Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tom settled on the red sofa opposite of the kitchen, scowling when the cushions sank and started swallowing him down. He hated being small. 

Harry was putting on some sunscreen, whistling along with the song playing on the old radio. He was standing next to the counter where all the Tupperwares sat piled one atop the other, with his back facing Tom. There was a variety of different fruits there, from pineapples (Tom’s favorites) to strawberries and raspberries (James’ and Harry’s favorites). Mister Voldemort never ate anything.

“Oh oh, livin’ on a prayer. Take my hand, we’ll make it I swear. Oh oh, livin’ on a prayer.”

Harry had a horrible singing voice. 

“Oh oh, we’re halfway there. Oh oh, livin’ on a prayer.”

Tom still loved it.

“Harry.”

Harry continued humming, oblivious. 

“Harry!”

He turned around, looking confused. “Yeah, kiddo?”

Tom growled, getting up with difficulty. “Don’t call me kid. I’m not a kid.”

“Mmmm. You’re right, I’m sorry.”

He was obviously indulging him. Tom crossed his arms in front of his chest, ignoring the spike of annoyance he felt from being the source of Harry’s amusement. They’d had that talk a million times before, the one where Harry patiently explained that not everything was meant to be seen as an act of aggression.

I’m not laughing at you, Tom. I’m laughing with you.

Yeah, whatever.

“Can’t we stay here? There’s a book I really want to read, and I can’t do that while we’re all outside.”

Tom didn’t understand why they couldn’t spend the day inside the cottage, just the two of them. Harry’s cooling charms were much more effective inside than they were under the scorching heat. Plus, there were no mosquitoes in his room. 

God, he loved his room. Mister Voldemort and Harry had done a great job at decorating, but they’d given him a few liberties when it came to it. The room was big enough for a bed and a tall bookshelf that took up the entire left wall, plus his own desk. Tom spent hours writing in his diary seated in front of it, getting used to the new quills Harry had bought for them.

In preparation for Hogwarts, he said.

It was good. It was very good. But even more than the desk itself or the mahogany bookshelf slowly filling out with old and new editions of his favorite books, it was the feeling of Harry’s arms around him when they took an afternoon nap. Strong and real and certain.  

Tom hated hugs, but when Harry fell asleep beside him and the rays of sunshine coming in through the windows lulled him into a dangerous state of complacency, he could admit there wasn’t any other place in the world he’d rather be. Even if James sometimes sneaked into the room and got under the white quill.

(Not that he’d ever admit to finding the fool remotely tolerable.)

“Because I also want to spend time with Jamsie, kiddo.”

“That’s stupid.”

Harry looked at him for a few seconds, the corner of his mouth curving upwards. He’d put on his swimsuit half an hour ago, despite Tom’s temper tantrum. He hadn’t lost hope on going out for a swim, apparently. 

On a swim with them.

Tom scowled. “Don’t laugh. This is not a laughing matter.”

Harry snorted, turning away to hide his smile. “Laughing is pretty healthy. You should try it sometimes.”

Does he take me for a fool?

Tom followed Harry, stopping right in front of him. “Yesterday James broke my bucket,” he said, clenching his fists. Each word was carefully enunciated, in case Harry had a difficult time understanding. “My bucket, Harry. Why are you still taking his side?”

Harry pursed his lips in a flat line, looking like it pained him deeply to maintain a serious expression. His green eyes shined with fondness, an emotion Tom had learned to recognize over the past four months. 

His heart still did a stupid jump on his chest when he caught Harry wearing it. 

“He didn’t mean it: He apologized right after it happened! Plus, we have four more buckets in the closet. It doesn’t matter which one you use.”

Tom stomped his foot, not caring how childish the action seemed. “Yes it does! We’ve talked about it! I chose that bucket! It was mine!”

Harry hummed, grabbing the sunscreen bottle from the counter and squeezing more into his open palm. Tom watched as the lotion on his skin started melting away, until there was nothing left. It made Harry’s arms and legs glisten, golden like the sun.

Golden like James’ skin. Tom hated the similarities between his Harry and the other kid.

“We’ll go shopping for another, how about that? We’ll buy it together, like we did last time.”

Harry opened a cabinet and took two disposable tissues, wiping his hands with them. He tossed them in the trash and turned towards Tom, giving him a blinding smile. 

“It’s not about that,” Tom grumbled, always the petty one. 

“Sure it’s not,” Harry fired back, cocking his head to the side. 

Damn him and the way he always seemed to read Tom’s thoughts.

“I’d still like to stay inside,” Tom said at last, not ready to admit defeat. “We can stay in bed like last time. I’ll read. I’ll read out loud if you want to, or you can just sleep.” 

“I know you’d like that, I would too. But think about this, by reading outside you’ll be training your mind to focus on harsher conditions.” Harry took a step forward, running a hand through Tom’s hair and gently massaging his scalp. “Also, the weather forecaster said it will rain tomorrow. Spending the day inside feels a lot more nicer when it’s raining.”

He smelled like coconut lotion and sun.

“Mmmm.” Tom melted. He always did. “I hate you.”

Harry’s laugh rumbled against his chest. “No, no you don’t.”

Mister Voldemort and James were already inside the pond by the time they arrived. Mister Voldemort hated getting wet, but like Tom, he had a soft spot for puppy green eyes.

Harry Junior, or how they’d been calling him lately, James, was laying on his back while he babbled a million words per hour. When he saw Harry a huge smile formed in his face.

“Harry! Did you know that sharks breathe through something called gills? Vee just told me.” The idiot sat up abruptly, the lower half of his body sinking into the water. “Oh!” 

Mister Voldemort moved faster than a snake, catching him before the cerulean surface swallowed him. “Careful, child. Floating charms are not infallible.”

James laughed, taking a hand to his forehead and moving the soaking fringe away from his eyes. A faint lighting bolt marred his tanned skin.“But yours are!” 

Harry cursed under his breath, a pretty pink coloring his cheekbones. He pinched his nose with his scarred hand. I must not tell lies. “That bloody child.”

