father.”

“Everyone does, even if you never see them. Mine left my mother long before my siblings
and I hatched.”

“That’s horrible.”

“It’s not. My mother took good care of us, and when I become a father myself, I too will not
stay around for my children to hatch.”

“You will leave your own children?” Tom is most disapproving.

“Of course. I cannot be tied down when I have new adventures to pursue and new partners to
woo. This is the way of snakes.”

“Then I definitely don’t need or want a father! Harry will never leave me, and I will never
leave him.”

“Even after you grow up and have your own family?”

“Never,” Tom says firmly. “Harry is my family. He’s all the family I’d ever want.”

“Oh, I see now.” Glitter nods, as if he figured out a puzzle. “Harry is your mate.”

“What’s a mate?”

“A mate is someone who will be by your side forever, though personally, I never understood
the appeal of tying myself to one snake forever.”

“Yes, Harry is my mate!” Tom claps his hands, pleased to find a word that captures
everything Harry is to him.

“Very well, I will consider your proposal,” Glitter says. “I still have some time before I must
move.”

“Fine, but tell me soon. That way, I can start preparing your new nest!”

“Tom?”

At Harry’s voice, Tom hops to his feet. “You better go,” Tom whispers, before he turns to
block Harry’s view so that Glitter can slither away. “Hi, Harry!” After an afternoon with
Glitter, it takes a little effort to ensure he’s speaking English instead of Snake Language.

Harry comes over and drapes a scarf around Tom’s neck. “You should wear a jacket if you’re
going to be outside for long. What were you doing?”

Tom’s mind races. He didn’t bring a book, so he can’t tell Harry that he’s reading. “I’m, um,
thinking!”

“About what?”
“About what to grow in the garden next.”

“Ah, I see.”

Harry studies him for a moment before breaking into his usual smile, warm and beautiful like
the sun. Even with his stomach twisting with nervousness that Harry will catch his lie, Tom
can’t help relaxing. My mate, he thinks proudly.

“You’re right, it’s time to think about what to plant for the winter,” Harry says. “Do you have
ideas?”

“Um…yes!”

“In that case, why don’t we stop by the garden shop next time we are in town? We can pick
up seeds from Tristan.”

Tom resists the urge to wrinkle his nose. He hates that shop, and he hates seeing Harry talk to
Tristan, but it’s the only garden shop in town. At least, with disguises, Tristan hasn’t paid
special attention to Harry again.

“Okay, let’s go to Tristan’s shop.”

“And Tom?” Harry scrubs Tom’s nose. “It’s okay to have secrets.”

Tom tries not to look too guilty. “It is?”

“Absolutely. As long as they don’t hurt anyone.”

Tom relaxes. His secrets won’t hurt himself or Harry. “Okay.”

“You’re a big boy now. You don’t have to tell me everything, but I hope you can still share
important things with me.”

“I will,” Tom promises immediately, unsettled by the trace of sadness in Harry’s voice. But
he doesn’t get a chance to think about it before Harry nudges his shoulder.

“Go wash up, okay? Miss Elinor won’t be happy if you bring mud into the kitchen.”

“Okay!” Content and cheerful, Tom skips towards the garden door, and does not see Harry’s
troubled expression.

Harry frowns after Tom. He shouldn’t have been so shocked that Tom has already discovered
the ability of his ancestors, and now he has an explanation for Tom’s recent behavior. Based
on the snippet he caught of their conversation, it’s clear that Tom and the grass snake have
been acquainted for a while.

His cheeks burn, recalling the way Tom claimed him as his “mate.” Taken out of context, the
declaration elicits the same reaction as Tom’s effusive physical affection: a contradicting
mixture of reassurance, fondness, and disturbance. But perhaps he’s being oversensitive.
Maybe, just as in English, mate and friend can be interchanged in Parseltongue.

Embarrassment soon gives way to unease. Innocuous conversation or not, it’s difficult not to
draw the parallel between a gap-toothed boy talking to a garden snake to a budding Dark
Lord commanding a basilisk to murder Mudbloods. Kingsley and the Wizengamot certainly
would not see a distinction.

What heightens his unease is that he understood every overheard word. His Parseltongue was
tied to the presence of Voldemort’s Horcrux, which should’ve been irrevocably destroyed. In
fact, after the war, he visited the reptile house at the London Zoo to verify. While he could
understand the snakes, listening to them resembled listening to a distorted radio, where he
had to fill in the blanks through contextual clues. Similarly, while he could speak some words
in Parseltongue, he could only do so with effort and reliance on muscle memory, as if he was
speaking a childhood language that had regressed from disuse.

“Why is this happening?” Harry asks aloud, and the Parseltongue falls from his lips fluently,
naturally. He didn’t need to pretend that he was addressing a snake; the language is as
intuitive as English.

There’s something here, something that Hermione or Kingsley or Elinor alluded to in the
past. Unfortunately, no matter how hard Harry grasps at the threads of significance, he’s
unable to weave them into a coherent answer.

* * *

Autumn deepens and washes over Barmouth. Whereas London would be in the throes of the
holiday season, the crowds thin out from the seaside town, rendering it sleepy and tranquil
once more, although the holiday charm is evident in the decorated houses and the warm spicy
fragrance wafting from local bakeries.

Due to worsening sleep, Harry often finds himself waking early enough to enjoy the sunrise.
From the nearby lookout, he watches the sunlight pierce through the fog that obscures the
mountain summits like a mystical veil, revealing trees rendered in gorgeous rusty hues by
nature’s expert strokes. The beauty fills him with both exhilaration and melancholy at the
reminder that yet another new year is around the corner.

As a child, he heard adults lament to each other that time speeds up with age. Now he truly
internalizes the sentiment. What’s more, the speeding up of time is literally true in Tom’s
case, and each chime of the clock takes him closer to a reckoning on which Harry can’t allow
himself to dwell for long.

At least, the end of this year should be much more peaceful than the beginning. It’s already
the least eventful Halloween season in recent memory, with no trolls, no attacks, and, given
his effective exile, no public speaking obligations. Harry is free to indulge in quintessential
autumn activities with Tom. They decorate Paradise Kingdom with carved pumpkins,
scarecrows, and spider webs, to Elinor’s horror. They try out new recipes for seasonal treats,
and Tom finds a new favorite in toffee apples, even though eating them poses a challenge to
his gaping front teeth. And, after reading a tad too many macabre Halloween-themed stories,
they visit a local cemetery. To Tom’s obvious disappointment, they don’t run into any ghosts,
but he enjoys admiring particularly ornate mausoleums and asking Harry to explain the
epitaphs, none of which impresses him. “They all lie about death,” is his conclusion. “They
make it sound exciting, but death is horrible.”

Harry’s one regret is that he cannot visit Godric’s Hollow, but in lieu of that, he lights a
candle for his parents at Bangor Cathedral. Hopefully, they are frolicking in the afterlife with
Sirius, Remus, and other close friends who passed on too soon.

The biggest event of the season for Barmouth is Bonfire Night. Every year, the local
community organizes a bonfire on the beach in the afternoon and fireworks in the harbor at
night to celebrate the foiling of the Gunpowder Plot. Attending them would be a first for Tom
as well as for Harry. Little Whinging considered itself too respectable for raucous
celebrations, and Hogwarts doesn’t celebrate non-major Muggle holidays.

To prepare for the bonfire, Harry helps Tom make the effigy of Guy Fawkes out of old
clothes and newspapers, an activity Tom takes to with delight. He draws a detailed pencil
sketch of his doll, complete with scary front teeth and scaly skin.

“Why are we making dolls that will be burned?” Tom asks, as he surveys his supplies.

“It’s because the dolls traditionally represent Guy Fawkes.” Harry is happy to disseminate his
new Muggle History knowledge. “He was a man who lived a long time ago and didn’t like
the king, so he tried to blow up a building with lots of important people.”

“Wow! Why didn’t he like the king?”

“Uh, he thinks the king was being unfair to his friends,” Harry says, sanitizing what was in
reality religious persecution for Tom’s young ears.

“What happened?”

“He was caught in time, and in celebration, people lit bonfires all around the city. That’s what
we’ll be doing tomorrow.”

Tom adjusts a few lines of his sketch. “What happened to him ?”

“He was punished. Er, very heavily.” Tortured for days, then hanged and nearly quartered, he
doesn’t add. The medieval English, from what he’s learned, favored gruesomely creative
torture methods.

Satisfied with the answers, Tom begins assembling his doll with Harry acting as his assistant.
He’s as exacting and perfectionist as he was with previous art projects. The end result is an
amusing crossover between a bearded Guy Fawkes, a pot-bellied Voldemort, and a grinning
Tristan.
The pyre is already burning when they arrive at the beach, surrounded by excited bystanders.
When the flames have reached their peak, the organizers signal for everyone to throw in
effigies. Most people made ones representing Guy Fawkes, though Harry notes that a few of
the effigies resemble prominent Muggle politicians.

Initially, he worries that Tom would be loath to part with his hard-won artwork, but Tom is
one of the first to toss his doll and claps with obvious delight as it catches on fire. Newly fed,
the fire expands, spilling smoke and embers all over the beach fills to the sound of cheering
watchers and crackling wood. Unlike everyone else, Harry can’t observe the bonfire for long,
since it brings back uncomfortable memories of the Fiendfyre that destroyed the Room of
Requirement and Vincent Crabbe’s dying screams.

At last, only ashes remain, and everyone migrates to the harbor for fireworks. Fortunately, it
didn’t rain during the day, so the night provides ideal visibility. A small band starts playing,
amplifying the anticipation until Tom is hopping from foot to foot in eagerness.

When the first of the fireworks blooms in the sky, however, he shudders and clings to Harry.
“The sky is exploding!” he whimpers.

“You’re perfectly safe,” Harry assures him. “But I can muffle the sound to protect your ears.”

Tom declines Harry’s offer, determined to be brave. Before long, he acclimates to the display.
He uplifts his face with glowing wonder at the illuminated bursts of colors, a callback to
another young man, ambitious and gifted, surrounded by creatures annihilating everything in
their way.

Catching Harry looking, Tom flashes an excited grin. Harry grins back, ears ringing with the
rhythm of his frantic heartbeats, at odds with the soothing classical music.

He’s running through dark streets trembling with explosions. It’s night, but the sky is tinted
red as if it’s sunrise, and the air smells acrid. He winds up in an alley, and there’s nowhere to
go…

He’s standing in the middle of a cave, its dankness seeping through his heavy cloak.
Incendio, he says, raising his wand, but at last, he doesn’t conjure a normal fire. Rather, he
conjures a fire with maws and teeth and claws, a fire with a will of its own, a fire that knows
no satiation…

He’s entering a little house that materializes out of the mist. A man lies dead on the floor, his
lax features eerily familiar. His feet take him up the stairs. A woman begs for mercy, and only
after she toppled to the floor does he notice her eyes are as green as the light that killed her.
In the crib she tried to shield, a baby stares at him with innocent eyes. He stares into them
and sees a pale face with red eyes, even though the baby’s eyes are beautifully green. The
room explodes in green light, and somehow he is turning into Guy Fawkes, burning in the
bonfire…

Tom jerks awake and presses a hand to his chest, over his frantically beating heart. He was
dreaming, and none of that was real. For some reason, as he recalls the nightmare, he feels
more curious than scared.

A whimper draws his attention. Harry seems to be having a worse nightmare. He’s thrashing
around and crying out. Tom holds his breath and waits — usually Harry calms on his own —
but when Harry continues struggling, he reaches out.

“Harry! Wake up! Harry!”

As soon as their skins touch, Harry jerks away. “Go away!” he shouts, curling into a tight
ball. “Don’t touch me!”

Harry’s unusual roughness frightens Tom, but he fights the urge to cry. He throws himself
over Harry’s body and brackets him with his arms. “Harry! Wake up!” he shouts, holding on
tightly despite Harry’s attempts to throw him off. “It’s me. It’s Tom.”

Forever seems to pass before Harry opens his eyes. “Tom,” he gasps. “It’s you.”

His arms come around Tom, hesitantly at first, and then firmly. Tom hugs him back as hard as
he can, uncaring that Harry’s nightshirt is soaked through with sweat.

“It’s just a dream,” he whispers. He’s not good at comforting people, the way Harry is, but he
won’t let Harry suffer alone. “Just a dream.”

“Yes, it was just a bad dream.” Harry pats Tom’s hair and tucks a curl behind his ear, as if
Tom is the one who needs to be comforted. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

He’s smiling a little, but his expression is haunted. Tenderly, Tom touches his cheeks and
wipes away the wetness. Then, bending down, he kisses Harry on the forehead, lips brushing
the lightning-shaped scar, which seems to be glowing red in the darkness. Harry’s eyes
widen, and their eerie greenness reminds Tom of the green-eyed baby, and of the red-eyed
man’s reflection.

He flinches and breaks eye contact, strangely afraid of seeing himself reflected in his Harry’s
eyes. He has the sudden urge to ask Harry about the red-eyed man — weren’t they in a
newspaper together? — but he can’t voice the question. He’s not sure if he’s more scared of
Harry not answering, or answering too honestly.

“Thank you,” Harry whispers. “I feel much better.”

“I hope you have happier dreams,” Tom says solemnly. “I hope you dream of me and us
together.”

Harry inhales sharply. “I — already do.” He grabs and pulls the blankets over them. “Let’s go
back to sleep.”

But he doesn’t fall back asleep. His breathing remains faster than normal, and the bedroom is
heavy and stuffy with the weight of their dreams.

Eventually, Tom cannot lie still anymore. “Harry?” he whispers. “What are you thinking
about?”
“My parents,” comes the answer. Harry isn’t pretending to be asleep. “I miss them.”

Tom shoves away the usual jealousy at the mention of Harry’s dead parents, and as he does
so, his mind wanders back to the little house. To the man on the first floor with messy black
hair, and to the woman on the second floor with bright green eyes.

He sits up abruptly. He doesn’t want to risk dreaming again, and he doesn’t want to risk
losing Harry to his own dreams either. “Can we look at stars?”

Harry blinks up and rubs his eyes. “Now? Why?”

“We used to go to the attic after everyone was asleep, remember? It helped me with my bad
dreams. Maybe it can help you too.”

Harry’s face softens, understanding what Tom is afraid to say. He sits up as well. “I do
remember. All right, let’s go look at stars.”

Outside, the garden is chilly, so Harry casts magic over their jackets to keep them warm.

The telescope is in its usual place in the garden, guarding the bare garden beds. However,
Tom stays by Harry’s side. He likes the mystery of the night sky, full of secrets that it slowly
reveals. The more he stares at the velvety darkness, the more stars he discovers, bright and
twinkling. Millions. Billions. Too many to comprehend. One by one, Tom links the stars into
constellations. Leo. Capricorn. Taurus.

Harry is gazing at the sky with the same faraway look that Tom dislikes. Is he still thinking
about his dream, or his parents? How can Tom distract him?

Tom tugs at Harry’s hand. “Maybe we’ll see meteors tonight.”

“Hmm, we did see the Leonids storm last year in November,” Harry says, “but I don’t think
there’s another one this year.”

“You told me there are falling meteors every night, right? So if we wait long enough, we’ll
see them.”

Harry grins. “You win. It can’t hurt to try.”

They settle into garden chairs and Tom curls against Harry, feeling content and comfortable.
He loves the peacefulness of his Paradise Kingdom, hidden between the ocean and the
mountains, a little corner in the big wide world that only he and Harry are allowed to enjoy.

Seconds and minutes pass. Tom yawns. He is getting sleepy, and it is getting cold, despite his
jacket and Harry’s protective magic. But he doesn’t want to give up yet. The meteors are out
there, testing him. He stares harder at the sky —

“There!” he cries, pointing. “I see one!”

A streak of light passes over them in a giant arc and disappears as quickly as it appeared.
Tom jumps to his feet, tingling with excitement. He made it happen. He made a meteor
appear because he truly and really believed.

“You saw a meteor?” Harry says. “That’s great! Did you remember to make a wish?”

“I did! Did you make a wish?”

“Well, I can’t. I didn’t see the meteor.”

Harry is teasing, but Tom sees it as a challenge. “Then I’m going to find you a meteor too.”

“That will take a while. We should go back inside.”

“No, I want you to make a wish too.”

Harry sighs, but his fondness flows through the webs. “All right, one more meteor, and then
back to bed we go.”

Looking for the second meteor is harder than looking for the first. Tom searches for so long
that he starts to doubt himself. What if he didn’t actually see the meteor and only imagined
it? What if there’s only one meteor tonight, and he won’t find another for Harry?

Just then, another streak of light crosses the sky. “There!” he cries out. “Did you see it?”

“I did!”

“Now make a wish.”

“All right.”

Obediently, Harry closes his eyes, as if Tom taught him to make wishes even though it was
the other way around. He is so focused and serious. What is he wishing for?

Tom’s wish is the same: he wishes he and Harry can be happy and together forever. To
always have moments like this, sitting in the garden and watching stars and making wishes.
Last year, it felt like a simple wish, an easy wish. But this year, things have been changing.
Tom is growing bigger. Every morning, when he studies his reflection, there’s always
something slightly unfamiliar. The shape of his eyebrows, maybe, or the sharpness of his
nose. And the world is becoming more vibrant, like a drawing whose black-and-white
outlines are filling in with colors. At the same time, these changes are also bringing many
questions he doesn’t understand, doesn’t even know how to ask.

Harry is changing too. While he’s as gentle and kind as ever, he sometimes looks at Tom
differently. As if he’s sad or scared. As if he’s seeing and thinking of another person. Tom
doesn’t like it at all.

Is it because they’re both keeping too many secrets? Harry said it’s okay to have secrets, but
maybe secrets are still making them drift apart. Why does everything become more
complicated as he understands more things?
“I’m done with my wish,” Harry announces, opening his eyes. “Should we go?”

“Not yet.” Tom crawls onto Harry’s lap and buries his face in his neck. “I want to stay like
this,” he murmurs against the delicate skin. “Forever and forever.”

He means it. No matter how the world changes, no matter how other people change, he and
Harry will be as unmovable and eternal as the stars.

Beneath him, Harry stiffens. “That would be lovely,” he says, but his voice is terribly sad.

Tom glares. “You don’t believe me!” he accuses, stung.

“No, it’s not that at all. It’s that things will always change. We are always changing. Look at
how quickly you’re growing. You’re already seven —”

“No! Small things can change, but big things won’t. Not between us. Never between us.”

Icy fear grips Tom’s heart. Something tells him that it’s important for Harry to agree. If not, a
galaxy will spring up and separate them. He grabs Harry’s hands and shakes them hard,
willing him to agree, to believe. “I want us to be happy and together forever. Tell me that you
believe me! Tell me!”

Harry winces. He must be gripping Harry’s hands too hard, but he doesn’t let go. Nor does
Harry pull away. He continues gazing at Tom, his expression full of understanding mixed
with sorrow.

“Tom,” he begins, but Tom shakes his head and presses Harry’s hands against his chest.

“Please,” he says, voice shaking with desperation. “Please tell me you believe me.”

“I do.” Harry leans forward to rest their foreheads and noses together. “I believe you.”

But Tom senses that Harry doesn’t.

 Present
Chapter Summary

Harry and Tom outdo each other in holiday gifts.

Chapter Notes

Happy New Year, everyone! And of course, happy birthday to our favorite Dark Lord.
Thank you as always for your support and patience, and I hope you’ll enjoy this longer-
than-usual chapter.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Update: 1st December 2000

Estimated biological age: 7 years 4 months

* * *

Before long, the end of the school term has arrived. Aside from Muggle History, which has
the conventional assignment of a research paper, final evaluations for Advanced Charms and
Magical Theory take the form of self-directed projects. Thus, Harry decides to kill two
Snidgets with one Bludger and apply his newfound knowledge into creating presents for
Tom.

To hide from Tom’s prying eyes, he spends the first half of December in the library’s private
study rooms. Progress is uneven, as theory doesn’t always translate neatly into practice, but
Harry is empowered by the challenge of realizing his ambitious vision.

Occasionally, triggered by a vague sense of urgency, Harry takes a break from his usual work
to consult less frequented aisles housing books on, among other obscure topics, magical
bonds. To be honest, he’s not sure what he’s looking for, or that he should be looking for
anything at all, when Hermione has spent the past year researching without definite answers.
Nevertheless, he continues to flip through barely decipherable texts, while trying to shake off
the feeling that he’s already too late.
At last, Harry completes his projects and is free to throw himself into the holiday festivities.
Christmas in Barmouth is small and intimate compared to Christmas in London. There are no
elaborate window displays, lively markets, or outdoor skating rinks. Instead, there are cozily
decorated shops, carols wafting through open windows, and public squares strung with fairy
lights. One morning, the town awakens to a light dusting of snow, which enhances its
postcard appearance.

Having never experienced Christmas outside the confines of Grimmauld Place, Tom
embraces everything the holiday season has to offer. He and Harry deck out Paradise
Kingdom in gaudy decorations and erect a Christmas tree that eclipses last year’s in size. It
ends up with so many ornaments that its branches would’ve bowed without magic to hold
them up.

The two of them also indulge in holiday shopping. While Tom is delighted by toys, sweets,
and baking ingredients, he’s most excited about jumpers, of all things. Under Harry’s patient
watch, he spends nearly an hour modeling in front of the triple-paned floor mirror, twirling to
admire himself from every angle.

“I look good, right?” His reflected eyes meet Harry’s, shining with excitement and childish
pride in his appearance.

Harry swallows the lump in his throat. “Absolutely.”

Technically, clothes shopping is a pointless exercise for many reasons, the least of which is
the fact that Tom will outgrow these jumpers in a month, if not sooner. But at this age, it
takes so little to please a child. He will gladly spend every Knut of his Ministry stipend on
ridiculous reindeer jumpers to maintain Tom’s sweet innocence for a while longer.

Is this how parents feel? This desire to hold onto their children’s childhoods for as long as
possible, to shield them from the harsh realities of the adult world?

“Which one should I get?” Tom says. “The reindeer, the polar bear, or the penguin?”

Harry musters a big smile. “Let’s buy them all!”

In parallel to holiday activities with Tom, Harry is arranging the details of his visit to England
with Kingsley. Only he will be traveling. As much as he hates to abandon Tom, there’s no
point entertaining the possibility that the arrangement could be otherwise. Besides, Tom has
few fond memories of England and will be safer staying in Wales with Elinor.

Though they have been corresponding regularly by owl since May, Harry hasn’t seen
Kingsley in person. In the first few seconds of the firecall, he’s struck by how much the
man’s wrinkles have deepened. The bridge of his nose is permanently creased, betraying a
newfound habit of rubbing his face in frustration.

The call is not at all social in nature, as Kingsley soon makes clear with his clipped and
impersonal manner. Diving straight into business, he doesn’t ask after Tom and barely asks
after Harry. Then again, he doesn’t need to, when the two of them are under constant
surveillance.
“We will provide you with a Portkey,” Kingsley says. “It will activate at precisely ten o’clock
in the morning on December 24th and December 26th, once to send you to England and once
to take you back.”

Harry nods. Forty-eight hours isn’t much time, but he’s in no position to bargain.

“We currently have the destination coordinates set to Grimmauld Place,” Kingsley continues,
“but I understand that Molly has offered you Ron’s old room at the Burrow. Would you like
to update the Portkey?”

“No, thank you,” Harry replies promptly. “I prefer Grimmauld Place.”

Kingsley assumes a knowing look and doesn’t press. The past spring, newspapers spent
weeks speculating on the state of Harry and Ginny’s relationship, some with outlandish
claims that involved wayward veelas and fugitive dragons. At last, Ginny, with the help of
Lee Jordan, published a scathing letter in the Evening Prophet threatening everyone to back
off, lest they fall victim to Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes’ infamous Bat Bogey Hexed Chain
Letters.

“Is there anything else I can help with?” Kingsley asks, in the tone of someone ready to end
the call regardless of what Harry says.

We’re not the ones you have to convince.

“Tom is doing well,” Harry blurts out. “Really well.”

A ripple passes over Kingsley’s face and settles into stillness. “I appreciate your assistance.
Elinor speaks highly of your professionalism.”

“I don’t have to do much. Tom is on good behavior. He’s —”

“I won’t be at the Burrow this year,” Kingsley interrupts, without deviating from his flat tone.
“I regret that we cannot exchange holiday greetings in person and hope you have a good visit
with your friends.”

The unspoken message is clear, and the door is shut and bolted before Harry can attempt to
push it. He has no choice but to say, “Thank you. Happy holidays to you too.”

Kingsley’s head disappears. Left with words he had no chance to express, Harry watches the
Yule logs crackle in the fireplace until the final dying embers smolder.

Winter is magical. Tom used to like summer best, but summer is too predictable, and spring
and autumn are too pretty and bland. Winter is different. It’s harsh and unforgiving, and it
brings death to anything and anyone not strong enough to endure. The beauty of winter must
be earned.

It’s like their winter garden. Unlike the bare trees on the mountains or the dead grass on the
streets, everything that he and Harry planted in autumn is blooming. The cabbages and
spinach, which (stupid) Tristan recommended because vegetables taste better when the
weather is cold, are bright green. The snowdrops, which Tom chose and prefers, have white
blossoms that curve over and fan out like ball gowns, delicately beautiful in the face of chilly
winds.

Winter also means the biggest holidays of the year are here. Tom is determined to keep his
vow and make this Christmas better than last year’s. Tom picks the tallest and biggest tree,
and spends a long time decorating with both ornaments from last year and new ones he found
this year. The front patio and garden are decorated as well: the apple trees with lights, the
telescope with a wreath, and the garden beds with garlands. Finally, Harry casts a spell so that
the entire house sparkles like a gingerbread house at night. Thus, despite being smaller,
Paradise Kingdom looks grander and more impressive than Grimmauld Place.

Even the town of Barmouth, which is sometimes too boring and sleepy for Tom’s liking, is
transformed. The stores smell of sugar and spices, happy music plays over the radios or on
the streets, and Christmas-themed toys are everywhere. The people are nicer too.
Shopkeepers, for example, often give Tom free sweets. The Muggle song is right: it’s the
most wonderful time of the year!

Glitter, unfortunately, isn’t in the holiday spirit at all. When Tom tries to explain Christmas to
him, he lashes his tail unhappily. “What’s the point of telling me about something that I
cannot enjoy for myself?”

“You can and are,” Tom says. “I bring you what Harry and I bake.”

“That’s not the same. Besides, the food you make is hardly appropriate for my nutritional
needs.”

Tom is partially regretting inviting the moody snake to stay. “You’re supposed to be a secret.
I can’t bring you outside!”

“A snake should not be cooped up inside. If I knew staying with you would be this miserable,
I wouldn’t have abandoned my family and friends.”

With that, Glitter coils into his nest under the bed and ignores Tom.

Though Tom is offended by Glitter’s whininess, he is determined to help him. He wants to

show that he can take good care of his friends. If only there’s an easy way to sneak Glitter in
and out of his room. However, it was hard enough sneaking him inside under his puffy winter
coat without being caught by Harry or Miss Elinor. He needs another plan.

Then, Harry further ruins his holiday by telling him that he’s going away to England. “Only
for two days,” Harry says, reading the horror on Tom’s face. “We’ve been apart for that long
before.”

Tom crosses his arms. “But not at Christmas.” Now that Harry is done with school, they are
supposed to spend all of their time together! Besides, he can hardly remember the last time
Harry was gone for that long, so it doesn’t count. “Christmas is special.”

“You’re right, Christmas is special, but it’s not the most special day. You know what is?”
Harry leans forward with a smile, as if he’s about to share a secret. Tom narrows his eyes
suspiciously.

“New Year’s Eve, your birthday!”

Tom blinks. Harry has a point. Christmas is special, but it’s shared by everyone, whereas his
birthday is completely his.

“And we will have an extra special celebration. In the meantime, I’ll fire-call you every
night, and Prongs will keep you company. Okay?”

“Fine,” Tom grumbles. It’s not fair. He can never disagree with Harry, who thinks of
everything, for long. And at least, he won’t be too lonely with Glitter and Prongs around.

“Hey, stop frowning.” Harry smoothes out the furrow on Tom’s forehead. “I have a surprise
for you. A good surprise,” he adds, when Tom scowls. “Since I won’t be here on Christmas
Day, I have a present that I want to give you early.”

An early present! That gets Tom’s attention.

The box that Harry hands him is large but light, so it can’t be books. It thumps a little when
he shakes it, so it’s not sweets or stuffed animals either. Holding his breath, Tom rips off the
paper and lifts the lid to reveal —

“A backpack!” he shouts. He’s seen older kids wear backpacks at the beach and wanted one
for himself. Now he has a much prettier one. It’s mostly green, with silver flowing patterns
that resemble dolphins and snakes. And there are lots of pockets, including a secret one at the
back and a big one that’s just the right size for a snake.

