A/N:

first of all, huge thank you to everyone who was cheering me on while i posted updates on tumblr. you guys rock, i love you all dearly.

second of all, thanks to hannah for supporting me as a person while i wrote this :')

this story might have come across as... more morally sound(?) than it actually is. so i want to make a few points clear, just in case.

if you don't want any spoilers, feel free to skip the list below, but i wanted to make sure the triggers are clear.

- nothing underage occurs in this story. harry is aware of the age gap and is a responsible adult about it.
- there are two instances of non-consensual memory alteration (obliviate). one of these occurrences happens to harry, and the other occurs to morfin gaunt.
- this is, at its core, an unhealthy relationship. tom's understanding of love is deeply flawed, and i've tried to portray it as such.
- tom is manipulative, obsessive, and fairly sociopathic—but he does genuinely care about harry, so you can choose to see this as his saving grace, so to speak.

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But For You, I Did

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May 1998

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"You have ten years, Harry." Hermione's hands were clasped around the crystal phial full of the shimmering, pearlescent liquid.

Harry smiled at her. "No more, no less. Yeah, Hermione, I get it."

"And once you take the potion—"

"—the effects are permanent. I know."

"We've been over this about a thousand times," Ron interjected, a note of levity in his voice.

Hermione's shoulders slumped. "Do you really think this will work? What if it all goes horribly wrong?"

"It won't." This much, Harry was sure of. "I know him. I know what I need to do."

Hermione still looked unsure, so Harry reached up and placed his palm against her cheek. Her bushy hair tickled against his knuckles. "It will be alright, Hermione. Have faith."

Hermione breathed out a shaky laugh. "Oh, Harry. Ron and I have it easy. Once you're gone, the change will be almost instantaneous for us. You're the one who's going to have to live with whatever happens."

"Yeah," Ron said. "You're going to have to be a scrawny, specky git for another seven years."

This time, Harry laughed. He could always count on his friends to make him feel better.

"I'm going to miss you both," he told them.

Ron and Hermione each grabbed onto one of his hands. "See you soon," Hermione said.

"Be safe," Ron added.

Harry drank in the sight of his two best friends. Two of the things he might be giving up forever if he failed. But, no. He had to have faith. Faith and courage would see him through this.

Faith, courage, and enough cunning to win over a budding dark lord.

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September 1938

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Tom Riddle arrived on Platform 9 at King's Cross. He could see the brick pillar that marked the three-quarter distance between this platform and the next one, which was Platform 10.

He'd been told to run into the wall. Professor Albus Dumbledore had told him to run into the wall.

Tom couldn't help but wonder if this was some kind of dirty trick designed to sort out the smart kids from the stupid ones. Still, there was nowhere else to go. His ticket was sitting in the pocket of his robes—robes that looked out of place amongst the rest of the people on the platform.

Pushing his trolley a bit off to the side, Tom pondered what to do. Someone would come along eventually. He had arrived early, but other students were bound to show up at some point. Tom would simply have to wait and see.

A few minutes passed. Not an impressive length of time by any means, but long enough for Tom to get impatient. He had waited his whole life for this, for Hogwarts. For the final proof that he was meant for more. Tom wasn't going to be made a fool of before he even set foot on the train.

"First time at Hogwarts?"

An older boy was standing a few metres away, his own trolley in front of him. There was a shiny, glinting Prefect's badge pinned to his chest. It was green; he was a Slytherin.

Tom eyed the newcomer. Smooth black hair and bright green eyes to match the prefect's badge.

The other boy turned to stare at the brick wall for a moment. Tom got the feeling that the boy was experiencing some kind of nostalgia. As soon as those green eyes had looked away from Tom, they'd grown foggy and distant, like clouds had been pulled over them. But then the boy's eyes snapped back over, and Tom could only blink in bewilderment at being the other boy's sole focus.

"See you on the train," the Slytherin boy said, casual as you please, and then he took off towards the wall at a jog.

Tom watched as the older boy hit the wall and melted into it, disappearing from sight. A knot inside of Tom untwisted. The prefect hadn't talked down to him or tried to tell him what to do. He'd set the example and left. Tom was relieved. He would have hated to ask for help.

Reorienting his trolley, Tom angled himself and ran for the barrier.

Tom was sat in his own compartment, school book open on his lap. Some people had walked by, but no one had come in. Tom wasn't actually sure if he wanted people to come in or not.

On one hand, company would mean a chance to start establishing himself in this new society. On the other hand, he knew little about wizards and their ways, and so he would be more liable to commit a glaring error without realizing.

The train would leave the station soon. Tom turned another page of his textbook, the one on Defense. He wanted to be able to defend himself, to know how to attack people if he needed to.

Someone passed by the glass, did a double take, and paused.

It was the same boy from before. Only this time his eyes were sharp, crystal clear like polished emeralds. Tom shifted on his seat, oddly unnerved. Perhaps magic could change the colour of your eyes, could make them look more supernatural. He'd never seen eyes so green before.

The door slid open. "Do you mind?" asked the boy.

This boy was a school prefect for the Hogwarts house Tom wanted to go to. Tom wasn't sure what the consequences of saying no would be, so he shrugged in agreement.

"My name is Harry," the boy continued. "Harry Evans. I'm a fifth-year Slytherin prefect. Usually the prefects make rounds of the train to check in on all the students, but I thought I'd come by and introduce myself."

"Tom Riddle." Tom held out his hand automatically, and Evans shook it.

Evans took a seat opposite. "This might sound a bit odd, coming from a stranger, but I—well, I couldn't help myself coming in here. You remind me of myself, at your age."

Tom's brows rose without any conscious thought. "I do?" Tom asked, unable to keep the tinge of disbelief out of his tone.

Evans smiled. His eyes, still hypnotically saturated, glittered even in the dim light of the train compartment. "Muggleborn boy with no family to claim, no friends to speak of. Arriving at Hogwarts with no idea of what's to come, only wielding a powerful desire to prove myself."

Tom found himself drifting closer, the better to hear the words that were being spoken.

"Before Hogwarts, people told me that I would never amount to anything, that I would always be the filth under their shoes. They told me I was a freak, that my parents were nobodies. For a long time, I almost believed them. But then, one day, someone told me I was a wizard and everything changed."

Tom was fascinated and disconcerted all at once. No one had ever read him quite so thoroughly before. Tom couldn't help but wonder if Dumbledore had instructed Evans to keep an eye on him. But Evans seemed… genuine. All the others who had ever tried to talk to Tom about his freakishness and his poor behaviour had always failed to understand what it was like to be special, to be different.

"Make no mistake, it still wasn't easy," Evans continued, now leaning back against the seat, lifting his left foot up to rest upon the knee of his other leg. It was a fluid motion that younger boys often tried to imitate to no success, but Evans pulled it off flawlessly. Tom was jealous.

"What do you mean?" Tom prompted, when it seemed no more was forthcoming.

The smile on Evans' face stretched into a lazy grin. "Slytherin house hates Muggleborns. You might read about their founder, Salazar Slytherin, and think, well, that was in the past, and surely no one cares for blood status anymore? But once you arrive, then they'll close ranks around you. They'll beat you and bully you when no one's looking, all because they know their family names will keep them out of any real trouble."

"But you survived," Tom said, cautious. "And you're a prefect now."

"I am." Evans shifted again, his head tilting. "All the professors and most of the student body adore me."

Tom was listening intently now. "You beat them," he said, ferocity bleeding into his tone.

Evans nodded. "I did. In two years I'll be Head Boy, and by then no one will be able to touch me."

That was what Tom wanted, to be so far above reproach that he could do whatever he pleased, could get away with anything. Was Evans gloating, dangling this dream in front of Tom? What was the point of all this?

Evans leant in as if he'd been reading Tom's thoughts. His forearms were braced on his knees, his face close enough that Tom could see the faint outline of a scar hiding underneath his styled hair.

"I'm telling you all this," Evans said, "because I can help you get there. I've paved the way for boys like us, for boys who come from nothing. I know you'll appreciate what it means to work for what you have, to deserve it."

Tom breathed in. His eyes had gone wide, but he made no effort to school his expression. This was pivotal; Tom could picture his entire Hogwarts career stretching out before him, the path set, the goals attainable. The olive branch that Harry Evans was extending was an offer Tom could not refuse, no matter how suspicious he was of it. He'd be a fool to say no.

"Tell me more," Tom demanded, and Harry obliged.

"SLYTHERIN!"

Tom slid off of the stool, triumph beating wildly in his heart as he approached the table of silver and green.

Harry was there, seated close to the end where the other first years were. With a gesture of Harry's hand, a space cleared for Tom to sit. Tom sat down on the bench and gazed down the row. Quite a few students were looking at Harry—looking to him.

"Is this a cousin of yours, Harry?" said a younger girl. She had dark black hair that was pulled into a bun. A few loose ringlets hung out from it, framing her angular face.

"Just a friend," Harry replied, his voice just as pleasant. "Everyone, this is Tom Riddle."

Eyes fell upon Tom. Tom had already been sitting upright, shoulders back, head held high. "Nice to meet you all," Tom said, trying to mimic the formal intonations Harry had used.

The simpering girl beamed, batting her lashes. "He's simply adorable. I can see why you've taken him under your wing."

An older boy with light blond hair snorted, drawing a glare from the girl.

"This is Walburga Black," Harry said, nodding at the girl. Then he looked over at the blond and added, "And this is Abraxas Malfoy."

"Charmed," said Malfoy.

At the front of the hall, another student was sorted into Slytherin, and so the conversation paused as everyone clapped politely.

"Don't worry, Tom," Harry muttered as the new student joined their ranks. "You're going to fit right in."

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June 1939

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Being friends with a prefect opened a lot of doors. Tom was already leaps and bounds ahead of his peers, studying hard and succeeding at everything he attempted, but Harry's approval offered Tom another allowance of deference.

People recognized that Tom had been singled out as special, that he was worthy of attention. People saw what Harry pointed out to them, what Tom had always known to be true.

And Harry never held claim over anything Tom did. No one ever suggested that Tom had done anything other than earn his own grades and build his own skills. But the connection was there, an invisible line that tied Tom's path to Harry's.

Tom finished his first year at the top of the class. Flushed with success and riding the high of his achievement, he had sought Harry out in the Slytherin common room.

Harry was seated in an armchair by the fire, surrounded by some of his peers. Though Harry never said anything outright, Tom knew that Harry only really considered some of these people to be his friends. The rest of them were mere pawns, only useful as connections for the future.

"Tom?" Harry's eyes focused on Tom's approach. Malfoy shuffled out of the way, allowing Tom into the loose circle.

Tom couldn't hold it in anymore. "I scored the highest marks on all the exams," Tom said. "I might have even done better than you did in your first year. Professor Slughorn said he'd have to check the student records with Headmaster Dippet, but it'll be very close."

"That's great news! Well done, Tom." Harry's smile, wide as ever, sent a warm feeling into Tom's gut. The warmness spread, filling his lungs and coating the inside of his throat, working its way into his cheeks.

Tom could tell that Harry really meant his praise. He had studied Harry long enough to be able to tell the difference between Harry lying and Harry being genuine.

Harry was excellent at pretending most of the time. He would act as though he liked some of the snottier purebloods, and he would feign obliviousness to Walburga's continuous advances. But when it came to the smaller things, things like pleasantries, Harry was really terrible at feeding people lies.

Tom had watched Harry try to escape invitations to Professor Slughorn's parties; the parade of excuses Harry had come up with had grown increasingly unrealistic over the course of the school year. Harry shrugged off compliments and frowned at questions about his parents, but Tom saw through all of it, because he knew Harry better than anyone else did.

"Thank you," Tom said, smiling back just a little, pride puffing his chest out.

A few of the other Slytherins offered congratulations, eager to earn favour from Harry, but Tom paid them little attention. He was still fixated on Harry's reaction.

"Why don't we go for a walk," Harry said, standing up. "And you can tell me all about your marks."

The circle shifted again, this time to let Harry and Tom out. It was very clear where Harry's priorities lay, and that his top priority was not with the group of hangers-on he had accumulated for himself.

Harry didn't care if Tom had done better than him. Harry was happy to see Tom succeed, he wanted Tom to succeed, and Tom was going to prove himself worthy of Harry's investment and more.

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September 1939

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Tom and Harry had written back and forth all summer, even though Tom wasn't sure exactly where Harry lived. The owl that retrieved and delivered the mail didn't require addresses like Muggle letters.