Tom agreed.

“Perhaps you’re right, but I’d still prefer you were more cautious. Even when I’m around,” the man answered. His tone was even, but Tom could see how pleased he was by the slight widening of his nasal cavities.

Ugh, disgusting.

Tom stretched his towel over the grass, dumping his bag on it.

“Nevertheless, I thank you for the faith you place in me. I want what’s best for you, after all.” Harry snorted, covering his mouth with one hand. Voldemort’s red slits narrowed, focusing on him with startling intensity. Tom straightened, ready to leap in front of Harry. “Maybe you could learn something from your counterpart, dear.” 

Harry chuckled, but there was a bitter edge to it that was rare on him. “Is that so?” He sat down on the grass, not bothering with a towel. “James and I have had very different life experiences, you see.” Harry interlaced his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, ignoring the man’s hungry gaze. Tom bared his teeth. “Maybe you could learn some basic psychology, Voldemort.”

Voldemort flinched, a reaction that always caught Tom’s attention.

That was his name, wasn’t it? A pretty uncommon name, sure, but one he wore with pride despite the rest’s reaction to it. Uncle Ron said it with disgust, Uncle Neville said it politely, and if the rumours were true, many people still whispered it with fear. 

Yet there was something in Harry's voice when he said it, when he addressed Voldemort directly, that never failed to make the man flinch. 

Tom sat on his towel, tucking his legs underneath him. James said something and Voldemort’s attention was effectively dragged away from Harry. 

Good. At least the idiot could be of some use.

“Vee, do you think we can catch a fish here? Uncle Bill told me the other day that near The Borrow there’s a lot of rainbow fishes.”

Vee

Harry Jr had become James, and Voldemort was soon baptized Vee. At least for the three of them.

Tom moved his eyes away.

Harry had insisted on smearing him with pounds of sunscreen before leaving the house, so his skin felt sticky and uncomfortable. Tom wiped his hands with his shorts before taking out the book, lest he stained it. His new edition of Oliver Twist was currently his most prized possession, so Tom always handled it with a lot of care.

They spent an hour like that, reading. Well, Tom read, and Harry pretended to be as interested as he was in the tribulations of the famous orphan. Tom put on a hat over Harry’s face after his cheeks started burning from the sun, making it easier for him to pretend he wasn’t napping. 

Harry was always napping.

James and Mister Voldemort stayed in the water for a while, until James, as usual, began flapping around. He wanted to try out the new floating bed Harry had bought the other day. 

“Pleaseeeeeee?”

Harry groaned from underneath his hat, stretching his legs. “Give me a minute, kid.”

James pouted, looking ridiculously childish. Tom rolled his eyes.

The floating bed was pink, something Tom would’ve scoffed at if Harry hadn’t been the one to personally choose it. About 6'4 feet long, when it was in the water it was big enough to support Voldemort, who claimed it for himself once James got bored. The man laid stretched out in the pink inflatable, while he questioned Tom on his new findings.

“Transfiguration seems almost pointless, in a way. What’s stopping people from converting the original object into something new, but permanently? Why should they have a time limit? Why does magic have limits?”

Voldemort hummed, adjusting Harry’s hat on his face. For his sanity’s sake Tom was going to pretend he hadn't seen the man inhaling it when Harry wasn’t looking. 

“It’s not about the subject itself, child, but the wizard’s capacity to sustain the spell-works. The limits are there as a consequence of the average mage’s power.”

“That’s even worse! They shouldn’t teach a subject with mediocre people in mind! They’re limiting everyone else!”

Voldemort chuckled at the same time Harry let out a loud snort. He was standing at the edge of the pond, water dripping from his hair. He’d left his glasses in the grass besides James' smaller ones. 

They looked almost identical standing side by side; different sizes of the same model. 

Ugh.

“Perhaps you’re right, Tom.”

“Of course I’m right!”

Harry intervened, looking more relaxed than before. “You’re inflating his ego.”

The man’s eyes softened, looking pathetically relieved at being addressed again. Harry didn’t see his expression, choosing to wink at Tom in that exact same moment.

James chortled and Tom groaned, burying his head in his hands.

What had he done in his past life to warrant such punishment? Why did he have to be surrounded by idiots?

“Hey guys, look how high I can jump!”

James ran through a stretch of grass and launched himself into the pond like the devil himself was at his heels, splashing them with cold water. 

Tom barely hid his book on time, so there was no hope for the rest of him. “Hey! Be careful you, arsehat!” 

“What have I said about cursing, child?”

Tom was close to throwing a sunscreen bottle at Voldemort. A few seconds later James resurfaced, shaking his soaking hair with energy. 

Harry snorted, looking over. “Better take cover, Tom, cause I’m gonna cause a bigger mess.”

“Merlin above,” Voldemort sighed, putting up a translucent shield around him.

Tom didn’t squeak. He absolutely didn’t. “Oh! Voldemort, cover me too! He’s go—”

Harry jumped into the water, and Tom scrambled to throw away the bag with his book as far away as possible.

“Oh my god!”

James climbed into the pink inflatable, shaking with laughter. Even Voldemort looked amused as he scooped the devil into his arms.

“HARRY! YOU COULD’VE RUINED MY BOOK!”

The culprit’s head peaked through, like an impish mermen taking a look at the land of men. He blinked a couple times until his vision cleared, and then his eyes landed on Tom’ furious form. “Jesus, T-tom, don’t need to look so angry,” he choked up.

Tom turned red. “Don’t need to look so angry. I can’t even—What were you—”

“Tom, get in the water with us, come ooooon!” James smiled at him, cheeks flushed and both dimples on display. Tom’s breath caught in his throat. 

“I—”

Harry swam to the edge of the pond, resting his head in his arms. “Come on, kid, don’t be a spoilsport. You’re already wet, aren’t you?” He cocked his head to the side, green eyes dancing with unbridled joy. 

Tom melted. He always did. “I hate you all.”

“No, no you don’t,” James and Harry sang in unison. 

