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Chapter Text

For years, sleep had been a battlefield for Harry Potter. Even after Voldemort’s defeat, the peace everyone expected didn’t settle over him. He’d walk the halls of Hogwarts as its youngest-ever Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, smile at his students, even share drinks with old friends—but when night came, so did the memories. Blood, screams, the smell of smoke.

He thought he’d made peace with it. He’d accepted that rest would never truly be restful. Until his twenty-first birthday.

That night, he collapsed into bed, exhausted from a long day of dodging birthday wishes and hiding from the chaos of celebrations. He hadn’t expected sleep to come easily, but it did. And with it came the first dream.

He opened his eyes to find himself standing in a library. Not the Hogwarts library. No—this one was... different. Towering, circular, with tall windows that opened to a starlit sky. The stars shimmered unnaturally, flickering like candles. The room was silent, but not unwelcoming.

And then he saw him.

A young man sat in a high-backed armchair near the center of the room, legs crossed, a leather-bound book resting open in his lap. His dark hair was neatly combed, his posture perfect, his face—

Harry’s breath caught.

He would’ve recognized him anywhere. Even without the red eyes, even without the monstrous presence Voldemort had become, he knew this was Tom Riddle. But not the one who had tried to kill him over and over. This Tom looked… untouched. Still sharp, still intense, but whole. Young. Curious.

Tom looked up, surprised. For a moment, they simply stared at one another.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Tom said at last, voice low and even.

Harry swallowed hard. “Neither are you.”

A pause.

“You know me,” Tom observed, eyes narrowing. “But I don’t know you.”

Harry stepped closer, heart thudding in his chest. “It’s complicated.”

Tom studied him in a way that made Harry feel like a book being cracked open. He glanced at Harry’s casual clothes, the tired set of his shoulders. “Are you... dreaming?”

“I think so.”

Tom stood, smoothing out his robes. “Interesting. Then perhaps I’m dreaming too.”

Harry let out a breath. “This isn’t what I expected from a nightmare.”

Tom arched an eyebrow. “You expected me to try to kill you?”

Harry gave a dry laugh. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Tom’s lips twitched, but not in mockery. He looked oddly wistful. “I don’t know what I’ve done in your world… but I can feel it. The weight of something terrible. Like I’m the ghost of a mistake I haven’t made yet.”

Harry looked at him—really looked. There was no malice in this version. No cruelty. Just a sharp, intelligent boy standing on the edge of a future that would consume him.

He found himself saying, quietly, “You were meant to be more than what you became.”

That made Tom go still.

The room around them shimmered faintly, like the dream was breathing. Tom looked at the stars through the window, silent for a long while. Then, almost cautiously, he said, “ You know me.”

Harry stepped closer, heart thudding in his chest. “Yeah. I know you. Or… I knew what you became.”

Tom’s expression flickered. “That sounds ominous.”

“It is,” Harry admitted quietly. “But you’re not… him. Not here.”

Tom studied him for a long moment, eyes sharp and intelligent. “So you’re from my future. And you’ve seen what I become.”

“Yes.” Harry’s voice softened. “But you’re not the same. You feel… different here.”

Tom closed the book in his lap with a soft snap and leaned forward. “What’s your name?”

Harry hesitated. Giving it felt strangely intimate. But somehow, he wanted Tom to know. “Harry.”

A strange, almost wistful look passed through Tom’s face. “Harry,” he repeated slowly, like he was tasting the sound. “That’s familiar. Strange.”

“It should be,” Harry muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’ve… crossed paths before. But this isn’t like any of those times.”

“Where are we, then?” Tom asked, glancing around. “This place isn’t real. I know my own mind, and this is something else. Somewhere in-between.”

Harry nodded. “I don’t know exactly. But it’s peaceful. I haven’t had a dream this calm in years.”

Tom gave a slight, sardonic smile. “Neither have I.”

They sat together in silence for a few moments—Harry on the floor beside the chair, Tom still poised like a painting come to life. Outside, the stars drifted lazily across the black sky like tiny lanterns.

Then Tom asked, quietly, “Do you hate me?”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“If you know what I become… do you hate me for it?”

Harry exhaled, eyes on the floor. “I did. For a long time. But I’ve also spent years trying to understand why you became him. What went wrong. What was taken from you. What you never got.”

“And this dream version?” Tom asked, softer now.

Harry met his gaze. “This version… I don’t hate at all.”

Tom looked away, jaw tense, like that answer unsettled him. Or maybe it gave him hope he didn’t know what to do with.

