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Chapter Text

The words had been there since the day she was born, etched in dark ink across the delicate skin of her wrist: Avada Kedavra.

Harry Potter had always known her soulmate’s first words, but she had never known their meaning. Growing up in the Dursleys’ home, where magic was a filthy word and love was a foreign concept, she learned early on not to ask questions. The words were a secret, a part of herself she kept hidden even when her aunt and uncle didn’t bother to notice.

It wasn’t until her eleventh birthday, when Hagrid burst into her life with tales of wands and wizards, that she began to piece together the truth. The moment he mentioned Voldemort—the dark wizard who had killed her parents—her heart turned cold. She remembered the way her aunt had hissed the word unnatural whenever she asked about her scar, and now she understood.

The meaning of the words on her wrist came crashing down on her in her first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson. Avada Kedavra. The Killing Curse.

Her soulmate was a murderer.

She didn’t tell anyone. Not Ron, not Hermione, not even Hagrid. She kept her wrist hidden beneath long sleeves and bandages, the words a constant reminder of a fate she refused to accept.

But fate, as she would learn, had a way of catching up to her.

Chapter Text

The Chamber of Secrets was vast and oppressive, its serpentine columns stretching into darkness. Harry’s breaths came shallow and quick as she stepped closer to the center, where Ginny Weasley lay pale and motionless on the cold stone floor. Beside her, the spectral form of Tom Riddle solidified, his handsome features sharp and unnervingly calm.

“Harry Potter,” he greeted, his voice like silk sliding over steel. “At last.”

Harry tightened her grip on the sword of Gryffindor, her pulse roaring in her ears. She couldn’t stop staring at him—the smoothness of his skin, the way his dark eyes flickered with an intensity she couldn’t name. He was young, impossibly so, and yet there was something ancient about him.

“You’re him,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re Voldemort.”

Tom inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “I prefer Tom, for now. Voldemort is a name for a different time, a different man.” His gaze dipped to her wrist, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. “Though perhaps you already knew that.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. She had spent so long hiding the words on her wrist, but here, in the shadow of his presence, they seemed to burn.

“You’re my soulmate,” she said, the words tasting bitter on her tongue.

“And you are mine,” Tom replied, stepping closer. His voice softened, almost tender. “It seems fate has a sense of irony, doesn’t it? The girl destined to destroy me is the one I am bound to for eternity.”

Harry took a step back, her grip tightening on the sword. “I’m not yours. I’ll never be yours.”

Tom’s expression flickered, a shadow of something almost like pain crossing his features. “You don’t mean that,” he said quietly. “You feel it too, don’t you? The pull. The connection.”

Harry hated that he was right. There was a part of her, deep and unwilling, that felt drawn to him. It wasn’t love, not even close, but it was something undeniable.

“You’re a murderer,” she said, her voice trembling. “You killed my parents.”

Tom’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, he crouched beside Ginny, brushing a strand of hair from her pale face. “I did what I had to,” he said. “And now I will do what I must again.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry demanded, stepping closer.

Tom straightened, his eyes locking onto hers. “Ginny’s life force is the key to my return. When she dies, I will live again—fully, completely.”

“No,” Harry said, her voice rising. “I won’t let you.”

Tom’s gaze softened, almost regretful. “I don’t want to hurt you, Harry. You’re… precious to me. But I will not let anyone stand in my way—not even you.”

He raised his hand, and the ground beneath them trembled. From the shadows, the basilisk slithered forward, its massive form coiling around the chamber.

“Keep her away,” Tom commanded the serpent.

The basilisk lunged, its fangs bared, and Harry barely had time to dodge. She raised the sword of Gryffindor, the blade gleaming in the dim light, and struck. The sword sank deep into the basilisk’s mouth, piercing its brain, but not before one of its fangs embedded itself in her arm.

Pain exploded through her, white-hot and blinding. She collapsed to the ground, clutching her arm as venom coursed through her veins.

“Harry!” Tom’s voice was sharp, panicked.

She felt him kneel beside her, his hands trembling as they pressed against her wound. His touch was warm, almost gentle, and for a moment, she saw something in his eyes that she didn’t expect—fear.

“Why did you do that?” he demanded, his voice breaking. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wasn’t going to let you kill her,” Harry rasped, her vision blurring.

Tom’s expression crumpled, and he pulled her into his arms, cradling her like she was something fragile. “You’re dying,” he said, his voice hollow. “I can’t—”

Harry’s gaze drifted to the diary lying on the ground, its pages glowing faintly. She understood then, in the clarity of her final moments, what she had to do.

“Together,” she whispered, her fingers curling around the basilisk fang.

“What are you—” Tom’s voice cut off as she drove the fang into the diary.

The scream that followed was inhuman, tearing through the chamber as the diary writhed and burned. Tom’s form began to dissolve, his arms tightening around her as if he could anchor himself to her.

“Harry,” he murmured, his voice soft and broken. “I didn’t want it to end like this.”

She closed her eyes, her heart aching with something she couldn’t name. “Neither did I.”

And then he was gone.

When Harry woke, the pain was gone, replaced by the warmth of Fawkes’ tears on her arm. She sat up slowly, her gaze falling on the diary, now nothing more than a ruined husk.

She should have felt relief, but all she felt was emptiness.

“He’s gone,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

Fawkes trilled softly, his song soothing, but it did little to ease the ache in her chest. She looked down at her wrist, at the words that had defined her for so long, and for the first time, they felt meaningless.

Her soulmate was gone, and she had chosen to let him go.

Even if it broke her.

Chapter Text

The diary sat on Dumbledore’s desk, its cover scorched and torn from the basilisk fang. Harry had handed it over without a second thought after the events in the Chamber of Secrets, too exhausted and heartbroken to deal with the implications of what she had done.

She hadn’t told anyone what had really happened—about Tom holding her, about the quiet, broken way he’d said her name. She had barely been able to process it herself.

Now, weeks later, Harry sat across from Dumbledore in his office, her hands gripping the arms of her chair as she stared at the diary.

“It’s… healing,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said, his expression unreadable. “It seems Fawkes’ tears, in their infinite wisdom, saw fit to undo the damage.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. “Why would they do that? It’s Voldemort’s diary. It—it’s him.”

Dumbledore leaned forward, his blue eyes twinkling with something Harry couldn’t name. “It is a version of him,” he said. “But not the one you know. This is Tom Riddle as he was when he created the diary—a young man, ambitious and cunning, but not yet the monster he would become.”

Harry’s breath caught. “So he’s… alive?”

As if in answer, the diary began to glow faintly. The air in the room shimmered, and a moment later, Tom Riddle stepped out of the pages, his form solid and whole.

Harry shot to her feet, her hand instinctively reaching for her wand.

Tom raised his hands, his expression calm but wary. “I’m not here to hurt anyone,” he said, his voice steady. “I have no desire to fight.”

Dumbledore’s gaze flicked between Harry and Tom, his expression carefully neutral. “Mr. Riddle and I have had… a conversation,” he said slowly. “It seems he has no memory of his life beyond the diary. He does not know what he became.”

Tom’s jaw tightened. “But I’ve seen enough to know it wasn’t good,” he said, his eyes locking onto Harry’s. “I know what I did to you. To your parents. To countless others.”

Harry’s throat tightened. “You’re saying you don’t remember any of it?”

“I don’t,” Tom said. “But I can feel it. The darkness, the hatred—it’s still there, buried deep. And I don’t want it to control me again.”

Harry’s grip on her wand didn’t loosen. “How do I know this isn’t some kind of trick?”

“You don’t,” Tom admitted. “But I’m not asking for your trust. I’m asking for a chance to make things right.”

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Mr. Riddle has offered his assistance in our fight against Voldemort,” he said. “He believes his knowledge of the Dark Lord’s mind and methods could be invaluable.”

Harry stared at Dumbledore, her heart pounding. “You’re going to let him help?”

“I believe in second chances,” Dumbledore said simply.

Harry’s gaze shifted to Tom, who stood perfectly still, his expression carefully guarded. There was something different about him now—something softer, less sharp. But she couldn’t forget what he had been, what he had done.

“I don’t trust you,” she said, her voice cold.

“I don’t blame you,” Tom replied.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the weight of their shared history pressing down on them.

“Fine,” Harry said finally. “But if you even think about betraying us, I’ll finish what I started in the Chamber.”

Tom’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

————————

Over the following weeks, Tom became an uneasy presence at Hogwarts. Dumbledore had insisted on keeping the reality of his existence and who he truly was a secret from the rest of the school, but Harry, Ron, and Hermione were brought into the fold.

To Harry’s surprise, Tom seemed genuine in his desire to help. He spent hours in the library, poring over ancient texts and offering insights into Voldemort’s horcruxes. He was sharp, focused, and, much to Harry’s annoyance, occasionally charming.

But there were moments when the darkness in him surfaced—a flash of anger, a cruel edge to his words. It was a constant reminder of who he had been, and who he could become again.

“You don’t trust me,” Tom said one evening, catching Harry off guard as they walked through the castle.

She crossed her arms. “Should I?”

“No,” he said simply. “But I’m trying, Harry. For what it’s worth.”

She didn’t respond, but something in his tone made her pause.

Chapter Text

The crisp autumn air of Hogsmeade was alive with the chatter of students enjoying their rare trip out of the castle. Harry, cloaked in her invisibility cloak, slipped into the bustling village through the secret passage beneath Honeydukes. Her heart raced with exhilaration as she emerged in Honeydukes’ basement, the sweet scent of sugar and chocolate filling her nose. She couldn’t wait to see the village for the first time.

However, her excitement was short-lived. As she wandered down the cobblestone streets, her invisibility cloak folded away, a familiar voice cut through the din of the crowd.

“Harry Potter,” Tom Riddle’s cold, unmistakable tone sent a shiver down her spine. She turned to find him standing a few feet away, his sharp dark eyes narrowing at her. “Do you have any idea how reckless this is?”

Harry groaned inwardly. “Tom, I’m fine. Sirius Black isn’t going to find me here.”

Tom crossed his arms, his expression unreadable but his posture rigid. “You’ve just made it significantly easier for him. A secret passage? How resourceful of you. I suppose I should commend your ingenuity if it weren’t so astoundingly foolish.”

Harry frowned. “I’m not a child, Tom. I can handle myself.”

His lips curled into a thin smile, but there was no humor in it. “Oh, I’m well aware of how stubborn you are, but if you think I’m going to let you wander around Hogsmeade unprotected, you’re mistaken.”

“I’m not going back to the castle,” Harry said firmly.

Tom sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Of course you’re not. That would be too simple.” He stepped closer, his voice softening just slightly. “If you’re determined to stay, then I’ll stay with you. Someone has to keep you alive.”

Harry blinked at him, surprised. “You’re not going to drag me back?”

Tom’s gaze flickered with exasperation. “I’ve learned that dragging you anywhere is a futile endeavor. But if you insist on risking your life, I’ll at least ensure you don’t get yourself killed.”

With that, he gestured for her to lead the way. Harry hesitated but eventually nodded, and the two set off through the village.

Despite Tom’s initial irritation, the afternoon took on a surprisingly cordial tone. They wandered through the shops, Tom’s sharp wit occasionally cutting through Harry’s commentary on the various magical wares. He even bought her a small pouch of sugar quills from Honeydukes, though he handed them over with a grumbled, “So you don’t wander off.”

The highlight of the day came when they stepped into the Three Broomsticks. Harry had been eager to try butterbeer, and Tom, though skeptical, agreed to join her. They found a quiet corner of the bustling pub, and Madam Rosmerta soon brought over two steaming tankards of the frothy drink.

Harry took a sip and sighed contentedly. “This is amazing.”

Tom raised an eyebrow as he took a cautious sip. His expression softened slightly, and he nodded. “It’s… tolerable.”

Harry smirked. “That’s practically a glowing review coming from you.”

For a moment, they simply sat together, the warmth of the butterbeer and the lively atmosphere easing the tension between them. Tom, ever composed and calculating, seemed to relax, if only slightly, as he watched Harry’s enthusiasm for the village.

As the sun began to set, casting a golden glow over Hogsmeade, Tom stood and offered Harry his hand. “We should head back before someone notices your absence.”

Harry hesitated but took his hand, surprised by the gesture. As they made their way back to the castle, Tom’s presence, though still tinged with his usual arrogance, felt less overbearing and more… protective.

“You know,” Harry said as they approached the secret passage, “you’re not as bad as you make yourself out to be.”

Tom glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “And you’re not as reckless as I thought. But don’t make me regret saying that.”

Harry grinned, and for the first time, Tom allowed himself a faint smile. It was a fleeting moment of peace in the chaos of their lives, but one that neither of them would forget.

Chapter Text

The hospital wing was quiet, save for the soft rustle of Madam Pomfrey’s robes as she moved about her duties. Harry lay still in her bed, her face pale against the crisp white pillow. Outside, the storm from the disastrous Quidditch match had subsided, leaving the castle eerily silent.

Tom Riddle stood at the foot of her bed, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable. He had waited until Granger, Weasley, and the others had finally left before approaching. His gaze lingered on Harry’s face, his usual composure wavering as he watched her sleep.

When Harry stirred, her eyelids fluttering open, she blinked groggily at the sight of him. “Tom?” she croaked, her voice hoarse.

“You’re awake,” he said, his tone clipped. He straightened, as though caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Harry frowned, confused. “What are you doing here?”

Tom’s jaw tightened. “Ensuring you don’t die in your sleep. Someone has to.”

Harry’s brow furrowed further. “I’m fine. Madam Pomfrey said I’ll be okay.”

Tom’s gaze flicked away, his expression darkening. “You fainted in the middle of the match, Harry. That’s not ‘fine.’”

She shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “It was the dementors. I… I can’t handle them.”

“Clearly,” Tom said, his voice sharp, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of something softer—concern, perhaps.

Harry hesitated, her hands gripping the blanket. “They make me hear things. Things I don’t want to hear.”

Tom’s gaze snapped back to her. “What things?”

Harry looked away, her throat tightening. “My mum. I hear her screaming. Begging Voldemort not to kill me.” Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard. “I hear her die.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Tom’s face was a mask, but his knuckles whitened as his hands clenched into fists.

“That’s what you hear?” he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper.

Harry nodded, tears prickling her eyes. “Every time. It’s like I’m back there, in the nursery. I don’t remember it, but the dementors… they make me relive it.”

Tom turned away, his shoulders rigid. He stared out the window, his reflection in the glass a pale shadow. “It was Voldemort,” he said finally, his voice colder than usual. “He’s the reason you hear that. The reason she’s dead.”

Harry didn’t respond immediately. She watched him, noting the tension in his posture. “You’re part of him,” she said softly, not accusing, just stating a fact.

Tom flinched but didn’t turn around. “I am,” he admitted. “But I’m not him, Harry.”

“I know,” she said quietly.

He finally turned to face her, his expression hard but his eyes conflicted. “Do you?”

Harry met his gaze, her voice steady despite the tears on her cheeks. “Yes. You’re not Voldemort, Tom. You’re not him.”

Tom’s jaw worked, his emotions tightly reined in. “That doesn’t change what he’s done. What I’m tied to.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Harry said. “But you’re here. Watching over me. That’s not something Voldemort would do.”

Tom looked away again, his voice colder as he said, “Don’t mistake this for altruism. You’re important, Harry. That’s all.”

She gave him a faint, tired smile. “Whatever you say, Tom.”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t leave either. Instead, he pulled up a chair and sat beside her bed, his posture stiff but his presence unwavering.

As the night deepened, Harry drifted back to sleep, and Tom remained where he was, standing guard against the nightmares that haunted her.

Chapter Text

The hospital wing was quieter than usual, its dim lighting casting long shadows across the room. Harry lay propped up on her bed, her arms crossed as she glared at Tom Riddle, who stood at the foot of her bed, his expression thunderous.

“Reckless,” he spat, pacing back and forth. “Utterly reckless, Harry! Do you have any sense of self-preservation at all?”

Harry rolled her eyes, though she winced at the ache in her ribs. “I didn’t plan for things to go the way they did, Tom. It just… happened.”

Tom stopped mid-step, his piercing gaze locking onto hers. “Things like this don’t just ‘happen,’ Harry. You chose to run after Black. You chose to confront him, to put yourself in danger. And now look at you.” He gestured sharply to the bandages on her arm and the faint bruises on her face.

“He’s innocent!” Harry shot back, sitting up straighter despite the pain. “Sirius didn’t betray my parents—Wormtail did! He’s alive, Tom. He’s been hiding all these years as Ron’s rat.”

Tom’s lips curled into a sneer. “And what exactly do you think you can do about it, Harry? March into the Ministry and demand they overturn Black’s conviction? Fudge will never believe you.”

“I can’t just do nothing,” Harry said, her voice trembling with frustration. “Sirius has suffered for twelve years for something he didn’t do. My parents trusted him, and I—”

“And you’ll end up dead trying to fix it,” Tom interrupted coldly. “Do you think your parents would want that? Do you think they’d want you throwing yourself into danger for a man you barely know?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “It’s not just about Sirius. It’s about justice. It’s about doing what’s right.”

Tom let out a sharp laugh, devoid of humor. “Justice? Right? The world doesn’t work that way, Harry. You can’t save everyone, and you certainly can’t fix the Ministry’s corruption. You’re a child, not a savior.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Harry snapped. “You’ve been trying to control my life since we met.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed, his tone icy. “Because someone has to keep you alive, Harry. You’re so determined to throw yourself into the fire, and for what? A cause that won’t thank you? A world that will chew you up and spit you out?”

Harry’s anger faltered at the raw emotion in his voice. “Tom, I—”

“No,” he said sharply, cutting her off. “You don’t get to excuse this, Harry. I’ve seen where this path leads. Your recklessness will get you killed, and I won’t stand by and watch it happen.”

For a moment, the room was silent, the tension between them palpable. Then Harry spoke, her voice softer but no less firm. “I can’t promise I’ll stop trying to help people, Tom. It’s who I am.”

Tom’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “And it will be your undoing.”

“Maybe,” Harry admitted, meeting his gaze. “But I’d rather die doing what’s right than live doing nothing.”

Tom stared at her, his expression a mixture of frustration and something deeper—fear, perhaps. Finally, he turned away, his voice low and tight. “You’re impossible.”

Harry watched him as he walked to the door, her heart heavy. “Tom,” she called softly.

He paused, his back to her.

“Thank you,” she said. “For caring.”

Tom didn’t respond, but after a moment, he left the room. Harry lay back against her pillows, her mind spinning with the weight of their conversation.

Chapter Text

The Quidditch World Cup stadium was a hive of excitement and noise, a sea of colors as fans from all over the wizarding world cheered for their teams. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were practically buzzing as they made their way to the top box, their chatter filled with predictions about the match.

But when they reached the entrance to their seats, Harry froze at the sight of Tom Riddle, leaning casually against the railing, arms crossed, his expression as imperious as ever.

“What’s he doing here?” Ron asked, his voice a mix of confusion and irritation.

“I could ask the same about you, Weasley,” Tom drawled, not even bothering to look at him. Instead, his sharp dark eyes fixed on Harry. “Though, I suppose this is the company you insist on keeping.”

“Tom,” Harry said, her tone caught between surprise and exasperation. “What are you doing here?”

Tom pushed off the railing, straightening his posture. “Dumbledore told me about your scar hurting. He thought it wise for someone to keep an eye on you during this little… spectacle.” He glanced around at the cheering crowd, his disdain for the event evident. “I happened to agree.”

Ron snorted. “What, you don’t like Quidditch? That explains a lot.”

“Ron,” Hermione hissed, elbowing him sharply.

Tom ignored Ron entirely, his attention still on Harry. “I’ve heard rumblings. Strange activity. Unsettling rumors. If something happens, I’d rather not hear about your inevitable recklessness from the Daily Prophet.”

Harry frowned. “You didn’t have to come. I can take care of myself.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “Of course you can. That’s why you’ve ended up in the hospital wing more times than I can count.”

“Look, mate,” Ron cut in, stepping forward. “Harry’s got us. She doesn’t need you hovering around like some overbearing—”

“Ron,” Hermione interrupted, her tone sharp. “Maybe we should just… let him sit with us. If Dumbledore thinks it’s a good idea…”

Ron threw up his hands in frustration but said nothing more.

“Smart girl,” Tom said with a faint nod toward Hermione before turning back to Harry. “Dumbledore ensured I had a ticket for the top box. I’ll be sitting with you.”

Harry sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Fine, but don’t ruin it for everyone.”

Tom inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “I’ll do my best.”

As they made their way to their seats, Ron muttered under his breath about “posh gits” and “mood killers,” while Hermione kept glancing nervously at Tom. Harry, meanwhile, tried to focus on the excitement of the match, though she couldn’t shake the tension in the air.

When they finally reached the top box, Tom took the seat beside Harry, his demeanor calm but detached. As the match began, he sat stiffly, his arms crossed, clearly unimpressed by the spectacle unfolding before him.

Harry leaned over, her voice low. “You really don’t like Quidditch, do you?”

Tom glanced at her, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “Not in the slightest.”

“Then why are you here?”

Tom’s gaze softened, just a fraction. “Because you are.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. For a moment, the noise of the stadium faded, and she felt a strange warmth in his presence, despite his usual cold demeanor.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, turning back to the match.

Tom didn’t respond, but he stayed by her side throughout the event, his watchful eyes never straying far from her. Even as the crowd roared and the game reached its climax, Harry found herself oddly reassured by his presence.

Chapter Text

The night at the Quidditch World Cup grounds had started with excitement and joy, but now it was a scene of chaos. Screams echoed through the campsite, mingling with the crackling of flames and the distant, eerie laughter of masked Death Eaters.

Tom Riddle had barely slept. He had been on edge since their arrival, his sharp instincts warning him that something was amiss. So when the first scream pierced the night, he was already on his feet, wand in hand. He crossed the tent swiftly and shook Harry awake.

“Harry,” he said firmly, his voice low but commanding. “Wake up.”

Harry blinked groggily, her mind slow to catch up with the urgency in his tone. “Tom? What’s—”

“No time,” he interrupted. “Get up. Now.”

He moved to Hermione and Ron next, shaking them awake with the same urgency.

“What’s going on?” Hermione asked, her voice trembling as she reached for her wand.

“Death Eaters,” Tom said grimly. “They’re attacking the camp. We need to move.”

Before they could respond, Mr. Weasley burst into the tent, his face pale but determined. “Stay here,” he ordered quickly. “I’m going with the others to help. Don’t leave the tent.”

As soon as he was gone, Tom turned to the group. “We’re not staying here,” he said firmly. “This tent is a target. Follow me.”

Despite Ron’s grumbling, they followed Tom out into the chaos. Tents were ablaze, and panicked witches and wizards ran in every direction. In the distance, masked Death Eaters were tormenting a Muggle family, their laughter carrying through the night.

“Stay close,” Tom ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

They moved cautiously through the woods, but Ron tripped over a tree root, crashing to the ground with a loud thud.

“Ron!” Hermione hissed, helping him up.

“Hurry up,” Tom said sharply. “You don’t know what those wizards are capable of, but I do. They’ll be after Harry. We need to hide.”

They found a dense thicket and crouched down, their breaths shallow as they listened to the chaos around them. Suddenly, a cold, clear voice rang out nearby.

“Morsmordre!”

A jet of green light shot into the sky, forming the Dark Mark—a skull with a serpent slithering out of its mouth. The eerie symbol cast an ominous glow over the campsite, and Harry felt her stomach twist in fear.

Tom’s jaw tightened as he stared at the mark, his expression unreadable. “Stay here,” he ordered, stepping slightly in front of Harry as if to shield her.

Moments later, Ministry officials arrived, stunning anything that moved. Barty Crouch Sr. appeared, his eyes wild as he barked orders.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, his wand pointed at Tom and the others.

“We’re not involved,” Tom said coldly, stepping forward slightly to place himself between Crouch and Harry.

“Not involved?” Crouch sneered. “You’re at the scene of the crime! What are you doing out here?”

“We were hiding,” Tom replied evenly, his voice like ice. “As any reasonable person would when Death Eaters attack. Or would you rather we had stayed and been hexed?”

Crouch’s eyes narrowed. “And what about the Dark Mark? Do you deny having anything to do with it?”

Tom’s expression darkened. “Do you think Harry Potter, of all people, would be in league with Voldemort?”

Crouch faltered, glancing at Harry, who looked pale but defiant. “No… but—”

“Then stop wasting time interrogating children and focus on finding the real culprits,” Tom snapped.

After a tense moment, Crouch relented, signaling for his team to move on.

Tom turned back to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “Let’s go,” he said curtly, guiding them back toward the Weasley tent.

When they finally reunited with the others, Mr. Weasley looked relieved but exhausted. “Thank Merlin you’re safe,” he said, pulling them into a tight hug.

As the others settled back into their cots, Harry noticed Tom lingering near the entrance, his gaze fixed on the horizon. She approached him cautiously.

“Tom?” she said softly.

He glanced at her, his expression guarded. “You should rest.”

Harry shook her head. “Not until you tell me what’s on your mind.”

Tom hesitated, then gestured for her to sit beside him. “The Dark Mark,” he said finally. “Do you understand what it represents?”

Harry nodded, her hands trembling slightly. “It’s Voldemort’s symbol. It means… it means he’s coming back, doesn’t it?”

Tom’s jaw tightened. “It means his followers are still out there—waiting, plotting. And yes, it’s a warning.”

Harry looked down, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why would anyone want him back?”

“Power,” Tom said simply. “Fear. Some people thrive on chaos, and Voldemort promised them everything they desired.”

There was a long silence before Harry spoke again. “Do you think he’ll come back?”

Tom hesitated, his gaze hardening. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But if he does, we’ll be ready for him.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, with a small nod, Harry returned to the tent, leaving Tom alone to watch over the quiet chaos of the night.

Chapter Text

The tension in the room was thick as Harry stood with the other champions, her mind reeling from the shock of hearing her name called from the Goblet of Fire once again. She could barely process it, still trying to understand how it had happened. Her heart raced, and she could feel the eyes of everyone on her, their suspicion palpable.

The back room of the Great Hall was dimly lit, and Harry felt small and out of place, surrounded by the other champions, their faces just as confused as hers. Viktor Krum stood in one corner, his brow furrowed in concern, while Fleur Delacour and Cedric Diggory exchanged nervous glances. No one spoke as they waited for the heads of the schools to arrive.

It wasn’t long before the door swung open, and the heads of the schools entered, followed by Bagman, Crouch, McGonagall, and Snape. The tension in the room escalated as they all took their positions, their eyes now fixed on Harry. She could feel the weight of their gazes, the silent judgment, and confusion.

“Miss Potter,” Crouch said, his voice stern and demanding. “Explain yourself. How did your name come out of the Goblet of Fire?”

Harry opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. She didn’t know. She didn’t understand how it had happened. She hadn’t put her name in, and yet here she was, standing in front of them, a fourth champion.

“I… I don’t know,” she said, her voice shaking. “I didn’t put my name in. I didn’t even want to be in the tournament.”

The heads of the schools exchanged skeptical looks, and Harry could see the doubt in their eyes. She could feel the tension building, the pressure mounting, and she was about to say something else when the door to the back room opened again.

Everyone turned to see a figure standing in the doorway—Tom, dressed in his Slytherin robes, his expression cold and calculating. His presence was commanding, and Harry could feel the shift in the room as everyone turned their attention to him.

“Ah, Tom, my boy,” Dumbledore said, his voice tight with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Tom didn’t answer her immediately. His gaze flicked over to Harry for a moment before he turned his attention back to the room. He took a few steps forward, his movements deliberate, his presence unnerving.

“I believe you’re interrogating Miss Potter,” Tom said, his voice smooth and composed. “And yet, you seem to have missed the most important question.”

The heads of the schools exchanged uncertain looks, and Crouch stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. “You again. Well, what question is that?”

Tom’s gaze never wavered as he met Crouch’s eyes. “How is it possible that Harry Potter’s name came out of the Goblet of Fire? If we’re to assume that the Goblet was tampered with, then why not ask the question that matters: who would have had the motive to do so?”

The room fell silent at Tom’s words. Harry’s heart skipped a beat as she watched him, unsure of where this was going. Tom was calm, calculating, as always, and the room seemed to hold its breath as he continued.

“Are we to assume that Miss Potter somehow manipulated the Goblet herself? Or perhaps we should be considering other possibilities?” Tom’s voice was cold, and his gaze swept over the others, daring them to challenge him.

McGonagall opened her mouth to respond, but Tom held up a hand, silencing her. “You’re quick to blame Miss Potter, but have you considered the possibility that someone else is behind this? Someone with the means, the power, and the motivation to manipulate the Goblet and force her into this tournament?”

The silence stretched, and for a moment, no one spoke. Tom’s words hung in the air, and Harry could see that some of the heads of the schools were starting to reconsider their assumptions.

Snape, who had been standing silently in the back of the room, finally spoke, his voice low and skeptical. “And who, exactly, would have the ability to manipulate the Goblet, Mr. Riddle?”

Tom’s gaze flicked over to Snape, his eyes calculating. “I don’t know,” he said simply, “but I do know that Harry Potter did not put her name in that Goblet. And if you’re going to continue this line of questioning, I suggest you consider all possibilities, not just the most convenient one.”

The room was still, the air thick with tension. Crouch looked as though he wanted to argue, but he seemed to think better of it. He turned to McGonagall, who nodded slightly, her expression thoughtful. After a long pause, Dumbledore finally spoke.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. “An intriguing theory,” he said slowly. “But it does not change the fact that Harry is now bound by the Goblet’s magic. She must compete.”

Tom’s lip curled sardonically, “Of course she must.”

Chapter Text

The Gryffindor common room was empty, the fire in the hearth casting flickering shadows on the walls. Harry sat on the couch closest to the warmth, her knees pulled to her chest, staring blankly at the flames. She had tried to distract herself with homework, with plans for the next task, but nothing could quiet the storm of emotions swirling inside her.

The sound of the portrait hole opening made her stiffen. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“Tom,” she said flatly, her gaze fixed on the fire. “What are you doing here?”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, his voice cool and even as he stepped closer.

Harry let out a bitter laugh. “And yet, here you are.”

Tom didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he moved to the armchair opposite her, sitting with his usual air of composed arrogance. He studied her for a moment, his sharp eyes taking in her tense posture, the way her hands gripped the edge of the blanket draped over her legs.

“You’re angry,” he said finally.

“Brilliant observation,” Harry snapped, turning to glare at him.

Tom raised an eyebrow. “I’m not here to argue with you, Harry.”

“Then why are you here?” she demanded. “To remind me that I’m too weak to survive this tournament without your help? Or maybe to lecture me on how I should be grateful for this—this bond we didn’t ask for?”

His expression darkened, but his voice remained calm. “I didn’t come here to fight with you,” he said. “I came to check on you.”

Harry flinched, the words hitting harder than she expected. “Check on me?” she repeated, her voice dripping with disbelief. “You, Tom Riddle, care about someone other than yourself?”

Tom’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “Yes,” he said simply.

Harry stared at him, searching his face for any sign of mockery or manipulation. But his expression, though guarded, was steady.

“I don’t understand you,” she said, her voice quieter now. “You’re cold, arrogant, and you don’t care about anyone. So why me? Why now?”

“Because you’re mine,” Tom said, his tone firm but not unkind. “Whether we like it or not, we’re bound to each other. And I won’t stand by and watch you destroy yourself out of stubbornness or fear.”

Harry’s throat tightened, a mix of anger and something she couldn’t quite name bubbling to the surface. “You think I’m scared of you?”

“No,” Tom said, leaning forward slightly. “I think you’re scared of what this means. Of letting someone in.”

Harry looked away, her gaze dropping to her hands. “I’ve been on my own my whole life,” she admitted. “I don’t know how to trust someone like you.”

Tom’s expression softened, though his voice remained steady. “I don’t expect you to trust me overnight,” he said. “But I do expect you to let me help you. Because whether you trust me or not, I’m not going to let you face this alone.”

Harry hesitated, her fingers tightening around the blanket. “Why?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

Tom sighed, the sound uncharacteristically vulnerable. “Because I’ve spent my whole life alone, too,” he said quietly. “And for the first time, I have something worth holding onto.”

The raw honesty in his words made Harry’s chest ache. She wanted to push him away, to tell him to leave her alone, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she said finally, her voice trembling.

“You can,” Tom said firmly. “And I’ll make sure of it. I’ll help you train, prepare you for every challenge they throw at you. You’ll win this tournament, Harry. And you’ll survive.”

Harry looked up at him, her green eyes meeting his dark ones. “You promise?”

Tom’s lips curved into a faint, almost reluctant smile. “I don’t make promises lightly,” he said. “But yes. I promise.”

For a long moment, they simply looked at each other, the firelight casting their faces in warm, flickering shadows.

“Fine,” Harry said at last, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll let you help. But don’t think for a second that this means I trust you.”

Tom’s smile widened, a hint of his usual arrogance returning. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Harry rolled her eyes, but there was no real venom in the gesture. As Tom leaned back in his chair, a strange, tentative understanding settled between them.

Chapter Text

The champions’ tent was dim and quiet, save for the occasional rustle of fabric as Madam Pomfrey packed away her supplies. Harry lay on the cot, staring at the canvas ceiling, her body still aching from the burns and scrapes she’d earned during her desperate dance with the Hungarian Horntail.

She barely registered the sound of the tent flap opening until Tom Riddle’s familiar figure stepped inside. He moved with his usual air of cold precision, his robes immaculate, his expression unreadable.

“You look dreadful,” he said, his tone clipped as his sharp eyes scanned her injuries.

Harry let out a humorless laugh. “Nice to see you too, Tom.”

He ignored her sarcasm and strode to the stool beside her cot, sitting down with an elegance that made her bruised and battered state feel even more pitiful.

“You’re reckless,” he said, his voice low but laced with frustration. “You could have been killed.”

“It’s a tournament,” Harry said, her voice weary. “That’s kind of the point.”

“No, the point is to win,” Tom snapped. “Not to throw yourself headfirst into danger like some… Gryffindor cliché.”

Harry rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Tom’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “You think I’m being cruel,” he said, his tone quieter now. “But I’m not. I’m being honest. You have no idea how much I despise watching you put yourself at risk.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his voice. “Why do you care?” she asked, her tone sharper than she intended.

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. But then he sighed, a soft, almost reluctant sound. “Because whether I like it or not, we’re connected,” he said, his gaze meeting hers. “And I… I don’t want to lose you.”

Harry stared at him, her heart pounding. “You’re not exactly the sentimental type, Tom.”

“I’m not sentimental,” he said, his voice hardening. “I’m practical. And practically speaking, your survival benefits us both. But more than that…” He hesitated, his expression shifting, as if the words he was about to say physically pained him. “You matter to me, Harry. More than I care to admit.”

The confession hung in the air, heavy and unexpected.

Harry swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” she muttered, her voice softer now.

Tom leaned back slightly, his cold mask slipping back into place. “I’m not good at this,” he admitted, his tone edged with frustration. “Caring. Being… vulnerable. It’s not in my nature.”

Harry let out a bitter laugh. “No kidding.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed, but instead of snapping back, he reached out, his hand hovering over hers before finally resting there. His touch was light, almost hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure she’d allow it.

“You’re stronger than you think,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But even the strongest people need someone to watch their back.”

Harry looked down at their hands, her chest tightening. “And you think you’re that someone?”

“I know I am,” Tom said, his voice regaining its usual arrogance. “No one else is capable of protecting you the way I can.”

Harry snorted, but there was no real bite to it. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Tom said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

They sat in silence for a moment, the tension between them softening just enough to feel bearable.

“Thank you,” Harry said finally, her voice barely audible.

Tom’s smirk faded, replaced by something softer, something almost vulnerable. “Don’t make me regret it,” he said, his tone teasing but his eyes serious.

Harry didn’t reply, but as she lay back against the pillow, her hand still in his, she felt a flicker of something she couldn’t quite name. For all his arrogance and coldness, there was something in Tom’s presence that made her feel… less alone.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Harry was sitting in the Gryffindor common room, staring at the golden egg perched on the table in front of her. It gleamed mockingly in the firelight, its jagged edges catching the light like the grin of some malevolent creature. She hadn’t opened it since the first task, not wanting to hear the horrible, screeching wail it emitted.

She leaned back in her chair with a groan, running a hand through her messy hair. She knew she needed to figure out the clue, but every time she thought about it, a knot of anxiety tightened in her chest.

The portrait hole opened, and Harry looked up to see Tom stepping inside. His expression was as composed as ever, but there was a glint of satisfaction in his dark eyes.

“You’ve been sitting here all evening,” he said, closing the distance between them. “And yet, you’ve made no progress.”

Harry scowled. “Thanks for the reminder, Tom.”

He ignored her sarcasm and gestured to the egg. “You’re wasting time. Fortunately for you, I’ve already taken the liberty of finding the answer.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

Tom smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “I overheard Crouch speaking to Bagman. They mentioned the second task involves the Great Lake.”

“The lake?” Harry frowned. “What does that have to do with the egg?”

Tom rolled his eyes, his patience already wearing thin. “The egg is enchanted to reveal the clue when submerged in water. Honestly, Harry, you could have figured this out if you’d bothered to think about it.”

Harry opened her mouth to retort but stopped herself. “Wait—submerged? How do you even know that?”

“I listen,” Tom said simply. “Something you should try more often.” He held out a hand. “Come on. I know exactly where we need to go.”

Harry hesitated, eyeing him warily. “Where?”

“The prefects’ bathroom,” Tom said, his smirk widening. “It’s private, quiet, and has the largest tub on campus. Perfect for testing your little egg.”

Harry flushed. “The prefects’ bathroom? I’m not even a prefect!”

“Which is why I’ll be accompanying you,” Tom said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Now, stop wasting time.”

Grumbling under her breath, Harry grabbed the egg and followed him out of the common room.

The prefects’ bathroom was far more extravagant than Harry had imagined. The enormous tub in the center of the room could have doubled as a small swimming pool, surrounded by dozens of golden taps spouting streams of water in every color. The air was warm and humid, carrying a faint scent of lavender and eucalyptus.

Harry clutched the golden egg tightly to her chest, feeling distinctly out of place. Tom, of course, looked entirely at ease, as though he belonged there. He walked to the edge of the tub with his usual calm precision, his dark eyes scanning the room.

“This will do,” he said, turning to her. “Now, fill the tub halfway.”

Harry hesitated, her gaze darting to the intricate taps. “How do you even know how this works?”

Tom gave her a withering look. “I’m capable of observing and deducing, Harry. Try it sometime.”

Rolling her eyes, she approached the taps and began experimenting. After a few attempts, she managed to produce a steady stream of clear, warm water, which quickly began to fill the tub.

“Good,” Tom said, his tone clipped but approving. “Now, bring the egg here.”

Harry walked over, the egg still clutched tightly in her arms. “What exactly am I supposed to do with it?”

“Submerge it,” Tom said, as though it were obvious. “The enchantment will only reveal its true purpose underwater.”

Harry frowned, glancing at the steaming water. “And you’re sure about this?”

Tom arched an eyebrow. “Do you really think I’d waste my time bringing you here if I weren’t?”

She sighed and knelt by the edge of the tub, her fingers fumbling with the egg’s latch. As she lowered it into the water, she glanced up at him. “Aren’t you going to help?”

Tom’s lips quirked into a faint smirk. “Fine.” Without another word, he shrugged off his outer robe, leaving him in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers. He moved to the edge of the tub and, with practiced grace, stepped into the water.

Harry blinked, heat rushing to her cheeks. “You’re just… getting in?”

Tom glanced at her, his expression amused. “It’s easier to hear the song if you’re submerged. Surely you’re not afraid of a little water?”

Harry scowled, refusing to let him get the better of her. “Fine,” she muttered, kicking off her shoes and rolling up her sleeves. She slid into the tub, the warm water lapping at her arms and legs as she settled beside him.

Tom gestured to the egg. “Now, open it and lower it beneath the surface.”

Harry did as he instructed, her fingers trembling slightly as she unlatched the egg and pushed it underwater. The moment it was fully submerged, the horrible screeching noise transformed into a haunting, melodic song.

Both of them leaned closer, their heads dipping beneath the surface to listen.

“Come seek us where our voices sound,
We cannot sing above the ground.
And while you’re searching, ponder this:
We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss.”

The song faded, and Harry pulled her head above the water, gasping for air. She looked at Tom, her heart racing.

“Mermaids,” she said, her voice breathless. “The second task is in the lake, and it’s got something to do with mermaids.”

Tom nodded, water dripping from his dark hair. “They’ll take something valuable to you. Something—or someone—you’ll need to retrieve.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. “What do you think they’ll take?”

“Something significant,” Tom said, his tone thoughtful. “Something designed to test your resolve.”

Harry leaned back against the edge of the tub, her cheeks still warm—not just from the water. Tom’s presence beside her felt overwhelming, his usual coldness softened by the flickering candlelight and the shared quiet of the room.

“You’re awfully calm about all this,” she said, glancing at him.

He smirked, the familiar arrogance returning. “Someone has to be. You’d drown in self-doubt if left to your own devices.”

Harry rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still here,” Tom said, his voice low and teasing.

She turned away, her blush deepening. “Thanks for helping me figure it out,” she said quickly, trying to change the subject.

Tom’s smirk softened, and for a moment, he looked almost… human. “You’ll need to prepare,” he said. “I’ll help you. We’ll figure out how to handle the mermaids together.”

Harry glanced at him, her heart fluttering in a way she didn’t entirely understand. “You promise?”

Tom’s expression grew serious. “I always keep my promises, Harry.”

For a moment, the air between them felt charged, the warmth of the water and the closeness of their bodies making it hard to breathe. Harry looked away, her mind racing.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said, climbing out of the tub before her thoughts could spiral any further.

Tom followed, his movements as composed as ever. As they left the bathroom, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that the bond between them was growing stronger—whether she wanted it to or not.

Chapter Text

The Gryffindor common room was unusually tense. Harry sat at one of the tables, her arms crossed as she watched Ron pace in front of her, his face flushed with anger. Hermione sat beside her, looking equally irritated but far more composed.

“I don’t know how you put up with him,” Ron said, throwing his hands in the air. “He’s insufferable! The way he talks down to everyone—like he’s better than us. And don’t even get me started on how he treated Neville!”

Harry winced. She had seen it, too. Tom’s sharp tongue and cutting remarks had left Neville stammering and red-faced in the middle of the library earlier that day. Tom had dismissed Neville’s nervous question about magical theory with a cold, “Perhaps you should stick to plants, Longbottom. They don’t require much intellect.”

“I don’t put up with him,” Harry muttered, her gaze fixed on the table.

“You sure about that?” Ron shot back. “Because it sure looks like you do.”

“Ron,” Hermione said warningly, but Harry held up a hand to stop her.

“It’s fine,” Harry said, her voice clipped. “You’re right, Ron. I shouldn’t let him act like that.”

Ron blinked, clearly surprised by her agreement, but he didn’t argue further.

Later that evening, Harry found herself wandering the castle corridors, her thoughts a tangled mess. She didn’t realize where she was heading until she turned a corner and saw Tom leaning against a wall, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.

“Harry,” he said, straightening when he saw her. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

She stopped a few feet away, crossing her own arms. “Maybe I have.”

Tom’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. “Why?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “You humiliated Neville today.”

Tom blinked, then rolled his eyes. “Is that what this is about? Longbottom is—”

“Don’t,” Harry snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. “Don’t talk about him like that. He’s my friend.”

Tom studied her, his dark eyes narrowing. “And that bothers you?”

“Of course it does!” Harry said, her frustration boiling over. “I’m trying to give you a chance, Tom, but you make it so bloody hard when you act like… like that.”

“Like what?” Tom asked, his voice low and dangerous.

“Like an arrogant, cruel—”

“Stop,” Tom interrupted, his tone icy. “You’re angry because I wasn’t kind to your friends. Did you expect me to change who I am for their sake?”

Harry flinched, but she held her ground. “I expected you to at least try. For me.”

Tom’s expression hardened, but there was a flicker of something else—hurt, perhaps—in his eyes. “I’ve never lied to you, Harry,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I am who I am. You knew that from the start.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Harry shot back.

“No, it doesn’t,” Tom said, stepping closer. “But don’t pretend you didn’t know what you were getting into. I’m not going to change for them, Harry. I won’t apologize for being who I am.”

Harry looked away, her chest tight. “Then what’s the point? If you can’t even try to get along with the people I care about, how is this supposed to work?”

Tom reached out, his hand brushing her arm. She looked up at him, startled by the intensity in his gaze.

“I care about you,” he said firmly. “Not them. I’m not going to be nice to everyone for your sake, but I will do everything in my power to protect you. To help you. Isn’t that enough?”

Harry stared at him, her emotions warring inside her. She wanted to push him away, to tell him that it wasn’t enough—but part of her wanted it to be.

“I don’t know,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tom’s hand lingered on her arm for a moment longer before he let it fall. “You don’t have to decide now,” he said, his tone softening. “But don’t expect me to be something I’m not. I won’t lie to you, Harry. I never have.”

Harry nodded, her throat tight. She turned and walked away, leaving Tom standing alone in the corridor.

As she made her way back to the common room, her mind raced with conflicting thoughts. Tom was right—he had never pretended to be anything other than what he was. But was that enough for her?

She didn’t have an answer. Not yet.

——————————

The Gryffindor common room was quiet, the fire crackling softly in the hearth as Harry stared at the golden egg resting on the table in front of her. She’d spent hours poring over books in the library, asking Hermione for advice, and even entertaining Ron’s half-baked ideas, but nothing had worked.

The second task was days away, and she still had no idea how she was supposed to breathe underwater.

A sharp knock on the portrait hole startled her out of her thoughts. She frowned. It was late, and most of Gryffindor had already gone to bed.

The portrait swung open, and Tom stepped inside, his expression as cold and imperious as ever. He closed the door behind him and crossed the room, his movements smooth and deliberate.

Harry stiffened. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her tone guarded.

Tom held up a small bundle of slimy, greenish-gray plant. “Solving your problem.”

Harry blinked. “What is that?”

“Gillyweed,” Tom said, placing it on the table in front of her. “It will allow you to breathe underwater for an hour. More than enough time to complete the task.”

Harry stared at the plant, then back at him. “How did you even get this?”

Tom’s lips curled into a faint smirk. “I have my ways.”

“Why are you helping me?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

Tom’s smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of irritation. “Because you’re clearly incapable of solving this on your own,” he said, his tone clipped. “And because, despite your recent… coldness, I still care about your survival.”

Harry bristled. “You mean despite the fact that I called you out for being a complete git to my friends?”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, despite that. You’re remarkably ungrateful, you know. Most people would be thanking me right now.”

Harry pushed back from the table, her frustration bubbling over. “I didn’t ask for your help, Tom. You can’t just swoop in and act like you’re saving the day when you’ve been—”

“Been what?” Tom interrupted, his voice low and dangerous. “Honest? Unapologetically myself? You knew who I was, Harry. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Harry shot back.

“No,” Tom said, stepping closer. “But it does mean you should stop expecting me to change. I’m not your perfect little Gryffindor knight, and I never will be. But I’m here, aren’t I? Helping you when no one else can.”

Harry opened her mouth to argue but stopped herself. He was right. As much as she hated to admit it, Tom was the one standing in front of her now, offering her a solution when she’d been completely lost.

She sighed, her anger deflating. “Why do you care so much?” she asked quietly.

Tom’s expression softened, just enough for her to see the vulnerability beneath the surface. “Because you’re my soulmate, Harry,” he said simply. “For better or worse.”

Harry stared at him, her heart twisting with conflicting emotions. She wanted to stay angry, to push him away—but she couldn’t deny the truth in his words.

“Thank you,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tom’s smirk returned, though it was less sharp than usual. “You’re welcome.”

He turned to leave, but paused at the door, glancing back at her. “Don’t waste it,” he said, his tone lighter now. “I went to considerable effort to get that for you.”

Harry managed a small smile. “I won’t.”

As the portrait hole closed behind him, she looked down at the gillyweed on the table, her mind racing. Tom was infuriating, arrogant, and impossible to deal with—but he’d come through for her when it mattered most.

Maybe that was worth something.

Chapter Text

The morning of the second task was damp and cold, the mist curling off the Great Lake like ghostly fingers. Harry stood at the edge of the water, arms wrapped around herself as she scanned the growing crowd. Her heart raced, though she wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or frustration.

She was looking for Tom.

She hadn’t seen him all morning, not in the halls, not at breakfast, not even lurking in the shadows like he usually did. After days of tension between them, she had wanted to make peace, to thank him for the gillyweed and admit that, despite his infuriating arrogance, she didn’t entirely hate having him around.

But he was nowhere to be found.

“Champions, gather around!”

Harry was startled out of her thoughts by Ludo Bagman’s booming voice. She joined the other champions near the judges’ table, pulling her cloak tighter against the chill.

“Today’s task,” Bagman began, his voice filled with excitement, “is to retrieve something—or rather, someone—who has been taken from you. Someone you’ll miss dearly.”

Harry froze. Someone?

Her eyes darted to the stands, where Hermione and Ron were sitting side by side, bundled in cloaks and looking concerned. Relief flooded her—they were safe. But if it wasn’t them, then who?

The question gnawed at her as Bagman continued explaining the rules. She barely heard him, her thoughts spinning.

“Champions, you have one hour to retrieve your person. Take your marks!”

Harry slipped away to the changing tent, her mind still racing. She changed into her swimsuit with trembling hands, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on her.

Who could it be?

Her stomach churned as she stepped back to the water’s edge, clutching the gillyweed Tom had given her. She hesitated for a moment, then swallowed it down, gagging slightly at the slimy texture.

“On the count of three!” Bagman called.

Harry barely registered the countdown. Her lungs began to tighten as the gillyweed took effect, gills forming on her neck and her fingers webbing slightly. She took one last breath and dove into the icy water.

The chill shocked her system, but she pushed forward, kicking powerfully toward the lake’s depths. The water grew darker and murkier as she descended, strange shapes flitting in and out of her peripheral vision.

Her heart pounded as she swam, the eerie song of the merfolk growing louder. Then, in the distance, she saw it—the merfolk village.

At the center of the village was a stone structure, and tied to its base were four figures.

Harry’s breath caught.

A boy who looked like Krum was there, his expression peaceful. Fleur’s younger sister was beside her, along with Cho Chang. But it was the fourth figure that made Harry’s chest tighten painfully.

It was Tom.

His dark hair floated around his face, his usually sharp features softened in unconsciousness. He looked… vulnerable, a word Harry had never associated with him before.

Her mind reeled. Why him? Why had the tournament organizers chosen him?

The merfolk circled the hostages, their sharp teeth bared in warning. Harry hesitated, her heart pounding. She could only take one person.

Her eyes returned to Tom. The bond between them, as much as she tried to deny it, was undeniable. He was her soulmate, for better or worse.

She swam to him, her fingers trembling as she cut through the ropes binding him. The merfolk hissed, their sharp eyes watching her every move, but they didn’t stop her.

Grabbing Tom under the arms, she began the arduous swim back to the surface. He was heavier than she expected, and the icy water made her limbs ache. But she refused to stop.

When they finally broke through the surface, Harry gasped for air, her lungs burning. The crowd erupted into cheers as she dragged Tom to the shore, her muscles screaming in protest.

On the sand, Tom stirred, his dark eyes fluttering open. He looked at her, his expression dazed.

“You,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

Harry dropped him unceremoniously onto the ground, her chest heaving. “You’re welcome,” she snapped, though her voice lacked its usual bite.

Tom smirked faintly, though it was weaker than usual. “I knew you’d come for me.”

Harry glared at him, but the relief in her chest betrayed her anger. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she muttered, standing and brushing the sand off her legs.

But as she turned to walk away, her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than she intended. Despite everything, she couldn’t shake the image of him tied to that stone, vulnerable and silent.

And she couldn’t ignore the way her heart had clenched when she saw him there.

Chapter Text

The night was still, the sky above Hogwarts shrouded in a blanket of stars. Harry sat at the top of the Astronomy Tower, her legs pulled up to her chest as she gazed out over the darkened grounds. The events of the day—of the second task—kept replaying in her mind.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Tom.

The way he had looked, unconscious and helpless, tied to that stone in the merfolk village. His dark hair floating around his face, his usual arrogance gone, replaced by something… fragile. Vulnerable.

She had barely let herself think about it when she was swimming back to the surface with him. But now, in the quiet of the night, the image of him in danger gnawed at her.

It had been so easy to focus on the task at hand, to think about who to save and how. But when she had reached Tom, when her fingers had touched the ropes that bound him, something had shifted inside her. She couldn’t deny it anymore—he was hers, and she was his.

Even if she didn’t want it.

A soft rustle behind her made her jump. She turned quickly, hand instinctively reaching for her wand.

Tom stood in the shadows, his dark eyes gleaming in the moonlight. His usual air of indifference was still there, but there was something different about him tonight—something softer, more introspective.

“Didn’t think I’d find you here,” he said, his voice low and measured.

Harry didn’t respond immediately. She just stared at him, her heart still pounding from the shock of seeing him again. He had looked so fragile earlier, but now, he was as composed and aloof as ever.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, stepping closer.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve been busy.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “Is that what you’re calling it now?”

She sighed, her gaze dropping to her hands. “I don’t know what to think, Tom.”

He tilted his head, studying her with a piercing gaze. “About what?”

“About you,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended. “About… everything.”

Tom’s expression softened, though only slightly. He stepped forward, his boots making soft thuds on the stone floor. “You saved me today,” he said, his voice low but with a strange undertone of something like… gratitude? “Why?”

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean, why?”

“You didn’t have to,” he said, his gaze never leaving hers. “You could have chosen someone else. You could have left me down there with the merfolk.”

“I couldn’t,” she said before she could stop herself. “I couldn’t just leave you.”

Tom’s lips twitched, as though he was about to say something, but he stopped himself. Instead, he stepped closer, his presence so near that Harry could feel the heat radiating from him.

“You’ve been thinking about me,” he said, his voice dark, almost teasing. “Haven’t you?”

Harry’s face flushed, but she didn’t look away. “You were in danger, Tom,” she said, her voice tight. “I don’t know what it was, but… seeing you like that, it… it bothered me.”

Tom’s gaze softened, just a fraction. “Why?”

“Because,” she said, her voice shaking slightly, “I don’t know how to explain it. You’re… you’re not supposed to be someone I care about. You’re cruel, and you’re cold, and you’ve hurt people. But when I saw you down there, I… I couldn’t just leave you.”

Tom was silent for a long moment. Then, his voice, quieter than before, broke the silence. “I’m not going to apologize for who I am, Harry. I’ve never lied to you about that.”

“I know,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But it doesn’t make it any easier.”

Tom stepped closer, his gaze intense. “You saved me because you care,” he said, his voice low, almost like a promise. “And you can’t deny that.”

Harry’s breath caught in her throat. “I don’t want to care,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “But I do.”

Tom’s expression softened even further, though it was still guarded. “You don’t have to want it. You don’t have to like it. But you can’t change it, Harry. We’re bound. And whether you accept it or not, I’m not going anywhere.”

For a moment, the only sound between them was the soft rustling of the wind against the tower. Harry swallowed, her heart pounding in her chest.

Tom reached out, his fingers brushing against hers. “You’re not alone in this,” he said, his voice steady but with an edge of something softer. “I’ll help you with whatever comes next. But don’t pretend you don’t need me.”

Harry’s heart fluttered in her chest, and for the first time, she didn’t pull away from him. She didn’t want to.

“I don’t know how to handle this,” she admitted, her voice small. “I don’t know how to handle you.”

Tom’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

For a moment, they stood there in silence, the weight of everything between them hanging in the air. But as the moonlight bathed them in its glow, Harry realized something.

Maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to handle it all alone.

——————

The sun had barely risen when Harry awoke, the first rays of light filtering through the stone of the Astronomy Tower. Her body felt warm, far warmer than it should have been on a cold, early morning, and her head rested against something solid.

She blinked, confusion clouding her mind as she slowly registered where she was. The stone beneath her was cold, but she was nestled against something much warmer, something… alive.

Her breath caught in her throat as she realized she was curled against Tom. His arm was around her, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. His dark hair was mussed, and for a moment, he looked almost… peaceful.

Her heart pounded in her chest as the events of the night before came rushing back to her. The conversation, the closeness, the way he had looked at her with something more than his usual arrogance.

And now, they had fallen asleep here, together.

Harry’s face flushed with embarrassment. She couldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be here.

She pushed herself away from him, quickly sitting up and rubbing her face with her hands. The cold air of the morning hit her, but it did nothing to quell the heat in her cheeks.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath. She had to leave.

She scrambled to her feet, eyes darting around for any sign of someone approaching. She couldn’t be seen like this, not after everything that had happened.

Tom stirred behind her, his voice low and almost amused. “You’re in a hurry to leave.”

Harry froze, her back still turned to him. She could feel his gaze on her, even without looking.

“You’re not going to pretend this didn’t happen, are you?” Tom’s voice was laced with an edge of something darker. “We both know what this is.”

She swallowed, her hands trembling as she adjusted her cloak. “I don’t know what this is, Tom. And I don’t want to figure it out.”

“You can’t run from it forever,” he said, his tone colder now. He was sitting up behind her, his voice closer than before. “You and I are bound. Whether you like it or not, we’re tied together.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. She felt the weight of his words settle over her, heavy and undeniable.

“I’m not running,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I need time. I can’t—”

“You can’t keep avoiding it,” he interrupted, his voice low but firm. “You’ve already started to care. Don’t pretend you haven’t.”

Harry turned to face him, her breath catching in her throat as their eyes met. She saw the frustration in his gaze, the way his jaw clenched.

“I’m not ready for this,” she said, her voice trembling. “I don’t know how to be with you. I don’t know how to deal with… this.”

Tom’s expression hardened, his usual arrogance returning. “You think I’m going to wait around for you to make up your mind?” he sneered. “I’m not some pathetic Gryffindor who needs your approval.”

Harry flinched at his words, the sting of them cutting through her. She didn’t want to fight with him, but she didn’t know how to stop it.

She turned away, her resolve firming as she took a step toward the stairs. “I need space, Tom. I need to figure this out on my own.”

“Don’t run,” he said sharply, his voice tight with frustration.

Harry paused at the top of the stairs, her hand gripping the railing. She hesitated, looking over her shoulder at him, but she couldn’t bring herself to go back to him.

“I’m not running,” she said quietly, her voice steady but full of uncertainty. “I just need time.”

With that, she turned and left, her footsteps echoing in the empty tower as she descended into the castle.

———————

Tom’s frustration simmered beneath the surface as he walked the corridors of Hogwarts, his mind still racing from his conversation with Harry. She had left him—again. And though he could pretend it didn’t bother him, it did.

He needed something to distract him, something to get his mind off the constant ache of her refusal to accept their bond.

That’s when he saw Zacharias Smith, a Hufflepuff who had always seemed to get in his way, walking down a quiet corridor. Smith was a persistent fool, always trying to act as if he belonged in the same circles as Tom. He was loud, irritating, and far too eager to play the hero.

Perfect.

Tom’s eyes narrowed, and a malicious smile crept across his face.

“Smith,” Tom called, his voice smooth and cold.

Smith turned, his face lighting up in recognition. “Oh, hey, Riddle. What’s up?”

Tom’s gaze flickered to the side, ensuring the corridor was empty. Then he stepped closer, his tone shifting to something darker. “I think it’s time we had a little chat, don’t you?”

Smith looked uneasy, but he stood his ground. “What’s this about, Riddle?”

Tom’s smile widened. “It’s about you and your constant need to insert yourself where you don’t belong.”

Smith’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tom took a step forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You’ve been getting in my way, Smith. And I’m tired of it.”

Smith’s posture stiffened, and his hand twitched near his wand. “I don’t want any trouble, Riddle.”

Tom’s lip curled in contempt. “Too bad. Because trouble is exactly what you’re going to get.”

Without another word, Tom raised his wand, and with a flick, Smith was thrown back against the stone wall. The force of the impact left him gasping for air, his eyes wide with shock.

Tom stepped forward, his voice a low growl. “You should have kept your distance.”

Smith scrambled to his feet, but Tom was faster. With another swift movement, he sent Smith sprawling across the floor, his back hitting the cold stone with a sickening thud.

“You’re weak,” Tom spat, his gaze cold and unfeeling. “Pathetic. Always trying to be the hero, trying to be something you’re not.”

Smith groaned, struggling to push himself up. “You’re insane, Riddle. What’s your problem?”

Tom’s eyes flashed with fury. “My problem? You, Smith. You’re my problem.”

He leaned down, grabbing the Hufflepuff by the collar and lifting him off the ground. “You think you’re better than me? You think you can play in my world?”

Smith’s eyes were wide with fear now, but he didn’t back down. “I’m not afraid of you, Riddle.”

Tom’s grip tightened, and for a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing, the weight of the silence pressing down on them. Then, with a sneer, Tom threw Smith to the ground once more.

“You should be,” Tom said coldly, his voice like ice.

Smith lay there, panting, unable to move. Tom stood over him for a moment longer, watching the Hufflepuff struggle to breathe.

“Next time you get in my way,” Tom said, his voice a whisper of venom, “I won’t be so lenient.”

He turned and walked away, leaving Smith on the floor, gasping for air.

Tom’s mind was still reeling from Harry’s rejection, but now, the anger had been redirected. He didn’t need her approval, he didn’t need her warmth. He was Tom Riddle, and he would make sure everyone knew it.

As he walked down the empty corridor, his thoughts returned to Harry, and the gnawing frustration that still lingered.

But at least for now, he had something else to focus on. Something that wasn’t her.

Chapter Text

Harry had been trying to keep herself busy, to distract herself from the overwhelming weight of the bond she shared with Tom. The Triwizard Tournament was enough of a challenge, but Tom was always there, lurking at the edges of her thoughts, pushing her to confront feelings she wasn’t ready to face.

She thought she had a moment of peace as she entered the library, her mind focused on her research for the upcoming third task. The library was quiet, the only sounds the turning of pages and the occasional mutter of a spell as students worked. It was the perfect place to lose herself in her thoughts.

But then she saw him.

Tom was sitting at a table in the far corner of the library, his usual air of aloofness surrounding him. He was talking to Daphne Greengrass, and from the way they were leaning in toward each other, laughing lightly, Harry knew exactly what was happening. Tom was flirting.

