Chapter Text
It’s closer to the witching hour than midnight by the time Harry gets into his flat after a long day of travel. A journey from Milwaukee to New York to London creates exhaustion so deep that at first, Harry thinks he’s hallucinating.
But, he’s not, he realizes, as he tries to blink Hermione and Ron out of existence.
The pair look far too awake for two in the morning, especially Hermione. Her hair’s in her bonnet, but she’s bright-eyed, not doing much to fight against the smile that splits her face. Ron is jittery in his excitement, going a little red in the face from holding his breath.
“Er…hello?” Harry says, almost like a question.
“HELLO, SKATE AMERICA MEN’S SILVER MEDALLIST!” Ron roars, jumping up from the couch. He tackles Harry in the doorway, rolling suitcase bedamned and the two boys topple to the ground, laughing.
Hermione rushes after, falling to her knees gracefully. She grabs Harry’s free hand, the one that isn’t supporting him from falling flat on his back and she squeezes.
“Congratulations!” she says, so sincerely. “We’re so, so proud.”
Harry smiles at her and he bites down on his tongue to keep his bottom lip from trembling. He just has to look at Ron and Hermione to know that they’re happy for him, almost as happy as he’d been with the medal around his neck.
“I thought…I thought you’d be asleep,” Harry says dumbly.
Ron rolls his eyes. “Of course not, mate. We had to be awake to receive royalty,” Ron says.
Harry snorts, “Yeah okay, reigning king and queen of ice dancing.”
“Okay, prince of—” Ron retorts.
Hermione shakes her head. “Boys, maybe we can have this conversation after we close the door and sit on the couch like civilized adults,” she says primly.
But, when they gather themselves off the ground, it’s only a matter of locking the door before they settle again on the shaggy carpet, leaning back against their couch instead. Harry’s tucked between them and he looks back and forth between them, lips pressed into a firm line to keep from laughing at their expressions.
Expectation.
“What?” Harry asks.
“You know what,” Hermione insists.
“Tell us about everything,” Ron says.
Hermione nods. “Yes, tell us about the short program. About the in-between. About the free skate. Especially that off-the-cuff jump. Now, Harry that was really dangerous, you know. You shouldn’t just do jumps because you can. A skate is perfectly—”
“Hermione,” Ron groans. “It’s two in the morning. Can you save the lecture?”
Hermione lets her head fall onto Harry’s shoulder. He can feel the heat of her face against him.
“Yes, of course,” Hermione acquiesces, so superior.
Harry says, “Yes, thank you, Madame Granger, you truly are so merciful.”
“Oh, enough,” Hermione laughs. “I’m proud of you. Truly. It was an impressive showing after…Malfoy’s short program was something. It was just a lot.”
“Shitty transitions though,” Ron barks out. “No musicality. But, you should’ve seen his face when you were doing your free, Harry. I was looking at the Prophet account.”
Hermione groans. “Not that stupid Instagram blog,” Hermione admonishes.
“It’s good for skating gossip,” Ron insists defensively.
Harry circumvents the brewing bickering before it can even begin. “What did they say? Did someone get a shot of Malfoy’s face?” Harry demands.
Ron searches his pajama pants for his phone and then he jumps up, scrambling towards his bedroom. Hermione takes the chance to fully turn to Harry, looking him up and down, searching for invisible injuries.
“I really am fine,” Harry says.
Hermione nods slowly. “Yeah, it’s just…off the cuff quad lutz. You touched down, but it was impressive. Brave.”
Harry grins. She’s still caught between being impressed and being disapproving. Never change, Hermione, he thinks.
“Here it is! Here!” Ron says, squatting in front of Harry, holding his phone out. Harry leans in, squinting.
Harry looks at the video. It’s taken on a phone, clearly, from how the frame wobbles.
The captions reads: #IceUpdates. Watch last year’s World’s Men’s silver medallist react to Harry Potter’s explosive free skate, big enough to capture silver after placing fourth in the short.
Malfoy is waiting by the boards, leaning forward. Harry can hear the swell of his free skate music as he approaches the second half. This is when he’d cut loose, when he’s opened it with a quad lutz. He can see the moment he lands and Harry feels a vicious flash of satisfaction when Malfoy rears back like he’s been slapped. Malfoy lunges forward, grabbing the sides of the rink and Harry knows he doesn’t take his eyes off him for the rest of his skate.
“You scared him,” Ron says seriously, looking at Harry. “He’s going to see you as a threat.”
“I am a threat,” Harry says.
I’ve always been one , he thinks long and hard.
Ron falls back out of his squat. “You gotta come at him even harder. Can’t wait to see him knocked off his pedestal. He acts like he’s prince of the ice, as if Diggory doesn’t exist.”
Cedric Diggory, part-time reigning World’s champion. Part-time underwear model. Of course.
“We heard Riddle was there. What’s he like?” Hermione blurts out. She leans in, eyes wide. “Did he watch?”
What’s he like? Did he watch?