Tom puts it on and rushes over to the wardrobe mirror. It fits perfectly and already feels like
an extension of himself.

“This was my school project,” Harry says, joining him at the mirror. He adjusts the straps so
they would lie neatly over Tom’s shoulders. “I charmed it so it will grow with you, and it will
never feel heavy no matter how much you put inside. Do you like it?”

“Yes!” Tom hugs the backpack to his chest with one arm and squeezes Harry’s waist with the
other. “Thank you. Thank you! I can’t wait to use it!”

As usual, Harry has given Tom the perfect present. But that’s not surprising, because Harry is
perfect.

Harry laughs. “Well, Miss Elinor wants to buy groceries, if you want to come and help.”

Normally, grocery shopping is a chore, but Tom nods eagerly. “Can we go right now?”

“We can ask her if she wants to leave early. You ready, then?”

“Yes — uh, just a minute! I need to go to my room. Because I need to show — I need to
change into my new jumper!”
“All right. I’ll head downstairs first. Let me know if you need help.”

Harry is so kind and understanding that guilt wells up inside Tom. But the guilt doesn’t last
too long.

Glitter will be so excited!

They have a wonderful shopping trip. For once, Tom doesn’t mind having to help Miss Elinor
carry groceries. Glitter enjoys himself too. He stays quiet while outside, but as soon as he’s
back in Tom’s room, he hisses in excitement about the human world glimpsed through the
open zippers. The smells! The sounds! The bright colors!

To reward his behavior, Tom snuck barbeque-flavored crisps and beef jerky to his room.
Glitter is probably still snacking on them.

It’s their last night together before Harry leaves in the morning, and they are together in bed.
Harry just took a shower, and his wet hair looks so soft that Tom has the urge to run his hand
through it.

Instead, he curls his hand around Harry’s and nuzzles it. “I really like my backpack.”

“I’m glad,” Harry says. “I had lots of fun making it for you.”

Tom squeezes Harry’s fingers and hops to his feet. “It’s my turn to give you your present.”

“My present?” Harry looks surprised, then pleased. “I can’t wait!”

Tom hasn’t gotten a chance to wrap the present, so he lays them out on the bed in front of
Harry. He drew three giant pictures, which are framed in white cardboard for protection. “I
wanted to draw your stories of the boy in the cupboard,” he explains. “This is the boy in
Diagon Alley, buying his wand. This is the boy at King’s Cross Station, ready to get on the
train. And this is the boy seeing Hogwarts from the boat.”

Harry sucks in his breath. Slowly, he traces over each picture before resting his trembling
fingertip on the boy gazing at the castle. “These are beautiful. You captured everything
wonderfully.”

Tom beams. He isn’t sure why he can see everything in Harry’s stories clearly. The places,
especially, are so real to him, as if he has been there himself. He did leave out the scar for the
boy though; he didn’t want to make it too obvious that he’s drawing Harry.

“And that’s not all!” he says. “The pictures can move. Look!”

He shows Harry how the door and windows of the wand shop flip open, how the Hogwarts
Express moves forward and backward on the track, and how the stars that hang over
Hogwarts blink. It took a long time to get the details correct and fit the pieces together, but
the effort was worth it because of Harry’s gasps of amazement.
“And I’m not done! I’m going to draw more pictures as you tell me more stories. Then we
can put them into our very own book, and read them to each other whenever we want.”

“That’s a brilliant idea. I can’t wait.”

Carefully, Harry gathers the pictures and puts them away, before he climbs into bed beside
Tom. His eyes are oddly shiny, but he is grinning, so the tears must be happy tears. Tom lays
his head on his favorite place on Harry’s chest, where he can feel each heartbeat and breath.

“How did the boy in the cupboard celebrate his first Christmas at Hogwarts?” he asks. “Was
it a good one?”

“Yes, he enjoyed it very much. He’s happy that he doesn’t have to return to his uncle and
aunt’s house, and he got real presents.”

“From his friends?”

“Yes, but also from a mysterious stranger. Can you guess what he got?” Tom hugs his blanket
and shakes his head. “He got a cloak that can make him disappear. The Invisibility Cloak.”

“The Invisibility Cloak!” Tom repeats, impressed. “Did he ever find out who sent it?”

Harry’s tone turns mysterious. “Yes, but you’ll have to be patient and wait until we reach that
part of the story.”

Tom huffs in annoyance. He hates having to be patient. But Harry chooses that moment to
pinch his cheek lightly, and Tom is distracted by a strange swooping in his stomach.

“However, that was not the boy’s biggest discovery,” Harry says. “While wandering around
the castle at night under his new cloak, he found a special mirror.”

“What made it special?”

“It was the Mirror of Erised. That means it didn’t show the boy’s reflection, but his heart’s
desire.”

“What’s a heart’s desire? Do I have one?”

“Of course, everyone does. A heart’s desire is like a wish, but stronger. It’s something you
really, really want.”

A wish, but stronger. Tom can envision it: a young Harry pressing his face against the mirror,
breath fogging up the glass, the way Tom fogs up his bathroom mirror in the morning.

“What did the boy see?” he wants to know.

“His family,” Harry says. “The boy saw his parents for the first time in the mirror.”

Tom clenches his hands. “Did the mirror make his heart’s desire come true?”
“It didn’t.” Harry’s voice is full of regret. “It couldn’t.”

That means he’s still Harry’s only family. Tom relaxes, but he finds himself wondering — yet
again — why the boy lost his family. Harry has never explained, and every time Tom starts to
ask, either Harry changes the topic, or something stops him before the words can form,
something that suggests he doesn’t really want the answer.

“What do you think you’d see in the mirror?” Harry asks.

Well, that’s easy. Tom thinks of his whispers to the meteors, to the birthday candles. And
then, the deadly fear that he and Harry are slipping away from each other.

He almost tells Harry about Glitter, but he loses courage. “I don’t want to keep secrets from
you,” he says instead, not answering Harry’s question.

The bed creaks as Harry shifts to ruffle his hair. “What brought this on? I told you that it’s
okay. We all have secrets.”

But maybe not this type of secret. Tom bites his bottom lip. “Is it normal for people to talk to
animals?”

“Talk to animals? Of course. People talk to animals all the time. My good friend, Hagrid, is
friendly with many creatures.”

“But in their language?”

“Oh.” Harry pauses. “Yes. Some wizards and witches can.”

“Even snakes?”

“There’s nothing wrong with snakes. In fact, one of the founders of Hogwarts can talk to
snakes.”

“Wow!” Tom is impressed. He has something in common with a very powerful wizard. “Can
you ?”

“No,” Harry says, after another pause. “Unfortunately, I can’t. It’s a rare ability.”

“No,” Harry says, after another pause. “Unfortunately, I can’t. It’s a rare ability.”

Tom is both relieved and disappointed. Relieved, because he truly is special if Harry can’t do
the same. Disappointed, because he can’t share this ability with Harry. But that’s okay. He
will introduce Glitter to Harry anyway, and he will teach Harry to speak Snake Language.
Harry is smart, so he will learn, and then it will become their special language too!

Harry is studying him intently. Tom needs to change the subject. “Can you tell me a bit more
about the boy’s holiday at Hogwarts?” He widens his eyes. “You won’t be here tomorrow to
continue the story.”
His “puppy eyes” — as Harry calls them — work. “All right,” Harry says, chuckling. “Just a
bit more.”

The story continues with the boy sharing the secret of the mirror with his best friend and
running into his headmaster. Somewhere during the headmaster’s advice to the boy, Tom falls
asleep, still holding onto Harry tightly.

* * *

The return to London doesn’t feel like a homecoming.

Beneath Harry’s hand, the doorknob of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place is icy cold. Upon
twisting it, he’s greeted by a dark hallway. Though the Ministry has scrubbed it in
anticipation of his visit, a staleness and a hollowness persist. It seems as though the
impersonal Attic and its exorcized demons have overtaken the house, leaving behind no trace
of the former homeyness. Harry almost wants to take the curtain off Walburga Black’s
glowering portrait, if only to shatter the eerie silence.

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to dwell long. After dropping off his bag, Harry Apparates to
Trafalgar Square, where he has a long-awaited reunion with Ron and Hermione. Since his
friends’ visit to Bangor, they have continued to correspond over owls and scattered fire calls,
but true conversation is hampered by constant Ministry oversight and Tom’s not-so-discreet
eavesdropping.

Finally able to enjoy each other’s company unfiltered, they hug and exchange presents, and
Ron teases Harry about his ever-deteriorating taste in disguises, which he’s wearing out of
caution. Skeeter has gone to town since the trial, filling various news publications with
Harry’s supposed exploits from around the world. The last thing he wants is for wizarding
Britain to know that Harry Potter has returned to London for Christmas.

The Christmas market is bursting with tourists and last-minute shoppers. Harry joins the
ranks of the latter and fills up his expandable shopping bag with presents for Teddy, amusing
Ron and Hermione with his indiscriminate spending. But it’s the least he could do for Teddy
after shirking his duties as godfather.

After they visit every booth, they each get everyone a steaming cup of hot chocolate and walk
to Hyde Park. Over the sound of blades gliding across the seasonal ice rink and the chatter of
the bystanders, they catch up on everything from Ron and Hermione’s upcoming joint stag
party to England’s deplorable performance in the Quidditch league.

As expected, Hermione is full of questions about Harry’s studies, resulting in an

unexpectedly fun discussion about how, despite the International Statute of Secrecy, Muggle
inventions continue to manifest in daily life thanks to resourceful Muggle-borns. Even Ron
joins the discussion, intrigued by the origins of “fellytones.”
Though Harry tries to stave off the topic for as long as possible, it inevitably comes up.
“How’s Riddle?” Hermione asks.

“He’s doing well,” Harry replies carefully.

A significant look passes between his friends. Ron speaks this time. “Is he still, er, sharing a
bed with you?”

Harry takes a long sip of hot chocolate to collect himself. Neither Ron nor Hermione had
commented on Tom’s unexpected revelation during birthday dinner, so he was hoping they’d
forgotten. Evidently, they merely intended to discuss it privately before confronting him.

“He’s young, and you know, the bed is quite large.”

His feeble joke doesn’t erase the disapproval on his friends’ faces.

“He’s eight, isn’t he?”

“Not yet,” Harry says, anticipating Hermione’s train of thought. “And Dudley needed Aunt
Petunia to stay with him at night until he was nine or ten.”

Another significant look is exchanged.

“Look, mate, we’re trying not to judge,” Ron says. “But you and Riddle are awfully close.
Don’t you think it’s, well —”

“Unnatural?” Harry supplies, and Ron nods, ears reddening.

“More or less.”

Ron isn’t wrong. Three years ago, Harry and Voldemort were actively trying to kill each
other. If someone told him that he’d be Voldemort’s loving guardian, he’d dismiss them as
loony. And if someone told Voldemort that he would be falling asleep in Harry’s arms every
night, Harry could bet his entire Gringotts vault that the Cruciatus Curse would be heavily
involved.

Luckily, he has the perfect excuse to change the topic. “Since you brought up Tom, I have a
question for you, Hermione.” Harry takes a deep breath. “You said that my bond with Tom is
changing. Were you able to confirm whether that’s true?”

“On, that’s right, I meant to update you,” Hermione says. “I ran simulations at the lab to
replicate the change in your magic. In short, yes, the bond has grown stronger.”

“And did you figure out whether it’s good or bad?”

“It’s hard to say. Magical bonds are extremely tricky because they maintain a delicate balance
of give-and-take between two magical beings. If one side is strengthening beyond its original
scope, the bond can become off-kilter and the consequences can be disastrous.”
Harry’s face must’ve changed because Hermione gives him a sharp look. “What’s wrong?
Has something happened?”

“Remember I couldn’t speak Parseltongue after the war?” His friends nod. They were with
Harry at the zoo. “I can speak it again. Even better than I could before.”

“And you think it’s related to the bond.” Hermione taps her mittened hand against her paper
cup. “Yes, I am almost certain that it is. After all, you’ve been getting visions of Riddle’s
childhood, which is an indication of magical exchange. My conjecture is, either he’s giving
you the ability to speak Parseltongue, or you are understanding Parseltongue through the
filter of his mind.”

Harry considers the distinction between the two possibilities. The former sounds like the
Horcrux all over again, and the latter sounds uncomfortably close to Legilimency. Neither is
appealing.

“But given this commendation setup, it should be one way?” Ron says, and clarifies when
Harry and Hermione both look puzzled, “What if Riddle is getting visions of Harry’s
childhood?”

“That’s a good point. Is Riddle seeing your memories, Harry?”

Is he? Harry’s mind wanders to Tom’s odd reactions to his nightmare. His persistent
questions about the boy in the cupboard. His occasional trancelike lapses in attention.

His friends are watching him expectantly. He averts his eyes. “I don’t know,” he admits.
“Anything is possible, I suppose.”

They’re quiet as they digest the implications. When Harry is brave enough to look at his
friends again, Ron gives him a cautious smile, whereas Hermione’s face is glazed in
pensiveness.

In the evening, Harry has a long fire call with Tom, who demands every detail of Harry’s
Christmas Eve activities. After sending Prongs to keep Tom company, he ascends to his old
room alone. Sleep does not come easily. Having grown used to Tom’s presence, the bed is
empty and cold. As it turns out, their sleeping arrangement is as much for his comfort as
Tom’s.

It is nearing dawn before Harry manages to fall asleep, and even then, uneasy dreams plague
him. In the morning, however, he can’t remember much other than snatches of green light
and the scent of scorching flesh.

On Christmas Day, Harry meets Ron and Hermione at their Cotswold cottage to Floo to the
Burrow together. He’s hoping this will divert attention from his arrival, but he’s
miscalculated. The minute he stumbles into the kitchen with his usual lack of grace, he’s
caught in a big hug by Mrs. Weasley.
“Harry, you’re finally here! We’ve missed you.” She releases him to examine him from head
to toe. “You’re eating well? You’ve grown taller.”

Ron snorts. “I don’t think Harry can grow any taller, Mum.”

“Nonsense. Your uncle Bilius grew five centimeters in his twenties. It was a real hassle
adjusting all of his clothes.”

“I don’t think I’ve grown, but I have been eating quite well, thanks to your care packages,
Mrs. Weasley,” Harry says. “It was wonderful having your homemade food.”

And it’s true. Though Elinor is a fine cook and Harry is improving his culinary skills, Mrs.
Weasley’s care packages, especially in the beginning, helped with homesickness.

Mrs. Weasley smiles fondly. “Of course, dear, and one of these days, I will come visit and
cook you some proper meals. You’re still much too skinny. Let me whip something up for
you.”

She begins rummaging through the dishes on the kitchen table, ignoring Harry’s protests that
he already had a full breakfast.

“Mum, don’t monopolize Harry already. We need all hands on deck” Ginny has appeared in
the doorway. “Come on, Harry. Help me carry these mince pies to the garden. Ron,
Hermione, Dad is having trouble with the tent in the orchard. Mind taking a look before he
blows something up?”

Harry gratefully obeys. “Thanks for the rescue, I didn’t want to inconvenience your mum,”
he says, falling into step beside Ginny as they leave the kitchen.

“Don’t mention it. It’s been my job all morning,” she says cheerfully. “It’s the first major
gathering in a while, so Mum is in full mother-hen mode. Earlier, she was giving George and
Angelina a hard time about not getting engaged. Then, she was lecturing Bill and Fleur about
Victoire and Dominique’s nursery. Once we’re done with these pies, I better go check who
else she’s accosted.”

“What would we do without you?” Harry wonders aloud. Their eyes meet and they share a
grin. The months apart have dispelled the former awkwardness and revived a friendly
companionship.

“I missed you,” Ginny says without preamble.

“Me too,” Harry confesses. He doesn’t miss her as a girlfriend, but he misses her terribly as a
friend, as a sister. “How’ve you been? Heard you’ve been promoted to a permanent Chaser
position. Congratulations, that’s well-deserved.”

“So you’ve been following my exploits in Quidditch?”

“Of course. You and your team are the only bright spot in the British league this season.”
“Coming from my former captain, that means a lot.” Laughing, Ginny bumps his shoulder in
a platonic gesture. “How about yourself? How has Wales been?”

He gives her a brief, redacted version of his new life, careful to skirt around any mention of
Tom lest he triggers unhappy memories. Judging from Ginny’s solemn expression, Tom’s
presence is keenly felt nonetheless.

They are outside, mere steps from joining the rest of the guests. Ginny stops. “I’m glad
you’re doing well. I want you to be happy.” The sun dances on her hair, teasing out hints of
gold in the flaming red. “No matter what happened between us, I’ve always wanted you to be
happy.”

“I want you to be happy as well,” Harry says sincerely. “I’m very, very sorry about what
happened.”

He wants to say more, but a longer heart-to-talk is stalled by the arrival of an out-of-breath
George. “Hello, Harry, lovely to see you,” he says, before turning to his sister. “Code red,
Ginny. Percy and Audrey have just arrived.”

Ginny rolls her eyes in exaggeration. “Looks like I’m on another rescue mission. Mind taking
the pies the rest of the way, Harry? I’ll catch you later.”

The garden is bustling with activity, and as he approaches, Harry is nearly run over by
Victoire chasing Teddy and barely saves the mince pies with Seeker reflexes. A blur of
familiar and unfamiliar faces greet him. There are friends from school and the Order, along
with people who have become part of the Weasleys’ social circle in his absence. Among them
are a few of Ginny’s teammates. Harry idly wonders which one she’s dating, if Ron’s gossip
is to be trusted. Whoever she is, he hopes she treats Ginny well and makes her happy.

He devotes most of his attention to Teddy, who has significantly grown since they last saw
each other. Initially, he’s worried that his godson would no longer recognize him, but it only
takes Teddy a few minutes and an armful of presents to warm up. Soon, he’s playing with his
Lego set under Harry’s guidance, though instead of the castle pictured on the box, his
creation resembles a Muggle submarine.

“Ted used to buy these for Dora,” Andromeda remarks. “Looks like Teddy inherited his
mum’s penchant for never following instructions.”

Her manner remains somewhat cool, but the smile she bestows upon Harry is genuine. He
relaxes and smiles back. “Instructions are overrated. Much better to be creative.”

“Indeed.”

Noticing Harry and Andromeda watching, he waves at them and changes his hair to yellow to
match the submarine.

“Teddy missed his godfather,” Andromeda says. “He wondered why you stopped visiting.”
The shame burrows under Harry’s skin. Teddy’s growth has driven home the number of
milestones in his life Harry has missed. Abandoning him to raise Tom was surely not what
Remus and Tonks had in mind when they named Harry as Teddy’s godfather.

“I’m sorry. I wish I could come back more often.”

“You could. Look around you.” Andromeda gestures at the garden. “You shouldn’t have to
give any of it up.”

Harry winces at her chiding tone, but looking around the happy faces in the orchard, he
understands her meaning. They fought a war to earn this peaceful life filled with cozy
holidays and caring friends. Instead, he’s here as an outsider, a visitor on a fleeting break
from exile, all because he cannot bear to see an innocent child ruined by neglect.

“I didn’t mean to choose,” he whispers.

“There shouldn’t have been a choice in the first place.”

“It’s not that simple.”

Andromeda inclines her head in silent disagreement.

“Harry! Harry!” Teddy shouts. The half-finished submarine lies on its side, having lost his
attention for the time being. He’s moved onto an enchanted model airplane. “Can we fly? Can
we?”

Harry looks to Andromeda for permission. She gives a curt nod, and relieved to be dismissed,
he hurries over to join Teddy.

The rest of Christmas passes in a blur of delicious food and cheery conversations. Harry stays
until late evening, when the last of the guests have departed and he has helped the Weasleys
clean up. Thanking the Weasleys profusely, he promises to visit again soon, a promise he
doubts he can keep.

In the final hours before Portkey takes him back to Barmouth, Harry takes a long stroll
around London. The remnant of the moon hangs low and cloaks the city in twilight. He
passes by the posh townhouses of Mayfair, the historical architecture of Westminster, and the
illuminated window displays of Covent Garden. On the streets, cars whiz by, wheels
screeching on moist pavements. Underground, the Tube rumbles as trains navigating the
maze of tunnels.

London is as it always has been: dynamic and glittering with possibilities that draw idealistic
fortune seekers from around the world. Yet for Harry, the city has lost its luster. The
skyscrapers seem drab and gray, the honks and sirens are grating, and the constant movement
makes him yearn for tranquility. And now that the holiday is over, the Christmas decorations
look tired and over-the-top, resembling the dregs of an exciting party.
You shouldn’t have to give any of it up, Andromeda told him, but what is he giving up,
precisely? In the time that has elapsed since his move to Barmouth, England has ceased to be
home. And deep down, he knows the truth he cannot tell Andromeda: if he ever has to
choose, he will pick Tom. Bond or not, he and Tom are connected in a way that defies logic
and magic.

He has reached the Thames River just as the sun is rising. Golden rays pierce through the
morning haze, lifting the curtains to a brand new day. Taking one glance around London,
Harry turns on his heel to Disapparate. It’s time to go home.

* * *

Harry leaves on Christmas Eve, but Tom is surprised that he doesn’t mind Harry’s absence
too much. He misses Harry, of course, but he has so much to do!

With his backpack, he takes Glitter on a tour of the house. Only Harry and Miss Elinor’s
rooms are off-limits. Miss Elinor shrugs when she sees Tom wearing the backpack indoors.
She probably figures that Tom really likes it, the way Tom really likes almost everything he
gets from Harry. That’s good because she won’t suspect anything.

Although Glitter’s eyes aren’t good, and the bag can’t be wholly unzipped, he’s able to rely
on his other senses to paint himself a picture of Paradise Kingdom. The strangest things
fascinate Glitter, such as the flushing of toilets and the running of the kitchen sink. He’s
always hissing an endless stream of questions, and Tom tries his best to answer, making them
up when he doesn’t know, which happens embarrassingly often. There are so many things he
doesn’t know about the world. Secretly, he resolves to ask Harry for the real answers later.

Glitter is still asking questions at night, after Tom’s fire call with Harry (“Why doesn’t the
fire burn him?”) and his good night kisses from Prongs (“Are you sure I can’t eat it?”). They
are on Tom’s bed, with Tom leaning against his pillows and Glitter coiled on his lap. Prongs
is watching them, but he’s fading as Harry’s magic runs out.

“So this Santa Claus person,” Glitter says. “He will bring presents and put them in your big
sock.”

“And under the tree,” Tom says. “That’s why our tree is so big!”

“How does he know what you want?”

“I wrote him a letter, of course.” Tom is proud that he wrote it himself, even though Harry
had to fix some spellings.

“How does he know where you live?”

“Because he has magic.” When Tom worried that Santa wouldn’t know his new address in
Wales, Harry assured him that he knew already.

Glitter dips his head, which Tom has learned to be his version of a frown. “And he does this
for all the human kids in the world?”

“He has a lot of magic.”

“If he has this much magic, why wouldn’t he bring presents to all the snakes in the world as
well?”

Tom rolls his eyes. The questions are getting tiresome. “Because he’s a human, silly. It’s not
his fault that there’s no Santa Claus for snakes.”

Unlike Tom, Glitter isn’t done with the conversation. “Have you ever seen this person? Has
anyone?”

“Obviously not. He only comes when we’re asleep.”

“Then how do you know what he looks like?” Glitter gestures at the cover of The Polar
Express with his tail, where a grinning Santa Claus is waving. “How do you know he even
exists in the first place?”

“Because I got presents from him last year.”

“How do you know it’s from Santa?”

“Because — because —”

Glitter lets out a pleased hiss at Tom’s floundering. “A snake would never believe in which
he could not see.”

Tom clenches his jaw, annoyed. Santa Claus didn’t make perfect sense to him last year, and
he makes even less sense after Glitter’s annoying questions.

“Because Harry told me they’re from Santa,” he insists, but the words sound embarrassingly
feeble.

“What if your Harry lies to you?”

“Harry wouldn’t lie!” Tom almost shouts before he remembers to keep his voice down to
avoid drawing Miss Elinor’s attention. “He wouldn’t lie,” he whispers harshly.

The snake only stares back, unblinking. “You have complained to me that he keeps secrets
from you. Aren’t secrets lies?”

No, secrets and lies aren’t the same thing. Harry can keep secrets and not lie about important
things. Not to Tom.
This is too much. Tom doesn’t want to think about this anymore. Why does Glitter have to
ruin everything?

“You’re wrong!” he snaps, so Glitter wouldn’t see how close he is to tears. “Santa will bring
me presents!”

With that, he shoves Glitter off his lap and turns to face the wall. A few minutes later, the
pillow dips as Glitter coils on it. Stupid snake, trying to take advantage of Tom’s body heat
after he’s upset him.

But Glitter’s presence is soothing, and Glitter’s fluttering tongue on his earlobe feels like a
peace offering, so Tom allows him to stay.

As soon as he’s awake the next morning, Tom dashes into the living room and finds that it’s
filled with presents. The exact presents that Tom asked for in his letter.

“See?” he brags, once he has lugged everything to his room. He tries to sound extra smug to
hide the fact that Santa Claus wasn’t what really upset him last night. “Santa exists and
brought me everything I wanted.”

Glitter dips his head in a shrug again. “Congratulations.”

For some reason, Tom feels less vindicated than expected. Nevertheless, he generously shares
his breakfast bacon and teaches Glitter how to play his new board game.

When Harry returns — with even more presents — Tom’s holiday is perfect. They return to
their regular activities of reading, playing, and baking. At night, Tom is happy to be back in
Harry’s bed. Glitter isn’t a terrible bedmate, but Tom feels safest in Harry’s arms, even if he’s
sometimes awakened by Harry’s nightmares.

Soon, December is over, and Tom’s birthday is here. For his cake, Harry brought a new type
of chocolate from London that’s darker and richer than their usual baking chocolate. Tom
sneaks a taste while mixing and loves it. More and more, he prefers the bitter taste of
chocolate to be unsoiled by milk and sugar.

Once the cake is cooled and frosted, Harry starts putting on candles, each striped with Tom’s
favorite colors of red, green, gold, and silver. After he sticks in the seventh candle, he pauses
and frowns. It seems Tom’s age confuses him too.

“How old am I turning?” Tom asks.

“Um. Almost eight.” Biting his lip, Harry sticks in the eighth candle. With a wave of his
wand, they light up.

“If I’m only almost eight, why are we having a birthday now?”

“Because — you’re special.”

Harry likes to use this excuse to avoid answering questions. Usually, Tom likes to be
reminded that he’s special, so he doesn’t mind. But today, he watches the flickering candles
cast shadows on Harry’s troubled face.

What if your Harry lies to you?

“Go on,” Harry urges, when Tom doesn’t move. “Time to blow out your candles and make a
wish. Once you do, I have another present for you.”

Another present? Doubt forgotten, Tom blows out the candles in one puff and wolves down
the first slice of cake. It tastes scrumptious.

Harry’s newest present is in such a big and heavy box that Harry helps Tom unwrap it. Miss
Elinor, attracted by the commotion, joins them in the living room to watch. The box opens to
unveil a black box with a glass front. When he peers close, Tom can see his reflection.

“Is this a mirror?” he asks.

“No,” Harry replies. “It’s a telly.”

Tom doesn’t recognize the word, but Miss Elinor does. “I didn’t realize that you can hook up
a telly here,” she says, bending for a closer look herself. “I learned in Muggle Studies that
electricity does not function properly in a magical household.”

Harry grins. “That’s true, but magic and electricity can coexist if you can set up two pocket
dimensions to keep them from mutual interference. It’s difficult to do at scale, but for my
Magical Theory project, I localized them to the living room, so it’s not too bad.”

“Ah, that explains what you’ve been tinkering with. Very impressive.”

Miss Elinor circles the telly and opens her mouth to ask more questions, but Tom loses his
patience. This is his present. He tugs at Harry’s hand, forcing his attention back to Tom.
“Show me how to use it!”

“All right. First, we have to turn it on. You can use this.” Harry holds out a small black
device. “This is called a remote control. These are buttons. See this red one? This is the
power button. Press it.”

Tom presses it. The telly beeps and people appear on the screen. Moving people who seem to
be baking biscuits. Tom stares. “There are people in the telly?” He didn’t notice anyone when
he peered inside earlier.

“No. Think of the telly as, er, a moving book. The people inside are telling a story, but it’s
recorded by video instead of on paper.”

“So it’s magic?”