Harry had written about his summer homework and sent Tom more books to read. Tom would have liked for Harry to visit, but Harry had said the distance was too far to travel without the use of magic. Tom alternated between hating everyone at Wool's and missing Harry's company. Letters weren't the same as seeing Harry in person, as hearing Harry's praise and being regarded by Harry's vibrant green eyes.

When September arrived, Tom met Harry at King's Cross, and they crossed the barrier together. Harry was quieter than normal, his expression somber. Tom wanted to pry, but he decided to wait until they had some time alone to talk.

While they lingered on the platform, a few other students strolled over, and so Tom was forced to make small talk. The conversation drifted towards OWLs. Harry had scored incredibly high marks on all his OWLs, setting a new a Ministry record. Though Tom knew that Harry was very smart, he hardly ever saw Harry study. Harry spent most of his time helping his classmates review.

Harry's hand touched absently at Tom's shoulder a few times while they talked to their housemates. Tom had grown a few inches over the summer, which made the position more comfortable. Harry was already a bit shorter than most of his cohorts, so perhaps someday Tom would be the taller one.

Eventually, everyone boarded the train, and Tom went to find his 'friends'. He preferred to spend time with Harry, but it wouldn't do to forgo spending time with his classmates. If he was to follow in Harry's footsteps, if he was to do better, then he needed to nurture his connections and raise up his reputation.

When news of the war reached Hogwarts, none of the Slytherins seemed to care. It was Harry who pulled Tom aside, his face creased with grim lines, his brows drawn tightly together.

"I'll be of age next summer," Harry told him. This time Harry's hand was firm where it rested on Tom's shoulder. "If the war gets worse, then you can come and stay with me, where you'll be safe."

Tom relished in the comfort, in the attention. He knew it was selfish to wish that the war would get worse so he could escape Wool's and live with Harry, but that didn't stop him from hoping for it anyways.

Second year passed much like the first, only Tom became aware of time passing in a way he hadn't ever bothered with before.

Next year would be Harry's last year at Hogwarts.

People were expecting great things from Harry. There was talk of jobs at the Ministry of Magic, of jobs abroad in America. Harry never talked about what he wanted to do; even Tom's questions were met with a gentle rebuff.

This unnerved Tom more than he wanted to admit. It wasn't even the rebuff that upset him, it was the notion of what lay behind it. And Harry had definitely noticed Tom's discomfort, because his smile grew a little more strained every time Tom brought the subject back up.

Tom hated it. He wanted to know what Harry was going to do, and Harry was refusing to talk about it, probably because Tom would see through any lie he tried to tell.

Harry was going to leave him, and Tom didn't know how to stop it from happening. He hated Harry for doing this to him.

Tom told himself he'd be better off alone, better off with the school looking to him instead of to Harry Evans. Tom would be free to earn the Prefect spot, to become Head Boy, just like he'd wanted. He didn't need Harry to stay. Harry was going to prove himself a liar and an abandoner just like everyone else.

But what was truly terrible about it all, what Tom refused to admit, even to himself, was that despite telling himself that Harry was only holding him back, Tom desperately wished that Harry would choose him over leaving.

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July 1940

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Harry came to visit Wool's Orphanage on the last day of July.

Tom hadn't been expecting any visit at all, and so the sight of Harry standing in the entrance hall was jarring. The juxtaposition of the two main pillars of Tom's life—Wool's, which Tom hated, and Harry, who he liked—was bizarre and almost dreamlike.

"You're here," Tom said in lieu of a greeting.

Harry smiled, his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. His clothes were nice, the lines of his trousers crisp and pressed. Every inch the perfect gentleman. Harry's school things had always been new; he had given all of his gently-used textbooks to Tom. Harry talked of a poor home life but never in any detail. He never talked about any specific relatives or gave any names. It was the one subject that Tom had never pushed. Someday, Harry would be ready, of his own volition, to share the story of his past with Tom.

"My offer to leave this place is still open, if you want it," Harry said in response.

"Of course I do," Tom said, a little snappish. Then he relented, biting down on his lower lip.

Harry wanted them to live together. This was what Tom had always wanted—to be taken away from Wool's—and Harry was the only person whose company Tom tolerated.

"Then you should go pack your things," Harry said. He didn't sound offended. His eyes were sparkling again, like he found Tom's mulishness amusing rather than offensive.

That happened a lot. Tom would say or do something impulsive, and then he would wait, apprehensive, to see how Harry would respond. But Harry never got mad. He would simply watch Tom with those perceptive green eyes, as thought he knew what was really going on in Tom's head.

Once Tom packed his things, he returned to the main hall, where he discovered that Harry had already sorted the paperwork with Mrs. Cole. They walked outside, away from the orphanage, and then Harry took Tom by the arm and Apparated them away.

Harry lived in a small flat in Ottery St. Catchpole. There was one bedroom and one bathroom and a tiny kitchen. There was also a cot set up in the living room.

"Oh," Harry said, when Tom had gone to put his things down next to it. "You can have the bedroom, if you like. I don't mind the cot."

Tom hesitated, bag in hand. This was Harry's home, and Tom was just a guest. But of course Harry was selfless enough to offer his own bed up.

"We could share," Tom said. Other children at Wool's had done that, when there wasn't enough space for everyone.

Harry blinked, taken aback. "It's fine, Tom. It's only until school starts. I'll go make us something to eat." Then he shook his head, as though to clear it of an errant thought, and walked over to the kitchen.

Tom went into the bedroom. The sheets were maroon. Tom tugged his trunk to the foot of the bed dumped his bag on top before going to examine the bedding.

The maroon colour looked more surreal up close. Tom picked up the pillow and lifted it towards his face. The pillowcase was white and smelled like Harry. Distinctly masculine and a little earthy. Soothing. The rest of the bed probably smelled the same, Tom thought. Deciding he wanted the bed after all, Tom opened his trunk and began to unpack his clothing.

He and Harry would live here together until they had to return to Hogwarts.

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Winter 1940

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London was bombed again and again and again. Tom had never thought much about dying before, but suddenly it was all anyone could talk about. Newspapers had trouble keeping track of the death toll, and Harry had that somber air about him again, one that Tom had begun to associate with thoughts of war. Tom was glad he wouldn't be going back to Wool's this summer. If Harry had been even a year younger, it could have been ruinous.

But things were good at Hogwarts. Harry was Head Boy this year, though his extra duties meant he had less time to spend with Tom. So Tom busied himself with building his own social network, with reading books on powerful magic in the Hogwarts library. Harry had caught him with some books on darker hexes and curses, but though he'd raised a single brow at Tom's reading material, he hadn't commented any further.

Tom knew that Harry didn't like or tolerate bullying. Harry was a firm believer in fairness and equality for everybody. But Tom knew that when you broke it all down, people would hurt you if they could, if they got something for themselves out of it. And though Harry was powerful, he was soft hearted. So Tom would learn the things Harry refused to touch, and Harry would thank him for it when Tom was able to cast the right spells to save them.

As the bombings continued for months with no end in sight, Tom caught Harry watching at him more and more, concern on his face. Tom wasn't sure why Harry was so worried. They were safe here at Hogwarts, and come summertime, they could go somewhere else together, somewhere far away from the war. That was what Harry had promised him.

But the worry remained, a shadow loitering behind every one of Harry's generous words and tender smiles, and Tom's paranoia began to worsen.

Maybe Harry didn't plan on sticking around after all. Maybe he was going to leave, and the promise of summer was just a trick to keep Tom in line until then.

Tom started to research more magic, more potions, more spells. Harry wasn't allowed to leave him, Harry was his . If Harry was going to try to leave, then Tom was going to have to stop him.

One night during the winter holidays, Tom woke to Harry shaking his arm. They were the only two who had remained here in Slytherin house this year. Tom sat up, blinking so he could focus.

"I want to show you something," Harry said.

Harry had an Invisibility Cloak. It was a family heirloom, and Harry didn't use it often. But sometimes Harry would let them both use it to wander the grounds together after hours.

This time Harry had a particular destination in mind as he led Tom through the corridors. A girl's bathroom on the floor above the Great Hall. Tom didn't say a word, though his curiosity was killing him. Once ensconced in the bathroom, they approached the sinks, which looked distinctly snake-like.

Then Harry spoke, the word odd and accented: "Open."

The tap shifted, the sink lowering into the floor and out of sight. Tom gaped at it, then composed himself quickly. It wouldn't do to act like a guileless child in front of Harry.

"What is this?" Tom asked.

Harry pulled the cloak off of them. "This is the Chamber of Secrets."

Tom couldn't conceal his awe this time. "You're the heir of Slytherin?"

Harry turned to look at him. His smile, though genuine, looked tired. "I am, Tom. And you are, too."

The tunnel below them was pitch black, but Harry conjured a torch, which he lit up and handed over for Tom to take.

"How do you know?" Tom asked, suspicious. Did that mean he and Harry were related?

"We can talk to snakes." Harry reached into his bag and pulled out his broomstick, which he then unshrunk. "We're going to have to fly down. Do you want to sit in front or behind?"

"In front," Tom said. He wanted to see everything up close, especially since Harry had clearly been down here before. "When did you find this place?" he asked as he mounted the broom, careful not to lose his grip on the torch he was still holding.

"I first came down here two weeks ago," Harry said, sliding into place behind Tom. Harry's arms came around to grip the front of the broom, closing Tom into a sort of embrace.

"And you didn't tell me?" Tom asked, annoyed. "We could have come down together."

They started to descend. Tom could feel Harry's chest pressed against his back as Harry angled the broomstick downwards.

"I had to make sure it was safe. There's a Basilisk down here."

Tom thought that over. Basilisks were dangerous creatures, and it made sense that Harry wanted to protect him. But Harry could have died down here, and Tom wouldn't ever have known about it.

"You're an idiot," Tom said. "You could have died."

Harry's shoulders shrugged; Tom could feel the motion of it. "I'm fine, Tom. You don't need to worry about me," Harry said.

"If you died," Tom continued, "then how would anyone have found you?'

Harry snorted. "If we both die now, I could say the same thing."

But they were here together, Tom wanted to protest. That wasn't the same thing. Tom decided not to pursue that train of thought any longer, and instead asked, "Does this mean we're related? If we're both the heir."

Harry guided the broom to a stop. The torch in Tom's hand was bright enough to illuminate the existence of a floor underneath their feet.

"We're not related," Harry said, after a pause. "My ability to speak Parseltongue is magically inherited, so it's not by blood."

"But mine?" Tom demanded. His feet were now upon the floor, his face hot and his heart hammering in his chest.

Harry reached out, his hand touching upon Tom's shoulder like it normally did. "Later," Harry promised. "Don't you want to see the chamber?"

They walked down the tunnel, which ended with another door, a large round one with snakes carved onto it.

"Sewer pipes," Tom said, eyeing the shape of the hole.

"Literally a chamber room," Harry confirmed. Then he added, "Did you want to open this door?"

Tom did want to. This was his birthright, and Harry had brought him here, had delivered it to him. This moment, this chamber, all of it belonged to him.

"Open," Tom hissed, and the chamber entrance obeyed.

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March 1941

.

A group of Slytherins were sat outside by the Black Lake, Tom and Harry amongst them. Harry and a few of the other upperclassmen were about to start a friendly game of Quidditch, leaving Tom with some of the older girls and the other students in his own year. A few of the girls had set their parasols hovering in the air, shielding the group from the wind and the sun.

Walburga was eyeing Harry with that awful glazed look again, like she was a lovesick dog instead of a human witch.

"What do you think about love?" Walburga asked, her words directed towards the gaggle of girls surrounding her.

"Love is from fairytales," said Greengrass idly, flipping her braid over her shoulder. "It's a story for the dreamers, for the hopeless romantics."

"Do you believe in love at first sight, Walburga?" someone else asked.

"Oh, yes." Walburga smirked. "Most definitely. Sometimes when you see someone, you simply know you're destined to be together. They fill you to the brim with happiness, you see. It's the kind of thing you only understand once you experience it. When you see the one , they see you for who you truly are, and there's nothing that can stand in your way." Her eyes went distant again, sappy. For a woman of supposedly noble stature, she was pathetically transparent.

Tom followed her line of sight to the object of her affections. Harry was in the air on his broomstick, gleaming smile stretched across his face, his robes flapping in the wind. Though he wasn't on the house team, Harry carried himself with the experience of a professional Quidditch player, weaving and dodging his opponents with ease. The girls near Walburga tittered with approval as they watched the game continue to unfold.

