Chapter Text
In Harry’s defense, he didn’t intend to eavesdrop.
He simply hadn’t expected to wake up alone. Tom never mentioned that he needed to work this morning, and without him, the bed felt empty and cold, even with the vestiges of Warming Spells keeping the blankets cozy. He yearned for the company of Tubby, except Tom had stipulated early on in the relationship that he refused to share Harry with a stuffed penguin during sleepovers.
Disoriented, he laid in bed until he heard the faint sound of Tom’s voice coming from the direction of the study. He followed it, padding barefoot in the weak morning light to navigate the unfamiliar layout of Tom’s new flat. Once or twice, he narrowly avoided toppling over the stacks of books and papers littering the floor. Tom’s obsessive neatness flew out the window the minute he became absorbed in a new project.
As he neared the study, Tom’s voice became louder, and the words more distinct. Tom was throwing around technical terms in that cool tone he employed with people judged to be of inferior intelligence, which meant he was either talking to a work colleague or a former classmate.
Not a good idea to interrupt, then. Harry was debating whether to wait for Tom to finish or return to bed alone when Tom said, with deliberate slowness, “They are dead.”
Harry blinked, suddenly awake. Dead? Who was dead?
“Therefore,” Tom continued, “I hardly think their opinions matter.”
While Tom paused for the other person’s response, Harry pressed his ear against the door, but could only make out disconnected and nonsensical words. “Preserve,” “technique,” and “historical.”
The response didn’t suffice, because Tom heaved a loud sigh. “You have to be decisive. How can you accomplish anything of note if you aren’t willing to take a risk?”
Another pause from Tom, and when he next spoke, he sounded more appeased.
“Very well, I can be satisfied with that arrangement. I’ll follow up with my input on the site. Just remember,” he said, lowering his voice, “Harry cannot find out.”
Harry jerked away, not expecting to hear his own name. He was staring at the door, heart pounding and still processing what he’d heard, when it swung open to reveal Tom in pajamas and dressing gown.
“Harry, what are you doing up?” He looked surprised, then suspicious. “Were you outside the entire time?”
Caught red-handed, Harry unleashed the one weapon guaranteed to soften his boyfriend: he moved closer, wrapped his arms around Tom’s waist, and nuzzled his neck. “I was looking for you,” he whispered. “I missed you.”
Sure enough, the tension melted from Tom, who wrapped his arms around his shoulders and huffed into Harry’s hair. “Did you mistakenly believe that I abandoned you? Now look at you, you’re freezing. A Hogwarts sixth-year, yet you don’t understand the concept of layers.”
As he spoke, he slipped off his dressing gown and placed it around Harry, its elegant dark green color clashing with Harry’s penguin-print pajamas. Nevertheless, Harry brought it close and inhaled, loving that it smelled just like Tom. Just like home.
“Who were you talking to?” he asked.
“Someone from the Institute,” Tom replied, now rubbing circles on Harry’s back, and Harry couldn’t help snuggling closer.
“What about?”
“Something related to his research. Nothing important.”
Harry opened his mouth to interrogate further, only to let out a loud yawn. Tom chuckled and kissed his forehead, lips lingering long enough for Harry’s cheeks to heat up.
“All right, my sleepy little owl, let’s get you back to bed,” he said, guiding Harry towards the bedroom. “We still have a few hours before I return you to Hogwarts.”
Though doubt was encroaching the corners of Harry’s foggy mind, he was too sleepy, and besides, Tom’s arms were rather comfortable.
So he allowed himself to be led back to bed and, tucking himself under the covers against Tom, forgot about the mysterious firecall for a few more hours.
The Great Hall was bustling with the chatter of students returning from Easter holiday. As much as Harry had enjoyed his week with his parents and Tom, he was happy to be back at Hogwarts with his friends.
With much animation, Ron shared the details of his first visit to Hermione’s parents’ house. He’d found Muggle technology “absolutely fascinating,” particularly Hermione’s collection of academic CD games, and by the end of the visit, he’d even managed to use a telephone to call Mr. Weasley at the Burrow (“I dialed the numbers myself!”), to the excitement of both parties.
At that, Hermione rolled her eyes fondly and Harry sniggered.
“So tell us about your holiday, Harry. How were your sleepovers with Riddle?” Ron asked, waggling his eyebrows so suggestively that he earned himself a shove. Even after a year of Harry and Tom dating, Ron liked to pretend that having an older boyfriend (by only two years!) was scandalous.
“It was fine. I liked Tom’s new flat.”