He tastes like bourbon. That’s what Harry knows.
“He’s…impressive. Gives off the energy that the entire world is his,” Harry says. Hermione and Ron nod, as if to say, of course it is, it’s Tom Riddle. “He walks with a cane.”
Hermione raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yes,” Harry says. “But, he doesn’t limp. He retired because of…what was it? Knee? Ankle?”
“Both,” Hermione says grimly.
Harry nods. “But, he doesn’t limp . He just…has the cane. I don’t know. He was in Malfoy’s entourage.”
Ron grimaces. “Damn. You think he’s coaching Malfoy?”
“If he is, it’s not registered with the ISU,” Hermione says severely, like that’s Malfoy’s biggest sin and not the fact that he’s a massive berk and had left a fucking scar on Harry’s forehead. “You don’t think he’s really coaching him? Do you? Because if he is—”
He isn’t coaching Malfoy, Harry thinks. He can’t help his smile. He’s coaching me.
“No, I don’t think so. He didn’t seem all that interested in Malfoy,” Harry says, and he doesn’t even have to lie. Before he can say more, he yawns, long and hard. “Sorry…it’s just—”
“It’s been a long day for you!” Hermione blurts out. She stands up sharply. “And for us too. Alright, off to bed now, both of you. Tomorrow’s a late start, but we shouldn’t let that take us too far off schedule.”
She’s so bossy. Harry grins.
“Yes, alright. Good night,” Harry says, saluting the pair.
The trio breaks up to enter their respective bedrooms. Harry shuts the door and leans back against it, letting his eyes adjust to the dark.
His full-sized bed is tucked in the corner. Over his bed are posters of his heroes. But, none of Tom Riddle. That hadn’t felt reverent enough. Harry nearly trips over a football as he walks towards his bed, shedding his clothes to the ground. He smells like an airplane still, stiff in the neck from sitting in the same position for too long. He lets himself feel the exhaustion.
As he slides under his covers, he has just enough in him to send a text to a number that he has yet to save into his phone.
HARRY, 02:47 AM
I’m home. What’s next?
He doesn’t expect a message back, not this late, and so he lets himself slip into a dreamless sleep.
Harry groans himself awake, turning over in his bed. He’s tangled in his sheets, the comforter half hanging off the bed, the flat sheet wrapped tight around his muscled thighs. He feels more rested than he should, and glancing out his window, he knows that he’s slept in until the mid-afternoon. He’s still too tired for a full practice, but he’s probably due for a stroking session.
Harry slowly sits up on his elbows, staring at his ceiling.
He won silver at Skate fucking America.
It hits him like a freight train and Harry can’t help his giggles, the thrilling self-satisfaction that races through his body. He falls back with a sigh, sinking deeper into his bed, kicking his sheets to the end of the bed, as he runs his hands over his thighs.
He won in so many ways.
Harry twists, reaching blindly for his glasses first—which he jams on his face, only wincing a little at how much it hurts—before he grabs his phone. He fumbles lightly, stabbing in the code, jittering, and looking at his last sent text.
His heart falls into his stomach.
There isn’t a text back.
Tom Riddle hadn’t texted him back.
Harry huffs, tossing his phone to the side.
He doesn’t think he came off too eager. Or, maybe he did. He probably came off desperate, when he’d asked, but Riddle seems to have liked it. Appreciated it. He’s the kind of man that likes his ego stroked, and in any other circumstance, Harry wouldn’t do that. But, he wants to win so badly. He knows he can.
But, Riddle hasn’t answered him back.
“Maybe he’s busy. It’s only the second day. First day back in England. I’ll give it some time,” Harry says to himself.
He’s no idea what Riddle is doing. He doesn’t know what the man’s life is like. He just has an impression. Riddle doesn’t sem the type to waste time. He doesn’t seem the type to waste words either, no matter how carefully designed each word is. He doesn’t—
“He’s a busy man,” Harry snaps to himself, stopping a spiral in its place. “He’s not ghosting me. He agreed.”
Did he? A voice hisses in his ear. Did he really? Or did he laugh and touch your lips and say ‘we’ll see, Harry Potter’, before he sent you to bed like a child .
It’s a ‘yes’, Harry tells himself as he slips out of his bed and stumbles to the kitchen.
It’s a yes .
He stands in the middle of the sitting room, looking around.
His shared flat with Hermione and Ron is a second-floor walk-up, above Godric’s Hollow’s only charity shop. The kitchen is tiny, sharing the same space as the living room, which is stuffed with a large couch and two mismatched chairs. They have a television hanging on the wall that’s only used when Ron and Harry play video games. There are three doors, each leading to a small bedroom of varying sizes. They’d drawn straws to see who’d get the biggest room—Hermione had won.
Harry doesn’t bother knocking on their doors.
If he doesn’t hear bickering, that means they aren’t home.
They’re definitely not skating—neither Lily nor James is great at recovery after long flights, and won’t be in until just before Harry—probably with their hip-hop teacher.
