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Chapter Text

Present Day

Harry doesn’t think too much about it at first. Everyone needs a hobby, and Tom has always been a little, well, excessive. So Harry doesn’t think about it, at least until Tom starts bringing home daily updates. And news clippings. And the fact that some of the students have started a fan club.

“Tom,” Harry asks him casually one evening, when they’re sat side by side in their living quarters and marking papers together. “What do you think about Voldemort recently?”

Voldemort, if you can stop laughing at the ridiculous name long enough to hear the rest of the story, is a wizarding vigilante. A very serious vigilante who opposes all sorts of injustices in the wizarding world. Now, Harry understands that sometimes the government is too slow, the laws are unfair, and the criminals win. So he can support the idea of taking the law into your own hands; in the right circumstances, in the right way.

However, Voldemort doesn’t operate in what Harry would term ‘the right way’. Voldemort goes out of his way to make criminals suffer in a way that’s directly proportional to the crimes that they have committed. So, given the bigoted, sadistic, idiotic Purebloods who live in their society, it was bound to get very messy, very quickly.

“Recently?” repeats Tom, setting the current essay he’s looking at back down onto the desk. “He hasn’t done anything recently, has he?”

“That’s right,” Harry says, affecting a tone of surprise. He goes back to marking essays, scratching red marks across the pages. “We’ve been so busy with midterms lately that time feels like it’s been sped up.”

Tom is looking at him now, Harry can feel it. He can picture it, too, without even looking up: Tom’s narrowed dark eyes, his stiff, sharp jawline. The little crease between his brows that Tom claims doesn’t exist, because he’s too young for wrinkles.

“We have been busy,” Tom agrees, but his quill remains on the table, his students’ essays abandoned.

The Auror Department at the Ministry has been going absolutely haywire ever since ‘Voldemort’ had made his first appearance. Ron tells Harry whenever there are interesting updates—which he technically shouldn’t, because Harry isn’t an Auror—and loves to go on and on about the newest dead bastard who had caught Voldemort’s attention.

Ron says he has to tell Harry because Hermione doesn’t want to hear it, but really Harry thinks it’s just because Ron is still trying to lure him back to the Auror Corps. Harry doesn’t plan on going back to the Auror Corps, and he’s fairly sure that if he so much as thought about doing it, Tom would find out and utilize some creative insults to disparage Ron’s intelligence, competency, and general existence.

That hasn’t changed the fact that Tom had brought home a news clipping from the Daily Prophet that had quotes from Auror Captain Ron Granger-Weasley in them, acting as though Harry ought to be pleased that his friend Ron was acknowledging something Tom had taken a positive interest in.

Ron and Tom like to pretend that they don’t get along very well, if at all. They are both the jealous sort, which is probably the root of nearly all their issues with each other. Ron hadn’t thought Tom was good enough for Harry. Nowadays, they are really only antagonistic with each other on the surface, much to Harry’s endless relief. 

Tom had been insanely possessive when they’d first started dating, and while he’s mellowed out somewhat since then, he does tend to demand a lot of Harry’s attention. Which Harry doesn’t really mind because he likes feeling needed, and Tom always gives as good as he gets when it comes to attention. It isn’t like Tom is needling him endlessly for empty compliments or anything like that. Tom just likes to be consistently assured that he is Harry’s most important person, and he is more than willing to do whatever it takes to return the favour. Repeatedly, if need be.

Harry coughs, feeling his face flush faintly.

“Thinking about me?” Tom asks smugly. He’s been watching Harry closely, although minutes must have passed since either of them had last spoken. Harry doesn’t know how Tom can just sit there and watch him all the time, especially when all Harry is doing is getting lost in his own thoughts, but Tom always assures him that he finds watching to be very interesting.

“No,” says Harry, just to be contrary. And then, because he’s feeling reckless: “I was thinking about Voldemort.”

Tom’s jaw drops. It’s actually kind of satisfying to see. His eyes go dark, too, their pupils blown wide. Tom reads Harry pretty easily, and given the direction Harry’s thoughts had taken… well. If they had been facing each other, Harry thinks that Tom might have shifted backwards in shock. Maybe being married to a vigilante has its benefits if it means Harry gets to have the upperhand like this more often. 

“Well,” says Tom, now flustered. “I suppose you do have a thing for heroics.” He peers at Harry suspiciously, then adds, “I thought you disapproved of his methods?”

“I mean,” Harry starts, trying to figure out how to phrase what he wants to say, “I was complaining about more than half the people he took out to begin with. So really it seems he’s doing me a favour by slaughtering them all, even if the way he does it isn’t exactly… ideal.”

“He castrated Antonin Dolohov and strung him up by his intestines in the middle of his ballroom,” Tom says pointedly. “Which you called, and I quote, ‘really fucked up’.”

“Aren’t I allowed to change my mind?” Harry defends.

Tom is scrutinizing him. Harry does his best not to twitch nervously. He’s not a very good liar, and Tom knows this.

“You called his name stupid,” Tom says finally. He actually sounds mildly upset. Well, it isn’t Harry’s fault that Tom has a flair for the dramatic that often wanders off into ‘stupid’ territory.

“Because it is stupid,” Harry retorts. “‘Voldemort’? It sounds like the evil villain in a children’s book series.”

“You take that back!” Tom says furiously, sitting up straight. Then he appears to catch himself, because he settles down, taking a deep breath. “He’s doing you a favour, you said. You really ought to be nicer about it.”

Harry is trying very, very hard not to laugh. In fact, he has to turn his face towards the wall, inhaling through his nose slowly so as not to tip Tom off. Hopefully Tom is still too caught up in his own narcissism to notice.

The vigilante name doesn’t come as a surprise to Harry. Tom has never liked the fact that he was named after his father. During their time at Hogwarts, Tom had been so sure that his magical heritage had stemmed from his father’s side. He had scoured the entire Hogwarts library for its student records, only to come up empty handed. Harry had felt bad, because Tom didn’t have any other family, and his only consolation would have been to find out just where his heritage had come from. Tom took his name and his image seriously; he wanted to be respected, to be revered. 

“I can like someone and still think their name is stupid,” says Harry.

Strangely enough, this seems to reassure Tom, who relaxes back into his seat. “The people he targets are the villains,” Tom says emphatically. “They’re the ones who deserve to die.”

Walden MacNair had been Transfigured into an oversized ferret and fed to an entire pack of Hippogriffs. The only reason the Aurors had figured out what had happened was because everyone already knew what kind of evil, horrible person MacNair was to begin with. Hermione hadn’t even protested as Ron had gone over the case in jubilant detail during one of their usual gatherings together. “Malfoy can’t even complain about Buckbe—I mean, Witherwings—anymore!” Ron had said gleefully. “Because then that Voldemort bloke might go after him next!”

“It’s still bloodsport,” Harry says, half-hearted. It is a losing argument with Tom; they’ve already discussed this numerous times before.

Tom has gone back to marking his essays, but he replies, “If people like it, then there’s no reason to stop doing it, is there? Your friend Ron likes it.”

“Ron has been watching too many Muggle crime dramas.” Harry snorts. “Hermione’s had to put her foot down, or else Ron was going to start putting up ads for a consulting vigilante sidekick.”

“As if Voldemort would deign to be anyone’s sidekick,” Tom mutters.

Harry ignores that because it’s just Tom being Tom, and goes back to his own marking. He’s learned he’s got to watch what he says around Tom. All it takes is one off-handed complaint, and then Voldemort’s latest murder victim turns up in the news headlines the next day. Harry’s not even exactly sure when Tom finds the time, because they’re teaching classes every week, and Tom still does his own magical research on the side. By the time the weekend rolls around, Harry’s lucky to have time for a pick-up Quidditch match with the Weasleys.

Tom doesn’t like Quidditch. He thinks it’s needlessly dangerous and that Harry would be better off sticking to a safer hobby, like Gobstones. As soon as he gets the opportunity to do so, Harry plans to point out that serial killing is hardly a safer hobby than broomstick sports.

Personally, Harry thinks Tom is just jealous of the fact that Harry had dated two Quidditch players before he’d finally caved to Tom’s infallible charms. He’s pretty sure Tom has plotted Cedric Diggory’s untimely demise on at least one occasion.

“Maybe I’ll bring up Voldemort as a topic for class discussion during my Ravenclaw/Hufflepuff classes tomorrow,” Harry says. “Just to see what the students think.”

“Most of the students like Voldemort,” Tom answers absently. “They have a fan club, remember?”

“You only bring it up, oh, every other conversation,” says Harry sarcastically.

There is an unofficial fan club run by the students in the school that Tom claims he has nothing to do with, but Harry has seen one of those handmade ‘Voldemort Rocks’ badges hidden away in Tom’s drawer somewhere.

Everyone wants to know what Tom Riddle, History of Magic professor, thinks of the vigilante named Voldemort. Tom, who has never made much secret of his opinions, political or otherwise, toes the line between ‘professional instructor’ and ‘catalyst for chaos’ under Headmistress McGonagall’s watchful gaze.

So Tom is happy to oblige a conversation on the topic, but never during class hours and definitely not within earshot of Minerva McGonagall. He’s even hosted a few members of the unofficial ‘Voldemort Club’ in their dining room. Harry’s made comments on how Tom has become that which he had once despised—namely, Slughorn and his Slug Club—but Tom maintains that he doesn’t have favourites. Which is true enough, Harry supposes. Tom doesn’t have favourites, he just likes students who pick him as their favourite.

Since the conversation has dropped off, the rest of the evening passes uneventfully. Harry and Tom finish their marking and head to bed since they have class early in the morning. Tom spends an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom before emerging in a cloud of steam and draping himself on top of Harry in their bed. Harry musses Tom’s hair with his free hand—his other one is currently pinned under Tom’s torso—and ignores Tom’s wilful protests that his neatly combed hair is being ruined. Harry thinks Tom looks adorable with his rumpled hair and his green silk pyjamas.

“Good night,” says Harry, as Tom finally settles down. He’s much like a cat with the way he curls up next to Harry, all clingy and long limbed. Harry rubs slow circles against Tom’s back just as Tom wraps an arm and a leg around Harry, like he’s climbing a tree.

“Good night,” responds Tom, closing his eyes.

Harry watches him for a while, taking in the soft rise and fall of Tom’s chest, and eventually drifts off into his own dreamless slumber.

The next day, Harry gets his copy of the Daily Prophet during breakfast. He has to stop himself from accidentally spitting up his pumpkin juice. Someone has published an article featuring an anonymous letter by a new group called the ‘Death Eaters’. The group is calling for the arrest and capture of the man known as Voldemort, who is a ‘dangerous criminal’ and a ‘menace to polite society’.

“Tom,” says Harry, urgency creeping into his tone. “Voldemort has enemies now.”

That gets Tom’s attention. “Let me see that,” Tom says, even though he’s already in the middle of pulling the paper out of Harry’s hands. His eyes scan the article quickly, and then he looks over the Death Eaters’ letter. “‘Death Eaters’ is a stupid name,” Tom complains, as soon as he’s done reading it. “You can’t consume death. Voldemort’s name has style, it’s poetic—all of his victims may try to flee death, but they will never succeed because he never fails.”

Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes. It’s a very close call. “Aren’t you worried?” he presses. “These Death Eaters sound like a lot of powerful, influential people.”

Tom sniffs, affronted. “As if any of them would be able to oppose Voldemort. I have half a mind to write my own letter to the Daily Prophet. They should appreciate the acts of public service Voldemort is doing for society, not support a group of deranged naysayers.”

Harry debates writing a letter to Ron and telling him that Hogwarts needs some additional security or something, because his husband is a deranged idiot who is going to get himself killed in the name of ‘public service’.

“I don’t know,” Harry says slowly. “I think I’d still be worried for him. He needs to be more careful.”

“We’ll see about that,” says Tom dismissively, tossing the paper back at Harry. “Voldemort could take on a dozen of these imbeciles at once.”

So that is how Harry ends up spending most of his first period Defense Against the Dark Arts class trying to brainstorm ways to keep Tom alive and out of prison. If any of Harry’s students notice that he’s a tad distracted, thankfully none of them say anything about it. They’re likely used to the strange happenings between the Defense professor and the History of Magic professor, and will attribute any odd behaviour to that particular, special category.

Five Years Ago

When famous Quidditch Chaser Ginny Weasley, Captain of the Holyhead Harpies, had been invited to come to Hogwarts as a guest speaker, Tom had spent a solid week in a bad mood. Harry had told him he was being childish—not only was Ginny his ex, but he and Tom were married, for Merlin’s sake—but Tom wasn’t to be shaken out of it so easily.

“You have a type,” Tom said stubbornly, as though Harry was going to leave him for Ginny, or Cedric, or whoever, purely just to have a spouse who could play Quidditch.

Harry hadn’t understood. “I don’t have a type,” he said.

“Imagine being depressed, because that’s how I feel right now,” Tom responded, and Harry hadn’t known what that was supposed to mean, so he’d just sat there until Tom got up and went to sulk somewhere else.

Harry’s students had already been coming to his office in droves, pleading desperately for him to please do something. They had said that Professor Riddle had shown up to class in his pyjamas and assigned them seven-foot scrolls on a topic that he’d just completely made up. Harry was beginning to wonder if Tom really was that upset, or if he was just being extremely dramatic.

So, with only one day left before Ginny was supposed to arrive, Harry had taken drastic measures. 

Harry had steeled his nerves, conjured a bunch of snakes and flowers, and got down on one knee in front of the entire Great Hall during dinner time.

“We’re already married,” was the first thing Tom said, but he looked extraordinarily pleased at Harry’s rare display of public possessiveness.

“Tom,” Harry said, as patiently as he could manage. “I have about a dozen snakes with me, each of them holding their own individual bouquets of silver and green roses. I am on bended knee for you in front of all of the faculty and all of our students. We have already been married for five years. I think we can renew our vows. Just say yes, you prat.”

“Yes,” Tom said decisively, and then he’d seized Harry by the lapels of his robes, hauled him up to eye level, and kissed him.

Thankfully, Professor Riddle—caught up in his blissful state of being a re-newlywed—forgot all about the homework he had assigned, much to the delight and relief of the general student body.

Present Day

So part of the reason why Harry needs to do something about the Voldemort situation is because Tom is his, and therefore it is unfathomable for Harry to let Tom go gallivanting about on his own with his outrageous ego out of check. Tom could end up getting seriously hurt, and Harry wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he let that happen.

The first step, obviously, is to finally nudge Tom into confessing. Harry has lots of ideas for that, some of them crazier than others, but eventually he settles for something tried and true: needling Tom’s ego endlessly until he snaps.

Harry plots what he will say all throughout lunch and dinner, and Tom doesn’t seem to notice because he’s stressed with trying to finish all his marking. Really it was Tom’s fault for assigning so many written questions instead of utilizing some multiple choice. Tom insisted that he liked reading his students’ answers, which was true enough, but it always resulted in a panic as Tom focused all of his attention on marking close to 750 exams with written answers in the last two weeks before the holidays started.

Tom is nearly through the pile he’d set aside for today when Harry walks over to place a hand on his shoulder.

“You should take a break,” Harry says to him. “You’re nearly done, anyways. And you’ve got a late start tomorrow, so you can afford to stay up a little later.”

“Exactly,” Tom mutters, squinting down at the essay he’s been trying to read for the past five minutes. “I’m almost done, so if I just—”

Harry places his hand on top of Tom’s head. Tom freezes.

“Don’t you dare,” says Tom.

Harry twitches his hand.

“Remind me why I married you?” Tom asks rhetorically, but he sets his quill down. “Don’t you want to be married to someone with nice hair?”

“Yes, I do,” replies Harry, sweetly. “So I can mess it up whenever I feel like it.”

Tom spins around in his chair so he can place his hands on Harry’s hips. “You’re evil.”

“You love me,” Harry says, smiling.

Tom cocks his head to the left, spreading his thighs slightly as he pulls Harry closer. “I suppose I must, if I keep letting your horrible behaviour slide.”

Harry lets Tom pull him sideways onto his lap. He rests his head on Tom’s shoulder and says, “It’s good to know that I can keep getting away with it.”

They sit like that for a while, with Tom’s thumb tracing patterns against Harry’s ribcage. Tom is watching him again, his dark brown eyes roaming hungrily across Harry’s face, as though he’s still trying to memorize how Harry looks after all these years.

“I can tell you want to say something,” Tom says eventually, voice gentle. “What is it?”

It’s times like this when Harry really curses Tom’s perceptiveness. It’s all good and fine when Harry’s in a mood and needs Tom to help pull him out of it, it’s another thing entirely when Harry is trying to keep something from him. In that case, perceptiveness turns into persistence, and Harry would be damned trying to so much as hide a birthday present from him.

Of course, Tom does know to stop prying when it’s really not wanted, but whenever it’s something that Harry doesn’t mind him knowing anyways, Tom usually finds a way to get it out of him.

“I’m worried the Death Eaters might actually catch Voldemort,” Harry says quickly, then winces at his own bluntness. So much for his plan.

Tom stares at him for so long that Harry forgets to breathe. Literally forgets to breathe, because Tom reaches out to squeeze his hand and says worriedly, “Harry, it’s alright. Breathe.”

Harry relaxes. Maybe, just maybe, Tom will see sense this time. 

“It’s nice that you’re concerned about Voldemort,” Tom continues, “but really, I don’t think you have any reason to be.”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to stare. “Tom,” says Harry, exasperated beyond belief. “I know it’s you.”

“Oh.” Tom pauses, gears turning in his brain. “Shouldn’t that just reassure you, then?”

Harry smacks Tom on the side of his head, dislodging the perfect curl sitting atop Tom’s forehead. “You’re an idiot, and you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I am not!” Tom protests, rubbing at his head. “I’m better at magic than any of those inbred cretins.”

“All it takes is one lucky shot,” Harry says firmly. “Or one mistake. And then I’ll be a sad, lonely widower. Is that what you want? Then I’ll have to go find Cedric Diggory and ask him to comfort me while I cry at your funeral.”

“You will do no such thing,” Tom growls, and wraps his arm tightly around Harry’s waist. “Because I am not going to make any mistakes, and I am not going to die.”

“Your ego is going to kill you,” Harry mutters. “And then it’s going to kill me too, just out of spite.”

“You worry too much,” says Tom, sitting back in his chair and pulling Harry with him. He wraps both his arms even more tightly around Harry, crushing their bodies together in an attempt to reassure him.

Harry sighs, tucking his head back underneath Tom’s chin. “I sometimes wonder if I don’t worry enough.”

Two Months Ago

Tom had told Harry he needed to leave Hogwarts over the weekend to ‘conduct some research’.

Normally, that type of thing didn’t bother Harry. Tom tended to chase subjects of interest all over London, if not the world, and Harry could survive a few days without him while he did so. This time, however, Tom had warned Harry that he might not be available to check in very often, and not to send any Patronuses lest it ‘disturb the ambient magic’ or some bullshit like that.

So Harry had started to suspect that something was up. Mostly, he suspected that Tom was looking back into Dark Magic and getting himself into trouble. But he really did want to give Tom the benefit of the doubt, so he’d agreed to not send any messages unless Tom sent them first.

Harry had helped Tom pack a bag and had kissed him goodbye. He had watched as Tom stepped into the Floo that would take him to the Department of Magical Transportation for his international portkey. And then Harry had spent most of the weekend worrying as his friends tried to comfort him.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Hermione said placatingly. “Tom loves you, in his own way, and he wouldn’t disappoint you by doing something you’d disapprove of.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “I still don’t like him much, but he does put you first, Harry. He’s been good about the Dark stuff since you got together, and you’ve been married a long time now.”

It was hard for Harry to explain that he was more worried about Tom getting hurt than he was of Tom doing things he would disapprove of. He didn’t think Ron and Hermione would understand. Harry had made peace with the fact that he and Tom would never see eye to eye on everything, and he knew that the best thing he could do to support Tom was to practice empathy and honesty in their relationship, so that Tom would never feel the need to hide things from him.

Tom was a Slytherin through and through, and he had very strict philosophies that left little room for doubt or vulnerability. And Tom was very sensitive, though he would never admit it, and he cared about what Harry thought of him. A wrong word or a misinterpreted action could send Tom spiralling into the harshness and cruelty that had used to be his failsafe for so long.

But Harry was gentle, patient, and—most importantly—he was forgiving. And now, after years of patience and forgiveness, Tom was no longer the same violent, vengeful boy Harry had known while they were students together at Hogwarts. That wasn’t to say Tom was perfect or infallible, because no one was, but he was someone Harry was proud to be married to.

So when nearly the entire weekend had gone by without a word from Tom, Harry couldn’t have cared less if Tom was up to his eyeballs in dark rituals as long as he came home.

But on that Sunday evening, the Daily Prophet had delivered a rush edition pronouncing the death of Undesirable No. 1, Bellatrix Lestrange. The Aurors had been called to the scene when Voldemort’s Mark—a skull with a snake coming out of its mouth—was spotted in the sky by residents in the wizarding village of Upper Flagley.

The small house they found had been blown to pieces. Within the ruins of the house was the cooling corpse of Bellatrix Lestrange. According to the Aurors on scene, what remained of her body showed severe signs of Cruciatus damage. All of her limbs had been severed, too, so that she lay upon the floor in pieces, like a particularly gruesome marionette doll.

Neville had excused himself and left the Great Hall in a hurry. Harry, thinking quickly, had sent a Patronus to Neville’s wife, Hannah, just in case she had not heard the news yet.

The rest of dinner had passed with plenty of gossip as people talked about what Voldemort had done. This murder, the death of the infamous Bellatrix Lestrange, was what at last shot Voldemort’s status into the higher realms of celebrity.

Voldemort had done what entire teams of Aurors had failed to do for years: he had caught and killed the wizarding world’s most feared Dark Arts practitioner.

Ten Years Ago

Bellatrix Lestrange had been at large for decades. She and her associates had been originally known for attacking Muggles and Muggleborns for fun in their youth, but had later moved on to larger, more extensive targets.

Most notably, they were responsible for the deaths of Harry’s parents, and the attack on Neville’s parents that had left them catatonic.

Dark wizards and witches were not very organized under Bellatrix’s leadership, but they were very powerful and very good at staying hidden. The Lestrange vaults ran deep, and both Bellatrix and her husband had added to their wealth through the robbery of many wealthy, pro-Muggle Pureblood families. Especially families that, like the Potters and the Longbottoms, made a habit of advocating action against the Lestranges.

Thus, the cold war between Bellatrix’s army and the Wizarding world had stretched on for decades, as neither side was willing to push too hard and risk upsetting the game board. Bellatrix and the rest did not surface very often, but when they did, it was usually unexpected and resulted in horrible tragedy.

