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The clothed hilt of the black metal knife turned comfortably in his palm.
Magic buzzed from it, singing against his skin. It had not done so in decades—not since the day he earned his crown of Avalon.
It had taken much for the Three Witches to allow its release and deem him worthy: marked as the guardian of Avalon, monarch of serpent and magic, finally permitted to hold it.
"It only bleeds truth," the blonde one had warned.
"Don’t ask what you are unwilling to hear," said the brunette.
"You can’t take back what it hits," the one with black curls giggled in his ear.
And now, finally in his grasp again, he was at risk of losing it.
Tom Riddle, King of Avalon, did not usually walk. His throne could float, his forest obeyed him. But now he was forced to place boots upon the cold forest floor—an agreement made with the other magical creatures of the land.
The most wicked and distorted among them were the Fae.
Avalon had long been a place of peace for magicals—wixen of every colour, gender, and age—but the Fae threatened to upend all of it. To ruin it with their lust and greed.
They all sought sanctuary in the magical land of Avalon, but Tom knew, inevitably, only one faction could succeed. He had been biding his time, building his army, preparing to defeat the cursed creatures once and for all. But they were a step ahead, and had drawn first blood.
They took Harry.
The ground cracked beneath his boots in protest, moss recoiling from his heat. Fury thrummed through him. He wore all six of his rings—red, blue, purple, gold, black, and silver—each one gleaming like cursed stars beneath the broken canopy’s light.
His seventh ring, the green one, was with his husband.
The Fae had taken him—and Tom would ensure they regretted it. History would remember them as the transgressors who dared—and failed.
Of course, his dearest husband was not entirely innocent.
When Harry joined his court, he brought an entourage Tom had considered unworthy of their station. Greg and Luna, long-time companions. Greg, a blacksmith who made enchanted swords; Luna, who claimed she could speak to invisible magical creatures. And yet, Harry adored them—trusted them beyond reason—and would follow them to the ends of the earth.
This proved to be a fatal decision (one Tom would have to correct upon his return). There were many decisions like this. Tom believed it was because he was much older and wiser—despite the white in his hair, stronger—and that Harry should listen more to him. Young Harry, with his youthful jet-black hair, was always running around on quests for his friends.
Greg and Luna had led him to the Forbidden Forest, a place that sat precariously on a line of truce between the Fae and the magical folk. Tom had warned him of the dangers. But did that stop Harry? Of course it didn’t.
He still went. And after hours of silence, Greg finally came running with panic in his voice, Luna close behind, her robes sodden and muddy. They spoke of a ring of mushrooms, of Fae trickery, and of Harry pushing them to safety.
“The stupid fool,” Tom muttered.
For of course, his Harry would get into harm’s way, just to spite him.
Tom had cursed his other followers in his fury, but Ron and Hermione, his most trusted confidants, had comforted him, reminding him that he needed to focus on getting Harry back.
“Maybe I should let him rot with the Fae,” Tom sneered.
“You don’t really mean that,” Hermione chided. Her silver curls glowed like puffy clouds around her head. He hated how it made her look like the wise vicar she so often was.
“Plus, imagine the look on your husband’s face when he learns you saved him,” Ron added with a suggestive grin. Between the three of them, it was truly unfair how lush Ron’s red mullet was. It must have been a generational Weasley spell that Ron refused to divulge. “Weren’t you always complaining how wild he’s been? Perhaps this is a good opportunity for him to remember to seek advice from his king.”
“Hmmph.” Tom doubted Harry would be persuaded, even after this. The young man was a menace on his own. Tom had no idea what went through his head most days. He partially blamed Harry’s mentor, Albus Dumbledore. The old mage should have expired years ago, always floating about and dispensing useless advice.
“There, stop sulking. It makes your wrinkles deeper,” Hermione jested, poking his cheek. Tom swatted her hand away. Anyone else would have been cursed for touching him so casually, but they were his most loyal. They had helped him claim his throne. They were also the same people who had advised him to court and marry one Harry Potter. Perhaps it was old age making their advice go stale.