Harry looks around opens the fridge to see a covered plate, a folded piece of paper on top of it that reads in Ron’s blocky handwriting: BREAKFAST OF (ALMOST) CHAMPIONS.
Harry grins, uncovering it. Cold beans on toast.
Harry’s guilty, secret pleasure.
He eats quickly, holding the plate under his mouth as he looks at their walls. They’re covered in photos of Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny at the ice shows they’d done over the summer. There are pictures of Hermione and Ron wrapped around one another, caught mid-routine, electricity coming through the waxy finish of the photo.
Another one of Ginny mid-jump.
Then, Harry, leg extended up in Biellmann position, his fingers hooked into the blade of his boot, his eyes directed up. Harry reaches out one hand and then sucks them clean of sauce, turning away instead.
Harry doesn’t have time to reminisce. He tosses his plate into the sink and races through a shower, scrubbing his skin clean. He dresses quickly in his Under Armour, and grabs his gear bag, his skates, extra gloves, microfiber cloths, and empty water bottle still inside.
Usually, Hermione is their flat’s chauffeur—though Ron is the better driver—but a bus ride of ten minutes is all it takes, though Harry has to suffer through Stan Shunpike’s terrible driving skills and his incessant questioning of How’s your mum doing, still married to your dad?
When Harry enters the rink, he checks his phone only one more time, but there’s not another message from Tom Riddle or anyone else.
He’s distracted so he doesn’t hear his name called the first time. Or the second.
But, then—
“Hey, Harry!” Ginny sings. “Ron and Hermione are changing. They had hip-hop with Edgar this morning. Time for a stroking session.” [1]
She skates backward, twizzling across the ice, her long braid whipping around with her as she laughs. Harry watches her and wonders if they’re just going to go back to how they were, that weird almost-careful-casualness that they’d ruined at Skate America. Ginny doesn’t seem ready for a confrontation, standing there on the ice.
Harry doesn’t think he’s ready for one either.
So, he just says, “Let me change into my skates.”
“Not yet, Harry.” Lily sticks her head out from the office that looks out to the main rink. She crooks a finger at him. “Come have a chat.”
Harry sighs and dumps his bag on the bench next to the rink before he walks towards the office, well aware that he’s marching towards a verbal execution.
Harry enters his parents’ shared office. It’s a cluttered room, despite its size. Large enough to fit two large desks and computers, along with several file combatants, the walls are covered with photos. Not of themselves, but of every student that has ever studied at Godric’s Hollow. And then, at the center of it all is a photo of Lily and James lifting two gold medals, grinning at the camera, their last coach, Minerva McGonagall, standing between them.
“You wanted to see me?” Harry sighs, falling into the seat across from James’ desk.
James looks easier to deal with. Still tired from the flight earlier. Lily is uncomfortable awake.
“Yes, we did,” Lily says. She settles her hands on Harry’s shoulders and squeezes as she leans down and says: “I think…we were remiss is saying something to you on Sunday. Congratulations, my love.”
Harry’s mouth twitches into a tiny smile. “Thank you, Mum.”
“While you were…unsafe, you did beautifully, and we should be praising you for that. For doing your very best,” Lily says, “and delivering what you did. You made a remarkable comeback, and we are so proud of you.”
Harry twists full in his chair to beam up at her.
“And…” Harry pushes.
Lily laughs. “You think there’s an ‘and’?” she teases.
“Come on, Mum,” Harry says, rolling his eyes.
Lily doesn’t sit behind her desk like James. Instead, she sits next to Harry, across from James.
“We have…discussed it and we think you’re right,” James says with a tiny grin. “We’ll be reworking your short. We’ll even start from scratch if you’d like.”
Harry can’t help but cheer, pumping his fist. “ Yes . Fuck, thank you—”
“Language,” Lily warns despite her smile. “Now, we’re going to have to start with that pretty much tomorrow. There’s about two months until NHK Trophy. That’s good. That’s enough. What were you thinking for the jump layout? What do you think you can do?”
Harry’s never been asked about his own jump layout. He’s never been asked what he thinks he can do. It’s almost too much.
“I…I have some ideas, I do,” Harry starts. “And what about the free? I have something for that too.”
For a moment, Harry wonders if his request of Tom Riddle was premature. Maybe he didn’t need to go anywhere. Maybe he could train at his home rink and still—
“It’s a little bit late for new choreo for a free,” James says.
Lily nods her agreement. “Yes. But, clearly, we can up the jumps. The lutz isn’t perfect, but it was something. And that salchow could be cleaner. But, yes, we’ll add more to the technical side,” Lily agrees, talking over Harry’s head. She feels Harry tense under her hand and she looks down at him, smiling. “Then, we’re in agreement?”
“No,” Harry blurts out, jumping up. He stares at Lily and James, shaking his head. “You don’t…you don’t get it at all, do you?”
“Well, Harry,” Lily says in that gentling tone, the one she used when he was a kid, but he’s not a kid, not anymore. “What don’t we get?”