“I think,” he said eventually, “that I’ve been dreaming of you too. I just didn’t know who you were.”

Harry’s heart gave a sharp little twist. “Maybe we were always meant to meet… here.”

Neither of them spoke for a long time after that. The silence was warm. Companionable.

Harry met his gaze. “This version… I don’t hate. This version feels like someone I could’ve met in another life. Maybe even someone I could’ve—” He stopped himself, heat rising in his cheeks. “It doesn’t matter.”

Tom tilted his head, a small, amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Someone you could’ve what, Harry?”

Harry looked away. “Never mind. It’s just a dream.”

Tom leaned back, watching him with unreadable eyes. “Dreams aren’t always meaningless.”

Harry stood slowly, brushing imaginary dust from his trousers. “Maybe. But I should wake up.”

He didn’t know how he knew, but the dream was starting to fade—the stars outside the window were dimming, and the shelves were dissolving into shadow.

Tom stood as well, and for a moment, they were the same height, the same age, two young men suspended in time.

“Will I see you again?” Tom asked, voice unusually gentle.

“I hope so,” Harry said, surprised to find that he meant it.

Tom hesitated. Then, very carefully, he reached out—and touched Harry’s hand. It was light, tentative, but warm. Real. “Then come back.”

And Harry did.

He woke in his bed at Hogwarts, the early morning light creeping in through the curtains. The scent of parchment and old wood surrounded him, but his mind was still back there—in the impossible library, beneath a sky full of moving stars, standing beside a boy who should’ve become a monster but hadn’t.

He didn’t know how or why, but for the first time in years, Harry wanted to dream again.

But more than that, he felt a tug in his chest, like something precious had been left behind in that dream library. Something he wasn’t ready to let go of.

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t fall asleep so much as slip.

He’d been staring at his ceiling, wondering if the dream had been a one-off. If maybe his tired mind had stitched together a strange, haunting fantasy just to give him something to hold on to. But when his eyes closed, the world blurred—and he was back.

The stars were different this time. Fewer, but brighter, glowing with a steady warmth that reminded him of candlelight in the Gryffindor common room. The same library greeted him—its circular walls towering with endless books, the velvet armchair still by the center.

And in it, waiting, was Tom.

He looked up the moment Harry appeared, and a real smile curved on his lips. Not a smirk, not a calculated expression, but something honest. Warm.

“You came back.”

Harry’s chest felt too tight for a second. He walked closer, not hiding the relief in his voice. “You didn’t think I would?”

Tom shrugged. “Most people don’t come back to me. In dreams or otherwise.”

Harry sat down beside the chair this time, cross-legged like a child listening to a story. “I’m not most people.”

“No,” Tom agreed, closing his book and tossing it aside. “You’re Harry.”

Something about the way he said it made Harry feel seen—stripped of his titles and battles, left only as himself.

They sat in a quiet that wasn’t awkward. The stars shifted above them in slow, rhythmic pulses, like the sky itself was breathing.

Finally, Tom broke the silence. “You said you knew what I became.”

Harry nodded.

“Will you tell me?” Tom’s voice didn’t tremble, but there was a weight behind it. A request not just for information—but for trust.

Harry considered. “I could tell you the whole story. About Horcruxes. About the war. But that’s not really the point.”

Tom raised a brow. “Enlighten me, then.”

“The point is, somewhere along the way, you lost yourself. I don’t know if it was when you were a boy in that orphanage, or when you started tearing your soul apart—but you stopped believing you were worth loving.”

Tom went still.

“And I think,” Harry continued gently, “that somewhere inside you, that part didn’t die. It got buried. Maybe… maybe this dream is what’s left of him.”

Tom didn’t speak for a long time.

When he did, his voice was soft. “You think I can be loved?”

“I think you deserved to be. I think you still do.”

Tom turned to him, something fragile flickering in his expression. “And you… could love me?”

Harry’s breath caught. “I think… I already am. A little.”

Tom looked like someone who had never been told he mattered—and didn’t know what to do with it. Slowly, he reached out again, fingers brushing Harry’s. This time, Harry didn’t hesitate. He took Tom’s hand in his own, warm and steady.

No monsters. No war. Just two boys in a dream, fingers entwined beneath a sky full of stars.

“The point is, somewhere along the way, you lost yourself. I don’t know if it was when you were a boy in the orphanage, or when you first touched magic, or maybe the day you split your soul for the first time.” Harry’s voice was soft. “But you started to believe you were alone. That you had to be.”