“This could also be a chance to begin our formal resistance against the Fae,” Ron said more seriously, aligning better with Tom’s own thoughts. Yes. He would rescue his dear husband and use this as a message—a reminder to the Fae of what kind of king he was.
“Prepare the materials for my expedition,” he ordered. Hermione and Ron shared a knowing look and rushed to do so.
Hermione helped him revise Fae laws and weaknesses. She had done her research and aided Tom in devising a plan to confront them. Ron had prepared his battle gear—specially woven robes that would deflect common Fae spells. And before Tom left, he helped fasten the clasp of his long cloak.
They weren’t allowed to follow.
But they wished him luck.
Tom watched as Ron and Hermione held hands and waved him off. Their love was easy. Simple.
When they were younger, focused on making Tom king, he had noted their relationship only in passing. As long as it didn’t distract from their mission, he had no reason to interfere. But now, married himself, he found himself envying their romance.
They bickered and fought, but they were always close. Always looking at each other.
Tom hated the way they looked at each other.
It was… effortless.
Tom and Harry’s relationship was anything but.
They had married for political reasons. Tom had long thought he could escape the burden of partnership, until a certain Potions Master accidentally revealed the tale of a young man who could wield magic as powerful as his own.
Hermione and Ron had proposed that, instead of civil war, Tom should strengthen the kingdom through political marriage. Harry had accepted, with a clear intent to influence his court and policies.
For someone so young, Harry was infuriatingly well-versed in law and constantly challenged him at every turn. Hermione found him hilarious. Ron admired his "spitfire."
Tom found it deeply irritating.
Harry complained about the border walls, the cursed trees meant to keep the Fae out, the harsh punishments for disloyalty, the remnants of Tom’s old army, the hoarding of magic, and his obsession with immortality.
“You need more grey hair to keep you humble,” Harry had once said.
The audacity.
Tom hated how Harry lit fires under his name in the Council chamber. How he kissed with rebellion in his mouth. How he refused to be tamed. How, by simply standing near the man, something feral stirred in Tom—a beast he had never known existed.
Tom would save him.
For Harry was his husband. And Tom…
He burned for him.
~~~
He had trekked for hours and was now nearing the forest border where magical wixen and the Fae maintained their fragile truce. He followed the lines of ancient trees, and the amethyst stone of his purple ring began to glow—a signal of foreign magic nearby.
The air thickened. The leaves hung as if holding breath, then slowly parted, as though granting him passage. In the centre of a small clearing, amidst flowers and lush grass, stood a perfect circle of mushrooms. They were suspiciously large, unnaturally white and red, and glowed faintly blue.
Tom crept forward, black knife in one hand, wand in the other.
A massive tree trunk reclined in the centre, and as he drew closer, he understood why.
He hissed.
Atop the trunk, fastened by enchanted bramble like an offering, lay his husband.
Harry.
Naked.
His arms were crossed over his chest, long legs exposed. His entire body shimmered with some strange glamour. His jet-black hair was tousled, strewn with colourful leaves. Vines wound around his torso and thighs. His lips were parted in a soft, sleeping sigh. No scars. No dirt.
Perfect.
Tom had seen his husband naked—they had consummated their marriage properly, as ritual and vow demanded. But Harry had never looked like this. So vulnerable. So inviting.
Harry was a handsome young man, and Tom had always been grateful he was shy—Harry would recoil from such display, never flaunt himself like this. The Fae had done this. To mock him. To tempt him.
Tom’s grip on the knife tightened.
How dare they.
"You’ve come," said a voice, soft and surreal.
A Fae stepped from behind a tree, gliding like water. She was beautiful in the way poison might be—feline in form, veiled in mist, her eyes sharp and cat-like. Her long brunette hair framed robes of silk that seemed to float just above the ground.