"That Evans boy certainly is a catch," Greengrass said. "Shame he's never shown any interest in anyone else."

"Else?" Walburga pressed, voice shrill like a harpy's. "Who's he got his eye on?"

Greengrass rolled her shoulders in a shrug, but then her eyes flickered over to Tom, and so Walburga turned to stare at him as well, brows raised.

"He hasn't got his eye on anyone," Tom said, which was true. He was fairly sure Harry would have told him, because Harry told him everything.

"You wouldn't lie to me, would you? Riddle?" Walburga pressed, voice sultry as she tilted forward, cleavage on display.

Tom kept his eyes on her face, unattractive though it was, and offered her a fake smile. "I wouldn't."

"Leave him be, Walburga," said Greengrass. "He's too young to know, he's just a boy."

He was not just a boy. He was fourteen. Tom struggled to keep his brow smooth, to keep the corners of his mouth fixed in place. What did these girls know about anything? They didn't know him, and they certainly didn't know Harry.

Walburga sniffed, turning her attention back to the Quidditch match.

"I'm not young," Tom said to Greengrass, unable to help himself. He couldn't just leave it like that, with everyone thinking he was some kind of ignorant child. "I know more magic than anyone else here. I'd beat any of you in a duel, and you know it."

"Anyone except Evans," Greengrass said, unbothered, lounging back on the grass. Her lips curled with amusement as she added, in a whisper that carried over only to Tom, "Though the way he dotes on you more than makes up for that, I suppose."

Tom didn't answer after that, couldn't stand to see the smugness on her face. None of these people knew anything. Maybe Harry did dote on him, but it wasn't… it wasn't because of any reason other than that Harry saw Tom as a protege, as talent to be nurtured, as power that could grow. Tom was intended for success, and Harry was—Harry was his mentor, intelligent and valuable. Harry knew important things, like the location of the Chamber, and he also had the ability to speak Parseltongue.

And Harry had sought him out, after that first encounter at King's Cross.

This might sound a bit odd, coming from a stranger, Harry had said. But I—well, I couldn't help myself coming in here. You remind me of myself, at your age.

Harry came flying over just then, halting a pace away from where Tom was sitting. He dismounted and strode over, broom in hand. "That was an excellent game," Harry said, glowing with satisfaction.

"You could have gone professional, Harry," said Walburga sweetly. "It's too bad you never played for the house team."

"I suppose." Harry shrugged, barely glancing at her. His attention was focused, as always, on Tom. "Did you want to go for a fly, Tom? I think they're about to play another round. You can borrow my broom, I don't mind."

Tom was keenly aware of the way people were looking at him. "I'm alright, thanks."

"I wouldn't mind going for a fly with you, Harry," Walburga interjected again.

"I think I'll head back in, actually." Harry shrugged, propping his broom up over his shoulder. "Nice seeing you all."

Tom sat there, rooted to the spot while Harry walked away. Harry with his broad shoulders and his hair messed from the wind. Seeing the broomstick also prompted another memory, and so Tom replayed his visit to the Chamber of Secrets in his head, replayed the memory of Harry's arms looped around his body, holding him steady on the broom.

Tom blinked, swallowing.

I know you'll appreciate what it means to work for what you have, to deserve it.

He did appreciate Harry. Harry had shared both his knowledge and his home, and he always made Tom his priority. They worked well together, and that was why Tom wanted Harry by his side for the future. He had drawn up plans in his head that revolved around the assumption of Harry's loyalty.

But Tom had never considered any of this to have anything to do with a concept like love. To think of his own happiness, to try and measure it on a scale… it seemed absurd. Feelings were constructs; they existed, yes, but there wasn't any practical use for the soft ones. They were useful for manipulating and playing with others, which only proved that to have them was a vulnerability.

However, Harry talked about feelings. About being considerate of them, about sparing them. There was little doubt that Harry cared for concepts like love and happiness. Did those things apply to Tom? Was Harry happier with Tom around?

It was difficult to decide. But Harry must be happier with than without, because he often insisted on them spending time together. Tom certainly preferred Harry's company over others, and sometimes he even desired it. Was that happiness, to want someone around? Was that love?

Tom wanted to impress Harry, to prove that what Harry had seen in him was true. The pull between them was undeniable. Tom wanted… he wanted Harry to gaze upon him and smile, so he could know that he was directly responsible for Harry's happiness. He ought to be the only person Harry ever smiled at. Harry had no reason to be smiling at the Walburgas of the world, because they didn't deserve him—they would never understand Harry in the way that Tom did. In the way they understood each other.

"I am going to head in," Tom said, standing. "I will see you all at dinner." And then he left before anyone else had the chance to say anything at all.

.

May 1941

.

Tom came stomping into the library, looking for a familiar head of black hair. It only took him a few minutes of searching; Harry was a creature of habit, which meant he typically sat in one of three of the same places.

"I heard that MACUSA offered you a job," Tom said.

Harry looked up. He was studying for his NEWTs, and he had his textbooks strewn across the table. Tom pulled out the chair across from Harry and sat down in it.

"Where did you hear that from?" Harry asked.

"You're not denying it," Tom pointed out. He was trying not to let his anger show—he had known this was coming, he had known it all along.

"Professor Slughorn, I'm guessing," Harry said. "He does like to brag about me."

"So you're taking it, then? The job offer." Tom kept his voice level, his face perfectly neutral. He knew what his options were. The Imperius Curse, the potion Amortenia. There were probably other methods, less extreme ones, but there were none that would be easily accessible for a third-year Hogwarts student.

Harry shook his head. "I don't want to go abroad, Tom." Then his eyes flickered down to where Tom's hands were clasped together on the table top. Harry's arm stretched across the distance between them, his palm covering Tom's fingers as he said, "I promise I'm not going anywhere for now."

Upon hearing Harry's promise, Tom relaxed. Harry was telling the truth. Just like that, his anger melted away, as though Harry had sapped it all out through where their hands were joined.

Of course, the 'for now' did not escape Tom's notice, but he was willing to put that aside for the time being. Time was all he needed—time to convince Harry there was no better place than by Tom's side.

.

Summer 1941

.

Harry graduated with the highest marks in half a century and twelve NEWTs total. He received congratulations wherever he went; professors and classmates alike fawned over him.

Tom overheard Walburga Black despairing over the fact that Harry would be leaving Hogwarts. Stupid bint still thought she had a chance. Harry had never dated anyone during his time at Hogwarts, not a single person, and even if he had, he would have chosen better than Walburga, who was known for screeching at her spurned suitors in the hallways.

That summer, Harry took Tom to Little Hangleton. They hid under Harry's cloak, and Tom observed his uncle in the dilapidated shack that his mother must have grown up in.

Harry's one request had been that Tom remain quiet and under the cloak at all times, but now that Tom was faced with the disgrace his mother's family represented, he wondered why Harry had even bothered to worry at all. This pathetic excuse for a wizard posed no threat. If it wasn't for the Trace, Tom would have swept the floor with him.

"Done?" Harry murmured, once Tom had seen enough.

Tom nodded.

"Stay," Harry said.

Tom barely had time to react as Harry hit Morfin with a silent Stupefy. Then Harry stood and swept the cloak off of himself, leaving Tom underneath it. Tom went to move, to follow, but Harry said, voice firm, "No."

So Tom stayed where he was, if only because he was too confused to disobey. Harry squatted, careful to avoid the filthy floor, and reached for Morfin's hand. Tom watched, fascinated, as Harry pried a ring off of the grotesque finger.

As Harry straightened, he aimed his wand a final time. "Obliviate."

Then Harry looked back at where Tom was hidden in the corner of the room. The ring was nestled in Harry's palm. It was a heavy thing with a black stone set into it.

Tom crept closer, then lifted the hood of the cloak. "What is it?" he asked.

"This is your family ring," Harry said. "It belonged to your grandfather, and now it goes to you, its heir."

His grandfather, the man who Tom owed his middle name to. The name that must have led Harry to this horrid place, because how else would anyone have thought to look here? Tom took the ring from Harry and slid it onto his own finger. It was loose, the metal still warm from its previous owner, but Tom would grow into it eventually. He was already catching up with Harry in terms of height; it was only a matter of time.

Morfin was still laid out on the floor. All Tom could muster was a feeling of disgust at what had become of the once proud and powerful Gaunt family. The only thing Tom had gained from his heritage had been his magic and his ability to speak Parseltongue. Everything else that made him who he was had been the product of hard work, of being special all on his own.

But there was still one piece missing, something that Tom had to ask.

"What about my father?"

Harry sighed, pressed the pads of his fingers against Tom's arm. "If I told you he didn't matter?" asked Harry, voice tinged with hope.

Tom held steady. "I'd still want to know."

Harry's hand touched the side of Tom's face, calloused fingers gentle against Tom's flushed cheek. "Promise me you won't do anything rash, Tom. Promise me we'll only look."

"I won't," Tom said. "I promise."

"Do you mean that?" Harry asked. Then he smiled, wistful. "Even after all these years, I still can't tell when you're telling me the truth."

Tom reached out, snatched up Harry's hand with his own. He curled his fingers around Harry's palm, holding tight. "For you, I do. I do mean it."

.

September 1941

.

Harry had gotten a job as a sales clerk at Zonko's in Hogsmeade.

Everyone deplored the waste of talent, the shame of manual labour. A brilliant mind toiling away in a shop that sold pranks to school children. But Tom knew better—Harry was waiting for him. Harry could have gone anywhere, could have done anything in the world that he wanted to. But Harry wanted Tom, and so he had stayed.

This knowledge thrilled Tom. It was all the proof he needed that Harry saw him as more of an equal, not just as a protege. Harry was devoted, he belonged to Tom. He'd sought Tom out from the very beginning, and now he intended to stay.

Harry had been giving Tom back everything that he was owed, piece by piece. His heritage, his family ring. He'd given Tom a real place to call home. Tom was appreciative of everything Harry had done for him, and he needed Harry to understand this, only he wasn't quite sure how to go about it. His feelings for Harry… were beyond words.

The bond Tom had with Harry was special; the way they knew each other was above and beyond the fickle relationships of their peers. It wouldn't do to be rash, to push too hard.

Harry was older than Tom by a few years, but he was willing to wait, and Tom understood now just what else waiting would entail.

Tom was, legally speaking, still a homeless orphan. Harry had made up the papers he'd given to Mrs. Cole, had charmed her into releasing Tom into his care. He would not be of age in the wizarding world for another three years.

So officially, Tom had no parent or guardian to sign his Hogsmeade permission slip.

Last year Hogsmeade hadn't mattered, because Tom hadn't cared for the butterbeer from the Hog's Head or the sweets from Honeydukes, but this year it did matter. If Tom couldn't visit Hogsmeade, he couldn't go and see Harry.

But Harry had thought of a solution for this as well. He told Tom of a secret passageway that led to the Honeydukes cellar, and he taught Tom how to cast the Disillusionment Charm. It was a charm only older witches and wizards cast, but of course Tom was able to handle it, and he was pleased that Harry had thought him capable.

There was no spell that Tom couldn't learn to cast, not if it helped to further his goals, and learning this spell meant that he could sneak away to see Harry whenever he pleased.

Tom didn't see the appeal of the joke shop, but Harry was always smiling when Tom came to visit. The Zonko's uniform consisted of a bright red apron with the golden logo embroidered across the chest. It clashed horribly with Harry's complexion, but somehow Harry managed to maintain an air of humble pride about him as he dealt with the customers that came in.

"Do you ever get bored here?" Tom asked as he fiddled with one of nose-biting tea cups.

"Not really." Harry shrugged. "There's always something to clean or organize, and the hours are flexible."

"Do you think about what you'll want to do later on?"

Harry leant forward on the counter, raising a brow. "Not particularly, why?"

Tom tried not to read too much into it. He set the tea cup back down on the counter. "No reason," Tom said.

"I see you've got your ring on," Harry added, nodding.

Tom splayed the fingers of his right hand out. The Gaunt family ring rested comfortably on his index finger. "I had Avery shrink it for me. He had to do the same with his own family ring—there's a specific spell for it."

"It suits you," Harry said. "I'm glad you get to wear it."

"I wanted to ask," Tom started. "If you were—"

The bell at the front of the shop rang. An older woman with a hoard of three small children had just bustled into the shop.

"Sorry, Tom," Harry said. "Give me a moment, will you?"