Tom didn’t respond right away. His gaze drifted to the shelves around them, fingers curling slightly around the armrest. “Is that what made me a monster?”

Harry didn’t flinch at the word. “It’s what allowed you to become one. You stopped seeing people as real. As equals.”

Tom let out a quiet, bitter sound. “And what about now? Do you see me as real?”

Harry turned to look at him fully, earnest. “More real than most people I’ve met. You’re not him, Tom. You’re… a version that never had to survive by becoming terrifying. I don’t think you’ve ever killed anyone in this place. Or hurt anyone just to prove you could.”

Tom was silent, the tips of his fingers brushing his lips in thought. “Do you think dreams can lie?”

Harry’s brows drew together. “What do you mean?”

“This place feels too alive to be a dream. You and I… we’re too present. I remember everything we talked about before. I don’t usually remember my dreams.”

Harry frowned. “I’ve been thinking that too. It’s like—some part of me is really here.”

“Then maybe this is more than dreaming,” Tom murmured. “Maybe it’s a bridge.”

“A bridge between what?”

Tom looked at him then, gaze sharp but not unkind. “Between who I was… and who you might help me become.”

Harry’s breath caught.

There was a raw kind of vulnerability in Tom now. Nothing like the distant, cold boy from the diary, or the half-life specter that haunted his past. This was a boy on the edge of something good, but terrified to trust it.

Harry smiled gently. “Then I guess we’ll have to keep dreaming.”

Tom leaned in just slightly. “You make it sound like a promise.”

“Maybe it is,” Harry whispered.

Tom leaned in just slightly. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Would you stay, then? As long as the dream lasts?”

Harry didn’t hesitate. “Every time.”

There was a silence, not awkward or tense, but warm and full of possibility. And then, with the kind of hesitant boldness only someone starved of affection could have, Tom reached forward again—just like in the first dream—and touched Harry’s hand.

But this time, he didn’t let go.

His fingers laced with Harry’s, uncertain but purposeful, and something in Harry’s chest melted. He hadn’t expected affection from Tom Riddle—not even this gentler dream-version. But this was different. This wasn’t seduction or manipulation.

It was longing.

“I don’t understand why you’re being kind to me,” Tom said, voice thick with something like disbelief. “Even I know I’m dangerous.”

Harry gave a soft laugh, squeezing his hand. “Because kindness is what you never got. And maybe if someone had shown it to you sooner… you’d have turned out differently.”

Tom’s expression crumbled for a second—just a flicker—but Harry caught it. That rare, broken thing inside him, laid bare.

“Besides,” Harry added, nudging him with a shoulder, “you’ve got good hands.”

Tom looked startled. “What?”

“Warm,” Harry said, smirking now. “Nice fingers. A little dramatic with the gestures, but we can work on that.”

Tom let out a real laugh—quiet and unwilling, but sincere. “You’re strange.”

“You have no idea.”

They sat like that for a while—hand in hand, hearts quiet but open. The stars above them drifted lazily, glowing brighter now, like they were responding to the shift between them.

Eventually, Tom’s head tipped sideways, coming to rest against Harry’s shoulder.

And Harry didn’t move. He just leaned back, eyes half-closed, letting himself believe—for the first time—that maybe even the most broken things could be rewritten, if given the chance.

The sky above them pulsed, a star flickering so brightly it lit the entire room for a breathless second. And as the dream slowly began to fade, Tom reached out again—closer this time—and brushed Harry’s fingers with his own. The touch was feather-light, but it lingered, echoing even as Harry drifted back into the waking world.

He awoke with a hand still half-curled toward a warmth that wasn’t there—and a name on his lips that no longer tasted like fear.

Chapter Text

The strange thing was, Harry didn’t mean to fall asleep that afternoon.

He’d only meant to rest his eyes in the library, curled against a sunlit window with a worn copy of Advanced Defensive Spell Theory. But the next thing he knew, the warm sunlight dimmed into starlight, and the quiet rustling of pages faded into the hush of the dream library once more.

Only this time, he wasn’t alone when he arrived.

Tom was already there—but not just one version of him.

Across the room stood a boy no older than eleven, with sharp cheekbones and wary eyes, watching a memory play out in shimmering, ghost-like fragments. A cold dormitory. A closed door. A little boy curled tightly on a too-small mattress, pretending not to cry.

Harry froze.

The older Tom—his Tom—stood at the edge of the memory, arms crossed, gaze unreadable. “You’re not supposed to be here yet,” he said, glancing at Harry.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Harry said softly, stepping forward.