“That’s right, a new flat. Did you try anything…interesting?”
Hermione groaned. “ Ron. Mind out of the gutter, please.”
“Well…” Harry swirled a spoon through his pumpkin custard, subdued. “Something interesting did happen, but not what you’re thinking.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his friends exchange a look.
“Everything okay?” Hermione said, assuming a tone of sympathy. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Ron was more straightforward. “You and Riddle fought again, didn’t you?”
“No!” Harry and Tom didn’t fight that much. The last time was in September, and he could barely remember what that had been about, except he’d enjoyed the apology treacle tart. “Why do you think something’s wrong?”
“For one thing,” Hermione said, “you’ve stopped wolfing down your dessert.”
“For another,” Ron added, “you’re not grinning at the sound of Riddle’s name.”
Harry set down his spoon. “You reminded me that I overheard something I shouldn’t have, that’s all.”
Ron brightened in interest. “What about?”
Harry took a deep breath. “I think Tom is up to something evil.”
His bombshell had little impact on his friends. Ron took a big bite of his lemon drizzle cake and Hermione dabbed her mouth with a napkin.
“Evil as in what?” she asked.
“I couldn’t hear everything, but I know that someone is dead, and I’m not supposed to find out.”
Hermione frowned. “That sounds vague, not evil.”
“Are you sure that someone is dead?” Ron said, mouth full of cake.
“You don’t believe me,” Harry accused, crossing his arms as his friends exchanged another look.
“It’s not that we don’t believe you,” Hermione said. “But someone being dead hardly means that Tom is evil, does it?”
“And you know, mate, your hearing’s never been the best. Remember what happened with Fred and the gnome this past summer?”
“Fred was slurring his words on purpose,” Harry grumbled. “He wanted me to offend the gnome and get chased across the orchard.”
Ron grinned, the amusement still fresh.
“Anyway,” Hermione said, “it’s likely that you overheard something out of context, and misunderstood.”
“If he wasn’t up to something dodgy, why did he say — and I quote him exactly — ‘Harry cannot find out’?”
Hermione chewed her bottom lip. “Someone could’ve died naturally and Riddle knew you’d be upset.”
“Yeah, brilliant!” Ron said, beaming at his girlfriend. “Like a Quidditch player Harry follows.”
Harry considered. A bout of dragon pox was going around the Montrose Magpies, and a few players had to spend a few days in St. Mungo’s. They weren’t dead (that he knew of), but maybe Tom’s choice of words made sense in the context of the conversation.
Maybe he meant they would be dead if they weren’t treated properly.
“I guess,” he admitted with reluctance. “It could be something like that, yeah.”
Hermione patted his hand. “Give Riddle the benefit of the doubt before you accuse him of evilness, okay?”
Ron slung an arm around Harry. “Exactly, because you loooove him.”
“Oh shut up,” Harry said, blushing.
Feeling better, he finished the rest of his custard in two bites, then beat Seamus to the last dish of pumpkin ice cream.
While Harry wasn’t entirely convinced by Hermione’s optimistic interpretation of Tom’s firecall, he had much to occupy his attention with the resumption of the school term between classes, Quidditch practices, and the Defense Association (still referred to as the Dolores Anti-society by its members). Soon, he more or less wrote it off as an early morning hallucination.
His peace of mind lasted until mid-April, when a most peculiar article appeared on the front page of the Daily Prophet.
Mysterious Turnip Thief Descends Upon Hogsmeade
Special correspondent: Rita Skeeter
Last night, the owner of The Magic Neep, the premier greengrocer in Hogsmeade, was confronted with the shock of her life upon checking her turnip garden.
“It was terrible,” reported Freya Lorne, a kindly plump witch with impeccable tastes in bonnets. “I had been growing a special breed of turnips imported from southeast Asia, and I found my plot in the process of being vandalized!”
The freshly planted plot, as it turned out, had been completely disfigured by a series of large holes. The perpetrator was in the middle of covering their tracks by filling the holes when Mrs. Lorne happened upon them. Unfortunately, they Disapparated before she could get a close look. Fortunately, she was unhurt, although understandably extremely upset.
“All of my darling seedlings were uprooted and need to be replanted!” wailed the poor woman. “I’ve always told my husband that we need to invest in better wards in our garden, but he’s never listened, and now look what happened!”
When asked why she would be the target of such a crime, she suggested, “My turnips are second-to-none in Scotland. No doubt this is a rival hoping to steal my secrets and replicate my success!”