“And just like that, entire empires fell,” Voldemort sighed mournfully.

Tom ignored the man, walking towards the pond. Harry opened his arms, catching him with ease.  

“I got you, love.”

Those same arms tightened around him, strong and real and certain. 

“I got you.”

Tom believed him.

Chapter Text

Tom trudged pathetically behind James and Harry. They were twenty feet ahead of him, racing down the road in their bikes. From time to time they would slow down, circle back to Tom and keep his pace for a few minutes, before setting off again. 

Harry had first taught them how to ride the bike a month ago, and James had taken to it like a fish in the water. Now they spent every day on the ridiculous device, coming home with giant smiles and nasty sunburns. 

Tom hated it, as much as he hated swimming, mosquitoes, the sun and leaving the comfort of his own room.

A drop of sweat slid down the back of his neck. 

That morning was hellishly hot, despite the early hour. When they went to The Burrow Harry insisted on leaving at the crack of dawn, so they could make the most of it. 

“Hey, Tom! Did you see that?”

Tom looked ahead, pretending he hadn’t heard James. Maybe then he’d go away.

James circled back in his bike, which was three times smaller than Harry’s. He traced a circle around Tom, raising dirt as he went. 

Tom scowled at him. “You’re staining my clothes, stop it.”

James continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “Did you see what I did? I took my hands off the steering wheel for ten seconds. It was awesome!”

Tom bristled. How unnecessarily petty, bringing up his mastery of the damned vehicle in front of him. How vile, knowing full well Tom’s astounding lack of equilibrium was a sore spot for him. 

“Good lord, James. Do you want a prize? A standing ovation?” he snapped, glowering at the other boy. 

James faltered, almost falling off the bike. 

Good riddance. 

“Tom,” Harry warned.

Tom snapped his mouth close. 

The road towards The Borrow was more difficult that day. It hadn’t rained in days, so the ground was drier than the Sahara desert. Tom was sure he had inhaled enough dust to produce some kind of blood poisoning.

Tom huffed. “I’m sorry, but walking with you brings it out in me.”

“Tom.”

“I’m being honest! This is a ridiculous waste of time! I don’t understand why we can’t just use the Floo.”

Harry looked over his shoulder. “Cause it’s more fun this way! And you need to get some sun.”

Tom scowled. “I get sun alright.”

James slowed down, waiting for Tom to catch up with him. “The one coming through your bedroom window doesn’t count.” 

Tom adjusted the bag’s strap over his shoulder. “Reading the cereal’s box instructions doesn’t count as reading either, but you don’t hear me saying anything about that,” he sneered, “or about your monumental lack of brain cells, if we’re on it.”

“Tom!” Harry slowed down the bike, stopping in the middle of the road not two seconds later. He frowned at Tom. “Control yourself or I'll walk you back home.”

Tom flushed, immediately yielding under Harry’s gaze. 

“He started it.”

James frowned. “That’s not true! I didn’t mean it in a bad way!”

Harry huffed. “I know, kid. I know,” he said, looking at James with an unreadable expression on his face. He stayed like for a few seconds and then shook his head, seeming to snap out of his thoughts. “But take it from me, sometimes we need to take certain cues.”

“Cues?”

“Yep. Like how to stop making conversation when someone’s in a rotten mood.”

“I’m not in a rotten mood,” Tom grumbled, just as James cried, “But how do you know when someone’s in a rotten mood!?”

Harry spent the rest of the way to The Burrow talking to James in low voices, probably instructing him in the wonders of casual observation. 

By the time the house started looming into the horizon he was already soaked in sweat. 

The grass tickled Tom’s legs as he walked, making his skin itch horribly. He stopped and scratched his legs while James and Harry parked their bikes by the fence. 

“Harry!”

Ronald Weasley appeared by the door, all 6’3 feet of him. He was wearing a pair of muggle pants —jeans, Tom’s mind supplied— and an orange shirt that read Go Canons!

Harry straightened when he heard his best mate’s voice, grinning like a little boy. 

“Hey there,” he shouted, waving his hand in the air.

Ronald was in front of him in three strides of his long legs. He wrapped his arms around Harry, enveloping him in a fierce hug. 

“It’s good to see you, mate,” the redhead said.

Tom rolled his eyes. 

They’d seen each other last Sunday. 

“You too.” Harry patted Ronald’s back, before squeezing his neck and taking a step back. “Tom! Come say hi!”

Tom scratched his leg one more time and adjusted the strap on his shoulder, walking towards the group. 

The thing with the Weasleys was complicated.

(Meaning Tom could barely stand them)

They were loud, messy, and terribly obnoxious (and too many of them). They ate like a pack of rabid dogs, had absolutely no manners and didn’t seem to have heard of personal space before. Yet Harry glowed every time he saw them, so Tom was willing to put up with their lot if it meant he could bask in the aftermath of Harry’s happiness. 

The fact that Mister Voldemort loathed their weekly visits to The Burrow helped too. Tom didn’t especially fancy spending the entire day with him when he got in one of his moods. 

Ronald scooped James in his arms, squeezing him against him and filling him with sloppy kisses.

“Ew! Uncle Ron!” He squealed, pushing the man’s face away from him and pretending like he wasn’t enjoying every second of it.

As if reading his mind Harry looked Tom’s way, warning him against commenting.

He just rolled his eyes harder.

A gust of breeze came in through the meadow, blowing Tom’s t-shirt. He sighed with relief, wishing the wind would dry off the sweat clinging to his back.

“And you, little devil? Planning to take over the world yet?” Ronald hadn’t set down James, wrapping one arm around him while he extended the other towards Tom instead. 

“Don’t be stupid. I will take over the world after Hogwarts, of course,” he said primly, trying not to frown when the man ran a hand through his hair and did his best to dishevel it. 

He had a feeling Ronald knew exactly how much it bothered him, doing it so often just to annoy him. 

“Still a moody git, huh?”

Harry snorted. 

Tom didn’t bother replying to that. “Is Aunt Hermione coming?”

