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Chapter Text

“You’re doing what now?” Ron asks for the seventh time. Harry has been counting.

Hermione is just shaking her head silently in a corner, muttering about the death of her. Harry thinks it’s probably not him-related. After all, he’s really not doing anything that crazy.

He’s just honoring an antiquated tradition that opens him up to courtship offers once he debuts. Really, nothing big.

“Harry, you do know this will end in an engagement, right? Worse, actually, a betrothal,” Ron repeats himself, the third time around for this little fact.

“Yes, I actually paid attention in Binn’s class once or twice in seven years. That’s what gave me the idea,” Hermione’s moans get louder in the corner.

“‘Mione?” Ron asks, getting a weak groan in response. “I think we need to call in backup.”

She moans more, sounding very much like Myrtle every time she gets turned down for a date. It’s getting very unpleasant, so Harry plugs his ears and reads while they sort out whatever plan they have. It has to be better than Hermione rocking in a corner while Ron does an impression of a parrot.

Luna appears through the floo ten minutes later, happy to be called in as Harry’s voice of reason whenever Ron and Hermione can’t get through to him. She’s the fight fire with more fire option when it comes to Harry’s harebrained ideas, as Hermione calls them. He prefers to call them strokes of genius.

Luna settles onto Harry’s bed, urging him to lay his head on her lap and tell her his idea.

So he does, much more content with this version of explaining things, Luna’s fingers raking through his hair soothingly as he talks. “Can you fix this, Luna?” Ron asks hopefully after Harry finishes, leaving Luna to hum thoughtfully.

“Can I be one of your bridesmaids?”

“Nooooooo,” Hermione’s face sinks further into her hands, something Harry didn’t think was possible.

____________________________________________________________________________

Tom has been planning for his ascent to Minister of Magic since he first heard the title uttered.

He finally numbers among the purebloods, both in attitude, and now in name. The name Slytherin makes up for a lot of familial error, even for those who know of his immediate family lineage.

He has it all lined up, all his pawns in neat rows, ready to move at his command.

Of course, that’s when he hits a snag.

“Abraxas!” Tom yells, wandlessly disappearing the ashes of the burned newspaper.

“Yes m’lord?” he asks warily. Tom seems…extra crucio-y today. He’s actually laid off the unforgivables lately. That looks like it will change in the near future, and Abraxas doesn’t intend on being the person who changes it.

“Why did you not inform me that the Potter heir is debuting tonight?” Tom’s voice is calm, but Abraxas knows better. Tom is dangerously cold right now, capable of anything. He’s not much different than normal, to be honest, except his fuse is a lot shorter.

“I believed that you had no interest or intention towards acquiring a spouse for another 5-7 years, m’lord,” he says, quoting Tom directly. The only safe-ish bet.

Tom nods, standing abruptly. “Is it not still pertinent?”

There’s only one answer, which is yes apparently, but Abraxas can’t figure out why for the life of him. Potter is a Hufflepuff, someone that Tom spent some time with in school, but Abraxas never imagined it to be more than that.

Maybe he should reevaluate his observations.

“Get me Orion, I need to be advised by someone less socially inept,” Tom orders, Abraxas considering himself lucky as he walks away.

____________________________________________________________________________

Harry puts on his best robes, the form-fitting deep crimson ones that make his eyes damn near impossible to look away from. Harry knows the effect he has, and exploits it frequently. Doe eyes and freckles are a deadly pairing.

He spritzes on his best perfume, running the barest amount of eyeliner along his lower eyes, so faint you can hardly tell there’s makeup there at all. It’s a trick Lavender taught him, one that he’s utilized dangerously.

“I still can’t believe you’re doing this,” Lily says with a sigh, not quite judgmental but definitely disbelieving.

“You know I have an endgame,” Harry says with a cheeky grin that he inherited from Sirius.

James scoffs. “Yes, and you won’t tell anyone what it is. I thought we plotted as a family,” he says with a pout.

Harry laughs, Sirius meeting his eyes with a spark of mischief in them. “Let the boy plot in peace, Prongsie. He’ll be fine. He’s twice as devious as you ever were,” Sirius says with a reassuring smile to James and a conspiratory wink to Harry.

“If you all are done debating Harry’s lovelife, it’s about time to take him to the meat market - I mean society ball,” Remus says with a smirk.

“Are you sure?” Lily asks one last time.

“Mum, what could go wrong? It’s me we’re talking about!” Harry says with finality, causing worried looks all around that he ignores, stepping into the Floo and calling out, “Malfoy Manor!”

____________________________________________________________________________

Tom hasn’t seen Harry since Hogwarts.

It was a prudent decision at the time to separate himself from Harry before he could find out about Tom’s shadier dealings. Harry was too good for that, the heir of a Gryffindor line. Tom had to make a decision, before Harry could make it for him - dark magic, or Harry.

For the first time since, he’s questioning his decision.

“M’lord, he has arrived,” Abraxas whispers needlessly, Tom’s eyes locked onto the entrance of the ballroom where suitors have already flocked to greet Harry.

His Harry, his brain provides.

Every hand that reaches towards Harry in polite introduction is another name added to his list.

He’s already halfway across the floor before he thinks better of it, not wanting to seem desperate, but then he sees Abraxas’ cousin extending a hand to Harry, and all logic flies out of his brain, a very unfamiliar sensation.

Tom approaches despite his better instincts, only collected enough to remember to put on his most charming smile -

Oh.

Harry’s eyes lock onto his at the last moment, a challenge in his eyes. Tom swallows hard, suddenly at a loss.

“Lord Slytherin,” Harry addresses formally, giving only the smallest of bows.

The crowd around the entrance watches the exchange with extreme interest. Tom has been the talk of the Ministry for years now, but he’s never shown an interest in this type of gathering, much less in anyone.

“Lord Potter,” Tom returns politely, despite Harry’s technically lower station.

Harry grins, as if he knows something Tom doesn’t. There it is again, the subtle hint of mischief, always challenging Tom in ways he can’t anticipate. It’s endlessly frustrating.

There’s nothing Tom can do but wait for the other shoe to drop. Harry always did like being a bit dramatic. He hears that it runs in the Potter line. “It’s Lord Peverell, actually,” Harry corrects kindly.

You can hear the waves of whispers begin all around them. Tom’s eyebrow raises in carefully restrained curiosity. He can’t allow himself to be a part of the gaping masses. “Lord Peverell, then,” Tom bows back, deep enough to be appropriate for a person of equal station.

“May I have this dance?” Tom asks, his best charming smile in place. He’s melted dozens of hearts with that look, Harry included, but not this time.

For a second, Harry looks like he’s considering it, before his mouth twitches, the slightest sign of a smirk that never shows fully. Negligible to anyone who doesn’t know Harry, but Tom knows Harry.

That twitch means mischief. Probably at Tom’s expense if the cold look in Harry’s eye is any indication.

“No thank you,” Harry says simply. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Tom.” Harry bows his head once, respectfully, before walking past him, just close enough for Tom to smell the scent that is so definitively Harry, triggering a wave of flashbacks.

Fuck.

____________________________________________________________________________

Harry hates the nonsense faffery that is pureblood society. For once, it’s serving him, though.

“Hadrian Peverell,” he introduces himself what feels like a million times, so much that his cheeks are beginning to hurt from doing the practiced society smile he learned from Sirius. He didn’t used to hate his formal name, but after repeating it so many times, he’s starting to.

Sirius hates pureblood society as much as him, but that doesn’t mean he in’t good at it. He had a lot to teach over the past decade and a half, and was a willing tutor for every question Harry had. Harry had a lot of them over the past few months.

He was as prepared as every other young lord here, maybe more so thanks to the more candid nature of Sirius’ lessons. Padfoot was never one to sugarcoat things.

Every introduction he makes, he feels the burning sensation of eyes in the back of his skull. He doesn’t deign to turn around. He knows what Tom’s doing. If he looks, Tom wins.

So Harry plays the game that Sirius taught him how to win. He accepts all the dances offered to him by attractive men of good standing, pretending not to notice that most of them are Tom’s lackeys, likely sent to gather information.

He gives them nothing, only charming anecdotes and innocent flirtations, sending a fair few of them away with blushing cheeks, something that only agitates Tom more, surely. Harry can only assume, since he can’t look.

____________________________________________________________________________

An Aside:

“What the fuck was that?” Ron slurs over his third very expensive whiskey.

Hermione quietly sighs and casts a sobering spell. Luna answers, “He’s set the trap. It takes a lot to capture a basilisk, you know?” Apt as always.

Much as Hermione resisted Luna’s ramblings at first, she’s learned to trust the witch as a translator for Harry when he goes off the rails.

“Who is the basilisk?” Hermione asks. There’s an answer there somewhere, if she digs enough. Luna knows something, Hermione just has to ask the right question.

“Tom of course,” Luna says, as if Hermione asked where the floor was located.

“Oh Merlin,” Ron says, watching as Tom takes a seat at a table with a perfect view of the dancefloor. His eyes are on Harry, and he’s not bothering to hide it. It’s damn near inappropriate, but it’s not like anyone can say anything to Lord Slytherin.

“Riddle’s going to eat him alive,” Hermione says, horror-stricken. Tom has a reputation, and not a good one, except in certain circles.

“He’s not the one being hunted,” Sirius says dramatically, appearing from seemingly nowhere. “Also you should learn to whisper,” he adds with a pointed nod at Ron.

Luna smiles dreamily at Sirius, not an unusual expression for her. “Hello Padfoot,” she says familiarly.

He grins back at her. He’s known her since she was in nappies, toddling around with Prongslet. She was Harry’s first friend, and one of his truest. “Hello Starlet, what do you foretell for our dearest Harold tonight?”

Luna makes a scrunched up face like she can hear something odd. “All signs point to true love, but only through great suffering,” she pauses dramatically, a trait she’d learned from Harry and Sirius alike, “Not Harry’s though.”

Sirius barely restrains the nearly uncouth laugh he was about to let out. Not the right place for such displays.

“Agree entirely. Now go be upstanding members of society. I’m talking to you, Ronald, no more whiskey. We’re here to make Harry’s debut unforgettable. Ladies, carry on,” Sirius says, making his way over to another table to introduce himself.

He’d rather drink wolfsbane than socialize like this most days, but for Harry? He could suck it up. Someone had to do the sucking around here.

____________________________________________________________________________

Tom can’t take his eyes off of him. Harry has never looked so refined before. Tom is used to his Harry being ink-smeared and wild-haired, not perfectly composed and meticulously groomed.

Tom wants to see this side of Harry again, but he also craves the scent of Harry fresh off the quidditch pitch, wild-eyed and windswept, the perfect picture of victory. He’s shoved aside his cravings ever since their last meeting, but with Harry right here in front of him, he’s fighting a losing battle.

He sends his best and brightest to dance with Harry, each time getting irrationally angrier as they are accepted, even though it means every time that a dance is taken away from an actual suitor.

“Your turn, Abraxas,” Tom says, watching a flushed Rookwood retreat from the dancefloor, Harry smiling demurely after him.

Abraxas sighs. “Please don’t drag me into this,” he says, forgetting himself for a moment. It’s hard to think of Tom as the Dark Lord when he’s obsessively eyefucking a Hufflepuff.

To be fair, Potter is now the most powerful Wizengamot member to date, but Tom’s not treating this like a political move.

“Go,” Tom orders, leaving no room for argument.

Abraxas does as he’s told. He bows deeply to Hadrian, kissing his hand and offering him a dance, all on autopilot. He’s been to a lot of these balls.

“I expected more originality from you, Abraxas,” Hadrian says, moving easily into his arms, close enough to breathe the words across his neck. Abraxas stiffened, having to actually think about the next step in the dance for once, suddenly forgetting years of training.

“I apologize, I was just obeying the rules of societal proceedings,” Abraxas rambles, his manners evaporating with every second under Hadrian’s intense clover-green gaze. How did he manage to create such an upper hand from such a short stature?

Hadrian’s fingers trace patterns on Abraxas’ neck, under his hair where no one else can notice what he’s doing. He hums thoughtfully, the picture of perfect innocence to any onlooker. “You do seem quite obedient. You’re probably so good at what you do, always so careful not to step over any boundaries,” Harry muses, a single nail grazing along Abraxas’ neck, somehow knowing exactly where to -

And then Hadrian is gone from his arms, and he should really be surprised more than disappointed.

Tom’s influence snaps over Abraxas’ mind, urging him to leave and say nothing. There’s been enough of a scene as it is.

The transition is smooth, no invitation needed this time, Harry’s permission evident in the way he melts naturally into Tom’s arms with a contented sigh.

“It was good to catch up with the goons,” Harry says fondly, as if describing pets.

Tom is taken aback, a nearly constant state of being at the moment.