Harry, who had always excelled at Defense Against the Dark Arts, had originally joined the Aurors in the hopes of catching his parents’ killer. But he had quickly discovered that he did not enjoy the strain and responsibility of the job. He didn’t have the strategic mind for it like Ron did, and he lacked the taste for bloodsport that many of the other Auror recruits enjoyed. He had realized, after a period of self reflection, that his best years at Hogwarts had actually been spent teaching Defense Club lessons.

So after two years of Auror training, Harry had given up and returned to Hogwarts. Tom had been ecstatic, because he had already applied to teach there. If they were both hired, they would get to see each other more often. Tom hadn’t liked the fact that Harry’s Auror schedule kept him so busy, because it left little time for the two of them to see each other outside of weekends.

Tom had, in his excitement, dragged Harry all the way up to Headmistress McGonagall’s office, presenting Harry to her like he was a prized pig.

McGonagall, her lips twitching with mirth, had told Harry that he would be able to interview for the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor. Harry had been surprised, because Tom had previously talked about becoming the Defense teacher. But it turned out that Tom had applied for the History of Magic position.

“It was about time somebody got rid of Binns,” Tom said. “I’ve saved it from being a waste of a class, and I’ll be able to influence students more if I’m teaching them History than if I’m teaching Defense.”

Harry said, very eloquently, “Erm.”

“You’ll do a very good job of teaching Defense, just like you did for our Defense Club in fifth year,” Tom added. “And I’ll be able to shape the political future of every generation that walks through the door.”

That had been that, and Minerva had hired them both, saying she was pleased to have two such talented young men returning to Hogwarts to share their knowledge with the students.

Two Months Ago

Following the special edition of the Daily Prophet proclaiming Bellatrix’s death, Harry had not eaten much for dinner. He had been so worried for Tom that he had retired to his room early, pacing the floor of their bedroom for what had seemed like hours.

Harry hadn’t been able to stop himself from picturing Tom lying in the middle of a field somewhere, dead of blood loss from wounds inflicted by Bellatrix Lestrange.

Eventually Harry had given up and gone to wait in bed, convinced that if he managed to finally fall asleep, he would wake up to find Tom sleeping next to him.

Tom had arrived at three hours past midnight, shaky on his feet and white as a ghost.

Harry, who had still been wide awake with anxiety, was nearly dizzy with relief.

The lights were off, so Harry had only heard Tom shuffling about in the bathroom, showering and changing into his pyjamas before collapsing into bed, draping half his limbs and part of his torso on top of Harry like he usually did.

Harry had thought Tom would want to talk about what had happened in the morning, but Tom had only apologized for not being able to send any messages, and then gone on like it had just been another weekend of research rather than the calculated assassination of a wanted criminal.

So Harry had been conflicted. The world was a damn sight safer without Bellatrix in it; he could not quite say he was sorry to see her go. Nor had he felt guilty about the way she’d been dispatched—Neville might finally have closure now that the woman who had tortured his parents into insanity was gone, and Harry could rest knowing that his parents had been avenged.

But Harry had felt like he ought to feel bad, or regretful, or something, because you weren’t supposed to condone people taking the role of judge, jury, and executioner.

Later that week, Amelia Bones had spoken out in the Wizengamot. She had said that regardless of who he was killing, Voldemort was still a Dark wizard who needed to be held accountable for his actions as much as everyone else. She and a few other Wizengamot members had called for Auror resources to be allocated towards the arrest and capture of Voldemort.

Now, no one other than Harry would have ever suspected Tom Riddle. Except, perhaps, Albus Dumbledore, if he had still been alive. Tom had always been revered by the rest of the faculty and the student body at Hogwarts. He was poor, but brilliant; parentless, but so brave; a school prefect; a model student. Very few people had seen the side of Tom that Harry was privy to.

There had certainly been a few students who had crossed Tom the wrong way during their time at Hogwarts, but those years were long gone now, and Tom had been nothing but well-behaved since then. Ron and Hermione knew some of who Tom was, but they were still biased in that they wanted only the best for Harry, meaning that they, too, were blinded by the changes they saw Harry had wrought.

Only Harry knew just how deep the strain of indulgence that ran within Tom was, and he had begun to realize that he was okay with it.

Chapter Text

Present Day

Soon enough the holidays are upon them. Tom and Harry have, as usual, signed on to supervise the students who are remaining over winter break. They will be spending Christmas Eve with the students, and then spending Christmas Day with Harry’s friends and family.

Harry had told Tom, in no uncertain terms, that he was to not go off and try to hunt down any Death Eaters until after the holidays were over. He had made Tom swear on his magic that he was not going to so much as think about the nom de plume of Voldemort until at least a week after his birthday had passed.

Of course, Tom had tried to wheedle his way out of it. He had tried to make concessions for being allowed to plot things, for being allowed to take any really good opportunities if he came across them. Harry had put his foot down.

“You are going to turn thirty,” Harry said, unyielding, “and you are going to enjoy it.”

“You,” Tom responded, pouting, “are no fun at all.”

Harry, who had already been thirty for a short while, knew that Tom was just being dramatic again, so he hadn’t dignified Tom’s insult with a response.

Tom is mildly obsessed with aging, and also rather afraid of dying prematurely. Harry isn’t exactly sure what had caused these specific fears, but he does know that they’re pretty odd fears for someone who goes around killing criminals in their spare time. Tom frets and worries over his grey hairs, but he also frets over the idea of Harry accidentally falling down a flight of stairs on his way to the Defense classroom. Whenever Harry tries to put it all into perspective, he always fails. It still doesn’t make any sense to him.

What he does know is that ten years ago they had promised forever to each other with their wedding vows. Tom takes this vow very seriously, though he tries to downplay it most of the time. But during their most intimate moments he’ll ask Harry to promise it again: that he’ll stay with Tom forever. And Harry will say it over and over (every day, if he has to): he chooses to stay, and he will always choose to stay, no matter what.

It is the first proper day of the winter holidays when Harry suggests that they go for a walk around the grounds. There is plenty of untouched snow around, and Harry wants to make some sculptures.

“This is ridiculous,” Tom says, voice muffled. He’s bundled up in a shirt, two jumpers, and a thick woolen coat. He also has one of Mrs. Weasley’s hand knitted scarves wrapped three times around his neck. It has green and silver stripes, which is the only way to get Tom to wear anything that has colour in it. “We’re too old to be playing with snow.”

“I’m the older one between the two of us,” Harry says decisively, “and I say we’re not too old. So we’re going to build a bunch of snow-shaped things, and it’s going to be fun.”

“You’re only five months older,” Tom grumbles. “That hardly makes you an expert.”

“I am an expert on building things with snow,” Harry says. “Just you wait and see.”

The challenging tone in Harry’s voice makes Tom perk up slightly, as Harry knew it would. They walk a little further until they reach a nice expanse of fluffy, white snow. It is the perfect spot for making large, obtrusive structures without blocking the general pathways.

“What kind of sculptures are we making?” Tom asks curiously, shielding his eyes against the sunlight reflecting off of the snowy surfaces.

“I was thinking something fun,” answers Harry, retrieving his holly wand from his robe pocket. He waves it in a complex motion towards the snow, which begins to rise up into a swirling cloud. Picturing the general shape of the form he wants, Harry creates a sphered-shaped blob that rests upon the ground.

“Impressive,” Tom deadpans.

“Oh, shut up,” Harry retorts. “I’m not finished.” He raises his wand again and starts to carve into the compacted snow.

Tom stands idly, watching Harry work. Harry keeps at it, undeterred. He likes to think he’s pretty decent at art; he likes to sketch things when he’s got the time to do it. There’s a drawing of Tom’s profile preserved in a frame on Tom’s work desk.

Slowly, the shape begins to take form under the direction of Harry’s magic. He sculpts the details slowly: the shape of the head, the eye sockets, and the long, coiled snake.

“It’s the Mark,” Tom says, once he figures it out.

“Yep,” Harry says, popping the ‘p’ sound. It takes him only a few more minutes to finish the sculpture off. “How’s it look?”

“It looks very accurate,” Tom admits reluctantly, impressed against his will. “Do you think Minerva will say anything about it if we leave it?”

“Not if she can’t trace it back to us,” Harry says with a grin.

Next, he and Tom compete to see who can create the creepiest looking snow snake. The competition eventually dissolves into a snow fight, in which Tom loses badly and squeals like a little girl as Harry tosses a snowball at his hair.

“Your obsession with my hair is unhealthy,” Tom complains later, as he casts Warming Charms on them both.

“I’m only obsessed with it because you are,” Harry tells him. He rubs his hands together to try and get some feeling back into his fingers. “If you stopped making it so much fun to annoy you simply by touching it, then I wouldn’t touch it.”

“You’re a terror and a menace.”

“I’m your terror and your menace,” Harry reminds Tom, and leans in to plant a cold kiss on Tom’s cheek.

Tom sneers, but it’s only for show. There’s a faint flush to Tom’s cheeks, and as they walk back to their quarters, he grabs Harry’s hand and holds on tight.

They’re nearly home when Ginny’s horse Patronus gallops into view right before them.

“Come to St. Mungo’s straight away. Ron’s been hurt.”

Both Harry and Tom run for their room, for the Floo, and Harry is cursing under his breath that they can’t just Apparate directly there. Tom is still holding his hand, but he drops it after giving it a reassuring squeeze so that Harry can step into their fireplace and shout his destination: “St. Mungo’s!”

Ron had been attacked by some smugglers during a dark artifact raid. The Aurors weren’t completely sure who the smugglers worked for, but they had gotten a tip about the artifacts from an inside source. So they had sent a team of Aurors to investigate.

Ron and his partner Susan Bones had been ambushed by a much larger group than they had been expecting, and Susan had only just made it out of the building in one piece, Ron partially slung over her back as he bled profusely.

Thankfully, Ron was now mostly fine and would make a full recovery. He had been hit with some pretty nasty spells, but the Healers at St. Mungos had reversed nearly all of the effects, and what little remained was treatable with the regular consumption of healing potions.

When Tom and Harry arrive at Ron’s room in St. Mungo’s, Hermione is already sitting at Ron’s bedside, holding his hand silently while he sleeps. Ron looks paler than usual as he rests on the bed, and Harry can see that there are faint scars on his arms and shoulders. The rest of the Weasleys are hovering nearby. Ginny is carrying a sleeping four-year-old Rose Granger-Weasley in her arms, and George has baby Hugo Granger-Weasley strapped to his chest in a cloth carrier.

Harry goes over and gives Hermione a hug. Hermione’s eyes are red from crying, and her lower lip wobbles as she sniffles. Harry squeezes her arm reassuringly, hugs her a second time, and then goes to greet the rest of the family. Tom follows behind him, quiet like a shadow.

They stay until a healer drops by for a check up. Harry, Tom, and everyone else move to the waiting area to give Ron, his parents, and Hermione some privacy.

“We’ll find out who did this,” Tom says grimly.

Harry elbows him gently. “The Aurors will find out who did this.”

Tom doesn’t answer, so Harry resigns himself to having to rediscuss this at a later point. It’s not that Harry likes seeing Ron hurt, or that he doesn’t want the perpetrators to pay for it, he just doesn’t want Tom to be putting himself at risk to do it.

Fred, who is holding Rose in his lap while she continues to sleep, says, “I hope Voldemort gets whoever did this. Would serve them right.”

“Fred,” admonishes Percy. “Don’t say things like that!”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if Ron wasn’t alright,” Fred retorts. “That vigilante is making the world a better place by taking out the garbage.”

Percy doesn’t say anything further, though his mouth turns into a flat, pressed line. He probably doesn’t want to argue while they’re all still upset about Ron.

“He’s right,” says Angelina. “This Voldemort is doing what the Aurors can’t or won’t do. How many Ministry workers d’you think are still taking bribes? Certainly less now that they’re all scared shitless of being found out.”

Tom is starting to look entirely too pleased, and Harry is worried that Tom’s head might inflate itself to the point where it detaches and floats away. He doesn’t want to think about Tom going after the smugglers, or about the Death Eaters, or about anything else. He just wants Ron to get better and for all of them to enjoy Christmas together.

“Tom and I have got to go back to mind the students,” Harry says suddenly, which is true. “Keep us updated on what happens, yeah?”

“Of course,” says Ginny. “Don’t worry about it. Ron will be back to pestering us with Voldemort stories in no time.”

“No,” says Harry, as soon as they land back in their quarters.

Tom frowns as he sheds his coat and hangs it up. “I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“‘Yet’,” Harry points out tiredly. “No going after the smugglers, Tom, you promised.”

“This is the very definition of extenuating circumstances,” Tom argues. “Ron’s been hurt.”

Harry stands there for a whole minute, not saying anything. Then he finally says, “Not now, Tom, please,” his voice trembling, and he can only hope that his husband understands.

Tom does. He reaches out and pulls Harry into his arms, wrapping Harry up in the familiar scent of his cologne and the warm, safe feeling of being cared for. “I won’t do anything until a week after my birthday, I promise,” Tom says, stroking a hand through Harry’s hair. “I love you,” he adds in a whisper.

So Harry breathes out, clinging to Tom’s arms, and allows himself to relax.

Five Years Ago

Lots of people at Hogwarts thought he and Tom were ‘cute’. They had been frequently touted as the best-looking professors in the school. Tom had preened at this, of course, and liked to show off when they were sitting at the staff table, fawning on Harry and smiling with extra charm when he knew people were looking. Harry had oscillated between finding it annoying and finding it amusing. Students’ excessive interest in his love life aside, Harry hadn’t thought that Tom’s self-esteem needed any more shallow bolstering. 

Sometimes Tom would bring him flowers at breakfast. The faculty and students ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ over the romantic gesture. But Harry had known that even though Tom was partly doing it for the attention, he was, at heart, doing it to show everyone that Harry was his.

During their courtship, Tom had presented Harry with flowers and silk ties and leather gloves and other fancy, expensive items that Harry didn’t need. Although Harry had told Tom multiple times that he didn’t need regular presents as a sign of affection, Tom had insisted on doing it anyways.

“I want you to have nice things,” Tom said. “It’s not like we can’t afford them.”

And it was true; they could afford most things. The two of them had tenured salaries, and Tom was constantly publishing his research on this thing or that. Tom had even written a new history textbook, which was now being used by all of the students at Hogwarts.

Harry, who had been raised by Sirius, was used to getting expensive things ‘just because’, but he still didn’t see the point in them. He was perfectly content to use the same trunk and same cloak, even if they were worn down. Sirius and Tom were alike in that they enjoyed having the latest and the greatest, even if Sirius’ idea of something nice was a brand new Muggle motorcycle, and Tom’s idea of something nice was an extremely powerful magical artifact.

It certainly made Christmas shopping a lot easier for Harry, who thought he had good taste in luxury items even if he didn’t want them for himself. Sometimes, though, he had wondered if Tom and Sirius were secretly in a competition to see who could buy him the most ridiculous presents.

Last year, Sirius had gotten him a new cloak that not only enabled the wearer to change its colour and pattern based on mood, but it was also charmed to tell all of the people around it whether or not they smelled nice that day.

Tom, on the other hand, had somehow managed to find Godric Gryffindor’s gauntlets, which were mildly burned and smelled like Firewhiskey. Harry hadn’t known what to do with those, because they were a priceless artifact, meaning that he couldn’t exactly wear them. Nor could he give them away, because they were Tom’s present to him.

“You could put them on display,” Tom suggested.

“In our quarters?” Harry asked, confused. “Isn’t that a bit… I don’t know, pretentious?”

“Put them in your office,” Tom said. “You are the Head of House for Gryffindor.”

So Harry had done just that, and Tom had conjured up a nice fancy plaque to go along with it. Sometimes students would come by to ogle it, only to be disappointed by how ordinary the gloves looked. Eventually, Harry had ended up moving the gauntlets into their quarters anyways, where they sat proudly on the mantelpiece. Harry didn’t doubt that the gauntlets had some type of magical properties to them, but whatever they were, he wasn’t about to find out any time soon.

Present Day

Once Harry is suitably calm again, Tom releases Harry from his embrace, and then they both head down to the Great Hall for dinner with the students. Tom keeps his arm draped over Harry’s shoulder all evening, and later tries to hand-feed Harry his dessert. Harry lets him, even though he thinks it’s a little embarrassing, because Tom’s only doing it to feel like he’s got some modicum of control over the situation.

That evening finds them curled up in front of the fireplace with thick woolen blankets draped over them. Harry has Tom’s legs pulled across his lap while Tom fusses over Harry’s untidy hair, idly trying to smooth it down. The gentle pull and tug of Tom’s fingers against his scalp is soothing, and soon Harry finds himself drifting off.

“Harry,” says Tom, so quietly that Harry almost misses it.

Harry blinks, fighting against the wave of exhaustion that threatens to pull him under. “Yeah?”

“You know why I do it, don’t you? Why I’m Voldemort.”

“Erm—” Harry tries to wake himself up enough to think properly. He sits up too quickly in Tom’s arms, nearly knocking the side of his head against Tom’s chin. “Is there a wrong answer?” he mumbles, disoriented.

Tom chuckles in his low baritone, placing his hand against the side of Harry’s face and cupping his jaw. “No. Not coming from you, anyway.”

“I know you better than you know yourself,” Harry agrees sleepily.

“You do, sometimes,” Tom observes, planting a soft kiss against Harry’s hair. “I can admit that much.”

Harry hums softly, lolling his head against Tom’s shoulder. “So, why’d’you do it, then?”

“It was just for fun at first,” Tom says. “I know you don’t approve of the Dark Arts, but I thought that maybe this was an acceptable way to use them. And those people, Harry, you hated them just as much as I did. I know you were glad to see them go. Avery, MacNair, Lestrange? They had it coming, and it felt so good to finally put them in their place, to show them that their blood and their money couldn’t protect them.” Tom’s voice is rising in pitch, passionate. “To prove to them once and for all that I will always be better than them.”

“And now?” Harry asks, patient and steady.

It takes Tom a minute to pull his thoughts together. When it comes to questions like these, to things that matter, Tom never says anything unless he absolutely means it.

“And now I do it for you,” Tom admits at last, breathless. “And for our students, and even for the seemingly endless numbers of Weasley spawn. The world is a safer place with Voldemort in it. And no one will lay siege to this castle, politically or otherwise, while I stand to oppose it. Criminals will be forever afraid of the deadly bogeyman who’ll come for them if they misbehave.” He smiles, then, and his hand strokes down Harry’s arm a few times before he adds, “You have to acknowledge that I'm a very good deterrent.”

“You’re secretly a softie,” Harry accuses, rolling over slightly so he can look Tom in the eye. “I knew it this whole time. I try to tell people, but they never believe me, and this is the ultimate proof.”

“You’re delirious, and you need to go to bed,” Tom says fondly. “I shouldn’t have kept you up.”

“We’re on the couch,” Harry points out, then yawns. “And you made my legs fall asleep.”

Rolling his eyes, Tom snatches his wand off of the side table and aims it at Harry, casting a spell. Harry feels his body go weightless, and then Tom is picking him up bridal style and walking them both to their bedroom.

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry tells him, his head narrowly avoiding the doorframe as they pass through the threshold. “I am now wide awake.”

Tom snorts. “Ingrate.”

Harry goes quiet as Tom sets him down on the bed. They’re both already in their bedclothes, so there’s no further steps needed for them both to go to sleep. Tom slides under the covers on his side of the bed, and then reaches for the lamp light.

“Wait,” Harry says, reaching over to tug on Tom’s shirtsleeve.

Tom stops and turns to look at him. “Yes?”

Harry is ready to pass out into dreamland, but there are still things he needs to say to Tom before he does so. “I love you, and you don’t have to murder bad guys to prove a point to me or to anyone else. I know you, Tom, and you’re a good person at heart, even if you don’t like admitting it.”

Tom’s face goes funny, like trying to process the emotion he’s currently experiencing is beyond his current capabilities. Harry leans in clumsily for a kiss and manages to plant one on the corner of Tom’s mouth.

Moving on auto-pilot now, Tom shuts their lights off, and then slides down the bed so he can bury his face into Harry’s chest.

“I know I don’t,” says Tom quietly. “But I want to.”

Harry rubs at Tom’s back in what he hopes is a comforting way, then stifles another huge yawn. “Mmm, sleep. But we’re gonna talk ‘bout this again tomorrow, okay?”

“If you like.” Tom sighs. “Good night, Harry.”

“G’night, Tom.”

Tom had never liked talking about his feelings. If given the option, he probably would have loved to just install a switch to turn them on and off whenever he wanted to. Harry had put a lot of time and effort into reconditioning Tom to accept the fact that emotions were actually okay, which was saying something because Hermione liked to tell him that he was repressed whenever she saw him, which was at least three times a month.

Harry had to admit that what she said had some measure of truth to it, because whenever he tried to point out these sorts of aspects in Tom’s behaviour, Tom usually had a counter argument for it, and that argument typically involved something Harry had done before. A frequent occurrence that both Tom and Hermione liked to cite was ‘saying you’re fine when you’re not really fine’.

Sometimes Harry would catch himself saying it because Tom would just give him this look, one that plainly said ‘no, Harry, you are not fine, and if you try to insist further then I will start coddling you’.

But the point remained that Harry was still better at dealing with emotions than Tom was. So when Harry wakes the next morning, he knows that he needs to strike while the iron is still hot.

Tom is already awake, of course, and reading some kind of large, obscure tome. He’s sitting up, a pillow propped up against the headboard behind him, squinting slightly at the page. Harry keeps telling him that he needs glasses, but Tom steadfastly refuses to get his eyes seen to.

“Good morning,” Tom says pleasantly, eyes still on his book.

“Morning,” Harry says slowly. He recognizes what Tom’s doing—he’s trying to act like nothing’s the matter in the hopes that Harry will have forgotten about their conversation last night.

“It’s still early,” Tom continues. “You can go back to sleep, if you like. I’ll wake you in time for breakfast.”

“I’m good, thanks.” Sitting up, Harry stretches his arms out. He can hear some of his joints popping as he does so,. He winces.

“I can give you a massage later,” Tom offers, looking up.

That does sound appealing, but Harry keeps his brain focused on his current task of prying Tom’s emotions open. “About last night,” Harry starts, then pauses, because Tom is already pouting at him. He continues, “We weren’t done talking when we went to bed.”

“Are you sure?” asks Tom. “We could be done. I can just give you a massage right now, and we can forget all about it.”

“Nice try,” Harry retorts. “We’re going to talk about this now, while I’ve got you good and cornered.”

Tom groans, shutting his book and putting it aside. “Must we? Are there really no other things you’d rather be doing right now?” He raises an eyebrow as he turns to face Harry. “I can think of a few things I’d rather be doing,” Tom adds, practically oozing charm as he smiles flirtatiously.

Harry, who is used to Tom trying to seduce him as a form of distraction, isn’t affected. “You’ve developed some sort of, I don’t know, hero complex. You’re putting yourself in danger when you don’t have to.”

