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Holly twined itself around the dreary rusted iron spires.
Year round, Knockturn alley remains shady and forbidden looking, an area of crook and fraud and black grime.
On Christmas though– the black and rust get the merry colours mixed in, popping under the white of the snow, the dark of the night.
Tom wished to disappear in it– if only to bring him reprieve from his particular chosen hell. You've never known true exhaustion unless you've worked the retail counter in holiday season, the season of yuletide.
They were singing in St. Peter's…. The carols chimed. Faint.
The bells chimed too– closer, the door to Burgin n’ Brukes opened for the 20th time that midnight– late night Christmas presents, last minute assassination attempts, holiday themed cursed objects– what better time to buy than the witching hour, where better than the shadiest antiques shop in all of magical Britain?
Tom straightened up but didn't smile, thought that would be too fake for 12’o’ past into the night, too fake with how tired his face probably looked. And honesty is a valued quality in retail.
So he doesn't smile but,
“What can I help you with?” Politeness comes hard to Tom naturally, made even harder after several nights without sleep. But he's nothing if not an overachiever.
The newcomer– a man, a bit on the shorter side, brushed off the snow from his woollen coat, his hair a burst of black curls, snow dripping wet, caught in the strands.
Thick, fuzzy green shawl bundled up his lower face– and when he lifted his head, his eyes matched the scarf.
Green……
Tom blinked and the man blinked back, reflexively.
Then he inclined his head politely at Tom, doesn't reply but disappears into the shop like he knows exactly where he's going.
Ah. That type of customer. There's not a lot of work for Tom here then, so he closes his eyes and waits, conserving his energy.
The air smelled of rust but also baked pie. A Chrismassy plum and wine pie, perfect crisp brown. Tom hadn't had a full meal in days– he's read in muggle medicine books about men who hallucinate oasis in deserts, warmth right before the second they freeze to death–
Tom startled. He must’ve nodded off—just for a second.
On the counter lay thirty-seven galleons and one sickle, gleaming. Beside them sat a neatly cut slice of something brown and fluffy. Plum pie cake. Cherry and cream. Still warm.
The scent flooded his senses.
The first night of Yule, they were singing in St. Peter’s.
The carols chimed.
🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄
“I forgot to introduce myself,” the man said. “Harry.”
Tom learned this on the second night of Yule, when the same green scarf reappeared, dusted with snow, followed by an apologetic smile and an even more egregious jumper—hand-knit, oversized, with a crooked H stitched across the front, as if to reinforce the introduction.
Tom looked at the jumper. Looked at the smile. Faint silver threading in the strands of the older man’s hair and the cut of his fabric was always expensive looking.
He was starving.
“Tom,” he replied.
Harry beamed, like this was a victory. He came back on the third night, and the fourth. Always near closing. Always with food. A pasty wrapped in parchment. A thermos of mulled cider.
🎄
Tom hadn't felt this warm and fed since perhaps his first Christmas at Hogwarts. He was always starving, these days.
And Harry was ever so kind.
🎄
Despite his appearance, Harry was a little clumsy, a little awkward.
His fingers were almost breaking the beautifully packaged glass box, a brown pendant that glittered amber and yellow when the light hit.
“I-I saw it across the display and I-it reminded me of your eyes…” the man muttered, his cheeks were redder than the Reindeer nose prints on his ghastly sweater and the brand engraved on the box–
Tom recognised it as more expensive than what he could earn with a lifetime of his wages at Borgin n’ Brukes but in the time he spent with Harry, Tom knows that it makes no difference to the older man, who is blind to brands and pretences yet is cursed with more money than he needs to spend on himself.
Otherwise, who gets a gift this expensive to a stranger they barely meet and act so shy and sheepish about it? It was delicious.
“Put it on for me.” Tom looks up at the man through his lashes, coy and he's sure there's a dusting of pink across his own cheeks as well.
Harry's fingers tremble around his nape and his knuckles knock twice against Tom's collarbones. Harry smelt sweet like treacle but also like a man, musk and sweat.
Tom inhaled and tilted his neck up– planted a firm but fleeting kiss on Harry's stubbled cheek as reward,”I love things that sparkle.” He told him, and he does. Once in school, he wanted the Raven’s Diadem and his uncle's ring–
Harry's eyes were sparklier and prettier than the Diadem or the cup or locket or ring.
And Tom always got what he wanted as well.
🎄
On the fifth night of Yule, Harry takes him out for dinner. Reserving any seat at all during the busy holiday rush is a feat in itself but Harry had somehow procured them the whole part of a roof.
Not the fanciest restaurant ever, but certainly finer dining than anything Tom and his grubby attire, his workman clothes would be allowed in, had he come alone.
Harry pulls his seat for him and pours his wine, bites his plump little lip raw and his lashes cast shadows under his cheeks in the candlelight. “Err. You're so beautiful--" he blurted, then widened his eyes– no doubt never meant to say that aloud, panicking and spilling more words of eloquence– a string of “uhhs and err’s” before Tom smiles and reaches for his hand, squeezes it once, warm and tight.