“I don’t have goons,” Tom says, offended and badly masking it.

“Then what do you call Barty?” Harry asks with an amused grin, all of a sudden acting so familiar after a night of acting as if he didn’t exist. It didn’t make sense, but Harry’s actions often didn’t, at least to Tom.

“Why are you doing this? You hate all of this,” Tom asks, his hand tightening on Harry’s waist as the song changes, glaring over Harry’s shoulder at the person who’d considered asking for the next.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and? It’s useful. I can’t just turn down my inheritance. I could change a lot of things with the amount of seats I occupy on the Wizengamot. I could reform it all without them noticing and make them thank me for it after.”

Tom wonders how he ever let his little psychopath go.

It was a mistake he’d likely spend the next several years making up, and that was the best case scenario. Worst case, Harry doesn’t give him the opportunity.

“Let me court you,” Tom demands, for once uninterested in potential ambitions. He could see it clearly from the moment he saw Harry tonight - Harry was just as conniving as he was. He’d feared corrupting such a perfect human, the only one he’d ever met, but this Harry? Hadrian?

It was questionable who was corrupting who with this new version of Harry.

“Why should I? You likely only want my political influence,” Harry says, but his lips quirk up at the edges. He’s fucking with Tom, just like he has been all night.

“I’d be a foolish man to think you could be persuaded into doing anything you don’t want. You’re not a goon,” Tom says with a smirk.

Harry hums his agreement, but Tom can see that Harry’s about to make a move of some sort, a decisive one. There’s always an eerie calm before Harry’s chaos.

“And you think I want you?” Harry asks, a perfectly neutral expression that not even Tom can read, even after so many hours, years even, staring at Harry’s face.

Tom swallows hard, thinking his words through carefully. Dealing with Harry is like dealing with the fae in a German fairytale - word choice matters. “I think I could be what you want. I believe I could be worthy, and I would like to prove it.”

Harry grants him the smallest of smiles. It’s a win, no matter how miniscule. He hasn’t fucked up completely, at least. “Then I will accept your courtship offer.”

Tom grins victoriously down at Harry until the smaller man lets go of him, Tom suddenly feeling very cold. “You will have six months to prove your worth to me, same as the other two I have chosen.”

Tom’s heart soars as his stomach fills with lead. It’s an odd sensation. He’s been chosen sure, but -

“Other two?”

Chapter Text

The Potter household (plus an amused Remus and exceedingly smug Sirius) is in an uproar by breakfast time. The moment James untied that newspaper from Hedwig’s leg, seeing his son’s face plastered across the front, he knew whatever Harry was up to last night was successful. Or potentially failed horribly, depending on what his goals were, which James still isn’t sure of.

“WANTED: Love for Britain’s Most Powerful Young Lord”

James sighs as the image of Harry staring into the eyes of an obviously enamored Abraxas Malfoy dances across the page on repeat. Harry didn’t get his suaveness from James or Lily. That’s all Sirius’ influence. No doubt. They look like a scene from a romance movie.

A Malfoy though, really?

He skims through the article while he can. It’s going to be mayhem in a few minutes when the others make their way down for breakfast. Lucky for James, he’s always been an early riser. He has a precious opportunity to process this.

“Britain’s youngest and most mysterious lord has shocked the world by debuting with intentions to find a husband. The young man formerly known to be the Potter heir has revealed that he holds not one, but three Wizengamot seats, as he is the secret heir to both the Peverell and Black family lines (bequeathed by both Sirius and Regulus of House Black, see future articles for speculation as to why). He was escorted by Sirius Black, the reclusive lord who absconded to live in the muggle world in his twenties. Not much is known about their connection except that Sirius Black is Hadrian’s godfather -” James skips ahead some. He’s quite familiar with the paper’s curiosity about Sirius and his mysterious life outside the public eye.

He doesn’t have time to get much further when the rest burst in, Lily already arguing with Sirius about something or another (normal) and Remus going straight to the coffee pot with a nod of thanks towards James for already setting up.

Remus freezes. “Why do you look like you’re about to start hyperventilating?” he asks, noticing the look on James’ usually annoyingly cheery face.

Lily and Sirius pause their bickering to look at James as well.

“Sirius and Hadrian made quite a splash in society last night, it seems,” he says by way of explanation, spreading the newspaper out on the table so all three can lean in to read it.

Sirius grins through the whole article, nodding here and there and scoffing at a few of the rumors of who Harry might choose.

“Explain,” Lily says authoritatively, staring down Sirius with a look that would make a lesser man crumble. He’s seen her interrogate one too many a wizard to be daunted though. Sirius and Lily have worked together as Unspeakables for years now.

Remus watches him expectantly. “Out with it. What’s the plan here?”

Sirius shrugs. “Not sure, honestly. All I know is that Harry asked me to turn him into a society lord that could bring the Wizengamot to its knees. You know I’ve never been able to say no to his doe-eyes. Got those from you, I reckon.” Lily rolls her eyes in exasperation, none of her questions answered.

“So you My Fair Lady-ed our son?” James asks. He knew Harry had been doing lessons with Sirius, but he’d been extremely tight-lipped about the whole thing.

Sirius nods proudly, “Yup. And he was brilliant! Our ickle Prongslet should have been in Slytherin. He could have charmed the likes of dear old Walburga the way he carried on.”

Lily isn’t entirely surprised. When Harry started digging into the Peverell side of his genealogy, she knew something had piqued his interest. He's never been averse to studying…as long as there was something personally relevant to research about. Lucky for his grades, he always found some part of each subject to serve his goals.

“But Harry could have become Lord Peverell without all this debut nonsense. Why go to the meat market right away?” Remus asks, still trying to parse through the information to find the root cause.

Sirius smirks at that one. “Again, not sure, but from what I saw last night, he has his eye on someone specific.”

“Who?!” James can’t restrain his outburst. He’s buzzing with nervousness. He trusts his son, but also Harry is prone to…well, utter chaos.

“I’ve narrowed it down to a couple possibilities. Let’s just say, I think he has a thing for blondes,” Sirius says with a cheeky tap on the front cover picture.

Lily groans. She’s going to have to socialize with Malfoys now.

____________________________________________________________________________

Tom is in a rage.

“Draco fucking Malfoy?” he asks again, re-reading the accursed article for the fifth time. There is exactly one mention of Tom as a possible suitor, but it’s glossed over, the focus on the most likely choice for Harry’s future husband.

Draco. Fucking. Malfoy.

Worse still, there’s a rumored squabble between him and Abraxas over Harry’s hand. At least he knows Abraxas isn’t a real suitor. He’d have to have a deathwish for that. Draco, however, will have to be dealt with. If he even is one of Harry’s other two choices.

The thought tastes like bitter ash in his mouth.

How did he let this happen? Harry refused to observe any etiquette at all for years, and then just comes into society and sweeps it out from beneath Tom’s feet in one go? It couldn’t all be Sirius’ influence. He hates society even more than Harry does. This wouldn’t have been his idea. This has to be all Harry, even if it's with expert guidance.

“Bring me Abraxas,” he orders a wisely silent Barty.

____________________________________________________________________________

“Harry, wake up,” Hermione says, shaking his shoulder more agitatedly than hour merits, if the hour on the clock can be trusted.

He sighs, sitting up. “What? I had kind of a long night you know -”

Hermione shoves a newspaper in his hand, his own face looking up at him as he rubs the sleep from his eyes and begins to scan through the article.

“Nice,” he says with a satisfied, still-sleepy smile. “Tom will be mad.”

Hermione doesn’t know why that’s a particularly good thing, but she takes it as all the answer she’s going to get for now when Harry promptly rolls over and covers his eyes with his blanket.

She sighs, rolling up the paper and heading back to the living room to lock up the floo. They’re going to be getting a lot of calls today, and she doesn’t want to deal with any of them.

____________________________________________________________________________

Harry calls up suitor number one first thing when he wakes up about half noon. Cedric is sweet, charming, athletic, and a good kisser (truth or dare in the Hufflepuff common room often got a bit amorous to no one’s surprise). They’ve been friends for years. He’s a perfect candidate.

As a bonus, he has a cell phone, so Harry doesn’t have to pick up Hedwig from his parent’s house. He’s not ready to face the barrage of questions waiting for him yet.

Harry smirks, glad to not have to be wary of his expressions since it's a phone call. “Hey Ced, I was wondering if you want to go out. For brunch,” Harry adds, skimming his mind for an appropriately public place that they might be photographed in.

Cedric agrees immediately, accepting Harry’s suggestion of the popular little cafe right off Diagon.

“Harry - Hadrian,” Cedric corrects himself nervously as he picks up. He was the picture of confidence most of the time. Apparently even he is a little affected by Harry's new status. Or maybe it was the tailored robes last night. He’d never been very vain about his appearance. It was probably a bit of a shock to see him all cleaned up.

Harry dresses to the nines. Sure, he’s already told Cedric he’s not really interested in marrying him, but he needs to maintain the image. Part of him fears Cedric is hoping their fake courting will turn real at some point, but he can’t worry about that too much. He’s been honest with Cedric about his intentions. The rest is up to Ced.

____________________________________________________________________________

Harry’s not sure if he was photographed with Cedric, but there were at least three wizards present in the cafe when Cedric appeared, flowers in hand and kissed Harry’s cheek. That should be enough to get the rumor mill going, at least.

He’s about to head over to his parents’ house to talk to Sirius (why Sirius and Remus even bother to maintain a separate residence has always confused Harry) when his phone goes off.

“Hey mum -”

“Hadrian,” she says formally. Weird. She’s literally never called him that. Even when she full-names him, she still calls him Harry.

“There’s someone here to see you. Can you come through?” Harry’s excitement ramps up. Two suitors in one day? Tom will be seething. He’ll have to find a way to make the encounter public enough to land him in the gossip pages.

“I’ll be right there,” he says quickly, checking the mirror to make sure his button-down is unbuttoned to the correct teasing amount and his eyeliner is unsmudged.

He goes ahead and refreshes himself though, casting a few cleaning charms on his clothes just in case and running his fingers through his hair to create that messy-sexy look Tom goes nuts for. It won’t be Tom waiting on the other side - he would never go to his parents first - but he still knows that more than just Tom like his devil may care approach to hairstyling.

He wastes a good twenty minutes primping, just to make sure there’s anticipation built before he arrives. He can’t just arrive at whoever’s beck and call. It would ruin his image. Let them squirm a bit.

When he finally steps through the floo, (how long has it been blocked? Did he miss any calls?) his dad is waiting on the other side. “Hadrian,” his father says in greeting, apparently having decided to play along with the plot.

“Dad,” Harry responds with a big grin, pulling him into a hug.

His dad, predictably, takes the opportunity to tell him the important information, whispering it to him. The others are in the next room from the sound of it, but apparently his dad isn’t taking any chances. Harry can appreciate that even when his father doesn’t know the plan, he’s still willing to play along. There’s never been a doubt about who he’s rooting for.

“Draco’s here, the little shit from your year. He brought Lily flowers. Narcissus. Who the hell doesn’t bring her lilies?” he says exasperatedly.

Harry snorts. Draco was an unintended courting option. Charlie had already agreed to a fake courtship when Draco started sniffing around. He’d never liked the blonde, but he had enjoyed sparring with him over the years. Best of all, he’s not one of Tom’s lackeys like Abraxas. He is, however, an heir to a massive fortune that he flaunts like he was born for it. Tom always hated him for that.

He’d managed a sort of peace treaty with Draco their final two years of school, though, so maybe him courting Harry is a 70/30 split for personal intentions vs. political. Could be split 70/30 either way, though. Draco’s conniving enough to aim for political gain, but he’s also always been ruled by his emotions. Even just being called “pretty” by Harry last night while they were dancing might have been enough to sway him the other way.

“Lord Peverell,” Draco greets him as he enters the room, his father right behind him. Draco stands to greet him, bowing deeply.

Harry puts on his most charming smile. He doesn’t have to bow back, technically, so he doesn’t. He can’t be too haughty though, so instead he responds, “Draco, I once spent a week figuring out the perfect launching spell to throw mashed potatoes at you while you were at quidditch practice. I think we can dispense with the formalities.”

Draco’s face flushes at the memory. Or maybe from the flirtatious grin Harry aims his way. “That was you?!” he asks, lapsing back into the teenager Harry knew for a moment. Okay, definitely the memory then.

The rest of the adults snicker. They’ve heard this story a lot. Of course, he waited the appropriate amount of time for the threat of detention or grounding to lapse. Generally the statute of limitations on detention expires when the student enters the next year of education. Summer break is iffy. You have to wait until the professors are nice and relaxed and have spent three months blocking out the events of the previous year.

Harry rolls his eyes. “As if you’re innocent,” he says, a second meaning in his tone.