Ron exchanged a look with Harry. “Figures that the Evil Snake’s spawn would get along with Mione the best.”

“Mr. Voldemort is not my father.” Tom scowled. “And you didn’t answer my question. Is she? Coming, I mean?”

Ronald shook his head, amused. “Yeah, she was in the shower when I Flooed here, she shouldn’t take long.” He grinned, showing a row of white teeth. “The swot wouldn’t miss her weekly debate with you, mini swot.”

Tom nodded, satisfied. “Good,” he said, ignoring Ronald’s crude choice of words. He was not a swot, Ron was just intellectually impaired. 

He set off towards the house without another word. 

Tom adored Harry, but he knew he’d go crazy in Hermione’s place, having only him and the dunderhead she called a husband as friends. 

He heard James whisper behind him. “You shouldn’t talk to him right now Uncle Ron, he’s in a rotten mood.” 

“He’s always in a rotten mood, love. Reminds me a bit of Harry here, actually.”

“Fuck you, Ron.”

“See! Merlin knows how you turned out to be such a ray of sunshine, James, dear.”

Tom crossed the threshold of the house, anxious to get under the cooling charms. 

Mrs. Weasley was bustling around in the kitchen, finishing breakfast. When she saw him a huge smile broke in her face. 

“Tom! Hello, darling!”

Tom walked closer to the counter, observing the pile of waffles, eggs and sausages spread over it. It smelled delicious.

“Hello, Mrs. Weasley,” he said politely. He’d always been on his best behavior around the woman, aware that she took every decision concerning the Weasley clan. 

“Doesn’t it look nice, Tom?”

“It does,” he answered, nodding enthusiastically. His mouth watered and his stomach grumbled, loud enough for Mrs. Weasley to hear. 

“Oh dear, better get started then. Help me set up the table and you’ll get to choose your plate first.”

Tom did as she said, reflecting on how much his circumstances had changed in the span of four months. 

Back in the orphanage he never would have dreamt of having such an abundant breakfast. Food was scarce and the Matrons cruel, more often than not withholding their rations as a form of punishment.

“Good morning boys! Don’t you two look wonderful? You’ve been spending some time under the sun, haven’t you?”

Tom heard Harry’s smile. 

“Yes. We’ve been eating a lot too, Molly, so rest easy.”

“Nonsense. You’re still too skinny.”

Tom took the plates from the kitchen counter, setting them on the table as carefully as he could. 

Huh

There were only seven. 

“Molly, there’s only seven plates,” he said over his shoulder, interrupting James blabbering. 

“Oh, yes dear. Andromeda and Teddy will arrive for lunch, with the rest of the family. I think they had a healer appointment at eleven.”

Tom smiled to himself. He couldn’t stand the Monstrous Color Changing Creature and his unnatural attachment to Harry. It was even worse than James’. 

“Are they alright?” Harry asked, concern lacing his voice.

“Yes, it’s a checkup appointment, no need to worry.”

Tom tuned out the rest of the conversation, focusing his attention on the arrangement of the cutlery. He put each fork at the exact same distance of each other, pleased with how symmetrical they looked. 

“Hey Tom?”

Tom groaned. “What?”

James’ face fell. He looked away, gripping his hands with anguish. 

Tom swatted them. “Don’t do that. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

The other boy swallowed, going red. 

“So? What is it?”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you. On the bike, I mean. I think you’re amazing in many things, and I—”

Tom kept silent, waiting to hear the rest. There was an uncomfortable tightness on his chest. 

The bloody heat again

James continued. “I guess I just wanted to show you something cool, y’know?”

Tom hummed, looking at the flowerpot in the center of the table. “There’s nothing cool about a bike, James. You’d be better off learning some tricks in the broom.”

The idiot’s face brightened. “Really?” 

“Of course. It takes more time to dominate those things, after all.” More guts too, but that he didn’t say aloud. “The physics behind a flying object, and one that can support human weight at that is rather intersting.”

“That’s brilliant! We can ask Harry to teach us! Uncle George still has some of his old Cleansweeps.”

Tom scoffed. As if. “I’m not getting on a broom, James. Over my dead body.”

“Oh,” James whispered. “But you can watch me, right?”

“I can read outside while you practice, I suppose.”

James’ smile was blinding. 

***

In the end, Harry didn’t agree to teach him.

“We are having breakfast in a minute, James.”

“But later!”

“Later we’ll help Molly clean up the table and wash the dishes, and by the time we finish Andy and Teddy will have arrived already.”

“And?”

“If Teddy sees you in a broom, he’s going to insist on trying it out too, and he’s still too small. Maybe tomorrow, kiddo.”

So there was that. 

Tom had the nagging suspicion that Harry had blown him off, given the ridiculous nature of his excuse. (There was plenty of time between breakfast and lunch, honestly) 

He probably wanted to drink a beer with Ron and play a couple rounds of chess before the rest of the Weasleys arrived. 

After breakfast James settled in an armchair on Mrs. Weasley legs, watching with rapt attention as she knitted.

“Did you bring the books?” Aunt Hermione asked, looking at him with fondness.

Tom nodded, getting up for his bag. When he returned she had already put hers on the table. A few weeks back they’d developed the tradition of exchanging books and discussing them every Sunday. 

Harry was always happy to take Tom to the library, so now he had enough of them to actually sustain the tradition long-term.

“Well, did you like it?”

Tom pursed his lips. “It was a bit boring.”

Hermione gasped. “No!”

“I’m afraid so, yes. The setting was unrealistic, the girl was insufferable and the prose was way too pompous. I prefer it when you give me books that cover modern problems, to be honest.”

The bushy haired woman frowned. “That’s too bad, because novels are vital for your development. You can’t just read non-fiction!”

Uncle Ron snorted. 

“Oh shush, Ronald! I actually read a lot of novels back at Hogwarts!” She turned towards Tom again. “And I was still bullied for it, mind you.”

“Oi! That’s not fair!”

Aunt Hermione scoffed. “Right. Thankfully, Tom won’t have to experience any of that. I’ll make sure of it,” she finished, sending one last glare at the two men in the living room. “Here, this is the second book.”