“I’m…you’re not choreographing for me . You’re choreographing for your kid.”
“Well, you are our kid,” James says.
Harry scoffs. “Yes, but…I’m an adult.” He stops and then starts again, trying to breathe through the mounting irritation. “I’m good! I know I am. I could be great. And I want to skate more mature routines. Like Barebone. You’ve seen Barebone! And like…well, like Riddle.”
Harry winces.
“Riddle,” Lily spits, shaking her head. “Riddle’s routines landed him with chronic pain. We don’t want that for you. Harry, please, skating isn’t your whole life. Careers are short and painful—”
“And I should decide how short and painful they are! I should decide!” Harry says. “You have decided my training for my entire life, and in juniors, I understood. I didn’t know better.”
“I’d argue you don’t still,” Lily bites out.
“Well, I do!” Harry shouts, and Lily rears back, silent.
Harry hasn’t ever really shouted at his parents before. It feels good to.
“I know what I want. I know the way I want to skate. How I want to skate. And you won’t let me. I don’t want to skate these…childish routines. This routine that says ‘I’m the son of James and Lily Potter’, and nothing else!”
James bites the end of his pen. “What do you want them to say?”
(I want to be sexy and daring and passionate,
Full of rage and hope marked by a name all my own.)
Harry sighs, “More.”
Lily runs her hand through her stringy red hair—she hasn’t washed it yet, hoping that dry shampoo would work well enough, and it doesn’t—shaking her head. “Harry, we can discuss this again next season—”
“There won’t be another season for me,” Harry bites out. “Not if I don’t skate the way I should.”
“Should?” Lily repeats.
“Yeah, should, because I’ve just realized, again , that I’m not the problem. I’m not a bad skater,” Harry spits.
“Well, of course, you’re not a bad skate—” Lily says roughly.
Harry stands up sharply. “ You’re bad coaches.”
They try to manage this weekly—cooking together on Wednesdays.
It was Hermione’s idea. Most great ideas are Hermoine’s, Harry thinks. They’d implemented it when Ron had turned eighteen and moved into a flat with Hermione and Harry, his parents had decided that it was too expensive to continue renting a home in Godric’s Hollow, while also maintaining the Burrow, their family home in St. Ottery Catchpole. A solution had been found in Ginny moving into the Potter House, in a billeting situation of sorts.
But, that also meant isolation, always being around her coaches.
And thus, Wednesday Night Dinners were born.
“Can’t believe they’re making the winners cook tonight,” Ginny calls over her shoulder.
Ron and Hermione are both sitting on the couch, intensely staring down at the laptop in Hermione’s lap. Harry knows their reviewing their taped skate session today—he can hear the strings, the beginning of a voice singing, Another hero, another mindless crime —[2]
“Yes, the World Champion ice dancers will be having you make our dinner, thank you, Ginny,” Ron says absently. He leans in, tapping the screen. “You have to make the five rotations in the opener.”
“Writing it down,” Hermione notes as she presses play again, skipping through the circular step sequence. “I noticed your blade placement is off on the exit edge of the Choctaw. They’ll level us down for that. You’re taller than me. Much taller, so when you exit on the RBI, swing your leg higher and hold the LFO entry edge longer. Hold the deeper RBI exit edge longer too, so we can be more together on that.”[3]
“Harry, will you cut the onion? You know I’m bad at chopping,” Ginny says. She isn’t looking him directly in the eye, eyes focused on getting the ingredients out of the fridge.
“What are we making today?” Harry asks.
“Stir fry.” Ginny shoves the ingredients at him and then she backs up against the island that separates the kitchen from the living room and pushes herself up onto it. “You finish chopping and I’ll cook it since you burn everything.”
“I do not,” Harry protests.
It’s true, he doesn’t. He just finds the stove in their flat a bit off.
He gets to chopping, cutting everything quickly, the knife thunking against the cutting board again and again. He’s in the midst of slicing the carrots when Ginny finally speaks.
“I was out of line.” Harry sets the knife down and turns to look at her. Ginny cringes. “Don’t look at me.”
“Why not?” Harry asks.
Ginny shakes her head. “You know I hate when I admit I’m wrong and people are looking at me.”
“That’s because you don’t like to be wrong,” Harry retorts.
“No one likes to be wrong.” Ginny grinds her knuckles into her bare legs, squirming under his gaze.
Harry hums, fighting a smile. Ginny hates being wrong more than most.
“You made it seem…like I don’t take responsibility for my scores. You made it seem as if I were insane for thinking that other factors play into this,” Harry says slowly. Ginny winces with each sentence, fighting against the feeling of her shoulders curling in with shame. Harry leans in. “This is the first time that I’ve landed on the podium in years, Ginny. Because I actually made a choice and…factored myself into the problem.”
Ginny sighs, looking up warily. “I was wrong. Malfoy’s skate…both of them, you could do. Well…maybe not the thousand quads, but only because you have bad stamina.”