Draco swallows hard, as if suddenly remembering why he’s there. He straightens up, meeting Harry’s eyes squarely, and crosses the room. “No, I suppose I wasn’t,” he smirks back, reaching into his robes to retrieve a dark green velvet box.

“Consider this an -” he almost says apology, but Draco seems unable to form the word, like it chokes him when he tries or something. “Consider this a step in a new direction. Maybe ‘arch-nemesis’ and love match have a finer line between them than we realized.”

Harry pauses at that. He chose Draco thinking this would be an offer pushed for mostly by his parents. The look on his face, though? That speaks to a lot more than a 70/30 split.

He might be playing with fire here.

“I think we’re going to excuse ourselves,” his mum interjects, an eyebrow raised in silent warning to them both before dragging a protesting James out, followed by a smirking Remus and a suspiciously quiet Sirius.

Draco’s eyes don’t leave Harry’s. Harry waits until the others are in another room before speaking again. “Maybe so, and maybe not. Do you really think jewelry is enough to convince me?” he asks, challenging him like he’s done so many times over the years.

Draco looks smugly back at him. “No, I don’t,” he says, flipping open the box to reveal not jewelry, but two tickets to an Irish National vs. Wimbourne Wasps match. Harry’s eyes widen.

Sure, he’d expected gifts when he accepted a courtship invitation from a Malfoy, but this is a little too perfect. It’s not something you give to someone you don’t know. It dawns on him suddenly just how well Malfoy knows him.

“It’s this Saturday. It’s not a private box. I know you like being in the crowd. I’ll pick you up at one,” he says, and Harry nods easily, genuinely looking forward to attending. Well this is an unexpected turn of events.

Malfoy turns towards the door, about to make his polite exit. Harry’s not quite ready to let him go. “Hey - do you want to play a round? For old time’s sake?” The challenging grin on Draco’s face is answer enough.

A half hour later they’re in the local pitch, a bit old and not technically regulation size, but it serves their purpose. Draco drops his fancy courting robes on the ground like it’s nothing. Harry raises an eyebrow at that. The Draco he knew at school would have had a conniption fit if his clothes touched dirt.

Draco wins, but barely. Harry will never admit it but it’s definitely because he was staring too much at the blonde. The difference between the boy he knew then and the man Draco is now is apparent.

____________________________________________________________________________

Tom is furious. The proper thing to do is wait three days past the initial courting offer before contacting the intended courting partner.

His adversaries have obviously chosen not to abide by that rule.

He’s practically frothing at the mouth as he looks over the photos of the very public brunch (he attests the word, and the innate existence of the idea) in the paper, next to a much smaller shot of Harry throwing a quidditch ball (he still can’t be arsed to remember their names) to (or at?) Draco Malfoy in some park.

At first appearance, the outing with Cedric appears much more intimate, promising something more in the future. That’s what the article says, but Tom knows better. Harry’s face is too careful in the photo. Sure, he’s smiling and flirting, but it’s a facade. A very convincing one, to the untrained eye.

The second photo gives him serious reason to pause. Harry’s face is set in hard lines of concentration, like he’s daring Draco to best him. It would look more at home in a quidditch magazine than it does in the gossip column.

He didn’t think his competitors had an ice cube’s chance in hell with Harry, his Harry, but seeing that hint of challenge on Harry’s face? It changes the game. He can’t just intimidate the younger Malfoy out of courting Harry like he’d planned. Harry likes Draco. He’ll have to remind Harry that he loves Tom.

He calls for Abraxas, despite the early hour. He needs Abraxas’ connections. Now more than ever.

____________________________________________________________________________

Harry reads the invitation several times over. It’s one sentence and a vague sign-off, but there’s no doubting who it’s from. It’s written in Tom’s best script, unless his penmanship has improved impossibly over the last two years. He really doubts that Tom has taken up calligraphy. This note, short as it is, was written with intention. Calculation.

He takes a deep breath and reads it again.

“The usual spot, 11pm. -TR” He didn’t sign it as Lord Slytherin. It’s not a casual move. He knows what he’s doing.

Harry glances at the clock. He has one hour notice to prepare - mentally and physically.

____________________________________________________________________________

Tom waits for Harry at the edge of the woods like he’s done so many times before. The memories flash before his eyes, seeing the familiar landscape. All it’s missing is his fierce little Hufflepuff, less little and more fierce than before.

He slipped past the Hogwarts wards without issue. He could have granted the same privilege to his Harry, but doing so felt like an insult. They existed to challenge each other back then, constantly pushing each other into greatness through sheer pettiness.

It didn’t start with the forest, for them, but meeting each other there changed things irreparably. For once, they were forced to acknowledge their similarities, and found too many to ignore after the night was over.

He remembers it as if it happened only moments ago. Harry approached the forest, too callous as always to properly protect himself, and shifted into his other form. Tom followed, already in his animagus form, just one more crow swooping through the skies.

“Feeling nostalgic, Tom?” Harry’s voice is quiet but the unnatural silence from the wards around the forest make it seem loud.

Tom looks over at him, his face morphing to his usual confident facade. “Perhaps. Care to recreate our first meeting?”

Harry watches him so carefully that Tom starts to worry that his ploy will fail.

Then that mischievous glint appears in Harry’s eyes, and he knows he’s got a chance. A small one, but a chance nonetheless. “After you.”

____________________________________________________________________________

Harry morphs into his animagus form, rejoicing at the feel of cold winter air on his fur as she shifts. He was originally horrified when he transformed into a kitten, but by now he’s a full-size forest cat, and that grants him some confidence.

He’s not the blundering kitten from before. He’s a predator. This time, when he follows Tom, he’s able to track the sounds of the flapping wings, quietened by years of practicing flight, but still perceptible now that Harry’s instincts are honed.

He darts through the forest, and wonders why he hasn’t done this since Remus’ last transformation. He attends every full moon, but he’s given up running by himself, just for the fun of it.

He darts up a tree, claws ripping into the bark with fervor. He gets lost in the wildness of it all, of being the animal for a bit, forgetting the intention of this run.

When he remembers, it’s because Tom lands beside him, the familiar sound of claws gripping the branch above him drawing his attention back towards the goal. Or is it his goal anymore?

He entered into this with two plans. 1. Make a better government, his voting power is insane, even if it shouldn’t be ethically. 2. Marry Tom Riddle.

His wild form doesn’t give a flying fuck about the first point. Not when its mate is looming over it, demanding his attention.

It’s all very odd. It’s also very Tom.

It’s a reminder that Harry - unless Tom’s changed over the past few years, which he seriously doubts - is the only person who knows Tom’s animagus form.

Other than his family, Tom is the only one he’s run with. The crow takes off, turning in a small mocking circle before flying off.

The chase is on for real now.

Harry sprints after, following Tom’s movements as he swoops agilely through the treetops. It’s always been beautiful watching Tom fly, but tonight he’s in fine form, obviously showing off. That’s always been his undoing.

He slows slightly, pretending to be winded. Tom takes advantage, because of course he does. He swoops lower than he should.

Harry leaps, first to a limb in a nearby tree, and then throws himself from the branch, catching Tom by surprise as he comes out of a fancy little swoop. Harry wraps his jaw around Tom and plummets to the earth, victorious.

Tom’s shifting the moment they hit the ground. Harry holds off a moment longer, wanting to look at Tom through his animagus’ eyes. He’d wondered if the forest cat would still recognize Tom as his partner. He shouldn’t have even questioned it.

Harry jumps off of Tom’s chest, shifting perfectly in time to land on human feet. Tom’s not the only one who’s practiced some tricks.

Tom rises to his feet, his grin lit by the waxing gibbous moon. Harry hasn’t seen Tom like this in what feels like an eternity. Even before they stopped talking, Tom was different. This is the Tom he first ran with. The one who saw Harry as a predator instead of prey for the first time.

It’s interesting that this is where Tom has chosen to court him first. He’d expected Tom to parade him around somewhere public, try to get even with Ced and Draco. What’s Tom’s play here?

He’s obviously trying to become the favorite, but why no public element? Tom’s always been an attention whore. Why not now?

“It feels good to fly with you again,” Tom says, a glint in his eyes that Harry doesn’t trust.

“You know this goes against all the courting rules,” Harry fires back, not bothering to be polite without an audience to watch their every move.

Tom takes two strides towards him, his hand wrapping around Harry’s waist possessively, pulling him closer. “I’ll court you properly. In public. But this is for us,” Tom says, his eyes raking their way across Harry’s face and down to his lips.

Harry’s breath stills in his chest. It’s been a long time since he felt the heat of that gaze. It was different at the ball. Tom was covetous, eyeing Hadrian like another Wizengamot seat to conquer. There was more then too, but it was still polluted by ambition on both sides.

This time, they’re just Harry and Tom.

There’s a lot to unpack there.

The plan is playing on repeat in his mind, but every instinct in him is saying to abandon it.

His mind flashes back to sweet, safe (if a bit ornery) Malfoy, and can’t help but compare the two. They kind of make sense, in a pigtail-pulling kind of way. Like his parents. Draco could be a true love. And then there’s Tom. That attraction has always been rooted in something more feral. He was certain back then that Tom would be the love of his life. Part of him still is, but now he’s wise enough to know that it’s a choice and he's not the only one making it.

Does he want Tom, and all the baggage that comes with him? He could choose a simpler, easier way out and have the picturesque household he grew up in. He and Draco could be good together.

But what could he and Tom be together?

Certainly not good.

____________________________________________________________________________

Tom stares down at Harry, and for a moment, it’s like no time has passed. Not when he’d decided to cut Harry out of his second life. Before that. Before he decided to become the Dark Lord.

Voldemort was never good enough for Harry. Not by Harry’s decree, but his own.

Right now though? He doesn’t feel like a powerful dark wizard. He feels like the Tom that stood in this very spot, kissing Harry for the first time. Plus a lot of power, but that doesn’t feel so important compared to recent developments. Harry's presence reminds him of how hollow his life is without him in it. Now that he remembers, he knows that the past few years were wasted without Harry by his side.

His followers will rejoice in the match for the Wizengamot seats alone. He supports that logic, to some degree. If he’s honest with himself though, he wants Harry selfishly, just not for the political part of things. Harry’s mind has always been unique, the only one who could ever see past Tom’s mask so easily. That much is obvious in his crow-like tendency to hoard that which he deems valuable. Harry is the most valuable person he’s ever met.

Maybe running with Harry was a mistake. He’d thought it was the best way to remind Harry that he’s the favorite, the one that actually knows him, but it’s had a dual effect. Tom is reminded of all the ways he was enamored with Harry in the first place.

He’s not used to being weak, but he’s susceptible to Harry. He always has been. Harry looks up at him, his eyes the same color as clover clothed in shadows. Tom caves, leaning down to claim what’s his.

Harry moans approvingly into the kiss, tilting his head for Tom to gain more access. Tom takes the opening, biting down on Harry’s lip just the way he used to like -

Harry pulls back, a wild look in his eyes that Tom doesn’t like nearly as much as the one before it.

“I need to go,” Harry says, his magic ripping through Hogwarts’ wards like it’s nothing,

Tom stands in place, suddenly feeling very cold, wishing Harry was still with him. He used to complain about Harry always being so touchy-feely, but being without him has left him starved for it.

____________________________________________________________________________

Harry falls asleep around dawn, having spent most of the night pacing. Why is he even doing this plan? To convince Tom he’s worthy of what he thought they had years ago? Or is this who he wants to be? He never had any machinations on political power like others did - Hermione, Tom, Draco just to start - but now that he has it, he doesn’t want to waste it. He could help change the world for the better. He just has to deal with a lot of bullshit to do so.

Maybe he approached this whole thing wrong. And also right, even if it’s by accident. Maybe this shouldn’t all be about reconnecting with Tom. He’s already found Draco to be far more interesting than expected. Maybe he just wanted a partner all along, not specifically Tom.

He compares the memories of the two dates, a wave of lightheartedness from remembering playing quidditch with Draco followed by the aching tightness in his chest thinking about Tom. The memory of his animagus self being so certain Tom is his is powerful.

When he sees the shadow of wings outside his window, for a moment, he hopes that it’s Tom.

It’s not. He unties the note from the owl pecking at his windowsill, and grabs it a treat before sitting down to read.

“You are invited to attend a Family Dinner hosted at the Malfoy Estate at 7pm, Thursday. Dress is semi-formal. - Abraxas Malfoy”

Harry hums with interest. A family dinner? Maybe seeing Malfoy with his family will help him decide if he should pursue a less complicated life with Draco. He writes a short but polite agreement to be there and sends it back with the waiting owl.

____________________________________________________________________________

Abraxas is a nervous wreck. Tom’s been plotting non-stop since he saw that newspaper, and it is frazzling his nerves having to deal with it all. This dinner he requested is a recipe for disaster.