“This is actually a Muggle invention. But they use technology like electricity, and satellites,
and wires, and…well, I don’t remember the details.”
Miss Elinor lets out a soft chuckle. “Perhaps your explanation would be better served by a
demonstration, Harry.”

“Right. Good idea.”

Harry teaches Tom to use the remote. It works sort of like a wand, with each button like a
spell, except it only works on the telly. Some buttons change the sound to be louder or softer,
and some buttons change the channels, each of which is like a different book. Some have
moving people and others have moving pictures. Some tell real-world stories and others tell
made-up stories. Some are even in different languages. Tom’s head spins with the new
information he’s absorbing. He hasn’t realized before that Muggles could be so smart.

They end up on a channel where lots of people are cheering and dancing in a square,
reminding Tom of Bonfire Night. “Happy New Year!” they shout to each other, and he turns
to Harry in confusion.

“It’s not midnight yet.” The grandfather clock reads eight twenty-five. “Why are people
celebrating already?”

“Time is a little different everywhere. So some people reach the New Year before us, and
some people reach the New Year after us.”

“Why does that happen?”

“Yes, because the earth is round —” Harry sighs. “Never mind, I’m rubbish at this. One of
these days, I’ll take you to a science museum that can properly explain everything.”

Tom has read about museums. He’d love to go see models of the solar system or dinosaur
skeletons for himself.

He turns back to the telly. Colorful confetti is raining from the sky, loud music is playing, and
lights are flashing, illuminating the faces of the people in the crowd. The channel zooms in
on two people kissing each other on the mouth, just as the bride and groom did at the
wedding.

Breath hitching, Tom imagines himself and Harry standing in the square, surrounded by
cheers and applause. Imagines brushing confetti from Harry’s dark hair. Imagines Harry’s
soft lips against his own, soft and sweet.

“Are you all right, Tom? Your face is red. Did I overdo the Heating Charm?”

Harry leans over and lays the back of his hand on Tom’s forehead, but Tom wriggles away.
“I’m fine,” he says and presses his face against Harry’s shoulder instead. His body burns with
a yearning to hold on. To what exactly, he’s not quite sure.

(You stand before the mirror, taking in the words on the frame: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru
oyt on wohsi.

Your heart’s desire. What is it —

A stone. The stone. One that will restore you to your full power and beyond. But of course,
the stupid old man has to make this endeavor difficult with convoluted enchantments.

“I cannot find it,” your vessel whimpers. “I see myself presenting it to you, my Lord, but I
don’t know how to retrieve it from the mirror.”

After a year, his uselessness is grating on your nerves. To you, the answer is as clear as
crystal. “The boy,” you hiss. “The boy is the key.”

Indeed, the boy has always been the key.

The fire behind you roars with the arrival of a newcomer carrying the magic of a kindred. In
turn, your magic reaches out, searching and yearning…)

“Ouch!” Harry grunts.

Tom blinks. He’s no longer on the couch but in bed, and Harry is tucking him in. Or he was,
before Tom tried to grab his glasses.

He lets go. “Bedtime?” he mumbles, and a huge yawn escapes.

“Yes. Way past bedtime. Someone conked out on the couch.” Harry kisses him on the
forehead, and then his cheek. “Good night and happy New Year. See you in 2001.”

He settles on the pillow beside Tom and closes his eyes. Meanwhile, Tom presses his hand to
his cheek, chasing the warmth of Harry’s lips. The mirror rises in his mind, the glittering
letters around its frame reordering themselves. I show not your reflection but your heart’s
desire.

There’s no doubt what he would see.

“I think,” he confides, so sleepily that he won’t understand or remember the words in the
morning, “you were born to be mine.”

2001 dawns without incident. For his second term at the Institute, Harry continues with the
same courses. The material has grown more advanced, but his confidence has also grown
with good grades on his final projects. Overall, he’s feeling settled into student life.

Thanks to the telly, Tom is quite self-sufficient while Harry is busy with school. He’s allowed
a few hours of telly a day, limited to children-appropriate channels, and he always has a host
of discoveries to share at the dinner table. He especially adores Thomas the Tank Engine and
Bob the Builder. Harry suspects that Tom sees himself — and whom he’d like to become —
in the titular characters, who are resourceful and full of personality.

With amusement, he imagines the reactions of Voldemort’s Death Eaters if they saw their
beloved lord glued to the screen to watch animated characters race on train tracks or construct
machines. Bellatrix Lestrange, bless her deranged dead soul, would probably have a
meltdown.
Weather in Barmouth starts to warm up in February, a herald to the arrival of spring. On
Saturday, thanks to a lull in coursework, Harry offers to take Tom to the beach. While Elinor
can and does take Tom in his absence, neither enjoys these outings without Harry as a buffer.

Tom eagerly agrees and appears at the front door with his bulging backpack.

“Your bag looks awfully bulky,” Harry remarks after he finishes changing their appearances
and altering the backpack’s colors. “Could I help you carry it?”

“No!” Tom half-turns to shield the backpack, now orange with blue polka dots, from view. “I
can carry it myself.”

Harry chuckles at his adorable possessiveness. “Why do you need to bring so many things to
the beach anyway?”

“I — I must be prepared!” Tom insists, and Harry decides to stop questioning the wisdom of
precocious eight-year-olds.

As usual, Elinor splits from them at the car park to run her own errands. The beach is fairly
busy for late winter, and Harry recognizes a few regulars, though he cannot greet anyone.

Unlike him, Tom enjoys pretending to be someone new with his playmates every visit. While
he runs over to play on the sand, Harry finds a comfortable seat at the edge of the beach. The
sunlight and salty sea air are welcome after over a month of being cooped up inside, between
weather, classes, and now the telly. He takes out a textbook, illusioned as a Muggle
magazine, and starts reading, pausing every once in a while to check on Tom.

As expected, Tom is building a sand castle, an activity he never seems to tire of. The
structures become more impressive each time, particularly when he has minions to direct.
Today, for instance, he’s joined by a girl around his age, though she doesn’t appear to be
following his instructions well, judging by Tom’s frustration, visible from afar.

Harry smiles in amused fondness. Only Tom could be self-righteous about the number of
turrets on a castle. Oh, to be a carefree kid. He returns to his book.

The next time he looks up, his amusement fades. The children’s argument has escalated. Tom
is on his feet and loudly berating the girl, who is holding her ground and snapping right back.
They’re not at the point of physical altercation, but that may not be far away.

As he rises to intervene before the situation devolves, Harry catches a movement coming
from Tom’s backpack, which has been lying beside the controversial sand castle. At first,
Harry thinks it’s moving from Tom’s magic, but Tom isn’t tugging on the bond, which means
his magic is currently dormant.

Then what —

Shocked horror jolts through Harry as a snake emerges from half-open zippers. If he’s not
mistaken, this is the same grass snake Tom was talking with in the garden a few months ago.
 Has Tom been keeping the snake with him all this time? Harry thinks back to the
conversation he overheard. Tom did say something about building a nest, but Harry assumed
that he was building a secret nest in the garden for visiting, not a permanent nest at home.
This must’ve been why Tom has been attached to his backpack for the past two months. He’s
been using it to transport the snake everywhere.

Harry grinds his teeth. What has he done? He’s supposed to keep Tom out of trouble, yet he
has been oblivious to this transgression. In fact, he has enabled Tom by giving him the
perfect vehicle for his snake.

No time to wallow in self-blame. He has to defuse the situation before Elinor is back from
grocery shopping or other beachgoers take notice.

The first thing he does is to cast an expanded Notice-Me-Not Spell over the arguing children
to hide the unfolding tension. As he approaches them from behind, he notices in horror that
Tom is making a hand signal behind his back. The snake creeps closer, eyes intent on its
newest prey.

Harry’s mind races. A grass snake isn’t venomous, so it can’t fatally bite the girl. However, it
will definitely terrify her, and the consequences, should the Ministry catch wind, would be
equally catastrophic. Harry can’t blame them either. There is a difference between a snake
biting a girl to defend Tom and Tom egging on his dangerous pet to hurt an innocent child.

Tom shuffles from foot to foot, perhaps counting down the seconds until his snake strikes.
The girl is beginning to sense something amiss. Her eyes slide to the sand and her mouth
drops open as she registers the predator slithering toward her.

“Now!” Tom commands, and the snake rises, snapping its jaws wide open.

“Stop!” Harry shouts. “Leave her alone!”

Three heads turn toward him. The snake, recoiling at the presence of another Parselmouth.
The girl, a scream half-caught in her throat at her narrowly avoided fate. And, worst of all,
Tom, burning with shock and betrayal.

Chapter End Notes

February doesn’t seem to be a good month for the boys in this fic. Last year, Tom was
kidnapped, and this year — we shall see!

While we’ll be taking a detour from fluffy slice of life for a bit, please trust that the pain
(which incidentally will be the title of the next chapter) will have payoff.
 Pain
Chapter Summary

Trouble in paradise.

Chapter Notes

Hi everyone, welcome back. Happy Year of the Dragon to those who celebrate!

Thank you as always for your support and patience, especially as last chapter ended on a
cliffhanger. I was hoping to update in January, but ended up having way less writing
time than anticipated. February is also shaping up to be crazy, but I hope to get back on
track.

I want to assure everyone that there’s a reason for disrupting the boys’ idyllic existence.
In Act I, Harry and Tom are united against a common enemy — the Ministry — but in
Act II, they need to confront each other in order to evolve their dynamics. It probably
doesn’t seem this way right now, but I do want the best for them :)

Please enjoy the update!

Update: 1st February 2001

Estimated biological age: 8 years

* * *

On the other end of the bond, Tom’s fury is coiled like a serpent readying to strike, but Harry
can’t afford to dwell on it. Damage control is paramount.

He rushes over to the girl and kneels. “Hey,” he says, nudging her view away from Tom’s
snake. “Don’t be scared. That’s not a real snake. That’s only a stuffed animal.”

“A stuffed animal?” she repeats. “But I saw it move.”

“It’s battery-powered, so it can move to seem real, but it definitely is just a toy. See?”
Wand held behind his back, Harry covertly casts an illusion to render the snake more toy-like,
adding fuzziness to its scales and softening its proportions to be mammalian. His spell would
be too rushed to fool Tom, but it should be enough to fool a Muggle child who hasn’t seen a
snake up close. To his relief, the snake cooperates by remaining still and seems to be
watching Harry for further instruction.

“You see, my brother really likes snakes, so I bought him this toy for Christmas,” Harry says.
“Did Santa Claus also bring you a lot of presents?”

“Um yeah.” The girl’s shoulders loosen a little. “He got me stuffed animals too. And games.
And a new dollhouse!”

“Wow, a dollhouse. My best friend loves dollhouses.” Harry adopts a big grin to accompany
his lie. “By the way, my name is Henry. What’s yours?”

“I’m Amy.”

Amy Benson, Harry’s mind immediately supplies. No. Stop. Just an unfortunate coincidence,
and nothing more.

“Nice to meet you, Amy,” he says. “I’m sorry again that my brother’s new toy scared you. He
didn’t mean to. And I can tell he enjoyed building a castle with you. It looks great.”

“Thanks,” she says, a trace of pride slipping into her tone. “The moat was my idea. It’s heart-
shaped.”

Harry hides a grimace on Tom’s behalf. “That’s very creative! But we’ll have to finish it
another day because I have to take my brother home soon. Can I help you find your parents?”

“Well, all right.” Amy offers her hand for Harry to take.

Before Harry can do so, an iron grip descends on his wrist. Tom is breathing heavily, pupils
dilated and cheeks flushed. “Don’t.”

His whisper, at once a command and a plea, stabs at Harry’s heart, but he gently frees his
hand. “I won’t be long,” he reassures him, before he returns his attention to the girl. However,
he doesn’t take her hand, lest he further trigger Tom.

As they leave Tom behind, Harry makes small conversation with Amy, learning that she’s
visiting Wales with her family until the end of the week. Though Amy glances over her
shoulder a few times, she engages with Harry’s questions and no longer seems bothered by
the snake.

“Mum!” she calls.

Her mother lays down a sketchpad just as Amy throws herself into her arms. She looks up at
Harry, confused and wary.

“Hello, I’m Harry,” Harry hastens to say. “Your daughter and my brother were playing
together, but we are heading home.” He smiles at Amy. “You had fun, right?”
Fun might be stretching it, since Amy was bossed around by Tom prior to their fight, but she
returns his smile and nods.

Her mother relaxes. “I’m glad Amy was able to make new friends. And I appreciate you
walking her back.”

“No problem. I hope to see you again. I’m sure Timmy does as well.”

“Okay!” Amy says cheerfully. “We’ll finish the castle next time.”

Keeping the pleasant smile on his face, Harry bids Amy and her mother farewell. Only after
they have departed does he heed the sharp pains shooting through his scar.

He turns. The snake has retreated inside the backpack. Tom is standing in the same place, not
saying anything, but with a foreboding silence that is more terrifying. His magic crashes
against the bond like the waves of an angry sea. The bond holds but trembles under the
assault.

Harry reaches for his hand. “I’m here now. Let’s go home.”

Tom violently shakes off Harry’s hand. “No.”

“Let’s go home,” Harry says, more firmly to disguise his growing uneasiness. “We will talk
about it then.”

Elinor, who has returned, joins them upon the removal of the Notice-Me-Not spell. She
senses something amiss straightaway. “Is everything all right?” she asks, looking between
Harry and Tom.

“We had a minor situation,” Harry says. “I’ll explain later.”

Elinor, ever tactful and adaptable, agrees.

Harry grabs Tom’s hand and holds on against Tom’s spirited attempts to break free. Fellow
beachgoers throw them curious looks as they pass, but quickly lose interest. Tantrums
happen, and faceless tourists are easily forgotten.

The car ride is quiet. Harry’s unease has developed into full-blown dread. He will need to tell
Elinor about Tom’s stunt at the beach. Maybe they will need to report it to the Ministry,
because surely summoning a snake to attack a child falls under the purview of the Vow. How
would the Ministry react?

Most importantly, he has to face Tom’s wrath. Usually, when Harry sits in the backseat, Tom
is curled against him as much as his seatbelt would allow. Today, he’s practically plastered
against the opposite window in an attempt to maximize distance between them, a loud
indication of his state of mind. Harry would rather stand another trial in front of the
Wizengamot.

But they’ll reconcile, won’t they? After all, they’ve fought before with no lasting harm. Harry
will apologize for lying about Parseltongue, explain why Tom shouldn’t use magic to scare
other kids, and find an enjoyable activity for them to do together, like baking or reading.
Then things will return to normal.

His forced optimism is belied by his churning stomach.

Elinor can tell something happened, though she doesn’t probe. After Tom dashes inside the
house upon reaching Paradise Kingdom, she stops Harry from helping to unload the
groceries. “I believe you have something more urgent to address.”

To underline her point, they hear the stomping of Tom’s footsteps on the stairs, soon followed
by the slamming of his bedroom door.

Harry’s optimism dims a few more notches, but he tries to hide it with a grateful smile.
“Thank you,” he says, and hurries after Tom.

Tom is sulking when Harry knocks on the door. He can’t decide what angers him more: Harry
speaking Snake Language and not telling him, or Harry protecting and being so nice to the
stupid girl.

Arms crossed, he doesn’t answer.

“Tom, please open the door,” Harry pleads. “I know you’re upset, and I’m sorry. Please let
me explain.”

The desperation in Harry’s voice gives Tom satisfaction, but the satisfaction is tinged with
guilt. He hates distressing Harry.

“You should answer your mate,” Glitter remarks. “Mates must communicate needs with each
other.”

“How would you know?” Tom demands. “You don’t have a mate.”

Glitter returns his glare evenly. “You know I’m right.”

With a loud sigh, Tom hops off the bed and stomps towards the door. Only because he
doesn’t want Harry to keep knocking and annoying him. Not because Glitter is right in any
way.

Harry steps inside the room. “Tom —”

“You better make it quick,” Tom snaps, “or my snake will attack you!”

Glitter doesn’t take the cue to hiss. Instead, he greets Harry with a tail wag. Traitor, siding
with Harry after everything Tom has done for him.

Harry gives Glitter a small smile. “Hello, I’m sorry we didn’t have a better introduction,” he
says, slipping into soft hisses himself. He manages to sound Harry-like even when speaking a
completely different language. “I didn’t realize that Tom had a friend staying with him this
whole time. But, er, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Harry.”
“Likewise, Tom has told me much about you.” Glitter bobs his head in a fancy bow. “I am He
Who Glitters Most Under the Sun. And you needn’t worry. I greatly prefer my own world
and don’t plan to stay here forever. When the mountains turn green and the flowers bloom
again, I will leave.”

“I understand. Until then, I’ll make sure the other humans in the house won’t bother you. And
if you have any, er, dietary needs, you can let me know.”

“I appreciate your hospitality,” Glitter says, ignoring Tom’s dirty look.

Having greeted Glitter, Harry re-focuses on Tom. He holds out his arms, but Tom jerks away
and ignores Harry’s attempts to make eye contact.

Eventually, Harry gives up. “I know you have a lot of questions,” he says, switching to
English. “Can you give me a chance to explain?”

Tom refuses to respond, which Harry takes to be an agreement.

“First, the language that we speak to communicate with snakes — it’s called Parseltongue. I
wasn’t lying that it’s a rare ability. In fact, we may be the only two wizards alive who can
speak it.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me you had it when I asked?” Tom demands, frustration boiling
over his silent treatment. “Why did you have to pretend?”

“It’s complicated. For me, Parseltongue comes with a lot of bad memories. Most of the
snakes I met wanted to eat me.”

“Eat you?” Tom repeats in horror, anger temporarily forgotten in a surge of protectiveness.

Harry nods grimly. “Luckily, none of them succeeded, and part of me wants to pretend I’ve
lost the ability. I’m very sorry that I didn’t tell you, and I’ll try to keep fewer secrets from you
in the future.”

Although Tom feels himself softening, he refuses to be so easily comforted. “It’s not just that
you lied about Snake Lang — Parseltongue. You picked her side.”

“I didn’t pick her side,” Harry says. “I didn’t want you to hurt anyone —”

“Were you hurt?”

“No —”

“I’d never hurt you.”

“I know you would never hurt me, but Amy still matters —”

“Amy doesn’t matter! Amy will never matter to you!” Red explodes in Tom’s vision and his
magic swells, seeking both to push Harry away and to bring him closer, so close that he can
never leave Tom. “You’re mine.”
He hisses the last word in Parseltongue, and a gust sweeps through the bedroom, even though
the windows are shut.

“Tom. Please calm down.” Harry seizes Tom’s shoulders. “You’re right. Amy doesn’t mean
anything to me. She never will. I am yours.”

Tom’s breath hitches. There’s no trace of dishonesty in Harry’s eyes.

“But protecting Amy isn’t about whether she matters or not.” Harry guides them to sit on
Tom’s bed. Tom allows him and even nuzzles Harry’s hand when he tentatively strokes
Tom’s hair. “Telling your snake to bite her, or anyone, over a sandcastle is never okay. As
wizards, we have to use our magic responsibly. We help Muggles, not hurt them.”

“Even if they’re stupid and annoying?”

Harry’s mouth twitches. “Especially if they’re stupid and annoying.”

Tom considers this. “Is that why I’m too young to use magic?” he asks slowly. “Because the
person who’s blocking my magic doesn’t trust me not to hurt other people?”

Harry pauses. “Well…sort of…”

“Did I mess up today? Did I prove them right?” Tom tugs at Harry’s arm urgently. “What can
I do to get them to trust me?”

“Don’t worry. They understand that young wizards need help controlling their magic —”

“So you know this person?”

“I —”

“Can you tell them I won’t mess up again?”

“I —”

Why is Harry acting so oddly? He was just talking about keeping fewer secrets. This
convinces Tom that Harry does know that person, and knows them well enough to try to
protect them. Betrayal is rising again. Maybe that someone is Harry’s friend. Maybe that
someone is one of the friends Tom met. Or maybe…

An idea takes shape, one that wouldn’t have occurred to Tom if he hadn’t been upset with
Harry.

Or maybe that someone is Harry.

No, that’s crazy. Harry is the one who introduced Tom to magic in the first place. Harry uses
magic to take care of Tom and make him happy. Harry loves Tom. Harry wouldn’t, couldn’t
be this horrible person.
Yet, even as Tom tries to shove the idea away, clues are connecting and puzzle pieces falling
into place. The webs blocking his magic have always felt familiar. Familiar like the magic
that healed his cuts, warmed him on cold nights, and lit up their Christmas trees.

“The webs,” Tom says. The room is suddenly freezing and he begins to tremble. “The webs.
You are the webs.”

Harry has gone pale and stiff. “Tom, listen —”

Any doubt he had evaporates in face of Harry’s reaction, and his world explodes into
smithereens. The webs aren’t keeping Tom from Harry. The webs are created by Harry.

That’s why Tom was able to use his magic at the park. Because Harry allowed it.

That’s why Tom can’t use magic now or possibly ever. Because Harry doesn’t allow it.

The promises that Harry made to the fire in front of the purple-robed people — that’s what
they were truly about. Not protecting Tom, but controlling him.

“You took away my magic!” he shouts, so loudly that Harry flinches. “Why? Why would you
do that? How could you? I trusted you!”

“Tom,” Harry begins, but a poisonous voice, cold and clear, answers first.

Because he doesn’t trust you, it hisses. Because he’s never trusted you. That’s why he kept so
many secrets from you. That’s why he took Amy’s side. This is only the beginning.

Harry is saying something, and maybe Glitter is also hissing something, but Tom can’t focus.
His magic is quaking under his skin, thrumming through his blood, and gathering at his
fingertips. It’s hungering for revenge as it chips away at the webs. It’s going to free itself, and
then it’s going to show Harry what Tom is capable of. It’s going to hurt.

All of a sudden, the webs expand. Harry is pouring his own magic into them, strengthening
them to be tougher than they’ve ever felt, and forcing Tom’s magic to retreat.

“No!” Tom screams, scrabbling for the strands of his magic that he can reach. “I won’t let
you take it!”

His magic clashes with Harry’s. Dimly, he’s aware that the bedroom is shaking and furniture
is clattering. Something falls from his desk and shatters, but doesn’t bother to check to see
what it is.

“Don’t you dare take it!”

But Harry is too strong. With one last push of his magic, the webs are restored, and Tom’s
power is gone once more.

Tom lets out a shriek and slams his fist on his bed. “Give it back! Give it back! ”

A hand falls on his shoulder.

Destroy. Kill. Hurt.

Tom jumps, dashing past Harry to his desk. He may not have magic at the moment, but he
has other ways of punishing Harry.

From his drawer, he grabs his newest art project and slams it onto the ground. Then he steps
on it, over and over again, until the sparkles from the pink construction paper have splattered
all over the floor and the shape is no longer recognizable as a heart.

It was a surprise valentine he made for Harry, after learning about sending them to show love
on Valentine’s Day. Except the person he loves lied to him. Betrayed him. Stole from him.

It’s one thing to think that someone out there is stealing his magic. They are inconsequential,
less than insects. But Tom cannot cope with the discovery that Harry has been that person all
along.

“I was going to give you this!” Tom says, driving in each word like a knife. “But I won’t,
because I hate you. I hate you. ”

Slowly, Harry raises his eyes from the destroyed valentine to meet Tom’s. He doesn’t speak,
but Tom takes perverse pleasure in the wetness marring his green eyes.

“You won’t have my magic forever,” Tom adds, crumpling the remains of the valentine. “One
day, I’ll have my magic back, and I’ll take yours!”

“Tom —”

“Go!” Tom gestures to the door. “Go away! I never want to see you again!”

Harry flinches and doesn’t move.

Riding on the high of hurting Harry, Tom grabs the nearest object he can reach — a music
box from Christmas — and flings it against the wall with all his might. It shatters into a
shower of glass and a dying wail. “Go!”

This time, Harry does.

Harry’s footsteps are heavy as he descends the stairs. He was so close. Tom was going to
forgive him; he could see it in the boy’s softening posture. But he slipped, and the secret is
irrevocably in the open.

In the living room, Elinor greets him with raised eyebrows, having no doubt heard the racket
upstairs. However, she must’ve discerned his devastation because instead of peppering him
with questions, she guides him to an armchair and pours him a cup of tea. Harry chugs it,
uncaring that the liquid is scalding or that he already has trouble sleeping through the night.

When he finally feels grounded enough to speak, he explains the situation as objectively and
briefly as he can, leaving out Tom’s final outbursts as they don’t paint Tom in the best light.
If Elinor can tell that Harry is withholding something, she doesn’t confront him.
“I’m sorry that this happened,” she says after Harry has finished. “However, as unfortunate as
the circumstances are, you acted correctly. Your actions avoided an intervention from the
Ministry, who would not have looked kindly upon Tom’s snake attacking a Muggle girl.”

“Will we still need to report the incident to them?”

“Yes,” Elinor says firmly, dashing Harry’s tentative hopes. “At the very least, we must let the
Ministry know that Tom has become aware of his Parseltongue ability, as it is an anticipated
developmental milestone. It is also, I believe, covered under your Vow to Kingsley.”

Will you promise to accurately represent the development of your ward and report any
instance of abnormality?

Harry slumps. “But the ability is hereditary,” he protests, albeit weakly. “Realizing he can
talk to snakes isn’t an abnormality.”

“That alone may not be, but it warrants additional tests to see whether he’s recovering other
memories from his past as Voldemort.”

“Can Tom at least keep his snake?” Harry leans forward anxiously. “He — the snake — said
he will leave as soon as the weather warms up. It’s too cold to release him outside right now,
and his friends are all hibernating.”

“Brumating,” Elinor corrects, then sighs. “It was an oversight on my part not to ward the safe
house against wild animals. The Ministry will certainly take issue with it staying, but since
they haven’t found out yet, they don’t need to find out at all. After all, spring is around the
corner. However, it will not be allowed to leave the house.”

“Thank you,” Harry says in relief. Tom would never forgive him if he’s forced to give up his
snake friend after Harry promised otherwise. “What about Tom knowing about the bond?
Will that impact anything?”

“I’m less concerned about that. As he grows older and becomes more self-aware, it’s
unavoidable that he’ll discover the intentional blocking of his magic.”

“But not like this.” While Harry can’t imagine there will ever be a good situation to reveal
the bond’s existence, having Tom intuit the truth on the heel of an emotional fight is
definitely one of the worst possibilities.

“Perhaps not, but all things considered, I’m certain Tom would rather the guardian of his
magic be you than anyone else. In spite of his current reaction.” Harry winces, and Elinor
mellows her tone. “You mustn’t worry too much, Harry. Tom has strong feelings for you.
This phase…it will pass.”

Tom does have strong feelings for Harry, but aren’t strong feelings the easiest to turn? Tom’s
final threat, accompanied by the viciously shredded valentine, chills him to the bone.

One day, I’ll have my magic back, and I’ll take yours!

“I don’t think it will pass,” Harry says quietly, training his eyes on his empty mug.
His prediction proves true. When he returns to his room after dinner, all of Tom’s things are
gone. The art projects on the dresser. The array of his favorite toys on the rug. The baby
blanket spread over two pillows, because Tom always makes sure to leave at least a corner
for Harry.

Harry’s legs wobble and he collapses onto the floor. Although he’s expected they’d stop
sharing a bed once Tom is older, the unexpected arrival of the milestone is far more painful
than he could’ve anticipated.

After the dizziness in his head and the tightness in his chest ease, Harry forces himself to his
feet. No matter what, he can’t allow the day to end like this, with both of them going to bed
upset.

Tom’s door is locked, as expected. Gathering his courage, Harry knocks. Tom doesn’t answer,
but the wood seems to pulse with the force of his anger.

“Tom,” Harry implores, then stops. What can he say? That he’s sorry? No apology will
suffice, and he can’t apologize for the decisions he made and will make again in Tom’s best
interests.

Harry leans his forehead against the door, imagining Tom on the other side, hurt and
betrayed. Even now, he wants nothing more than to offer the boy comfort. “I want you to
know that I still love you, and whenever you want to speak to me again, I’ll be here.”

No response. What else is there to say?

“Good night,” Harry says, not sure whether Tom would hear — or would care to hear — his
message.

Instead of staying to hear the lack of a response, he retreats to his room and tries not to reflect
on the fact that this is the first time in a year and a half that he’s not giving Tom a good night
kiss.

* * *

In the beginning, Harry is hopeful that Tom will thaw with time and wakes up every morning
with the tentative expectation that Tom will forgive him.