“I have not developed a hero complex,” Tom says petulantly, flopping gracefully onto his back on the bed. “And I don’t needlessly put myself in danger. I plan everything very carefully.”

“I would feel better if you at least told me about the things you’re doing,” Harry concedes, after a moment. “So I don’t have to imagine the worst case scenario every time you leave.”

Tom has his arms crossed. “I suppose I can do that.”

“And if I think something is too dangerous,” Harry continues, “then we’ll have a talk about it.”

“Someone needs to stop these people, Harry,” insists Tom. “I’m not going to let things continue the way they are if I can do something about it.”

“If it’s necessary, and I mean really, really necessary,” Harry says seriously. “Then I will go with you.”

“No,” says Tom furiously. “You will not.”

“Tom,” says Harry, taking Tom’s hand in his and entwining their fingers together. Their gold and silver wedding bands shine in the dim morning light that is streaming in through their windows. “I’m just as good at taking care of myself in a fight as you are. If you’re going to go out and put yourself in a dangerous situation, if you’re not going to listen to me when I tell you not to go, then I am going to go with you. Because you swore forever to me, Tom Riddle, and I intend to make you keep that promise.”

Ten Years Ago

The most awkward thing about returning to teach at Hogwarts had been that there were still students who remembered Tom and Harry as seventh years. Tom had been Hogwarts’ Head Boy only two years ago, and many students had been a part of Harry’s Defense Club. Not to mention certain other aspects of their seventh year, when Tom had abandoned propriety and taken to randomly snogging Harry in the corridors, which likely did not do much for their public image as professionals.

Harry had anticipated that it was going to be a difficult transition until all of the younger students finally graduated.

What he had not predicted was the sheer amount of support they had ended up getting. When Headmistress McGonagall—Harry had still been unable to think of her as ‘Minerva’—had announced that Hogwarts’ two newest Professors would be none other than Harry Potter and Tom Riddle, the students of Hogwarts had cheered.

Harry hadn’t realized that they had been quite so popular.

“Of course people like you, Harry,” Hermione said to him. It was later that week, and they were having lunch together in Hogsmeade. “Everyone knows how you saved us from failing our OWLs that year Umbridge was teaching Defense. If it wasn’t for you, nobody would have passed!”

“But Tom was there, too,” Harry said awkwardly. “He scored higher OWLs and NEWTs than I did. All I did was help run the club.”

Hermione had smacked him with her little beaded bag. “You led the club, Harry. Stop being so modest. You’re a professor now, and students will look up to you. You’ve got to start owning up to your talents. You are very, very good at Defense Against the Dark Arts. Tom might be better at casting powerful spells and learning theory, but you’ve got him beat in the practicals. There’s no one else who learned to cast the Patronus Charm as fast as you did. You’ve got a natural aptitude for it.”

And Harry did have an aptitude for it. Training in the Auror Corps had honed his natural instincts nicely, and it had also taught him to think more strategically when it came to working in teams. During individual training sessions, Harry had almost always finished first. And make no mistake, the Aurors took their training very seriously; there was little room for slacking, and those who could not handle the workload were cut out quickly. It did, admittedly, give him a slight edge over Tom, who had only ever competed in minor dueling circuits for fun.

Still, it had been strange to walk the halls of Hogwarts as a professor. There had been times where Harry had felt like a minor celebrity. Students had been excited to call him ‘Professor Potter’. It had been weird. Harry hadn’t felt like he’d done anything in particular to earn the title, aside from running the Defense Club. But he had slowly gotten used to it as the year wore on, and he hoped that one day he might feel like the title suited him.

Defense Club held a lot of fond memories for Harry. He and Tom had planned the lessons for the club together, the inception of which had occurred only shortly after they had started dating. In spite of his original reservations about teaching the lessons himself, Tom had supported him enthusiastically, constantly encouraging him to share his practical knowledge with his fellow classmates. It had been a huge stepping stone in their relationship, and Harry didn’t think he would have become the person he was today without that fifth-year they had spent holed up together in the library, researching the DADA curriculum.

So it was with that in mind that Harry had approached his first year as a professor at Hogwarts with a decent amount of confidence and an open mind. And everything was perfectly normal for a good number of months, right up until a few seventh-year girls had stayed behind one afternoon to ask him a question.

“Professor Potter,” one of the girls asked. “Are you and Professor Riddle still dating?” All the girls who were with her giggled quietly, like they were all in on a secret joke that Harry hadn’t managed to figure out yet.

“Erm,” Harry said, not quite understanding why they wanted to know. He and Tom had been dating for over five years at this point. “Yes?”

“Oh, poo,” the girl said. The girls around her had tittered again, batting their lashes and smiling at him. She continued, “That’s too bad, Professor Potter. But if anything does happen to go wrong, I’d be happy to listen to you talk about it.” The girls around her had nodded empathically.

“Erm,” Harry said again. “Thank you?”

The girl had patted him on the hand, strangely enough, and then the little group had left, so Harry had put it out of his mind, dismissing it as ‘weird teenage girl behaviour’.

Tom, when Harry had told him the story later on, had not found the event to be as worthy of dismissal.

“Who do they think they are?” Tom asked, fuming. “Flirting with you like that. You’re a professor! And you’re dating me!”

“Was it flirting?” Harry asked in return, still mostly oblivious.

Tom had stared at him. Then he had walked right up to Harry, placing his hands on both of Harry’s shoulders. “Harry,” Tom said, looking Harry very directly in the eyes. “You are very smart, and very attractive, and very wealthy, and people want to date you. I’m dating you. Of course people are flirting with you.”

“I guess,” Harry said, and then winced at the outraged look on Tom’s face.

“You know what?” Tom said, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Fine. Don’t believe me. I’ll just have to prove it to you.”

That statement had been worrisome, so Harry had spent the rest of the week on edge, waiting for whatever surprise Tom decided to drop on him. Tom had begun plotting whenever they weren’t spending time together, and he had hidden something in a warded drawer in their room. Tempted though he was to take a peek, Harry knew that if he ruined whatever the surprise was, Tom would sulk about it for weeks.

So Harry had tiptoed around their quarters all the way up until Friday afternoon, hoping that whatever Tom had planned wasn’t going to disrupt his life too much.

“I’ll be a bit late to dinner,” Tom said. “So make sure to save me some of the roast before Slughorn eats it all.”

“Alright,” Harry said, mildly suspicious but unable to voice a comment on it without sufficient evidence. He had started to wonder if Tom was going to propose, but they had only talked about it once or twice before, and he had been pretty sure Tom had intended it as a future sort of thing, once they both had their careers established.

Harry had gone to dinner extremely paranoid. He hadn’t been able to figure out exactly what Tom planned on doing, but he had figured it was likely going to be embarrassing. Dinner had appeared as usual, and Harry had saved Tom a plate of medium-rare roast beef, as requested. Then he had filled his own plate and waited for the inevitable.

When Tom had finally arrived, he was wearing fancy dress robes, and his hair was immaculately styled to perfection. Harry had resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands, and had then prepared himself to be… serenaded to, or something like that.

But Tom hadn’t said anything, he had merely walked down the aisle until he was stood in front of the staff table. He had gestured for Harry to walk out and join him, and Harry, with minor reluctance, made his way around the table to stand next to Tom. Tom had held out his hand, then, and Harry had taken it.

Then Tom had dropped down onto one knee, his expression more tender than Harry had ever imagined it looking, and had begun to speak.

“Harry,” said Tom, in a low voice that carried only to Harry’s ears. “You are truly the most incredible person I know. You make me a better person every day, just by being here, by my side. You’ve taught me that there is value in bravery and loyalty. You’ve shown me that I can put my trust in people other than myself. You make me smile against my will at your terrible jokes, and you mess up my hair even though I constantly yell at you not to. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you: no vice I would not abandon, no gratification I would not share, and no adventure I would not try with you standing next to me, supporting me.

“My fondest wish is for you to see yourself the way I do, as the man I love and cherish beyond all else. There are many things I admire about you, and it would take me hours to list them all, but I shall do my best to keep this brief, because I know you dislike the attention you get from my grand, public displays of affection.

“The things I love about you are endless: your courage, your stubbornness, your empathy. You are the most wonderful person in the world, Harry, and every single person in your life knows that they are blessed to have you in theirs. And, should this proposal still fail to convince you of the fact that you really do matter, just know that you are the only person in the world who knows me, truly, and that you carry my heart with you wherever you go.

“I know I am not perfect. I know I ask you for a lot: for your patience, for your kindness, for your generosity. I know I am selfish, and it is knowing this that I would still ask you for one thing more, Harry James Potter.”

Tom had looked at Harry, his expression fierce and impassioned and sincere, the murmured syllables of Harry’s name still lingering in the air between them, and said: “I’d ask you to be mine forever. Promise you’ll stay with me forever, my Harry, and I swear to you that you will never find anyone more devoted, more in love with you than I am.”

And then Tom had held up the little green velvet box that contained the ring. The band of it had two strands of metal entwined together—one gold and one silver—and there was a ridiculously large, glimmering jewel in the middle that looked like an emerald and a ruby had been spliced together to create a new, unique gemstone. It was the most impractical ring Harry had ever seen in his entire life, and it was perfect.

“Harry James Potter,” said Tom, his eyes shining under the starry, enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall in Hogwarts. “Would you do me the great honour of marrying me?”

“Yes,” Harry said fervently, raising his voice so everyone else could hear him. “A thousand times, yes.”

And then the entire hall had erupted in celebration. Or, at least, it had sounded like it had, because Harry had been too busy getting the life snogged out of him by his fiance to see anything that was happening around him.

It seemed like ages had passed by the time they finally parted. Tom had slid the ring onto Harry’s finger, his smile blazing with triumph, and Harry had finally noticed that there were people other than Hogwarts residents standing in the crowd—Sirius, Ron, and Hermione were all standing there, and the rest of the Weasleys were there, too, and Lupin and Luna and Cedric and Tonks were there—

Harry had never felt happier, never felt more loved, than he had on that day, surrounded by all the people he cared about.

And he had known, later, when he was curled up in bed with Tom, worn out from the euphoria of the day, that the memory of Tom’s proposal would power all of his Patronus Charms for the rest of his life.

Chapter Text

Present Day

Sirius comes by to spend Christmas Eve at Hogwarts with Harry and Tom. Harry knows that Sirius is mostly doing it because he’s worried about how Harry is taking Ron’s hospitalization. Which is dumb, because Ron isn’t seriously hurt anymore, and Harry is a grown man who can handle a bit of stress and worry, but it’s fine. He’s really very happy to see Sirius, regardless of the reasons behind it.

Sirius is wearing a santa hat with a huge white bobble on the end of it when he shows up in their fireplace. His hair has greyed out over the years, and Harry suspects it really ought to be white, except Sirius denies any and all claims of hair dye. “Merry Christmas Eve!” Sirius says cheerily, stepping out of the Floo and enveloping Tom into a hug, ruffling Tom’s hair in the process. Tom accepts his fate with poor grace, struggling manfully as he tries to squirm away.

“Harry is a horrible influence on you,” Tom tells him. “No respect for personal boundaries.”

“I’m your husband,” Harry observes. “You forfeited any personal boundaries when you married me. Hair-messing just comes with the territory.”

Sirius releases Tom and goes to hug Harry next. “Hey kiddo. Happy Holidays!”

“I’m thirty,” says Harry.

“Kiddo,” Sirius insists, patting Harry on the head.

Harry smacks Sirius’ hand away. “I take back my support. I’m on Tom’s side now.”

“Boo,” Sirius says, pouting. “I don’t suppose this is a good time to ask when I’m going to get grandkids.”

“No,” says Harry. “It is not.”

Harry likes to think of his students as his kids, in a way. They come to him for advice, for mentorship, for a friendly adult figure they can trust. And he and Tom babysit Rose and Hugo sometimes, too. So Harry doesn’t feel like they need a kid to complete their lives. Since Tom has never mentioned wanting children, he assumes they’re on the same page. Which, he realizes, isn’t the best way to go about things, so they probably ought to talk about it at some point.

Things are easy with Sirius around; he slots right in with the dynamic between Harry and Tom. Sirius has always been laid back, from his parenting style to his globetrotting ways. Harry grew up knowing that Sirius would support him no matter what he wanted to do. If Harry had told Sirius that he was Voldemort, he had no doubt that Sirius would ask if he needed help hiding any bodies. Although, Harry’s pretty sure that if he told Sirius that Tom was Voldemort, he’d still get the same offer of help.

Because Sirius and Tom get along great, which had come as both a surprise and a relief to Harry, who had expected the same kind of antagonistic relationship that Sirius had with Snape. But Sirius thought Tom was hilarious, and Tom thought Sirius was, quote, ‘the only acceptable Gryffindor’ he’d ever met aside from Harry. Harry thought privately they were able to bond mostly because of their shared dramatic tendencies.

“Maybe I’ll get you both a puppy for Christmas,” says Sirius. “Just to get you into the right mindset.”

“Sirius,” says Harry, already dreading the worst. “Please tell me you’ve gotten your Christmas shopping done.”

“I have Moony’s present!” Sirius says defensively. “It’s just so much easier to buy things when I’m on a deadline.”

“You’re a disaster,” Harry says fondly. “We’ll take you to Hogsmeade in the afternoon.”

Tom moves to wrap an arm around Harry’s waist. “Do I get a say?”

“No,” says Harry. “Because you only ever do the shopping for my present, and you usually make me do the rest.”

“You’re just better at it,” Tom says dismissively. “How am I supposed to know what to get Hermione and Ron for Christmas? They’re your friends.”

“They’re your friends, too, you prat,” Harry says, elbowing him. “We’ve all been friends for years, when are you just going to admit that you like them?”

“When Ron says that he likes me,” Tom says.

“Ron thinks you’re fine.” Harry rolls his eyes. “He just likes to pretend he doesn’t like you because he’s stubborn. Does that remind you of anyone, Tom?”

“No,” says Tom, stubbornly.

“As cute as this is,” Sirius interrupts, though he’s grinning at them as he talks, “I’d like to head down to breakfast now. I haven’t had a good Hogwarts breakfast in years!”

So they make their way to the Great Hall while Sirius fills them in on his adventures in Greece. “The people there are phenomenal,” he says enthusiastically. “I met so many different people, and I made some incredible friends.”

“If ‘phenomenal’ is a euphemism, then I don’t want to hear the details,” says Tom.

“Hey,” Sirius complains. “I was talking about the culture. Mostly.”

Sometimes Sirius talks about wanting to settle in London, but Harry thinks he enjoys being a travelling bachelor too much to tie himself down to anyone. He sends Harry lots of letters and photographs and interesting gifts through exotic bird post, and he usually remembers to stop by for birthdays and holidays when he gets a chance. There’s a collection of little things like seashells, dried flowers, and shiny rocks in an ornate box on Harry’s desk.

Sirius is still talking when they run into Neville on their way down the main corridor. Ever since Hannah had completed her Healer training and moved to Hogwarts as the matron, she and Neville usually joined him and Tom for Christmas Eve at Hogwarts. This year, however, the two Longbottoms were spending the holidays with Hannah’s family. So it's a surprise to see Neville standing in the middle of the corridor that led to the Entrance Hall and waving at them.

“Oh, hello everyone,” says Neville. “Merry Christmas! I was just going to drop by to see you, but this is perfect.” He reaches into his satchel and pulls out a few colourfully wrapped gifts for Harry and Tom. “Hannah wrapped these, not me, which is why they look nice. Yours I sent by owl,” he adds to Sirius. “Although, I suppose that means the owl will be turning around over the North Sea soon enough.”

“Cheers, Neville,” Harry says, taking the packages from him. “I dropped off yours with Hannah the other day.”

“Yep, got ‘em,” says Neville. “You three doing something special for Christmas Eve tomorrow?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” says Tom. “Just a regular Christmas Eve with the students, and then we’ll be seeing the rest of the Weasley clan on Christmas Day.”

Neville nods. “It’s nice that you two stay here every year. A lot of these students have no place to go during the holidays, and I can tell it means a lot to them that you choose to be here, because they look up to you.”

Harry feels a little choked up hearing that. Tom’s hand touches the small of his back, and the two of them exchange a loaded glance.

Fifteen Years Ago

The winter holidays had been three weeks away when the first snowfall of 1995 had hit Hogwarts. Tom and Harry had been dating for only a month and a half, and were still transitioning from friendship to relationship. Things had been going well enough, and Tom had managed to rein in his compulsive tendency towards jealousy whenever Ginny sat with them during meals.

Harry and Ginny were still good friends following what Fred and George liked to call their ‘whirlwind summer romance’, and even though there was a bit of awkwardness between them, Harry didn’t think it was going to affect their friendship moving forwards. He cared about Ginny a lot, and he hadn’t wanted to make things uncomfortable for her. But she had seemed perfectly content to sit and laugh with the group as usual, so Harry hadn’t been about to say anything. He had been fairly sure that if she wanted him to give her space, she would have asked for it.

Tom certainly hadn’t been taking any chances with Ginny around. He had started hanging out at the Gryffindor table during meals, and he had slung his free arm over Harry’s shoulders whenever he got the chance, eager to remind everyone that Harry was no longer on the market. Harry had thought it was amusing. Ron hadn’t quite agreed.

“He treats you like you’re his property, Harry,” Ron said huffily. “Anyone who’s on semi-decent terms with Malfoy is not a good person. I know you were good friends with Riddle before all this dating stuff, but I really don’t think he’s good for you.” Ron shook his head mournfully, then added hopefully, “Maybe you can still try and work things out with Ginny?”

“Ginny and I are better off as friends,” said Harry. Truthfully, it had been fun while it had lasted. He and Ginny had snuck around the Burrow together, making out in the orchards and playing one-on-one Quidditch in the backyard. But it had been mostly that fun of sneaking around that had made it appealing, and both he and Ginny had eventually admitted that a relationship was likely not in the cards for them. “And Tom is a good person, Ron. You just never want to spend any time with him.”

“Because he’s a Slytherin,” Ron retorted, as though this explained everything.

Seeing that Ron’s mind was not to be changed so easily, Harry had given up for the time being, hoping that Tom would be able to win Ron over eventually. Tom was very good at winning people over. He had been chosen as the Slytherin prefect this year over Malfoy, something that Harry knew had put a damper on Tom’s tentative truce with the smarmy git. Hermione, in particular, had found Malfoy’s loss to be immensely satisfying.

“It just goes to show that people do value real things like smarts over blood status,” she said primly. They were working on their Ancient Runes essays in their common room while Ron was at Divination with Trelawney. Harry had only taken the class because Tom had suggested it, but he had found that he actually enjoyed it somewhat. Hermione continued, “It’s a shame that that absolute cow Parkinson is also a prefect, but I suppose we can’t have everything.”

“Tom says he plans to be Head Boy in our seventh year,” Harry added, because he felt it was the kind of thing Hermione would approve of.

She nodded. “I can see that happening. He’s certainly going to have the grades for it.”

Aside from figuring out how Tom fit in with his friends, Harry had been struggling with what to do about DADA. Their professor this year, Umbridge, was utterly useless. Harry had already gotten detention for ‘speaking out of turn’ in class, and Tom had gone nearly apoplectic over it, despite that fact that Harry only had to sit in her stupidly pink office and write out some lines.

“She’s not allowed to do that to you,” Tom said. “You’re better at Defense than she is. She’s an idiotic toad who wouldn’t know a Shield Charm if it slapped her in the face.”

“It was just one detention, Tom,” Harry said mildly. “I’ll just have to keep my temper during class.”

“But none of us are learning anything! We need to do something about it. I already talked to Snape, but he said that it was out of his jurisdiction. So I went to Dumbledore, and he said that since it was the Ministry’s doing, his hands were tied. Then I talked to Malfoy, and he said that his father told him that Dumbledore wasn’t able to find a suitable applicant for the job this year, which is why we’ve been saddled with this moronic woman.” Tom had been breathing rather heavily at the end of his rant, and Harry had been worried that Tom might pass out from the sheer intensity of his frustration.

“But back to my point,” Tom continued, “which is that we need to do something. We should come up with our own lessons together. We can cover the material we’re supposed to learn for our OWLs, and then teach it to the rest.”

“Who would teach it? Would you?”

“You’d teach it, obviously. And I would help you.”

“I can’t teach people,” Harry protested. “I don’t know the first thing about doing that.”

“Oh, please. You’re a natural, Harry. You scored the highest marks in our Defense practical for both our third- and fourth-year exams.”

Harry had stared at Tom for a long moment. “How do you even know that?”

“I just know a lot of things, is all.” Tom’s face flushed faintly as he spoke. “Anyways, I think you should lead the lessons. I can help you plan them out, and I can write up the theory parts of it. Umbridge won’t be able to tell us that we can’t study together, and she can’t stop us from practicing spells outside of the classroom.”

“I dunno, Tom,” Harry said, still not convinced. “I don’t think people would sign up to learn things from me.”

Tom had sighed, long suffering. “Do you trust me, Harry?”

“I mean, of course I do.”

“Then believe me when I say you won’t be short of students to teach. I don’t do things in half-measures, you know that. And I certainly don’t take on endeavours that are slated to failure. This will be a success, and you will lead all of us successfully through our OWLs despite what that vile Umbridge woman is trying to do.”

So Harry had suddenly found that all of his spare time was being used up, either by Quidditch practice, regular homework, or planning Defense lessons with Tom. They had hosted their first meeting in a classroom that had once been used to teach Wizarding Mythology, and it had been a rousing success. Students in their year from all four houses had attended, and everyone had been reasonably behaved, even the Slytherins and Gryffindors.

It had helped that he and Tom provided a joint front in terms of house unity, because neither Ron nor Malfoy could say anything about the leadership of the club when the two of them were running things together.

By the time Umbridge had found out about their club, it had been too late for her to do anything about it. He and Tom had gone to Professor McGonagall to get their club officially sanctioned, and Umbridge lacked the power to do more than assign them loads of homework in an attempt to squash any free time they had for their Defense Club lessons. So then they had all stopped turning in their assignments, much to Umbridge’s ire. She had then tried to hand out detentions for incomplete homework, to which they had responded by handing in incomprehensible nonsense.

Thus, as the holidays drew closer, Harry had been in an excellent mood. Their club was doing exceedingly well, and they were all going to do just fine on their OWLs. His good cheer had lasted all the way up until Sirius had sent an owl bearing the message that he was returning to London for the holidays.

Ever since the start of Harry’s third year, Sirius had taken to travelling overseas a lot, and Harry had encouraged him to do so, mainly because he knew that Sirius had a true sense of wanderlust that couldn’t be satisfied here on the continent. Sirius always came back in time for the end of the school year, where he would whisk Harry away to a summer full of adventures abroad. Harry knew that his godfather would never go anywhere during the year if he felt like was abandoning Harry to scholastic suffering, so Harry had taken great pains to reassure Sirius that he was always fine to spend the holidays with the Weasleys, or at Hogwarts with the students and staff. 