Mrs. Lorne’s frayed nerves were soothed by a mug of Madam Rosmerta’s best herbal brew. As her husband was out of town, kind neighbors reported the crime to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and stayed with her for the night. Investigation is underway. Minister for Magic Rufus Scrimgeour has pledged to step up patrolling in Hogsmeade and neighboring villages, though he refused to comment further.
This reporter cannot help but question the ability of the Scrimgeour administration to keep its population safe, if it cannot keep a turnip garden safe in such a picturesque village. For now, she can only borrow the words of famous retired Auror, Alastor Moody: constant vigilance!
A look around the Great Hall showed that it had captured the attention of students and professors alike. At the Head Table, Potions professor Horace Slughorn was chuckling, Transfiguration professor Minerva McGonagall was frowning, and Defense professor Patricia Rakepick was scowling, which heightened her resemblance to Uncle Severus.
“Turnips,” Seamus said, shutting the paper with a snort. “Leave it to the Daily Prophet to make a big deal out of nothing.”
“It’s Rita Skeeter, what do you expect?” Dean said. “It’s probably a dog that forgot where it buried its bones, and Freya Lorne is milking it for publicity.”
“Or a drunkard who thought he was treasure-hunting,” Ron said.
“I’ve been to this place,” Neville piped up. “Gran says they have the best turnips in the business.”
“Someone who really likes turnips, then,” Harry said, and all the sixth-year Gryffindor boys burst into laughter, to Hermione’s visible disapproval.
“Or it could be dark magic.”
Everyone turned to Daphne Greengrass, who was calmly cutting sausages into identical pieces. Despite being a Slytherin, she’d taken to eating breakfast with the Gryffindors for morning gossip sessions with Ginny and Romilda.
“Oooh,” breathed Ginny, leaning close. “Do enlighten us.”
“There are plenty of possibilities, actually,” Daphne said. “First of all, Hogsmeade is intentionally built over a huge reservoir of natural magic that dates back to Viking days. Many dark wizards over the ages have tried to harness it for nefarious purposes, though they generally found it too volatile. Secondly, there are rumors of underground treasure vaults in northern Scotland, protected by curses, that put the gold of Gringott to shame. And finally, Hogsmeade is centuries old, so there are lots of buried remains that can be harvested for dark rituals.”
Hermione wrinkled her nose. “Remains?”
“Bones, for instance,” Daphne said. “They are a common ingredient in illegal potions and resurrection rituals. Or corpses. Reanimating them into Inferi wouldn’t be a challenge to anyone well-versed in advanced Necromancy.”
The Gryffindors gaped. She chewed and swallowed a piece of sausage.
“Only a Slytherin could think those up,” Ron said.
“Is that so?” Daphne challenged. “Why would the Daily Prophet make such a big deal about the holes if there isn’t more to the story? Rita Skeeter may be attention-seeking, but she’s good at sniffing out secrets that the Ministry otherwise wants to keep buried.”
“Still, harvesting dead bodies from a turnip garden. That’s a bit of a reach —” Harry stopped mid-sentence, a chill spreading through his body and freezing his grin.
They are dead, Tom had said.
Bones were dead. Remains were dead.
Tom’s current research at the Wizarding Institute of Glasgow had crossovers with dark magic, including Necromancy.
And he’d recently moved closer to Hogsmeade.
Noticing his shift in attitude, Daphne beamed in triumph. “Not so much of a reach, is it?”
“No! I was thinking of, er, something else.”
“If you say so,” she said with a shrug, returning her attention back to her breakfast and Gryffindor friends.
The chatter at the table soon resumed and moved on to a discussion of vegetables, leaving Harry to stare glumly at his porridge.
The article meant nothing. Tom didn’t want to be a Dark Lord anymore. He wouldn’t dig up dead bodies and turn them into Inferi.
(Would he?)
Tortured by mental images of his brilliant and possibly diabolical Tom digging up dead bodies, Harry was extremely distracted in Potions. Midway through class, he found himself concocting something that was most definitely not Memory Potion.
Frustrated, he consulted the textbook. He thought he’d followed the instructions to a tee and added the correct ingredients, so why did his potion smell and look like thestral manure?
Ron leaned over, took a sniff, and promptly gagged. “What in Merlin’s name is this?” he choked out. “Even mine smells better.”
“Don’t say anything!” Harry hissed, but it was too late.
A combination of the stench and Ron’s outburst had drawn Slughorn’s attention. He came over, examined Harry’s potion, and tutted.
“I’m afraid this is not quite what I was looking for,” he said. “You may have mistaken another ingredient for jabberknoll feathers. Or perhaps you added chopped eel instead of eel skin?”