However, he has underestimated Tom’s ability to hold grudges. Within a week, the boy has
rearranged his schedule to minimize interactions with Harry. Aside from watching telly in the
living room, he stays in his room with his snake. Any initiation at an apology or explanation
is summarily rebuffed.

Meals are the only time when he concedes to being in the same room as Harry, but his
presence is more painful than his absence. He exudes coldness, and whenever forced by
Elinor to respond to Harry’s questions, he’s unfailingly polite, as if he knows that
indifference is a more effective weapon than anger. If there’s ever a flicker of vulnerability,
it’s gone too quickly for Harry to be certain. As far as Harry can tell, he has lost his sweet
Tom to the harsh stranger across the dining table.

But this is the real Tom Riddle, a rational part of his brain reminds him. The child whom you
love and who loved you has never truly existed.

And there it is: the outcome Harry has been dreading all along. That despite all his efforts, the
young child who sought comfort in his arms is but a passing illusion, and will grow up to
retrace Voldemort’s footsteps. That he’s no wiser than the farmer from Ron’s research, who
formed a bond with a manticore out of kindness, only to perish under his ward’s ravage once
it was healed.

He convinced himself that love would be Tom’s salvation, that giving him the perfect
childhood would instill the humanity Voldemort lacked. In reality, Tom is the closest that he’s
ever been to his former self. If Tom renounces Harry, what was the purpose of the past three
years?

“You can Obliviate him,” Elinor suggests one afternoon. She and Harry are alone in the
living room, after Tom has retired upstairs.

Harry recoils. “No. That’s out of the question.” Erasing Tom’s memories would be equivalent
to erasing his personality, or at best altering it beyond recognition. That may be a convenient
solution, but Harry cannot bring himself to consider this nuclear option.

Elinor nods, probably having anticipated the answer. “Then as difficult as this will
undoubtedly be for you, you must move on. He needs to be the one to come to you.”

And if he doesn’t? Harry wonders, but he stays silent.

Elinor has returned her attention to her newspaper and knitting. Watching her idly flip
through the pages, Harry reflects that the Ministry has been oddly calm regarding the whole
affair. Aside from the additional tests predicted by Elinor that revealed nothing, Tom’s
episode at the beach and Harry’s subsequent reveal seem to be nothing more than a blip, too
insignificant to warrant increased restrictions.

And yet, this calmness has been bothering Harry, and he’s realizing why. The Ministry
doesn’t care because they expected this outcome. All along, they wanted this cool and distant
coexistence between Harry and Tom, and at last they have attained their goal.

As winter melts into spring, Harry gradually loses hope that he will ever reconcile with Tom
and grows accustomed to the silence on the other end of the bond. He goes about his routines
in a daze, often forgetting where he’s doing halfway. Once, he’s so distracted that he visits
Tristan’s garden shop without assuming a disguise, and doesn’t notice his slip until Tristan
greets him by name and asks after his garden.
Fortunately, another customer requires Tristan’s assistance. After stammering an awkward
response, Harry escapes without buying anything.

After that, he spends more time in Bangor, especially the Institute library. The benefits are
multifold: he can stay away from the tension of Paradise Kingdom, have a peaceful
environment to study for his courses, and continue research on bonds. The last has been on a
holding pattern, with little insights gained for the number of volumes consulted. Hermione
assures him that he’s not doing anything wrong and the subject is too obscure, but Harry can’t
help feeling that he’s missing an obvious avenue of investigation.

“You come here a lot. Are you interested in bond theory?”

Harry turns to find one of the student librarians. Heat rises to his face. Though the man isn’t a
classmate, Harry has secretly paid attention to him due to his mild resemblance to Cedric
Diggory, with his deep blue eyes and tall stature.

Tongue-tied and regressed to his Cho-era self, he says, “Er. Yes?”

“Excellent. This is my specialization, and in my opinion, it doesn’t get enough attention.”

The man has a pleasant voice and speaks English with an unfamiliar accent. “Nice meeting
you. My name is Kyle and I work at the library most afternoons.”

“I know. I mean” — Harry clears his throat — “I’m Henry.”

“I’ve seen you around. You’re a first-year at the Institute, aren’t you? Are you enjoying it
here so far?”

“Yeah, I’m learning a lot. The classes are different from my old school but very interesting.”

“Hogwarts, right? I went to Ilvermorny. I love my old school but agree with you: we have
more freedom at the Institute. The issue with secondary magical education, I think, is that it’s
too limited in scope, too focused on us and how we use magic.”

Harry frowns. “Isn’t that what we should be learning?”

“In a way, but the concept of self can be quite fluid. As we interact with each other and our
surroundings, there’s a mutual mitosis of information, so both entities end up changing. That
brings a whole new dimension to our understanding of magic.”

“In what way?”

“Take bonds, for example.” Kyle taps the spine of a thick leather-bound tome. “Instead of
thinking of the bond as the result, think of it as a conduit. Depending on what it’s conducting,
the same bond can manifest differently.”

Though Harry hasn’t thought about it that way, Kyle has a point. For instance, he and Tom
have changed each other, whether they like it or not. Maybe that’s why Hermione believes
their bond is strengthening. The question is: what would their bond be a conduit for?
“Anyway, that’s why I enjoy learning bond theory. Plus, it’s always a blast taking an
independent study with Professor Awbrey. Eccentric woman — don’t ever mention vampires
to her or you’ll never hear the end of it — but she’s great at making you think and
challenging prejudices you don’t realize you have.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Harry says. “Thank you.”

“No problem, it’s fun to talk about my research, although people tend to zone out when I get
excited and talk too much. Bad habit.”

Harry almost chuckles. Kyle’s loquaciousness is overwhelming, but not unpleasantly so,
especially for someone who hasn’t had much human interaction as of late. “No, really, it’s
helpful. I appreciate it.”

Kyle grins. “By the way, if you aren’t busy later, maybe you’d like to join me and a few
friends for a pint? We’re a friendly bunch and love meeting underclassmen.”

Harry momentarily blanks. He must be good at disguises or something. His alter egos attract
more positive attention than his actual self, who seems to attract mostly envy and distrust.

(“I heard that you and Prewett were rather cozy at the most recent Slug Party, Avery.”

“No, my Lord, we were merely exchanging pleasantries.”

“Pleasantries,” you spit. “My reports indicate otherwise. He was trying to probe into my
activities, information you were too happy to provide.”

You rise, and Avery cowers.

“Just because business prevented me from attending does not mean my Knights can behave
indecorously. I do not and will not condone betrayal of any sort.”

“I’m sorry to have failed you. I truly did not mean to reveal anything that could be harmful to
you. Please forgive me.”

Avery is sniveling. While he has indeed revealed nothing of note, it is only because you do
not number him among your inner circle. In any case, you have to make an example of him in
front of the other Knights, lest they become restless.

You grind your shoe onto his fingers, delighting in the crunch of bones beneath your heel.
“Let me make myself clear. Regardless of my physical presence or lack thereof, you are not
free to seek another master. Once you pledge yourself to me, you serve no other. Do I make
myself understood?”

Avery is in pain, but he manages to nod. “I understand, my Lord. If I can only show you the
depth of my remorse…”

“You can, indeed. Crucio!” )

“I’m guessing that’s a no,” Kyle says wryly, and Harry blinks.
“Yeah. I mean, no.” He mentally kicks himself. No wonder he made Cho cry. He has the
charisma of a flobberworm. How did Ginny put up with him for so long? “I’m sorry,” he tries
again. “Thank you for asking, but it’s not a good time.”

“Recent breakup?”

“Er, no,” Harry says, perplexed. “I broke up with my ex-girlfriend a year ago.”

Kyle’s brows furrow briefly. “Well, I hope you can join us sometime. We can always use
another person for pub trivia nights, and it’s not every day that I find someone who
appreciates my research.” He grins again. “It was nice meeting you, Henry. I’ll see you
around.”

Ruefully, Harry watches him leave. He’s managed to squander his only social invitation in
the past year. An attractive prospect, at that. In an alternate universe, he and Kyle may get to
know each other and become friends or something more, even though Harry has never
considered becoming interested in another man romantically.

Except what’s the point? The other person would only know a version of Harry that doesn’t
exist, just as Cho saw him as an extension of Cedric and Ginny saw him as the Boy Who
Lived. Any resulting relationship would be little better than a lie. How must it be like for Ron
and Hermione, who see the good and the bad in each other, and still know without a doubt
that they’d make the same choice all over again?

Anyhow, the fantasy was nice while it lasted. Hopefully, it won’t be too awkward the next
time he runs into —

Harry shakes his head. So much for attraction. Caught in a maelstrom of emotions, he’s
already forgotten the man’s name.

Paradise Kingdom no longer feels like a paradise. There’s no more reading or stargazing in
the garden, no more telly time to learn science or laugh over cartoons, no more stories of the
boy in the cupboard, and no more rummaging around kitchen cupboards to find unusual
baking ingredients. During the day, Tom and Harry circle each other like strangers, and at
night, Tom dreams. Of Harry killing him. Of him killing Harry. Of green light and flames.

“How long will your fight with Harry last?” Glitter asks.

“Forever,” Tom replies, even though forever sounds way too long and scary.

“That’s silly. You need to forgive him.”

“He betrayed me! Why are you always on his side?”

“I like him.”

“Only because he speaks your stupid language.”

“Not only because of that,” Glitter says calmly. “Regardless of what he’s done to displease
you, he is a worthy mate who truly cares for you. However, if you stay mad at him, he will
eventually leave and find another mate who treats him better.”

“He will not!” Tom snarls. “He’s mine.”

“How can he remain yours if you refuse to talk to him?” Glitter retorts. “And worse, if you
aren’t around to protect him, someone else may hurt him beyond repair, and then you’ll never
have him again.”

Tom’s stomach knots. He recalls his dreams, full of Harry’s lovely face twisted by death.
“Enough! I don’t want to listen to you!”

Glitter doesn’t relent. “You are angry now, but once the anger fades, you will have only
regret. When you hurt your mate, you hurt yourself more.”

“Shut up!” Tom throws a pillow at Glitter. Though he misses, he succeeds in ending the
conversation.

Deep down, however, he fears that Glitter is right. Whenever Harry’s face crumples at Tom’s
cold treatment, Tom wants to cry. Whenever he sees Harry’s lonely figure, he wants to hug
and comfort him.

Yet Tom can’t not stay angry with Harry. Harry betrayed him. He lied to Tom about
Parseltongue and sided with a stranger over Tom. And if it were only those things, Tom still
would’ve forgiven him.

Locking his magic away secretly— that is unforgivable, when Harry knows perfectly well
how much magic means to Tom. He used to think of Harry’s magic as healing; now he knows
it is stealing. Whenever he imagines it weaving the webs, the poison inside would return in
full force, drowning him in demands for revenge.

The days drag on, and no matter how hard Tom wishes, snow disappears from the mountain
tops and budding leaves appear on tree branches. Winter is over, and as promised, Glitter
leaves. Tom carries him into the garden and sets him on the ground. He tries to think of
something to say, but his throat is tight.

“I will visit,” Glitter says. “And I will not forget your friendship or Harry’s kindness.”

Tom isn’t comforted by Glitter’s promise. Even if Glitter returns to visit, he will be an adult
snake. He’ll have mates and children. He’ll belong to a different world, one that Tom cannot
join. Things won’t remain the same, and already, he feels left behind.

Soft footsteps sound behind him. Harry walks over, holding Tom’s jacket. His gaze is tender
as it brushes over Tom, but too fleeting. “Here, you’ll get cold,” he says, draping it over
Tom’s shoulders.

Tom pulls the jacket tighter around himself and studies his feet.
Harry squats beside Glitter. “Please take care. I hope you have a good reunion with your
friends.”

Glitter hisses in reply and touches his tail to Harry’s outstretched hand. Then, after one last
meaningful look at Tom, he slithers into the grass. Soon, there is no trace of his glittering
scales.

Left alone in the garden, its beds unplanted despite the nicer weather, Tom and Harry look at
each other. The silence thickens and stretches between them like a rubber band. Impulsively,
Tom opens his mouth and expectation brightens Harry’s face. All he needs is to say
something — anything, really — and he will have Harry back.

I miss you. I forgive you.

I need you more than ever.

He can’t. It’s been so long since they’ve properly talked. The more Tom practices what he
wants to say, the more foolish the words sound.

And besides, a traitor doesn’t deserve your forgiveness, the poisonous voice reminds him. He
deserves to keep suffering.

The moment passes. The light in Harry’s eyes dim and his ensuing smile is infinitely sad.
“Dinner will be ready soon,” he says. “I’ll ask Miss Elinor to fetch you in a bit.”

Without waiting for Tom’s response, he heads back inside the house, leaving the garden door
ajar.

Tom swallows the lump in his throat. “Thank you,” he whispers, but his response is too quiet
and too late.

* * *

Ron and Hermione’s wedding is fast approaching. It will take place in the first week of
August and, thanks to special permission from Professor McGonagall, be the first wedding
held at Hogwarts in recent centuries.

Harry tries to contribute to wedding planning from afar, but he’s guiltily aware that most of
his responsibilities have been shouldered by George, Neville, and Ginny. Therefore, when the
time comes for his best friends’ joint stag party over Easter weekend, he tells Kingsley under
no uncertain terms that he will attend. To his mild surprise, Kingsley allows him to attend the
second day of the stag party, which will take place primarily in London and thus be easier to
keep under surveillance.
Ironically, on the morning of his departure, Harry is the one filled with foreboding that
something terrible will befall Tom in his absence. The Lestranges have been recently seen in
western England, not too far from the Welsh border.

“We will be fine,” Elinor assures him, after a tense breakfast during which Tom refused to
acknowledge Harry and stomped to his room as soon as he cleared his plate. “The Ministry
has increased personnel in Barmouth and strengthened the wards on the house. The
Lestranges will not be able to attack Paradise Kingdom.”

Then she does something she’s never done: she brushes his shoulder, a gesture that may be
comforting if it doesn’t linger a few seconds too long. Mentally exhausted, Harry doesn’t
pause to analyze it before thanking her and retrieving the Portkey.

The first day of the stag party was apparently a wild affair, thanks to George and Seamus’
influence. It included a Weird Sisters concert, followed by an Apparition across the Atlantic
Ocean to take advantage of the time difference and afterparty at a Las Vegas dance club.
Harry is not sorry to have missed the festivities and impressed Hermione agreed to them.

The second day, luckily, is much tamer. In the morning, they watch a Holyhead Harpies vs.
Appleby Arrows match in box seats, courtesy of Ginny. Under his Invisibility Cloak, Harry
cheers the Harpies to a decisive victory. Afterwards, they celebrate with Ginny’s team at a
grand buffet in Mayfair. In the afternoon, they attend a poetry reading and reception by one
of Hermione’s favorite Muggle authors, who nearly brings Harry to tears and sends Ron into
a doze.

They end the day at a jazz club in Soho. Having never been to one before, Harry appreciates
the tasteful decor, the delicious appetizers, and the lively musicians who alternate between
Muggle hits and improvisations. As the overhead light dims, the center dance floor glows in
invitation.

Most of the group rise to dance, but Harry politely declines Luna’s invitation to join her and
her date. The ballads favored by the latest singer have left him in a melancholy mood, and the
dancing reminds him of dancing with Tom at the Barmouth beach wedding, when everything
was idyllic.

“Are things okay with Riddle?”

Harry’s focus jerks from his empty champagne flute. Ron and Hermione have returned to the
table with three glasses of wine.

Ron hands one over. “You are moping,” he explains. “And there’s only one person who can
cause you to mope in the middle of our stag party.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry groans, kneading his forehead. “I’m being rubbish company, aren’t I?”

“Oh please, we’re just happy that you can join us,” Hermione says, taking a seat on one side
of Harry while Ron takes the other. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not here. It’s your weekend, not my therapy session.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Ron says. “My feet still hurt from last night.”

Hermione rolls her eyes, but nods in agreement. “We can come here any time, but we rarely
see you. Helping you is more important.” She conjures a privacy charm. “Go ahead, tell us
what happened.”

With his friends’ blessing, Harry shares the same recounting he’d given Elinor. Their
reactions are as expected: consternation at Tom’s egging on the snake to attack a Muggle,
shock at Harry’s unwitting reveal of the bond, and sympathy by the end.

“This isn’t your fault,” Ron says. “Riddle would’ve caused bigger problems if his snake
actually bit the girl.”

“But I could’ve handled it better.”

“The truth about the bond would’ve come out, eventually,” Hermione says, echoing Elinor.
“And to be honest, even if Riddle never learns the truth, your relationship will change as he
grows up. He won’t be young and malleable forever.”

Her words sting but ring true. Harry can’t stop time. Trying to preserve everything as is, full
of garden frolics and stargazing, would be as futile as restraining a rising tide.

“And no offense, mate, but your relationship wasn’t exactly healthy,” Ron says. “You were
overindulgent, which is terrible for any child, let alone a baby Dark Lord, and Riddle was
completely obsessed with you.”

Harry bites his lip. How can he admit that he misses Tom’s obsessive attachment? That he’s
come to bask in and depend on it? Just as defeating Voldemort defined his childhood, loving
Tom and being adored in return have become his new reason for existing. It balances out the
loneliness of being far from home, while his close friends are progressing on their chosen
paths without him.

“You’re right,” he says heavily. “It never could’ve lasted.”

Hermione pats his hand. “You’ve been seeing Riddle as your personal project, but even the
best of projects sometimes fail. Now you have an opportunity to reconsider how you should
proceed once Riddle is older.”

Harry’s skin prickles with phantom tongues of fire, reminding him of the Vow branded into
his magic.

Will you promise, if the occasion ever arises, to take up arms against your ward to preserve
the best interests of the wizarding world?

He shivers and wraps his arms around himself. “Yeah,” he says, avoiding his friends’ eyes.
“Yeah, I can do that.”

Although Ron and Hermione say nothing, Harry can sense their pity and sadness. They know
that he’s long lost, that he’ll never stop fighting for Tom if there’s a shadow of a chance that
he can get through.
He’s already built his castle on top of quicksand. Time will tell whether he can keep it
upright, or crumble with it.

Tom brushes the cool metal of the telescope. It’s a terrible night for stargazing, since the sky
is heavy with storm clouds, though he can’t muster any enthusiasm even if it’s perfect. He
hasn’t done it in too long. There’s a telly program on astronomy that he sometimes watches,
but it’s not the same as nestling in Harry’s arms while listening to his stories about heroes
slaying monsters.

Harry. Tom removes his hand from the telescope and brushes its back across his eyes.
There’s a big Harry-shaped hole inside that he tries to ignore, only he’s terrible at it,
especially when Glitter isn’t here to distract him.

“Tom?” Miss Elinor has stepped onto the porch. “It’s bedtime.”

“I’m coming,” Tom tells her, but he doesn’t move. Harry isn’t home from his friends’ party
yet, and he can’t fall asleep until then. He may still be mad at Harry, but he wants Harry to be
safe in his bedroom, where Tom can watch over him.

Miss Elinor has left the garden door open, probably expecting Tom to follow. Oh well, he’s
going to push his luck and stay outside until just before she gets really impatient.

Something shimmers.

Tom glances around. At first, he thinks it’s coming from Harry’s bluebell flames, which he
carries around whenever he’s outside at night. However, it’s tucked inside his pocket. Then
he thinks it’s coming from the garden beds, but there’s only soil, and it’s too cold for
lightning bugs.

A second shimmer draws Tom’s attention to the fence that encircles the garden. He goes over
and squints. It does look more ripply than usual. On a whim, he sticks his hand between two
wood slats.

To his shock, his hand goes through. Whenever he tried in the past, his hand always bounced
back, the way the Lestranges bounced back when they tried to leave the park in London.
According to Harry and Miss Elinor, there’s magic protecting the house, keeping the good
people inside and the bad people outside.

Why can he leave now? Did he somehow break the spell?

Tom pushes his arm forward, and that, too, goes through the opening. With one final push,
Tom wriggles through the rest of his body until he’s outside. It’s not that he wants to escape.
He’s simply curious about what lies beyond the garden, since he’s normally forbidden from
exploring it.

As it turns out, the world outside has little to offer. In the darkness, it’s full of eerie shadows
and creepy noises. Tom much prefers the lights and warmth of Paradise Kingdom. He turns to
wriggle through the opening.
He bounces back, and a second attempt ends with the same result. Not only that, but Paradise
Kingdom has disappeared completely, leaving him in pitch darkness.

“Hello?” Tom calls, voice trembling as he understands what must’ve happened. While
Paradise Kingdom is protected, there was a window tonight when the protection lifted so that
Harry could return from his party.

That window has closed, and just as the garden kept Tom safely inside before, it’s trapping
him outside.

He swallows. That’s okay. Harry is home, so Harry is going to come look for him as soon as
he notices that Tom is missing. He only needs to stay here and wait.

But will he? The voice in his head is back. Maybe he doesn’t want you to come home.

Of course he does! Tom thinks back furiously. Harry loves me.

He loved you, corrects the voice. But you’ve spent the past few months alienating him. He has
long moved on. You’ve simply refused to see it.

No, that can’t be true. Harry will never, ever abandon Tom…will he? He has stopped trying
to talk to Tom, hasn’t he? And he’s hardly around Paradise Kingdom anymore. Maybe he is
making new friends and using them to replace Tom.

Tears spring to Tom’s eyes, but he blinks them back. He’s not going to cry. He’s a big boy
and he’ll show Harry that he can take care of himself. Then Harry will be sorry he ever chose
his other friends over him!

As Tom straightens his shoulders, the image of the cave full of treasures surfaces in his mind.
Yes, that’s it! He’ll find it at the beach and hide there until he’s big and strong. And he’ll find
someone who will love him more than Harry ever did.

Filled with fresh determination, Tom turns from Paradise Kingdom. Then, with Harry’s
bluebell flames to light the way, he forges into the night.
 Perceive
Chapter Notes

Thank you everyone as always for your support and patience. I know a lot has been
happening in the past two chapters. We are laying the groundwork for what’s to come
and I enjoy reading your theories. I also appreciate your trust in my writing and hope
that I'm conveying the chaos in my head somewhat sensically.

Please enjoy the update!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Update: 1st April 2001

Estimated biological age: 8 years 8 months

* * *

Tom has hiked the roads around Paradise Kingdom. Before the fight, he and Harry often took
walks before breakfast or after dinner, and a few times, they woke up early to watch the
sunrise. The view of sunlight infusing the mountains never fails to make up for the lack of
sleep.

Tonight, there’s no beautiful sunrise, only eerie shadows that the bluebell flames do little to
illuminate. It doesn’t take long before Tom is utterly lost in the maze of mountain roads. He
can’t tell whether he’s heading up or down the mountain, or whether he’s heading towards or
away from the beach. Harry once taught him about the special star named Polaris in the Ursa
Minor that always leads north, except Polaris is useless if there aren’t any stars.

Maybe he should turn back. But that would be giving up, wouldn’t it? Besides, can he retrace
his steps at this point? Tom blinks rapidly to fight the stinging in his eyes.

Tom? Where are you?

Harry! Though his voice is muffled on the other end of the web, his genuine worry remains
apparent. All Tom has to do is to respond, and Harry will find a way to bring him home.

No. He refuses to be tempted. He’s supposed to be mad at Harry and show that he doesn’t
need Harry at all!
Tom restarts his trek. With every step, his feet grow heavier until he’s practically dragging
them. At yet another bend in the unfamiliar road, a rock stubs his toe, causing him to crash to
the ground. “Ouch!” he groans aloud.

Tom, are you okay?

Harry’s voice has become louder and more urgent. If Tom could just — no, don’t answer.
Tom grits his teeth, pulls himself back up, and continues.

A drizzle starts, soaking him within minutes. Now he’s wet on top of being cold and
miserable. He didn’t think to wear his wellies and jacket. In the past, he could rely on Harry
to dress him warmly, even if all they were doing was getting fresh air. If Harry were around,
he would’ve made sure to bundle Tom up and cast a water-repelling spell in case it rained.
Tom wouldn’t need to ask, as he would have to with Miss Elinor.

Tom, can you hear me?

Puddles are forming on the ground, turning the road into a swampy mess under Tom’s
trainers. Once again, he loses his footing. Because the road is sloping downward, the fall
turns into a downhill roll. Flailing, Tom manages to catch hold of a branch to stop himself.
Unfortunately, in doing so, he loses hold of the jar of bluebell flames, which tumbles into the
abyss.

Fighting back panic, Tom glances around his new surroundings. As far as he can tell, he’s on
a small ledge of some sort. Below is complete darkness, and above is the road he came from,
except it’s too steep to climb.

Now he really wants to cry. Everything hurts — his knees, his arms, his back — and worst of
all, there’s no Harry to heal them with magic, no Harry to kiss them better, no Harry to assure
him that he will be okay. In his fury, Tom wanted to believe that he outgrew him, but it’s not
true at all. Harry has always known exactly how to take care of Tom. Harry has always
known Tom better than Tom knows himself. Harry will always be a part of Tom’s life that he
never, ever wants to lose.

The rain and wind are picking up. The trees, which were only whistling, are trembling, as if
aiming to collapse the mountain. In the mist, blurry shapes and mysterious voices emerge.

(You’re in a small room with grimy windows, ear pressed against the door.

“The demon child is beyond help,” says the priest. “You should not have taken him in.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late,” Mrs. Cole replies. “I can hardly turn him onto the streets now.”

“If it’s of any consolation, the wicked sort never lasts long. They all self-destruct eventually.
Until then, take care to isolate him from the other children.”

From the very beginning, they didn’t want you. In their eyes, you’re wicked.

And it’s easier to show them that they’re right.

You’re on a bench. The orphanage is having its weekly park outing and everyone is playing
games, but no one invites you to join. A girl, a newcomer, takes a step toward you, but
another girl quickly whispers in her ear.

The first girl widens her eyes, throws you a dirty look, and follows the second girl back to
their game of tag without a second glance.

The other children never want to play with you, but you learn to prefer solitude.

These pitiful humans are beneath you anyway.

“If Billy can have a rabbit, why can’t I have a snake?”

Mrs. Cole crosses her arms. “First of all, a snake is not an appropriate pet. And second of all,
having a pet takes great responsibility.”

Her reprimand is unspoken yet loud.

You glance over to the group of children cooing over the fluffy creature in its owner’s arms.
Fat Billy, responsible? Resolve hardens. If you can’t have a pet, no one can.

It turns out to be easy to get rid of the rabbit. It submits to your control and doesn’t put up a
fight as you hang it from the rafter. You sneak back into your room, savoring the scent of its
blood.

That was your first taste of murder. It was a revelation.

If you have to suffer, then the world should suffer along with you.

No, that’s not true. It should suffer more. Far more.

“I bet my parents are a king and a queen!”

“I bet my parents are on a long journey around the world, and once they finish, they’ll come
to find me!”

“I bet my new parents are on their way to Wool’s to pick me up! They’ll have all the toys and
books that I could ever want!”

From behind the book you’re pretending to read, you listen. Who are your parents? Were they
kind? Were they powerful? Were they going to come for you? You know only that your
father’s name is Tom and your grandfather’s name is Marvolo. Your mother died without
ever giving her name to Mrs. Cole.

As if hearing your thoughts, unfriendly faces turn to you. Amy and Georgina giggle while
Dennis snorts loudly.

“Don’t bother, Riddle,” he says. “You don’t have real parents. Everyone knows that you’re
the demon’s spawn.”
You hate them. You hate them all.

When you were younger, you wanted nothing more than someone to take you away from here,
someone who would give you a home of your own, someone who would always be yours.

But eventually, you realize that person is never going to show up.

You have to make your own destiny, whatever it takes.)

The sky rumbles. Tom is back on his tiny ledge, buffeted by rain and wind. He hugs his knees
to his chest and whimpers. A thunderstorm would be a horrible addition to his already
horrible night.

Tom! Where are you?

He misses Harry and home terribly. It was a stupid idea to look for the cave of treasures, and
it was a stupider idea to ignore Harry when he tried to find Tom earlier. How would anyone
find him now? Is he going to die like this?

Where are you, Tom?

Talk to me, please.

Tom’s heart leaps. He isn’t imagining Harry’s voice. Harry is still calling him, still looking
for him. With the combination of Harry’s desperation and his own terror, Tom’s resolve to be
brave and independent crumbles.

Harry, I’m here. Come find me.

The web bursts open, just as it once did at the park. I’m coming. Where are you?

I’m in the rain. I don’t know where I am.

Can you try to show me? Like you did last time?

Though Tom isn’t certain he can, he focuses and tries to send Harry exactly what he sees,
which isn’t much. A half-uprooted tree on one side, a pile of pebbles on the other, and the
ledge beyond which there’s only pitch blackness.