Tom almost banged his head against the table. “Can the protagonist not be ginger, at least?” He cried, alarmed by how whiny he sounded. He lowered his voice. “I mean, I already see enough of them on an everyday day basis.”

“Anne prefers the term auburn haired, thank you,” Aunt Hermione said, scrunching her nose. 

Tom buried his face in his hands, ignoring Mr and Mrs Weasley soft chuckles.

“Good Lord.”

When they arrived home that night Harry drew him aside, kissing his hair and murmuring: “Thank you for today Tom.”

And if that made the entire day worth it, he didn’t tell.

Chapter Text

Harry was asleep on the couch. This wasn’t an uncommon development, as he usually plopped down for an afternoon nap after they all finished eating. Mister Voldemort was pretending to read the newspaper by the dining room, eyes straying towards Harry and the slow rise and fall of his chest every few seconds. This wasn’t an uncommon development either.

Creep. 

James’ head lolled to the side, curls flopping as it came to rest on the couch’s arm. He looked fascinated by whatever was playing on the telly. He opened his mouth to speak and Tom straightened in alarm. “Hey, who films the animals—”

“Shhhhh.” Tom hissed, sending a murderous glare his way. “Harry’s asleep.” His voice was a low whisper, but the admonishment was clear. 

James blushed, looking at his hands. “Sorry,” he mouthed. 

“There’s a silencing charm over Harry, child, no need to fret,” Voldemort said over his newspaper. His pale fingers blended with the paper. He reminded Tom of the old priest that Mrs. Cole used to call when one of the children was sick. His ugly mug usually scared the death out of the convalescents. 

“He hates them,” Tom argued, annoyed.

“Yet he sleeps better with them on, and this way he gets to spend more time with you two brats. Don’t argue with me, child. You won’t win.”

That way you can also stare at him for a good hour or so. Bloody convenient, if you ask me, thought Tom. He scowled, going back to his book. He knew better than to talk back to adults, especially ones that thought themselves above anyone else.

The hum of the fan in the corner filled the room. The house was covered in cooling charms, but sometimes only the muggle device could get the job done. It was one of Tom’s favorite new inventions, aside from the VHS player. 

“What was your question, James?”

The boy looked at him from the corner of his eye. Tom sniffed, turning the page with an unnecessary amount of aggression.

“I just wanted to know who films the animals.”

Voldemort hummed. “The animals?”

“Yes, the ones from National Geographic. Do they put cameras on other animals? Like the leopards? How do they do that?” James asked. 

Tom rolled his eyes around him so often he was sure they would disappear into his skull. “Photographers film them.” You idiot, he wanted to end with. 

Voldemort red slits narrowed. 

“But how? Isn’t that dangerous?”

“I think getting close enough to put a camera around a leopard’s neck is significantly more dangerous, James, honestly.”

“But they could save a lot of time! They could choose a more tame leopard and then send it to the rest of the pack, so he can film the others. I mean, it’s still dangerous, but whatever.” 

Voldemort flickered his hand Tom’s way, effectively telling him to keep his mouth shut. “That is a very interesting line of thought, James.”

Tom huffed, tuning them out. 

After a while Harry stirred, mumbling incoherently. “Crookshanks bloody furball. Not nice, ermione.”

The sofa was way too small for him, so his feet and a good portion of his legs ended up dangling from the edge. It could’ve been easier to admit he was going to take a nap and head to his room, but Harry liked repeating that on the rare occasions he fell asleep, (twice a week, minimum), it was completely accidental. 

Tom didn’t mind. James spoke less (mostly) and Voldemort was a lot more complacent, as long as they didn’t disturb his Watching Harry time. It was also one of the few moments of the day Tom found he could completely concentrate on his reading without locking himself in his room. 

Aunt Hermione had moved on, finally, from fictional books, and had started recommending a mix of essays and historic novels. Most of them were muggle, to Tom's annoyance, but he was willing to bite his tongue if it meant he had someone to discuss them with. James was illiterate, Voldemort was too impatient and Harry got a glazed look in his eyes if the conversation went on for longer than half an hour. 

Harry groaned, stretching his arms over his head. “Fuck, that was nice,” he said. His voice was hoarse. 

Tom looked up from the page, blinking a couple of times to clear his vision. He saw Voldemort cancel the silencing charm with a subtle slash of his wrist. 

“Haven’t slept that well in ages,” Harry continued, mouth wide open in a yawn. A bone in his jaw cracked. “Seriously.” 

Tom closed the book, deciding he was done for the day. “Whose Crookshanks?”

Harry scratched his eyebrow. “M’srry, what?”

“Crookshanks. You were mumbling something about Crookshanks furr. Is it an animal?”

James brightened. “Yes! It’s Aunt Mione’s cat! She’s very grumpy.” His cheeks were burnt from the sun, round and pink like the apples that grew in Ottery St. Catchpole. 

Tom dragged his eyes away, scowling. 

Harry snorted. “That she is. She hates Ron’s guts.” He sat up, rubbing the back of his neck with a satisfied groan. “Merlin, I love this sofa.” 

“It will destroy your back,” Voldemort said, without looking up. 

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Boy Who Lived, remember?” he said, tapping his forehead. “I think I’ll be alright.” He extended his arm. “Accio Harry’s glasses.” 

The black-rimmed glasses flew into his open palm. Tom loved that pair: He and James had chosen it after Teddy, the absolute pillock, accidentally broke Harry’s old ones. 

Voldemort put the paper down and exhaled. “I suppose you are right.”

Harry smiled without showing teeth. Ronald called it his arsehole smile. “Took you long enough to see it.” His hands were clenched at the side of his legs.

They’d been at odds for a few weeks now. Harry was good at pretending in front of them—concealing his anger behind the lines of his forehead and the insides of his closed fists—but unlike other children his age, Tom was smart enough to pick up on context clues.