It had been because of this assumption that Harry had made plans to stay at Hogwarts this Christmas with Tom. Because Tom, with no parents and no home of his own, despised the orphanage where he spent his summers, and he always stayed at Hogwarts during holiday breaks throughout the year. They had spent some holidays at Hogwarts together before, when Sirius had been away and Harry hadn’t wanted to impose upon on the Weasleys, but this was going to be his and Tom’s first Christmas together, and Tom’s birthday as well, and Harry found himself feeling extraordinarily guilty about the fact that Sirius had written him.

He had known that he ought to say something to someone, but he wasn’t sure who, or what. Ron and Hermione had been slowly warming up to Tom, but Harry wasn’t sure that Sirius would accept that he was dating a Slytherin boy who had, as Harry had once said, ‘a stupid handsome face buried in books on the Dark Arts’.

So Harry had dithered around, hoping impractically that his problems would solve themselves. It wasn’t until he’d confided in Ginny, who told him he was being an idiot, that he found the simple solution to his dilemma.

“Sirius loves you, so I’m sure he would understand. He wouldn’t want anyone to spend their Christmas alone,” Ginny said reasonably.

“But he’s coming back just to spend the holidays with me,” Harry protested. “I don’t want to let him down like that.”

“Then don’t,” said Ginny. “Just have Tom spend Christmas with the both of you.”

That had led to Harry penning a letter to Sirius with only three days to go before the start of the winter holidays. McGonagall was going to be annoyed at him for changing the roster of students staying behind at the last minute, but Harry had figured she wouldn’t be too upset if it meant that Tom would finally be spending Christmas and his birthday somewhere other than at Hogwarts.

Sirius had written back immediately that day, saying that it was absolutely fine, and that he looked forward to seeing the two of them. So Harry had gone to Professor McGonagall with his change of plans, and she had seemed surprisingly pleased about it. That had only left one person to break the news to.

“So, there’s a change of plans,” Harry started awkwardly. He had finally found Tom in the library, writing out a new Defense Club lesson for after the break. 

Tom had looked up at him, concern flickering briefly across his face. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Harry said quickly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Alright.” Tom had watched him for a moment longer, looking more and more apprehensive. “I know Sirius wrote to you two weeks ago with his usual owl, not one of those fancy tropical birds.” Then Tom dropped his gaze back down to his papers and said, in a very quiet voice, “And I know you went to McGonagall this morning to talk to her about something.” He paused, then, as though waiting for Harry to deny it. Then he said, in a strained tone, “I assume you’ll be going back to Grimmauld Place for the holidays?”

Harry’s heart had felt like it was splintering. “Tom—”

“It’s fine,” Tom said tensely, through gritted teeth. His shoulders had been trembling with the effort of holding himself together. “I understand, Harry, I really do, and I’m not mad at you or anything—”

“Tom, I want you to come spend Christmas with Sirius and I,” Harry blurted out, unable to listen any longer. “All of us at Grimmauld Place together.”

Silence. Tom had still been looking down at the table, although his shoulders had stopped shaking after Harry’s desperate proclamation.

“...Tom?”

“Just. Give me a moment,” Tom said, holding up a hand. “Please.”

Concerned, Harry had sat down at the table next to his boyfriend, reaching out to grab Tom’s hand with his own. It had been then that he finally noticed Tom’s cheeks looked a little… wet. Not very wet, but there was definitely a tear or two trailing down towards his shirt collar.

Harry had no idea if anyone else was in the library this close to the holidays, but he had found that he didn’t care much as he wrapped his arms around Tom and pulled him into a tight hug. Tom had buried his face into the crook of Harry’s shoulder, clinging firmly while they had both pretended that Tom wasn’t crying, and they had stayed like that until it was time for dinner.

It was much, much later that evening when Tom said, “Thank you,” suddenly and without context, and Harry had simply nodded wordlessly at him in return, knowing what he had meant.

Present Day

After spending the entire day in Hogsmeade with Sirius, Harry is ready for a long, quiet evening with Tom. It’s not that he doesn’t love Sirius, or love spending time with him, it’s just that Sirius is sometimes just a lot to handle at once. Thankfully, Sirius had Floo’d back to Grimmauld Place for the night, meaning Harry has some time to unwind before the flood of holiday socializing is truly upon him.

“Ginny sent a message,” Harry says to Tom. “She says Ron’s back home now, and everyone will be over for Christmas Day as planned.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Tom’s hair is damp from his shower, and he has a black bathrobe wrapped around him as he walks over to stand behind where Harry is sitting in their loveseat. He then leans over to kiss Harry’s forehead. “It would be a shame if they hadn’t released him in time for Christmas.”

“I think Sirius would have broken into St. Mungo’s to liberate him if that was the case,” Harry says, snorting. “You know he loves his parties.” Then a new thought occurs to him. “Do you think we should tell Sirius about Voldemort?” asks Harry.

Tom, who is now gently rubbing Harry’s shoulders, looks thoughtful. “You think he’d approve?”

“I think he already approves of what’s been happening, and he already likes you. So the only real reason not to tell him is because you don’t want him to have to lie in court if he has to testify against you,” Harry says.

“Very funny,” says Tom. “But you’re right, he is very pro-Voldemort. He can probably help me with gathering information on the older, more prominent Pureblood families.”

“Trust you to rope Sirius into your nefarious schemes.”

“You’re the one who brought the topic up,” Tom points out.

“I’m allowed to do it, because I’m not Voldemort. Anyways, I’ve been thinking that we should tell someone else, just in case. It can’t be Ron or Hermione, for the obvious reasons.”

“For the obvious reasons,” Tom echoes. They wouldn’t want to compromise Ron’s position as Auror Captain, and they couldn’t tell Hermione for essentially the same reason.

“So, Sirius is a good choice. Because, like you said, he’s supportive of it, and he wouldn’t bat an eye if you asked him to do something extremely illegal.”

“What would we do without friends willing to hide dead bodies for us,” Tom drawls.

Harry rolls his eyes. “You’d go to jail, for starters.”

“I’m too attractive for jail.”

“That’s not how prison works, Tom. They don’t not send you to jail because you’re handsome.”

“But I am handsome?” Tom grins widely at Harry.

Harry wraps his hands around Tom’s forearms, tilting his head back so he can see Tom’s face properly. “You are, you compliment-fishing prat. Now come here.” He pulls on Tom’s hands, tugging Tom around until he’s also sitting on the loveseat. Now that they’re on the same level, Harry runs a hand through Tom’s wet hair. “You didn’t dry it tonight.”

“I figured you would mess it up anyways.” Tom sniffs, but Harry notes that Tom’s actually leaning into the touch.

So Harry rubs and scratches at Tom’s scalp for a while, and Tom eventually ends up bonelessly slumped across his lap. “You’re like a cat,” Harry tells him. “Have I told you that?”

“No.” Tom yawns. His eyelids are at half mast, and he looks half-asleep as he’s slouching against the armrest. “And cats are decent creatures, I suppose. I like snakes, but they don’t have limbs.” Tom grabs Harry’s free hand and brushes the knuckles against his lips. “You’re the best husband in the world,” he adds drowsily.

“Thank you,” Harry says, amused. “I think you’re pretty great, too.”

Tom dozes off shortly after that, and Harry doesn’t have the heart to wake him. He uses his wand to extend the length and width of the loveseat, and then conjures a blanket to drape over the both of them. Snuggling up to his husband, Harry sets his glasses on the side table and goes to sleep.

The day of Christmas Eve is a mostly calm affair up until dinner. Sirius goes a bit wild then, pulling out an entire bag of Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-bangs and setting them all off.

The students are thrilled; Minerva is not.

At least, she says she isn’t, because Harry, Tom, and Sirius are tasked with cleaning up the resulting mess. Some of the students stay behind to help, too, which Harry now attributes to Neville’s comment about how the students are fond of him and Tom.

“Merry Christmas!” says Sirius happily. He’s currently removing burn marks from one of the tables. “What a night.”

“If you ever decide to retire from travelling,” Tom says, “please do not teach at Hogwarts. I don’t think the school would survive the year.”

“Hey! It survived seven years of me as a student,” Sirius protests. “It wouldn’t be so bad. I’d be a really cool professor.”

“It barely survived,” says Harry. “Don’t think Moony hasn’t told me the stories that you thought were too embarrassing to tell me.” Waving his wand, Harry wipes off some of the black marks that stretch up one of the walls.

“Betrayal,” says Sirius, “betrayal! Clearly the name of the Marauders means nothing to him.”

“You made me an honourary Marauder,” Harry reminds him. “You even made Tom an honourary Marauder.”

“Which,” Tom interjects, “I would like to add that I did not ask for.”

“You just don’t like being called Snakey,” says Sirius dismissively.

“Snakey is not a proper nickname,” Tom fumes. “At least Harry gets to be called Prongs Junior.”

“When you start your own special group,” Sirius says, “then you can pick what you want to be called.”

Harry snorts, thinking of Voldemort. “Tom would pick a really stupid name. Really, he’s better off with Snakey.”

“Shut up,” Tom says, but without any real malice. “Harry doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Oh?” says Harry challengingly. “Don’t I?”

Harry and Tom engage in a staring contest of epic proportions, in which both of them try to maintain their very serious, very stern professorial expressions. Being the subject of Tom’s intense scrutiny is something that Harry finds he never tires of. And it’s rather attractive, Harry thinks to himself, the way that Tom looks when he’s focused intently on something.

Until now, the students around them have been trying and failing to disguise their eavesdropping. But at the sight of her good-looking professors staring at one another, one of their female students lets out a squeak and promptly falls over.

“What is up with some of your students?” Sirius asks, then goes over to help her up.

“Remember when you thought it was impossible for any of the female students to find you attractive?” Tom asks rhetorically.

“Shut up,” says Harry.

The clean-up finishes shortly thereafter, and all the students wish their professors happy holidays before they head up to bed. Sirius follows Tom and Harry all the way back to their quarters, where he insists on getting them all plastered on Firewhiskey. They all have a few drinks, but Sirius is, of course, the one who ends up passed out on their couch shortly before midnight.

“Your godfather’s a lightweight,” says Tom.

“He didn’t used to be,” Harry says fondly, draping a thick woolen blanket over Sirius’ drooling form. “I think it must be the dog metabolism in him or something.”

“It was nice of him to come by for the holidays,” Tom adds. “Although I do hope he didn’t get me a snake-scaled bodysuit for Christmas again.”

Harry snickers. “I thought it was excellent.”

“It was neon green!” Tom says, offended. “I couldn’t even repurpose the material.”

Harry reaches over and pats Tom gently on the head. “There, there. I’m sure he got you something nicer this year.”

Tom snatches Harry’s hand up and pulls Harry towards him. “You know, I can think of something nice that I already have with me,” he says smoothly.

“Oh?” Harry asks, tilting his head to the side. “And what might that be?”

“You,” says Tom, and punctuates the sentence with a kiss.

Christmas Day at Ron and Hermione’s is the rowdiest Harry remembers it being in a long time. Most of the children are now old enough to walk around and cause mayhem. Two-year-old Hugo clings to his dad for most of the night, which Hermione says is because he got separation anxiety from Ron’s time at St. Mungo’s.

Tom and Harry deposit their presents under the tree and join in the festivities. The entire Weasley clan is here, and Molly, with the help of George and Audrey, is preparing the largest breakfast feast that Harry has ever seen her make.

“Victoire is starting Hogwarts next year!” says Bill happily. The girl in question, blonde-haired and freckled, smiles up at Harry and Tom.

“You excited for classes?” Harry asks her.

“Yes!” Victoire claps her hands together. “I want to see ghosts and the portraits. Maman got me my own copy of Hogwarts: A History.”

“That’s wonderful,” says Tom. “It’s one of my favourite texts.”

Victoire turns her silvery blue eyes to focus on Tom. “Papa says you wrote the textbook for History of Magic,” she says emphatically.

Tom looks bemused. “Yes, I did.”

“Can I ask you about it? I have some questions.” She grabs Tom’s index finger and drags him off in the direction of the couch without waiting for an answer.

Harry’s laughing as he watches Tom’s expression shift to one of complete confusion. “Looks like you’ve got a little historian on your hands.”

“Seems like it,” Bill agrees.

Fleur wanders over to join them, beaming. “Your ‘usband is very sweet,” she tells Harry.

“He’s a little out of his element when it’s not in a classroom setting,” Harry says. “But I think he’s doing pretty well.”

The crease between Tom’s brows has returned as he listens intently to Victoire’s questions. Victoire, who is gesticulating grandly as she makes her points, is loud enough to attract the attention of the other Weasley children, who slowly begin to congregate around Tom.

“That’s Professor Riddle,” Dominique Weasley explains to some of the younger cousins. “He’s married to Uncle Harry, and he teaches History at Hogwarts.”

Fred comes up and slings an arm around Harry’s shoulder. “See that, mate? That’s proof you and lover boy need to come ‘round more often, and not just for Christmas. Or else our kiddies are gonna know Tom as ‘Professor Riddle’ first, instead of as family.”

“No, no,” Tom is saying. “The Bloody Baron isn’t scary! You really mustn't worry about him. He just likes to pretend he’s very scary, because he’s afraid of making friends.”

“Yeah,” says Harry, and there’s a warm feeling in his chest as he watches the tableau in front of him. “We should do that.”

“Uncle Harry!” exclaims Rose, as though she’d only just now spotted him despite the fact that he’d hugged her on his way into the house. “Pick me up!”

Harry picks up his goddaughter, twirling her around momentarily as she smiles goofily at him. “Where’s your mum?” he asks her.

“Mum and Dad are hiding the presents again, becos’ I found 'em and tried to open 'em,” Rose says innocently.

Grinning, Harry sets her back down onto the floor. “You’re going to be so much trouble when you’re older,” he tells her. “Just make sure that you remember to listen to your parents when it’s really important, alright?”

“Mwah.” Rose blows him a kiss, then runs off to rejoin her cousins, giggling all the while.

Ginny comes up to him next, tugging on his arm to get his attention. “‘Oi, Harry! There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Harry turns around to see that there’s a vaguely-familiar blonde woman in a pretty green party dress standing next to her. “Hey, Ginny! Merry Christmas,” he says.

“This is Daphne Greengrass,” says Ginny. “You might not remember her, but she was in your year. We’ve been dating for a while now, and I thought I’d bring her home for Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Daphne,” Harry says warmly, shaking her hand. “I’m glad Ginny’s found someone who makes her happy.”

“Very, very happy,” Ginny beams, squeezing Daphne’s arm. Daphne shoots her a fond, sappy look at this statement, which Harry thinks is adorable. “Where’s Tom?” adds Ginny. “We’ve just gotten here, and I haven’t seen him yet.”

“Oh, he’s up to his eyeballs in redheads,” Harry says, gesturing over to the couch.

Ginny laughs upon seeing Tom surrounded by all of the children. Little Roxanne Weasley has actually crawled onto his lap and is in the middle of tugging his tie loose. “Oh, that’s precious. Someone needs to take a picture.”

“Got you covered,” says Fred, and he disappears momentarily, returning with a Muggle polaroid camera. “Alicia got me this for my birthday,” he says by way of explanation. “I’ll take a good one for ya.” Fred winks and wanders over to where Tom and the children are.

Eventually breakfast is called, and all of the children run off to wash their hands. Tom escapes over to where Harry is, his expression frazzled. His tie is missing now, and his hair looks definitely disheveled. Harry thinks it’s a very sexy look, all told.

“These Weasley children are a menace,” Tom says to him. “There’s so many of them! They’re going to take over the entire school once they’re old enough.”

“That’s the plan!” George shouts from somewhere behind Harry.

Harry can’t hold it back any longer; he starts laughing helplessly. Tom glares at him. “You’re lucky we’re married,” Tom says. “Because otherwise I’d be very cross.”

“I think Christmas has just made you sappy, Tom,” says Harry, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

“Hmph.” Tom crosses his arms, but allows himself to be dragged to the bathroom to wash his hands.

Five Years Ago

It had been the day of Harry’s twenty-fifth birthday party when Ron and Hermione had shown up late, ecstatic and glowing with their good news. Everyone had been gathered in the Burrow’s backyard, where streamers and party decorations had been strewn enthusiastically all over the place.

Despite their obvious excitement, Ron and Hermione hadn’t shared their news right away, not wanting to take the spotlight away from what had been meant to be Harry’s special day. But Harry knew his best friends, and he knew when they were hiding something from him. He could see how happy they were and he wanted to know the reason behind it, although he did have his suspicions.

Just last week, Ron had told Harry that he and Hermione were scheduled for another visit with their obstetrician just before they were supposed to arrive for Harry’s party.

So when Hermione exclaimed, “We’re pregnant!”, Harry was not surprised, and he could only cheer as she and Ron exchanged a look of pure happiness.

A round of congratulations had been had all around. The two of them had been trying for a while now, and Harry had been thrilled for them. The party had then undergone a change in decorations under Harry’s deliberate guidance, in order to help them celebrate the wonderful news.

“You’ll be the godfather,” Ron said to Harry later on. “Right? Hermione and I agreed; there couldn’t possibly be anyone else.”

“Of course,” Harry said, his eyes going watery at the thought of it. “I’d be honoured to be. Best birthday present ever.”

Ron had started to look a little weepy, too. “Fuck,” Ron muttered. “You’re going to make me cry.”

“Hey,” Harry chastised. “No more swearing. You’re gonna be a dad soon.”

The resulting smile on Ron’s face could have lit up the sun. “Yeah, I am, aren’t I?”

“And a real great one, at that,” Harry reassured him.

Once the party had wrapped up and everyone had gone home, Tom and Harry had floo’d back to their quarters at Hogwarts. They’d washed and changed into their bedclothes, and then Tom had come up to him, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist and resting his chin gently atop Harry’s head. It was a comforting position that Harry very used to. He had placed his hands over Tom’s and relaxed into the embrace, soaking up the lingering warmth that was trickling through their open windows.

“Happy birthday, you ridiculous man,” Tom said. “Only you would let your own bloody birthday party turn into a baby shower for your friends.”

“They deserve it,” Harry protested. “And I’m really happy for them. They’ve been trying for over a year now, and I know Ron was starting to get worried.”

Hermione had been researching endless remedies, Muggle and magical both, to help increase the odds of pregnancy. Ron had told Harry about some very strange things that Harry would prefer to never have to hear about ever again as long as he lived. But it appeared that all that hard work had paid off, because his two best friends would, in approximately nine months or so, become proud parents to a new baby Granger-Weasley.

“You know, you’re going to make a brilliant godfather,” Tom said, turning Harry around so that Harry could see the solemn expression on his face. “They’ll adore you, Uncle Harry.”

“And you’ll be their Uncle Tom,” Harry teased, enjoying the way Tom’s face scrunched up at the name.

“I’ll be Professor Riddle,” Tom said uncomfortably. “Once they get to Hogwarts.”

Exasperated, Harry had given Tom a quick kiss, and then led him towards their bed. “You are my family,” Harry said firmly, pushing Tom down onto the bed by his shoulders. “And you always will be. So that makes them your family, too.”

“Oh?” said Tom, breathless as he stared up at Harry. Then he asked, voice small, like they were fifteen again and still getting used to each other, “Forever?”

“Forever,” Harry promised, then kissed Tom again, reaching for Tom’s shirt buttons as he did so, intent on showing him that he’d meant what he’d said.

They had not gotten much sleep after that.

Chapter Text

Present Day

When Tom and Harry had woken the morning after Christmas Eve, their couch had been suspiciously empty. There had, however, been a note left on the table from Sirius that said he would meet them at Ron and Hermione’s. Harry had assumed that Sirius wanted to go back to Grimmauld Place to sober up, so he hadn’t worried about it. Harry had let Sirius gallivant all around the world for the past fifteen years; it was a little late to start worrying about the man’s ability to take care of himself now.

But Sirius doesn’t actually show up until breakfast has nearly concluded. He does have his red Christmas hat on, and he’s now also wearing matching red mittens on his hands. The mittens look absolutely huge for some reason, like someone had cast an Enlargement Charm on them. Remus is also with Sirius, looking a little worse for wear than usual as he steps into the house, shaking the snow from his hair.

“What happened?” Harry asks, once he pulls them both aside.

Remus says, “Sirius put on those gauntlets you keep on your mantle. He put them on, and now they won’t come off. Hence the mittens.”

“Shhh,” says Sirius, smacking Remus with his large mitten hand. It makes a muffled ‘thump’ sound. “Not so loud!”

Tom starts laughing. Loud, full-belly laughter, like he can’t stop himself. “Oh, Merlin,” he says, clutching at his sides. “This is the best delayed Christmas present I’ve ever gotten.”

“It was your Christmas present to me, years ago,” Harry points out, but he’s smiling at Tom despite himself.

“Your joy is my joy,” Tom says, waving it off. Then his eyes catch on Sirius’ ugly red mittens again, and he goes back to laughing.

“We spent all morning trying to get them off,” says Remus. “Sirius showed up at my flat at about three in the morning.”

“Remus, you’re a snitch,” says Sirius. “A dirty, dirty snitch.”

“It’s alright,” Harry says reassuringly. “The fact that the gauntlets like you just means you’re worthy.”

“They like me too much,” Sirius says in a high-pitched tone. “Tell them that I don’t like them back. They’re your gloves.”

“He’s only like this now,” Remus says mildly. “Just wait till Halloween next year. Then he’ll be wearing them again, dressed as Godric Gryffindor himself, and speaking purely in sonnets.”

“I resent that prediction,” Sirius says. To Harry and Tom, he adds, “Now one of you help me get these off.”

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” comments Tom idly. “We’ll take them back if you can give them back. Otherwise, I think they’re now officially yours.” Then he tugs at Harry’s arm. “Let’s go and talk to Ron and Hermione.”

“That’s a Muggle saying,” Sirius accuses. “Don’t think I don’t know that that’s just made up!”

“Walking away now,” Tom says over his shoulder. “Enjoy your gauntlets, Black.”

Harry follows after him. In the background, he can hear Sirius complaining about ‘lack of Christmas spirit’ and ‘ungrateful son-in-laws’. “What if they really don’t come off?” asks Harry.

Tom shrugs. “Then I’ll have a new topic for one of my research papers while I try to figure it out.”

“You’re evil,” Harry says, snickering. “Sirius is going to get you coal for your birthday.”

Sirius attempts to make Remus hand-feed him the scrambled eggs that are leftover from breakfast. Remus, of course, refuses. This results, of course, in an attempt to start a food fight. However, because breakfast is already over and the plates have been cleared, the only thing that happens is that Remus gets a bit of egg in his hair, which he vanishes promptly with his wand.

“You’re setting a bad example for the kids!” Fred says, full of mock-outrage. “Teaching them to throw food!”