Tom watched as Harry went to help the mother and her children. He'd wanted to ask Harry about Parseltongue. It was now a little over a year since they'd gone down into the Chamber of Secrets, and Tom had failed to find anything on how abilities could be inherited through magic and not through blood.

But he and Harry looked different, so they couldn't be related. Or, even if they were, they had to be so distant that it didn't really count. Other purebloods married into each other's families all the time, and Harry was at most a half-blood, if not less. And Harry had even said that they weren't related.

Justifications made, Tom felt more secure in his connection with Harry. Harry knew the truth of it, and his behaviour had never wavered, so there wasn't any reason for Tom to be concerned.

When Harry had finished ringing through the woman's purchases, he turned his attention back to Tom. The three children were bickering with each other as they left the shop.

"Sorry about that," Harry said. "What was it you wanted to ask me?"

Tom placed a careful hand on Harry's forearm. "It's alright, it wasn't anything important," Tom said, decisive. And then, when Harry failed to pull his arm away, Tom added, "At least, it wasn't something that really mattered, now that I've thought about it."

"Alright," Harry said, smiling, and Tom admired the little dimples on either side. Really, Harry did have a very beautiful smile. "You know you can always ask me whatever you like. Even if I decide not to answer, it doesn't mean that there was anything wrong in asking about it."

"I know," Tom said. "I trust you, Harry."

Harry's smile turned soft, his cheeks pink, and Tom knew that he'd said the right thing.

.

Spring 1942

.

When Tom lay awake in bed, late at night after everyone else had gone to bed, he would think about Harry.

How Harry's usual hairstyle—neat, combed waves—fell apart whenever he was at home. When Harry was fresh from the shower or had just woken from sleep, his hair was a mess. It was private and personal, to see Harry in that state.

Unpolished and wholly himself when they were at home, Harry was free of the masks he put on to blend in with those around him. Tom doubted that Harry would have ever let his dormmates see him looking like anything less than utter perfection, because Tom certainly never let his own dormmates catch him off guard.

Like Tom, Harry understood the art of acting, understood it on a level so visceral that it was an instinct. Pretend, pretend, always pretending. Knowing that other people weren't worth the effort and the time of day. Harry had seen himself in Tom right away, had recognized the potential for an equal and sought Tom out. This knowledge burned a fever in Tom's heart, divine in its intensity, monstrous in its severity.

For a time, Tom had looked upon Harry as a mentor, as a friend, even as family. But all those labels had come and gone, had been used and cast aside. They did not describe what Harry was, who Harry was to him.

Now that he was older, Tom had come to recognize the situation for what it was. What had begun as admiration and idolization had now surpassed infatuation as well, rocketing into the realms of endearment, of yearning, of desire. Tom imagined the tender warmth of Harry's body against his, the hesitant press of Harry's hand against his skin, the intoxication of those green, green eyes gazing into his own. This new need began consuming Tom's dreams, transforming him into a hungry, aching creature.

Tom also thought of his mother, who had died alone because the man she loved had failed to return her affections. It was because of this fear that Tom began to agonize over everything Harry did and said, no matter how small the action or how off-handed the word.

Never in his life had Tom been so unsure of what lay within his grasp.

Harry was here, so very close yet also so very far away. Tom was fifteen now, but Harry sometimes still considered him to be a boy, a child to be looked after. This was far from the truth, though Tom had originally allowed the protectiveness because he was selfish, because he wanted Harry's attention to be his and his alone.

However, this protectiveness was now more of a problem than anything else. Harry needed to see that Tom had grown, that he was ready to be a true partner and an equal, that Harry had no need to wait for Tom to graduate when they were already doing so well together.

If Harry was willing, then they could be properly together now.

.

Summer 1942

.

What was nice about living with Harry was that Tom didn't have to ride the train back to London. He could go to Hogsmeade and wait around for Harry to finish working.

"I got you a present," Tom said.

Harry had been dusting down one of the tall shelves behind the counter, but he paused as Tom spoke. "You didn't have to do that, Tom."

They had never done presents properly before. Sometimes Harry would give Tom things, like the Chamber or the Gaunt ring, but Harry didn't like doing birthdays and holidays. It was a dislike that Tom attributed to Harry's mysterious past. Out of curiosity, Tom had been practicing Legilimency and Occlumency, but he also knew that Harry was an Occlumens, and so he hadn't wanted to risk trying to look.

"It's nothing big," Tom said, nonchalant. "Just something I thought you would like."

Harry wouldn't accept the gift if he thought it was excessive or expensive. This was something Tom had picked up on during Harry's time at Hogwarts. Harry couldn't be bought, which was admirable, but he also seemed averse to having anything nice at all, which was not ideal. As incredibly unique as Harry was, he deserved only the best. Tom would have to find a way to lure Harry into accepting more lavish things as they got older, once Tom was able to provide for them both.

Harry finished with the dusting and turned around, giving Tom his full attention. "Alright," Harry said, sounding resigned. "Let's have it, then."

Tom retrieved the small box from his robe pocket. He had put a great deal of thought into this, had called in a lot of favours to get it done. With his best smile, Tom held out his gift, hoping it would be well received.

Inside the box was a ring. The design was the same as the Gaunt ring that Tom still wore upon his own finger, only the stone set into the metal of this ring was a deep, shimmering emerald. It could have been an engagement ring, but Harry likely would have said Tom was too young, and so Tom had taken to thinking of it as a promise ring. A promise that Harry would wait for him, a promise that Tom would choose Harry when the time came. Though if Harry wanted it to mean something else, something more, Tom certainly wouldn't argue with him.

"This…" Harry's voice trailed off. He was silent for a long moment, the box held delicately in his left hand.

"I wanted us to match," Tom said, pushing some hesitation into his tone. "I thought it could be like a promise ring."

Harry's brows shot up, but then his face smoothed over. "A promise ring?" Harry repeated.

Tom shuffled his feet. He hated how nervous Harry made him. He wanted to know what Harry was thinking. "Yes," Tom said, drawing the word out. "Because you've always been here for me."

As Tom had anticipated, Harry's expression softened, and the fever in Tom's chest hummed in satisfaction. Harry was fairly bad at romantic cues. Aside from Walburga, dames who had tried to chase Harry usually ended up in tears. Harry was ever the gentleman, but he frequently mistook romantic interest for kindness. But Tom, who knew Harry, knew what Harry liked to hear. Harry liked being appreciated, liked being told that his care and his efforts were wanted.

"So you'll wear it?" Tom asked.

Harry plucked the ring out of the box and set the box onto the counter. The ring was already the correct size. Tom had made sure of that when he'd commissioned it.

"I will," Harry said, after a moment. He slid the ring onto the index finger of his right hand. "Thank you, Tom."

Now Harry would have to think of Tom whenever he saw the ring. While Tom was at Hogwarts, studying and growing more powerful, Harry would have this reminder, this promise of a future together.

Tom leant in, pressed his fingertips against Harry's forearm, cocked his head in the charming manner he had practiced in the mirror. "It suits you," Tom said softly, repeating what Harry had said to him at the beginning of term. And then he took Harry's hand, lifting it up, and brushed his lips against the back of it.

The look on Harry's face—green eyes wide, lips parted in mystification—told Tom that the connotations of his offering had not been completely lost after all.

Summer went by slowly as Tom nudged things in the direction he wanted them to go. Touches and pats lingered longer than usual, and Tom took to initiating contact more than he'd ever done before.

Harry was hesitant as ever, sometimes freezing in place when Tom came unexpectedly close. But Harry never pulled away, and so Tom continued on, learning the feel of Harry's broad shoulders, marveling at the firmness of Harry's bicep beneath his fingertips.

Maybe Harry was just confused, maybe he hadn't expected Tom to pick up on things so quickly. But Tom could be cautious, so as not to scare Harry off. Harry hadn't ever dated anyone, Tom reminded himself. It was natural to be nervous.

In all other ways, Harry was quite mature. All ways except this.

"Any girls at school caught your eye?" Harry asked awkwardly one day, as they walked down Diagon Alley.

Harry had wanted to look at the newest broomsticks, and they had run into some of Tom's classmates. A pair of Ravenclaw girls had been giggling and flirtatious as they chatted with Harry. And Tom had fumed inside, though he had made forced conversation when the girls had turned their attention to him after their attempts to woo Harry had failed.

People liked Harry. They thought he was handsome. And they were right, because Harry was attractive, very much so, but he was Tom's, and Tom didn't take kindly to anyone who tried to pry Harry away from him, even though he knew Harry would never fall for a pretty skirt and a vacant smile.

Tom thought about his answer to Harry's question. "No," he said. His dormmates talked about women. Tom had listened to their dramatics and frustrations with idle interest, knowing he was simultaneously high above it all yet also somehow far behind. At least his classmates had the benefit of experience. But Harry had waited, and so Tom would wait as well. He wasn't going to spoil things by trying them with someone else first.

Harry hummed, his hands sliding into his trouser pockets. "Don't get too caught up in your goals at school," Harry said eventually. "There's a life out there to be lived as well, you know."

Tom nodded, flashing Harry a winsome smile. "I know that, Harry. Don't worry about it; I have plans outside of academics."

Harry's face scrunched up at that, just a little tightening around the eyes. "Yeah?" Harry asked. "What sorts of plans?"

"Just plans," Tom said. He stroked two fingers lightly down Harry's arm, a line from the outside of the elbow to the inside of the wrist. A quick touch because they were in public, but hopefully it provided reassurance that Tom's plans included Harry in them.

Harry's steps slowed. He grasped Tom gently by the shoulder and steered them off to the side, out of the way of the foot traffic.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" Harry's eyes were intent, concerned. "I'm here to help you, if you need me."

Tom breathed deeply. Harry's hand, the hand with the ring, Tom's ring, was heavy on Tom's shoulder, grounding him. "Yes, Harry. I do." He did need Harry.

"Good." Harry's fingers contracted, squeezing, and then his hand pulled away. "I want you to be happy."

"I am happy," Tom said. "With you."

.

Fall 1942

.

Harry dropped Tom off at King's Cross station. Tom had his new prefect badge pinned to his chest, just like he had envisioned for himself five years ago. Harry had said he was proud.

As they said their goodbyes, Tom noticed that they'd drawn some attention from a few students who were walking nearby.

People didn't tend to pry about the nature of Tom's relationship with Harry. Part of this was because Harry had gone to great lengths to keep things quiet; not many people knew that Tom no longer lived at Wool's. Tom suspected there might be trouble, specifically from Professor Dumbledore, if the news became common knowledge.

Walburga was graduating this year, and she was engaged to Orion Black. Orion was two years younger than Tom, meaning the age gap was the same as the one between him and Harry. So that meant their age difference wasn't out of the question.

Harry was a bachelor, and he wasn't interested in looking for a partner. This was what Tom intimated every time someone asked him about Harry's relationship status. But Tom did want people to know Harry was taken. Not overtly, of course, but Tom's claim over Harry needed to be clear. The ring helped with that—it tied them together in a visible way. Tom made it clear to his followers that Harry was not to be touched, left the unspoken implication that Harry was his.

He and Harry were powerful and brilliant together. In the end, it wouldn't matter what others thought about their relationship, because Tom would force them to accept it, just like Harry had made them accept Muggleborns in Slytherin.

.

June 1943

.

Tom finished the year with ease and went to go meet Harry at Hogsmeade. The village was mostly empty save for the shop owners. All the students were taking the train home today, and all of Tom's classmates were talking about their OWLs.

Tom was highly confident that he would score better than Harry, especially because he had practiced magic in their flat every summer. This advantage, combined with his natural intellect and his dedication to his goal, would have ensured his success.

"I'm sure you did do better than me," Harry said, when Tom brought up the subject later that day.

Tom preened a bit. "I think I'll continue to take them all as NEWT classes next year, too."

"You'll do even better on your NEWTs," said Harry. "Now, let's go home."

Tom nodded, eager to leave, and Harry smiled, indulgent, walking around the counter and tugging his Zonko's apron off, folding it up in his hands. Harry tucked the apron away into his bag, and then he began to lock up the shop while Tom watched.

Once the shop was secure, Harry held his arm out like usual, and Tom took it. They Disapparated together and reappeared in an alleyway a short walk away from their flat.

Tom kept his hand on Harry's arm for strictly longer than necessary, but when Harry finally did drop his elbow, Tom let his own arm fall. As they grew closer to home, Tom noticed that the solemn air around Harry had returned.