She didn’t want to watch, but her feet seemed to move on their own as she stood frozen in place, her heart thudding in her chest. Tom’s voice was low, smooth, his words laced with the kind of charm that made it impossible for anyone to resist him. Daphne was laughing, clearly enjoying the attention, and Harry felt a sharp pang of something—jealousy, maybe? She hated it. She hated that she felt it.

But then, Tom’s eyes flicked toward her. He didn’t say anything at first, but the smirk that curled on his lips was unmistakable. He knew she was watching. And he didn’t care.

Daphne looked over at Harry, raising an eyebrow. “Everything alright, Harry?” she asked, clearly sensing the tension in the air.

Tom’s gaze lingered on Harry for a moment longer before he turned back to Daphne, his smirk widening. “You know, Daphne,” he said, his voice smooth, “I think we’ve spent enough time studying for today. What do you say we head back to the common room? A little fun wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

Daphne smiled, clearly intrigued. “You always know how to make things interesting, Tom.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. She didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to feel this way, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the scene before her. Tom was flirting with Daphne, yes, but he was doing it for a reason. He was doing it to get a reaction out of her. To make her jealous.

The realization hit her like a ton of bricks. He wasn’t doing this because he was interested in Daphne—he was doing it because he knew she was watching. He knew it would get under her skin.

And it did.

Her breath hitched as she turned on her heel, quickly walking away before she could see more. She wasn’t ready for this. She wasn’t ready for him, for the bond, for the emotions that he stirred in her every time he looked at her with that infuriating smirk.

As she left the library, she could still feel the weight of his gaze on her, even though she wasn’t looking back. She could feel him watching, knowing that he had gotten exactly what he wanted.

Chapter Text

The Yule Ball was approaching, and Harry felt the pressure of it building with every passing day. The students were abuzz with excitement, gossiping about who would ask whom, what dresses they’d wear, and, most importantly, who would be their dance partner. Harry couldn’t help but feel a sinking sensation in her stomach. She had never been good at these social events, and the thought of attending the Yule Ball alone made her uneasy.

She had to find someone.

But who?

Her mind immediately flashed to Tom. Her soulmate. The one person who could make the evening bearable. The one person who, despite everything, she still couldn’t stop thinking about. But that thought quickly soured. Tom was already taken. He was with Daphne. She had seen it with her own eyes. He was kissing her, touching her, letting her into his life in ways Harry couldn’t bring herself to allow.

Tom had moved on. He didn’t need her. He never had.

The realization stung more than she cared to admit. She had been avoiding him, running from the bond they shared, but it didn’t stop the ache in her chest. She knew, deep down, that she would have been willing to go with him. But now? Now, it felt like a mistake. He was with Daphne. And that was the end of it.

As the days passed, Harry’s attempts to find a partner grew more desperate. She considered asking Ron, but the thought of going with him—of turning the Yule Ball into something so… platonic—felt wrong. She couldn’t do that to him, to herself. She needed someone who would make her feel something, someone who could make the night feel special.

But no one seemed right.

And then, as if fate were mocking her, Tom appeared.

He was standing near the entrance to the common room, his dark eyes scanning the room as if looking for someone. When his gaze landed on her, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. Harry felt her heart skip a beat, but she quickly pushed the feeling down.

“Harry,” Tom said, his voice smooth and calm. “I was wondering if you had a partner for the Yule Ball.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She had hoped, in some small part of her heart, that maybe he would ask her. But now that he had, the reality of it hit her like a wave. The thought of dancing with him, of being close to him in front of everyone, was too much. She couldn’t do it. Not when he was with Daphne.

“No,” she said, her voice colder than she intended. “I don’t have a partner.”

Tom’s smirk deepened. He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “Well then, perhaps I can be your partner.”

Harry’s chest tightened, the bitterness rising inside her. “You’re with Daphne,” she said, her words sharp. “I’m sure she’d be thrilled to go with you.”

Tom’s eyes darkened, the amusement in them fading slightly. “You think I’m with Daphne, don’t you?” he said, his voice low, almost mocking. “That’s what you tell yourself, isn’t it? That I’m with her, that I’ve moved on. But you’re wrong, Harry.”

Harry felt a flash of anger. She wasn’t going to let him manipulate her like this. “It doesn’t matter,” she snapped. “You’re with her. And I’m not interested in being your consolation prize.”

Tom’s expression hardened, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something more dangerous in his eyes. “You keep running from me, Harry. You keep pushing me away. But I’ve made no promises to wait for someone who won’t give me anything in return.”

His words stung more than she expected, and she felt her resolve waver. But she couldn’t let him win. She couldn’t let herself fall for him again, not after everything.

“I’m not running from you,” she said, her voice trembling with a mix of frustration and hurt. “I’m just not interested. Not anymore.”

Tom’s gaze softened, but only slightly. He stepped closer, his voice quieter now. “You’re lying to yourself, Harry. You know that. You’ve always known that I’m not going anywhere. But if you want to keep pretending, go ahead. I won’t stop you.”

Harry’s heart raced, but she held her ground. “I’m not going with you, Tom. Not now. Not ever.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, he seemed to consider her words. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, his steps purposeful, his back straight.

Harry watched him go, her chest tight with a mix of relief and regret. She had rejected him. Again.

But she knew, deep down, that it was the right thing to do. She couldn’t let herself fall for him. Not when he had made it clear that he didn’t need her. Not when he had already moved on.

She was done.

But as she stood there, watching him disappear into the shadows of the hallway, part of her wondered if she was lying to herself.

Chapter Text

The Yule Ball arrived with all the grandeur and excitement that Harry had tried so hard to avoid. She had been dreading it for weeks, knowing that she would have to face Tom—her soulmate—dancing with someone else. But when Cormac McLaggen had asked her to go with him, desperation had driven her to say yes. He was arrogant, insufferable, and entirely too confident in himself, but she had needed a partner.

The evening was a blur of glittering decorations, swirling gowns, and enchanted lights, but Harry felt a knot in her stomach the entire time. Cormac, as expected, was annoying. He couldn’t stop bragging about his Quidditch skills, and every time he looked at her, his smug grin only made her want to leave. But she couldn’t. She had made the decision, and now she had to endure it.

As the opening dance began, the champions took their places in the center of the floor. Harry was already tense, her heart thudding in her chest as she felt the eyes of the entire room on her. Cormac took her hand with far too much confidence, and they began to dance, moving in time with the music but never quite in sync. Harry tried to focus on the steps, on the rhythm, but her eyes kept drifting. She couldn’t help it.

Across the room, she saw Tom. He was standing next to Daphne, his posture perfect, his eyes glinting with that familiar arrogance. He was wearing a dark suit, the deep green of it accentuating his pale skin and dark hair. Daphne was at his side, smiling up at him, but Tom wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t looking at anyone but Harry.

Harry’s heart skipped a beat as their eyes met. His gaze was intense, unwavering. It was as if the entire room had faded away, leaving just the two of them. She felt her breath catch in her throat. She couldn’t look away. He was watching her—watching her as he danced with Daphne, his every movement calculated to make her feel something, to make her remember.

The music swelled, and the other champions began to move, but Harry couldn’t tear her eyes away from Tom. He was smiling now, but it wasn’t for Daphne. It was for her. His eyes held a challenge, a quiet defiance, as if he were daring her to admit what they both knew.

She tried to focus on the dance, but Cormac’s presence only made everything worse. He kept talking, his voice grating on her nerves, but all Harry could hear was the music, the whispers of the crowd, and Tom’s gaze burning into her from across the room. It was as if Tom was the only one who truly mattered, and everything else—every other person, every other moment—was secondary.

As the dance continued, more couples joined in, and the floor became crowded with swirling figures, but Harry’s attention remained fixed on Tom. She watched him lead Daphne around the floor with practiced ease, his every movement smooth and confident. And still, his eyes never left hers. He wasn’t smiling at Daphne. He wasn’t smiling at anyone. He was smiling at Harry, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to her, as if he knew that every second he spent dancing with someone else was another moment of torment for her.

Harry’s heart twisted painfully in her chest. She hated that she was still affected by him. She hated that, no matter how much she tried to move on, no matter how much she tried to forget, Tom still had the power to make her feel like this.

And then, as if to prove a point, Tom leaned down to whisper something in Daphne’s ear. Daphne laughed, but Harry could see the way Tom’s eyes lingered on her, the way his smirk never faltered. It was a reminder, a cruel one, that he was with Daphne, that he had chosen her, but his attention was still on Harry. He was still playing with her emotions, still twisting the knife.

“Are you even listening to me?” Cormac’s voice broke through Harry’s thoughts, and she realized that she had been staring at Tom for far too long.

She blinked, shaking her head. “Sorry, I—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Cormac said, his voice dripping with smugness. “I know you’re distracted. It’s hard to focus when you’re with someone as good-looking as me, right?”

Harry didn’t bother responding. She didn’t have the energy for it. Instead, she turned her attention back to Tom, but he had already moved on, his focus now on Daphne. And as much as it hurt, as much as it twisted something deep inside her, Harry knew that this was the reality. Tom had chosen Daphne. He had moved on. He wasn’t hers, and he never would be.

But that didn’t stop her from wanting him. And that was the cruelest part of all.

Chapter Text

The Yule Ball felt like a suffocating cage, the laughter and music pressing in on Harry until she couldn’t take it anymore. She needed to get away. She needed air.

She excused herself from Cormac, muttering something about needing a break, and slipped out of the Great Hall.

Her heels clicked sharply on the stone floors as she made her way to the gardens, the cool night air hitting her face and easing the heat in her chest.

The laughter and chatter of the ball seemed miles away as she stepped outside, the cold air biting at her skin, but it was a relief.

She walked through the gardens, her breath coming in shallow bursts as she tried to clear her mind. She was so tired of the constant pull between her and Tom, of the bond that wouldn't let her forget him no matter how much she tried. She had tried to bury her feelings, tried to push him away, but nothing worked. Every time she saw him, every time he looked at her, it felt like a storm inside her.

Why did it have to be him? Why couldn't she just let go?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind her. She turned sharply, her heart racing, and found herself face-to-face with Tom. He was standing in the shadows, his eyes gleaming in the dim light, a faint smirk on his lips.

"You always run away, don't you?" he said, his voice low and almost amused. “From me. From this. From what we are."

Harry's pulse quickened, a rush of emotions flooding her. Anger, frustration, longing. She took a step back, trying to steady herself. "I'm not running from you," she snapped, though her voice betrayed her. "I'm just... I'm trying to breathe, Tom. I’m running from this bond - this pull that you keep dragging me into. I don’t want it. I don’t want you."

Tom's smirk faded, and for a moment, Harry saw something flicker in his eyes - hurt, maybe, or angry, before it was replaced by something darker, more intense. He stepped forward, his presence overwhelming, and Harry instinctively took another step back. But he was too quick. His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, pulling her toward him.

"You can’t just wish it away” he said, his voice cold. "You can’t just pretend it doesn’t exist. You think I'm pretending? You think I don't feel this too?" His grip tightened, his eyes narrowing. "You're the one who's been pretending, Harry. Pretending you don't want this. Pretending you don't want me."

Harry took a step back but Tom tighten his grip firmly but not painfully. “You think you can push me away but you can’t. You’ve been running from me since the moment we met, and I’m done letting you hide. You’re mine, and I’m tired of you running.”

Harry's breath caught in her throat. She could feel the heat of his body, the power in his touch, and for a moment, she couldn't think. Her heart hammered in her chest, and her thoughts were a jumble of confusion and desire. She had spent so long running from him, so long telling herself that she couldn't have him, that she couldn't let herself fall for him. But now, standing in front of him, feeling the pull of the bond between them, she realized just how much she had wanted this.

"I never asked for this," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "I never asked for you to be my soulmate."

Tom's face hardened, his jaw clenched as he pulled her closer. "You didn't have to ask, Harry. This is fate. This is what we are. You can't keep running from it."

Before she could react, he pulled her to him, his lips crashing against hers in a kiss that was desperate, possessive, and hungry.

Harry gasped in surprise, but the shock quickly faded as she found herself kissing him back. His lips were demanding, urgent, as if he were trying to claim her, to make her realize that there was no escape from what they were.

Her hands found his chest, pushing him away for a moment as she tried to regain control, but the moment he pulled her back in, she gave in, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body pressing against him, and world seemed to fade away as they kissed, the cold no longer mattering, the sounds of the ball no longer reaching her ears. It was just Tom, just the heat of his body against hers, just the bond between them that refused to let go.

Tom’s hands slid down her back, pulling her closer, his lips trailing down her neck, his breath hot against her skin. Harry moaned softly, her head tilting back as she felt the heat building between them, felt drunk on Tom’s closeness, the desire that had been simmering for so long finally boiling over. She had tried to fight it, tried to deny it, but in that moment, she couldn’t. She wanted him. She had always wanted him.

Her hands moved to his shirt, tugging at the fabric, desperate to feel more of him. Tom groaned, his hands sliding beneath her dress, pulling her even closer, if that was even possible. They were tangled in each other, moving together, their bodies pressed tightly against the maze hedges.

The kiss deepened, growing more frantic, more desperate. Harry's mind was spinning, her heart racing as she gave in completely to the sensations flooding her. She had never felt anything like this before, never felt so consumed by someone. Tom's touch, his kiss, it was everything she had been denying herself, everything she had been afraid of. And for the first time, Harry didn't care.
She didn't care about the bond, about the consequences, about anything. All she cared about was him.

Tom broke the kiss, his breath ragged as he looked down at her, his eyes dark, filled with a mixture of triumph and something else, something deeper. "I told you, Harry," he said, his voice low and rough, “You can’t keep running from this. From me. Not anymore.”

Harry’s chest rose and fell rapidly as she stared up at him, her heart racing. She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. Words felt unnecessary.

Taking her silence as affirmation, Tom kissed her again, this time more fiercely, more urgently. The kiss deepened, and Harry felt herself losing control, losing herself in him. Her hands roamed to his back, pulling him closer as if she couldn’t get enough of him.

Tom’s hands slid down her back, gripping her waist as they stumbled against the maze hedges and tumbled onto the grass. Harry felt the weight of him against her, the heat of his body pressing into hers, and she welcomed it.

She gasped as she felt his hands slide under her dress, pushing it up, and yet it was exhilarating. She moaned as he touched her, unable to deny her body’s response, and then as she raised her hips, Tom’s body joined with hers, and the world stopped. It was just them.

They moved together, tangled in each other, their bodies intertwined as humanely possible as it was to be and the cold night air forgotten again as they gave into the heat between them. Time seemed to slow down, then speed up, and before Harry knew it, they were both breathless, their clothes askew, the world spinning around them.

When it was over, Harry lay against Tom, her chest rising and falling with each breath. For a moment, she didn't know what to say. She didn't know what to do.

The cool night air seemed to swirl around them as they lay tangled together, the remnants of their heated encounter still hanging in the air between them. Harry’s heart raced as she tried to process what had just happened. The bond between them—the one she had spent so long trying to ignore—had flared up, consumed her, and for a brief moment, she had let it. She had let herself fall into him, let herself fall into the desire that had always been there, lurking beneath the surface.

But then the fog cleared, and she pushed herself away from him, her eyes wide with panic. She quickly adjusted her dress, pulling it down as if the act of covering herself could somehow shield her from the guilt, from the confusion that was flooding her. The reality of what she had just done hit her like a wave, and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She needed to get away.

"I can't," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I can't do this."

Tom remained where he was, his eyes dark and unreadable as he watched her, his chest still rising and falling with the remnants of their passion. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, and for a long moment, Harry thought maybe he was going to let her leave without a word. But then, his voice broke the silence, low and filled with a quiet intensity.

"Don't run, Harry," he said, his voice low, almost pleading in a rare moment of vulnerability. "Stop running from me."

Still, she started to walk away from him, her heart pounding in her chest. "I have to," she said, her voice breaking. "I can't stay."

“If you walk away from me now, Harry,” he said, his tone turning sharp and unyielding, cool to the point of indifference, “if you deny me again and run away, I won’t chase after you anymore.”

Harry froze, her fingers still gripping the fabric of her dress as she turned to look at him. His gaze was fixed on her, unwavering, and there was something in his eyes that made her stomach twist. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even frustration. It was something darker, something that made her realize just how serious he was.

“I won’t chase you,” he repeated, his voice colder now, harder. “I’ve given you enough chances. I’m not a fool, Harry. If you keep running from me, I’ll stop trying.”

Harry swallowed, the weight of his words sinking in. She had been running from him for so long, trying to escape the pull of their bond, trying to pretend that she didn’t care. But now, with the taste of him still on her lips and the warmth of his body still lingering in her mind, she couldn’t deny it anymore. She cared. She wanted him.

But she wasn’t ready to admit it. Not yet.

“I—I don’t know what you want from me,” she whispered, her voice shaking as she looked away, unable to meet his gaze. “I don’t know what this is.”

Tom didn’t move. He simply stared at her, his expression impassive, though his eyes held a flicker of something—maybe frustration, maybe something deeper. He didn’t try to reach for her, didn’t try to pull her back. He just watched her, his gaze steady and unwavering.

“I want you,” he said simply, his voice almost dismissive, as if the answer should have been obvious. “You don’t have to understand it. You don’t have to like it. Still, I know you want me too. But I won’t wait forever, Harry. I’m not going to keep chasing someone who can’t even admit what we are.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and final. There was no softness in his words, no pleading. Just a statement of fact. And yet, there was something about the way he said it—something that made Harry’s chest tighten. He was pretending to be unaffected, pretending that he wasn’t waiting for her to make up her mind, but Harry could see through it. She could feel the undercurrent of something more, something he wasn’t letting her see.

Harry felt a pang of something deep inside her, something she didn’t want to acknowledge. But it was there, undeniable. The bond between them. The pull. The connection that had always been there, even when she tried to ignore it.

She hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest. She wanted to say something, wanted to explain, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t find the words to make sense of it, to make sense of him.

“You don’t get it,” she said, her voice barely audible. “I can’t just… fall into this. I can’t just fall into you.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw tightening. “You’ve already fallen, Harry,” he said, his voice low and sharp. “Whether you want to admit it or not. I’m not asking you to give me everything. I’m asking you to stop running.”

For a long moment, Harry didn’t move. She stood there, torn between the desire to stay and the overwhelming need to escape. The pull between them was undeniable, but she wasn’t ready to face it. She wasn’t ready to face him.

She turned away, her heart racing, her mind screaming at her to leave before she did something she couldn’t take back. But before she could take a step, Tom’s voice cut through the air again, sharper this time.

“Don’t walk away from me, Harry,” he said, his tone colder now, more final. “I won’t chase you. I’ve made that clear. If you leave now, don’t expect me to come running when you change your mind.”

Harry froze, her breath catching in her throat. She didn’t look back, but his words lingered in her mind, echoing in the silence between them.

With one last glance at the dark figure behind her, Harry turned and walked away, the sound of her footsteps muffled by the night. And though she didn’t look back, she knew Tom was watching her.

She had made her choice.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere in the champions’ tent was heavy with tension, each of the competitors preparing themselves for the final task. Harry stood in front of the mirror, adjusting her robes, her heart racing with the knowledge that everything was about to come to a head. The maze was waiting, the Triwizard Cup was within reach, and yet, there was a weight in her chest that had nothing to do with the task ahead. It was the lingering presence of Tom, the unspoken words, the shared night that still haunted her thoughts.

She had barely spoken to him since that night in the garden. Since everything had changed between them. And now, as the final task loomed, Harry couldn’t help but feel the pull of him again, even though she had tried so hard to ignore it.

“Good luck, Harry,” Hermione said, breaking her from her thoughts. “You’ve got this.”

Ron clapped her on the back, a grin on his face, though Harry could see the concern in his eyes. “Don’t get yourself killed out there, yeah?”

She smiled at them both, appreciating the support, but the words felt hollow. She didn’t feel ready. She wasn’t sure she ever would be.

With a deep breath, she turned to leave the tent, her mind clouded with a thousand thoughts, most of them revolving around Tom. She hadn’t seen him yet today, and she wasn’t sure what to expect when they crossed paths. Would he speak to her? Would he act like nothing had happened?

As she walked toward the entrance, her gaze swept across the grounds, the maze looming in the distance. And then, she bumped into him.

Tom stood there, leaning casually against one of the wooden posts, his expression unreadable as he regarded her. He was dressed in his usual attire, his posture relaxed, but there was a coldness in his eyes—almost as if he were waiting for her to make the first move. His presence sent a jolt of tension through her, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

Harry opened her mouth to say something—anything—but the words caught in her throat. She had so much to say, so much she wanted to ask him, but nothing seemed right. Nothing could undo what had happened between them. Nothing could make it okay.

“Good luck, Harry,” Tom said, his voice cool, detached, as though he were simply offering a polite farewell. There was no warmth, no softness in his words, only the faintest hint of something—something that might have been concern, or maybe just the remnants of whatever they had shared. But Harry couldn’t tell. She couldn’t read him anymore.

Before she could respond, Daphne appeared, her heels clicking against the cobblestones as she approached them. Tom’s gaze shifted toward her, and Harry’s heart sank as he straightened up, his demeanor shifting in an instant.

“Are you ready?” Daphne asked, her voice light, as if everything was normal, as if nothing had changed. Tom nodded, his expression returning to its usual, imperious calm.

“Yes,” he replied, his eyes flicking back to Harry for a brief moment. “Good luck, Harry.”

And just like that, he turned away, his arm slipping around Daphne’s waist as they walked toward the stands together, leaving Harry standing there, frozen in place.

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, and for a long moment, she stood there, watching them disappear into the crowd. She didn’t know what she had expected, but it certainly wasn’t this—this cold indifference, this casual dismissal.

Tom had always been like this, hadn’t he? Detached. Uncaring. Except, somehow, when it came to her.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She couldn’t let him affect her anymore. She had a task ahead of her. The maze. The Triwizard Cup. She had to focus. But as she turned toward the maze, her mind couldn’t shake the image of Tom and Daphne, walking together like nothing had ever happened.

And for the first time in a long while, Harry wondered if she had made the wrong choice.

Chapter Text

The air was thick with dread as the Triwizard Cup whisked Harry and Cedric away from the maze, their surroundings blurring into nothingness. Harry’s stomach lurched as they tumbled through the portkey’s pull, landing harshly on the cold, uneven ground. Her breath caught in her throat as the graveyard around them slowly came into focus. The eerie silence was suffocating, broken only by the rustle of leaves in the wind.

“Where are we?” Cedric asked, his voice tight with confusion and fear.

Harry’s heart raced as she scanned their surroundings. The graveyard was ancient, with crumbling gravestones scattered about, and a sense of foreboding hung in the air like a dark cloud. There was no sign of the other champions, no sign of anyone except the two of them.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows—Wormtail, his face twisted with malice as he carried a small bundle. His presence sent a chill down Harry’s spine. Before she could react, he was upon them, his wand raised. Cedric’s eyes widened in realization, but it was too late.

“Avada Kedavra!” Wormtail screamed, and a flash of green light engulfed Cedric.

Harry screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the graveyard. Cedric’s body fell lifeless to the ground, and Harry’s breath hitched in her throat. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Her mind was a blur of panic and disbelief.

Wormtail turned to her, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of fear and hatred. “You’re next,” he hissed.

Before she could react, Harry felt herself being yanked forward, her arms bound tightly to the gravestone behind her. The cold stone bit into her back as she struggled, but her wrists were held firm by invisible ropes. Panic surged in her chest as she realized she was completely at the mercy of whatever was about to happen.

She watched Wormtail prepare a cauldron, a high voice coming from the bundle, demanding, “Hurry Wormtail!”

With dread in her heart, Harry realized with horror who the voice belonged to and struggled more frantically to get free.

Then Wormtail cut off his hand and into the cauldron it went. The blood from his stump dripped into the cauldron at the center of the graveyard, a deep, bubbling concoction that seemed to pulse with dark magic. Harry’s breath hitched in her throat as she saw the nightmare come to life unfold before her eyes.

Wormtail turned to her, his face a twisted mask of glee. “Your blood will be the final ingredient,” he sneered, approaching with the knife.

“No!” Harry shouted, her voice breaking as she struggled against her restraints. But it was no use. Wormtail was too fast, too strong. He slashed at her arm with the knife, the sharp sting of pain making her gasp. Blood poured from the wound, and Wormtail eagerly collected it in a vial, adding it to the cauldron.

The air around them seemed to grow heavier, charged with dark magic. Harry’s mind spun, the realization of what was about to happen crashing over her like a tidal wave. Voldemort was coming back.

The cauldron began to bubble violently, the liquid inside swirling and churning as if alive. The ground trembled beneath her feet, and Harry’s heart skipped a beat as the figure in the cauldron began to shift. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the shape of a man began to form.

A gnarled, skeletal hand reached out of the cauldron, followed by a twisted, pale figure. Harry’s breath caught in her throat as the man emerged fully—Voldemort, in his gollum-like form, his body weak and frail, but his eyes burning with malice and power.

“Robe me,” he commanded, and Wormtail hurried to cover his lord in robes. Voldemort demanded Wormtail’s arm and used the dark mark to summon them. The Death Eaters.

The Death Eaters apparated before them and seeing their lord, they erupted into applause, their faces twisted in reverence. Voldemort, reborn, stood before them, his voice a cold whisper. “I have returned.”

Harry’s stomach churned as she looked at him, the dark lord she had feared for so long, now standing before her, more powerful than ever. Her mind raced, comparing him to Tom, her soulmate, who had been so different from this monstrous creature. She wished, with all her heart, that Tom were here now. He would stop this. He would stop Voldemort, protect her from the horror unfolding before her eyes.

But there was no sign of Tom. Only Voldemort.

Voldemort raised his wand, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he spoke. “This is the end, Harry Potter. You have been my obstacle for far too long. But now, the bond between us, the bond that saved you all those years ago, will be the very thing that destroys you.”

He raised Harry’s wrist, showing the words etched into her skin: Avada Kedavra. The words marking her as his soulmate. He smiled cruelly, his voice echoing in the graveyard. “It is this bond that has prevented me from killing you in the past. But now, I will rid myself of you once and for all.”

Harry’s heart pounded in her chest as she stared at him, her mind racing. The words on her wrist, the bond—it had always been there, a reminder of the twisted connection between them. And now, Voldemort was determined to end it.

She braced herself for the killing curse, but just as Voldemort raised his wand, the air seemed to crackle with energy. The ground trembled beneath them once again, and Harry’s heart skipped a beat as a figure appeared out of nowhere—Tom.

Tom Riddle, her soulmate, her tormentor, her protector—he appeared before them, his presence overwhelming. Voldemort’s eyes widened in shock as he saw his former self, alive again. His mouth hung open in disbelief.

“How…?” Voldemort stammered, his voice faltering.

Tom didn’t waste time with explanations or pleasantries. He moved with the grace and power that only he possessed, stepping between Harry and Voldemort, blocking the curse with a simple flick of his wrist. The dark magic fizzled out in the air, dissipating like smoke.

Voldemort stared at him, his face twisted in rage and confusion. “No! You… you cannot be here. You should not exist!”

Tom’s eyes narrowed, his voice cold and steady. “I am here because I choose to be. And you, Voldemort, will never have her.”

Before anyone could react, Tom moved with lightning speed, grabbing Harry by the wrist and pulling her away from the gravestone. The Triwizard Cup, still fallen beside Cedric’s body, was ripped from the ground, and in an instant, they were gone.

The world spun around Harry once again, and the next thing she knew, they were standing in the familiar grounds of Hogwarts. The graveyard, the Death Eaters, Voldemort—everything was gone.

Tom didn’t look at her as he let go of her wrist, his expression unreadable. But Harry could feel the weight of everything that had just happened, the intensity of the moment hanging between them like a storm waiting to break.

Her heart was still racing, and her mind was a whirl of confusion. She had been so close to dying, so close to being lost to Voldemort forever. But Tom had saved her. He had come for her, despite everything that had happened between them.

And now, standing in the quiet of the Hogwarts grounds, Harry realized that she didn’t know what to feel. All she knew was that she had been saved. And it was Tom who had done it.

Chapter Text

The hospital wing was dimly lit, the only sounds being the soft rustle of sheets and the occasional murmur of a nurse. Harry sat in the bed, her body still recovering from the events of the night. Her arm throbbed where Wormtail had cut her, and her mind was a mess, replaying the horrors of the graveyard over and over again.

She had told Dumbledore everything—about Cedric’s death, about Voldemort’s return, about the Death Eaters and the twisted ritual that had brought the Dark Lord back. Her words had felt heavy, each one carrying the weight of a thousand fears, a thousand regrets. And yet, there was still a part of her that wished she hadn’t been the one to survive, that she could have spared Cedric, spared them all from what was coming.

She hadn’t seen Tom since they had returned to Hogwarts. After everything that had happened, after Voldemort’s resurrection and their return to Hogwarts, he had disappeared, leaving her to face the aftermath alone.

As she lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, she heard the soft creak of the door. Her heart skipped a beat when the faint sound of footsteps reached her ears. She turned her head toward the door, her heart quickening. For a moment, she thought it might be one of her friends or Madam Pomfrey checking in on her. But when the figure stepped into the dim light, she froze.

It was Tom.

He looked as composed as ever, his dark hair neatly in place, his expression a mask of cold detachment. But his eyes—his eyes gave him away. They flickered with something she couldn’t quite place, something she had rarely seen in him: concern.

“Tom,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from exhaustion and emotion.

He closed the door softly behind him, his footsteps deliberate as he approached her bed. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, simply looking down at her with an unreadable expression.

Harry didn’t know what to say. She had spent so many hours trying to make sense of everything, and now, with Tom standing before her, it felt like her world had tilted again. The man she had once feared, the man she had once hated, was here, standing in front of her. And yet, he was the same person who had saved her in the graveyard, the same person who had blocked Voldemort’s curse and pulled her away from the brink of death.

“Thanks to you,” she said in the end, sitting up a little straighter. “You… you saved me.”

Tom’s jaw tightened, and he glanced away, as if the admission made him uncomfortable. “I wasn’t going to let him kill you,” he said simply. “That would have been… inconvenient.”

Harry’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles despite herself. “Inconvenient?”

Yes,” he replied, his tone cool but with a hint of dry humor. “I didn’t go through all the trouble of coming back to life just to let you get yourself killed.”

She shook her head, a small laugh escaping her despite the weight in her chest. But her amusement faded quickly, and her expression grew serious. “Tom… Voldemort is back. He’s really back.”

He met her gaze, his expression hardening. “I know.”

“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “He’s stronger than ever, and I—I can’t stop thinking about what he said. About our bond. About why he couldn’t kill me before. It’s like… like everything is connected to this, and I don’t even understand it.”

Tom was silent for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. Then, slowly, he sat down on the edge of her bed, his movements uncharacteristically hesitant. His gaze drifted to her bandaged arm, and his hand hovered over it for a moment before he finally reached out, his fingers brushing against the edge of the bandage.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

Harry looked down at his hand, surprised by the gentleness of his touch. “A little,” she admitted. “But it’s not the worst part.”

Tom’s fingers lingered for a moment before he pulled his hand back, his expression tightening. “He marked you,” he said, his voice low and sharp. “Took your blood to make himself whole again. It’s disgusting.”

Harry blinked, startled by the venom in his tone. “It’s not your fault,” she said quickly. “You couldn’t have stopped him—”

“I should have been there sooner,” he interrupted, his voice cold but tinged with something deeper. “I felt it, you know. When he came back. It was like… like a part of me was being torn apart. I apparated to the graveyard as soon as I could, but it wasn’t fast enough.”

Harry stared at him, her heart twisting at the rawness in his voice. She had never seen him like this before—so exposed, so human. “You did save me,” she said softly. “If you hadn’t come when you did…”

Tom’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, his hands clenching into fists. “You’re not supposed to die,” he said quietly. “Not by his hand. Not by anyone’s.”

Harry felt a lump rise in her throat. She wanted to say something, to reassure him, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she reached out, her fingers brushing against his hand. He stiffened at the contact, but he didn’t pull away.

“Tom,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared.”

He looked at her then, his eyes dark and intense. “Good,” he said bluntly. “Fear keeps you alive. But don’t let it control you. You’re stronger than you think, Harry. Stronger than him.”

She wasn’t sure if she believed him, but the conviction in his voice was enough to steady her. Slowly, she tightened her grip on his hand, and to her surprise, he didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers curled around hers, his touch firm but not harsh.

“I didn’t expect you to come back after you left me with Dumbledore,” Harry said quietly, her voice hoarse. She wasn’t sure if she meant that in a good way or a bad way, but the words were out before she could stop them.

Tom didn’t answer immediately. He stepped closer to her bed, his gaze fixed on her. There was a tension in the air, a silence that stretched between them, thick with unspoken words.

“I had things to take care of,” he said finally, his voice as cold and distant as ever. But there was a flicker of something in his eyes—a trace of regret, or perhaps guilt? Harry wasn’t sure. “Dumbledore has a way of keeping everyone busy.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. The words she wanted to ask stuck in her throat, and all she could do was stare at him.

Tom seemed to sense her hesitation, and he sighed, rubbing a hand through his dark hair. “I couldn’t be here when the others were here. I don’t do well with… emotions, Harry,” he said, his voice lacking its usual coolness. “I’m not like everyone else, Harry. I don’t do well with… this.” He gestured vaguely between them, his words filled with a bitterness that Harry couldn’t quite understand.

Harry’s mind raced before she settled on what to say. “I don’t know what’s going to happen,” she admitted. “But I don’t want to face it alone.”

“You won’t,” he said, his voice softer now. “I’m not going anywhere. Not while he’s out there.”

Harry’s heart ached at his words, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to believe him. She didn’t know what the future held, but in that moment, with Tom’s hand in hers and his eyes locked on hers, she felt a flicker of hope.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Chapter Text

The room was dim and quiet, save for the soft sounds of Harry’s breathing. She shifted restlessly in her sleep, her face twisted in distress as her nightmares took hold. Tom sat beside her bed, his sharp features softened in the faint moonlight streaming through the window. He watched her with a conflicted expression, his fingers twitching as though debating whether to reach out.

When she whimpered, her brow furrowed, he made his decision. With an exasperated sigh, he slipped off his shoes and climbed into the narrow bed beside her. Carefully, he slid an arm around her trembling frame, pulling her against him. Harry stirred, her head instinctively nestling into his chest, and her breathing began to even out.

Tom stared at the ceiling, his mind racing. He wasn’t sure why he was doing this—why he cared so much. But the thought of leaving her alone to suffer through her nightmares felt unbearable.

——————————

The room remained still until the first rays of dawn began to creep in. Harry shifted in his arms, her eyes fluttering open. She blinked, disoriented, and then froze when she realized where she was—and who was holding her.

“Tom?” she croaked, her voice hoarse.

“Good morning,” he said dryly, though his tone lacked its usual bite. “You were thrashing in your sleep. I thought I’d spare you the indignity of waking the entire castle.”

Harry opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, the door to the hospital wing burst open with a loud bang. Both of them jolted upright, Tom’s arm slipping away as Cornelius Fudge stormed in, his face red with fury. Behind him, Professor McGonagall followed, her expression tight with disapproval.

Fudge was shouting at McGonagall, “I had every right! I’m the minister! Where’s Dumbledore?”

As if saying his name summoned him, Dumbledore came in through the hospital wing doors. “I’m here, Cornelius. But Minerva, I’m surprised at you. I left you to guard Crouch.”

McGonagall shouted, pointing at Fudge, “I’ve just come from guarding Barty Crouch Jr. Or rather, I would have stayed guarding him if the dementor Fudge insisted on bringing hadn’t taken his soul!”

Harry’s eyes widened in horror. “What? You—you let a dementor near him? Why?”

“To ensure he didn’t escape, of course,” Fudge snapped. “And now we’ll never get answers about this ridiculous story you’re spinning about You-Know-Who’s return.”

“It’s not a story!” Harry shouted, her voice rising. “I was there! I saw him! Voldemort is back, and he—he killed Cedric! He used my blood to come back to life!”

Fudge flinched at the sound of Voldemort’s name but quickly recovered, his expression hardening. “Nonsense. Cedric Diggory’s death was a tragic accident, nothing more. And as for Crouch Jr., he was acting alone. There’s no evidence to support this wild claim of yours.”

Harry’s hands clenched into fists, her entire body trembling with anger. “How can you say that? How can you ignore what’s right in front of you?”

“Because it’s madness!” Fudge shot back. “Do you have any idea what kind of panic this would cause? The entire wizarding world would be thrown into chaos!”

“Better chaos than ignorance,” Tom said, his voice cold and cutting as he finally spoke. He rose from the bed, his imposing presence drawing everyone’s attention. “Denying the truth doesn’t make it any less real, Minister.”

Fudge turned to him, his eyes narrowing. “And who are you to speak on such matters? You’re just a boy—”

“A boy who saved Harry’s life,” Tom interrupted smoothly, his tone dripping with disdain. “Unlike you, I was actually there when Voldemort returned. I saw what happened. And if you continue to bury your head in the sand, you’ll be the one responsible for the devastation he brings.”

Fudge’s face turned an alarming shade of purple. “This is preposterous! I will not stand here and be lectured by a—”

“Enough,” Dumbledore’s calm, commanding voice cut through the tension as he entered the room. His blue eyes were sharp as they swept over the scene. “Cornelius, this is neither the time nor the place for such arguments.”

“Dumbledore,” Fudge said, his tone a mix of frustration and desperation. “Surely you can see reason. This girl—she’s been through a terrible ordeal. She’s confused—”

“I am not confused!” Harry yelled, her voice cracking. “I know what I saw! Voldemort is back, and if you don’t do something, people are going to die!”

Fudge shook his head, his expression resolute. “I’m sorry, Miss Potter, but I cannot act on the word of a traumatized child. Good day.”

With that, he turned on his heel and marched out, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.

Harry sank back against her pillows, her chest heaving with frustration and despair. “He doesn’t believe me,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “He doesn’t believe me, and now Voldemort is free to do whatever he wants.”

Tom sat back down on the edge of her bed, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he reached out, his fingers brushing against her bandaged arm. “Let him underestimate you,” he said quietly. “It will be his downfall.”

Harry looked up at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I don’t know if I can do this, Tom. I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”

“You are,” he said firmly, his hand closing over hers. “And I’ll be here to make sure you don’t fall apart.”

Chapter Text

Tom stood beside Harry’s hospital bed, his hand clasped tightly in hers. Her grip was almost desperate, as though she feared he might vanish the moment she let go. He could feel the tension in her fingers, the unspoken plea for him to stay.

“Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore’s voice interrupted the moment, gentle but firm. The headmaster’s piercing blue eyes were fixed on Tom, his expression calm but insistent. “Might I have a word with you? Privately.”

Tom’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze shifting from Dumbledore to Harry. She looked up at him, her green eyes wide and uncertain, her hand tightening around his as though to anchor him in place.

“Tom,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He exhaled softly, his expression unreadable. “Harry,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You know where to find me.”

Her grip slackened slightly, and Tom gently pulled his hand free. He didn’t look back as he followed Dumbledore out of the hospital wing, leaving Harry alone with her emotions swirling in chaos.

———————

The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of the silver instruments on Dumbledore’s desk casting long shadows across the walls. Tom stood in the center of the room, his posture straight and composed, his expression one of practiced indifference.

Dumbledore moved to stand behind his desk, his hands clasped in front of him as he regarded Tom with a mixture of curiosity and gravity. “You’ve made quite the impression, Mr. Riddle,” he began, his tone even. “Not just on Harry, but on the events unfolding around us.”

Tom’s jaw tightened slightly. “If you brought me here to deliver platitudes, Headmaster, I suggest we save each other the time.”

Dumbledore’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “Very well. I’ll be direct. You know what Voldemort is, what he’s done. You know about the horcruxes.”

Tom’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—recognition, perhaps. “I know,” he said evenly.

“Then you know what must be done,” Dumbledore continued, his gaze sharp. “The horcruxes must be destroyed. All of them.”

Tom’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “You think I don’t understand that? Do you think I want him to exist as a twisted reflection of what I could have been?”

Dumbledore inclined his head slightly. “I believe you have a unique opportunity to correct the mistakes of your past. To ensure that Voldemort’s reign of terror is brought to an end.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “And you trust me to do this?”

“I trust that you care for Harry,” Dumbledore said simply. “And that you will do whatever it takes to protect her.”

For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of the conversation settling heavily between them. Finally, Tom spoke, his voice low and resolute. “I’ll do my part. I’ll hunt them down.”

Dumbledore studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Very well. I will provide you with the information we have gathered thus far. Together, we may yet succeed.”

Tom turned to leave, but Dumbledore’s voice stopped him. “One more thing, Mr. Riddle.”

He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “What?”

“Be patient with her,” Dumbledore said, his tone softening. “Harry has endured much, and her heart is more fragile than she lets on.”

Tom didn’t respond, but the faintest flicker of emotion crossed his face before he turned and strode out of the office, his mind already racing with plans.

——————

Harry stared at the door long after Tom and Dumbledore had left, her thoughts a tangled mess. She replayed his words in her mind, the way he had looked at her, the quiet intensity in his voice.

“You know where to find me.”

Her fingers brushed against the bandages on her arm, the pain a dull reminder of everything that had happened. She didn’t know what to think, what to feel. But one thing was certain: she couldn’t avoid him forever.

Chapter Text

Harry had been feeling the weight of the world pressing down on her since the night in the graveyard. Voldemort was back, and the reality of it was slowly sinking in. The fear, the anger, the uncertainty—everything felt like it was closing in around her. But Tom’s message had been clear. “Room of Requirement. Midnight.”

She didn’t know what to expect when she arrived, but when the door to the room opened, she found herself standing in an eerily familiar space—dimly lit and filled with ancient relics, the air heavy with the scent of old magic. Tom stood in the center, his back turned to her, gazing at a pedestal with something resting on it.

“You came,” he said, his voice calm, though there was an edge to it, as though he had been waiting.

“I’m here,” Harry replied, her voice steady but unsure. She wasn’t sure what she was walking into, but the pull to be near him, to understand what he knew, was undeniable.

He turned to face her, his eyes unreadable. “I need to show you something,” he said, stepping aside to reveal an ancient, tarnished diadem resting on the pedestal.

Harry’s breath caught in her throat. She could feel the magic radiating from it, dark and suffocating, as though it were alive. The air around it felt heavy with a malevolent force, and she instinctively took a step back.

“This,” Tom said, his voice low, almost reverent, “is one of the horcruxes. Ravenclaw’s diadem.”

Harry reached out tentatively, her fingers brushing the cold metal. The moment she made contact, a surge of dark energy shot through her, and she stumbled back, gasping. The magic was overwhelming, ancient and twisted, a part of Voldemort’s soul.

“It’s evil,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Tom nodded, his gaze unwavering. “Yes. It’s a piece of him. A piece of his soul. And it needs to be destroyed.”

“How many of these are there?” Harry asked, her voice barely above a whisper. The thought of there being more of these dark relics scattered around, each holding a piece of Voldemort’s soul, was almost too much to bear.

Tom’s eyes flickered briefly, and he paused before answering. “More than you think,” he said cryptically, his voice flat. “But each one we destroy makes him weaker. Mortal again.”

Harry frowned, feeling a sense of unease settle in her chest. She could sense that Tom wasn’t telling her everything. There was something he was holding back, but she didn’t push. Not yet.

“How did you come to know all of this?” she asked instead, her gaze fixed on the diadem. “You seem to know so much about him… about the horcruxes.”

Tom’s expression darkened slightly, his jaw tightening. “I was once part of it. The diary,” he said, his voice low. “It was one of his horcruxes, and so was I. That’s how we became… connected. But Fawkes healed me. He destroyed the connection between me and Voldemort. But there’s still so much darkness left.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat at his words. The diary. It had been the key to so much of what had happened to her. She had never understood the full extent of it, but now, hearing him speak of it, the pieces were starting to fall into place. He had been a part of Voldemort’s soul, just like the other horcruxes.

“But you’re not like him,” she said quietly, looking up at him. “You’re not the same as Voldemort.”

Tom’s lips curled into a slight, almost bitter smile. “No. I’m not.” His gaze softened, just for a moment, before he turned his attention back to the diadem. “But I am part of him. And that’s why I have to help you destroy the horcruxes. Because if we don’t, Voldemort will only grow stronger. And if I’m to survive… so must you.”

Harry swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words. The future was uncertain, and the path ahead was dangerous. But with Tom’s help, they could defeat Voldemort—if they could destroy all of his horcruxes.

“You’re not alone in this,” Tom said, his voice almost a whisper as he stepped closer to her. His eyes were intense, filled with something she couldn’t quite place. “I won’t let you face it alone.”

Harry looked up at him, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t know what to make of him anymore. The pull between them was undeniable, but the fear of what he had been—and what he still might be—kept her at arm’s length.

But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel completely alone. There was a part of her that wanted to believe in him, to trust him. To believe that they could defeat Voldemort together.

Tom’s eyes softened as he reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek. “I know you’re scared,” he said quietly. “But you’re not alone. Not anymore.”

The words hit her harder than she expected. She had been running for so long, running from him, running from the bond between them, from everything she felt. But now, standing there with him, she realized that she didn’t want to run anymore.

“I’m scared,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m not running anymore. I won’t.”

Tom’s gaze softened, and for a brief moment, she saw something in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before—something vulnerable. He stepped closer, his hand resting on hers, and for the first time, Harry allowed herself to feel the warmth of his touch without fear.

“You’re not alone,” he repeated, his voice steady, filled with certainty. “And I’ll be here. With you. Every step of the way. As long as you want me. I’m there.”

Harry’s thoughts swirled, the weight of everything pressing on her. She couldn’t shake the feeling of being lost in a battle that was bigger than her. The horcruxes, Voldemort’s return, and the overwhelming pressure of it all made her feel small, insignificant.

Tom’s presence was the only thing that grounded her. He stepped closer, his hand gently resting on her shoulder. “You’re not alone in this,” he reiterated, his voice softer than usual, though there was still an edge to it. “I’ve told you before, I’m here.”

Harry looked up at him, her heart heavy with doubt. “But I’m not sure I can do it,” she whispered, the weight of her fears coming to the surface. “I’m not strong enough to face all of this on my own.”

Tom’s gaze softened, a flicker of something in his eyes she couldn’t quite read. He took a step closer, his hand cupping her cheek. “You’re stronger than you think,” he said, his tone low, almost soothing. “And I keep telling you, you don’t have to do it alone. Not anymore.”

In that moment, Harry felt something break inside her. The walls she’d built up, the fear of letting herself trust, it all came crashing down. She leaned in, her lips finding his in a kiss that was gentle, tentative, but full of something deeper—something she didn’t want to acknowledge but couldn’t deny.

The kiss deepened, and soon they were tumbling onto the bed the the room had conjured. The vulnerability they shared in that moment was raw, unguarded. Harry let herself be consumed by it, by him. For once, she didn’t feel like she was running from everything. She was just… there.

Afterwards, as they lay naked together, Tom traced soft lines along her arm, his touch surprisingly tender. He didn’t say anything for a long time, but Harry could feel the tension in his body, the question hanging in the air. The Room of Requirement was quiet, the air still and heavy in the aftermath of their shared moment. Harry lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, her mind a chaotic tangle of emotions. The faint scent of smoke from the destroyed horcrux still lingered in the air, mingling with the warmth of Tom’s presence beside her.

He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, his dark eyes watching her intently. There was no softness in his gaze, no pretense of vulnerability. Instead, he looked at her like she was a puzzle he was still piecing together, his expression sharp and unreadable.

“You’re thinking too much,” he said, his voice calm, almost detached.

Harry turned her head to meet his gaze, her cheeks flushing. “And you’re not thinking at all?” she retorted, though her voice lacked the bite she intended.

Tom’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “I think plenty, Harry. Perhaps too much. But this…” He gestured between them with a lazy wave of his hand. “This was inevitable.”

She sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest, her heart racing. “Inevitable?” she repeated, her tone defensive. “You make it sound like—like it didn’t matter.”

“It mattered,” he said simply, his eyes narrowing. “But denying it wouldn’t have changed anything. You’ve been running from this—” his hand reached out, his fingers brushing her wrist where her soulmate words were etched, “—and from me. You knew it would catch up to you eventually. it did in the maze garden. It did here.”

Harry pulled her wrist away, her jaw tightening. “I’m not running,” she muttered, though the words felt hollow even to her.

Tom leaned back, resting his head against the pillow, his posture relaxed but his gaze still piercing. “No? Then what do you call it when you keep pulling away every time things get real? Every time I get close?”

Her chest tightened, his words striking too close to home. She looked away, unable to meet his gaze. “It’s not that simple,” she whispered.

“It’s exactly that simple,” Tom countered, his voice cool but not cruel. “You’re scared. Of me, of this, of what it means to fight Voldemort. I understand fear, Harry. I’ve lived with it, manipulated it, used it. But you can’t let it control you.”

She turned back to him, her green eyes blazing with a mix of anger and something she couldn’t name. “I’m not scared of you,” she said, though her voice wavered.

Tom’s smirk returned, but there was a flicker of something darker beneath it. “Good,” he said. “Because I won’t wait forever. I don’t chase people, Harry. Not even you. I’m here if you ask, but you have to ask.”

Her heart sank at his words, though she couldn’t tell why. She tightened the sheet around her chest, her mind racing with everything she wanted to say but couldn’t. Finally, she met his gaze again, her voice quiet but firm. “I’m not ready to run to you,” she admitted. “But I’ll try to stop running away.”

For a moment, Tom said nothing, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he inclined his head, the faintest trace of approval in his eyes. “That’s a start,” he said. “But don’t expect me to make this easy for you.”

Harry couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at her lips. “You never do,” she muttered.

Tom chuckled, a low, rich sound that sent a shiver down her spine. “Good,” he said, his voice soft but laced with meaning. “It wouldn’t be worth it if I did.”

As Harry stood and began to gather her clothes, she felt his gaze on her the entire time, a silent reminder that he was watching, waiting. She paused at the door, her hand resting on the handle, and glanced back at him.

Tom was still lounging on the bed, his expression calm and composed, but his eyes burned with something unspoken. “You know where to find me,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “When you’re ready.”

Harry didn’t respond, her emotions too tangled to form words. She turned and left, the door closing softly behind her, leaving Tom alone in the flickering light of the Room of Requirement.

Chapter Text

The summer had been a strange mixture of quiet moments and deep contemplation. At Dumbledore’s request to Sirius, Tom had taken a room at Grimmauld Place, but he did not remain there quietly. Tom had been busy hunting down the remaining horcruxes, and Harry had spent most of her time trying to make sense of everything that had happened, especially her complicated feelings for him. The weight of the world seemed to press down on her, but when Tom was at Grimmauld Place, he had been a steady presence, helping her navigate the chaos as he sat quietly in the same rooms as her, bringing her a steady supply of cups of tea and constantly covering her in quilts when she shivered in the cold, drafty rooms of Sirius’ ancestral family home.

One afternoon, after another of Tom’s horcrux hunting trips, he arrived at 12 Grimmauld Place with something in hand: a ring. He handed her the ring first, explaining its significance.

“This was a family heirloom,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “Voldemort turned it into a horcrux, but it’s not one anymore. It still carries a part of my past. My family. I thought you might appreciate it.”

Harry stared at the ring, the gleam of its dark, intricate design catching the light. It felt heavy in her hands, both because of its history and the weight of the bond they shared. She hesitated, the implications of accepting something so meaningful, so tied to Tom, making her heart race.

“Tom, I don’t know,” she began, unsure of how to express the confusion swirling inside her. “This… it’s a lot.”

Tom’s eyes stayed unreadable, though the usual sharpness remained in his gaze. “I’ve never asked you for anything. This is simply a gift. No strings attached.”

She looked at him, searching his face for any sign of manipulation, but all she saw was his calm, steady presence. After a long pause, she nodded, her fingers trembling slightly as she allowed him to slip the ring onto her finger.

“There,” he said quietly, his touch lingering on her hand for a moment longer than necessary. “It’s yours.”

Harry felt the weight of the ring on her finger, its significance settling in her chest. She didn’t know what it meant, but she knew it was important. A part of her wanted to pull away from the bond, to avoid what it could mean, but another part of her—one she wasn’t ready to admit—was touched by the gesture.

————————————

The party at 12 Grimmauld Place later that evening was a boisterous affair. Sirius, the Weasleys, and others had gone all out for Harry’s birthday. Laughter and chatter filled the house, but Harry couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of place. She watched as Tom stood off to the side, his discomfort palpable as he surveyed the scene. He didn’t belong in this world, not in the way the others did, and Harry could see how much it irked him.

After a while, Tom excused himself from the festivities, slipping out of the crowded room unnoticed. Harry followed him with her eyes as he moved through the house, eventually disappearing into the hallway.

Later that night, after the party had wound down and the house had emptied, Harry found herself standing in the hallway, feeling the weight of the evening. She was alone, except for Tom, who had returned to her side without anyone noticing. He stood just outside her door, his presence still as commanding as ever.

“You didn’t enjoy the party?” Harry asked, her voice soft.

Tom gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. “It’s not my world,” he replied. “I don’t belong in the company of those who can’t understand what’s truly at stake.”

Harry nodded, understanding. The contrast between Tom and her friends was stark, and it made her feel torn. Tom was the one who had been there when it counted, but her friends were the ones who had helped her through everything else.

“Thank you for the ring,” Harry said, her voice quiet. “It’s beautiful. I don’t know what it means yet, but… I’ll keep it.”

Tom’s gaze softened as he stepped closer, his hand brushing the side of her cheek in a gesture that felt more intimate than anything they’d shared before. “You don’t have to understand it yet,” he murmured. “But I’m glad you accepted it.”

They stood there for a moment, the weight of their unspoken words hanging in the air. Then, as if on instinct, Tom leaned down and kissed her gently, his lips warm and reassuring. When he pulled away, he whispered, “Happy birthday, Harry.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, and she whispered back, “Thank you, Tom.”

With a final glance, Tom stepped back, his eyes lingering on her for a moment longer before he turned and walked down the hallway. Harry stood in the doorway, her hand instinctively reaching up to touch the ring on her finger, feeling the weight of the night, the weight of the future, and the weight of the choices she would have to make.

As she closed the door behind her and turned to face the empty room, she couldn’t help but wonder what would come next.

————————————

Tom moved through the darkened halls of 12 Grimmauld Place with a deliberate, almost predatory grace. The house was quiet now, the party long over, and the remnants of the celebration still lingered in the air. Harry slept upstairs, and the house was finally still, save for the creaking of the old house as it settled. But Tom had a task to complete, one he couldn’t put off any longer.

The Black family house was filled with secrets, and many of them were buried deep within its walls. He had long suspected that one of Voldemort’s horcruxes might be hidden here, and now, after all the time spent tracking down the other pieces of the dark wizard’s soul, he was certain of it. His suspicions had been confirmed when he found the locket, the one that had once belonged to Salazar Slytherin, hidden in the house’s vault. But there was something more. The locket was not just a family heirloom—it was a vessel for Voldemort’s soul, and it had to be destroyed.

He reached out and took the locket in his hand, feeling the cold metal against his palm. It was heavier than he expected, its aura of dark magic almost suffocating. The locket had been well-hidden, but Tom was more than capable of finding it. He had spent years studying the dark arts, learning how to manipulate them, how to track down the pieces of Voldemort’s fractured soul. And now, he was going to destroy it.

Tom’s eyes flickered to the door, ensuring that no one would disturb him. He wasn’t about to let anyone else see the destruction of such an important artifact. The locket, though seemingly innocuous, held a piece of Voldemort’s essence, and that made it far more dangerous than it appeared.

With a flick of his wand, Tom cast a series of incantations to weaken the locket’s defenses. He could feel the magic resisting him, but he was patient. He had learned the importance of patience long ago. The locket’s magic was strong, but it was no match for his power.

“Fiendfyre,” Tom murmured under his breath, his voice cold and controlled. The fire that erupted from his wand was an uncontrollable, consuming inferno that devoured everything in its path. The flames licked at the locket, and Tom watched as the fire burned away the dark magic that had been bound to it.

The locket screamed in agony, its cursed magic fighting against the fire, but Tom was relentless. The flames consumed the locket, twisting and turning, until there was nothing left but ash. He stood there for a moment, watching the remnants of the horcrux burn away, the dark magic dissipating into the air. It was done. The locket was no more.

But as the fire died down, Tom’s thoughts were not on the destruction of the horcrux. His mind was elsewhere, on the weight of the task ahead. He had destroyed one piece of Voldemort’s soul, but there were others still out there, hidden in places he had yet to find.

As he stood there, the remnants of the locket still smoldering at his feet, Tom felt a strange sense of satisfaction. It was one step closer to the end of this long, twisted journey. But it wasn’t just about destroying the horcruxes. It was about something more, something deeper. It was about protecting Harry, about showing her that he was more than just the man she feared, more than the dark wizard he was supposed to have been once upon a time.

With the locket destroyed, Tom turned and made his way back through the house, his thoughts already moving on to the next task.

—————————

Tom stood quietly in the doorway of Harry’s room, his eyes fixed on her as she slept soundly beneath the soft covers. The moonlight spilled through the window, casting a silvery glow over the room, and he felt a swell of emotion in his chest as he watched her. She was wearing the Gaunt family ring—the one he had given her. The one that had once belonged to his ancestors, and now, it was hers. It was a symbol, a mark of their connection, and in that moment, it felt like more than just a piece of jewelry. It felt like a promise.

He hadn’t meant to linger, but something about the sight of her, so peaceful and vulnerable, kept him rooted to the spot. His fingers itched to touch her, to hold her close. He wanted to be near her, to feel her warmth against him. His destruction of the locket, another step closer to ending this twisted journey, felt important, but in the quiet of the night, it was this that felt the most significant.

With a quiet sigh, Tom crossed the room and gently climbed into the bed beside her. He was careful not to wake her, slipping in behind her and pulling the covers over them both. As he settled into the warmth of the bed, he allowed himself a moment of peace. He had always been so focused on the task ahead, on the destruction of Voldemort’s horcruxes, but in the stillness of the night, with Harry so close, it was easy to forget the chaos of the world outside. For a fleeting moment, there was only the two of them, and that was enough. Tom closed his eyes, allowing sleep to claim him.

———————————————

The morning light filtered through the curtains, and Harry slowly stirred, her body still heavy with sleep. She shifted slightly, the warmth of the bed making her reluctant to leave it. But as she moved, she felt something—someone—next to her. Her eyes snapped open, and she froze when she saw Tom lying beside her, his arm draped over her waist, his chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of sleep.

For a moment, she simply stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest. She had known that things between them had changed, but this—this was something else entirely. She had been so determined to keep her distance, to keep herself from falling deeper into whatever this was between them. But now, with him here, so close, it felt impossible to push him away.

Her mind raced with conflicting emotions—fear, confusion, desire—but most of all, she felt a sense of warmth, of safety, that she hadn’t realized she craved. She couldn’t deny that part of her wanted to stay here, to let herself feel this closeness. But another part of her—the part that had been running from him for so long—was terrified.

Tom stirred slightly, his eyes fluttering open as he lazily glanced at her. He gave her a sleepy smile, his hand still resting on her waist. “Morning,” he murmured, his voice low and husky from sleep.

Harry blinked, struggling to find her voice. “Tom,” she whispered, her tone hesitant. “What… What are you doing here?”

Tom stretched slightly, his fingers brushing against her skin as he shifted closer. “I’m here,” he said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You’re not running from me again, are you?”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat, and she struggled to suppress the urge to pull away from him. She couldn’t run again—not now, not when she was so close to him. She had to face this, whatever this was, but the fear still lingered.

Tom, sensing her hesitation, smiled softly, his eyes heavy with sleep. “You’re not going anywhere. Not yet, anyway,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Go back to sleep, Harry. We’ll figure it out later.”

For a moment, Harry just stared at him, the weight of everything pressing down on her. But then, with a soft sigh, she nodded. She wasn’t ready to face it all, not yet. But for now, she could stay here, with him. She could allow herself this moment of peace, this moment of closeness.

With a quiet murmur, Harry closed her eyes again and nestled back into the warmth of the bed, her body relaxing against his. Tom’s arm tightened around her, pulling her closer, and she allowed herself to drift back into sleep, her thoughts swirling but her heart a little lighter than before.

For now, she wasn’t running. And that was enough.

Chapter Text

The morning sun streamed in through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. Harry’s eyes fluttered open, the warmth of the bed and the steady rhythm of Tom’s breathing beside her making her reluctant to leave the comfort of sleep. She shifted slightly, her head resting against his chest, and for a moment, she allowed herself to savor the quiet. It felt like a rare moment of peace, something she hadn’t realized she needed until now.

But that peace was shattered when she heard the soft creak of the door opening. Harry’s heart skipped a beat, and she quickly pulled away from Tom, sitting up and instinctively pulling the blanket around her. She turned to see Hermione and Ron standing in the doorway, their eyes wide with surprise. Hermione’s mouth was slightly open, and Ron looked as though he had just walked into something he wasn’t sure how to process.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice was a mix of concern and confusion. “What… what’s going on here?”

Tom stirred, his dark eyes flicking toward the door, and without a word, he pushed himself off the bed. His movements were calm, controlled, but there was a certain tension in the way he held himself. He gave Hermione and Ron a cool, almost dismissive glance before walking toward the door.

“I’ll leave you to your… conversation,” Tom said, his voice smooth, his gaze briefly flicking to Harry. “You know where to find me.”

Harry watched him leave, the door clicking shut behind him, before turning back to her friends. She felt a rush of emotions—embarrassment, guilt, confusion—but mostly, she felt the weight of their gaze on her. Hermione and Ron exchanged a look, their expressions a mix of concern and suspicion.

“Harry,” Hermione said gently, her tone filled with worry. “What are you doing? With him?”

Ron crossed his arms, looking uneasy. “You know who he is, right? Tom Riddle, the one who—”

“I know who he is,” Harry interrupted, her voice sharp. She felt a surge of frustration at the assumption in their voices. “But he’s not… not what you think. Not anymore.”

Hermione’s eyes softened, but there was still a clear note of disbelief in her voice. “Harry, I get that things are complicated, but he’s… he’s dangerous. You know that. He’s done terrible things.”

Harry’s chest tightened at the reminder, the guilt and the doubts creeping in again. She knew what Tom had done, the things he had been responsible for. She couldn’t forget his past, no matter how much she wanted to focus on the person he was now—the person who had been there for her, the person who had shown her a different side of himself.