Hary barks out a laugh, staring at her, bewildered. She stares back at him with her big brown eyes, unyielding. Even in her apology, she can’t help but be too honest, too blunt, too much of all of her.
“I also…didn’t…I thought you were over us. Over me,” Ginny says. “I didn’t know that Dean being there…”
Harry purses his lips as he looks at her, gauging how much he should tell her.
Ginny is one of his best friends. She’s closer to him, in ways that even Ron and Hermione can’t be. She’d been too many of his firsts and he hers. They know each other at their worst. At their best.
“Dean Thomas is your boyfriend, but he’s not my friend. He can…go wherever you like. That’s not my business. It’s hard, but I’ll get over it. But, you shouldn’t have brought him into my room, Ginny. It was kinda…humiliating,” Harry admits.
Ginny’s eyes widen. “Harry, you know that I never meant to—”
“I know,” Harry interrupts, even though he knows she hates it. “But, you did.”
They stare at one another for a long time and Ginny seems to be working through it slowly.
“That was stupid of me. I just…I didn’t realize…and I should’ve,” Ginny says. She sighs softly. “I’m sorry. He’s not a part of this. I was just really excited about him being there and…I didn’t take your feelings into consideration. I didn’t think about how people move on at different paces.”
Harry’s moved on. At least, he thinks he has. He can still feel the ghost of lips on his neck, advice breathed into the hollow beneath his ear, a muscled thigh and large hands on his body. Harry knows what it is to want someone that isn’t Ginny, and what it’s like to be wanted back. And he might tell her. Harry might.
Except, he’s still waiting for a call that could make her never speak to him again.
“Is it hard being friends with us?” Ginny’s asking.
He knows what she means. Being friends with champions .
“Sometimes,” Harry admits. “But it’s hard being their kid too.”
Ginny nods. “I heard you fighting with them yesterday. Before our stroking session.”
“Yeah. We’re scrapping my short entirely and upping my jumps on the free. Wash the rice.” Harry turns back and stares down at everything he’s thrown together. Ginny hops down and rustles through the cupboards behind him. “And I realized that that wasn’t enough.”
“How do you make it enough?” Ginny asks over running water.
Harry bites his bottom lip. “I want to choreograph my own routines. Make my own layouts. I know what I’m capable of better than anyone else,” Harry says.
Ginny turns the water off sharply, turning to look at him. “ Harry , you want to change your programs entirely ?” she asks, bewildered.
“Yes,” Harry confirms. He steps to the side, letting her get past him to start up the stir fry proper on the stovetop. “I do my gala skates.”
“That’s an exhibition. If you did a competitive layout, you’d throw every single thing in there and push yourself too far. There has to be a balance, Harry. A healthy balance,” Ginny insists.
“Okay, ‘three quads in a free’,” Harry says, rolling his eyes.
Ginny snorts and shakes her head, like she doesn’t see her own hypocrisy.
“I could be good, Ginny. The best,” Harry insists.
Ginny stills as she fries up the food, looking at him assessing. “I know,” she finally says. “You have artistry. You have the jumps. You have to be pushed. I’ll help you nag your parents into pushing.”
“It won’t be enough,” Harry says.
Ginny shakes her head. “We’ll have to try.”
Harry wants to insist that he has. That he’s done everything he possibly could and it’s still not enough. And then.
His phone buzzes.
Harry has three friends and they’re all currently in his flat. He frowns, pulls his phone out, and stares down at his text messages with wide eyes.
UNKNOWN NUMBER, 20:12 PM
Send me your ID numbers.
All basic information so I can register you under the Black Family Rink.
Harry blinks uncomprehending for just a moment. He stares down at those two little grey bubbles that prove that that conversation in Tom Riddle’s hotel room wasn’t a dream. It had happened. It was all real. Harry swallows hard. He prepares to text his agreement but another grey bubble full of ellipses pops up. He waits.
UNKNOWN NUMBER, 20:13 PM
Would you like to start from scratch?
HARRY, 20:14 PM
I’ll do that right away.
Send you everything I mean.
I still wanna do this. I hope you wanna do this.
I suppose you do. Since you’re texting me.
When do we start? I’m assigned NHK.
UNKNOWN NUMBER, 20:16 PM
I know.
“Now, what could possibly be so important that you’re ignoring our reconciliation?” Ginny says teasingly, bumping her hip against Harry’s.
Harry forces a smile past the rest of the swirling thoughts occupying his head. “Ah, sorry, Sirius had a few questions about my costumes. Thinking about making a change.”
Ginny raises an eyebrow as she starts to plate their stir fry, drizzling soy sauce on Harry’s and Hermione’s, but not on her own food or Ron’s. “What kind of change?”
Harry gnaws at his bottom lip, shoving his phone deep in the back pocket of his jeans. “Ah…a big one.”