"And to whom do I owe this charming welcome?" Tom asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"You may call me Minerva," said the Fae.
But it was not her true name. Fae were forbidden to lie, but they were allowed to twist and deceive. Tom had a true name too, kept close to his chest. Only Hermione and Ron knew it.
“Well then, Minerva, will you explain why the Fae thought it prudent to hold my husband in such a manner?”
She circled the mushroom ring, long fingers pretending to caress the air around it. “He was the one who made the mistake of trying to protect a Shadow, our sworn enemy. We were out for our hunt, and he disrupted it.”
Tom rolled his eyes. This was such a Harry thing to do. The Fae had a tradition of hunting stray dark souls in the forest for sport. Harry had once called it barbaric. Shadows were once wixen souls, killed by Fae hands—justified, they claimed, as a trade for foolishness. Tom couldn’t stop it. He was more focused on protecting the living than defending the already dead.
But Harry, ever the idealist, argued that Shadows were hunted and used like toys. Human souls are disrespected and tormented. They were still part of the kingdom, and the kingdom had a duty to protect them too.
Tom was planning to destroy the Fae—but strategically, not impulsively.
Once again, Harry’s logic refused to wait.
"What will you give for him, Old King?" Minerva asked coyly, her feline hips swaying, pointed ears emerging through her hair. She was enjoying this, revelling in the taunt. Tom wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction.
“He is husband to the King of Avalon. Dare you make such a dangerous bargain after our years of truce?”
“But it wasn’t we who broke the rules first, dear King,” she purred. “If you insist on keeping to the truce, then we ask for trade. Blood for breath. A hindrance for a use. The blade, if you want him.”
Yes. That had been their request. The ancient knife in his hand was forged from Avalon’s deep mountain ore, said to cut through any illusion, reveal any lie. He had no idea who had leaked knowledge of his possession—there was a traitor in his court. How else could the Fae have known?
Tom’s jaw clenched. “Let me speak to him first.”
“The bargain is simple.”
“I shall confirm it is my husband,” Tom said carefully, making no promises.
She frowned, a chilling expression through her wide, cat-like eyes, before waving a clawed hand. The sleeping Harry stirred. His eyes opened slowly, dew-slick and wide. He blinked at Tom.
The way he looked at him—those green eyes that had once ensnared his soul. A groan, a shift, and Harry began breathing rapidly.
“Tom,” he whispered. “Tom?”
“I’m here.” Tom stepped forward, unconsciously, almost too close to the ring.
Harry writhed in his binds, panic rising. “Why am I here—oh, Tom—”
“Are you hurt?”
“No, but I don’t like this. Tom, save me. Please get me out. Please.”
Tom’s body betrayed him. Heat shot down his spine. Harry—pleading. Harry—needing him. In all their marriage, Harry had been cold, independent. Tom had craved this: to be needed.
He had always wished Harry could be softer, more compliant, docile. Then, Tom would have given him the world. The first time Tom saw him, it was the kindness he showed the children of Avalon, the softness with his friends, laughter with servants. With Tom, it was always steel.
With a sigh, Tom stepped back.
The black knife pulsed.
“The knife,” Minerva said, unclenching her claws expectantly.
Tom stared at her hand. He took a deep breath and stilled his thoughts. His blue ring hummed—detecting magic.
Swiftly, he raised his wand. “Sectesumpera!” he shouted, and threw the knife behind him.
It struck something.
Shimmer fractured the air—and a free hand caught the knife.
There, bound in bramble and gagged, bloodied but alive, a hand grazed by the knife, stood the real Harry.
In a blink, he sliced through the bramble. He stood, spitting out the gag, wandless but crackling with fury. “You fucking leaf-eared bitch!” he snapped, before turning to Tom. “You almost speared this into my head!”
“Glad you had time to catch it then,” Tom said, deadpan. But his heart sang. His real Harry, robes torn, forehead bloody, glasses askew, was at his side—and it felt like having Avalon’s mountains with him again. “Are you permanently damaged?”