It’s not out of the ordinary for them all to have dinner - his cousins and Tom, as well as Regulus and Orion. The whole inner circle is going to be present, like usual. Tonight though, it’s going to be awkward as hell. Draco and Tom under one roof? Much less sitting at the same table!

He’s utterly fucked. He’s already warded the furniture in the dining room just in case they come to blows. Knowing Tom, it won’t be enough.

____________________________________________________________________________

Harry expected a lot of silly pomp and circumstance when he arrived for dinner.

What he didn’t expect was for everyone to be wearing black. Not a stitch of color in the whole room save what Harry’s wearing. Did he miss a memo? The invitation only said semi-formal.

Abraxas is the one who greets him first, oddly enough. He’d expected Draco, or maybe Narcissa to fulfill hosting duties despite Abraxas’ sign-off. “Welcome back to my home,” Abraxas says formally, bowing respectfully.

Harry’s mouth twitches into a small smile. “Such warmth. Don’t tell me you’re going to throw your hat into the ring for my hand too. I thought the papers were full of shit, but that greeting? Get out the champagne. I’ve chosen my beloved.” He adds the last part quietly. He doesn’t actually want to start any more Abraxas rumors, but it’s just too tempting to fuck with him.

Abraxas’ face goes pale as he leaps to deny it. It’s always been too easy to wind him up. He’s Harry’s second favorite henchman for sure.

“Harry - Hadrian now, right? It’s been a while,” Orion interrupts Abraxas’ fearful denial with a firm handshake and a rakish smile.

Harry grins back at the familiar face. “It’s Lord Peverell to you,” Abraxas corrects him haughtily.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Stand down, Abby. He’s allowed to call me Hadrian if he wants. You, though? Lord Peverell all the way,” he winks at the irritated blonde. “I know how you love your formalities.”

Orion snickers. He’s always been the perfect picture of a pureblood heir, except around a few select people. Harry tends to bring the uncouth out of him. He stopped fighting it years ago, accepting that his status and wealth meant fuck-all to Harry.

Harry has always liked Orion best. Something that Orion has held over Abraxas’ head for years. Harry’s opinion was always important to Tom, even if he never admitted it out loud. His actions always spoke louder anyways.

“So, little Lord, what made you finally decide to take the leap? I thought you weren’t interested in being in our…social club?” Orion asks, making Abraxas pale even further with nervousness. He looks kind of clammy, honestly. Maybe he’s sick.

“What are you talking about? I thought this was supposed to be a family dinner?” Harry glares at Abraxas, the Malfoy whose name was on the invitation. “An introduction?”

Orion laughs, always one to enjoy Harry’s anger, at least when it’s not aimed at him. Chaos tends to ensue when Harry gets mad.

“It is, sort of,” Abraxas tries to explain. Harry watches Draco and Narcissa enter the room, greeting a few people present near the floo. Draco notices him a second later, his eyes going wide and semi-panicked, like he’s been caught here and didn’t want to be, at least not by Harry
. Not a good sign, obviously. The invitation was obviously not from Draco.

Harry’s eyes leap back to Abraxas, and whatever the blonde sees in them makes him take a step back. “Tom invited me to a cult meeting?!” Harry hisses quietly. Anyone can see he’s upset from his facial expression, but that doesn’t mean he wants to make an actual scene.

“I think it would be better if Lord Slytherin explained,” Abraxas says, flinching as Harry takes a threatening step closer to him.

“Take me to him,” Harry demands, leaving no room for argument.

Abraxas does as he’s told.

____________________________________________________________________________

“There you are. Abraxas was supposed to bring you to me immediately,” Tom says, the irritation at Abraxas not matching the warm sound of his voice. Abraxas all but runs out of the room the moment he’s done escorting Harry into the library. He doesn’t even stay long enough to get glared at, the door shutting behind him with a resounding click in the quiet room.

“Orion distracted me. He seemed to think I had joined your little cult,” Harry crosses his arms, glaring at Tom, who is halfway across the room, walking towards Harry, probably with intentions of a kiss hello.

Tom stops, obviously surprised at the cold greeting. “Let me explain?” Tom asks. Harry squints his eyes at him, letting Tom squirm for a second longer before nodding.

Tom approaches him, offering Harry his hand. Harry takes it automatically, allowing Tom to guide him to the uncomfortable-looking divan posed next to the shelves of rare books. They sit, and Tom laces their fingers together between them. Harry allows it. For now.

“I made a mistake before, not letting you into the less wholesome parts of my life. I know now that if I want to be worthy of you, I can’t lie to you about it, or expect you to abide by the same rules as the others. You are here as my equal, to meet those closest to me. There is no obligation here for you. You can leave at any time. I won’t ask you to swear an oath against speaking about what you hear, and I would rather kill myself than place that tattoo on your skin. You call it a cult. I want you to see it up close, and decide for yourself. I will never ask you to be subservient to me, though. Make no mistake about that,” Tom says sincerely. It’s practiced, probably in front of a mirror like he used to do with all his speeches. Orion probably edited it for him, but that doesn’t undercut the intention behind it. Tom’s really thought about this, reflected.

If Harry was looking for an olive branch, this is it. He never dared to hope that Tom would be able to see things from his perspective, but here he is claiming accountability and offering something better than before. Tom isn’t trying to pick up where they left off. He’s trying to build something healthier.

Harry doesn’t doubt his actions this time when he leans in, kissing Tom deeply. Languidly. It’s not like the forest. He takes his time, enjoying the familiar taste of Tom’s cinnamon toothpaste. Things are different between them this time, but some things about Tom will never change.

Tom pulls back eventually, his hand coming up to caress Harry’s face like he’s precious to him. Tom’s always treated Harry with softness, but now he’s showing that he doesn’t think Harry is too delicate to be a part of his life. His whole life. The look in his eyes is leagues different than when they were teens. There was so much more ferocity back then. Like he had to own Harry if they were going to be together.

There’s no mistaking that Tom’s still a possessive bastard, but there’s a respect for Harry that wasn’t there before. Maybe it’s good Tom left him, in a weird way. They’ve both grown since then. Now they might actually have a shot at something that could last a lifetime.

“We should go. Dinner was supposed to start ages ago,” Harry says, all the aggression from before bled out from him, leaving only pleasant warmth towards the man before him.

Tom lets out a relieved breath. “And you’ll stay? Let me introduce you to everyone?”

Harry smiles softly up at Tom. “Yeah, Tom, I’ll stay.”

____________________________________________________________________________

The moment Tom enters the room, it falls dead silent. Everyone bustles around the large dining table, taking a place behind a chair. They don’t sit. They just wait.

Harry watches with interest. Tom walks to the head of the table, stopping just before, at the empty seat to the right. He pulls out the chair, gesturing for Harry to sit.

It’s super awkward with everyone just standing there watching, but he’s a guest here, so he decides to follow Tom’s lead for now. He lets Tom push the chair in behind him. Tom goes to the head of the table, taking his seat.

The rest sit down all at once, the clamor of the chairs moving sounding extra loud in the quiet room.

He sees Abraxas make a motion with his hand, and several house elves appear at once, depositing plates onto the table in practiced motions. At least there actually is dinner, instead of this being some weird meeting. He didn’t eat lunch.

The table waits with bated breath for Tom to say something.

“Today is a celebration of sorts. For those of you who don’t know Hadrian, let this be your introduction. He is my equal in all things from now on. You are to treat him as such. Now, eat, drink, and be merry in the name of our reunion,” Tom lifts his glass of wine as if his command is a toast.

All twenty-two of the attendees lift their glasses in response.

Harry catches Draco’s eye mid-toast, the blonde looking at him with carefully guarded emotion from his spot halfway down the table.

Regulus meets his eyes partway through dinner. It’s brief, but Harry’s pretty good at interpreting the Black brothers’ nonverbal language by now. They’ll talk later. Not here. Instead they chat about books and Regulus’ latest research project.

Dinner is, overall, weirdly jovial. Harry always imagined their cult meetings to be dreary affairs, but the group is loud, a little drunken, and all too happy to tell Harry embarrassing stories about each other from their super secret cult missions. Even Regulus takes a ribbing from Orion, who apparently witnessed him apparate directly into a koi pond in the middle of a battle.

Harry gleans a lot of information from those stories, probably more than Tom meant to divulge. Or maybe that’s why Tom offered this. Maybe he actually is letting Harry in.

Once the dessert plates are cleared, and the wine’s been drunk, people begin filtering out, always stopping to speak to Tom and Harry before absconding to wherever. Over and over, Harry endures the friendly greetings or nostalgic catch-up conversations, counting the moments until he can relax.

Either everyone is relieved that Tom is on his best behavior for Harry, or they’re sucking up to their Dark Lord, because the response is overwhelmingly positive. Probably both.

And then there’s Draco.

He bows his head in deference to the two of them, but when he looks up, his eyes are on Harry. “My lord,” he says reverently. “I mean, my lords,” he amends, but his intention was clear. Tom’s glare is icy cold as he regards Draco.

Harry keeps his face carefully neutral. His training with Sirius did not prepare him for this.

“It’s good to see you, Draco,” Harry says casually, choosing to ignore the awkwardness.

Draco’s eyes dart to Tom before returning to Harry. He straightens up, choosing his words carefully. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Harry. I’ll see you Saturday,” he says before bowing again to Tom and wishing him an extremely respectful goodnight.

Tom lets him walk away. Something that Abraxas was apparently worried about, because he’s definitely eavesdropping. Tom was grinding his teeth the whole time Draco and Harry talked. Harry’s not blind. People fear Tom. Abraxas was scared Tom would snap, and do something violent. His fear isn’t exactly unwarranted, either. He doesn’t exactly have a soft hand with magic. Tom’s exercising constraint. For Harry.

He really shouldn’t be touched by the gesture but he is.

No one approaches immediately, everyone able to read the room enough to not tickle the sleeping dragon. Tom leans down to whisper in Harry’s ear once Abraxas stops eavesdropping. He’s really not good at pretending despite all his Malfoy social training.

“Let him down easy when you do. You’re a hard man to get over,” Tom says, his voice raspy with tension. He presses a kiss just below Harry's ear. “Impossible, even,” he adds.

Harry places a hand on Tom’s thigh underneath the table. It’s not exactly discreet, but he’s not exactly at risk of photos being leaked to the Prophet with this crowd.

“When can we leave?” Harry asks, breathing the words into Tom’s ear.

He feels Tom relax beneath his touch. “Now,” Tom says, standing up and offering a hand to Harry. They offer a few goodbyes as they walk, but no one dares to stop them for an extended chat on their way out.

____________________________________________________________________________

Tom risked it all bringing Harry here, but he can’t find it in himself to worry about it. The idea of Harry betraying his confidence feels far off, like something that could only happen to someone else. Harry may be a (mostly) law-abiding citizen, but that doesn’t mean he’d give Tom up to the mercy of the aurors. Even if his father is one.

He trusts so few. No one, really. But Harry deserves the leap of faith, so he took it. If he gets arrested in the next few weeks, he knows who to blame, but that possibility is barely a blip on his radar. He has other things to worry about. Real things.

Like preventing Harry from going to that Quidditch game.

He could threaten Draco and have it taken care of immediately, but that’s not the smart move. Harry needs to choose Tom over Draco. If it’s forced, then it means nothing, and he runs the risk of alienating Harry entirely.

He’s been too possessive in the past. If he does that now, he’ll ruin everything he’s been trying to rebuild.

Right now, though, he has Harry to himself. This is his time, and he’s going to make the most of it. They floo to his personal house. It will be the first time Harry has seen the life Tom has built outside of Hogwarts, and he’s nervous about it, more so than he expected to be.

____________________________________________________________________________

Harry thought Tom would live in a manor, or at least a mansion, likely acquired through illegal means. Hell, he kind of expected a whole palace.

He didn’t expect a regular house.

Like, straight out of a sitcom about the suburbs type normal. It’s jarring, seeing Tom step into the extremely muggle-looking space in his formal robes. He should be wearing a suit with suspenders or something, a la Dick Van Dyke. Or maybe a cardigan, Mr. Rogers-style. He can see it.

Everything is exceptionally cozy, from the blanket strewn across the squashy couch to the mismatched pillows arranged haphazardly. There are paintings on the wall of rolling Scottish hills and lush forests, the kind that pepper the landscape all along the train ride to Hogwarts.

One could assume a completely unimportant, normal, and well-adjusted person lived here if not for the bookcases. Those are filled with pure treasure. The tomes that line his walls are easily worth more than Harry’s parents’ house, not to mention the random artifacts, mostly jewelry, dotted between antique bookends.