“GODRIC’S HOLLOW’S ICE PARK WILL BE CLOSING IN TEN MINUTES. WE REPEAT THE ICE PARK WILL BE CLOSING IN TEN MINUTES.”
It’s nearly eight o’ clock on a Thursday evening. The Ice Park’s staff meeting is always on Thursdays evenings and so it closest at least two hours early on this day. But, the casual skaters that come on dates or just to goof around always pack in on Thursday evenings and are just as reluctant to leave. At least half of them come off the ice, rushing towards the teenaged skate attendant, all demanding that he pass them their trainers first.
But, there’s still one person stroking across the ice, drawing everyone’s eyes.
It’s always him. Harry.
“Come off the ice,” Hermione calls by the boards.
She’s long changed out of her training clothes, exchanging them for denim jeans that see little use and a sweater. Ron hasn’t bothered, still in sweats, his fingerless gloves, still on his hands. He’d been working with the little ones with Remus. It had first started as a way to offset the discount that Harry’s parents gave him and his sister for lessons in the first place, but now, he’s a World Champion. He can easily afford the lessons, and he continues to help just out of habit.
“Mate, aren’t you tired?” Ron demands. “If you don’t come on, you’ll have to take the bus home.”
It’s an empty threat. They’ll wait for him.
Harry closes his eyes as he skates in a circle, moving easily. He adjusts his in-ear earbuds and looks down at his phone at it buzzes.
UNKNOWN NUMBER, 19:53 PM
Send me tape from your last two seasons.
Practice tape. Not broadcast.
Harry scoffs, rolling his neck as he tuck his phone into the exercise band on his arm.
This is a routine that he has dreamed up time and time again. He doesn’t know all the pieces or the parts. But, he knows that this is the birth of something. He circles the rink and leaps into a layover camel spin, grabbing his foot into a donut spin. Change foot. He spins up out into a Biellmann, extending as much as he can.
He goes through a step sequence. It’s messy. No real direction, just shifts. A mess of change of directions. It can be corrected.
He circles the rink again, ignoring everyone else. Ignoring all of their eyes as he sets his hands on his hips, thinking deeply. He skates backwards. Triple flip . He lands it clean, into a twizzle, hands above his head.
Circle around the rink again. He passes Hermione and Ron. Ginny has joined them
Underneath the music, Harry can hear them even if he pretends he can’t.
“—wanted to choreograph his free skate. A new one,” Ginny is saying.
“But the cycle has already started,” Hermione says.
“When did he find the time to even make this up?” Ron demands. “He’s always—”
There are others. Students. Patrons.
He circles again. Remus has come out from the back, ready for the staff meeting. He lingers instead.
“—can see it’s not done. But, what he has is really good,” Ginny says.
Harry breathes and turns in a triple axel-double toe combo, hands above his head. Behind the music, he can hear applause. What he thinks might be applause. What might be a memory. A prophecy He goes through the next pass as the music mounts in his ears.
Harry can hear it all. All eyes are on him. He skates backwards into it, double clockwise three turns. He shifts, changing his edge, and then he jumps.
Triple axel. Single loop. Triple salchow. Spread eagle, and he opens his arms, staring down the couple by the stairs that lead up to the staff room. Lily and James’ expressions are shrouded in shadow, but Harry can feel their awe. Harry skates backwards, lifting his chin.
It is not arrogance to want more. To demand more.
He throws himself into his choreography sequence, the only thing that’s not messy about this routine. Hydroblade spiral. Ina Bauer.
He ends right in front of the boards. The crowd is dispersing, being hustled out by Sirius and Marlene McKinnon, the hockey instructor. They all watch, applauding, mouths agape and Harry turns away from them, looking at his friends. [4]
The overhead lights come on with the hissing buzz of electricity as the house lights go down.
“What was that?” Hermione asks quietly.
Harry smiles. “Something I’ve been playing around with,” Harry says.
Remus’ eyes widen. “For this season?” he asks.
“That’s a free skate,” Harry says sourly. “We’re only changing my short.”
He grabs his guards from the ledge and sticks them on, stepping off the ice. There are only three stragglers, fighting against Sirius as he tries to guide them out.
“That was so sick !” one of teens shouts.
Harry waves his thanks, turning away distractedly. He looks at the senior staff of his parents’ rink. These are all the people that he’s grown up with. That have watched him grow.
Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, his godparents. Marlene McKinnon, his mother’s best friend. There’s Bathilda Bagshot, the choreographer, hobbling in. These are the people that have watched him and taught him. He has leared from each and every one.
“What was all that about then?” Sirius asks when he finally locks the door behind the kids.
Everyone watches Harry, waiting for answer. He looks away, at his friends.
“Want to go to dinner?” he asks. “On me.”
“I won’t turn down a free dinner,” Ron blurts out.
“Well, we are late leaving because you wouldn’t come off the ice,” Hermione says slowly. She tilts her head. “Indian takeaway?”
“God, anything that’ll make waiting on your parents easier. I forgot my keys,” Ginny admits.