“I can fight,” Harry growled, snatching the spare wand from Tom’s hand.
The false Harry screamed and twisted. Its face melted. Limbs distorted into black liquid, folding and reforming into something many-eyed with monstrous limbs.
“That’s not pretty,” Harry muttered.
Tom nodded grimly.
Minerva snarled, clutching her bleeding arm. “How dare you trick us!” Her voice fractured into a hundred echoing tones. “No one disrespects the Fae and leaves alive!”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Tom said, low and deadly.
Magic cracked through his rings. He redirected it through his wand.
Harry dodged a tail whip. The creature lunged, its limbs scrambling towards them. They leapt apart, blasting parallel curses.
Tom had to focus on Minerva. She lunged, claws outstretched. Harry rolled away from the creature’s pincers and flung the black knife toward him. Tom caught it cleanly and drove it into Minerva’s belly. Her scream was guttural.
Tom turned to find Harry duelling the creature, fire licking its face. With a burst of speed, Tom ran, cloak billowing. He leapt onto the monster’s back and drove the blade deep with a grunt.
The creature shrieked and collapsed with a deafening thud.
“That almost crushed me!”
“Well, maybe if it did, you would have stayed home,” Tom snapped.
“Miss this fight and let you have all the fun? Pfft.” Harry shoved his black hair back and rolled his shoulders, panting, eyes wide with adrenaline.
It tugged at something deep in Tom’s flame-lit heart.
They burned the creature and the Fae to ash. Tom drew a sigil of warding in the earth, commanding the trees to rise and form a barrier again. The forest groaned. A solid wall of bark and vine emerged, sealing them in safety.
A temporary solution.
The hourglass had turned. The sands fell.
War was coming.
Harry stood beside him, shoulders squared. Silent, but present.
And Tom knew, in the core of his magic:
They would win.
~~~
The walk back to the castle was silent at first, both still recuperating from the fight. Tom healed the cut on Harry’s forehead. Unfortunately, it left a jagged scar, but in Tom’s opinion, it didn’t mar his face. Harry touched it, and Tom was pleased to see he still wore the green ring.
"How did you know it wasn’t me?"
Tom contemplated not telling him, but he knew the ever-curious Harry would never let it go. That was part of the downside of marrying someone so young—like a child, they just kept asking and asking.
“You would never ask to be saved.”
His Harry was a born martyr. Tom didn’t know the full story, but he suspected Harry had agreed to marry him for some noble cause. Perhaps under the misguided belief that he could prevent a war.
How ironic that he would be the very catalyst to start it.
Tom glanced at Harry and caught him staring. Upon being caught, Harry’s face flushed pink. Then he rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled. “You bastard. You absolute bastard.” He sighed. “You think you know me so well, huh?”
Tom tilted his head. “Did your mentor not teach you gratitude?”
“To egotistical pricks? Nope,” Harry said, popping the “p.”
Tom frowned, the elation of victory dampened. “I don’t take well to being insulted twice in one day.”
“Oh, stop being so kingly about everything.” Then Harry grabbed the back of Tom’s neck. Tom tensed, wand half-raised—
They kissed. Harry crashed their lips together, bodies flush. It tasted of blood and forest, sweet nectar that intoxicated Tom and made him curl his arms around his young husband.
When they broke apart, slightly breathless, Harry shoved his shoulder. “You liked the fake one. ‘Oh Tom, oh Tom,’” Harry mimicked in a high-pitched voice, “—admit it.”
“No,” Tom denied, silently thankful Harry held the Knife of Truth and not him.
“Oh puh-lease. I could see it. You were ready to fuck that Fae thing.”
Tom chuckled, low. “Why would I settle for an illusion, when I’ll have the better thing in my bed tonight?”
Harry coughed, averting his eyes. “Bold of you to assume.”
If Harry’s face got any redder, he might combust.
Tom smirked and reached for his husband’s hand.
He felt courageous, all right.