It all had started when Ronald arrived at their door one morning, pale as ash. A former classmate of theirs, Dean Thomas, had passed away. He had offed himself, apparently. They spoke in whispers weaved in lazy silencing charms, but when Tom really paid attention he could understand enough words to put it together. He didn’t know who this Thomas fellow was, nor did he care, but he was smart enough to pretend in front of Harry. Voldemort wasn’t, unfortunately, as he’d stared blankly at them when the news broke.

“Who?” He’d asked.

Even if he’d wanted to, Tom couldn’t have found a way to defend him. What a moron. 

“Why does she hate Ron?” James interrupted, oblivious to the weird tension hanging in the room.

Harry blinked. “Who? Crookshanks?”

James nodded in confirmation.

“Erm,” Harry said, running a hand through his hair. “Your guess is as good as mine, mate. She just does.”

“The real question is, why wouldn’t she? He chews with his mouth open,” Tom said with a grimace. He started to get up, dusting off his shorts. The armchair squeaked in protest. 

“That happened once, Tom.” 

He scoffed. “Once is enough, I think.” Tom walked around the sofa and crossed the hallway that led to the kitchen, keeping an eye on the cabinets. He’d gotten a sudden urge to drink hot chocolate, despite the heat. 

His need for sugar was getting unmanageable lately.

“Hey kid, what are you doing?” Harry shouted from the living room. 

“Mind your business!” Tom shot back. In the orphanage he would’ve gotten a caning for that.

A delighted cackle reached his ears. “You’re getting a sweet treat, aren’t you?” Harry’s face peeked through the door. He seemed to have forgotten about his anger.

Tom got on his tiptoes to reach the place where Harry kept the chocolate, annoyed. “No, I’m not.” The evidence was damming.

“Liar,” Harry sing-sang. “Good thing you’re small, or else I’d have to keep this under lock.” He ruffled Tom’s hair, bringing down the bag. 

The tip of Tom’s ears turned red. “I’m taller than James.”

The boy in question appeared behind him, making him jump. “Just by an inch.”

“Jesus Christ, James!” Tom wheezed, ignoring Harry’s amused chuckle. “Someone ought to put a bell on you!” He breathed out, bringing a hand to his chest. His heart was beating furiously.

“I’m really quiet, aren’t I?” James looked ridiculously proud of himself. 

“A ninja, basically,” Harry said. The two high fived. 

Tom rolled his eyes. Again. 

“Ninjas, please.” He opened the lower cabinet and took out a pan. He placed it next to the chocolate and moved to grab the milk from the fridge. It was Molly’s recipe, which Tom had done so many times he could practically recite it in his sleep. “Get out of the way.” 

Harry dragged a stool from the center of the kitchen. He gestured at James to come closer, lifting him in the air and setting him next to the stove. “Why? Don’t you want help?” Harry asked, getting up a second later. 

James grinned, peering down the bag. “I love hot chocolate. Even in the summer.” When he smiled you could see his missing front teeth, the only evidence left of the time he crashed his bike into the Weasley’s fence.

Tom closed his eyes and counted down from ten. “I can do it by myself.” When he opened them again he saw Harry’s fond smile directed at him. 

“I’m sure you can, you’ll just take twice as long.”

Tom almost growled. “I’m not that small.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I was the third tallest boy at the orphanage.” Not true, he was the fifth, but still. Harry’s lack of confidence was insulting.

“Did you drink hot chocolate at the orphanage? Aunt Petunia never let me.”

Both of them whipped their heads towards James, mouths snapping close. Harry made a pained noise. 

James tapped his knees, eyes travelling between the two. “Wait no, that’s not true. She let me one time, during the school’s Christmas festival. It was really nice,” he continued. The silence stretched on. He tapped his knees again. “Um, so, did you, Tom? Drink hot chocolate?”

Tom took a step closer towards Harry, afraid he might lose his balance and fall off the stool. “No, I didn’t. Chocolate is really expensive.”

James’ face fell. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

They stayed quiet for a good thirty seconds. 

“Well!” Harry exclaimed, drawing his shoulders back. “If I have anything to say about it, you’ll eat so much candy that by the time you’re older and diabetic, you won't be able to stand the sight of me.” His voice was laced with fake cheer. 

Tom scrunched his nose. 

“What’s diabetic?” James asked, at the same time he stated, “I’ll have a cure by then.”

Harry’s eyes softened. “I have no doubt. You’ll both achieve whatever you put your minds on.” The corner of his mouth attempted a smile, but it couldn’t completely erase the uneasiness behind it. He always acted weird whenever either talked about their childhoods. 

“I’m sure. James will make a very good binman one day,” Tom sniffed, satisfied when Harry let out a snort. 

“Prick,” the boy mumbled under his breath. 

Harry ruffled their hair. “Don’t be a prat, Tom.” He turned towards the counter. “Or you won’t get dessert.” 

James jumped to the floor. “I want to help!” he said, looking over the ingredients. “I’m really good at cooking!” 

Harry nodded. “Let’s get to it, then.”

Tom watched the tense line of his back. 

If things had been different he would’ve been very smug about Harry’s concern: Oh, Tom would’ve milked every last drop of it! An adult, visibly upset by Tom’s pitiful anecdotes. Imagine that! Except Harry dealt with pain by disappearing to The Burrow for hours at a time, only coming back when the moon was high and his cheeks were flushed from drinking. 

“You reek of whiskey,” Voldemort had said.

“Lazy men drown their sorrows in whiskey,” Mrs. Cole liked repeating.

Harry wasn’t lazy, but Tom suspected he had plenty of sorrows. It was smarter to leave it alone. 

Molly’s recipe wasn’t particularly difficult, it just took a lot of time. They needed to sit by the stove and blend the mix with enough regularity to ensure the cornstarch and chocolate dissolved. Tom would usually read in between blending, but with Harry and James there he didn’t even attempt to.

“Do you think I’ll get diabetes if I eat too much treacle tart at Hogwarts?”

“Um, I don’t think so. I was joking.” Harry’s eyebrows furrowed. “Mostly.”

Tom cocked his head. “Can we get diabetes to begin with?” 