There’s no doubt why Tom’s animagus is a crow. He’s always had an affinity for shiny things. Especially powerful shiny things. It’s been a problem at a few points in Tom’s life. Harry hopes he’s not just another powerful shiny thing to put on a shelf, but it’s only an abstract fear for him now. Tom has made it very clear he wants Harry to be his equal, that he’s not just someone to fit into his plans like a pawn.

Tom busies himself with pouring two glasses of spiced cider. It reminds Harry of the year he smuggled a bottle of it into Hogwarts to share with Tom on his birthday. Probably intentional. There’s no way Tom doesn’t remember too.

Harry takes the time to look around more closely, not worried about being too nosy. He’s had enough social decorum for the day. If he wants to be a tad bit rude for the sake of his curiosity, he will. And Tom basically invited him to do so anyway.

He opens a large armoire, expecting more of Tom’s treasures. Instead, he finds a mirror with an inscription written across the top. “Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.”

The last time he looked into this, back in his first year, he saw himself winning the quidditch cup, his family all around him and Tom wearing Hufflepuff colors in support. He wonders what he’ll see this time.

His eyes unfocus for a second, and the hazy image in the mirror becomes clear. Harry’s standing in Tom’s house, but it looks different now. There’s a dirty jersey in the corner on the floor, a Hufflepuff gold scarf thrown over the back of the couch, and a photo of them, together, on the wall.

There are lots of photos on the wall now, some of just him and Tom, some of them with friends or Harry’s family. There’s even a single photo of the two of them with Tom’s family. Harry is the only one smiling in that one.

And then mirror-Tom walks up to him, wrapping his arms around him from behind and placing a kiss on mirror-Harry’s neck as if it’s common practice for them. Mirror-Harry looks smug.

Cheeky fucker.

Real Harry closes the door to the armoire just as Tom approaches, offering him a glass of cider and a very curious look.

“What do you see when you look?” Harry asks, taking a seat on the squashy couch, leaving enough room for Tom to sit beside him. He wiggles his shoes off, tucking his feet beneath him cross-legged. Tom slips off his leather loafers, crossing one leg over the other in a wide stance, his knee laying partially across Harry’s.

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” Tom says with an easy smile. He definitely has that mirror in here for a reason. Whether it’s to manipulate anyone who walks in the door, or specifically for Harry, he’s not sure.

Harry smirks back. He feels an opportunity approaching. “Sure, why not.”

Tom relaxes into the cushions, placing his glass on the coffee table and his hand on Harry’s thigh instead.

“I see me as the Minister for Magic, you standing at my side, whispering something in my ear. All I know is that it makes the happy version of me smile. You have my ring on your finger,” Tom says.

Harry narrows his eyes at Tom.

“I don’t believe you,” he says.

Tom’s smile drops in favor of looking offended. “Excuse me?” Tom says, definitely more of a challenge than a question.

Harry frowns. He’s got him cornered now, but he’d rather not have to, just to get an honest answer. “You could be lying, or you could be leaving something crucial out. Which is it?”

Tom’s jaw drops. It’s been too long since he was called out on his bullshit, obviously. It’s not like Abraxas can be trusted to do it.

“Maybe I left out -”

“Prove it,” Harry says. “If you’re telling the truth, and only left out some of it, then I’ll return the favor. Equal exchange, but only if you’re telling the truth.” He reaches out his hand to Tom’s face, but doesn’t touch him yet. Tom has to agree first.

Tom’s jaw sets stubbornly. If he accepts, he’s trusting Harry to walk through his memories. They’ve done it before. They can both control their minds enough to choose what’s shown to the other, but it’s still an intimate feeling, seeing through each other’s eyes.

It’s not a privilege that anyone else has ever experienced, for either one of them. Their experimentations with Legilimency and Occlumency were private, something they never talked about outside of the Room of Requirement’s walls.

Tom nods after a moment of quick deliberation. Harry puts his glass down on the table next to Tom’s, and then places his hand on Tom’s face. It started as a joke for Harry, years ago, to hold Tom’s face like the Vulcan’s did for mindmelds in Star Trek. Somewhere along the way, though, they both started doing it. It was a good focus, a way to form the initial connection in a more comfortable way than staring down the end of a wandtip.

Tom leans into his touch, and opens the doors.

Harry feels a rush of excitement as he stands in Tom’s memory living room. Tom is doing paperwork on the couch, but he keeps glancing up at the armoire every few seconds, until he finally stands and walks over to it.

He opens the doors, his eyes trained on his feet at first. Then he looks up.

The image is blurry at first, like it had been when Harry looked in. When the fuzz clears, his heart skips a beat.

Tom was lying about the minister thing. He’s dressed in pajamas, Harry wearing matching ones, his arms wrapped around Tom as he stands on his tippy-toes to whisper into Mirror-Tom’s ear that makes him blush, turning around to capture Mirror-Harry’s lips.

That part was true at least, even if Tom didn’t disclose the kiss.

Was Tom really that embarrassed about matching pajamas?

And then a child runs into the background, looks up at them with bright green eyes, and makes an exaggerated retching motion, one that’s repeated as two more children enter the frame, all joining in on making fun of…oh Merlin and Morganna, he and Tom are their parents. They’re being teased by their children.

He glances at the wall, where the family portraits were in his own fantasy world. There are still family portraits, but all of them feature the three children and them. A few have Harry’s family in them. Even Abraxas features in some of them.

All three of the children are wearing matching family pajamas, and if he’s not mistaken, those are homemade Christmas decorations lining the stairwell, little painted handprints turned into poinsettia flowers.

Holy shit.

Mirror Real-Tom slams the armoire door closed, his face screwed up in frustration, grabbing his wand with intention. Real Real-Tom ends the memory there, Harry gently hitting the freshly placed Occlumency walls.

“Your turn,” Tom says tensely, holding his hand out.

Harry places his hand over Tom’s, pressing Tom’s hand to his face. He closes his eyes, letting Tom see the memory for himself. When he opens his eyes, the memory finally over, Tom is already leaning down towards him, his eyes trained on Harry’s lips.

He stops just short. “Don’t go on that date with the Malfoy.”

Harry snorts, the serious moment broken. Then he sees the hurt on Tom’s face. He’s vulnerable right now. He always is after they walk through each other’s minds. Harry’s kind of being an asshole right now.

“Okay,” Harry says, grabbing Tom’s hand and lacing their fingers together. Tom has given a lot. Harry can give this. “Where should we go instead?”

Tom’s face lights up with a grin that will likely never see the light of day. He doesn’t usually like to emote.

Harry always wondered if Legilimency was more intimate to Tom than sex. He’s always so much more expressive after, so unguarded.

“I think it’s high time I courted you properly. Publicly. If you’re amenable, that is,” Tom says, so close to Harry that he can feel Tom’s warm breath on his lips, smelling like the sweet cinnamon of the cider.

Harry nods before closing the distance between them. Finally.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Harry wakes up in Tom’s bed, wearing silk pajamas that are too long for him by at least five inches, and an old Slytherin t-shirt. Tom’s arms are wrapped around him, his face pressed into Harry’s shoulder.

Harry takes a deep breath, the scent of pure Tom filling his lungs. They stayed up making out like teenagers and talking until too late to reasonably go home. At least, that’s what Harry told himself.

Maybe it was the cider, or maybe his addiction to Tom in general that kept Harry there. They didn’t do anything more than fall asleep together, even if it got heated at certain points. It’s not time yet. Harry needs more time, and Tom needs Harry to only be his.

They’ll be together soon, physically, but not now. Not yet. There’s more important things at the moment.

Last night was a big step. Tom let him in. It was a big deal for Tom back at Hogwarts, and he abandoned Harry rather than face up to it. It’s an even bigger deal now, and he’s letting Harry in. That has to mean something.

“Can you think more quietly?” Tom murmurs into his back, his rough morning voice vibrating pleasantly across Harry’s skin.

“Not my fault you like to sleep in so late,” Harry says, remembering just how many times they’ve woken up like this, entwined underneath warm covers, not ready to face the day yet.

Tom hums thoughtfully, probably remembering the same thing.

Or the thing that usually followed.

“We should get breakfast,” Tom says, then glances at the clock. “Brunch,” he amends.

Harry chuckles softly. Loudness has no place in their bubble. “The Dark Lord eats brunch? It’s hard to picture you with a mimosa and waffles.”

Harry feels Tom scowl into his shoulder. “No one can ever know,” he says but he’s not serious. His tone is deadpan, but Harry knows better.

“Better order in, then,” Harry says with a smirk.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Tom is rejoicing.

Harry is in his bed. Tom steps out of the bedroom briefly to call Gertrude (he allowed his elf to choose a new name for herself. He’s not to blame) to order waffles and mimosas. He spent enough time with Harry and Dobby to know that a good wage and some decent clothes go a long way for how you’re treated by your household staff. It’s not precisely the lesson Harry wanted him to learn about elf rights, but it counts nonetheless. His elf is a bonafide employee, and a well-paid one, at that.

He cleans himself up the best he can while she gets the food ready, wandlessly performing a few cleaning spells over himself and a useless anti-wrinkle spell on his pajamas (how sharp can pajamas look, really?). When he goes back into the room, it’s with food in hand and well-wishes from Gertrude.

They could eat at the dining table, but if he doesn’t have to let Harry out of bed just yet, he won’t.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Harry meets with Draco that day, once he’s able to pry himself from Tom’s arms. Tom’s put the ball in his court, and if he wants to continue things, his courtship with Draco has to end.

It’s the nice thing to do, anyway.

Harry meets Draco at the muggle coffee shop down the block from his shared apartment with Hermione. He really needs to visit there after this. She’s probably worried about him.

They greet each other in a friendly manner, Draco kissing Harry’s cheek before taking a seat with their coffees.

“You’re not coming to the game tomorrow, are you?” Draco asks, cutting straight to the chase. Harry can respect that.

“No, I’m not coming. I also need to end our courtship,” he responds, laying his cards on the table. Draco deserves that.

Draco sighs, slumping down in his chair in a way his mother would say is “unbecoming for a Malfoy”. It strikes him again that he knows Draco better than he thought. He really could have something good with Draco.

“It’s Tom,” Draco says, waiting for confirmation. It’s not a question, but he wants an answer.

Harry nods. “We could have had something great but…it’s Tom.”

Draco frowns. “If you’re being threatened, we could leave England -”

Harry shakes his head, cutting him off. “It’s not like that. Tom and I,” he struggles to gather his thoughts. “Tom and I are inevitable. I could be happy with you, but I’d never stop being pulled in by him. You deserve better than that.”

Draco nods with another sigh. “Could have been great, if not for him,” he says wistfully.

Harry frowns. He sees a life of friendly rivalry flash before his eyes, something he could have if he makes a different choice, but it doesn’t pull him in the way family pajamas and feral runs do.

Tom is like gravity for Harry. Unavoidable.

“He’s the only one for me, for better or worse,” Harry responds decisively.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Harry decides to get all of his social obligations over with in one go. At least talking with Regulus will be fun. He’s a great gossip, even if he doesn’t go into as much lurid detail as Sirius.

He apparates from the cafe directly into Regulus’ penthouse. Regulus will be expecting him after last night’s dinner party.

Regulus is lounging in his easy chair with a newspaper and a cup of coffee. “Finally come to tell me what you’ve been up to?” he says in lieu of a greeting. He folds his paper in half, obviously in a bit of a strop.

Okay, so maybe Harry should have asked Regulus for help with his plan too. It was kind of rude of him not to, when Regulus has always been just as much a part of his family as Sirius.

Harry frowns guiltily. “Sorry Uncle Reg. I should have come to you sooner,” he apologizes, taking a seat at his dining table. This is where Regulus hangs out normally. It’s his favorite reading spot.

Regulus grins at him lopsidedly, forgiving Harry as easily as breathing. Merlin, Harry loves his family. “Better late than never, sprout. Now tell me how you ended up at the head of the Dark Lord’s table with him making heart-eyes at you.”

Harry takes a deep breath and starts at the beginning.

It’s good to let someone in. Sirius knows, sort of, but he doesn’t want to be a part of the game, not really. Regulus is in it. He’s in Tom’s inner circle. He knows what Harry is choosing, and what it meant for Tom to bring him in unmarked. Harry knows Regulus hasn’t divulged what happens at those meetings to anyone in the family. Harry hasn’t either, and he’s known since he was sixteen.

Unlike his confidants, Regulus gets it. And now, Regulus knows that he knows. There’s a wall down between them that wasn’t before.

“You’re sure you know what you’re getting into?” Regulus asks finally. It’s not an implication of naivete the way Regulus says it. He’s just checking in, as someone invested in Harry’s wellbeing.