“I’m not saying he’s perfect,” Harry said quietly, her voice faltering slightly. “But he’s not the same person anymore. He’s… trying to change. He’s helping me.”

Ron’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “Helping you? By being here, in your bed? After everything he’s done?”

Harry didn’t have an answer for that. She didn’t know how to explain it, how to make them understand that, despite everything, there was something in Tom that she couldn’t ignore. Something that made her feel safe, something that made her want to trust him, even though it went against everything she had been taught to believe.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Harry whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m just… trying to figure it out.”

Hermione took a step forward, her expression softening but still filled with concern. “Harry, we just want to make sure you’re safe. Tom Riddle—he’s dangerous. He’s not someone you can just… trust.”

“I know,” Harry said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I know what he’s done. But he’s not Voldemort. He’s… he’s different now.”

Ron shook his head, frustration evident in his tone. “How can you say that? After everything? You can’t just forget who he is.”

“I’m not forgetting,” Harry replied, her voice growing stronger. “But I can’t just ignore what’s happening now. He’s not the same person I thought he was. He’s helping me with the horcruxes, with everything. He’s… he’s been there for me in ways I didn’t expect.”

Hermione and Ron exchanged a look, and Harry could see the worry in their eyes. They didn’t understand. They couldn’t understand. She had tried to keep her distance from Tom, to push him away, but the connection between them—whatever it was—was undeniable. And now, with everything that was happening, with Voldemort’s return and the weight of the prophecy pressing down on her, she couldn’t ignore it anymore.

“I don’t know what to do,” Harry admitted, her voice trembling. “I don’t know how to make you understand.”

Hermione stepped forward, her voice gentle but firm. “Harry, we just want you to be careful. We don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I’m not going to get hurt,” Harry said, her eyes locking with Hermione’s. “I know what I’m doing. I just… need time to figure it out.”

Ron sighed, clearly not convinced, but he didn’t push further. “Just… be careful, Harry. Please.”

Harry nodded, her heart heavy with the weight of their concern. She wanted to believe in Tom, to believe that he had truly changed, but the fear and doubt still lingered, gnawing at her. She didn’t know how to reconcile the person she had seen in Tom with the dark history he carried. But she knew one thing for sure—she couldn’t keep pretending that everything was simple, that there was a clear line between good and evil.

But for now, she had to face the consequences of her choices. And that meant facing her friends’ doubts, facing her own confusion, and figuring out where she and Tom truly stood in the midst of everything.

Chapter Text

The tension between Harry and Tom had only grown since that morning when Hermione and Ron had found them in bed together. Harry couldn’t quite bring herself to face Tom after the awkwardness of it all, and Tom, ever the master of keeping his emotions hidden, seemed content to let the silence stretch between them. Harry wore the Gaunt family ring—his ring—still, and every time Tom saw it, his heart tightened with a strange mix of relief and frustration. He couldn’t get a read on her, not anymore. And it bothered him more than he was willing to admit.

The journey back to Hogwarts for their fifth year did little to ease the tension. The train ride was quiet, with only a few exchanged words between Harry and her friends, and Tom kept to his own thoughts, watching Harry from across the compartment. There was still something unspoken between them, something that neither of them was willing to acknowledge just yet.

When they finally arrived at Hogwarts, the atmosphere was different. The school seemed heavier, as if the weight of the world was pressing down on them all. As they made their way into the Great Hall for the welcome feast, the familiar faces of the staff and students didn’t bring the comfort they usually did. The air was thick with unease, and Harry couldn’t help but feel that things had changed in a way she couldn’t fully understand.

As Dumbledore began his speech, Dolores Umbridge interrupted him, her high-pitched voice ringing out as she made her own speech, announcing her new role at Hogwarts and asserting the Ministry’s control over the school. Harry exchanged a look with Ron and Hermione, both of them equally shocked by her audacity.

“Blimey, this is a nightmare,” Ron muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing at the woman who had already made her presence known in the most unwelcome way possible.

Hermione, ever the voice of reason, leaned in and whispered to them both. “The Ministry’s interfering with Hogwarts. They’re trying to control everything, even the way we’re taught. And they’ve been trying to discredit Harry and Dumbledore all summer.”

Harry’s stomach churned at the thought. She had spent the summer dealing with the aftermath of Voldemort’s return, trying to make sense of everything that had happened in the graveyard, and now the Ministry was trying to make her out to be a liar. She could feel the weight of their disbelief pressing down on her once more.

From his place at the Slytherin table, Tom’s eyes were narrowed as he watched Umbridge. He could feel the disdain radiating off of her, and the way she carried herself with such self-importance made his blood boil. He had his own thoughts about the Ministry and their attempts to discredit him, but it was clear they had their sights set on Harry as well. The way they had painted her as some sort of delusional child was maddening. She had spoken the truth, and yet they refused to believe her.

Tom’s thoughts drifted back to the summer, to the way the Ministry had gone to great lengths to make Harry’s story seem unbelievable, to call her a liar for speaking about Voldemort’s return. It was almost laughable, the lengths they would go to in order to maintain control and keep the truth buried. He could feel the anger rising in him again, the frustration that came with seeing the people he cared about being treated like this.

But for now, he had to bide his time. Umbridge was a problem, but she wasn’t the only one. As he watched her speak, he couldn’t help but feel that the Ministry’s interference at Hogwarts was just the beginning. Things were about to get a lot more complicated.

And as he glanced over at Harry, sitting at the Gryffindor table with her friends, he couldn’t help but wonder how long she would be able to stand up to the pressure. How long would she be able to keep running from the truth of what they were becoming? How long before she finally stopped running away from him?

But for now, all he could do was watch. And wait.

Chapter Text

At the end of the feast, the grand hall was buzzing with conversation, the clatter of plates and the murmur of voices blending together in a low hum. Harry had been trying to ignore the weight of Tom’s presence across the room, but as soon as the last course was cleared, he made his way toward her, his eyes never leaving her as he weaved through the crowd.

When he reached her, the noise of the hall seemed to fade, and the tension between them became palpable. Harry didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do. She had been avoiding him for days, ever since their last conversation—ever since she had woken up to find him beside her in bed, his ring on her finger. It felt like everything was shifting, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for it.

Tom stopped in front of her, his gaze intense. “We need to talk,” he said quietly, the words a command more than a request.

Harry hesitated but nodded, leading him to a quieter corner of the hall. Her heart was racing, and she had a sinking feeling that this conversation was inevitable.

“Are we going to keep pretending that we’re not…?” Tom began, his voice tight with frustration. “You know what we are, Harry. You know that we’re connected. You know that we’re meant for each other. So why won’t you just admit it?”

Harry’s chest tightened. She couldn’t deny the connection between them, the pull that had always been there, but she wasn’t ready to give in to it completely. Not while Voldemort was still out there, still a threat to everything she held dear.

“I know we’re connected,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “But I’m not ready to give in to Fate just yet. Not while Voldemort is still alive. I can’t focus on us while there’s so much at stake.”

Tom’s jaw clenched, his frustration evident in the way his eyes narrowed. “So you’re just going to keep running? Keep pretending this doesn’t matter?”

“I’m not running away,” Harry snapped, her tone sharper than she intended. “But I’m not running towards you either. I need space to figure this out. To focus on what’s really important.”

Tom’s expression darkened, and he stepped closer, his voice lowering. “You promised me you wouldn’t run away anymore, Harry. You said you’d stop doing that.”

“I’m not running away,” she repeated, her voice softer now, but still firm. “I just need time. Time to think. Time to make sure I’m not making the wrong decision.”

Tom’s gaze hardened. He seemed to be struggling with something, torn between his desire for her and the reality of the situation. “So, what am I supposed to do, Harry?” he asked, his voice raw with frustration. “Wait? Be alone until you’re finally ready to embrace this? Embrace me?”

Harry felt a pang of guilt at the vulnerability in his voice, but she couldn’t give in—not yet. “I won’t hold you back,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “If you need to move on, then do it. But I can’t make that decision for you.”

Tom’s eyes darkened with a mixture of frustration and something else, something deeper. He looked at her for a long moment, as if trying to decide what to say next, but in the end, he only nodded, his jaw tight.

“Fine,” he said, his voice cold now. “I’ll figure it out on my own. But don’t expect me to just sit around and wait for you.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Harry standing there, her heart heavy with the weight of their conversation. She wanted to run after him, to apologize, to tell him that she didn’t want to lose him, but she knew that wasn’t the answer. Not yet.

As Tom made his way back to the Slytherin common room, his mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He had tried, he really had, to be patient with Harry, to give her the space she needed. But it was becoming clear that she wasn’t ready. And it was starting to wear on him.

When he entered the common room, he was greeted by the sight of Daphne Greengrass lounging on one of the couches. She looked up as he entered, her eyes gleaming with something more than casual interest.

“Rough night?” she asked, her voice smooth and inviting.

Tom’s eyes flicked to her, his frustration still simmering beneath the surface. He knew what she was offering, and for a moment, he considered it. He had been patient with Harry, but maybe it was time to stop waiting. Maybe it was time to take what he wanted, even if it wasn’t with her.

Daphne stood, moving toward him with slow, deliberate steps. “You don’t have to wait for her,” she said softly, her hand brushing against his arm. “You deserve to have what you want, Tom. And I’m here for you.”

Tom hesitated for only a moment before he let out a soft sigh, the weight of his emotions pushing him toward her. He wasn’t looking for love, not from Daphne, but he was looking for something to fill the emptiness Harry had left behind. And in that moment, he didn’t care about the consequences.

As Daphne kissed him, he let go of the frustration, the longing, and for once, he didn’t think about Harry. For a brief, fleeting moment, he allowed himself to forget everything except the heat of Daphne’s touch and the relief of not being alone.

Chapter Text

After Harry’s first detention with Umbridge, her hand still throbbed with the pain from the blood quill. She wrapped it tightly, trying to ignore the lingering sting as she made her way to the library. She needed a moment to clear her head, away from the chaos of the day, away from the tension between her and Tom.

But as Harry walked through the corridors, she couldn’t shake the thoughts of Tom. The conversation they’d had earlier, the distance that had only seemed to grow between them, and the promise she’d made to stop running away from him. She had pushed him away, told him not to wait for her. And now, she couldn’t help but wonder if she had made a mistake.

As she walked through the library and made her way to the far tables in the back behind the bookshelves, away from everyone else, she heard a faint sound—a creaking, soft but persistent. She paused, curious, and moved closer to the source of the noise.

Peering around the corner, Harry’s heart dropped.

There, at one of the far tables, was Tom. He was hunched over, his face inches from Daphne Greengrass’s. The table creaked in a quiet, rocking motion under the weight of their movements, and Daphne’s hand was resting on Tom’s chest as she leaned in to whisper something in his ear. Her lips brushed against his skin, and for a moment, Harry felt a sharp pang in her chest.

It wasn’t that she thought Tom had moved on—she didn’t believe that. But seeing him with Daphne, seeing him so close to someone else, was a reminder of what she had pushed him to do. She had told him not to wait, had made it clear that she wasn’t ready to embrace whatever it was between them. And now, watching him with Daphne, she couldn’t ignore the fact that he had to find some way to fill the void she had left.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she stood frozen for a moment, watching them. Tom’s eyes were closed, his hand gripping the edge of the table as Daphne’s lips moved lower along his jawline. Harry’s heart pounded in her chest, a mix of jealousy and regret twisting inside her. She had no right to feel this way. She had pushed him away, told him to move on, but now that she saw him with someone else, it felt like a weight she couldn’t carry.

She turned quickly, her mind racing. She couldn’t stay here, couldn’t watch them any longer. But as she moved down the hall, a small voice inside her whispered that she was running again. Running from him, from the truth of what they could be. And for the first time, she wasn’t sure if she could keep doing that.

—————————

Weeks had passed since Harry had seen Tom with Daphne, and the tension between them had only grown. Harry had tried to push the feelings down, to focus on the task at hand, but every time she saw him with someone else, it was a reminder of how far they were from where they had once been. She had told him not to wait, but the jealousy still gnawed at her. It wasn’t fair to either of them, and yet, it was the reality she was facing.

That afternoon, after another grueling detention with Umbridge, Harry’s patience had finally snapped. The blood quill had left her hand raw and bleeding once again, the pain unbearable as she tried to hold herself together. She stormed through the hallways, her thoughts a whirlwind of frustration and anger. She needed to get away, to find a place to breathe, to not think about everything for just a moment.

As she entered an empty classroom, her heart raced. But she froze in the doorway when she saw them—Tom and Daphne, their clothes in disarray, still tangled in the aftermath of their encounter. Tom was catching his breath, still trying to compose himself, while Daphne hastily pulled her clothes on, not sparing a glance at Harry as she hurried to leave.

Tom’s eyes flickered up, and his expression shifted from the haze of pleasure to one of confusion, then irritation as he saw Harry standing there, her face flushed with anger. She looked as if she were about to explode, her eyes burning with emotion.

“Harry,” he said, his voice low, almost a warning. He stood up slowly, adjusting his clothes, though it was clear he wasn’t in any rush to leave. “What’s wrong?”

Harry’s fists clenched at her sides. The sight of Daphne’s hasty exit, the way Tom had acted as if nothing had happened, set something off inside her. She didn’t know if it was the blood quill’s pain still fresh on her hand, or the way Tom had moved on without her, but something snapped.

“Another detention with Umbridge,” she spat, her voice thick with anger. “And you—you’re just here, with her,” she added, her words bitter.

Tom’s eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, he saw the bloodied hand Harry had been trying to hide behind her back. His expression shifted instantly, his anger replaced by something darker—something protective.

“Harry,” he said, his voice rougher now, as he moved toward her. “What happened?”

Harry flinched slightly as he reached for her hand, but she didn’t pull away. She didn’t have the strength to. She was too tired, too hurt, and too angry to fight him anymore.

“It’s the blood quill,” she confessed quietly, her voice trembling. “Umbridge… she’s been using it on me.”

Tom’s eyes flashed with fury as he inspected the deep cuts on her hand. His fingers hovered over the marks, as if he were afraid to touch her, but the anger in his chest was too strong to contain. His jaw clenched, and his hands balled into fists at his sides.

“That fucking bitch,” he muttered under his breath, his voice seething with rage. His eyes locked onto Harry’s, and for a moment, he seemed lost in the depths of his fury. “I’ll make her pay for this.”

Harry shook her head, not wanting to add to the tension between them. “Don’t. It won’t help.”

But Tom wasn’t listening. He was already pacing, the need for action written across his face. His eyes flickered back to her bloodied hand, and for a brief moment, he was silent. Then, his gaze softened, and he walked toward her, his voice quieter but still laced with that same intensity.

“You shouldn’t have to endure this,” he said, his tone more controlled now, but there was an edge to it. “No one should treat you like this. Not her. Not anyone.”

Harry couldn’t look him in the eye. The anger and frustration that had been building inside her had nowhere to go, and she didn’t know how to deal with it. She had pushed him away, told him to move on, but now, in the face of his anger and the way he cared, it felt like a cruel twist of fate.

“I don’t want you to get involved,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You’ve done enough for me already.”

Tom’s anger dissipating as he stepped closer to her, gently taking her bloodied hand in his. “I’m already involved, Harry,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Whether you want me to be or not.”

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. The distance between them, the hurt and the confusion, all melted away in the silence that hung between them. Tom didn’t pull away. He didn’t look for an excuse to leave, didn’t let her push him away. Instead, he simply held her hand and looked at her, his gaze steady, unwavering.

The classroom was silent except for the soft, uneven breaths of Harry and Tom. The tension between them was thick, heavy, and Harry could feel the weight of it pressing down on her chest. She pulled her hand from his grasp, suddenly aware of the closeness between them, of how easy it would be to fall into something dangerous.

“You’re sleeping with Daphne,” she said, her voice tight, though she hated the bitterness that seeped into her words. “We’re not together, Tom. You don’t get to be so protective over me.”

Tom’s eyes darkened slightly, but he didn’t move away. He took a slow breath, his gaze never leaving hers as he spoke. “I’m not running after you anymore, Harry,” he said, his tone low, almost resigned. “I’ve stopped doing that. But if you ever ask for me, I’ll be there.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat, but she quickly pushed the emotion down. She had made her decision, hadn’t she? She couldn’t let herself get lost in this. Not now. Not when everything was so complicated.

Tom took a step closer to her, his presence overwhelming. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear as he nuzzled her cheek. The warmth of his breath sent a shiver down her spine, and she felt her pulse quicken. His voice was barely a whisper when he spoke, sending a jolt of heat through her.

“Ask me for help,” he murmured, his lips grazing her skin as he pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. “I’ll make it all go away. All of it.”

Harry felt her breath hitch, her mind racing. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to respond to the pull of him, the way his words and his presence seemed to reach inside her and stir something deep and dark. She had told herself she wasn’t ready to face this, to face him. But right now, with him so close, it was hard to remember why.

Before she could say anything, before she could make another excuse, Tom’s eyes softened, just for a moment, and then he leaned in again, brushing his lips against her ear.

“Ask me, Harry,” he repeated, his voice a hushed promise. “Ask for help, and I’ll take care of everything.”

She swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. The room felt smaller now, the space between them narrowing with each passing second. She could feel the heat rising between them, the way her body responded to him despite her mind screaming at her to pull away.

“Please,” she whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “Help me.”

Tom’s eyes flickered with something dark and satisfied, and he stepped back just enough to give her space, but his gaze never left hers. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched her, as if savoring the moment.

“I’ll take care of Umbridge,” he promised, his voice steady, the words carrying an unspoken promise. “She’ll get what’s coming to her soon enough.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the empty classroom. Harry stood frozen, her hand still pressed against the bloodied one that had brought them together in the first place, but now her mind was a whirlwind of confusion and desire. The room felt too hot, her thoughts too scattered to make sense of it all.

Tom was gone, but the feeling of his presence lingered, like a storm that had yet to pass, leaving Harry in a haze of longing and uncertainty. She had asked for his help, and now she was left with the consequences of that decision—one she didn’t fully understand, but couldn’t ignore.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall was filled with the usual clatter of plates and murmurs of conversation, but all that came to a halt when a loud gasp echoed from the staff table. Harry’s eyes snapped to the front, where Umbridge, sitting at the head of the table, suddenly lurched forward, her face turning an unnatural shade of purple. Her body stiffened before she collapsed, slumping forward in her chair.

The room froze. Students stared in shock as Professors McGonagall and Snape rushed to her side, Dumbledore standing calmly, his wand already out as he cast diagnostic spells. Madam Pomfrey hurried over, pushing past students to reach the fallen woman.

“Get her to St. Mungo’s,” Dumbledore ordered, his voice calm but firm. “Now.”

The staff worked quickly, levitating Umbridge’s unresponsive body and hurrying her out of the hall. The students remained in stunned silence, whispers breaking out in hushed tones as they exchanged uneasy glances. Umbridge had been universally despised, but the suddenness of her collapse, the violence of it, left a lingering unease in the air.

Harry’s hand, still wrapped in bandages from her recent detention with the blood quill, clenched under the table. She couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of relief and dread. Umbridge was a monster, but something about the way she had fallen, so suddenly and without warning, felt off. It didn’t sit right with Harry.

Her eyes instinctively flicked to the Slytherin table, and she saw Tom, sitting with Daphne. He was calm, almost unnervingly so, in the midst of the chaos. But when their eyes met, Harry’s breath caught in her throat. Tom’s lips curled into a slow, lazy smile, the kind he reserved for moments when he knew something no one else did. And then, just as easily, he winked at her.

Harry’s stomach twisted as realization hit her like a cold wave. Tom had done this. The poison, the collapse, the chaos—it was all a direct result of her asking him for help with Umbridge. She had asked him for assistance, and Tom, as always, had delivered—only in his own, dangerous way.

Her heart raced, and she felt a strange mix of fear and anger. Was this what she had asked for? Was this the price of her request? She hadn’t thought he would take it so literally, so ruthlessly. But now, with the cold certainty of his wink, she knew. Tom had poisoned Umbridge, and now, in the wake of her collapse, he was watching her, waiting for her to process it.

The students around her were still whispering, speculating about what had happened, but Harry couldn’t focus on anything but Tom. His gaze remained fixed on her, that same knowing smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. He was unbothered by the chaos, as if this was all part of the plan.

Harry’s thoughts raced. She had asked for help, and Tom had answered. But this—this was more than she had anticipated. She wasn’t sure whether to feel grateful or horrified. Umbridge was gone, but at what cost? And what did it mean for her and Tom?

As the whispers continued to ripple through the hall, Harry’s mind was in turmoil. She had never truly understood the extent of Tom’s power, the way he could bend the world to his will. But now, standing in the aftermath of his actions, she realized just how far he was willing to go to prove his point, to make her see that he would always be there when she asked.

And as Tom’s eyes met hers again, that lazy, confident smile never leaving his face, Harry understood that she had crossed a line. And she didn’t know where to go from here.

Chapter Text

Later that evening, Harry found herself pacing in one of the empty corridors, her mind a whirlwind of confusion, anger, and guilt. She couldn’t believe what had happened—what Tom had done. She had asked for his help, but this? This was far beyond what she had expected.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Tom appeared, stepping out from the shadows, his expression unreadable. The air between them crackled with tension.

“You poisoned her,” Harry said, her voice tight with frustration. “You poisoned Umbridge. She could have died.”

Tom didn’t flinch, didn’t look guilty. He only met her gaze with that same calm, calculating look he always wore. “She’s not dead, is she?” he replied coolly. “And it’s not like you didn’t ask me for help. I gave you exactly what you wanted.”

Harry’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “I didn’t want her dead, Tom. I just wanted her to stop hurting people.”

Tom’s lips curled into a small, sardonic smile. “And you didn’t think she’d stop unless something extreme happened? You’re welcome, by the way.”

Harry took a step forward, her frustration mounting. “You almost killed a woman, Tom. You took things too far. What if she hadn’t been saved? What if she had died because of you?”

Tom’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening. “I didn't kill her. I made sure she was… incapacitated. I didn’t want her dead—not yet. I just wanted to make sure you saw it. I wanted you to see how far I’d go for you.” His voice was low, almost strained. “I expected Dumbledore to be quick to act. I didn’t want her to die, but I did want her to suffer. I wanted you to know that I would do anything for you, Harry.”

“Anything?” she spat, her anger flaring. “And you think I should be grateful for that? For you poisoning someone just because I asked for your help? I didn’t ask for this, Tom.”

Tom’s expression darkened, his patience wearing thin. “You asked me to help you. I did. I didn’t ask for your gratitude, Harry. I did what you wanted. You don’t get to ask for something and then act surprised when I give it to you. You asked for help, and I gave you what you needed. If you wanted something else, you should’ve been clearer.” He took a step closer to her, his voice now a low growl.

Harry’s chest tightened with frustration. She wanted to scream, to tell him how wrong he was, but a part of her—one she didn’t want to acknowledge—understood that he was just doing what he always did: giving her what he thought she wanted, regardless of the consequences.

“So, what now?” she demanded, her voice quieter but no less sharp. “You want a medal? A thank you for poisoning someone?”

Tom’s eyes glinted with amusement, but there was something else behind his gaze—something darker, more possessive. He stepped forward again, closing the distance between them, and for a moment, Harry thought he might say something else. Instead, without warning, he cupped her face in his hand, pulling her towards him with a smooth, deliberate motion.

Before Harry could protest, his lips were on hers, silencing her with a kiss that was both demanding and desperate. His hands slid down her back, pulling her closer as he kissed her breathless, his tongue coaxing hers into a heated dance. Harry’s hands found their way to his chest, pushing him away only to have him pull her back in, deepening the kiss.

When they finally broke apart, both of them gasping for air, Harry’s heart was racing, her mind spinning with a mixture of anger, confusion, and something else she couldn’t name. Tom’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

“I’ll leave you to think about it,” he said, his voice almost too calm. “But remember, Harry, If you want me, you only need to ask.” His lips curled into a small, knowing smile as he stepped back, turning to leave.

“Tom,” Harry called out, her voice shaky, but he didn’t stop. He only looked over his shoulder once, his smile widening.

“Think about it, Harry. I’m not going anywhere.”

With that, he disappeared down the corridor, leaving Harry standing there, breathless and conflicted, her thoughts a whirlwind of emotions she didn’t know how to process.

Chapter Text

In the weeks prior to Umbridge's poisoning, Harry had found herself at a crossroads. Hermione had insisted that they needed to take matters into their own hands, and with Umbridge’s oppressive rule over the school, it felt like the only option. So, reluctantly, Harry agreed to start Dumbledore’s Army. The Room of Requirement had become their secret haven, a place where they could train in defense without Umbridge’s prying eyes.

At first, it was awkward—gathering students, teaching them the basics, getting everyone to focus. But as the lessons progressed, Harry found herself more comfortable, especially with Tom's unexpected help. His presence was undeniable, and though Harry had hoped to keep things professional, it was clear he enjoyed pushing her buttons.

Now, despite Umbridge being gone, Harry and Dumbledore's Army continued to train. One afternoon, as they gathered for another session, Tom was leaning against the wall of the Room, arms crossed, watching the students. His eyes were trained on Harry as she addressed the group, but his attention kept flicking to Hannah Abbott, who was practicing a shield charm nearby. Tom’s smirk was undeniable as he walked over to her, his voice low and teasing as he offered a hand to adjust her stance.

“You’ve got to keep your arm steadier, Hannah,” Tom said, his voice smooth, almost too smooth. “You don’t want the charm to falter in the heat of a real battle, do you?”

Hannah blushed, clearly flustered by his attention, but Harry’s chest tightened with an emotion she couldn’t quite place. She tried to focus on the students, on the task at hand, but her eyes kept drifting back to Tom, who was now standing a little too close to Hannah. His hand rested lightly on her arm, his fingers brushing against her skin in a way that was unmistakably intimate.

“Perfect,” Tom murmured to Hannah, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Now, try it again, but this time, think of it as a matter of life or death.”

Harry’s breath hitched, and she forced herself to look away, trying to ignore the burning jealousy crawling up her throat. She had no right to feel this way, not after everything she had told him. But seeing Tom with someone else, especially in such an intimate, flirtatious way, made her feel a twinge of possessiveness she wasn’t ready to confront.

“Harry,” Hermione’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Are you okay?”

Harry nodded quickly, though she knew Hermione could see through the facade. She hadn’t spoken to Hermione or Ron about Tom’s kiss, about the way he’d made her feel, and she wasn’t ready to. Not yet.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, turning her attention back to the students. “Let’s get back to it.”

But despite her efforts to focus, she couldn’t shake the image of Tom’s hand on Hannah’s arm, his fingers tracing small circles on her skin. Every time he laughed or leaned in close, Harry’s stomach twisted in knots. It was hard to ignore the fact that Tom was still playing his games, still trying to get under her skin.

As the lesson wore on, Harry found herself growing increasingly frustrated, her concentration faltering. It was as if Tom was doing it on purpose—pushing her buttons, trying to make her feel something, anything, but especially jealousy. And it was working.

By the end of the lesson, when the students had gathered their things and started to leave, Tom lingered in the doorway, watching Harry carefully. His eyes were full of that same, maddening confidence, but there was something else there too—a hint of frustration, maybe even hurt.

“You’re distracted today,” he said, his voice low enough for only her to hear. “I thought you wanted to be strong, Harry. But you’re letting your emotions get in the way.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat, and she glanced away, unwilling to meet his gaze. “I’m not letting anything get in the way,” she muttered, her voice tight.

Tom stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “Then stop pretending you don’t care,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Stop pretending that it doesn’t bother you when I do what you refuse to acknowledge.”

Harry clenched her fists, trying to keep her composure. “You’re the one who keeps playing games,” she shot back, her voice sharp. “I told you I wasn’t ready, and you don’t respect that.”

Tom’s expression darkened, but he didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leaned in just enough for Harry to feel the heat of his breath against her ear. “I’m not asking you to be ready, Harry,” he murmured. “I’m asking you to stop running.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving Harry alone in the Room of Requirement, her thoughts a whirlwind of confusion, jealousy, and something far deeper that she wasn’t ready to face.

Chapter Text

After months of being absent, Umbridge finally returned to Hogwarts, pale and gaunt from her time at St. Mungo’s. Her presence was a stark reminder of the oppressive atmosphere that had ruled the school under her reign. The students had been whispering about her absence, speculating on her condition, but now that she was back, it was as though nothing had changed. She resumed her position as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, and her cruel methods were as sharp as ever.

Harry, despite the months of detentions and the constant threat of the blood quill, couldn’t help but notice something different this time. The quills, once an unyielding instrument of pain, seemed to break every time Umbridge tried to use them on her. At first, Harry thought it was a stroke of luck. But after it happened more than once, she started to realize that something—or someone—was intervening.

She didn’t confront Tom about it. There was no need to. He had been distant, waiting for her to come to him, and she had been trying to focus on her own survival. But deep down, Harry knew it was Tom’s doing. The pieces fell into place: his whispered promises of help, the way he had always been there when she needed him, even when she didn’t ask.

And despite everything, Harry couldn’t bring herself to be angry. She was frustrated, yes, but also... grateful. Grateful that someone was looking out for her, even if that someone was Tom Riddle. Even if he was the same person she kept running away from.

It was a complicated mix of emotions that Harry struggled to reconcile. She couldn’t deny that she was still drawn to him, that part of her still wanted to believe in the connection between them, even if it terrified her. She couldn’t ignore the way he had been there when she needed him most, even when she pushed him away.

So, as Umbridge’s detentions continued and the blood quills kept breaking, Harry found herself silently thankful for Tom’s help. She didn’t know what he expected in return, but she wasn’t ready to face that yet. She couldn’t. Not when Voldemort’s return loomed over them all, and not when her own feelings for Tom were still so tangled and confusing.

For now, all she could do was keep moving forward. And somehow, she knew that Tom would be there, just out of reach, ready to step in when she least expected it.

Chapter Text

Harry had been having strange dreams for weeks. Every night, the same recurring image haunted her: a door. It was an old, heavy door, with intricate carvings that seemed to shimmer in the dim light, beckoning her closer. But whenever she reached for the handle, it would slip just out of her grasp, no matter how hard she tried to open it. The feeling of being drawn to it was overwhelming, but it was also unsettling. She couldn’t explain why, but something about the door made her feel like she was standing on the edge of something dangerous, something she wasn’t ready to face.

She didn’t know what the door meant, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was important. That it had something to do with her, with everything that was happening around her. She had tried to ignore it, to brush it off as just a dream, but the visions were growing stronger, more vivid.

One morning, before a scheduled Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, Harry went to the Room of Requirement early, hoping to take her mind off the dreams. The door was still on her mind, and she couldn’t concentrate on anything else.

As she approached the Room, she was surprised to see that the door had already materialized. The room had never appeared this early before, and the sight of it made her heart race. The carvings on the door were so similar to the ones in her dreams, and for a moment, Harry hesitated. The feeling of being drawn to it was stronger than ever. But something in her gut told her to be cautious.

Curiosity, however, got the better of her. She quietly stepped forward, her footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. The door creaked slightly as she pushed it open, her heart pounding in her chest. Inside, she expected to find a quiet, empty room, but what she saw instead made her freeze in place.

On top of a desk that creaked under the weight, was Tom—his body entwined with Hannah’s.

Tom’s eyes flicked up to meet hers just as she entered, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made her stomach twist. The scene in front of her was so intimate, so private, that it made Harry’s chest tighten in a way she couldn’t quite understand. The room felt suffocating as she stood frozen in the doorway, unable to move.

Tom didn’t break eye contact as he and Hannah carried on. He didn’t seem surprised by her presence. his face was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes.

Harry’s breath caught in her throat, and before she could process what she was seeing, her legs moved on their own, backing away from the scene. She turned and fled from the room, her heart hammering in her chest as she raced down the hall, not stopping until she was far away from the Room of Requirement.

Her mind was spinning, her emotions a whirlwind of confusion and anger. She couldn’t believe what she had just witnessed. Tom, with Hannah. It felt like a betrayal, even though she had no right to feel that way. She had pushed him away, told him to stop waiting for her, and now here he was, with yet someone else.

But more than anything, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the door she had seen in her dreams—the one she had been so drawn to—was somehow connected to all of this. Tom. Hannah. The door. The Ministry. Everything felt like it was spiraling out of her control.

What did it all mean? Why had she been drawn to that door? Why had Tom watched her while he was with Hannah?

Harry didn’t have the answers, and she didn’t know if she was ready to face them. All she knew was that the door, the dreams, and Tom—everything—was becoming far more complicated than she had ever imagined.

Chapter Text

Harry couldn’t contain the frustration that had been building inside her for days. The image of Tom with Hannah in the Room of Requirement kept replaying in her mind, gnawing at her. She was furious, not just at Tom, but at herself. She had pushed him away, told him not to wait, and now she had no right to be angry with him. But she couldn’t shake the jealousy, the sting of seeing him with someone else.

When she saw Tom in the corridor after class, she couldn’t hold it in any longer. Her voice was sharp, cutting as she approached him. “You really don’t waste any time, do you?” she snapped, her eyes flashing with anger.

Tom didn’t flinch. He merely raised an eyebrow, his expression calm but unreadable. “You’re angry,” he said, his voice low, almost amused. “You told me to move on, Harry. You said you didn’t want me. I’m simply following your wishes.”

“Don’t act like you're doing this because you want to,” Harry shot back, her words biting. “You’re doing this to get under my skin, aren't you? With Daphne, with Hannah.”

Tom’s gaze darkened, but he didn’t raise his voice. “You told me to move on. You told me to stop waiting. And now you’re angry because I’m doing just that?” He took a step closer, his voice softer but no less intense. “You only need to ask, Harry. You only need to say the word, and I’ll stop. I’ll come to you. But you have to stop running.”

Harry’s chest tightened. She wanted to say something, to admit how much it hurt to see him with someone else, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes avoiding his. “I don’t want you, Tom,” she muttered, her voice strained. “I don’t need your help. I never did.”

Tom’s expression faltered for just a moment, the briefest flicker of hurt crossing his features. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a cold, distant mask. “As you wish,” he said, his tone flat. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving Harry standing there, her heart a mess of emotions she didn’t want to deal with.

________________________

The next day, Harry found herself in another detention with Umbridge. She sat stiffly, trying to focus on the task at hand. But the blood quill, the one Umbridge insisted on using, didn’t break this time. Instead, it dug into her skin, the sharp tip biting into her palm as her blood began to stain the parchment.

Harry gritted her teeth against the pain, her hand trembling as she wrote the same words over and over. I must not tell lies. The words blurred in front of her eyes as the blood trickled down her fingers, and she could feel the familiar, burning pain spreading through her hand.

She couldn’t stop herself from thinking about Tom, about what had happened between them, about how he had been there for her in his own twisted way, and how she had pushed him away. She had told him not to wait, but here she was, bleeding for the same reasons she had always bled—because of her refusal to face what was right in front of her.

But she wouldn’t admit it. Not to herself, not to anyone. She wouldn’t ask him for help, not after everything that had happened. She couldn’t.

Her thoughts were a mess as the quill continued to dig into her hand, the blood staining the parchment, and all she could do was sit there, trapped in her own stubbornness and pride.

Chapter Text

The detentions with Umbridge became a regular torment for Harry, each one more excruciating than the last. Her hand, once a source of pride for its strength and resilience, was now marred with deep scars from the constant use of the blood quill. The letters burned into her skin with every stroke, leaving behind angry, raw marks that would never fully fade.

Despite her attempts to ignore the pain, Harry couldn't help but feel the growing weight of it. Every time she touched something, the scars seemed to throb, reminding her of the cruelty she was enduring. She had stopped looking at her hand in the mirror, unable to face the damage that was slowly becoming permanent.

Tom, however, remained as distant as ever. He hadn't changed his behavior, still flirting with Daphne and Hannah, still living his life as if Harry's words had no weight. He had made it clear that he wasn't waiting for her anymore, that he was moving on. Yet, there was a part of Harry that couldn't let go of the idea that he still cared. He had once promised to be there if she needed him, but she hadn't asked. And maybe that was the problem.

She kept telling herself she didn't need him, that she didn't want him to come to her rescue. But deep down, she knew it wasn't true.

It was during one of the long, painful nights when the scars on her hand burned the most that Harry found a small vial of essence of murlap waiting for her in the Gryffindor common room. The note attached to it was brief, written in elegant handwriting that Harry recognized instantly.

"For your hand. Don't make me regret it."

Tom.

Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the vial, the small gesture both a relief and a reminder of the complicated mess she had found herself in. He'd stopped helping with the blood quills after she demanded he leave her alone, but this - this was proof he still cared.

The essence of murlap was known for its healing properties, and as Harry carefully applied it to her hand, she felt the relief almost immediately. The pain dulled, the scars cooling as the soothing balm worked its magic. She couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of comfort in the knowledge that Tom, despite everything, still cared enough to do this for her.

But she couldn’t let herself dwell on it for too long. She had made her decision. She had told him to move on, to stop waiting for her. She couldn’t go back on that now, no matter how much she wanted to.

Yet, as the days went by, Harry found herself looking at her hand more often, tracing the scarred lines and remembering Tom's gesture. It was a reminder of the connection between them, one that she couldn’t ignore, no matter how much she tried.

And though she refused to admit it, Harry knew deep down that she wasn’t ready to let him go.

Chapter Text

Harry awoke with a start, her heart pounding in her chest as the remnants of the nightmare clung to her like a suffocating fog. She had been Nagini, the snake, coiled around Arthur Weasley in the Department of Mysteries, her fangs sinking into his flesh as she struck. The memory of his anguished scream echoed in her mind, and she shuddered violently, unable to shake the images from her mind.

Before she could process what had just happened, she heard frantic knocking at the door, followed by McGonagall’s voice calling for her. Harry’s hands trembled as she wiped away the cold sweat that had beaded on her forehead, and in a daze, she stood up and made her way to the door.

McGonagall, looking stern and concerned, ushered her out of the room. “You’re coming with me, Miss Potter,” she said briskly, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Dumbledore needs to hear about this immediately.”

The corridor felt endless as they made their way through the castle, and Harry’s mind raced. What did the dream mean? Why had she been Nagini? Was she really connected to Voldemort in such a way? Her thoughts were a whirlwind, and she barely registered the worried glances from Ron and Hermione as they joined her.

Once in Dumbledore’s office, Harry quickly recounted the details of the dream, her voice trembling as she spoke. She could see the concern in Dumbledore’s eyes as he listened intently, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth as he processed the information. The worry on Dumbledore’s face was palpable as he quickly dispatched people to St. Mungo’s to tend to Arthur’s injuries.

Once he had finished seeing to Arthur, Dumbledore turned to Harry. “We need to make sure he is seen to at once. You did well in coming forward with this, Harry.”

Harry nodded, but she felt far from reassured. What if it had been too late? What if Arthur was already beyond help? The guilt gnawed at her, and she felt a wave of nausea rise in her stomach.

Dumbledore, sensing her distress, gave her a soft look. “Harry, I need you to do something else for me,” he said gently. “I need you to go get Tom. He might be able to help us understand what this means.”

Harry blinked, surprised by the request. “Tom?” she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper. “But—why him?”

Dumbledore’s eyes softened. “He has knowledge that might be crucial. He is connected to these events in ways we don’t fully understand yet. Please, Harry, go to him.”

Harry hesitated, her heart heavy with conflicting emotions. She had pushed Tom away, yet now, when she needed him, Dumbledore was asking her to seek him out. She didn’t know what to expect, but she knew she had no choice. With a reluctant nod, she turned to leave.

Harry’s footsteps echoed down the Slytherin corridor as she hurried toward Tom’s dorm. The dream still haunted her mind, the image of Arthur Weasley’s pain and her own helplessness consuming her thoughts. She had to find Tom, had to get him to Dumbledore. Yet, as she reached the door to his room, her heart hammered in her chest for reasons she couldn’t fully understand.

The door creaked open with a soft push, and Harry froze at the sight before her.

Tom lay in the bed, completely naked, his dark hair tousled and falling messily over his forehead. The dim light of the room cast shadows across his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the curve of his lips. He looked peaceful in his sleep, his face softened in a way Harry had never seen before. The cold, calculating Tom she knew was absent, replaced by someone vulnerable, someone she could never quite figure out.

But it wasn’t just Tom that caught her attention. Lying beside him, her body draped across the sheets, was Daphne. She was nestled against him, her clothes discarded, the covers tangled around them, and her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulder as she rested her head on Tom’s chest. They looked comfortable together, like a pair who had spent countless nights in each other’s arms. Harry’s stomach churned at the sight, the jealousy rising in her chest, bitter and sharp.

Tom’s arm was draped lazily over Daphne, his breathing slow and steady. For a moment, Harry simply stood there, her mind a whirlwind of emotions she couldn’t control. A wave of jealousy surged through her, sharp and bitter. She had pushed him away, told him to move on, and yet seeing him like this, so close to Daphne, felt like a betrayal. It was a cruel reminder that Tom had moved on, that he had found someone else to fill the space she had left empty.

Her stomach twisted, and she couldn’t stop the pang of hurt that shot through her chest. She had told herself that it didn’t matter, that she didn’t want him, but seeing him like this, in such a vulnerable, unguarded state, shattered her defenses. The jealousy, the anger, and the hurt all collided in a dizzying rush.

Taking a shaky breath, Harry stepped forward, trying to quiet the storm of emotions raging inside her. She needed him now, needed him to come with her to Dumbledore. She couldn’t afford to be weak, couldn’t afford to be lost in her feelings. But as she moved closer to the bed, she hesitated. How could she ask him to leave Daphne now? How could she even look at him without feeling like a fool?

With a deep breath, Harry stepped forward and gently shook Tom’s shoulder. Tom stirred, his eyes fluttering open slowly. He blinked a few times, his gaze settling on Harry, and for a moment, there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes. His hand shifted slightly, but he didn’t immediately move away from Daphne. Harry noticed the way his fingers brushed against her skin, a casual, almost possessive gesture, and the jealousy flared up again, this time sharper and more painful.

“Tom,” Harry said, her voice tight, unwilling to show the vulnerability she felt. “Dumbledore needs you. We need to go.”

Tom’s gaze flickered to Daphne, and for a long moment, he didn’t respond. Harry could see the hesitation in his eyes, the reluctance to leave the warmth of the bed and the comfort of Daphne’s presence. His jaw tightened, and he glanced back at Harry, his expression unreadable.

“I’ll be there in a moment,” Tom said, his voice low, still heavy with sleep. He didn’t move to get up right away, his eyes lingering on Daphne for just a moment longer before he finally pushed himself upright. The reluctance in his movements wasn’t lost on Harry, and the sting of jealousy grew even more intense. She knew he wasn’t just sleeping with Daphne—he was with her, in a relationship.

Harry bit her lip, trying to push down the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. “We don’t have time,” she said, her voice more forceful than she intended. “Arthur’s hurt, and Dumbledore needs you.”

Tom finally stood, his eyes locking with hers as he dressed, his movements deliberate but slow. He didn’t seem to be in any rush, and Harry couldn’t help but feel the weight of his hesitation. It was as though he was torn, as though he didn’t want to leave Daphne, but he did so anyway, for her. The realization made Harry feel even more conflicted. She had pushed him away, but now, when she needed him, she couldn’t help but feel like she was the one pulling him away from something he had chosen.

“Fine,” Tom said, his voice tinged with annoyance but not anger. “Let’s go.”

As they left the room, Harry’s mind raced, her thoughts still swirling around the scene she had just witnessed. She couldn’t shake the image of Tom with Daphne, the way he had held her so effortlessly, so naturally. It was a reminder of what she had lost, of what she might never have with him. But she couldn’t dwell on that now. Arthur needed them. Dumbledore needed them. She had to focus on that.

Chapter Text

As they arrived in Dumbledore's office, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Harry could still feel the aftershocks of the dream—of being Nagini, of attacking Arthur. Her mind raced with questions and fears, but there was no time to dwell on them now. Dumbledore had already begun speaking to her, his kind eyes full of concern, though he didn't say much before Tom began to explain.

"Nagini is likely the last of Voldemort’s horcruxes. I've taken out the rest. The ring. The cup. The diadem. The locket. And Fawkes took care of my diary. Nagini is the only one left," Tom said, his voice calm, but there was an unmistakable edge to it. He stood near the desk, his posture straight, eyes never leaving Harry. "This is why you’re having these visions. The connection between you and Voldemort—it's not just because of the bond that exists between us. It’s because you and he are two halves of the same whole. You're connected by more than just fate."

Harry felt the weight of his words settle over her. She had known there was something deeper between her and Voldemort, but hearing Tom say it out loud made it all the more real, all the more terrifying. The soul bond. It was the reason she saw through his eyes, why she felt his anger and his darkness creeping into her thoughts. And now, it was why she had these visions of Nagini.

Dumbledore nodded, his fingers tapping thoughtfully on the desk. "Tom is correct," he said, his voice steady. "The horcruxes are the key to Voldemort's immortality. We have to destroy them all before he can be defeated. If Nagini is indeed the final piece, we must act quickly."

Harry felt a pang in her chest. The idea of facing Voldemort, of confronting everything she had learned about him, was daunting.

Ron’s voice broke through her thoughts, tinged with worry. "What about my dad?" he asked, his face pale. "Is he going to be okay?"

Harry turned to see Ron standing a little apart from the group, his hands clenched at his sides. The worry was etched on his face, clear as day. It was his father who had been attacked in the Department of Mysteries after all. Harry could see the uncertainty in Ron's eyes, the fear that had taken hold of him ever since they’d learned of the attack.

Dumbledore gave Ron a solemn look. "We are doing everything we can for Arthur," he reassured him. "He is strong, and we will make sure he gets the care he needs. But it is a difficult time, and we must all be prepared for the possibility that things may not go as we hope."

Ron nodded, though the worry didn’t leave his face. Harry wanted to say something, to comfort him, but she didn’t know what to say. She knew what it felt like to worry for someone you loved, to fear for their life. She had felt it when she thought Tom was lost to her, and she had felt it when she thought Arthur might be lost too.

"I am sending you to 12 Grimmauld Place," Dumbledore said, breaking the silence. "We will wait for news of Arthur there. I will send word as soon as I know more."

Harry felt a sense of relief wash over her at the thought of being with Sirius, at least for a while. She needed the comfort of familiar faces, of people who didn’t look at her with the same weight of expectation that seemed to hang between her and Tom. She didn’t want to think about the horcruxes, about the bond between her and Voldemort, or the complicated, painful relationship she had with Tom. Not now.

With a flick of Dumbledore’s wand, they were all swept away through the Floo network, the familiar green flames swallowing them whole. Harry felt a sense of disorientation as they tumbled out of the fireplace into the dimly lit room of 12 Grimmauld Place. She steadied herself and took a deep breath.

Sirius was waiting for them, his face filled with concern but softening when he saw them arrive. "Any news on Arthur?" he asked, his voice tight.

Ron shook his head, "Not yet, but we're staying here until we know more." He moved to the side, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Harry could see the uncertainty in his eyes, the worry that gnawed at him. She wanted to say something to ease his mind, but she didn’t know how. Instead, she found herself walking over to the window, looking out at the dark, empty streets of London. The weight of everything that had happened, everything they had yet to face, hung heavily on her shoulders.

Tom had followed them through the Floo, but he hadn’t said much since they arrived. Harry knew he was there, but it was as if the space between them had grown once again, even though they were in the same room. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, not after everything that had happened.

Sirius clapped a hand on Ron’s shoulder, pulling him out of his thoughts. "We’ll get through this, Ron," he said, his voice low but steady. "We always do."

But Harry couldn’t help but feel like the weight of the war was pressing down on all of them. The horcruxes, the bond with Voldemort, Arthur’s injury—it was all too much. And as she looked at Tom, still standing in the corner, she knew that the hardest part was yet to come.

Chapter Text

Harry wandered through the dimly lit halls of 12 Grimmauld Place, her thoughts a tangled mess. She couldn’t seem to settle, couldn’t stop replaying the image of Tom, naked and asleep with Daphne, in the Slytherin dorms. The sight had hit her harder than she expected. The jealousy, the confusion, the anger—it all churned inside her as she moved quietly through the house, unable to fully process what she had seen.

When she found him, Tom was sitting alone in front of the fireplace in the Black family library, the flickering flames casting long shadows across his face. His posture was relaxed, but there was an air of tension about him, something that told Harry he wasn’t as at ease as he appeared. He looked up when she entered, his eyes unreadable, though there was a hint of acknowledgment in his gaze.

She hesitated, standing in the doorway for a moment before stepping into the room. The weight of the silence between them felt heavy, but she couldn’t keep the questions inside any longer.

"Tom," she started, her voice barely above a whisper. "Are you really with Daphne? I thought she and Hannah were just…" she trailed off, unable to really identify what she thought they were to Tom.

He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze flickering back to the fire. The crackling of the flames filled the silence, and for a moment, Harry thought he might not answer at all. But then he spoke, his voice quiet, but cutting through the tension like a knife.

"You told me to move on, Harry," he said, his words slow and deliberate. "You knew that without you acknowledging the bond between us, without you embracing it, I was not going to be a patient man who would faithfully sit at your feet."

The words hit her harder than she expected, a sharp sting that made her chest tighten. She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way his words made her feel—like she had failed him somehow. She had asked him to move on, hadn’t she? But that didn’t mean she had wanted to see him with someone else, especially not Daphne.

"I didn’t think…" she began, trailing off, unsure of what she had expected.

Tom shifted slightly, his gaze never leaving hers. "You didn’t think," he repeated, his voice laced with a bitterness that was hard to ignore. "You never do, Harry. You never think about what you want, what you need. Only about what you think you should do, about what others expect of you."

Harry’s heart pounded in her chest. She wanted to argue, to tell him that she hadn’t meant for any of this to happen, that she hadn’t known how complicated things would get. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she asked the question that had been nagging at her since she had seen him with Daphne.

"Do you love her?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Tom’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. "A better question," he said, leaning forward slightly, his eyes locking onto hers with a sharp intensity, "is to ask if I love you."

Harry froze, the question hanging in the air like a weight. She felt her heart skip a beat, a rush of emotions flooding her chest. She didn’t know how to answer, or if she even could. She was afraid of the answer, afraid of what it might mean for everything she had been trying to ignore.

"I’m not asking," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I’m not ready for that."

Tom’s expression softened, though there was a hardness to his eyes that remained. "You’re never ready," he murmured. "You’re always running away from the truth. But you can’t keep doing that forever. I know you’re torn, but you can’t keep pushing me away and then acting betrayed when I don’t wait forever. I won’t do it. Not for you, not for anyone."

Harry didn’t know what to say. She felt like she was drowning in her own confusion, torn between the part of her that wanted to push Tom away and the part of her that wanted to pull him closer. But she couldn’t bring herself to ask the question, not when she was so unsure of herself.

Tom sighed, a sound that carried more weight than it should have. "You know, Harry," he said, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. "I was stuck in a diary for fifty years. Fifty years, Harry. And before that, I lived a life of loneliness. I’ve never had anyone. Not truly. And despite what you and your friends would believe, I am human. I crave comfort. I crave company too."

Harry stared at him, her heart aching at the rawness in his words. She had never really thought about what Tom had gone through, about the years he had spent alone. She had only seen him as a part of Voldemort, as the dark figure who had hurt so many. But in that moment, she saw something different in him—a vulnerability, a need that mirrored her own.

"I didn’t want to hurt you," she said softly, her voice breaking as she finally admitted it. "I just… I didn’t know how to deal with all of this. With you. With everything."

Tom didn’t answer right away. He just stared at her, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick with unspoken words. Finally, he stood, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he was weighing every step.

"You don’t have to deal with it right now," he said quietly, his voice almost gentle. "But don’t pretend like you don’t feel it, Harry. Don’t pretend like you don’t want me too."

Harry closed her eyes, trying to shut out the storm of emotions swirling inside her. But she couldn’t. Not with Tom standing there, so close, so real.

As Harry and Tom stood in the dim light of the Black family library, the air between them was thick with unspoken words. Her heart was racing, her emotions a whirlwind of jealousy, confusion, and longing. She could feel the pull of him, the magnetic force that had always drawn them together, and for a brief moment, it seemed like they were finally on the verge of something real. Her breath hitched as Tom took a step closer, his gaze intense and unwavering. She could see the flicker of something in his eyes, something raw, something that mirrored her own desires.

Just as their faces were inches apart, the door to the library burst open, and Sirius bounded in, his face alight with excitement.

"Harry! Tom!" he called out, his voice booming in the otherwise quiet room. "Arthur's going to be okay! He's going to live!"

The sudden interruption shattered the moment, and Harry felt the tension drain from her body as a wave of relief washed over her. Tom’s expression faltered for a brief second, but he quickly masked it, his eyes hardening again as he stepped back, distancing himself from Harry.

Sirius grinned at the two of them, clearly oblivious to the tension that had just been building between them. "You’re both looking a little too serious for Christmas Eve," he joked, clapping Tom on the back and ruffling Harry’s hair. "Come on, we’ve got a feast to prepare! Arthur’s going to be fine, and we need to celebrate!"

Chapter Text

The next morning, Harry, Hermione, and the Weasley family made their way to St. Mungo’s to check on Arthur. The hospital was bustling with activity, but Arthur’s condition had stabilized, and the mood was one of immense relief. Harry could see the weariness in the Weasley family’s faces, but also a deep sense of gratitude that Arthur had pulled through.

After the visit, they returned to 12 Grimmauld Place, where Sirius had already begun preparing a Christmas Eve feast. The house was filled with the delicious smells of roasting meats, freshly baked bread, and festive treats. Sirius was in his element, directing the house-elves with a cheerful energy that lifted everyone’s spirits.

As the evening wore on and they gathered around the table, Harry couldn’t shake the image of Tom from her mind. She found him sitting at the far end of the room, a quill in hand and a parchment spread out in front of him. He was writing something with such focus that it seemed like nothing could pull him away.

The air in the room felt heavy as Harry approached Tom, her eyes flickering nervously to the parchment he was writing on. The quiet scratch of his quill against the paper seemed to fill the space between them, and Harry fought to steady her breathing, trying to ignore the unsettling stir of jealousy that tightened in her chest. She had no right to feel this way—no right to be upset—but the sight of Tom so absorbed in his letter, so distant from her, made her feel small and helpless.

Tom glanced up briefly, his eyes narrowing as he noticed her standing there, watching him. There was no warmth in his gaze, no teasing amusement like before. His expression was cold, calculating, almost as if he were closing off from her completely. Harry couldn’t help but feel a chill at the change in his demeanor.

"Are you busy?" she asked, her voice betraying her unease, though she tried to sound casual.

Tom didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he finished the last line of his letter, rolled it up with a precise motion, and sealed it with a wax stamp. He tied it to one of Sirius’ owls, sending it off without another word.

Harry waited, her heart pounding as the silence stretched between them. Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer. "Who was that letter for?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Tom’s eyes flickered to her, his gaze sharp and unreadable. "It’s a letter to Daphne," he replied flatly, his voice devoid of any warmth. "I left her to wake up alone this morning after we... spent the night together. It’s Christmas Eve, so I’m wishing her a happy Christmas."

The words hit Harry like a punch to the gut. She tried to mask her reaction, but the sting of jealousy was impossible to ignore. She wanted to be angry, to tell him she didn’t care, but the truth was, she did. She cared more than she was willing to admit.

"So, you’re really with her?" Harry asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it. Her voice sounded tight, almost strangled.

Tom’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something dark, something distant. "What do you expect, Harry?" he asked, his tone frank.

Harry’s breath caught in her throat, and she turned away, trying to hide the flush of frustration and jealousy that was creeping up her neck. She didn’t want to care. She didn’t want to feel like this. But she did. And it made her feel weak.

Tom’s voice cut through the silence, his words sharp. "You’ve never asked for anything, Harry," he said, his tone uncompromising. "Not from me. You just run. But I told you, I'm done chasing. If you want me, you need to say it. You have to ask."

Harry’s pulse quickened at his words, her heart pounding in her chest. She wanted to say something, to argue, but the words caught in her throat. She could feel his eyes on her, watching her every move, and it made her feel exposed, vulnerable.

Tom leaned forward slightly, his gaze flickering to her hand where she still wore the Gaunt family ring. Without a word, he reached out and took her hand gently in his, his fingers brushing over the ring. He kissed her hand softly, his lips lingering on her skin for a moment longer than necessary.

"If you want me to be yours, Harry," he murmured, his voice low and steady, "all you have to do is ask."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Harry’s heart raced, and she struggled to keep her emotions in check. She didn’t know what to say, what to feel. She wanted to push him away, to tell him she didn’t need him, but the truth was, she didn’t know if she could.

Tom pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting hers, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something—something that felt like a challenge, like a promise, like an invitation. But then he turned away, his expression hardening again, as if he were closing himself off from her.

"I’m not the one who’s running, Harry," he said, his voice cold and final. "But don’t expect me to wait either."

Harry stood there, her hand still tingling from his kiss, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and jealousy.

Chapter Text

Harry sat with Ginny in the quiet of her bedroom at Grimauld Place, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her sleeve as she tried to put her thoughts into words. The weight of the connection she shared with Tom, and by extension, Voldemort, was becoming unbearable. She couldn’t stop thinking about the soul bond that tied her to both of them, the strange, confusing pull she felt whenever she was near Tom.

“I don’t know what to do, Ginny,” Harry whispered, her voice strained with frustration. “I can feel it—this connection, like it’s always there, always pulling me in. And Tom… he’s so different from how he was in the diary. I don’t know if I can ignore him anymore, or if I even want to.”

Ginny’s expression softened, but there was a firmness in her eyes. She had been through so much already, and she knew all too well the danger of being caught in Voldemort’s web. She reached out and placed a hand on Harry’s, her voice steady as she spoke.

“Harry, I know how it feels to be caught up in that. I’ve been there before, with Tom in the diary. He made me do things… horrible things. You can’t let yourself fall into that trap again. You know what he is, what he’s capable of. And Tom—he’s not a good man. He might look different now, but he’s still the same person, the same dark magic running through him.”

Harry’s heart clenched at Ginny’s words, but she couldn’t bring herself to agree. She knew what Ginny was saying was true, but she couldn’t shake the pull she felt toward Tom. It was more than just the soul bond—it was something deeper, something she couldn’t explain.

“I can’t just turn away from him,” Harry said quietly, her voice filled with conflict. “It’s not that simple. I don’t know what this connection is, but it’s real, and I can’t pretend it doesn’t exist. He’s a part of me, Ginny.”

Ginny’s eyes softened with concern, but there was a clear determination in her voice as she spoke again. “You don’t have to let him control you, Harry. You don’t have to let this bond define you. You have to break free of it. Reject him, reject what he represents. You’re stronger than this, and you’re not alone. You have us.”

But Harry couldn’t answer, her thoughts swirling in a storm of doubt and confusion. The idea of rejecting Tom, of breaking the bond that had tied them together for so long, seemed impossible. She wasn’t ready to let go, not yet.

Later that day, as Harry walked through the hallways of Grimauld Place, her mind still heavy with Ginny’s words, she saw a flash of movement in the corner of her eye. It was Ginny, her face hard with determination, standing face-to-face with Tom in the dimly lit corridor. He looked as cold and composed as ever, but there was something about the way he held himself—his posture, the steely glint in his eyes—that made it clear he wasn’t in the mood for any nonsense.

Ginny, her face set with a hard determination, stepped forward and addressed him directly. “Tom,” she said, her voice biting with anger. “I haven’t forgotten what you did to me. What you made me do with the Basalisk. I know exactly what you are, and I’m not going to let you hurt anyone else.”

Tom didn’t flinch. He simply regarded her with that same unreadable expression, his gaze cool and detached. There was no hint of remorse, no sign of apology.

“I don’t need you to forgive me, Ginny,” he said flatly, his voice carrying an icy calm. “I’m not here to make amends for what I did in the past. I’ve moved on. I’ve changed. But I’m not going to apologize for being who I am. I never have, and I never will.”

Ginny’s lips tightened, her anger flaring, but Tom didn’t budge. His eyes remained fixed on her, unyielding, as if daring her to challenge him further.

“You can try to convince yourself that you’ve changed all you want,” Ginny shot back, her voice sharp. “But I know what you are. I know what you’ll do to anyone else who gets too close.”

Tom’s expression darkened slightly, but his tone remained steady. “You don’t know anything about me, Ginny. Not anymore. And I’m not interested in your judgment.”

Ginny stood there for a moment, her fists clenched at her sides, and Harry could see the inner struggle on her face. She wanted to say more, to push him, but Tom’s cold indifference made it clear there was no point.

With one last glare, Ginny turned on her heel and walked away, her footsteps echoing in the quiet hall. Tom didn’t follow her, but Harry could feel the weight of his gaze as he stood there, unmoving.

Harry felt a tight knot in her chest as she watched the exchange. She wasn’t sure what to think, torn between the lingering pull she felt toward Tom and the reality of the person he was. Ginny’s words echoed in her mind.

Tom didn’t apologize, didn’t show any sign of regret. He was cold, practical, and entirely unrepentant. And despite everything, Harry knew that his refusal to change, to offer even the smallest gesture of remorse, was exactly why she couldn’t run to him.

Chapter Text

The drawing room of 12 Grimmauld Place was alive with merriment, the warm glow of fairy lights casting soft shadows across the dark-paneled walls. Sirius had done his best to make the house feel festive despite its usual gloom, and with Arthur Weasley’s recovery assured, the Weasleys were in high spirits. Fred and George, as usual, were the life of the party, their laughter infectious as they handed out their self-made gag gifts.

Harry sat cross-legged on the floor, a pile of brightly wrapped packages in front of her. She was grinning as Fred demonstrated the use of a “Portable Snowstorm,” shaking the little snow globe until it erupted into a flurry that sent everyone ducking for cover.

“Fred, you’re going to ruin the rug!” Molly scolded, though she couldn’t hide her smile.

“Improvement, if you ask me,” Fred quipped, earning a chorus of laughter.

George leaned over to Harry, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’re next, Potter. Close your eyes.”

Harry narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “I don’t trust you.”

“Smart girl,” Sirius interjected from his spot by the fire, holding a glass of butterbeer.

“Oh, come on, Harry,” Fred said, feigning offense. “Have we ever let you down?”

“Constantly,” she deadpanned, but she couldn’t stop her grin as she reluctantly closed her eyes.