“We’re wizards, Tom, not Superman,” Harry said, laughing. “Where would be the fun in that?”

“Mmm. I’m sure there’s a correlation between muggle diseases and our autoimmune system. There’s a reason why cancer is so rare in magical children.” Tom nodded, deep in thought. “I’ll have to ask Mister Voldemort about it.”

“Erm, yes. You do that.”

James licked his thumb, smearing chocolate in his upper lip. “Dudley really likes Christopher Reeve.” 

Harry grimaced. “I remember. He said he was his inspiration to get buff.”

James squinted at the wall, looking like he was trying to conjure the picture in his head and having a hard time at it. “Did he? Get buff?” 

“I mean, kind of? He wasn’t Superman, but he was a lot fitter.”

“Dudley’s dumber than a box of rocks.” James snorted. “He probably spells it with Z. To be Superman you have to be smart and fit.”

“Erm.” Harry tried to pass his laugh as a cough. “That’s mean. A bit true, but mean— ”

Tom snapped. “I’ve told you not to talk about things I know nothing about!” He slammed down the spoon with a loud clack. 

James’ mouth dropped open. “You don’t know who Superman is?”

“How on Earth would I know?” Tom hissed. 

Harry reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “Breathe, mate. We’ve talked about this. It’s not on purpose.” Tom exhaled carefully, leaning against Harry’s stomach. 

“I’m sorry. I just thought Superman was like, old. Even Mrs. Figgs knows who he is.”  

Tom bared his teeth. I’ll show you old.

“James, not helping.” Harry squeezed Tom’s shoulder with more force than what was strictly necessary. “We can see the movie when this is ready, alright? This way we can all talk about Superman.”

“I’d rather claw my eyes out, thank you.”

Harry huffed. “Dramatic little shit,” he said, purposefully disheveling Tom’s hair. “C’mmon, don’t make us beg.” 

Tom ducked under his arm and jumped back. “You don’t have to beg, Harry. It’s obvious that you two modern wonders are more than capable of having a good time without me.” 

“Don’t be like that.”

“I am not being like anything,” Tom shot back, standing straighter. He didn’t have more time to revel in Harry’s attention, however, as knobhead Number 1 chose that exact moment to interrupt.

“Will Vee watch the movie with us?”

Harry looked away from Tom, smile faltering. “What? Superman?”

“Yep.”

“Erm, I guess?” He scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know what he will do. Voldemort’s a very busy man, y’know? He’ll probably head down to the lab later.”

“Liar, he always watches movies with us. You just don’t want him there.”

Tom bit back a groan.

“I’m sorry, what?” Harry asked, eyes almost falling out of his sockets. 

“When are you going to forgive him?”

“Forgive what? I’m not mad!” 

James set his jaw, his expression mirroring Harry’s. They always looked the most similar when they were being stubborn about something. “But you are!” His eyes strayed towards the window that faced the garden, falling on the burnt patch of lily trees Voldemort had started working on for Harry’s birthday.

He had set them on fires the day he got the news about his friend. 

Harry swallowed with difficulty and looked away from the garden. “Look, James—” He took off his glasses and started rubbing his eyelids, sighing. “It’s complicated. There’s a lot of things you don’t know.”

“What things?”

Tom pinched the back of James’ arm, pleased when the boy squirmed in his seat. “Leave it alone, you berk!” he hissed. “He doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Ow.” James tried to twist away. “Ow, I’m sorry!”

“Hey, stop it.” Harry grabbed the cuff of Tom’s shirt and dragged him back. His sneakers squeaked as they slid over the floor. “It’s alright. He has a right to be curious.”

Tom scoffed.

Harry focused on James, taking his arm out and observing the scratch under the light. “I should’ve thought about it. When I was a kid it made me very angry when adults didn’t explain things.” His eyes narrowed. “Episkey,” he said, and the scratch disappeared. “Jesus, Tom, you’re worse than a bloody cat.”

“He scratches because he’s too weak to throw a punch.”

Tom cheeks flushed crimson. “That’s a lie!”

“It’s not. You needed my help to open a water bottle yesterday,” James said, smug. 

“I will strangle you, Harry James.”

James’ left dimple winked at him. “You can try.” 

“Hey, both of you, shut it.” Harry lifted his wand threateningly. “I don’t want another visit to St. Mungos.”

They snapped their mouths close and looked at each other. The main Healer of the Pediatrician Wing was terrifying.

“Just sit, will you?” Harry put his wand back into his jean’s pocket. “The chocolate’s ready. We can talk while we drink.” 

Tom crossed his arms, but did as he was told. James immediately followed suit. 

“Alright.” Harry set two steaming mugs on the counter. “And if you start fighting again, I swear to god, you’ll sleep in the bloody garden tonight.”

They nodded.

“Good.” Harry cleared his throat. The kitchen stools were very tall, so they were a lot closer to his face. From that angle Tom could see the beginnings of stubble covering his jaw. “The thing between Voldemort and me is complicated. There’s a lot of stuff I can’t explain right now. Stuff that has to do with the war.” 

“Why? Why can’t you explain it?” James asked. 

Tom couldn’t help but admit that he was curious too. “You can’t or you won’t?”

“Both.” Harry grit his teeth, looking away. “It’s a long story, and I don’t think it makes sense to get into details. Whether you like it or not, I’m your guardian now, and it’s up to me to decide what’s pertinent for your development and what isn’t.” 

“You sound like you swallowed a book about responsible parenting,” Tom said. 

Harry laughed bitterly. “I’ve been talking to Hermione, so yeah, basically.”

James took a sip of the chocolate, an intense look of concentration on his face. “I don’t understand what this has to do with your row with Vee, though.” 

Harry’s eyes lingered in the lighting scar hidden behind James’ fringe, an identical mirror to the one on his own forehead. “Remember how I told you a while ago that Voldemort and I were on opposite sides of the war?” 

The boy fidgeted, looking uncomfortable by the intensity of Harry’s scrutiny. “Um, yes?”