“Yeah,” Harry says, admitting it out loud for the first time. “I’ve known about his…extracurricular activities since Hogwarts, even if he didn’t tell me about them. To be completely honest, I’ve always been more on the grey scale than the light. I was there, experimenting with magic with him when he was just beginning. He didn’t want me to be a part of it back then. I don’t know if he was ashamed, or thought I would judge him for it, or that I might turn him in. He could have just not trusted me enough, or knew I wouldn’t bend the knee to him and that could have been non-negotiable at the time. I don’t know. But he let me in last night. Was I wrong for staying?”

Regulus regards the question seriously, despite the rambling. He’s never been the overly emotional, freakishly supportive godfather that Sirius is, but when Harry has something that he’s genuinely afraid of, he’s always brought it to Uncle Reg. His perspective is invaluable. He’s sat down with Harry at so many important crossroads of his life and helped him sort out his thoughts.

He’s the king of pro/con lists.

“I’ve known Tom for years now. I’ve worked with him, watched him grow into the powerful wizard he is today. He can be volatile, but I can see how you might even him out. He could be good for you too. He challenges you. He obviously values you. The way he introduced you to the inner circle…it’s unprecedented. To be completely honest, I was floored. I would have stayed too, if I were you, and not just because he’s probably the only wizard alive who can keep you from being bored.” Harry smiles at the memory of the previous night. So it wasn’t just monumental to him. It was as much a statement as he thought.

He was right to dump Malfoy. Forget any puppy love he may have experienced with his old rival, Tom is the best challenge he’ll ever face, and he can’t look away from that.

Regulus smiles into his coffee. “I assume you’ve already made your decision,” he says.

Harry grins back at him. “I can’t imagine making a different one.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Saturday morning, Harry receives a note by owl telling him to “Dress muggle.” He puts aside his dress robes, choosing a simple set of slacks and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up. Tom always liked when he showed off his arms, even if he never would admit it.

Tom knocks on his door at exactly twelve p.m., perfectly on time. Unfortunately for Harry, he’s not perfectly on time, so Hermione answers the door before he can.

“Hello Tom,” he hears through the thin walls.

“It’s good to see you outside of the Ministry, Madame Granger,” Tom says respectfully.

Hermione snorts derisively. Harry smiles at the mental image of Tom’s reaction to whatever she’s about to say next. He hurries things along, arranging his hair in the mirror.

“Let’s be honest, Thomas. You’re here to lock down my best friend. My brother. As far as I can tell, he’s okay with that. For now. Fuck up again like you did at Hogwarts, and we’ll see if your ‘social club’ is enough to keep me from burning your life to the ground.”

Now that’s a shovel talk.

Harry knew it was inevitable, but damn. Hermione really knows how to lay it all out.

Tom responds carefully, as he should if he values his life.

“The moment Harry tells me he doesn’t want me, I’m gone. My purpose is to make sure that never happens. I have no intention of fucking this up. If I do, then you have my full permission. Do your worst,” he says.

There’s a silence. Harry has to assume they’re doing that squinty staring contest thing cowboys do in the movies. It wouldn’t be the first time Hermione and Tom have had a standoff. Usually it was over illegal magic and performing it at Hogwarts. Ironically, they’ve both been on either side of the argument.

He decides now is a dramatic enough moment to make an appearance.

“Tom,” Harry greets him warmly, a smile plastered on his face.

Hermione grins at him, like she wasn’t just threatening Lord Slytherin himself a few seconds previous. “Have fun you two,” she says jovially, handing Harry his house keys. He forgets them a lot.

Harry gives her a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. “Thanks, Mione,” he says genuinely, winking at her before grabbing Tom’s hand and pulling him towards the door.

____________________________________________________________________________

“So where are we going?” Harry asks. They’re seated in the back of a muggle car - the nicest one Tom could find with a reasonable hourly rate - being driven to the restaurant he’s chosen.

“It’s a curry house in London. I think you’ll like it,” he says, happy that Harry reaches across the bench seat to take his hand.

“Sounds nice. London’s a ways off though, why not apparate closer?” Harry asks quietly, cognizant of the driver in the front.

It’s a little too close to the mirror image of Harry whispering in his ear. He’s spent countless hours in front of that mirror, wondering what was said to make himself look so happy.

He thinks he understands now. It’s not what Harry said, but the act of leaning close enough for Tom to feel his breath on his ear. It’s the closeness, the safety of it. Tom tilts his head, leaning close to Harry’s ear under the guise of not being overheard.

“What if I just wanted to take a long drive with you? What then?” he asks, watching Harry’s eyes dilate with interest as he places a hand on Harry’s thigh, scooting closer across the leather seats until space is nonexistent between them.

“I’d say, I hope the divider works,” Harry responds, Tom already fiddling with the buttons to close the driver off from them.

By the time they reach the restaurant, Harry’s hair is a wreck.

____________________________________________________________________________

Harry is sure this is a fever dream.

Tom did sweet things over their years together as teenagers, but it doesn’t compare to adult Tom. His charisma has been honed, relentlessly perfected like all of his skills. The red carpet is rolled out for them, even without the gravitas of their roles in the wizarding society being known. He charms the hostess effortlessly, and they’re in, not at the table he’d reserved, but a quieter one, tucked away in a corner with a view of the kitchen.

Tom orders for them both with Harry’s permission. Even after all this time, he knows what Harry likes, and he obviously wants to prove it. Harry is happy to let him have his little mating display. It’s practically National Geographic worthy, but flattering nonetheless.

Harry lets Tom feed him carefully crafted bites of rice and lamb curry on naan, enjoying the meticulous attention Tom is paying him.

Will it last, though? Is he a passing fancy, or will Tom’s attention continue? He didn’t think Harry was worth it before. Why now, and so differently than before? Was he thinking about Harry while they were apart or is just the threat of someone else having him that spurred him into action?

Harry thinks back to the mirror memory. Maybe he’s being too harsh. Tom has always wanted a family. Maybe he denied himself that back then, but still wants it now. It wouldn’t be out of character. Tom denied himself a lot of the happiness life had to offer in favor of ambition. Now though? It seems like he wants more.

So Harry feeds Tom bites of his own dish, and pretends not to notice when someone at another table takes a photo of them. Maybe they’ll be the front page headline tomorrow. He’ll see how Tom acts then.

____________________________________________________________________________

“Harry’s Tom,” Luna greets him kindly, taking both of his hands in hers. Tom is visibly uncomfortable but allows it. He knew that he would eventually have to become reacquainted with Harry’s friends whether he likes it or not.

“Luna,” he says stiffly.

He was inoculated through exposure before. He’s not as immune to her as before. “I’m going to be one of Harry’s bridesmaids, I hope that’s okay,” she says.

He’d been prepared for weirdness, but he’s treated to this. Something he can really work with. Luna is Harry’s most trusted confidant. She knows more about him than Tom ever will, something that has irritated him since Hogwarts. Now, though, it’s working in his favor. Harry has been talking about him. About marrying him.

“A bridesmaid you say? I’m surprised you’re not maid of honor,” Tom responds, his stiff smile turning warm and smug. He slings an arm over her shoulders, suddenly a lot more okay with touching her affectionately. Harry catches his eye across the room, a look of panic flitting across his face. He heads straight towards them, but not before being caught by one of the Weasleys Tom can’t remember the name of.

“I think he’d want Hermione for that. She has kept him alive, after all,” Luna says wisely.

Tom nods, “That makes sense. Bridesmaid is still a place of honor, though. You can be a groomsman too, you know. But you should stand on Harry’s side. He’d be lost without you.” Tom catches Harry’s eye as he approaches, only hearing the last part of the conversation. Harry’s cheeks flush bright red.

He probably meant for the wedding conversations with Luna to stay private. Merlin and Morganna bless Luna Lovegood, this is just what Tom needed to feel at home in Harry’s life.

Luna wants to be a bridesmaid. If ever there was a declaration of approval, this is it.

With newfound confidence, he reaches around Harry’s waist, pulling him to his side and placing a kiss on his forehead. “Luna was just telling me how she’s going to be your bridesmaid,” Tom says with a smirk.

Harry rolls his eyes. “You wish,” he responds.

Tom’s smugness grows with every second Harry’s skin remains flushed. “Absolutely. Though it is selfish to keep her to yourself. I’ll need to borrow her to be my best man. She isn’t just your friend.”

Harry eyes him with a mischievous spark in his eyes. “You know what, you’re right. Luna should be your best man. She can plan your bachelor party, help with preparations, all of it.”

Luna nods sagely in agreement as if it’s a foregone conclusion.

Tom played with fire, and now he’s getting burnt.

He can’t back out now. Whatever hopes he had of an esteemed affair hosted by Abraxas is gone now. The image of Luna in a suit standing by his side at the altar in egregious color combinations permeates his vision.

It’s worth it, though.

She’s the one who told Harry to go running the day they met in animagus form for the first time. She’s the one who cornered Tom and told him in no uncertain terms that he should be honest with Harry, or not be with him at all because telling Harry lies would only poison Harry against him.

At the time, he took it as wise advice that he should leave Harry. Now he sees it differently. He should have told the truth then, to Harry if no one else, and he has the chance to do so from now on. She’s the one who casually mentioned in the ministry canteen that he should take an interest in the society pages, leading him to see Harry’s debut announcement.

Maybe she deserves to stand beside him at the altar.

“Done. You can coordinate with Abraxas for the party. He has my bank account information,” Tom says.

Harry stares at him, trying to tell if he’s joking. Tom is deadly serious.

If Luna is the reason they’re together, she should be beside him when he swears his life to Harry.

____________________________________________________________________________

Harry watches Tom trade barbs with the Weasley twins over a game of Uno. He won’t intervene unless it gets heated. Tom’s not great at losing.

Ron sits down heavily next to Harry, throwing a drunken arm across his shoulder. “So, the Snake of all Snakes, huh?”

He’s managed to avoid discussing Tom with Ron so far. He didn’t particularly want to start now, but that’s what fate has decreed. Or the firewhiskey. Harry gets a whiff of Ron’s breath and grimaces. It’s definitely the firewhiskey talking.

“Yes, Ron,” Harry says, rolling his eyes.

Ron grins. “Shoulda seen it coming. Ginny did. She won the betting pool,” he says, then covers his mouth as if he’s spoken out of turn, looking a bit like Hagrid for a moment.

“Are you happy?” Ron asks suddenly, having already forgotten his previous train of thought.

Harry watches from across the room as Hermione joins in on Tom’s argument with the twins, obviously on Tom’s side. Harry hums contentedly at the practically domestic scene before him of his potential life partner having an all-out screaming match with - and against - his adopted family.

“Yeah, I think I am,” Harry says.

Ron smiles, apparently satisfied with the answer, and promptly lays his head down on Harry’s shoulder to doze off. Harry groans. Ron is a notorious snuggler when he’s drunk. If a person or thing stops moving long enough, he’ll find a way to latch on, octopus-style. It’s been a while since Harry was caught off-guard enough to fall for it.

Harry suddenly finds Ron’s weight lifted off of him. Fred and George grin down at him with Ron’s arms draped over their shoulders. “Loverboy was fit to start a fight with Ronnie here,” Fred says. “Whether he was awake or not,” adds George with a wink. “You’re welcome!” they call over their shoulders to a disgruntled looking Tom.

Harry pulls him down to the couch and climbs on his lap, one hand resting on Tom’s jaw, just below his ear. Tom takes a deep breath and looks Harry over. “You’re drunk,” he says.

Harry smirks. “How astute of an observation,” Harry snarks back. “It’s not like you’re the picture of sobriety.” Harry kisses Tom softly, briefly, trying not to linger too much since they’re in public.

Tom sighs, his hands tightening around Harry’s hips. Harry meant to get off Tom’s lap, but his hands keep Harry firmly in place. Harry’s not complaining.

“Alright you lot of degenerates, time to pack it up! Floo’s open and there are semi-sober chaperones waiting to help you stumble through. Pick up a sobriety or hangover potion on your way out. Some of you take both, you know who you are,” Remus yells authoritatively, ushering some towards the floos and others towards the bedrooms if they’re set to stay for Christmas.

Remus is an old hand at wrassling the crowd of young people. Sirius does it a bit more crassly, Lily more threateningly, and James more nicely. Remus must have drawn the short straw this time. Or maybe they all take turns.

Tom looks around nervously, like he expects to be shuffled out with the others. Harry’s house has become the normal spot for a reunion every year around Christmas, when their former classmates are most likely to be in England. Tom hasn’t attended before. It’s kind of fun seeing Mr. Future Minister, Lord Slytherin himself, act like a teenager caught at a house party.

“Did you forget we’re staying here tonight? We’re not getting kicked out,” Harry says fondly, removing himself from Tom’s lap. Tom is still nervous around his family. Harry doesn’t need to make that worse.