“You and George literally started a food fight last week,” Alicia says, unimpressed. “You said it was ‘in the name of justice and being allowed a third cup of orange juice’.”

“I have morals regarding orange juice,” says Fred. “It’s different.”

The next event of the morning is presents. Most of the ones under the tree have been shrunken down, because otherwise there wouldn’t have been enough room for all of them. Hermione and Arthur sit by the tree and start to re-grow everything, passing out the packages as they do so.

The children, practically vibrating in their pyjamas, tear into all the wrapping paper with vigour. Gasps and cheers are heard, and Harry notes that Tom, who had actually asked to be the one to buy the presents for all the kids this year, has gotten each of the children their own stuffed snake. There is, admittedly, a variety of different colours and sizes, but they’re all essentially the same gift.

“This is a brainwashing conspiracy,” Ron protests. “You’re trying to turn all our kids into Slytherins!”

“I am quite literally the only Slytherin you invite to these things,” Tom points out. Then he amends, “Although Ginny did invite Daphne here this year.” Daphne salutes Tom from across the room, grinning. “But the point remains that I’ve spent every single Christmas surrounded entirely by Gryffindors. So I should hope that your children have some variety to them.”

“If they all turned out to be Slytherins, I might be mildly worried,” says Hermione. “But they are cute presents, Tom, so thank you.” She watches the kids—some of them are now whacking their snakes at each other—then adds, “I think they do like the fact that they all have the same toy, only slightly different.”

Harry snorts, knocking his shoulder against Tom’s. “Hear that? You did good. Next year, I expect you to actually help me pick our presents for everyone,” he says.

“I’ll get them all snakes,” Tom says promptly, straight faced.

“The heck you will,” Ron says.

Hermione smacks him.

“I said heck,” Ron protests.

Slowly, the pile of presents begins to dwindle down as the children finish unwrapping all their new belongings. Once done, Molly offers to supervise the kids who want to go outside.

“I’ll come with you, if that’s alright,” says Daphne. “I don’t mind helping out.”

“You sure?” Ginny asks, squeezing her girlfriend’s arm.

“Yeah, you lot open your presents together.” Daphne smiles and follows Molly out the door, taking about half of the Weasley children with her.

“Me first,” Fred and George say simultaneously, then glare at each other.

“Five galleons on George,” says Ron immediately.

“I’ll take that,” calls Charlie.

Both Fred and George reach out for the same package, which is clearly labelled ‘Geofreorgred’.

“Ten on Fred,” says Percy, causing quite a few of his siblings to glance at him in surprise.

“Ten,” Bill finally says in response, reaching over to lightly smack Percy’s shoulder. “You’re going down, Perce.”

“What a great Christmas,” drawls Tom, watching as Fred and George start to wrestle on the floor, each of them trying to lay claim to the lumpy package. Some of the remaining kids are clapping.

“Usual bet on Fred?” asks Harry in a low voice.

“You’re on,” says Tom, smirking.

Ten Years Ago

Tom and Harry had decided on a summer wedding at Hogwarts. The school held much significance for them both; it was where they had met, had started dating, and had gotten engaged.

To Tom, Hogwarts meant home—it was a place of sanctuary and contentment. It was the place where he had found not only his magical heritage, but also the true acceptance from others that he had been missing his entire life. Hogwarts had taught Tom many things over the course of seven years, but it had, most importantly, taught him how to love.

And to some degree, Hogwarts was home to Harry as well. Sirius didn’t much care for Grimmauld Place, so ever since Harry had been old enough to travel, they had never spent more than a month or so at a time there. Harry had grown up in cities and in villages, on mountains and on islands. It had been fun to see and try new things all the time, but it had meant that Hogwarts the first real home he had ever stayed at.

Some of the students had begged to be allowed to stay the extra week after term ended so they could attend the wedding. A few of them had even stopped by Harry’s office, offering to help with the planning. One pair of friends in particular, a Ravenclaw and a Gryffindor, were very, very memorable.

“I’m really good at calligraphy, Professor Potter,” said the Ravenclaw girl eagerly, adjusting the glasses on her face. “I can do your wedding invitations.”

“Yes, that,” said her Gryffindor friend, who had red-framed glasses of her own. “And then I can get you some lube if you want.”

Harry had choked and spluttered and made his excuses, shooing both girls out of his office before they could accidentally misconstrue his embarrassment as a ‘yes’.

Aside from that incident, the wedding planning had been going well. Tom had certainly known what he wanted, so it was only a matter of checking in to see if Harry agreed before moving forwards. Harry had found himself being presented with lists of things to look at and approve nearly every day.

“Do all weddings have this much detail?” Harry asked, befuddled by all of the things he was looking at. “What’s the difference between cream colour and… linen colour?”

“It’s different,” Tom insisted. “Now just pick which one you like more, because your choice will dictate what the folded napkins look like.”

Harry hadn’t seen how choosing a colour could influence the way their napkins were folded, and he’d been rather too afraid to ask, lest Tom go off on a rant about the intricacies of aesthetic design again. It was getting to the point where Harry had wished that Tom would just plan the whole thing without his input at all. That way Tom could have his extravagant wedding with all of the linen he wanted, and Harry could just show up in his dress robes and be told where to stand.

What Harry had requested was that Ron would get to be his best man, which had been pretty much a given anyways, and that Neville and Ginny would round off the rest of his wedding party. Hermione had already given herself over to Tom’s planning madness, so Harry had felt it was safe to leave her on Tom’s side of things without offending her.

“Ginny?” asked Tom, a crease forming between his brows.

Harry had pinned Tom with a stern look. “We are getting married, you insane git. Ginny and I were barely together for three months, and it was over five years ago! I’m sure you can survive her being a part of my wedding group. My wedding group for our wedding.”

“I’m perfectly reasonable.” Tom sniffed. “I will mark Ginny down as a member of your wedding party.”

Tom had Sirius and Hermione hard at work for the next few months, going over all the details again and again. Harry had no idea what was going on most of the time, even though Tom had kept asking him questions about stuff. Really, he hadn’t minded not knowing, because the wedding was obviously important to Tom, and Harry had just wanted him to be happy. He could not have cared less what their wedding looked like, so long as he knew Tom was waiting for him at the end of it.

However, there had been a few strange items Harry had to sign off on, namely imports of things he hadn’t been quite sure that they could afford.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sirius said. “I’m paying for nearly everything.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” Harry said.

“I sold off the rest of the creepy heirlooms lurking around in the house,” Sirius said. “Not like I wanted or needed any of it. Plus Tom has good taste, so it’s not like the money’s being wasted.”

Harry had thought privately that Sirius was the only person he knew aside from Tom who would know or care about the difference between cream and linen napkins. But Sirius had been thrilled to have an excuse to go all out on the decorations and the food and Merlin knew what else. Harry had continued to worry about the cost of it all, so he had brought the subject of money up to Tom. But Tom had absolutely no qualms about spending money on their wedding, saying that it was their special day, and therefore it deserved as much fanfare as Sirius was willing to spend on it.

“Sirius has about as much impulse control as you do,” Harry said pointedly.

“It’s our wedding,” Tom said. “We only get married once, Harry.”

In the end, Harry had decided to just let both his godfather and his fiance have their fun, and he would not think too much about what the end cost was going to be. Tom had continued to pester him with this detail or that detail, and Harry had tried his best to have an opinion other than ‘I guess this one looks better?’, even though half the time he didn’t actually know what the difference was.

Eventually, they had gotten to the point in the planning where Tom had started to show him dress robe options. Harry definitely had opinions to share on those.

“This is too much,” said Harry, looking down at the design Tom had given him. It looked more suited to a royal coronation than a wedding. “I can’t wear this.”

Tom had pouted. Tom had rubbed Harry’s shoulders. Tom had sat himself down on Harry’s lap and pleaded.

“Tom,” said Harry, firm even with his lap full of pouting fiance. “I’m not going to wear this.”

“But you’ll look so handsome,” Tom wheedled.

“It has a huge dragon on the back,” Harry said weakly. “That’s too much for me. I can maybe do this if you take the dragon off of it.”

“Fine,” Tom said, and Harry had immediately resolved to make sure to check up on the status of his dress robes in the future, just in case Tom tried to make any more changes.

Something Harry had been looking forward to was his stag party. Ron had been dropping hints for a while, and Harry was excited to see what his best mate had planned. Best man duties suited Ron nicely. Ron had liked to feel important and included in all the planning, which meant that he’d been getting along with Tom a lot better lately, too. There had been much badgering about what Harry had wanted for his stag night, but Harry had told Ron that he trusted him to come up with something great for everyone involved. Ron had taken this in stride, going on to make so many plans that Harry was actually impressed at his friend’s work ethic.

“It’d be more fun if it was just us guys,” Ron said to Harry. Then he added jokingly, “It’s not like we can do strippers with Ginny, eh?”

Harry had thought that Ginny, who was single, would probably enjoy the female strippers more than Ron, who was not, but he kept this to himself. It wasn’t really his business, and it was more of a vibe he’d gotten from her when they’d been dating than any real confirmation from Ginny herself.

Sirius, who had been planning Tom’s stag night, was determined to outdo whatever it was Ron had planned. He’d been snooping around, trying to discern what Ron’s plans were, but Ron had remained tight-lipped. While neither Tom nor Harry had any idea what these plans actually were, Tom had still thought the entire situation was amusing.

“We should just do it together,” Harry suggested. “Then Ron can stop jumping up every time I come by to say hi. I swear he thinks Sirius is going to appear inside his closet or something.”

“I think Sirius would kill me if I suggested that,” Tom said. “He’s been going on about his ‘amazing plan’ for weeks. I’m rather scared of what he’s gone and done, actually.”

“Would serve you right for letting him go crazy with the wedding. Make sure Hermione takes lots of photos of you both embarrassing yourselves.”

Tom had narrowed his eyes, and Harry should have known then that there was going to be trouble. They had sat there for a moment longer, with Tom pretending to pour over his wedding notes for the thousandth time. Harry could practically see the gears turning in Tom’s head.

“I propose a bet,” said Tom, eventually.

“Oh?” asked Harry.

“On who is going to have the most embarrassing stag night.”

Harry had thought about it, and then had decided that it couldn’t possibly be that bad. “Okay,” he said slowly, “what are the forfeits?”

“If I win,” Tom said, “then you have to let me talk as much as I want during the wedding. I can say whatever I like, as long as I like, and you have to sit there and listen to me talk about you. And no burying your head in your hands.”

“Tom,” said Harry. “You do realize that you talk a lot, right?”

“It’s all very important,” Tom said, huffing. “I refuse to truncate my feelings because you think it’s oversharing.”

“First of all, it is oversharing, and second of all, I won’t be responsible when Hermione murders you for ruining her scheduling.”

“I’ll talk to Hermione about it,” Tom said breezily. “Now, what do you want as my forfeit? Not that you’ll need it, because I won’t be embarrassing myself, but I’m curious about what you want to pick.”

It had taken Harry a while to think of something suitable. Then he had thought about the dress robes Tom wanted him to wear, and he had known exactly what it was that he wanted Tom to forfeit. “If I win,” said Harry, “you have to wear Gryffindor colours to the wedding.” Tom had looked outraged at that, so Harry added, “And in that case, I’ll wear your crazy, extravagant dress robes. But with a snake on the back, not a dragon. So we’ll be matching, in a way.” Mostly, Harry had just wanted to see Tom in some colour other than Slytherin green.

“Hmmm.” Tom looked thoughtful. Harry could tell that the idea of themed wedding attire appealed to him. He didn’t doubt that even if Tom won, he would still try to argue for the snakey robes. “Alright, I accept. But you’re not allowed to tell Ron about this, and I won’t tell Sirius.”

“And no interference,” Harry said, and then they had shaken on it.

Present Day

Ginny ends up being the one to break up Fred and George’s impromptu wrestling match by snatching the package up herself. She nimbly leaps away onto the couch as both brothers attempt to dive after her for it.

“There,” she says victoriously. “I win.”

“That’s ours,” Fred or George protests.

“And now it’s mine,” she tells them, “unless you both smarten up.”

Fred and George both pull faces at their little sister, who blows a raspberry back at them. Harry admires her spunk. Despite having an excess of older brothers ready to defend her honour at the drop of a hat, Ginny is one of the fiercest women he knows.

“Bets are off,” says Charlie, sadly. “No accounting for Ginny, I suppose.”

“I’m a force of nature,” Ginny agrees, setting the package down on her lap. “Now, where’s my presents?”

More gifts are handed out, and soon enough everyone is wearing Molly’s latest hand-knit clothing and accessories. Even Tom has his new Slytherin-coloured jumper on, though he keeps pulling at the collar like the fact that it’s not black offends him personally. Harry, wearing his new bright red jumper and its matching scarf, puts his feet up on Tom’s lap.

“Too bad about the bet,” says Harry to Tom. “I was going to make you wear the snake-skin bodysuit.”

Tom scowls. “I would have killed you.”

“Love you.” Harry grins cheekily, reaching over to grasp Tom’s hand.

“Alright, I want my present now,” says Tom in return, looking sulky. He doesn’t pull his hand away, though. “I’m suddenly feeling bereft. My turn to open first.”

“Fine, fine,” says Harry. He pulls out his mokeskin pouch—a birthday present from Hagrid he’s had for many, many years—and opens it up, aiming his wand inside. “Accio Tom’s present.”

A medium-sized package comes floating towards them. Tom plucks it out of the air with his free hand and sets it down in Harry’s lap, since his own is currently occupied. The present is wrapped in neon-green snake print.

“Really?” says Tom, unimpressed.

“Really,” says Harry. “I had Hermione help me Transfigure the wrapping paper and everything.”

“How anyone ever thinks I’m the dirty Slytherin in our relationship, I’ll never know.”

“It’s because you never wear anything with colour, darling,” Harry informs him, sweetly.

Tom stares suspiciously at his present. He picks it up and holds it to his ear, listening. Then he shakes it gently a few times. Then he holds it up to eye level and sniffs at it. Then he rotates it a few times, turning it around and around. Then he pulls his wand out, about to cast a spell, when Harry finally cuts him off.

“It’s not going to bite,” Harry says mildly, but he’s trying hard not to grin like a loon. He’d put a great deal of effort into keeping Tom’s present properly hidden this year.

Tom holds the package out in front of him like it’s a bomb. “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” says Tom. “But I don’t trust you. Don’t think I didn’t see you and Sirius collaborating evilly during our Hogsmeade trip.”

Harry waves it off. “I already had your present wrapped. I’m not like Sirius; I plan my shopping beforehand.”

Tom plucks at the shiny green bow on the top of the box, unravelling it. Once the ribbon is successfully removed, he hands it off to Harry. Then Tom starts to pick at the spellotape.

“I’m getting old,” complains Harry. “Just rip it open, Tom. I promise it’s not going to kill you.” Harry ties a new bow with the green ribbon, which he promptly drops upon Tom’s head. Tom wrinkles his nose in annoyance, but since his hands are occupied with the present, he has to shake his head to dislodge the hair bow.

“Stop rushing me,” says Tom impatiently, now working on his second piece of tape.

“It’s wrapped so you can take the wrapping off,” Harry reminds him. “Not so you can dismantle it piece by piece like a puzzle.”

Finally, Tom manages to remove the wrapping paper in one large piece. Underneath the paper is a plain cardboard box. Tom gives it a little shake, testing it. Harry groans.

“Tom, if you don’t just open this box, I swear to Merlin—”

“Fine,” says Tom.

Tom opens up the flap of the box and lifts it. Inside, nestled in a swath of dark green tissue paper, is a book. Harry watches as Tom picks it up carefully, like it’s made of porcelain. The name ‘Tom Marvolo Riddle’ is embossed on the leather cover in silver lettering, which Tom traces with his index finger.

“Is this a book about me?” Tom asks, confused.

Harry reaches over and forcibly opens the cover, because otherwise it was never going to happen. “It’s a journal. I remember you used to keep one while we were at Hogwarts.”

The first page inside repeats the fact that the book belongs to Tom. There’s a note from Harry scribbled underneath: ‘Merry Christmas, Tom. Please accept this journal as further proof that I plan to love you forever. Words can’t describe how much you mean to me, so I thought that some pictures might do a better job of showing you. Yours eternally, Harry.’

The pages are thick and crisp, clearly of a high quality. Tom turns to the next page, which is labelled ‘December 25th’ in Harry’s own handwriting.

There’s a photo there—an animated, magical one—built right into the page just underneath the heading. It’s a picture of Tom and Harry, during their fifth-year Christmas at Grimmauld Place. Harry is wearing a Weasley Christmas sweater and smiling brilliantly, his arm looped around Tom’s waist. Tom is staring at Harry, a half-smile resting on his lips. The two of them sway slightly, as though they’re being held together by glue.

“Do all the pages have photos?” Tom asks softly.

“All the ones where I could find one for them,” Harry says honestly. Then he adds, shyly, “Some of the ones where I couldn’t, I drew a picture instead—of what I remembered.”

Tom puts the journal down so he can give Harry a proper kiss. “It’s absolutely perfect,” he says. “Thank you, Harry.”

Harry picks the book back up, blushing. “Do you want to look at the rest of the photos?” he asks.

“No,” says Tom. “I’d rather see them as they come up.” He closes the journal, tracing his hand over his name on the cover a second time. Then he clutches the book, as though unsure what to do with it. Tom’s coat and bag, with their expandable insides, are hanging on the enlarged coat rack by the front door, which is too far for them to navigate over to given the crowded living room.

“I can put it back in my pouch for now,” Harry offers.

Tom wordlessly passes the journal to Harry, who feeds it back into his pouch. Then Tom stares at the neon-green wrapping paper. He reaches for it at the same time Harry does—their hands bump together.

Harry smiles and lets Tom pick up the wrapping paper, watching as Tom smooths it out and folds it up into a tidy square.

“My turn,” says Tom. “Time for your present.” Only Tom would see both the giving and receiving of Christmas presents as his turn—his turn to open first, his turn to give his gift. Harry thinks it’s adorable.

Tom pulls out a thick, vanilla-coloured envelope and holds it out. Harry’s name is written neatly on the front in Tom’s flowing script. “You’re going to have to make a minor change to your present,” says Tom, a nervous smile creeping up on the corners of his mouth.

Taking the envelope in hand, Harry flips it over and examines the wax seal. It takes Harry a few moments before he recognizes the Potter family crest, and then he is quickly prying off the seal with shaking hands.

Inside the envelope is a letter and a certificate. The letter is a bunch of legal jargon, but the certificate clearly states just exactly what Tom has given him for Christmas this year.

Certificate of Change in Name

This is to certify the official change in name of Tom Marvolo Riddle, born December 31st, 1980, to Tom Marvolo Potter.

Harry has no words. He’s holding the paper in his hand, frozen.

When he and Tom had gotten married nearly ten years ago, they’d agreed it would be simpler to keep their surnames, given that it would be confusing for their students otherwise. Tom hadn’t cared enough for his surname to wish for Harry to have it, and Harry didn’t particularly mind if Tom changed his last name or not. So they had simply gone on as Potter and Riddle, and their marriage was public knowledge enough that it was never strange for them to be addressed as ‘the Potter-Riddles’.

“This is…” Harry knows better than to ask Tom if he’s sure. “Thank you, Tom. This means a lot to me.”

Tom pulls Harry close. Or at least, as close as is appropriate given their public setting.

“I don’t know how you’re going to top this for my birthday,” Harry says weakly, trying not to crinkle the certificate or get tears all over it. Though, knowing Tom, his husband has probably already cast a bunch of charms on it to prevent that kind of accidental damage.

“I will,” Tom says, pressing his cheek against the side of Harry’s head. “Of course I will.”

Fifteen Years Ago

Even after years of periodically living in it, Grimmauld Place had still seemed creepy to Harry. The portrait of Sirius’ mum had been long removed from its place on the wall, but Harry felt weirdly unwelcome here at times, like the house could sense that he wasn’t really a Black.

But Harry had walked Tom past the troll’s foot at the door, and then up the tall, skinny stairs. Kreacher had taken their trunks, muttering mildly to himself about ‘filthy half-bloods’. Nothing really bad had happened yet, but Harry hadn’t been about to let his guard down any time soon.

“You can take Reggie’s old bedroom,” said Sirius to Tom. “It’s mostly empty these days. He spends all his time with his Canadian girlfriend. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. But he said he’d stop by for Christmas at some point, which is the only reason why anything here is clean.” Sirius had then shot a stern look at Kreacher, who had grinned nastily back at his master.

“Where is Uncle Regulus?” asked Harry.

“With his Canadian girlfriend,” Sirius repeated.

“Erm,” said Harry. “Alright.”

So Harry had taken Tom to Regulus’ room, which was sparsely decorated save for a few Slytherin accents. Tom had glanced around the room approvingly. “This is very nice,” he said.

“Uncle Regulus works with a magical animal reserve in Canada,” said Harry. “Sirius just keeps saying that he has a girlfriend.”

Tom had hummed lightly in response, and then dragged his hand slowly over the dark grey comforter that lay upon the bed, as though inspecting it. Then he'd paused, his body very still, like he’d suddenly decided to mimic a statue.

It had felt a little awkward, the two of them standing in Regulus’ old bedroom, not quite sure how their relationship fit into this new space. Harry had started to feel anxious that perhaps this was all too soon; that Tom was uncomfortable but too polite to say so. They had only been together for two and a half months, and perhaps that was too soon to take someone home to meet your family?

“Harry,” said Tom, eyes still fixed upon the comforter. “Are you sure it’s alright for me to stay here?”

“What?” Harry blurted. “Of course it is. You want to stay here, right? The room is okay? It’s not—not too much? I don’t know what the Slytherin dorm rooms are really like, maybe this isn’t—”

“The room is fine,” Tom said hastily. “It’s very nice, like I said.”

And then Sirius had barged back into the room, peering at them both with narrowed eyes. Harry had suspected that Sirius planned on catching him and Tom snogging, and was now rather disappointed that he hadn’t.

“Dinner in half an hour!” Sirius said cheerily. “And keep your paws off my godson!” Then he had vanished back down the stairs, whistling ‘God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs’ as he went.

Tom had cleared his throat. “Well,” he said. “That was charming.”

Harry had laughed, and it seemed like some of the tension vanished as he did so. Tom had walked back to where Harry was, and then he took Harry’s hand in his own, lacing their fingers together.

They had stared at each other, then, both of their faces flushed. Harry loved this side of Tom; the gentler, warmer side that Tom would never show at school or in the company of others. It was why Harry had put up with the grandstanding and the possessiveness and the gigantic ego.

It had reminded Harry of how Hermione liked to say that he had a ‘saving people thing’. Harry got into fights with bullies, even when he was outnumbered; Harry went above and beyond for those he called friends, even to his own detriment; Harry saw the best in everyone, even when they couldn’t see it in themselves.