Dinner was magical, as the muggles would say.
🎄
“When were you going to tell me you are an auror?” Tom asked offhandly and watched Harry choke violently on his pumpkin juice.
“I—I wasn’t not going to,” he stammered, still coughing slightly, hand to his chest. “Tell you, I mean. Not because I don’t trust you! but—well—Knockturn Alley isn’t exactly known for loving Aurors, is it?” Lowers his head, mumbles, “I didn't want you to think I’m a danger to you– I'm not, I’d rather die–”
Tom tilted his head, watching him with open curiosity at the fierce honesty in those eyes, wonders how anyone can be this open a book, nothing false in even an inch of expression?
“I know. It is alright,” Tom told him gently.
Harry peeked through his fingers. “You’re not… upset?”
“Why would I be?”
“Well—because I was there the first night for work,” Harry admitted, words tumbling now. “There’d been a tip about– that's unimportant now, I can't even remember what case, I just—”
He stopped. Took a breath.
“And then I saw you.”
Tom said nothing.
Harry swallowed. “And I forgot everything else. You made me forget about anything but you.”
How can that be possible for a grown man, how is that childlike honesty possible? even with the lines creeping the edge of those green eyes, silver in the locks of dark hair?
🎄
They kissed under the street lamp and mistletoe bloomed across the bridge railings, on the poles, across the street and overhead, everywhere– much to Harry's delight. “You know what they say about that, don't you?” He whispered. “You kiss under one mistletoe– then, when there's so many–”
Tom leaned in and took in his words through those soft lips, wrapped his arms around broad, scarred shoulders and dragged his lips down from cheek to jaw to jugular, “Take me home, officer. Let me kiss you everywhere.”
But when Harry went to grab his hand, lifting his wand to apparate them from the street to his bed– Tom resisted, wriggled out the grip, grinning– “not that easy, officer– ya hafta catch me first–” accent purposely thickened to match the alley drawl.
And the rest of his words are swallowed by the snow as he runs into the night, leaving Harry laughing, breathless as he follows, a bit of an unfair game, really– with Harry's superior Auror physique and experience chasing criminals across the thicket of snow but Tom was and younger and nimble and sweet–
And oh, so familiar—!
🎄
Snow fell thick and soundless over the rooftops, turning the city into a field of white and shadow.
A figure ran.
Boots struck stone, skidded on ice, breath tearing from lungs in sharp clouds. A curse exploded against brick just inches from their head, showering sparks.
“STOP!” a voice rang out behind them. Commanding. Trained.
They didn’t.
They vaulted a low wall, landed badly, pain screaming up their left leg as something tore. Blood bloomed instantly, bright and obscene against the snow.
Another spell grazed their shoulder. They hissed, staggered, forced themselves onward.
They vanished into an alley just as footsteps thundered close behind.
The officer stopped and the red of his ministry robes shone in the night. His criminal has disappeared into the night, the trail of blood maroon in the pooling snow.
🎄
Tom was mid-argument with a cursed wardrobe that refused to be levitated without screaming obscenities in Gobbledegook when the bell chimed.
Harry stopped dead in the doorway.
“Tom,” he said sharply.
Tom glanced up. “Good morning.”
Harry crossed the shop in three long strides and seized his wrist.
“What is that?”
Tom blinked. Followed Harry’s gaze.
The sleeve of his coat had slipped just enough to reveal dark bruising around his wrist, livid and angry beneath pale skin.
“Oh,” Tom said. “That.”
“That?” Harry echoed.
“Carrying inventory,” Tom replied airily. “Some artefacts react poorly to magic. Manual labour is safer.”
Harry stared at him.
“It’s not serious.”
“You’re bleeding.”
Tom glanced down. There was, indeed, a thin line of red seeping through the bruise.
“I’m dreadful at healing magic,” Tom added helpfully.
Harry muttered something under his breath and guided Tom to a chair, already rolling up his sleeve with practiced hands. His touch was careful, professional now, eyes sharp and assessing.
A soft glow, a murmured incantation.
Warmth flooded the injury, knitting flesh together with gentle insistence.
Tom watched him through lowered lashes.
“There,” Harry said quietly. “Try not to carry the shop on your back, hm?”
Tom smiled. “I’ll do my best.”
🎄
Harry is anxious one evening — a raid gone wrong.
Tom notices his hands shaking.
He takes them.
“Count with me,” Tom says quietly.
He traces each of Harry’s knuckles with his thumb, slow, grounding.
“One. Two. Three…”
Harry breathes with him.
Melts.
🎄
Harry had his coat on, but he hadn’t actually left.
He lingered in the doorway, snow dusting his shoulders, eyes drifting around the shop like he was reluctant to break the quiet.
The clock ticked.
The wards hummed softly.
Tom leaned against the counter, arms folded, weight sinking into the wood. He hadn’t meant to—his knees just felt weak all at once.
Tiredness of the body, Tom Riddle can brush off, scoff at. But this lethargy felt soul deep.
His bones felt heavier than he could lift.
Harry noticed immediately.