“Perfect,” George said, and with a dramatic flourish, he placed a ridiculous, sparkling tiara on her head.

Harry opened her eyes, catching her reflection in a nearby mirror and bursting into laughter. The tiara blinked with multicolored lights and had the words “Queen of Mayhem” spelled out in glittering letters.

“Fits, doesn’t it?” Fred said proudly.

Harry adjusted the tiara, still laughing. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming,” George corrected, leaning in to kiss her cheek with an exaggerated smack, making her laugh even harder.

The room erupted into laughter, but from his perch in the corner, Tom didn’t join in. He had been watching the festivities with a faint scowl, his arms crossed over his chest, visibly uncomfortable amidst the cheer and noise. His sharp eyes had been fixed on Harry all evening, his discomfort with the crowd and their cheer growing with every passing moment. At the sight of George’s playful kiss, his expression darkened, his jaw tightening.

Without a word, Tom turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, the heavy door creaking as it shut behind him.

Harry caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and immediately sobered. “I’ll be right back,” she said to no one in particular, setting the tiara aside as she stood.

Slipping out of the drawing room and into the dimly lit hallway, Harry found him near the staircase, pacing back and forth like a restless predator. His shoulders were rigid, his fists clenched at his sides.

“Tom?” she called softly, stepping closer.

He stopped, turning to face her with a sharp glare. “Enjoying yourself, were you?” he asked, his tone icy.

Harry frowned, confused. “What are you talking about?”

Tom scoffed, his lips curling into a sneer. “You and Weasley,” he spat, the name dripping with disdain. “Laughing, letting him kiss you like that.”

Harry blinked, realization dawning. “You’re jealous,” she said, her tone somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

Tom’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Harry shot back, folding her arms. “You are jealous. George was just being George, Tom. It was a joke.”

“A joke,” Tom repeated, his voice low and venomous. “And yet you didn’t seem to mind, did you?”

Harry stepped closer, her green eyes blazing. “It’s Christmas, Tom. We’re having fun. Why are you making this into something it’s not?”

“Because it’s not nothing,” Tom snapped. “Do you think I don’t see the way they look at you? The way he looks at you?”

Harry threw her hands up in frustration. “George looks at me like a friend, Tom. That’s all it is.”

Tom’s lips curled into a sneer. “You’re naive if you believe that.”

Harry’s eyes flashed with anger. “And you’re being ridiculous. Why does it bother you? You have Daphne, don't you? Why would it bother you if I had someone?"

Tom snarled, "Because she means nothing to me. Not really. I told you that we're meant to be. That I want you to stop running and give me chance. But instead, you want Weasley?" Tom stepped closer, his eyes intense, "If you want someone, why can't that someone be me?"

Harry shrank back, unwilling to even acknowledge that train of thought, "Why are you even here if you can’t stand being around people? If you can’t stand me having friends? Because I've told you, that's all they are. Friends.”

For a moment, Tom didn’t respond, his chest heaving as he fought to control his emotions. Finally, he turned away, his voice quieter but no less intense. “I don’t belong here.”

Harry softened slightly, stepping closer. “Tom…”

“I don’t belong in this world of laughter and warmth,” he continued, his tone bitter. “It’s not who I am. It’s not who I’ve ever been.”

Harry hesitated before reaching out to touch his arm. “Maybe it’s not who you were, but it’s who you could be. If you’d let yourself. If you'd stop being so cruel to anyone who isn't me.”

Tom didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the shadows at the end of the hallway. After a long moment, he shook his head. “Go back to your friends, Harry.”

Harry sighed but didn’t push him further. “I’ll be in there if you want to join us.”

She turned and walked back to the drawing room, leaving Tom alone in the cold, empty hallway.

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The rest of Christmas Day at Grimmauld Place passed in a blur of laughter, conversation, and the familiar warmth of the Weasley family. Harry had spent most of the day with Sirius, Hermione, and the others, but her mind kept drifting back to Tom.

After dinner, Harry found herself wandering the house in search of some peace, her thoughts tangled in confusion. She found Tom in his room, getting dressed. His movements were deliberate, slow, as if he had all the time in the world.

“Where are you going?” Harry asked, her voice quiet, yet there was a sharp edge to it.

Tom glanced up at her, his expression unreadable. “I’m meeting with Hannah for Christmas,” he replied, his tone casual, as if it were no big deal.

Harry’s stomach churned. “Hannah?” she echoed, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. “But you’re with Daphne.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, his gaze narrowing slightly. “I don’t owe you an explanation, Harry,” he said, his voice cold but with an underlying hint of something else—something that made Harry’s pulse quicken.

She hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward, blocking his path. “Why are you seeing her if you’re with Daphne?” she demanded, her voice rising with frustration.

Tom’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “Why are you jealous if you have Weasley?” he said, his voice low and smooth.

Harry flicked a hand in the air, "I told you, George is just a friend. You're the one who's sleeping around."

Tom took a step closer to her, his breath warm against her cheek as he leaned in, his lips hovering just inches from hers, "If Weasley is just a friend and you want me to stop seeing other people, then ask me to stay."

Harry’s heart raced, but she couldn’t bring herself to give in. She pulled back, her hands shaking as she stepped away from him. “No,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Tom’s expression faltered for a moment, frustration flickering in his eyes. He straightened, running a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he said, his tone clipped. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped box. “Here,” he said, thrusting it into her hands. “Merry Christmas.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked past her, leaving Harry standing there, staring after him, the weight of his absence pressing down on her chest.

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The rest of the evening passed in a haze, and Harry tried to distract herself with the noise of the Weasley family and the comfort of being surrounded by people who cared for her. But when the house finally quieted down, and she found herself alone by the fireplace, her mind wandered back to Tom.

When the door creaked open, Harry didn’t look up right away. She knew it was Tom. She could feel him even before he came in.

Tom entered the room quietly, his eyes immediately finding Harry by the fireplace. There was something almost satisfying in seeing her waiting for him, the flickering firelight casting shadows across her face. He hadn’t expected to find her here, but here she was. He could see the weariness in her posture, the way she sat, her eyes fixed on the flames, as if contemplating something too heavy to put into words.

For a moment, they simply stood there, the silence stretching between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a quiet, unspoken peace, as if both of them were letting the tension dissipate, just for a little while.

Then, as Tom unwound his scarf, Harry’s gaze flickered to his neck. Her breath hitched when she noticed the dark hickey marking his skin. It was fresh, unmistakable, and the sight of it sent a sharp pang of jealousy through her chest. Her emotions flared, and before she could stop herself, she stood and started to move toward the door, wanting to escape the wave of frustration and hurt threatening to overtake her.

But Tom’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist with a firm but gentle grip. He pulled her back toward him, his touch steady and grounding.

“Harry,” he murmured, his voice soft but serious, “You really should learn to stop running away.” His words were calm, but there was an undeniable weight to them.

Harry stood there for a moment, caught between the urge to pull away and the warmth of his presence. Her anger started to settle, her breathing slowing as she realized he wasn’t pushing her, wasn’t demanding anything from her. He was simply... holding her.

She let out a shaky breath, feeling the tension slowly leave her body as he held her close. For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to lean into him, her head resting against his chest. The world outside felt distant, and for the first time in days, she didn’t feel like she had to fight against everything.

Tom’s voice broke through her thoughts, low and sincere. “Happy Christmas, Harry,” he whispered. “Did you like your present?”

Harry nodded slowly, thinking back on the portkey bracelet she had unwrapped from him earlier. The gift had been thoughtful, practical, and the kind of gesture that felt more personal than anything she could have expected from him. “Yes,” she answered quietly, her voice soft.

Tom’s lips curled into a small, satisfied smile, but there was something else in his eyes—something that made Harry’s heart skip a beat. “Then it’s only fair that I get my Christmas present now, don’t you think?”

Before she could react, Tom leaned in, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that was both gentle and intense, a slow, lingering pressure that left her breathless. The kiss was full of promise, of unspoken things, and for a moment, Harry forgot about the jealousy, the confusion, the frustration. All that mattered was the warmth of his kiss, the way his hand gently cupped her face, the way they seemed to fit together in a way that felt both familiar and new.

When they finally pulled apart, Tom gave her one last lingering look, his gaze dark and intense. “Merry Christmas, Harry,” he whispered, before turning and walking away to retire for the night, leaving Harry in a turmoil of emotions.

Chapter Text

The night was cold, but the warmth of the rooftop at Grimauld Place was a comfort against the chill of the air. The sky stretched above them, a dark canvas dotted with the glow of distant stars. Harry hesitated at the door leading to the roof, feeling the weight of the past few days settle over her. She hadn’t meant to avoid Tom since Christmas, but the complexity of everything between them—the jealousy, the soul bond, the unspoken tension—had kept her at a distance. But tonight, on New Year’s Eve, Tom’s birthday, she couldn’t let him be alone.

She stepped out onto the roof, the soft crunch of her boots on the snow the only sound breaking the silence. Tom was lounging on a wide bench, a glass of something dark in his hand, his gaze distant as he watched the city below. He didn’t look surprised to see her, but his expression was unreadable as he took a slow sip from his glass.

“Harry,” he said, his voice low, but not unwelcoming.

She sat beside him, her breath catching slightly as she looked out over the city. The air was crisp, the lights of London twinkling below, preparing for the grand celebrations of the coming year. She could hear the distant hum of excitement, but all she could focus on was the man beside her.

Tom didn’t immediately speak, and Harry wasn’t sure what to say either. The silence stretched between them for a few moments, comfortable but heavy. Finally, Tom broke the quiet, his voice softer than usual.

“Birthdays,” he said, almost to himself. “I’ve never been one for celebrating them. At the orphanage, it was just another day, another reminder of how alone I was. And at Hogwarts… well, the sycophants would gather around, but it was never real. They just wanted to be close to power.”

Harry’s heart clenched at the matter-of-factness in his voice, at the way he so casually revealed the loneliness he’d carried for so long. She didn’t know what to say at first, unsure of how to comfort him, but her heart spoke before her mind could catch up.

“I care about you, Tom,” she said quietly, her voice firm despite the turmoil inside her. “I know things are complicated, but I care about you deeply.”

His gaze shifted to her, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. A warmth, maybe, or a glimmer of hope. He didn’t respond immediately, and Harry didn’t push him to. Instead, they both sat there, watching the city below come alive with celebration.

The countdown began, distant voices echoing from below, but Harry only had eyes for Tom. As the final seconds of the year ticked away, she turned to him, her breath catching in her throat. The space between them felt charged, electric, as if the world had narrowed down to just the two of them.

When the clock struck midnight, the first firework exploded overhead, bright and loud, but Harry didn’t wait for the rest. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his in a kiss that was slow at first, tentative, but soon deepened as she felt the weight of everything between them fall away. She kissed him like she had been waiting for this moment, like the new year was a chance for them to start over.

Tom responded in kind, his hands finding her waist as he pulled her closer, his kiss fierce and full of hunger, as if he, too, had been waiting. When they finally pulled apart, their breaths mingled in the cold air, and Harry’s heart was racing, her body alive with the heat of the kiss.

Without a word, Tom stood and took her hand, leading her back inside, through the house and to his room. The door closed behind them with a soft click, and Harry found herself in his arms again, this time not just for a kiss but for something more. Something deeper. Something she had been avoiding but couldn’t deny any longer.

They made love slowly, as if savoring the moment, as if neither of them wanted to rush. Harry’s thoughts were scattered, but in that moment, she didn’t care. She was here, with him, and nothing else mattered. Tom was gentle, but there was a desperation to his touch, a hunger that matched her own.

When it was over, they lay together in the quiet of his room, the only sound the soft rhythm of their breathing. Tom’s arm was around her, and for the first time in a long while, Harry felt like she had stopped running.

“Thank you for my birthday present,” Tom murmured, his voice still thick with the aftermath of their intimacy. “I didn’t expect it.”

Harry smiled softly, her head resting against his chest. “Happy birthday, Tom,” she whispered, her fingers tracing patterns on his skin.

They drifted off to sleep like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside fading away as the new year began.

Chapter Text

The soft glow of morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a gentle warmth over the room. Tom woke slowly, his eyes flickering open to find Harry still nestled against him, her head resting on his chest, her breathing steady and peaceful. For a moment, he simply watched her, taking in the way her hair fell across the pillow and the way her body fit so naturally against his. He had always known the bond between them was powerful, but in the quiet of the morning, it felt even more undeniable.

He thought back to when he had first encountered her, as the diary, a mere fragment of himself. Back then, he had been little more than a whisper in the dark, a sliver of his soul trapped within a cursed object. Yet, even then, he had felt something stir when Harry first opened the book. The connection had been immediate, intense. He had felt alive in a way he hadn’t in decades. She had been the key, the one person who could bridge the gap between the fragmented pieces of himself.

He thought back to the moment when the Basilisk had poisoned her. The terror he had felt in that instant had been unlike anything he had experienced in years. He had watched her, helpless, as she had been on the brink of death, and for the first time, he had truly feared losing someone. It was ironic, in a way—he had once been so certain that he could control everything, yet Harry had shattered that illusion with her mere existence.

The memory of her stabbing the diary and nearly ending him sent a pang through his chest. He had been so close to death in that moment, but somehow, he had survived. And now, here she was, lying in his arms, her presence grounding him in a way that nothing else could. No one else had ever made him feel this alive. He had always been surrounded by sycophants, followers, people who adored him because of his power, but none of them had ever made him feel like she did. None of them had ever mattered.

He tightened his hold on her, knowing, with a quiet certainty, that she would likely run from him again when she woke up and thought about what they had done. She had always run, always pushed him away when things became too real. But for now, he allowed himself to savor the warmth of her, the closeness, knowing it might not last. He had already seen how she struggled with the bond between them, how she resisted the pull of it. But the more she ran, the more he wanted her to stay.

As Harry stirred, her eyes fluttering open, Tom took the initiative. He leaned down, pressing his lips softly against hers, a gentle kiss to wake her up. When she opened her eyes, still half-dazed, he smiled, his voice low and warm.

"Happy New Year, Harry," he murmured.

Harry’s heart skipped a beat, and she felt the familiar panic rising in her chest. She wanted to pull away, to escape the intensity of the situation, but as she looked at Tom—his face soft, his expression almost vulnerable—she couldn’t bring herself to do it. For a moment, she simply stared at him, trying to push the panic down. Then, with a deep breath, she leaned in and kissed him back, allowing herself to sink into the warmth of his embrace.

The kiss deepened, and once again, they made love, this time with a quiet urgency, as if they both knew the weight of the moment. It was as if the world outside had ceased to exist, leaving only the two of them in the silence of the room. When it was over, they lay together, their bodies tangled, the morning light streaming in around them.

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Later that day, as they prepared to leave Grimmauld Place and head to King’s Cross, the air between them felt heavier. Tom had been quieter, more distant, and Harry couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease. She had barely processed everything that had happened, and the reality of it all was beginning to sink in.

As they made their way to the station, Tom turned to her, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that made her stomach tighten.

“So,” he said, his voice casual but with an edge of something sharper beneath it. “Does this mean you’ve finally accepted me?”

Harry’s heart raced, and she felt the weight of his question pressing down on her. She couldn’t answer him, not in the way he wanted. She couldn’t bring herself to say yes, not when so much was still unresolved, not when she was still so conflicted. She had kissed him, she had slept with him, but that didn’t mean she was ready to fully embrace everything that came with their connection.

Harry stood there mutely, and as the minutes passed by, Tom’s expression darkened, the warmth in his eyes vanishing as he withdrew into himself. His jaw tightened, and without another word, he turned and walked away.

Harry watched him go, her chest tightening with a mix of frustration and guilt. She had never wanted to hurt him, but she couldn’t deny the truth of her feelings. She couldn’t say the words he wanted to hear, not yet. Not when everything was still so complicated.

As she boarded the train to Hogwarts, she found herself sitting with Hermione and Ron, their chatter a faint background noise to the storm of thoughts swirling in her mind. She tried to focus on their conversation, but her gaze kept drifting to the window, the cold landscape outside matching the chill that had settled in her chest.

Tom had retreated into his own world, and she was left to navigate the mess of emotions that had only deepened since their night together.

Chapter Text

The weight of Umbridge's detentions had become more unbearable with each passing day. Harry gritted her teeth and bore the pain, but her resolve was wearing thin. Every time she was forced to carve into her skin with that cursed blood quill, the scar on her hand burned deeper, a constant reminder of the cruelty she was enduring. It was bad enough when it was just her suffering, but when she saw the same torment inflicted on other students—students who came to her in secret, their hands trembling from their own encounters with the blood quill—something inside her snapped.

The first time she saw another student with a bleeding hand, Harry had tried to ignore it. She had told herself it wasn’t her problem, that she had enough to deal with. But as the weeks went on, and the whispers of Umbridge’s cruelty spread, Harry found it harder and harder to stay silent. She had already been through the worst of it, and she couldn’t stand by and watch others suffer the same way.

Her mind kept returning to Tom’s offer. He had made it clear that he would help her if she asked, but she had been too proud, too determined to handle things on her own. Harry had been avoiding Tom since the morning of New Year’s Day. The weight of what had happened between them, the intimacy, the closeness—it had left her feeling conflicted and unsettled. She couldn’t shake the feeling that by giving in, by letting herself be with him, she had crossed a line she wasn’t sure she could uncross. But now, with the other students suffering under Umbridge’s cruelty, she couldn’t stand idly by anymore. She needed Tom’s help.

She hesitated at the entrance to the Slytherin common room, the familiar chill of the dungeon air making her stomach churn. She wasn’t sure what she expected to find, but she wasn’t prepared for what she walked into.

The door to Tom’s room was closed but opened at her touch, and as she stepped inside, the scene before her hit her like a slap in the face. Daphne was there, kissing Tom gently, even lovingly, and Tom - Tom’s eyes were on Harry immediately, not even flinching as he watched her stand in the doorway. His gaze was cool, calculating—almost as if he had been expecting her even as he held Daphne in his arms.

Harry’s breath caught in her throat. The jealousy she had been fighting so hard to suppress surged up inside her, threatening to overwhelm her. She wanted to look away, to leave, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the scene before her, from Tom, from Daphne. And when Daphne, noticing her, awkwardly excused herself, Harry couldn’t bring herself to look at her either. She felt exposed, vulnerable, her heart racing with an unfamiliar ache.

Tom, unashamed and completely indifferent to the situation, sat on his bed, his back against the pillows and his gaze never leaving Harry as he watched her process the scene before her. His expression was unreadable, his usual arrogance tempered by something darker, something that made Harry’s heart race even faster. He just sat there, his eyes never leaving Harry’s. There was no apology, no discomfort. Just an unsettling calm as if he were waiting for her to speak. Harry felt her stomach twist with every passing second, the silence between them growing heavier.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she spoke, her voice tight with emotion. “I need your help,” she said, struggling to keep her tone steady. “But I don’t want you to kill her.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He didn’t speak immediately, letting the weight of her words hang in the air between them. Harry’s heart was still pounding, and she could feel the tension in her shoulders as she stood there, waiting for his response.

Finally, Tom spoke, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You need my help, and yet you ask me to spare her? How very noble of you, Harry.”

The words stung, but Harry refused to let them show. She had no choice but to ask for his help. She couldn’t let Umbridge continue hurting students, couldn’t let the cruelty go unchecked. But asking Tom for help—especially after seeing him with Daphne—felt like a betrayal of everything they had done. She had been avoiding him, but now here she was, standing in his dorm, asking for his assistance.

“I’m asking you to help me deal with Umbridge,” Harry said, her voice quiet but firm. “She’s hurting students, and I can’t just stand by and do nothing anymore.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed as he studied her, his gaze piercing. For a moment, Harry wondered if he was going to refuse, if he would turn her away. But instead, he nodded slowly, his lips curling into a small, almost imperceptible smile.

“Very well,” he said, his tone flat but decisive. “I’ll help you. But don’t expect me to be merciful with her. She will learn the consequences of her actions, whether you want it or not.”

Harry exhaled, relieved but still wary of what Tom’s version of help might look like. She had no illusions about him, but for now, it was the only option she had. She couldn’t do this on her own, and Tom was the only one who could make sure Umbridge paid for what she had done.

Chapter Text

Harry walked into her Defense Against the Dark Arts class, already dreading another monotonous session with Umbridge. The book she was supposed to read was as dry as ever, and Harry could feel her frustration mounting. She settled into her seat, trying to focus on the lesson, but her mind kept wandering back to the tension with Tom and the awkwardness that lingered between them.

As usual, Umbridge began her tirade, dismissing Harry’s claims about Voldemort’s return with her usual venom. “You’re a liar, Potter,” she sneered, her voice dripping with contempt. “There is no Dark Lord. You’re just trying to stir up trouble.”

Harry clenched her fists, trying to ignore the rising anger in her chest. She hated how dismissive and cruel Umbridge was, especially when it came to something so serious. But before she could even open her mouth to respond, something unexpected happened.

Umbridge suddenly slumped forward, her face going pale as she crumpled onto her desk, completely silent. The room fell into stunned silence, and the students began to scramble, some rushing to the door, others calling for help. The atmosphere in the room shifted from disbelief to panic, and Harry watched as teachers rushed in from the hall, crowding around the unconscious Umbridge. They tried to figure out what had happened, but no one seemed to have any answers.

Amid the chaos, Harry noticed Tom standing in the doorway, his dark eyes watching the scene unfold with a quiet amusement. He leaned against the frame, smirking at her from across the room. There was something unsettling about the way he looked at her, like he was enjoying her discomfort. Harry’s stomach churned, and she couldn’t help but feel a mixture of confusion and frustration.

She tried to focus on what was happening with Umbridge, but Tom’s presence at the door, his smirk, was impossible to ignore. He didn’t seem concerned, didn’t seem like he cared about what was happening at all. His casual stance, his ease in the chaos, only made Harry feel more unsettled. It was as if he was watching a play unfold and enjoying every moment of it.

As the teachers worked to revive Umbridge and rushed her out of the room, Harry couldn’t tear her eyes away from Tom. She could feel the weight of his gaze, the way he watched her with that knowing look, and she knew that Tom had done what she'd asked.

She had been expecting this, hadn’t she? Tom never did things by halves, never did anything unless it suited him. But even so, she couldn’t stop the wave of anger and confusion that washed over her as she made her way to find him later, after Umbridge had been taken away to St. Mungo’s.

She didn’t know what she was expecting, but when she found him, leaning casually against the stone wall, his eyes glinting with that knowing, almost smug look, she knew that he had gone too far again.

“You did it,” she said, her voice tight with a mixture of anger and confusion.

Tom’s lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile. “Did what?” he asked, his tone deliberately innocent, though his eyes betrayed him.

“Don’t play dumb,” Harry snapped. “You’re the reason Umbridge is in St. Mungo’s. And I've heard the professors talk. It's not as simple as poison this time. They can't figure out what it is. No one knows how to help her.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “And as I recall, you asked for my help. I didn’t kill her, did I? Just put her to sleep. Not so bad, is it? She’s not dead, if that’s what you’re asking. Just asleep, courtesy of my Draught of Living Death. Quite effective, I’d say.” He shrugged, as if the whole thing were a minor inconvenience.

Harry’s stomach twisted. “Is that any better?” she demanded, struggling to keep her voice steady.

Tom’s gaze turned calculating, and he took a step closer to her, his voice smooth. “It depends on whether the healers will be able to figure out what I’ve done and find the right antidote. But if they don’t, well… that’s not my problem, is it? I kept my word. You asked me not to kill her. I didn’t.” He let the words hang in the air, his expression almost bored.

Harry clenched her fists at her sides, trying not to feel the guilt that gnawed at her. She had asked for his help, but part of her had hoped he wouldn’t take things this far. Still, she couldn’t ignore the fact that she had been the one to ask. She had asked him to handle Umbridge, and he had done just that—within the parameters she’d set.

“You didn’t kill her,” Harry said quietly, more to herself than to him, trying to rationalize it. “You kept your word.”

Tom’s eyes gleamed with something darker, more dangerous, as he took another step closer, his voice low and almost teasing. “Yes, I did,” he said, his breath warm against her ear. “You’re welcome, by the way,” he said, his tone mocking but not unkind. “Though, I think you still owe me a thank you.”

Harry felt her heart race as Tom stepped even closer, his breath warm against her skin. She wanted to pull away, to push him back, but his proximity made her feel frozen in place. She knew what he wanted, and in that moment, she didn’t know if she could resist.

“Thank you,” she muttered, barely above a whisper. It felt hollow, like a concession, but it was all she could manage.

Tom’s eyes flickered with a glint of something darker as he leaned in. “You only ever need to ask for what you want,” he said, his voice soft, almost seductive. “And I’ll give it to you.”

Before Harry could respond, Tom’s hands were on her waist, pulling her close. His lips captured hers in a kiss, deep and demanding, as if he was claiming her in a way that left her breathless. His mouth moved over hers with a practiced intensity, and Harry’s mind whirled, caught between confusion, guilt, and a strange, undeniable pull toward him. She should pull away. She should stop this before it went any further. But in that moment, all she could do was surrender to the kiss, her thoughts scattered, her emotions in turmoil.

When Tom finally pulled back, his lips brushed against hers one last time, his eyes were filled with a quiet satisfaction. Then, without another word, he stepped back, leaving her standing there, breathless and conflicted.

“I’ll leave you to your thoughts,” he said, his voice low and smooth, before he turned and walked away, leaving Harry standing there, her heart still racing.

She remained frozen in place, her mind reeling. The kiss had left her feeling both exhilarated and confused. She had asked for his help, yes. But now, standing there in the aftermath, she couldn’t ignore the fact that Tom had given her more than she had bargained for. And she wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

Chapter Text

The fallout from the Quibbler interview with Rita Skeeter was immense. Everywhere Harry turned, there were whispers, stares, and arguments about her claims that Voldemort had returned. The weight of the world’s attention, coupled with her own doubts and fears, had finally taken its toll.

She had been walking down a deserted corridor, trying to avoid the endless chatter, when the dizziness hit. The edges of her vision blurred, her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the cold stone floor.

When Harry woke, she was cradled against someone’s chest. The faint, familiar scent of cloves and parchment told her who it was before she even opened her eyes. Tom's sharp features were softened by something that looked like genuine concern. “Harry,” he said quietly, his voice steady but tense. “Are you all right?”

Blinking up at him, she tried to focus. “I… I don’t know. I just felt lightheaded,” she mumbled, her head swimming.

Tom helped her sit up, his hands steady on her shoulders. His gaze swept over her, assessing. “You’re overworking yourself,” he said, his tone clipped but not unkind. “Umbridge. The D.A. And now the Quibbler. You’ve been pushing too hard since that interview. You’re not invincible, no matter what people expect of you.”

As he helped her to her feet, her stomach churned—not from the dizziness, but from the unwelcome thought that had been creeping into her mind for weeks - ever since New Year’s morning. The thought she had been too afraid to confront until now.

“Tom,” she said hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Do you think… I might be pregnant?”

He froze, his hand tightening slightly on her arm as he processed her words. For a moment, his face was unreadable and he didn’t speak, his sharp eyes locked onto hers. Then, slowly, a smile crept across his face—pleased, smug, and entirely unrepentant.

“Pregnant,” he repeated, as though savoring the word. His eyes gleamed with something dark and possessive. “Now, that would be a lovely birthday present.”

Harry’s face burned as she flushed, her heart pounding with a mixture of embarrassment and irritation. “This isn’t funny,” she snapped, trying to pull away from him.

“Oh, I’m not laughing,” Tom said smoothly, his grip firm as he stepped closer. “If you are pregnant, you’ll have to accept me now. Imagine the scandal if we don’t marry—‘The Chosen One carrying the Heir of Slytherin’s child.’”

Harry’s heart raced, panic and anger bubbling up inside her. “No one even knows who you really are, and there doesn’t have to be a baby,” she blurted, her voice shaking.

Tom’s smile vanished instantly. His eyes turned cold, his grip tightening just enough to make her still. “What exactly are you suggesting?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

She faltered, but his gaze didn’t waver. “You’d consider… getting rid of it?” he asked, his tone sharp and accusing.

Harry opened her mouth to respond, but he cut her off. “This would be my only family, Harry. Yours too. Our blood. Don’t you see? This is a chance to have something that’s ours—something no one else can take away.”

Tom’s expression softened, though the intensity in his eyes remained. Before she could protest, he knelt before her, his hands sliding gently to her hips as he pushed aside the fabric of her shirt. He leaned forward, pressing a reverent kiss to her bare stomach, his lips lingering against her skin.

“I’d want the chance to be a father,” he said softly, his voice carrying an unexpected vulnerability. “And you deserve to have someone who would love you—and them—with everything they have. Think about it, Harry. A family of our own. No one else—just us.”

Harry’s breath hitched, her mind spinning with confusion and emotion.

Tom stood, his hand lingering on her waist as he looked into her eyes. “Think about it,” he murmured. “Think about us.”

Before she could respond, he straightened, his demeanor shifting back to composed efficiency. “You’re exhausted,” he said, his tone more commanding now. “I’m taking you back to your dorm. You need to rest.”

Too drained to argue, Harry let him guide her through the castle. When they reached the Gryffindor common room, Tom led her up to the dormitory stairs.

He helped her into bed, pulling the blankets over her as she settled into the mattress. His hand rested lightly atop her stomach, his touch warm and steady.

As Harry drifted off, her eyes heavy with exhaustion, she thought she heard him whispering softly, his voice low and tender. It took her a moment to realize he was speaking to the potential life they might have created.

Her heart ached with a confusing mix of fear, longing, and something she couldn’t quite name.

Chapter Text

The following weeks became a strange, surreal blur for Harry. Tom seemed to materialize wherever she went, always just close enough to remind her of his presence. Whether it was during classes, in the library, or even in the Great Hall, he was there—cold, arrogant, and unrelenting.

“Here, give me that,” he’d say, plucking her bag from her shoulder without waiting for a response. If she protested, he’d fix her with a pointed look and say, “You shouldn’t be straining yourself.”

At meals, he would appear at her side, his plate mysteriously half-full as though he had no intention of eating much himself. Instead, he’d nudge food toward her with a faintly disapproving frown. “You’re not eating enough,” he’d say. “Do you think you can afford to neglect yourself now?”

Harry would bristle at his words, but she couldn’t deny the strange warmth that came with his attention. He was overbearing, yes, but there was something about the way he hovered that made her feel… cared for. Even if it drove her mad.

The nights were worse—or better, depending on how she looked at it. No matter how hard she tried to avoid him, Tom always found his way into her dorm. He had an uncanny ability to slip past the wards and charms, and before she knew it, he’d be lying beside her, his arm draped protectively over her stomach.

It was impossible to ignore the way he’d settle so easily into her space, as though he belonged there. Each night, he’d ask her the same question in his low, velvety voice.

“Will you accept me now, Harry? Marry me.”

Each time, Harry would fumble for an excuse. “We’re too young,” she’d say, or, “You’re still with Daphne.”

At that, Tom’s lips would curl into a faint smirk, but his eyes remained sharp and unyielding. “It’s different in magical culture,” he’d reply, his tone almost mocking. “Wizards marry young, especially when there’s a child involved.”

As for Daphne, his response was even colder. “Daphne isn't important,” he said one night, his voice devoid of remorse. “Do you think I’ve had time for her? I’ve been spending all my days and nights looking after you.”

Harry didn’t know how to respond to that. The guilt of his attention, his sacrifices—if they could even be called that—gnawed at her. She hated how much she liked his presence, how much she found herself leaning into his care despite her better judgment.

One night, as she lay in bed with his hand warm against her stomach, she turned her head to look at him. His face was serene in the dim light, his expression softer than she was used to seeing.

“Why are you doing all this?” she asked quietly, her voice barely audible.

Tom’s eyes opened, his gaze locking onto hers. “Because we belong together,” he said simply, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Harry’s heart ached with confusion. She wanted to push him away, to tell him he didn't mean it, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she closed her eyes, letting the silence stretch between them as his hand remained steady over her stomach.

She didn’t know what to feel anymore, but one thing was certain: Tom Riddle was not going to let her run. Not anymore.

Chapter Text

From Tom’s perspective, the weeks following Harry’s fainting spell were a curious blend of satisfaction and frustration. He had always been patient when it suited him, but Harry tested the limits of his resolve.

She was avoiding him. Again.

Tom had anticipated this, of course. Harry had a frustrating habit of running from him, from what was inevitable. She could deny their bond all she wanted, but it wouldn’t change the truth: they were meant to be together. The faintest possibility of her carrying his child only strengthened that reality.

Still, watching her skitter away from him like a frightened bird stirred something uncomfortably close to irritation. He had been patient. He had been kind, even. And yet, Harry still hesitated, still resisted.

So, he decided to make himself unavoidable.

Each morning, Tom made it a point to be where she would be—always close enough to remind her that he wasn’t going anywhere. When she entered the library, he was already seated at a table near the back, pretending to read but watching her from the corner of his eye. In the Great Hall, he ensured his path crossed hers, his gaze lingering just long enough to make her squirm.

It wasn’t just proximity, though. Tom had long since learned that actions spoke louder than words.

“Here,” he said one morning, taking her bag from her shoulder as they left Potions.

“I can carry it myself,” Harry protested, glaring at him.

“I’m sure you can,” Tom replied smoothly, his fingers tightening around the strap. “But you shouldn’t have to. Not now.”

The look she gave him was a mix of confusion and exasperation, and he felt a flicker of satisfaction. He was wearing her down, little by little.

At meals, he made sure she ate. It was absurd how little attention she paid to her own well-being. Tom watched her with a faint frown as she picked at her food, nudging a plate of roasted vegetables toward her.

“Eat,” he said firmly.

Harry scowled at him. “I’m not hungry.”

“You’re not eating for just yourself anymore,” he reminded her, his tone pointed.

Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away, but she ate. Tom allowed himself a small, triumphant smile.

Nights were his favorite. No matter how much she avoided him during the day, she couldn’t escape him in the quiet hours. The wards and charms she used to keep him out were laughably easy to bypass, and he took a certain pleasure in slipping into her dorm unnoticed.

Harry always looked startled to see him at first, her green eyes wide and wary, but she never told him to leave. That, more than anything, told Tom he was winning.

He would slide into bed beside her, his hand instinctively finding its place on her stomach. The thought of her carrying his child sent a strange, unfamiliar warmth through him. It was possessiveness, yes, but also something deeper, something he couldn’t quite name.

“Will you accept me now, Harry?” he asked each night, his voice soft in the dark. “Marry me.”

Her excuses were always the same. Too young. Daphne.

Tom smirked, though the amusement didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Wizards marry young,” he reminded her. “Especially when there’s a child involved.”

At the mention of Daphne, his expression turned colder. “Daphne's not important,” he said bluntly. “Do you think I’ve had time for her? I’ve been spending all my days and nights looking after you.”

Harry looked away, her guilt written plainly across her face. Tom didn’t press further. He knew her well enough to recognize that she was already unraveling.

One night, as he lay beside her, Harry turned to him, her voice barely a whisper. “Why are you doing all this?”

Tom opened his eyes, meeting her gaze. “Because we belong together,” he said simply.

It wasn’t a declaration of love—Tom didn’t believe in such foolish things—but it was the truth. They belonged together, and he would make her see it, no matter how long it took.

As he watched her drift off to sleep, he allowed his hand to linger on her stomach, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. She would come around eventually. She had to.

Chapter Text

Tom curled around Harry in the dim light of her dormitory, the faint rise and fall of her breathing the only sound in the room. The world outside seemed distant, insignificant, as he let his fingers brush lightly over her stomach, his mind turning over the possibility that they had been dancing around for weeks now.

Was she truly carrying his child?

His wand slipped into his hand almost instinctively. Tom’s magic, sharp and precise, thrummed as he cast a silent spell, one of detection and clarity. The faintest glow of magic emanated from Harry’s abdomen, delicate yet undeniably there.

Tom’s breath caught.

It was true.

A swell of emotion surged through him, a heady mix of triumph, awe, and something deeper—something unfamiliar and unsettling. His child. Their child. A piece of him and Harry, growing quietly within her.

He held her closer, his grip tightening as if to shield her and the life she carried from the world.

The weight of it all pressed down on him. Memories clawed their way to the surface, unbidden and unwelcome. The orphanage loomed in his mind, cold and loveless, filled with sneering faces and whispered cruelties. He had been unwanted, abandoned before he could even form a memory of his parents. His mother, weak and foolish, had died bringing him into the world. His father…

Tom’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding as he thought of Tom Riddle Sr. A man who had rejected him, denied him before he even knew of his existence. The hatred he had felt for his father was a dark, consuming thing, and when he had finally stood before the man, wand in hand, there had been no hesitation. No mercy.

But this… this was different.

Tom looked down at Harry, her face soft and peaceful in sleep. She didn’t know it yet, but she had given him something he had never thought possible: a chance to rewrite the narrative of his own existence.

This child would not grow up as he had, unloved and unwanted. Tom would ensure that. He would be a better father than his own had been—a low bar to clear, certainly, but one he intended to surpass by leagues.

The thought stirred something almost tender within him, though it was quickly tempered by the cold, calculating part of his mind. This child was also a legacy, a continuation of his bloodline and power. They would be extraordinary—how could they not be, with him as their father and Harry Potter as their mother?

A slow, almost imperceptible smile curved his lips.

He leaned down, pressing his lips softly to Harry’s temple, then to her stomach. “You’ll never be alone,” he murmured, his voice low and resolute. “Neither of you.”

Harry shifted slightly in her sleep, her hand brushing against his. Tom stayed still, watching her, his mind already working. There would be challenges, of course—Harry’s stubbornness being chief among them—but he would overcome them. He always did.

For now, though, he allowed himself a rare moment of stillness, holding Harry close as the faint glow of their child’s magic lingered in the air.

Chapter Text

Tom found Harry and her ragtag group of friends in the shadowed courtyard outside the castle, standing near the thestrals as they prepared to leave. The sight of her, pale and determined, tugged at something primal inside him. Fury swirled in his chest, tightening his grip on his wand as he stalked toward her.

“Are you utterly mad?” His voice was sharp and cold, slicing through the night air. Harry flinched but stood her ground, her green eyes blazing with equal parts fear and resolve.

“Tom—”

“Don’t ‘Tom’ me,” he snapped, his gaze sweeping over the group. Ron, Hermione, Neville, and Luna all shifted uneasily under his scrutiny. “What in Merlin’s name do you think you’re doing, Potter?”

Harry squared her shoulders. “Sirius is in danger. Voldemort has him in the Department of Mysteries—”

“And you think rushing into his trap is the solution?” Tom’s voice dropped, low and dangerous. “You’re carrying my child, Harry. Our child. Do you think I’ll stand by while you throw yourself into the Dark Lord’s hands?”

Harry froze, her breath catching. The others exchanged startled glances, but Tom’s attention was fixed solely on her.

“There might not even be a baby,” she said, her voice trembling.

“There is,” Tom said firmly, stepping closer. His eyes softened, just slightly, as they bore into hers. “I checked. There’s no ‘might,’ Harry. There’s life. Our life. And you would risk that?”

Her resolve wavered for a fraction of a second before she set her jaw. “I have to save Sirius. He’s my family. I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

Tom exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair as he tried to rein in his temper. “You’re reckless,” he muttered, his voice laced with frustration. “You’re reckless, and you’ll get yourself killed.”

“Then don’t try to stop me,” she said, her voice cracking. “Come with me. Help me.”

Tom stared at her, his expression unreadable. The others held their breath, clearly unsure whether he would hex them all or join their cause.

Finally, he let out a low, bitter laugh. “Of course, you’d drag me into this.” He turned to the thestrals, his movements sharp and deliberate. “Fine. If you’re so determined to march into the lion’s den, I’ll be damned if I let you go alone. But make no mistake, Harry—this is idiocy.”

Harry’s lips parted, but no words came out. She swallowed hard and nodded, climbing onto the nearest thestral. Tom followed, his presence behind her both comforting and suffocating.

As the group took to the skies, the cold wind biting at their faces, Harry glanced back at him. His jaw was set, his gaze fixed on the horizon, but his hand reached forward, gripping her waist firmly.

“Stay close to me,” he said, his voice low but commanding. “I won’t let anything happen to you—or the baby.”

Harry nodded again, her heart pounding as they flew toward the Ministry. She couldn’t afford to think about the implications of his words or the growing tension between them. All that mattered now was saving Sirius.

Chapter Text

The Department of Mysteries was dark and foreboding, the air thick with tension as Harry and her friends ventured deeper into the maze of stone corridors. The sound of their footsteps echoed ominously as they entered the room containing the prophecy. But something was wrong. The air seemed heavier, charged with an unseen force, and the silence felt too thick, too deliberate.

Harry’s heart raced as she took in hand the prophecy that Ron had found, the one with her name on it, her eyes scanning the room. “Where’s Sirius?” she whispered, her voice strained. The others followed her gaze, but there was no sign of her godfather.

A chill ran down her spine. Something was off.

And then they heard it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching from behind, heavy and deliberate. The air crackled with dark magic as the Death Eaters materialized, stepping out from the shadows.

Lucius Malfoy, his cold eyes gleaming, was the first to speak. “Well, well, what do we have here?” he sneered. “A little group of Gryffindors in over their heads.”

Bellatrix Lestrange’s shrill laugh echoed through the room, and she stepped forward, her eyes fixed on the prophecy. “The prophecy,” she crooned, her voice dripping with anticipation. “It’s finally within our grasp.”

Harry’s stomach twisted in fear, but before she could react, she felt a powerful surge of dark magic—Tom’s magic—pressing down around her, a shield of power that made her feel both protected and strangely vulnerable.

And then, Tom was there, shoving his way to the front, standing before her and the others, his dark eyes burning with a fury that could only be described as absolute. The room seemed to shift as his presence filled it, a quiet but undeniable power that made the Death Eaters pause.

“You will not touch her,” Tom’s voice rang out, cold and commanding, carrying with it the weight of authority. “You will not touch any of them.”

The Death Eaters hesitated, their eyes flickering between one another, sensing the truth in Tom’s words. His magic was undeniable—there was no mistaking the power of their Dark Lord standing before them.

But Bellatrix wasn’t one to be swayed by hesitation. Her laughter was manic as she advanced, her wand raised. “You think you can command us, little boy?” she spat, her voice filled with venom. “You think we’ll listen to you now? You’re nothing but a shade!”

Tom’s gaze never wavered, his voice unwavering. “I am your lord, Bellatrix. And you will obey me.”

For a brief moment, the Death Eaters faltered, their hands twitching toward their wands as if they could feel the weight of Tom’s command in their very bones. Harry could see the tension in their eyes, the fear mingling with the loyalty they had for his power, but something inside her snapped.

Without thinking, she raised her wand and shouted, “Reducto!”

The shelves holding the prophecy exploded in a massive crash, sending debris scattering through the room. The force of the explosion threw the Death Eaters off balance, and the room erupted into chaos.

“Run!” Harry shouted, her voice hoarse with urgency.

Tom’s protective hand shot out to steady her as the group scrambled to escape, but the Death Eaters were quick to recover. The sound of their curses echoed through the corridors, chasing after them like wolves on a hunt.

They were split up in the chaos—Ron and Hermione darted down one hallway, Neville and Luna another, while Harry found herself running with Tom, the sound of their footsteps echoing through the stone halls. The adrenaline surged through her veins, but the fear still gripped her heart. They had to get out of here. They had to find Sirius.

Tom’s grip on her wrist tightened as they ran, his presence at her side like an anchor in the storm. She could feel the tension in him, his power crackling beneath the surface, ready to lash out at anyone who dared to get too close.

“Stay close to me,” Tom growled, his voice low and urgent. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

Harry nodded, but her thoughts were scattered. The prophecy, Sirius, the Death Eaters—they were all swirling in her mind, making it hard to focus. She couldn’t afford to think about anything but getting out of there alive.

But then, a voice echoed from behind them, cold and mocking. “You think you can escape, Potter?” Lucius Malfoy called, his voice dripping with malice. “You’re not getting away that easily.”

The chase continued, but Tom’s resolve was unshakable. He would protect her, no matter what. And as they turned a corner, Harry caught a glimpse of the others, but the Death Eaters were closing in fast. They needed to make their move—and fast.

“Keep running,” Tom ordered, his voice sharp. “We’re not done yet.”

Chapter Text

As Harry and Tom navigated the labyrinth corridors of the Department of Mysteries, the air grew heavier, thick with the weight of ancient magic. Their footsteps echoed ominously, a constant reminder of the peril that surrounded them. They had been separated from the others during the chaos, and now, as they approached the Death Chamber, Harry felt a sense of foreboding settle over her.

Stepping into the chamber, they found their friends—Ron, Hermione, Neville, and Luna—badly injured, their faces pale and their movements sluggish. It was evident that they had been through a fierce battle. Harry's heart clenched at the sight, but she was unharmed, a fact she knew was due to Tom's protective presence.

"We need to get out of here," Tom said urgently, his eyes scanning the room for threats.

Before anyone could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed through the chamber. Lucius Malfoy and several other Death Eaters emerged from the shadows, their wands drawn and faces set in grim determination.

A tense silence hung in the air as both sides assessed each other. Then, without warning, the Death Eaters launched their attack.

Tom moved with lethal grace, his wand a blur as he deflected curses and hexes, his dark magic swirling around him like a protective shield. Harry, though still shaken, stood by his side, her own wand flashing, quick to defend herself and her friends.

The battle raged on, spells lighting up the dark chamber, the sound of clashing magic reverberating off the stone walls. Harry's heart pounded in her chest as she dueled, her mind focused on the task at hand.

Then, through the chaos, a familiar voice called out.

"Harry!"

She turned to see Sirius Black, alive and well, stepping into the fray alongside members of the Order of the Phoenix—Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Mad-Eye Moody.

"Sirius!" Harry cried, relief flooding her as she rushed to his side.

But the reunion was short-lived. Bellatrix Lestrange, her eyes wild with madness, appeared from the shadows, her wand raised. Before anyone could react, she cast a powerful curse, sending Sirius stumbling backward.

"No!" Harry screamed.

Sirius smiled at her, his expression filled with love and pride. Then, with a final, heart-wrenching cry, he fell through the Veil, disappearing from sight.

Harry stood frozen, her heart shattering as she realized what had just happened. Sirius was gone. Tom was at her side in an instant, his arm around her waist, his presence a steadying force. "We need to leave," he urged, his voice low and urgent.

But Harry couldn't move. Her mind was reeling, her emotions a whirlwind of grief and anger. "We have to stop them," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Tom's grip tightened. "Not now, Harry. We need to get out of here. It's too dangerous."

But Harry shook her head, her eyes burning with determination. "No. I won't let them get away with this." With a final, lingering look at the Veil, Harry turned, ready to continue the fight. Tom followed, his expression hardening as he prepared for the battles yet to come.

Chapter Text

Harry’s eyes locked onto Bellatrix Lestrange who was fleeing the chamber with a twisted grin. Bellatrix’s taunts rang in her ears, mocking her for her loss, and Harry’s mind snapped. She couldn’t stand it—couldn’t let the woman who had just taken Sirius from her escape.

Without thinking, Harry bolted after Bellatrix, her heart pounding in her chest, fueled by rage and desperation. She barely registered the chaos around her, the battle still raging, as she focused solely on the retreating figure of Bellatrix.

"Harry, no!" Tom’s voice - desperate - rang out behind her, but she was already too far gone, too consumed by the need for vengeance.

Tom cursed under his breath, his magic flaring as he blocked a curse aimed at Harry’s back. He tried to move toward her, but Death Eaters swarmed around him, each one intent on preventing him from following her. He cast a series of powerful hexes, fending off the attackers, but the distance between him and Harry was growing.

Harry’s breath came in ragged gasps as she ran through the twisting corridors of the Department, her footsteps echoing off the stone walls. She could hear Bellatrix’s mocking laugh, but the distance between them only seemed to widen. Her mind was a whirlwind of emotions, but all she could focus on was catching up, making Bellatrix pay for what she’d done.

As she rounded a corner, she found herself back in the ministry's entrance hall. The sound of Bellatrix’s heels clicking against the floor grew louder, and Harry’s pulse quickened. She raised her wand, ready to confront her tormentor.

The echo of their wands crackling in the air was the only sound, the tension thick enough to cut through. Harry’s chest heaved, her mind clouded with grief and fury, but she knew she had to focus. She couldn’t let Bellatrix get away with what she had done to Sirius.

"You're just like your pathetic godfather," Bellatrix sneered, her voice dripping with venom. "Weak. Helpless. I wonder if you'll die the same way he did—screaming in terror."

Harry’s anger flared, and with a sharp cry, she cast a spell. "Expelliarmus!" The blast of light hit Bellatrix, but she deflected it with a flick of her wrist, her laughter echoing off the stone walls.

"You’ll have to do better than that, dear," Bellatrix taunted, her eyes gleaming with madness. "You’ll never be able to defeat me."

The duel continued, their wands flashing in the dim light, spells flying in every direction. Harry could feel the toll the battle was taking on her, her energy draining with every move. A cramping sensation began to spread through her stomach, sharp and painful. She stumbled back, clutching her side, but she refused to let Bellatrix see her weakness.

She ducked behind a pillar, gasping for breath, trying to steady herself. Bellatrix’s taunts continued, but Harry wasn’t listening anymore. She was too focused on the cramping pain in her abdomen, the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

When she peeked around the pillar, she saw Bellatrix moving toward her, her eyes burning with insanity. Harry’s lips curled into a taunting smile. "You’re so sure of yourself," she said, her voice dripping with mockery, trying to distract Bellatrix. "But I’m the one who’s Voldemort’s soulmate, not you."

Bellatrix froze, her eyes narrowing in disbelief. "What did you say?" she hissed, her voice low and dangerous.

"I said," Harry continued, "I’m the one bound to him. I’m the one who shares his blood, his soul. Not you."

Bellatrix’s face twisted with rage, but Harry didn’t give her the chance to respond. She used the brief moment of distraction to launch another spell, forcing Bellatrix to block it.

"You think that will stop me?" Bellatrix spat, her face contorted with fury. "You’re nothing but a pawn in his game. And I’ll make sure you stay that way."

The cramping in Harry’s stomach intensified, but she refused to let it show. She stood tall, even as her body screamed at her to stop. "The prophecy’s broken," she lied, hoping to throw Bellatrix off guard. "It’s useless now. You’ve lost."

Bellatrix’s eyes flickered with confusion for a moment, but her fury only grew. "You think you can lie to me, girl? I’ll kill you quickly for that." Her wand flicked, and a curse shot toward Harry, but Harry barely managed to dodge it.

Just then, the door to the chamber slammed open, and Harry’s heart skipped a beat. Voldemort entered, his eyes immediately locking onto her. He surveyed the scene, his gaze flicking over Harry’s bleeding form, and then his eyes went to her stomach. Harry felt a cold shiver run down her spine as he seemed to sense something—something that made his expression harden.

"Potter," Voldemort sneered, his voice cold and filled with contempt. "I see you’ve been meddling in things that don’t concern you. You should have stayed out of this."

Harry’s breath hitched, but she refused to show fear. "I won’t let you win," she said, her voice trembling with both pain and defiance.

Voldemort’s gaze lingered on her stomach for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing. "It seems there’s something I didn’t know about you, Potter," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "But it doesn’t matter. You will die today."

Harry’s breath hitched as he raised his wand, preparing to end it. But before he could cast the killing curse, a blur of motion cut through the air. Tom, his dark figure a stark contrast against the shadows, appeared between Harry and Voldemort, his wand raised and his eyes blazing with fury. "You’re not touching her," he snarled, stepping in front of Harry, his body a shield between her and Voldemort.

Voldemort’s eyes flicked to Tom, his lip curling in disdain. "You think you can stop me?" he sneered.

"I don’t think," Tom replied, his voice cold and full of certainty. "I know."

The two men locked eyes, their wands raised, and the air between them crackled with power. The tension was palpable as they began to duel, their spells colliding in flashes of light, each one more powerful than the last. Voldemort’s curses were brutal, but Tom was faster, more precise, his magic more controlled. The room seemed to tremble with the force of their battle. The two dark wizards pushed for the advantage, their wands crackling with power as they exchanged insults, each one trying to get under the other’s skin. The tension in the room was unbearable as their magic collided, filling the air with the sound of raw power.

"You’ve always been weak," Voldemort spat, his eyes blazing with hatred. "You’ll never be more than a shadow of what I am."

Tom’s lips twisted into a smirk. "And yet, here I am, standing in your way. How pathetic."

As the two exchanged insults and spells, Dumbledore appeared, his presence like a beacon of light in the dark as he stood before the lit Floo flames, his wand raised to join the fray. He wasted no time, joining forces with Tom, and together, they took on Voldemort.

Chapter Text

The battle had reached its boiling point. While Tom and Dumbledore worked together against Voldemort, Harry’s breath came in shallow gasps as she faced Bellatrix, her body bruised and bloodied from the intense duel. The pain in her stomach was unbearable, but she refused to show weakness. Her wand was raised, but she was faltering, exhausted from the constant fight. Bellatrix’s cruel laughter echoed around the chamber.

“You’re nothing, Potter,” Bellatrix taunted, her wand aiming at Harry. “You’ll never be able to stop me. You’ll never be able to stop him.”

Before Harry could react, Bellatrix’s curse struck, a flash of green light racing toward her. It would have been the end, but in an instant, Tom was there. He moved like a shadow, abandoning his own duel with Voldemort and stepping in front of Harry to deflect the curse with a flick of his wand. The force of his magic sent Bellatrix flying backward, slamming her into the stone wall with a sickening thud.

Harry barely had time to process it before she saw Voldemort, his eyes cold and calculating, standing just beyond Tom. The Dark Lord’s expression twisted with rage, and in a blur, he vanished from view.

Harry’s heart raced, but before she could comprehend what was happening, she felt an icy chill settle deep within her. Voldemort’s presence filled her mind, his voice a whisper in her ear. She gasped, her hands trembling as he began to take control of her body.

"Is this what you wanted, Tom?" Voldemort’s voice was a twisted version of his own, echoing in Harry’s skull. "To be with her, to have her? Now you will both die together."

Tom’s face twisted in a mixture of rage and desperation as he rushed toward Harry, his voice raw with emotion. "Fight him, Harry! You have to fight him!"

But Harry’s body felt like it was no longer her own. She could feel Voldemort’s presence inside her, his soul fractured and dark, trying to take control. His laughter echoed in her mind, and she could feel his hatred for Tom, for everything they had built.

But Harry’s thoughts raced, memories of all the people she loved flashing through her mind—Ron, Hermione, Sirius, Dumbledore, and even Tom. She thought of the bond they shared, of the love that had been growing between them, despite everything. A burst of warmth spread through her chest, and with it came the realization: she loved him.

The surge of love was like a fire, burning through the darkness of Voldemort’s soul. The warmth intensified, and Harry could feel Voldemort’s grip on her weakening. She fought back, pushing against the darkness with everything she had, her love for Tom acting as a shield. The power of her emotions burned through Voldemort’s fractured soul, forcing him to retreat, his presence fading from her body with a scream of frustration.

Voldemort’s grip on Harry’s body shattered. She collapsed to the ground, gasping for air, her vision blurred. She could hear Tom’s voice, desperate and urgent, but everything felt distant. “Harry, stay with me,” Tom said, his voice breaking through the haze. But Harry couldn’t respond. She was too weak, too drained. Her world went dark.

Chapter Text

Harry slowly regained consciousness, the world around her hazy and indistinct. The sterile scent of the hospital wing mingled with the lingering heaviness in her chest, as if something vital had been taken from her. She felt warmth around her, a presence she knew intimately. Tom’s arms were wrapped around her, holding her close as though he were trying to shield her from the world.

As her eyes fluttered open, she saw his face—his expression distant, his eyes shadowed with something she couldn’t quite place. She shifted slightly, and Tom stirred, his grip tightening just a fraction, as if unwilling to let go.

"Tom?" Her voice was weak, but it carried the question she didn’t want to ask, the one she feared the most. She tried to sit up, but Tom's arms tightened around her, pulling her back down gently.

He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted down to her, his eyes hollow with an emotion she couldn’t name. Finally, his voice came, flat and devoid of any warmth. "You’ve miscarried," he said, the words heavy in the air between them. "But you’ll live."

The words didn’t immediately register. Her mind was clouded, a fog of confusion and grief settling over her. The baby. The child she hadn’t even known was real until it was too late. She had barely come to terms with the idea of it, and now it was gone.

A strange emptiness settled in her chest, the loss of something she hadn’t fully understood but had still felt growing inside her. She couldn’t help but feel a deep, aching sadness, but she also felt... conflicted. She hadn’t even known if she wanted the child, yet its absence left a hole in her heart she hadn’t expected. A sharp ache bloomed in her chest, and she didn’t know if it was grief or guilt or something else entirely.

Her gaze flicked to Tom’s face, and what she saw there made her throat tighten. His usually impenetrable mask was cracked, his eyes red-rimmed and shadowed. He looked utterly devastated, as if the weight of the world had finally crushed him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling. She didn’t even know what she was apologizing for—losing the baby, not wanting it at first, or failing to protect it.

Tom’s jaw clenched, his arms tightening around her waist. His eyes closed, and for a moment, Harry thought he might say something, but instead, he just shook his head, his face contorting with silent grief. He let out a shaky breath, but when he spoke again, his voice was strained, like he was holding back something deep inside. “Don’t,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t apologize. Don’t say anything. Just rest.” He held her tighter, his grip possessive and desperate, as if clinging to her was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

But Harry couldn’t ignore the silent tears that slipped down his cheeks, the way his shoulders trembled as he tried to hold himself together. Despite her own confusion and pain, she reached out, her hand brushing against his cheek. “Tom…”

He flinched at her touch, his composure cracking further. “Stop,” he said, his voice breaking. “Don’t—don’t try to comfort me. Just rest, Harry. Please.”

Harry’s heart ached at the sound of his words, and she saw the tears that had silently fallen from his eyes now wetting the fabric of his shirt. Tom, the person who had always seemed so untouchable, so unbreakable, was shattering before her, and she had no idea how to fix it.

She wanted to say something, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, to make him feel better, but the words wouldn’t come. She simply lay there, her hand still resting on his cheek, her heart aching for him as much as for herself.

Tom stayed where he was, his arm still around her, his breathing uneven as he fought to contain his grief. Harry didn’t know how long they stayed like that, but eventually, exhaustion pulled her back into sleep, the sound of Tom’s quiet, stifled sobs the last thing she heard.

Chapter Text

Tom had never known grief like this.

He laid curled around Harry in the sterile stillness of the hospital wing, his arms tightly wrapped around Harry’s waist as she slept. The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint rustle of her shallow breaths. His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms, the pain grounding him in a way nothing else could.

The loss of the child—his child—burned in his chest like a cursed wound. It was a hollow, gaping ache that he couldn’t heal, no matter how tightly he gripped the fury simmering beneath his grief. He had barely let himself hope for this, and yet, in those fleeting weeks, he had imagined it all. A life where he was not alone. A family that was his own. A chance to rewrite the legacy of abandonment and rejection that had defined him.

And now it was gone.

Tom’s dark eyes drifted to Harry’s face, pale and fragile against the white sheets. She looked impossibly small, her brow furrowed even in sleep. He had watched her throw herself into danger again and again, reckless and stubborn to the point of madness. And yet, he had thought—hoped—that she would have been more careful, more thoughtful, once she knew what was at stake.

But no. She had chased after Bellatrix, ignoring his pleas, throwing herself into battle without a second thought. He wanted to scream at her, to shake her, to demand why she had been so careless. The child had been his, too. It had been theirs.

And yet, even as the anger roiled in him, it was eclipsed by a darker, colder fury—one directed not at Harry, but at the ones truly responsible.

Bellatrix.

Voldemort.

The names burned in his mind, and he clung to them like a lifeline. He would not let this loss go unanswered. Bellatrix would pay for her taunts, her cruelty, her unhinged devotion to a man who had no loyalty to her or anyone else. And Voldemort—the fractured, pathetic shadow of his future self—he would be destroyed. Tom would see to it. He would end them both, not just for the child they had cost him, but for daring to think they could touch what was his.

He looked back at Harry, his jaw tightening. She stirred faintly, her lips parting in a soft murmur. He wanted to hate her, to blame her, to push her away for what she had done. But as he watched her, so vulnerable and broken, the anger ebbed, leaving only a cold, hollow ache.

______________________

The days blurred together after the battle. The castle buzzed with whispers of Voldemort’s return, of the Ministry’s grudging acknowledgment of the truth. Harry became the center of attention, but Tom remained a constant, silent presence at her side.

He didn’t speak much, not to her, not to anyone. He simply lingered, a shadow at the edge of her grief. When she sat in the Gryffindor common room, staring blankly into the fire, he sat nearby, his presence a quiet comfort she never acknowledged but never rejected. When she broke down in tears over Sirius’s death, he was there, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder, grounding her without words.

But he kept his distance in other ways. He couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze for too long, couldn’t bring himself to touch her more than necessary. The pain was too raw, too fresh. Every time he looked at her, he saw the ghost of what could have been.

She tried to talk to him once, her voice trembling as she apologized, as she tried to explain. But he had stopped her with a cold, clipped response. “Don’t,” he had said, his tone devoid of emotion. “Just… don’t.”

And so, they fell into a fragile rhythm. She grieved for Sirius, and he grieved for the child they had lost. They were close, but not close enough. Together, but apart.

------------------

Late at night, when the castle was quiet and Harry was finally asleep in her room, Tom would sit by her bedside, watching her. His hand often hovered over her stomach, where the faint glow of their child’s magic had once been.

He thought of his own father, of the rejection and abandonment that had shaped him into what he was. He thought of the child that could have been, the chance to break the cycle, to be better. And he thought of Bellatrix and Voldemort, of the lives he would take to ensure that no one else dared to take what was his.

“I’ll make them pay,” he whispered, his voice low and venomous. “For you. For me. For what they took from us.”

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze hardening as he stared into the darkness.

They would pay. All of them. And nothing—nothing—would stop him.

Chapter Text

Tom stood before Dumbledore in the headmaster’s office, his posture rigid and his face set like stone. The soft ticking of the silver instruments on the shelves was the only sound in the room as the two men stared each other down.

“Harry will not return to the Dursleys,” Tom said, his voice cold and unyielding. “She’s suffered enough under their care, and I won’t allow her to be treated like a burden any longer.”