So all of that extended easily to how Harry felt about Tom. Harry knew that, in a different world, one without Sirius or Remus in it, he could have easily been dropped off at an orphanage or, Merlin forbid, with his mother’s estranged Muggle relatives. Tom had grown up being called a freak, a bully, a mistake. Harry could understand what that type of upbringing could have led to: someone with a thirst to prove themselves, someone with a desire to be better.

Tom was smart and funny and charming, and he liked Harry. He liked Harry a lot, and he’d told Harry so. Harry had appreciated that Tom had been so blunt in asking him out; it had certainly cleared up any doubt or confusion that Harry had about their attraction to each other. Tom always made it very clear, both to Harry and to anyone in their immediate vicinity, that he was Harry’s boyfriend. It was reassuring to know that Tom always wanted him around—Tom never left room for anything other than the fact that he was very pleased to be dating Harry.

So even though Ron had said that Tom was treating him like a possession, Harry didn’t particularly care. It was different, the way Tom treated him. It wasn’t like being a possession, or even like being coddled, which Hermione and Ron sometimes did with him. It was sort of like being seen, or maybe it was like being constantly acknowledged; Harry wasn’t entirely sure how to describe it. Tom made space for Harry whenever they were in the same place, like they were planets in orbit together, like Tom could only ever have Harry next to him, regardless of where they were or who they were with.

It was because of this that Harry found his attention during the holidays fully and completely taken up by both Tom and Sirius. Living in the same house as Tom was not the same as living at Hogwarts, and Sirius had always been rather dramatic when it came to house guests. Harry had found that he had developed a sort of awareness of where his housemates were; he could tell who had entered the room by the way the door creaked, and he could tell who was upstairs by the sound of their footsteps.

Best of all, there had been no more uneasy moments between him and Tom for the remainder of their stay at Grimmauld Place. In fact, the only person embarrassing themselves was Sirius, who had continued to suddenly leap into rooms whenever Tom and Harry were spending time alone together. Although Sirius had never said what he was doing, Harry knew that Sirius had been hoping to catch them doing something inappropriate. Mostly so he could hold it over Harry’s head forever.

Then came Christmas. Regulus and Remus had both turned up on Christmas Day to celebrate. The opening of gifts revealed that Remus had bought Sirius a camera, which derailed into a photoshoot as Sirius insisted on taking photos of everything. There had been photos of Sirius and Regulus, Sirius and Remus, Sirius and Harry—even Tom was roped into a photo with Sirius, although Tom had seemed more pleased to have his photo taken than Harry did. Harry didn’t like being in photos much; he never knew how to pose in them, which nearly always led to him looking visibly self conscious in every photo of himself that he owned.

“Now one of you boys together,” Sirius insisted to Harry and Tom. Then he added to Regulus, “You know I haven’t even caught them kissing once?”

Regulus coughed. “I’m sure they’ve been very well-behaved under your roof, Sirius.”

“I wouldn’t want to offer any disrespect,” Tom said politely.

Truth be told, Tom had been very behaved during his stay at Grimmauld Place. He’d not moved past so much as holding Harry’s hand, and he only ever wrapped an arm loosely around Harry’s shoulders or waist whenever Sirius was around. Harry had wondered if Tom was really worried about Sirius’ threats, but that just hadn’t seemed to fit Tom’s personality. The concept of respect being tied into it had not occurred to Harry before, but now that it had been pointed out to him, Harry had to admit it did make some sense.

Tom did like to do a lot of things traditionally. At least, in terms of appearances. He’d read books upon books on wizarding culture, and he often cited facts that Harry, who had grown up under Sirius’ self-proclaimed ‘no-nonsense godson upbringing extravaganza’, did not know the faintest bit about. But there were other times where Tom simply did as he pleased. Harry thought that whatever decisions Tom made, it usually said more about his current mood than any real logical reasons.

Obeying Sirius’ half-baked attempts to prevent/incite snogging had likely been because Tom had been feeling nervous about spending Christmas with Harry’s family. Sirius shouting ‘NO TOMFOOLERY, TOM!’ every time he left Tom and Harry alone in a room together had likely not helped.

So Harry had taken Tom by the hand and pulled him over to stand next to the Christmas tree. “C’mon,” said Harry. “Let’s make it a good one.”

“Alright,” Tom said, looking faintly amused at Harry’s sudden change of heart regarding being photographed.

“Great!” Sirius had beamed at them both. “Get a little closer now—”

Harry had looped his left arm around Tom’s waist so that their sides were pressed against each other. Then he said, “Merry Christmas, Tom. I’m really glad you’re here.”

The flash had gone off, then, blinding them both momentarily, but not before Harry had caught the tiny, genuine smile that spread across Tom’s face.

Chapter Text

Present Day

Harry is in the middle of saying goodbye to Ron and Hermione when Tom pulls away for a moment, dislodging his arm from around Harry’s waist.

“Just going to talk to Daphne for a minute,” Tom says quickly, and then he walks over to where Daphne and Ginny are talking to Charlie.

“Are you doing anything big for Tom’s birthday?” Hermione asks Harry, once Tom is out of earshot.

“Sort of,” Harry says. “I have the main parts done, and I’ve started working on the rest, but I haven’t gotten all the details hammered out yet.”

Hermione gives him a look that implies a number of things all at once, none of which are good things.

“I’m not stalling!” Harry says defensively. “I know what I want to do, just not exactly how it ought to look.”

“I’m sure it’ll be real good,” Ron tells him. “Merlin knows you can’t do wrong in Tom’s eyes. Bloke would probably commit murder for you, if you asked.” Ron chuckles at his own joke before continuing, “Anyways, we’ll be seeing you soon, right? I’ve still got a bit of sick leave before I’m due back at work, so we ought to find some time for Quidditch!”

“Yeah,” Harry says, after an awkward pause. “Yeah, we really ought to do that.”

Following breakfast and lunch with the Weasleys, Tom and Harry went and paid several short visits to some of their other friends—Luna and Rolf, Tonks and her parents, and even Draco and Astoria, who had their hands full with their four-year-old son, Scorpius.

Harry always found their little chats with the Malfoys to be amusing, mostly because Tom and Draco both engaged in conversation purely to pontificate. It was politics this, Pureblood drama that, leaving Harry and Astoria to sit with Scorpius. The little boy in question is playing with his new toy dragons, courtesy of Tom and Harry.

“My sister told me she was spending Christmas Day with your family,” Astoria says conversationally.

“Yeah,” says Harry. “It was really nice, having her over. Tom liked having another Slytherin around.”

Astoria laughs, the sound light and cheerful. “I know Daphne told me she was nervous about being around a bunch of Gryffindors. I told her that the only place she’d be more welcome would be at a Christmas gathering of Hufflepuffs.”

That makes Harry crack a smile. “The Weasleys are great,” he agrees.

“If she and Ginny really do hit things off,” Astoria begins with a wry smile, “I do think that would make us family in the future, wouldn’t it?”

“That hadn’t occurred to me,” Harry says honestly. “But I guess so?” He looks over at where Tom and Draco are now arguing good naturedly. It’d be great fun to see those two together in a Weasley family dinner setting.

“I look forward to it,” Astoria says. “Goodness knows Draco needs to get out more.”

By the time he and Tom arrive back at Hogwarts, it is very late indeed. Tom insists upon recording the day’s events in his new journal, though Harry tries to tell him it can wait for tomorrow.

“You’re not going to forget,” says Harry.

“I want to do it now,” Tom says petulantly, already squinting down at the first page and tapping the end of his quill against his chin.

So Harry lies around in bed while Tom writes out the jist of their day in his journal. A while passes, filled only by the sound of Tom’s quill scratching, and then Harry hears Tom turn the page. The scratching pauses.

“Harry,” says Tom. “This next page is blank.”

“Oh, I know,” Harry says. “Each day has about five blank pages worth. The book is magically compressed to fit it all, and you can even add more pages if you like.”

Tom stops writing altogether, turning in his chair so he can look at Harry.

“I know you like to write a lot. Just try not to document all of your vigilante work in it,” Harry jokes. Then, when it seems that Tom still isn’t speaking, Harry says slowly, “It’s been over nineteen years since we first met, Tom. We’ve been married for more than half of that. I like to think I know you by now.”

“You do,” says Tom, but there’s a bit of wonder in his voice as he speaks. “You know me better than anyone ever will.”

Ten Years Ago

Harry had woken up feeling extremely smug. It was not typically a feeling he experienced, for he did not make a habit of going around with an inflated head, but it had been known to occur, usually on the tail-end of a Quidditch game. This particular occasion, however, was the smuggest that Harry had ever remembered feeling.

He had been well aware that feeling smug on your wedding day was not entirely appropriate, but, given who he was marrying, it did seem to be rather fitting.

Tom had been sulking endlessly, but he claimed that he wasn’t a sore loser, and that he would hold up his end of the bargain. Harry had smiled and smiled and smiled, because it was very rare indeed that he got the chance to pull one over on Tom.

For Tom’s stag night, Sirius, Tom, and Hermione had gone out on a whirlwind, international tour of what Sirius had deemed as ‘the nerdiest landmarks’ he could find. And Tom had admitted to Harry that they had seen a good deal of incredibly interesting things, and that he now had plenty of new ideas for research papers. Harry had appreciated that Sirius put so much thought into a stag night that he thought Tom would enjoy.

Harry had gotten a first-hand account of the entire evening from Hermione, who had, in her infinite wisdom, stayed sober for the express purpose of recording any embarrassing incidents.

So according to Hermione, everything had been perfectly tame up until they’d finished their sight-seeing and gone for a nightcap at her flat, where Sirius had insisted that they all let loose a little.

“You won’t be moving all over the place once you’re married,” Sirius said to Tom, the words slightly slurred. “Not like me. You stay with Harry forever and ever, and you never leave him, or I will remove all your limbs. I can do that, you know. I know the spells for it.”

Tom had looked at Sirius with a ridiculous amount of fondness despite the fact that he was only two drinks in. Perhaps it had just been a response to the emotional significance of the day, but Tom was already slouched casually on Hermione’s couch, his tie pulled loose and the top button of his shirt undone.

“You’ll have to teach it to me some time,” Tom said curiously. “And don’t worry,” he added, “about me leaving Harry at home by himself for too long. I won’t.”

“Good.” Sirius seemed satisfied, leaning back in his chair to gaze upon Tom with approval. “You’re a good kid, Riddle. Even if you’re a bit uptight. You remind me of Moony sometimes.”

Then Sirius had swirled his drink in his hand, face thoughtful. “We should make you an honorary Marauder. We did that with Lils, y’know? When she married James.” Sirius had gotten that faraway look in his eyes, then, the one that he got sometimes whenever Harry said or did something particularly reminiscent of his parents.

“Really?” asked Tom eagerly. Then he’d cleared his throat, shifting to sit up straight on the couch, and continued on in a more normal tone, “So that’s a tradition, then.”

“Well, not really. James was the only one of us who got married.” Sirius had looked a little sad, but then his face brightened. “But it can be a tradition now!” He had stood up, walking over to where Tom was sitting. Then Sirius had placed both his hands on Tom’s shoulders, his expression very—ah, serious.

“Does he get a nickname?” Hermione asked, interested.

“Give me a minute,” Sirius said impatiently. “You’re ruining the sanctity of the moment, Hermione.”

“Fine!” Hermione put her hands up in the air, as though to wash her hands of the whole affair.

“I, Sirius Black,” began Sirius seriously, though he could have not been more clearly making it up as he went along, “also known as Padfoot, founder of the Marauders, and designated godfather of Prongs Junior, hereby acknowledge and accept Tom Riddle into the family of the Marauders. As an honourary Marauder.”

“Nickname?” prompted Hermione, when it had appeared that Sirius was done speaking.

“Right. Uh.” Sirius squinted down at Tom, who was waiting expectantly. “Snakey.”

Tom blinked. “Wait.”

“Snakey! Because you’re a Slytherin and everything. And you like snakes. I know that, because Harry told me so.” Sirius wagged a finger at Tom, then tapped both of Tom’s shoulders with said finger. “I dub thee Snakey. No takesies backsies.”

That had made Hermione start giggling, and Tom had shot her a dirty look.

In spite of the rather tragic nickname he’d been given, Tom had gotten emotional enough about being a part of the family that he’d then been convinced into another drink. And another.

Hermione, stone-cold sober, had watched for a while as both Tom and Sirius deteriorated in her little apartment to the mental equivalent of teenage boys. And then she’d gone and grabbed a camera.

Thanks to Hermione, Harry had become the proud new owner of the best series of pictures ever: Tom and Sirius, both shirtless, while Sirius scrawled ‘Property of Prongs Junior’ across Tom’s shoulder blades in Sharpie.

And that was how Tom had ended up redesigning his dress robes for the wedding, this time in Gryffindor red and gold.

“I can pull it off,” said Tom, although Harry was unsure who he was trying to convince: Harry or himself.

“You can,” Harry agreed.

Harry had actually thought that Tom would look good in red, but Tom had talked about something called undertones, and the fact that he couldn’t wear warm red because it would clash with his skin tone. Harry had told Tom that, in all honesty, he probably couldn’t tell the difference anyway, and as long as Tom was following the spirit of the forfeit, it didn’t matter if it was exactly Gryffindor red or not. Then Tom had complained that there was no such thing as ‘cool-toned gold’, which was why he preferred silver, and Harry had given up.

Next order of business had been reworking Harry’s dress robes. Tom had placed a nice, elegant-looking silver snake on the back of Harry’s bottle-green, extravagantly-designed dress robes, and Harry had given his approval.

“You’re unusually compliant about this now,” said Tom.

“I’m just really happy that I’m going to see you in red,” Harry responded cheerfully. “Plus, now you understand how I felt when you wanted me to wear the dragon.”

“The dragon was impressive,” Tom muttered. “It had meaning.”

Harry had wrapped both arms around Tom’s waist. “I’ll still be your knight in shining armour, Tom.”

That comment had Tom smiling. “My own idiot Gryffindor. I suppose it is appropriate for us to wear each other’s house colours. That way they’ll know we belong to each other.”

“No more flirting students,” Harry agreed, and then he’d had to dodge wildly as Tom fired a Tickling Jinx at him.

They had ended up on the floor in a heap. Over the course of their childish duel, Harry’s fingers had been Transfigured into carrots, and Tom’s hair had been turned bright Weasley red.

“This wedding,” Tom said, still panting, “is my gift to you, alright?” His eyes had been very determinedly fixed upon Harry’s face. “I want you to remember every bit of it for the rest of our lives, and I want it to be perfect. No other wedding will ever compare.”

Harry had grinned. “Don’t tell Ron that—I think he might try to murder you in your sleep if you do. He’s already got plans to propose to Hermione, ever since you set the whole marriage ball rolling and everything.”

“Forget about Ron,” Tom said impatiently. “This wedding is about us, and how important you are to me.”

Harry hadn’t been used to being told things like that so bluntly, no matter how many times he heard it from the people he loved. So he’d lifted his stupid carrot-fingered hand up and pressed his palm against Tom’s cheek, hoping that gesture was enough to convey what he was feeling.

Tom had leaned in and kissed him firmly on the mouth. “You are going to be mine forever, and I am going to be yours. And if that means I have to wear red to do it—” Tom’s face scrunched up involuntarily, then he continued, “Then I will, because it proves that I’m choosing you above all else.”

Eventually all the dress robes and all the planning had been finished; the big day had arrived. Harry had been handed a schedule the day before, one that had blocks of time for things like brushing his teeth and going to the bathroom. There had even been a small rectangle right before the ceremony that Hermione had scribbled ‘nervous procrastination’ into.

Harry hadn’t quite been able to disagree with that one.

Tom had tasked Neville of all people with the job of getting Harry dressed. At first, Ron had been annoyed at this, but then Tom had loaded Ron up on other tasks, like being responsible for managing the part of the ceremony that involved the vows, and Ron had conceded that he had more important things to do than to tie Harry’s shoes for him.

“Well, he said that between the Weasleys and me, he figured I’d be the best bet for knowing about proper wizarding wedding attire,” Neville said to Harry.

“And are you?” Harry asked nervously.

Neville laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s not as complicated as it looks.”

There had been a lot of pieces: a white, high-collared silk shirt that Harry could have sworn was not his size, it was so tight; a handsome charcoal grey waistcoat with ornate silver buttons; a thick black leather belt with a silver ouroboros shaped into an infinity symbol as the clasp; a pair of darker charcoal trousers composed of a strange, silky material that still somehow held its crisp lines; and a pair of dark black leather shoes that matched his belt.

Lastly, of course, had been his dress robes. Bottle green, exactly like Harry’s first set of dress robes from his fourth-year had been. (Harry had also wondered if this was Tom’s little way of shutting the door on Harry stint as Cedric Diggory’s Yule Ball date, and had then decided he was probably correct.) They had been a bit on the heavy side, probably due to the expensive material, but Harry figured that some charms had been cast on it to prevent the wearer from bearing too much of the weight.

Neville had helped Harry sort all the clothes out, and then Harry had examined the result in the mirror. The robes were very nice, admittedly. They were very grand and very fancy looking, but they sat beautifully on his shoulders, and they flared nicely out in a way that made him look taller.

“I look alright?” asked Harry, turning this way and that, trying to figure out if the angle he stood at mattered.

“You look great,” Neville said encouragingly. “Tom’s not going to let anyone else so much as look at you once he sees you in this.”

“He does that anyways,” Harry said absently, his eyes still fixed on his reflection. He could hear Tom’s voice in his head saying ‘Harry, I picked and designed these robes for you; so they are perfect, obviously, and you look perfect in them’, and that thought had given him some comfort. Even if he did look absolutely ridiculous, Tom would never think so.

When it had finally been time to make his way down the aisle, Harry had found himself suddenly enveloped by a peculiar feeling of calmness. There was something about knowing that this was it, that his life until this point had led to this moment, to marrying Tom, and it had felt so right that Harry had no business feeling nervous at all. His friends and family were waiting for him. Tom was waiting for him. Everything else—his nervousness, his self-consciousness—could go hang itself.

Present Day

“So, before you go, there’s one more thing Tom and I have to tell you,” Harry says.

The three of them—Tom, Harry, and Sirius—are all standing around in front of Tom and Harry’s fireplace. Sirius’ somber departure is a tad spoiled by the fact that he’s wearing a bright orange shirt with pink flamingos patterned all over it. Tom had given Sirius the wildest assortment of Hawaiian shirts Harry has ever seen, and Sirius is obviously intent on making good use of his Christmas presents as soon as possible.

“Oh?” Sirius looks between Harry and Tom curiously. Then his expression changes very suddenly to one of incredible excitement. “Am I finally getting a grandchild now!?”

“Erm—” Harry starts.

“I’m Voldemort,” Tom says, cutting off the inevitable mess before it has a chance to grow to ridiculous proportions. “I’m the one going around killing people.”

“Oh.” Sirius looks at them both again. “Is that it? I already knew that one.”

“You already knew—” Tom looks like he’s at a complete loss for words. “How? ”

“Bellatrix? Had all her limbs chopped off?” Sirius waves his hands in the air. “That spell ringing any bells?”

Tom goes still for a long, long time. Then he says, “Fuck.”

Harry is confused. “Wait, Sirius, how did you know it was Tom who killed Bellatrix?”

“The limb dismemberment thing! It’s a spell I taught him during his stag night. It’s a Black family spell.”

“In my defense,” says Tom, “I thought it was something I had just come up with by myself.” He crosses his arms stubbornly.

Sirius whistles low and long. “Boy, did you scare the absolute shit out of Lucy and Cissy after dear Bella kicked the bucket. I think you actually scared Lucius onto the good side, now that I think about it. Do you know he donated thousands of galleons to St. Mungo’s the week after Bellatrix died?”

“I thought he was just bribing the Ministry to ignore his dark artifacts again,” Tom says.

“Nope,” says Sirius cheerfully. “Scared shitless. They wrote me to ask if it was me who killed her, of all people, and I had to tell them that I actually liked being alive and having all my limbs attached to my body, so no, I wouldn’t have even thought about finding Bellatrix, let alone trying to kill her.”

Harry isn’t impressed. “You taught my fiance a spell to dismember people on his stag night.”

“Hey, he doesn’t even remember me teaching it to him, so it doesn’t count against me!”

Tom rubs at his temples. “The point of telling you is so that if something does happen, which it will not, then there is someone aside from Harry who is aware of the situation and can take the necessary precautions.”

“You better not be getting roped into this,” Sirius says sternly to Harry. “At least, not without me there to help out.”

“Sirius,” Harry says, exasperated. “You haven’t touched a dueling arena in years. Tom and I are fine. And I haven’t been doing anything anyways, I only just found out about two months ago, just like you did.”

“Hmm.” Sirius eyes Tom for a moment. “You better remember what you promised me,” he says to Tom. “Being a vigilante, no matter how badass, does not make you exempt.”

“I know,” says Tom.

Then Sirius pulls Tom into a bear hug. “You’re a good kid, Tom. Take care of my godson.”

“I’m turning thirty,” says Tom, but he’s hugging Sirius back anyways.

“You’re both my kids,” Sirius says, and he sounds a little weepy as he ruffles Tom’s hair up. “Expect a truly hideous quilt for your birthday that I want you to use.” Sirius then releases Tom and reaches for Harry, who submits to having his head scrubbed.

“See you soon,” says Harry. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“I’ll be Sirius,” says Sirius. “See you soon, pup.” Then he steps into the Floo, calling for Grimmauld Place, where Kreacher is probably waiting for him.

Ten Years Ago

While Harry had been inside his tent getting ready, there had been a bit of a commotion going on amongst the planning party outside.

Draco, who had been offended at receiving an invitation to a wedding where he was not a part of the proceedings, had owled Tom a lengthy, argumentative note a few weeks ago, demanding that he be included. So Tom, ever the consummate Slytherin, had made Draco a groomsman and put him in charge of watching over the rings.

Hermione hadn’t been very happy at the change of plans.

“Why is Draco Malfoy suddenly such a big part of the wedding?” Hermione demanded.

Tom had looked everywhere but directly at Hermione and ignored Harry’s elbow being driven into his side. It had been a very good display of acting ability on Tom's part.

“Tom forgot that they’re supposedly friends,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “So he didn’t realize Draco would be offended at not having a role in his wedding. Since you’ve already got pretty much all the planning done now, the only thing left to give him was responsibility for watching the rings.”

“I wouldn’t leave the rings with Sirius,” Tom said defensively. “He would accidentally misplace them somewhere, and we wouldn’t be able to find them until exactly five minutes before the wedding started. And Ron has quite enough to do without having to worry about the rings on top it. Really, I think Draco is the perfect choice to hold onto the rings. It’s a role that lets him feel vitally important without us actually having to give him a real job.”

“Fine,” said Hermione. “But no more changes!”