Nevertheless, it seems to be enough. Thank you. Don’t worry, I will be here soon.

Come quickly!

Flashes of lightning can be seen in the distance. Tom counts the seconds between them and
the ensuing thunder. They are getting lower, which means the thunderstorm is getting closer.
Where is Harry?

Just as he’s panicking afresh, he hears Harry calling his name, only it’s not coming from his
head.
“Tom, can you hear me?”

Harry is here, as he promised.

“I hear you! I’m here!” Tom clears his throat to bolster his weak voice. “I’m here!”

Above, four silhouettes appear, lit by glowing wands. Tom recognizes Harry and Miss Elinor.
There are also two strangers, who are probably Aurors.

“Tom!” Harry’s relief is palpable both out loud and through the web. “I’m so glad we found
you.”

“I don’t know how to get back up,” Tom says. “Please help me!”

“He’s stuck,” Harry tells the others. “We need to help him get back up.”

“We can levitate him.” One of the strangers takes out his wand, but Miss Elinor stops him.

“We must be careful. The storm is going to interfere with your aim, and if you accidentally
levitate something else, the whole ledge can collapse.”

“We can conjure a rope, then.”

“Perhaps, but the weather can also compromise its effectiveness, and it will need a strong
anchor on the other side.”

“I can Apparate down and Side-Along him,” Harry says.

“That’s a workable idea, Mr. Potter, but it’s best if we retrieve the asset. At such a short
distance and with such a specific target, the precision required will be nontrivial.”

“No, I’ll do it. Tom won’t feel comfortable with someone else.”

“But —”

“Let him,” Miss Elinor says. “We will be on guard in case he misses or Splinches. Go on,
Harry.”

Harry disappears with a crack, and with another, he appears in front of a gaping Tom. It takes
him a few seconds to ensure he’s not hallucinating.

“Harry?” he whispers.

“Tom!” Arms outstretched, Harry takes a tentative step forward. “Are you all right?”

Overwhelming relief floods Tom, but he refuses to appear weak. “I’m cold,” he snaps. “And
it’s all your fault!”

Though it’s too dark to see Harry’s expression, pain shoots through their open connection.
Tom forces aside the guilt. It’s true, he tells himself stubbornly.
“You’re right, it’s all my fault,” Harry agrees softly. “But let’s get you home first, okay? Then
you can be as mad at me as you want.”

Tom crosses his arms. “Fine.”

Harry’s magic, ever familiar and reassuring, settles over Tom, warming and drying him. It
then forms a bubble to fend off the rain. Tom’s teeth stop clattering.

“And here,” Harry says. “I brought your jacket.”

He tucks Tom into his jacket, then takes off his own and wraps it around Tom as well. He’s so
close that it feels like he’s hugging Tom, and Tom resists relaxing into the safe harbor of his
arms.

Too soon, Harry ends the semi-hug. “Ready to go home?” Tom nods. “We’re ready,” Harry
calls. “I’ll Side-Along —”

He doesn’t finish. The ledge collapses and Tom screams as the ground disappears beneath
him. In the instant before he falls, Harry seizes and wraps him in his arms.

Tumbling into the ether is less terrifying the second time around because Harry is here, and
Harry would never let anything happen to Tom. At times, it even feels a little like flying.
When they crash at the bottom, the impact throws Tom out of Harry’s arms. He struggles to
his feet, but other than the mud on his clothes and light scratches from stray branches, he’s
unharmed.

A few feet away, Harry lies unmoving in the mud. Tom hurries to his side. “Harry? Are you
okay?”

Harry doesn’t answer. Tom touches his face with trembling hands. It’s deathly cold.

No, he can’t be dead.

“Wake up! Wake up!” Tom shouts, tears spilling over. “Please wake up!”

Harry still doesn’t answer, nor is his chest rising and falling. He continues lying on the
ground like a broken puppet.

Tom has never known terror of this scale, which far overshadows anything that happened
earlier. Ignoring Harry is one thing, since Harry will be there whenever Tom changes his
mind. The complete and utter silence on the other side of the web is quite another.

And it’s all Tom’s fault. For running away. For not answering him sooner. For getting himself
stuck on a stupid ledge.

He flings himself on Harry’s body. “I’m sorry!” he blubbers. “It’s not your fault. I forgive
you. I forgive you! Just please wake up!”

Lightning streaks across the sky, highlighting Harry’s slack face. Tom cries and screams and
begs. He wraps his hands around Harry’s neck, desperately trying to find a pulse, and
desperately trying to feed life into Harry.

“Wake up!” he sobs. “Wake up wake up wake up!”

Harry’s eyes fly open, glowing green under the flashing sky. He lets out a series of loud,
hacking coughs that wrack his body.

“Harry!”

Harry wipes the mud from his mouth. Strangely, in the instant that he notices Tom’s presence,
a sharp fear tears across the web.

“Don’t touch me,” he croaks, struggling to free himself. “Stay away from me!”

Tom refuses to release him, afraid that if he does, life will leave Harry’s body again. “I’m
sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I won’t hurt you anymore.”

Harry’s struggles slow. “...Tom?”

“Please don’t die.” Tom rests his cheek against Harry’s icy one and presses a hand against
Harry’s chest. “Please don’t ever leave me.”

“Tom. It’s you. Only you.” Harry lets out a shuddering exhale. He rubs Tom on his back.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

He’s obviously lying. Tom heard Harry hissing in pain with every movement. He nuzzles
Harry’s neck, tempted to kiss the fluttering pulse. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll never be mad
at you again.”

“That’s a big promise to make,” Harry says with a small laugh. Catching Tom’s sniffles, he
strokes Tom’s hair. “Hey, it’s fine. I’m not going to die anymore. Can you help me sit up?”

Tom wraps an arm around Harry’s waist and helps him into a half-sitting position. Harry
leans against him heavily, groaning.

“Harry!”

“Mr. Potter!”

Yellow light is glowing in the distance. Miss Elinor and the Aurors have arrived. The Aurors
rush over to Harry’s side to examine his injuries, whereas Miss Elinor whisks Tom to the
side.

“None of this,” she says, cutting off Tom’s protests. Her tone is so unusually sharp that Tom
recoils. While she’s never been affectionate, she’s never raised her voice either. Then again,
she probably doesn’t appreciate hunting for him in the rain when she could’ve been resting.

“I’m sorry for the additional inconvenience.” Harry has gotten to his feet, supported by the
Aurors, and he has his wand back too. “Thank you for finding us so quickly.”
“Never mind that.” Miss Elinor rakes her eyes over Harry and her tone softens. “Are you
feeling well enough to Side-Along?”

“I can Apparate —”

“Not in your condition. Emmet, please Side-Along Harry. Cecil, please go ahead to the safe
house and alert the Healers on standby.”

The woman named Cecil Disapparates. The man named Emmet raises his wand. Tom is not
looking forward to time alone with an angry Miss Elinor. Sensing his discomfort, Harry sends
him an encouraging smile before he’s taken away.

Knowing that Harry will be at the house waiting for him – injured but alive – fills Tom with
courage. He can face anything with Harry back at his side.

Steeling himself, he takes Miss Elinor’s hand. Without further warning, magic gathers around
him, taking him along with her and leaving the storm behind at last.

Paradise Kingdom is blazing like a lighthouse in a stormy sea. As soon as Harry lands at the
Apparition point, Healers descend and sweep him into a blur of activities.

Hours seem to pass before the Healers finish diagnostics and proclaim satisfaction with the
state of his injuries. Aside from a minor concussion and surface wounds, he should be on the
mend. By then, it’s dawn, and Harry is on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion. However,
the instant he sees Elinor, he asks to see Tom. Even if Tom no longer needs him, Harry needs
to be there for him. And he knows, both by past experience and the tension thrumming
through the bond, that Tom dislikes being around so many strangers.

Tom’s room is a beehive of activities. Whatever tests Harry underwent, Tom had them several
magnitudes worse. As Harry heads straight for the bed, he catches snippets of conversations
— fever, storm, wards — but he pays them no heed. His entire focus is the little figure
swaddled under blankets.

Against all odds, Tom is home.

When Elinor told him that Tom was missing, his first thought was that the Lestranges had
kidnapped him in a recurrence of the misadventure at St. James Park. Even now, unease
lingers. When he was searching with the Aurors, they picked up traces of dark magic that
bore resemblance to the Lestranges’. Was it more than a coincidence?

Freshly bathed and dressed in clean clothes, Tom has been enduring the Healers’ tests and
treatments with a long-suffering scowl. His patience finally snaps when a new Healer appears
with three vials of potions.

“No!” he says, shielding himself with his arms. “No more!”

“Tom,” Elinor warns, but Harry jumps in.

“Why don’t I feed him? You must be tired and can use some rest.”
“You need to rest yourself, Harry. You’ve suffered a concussion.”

“I’m not that tired. I’ll be fine.”

Elinor heaves a sigh, exasperation evident. “Very well.” She gestures to the Healers, who rise
and make space for Harry.

The potions look and smell foul. Harry doubts he’d be excited to drink them in Tom’s place.
Nevertheless, he holds out the least offensive vial to Tom. “Just a few swallows, and you’ll
be done.”

Tom has calmed upon noticing Harry’s presence. Silently, he takes the vial and swallows its
content. Without being prompted, he holds out his hand for the other vials and drinks them
too. His focus never once strays from Harry.

That reminds Harry that there’s one more thing he must do. Slowly, regretfully, he shuts the
bond. He knows that Tom can feel the exact moment it happens because his body jerks. His
expression, however, is startled rather than accusatory.

“Finished?” Elinor says, noting the empty vials. “In that case, we should leave Tom to rest
and recover.”

“Will he be okay?”

“He has mild hypothermia from being out in the rain, but the potions should counteract its
effects. In addition, the room is warded to alert the Healers if his condition worsens.”

“All right.” Harry rises and smiles at Tom. “Good ‘night,’ Tom. See you in the morning.”

“Wait.” Tom scoots to the wall and pats the bed. “Can you stay?”

“Er, okay.” Figuring Tom doesn’t want to be alone, Harry reprises the chair he just vacated.
“I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

“No. Can you stay with me?” Tom pats the bed again for emphasis. “Please?”

Harry hesitates. The moment is as delicate as the alighting of a butterfly on a petal. He senses
Elinor and the Healers’ silent judgment, yet refusing Tom in his vulnerable state is
unthinkable.

Feeling extremely self-conscious, he slides onto the bed and lays his head on the neighboring
pillow, aware of Tom’s intent gaze. When he’s brave enough to check, Elinor is already
herding the Healers towards the door.

“Alert us if you require anything during the night,” she says. “Good night.”

The door closes. Without the usual bluebell flames, the room is shrouded in darkness,
inviting a particular intimacy. Little by little, Tom shifts towards Harry until he has tucked
himself in Harry’s arms.
Harry has missed those hugs. He’s not sure whether he’s forgiven, or whether this clinginess
merely stems from Tom’s illness, but he does not doubt the attachment between them is
innocent and real. They anchor each other, a mutual reminder that they exist and matter.
Whatever anyone else may think, they’re each other’s family.

“I was afraid you were going to die,” Tom whispers.

“It’s pretty hard to kill me,” Harry says. “Many people have tried.”

“Well, I hope they’re all dead now!”

The irony is cloying. Harry kisses the top of Tom’s head. “Go to sleep. You had a long day.
We can talk more tomorrow.”

Tom pulls on his baby blanket to cover them both. “Not yet,” he says, a little shy. “We
haven’t had stories in a while.”

Like the majority of their routines, their bedtime stories about the boy in the cupboard have
been derailed by the fight. Where did they leave off anyway? As Harry considers how to
restart, a different idea occurs to him. A dangerous one that may backfire, but one that feels
right in this moment.

“Once upon a time,” he starts, “there was a little boy.”

“You’ve already told me that. We don’t have to repeat the beginning.”

“This is a different boy from the boy in the cupboard. This is…the boy in the orphanage.”

Tom gasps. “What’s an orphanage?”

“It’s a place for children whose parents are gone and who don't have any family left who
could take care of them.”

“Was the orphanage nicer than the cupboard?”

“That depends on how you look at it. This boy had more space and freedom, that was true,
but the people at the orphanage didn’t understand him. Not the adults nor the other kids. So
he was also very lonely.”

“And then what happened? Did he go to Hogwarts too?”

“He did. In fact, he was one of the best students Hogwarts had ever seen. Unfortunately,
despite his intelligence, he made some terrible choices. Because he was hurt and bullied, he
used his newfound power to hurt and bully others. After Hogwarts, he started two terrible
wars that killed many people.”

“He sounds like the Nemean Lion.”

Harry was impressed by the apt comparison. “Exactly.”

“What happened to the boy?” Tom asks breathlessly. “Did someone like Herakles kill him?”

“Fortunately, the people who battled him decided to offer him a second chance. Instead of
being killed, he was de-aged into a child so he could learn from his past mistakes and become
a better person.”

“That’s a nice ending,” Tom remarks, tucking his head securely in the crook of Harry’s neck.
“Better than him dying.”

“I like this ending better too.”

Tom lets out a contented sigh and snuggles into his pillow. Smiling fondly, Harry strokes his
hair and is debating whether he should give Tom his goodnight kisses when Tom speaks
again.

“Is the boy in the orphanage me?”

Harry’s hand freezes.

“I remember the orphanage, a little,” Tom continues in a sleepy, practically trancelike voice.
Perhaps he’s not fully conscious of his words. “I lived in a room that was small and dark.
There were a lot of other people, but they all hated me.” His tone hardens. “I hated them too.”

If Tom remembers the orphanage, then Voldemort’s memories are unquestionably returning.
And if Harry answers honestly, there’s no turning back. But wasn’t that exactly why he
started telling the story?

“Well?” Tom presses. “Am I the boy?”

“Yes,” Harry says, coming to a decision. “The boy in the orphanage was you.”

It takes a moment for Tom to absorb the implications of Harry’s response. “Why did I do so
many bad things?”

“You were…cursed.” Unable to convey the complexity of what transformed Tom Riddle into
Lord Voldemort, Harry settles for a half-truth. “Cursed by a terrible man to do terrible things.
Don’t worry though, he’s long gone.”

“Is this why you took my magic?”

“I didn’t take your magic.” Harry can be honest about this part, at least. “We have a bond,
which connects our magic so I can guard yours.”

“Guard my magic?”

“Yes. Until we know for sure that the curse is broken, it’s the only way to stop everyone from
trying to take you away from me.”

“Like the people who stole me away!”

Harry nods, even though he’s not sure whether Tom is referring to the Lestranges or the
Ministry. “Please trust that I won’t abuse the bond,” he says. “I’ll never take anything that
belongs to you.”

“I trust you,” Tom says solemnly. “Can the curse ever be broken?”

“I hope so.”

“Once it’s gone and I’m not the bad me anymore, can I have my magic back? Can I go to
Hogwarts again?”

A lump lodges in Harry’s throat. He could tell Tom the full truth. Rip off the bandaid, as the
Muggles saying goes, and leave no secrets between them. Yet Tom is so fragile with hope
that it would destroy him to realize that he’s slated for death no matter what he does.

How can Harry do this to this boy? His boy?

“I’m not a little kid anymore,” Tom prompts, noting Harry’s hesitation, “and you promised to
stop keeping secrets from me.”

Tom is right. At the rate he’s growing and recovering memories, Harry will soon cease to be
able to shield him in a fantasy bubble.

Until then, let him have one more lie. Just one more.

Harry clears his throat. “Yes. If we break the curse, then you can live a normal life.”

“Even after that, I won’t leave you,” Tom confides. “I’ll stay with you forever. We can do
anything we want. Travel the world. Have an even bigger house and garden. Not wear
disguises. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

“It would,” Harry chokes out. He squeezes his eyes, grateful that the room is too dark to
betray the beginning of tears.

Tom hums in satisfaction. “Can I ask one last question?”

“Of course.”

“What if…what if I do bad things again? What will happen to me then?”

“You won’t,” Harry says, tightening his hold on Tom. “You have me now.”

Tom’s hand curls around the hem of Harry’s night shirt. Intentionally or not, his fingers brush
Harry’s bare skin, sending shivers down Harry’s spine.

“You told me that before,” Tom mumbles. “I remember.”

Harry isn’t sure what Tom is referring to. However, Tom’s breathing has slowed and his eyes
have fluttered shut.
Either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives.

Heart twisting, Harry leans over to kiss Tom on the forehead and cheek. “You will always
have me,” he promises, and adds silently, “I’m sorry.”

Tom lies still until Harry has fallen asleep. Then he reaches out and rests his hand on Harry’s
neck, taking comfort in the steady pulse and warm skin.

He no longer hates the web — or the bond, as Harry calls it. It keeps him safe, and more
importantly, it ties him and Harry together. And whether Harry is aware or not, it isn’t taking
away all of his magic. His experience with Glitter and the wild animals have shown that
much.

Nevertheless, Tom misses his full magic terribly. He remembers what it felt like, as if he was
caught in the middle of a tornado, except he summoned the tornado and could use it to
steamroll everyone and everything in his path.

Moreover, he suspects that Harry has not shared the full truth, either about the bond or the
curse. Why else would Harry be so sad whenever Tom is describing their happy future, not
just today but all the previous times as well? However, Tom needs Harry too much to force
him away again. Harry is the only person who can illuminate the shadows in his head, the
only reason that Tom is no longer the boy in the orphanage. The truth can wait.

Tolerance doesn’t mean acceptance, though. It doesn’t mean Tom won’t keep trying to
discover answers on his own.

One day, he will learn the secret of the bond. One day, he will free his magic without losing
Harry.

* * *

It takes Tom time to recover from his nighttime escapade. Although the potions reduced his
fever, he remains lethargic and weak. Harry overhears a Healer commenting that mental
stress has likely affected his immune system, which deepens his guilt.

Luckily, he has a week left of Easter holiday to keep Tom company, and while Tom naps, he
works on cleaning up the repercussions of Tom’s disappearance, of which there are too many.
Unsurprisingly, the security of Paradise Kingdom is tightened, with the already strong wards
updated. In particular, no unauthorized living creatures can get through, which sadly means
Tom and Glitter won’t be having a reunion anytime soon. Still, it could be worse. If the
Ministry finds evidence of location breach, they will have to move to a new safe house.

A more unfortunate development is the further restriction of Tom’s freedom. Although Harry
tries to shoulder the blame, the Ministry now requires Tom to wear a tracking bracelet so that
he cannot leave Paradise Kingdom without alerting Elinor and the Aurors.

“But that’s treating him like a prisoner,” Harry protests, to which Robards raises a sardonic
eyebrow and Kingsley rubs his temples.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” he says, “but given the current situation, we cannot take any chances. We
have been too lenient in the past and the consequences could have been dire.”

Harry cannot refute Kingsley’s logic. In a sense, he and Tom dug their own graves.
Nevertheless, he harbors a growing fear that rule by rule, their paradise is transforming into
another prison.

The silver lining is that the tracking bracelet is comfortable to wear and inconspicuous. Tom
doesn’t seem to mind it, especially once he confirms that he can still move about freely.

Or, in any case, as freely as he can under the additional rules, which include no forays to the
porch or the garden without supervision, no interacting with strangers outside Paradise
Kingdom, and briefly, no trips to Barmouth while the Aurors sweep the area for signs of the
Lestranges, whose presence was indeed detected on the night of Tom’s disappearance.

To Harry’s relief, Tom takes the changes at Paradise Kingdom in stride, with one exception of
an unexpected rule that’s unintentionally instigated by Tom himself. On the morning that
Tom is well enough to join Harry and Elinor for breakfast for the first time, he shows up in
the dining room in high spirits.

“Good morning, Miss Elinor,” he tells Elinor in a saccharine voice. Then he turns to Harry
and hisses in Parseltongue, “Good morning, Harry.”

“Good morning, Tom,” Harry says, mindful to reply in English.

The rest of breakfast is nerve-wracking, between Tom’s obvious disappointment that Harry
won’t respond to his repeated overtures in Parseltongue and Elinor’s stiffening posture. After
it’s finally over, Harry pulls Tom into a privacy bubble in the living room.

“Tom,” he says gravely. “We can’t speak Parseltongue in front of other people.”

“Why not?” Tom whines. “You said it’s not a bad thing.”

“It’s not, but it’s impolite. Miss Elinor won’t appreciate being left out of our conversations.”

“That’s the point! I want us to have a secret language. I don’t want her to eavesdrop on us.”

If only Tom understands the cost of their secret language. Given Elinor’s intelligence, she’s
probably pieced together that Harry also speaks Parseltongue, which cannot be a favorable
development.

“Only when we’re alone,” Harry says firmly. “Otherwise, I will not respond in Parseltongue.
Promise me, please.”

The urgency in Harry’s tone must’ve swayed Tom, who sighs but agrees.
Aside from the new ground rules, Harry notices a shift in his dynamic with Tom. Perhaps it
shouldn’t have been surprising. Tom has aged almost a year during their period of
estrangement and traded childlike dependence for a desire to appear self-sufficient. In fact,
he’s the one who announces that he and Harry should return to sleeping in separate beds.

“I’m a big boy now,” he explains. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

Although taken by surprise, Harry agrees readily. Sleeping in Tom’s bed to facilitate his
recovery has become increasingly uncomfortable due to Elinor and the Healers’ scrutiny.

“But if something happens at night, I can still come to you, right?” Tom adds. “To check up
on you?”

The uncertainty that has crept into his bravado fills Harry with tenderness. “Absolutely,
whenever you want. My door will always be open to you.”

For better or for worse, a side effect of the new Ministry restrictions is that Harry becomes
cavalier about encouraging Tom’s interest in magic. He figures that the rules combined with
the Vow would prevent him from oversharing, not that teaching Tom about the history of
Hogwarts or the habitats of magical creatures is risky in the first place. Besides, with his
burgeoning maturity, Tom is no longer easily entertained by toys and telly programs. Why not
show him that he doesn’t need a wand to partake in his heritage?

One afternoon, Harry walks Tom through the contents of his trunk for the first time. Sharing
this part of his life without the guise of the boy in the cupboard leaves him feeling a tad
vulnerable, but not unpleasantly so. As expected, Tom is entranced by the mementos of
Harry’s Hogwarts days, and handles everything from textbooks to an old Exploding Snap
deck with reverence.

Towards the bottom of the trunk, Tom removes an old Weasley jumper to unearth the
destroyed Gaunt ring and Slytherin’s locket, which Harry forgot he’d packed. Harry holds his
breath, afraid that Tom will somehow recognize them, but Tom glazes over the objects with
disinterest and latch onto something else.

“What’s this?” he asks, picking up Harry’s Nimbus 2005. “A witch’s broomstick?”

“Sort of. It’s a Quidditch broomstick.”

“You played Quidditch, like the boy on the cupboard!” Tom holds out the Nimbus eagerly.
“Can you show me?”

Harry doesn’t take it. “I can’t teach you to fly.”

“You don’t have to,” Tom says, quickly masking his obvious disappointment. “I just want to
see it in action. Please?”

It speaks volumes about the additional security around Paradise Kingdom that Elinor doesn’t
raise her eyebrows before assenting to Harry’s request. “As long as you stay in the garden,”
she says and returns to her knitting.

The garden is hardly to the scale of a Quidditch pitch, but Tom has no point of comparison to
mar his excitement. Harry helps him onto the Nimbus and shows him how to hold the handle.
Then he seats himself behind Tom.

“Ready?”

Upon Tom’s enthusiastic “Yes!”, he guides them into the air. The wards immediately reveal
themselves. Any time Harry tries to nudge the broom higher than a few meters off the ground
or faster than a snail-like pace, they exert downward pressure to keep them earthbound. As a
result, Harry can only take Tom on small controlled laps that Teddy’s toy broomstick
could’ve outpaced.

After the fifth lap, Tom huffs. “This is boring. Can we fly higher?”

“I’m sorry, but this is the most we can do.”

“Is it because of me?” Tom brandishes his bracelet and doesn’t wait for Harry’s answer.
“Then you fly. I’ll watch.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. It’s no fun flying if I could walk faster.”

Seeing Tom’s resolve, Harry stops the Nimbus and helps him get off. Sure enough, as soon as
Tom is no longer on the broom, the invisible shackles of the wards retreat, allowing Harry to
ascend into the sky with a single push.

How exhilarating it is to be airborne again. Harry circles the garden, taking in the green of the
mountains rejuvenating in springtime, the golden brown of the distant farmlands, and the
blue of the shimmering sea.

Though Tom is a mere dot on the ground, Harry perceives his anticipation for impressive
aerial maneuvers. Well, he’s certainly not about to disappoint. Harry adjusts the Nimbus and
nudges it into a dive. The air whooshes past his ears as he accelerates. Despite being out of
practice, his body remembers what to do, and he pulls the broom into a gentle landing right
before he crashes into the ground.

“That was amazing! More!” Tom cries, clapping.

Harry ascends again. He’s even flying higher, so high that he’s in the midst of clouds. Harry
holds out his hands, admiring the mist swirling around the ethereal skyscape. If only he can
take Tom away like this, flying freely and leaving their baggage behind. As if on cue, the
Vow thrums, reminding him of his duty.

Inspiration strikes Harry. If he can’t fly with Tom, then at the very least, he can share this
breathtaking sight. He eases open the bond, not to allow Tom to use magic, but to allow Tom
to see the world temporarily through Harry’s eyes, similar to the way they sight-shared to
pinpoint Tom’s location.
Tom’s wonder floods the bond at once. Wow! I can see everything!

Hold on tight!

Harry twirls and climbs and dives, letting Tom experience the sensation of being carefree and
weightless. He skims over treetops, winds through a flock of birds, and circles above
Paradise Kingdom so Tom, too, can admire the beautiful Welsh countryside unfurling in
every direction.

We’re flying, we’re really flying!

Harry can do this for hours, but despite how much they’re both enjoying the flight, he turns
back towards the garden. It’d be a shame to unnecessarily arouse the Ministry’s suspicions
and lose another privilege.

Tom rushes toward him as he lands. “Promise me you’ll fly for me again. Just like that.”

“I promise.” If Elinor doesn’t indicate otherwise, Harry will assume that what they did was
fine.

“Can I hold the broom? Can I put it back for you?”

“Of course,” Harry says, handing it over. “I can also show you how to take care of a
broomstick. Would you be interested?”

“Yes, definitely!”

Hugging Harry’s Nimbus, Tom runs a loving hand down its length. In his dark eyes, hunger
gleams.

Their first post-reconciliation disagreement occurs over the garden.

It’s spring planting season. Inspired by rereading One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi
with Tom, Harry proposes a herb garden. The benefits would be two-fold: Tom can get
exposure to Herbology and they can grow dittany and valerian, whose seeds aren’t difficult to
procure and which can be used in simple household potions.

While Tom is amenable to the idea, he isn’t enthused by the herbs’ boring appearances. “A
garden should be colorful,” he insists, pointing to pictures of camellias in his gardening book.
“A garden should have real flowers.”

They compromise by dividing the garden into three equal sections: one for Harry’s herbs, one
for Tom’s flowers, and a shared one for vegetables. Given the diversity of plants, the garden
takes some time to prepare. It doesn’t help that Tom has picked gardenias and camellias, both
of which are finicky about sunlight, moisture, and acidity. If it weren’t for Harry’s increased
confidence in magic after a year of university and the ability to purchase specialized mulch
through Hagrid, he would’ve admitted defeat.
On the weekend of the planting, the weather cooperates. The sun is bright without being
overbearing, and the occasional breeze disperses the lingering petrichor from recent rain.

Tom directs the undertaking. Unlike Harry, who gravitates towards function over form, Tom
has a strong artistic vision. By the end of the first afternoon, Harry already regrets giving
Tom free reign. Tom’s design of the garden is as ambitious as his art projects. The shapes of
the three plots must be precise and, when combined, form a semicircle around the telescope.
In addition, within each plot, the positions of the seeds must anticipate the heights and widths
of the matured plants. On top of everything, they have to respect the plants’ individual needs
for healthy growth.

Even with newfound Advanced Charms knowledge, Harry barely manages to execute on
Tom’s vision and has to restart several parts from scratch at Tom’s insistence. When
everything is finally done on the second afternoon, he flops onto the ground. He can imagine
how beautiful the garden will look come summer bloom, but right now, he’s simply sweaty,
exhausted, and happy to never touch dirt again.

Tom paces around the garden to examine each detail with a critical eye. “All right,” he says.
“I think this is good.”

“Thank goodness,” Harry groans.

“Our garden has to be perfect. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

Harry snorts. “You sound exactly like my aunt.”