“It has to do with that.” Harry said. “I can’t help but get mad sometimes. Some days it’s worse than others.” He sighed. “It’s the memories, I guess.”

“But why? That happened ages ago.” James frowned, confused. “I’m talking about right now.”

Tom kicked him from underneath the table, feeling at his wits end. “If you saw Dudley in ten years, would you feel like inviting him for lunch?”

“Erm, no?” James looked at him like he was stupid, which was ironic. “He’d probably eat my food.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Well, there you go.”

Harry blinked a couple of times. “You know, that’s a pretty good way of putting it.” He sounded insultingly surprised by Tom’s insight. 

Please.

“Of course it was. I’m very smart, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Tom set his mug down, careful not to spill any chocolate. “And I know how to hold a grudge.”

“That I knew.” Harry leaned closer and grabbed the back of Tom’s neck, drawing him forward to kiss his forehead. “It shouldn’t have thrown me off how empathetic you are though.”

Tom blushed to the root of his hair. “I mean, obviously.” He sat down again, dazed. “I am a very empathetic person.” The back of his neck was burning. “I love empathy.”

James snorted something that sounded like sure.

Tom narrowed his eyes. “What?” 

James cleared his throat, looking like he was trying very hard not to laugh. Nothing, he mouthed back. 

Tom didn’t reach over and pour his drink over his lap because Harry was watching. 

“I think you’re both really awesome kids. I couldn’t be prouder, actually.” Harry’s smile looked more genuine this time. He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m really glad we talked.”

“What are we going to do about Voldemort, though?”

“You keep on doing as you’ve been doing so far, alright? Let me worry about him,” Harry said, turning towards James. 

James’ breath depleted. “I’m not worried.” He looked at his hands. “Not too much, anyways. It just feels weird, when you’re mad. I feel weird.”

“I know mate, but there’s nothing you can do about it,” Harry said, putting an arm around his shoulders. “Hell, Hermione would say there’s nothing I can do about it!” he laughed. “Just focus on yourself, alright? We’ll handle the rest.”

“Alright, I guess.”

“Good. I’ll clean the dishes while you get ready to watch the movie, ‘kay? Just for today.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Run along.”

***

Later that evening when it was time to go to bed, Tom asked Voldemort if he could read him a story. Harry, who was usually the designated person for the job, sent him a look equal parts confused and offended.

“Um, sure. Night, Tom.”

Tom sighed, burdened by the weight of his nobility. “Goodnight.”

Voldemort sat in a transfigurated chair beside the window. He held up the book with a nonverbal levitating charm, flicking the page every few minutes. 

“Thus fell two heroes; one the pride of Thrace, 

And one the leader of the Epeian race;

Death's sable shade at once o'ercast their eyes, 

In dust the vanquish'd and the victor lies.”

Tom lasted about five minutes. “Alright, stop. You’re horrible.”

Voldemort paused, bringing the book down. If he’d had eyebrows he probably would’ve arched one. “Excuse me?” 

“You’re horrible. Stop reading.”

Voldemort's nasal cavities flickered. “What part exactly do you find so horrible, child?”

“Everything! You don’t even do the voices!”

“It’s the Iliad. It does not need voices.”

Tom huffed. “Yes, well, Harry does them.”

Voldemort crossed one long leg over the other. “Harry is infinitely more patient than I am.” 

“That’s why I usually ask him,” Tom grumbled over his breath. 

“Speak louder, child.” 

“Did you hear us talking in the kitchen?”

Voldemort cocked his head to the side. “I’m sorry?” The moon’s reflection shined on his scalp, making him look like a glorified streetlamp. Tom was sure the man would not appreciate the comparison. 

“Yes. In the kitchen. I know you use eavesdropping spells sometimes.”

The air grew heavy. 

“That is a very serious accusation.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Please, I wasn’t even going to tell Harry.” He thought it over. “Though I suggest you start being more subtle about it, or one day he’s going to catch you.”

Voldemort observed him carefully, still as a snake. 

“It’s just, if you heard our conversation, you probably heard what he said about you.” Tom waited a few seconds to see if Voldemort would answer, resuming his speech when it became obvious he wouldn’t. “So you also know that he’s angry, and you know that whatever you’re doing to make up for it is not working.”

“You have enviable observation skills.”

“I know,” Tom preened. “Anyways, you need to hurry up. I don’t know what you did, so I don’t know exactly what you can do to fix it,” (nor would he tell him if he did) “but it has to be quick.”

Voldemort looked towards the window. “These things are seldom quick, Tom,” he said flatly. His fingers twitched above his lap. “If I could cast a spell and set it right, I would have done it already.”

Tom frowned, at a loss of words. He furrowed deeper into the covers. “There has to be something.”

Voldemort turned his head towards him again. His eyes glinted like rubies. “Do you have any suggestions?” 

Like Harry’s emeralds, Tom thought. How fitting. 

He stayed quiet. 

Voldemort hummed, and continued watching out the window. Tom wondered if he was thinking about the lily trees.

They didn’t say anything for a while, and Voldemort made no attempt to pick up the book. 

“Is it safe to assume you solicited my presence to discuss the situation with me then?” His voice flowed over the crickets singing outside his room, which Tom hadn’t registered hearing until then. 

He sighed in his pillow, bunching the sheets up to his chin. “Yes.”

“Very well.” The man got up, black robes billowing after him. “I appreciate your concern. I’m sure Harry would too.” He started walking towards the door, stopping once he reached the pommel. “If I may…”

“Yes?”

“I suggest you heed your own advice.”

Tom straightened. “My advice? About what?”

“James.”

Tom’s cheeks flushed. “What does he have to do with anything?” 

Voldemort stared him down. “Don’t play stupid, child.”

His blush deepened. “I didn’t do anything, I swear! I have nothing to apologize for!” Tom spluttered.

“Then you better keep it that way.” And then, for the first time since Tom had met him, he smiled. It was a subtle thing, barely a twitch of his mouth, but so out of place it left Tom staring dumbfoundedly at the door for minutes after he left. 

“What?”