Dumbledore sighed, his blue eyes heavy with weariness. “You must understand, Tom, that with Sirius gone, there is no one to Grimmauld Place to look after her. And the blood wards—”

“Are irrelevant,” Tom interrupted sharply, his tone brooking no argument. “The wards didn’t protect her from being dragged into danger this year, nor will they protect her from what’s coming. I will not let her be hidden away like some unwanted relic while the world around her burns.”

Dumbledore’s expression tightened, his calm façade cracking slightly under the weight of Tom’s words. “And where do you propose she stays?”

“With me,” Tom said firmly. “At Grimmauld Place. As Sirius Black’s heir, it’s her rightful home. She’ll be safe there, surrounded by allies, and she’ll have the space to grieve properly.”

Dumbledore’s brow furrowed. “Tom, I understand your concern, but Harry’s wellbeing—”

“Is my responsibility now,” Tom cut him off, his voice suddenly rough with emotion. He took a step closer, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You don’t understand, do you? I won’t let you decide what’s best for her when you’ve already failed her so many times. If you had just told her about the prophecy in the first place - if you didn't insist on keeping so many things so damned close to your vest, she wouldn't be in so much pain right now. I wouldn't be -” Tom cut himself off, lips pressed together thinly as he glared at the man before him.

Dumbledore’s gaze softened, and for a moment, he looked older than ever, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his own regrets.

Tom’s eyes blazing with defiance. “I won’t let her suffer more loss because of your decisions.”

Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, and Tom could see the wheels turning behind those piercing blue eyes. Finally, the headmaster gave a slow, reluctant nod. “Very well. Harry may stay at Grimmauld Place for the summer. I trust you will ensure her safety.”

Tom inclined his head, his victory tempered by the weight of his grief. “I will.”

----------------

When they arrived at the dark, dusty halls of Grimmauld Place, Harry’s exhaustion was palpable. Her steps were slow, her face pale and drawn, but there was a flicker of relief in her green eyes as she looked around.

Tom had anticipated her hesitation, her reluctance to be alone with him after everything that had happened. It was why he had taken the liberty of inviting the Weasleys to join them for the summer.

The kitchen was already bustling when they arrived, Molly Weasley bustling about with her usual motherly energy while her children helped set the table. Harry froze in the doorway, her eyes widening in surprise as she took in the sight of her surrogate family.

“Harry!” Ginny was the first to notice her, rushing forward to pull her into a tight hug. “We’ve missed you!”

The rest of the Weasleys quickly followed, their warm greetings and cheerful chatter filling the room. Tom watched from the doorway, his expression unreadable as Harry’s tense shoulders slowly relaxed under the onslaught of affection.

It was a calculated move, inviting the Weasleys. He needed Harry to feel supported, to feel surrounded by people who cared for her, even if he couldn’t be the one to offer that comfort himself. Not yet.

As the evening wore on, Tom kept his distance, content to observe from the shadows as Harry began to smile again, the grief and exhaustion momentarily lifted from her face. But even as he watched her, his mind was elsewhere, replaying the moment Dumbledore had finally relented.

He would protect her. He would ensure she was never alone, never vulnerable, never left to fend for herself the way he had been. And if that meant keeping his own grief locked away, if that meant playing the long game, so be it.

Chapter Text

The summer stretched on like an endless haze of sorrow, the air thick with grief and the weight of loss. Harry could barely remember a time before everything had changed. Before Sirius had died. Before the baby had been lost. The world outside was in turmoil, but within the walls of Grimmauld Place, it felt as though time had come to a standstill.

The Weasleys had been a constant source of comfort, their laughter and presence a balm for her fractured heart. They had offered her warmth and a sense of belonging that she desperately needed, but it was never enough. The grief was too heavy, too all-encompassing.

Mourning Sirius was one thing. The loss of him, the absence of his laughter and warmth, had left an undeniable hole in her life. But it was the loss of their child—the baby that had only just begun to feel real—that gnawed at her in ways she couldn’t explain. The grief for the baby was quieter, more insidious, creeping up on her in moments when she thought she could breathe, when she thought she could move on. It was a grief that had built a wall between her and Tom, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that he blamed her for the reckless decision to go to the Department of Mysteries in the first place, to chase after Bellatrix and the prophecy.

Tom had been ever-present, always by her side, but the distance between them had grown. His silence was deafening. He never said it outright, but Harry could see it in the way he looked at her, in the way his eyes would darken when she mentioned the baby or Sirius. There was an unspoken weight that hung between them, and Harry was unsure how move beyond it. She knew that Tom’s grief was just as deep as hers, but his was a silent, cold thing that he buried beneath layers of control. She understood now—he blamed her. And she couldn’t blame him for it.

Tom’s quiet presence was a constant reminder of everything they had lost, and yet, she couldn’t bring herself to bridge the gap. She couldn’t bring herself to apologize for the reckless decision that had cost them their child, nor could she bring herself to face the reality of the fractured bond between them.

One evening, as she sat in the dimly lit drawing room, her thoughts swirling, a plan began to form in her mind. It was a selfish plan, one born from the dark pit of her own guilt, but it was a plan nonetheless. She knew what Tom needed, what he craved—someone to fill the emptiness, someone to share in his pain. And she knew exactly who could do that.

Daphne.

It was a masochistic move, one that Harry could barely justify to herself, but she couldn’t help it. She had watched Daphne’s interactions with Tom over the years, the way she had always been able to bring a smile to his face, the way he had seemed to soften around her despite his insistences that she meant nothing. Maybe, just maybe, if Daphne could give him the comfort Harry couldn’t, it would ease the ache inside of her, too.

When Daphne arrived, Harry watched from a distance as Tom and Daphne exchanged quiet words, their conversation intimate in a way that made Harry’s chest tighten. She could see the subtle way they leaned into each other, the way Tom’s cold demeanor softened just a fraction in Daphne’s presence. Harry could feel the ache in her chest as she watched them, the sharp sting of jealousy cutting through her.

And then, abruptly, Tom took Daphne upstairs. Harry stood frozen in the hallway, her heart pounding in her chest as she heard the soft click of the door closing behind them. She didn’t want to imagine what was happening behind that door, but she couldn’t stop herself. The images filled her mind—Tom and Daphne, together again.

Her mind raced with a mixture of anger and sorrow, and she found herself retreating to her room, locking the door behind her. She curled up on the bed, pulling the covers tightly around her as if they could shield her from the pain. As she lay there in the darkness, she could feel the weight of her own choices pressing down on her.

The sound of footsteps outside her door pulled her from her thoughts, and she quickly wiped her eyes, trying to regain some semblance of composure. The door creaked open, and Hermione and Ron stepped inside, their expressions soft with concern.

"Harry," Hermione said gently, her voice barely above a whisper. "We’ve been worried about you."

Ron seemed to hesitate for a moment before speaking. "You’ve been keeping to yourself a lot lately. We just want to make sure you’re okay."

Harry swallowed hard, forcing back the lump in her throat. She didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t want to admit how broken she felt, how lost she was in the wake of everything that had happened. But the words spilled out before she could stop them.

"I don’t know what I’m doing," Harry whispered, her voice shaking. "I don’t know how to deal with everything. With Sirius, with the baby... with Tom."

Finally, Hermione spoke, her voice soft but steady. "Harry, we need to talk about the baby."

The words hung in the air, heavy and raw. Harry flinched, but she didn’t pull away. She knew this conversation was coming, knew it had to happen, but she wasn’t sure she was ready for it.

"I—I didn’t even know," Harry whispered, her voice trembling. "I didn’t even know it was real until it was gone. And now I don’t know what to feel."

Ron placed a hand on her shoulder, his usual bravado gone, replaced by a quiet understanding. "You didn’t have to know, Harry. You didn’t have to know anything. It’s not your fault."

"But it is," Harry whispered, her voice cracking. "It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t—if I hadn’t let things go too far with Bellatrix, maybe... maybe I wouldn’t have lost it."

Hermione shook her head, her hand gently brushing Harry’s hair back from her face. "You can’t blame yourself for this, Harry. You didn’t ask for any of this to happen. You didn’t cause it."

"I should have been more careful," Harry muttered, her voice distant. "I should have thought about what I was doing."

Ron’s voice softened, but there was a firmness to it. "No one can predict what’s going to happen. You’ve been through so much. And you’re still here, still fighting."

Hermione nodded in agreement. "We’re all here for you, Harry. And we’ll help you get through this. Together."

Ron added, "Yeah, you don’t have to do this alone. We’re here for you."

Harry nodded, her tears finally spilling over as she let herself feel the full weight of her grief. "I miss him," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I miss Sirius so much. And the baby... I didn’t even know if I wanted it, but now it’s gone, and I... I don’t know how to move on."

Hermione stroked her hair softly, her voice filled with quiet understanding. "It’s okay to grieve, Harry. It’s okay to feel lost. We all are, in our own way."

Ron shifted uncomfortably, but his words were careful, thoughtful. "And with Riddle... you two are still so young. You’ve been through a lot. Maybe, after all this is over, you can figure things out. Maybe you’ll be able to try again, if that’s what you both want."

Harry looked at him, surprised by his tact. Ron wasn’t usually one to tread lightly around difficult subjects, but now, he seemed to understand. He wasn’t pushing her to make a decision. He was just offering her a glimmer of hope, a chance to think about the future.

Hermione nodded in agreement. "You don’t have to figure everything out right now, Harry. You’re still processing so much. But when the war is over, when things are calmer, maybe you and Tom can talk about what you both want. What you both need."

Harry felt a flicker of something in her chest—something warm, something like hope. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to remind her that she wasn’t alone, that she had people who cared about her. She clung to that feeling, letting it comfort her for just a moment.

"I don’t know what’s going to happen," Harry whispered, her voice trembling.

Hermione smiled softly, brushing a tear from Harry’s cheek. "You don’t have to have all the answers, Harry. Just take it one step at a time."

Ron nodded. "We’ll be here for you, no matter what."

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Harry allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she could find a way through this.

Chapter Text

The summer dragged on in a haze of grief and unspoken tension. Tom Riddle prided himself on his ability to control his emotions, to suppress the chaos within and project an air of calm authority. But this summer had tested him in ways he never anticipated. The world outside Grimmauld Place was on fire, Voldemort’s forces spreading destruction and fear with every passing day. Yet Tom’s focus remained tethered to the house, to Harry, and to the echoing absence of the child they had lost. The child he would never meet.

He had never imagined himself as a father. The idea had always seemed foreign, unnecessary, even laughable. But when there had suddenly been the possibility and that possibility became real—when he had felt the faint, magical presence of their child within Harry—it had awoken something in him he couldn’t name. A fierce, possessive hope. A determination to be better than the man who had abandoned him. A chance to rewrite his own history. It had been his chance to be more than the broken boy who grew up in an orphanage, more than the heir of a fractured soul. And then, just as quickly, it had been taken from him.

He could still see Harry lying in the hospital bed, pale and fragile, as Madam Pomfrey delivered the news. The baby was gone. Harry would live, but their child would not. Tom had felt the world tilt beneath him, his carefully constructed composure cracking as grief and rage surged within him. He wanted to blame someone—anyone—but the truth was, with Bellatrix and Voldemort out of reach, there was no one nearby to blame but Harry. Her recklessness, her stubborn refusal to heed his warnings, had cost them everything.

Harry had always been reckless, always driven by her emotions, but this time it had cost them something irreplaceable. Tom had dreamed, in the quiet moments he allowed himself, of what their child could have been—a chance to break the cycle of his own painful upbringing, to give their child the love and stability he had never known. That dream was gone now, and he couldn’t help but feel that Harry had taken it from him, even if he knew, deep down, that she hadn’t meant to.

And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to truly hate her. He stayed by her side, silent and stoic, offering what little comfort he could without allowing himself to forgive her. The wall between them grew taller with each passing day, and Tom remained distant. He couldn’t let himself soften, not when the pain was still so raw. But he couldn’t leave her, either. So, he lingered, watching her from a distance, offering small gestures of care—bringing her tea, ensuring she ate, standing guard outside her door when she locked herself away.

When Harry invited Daphne over, Tom was surprised but didn’t question it. He and Daphne had parted ways months ago, but her presence now was oddly soothing. She was a reminder of a simpler time, a time before the chaos, before the grief.

Daphne arrived with her usual poise, her presence calm and collected. Tom watched as Harry, from a distance, quietly orchestrated the encounter, practically handing him over to Daphne. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

As the evening wore on, Daphne stayed close to Tom, offering him quiet companionship. She didn’t press him to talk, didn’t try to fix him, but her presence was a balm to his frayed nerves. When the others had gone to bed, she lingered, her gaze steady as she studied him.

“You look like hell, Tom,” she said finally, her voice soft but firm.

Tom gave a bitter smile. “I feel worse.”

Daphne tilted her head, her blonde hair catching the dim light. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know. You don’t always have to be the strong one.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch gentle, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Still, Tom said nothing, his eyes fixed on the fire crackling in the hearth. After a long moment, he stood and gestured for Daphne to follow him. They ascended the stairs in silence, the tension between them palpable. When they reached his room, Tom opened the door and stepped aside, allowing her to enter first. Once inside, the weight of everything seemed to settle over him all at once. He sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, as Daphne sat beside him.

“I lost a child,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. It was the first time he had said it out loud to someone else, and the words felt like a knife to his chest.

Daphne’s eyes softened, and she placed a hand on his back. “I’m so sorry, Tom.”

“I never thought about being a father,” he said quietly. “Not once. It wasn’t something I ever imagined for myself. But when I found out about the baby, everything changed. It was all I wanted. It was all I could think about. The idea of having something that was mine, something I could protect and shape—it was intoxicating. I thought... I thought it would be different,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I thought I could have something real. Something that was mine. I never thought of myself as someone who could... love like that. But I loved that child.”

His voice broke slightly on the last word, and he hated himself for it. He had never used the word “love” to describe another person before. It felt too vulnerable, too dangerous. But it was the truth.

Daphne rubbed his back, her touch light but steady. “I’m so sorry, Tom. I can’t imagine how much that hurts. I do think you would have been a wonderful father.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I would have been as much of a failure as my own father. I suppose we’ll never know.”

Daphne sat down beside him, her expression softening. “You can still have that, Tom. Maybe not now, but someday. Once the war is over, there’s no reason you couldn’t have that. A family. A child.”

Tom looked at her, his expression unreadable. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not,” Daphne admitted. “But it’s possible. And you won’t have to do it alone.” She paused, her gaze steady. “When this is over, if you want… we could try. You and me. I could give you back what you’ve lost.”

Tom felt a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name—temptation, perhaps, or the faintest glimmer of hope. For a moment, he allowed himself to consider the possibility. Daphne was beautiful, intelligent, and loyal. She could offer him stability, a chance to start over.

"I could give you that," Daphne said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "When the war is over, we could try. You could have another chance at fatherhood."

Tom turned to look at her, his expression unreadable. “Another chance.”

Daphne nodded. “With someone who understands you. Someone who wants the same things you do. We could... we could have that, Tom. Together.”

Her words were tempting, so tempting. But he couldn’t commit. Not now. Not with Harry’s shadow still looming over him, her presence still etched into every corner of his mind. He didn’t respond, but he didn’t pull away, either. Instead, he allowed her to guide him to the bed, where he lay down beside her, his head resting on her chest, and his eyes closing as he listened to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.

For the first time in weeks, Tom allowed himself to drift off to sleep, Daphne’s heartbeat the only sound in the quiet room. But even in sleep, his dreams were haunted by the child he had lost, by the life he had wanted but couldn’t have. And in the back of his mind, he couldn’t shake the image of Harry—reckless, stubborn, and still so painfully important to him.

When he woke hours later, Daphne was still there, her hand gently brushing through his hair. But as comforting as her presence was, it didn’t fill the void inside him. It didn’t ease the ache of what he had lost. And it didn’t change the fact that his thoughts always returned to Harry, no matter how much he tried to push them away.

Chapter Text

Tom’s sleep was restless, plagued by vivid dreams of what could have been. In the dream, he was holding a little boy, his son, a child with dark hair and eyes that mirrored his own. The child laughed, his small hands reaching up to Tom, and in that moment, Tom felt the purest sense of love he had ever known. The boy’s laughter echoed in Tom’s ears, a sound he had never thought he would hear. The warmth of his son’s small hand on his face was a comfort, a promise of a life that could have been—one where he and Harry raised their child together, free from the war, free from the chaos that had defined their lives. He imagined watching his son grow, seeing him become something more than Tom had ever been, something better.

Then the world around him seemed to bend and twist, the edges of his dream warping as if reality itself were slipping away. Panic surged within him, and Tom searched desperately, calling out for his son, but the child was gone.

And then, he felt it—the familiar, cold, gnawing presence of Voldemort. It was like a tether that connected them, a link between their fractured souls, and it was this connection that allowed them to communicate, even in the dreamscape. His lost future faded, replaced by the towering, cold figure of Voldemort, standing at the edge of his mind, the dark, serpent-like eyes glinting with an unsettling calm.

“You took him from me,” Tom’s voice was low, filled with rage. “You took my child.”

“You blame me?” Voldemort’s voice was icy, but there was a hint of something else—something that could have been amusement. “You think I caused your loss?”

Tom’s anger flared. “You did. You and your damn war. You tore apart everything I wanted, everything I had. That child—he was mine! He was ours!”

Voldemort’s voice echoed in his mind, sharp and unfeeling. “I didn’t know,” he said, his tone flat, as though Tom’s grief meant nothing. “I didn’t know you and Harry had... created an heir.”

Tom’s chest tightened, his heart aching with a pain that felt too deep to bear. He wanted to scream at Voldemort, to make him feel the weight of his loss. “You didn’t know?” Tom spat. “How could you not know? How could you not feel that? How could you not care? He was your blood too!”

Voldemort’s response was cold, distant. “In the end, it doesn’t matter. You? You think you would have had a family, a normal life?” He scoffed. “You and I are not meant for such things, Tom. We are not ordinary men. We do not need heirs, for we are immortal."

Tom’s anger surged, a dark fury that threatened to consume him. “You took everything from me,” he snarled, his voice breaking. “You’ve stolen everything that could have been mine. That baby—he was my chance to be something different. To be a father, to have something real.”

Voldemort’s laugh echoed in his mind, empty and mocking. “It was for the best, Tom. I told you. You and I are not meant for such things. We are destined for power, not family. The child was a weakness. The boy would have been nothing but a distraction.”

Tom’s vision blurred with tears, and he clenched his fists, his whole body trembling with the force of his grief. “I don’t care about your immortality,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “I would have given it all for my boy. For a future.”

But Voldemort’s presence faded, leaving Tom alone in the darkness of his mind. The dream shattered, and Tom awoke with a sharp, painful breath, his chest tight with the weight of his emotions. He was back in his room at Grimmauld Place, the moonlight filtering through the curtains, casting a cold, silver glow over the room. His heart ached, raw and exposed. The loss of his child, the life he had imagined with Harry, was more than just grief—it was a part of him that had been torn away, leaving him empty.

Tom’s tears were silent, falling in the quiet of the night. He felt utterly broken, the weight of his loss suffocating him. The dreams, the connection to Voldemort—it was all too much. He had never felt so lost, so small.

Daphne was beside him, her presence warm and comforting. She had felt his distress, and without a word, she pulled him into her arms, holding him tightly. Tom didn’t resist. He didn’t want to be alone with his grief anymore. He buried his face in her chest, feeling the steady beat of her heart beneath him, and allowed himself to feel her warmth, her softness.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t... I can’t stop thinking about him. About what I lost.”

Daphne stroked his hair, her touch gentle and soothing. “You don’t have to apologize, Tom. You’ve been through so much. You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

He didn’t respond at first, but allowed himself to be held, to feel her warmth, her comfort. It was a fleeting solace, but it was all he had in that moment. For the first time in days, he allowed himself to let go, to stop pretending that he was in control of everything. He buried his face in her shoulder, his body shaking with the grief he had tried so hard to suppress.

Daphne didn’t speak again, simply holding him as he cried. She didn’t ask questions or offer words of advice. She just let him feel what he needed to feel, and for that, Tom was grateful.

After a long while, when the tears had subsided, when he finally pulled away from her, Daphne’s eyes were soft with understanding. She didn’t ask him to explain, didn’t push him to talk about it. Instead, she kissed him, her lips gentle against his, offering him a moment of peace.

Tom kissed her back, allowing himself to forget for just a moment—the war, the loss, the endless pain. In her arms, with her lips on his, he let go of everything. His clothes were discarded, and for a brief time, he was free from the weight of the world, free from the ghosts of the past.

In that moment, he allowed himself to forget about everything else. He didn’t think about Harry, or the child he had lost, or the war that raged outside. All that mattered was the warmth of Daphne’s body against his, the rhythm of her breath, the steady beat of her heart. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Tom allowed himself to feel something other than anger and grief. He let himself feel... alive. And in that fleeting moment, he found peace.

Chapter Text

The soft light of dawn filtered through the curtains as Tom lay beside Daphne, his body still warm from their shared moments the night before. For a brief instant, he allowed himself to bask in the quiet comfort of the morning, but the sudden flutter of wings broke the silence. A sleek owl flew through the open window, landing on the bedside table with an urgent hoot. Tom reached over, taking the letter tied to the owl’s leg.

It was from Dumbledore.

He skimmed the letter, his brow furrowing as he read the contents. Dumbledore requested his help with something important, something that required his immediate attention. The words were carefully chosen, but there was no mistaking the urgency behind them. Tom’s mind began to race, wondering what the Headmaster could possibly need from him now.

Daphne stirred beside him, her eyes half-lidded as she blinked away the remnants of sleep. Tom glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “It’s Dumbledore,” he said softly, his voice heavy with the weight of the request. “He needs me.”

Daphne sat up, brushing her hair from her face as she looked at him with understanding. She could only try to understand the weight of his responsibilities, the burden of his involvement in the war. The things he would not share. And yet, she didn’t need to ask what it was about. She simply nodded, her lips curling into a small, understanding smile. “Go. Be careful.”

Tom kissed her forehead gently, the gesture soft and fleeting, before he stood and dressed quickly. When he was finished, he leaned down to kiss her again, a lingering moment of tenderness that felt almost foreign in the midst of everything that had transpired. “I’ll be back soon,” he promised, his voice quiet but sincere. "Will you wait for me?"

Daphne smiled again, this time more sadly as she looked at him with empathy. "This war has taken from us both. I have no one to wait for." Her hand grazed his cheek. "I'll be waiting."

As he descended the stairs, he found Harry waiting in the living room, her presence a quiet, tense reminder of the unspoken distance between them. She was seated on one of the chairs, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. When she saw him, her expression hardened slightly, but there was a flicker of something else—something soft, something vulnerable—that she quickly masked.

Tom couldn’t help but notice the awkwardness that lingered between them. Their relationship had shifted in ways neither of them had fully addressed, and the tension in the room was palpable. He didn’t know what to say, so he simply nodded to her, acknowledging her presence without speaking.

Harry spoke first, her voice steady but tinged with a hint of frustration. “Dumbledore asked for my help too,” she said, her eyes meeting his with an intensity that made Tom pause. “We’re both supposed to go.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, surprised by her words. He had expected her to remain at Grimmauld Place, to stay away from the war for a while longer, but it seemed Dumbledore had other plans. He didn’t comment on it, instead opting to remain silent as they both waited for the arrival of the Headmaster.

Moments later, Dumbledore appeared in the doorway, his presence as commanding as ever. He gave them both a small smile before speaking. “I’m glad you could both make it,” he said, his tone warm but with an underlying seriousness. “There is something we must do, and I believe your presence is necessary.”

Tom’s eyes flicked to Harry before they both followed Dumbledore as they left the house, stepping out into the cool morning air.

They traveled in silence, the weight of the moment settling over them as they made their way to a secluded location. It wasn’t long before they arrived at the house where Horace Slughorn was hiding. The former Potions Master had been in hiding since the war had escalated, unwilling to be caught in the middle of the growing conflict.

When they arrived at the door, Dumbledore knocked, his expression unreadable. Slughorn answered after a moment, his face drawn and weary, but there was a spark of recognition in his eyes when he saw Tom.

“Ah, Tom Riddle,” Slughorn said, his voice a mixture of surprise and unease. “Or should I say... Lord Voldemort?” He hesitated, glancing at Harry and Dumbledore before stepping aside to allow them in.

Dumbledore wasted no time in addressing the matter at hand. “Horace,” he began, his voice calm but insistent. “We need you back at Hogwarts. The school needs you, and the Order needs you. The war is escalating, and your expertise could make all the difference.”

Slughorn shook his head, his face hardening. “I can’t. I won’t be associated with your side of the war, Dumbledore. I’ve seen enough of what it does to people. I won’t risk my life for something that’s already lost.”

Tom stepped forward, his voice cold and commanding. “You should remember who I am, Horace,” he said, his eyes locking onto Slughorn’s with an intensity that left no room for argument. “You know what I was in my previous life. You remember. And you know what I am capable of. I am a version of Voldemort, but I am... different. I am not the monster you fear. I am at Hogwarts too, and we can offer you protection. We can offer you a chance to make a difference.”

Slughorn hesitated, his gaze flicking between Tom and Harry, the weight of the decision pressing on him. Harry, sensing the tension, spoke up. “Hogwarts is the safest place in this war,” she said, her voice steady. “It’s never been breached. If you come back, you’ll be protected. You’ll be safe. If Voldemort hasn't been able to kill me yet while I'm there, then how could he get to you there? Here is an easier target. If he wants to, he'll find you soon enough.”

Slughorn’s gaze softened slightly, though the uncertainty remained in his eyes. He glanced at Dumbledore, who gave him an encouraging nod. Finally, after a long pause, Slughorn sighed and nodded reluctantly.

“Alright,” he said, his voice resigned. “I’ll come back. But only because you’ve convinced me that it’s the right thing to do. But mark my words, Dumbledore—if this goes wrong, I won’t hesitate to leave again.”

Dumbledore smiled, his expression a mixture of relief and gratitude. “Thank you, Horace. You don’t know how much this means.”

Tom, though, remained silent, his mind racing with the implications of Slughorn’s decision. This was a small victory, but it was a victory nonetheless. And as they left the house, he couldn’t help but feel that the war was slowly shifting in their favor.

Chapter Text

The quiet of Grimmauld Place settled around them as Tom and Harry returned from their meeting with Dumbledore and Slughorn. The air was thick with unspoken words, the tension between them still palpable. Tom’s mind was elsewhere, thoughts of the war, the loss, and the future swirling in his head. He made his way toward the stairs, the pull of Daphne’s warmth in his room calling to him, but Harry’s voice stopped him.

“Tom,” she called, her voice soft but firm. He turned to face her, his eyes unreadable. She stood in the middle of the room, her posture stiff, but her gaze was full of something else—vulnerability, perhaps, or a plea for understanding. He could feel the vulnerability in her stance, the hesitation that had been there for weeks now.

“I... I need to ask you something,” she said, her voice wavering slightly. “Can you forgive me? For my recklessness. For losing our baby.”

The question hung in the air, heavy with the weight of everything they had been through. Tom’s chest tightened at the mention of their child, the ache of loss still fresh and raw. He didn’t answer immediately, his thoughts consumed by the memory of what could have been. He felt a pang of longing, a desperate need to make sense of it all, but the ache in his chest only deepened. The image of the child he’d never hold, the life they could have shared, was so vivid in his mind that it was almost unbearable. The possibility of a family, of something beyond the war, had filled him with a hope he hadn’t realized he was capable of. He stared at Harry for a long moment, his lips pressed into a thin line as he fought to keep his emotions in check.

“I don’t know how,” he said, his voice low and raw. “I imagined the future we could have had. I was so sure it was a little boy. I... I ache for him, Harry. The son I never got a chance to meet, to hold. I wanted to be a father. I wanted to give him a future, a family.”

His words were raw, honest, and full of grief. He had never allowed himself to feel this vulnerable before in front of her, never allowed himself to admit how deeply the loss had affected him. But now, in front of Harry at this moment, there was no hiding it. He needed her to understand, to know just how much this had torn him apart.

Harry flinched, the pain in his words cutting through her. She hadn’t realized just how deeply he had imagined their child, how much he had already attached himself to the idea of fatherhood. She wanted to say something to ease his suffering, but the words wouldn’t come.

He stepped closer, his eyes searching hers. “Harry,” he said, his voice trembling slightly, “would you try again with me? For another child? I... I want to try again. I need to know that there can be more to my life than pain and death.”

Harry’s heart twisted in her chest. She had never fully processed the loss of the baby, not in the way Tom had. She had been too focused on the war, on everything else that had been happening around them. And now, with everything still so uncertain, the thought of bringing a child into this world—into a world that was falling apart—felt wrong. She opened her mouth to speak, but Tom could already sense her answer before she even said it.

“I’m not even sure I wanted the first one,” she said gently, her words laced with sadness. “We’re both still so young, Tom. And with the war still raging... it would be a bad idea to bring a child into this world.”

Tom persisted, his heart beating frantically and his voice quieter now, almost pleading, "But in the future, once the war is won and Voldemort is dead...could we try then? Be a family then? Have a baby then?"

Harry hesitated again, "I don't know that's what I want. I can't think beyond this war. And this war is no place for any baby."

Tom’s heart sank at her words. He had hoped, desperately, that she would be willing to try again in the future. That she saw a chance for them to be a family beyond the war, but her refusal was clear. He didn’t argue, didn’t try to convince her otherwise. Instead, he nodded, the bitterness of rejection settling in his stomach like a stone.

“I understand,” he said, his voice hollow. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Without another word, he turned and walked away, his footsteps heavy as he made his way up the stairs. He didn’t look back. He didn’t want to see the pity in her eyes, the sadness he knew she felt but couldn’t change. He couldn’t allow himself to be weak, not now.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he entered his room and found Daphne waiting for him. Her warmth, her presence, was a comfort, though it didn’t fill the emptiness he felt inside. She smiled at him as he entered, her arms reaching out for him, and he allowed himself to fall into her embrace, letting the soft comfort of her body against his provide some semblance of peace.

But even as Daphne held him, Tom couldn’t shake the emptiness that lingered. He closed his eyes, trying to push away the thoughts of Harry, of their lost child, but they refused to leave. He had never been one to dwell on things for long, but this was different. This loss, this grief, it was a wound that wouldn’t heal easily.

As Daphne kissed him, her touch gentle and comforting, Tom let himself forget for just a moment. He let the weight of everything else slip away, losing himself in the warmth of her embrace, in the fleeting comfort of the present. But even as he kissed her back, a part of him couldn’t help but wonder what might have been— if only things had turned out differently.

Chapter Text

The train ride from King’s Cross was a blur for Harry. She sat in the compartment with Ron and Hermione, but her thoughts kept drifting back to Tom and Daphne. It was difficult not to notice the way they had become inseparable over the summer. Harry had tried to push down the feelings that rose in her chest each time she saw them together, but it was impossible to ignore the ache. They were so close, so comfortable with each other, and Harry couldn’t help but feel a pang of loss.

When they finally arrived at Hogwarts, the Great Hall was alive with the usual excitement of the opening feast. The long tables were filled with students chattering, eyes gleaming as they caught up with friends. The atmosphere was different this year, though—tinged with the weight of the war, the uncertainty of what lay ahead. The tension was palpable, but the traditions of the feast were comforting, offering a brief reprieve from the chaos outside.

As they sat down, Harry couldn’t help but notice how Tom and Daphne entered together, their presence commanding attention. Tom was still the same, his posture regal, his eyes sharp, but there was a softness to him when he looked at Daphne, a new quiet affection that Harry couldn’t ignore. It stung, but she pushed the feeling aside, focusing instead on the food before her.

It wasn’t long before Professor Dumbledore stood to make the announcements, and Harry’s attention snapped back to the front of the room.

“Students,” Dumbledore began, his voice steady, “I am pleased to introduce the new Potions Master, Professor Horace Slughorn who will be taking over the position of Potions Master this year."

A wave of murmurs rippled through the students. Slughorn was a well-known figure, having taught at Hogwarts before. Some students whispered excitedly, remembering their parents' stories of his lavish parties and his tendency to favor those with connections.

The chatter died down as Dumbledore continued. “And as for Defense Against the Dark Arts, we are pleased to announce that Professor Severus Snape will be taking over the position.”

This announcement was met with a mix of reactions. Many of the Slytherins cheered, but most other students seemed hesitant, exchanging wary glances. Harry’s stomach tightened. The man had always been a mystery to her, and his allegiance had never been entirely clear. The idea of him teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts again felt unsettling, especially with everything that had happened the previous year.

The feast continued, but Harry’s mind was elsewhere. She glanced at Tom once more, only to find him already looking at her. Their eyes met briefly, but he quickly looked away, returning to his conversation with Daphne. Harry felt a pang of something—regret, longing, jealousy—but she couldn’t quite place it. She tried to push the feeling down, but it lingered.

But she wasn’t alone, not really. Ron and Hermione were still there, offering her comfort in their own ways. And for now, that was enough. But as the night stretched on, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that the world was changing, and she wasn’t sure if she was ready for it.

____________________________________

Later that evening, Harry received an owl from Professor Slughorn inviting her to join him and a few other promising students for lunch the next day. She was a bit surprised, but the invitation was too good to pass up. She agreed, hoping it would be a chance to get to know why Dumbledore wanted Slughorn at Hogwarts better.

The next day, she arrived at the appointed time and found herself seated at a long table in Slughorn’s office, surrounded by a handful of other students. To her surprise, Tom and Daphne were already there, sitting comfortably beside each other. The awkwardness in the air was palpable as Harry took a seat at the far end of the table, trying to ignore the tension that seemed to hang between her and Tom.

The conversation flowed easily enough at first, with Slughorn leading the group in a discussion about their future prospects and the importance of making connections. But Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that she was intruding on something, that Tom and Daphne’s closeness was a reminder of how far apart she and Tom had grown. She tried to focus on the conversation, but her eyes kept drifting toward Tom, watching the way he smiled quietly at something Daphne said, his attention fully on her.

It was then that Slughorn turned to Harry with a smile, asking her about her summer. She was taken aback for a moment, unsure of how to respond, but she managed to offer a vague answer. She could feel Tom’s eyes on her now, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he was watching to see how she would react.

The lunch continued, but the tension between Harry and Tom remained. As they left the room, Harry felt a sense of relief, but also a deep sense of loss. She wasn’t sure where she stood with Tom anymore, and now, she truly understood that what was happening between him and Daphne was real. Another kind of bond forged by grief and comfort. One that she had instigate in her own masochism. The war outside felt like it was closing in, and the personal battles she was facing seemed almost as dangerous.

Chapter Text

It was a quiet evening at Hogwarts, the kind where the air felt still, as if the castle itself was holding its breath. Harry sat in the common room, staring into the fire, lost in thought. The weight of the past months had begun to settle heavily on her shoulders. The war, the loss of Sirius, the strained distance between her and Tom—everything felt overwhelming, and yet, there was an unsettling quietness to it all, as though a storm was waiting to break.

Her thoughts were interrupted when a soft knock echoed through the common room door. It was Tom. He stood in the doorway, his usual composed expression giving little away, but Harry could see the tension in his posture. He didn’t need to say anything; she knew something important was happening.

“Dumbledore wants to see us,” Tom said, his voice low but firm. “We’re to go to his office. It's about the prophecy.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. Dumbledore had been waiting for the right moment to reveal it to her, to them, but the waiting had been something vague and unimportant with everything else going on. She stood up, feeling a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. “Now?”

Tom nodded, his gaze briefly flicking toward her. “Yes. He said it’s time.”

The two of them made their way through the corridors, the castle eerily quiet in the late hours of the night. The flickering torches cast long shadows on the walls, and Harry couldn’t help but feel a sense of foreboding as they approached Dumbledore’s office. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but she knew that once they listened to the prophecy, everything might change.

Dumbledore’s office was as grand as ever, filled with bookshelves stacked high with ancient tomes and the soft hum of magic in the air. The old man was sitting behind his desk, his fingers steepled together in front of him. His eyes, always so full of wisdom, looked both tired and resolute. He gestured for them to sit.

“Harry, Tom,” Dumbledore began, his voice gentle but commanding, “Thank you for coming. I know the weight of this moment is not lost on you.”

Harry sat down, her heart pounding in her chest. Tom remained standing, his posture tense, as if he were preparing for something inevitable. Harry couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She was too focused on the moment, on what Dumbledore was about to say.

Dumbledore’s gaze softened as he looked at them both. “The prophecy has been hidden for many years, and its contents are known only to a select few. It is time; however, for you both to hear it. You must understand its significance, not only for the war but for the choices that lie ahead.”

With a flick of his wand, Dumbledore activated the Pensieve, a swirling mass of memories and visions. He gestured for Harry and Tom to lean forward. “This is the prophecy,” he said quietly.

The swirling mist in the Pensieve cleared, and a voice—cold and distant—filled the room.

Harry’s breath caught in her throat as the words echoed in her mind. She could feel the weight of them, the inevitability of them. The prophecy was about her. It was about her and Voldemort—Tom. The realization hit her like a physical blow. She could barely breathe as the rest of the words rang out.

“Harry,” Dumbledore’s voice was soft but firm, “the prophecy is clear. You are the one who can defeat Voldemort. But there is more. The prophecy also speaks of a connection between you and the Dark Lord, a bond that cannot be broken.”

Harry turned to Tom, her mind racing. He was standing still, his face unreadable, but she could feel the tension radiating from him. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t reacted. She wasn’t sure if he was processing the words, or if he was too lost in his own thoughts to care.

“Tom,” Harry whispered, her voice barely audible. “Do you hear it?”

Tom’s eyes flicked toward her, but his expression remained unchanged. “I hear it,” he said, his voice cold and distant. “But it doesn’t change anything.”

Harry’s heart sank. She had expected him to react, to say something—anything—but his words were flat, devoid of emotion.

Dumbledore watched them both carefully, his eyes filled with understanding. “The bond between you and Voldemort is a powerful one, Harry. It cannot be broken. And Tom,” he paused, looking directly at him, “you must understand that your fate is tied to hers. The prophecy speaks of a choice, a final battle, where one of you must fall. But it is not just a battle of wands. It is a battle of choices, of sacrifice.”

Tom’s jaw tightened, and for the first time, Harry saw a flicker of something in his eyes—something raw and vulnerable. But it was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. He turned to Dumbledore, his voice steady but filled with an edge of finality. “I know what I must do. She won't face this alone.”

Harry felt a surge of emotion, a mixture of gratitude and sorrow. She didn’t know if she was ready for what was coming, but she knew that Tom, despite everything, would be true to his word. They would face this together.

Dumbledore nodded, his expression solemn. “You both have a difficult road ahead of you. But you are not alone. You have each other.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of what was to come. Harry felt a lump form in her throat, but she swallowed it down. She had made her choice. She would fight. She would face Voldemort, and whatever else came with him, and she knew she wouldn’t do it alone.

Chapter Text

Tom’s absence from Hogwarts became a recurring event, his departures unannounced and his returns shrouded in silence. No one dared question him, though whispers circulated among the students and staff about his clandestine missions. Harry, watching from the sidelines, could only guess at his activities, and though she felt a pang of worry, she knew better than to confront him. Tom was a force unto himself, and whatever he was doing, it was with purpose.

In truth, Tom had taken it upon himself to dismantle Voldemort’s forces piece by piece. His raids were precise, brutal, and devastating to the Dark Lord’s network. He struck without warning, obliterating small groups of Death Eaters and safehouses. The werewolves that Voldemort had recruited were among his first targets. Tom’s ruthlessness was unmatched, and his mastery of magic ensured that no one who faced him stood a chance.

But Bellatrix Lestrange continued to evade him. Her taunting laughter haunted him on more than one occasion when he had come close, only for her to escape at the last moment.

A week after his last near miss, Tom found himself face-to-face with Bellatrix in a crumbling warehouse on the outskirts of a Muggle town. She was as mad as ever, her laughter echoing through the space as she taunted him.

“You’ve been busy, haven’t you, itty bitty little Riddle?” she sneered, her wand aimed at him. “Taking out the Dark Lord’s pets, his loyal servants. But you’ll never win. You’re nothing but a shadow of what you could have been.”

Tom didn’t respond, his wand already moving. Their duel was vicious, magic crackling through the air as they exchanged curses. Bellatrix was skilled, her madness fueling her power, but Tom was relentless. His anger, his grief, his determination to destroy her drove him forward.

At one point, Bellatrix managed to disarm him briefly, her lips curling into a triumphant sneer. “I wonder,” she mused, her voice dripping with mockery, “if your little brat would have grown up to be as pathetic as you.”

That was her mistake. Tom’s wand flew back into his hand with a flick of his fingers, and before she could react, he cast a spell that shattered her wand into splinters. Bellatrix screamed in fury, clutching the remains of her weapon.

“You’ll never touch what’s mine again,” Tom said coldly, his voice like ice. He aimed his wand, green already glowing, but as the spell left the tip, Bellatrix snatched the wand of another Death Eater - already dead at Tom's hand - and disapparated, her screams of rage echoing through the warehouse. Tom stood there, his chest heaving, and felt no satisfaction. The ache in his heart was as sharp as ever.

When Tom returned to Hogwarts after that encounter, he was exhausted but resolute. He made his way to Daphne’s quarters, his steps heavy but his mind sharp. She was waiting for him, sitting on the edge of her bed in her nightgown, her blonde hair falling over her shoulders. When she saw him, her expression shifted from concern to relief.

“You’re back,” she said softly, standing and crossing the room to him. She placed a hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his robes. “I was worried.”

“I'm all right,” Tom replied, his voice low. He crossed the room and sat beside her, his shoulders tense. For a moment, he said nothing, staring into the flames. Then, he turned to her, his gaze piercing. “Daphne, I need to ask you something.”

She tilted her head, concern flickering in her eyes. “What is it?”

Tom hesitated, a rare moment of vulnerability crossing his face. “You’ve spoken of a future with me,” he began, his tone stiff and careful. “Of a family. Despite everything, despite knowing I don't have your words and you don't have mine. Are you serious about that? Truly serious?”

Daphne didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reached out and took his hand, her fingers warm against his cool skin. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it, Tom,” she said softly. “I know what you are, and I know what you’ve done. But I also know the man you could be. The man you already are, in some ways.”

Tom’s jaw tightened, his emotions warring within him. “You understand what it means, don’t you? To choose this? To choose me? I’m not... I’m not someone who can promise you an easy life. And I won’t pretend that I can forget what I’ve lost. That baby...” His voice broke for a moment, and he looked away, his grip on her hand tightening. “I loved that baby. I didn’t even know I was capable of love until then.”

Daphne leaned closer, her voice steady and reassuring. “You don’t have to forget, Tom. I wouldn’t ask that of you. But the war will end one day. Voldemort will fall. And when that happens, we can build something new. Something real. If you’ll let me.”

Tom turned back to her, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, he studied her, as if searching for any hint of doubt or hesitation. But Daphne’s gaze was unwavering, her determination clear.

“I intend to end this war,” Tom said finally, his voice hardening. “I will end Voldemort, no matter what it takes. And when I do...I’m going to need something to come back to. Something to rebuild. I can't promise you anything. It would be unfair to you given what Harry and I have been to each other. But I’ll consider what you’ve said. I’ll consider a future.”

Daphne nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. “That’s all I ask.”

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Tom allowed himself to relax. He leaned back against the pillows, his hand still clasped in Daphne’s. The fire crackled softly, casting warm light across the room, and for a brief moment, the weight of the war lifted from his shoulders.

He didn’t know what the future held, but for now, he had the chance of a reason to fight beyond the prophecy. Beyond more death. And that, he realized, was enough.

Chapter Text

The revival of the Slug Club had brought with it an odd mix of tension and distraction. Professor Slughorn, ever the socialite, seemed determined to bring together the brightest and most influential students, throwing dinner parties and gatherings in his office that were both extravagant and suffocating. Harry found herself attending more often than not, alongside Hermione and Ginny in their attempts to get her to do more than go to class and go to bed, but what made the events particularly unbearable was Tom’s presence whenever he wasn't off raiding Death Eater strongholds. Slughorn appeared fascinated by him, though whether it was due to his intellect, charm, power, or Slughorn's particular knowledge of his origins, Harry couldn’t say.

These events were a forced exercise in civility, and for Harry and Tom, they often felt like a delicate balancing act. Tom was always poised, always courteous, and always just out of reach. He sat with Daphne at his side, speaking eloquently about politics or magic, his dark eyes flickering to Harry every so often. Those fleeting glances felt heavier than any conversation they could have had.

One evening, after a particularly stifling dinner, Harry lingered in the corridor outside Slughorn’s office, needing a moment to breathe. She wasn’t sure why she stayed behind, but when Tom appeared, stepping out into the dimly lit hallway, she wasn’t surprised. He paused when he saw her, his expression unreadable, before stepping closer.

“Harry,” he greeted, his tone neutral. “Avoiding the crowd?”

She shrugged. “Something like that. You?”

“Slughorn’s gatherings are useful, but I can only tolerate so much fawning,” he replied, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “I thought you’d left.”

Harry crossed her arms. “Not yet.”

They stood in silence for a moment before Tom spoke again. “I’ve been busy,” he said, his tone betraying a hint of frustration. “I’ve been hunting down the Death Eaters. A few of them have been dealt with, but there’s still Bellatrix, still Nagini. I can’t get close enough to finish them.”

Harry turned to him, her brow furrowing. “What do you mean? You’ve taken down so many already. You’ve been making a difference.”

Tom shook his head, the familiar hardness creeping into his expression. “It’s not enough. Bellatrix is elusive. She knows I’m coming, always one step ahead. And Nagini—she’s a different kind of beast altogether. I’ve tried to track her, but she vanishes like smoke. But I need to kill that snake. It's the only way to kill Voldemort.”

Harry hesitated, unsure of how to respond. She could see the frustration in his eyes, the unrelenting drive that pushed him to do whatever it took to end the war. But she couldn’t ignore the question that had been nagging at her. She frowned, her brow furrowing. “What happens if we manage to kill him? If we win?”

Tom didn’t answer right away. He turned to face her, his gaze intense, as if measuring her every word, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “What do you want to happen, Harry?” he asked, the question hanging heavy in the air between them.

The question caught her off guard. She opened her mouth, then closed it, struggling to find an answer. “I... I just want the war to end,” she said finally. “I want people to stop dying. I want to live without looking over my shoulder.”

Tom studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “And after that?” he asked softly. “What happens when the war is over? What do you want for yourself?”

Harry looked down, her hands clenched in her lap. She had no answer, not one that felt true or concrete. What was there beyond the war? What kind of future could she even imagine when the world had been so broken?

Tom leaned in closer, his voice low and deliberate. “Do you think there’s hope for us, Harry?” he asked, his words cutting through the silence between them. “Do you think we could have a future, despite everything?”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat, and she felt a pang of guilt deep in her chest. She had been avoiding this question, avoiding him. But now, faced with the weight of his words, she couldn’t deny the truth. There was something between them, something that neither of them could ignore, but what did it mean in the long run?

She hesitated, unsure of what to say. Tom, however, seemed to sense her uncertainty, his eyes hardening slightly. "I’m not a good man, Harry. Maybe a powerful one, but not a good one. I’ve done things, terrible things, and I’ve hurt people. You know that. And I’ve stopped chasing after you. I’m not going to beg anymore for something you don’t want to give. But you should know something, Harry. I want to hope for a future. I’ve never allowed myself to hope for anything before, but now... I do. And if you can't give me any reason to hope, I’ll consider us done. No future, not after the war ends.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Harry looked away, unsure of what to say.

“And Daphne?” she asked, her voice barely audible. “What about her?”

Tom’s eyes flickered, and for a moment, something almost imperceptible passed across his face—regret, perhaps, or the faintest trace of uncertainty. “Daphne has promised me a life,” he said, his voice steady, though his words carried a weight that made Harry’s heart ache. “She’s promised me a family, a future of our own. And I’m tempted to take that future, to walk away from everything else. She’s willing to stand by me, even knowing who I am. I don't ... what I feel for her isn't the same as what we are. But if you can’t... if you won’t, then I'll allow myself to let her in. Really let her in. And I'll move on.”

Harry nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. She didn’t know what to say, how to respond to the tension that had settled between them. She wanted to reach out, to tell him that she wasn’t ready to give up, but the words felt stuck, lodged in her chest.

Tom’s gaze softened, just a fraction, and he leaned back. “I’ve given you the choice, Harry. And now, it’s yours to make. But if you keep running, if you leave me behind, then I’ll let you go. I've always been a man with nothing, and now that I know I can be capable having more, I don’t want nothing. I won't settle for it.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick. Harry didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what she wanted anymore. The future seemed like a distant dream, something that could never be real, not with everything that had happened.

Tom took another step back, breaking the tension. “I’ll give you time to think,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “But know this—I’m not going to beg if you don't want what I do. If you can't even try to imagine a future with me in it.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Harry alone with the weight of his words.

Chapter Text

Tom’s boots echoed faintly against the cold, stone floors of Hogwarts as he wandered aimlessly through the castle. The night was heavy with silence, save for the distant creaks and whispers of the ancient building settling into its nocturnal stillness. He’d returned hours ago from another raid, his robes still faintly singed from the hexes that had narrowly missed him. His body ached, but it was his mind that kept him moving—endlessly circling the same thoughts.

He was exhausted, but the weight of his ultimatum to Harry pressed against his chest more than the battles he’d endured. The words had spilled from him with a sharper edge than he intended, but he could no longer endure the limbo she held him in. The intensity of their bond was a fire that both warmed and scorched him. It was unlike anything he’d ever known, a tether that pulled him toward her, no matter how far he tried to distance himself. And yet there was Daphne too. Her steady promise of a life and future together beyond the war. It could be so uncomplicated. So peaceful. Things that Tom hadn't known he wanted until his brief flicker of hope for fatherhood had opened his mind to the possibilities of more than pain and anger. Of more than running and pushing and pulling.

Tom shook his head sharply, trying not to let himself spiral. His steps led him up a narrow staircase toward the Astronomy Tower. He hadn’t consciously chosen this destination, but his feet had carried him there anyway. As he ascended, a memory from the Triwizard Tournament resurfaced—Harry dragging him from the icy depths of the Great Lake, her expression one of fierce determination despite the exhaustion etched into her face.

That had been the first moment he had seen her—really seen her. Reckless, yes, but breathtaking in her loyalty. Even now the memory lingered. It always lingered.

When he reached the top of the tower, he stopped. The chill of the night air prickled his skin, and the stars stretched endlessly above, indifferent to the turmoil below. And yet, he wasn’t alone.

Luna Lovegood stood near the edge of the tower, her pale hair glowing silver under the moonlight. Her posture was relaxed, almost ethereal, as though she were part of the night itself. She swayed slightly, her hands clasped loosely in front of her, giving the impression that she was listening to something only she could hear. She turned when she heard his approach, her wide, silvery-blue eyes meeting his with a calm that was almost unnerving.

“Hello, Tom,” she said in her lilting voice, as though she had been expecting him. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

Tom frowned slightly, his composure returning. “What are you doing here, Lovegood?”

“Thinking,” she replied simply, turning her gaze back to the stars. “You seem to be doing the same.”

Tom crossed his arms, leaning against the doorway but making no move to leave. “I don’t recall inviting conversation.”

Luna smiled faintly, unfazed. “No, but that’s never stopped me before.”

Tom stared at her for a moment, his sharp gaze trying to pierce through her whimsical demeanor. He remembered her from the D.A., her odd habits and strange observations. But he also remembered her at the Ministry, fighting with a ferocity that belied her delicate appearance.

“I remember you from the Ministry,” he said suddenly. “You didn’t falter. Not once.”

Luna tilted her head, her expression softening. “Neither did you. Even though it wasn’t your fight.”

Tom’s jaw tightened. “It wasn’t about courage. It was survival.”

“And for Harry,” Luna added quietly, her eyes searching his face.

Tom stiffened but didn’t deny it.

“You know,” Luna continued, her tone light but her words cutting deep, “people see you as someone cold and unfeeling, but that’s not entirely true, is it? You feel a great deal. It’s just… complicated.”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “You’re remarkably presumptuous.”

Luna shrugged, her gaze drifting skyward again. “It’s not presumption. You were never cruel to me, you know. You weren’t kind, either, but you didn’t laugh at me like the others. Didn't judge me like them."

Tom stilled, his expression briefly flickering with something unspoken. He glanced away, his gaze drifting to the stars as if searching for the right words. “I… suppose sometimes it’s easier to avoid judgment when you know your own flaws too well.” The words came slowly, measured, as though they had been wrestled from a deeper place. “I’ve no right to judge you. Though I suppose it can't be helped if you judge me.”

Luna blinked. “Why would I judge you?”

“You know who I am,” he said, his tone clipped. “What I’ve been.”

Luna’s smile was soft, almost sad. “I know you’re more than that. People are more than just their pasts, Tom. And they aren’t just their worst moments. They’re also who they try to be. And you… you’re trying. Not in a way that most people would easily recognize, but in your own way, you are trying. And that counts for something.”

Tom didn’t respond immediately, his hands curling into fists at his sides. Her kindness felt foreign, unsettling. He wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“Do you think she sees that?” he asked finally, his voice barely audible.

“In her own way,” Luna said with certainty. "You’ve always been… different but not bad. Not like him. Harry sees that, too, sometimes. When she lets herself.”

Tom didn’t reply, his mind caught on her words. Different. Harry. The weight of her name stirred something raw in him.

“I think you’re afraid,” Luna said softly, pulling his attention back. “Afraid of dying without having accomplished anything you think is worth accomplishing. Afraid of being alone. But most of all, afraid of what might happen if Harry chooses you and then runs again.”

For a moment, Tom simply stood there, staring at the stars. Luna’s words echoed in his mind, a tangle of emotions warring within him. When he finally turned back to her, she was already gazing skyward again, as if the conversation had never happened.

“You’re an odd one, Lovegood,” he said, but this time, there was no bite in his tone.

Luna smiled. “And you’re not as scary as you think you are.”

As the night stretched on, Tom lingered on the tower beside Luna, the stars above offering no answers but somehow easing the tension in his chest. And he felt seen.

Chapter Text

The castle buzzed with the muted excitement of Valentine’s Day. Heart-shaped confetti drifted through the halls, enchanted by some overly enthusiastic third years, and the faint hum of giggles and whispered confessions filled the air. Harry was oblivious to it all, her mind preoccupied with the latest reports of Death Eater movements. She had found a quiet corner of the library to think, her solitude interrupted only by the occasional passerby. She had taken with her a small box of chocolates, bearing a note in handwriting that somewhat resembled Ron's: "Thought you could use something sweet today."

Touched by the gesture from her normally tactless friend, Harry popped one into her mouth without a second thought. The chocolate melted instantly, rich and decadent, leaving behind a peculiar warmth that spread through her chest.

When she glanced up, Tom was standing a few paces away, watching her with his usual composed intensity.

And just like that, she was completely, utterly smitten.

Harry scrambled to her feet, nearly knocking over the chair behind her. "Tom!" she said, her voice high-pitched and breathless. "I… I didn’t realize you were here. I mean, of course you’re here. You’re everywhere. Not in a creepy way, but in a… um… strong, powerful way. Like… like a hurricane!"

Tom’s eyebrows arched. "A hurricane."

Harry nodded fervently, taking a step closer. "Yes! You’re… magnificent. The way you think, the way you move. I… I love you!" The words spilled from her lips before she could stop them, her cheeks flaming with uncharacteristic boldness.

Tom’s eyes narrowed slightly. "What are you doing, Harry?"

"What am I doing?" she repeated, clasping his hands in hers. "I’m telling you how I feel. I… I love you, Tom Riddle. I’ve always loved you. You’re brilliant and brave and… and perfect!"

Unable to stop herself, Harry stepped closer, her heart pounding wildly. "You’re… magnificent," she breathed before rising on her toes and pressing her lips to his. The kiss was fervent and unrestrained, her hands clutching at his robes as though he might vanish.

Tom froze for a moment, his sharp mind racing. He allowed the kiss to linger briefly, a spark of their bond flaring, but more out of curiosity than anything else, before pulling back abruptly. His hands framed her face as he searched her eyes, his expression a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

"Harry," he said slowly, his voice low as he stroked his thumbs across her cheeks, "Tell me. What do you think our future looks like?"

Her eyes sparkled with sudden, unrestrained joy. "Our future? Oh, it’s perfect! We’ll fight side by side, rebuild the world together. And then we’ll settle down, maybe in a lovely little cottage, with… with children, of course. Lots of children. Whatever you want, Tom. Anything."

That was all he needed to hear.

Tom’s expression darkened as the pieces fell into place. He released her and stepped back, his thoughts flashing to his parents and the dark irony of his own existence—born of a love potion. He exhaled sharply, reigning in the rising wave of distaste. It wasn’t Harry speaking; it was the potion.

"Come with me," he said, his tone brooking no argument.

Harry beamed and followed him eagerly, oblivious to his growing fury. They made their way to Professor Slughorn’s office, Tom’s grip on her wrist firm but careful.

Slughorn opened the door with his usual jovial smile, though it faltered slightly at the sight of Tom and Harry. "Tom, Harry. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"She’s been dosed with a love potion," Tom said curtly. "She needs an antidote."

Slughorn’s eyes widened before he chuckled, his round belly shaking with amusement. "Ah, young love. It’s Valentine’s Day, after all. Someone must have gotten a bit carried away."

"This isn’t amusing," Tom snapped, his sharp tone silencing the professor’s laughter. "She needs to be herself again. Now."

Slughorn raised his hands in surrender and moved to his cabinet, pulling out a small vial of clear liquid. "Of course, of course. No harm done. Here we are."

Tom took the vial and turned to Harry, his expression softening slightly. "Drink this."

Harry tilted her head, confused but compliant. The bitter tang of the antidote lingered on Harry’s tongue as clarity flooded back. She blinked rapidly, her chest tightening with the rush of memories. "Oh, no," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I… I kissed you."

"You did," Tom replied, his voice low and measured. He stood a few paces away, his hands clasped behind his back. But his posture was rigid, his expression shadowed by something darker than frustration.

Harry swallowed, her cheeks burning. "And everything I said…"

"Wasn’t real," Tom interrupted, his tone clipped. He turned slightly, his gaze falling to the floor as though he couldn’t bear to look at her. "Not entirely, anyway."

Her stomach churned. "Tom, I…"

"Don’t," he said sharply, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. He looked up at her then, and the intensity of his glare made her breath hitch. But behind the anger, there was something else—something raw and bitter. "You didn’t choose this, Harry. I know that."

Slughorn, who had been lingering at his cabinet with a pointed effort to avoid intruding, cleared his throat. "Well, Tom, Harry, I’ll take my leave, shall I? The antidote works swiftly, as you can see. No need for further concern."

Without waiting for a response, he shuffled out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him. The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the distant crackle of a fire.

"I didn’t know," Harry said softly, stepping toward him. "I thought the chocolates were from Ron. I didn’t mean… any of this."

"That doesn’t matter," Tom replied, his voice cold. He turned away, pacing like a caged tiger. His hands curled into fists at his sides. "What matters is how easily it happened. How easily you were made to admit wanting what you have spent years insisting that you don't."

Harry frowned, her confusion deepening. "Tom, it was just a potion. It wasn’t… real."

"And yet it made you believe it was, not because you wanted it to, not because you stopped running, but because you couldn't be bothered to check the damned sweets," he said, his voice rising slightly. He turned back to her, his eyes blazing. "Do you know what it’s like to be born of a lie, Harry? To exist because someone was forced to feel something they never wanted?"

The weight of his words hit her like a physical blow. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Tom’s gaze hardened, and he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Love potions aren’t harmless tricks or romantic gestures. They’re violations. They twist and manipulate. They create illusions."

She took a step back, the intensity of his presence overwhelming. "Tom… I… I didn’t know what I was eating. I didn’t know what it would do."

"Of course you didn’t," he snapped, though his anger seemed more directed at the situation than her. He exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to regain control. "You couldn’t have known. But that didn't make your words any less impactful."

The weight in his words wasn’t lost on her, and she felt a pang of guilt at what her actions—unintentional as they were—might have stirred in him. "Tom, I… I’m sorry."

He stopped, his back still to her. "I don’t want an apology," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "I just want honesty. I want you to admit what we are to each other and give me a chance. That’s all I’ve ever asked from you."

Her breath hitched, and she stepped closer, her voice trembling. "I… I don’t know what to say."

He turned then, his gaze meeting hers with a mix of frustration and something deeper she couldn’t quite name. "Then say nothing. Not yet. Just… think about it. Because the next time you tell me something, I need to know it’s the truth."

His tone made her chest tighten, but before she could respond, he crossed to the door, his movements brisk. "We’ll talk when you’ve made your decision. Until then… take care, Harry."

And with that, he was gone, leaving her alone in the dimly lit office. The ache in her chest deepened as she sank into the nearest chair, her thoughts a tumult of guilt, confusion, and a glimmer of something she wasn’t ready to name.

Chapter Text

The bustling streets of Hogsmeade were a welcome distraction. Snow dusted the cobblestones, and the warm glow of shop windows lit up the frosty air. Harry walked between Ron and Hermione, their voices mixing with the murmur of the crowd. The scent of warm butterbeer and freshly baked goods wafted through the air, adding to the illusion of peace. For the first time in weeks, Harry felt a faint sense of normalcy.

That fragile sense of calm shattered when Rufus Scrimgeour stepped out from behind a corner. He was flanked by two Ministry Aurors, their sharp gazes scanning the street for threats. Scrimgeour’s stern expression softened slightly when he spotted Harry, but the calculating gleam in his eyes made her stomach twist.

"Harry," Scrimgeour said, his voice carrying over the crowd with practiced authority. "A word, if you will."

Ron immediately tensed, his hand brushing against the pocket where his wand was stowed. Hermione’s eyes narrowed as she instinctively stepped closer to Harry. The tension between them was palpable, but Harry raised a hand, signaling them to stay calm. "Minister," she greeted cautiously, her tone neutral.

Scrimgeour gestured toward a quieter corner of the street, away from the curious eyes of passersby. "Let’s not make a scene. This won’t take long."

With a glance at Ron and Hermione, who exchanged wary looks, Harry followed. Her friends stayed close behind her. The Aurors hung back, their postures stiff and alert.