Tom lies down beside him. “Why do you say that?”

“Aunt Petunia was a bloody tyrant when it came to her garden, except that I was her only
labor. She used to make me prune her flower bushes and reapply fertilizer when it was over
thirty degrees out.”

“So she hurt you?” Tom’s tone is sharp.

“Well, not intentionally. She was just —”

“She hurt you. What else did she do?”

This conversation has taken an unexpected turn, and Harry is certain that sharing anything
else about his treatment under the Dursley would be a terrible idea. “It was a long time ago, I
don’t really remember —”

Tom seizes his wrist. “You do remember. Tell me.”

“Come on, it’s not important.” To distract Tom, Harry pokes the dab of dirt on his nose.
“We’re both dirty. Let’s go wash up and grab a snack. I think we still have some tarts from
yesterday —”

“Don’t change the subject!”

Tom rolls over and pins Harry’s wrists to the ground to prevent him from sitting up. Harry
twists out of his grip, but before he can rise, Tom is upon him again. This time, he braces his
knees on Harry’s thighs in addition to using his hands to immobilize Harry’s arms.

Panting, Tom leans forward, expression so intense that Harry feels raw and exposed. “Talk to
me!” Tom demands in a near growl.

Despite the alarm bells ringing in his head, Harry’s struggles are half-hearted. For some odd
reason, his body accepts and almost welcomes the domination.

When did Tom become so strong?

Why does this position feel so…natural?

Don’t be ridiculous, he reminds himself. Tom is barely nine. He’s not dominating anyone,
least of all me.

Except Tom isn’t so little anymore, is he? With the sun blurring Harry’s vision, the child on
top of him bears a striking resemblance to Tom Riddle from the diary, smirking at him while
twirling his wand.

“Tom?” Harry whispers.

Tom leans closer, his lips a mere breath away. Gently, tenderly, he brushes the mud off
Harry’s face. “You’re warm,” he murmurs. “Warm and soft.”

“You mean, sweaty and gross,” Harry jokes feebly.

“Not at all.” Tom’s hands don’t leave his face. They trace his jaw, roam over his cheeks, and
eventually rest on his scar. “You make me —”

“Harry?”

Elinor has appeared at the garden door. Tom whirls around, and taking advantage of the
distraction, Harry shoves him off, though their limbs remain tangled.

“I was wondering how the garden was getting on. It looks lovely.”

There’s a bite to Elinor’s lovely.

“We finished,” Harry says. “We were, er, resting.”

“Ah, of course.” She’s scanning the newly planted beds, though Harry has the distinct
impression that her attention remains on them. “Be sure to clean up. I expect dinner to be
ready within the hour.”

With some effort, Harry succeeds in disentangling himself from a reluctant Tom, who settles
for entwining their fingers. At the door, Elinor is observing them.
“Thank you, we’ll be there soon,” Harry says. He flashes her a smile, but she doesn’t return
it.

“Dance with me,” Ginny says.

They are in the Great Hall on the night of Ron and Hermione’s wedding. Stars glitter in the
enchanted ceiling and the walls reflect the front lawn, giving the impression that they are in
the middle of an outdoors ballroom.

Harry takes Ginny’s hand and leads her into the lively waltz. “You’re beautiful,” he says, and
indeed, she’s especially beautiful tonight. Dressed in a rich burgundy that complements rather
than clashes with her flaming hair, she is every bit the belle of the ball.

In the distance, on a floating dais, are Ron and Hermione, engaged in an intimate dance of
their own. As his best friends twirl and sway, Harry briefly wonders how he and Ginny would
look in Ron and Hermione’s place.

Ginny reads his mind. “Do you ever think that it could’ve been us?” she asks wistfully.

“Yes, once,” he replies honestly. Sadly, they starred in a fairy tale that never came to fruition.

She frees a hand to cup his face. He tenses, thinking she’s about to kiss him, but she merely
gives him a sad smile. “I loved you, but I was never your princess.”

The music swells and the chords turn discordant. Harry stumbles and they fall out of step,
lumbering like two rocks at odds in a harmonious sea.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Starlight and candlelight flicker, illuminating the tears rolling down Ginny’s
cheeks. “It just wasn’t the right song.”

Before Harry can respond, she slips away and disappears into the throng of dancers. He’s left
alone in the center, surrounded by dancing couples.

The light dims and the music changes. A percussive beat joins the piano and the strings, and
the shrill notes of a flute soars. The melancholy tune sounds oddly familiar.

Harry is dancing again, but he’s in the arms of someone taller and broader, someone who
maneuvers him with firmness and gentleness. When he raises his head, he sees crimson eyes
peering down from a bone-white face.

“No,” he rasps. He tries to jerk away, but only succeeds in being pulled more snugly against
Voldemort’s chest.

“What’s the matter, Harry? Weren’t you looking for a partner?”

“I wasn’t looking for you.”

“My foolish, precious boy. Have you not realized? You’ve always been looking for me.”

“Shut up. Liar. Let me go!”

“How can I possibly let you go when we fit together so perfectly?” Voldemort’s voice is
mocking yet fond, and his grip so strong and suffocating that Harry cannot fathom escaping.
“You’re the other half of my soul. We belong together, Harry.”

Indeed, their bodies glide in sync seamlessly and effortlessly. As the melody intensifies,
Voldemort tilts Harry’s face, letting him witness a slew of shooting stars crisscrossing
overhead. Teeth catch and nibble on Harry’s earlobe, sending frissons of delight through his
body.

“With me, my love,” Voldemort whispers, “it will always be the right song.”

Harry jerks awake, panting. An arm snakes over his midriff to tug him closer. Panicking,
Harry is about to scream before he realizes that it’s only Tom, draped over him like a blanket.

“Bad dream?” Tom mumbles.

“Sort of.”

“What did you dream about this time?”

Harry closes his eyes. “I can’t remember.”

Tom nuzzles at the juncture of his neck and shoulders, reminiscent of Voldemort nibbling on
his ear. Harry shivers.

“I thought you aren’t a little kid anymore,” he says, teasing to hide his discomfort. “I thought
you said big boys sleep in their own beds.”

“I know. But I was…I was worried about you tonight.” Tom stirs in anxiety. “I can, stay can’t
I?”

“Yes.” Harry squeezes Tom’s hands. “I told you, you can always come to me.”

Reassured, Tom settles securely over Harry. Soon, his breathing eases and his body slackens.
Meanwhile, Harry stares up at the ceiling, mind and heart racing.

It was just a dream. It didn’t mean anything.

Voldemort. Tom. They are different. Completely different.

But do you want them to be different? Maybe all along, you’ve wanted your Tom to be a
continuation. Why else would you search for the shadow of Tom Riddle at every opportunity?

It takes a long time for Harry’s heartbeat to return to normal.

Chapter End Notes

We are around halfway through Act II. Some of my favorite arcs are coming up, and I
hope you’ll enjoy them as well!
 Pivot
Chapter Notes

Thank you everyone for your support and patience! It’s always so lovely reading your
comments.

I'll keep my note short: hope you enjoy the update!

(I was having some update issues with AO3, so apologies if you got multiple
notifications for this chapter.)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Update: 1st July 2001

Estimated biological age: 9 years 10 months

* * *

At the beginning of July, the Lestranges are spotted in northern Scotland. Even though Harry
is losing faith in the Ministry’s odds in this game of cat-and-mouse, he’s grateful that the
Aurors’ attention will be redirected from Barmouth.

Getting his and Tom’s liberty of movement reinstated still takes determination on Harry’s part
and logic on Elinor’s. Eventually, they wear Kingsley down. “Please stay vigilant,” is the
man’s final request before he reluctantly agrees.

Circumstances aside, the timing is opportune. In the frenzy of the past few months, Harry has
nearly forgotten that over a year has passed since their arrival to Wales, and once again,
Barmouth is alive with tourists and summertime events. Reconciled with Tom and freed from
university until September, Harry is ready to enjoy everything.

For Tom, the beach has lost its past luster. He is no longer entranced by sandcastles and
dolphins, and for reasons he has yet to divulge, he has developed a mild aversion to the sea.
While he still accompanies Harry on walks along the shore to collect seashells or admire
passing ships, he prefers browsing the shops in town, whose merchandise never fails to pique
his curiosity.

To Elinor’s professed surprise, Tom enjoys grocery shopping the most. Every time they visit
the greengrocer, he’s content to follow Harry and Elinor through the aisles with the trolley in
tow, pausing to study food labels.

Harry understands his fascination. He used to look forward to Tesco trips with his aunt.
Although he was only brought along to be the porter, he loved getting to see — and
occasionally touch — the beautiful packages that he would never get to enjoy.

They like to end their shopping trips at a specialty baking shop that, in addition to unique
ingredients and kitchen supplies, features a wide and ever rotating selection of chocolates. To
seal Tom’s unwavering loyalty, the owners — a kindly old couple — keep a jar of chocolate
lollies that they gift to younger customers. Tom shamelessly takes advantage of his disguises
and pretends it’s his birthday every visit to get extra lollies.

Today, a different person is at the till. The woman introduces herself as Erin, the owner’s
daughter who’s covering while her parents are on holiday. Unlike her parents, who leave
customers to browse alone, she joins Harry and Tom in the baking chocolate aisle.

“What can I tell you about the chocolates?”

“Oh, um, they all look delicious.” Harry would rather browse in privacy, but he wants to be
polite.

“They do, don’t they? Discerning different types of chocolates is an interesting science. For
instance, I like these chocolates from South America. Because of the way the cacao beans are
cultivated, the chocolates have a unique floral flavor. Those from Southeast Asia are
excellent as well, especially if you like Asian spices. They can add quite a kick to a classic
black forest cake. As for those Scandinavian varieties, they have a velvety mouthfeel…”

As Erin continues her impromptu discourse on chocolate, Harry notices Tom impatiently
tapping his foot. He hastily plucks the first two bars she mentioned off the shelf. “Thank you
for your help, we will try these.”

“Good choice. Those are also my favorites.”

“More,” Tom pipes up.

“More?” Harry repeats, and when Tom nods, he picks out another bar of dark chocolate. If he
remembers correctly, Erin touted this chocolate’s rich bitter flavor. “Let’s try this as well,
then.”

“More.”

Is Tom demanding more chocolate to test the limits of Harry’s indulgence? Harry is torn
between exasperation and fondness. No matter how mature Tom tries to appear, he remains a
kid with a sweet tooth at heart.

“One more, but that’s it,” he says sternly. “It will take us a while to finish these.”

“Fine,” Tom mutters, folding his arms.

Harry plucks a tin of cocoa powder off the shelf. That will be a nice addition to their baking
stash.

“You’re a lucky little man with such a kind big brother,” Erin tells Tom. “My oldest isn’t
nearly as generous to younger siblings.”

Tom grunts, always annoyed to be patronized, even if kindly.

Back at the till, Erin rings up the purchases and Harry pays. “Here you are,” she says,
handing over the sack. “I hope you enjoy them. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Tom eyes the chocolate lolly jar meaningfully. “It’s my birthday,” he announces.

“Oh, of course. Mam tells me they’re popular with the kids.” Erin grabs a handful of lollies
and slides them across the counter. “Here you go.”

“Say thank you,” Harry prompts, when Tom grabs the lollies without saying anything.

Tom mumbles a few syllables. Erin chuckles.

“You are a nice young man,” she remarks. “Are the two of you staying in town for long?”

“Er, not too long. Just for another week or so.”

“My daughter will be joining me in a few days. Would you be interested in meeting her? I
want her to have a friend in the area and you seem like you’d get along.”

Caught off-guard, Harry rubs his neck. “That’s kind of you to ask, but —”

There’s a crash. The huge jar of lollies has fallen off the counter and exploded into a shower
of glass and chocolate fragments. Erin shrieks.

Harry, whose first instinct was to shield Tom, releases the boy from his arms. “Are you all
right?” he asks her, who looks pale and shaken.

“I am. That was clumsy of me. I’m sorry for the fright.”

“Oh no, don’t worry, we’re fine. Let me help you clean up.”

Cleanup is quick, courtesy of Harry’s covert spells. Unfortunately, the broken lollies will
have to be binned. Erin waves off Harry’s offer to pay. “It’s not your fault, love, but I
appreciate the thought.”

Tom watches, his smile mockingly angelic.

After an uncomfortable goodbye, Harry half-drags Tom out of the shop, thankful that Erin
will never again see these disguises. A safe distance away, he whirls to face Tom. “What was
that about?”

Tom shrugs. “She wasn’t careful and knocked over the jar. Why are you asking me?”
“We both know that that wasn’t an accident. You knocked it off.”

“Did you see me do it?”

“Tom.”

Tom’s nonchalance fades. “If you are so sure I did it, why didn’t you tell her?”

Although his expression is antagonistic, he’s blinking too rapidly, and the vulnerability
renders further reprimands difficult. Harry kneads his forehead. “Were you jealous?”

He expects Tom to lie. Instead, Tom rolls his eyes. “She was flirting with you.”

“That wasn’t the case at all. She’s married with children —“

“Then she was flirting for her kids!”

“Even if she was, which I doubt, people are allowed to flirt with me.”

To Harry’s ears, the words sound ridiculous, but they incense Tom. “They aren’t,” he growls.
“They aren’t worth a millisecond of your time.”

“I’m not saying I’d say yes. I’m saying you need to trust me to make my own judgment. If I
am not interested, I can turn them down without you destroying their property.”

“No, you would not,” Tom retorts. “You care too much about people’s feelings.”

“I would because I would be giving them false hope. They don’t like me. They like the face
I’m wearing.”

“I don’t care. No one else is allowed to like any version of you.” Tom clamps his hands
around Harry’s arms, jostling the sack of chocolate. “No one but me should breathe the same
air as you.”

“Everyone breathes the same air on Earth,” Harry says, hoping humor will prevail where
logic has failed. “Us. Muggles. Snakes.”

“Not us,” Tom insists, unamused. “We are special, and no one is allowed to come between
us.”

“I told you many times, no one can ever take me from you. But lashing out because you were
jealous was not okay. We aren’t going to visit the shop again until you promise to behave
better.”

“I wouldn’t want to go back if she’s there anyway.”

“Are you going to boycott every shop where the owner talks to me for too long?”

“Yes.”
Harry represses a sigh as he takes in Tom’s petulant expression. He’d obviously chosen the
wrong tack, and this is spiraling out of control. Tom has never liked Harry paying attention to
others. He’s never bothered to hide his distaste for Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. And with the
clarity of hindsight, Harry can see that Tom acted up when he appeared too cozy with Sophia
and Tristan.

This possessiveness was adorable coming from a child, but not so much from an almost-ten-
year-old. Besides, he had actual cause for jealousy in those cases. Harry loves his friends, and
he can conceivably date Sophia and Tristan. Erin merely mentioned her daughter in passing.
She posed no threat whatsoever. And while jealousy isn’t always rational — Dudley once had
fits over Aunt Petunia speaking mildly to Harry — Tom’s manifestation feels darker.

If he doesn’t restrain it while he can, the collateral damage will someday be more costly than
a jar of sweets.

“Listen, Tom. I love you. You know that.” Tom bobs his head minutely and his posture
loosens. “That doesn’t mean I’ll approve of everything you do. Remember what I said about
not hurting other people?”

With Elinor approaching them in the distance, Harry is running out of time to deliver his
message. He tries to channel some of Professor McGonagall’s sternness.

“Promise me that you won’t behave that way again, no matter how friendly someone is
towards my disguise.”

“Only if —”

“No. No if. Promise me.”

He can feel Tom’s resistance through the bond, but he holds Tom’s gaze steadily. At last, Tom
huffs. “Fine. Next time, I won’t cause damage to their property.”

His intentional wording doesn’t escape Harry, but before he can seal that loophole, Elinor
joins them. “All set?”

“All set, Miss Elinor,” Tom jumps in to answer. He flashes her a smile. “Lead the way.”

Generally impervious to Tom’s charm, Elinor looks to Harry for confirmation. Not wishing to
alarm her, Harry nods. “We have what we need. We can go home.”

Tom gallantly transfers two of Elinor’s shopping bags to his backpack and leads the way to
the carpark.

Harry lags behind, struggling with the uneasy feeling that he will regret this unsuccessful
exertion of authority.

Growing up is like riding an accelerating train. When Tom was younger, time inched forward
as slowly as thickened treacle. An entire garden could bloom and wilt while he remained the
same.
Now, the person peering back from the mirror is different every day. He’s outgrowing clothes
faster than Harry can expand or replace them, and it won’t be long before he’s taller than both
Harry and Elinor.

His appearance isn’t the only thing that’s changing either. His mind is sharper and clearer,
and he’s increasingly aware that Paradise Kingdom is full of secrets, that every word
exchanged between Harry, Elinor, and the visitors holds deeper meaning. His dreams are also
more frequent, coming often at night and sometimes during the day. He sees visions of his
past life, but strangely, he sees visions of Harry’s childhood as well. Often, he can’t tell the
difference.

Kingsley visits, and as always, there’s a tense discussion in the living room that Tom cannot
join or eavesdrop. Though Harry’s irritation thrums through the bond the entire time, Harry
tells Tom afterwards that they can visit Barmouth again, so it must’ve gone better than
previous visits.

Tom enjoys going to town, because each visit is filled with new discoveries and questions.
The dizzying array of products in shops is especially fascinating. Who made them? Why did
they make them? How did they make them? And why did the shopkeepers choose to sell
these things, and not others?

Harry doesn’t always know the answers, and it isn’t because he’s hiding them: he truly
doesn’t know. Does this mean that someday in the future, Tom will be teaching Harry? After
all, Tom is aging faster than Harry, so he’ll be as old as Harry soon. Eventually, he’ll be older
than Harry. That’s strange to think about. Tom isn’t sure whether he’d want that.

For now, at least, Tom won’t worry too much, as Harry has plenty to teach him. Magic, Tom
is discovering, isn’t limited to waving a wand and uttering a spell. Magic is everywhere,
imbuing the boring Muggle world with fresh potential. History of Magic reveals the true
origins of legends like King Arthur and Merlin. Herbology showcases interesting plants, from
ones that scream like babies to ones that can choke humans to death. Astronomy is a natural
evolution of stargazing. And Potions reminds Tom of cooking or baking, except potions are
mixed in cauldrons and requires far more precision.

Sometimes, Tom is happy to take a break from learning to watch telly or play games with
Harry. And whenever the weather is nice, they lounge in the garden. The herbs and
vegetables are already turning green, while the flowers won’t be ready for some time. The
camellias, especially, may not be mature until next year, even with magic speeding up their
growth. That was a miscalculation on Tom’s part. Nevertheless, he enjoys this little corner of
the universe that he and Harry cultivated together.

All in all, it’s been a wonderfully idyllic summer, and as much as Tom looks forward to
autumn and winter, he also doesn’t want it to ever end.

It is night. Due to the heat wave, the windows are wide open, ushering the occasional sea-
scented breeze. Otherwise, Paradise Kingdom is utterly peaceful.

“Tell me about the boy in the orphanage again.” Ever since Harry revealed his past, Tom has
been curious about his first life, which is so different from his life with Harry. “Tell me about
his life before Hogwarts.”

“Again?” Harry asks, raising his head off the pillow. Even though they no longer sleep on the
same bed, they keep the ritual of bedtime stories and goodnight kisses. “I’ve already shared
everything I know.”

“Yes, but I want to hear everything again. And you can make some things up, I don’t mind!”

“Well, all right.” Harry settles back on his pillow. “The orphanage was in an old building, and
all the rooms were tiny and gloomy. The matrons who worked there were kind but strict.
Since there were many orphans, nobody had much space to themselves, or much freedom to
do what they wanted.”

“And there weren’t toys or books,” Tom supplies, recalling details from past retellings.

“No, there weren’t. The orphans had limited means of entertainment. They didn’t have much
food either, especially after the war began.”

Tom hugs his pillow to his chest. “Tell me about the war too.”

“World War II was a very dangerous war that involved a lot of countries, as well as both
Muggles and wizards. Since London was a big and important city for Britain, it became a
target for enemy bombs and rockets. The resulting fires and explosions killed many people,
especially in the East End where the orphanage was located.”

“I could’ve died,” Tom whispers, shivering in delight at the knowledge that he survived a
war.

Harry curls his arm around him. “You’re here now,” he says fiercely. “You’re safe with me.”

Tom nuzzles Harry’s arm in contentment. It’s pleasant to scare himself within the walls of
Paradise Kingdom. It’s the same as hearing about a terrible fate that befell someone else
while knowing he’s perfectly protected.

“Enough of wars,” Harry says. “Should we read something happy to end the night? Maybe
finish that last chapter of Hogwarts, A History, or a new story from Tales of Beedle the Bard?
”

Tom would like to relax and return to safer stories about Hogwarts’ magic or fountains of
youth. However, a question has been taking root for a while, and he finally gives into the urge
to ask it.

“The person who cursed me,” Tom begins. Immediately, Harry stiffens, but he forges on.
“Did he have red eyes?”

“Why — why do you ask?”

“I dream of him a lot. He has very pale skin and very red eyes. He looks scary.”
What Tom doesn’t add is that in spite of the man’s scary appearance, he has a seductive air
about him. As if he knows secrets — secrets that concern Tom — and is beckoning Tom to
learn more.

“And you know him too, don’t you?” he presses on. “I saw you in a newspaper together.”

“Yes,” Harry answers after a long pause. “I knew him well.”

“What’s his name?”

Harry bites his lip. “Voldemort. Lord Voldemort.”

The name triggers something in Tom’s head, but it flits away too quickly.

“And you’re right,” Harry adds. “He was the one who cursed you.”

“Why? What did I do to him?”

“You didn’t do anything. Voldemort was a dangerous man who lost his humanity in pursuit of
power and became a monster who hurt or killed indiscriminately. He gave me this scar.”
Harry lifts his fringe, something he rarely does. Despite the darkness, the red of the lightning
bolt is vivid. “He gave it to me on the night he killed my parents.”

Tom touches it, his hatred of Voldemort growing. Only he’s allowed to leave marks on Harry.
The delicate skin buzzes, and letting out a small wince, Harry nudges Tom’s hand away.

“Do you hate Voldemort?” Tom asks.

“I did, but I also felt sorry for him. Voldemort tried to destroy everything that stood in his
way, but ended up destroying himself. He shattered his soul into pieces and died a broken
man.”

“What’s a soul? How’d he shatter it?”

“A soul is the essence of who we are. Normally, it cannot be seen or touched, and it can only
be broken by very dark magic.” Harry sighs. “Sometimes, I wonder if he fully understood the
consequences of his decisions.”

Tom dislikes the way that Harry talks about Voldemort. Although he can’t decipher each one
of Harry’s emotions, he senses that Harry cares for Voldemort. Yet how could he? Voldemort
cursed Tom. Voldemort hurt Harry and killed his parents. Voldemort isn’t allowed to be part
of Harry’s life.

“Enough of unhappy things, it’s late.” Slipping out of Tom’s bed, Harry leans over and kisses
Tom on the forehead, then cheek. “Good night, Tom. Sweet dreams.”

“You too,” Tom says. “I hope you will only have happy dreams. I hope you’ll dream of me.”

Harry laughs, though it isn’t a happy sound. “I do.” And softly, almost bitterly, he adds, “I
absolutely do.”
 * * *

Harry’s 21st birthday is a quieter affair than past celebrations. In the final stages of wedding
preparations, Ron and Hermione are unable to visit, and Harry can’t justify traveling to
England when he will be there the following week for the wedding.

In honesty, he doesn’t mind. An intimate celebration with Tom and Elinor will be enjoyable
in its own way and certainly less stressful. His friends have yet to meet an older and stronger-
willed Tom, a situation he’d prefer to avoid for as long as possible.

Harry and Tom spend most of the day in the kitchen. For birthday dinner, they make generous
and creative use of the recently harvested salad greens. Harry can never claim to be a good
cook, but he’s learned to whip up a decent pasta and savory pie. At the very least, he no
longer oversalts.

Baking the birthday cake is the grand finale. In the week leading up to Harry’s birthday, Tom
scoured through every cookbook in Paradise Kingdom until he landed on a recipe for
chocolate pudding cake. The promise of a gooey, chocolate-y center captivated him instantly.
However, while chocolate pudding cake is simple in ingredients, the timing is fiddly. If the
cake is baked too early, the center will firm before serving. Harry and Tom’s decision to scale
up the recipe for a grander presentation doesn’t help, either. Thus, they wait until after dinner
to bake it.

Tom stubbornly refuses to use the chocolates they purchased from Erin, in spite of the fact
that their rich flavors would be perfect for the recipe. Not wanting to overshadow his birthday
with a silly disagreement, Harry concedes to using corner shop chocolates but privately
thinks Tom is being silly. He had no trouble finishing Erin’s chocolate lollies in one sitting,
which goes to show that child logic can be mind-bogglingly inconsistent.

“I think we’re all set,” Harry says, shutting the oven door. “We can check back in fifteen
minutes.”

“Okay!” Tom says. “Then it’s time for presents!”

Harry follows him into the living room, feeling relieved. Tom hasn’t mentioned anything
about presents the entire day, which gave Harry the impression that he hasn’t been fully
forgiven. The torn valentine still haunts him.

As it turns out, Tom hasn’t said anything about presents only because he was waiting until
Elinor left to brief the evening Aurors. His desire to exclude Elinor from the gift exchange is
a tad concerning, but not enough to dampen Harry’s eagerness for the present.

The package must’ve been wrapped by Tom himself, judging from the excess of tape keeping
the tissue paper and ribbons in place. It’s too flat to be a diorama, but not flat enough to be a
picture or a book.
Curiosity mounting, Harry removes the final piece of tissue paper. At first glance, the present
is simple, featuring a thick cardboard frame around a piece of plastic. Upon closer
examination, Harry is stunned to realize that Tom has built a mini model of the Mirror of
Erised, faithfully recreating each detail from their bedtime story, down to the inscription over
the border in a flowing script: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.

There’s one key difference: in place of the mirror’s glass, Tom used two pieces of clear
plastic to enclose a hand-drawn picture of Harry and Tom flying over a flowering garden.
With a shaking finger, Harry touches his and Tom’s picture visages. Tom’s drawing skills
have improved leaps and bounds since his previous art present, and the open joy on their
picture faces makes his chest constrict.

“This is the mirror from your story,” Tom prompts, evidently misinterpreting Harry’s silence.
“The Mirror of Erised.”

“I know,” Harry whispers. As if he can ever fail to recognize it. “Tom, this is —”
Heartbreaking, he almost says, before catching himself and finishing with, “This is
incredible.”

“I want us to live happily in Paradise Kingdom forever. Just the two of us.” Tom leans
forward, and instinctively, Harry mirrors. “That’s my heart’s desire.”

“I’d also like that. I’d also want everyone I love to live happily forever.”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” Tom says, leaning closer. “My heart’s desire is you. You’re all
that I need. You’re all that I’ll ever need.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, ridiculously and inadequately. Tom’s words sound uncomfortably
similar to a marriage proposal.

“And I want to be your heart’s desire,” Tom continues. “I want to be the only person you
need as well.”

The room is suffocating between the gratification of being desired, the guilt of withholding
the truth, and the expectation of providing a suitable answer to an unspoken question that
hangs heavily between them. Truthfully, Harry suspects that he’ll see something quite similar
to Tom in the Mirror of Erised, because he desires nothing more than for Tom to have a
normal and happy life. However, admitting that right now seems dangerous.

“The cake!” he bursts out, nearly tumbling out of the couch in his haste to stand. “I need to
check on the cake!”

Without waiting for Tom’s response, he hurries into the kitchen and kneels in front of the
oven. What is going on? Why is he acting as if he’s being pursued by an aggressive predator?
Tom has drawn him plenty of pictures in the past. He’s reading too much into it.

(Except he isn’t, is he? And the more terrifying thing is that part of him wants to be
consumed.)
The toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out with a bit of wet batter. That’s
good, the cake isn’t ready yet. He can put it back in the oven and have an excuse to hide here.

“Harry?”

The baking trap slips, and forgetting that he has yet to put on oven mitts, Harry grabs it. The
pain sears through his right hand, and swearing, he drops the tray with a clang on the kitchen
floor.

“What happened?” Tom demands, rushing inside the kitchen.

“Nothing, I’m fine.” Harry fumbles for his wand with his non-dominant hand. “Episkey.
There.”

Indeed, the skin is knitting together as the magic forces blisters and pain alike to retreat.
Some cool compress, and it will be fine in the morning. Harry gives Tom a reassuring smile,
but Tom is gazing at his hand intensely. To Harry’s astonishment, he seizes it, lifts it to his
lips, and proceeds to lick a long, slow trail over the palm.