"Are you worried about the war again?" Tom asked.

Harry turned around, and his brows pulled together. "No. What makes you say that?"

Tom wasn't sure if he ought to say. There were so many layers to Harry, and sometimes Tom wanted to peel them all back one by one, but other times he wanted to stick a knife in and drag it down, spilling the contents out into his hands, an overflow of the pieces that made up Harry as a person.

"You get this look in your eyes," Tom said. "Like you're somewhere far away."

"Oh." Harry frowned, his chin dropping a little. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to worry you."

"Of course I'm worried." Tom wheeled his trunk over to the couch and left it there, then walked over to where Harry was standing a few paces away from their tiny kitchen. "I worry about you."

"You don't need to," Harry said. "I think I take care of myself just fine."

Tom shook his head and stepped closer.

Their gazes locked. Harry was a foot or so away, and Tom could see the rise and fall of Harry's chest underneath his crisp, collared shirt. They were still a few inches off in terms of being the same height, but Tom could lift himself up a bit on the balls of his feet, and then they would match.

Tom yearned to take care of Harry the way Harry had taken care of him, to be the only person that Harry ever needed. Tom craved Harry's surrender to this wordless, voiceless sense of belonging that lay between them. He was sure that if they got close enough they would drown in each other, and he was desperate to know what it felt like to be with Harry, who was so right for him, so perfect, that Tom was sure he could crawl inside and find that he belonged there.

"It'll be alright, Harry," Tom said, pressing his palm flat over Harry's chest, where the heart resided. "If you tell me what you're worrying about, then I can help. You don't need to keep things from me any longer. I'm older now, I understand more—I want to help you."

The heartbeat sped up; Tom could feel it. They stood there a moment, Harry not saying anything. Then Harry's heart calmed, and the gentle thud-thud resumed at a more sedate pace.

"Harry?" Tom asked. "Won't you tell me what's worrying you?"

Harry's left hand rose, cautious. It landed on Tom's shoulder, as it normally did, and then it sat there, warm and solid. This was familiar, expected, and so Tom was surprised when the grip tightened and Harry drew him in with a clumsy jerk. Tom stumbled and landed against Harry's chest, the sudden motion knocking the breath out of him.

They were hugging.

"I'm very fond of you," Harry said, the sentences slurring into each other in their haste to escape. "You know that, don't you? I've tried my best to look after you, to keep you safe—"

Tom clutched at Harry, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing. This was it, this was where Harry would finally confess what Tom had known all along. He felt Harry's hand press down upon his head, smoothing out his hair. Being held felt nice, what with Harry standing so close, his arms tucked around Tom's back and shoulders, his scent filling Tom's head with dreams of the two of them tangled together in his bed.

"I know," Tom said quietly.

"I want you to be good," Harry continued, murmuring against the side of Tom's head. "To do good things."

"I can," Tom said, willing Harry to believe him. "I will." He could do good things. He would do great things someday, and Harry would be with him when he did them.

Harry sighed, the sound of it laced with sadness, and Tom pulled back a bit to look Harry in the eyes. There was doubt and pain lurking in those pools of green.

"Don't you believe me?" Tom asked, plaintive.

Tom was being truthful, and yet Harry still looked… almost disappointed. Did Harry think Tom wasn't enough? Not strong enough, not powerful enough?

"I'm going to be the best," Tom added, tone sharper. "I'm going to do things lesser wizards have only ever dreamed of doing."

"You will," Harry said. "I've never doubted your capacity for greatness, Tom. You have the power to change the world."

Though the words were a compliment, they were still not quite right. There was something about the way Harry said them that made the meaning sour.

Harry held Tom by the elbows, stepping back until he was at arm's length. "There's something I need to tell you. I wanted to wait until it got closer to the end of the year, but now I'm starting to think that that's a bad idea."

This got Tom's attention. "What is it?" Tom asked, curiosity piqued. Any of Harry's secrets would be interesting to learn.

"Promise me you won't do anything rash, Tom," said Harry.

Tom knew this request; he had heard it before. "I won't," Tom said, "I promise."

The oath hung in the air while Harry gauged Tom's expression. Tom kept still, trying to be good, trying to look honest.

"I'm a time traveller," Harry said, and Tom's world was changed for the second time.

Their time together was limited. Harry was already on his eighth year here, and soon he would be starting his ninth. In two years' time, Harry would be gone, would be over fifty years in the future where Tom could not reach him.

After all of this had sunk in, Tom had come to the conclusion that this situation was unacceptable. Though Harry seemed resigned to his departure, Tom was not about to allow them to be separated.

"Why did you come back?" Tom had demanded. "Why did you go back in time?"

"For you," Harry had said in return. "I did it for you."

Tom had searched for the lie and found none. He knew when Harry was lying, and this was not one of those times. Delirious with the realization that Harry had uprooted his entire life just to meet him, to be with him, Tom knew he would have no choice but to find a way to fix this.

.

Fall 1943

.

Tom obtained a pass for the Restricted Section from Slughorn. It was almost too easy to manipulate the man. Everything Tom said and did was pure gold to Slughorn—it was impossible to suspect Tom Riddle of any wrongdoing. And Tom would be Head Boy next year, there was no doubt about it.

Only now there were more important things than being Head Boy.

With his newfound freedom in the library, Tom began to research time travel. Harry had refused to talk about the method he'd used, but Tom could and would discover a solution on his own, no matter how long it took him.

There was no meaning for him in anything else, no point in staying here if Harry was going to be taken away from him. His priority had to be either finding a way for Harry to stay, or finding a way for him to follow.

.

Winter 1943

.

By the time the winter holidays arrived, Tom was no closer to finding an answer. He had begun to suspect that whatever Harry had used to travel to the 1930s, it must have not been invented yet.

Harry continued to make excuses as to why Tom couldn't be allowed to learn the method Harry had used. Time wasn't to be meddled with. Time wasn't a weapon you could wield. Time was dangerous. Travelling into the past was different from travelling into the future. While Time-Turners had been invented to go back in time successfully, there were no current ways of going forward. At least, no ways that were stable enough for the user to survive.

Tom didn't quite understand Harry's line of thinking. Harry had been selfish, had allowed himself to indulge. It only made sense that Tom, too, should be permitted to bend the laws of time to do his bidding.

"Harry," Tom said. They were seated on the couch in their flat, playing a game of chess. "What will you do, once you go back to your time?"

Harry paused, the white rook in his hand. "I'm not sure, really. Things will be different once I go back. The timeline will have changed."

It will have changed because of me, Tom thought to himself. Because of the impact Harry had had on his life. That would be the case until Tom found a solution, at any rate. If Harry stayed, then the timeline would change in other ways.

"You have friends there?" Tom asked. "Family?" A significant other, perhaps.

Harry shrugged, his gaze dropping to the chessboard. "I have friends waiting for me. At least, I hope I do."

Friends. Well, that wasn't too concerning, though Tom did still wish to know exactly why Harry was so… complacent about returning to his time period.

"Are you sure you can't stay here?" Tom asked, for what was likely the dozenth time since the holidays had started.

"I don't belong here, Tom." Harry sighed and placed his rook down. "You'll be alright without me. I'm going to leave the flat to you, and all my savings—"

Tom let Harry continue to talk, even though he didn't actually care about any of those things. Except maybe the flat. This place was theirs, and Tom would loathe to see it go to anyone else. If Tom failed in finding a way for Harry to stay here, he would have to ensure he sealed this place before he left.

"Checkmate," Tom said, once Harry was done speaking. He picked up his bishop and moved it into place, sealing the fate of Harry's king.

Harry watched as his chess piece took off its crown and tossed it to the floor. "I thought getting older would make me better at chess," Harry joked. "But I guess not."

.

Spring 1944

.

Now that Tom was of age, he could visit Hogsmeade without a permission slip. He took the opportunity to observe the way other students interacted with Harry. Most of the younger years didn't know who Harry was. In a few years, it was likely that Harry's name would be forgotten, would become nothing but a listing in a record of past Hogwarts students.

This was unfair, Tom thought. If Harry was able to stay, the two of them could change Wizarding Britain forever. They could tear down the corruption and the old ways, then rebuild things in their own image. Harry would enjoy it, because it would mean they got to protect those who needed it the most. They could create new laws for creature rights, for Muggleborn rights—whatever laws they wanted. And he and Harry would get the recognition they deserved as the greatest sorcerers of all time.

As the school year drew closer to its end, Tom resolved that if he did not find enough information on time travel before Harry was due to leave, he would find a way to make Harry talk, either through the use of Legilimency or Veritaserum. Tom wasn't going to let something as simple as time stop him from getting what he wanted. With enough magic, with enough power, Tom would force the universe itself to submit.

Asking around had revealed that the Department of Mysteries would be the best place for time-based research, so Tom reoriented himself, adjusting his goals, making new plans. Harry didn't fully approve, but he didn't try to stop Tom either, so part of him must have agreed with what Tom was trying to do.

Tom went home for the Easter holidays with his new career plan, which he presented to Harry.

"The Ministry is a good place to work," Tom said, when Harry raised concerns that Tom was throwing away his future. "Once I've worked there long enough, I'll be able to move anywhere I wish."

"I just don't want you to waste your life because of me," Harry said. "You don't need to look into all this time-travel magic."

"I don't need to, but I want to," Tom said. "You are the most important person to me, Harry. You're the only one who understands me."

"I shouldn't be your only person," Harry said slowly. "What about your other friends? Your classmates?" From the tone of Harry's voice, Tom could tell that Harry didn't really believe Tom cared about any of those people to begin with, and Harry would be right, because Tom didn't.

"They'll still be here," Tom said. His followers weren't going anywhere. They would go wherever Tom led them, because Tom had promised them power and glory and change. "But you won't, you see, and that's why I have to do this."

Harry grimaced, which made Tom frown. He couldn't understand why Harry was so easily cowed in the face of this obstacle; Harry had succeeded at so many other aspects of life, had already conquered time once in order to bring himself to Tom. To concede now was impermissible.

This led Tom to ask what he had originally suspected but previously refused to voice: "You don't want to go back, do you?" Tom accused.

Harry froze. "Tom, I—"

Tom felt an invisible hand squeeze down on his chest. It was painful and made it difficult to breathe, and he had never felt anything like it before. "You would stay with me," Tom said, voice low, "if you could. Wouldn't you?"

Harry wasn't looking him in the eye. Then he said, "I… I don't know."

"Do you miss your friends?" Tom pressed. "Is that it? We could find a way to bring them here, if you like. We would accomplish anything, Harry, if we worked hard enough at it."

Harry didn't say anything.

"Harry," Tom said. "You said you care for me."

"I do, Tom. That's not what this is about."

Then what was it about? Why wasn't the way they felt about each other enough? Tom's hands clenched up, his nails digging into his palms and breaking the skin. He had to know what Harry was thinking, he had to know what was holding Harry back.

Tom had stood without realizing. He was tall enough now that he towered over Harry, who was still seated on the couch.

"Tom?" asked Harry, sounding worried. "Why don't you sit back down, and we can talk some more about this."

Harry usually kept his wand in his robe pocket, or in the back pocket of his trousers. When he was seated like this, on the couch, he'd leave his wand on the side table, which was where it now rested.

Tom always kept his wand nearby; it never left his person. And so the yew handle snapped into place in his hand, where it belonged, and Tom's magic began to flow, a tremulous sensation that ebbed and flowed beneath his skin.

I'm sorry, Harry. But it has to be this way.

Though Harry seemed to realize that Tom's mindset had changed, it was too late for him to do anything. Even as Harry dove for his wand, Tom was already mid-spell, his mouth forming the word "Legilimens."

There were Occlumency shields in place, as Tom had predicted. But they weren't strong enough to withstand the brute force Tom was employing as he pried each of the shields away one by one, diving deeper, searching for the answers he needed. Memories of other people filled his head. A dark-skinned, puffy-haired girl. A gangly redheaded boy with freckles. Faces and faces and faces. Flashes of green light and someone, a woman, screaming—

A new memory suddenly pushed its way to the front. It was the same two people from before. Harry's friends from the future. Tom let the memory play out, let the bushy-haired girl explain the method Harry was going to use to travel back in time. They had found an old scroll, an old book, an old mystery. Old magic. Tom absorbed as much of the information as he could. It was not enough to solve his dilemma, but it was enough to give him a head start.

Once the memory ended, Harry gave a mental jerk, shoving Tom out. Tom blinked the living room back into focus. Harry was panting, green eyes blazing as he glared and stood up.