Scrimgeour wasted no time. "I’ll get straight to the point," he began, his voice firm but not unkind. "The wizarding world is in turmoil, Harry. Fear and uncertainty are everywhere. People need hope. They need a symbol."

Harry’s stomach tightened further. "What are you asking?"

Scrimgeour leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping as if to make the conversation more personal. "I want you to work with the Ministry. Publicly. Attend events, show your support. It would do wonders for morale."

The words hung in the air like a bad smell. Harry’s brow furrowed, her voice sharpening. "Work with the Ministry? After everything that happened last year? After you all dragged my name through the mud and called me a liar?"

Scrimgeour’s expression hardened briefly before he smoothed it over. "That was Fudge’s administration," he said quickly, his tone defensive. "I had no part in that."

Ron’s derisive snort cut through the air. "Funny how you didn’t have any part in defending her, either."

The Minister’s gaze flicked to Ron, his jaw tightening, but he chose to ignore the comment. "I’m trying to repair the damage done. The people need a hero, Harry. You’re the Chosen One."

Hermione crossed her arms, her voice steely. "And what about all the innocent people the Ministry is arresting? People you’re calling criminals to make it look like you’re doing something?"

Scrimgeour’s measured demeanor faltered slightly. "We’re doing what’s necessary to maintain order," he said curtly, his gaze shifting uncomfortably.

Harry’s anger flared, her hands curling into fists. "Order? Is that what you call imprisoning innocent people? I’m not going to be your poster girl while you’re out there ruining lives."

Scrimgeour’s expression darkened, his voice hardening. "Harry, listen—"

"No," she interrupted, her tone resolute. "The Ministry hasn’t earned my trust, and you’re not going to use me to cover for your mistakes."

The air between them grew tense, the silence stretching uncomfortably. Scrimgeour’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he looked as though he might press the issue. But then he stepped back, his gaze cold and unyielding.

"Very well," he said, his voice clipped. "I hope you’ll reconsider. For the good of everyone."

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and strode away, his Aurors following in his wake. Harry watched him disappear into the crowd, her chest heaving with the effort to suppress her fury.

"What a git," Ron muttered, breaking the silence.

Hermione nodded, her lips pursed in disapproval. "He’s no better than Fudge."

Harry let out a shaky breath, her frustration simmering beneath the surface. "I’m not letting them use me. Not after everything with Sirius."

Ron placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "You did the right thing, mate."

Hermione offered a small, encouraging smile. "We’ll find another way to give people hope. One that doesn’t involve selling out to the Ministry."

Harry nodded, her resolve hardening. "Yeah. We will."

Chapter Text

The crisp winter air of Hogsmeade carried the faint scent of snow and warm butterbeer as Tom and Daphne strolled down the bustling street. Students darted between shops, their laughter and chatter filling the town with life. Tom’s sharp eyes scanned the area as he walked, his presence commanding and aloof. Daphne followed beside him, her usual poise intact, though her gaze was distant.

She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her wrist lately. Not since Tom had asked if it mattered that they didn't have each other’s words. The words etched on her wrist were so plain, so unremarkable: “Excuse me, do you have the time?” She’d always assumed that her soulmate’s words could belong to anyone. Over the years, the idea of meeting them had become more of a joke than a dream. It was why she was so willing to promise a future to Tom.

Tom seemed to sense her distraction but said nothing. Their conversations had been stilted recently, his mood growing colder since Valentine’s Day—though he would never admit it.

As they neared the Three Broomsticks, Tom’s sharp gaze caught sight of a familiar figure across the street. Harry was walking beside the Minister of Magic, Scrimgeour, her posture tense. Weasley and Granger flanked her, their expressions alert and wary. Tom's eyes narrowed as he observed the scene, his instincts telling him to intervene. But then his gaze lingered on Weasley’s protective stance and Granger’s hawk-like vigilance.

With a begrudging exhale, he resumed walking, his attention returning to Daphne, who seemed lost in her own thoughts. They stopped near the entrance to the Three Broomsticks. Tom, ever composed, leaned casually against the doorframe while Daphne checked her watch. A few Aurors patrolled nearby, their dark robes blending into the crowd. One of them passed close, and Daphne stepped back instinctively, brushing against him.

“Excuse me, do you have the time?” the Auror asked, his voice steady but polite.

Daphne froze. She stared at him, her breath catching in her throat. Her heart thundered in her chest as she looked into the man’s sharp hazel eyes.

Her lips moved before she could stop herself. "It’s half-past one," she said softly, the words slipping out like a reflex. As soon as she spoke, her gaze dropped to his wrist—and there it was, clear as day: her handwriting. “It’s half-past one.”

The Auror’s eyes widened in realization, his gaze flicking to her wrist, then back to her face. “Half-past one,” he murmured, as if savoring the words. He reached out, brushing his thumb over the edge of Daphne's sleeve before pushing it up to reveal her words. “Excuse me, do you have the time?”

Daphne’s breath hitched, and she couldn’t look away. It felt as though the world had stilled around them, the bustling sounds of Hogsmeade fading into the background.

“It’s you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Tom shifted beside her, his movements subtle but deliberate. His piercing gaze swept over the scene, his jaw tightening. Daphne’s words were burned into his memory; he knew exactly what was happening but said nothing.

The Auror cleared his throat, breaking the tension. “I’m Malcolm, by the way,” he offered, his tone tentative but warm. “Malcolm Travers."

Daphne blinked, finally dragging her gaze from his wrist to his face. "Daphne," she replied, her voice steadier than she felt. "Daphne Greengrass."

The moment stretched, heavy with possibilities. She could feel Tom’s eyes on her, his silence a weight pressing down on the fragile connection forming between her and Malcolm.

“Daphne,” Malcolm repeated, as if testing the name. His lips curved into a small smile, though his nerves showed in the way he fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve. “I… didn’t expect this. Not here."

“Neither did I,” Daphne admitted, her voice quieter now. She glanced at Tom, who remained impassive, his expression unreadable. The faintest flicker of irritation crossed his features, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“I… should get back to work,” Malcolm said awkwardly, glancing at the other Aurors nearby. “But maybe… maybe we could talk? Later? I could send an owl?”

Daphne hesitated, her thoughts a whirlwind. "Maybe," she said finally. "I’m… not sure."

Malcolm’s smile dimmed slightly, but he nodded. "I understand. It was… nice to finally meet you, Daphne."

As he stepped away, the noise of Hogsmeade seemed to rush back in, jarring her from the moment. She turned to Tom, who was already walking away, his hands tucked into his pockets.

She caught up to him quickly, her mind racing. "You knew, didn’t you? What it would feel like? When you asked if my words mattered?" she accused, her voice low enough to avoid drawing attention.

Tom glanced at her sidelong, his expression cool. "Of course I knew."

"And you didn’t say anything?"

He stopped abruptly, turning to face her. "What would you have me say? That the generic words you dismissed might someday matter? That they'd tie you forever to someone, so you'd be unable to just walk away without feeling like you'd be tearing a piece of yourself out? You wouldn’t have listened."

Her jaw clenched, her frustration bubbling over. "I don’t know what to do with this."

"Then don’t do anything," Tom said sharply, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "It doesn’t require action just because it happened. If you don't give in now, you might still be able to stay away without feeling like you'll never be whole."

Daphne stared at him, searching for something in his expression. "Do you care at all?"

Tom’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Of course I care. After what you've offered me, how could I not? But this isn’t about me. It’s your life, Daphne. And I know better than most how complicated this is. Figure it out for yourself. Decide what you want. I won't hold you to promises you made before you realized what it would feel like. Not if you change your mind."

He turned and walked away without another word, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the busy street. For the first time in a long time, Daphne Greengrass felt utterly unmoored.

Chapter Text

The Room of Requirement had formed itself into a modest sitting room, its warmth and quiet at odds with the unease curling in Harry’s stomach. She held the Gaunt ring tightly in her hand, its weight far heavier than it should have been. Her thumb brushed over the cracked black stone, and she shivered.

Tom arrived as silently as ever, his expression unreadable. He paused just inside the doorway, his sharp eyes scanning the room before they settled on her. "You asked to see me."

Harry swallowed hard and straightened, her grip tightening around the ring. "Yeah. Thanks for coming."

His gaze flicked to her hand, and for a brief moment, something flickered across his face—curiosity, wariness, perhaps even determination. "What is it?"

Harry held out the ring. "I can’t keep this."

Tom’s brows knit together, and he stepped forward, his movements slow but deliberate. "You’re giving it back."

She nodded, her hand trembling slightly. "I don’t know what… what any of this is between us, or what I want it to be. I can’t hold onto something like this when I… I’m not sure."

He stopped just short of her, his piercing gaze locked onto hers. "You’re still running," he said, his tone quiet but accusing. "And you think giving this back will change something? Is this your answer? Are you saying no to any chance of a future?"

Harry’s chest tightened. "I’m not saying no, Tom. I’m… trying to be honest. With you and with myself."

He took the ring from her, his fingers brushing hers briefly, the contact sending an electric jolt through her. His eyes dropped to the ring as he turned it over in his hand. "Daphne found her soulmate," he said abruptly, his voice tight.

Harry blinked, caught off guard. "She… did?"

Tom nodded, slipping the ring into his pocket. "An Auror stationed in Hogsmeade. Travers. She hasn’t figured out what she’ll do yet, but she won’t have a choice. Not in the end. The life together, the future she offered? It's gone. No chance of that now."

The weight in his words hung heavy in the room, and Harry swallowed hard. "I’m sorry," she said softly, her voice filled with more sincerity than she expected.

His gaze snapped back to hers, sharp and unyielding. "I don’t need your pity, Harry. And this doesn’t change anything. My ultimatum still stands."

Her stomach twisted, her pulse quickening. "I’m not saying no, Tom."

"Then what are you saying?" he demanded, stepping closer. His voice dropped, the tension between them almost palpable. "Give me something… anything to hold onto. Hope, Harry. That’s all I want."

Her breath hitched, and she looked away, unable to meet the intensity of his gaze. "This isn’t me saying no," she repeated, her voice trembling slightly. "This is me saying not right now. The war is still happening. We’re still in the middle of all of this. I can’t… I can’t make promises when everything is so uncertain."

Tom’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, but no less firm. "You think the war makes this uncertain? It doesn’t. You do."

Her eyes snapped back to his, and for a moment, the vulnerability in his expression nearly broke her resolve. "I… I just need time."

Tom exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "You always say that. You just need time. All the time. Fine then. Take your time, Harry. But remember this: I’m not going to settle for nothing forever. I need something to fight for, and saving a wizarding world that would see me dead if they knew who I really was isn't enough of a future for me to be content."

He stepped back, the distance between them feeling heavier than the space it occupied. Without another word, he turned and walked to the door, his footsteps soft but deliberate. Just as he reached the threshold, he paused, glancing back at her. "When you’re ready to stop hiding behind the war, you know where to find me."

The door closed behind him with a quiet click, and Harry stood frozen in place, the echo of his words reverberating in her mind. She sank into the nearest chair, her hands trembling as she pressed them against her face. She hadn’t said no. She just… couldn’t say yes. Not yet.

Chapter Text

The first explosion rocked the castle, sending tremors through the stone walls. Harry, seated in Dumbledore’s office seeking counsel, felt the hairs on her neck rise as the distant sound of chaos began to fill the air. Before either of them could speak, a second, closer detonation followed, rattling the glass on Dumbledore’s desk. Fawkes let out a sharp, piercing cry from his perch.

“The Astronomy Tower,” Dumbledore murmured gravely, his expression hardening. Without waiting for Harry’s response, the headmaster stood and moved swiftly toward the door. Harry followed close behind, his heart pounding, dread curling in his stomach.

By the time they reached the entrance to the Astronomy Tower, the Dark Mark glowed ominously against the night sky, casting an eerie green light over the castle. Beneath it stood Draco Malfoy, his wand clutched tightly in his trembling hand. The boy’s face was pale and drawn, his eyes darting nervously but filled with a grim determination.

“Draco,” Dumbledore said softly, stepping forward. His calm, commanding presence seemed to momentarily disarm the young Slytherin. “You don’t have to do this."

Draco’s wand wavered, but he shook his head, his voice cracking as he replied, “You don’t understand. If I don’t, Voldemort will kill my parents. I have no choice.”

Harry stepped forward, her own wand raised, anger blazing in her eyes. “You let them in, didn’t you? You’re a coward, Malfoy. A true blood traitor. You know what they’ll do if they get in here—to everyone, including your precious Slytherins."

Draco flinched but kept his wand trained on Dumbledore. “I… I didn’t want it to be like this,” he said, his voice barely audible. “But it’s too late. They’re already here.”

--------------------------------------------

Elsewhere in the castle, the first explosion sent Ron and Hermione bolting to the Room of Requirement. Hermione clutched her D.A. coin tightly, her fingers trembling as she whispered, "It’s time."

Ron nodded grimly. "They’ll come. They always do."

The enchanted coins glowed warm as the call went out, summoning the D.A. from every corner of the castle. Luna appeared first, her dreamy expression replaced with uncharacteristic resolve. Behind her came Neville, Dean, and Ginny, each armed and ready.

"What’s the plan?" Neville asked, his knuckles white around his wand.

Hermione’s voice was steady despite the fear in her eyes. "We divide into groups. Cover the entrances, protect the younger students, and hold the line until the professors arrive."

"And if they don’t?" Ginny asked sharply.

Ron set his jaw. "Then we fight anyway."

The group dispersed, their hurried footsteps echoing in the empty corridors as they prepared for battle. The air buzzed with tension as they took their positions, hearts pounding but wands held steady.

--------------------------------------------

In the Slytherin dorms, Tom paced his room, his expression cold and calculating. The muffled sounds of explosions reached even here, and he knew what it meant. The battle had begun. And Harry, beautiful, fierce, reckless Harry, would be right in the thick of it. He needed to go to her.

He turned to Daphne, who stood by the fireplace, her face pale and tear-streaked. “You’re staying here,” he said firmly.

She shook her head violently. "No. I’m coming with you."

Tom stepped closer, his hands gently cupping her face as he brushed away her tears. "Daphne, listen to me. Whether I come back or not, you have to stay safe. When this is over, you’ll have your soulmate. You’ll have a life. Be happy."

Her voice cracked as she protested, "But I don’t want that life without you."

He leaned down, kissing her hard and fast, a desperate goodbye. When he pulled back, his smile was faint and bittersweet. "Thank you for the dream you gave me. But it’s time for me to wake up."

Before she could argue further, he stepped back and locked the door with a flick of his wand. Barely even looking at the rest of the Slytherins in the common room, Tom rushed out of the safety of Slytherin house and made his way through the corridor.

--------------------------------------------

The castle was a war zone. Death Eaters stormed the halls, their spells blasting through walls and statues. Dust and smoke filled the air, mingling with the acrid tang of spellfire.

Just as the first Death Eaters began climbing the stairs to the Astronomy Tower, Harry launched a barrage of spells, forcing them back as Dumbledore’s magic sealed off the lower levels.

In the Great Hall, Ron and Hermione led their group in holding the main entrance. The heavy oak doors strained against the force of the attacking Death Eaters, their hexes and curses leaving scorch marks and splintering wood.

"Reinforce the doors!" Hermione shouted, her wand moving in precise arcs as she conjured barriers and repaired damage. Beside her, Ron directed the younger members of the D.A., ensuring they stayed out of harm’s way while casting their own defensive spells.

Luna and Neville fought near the enchanted ceiling, its stormy depiction mirroring the chaos below. Luna’s dreamlike demeanor belied the accuracy of her Stunning Spells, which dropped Death Eaters with unnerving precision. Neville, wielding his wand and a makeshift club, fought with a ferocity that seemed to surprise even himself.

"Watch your left, Neville!" Ginny shouted as she sent a Bat-Bogey Hex flying at an approaching enemy, disarming him and forcing him to retreat.

Nearby, McGonagall commanded the statues and suits of armor to join the fray. They marched forward, their enchanted weapons clanging against Death Eater shields. Flitwick darted between groups of students, his small frame a blur as he countered curses and supported their defenses. Professor Sprout hurled explosive pods of venomous tentacula at the intruders, their sharp tendrils ensnaring and incapacitating several.

--------------------------------------------

Deep in the dungeons, Tom Riddle moved quickly through the darkened corridors.

The clash came quickly. A group of Death Eaters rounded the corner, their masks gleaming in the dim torchlight. Tom raised his wand, his voice cutting through the din. "Avada Kedavra!"

The green jet of light struck the nearest Death Eater, sending him crashing to the ground. The others retaliated, their spells ricocheting off the stone walls.

Tom stepped forward to meet their attacks, his movements precise as he dueled two Death Eaters at once. His spells were brutal, each one aimed to incapacitate or kill without hesitation.

One of the Death Eaters sneered, raising his wand. "Traitor to your own kind!"

"You are not my kind!" Tom snarled back as he fired a cutting curse that sent him sprawling.

Tom fought fiercely, but soon, he wasn't fighting alone.

Slughorn, who had rushed towards the Slytherin dorms, showed why he had once been one of the most respected wizards of his time. His wand work was swift and precise, a blend of hexes, jinxes, and defensive spells that seemed almost artful. When a pair of terrified Slytherins first-years were trapped between a group of Death Eaters and Tom's battle with even more of them, Slughorn’s booming voice echoed down the corridor.

"Impedimenta!" he roared, sending three attackers flying backward in a tangle of robes and masks. He stepped forward, his stout frame imposing, and cast another wave of spells that disarmed and immobilized the rest. "To the common room, quickly!" he barked to the first-years, who scurried past him with grateful looks.

As more Death Eaters approached, Slughorn conjured a shield that shimmered like molten silver, absorbing their curses before retaliating with a whip-like arc of fire that forced them to scatter. His face was set with grim determination, his jovial nature replaced with the resolve of a man who understood the stakes.

"Tom, with me," he called to his wayward pupil, moving to rejoin the fray. Without a second of hesitation, Tom joined him, slowly reclaiming the corridors step by step as they worked their way up to the Great Hall.

The battle continued to rage, its outcome uncertain. But amidst the fear and destruction, the defenders of Hogwarts fought on, united by their shared determination to protect the school they called home.

Chapter Text

In the Astronomy Tower, Harry and Dumbledore continued their desperate fight. Her spells flew with a ferocity born of anger and fear, her mind racing as she tried to anticipate the Death Eaters’ moves. Dumbledore’s magic was a whirlwind of light and energy, his presence a beacon of hope even in the darkest moments.

Draco Malfoy hesitated at the tower’s edge, his wand shaking as he watched the chaos unfold. "I never wanted this," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the din.

Harry turned to him, her expression fierce. "Then stop it, Malfoy! Help us end this!"

Draco’s gaze flickered to Dumbledore, who met his eyes with quiet understanding. "It’s never too late to choose, Draco," the headmaster said softly.

For a moment, it seemed as though Draco might lower his wand. But the sound of approaching footsteps stole the moment away.

More Death Eaters poured into the Astronomy Tower. Harry’s heart sank as she realized their numbers were overwhelming. Bellatrix Lestrange appeared at the forefront, her maniacal grin gleaming in the eerie green light of the Dark Mark overhead. Behind her, others fanned out, their wands trained on Dumbledore and Harry.

Draco froze, his wand slipping slightly in his grip as he saw Bellatrix approach. "It’s done," he stammered, his voice trembling. "The Dark Lord… he’ll know I—"

Bellatrix sneered. "Not yet, little Draco. The deed must be finished."

Harry stepped forward, her wand raised. "Stay back!"

Before anyone could move, another figure burst into the tower. Severus Snape’s black robes billowed behind him as he strode into the chaos. For the briefest of moments, Harry’s chest filled with hope. Snape would help. He had to.

Dumbledore turned his tired gaze to Snape. "Severus…"

Snape’s face twisted into something unreadable, his wand already raised. Harry opened her mouth to shout, but the curse came too quickly.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The flash of green light was blinding. Dumbledore was flung backward, his body tumbling over the edge of the tower. Time seemed to stop as Harry screamed, the sound raw and filled with anguish. The death was surreal, impossible, and yet there it was—Dumbledore, gone.

Bellatrix let out a triumphant cackle. "The mighty Dumbledore, felled at last!"

Harry’s grief turned to fury in an instant. She raised her wand, ready to unleash every curse she knew, but Snape stepped between her and Bellatrix.

"No," Snape said sharply, his voice like ice. "The Dark Lord wants her alive."

Bellatrix pouted, her lip curling. "Such a shame. She’s right here, ripe for the taking."

Snape didn’t falter. "Not another word, Lestrange. Draco, come."

Draco, pale and shaking, moved hesitantly toward Snape. Bellatrix cast Harry a mocking glance before turning to follow. The Death Eaters began their retreat, their movements swift and calculated.

But Harry wasn’t done. Her grief boiled over into rage, and she gave chase, her screams of fury echoing through the tower. "Snape! You coward! You murderer!"

Her curses flew wildly, sparks and light flashing in the dim corridors as she pursued them. Though Harry screamed after Snape, it was Bellatrix who taunted her, spinning briefly to cast a curse that narrowly missed. Confronted with a curse from the woman who had caused her so much grief, Harry changed targets.

They burst into the Great Hall, where the battle still raged just as Slughorn and Tom came up from the dungeons. Harry’s presence drew all eyes as she chased Bellatrix with single-minded fury.

"Diffindo!" Harry screamed, the curse barely missing Bellatrix, who laughed as she dodged.

Tom’s head snapped toward her, his sharp eyes narrowing as he saw Bellatrix raise her wand, ready to retaliate. In an instant, his dark magic surged forward, creating a shield that absorbed Bellatrix’s curse before it could reach Harry.

"Harry!" Tom barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Focus!"

Bellatrix whirled, her grin widening. "Little Riddle. Still pretending you’re better than us?"

Tom’s expression darkened, his wand already aimed. "You’re not getting away again."

Bellatrix’s spells were a mixture of cruelty and chaos, her laughter echoing through the hall as she hurled curses with abandon. Her Cruciatus Curses sparked dangerously close to Harry, who dodged and countered with a relentless flurry of hexes and jinxes. The room seemed to crackle with tension as green and red light flashed in rapid succession.

Harry’s movements were wild and desperate, her grief sharpening her focus but threatening to overwhelm her. Her curses flew fast and furious, some hitting their mark and others deflected by Bellatrix’s practiced ease. "You’ll pay for what you’ve done!" Harry screamed, her voice breaking as she sent a particularly vicious Blasting Curse that cracked the stone wall behind Bellatrix.

Tom’s dark magic surged forward, fueled by more than just rage. Every spell he cast was laced with vengeance, his mind haunted by the memory of their lost child. Bellatrix’s laughter felt like a dagger twisting in a gaping wound that wouldn't heal. His wand movements were sharp, his incantations cold and cutting. He seemed to predict Bellatrix’s every move, countering her attacks with unnerving accuracy. "You’ve crossed your last line, Lestrange," he said, his voice low and venomous.

Bellatrix laughed as she sent a Blasting Curse toward Harry, only for Tom to intercept it with a counterspell. "Little Riddle, playing the hero now?" she sneered. "How pathetic!" She whipped her wand toward him, sending a series of serpentine flames in his direction.

Tom didn’t flinch. With a flick of his wand, he conjured a wave of shadowy energy that swallowed the flames whole. "This isn’t about being a hero," he said, his voice deadly calm. "This is about vengeance."

Harry gritted her teeth, nodding as she steadied her wand. She joined Tom’s assault with renewed precision, their spells working in tandem.

Bellatrix sneered, blood trickling from a cut on her temple. "You’ll never be free of him, Riddle. You’re as much a monster as the Dark Lord!"

Tom’s expression darkened, his grip on his wand tightening. "Perhaps," he said softly, "but I’ll be the monster who ends you."

A Stunning Spell from Harry grazed Bellatrix’s shoulder, throwing her off balance. Tom seized the opening, his wand arcing with a dangerous green light that struck Bellatrix squarely in the chest. Her laughter stopped abruptly, her body crumpling to the ground in a lifeless heap, her wand clattering beside her. The hall fell silent, the remaining Death Eaters frozen in shock.

The hall fell silent for a moment, the remaining Death Eaters frozen in shock. Snape, standing at the far end, called sharply, "Retreat!"

The Death Eaters fled, their movements chaotic as they vanished into the night. Harry stared at Bellatrix’s body, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Tom lowered his wand, his face a complicated assortment of emotions she couldn't decipher as he turned to her.

"It’s over," he said simply.

But Harry shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "It’s not over. Dumbledore is dead."

Tom’s expression hardened. "Then make sure his death isn’t meaningless."

Chapter Text

The day of Dumbledore’s funeral dawned gray and overcast, the skies mirroring the somber mood that hung over Hogwarts. Witches and wizards from across the wizarding world gathered by the lake, where rows of chairs had been set up facing the white marble tomb. The Hogwarts staff, students, and various Ministry officials sat silently, their grief palpable.

Harry stood near the front, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Beside her, Tom stood quietly, his face impassive but his eyes betraying a storm of emotions. They did not speak as Dumbledore’s body was carried to its final resting place, but Tom’s presence beside her felt like a steadying force amidst her swirling grief.

As the ceremony came to an end, the crowd began to disperse, though many lingered in quiet groups, exchanging solemn words. Harry turned to leave, her mind heavy with the weight of what lay ahead, when she was intercepted by Rufus Scrimgeour.

"Miss Potter," the Minister began, his tone attempting warmth. "A word, if you will."

Harry’s expression hardened, but she nodded and followed him a short distance away. Tom’s sharp gaze followed them, his posture rigid as he took up a quiet position nearby, close enough to observe but far enough not to intrude. His eyes never left Harry, watching every move Scrimgeour made.

"What do you want?" Harry asked bluntly, her voice cutting through the soft murmurs of the dispersing crowd.

Scrimgeour clasped his hands behind his back. "I’ll get straight to the point. The wizarding world needs hope now more than ever. I’m asking you, again, to work with the Ministry. Appear at public events, lend your support. Show the people that we’re united against Voldemort."

Harry shook her head. "I already told you, no. The Ministry hasn’t earned my trust, and I’m not going to be used as a pawn."

Scrimgeour’s expression tightened. "This is bigger than trust, Miss Potter. The people need someone to believe in."

"Then give them something real," Harry shot back. "Not me."

Scrimgeour stared at her for a long moment before giving a curt nod. "Very well. But remember, the offer stands."

As he walked away, Harry let out a shaky breath, her shoulders slumping slightly. She turned to find Tom waiting just a few paces away, his expression unreadable but his eyes filled with a quiet intensity.

"What did he say?" he asked softly.

"The same thing as before," she replied, her voice weary. "He wants me to play their savior."

Tom’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t press further. Without a word, he fell into step beside her as they made their way back toward the castle.

-----------------------------------

Later that evening, Harry and Tom sat in the empty Slytherin common room, many students already having been pulled out of the school. The crackling fire cast flickering shadows across the walls. Harry stared into the flames, her jaw set with determination.

"I’m not coming back," she said suddenly, her voice steady.

Tom’s gaze sharpened. "What do you mean?"

Harry turned to face him, her green eyes blazing. "I’m not coming back to Hogwarts for seventh year. There’s no point. Voldemort’s forces are out there, and he’s out there. I need to stop him, and I can’t do that sitting in a classroom. Ron and Hermione are coming with me."

Tom was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I’m coming with you."

Harry blinked. "Tom—"

"No," he interrupted, his voice firm. "You’re not doing this without me. The prophecy… it says I have a part to play, doesn’t it?"

She hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "It does."

"Then it’s settled," Tom said simply. "Where you go, I go."

Harry sighed, her gaze flickering back to the fire. "Alright," she said finally. "But, Tom, this isn’t about us. It’s about the war. It’s about stopping Voldemort."

Tom nodded slowly, his expression serious. "I know that, Harry. But that doesn’t change my decision. This isn’t just your fight—it’s mine too."

Harry met his eyes, searching for any sign of doubt, but found none. "No secrets, no second-guessing," she said, her tone firm. "We have to be a team."

He offered a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "We already are. You just hadn't noticed."

Chapter Text

The garden at the Burrow was alight with golden fairy lights, casting a soft glow over the gathered crowd. Bill and Fleur’s wedding ceremony had been beautiful, with the couple radiating happiness, but for Harry, the event was marked by a different kind of intensity.

Tom stood at the back, his dark eyes fixed on her. Harry had tried to ignore him, to focus on the ceremony, but his gaze was unrelenting, heavy with something she couldn’t quite name. They didn’t speak, didn’t gesture, but the connection between them was tangible, like an invisible thread that refused to be cut.

The ceremony ended, and the guests filtered into the reception area, laughter and music filling the air. Tom lingered on the edge of the crowd, his posture rigid, clearly out of place amidst the joy and warmth.

Luna approached him, her silver dress flowing around her like moonlight. “You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself,” she said cheerfully.

Tom’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Weddings aren’t my… preferred setting.”

Luna tilted her head, studying him with her usual curious expression. “You’re only here because of Harry, aren’t you?”

“Is it that obvious?” he replied drily.

Luna nodded. “You’re protective of her. It’s sweet, in your own way.”

Tom bristled slightly. “I wouldn’t call it sweet.”

She smiled. “I would. You care about her, even if you don’t like to admit it. That’s what makes it sweet.”

Tom shifted uncomfortably, glancing away. “If you’re trying to psychoanalyze me, Lovegood, you’ll find better subjects elsewhere.”

“Oh, I’m not analyzing,” Luna said lightly. “I’m just… noticing.”

They stood in silence for a moment before Luna sighed wistfully, her gaze drifting to the dance floor. “I do love weddings. The music, the dancing. It’s so freeing.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “You’re welcome to join the festivities.”

“I was hoping you might join me,” she said, her tone so matter-of-fact that it caught him off guard.

Tom hesitated, his instinct to refuse battling with the odd sense of obligation Luna seemed to evoke after her kindness at the Astronomy Tower. Finally, he sighed, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. “One dance. But don’t expect me to enjoy it.”

“Oh, I won’t,” she said cheerfully as she beamed and took his hand, leading him to the dance floor. At first, their movements were stiff, Tom’s discomfort palpable, but Luna swayed with a grace that was uniquely her own. She soon broke from the rhythm entirely, spinning and twirling in a way that had little to do with the music but was entirely enchanting. Tom watched her, incredulous at first, then—unexpectedly—amused. Her unapologetic freedom was both baffling and oddly admirable.

“You’re peculiar, Lovegood,” he said as she twirled, her smile radiant.

“And you’re not as scary as you think you are,” she replied, her eyes sparkling. Tom almost smiled at the echo of her words from the Astronomy Tower.

As the song ended, Luna drifted off into the crowd, leaving Tom standing on the edge of the dance floor. His gaze instinctively sought Harry again. She was laughing at something Hermione had said, but her eyes flicked to him, and their shared intensity returned. Without thinking, Tom crossed the floor toward her.

“Harry,” he said, his voice low. “Will you dance with me?”

Harry hesitated, her heart pounding. “You don’t strike me as the dancing type.”

“I’m not,” he admitted. “But I’ll make an exception.”

She placed her hand in his, and they moved to the music. Their steps were deliberate, precise, but the air between them hummed with tension. They didn’t speak, the silence masking the weight of what neither would say aloud. Their eyes locked, unyielding, as though each was trying to decipher the other.

As the song drew to a close, Tom lifted Harry’s hand to his lips, pressing a brief kiss to her knuckles.

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then, the air shifted, the warmth of the moment dissipating as an eerie silver light burst into the space. Kingsley’s patronus—a lynx—appeared in the center of the crowd. Its voice rang out, cutting through the festivities.

“The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming. Run.”

There was stunned silence. Then the world erupted into chaos. Guests screamed, grabbing wands as the first cracks of apparation signaled the arrival of Death Eaters. Harry spun, searching for Ron and Hermione. She found them near the dessert table, both pale but determined.

“We have to go!” she shouted, despairing as the chaos spread. “But ... but we can’t leave everyone—”

“They’re after you,” Tom interrupted, his voice sharp. “If we stay, they’ll kill everyone here.”

“But—”

“No arguments,” he said firmly. Grabbing her arm, he motioned for Ron and Hermione to hold on. With a final glance at the chaos consuming the Burrow, Tom apparated them all away, the world spinning into darkness as they left the destruction behind.

When they landed in the quiet of Riddle Manor, Harry stumbled, her breath catching as reality set in.

“They’re going to hurt everyone, and we left them,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“They’ll survive,” Tom said, his tone more certain than he felt. “Because we’re not there to draw their attacks and put people in the crossfire.”

Harry looked at him, her eyes wet but fierce. “We can’t let them win.”

“We won’t,” he promised, his voice as steady as steel.

Chapter Text

The decrepit Riddle Manor was a far cry from comfort, but it offered a temporary haven amidst the chaos. The quartet gathered in the dusty, dimly lit parlor, the tension palpable. Ron paced back and forth, his hands tugging at his hair, his thoughts clearly with his family.

“I should’ve stayed,” he muttered, his voice thick with guilt. “My family… Mum, Dad, Ginny, the twins—they’re still there. What if they—what if they can’t hold them off?”

“Ron,” Hermione said softly, though her voice wavered. She sat on the edge of an old armchair, her hands clenching and unclenching. “They’ve faced worse before. They’ll be okay.”

Harry, perched on the arm of the same chair, wasn’t listening. Her gaze was fixed on the cracked floorboards, her jaw tight. “We should’ve fought,” she whispered, her voice heavy with frustration. “We shouldn’t have run. People could’ve died because of us.”

“You mean because of you,” Tom corrected, his tone sharp but not unkind. He stood near the fireplace, his arms crossed, his presence dominating the room. “Let’s not mince words, Harry. This isn’t about them—it’s about you. And you made the right call.”

Harry’s head snapped up, anger flashing in her eyes. “Running was the right call? Abandoning everyone else to fight while we escaped?”

“Yes,” Tom said bluntly. “That’s war. It’s ugly. It’s cruel. And it requires hard decisions. The Death Eaters weren’t there for anyone else—they were there for you. Staying would’ve risked far more than leaving did.”

Ron stopped pacing, turning to glare at Tom. “Easy for you to say, isn’t it? You’ve got no family!”

Tom’s eyes narrowed at Ron's unintentional reminder of his lost child, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “No, Weasley, I don’t. Which is precisely why I can see this situation for what it is. The moment you let emotion cloud your judgment, you’ve already lost. If you care so deeply about them, you’ll focus on the task at hand and ensure this war ends. That’s how you protect them.”

The room fell silent, Tom’s words heavy in the air. Harry clenched her fists, her jaw tight as she avoided his gaze. Ron glared at him but said nothing. Hermione looked torn, glancing between all of them as though trying to mediate a battle she couldn’t fight.

Before anyone could respond, Harry spoke again, her voice low and dangerous. “We still don’t know how they found us.”

“They won’t stop,” Hermione murmured, her anxiety plain as she glanced between Ron and Harry. “But right now, figuring that out doesn’t matter. What matters is staying ahead of them.”

Tom nodded curtly. “For once, I agree with Granger. They’ll come for you again, and if we linger here, we’ll be inviting them straight to us.”

“Where do we go, then?” Harry asked, her frustration simmering just below the surface. "We can't just wait for Voldemort to find us, but where is safe with Snape knowing the Order's Headquarters?"

Before anyone could answer, two Death Eaters materialized in the room, their dark robes billowing ominously as they raised their wands, ready to strike. They launched a volley of curses, their voices sharp and filled with malice. Tom dodged one with inhuman precision and flicked his wand, sending a silent curse that slammed one of the Death Eaters into the far wall with a sickening thud. The other turned their focus to him, firing off a series of hexes.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione scrambled for their wands, but Tom was faster. A flick of his wrist disarmed the second Death Eater, and with a swift, deadly motion, he sent another curse that left them bleeding and unconscious on the floor.

The room was deathly quiet, save for the sound of their breathing. Tom lowered his wand, his face unreadable. “That,” he said evenly, “is why we need to leave. Now.”

Harry stared at him, her mind racing. “How did they find us so quickly?” she demanded, panic creeping into her voice.

“It doesn’t matter right now,” Hermione said urgently, her eyes darting to the unconscious Death Eaters. “They’ll alert others if they’re not already on their way.”

Tom nodded sharply. “Granger’s right. It’s not safe here anymore.” He stepped forward, grabbing Harry’s arm before she could protest, then turned to Ron and Hermione. “Take hold. We’re leaving.”

With barely enough time to register what was happening, the world twisted around them, and the decrepit Riddle Manor dissolved into nothingness. Moments later, they landed with a jolt in the dark, familiar entryway of Grimmauld Place.

Tom released Harry and stepped back, his gaze sweeping the space. “Secure the wards,” he said tersely, already moving toward the windows. “This place will hold for now, but we need to be ready to move again.”

Harry stared at him, her chest tight with lingering adrenaline. There was so much she wanted to say, but it was not the time.

For now, survival came first. The rest could wait.

Chapter Text

The oppressive quiet of Grimmauld Place was broken by the sound of the front door creaking open. Harry, sitting at the table in the dimly lit kitchen with Ron, Hermione, and Tom, immediately tensed. The atmosphere in the house had been charged with tension for days as they planned their raids on Death Eater strongholds. Any unexpected noise set them on edge.

The sound of footsteps echoed through the hallway, and within moments, Remus Lupin stepped into view, his face worn but relieved. "Harry," he began, but his greeting was cut short.

Tom was on his feet in an instant, his wand drawn and aimed at Remus with surgical precision. His stance was controlled, but the threat in his voice was unmistakable. “Stop where you are,” Tom said coldly, his wand unwavering. “You have three seconds to explain why you’re here before I decide you’re a threat.”

"Tom!" Harry shot to her feet, her own wand clutched tightly. "Put it down. Now."

Remus Lupin froze, his face shadowed with exhaustion. “I’m here to see Harry,” he said evenly, his voice calm but firm. “I mean no harm.”

Tom didn’t lower his wand, his dark eyes narrowing. “Harry might like you, but I don’t know you well enough to trust you. And trust is in short supply.”

“Tom,” Harry’s voice cut through the room, sharp and commanding. She stepped forward, placing herself between Tom and Remus. “Put your wand down. Now.”

Remus, though pale and clearly exhausted, raised his hands slowly in a gesture of peace. "I’m alone, and I came to help," he said, his voice calm. "We’re all on the same side, Tom."

Tom’s eyes narrowed. It was Harry’s voice that broke through again, firmer now, with a note of exasperation. "Tom, I said put it down."

For a moment, Tom hesitated, his gaze flickering between her and Lupin. Then, with a frustrated sigh, he lowered his wand, though his posture remained rigid.

“You’re far too trusting, Harry,” he muttered as he moved to stand against the wall, though his eyes remained fixed on Remus like a predator watching prey.

Harry guided Remus to the table where he settled heavily into a chair, his shoulders slumping. He looked older than the last time Harry had seen him, the war clearly taking its toll.

"The Ministry’s completely under Voldemort’s control now," Remus began, running a hand through his graying hair. "They’ve declared you and Tom fugitives, claiming you were involved in Dumbledore’s death. The Prophet’s been publishing daily updates, calling you dangerous and unstable."

Harry’s jaw tightened. "What else is new?"

Remus hesitated, glancing at Hermione before continuing. "It’s worse than propaganda. Muggle-born witches and wizards are being rounded up. They’re holding farcical trials at the Wizengamot, accusing them of stealing magic. They’ve already sent dozens to Azkaban. And those who resist… they’re not making it out alive."

Hermione gasped, her hands trembling as she clutched the edge of the table. "That’s horrific. We have to do something."

Ron looked equally horrified but hesitated. "What can we do? It’s not like we can waltz into the Ministry and start chucking spells."

"We don’t need to waltz," Tom interjected smoothly. He had been leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, but now he pushed off and walked toward the table. His presence, commanding as ever, filled the room. "We need to make noise. Loud, calculated noise. Voldemort’s operation relies on fear and control. Disrupt that, and he’s forced to react. He’s forced to waste resources cleaning up the mess."

Hermione frowned, her voice sharp. "This isn’t just about disruption, Tom. These are people’s lives. Muggle-borns are being hunted."

Tom inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her point. "Yes, and if we cripple some of Voldemort’s lackeys along the way, all the better. Practicality and morality can coexist, Granger. It’s not a crime to enjoy a bit of gravy with your main dish."

Ron blinked, taken aback. “You… care about Muggle-borns now?”

Tom’s eyes flicked to him, cool and calculating. "Let’s not pretend I’m some beacon of virtue. I care about staying alive and that means winning. But if saving Muggle-borns undermines Voldemort’s authority and turns his followers into disorganized fools, I’d say it’s an excellent use of our time."

Harry, who had been silent through this exchange, leaned forward. "So we hit them where it hurts. We find out where they’re keeping these prisoners, where they’re holding these trials, and we make sure they regret it."

Remus regarded Tom carefully, clearly still unsure of how to interpret him. "Be careful," he said finally. "This war is bigger than personal vendettas. It’s about what comes after, the world you’re trying to save."

Tom’s lips twitched into something that almost resembled a smirk. "I think we all know I'm not trying to save the whole world." His eyes flicked to Harry, but he said nothing more.

With a deep breath, Remus rose from his seat. "I need to go. Tonks will be waiting for me. But if you need anything—information, help, anything—send word through the Order. We’re still fighting."

Harry nodded, standing to hug him briefly. "Thank you, Remus. Stay safe."

As Remus left, the kitchen fell into silence for a moment. Then Ron broke it, leaning back in his chair with a groan. “I still can’t believe you’re okay with helping Muggle-borns, Riddle. Who are you, and what have you done with the guy who used to hate all of us?”

Tom’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. “I’m practical. That’s all you need to know. Now, if we’re doing this, we do it smart. We hit them hard, fast, and leave nothing but chaos behind. It’s time to remind Voldemort that he doesn’t own this war."

Harry met his gaze, her determination reflected in his dark eyes. "Let’s make some noise."

Chapter Text

The month leading up to the Ministry infiltration was one of tense precision. Tom’s relentless raids on Death Eater strongholds had sent ripples through Voldemort’s forces, leaving confusion and fear in their wake. Meanwhile, Harry, Ron, and Hermione spent long days and nights canvassing the Ministry from the shadows, memorizing the patterns of its employees, and piecing together the movements of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission.

Tom's raids served as a deadly distraction, but when the time came to put their plan into motion, the focus shifted entirely to the Ministry. In the safe confines of Grimmauld Place, Tom revealed his ace: a stock of Polyjuice Potion he had persuaded Slughorn to part with before leaving Hogwarts.

Now, the four of them stood in the alley outside the Ministry of Magic, Polyjuice potion in hand. Each bore the appearance of a Ministry employee Tom had strategically selected based on their comings and goings.

"Remember," Tom said sharply, his dark gaze sweeping over the group. "We stick to the plan. No heroics. No distractions. And for Merlin's sake, keep your tempers in check." His eyes lingered on Hermione, who was visibly seething even before they’d entered.

Ron rolled his eyes. "We know, Riddle. We’ve rehearsed this a dozen times."

"Not with lives on the line," Tom snapped back. "If one of you jeopardizes this mission because of some misplaced sense of righteousness—"

"Tom," Harry interrupted, her voice firm. "We’ll do what we came to do. That’s it. Let’s go."

They downed the potion, their faces shifting and bones reforming until they bore no resemblance to themselves. In minutes, they blended seamlessly into the crowd of Ministry employees funneling through the grand atrium. The oppressive weight of Voldemort’s regime was palpable, the once-bustling Ministry now cloaked in fear and surveillance.

As they moved through the corridors, people called out to them, mistaking them for their assumed identities. "Barclay, you’re late for the Transport Office!" one woman barked at Ron, who managed a mumbled excuse before hurrying to catch up with the others. Hermione, now disguised as a senior clerk, was forced to deflect questions about her “next report,” and Harry nearly found herself dragged into a meeting. Only Tom moved with total confidence, his expression cold and commanding enough to deter anyone from approaching him.

They made it to the chamber of the Wizengamot, slipping inside just as the Muggle-Born Registration Commission began its latest round of trials. The sight was sickening. Rows of Muggle-born witches and wizards sat chained to benches, their faces pale and drawn. The air reeked of fear and desperation as Dolores Umbridge presided, her voice saccharine and dripping with malice as she accused them of stealing their magic.

"Looks like they found the antidote in the end. I knew I should have just killed her when I had the chance," Tom murmured, annoyed.

Hermione’s hands trembled as she clutched her wand beneath her robes. “This is disgusting,” she hissed under her breath.

“Control yourself,” Tom said sharply, his voice low but commanding. “We stick to the plan, or they all die.”

Hermione glared at him but said nothing.

At Tom’s signal, the quartet unleashed Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, courtesy of the Weasley The chamber was plunged into an impenetrable blackness, panic breaking out instantly. Shouts echoed as curses were fired blindly, the bolts of magic ricocheting off the walls.

Thanks to Tom’s spell, the four of them could see perfectly through the darkness.

“Go,” Tom ordered. “You know your jobs.”

Harry, Hermione, and Ron moved quickly through the rows of prisoners, unlocking their chains. As they were set free, Harry worked to calm the prisoners, handing out Portkeys Hermione had enchanted to send them to remote locations in the countryside. "Take these," she urged. "Get as far from here as you can. Leave the country if possible."

"But where will we go?" a terrified man asked.

"Anywhere is better than here," Harry said, her voice firm despite the tight knot of anger in her chest.

Ron helped unchain the last group, pushing them toward the Portkeys. "Go! Now!"

Meanwhile, Tom stalked through the darkness like a predator, his movements efficient and silent. His wand sent precise, lethal curses flying toward the panicked Death Eaters, who were powerless to defend themselves. He worked methodically, eliminating the Commission members and their enforcers without hesitation.

A particularly defiant Death Eater attempted to rally his colleagues, shouting, “It’s just a trick! Hold your ground!” before Tom’s wand cut him down with a flash of green light.

When the time the last prisoner was gone, Harry called out through the darkness, “Tom, we’re clear!”

Tom’s reply was a sharp nod, barely visible in the faint light of his enchanted vision. “Get to me. Now.”

Harry, Hermione, and Ron scrambled to his side. As the last of the Death Eaters flailed in confusion and Dolores Umbridge screamed for order, Tom raised his wand one final time.

“Fiendfyre.”

A monstrous inferno erupted in the center of the chamber, its fiery tendrils consuming everything in its path. The enchanted flames roared, taking the form of serpents, dragons, and beasts as they devoured the seats of power, the records of corruption, and the very structure of the chamber itself.

With a final glance at the destruction, Tom grabbed Harry, Hermione, and Ron, apparating them out just as the fire consumed the room entirely.

They reappeared in the safety of Grimmauld Place, the four of them collapsing onto the floor of the sitting room, breathing hard. The faint smell of smoke still clung to them, a reminder of what they had just done.

Ron sat up first, his voice incredulous. “Blimey, did you see that? That fire—”

“Fiendfyre,” Hermione said quietly, her expression troubled. “It’s one of the most dangerous spells in existence. You could’ve killed us all!”

Tom straightened, brushing dust off his robes with infuriating calm. “If I wanted you dead, Granger, you would be. Now, the Ministry is crippled, their system burned to ash. You’re welcome.”

Harry, still catching her breath, looked at him with a mix of awe and unease. “You didn’t have to do all of that.”

Tom’s dark eyes met hers, sharp and unyielding. “Yes, I did. You might not realize it yet, but this is the only language Voldemort understands—chaos, destruction, and power. If we don’t speak it back to him, we’ve already lost.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue but stopped, her eyes darting to Harry. The memory of those terrified Muggle-borns and the freedom they’d just secured was enough to quell her anger—for now. Instead, Hermione settled for glaring at Tom, but Ron, for once, said nothing.

Harry finally stood, her gaze unwavering. “Then we make sure it means something. Every step we take, every fight we pick—it has to mean something.”

Tom’s lips curled into the faintest of smiles. “And so it will.”

Chapter Text

The raid had been going according to plan—until it wasn’t.

The four of them had infiltrated one of Voldemort’s key strongholds, moving with calculated precision, but Death Eaters swarmed them faster than they had anticipated. The plan to strike swiftly and leave was unraveling, chaos erupting around them.

Harry was dueling two Death Eaters at once, her movements sharp and determined, while Hermione and Ron worked together, covering each other’s blind spots. Tom moved like a shadow among them, his wand flicking with deadly precision as he dispatched enemies with ruthless efficiency.

Then it happened.

Ron let out a strangled cry as a curse hit him square in the side, sending him crashing to the ground. Blood seeped through his robes, pooling beneath him as Hermione screamed, “Ron!” Her voice was raw, filled with terror, as she scrambled toward him.

Harry’s heart stopped. “Ron!” she shouted, already moving, her wand up to shield him.

Tom’s hand shot out, grabbing Harry’s arm in an iron grip as he deflected a curse aimed at her back with a flick of his wand. “No!” he hissed, dragging her back. “You can’t just rush into—”

“I’m not leaving him!” Harry snarled, struggling against him, her green eyes blazing with fury.

Tom hesitated, his dark eyes meeting hers. For a brief, selfish moment, he considered apparating away with just her, leaving the others behind. But then he saw it—the raw anguish on her face, the way her gaze darted to Ron and Hermione, who were now surrounded by Death Eaters. Something inside of him twisted painfully, foreign and unwelcome.

“Fine,” he snapped, pulling her closer. “But stay behind me.”

With a burst of magic, Tom carved a path through the chaos, curses ricocheting off the barriers he conjured around them. Together, they sprinted toward Ron and Hermione. Hermione was crouched over Ron, her wand shaking as she cast every protective spell she could think of, her free hand pressing against the wound on his side in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding.

“Granger, move!” Tom barked as they reached them, stepping in front of her to shield them both. He deflected another barrage of curses, his movements precise and controlled.

Harry dropped to her knees beside Ron, her hands trembling as she helped Hermione try to stabilize him. “We’ve got you,” she whispered, her voice shaky but firm. “We’re not leaving you behind.”

Tom's wand snapped upward to form a shield around the group as curses ricocheted off the invisible barrier. “Enough sentimentality. Granger, grab him!” he barked.

Hermione didn’t hesitate. She gripped Ron’s arm, her face pale but resolute. Tom reached down, his free hand closing around her shoulder while his other pulled Harry closer.

“We're leaving—now,” Tom said sharply.

Just as the group began to disapparate, Tom felt an unwelcome weight latch onto them. In a split second, his gaze darted down, catching a glimpse of Augustus Rookwood’s twisted face as the Death Eater clutched Ron’s arm.

They reappeared in Grimmauld Place, Ron slumping against Hermione as the group stumbled to the floor. But before anyone could catch their breath, Rookwood’s wand was out, and a blast of fire shot toward them.

“Down!” Tom bellowed, shoving Harry aside and conjuring a shield that absorbed the flames. His expression darkened with fury as he turned on Rookwood.

Tom’s eyes narrowed, fury radiating off him in waves. “You shouldn’t have come here,” he said quietly, his voice deadly calm.

Before Rookwood could cast a spell, Tom moved. A sickly green light erupted from his wand, but Rookwood dove to the side, firing back with a curse that narrowly missed Hermione.

“Stay back!” Tom snarled at the others, stepping forward to face Rookwood alone. The two of them traded curses, the air crackling with dark magic. Harry, Hermione, and Ron watched helplessly, unable to intervene without risking hitting Tom.

Tom’s patience snapped as he deflected a particularly vicious curse. With a sharp twist of his wrist, he cast a spell that sent Rookwood flying into the wall. The Death Eater crumpled to the ground, stunned but alive.

Tom turned to the others, his expression grim. “He’s seen too much. We can’t stay here.”

He strode over, grabbed Harry’s hand again, and reached out for Hermione, who clung to Ron as if her life depended on it.

“Hold tight,” he ordered.

With another twist of magic, they were gone, leaving Rookwood unconscious in the wreckage of Grimmauld Place.

They landed in the middle of a dense forest, the cool, damp air a stark contrast to the suffocating heat of the fight.

"Granger, handle him,” Tom barked, gesturing to Ron as he stalked toward Harry. “What were you thinking, running off like that?”

Harry stood to meet him, her face pale but defiant. “I wasn’t going to leave him behind.”

“And you almost got yourself killed! Reckless! Always so reckless!” Tom’s voice was sharp, but beneath it was something else—something raw. “If I hadn’t been there—”

“But you were,” Harry interrupted, her voice quiet but firm. “You were.”

Tom didn’t respond. He turned sharply, stalking a few paces away to stand beneath the dark canopy of trees. The words echoed in his mind, unsettling in their weight.

“Harry, I need help!” Hermione was frantic, her hands working feverishly to stabilize Ron. “I don’t know if I can stop the bleeding.”

Harry rushed to her side, her determination returning. Tom watched them for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a wave of his wand, he conjured a protective shield around the clearing.

As he turned back to the group, his voice was quieter, almost resigned. “Fix him. Quickly. We don’t have much time.”

And for the first time, Harry thought she caught a glimpse of something unfamiliar in his dark eyes—something that almost looked like fear.

Chapter Text

The forest was unnaturally still, the thick canopy above muffling even the faintest sounds of the world outside. Tom stood a few paces away from the clearing, his back to the others, his dark eyes scanning the dense shadows for any sign of movement. His wand was gripped tightly in his hand, but his mind wasn’t on the perimeter he was supposed to be guarding.

Behind him, Hermione knelt beside Ron, murmuring spells as she worked to stabilize him. Harry had reluctantly stepped away at Hermione’s insistence, pacing just out of view to collect herself.

Tom didn’t move until he heard the soft crunch of footsteps approaching.

“Tom,” Harry said quietly, her voice tentative.

He turned his head and looked at her out of the corner of his eye, his expression guarded. “Shouldn’t you be helping her?”

“Hermione said she has it under control for now,” Harry replied, her green eyes searching his face. “She sent me away to… calm down.”

Tom scoffed faintly, his lips twitching into a humorless smile. “And have you?”

“No,” Harry admitted, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “Not really.”

Harry moved toward Tom, her footsteps soft but purposeful. He continued to glance at her out of the corner of his eye but didn’t speak until she came to a stop beside him.

“Say it,” he muttered, his tone sharp.

Harry blinked, startled. “What?”

“Say what you’re thinking,” Tom said, turning to face her fully. “You always do sooner or later. Might as well make it sooner.”

Her jaw tightened, and for a moment, she hesitated. But she wasn’t going to hold back anymore, especially not with him. “You shouldn’t have stopped me,” she said, her voice low but laced with anger. “I could have reached him faster.”

Tom’s expression darkened, and he took a deliberate step closer. “And you could have died.”

“I wouldn’t have,” Harry shot back, her green eyes blazing. “I had it under control—”

“You had nothing under control,” Tom snapped, his voice rising slightly. “If I hadn’t been there, you wouldn’t be standing here arguing with me right now.”

Harry flinched but held her ground. “I wasn’t going to let him die, Tom. You know I couldn’t. I had to go to him.”

“And in doing so, you nearly made sure neither of you survived,” Tom snapped, his voice rising before he caught himself. He turned away, his hand raking through his dark hair as he struggled to contain the storm brewing inside him.

Harry took another step closer, her voice steady despite the trembling in her hands. “You were scared,” she said quietly. “Weren’t you?”

Tom froze, the words hitting him harder than he expected. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. When he finally turned to her, his face was unreadable, but his dark eyes were burning with something raw and unspoken.

“Do you have any idea,” he began, his voice low and controlled, “what it’s like to watch you throw yourself into danger over and over again? To watch you run toward death without a second thought, as if your life doesn’t matter? I wasn’t scared, Harry. I was fucking terrified.”

Harry blinked, startled by the intensity of his words. “Tom, I—”

“No,” he cut her off, his tone sharper now. “Listen to me. You think I care about this just because I want you around for my own benefit?”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping, and for the first time, there was no shield between his emotions and his words. “You don’t understand what it’s like, Harry. The world… this world is cruel, dark, and filled with people like him.” His lips curled slightly, his meaning clear. “But you—you’re not like that. You’re the opposite of it. And the thought of you being gone… the thought of this world without you in it…”

His words faltered, and he looked away, his jaw tightening as if the admission physically hurt him. “The world would be so much darker without you, Harry. It already teeters on the edge of darkness, but you… you’re what keeps it from tipping over entirely.”

Harry stared at him, her breath catching in her throat. “Tom…”

“I don't care about keeping everyone else alive,” he continued, his voice quieter now but no less fierce. “I care about keeping you alive. Because if you’re gone…” He trailed off, his hands clenching into fists as he struggled for the right words. “If you’re gone, what’s the point of any of this?”

For a moment, the only sound was the distant rustling of the forest. Harry’s heart pounded as she tried to process the depth of what he was saying.

“You’re the one who doesn’t understand,” she said softly, stepping closer until there was only a breath of space between them. “I can’t just stand by while people are in danger. I can’t let Ron, Hermione, or anyone else die while I can try to save them. And I’m not going to apologize for that.”

“You can’t save anyone if you’re dead,” Tom snapped, his voice trembling. He took a deep breath before he spoke again, his expression completely inscrutable now. “Please,” Tom said, his tone steady though still intense. “If not for yourself, then for the people who need you—stop throwing yourself into the fire. Live, Harry. If nothing else, just… live.”

Harry’s heart ached for him, but she couldn’t lie. “I hear you, Tom. I do. And I’m not going anywhere if I can help it. But I’m not going to stop trying to save others either.”

Tom held her gaze, his expression still unreadable but for his eyes, before he finally nodded once, sharp and deliberate.

“Do what you will then,” he said quietly. “But next time, Harry, if you throw yourself in harm’s way like that again, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop myself from doing something reckless to keep you alive.”

Harry’s breath caught again, but she didn’t respond. She just nodded as the weight of his words settling over her.

For a moment, they stood in silence, the tension between them shifting into something quieter, heavier. Then, without another word, Tom turned and resumed his watch, his posture still tense as Harry turned back to help Hermione.

Chapter Text

The days blurred together as they continued their journey. Each new campsite brought fresh dangers, and the constant threat of pursuit weighed heavily on them all. Tom’s protective wards bought them time, but the Death Eaters’ ability to track their apparation trail kept them moving.

The group stood still for a moment after apparating, their breaths visible in the cold air. The chill bit at their skin, but no one complained. They were too used to this by now—constant movement, endless vigilance, and the weight of the war pressing down on them.

Hermione spoke first, her voice low and hoarse from stress. “I’ll set up the tent.” She didn’t wait for a response, pulling her wand from her pocket and casting the familiar spell. The magically expanded tent appeared in front of them, its familiar shape a small comfort. She ducked inside without another word, Ron leaning on her shoulder as he limped beside her.

Tom stood back, watching with a sharp gaze. His wand was already in hand, and he began tracing careful, intricate patterns in the air. Pale, shimmering wards sprang up around their campsite, forming an invisible shield.

“Do you really think this will hold them off this time?” Harry asked, her voice quiet but steady. She stood a few feet away, her arms crossed over her chest as she stared at him.

“It will,” Tom said curtly, his concentration unwavering. “For now.”

“For now,” she echoed bitterly. “They’re always right behind us.”

“Because they’re hunting us,” Tom shot back, his tone matter-of-fact. “But we’ll keeping them from catching us.” He flicked his wand sharply, and the last ward shimmered into place.

Harry said nothing. She turned toward the tent and stepped inside, the faint rustle of fabric the only sound.

Inside, the tent, Hermione had set Ron down on one of the bunks, her hands trembling as she cast diagnostic spells over his injured side. The faint glow of her wand illuminated his pale face, and Harry felt her stomach twist at the sight.

“How is he?” Harry asked, crouching beside Hermione.

Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. “The bleeding’s stopped, but the wound isn’t healing properly. It’s that curse—they used dark magic. I don’t know how to counter it.”

Ron stirred weakly, his voice barely a whisper. “I’ll be fine, Hermione. Just—just need to sleep it off.”

“You can’t sleep it off, Ron,” Hermione snapped, her voice breaking. Tears welled in her eyes, and she quickly wiped them away with the back of her hand.

The tent flap rustled, and Tom stepped inside, his presence immediately commanding the room. His gaze swept over Ron, then Hermione, and finally Harry. “What’s wrong?” he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew.

“It’s the curse,” Hermione said, not looking at him. Her voice was tight with frustration. “I’ve tried everything. Nothing’s working.”

Tom crossed the room in a few swift strides, kneeling beside Ron. “Move,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

Hermione bristled. “I’ve got it under control.”

“No, you don’t. I know dark magic when I see it.” Tom didn’t look at her, his focus entirely on Ron. “And the curse they used is lingering, festering. Your healing spells won’t work until it’s neutralized.”

Hermione froze, her face pale. Harry stared at Tom, her heart pounding. “You can fix it?” she asked.

Tom didn’t answer immediately. He rolled up Ron’s shirt, examining the wound with a clinical detachment that made Harry’s stomach churn. The edges of the wound were blackened, and the skin around it was mottled with dark veins.

“Amateurs,” Tom muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “This is basic dark magic.” He raised his wand, the tip glowing faintly.

“Wait—” Hermione began, but Harry grabbed her arm, shaking her head. They stepped back, watching as Tom began to work.

Tom’s wand moved in precise, fluid motions as he muttered an incantation in a low, rhythmic voice. The air around Ron shimmered, dark tendrils of magic rising from the wound and dissipating like smoke. Ron groaned, his body tensing, but Tom didn’t falter. His expression was one of absolute focus, his magic steady and controlled.

After what felt like an eternity, the dark magic faded entirely. Ron’s breathing steadied, and the black veins around the wound disappeared. Tom stood, brushing off his hands as if it had been nothing.

“There,” he said, brushing off his hands. “He’ll recover now. Keep the wound clean.”

Hermione blinked at him, stunned. “How did you—”

“I’ve been dealing with dark magic my whole magical life,” Tom said, cutting her off. His tone was sharp, but there was no malice in it. “You’d do well to remember that.”

Hermione swallowed hard, her face a mixture of gratitude and wariness. “Thank you.”

Tom didn’t respond. He turned to Harry, his expression unreadable. “Get some rest. We’ll need to move again soon.”

Despite Tom’s suggestion, Harry didn’t sleep. As the others slept, she found Tom sitting alone near the edge of the campsite. She approached cautiously, the flickering light of his wand casting sharp shadows across his face.

“Do you ever rest?” she asked quietly.

Tom glanced at her, his expression blank. “Rest is a luxury we can’t afford.”