Harry wiped his sweaty brow, resigned to the fact that Mum and Severus would be receiving another disappointed owl. “I really don’t know, sir,” he admitted. Either or both was possible. His track record in Potions was abysmal, no matter how many Potions kits Severus bought him.
“No need for panic yet,” Slughorn said. “There’s still an hour of class left. I trust in your Potions ability, especially after Tom’s private tutoring last year.”
“Um, right,” Harry said, averting his eyes. Their study sessions in the Room of Requirement hadn’t been purely educational, and mentioning Tom’s name right now did not help with his lack of concentration.
“How is Tom doing, by the way?” Slughorn asked, always eager for news of his favorite former student.
“He’s doing fine.” The not digging holes, not reanimating dead bodies type of fine. Hopefully.
“Do send him my regards, and I hope that he’s feeling satisfied with his research fellowship now.”
“He wasn’t happy?” This was news to Harry. “Tom’s never mentioned anything to me.”
“Oh no, he wasn’t unhappy. I only mean that research wasn’t Tom’s first choice and required a period of adjustment. He’s always had a flair for dramatics, as you well know, and academics are rather bland.”
Harry’s skin prickled with unease. “He had other choices.”
“He certainly did, though none that would allow him to remain so close to you,” Slughorn said, winking. “I don’t mean to concern you, Harry. You know as well as I do that Tom is someone who would succeed in all his endeavors. Why, I’ve been hearing great things about his thesis already and have no doubt he’ll revolutionize academic circles next year.”
“Right, of course.”
Reanimated bones and corpses would certainly be revolutionary endeavors.
“Well, I mustn’t dawdle. I see smoke coming from Mr. Longbottom’s direction, and that’s never a promising sign.” Slughorn clapped Harry on the shoulder. “I have faith that you’ll manage to correct your mistakes.”
“You mean I can save Tom?”
Slughorn blinked. “Why no, I mean you can save your potion.”
Oh, right. His Memory Potion. After Slughorn’s departure, Harry bent over his cauldron, though he was no longer paying attention to the awful smell. The murky liquid rippled, distorting his frowning reflection.
He’d always assumed that Tom chose to pursue a research fellowship post-Hogwarts because he wanted to research spell creation. He hadn’t realized that Tom only picked it to stay close to Harry. Would he have preferred another career? It had been Harry’s fault that he didn’t pursue a career in the Ministry of Magic; Tom had cut ties with his Ministry connections to defend Harry from Dolores Umbridge.
What if his dissatisfaction was now leading to regret?
What if regret was leading him to dangerous decisions?
What if Harry was condemning Tom to a path full of evil rituals and dark magic?
No. He refused to lose Tom like this. He would not.
Harry straightened as he came to a resolution. His potion was a lost cause, but Tom wasn’t, and he was going to save his boyfriend.
Harry barely managed to distract himself in anticipation of the next Hogsmeade weekend.
Technically, Hogwarts students weren’t supposed to leave the premises of Hogsmeade to spend time with romantic partners. Of course, that had never stopped the bold and determined from trying. It certainly didn’t stop Harry, armed with an Invisibility Cloak and resourceful friends who distracted chaperoning professors.
He was on a mission.
Per their arrangement, Tom met Harry by the Shrieking Shack, far from prying eyes, and Apparated them to his flat. After a Thai takeaway for lunch, where they engaged in a battle to see who could stomach the spiciest curry (both lost, but Tom turned redder), they retired to a comfortable couch in the living room to study together.
Rather, Tom was going through a huge stack of research notes, while Harry alternated between reading a Quidditch magazine and fidgeting. Normally, he would be happy to learn the latest on the Montrose Magpies (the team had ended up surviving the bout of dragonpox unscathed, though they were still having a poor season). This afternoon, however, he was too distracted. Every so often, he snuck glances at Tom, who alternated between scowling and frowning as he tossed parchment after parchment to the floor.
A flair for the dramatics indeed, even when reading boring papers.
“If you want to ask me a question, Harry, go ahead,” Tom said, without looking up. “It’s not necessary to stare.”
Right. Harry was a Gryffindor. He could be direct.
“Do you enjoy your research?” Harry asked.
“I would be lying if I said that I don’t find it aggravating at times,” Tom replied. “Look at the latest literature on Nordic runes, for example. It’s clear that the author has no idea what any of the symbols actually entail. How it was accepted for publication, I can only imagine. In fact, she goes on a separate tangent on cuneiforms, forgetting that they originate from an entirely different civilization and era. I can hardly trust her conclusions.”