“You didn’t,” Tom said after a pause. “This one… just came uninvited.”

They watched in silence as the younger Tom moved through the shadows of his old orphanage room, a memory so detailed and visceral that it felt like Harry could reach out and touch the cold iron of the bedframe.

“He hated the dark,” the older Tom murmured. “But he hated asking for comfort more.”

Harry didn’t respond with pity. Instead, he knelt beside the child memory, eyes soft. “He deserved better.”

Tom turned his head. “You really believe that?”

“Yes. Even if you don’t.”

The memory faded slowly, dissolving into soft golden lights before vanishing entirely. The younger version of Tom disappeared with it, and the dream shifted back into their familiar library.

“Sometimes,” Tom said after a moment, “I forget the boy I used to be. Then dreams like this remind me.”

Harry studied him. “Maybe that’s why we’re meeting in dreams. Maybe your soul is showing me what’s left of him—what’s worth saving.”

Tom didn’t look away. “And do you think I’m worth it?”

Harry stood and moved closer. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t keep coming back.”

There was something like awe in Tom’s expression then, subtle and fleeting, but real. He reached out—more confident now—and took Harry’s hand.

Their fingers intertwined like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I think I’m beginning to believe you,” Tom whispered.

Harry smiled. “Good. Then let’s see what else we can remember.”

And for the rest of that dream, the two of them walked through memories—some painful, some curious, some small and soft. Tom let Harry see the quiet parts, the lonely parts, the moments no one else had ever witnessed.

And Harry, in return, gave something just as rare: his presence, without judgment. His attention, without fear. His heart, offered not in haste, but in gentle, steady pieces.

“As I said maybe your soul is showing me what’s left of him—what’s still worth saving.”

Tom blinked, as if the words startled something deep in him. “Is that what you’re doing? Saving me?”

Harry stood now, his steps measured as he crossed the space between them. “I don’t know. But I want to. Not because I have to… but because you’re worth it.”

Tom looked away, his voice quiet. “You shouldn’t be the one saying that.”

Harry gently reached out, brushing his knuckles along Tom’s jaw. “But I am. And I mean it.”

There was a pause, the kind where everything shifts—where walls fall and choices bloom.

Tom turned to face him fully, his dark eyes searching, flickering with so many emotions Harry couldn’t name them all—uncertainty, fear, want.

“What happens when you wake up?” Tom asked.

Harry exhaled slowly. “I try to find you again.”

Tom’s lips quirked in a sad sort of smile. “And if one day I’m not here?”

Harry smiled too, but his was gentle and full of hope. “Then I’ll wait. As long as it takes.”

There was a beat, and then—softly, carefully—Tom stepped closer.

“Has anyone ever kissed you in a dream?” he asked, voice low, his breath brushing Harry’s cheek.

“Not like this,” Harry whispered.

And then Tom kissed him.

It wasn’t fierce or desperate—it was slow, almost reverent. A brush of lips like a promise. Like he was learning what it meant to be wanted, not for his power or name or fear, but for the fragile, brilliant thing he was becoming.

When they pulled apart, Tom kept his forehead pressed to Harry’s.

“I don’t want to wake up,” he murmured.

Harry’s hand slid up to cradle the back of his neck. “Then don’t. Not yet.”

They stood there together, in the heart of a dream that no longer felt like just a dream at all. Around them, the library pulsed with soft, living magic—books whispering, stars shining through high glass panes, the whole world holding its breath for the next moment.

And for once, neither of them was alone.

Chapter Text

Harry had never expected dreams to feel like homes. But this one did.

Each time he returned, the dream was a little warmer. The shadows less sharp. The silence, less empty.

And Tom—his dream-Tom—seemed to change with him.

He smiled more now. Not often, and never without effort, but it was real. Less like a mask and more like sunlight cracking through stone.

This time, Harry found him waiting at the edge of a garden that hadn’t existed in the dreamscape before. Vibrant, blooming, wild—like magic made tangible.

“You built this?” Harry asked, breath caught in his throat.

Tom’s gaze flicked toward the petals of a bluebell bush, then back to him. “I think… maybe you did.”

Harry stepped into the garden, fingers brushing across soft petals. “Why a garden?”

Tom shrugged, but there was vulnerability in the gesture. “Because I wanted something that could grow. Something that didn’t hurt.”

Harry’s heart ached.

Tom reached out without warning, fingers threading with Harry’s again like it was the most natural thing in the world now. “Do you think this means something?” he asked. “That we keep meeting here?”