Harry laughs. “I’ll lend you mine and then your brother can give you a lift home,” Harry says. “Let me change?”
He ignores Sirius’ shrewd eyes as he claps his godfather on the shoulder and marches on towards the locker room.
(That, he doesn’t say, was a goodbye.)
Hermione’s the first one up. As always.
Harry can hear the whistling of the electric kettle, faintly, before it clicks off. Hermione putters around the kitchen, making herself breakfast. He smiles to himself because she’s humming the music of Ron and her free dance. Hermione loves it. She loves talking about it and working on it, and Ron does too. Usually, he gets annoyed when she talks about it while he plays video games, but Ron actually sets his games aside. Harry absently hears Hermione sitting on the couch, probably eating her very balanced meal that maximizes her energy output for training.
Harry turns in his bed and falls asleep to the sound of her making her tea.
When he wakes up again, he can hear water running. Ron hadn’t showered last night.
Harry had. He groans, squinting at his phone. No texts.
But, it’s definitely past time for him to get up.
He rolls to the ground and reaches blindly for his glasses, and then snags his contacts case and throws it in his gym bag. Pushing himself up, Harry is half-asleep as he dresses for the day. He’s never gotten into the habit of wearing colored practice gear. Ginny likes to make a statement that way, but Harry’s never. He pulls his UnderArmour on and a hoodie he’d stolen from Sirius over his head, large enough that it bunches at his thighs.
When Harry emerges, Hermione is sitting at the island, prim and ready.
“Good morning,” she says as she writes in her journal, as she does every morning.
“Good morning,” Harry says, tossing his gear bag and his phone on the couch before rounding the island to get something to eat. As he rummages through the snack cupboard, he asks, “Has Ron eaten?”
“Yes, while you were still asleep,” Hermione says. She doesn’t sound like she’s lecturing, but she’s definitely lecturing. She has made that not-lecturing lecturing into an art form.
Harry smirks as he grabs a cereal bar and tears into it.
Hermione looks up, unimpressed. “Don’t tell me that’s all you’re eating this morning.”
“I ate a lot last night,” Harry insists.
“Harry, we’re about to train all day. You need to eat more,” Hermione insists.
Harry waves away her concern. “I’ll eat during lunch.”
“Do you understand how vital nutrition is to optimal performance in skating?” Hermione asks.
“No,” Harry sighs, “But, I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“I certainly —”
“Okay,” Ron gasps, hopping out of his room, one foot in his trainer, the other still in his hand. “Okay, I’m ready. See, Hermione, we won’t be late.”
Hermione shuts her journal quickly, and she marches back to the bookshelf to slide it into its allotted space. “Good,” she says. “We’ll be working on the short dance [5] today. James texted me this morning.”
Ron’s expression falls. “Damn,” Ron mutters, “I kinda wish we were late.”
Harry barks out a laugh, rolling his eyes.
Hermione doesn’t rise to the bait, pursing her lips. She grabs her gear bag, throwing it over her shoulder as she grabs the car keys. “Harry, are you starting your new short today?”
“I hope so. I have music I wanna present,” Harry says earnestly. He rushes to grabs his bag and his phone, and then he stops.
Because One (1) New Message.
UNKNOWN NUMBER, 07:42 AM
What’s your address?
All week Harry has gone from believing that he’s going to have a brand new coach to thinking that he’ll never get out of his rut. All week he’d thought Riddle wasn’t invested , not like Harry was.
Six texts in the past week. That’s all Harry has warranted despite giving Riddle tape, his information, his fucking BIS registration information. And now, a seventh—what’s his fucking address.
“Harry, are you coming?” Hermione asks, halfway out the door.
Harry takes a deep inhale through his nose, staring down at his phone. Then: “One minute.”
He whirls around and stalks back into his room, slamming his finger down on the call button, as he throws the door shut. Harry leans back against the door, breathing heavily as it rings. Once. Twice.
“Harry—”
“Are you fucking joking?” Harry snarls.
There’s a beat of silence. “Harry Potter.”
“Don’t ‘Harry Potter’ me ,” Harry barks, mocking that perfect, posh accent. He bites down hard on his tongue and forces his voice lower. “I asked you to be my coach and you agreed. And then you ghost me for a week. Are you joking?”
More fucking silence. But, this time, Harry can tell that Riddle is surprised. Good.
“ did not ghost you,” Riddle says. “I was merely preparing—”
“I want you to teach me, and I have the feeling that you want to teach me too. But, my last coaches were bad at communication. I can’t be coached by someone bad at communicating. I thought you didn't want to...it doesn't matter what I thought. Just, please don’t…” Harry’s anger runs out faster than he’d like it to. He sags against the door, pinching the bridge of his nose, just under the wire of his glasses. “Please don’t do that again.”
Harry stares out the window, opposite of him, out onto the busy street below. Traffic is starting up. That means it’s getting later in the morning, cutting it dangerously close to practice. There are cars parked in the lot across the way, outside of the bakery. Yes, it’s past time to go, he thinks.