“You two,” Remus narrows his eyes at them, assuming what Harry recognizes as his professor stance. Harry rolls his eyes, and Tom straightens up in his seat, trying to impress, even in his drunken state. Some things never change.

“I’d head to bed if I were you. You know Jamie always wakes us up at the asscrack of dawn on Christmas,” Remus says. He only curses this much when he’s had a few too. The twinkle in his eyes confirm this. Harry would bet his parents plus Sirius are all waiting for Remus to return so they can continue burning the midnight oil.

“Yes, Professor Moony,” Harry says, sarcastically obedient. Tom shoots him a glare, as if he’s afraid this ends in receiving detention. As if he’s not a whole adult with a Wizengamot seat and all. Harry thinks it’s kinda cute, seeing Tom be so anxious to please his family. He’d been twice as nervous around Harry’s mum when he arrived. At least he’s relaxed a little. A tiny bit.

Harry leads Tom to his old room, next to the “guest” bedroom that’s unofficially been Luna’s for over a decade. The last time Tom was here was when they were still at Hogwarts. He wasn’t allowed to stay in the same room. This time, Harry tugs Tom into his room, closing the door behind them and enjoying the moment of blessed silence, just the two of them. He sighs in relief. He loves the annual friendly gathering, but it gets overwhelming at times with all the noise. His family isn’t very quiet to begin with, not to mention when the Weasleys and former classmates are added into the mix.

Tom looks around the room with interest, his demeanor suddenly very crow-like. Harry wonders if he needs to worry about Tom’s sticky fingers tonight. Probably. But he can just get the stuff back later. Or let him have it for his nest. Everything here is old and forgotten anyways. It’s only been preserved out of his dad’s nostalgic stubbornness.

Harry ditches his christmas sweater and jeans, pulling on a pair of pajama pants instead. Tom is too entranced by the display of Hogwarts hey-day memorabilia on the shelf to notice. His fingers itch towards a photo of Harry in his quidditch kit, drenched from a sudden downpour. He’d still made the team fly laps in it. It was good training for them. The photo was taken right before Fred and George tackled him, demanding that their captain release them for the day.

Tom was there. He almost fought them for daring to accost Harry, but he didn’t, finally admitting that maybe flying into sheets of rain was too far after all.

“You can have it, if you want,” Harry says. Maybe he’s feeling extra generous because of the season, or because of the alcohol, but he wants Tom to have whatever he’s craving. Especially if it’s as easy as an old photo of Harry.

Tom looks back at him. “I want to take it all,” he says more honestly than he would if he were sober.

Harry chuckles. “You might not have room to display it all.”

Tom shrugs. “We will at our new place.”

Harry’s eyebrows raise. Our place? He assumed that he would just move in with Tom at some point, before or after the betrothment, which is seeming more and more certain with every passing day.

“What do you mean?” Harry asks warily. He really hopes Tom hasn’t gone and bought them a castle or something ridiculous. He rather liked Tom’s extremely normal suburban existence.

“It was going to be a surprise, for Christmas, tomorrow morning,” Tom explains, pulling a box from his overnight bag and handing it to Harry. “But maybe this is a conversation we should have alone,” he adds self-consciously. He’s afraid of Harry rejecting it, whatever it is, or him.

Harry takes the box nervously. He doesn’t want to hurt Tom, but he also doesn’t want to live in some manor. Tom may be trying his best to provide what he thinks Harry wants but he shouldn’t have done this without him -

Harry opens the box. There’s a single photograph of a beautiful old house, surrounded by trees and an overgrown garden. It’s big, but not huge. Not a manor. Harry stares at the photo, unable to stop the rampant butterflies hosting a rave in his stomach. It’s too easy to imagine a life there with Tom. It’s straight out of a storybook, a place that Harry can imagine raising children in.

He remembers Tom’s mirror-image for the millionth time. They still haven’t discussed having kids but he already knows what Tom wants. He wants a family, a real one.

Harry can see it clear as day, when he looks at that photo.

“Tom,” he says, his eyes welling with tears. The game he was playing to get Tom’s attention feels so small in comparison to where they are now, at this cusp of something great.

“There’s space for a quidditch pitch, and there are fruit trees in the backyard. There are seven bedrooms, so Luna can have her designated room, I know that’s important -”

“It’s perfect,” Harry cuts him off, closing the box and tossing it onto his side table in favor of wrapping his arms around Tom, pulling him down for a kiss. Tom smiles into the kiss, the tension in his shoulders melting away as he returns Harry’s embrace.

“Seven, though? Just how many kids are you expecting us to have?” he asks, half-teasing and half-prudent.

Tom’s face flushes. He takes a seat on the bed, pulling Harry into his lap. His expression is extremely serious as he chooses his words. They’re really going to talk about this.

“Your happy self didn’t have kids,” Tom says, but it’s phrased like a question. This has been bothering him. It also strikes him that Tom always refers to his mirror image as “happy” him, not just as an altered reflection. He seems extremely jealous of “happy” Tom.

Harry takes a second to gather his thoughts. He doesn’t want to mispeak. This conversation may be one of the most important he’ll have in his life. This is about their future. Not their political or career futures, but the future of their life. The real stuff.

Everything before now has been flirtation, or remembering why they fit together in the first place. This is new territory. This part of their relationship didn’t exist the first time around. They were too young to make decisions like that. Neither of them really knew what they wanted.

Now they do.

“My mind to your mind?” Harry asks, an eyebrow raised. They haven’t melded since that night at Tom’s house. He misses it, the feeling of Tom’s thoughts and his merging.

Tom nods, swallowing hard. He’s still afraid of rejection, judging by his guarded posture, but he reaches out nonetheless, placing his hand on Harry’s face.

Unlike the last time, Harry reaches out as well, mirroring his motion. They’ve done this before, but rarely. Showing a memory is different than letting someone walk through your thoughts, opening your minds to each other. Tom shied away from it during the last months of their previous relationship.

Now he doesn’t hesitate, throwing open the floodgates.

Harry feels Tom’s anxiety more strongly now. They’re standing in front of the house, Harry’s mental image of the photograph and Tom’s memories of seeing it in person overlaid.

Harry takes Tom’s hand, breathing in the scent of pines and the fragrant flowers blooming in the yard. He pulls Tom through the iron gate, wanting a bit of a tour.

It’s beautiful. He doesn’t even go into the house, instead walking them out to the backyard. There’s a steel swingset, covered in vines from disuse.

Harry’s mind’s eye alters the image, imagining it cleaned up and the seats replaced, but still well-used.

The garden amends itself to his imagination, the overgrown plants trimmed back, and the grass cut and dotted with wildflowers and clover. Two children run by, both with Harry’s chaotic mess of hair, but one has Tom’s hair color, and the other has his eyes. Harry’s heart swells.

He didn’t mean to project the image of the kids, but it’s what his imagination provides when he thinks about living here. This is the risk of letting someone in through legilimency. They see the truth, sometimes at the same time you see it for yourself.

He doesn’t regret it.

“You want this?” Tom asks, his voice raspy with emotion.

Harry watches the kids race to the swingset, the younger one struggling to climb onto the seat. They call for someone, but the name is vague, like the verbal equivalent of an image being blurred. Probably because Harry hasn’t thought about names yet.

“Hadrian!” one of them calls excitedly as an older boy steps out of the house with a roll of his eyes. The attitude is all Tom’s, despite his namesake. Harry smiles. The chosen name is provided by a now fully blushing Tom. It’s what Tom hopes for, not Harry.

There’s a shift in the world around them. Tom’s mind takes over more strongly, layering his memory and Harry’s imaginings with his own projections.

The house is brighter, the dirt scrubbed from it and the color now pale green. Hadrian helps the youngest onto the swings, which are painted now, tiny handprints turned into flowers near the bottom and winding vines covering the top like the homemade decorations in Tom’s mirror image.

It’s sickeningly sweet. Something so personal and specific that Harry has to take a moment to process it, watching their potential children play in the garden, occasionally taking breaks to snatch berries or oranges from the garden. Tom stands with him in silence, letting them both process.

“I want this with you,” Harry confirms finally, the tears falling from his eyes in quiet agreement. It’s too easy to say yes, when Tom is baring his mind to him, showing him his true desires.

There’s no room for lies here, or posturing. There’s no walls left between them.

Harry grips the back of Tom’s neck and hauls him down for the kind of kiss that romance novels only dream about.

At some point, they drift out of the projected reality, both too tired to maintain it as they lose themselves in each other.

They make love the next morning, not for the first time, but it feels new nonetheless. They have a fresh chance at happiness with each other. Neither of them intend to squander it.

____________________________________________________________________________

Epilogue:

Tom finally asks for Harry’s hand in marriage on his birthday. He’s not usually a superstitious man, but his birthday has always felt lucky. He needs all the luck he can get now.

It’s the first time anyone but Harry is seeing their new home. Harry hasn’t even fully moved in. He’s still splitting his time between Tom’s old house and Harry’s shared apartment. Tom hopes to change that tonight. He wants to bring Harry into the house and fall asleep with him every night for the rest of their lives. Tonight is the night he asks.

Everyone is there. It might as well be a ball from the amount of attendees, but technically it was meant to be a casual dinner. A family dinner, Tom amends. He just has a lot of extended family now, thanks to Harry.

Tom looks out at the jovial crowd, all well-fed and in a good mood, waiting for the cake to be cut. He worries for a moment if it will all change when he asks.

It doesn’t matter. Whatever people think of him doesn’t matter. It’s only Harry’s opinion that has any weight in this scenario. Harry will stand with him, even if his family disagrees with his choice. He hopes.

Tom gets down onto one knee, the gold and green-colored velvet box weighing in his hand like it’s a ton of bricks. Harry could turn him down. He could decide to take the comfortable, happy existence Draco is offering. Or he could choose neither of them and still have an impact on the Wizengamot that the world wouldn’t see coming.

Harry is a wild card. Always has been.

The chatter in the magically warmed backyard hasn’t ceased. People gaze out at the falling snow, comfortable in the heated area. No one’s noticed they’re missing yet.

Harry turns around from where he’d been looking for a knife for the cake, finally seeing Tom. For a horrible few seconds, Harry’s face is shocked into neutrality as he stares down at the ring. It’s Slytherin’s ring. The greatest family heirloom (his or otherwise) that he’s been able to acquire. It’s the only ring that made sense to give to Harry. He couldn’t settle for anything less.

“Hadrian James Potter, I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you sprint into the forest. I want to spend a lifetime with you. Longer, if you’ll let me. Separating from you was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my life, and not one that I will ever repeat, if you’ll allow me to stay at your side. Marry me, Harry.”

Harry grins down at Tom, his voice failing him as he nods frantically, putting his hand in Tom’s to let him put the ring on. Tom stands, spinning Harry gracefully before pulling him into his arms. Show-off. “Of course I’ll marry you, Tom,” Harry says breathlessly, looking at the ring on his finger, currently wrapped around the back of Tom’s neck.

Tom can tell Harry’s pleased with the ring. And the proposal. He can relax now, and finally stop plotting. Maybe now Harry will move in with him, and they can start their lives together in earnest.

Harry surprises Tom, wrapping his legs around Tom’s waist and trusting Tom not to drop him. Tom grins, kissing the smug grin from Harry’s lips.

It’s official. Harry is his. Not even the nerves from public displays of affection can mar this moment for him.

____________________________________________________________________________

Harry is beaming when he steps up onto the picnic table (after the plates have been cleared, he’s not a savage). “I’d like to propose a toast,” Harry says, tapping his throat with a wordless and wandless sonorous charm. He knows Tom likes seeing his small acts of powerful magic and he’s more than willing to show off.

Everyone gathers around as a formally dressed Gertrude levitates champagne flutes out to the crowd. He really likes that elf. Harry lifts his glass with his left hand, showing off the engagement ring proudly. “Cheers to my future husband, and to welcoming you all to our new home. May we all make many happy memories here, just like this one.”

There are a few excited squeals amongst the sound of clinking glasses and “Here here!”s. James is definitely one of the ones who squealed, judging by his embarrassed look after the fact.

Harry sees Ron look at the ring with wide disbelieving eyes, and then say, “The bastard really did it.”

Tom offers Harry his hand, helping him down from his soapbox. He pulls Harry in for a chaste but loving kiss, smiling into it as the glasses cling around them all over again.

“Happy birthday, Tom,” Harry says quietly, just for Tom to hear.

Tom takes his hand, running his finger over the ring as if confirming it’s still there. Still real.

Harry squeezes his hand, and they turn to face their newly-merged family.

____________________________________________________________________________

Tom’s never been one for raucous parties, but this is one he doesn’t mind. The cake finally gets cut and sent out, and everyone dances until far too late into the night on the small dancefloor Harry insisted on installing. Now Tom sees the appeal.