“I do,” Harry said. “And not just because I want it to.”

Tom’s thumb brushed lightly against Harry’s knuckles. “Sometimes I forget who I am when you’re around.”

“That’s a good thing,” Harry whispered. “You get to choose who you want to be.”

For a long while, they sat among the flowers, the scent of lavender and mint swirling through the air. Tom told him about old dreams—ones full of fear and silence. Harry told him about his real world—his friends, his war, the ache of loss.

“Do you hate me there?” Tom asked, voice barely audible.

Harry looked at him, then leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I should. But I don’t.”

Tom closed his eyes like the weight of that admission pressed into something tender inside him.

“I think,” Tom said slowly, “if I had known you then... if you had come into my life earlier... I would have loved you.”

Harry smiled against his skin. “You already do.”

“I think,” Tom said slowly, “if I had known you then... maybe I wouldn’t have become the person I did.”

Harry’s chest tightened. He reached out, brushing a strand of dark hair behind Tom’s ear. “Then maybe this is our second chance.”

Tom huffed a soft, disbelieving laugh. “In a dream?”

“In a dream,” Harry echoed, “where no one’s afraid to be real.”

They sat quietly after that, leaning against one another as the sky above them shifted—twilight deepening, stars appearing one by one. Time didn’t behave normally here. It slowed, then sped up, then folded in on itself entirely. But neither of them minded. Not when every second felt like a breath stolen from a future they were never allowed to have.

Eventually, Tom turned to him. “What are you going to do… when this ends?”

Harry’s smile was bittersweet. “Try to find you. Again. Out there.”

“And if the real me doesn’t know you?” Tom asked, voice fragile. “If he’s cruel… and cold… and everything I used to be?”

Harry laced their fingers again. “Then I’ll start from the beginning. Like I did here.”

Tom was quiet for a long time, his eyes reflecting starlight and uncertainty.

And then, in a voice barely above a whisper: “I’m afraid to wake up, Harry. Because I don’t want to forget how this feels.”

Harry leaned closer, lips brushing against Tom’s temple. “Then don’t forget. Take it with you. Let it change you.”

The garden seemed to shimmer at those words. Like the dream itself sighed.

But before Tom could respond, the colors flickered. The sky dimmed.

The dream began to fade.

Harry’s grip tightened. “Wait—no, not yet—”

But Tom shook his head gently. “It’s all right. You’ll come back.”

And just before the light swallowed him—

“I’ll be waiting, Harry.”

The dream was ending —not suddenly, but gently, like mist dispersing in the morning sun. The garden softened. The stars dimmed. Harry’s vision blurred, and the last thing he saw was Tom’s hand still clinging to his, desperate and warm.

When Harry woke up, his pillow was damp with tears he hadn’t realized he’d shed.

But what struck him most was not the dream itself—it was the faint, lingering scent of lavender on his skin… and the feeling of another heartbeat, echoing against his own.

Like someone, somewhere, had started dreaming too.

Chapter Text

It had been weeks since the dreams had stopped.

Harry still lay awake some nights, fingers curled into his sheets, eyes scanning the ceiling as if Tom might step out of the shadows and say something clever and half-sad, something that meant I missed you without actually saying it.

But there was nothing. Just silence and the haunting ache of almost.

Until the letter came.

It wasn’t addressed, not in the usual way. No owl delivered it. No ministry seal, no Hogwarts crest. Just an envelope left on his bedside table one quiet morning, the parchment smelling faintly of mint and earth.

Inside, in handwriting sharp and elegant, read:

“I remembered.”

Beneath it, a location. A date. A time.

Harry didn’t hesitate.

________________________________

The café was tucked in a Muggle corner of London, quiet and modest. A bell chimed as he stepped in, scanning the dim room until his heart nearly stopped.

Tom was sitting by the window. No longer the sixteen-year-old dream. No longer a Lord or a monster.

Just… a man. Pale, sharp-eyed, beautiful, and terrified.

Harry sat across from him slowly, breath caught in his throat.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Tom said.

“I didn’t think you’d remember,” Harry whispered.

Tom’s mouth twitched. “I think… I’ve always remembered. Even before the dreams started. There was always something missing. Something I couldn’t name.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a flower—crushed, dried, and still somehow bright blue.

“A cornflower,” he said. “From your garden.”

Harry stared, stunned. “You brought it with you?”

Tom met his eyes. “I never wanted to forget.”

There was silence then, heavy with things they couldn’t say. Then Tom leaned forward, voice quiet.