Harry sat beside him, the silence stretching between them. “Thank you. For helping Ron. For keeping us safe.”

He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the darkness beyond the campsite. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than she expected. “Keeping us safe means we keep moving. No matter how tired we are. We can count score when we made it through all this.”

Harry almost flinched at his use of “when” but she held herself steady and nodded before heading back into the tent.

Chapter Text

The night was still, save for the faint crackling of the fire inside the tent. Ron sat propped up on one of the bunks in the corner, his face pale but resolute as he nursed his still bandaged side.

Tom stood a short distance away, arms crossed, watching him with a calculating expression. He wasn’t particularly good at small talk, and this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have. But Harry had insisted someone check on Ron’s progress while she and Hermione stepped out to scout their surroundings for any signs of movement, and here they were.

“How’s the wound?” Tom asked bluntly, breaking the silence.

Ron looked up, his brow furrowing as he shifted uncomfortably. “Fine,” he said curtly, his tone clipped. “Hermione’s been fussing over it enough. You don’t have to pretend you care.”

Tom’s lips twitched, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “I’m not pretending. I’m just... fulfilling my obligation.”

Ron snorted. “Figures. Well, I’ll live, so you can tell her I’m fine.”

The silence that followed stretched, heavy and awkward. Ron shifted again, his blue eyes narrowing as he studied Tom. After a moment, he let out a sharp breath, as if steeling himself for what he was about to say.

“You know,” Ron began, his tone more serious now, “I don’t really like you.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, his expression unimpressed. “The feeling is mutual.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Ron said with a shrug. “But this isn’t about me or you. It’s about Harry.”

Tom stiffened, his jaw tightening slightly. “What about her?”

Ron leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Look, I love her. She’s one of my best friends. And I know you care about her too, even if you’re too much of a git to say it outright. But you and I both know she’s reckless. She’s been like that since I met her. She dives headfirst into danger without thinking, and most of the time, she gets away with it. But one of these days...”

His voice trailed off, and Tom didn’t need him to finish the sentence. His latest conversation with Harry over that recklessness was still fresh in his mind.

“She’s reckless because she doesn’t think she’s going to live after all this, so she throws herself into trouble to save others instead,” Ron said finally, his voice low and serious. “She won’t say it, but I know it. And I think you do too.”

For the first time, Tom looked at Ron and saw a glimmer of understanding in the redhead’s gaze. His jaw twitched, but he kept his expression neutral. “What’s your point?”

Ron’s gaze sharpened. “My point is, if anyone can change that, it’s you.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step closer. “And why, exactly, do you think that?”

“Because I’ve seen the way she looks at you,” Ron said, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. “And I’ve seen the way you look at her. You think I don’t know what’s going on between you two? You might be able to fool yourselves, but you’re not fooling anyone else.”

Tom remained silent, his expression unreadable, but Ron pressed on.

“She doesn’t believe there’s a future waiting for her after this war,” Ron continued. “But you? You do. I see it every time you look at her. You want a future with her. So stop being vaguely about what that looks like. Stop laying out ultimatums and just show her. Lay it all out for her. Let her see what you see, so she knows she has something to live for.”

Tom was silent for a long moment, his expression cold and calculating as if he were trying to decide whether to respond at all. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and clipped. “Do you think I don’t see what she’s doing? Do you think I haven’t tried? She says she’ll listen, but I know it won’t last.”

“I think you’re too used to hiding your feelings,” Ron shot back. “You show her enough for her to know that you want a future with her, but you’re too emotionally constipated to actually lay out what that means. You don’t just tell her, Tom. You show her. Lay it all out there. No games, no holding back. Make her see it.”

Tom’s lips tightened, his dark eyes fixed on Ron. “You think she’ll listen to me?” he asked, his voice slow and measured.

Ron gave him a pointed look. “If it’s you, yeah, I think she will. Because whether I like it or not, you’re the one person who can get through to her. Otherwise, she’ll keep fighting for everyone else like she’s nothing worth losing, and she’ll get herself killed. And I don’t want that any more than you do.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The crackling of the fire filled the silence as Tom considered Ron’s words. Finally, he inclined his head.

“I’ll think about it,” Tom said, his tone guarded.

“You’d better do more than just think about it,” Ron said warningly. “For all our sakes.”

Tom didn’t respond. He stepped outside into the cold night air, his mind racing with Weasley’s words. They were infuriatingly accurate. Harry didn’t see her own worth, her own future, because no one had ever convinced her it was hers to have. But maybe, just maybe, he could.

The thought of laying himself bare like that was terrifying. Almost unfathomable. But if it meant saving Harry—not just from Voldemort, but from herself—then he would need to find a way to do it.

Chapter Text

The night was cold, the wind howling through the trees around their camp. The tent provided little more than a sense of security as they kept moving to avoid detection. It had been weeks since they had left the relative safety of Grimmauld Place. Every day seemed farther away from winning the war, and the weight of it all pressed heavy on Harry’s chest.

Inside the tent, Ron and Hermione slept soundly, the only sound in the space being the crackling of the fire. Harry sat near the entrance, her back against the wall, her eyes scanning the darkness outside. Tom was beside her, his posture relaxed, but she could feel the tension in his muscles, the way he remained alert even as they sat in relative peace.

“What do you want, Harry?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence. His tone was measured, as if the question were purely academic, but his gaze held hers with an intensity that made her stomach tighten. “After the war. After Voldemort. What do you want from life?”

Harry swallowed, the question catching her off guard. Despite Tom having asked the question before, she had never really thought about it beyond what she'd already told him. They were so focused on the mission, on the constant fight for survival, that the idea surviving after Voldemort was impossible to imagine.

“I don’t know,” she admitted quietly. “I guess... I just want peace. A world where people aren’t afraid to live their lives, where we don’t have to fight every day just to survive.”

Tom nodded slowly, as if considering her words carefully. “Peace,” he repeated, his tone thoughtful. “I suppose that’s something worth wanting. But what does that really look like for you? Living at Grimauld Place forever? Being an Auror? A life playing Quidditch? A quiet life away from the spotlight? ... a family?”

Harry paused at the mention of a family. The idea of it had never seemed real to her, even when she had carried the baby and Tom had pressed her to marry him. She had never known what it was to have a family outside of Sirius, and now he was gone. The idea of starting a family of her own, of a chance for more than now, felt so foreign.

“I’ve never really known what it’s like to have a family,” she said softly, her voice tinged with sadness. “Not really. Sirius was the closest thing I had, but he’s gone now.”

Tom’s gaze softened for just a moment, his eyes flickering with something Harry couldn’t quite place. For a brief second, the walls he had so carefully built around himself seemed to crack, just enough for her to see something more. He shifted slightly, turning his body toward her.

“I could be your family,” he said, his voice low but steady. “After the war. You could have a life with me. A real life. I want us to be a family. To build something neither of us has ever had. A home. A future."

“You?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “You could be my family? After everything that we’ve done to each other, you would still want a life together?”

Tom’s expression remained unchanged, but there was something in his eyes—something vulnerable, something real—that made her wonder if he meant it. After all their grief and loss and pain, after all of that, here he was, asking her to imagine a future with him again.

“Yes,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I want a future, Harry. I told you; I’m a man who has had nothing. Nothing. And I don’t want nothing anymore. I want something to hope for. A family. A life. And after the baby died, I was so in much pain that I tried to find that with someone willing to promise me what you couldn’t in your grief, but I was wrong. It could never be anyone else. It’s you. It’s always been you. A life. A family. I want that with you. I wanted that with you for a long time, and I still do. Even now. After all of it.”

Harry’s chest tightened at his words, and for a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. She had never allowed herself to really consider Tom and a future that didn’t involve war, didn’t involve the constant fight for survival. It was impossible to conceive the notion. And yet, she loved him. After everything, she still loved him. And the idea of not having to run anymore - the idea of being able to form something permanent and real with him without the threat of war and death looming over head anymore - was so much more tempting than she was willing to let herself hope for.

“I want a life with you, Harry,” Tom repeated, words suddenly flowing out quickly as if he were afraid to say them and needed to get them all out before he could stop himself. “And it’s not just because of the bond. It’s because of you. Who you are to me. I want to give you all of the happiness that you should have always had. I want to give you peace. I want to give you a place to call home with me. I want to be the reason you laugh every day. I want to have your face be the first thing I see every morning and the last thing I see every night as we fall asleep in our bed. I want to cook dinner with you and grumble about Granger and Weasley coming over for drinks. I want to watch our children get on the Hogwarts Express and know that we’ve made this world safe for them, so they can be children the way we were never allowed to be children. I want to learn what it is to be happy more often than not as I live the rest of my life with you. I want to grow old with you, surrounded by our family and friends. I want that life. And I want to build that life with you.”

Harry’s heart raced, and for the first time, she was struck by how much Tom had thought this through. It wasn’t a half-formed thought. He had planned this, had considered it. And that realization hit her harder than anything else.

“You’ve really thought about this,” she said, her voice almost incredulous.

Tom smiled wistfully. “I don’t want nothing anymore. I want a future. I want something to build, not just destroy. And there’s no one else in this world that I want to do that with besides with you. Even if I’ve been too blinded by my own pain to show you that.”

Harry’s mind spun as she considered his words, wanting to stop running and let herself believe in this future that he had imagined for them, but the war they had yet to win loomed too large in her mind. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing thoughts. “What if we don’t survive this?” she asked quietly.

Tom didn’t flinch. “Then we don’t. But if we do, Harry, I want to be your family. I want us to have a life together. I’m not asking for everything right now, just a chance. A chance to have something real. No more running when this is all over. No more not knowing where we stand. We can just ... be together. Be happy.”

She swallowed hard, her mind racing. There was no running from this moment. From the life he was painting out so clearly before her, but still, the idea of hope was so painful.

“Promise me,” he said, his eyes locking onto hers. “Promise me that when this war is over, you’ll give us a chance to have the life we’ve both been denied. Promise me that you’ll give me a chance to make you happy. To make us both happy. Promise me that you’ll marry me and let us be a family together.”

Harry hesitated. The situation was ridiculous. Here they were, in the middle of a war, hiding from Death Eaters, and he was asking her to promise to marry him. “Tom,” she began, her voice uncertain even as she wanted to give in to the promise of a future beyond the war.

“You don't have to answer now,” he said gently, cutting her off. “It’s not an ultimatum. I understand now. I know you’re afraid to hope. I know you think this war will take everything from us. But I need you try and just think about it. To really think about it. About us.”

Harry swallowed hard, the intensity of his gaze making it impossible to look away. “I’ll think about it,” she said finally, her voice small but firm.

Something like relief spread across Tom’s face. “Good,” he said. “Because by the time this war is over, I think you’ll be ready to give me an answer one way or the other. And I don’t want you to decide without having tried to really think about what we could be together.”

Harry’s chest tightened at his words, but she didn’t say anything else. Instead, they just sat there together under the stars and listened to the quiet of the night.

Chapter Text

The forest they apparated into was dense and quiet, the kind of quiet that was unsettling. The air smelled damp, and the ground was littered with leaves and fallen branches. Tom landed smoothly, his wand already in hand, his sharp eyes scanning their surroundings. Hermione and Ron appeared with Harry a beat later, the tension among the group palpable as they quickly adjusted to the new site.

“We’ll camp here,” Hermione said, her voice brisk as she moved toward a clearing to begin setting up the tent. “Let’s get the wards up quickly.”

Tom nodded but stayed alert, casting a perimeter charm as he moved along the edge of the clearing. Harry and Ron remained near Hermione, trying to unpack what few supplies they still carried.

“Do you think we’ll be ready to launch another attack soon?” Harry asked suddenly, breaking the silence. She glanced at Hermione, then at Tom. “Another raid.”

“Not until Weasley’s recovered fully,” Tom said without looking at her, his voice clipped as his wand flicked in precise motions. “Until then we need to keep moving.”

Harry frowned, her frustration simmering just below the surface. “I don’t want to keep just moving. I want to finish this. Voldemort—”

The reaction was instant. A low hum of magic vibrated through the air, making the hair on the back of Harry’s neck stand on end. Tom froze mid-motion, his wand still raised, his eyes narrowing as the atmosphere shifted. Hermione’s head snapped up, panic flashing across her face.

“What was that?” Ron asked, his voice low and tense. He clutched his wand tightly, looking around.

Tom’s expression darkened. “That was a mistake.”

Before anyone could process what was happening, there was a loud crack—then another, and another. Figures materialized in the clearing, their wands drawn and their faces twisted in cruel delight.

Snatchers.

“Scatter!” Tom barked, already moving to intercept the nearest attacker. A jet of red light shot past his head as he sent a curse hurtling back toward the intruder.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione dove for cover, their wands raised. Spells ricocheted through the forest, lighting up the darkness in bursts of green and red. Harry managed to stun one of the Snatchers, but before she could regroup, a pair of rough hands grabbed her from behind, wrenching her wand from her grasp.

“Gotcha now, little girl,” a gruff voice sneered into her ear.

“Harry!” Ron shouted, rushing toward her, but he was intercepted by another Snatcher, who tackled him to the ground. Hermione screamed as her wand was knocked from her hand, another Snatcher binding her wrists with a quick flick of his wand.

Tom was a blur of motion, his spells precise and deadly as he fought off three Snatchers at once. But there were too many of them, and the clearing was quickly descending into chaos. His wand slashed through the air, sending one Snatcher flying into a tree, but he barely had time to turn before another curse grazed his shoulder.

“Drop it, or she dies!”

The voice cut through the noise like a knife. Tom froze, his eyes snapping toward the source. A Snatcher stood a few feet away, his wand pressed to Harry’s throat. She struggled against his grip, her green eyes wide with fury and fear.

“Do it!” the Snatcher snarled, digging his wand into her neck. “Drop your wand, or I’ll kill her right here.”

“Tom, don’t! Save Ron and Hermione!” Harry screamed, wrestling with the Snatcher’s grip.

Tom’s hand tightened around his wand, his jaw clenching as he weighed his options. He could likely take them all down—he was sure of it—but not before they hurt her. Not before they killed her. His eyes met Harry’s, and in that second, they both knew the choice he would make.

Slowly, Tom raised his hands, his wand slipping from his fingers to the ground. His voice was cold, laced with quiet fury. “Don’t hurt her.”

The Snatcher sneered. “Smart choice. Bind him.”

Another Snatcher stepped forward, conjuring thick ropes that coiled around Tom’s wrists and arms. He didn’t resist, his gaze never leaving Harry.

“Take them,” the leader barked. “We’re going to the Manor. They’ll want to see these four.”

With a sickening crack, the Snatchers disapparated, dragging their captives with them.

Chapter Text

The air inside Malfoy Manor was suffocating, a heavy shroud of malice and dread that pressed against their skin. The four of them were dragged roughly into the grand hall, their wands taken, their wrists bound. Harry stumbled as she was shoved forward, her knees slamming against the cold marble floor. Ron and Hermione were thrown down beside her, while Tom was forced to his knees, his head held high and defiant despite the ropes digging into his arms.

From the far end of the hall, Rodolphus Lestrange stepped forward, his face a mask of fury barely restrained beneath a veneer of cold amusement. His dark eyes flickered over the group, lingering on Tom with a hatred so palpable it seemed to radiate from him.

“Well, well,” Rodolphus said, his voice low and venomous. “Look what the Snatchers dragged in. Potter, her loyal little friends, and you.” His lip curled as he spat the word at Tom. “The murderer.”

Tom’s voice was calm, almost cold. “Bellatrix got what she deserved.”

Rodolphus’s hand clenched around his wand, his knuckles white. His composure cracked for a moment, his voice rising with fury. “You dare speak her name? You dare speak of her like that? You’ll regret those words,” he snarled. “But not just you. No, that’s too easy.”

He turned his gaze to Harry, bending down slightly to meet her glare. “You don’t look so brave now, Potter.”

“Go to hell,” Harry spat, her voice steady despite the tension radiating from her.

Rodolphus straightened, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. “Take them to the dungeon,” Rodolphus barked to the Snatchers. “All but her. Leave Potter with me.”

Tom’s entire body tensed, his eyes flashing with unrestrained anger. “Rodolphus, if you touch her—”

“You’ll do what?” Rodolphus interrupted with a sneer. “You’re bound, wandless, and at my mercy. This is my retribution. You’re going to feel the same helplessness I did when you took her from me.”

“I’ll kill you,” Tom said, his voice low and filled with a venom so potent it made even the Snatchers hesitate.

Rodolphus merely smirked and waved a hand. “Take the others to the dungeons. I’ll deal with them later.”

“Don’t touch her!” Tom’s voice was a roar, his calm facade breaking as he strained against the ropes binding him. “If you so much as lay a hand on her—”

“You’ll what?” Rodolphus sneered, his wand already raised. “You’ll kill me? You already said that, but you don’t seem to grasp the situation here. You’re powerless here, boy. And I want you to hear her screams. I want you to understand what it felt like when I learned what you did to my Bella.”

Tom’s fury erupted, his voice thunderous as he was dragged away. “Rodolphus! If you hurt her, I swear I’ll make you suffer. I’ll rip you apart with my bare hands!”

But his threats fell on deaf ears as the Snatchers hauled him, Hermione, and Ron toward the dungeons. Harry struggled, kicking and thrashing, but Rodolphus’s wand pressed sharply against her throat, forcing her still.

“This is going to be fun,” he murmured darkly, his grin twisted and cruel.

---

The dungeons were cold and damp, the stone walls slick with moisture. Tom, Hermione, and Ron were thrown into a small cell, their bindings undone, powerless without their wands. The door slammed shut behind them, the heavy thud of the lock echoing in the darkness.

Ron immediately slumped against the wall, clutching his side. Hermione rushed to him, her hands trembling as she inspected his injuries.

Tom, however, didn’t move toward the others. His focus was entirely on the thick wooden door. From above, faint voices reached them—then a scream. Harry’s scream.

“Harry!” Tom’s voice was raw, filled with rage and fear. He rushed to the door, slamming his fists against it with all his strength, the sharp crack of his fists against the wood echoing in the dungeon. “Let her go, Rodolphus! You coward! Let her go!”

Another scream tore through the air, and Tom’s fists pounded harder. The wood cracked under the force of his blows, but it didn’t give. Blood began to streak the surface where his skin had split, but he didn’t stop.

“Harry!” His voice was a roar now, filled with desperation. His breaths came in short, ragged bursts, his chest heaving as he slammed his fists against the door again, harder this time. “You touch her again, and I swear, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born!” The wood groaned under the force, but it didn’t budge. He kept hitting it, his hands growing bloody, his voice cracking as he shouted her name over and over again.

“Tom—stop!” Hermione’s voice broke through his fury. She was at his side, pulling at his arm. “You’ll hurt yourself—stop!”

“I don’t care!” Tom roared, his fists pounding against the door even as blood smeared across the wood. “Let her go!” he screamed, his voice hoarse and filled with a desperation that neither Hermione nor Ron had ever heard before. “Take me instead! Do you hear me? Take me instead!” He continued to slam his fists, his control slipping entirely.

Ron’s voice was weak but steady. “We’ll get her back, mate. We will.”

Tom turned to them, his eyes wild, his hands bloody. For a moment, he didn’t look like the cold, calculating man they had grown used to. He looked like someone who had everything to lose.

“We have to,” he said, his voice low but filled with a dangerous determination. “Because if we don’t, I’ll tear this place apart with my bare hands.”

Hermione and Ron exchanged a glance, their own fear mirrored in each other’s eyes. Above them, Harry’s screams echoed again, the sound tearing through the silence.

Tom’s jaw clenched as he turned back to the door, his fists still trembling. “Hold on, Harry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible but resolute. “Hold on.”

Chapter Text

The sound of Harry’s screams echoed through the cold, damp dungeon like a knife twisting in Tom’s chest. His fists continued to slam into the heavy wooden door, the skin splitting open with each hit, blood staining the rough surface. His breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes blazing with fury. He didn’t care that the door didn’t budge. He didn’t care about the pain shooting up his arms. All that mattered was the sound of Harry’s voice, raw with agony, and the fact that he couldn’t reach her.

“Let me out!” he roared, his voice cracking as he slammed his shoulder into the door. “Rodolphus, you coward! Let her go! Let her go!”

“Tom, stop!” Ron’s voice was strained but firm as he staggered toward him. He grabbed Tom’s shoulder, yanking him back. “You’re not helping her like this!”

Tom whirled on him, his face twisted with rage. “And what do you suggest, Weasley? That I wait? That I let her scream while we sit here like cowards?”

Ron’s face paled, but he didn’t back down. “No, I’m saying you need to think! Remember what you told me when we ran from the wedding? When I didn’t want to leave my family behind? You said, ‘The moment you let emotion cloud your judgment, you’ve already lost.’” He gripped Tom’s arm tighter. “That’s what you’re doing right now.”

Tom froze, his chest heaving as Ron’s words sank in. His bloody hands trembled at his sides, and his jaw tightened. Slowly, the fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something cold and sharp. He straightened, pulling his arm free from Ron’s grip.

“You’re right,” Tom said, his voice low and dangerous. He turned away from the door, pacing the small cell. “Emotion is a distraction. I need to think.”

Hermione watched him warily, her hands still resting on Ron’s arm. “Do you have a plan?” she asked cautiously.

“I will,” Tom muttered, his mind racing as he sifted through possibilities. His hands flexed at his sides, leaving faint smears of blood on his robes as his thoughts spiraled. His mind flickered to Harry’s young face at Hogsmeade as they walked together at Tom’s insistence to keep her safe from Sirius Black, and a memory surfaced—one of Harry’s stories, told with a bittersweet smile and lingering fondness.

“Dobby,” Tom murmured, his eyes narrowing as the pieces clicked into place. He turned sharply toward the others. “She freed a house-elf in her second year. Dobby. He owes her his freedom.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “You think he’ll come if you call him?”

Tom didn’t answer. He stepped to the center of the room, straightened his bloodied hands at his sides, and called out sharply, “Dobby!”

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a loud crack, Dobby’s small, gangly figure appeared in the center of the dungeon. His large green eyes widened as he took in the scene, lingering on Tom with suspicion.

“Miss Harry Potter’s Tom,” Dobby said warily, his voice high-pitched but steady. “Why does you call Dobby?”

“Harry is in danger,” Tom said quickly, his voice sharper than he intended. “She’s upstairs being tortured. I need you to help us.”

Dobby gasped, his eyes brimming with alarm. “Miss Harry Potter is hurt? Dobby must go to her!”

“Wait,” Tom said, holding up a hand. “Not yet. First, take Weasley and Granger to safety. Get them out of here—somewhere secure where they can recover.”

“No!” Hermione protested, stepping forward. “You can’t ask Dobby to leave Harry behind!”

Tom’s gaze cut to her, his expression cold. “If Dobby takes all of us now, the Snatchers will know. They’ll increase security before we can get to her. I’ll deal with them while you’re safe.”

“Safe?” Ron snapped, his voice strained. “We’re not leaving her!”

“You’ll slow me down,” Tom said bluntly, his tone biting. “You’re injured, and Granger’s loyalty to you as her soulmate will compromise her judgment. If you stay, you’ll die, and so will she. Do you want that?”

Ron glared at him, his jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue further.

Tom turned back to Dobby. “Take them now, but unlock the door for me before you go. Once the way is clear, I’ll handle the rest. I’ll call for you when I have her.”

Dobby hesitated, wringing his hands. “Dobby will do it,” he said finally, though his voice was thick with emotion. He turned to Hermione and Ron. “Grabs on to Dobby. I will take you to safety.”

Hermione looked torn, her eyes darting between Tom and the door. “You’d better bring her back,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“I will,” Tom said coldly. “I always keep my promises.”

With a nod, Hermione and Ron each grabbed hold of Dobby’s arms. The house-elf gave Tom one last look before they vanished with a loud crack, leaving him alone in the cell.

The silence pressed in for a moment, broken only by the faint sound of Harry’s screams from above. Tom clenched his fists, forcing himself to focus. Almost immediately, there was another crack, and the door to the dungeon creaked open.

Tom didn’t hesitate. He stepped through the doorway, his wandless hands ready to tear through anyone in his path. “Hold on, Harry,” he murmured to himself, his voice deadly quiet. “I’m coming.”

Chapter Text

Tom moved swiftly, his sharp senses heightened by the echo of Harry’s screams still ringing in his ears. His hands were bloodied and raw, his magic simmering just below the surface as he stalked forward. Every step felt like a battle against time.

As he ascended the stairs leading out of the dungeon, a figure emerged from the shadows ahead. The pale, rat-like face of Peter Pettigrew froze when he saw Tom, his watery eyes widening in panic. Clutched in his trembling hands were several wands, including Tom’s own.

“R-Riddle,” Wormtail stammered, his voice high and wheezing. He clutched the wands tighter, his gaze darting toward the stairs leading up. “You’re not supposed to be—”

Tom didn’t wait for him to finish. His hand shot out, and with a sharp, wordless command, a wave of wandless magic crashed into Wormtail, sending him flying into the stone wall with a sickening crack. The wands scattered from his grasp, clattering to the ground.

Tom advanced, his movements predatory as Wormtail groaned and struggled to push himself upright. “You,” Tom said coldly, his voice laced with venom. “You betrayed them. You handed James and Lily Potter to Voldemort.”

Wormtail’s hands scrabbled weakly at the ground, his voice a pathetic whimper. “I—I didn’t have a choice—”

“There’s always a choice,” Tom snarled, grabbing his wand from the pile and pointing it directly at Wormtail’s chest. The weight of what this man had done—the destruction, the lives ruined—fueled the fury burning in Tom’s chest. He thought of Harry, of the life she could have had if not for this man’s cowardice.

“Avada Kedavra!” The words left Tom’s lips with a sharp finality, and the green light of the curse lit up the corridor. Wormtail crumpled to the ground, lifeless, his small, pitiful form finally still.

Tom didn’t spare him another glance. He grabbed the remaining wands, slipping them into his robes before breaking into a run up the stairs, his focus singular: Harry.

Chapter Text

The grand hall was chaos. Lestrange stood in the center, his wand raised, laughter spilling from his lips as Harry writhed on the floor in front of him. She was limp, her head lolling weakly as sparks of crimson magic danced across her skin. Her screams had faded into soft, incoherent murmurs, and her emerald eyes were unfocused, the light in them dimming.

Lestrange pointed his wand at her limp form again, a cruel smile twisting his features.
“Cruci—”

“Expulso!”

The curse hit the floor at Lestrange’s feet, sending shards of marble flying. Lestrange staggered back, raising his wand just in time to block Tom’s next attack.

“Riddle,” Lestrange sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. “Come to save your precious little heroine, have you? You’re too late. She’s already broken.”

Tom’s fury ignited. He didn’t respond, his wand slashing through the air as he sent a barrage of spells at Lestrange, each one more vicious than the last. The two dueled with deadly precision, the air between them crackling with magic.

"You’re pathetic, Riddle!” Lestrange spat as he dodged another curse. “The could have been Dark Lord reduced to playing savior for a little girl. Bella would’ve laughed.”

Tom’s wand slashed through the air, sending a curse so powerful it cracked the marble beneath Lestrange’s feet. “You talk too much, Lestrange,” Tom growled. “And you’re running out of time.”

But before he could press the advantage, a bone-chilling voice cut through the hall.
“Enough.”

Tom froze, his blood running cold as Voldemort stepped into the room, his skeletal figure draped in flowing black robes. His crimson eyes swept over the scene, landing on Harry’s motionless form. A cruel smile curled his lips.

“Well, well, Tom,” Voldemort said, his tone mocking. “What a touching display. You’ve betrayed everything you were supposed to have been for this… girl.”

Tom didn’t lower his wand. His mind raced as Voldemort moved closer to Harry, his wand raised. “Step away from her,” Tom said, his voice low and deadly. “Now.”

Voldemort laughed, a high, cold sound. “Or what? You’ll try to kill me? Spare me the theatrics, Tom. You know as well as I do that you can’t win. I’ll destroy her first, just to prove it.”

In a blur of motion, Tom fired a blasting curse that sent Lestrange flying into the far wall, knocking him unconscious. His eyes snapped to Voldemort’s side, where Nagini slithered into view, her massive coils glinting in the dim light. Desperation fueled his next move. With a sharp motion, Tom summoned Nagini into his grip, his magic pinning the snake mid-air. His wand pressed to her hide.

“Take another step toward her, and I kill it,” Tom snarled, his voice like ice. “Your last Horcrux, Voldemort. Do you want to see it bleed?”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, his amusement fading. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Without hesitation, Tom slashed his wand through the air, leaving a deep, oozing gash along Nagini’s side. The snake hissed in pain, writhing in his magical hold.

“Try me,” Tom said, his voice low and steady. “You hurt her, and I’ll finish the job. I’ll make you mortal.”

Fury twisted Voldemort’s face into something monstrous. His voice was a sharp, venomous hiss. “You’d trade the fate of the world for one life? One insignificant girl?”

Tom’s gaze didn’t waver. “I don’t care about the world. I care about her. Let her go, or you’ll lose everything.”

Voldemort’s wand hand twitched, his gaze flickering between Harry and Nagini. The silence stretched unbearably, every second dragging like an eternity. Finally, with a snarl of frustration, Voldemort flung Harry’s limp form across the room, letting her land at Tom’s feet.

“There,” Voldemort spat, his voice dripping with venom. “Take your little Potter. But you won’t escape, Tom. My wards are in place now. Not even your pathetic elf can save you.”

Tom didn’t waste the opportunity. He darted to Harry’s side, his heart pounding as he dropped to his knees. “Harry,” he said urgently, his voice softer now as his hands hovered over her. She was barely conscious, her breath shallow, her skin pale and clammy. “Stay with me.”

She didn’t respond, her breaths shallow and ragged. Desperation clawed at Tom, but he forced himself to think. Voldemort’s wards meant Dobby couldn’t get in. There was no escape—but then his eyes fell on her wrist.

He saw it: the faint glint of gold around Harry’s wrist. The bracelet he’d given her in fifth year as a Christmas gift gleamed faintly, its small charm enchanted as a portkey tied to Grimmauld Place. A lifeline. He’d almost forgotten about it in the chaos of the war, but now it was their only chance.

Tom brushed Harry’s hair away from her face. “I’m getting you out of here,” he murmured, his voice fierce. His fingers found the bracelet, and he pressed his wand to it, activating the portkey with a whispered incantation.

Voldemort’s eyes widened as he realized what was happening. “No!” he shouted, his wand snapping up.

The portkey activated in a rush of wind and light, and Tom and Harry vanished just as Voldemort’s curse streaked through the air, missing them by inches.

——————————————————

They landed in the sitting room of Grimmauld Place with a jarring thud. Tom collapsed onto the floor, cradling Harry against him. She was still limp, her breathing shallow, but she was alive.

“Harry,” he said urgently, shaking her slightly. “Wake up. You’re safe now.”

Her eyelids fluttered, her voice barely a whisper. “Tom?”

“I’m here,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “You’re safe.”

As her eyes slowly focused on him, Tom exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. For a long moment, he just stayed there, cradling her close, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts. Voldemort had shown his hand tonight—his weakness, his fury, his desperation.

But right now, all that mattered was that Harry was alive, and she was in his arms.

Chapter Text

The dim lighting of Grimmauld Place’s kitchen felt far less oppressive now that Tom had confirmed Harry was alive and coherent. She was still pale and trembling, but her eyes were open now, though hazy with exhaustion. He continued to look over her silently, his expression blank save for the occasional flicker of tension in his jaw.

“Tom,” Harry said weakly, her voice cracking, “I’m fine.”

“You’re far from fine,” Tom said sharply, though his voice was lower than usual. He finished his examination and sat back on his heels, his eyes scanning her face with an intensity that made her look away.

Harry forced a small, lopsided smile, though her hands clenched his arms for support sitting upright. “You pulled me out. You always do.”

Tom’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Don’t thank me. I should never have let them take you in the first place.” After a moment, he straightened, calling sharply, “Dobby!”

With a loud crack, the house-elf appeared, his wide eyes immediately darting to Harry. “Miss Harry Potter is alive!” Dobby exclaimed, wringing his hands in relief. “Oh, Dobby was so worried—”

“She’s alive,” Tom interrupted curtly, his focus unwavering. “But we can’t stay here. Rookwood will have told the other Death Eaters about this place by now. Where did you take Weasley and Granger?”

Dobby straightened, his long ears twitching. “Dobby took them to Shell Cottage, sir. It is where Master Bill Weasley and Mistress Fleur Weasley live. They is Miss Harry’s Potter’s Weasley’s family.”

Tom raised a brow, his tone turning dry. “Bill and Fleur Weasley. Yes, I recall. I danced at their wedding. Briefly.”

Harry, despite everything, let out a breathy laugh even as it pulled at her bruised ribs. “Briefly,” she repeated, shaking her head.

Tom ignored her comment, turning back to Dobby. “Take us there. Now.”

Dobby nodded eagerly. “Dobby will take you both.” He stepped forward, holding out his hand for Harry. She started to push herself up, but her arms trembled, and Tom caught her before she could fall.

“Don’t,” he said firmly. “I’ve got you.”

He slipped one arm under her knees and the other around her back, lifting her with ease. Harry didn’t protest, leaning on him with exhaustion.

“Hold tight,” Tom instructed, his grip tightening around her as Dobby reached for his arm. With a loud crack, the three of them disappeared from Grimmauld Place.

———————————————

The salty air of the sea hit them first as they landed on the soft sand outside Shell Cottage. The house stood just ahead, its warm light spilling from the windows into the dark night. Tom wasted no time, striding toward the door with Harry still cradled in his arms, Dobby trailing behind.

Before they even reached the door, it swung open, and Hermione rushed out, her face a mixture of relief and worry. “Harry!” she gasped, rushing forward.

“She’s alive,” Tom said flatly, giving Hermione a moment to fuss over Harry. “Though I’m afraid the Death Eaters came far too close to proving otherwise.”

Hermione’s hands hovered near Harry, as though she wanted to help but didn’t know how. “I—thank you,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

Ron appeared in the doorway to the living room, leaning heavily on the wall for support. “You made it,” he said, his voice hoarse with genuine gratitude. “About time.”

“Of course I did,” Tom said evenly. “I always keep my promises.”

“Come inside, all of you,” Fleur called from behind Ron in the doorway, her voice warm but tinged with concern. “It’s not much, but we’ll make room for you.”

Once inside, Fleur directed them to the small sitting room while she prepared a space upstairs. A few minutes later, she returned, her elegant features apologetic. Looking at Harry and Tom, she said, “I’ve set up another room, but there’s not much space left in the house. You’ll have to share, I’m afraid.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Tom said smoothly, lifting Harry into his arms again before anyone could protest. He glanced at Fleur with a faint, polite smile. “It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve shared a bed. Thank you.”

Fleur blinked, her eyes darting between him and Harry, but she chose not to comment. “If you need anything, call for me,” she said instead.

Tom carried Harry upstairs, the creak of the wooden stairs the only sound between them. She leaned her head against his shoulder, her exhaustion catching up to her quickly.

“You could’ve just let me walk,” she murmured, though there was no real heat in her voice.

“You can barely stand,” Tom said simply, pushing open the door to their room. “You don’t need to prove anything to anyone.”

The room was small but warm, the bed tucked beneath a sloped ceiling and adorned with a thick quilt. Tom set Harry down carefully, his movements uncharacteristically gentle. He knelt beside her, pulling a chair closer as he examined her more carefully now that they were out of immediate danger. His movements were slow and deliberate, his gaze flicking over every bruise and scrape.

“Does anything hurt?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

“Just… tired,” Harry admitted, leaning back against the pillows. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, but she forced them open again.

“Rest,” Tom said firmly, conjuring a damp cloth and gently dabbing at her forehead. His hand lingered for a moment, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You’re safe now.”

Harry let out a shaky breath, her body finally relaxing. “Thanks to you.”

Tom didn’t respond immediately, his gaze lingering on her face. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “No one will hurt you ever again. Not without going through me first. I’ll see to that.”

She didn’t reply, already half-asleep, but her hand found his and squeezed weakly. Tom stayed by her side, watching her as her breathing evened out, his resolve hardening like steel. For now, they were safe. But the war was far from over. And Tom had never been more determined to win.

Chapter Text

When Harry woke, the first thing she noticed was the warmth of the quilt draped over her and the faint scent of lavender that clung to the room. For a moment, she felt disoriented, the events of the night before coming back to her in fragmented flashes—the duel, Voldemort, the portkey.

Then the second thing she noticed was Tom, still seated beside her bed, his posture upright and alert, his dark eyes focused on her the moment she moved.

“You’re awake,” he said softly, his voice calm but edged with relief. He looked as though he hadn’t moved an inch since she’d fallen asleep.

Harry pushed herself up, wincing at the ache in her muscles. “How long have I been out?”

“A few hours,” Tom replied, his gaze never leaving her. “You needed the rest. You still do.”

Harry’s eyes fell to his hands, still bloodied and bruised, the faint tremor in them betraying the storm he kept bottled inside.. “You should’ve taken care of yourself,” she said softly, reaching out to take his wrist. “Your hands…”

Tom pulled back slightly, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. “I wasn’t going to leave you unconscious in a strange place after what we just went through. Did you expect me to leave you alone?”

Harry scowled, her grip firm as she tugged his hand back. “That’s no excuse. You can’t just not take care of yourself, Tom.”

He scoffed lightly. “I think you’re misunderstanding the situation. I’m not the one who—”

“Enough,” Harry cut in sharply, her green eyes blazing as she grabbed the basin of water from beside the bed. “I’m fine. Now let me take care of you for once.”

Tom opened his mouth to argue, but something in her expression stopped him. He arched a brow said nothing as she gathered supplies from the nightstand. She sat on the edge of the bed, gently pulling his hands toward her, her movements careful but firm.

Tom’s eyes fixed on Harry as she carefully wrapped bandages around his hands. Her fingers brushed against his as she tied the last knot, and a flicker of something passed between them—a reminder of the bond they shared, still battered but not broken.

“There,” Harry said quietly, sitting back. “Better?”

Tom flexed his fingers, testing the bandages. “Adequate,” he said, though his lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile.

Harry rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto her face. For the first time in what felt like weeks, the world didn’t feel quite so heavy.

———————————————

Later, downstairs in the warm, cluttered kitchen of Shell Cottage, Bill finally explained the truth.

“The Dark Lord’s name has been made a Taboo,” he said, leaning against the counter as the group sat around the table. “It’s been like that for months. Anyone who says it sets off a magical trace, allowing Death Eaters to find them immediately.”

Harry paled. “That’s how they kept finding us,” she murmured, glancing at Hermione and Ron.

“When you said it,” Hermione added, her voice tight, “that’s how they broke through the wards we hadn’t finished setting up and caught us at the clearing.”

Tom’s expression darkened, and he folded his arms across his chest. “A clever tactic,” he said, his voice low. “Simple and effective. We’ll need to adjust.”

Bill nodded. “It’s dangerous to stay in one place for too long, but Shell Cottage is protected by some of the strongest wards I could cast. You should be safe here for a while.”

Tom looked at Harry’s trembling hands and Ron’s slumped side, the thick bandages still visible through his shirt. “Thank you,” he told Bill quietly. And that was that.

Chapter Text

The days at Shell Cottage passed in a strange haze of recovery and calm. Dobby came and went, bringing supplies, fresh linens, and news from the outside world. He delighted in sitting for hours with Harry, regaling her with tales of his life since she’d freed him in her second year.

“You is my favorite witch, Miss Harry Potter,” Dobby said one day, his ears twitching happily. “Dobby owes you everything.”

Harry blushed, her smile soft as she patted his shoulder. “You don’t owe me anything, Dobby. You’ve done more than enough already.”

Meanwhile, Hermione pored over books Bill had brought her while Ron gradually regained his strength with Fleur’s care and determination.

Tom remained a distant but constant presence, his sharp mind always working, even in moments of quiet. Yet, here, surrounded by the crashing waves and the laughter of others, he allowed himself to think of the future he’d told Harry about.

Late at night, when the house was still and Harry slept beside him in their shared room, Tom let his mind wander. He thought about waking up like this every day—about a life where they weren’t running, where the shadows of Voldemort and death no longer loomed over them.

He imagined living with Harry properly, not out of necessity but by choice. He could see her in a house they’d build together, her laughter filling the air, her smile lighting up even the darkest corners of his mind. He thought of children—ones they would protect, love, and cherish, giving them the lives neither of them had known.

His lips quirked into a faint smirk as he considered the inevitable visits from Hermione and Ron. Harry would insist on keeping a room ready for them, and Tom—begrudgingly, of course—would agree. The thought made his smirk widen, though he would never admit to tolerating their company.

But above all, he thought about Harry. About a life with her, free from fear, free from war.

Tom exhaled quietly, his hand brushing against Harry’s as she stirred beside him. She turned in her sleep, her face peaceful. He studied her, his expression softening in the dim light as he reflected on their conversation before the Snatchers had gotten them, when he’d asked her to promise to marry him, and she hadn’t rejected him outright. When she’d promised to truly think about it.

He held that promise in his mind fiercely and hoped. And Tom never hoped for anything he wasn’t prepared to fight for.

Chapter Text

It was mid-morning when Dobby appeared again in the warm sitting room of Shell Cottage, his arrival announced by a loud crack that startled everyone inside despite his constant comings and goings. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Tom looked up sharply, their wands half-raised, but the sight of Dobby holding onto a bruised and battered Luna Lovegood immediately dissolved their tension.

“Miss Luna needed help,” Dobby said urgently, his large green eyes wide and shimmering with worry. “Dobby found her wandering near Hogsmeade, trying to find news of Miss Harry Potter.”

“Luna!” Harry exclaimed, rushing to her friend as Ron and Hermione followed closely behind. Luna looked pale and fragile, her usual ethereal calm dulled by exhaustion and the faint bruises on her face and arms, but she still offered Harry a serene smile.

“Hello, Harry,” she said softly, her voice airy despite her obvious pain. “I’m so glad to see you. I was starting to think I’d have to find my way to Hogwarts again without any news of what was happening with you.”

Harry and Hermione helped Luna to a chair, fussing over her with whispered assurances and hurried offers of water and food. Tom, however, stood back, watching the scene unfold with an unreadable expression. His gaze lingered on Luna’s bruised face, and for a fleeting moment, he thought back to the night on the Astronomy Tower when she had spoken to him with such kindness, even when he’d expected judgment. He thought back to the night of the wedding and how she’d danced to the rhythm of her own silent song, free and uncaring of anyone else.

“Move,” Tom said suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of conversation.

Harry blinked, confused. “What?”

“I’ll handle this,” Tom said flatly, stepping forward. He crouched in front of Luna, his movements precise and deliberate as he examined her injuries. “You’re hardly qualified for this.”

Hermione bristled. “Excuse me, but—”

“Do you want her properly tended to, or do you want to bicker with me?” Tom snapped, not bothering to look up. His hands moved deftly as he used his wand to summon supplies—clean cloths, a salve for the bruises, and a small vial of healing potion—from around the house. Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Harry placed a hand on her arm, shaking her head.

Tom worked in silence, his expression as cold and composed as ever, though his touch was gentler than anyone expected. Luna, for her part, watched him with quiet calmness, her head tilting slightly as he dabbed the salve onto a particularly nasty bruise on her temple.

“You’re very efficient, Tom,” Luna said dreamily, breaking the silence. “But you should try to relax your jaw. You’ll grind your teeth down if you keep clenching them like that.”

Tom’s hand stilled for a moment, his lips pressing into a thin line, but he said nothing as he resumed his work.

Once Tom finished tending to her injuries, Luna took a deep sip of the tea Fleur had brought her and began to speak. Her voice was calm, but her words carried the weight of what she had endured.

“Hogwarts is worse than ever,” she said, her eyes growing distant. “Snape is the Headmaster now, though he doesn’t do much other than lurk in the shadows. The Carrows—Alecto and Amycus—are in charge of discipline, but their ‘detentions’ are just excuses to hurt people.”

Harry’s fists clenched, anger flickering in her eyes. “What about the D.A.? Are they still—?”

“They’re still fighting,” Luna interrupted gently, her voice steady. “But it’s harder now. The Carrows keep targeting anyone who resists, and the punishments… they’re getting more brutal. Most of us have moved into the Room of Requirement. It’s the only place we can hide without being found.”

Ron leaned forward, his face pale. “But how are they surviving? How do they get food? Supplies?”

“The Room provides what it can,” Luna explained, “but it’s not perfect. We’ve been losing people, though. Ones who didn’t make it to The Room. Not because they’ve left, but because they were taken in ‘detentions.’” Her voice wavered slightly, though her expression remained serene. “No one knows where they are now. No one knows if they’re even still alive.”

A heavy silence fell over the room as the weight of her words sank in. Hermione’s hands trembled as she reached for Ron’s, clutching it tightly.

“They’ll find the Room eventually,” Luna added. “It’s only a matter of time.”

Tom, who had been standing quietly by the window, finally spoke. “This changes things.”

Harry looked at him, her green eyes sharp. “What do you mean?”

Tom turned to face her fully, his expression hard. “We can’t keep running and hiding. Voldemort knows we’re out here somewhere, and he’ll keep hunting us until we’re either dead or too weak to fight back. If we want to win this war, we need to draw him out. Force him into the open.”

Ron frowned. “And how exactly do we do that? It’s not like we can send him a bloody owl inviting him to tea.”

“No,” Tom said evenly, “but we can give him something he can’t resist—a fight on his terms. Somewhere he believes he holds the upper hand.”

Harry’s eyes widened as she realized what he was suggesting. “You’re talking about Hogwarts.”

Tom nodded. “It’s the only place that makes sense. The school has always been central to him—to his plans, his history, his obsessions. If we rally there, he’ll come.”

Hermione hesitated. “But the students… the ones still fighting in the D.A. They’ll be caught in the crossfire.”

“They’re already in danger,” Tom said bluntly. “If Voldemort tightens his grip, they’ll be slaughtered anyway. At least this way, they’ll have a fighting chance.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “And the last Horcrux? Nagini?”

“We’ll have to draw him out first,” Tom replied, his voice cold and calculated. “He won’t bring her unless he feels secure. If we force his hand, we’ll make him vulnerable.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Harry stood, her gaze steady as she looked at each of them in turn. “If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it together. We’ll go to Hogwarts, find the D.A., and make our stand.”

Ron nodded, determination hardening his features. “We’re with you, Harry. Always.”

Hermione, though pale, nodded as well. “It’s time.”

Tom’s eyes lingered on Harry, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “Then it’s settled.”

Chapter Text

The small bedroom in Shell Cottage was bathed in moonlight, the soft silver glow seeping through the window as Harry and Tom lay side by side. The house was quiet, the others having gone to bed hours ago after the day’s intense planning. The weight of tomorrow hung heavily in the air, unspoken but ever-present.

Tomorrow, they would go to Hogwarts. Tomorrow, they would face Voldemort. But tonight, the world was still, and for a moment, they allowed themselves to exist in that fragile peace.

Tom’s arms were wrapped around Harry, her head resting against his chest. His breath was steady, but she could feel the tension in his body—the way his fingers idly traced small circles against her back, as though trying to keep himself grounded. Neither of them spoke; there was nothing to say that hadn’t already been said in a thousand glances, touches, and shared silences.

Their foreheads pressed together, and Tom closed his eyes, inhaling the faint scent of her hair. He didn’t say anything, but the way he held her was enough. He relished the moment—the warmth of her in his arms, the quiet intimacy of sharing a space that was entirely theirs. He had spent so much of his life in isolation, consumed by power and ambition, but here, he had a moment of something precious.

Harry opened her eyes, gazing up at him in the pale light. She could see the tension in the way his jaw tightened and his hand rested against her back, as though he were afraid to let go.

She didn’t know what she’d been waiting for, but something inside her clicked—a deep, unshakable need to close the distance that still lingered between them. She shifted slightly, tilting her face upward until her lips found his. The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant, but it quickly deepened, the weight of everything left unsaid pouring into the moment.

Tom responded without hesitation, his hand sliding to the back of her neck as he kissed her with a rare intensity. The careful control he always carried melted away, replaced by something raw and vulnerable. For this moment, there was no war, no looming battle—only the two of them.

“I can’t lose you,” Harry whispered against his lips, her voice trembling with emotion.

“You won’t,” Tom murmured, his voice low but filled with quiet determination. “Not now. Not ever.”

The words hung in the air between them, a promise and a plea all at once. That night, they let go of everything but each other, their connection grounding them in a way that neither had experienced before. It wasn’t just passion—it was an unspoken acknowledgment of what they meant to each other, of the connection that had grown between them through every trial they had faced.

---

The morning light filtered through the window, casting a warm glow over the room. Harry stirred first, her eyes fluttering open as she felt the comforting weight of Tom’s arm draped over her. She turned slightly, finding him already awake, watching her with an expression that was both soft and intense.

“Morning,” she murmured, her voice still heavy with sleep.

“Morning,” he replied, his voice low and steady. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “How do you feel?”

Harry smiled faintly. “Terrified,” she admitted, then paused. “But also… at peace.”

Tom studied her for a moment before nodding. “No more regrets, then.”

“No more regrets,” Harry agreed, her gaze unwavering. She leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips before sitting up. “We should get ready.”

Tom sat up as well, watching her as she moved to gather her clothes. There was a gravity to his movements as he stood and dressed, his mind clearly focused on the battle ahead. But there was also a strange calm about him, as though the weight of his decisions had finally settled into place.

When they were both ready, Harry turned to him, her hand brushing against his. “No matter what happens, I’m glad we had this,” she said softly.

Tom’s fingers tightened around hers. “Me too.”

When they made their way downstairs, the tension in the air was palpable. Hermione was pouring over maps and plans with Bill, while Ron paced near the door, his wand clutched tightly in his hand. Fleur flitted between them, offering tea and quiet reassurances.

As Harry and Tom entered the room, the others looked up, their expressions a mixture of worry and resolve.

“Ready?” Harry asked, her voice steady but calm.

Ron nodded. “As ready as we’ll ever be.”

Hermione glanced at Tom, her eyes narrowing slightly as though trying to gauge his mood. “Is there anything else we need to account for?”

Tom shook his head. “We’ve accounted for everything we can. The rest is up to us.”
Harry exchanged a glance with him, a silent understanding passing between them. Whatever happened, they were in this together.

Chapter Text

The sharp pull of apparition ended abruptly as Harry, Tom, Hermione, Ron, Luna, and the rest of the group landed in Hogsmeade, the chilly night air biting at their skin. The streets were eerily quiet, the only sound the faint rustle of wind through the narrow alleyways. It was a stark reminder of the danger they faced, but Luna stepped forward without hesitation, her bruised face set with quiet determination.

“This way,” she said softly, leading them toward the Hogshead.

The shabby pub loomed ahead, its crooked sign creaking in the breeze. Harry hesitated for only a moment before pushing the door open. The inside was dimly lit and smelled faintly of stale ale and smoke, but her eyes immediately landed on the barkeep—Aberforth Dumbledore.

He looked up from wiping a glass, his blue eyes narrowing as he took in the group. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “Didn’t think I’d see you lot here.”

“We need your help,” Harry said quickly, stepping forward. “We’re going to Hogwarts. We need to get to the Room of Requirement.”

Aberforth’s eyes lingered on her for a moment, then flicked to Tom, whose expression was as unreadable as ever. With a heavy sigh, the older man set down his glass and jerked his head toward the back of the room.

“Come on, then,” he grumbled, leading them to a large portrait on the wall. It depicted a young woman with kind eyes, who smiled softly at them as Aberforth muttered a command.

The portrait swung open, revealing a narrow, dimly lit tunnel.

“Straight shot to the Room of Requirement,” Aberforth said, crossing his arms. “They’ve been hiding there for weeks now. Go on.”

Luna smiled serenely. “Thank you, Mr. Dumbledore.”

Aberforth grunted, waving them off as they descended into the tunnel.

It was cramped and damp, the faint sound of their footsteps echoing as they made their way forward. When they finally emerged into the Room of Requirement, Harry’s breath caught.

The space was enormous, far larger than she remembered, and filled with makeshift cots, tables piled with supplies, and familiar faces. At the center of it all stood Neville Longbottom, his face bruised and dirty but his expression fierce.

“Harry!” he exclaimed, rushing forward as the room erupted in murmurs.

“Hi, Neville,” Harry said, smiling despite herself.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice filled with a mixture of surprise and relief.

“We’re here to make our final stand,” Harry said, her voice clear and steady. “We’re going to fight Voldemort. And we’re starting here.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then, as Neville’s grin widened, a cheer erupted from the gathered members of the D.A., echoing through the room.

Neville pulled out his D.A. coin, holding it up. “We’ll summon everyone,” he said. “Anyone who’s ever been part of the D.A. or fought alongside us. They’ll come.”

Hermione nodded, her eyes bright with determination. “The coins will send the message. Those who can come will know where to find us.”

Within hours, the Room of Requirement was buzzing with activity. Members of the D.A. began arriving, some sneaking through secret passages, others braving the grounds under cover of darkness. Ginny and Dean were among the first, rushing to embrace Harry, Ron, and Hermione as soon as they stepped into the room.

“About time you lot showed up,” Ginny said with a grin, though her eyes were shining with emotion.

“Couldn’t let you have all the fun,” Ron replied, pulling her into a hug.

Fred and George arrived shortly after, their grins as wide and mischievous as ever despite the tension in the air.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Fred said, clapping Harry on the back. “Didn’t think we’d be coming back to school anytime soon.”

“But you’d better believe we’re not missing this fight,” George added, his eyes gleaming.

Even Harry’s old Quidditch teammates began to trickle in, their familiar faces bringing a wave of nostalgia. Katie Bell, Alicia Spinnet, and Oliver Wood all greeted her with firm handshakes and determined smiles.

“This is it, isn’t it?” Oliver said quietly as the group gathered around.

Harry nodded, her voice firm. “This is it.”

As the night wore on, the Room of Requirement buzzed with activity. People exchanged stories, tended to injuries, and began preparing for the battle to come. Harry, Tom, Hermione, and Ron stood at the center of it all, going over their plan with Neville and the other leaders of the D.A.

“We need to draw Voldemort out,” Harry said, her voice steady. “And to do that, we need to make him feel like he has the upper hand.”

“That means we fight on our terms,” Tom added, his tone cold and calculated. “We use the castle’s defenses, the students, and every advantage we can find.”

Neville nodded, his expression grim but determined. “We’ve been fighting this whole time. We’re ready for this.”

Harry looked around the room, taking in the faces of her friends and her allies. Despite the fear and uncertainty, there was a fire in their eyes—a shared determination to see this through, no matter the cost.

“Tonight,” she said, her voice ringing out over the crowd. “We take Hogwarts back. And then we end this.”

The room erupted in cheers, their voices echoing through the walls. For the first time in a long time, hope burned bright in their hearts. And Harry knew they were ready.

—————————————————

Tom stood to the side, observing the chaos with his usual composed expression, his dark eyes scanning the gathered defenders. It wasn’t fear that he felt—he had long since mastered that—but a quiet, simmering unease. He wasn’t used to being part of a group, let alone one bound by loyalty and camaraderie.

As Harry sent word to McGonagall, Luna drifted toward Tom. She moved as if the chaos didn’t touch her, her steps light, her bruised face still carrying an air of calm. She stopped a few feet from him, tilting her head as she looked at him with her usual serene curiosity.

“You’re quiet,” she observed, her voice soft but carrying a weight that drew his attention.

“I’m always quiet,” Tom replied, his tone dry but lacking its usual sharpness. His eyes flicked to her, lingering for a moment. “Does that surprise you?”

“Not at all,” Luna said with a small smile. “I think you’re quieter now because you’re thinking.”

Tom’s brow furrowed slightly. “And what, exactly, do you think I’m thinking about?”

Luna didn’t answer right away. She stepped closer, her gaze unwavering as she studied him. “You’re wondering if they’ll accept you if this is all over. If you’ll ever stop being seen as who you were.”

Tom’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t deny it. He looked away, his fingers brushing the edge of his wand as he spoke. “It’s not a matter of acceptance. It’s about reality. People rarely see beyond their preconceived notions, Luna. They see what they want to see.”

Luna tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “I see you,” she said simply. “I see who you are now.”

Her words made him pause. Slowly, he turned to look at her, his dark eyes searching hers. “Why?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual. “Why do you… insist on seeing me differently?”

“Because people change,” Luna said, her voice gentle but firm. “Even you. Especially you.”

Tom let out a faint scoff, but there was no real bite to it. He crossed his arms, his gaze steady as he looked down at her. “You’re an odd one, Lovegood.”

“You’ve said that before,” Luna replied with a small smile.

“And I meant it,” he muttered, though his lips twitched faintly. He hesitated, his expression torn before he spoke again, “Thank you.”

Luna blinked, her eyes widening just a fraction. “For what?”

“For… seeing me,” he said, the words awkward on his tongue but genuine. “For not treating me like a ghost of what I was.”

Her smile widened, and she nodded. “You’re welcome, Tom.”

He stared at her for a moment longer before shaking his head lightly. “You’re a strange girl.”

Luna’s smile didn’t waver. “And you’re not as scary as you think you are.”

Tom let out a quiet laugh, a sound so rare that it surprised even him. “Go help your friends get ready,” he said, his tone softer now. “They’ll need you.”

“And so will Harry,” Luna said, giving him a knowing look. “So will you.”

With that, she turned and walked away, leaving Tom alone with his thoughts. He watched her for a moment before looking back at the bustling Room of Requirement. Her words lingered, a small thread of calm in the storm raging in his mind.

—————————————————

The air in the Room of Requirement buzzed with tension as McGonagall entered through the secret passage, her face stern but her eyes alight with a flicker of hope. She took in the sight of the gathered D.A. members, Harry, and her old colleagues who had quietly returned. Her lips twitched into the faintest smile.

“You’ve been busy, Potter,” McGonagall said, her voice sharp but approving. “Though I can’t say I’m surprised. You always did have a knack for bringing trouble to my doorstep.”

“This time, it’s Voldemort’s trouble, not mine,” Harry replied with a small grin, earning a raised brow from the older woman.

Tom, standing silently beside Harry, observed McGonagall with a calculating gaze. Despite her firm demeanor, he could see she was pleased.

Harry stepped forward, her tone growing serious. “Professor, we need your help. We’re going to take the castle back, but we can’t do it alone. We need the teachers. We need everyone.”

McGonagall’s eyes softened briefly before she straightened. “You’ve always had my help, Potter. You just had to ask. I’ll send word to the other professors immediately.”

With a flick of her wand, a glowing silver tabby cat emerged, bounding off in one direction. More Patronuses followed, McGonagall sending them with quick precision to summon the staff.

As the Room of Requirement continued to buzz with preparations, McGonagall turned back to Harry and Tom. “If we’re going to do this, we need to secure the students. No battle is worth their lives. I’ll begin evacuating the dormitories immediately.”

“We’ll come with you,” Harry said quickly.

Tom nodded in agreement, though his expression remained cold and detached. “The more force we have at your side, the faster this will go.”

Chapter Text

As the D.A. divided into teams to secure key parts of the castle, Harry, Tom, and McGonagall moved toward the dormitories to begin evacuating the students. The halls of Hogwarts were eerily quiet, the tension thick in the air.

But as they rounded a corner near the Great Hall, they came face-to-face with Severus Snape.

“Going somewhere, Minerva?” Snape’s silky voice cut through the silence like a knife. His wand was already drawn, his dark eyes narrowing as they flicked between the trio.

McGonagall stepped forward, her wand raised. “Severus,” she said coldly, her voice sharp with fury. “You have no place here. Stand aside.”

“I think not,” Snape replied, his tone mocking. “You’ve always been so predictable, Minerva. Did you think I wouldn’t notice the movement in the castle? The whisper of rebellion in the walls?”

Tom stepped forward, his own wand now pointed at Snape. “We don’t have time for your theatrics,” he said icily. “Move, or be moved.”

Snape’s gaze landed on Tom, his lip curling. “Ah yes, the infamous Tom Riddle, reduced to playing the role of Harry Potter’s lapdog.”

Harry’s wand snapped up, her voice shaking with anger. “Don’t talk to him like that.”

Before Snape could reply, McGonagall fired the first spell. A blast of magic lit up the corridor as the duel erupted, spells flying back and forth in a dizzying blur. Harry and Tom joined in immediately, their combined assault forcing Snape to backpedal as he deflected the onslaught.

Snape was skilled, his counterattacks precise and deadly. He aimed a vicious curse at Harry, but Tom stepped in front of her, deflecting it with a flick of his wand. “You’ll have to do better than that,” Tom sneered.

Suddenly, two more figures joined the fray. Slughorn and Flitwick came barreling down the corridor, their wands raised. “Minerva!” Flitwick called, his tiny frame moving with surprising speed. “We’re with you!”

The combined strength of the fighters forced Snape to retreat, his expression twisting with frustration as he was driven toward the edge of the castle grounds.

“This isn’t over,” Snape hissed before he disapparated, his figure vanishing into the cold air.

“Coward,” Tom muttered, lowering his wand.

“He’ll regroup,” McGonagall said, her voice tight. “We’ll deal with him later. Right now, we need to focus on evacuating the students.”

---

By the time they returned to the Great Hall, the castle was alive with movement. Professors had gathered, wands at the ready, while students and D.A. members streamed in from all directions. Kingsley Shacklebolt had arrived as well, his imposing presence adding to the sense of purpose in the room.

McGonagall stood at the center, her voice ringing out with authority. “Everyone listen! We are fortifying the castle. Professors, take your positions at the entrances and key corridors. Ensure the younger students are evacuated through the secret passages. The rest of you—prepare to fight.”

Harry, standing beside Tom, looked out at the crowd. She spotted Ginny, Fred, George, and countless others she had fought alongside over the years. Despite the fear etched on many faces, there was also determination.

“Dumbledore’s Army,” Harry called, her voice strong, “we’ve trained for this. We’ve fought for this. Now, it’s time to finish it.”
Neville stepped forward, his battered face lit with fierce resolve. “We’re ready, Harry. Just tell us what to do.”

Tom, his expression calm but intense, added, “The castle itself is an ally. The statues, the suits of armor—they’re enchanted. Use them to your advantage.”

With a wave of her wand, McGonagall animated the nearest statue, its stone limbs creaking to life. “Piertotum Locomotor!” she commanded, her voice filled with power.

Across the castle, statues and suits of armor began to move, their footsteps echoing through the halls as they marched to defend the school.