Harry’s cheeks heat. Tom’s lips feel more scalding than overheated metal, nor does it help
that he seems determined to lick every last square inch of Harry’s palm, as if chasing after a
long-lost favored flavor.

“Tom, don’t.” Harry tries to jerk his hand free, but Tom has him in a vice grip. “Tom, I’m
fine.”

Ignoring him, Tom draws Harry to the sink. “You need to be careful!” he scolds, massaging
the hand under water that feels unusually cool and soothing. “You’re not allowed to hurt
yourself.”

He turns off the tap and dries Harry’s hand on a dishtowel. Then, after examining it again, he
kisses it once more. His tongue ghosts down the fingers, slowly and sensuously.

It’s wrong, completely wrong, yet it feels absolutely right. Consumed by a cacophony of
emotions — shock, embarrassment, and most of all, comfort — Harry doesn’t pull away. He
wants to lean into Tom’s touch, to seek Tom’s care.

“There, all better,” Tom says. “You used to kiss my cuts to me to help me feel better,
remember?”

“I do, but this is different.”

“How so?”

“Because…” Harry trails off, and triumph glints in Tom’s dark eyes, in contrast to his
guileless smile.

Is it normal that Tom has become so physically affectionate? On the one hand, most children
are physically affectionate, including Teddy, and it’s natural for Tom to cling to his caretaker.
On the other hand, Tom is no longer a little boy, and the line between what is acceptable and
what is not is shifting. Has already shifted.

“If the burn continues to bother you, we can use dittany from the garden.”

Harry jumps. Although he’s not sure for how long Elinor has been observing them, her
judgment rings in the small space.

“Er, thank you,” he says. “That would be much appreciated.”

Not getting the message, Tom continues holding Harry’s hand. He has not cast a glance in
Elinor’s direction once.

“Tom,” Harry warns.

Still not acknowledging Elinor’s presence, Tom squeezes Harry’s hand one last time before
gently dropping it.

Elinor sidesteps them to survey the forgotten mess on the kitchen floor. With a wave of her
wand, the crushed cake is Banished to the rubbish bin. With another, the cleaned cake tin is
replaced on the kitchen counter.

“Looks like you’ll have to re-bake the cake,” she remarks mildly. “Pity. It was on the right
track.”

“We can re-bake tomorrow,” Harry suggests, dreading the prospect of spending the next hour
in a cramped space with Tom. “We can get new ingredients in the morning and —”

“No,” Tom interrupts. “It has to be today. You have to make your birthday wish on your
birthday.”

Harry sneaks a glance at Elinor, who wears the expression of someone watching drama
unfold. “Right,” he says, on the edge of hysteria. “In that case, I guess we will have to use
Erin’s chocolates.”

“Fine,” Tom huffs, wrinkling his nose. “Let’s get to it.”

With that, he starts retrieving fresh ingredients out of the fridge.

“I’ll have some dittany paste ready for you in the living room, Harry,” Elinor says. “Do
remember to wear oven mitts this time.”

She leaves, and mechanically, Harry follows Tom’s lead, but a hopelessness descends upon
the whole endeavor. Deep down, he already knows that his wish wouldn’t come true, no
matter how many times or how hard he makes it.

Everything has already changed.

The re-baked cake successfully emerges from the oven with a gooey pudding center, and it
tastes delicious with the hints of spices touted by Erin. By the time Harry makes a wish and
they finish eating, it’s close to bedtime.

“Can we watch the stars?” Tom asks. “Just for a bit? They look really bright tonight, so we
can finish the star chart.”

“All right, just for an hour.” It is the first clear night in a while, and birthdays do call for
exceptions, don’t they?

While Tom sets up the telescope, Harry retrieves their half-complete star chart from his room.
Halfway to the garden door, he stops at the sound of his name. Elinor is standing there,
nursing a mug of tea. He’s surprised that she’s awake at this hour.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Did we wake you? We won’t be long in the garden.”

“No, I was making tea, but I’d like to talk to you, if you have a moment.”

“Of course.” Elinor’s grave expression is unleashing all sorts of terrible possibilities. If
something is wrong, he wants to know the worst as soon as possible.

Her fingers tighten around the mug. She doesn’t speak.

“Elinor?” Harry prompts, unnerved by her uncharacteristic discomfort.

“It’s with regards to you and Tom.”

Harry’s stomach knots. Experience has taught him that “you and Tom” are never a good
segway into a discussion.

“Your closeness is getting inappropriate.”

Inappropriate. While it’s a word that he’s used himself and often implied from Ron and
Hermione, it struck like condemnation from her lips.

“If you meant earlier, he was trying to help because I burned my hand,” Harry says, his
excuse feeble to his own ears.

“Please don’t insult my intelligence. You understood perfectly well what he was doing. And
that was hardly an isolated incident of this behavior.”

There’s no use protesting. Elinor sees everything. She likely processed, long before Harry did
himself, the gradual derailing of his once-innocent relationship with Tom.

“He’s a child,” Harry protests. “I can’t push him away. That’d be abandonment.”

“I’m not asking you to abandon him. I’m asking you to set boundaries. Healthy boundaries.
Surely you, of anyone, understand why that is necessary.”
Harry certainly does, given every second, he’s faced with the reality of Tom’s accelerated
aging. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he admits. “I can’t always control him these days.”

“Because the bond is weakening?” Elinor asks sharply.

“No, the bond is fine.”

If anything, the bond is stronger, per Hermione’s comment. For whatever reason, it never
fully shut off after Tom’s rescue from the rain. Though Tom’s magic is under control, their
mutual awareness is sharpening. Harry can sense Tom’s emotions through the bond more
clearly, and he suspects that the reverse is also true.

Not that he’s going to mention that to Elinor or the Ministry.

“It’s my influence over him,” Harry clarifies. “He doesn’t always choose to listen to me.”

Elinor’s expression turns wry. “It’s difficult to break a habit that one has had since
childhood.” Harry winces at the implicit reprimand. “Perhaps it was also remiss of me not to
have escalated the urgency sooner. Nevertheless, it may not be too late, as long as you set
boundaries now. Should he maintain his current behavior into adolescence, that will hardly be
ideal, for reasons I won’t need to enumerate.”

While her tone is sympathetic, her words are threatening.

“Why are you taking so long?” Tom demands. “I’ve been waiting!”

Harry’s heart leaps. How much has Tom overheard? “I was telling Miss Elinor good night,”
he lies, trying to regain composure. “Uh, good night, Elinor.”

“Good night, Harry and Tom. Enjoy the stars.”

“Good night,” Tom says shortly. “Now come on, Harry.”

At the garden door, Harry turns. Silhouetted in the shadows, Elinor stands, as immovable as
an angel of judgment.

* * *

Scotland presents Ron and Hermione with a rare perfect summer day for their wedding. The
sun is warm but not hot, and the blue sky holds no hint of storm clouds.

Harry hasn’t been back at Hogwarts in over two years, yet everything is achingly familiar.
Aside from a detour to visit his old dorm room, however, there isn’t time to indulge in
nostalgia. Last minute wedding incidents keep him occupied, between locating Ron’s lucky
socks to coordinating with the house-elves on desserts. It doesn’t help that George and
Angelina accidentally set off some fireworks early, alarming the thestrals into a near
stampede before Hagrid calms them down.

Somehow, everything comes together for the ceremony. To soft music played by an
enchanted orchestra, Ron and Hermione meet each other under the rose arch at the front of
the Great Hall to exchange vows under Professor McGonagall’s guidance. More than once,
Harry has to wipe his eyes. Even though he’s already read and given feedback on the vows,
hearing them spoken out loud by his best friends is a distinctly special experience. The three
of them have gone through so much together, and in this moment, he has nothing but pure joy
for their union.

With the ceremony over, the rest of the evening is relaxed, allowing Harry to catch up with
friends. Hagrid crushes Harry in a hug and asks after his garden. Bill and Fleur introduce
Harry to their new daughter, Dominique. Teddy crawls onto Harry’s lap and happily chatters
away in broken yet determined sentences, causing him to yearn for the innocent days of
Tom’s childhood.

At dinner, Harry is seated with former schoolmates, who are eager to hear about his
adventures in Wales. The lies come easily, aided by practice and the fact that they are rooted
in truth. He’s learning a lot in university, Bangor is a wonderful place to live, and now that
he’s settled into his new life, he will visit England more often.

Once or twice, Harry crosses gazes with Albus Dumbledore, who has been participating in
the festivities alongside the other portraits. However, they don’t exchange words beyond
polite greetings. For Harry, their previous conversations remain too raw.

To cue the start of dancing, Ron and Hermione appear respectively in maroon and periwinkle
dress robes, a cheeky callback to the ill-fated Yule Ball. They even book the Weird Sisters, so
it doesn’t take long before the Great Hall transforms into a rowdy dance floor.

After dancing with Hermione, Luna, and Cho, Harry is approached by Ginny, who has thus
far been dancing with her date, a Holyhead Harpies teammate with whom she’s awfully
close.

“Dance with me,” she says, holding out her hand.

Harry accepts, fighting a wave of déjà vu. Ginny is wearing the same dress, saying the same
words, and they are dancing the same steps. At the same time, without the leering gaze of
Voldemort’s spectre, everything feels looser and lighter.

The song comes to a close. Harry is about to return Ginny to her date when she suggests,
“Let’s take a walk?”

In sharp contrast to the lively Great Hall, the castle grounds are quiet. Sneaking off after
hours isn’t unfamiliar to either Harry or Ginny. In sixth year, the rule-breaking injected a
measure of excitement to their budding romance. Tonight, of course, there will be no
patrolling professor or caretaker to dock points, allowing them to wander at their leisure.
They stop at Black Lake, where the Giant Squid seems to be holding an interesting discussion
with two mermaids in a moonlit corner. By unspoken accord, they turn toward each other.

“Did you ever think that it could’ve been us?”

Unlike her dream self, Ginny betrays no trace of melancholy. Like Harry, she has moved on
and made peace with the evolution of their relationship, from friends to lovers to family.

“I did,” Harry says. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too, for the horrible things I said to you. I was hurt and angry, and I was lashing
out. Only when I thought about it…” Ginny sighs. “Our relationship was struggling already,
wasn’t it?”

“Why do you reckon that is?” Now that she’s acknowledging her own misgivings about their
relationship pre-Tom, Harry is genuinely curious. “Do you think it was because of the war?”

“Maybe. At least partly, anyway. The war changed all of us, and you even died and came
back.” She pauses in thought. “But the war also defined us, in a way, so I suppose there’s no
point in wondering about what could’ve been. I’m grateful enough that we could be here
today, celebrating Ron and Hermione’s wedding.”

She’s right. They were kids forced to grow up too soon to fight a war that they didn’t start. It
was a miracle they survived and ended up well-adjusted, at least in his friends’ cases. What
was a school romance in comparison to everything else they sacrificed?

Suddenly, Ginny bursts out laughing. “The tabloids must’ve been so disappointed. We
messed up their plans! We were supposed to end up together with two kids with atrocious
names —”

“Atrocious names?” Harry’s lips quirk. “Give me more credit. I was going to name our son
after Snape and Dumbledore.”

Ginny splutters. “You would, wouldn’t you? That poor boy.”

They giggle, awakening an ache in Harry’s chest. Even though he and Ginny made the right
choice, it could’ve been so easy. They could’ve been one big happy family, with Mrs.
Weasley presiding over a table of grandkids — a few bushy-haired and dark-haired ones in a
sea of redheads — and the light extinguished by Fred’s death sparkling in her eyes. There
would be a boy with the Potter wild hair and penchant for mischief, and a girl with Ginny’s
fiery temper and boisterous laughter. Harry would fill their childhood with bedtime stories,
home-baked sweets, and Quidditch games. He would wave them off every September at
Platform 9¾ and welcome them home for school holidays.

Only now, with his future confusing and uncertain, Harry doesn’t know whether this
domestic existence will ever be in the cards, and the loss fills him with an indescribable grief,
a mourning for a life to which he’s no longer entitled.
“Hey.” Noting his somber mood, Ginny taps his arm. “No matter what happens, we will
always be family. Don’t ever forget that, okay?”

“Thank you.” Harry lets out a shuddering exhale. “Sometimes, I wish I didn’t have to
choose.”

Though he doesn’t elaborate, Ginny understands. She cups his cheeks and, with her thumbs,
smooths the furrows between his brows. The gesture is tender and careful, with none of
Tom’s possessiveness.

“Do you ever regret it?” she asks quietly. “Choosing Riddle?”

Answering the question would be akin to the opening of Pandora’s Box, so Harry doesn’t. In
any case, Ginny doesn’t seem to expect a response.

“What I say next, please remember that I say it as a friend and a sister who cares deeply
about you.” Her gaze turns distant, and in that moment, she’s far from the shores of Black
Lake. “Once upon a time, I, too, was ensnared by a charismatic boy who hid poison beneath
his pretty face and beautiful words.”

The usual defensiveness with regards to Tom does not come. Instead, Harry recalls the night
of his birthday, when he was cornered by Tom in the kitchen, and to this morning, when
Tom’s gaze darkened upon seeing him in dress robes for the first time.

And is Harry any better? A single bright smile from Tom, and everyone and everything else
fade into nonexistence.

“Hey.” Ginny tugs at his hand. “We should head back. Otherwise, we will miss the cake
cutting.”

Holding his hand, she leads him back to the castle, much as she did in the aftermath of
Dumbledore’s funeral. She doesn’t mention Tom again for the rest of the walk, giving Harry
the space — whether intentionally or not — to digest a reality he has yet to accept.

Tom yawns. It’s been a long, dull evening. He wishes he could’ve gone to Harry’s friends’
wedding. If it was anything like the beach wedding, it would be full of music and food, and
he would get to dance with Harry.

Unfortunately, Harry said it would be too dangerous. He didn’t say it was because of the
Lestranges, or because Kingsley’s Aurors were too stupid to catch them, but Tom knew that
was the reason.

“I’ll be back before bedtime,” Harry assured Tom. “And I’ll bring you a slice of the wedding
cake. It looked absolutely amazing in pictures.”

The clock ticks and tocks. Harry is still not home. Tom hopes that Harry is safe, but
otherwise he’s not worried that Harry won't come back. With every passing day, he becomes
more certain that Harry will always choose him, no matter what his friends tell him.
On the telly, his usual history program is over. With another yawn, Tom begins to flip through
the channels. A commercial about toothpaste. Boring. A dance competition where everyone
is tripping over each other. Boring. A woman sitting on the windowsill, singing while playing
the guitar. Boring.

“Wait,” Elinor speaks up, before Tom can change the channel again. “I’d like to watch this
film, if you don’t mind.”

Tom stares, surprised she’d be interested in a Muggle film. She looks faintly embarrassed. “I
used to watch it with my former governess,” she explains. “She was American and it was her
favorite film.”

“Okay.” Tom sets down the remote. Harry would’ve wanted him to respect Elinor’s wish, and
he hasn’t found a better option anyway.

As the plot unfolds on screen, Tom finds himself watching Elinor instead of the actors. It’s
exceedingly rare of her to offer a glimpse under the veil that otherwise shrouded her in
mystery.

When he was younger, he never considered that to be strange. She was just Miss Elinor, who
took care of him and who had no personality beyond her newspapers and knitting. Now that
he’s older, he understands that even the lowest of humans are complex. For example,
sometimes he picks up stray thoughts from the Healers. There’s someone who’s in love with
a man who’s not her husband. There’s someone who has applied to a different job without his
superiors knowing. There’s even someone who poisoned a past patient and has not been
caught.

Who, then, is Elinor Kent? The basics from Harry — a war orphan, an accomplished student,
and a high-ranking Auror — don’t reveal anything meaningful. What is her heart’s desire?
What secrets is she hiding?

And there must be a trove of secrets beneath her calm appearance, secrets that can be
dangerous to him and Harry. He’s seen the way she studies them. While she’s always been
observant, her attitude has been mutating as of late. Why else would she warn Harry to keep
Tom at a distance? It’s none of her business. Harry is his. Tom can touch him however and
whenever he wants.

Elinor glances at him and Tom refocuses hurriedly on the telly.

The film drones on. The characters annoy Tom. They’re all spineless and weak-minded, and
they either don’t know what they want or insist on chasing after the impossible. Like the man
who’s confessing to the woman yet again with some idiotic claim that they belong to each
other.

“People don’t belong to people,” the woman retorts.

You don’t, Tom thinks smugly. But some of us do.

 He lets out a huff, and as he does so, he feels Elinor’s eyes boring into the side of his face.
Unafraid, he meets them squarely.

(Human minds are puzzles. Mysterious, until you find the key piece that unlocks them
forever. And you always do.

From there on, it’s simple. Identify their weakness, so you can tame or break them.

Legilimens. )

Elinor narrows her eyes and walls slam into place, repelling Tom’s probes. Even so, her
emotions are so strong that Tom perceives them anyway.

She’s desperately resentful of Harry’s devotion to Tom.

How odd. Does she hate Tom that much? Or, worse, does she like Harry that much?

Tom’s mouth twists. He’s tolerated — and at times respected — this woman because she was
useful and Harry liked her. If she intends to plot against Tom, however, he can draw only one
conclusion.

Elinor Kent has overstayed her welcome at Paradise Kingdom.

Chapter End Notes

Some of you wondered about Elinor’s motivations or worried over her fate. Let’s just
say that as I was writing the final section, I kept envisioning Elinor as Ralph from the
“I’m in danger” meme.
 Provoke
Chapter Notes

Hi everyone, welcome back and thank you again for all your support! Real life has been
pretty stressful (is this the curse of the AO3 writer?!), so your patience and feedback
keep me going.

The comments have been expressing a fair amount of frustration for the characters. As
the fic title indicates, the main characters aren’t perfect, and they’ll make consequential
mistakes despite having good intentions. Additionally, Harry handing over Tom at
seventeen — vs., say, seven — is meant to complicate matters. It’s easier to recognize
that punishing child Tom for Voldemort’s crimes is inhumane, whereas things aren’t as
crystal clear with an older Tom whose darker traits are emerging despite Harry’s love.

The resolution of Act II has been planned for some time, and I’m both nervous and
excited to share it. Hopefully, even if you don’t agree with my choices, you can
understand my reasoning.

Please enjoy the update :)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Update: 1st September 2001

Estimated biological age: 10 years 8 months

* * *

Energy seeps from Barmouth as summer nears its end. Despite his fondness for cooler
weather, Tom is crushed by gloominess. Harry has restarted university classes, which means
that after three months of his constant presence, Tom must adjust again to losing him to
Bangor.

Moreover, Harry’s classes are a keen reminder of what Tom cannot have. He will not receive
a letter announcing his acceptance to Hogwarts. He will not visit Diagon Alley to buy school
supplies and meet future schoolmates. He will not experience any of the things he’s
illustrating in Harry’s artbook: concocting potions in underground dungeons, meeting
centaurs in a moonlit forest, or cheering in the stands as opposing Seekers race after the
Snitch.
Rationally, Tom understands why Hogwarts is an impossible dream. His curse aside, his
aging is abnormal, so he would start the school year as a first-year and end the year as a fifth-
year. He’s smart, but not smart enough to take five years worth of classes at once. Regardless,
his yearning doesn’t fade. Hogwarts was a part of his first life; it should be part of his current
life.

In the meantime, he refuses to wallow in helplessness. School or not, bond or not, he’s
determined to learn as much magic as possible on his own. He has many of Harry’s old books
and can access others in Harry’s room.

Most of the books are beyond Tom’s current comprehension. Either the vocabulary is too
complicated, or the words don’t make sense strung together. However, he persists and
understands a little more every day. Gradually, tidbits of knowledge coalesce like droplets
into a stream. As Tom sees the connections across various subjects, such as Potions and
Herbology or Charms and Arithmancy, he also sees ways that magic can be combined and
created.

Learning is like crafting keys to unlock doors, except each door leads to a corridor of new
doors. Tom doubts he’ll ever exhaust magic’s infinite possibilities. He keeps a notebook to
track his studies, and he would’ve long run out of pages if Harry hadn’t charmed the
notebook to refill automatically.

At the end of every session, he makes sure to put the books back in their original places. It’s
not that Harry will be upset, but Tom instinctively wants to temper his curiosity in front of
Harry, given how guarded Harry can be on certain topics. That’s why he won’t ask Harry
about what happened to his old wand, even though he desperately wants to know.

Without a wand, Tom can only practice a subset of the magic he’s learning, and mind magic
is his favorite of the lot. While there are no more animals at Paradise Kingdom to practice on,
he’s surrounded by humans. Of course, human minds are far more complex, but Tom is
learning to navigate them. So far, he’s only unearthing dull secrets, but he’s building up the
skills to evolve mind-reading into mind-controlling.

He’s done that successfully with animals, but he has to be careful with humans. If he pushes
too hard, he may arouse suspicion, and the Ministry would discover the loophole in Tom’s
bond. In that case, Tom will lose far more than he gains. Thus, the key is to manipulate minds
so that the owners don’t realize the implanted commands aren’t their own.

Tom cannot allow anything to go wrong, because he has yet to confront his greatest
adversary. Elinor Kent’s constant presence has become a thorn in his side, and he seethes
with resentment and humiliation every time they cross paths. She wanted Tom to overhear
her conversation with Harry. She wanted Tom to know that she didn’t approve of their
relationship. And she could do both without consequence because she holds too much power
over everyone at Paradise Kingdom.

He would love to dispose of her, as he disposed of the animals fed to Glitter, but he’s vastly
outmatched. Harry may not be able to outduel her, let alone Tom with fledgling magic at his
disposal. Her death, satisfying though it may be, is a fantasy.
In any case, the honor of fertilizing the garden is reserved for Harry’s Muggle family. Death
alone is not enough to destroy Elinor. Tom also needs to destroy Harry’s high regard for her,
or else her phantom will linger between them. Therefore, he needs patience. Taking down
Elinor is his most difficult project yet, but with the right strategy, it will become his favorite.

Before Tom, the Healer taking notes drops his quill and swears. “Bloody cheap quills.”

“Getting clumsy lately, are we?” teases his colleague, who fetches it for him.

As the two Healers complete the rest of the report, Tom primly folds his hands on his lap.
One step closer to his goal.

Overnight, the gardenias bloom, unfurling buds into petals that appear carved out of
unblemished jade. Against the backdrop of autumn vegetables and herbs, the white and
yellow flowers stun with understated beauty.

“They look incredible,” Harry breathes, caressing one with careful fingertips. “Worth
breaking my back for.”

Tom beams with pride. The garden is exactly as he designed and envisioned, as much as an
extension of himself as his art. “And it will look even better once the camellias bloom,” he
tells Harry.

“I believe it. My aunt Petunia would be extremely jealous.”

Tom wrinkles his nose. He hates being reminded of young Harry’s mistreatment at his
Muggle family’s hands. No present, no sweets, and no appreciation for all the chores he
completed without complaint. And those are only details gleaned from Harry’s bedtime
stories, since Harry hardly shares anything from his life pre-Hogwarts otherwise. The reality
may be even worse.

Tom will never forgive that wretched woman and her oversized family. They are the lowest
of preys, unfit to exist. Although there’s nothing he can do for now, he can fill Harry’s life
with beautiful things, beautiful things that Tom creates just for him. As for the stupid
Muggles…their retribution will come.

Harry drops his hand with a sigh. “It’s too bad that animals can’t come to the garden
anymore. The flowers look a bit lonely.”

“We don’t need them. They’re weak, and Glitter —”

Tom stops. He has a feeling that Harry won’t appreciate Glitter’s theory of predator versus
prey. Harry definitely won’t appreciate learning about the numerous hummingbirds or
butterflies who took ill-fated detours into Glitter’s maws.

“Go on. What about Glitter?” Harry is smiling. The mutual fondness between him and Glitter
baffles Tom, since they barely knew each other.
“Glitter is practical. He would say that magic did a perfectly adequate job of pollinating the
flowers.” When Harry raises his eyebrows, skeptical, Tom grabs his arm. “Enough of
flowers. We haven’t flown in ages and we’re wasting time!”

He’s somewhat exaggerating, but he doesn’t want to remain on the topic of garden animals or
lack thereof. Besides, it is the first weekend with nice weather in a while, and he and Harry
have so many activities planned.

“You’re awfully bossy,” Harry teases.

He allows Tom to lead but slips from Tom’s grasp midway. Tom clenches his jaw. Aside from
goodnight kisses, which are too ingrained in their routine, Harry has been avoiding physical
contact ever since his conversation with Elinor. Usually, he does it in a natural-looking way,
as if he happens to be swerving or ducking in that exact moment.

It doesn’t fool Tom in the least, though he keeps his scowl at bay until Harry takes off.

Flying never fails to be exhilarating. Initially, Tom expected to tire of seeing the same
landscapes over and over again, but each time, he discovers something new. A cluster of
islands breaking up the monotony of the sea. A distant lighthouse emitting a beacon of light
through the fog. A train curving through the mountain roads, smoke billowing from its
chimneys.

More than that, Tom loves the sensation of flying, transmitted faithfully through the bond
such that he feels as though he’s at the helm of the broomstick. It’s an act of power, of
control, and of freedom. And the open connection allows him to feel every ounce of Harry’s
joy. Harry is born to soar in the sky, to be carefree and unburdened.

One day, Tom thinks. One day, the curse will be broken. Their world will no longer be
limited to the boundaries of Paradise Kingdom, and they can fly to their hearts’ content. They
can go somewhere, anywhere, and find a paradise that’s entirely their own.

As always, the flight ends too soon. On landing, Harry has a mishap and, in an attempt to
avoid crushing the gardenias, loses his footing. “Oops!” he says, laughing as he scrambles to
his feet.

Heat pools in Tom’s stomach. Harry is covered in dirt and drenched in sweat, a look that
would be disgusting on anyone else. And yet, with his windswept hair, flushed cheeks, and
shining eyes, Harry looks ethereal.

This is true beauty. Not delicate pastel-colored petals. Not intricately designed gardens. Just
Harry, alive and free.

Tom must’ve been staring too intensely because Harry flushes and tries to flatten his hair.
“Sorry, I must be a mess. I’d better take a shower before Miss Elinor chases me out of the
house.”

“No,” Tom croaks, then clears his throat. “No, I think it looks fine.”
He reaches out to brush Harry’s hair off his sweaty forehead. Expectedly and frustratingly,
Harry jerks away. Unfortunately for him, his retreat is blocked by the garden beds. The bond
buzzes as their skin makes contact, and the gnawing hunger inside Tom is briefly soothed.

“Tom, don’t,” Harry says, still attempting to lean away.

“What’s wrong?” Tom demands. “Am I hurting you?’

“No, of course not. It’s just…we shouldn’t be so close, now that you’re older.”

“Why not? I may be older, but I’m still your Tom, aren’t I?”

“You are, but it’s not normal —”

“Is it because I’m cursed? Is it because my soul is broken, like Voldemort’s?”

Tom doesn’t need to fake his wounded tone. He’s been nursing this secret fear ever since he
learned about Voldemort’s soul.

“No, no, of course not.” This time, Harry is the one to reach out, and Tom the one to jerk
away. “You’re not cursed, and your soul is whole and beautiful.”

“Then why are you acting so differently around me?”

“I don’t want people to misunderstand.” Harry squeezes Tom’s shoulders lightly, unsure
whether to hug Tom or nudge him away.

Tom makes his decision by wrapping his arms around Harry’s midriff. “There’s nobody
here,” he points out.

Biting his lip, Harry throws a glance at the house, his concern unspoken but loud. Elinor is
probably always watching them.

“If you just avoid me without explaining why,” Tom says, choosing his next argument
carefully, “you make me feel tainted.”

As intended, Harry winces. “I’m sorry, I never meant for you to feel that way.”

“Then how about this?” Tom curls a pinky around Harry’s. “I pinky promise that I will
always stop, if you tell me to. Can you promise that we will act normally whenever we’re
alone?”

Harry hesitates, conflict warring on his face. At last, he nods and curls his pinky around
Tom’s. “All right, I promise.”

They hug, and Tom makes a big show of ending the hug first. As he does so, he catches the
flicker of disappointment mixed in the relief on Harry’s face. That is even more reassuring
than Harry’s promise. Harry craves Tom’s touch as much as Tom craves his.
Luckily, Harry doesn’t know that Tom crossed his fingers when he made the promise, so the
promise wouldn’t count.

Until the roadblocks are removed, Tom will respect these boundaries. Once the stage is set,
he will be ready to openly claim Harry as his.

* * *

It’s no longer possible to ignore the reality that Tom is growing up.

