Chapter Text
The rain against the windows of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was still pouring, but it didn't sound like gravel anymore; it just sounded like rain.
The lights in the drawing room blinked back on with a soft, gas-powered hum. The green frost on the floorboards vanished instantly, leaving the ancient wood damp but intact. The single candle on the side table returned to its normal, yellow flame, casting long, familiar shadows across the velvet armchairs.
Harry was sitting on Sirius’s old leather sofa, his legs stretched out in front of him, a clean, dry blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Teddy was asleep in his Moses basket near the fireplace, his hair a peaceful, soft shade of pastel pink, his tiny thumb firmly lodged in his mouth.
Sitting on the opposite end of the sofa, looking profoundly out of place, was Tom Riddle.
He was still wearing his glittering Goblin King leather pants and his silver-fur-lined coat, though he had permitted Harry to hang his high-collared tunic over the back of a dining chair to dry. He was currently holding a faded, chipped ceramic mug with both hands, staring down at the brown liquid inside with an expression of intense, aristocratic horror.
"What is this?" Tom asked, his voice low and deeply offended.
"It’s instant tea, Tom," Harry said, taking a long, blissful sip from his own mug. "Two sugars. No elven milk. No magic fruit. Just cheap powder from the corner shop."
Tom lifted the mug to his lips, took a microscopic sip, and made a face as if he had just swallowed a slug. "It tastes like despair, Harry. It tastes like the collective misery of the British working class."
"Welcome to London," Harry murmured, closing his eyes as the warmth of the tea finally began to soothe his aching throat.
Tom grumbled something under his breath about the lack of proper porcelain in the mortal world, but he didn't put the mug down. He shifted his weight on the leather sofa, his long boots creaking softly in the quiet room. His blue eyes drifted over to the Moses basket, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of Teddy’s chest for a long, silent moment.
"The child’s hair is pink," Tom noted, his voice dropping into a quieter register.
"He does that when he’s happy," Harry explained without opening his eyes. "Or when he wants attention. You’ll get used to it."
"I am the King of the Shadows, Harry," Tom said, his voice carrying a faint, final echo of his old, theatrical pride. "I do not get 'used' to infant hair colour dynamics."
"Yeah, yeah. Drink your tea, Your Majesty," Harry muttered, a small, tired grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "Tomorrow, you’re learning how to use the washing machine."
Tom let out a long, suffering sigh that shook the silver rings on his fingers. He took another sip of the terrible instant tea, leaned his head back against the dusty leather of the sofa, and settled into the quiet reality of his surrender—utterly, completely whipped by the boy who had defeated a kingdom with nothing but pure, unadulterated sass.
Outside, the rain continued to fall, but inside Number Twelve, the Labyrinth was finally still.
---
Six months later, the rain in London was exactly the same, but Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place smelled radically different.
The scent of wet rot and ancient pureblood misery had been aggressively replaced by the sharp, herbal tang of eucalyptus floor-cleaner, fresh-baked sourdough, and an underlying note of very expensive, unearthly winter frost.
In the newly renovated kitchen—which was now bright, airy, and painted a completely un-Gothic shade of soft cream—Harry Potter was standing at the stove. He was wearing an apron that read Kiss the Cook (a gag gift from Ron that he wore entirely to irritate his housemate) and was casually flipping pancakes with his wand while holding a grocery list in his other hand.
"Tom!" Harry shouted over the sizzle of butter. "Did you use the last of the organic milk for that potion, or did Teddy drink it?"
From the drawing room, a voice drifted down the hallway—rich, melodic, and vibrating with an aristocratic disdain that could have cut glass. "The child did not consume it, Harry. I utilized it to stabilize a draught of Peace for Andromeda’s joint pain. And I shall remind you, for the four-hundredth time, it is not a potion; it is an elegant alchemical synthesis. Do not reduce my intellect to the level of Severus Snape’s introductory syllabus."
A second later, the Goblin King entered the kitchen.
Tom Riddle looked absurdly, spectacularly domestic. He was still wearing his trademark, tight black leather trousers—having refused to surrender them to the muggle washing machine—but he had paired them with a remarkably soft, oversized emerald-green knit sweater that Harry had bought him. His dark hair was perfectly styled, and a silver-and-diamond diadem sat nestled carelessly in his glossy locks.
Cradled against his chest, completely asleep and snoring softly, was Teddy Lupin. The nine-month-old Metamorphmagus currently had hair the exact shade of Tom’s sweater, and his tiny hand was tightly wrapped around one of the long, silver tassels hanging from Tom’s collar.
"He refused to settle until I walked him through the shifting corridors of the cellar," Tom noted, gliding over to the kitchen island with the silent, hunting grace of a serpent. He placed a heavy, leather-bound volume on the counter. "He has an unfortunate fondness for spatial anomalies. He clearly inherits his lack of linear logic from you."
"He's nine months old, Tom. He doesn't have logic; he has teeth coming in," Harry said, setting a plate of golden pancakes on the island. He looked at the book Tom had brought in. "What’s that?"
"A revised treaty for the Goblin Market," Tom said, taking a elegant sip from a porcelain teacup filled with perfectly brewed Earl Grey—he had long since banned instant tea from the premises. "The minor clans were attempting to smuggle cursed apples into the mortal world through a portal in Bristol. I had to... remind them of the terms of my absence."
"You didn't turn anyone into a turnip, did you?" Harry asked, his eyes narrowing playfully.
"I merely restricted their trade licenses for three centuries and threatened to let you loose in their bazaar with a blasting charm," Tom purred, his brilliant electric-blue eyes flashing with a wicked, fond amusement. "The mere mention of your lack of architectural respect was enough to make the elders weep."
Harry laughed, leaning against the counter. He reached over, gently moving a strand of pastel-green hair away from Teddy’s forehead. The baby stirred, let out a tiny, milky sigh, and snuggled deeper into Tom’s expensive knit sweater.
"He really likes you, you know," Harry said softly, his voice losing its sarcastic edge.
Tom looked down at the infant, his expression shifting from arrogant king to something quiet, guarded, and entirely real. He traced the tiny curve of Teddy's ear with a pale, silver-ringed finger.
"He is a citizen of my realm by right of your original tongue," Tom murmured, though there was no malice in the words—only a deep, protective gravity. "It is my duty to ensure his kingdom is secure. Even if that security requires me to reside in a terraced house in London and endure your cooking."
"Hey, my pancakes are brilliant," Harry protested.
"They are dense enough to be used as defensive fortifications," Tom corrected smoothly, though he reached out with his silver fork and took a large bite of one anyway. He chewed, swallowed with an expression of stoic endurance, and met Harry’s gaze.
For a long moment, the kitchen was quiet, save for the rain outside and the gentle humming of the refrigerator.
The Dark Lord who had built a labyrinth out of his own isolation was eating sub-par breakfast food in a knitted sweater. The Boy Who Lived, who had spent his entire life waiting for the next blow to fall, was standing comfortably in a warm kitchen, completely at peace.
"The clock is striking thirteen in the Hedge," Tom said quietly, his blue eyes holding Harry’s with a sudden, heavy intensity.
"Let it strike," Harry smiled, leaning forward to steal a bite of pancake from Tom's plate. "We're not going anywhere."