He sways to the music, Harry leaning tiredly against him, trusting Tom to keep him on his feet.

Tom savors this. It will be their last dance of the night. After this, he’ll tuck Harry into their bed, and fall asleep with his fiance for the first time. It’s too perfect.

James and Lily approach them when the song is done, apparently thinking along the same lines. “Congratulations again, you two,” Lily says, smiling fondly as Harry lays his head on Tom’s shoulder.

“Thanks Mum,” Harry says. “Take care of Dad, okay?” he gestures to his father, who is too choked up to speak. Lily shakes her head. “I’ll just leave him with Sirius,” she says, nodding over shoulder to where Sirius is openly crying into a very tired looking Remus’ shoulder.

“They’ll cry themselves out eventually. Rem and I will be ready with pancakes, don’t worry,” Lily says. James hugs Harry and Tom at once, catching Tom by surprise.

“Welcome to the family, son,” he says.

Tom smiles back at the overly emotional older male. “Thank you,” he responds sincerely.

Harry and Tom excuse themselves from the remains of the party. If people are desperate, there are bedrooms and floos available, but Harry and Tom are done.

“To our bedroom?” Tom asks, seeking permission.

Harry nods sleepily. “Ours,” he confirms.

____________________________________________________________________________

Harry wakes up horny and invigorated, a deadly combo.

He squirms against Tom, feeling the press of Tom’s morning wood against his thigh. The feeling is delectable. Tom groans at the contact, roused from his slumber, and definitely not upset about it. He presses against Harry, pulling the smaller wizard closer to him to kiss him, having the dual effect of pressing himself more firmly against Harry.

Harry moans into the kiss, spurring Tom on. Tom moves over Harry possessively, casting the spells they need to have a good experience. He can take his time with Harry later. For now, he needs to remember what it’s like to be inside Harry.

He pushes two fingers in, coated in summoned lube. Harry tenses with surprise, but the moment Tom hits that spot in him, he melts, his eager hole relaxing for Tom.

“Please,” Harry says.

Tom’s never been able to deny him, not really.

He nonverbally casts silencing charms, then dives in, first with his tongue and then his cock.

Harry moans wantonly as he pushes in, pushing up against Tom’s hips to get more contact. Tom obliges, pinning Harry’s hips to the bed as he pounds into his ass, claiming him in the way he hasn’t in years.

It wasn’t as good back then. He’s older now. He knows what he was missing out on with anyone but Harry. He plows into Harry worshipfully, rejoicing in every movement inside him. Harry is his.

Finally.

____________________________________________________________________________

They get married before the six months of courting are up.

It’s gossip column worthy, sure, but neither of them care. It won’t affect their lives in any real way. People will gossip, but that’s nothing new. A few old people will be scandalized, but overall, they’ll be unaffected.

Tom holds Harry’s hands at the altar, nestled between the flower-draped swingset and the half-court quidditch pitch. As promised, Luna stands next to Harry and Hermione, despite being dressed as a groomsman. Sort of.

The dress code for groomsmen was grey and black. She’s chosen to interpret that into a dress as a flurry of shades of grey, swirling raucously into an almost floral pattern.

Tom can’t be upset. It’s better than his imagination provided.

Harry smiles up at Tom, radiant in the setting sun over their garden.

“There’s no challenge like you, Tom,” Harry says when Regulus prompts him to begin his vows. Strong start. “You’re infuriating, and so intelligent, and definitely destined to make waves in the world. You make me want to pull my hair out sometimes. But,” he looks up at Tom, his fingers rubbing at the finger where he’s about to place the ring that will tie them together until death.

“But you are the best thing that ever happened to me. You give me room to be my most excellent self, whether that’s in the woods or the courtroom. I can’t imagine agreeing to a lifetime with anyone else.”

Tom swallows hard. It’s not usually hard for him to remember memorized speeches, but this one is singular. It’s the most important speech he’ll make, possibly ever, and he’s prepared appropriately for it.

He moves his hands from Harry’s to Harry’s hips, pulling him closer, Harry’s arms going automatically around his neck instead. It’s not strictly appropriate but Tom needs the contact right now. He needs to remember what he’s supposed to say. He can’t whiff out on the most important day of his life.

This decides everything, in a way. Sure, he could be successful without Harry, but what kind of a life would that be? To never feel the swell of Harry’s belly, swollen with their child. He can’t fathom the levels of misery he would endure if he doesn’t do this properly.

“My Harry,” he begins, summoning the strongest voice he can. Harry looks up at him, tightening his hold on Tom’s neck. This is for them, Tom reminds himself. Not for anyone else. “Today we become each other’s, inexorably. I was yours before these vows, but now we’lll be sworn to each other. I don’t take that lightly. You are the happiness that I always coveted, the light in the dark, the wind in a sweltering desert. I will honor you every day that you let me have you, and I hope that the day you turn away from me never comes. I am yours, inevitably.”

Harry kisses him soundly, reassurance in every lick of his lips. The officiant clears his throat. “Repeat after me: Tom, I thee wed,” he says to Harry. Harry mimics his words, caught in the same trance Tom is.

“And now you. Repeat after me, ‘Hadrian, I thee wed,” he says.

Tom smiles down at Harry, savoring the words even before he’s spoken them. “Harry, I thee wed,” he repeats, not exactly, but more true to who he’s wedding. He’s not marrying Hadrian, lord of House Peverell. He’s marrying Harry, collector of chocolate frog cards, not Hadrian, lord over three Wizengamot seats.

“And now you,” the officiant says to Harry. “Tom, I thee wed.”

Harry repeats the line back, his hands clenching Tom’s like a lifeline.

It’s real now.

“It is my pleasure to present Lord and Lord Slytherin-Peverell for the first time. You may kiss your spouse,” the older woman says.

Tom grasps Harry’s neck and waist in one smooth move, dipping him down for a kiss that will rock the gossip pages.

Harry couldn’t be happier.
____________________________________________________________________________

The problem with a backyard wedding is that people stay too long. There’s no send-off, so everyone is kind of just…there. Harry’s family lingers until the early morning hours.

Harry and Tom eventually ditch their own wedding, leaving Harry’s parents and a handful of Weasleys to get nostalgic over too many firewhiskeys and leftover wedding cake. Harry allows himself to be swept into Tom’s arms and carried back to their bedroom. They undress quickly, and Tom is sunk into Harry within minutes.

It’s not desperate anymore. They’re not starved for each other, like they were. Tom takes him like he plans to do so every day for the rest of their lives. It’s slow, claiming, and calm. Tom takes his time taking Harry apart. His teeth sink into Harry's skin, marking it over and over, but there's no urgency.

He has all the time in the world.

____________________________________________________________________________

“Abraxas!” Harry sounds mad. Tom ducks his head out of his study to see what the commotion is about.

Abraxas is frozen in place as Harry storms up to him. All these years and he’s never stopped being nervous around the Hufflepuff. It makes Tom smile every time. A healthy dose of fear is wise sometimes.

“Did you give Rose candy after I specifically asked you not to?” Abraxas pales, an impressive feat considering his starting skin tone.

“It was chocolate. From France,” he responds weakly.

“That’s candy, Abraxas!” Harry only calls him Abraxas when he’s upset with him. It’s Abby anytime they’re in a non-public scenario. There’s not much that pisses off Harry to this degree, but disobeying his instructions with his children always results in rage.

Tom knows why, too. Rose is their youngest, and their most sensitive to sugar. She’ll likely be up well past her bedtime tonight. She always gets a little wild when she has candy, hence it being a banned item in their household (except for the secret stash they keep on the highest pantry shelf in a container labeled “kidney beans”. That’s just for them, and their two oldest on occasion.)

Tom sees the cold look creep into Harry’s eyes. He leans against the wall, settling in for something interesting to happen.

“You will rectify this,” Harry says seriously. He sounds calm, but that just means he’s more dangerous right now. Tom grins. He loves his husband.

“Anything. Whatever I need to do to earn your forgiveness,” Abraxas rambles nervously.

Harry narrows his eyes at Abraxas. “You’ll take the children out for a few hours at the trampoline park. Tire Rose out specifically. You can ask Luna to go with you. You know how excited she gets about trampolines. And you need four people for some of their games. Unless you feel like playing Pixies vs. Veela.” The species or occupation changes every time, but the core element of the game remains the same. Two teams throw things at each other. The balls from the ball pit, the foam cubes from the foam cube pit. Whatever’s around. There’s also a lot of dramatic yelling. “Put them to bed at no later than 10 pm. If they wish to stay awake in their rooms after that, they can, but watch the monitors for Iggy and Rose. They might ask to be tucked in once they’re done playing or reading.”

They’ve been to the trampoline park two times this week already. They never get tired of it. Especially not once Luna started teaching them to do flips and cartwheels.

Tonight, though, Tom needs a break. Harry does too, obviously. It’s a good plan. .

They haven’t taken a night off of being parents in a while. They need to be just Harry and Tom again, just for a few hours.

Abraxas nods, already pulling out his phone to call Luna. They’ve become real friends since the wedding. It was a pairing neither Harry or Tom expected, but it’s been beneficial. Together, they make the perfect babysitting pair. Abraxas is extremely prudent in his decisions, but too easily manipulated into poor choices. Rose specifically pulls at his heartstrings, though he’s not immune to Iggy (Ignotus, Tom still doesn’t approve fully of the nickname) or Hadrian’s charms either. Luna, however, is prone to wilder decisions, but is completely immune to manipulation of any type.

She’s the only adult they’ve known who’s completely immune to their children’s collective doe-eyes. Even Hermione caves when all three join forces.

The combination of Abraxas and Luna is one of the only ones they can trust. Their children are brilliant, sometimes too much so for their own wellbeing.

Harry’s eyes snap to Tom like he’s known he’s had an audience the whole time. Abraxas jumps slightly, but turns away after a nod of acknowledgement, making a quiet plea to Luna on his cell phone.

“We’re going out tonight,” Harry says, no room for argument even if Tom wanted to make one.

Tom crosses the room, placing a kiss on Harry’s forehead.

“Go get ready. I’ll figure something out for us,” Tom says in agreement.

Harry smiles up at him, placing a quick kiss on his lips before pulling back, glaring at Abraxas as he turns to leave. “No more sugar,” Harry says seriously before heading up to their bedroom to get changed.

Tom grins at Abraxas, who relaxes as soon as Harry is out of the room. How he’s more intimidated by Harry than Tom, Tom will never understand. He’s literally crucio-ed him before.

“Here’s some muggle cash. Stop by the arcade after the trampoline park if the kids aren’t tired yet,” Tom says with a smirk, pulling a wad of cash from his undetectably-extended wallet.

Abraxas thanks him, but Tom is already leaving the room, pulling out his cell phone to make some calls.

____________________________________________________________________________

Harry dresses in his best mugglewear. Formal enough for any wizarding place but not too wizarding for any muggle place. He’s happy to take a mental break tonight, letting Tom do the planning.

Harry got them a night free, Tom can figure out what they’re going to do with it.

It doesn’t take long for Tom to join him in the bedroom, looking smug. That means tonight’s date is going to be good.

Harry lets Tom wrap his arms around him, nuzzling his neck. Reserved as Tom may be in public, he’s never been shy about affection in their own house. If someone is allowed to step inside the heavily warded property, they have to be okay with Tom cuddling Harry or their children, even while discussing business. He’d always known Tom would be a good father, but the reality is better than any of his imaginings.

Tom lets him go long enough to redress in nicer clothes, a muggle suit like Harry’s.

“Ready, love?” he asks. Harry nods. They’ll let the children know the plan for the night and see them tomorrow. They’ll be safe with Luna and Abraxas until they return. Both the kids and Harry and Tom could use a break from each other.

“Let’s do this,” Harry says.

____________________________________________________________________________

It’s rare for them to get a night away. They have plenty of babysitters available, but both Tom and Harry are uncomfortable with spending time away from their children. They love their home, and being parents. Every day is something new, a revelation seen through the eyes of a child.

Their children are loved, and treat Harry and Tom with the innate trust that fosters. It’s healing, in a way.

“Where to?” Harry asks. They’ve kissed their children’s cheeks and sent them off happily, excited for a night with Uncle Abby and Aunt Luna. The house is remarkably silent, for once.

“Diagon Alley,” Tom says, throwing floo powder into the fireplace. He and Harry step through, Tom pulling him close so they can travel together.

Instead of tapping the brick entrance, Tom takes Harry’s hand, pulling him down the sidewalk to the same curry house they’d frequented when Tom was first courting him.

“Feeling nostalgic, Tom?” Harry asks, another echo of the past.

“Maybe I am,” Tom says happily, kissing him happily before they enter the restaurant.

____________________________________________________________________________