Since Hermione had made peace with Draco’s involvement, Ron and Ginny had both reluctantly followed suit. Neville had said he didn’t much mind, which only left one member of their wedding party who might have kicked up a fuss about Draco being a part of the wedding.

This was what had led to Sirius bringing five large white peacocks with him to the wedding, which he swore up and down had not been liberated from Malfoy Manor. 

When Draco had shown up, he’d taken one look at the peacocks and promptly set them all on fire.

“We’re not taking them back now that Black’s tampered with them,” Draco said. “Who knows what he’s done to them.”

“I did do a lot of things to them,” Sirius admitted. “I didn’t write any of it down, either. So you can't reverse it.”

The flaming peacocks, unfortunately, had not gone down easily, taking a few other decorations with them. Sirius and Draco had both ended up smelling faintly of freshly cooked chicken until Hermione came storming up them, tossing out Freshening Charms like they were candy.

Hermione had been appalled at the blatant fowl murder and lack of respect for her detailed planning. So she had then refused to stand next to either of them. This meant that the left side of the procession had been changed to Sirius, Draco, and then Neville, who had selflessly volunteered to swap sides.

Once the new arrangement had been settled, Hermione had gone to tell Harry that they would be starting shortly. Harry would not learn of the entire debacle with the peacocks until much, much later, when there was time scheduled for ‘small talk’.

Harry had checked his watch when Hermione entered the tent. They had been behind schedule. Then he had looked back up at Hermione, who was rather frazzled. Her hair and dress had been styled beautifully, but her cheeks were flushed a darker pink than usual as she approached him.

“Do not ask,” Hermione said feverishly. “Just be ready for when Sirius comes to fetch you.”

Harry had only nodded, afraid that if he spoke, Hermione would accuse him of taking up three more extra seconds of time. Then Hermione had left, and Harry was alone in the tent once more. He had then pulled out his schedule and noted absently that he no longer had any time left for ‘nervous procrastination’.

Then Sirius had come barrelling in, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Malfoy tried to set me on fire,” said Sirius. “But now we’re going to start!”

“You’re standing next to him,” Harry said, not reassured by Sirius’ good cheer.

“Yes, well, if he tries to set me on fire during the ceremony, I’ll turn him into a ferret,” Sirius said. “Now let’s go before Hermione threatens to kill me. For the second time.”

Then he’d seized Harry gently by the arm and began dragging him towards the tent flap.

“Wait, wait!” Harry said.

Sirius had stopped and turned to look at him. “Cold feet?” asked Sirius. “Say the word, and I will activate my emergency Portkey to Spain.”

“No, I’m not having cold feet,” Harry said hastily. “I just—”

“Hermione told me she scheduled in time for you to be nervous,” Sirius said, peering closely at Harry. “Did she not do that?”

“I’m not nervous,” Harry said. Truthfully, he'd been rather annoyed that his emotions were rebelling against him this close to the big moment. “Well. I am still slightly nervous, but not about marrying Tom. I know I want to do that.” Harry hadn’t known how to explain to his godfather that he was having an emotional overload.

“Good. So we can go now, and Hermione won’t murder me for derailing her scheduling further?” Sirius asked hopefully.

Harry had taken a deep breath. “Yeah. Just. Thank you for doing this. All of this. And for walking me down the aisle.”

Sirius had smiled at him, and Harry noted that there were little crinkles around his godfather’s eyes. “Of course, Harry. I love you, and I know your parents would have loved to be here, too. I’m sure they would have liked Tom. Even James, once he warmed up to him being a Slytherin.”

“I hope so,” Harry said. Then he’d let himself be swooped into a hug.

“I’m happy as long as you’re happy,” Sirius said. “Now, let’s go and get you properly hitched. Time to make Tom an honest man!”

And then they had been walking out of the tent and towards the aisle. There had been plenty of what were probably very expensive decorations to look at on the way, but Harry’s eyes sought out the one person who was waiting for him at the end of the aisle.

Tom had been dressed in flowing robes of deep red. There had been no gold trim on them, but there were small gold buttons on his waistcoat, which had been his concession to the colour. His dark eyes had glimmered under the summer sun as he spotted Harry.

There had immediately been another flood of emotions inside of Harry, all of which were followed by the return of the calm, comforting feelings from earlier. Tom had been smiling at him, smiling so wide that it was threatening to split his face in two. Everything that had not been already perfect, would soon be.

As he and Sirius had moved further down, it was harder for Harry to remember that he was supposed to be walking because he was so focused on memorizing every aspect of Tom’s face. Sirius had then begun to sort of drag him along down the lush white carpet rolled out beneath their feet.

“Almost there, pup,” Sirius said in an undertone.

There had been a bit more walking, and then Harry suddenly found himself being deposited right in front of Tom, who was still smiling brilliantly, as though Harry was the most resplendent thing in the entire universe.

Sirius had then moved to stand next to Tom, though he did give Harry a cheeky wink. On Harry’s side had been Ron, Hermione, and Ginny; all three of them in their own dress robes that had green accents to match Harry’s wedding robes.

Luna had been chosen to officiate the wedding. She had been dressed entirely in sunshine yellow, which some of the audience probably thought to be quite scandalous. Her hair had been braided into a honeycomb shape that sat on the top of her head, and there were little animated bees hovering around her.

“Hello,” said Luna. “You look very handsome, Harry.”

“Hi Luna,” said Harry, beaming at her. “Thanks.”

“Are you both ready?” she asked them.

“Absolutely,” Tom breathed, reaching out to take Harry’s hands in his. “Let’s begin.”

“Friends and family of Harry and Tom,” Luna began, her pleasant tone amplified so that it reached even the furthest row of chairs that was laid out upon the grassy field. “Today we celebrate the loving bond between two of the kindest, bravest men I know. I’ve known both Tom and Harry since they were second years at Hogwarts, and it brings me great pleasure to call them my friends, and to see them joined today in matrimony. Very few people would have ever believed that a Slytherin and a Gryffindor could get along so well, but Tom and Harry have shown us all that, even in the most unlikeliest of friendships, true love can still find a way to blossom.”

Here Luna had paused, smiling gently out at the crowd. “Today, by joining Harry and Tom in marriage, they will become family, not only according to the letter of the law, but in spirit as well.”

Sirius had already started crying, and was now wiping at his eyes with a floral-patterned handkerchief. Even Draco, standing next to him, had looked uncharacteristically moved by Luna’s speech.

“And now,” Luna continued, “Harry and Tom would like to exchange the vows that they have written for each other.”

“My turn first,” said Tom. And then Tom had cleared his throat, tugging gently on their joined hands and pulling Harry a little closer to him. “Harry, the only greater honour than accepting your hand in marriage is the honour of doing it here at Hogwarts, in front of those who care for us. For make no mistake, what you have given me, aside from your incredible love, is something that I had never believed was possible.” Tom had gazed at him so warmly, then, that Harry started to feel lightheaded. Tom continued, his voice high and proud, “You’ve given me a family, and you’ve given me a home.”

“You’re a sap,” said Harry, tears in his eyes. “An enormous sap.”

Tom had grinned at him. “You are mine and I am yours; in sickness and in health, in madness and in gladness. Words cannot describe how much you mean to me, so I can only hope that the rest of our lives together will suffice. Because I know that if I am to have you with me, forever, I shall always have a place to call home.” Here Tom had paused again, his thumbs brushing over the tops of Harry’s hands. “And that place is you, Harry. Because you’ve seen me from the very beginning—you see me, the whole of me, right down to my soul. Once I realized that, I knew that I had to have you for my own.”

“You were pretty relentless,” Harry agreed, and he was definitely not crying.

“On this day I promise you that, for as long as we both shall live, I will be as devoted to the task of deserving your love, your kindness, your empathy, as I was on that very first day I asked you to be mine.” Tom’s grin had softened, then, as he continued, “I swear I will love you until the end of my days, Harry James Potter, if you’ll have me.”

And then there had been some doves flying in the air, or sparkly gold confetti, or unicorns braying, or something, but Harry had been too occupied with wiping at his face and pulling himself together to really take it in. He had the sudden, random hope that whoever Tom hired to take the photos was doing a good job, because at the moment he could not see very much of what Tom had planned out.

“That was very beautiful, Tom,” said Luna, her serene voice audible over all the sniffling in the audience. “Now Harry, it’s your turn to recite your vows.”

Harry had mentally cursed the fact that Tom had gone first, because not only was he now an emotional mess, but whatever he said now was certainly not about to measure up to the things Tom had just said to him.

But this was, as Tom had said, their wedding day. And that meant all Harry had to do was stare into Tom’s eyes, knowing that it was just the two of them standing here, and begin to speak.

“Tom,” said Harry. “You are the only person in the world that I would ever want to marry. You make me braver, Tom; you inspire me to achieve the courage that Gryffindors are known for. When I look at you, when I see you smile at me like that—you make my doubts vanish and my fears fade away. You say the most ridiculously romantic things to me, and I know you always mean every bit of them. I love you for it—I love you for all of it. I loved you for it yesterday, I love you for it now, and I’m pretty damn sure I’ll love you for it for the rest of our lives, too.

“There’s nothing I’d rather do than give you the home and the family that your deserve.” Harry had felt tears trickling down his face again, but he continued, echoing Tom’s words, “In sickness and in health, in madness and in gladness. You are everything I ever dreamed of and more. So I promise to stay, Tom, and I promise that I will always be here to promise you forever.”

Tom had stared at Harry for what felt like an eternity, and then he had stuck out his left hand. “Rings,” Tom said insistently, his eyes very wet as he blinked furiously to clear them. “Rings. I want to kiss Harry now.” Then he had made an impatient motion with his hand in Draco’s direction.

“Now we will exchange the rings,” Luna said, smiling.

Draco had fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the rings, which he swiftly passed over to Tom. Luna had started humming in the background, not seeming to mind as Tom completely overrode her role.

“With this ring,” Tom said breathlessly. “I thee wed.” He slipped the ring, with its gold and silver entwined bands, onto Harry’s finger.

“With this ring,” Harry said, as he mirrored the motion. “I thee wed.”

And then Tom had quickly pulled Harry into his arms, kissing him with such fervour that Harry could hear people in the audience whistling loudly. Both their faces were wet with tears, even as Tom lifted a hand—the hand with the wedding ring on it—to softly caress Harry’s cheek and jaw.

“I now pronounce you both as husband and husband!” Luna said, belatedly and cheerfully.

There had been several bright flashes of light in quick succession as photos were taken. Tom had still been holding Harry close—one hand on the small of Harry’s back, the other still pressed gently against his face—when Sirius yelled, “Get a room, newlyweds!”

Tom had pulled away, then, and Harry saw that his husband was glowing. With love, with pride, with the purest form of joy. Then Tom had sniffed, still trying to blink away the tears that threatened to spill over, and Harry hadn’t been able to help himself as he yanked Tom in for one more quick kiss.

“Husband,” said Tom, once Harry had moved away.

Harry hadn’t thought he could be more in love with Tom than he was in that moment. “Husband,” said Harry, smiling back.

“Group hug!” shouted Sirius, dragging both Draco and Neville by the arm towards them. “Everyone in a group hug!”

Then Harry and Tom had found themselves squashed together once more as everyone at the altar with them piled in. There had been more cameras flashing, and Harry fleetingly wished that he’d taken Tom up on his offer to correct Harry’s vision for today, because the glare was maddeningly bright.

“Happy wedding day!” said Luna enthusiastically, and some of the others echoed the sentiment.

“You are all insane,” said Draco, but he looked pleased to be included.

After that, things had flowed smoothly into the reception, where both Harry and Tom shook hands and accepted congratulations from everyone. Even though he’d felt like he’d been smiling for hours, Harry found that he wasn’t the least bit tired. Tom, who had yet to stray more than a few centimeters from Harry since they’d kissed, kept up a steady stream of polite conversation with every guest that they had to greet, so that Harry only had to pay a sliver of attention to what was happening and provide a response here and there.

“Harry!” said Colin Creevey. “This is the best wedding ever!” His usual camera was looped around his neck.

“Hey, Colin!” said Harry. “Have you been taking the photos?”

“Tom hired me to do it,” Colin said proudly. “I started my own photography business after I’d finished Hogwarts.” Then he had looked anxiously between them both. “I was wondering, could I use some of the photos from today for my portfolio? It’s just I don’t think I’ll ever get a chance to take pictures of something this cool ever again, but I get if you want to keep it private—”

“No, go ahead,” Harry said, surprising both himself and Tom with his answer. “I think it’s really great that you have your own business, Colin.”

Tom had nodded his agreement. “Just make sure I get to look over the photos you choose first,” Tom said.

“Of course I will!” Colin had been practically bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. “Thanks Harry! Thanks Tom! You’re both the greatest, and I’m really, really happy for you two.” He had given them both a quick hug, then dashed off to take more photos of the reception.

“Hiring Colin was really nice of you, Tom,” said Harry.

Tom had shuffled close again, so that his jaw brushed against the side of Harry’s head. “I knew it would make you happy. And I knew that Creevey would do an excellent job.”

“You’re the best husband in the world,” Harry said, grinning.

“Thank you,” said Tom, straightening up and adjusting his shirt collar in an exaggerated manner. “It’s heartwarming to be recognized for my latent aptitude.”

Harry snorted softly. “You’re the only person in the world who would ever claim to be predisposed towards being the best husband in the world.”

“I’m the only person in the world,” said Tom solemnly, pressing a kiss to Harry’s cheek, “who is married to you.”

Chapter Text

Present Day

Both Harry and Tom are curled up on their couch together, watching their fireplace as it dances and flickers. It is Tom’s birthday today. They had spent most of the day out again: breakfast with the students, lunch with Ron and Hermione, and dinner at a private reservation Harry had booked for them at Tom’s favourite restaurant.

“Are you ready for your gift?” asks Harry.

“I do think I’ve been very patient while waiting for it,” Tom says.

“You have, actually.” Harry cocks his head to the side, smiling. “So thank you for that.”

Tom leans over and kisses Harry’s forehead. “Anything you give to me is worth the wait.”

“You’re a sap,” says Harry, and then goes to stand. “Let’s go.”

“Go?” Tom asks, bemused. But he allows Harry to grab his hand and pull him towards the door.

Harry tugs his Invisibility Cloak off of the coat rack on his way out, gesturing for Tom to pull close so he can drape it over both of them.

“People will see our feet,” says Tom. “I can just cast the invisibility spell, if you like.”

“Shush,” says Harry. “You’re ruining the moment.”

Tom mimes zipping his lips closed and wraps an arm around Harry as Harry tosses the cloak over them both. Indeed, their feet, ankles, and part of their calves are visible beneath the hem of the fabric. Harry watches as Tom stretches his right foot out and rotates the ankle, likely to make sure his point about the feet is very clear.

“You’re just too tall,” Harry complains.

“I thought I was ruining the moment with talking,” Tom says sardonically.

“I’m trying to recreate a memory, Tom. Shut up. You were a tall git back then, too.”

Tom gives Harry’s waist a squeeze, and then they are slowly navigating their way down the corridors of Hogwarts. They head down a few flights of stairs, towards the center of the school. Harry can tell when Tom realizes where they’re going, because Tom inhales rather sharply.

They enter the second floor girls’ lavatory, the one situated right above the Great Hall.

Harry walks them right up to the sinks then stops, pulling the cloak off of them both and tucking it into his robes.

“Okay,” says Harry. “Now open it.”

“Bossy,” says Tom. But he looks over at the snakey tap anyways and hisses, “Open.”

The secret passageway reveals itself as the sink shifts down into the floor. Harry peers down the dark tunnel, which is still spooky, but is now also much, much cleaner than it had once been. If it wasn’t for the poor lighting, the tunnel might have even been shiny.

“Not to ruin the moment,” Tom says, “but how did you even get in here to plant my present if you don’t speak Parseltongue?”

“Erm.” Harry looks faintly embarrassed. “I just sort of, you know, mimicked you a bit. It took me a few tries, but I got it eventually.”

“Oh?” says Tom, interested. “That I would like to see, very much.”

“Another time,” Harry says hastily. “Let’s go show you your present.”

Tom waves his wand in a gentle motion and levitates Harry down the tunnel. Then he steps down himself, floating slowly until he reaches the bottom.

“Show off,” says Harry fondly. Then he takes Tom by the hand again. “Come on, this way.”

“I know where the Chamber is,” Tom says, still amused, but also faintly curious.

As they walk, candles flicker to life on both sides of the corridor. Tom peers at them, taking in the sight of their shining silver holders. “You remodelled,” Tom says in wonder.

“I should have blindfolded you,” Harry mutters. “Yes, I remodelled.”

They continue until they reach the snake-accented door, where Tom hisses, “Open.”

The Chamber reveals itself—the cavernous room is now lit on all sides by floating candles. The original floor has been replaced by polished black marble, and the old, rocky walls have been cleaned and ground down to a slick smoothness.

“I thought you ought to be able to use the place that’s your birthright,” Harry says softly.

There are a few tall, cherry wood bookcases lined up between some of the snake-adorned columns. Though the shelves are mostly empty, there are a few things resting on them. A statue of a snake and a statue of a lion sit on opposite ends of the top shelf. Harry had picked them out specifically to represent him and Tom. There is also a framed photograph of the two of them at their Hogwarts graduation, and another photograph of them from their wedding. Lastly, the gauntlets they had finally gotten off of Sirius’ hands sit in a clear glass case on the top shelf of the final bookshelf.

“I would have moved some of our books in here if I hadn’t thought that you would notice that they’d gone missing.”

“I would have definitely noticed,” says Tom. “Harry, this is incredible. I don’t know what to say.”

Tom wanders past the bookshelves, taking some time to examine the objects resting on the shelves before moving on. At the end of the chamber, the statue of Salazar Slytherin has been shrunken down and placed as decoration atop a roaring fireplace.

“That statue was a piece of history,” Tom says absently.

“It was ugly and obtrusive and the product of Slytherin’s egomania,” says Harry, but he’s truthfully rather nervous about Tom’s reaction. For a long while, Harry had gone back and forth on the idea of removing the statue, because while the statue was most definitely a part of the history of the chamber, it really had taken up a lot of space, and it made no sense as a part of a room that Harry meant for Tom to use regularly. Shrinking the entire thing down and placing it on the mantle had been a way to compromise between the historical and sentimental values that Harry wanted to preserve.

“Oh, definitely,” says Tom, jerking his gaze back to Harry. “This is much cleaner and more attractive.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but follows as Tom walks over to the two green armchairs that are facing each other in front of the blazing flames.

“Well?” asks Harry. “Does this measure up to your idea of aesthetically pleasing design?”

“It does,” Tom says promptly. “It ticks all the boxes. I can’t believe you put so much time and effort into this, Harry. How long did this take you?”

“I haven’t even shown you the best part,” Harry teases. “Come over this way.”

Tom takes Harry’s hand as they proceed over to the study area Harry had set up for Tom’s personal research. There is a high-backed leather chair and a large, minimalist desk resting upon a dark grey rug. The lamp sitting on the desk has metal snakes wound around its base, and there is a little metal quill holder embossed with the Slytherin coat of arms.

“For my research,” Tom acknowledges, smiling. “You do think of everything.”

“Nope,” says Harry. “Still not the best part.” He tugs Tom over to the cabinet that sits a few paces behind the desk chair.

“This looks familiar.” Tom runs his hand down the front of the cabinet, and then looks up at its strange, pointed top.

“It’s a Vanishing Cabinet,” Harry says. “I noticed it sitting on the first floor of Hogwarts in our second year, but I didn’t know what it was then. I’d nearly forgotten all about it, too, until we went to Borgin and Burkes a few years after we had graduated, looking for your mother’s locket. The twin of the Hogwarts one was there, but I still didn’t pick up on it right away. Remember how Borgin said that it was broken?”

“Yes,” says Tom. “He said that the cabinet it was connected to must have been damaged.”

“That was because Peeves dropped it in a hallway to distract Filch that one time we we’d been out after curfew,” Harry says sheepishly. “The cabinet got moved, somehow, into the Room of Requirement. I hadn’t even meant to go looking for it, but—um.”

Tom raises an eyebrow at him.

“I was just trying to escape some of our students on Valentine’s Day,” Harry says hastily. “I was worried they’d try to offer me lube or something again.”

“I’m actually rather offended that they offer you these things and not me,” Tom says. “Am I not as approachable?”

“That could not be more besides the point.”

“As long as they’re intending for us to use it together, I really feel it’s not that big of an issue,” Tom says thoughtfully. “It’s flattering that they’re so invested in our marriage.”

“Back to my point,” Harry says loudly, “which is that I don’t think I would have remembered the cabinet at all if it hadn’t been for my Auror Occlumency training. But once I saw it again, I knew I had to make sure that it was the right one.”

“So you went back to Borgin and Burkes,” Tom says, narrowing his eyes. “Without me.”

“Tom,” says Harry. “I can handle myself in Knockturn Alley.”

“That doesn’t mean that I have to like it,” Tom says stubbornly. “It’s a dangerous place, Harry.”

Harry sighs. “It went just fine. It took me a while to talk Borgin down on the price—I tried to convince him I wanted it for you as a gift purely for the research value. You probably would have done a better job haggling than I did, but eventually I got him down to something reasonable, mostly because he knew there was no other way he would be able to get rid of it.”

Tom creaks the cabinet open. The inside of it is pitch black.

“I had Sirius and Hermione help me figure out how to fix it,” Harry adds. “It was difficult because I couldn’t move this cabinet out of the chamber once I’d put it in here—it would have been too difficult to get either of them in to look at it properly without you noticing. So it took me nearly all year to fix the Hogwarts one, working just off their written instructions. But now we have this one in here connected to its twin, which I put into our rooms so we can go back and forth.”

“This is ingenious,” says Tom.

Harry blushes. “So it’s good?”

“It’s more than good,” Tom says, whirling around to face Harry. “It’s absolutely phenomenal. I never would have thought to find a way to utilize this space—it is so difficult to access that I had never considered it worth the effort. But you, Harry, you are perfect, and you never fail to astound me.”

Tom’s hands grasp Harry’s elbows, drawing him in. He is so delighted, so animated in his excitement, that there are faint splotches of colour on his cheeks as he gazes down at Harry. The most beautiful smile is curling Tom’s lips, one that even wizarding photographs cannot truly do justice to.

“Happy birthday,” Harry says, elated.

“You are the best thing in my life,” says Tom, and then he leans in and plants multiple kisses on Harry in quick succession.

Harry drapes his arms around Tom’s neck, curling his fingers into Tom’s soft hair. “Happy birthday,” sings Harry, quietly and only minorly off-tune. His voice echoes softly throughout the chamber. They sway slightly, and eventually the only thing keeping Harry upright is the steady presence of Tom’s arms sliding around him.