Kingsley raised his wand, his deep voice steady. “The Order of the Phoenix stands with you. We fight as one.”

The Great Hall erupted in cheers, the sound reverberating through the castle. Harry glanced at Tom, their eyes meeting as she stood beside him, her wand clutched tightly in her hand. “This is it,” she said softly, glancing at him.

Tom’s gaze met hers, his expression unreadable. “Are you ready?”

She nodded. “No more regrets.”

Chapter Text

The castle shook violently as Voldemort’s forces descended upon it, the first wave of spells slamming into the outer walls like thunderclaps. Midnight had come, and with it, the Battle of Hogwarts. The once-safe halls were now filled with screams, the clash of magic, and the thundering footsteps of Death Eaters charging into the fray.

Harry and Tom moved as one, their wands raised, casting shields and counter-spells as they pressed forward through the chaos. Around them, students, teachers, and members of the Order of the Phoenix darted in every direction, defending the castle and its inhabitants with everything they had.

“Where are Ron and Hermione?” Harry shouted over the roar of the battle, her eyes scanning the smoke-filled corridor ahead.

“They’ll manage,” Tom replied tersely, his wand slicing through the air as he deflected a curse. “Focus, Harry. You can’t help them if you’re dead. We can’t afford distractions.”

Harry bit her lip but nodded, trusting her friends to hold their own as she made her way through the castle, clearing another corridor.

Through it all, Tom remained at Harry’s side, his wand moving with lethal precision as he cast spell after spell, deflecting curses and taking down attackers with ruthless efficiency. Harry fought beside him, her determination unwavering, though her heart clenched every time she caught a glimpse of someone she cared for fighting amidst the chaos.

---

As they turned a corner, they nearly collided with Fred, George, and Percy Weasley. The three brothers were locked in a fierce duel with two Death Eaters, one of whom Harry recognized immediately: Pius Thicknesse, the puppet Minister for Magic.

Fred’s laugh cut through the chaos, even as he hurled a hex at Thicknesse. “Come on, Perce, you’ve got to aim better than that!”

George grinned, his wand sparking as he sent a stunning spell flying. “He’s warming up, Fred. It’s been a while since our brother did anything fun.”

Percy, despite the strain on his face, allowed a faint smile as he blocked a curse. “I’ll have you know I’m perfectly capable of—look out!”

Thicknesse fired a curse at George, but Tom intervened, his wand flicking sharply as he deflected the spell. “You Weasleys need to focus,” Tom said dryly, stepping forward to join the fight.

“Riddle?” Percy gawked, momentarily distracted.

Fred, who had just stunned the second Death Eater, chuckled despite himself. “Oh, this is getting interesting.”

Harry appeared beside Tom, her wand raised as she blocked another spell. “Not now, Percy,” she said sharply. “We’re here to help.”

With Tom and Harry’s aid, the tide turned quickly. Thicknesse faltered under their combined assault, his spells growing wilder and less controlled. Finally, with a well-aimed hex from Fred, the Minister collapsed, unconscious on the stone floor.

Fred turned to George with a triumphant grin. “Told you I’d—”

The words were cut off as the corridor erupted in a deafening explosion.

The force of the blast sent rubble flying, the walls shaking as a plume of fire and smoke filled the corridor. Harry barely had time to register the explosion before Tom grabbed her, his wand slashing through the air as he cast a powerful shield. The magic surged around them, deflecting much of the debris, but the force of the explosion still sent them sprawling.

When the dust settled, Harry scrambled to her feet, coughing as she waved the smoke away. “Fred? George? Percy?”

Fred lay crumpled against the wall, his face pale and blood streaking his temple as a red bloom spread across his chest. George and Percy were both coughing, bruised but conscious as they crawled toward their brother.

“Fred!” George’s panicked voice cut through the haze.

Tom strode over, his expression unreadable as he knelt beside Fred. “Move,” he ordered sharply, shoving Percy’s hands aside. He waved his wand over Fred, muttering a series of incantations.

“Can you help him?” George asked, his voice cracking.

“If you stop panicking and let me work, yes,” Tom snapped, his tone biting but focused.

The spells began to take effect, and Fred’s breathing evened out slightly, though his face was still pale. Tom pressed his wand to Fred’s chest, murmuring a final incantation that sealed the wound enough to stabilize him.

“He’ll live,” Tom said, his voice clipped. “But he won’t be any use here.”

George’s hands trembled as he gripped Fred’s shoulder. “Don’t you dare die on me,” he whispered, his voice cracking.

“Percy,” Tom said firmly, his tone commanding, “help your brother carry him. Take him to the Room of Requirement. It’s the safest place for him right now.”

Percy hesitated for only a moment before nodding. He and George carefully lifted Fred between them, their movements unsteady but determined.

“Thank you,” Percy said quietly, his voice hoarse as he glanced at Tom.

Tom gave a curt nod. “Go. Quickly.”

As the Weasleys disappeared down the corridor, Harry turned to Tom, her expression filled with both gratitude and admiration. “You saved him,” she said softly.

Tom didn’t look at her, his gaze fixed on the distant sounds of battle. “Focus, Harry. This isn’t over.”

As they continued through the castle, the sounds of battle raged around them. Harry’s heart felt heavier with every step, the weight of the fight pressing down on her. But she found strength in Tom’s presence, his unshakable focus grounding her as they fought their way through the castle, the air thick with the smell of smoke and the sounds of clashing spells and screams.

They moved as a unit, their wands working in tandem to fend off Death Eaters, Acromantulas, and other horrors Voldemort had unleashed upon the castle.

Tom moved with deadly precision, his wand cutting through the chaos like a blade. Harry followed at his side, her heart pounding as they dodged curses and struck down their attackers. Her mind raced, her focus shifting constantly between the battle in front of her and the allies they had lost sight of. Luna, Neville, Ron, Hermione—she could only hope they were still fighting, still alive.

As they approached the front courtyard, a deafening roar shook the ground beneath them. Harry skidded to a halt, her eyes widening in horror as she took in the scene before her.

Giants.

Three of them loomed over the battlefield, their massive forms towering over the fighters below. One swung a massive club, sending rubble and bodies flying, while another charged through the courtyard, scattering defenders like leaves. The third bellowed a guttural roar that echoed through the castle grounds.

“They’ve brought Giants,” Harry breathed, her voice trembling. “How—?”

“It doesn’t matter how,” Tom interrupted, his tone sharp. “What matters is stopping them.”

The Giants were devastating. Even the combined forces of the D.A., the Order, and the professors seemed unable to hold them back. Spells ricocheted off their thick skin, and their massive strides crushed everything in their path. The tide of the battle was shifting, and not in their favor.

Harry’s chest tightened as she watched a group of students narrowly avoid being trampled. “We have to do something,” she said urgently, turning to Tom.

Tom’s dark eyes were fixed on the Giants, his expression cold and calculating. “I will,” he said simply.

Before Harry could ask what he meant, Tom stepped forward, his wand raised. The air around him shifted, growing heavier as a dark, crackling energy began to emanate from him. Harry could feel it—raw power, unlike anything she had ever experienced.

“Tom,” she started, her voice hesitant. “What are you—?”

“Stay back,” he ordered, his voice commanding.

Harry took a step back, her heart racing as she watched the magic around him build, swirling like a storm. The Giants roared again, their massive forms closing in on the courtyard.

With a sharp motion, Tom unleashed the full force of his power. A massive wave of dark magic erupted from his wand, the sheer force of it sending shockwaves through the ground. The air shimmered as the magic expanded outward, slamming into the Giants with bone-crushing force.

The first Giant was flung backward, crashing into the castle wall with a deafening boom. The second stumbled, its massive club falling from its hand as it collapsed to the ground. The third let out a final roar before crumpling, its enormous body shaking the earth as it hit the ground.

The battlefield went still for a moment, the defenders and attackers alike frozen as they processed what had just happened. The Giants, the unstoppable forces that had turned the tide of the battle, were down.

Tom lowered his wand, his breathing heavy but his expression unreadable. The dark energy around him faded, though the tension in the air lingered. He turned to Harry, his eyes sharp.

“They won’t be getting up again,” he said simply.

Harry stared at him, her heart pounding. She knew Tom was powerful, but what she had just witnessed was something else entirely. It was terrifying—and yet, in that moment, it had saved them all.

“Thank you,” she said softly, her voice barely audible.

Tom gave a single nod, his gaze already shifting back to the battlefield. “This isn’t over yet. Come on.”

Harry took a deep breath, steeling herself as they moved back into the chaos.

Chapter Text

The battlefield was a nightmare, the grounds of Hogwarts torn apart by fire, rubble, and the constant barrage of spells. Harry and Tom moved together, their wands raised as they navigated through the chaos, dodging curses and skirmishes that erupted all around them. They were nearing the forest’s edge, the air thick with smoke and ash, when an unnatural chill descended upon them.

The temperature plummeted, their breath fogging the air as a sense of dread gripped them. Harry froze, her heart sinking as a wave of Dementors glided out from the shadows, their skeletal hands outstretched and their hollow, rattling breaths echoing through the battlefield.

“Dementors,” Harry whispered, panic clawing at her throat.

Tom’s gaze was fixed on the approaching swarm, his hand tightening on his wand. “They’ve unleashed them all,” he said grimly, his voice colder than usual.

Harry raised her wand, her mind racing as she tried to summon a memory strong enough to cast a Patronus. But all she could think of were the horrors she’d seen—the screams, the blood, the lives already lost. She faltered, her magic sputtering as fear clawed at her.

The Dementors closed in, their oppressive presence suffocating. The world grew darker, and Harry felt herself sinking, the weight of despair dragging her down. Nearby, Tom lowered his wand, his expression blank as he took a step toward them.

“Tom, no!” Harry gasped, reaching for him, but he didn’t move.

He stood still, his eyes distant as the Dementors surrounded him, their rattling breaths louder now. The chill of the Dementors seemed to penetrate deeper for him, reaching into the very core of his being. His memories clawed their way to the surface—years of pain, loneliness, and regret. The weight of it all pressed down on him, and for the first time in his life, Tom Riddle welcomed the oblivion the Dementors promised.

But then—

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

A radiant silver light burst through the darkness, a glowing hare bounding toward the Dementors. Harry blinked, disoriented, as the crushing weight in her chest eased slightly. She turned to see Luna standing a few feet away, her wand raised and her face serene, though her eyes shone with determination.

“Neville, now!” Luna called.

A second Patronus joined hers, a powerful silver lion roaring as it charged forward. Neville stood beside her, his expression fierce as he held the Dementors at bay.

“Harry!” Luna shouted, her voice urgent. “You have to fight it! Think of something good!”

“I—” Harry choked on her words, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can!” Neville shouted, stepping in front of her as his Patronus pushed back the encroaching Dementors. “You’ve done it before, Harry! You can do it again!”

Harry closed her eyes, gripping her wand tightly. She thought of her parents, of Sirius, of all the people who had sacrificed everything to get her to this moment. And then she thought of Tom—his unwavering presence, his unlikely strength, his hand reaching out to her when she thought she had nothing left.

“Expecto Patronum!”

A brilliant silver stag erupted from her wand, charging at the Dementors. Harry’s heart swelled with relief as the light pushed the darkness back, but she turned to Tom, who was still standing motionless, his face pale.

“Tom!” Luna called again, her voice cutting through the chaos. “You have to think of something good!”

Tom stared at her, his wand hanging limply in his bloodied hand. Something good? His life had been filled with nothing but pain, loss, and ambition that had led him to ruin. There was nothing good left in him.

But then he thought of the boy they had lost, the child who had sparked something in him he hadn’t known he was capable of. He thought of Harry, of the way she looked at him even after everything, and of the future he had dared to dream of—waking up beside her, building a life together, finding peace in a world he had once sought to destroy.

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

The words tore from him, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then, to his astonishment, a massive silver serpent burst from his wand, its glowing form coiling and striking at the Dementors with incredible speed. The light of his Patronus joined Harry’s, Luna’s, and Neville’s, and together they drove the Dementors back, their ghastly forms retreating into the shadows.

Tom stared at his Patronus, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He had never believed he could conjure one—had never even tried. But here it was, radiant and undeniable, a manifestation of something he had long buried and denied.

Harry stepped closer, her hand brushing his. “You did it,” she said softly, her eyes filled with awe.

Tom didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the fading glow of the serpent. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. “I didn’t think I could.”

Luna gave him a small, knowing smile. “You’ve always had it in you. You just needed a reason to see it.”

Before anyone could say more, a fresh explosion rocked the battlefield, and Luna and Neville exchanged a look.

“We have to go,” Neville said urgently. “The others need us.”

“Be careful,” Harry called as Luna and Neville ran off toward the thick of the fighting, their Patronuses still glowing faintly as they disappeared into the fray.

Harry turned to Tom, their eyes meeting as the battle raged on around them. “You did it,” she repeated.

Tom met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “I wasn’t going to let them take you,” he said simply.

She nodded, her grip on her wand tightening. “No more holding back.”

Tom’s lips twitched into a faint smirk, though his eyes remained serious. “No more holding back.”

Together, they moved forward, their resolve stronger than ever as they prepared to face what was still to come.

Chapter Text

The Shrieking Shack was eerily quiet, the dilapidated walls groaning softly in the stillness. Harry and Tom entered cautiously, their wands raised, the instinctive pull of their connection to Voldemort leading them here. The stench of decay and dark magic lingered in the air, thick enough to make Harry’s stomach churn.

Through a crack in the door to the main room, they could see him. Voldemort stood in the center, his pale, snake-like form illuminated by the dim light of a single, flickering lantern. Nagini coiled ominously in a protective bubble of enchanted magic beside him, her beady eyes glinting with malice.

Severus Snape stood before him, his expression as impassive as ever, though there was a tension in his posture that made Harry’s chest tighten.

“Master,” Snape began, his voice steady but with an edge of urgency, “let me fight. Let me find the girl and Riddle. I can—”

Voldemort cut him off with a sharp wave of his wand, his crimson eyes narrowing dangerously. “Silence, Severus. You had your chance when they were within your grasp in the castle. And yet, you failed to take them.”

Snape’s jaw clenched. “I fled to alert you, my Lord. I wanted to—”

“You wanted to protect them,” Voldemort hissed, his voice low and venomous. He stepped closer, his skeletal form looming over Snape. “You have been useful, Severus. But your usefulness has reached its end. Loyalty is a fragile thing, and yours, I fear, has always been divided.”

Harry’s breath caught as she realized what was about to happen. She made a move to step forward, but Tom grabbed her arm, pulling her back. “Wait,” he murmured, his voice low and urgent.

“No!” Harry whispered fiercely, her eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before them.

Voldemort raised his wand, his gaze shifting to the protective orb around Nagini. With a flick of his wrist, the bubble dissolved, and the great snake slithered forward, her fangs glinting in the dim light.

“Master,” Snape said, his composure slipping for the first time as he stepped back. “Please—”

“Goodbye, Severus,” Voldemort said coldly, his voice devoid of any emotion.

Nagini struck with terrifying speed, her fangs sinking into Snape’s neck. He let out a strangled gasp, his wand slipping from his grasp as he fell to the floor. Blood pooled around him, staining the wooden boards as Nagini slithered back to Voldemort, who paid no further attention to the man he had just condemned.

Without a word, Voldemort turned and swept out of the room, Nagini following closely behind. Harry and Tom pressed themselves against the wall, holding their breath as Voldemort passed mere feet from where they hid.

When the sound of his footsteps faded, Harry tore herself free from Tom’s grip and ran into the room. She dropped to her knees beside Snape, her hands trembling as she reached for him.

“Snape!” she said urgently. “Professor!”

His black eyes flickered open, glassy and unfocused. His breathing was shallow, a wet, rattling sound that made Harry’s stomach lurch.

“Potter,” he rasped, his voice barely audible.

Harry leaned closer, her heart pounding. “I’m here.”

Snape’s dark eyes flickered open, his gaze hazy but focused on them as Tom came up to kneel behind her. He reached up weakly past Harry, gripping Tom’s arm. “Take… them…” he rasped, his voice barely audible.

“Take what?” Tom asked intently.

Snape’s other hand fumbled in his robes before drawing out his wand. He touched it to his temple, pulling silvery strands of memories free and pressing them into a glass vial he conjured with the last of his strength. He shoved the vial into Tom’s hands, his blood-streaked fingers trembling.

“Riddle …take them… look at them…” he whispered, his voice growing fainter.

Harry’s vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. “No, no, no,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “Don’t go, please—””

Snape’s eyes searched for hers, his voice weak but insistent. “Look… at me.”

Harry leaned closer, her green eyes locking with his. For a moment, Snape’s face softened, his gaze full of a strange mix of pain, longing, and peace.

“Lily,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper.

And then he was gone.

Harry sat frozen as she stared at his lifeless form. Tom’s hands gripped the vial, his expression unreadable as he watched the scene.

Before either of them could speak, Voldemort’s voice echoed across the grounds, amplified by magic and filled with an eerie, bone-chilling resonance.

“Harry Potter. Tom Riddle.”

The voice was everywhere at once, seeping into every corner of the castle and beyond.

“You have one hour. Surrender yourselves to me, and I will spare those who have foolishly chosen to fight for you. Refuse, and I will burn Hogwarts to the ground. Every man, woman, and child within its walls will die. The choice is yours.”

The voice faded, leaving a heavy silence in its wake.

“We need to move,” Tom said, though his voice lacked its usual bite. “The others need to know what we’re facing.”

Harry nodded, wiping her tears as she stood. Her grief twisted into something sharper, something harder. “We’ll make this count,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her.

Tom met her gaze, his expression dark but resolute. “Yes,” he said quietly. “We will.”

Chapter Text

The Great Hall was unrecognizable, transformed into a triage center and a place of mourning. Injured defenders lay on conjured cots, their wounds being tended to by Madam Pomfrey and others who could wield a steady wand. The floor was stained with blood, and the air was thick with the muffled cries of the wounded and grieving.

Harry and Tom stepped inside, the weight of the scene pressing down on them like a physical force. Harry’s eyes scanned the room desperately, searching for the familiar faces she needed to see alive.

“There,” she whispered, spotting the Weasleys in a corner.

Hermione stood with them, holding Ginny tightly as the younger girl sobbed into her shoulder while Ron wrapped his arms around both of them. Fred, though pale and injured, sat propped against George, his chest rising and falling in a way that brought relief despite the pain etched on his face. Percy was there, his arm slung around Bill as they both clutched Fleur, who was muttering quiet reassurances to them all. Molly and Arthur moved from person to person, desperately trying to comfort their children and see to their injuries.

Harry rushed forward, her breath catching as she reached them. “You’re okay,” she said, her voice breaking as she wrapped her arms around Hermione first, then Ron.

“We’re alive,” Hermione whispered, her own tears falling freely.

“Fred—” Harry started, but George cut her off, his voice strained but firm.

“He’ll make it. Thanks to… thanks to him.” George’s eyes darted briefly to Tom, who had stopped near the entrance, his expression unreadable.

Harry turned to look at him, but he only gave her a faint nod, silently urging her to stay with them. She nodded back before turning back to the Weasleys, her heart aching as she took in the mix of grief and relief etched on their faces.

—————————————————————

Tom’s eyes lingered on Harry before he stepped off to an empty antechamber, the grief in the Great Hall too much for him to endure. Once alone, he clenched the vial of silvery memories in his hands, staring down at it as Voldemort’s ultimatum echoed in his mind. One hour. Surrender or the castle burns.

Tom raised his wand and murmured an incantation. The vial glowed briefly before its contents spilled into the air, swirling like liquid silver. The strands of memory stretched and shimmered, coalescing into shapes that solidified into Snape’s life.

The scene unfolded before him, vivid and undeniable. Tom stood as a silent witness as the memory took shape in Dumbledore’s office.

Dumbledore’s face was gaunt as he looked at Snape. “You must be the one to do it, Severus,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “When the time comes, you will kill me. It will cement Voldemort’s trust in you, and you will protect the school when it falls under his control.”

“I will do as you ask,” Snape said stiffly, his expression betraying his anguish.

Dumbledore nodded gratefully before he sighed. “There is one more thing that I must ask of you, Severus. There will come a time when Voldemort will begin to guard Nagini more carefully.”

Snape dipped his head, “Because she is a Horcrux.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore, paused before continuing, his voice carrying the weight of inevitability. “And when that time comes, it will be because she is the last of his Horcruxes left. Or so he will believe. But there is another.”

Here, Dumbledore pulled out the diary. Tom’s diary. “When Fawkes healed Tom, he allowed Tom to be assume human form, but he is still a piece of the original soul. The two are connected, bound together in an unsustainable way. Neither can die while the other survives.”

Snape’s face twisted in confusion and dread. “For Potter to finish the Dark Lord as prophesied, Riddle must die, then. He is the connection. If he lives, Voldemort can never truly be defeated.”

Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on Snape, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. “Perhaps,” he said enigmatically. “But love has always been a greater power than death, Severus. Remember that.”

The memory began to dissolve, fading into silvery mist that swirled and then vanished into nothingness. Tom was left standing in the silence, the weight of what he had seen pressing down on him.

Chapter Text

Tom stared at the empty air where the memory had dissolved, the swirling mist now gone, leaving him alone in the small, dimly lit chamber. His mind raced, the weight of Snape’s revelation pressing down on him like a crushing force.

The thought was suffocating, and suddenly, the small chamber felt far too small. Without thinking, Tom turned on his heel and strode toward the Great Hall, his steps quick and determined. He couldn’t stay alone with his thoughts—not now.

The sight that greeted him as he reentered the Great Hall was no less grim than before. Injured defenders lay on conjured cots, their groans mingling with the muffled cries of grieving families. The air was heavy, laden with the smell of blood, burnt wood, and loss.

Tom’s gaze swept across the room, taking in every detail. It wasn’t the chaos of battle anymore; it was the aftermath, raw and unfiltered.

Everywhere he looked, there were people hurting—people who had fought and suffered for something bigger than themselves. And Tom, who had once prided himself on his detachment, felt the ache of it all.

His gaze shifted, landing on Slughorn, who was hunched over a wounded student, murmuring soft words of encouragement as he worked to close a deep gash on the boy’s arm. Slughorn’s face was pale and streaked with sweat, his usually polished demeanor replaced by grim determination.

Tom hesitated, then made his way over to him.

“Professor,” he said quietly, his voice uncharacteristically subdued.

Slughorn looked up, surprise flickering across his face before he straightened. “Tom,” he said, his voice warm but tired. “It’s good to see you alive.”

Tom’s gaze flicked to the injured boy, who was beginning to stir. “You’ve been busy.”

Slughorn gave a faint smile. “There’s no rest for the wicked, or so they say. Though, in this case, I’d prefer not to dwell on who might be wicked.”

Tom’s lips twitched faintly at the attempt at humor. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable.

“I used to think you were an opportunist,” Tom said suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet.

Slughorn blinked, clearly taken aback. “Did you?”

Tom nodded, his gaze distant. “I thought you cared more about collecting people than about the people themselves. But then… that night last year. When the Death Eaters invaded the castle.”

Slughorn’s face darkened at the memory, but he said nothing, letting Tom continue.

“I remember seeing you in the dungeons,” Tom said, his voice quieter now. “You could have run. You could have hidden. But you didn’t. You stayed. You fought. And you helped me get to Harry.”

Slughorn exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “I suppose even old cowards can surprise you,” he said, his tone self-deprecating.

“You’re not a coward,” Tom said firmly, his dark eyes meeting Slughorn’s. “You proved that then. And you’ve proved it now.”

Slughorn looked at him for a long moment, his expression softening. “You’ve changed, Tom. You’ve come a long way from the boy I once knew.”

Tom’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t look away. “That boy wasn’t worth knowing.”

Slughorn shook his head. “No, that boy was brilliant. But he was lost. You’ve found your way, Tom. You’ve become… someone I’m proud of.”

The words hit harder than Tom expected, and he glanced away, his throat tightening.

Slughorn reached out, placing a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “I mean that. Truly.”

Tom nodded once, unable to find the words to respond.

Slughorn smiled faintly, then turned back to the boy on the cot. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s still work to be done.”

Tom stepped back, watching as Slughorn bent over the injured student again. He lingered for a moment, then turned and walked back toward the entrance of the hall.

Chapter Text

The hour was more than half over, and the Great Hall was quieter now, though the air was still heavy with grief and exhaustion. The injured were being tended to, the dead carefully moved to an antechamber, their lifeless forms draped in simple white cloths. Tom stood apart from it all, his back against one of the stone columns, lost in his own mind, still trying to wrap his mind around Snape’s memory, unfamiliar and unwelcome, but undeniable.

He scanned the room and his gaze inevitably landed on Harry. She was standing with Hermione and the Weasleys, the group huddled together in a tight, protective embrace. Fred, pale and weak but alive, sat propped up nearby, and Ginny hovered close to her mother, tears streaking her face. Harry was holding them all, her face buried in Hermione’s shoulder, her body trembling as she cried.

Tom’s hand tightened around the edge of his wand, the faint tremor in his fingers betraying his otherwise composed demeanor.

His gaze lingered on her, and his mind conjured an image that sent a chill down his spine. He saw her as she had been in Malfoy Manor—broken, limp, her cries echoing in his mind as Lestrange tortured her. He saw the pale stillness of her face when he had finally reached her, and for a moment, he thought he might lose her.

But worse, his mind shifted to something even more horrifying: Harry dead. Her body lying cold and lifeless among the others in the Great Hall, her green eyes—those eyes that so often burned with determination and defiance—staring blankly into nothingness.

The thought was unbearable.

He closed his eyes, letting out a slow, measured breath. His life had been a series of calculated moves, of selfish choices born of pain and fear and anger. He had clawed his way back to existence, grasping for power and vengeance, convinced that those were the only things that mattered. But now, standing in the ruins of a war-torn castle, watching Harry cling to the people she loved, Tom felt the weight of a different truth settle over him.

For the first time in his life, he had found something—or rather, someone—he was willing to die for.

The realization came slowly, like the sun rising over a distant horizon. He was scared. Terrified, even. He had fought so hard to live, to reclaim his humanity, and the idea of giving it up now felt like a cruel twist of fate. He had dreamed of a future with her, of mornings spent tangled together in sheets, of children with her fire and his cunning, of a life where he could finally know peace. He wanted so desperately to live. To make that dream come true.

Now, standing there, he felt the ache of everything he’d never had and everything he would never be.

He opened his eyes again, his gaze still fixed on her. Harry, alive, surrounded by her friends and family. That was the future he wanted for her. It was the future she deserved.

But he wouldn’t be part of it.

Tom’s thoughts drifted to Voldemort’s ultimatum, his cold, hollow voice echoing in his mind. One hour. Surrender, or the battle would resume, and everyone in Hogwarts would die.

He knew what needed to be done. He could kill the snake and walk to his death, in doing so making Voldemort mortal and giving Harry the chance she needed to end this. It didn’t matter if it cost him his life.

The future he had allowed himself to imagine—waking up beside Harry, building a home together, finding peace in a world they had fought to save—it wasn’t his to have. And though the thought filled him with a quiet, aching sorrow, he found an unexpected peace in the knowledge that Harry might still have it.

He would give her that. He would give her the life he had never allowed himself to dream of until her.

His life, for hers.

Harry hadn’t noticed him standing there, and he was grateful for that. He didn’t want her to see the decision written on his face.

Tom’s fingers curled into fists at his sides as he took a step back, his chest tightening. Everything in him screamed to go to her, to hold her one last time, to tell her… to tell her that he loved her, even if he couldn’t quite say the words aloud. But he knew himself too well. If he gave in to that need, he wouldn’t leave. He would stay, and the cost would be everything.

He took one last, long look at her, committing the sight of her to memory—the way her hair caught the faint light of the torches, the curve of her lips as she spoke to Hermione, the strength she carried even when she didn’t feel it.

And then he turned and began walking away from the warmth of the Great Hall and into the cold corridors beyond. His steps were slow, deliberate, as if he were savoring every moment, every sound, every flicker of light in the castle. He knew that he wouldn’t return, but he also knew that this was the right choice.

As the shadows of the castle swallowed him whole, Tom felt a strange, quiet peace settle over him. For the first time in his existence, Tom Riddle understood what it meant to love someone—and to be willing to die for them.

Chapter Text

The wind whipped through the shattered windows of Hogwarts, carrying with it the faint cries of the wounded and the weight of Voldemort’s ultimatum. Harry stood frozen in the Great Hall, her gaze darting around the room, searching for the familiar figure she had been tethered to throughout this war. But Tom was gone.

Her heart lurched. He wouldn’t have left—would he?

Panic bubbled in her chest as she turned on her heel and bolted from the Hall. The corridors were eerily quiet, her footsteps echoing off the stone walls as she sprinted toward the castle’s entrance. The castle grounds stretched before her as she burst through the doors, and there, just beyond the ruins of the courtyard, she spotted him.

His dark robes billowed in the cold night air, his figure outlined against the pale light of the moon. He was walking purposefully across the grounds toward the Forbidden Forest, his back straight, his steps measured.

“Tom!” she called, her voice trembling with a mixture of confusion and anger.

He didn’t stop.

“Tom!” she shouted again, louder this time, and finally, he froze mid-step, his shoulders stiffening, but he didn’t turn around immediately. Slowly, he turned to face her, his expression as unreadable as ever.

“What are you doing?” Harry demanded, her voice rising as she hurried to close the distance between them. “Why did you leave without me?”

Tom stood still, his gaze unwavering as he watched her approach. “Because you can’t come with me,” he said simply, his voice calm and measured.

Harry stopped a few feet away from him, her brow furrowing in confusion. “What are you talking about? Of course I’m coming with you. We’re in this together.”

Tom sighed, his gaze softening for a brief moment before hardening again. “I’m going to Voldemort, Harry. I’m going to end this.”

Her heart sank at his words, a cold dread seeping into her veins. “You’re not going alone,” she said firmly.

“Yes, I am,” he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re staying here.”

“No,” Harry snapped, her hands balling up into fists. “I’m not staying here while you walk to your death. We’ll fight him together.”

Tom shook his head, his expression tightening. “You don’t understand. This isn’t about fighting. This is about finishing it. Snape’s memory—it made it clear.”

“Made what clear?” Harry asked, her voice shaking.

“Dumbledore knew,” Tom said, his voice hardening. “He knew I was Voldemort’s Horcrux. He knew that for Voldemort to die, I would have to die too. He told Snape as much.”

Harry’s breath caught, her heart clenching painfully. “No,” she said sharply, shaking her head. “Dumbledore was wrong. He had to be. Fawkes healed you—he destroyed that piece of Voldemort’s soul.”

“Maybe,” Tom said quietly. “But I can’t take that chance. Too many lives are at stake. Your life is at stake. Voldemort has to die tonight, Harry. And if that means I have to die with him, so be it.”

“No.” Harry’s voice cracked. “No, you can’t just—”

“Look around you,” Tom interrupted, gesturing toward the castle, his voice urgent. “You’ve seen what this war has done. You’ve seen the bodies. The blood. The grief. How much more will there be if this continues? I can stop it, Harry. I can end it. But I have to go alone.”

Harry swallowed hard, her mind racing. “We can finish him together. We’ll go together,” she said desperately.

Tom’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, he looked away. When he turned back to her, his expression was cold, detached. “You need to stay here. These people—they need you, Harry. They’ll fight for you. They believe in you. They don’t believe in me.”

“I believe in you,” Harry said fiercely.

“And that’s exactly why you need to stay,” Tom said, his voice softening. “You have so many people who love you, who care about you. I don’t. I’m expendable.”

Harry’s voice trembled, anger and desperation mixing. “You’re not expendable. Don’t you dare say that.”

Tom hesitated for a moment, before he spoke again, sounding tired and resigned. “Harry, I don’t want to fight with you about this.”

“But I want to fight with you!” Harry shouted, tears streaming down her face. “Fight with me! Fight for me!”

His eyes flashed, his voice sharp but breaking. “This is me fighting for you! For you to have a chance to survive, to live, to build the future you deserve.”

Harry shook her head violently, her tears falling freely now. “Not like this. Not without you.”

Tom exhaled slowly, his tone softer now but no less resolute. “I need you to understand, Harry. If I die, Voldemort becomes mortal. You’ll have a real chance to end this. That’s what I’m fighting for. You.”

Harry’s breath hitched, her chest tightening. “You’re talking like you’re already dead.”

Tom’s gaze held hers, and for a moment, she saw the flicker of fear he was trying so hard to hide. “Because I am,” he said softly.

“No,” she said firmly, stepping closer and grabbing onto his other arm. “You don’t get to decide this on your own. You don’t get to leave me. You think you need to die, but I don’t. I think you need to live. And I need you to live.”

Tom arched an eyebrow, his expression almost amused if not for the bitter twist of his lip. “And what do I have to live for, Harry? If by some miracle I live, what’s waiting for me after this war? A world that would never accept me if they knew what I really was? A life spent in shadows, forever denied any real happiness? Tell me—what do I have left?”

Harry froze, panic surging through her as she searched for the right words. Her mind raced, desperate to find something, anything, to anchor him to life. And then, as if the answer had been waiting all along, it came to her.

“Me,” she said, her voice steady despite the chaos inside her. “You have me.”

Tom’s expression flickered, a crack in his carefully constructed mask. “What are you saying?”

Harry stepped closer, her heart pounding. “I’m saying I’ll marry you. When this is over, when Voldemort is dead and the war is won, I’ll be your wife.”

He stared at her, disbelief etched across his face. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” Harry insisted, her voice firm. “I’ll marry you, Tom. We’ll have a life together. A real one. We’ll have a family, the kind neither of us ever had. We’ll build a future. A home. I promise you, Tom.”

He stared at her, his expression unreadable. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I mean it,” Harry insisted, stepping closer. “I’ll marry you. We’ll have children. We’ll make a life together. But you have to live through this war. You want to fight for me? Then live for me!”

Tom’s gaze softened, though his lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re serious.”

“I am,” she said, her voice steady. “I swear it. When this is over, we’ll have the life we’ve both been fighting for. But right now, you have to fight with me.”

For a moment, Tom said nothing, his expression shifting between want and grief. Then, slowly, a faint, bittersweet smile curved his lips.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said, his voice laced with disbelief and something wistful.

“And I’ll keep it,” she said, her voice unwavering. “But only if you come back. Alive. With me.”

For a moment, the world seemed to pause around them. Then, Tom reached out and clasped her hand, his grip firm and unyielding. “Fine,” he said simply. “Let’s end this.”

“Together,” Harry replied, her hand tightening around his.

Tom nodded, and with their hands clasped, they turned and walked into the night, ready to face Voldemort—and their fate—together.

Chapter Text

The Forbidden Forest was deathly silent as Tom and Harry stepped into Voldemort’s camp, their wands drawn and their expressions set with determination. The clearing was lit by the eerie glow of enchanted torches, casting long shadows over the robed figures who stood waiting for them. Voldemort himself loomed at the center, his pale, serpentine face twisted into a grotesque smile.

“Harry Potter. Tom Riddle,” Voldemort hissed, his voice dripping with mockery. “How noble of you to come. I knew you couldn’t resist my invitation.”

Harry raised her wand, her voice steady. “This ends tonight.”

“Indeed it does,” Voldemort replied coldly. He flicked his wand, and the Death Eaters sprang into action, their spells lighting up the night as they converged on Harry and Tom.

The battle fell into chaos as Tom moved with deadly precision, his wand slashing through the air while he deflected curses and sent devastating spells back at the Death Eaters. Harry fought beside him, her movements fluid and powerful, her determination fueling every spell she cast.

The Death Eaters fell one by one, their numbers thinning under the relentless assault. But the battle was far from over. Nagini slithered into the fray, her massive form coiling and striking with terrifying speed.

“Harry, watch out!” Tom shouted, grabbing her arm and pulling her out of the snake’s path.

Nagini lunged again, her fangs glinting in the dim light. Harry fired a Stunning Spell that bounced off her enchanted scales, but Tom was already moving.

“Reducto!” he roared, his spell slamming into Nagini and sending her sprawling back.

Harry seized the moment, her green eyes blazing as she aimed her wand at the snake. “Sectumsempra!”

The dark spell struck true, slicing through Nagini’s protective enchantments and cutting deep into her neck. The snake writhed and let out an ear-splitting hiss before collapsing to the ground, lifeless.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, a scream of pure rage shattered the air.

Voldemort’s expression twisted into something monstrous as he stepped forward, his wand raised. “You dare,” he snarled, his voice a venomous hiss. “You dare to take what is mine!”

He fired a curse at them, and Tom shoved Harry out of the way, deflecting it just in time. “You’ll have to do better than that,” Tom taunted, his voice cold.

Voldemort roared, his wand slashing through the air as he unleashed a barrage of spells. Tom and Harry fought back with everything they had, their magic crackling in the air as the duel reached its peak.

But Voldemort was relentless, his rage fueling his power. He forced them back, his crimson eyes gleaming with triumph.

“You think you’ve won?” he sneered, his voice dripping with malice. “You think killing the snake means anything? I will kill you both, and then I will rebuild my empire!”

Tom gritted his teeth, deflecting a Killing Curse that came dangerously close to Harry. “Stay behind me!” he growled.

“I’m not hiding!” Harry shot back, firing another Sectumsempra at Voldemort, who deflected it with ease.

The duel intensified, Voldemort’s power overwhelming as he pushed them back. But Tom and Harry fought with everything they had, their connection to each other giving them strength.

“You’re mortal now, Voldemort!” Harry shouted, her voice fierce. “You’re not going to win!”

Voldemort’s laugh was cold and hollow. “I do not need immortality to crush you, Potter!”

He raised his wand, the Killing Curse on his lips.

Time seemed to slow as the deadly green light - larger than either of them could dodge or deflect - surged toward them. Tom reached out, his hand brushing Harry’s as his dark eyes locked onto her green eyes.

“Harry,” Tom said urgently, his voice filled with a rare vulnerability.

She turned to him, her eyes wide. “Tom—”

“I love you,” he said, the words rushing out like a confession he could no longer hold back.

Harry’s breath caught, tears springing to her eyes. “I love you too,” she whispered, her voice trembling but fierce.

His expression softened, the coldness that had once defined him melting away. Their hands found each other, fingers intertwining as the green light engulfed them, brighter than the sun, and everything went dark.

Chapter Text

The world was silent, a stark and disorienting contrast to the chaos they had just left behind. Tom opened his eyes slowly, his dark lashes fluttering against pale skin as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. The harsh green light of the Killing Curse was gone, replaced by an odd, shimmering brightness.

King’s Cross Station. Or at least, a version of it. It was quiet, too quiet, the usual hum of trains and chatter replaced by an eerie stillness. The floors gleamed unnaturally, and the air felt… weightless.

“Where are we?”

The voice was soft but unmistakable. Tom turned to see Harry standing a few feet away, her green eyes wide with confusion and her wand clutched tightly in her hand. She looked just as she had in the moment the curse had struck them—strong, defiant, beautiful, and unbroken.

“I don’t know,” Tom replied, his voice rough as he took a step toward her. “This doesn’t feel like death. At least, not what I imagined it would be.”

A voice interrupted their thoughts, warm and familiar. “You are not truly dead,” said Albus Dumbledore, his tall figure emerging from the mist like a specter of calm wisdom. He smiled gently, his half-moon glasses perched on his nose, his long beard shimmering in the golden light.

Harry froze, her breath catching. “Professor Dumbledore?”

“Indeed,” he said, his eyes twinkling with a quiet amusement. “Welcome, Harry. And welcome, Tom. It is good to see you both.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across his face. “If we’re not dead, then what is this?”

“This,” Dumbledore said, spreading his hands to gesture at the station, “is a place between worlds. A limbo, if you will. A space where those at a crossroads may reflect and decide what comes next.”

“A crossroads?” Harry repeated, her voice trembling slightly.

Dumbledore nodded. “Yes, Harry. You stand here because the Killing Curse Voldemort cast was never destined to destroy you. Or you, Tom.”

Tom’s gaze darkened. “Explain.”

Dumbledore’s expression grew more serious.“Your story is not so simple, Harry. Nor is yours, Tom.”

He stepped closer, his hands folded in front of him. “Harry, when Voldemort used your blood to recreate his body, he tied you to life in a way he did not fully understand. Your mother’s protection runs through him now, as it does through you. As long as he lives, so do you. Voldemort cannot kill you, not while his body is sustained by the very blood that anchors you to life.”

Harry’s breath hitched as she processed the revelation. “But… we both fell. The Killing Curse hit both of us.”

“Precisely,” Dumbledore said, nodding. He turned to Tom. “And you, Tom. You were once a Horcrux, a fragment of Voldemort’s soul. But when you were healed by Fawkes, something remarkable happened. Your own soul began to grow, untethered to the piece of Voldemort’s soul that you once were.”

Tom’s expression darkened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“When Voldemort killed you,” Dumbledore continued, “that final connection—the fractured piece of his soul still clinging to you—was destroyed. You are no longer his Horcrux, Tom. You are your own person, with a soul that is whole and complete.”

Tom’s jaw tightened. “But Harry and I… we’re still tied together?”

Dumbledore’s gaze softened. “Yes. As the prophecy said, ‘neither can die while the other survives.’ But the bond between you is no longer tied to Voldemort. It is tied to each other. You are bound by more than magic, Tom. You are bound by choice, by love, and by the lives you have built since.”

Harry’s breath caught, and she glanced at Tom, who was staring at Dumbledore with an intensity she had rarely seen.

“So what happens now?” Harry asked, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside her.

Dumbledore smiled faintly. “That is up to you. You have a choice. You can move on, both of you, to what lies beyond this life. Or you can return, and finish what you started.”

Harry’s gaze sharpened. “Voldemort’s mortal now. We can stop him.”

“You can,” Dumbledore agreed, his tone grave. “But it will not be easy. He will not go quietly, Harry. He never has.”

Harry turned to Tom, her heart pounding. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes burned with a quiet intensity. “We’re going back,” she said firmly. “Aren’t we?”

Tom studied her for a moment, his dark eyes searching hers. He saw the fire in her gaze, the unwavering determination that had drawn him to her in the first place. He thought of the life they had spoken of, the future they had dared to dream of, and the people waiting for them in the castle.

“Yes,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “We’re going back.”

Dumbledore’s smile returned, soft and approving. “I thought you might.”

“Why?” Tom asked sharply.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Because, Tom, despite everything, you have learned what it means to fight for someone other than yourself. And that is why you will succeed.”

Harry stepped closer to Tom, her hand brushing his. “Let’s do this together.”

Tom gave a faint nod, his expression softening as he reached for her hand. “Together.”

The light around them began to brighten, the platform fading into white. Dumbledore’s voice echoed as they were pulled back into the world.

“Good luck, Harry. Good luck, Tom. The end is near—make it count.”

And then, with a flash of light, they were gone.

Chapter Text

The forest fell into an eerie silence as Voldemort’s triumphant smirk spread across his pale, snake-like face. His crimson eyes gleamed as he gazed down at Harry and Tom, their limp bodies still holding hands, even in death. To him, they were nothing more than broken remnants of a failed rebellion.

“Take them,” Voldemort ordered, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. “Let Hogwarts see their fallen champions. Let them despair.”

The Death Eaters moved with grim efficiency, hoisting Harry and Tom as they began their victory march. The forest seemed to grow darker, the shadows twisting as they carried their captives toward the ruined gates of Hogwarts. Voldemort led the procession, his wand gripped tightly in his long fingers, his posture radiating triumph.

When they reached the castle grounds, the Death Eaters spread out, their ranks forming a dark wave that seemed to consume everything in its path. Voldemort stood at the forefront, Harry and Tom placed at his feet like trophies.

The defenders of Hogwarts—students, professors, and members of the Order of the Phoenix—stood gathered near the castle’s entrance. Their faces were pale, their wands trembling in their hands, but they did not falter. Hermione, Ron, the Weasleys, Neville, Luna, and others stood together, a wall of defiance against the advancing darkness.

Voldemort’s voice rang out, cold and terrible. “Your champions are dead!” He gestured to Harry and Tom, his expression twisting into a mockery of sympathy. “You have fought bravely, but it is over. Surrender now, and I may allow some of you to live. Resist, and I will raze this castle to the ground.”

The defenders stood in silence, the weight of Voldemort’s words pressing down on them. Then, Hermione stepped forward, her wand raised, her voice ringing with defiance.

“We will never surrender,” she declared, her eyes blazing.

Her words rippled through the defenders, and one by one, they raised their wands, their resolve hardening. The sight of their courage seemed to irritate Voldemort, his expression darkening as he raised his wand.

“So be it,” he hissed.

He moved to cast a spell, but before he could utter a word, a roar erupted from the distance.

From the edge of the forest, a massive force surged forward. Families of Hogwarts defenders, Hogsmeade residents, and what seemed like half of Diagon Alley appeared, charging toward the castle with cries of defiance. Leading them was Aberforth Dumbledore, his wand blazing as he shouted commands.

The ground shook as the centaurs emerged from the forest, their bows drawn, their hooves pounding against the earth. They moved as one, a formidable force of precision and strength, their faces fierce as they joined the fight.

The Death Eaters faltered, their ranks breaking slightly at the unexpected reinforcements.

Voldemort’s gaze snapped to the advancing forces, his expression twisting in fury. “No!” he roared. “Do not falter! Destroy them all!”

The defenders of Hogwarts surged forward, meeting the Death Eaters head-on as the reinforcements charged in from the sides. Spells flew through the air, lighting up the night in a dazzling, deadly display.

Amidst the chaos, Harry’s eyes fluttered open. Her heart raced as she quickly took in her surroundings—the battlefield, the Death Eaters, the distant figures of her friends and allies.

Beside her, Tom stirred, his dark eyes snapping open. He assessed the scene with swift precision, his gaze locking onto Harry’s.

“Now,” she whispered urgently.

Together, they moved through the chaos, slipping between the distracted Death Eaters. Their wands were still in their pockets—miraculously overlooked in the rush—and Harry gripped hers tightly as they ducked behind the ruins of a collapsed wall.

“You’re alive,” Harry whispered, her voice filled with relief despite the danger around them.

“And so are you,” Tom replied, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smirk. “But we can celebrate later.”

Harry nodded, clutching her wand tightly as they slipped through the melee. The cries of battle grew louder, the flashes of light brighter, as they edged closer to the castle.

“They’ll see us,” Harry whispered.

“Not if we’re quick,” Tom replied, his tone calm but commanding.

They darted between broken walls and fallen rubble, their steps silent as they moved toward the castle. The chaos of the battle worked in their favor, the Death Eaters too distracted by the reinforcements and the defenders’ renewed vigor to notice their escape.

As they reached the relative safety of the castle, Harry paused, glancing back at the battlefield. Her heart ached as she saw Hermione and Ron fighting fiercely, Neville wielding his wand with surprising strength, and Luna moving with her usual ethereal calm.

“We have to help them,” Harry said, her voice trembling.

Tom turned to her, his expression unreadable. “We will. But not yet.”

Harry looked at him, her green eyes blazing. “We can end this, Tom. We have to.”

Tom’s gaze softened, and for a moment, he simply looked at her. Then he nodded, his jaw tightening with resolve. “We will.”

Chapter Text

The Great Hall was chaos, filled with the cacophony of clashing spells, cries of pain, and the roar of battle. The defenders of Hogwarts fought with ferocity, their ranks bolstered by the families of fighters, the inhabitants of Hogsmeade, and the centaurs who had charged from the forest. The Death Eaters, though dwindling, fought viciously, their desperation driving them to inflict as much damage as they could before falling.

Harry and Tom fought their way inside, their wands blazing as they cast curses and protective spells in tandem. Tom moved with cold precision, his wand slashing through the air as he took down enemy after enemy. Harry followed close behind, her determination fueling her every spell as they cut through the remnants of Voldemort’s army.

At the heart of the chaos stood Voldemort, his pale form wreathed in the green glow of his magic. He moved like a storm, dueling three of Hogwarts’ most formidable fighters at once. McGonagall, her robes singed but her wand steady, fired a barrage of spells with razor-sharp precision. Slughorn, despite his age, stood firm, his potion-master’s instincts giving him an edge in strategy. Shacklebolt, his Auror training evident in every movement, countered Voldemort’s attacks with calm efficiency.

But Voldemort was relentless. His spells were devastating, the sheer force of his magic making the air around him crackle with power. McGonagall deflected a Killing Curse with a sharp flick of her wand, only to be forced back by a wave of dark energy. Slughorn was nearly knocked off his feet as he shielded himself from a fire curse, and Kingsley gritted his teeth as he blocked another deadly spell.

“Hold the line!” McGonagall shouted, her voice fierce.

As Voldemort watched his army fall, one at a time, he let out a roar of fury, unleashing a massive blast of energy that sent McGonagall, Slughorn, and Kingsley flying.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Tom’s eyes scanned the battlefield, sharp and calculating, until they landed on Rodolphus Lestrange. The man fought with wild fury, his cackling laugh cutting through the chaos as he hurled curses at a group of Hogwarts defenders.

“There,” Tom said, his voice low and cold.

Harry followed his gaze and froze, her stomach twisting. She didn’t need an explanation to know what Tom was thinking. The memory of her torture at Lestrange’s hands in Malfoy Manor was written in the tightness of his jaw and the way his hand clenched around his wand.

“Tom,” she started, but he cut her off, his voice sharp.

“He dies. Now.”

Without waiting for her response, Tom moved toward Lestrange, his wand slashing through the air as he deflected spells from nearby Death Eaters. Harry hesitated for only a moment before following him, her determination matching his.

Lestrange was laughing as he fired a streak of green light at a Hogwarts defender, only for the spell to be blocked by a shimmering shield charm. He turned, sneering, but his expression twisted into confusion and then shock as he saw who was advancing toward him.

“Impossible!” he spat, his wand snapping up. “You’re dead! I saw you die!”

“Clearly, you were mistaken,” Tom said coldly, his wand already moving.

The air between them crackled as Tom fired a series of spells with ruthless precision. Lestrange barely managed to deflect them, his wild demeanor faltering as he stumbled back.
Harry joined the fight, her wand aimed steadily at Lestrange. “This ends here, Rodolphus!”

Lestrange snarled, his movements erratic as he hurled curses at them. “You think you can stop us? You think you’ve won? The Dark Lord will—”

Tom didn’t let him finish. He cast a Blasting Curse that struck Lestrange square in the chest, sending him flying backward.

Harry followed it up with a Stunner, her voice ringing out as she shouted, “Expulso!”

The spell hit Lestrange just as he tried to rise, the force of it slamming him into the ground. His wand flew from his hand, and for a moment, he lay still.

Tom stepped forward, his wand aimed directly at Lestrange’s heart. His voice was low, deadly. “This is for what you did to her.”

The green light of the Killing Curse engulfed Lestrange, and he crumpled lifelessly to the floor. His body slid across the rubble-strewn ground and came to rest at the feet of Voldemort, who had just blasted McGonagall, Slughorn, and Kingsley away with a massive surge of dark magic.

The Great Hall seemed to go still as Voldemort stared down at the lifeless body of Rodolphus Lestrange. His crimson eyes flicked upward, locking onto Tom and Harry as they stood side by side, their wands raised. For a moment, shock flickered across his face, quickly replaced by fury—and something else. Fear.

“You,” Voldemort hissed, his voice trembling with rage. “This cannot be. I killed you.”

“Clearly, you were mistaken,” Tom said again, his tone sharp and cutting as he stepped forward, his dark eyes fixed on Voldemort.

Voldemort’s gaze darted between the two of them, his twisted features contorting with disbelief. “No matter. I will correct that mistake now,” he spat, raising his wand.

The air grew heavy with magic as Voldemort prepared to strike, but Harry and Tom stood firm, their wands steady and their resolve unshaken.

“This ends now,” Harry said, her voice steady, her green eyes blazing with determination.

Voldemort’s lips curled into a twisted smile. “Indeed it does.”

Tom moved to stand beside her, his dark eyes unwavering. “Together,” he said softly, his voice carrying an unshakable resolve.

Harry nodded, her grip on her wand tightening. “Together.”

The Great Hall fell silent, the battle around them pausing as both sides turned to watch.

Voldemort raised his wand, the green light of the Killing Curse glowing at its tip.

And then, with a burst of magic, the final battle began.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall erupted into a cacophony of sound and light as Voldemort squared off against Harry and Tom, the clash of their spells sending shockwaves through the castle. The air was thick with energy, the duel so violent and relentless that no one dared to intervene.

The Dark Lord’s magic was relentless, each curse stronger and more devastating than the last, but Harry and Tom moved in perfect synchronization, their spells weaving together in a symphony of raw power and precision.

When Voldemort fired a jagged streak of green light at Harry, Tom was there, deflecting it with a sharp, precise flick of his wand. When Voldemort turned his fury on Tom, Harry struck from the side, forcing Voldemort to pivot, his red eyes blazing with frustration.

“You are delaying the inevitable,” Voldemort sneered, his voice a venomous hiss. “You are nothing! I am the greatest wizard who has ever lived! You cannot hope to overcome me!”

Harry dodged a curse aimed for her chest, her voice ringing out as she quipped, “Yeah, greatest wizard—except for the fact that you keep losing to teenagers. Real inspiring!”

Voldemort’s face twisted with rage. “You dare—”

“She’s right,” Tom interrupted sharply. “You’re weaker than you believe yourself to be.” He stepped forward, deflecting a spell aimed at Harry with a flick of his wand. His expression was cold, his voice calm but cutting as he continued to address Voldemort. “And yet, you’re right about one thing. I am nothing. Nothing like you. But you’ve forgotten something important.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed as he hurled another curse at Tom, who deflected it with ease. “And what is that?” Voldemort sneered.

Tom straightened, his dark eyes locking onto Voldemort’s. “I am you,” he said, his voice ringing out across the hall. “The best part of you—the part you lost, the part you tore away to become the fractured, crippled thing you are now.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as Tom’s words echoed through the air. Gasps rippled through the crowd of onlookers, their shock palpable as the truth sank in.

“You’re lying!” Voldemort spat, his face contorting with rage. “You are nothing but a pale imitation—a shadow!”

Tom smirked faintly, his wand steady as he stepped closer. “A shadow, maybe. But one with power. Power you’ll never understand because you abandoned it when you chose hate over humanity.”

Harry, her wand still raised, glanced briefly at Tom, her heart pounding at his words. “And that’s why you’ll lose,” she added, her voice fierce. “Because you don’t understand what real strength is.”

Voldemort’s expression twisted into a snarl, his patience finally snapping. With a roar, he raised his wand high, the green glow of the Killing Curse gathering at its tip.

“You will die!” Voldemort bellowed, his voice shaking with rage as he unleashed the spell.

The green light surged toward them, but Harry and Tom were ready. Their wands moved as one, their combined magic meeting Voldemort’s curse in a blinding explosion of light and sound. The spells connected, forming a blazing beam of energy that crackled and pulsed with raw power.

The beam trembled and twisted as the three forces collided, the air around them vibrating with the intensity of their magic. Voldemort’s face twisted with effort as he poured everything he had into the Killing Curse, his fury palpable.

Harry and Tom stood shoulder to shoulder, their wands locked together as they pushed back against the onslaught. Sweat dripped down Harry’s brow as she gritted her teeth, her entire body trembling with the effort.

“Now, Tom!” she shouted, her voice strained.

Tom’s jaw clenched, his dark eyes blazing as he focused his power, forcing it forward. “Together,” he said, his voice steady and commanding.

He and Harry focused their magic, their combined strength surging forward as they forced Voldemort’s curse back toward him.

“You’re finished,” Tom growled, his voice steady despite the strain.

As the first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon, the balance shifted. The beam of magic, glowing brighter than ever, surged back toward Voldemort.

“No!” Voldemort screamed. “I am immortal! I am invincible!” His voice was filled with desperation as he tried to hold it off. But it was too late. The green light of his Killing Curse rebounded, striking him square in the chest.

Voldemort’s body froze, his eyes widening in shock and disbelief. For a moment, it seemed as though time itself had stopped. Then, with a shuddering gasp, he collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

The hall went silent. The tension that had gripped the room evaporated as everyone stared at Voldemort’s still form, the reality of what had just happened sinking in.

Harry lowered her wand slowly, her breathing ragged as she turned to look at Tom. His face was pale, his dark eyes fixed on Voldemort’s body.

“It’s over,” Harry said softly, her voice trembling with relief.

Tom nodded, his expression unreadable. “For him, yes.”

The onlookers began to move, their stunned silence giving way to cries of relief and celebration as they realized what had happened. Hogwarts was safe. Voldemort was dead.

Harry reached out, her hand brushing against Tom’s. He turned to her, his expression softening for a moment as he looked into her eyes.

“We did it,” she said, her voice steady despite the tears in her eyes. “Together.”

Tom’s lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. “Together.”

As the sunlight poured through the shattered windows of the Great Hall, bathing them in its warmth, the defenders of Hogwarts began to cheer. The battle was won, and the nightmare was finally over.

Chapter Text

The aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts was both haunting and strangely serene. The castle was in ruins, yet the sky above Hogwarts was painted with the soft hues of dawn, the pale light casting long shadows over the ruined castle and casting an ethereal light on the destruction. Harry stood at the edge of the Astronomy Tower, her arms crossed over her chest as she surveyed the wreckage. Smoke still rose from parts of the castle, and the air was heavy with the scent of ash and blood. Survivors moved below like shadows, tending to the wounded and mourning the lost.

She barely registered the sound of footsteps behind her until Tom stepped into view. His dark robes were torn, and his face was smeared with dirt and blood, but he carried himself with the same unshakable confidence as always. His wand hung loosely at his side, and his gaze swept over the horizon before settling on her.

“You’re quiet,” he said, his voice cutting through the stillness.

Harry shrugged, her throat tight. “Just... thinking.”

Tom studied her for a moment before stepping closer, his presence commanding yet oddly comforting. “We won,” he said simply. “You should be celebrating.”

She glanced at him, her expression weary. “It doesn’t feel like a victory. Too many people died.”

“That’s war,” Tom replied, his tone matter-of-fact but not unkind. “Sacrifices are inevitable. I don’t make light of that. But we survived. That’s what matters.”

Harry looked back out at the grounds, her chest aching with the weight of everything they’d endured. “Did we, though? Survive, I mean? Or are we just... still here?”

Tom’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “You’re alive. I’m alive. I’d say that counts.”

She huffed a quiet laugh despite herself, shaking her head. “Only you could make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple,” Tom said, stepping closer until they were nearly shoulder to shoulder. “And I kept my promise.”

Harry turned to him, her brows furrowing. “What promise?”

His gaze was steady, unyielding. “I promised you I’d live. That I’d come back from this war. And I did. Against all odds, I kept my promise.”

Her breath caught, memories of their conversation before their death walk flooding back. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Tom reached into his pocket and withdrew something small and gleaming.

The Gaunt family ring.

Harry froze, her heart pounding as he held it up between them. The black stone glinted in the morning light, its ancient craftsmanship both beautiful and ominous.

“And now,” Tom said, his voice soft but firm, “I’m asking you to keep yours.”

Harry stared at the ring, her mind racing. She remembered the desperation in her voice when she’d sworn to marry him, the hope she’d clung to that it would give him something to fight for. But now, with the war over and Voldemort gone, the weight of that promise felt heavier than ever.

Harry’s eyes widened as he stepped closer, holding the ring between them. “Tom...” she began, her voice hesitant. “I don’t know if—”

“You promised,” he interrupted gently, though there was a hint of steel beneath his words. He took her hand, his touch surprisingly warm against her cold fingers. “You promised that if we won, if we survived, you’d marry me. I’m holding you to that. And I’m not asking you to decide right now what the rest of our lives will look like. But I am asking you to trust me enough to take the first step. To let us try. Don’t start running again now when the hard part’s over.”

She hesitated, her heart pounding as a wave of uncertainty washed over her. The war was over, but the scars it had left behind were fresh, raw. Could she truly think about the future, about a life with him, after everything they had been through?

Tom seemed to understand her hesitation. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said softly. “But we fought the battles. We won the war. And now we deserve to be happy. You deserve to be happy. And so do I.”

Harry stared at him, her emotions warring within her. He had changed—she had seen it, felt it. He wasn’t the same man he had once been. He was someone who had fought for her, who had stood by her, who had walked to his death for her, who had chosen to live for her.

She remembered the battles they had fought, the moments they had shared, the way he had looked at her when they thought they might not survive. She remembered her own promise, the moment she had promised him a future, spoken with tears and desperation but no less sincere. She had meant it then, and despite her fears, she realized she still meant it now.

Slowly, she nodded. “Okay,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll marry you.”

A rare smile broke across Tom’s face—a genuine, unguarded smile that transformed his face and made her stomach flip. He took her hand, his touch firm yet careful, and slid the ring onto her finger with deliberate care. The black stone gleamed as it settled into place, its weight significant but not unwelcome.

Tom held her hand for a moment, his eyes sparkling as they met hers. “We fought the battles. We won the war,” he said again, his voice low and triumphant. “And now we will be happy.”

Harry nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the weight of everything they’d been through. “Yes,” she said softly. “We will. Together.”

Chapter Text

What can I say about this story that I haven't already said? It was a labor of love. My first real fanfiction. At least the first one I've ever shared with anyone. I loved this story and I loved these characters. The last chapter felt like an appropriate ending for them. It goes to the end of book seven and the canon material. Harry finally stops running. There's hope for a future. It seemed like a nice note to leave off on.

That said, when I decided to make this fanfic public after it lingered on my laptop for a long while, I had to reread it all multiple times, change things around that I had settled on before, and revisit these characters. That's when I decided that I wanted to know more. I wanted to explore what would happen to our beloved protagonists after the war when they finally have a chance at peace and it's supposed to be happily ever after. After all, given who Harry and Tom are, it was never going to be easy. I'm in the midst of writing a short(er than this) sequel, and it's slow going because I have no more canon to pull from for big plot points, and I'm making it all up from scratch. That said, I don't like to leave a story unfinished, and I've every intention of finishing that one.

In the meanwhile, since that's going to be slowly churned out, I've also decided to revisit an idea I had in my earlier drafts - where our fanfic canon breaks off into an alternate version in which Sirius and Harry and Tom's baby would have survived. So ... that'll be coming too at some point soon.

I hope you've enjoyed reading this story as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Here's hoping you'll come with me on our next adventure as we explore Tom and Harry's life post-war.

Much love,

Bree