The change in his appearance has been obvious for a while. Baby fat has shed to reveal high
cheekbones and sculpted jawline, and his height is catching up to his gangly limbs. Now
Tom’s mannerisms, too, are converging to those of the Riddle from Dumbledore’s memories:
the handsome boy on the cusp of becoming a hideous monster and who manipulated his way
into Harry’s confidence.

Harry is torn. While he misses the child whom he could spoil with sweets or toys, the
shrinking age gap is deepening their connection. More and more, Tom understands him on a
level beyond everyone else, intellectually and emotionally. To Harry’s shame, he craves it.
Growing up, he never received a scrap of affection from the Dursleys; Dudley’s parting
handshake came the closest. At Hogwarts, it took time to get used to hugging Ron and
Hermione, and his first kiss with Cho was a disaster he’d like to erase from memory.

In spite of their fraught history, bonding with Tom came naturally. They were and are two
imperfect puzzle pieces whose grooves fit each other perfectly. You have an opportunity to
reconsider how you should proceed once Riddle is older, Hermione suggested, but what if the
answer is that Harry doesn’t want anything to change? What if he doesn’t mind their
codependence?

Elinor is right: setting boundaries is the key before they slide further on this slippery slope.

That’s easier said than done. Harry has never been great at setting boundaries, and when he
did manage to set some, others — close friends included — tended to ignore them. On top of
that, his struggles with Tom are of his own making. As everyone warned him, Harry’s
overindulgence means that Tom never learned to see him as a parental figure, and every
boundary he introduces feels superficial. What’s the point of shirking Tom’s touch when they
both know he’ll end the day in Tom’s room, telling bedtime stories and giving goodnight
kisses? And while Tom respects the boundaries, Harry can’t shake the impression that the
current equilibrium is precarious and that beneath the surface, Tom is redefining the rules to
his favor.

All in all, Harry is grateful that the new school term is enforcing distance between him and
Tom. Frankly, part of him is surprised that the Ministry is allowing him to continue
university, given what transpired over the past year, but then again, it’s also in their favor.
Without Harry around, they have more oversight over Tom.
Like last year, he’s taking three classes: continuations of Advanced Magical Theory and
Charms, along with Muggle horticulture to learn a bit of introductory biology and practical
gardening tips. As it happens, second-year Advanced Magical Theory is taught by Professor
Awbrey. As Kevin — or was it Kyle? — told him, she’s indeed the resident expert on bond
theory and will cover the topic in the latter half of the term, which fills Harry with
anticipation. While he doubts he’ll have a major epiphany, her perspective may unearth
something overlooked by him, Hermione, and the Ministry. Who knows, it may be a good
opening into an independent study in the spring, which other second-year students are already
doing this term.

To avoid distractions at home, Harry does schoolwork at the Institute library every class day,
so it takes him a while to notice the changing atmosphere between Tom and Elinor. Nothing
is outwardly wrong. Tom is polite and obedient towards Elinor, while she continues to be his
meticulous caretaker. However, their interactions outside of basic necessities have dropped to
nearly zero, and when they do talk to each other, there’s an undercurrent of antagonism.

Maybe it’s another artifact of Tom’s aging, Harry tries to reason at first. Now that Tom no
longer needs Elinor to feed or bathe him, it’s not surprising that they would become
distanced.

Yet his intuition tells him otherwise.

“Have things been okay at home?” Harry asks Elinor, after she has shared her daily update on
Tom’s status. According to the Healers, Tom’s aging has sped up again in the past week, and
he’s projected to reach his next biological birthday ahead of schedule.

“Don’t worry, everything is under control,” she replies. “Tom’s magic is strengthening, but
we detect no sign that the bond is failing.”

“Oh, that’s good. But I meant, between you and Tom, have things been okay?”

Elinor pauses for a beat too long. “I would say so. He doesn’t cause trouble and keeps
himself productive. We do disagree on telly channels on occasion, but that’s nothing we
haven’t been able to resolve.” She smiles, though it lacks humor. “Is there something you’re
wondering in particular?”

“Um, no. I’m glad everything is good.”

“Indeed. And Harry, I do appreciate that you took my advice to heart. I know it hasn’t been
easy, but I already see much improvement.”

Elinor offers another smile, a more genuine one, and Harry shifts the topic to Muggle botany.
He already regrets letting slip that he’s losing influence over Tom. The last thing he wants is
to invent a new problem.

Broaching the topic with Elinor again is out of the question, but Harry cannot let this matter
slide. If Tom has done something to further jeopardize his standing with the Ministry, Harry
needs to nip it in the bud.
Tom turns out to be equally evasive. “Nothing happened. Why do you ask?”

“Things seem a little tense. You haven’t upset Miss Elinor, have you?”

“Of course not. You can check with her. Unless she said something?”

“Er, no, she said everything is fine.”

“Well then, everything is fine.” Tom glances up and lays down the Potions textbook. “You
may be my magical guardian, Harry, but you have to trust that I can behave myself.”

The mild admonishment catches Harry off-guard, and the near-teenager before him seems
fleetingly foreign. “I do trust you. I just want to make sure that you and Miss Elinor are
getting along.”

“Do you want me to say something that you’d approve of, or do you want me to say
something that I truly mean?”

Harry exhales. What on earth is that supposed to mean? The truth, of course, he wants to say,
but his mouth dries.

Expression softening, Tom pats Harry’s hand. “Don’t worry. Everything is in order. Miss
Elinor and I have simply come to an understanding.”

He returns to his book and flips to the next page.

Whatever Tom’s intent, that last statement is more foreboding than reassuring.

October intensifies the sense of impending doom at Paradise Kingdom. The weather is
miserable, the frostiness between Tom and Elinor is persisting, and Tom’s aging is drawing
the attention of the Ministry, given the number of Healers and Aurors patrolling the house.

Harry can’t blame the Ministry for being paranoid. As Tom asks more questions about his
first life, too detailed to be coincidences, he has to conclude that Tom is regaining
Voldemort’s memories. They may not surface in the Healers’ tests yet, given their innocuous
nature, but sooner or later, they will.

Worse than that, it may be a matter of time before Tom pieces together the truth about Lord
Voldemort. That fallout, if and when it happens, will definitely eclipse that from the
discovery of the bond.

As autumn deepens, Harry’s nightmares worsen, featuring a mix of Tom’s past, his own
memories, and concoctions of his subconscious, which render the line between dream and
reality difficult. One night, Harry finds himself wandering around Barmouth and discovering
to his horror that everyone is Petrified. In a panic, he rushes to Paradise Kingdom to save
Tom, only to be greeted by the glowing eyes of a giant Basilisk. Another night, he’s rushing
into the sea to rescue Tom from drowning. However, instead of Tom, he finds a swarm of
Inferi and a heavy locket who drag him under.
Before long, Halloween is around the corner. When he’s not busy with schoolwork, Harry
plans a variety of activities, including carving pumpkins, creating Guy Fawkes effigies, and
watching Muggle horror films. He tries not to dwell on the possibility that this may be one of
the last — if not the last — holiday season with Tom, and focuses instead on stretching out
these carefree days.

On the morning of Halloween, Harry and Tom visit the local cemetery again. The crisp air
and the backdrop of colorful leaves pose a contrast to the muted peace that reigns over the
place. Even birds sing softly here, and the only other sound is the crunching of fallen leaves
beneath their shoes as they move through the rows of tombstones.

Last year, Tom was childishly eager to meet ghosts, though none materialized. This year, he
seems more interested in the tombstones. Most are simple stone slabs, carved with basic
information on the deceased. Some are elaborate affairs, with fancier constructions and
profound epitaphs.

Harry’s perspective on graveyards has changed over the years. There are plenty of bad
memories, between witnessing Voldemort’s rebirth in Little Hangleton to being lured by
Nagini in Godric’s Hollow. However, now he appreciates their tranquility. The dead offer no
judgment and no reproach. Once in a while, he’d visit cemeteries in Barmouth and Bangor to
lay flowers at less frequented graves, passing forward the kindness of strangers who take care
of his parents’ grave.

A scoff shatters the silence. “I hate them,” Tom says vehemently.

“Who? Why?”

“These.” With his foot, Tom points at a particularly elaborate mausoleum whose epitaph
quotes a Muggle philosopher from centuries ago. “They are all stupid sayings. Platitudes. ”

Harry follows Tom’s foot. I cannot escape death, the epitaph reads, but at least I can escape
the fear of it.

“What’s the point?” Tom continues. “This person may have the fanciest grave in the whole
world, but he’s still dead and powerless. And this quote doesn’t make sense. Whoever said it
was obviously lying.”

His distaste for epitaphs has grown since last year, yet the scorn doesn’t fully mask the
visceral fear of death that he shares with Voldemort. Harry cannot blame him. It’s a difficult
concept for a child to grasp when adult wizards and Muggles alike have spent centuries
trying to understand death with limited success.

No doubt, his fear also stems from the scars of his first life. At Wool’s, Riddle lived under the
ever-present threats of the war. And at Hogwarts, his early years in Slytherin likely weren’t
easy. It wouldn’t have been unthinkable for a pure-blood to dispose of him without remark.
It’s no surprise that Riddle saw death as an enemy to be feared and overpowered.

“I don’t think anyone was lying,” Harry reasons. “I think they were trying to make sense of
something that’s quite complex.”
Tom crosses his arms, evidently unconvinced. “What do you think?”

“Hmmm, my old headmaster at Hogwarts liked to say that to the well-organized mind, death
is the next great adventure.”

“Do you agree?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call death an adventure, but it wasn’t too terrible.”

Tom’s head whips around. “You died before?”

Harry winces. That was a thoughtless remark, but it’s too late to retract it without lying. “Sort
of, but it was temporary. As you can see, I’m not dead anymore.”

Tom’s eyes darken. “Tell me.”

“Um, it happened during the war against Voldemort,” Harry says, trying to sanitize the story.
“We were fighting at Hogwarts, and Voldemort said that if I gave myself up, everyone else
would live. So I went to meet him in the Forbidden Forest.”

“And then?”

“Voldemort hit me with a Killing Curse and I ended up in a place where I wasn’t dead or
alive. A limbo, you might say. My old headmaster met me and offered me a choice between
going on to the afterlife or returning to fight against Voldemort. I picked the second option
and woke up back in the forest.”

He gives Tom a reassuring smile, which isn’t returned. “What was it like, this limbo?” Tom
asks.

“It resembled a train station. Platform 9¾, in particular.”

As Harry struggles to convey the mystical experience, a different set of images assault him.
Images of him hurtling off a cliff on the night that Tom disappeared and landing in a dark
forest filled with devil’s snares endeavoring to drag him under.

Harry still recalls the fall with terrifying precision. He was sure that he’d died, because he’d
only had enough time to soften Tom’s landing. On the cold hard ground, he was a cluster of
disconnected thoughts, floating and lost and wracked with pain.

But he must’ve been hallucinating. After all, he no longer has Voldemort and his Horcruxes
to tether him to the land of living.

“No. No!”

Harry blinks. He’s back in the cemetery. Was he in some sort of a trance? Had he been
speaking without awareness?

He looks down. Tom is digging nails into his palms, face pale with terror and breaths
expelling in loud pants. “Stop this. Stop this. ”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Regretting more than ever the direction that the
conversation has taken, Harry clasps Tom’s hand. “Everything is okay.”

“Don’t go back there,” Tom says, practically on the verge of tears. “Don’t go back to that
place!”

“Please calm down. You’re safe. You’re not going anywhere.”

“That’s not good enough!” Tom shakes his head violently, as if trying to dislodge unpleasant
thoughts. “There must be magic that can make people live forever. There must be!”

“No,” Harry says sharply. “Immortality is not worth it.”

“I don’t care! I won’t let you go back there. I won’t let you!” A sob finally claws its way out
of Tom’s throat. “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want you to ever leave me.”

Realization rushes through Harry, followed by affection. Tom is genuinely terrified, but not
for himself. He’s worried about Harry’s death.

Except you’re the one dying.

You’re the one who won’t be around for much longer.

The surge of grief leaves Harry breathless. No amount of philosophizing is going to make
this loss sting less.

Impulsively, Harry grabs Tom’s shoulders and clutches him to his chest. Boundaries can sod
off. Nobody is watching anyhow.

Though startled, Tom melts into his arms and tucks his head under Harry’s chin. “I thought
we weren’t supposed to touch.”

The world blurs, yet somehow Tom remains in sharp focus. “It’s fine. We’re alone, aren’t
we?”

“Why are you crying?” Frowning, Tom strokes away a few tears with his thumb. “Have I
made you sad?”

“No, of course not. The wind blew something in my eye, that’s all.”

Tom doesn’t challenge the half-hearted excuse. He merely tucks his face into the crook of
Harry’s neck with one hand clasped to his chest and the other looped around Harry’s waist.
Quietly, they stand in each other’s embrace, their shared body heat dispelling the autumn
chill.

“You’ll always have me, I promise,” Harry murmurs into Tom’s hair. “Remember what I told
you? The people we care about never truly leave us. No matter what happens, I’ll always
watch over you.”
“I remember,” Tom says, hugging Harry back fiercely. “But I don’t want you to watch me
from the sky. I want you right here with me.”

Me too.

In that moment, with death so present around them, what Harry has subconsciously known
but didn’t acknowledge crystallizes into a realization. There’s no way that he’d be able to
hand Tom over the Ministry when he turns seventeen years old. No, Tom isn’t perfect, but
Tom isn’t Riddle or Voldemort either. At his core, he’s a boy who deserves a better fate than
disappearing into nothingness without having had the chance to leave his mark.

I wish I could save you, Harry wished once, but he was fooling himself. With Tom’s
seventeenth birthday hovering on the horizon, it’s clear that a miracle isn’t forthcoming. The
only person who can and will do anything is Harry himself.

With newfound resolution, Harry pulls Tom closer. To hell with Unbreakable Vows, and to
hell with hypothetical Ships of Theseus. He’s overcome impossible odds. He’s the fucking
Boy Who Lived. He’ll save Tom, whatever it takes.

Unbeknownst to him, the boy in his arms has come to a resolution of his own.

The rest of Halloween is festive. After baking a pumpkin pie for dessert, Tom and Harry feast
on oversized slices while watching a horror film about a poltergeist in an old house. Neither
of them finds it very scary, which leads to bedtime stories involving Peeves, Hogwarts’
resident poltergeist.

All the while, Tom is careful to behave as normally as possible.

At the end of the night, Harry gives his goodnight kisses and leaves. After waiting a few
minutes to ensure that Harry has settled in his own room, Tom creeps out from under the
covers and fetches the notebook hidden beneath his mattress.

Immortality, Harry said. That’s the word for living forever, and it’s a concept that he
mentioned before. The boy in the cupboard was looking for the Philosopher’s Stone that
produced the Elixir of Life, wasn’t he? True, relying on an elixir to stay alive isn’t ideal, but
that shows that this type of magic exists.

Tom needs a better way for himself and Harry, a way without drawbacks or loopholes. And
he will find it.

Under the witness of the bluebell flames, he adds immortality to his list.

* * *
Elinor isn’t cracking.

Tom has anticipated that she would be a tough adversary, but it’s frustrating that she leaves
no opening to exploit. Breaking into her room is out of the question. Unlike trusting Harry,
she’s likely long charmed her room against intruders. Reading her mind doesn’t work either.
Scraping her thoughts alone dumps Tom into a dark maze constructed of her mind shields,
with dangers in every corner.

Observing her is similarly useless. Elinor is like a robot who does everything with precision
and addresses almost everyone in a calculated manner that conveys information in the fewest
possible words. Harry is the only exception. With him, she can be almost gentle, but Tom
doesn’t consider it true affection. He has no doubt that she’ll sacrifice Harry for her own gain,
not that he’ll let Harry get close enough to test this theory.

Elinor’s behavior betrays nothing, but Tom reads an unvoiced challenge in their every
interaction. She wants a confrontation to take place between them. She wants Tom to make a
wrong move in order to force Harry to leave Tom. They are two predators prowling in a
circle, each waiting to be proclaimed the victor.

Eventually, desperation drives Tom to approach her directly. “Tell me about yourself,” he
says when they’re watching the telly.

Elinor’s knitting needles do not stop. “What prompts this curiosity?”

Tom shrugs innocently, although she’s not looking at him. “You’ve done a lot for Harry and
me. I’d like to get to know you better.”

“Oh? Is that so?” She still does not shift her focus from her flying needles. “I rather think that
we understand each other perfectly well.”

Despite her pleasant tone, the subtle shift from know to understand is telling. Tom’s respect
for the woman reluctantly increases. Unlike the weaklings that populate the world, she’s a
worthy opponent, and what’s more, she doesn’t underestimate or patronize him due to his
youth.

In that case, there’s no point pretending anymore. The war has begun, and victory will be
ever so sweet upon her downfall.

Only… how?

The tiny room is filling with smoke. In the past, Tom would’ve panicked, but fires no longer
scare him when they are thousands of kilometers away and decades in the past.

He doesn’t bother escaping, since he can choose to wake up at any point. Instead, he walks to
the window to admire the raging inferno. The flames are especially aggressive today. If he
concentrates, he can see them coalescing into shapes that resemble monsters from The
Monster Book of Monsters.

“Hello, Tom.”
At the familiar voice, Tom gasps and stumbles a few steps backward. The glass has turned
reflective, transforming the window into a mirror of sorts. Inside, a tall figure smirks, red
eyes flashing.

“Voldemort,” Tom spits.

“Ah, you know my name now. Harry Potter has finally told you the truth, then.”

“He did. He told me that you cursed me.”

“I cursed you?” Voldemort’s forehead wrinkles before smoothing, and the corners of his
mouth twitch. “No, I’m afraid that you are gravely mistaken. I blessed you. You are as
powerful as you are because of me.”

“You’re lying! You’re the reason that I can’t use my magic.”

“How amusing, the tales that children believe. How disappointing.”

Tom fists his hands, wishing that he has a wand so he can curse off that patronizing
expression.

“There’s no reason to perceive me as an enemy,” Voldemort says. “I am a friend who can

assist you.”

Tom scoffs. “How? You don’t know anything about me.”

“Quite the contrary, I know everything about you, dear Tom. Your heart’s desire is written
plainly on your soul. You want to construct a world according to your vision, a world free
from the blemishes of the unworthy, a world where you and yours can have everything you
desire.”

The window shimmers, turning once again translucent. However, the burning ruins of east
London have been replaced by a beautiful garden that wraps around a huge estate. Plants of
all colors and shapes are flourishing. In the center, two figures lie on the grass, shoulder
grazing and ankles crossing, laughing as they soak up the sun. Tom doesn’t need to see their
faces to recognize them.

Heart pounding, he steps forward, yearning for a better look. Just as his mirror self turns
toward Harry, the window ripples again. The inferno is back, spreading its fiery fingers in
every direction, consuming everything in its path, including the blissfully unaware couple.

“No!” Tom shouts, forgetting that nothing he’s seeing is real.

Voldemort reappears, laughing. “A riveting vision, isn’t it?” he remarks. “And rather
heartbreaking, if it cannot be realized.”

Tom glares balefully. “I won’t let you take everything away.”

“Must I remind you that I’m not your enemy? You know the person in the way of your
happiness. The person you have thus far failed to destroy.”
“That’s none of your business!”

“Allow me to help. You are someone who takes charge, a rare breed to be nurtured. Yet
you’re still inexperienced and need a nudge in the right direction.”

Tom considers. Under the mocking honeyed tone, the man seems sincere. “And what’s that?”

Voldemort grins, reminding Tom of the effigy that he made and burned for Guy Fawkes Day.
“Destroying another person is a beautiful yet delicate art, and many never master it. I myself
learned too late that raw force is not the solution.” He sweeps his arms outward. “Sometimes,
all the pieces are already in place. The brightest among us are often the ones who dig their
own graves.”

“Do you mean —”

Voldemort taps the side of his head and grins. “Be creative, Tom. You may feel frustrated and
helpless, but in reality, victory rests at your fingertips.”

Before Tom can ask another question, Voldemort has faded from sight. Though Tom tells
himself that the man was full of rubbish, he replays his cryptic words over and over.

A few days later, Tom watches Elinor direct the Healers to run another series of tests. The
moment she turns away, one of the Healers she was speaking to grimaces, and another rolls
his eyes. In that instant, epiphany hits. Elinor is smart and powerful, yes, but she’s only one
person. She can protect the secrets she keeps, but not the secrets kept by others that involve
her.

From there on, everything is straightforward. The minds of the Healers crumble under his
assault, and even the minds of the Aurors cannot guard everything. Among other things, Tom
learns that the other people in the house don’t like Elinor. Some respect her grudgingly but
see her as an interloper from London, here to usurp their hard work and claim credit. Others
outright distrust her and suspect that she has links to the Lestranges.

Even Harry, who appreciates and seeks her approval, is wary of her. There will never be pure
trust and friendship between them because of her link to the Ministry, particularly not after
she warned him against Tom.

Elinor is able to ascend in her career because of her competence and independence, but that’s
a double-edged sword. Her competence means that the Ministry sees her as a tool, which can
be replaced and discarded if necessary, and her independence means that nobody will come to
her aid once she loses value.

Tom only needs one more piece, one little thread that can start the process of unraveling her
fortress.

In the waning afternoon light, he surveys the living room. A creature of habit, Elinor always
has the same setup. A newspaper. A cup of steaming tea. Her knitting basket with her newest
project, which seems to be yet another jumper.
Come to think of it, Tom has never seen her wear anything she makes, and she doesn’t have
anyone in her life she can gift them to. What does she do with them?

A gust of wind flutters the half-finished sleeve. The patterned yarn seems to glow, and
fascinated, Tom reaches out.

“Don’t touch it!”

Tom jumps. In a few long strides, Elinor is at the chair and snatches the basket away.

“It was about to fall,” Tom explains, too startled to come up with a better lie. “I was picking
it up.”

“I appreciate the thought, but I would appreciate it far more if you refrain from touching my
belongings in the future.”

Her expression is serene, but her magic suffuses the room, so full of chilling fury that Tom
shivers. He can barely remember excusing himself and running upstairs to the safety of his
room.

Once the adrenaline calms, he replays the exchange. In retrospect, her reaction was
intriguing. Yes, she was understandably angry that Tom tried to touch her knitting, but the
magnitude of her reaction seemed overblown. Not to mention, she also looked guilty.

Why would that be the case? Unless she, too, has something to hide.

Tom grabs his notebook and begins sketching out ideas. Inadvertently, Elinor may have given
him the opening he needed.

Tom likes stargazing nights. He has learned a lot of Astronomy, enough that he understands
that the stories Harry shared aren’t real. Stars are made of gasses, rather than reincarnations
of heroes and monsters. This loss of mystique is part of the reality of growing up, although
Tom doesn’t always appreciate it.

Tonight, however, will be special. Having been bursting with the secret all week, Tom barely
manages to keep himself from cheering when Harry agrees to a mini-Astronomy lesson
before bedtime.

“Why the blanket?” Harry asks, noticing the giant blanket that Tom has spread in front of the
telescope. “Are you cold? Let me charm your jacket.”

“No, I’m fine,” Tom says, wriggling away. “The blanket is for us to sit on!”

Harry remains confused. “But if we’re sitting, we won’t be able to see through the telescope.”

“That’s okay. We don’t need it tonight.”

“Why not?”
Tom lets out a sigh. Sometimes, Harry can be so obtuse. It’s usually adorable, but it can also
be exasperating. “We can see meteors with our bare eyes. You taught me that, don’t you
remember?”

“Meteors?”

“Yes, the Leonids storm is tonight!”

And the reporter on telly said that it’s rare to have another Leonids storm so soon after the
previous one. Tom isn’t surprised. The Leonids belonged to him and Harry. They were the
first meteors they watched together, and the constellation Leo represents Harry’s house. Of
course they’ll have special storms, and the only problem is that they’ll have to share the
storm with the rest of the world.

Harry’s puzzled face splits into a brilliant grin. “That’s incredible. Thank you for this
wonderful surprise.”

“Come on, let’s get ready.”

Tom tugs Harry onto the blanket. Obediently, Harry sits beside him and conjures a second
blanket to cover their legs. Meteors don’t appear until later into the night, so while they wait,
they review the constellations they have studied. A few times, Tom catches Harry stifling
yawns, which twists his stomach with guilt. Harry has school tomorrow, so he needs to sleep.
Nevertheless, Tom feels gratified that Harry is choosing to indulge him.

“I see them!” Tom shouts triumphantly.

Sure enough, the sky gleams with the first streak of the night’s meteors, soon followed by
others, all of them crisscrossing in an uncoordinated dance.

“Amazing,” Harry breathes.

While it’s too dark to see Harry’s expression, Tom recognizes Harry’s wonder in the tilt of his
head and the curve of his neck. He itches to press close, press closer, press until their bodies
mold together, utterly and completely.

“Make a wish,” he demands in a whisper.

“All right.” Harry closes his eyes, clutches his hands, and murmurs something. “There. What
about you?”

Tom doesn’t need to anymore. His wish has never changed and never will. As some things
become more complex, other things become simpler and clearer.

“Remember that you told me you wished for a family when you were younger?” Tom says
instead. Harry hums. “I think my past self did too.”

“And it came true for him. He found Hogwarts.”

“No, not Hogwarts. You. ”

“Me?” Harry sounds unusually incredulous. “But your past self didn’t know me then.”

“It wouldn’t matter. He knew, and I knew, that you’d exist. Someone who would give me a
home and someone who would love me. I waited a long time, and you finally came.”

Harry squeezes his hand. “I wish I could’ve come for you sooner.”

Tom squeezes back, hard. He imagines having Harry in his first life. Harry would’ve come to
the orphanage, as he came to the Attic, to bring him to a house like Paradise Kingdom. He
would’ve showered Tom with care and helped him navigate his life at Hogwarts. He
would’ve ensured that Voldemort never had a chance to curse Tom.

With Harry, Tom would’ve truly belonged somewhere. While his past self did love Hogwarts,
it wasn’t the same. He had to wear a mask and assert dominance over his schoolmates to earn
his place.

“You came at the perfect time,” Tom says.

He doesn’t elaborate, not wanting to get sappy or appear soft. There’s no point dwelling on
what could’ve been anyway. In the end, he won. His former classmates are probably old and
dying, if not already dead, whereas he’s young again and stronger every day. The thought fills
him with mean pleasure.

“It’s getting late and the storm will go for a few more hours,” Harry says. “Let’s go to bed.
We can come back tomorrow night if the weather cooperates.”

“Okay.” Tom curls an arm around Harry and, when Harry doesn’t resist, rests chin on his
shoulder. “Can we do this next year too?”

Harry stills. “Next year?”

“Yes. This can be our tradition, like birthdays and Christmas. Maybe there will be another
meteor storm!”

“That’s possible,” Harry says slowly. “I guess we’ll have to find out.”

Tom shivers with excitement. He’ll make sure their meteor watching will be more special
every year. And in another year, he will almost be Harry’s age and Elinor Kent will be gone.
He can hardly wait.

“Should we go then?” Tom says, moving to rise, but Harry gently grasps his wrist.

“Why don’t we stay out a bit longer? We don’t want to miss the peak of the storm.”

Tom is surprised. Harry usually avoids breaking Elinor’s house rules. Nevertheless, he isn’t
about to protest.

They settle back onto the blanket and lie down. Peace and contentment flow through the
bond, along with a hint of sadness. It’s coming from Harry, because it’s again the strange
sadness he betrays whenever Tom talks too much about the future.
 Tom thinks he knows why. Like Elinor, the rest of the world doesn’t want the two of them to
be happy and together. But unlike Harry, Tom doesn’t care what they think. Just as he molded
the garden according to his vision, and just as he’s molding Elinor Kent’s fate, he will mold
his and Harry’s intertwined destinies.

Voldemort was right. Tom takes charge. Wishes don’t come true on their own, after all.

Above head, the meteors continue hurtling to their demise, but Tom is no longer paying
attention. Beside him, Harry’s breathing has slowed and evened. Overtaken by a strange
impulse, he touches his lips to Harry’s scar. Their bond flutters, but Harry doesn’t awaken.

Until his own eyes droop shut, Tom doesn’t move his gaze away.

Chapter End Notes

I haven’t been good at sticking to a monthly update, though I’m still aiming to wrap up
Act II by end of the year (fingers crossed!). I’m hoping there will be another chapter in
July, but if not, there should be something in early August. See you then!
End Notes

Thank you for reading. As always, your feedback is very welcome :) This story is relatively
challenging to get right, so it’s very encouraging to know that others are coming along on the
journey.

Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!