Four Years Ago

Ron and Hermione had given birth to a happy, healthy baby girl. There had been zero complications with the pregnancy, and both sets of grandparents were absolutely ecstatic. The new Granger-Weasley could have been described as the spitting image of her mother—if Hermione had been born a fair-skinned, red-haired baby.

After the initial crying and congratulations had concluded, Hermione had passed the child to Harry.

Harry had held his goddaughter very carefully in his arms, worried that if he so much as shifted his hold by a millimeter, something would go horribly wrong and she would cry. Tom had stood close by Harry, his chest pressed against Harry’s back as he, too, looked down at the small, pink-faced infant.

“Her name is Rose,” said Hermione, her face glowing with unadulterated happiness. “Rose Harriet Granger-Weasley.”

There had been a pause as the name sunk in. “What?” said Harry, bewildered. “You can’t do that.”

“Harry, you’re ridiculous,” Tom muttered under his breath, which Harry ignored.

“It’s our kid,” Ron said stubbornly. “We’ve already named her, so there’s no changing it, mate.”

“Well, erm—” Harry had fumbled for the right words, then settled for simply saying, “Thank you.”

Baby Rose had then twitched her nose in her sleep. It had, quite possibly, been one of the most adorable things Harry had ever seen in his entire life. Even Tom, who was usually inclined to restraining his facial expressions, had been gazing down at Rose with an atypical amount of fondness.

“Ginny is the godmother,” Hermione said, still smiling, but her next words were solemn, “but should something ever happen to Ron and myself, then Rose will go to you both.”

Harry had both heard and felt Tom’s sudden intake of breath. Handing Rose back over to Ron, Harry had then reached backwards for Tom’s hand, holding it tight. “Nothing will ever happen,” Harry said firmly. “But we’d be honoured all the same.”

Tom had remained uncharacteristically silent as baby Rose continued to sleep. They had all been quiet as they gazed at Rose’s peaceful face. Harry had a hard time imagining her looking any other way than she did right now, tiny and round-faced in Ron’s arms.

Then Tom had spoken suddenly, his voice tight: “Rose will grow up with both her parents and her godparents.” The words had rung clearly through the air, like magic itself had sealed his promise.

Present Day

Tom had conjured a giant cork board, which he had set up next to his new research desk in the Chamber of Secrets. The one week deadline that Tom had originally promised Harry had run out, and Tom has now returned to his vigilante plotting.

“You know,” says Harry, watching Tom as he works. “When I originally came up with the idea for using this Chamber, it wasn’t intended to be the Voldemort equivalent of the bat cave.”

“Don’t compare me to Bruce Wayne,” says Tom absently. He’s in the middle of tracing all the confirmed sightings and known locations of the smugglers that had attacked Ron.

“Right,” Harry says teasingly, “you’re much better looking than Batman.”

Tom huffs and finally looks up at Harry, who is perched at the end of the overly-large desk. “Are you here to help me or distract me?”

Harry quirks his head to the side. “Both?” But he obligingly slides off of the desk and moves to stand next to Tom. “What have we got here so far, then.”

So Tom explains, and Harry manages to follow all of it more easily than he thought he would. There are patterns to the complex webs of trade routes and the scattered storehouses. Harry points out what he can based on what he remembers from his time in the Auror Corps, and also makes a few intuitive suggestions. Tom has two new parchment rolls full of notes by the time Harry’s done consulting.

Harry perches himself back on top of the desk, watching Tom’s brow crease as he re-reads one of the parchment scrolls.

“I’m getting you glasses,” Harry says. “You need glasses.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tom says. “Batman doesn’t wear glasses.”

Harry plants a kiss on the top of Tom’s head. “I’m going to get them for you, and you better wear them, or else I will be very, very sad.”

“This is blackmail,” says Tom. “Emotional blackmail.”

Harry is not moved by Tom’s stubbornness. “You’re always squinting! Either you’re going to start using glasses, or I’m going to go to the Hospital Wing and ask Hannah to brew you the corrective potion, and then you’ll have to drink that daily. Is that what you prefer? Because I’ll go up and ask Hannah right now.”

Tom scowls. “I’m only thirty. I don’t need reading glasses.”

“You spend practically half the day reading students’ homework, scholarly articles, and weird ancient books. And most of the time you don’t read with proper lighting, which only makes it worse.”

“You wear glasses,” Tom points out.

“It’s hereditary,” Harry says, even though he’s not entirely sure whether or not that’s correct. Tom likely doesn’t know the answer, anyway.

Tom stares obstinately at Harry for an entire minute. Harry does not blink.

“Fine,” says Tom. “But they better be attractive glasses, or I will set them on fire.”

“Draco’s rubbing off on you,” says Harry, and then dodges with the practiced reflexes of a Seeker as Tom tries to chuck a crumpled piece of parchment at him.

“I’m going to strangle you with that hideous quilt Sirius sent us,” Tom says.

“Sent you, for your birthday,” Harry says cheekily, and then is forced to dodge again as Tom sends a flock of conjured birds in his direction.

Some days later finds them back in the Chamber, where a second cork board has joined its predecessor. Tom’s been running himself all over the castle all week, quite literally. He has been teaching daily classes, plotting down in the Chamber, writing up his latest research on Gryffindor’s gauntlets, and managing his additional duties as Head of House Slytherin. Harry’s beginning to get worried about his husband stretching himself too thin.

“Are you sure we can’t just leave this to the Aurors?” asks Harry.

“Of course not,” Tom says. “There’s no sense in waiting for them to do something that I can accomplish more efficiently.”

“You’re the History of Magic Professor, Tom,” Harry reminds him. “It really isn’t your responsibility.”

“I’m much more than just that,” says Tom, but he sounds slightly detached as he speaks. “I killed Bellatrix Lestrange. She’ll not be hurting anyone’s families ever again.”

Harry eyes Tom for a moment, considering.

“We’re very safe here, Tom, you know that, right?”

Tom deliberately looks over at the cork boards instead of at Harry, and that’s how Harry knows he’s on the right track. Walking over, Harry pulls Tom’s chair backwards despite his husband’s protests, and tugs on Tom’s hands until they’re both standing together.

“We are going to go sit down and talk about this now,” Harry says firmly. “And you are not allowed to go back to work until I am satisfied that we’ve talked it out properly.”

Harry walks them over to the large, comfy armchairs by the fire. He sits down in one of them and drags Tom over as well, so that Tom is half-sitting on top of him.

“Are you quite sure this isn't just a ploy to get me onto your lap?” asks Tom, half-heartedly.

“I am quite sure,” Harry says. “Now, you’re going to tell me what’s really driving you to do all this.” Truthfully, Harry thinks he actually has a fairly good idea of what it is now, because he knows Tom.

“I told you,” Tom says. “Someone needs to stop these people. I don’t mind doing it and I’m very good at it. It makes the most sense for it to be me.”

“Doing it and running yourself into the ground over it are two different things,” Harry says pointedly.

When Tom doesn’t respond, Harry sighs.

“Let me tell you something,” says Harry. “I wouldn’t have minded being a professional Quidditch player, and I would have been very good at it. But that’s not what I chose to do. Because I love you, and I love our friends and our family and our students. I wouldn’t have time for any of the other things I love if I was off flying around the world playing Quidditch. So I chose to teach here at Hogwarts, because the people I love and the things I love doing are all right here. You know I love our life together, Tom. I wouldn’t change it for anything in the world. So I choose to stay.” Harry gently places his left hand against Tom’s cheek. “Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” says Tom grudgingly.

“So,” Harry continues, “tell me why you’re really doing this.”

Tom closes his eyes, breathing deeply. Harry waits patiently, stroking the pad of his thumb delicately across Tom’s cheekbone and down his jawline. The fire next to them hisses and spits embers quietly into the silence.

Then Tom finally opens his eyes, dropping his gaze to the Weasley jumper that Harry is wearing.

“I’m scared,” Tom admits quietly. Then, as though that admission has released something locked deep inside of him, he breathes out the rest of his words in a rush. “I’m scared something will happen to you, or Hermione, or Ron, or Rose, or Sirius, or one of the Weasley spawn, or Neville, or Luna, or even—Merlin’s sake—Draco Malfoy, and it will all be due to the fact that I could have done something to stop it and I didn’t.”

Then Tom takes Harry’s free hand in both of his own. He’s holding it so carefully, like he expects Harry’s hand to break if he grasps it too tightly.

Tom adds, in a shaky whisper, “I couldn’t take it if someone died, Harry. I couldn’t accept that.”

“Oh, Tom,” says Harry, his heart breaking. “That’s not a burden for you to bear.”

“I couldn’t,” Tom insists, and Harry can tell that he’s trying very hard not to cry. “I couldn’t. Especially not you, Harry, I would—I would rather die than lose you.”

“I know I can’t promise that nothing will happen to me,” Harry says, after a pause. “There’s too much that’s unknown for me to able to do that. But I promised you forever, remember? Whatever happens, wherever we go, I will always be by your side, Tom, because you will always have a home in my heart, even if it stops beating. The love I have for you is so powerful that even death couldn’t keep it from reaching you.”

Tom shivers, turning to press his face into the crook of Harry’s shoulder. So Harry wandlessly summons the terrible, colourful patchwork quilt that Sirius had sent for Tom’s birthday, and then drapes it around them both.

“Why no one calls you the bleeding heart Gryffindor between the two of us,” Harry murmurs as he holds Tom close, “I’ll never know.”

Following Tom’s admission, everything had gone back to normal. At least, as close to what was considered normal for the two of them. Harry had continued to help Tom track the smugglers, and Tom was no longer working at a pace that would run him into the ground. Tom had also grudgingly begun to wear the black, half-frame glasses Harry had picked out for him.

Sirius had sent them multiple letters from Alberta, Canada of all places, complaining bitterly about the cold.

“Maybe we should send the gauntlets to him,” Harry jokes.

“Do not tempt me,” Tom says. “I would do it if you let me.”

The two of them sit there for a moment. Tom continues to write in his diary while Harry watches him.

“Okay,” says Harry. “Let’s do it.”

“Really?” asks Tom, looking up.

“Really,” says Harry.

So Tom and Harry had spent the next three hours figuring out not only how to transfigure Godric Gryffindor’s gauntlets into regular-looking mittens, but also how to keep the Transfiguration sustained for the entire journey to Alberta.

Two days after that, Remus sends them an owl containing a letter from Sirius that is filled with a lot of creative expletives.

“Why is the owl from Lupin?” asks Tom.

“I think Sirius was only able to manage the one owl since his hands were occupied,” Harry says. “So of course he went to bother Remus first.”

“Hmm,” says Tom. “I suppose we should send him the instructions for getting them off.”

So they sent off another owl with Tom’s instructions for removing the gauntlets. Harry had expected that they would get a response via owl in a few days at the most, so he and Tom had planned to spend the rest of their Saturday lazing about and marking papers. Unfortunately, this was not meant to be, because shortly after four in the afternoon they received a Floo call request from Sirius.

“Hello?” Harry says tentatively into the fireplace. He and Tom are both crouched down in front of the Floo, where Sirius’ face is now appearing.

“The gauntlets set my bedroom on FIRE!” Sirius yells out immediately upon seeing them. “The whole entire bloody thing was on fire, and even Aguamenti wouldn’t put it out!”

“Interesting,” Tom says, summoning his quill and parchment from across the room. “How exactly did that come about?”

“I was staying in a Muggle hotel,” Sirius says, but he doesn’t really sound that mad. “And now I’m going to get banned from Canada for life by the Canadian Ministry for Magic. All because you two sent me those blasted gloves!”

It turned out that casting Banishing Charms repeatedly on the gauntlets would, in fact, charge said gauntlets up with magical energy. This charge, once it had reached a certain critical level, would then discharge in the gauntlet’s form of choice, which just so happened to be extremely powerful magical fire that was immune to Aguamenti.

“How did you eventually put the fire out?” Tom asks.

“Well, after trying Aguamenti a bunch of times, I switched to the Aqua Eructo Charm, but that still didn’t work, so then I cast the Ebublio Jinx to protect myself, only then my entire room was encased in a giant water bubble!”

Tom jots that down. “And that put the fire out?”

“It choked off all the oxygen! So yes, it did put the fire out,” Sirius says. Then he narrows his eyes. “I cannot believe you are writing all this down. If they revoke my travel papers, I am coming to stay with you in your rooms, and you will never know a moment’s peace ever again.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” says Harry.

“If you think you can handle another prank war between us,” Tom says idly, “you’re not going to like the results, Black.”

“I am no longer enjoying this conversation,” says Sirius. “I am hurt and offended. I’m going to call Moony and drag your names through the mud.”

“You do that,” Tom says, “and then send me a very detailed report of what happened with the gauntlets, Black, I want a timeline of everything starting from when you put the gauntlets back on, so I know exactly how you—and there he goes, he’s gone.”

“Thank Merlin,” says Harry. He leans back from the fireplace, sitting down on the thick woolen rug. “I think my knees are about to give out. We really ought to put some cushions here or something.” 

Tom snorts at him. “Come here, you ridiculous man.” He pulls Harry over, so that Harry is sitting between Tom’s legs as they both gaze into their now empty fireplace.

“If Sirius really does get kicked out of Canada,” says Harry, “he is absolutely going to try and move in with us.”

“Oh, I know,” says Tom, reaching around so that he can lace their hands together. “But I don’t think it would be that bad, really. Sirius is family.”

Harry feels himself being warmed up from the inside out at Tom’s words. “You know what, Tom? I think you’re right,” Harry says, smiling. He leans back against Tom’s chest, knowing that the strong, steady beat of Tom’s heart is more present now than ever.

Ten Years Ago

“Did you ever imagine we would end up here?”

He and Tom had been lying in bed together, the rest of their wedding clothes strewn out all over the floor around them. The fireplace had gone out long ago, but Harry found he was too comfortable in Tom’s arms to care much about starting it back up again.

“Do you mean here, married? Or here, in bed?” Harry asked, tracing out slow circles on Tom’s collarbone with his index finger.

“Here, in general.” Tom had a faraway look in his eyes as he gazed up at the ceiling. “Together.”

Harry had sat up so he could see Tom’s face properly. “If you hadn’t asked me out at the start of our fifth year, we still would have ended up together,” he said decisively.

Tom’s eyes had flickered back to Harry. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Harry said firmly. “We were plotting together in the library at all hours for the Defense Club. You showed up to every single Quidditch match I played in even though I know you think Quidditch is boring and you hate the outdoors. I took Ancient Runes in third year just so we could have an extra class together. So yeah, I’m pretty sure I would have done something about all the feelings between us if you hadn’t.”

“I don’t hate the outdoors,” said Tom.

“And,” Harry added, ignoring the petulant comment, “I would have taken you home with me for Christmas that year regardless of whether or not we were dating, because I didn’t need to be your boyfriend to know that I cared about you, Tom.”

Tom’s face had flushed at that, and though it was not the first time it had done so all evening, the sight of it had still sent warm fuzzy feelings all throughout Harry’s chest. So Harry had laid his head back down upon their shared pillow, determined to soak up every last bit of pure contentment from this moment.

Eventually Tom had spoken again, the words passing through his lips so slowly that Harry could feel the vibrations from them where they were pressed close together. “Of all the lives I could have imagined for myself,” Tom said. “This one is more exquisite, more perfect than any of them could have ever been.”

Present Day

“Do you have everything?” Hermione asks worriedly. “You have the toys bag, and the books I picked out?” She’s wearing a long, shimmery golden gown, and her hair is done up into curly tendrils that cascade down her back and shoulders. Her earrings are also gold, and they have tiny little stars floating around them. Next to her, Ron is clad in dark grey dress robes with matching gold trim.

“Yes, Hermione,” says Harry patiently. “We have all of the same things you gave us last time, and we have the books. If there’s anything else, I’m sure Tom and I can figure it out ourselves.”

Rose is currently sat on their couch while Tom shows her a large picture book on dragons. The two of them look quite content and cozy together, just like the family that they are, which makes Harry feel indescribably happy.

“Well, alright,” says Hermione. “If you’re sure.”

Ron, who is still holding Hugo, chuckles lightly. “It’ll be fine, Hermione. You worry too much.” 

“I know it will be fine,” Hermione says defensively. “I trust Harry and Tom. I just don’t want any unnecessary trouble if it can be avoided, that’s all!”

“Da,” says Hugo, his thumb in his mouth. Hermione reaches over almost immediately to extricate it.

“We’re just leaving you with Uncle Harry and Uncle Tom for a short while, okay?” Ron says to his son, bouncing Hugo up on his hip slightly. “Your mum and I will be back very soon, and it’ll be like we never left!”

Ron then tries to lift Hugo away, but Hugo doesn’t budge an inch.

“Don’t want you to go,” Hugo says. He scrunches his face up, clinging even more as he plants his face against his father’s neck. 

“Hey, Hugo,” Harry says gently. “It’s alright, your dad’s not going for very long. Your mum has left some fun games for you and Rosie to play with, and we’re going to eat all your favourite things for dinner.”

Hugo makes an unintelligible noise into Ron’s shirt collar. “Don’t wanna.”

Tom stands up, leaving Rose with the dragon book, and walks over to them. “Hello, Hugo,” says Tom kindly. “Do you remember me?”

“Unca Tom,” Hugo says confidently, peeking his head up momentarily. His thumb, already on its way back into his mouth, is this time intercepted by Ron.

“Yes, that’s right.” Tom smiles widely. “Now, Hugo, your parents are going out to a very important event, where your mother is going to get a nice, shiny award. And then, once they’re done, they will come back to show it to you. Your mother’s worked very hard for her special present, and she should be able to go get it, don’t you think?”

Hugo glances over at Hermione, who nods patiently. “I get to see the present?” he asks.

“As soon as I get back,” Hermione promises.

With a hopeful expression, Ron attempts to hand Hugo over to Harry again, and this time he is successful. Harry wraps his arms around Hugo, knowing that the little boy is still feeling insecure about his dad’s time at St. Mungo’s, and waves goodbye to Ron and Hermione as the two of them step back into the Floo.

“There,” says Tom, stepping over so he’s in Hugo’s field of vision. “That was very nice of you, Hugo. I’m sure your mother is very happy.”

Hugo sniffs a little bit, but he seems fairly content as Harry rubs at his back.

“Can we watch a movie?” asks Rose.

“Erm,” says Harry. “We don’t have a television here at Hogwarts, Rosie. But we can do anything you want with magic?”

Rose thinks that over for a moment. “Can you make a unicorn?” she asks.

“I can make a toy unicorn,” Harry offers. “But I think your mum already packed one of those in your bag.”

Tom, who is poking around in said bag, withdraws two long stuffed snakes. “Ha,” he says, triumphant. “Look what we have here.”

“Snakey!” says Hugo, reaching over Harry’s shoulder towards where Tom is standing.

Tom freezes, and Harry has to forcibly restrain his laughter at the look on Tom’s face.

“Snakey!” says Harry cheerfully, walking Hugo over so the boy can snatch the bright blue snake out from Tom’s hands. “He’s a very cool snake, isn’t he?”

Hugo is in the middle of wiggling said snake all over the place, which means thumping its head against Harry’s back. Tom shakes himself from the horror and shoots Harry an unimpressed look.

“Should have known that Ron would find a way to make me pay for giving his children snakes for Christmas,” Tom says. He hands the remaining snake, a bright orange one, over to Rose, who immediately drapes it around her neck like a scarf.

“Yep,” says Harry. “You really should have.”

“What’s for dessert?” Rose asks. She’s sitting back on the couch, and the book about dragons is open on her lap.

“Chocolate lava cakes,” Tom says promptly. Harry had let Tom pick out the dessert for tonight, because he knew that Tom would enjoy being the one to overindulge the kids.

“Lots of sugar,” Harry reassures both children. “Just make sure you remember that your uncles spoil you the best.”

Rose grins, displaying the one little gap in her two rows of white teeth as she bounces on the couch. “Chocolate!”

Eventually, after an exciting evening of stuffed animals and sugar, both children are put to bed. Tom and Harry, both exhausted, slump against each other on the couch.

“Who knew being parents was so difficult?” Harry asks rhetorically. “I mean, we’ve babysat before, but it was a little different this time, I think. Hugo’s still a bit off because of what happened to Ron, so he was more clingy. But you were really great at handling him,” Harry adds.

It had been quite the challenge to put Hugo to bed—the little boy had insisted upon bedtime story after bedtime story, until his eyelids had drooped so much that Tom had finally put his foot down. Harry, who had been watching as Tom continually caved to Hugo’s wide-eyed requests, is incredibly charmed by the way Tom handles the kids.

“You did a wonderful job, too,” Tom says, yawning. “You’d make a wonderful father.”

That comment reminds Harry of an errant thought he’d had a few weeks earlier. “Tom,” says Harry. “I know Sirius is always bothering us about this, but do you think we’ll ever have kids?” The idea of the two of them as parents seems more real now, with Rose and Hugo both soundly asleep in their guest bedroom.

Tom looks thoughtful. “I’ll admit I haven’t thought much about that. Do you want children?”

“I’m not sure,” Harry admits. “I don’t really see us taking care of a baby.” An infant wouldn’t really fit in with their lifestyle, and Harry’s not sure if he’d want to commit to looking after a fussy, squalling infant.

“I don’t either,” Tom agrees. “But I wouldn’t be opposed to, say, the adoption of a child.”

Harry smiles knowingly, lolling his head back so he can gaze fondly at Tom. Nineteen years later, and Harry might know Tom better than anyone else in the world ever will, but Tom also knows Harry just as well. It is because of this that Harry understands exactly what Tom means, and he knows that both their desires are aligned in this.

“A lonely orphan child that needs a home?” asks Harry.

“Oh, something like that,” says Tom, and the loving look he gives Harry in return is absolutely dazzling.

Nineteen Years Ago

Tom Riddle had been sitting alone in his train compartment on his first train ride to Hogwarts.

He had found his way onto the platform after careful observation of the other families of witches and wizards, and he had tried his best to blend in with the crowd. There had been a plethora of other children milling about on the platform, so Tom had chosen to board the train early in the hopes that he could avoid having to socialize before he had his bearings under him.

Tom was well aware that he was already at a disadvantage; he was an orphan, had no knowledge of this world, and was described by other children as ‘off-putting’ at best. But Tom could do magic, he was a wizard, and he knew he had the potential to be special if only other people could finally see it, too.

The train had only just pulled out of the station when two boys came bustling by, just outside Tom’s compartment. They stopped next to his door, clearly peering in to see if the space was occupied. One of the boys was a ginger, but the other had a messy mop of black hair.

Tom had watched them glance at each other, and then prepared himself for disappointment as they inevitably continued walking to go sit somewhere else.

Then the black-haired boy had slid the door open and stepped inside. His eyes were a bright, startling green, and he was wearing dark, round-framed glasses.

“Hello,” said the boy. He smiled brilliantly at Tom, as though he was excited to see him. “Do you mind if we join you? My name is Harry Potter.”

The End