“Can we… try again? This time, for real?”

Harry smiled, heart full to bursting. “We already started, Tom.”

And outside, the first petals of spring began to fall, as if the world itself had been waiting too.

Harry reached across the table, took his hand, and held it like he had in the dream—gently, deliberately, with the sort of patience only love could teach.

Tom looked down at their joined hands like he couldn’t believe it. “I keep waiting to wake up,” he murmured. “But this… this feels more real than anything I’ve ever known.”

Harry laughed softly, eyes shining. “You’re not dreaming anymore, Tom. You chose to find me. That means something.”

Tom swallowed. “I was afraid you’d hate me. That you’d see… everything I was, and walk away.”

“I saw all of it,” Harry said. “And I stayed.”

That earned him a look—wary, wide-eyed, but touched with something fragile and bright. Hope.

“I’m not who I was in the dream,” Tom said quietly.

“No,” Harry agreed. “But neither am I. That’s the point, isn’t it? We get to grow. Together.”

Tom looked at him for a long moment, and then, like the slow bloom of the garden they’d built in their minds, he smiled.

Not a smirk. Not something calculated.

A real smile.

And Harry leaned forward, letting the rest of the café blur into soft background noise as he kissed him—this time not in dreams or memories or borrowed time, but in the world they had both nearly lost.

The kiss was soft and warm and careful. A beginning, not a question. A promise.

When they pulled apart, Harry whispered, “So… what now?”

Tom’s voice was steadier than it had ever been. “Now? We make something real. No more nightmares.”

And for the first time in either of their lives, it felt like they could.

Together.

Chapter Text

Spring had come early that year.

Their flat, tucked away on the edge of a quiet London street, overflowed with light. The garden—real now, not dreamed—had slowly grown beneath Harry’s touch, and thrived under Tom’s fastidious care. Cornflowers spilled out from the borders, curling toward the sun. Lavender lined the windowsills. There were tomato vines, basil pots, and a small white bench they had built together on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

Inside, the warmth didn’t come from the fireplace. It came from laughter echoing off the walls. From the clink of teacups. From the way Tom always stole Harry’s slippers. From the quiet mornings where they read side by side, toes brushing.

And from the kiss pressed to Harry’s bare shoulder every single morning before Tom even opened his eyes.

“Did you dream again?” Tom asked one such morning, his voice low and husky from sleep.

Harry, wrapped in blankets and sunlight, smiled. “No. Didn’t need to. You were already here.”

Tom turned to him, brushing a kiss to his cheek, then jaw, then neck. “Good. I don’t like sharing you with dream-versions of me. He was irritatingly charming.”

Harry snorted. “You were both irritating. But only one of you makes me coffee in the mornings.”

“And only one of me knows exactly how you take it,” Tom murmured, climbing out of bed and tossing a robe over his shoulders. “One sugar. No milk. Unless you’ve had a nightmare.”

Harry’s smile softened. “Haven’t had one in months.”

“Good,” Tom said, pausing in the doorway. “Then maybe… we’re finally free.”

They were.

The war, the prophecy, the darkness—all behind them.

What lay ahead was simpler, but more miraculous: breakfasts together, hands held in public, books swapped and shelves built. Arguments about plant care. Shared laughter during late-night walks. Whispered promises between kisses under moonlight. A garden that kept growing, and two men who learned to grow with it.

Because love, they had learned, wasn’t always loud or dramatic.

Sometimes, it was in the dream you remembered, and the choice you made after waking.

Sometimes, it was just this:

Tom reaching for Harry’s hand as he brought him a cup of coffee.
Harry leaning into his side as the garden bloomed outside.
And both of them, finally, at peace.

Chapter Text

The title Dreaming in Reverse has a layered meaning:

Love Before Reality:
Harry and Tom fall in love through dreams first—before meeting in reality. So, instead of love blossoming after time spent together, they fall in love in an imagined world, and only later bring that connection into real life. It’s like the emotional journey is happening backwards: they dream first, then live it.

Undoing Fate:
“In reverse” hints at the idea of undoing the past—reversing Tom’s dark future and giving them both a chance at healing. Through the dreams, Tom becomes someone different from Voldemort, as if time is rewriting itself softly, dream by dream.

Subtle Melancholy:
There’s a poetic echo to it—dreaming in reverse feels like reaching backwards for something lost, or something that could have been, but this time, they manage to hold onto it.

So in a way, the title captures the story’s soul: soft, slightly bittersweet, and deeply romantic.