“That’s, um, irresponsible of her,” said Harry, whose knowledge of cuneiforms was limited to squiggly symbols from Muggle primary school.
Tom heaved a sigh. “Indeed, academia disappoints me more and more each month.”
Harry’s heart sank. “You don’t regret doing the fellowship at the Institute, do you?”
“Regret?” Tom raised his head. “Why do you ask?”
“Well —”
The air tingled, alerting them to an incoming firecall. Tom frowned, but his expression cleared upon recognizing the caller’s magical signature.
“I’ve been expecting the call for some time.” He rose to his feet and stroked Harry’s cheek. “Do you mind? I won’t be long.”
Harry nodded, earning himself a quick kiss before Tom headed off. Shortly after, he heard the door to Tom’s study slide shut. Left alone on the couch, he twisted his hands on his lap, waging an inner battle. There was a possibly important firecall merely yards away, exactly the opportunity he was looking for. Should he eavesdrop?
On the one hand, he wanted to respect Tom’s privacy. On the other, he needed to ensure that Tom wasn’t up to anything dangerous. If Tom wanted to quit his program, Harry would be supportive, but not at the risk of losing Tom’s brilliance to dark magic. Besides, if this was an innocent firecall, he would leave and Tom would be none the wiser. So it wasn’t actually eavesdropping. More like…research.
With that rationalization, it didn’t take long for curiosity to win a resounding victory. Retrieving an Extendable Ear from his pocket, Harry tiptoed to Tom’s study.
Tom must’ve warded his study this time, because even with an Extendable Ear, Harry had trouble hearing clearly. From what he could tell, the caller was the same person as last time. He was in the middle of a long and frazzled monologue, of which Harry could only pick out words like “secret” and “bones.”
“I obviously understand there are bones,” Tom said, when the caller finally paused for breath. “But logically, they would not be buried everywhere, and why should that even matter? As I’ve mentioned and you’ve refused to absorb several times, they are dead.”
Harry’s hands felt cold and clammy around the Extendable Ear. He steadied his breathing and forced himself to continue listening.
The answer was unsatisfactory to the caller, judging by the ensuing long response. Now Tom was impatient.
“All right,” he snapped. “I’ve given you my opinion, but it’s ultimately your decision. I must remind you again of what I mentioned last time. Harry doesn’t have a clue right now, and I’d like to keep it that way. If there’s nothing else, I propose that we end our conversation before you further incense me.”
Harry didn’t wait for the conversation to finish. He scurried back to the couch and hugged his legs to his chest.
Bones. Buried. Dead.
He definitely didn’t mishear this time.
His eyes slid over to the stack of papers that Tom had been reading. With a jolt, he realized that the parchment at the very top wasn’t a research paper on Nordic runes, but a map.
A map filled with moving bone-shaped markers.
“Everything all right?”
Harry yelped and nearly fell off the couch. “Yeah, perfectly all right!” he said, blindly grabbing his Quidditch magazine. “I was just reading about the Montrose —” He coughed, realizing that he was holding the magazine upside down. “Well, I was just about done with the article.”
Tom quirked an eyebrow, but settled down beside him without any comment. Immediately, Harry scooted closer to rest his chin on Tom’s shoulder. Just because his boyfriend dabbled in dark magic didn’t mean he wasn’t cuddly, and this position was perfect for snuggling as well as spying.
“How was your call?” he asked
His casual-but-totally-probing tone had no effect. “Minor annoyances related to work, but they’ll no doubt be resolved.”
“What type of annoyances?” Harry pressed.
“I won’t waste your time, they will only bore you.”
Harry chewed the inside of his cheek while he considered his next question. Meanwhile, under watchful green eyes, Tom reached for the map, studied it with a half-smile, and then slid it under his research notes.
“Tom,” Harry said, “what do you think of bones?”
“Bones?” It wasn’t Harry’s imagination; Tom stiffened. “Nothing of particular note. Why do you ask?”
Harry hesitated, then plunged on, “I don’t think you should get too involved.”
If he expected some expression of guilt, he was sorely disappointed. Tom chuckled and ruffled his hair. “There’s nothing to worry about. I promise.”
With that, he leaned back against the cushions, slipped a careless arm around Harry, and returned to reading his research notes. Harry studied his profile, unsettled by the dismissal.
That was a damning response.
Tom knew what Harry was referring to, which meant something was indeed happening that involved bones.
As Mum’s favorite Muggle fictional character would say, curiouser and curiouser.