"You shouldn't have done that." Harry now had his wand in hand, and he was pointing it directly at Tom.

"You're supposed to be here for me," Tom accused. "Or was everything just a lie?"

If they did duel, Harry wouldn't hurt him. Harry would hesitate, and that would give Tom the advantage he needed to win.

"I am here for you. But I can't be here forever, and you need to accept that."

Tom wouldn't. He couldn't. Not when everything he desired was so painstakingly within reach. He was going to fix this, going to undo his mistake. He would wipe the slate clean, and he would be good.

So Tom fired the first spell, a stunner, which Harry quickly deflected. There was a look of resignation on his face; it was laced with determination. The duel was on.

Tom had been right about Harry hesitating to hurt him.

Though their flat was now a mess, Harry was unconscious, sprawled out upon the floor. His hair, dishevelled, revealed the scar on his forehead. Most of the time Harry covered it up with glamours, but when they were at home, he usually left his skin bare.

With great care, Tom put their flat back together. He repaired the floor lamp, fixed the legs of the coffee table back on, straightened the framed certificate of his OWL marks that hung on the wall.

Then, once everything was as it had been, Tom turned his attention back to Harry. He knelt down and touched a hand to Harry's face, to the soft skin of the cheekbone. Then he replaced his hand with the tip of his wand, healing the shallow cut that was there. Harry was an incredible duelist; there had been a few moments during their fight where Tom had nearly lost.

But, as Tom had predicted, Harry was soft hearted, especially when it came to things involving those he cared about. So Tom had pressed mercilessly on the topics he knew would hurt Harry the most. He had let his mouth run, let the lies pour forth, and he had come out as the victor in the end.

The lies had felt vaguely dirty, but everything was alright now. Tom had won, and everything would be fixed. Harry was levitated onto the couch, deposited gently onto the cushions. Harry's chest rose and fell with each breath he took.

Tom placed Harry's wand down upon the table, where it had originally been, and then he eyed the man he had grown to love over the past six and a half years. Harry still wasn't ready; he didn't see what Tom saw. They needed more time, time that Tom was going to get for them.

Gently, Tom pried the ring off of Harry's finger. Lifting it to the light, Tom examined the faces of the emerald jewel. Harry would keep this ring with him, tenderhearted as he was. A gift, a memento—a way for them to find each other. Tom laid the tip of his wand against the jewel and concentrated, laying the threads of his magic inside of it. When it was done, he slid the ring back where it belonged.

Tom raised his wand and aimed it at Harry's forehead, then heaved a sigh. He had practiced this spell a few times on others at school, but he had to be sure to get this right…

Harry was already starting to stir. Tom didn't have a choice. He gestured with his wand and spoke the word that would fix everything—

"Obliviate."

.

Summer 1944

.

Late May marked the start of Harry's last year in Tom's time period. Things were going better now that Tom had desisted in talking about his research and his career aspirations. Tom received his Head Boy badge in the owl post, and Harry rewarded him with an affectionate smile and some fascinating books on Arithmancy and spell-creation.

"Since you're interested in the Department of Mysteries, I thought I'd look for some recommended reading."

Tom was happy that Harry was finally encouraging his new endeavours. It was reassuring to him that he was doing the right thing, especially when Harry's words echoed around in his head, telling him to be good. Tom could remember the vivid betrayal on Harry's face as they had dueled, and Tom wanted to wipe that image from his mind forever and replace it with better, more pleasant ones.

There was only one year left. Tom would fill this year with good things, with joyful memories, and once Harry was gone, then Tom would get to work.

Tom took Harry to the seaside, the place he had used to visit as a child when he'd been at Wool's. The air here was fresh and invigorating, and the cool breeze ruffled at Tom's hair, tousling his curls. He was the same height as Harry now. They could walk side by side like proper equals, like a proper couple.

Harry had his hands jammed into his pockets as they trailed along the beach. "It's nice here," Harry said. "Did you come here every summer?"

"Usually in May," Tom answered. "I haven't been here since I started Hogwarts."

They walked a little further in companionable silence. Tom could see the caves lined up along the cliffs. It was peaceful here. It was good, it was a good a time as any to ask.

"Will you miss me?" Tom asked. "Once you leave, that is."

Harry looked over at the sea. The blinding sun made his skin look golden, heavenly. "I will," Harry said. When he turned back, his eyes as calm as the vast body of water behind him. "I will miss you."

The words were truthful, and so Tom allowed himself a smile. "I'll miss you, too," Tom said, because that was the correct response. "I wish you could stay."

Harry's mouth quirked up a bit on one side, and then he looked away again. "I know."

.

Winter 1944

.

When Harry fell asleep on the couch, Tom would cover him up with a blanket, tucking the edges in around him. When Harry woke in the morning, Tom would hand him a cup of coffee, perfectly made, just the way Harry liked it.

When Harry had a bit too much to drink for Christmas and enveloped Tom in a hug, Tom restrained himself from pushing things further and simply basked in the warmth of Harry's affection.

When the last seconds of December 31st counted down, signalling the end of Tom's eighteenth birthday, Tom closed his eyes and imagined what it would be like to ring in the new year with a kiss.

.

February 1945

.

Three months left to go.

Tom had already gotten an initial job offer from the Ministry, an offer that was conditional on his NEWT results. Getting the required marks would be the easy part; what came after would be much, much harder. But Tom's path was set, and there would be no turning back from it now.

On Valentine's Day, Tom visited Harry at Zonko's so they could have dinner together. Hogsmeade was filled with lovesick couples. A good number of Tom's so-called friends had planned special lunch dates with their respective girlfriends, and a few of them had even tried to set Tom up.

But Tom remained as unattached as ever, just like Harry, and so the two of them ended up sitting in the Three Broomsticks and enjoying a meal along with some Firewhiskey.

"I still don't really know why people drink this stuff," Harry said, swirling his glass. "Burns like hell on the way down. I feel like everyone gets it only because they see other people doing it."

Tom tipped his own drink back. It did burn, that was true. But though the drink was practically tasteless save for the high alcohol content, the fiery aspect added a certain dimension to it.

Harry eyed Tom as he set his glass back down. "Sometimes I forget you're much older now," Harry said. "That you're an adult. But then it sinks in again." Harry made a loose gesture in the air with his free hand. "Makes me feel old," he joked.

"You're not old," Tom said, irritated. "You're hardly four years older than me."

Harry only hummed in response, then took another gulp of his drink. He coughed a bit on it, and Tom resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he patted Harry's back with his hand.

"A Ministry job, though," Harry said, sounding pleased. "All grown up. Have I told you how proud I am?"

"No," Tom said. Harry had, of course, but Tom never grew tired of hearing Harry praise him.

"Well, I am," Harry continued. "I know you think I'm smart, but really you're much smarter than I am. You're going to ace all your NEWTs."

Tom mulled over that statement. "You could have gone to the Ministry with your marks," Tom said. "You could have joined the Department of Mysteries yourself."

Harry shrugged. "Not much point, seeing as I'd be leaving eventually. Besides, I like Zonko's. Reminds me of… Well, it reminds a bit of this joke shop owned by some friends of mine. It feels good to make people smile. There's no such thing as too much happiness in the world."

The casual mention of Harry's future stung. Tom toyed with his empty glass. Harry wanted to go back to his friends. He called the flat he shared with Tom a home, but he didn't think of it the same way Tom did. Their flat was a temporary home, a place for Harry to stay while he was here.

Harry could have tried to stay here, with Tom, but he didn't want to, and Tom had run out of time to convince him. The failure hurt, but it did not hurt as much as the cause behind it did.

And my happiness? Tom wanted to ask. What will become of me, once you've left me?

But Harry seemed to think Tom would do just fine on his own, or at least Harry had told himself this enough times that he now believed it. Tom supposed it was partly his own fault for being too mature for his age, for not needing help from adults in the ways that children usually did. Tom had tried to act more vulnerable around Harry, to let himself be sloppy in the things he did, because Harry loved to help him and support him, and Tom was greedy for every scrap of togetherness that Harry was willing to hand over.

"Hey," Harry said, leaning towards Tom. "Don't look so sad. I promise, you'll be just fine without me."

Tom blinked. He hadn't been aware that his expression had changed. "I won't," Tom said, frustrated. "I need you here with me."

"Tom…" The way Harry said his name was laced with so many emotions at once that it was impossible to tell them apart.

"Let's just go home," Tom said, angry now. "It's a weekend, and no one will say anything if I'm missing." His dormmates would cover for him.

Harry was quiet for a moment, but then he stood and set some money down on the table. "Alright, let's go."

Tom tried to even out his breathing as they walked out of the pub. He relaxed his fists, inhaled the crisp winter air, forced the tension out of his shoulders. To fight Harry once had been bad enough; Tom did not think he could do it again. There was too much of them twisted up in each other for that to end well.

They Disapparated separately and reappeared in the alley by their flat.

Tom unlocked the door to their home and let himself in, Harry trailing behind him. The silence was swelling between them, and Tom had the feeling that this argument would prove to be pivotal.

"Is there nothing I can do to convince you to choose another path?" Harry asked from somewhere behind Tom's shoulder.

"No," Tom said. "There isn't."

Harry exhaled, a long, drawn-out push of air. "I didn't mean for this to happen," he said. "I was supposed to—"

Tom waited for the end of the sentence, but it didn't come.

"You were supposed to what?" Tom asked, whirling around. "You came here, befriended me, insinuated yourself into my life, and now you want to leave. You want to act like none of it mattered."

"I didn't say that."

"Then what do you mean?" Tom said, furious. "Because all I'm hearing from you is that you don't want to be here."

Harry moved forward, grabbing Tom by the wrists. Tom twisted, trying to pull away, but Harry's hands held fast, sliding up Tom's forearms and stopping just below the elbow.

"Tom, please listen to me," Harry said. "When I came here, it was because I wanted to make things better. I wanted to help. I didn't expect you to… to get so attached. I thought you would be okay with me leaving."

"Well, I'm not," Tom said, and this time he succeeded in pulling his arms away and crossing them in front of his chest.

Harry winced. "You don't really need me. You only think you do. And that's partly my fault, for—for insinuating myself, like you said."

This conversation was not going the way Tom wanted it to. "Harry," he said. "What's important to me, what you must understand, is that I want us to stay together, and I am willing to do whatever it takes to make that happen."

Harry's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Then he swallowed, his throat bobbing with the motion. His hand made an aborted gesture, then fell, hanging limply at his side.

"Can you really not be happy with what you have here?" asked Harry.

Tom's chest ached so much that he wasn't sure his ribs could contain the feeling of it. If only things could be simple, if only his heart wasn't scratching against itself, mad with listlessness and longing. This was love, this profound, inescapable craving. This desire to crush their mouths together and breathe the same air until they became one.

"What I don't understand," Tom said, then paused before he continued, the words careful and deliberate, "is why you don't see things the way I do. At first I thought you were simply waiting, but then I realized that wasn't the case. You genuinely don't see what's going on."

Green eyes narrowed. "And what am I supposed to be seeing, Tom?"

"Do you think I would be satisfied working at the Ministry?" Tom asked. "Working my way up the ranks like a good little Mudblood? Kowtowing to lesser men, pretending that I gave a single whit about whatever the latest Pureblood scandal was?"

"You want more."

"I want to do better," Tom said. "That is what you taught me. That we don't have to hide, to shame ourselves because of our blood. People can be won over, can be bought, can be forced. We could tear down the very foundation of Wizarding Britain and rebuild it all, construct a utopia, design a government, whatever we wished.

"But all of that is meaningless without you, Harry. What do I care for the plights of others? I do these things for you, because you care, because your heart bleeds for the less fortunate. Because," Tom continued, softly, tenderly, "your heart belongs with me."

This time, Harry's mouth fell open and stayed there. This was satisfying. Finally, finally, everything was out in the open, Harry would have to know, to see, to feel the things that Tom did.

"Tom," said Harry, voice hoarse. "I don't—I don't know what to say to that."

"You can say yes," Tom said simply. "And I promise you I will find a way to make this happen."

The way Harry was looking at him, all wide eyes and astonished expression, made Tom feel a bit dizzy, but he worked hard to keep himself composed. Harry had to see that he was confident, that he was capable, that he wasn't weak.

"You want—with me," Harry said, stumbling over the words.

Tom took Harry's hand in his, brushed a thumb over the emerald ring that Harry still wore on his index finger. "Always."