“You alright?” he asked.
Tom nodded out of habit, then shook his head when he realised there was no point. “Just tired,” he said. Doesn't say anymore.
Harry glanced at the clock again, then back at Tom.
There was no urgency in him now, no tension coiled beneath his movements—just concern, easy and unguarded.
“You want company?” he asked. “I don’t mind.”
Tom blinked. “You don’t have to. I know you are busy, don't you have patrol tonight?”
“I know,” Harry said, already unwrapping his scarf. “But I can. I want to.”
He crossed the shop and looped the scarf around Tom’s shoulders, tugging it into place with warm fingers. It smelled faintly of pine and soap.
“Sit,” Harry added, gently, guiding him toward the stool behind the counter.
Tom let himself be guided.
They didn’t talk much after that. Harry perched nearby, reading the back of a cursed book and making faces at it.
Tom rested his head against the wall, eyes half-lidded, warmth creeping back into his limbs.
At some point, Harry dozed off, chin tipped forward, scarf slipping loose between them.
Tom watched him sleep. And he stood to his full height, the moonlight cut angles on his face and wherever light fell on his eyes–the iris– it was– brown and red and blood and rust–
He only got up to get the quilt from under the shelf, wriggled himself under the older man's arm and snuggled in.
It was Christmas eve. They were singing carols at St. Peter's….
🎄
DAILY PROPHET —
MORNING EDITION
AURORS KILLED IN CHRISTMAS EVE ATTACK.
TRAGEDY THAT SHOOK THE NATION.
In the early hours of the morning, three Aurors were confirmed dead following a violent confrontation with the dark wizard known as Voldemort.
The incident occurred during a routine patrol near the eastern wards of Diagon Alley.
Witnesses report a brief but devastating exchange of spells before the assailant vanished without trace.
Ministry officials have called the attack “a calculated escalation” and urged citizens to remain vigilant during the holiday season. The whole country is quiet in mourning.
🎄
The bell rang once.
Tom didn’t look up right away. He was counting the till, fingers slow and precise, eyelids heavy.
Snow tapped against the glass like it always did this time of night.
“Shop’s closing,” he said mildly. “If you’re here for—”
“Tom.”
The voice stopped him.
He looked up.
Harry stood just inside the door, framed by red. Auror red, immaculate and severe, the badge at his chest catching the light like a warning.
His face was carved into something unfamiliar—older, sharper, emptied out.
“Oh,” Tom said.
Harry shut the door behind him. The wards sealed with a quiet hum that sounded final.
“I’m here on official business,” Harry said.
Tom nodded. “I thought you might be.”
Harry’s jaw tightened.
“Three Aurors are dead.”
Tom’s fingers paused over the coins.
“I was with you last night. We shared warmth all night” he said instead, in reply.
Silence stretched between them, thick and brittle.
Harry’s hand shook as he raised his wand. “Tom Riddle,” he said, voice breaking just slightly, “you are under arrest for the murders of—”
“Voldemort,” Tom supplied gently. “You can say it. It is my true name.”
Harry looked at him like he’d been struck.
“You—” His breath hitched. “You let me—”
Tom closed the till and leaned back against the counter, the same way he always did after long shifts. He looked tired. Younger than he had any right to, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes.
“You let me bring you food,” Harry snapped. “You let me– You’re just a kid. So bloody young. How– tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you are not him, how can you be a, a–”
murderer.
Harry laughed then, sharp and broken. “Do you have any idea—”
“Yes,” Tom said. “I do.”
For a moment, something flickered in his expression—regret, maybe. Or something like it. Then it was gone, smoothed over, replaced by that familiar, distant calm.
“I didn’t expect this to happen,” Tom added, almost apologetically. “I never meant to create anything genuine between us. You came to me on your own.” He reminded gently.
Harry swallowed. “Did you keep me here last night to save me,” he asked hoarsely, “or so I wouldn’t stop you?”
Tom frowned then, and the expression was a bit tired, very confused and the more honest a expression than he's given so far.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Does it matter which one you believe?”
Tom pushed himself upright, grabbing his coat from the hook behind the counter.
He shrugged it on with the air of someone getting ready to head home after closing.
“I won’t fight you here, officer.” he said. “It would be rude– I cannot fight my own lover,”
Harry’s grip tightened. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Tom stepped closer, just within reach, close enough that Harry could smell him—ink and smoke and winter. The same as always.
He leaned in and pressed a soft, familiar kiss to Harry’s cheek. “Of course I am,” Tom murmured.
Then he stepped back, eyes bright now, alive in a way Harry had never seen them before. They were a beautiful blood red.
“You should chase me,” Tom said lightly. “You’re very good at it.”
The wards shattered.
Snow rushed in, cold and sharp and blinding.
Tom vanished into it like a secret finally told.
Harry stood there for half a second longer, heart in pieces, then ran—red against white, grief and fury and love tangled tight in his chest.
He ran and ran and ran, he chased his criminal, his sweetheart, his Christmas carol.
Behind him, the shop bell rang once more.
And somewhere in the city, the carols chimed.