“I apologize.” He doesn’t sound like he means it, but he doesn’t sound like he doesn’t mean it either. Whatever that means.
“Thank you. Now why do you—”
“What’s your address?” Tom Riddle asks.
Harry sighs and tells him, saying the numbers and street name slowly. He even tacks on his unit. There’s a knock on his door that makes him jump and Harry twists around, staring at the wood, wide-eyed.
“Harry, are you alright? We heard shouting,” Hermione says softly. And then, a little more impatient, she pushes on, “If everything is alright, will you get a move on? We’re going to be late.”
“Er, yes, sorry, calling my bank,” Harry stutters through the lie.
Harry hears Ron cluelessly wonder, “His bank ?”
And then: “Harry, don’t move.” The phone goes silent in his ear.
“FUCK!” Harry roars, turning to punt his phone at his bed. He groans, burying his face in his hands, shaking his head.
He hates being hung up on. He hates not knowing what’s going on. He hates that every time Riddle even addresses him, he feels his hopes getting up. He can see his entire future and he can imagine what victory might taste like, what it might feel like. And he craves it so bad, because losing sometimes feels like dying, and he is tired of dying over and over again on the ice.
“Harry! Harry!” Hermione says, pounding her fist on the door. “Harry, I’m coming in!”
Harry sighs as Hermione throws the door open and marches in. She kneels in front of Harry, wild-eyed and so earnestly worried.
“What is it? What did the bank say?” Hermione asks.
Harry blinks. “The…bank?” he repeats.
Ron leans against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest. “You said you were on the phone with the bank. What’s that about it?”
Oh fuck. Harry hates lying. He’s so bad at it. He nearly always forgets the lie halfway into it.
“I just…I think they froze my accounts. I need to call again,” Harry says. He swallows. “And I can’t wait until after practice. I need to call again. You go on without me.”
Hermione puts her hands on her hips and she stands to her full height. “Harry,” she forces out, “this better not be a ploy to get out of practice.”
“Now, when have I ever wanted to get out of practice?” Harry blurts out.
Hermione falters. “Ah, well…maybe never. But, you’re acting very strange. Like you don’t want to be there.”
“Mate, is there something wrong? You can tell us you know,” Ron says.
And he could tell them. Harry is reasonably sure that they wouldn’t react the same as Ginny. They’d understand that this is about a professional change. None of this is personal.
But, it feels personal.
It feels like betrayal.
And he’d do it a thousand times over.
“No, it’s fine. Just the bank and…I’m nervous. I’m nervous. It’s fine. Go without me. I’ll take the bus. Even if I hate Shunpike,” Harry says.
He jumps up, shaking away his frustration, all of the other feelings too to guide Hermione and Ron to the door with his reassurances. Hermione’s suspicion never ebbs away and Ron always looks at him like he’s a bit crazy, but they’ve always looked at him that way, Harry tells him. Harry has always been suspicious and a little bit crazy. It’s fine.
He’s fine .
When Harry finally shuts the door he rushes to his bedroom window to watch Hermione pull her car—a sensible sedan, despite being able to afford something far nice with her prize money—off the street with Ron in the passenger seat. Harry swallows hard, looking down at the street, and then he pulls away, because that’s crazy. No one is watching him.
Stressed he walks back into the living room and begins to pace.
He knows what it means that Riddle has his address. Has told him not to move. He could be here in three hours, by car. London isn’t all that far. That means in three hours, Harry might have a different coach. He’ll have to explain to Ron and Hermione and Ginny and everyone what he’s doing, why he has to do it.
And he thinks he might feel sad, somewhere in there. Ending his training with his parents. His first coaches. But there’s something like pettiness and spite too, something far uglier that yearns for more. Harry’s yearning has always been a chasm in his chest, threatening to swallow him and everything else up and he wants, he does, he wants more—
The knock at the door silences all of Harry’s thoughts. Harry can barely breathe. He stares at the door and swallows hard as he grabs at his bearings.
Another knock again.
Harry crosses the living room in long strides, his gear bag bouncing against his hip, and when he wrenches it open, Tom Riddle looms in the doorway, larger than life in all black. He’s even wearing that same black pea coat he wore in Milwaukee, though it’s not paired with a black turtleneck.
The last time Harry was this close to Riddle, he was kneeling in his hotel room bed, drawing the man in, demanding for him to be his coach. And now.
“Tom Riddle,” Harry says quietly.
Riddle steps inside, not waiting for Harry to back away and let him in. He seems content with dragging himself closer into Harry’s personal space. He has his black cane in hand and he looks down his long patrician nose at Harry, sizing him up.
“Well?” Harry asks, voice creaking.
Riddle tilts his head. “I’ve signed the papers and submitted them with BIS and the ISU. I’m officially your coach, Harry Potter,” he says, his lips finally pulling into a lopsided smirk, pleased that he’d managed to cow Harry.
And Harry.
Harry grins with relief.