Harry had asked for some space after Valentine's Day, and Tom had reluctantly given it to him. Then, some days later, Harry asked if Tom could spend the weekend over again at their flat.

They'd sat down on the couch, and Tom had watched while Harry twisted his hands together nervously.

"Tom, there's something else you should know," Harry said. "I don't—I don't actually look the way I do. I mean, I'm not supposed to look this way."

"How you look doesn't really matter to me, Harry. I've seen the scar on your forehead."

"It's not that," Harry said, fidgeting. "I'm, well, I'm older than I look. I took a permanent De-Aging Potion before I travelled back in time."

Was that all? Harry was older than he appeared. It did explain why Harry was such an experienced duelist, why he knew so many spells, and how he'd gotten away with never studying for his exams. "How much older?" Tom asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.

"I'm twenty-eight years old, and I'll be twenty-nine come July."

July, which was when Harry would be back in his own time. Tom did the math in his head. Six more years added on, which brought the total difference to ten.

"Alright," Tom said. "You're twenty-eight."

Harry scrubbed a hand across his face. "Tom," he said. "I'm too old for you. You're only eighteen."

This sounded more like an excuse than anything else. "I don't care about that," Tom told him.

Harry looked as though he'd suspected this would be the answer. "Well, I do. I can't, Tom. It's just—it's not right. It wouldn't work."

"If you want to wait, I'll do that," Tom said patiently. "But I am an adult now."

"My answer is no," Harry said. "We're not doing this."

"You don't even have a reason," Tom argued. "You're being stubborn. I've waited for so long, Harry. Waited to be old enough, waited for you to be ready, waited for you to see that what we have between us transcends what we could ever feel for anyone else."

No response.

"Your silence is damning," Tom said, pleased. "You know I'm right."

Harry stood up. His face was flushed beneath the fringe of hair, his jaw locked in place, his emerald eyes hard. "I told you, Tom. I'm not going to change my mind about this."

Tom let Harry leave, let Harry go into the bedroom and shut the door. That was fine. Harry could go wherever he wanted, but Tom would follow, and eventually Harry would see the right of things.

.

May 1945

.

The end of May had at last arrived.

Harry remained unaware of Tom's knowledge of time travel, which was honestly a blessing, because it meant that their goodbye seemed more permanent from Harry's point of view. So Tom had planned on manipulating this fact to his advantage.

"I haven't forgotten anything, have I?"

Tom was lounging against the back of the couch while Harry paced around their flat. Today was Sunday, and Harry would be pulled back to his own time tomorrow at midnight.

"You're not even taking anything back with you," Tom pointed out. "What could you possibly be forgetting?"

Harry stopped pacing and turned to regard Tom. "I mean, am I forgetting anything I need to do for you? I've already transferred the ownership of the flat, and the accounts at Gringotts, but I can't help but feel I'm still missing something."

"Whatever you think you've forgotten, I'm sure I can handle it." Tom straightened and made his way around the couch.

Harry huffed. His hair was tousled, and it was also longer than usual due to the fact that he hadn't trimmed it in a while. "Just let me have my worries, Tom."

"Not when you're being ridiculous." Tom took Harry by the hand and led him over to the couch, where they both sat down.

'You never used to be this pushy," Harry said. "I seem to remember a first-year student who listened attentively to everything I told him."

"I never," Tom began, offended. "I wasn't one of those gormless sycophants you used to surround yourself with."

Harry started laughing. "No, I suppose you weren't."

Tom beamed at the sound of Harry's laughter and reached for Harry's hand again. Harry dropped his eyes towards the motion, but he didn't pull away as Tom laced their fingers together.

It was as Tom had predicted. Harry thought that they'd not be seeing each other ever again, and that whatever little concessions he made now would bring Tom comfort before the bitter end.

And in some ways, Harry was right. Having this—Harry's hand in his—did make the impending event of Harry's departure easier. But Tom knew that once Harry was really gone, once all he had left were these small snatches of happiness, these distant memories, it would become more difficult to cope.

Seven years of his life spent with Harry. Tom could only imagine how torturous the passage of time would feel without him.

On Monday, Tom skipped all his classes so he could stay in with Harry, so they could spend this final day entirely together.

"Do you want us to go anywhere?" Harry asked. They were playing chess again, and Harry was losing badly. Tom could tell that Harry's thoughts were elsewhere.

"No," Tom said, matter of fact. "I like it best here, when it's just you and I."

Harry stared at the chessboard for a while, not speaking, not moving.

"Harry?" Tom asked. "Are you going to play?"

"Sorry," Harry said. He picked up his knight and moved it. It was a terrible move, one that even a child learning the basics should have been able to avoid with relative ease.

Tom captured the knight with his rook. "Check."

"Sorry," Harry said again. "Maybe we should do something else. I'm pretty terrible at this at the moment."

"If you like."

Harry sat back against the armrest of the couch, his sock-clad feet pulled up underneath him, eyes still fixed upon the chess pieces.

Tom hesitated, then retrieved his wand and used it to pack all of the pieces back into their box. Once that was done, he shifted over so that his knee was almost touching Harry's. His hands, clasped in his lap, itched to reach across the distance between them. There was a pressing need for them to be touching, for Tom to feel the solid skin and bone of Harry's body. To be reassured that Harry was still here with him.

"Are you alright?" Tom asked.

"Shouldn't I be the one asking you that?"

Tom shrugged. "You know I haven't accepted this. This is only a temporary farewell, in my eyes."

Harry picked at the hem of his jumper. "I don't know if I should even be talking with you about this," Harry said. "I don't want to upset you."

"I won't," Tom said. "I won't get upset, Harry. I promise. You can tell me anything."

Harry sighed. "I think part of the issue is that you're the only one who I can talk to about this."

"There isn't," Tom agreed. There was only the two of them, only Tom who knew the truth of Harry's past.

"It just feels strange, to be leaving all of this behind. I've been here for ten years, a third of my life, and now… now it's over."

Not over, Tom thought. Not yet.

"I'm a bit afraid of what I'll find when I go back," Harry finished, finally looking up. "The things I'll have changed."

"Don't be," Tom told him. "It'll be a better future, Harry. I'll make sure of that."

Harry's head tilted to the side. "You will?"

"Of course I will," Tom said. "For you."

Harry shuffled closer, and then their knees were touching. Tom held his breath, hardly daring to twitch, and then Harry placed the fingers of his left hand against Tom's cheek. "It really isn't fair you're so much taller now," Harry said. "Makes it harder to tell you off."

"Then don't," Tom said. "Let me do what I know is best, for the both of us."

"Tom," Harry said, regretful. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Tom said. He turned his face, leaning into Harry's touch, into the comfort of warmth, the secure feeling of being cared for. "There's nothing to be sorry for. Someday, you'll accept what I've been trying to tell you."

Harry drew his hand back, his expression morose.

"I will see you again," Tom added, conviction bleeding into his voice as he leant in. "I promise you that."

"Let's… let's not talk about that. Please," Harry said quietly.

"Fine." Harry didn't believe that Tom could accomplish such a task, didn't want to get his hopes up. That was alright, it was fine, Tom could deal with this on top of everything else. As long as the truth held, the truth of what Tom knew Harry felt for him, then it would all work out in the end.

Harry shifted on the couch again, and Tom placed a hand on Harry's knee to still him. He could feel the bone, the roundness of it that he could curl his fingers around. Tom's thumb traced a slow circle over the top, hoping to settle Harry down.

"You'll be good?" Harry asked. "Once I'm gone."

"I'll be the very best," Tom said soothingly. "And I will make you proud. Do you believe me?"

Harry's eyes slid shut, his body relaxing under Tom's hand. "I do," he said. "I trust you, Tom."

It was this that prompted Tom to surge forward, to move close enough that he could brush his lips against Harry's cheek. Harry's face filled with colour almost immediately, and Tom admired the beauty of it as he pulled back, his hand slipping to rest on Harry's shoulder.

"Wait for me," Tom commanded, burying the sight of Harry's eyes into the deepest crevices of his mind. "When you leave tonight, when you arrive back in your time, when you see your friends again. Wait for me, think of me, and I will come."

.

June 1945

.

The flat was empty.

Tom stood in the bedroom, sheets clutched in his hand. He felt hollow. Was it possible that Harry had taken pieces of Tom with him when he'd left? Was this what people meant when they said you'd given away your heart to someone else?

His heart remained beating, as alive as ever; the complication came from the fact that he could no longer feel it. Tom placed a hand against his rib cage, searching. The ladder of ribs that enclosed the heart were there, rigid and unyielding against his fingertips. Maybe Harry had taken his heart away after all, had stolen the life and the spirit from it.

Tom had planned on going back to Hogwarts today, but putting himself through the paces of classwork and socializing was not appealing. He had just suffered a great loss. He had parted ways with the love of his life, and he was not sure how long it would be until they saw each other again.

Tom released the crumpled sheets, letting them fall back onto the bed. Then he picked up the pillow, cradling it close. It was not the same, nowhere near the same. Even Harry's familiar scent failed to calm him. He was… bereft. His very soul was being deprived of the person it needed the most. There was no replacement for love.

One single day to mourn, he could allow himself that much.

Tom tossed the pillow back into place, then pulled the sheets and blankets off. He slid under the covers and buried himself into the bedding. He closed his eyes and let himself pretend that Harry was just outside the door, sitting in the living room or making a cup of tea in the kitchen. The horrible, gnawing torment could be tucked away for now. The agony would be forced to wait.

One day of delusion, of fantasy, of denial.

And once that was done, there would be one more month of Hogwarts, and then Tom would begin the first phase of his journey.

May 1950 (Five Years Later)

Tom rubbed his thumb absently against the cool metal of the Gaunt ring. Over the years, the ring had only been resized once. His fingers were the long, slender type that tapered closer to the palm, and as he'd never taken the ring off, he'd never needed to adjust it to fit over the knuckle.

A variant of the classic Time-Turner hung in his other hand. Five years of working with Nott in the Department of Mysteries. The completion of a project that had been hastened with the knowledge Tom had plucked from Harry's mind. This version of the Time-Turner would allow its user to travel as far as they wanted, either forwards or backwards in time. It was not similar to the method Harry had used, but it was heavily steeped in the same theories.

All Tom needed to do was spin himself forward.

Tom had made the arrangements, had secured his accounts and informed his most devoted followers. All of his belongings, the ones that mattered, were shrunken and hidden away in his bag, which had an Extension Charm cast upon it.

Fifty years in the future, Tom would reappear in the world, and the heavy weight that he'd endured would at last be gone, would be replaced by the parts of himself that had gone missing along with Harry, and he would once again be able to breathe.

July 1998

The world shifted, a whirlwind of images that flew by so quickly that it was impossible for the eye to catch onto anything.

Tom landed in Hogsmeade, in the middle of a crooked, empty alleyway. His hand slammed into the wall as he steadied himself, and he resisted the urge to upset the contents of his stomach onto the brick.

The summer sun shone down, heavy where its rays touched upon his robes. Tom cast a Cooling Charm on himself and then shrugged his robes off, leaving his jacket and shirtsleeves. Glancing around, he stepped out of the alley and into the village proper.

It was nearly as he remembered it. A few small changes here and there. A new shop, a remodelled storefront. It gave the little village a quaint edge of whimsy—a hint of surreality leaking through the seams. Tom slipped past the few people who were walking around, his feet carrying him down the familiar path to Zonko's.

He didn't expect Harry to be there, of course, but he was interested in seeing what had become of the place.

However, when Tom finally reached the shop, he couldn't quite bring himself to go inside. Behind the glass panes, children shrieked with joy, waving their dungbombs and other such nonsense in the air while their parents looked on, exasperated. The inside of the shop had not changed much. The clerk behind the counter was even wearing the same horrid red apron.

After a few moments of lingering, Tom dragged his gaze elsewhere. He was ready. Retrieving his wand from its holster, Tom cast the spell that would trigger the charms he had layered into Harry's ring, charms that would draw him to wherever Harry was.

There was the telltale pull at his navel, one similar to that of a Portkey, but partway through the process, the magic slammed up against a barrier and stopped. Tom felt a spike of panic before he forcibly calmed himself. All this meant was that Harry could be somewhere with wards up.

So Tom tried the spell again, this time careful to pay attention to the feel of the magic blocking his connection to Harry's ring. It was familiar, it was, oh—

Tom looked up and over to the structures in the distance, to the high rocks and the stone towers. Aside from their flat, there was only one place Tom would have ever called home.

Putting his wand away, Tom rolled his shoulders to loosen up the muscles. It was quite the long walk up to Hogwarts.

It had taken ages to convince the irritable, elderly caretaker to finally fetch someone competent, someone with the ability to pass Tom through the wards.

The current Headmistress of Hogwarts, a stern woman by the name of Minerva McGonagall, had been suspicious of Tom from the moment she'd laid eyes on him. She was also the one who informed Tom that he was searching for Harry Potter, not Harry Evans. Which, Tom supposed, made sense. It would have been foolish for Harry to use his actual name while living in the past. But it also meant that Harry was not Muggleborn—he was a half-blood, like Tom.

"Harry does know me," Tom had said as patiently as he could manage. "If you could simply let him know that I'm here, everything will be sorted."

So McGonagall had sent her Patronus—a tabby cat with distinct markings around the eyes—flying towards the school. And then they had waited.

Not a minute later, a silver stag had come charging down. It had landed upon the ground, dipping its head towards McGonagall in a brief gesture of respect, and then its mouth had opened.

"If you could please let him through and into my office, Minerva, I'd be much obliged."

Tom had smiled at that, and then he'd been ushered through the wards and into the school, where he was told to wait in an office.

It was Professor Merrythought's old office, decorated in a similar style to their old flat in St. Catchpole's. Maroon everywhere, photographs and paintings hung up on the walls, neat stacks of parchment lined up on the desk. There was even a broomstick propped up in the corner.

Tom sat himself down in Harry's office chair and waited.

Eventually, the door creaked open, and Tom stood up, eager for their reunion, eager to see Harry again.

Harry stepped into the room, dressed in plain, bottle-green robes. He hadn't aged at all since Tom had last seen him, though there were some distinct incongruities. His hair was in a state of disarray, and he was wearing glasses, which was new. Still, these changes were inconsequential. The critical fact was Tom was finally the right age, the perfect age, and no one would judge them if they were together.

"Tom?" Harry sounded confused. Confused, and maybe even a little afraid. Well, that wouldn't do.

"Not a day went by where I didn't think of you, Harry." With only a few strides, Tom was crossing the room to where Harry stood just inside the threshold of the doorway.

When Harry still failed to move, Tom reached up to cup Harry's jaw. He was taller than Harry now. This realization sent a strange thrill down his spine. Tom splayed his fingers out, cradling Harry's cheek. The Gaunt ring glinted on his index finger, the metal of the band touching Harry's skin.

But Harry still wasn't focused. "How did you get here?" Harry asked. His hand grasped Tom's and pulled it away from his face. He did keep their hands linked together, however, which was something.

"I followed you," Tom said, frowning. "I found a way, as I told you I would. Aren't you happy to see me?"

"I am," Harry said immediately. "I'm just… surprised."

That was alright. It must have been a bit of a shock to see Tom so soon after leaving.

"Well," Tom said, giving Harry's hand a squeeze. "All is well now, isn't it? Because I'm here, and I'm older now, so we can be together," he added importantly.

"Together," Harry echoed. He was standing very still and seemed to be thinking hard. Tom let it happen, because he could afford to be patient, to let Harry readjust to the fact that Tom was going to be in his life and by his side forever.

"I came here for you," Tom said, just to be clear. "I did this for you." Because it didn't matter when or where he built a name for himself unless Harry was there beside him.

"Tom, I—"

Harry sounded upset. Overwhelmed, maybe. Tom slid closer again, placed his free hand on Harry's shoulder. Those green eyes, beautiful and mesmerizing, blinked back at him. Tom had waited so long for this moment, to hold Harry in his arms properly, like he was meant to.

Slowly, Tom reeled Harry in, wrapping his arms around, curling Harry up against his chest, right next to his heart. And Harry didn't protest or try to inch away—he allowed himself to be embraced. Harry's head tucked just underneath Tom's chin. It felt so good, so right. Tom inhaled and exhaled with a shudder, his fingers gripping tight to the fabric of Harry's robes.

"I missed you," Tom said, breathing out the syllables. That was a feeling people got, that was what happened when someone you loved went away. That was what he felt for Harry. "We won't be leaving each other anymore."

Harry said nothing for a moment, but then Tom felt a hand reach up to cup the back of his head, cradling it. The hand rested there, its touch light, and then it trailed down, the fingers dragging against the nape of Tom's neck. Tom let his eyes fall shut, let the sensation of Harry's fingertips on his skin fill his awareness. This was what he'd wanted, this was what he had missed so dearly.

"I looked to see what had happened to you," Harry said quietly. "I dug through the papers. I visited the Ministry to ask questions. You worked at the Department of Mysteries for five years, and then you vanished."

Tom pulled back, but he kept his hands pressed against Harry's arms, his thumbs stroking against the soft fabric. "So you knew, then? That I succeeded."

Harry's brows dipped down. "No, not right away. Why didn't you appear as soon as I'd gotten back here?"

How long had it been? Tom thought that he'd timed things perfectly, that the gap would have been minimal. But if Harry had been waiting, then perhaps Tom had misjudged the distance. "You thought that I failed?" he asked.

"I don't know what I thought." Harry shrunk in on himself, frowning. "I just… I wanted to know you were okay, that I hadn't messed things up entirely by leaving. That I hadn't failed you."

"You didn't," Tom reassured him. "Everything is perfectly fine now—I've made things right. There will be no issue with my existence here in the future, because it won't change anything in the past. I can remain here with you, forever."

Harry's eyes had gone unfocused. He was staring off at something in the distance. Tom slid his left hand up to brush against Harry's jaw, and that got Harry's attention.

"What will you do here?" asked Harry.

"I've made preparations," Tom said primly. "And I sealed up our old flat in Ottery St. Catchpole's before I left." And he had also Obliviated all the Muggles in the area of its existence, to ensure that no one would go looking for it.

"Sentimental," Harry said.

Tom bristled for a second, then realized that Harry's tone lacked malice. "I suppose," he allowed. Sentiment was a concept that Tom thought himself above. Sentiments made people weak. The flat was… it wasn't sentiment. It was a place that belonged to Tom, to them, which meant that it was not something he would give up.

Harry smiled. "Maybe I didn't mess things up as much as I thought I did."

"The only wrong you've ever committed was when you left me," Tom said sanctimoniously. "But I forgive you for that."

"You haven't changed one bit," Harry accused.

"And neither have you," Tom retorted.

They stared at each other, and then Harry shook his head, snorting.

"I suppose," Harry said, "I've got a lot to catch you up on."

Tom brushed his fingers along Harry's jaw, up his forehead, and then along the hairline. Unblemished skin, skin untainted by magic or glamours.

"Your scar," Tom said, distracted. "Is it not there anymore?"

"No," said Harry. "It was one of the only things that didn't carry over."

That was right. There must have been changes to the timeline, given what both he and Harry had done. Whatever had occurred to give Harry his scar must have no longer happened.

"How old are you now?" Tom asked curiously.

"Today's my birthday," Harry said, his eyes softening. "I'm twenty-nine, though I don't look it. It was a bit difficult to explain to everyone why I was suddenly looking about seven years younger than I should be."

"I'm twenty-three now," Tom said, pleased. "I'm older than you."

"You're not," Harry said, unimpressed. "I just told you I'm twenty-nine."

Tom slid a hand past Harry's robes to grasp at his waist. "So you still think you're too old for me?" Tom asked, raising a brow.

"Yes," Harry said, but he sounded unsure. Then he twisted away, moving towards his desk.

Tom followed, placing both hands firmly upon the top of the wooden surface. "You're still wearing my ring," Tom said pointedly.

Harry's eyes glanced down briefly, and then moved back to where Tom was standing before the desk.

"Do you remember what I promised?" Tom asked. "I promised forever, Harry Evans. And I don't make promises lightly. It may take me weeks or months or years to win you over, but I know I will, in the end. Because I see myself in you. A half-blood boy with a desire to be known, to be treasured above all else. I will deliver the world into your hands, if you ask it of me. You will never find anyone who understands you like I do."

"Tom." There it was again—that beautiful conglomeration of emotion, those layers upon layers of meaning. Everything all at once.

"You abhor war. You detest bigotry. There are desires in you that will never see the light of day, because you are, at heart, a good person."

"Tom," Harry repeated.

"I will be your weapon," Tom crooned, stalking around to take Harry's hand in his, to run his fingers over the emerald that was there. "I will tear apart the world for you. We have conquered fate and time to be together, and this is no different."

"This is dangerous," Harry said, like he was talking to himself. But his gaze did not stray.

"All the best things are," Tom replied. He lifted Harry's hand to his lips, touching them together fleetingly. "Including love. Do you love me, Harry? Answer me honestly."

From the moment he'd walked into his office to find Tom standing there, all the oxygen had been pulled from Harry's lungs. Though it had only been two months since his departure from 1945, so much had happened in the meantime that Harry had barely managed to adjust.

His parents were alive. Sirius was alive. His friends were still his friends, and he was the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts. Confronted with two vastly different sets of memories, Harry had struggled to dissociate this new world from the one he had once known.

But Tom was familiar to him, like solid ground beneath his feet, like a cool ocean breeze. Frightening and compelling in equal measures. Hearing Tom's reverence was potent, heady, and Harry was afraid of how easy it would be to sink into this, into the unknown.

Did he love Tom?

He felt that he owed Tom a real answer, a proper one with thought and care put into it. They had spent seven years together, after all. Harry had seen Tom from childhood to adulthood, had mentored and nurtured him in the hopes of changing the world for the better.

Tom was obsessive and impulsive and sociopathic, though he was, admittedly, a far cry from the monster he had originally grown to be. This Tom Riddle had never killed Myrtle Warren, had never slaughtered the Riddle family, had never created a Horcrux.

When Harry looked into Tom's eyes, they were a deep, rich brown—they were human. Harry trusted Tom not to hurt him, not to betray him. Did those same exceptions apply to his heart?

Undoubtedly, Tom would stay, regardless of Harry's answer. Tom would wait, patient and deadly, teetering them on the edge of the knife. Past that point of no return, a platonic relationship would be irrecoverable, because Tom would never let him go.

Did Tom love him? Harry wasn't sure exactly what Tom's definition of love would entail.

Love was a vast thing, an impossible thing. There was no singular way to pinpoint the truth of it. What Harry felt for Tom was all bundled up in everything else; it was muddled in with enmity, detachment, and affection. But the answer he gave now would change the world. This was what Tom had promised him, and so this was what Harry knew to be true.

For you, I do. I do mean it.

I am happy—with you.

Always.

"I don't know if this is love," Harry said. "But I know you, Tom."

Tom pulled him closer still, so that they were inches away from each other. "You do," Tom murmured, enthralling and wild, the stars themselves dancing in his eyes. Stars that he would give to Harry, if Harry were to ask for them.

"I missed you," Harry said, pouring all the honesty he could muster into the words. "And I won't be leaving you anymore. Do you believe me?"

"I do," Tom said. "I always know when you're telling me the truth."

The aching, terrible truth of what Harry felt, the truth that refused to leave. Because despite all of what he knew about Tom Riddle—the boy beneath the endless masks, the man behind the heartless monster—there was a mirror separating them that was impossible for Harry to resist.

"Then my answer is yes," Harry said. "For you, it's yes."

The words hung, suspended, and Tom's breath passed in a sigh between them, his tender expression shattering and giving way to rapture—

—and then Tom kissed him, sweeter than anything Harry had imagined, softer than he thought Tom could be. The blissful press of Tom's lips, the way Tom's hands held him, firm yet gentle, possessive yet trusting. A kiss nearly sixty years in the making.

If this was love, if love meant staying, meant keeping, meant holding close, then Harry had faith he could see this love through to its inexorable, inescapable end.

.

END.

.

A/N:

wow, this truly was a roller coaster to write. i still can't quite believe that it's done? it's been absolute madness while i churned this story out of my head and neglected literally everything else i've been writing lmao.

anyways, thank you all very much for reading, and thank you for any kudos and bookmarks you choose to bestow upon this story.

i would appreciate any comments you'd like to leave, especially on tom's portrayal, which i greatly enjoyed writing.

you can find me and my writing updates on tumblr at duplicitywrites

( p.s.: if you've read 'not a good man, but a great one', adelaide is the unnamed greengrass girl in this story, albeit a few years older than she is NaGM. i couldn't help but give her a little shout-out. )